When I turn onto Brookwood, I know it is going to be minutes before I am ambushed by my favorite four boys in the world; they are always filled with stories and words and ideas and sounds that they want me to hear. When my car slows to a stop in front of the red brick building that has become their home in the last seven months, one of two things will happen: Four little dark haired boys will wave furiously at me from the window or four smiling boys will come filing down the tight stairwell out onto the street to greet me.
DesiRAH! DesiRAH! I have never loved a variation of my name better than this one. Z (8) comes flying out of the stairwell, practically tumbling out onto the street. SM (6) and NN (4) come running out behind him, screaming my name, instantly competing for attention before I even step out of my car.
Please be careful! I advise, trying to gather the contents of my purse before I exit my car and walk over to meet them.
Z is wearing ginormous black platform boots, which he points to proudly. “New shoe”, he tells me. “They are wonderful!” I exclaim, although I am secretly debating about whether or not I should tell him that they are for girls. He is 8, but I know that if he wore those to school, there would be plenty of 8-year-olds who would point out his cultural faux pa and make him feel really badly about himself. “DesiRAH, girl shoe or boy shoe?” he asks me perplexed. “Let’s ask Mommy” I suggest. I know I took the easy route; I just couldn’t bear the thought of making him enjoy his new shoes less.
SM has a silk cap on--where did he get this gem?--with a long fake black ponytail. “Lookit, lookit DesiRAH,” he says, forcefully thrusting his fists in the air, followed by some kicks and other fighting stances, “Me Chinese fighter!”
NN is prancing around, singing my name as I walk nearer to the door. He’s wearing new shoes too, but they are really slippers--with large Pokemon heads on them. He can hardly walk and the yellow action figures around his feet certainly don’t help him in the process, but he has a striking smile and only mimics sounds he hears in English, which makes him incredibly endearing. I scoop him up tell him I missed him. He beams.
E(12) comes down the stairs and smiles at me, but he is the older brother and he is collected and cool; he contains his excitement and gives me a high-five. Moments later, MM, their mother and my dear friend, descends gracefully down the stairs and grabs my arm.
There is a strange thing that happens in those first five minutes. Right or wrong, I feel home.
full circle
Exactly one year ago, I was traveling back from a small Island off the coast of beautiful Krabi in Southern Thailand, about to go on another adventure to a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas where I would learn about the Karen. A beautiful indigenous people group in Northern Thailand and several other Southeast Asian countries, known for their ever-present smiles, unmatched hospitality, and bold colored weavings. A few weeks into my ethnographic research visit, I learned about the persecution of Karen people from Burma and the refugee camps that dot the Thai-Burma border, home to thousands of Karen, Chin, and Burmese people, among other ethnic minority groups, who are fleeing from the military regime. Conversations, prayers, and weeks later, I had the unique opportunity to visit one of the refugee camps and heard heartbreaking story after miraculous story and tried desperately to see purpose and hope in what was seemingly irredeemable. I returned to the United States with fewer belongings, a lot more questions, and a newfound desire to seek out refugees here.
A few minutes ago, I returned from church with some of my new Burmese friends who happen to be refugees from a camp adjacent the one I visited. There are several Burmese refugee families in Harrisburg and I’ve begun to know them, mostly from my recent experience with helping to resettle a family that arrived a month ago and also from the food pantry at my church. I’m starting to understand who is related to whom and am having less of a challenging time remember names. I often feel like I am back in Thailand or in some other foreign land where I stick out as the foreigner who can’t speak the language, but I am okay with being lost in translation and am drawn to these beautiful people who are starting their lives over in a new place and a new culture. Perhaps it’s because I know where they’ve come from. Or perhaps it’s something else. But, readers, I would like to say that Jesus hangs in refugee camps and he also spends a lot of time in the slums of Harrisburg.
Two weeks ago, Myint Mu, a good friend who speaks both Burmese and English, told me that Che Paw, a lady that frequents the food pantry, was a Christian. I told her I could take her to church if she wanted to go. She wanted to go. And the eight others in her family.
