Last night at the refugee camp was by far the coldest evening since I arrived. The temperature hit 38 degrees Fahrenheit and when you breathed out, the water vapor in your breath created a large, visible cloud that expanded across the grim concrete landscape of the camp as it floated away from your face. Unfortunately, the vast majority of huts and other shelters in the camp don’t have heaters, so the temperatures can create harsh conditions for many people, particularly the sick, pregnant women and children.
It’s said that storytelling emerged in ancient times as people huddled around a fire in a primitive hut. Back then, many of the stories told were myths, fairy tales and fables that kept the storyteller’s audience breathless as each detail of the story was revealed. The scene at the refugee camp is really not that different than the storytelling scene of ancient times except the riveting stories are real, the heaters are gas, and the huts are made by Ikea.
I am going to share the story that a twenty-one year old Syrian refugee man bravely told us last night. He is fearful for his own safety and for that of his family, so I am not going to use his real name. In an effort to bring the story to a more relevant light, I will refer to him as “Danny” — a name as common in America as the Syrian man’s real name is in his country.
When Bashar al-Assad’s regime took over, the violence in the area where Danny lived escalated. Assad is an evil human being as confirmed by the United Nations findings that led to them implicating him in war crimes and crimes against humanity. As that bloodshed intensified, Danny’s mother’s concern for her three sons’ safety grew. As the mother of four children, I know that we have an unexplained intuition when it comes to our children and we sometimes have clairvoyant feelings that will often play out in time. I can’t help but think that this was what Danny’s mother experienced.
One of Danny’s brothers was serving in the Syrian army when the revolution started. At one point, they asked him to shoot innocent people but he refused. He left the army and went back to his hometown of Al Raqqah to become a medic. One day, he was instructed by Daesh to dump the bodies of three men who they had killed. Danny’s brother agreed to do so, but because he knew the three men were Christians, he didn’t follow through on the terrorists’ orders. Instead he buried the three men as he knew that’s what their religion called for upon their death. Here was a Muslim man who didn’t know these men and who didn’t share the same religion, but who respected their religion and their lives enough to do what he believed was right. Shortly after, Daesh discovered that Danny’s brother had disobeyed them by burying the Christians. The terrorists found his brother at a family gathering, took him outside and shot him.
Following the murder of her son, Danny’s mother begged her remaining two sons to leave Syria. As any mother would, she feared for their safety and wanted to ensure her remaining sons did not get killed by Daesh. Her two sons did not want to leave their country and assured their mother they would be OK.
Danny’s second brother was outraged by his brother’s murder. In an effort to express that anger, he wrote graffiti on a wall that said negative things about Daesh. Daesh was able to identify Danny’s brother as the source of the graffiti. In retaliation, Daesh not only violently murdered him, but they took a video of his slaughtering and the parading of his body throughout the streets and put the video on the internet for all to see, including Danny’s family.
Danny’s mother now had only one son left. She pleaded with him to leave Syria. After having his two brothers brutally murdered, personally witnessing over fifty people being beheaded on the street, and feeling his mother’s heartfelt imploring in every fiber of his body, Danny left Syria. He has an unwavering belief that he will be able to return to his country someday. He has to believe this in his heart. It’s the only thing that allows him to continue on his journey of uncertainty.
When Danny finished telling his story to our Arabic translator, she wept for a long, long time before she could even regain her composure and translate his story to us. You see, the difference between the storytelling of ancient times and today’s storytelling at the refugee camp is that these stories are not myths, fairy tales, or fables. They are real stories. Real people. Real violence. Real terror. Real heartache. Real love.
Please pray for the refugees. #BeKind
