Our Family on a Basketball
by Ann Doherty
I met H in early October, when he first arrived in Amsterdam with about 30 other refugees. It was my first-ever shift at De Regenboog, a local social organisation that provides food, beds, warm clothing and comfort to weary travellers who have missed the last train to Ter Apel, the remote northern village where they need to go to launch the formal process to stay in the Netherlands.
Like so many others, H had crossed from Turkey to Greece in a rubber boat, traversing various European countries by foot and by train with all of his worldly belongings on his back. He was exhausted, but exuded a buzz of positive energy as he interacted with the younger children in the group and tried to interpret for other new arrivals from Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and Eritrea in his very basic English. He was eager to tell his story, like it was a layer of skin that needed to be shed, and I overheard him repeat it again and again to volunteers and fellow refugees during that first evening.
He was 22 years old, from Damascus, travelling solo. Parents, most siblings and most friends dead. A survivor of months of deprivation and torture in one of Assad’s secret prisons.
After a short night of sleep, H and the group of children, parents, men and elderly folk boarded the first train to Ter Apel. He told me that as soon as he had his papers he would return to live in Amsterdam. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the long, uncertain bureaucratic journey that awaited him. We kept in touch via social media, and I learned that he eventually arrived with 500 other Syrian men in a temporary camp in Apeldoorn.
He wrote me regular messages about his experiences in the camp: many new friends, tasteless food served in meagre portions, no sugar for the tea, terrifying nights when strong winds forced many men to sleep on the street for fear that the tents would blow away, sleepless nights due to loud snoring in the dormitory, warm water shortages, and long, empty, tedious days.
My family followed my stories about H and his experiences with interest and concern. My children were grappling at school with the political and social dynamics of the influx of refugees. My daughter and her friends regularly raise money for warm winter coats for refugees after school in front of our local Albert Heijn.
My partner had positive experiences living with refugees when he was younger. So when I proposed that we invite H to visit for the weekend they were curious and enthusiastic. I mailed an OV-chip card to his camp, and after many Google-translated messages about the details of the journey, he arrived once again at Central Station.
This turned out to be the first of many increasingly longer visits that continue to this day. Despite significant language challenges, we manage to communicate with a mixture of sign language, repetition, and online translation. It works out surprisingly well. H comes along to the community gardens where I work, and enthusiastically harvests potatoes, plants garlic, and turns the compost pile.
He is teaching us useful bits of Arabic: inna bardan (I am cold), inte majnun (you are crazy) and yalla lebarra (hurry up). The children are helping him with Dutch words, which he studiously writes down in exquisite handwriting in his notebook. We have taught him to make hutspot and pannekoek, and he cooks Syrian favourites for us like fattoush, grilled aubergine and tabouleh. We tease him about the heaps of sugar he adds to his tea and the salt he sprinkles lavishly over his food. In turn, he teases us about the amount of bread we consume, and the lack of warm water, clean towels and soap in the bathroom.
H is relaxed when he’s at home with us. He talks more and more about his childhood in Syria. About Rasha, his beautiful friend with black hair down to her waist, who turned heads when they walked together to the market. About the stuffed grape leaves his mother made by the hundreds. About the tortoises who walked freely around their house. About the friends he pulled from the rubble after his university was bombed.
Sometimes he withdraws to watch long videos of Syrian landscapes set to sentimental Arabic music. He was with us when he got the news that his uncle and cousins had been killed by barrel bombs in Damascus. It was hard to know what to say. So we lit some candles for his family members, and played a game of cards. As inadequate as I felt in dealing with this magnitude of personal tragedy, I was happy that he wasn’t alone that evening.
H is at home with us more than he stays in the camp. My extraordinary community of friends has also taken him under their collective wing: for example building a bicycle for him; treating him to shoarma and home-cooked meals when he gets tired of our vegetarian household; introducing him to local speakers of Arabic; and hooking him up with basketball games. An artist friend even brought him to her studio and guided him in crafting his own salt shaker out of clay. He is still in limbo, eager to hear whether he can stay, learn Dutch, and get back into his beloved work as a car mechanic. He celebrated his first-ever Christmas with us recently, and was very pleased to find his very own basketball under the tree. I gave him a waterproof pen so he could write his name on it. Later I noticed that he had carefully written all five of our names after his, followed by “my family”.
I have met hundreds of refugees during the night shift at De Regenboog. We have shared both lighthearted and intense moments in the few hours we are together. My heart aches every time I stand on the platform after the train to Ter Apel has pulled away. What will happen to these men, women and children? Will they succeed in creating new lives after the extraordinary upheaval and loss they have experienced?
Will they meet people who welcome them and try to lighten their loads and ease their paths? And might these simple and mutually satisfying connections be an essential basis for building peaceful and compassionate societies together?
