These Eyes

I seem to have Mexico-adopted a dog while I am down here. This guy:

Or maybe rather---he adopted me.

I was sitting on a bench eating my second taco al pastor, my personal favorite down here in Mexico, when this dog approached me with these eyes. He was begging yes, but not so much begging as, I don't know...asking? He looked at me as if to say: I'm really hungry and I need you. Can you feed me? You are my last hope. Now I assure you I am not crazy. I know dogs don't talk, let alone think like that...probably. But I swear: he kindly asked me for any food I could spare.

Well, now you remember, I really like tacos al pastor and I only had two, and one was already gone ...and well, I was hungry. But this dog! So I gave him a priceless piece of pork. It was then I saw his body: emaciated, shrunken. He looked at me again. I gave him more. Then he lay/lie/laid down and not the good lay-down --- the "I might be dying" lay-down, which I don't think I have ever seen before. But in this moment, this is what I knew to be true.

I went inside and got him some water and placed it front of his limp body. Then I went and bought him his own taco. Beef this time, no tortilla. The taco place thought I was nuts. "No tortilla, por favor. Su para un perro." He scarfed it up. I got him to drink the water. He eventually drank the whole thing. He was clearly dehydrated. I bought him more food and refilled the water container. He started to perk up. I pet him, encouraged him to drink more water. He looked at me again with those eyes...and I started to cry. I can't tell you why I cried, but I did. Maybe he was fine. Maybe I exaggerated. But something in his eyes. I saw him, desperate: this soul, this life. And I cried. I sat with him a while, just being with him and after a while he eventually he got up and trotted off. I maybe saved his life. I maybe didn't. But I stepped up.

There's been so much in the news lately [thankfully] about the dire refugee crisis in the Middle East and Europe. Devastating photos and stories. Lives. People. Dev. a. stat. ing. And I hear politicians and random small people spouting on about walls and aliens and illegals and jobs and thieves and not enough and go home and we can only take 57 and not our problem. And then I look at a photo, at a person's eyes, like this brave man and I see him. I see another soul, another life. And I cry.

This photo in particular made me weep. This man. Clutching his children.

We are all the same. There really are no borders or countries or lines. They are created. False. Arbitrary. We are all people and some of us need help right now. Some of us need a damn taco. Or a hand stepping out of a boat, or a safer way of getting to safety.

I traveled to Syria 6 years ago, before everything turned so, so south. And I often wonder how and where those people are I met. Are they still alive? Did someone help them? And the other millions I didn't meet, who can't protect their children or save them from sure death? I mean, these people would rather risk likely death on a rickety, overpopulated boat in the middle of the ocean than risk certain death where they live. Think about that choice. I met with refugees in Syria. I heard their stories and their choices. Do you honestly think we should send them back? These desperate, delirious people? I wouldn't. I couldn't even send back the dog.

So every day, he comes back, looking for more food and I feed him. Four days later, he's starting to look a little better, maybe. He still looks at me with those eyes and I can't turn away. How can any of us?

It's time we stepped up.

Things to do on World Refugee Day

So, it's WORLD REFUGEE DAY. What does that even mean, you may ask. It is a day set aside to at least remember and think about the 50 million displaced persons worldwide and more than 15 million refugees. 15 million. But there's more that you can do if you want. Here's some ideas. 

1. Volunteer with a refugee organization in your neighborhood. Work with recently resettled refugees on language, culture or public transport! or volunteer to work in the office or to tutor a refugee or countless other things you could volunteer to do to help. Just ask!

2. Donate lightly used kitchenware or furniture or books  to a local refugee agency. They are always in need to help new refugees get settled in their new home.

3. Give money to any number of refugee agencies: UNHCR, World Relief, Refugee One, Heartland, Catholic Charities etc. Or google and find your own smaller favorite (Contact me for mine!)

4. Attend an event today in your town to show your support of refugees.

5. Write your congresspeople to encourage them to continue funding refugee bills. Needed more than ever with Iraq and Syria.

6. Befriend a recently resettled person in your community. Help them get acclimated.

7. Or just be friendly and talk to someone who maybe speaks a different language or looks lost or sad or scared in your day today. Try to help someone in need with kindness today. That would be a great way to honor WRD.

No one ever expects to become a refugee. Ask three million Syrians. Anyone can become a refugee.

Add your own ideas how to help refugees in the comment section below.

Running Into Your Past...

As many of you know, I have worked a great deal with Iraqi refugees --  trying to create awareness and change for these millions of displaced people. While in New York, I have done this through working with The List Project, selling paintings and writing various articles, a play, a book with Veterans Book Project and most recently, a memoir.

After touring the play for 2 years and finishing the book, I have taken a bit of a step back from advocating for Iraqis. I needed a breath, some space. I made a move across the country. I'm even doing a Christmas show for Pete's sake!

But one day, after climbing up the 3000 stairs of the elevated Chicago "El" train platform, I make fleeting eye contact with a man. I smile and turn away to look at the train map of Chicago (...still being new here and all) when suddenly I sense the man next to me.

"Excuse me," he says in broken English. I recognize the accent. Come on, really Chicago?

He shows me a piece of paper with directions written on it in English and sure enough, Arabic.

