I often feel like I should hold off from writing about Iraq until the loose ends are neatly tied up & nothing is left unresolved. But the reality is that life is complex and nuanced and ambiguous and I don’t know if my experiences here will ever feel settled to my satisfaction. And most of the stories I want to share don’t have a happy ending right now.
What I do know is that life here is beautiful. But it’s also excruciatingly hard.
Minority children are abused in their school and they show me their scars. I ache to march into their school and fix everything. A 10-year-old boy leaves with smugglers to make it into Europe and to a better life. I yearn to give him the opportunities he deserves. A Syrian Kurdish man seeks me, the American, out to vent about Trump’s betrayal of the Kurds. I listen & validate his pain and anger. One friend’s cousin was kidnapped in Syria, and they don’t expect to see her again. We grieve together. She shares about her abusive husband and watching her mother die. I say “I’m sorry” over and over.
Words fail.
My soul cries out.
Sometimes I find my savior complex rising up. Everything in me says to stand up and fight because people are being oppressed and children traumatized. And I have to remind myself that I’m not – and never should be – the hero of their stories. My place is consistently to listen to pain. To just be there as a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen. To pray silently as tears roll down our cheeks.
I’m not saying that we don’t fight and advocate and speak up – especially for children. Just that our actions, as foreigners, must be carefully considered so that we’re helping vulnerable people recover agency rather than removing it. So my current method of advocacy is working to restore power and voice to people – whether that’s just listening or trying to teach children how to discern which adults are safe. Like I said before, this isn’t a job that always has quick and obvious happy endings. And that’s not life anyway.
Frankly, it’s an honor to be invited to share in the lamenting, the grief, the food, and the laughter. I don’t feel worthy of this honor and I don’t think I ever will. But I know I’m changed by it and I’m better for it.
