God Bless Canada

This holiday break has come with some interruptions.  On Christmas morning I received a request from a second cousin asking if he and his family of five could stay with us for a few days.  They were due for refugee resettlement in Canada under the Private Refugee Sponsorship Program, which allows groups and individuals to privately spearhead the resettlement of displaced families.   The program is truly unique and has allowed tens of thousands of Syrian families to start new lives in a new country.  My cousin’s family was in the final stages of the process.  All that was required was a medical check on Tuesday morning (to show that everyone is fit for travel) and then the final departure on Wednesday evening.  There was, however, a predicament.   They had been staying in the Bekaa Valley and forecasts indicated that winter weather could shut down the mountain pass between the valley and Beirut, potentially blocking them from their important appointments.  Fortunately Dar El Awlad once again was ready to welcome a needy family for a short-term stay and changes to our holiday plans allowed us to be free.  As it turns out, we would be this family’s final stopping point between what has been a long ordeal of Syrian displacement and Canadian resettlement in Winnipeg.

I have (unfortunately) become personally familiar with the ongoing displacement crisis via the trials of my extended Syrian family, but this part of refugee resettlement was a new observation for me.  During their final three days in the Middle East we talked about the past (the country we have lost access to and the community it once held), the present (the process of resettlement and the excitement of international travel), and the future (the pros and cons of making a new life in the West).  It’s a very interesting point of a refugee experience, a point where a past wrought with so much pain and loss yields a future beaming with such hope and opportunity. 

Personally, I find resettlement bittersweet.  It pains me to see families with legacies and identity in a land driven to seek a new placement in distant lands.  I see great human potential sent abroad with the low prospects of these individuals permanently returning to their home country.  At the same time I realize that resettlement is one of the most substantial ways to directly impact the individual lives (especially children lives) that have been uprooted and undermined by the ongoing global displacement crisis.  I think of refugee resettlement as something akin to an organ transplant.  No one wants to have their liver, a kidney or heart removed from their body nor does anyone desire deteriorated health.  However, transplants are sought in order to preserve and extend life.  Such is refugee resettlement, a vital operation needed to maintain life when circumstances have reached unbearably bad states.  It is never what we want for a person, but it can breathe new life into bodies that have endured immense damage.  I want individuals rooted in their place of heritage and memory, but when these places have been taken away then I want them resettled somewhere where roots are possible.

This is why I am thankful for Canada.  In the past few years Canada has done more than any other nation-state to proactively address the Syrian displacement crisis by facilitating resettlement in a safe, secure country.  Nearly 40,000 Syrians have been granted a new start thus far, and this week I saw the buzz in an airport departure hall as dozens of more prepared to embark on a new future on Canadian soil.  This has been a commendable undertaking by a national government, and one of the important parts of this initiative has been the response of churches to facilitate sponsorship and resettlement for thousands of refugees.  My relatives are among these.  A church in Winnipeg sponsored them, oversaw their arrangements, prepared accommodation, and has committed to providing support during their initial settling periods.  This (Muslim) family had only glowing things to say of the church.  Not only has a community of Christians granted relief from their dire situation but they have provided the comfort of knowing that they are walking into a caring community that will be there in the months ahead.  My cousin let it be known to us that Jesus is very much recognized within this act of compassion.

No state, system or policy is perfect.  I realize that Canada likely has some self-interest driving their goodwill welcome of thousands of refugees.  I also personally know that faulty Canadian policy has blocked resettlement for extremely vulnerable individuals and extended their suffering.  Even so, this is the best the world currently has.  If more countries thought and acted like Canada then more lives would have rescue from the pits of displacement.  The role of Christians is extremely significant.  Churches across Canada are seizing the moment to capitalize on the opportunity to live out basic teachings of Biblical faith.  The scriptures are ever-clear from start to finish that God cares for the poor, vulnerable and marginalized.  He demands from His followers to extend this care to others including friends, enemies and everyone in between.  There is no debate here; Jesus declares that when we welcome the stranger, we welcome the Divine (Matthew 25: 43-45).  This is one point of the few displacement and response where I see there are no complexities.  Christians across Canada are showing obedience to scripture in dynamic ways, and countless lives are directly enjoying the blessing. 

I do not like refugee resettlement because I do not like that people have been reduced to refugees.  I do not like that war, discrimination and destruction have driven people from their homes and compelled them to lands across the globe.  But if this world continues to produce displacement then I want the displaced to experience hope and future.  I want people of faith to look beyond themselves to extend love, care and protection to the vulnerable and poor.  I want my global Christian community to show today what the Bible taught thousands of years ago, and I want to see many more families like the one I spent the last three days with move ahead in the prospects of life.  This doesn’t always require resettlement, but many times it does, and I thank Canada for increasing the capacity for resettlement to work.  

A gathering of the "Lucky Ones."  Only 1% of refugees are ever resettled.  This group is bound for Canada.

Bon Voyage

The young man we didn't help, he has Hope!

The other day some coworkers joined me on my weekly visit to our New Horizon Center ministry in South Lebanon.  We stopped to get some coffee just south of Beirut, and I waited in the van while the others entered the shop.  A security guard staffed at the complex quickly came over and was a little concerned that I was blocking access to the back of the building.  It turned out my parking place was fine and he started inquiring about where we come from.  I explained that we’re from a residential school and we serve needy children and orphans.  He then started asking me a string of questions: What are the ages of our children?  What is the extent of our care and where do we get our support from?  Do we accept children of different religious and nationality backgrounds?  He seemed to have purpose in his questions so I asked, “do you know someone who could use our services?”  He replied, “Me, I’m an orphan.”

