Tag: Turkey

Our Story

Plants, Bans, and Faith in the Dark

Sarah

January 27th, 2017

This date became forever marked as a time when lightness and enjoyment became harshly juxtaposed next to uncertainty and insecurity.  It was the opening scene for the following 12 months of feeling both joy and sorrow.

We reached our highly sought after destination, finally. One bus ride to a nearby town. One longer bus ride to a larger city. One bumpy, rickety city shuttle to the larger city’s center. 10 minutes of walking on the uneven pavement by a row of smelly fish stalls with shouting men. Then we arrived to paradise in liquid form. The place where my taste buds had only dreamed of going.

Starbucks.

Okay, okay, okay. Understand me for a minute. When you’re an expat and you live an hour away from any good coffee shops, Starbucks just feels like heaven on earth. The clouds part, the angels sing, and that smooth jazz plays over the speakers as you taste that first caramel macchiato you’ve had in months.

We continued to chat and sip on our overpriced, caffeinated drinks, enjoying this new season we were in and the new glint of sparkle on my left hand. Like the products of our generation that we are, we scrolled on our phones, reading out loud statuses posted by friends and turning our screens towards each other to share funny pictures.

But then he stopped. His eyes fixated on his screen. His brow furrowed. I waited for him to share as his phone vibrated with notifications.

“There’s a travel ban. And I think it includes me.”

Are you sure? Does it affect refugees? Can he even do that? How long will it last?
A flurry of questions with answers only slowly becoming clear in the following days.
Yes. Yes. Maybe. 3 months, but probably longer.

What I Speak to You in the Dark

If you’ve read any of my past blog posts you’ll know that this season is a dark season for us. It’s a difficult place to be, in the dark. It feels that any hope we so much as slightly touch crumbles before our very eyes. Last week the latest travel ban was lifted, praise God, and the refugee immigration process started up again. Just this morning, however, we learned of a new immigration policy proposed that could set the immigration process back another six months.

An unmistakable heaviness breathes over our apartment as we rise to make the bed and our morning coffee. Up and down, up and down. Hope then disappointment. Rinse and repeat.

We have spent so much time in the darkness screaming out to God, “If you really loved us, you would open the door for us!” We’ve spent so much time shaking our fists, begging, and crying out to the One who is good and in control. He is in control…right? Yes. Yes, He is. He is good and He is in control.

Oswald Chambers certainly doesn’t mince words on this topic when he writes, “Pay attention when God puts you into darkness, and keep your mouth closed while you are there” (if he were around today, he’d probably say “just shut up and listen for a second”).

In the midst of my screaming and crying, I’ve felt a small tug on my heart to be still. God is speaking, if only I’d stop for a moment. The more still I am at the foot of the cross, I’ve felt less and less like I should pray for deliverance from our situation. Here’s the thing though: my circumstances haven’t changed. We’re here. No phone call has come. No plane tickets have been issued. We are so disappointed. Yet feeling disappointed means we are still trying. We didn’t surrender. We still care. And I know God’s beauty is somewhere in the darkness, even if my eyes are closed to it yet. I know that it will shine brighter than the night time we are in. I know He is weaving a beautiful story here, even if we can’t see it yet. He is teaching us to be faithful in the dark. But it is still such a hard place to be.

The One About Plants

One of our first big marital conflicts was about, well, plants. Houseplants, specifically. But, of course, as these things go, the argument about plants wasn’t really about plants.

One of us wanted to purchase indoor plants to cozy up our first apartment together in Turkey, to make a short-term, one-bedroom feel more like a home. The other saw it as superfluous. It took a lot of conversations (okay, fights) to understand why.

To buy something as unnecessary as a potted plant was to admit defeat. Filling our apartment with things that weren’t needed was to accept that we were staying here. It was a symbol of us giving up getting to the US. We are here in Turkey, and this is now our home.

Plants = permanence, permanence in a place we did not want to be permanent.

To buy houseplants or picture frames or throw pillows, for that matter, was a signal of a white flag. Our hands are raised. We surrender. We give up.

