I spent my month teaching fourth grade students at a refugee school. I’m aware that almost every single person that I know has very strong beliefs about refugees, with strong points and facts to back up that belief. This blog is not written to knit pick at what you “firmly believe”, or to cause strife. This blog’s purpose is to give insight into the lives of the refugees that I have met, that I taught, and that have crawled all the way into my heart. So for this blog, I have kept a diary of four of my days spent in the refugee school that I taught in, and let you decide for yourselves what you think of refugees. Proceed with caution though, as your hearts just might soften in a way you didn’t know was possible.
Day 1: The ride to the school was long, and I spent the time split in half, half anxiously wondering what the day would hold, half praying, asking Jesus to use me in ways that I didn’t know were possible. My team and I rolled up to the school, although, to be honest, it looked more like an abandoned, hazardous shanty of a warehouse on the outside. I walked up the metal, paint chipped stairs, into the school, where approximately 100 children were spilling out of, all with smiles on their beautiful faces. I took my shoes off, and walked through the entry into the office, where I was handed a math textbook, and then shown to my classroom with a smile. I walked into my fourth grade classroom, which consisted of 9 students, six boys, three girls, all excitedly chatting. I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer, and asked the students to get out their textbooks. After about five minutes of me scrambling to figure out how to teach these eager students, something happened that I can’t quite explain. It’s as if Jesus took my whiteboard marker, took the math textbook that I was holding, and started teaching the students, only using me as a physical body. The rest of the day consisted of me finishing math, then moving on to tutoring a younger student in reading, then going back to fourth grade to teach English, and then finally teaching reading. I stepped into English class more prepared then I thought this time. I knew English, after all, don’t I? I navigated the students through the Present Perfect Tense, which they finished in plenty of time, each of them eagerly asking me for homework. I know! THEY asked ME for homework!!! I could barely believe my own ears. I, of course, gave in to their request, assigning them homework to do that evening at home. The next thing I know, the school day is over, I’m putting my shoes back on, giving out rounds and rounds of hugs to the students, and then walking back down those stairs, back into the car, and heading back home, completely surprised, overwhelmed, and in love with the students that I had just met, seen, and taught.
Day 2: I arrived at the school, only to be greeted by all of the students being spoken to by the staff in an assembly type manner. I take off my shoes, only to realize that all the students are cautious today, the staff is fearful of something, and I instantly realize that something has happened. I walk into the office with two of the women who are permanent volunteers, where we learn that there was a police raid at the building next to the school yesterday. Apparently the police arrived, picked up a van load of refugees, one of whom was one of our students. The student was later let go, but did not come to school today because he was too afraid to. My heart is breaking, and I’m holding back tears. These kids, they are so scared. They have escaped with their families from their war torn countries, looking for anything better than what they were living in, only to be met with no rights, no legal status, and no safety. I had met some of the mothers on Monday. All they want is for their children to have a better life, to have an education, to not be killed by war, but to have a chance to live life. That’s why they left their homes of many years, for their children. I’m angered that the police here don’t see the desperation that these families have to give their children hope. Why is it so hard for people to view refugees as people too?? Why can’t others see the hurt and fear that is so clearly etched into their faces from things that we will never experience, simply because we were born in a different country? The rest of the day is spent refocusing the children back onto their studies, the younger grades being able to be distracted by school much easier than the older grades. Later during the school day, my fourth grade class was taught science by one of the volunteers. I have never seen fourth graders more excited about hydration than these twelve students were. Oh, did I mention that we gained three more girls today?? These kids soak in (no pun intended, hehe) everything about hydration, excitedly asking the teacher and me questions, to which we answer to the best of our abilities with smiles. The school day ends, and as I walk down those metal stairs out to the car that will take me back to my safe home, I realize that these students don’t have a safe place to call home, and most likely never have. I get home and cry long and hard tears. I ask Jesus why injustice like this gets to happen, why do these children have to live in fear, why do these mothers and fathers have to flee their home countries for a chance to live? I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why people treat refuges with such contempt. I don’t understand why people shut refugees out of their minds and hearts. I don’t get it. I realize that I love these children, even though I’ve known them for three days, I love them.
Day 3: I arrive at the school at 9 am, walk up those metal stairs, take off my shoes, and prepare for a great day. I can tell that the staff and students are still a little hesitant after the raid, but they are better today, there are more smiles. Today is different. I start my day off with teaching science to the second graders. WOW, are these kids FULL of life! It makes me smile wider than I did the previous day, because education is becoming the normality for these precious eight year olds. They are starting to forget the horrors of their home country, and are completely embracing this new life that their parents fought hard to get them too. I teach this rambunctious group of second graders about the basic necessities needed to live, you know, air, food, water, and shelter, only to be met with blank stares. Realization of the fact that these kids have little concept of basic necessities hits me, and I am overcome with a loss of words and thoughts to begin to explain to these energetic students why having clean water and three meals a day is something that our bodies need, when many of them don’t have that. I recognize the same thing that happened the first day happening again. Jesus approaches me from behind, takes my marker, textbook, and crumpled heart, and teaches these treasured children through me. Next, I headed back over to my beloved fourth graders, greeted with enthusiastic shouts of “Hello, Teacher Patricia!” I pulled out the trusty math textbook again, finishing the unit on Compatible Quotients. The students are bright, and although this concept was just introduced on Monday (by yours truly), the students already have a solid understanding on it, and we spend the majority of the class reviewing the exercises. I let many of the students come do problems on the whiteboard, and you would have thought that I had handed each of them $1,000 with how excited they were to do math! They all eagerly raised their hands, asking for a chance to come do a math problem on the board in front of the whole class. I have never, and I mean never, seen this much excitement from students over math. I end the day with reading, as is normal, and then dismiss the students, all of whom are beaming with smiles. I walk into the office, where I ask if I can take the math textbook home to prepare for Monday’s lesson, and am told yes. I had to ask because each grade only has one textbook for each lesson, so all the teachers (who are volunteers) have to share, rarely allowing time or space to prepare for the next lesson. It is my last day there for the week, and as I put my shoes back on, I’m already excitedly anticipating the next week. I give out the usual countless rounds of hugs before walking down those same metal stairs, to begin my ride back home. Right as I walk down, however, I see one of my students, and I wish them a good day, only to have them stop what they were doing and say goodbye to me as well. As I get into the car, I smile to myself with the knowledge that these kids are my students, and I love teaching them.