We sat in church together and the boys were rowdy and the three year old was restless. Che Paw speaks little English, so there was no conversation and I was pretty confident she didn’t understand the sermon or any of the words to the songs. Her husband, Podah, also sat quietly and showed no signs of comprehension. They will probably never want to come here again, I thought to myself.
We took communion. And we sang Nothing but the Blood, which is a song I remember hearing at the church in the refugee camp. Instantly, Podah’s face lit up and he started singing meaningful syllables to the tune. He was in the right place, and he knew it.
“I want come every Sunday,” he told me afterwards, surprising me with English I didn’t know he could speak. He had been praying for a church for the last sixth months that they had been in the United States. God answers prayers and Jesus hangs out on Derry Street. Nothing surprises me, some things wow me, most things excite me these days.
So, this is going to be a space, from now on, for me to record my continued experiences with refugees in Harrisburg, to tell you about where I’m finding Jesus these days, to honor the refugees experiencing transition and challenges we will never know overseas, in camps, in the news, and in our neighborhoods. I'm going to tell a new story.
A few minutes ago, I returned from church with some of my new Burmese friends who happen to be refugees from a camp adjacent the one I visited. There are several Burmese refugee families in Harrisburg and I’ve begun to know them, mostly from my recent experience with helping to resettle a family that arrived a month ago and also from the food pantry at my church. I’m starting to understand who is related to whom and am having less of a challenging time remember names. I often feel like I am back in Thailand or in some other foreign land where I stick out as the foreigner who can’t speak the language, but I am okay with being lost in translation and am drawn to these beautiful people who are starting their lives over in a new place and a new culture. Perhaps it’s because I know where they’ve come from. Or perhaps it’s something else. But, readers, I would like to say that Jesus hangs in refugee camps and he also spends a lot of time in the slums of Harrisburg.
Two weeks ago, Myint Mu, a good friend who speaks both Burmese and English, told me that Che Paw, a lady that frequents the food pantry, was a Christian. I told her I could take her to church if she wanted to go. She wanted to go. And the eight others in her family.
We sat in church together and the boys were rowdy and the three year old was restless. Che Paw speaks little English, so there was no conversation and I was pretty confident she didn’t understand the sermon or any of the words to the songs. Her husband, Podah, also sat quietly and showed no signs of comprehension. They will probably never want to come here again, I thought to myself.
We took communion. And we sang Nothing but the Blood, which is a song I remember hearing at the church in the refugee camp. Instantly, Podah’s face lit up and he started singing meaningful syllables to the tune. He was in the right place, and he knew it.
“I want come every Sunday,” he told me afterwards, surprising me with English I didn’t know he could speak. He had been praying for a church for the last sixth months that they had been in the United States. God answers prayers and Jesus hangs out on Derry Street. Nothing surprises me, some things wow me, most things excite me these days.
So, this is going to be a space, from now on, for me to record my continued experiences with refugees in Harrisburg, to tell you about where I’m finding Jesus these days, to honor the refugees experiencing transition and challenges we will never know overseas, in camps, in the news, and in our neighborhoods. I'm going to tell a new story.
draw your experience
On one of our last visits to the orphanage, we decided to bring markers and give them pieces of paper from a notebook. We asked the director of the orphanage to instruct them to draw pictures of their experiences/their lives. All the kids stared at us, confused, and we were pretty sure that what we asked was lost in translation. In an effort to encourage them and get them started, Katie took a sheet of paper and started to draw a picture of her life: her parents, her sisters, her pet dog, her husband, her house, etc. Soon they were busy drawing and coloring, bent over their masterpieces with determination in their serious faces. They put them in an envelope and then we painted nails, constructed and threw paper airplanes, played some hand-clapping games, sang some songs, and left feeling good about smiling and laughing with the kiddies we only had a few days to be with.
We looked at the pictures later that night and were once again horrified, paralyzed, and helpless before the shocking realities of our new young friends at Mae La. The pictures that our little friends drew mainly depicted the process of displacement they experienced, leaving their homes, running away from the Burmese military, people being shot/killed. They know violence and fear in ways no one ever should.
These are some of their pictures. These are some of their experiences.
"Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed. Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked." Psalm 82:4-5
We looked at the pictures later that night and were once again horrified, paralyzed, and helpless before the shocking realities of our new young friends at Mae La. The pictures that our little friends drew mainly depicted the process of displacement they experienced, leaving their homes, running away from the Burmese military, people being shot/killed. They know violence and fear in ways no one ever should.
These are some of their pictures. These are some of their experiences.
"Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed. Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked." Psalm 82:4-5
pray, yes, but we still can't eat your prayers
While the faith and the spirits of the people I met in Mae La were strong, their current physical conditions are matters of concern. Registration froze two years ago. People who come to the camp--four or five new families everyday--are not given food rations or materials to build huts because they are not registered. They must move in with other refugees and those who open their huts must share what they have with the new-comers. Already, cuts have been made in the amount of food they receive twice a month. They are supposed to receive rice, oil, chili powder, and fish paste. With the destruction of crops/resources brought on by Cyclone Nargis and the sky-rocketing prices of rice and basic foods all over the world, Mae La and the other Thai-Burma border refugee camps are in trouble. Refugees in these camps are already living on much less than is needed and these newest strains on their food situation have potential to send more people spiralling into malnutrition, which makes them much more susceptible to diseases.
Children are the ones who are suffering the most. And especially the ones who don't have advocates and live in orphanages. Like her.
Read this article put out by Irrawaddy News for more information on the calorie cuts for refugees.
And please pray with me.
And for those of you who are interested in doing something else, please check out what some people, who are praying and responding with us, are already doing: Food for the Hungry and MCC.
Children are the ones who are suffering the most. And especially the ones who don't have advocates and live in orphanages. Like her.
Read this article put out by Irrawaddy News for more information on the calorie cuts for refugees.
And please pray with me.
And for those of you who are interested in doing something else, please check out what some people, who are praying and responding with us, are already doing: Food for the Hungry and MCC.
freedom
"They are my brothers"
I caught myself thinking these thoughts, as I met four students from Mae La's bible college. They were between ages nineteen and twenty-five, tanned from the sun, and muscular from playing volleyball. Each had a typical Karen smile, genuine and inviting, and I instantly felt like they were my brothers. Had I been born in this camp or they ended up at my college, we probably would have known each other well--maybe I would have played volleyball with them, maybe we would have gone to the same youth group, maybe even have some classes together. I felt like I was meeting people I already knew well.
Their names felt funny on my foreign tongue: Gonyouwah, Ploday, Po-wah, and Freedom. I let the last name sit in my mouth for a while before I scribbled down the sounds I heard. Freedom. Ironically, he was the only one who didn't speak English and needed a translator.
Their stories were strikingly similar: they came to Mae La primarily to study. Education in Burma was really expensive and it was no option for internally displaced people who lived in the jungle. They wanted to study theology and bible and philosophy. They walked for two weeks to one full month to come to Mae La and be "free" to study.
I looked around me. We were sitting in a classroom underneath a lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling that was partially made out of tarp in a refugee camp that had thousands of huts built practically on top of each other and was held together by a rusty barbed wire fence. "Free?" I heard myself thinking, judging.
They told me stories, then. Their houses and churches and schools and entire villages were burned down by the Burmese military. They watched their family members and best friends tortured, mutilated, and murdered. Gonyouwah described with great detail one technique he remembered the military using: pouring boiling water over the heads of innocent civilians before scalping them.
I swallowed hard and realized my mistake. This refugee camp--what looks like a combination of animal pens and a prison in my busy mind that is trying desperately to make sense of what I'm seeing and hearing--is their freedom.
This is not freedom.
"If we go outside, they will catch us and put us in jail," Po-Wah said.
"We have to stay and help our Karen people," added Gonyouwah.
"We want peace-land and democracy. Pray for us. We don't want a third country [to be resettled]; we want our homeland [the Karen State in Burma]," said Ploday.
"Tell your people we want freedom," one of them said as I was busily trying to copy down their powerful words.
I looked up. They are students. They are around my age. They are my brothers. But their faces are not like mine; they look older and wiser from their experiences, perhaps more jaded, perhaps more hopeful, perhaps just different.
