“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.
Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
– The Bible, Matthew 25: 35-40
Years after that trip, I was nagged by a recurring question. It was a kind of what-if-the-shoe-was-on-the-other-foot kind of query. It no longer nags me.
Now? It haunts me.
It was 1998. I was 38-years old and Kevin was 41. We flew to London, and, along with about a dozen other backpackers, boarded a ridiculously huge orange truck. We blasted through Europe, guerilla camping on the sides of roads and in random campgrounds with our canvas tents and little army-style cots. We slowed down when we reached Turkey, rolling through endless miles scented by the overwhelming aroma of orange blossoms.
Now our camping included stringing our mosquito nets under olive trees in a farmer’s field and waking in the early dawn to the muzzein’s call to prayer. We went through Syria, Jordan and finally, about seven weeks later, Egypt.
Cairo was the end of the trip for Kevin and me, but most of our new friends had signed on for the longer journey, onward for another couple of months to Iran, India and Pakistan.
The trip was pivotal in many ways, but for me, the most important part of the journey occurred in Syria. I was nervous about driving into that country, especially in our stupidly-large overly-orange and very-conspicious truck. Sure enough, as we entered the mayhem of Aleppo traffic, we could hear people yelling at us. Finally we realized what they were saying, “Welcome Syria! Welcome!”
It was in the Aleppo market where Kevin found his Bedouin garb, first confirming with the merchant that it would not be perceived as disrespectful. No, he was assured. It was fine.
We carried on from Aleppo, traveling through trackless deserts, past ancient ruins that in any other country would have armed guards and entrance fees. I had started dreaming of baths. I was living and sleeping in the same dusty garb, washing behind rock piles in the morning, using rather useless splashes of water from plastic bottles. Our truck’s huge reservoir was almost dry.
Stan, our fearless guide, pulled into a Bedouin village. It looked abandoned, but as we waited, people materialized out of the yellow sand. Stan, using his best scrambled Arabic, asked if we could fill our tank from their well. Of course, they said. Of course.
As the tank filled, the village men slowly surrounded Kevin, each taking turns as they demonstrated the correct way for him to properly wrap his head scarf.
Then the women moved closer, and reaching up through the truck rails, grabbed our hands, pulling the rest of us down from the truck. We followed them into the biggest hut where there was much bustling and rearranging of mats for us to sit in the dim light while they made tea. We had a few phrase books and did our best with pictures and charades. The women never stopped smiling and laughing and pouring tea, clasping our hands and passing over their children to sit on our laps.
Every single encounter in Syria followed that similar theme. People offered us tea, not because they wanted to sell us something, but because they wanted to talk. Only talk. They gave us rides when there were no taxis, and, like the traffic cop who left his post to walk us, blocks away, to the restaurant listed in our Lonely Planet, only ever wanted to help. Whether we were at a market in the middle of the desert, in Aleppo or Damascus, every person offered everything they could and every single encounter refused any kind of payment. The people embodied kindness.
I have now been to almost sixty countries. I’ve never encountered as many generous and hospitable people as the ones I found in Syria.
We returned home from the trip and settled back into our huge house in Mission. I kept asking myself, asking Kevin, asking anyone who would listen to my endless stories about Syria, the same question. The question was kind of funny but wasn’t really. More than anything it demonstrated a huge difference in culture and expectations. But it was also humbling and more than a little embarrassing.
But now it’s more than that, it’s the question that wakes me with the haunting image of a dead boy washed up on shore, of people dying, jammed in trucks, of angry citizens screaming, “Not here!”, and impossible-to-pin-down-politicians.
Now, my long ago question is the one that the whole world needs to answer,
“What do you think we’d do if a truck load of Syrians showed up on our street?”
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,
for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
– Hebrews 13:2
Thank you for this beautiful post. I’m with those urging you to submit this — Globe & Mail, National Post? Stories like this help us all as we meet people who come here from different places. —
Thanks Dora. I appreciate all the encouragement and the shares that this post has received. Vancouver’s Geoegia Straight newspaper has shared it online. When I get home from Croatia (in a few days) I will try sharing it further. Meanwhile feel free to share it wherever you can. My hope is that we can raise as many voices as a counter to the ones that seem only to hate.