Final Day with the students: I arrive at the school with a full heart, knowing that today is my last day with these precious children. I start the day with second grade science, and try my best to focus that crazy, and yet completely loveable group of kids. I then head over to my fourth graders where I proceed teach math once again, ending with a game. Goodness, do these kids love to learn, especially when it’s a game with guys against girls. When they play games, it’s as if they forget everything hard about their lives, and they play with all the competitiveness and energy that any kid would play with. We finished the game, with the girls winning, and cleaned up for the next subject. I then was asked to take over the first grade class for an entire period, as the teacher that usually taught had to leave early. I walked into the “classroom”, more like a center hallway in the school, to a group of twenty plus children, all ranging from seven years old to thirteen. Math was the subject to be taught once again, and this period we worked on counting and their shapes, many of which needed help. As I checked their work, and graded it, I also drew stars, heart, flowers, or smiley faces on the papers that were completed well and correct. The students loved the little drawings, and beamed from ear to ear that they got to have a paper with a flower on it. I let that moment sink in for me. The moment of not taking the little things for granted. The moment of knowing that taking the extra time to draw a little doodle on their papers made their entire day. I let that moment sink in, and then I continued teaching. My next period, I was back in my beloved fourth grade classroom, this time with reading being the subject. The students are all on different reading levels, so this period is mostly spent with me going around and listening to each student read individually, and then working with them on their phonics. One of my students, who was particularly good at reading, had started reading The Secret Garden the previous week. Today she told me all about what she had read, and excitement filled her eyes as she joyously explained that reading was now how she spent her evenings after school. The Secret Garden has always been one of my favorite books, and to see this student fall in love with reading, and in particular, this book, was heartwarming. There was an assembly later, and the students were told that a doctor was coming the next day to give the students check-ups. There was a good twenty minutes or so that were then taken to explain to the children what a check-up was, as many of them had no concept of that. I realized that for many of the students, that this would probably be the first time since arriving in this country, perhaps ever, that they had received medical attention. Oh, how I take for granted the availability of doctors of all fields. At the end of the assembly, the students were reminded that this was our last day with them, and the students faces were saddened. A teacher asked the students if there was anything that they would like to say to us, and many students came up to us, shaking our hands, and telling us how thankful they were for us. My fourth grade students then surrounded me, and we all gathered and took a picture, with their smaller hands clutching mine. I then said goodbye to my fourth graders, and went back into the classroom to pack up and turn off the lights. Three of my girls came up to me right as I left the classroom, and they asked if they could take a picture with me, which I of course said yes to. Right after the picture was taken, they started thanking me for teaching them, tears forming in their eyes. These precious girls looked at me and said “Teacher, no one has ever told us that we were smart before you”, and then they started crying. I was barely holding myself together, and so I hugged them once again, and said goodbye. As I gathered my things in the office, and walked out to wait for my ride, those same girls rushed up to me, asking for my email address so that we could keep in touch. I wrote it down, hugged, them, said a final goodbye, and then walked over to where my shoes were, to put them on. As I tightened the straps on my sandals and walked down the stairs, I breathed in one last time to remember each detail of this school that I so dearly loved. At the bottom of the stairs, and I glanced back up and took special note of the smiling faces that were eagerly chatting with each other at the top. I turned around, got into the car, and spent the entire ride home holding back tears, thanking Jesus for this beautiful opportunity to love in a new way, and teach these bright and beloved students.
Jesus wrecked my heart for these beautiful children, and I know that I will never look at refugees the same way. This month, I was introduced on an intimate level, into the lives that these precious people live. I held the hands of scared children after they had just experienced a police raid. I listened to the frightened hushed tones of mothers and teachers discussing safety procedures. I saw the confusion of the children being explained what a doctor’s visit meant. I heard the excited yells when one of the students got a challenging math problem correct, or the shrieks of the girls when they beat the boys in the math game. I felt the hurt that these children have from being forced to leave their country so that they could have a chance to live past eighteen, and I felt the love that they so freely poured out to me, inviting me in as their own. I know the love, admiration, and pride that I have for each of the students that I taught, and above all, I am certain of the love that Jesus has for these people. His heart hurts at the pain that they have endured. He desires for them to come into relationship with Him. He calls these outcasts, these downtrodden, these refugees, His. These people are dearly and deeply loved by Jesus, and by me.
Although the students called me Teacher Patricia, I learned a lot more from them than they will ever know. These students taught me compassion, they taught me perseverance, they taught me diligence, they taught me devotion, they taught me grace, and they taught me love. They showed me what life looks like when one chooses to face your circumstances head on, not letting them dictate you. In actuality, I should be the one calling them teacher, for they taught me more than I could ever possibly learn on my own.
