The following is re-posted from a couple of weeks ago. Just trust me when I say I felt it necessary to take it down due to the potential for miscommunication and misunderstanding. I've also added some more recent thoughts at the end. I apologize for the abnormal length of this entry, but please read all the way through. - Andrew
***
I am reeling a bit after German classes this week.
The teacher asked one of the girls from Turkey a simple question for the sake of an example having to do with families. Do you have a mother? No. Do you have a father? No. Brother? Sisters? The girl broke down in a sudden flood of tears, and had to leave the classroom for a little while. The teacher, obviously, was very embarrassed.
A male student showed me a photograph of his small apartment shared with three other guys in Syria. There was a gaping hole in the roof, and the interior was covered in dust and rubble. He and his roommates had left the apartment only moments before a bomb fell and destroyed their apartment. With a smile, he showed me a second photograph of the four of them outside the building, wide grins on their faces, and middle fingers extended in the air. The implied message was unmistakable: “You missed.”
Another male student today showed me a gruesome image of a friend with multiple head wounds. The friend had been in an accident in Greece. His heart stopped for ten minutes and he was presumed dead. As he was being taken to a morgue, his eyes popped open. Somehow, he was still alive (though likely with some brain damage). This same student told another story about being an ambulance driver in Syria, which is a far cry from being one in Europe or the US. He wore black clothing and bullet-proof armor while driving through war zone after war zone. Ambulances were targets, and he was sometimes shot at. He mentioned snipers. He says the things he saw are like photos in his mind, and he can’t forget them. He says this with no trembling in his voice and an awkward smile on his face. You would think he’d just told you he’d gone fishing. He says he saw too many people die. When I reminded him that he had probably saved many people, he smiled (less awkwardly, with more warmth). No doubt when the images of the dead are so powerful, it is hard to remember the ones you helped save.
What an incredible, eye-opening, heart-changing privilege to be a part of these people’s lives – no matter how long or short it lasts. The photographs of protests, destruction, and the injured were not taken by reporters. I didn’t see them on a website. They were taken on the same iPhones I held in my hands as the people personally involved in these events explained each picture. When I shake their hands, I shake hands very likely once covered in someone else’s blood. Hands that balled into fists and beat the air during a protest.
Though I can nearly always find something to relate to in the story of a person who has suffered, there is not a shred of anything in my experience or knowledge that helps me understand any of this. A few summers ago, I put pressure on the bleeding wounds of an elderly man who had been in a bike accident on a busy street. This is nothing compared to what these Syrian friends have likely seen or experienced in the space of an hour. Yet that experience shook me up something fierce. I watched with horror as bodies fell, or rather leaped, from the burning World Trade Center. But I saw it on television from the remote distance of several hundred miles. This is sadly distant from any level of being able to relate to my new Syrian friends.
But they’re talking to me about these things, showing me the photographs, and even if I can’t relate I can still listen. Not only because it’s good for them to talk rather than bottle these things up inside, but because I think I just need to keep hearing these stories. I need to keep looking into the eyes of those who are telling the stories, and never forget that despite all the many things that make us so different from each other we are still real, living and breathing people. And, at least for now, we share the same space and can share stories and – for four hours a day – can share our lives.
***
Following the temporary removal of that original post, we had a two-week holiday from German class. We returned yesterday.
A girl from Bulgaria shared with Gina yesterday about her grandmother - who raised her as if she were her own daughter - has a life-threatening condition and only surgery can bring relief. However, the lady refused to have surgery because she was afraid she wouldn't survive the procedure. The girl and her husband tried to persuade her that she would certainly die without it. The girl returned to class yesterday after two weeks in Bulgaria, and does not know what condition her grandmother is now in.
A girl who seemed to immediately become attached to Gina left class yesterday due to severe stomach pain. We learned she was taken to the hospital yesterday afternoon before our class let out for the day. She's pregnant, but the baby is fine though the pain continues to be severe. She's alone in a foreign country, except for her husband who seems to be an absolutely wonderful man.
The two male students I refer to above come from the same village in Syria. Within the last couple of days, their village was arbitrarily attacked by terrorists. On one day 20 people were killed, and 50 died on another day. I couldn't believe these guys showed up to class or that both stayed the whole time. They were distracted and visibly upset, but they were present and engaged for the full four hours. Imagine you are thousands of miles away, and you learn that your neighborhood was attacked by terrorists and 70 people are killed. Never mind how you'd feel: would you even be capable of showing up for class or going to work?
I hesitate to share so much personal information about our classmates who are very quickly becoming friends. But these are the real people facing some serious difficulties far away from home: that is where our ability to relate pretty much stops.
Our hearts break for our new friends who suffer. We don't know what to do. We don't know what to say (and our vocabulary and grammar are painfully limited just yet). I'm re-learning how much it hurts to love, and how much wisdom is required. It isn't hard to love people who are so completely different from us, but it is hard to know how best to do so. We can do nothing more for the time being than pray for our friends, reach out as best we can, and rely on God to help us love with wisdom and for our friends to receive love from us in the spirit in which it's given - even if we inadvertently make mistakes in how we might express or fail to express it.
