New Chapters to Long Stories
I’ve used this blog over the past two years to record stories as I’ve experienced them. This time, I’m writing about stories that I don’t know, stories that have yet to be told.
Last Wednesday, I volunteered to help at a “welcome picnic” for recently-arrived refugees. It was held at a park by the beach on a typically sunny, breezy California day. Nearly 100 new immigrants, mostly Syrians, had been brought by teams of drivers from their temporary housing locations in the low-income areas of the city. My husband and I joined several dozen volunteers from faith-based organizations to provide a fun and relaxing day out to these newcomers. While my husband manned the chicken grill, I worked on patting out halal ground beef for dozens of hamburgers. 
It was a big job, and I was relieved when Ruhanna and her son Nawar asked if they could help me make hamburger patties. They both speak good English, so while we worked I was able to hear some of their story. They have been in the US for several years already, and Ruhanna works at a thrift store; she was an elementary teacher in Damascus, and hopes to take courses and eventually get her teaching credential in California. Nawar is going into his junior year of college, majoring in political science. His father stayed behind in Syria but has now arrived, and they are happy to be together as a family. 
Most of the new arrivals speak limited English, and those of us who don’t speak Arabic will have to wait to hear their stories. While the boys played in the water, I watched a group of teenaged girls on the beach; eventually, three of them went in and swam, fully clothed! I wondered about their stories, about the long journeys that stretch behind them. On this sunny beach, under a blue, bomb-free sky, it’s hard to imagine the pain, loss, and anxiety many are carrying in their hearts.
Some of the volunteers had set up a kids’ table with a large banner, paints and markers. 
An Arabic phrase of welcome decorated the center, and the children had each traced a handprint around the outside. Each colorful handprint represents a story, one that began in a place far away but now continues here by our beach. Each story, each child, is unique, complex, and loved by God. I want to learn those stories; perhaps in the years to come, I will. May their next chapters be written in lines of hope.
Posted in Uncategorized and tagged refugees by Lisa