Mohammad, a 21 year-old Lebanese, went on to share pieces of his tragic personal story.  He and his siblings were abandoned by their mother and his father passed away ten years ago leaving them all orphaned.  They have extended family but there’s very little engagement between them.  Mohammad never went to school; he’s completely illiterate.  He does his best to help raise his 15 and 13 year old siblings (only one has been able to attend school), but it’s a daily struggle and his opportunities for employment are very limited.  The security job demands 14 hour work days for less than $500 dollars a month salary. Mohammad was painfully raw in sharing about the challenges life has left him.  He lamented his lot but made clear he has no interest in living off the charity of others or being a dependent.  I asked him at one point of the conversation if he needs anything and he simply responded, “just God’s mercy.”

It’s not uncommon in Lebanon to find people, especially young men, depressed about their life situation.  Lebanon can be a cutthroat place where one can work day and night and never get ahead. There is extensive poverty among the Lebanese and, with the limited social support from the government; one can be hard-pressed to find provision outside for his or her family network.  Those that are orphaned or abandoned like Mohammad are considerably vulnerable. 

The anguish of this young man was apparent when he discussed his illiteracy.  “In this world you need to know something, you need to have a certificate from somewhere.  If you don’t have an education then you’re nobody.  There was a girl I was talking to once but I had to phone chat through my little brother because I can’t read or write.  When she found out I was illiterate she left me.  I feel like such a loser.”

I tried my best to encourage Mohammad (which isn’t easy when the painful reality is he has been robbed of rights and opportunities that can never be returned).  He knew early in our conversation that we are from a faith organization- he had glowing things to say about Christians and the practical kindness they showed him when he was displaced by the 2006 War- and I reminded him that God promises an upside-down Kingdom where the first are last and the last are first, the humbled will be built up and the proud brought down.  Despite his lack of education Mohammad has wisdom on the real matters of life; he shared in certain terms that faith is not the words of our lips or the practice of our religious exercise but the belief in God and the treatment of others.  This is very meaningful, but how much does it actually smooth the stigma of being an orphaned illiterate with little prospects of a respectable life?

One reason my little interaction with Mohammad struck me so strikingly that morning was because of where I was coming from and where I was going.  I came from Dar El Awlad, a residential program that came into existence nearly 70 years ago specifically to serve children who found themselves abandoned or orphaned and without access to their most basic needs.  We exist specifically so lives like Mohammad can receive what wrongs and misfortune has stolen from them (as he shared his story with me I actually told him (maybe inconsiderately) that he should have come to Dar El Awlad years ago).  That morning I was going to the New Horizons Center where we operate a literacy program specifically geared to children who cannot or do not go to school and risk facing futures of illiteracy.  Here between the two places I came across a young man who needed both.  Each day at Kids Alive Lebanon we see hundreds of children throughout our programs receive services and care, much of it dealing with education, yet on that day I saw one of the countless of individuals in Lebanon that never came to us.  I saw the alternate reality for our children; I realized in a new way what their futures very likely could look like if they had never come our way.  On the one hand it made me thankful for the opportunity we have to offer life-transforming impact for at-risk children, but on the other hand it was a painful reminder that there is still so much need that we are not even beginning to meet.   Mohammad unsettled me.

What ultimately settles me, however, is knowing that God has a special heart for Mohammad and all those who have been dealt a hand of marginalization and vulnerability.  The scripture is ever-certain that God cares for the poor and directly shares in their poverty, powerlessness and despair.  Christ was born in a stable among animals, lived without acquiring any wealth or possessions of worth and died a brutal death at the hands of injustice.  God knows the frustration, the disappointment and the despair of those who are illiterate, orphaned and disregarded by people and society.  That’s how I could leave my little encounter with Mohammad with a troubled heart that still insists on clinging to hopefulness.  He may journey through life in this world never knowing the opportunities, privileges and rights that I so easily take for granted (like the ability to even transmit these thoughts in my head to a typed text that you can now read), but God’s Kingdom is an upside-down reality where the weak will be strong, the poor will be rich and the last will be first.   This is the Kingdom we belong to, the one we are to make known to this world and the one that gives all of us an ultimate hope in life, a life everlasting.  

The Dream of Resettlement and the Threat of a Double Discplacement

Ali is my cousin. He’s also a refugee from Syria, and I consider him a hero.  Like millions of Syrians, Ali saw war and violence overrun his village and threaten the livelihood of every living thing.  The social and political situation had declined to such depths that the conflict left him with only the options to kill, be killed, or flee.  Ali fled, and as he made his escape from Syria he saved lives in the process by driving a pickup truck carrying over a dozen women and children through a warzone and delivering them safely to Lebanon. His account of the perilous flight-by-night is the stuff of Hollywood films.  By God’s grace, and Ali’s courage and steely nerves, lives were preserved when they should have been lost.  That’s heroic.

Ali is also is a hero because of a decision he recently made.  Ali, his wife and their four children officially became refugees shortly after arriving in Lebanon.  He and many other members of my extended family have “settled” in the Bekaa Valley where they live in tent settlements and work menial jobs to make ends meet.  They have lost a great deal; the war robbed Ali of his home, occupation, a brother, two uncles, many friends and acquaintances, and the opportunity for his children to receive an official education.  And, like all refugees, he has lost his country and now finds himself a foreigner in a land that would prefer he and all other refugees pick up and leave (as I suspect any country would if 25% of its population consisted of displaced people).  Even so, Ali hasn’t lost everything.  He still has a family network of support, a little patch of earth (for the time being) to raise his family and, thanks to international organizational mechanisms, a chance to forge new life in a safe, secure country. 

