Unblocking Wells

FIELD UPDATE

Today I want to share a story that Kazheen, our computer teacher and one of our core team members, told me.

One of the greatest challenges I have personally faced while working with our students is their lack of emotional expression. The standard reply to almost any personal question is simply, "Good." So, whenever I speak with a group, I forewarn them: "Good is not an answer." Even then, it can be like pulling teeth to get any emotional response. Something is visibly blocked. Yet when they do break through, they visibly relax and are proud of themselves.

Those who were rescued or ransomed from captivity are often the most expressive. Their voices and identities were stifled by an enemy dressed in black, and over time they have quietly developed strong opinions and clear voices that long to be heard. Over the years we have sought to provide them with a safe place to speak, while helping guide and strengthen those voices.

The displaced students, however, such as Amer, whose story Kazheen shares today, are different. They are animated among their peers but often reluctant to express emotion or offer personal thoughts in a more formal setting.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

"Amer is a sixth-grade student who lives in a tent with his four brothers and two sisters. Like many Shingali families, they depend on day labor to earn a living. During the summer months they work in the orchards, and in the winter they work in the fields. Because work is not available every day, his father often tries his luck in the nearby city. Income is minimal, and life is hard. Amer balances both his studies and manual labor.

I make it a point to sit and talk with all of my students. It helps me understand how to teach them, what they need to learn, and identify any problems or difficulties within the family that might affect their learning or emotional well-being.

During one of our conversations, I asked Amer about his relationship with his family. At first, he simply did not understand the question. He sat silently, astonished that such a question could even be asked. He seemed confused by words such as love, kindness, and empathy. It was as if he had never been encouraged to recognize, let alone express, emotion. It took him a long time to answer. I waited patiently, knowing that he was struggling not because he did not love his family, but because he had never been asked such a personal question and lacked the words to describe his feelings.

Over the years I have worked with Springs of Hope Foundation, I have rarely heard one of my students say, 'My father taught me that,' or, 'My mother showed me that,' especially when speaking about guidance, mentoring, or education. Much of their learning about life, and even about education itself, comes from their surroundings rather than from parental guidance, support, and structure at home.

A few days ago, my students stayed behind after class, quietly chatting. As the conversation turned to music, they began sharing their favorite songs and the musical instruments closest to their hearts.

In Yezidi culture, playing a musical instrument is often passed down through generations. A grandfather passes his love and knowledge to his son, who in turn teaches his own son. Amer's family is one of those traditional families. Despite the hardships and emotional silence, his grandfather loved music, loved his saz, and tried to teach his grandchildren to sing and play traditional instruments.

As the students shared, Amer listened in his usual silence. Then he quietly told me that his grandfather would patiently sit with him, one-on-one, teaching him how to play and sing. As he spoke, his face came alive with memories that were precious to him.

Suddenly his expression changed, as though a dark cloud had passed over his face. He told me that his grandfather had died and that all he had left were his memories. What surprised me most was that he remembered the exact moment. Without hesitation he said that his grandfather died on April 4, 2024, at 3:00 p.m. He called it the day that 'time stopped.'

'Now,' he said softly, 'all I have left are the memories.'

He also told me that the family has kept his grandfather's tent exactly as it was on the day he died. His few belongings remain in the same place, untouched, preserving not only his possessions but also his presence.

Amer recalled how his grandfather received a small pension and would always save a tiny portion of it for him. Whenever he had a little money, he would buy Amer a new garment, making him feel loved and special despite the family's difficult circumstances.

Listening to Amer, I realized that his grandfather had given him far more than music. He had given him an emotional language. He had given him attention, encouragement, kindness, and memories of a shared love expressed through music.

I have learned much from Amer. His simple story showed me how our community, particularly the Shingal tent community, remains in survival mode, everyone living with varying levels of PTSD. Everyone is simply trying to stay alive, avoid a tent fire, put a plate of rice on the table, and make it to tomorrow without another disaster.

As I listened to Amer, I saw that he is like a well—a well with depth and living water at the bottom that, over years of suffering, has become blocked. The simple conversations we shared, where at first he struggled to speak, slowly began to unblock that well within him.

My journey as a teacher and mentor is not conventional. I have become a big sister, or even a mother, to many of my students, filling gaps that parents living in survival mode are often unaware of or simply unable to fill.

We are Springs of Hope, but I see our tent community as a collection of wells that have either run dry through hardship or become blocked by suffering. It is our role to help reopen those wells for the sake of our students, the coming generation, the orphaned generation."

—Kazheen

I close with a passage from Genesis 26 that has become our prayer:

"Isaac reopened the wells that had been dug in the time of his father Abraham, which the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham had died... Isaac moved on and dug another well and named it Rehoboth, saying, 'Now the Lord has given us room, and we will flourish in the land.'"

May it be so.