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No Tribe But Ours: A Refugee Story

No Tribe But Ours: A Refugee Story

Last updated on: March 9, 2016 at 4:54 pm by Erin Wathen

No Tribe But Ours: A Refugee Story 2016-03-09T16:54:57-07:00 Erin Wathen

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I really just carried the fruit basket… But I’ll tell you about that in a minute.

While Kansas, Arizona, and other states draft fresh, angry legislation to keep refugees from entering their boundaries, hundreds of families are quietly coming to resettle in an American city near you.

And 99.99% of them are not terrorists. Despite what some politicians would have you believe.

My congregation, like many faith communities, has been deeply moved by images and stories of refugees around the world. We’ve gathered a few times to talk about how we might get involved in advocacy, resettlement, and relationship with those coming to our area. We’ve opened doors, mined our connections, and waited in prayer.

Today, I got to meet one of those families that arrived late at night; stepped off the plane into a strange city; and breathed in hope that this would be a kinder land than home. I saw what I already knew, but what I wish everyone could see and know: these are not terrorists. They are families with babies and teenagers and grandmas. And they just need a safe place to land.

I knocked on the door with another member of my church; a friend from the Muslim community who is a doctor, and who is well practiced in these welcome-visits; and a translator from a local non-profit organization.

When we asked about a welcome gift, we were told to bring fruit and “maybe some toys for the children.” No problem. We took fruit; a soccer ball, a few stuffed animals, play-do, bubbles, coloring books…the essentials of life. We were told there were 5 children.

We arrived and were introduced by the translator. We were warmly gathered into the house. And there were more than 5 children. I am not sure how many, because they were running in and out the whole time and it was hard to keep track. But there were at least 6. The youngest, a one-year-old baby in a puffy pink snowsuit. (It’s 60 degrees today). And there’s another baby on the way.

The kids each came to see us, shy but smiling. And then they went after the clementines like it was their job. (I think kids are born for the work of peeling and consuming fruit, because it is a popular sport in my own house as well). The father shook our hands. The mother hugged us. And when the grandmother came into the room, she danced*.* She didn’t say much, but she danced over, hands waving in the air like I have seen in African worship services. Then she embraced each of us in a bobbing kind of “I need to touch your face on both sides” kind of way that was its own kind of dance. And its own kind of worship. She didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

Every one of them, from the baby to the grandma, wore rubber flip-flops. Like the kind you buy at the Dollar Tree.

They arrived a little over a week ago. The children will start school as soon as they get vaccinated, and will begin learning English; and then they will take on the role primary translators for their family.

We learned that the parents have lived in a resettlement camp in the Sudan for nearly 20 years. 20 years. All of their babies were born there.

Now I’m trying to see our every day, boring, so-often-taken-for-granted lives through the eyes of children born in a refugee camp. Flushing toilets. Television. Grocery stores and Hershey bars and tiny citrus fruits and pizza bagels and baby carrots–washed, peeled cut, bagged and lunch box ready. Running water. Crayons. A shot for every kind of Hepatitis. Soccer balls. A neighborhood park with a swing set.

The mercy of it all is astounding.

But so is the overwhelming mystery of stepping into such a dramatically different world. A world in which you are expected to become utterly self-sufficient within 30 to 90 days, with about $1200 to your name. That’s how this works. That’s what is expected of those who make it through the system. Terrorists? They are just trying to figure out the post office. The school bus. The microwave.

“We just want to welcome you to Kansas City,” said our local Muslim friend, who is, herself, a wonder. “We are all friends here. We are here for whatever you need, and we hope you will have a good and happy life here for your family.”

“People who believe in God, have no tribe,” said Thomas, the father. “You are our family now. We are all the same.”

I really just carried the oranges. (Go ahead, say “I carried a watermelon,” I know you’re dying to). I just came to the door of a stranger, with some dominoes and some bubbles. And for these folks, that’s as good as family.

The mercy and the mystery…

Meanwhile, we are trying to count and name the children. “Just one girl,” they kept saying, pointing at the 8-year-old. “All the rest, boys.”

“But…What about the baby? The pink snowsuit?”

“Oh…” they answer, understanding our confusion. “A boy. His sister was dressing him up in that.”

Of course she was, I think– as she giggles from behind her mama. Of course she was.

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