Syrian Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope

I entered the mosque late, the day before the refugee welcoming event.  There were still some people lingering around after Isha, the evening prayer, but it was relatively quiet.  I approached the young woman sorting through papers and boxes, and looking up at me, there was the unmistakable look of fear.  "Umm, can I help you?"

"Salaam alaikum," I reply.  Peace be upon you.  And the look of fear melts off her face.  I then start to tell her of the car full of donations that I needed to drop off so I could refill my car and bring another.  Her face morphs again to one of confusion.  You've come from where?  And these gifts came from whom?  And what background are you, anyway?

There's a certain fear about walking into a place where there is nobody else the same color as you.  It's one I've faced many times in my life, and to this day, there has never been a single time that fear was well-founded.  However, I am distinctly not used to people ever having any fear of me.  Which is why the look of confusion that crossed the organizer's face, even though it lasted for just a second, was so striking to me.

A cadre of young men helped unload our car.  For the first time of what would be many times, we told the story of where all these goods came from.  That we had casually asked our friends on Facebook one week ago for donations, and that we were overwhelmed by offers of help.  Help from Catholics, Protestants, Jews, agnostics, atheists.  From Italians, English, Germans, Turkish, Swedes, Irish.  From Americans.  In the end, we collected nearly $1000 of donations, and were nearly as overwhelmed as the people who received their generosity.

Also, it turns out my camera isn't
nearly as good as Brandon's.

What I had envisioned for this trip to North Jersey was my own Humans of New York style interview session.  To meet refugees in person and collect their stories, capturing a picture each time I could make an offer of help.  Unfortunately, things didn't quite turn out that way.  As I had alluded to in the beginning, there was an air of fear I had not anticipated prior to the event.  People were reticent to let strangers spectate the most personal aspects of their lives, and with good cause too.  Two days ago, a 24 year old girl was harassed in their town just for doing her laundry.  So certainly it would seem naive of me to assume that I could capture similar unbridled humanity.

The speakers focused on charitable opportunities to help our Syrian brothers and sisters.  About Quranic scripture detailing the necessity of helping their brothers.  Please note that all of this was in Arabic - I was decidedly not their target audience.  About the importance of showing these refugees that America is more than Donald Trump and Ted Cruz.  How important it is that they see love from within their community since they are likely to see hate from outside of it.

Unless you consider children with sticky fingers dangerous.
Then that place would have been TERRIFYING.

For my readers who feel more fear than love for this particular community (and I realize that it's a majority of you), I have a feeling you'd be interested to know what this intensely private community is telling its newest members.  To quote one of the speakers, "Be more American than the Americans, but never forget where you came from."  There was no subversive language, no suggestion of sharia, no kind words for the hateful ideology that drove these people from their homes.  There was nothing to be scared of, and a lot to be hopeful about.

After hours, one or two of the Syrian families were willing to step forward and speak in front of everyone.  They mostly told a story of exhausted perseverance.  How they gained security but lost their dignity in Syria by accepting the safety of a totalitarian regime.  How they were thankful for the gifts, but really what they wanted was a job.  How they'd be willing to accept a very humble life if it meant they earned it for themselves.  And through all of their talk, even through the language barrier, I could sense the lingering fear.

His other daughter was cute as a button.

So perhaps I was not able to HONY-style talk to refugees.  But I did get to talk to many of the people who were there to do good.  The Egyptian emigrant from the same hometown as me, who moved here 30 years ago.  When he first moved here, he had a BLT sandwich everyday for years, not knowing that bacon is pork.  His 16 year old daughter was one of the organizers of the remarkable event.  Then there was the Syrian emigrant, who came here almost 10 years ago, and now was serving as an activist for the new Syrians in the community.  There was the journalist, who was following one family around and was sharing their story.

Perhaps even more uplifting for us were all of the conversations were got to have with our donating friends.  Most are so humble as to explicitly forbid me from revealing their identities.  But we received gifts from people who were themselves asking for donations for their own causes.  From people who had to go tremendously out of their way to bring donations to a man without a car to pick them up.  From people whose cups were overflowing, and from people with just enough to quench their thirsts.  It felt in the end like we were receiving more than giving, as we wound up being the focus of so many other people's positivity.

In the end, the families were called up on stage.  A passionate speech rejected the label of refugee, and called on us all to call them our family.  Reluctantly, one by one, they came on stage.  Their response was mixed.  The children were exuberant, enjoying lavish festivities in their new home.  The adults, well, you could basically see every emotion on their face at the same time.  Happiness, sadness, fear, exhaustion, desperation, hope.  I would describe it, but I believe you can see exactly what I'm talking about in this picture:

In the end, we made our donation, and we know we did our bit to help.  But like all charity in life, the experience is bittersweet, as we were only left wishing we could do more.  We stepped away with phone numbers of other people looking to help, and we are hopeful to do more in the future.  In the meantime, every one of our friends looking to help can start by doing their part to fight the fear.  All it takes is a simple salaam alaikum...