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