When Ali’s family registered with the UN as refugees they requested to be candidates for resettlement in a third country.  It’s a long, complicated procedure for a refugee to be resettled, and despite what may appear to be large refugee intake quotas in Canada, America, European states and other developed nations, the reality is that less than one percent of refugees are resettled.  More than 99% remain in the legal, psychological and effective limbo of unsettled displacement.  Like millions of others, Ali took a roll the dice to see if he could end up in the 1%. 

After initial interviews with the UN Ali’s case was picked up by the Swiss government.  The family interviewed with the embassy and received details about resettlement.  They would travel to Switzerland free of charge and receive temporary accommodation until being assigned a permanent residency somewhere in the country.  The government would financially support them and help Ali secure employment.  The children would receive a free, top-notch education.  They would enjoy the privileges of legally belonging to one of the world’s wealthiest countries that boasts one of the highest quality of life standards.  Upon establishing official residency they would be able to travel internationally; however, they would not be allowed to visit Lebanon for the foreseeable future (the logic being that if refugees require resettlement it is because they cannot remain in their country of displacement and, if this is the case, then returning to that very country is clearly problematic).  After the interview Ali was told that he would be contacted about the outcome within a few weeks.

Ali and I discussed the possibility of resettlement throughout the application process.  He shared his thinking, if it was just him he wouldn’t feel the need to start anew somewhere else but when he thinks about his children he despairs that they are missing out on a formal education.  The interests of his children are the weightiest variable in his decision making.  He asked me frequently about my personal thoughts.  Though I’ve never spent time in Switzerland, I’ve lived outside of the Middle East and he wanted to pick my mind for whatever insight I could offer.  I shared my thoughts, let him know that Switzerland is a top-notch country that offers tremendous value.  At the same time I tried to shed light on some of the challenges that I think would come with such a dramatic change.  Ali knew all along that the chances of emigrating were slim and he never got his hopes too high, but at the same time he never wanted to close the door to such an opportunity.  He had enough weighing on his mind just trying to get by; no need to fret over something that most likely won’t materialize.  He had peace with whatever unfolded.

The question remained for Ali, “What will I do if the Swiss government accepts my family for resettlement?” For the vast majority of refugees- and a large percentage of people in Middle East in general- the decision is a no-brainer: Go to Switzerland!  Europe is a destination that millions have risked their lives journeying over water and land to reach, and millions more are waiting to be delivered from displacement and resettled in a new land.  Boarding a one-way flight is saying goodbye to the insecurities, instability and abuses they have endured.  Such a one-in-a-hundred opportunity is a chance to give the next generation a future of safety, education and life.  To look at it another way, saying “Yes” to resettlement is trading one scene for the other. 

What would you choose?

I have become a rather serious student of displacement for a number of primary reasons.  Firstly, our world is experiencing historic rates of displacement, and if I want to be a responsible citizen of the world then I should be concerned and knowledgeable about one of the greatest crisis of our times.  Secondly, dozens of my loved ones, like Ali, are enduring the nightmare that is the Syrian Refugee Crisis, and their experience has made displacement painfully real and personal to me.  Thirdly, Kids Alive Lebanon serves at-risk children and has historically catered to the needs of displaced children (even decades before it became en vogue in the field of missions and humanitarian aid).  A number of our programs were established to specifically serve children of displacement.  Finally, I do not want to be so foolish as to think that displacement will always be “someone else’s” problem nor so naïve as to think that the sting will not strike my own life.  Displacement attacks people and places anywhere, and I want to prepare myself for the time if/when it undercuts my life in the same way it is undercutting the lives of millions worldwide. 

Ali’s opportunity for resettlement presented me with a new dimension of displacement.  Just as I had seen his family become refugees, I was now seeing them face the possibility of being settled in a third country.  I anticipated that I would possibility seem them board a flight to Switzerland and then one day see them settled in a new life far away from Syria and Lebanon.  There was intriguing insight to gain into the refugee’s journey, but more than anything I simply wanted to be in a position to bless my loved ones in any way possible. 

I eagerly sought out Ali on a recent trip to relatives in the Bekaa Valley.  Some weeks had passed since the interview with the Swiss Embassy and I knew they should have been notified them about being accepted for resettlement or not.  I went to their tent and quickly asked for the latest update.  Ali told me that a Swiss official had called the previous day and informed him that they had been accepted for resettlement.  Ali doesn’t have a passport (most of their identification documentation were lost when they fled) but the Swiss government would provide travel documents for the family.  Plane tickets had already been booked for the middle of November.  My heart stirred when he told me this news.  It was going to happen!  A way had been made for other Hamouds to leave a bad situation in the Middle East and settle in the West just as it had for my father over 45 years ago.  This family was going to be changed forever.  Then Ali he told me something that stirred my heart even more.  He told me that he had replied to the Swiss official, “Thanks, but no thanks.” 

Ali realizes Switzerland’s offerings.  He has an idea about the opportunities that exist in one of the most developed, secure and peaceful countries in the world. But Ali knows other things as well.  He knows what it is like to be removed from a place and a community dear to him.  He knows what it is like to have family scattered across countries, to be blocked by boundary and distance from rushing to a loved one in a time of need.  He knows what it is like to lose a brother and find himself a father figure to three nephews and a niece.  He knows what it was like to see his parents grieve the loss and separation of their family.  But one thing Ali has never known is what it was like to be alone and disconnected from a community that shared a common blood, tradition and embrace of one another.  Displacement robbed him of his home but it did not rob him of his community, but resettlement would.    Ali knows that for all Switzerland offers, it does not offer parents, brothers and sisters, or a community where he belongs.  He also knows some who had journeyed to Europe at great risk and expense only to find themselves isolated, out of place and frustrated (leading some even to return to refugee life in Lebanon). 

