Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

refugee camps

Six years later, I still can’t forget

Six years ago, Phil and I had an opportunity, one I couldn’t get out of my head. Our church was planning a trip to Kenya, to support and  encourage a couple who served there at a school. It was an impossible dream, in my mind, that I would see Africa. Our young family was barely making ends meet. My passport had long expired. There were so many steps, so many pieces that had to fall into place for this to happen. The deposit for both of us was due before Christmas, and in the lean years, we had no extra money for such things. I trusted somehow that things would work out, and in what I consider a truly miraculous way, I got a freelance job that paid almost exactly what we needed for the deposit.

That’s how I remember it, anyway. 

I was compelled by a force I could not explain to take this trip, and I couldn’t do it with my own resources.

As our team raised funds for the trip, some people we sought out for support thought we were asking them to fund our vacation. Our trip did include a safari and a hike to the top of a volcano, but the bulk of our time was spent working at the school where our friends worked.

And on one unforgettable day, we traveled to a refugee camp to attend church. While I consider the entire trip life-changing, it was that day in particular that changed my life in real and tangible ways.

Before that day, I’d barely heard about refugees. I didn’t understand the global crisis or know anything about what I could do about it. I’d certainly never met a refugee. (At least not that I knew of.) But that day, I watched children stuff hard-boiled eggs into their mouths, followed by a banana–a meal they could count on. I stood in a circle of children who reached for the free T-shirts we were distributing, overwhelmed by the need and surprised by the desperation. I had thought the children would receive the gifts with patience and gratitude. Instead, they grasped for what we had to give, some even telling us they needed a second one for their brother who was at home. (Which may or may not have been true.)

I stood in a church service listening to the voices around me sing about God’s faithfulness and wondered why I could not find my own voice. I peed in a hole in the ground. I walked through a dry riverbed to the homes of some refugee women who had walked miles to be at church that morning. I stood in their homes and floundered for words as they asked me–ME, of little faith–to pray for them. I found words, but they stuck in my throat and I hated the way they sounded as I voiced them.

Later, I cried unstoppable tears because I couldn’t help them. I didn’t have money to buy the purses they were selling. I was so overwhelmed by what I saw and what I felt that I did not learn a single name of the women I had met. I took not one photo while I was there.

Still, the images are burned in my mind.

—

This is not the first time I have told this story on the blog, so why am I telling it again?

First, I tell it again to myself so I can remember.

When I came home from Kenya in 2015, my worldview was shaken. I was no longer unaware of the needs in the world. I had seen them firsthand.

But what could I do?

Part of me wanted to save all my money and fly back to Kenya. The culture shock upon our return to the States was unexpected. I was tempted to yell at shoppers at Costco who didn’t walk their carts back to the corral because it was raining. I was aware of just how MUCH stuff we had. I wanted to give everything away, to live more simply.

Was that really going to help?

Then, I connected with a refugee resettlement agency in our city and for the next couple of years, I helped welcome refugees to our community. I sat with them in classes and tried to explain things they would need to know–like how to budget their money and how to practice good hygiene. I drove refugees to the grocery store and to medical appointments.

It was so far outside of my comfort zone but exactly what I needed to do at the time. Those years of volunteer service are some of my happiest memories of our time in Lancaster, and I still don’t feel like I was doing enough to help.

In 2018, about the same time that the U.S government was scaling back its refugee admission allowances because of a xenophobic administration, I got a part-time job, working at a school. My availability to volunteer with refugees dwindled and fewer refugees were resettled. At a time when refugees needed my advocacy the most, I spoke for them less and less. I had not forgotten them, but I lost hope that there was anything I could do for them when the government of my country was so opposed to their very existence.

Working in a school, though, is one of the results of my time in Kenya and volunteering with refugees. I would not have thought myself capable of such a step if I hadn’t had those experiences. And because of those experiences, I’ve had the opportunity to work with children of immigrants, students learning English for the first time, homeless students, and students who just need someone to believe in them.

