He found me in the hallway, eyes full of worry and eager searching: "I need the doctor," he said. We walked down the hall to the doctor's office, and he took his place in the long line. I went back outside to clean. A few minutes later I looked up to find him walking toward me, with his head down. "Did you see the doctor?" I asked him. His smile flashed with recognition of my face in a crowd of hundreds. "Yes, it's okay now." We started to talk, and I was quickly shocked by his impeccable English. He was from Afghanistan and had been a translator for American troops for three years. His story was a sad one, and I'll likely share it in another blog, but he said something that has plagued my heart. "All my friends are now in America through _____ program (one for translators), but I've submitted my paperwork and have heard nothing. I am going to Germany, but really I want to go to America! What is it like there?" Pictures of my city and others flashed through my mind as I considered what America was like and how I could describe it. But before I could open my mouth, thoughts of the refugee housing I'd lived in for a year came rushing forward. Curbs lined with men sitting around aimlessly, women saying even as bad as it was in Iraq it was better than being trapped in their house, children joining gangs because there were no other opportunities for them to participate in in this part of the city... "It's different for me than it would be for you there. You'd have a good chance finding a job, because you know English, but I don't know what it would be like for you!" I wanted to cry, as I have dozens of times these last weeks...
I'm surrounded by desperation, it is written on the faces of everyone around me. Their countries are at war. Their family members and friends have been murdered. They've sold all they own in this world and have spent it to come here, only pennies left. People have abused and exploited them along their journey. They are sick, tired, hungry, dirty, lonely, afraid, uncertain, worried.... all because of their passport.
Many times I have looked at my passport and wept: "Why, Jesus? I don't deserve the rights that come with being an American! I don't even understand what freedom is, because it has never been taken away from me. I don't know how to value what I have. I don't give a thought to traveling across borders, to being welcomed into homes, to doing whatever in the world I want to do when I want to do it! Why not them, Jesus? Why me, Oh Abba, why me...??"
This is probably another blogpost, but I am so embarrassed with how my country has responded to this crisis. Out of hundreds of workers here, I've met only two other Americans in my entire month here. One was living in Bosnia, working with my organization. The other stayed 2 days. Every time I'm asked where I'm from, I'm ashamed at how my government has responded to these people in dire need and pain. I look in their eyes, and I have no answers. "I don't know why you're likely going to spend the rest of your life in a refugee camp somewhere, and I'm going to go back to my safe, warm, comfortable home that I've done nothing to deserve. I don't know, and I'm so sorry!"
I had to leave to go pick up some teammates, but I so much want to go back in time and be able to tell my translator friend that he and his wife (still in Afghanistan) can come sleep in my living room, eat my food, and live a life of safety and love. I wish I could change the color of their passport to mine, but instead I'm left trusting that God knows what's best and that prayer is powerful!
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