I was very touched by your blog. This is the question we all need to answer. Although I was appalled by what is happening in Hungary and now Croatia the response from Britain and France is not much better. Everybody seems to think it is somebody else”s problem. There needs to be a European wide solution but ultimately we are all involved in this human tragedy.
Yes Catherine, the responses from our governments has been mediocre at best. Canada used to be so much better at opening the doors and helping. Now, like the countries you’ve mentioned, we spend all the time discussing it rather than acting.
Meanwhile countries like Jordan, Germany, Sweden, Austria, Lebanon, Iraq and Turkey are doing the right thing and are being overwhelmed as a result. It would work so much better if we all did our part and carried the weight together.
I wish we could remember our collective humanity.
Like Martha, I hope you send this to newspapers, though I’d start with The Globe and Mail and national rather than regional papers.
A truck load of Syrians arriving on our streets. What an image. Kevin, too. If he arrived in Arab garb imagine the prejudice he’d endure.
Lynda, I remember when we first got back and I tried to sell Syrian stories and editors told me, no one wants to talk about Syria. At the time, my perspective of a warm and wonderful people did not jibe with the prevailing view of the threat of the Middle East and how they ‘hated’ us.
They were right on one level. The Syrian government was very anti-West, but it only proved to me, once again, how so often, our governments do not represent the actual people of the country and our media (on both sides) continues to feed the images that match our preconceived notions.
That said, thanks for your encouragement to try pitching this to other venues. I would love to spread this message to a larger audience.
The timing is perhaps best right now. I’d simply send the post to the travel section which requests those free stories from the general public. Who knows what might happen?
Lynda, I think you’re so right about the timing. Sadly, the Syria issue, as much as I’m sure some politicians would hope, is not going away any time soon.
Your story moved me to tears. You should submit it to the Vancouver Sun and/or Province, as it would open more eyes and warm more hearts. It reminded me of all the generosity and kindness shown to me when I was hitch hiking with a friend through Europe in 1966. Complete strangers gave us rides and welcomed us into their homes and fed us.
Christine had a Muslim roommate for 3 years who was the epitome of kindness and generosity. He became a Canadian citizen and bought an apartment in Vancouver, but has returned to Dubai because his engineering degree and experience were not good enough credentials for promotion. Discrimination and fear are very difficult to overcome.
Thanks Martha. My greatest hope is that Canada drastically softens the regulations. Currently the in-English application form for a refugee (!) is 60 pages long. We have made it so onerous as to be almost impossible. It is so hard-hearted coming from a nation of mostly immigrants. The irony is laughable if it wasn’t so damned sad. I’m so glad there are more people like you than the anti-everything clan. Blessings cousin.
I remember this trip and the questions it raised then. Thanks for the reminder.
AnneLise, that trip was such an eye-opener. All I’d heard was that Syrians ‘hated’ the West and all we met were wonderful people. As travelers, and as in life, we are all at one point or another reliant on the kindness of strangers. I wish we could all remember that. I despair at Canada’s hard-nosed position.
Oh Colleen, what an excellent post….and so apropos right now. Your comments are such a welcome change from those who speak of a people and country they’ve never experienced. Thank you for lighting a small candle in the darkness of selfishness, fear and ignorance. B.T.W., Kevin looks great in his Bedouin garb! !
Thank you Sophie. I want to spread these ideas and thoughts and hope we can create the change in attitude that is necessary. I remember my parents and their church sponsoring some of the ‘boat’ people families that came from Laos in the early 80s. Every one of those people became tax-paying contributing members of Canadian society. They worked hard, put their children through university and are the kind of Canadians you’d want to know. And yet, here we are, wringing our hands and wondering about the ‘costs’ of refugees.
It’s so nice to know I have company in this…all the way over in Finland. (And yes, I agree that Kevin kind of rocks that outfit:)
Thank you, Colleen. Do you think you could send this to that stupid Hungarian reporter. Could she learn from your story? What is it that could make someone feel such antagonism towards a desperate stranger?
We sure need more angels in the world right now.
Love,
Ann
We sure do Ann and I think you’re one of those angels.
I think that woman’s ugliness (and all the other hate-filled people) is rooted in fear and ignorance. Unfortunately, there are many people like her. That’s the part that scares me.
I can’t imagine how it must be as a refugee…enduring so much hardship and risking so much, only to be met with such ugly hatred. It staggers me. It is our job to counter that message.Let’s keep spreading the truth and the light.