The Confession

It was a sultry day. Adara and I sat together on the concrete. We laid our backs against the outside wall of her "home" (similar to a shipping container with windows).  I fanned my face with my hand, and felt relieved to feel a bit of a breeze that August afternoon. We chatted a bit, as much as we could in between Arabic and English. 😊
Adara and I, we were content to just sit with each other. Our words were few, but it was ok. Just being there, present with each other was enough and somehow, satisfying...I felt like we were friends.

After a while like this, Adara got up and said "One minute," as she went into the house. I wasn't sure what she was doing, but sat outside waiting till she came back.  I had no idea what she would bring me, but soon found out.

"Oh Adara!" the words slipped from my mouth with earnest, as she not only showed me a razor  blade, but pulled up the sleeve of her abaya. Something had been hidden under that sleeve, and they were scars. Scars from cutting, trying to cut the pain away... The pain of being an unloved wife, of living cloistered, always hiding in a black abaya... the pain of being thousands of miles from her homeland of Syria, and the pain of being married for three years and barren.

With her hands, she motioned "crying" and then "cutting." I understood. When she was sad, she cut herself.  My heart broke. No, No, No!  I wasn't expecting THIS when I came to Greece, when I traveled over 5,000 miles to see the refugee crisis first-hand.
She was so lovely.  Sixteen years old, and wanting so badly to be loved. She would tell me she was "no good," and when I would reply with saying yes, she was good, she would refuse over and over.
 There is no doubt in my mind that Adara had been told to her face that she was "no good." I hardly ever saw her husband, a man around 25 maybe, and could easily believe her story of being in an unhappy marriage.

Honestly, I forget all that I said and did. I know I told her to not do that to herself, and she just looked at me, and held my hand, with a look that seemed to say almost "it's ok, honey, you just don't understand..."
No, I could not understand her pain. I couldn't, because hers was deep and intimate and hidden all behind that black abaya. She was from a  culture I did not understand, and a lifestyle I was not familiar with. I had not been turned out of my homeland. I had not been abused by my husband, nor had I suffered a journey across the Agean in an unstable raft, wondering each minute if I might drown. But oh Adara, I knew what it felt like to cut marks into my arm, trying to ease pain, because nothing else seemed to relieve it! Dear girl, I KNEW what it was like to look down at my arm, blood oozing out of the lacerations, and feel like I had done a RIGHT thing. I had felt useless, too pain-filled to bring any contribution to life anymore.

I remember when I told you that I, yes I, had done the same thing too! You looked at me with big eyes, and asked me again if I really had. "Yes," I answered, "But Jesus makes me happy now," my response continued. You looked at me again and nodded quietly. I honestly can't remember what happened after that; if you allowed me to pray with you or not, or what we talked about, or if we just sat with each other. But I do know. oh Adara, I think of you often! And I pray for you.  That moment and all my moments with you are etched deeply into my mind. You and I shared something, and I really considered you my friend.
I had struggled with cutting three years before, and I still have some faint scars on my arms. But I never imagined meeting a Syrian teenager, three years later, who was doing the same thing to herself, and I could relate, yet also share Jesus.

Adara, I miss you. Someday, I would cry tears of joy to see you in Heaven with me, at the Throne of Jesus Christ! At this moment, I get emotional thinking of it. I pray that God would draw you to Himself, and SHOW you His love, oh precious one! I want you to see your value, not as "property," but as a woman who is lovely and Created. Adara, I pray for His mercy and grace upon you.
Love,
hannah
***NOTE- Names have been changed in these accounts.***

The Little Boy

Ahmad, your little face makes me smile now. I remember that day when you walked up to me with  big grin on your mischievous face, and I couldn't help but laugh out loud! A few girls, 5-9, trailed behind you, giggling. They had just put red lipstick on you, and painted your little finger nails a rainbow of colors.
That face- one of the cutest faces I've ever seen- is etched in my mind
Your eyes- lovely, beautiful hazel colored, just like your older brother
Soft, smooth, brown hair that glistened gold in the sunshine...
--This is how I remember you.

I loved to cuddle your little 2 year-old body. My brother Iain reminded me of you, and when you were close, I somehow felt a little closer to him.  But there were some big differences, I could see, in how the two of you live.
Iain was born in the safety of America. You were born in Iraq, where there have been tensions for years. I don't know if you were born in a little town, or a big city like Erbil or Mosul.  But I know you were brought up in violence. You and your brother could be the sweetest boys one moment, and then the next, I'd watch in horror as you ran with a metal stick at another boy, ready to strike him in the head. I'd try with all my might and any power I had to stop you. But something was hidden inside you that I didn't understand... it was like violence to others was part of your nature. You lived around it constantly. Only God knows if you witnessed the crimes of ISIS, if you had seen people die. Really, it is so likely you did. The very fact your father decided to make the perilous journey across the Northern Agean Sea with his family shows how desperate he was.

Oh Ahamd, I don't know where you are now. But I pray for you! I pray that all the violence you have seen and experienced and learned from, will be traded for Hope and Joy and Life. Oh little guy, I pray you come to know Jesus! The pain and hurt, the awful images that are in your mind, I pray they are exchanged for peace, that only Isa gives.
I will always remember you, little Ahmad. I pray you grow to be a man, and not only a man, but a good man, who cares for the needs of others, who decides to give love rather than hate, and loves Jesus.