“So what do you think of the Syrian people?” Asked Uncle, with his eyes searching me, hopeful.
“I think you’re wonderful,” I said, “I think you’re loving and hospitable and kind.”
His eyes lit up and started shining with tears. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you.”
This wasn’t the first time he would ask me though- he’s seen the news. He’s heard what we say about him and his people in America. He greatly desires to come to our great nation, to see all of the places that he’s dreamed of since he was young, but he knows that he will never be able to. He knows that America has pinned him as a terrorist, and that no matter what he would say it wouldn’t change people’s perception of him. It doesn’t matter that he has three daughters who he loves more than anything in the world. It doesn’t matter that he spent many years studying in Europe, and can speak several languages fluently. It doesn’t matter that his home has been bombed, and that as much as he truly desires to go home, he can’t because there’s no home to go to anymore. When American people see him, all they see is a terrorist.
This reality hit me the hardest last night, when he and his family blessed me by inviting me into their tent. They offered me tea and homemade yogurt, and they sat with me and told stories. They told me about life back in Syria, and they asked me what things are like in America. They taught me traditional dances, and sang beautiful songs in Arabic. They treated me like family, even though they don’t have much to offer. And the entire time I couldn’t help but want to cry, because I know the reality is that most of them will get sent back to Turkey, and eventually sent back to Syria.
And I guess I have to be honest and say that I don’t know what to say, and I think that’s why it has taken me so long to say anything at all. What do you do with that? What do you do with the reality that some of my friends could very likely be killed, if and when they get sent back to Syria? What do you do with the fact that most of them have seen their houses bombed? That I’ve seen children with burn marks on their skin? That they are prisoners because they tried to find safety? And that even with all of that said, they still walk in so much more joy than we do as Americans. My brain doesn’t have the capacity to process that. So I can’t wrap my thoughts with a pretty bow and call it done, because it’s not a pretty thing. And I wish I could offer an answer, but I can’t. Just know that my friends in camp are created in God’s image, just like you and I.