Please join us in prayer for our friends!
***
I am reeling a bit after German classes this week.
The teacher asked one of the girls from Turkey a simple question for the sake of an example having to do with families. Do you have a mother? No. Do you have a father? No. Brother? Sisters? The girl broke down in a sudden flood of tears, and had to leave the classroom for a little while. The teacher, obviously, was very embarrassed.
A male student showed me a photograph of his small apartment shared with three other guys in Syria. There was a gaping hole in the roof, and the interior was covered in dust and rubble. He and his roommates had left the apartment only moments before a bomb fell and destroyed their apartment. With a smile, he showed me a second photograph of the four of them outside the building, wide grins on their faces, and middle fingers extended in the air. The implied message was unmistakable: “You missed.”
Another male student today showed me a gruesome image of a friend with multiple head wounds. The friend had been in an accident in Greece. His heart stopped for ten minutes and he was presumed dead. As he was being taken to a morgue, his eyes popped open. Somehow, he was still alive (though likely with some brain damage). This same student told another story about being an ambulance driver in Syria, which is a far cry from being one in Europe or the US. He wore black clothing and bullet-proof armor while driving through war zone after war zone. Ambulances were targets, and he was sometimes shot at. He mentioned snipers. He says the things he saw are like photos in his mind, and he can’t forget them. He says this with no trembling in his voice and an awkward smile on his face. You would think he’d just told you he’d gone fishing. He says he saw too many people die. When I reminded him that he had probably saved many people, he smiled (less awkwardly, with more warmth). No doubt when the images of the dead are so powerful, it is hard to remember the ones you helped save.
What an incredible, eye-opening, heart-changing privilege to be a part of these people’s lives – no matter how long or short it lasts. The photographs of protests, destruction, and the injured were not taken by reporters. I didn’t see them on a website. They were taken on the same iPhones I held in my hands as the people personally involved in these events explained each picture. When I shake their hands, I shake hands very likely once covered in someone else’s blood. Hands that balled into fists and beat the air during a protest.
Though I can nearly always find something to relate to in the story of a person who has suffered, there is not a shred of anything in my experience or knowledge that helps me understand any of this. A few summers ago, I put pressure on the bleeding wounds of an elderly man who had been in a bike accident on a busy street. This is nothing compared to what these Syrian friends have likely seen or experienced in the space of an hour. Yet that experience shook me up something fierce. I watched with horror as bodies fell, or rather leaped, from the burning World Trade Center. But I saw it on television from the remote distance of several hundred miles. This is sadly distant from any level of being able to relate to my new Syrian friends.
But they’re talking to me about these things, showing me the photographs, and even if I can’t relate I can still listen. Not only because it’s good for them to talk rather than bottle these things up inside, but because I think I just need to keep hearing these stories. I need to keep looking into the eyes of those who are telling the stories, and never forget that despite all the many things that make us so different from each other we are still real, living and breathing people. And, at least for now, we share the same space and can share stories and – for four hours a day – can share our lives.
***
Following the temporary removal of that original post, we had a two-week holiday from German class. We returned yesterday.
A girl from Bulgaria shared with Gina yesterday about her grandmother - who raised her as if she were her own daughter - has a life-threatening condition and only surgery can bring relief. However, the lady refused to have surgery because she was afraid she wouldn't survive the procedure. The girl and her husband tried to persuade her that she would certainly die without it. The girl returned to class yesterday after two weeks in Bulgaria, and does not know what condition her grandmother is now in.
A girl who seemed to immediately become attached to Gina left class yesterday due to severe stomach pain. We learned she was taken to the hospital yesterday afternoon before our class let out for the day. She's pregnant, but the baby is fine though the pain continues to be severe. She's alone in a foreign country, except for her husband who seems to be an absolutely wonderful man.
The two male students I refer to above come from the same village in Syria. Within the last couple of days, their village was arbitrarily attacked by terrorists. On one day 20 people were killed, and 50 died on another day. I couldn't believe these guys showed up to class or that both stayed the whole time. They were distracted and visibly upset, but they were present and engaged for the full four hours. Imagine you are thousands of miles away, and you learn that your neighborhood was attacked by terrorists and 70 people are killed. Never mind how you'd feel: would you even be capable of showing up for class or going to work?
I hesitate to share so much personal information about our classmates who are very quickly becoming friends. But these are the real people facing some serious difficulties far away from home: that is where our ability to relate pretty much stops.
Our hearts break for our new friends who suffer. We don't know what to do. We don't know what to say (and our vocabulary and grammar are painfully limited just yet). I'm re-learning how much it hurts to love, and how much wisdom is required. It isn't hard to love people who are so completely different from us, but it is hard to know how best to do so. We can do nothing more for the time being than pray for our friends, reach out as best we can, and rely on God to help us love with wisdom and for our friends to receive love from us in the spirit in which it's given - even if we inadvertently make mistakes in how we might express or fail to express it.
Please join us in prayer for our friends!
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