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.