Because There Is Always Hope

It’s a sunny afternoon, and I’m sitting on the back patio of my hotel, my outside office, with an espresso in my hand and earbuds in my ears. But I’m not singing along to a happy tune while looking forward to the weekend, I’m listening to the recording of an interview I did with a resident of Ritsona refugee camp. There were pauses in the conversation where another question would have logically followed, but all I heard were the muffled sounds of conversations in Arabic and the crunch of children running on gravel...until the resident continued speaking. I couldn’t ask a question because I couldn’t speak for fear that my voice would crack and the tears that I was so carefully holding back would come sneaking out.

I’ve read articles and books on refugee stories, I’ve seen documentaries with graphic scenes of sea rescues, I’ve played with kids and talked with adults in camp for the last 6 weeks, but this was different.

A 16-year-old boy with the grace and intelligence of someone twice his age told me that bombs destroyed his hometown in Syria, causing his family to flee to the countryside only to be driven out again when ISIS took control of the village where they were staying with his grandparents. I could feel his frustration and see the pain in his eyes behind his glasses when he said that he was “losing his age” because he hadn’t attended school in 3 years. Here is a teenager who desperately wants to learn and realize his potential, but he feels as if he’s falling irreparably behind.

A young mother explained (through the aforementioned 16-year-old whose English and translation skills are extremely impressive) that her family reunification request was approved 8 months ago, but she still has not received further information on when she can join her husband and 3 children in Germany where he was granted asylum and approved for family reunification. She is alone in camp with their other 3 children ages 9, 4 and 3. Her sadness was palpable when she despaired that she hadn’t seen 3 of her children in over a year.

I held a cute little baby girl with chubby cheeks and a mane of dark hair that stood up like a cool mohawk while her mother told me that she was born 3 months premature because of the trauma of crossing the sea from Turkey to Greece after fleeing from the war in Syria. She started bleeding while on the boat but didn’t know at that point that she was pregnant. She was finally taken to the hospital after 2 days of pleading for medical care. She told me her story with the resigned exasperation of someone who isn’t being heard.

Those tears are starting to well up in my eyes again as I try to convey pieces of the unimaginable lives that have been shattered by the war in Syria. I can only give you a small glimpse at the pain and despair that these brave, beautiful people continue to endure. However, and perhaps more importantly, each person I spoke with also told me about their plans for leaving camp and settling in Europe. There’s a collective sense of strength, resiliency, and hope for the future.