“December 19?” he says. “Me too!”
Our conversation will not stop replaying in my mind.
I am at the refugee camp in Moria on the island of Lesvos and have been given the assignment crowd control. My team makes a human barricade keeping people away from the Non-Syrian registration line.
Upon arrival at the camp, each refugee is given a ticket with a number and a date. We check tickets and only put numbers 1 through 150 in the line—some ticket numbers are over 1,000. It is so backed up, we are only calling yesterday’s date.
“Farda,” we are taught to respond.
“Tomorrow,” it means.
In truth, the computer system is down and there is no accurate estimation as to when they will make it inside to register.
In reality, most countries have closed their borders to everyone but Syrians, and most of these sweet souls seeking a better, safer life will be sent home. For many, home means death.
I am told to babysit the end of the line. Men continuously sneak past the “barricade” to stand in line, and I ask for their ticket. “563” it reads. “Later. I am sorry,” I say gesturing to my invisible wristwatch and making hand motions to implicate such. Then I point to the crowd behind the barrier to wait there. They walk away reluctantly or keep standing there until one of the bigger men in a yellow vest who looks like much more of an authority figure comes to handle the situation.
A young, scrawny fellow with tea in hand comes to the end of the line. I check his ticket, and he is good. We stand there in silence but as he finishes his tea, I am compelled to ask, “Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” he smiles. An almost tangible peace washes over him, his demeanor changing entirely as we begin to speak.
“My name is Halit but you can call me Turkan. That is my FB nickname”—and yes he says the letters ‘’F” and “B”. “Everyone has the Facebook,” he says.
I laugh, “Very true!”
I ask the only two questions everyone around here has answers for…“Where are you from? Where do you hope to go?” Uzbekistan. He has friends in Belgium, and he wants to go to high school there.
“How do you speak English so well?” I want to know. “School?”
“Yes, I learn it at school, and I like foreigners. I like rap too. Eminem and Lil Wayne.”
“Oh yeah? Can you rap some Eminem for me?”
He blushes, “Oh, I forget it all now!”
He also likes Justin Bieber, hates One Direction, but likes Shakira and Beyonce.
He loves dogs. Likes pitbulls and rotweillers and mastiffs the best. He has a dog named Smoky and a cat named Maggie at home.
“Maybe you can get a dog in Belgium!” I say. He likes this very much.
I ask about the boat ride and his expression changes. “I thought I was going to die,” he says. “So scary.” There were three families with children on the small boat, crowded with 44 people. The kids cried the whole ride over, and some men cried too. The smugglers charged $900 to be on the boat. They all know about the many boats that do not make it.
I tell him I am so glad he is alive and made it safely! He smiles and says “Yes, thanks to God!” “Allah,” he clarifies as an afterthought. “Yes,” I agree, “God has blessed you!”
He tells me he has been at Moria for 2 days but has been traveling for one month. “I walked for 24 hours straight through Iran and people would not help,” he says. “I was so, so thirsty, I could not walk anymore, and they would not give me water.” I do not know what to say.
“I lost everything in Iran,” he continues. His phone, $700, his passport, his bag. “My brother still has his though.” This is the first I hear of a brother. His number for the registration line is later.
Mom and Dad are still in Uzbekistan. I ask if they were sad when he left. “Yes,” he says. “But they told us to go. My brother and me. They say ‘Everyone else leaves, you should go too. It is not a good life here.’ So we left.”
“That is hard. Have you told them you made it here safely?” I ask.
“Oh yes. Mom and dad are everything. Without them I am nothing,” he says. “They called me on my birthday to sing Happy Birthday.”
“Oh how cool!” I say, pretending that my heart is not breaking inside. “I just had a birthday 2 days ago!”
“December 19?” he says. “Me too!”
He is 18. He spent his birthday in Moria in a tent with one blanket and the clothes on his back, clothes he would not be allowed to wear at home because of the Taliban. He woke up at 4 in the morning so cold he had to get up and go outside to stand by a fire.
His brother is 24. They have neither one left the country before. I tell him what an adventure that must be for him and he says “Yes, but scary”. I can only imagine.
My friend Jami comes over, and I introduce her to “Turkan” telling her we have the same birthday and that his parents called him to sing happy birthday. Her eyes start welling with tears. She asks a few questions and then tells him she loves how positive he is.
“I like to enjoy life,” he smiles.
He mentions Christmas and hopes he can celebrate in Belgium. I ask him if he celebrates Christmas at home. He laughs “No, we are Muslim! Mom and Dad would kill me!” I tell him I hope he can celebrate too.
He asks me to come to Belgium to visit. He thanks me for working in the camp.
I do not tell him that they are sending people home.
More men with the correct tickets get in line, and I have to move further back. He has already lost his place letting several go ahead of him so he can talk to me. I stand my post checking tickets and do not say goodbye, because I know I will lose it.
I stand at the end of the line watching the families sitting outside their tents staring at the line, wishing it was their turn. Watching the kids crying in their mothers arms. Watching a volunteer hand out cookies. Replaying every word Turkan said to me. Wanting to remember it all.
I watch as he stands in line only speaking when approached— he speaks Uzbek, Russian, and a little German too. He told me he does not speak with many in the camp because he does not trust them. A little time later I see him leave line and walk toward me.
“I have a question. Is it true in America about the gay marriage?” he asks.
“Yes,” I laugh. “It is true.”
“But why would a boy want to marry a boy??” he asks.
“I don’t know. Crazy things happen in your country. Crazy things happen in my country.”
There are more tickets for me to check and I return to my job still laughing. Another few minutes pass, and I look around taking it all in. I stand here knowing that this is history being written. I look to Turkan’s place in line and he is not there. Scanning the other side of the road, we make eye contact and he waves at me. “My brother!” he yells and hugs a guy. I wave back.
That is the last I saw of Turkan.
I went to organize a mob outside food distribution into single file lines and then to the children’s play area. I chase a little boy with a toy he hands to me that shoots a foam ball off the top. It becomes a game and all the kids want to play. Another boy bit me.
The media is everywhere. Susan Sarandon and her camera man stand off to the side. On the Syrian registration side of camp, police with riot shields are “keeping the peace”. There is nothing here that can surprise me. I have learned to have no expectations of the craziness that is their reality.
We are leaving, and I hand the little boy his toy back. He gives me a granola bar out of his pocket that I know he received at the food distribution tent. I smile and say “No its yours,” holding it out to him. He puts his hands together, prayer like, gently bows and says “Merci” running off with the other children.
1 Thessalonians 5:18 says to “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” Yet, I look at their situation and I think “Would I?”
What is there to be thankful for amidst a crisis like this?
But I think of them and know they can respond, honestly. There is a boy who is grateful I played with him. And there is Turkan, thankful to be alive. I learn from their joy, innocence, and hope for tomorrow.
Giving thanks is elementary and universal.
Kind of like birthdays. We all have them.
I am another year older, and yes, thanks for asking, I do feel wiser.
I am forever changed after today.