To avoid being extra cheesy, I’ll skip over the whole ~bloom where you are planted~ spiel. However, I do think there is something to this symbolism of plants in our marriage. Oftentimes, when I am finally quiet before the Lord, I can hear that still small whisper telling me that we are exactly where we are supposed to be. It’s an uncomfortable, tension-filled thing to hear. It’s actually the exact opposite of what I want to hear. It doesn’t make sense right now, but I trust that it will.

January 27th, 2018

Flash forward a year later and we are still here.

The last 365 days brought on a flurry of pieced-together wedding plans, a white dress that was meant to be worn in America shipped across the ocean, wedding day dreams slightly remodeled and expedited to fit into the new reality of staying in Turkey for much longer than anticipated. We endeavored into our newly married life by enduring travel ban after travel ban (three, to be exact), courts blocking, and judges denying, for one year. 

But God touched our hearts with the realization that that white flag was placing too much power in places that don’t deserve power. Power in news announcements. Power in bizarre and arbitrary immigration policies. Power in the President. One look at the headlines would reduce me to tears.

He is challenging me to, just be still.  To be still when my gut reaction as I’m drowning is to grab onto anything that will keep my head above the water? To be still when my impulse is to call an immigration lawyer, change our apartment, write emails, make phone calls, etc. etc.?

All of those headlines and awful comments from heartless people? They are nothing compared to the mighty and powerful God who loves us and works all things together for good. A loose cannon president? Ever changing policies? Absolutely nothing is too hard for God.

Yes, we are in the dark. It’s a hard place to be. But God is speaking. He is moving pieces around that will one day fit all together. We need only to be still and listen. God, help us to do that.

In Him,
Sarah

Photo by Scott Schwartz
Our Story

Strength Found in Surrender

Sarah

“I have set the Lord always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.” Psalm 16:8

Today… I ache.

I ache when I read the headlines each morning.

I ache for this broken country and this broken world.

I ache for the broken immigration system.

I ache for our president and his decision to limit the number of refugees to 45,000 (45,000??).

I ache for the millions of people whose lives are literally hanging in the balance.

I ache for the families and loved ones who are separated and will continue to be separated for an uncertain amount of time solely because of the passport they hold.

I ache – a lot – for my husband and our situation.

I ache for our dreams that we want so badly to happen.

Last night, after hearing some discouraging news, he and I both found ourselves beat down, broken, tired, and worn out. Sitting with our backs against the wall, elbows pressed to our knees, faces heavy in our hands, we realized we cannot go through life and this situation relying on our own strength any longer.

There’s a well-meaning but tiresome saying that has been floating around for years – God will never give us more than we can handle. And it would be encouraging if it were true – oh, I wish it were true. Yet, God DOES give us more than we can handle. When the burdens of life seem far too heavy to shoulder and we finally come to the end of ourselves and to the end of our human strength, this is when we have no choice but to surrender to Him.

This is the place where we both find ourselves now. It is hard and overwhelming.

Yet, oddly enough, I think it’s a good place to be.

Looking at the insurmountable mountain in front of us, we realized just how weak we are. Looking at our hands, scratched and muddy from trying, trying, trying to climb up the craggy cliffs, we realized just how helpless we are.

But we serve a God who divides the waters. We serve a God who breathes life into dry bones. We serve a God who walks on water. We serve a God who was crucified and just three days later walked out from the grave.

My husband and I have a mammoth mountain in front of us, absolutely. It’s impossible. We need a miracle. It looks foggy and we can only see a few steps ahead. But praise God, Jesus’ name is bigger than the president’s. Praise God, Jesus is on the throne, not our president. The Lord is bigger than the government and walls and bans. He is far above borders and policies and numbers and statistics.

Yes, God does give us more than we can handle. He does this so that we might come to the end of ourselves. He does this so that we might rely solely on Him and His strength and His power. He does this so that we walk up the mountain with our hands wide open.

God will intentionally give us more than we can handle and at the same time inject His strength and peace and wisdom into those heavy, too-hard-to-handle situations.

As I’m writing this, my husband is making tea (“so our home feels cozy”) and reassuring me that Jesus is good. We need only to trust in Him.

So this is what I cling to.

 

Refugee Stories

Blue Tarps, Clothes Lines, and Bare Feet: Stories of Refugees in Turkey

Sarah
This is part two of a series titled “Stories of Refugees in Turkey”, dedicated to sharing the stories of refugees with hopes of giving readers a look past numbers and statistics into the dreams and lives of real people. Read part one here.