I count this one of the many returns on the investment made in my trip to Kenya.

—

Again, though, none of this is new information to be shared. If you’re still with me and haven’t tuned out yet, please stay with me.

A few months ago, I bought a book written by a former refugee, Omar Mohamed, a man who now lives and works in Lancaster and who has started an organization to help refugee students in his former camp. My daughter and I both read the book in January, and on Saturday, we joined a Zoom meeting live from the Dadaad Refugee Camp, the largest refugee camp in Kenya. This camp is situated on the other side of the country from where I was in Kenya, near the border with Somalia. I could not pass up the chance to see it with my own eyes and hear from students who are striving to get an education in conditions we would not tolerate for a single second for our own children.

I think most of us can agree that educating our children in the last year has been difficult, to say the least. Teachers have had to make accommodations like never before. As someone who sees every day what they’re doing, I can say with confidence, they’re doing an amazing job. The challenges facing educators and students during a pandemic have required vast amounts of creativity.

They are like nothing, however, compared to the challenges facing educators and students in refugee camps.

Let me pause here and say that I do not wish to overlook the sacrifices educators here in the States have made in order to teach this year. I love my co-workers and see the stress they carry and I wish things were different. What I saw from Dadaab, though, makes me grateful for what we have here and compels me to find a way to assist.

We heard from real students who gathered at their high schools for an extra FIVE HOURS on a Saturday, just so they could tell us firsthand what the challenges are that they face. Usually on Saturdays, their schooling ends at noon. When they spoke with us, it was edging toward evening. They told us how in one school the classroom is 5 meters by 4 meters, walled on four sides, and hosts 86 students every school day in a room designed for 30. These 86 students–64 boys and 22 girls–create a lot of noise and heat and body odor because of the heat and lack of air circulation. These students WANT to be at school. They WANT to learn. And in order to continue with their education, they must compete with students from the entire country of Kenya (most of whom have better resources) in order to secure scholarships to Canada. There are no computers in the classroom, and they only have textbooks when there are extras the government can give them. Many of them do not go home for lunch because within the hour they are allotted, they cannot walk to the village and back in time. Water lines in the village are only open twice a day for an hour–from 7-8 a.m. and 3-4 p.m. If a student waits in these lines, he or she might be late for school (or have to leave early).

Let’s sit with this for a moment. These students spoke to us clearly and articulately in English, which is not their first language. They are desperate to continue their education. They are learning in spite of these conditions. Lack of food and water, lack of books and other learning resources.

But wait. There is more.

We also heard from a Somali girl. (Many of the refugees in Dadaab are Somali.) Education for girls is especially difficult because families are eager to marry their daughters to a man who can provide for them all, even if he is uneducated. Early marriage is a common practice in these cultures. Girls want to learn, too, but they are grossly outnumbered. For every 8 boys who receive a scholarship to further their education, 1 girl receives a scholarship. Add to that the need for basic hygiene products for girls, who often miss school while they are menstruating, because they do not have access to sanitary pads. (Ladies, can you imagine having to miss work or school for one week every month because you are having your period?)

This is one initiative Refugee Strong is taking on for 2021.

Students from the next school told us that four students share one desk (meant for two students). There are 100 desks and 400 students in the school. Because there are not enough textbooks for everyone, students must rely on the notes the teacher writes on the board. They must study before the sun sets because they do not always have enough oil to burn to provide light after dark. (There is little to no electricity in the camp.) And those 400 students? They share two latrines, which are in danger of collapsing during the rainy season.

There are no nurses or school counselors at the schools. Some students sleep in a “dorm” at the school because they are serious about their studies in the last year of schooling and at their “home” in the villages of the refugee camp, there is no space to study. To secure a scholarship to Canada, students must earn at least a B+. Earning a B or a B- does not cut it.

