We’ve been in Indonesia now for six days.
The food is different and pretty rough on our stomachs. I pulled a muscle in my back giving piggy back rides to excited little children and I nearly broke my right pointer finger (arguably the third most important finger) the very first day while playing volleyball with some kids (I will have a slightly crooked finger to remember Indonesia by), our house is infested with ants and there are two cockroaches (whom I’ve christened Alfred and Alfred junior) who freely roam the kitchen and bathrooms (oh yes and one mouse named Henry). Its hot and women are required to wear long pants and ultra modest shirts… try playing soccer in 90 degree weather in jeans! We sleep very little at night, but are doing more physical activity during the day than we’ve done in a long time! And to top it all off, we fall asleep every night to the melodious sound of one or more of our teammates violently vomiting… Hasn’t hit me yet… But there’s a certain ominousness in the air. It’s coming.
(Update, it came).
Oh well, it’s suffering, but it’s suffering for Christ, right?
…
Well, no.
It’s for Christ, but it’s not suffering.
…
Not.
even.
close.
.
Let me tell you about where we are.
We are in Indonesia on the island of Java and for the past four days and the next two weeks our home is here in the midst of a refugee neighborhood.
Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, Iraq… You name it, Indonesia’s got some of it’s former citizens.
Indonesia is one of the few places that make it easy for refugees to come in/out, but they don’t make it easy for them to stay. Refugees are not allowed to get jobs or go to school… If they could then they might stay longer and that’s not what the government wants.
So here are people, some families, some individuals forced to flee without their families… And they’re all already torn in two. They had to leave their home and the people they care about, their jobs, their security, and it seems to many, their future. And to top it all off, they’re barely surviving. They can’t earn money cause they can’t get a job so they have to rely on donations or what their families back in their native countries can send them… But they can’t usually really rely on that. Survival is a struggle.
Enough food? A roof? Four walls? Hope for a better Future?
All luxuries.
It’s been a dose of perspective.
We are witnessing suffering. We are hearing heartbreaking stories. And we are wishing there was more we could do. But it’s not suffering to be here. On the contrary. We are PRIVELEGED.
When I step outside I am immediately flocked to by dozens of children. They speak different languages so they all do their best to communicate in broken English. There are the little ones like baby Elias (he is two) all the way up to Mocha (he’s fifteen). There are so many it’s overwhelming sometimes. I’ll be chasing after one kid in a game of tag with little Elias in my arms and Zahra hanging on my back and her bigger sister Mara trying to climb up my arm and across the field two-three little boys will be shouting my name calling for me and Jesse to come play football and another little kid will be pushing me cause they want to be picked up and spun around and then Sahil inevitably starts shouting at me to come back (he doesn’t like to share) and it’s just total chaos!
It. Is. So. Wonderful.
We get to be here. We get to be the listening ear for men and women who just need someone to talk to. We get to get up early after a sleepless night and go play with excited kids who just want to be seen. We get to give piggy back rides (augh! …Sorry, Alfred junior startled me.), We get to play soccer with a dozen little boys who are way better at it than we are but just appreciate having someone to play with, we get to play jump rope and tag and hide and seek, we get to babysit little kids while their mothers talk to counselors on the team, we get to connect with Sahils father, and the teachers at the school (oh ya, there’s a school next door for refugee kids, run by refugees, on a completely volunteer basis), Jesse and I get to go to soccer tournaments with our friend Azizi and I get to play volleyball even with an injured hand. We get to fix boo-boos and give thirsty little kids cups of water and watch eight year old Ahmed giggle uncontrollably when we pretend to be puzzled by his “magic tricks”. We get to have dance parties with little kids (“let it go” being the predominant song choice), and help the older boys practice goal keeping, and we get to stay up late hanging out outside while they play. We get the incredible privilege of being able to pour into these kids and adults for two weeks.
We get to be here.
We are PRIVELEGED to be here.
I just wish it were longer. I wish there was more we could do.
