Obligation
- Springs of Hope
- 13 hours ago
- 4 min read
“It is the obligation of everyone who lives in a safer room to open the door when someone in danger knocks.”
Dina Nayer
We send teams, usually headed up by Bashiq, our English teacher, into the camp twice a week. As time goes by, people, families tend to become a tent number or a statistic on a chart on the wall of Camp Management. We go to search for those in need; we are the ones who go to knock on torn tent doors, looking for those who have fallen into a crack that opened 11 years ago. A crack that has widened and deepened with the years of displacement. A crack that has become an ugly, humanitarian scar. Sadly, one of many scars and woundings of our age.
Going into the camp to connect, to watch and to listen to that which was both spoken and unspoken was something that we did in the early years. Then came the structure of campus life and we turned more, and naturally inward as great were the challenges that we faced, namely our kids who were trafficked and brainwashed.
During the summer months, as both special needs kiddies increased in number, along with an endless flow of people into our campus asking for help, we decided to deliberately go back into the camp to show that we are here and care. To show that we see and we hear. People, not wall charts.
I share two brief stories today, one of a man and his family whom Bashiq and Kajen met. One of a special needs student.
Ameer's Story
"As always, we visited the camp, but today was different. We met a family whose story left us silent and sober, a story which already haunts us. Kajen and I stood in front of a dilapidated cold tent, home to Ameer Khairy, his wife Khatun and eight beautiful children. The children were quiet and respectful, their eyes displayed silent stories and psychological wounding.
Ameer and Khatun are originally from Rambusi in Shingal. They have always been poor, owning no home, living in an old run down government building which was destroyed as IXXX marched in.
After they managed to escape the invasion of their village, they survived, as did many by living on the mountain for several months, just camping out until there was a way for them to cross the border and come to Shariya, where they live in two adjacent tents. Yes, they escaped one enemy, but then found themselves facing one more subtle, namely, the harshness of the seasons. The cold of winter is just setting in and has already become their enemy.
Ameer, as many like him, does day work, working when he can in construction. If it’s a good day and he is paid well, he can earn 20,000 Iraqi dinars, which is close to $16. On bad days, when many men line up for day work or in the winter months when building halts, he has no income.
Dilsoz, his eight year old son, spends his day traipsing around the camp looking for empty bottles to sell and reclaim a cent or two. It is his small contribution to keeping the family alive. The other siblings' attendance at school is low due to the fact that they don't possess the clothes or shoes.
When Ameer spoke about Dilsoz, his voice shook and broke, not from shame but from the weight of a father longing to give his kids a better life. A father who speaks from the crack he has fallen into."
Ameer has no big dreams; his dream is simple and heartbreaking. It's to put food on his table. The family is surviving on hope. Hope that one day life will be kinder. Hope that his children will go to school. Hope that someone will see their struggle and help them rebuild their lives.
It is our obligation to help.
Nashbir's Story
Nashbir is 13 years old and lives with his family in Shariya village. Apparently, he did not receive adequate oxygen at birth and has a cognitive problem as a result that manifests in two ways, forgetting or not remembering and outbreaks of anger.
The outbreaks of anger are usually a result of being laughed at, called names such as “Crazy” by other kids, or being provoked. He started school at 6 years old but left as children responded in a negative way to him (and may I add, that the educators did nothing to correct the children). He told us that he felt different, he felt “less than the others” that something was wrong with him or something was missing.
He has learned to stay in the house to protect himself from taunts, so is lonely and isolated. His father called us to ask whether he could participate in equine therapy. It was his entry to a safer room. One where he was spoken to with dignity and respect, one where tones were measured and quiet. One where he felt safe to ask questions about everything. We sense that he will remember the answers.
Nashbir is eager to learn, eager to know and wants to ride. It is our obligation to teach him. To give him a chance to breathe again.
Dear friends,
We are so aware of the endless emotional overload that we all are challenged by in this period of human history, yet we are compelled to continue to be a small voice for these forgotten people. As “darkness covers the face of the earth and gross darkness the peoples” we are called to be the light that rises and shines in that darkness, pushing it back for those who are without hope.
My thoughts land on Isaiah 58.
“Is this not the fast that I have chosen? To loose the chains of injustice, to undo the heavy burdens and let the oppressed go free, to break every yoke.
Is it not to share your food with the hungry, to bring the poor that are cast out into your house? When you see the naked, to clothe them and not turn away.”
We who live in the safer room are obliged.
Can you help?
With your help, we can open our doors to those who have been forgotten and give them hope.
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