Because of COVID-19, food distribution at the camp happens every two months. It used to happen every 15 days. So, every two months, families are given their share of the food rations: maize, beans, oil and rice. And it must last them TWO MONTHS. (Confession: I have complained about the pandemic reducing my trips to the grocery store. We still go once a week.)

In some places, a family of 10 (a mother and 9 children) share a two “bedroom” dwelling that is four meters square.

—

If you’re like me, reading all of this makes you feel overwhelmed. And probably a little bit helpless. Maybe you’re thinking things like: 

“I can’t fix this.” 

“This problem is too big to solve.” 

“What can I do?”

Omar, the founder of Refugee Strong, addressed this.

“The need is too much,” he said, “but we help what we can.”

This has been a loose mantra of mine since coming back from Kenya. What can I do? Where can I help? Sometimes it doesn’t feel like much.

But I’m excited about the mission of Refugee Strong because Omar hand delivers to the students in Dadaab Refugee Camp. He is aware of the corruption and of organizations who come and make big promises without delivering. When questioned by one of the students about what he was going to do to help them, he said, “We cannot promise anything, but we deliver to you whatever we have.”

This is a man who spent 15 years of his life living in a refugee camp, caring for his brother, searching for his mother. He could have taken his good fortune at being resettled in the United States and never looked back. But he not only looks back at Dadaab, he offers us a way to share in the way forward for these students.

If you want to know more about what it’s like to live in a refugee camp, get a copy of Omar’s book: When Stars are Scattered. It’s a graphic novel, and it’s a beautiful way to tell his story. (If you’d rather read a traditional non-fiction book, I recommend City of Thorns: Nine Lives in the World’s Largest Refugee Camp by Ben Rawlence. The subtitle is outdated, though. Dadaab is no longer the world’s largest refugee camp.)

You can find Refugee Strong at www.refugeestrong.org and on Facebook and Instagram for updates and ways to help.

These words are me doing what I can right now. What can you do?

I walked with a refugee

More than eight years ago now, our new little family moved the 800 miles across country from the farmlands of the Midwest to the edge of Amish country, Pennsylvania.

At the time, I was mildly interested in reading Amish fiction. As I sat in our rental house with the windows open in early fall, reading while our baby girl napped, I could hear the clip-clop of horse hooves on the road. Occasionally, a buggy would roll by. I was giddy. It was like my books were coming to life right outside my door. I shopped where the Amish shopped. Sometimes, we spoke.

Fast forward and we now live in what I think is the heart of Amish country. The newness of this community has worn off and I rarely read Amish fiction anymore. But the lure of the real-life communities on which so much fiction is based is a lucrative business, one that supports our family, so I really can’t complain.

But I’m no longer awed by the buggies rolling past my house at all hours of the day, or the passel of Amish children walking to school. (Okay, maybe it is still a little bit interesting. I’m human, after all.)

Time and proximity have lessened the novelty of the Amish community.

These days, my thoughts are consumed by another people group.

—

Not long ago, I read a book about the world’s largest refugee camp as told through the eyes of nine of its residents. The camp is in Kenya, which is part of what drew my interest. I read whatever I can these days about Africa and refugees, and I will spend my last breath talking about these precious people with whom the world does not quite know what to do.

Lena Bell via Unsplash

Lena Bell via Unsplash

Once a week, most weeks, I sit in a church basement next to newly arrived refugees from a variety of countries. We listen to presentations on family finances and nutrition and diseases and I do my best to help them understand the English, even though I have no fluency in any other language. Sometimes, most times, it is messy and awkward and maybe of no help at all.

But it is my favorite time of the week because my world gets just a little bigger each time.

Some weeks, we take a walk through the city down to the indoor farmers’ market so they can see the kinds of things available to them: fruits, vegetables, meat, cheese, milk. For many of them, it is a somewhat recognizable environment.