"Chicago?" he asks, pointing to his paper. Still not super fluent in the Chicago public transportation system, I look at the map with him, locating the Chicago stop in Chicago, both of us strangers in a foreign land.

"Yes, 11 stops from here" I offer at last, trying desperately to remember my numbers in Arabic before realizing I only learned 1-10 anyways.

"OK," he responds. "Sorry. I speak Arabic. No so English. I Iraqi." Of course you are. What else would you be? I smile.

"Asaalam al-aikum" I greet him, grateful to remember the phrase.

"Ahhhh!" He is clearly happy to partially recognize his own language. "You? Arabic?" he asks, confused.

"I only speak a little. Shway-shway," I answer.

"Ahh, shway-shway. Little! Yes! Very good!"

Once onboard the train, I try to explain that I advocate for Iraqi refugees, that I do plays and books to tell stories like his. Forget about it! Neither his English, nor my Arabic could help us through that attempted communication! He goes on to tell me that he and his wife and three children just settled in Chicago two months ago. They fled Iraq, spent a year in Lebanon until fleeing to Damascus for three years, waiting for resettlement.

"At end, Damascus very bad, no good, very bad," he adds with both hands gesturing no, as well. His face changes when he speaks of those years.

"But you are all safe?" I ask, needing to act out "safe" and let's be honest--- "you all". Why can I remember no other Arabic!?! What is the word for "you"!?

"Yes. Now. Ensh'Allah." There's one! Ensh'Allah, yes. Ensh'Allah: God-willing, they are now safe.

It's not easy, this transition to a new country, new city, new people, new culture, new language. It never is. Being a refugee has to be one of the hardest things there is --- especially one from Iraq, with all our prejudices and stereotypes in this country. I can see it on his face. But I also see the joy on his face meeting me...a possible friend, someone in some strange way familiar, or at least kind. I think it is no accident that I was to meet this man today. I think I needed it and I think he did too.

"Thank you," he says to me before he gets off at the 11th stop. "You very nice."

"Afwan," I respond. His eyebrows raise in recognition of my attempt at his language. "Yes! Afwan. You welcome. Very good!"

"Ma'asallama!" I shout out to him waving goodbye, now in full glory mode with my Arabic.

After I settled back in my seat, I smiled once again: my first Iraqi friend in Chicago; first of many, no doubt.

Iraqi and Syrian Refugee ART

I help Iraqi and Syrian refugee artists sell their work. They are living in the Middle East or else recently resettled in U.S or Canada. Please take a look at this amazing art on the website below and let me know if you would like pricing. It is an opportunity to help and get a beautiful piece of original art. Ships from New York. The end.

www.iraqirefugeeart.weebly.com

 

The Other

I recently toured my play, No Place Called Home about the Iraqi refugee crisis. We performed the show in Manchester, Indiana and Rugby, North Dakota. I also taught several classes around the issues of authentic living, refugee awareness and using arts as advocacy, along the way.

One of the tour stops where I taught was a very small town in northern Minnesota -- a very conservative, "red" county, if you will. I knew this because almost every answer to any question was "guns". Also, I was told. They probably saw me coming a mile away as a leftie, elitest east-coast liberal! Sigh. Some kids tried to goad me with their gun talk, but I used it as a springboard for conversation. After all, there is no wrong answer, just opinions. :)

Mid-way through the session, several kids got up and left. I was told it was because of work study. Well, days later, after a phone call from the principal, I learned two of those students who left early, didn't do so because of work study, but walked out because they were upset. They misunderstood me to say their brothers who served in Iraq were to be blamed for the Iraqi refugee crisis.

Wooh. What? This stopped me in my tracks. How could I have been so misunderstood? The refugee issue is a different issue altogether, having nothing to do with our troops or the work they do. I never even mention the troops in my classes, really, and I of course, support our troops. But where did we go off track? What I was saying had nothing to do with what they heard.

On the phone with the principal (Spelling trick--the principal is your pal), I took a breath. She knew the truth. She sat in on the entire class and was thankfully standing by me now, but how could this have happened? Where did the communication go so wrong? How did I somehow lose these two boys by saying Iraqis are people and deserve our respect and help? How did that translate to their brothers the soldiers are bad? Why does it have to be one or the other?

It's a big question, I think -- touching on our fears and misconceptions about the "other" brought on by the media or our upbringing or community or experiences. The other is often looked at as "scary" or "bad". It is an easy trap to fall into that it has to be us or them, that if one is good, the other is bad. This simply isn't true. There are many spots on the continuum for people and countries to live. We are only human. By having me in to the school, the principal was giving them a huge mind-opening lesson: Different doesn't mean bad. People aren't their government. And conversations are good.

Maybe they were too young to understand or too unwilling to engage in a deep conversation. Maybe I was too quick or careless with big thoughts for young minds or maybe, just maybe this is the challenge we always face when bringing people of different beliefs together. Sometimes it's a struggle to learn we are all after the same end result: a happy fulfilled life for ourselves and our family.

It shouldn't have to be one or the other.

These are difficult but important conversations to have. I am grateful that the principal and ultimately those boys were willing to have it, that they were willing to open that door.

Life is education after all. May we all continue to learn.