Limbo
Land
An
abandoned school building sat at the outskirts of Damascus, ready for the
taking. The original owners decided to sell at a low cost considering the
instability of the neighboring areas, and my grandmother’s organization jumped
on board. Upon acquiring the building, the three stories of classrooms were
immediately converted into apartments that would each be split to house two
families.
As
soon as we walked through the black metal-filigreed doors, we were hit with a
beautiful and refreshing fragrance of laundry detergent. We were invited into
the administrator’s office, a very modest tiny room with one desk, a heater and
a battery to operate necessary appliances when the power goes out. The five of
us sat around the room, exchanging questions and answers on the current status
of the shelter, as well as the families housed within. “We have a new family,
well new member really. Did you see the elderly woman in the wheelchair
outside? We found her abandoned in the garden not too long ago. We think maybe
her family dropped her off.”
I
looked out the window behind me and saw her, sitting peacefully on the corner
of the building’s front lot. “How could her family just abandon her like that
without even bringing her inside?” It left me puzzled for the rest of the
afternoon. “Maybe her family members were suffering so badly and thought this
place would take better care of her than they can?” That answer left me even
more disturbed. Imagine being so financially distraught that you couldn’t even
care for your own mother and out of fear of rejection, you decided it would be
safer to drop her off and pray to God they will take her in, instead of risking
it?
A
few more minutes and we were on our way to visit the families and I was half
nervous half excited. I had no idea what to expect accept emotion. In honor of
Middle Eastern Mother’s Day (March), the organization had raised an extra $50
per family to distribute atop their monthly stipend. The plan was to stop by each
household and wish the families a blessed Mother’s Day with their gift.
I
faced a culture shock at only the first home. Behind a white painted wooden
door with “Room #1” written in marker, was an extremely tiny walkway with two
wall openings covered by thick gray wool blankets. Each blanket was the divider
in these classrooms converted homes. With nowhere to knock, we called out to
the family behind the first blanket and a woman lifted it to reveal the
smallest room imaginable. Half the size of a studio apartment—maybe even a
third the size—with brown thin carpet, one mattress on the floor, and a few
other basic household items stacked in a corner. These were the items provided
by the organization to each home. A husband, a wife and four children eat,
sleep, change, cry, laugh and live in this small room they have called a
blessed home.
No
home was alike and we saw 52 of them, one of which was a single mother who
agreed to take in and share her room with the elderly abandoned woman. Home
after home we were welcomed with the warmest and most loving invitations to
stay and join them for a cup of tea or coffee. It was hard to say no but we
made a promise—and an appointment—to return and do just that. I want to hear
the stories of these men, women and children that had to forcefully say goodbye
to Aleppo, Daraa and various cities in the outskirts that have been left in
ruins. I need to share a my bread with them on the floor of their homes and be
someone they can etch a bit of history upon.
One
room had a man who had lost his arm, another room had a mother with twelve
children, and another had a newlywed couple, who celebrated this union at the shelter.
To help them celebrate this joyous occasion, their neighbors treated them to a
roll of bright pink floral wallpaper to spread the spirit of the honeymoon.
This was probably one of the greatest things about the center—a seriously
strong sense of support for one another.
Each
floor was reconstructed to include windows, running water at a shared sink, a
refrigerator and a heating system. Across every wall ran a clothesline, some
that were filled, others that sat vacant. Clothes of all shapes, sizes and
colors hung to dry beside different doors, while children ran throughout the
halls laughing and playing.
Husbands
were proud of the household items they had built with their own two hands,
while wives were proud of the way they setup a kitchen nook to feed their
families. “Here, come, come, take a picture of this closet.” He led me to a
floor to ceiling rack with built in shelves, holding their blankets, sweaters
and clothes. His smile was full of pride at his creation and then he asked me
to take a photo of his wife’s beautiful kitchen. “See, now your kitchen’s going
to be famous,” he joked, just to make her giggle.
From
a corner, her handsome young son watched me focus my camera and snap the photo.
He seemed so mesmerized by this black contraption and its clicking noises. “Do
you want me to take a picture of you too?” After a few silent moments of
contemplation he nodded and dashed over to sit on the mattress beneath the bright
colors. He was a model.
Another
family invited me into their homes and I found their two children playing
something like a board game on the floor. They agreed to a photo and when I
asked if they wanted to see it, the mother replied, “It’s so nice but it’s such
a shame they won’t get to have it.” I looked at her with surprise. “No! Of
course they can have it. I will personally print them and make sure you get to
keep a copy.” The look of joy on her face was indescribable, but it’s what
Hollywood movies call the look of Christmas morning on children’s faces. A
picture is worth way more than a thousand words, to them at least. To these
families that have lost everything intimate and sacred, this is an opportunity
to have tangible memories once again.
I
saw this manifested even further when I came across a group of children playing
in the hallway, eyeing me. “Do you want me to take a picture of all of you?” I
asked them. Their mothers replied in unison, “Yes, they will like that.” I
laughed and asked if the mothers wanted to join and they both shook their heads
feverously.
One
of the boys rushed to me quickly and begged to see the photo. I instantly
turned the screen and shared it with the group of kids. He gasped and said,
“Wow, I’ve never seen a photo of myself before.” In an era of selfies after selfies
flooding my newsfeed, both guys and girls obsessing over their OOTD and duck-faces,
there are children who don’t even know what a photo looks like, let alone how
they look in one. “It’s nice, right? I’m going to print it for you to keep.” It
was like I had given them each a million dollars. When the two mothers saw the
photo, they changed their minds and asked me to snap a photo of them too! Their
giddiness was the greatest gift I could have ever received.
“Why
are you taking photos?” another mother asked me after she smiled at me. “Well,
I want to share with more people about what’s going on and I want to get more
people to help me support you and your families.” Her eyes watered. “Thank you.
Thank you so much and May God bless you and reward you for your kindness.”
Kindness?
I could write another entire post on this concept and what her saying it did to
me. Think about for just a moment: These families are living off $50 a month.
That’s all they would need to be sponsored. That’s $600 a year to help the
organization sustain each family living inside a classroom they share with
another family. What divides them is one simple wall.
I
walked out the same gated doors and found the rest of the children on break
from the afterschool program the shelter provides, playing hopscotch and tag in
the front lot and garden. At the corner sat the elderly woman on the
wheelchair, watching their pure happiness. Their peace, their gratitude, their
resilience, painted all over the walls with murals of smiling faces.
As
soon as I stepped into the van to head back home, I burst into the tears I held
back 53 times. It was the hardest thing to witness and I was immediately
overcome with guilt. I have so much, all thanks to the grace and blessings of
God, and yet these stunning souls are making ends meet with a smile on their
faces.
It
took me almost a week to be able to put into words everything I encountered and
this is barely even the half of it. You cannot filter down the depth of a woman
who offers you a cup of water from her own scarce kitchen. You cannot contain
the look in each mother’s eyes when she was wished a Happy Mother’s Day and
given a hug. You cannot simply paste words to describe the gravity of their
losses and their discomforts. How are two or three generations living in one of those rooms?
Put
yourself in their worn down shoes and ponder these thoughts. I’ll be visiting
them again this week, along with the second shelter.
The
most innocent seem to pay the heftiest price.