I’m never quite sure what to do on these walks. I love keeping quiet and just taking in the city, but I often feel the need to fill the silence with questions I haven’t had a chance to ask yet: How long have you been here? Where did you live before this? How many in your family? 

photo-1436303892196-e039f81a04aa

Jamie Taylor via Unsplash

They are surface questions, for sure, but the answers say so much. Every refugee I meet identifies himself or herself by the country in which they were born, or their family’s country of origin, even if they have never lived there, even if it is a land they do not remember. It would be like if we told people we were English or Irish or German instead of American.

I want to listen and understand, but the noise of the streets and my failing hearing make understanding difficult.

On this most recent day, I walked with a Somali man whose English was better than I expected. We exchanged the initial information about families and kids. He expressed excitement and praise when he found out my husband is named “Phillip.” (This I want him to explain the next time, though my husband tells me it’s a nod to the Philip of the Bible who explained the Gospel to the Ethiopian eunuch.)

I tried to figure out where he had come from between here and Somalia. Most refugees do not come to the U.S. from their country of origin. My question was lost in translation. But as we walked, he told me of his family, some of whom are still in a refugee camp in Kenya.

“Ifo,” he says. “They are in Ifo.”

“I know Ifo,” I say, knowing that it is Kenya and I have heard of it somewhere.

Later, it hits me: Ifo is one of the camps I have recently read about in City of Thorns. I tell my husband that I walked with a man whose family is in the largest refugee camp in the world. And I pause because Ifo is no place to call “home.”

Let’s be honest: any refugee camp is no place to call “home.” Thousands of people crammed into a plot of land in a host country, maybe unwanted, relying on assistance from the U.N., given the bare minimum to survive. The camps are full of disease and danger, worse than any slum you could imagine. No one wants to be there, and yet, there they are. In the camps, life goes on for years. Decades. Babies are born. Couples wed. Family members die. Some find work. Others turn to drugs to numb the despair. Some dream of a better life, of a chance to resettle somewhere else. (The truth is only 1 percent of refugees resettle. One. Percent.)

I think about my own dreams and I wonder if I could hold on to them for years. Decades. Especially if I saw no evidence of my dream coming true.

I think of none of these things as I walk with this man who is speaking to me as quickly as his English will allow. Eventually, I realize, he is trying to teach me his language. So, I find myself leaning in a little and listening to the sounds that are similar to English yet altogether different. He teaches me to say, “How are you?” and “I am fine” in Somali, and though I know my attempts must sound ridiculous to him, he is effusive in his praise.

And I am oblivious to the people around me. We walk through the city laughing and repeating after each other, flanked by an older Somali man wearing a knit cap and a young man and woman, the latter fully covered from head to toe except for her face.

When we arrive at market, I point out my husband and my new friend walks over and hugs him like he’s an old friend. (My husband is not terribly surprised by these greetings.) After a short tour of the market, we wave good-bye, and I hope I will see him again next week.

More than that, though, I echo his hope for his family, stuck in the world’s largest refugee camp.

“If Allah wills,” he says, “they will come here.”

I do not call God, “Allah,” but I am also not offended by the name. Yes, I think. I will ask God for the same.

—

I am reading another book these days. This one is about a woman desperate to make a difference to the poor and the wanderers in her community but who finds her efforts falling terribly short of her goals. She calls herself a failed missionary, and she writes story after story about her work with a Somali population in the Pacific Northwest.

And as I sit in the basement room with a group of Somalis, as we walk the city, I think about the characters coming to life. I feel like I am in her story or her story is walking around with me.

Yet these are more than characters in a book. They are real-life people. Flesh and blood.

It is easy to read about these people or those over there, to think of them as a cause or a charity or a need we should support. I do this, too. Much harder to remember that the people we read about, the people whose lives we pity, are people just like us. They have families. They have skills. They smile and laugh and dream.

They have survived things we cannot begin to imagine.

And to walk with them is an honor.