Open House Friday at the Sahabat

It is late Friday afternoon when I climb the stairs in the medical services and community support building for the Sahabat Support Centre (SSC). The building itself is unmarked, and "fronted" by a run of the mill business which exists to divert attention away from what happens on the 2nd and 3rd floors. My feet are heavy in the narrow stairwell, as beads of sweat congregate at my temples, along my hairline, streaking salt into my eyes. Sunlight dapples in, through grimy windows, and voices carry into the echo of the vast space.

I am nervous. 

"I hope you don't mind, but we're going to throw you right into the deep end", says Gloria, the operating manager of the SSC, 

She is conducting an "open house", where refugees book appointments to discuss medical claims, appeal for support (monetary and in kind) and pursue claims with the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR).

When we enter the small and stuffy room on the top floor, the first candidate, an old man, his face heavily etched with dark creases, is hunched over an unsturdy looking table, surrounded by metal fold out chairs. Gloria motions for Danae and I to sit down, and a young Iranian man joins us, quite unexpectedly. 

"Hello. My name is Gloria," says Gloria, with a hint of an accent, "do you mind if my interns sit in with us today?" 

The young Iranian man begins to speak to the elderly man in what I assume to be Arabic. I understand, then, that he is an interpreter. And that interpreters are the lifeblood of this organization. 

The old man looks up, his face kind, as it expands and contracts into a short-lived, but impressively toothy, smile. He nods, and the interview continues in Arabic --> English, English --> Arabic. He is a homeless man who has been living on the street for several months, because he is sick, and cannot work. 

"What would you do, if you could do any job?" Gloria asks, "like... what do you have the skills for?"

After some deliberation, the young man replies, with a smile dancing in his eyes, "he would be a cook... or a basketball player!!" 

Laughter erupts out of my mouth before I can stop it, and the elderly man sitting across from me grins wildly, shooting a 3 pointer with both hands in mid-air (I kid you not!) 

As my laughter mixes with his, to warm the air in the room, I realize that this man is not hopeless. And he does not need my pity. 

Because although he may be desolate, and yes, his life may be hard... his humanity, and his dignity, are still very much in tact, and that's more than I can say for most people. 

As he leaves his appointment, without any rent assistance (which means he will stay homeless for now), but a food voucher and a promise to follow up on his UNHCR file, he bows his head.

"Thank you," he says in English, with a silent grace that hurts my heart. 

The rest of the interviews follow along the same vein. 

A beautiful Afghani woman, with strong features and hair like black silk, is unable to afford a hospital visit for her son, who is ill. And the reality is that even if she could afford it, she would need an interpreter to go to the hospital with her since she cannot speak a lick of English. And even if there was an interpreter, she risks deportation. Why? Because she crossed the border illegally, by way of human smugglers, who removed her passport upon arrival, abandoning her (and her 5 children) in Malaysia without any form of identification. 

An older woman from Afghanistan follows, asking for assistance in finding her two children, in their early 20's, who fled to  Germany two years ago, and ceased all communication. Tears spill from her eyes, which bring life to pain that I don't know I will ever experience, as she describes her last conversation with them. 

"She is terrified for her children", says the young Persian interpreter, a woman this time. 

My desire, then, is to reach my hand out towards the old woman. To touch her elbow. Her hair. To take her burden from her shoulders in some way, and place it squarely onto mine. Instead, I extend my fingers over my heart. And with this, I can express to her without words, that we are connected.

More interviews followed, and each refugee, no matter how hard their struggle, managed to touch my heart in some way. Whether it be their gentle eyes, or their playful spirits in the face of adversity. I don't know that I have ever experienced that kind of rawness. Of people cut wide open, and sewn back shut, yet somehow still in tact, and still beautiful. I will never forget the experience, for as long as I live. And I know that this is only the beginning.