I just had the best day of my life. I’m hot and sweaty; my black clothes are soiled from dirty baby hands and face paint and nail polish. I feel shaky from the adrenaline and excitement of what I encountered today.
I spent the day in a refugee camp.
Before going, I heard terrifying things about the camp and the horror I would see. Less than 24 hours before we arrived there, a Kurd and a Syrian had gotten into a fight. One of them called three hundred of his friends to join him, so a war broke out. And now, knives and guns inside the camp is no secret. Mafia and organized crime is a thing.
I walked into the situation today not knowing what to expect, but what I saw- it was something I wish I could be part of every single day, cuz you see, I think I was made for it.
Today was the end of Ramadan. We joined a muslim organization from London as they planned activities for the kids and gave out food to break the fast. There was a bouncy house, face and nail paints, stickers, and bracelets; there was chaos, fear, cries and laughter.
But the best part of all was this: sitting outside of a tent, in the middle of the camp, a baby twin on my lap and the other on Lucie’s, and refugees all around. I was in my element. This is how it went:
I took up my afternoon post beside the line of kids waiting to be allowed inside the warehouse where the activity station was. The warehouse was located just outside of the camp premises. A few minutes later, Lucie and I were offered the job of going into the camp to invite more kids. My heart leaped with excitement.
As the two of us walked across the dry field toward the camp, we prayed for direction. A few of the kids and mothers we talked to were able to understand our English. After a bit, we came to a tent where four little kids were sitting outside under the porch tarp. There were two girl babies, obviously twins, lying on their backs; a sleeping boy about four years old, with at least half a dozen flies crawling in and out of his mouth and nose and all over his face; and another little boy about six years of age, keeping watch. One of the twins was reaching her hand into the pan of rice setting beside her and stuffing her face. There were no adults around. We greeted the woman in the tent across from the kids and began asking questions. She told us the mother is away cooking food for the festivities of the day. There are seven kids, their mother is twenty-seven, and the twins are nine months old. She assured us it’s fine to pick up the babies.
Lucie and I both reached for one. The oldest boy ran away, finally freed from his responsibility. We covered the sleeping child with a thin scarf to keep the flies off his face. Before long we discovered both babies had very soiled diapers. The neighboring woman again affirmed me in my wish to change them; she tossed me two diapers and some wipes. I was surprised to find out the babies were boys, not girls. In a matter of minutes another neighboring girl and her mother who were supposed to be watching the kids noticed our presence. They greeted us and offered to brew some coffee. We chatted as the water heated on the gas burner, and a few others joined us. Men handing out Baklava came around, and the mother showed up for a few minutes. After I put both of the babies to sleep, we tore ourselves away.
As we walked from the tent, we stopped and prayed for the children, and the camp, and we proclaimed freedom over it. I paused for a minute in the field and imagined what it would be like to not be walking away, to be stuck there for an indefinite amount of time as barbed wire and chain link fences are set in place, to picture the world outside of the camp and not be part of it. And then I imagined, too, what it would be like if somebody preached the Gospel from the field and in all the camp there would be a revival and people turned to Jesus instead of Mohamed.
When outside the camp again, dirty little hands slipped back into mine. Pleased as peaches, the kiddos showed me their treasures from the day. But, the bullying in the midst of it broke my heart. The hate among the ethnic groups couldn’t have been more evident, even with the children. There was pushing and shoving, there were fingers gripping rocks, there were angry words, there was faces slapped and hair pulled. I spent my time physically breaking up fights and trying to calm the children down. How much I regretted the arrival of our driver. I forced myself into the car and as we drove away, the oldest bully laughed obnoxiously. I told him it’s not funny and he said it is. The last thing I saw was him pulling out his pocket knife for me to see.
My heart broke today.