Ali’s decision ultimately came down to an assessment of values.  One of the problems with our modern world is that as we increase our estimation of the material (basic needs, human rights, economic and environmental justice, etc..) we oftentimes decrease our estimation of the immaterial.  Ali knows that life doesn’t boil down to being free from fear or being able to enjoy universally endowed rights and privileges.  Life boils down to sharing the ups and downs of the journey with meaningful people.  Life is about being in a place and among a people where the sense of belonging is greater than any sense of want.  Ali’s decision confirmed what I have been learning to be true: the greatest need of the human heart is to experience belonging.  I believe this is exactly why God’s greatest gift is His invitation to belong to a heavenly kingdom that exists in this world and yet goes beyond everything in this world.  Of all the good things God promises, the greatest promise to belong with Him forever through Christ. 

My conversation with Ali was a revelation.  It shed light on what it means to be displaced, what it means to be “implaced,” and what it means to be human.  It showed that while resettlement can be a rescue that brings immeasurable good to refugees, it can also be a double displacement that compounds suffering and isolation.  Refugee resettlement is a solution that should be both highly pursued and appropriately resisted.  Like so many things, it is more complex than straightforward.  We should never reduce the human experience to material quality nor assume that the most comfortable situation is the best situation; the bulk of our human needs begin where our practical needs end.  In every instance (whether we are dealing with the displaced, the poor, or anyone) we must beg the question, “How am I helping others belong.”

My conversation with Ali quickly took on a new dimension that neither one of us ever could have expected.  Within a half an hour of our talk we received word that a terrible accident had occurred.  A number of our family members were walking home after a trip to the market when a car hit them.  Ali’s nephew was killed on the scene and his sister was put in critical condition with life-threatening internal injuries.  In an instant this family and community had their world rocked.  A new light was shed on everything, including Ali’s decision.  Ali had chosen to forego resettlement partly so he could help raise his deceased brother’s children, and within a day of that decision one of them was taken away.  He also stayed so he coul be a faithful son when his parents face a time of need, and they will need him now like never before.  In the long, painful fallout of a split-second crash there is total confirmation that Ali had chosen rightly.  He chose to continue the nightmare of displacement because he realized that a family can be resettled but loved ones cannot be replaced.  To me, this is heroic.

No papers, no problem (for us at least)

“Do you take children who don’t have any papers?”

A father in the distance shouted this question to me recently as I was visiting one of the Dom (gypsy) and Bedouin communities in South Lebanon.  I was there to touch base with families we serve at the New Horizons Center and identify potential new students for the literacy program this year.  Our goal is to provide education to children who have no other opportunities for structured learning, children who for a myriad of reasons have never realized the privilege and the right to attend school.  One reason some kids may never be able to attend school is because of statelessness.  Those who do not have identification papers (birth certificate, passport, family documentation, etc.) are barred from enrolling in public school, and they are rarely able to financially cover the cost of private school.  They even oftentimes fail to qualify for the informal leaning programs now operating throughout Lebanon.  Education is a possibility for children of the Dom and Bedouin, but it is an impossibility if children do not possess any form of official identity. 

“Yes! It is not a problem,” I responded to the man.

“Come visit my home before you leave.”  Upon that invitation I made my way to the father's home and met with his family and his 7 year old son who has no papers to prove that he is indeed seven years old or that he is anyone.  I explained what we do at the New Horizons Center, how our programs runs and why we want help children gain literacy.  I let them know it is exactly because of children like this 7 year old that our literacy program exists.  This was encouraging to them, and it encourages us to remain committed to Lebanon’s marginalized and the vulnerable.  We can’t meet all of the needs of everyone, but hopefully we can meet a major need of a few special lives, especially if they don't have papers. 

Facing a child and facing Christ

Due to its graphic content, I am not displaying the image that inspired this post.  You may click on the included links to see the discussed image at your own discretion.

Once more a child from Syria is haunting us. Last year it was Alan Kurdi, a three year old whose lifeless body resting on a Turkish shoreline served the world a painful reminder that we are failing to protect the most vulnerable lives in an inhumane situation. This year it is Omran Daqneesh of Aleppo.  The five year old boy was recovered from the rubble of his bombed-out family home last week, another example of the conflict in Syria raining down terror on innocent victims.  The image of him sitting in an ambulance covered in blood and dust and war should disturb us.  It should also jolt us into crying out (both literally and figuratively) against the violence that has shattered the lives of countless children, including Ali Danqneesh, the brother of Omran who died in the attack.  Omran’s image has rightfully riveted the global community; he stares at us as if asking, “Will you face me?”

Omran is one life but he symbolizes millions of lives.  Many of these are Syrian children who have had their worlds turned upside down by death, destruction and displacement.  Even more are the children around the world that find themselves victimized by cruel deeds played out by men and women thirsty for power.  It is never children who create, distribute or order the launch of the weapons that leave bodies battered and lifeless.  Yet it is always children who suffer most when ‘things fall apart,’ and it is children who have every right to ask you and me, “Can you face us?”