I don’t think anyone seated in the car was prepared for what we were about to see as we abruptly braked and took a right turn off the main road. As the tires crunched over the rocks, dirt, and glass, entering into the haphazard arrangement of a settlement, a flurry of children surrounded our windows. Smiles and curious eyes peered in at us.

Three hours earlier as we whizzed down the highway with an afternoon of sightseeing planned before us, out the left-hand side window was a blur of blue tarps and white trailer pods. All five of us almost simultaneously said, “hey, was that a … camp?” The last word of the question spoken low and hesitantly. We all craned our necks to the far left as the car continued down the road and the shock of blue and white grew smaller out the back window.

The First Thanksgiving, a new perspective
Days earlier, my parents and I were invited to a pre-Thanksgiving-Thanksgiving dinner with Americans, Iranians, and Iraqis. In a small home nestled in the foothills of Cappadocia, Turkey, it was a beautiful night to share with friends from three different cultures. As we got cozy around tables pushed together in the warm living room, we began to explain the story behind America’s first Thanksgiving to our Middle Eastern friends. Three different languages began to hum around the table while ladlefuls of sauce were poured over plates filled with turkey and bowls were passed around brimming with hot mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce.

You know it, right?  The Pilgrims fled religious persecution, after a several month long perilous journey on a boat, to the shores of America in search of a better life. They landed in modern-day Massachusetts where Plymouth Colony was founded. With a tough winter where nearly half died behind them, the Pilgrims were able to gain assistance from the native inhabitants and began their new life in the new land. In order to show gratitude for their newfound religious freedom, safety, and prosperity, and to give thanks for the help from the Native Americans, the Pilgrims held a feast to what we now call Thanksgiving.

Does any of that sound a little familiar?  “…It sounds like us”, one guest at the table said with a sad laugh.

turkey_border_wide-7f66a7f84cae07908b1ff9cb7bcd8eca28de10b2-s800-c85
Syrian Kurdish refugees who fled Kobani make do in a refugee camp in Suruc, on the Turkey-Syria border. Source: Lefteris Pitarakis/AP

Not yet on this side
I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of the irony a few days later, as we turned into the camp. As we finished our sightseeing, our car-full vowed to keep our eyes peeled for the shock of blue and white along the highway. As we approached and slowed the car, clothes clipped to lines strung out along the plastic tarp walls were the only indication from the road that there was life inside. Today was Thursday, November 24th – Thanksgiving Day in America.

“Hello?” “Merhaba?” “Ahlan?“.

“Ahlan!”, echoed an excited chorus of little voices. “They’re Arab”, our friend concluded as he shifted into park and climbed out of the driver’s seat, the group of children growing in numbers around our car. We watched silently as he walked toward the tarps. His arms stretched out and a small boy latched on to his forearm, pull-up style, and dangled off the ground, squealing with delight and legs kicking as he was carried along into the tents. “Syrians” our friend murmured to herself as we continued watching from the backseat, waiting for the signal that it was ok to visit.

I can’t tell you how much time we spent at the camp. Maybe 10 minutes, maybe half an hour. It was a blur. It was overwhelming. It was heartbreaking.

Seeing in – stepping foot in, shaking hands with those who actually live in – a refugee camp. It was something all five of us, two of whom are refugees themselves, had never experienced before.

Seeing a toddler patter about, his bare feet fully exposed to the gravel and garbage that jutted out from the ground. Seeing the mothers and fathers slumped against the trailer walls, utterly disillusioned with their long lives of war and flight and violence and uncertainty. Seeing kids erupt into fits of giggles as they tried to mimic my mom saying, “Nice to meet you” and my dad giving them high-fives, low-fives, and to-the-side fives. Seeing a bubbly little girl with an unceasing smile spread across her face, speaking animatedly in Arabic to us, even as our car began to reverse out of their semblance of a home.

These are the images that burn in the backs of my eyelids as the first snowfall came to Cappadocia this week and temperatures dropped below freezing. These are the images that flash before my eyes when I take a hot shower at my home, with water so hot my skin flaunts read splotches as I dry off. These are the images that fill my brain as I kick off my socks in the middle of the night, the robust gas heater in my house pumping out continuous warmth.

