The majority of my shifts here at the camp have been spent simply watching gates. The entrance to each housing area is gated and manned by a volunteer, like me, just to pretty much sit on a bench and check people’s ID cards. It is not hard work, nor particularly exciting, as the biggest obstacle you face is aggravated people who just simply don’t want to show their cards. My joy in working these shifts comes from the random encounters that pepper the night. Every so often (and more often than you would think) people will just plop down beside you and strike up conversation.
Like the priest’s confession booth or the pub owner’s barstool, whenever someone takes a seat on that bench, you know you’re in for a story.
-Late one night, I’m sitting at the gate, when a kid, 18 or 19, approaches. I ask to see his card, and he flat out refuses. I tell him simply that if he can’t show his card, then I can’t let him in and he walks away in a huff. He returns later on, asking again for entry without a card. It’s getting late and I’m feeling nice, so I ask him if he lives here, and he does. I let him in, and he proceeds to plop down next to me. He starts to roll a cigarette and launches into this animated speech of how much he hates showing his card. (which he had on him the whole time) He hates the loss of control, and I don’t really blame him. If some stranger was guarding the gate to my own house, I wouldn’t be to pleased either. But as we talk more, what I first saw as contempt quickly turns to mischief. Once this dawns on me, we’re both in a much better mood, and we just keep talking. He tells me about being a translator for the doctors at camp, about the four languages he knows, how he learned him, and what he wants to do once he leaves.
-I’m walking up the hill to relieve Shannon from her gate one afternoon, and I see her talking to a friend of ours. He’s a translator from Afghanistan, and while he’s one of our most helpful, he’s also a very proud man. She’s asking him about what he believes. About himself, about people, about the world. According to him, a man’s life is all about courage. Standing up in the face of adversity. Words like ‘lazy’ and ‘cowardly’ will most likely fall like curse words upon his ears. He finds his worth through how strong and brave people see him, and to hammer home that point, he tells me about his people, the Afghani’s. Around camp, he says, they’re known and respected. Never the ones to swing the first blow, but always the ones to swing the last. This man has lived in this refugee camp for over a year, so he’s seen his share of conflict between the nationalities represented here. With a glint in his eye, he recounts one night when a large group of Syrian men tried to take on just a few Afghani’s, and how before long, despite their numbers, the Syrians were sent running, nursing several new wounds.
-On my very first day at camp, a man from Guinea (?) sat down next to me. He only knew French, I only knew English. When our conversation had gone as far as our rudimentary hand motions would allow, he holds up one finger motioning me to wait for one second. Fast forward 30 seconds, and we’re having a full on conversation through Google Translate! That’s still just so crazy to me. He tells me he’s sick. I ask what’s wrong? He says his family is gone, that he can’t sleep. After he says that, he gets up and goes to his room.
He returns clutching a manilla folder, in it, he hands me a medical form written in English. It reads that he was in a relationship with a man, illegal in some African states, and was found out. He was beaten and tortured, and his boyfriend died. While he’s now safely a continent away, what those men did still weighs on his mind, sometimes so heavily that he can’t sleep.
-One lady brought me tea while I was guarding her gate. She said she brings it for all the volunteers to thank them and to practice her English. In talking with her I learn she’s a schoolteacher, just like my mom. She even teaches school here at the camp! She tells me of her life before this. The cats she left behind, her love for her hometown, things like that. A few days later I’m guarding the same gate, and she comes to speak to me, but she’s not in the same spirits as before. I ask her what’s wrong, and she tells me that her husband has requested a divorce. I can’t even imagine. Weathering daily life of a refugee camp, raising a daughter when you’re husband is countries away, and then learning you have to handle a divorce as well. While I’m just trying to process that, she tells me the reason, and it makes me even angrier. Her husband heard that she spoke to the father of one of her students, about that student. Apparently, speaking with any other man is grounds for divorce.
Each one of these encounters made me want to give each of these people the clothes off my back, and the biggest hug ever. If I’m being honest, hearing their pain at the hands of others arose in me an anger I didn’t really know I was capable of. But with that being said, my time at the gate wasn’t all heartwrenching. Like everything else in life, there are two sides.
-That same teacher made me tea several more times during each one of my shifts. She had the most adorable daughter, around 4-5 years old, who would dance with me, and wanted to get on my shoulders all the time. She told me about her passion for the French language and culture (she actually had a master’s in French) and taught me several words in both French and Arabic.
-One shift I was sent to guard the level that housed single men from Afghanistan. Expecting an easy, laidback shift, I actually planned to write this very blog while I was there. When I arrived at my post, I was immediately swarmed by a group of 6-7 kids. Since the camp is beyond capacity, a few families in tents had been moved on to the level, and they all wanted to play with me. So from 4 pm until around 10:30 or 11 that night, I got to be a kid again. We played patty cake, several games on my phone, and talked through what crooked English and hand signals they knew. They refused to let me do my one job, manning the gate, and instead they sat with their arm around me while one would stand up and ask for cards. It’s the cutest thing watching a 7 year old bossing around someone 3x their size, and the residents got as much of a kick out of it as I did.
– I’m guarding the Unaccompanied Minors section, and it’s getting on in the night. People are scattered around kicking the soccer ball, and playing volleyball, but nothing big is happening. Then one of them decides to bring out their speaker system, and starts playing traditional music. It isn’t long at all before the entire hall is outside and has formed a circle, all clapping and dancing around. As a section who’s known for being the troublemakers, it was a welcome surprise. I’m sitting there watching, and clapping along, when a few of the guys come up to me and ask me to join them! Well, as you know, I’m always down to make a fool of myself. So I’m pushed right to the middle of the circle and I just start dancing. I’m mimicing their style as best as I can, and apparently not even getting close. They laugh and cheer me on as I try my best to keep up. Their faces are a blur as I dance to their Syrian music with all three hip hop moves that I know.
Just like anywhere else, life at camp was just that, life. Full of ups and downs, dance parties and sob sessions. In that one month we got to see it all. And for the first time on the race, I left behind a ministry that I can truly see myself picking back up once these 11 months are over.