As I prepare to return to Lebanon after a summer abroad I prepare to return to Dar El Awlad, a place that serves over 150 children who bear their own scars of tragedy and pain.  Many, like Omran, are Syrians who have personally experienced the horrors of war.  Others are victims of institutional injustices that deny children access to the rights, privileges and protections entitled to every person.  Some have simply suffered bad breaks and fallen into hard times that are too deep for any young person to climb out of.  The circumstances differ for each individual but they come to us with the same petition, with the same plea, “Please face me.”

Even in all its quiet power, Omran’s image should not revolt us nor should it drive us to despair or hopelessness.  However, when we look on him we should see another.  We should see someone who too was bloodied and battered by the senselessness of violence.  We should recognize someone who, though himself a complete innocent, suffered injustices by bearing the marks of blood, dust and bruise.  When we see Omran, we must see our Lord Jesus Christ who suffered with him and for us.  Christ alone can look at the heart-broken, soul-stricken, body-beaten souls of this world and say, “I face you!”

It is in Christ alone that we can face the darkest and ugliest evils this world has to offer, and it is in Christ alone that I can live in the hopeful knowledge that, even in my own darkness and ugliness, I can face God.  May God’s face shine upon us and be ever gracious to us.  May the Spirit empower us to respond to the evils of violence, to embrace victims of injustice and to be instruments of God’s healing grace.  May we truly face Omran, and in doing so may we discover Christ.

Something Great in America, again

This week many have gathered to the cheers of making America great again.  I wasn't part of that, but I did experience in America something that was pretty near to great.  All summer long from Memorial Day to Labor Day, the city of Minneapolis hosts movies and music in a public park each evening.  These events are an excellent example of an initiative to build community and citizenship by bringing people together to places of shared experiences.  It's one of the activities that I most look forward to during my time back home in Minnesota. 

This week Ruth and arrived at dusk at Father Hennepin Bluff Park along the mighty Mississippi River with our lawn chairs, mosquito spray and snacks.  With the lovely Minneapolis skyline as our backdrop we joined others in watching the documentary "He Called Me Malala."  This powerful film follows the story of Malala Yousafzai, a teenager girl who was shot in the head in Pakistan by the Taliban for advocating the education of girls.  She and her family are an inspiring example of confronting injustice and willingly to sacrificing of themselves to fight for the rights of others.  Malala's life and actions earned her a Nobel Peace prize in 2014.   The film is a story of family, courage, and an individual who is inspiring this world to care for the marginalized and oppressed. 

The setting and the story were enough to make for an edifying evening, but greater was the knowledge that I am part of a organization that puts into action the message of Malala: every child has the right to the opportunity and empowerment of education.  As I reflected on the film I recalled the children at Kids Alive Lebanon in our New Horizons Center, Oasis Refugee Center and other programs that are able to go to school because a few individuals and a network of sponsors are committed to providing education.  In the midst of all the cacophony of rhetoric happening around us today, it is a relief to join others from the community for a quiet, reflective evening about a worthwhile cause.  That's close enough to great for me.

A cop once pulled me over, I made a mistake, and nothing happened

We have traveled from Lebanon to the U.S.A. and, unfortunately, from one land stained by violence to another.  The news stings harder as my little home community was brought into a heated national (and international) debate last week when a routine police pullover for a broken taillight resulted in bullets fired and a life lost. It immediately became the most recent story in a complex American narrative of race, law enforcement and death; a narrative that within a day included a horrendous mass murder of police force members during a Dallas rally.  My heart sinks. I've seen violence poison the Middle East (violence committed by those serving the state and those unattached), and I see my home country suffer through its own painful problem of violence.  The results are the same, lives lost and nothing gained.

The ongoing stories make me think about things. About the caution we need to take when responding to law enforcement. About my brother who serves as a state patrolman and daily takes on a professional task where so much can hinge on a split-second decision.  About the undeniable racial problems that have and do plague my country. But mostly, I think about one moment when I myself was pulled over; I did something and nothing happened to me.

It was during my senior year of high school. I was driving my family's station wagon home from school with my cousin alongside.  Around a mile from school a cop car flashed its lights behind me and I immediately pulled into an empty parking area. The policeman approached my car and I rolled down my window. He asked my if I knew how fast I was going.  I honestly didn't, but I offered an answer nonetheless. "The speed limit?"  He wasn't amused and informed me that I was over- only by 8 mph if I recall correctly, but a winter storm had dumped a load snow and I should have been 8 under rather than 8 over- and asked to see my drivers license. I took out my wallet and showed the license in it's plastic flap. The officer then said to me, "take out the card." But he was mumbling and I was naturally nervous from being pulled over by a policeman, and I thought he said, "get out of the car." Wanting to be cooperative to the supposed instruction, I began to open the car door in order to step out. Immediately the officer sprung, slammed the door shut with his leg and shouted at me. "What are you doing? Don't move! Don't move!"  "Sir, I thought you said 'get out of the car,'" my voice quivered. "I said, 'TAKE OUT THE CARD!'" he forcefully reiterated. My shaking fingers fumbled the card out of the wallet and handed it to the officer.  He took it to his patrol vehicle and returned it a few minutes later with my first and only speeding ticket.

Years have past since that little event, but as I have read in recent years the steady stream of stories involving cops and shootings, my mind goes back to that moment of innocent miscommunication; the moment I made a honest mistake that could have left me with more than a ticket. I wonder what could have happened if that same situation had occurred under different conditions. What if my skin color or  appearance had  been different? What if the officer had had a bad day or been a little edgier than necessary? What if I had been stopped in the inner city at night rather than a suburb in the afternoon?  Could a routine traffic stop had ended up differently, perhaps tragically?  Or would the scenario have played out ten times out of a ten just as it did; the good training and the good judgment of our law enforcement personnel would see that another routine traffic stop be just that: a routine traffic stop.  I do not know.

