It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. I am sitting in a bus at the Serbian border with my entire squad. Tonight is in the 40s and everyone is bundled up in sweaters, scarves, rain jackets, boots, and even gloves while the driver turns the engine off.
We’re headed from Romania to Albania. Our route from Draganesti to Tirana (the capital of Albania) takes us through Serbia and Macedonia because they are members of the EU, so our bus driver doesn’t need an expensive passport to cross the borders.
We’ve been sitting at the checkpoint between Romania and Serbia for the better part of two hours as first the Romanian and then the Serbian police check and stamp our passports, which we handed to them in a stack: 23 U.S. Passports, 1 Australian, 1 Canadian, 1 Portuguese, and 2 Romanian IDs. Finally, the gates lift and the bus rolls through into Serbia.
Looking out the window into the dark countryside, ours the only vehicle on the road, I wondered who might be out there. Moving silently just inside the tree line, trying to stay warm in the frigid air.
All of the signs point to the Syrian refugee crisis only growing in the coming months. ISIS is encroaching on more and more territory, and the Taliban is causing people people to flee Afghanistan. There are hundreds literally washing up on Greece’s beaches and walking through the countries bordering Syria, headed for somewhere that will let them stay. It’s not just a crisis for the Middle East or Europe anymore either- Syrian refugees have begun arriving in New Orleans.
I crossed three different borders on a 20-hour bus ride with my squad. We all had snacks, bought with the daily food allowance we’re allotted by AIM (and funded by our supporters). My big pack was stowed underneath the bus and my daypack was filled with sweaters to layer against the November cold. At the border crossings, I was half-awake and leaning against the seat in front of me with my Kindle in my lap.
All because my little blue passport says “U.S.A.”, I can pass through borders with impunity. I don’t need to go to Albania, or Serbia, or Macedonia. Yet I slept through the borders that other people so desperately need to cross.
And that’s been the way of things these past three months: I have crossed borders and entered communities and had to leave each one behind. Even when the way forward is uncertain, when I don’t know the details of travel days or next month’s ministry, I know I’ll be moving on, out of the places that fill me and the ones the break me.
The fog has been so thick at moments that it’s been hard to see ten feet in front of the bus. When we stop at a gas station, I huddle with my friend Anne for warmth as we wait outside the one-stall restroom. The night has only gotten colder since we’ve started driving west. As the sun rises over a Serbian mountain range, I can see thick frost on the grass.
The refugees, the mothers and fathers and children, the people streaming to these borders, are the ones who need the sweaters I shoved between me and the cold bus window. They are walking through the frost-tipped fields and riding crowded buses and trains to borders that might be closed.
They are awake when they hand over their papers to border police or to smugglers, whichever they think will get them to safety faster. Their hands are clutching their children and their last shred of hope.
They are the poor in spirit, the meek who must sit quietly at borders and follow orders given them. And these people, who break my silly American heart, are the ones to inherit the earth.
