My heart breaks . . .

My orientation to the crisis has involved following around two wonderful Syrian Christian women, Halla and Kifah. Accompanied by our driver, we have made stops all over the region to various "camps." Once there, we talk to mothers about their teenage daughters attending the upcoming trauma camp. We also visit at-risk babies for assessment, cuddle time, and provide support for the mothers.

While calling them camps is technically correct, my assumptions about them are not. I have seen photos of the sprawling city-like camps in Jordan where thousands upon thousands are housed. Here in this region, the camps are numerous but small - sometimes a solo structure or a cluster of 20-30 tents. Most seem to be set in the middle of agricultural patches but some refugees live in crude apartments in the city of Zahle.

Today I was in "tents," simple wood-framed structures covered in tarps. Most serve as single family dwellings but a few house multiple families where up to 20 people live. Water comes from a hose connected to a water barrel. Electricity from a generator. Some have space for small gardens, others are dust bowls. Very few have creature comforts - even chairs are optional. Each has a room for sleeping, a small stove for cooking, and a roof offering protection from the elements. However, everyone seems to have TV hookup. Regardless of the living conditions, which seem universally deplorable to me, it was the stories that broke my heart.

Sometimes I listen with only my eyes and heart because there is no translator. Body language and tone of voice are telling. Other times, I hear parts of the story when someone in the room speaks a bit of English. Of course this helps give context. And on rare occasions, the story is told to me in English where the full impact is experienced and I am able to respond.

Every story is marked by violence. Bombings, destruction and economic devastation are common threads. Family separation and strife are a big part of the pain. Unfortunately, stories of murder have already made the list. And I'm only in my second day here.

Johnny

Johnny, a man of Syrian Orthodox faith, told me all about his life back home. Prosperous and respected, he lost everything in the ongoing war. As hard as that was to hear, it was the chilling story he told me about an encounter with ISIS that stood out. He and his friends were traveling on a bus when they were stopped by well-armed ISIS soldiers. At gunpoint, everyone was ordered off the bus and told to make shahada or immediate conversion to Islam by saying "There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God." If they refused, the insurgents told them that they would be killed. He told me that he feared for his life and for the safety of his family. So, although he did not believe it, he said the words and he got back on the bus.  

But the story didn't end there. Johnny told me that one of his friends refused to affirm the prophet as God's messenger and was killed right before his eyes. He is haunted by this image and is racked with guilt because he lacked courage to stand with his friend. Of all the tragedies in his life, this is the one thing that troubles him the most.  

The soul is a tender holding place where memory and shame mingle with faith. There are no easy antidotes in those shadow places. While we tearfully spoke of God's grace and forgiveness, he told me that the image of his friend's murder can never be erased. So he carries that and multiple other wounds around, burdened by guilt, shame and helplessness.    

Even so, he does not let this pain keep him from serving. He volunteers at the local school sponsored by the Baptist church. He lovingly maintains the buildings and grounds. If I heard correctly, he built much of the school himself.  

I detected little pity in the telling of his story. Mostly, he is baffled by the response of the world, the US in particular. He wonders why good and godly people like himself are not given a chance at a new life elsewhere. Even in his helplessness, he reaches out to shape the future for refugee kids by supporting the school's educational efforts. So he questions the indifference of the world to this crisis. If he can play a small part in helping these kids, why don't others? His last question pained me. "Why doesn't America care?"

I didn't have an answer - only an apology and a breaking heart.