I know how my situation unfolded and no harm was done.  Yet I wonder how other situations have unfolded, how miscommunication, misunderstanding, and misjudgment have contributed to tragic ends.  I wonder what has lead a split-second decision to take a life in one situation and preserve a life in another. I don't know, but  I'm thankful that I am here to wonder.  I only wish that others just as innocent as I could be here too.

Graduation: Mastering the finish line

I finally crossed the finish line.  After four years of studying, I have graduated the Master of Religion in Middle Eastern and North African Studies from the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary.  It was a great experience, and I value the experiences, knowledge and wisdom I gained from the program.  I was honored to share a few words during the graduation ceremony.  Hopefully it expresses the appreciation I feel for this learning opportunity and all the people that made it possible.

On behalf of the students of the Master of Religion program, it is my honor to greet you all, to congratulate our fellow graduates and to congratulate the community of the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary as it marks a milestone accomplishment this evening of awarding the very first degrees for the Master of Religion in Middle Eastern and North African Studies.  What was once a vision has become a reality, and we four graduates are proud to be small parts in a big achievement for this institution. 

The MRel is unlike any other seminary program as it explores the Middle East and North African region from within the region in a way that combines interdisciplinary academics and personal engagements to create a transformative learning experience.   We graduates have journeyed together with a diverse group of students and faculty on a journey of discovery, discovery of a region, of faiths, of cultures, of people, of our own selves, and, most profoundly, a discovery of God’s Kingdom. 

Much can be said of this program and each student will walk away with his or her own testimony of personal and academic growth.   As I reflect on the “big idea” that marks my experience in the MRel, my mind goes back to a comment made by a classmate during an on-site residency, a comment that captures what has proven to me to be the underlying theme of this program.  We were in our Cultures course, and as we completed two weeks of intensive theory and practice my classmate shared the following statement, “I realize that everything we have learned is so we can better love people.”  What was true for the course has proven true for the program,  because if the MRel has been about anything it has been about loving people and being built up in faith in Christ, a faith working through love.

On behalf of the first graduating class of the MRel I extend a heartfelt thank you.  Thank you to President Elie Haddad for your leadership and the staff of ABTS for your services and support.  Thank you to the many who have prayed and given generously to this program.  Thank you to the teaching faculty members who have shared with us knowledge, wisdom, time and patience.  And finally, thank you to the Institute of Middle East Studies.  To Dr. Martin Accad, Dr. Arthur Brown, Jesse Wheeler and to all who have played a role in establishing and running the MRel. A special thank you to Dr. Rupen Das as well, who was unfortunately not able to be with us today, but was key to bringing this program to life and leading it to a fully accredited degree over its first two years. Your hard work has turned a mere idea into an actualized program full of impact and meaning, and I have been blessed to be a beneficiary of your faithfulness and your commitment to serving God.

So may God bless this year’s graduates and direct their paths.

May He keep the ministry of ABTS and strengthen its mission.

And may God be with each one of us for His glory and His great purposes.

Thank you

With fellow MRel graduate Amir from Egypt

Yasmine was quite excited.  So was I!

Two boys, two emotions, and one Hope

We're at the end of another DEA school year (my ninth). While it's been a good year, it's also been a year in which the weight of what we deal with has taken on new heaviness. This feeling goes back to September, the very start of it all.  Boys were returning to the residential home after the summer to begin a new year and new boys were arriving for the first time. One of my co-workers talked about what a joyful day it was to see old and new faces arriving to DEA. It was indeed on many levels a joyful day, but I was feeling sad.  

That day I took two boys away from their families. I watched them say goodbye to their teary-eyed mothers, I put them in my jeep, and I carried them out of the valley and over the mountains to a strange place that they were told would become a home. I knew it was for their good; they are Syrian refugees and they have spent most of their young lives in war and displacement. Their families live in substandard tent communities waiting to get through their nightmare until they can return to their country and homes. Years of precious education have been lost and they risked becoming two more Syrian refugee children that will grow up not knowing how to read or write. 

They were in a bad situation, and a life at DEA provided many things no one else could provide.  Getting in my jeep and being taken away was for their best. Their mothers knew it, their families knew it, they knew it and I knew it.  But knowing something still doesn't make it easy; taking a child away from all that he's ever known and loved is not a cause for joy.  I was sad that a broken, painful road had led them to this point.

The sadness continued after the boys moved in.  They put on strong faces in those early days (as strong as you can expect from 6 and 7 year olds), but it was easy to see their rawness in separation from mom and familiarity.  There was plenty of running, playing and trying new things, but there were also teary moments of asking me, "When will I go to mom?" Even when they tried to hide it, the pain was evident. Coming to terms with any new situation is oftentimes painful.

As the year went on I witnessed the situation change. I watched the boys settle into their new "home" and embrace the new "family," experiences and opportunities around them.  I saw their personalities develop and their sad eyes begin to radiate with happiness (and varying degrees of mischievousness). I heard them read two languages when they had previously been able to read none.  

I was with them on their first trip to the nearby supermarket.  They filled every aisle with childhood innocence as they scaled escalators and pushed their carts around the store. Three dollars had never made a child so rich. I was also with them on their first trip to the dentist.  They found more enjoyment out of dental work than most children find at a carnival.  

