I Volunteered To Help Refugees in Serbia

I didn’t sleep at all last night. Not a wink. It was my first time volunteering with refugees last night. We served dinner to almost 300 refugees, mostly coming from Afghanistan, Syria, Iran, Iraq, and Pakistan. There wasn’t enough food. We ran out of meals. I will soon learn that happens quite a bit.

I should have practiced good self care. I know this is paramount from my years volunteering as a certified rape crisis counselor. But I didn’t. I thought I was fine, but I realize now I was just numb. I think the reason I am still able to function today on no sleep is due to that continued numbness. I’m having a hard time understanding what it must feel like to be forced from your country due to violence, never to return, stepping into the unknown, not knowing if even then you’ll be safe, or be able to make ends meet, or see your family again. I feel grateful that I am in Serbia by choice and not by force. I have a bed to sleep in, even if I’m not sleeping. We ran out of meals? It was upsetting. It continues to be upsetting. The numbness fades away and I am teary.

I serve meals in the family line today. There are a lot of families and young boys traveling alone we serve in this line. Some of these families have as many as 15 people, or couples who have eight children. We run out of meals again. Most of the unaccompanied minors don’t get fed. I think about these unaccompanied boys a lot. They sleep in abandoned buildings, parks, or parking lots. I can’t believe they are making it on their own. I try not to think about how they protect themselves from whatever horrors they’ve had to endure. Alone.

I start to go around the park to collect trash. I see a mother holding an 18-month-old who is struggling to feed the baby girl while her two-year-old is pulling at her skirt. I smile at the woman and I take the cup of stew from the baby. I spoon the last bits into the baby’s mouth. Then I see the two year old is at my feet, reaching up for me to pick him up. I look at his mother and she nods that it’s ok. I pick him up and he immediately wraps his arms around my neck. He presses his cheek against mine. We stand like that for a while and the sound fades away. My heart is bursting. Then it’s time for them to go. I hand the boy back to his father, after a small struggle to get him to let go of me. My chest is tight.

I am working in the men’s line today. I smile and let them know we’re getting ready to serve the food soon. They all smile, but look at me like I am from another planet. There are 200 refugees that come into Serbia every day, but only 30 people get let into Hungary each day, and 28 of those spots go to families; so, there are a lot of men that have to wait here for months. I mostly just try to be nice and cheery, but I have to keep a sharp eye for people who try to cut. It happens every evening. I chat with some of the refugees; I’ve gotten to know a few. I talk to some new ones. The ones that can speak English ask me, “what’s your name?” and the sort, while their friends who don’t, stare at me as we talk. I’m talking to a new refugee I haven’t seen before.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

A lot of my fellow volunteers are gun-shy to tell the refugees that we’re American. I think it’s important to tell them I’m American so they can see I am a person trying to help.

“The United States,” I reply. “Where are you from?”

“Afghanistan,” he says. “There are a lot of young boys and girls from America in the military in Afghanistan.”

“Yes, I know,” I reply.

“That’s why I’m here,” he says.

He doesn’t break eye contact and neither do I. He’s waiting for me to react.

“Why I’m here is to help,” I say.

He smiles. He seems satisfied. “Yeah, ok.” The line moves along.

I am walking to get dinner when I run into another volunteer who had volunteered that day. She is distraught. I ask her what’s wrong? She slowly begins to cry. I hug her. She apologizes and I tell her not to even think twice about it. She tells me they were giving out women’s and children’s clothing that night and three unaccompanied boys, ages 10, 12 and 14, were begging for blankets. They didn’t have any blankets to give.

“Please,” they said. “We’re so cold.”

The refugees come from warm countries and they sleep outside. They aren’t used to these temperatures. I shudder to think about how it will be unbearably colder soon.

My friend tells me she begged the volunteer coordinator to let them rummage through the storage closet to try and find some blankets, and he agrees. The people that run the day-to-day operations of RAS are amazing. They are mostly in their mid-20s, yet they work like people much wiser beyond their years. They are caring, but most importantly, have the right kind of demeanor and disposition for this kind of work. I have seen them respond to intense and uncomfortable situations with grace and kindness and come out successful.

My friend tells me they were able to find one sleeping bag.

“We don’t care! We’ll share! We’re just so cold!” they say.

She shakes her head. I try not to cry, too.

“It’s just so hard,” she says.

I spot the family with the two-year-old that held onto me last time. He runs up to me and grabs my hand and tries to bring me back to his family. I go with him and when he gets to his mother, I smile at her and go back to my post. Later, I see she is struggling to bring meals over to the bench where her husband is waiting. She has five kids and is trying to carry the meals, but some of them are crying and want them to pick her up. Another volunteer and I see this and we go over to help her. I grab her two-year-old and a couple meals. We reach the bench and I put him down, but he wants me to pick him back up. “He likes you,” she says. “You calm him.”

Later, I try to find the family to say goodbye. It’s my last time volunteering and I want to wish them well. But they’ve already left. I’ll never see them again. I hope they’re ok.