Feel this with me for a minute. Sit with me in this.

In light of the President-elect, in light of immigration issues and concerns, in light of wondering what the Church’s place is in all of this, I want you to realize that many people are not on this side of Thanksgiving yet. Over 65 million people, in fact, are not on this side yet. There are millions who are still experiencing – quite literally – the famine and death before the coming feast.

screen-shot-2016-03-16-at-11-54-45-am-750x400
View of makeshift camp near the village of Idomeni on the Greece-Macedonia border. Credit: UNHCR

A challenge for this season
So, as we begin decorating evergreen trees in our living rooms, cooking toasty meals, singing carols, stringing together garlands, and making plans to see loved ones, sit in this with me.

I don’t want to go into great descriptions of what I saw on Thanksgiving just so that we can say, “Golly gee, we sure are blessed in good ol’ America” and continue on with life as we know it. Yes, of course, it’s good to start realizing this utterly unfair dichotomy. But more than that, I want us all to step outside of ourselves this holiday season. Life is not about you. Life is not about me.

As with my last few blog posts, I challenge us all to think outside of our lives for a minute and really try to comprehend that these tired, broken men and women, and the joyful, giggly kids, not yet touched by the realities of their lives, are image-bearers of God. All 65.3 million people have hopes and dreams and fears and skills and talents. They have been woven together with inherent dignity and hold intrinsic worth to the God of the universe.

With hot button topics such as refugee resettlement and the vetting process, we must not let the humanness of refugees get buried under the (oftentimes false) statistics we read in headlines. These are real people. They deserve our time, attention, acceptance, and love.

Let’s do all that we can this season to get them on this side of the feast.

 

In Him,

Sarah

Refugee Stories

Can You Help Us?: Stories of Refugees in Turkey

Sarah
This is part one of a series titled “Stories of Refugees in Turkey” dedicated to sharing the stories of refugees with hopes of giving readers a look past numbers and statistics into the dreams and lives of real people. Read part two here.

“He is asking you,” my translator quietly tells me as she places her hand on the arm of the sofa where I’m seated.

I look up from the coffee table. I had been examining papers laid out before me from the UN, precious papers that give evidence that this family has been accepted as refugees.

I had assumed the question was rhetorical but her emphasis on the last word told me otherwise.

“They are asking, ‘What can you do for us? Can you help us?’” she repeated, her soft Arab accent woven like silk around each word.

I placed the handful of worn papers back on the table, and my eyes went from her hand to her face and then to the eyes of a man sitting across from me. A 54-year-old man who had been a refugee for 14 years, seeking safety first in Syria, then back to Iraq when the Syrian war broke out, then to Lebanon, then back to Iraq, and now in Turkey, where he waits with his wife and teenage son. Their first appointment with the UN isn’t scheduled until 2019.

“Can you help us?”

The question hung in the air and suddenly everything felt heavy, like lead. I became painfully aware of the sound of the string of plastic prayer beads rolling around the palm of the man’s hand, the black and white static of the television in the corner, the picture of the Virgin Mary hanging above the sofa, and the fact that I was the only non-refugee in the room.

His wife comes through the doorway holding a tray of tiny teacups filled with black Turkish coffee. I quickly sip from the glass of water offered and accept the coffee, thankful that her entrance shifts the mood and the interview continues on without me having to provide an answer.

The story of this man and his wife and the trauma and loss they have experienced and are still experiencing is not an uncommon one. Most stories begin with a painful retelling of ISIS invading hometowns, stories of people fleeing with only the clothes on their backs and their children at their sides, just one hour – 60 minutes – before the invasion occurs. Fleeing at a moment’s notice, leaving behind homes, memories, and lives that they will never know or return to in the same way again. Each story stops here, in Turkey, where thousands of people’s lives hang in the balance, where every family is forced to hit the pause button and wait in agony for an unknown, unclear future. Working stops, school stops, money stops. The decision to freeze in place, unable to move forward and unable to move backward, is made for them.

The bones of each story, weighted with grief and torment, are the same, yet the details that fall between are unique.  Entering homes, sharing a cup (or two, or three, or four) of çay, sitting across from one another, laughing and crying with each other, and hearing their stories hardly leaves the listener unchanged. Each story I heard, I cherish with such respect. Each story that entered my ears lays heavily on my heart. Such courage was shown as each story was spoken out loud, as thoughts and feelings that have stayed locked inside for so long come tumbling out, like rain pouring down in torrents.