Their lives seemed to fill with sunshine.  They became happy to jump into my jeep and return to DEA after a visit home, and their families were pleased with the changes they observed in their young lives. More than anything, I listened to them share things they learned about God, how He loves us and sent Jesus to a cross so that we can get through this troubled world and live in heaven forever.  I saw so many good things happen to these boys this year, yet I remained sad.

These boys are special to me because they are my cousins.  I held them as babies and watched them grow little by little with each visit to our village in Syria.  I walked their orchards, sat in their homes and shared in their little world. Those days didn't last.  First, war started in the village.  Then their father (my uncle) was detained.   Before long they were driven from their homes.  It's been four years and we still have no word on the status of their father.  Hope of his wellbeing is fading.  And after three years of displacement, hope of returning is thin.

The road that led these two boys to DEA is a road that no child should have to journey. No child should go through the death, the bombs, the fleeing from home, the perilous journey into displacement and all the other horrors that are unfortunately commonplace in the Syrian refugee narrative. They shouldn't have had to go through all this; the fact that they are at DEA means that things have gone very, very wrong. This makes me sad.

DEA is a sweet place but children arrive here in bitter ways, and many times it feels like it is a place where bitterness and sweetness mingle. This shouldn't be a surprise; we are a hospital for the sick not a country club for the well.  But expecting it doesn't mean it's easy to accept.  The pain that brings the children to our care exposes the pain that we too carry.  So it is with me and my cousins.

While my challenges are very far removed from the daily struggles of the refugee, I too have lost something in the Syrian War. A place that I loved, a land drenched in story and memories, is now in ruins.  I had dreams of a future that will never come true (at least not in the way I had dreamed them).  More than anything I have lost people.  My uncle, my cousin and others are gone; casualties of a war that seems to treat death casually.  My two cousins have been daily reminders that I've lost something, and this makes me sad.

Joy and sadness do not exist at odds with one another (just review Inside Out for a good portrayal of this). Like sweetness and bitterness, they mingle and provide an experience of life that is authentic.  We seek joy and we deal with sadness, and in it all we see the goodness and sovereignty of God working for glory.  

My cousins have made me sad, and they have, also given me joy. I expect it will be this way as long as we are together at DEA. But I will always carry hope for them, for my relatives, for Syria, for the children at DEA and for all journeying roads of pain.  Because above all things is Christ, and this is Hope.

Graduating and Continuing

Six years ago a group of Gypsy and Bedouin children started in our literacy program at the New Horizons Center. These children face many social and personal challenges; unfortunately many did not continue to completion, but some did!  Last week we celebrated with a group five special students that started with us and have now "graduated." Over the years they gained the valuable gift of literacy, becoming the first generation of their families to read and write. This was reason for celebration.

Our teachers planned an overnight getaway for the children to the Bekaa Valley filled with activities and special experiences.  We visited a monastery that operates a dairy farm and nature reserve. Each one enjoyed riding around the grounds on bicycles, especially the two that learned how to ride that day.   We then drove to the city if Zahle for ice cream, bumper cars and an air hockey tournament. Our accommodation was at a great little eco lodge where we spent time playing, sharing stories, eating and interacting with other guests.  It was a special time. "This is the best say of my life," one said. They deserved it.

As important as literacy is (and we do believe it's very important, it can change their entire futures), we celebrate the faith, character and spirit these young people have developed over the years. Their life situations are heartbreaking; they endure marginalization and abuses that no child should have to endure.  But they have zest for life, and they've added something special to mine.  It was inspiring to see how much the teachers care for each of these children and how they went the extra mile in lavishing good things and speaking loving words of truth.  It was a getaway that did me well. 

We're not done with these kids. They may have come to the end of one road, but we plan to keep them within the center ministry in the year ahead. There is great potential in each one and we desire to see it tapped more and more.

Getting ready for excursion!

Some need to start on three wheels before becoming comfortable with two.

She beat everyone she faced....except me.

We felt very 'at home' at our hotel. 

Fellow guests provided entertainment!

What does a literacy program give as a graduation gift: storybooks!

The DEA Rite: our Annual Fundraiser Banquet

Last night Dar El Awlad hosted its annual Fundraiser Banquet.  This year was a special occasion as Kids Alive International celebrates 100 years of service.  A great deal of work goes into the planning and execution of the event, but significantly more encouragement comes out of it.  Every year our children and staff are blessed by the large show of support from individuals, churches and groups from the local community.  It’s never the fanciest affair in but it certainly has a lot of heart (and I must admit that we do play dress-up pretty well).

Everyone involved in the banquet looks at some part of it above the others, whether that’s the decorations, the sound and lighting, the taste of the food or the interactions with guests.  For me, I look at one thing: getting things on and off the tables.  For the past nine years I have overseen our Dar El Awlad’s team of servers.  The boys look forward each year to the opportunity to become waiters for a table (or two) during the dinner; it has become a rite of passage.   Each year I thoroughly explain all the procedures very carefully of serving a four-course meal (don’t run, speak politely to guests, remove plates but not the forks, DO NOT ENTER THE KITCHEN!, etc….) but always the energy that comes with welcoming over 200 guests send the boys into a bit of a whirl.  Following procedure often gives way to following impulse.  Yet without fail, commotion manages flow together and the end result is satisfied guests with filled stomachs and uplifted hearts.  Thanks to all who helped make this year’s banquet another great memory in the long history of Dar El Awlad.  Visit our Facebook page to see more pictures.

Preparing tables

Our servers in action

The Stairs!!!!  Our greatest hazard between the kitchen and banquet hall.

