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| Doorway into the garage turned shelter for 15 families |
April 11th 2016
Five Souls
We had only been
in Syria about a week when we realized that washers and dryers were not going
to be frequent luxuries. Both use high levels of electricity, which continues
to be a rarity, so we have resorted to hand washing and drying on a
clothesline. I admit it’s been quite an experience to go to the rooftop, hang
my clothes with wooden pins at the early morning hours, and then accidentally
locking myself out of the house.
My grandma was
out of laundry detergent and so we headed to the closest walk-able kiosk that
sells the pretty much what a mini mart sells. As we were paying for the large
bottle of blue soap, a little boy, no more than three years old caught us. “Can
you please buy me a cookie?” he asked my mom earnestly. “Please, a cookie!” The
kiosk had rows and rows of chips and snacks and my mother bought him a bag,
which he gleefully began to munch on before making his way.
Beggars fill the
streets of Syria, even more so than they did before, and it is beyond painful
to witness—from extremely young children to extremely old men and women.
I’ve been
informed and warned, however, about certain beggars in the streets, young
mothers with infants or single children who are actually part of a band run by exploiters;
by those who refuse to send them to school because children make much more
money on the streets for them than in schools. There are organizations who have
worked hard to save these children, provide them with an education and
appropriate clothing, only to find the children back on the streets, in ratty
clothes, hunting down people for money.
This causes
slight hesitation for those who are approached by beggars, but we’ve had some very
unique encounters. A week and a half later, my mother and I were heading to an
appointment and stopped at the best juice shop on this planet. She got an
orange and strawberry blend, while I got my usual strawberries, bananas and
milk blend. Fruits here taste absolutely divine, they taste real and sweet!
As I crossed the
very busy street, yards behind my mother who speed walks 24/7, a little girl
approached me. “Auntie! Auntie!” she called out as she began following me and
tugging at my shirt. “Give me your juice. Please, give me the juice.” I am
quite accustomed to kids chasing me down, begging for money, but no one ever
begged me for food, and my half finished ones no less.
Embarrassed, I
handed her my half filled cup, and she immediately took a hefty sip, before skipping
away in her bright pink dirtied pajamas. She was probably six or seven and I
spent the rest of the day thinking about her. Who was she? Where were her
parents? Did she have a place to stay? Caregivers? Was she tired of begging for
money for her “owners” and desperate to feed herself for once?
It was like God
was sending these particular people our way. About two weeks later, as we were
walking across the White Bridge, two young boys approached us—a 12 year old and
a 9 year old. The older one asked, “Please, can you buy us both some ice cream?
We just want to eat something.” The ice cream vendor beside us seemed agitated.
He was probably tired of the nagging because he himself could not afford to
constantly give out free ice cream.
My mom began
getting out the little 300 Syrian Pounds (which today totals to $0.55) when the
younger brother squealed with joy, “Ooh, I want the cone!” Once their cones had
been filled with a high swirl of creamy vanilla, the older brother had a look
of such humble appreciation, it was ground shaking. What if he was trying to
make ends meet for his younger brother, or his whole family for that matter?
What if they were both trying to find their ways outside of a group exploiting
them and all they found was hunger?
I was about to
get lost in my whirlwind of painful thoughts when we passed by a very very old
man sitting on the sidewalk with his cane and a small box of wafer cookies. He,
like many on the streets, was selling anything to sustain himself. His look,
his presence, his facial expression, it was altogether heartbreakingly
depressing. He looked like he had given up on life entirely, but like he also
had nowhere else to go.
I died. I
literally felt my heart stop and I stopped in my tracks. “Did you see that
older man?” my mom asked. Holding back tears I said, “Yes, I want to go buy
something, anything, from him.” I turned back and made my way over.
“Hi Uncle,” I
called out to him softly, as to not startle him from his clearly deep
thought-filled gaze. He immediately lit up in an unforgettable and welcoming smile,
like I had been the only one to notice him, let alone stop by. Excitedly he
told me I could take as many as I wanted.
It indeed was a
crossroads because I wanted to help him and buy them all, but I also wondered
if this was all he had for sale and whether or not he needed them for the rest
of the day. I handed him the money and took one package. He prepared to hand me
change and I told him it was not necessary.
Another night
spent in tears, thinking about this man as old as my grandpa, and imagining
what twists and turns his life had unfortunately taken that sent him begging on
the cold streets, alone.
Did he have a
family? If so, where were they? Was he making enough money to eat, even at
least once a day? To pay rent or buy socks or keep warm? What about his health?
I drive myself
insane with these questions and then ask myself where the rest of the people
are. I ask myself why women are still splurging at beauty salons weekly and why
men are wasting their time and money on nightly hookah sessions lasting till 2
or 3 in the morning.
Everyone has the
right to move on and live, but everyone that has been given that blessing has
also been given the responsibility to help others. I have heard the really
repugnant excuse that there is nothing to be done and I have already wacked
through the weeds of every excuse.
There are jobs at
every corner. Imagine if a group of young and active Syrians could make a
database of the employment opportunities available and share the knowledge with
those desperate for income. Imagine if there could be training and orientation
sessions hosted for those from underprivileged villages and in the shelters to
help them gain interpersonal and financial management skills to become better
equipped for the jobs at hand. Imagine if the youth could set an example for
their communities at picking up trash and/or refraining from dumping it into
the streets.
There has to be
more done onsite, more action and less passivity. Extremely young children and
elderly should not be destined to life on the streets as a means of survival. No
one should.
That night, my
mother was fasting, and as we prepared her dinner I asked her to pray for that
man, for those five souls and all suffering, and specifically to pray for the
remaining souls in need of a massive awakening.
