‘It’s okay my Son’

The story of an old man who had lost his family and ended up in the wrong country, but finds his hope again.

By Majd Mshaty

9 months ago, I was a refugee.

Volunteering to welcome new refugees at Amsterdam Central Station, I know how people fleeing from war can feel.

I once found a man, sitting on a bench, weeping intensely. He was an older man, probably in his sixties. A fellow volunteer told me, “He’s been crying for the past ten minutes and we can’t seem to understand what’s wrong with him.”

I can speak Arabic and greeted him with “As-Salamu Alaykum” - peace be with you. The man raised his head gazing at me with bright teary eyes, like a lost child who had finally found his mother.

I asked him what was wrong. Was he hurt? Did something happened to him or his family? Had he lost something? The man shook his head: “no, no nothing like that”. So I sat next to him and asked him to tell me why he was crying. I told him “you can trust me, treat me as if I was your son”.

The minute I said the word “son” his eyes started to fill with tears again. He choked through his words, and told me that he hadn’t wanted to come to the Netherlands. He was supposed to go to Germany to be reunited with his sons and daughters and their children.

“When we ran away, we ran together. My son borrowed extra money because he didn’t want to leave me behind. He told me that we were all going to stay, or we were all going to flee. But I couldn’t run as fast as they could when the Hungarian police followed us. I managed to hide and then took the train. I thought I was going to Germany but now I find out that I’m not!”

“I couldn’t run as fast as they could when the Hungarian police followed us”

“I’m an old man, my only joy is to be around my children and grandchildren. I would have been okay with staying there and dying alone, although the fact of being apart from my family tore me apart. But now, after all this, I’ve spent my son’s money coming to the wrong country!”

The man’s words fell into sobs again.

I didn’t know what to say. I remembered my last day in Aleppo, saying goodbye to my grandmothers and grandfather. I remembered the way they tried to hide their sadness. I remembered them telling me not to worry, that “we’ll meet again, someday”. They told me that this was the right thing to do.

I remembered the look in my parents’ eyes when they sent their three children away, to safety. I remembered arriving here on Monday the 5th of January.

“We’ll meet again, someday”

I sat there on the bench with this older man. It felt like the whole world was spinning around me. I wanted to just sit next to him forever and cry out all my pain.

I thought about how pain united us Syrians, and how similar our stories are. For a second, I thought this man could be my dad or grandfather or uncle, even though he looked completely different, had a different religion and was from a different city to me. These differences didn’t matter.

I hugged him and cried with him, sat on this bench in the middle of a strange country surrounded by strange people. The man held me tight and rested his head on my chest.

Then he kissed me on my forehead. It was like he had returned to being the old wise man and I was the young boy again. “It’s okay my son, it’s okay. I know now that the Netherlands is a good country for me to stay in, because I have found my sons and daughters here too.”

He stood up smiled at me and the other surprised volunteers, as they took him to the emergency camp.

I am sure that one day he will meet his children and grandchildren again. I am sure that one day I will meet my parents and grandparents again as well.

“It’s okay my son. It’s okay.”

It was okay now.