These stories are with me now as I lie in my warm bed. These stories will stay with me as I hop on a plane to Italy and Greece. These stories will stay with me as I freely move across the ocean, home to America for the summer.

“Can you help us?”

What do you say when a 60-year-old woman shows you to a bedroom in the corner of her apartment where her debilitatingly depressed brother lies in a bed, not showering, not eating, waiting to die?

What do you say when a family of seven all sleep in the living room of their tiny attic apartment and have gone three full years without being in school yet still have dreams of being doctors and engineers when they grow up?

What do you say when a woman shares that one day her husband just disappeared in Iraq and has not been seen or heard from since 2014?

What do you say when a Yazidi family with five beautiful, graceful girls have no food in their cupboards, who have crossed into Turkey on foot, escaping sex traffickers, whose father has crossed into Europe on a boat and they live in fear that their neighbors will find out who they really are?

What do you say when a man shoves a photograph of his dead brother in front of your face, his body filled with bullet holes placed there by ISIS?

What do you say when everyone in the room turns to you and asks, “can you help us?”

What do you say when you are a white girl from Midwest America who has the entire world at your fingertips, can go anywhere, be anything, yet cannot help these families?

Sometimes it is okay to be silent. There are times when words ruin the moment, a contrived response minimizing what was just shared. Sometimes there are moments that call for sitting in uncomfortable, awkward stillness, and to just grab the shaking hand across the table and pray.

That uncomfortableness, that awkwardness, that frustration of wanting to say something, to do something, anything to help – that’s what we all should be feeling when we hear stories, numbers, and statistics of these hurting souls on the news. We need to be uncomfortable. We need to fidget in our chairs. We need to feel the injustice rise up in our chests, like lava threatening to erupt. We need to do something, anything to help.

“Can you help us?”

I’m still figuring out how to answer that question. But I can listen. I can pray. I can carry these stories in my heart and share them with you. You can listen to these stories and you can pray. We can keep these stories moving and alive. We can watch the news and see hearts and souls and real human beings.

“It’s a kind of healing, to speak the hard things”, my translator told me after I assured her she only had to share with me what she wanted to share. We had just met and sat at a çay bahçe, a Turkish tea garden, discussing what tomorrow’s interviews would be like. “It’s difficult. But I think we all want our stories heard”.

Refugee Stories

Love and Fear Cannot Coexist

Sarah

It’s during the hustle and bustle of traveling as we leave our hotel in Istanbul and pile into the airport shuttle, coffee in hand and eyes double checking the time on our wrists. It’s in the midst of a frenzied realization that one of our bags is forgotten on the steps outside the hotel, becoming smaller and smaller out of the back window of the shuttle. It happens after an emphatic and relieved “çok sağol! çok sağol!” to our driver as we settle back into our seats, recounting our bags, sighing to each other, and saying “that was close!” while we look over our tickets and itinerary. It’s on a busy road leading our van to the airport. It’s during heavy traffic – bottle necking – something inevitable to a city of this size. It’s on a congested road, with concrete buildings towering a mile high on our right and the blue-green sea sparkling on our left.

A quiet tapping on our window.

Waking us from the haze of our own streams of consciousness, of our thinking and planning for the hours of traveling to come, we lazily turn our attention towards the sound.

For a minute we’re blinded by the afternoon sun reflecting off the churning waters of the Bosphorus. Squinting our eyes we see a man peering into our window, clutching a toddler, two small legs wrapped tightly around his waist. His wife standing next to him, each hand grasping the tiny hands of her children at both her sides. Ten dark eyes stare back at our six light blue.

“Syrians. They want money,” our driver tersely explains through puffs of his cigarette. His words off-handedly tossed towards the back of the van as an answer to a question we did not ask.

…Money. Oh! They want money. Do you have any cash on you? Where’s my wallet? Wait, everything’s packed away in the trunk. Money. They need money. Will money even help? How far will a couple crumpled lira get them? Are you sure we don’t have anything in our pockets? Check again.