One of a dozen dishes we served

One of our oldest residents shared about his story and his dreams

A full house of support and encouragement

Not all the children could be servers, but their day will come.

Youth Race: Mission (mostly) Accomplished

Last week the Beirut Marathon Association organized a youth race in which thousands of children and youth participated.  A number of our boys were kindly invited by SKILD, a local learning center, to participate. I supervised the outing and had a very straightforward mission: Get 19 boys to the race through a 5K course and backsafely to Dar El Awlad.  Technically I failed the mission.  Halfway through I received a call informing me that a one of my boys was being taken to lost-and-found.  He registered a DNF (Did Not Finish).  It wasn’t a surprise; before I even arrived at the starting line I had received a call requesting me to retrieve the same child after he reported himself lost to event staff.  I did get him, but obviously couldn’t keep him.

I may have failed the mission, but the experience was by no means a failure.  Lebanon is going through difficult times and events like this are powerful demonstrations of symbolic and practical encouragement for positive movements.   The race was intended to generate support and awareness for special needs kids, and for our special children it was a great day to be in Beirut.  Whether they ran, walked, or were escorted to the lost and found, they all had a wonderful time participating in a meaningful initiative. And all returned home safely!

This is definitely the pack I want to run with.

An official photo featured in a national newspaper.  You can spot two of my boyse in the bottom-right corner

You'll never walk alone

We took our time, but we made it to the finish line

There were only 15 boys waiting for me at the Reunion Point (aka lost and found).  

The triumphant post-race pic.  Can you guess which boy registered the DNF?

Seeking Simple Solutions, Wishing for Lasting Results

It has been meaningful these past three years to be part of the  New Horizons Center, a partnership in the South of Lebanon serving Bedouin and Gypsy communities.  Kids Alive runs a small literacy program that is helping children become the first literate individuals in their families’ histories.  It’s a great opportunity but with it are many challenges.

One major challenge this year has been the lack of commitment in attendance.  The communities we serve are rather transient; education is under-prioritized and the children do not often receive adequate encouragement to faithfully attend class.  The high rate of absenteeism was a frustration to us serving and a hindrance to individual learning progress.  It is indeed a big problem, but we are discovering that addressing it has called for a simple action.

A few months ago we started rewarding students by each month taking all the children with perfect monthly attendance to a lunch treat.  This simple incentive of sitting down at a restaurant for a sandwich or hamburger has helped jump-start a greater care for coming consistently to the program.  School absences have decreased, and when they do happen the student knows that he or she is missing out on the opportunity for something special.  The children are now building a habit of attending school faithfully; the thrill of eating-out is becoming less and the normalcy of regularly attending school is becoming more.  We hope that a commitment to learning and education is being instilled in these young lives and will be passed down to a future generation.   

Taking Refuge with Refugees

One tradition of mine these past eight years has been celebrating New Year’s Eve with relatives in the Bekaa Valley.  Ruth prefers to celebrate with her family and church so we've reached a mutual understanding that we’ll conclude and start each year apart (but try to avoid separation in the 363 days in between).  New Year’s among the Bedouin is a humble affair but one full of personal meaning, especially in recent years as Syrian family have "settled" in the community as refugees.  We welcome each new year with hopes the it will be the year of return to homelands.  Displacement threatens to extend its misery with each turning of the calendar, but hope for home remains.

This year's celebration was much like the previous until a winter storm (named, rather fittingly, Vladimir) began dumping snow across Lebanon. We awoke from our slumber on New Year's Day to find the surroundings covered in a blanket of white with snow continuing to fall.  My Russian-made Lada Niva and I made a valiant (reckless)attempt to pass over the mountains and return to Beirut, but all roads were closed and I was forced to extend my stay with relatives another night. 

 

                       

The next day was filled with sunshine as the snow around us began to melt, but cold temperatures in the mountains left roads dangerously icy.  A second attempt to escape the valley was thwarted. Once again I was forced to return to my family and wait for another day and another chance to get home to my family. There I found myself in a familiar place but an unfamiliar situation.

For years I have been regularly visiting my relatives on my own terms, always arriving and departing when I want.  My visits are often influenced by different forces (such cultural demands, familial duties or relational obligations) but my presence has always been ruled by my will to be present. This time, however, I was there not because I wanted to be but because I had no other choice but to be.  I yearned to be home with my wife and baby and responsibilities and "stuff", but it was simply not possible.  I was forced to "settle" somewhere secure and wait for the opportunity to return home.  I had to take refuge with refugees.

The frustration must have been apparent.  Family members noted that I was physically there but mentally someplace else.  It was true; my thoughts were with my family and home. I had prepared myself to miss them for two days but was not ready for the four days of separation.  Despite being in a place of welcoming community where all my basic needs were met, it was not home and it was not where I wanted to be.  It is a feeling my family members understand very well for I was sharing in the absolute slightest way a form of the displacement they have been enduring for years.  Our situations differed greatly (they are cut off from their homeland by terrifying violence, I was delayed in returning to my home due to some sub-freezing temperatures and precipitation) but we shared in those unplanned moments together the longing to be someplace else, to be place we can call home.  

As I went to sleep in my uncle's tent wondering if the next day will be the day I return home, I thought about the refugees, my family, sleeping around me who are wondering if this year will be the year they return to the homes, lands and lives they once knew. I have now thankfully returned to the place that I truly want to be, and I pray that the countless displaced will likewise soon arrive to a home in this world. But even if this wish continues to elude, I have firm faith of Christ’s promise for an eternal home and belonging in the world to come.  May this be an enduring hope to the many lives enduring displacement and longing at the start of this new year