Dear Syria,
I hear your news, and I know your people.
I heard the refugee father who professed, “I just want to join my sister and her son who are now in Heaven. What am I doing here? I should be in Syria defending and meeting my God as a hero instead of begging you to feed my children.” I met his wife a little later, “If he leaves, we will all die. We won’t be able to eat.” I saw the children. I saw their physical and emotional injuries. “Can I have this?” asked their 4-year-old as he saw a toy my son left in the car. “Of course.” I handed him the toy…
A few days later,
I looked at the child’s tearful, hazel eyes who told me the secrets of what the enemy has done to him and his family. I heard how they hurt his mom and how they killed his dad. I heard him and held him tight. What else can a mother do? I’m a mother. My sons are his age. My boy even looks like him. “Mom is still in Syria. Do you think she’ll hug me again?” I just held him. I don’t know. I don’t know.
An hour ago,
“Hush don’t tell anyone, but if I tell you, you won’t tell anyone, right?” Yes. I promised. “I think I’m pregnant.” I smiled. “That’s good, right?” She began to cry, “No. No. Remember when I told you I’m married? It’s not… it’s not the kind of marriage God wants.” She cried more. “He’s 70.” My heart broke. I was looking at one of the most beautiful 23-year-olds I had ever seen. I saw her piercing blue eyes. “What can I do?”
***
I am a mother. There was once a time when I didn’t believe in abortions. I believed that every child had a place in this world. How can she take care of him when she sells herself to eat? And her skinny-frame tells me that she barely does.
I am not a social worker. These aren’t stories I heard because my job demands that I hear them. The first I met when I was going to the salon. The second, just before I picked up my son from school and the third, outside the restaurant I just entered.
I hear your news. Your people are everywhere and what they say again and again, “We had a good life in Syria.” The first one was an engineer, the second one went to school, and the third wanted to be a doctor.
Your people are my people, Syria.
I can’t promise to give them a home, but I will try.
I can’t promise to take their pain away, but I will try.
This is just a letter to tell you that you’re not alone. I am not powerful. I am not a decision-maker. I am not a lot of things you need me to be today, but I am a mother. I will love your children as much as I can if not with hugs then with prayers.