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.
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.
Thank you Brent, for sharing your heart, your experience, and our memories.
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