A Stranger's Gift, On The Syria-Jordan Border
ServiceSpace
--Olivia Wong
3 minute read
Aug 8, 2016

 

[Kindness spreads a type of hope. One that rushes in, sweeping everything in its path. It flows with both force and grace like water. Refreshing to see, and powerful as it awakens. I am grateful to have spent last Saturday night in an Awakin Circle in Pasadena with a new community of like-hearted people. Below is the story I shared in the circle.]

My story begins in Al Mafraq, Jordan at the Syrian border in 2013. Only 15 minutes from where we stood, bombs were dropping in the distance.


[Footage from the civil war plays on the Free Syrian Army station in a refugee's home in Zarqa, Jordan. Photo by Benjamin Rasmussen.]

The scorching temperature of the arid desert had taken its toll on the people in the refugee camp and many were dehydrated, distrustful, and irritable including the Jordanian police units guarding the entryway before me.

It had been a rough morning.

My colleague Deric and I had stayed up the night before. The stories of murder, mutilation, and extortion that we documented in the camp were so terrifying I could barely sleep. I had gotten into a heated argument with another colleague in our taxi cab as we were leading a convoy of semi-trucks carrying prefabricated housing units to the camp.

Nowadays, I try to be more intentional about managing my emotions in tense situations, but that day, I distinctly remember shouting in the taxi. I was furious to learn that our safety, as well as the safety of the refugees', had been compromised due to poor communication and logistical planning.

The fact of the matter was -- we were underprepared, walking blindly into a war zone, and shelters similar to ours had been overturned weeks before and set ablaze.

We were knowingly about to enter a dangerous situation. Against all plans, and after months of I decided not to go in.

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[A snapshot from inside the Za'atari camp. Photo by Deric Mendes]

So there I was, on the outskirts of the camp, sitting alone in an empty, bombed-out bus station waiting for the return of my two colleagues who had entered the camp to deliver the shelter.

I remember feeling so frustrated and disillusioned that I sat in silence, staring blankly into the endless desert. In all directions, there was no one, nothing.

Then she came.

She sat next to me like an angel, her eyes glittering like pools of water. This little girl couldn't have been more than 10 years old. I choked back some tears, hid my sorrows, and said "kifik" (a casual hello in Arabic) with a smile on my face.

She gleamed back at me and reached out to hold my hand. This little girl who had just left her home in Syria smiled at me as if she had never experienced a bad day in her life. She sensed my hurt and responded by sitting with me, swinging her legs, and smiling from ear-to-ear. When other people approached us, she explained in Arabic that I was her friend.

She saved me. I had lost a lot of myself, and my self-control that day. In her presence, I felt protected. She gave me so much strength. That night I went home defeated but grateful to have met her. The next morning I woke up with eager anticipation. I couldn't wait to go back to the camp to see her again. I wanted to give her stationary and a few colorful markers as a small token of my appreciation. But when I went back to the hollowed bus station, she was nowhere to be found.

I waited for her that day and went searching for her but I never did find her.

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Sometimes hope can be discovered in the most unexpected places.

Today, I am inspired to honor her gift by passing along her message to others. My memory of her motivates me to reach out to strangers and to provide hope in a time where hope is lost.
 

 

Posted by Olivia Wong on Aug 8, 2016