Misery and Hope

Inside one of the refugee centres in Saida

Earlier this week I was back in Lebanon to meet with staff and visit field sites for the rapidly expanding Syrian refugee response.   Since my last visit to Lebanon the number of Syrian refugees has significantly grown, with current estimates of well over 1 million refugees in a country with a population of only 4 million.  This is placing enormous strain on an already fragile society in Lebanon, and tensions between host communities and refugees are increasing.   

On Monday I travelled to Saida, approximately one hour to the south of Beirut.  Saida is the largest city in the south of Lebanon, and is frequently mentioned in the bible.  Like most other cities and towns in Lebanon, Saida is hosting thousands of Syrian refugees in private homes, shops and communal spaces.   Conditions on the whole for the refugees are pretty horrendous, particularly in communal spaces that have been opened up in empty municipal buildings and offices.  In one particular site we visited, I asked an older lady what it was like to be living there, and her one word reply was 'misery'.  I was accompanied on the visit by the CEO of World Vision UK, Justin Byworth, along with WV Lebanon staff.  Justin captured some of his experience and reflections from the visit in a recent piece of writing.  An excerpt is included below:

'Surrounded by tears again and again today I saw firsthand what Syria’s descent means for its mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, in so many lost and broken lives just as real and precious as yours or mine and all we hold dear.

Hamed has such intensity in his eyes when he describes how he saw his mother die. “The first rocket fell in the compound, the second hit the house. My father took her in his arms, but it was too late. We ran from one place to another escaping the bombs, we couldn’t even bury her because they were hitting the cemetery”. His father Brahim, wept quietly beside me as Hamed spoke. Not so quiet was the wailing of Hamed’s grandmother Mariam as she told of the death of her brother and sixteen family members in the chemical attack that shocked the world and of four surviving relatives who are “between life and death – waking up sick and trembling”. Abdullah, just behind me cries “Look at me, I am a stranger in a land I don’t know and my children are lost. My three boys were taken, and my five beautiful girls are homeless somewhere in Syria”. My Lebanese colleague, Patricia, who’s seen so much of this over the past two years, quietly wipes away her own tears.

From the crowded, dilapidated old office block floor that serves as home to Hamed and 200 other refugees to a cramped, unbelievably grimy room behind stacks of car tyres at the back of a garage to meet the family of tiny Youssef, new to the world just 48 hours ago. His mother Safa, who is clearly still in pain with cramps, gave birth to him here with no medical help and Youssef’s 2 year old brother Said lies asleep feverish beside them. The poor hygiene is palpable, my shirt sticking to the oily wall as I lean back. Grandmother Shahira tells an almost biblical story of moving ten times in Syria over two years before coming here and with two disabled young men as sons, how they were told “No more room, no more room, we can’t take any more” in place after place. As unregistered refugees they received no assistance until a neighbour brought World Vision to see them. Shahira and auntie Noura speak with passion and tears “We are Syrians, we have lost our country.” “We are hungry, scared and none of my children have seen school in more than two years. Take care of your country!”

Yet amongst the sorrow somehow there is hope, joy even. And it is children that manifest this. Safa and her family exude the same pride at Youssef as I’ve seen and experienced with my wife Mischka at the birth of each of our four children. Safa’s sister-in-law shows us the bank card through which World Vision provides their family £100 a month for food and proclaims with a huge smile, “We used it to buy nappies this time!” 8 year old Aiya proudly heads for school in her new uniform and tells me “I want to be a doctor and help the poor. Shahira describes how happy they were to have Hadija’s engagement party in their tiny home and Auntie Noura tells us “we are from Homs – we are known for our light hearts, we can still sing”.

As Safa passed tiny newborn Youssef into my arms I found myself telling them how my daughter Maia’s birth was followed within days by the death of my wife Mischka’s father and how I recognise the bittersweet experience of rejoicing and grieving at the same time.

There is so much more to tell from today. World Vision’s new water and hygiene programme for the Syrian refugees, funded by the British government; the innovative e-card method of providing basic relief to unregistered refugees; The local Sheikh who is committed to bringing Christian and Muslim, Sunni and Shia together to build peace; World Vision’s fantastic Lebanese staff – so committed, capable and caring."  Justin Byworth, Sept 2013

Below one of the refugee centres.
Children play close to this area.

It's confronting and challenging to hear the stories of Syrian refugees first hand.  I often find myself thinking about our own children, and how different their reality would be if they were in the same situation as many of the children we met this week.  The stories we heard and the pain we saw stays with you, and I think for me it remains a journey in terms of how I process this, or what I do with it.  A call to action, perhaps? A cry for justice and a prayer for peace, I would hope so?  But I think most of all a profound sadness and sense of human frailty, and call for God's mercy for the people of Syria.  Miserere!

To read more about the current situation in Lebanon, the report you can access at this link was done by World Vision earlier this year, and provides a good overview.

Meeting the Sheikh