I’ve been trying to write a blog about the refugee camp we’re at this month for four days and I delete everything every time. It’s crazy and loud and intense and a lot of things you’d expect. It’s 5,000+ people in a space originally made for 1,800. Different languages, countries, cultures, stories – everything. Some of them are whole families of fifteen crammed into an eight-person tent. (A tent that probably leaks as we found out yesterday in the torrential downpour.) Some of them are single men that move through the system at a sloth-like pace, taking over a year and a half to get a chance at starting from the ground up. Some of them are unaccompanied minors.
These are the guys I’ve spent the most time with. Most of them are teen boys that are trying to get to their families across the world. I’ve had three shifts as their gate-keeper, and two of them were the night shift from midnight to nine in the morning. If you’ve ever wondered what a refugee camp is like at night, it’s kind of like this:
You show up with your team of six for your briefing on the night shift. You’re all huddled in an isobox with your shift coordinator and he opens the door to a super heavy rainstorm. You realize you forgot your rain jacket, but don’t worry! Your driver lets you borrow his. You start heading to your gate with your teammate, Annalea. You take cover under a tarp at your station and smile and wave at some of the familiar faces of the refugees. After a half hour, they bring you blankets because it’s so cold and wet. Some of them stay up really late asking you about your life and your opinions. One in particular tells you about how he’s been addicted to cigarettes since he was twelve and how sleep doesn’t come easy to him. While monitoring the gate and trying to stay awake at six in the morning, you start to realize how crazy this place is.
It’s so hard to paint an accurate picture of a refugee camp. It’s the most dynamic place I’ve ever seen. Sometimes it’s quiet and tame – in the early morning right before everyone wakes up and the sun is rising. Sometimes it’s urgent and frantic – when there’s a fight or medical emergency. Sometimes it’s just plain heart wrenching because of situations or stories.
I’ve seen the happiest kids ever sliding down the huge hill in crates giggling so loud. I’ve also seen and heard people scream at other refugees, volunteers, and police officers. I’ve heard stories of camp that are hard for me to believe after three days there.
It’s a heavy place, but I am so thankful for the opportunity to bring lightness to it. I am so thankful for the laughs at seven in the morning over hot tea with a few of the unaccompanied minors, right before shift ends. I am so thankful for the team I have that despite depleted energy levels, laughs at situations like walking a mile and a half to and from the grocery store. I’m thankful for the way I can enlighten people on how big of an issue this is. It’s not fair and it’s kinda scary and it’s totally unpredictable.
As my team prepares to go in for our last night shift of the week in two hours, I’m praying for healing conversations. I want these guys to see Jesus in my team, and I want them to want more of it. We aren’t allowed to initiate conversations about religion, but if someone asks about what we believe we can talk about it. My hope is that the Lord would meet them where they’re at – in sin and hopelessness and hurt. These guys are so incredibly tough, but they are so empty.
Thanks for reading friends,
Alexis
