Biske (beech-ka) is a small town about forty minutes west of Budapest. Somewhere on its eastern edge, just past the grocery store, there is a refugee detention center.
The refugee camp resembles something that one might expect to be left over from the communist era, with its mono-colored cement buildings and palpable dreariness. But I don't think it's old enough to be a remnant soviet camp. Still there is a very unmistakable heaviness that hangs over the camp like a mist.
In the camp, we've met refugees from all over the world. The first day I spoke with women from Kosovo, the Congo, Cuba, and Turkey. The second day I met men from Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and Yemen.
Many of the female refugees do not speak any English at all. Most of them do not even leave their rooms, for many reasons I suppose. Because of this, it has been somewhat difficult for the females on our team to teach English lessons. We'd planned to keep everything gender specific. But this afternoon, when no women arrived for English lessons, I joined the men's Advanced English group.
We spent about an hour teaching grammar and then we transitioned into a conversation time. For this, our group of ten relocated to a quieter room down the hall where we gathered our chairs in a circle. John, our ministry contact, opened the conversation by asking, "What are your dreams for yourself in five, ten years from now?"
At first, there was obvious hesitation in the room. But Abu* began to share right away.
Abu is from Iraq and worked for the coalition forces during the war. Because of this, he was attacked and harassed. Then, his family's home was bombed. He was eventually forced to flee. But Abu deeply desires to return to his country. He misses it sorely and noted that it is a beautiful place with beautiful people. But, he said, "I feel like I make pain for my family because I worked for the coalition forces. I cannot return maybe." He stopped his story as pain moved noticeably across his cheeks and mouth.
Marik shared next. He was attacked by Shi'a militia in Iraq. His face bears the scars left from the butt of a rifle. Marik also desires to return to his home, but understands that may never happen. In five or ten years, he hopes to have started over again somewhere, possibly in the USA. Marik has two daughters, nine and six, who are still in Iraq. Their names mean "eclipse" and "inspire".
The stories continued in this cadence. The Afghani guys shared about the fighting in their country and their desire to be away from the violence. One wants to study graphic design, but says to do such a thing in Afghanistan would literally get him killed. "There are no opportunities. Everyone is illiterate. Until I was twenty-one there has been fighting. We were born with guns and rockets. All the people know only how to fight. I had to leave."
The other Afghani shared that a smuggler stole $9,000 Euros from him and he ended up in Greece. He was granted asylum and made it to Germany, but was soon deported to Hungary where he spent eighteen months in the Hungarian closed camp, which is notorious for its brutality. His face held the outward signs of unfathomable suffering: dark circles under his eyes, sunken cheeks, a weak smile. He is twenty-one.
These are the stories of just four of the men in the circle, but all their hopes and dreams were the same: I want to start over, I want to be with my family, I want opportunities like education and safety and freedom.
One of the men meekly said, "My dream is simple. I would like to live in a quiet village and raise goats with my wife."
When I thought of my own dreams and goals for the next five to ten years of my life, I felt nauseous. It felt entirely unfair. Once again I found myself confronting feelings of anger and frustration at my lot in life. Why did God in his sovereignty give me the birthright of freedom and others a birthright of sorrow? I can think of no comforting answer.
But, as I consider these stories, I will choose to respond in prayer.
The refugee/migration crisis that is unfolding right now is complex and enormous in many ways. Its causes and consequences are complicated and constantly evolving and I do not suggest it is swiftly or simply resolved. But, I do share these stories with you in hopes that you will consider these people in the midst of it. Consider the scars on their faces and the shrapnel that sprayed their houses. Consider the families they were forced to leave and the journeys they endured as they fled. Consider their fear, their pain, their heaviness.
I invite you to consider these stories and then join me as I prayerfully seek to understand how to respond. Where do I go from here? How does this affect me? What will I choose to do now?
*all names have been changed
Sent from my iPhone
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