And in a moment, much like the nearly forgotten suitcase, the family is left behind in the rear window as the van lurches forward and traffic continues on. Five solemn faces. Five beating hearts. Five humans with five incredible, unique, heart-breaking stories to tell. Five souls that were purposefully formed by and made in the image of God. Five souls whose realities now only know fleeing and fear.

Friends, my heart is really heavy tonight.

I spent a good chunk of my day off from teaching today reading different articles and blogs and watching segments from news channels about everything that’s been happening in the world this past week. The comment sections and the anti-this and anti-that pictures that have been shared on Facebook have left me feeling sadder and sadder each time I scroll down.

Life in America can be so disconnected and easy and comfortable. And so can my little life in Turkey. It’s so easy to sip our coffee as we angrily type our emotion-fueled opinions online about “them” in our warm and safe homes, in a country where our government is for us and protects us. It’s so easy to make incredibly over-simplified, blanket statements about a group of people that we’ve never met or even cared to see the faces of. It’s so easy to dehumanize people when we’re thousands and thousands of miles away in the comforts of our homes.

Lord, have mercy on us.

Lord, breathe your spirit over us.

Lord, build your kingdom right here.

Show us where Jesus is in all of this.

Friends, please, please, please know that life is bigger than America and red cups with no snowflakes and blog posts and social media and you and me.

There are many things I can say here and many Bible verses I can rattle off. But here’s what I want to do: I want you to come here. Pull up a chair next to me. Stop wringing your hands and shaking your fist. Be still and listen – really listen for a minute.

What if Jesus really meant all that stuff? Like, really, really, for real, meant it?

…Loving our enemies.

…Clothing the naked.

…Caring for the sick.

…Welcoming the stranger.

If we take Jesus’ words at face value, then woah, those are some intense commands. Loving enemies? Welcoming strangers? Nope. No way. That’s risky. That’s complicated. That’s messy. That’s hard. That’s impossible.

Let me let you in on a not-so-secret secret: Jesus really did mean all that stuff.

Loving someone is risky. It’s uncomfortable. It’s audacious. But guess what? Perfect love casts out fear.

Did you hear that? Perfect love casts out fear.

Friends, it is my cry that your hearts – my heart – do not become clouded with fear and hate and closed doors and turned backs – no! Fight against it, please.

Perfect love casts out fear.

These are real people, with real stories, real hurts, real souls.

It’s families who have fled to Turkey, only to be denied work visas, living off of quickly disappearing savings, waiting in limbo for their next visa appointment, which isn’t until 2025. It’s a man who has fled here with his family, without work and without money, who’d rather make the dangerous trek back to die in his war-torn homeland than die in a foreign land. It’s a woman with a Master’s in chemistry, with two smart sons, now finding herself working illegally at a hair salon, hours and hours a day on her feet, and getting paid next to nothing. It’s an entire generation of children who will go uneducated because of regulations and laws and language barriers and school fees that are blocking them from learning.

It’s easy to distance ourselves and only see refugees as statistics on the news and angry words on our screen. But, it gets a little  a lot harder when we see ten eyes staring right into our own. It’s get harder when five somber faces are etched into our brains each night we curl up in our warm beds. It gets harder when we realize we’re blessed with a home, a safe place to go, a stable government, a place to belong. It gets harder when we can’t even begin to imagine with it’s like to be a refugee.

These are real people, with real stories, real hurts, real souls.

And when we realize this and let ourselves see this, our hearts make no room for fear. Terrorism breeds on fear, but perfect love is its kryptonite.

I don’t know what the ultimate answer is. I am grounded enough to know that what’s happening in the world right now is really, really complicated. Yes, as a country, we need to be wise. But, I can say that the answer is not wringing hands and shaking fists. It’s not slamming the doors closed one state at a time because fear has overwhelmed us. It’s not generalized assertions about a group of people kept at arm’s length and neatly in the confines of numbers and statistics.

The ocean between us is wide and vast, I know that. But there is room at the table for all of us. Friends, let’s welcome the fleeing, fearful, homeless families to the table. Come. Come. Come. There’s room for you here.

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.

i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

“Home” by Warsan Shire

Father, have mercy on us. Help us to love fearlessly. Show us that there is room. Show us Jesus in all of this. Come, Lord.