Suddenly I'm crushed and overwhelmed and paralyzed by my own mobility? lack of restraints? independence? I will be driving out of this camp in two days and flying out of this country a day after that and will meet people on the other side of the world who will never see the faces and know the names or stories of my brothers in Mae La refugee camp who are studying bible and playing volleyball really well behind fences. I'm crushed, overwhelmed, and paralyzed by my freedom.
My moment of panic dissipates when I snap out of my thoughts. Gonyouwah playfully flings his arm around Freedom and they share a joke in Karen. I'm with family. These are my brothers, we have the same Father, and I'm invited to play ping-pong with them. I feel encouraged and hopeful. I feel free, liberated by what links us and makes us human.
Use your freedom, little sister, to promote theirs, I hear someone say.
I caught myself thinking these thoughts, as I met four students from Mae La's bible college. They were between ages nineteen and twenty-five, tanned from the sun, and muscular from playing volleyball. Each had a typical Karen smile, genuine and inviting, and I instantly felt like they were my brothers. Had I been born in this camp or they ended up at my college, we probably would have known each other well--maybe I would have played volleyball with them, maybe we would have gone to the same youth group, maybe even have some classes together. I felt like I was meeting people I already knew well.
Their names felt funny on my foreign tongue: Gonyouwah, Ploday, Po-wah, and Freedom. I let the last name sit in my mouth for a while before I scribbled down the sounds I heard. Freedom. Ironically, he was the only one who didn't speak English and needed a translator.
Their stories were strikingly similar: they came to Mae La primarily to study. Education in Burma was really expensive and it was no option for internally displaced people who lived in the jungle. They wanted to study theology and bible and philosophy. They walked for two weeks to one full month to come to Mae La and be "free" to study.
I looked around me. We were sitting in a classroom underneath a lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling that was partially made out of tarp in a refugee camp that had thousands of huts built practically on top of each other and was held together by a rusty barbed wire fence. "Free?" I heard myself thinking, judging.
They told me stories, then. Their houses and churches and schools and entire villages were burned down by the Burmese military. They watched their family members and best friends tortured, mutilated, and murdered. Gonyouwah described with great detail one technique he remembered the military using: pouring boiling water over the heads of innocent civilians before scalping them.
I swallowed hard and realized my mistake. This refugee camp--what looks like a combination of animal pens and a prison in my busy mind that is trying desperately to make sense of what I'm seeing and hearing--is their freedom.
This is not freedom.
"If we go outside, they will catch us and put us in jail," Po-Wah said.
"We have to stay and help our Karen people," added Gonyouwah.
"We want peace-land and democracy. Pray for us. We don't want a third country [to be resettled]; we want our homeland [the Karen State in Burma]," said Ploday.
"Tell your people we want freedom," one of them said as I was busily trying to copy down their powerful words.
I looked up. They are students. They are around my age. They are my brothers. But their faces are not like mine; they look older and wiser from their experiences, perhaps more jaded, perhaps more hopeful, perhaps just different.
Suddenly I'm crushed and overwhelmed and paralyzed by my own mobility? lack of restraints? independence? I will be driving out of this camp in two days and flying out of this country a day after that and will meet people on the other side of the world who will never see the faces and know the names or stories of my brothers in Mae La refugee camp who are studying bible and playing volleyball really well behind fences. I'm crushed, overwhelmed, and paralyzed by my freedom.
My moment of panic dissipates when I snap out of my thoughts. Gonyouwah playfully flings his arm around Freedom and they share a joke in Karen. I'm with family. These are my brothers, we have the same Father, and I'm invited to play ping-pong with them. I feel encouraged and hopeful. I feel free, liberated by what links us and makes us human.
Use your freedom, little sister, to promote theirs, I hear someone say.
trust
We stayed in the Christian section of the camp. And the Christians at Mae La refugee camp love to sing songs to Jesus. They love to sing hymns with meaningful words and put into rich harmony their profound trust and hope in the God whose promises never fail and faithfulness reaches to the skies.
One hymn, in particular, moved me:
I don't know about tomorrow, I just live from day to day,
I don't borrow from its sunshine, for its skies may turn to gray.
I don't worry over the future, for I know what Jesus said,
And today I'll walk beside Him for He knows what is ahead.
Every step is getting brighter as the golden stairs I climb,
Every burden's getting lighter, every cloud is silver-lined.
There the sun is always shining, there no tear will dim the eye,
At the ending of the rainbow where the mountains touch the sky.
I don't know about tomorrow, it may bring me poverty,
But the One who feeds the sparrow is the One who stands by me.
And the path that is my portion, may be through the flame or flood,
But his presence goes before me and I'm covered with his blood.
Many things about tomorrow I don't seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow,
But I know who holds my hand.
One hymn, in particular, moved me:
I don't know about tomorrow, I just live from day to day,
I don't borrow from its sunshine, for its skies may turn to gray.
I don't worry over the future, for I know what Jesus said,
And today I'll walk beside Him for He knows what is ahead.
Every step is getting brighter as the golden stairs I climb,
Every burden's getting lighter, every cloud is silver-lined.
There the sun is always shining, there no tear will dim the eye,
At the ending of the rainbow where the mountains touch the sky.
I don't know about tomorrow, it may bring me poverty,
But the One who feeds the sparrow is the One who stands by me.
And the path that is my portion, may be through the flame or flood,
But his presence goes before me and I'm covered with his blood.
Many things about tomorrow I don't seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow,
But I know who holds my hand.
not forsaken
We visited an orphanage at Mae La refugee camp. 42 children. One caregiver. Most of them are not registered refugees because refugee registration was shut down approximately two year ago by the Thai government. Refugees who are not registered are not given food rations. The children are living on less than three dollars a month, sponsored by Christian Solidarity Worldwide, which hardly pays for enough rice.
"Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.
Teach me your way, O Lord; lead me in a straight path because of my oppressors.
Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes, for false witnesses rise up against me, breathing out violence.
I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord."
Psalm 27:10-14
"Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.
Teach me your way, O Lord; lead me in a straight path because of my oppressors.
Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes, for false witnesses rise up against me, breathing out violence.
I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord."
Psalm 27:10-14
lemons
he was wearing a bracelet, a blue band that he fiddled with when we were talking. the characters were in karen. i inquired, what does it mean? loosely translated: “don’t talk about the lemons.”
don't talk about the lemons.
keep quiet about the sour things in your life.
don’t dwell on the things that make you sad.
hide your pain.
don’t cry.
don’t speak.
don’t feel.
and if you do cry, do it alone.
if you speak, speak to God.
if you feel, you might talk about the lemons.
don’t talk about the lemons.
william
“People cannot hear our voices. We need people to hear our voices and stand with us,” he said quietly and imploringly, eyes wide.
Saw William, a bible teacher at KKBSC in Mae La refugee camp, Mae Sot, Thailand, has not lost hope in the eight years he has lived there. Forced to flee his home in the Karen State in Burma when he was twelve years old, William hid in the jungle for several years. After three days and two nights of walking, he crossed the border and came to Mae La to study bible and eventually went on to become a teacher. All of his siblings have since been resettled to the United States and his parents are in the Karen State. When asked whether or not he would like to resettle, he said that if he resettled it would be only for his benefit. He wants to stay and help his people and eventually go back to the Karen State.
“Shout to Burma to stop genocide, stop prejudice, stop ethnic cleansing. We don’t want fighting. We don’t want war. We want to live in peace.”
Saw William, a bible teacher at KKBSC in Mae La refugee camp, Mae Sot, Thailand, has not lost hope in the eight years he has lived there. Forced to flee his home in the Karen State in Burma when he was twelve years old, William hid in the jungle for several years. After three days and two nights of walking, he crossed the border and came to Mae La to study bible and eventually went on to become a teacher. All of his siblings have since been resettled to the United States and his parents are in the Karen State. When asked whether or not he would like to resettle, he said that if he resettled it would be only for his benefit. He wants to stay and help his people and eventually go back to the Karen State.
“Shout to Burma to stop genocide, stop prejudice, stop ethnic cleansing. We don’t want fighting. We don’t want war. We want to live in peace.”
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