Before we started distribution the refugees were told the food packs were a result of fundraising done by ‘volunteers from the UK, volunteers who were of Pakistani and Bangladeshi descent’. Some of the refugees turned to look at us, their eyes filled with gratitude as they gave us a nod of appreciation. I shifted awkwardly with this small show of appreciation and avoided eye contact. Why should they be made to feel grateful to be given the necessities? The more genuine the thanks and bigger the smile, the more uncomfortable I felt. My privileged side couldn’t understand how they could be so thankful to be given so little.
How do you identify?
The theme of the deployment for me was identity.
As a British Asian the world says I belong to two countries – Britain and Pakistan – but also that I don’t belong to either. Growing up I’ve always had a bit of an identity crisis. A feeling of belonging yet not belonging. Not British enough, but also not Pakistani enough. But I can’t begin to imagine how it must feel to be documented as a refugee – an outsider – by the country you were born in. To be given a status that means you can only do certain manual low paid jobs by a Government that considers you a liability, despite you being born there. Yet that’s the sad reality for the 210,000 Palestinian refugees living in Lebanon. We spoke to a handful of these refugees in Wavel Camp, walking through narrow streets with electrical cables hanging dangerously low from the rooftops, to visit them in their homes.
We visited a 62 year old Palestinian man, Zaly-Hassan, who, although was born in Lebanon was officially documented as a refugee. He spoke about life in general with a flat and lifeless voice. His haunted eyes said he was a version of his former self. When someone asked him if he would like to go to Palestine his eyes shot up and almost danced with pride. With a reminiscent grin he said “Of course. I would love to.” His face lit up and he went on to tell us he often drives 90 minutes to the border and looks out to Palestine, praying that one day he can go to his homeland – the one he’s never stepped foot in. As I looked into his eyes gleaming with hope and tears I was reminded of Coldplay’s song, Fix You.
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
…but where are the lights? And how can we even begin to try fixing this broken man? So full of pain yet so full of hope.
The song rang in my ears for the rest of the day, every time I saw the same lost look in a Palestinian’s eyes or saw one of the many walls donning a mural of the Palestinian flag.
Imposter Syndrome
We had lunch in the camp’s community centre, a centre dedicated to providing a safe learning space for children in the camp where they can learn Arabic and talk about Palestine. One of the staff members, Ola, told me about some of the Palestinian art and crafts on display. The love and passion she felt for a country she’d never visited was evident. When she showed me an incredible picture of her (left) leading the charge at a recent demonstration I proudly showed her a nine year old picture of me waving a Palestinian flag at a demonstration in Glasgow. “You love Palestine too?” She asked, barely able to contain her excitement. The answer caught in my throat. How could I put myself in the same league as her? How could I say I loved something I knew very little about? So, I smiled and avoided eye contact for fear she might see right through me to my ignorance. It’s true, I don’t know a huge deal about the country or the apprehension. But what I do know is that people shouldn’t be forced to flee their homes and they shouldn’t be considered refugees by the country they’re born in.
Imagine having so much pride for somewhere you’ve never visited. But what choice do these people have? Should they see home as the place they were born where they have next to no rights? Or look to the utopia of a promised land they’re yearning for? A land where they hope one day to thrive.
Approach with caution
When we arrived at the main camp in Arsal there was a flood of excitement, both from the volunteers and the children who rushed to great us. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment and forget yourself. The smiles and excited look in the children’s eyes make it almost impossible not to. But I couldn’t bring myself to get caught up in it. I’d made that mistake the first time I was on deployment and still hold the scars. Instead of running around with the children I found myself looking out at the vastness of the camp thinking about the girl I met on my first deployment. I had put my arm around when we were taking a group picture and this small gesture caused her to double over and move her hand up to her face as if she was protecting herself.
I was mortified I’d invaded someone’s personal space without their permission and I’ve no idea what she’d been through to have such a reaction. I never will. By the time the picture had been taken she was gone. With 80,000 refugees in the camp it would be near impossible to find her. I often think about her and hope, against all odds, she’s healing.
I hadn’t realised the impact the experience had on me until I was in the same situation. I went in with a cautious approach, waiting for them to come to me. Trying to read body language for signs of trauma.
Keep your feelings close, and your memories closer
The refugees often welcomed us into their homes. As I entered one shelter with two volunteers I saw a little girl playing in what I suppose would be described as the hallway. She was playing with random toys that looked like they’d been donated from McDonald’s Happy Meals. But it’s not the toys that struck me, it’s that she was playing in her home wearing a jacket, hat and scarf.
We walked into the living/sleeping/cooking area and sat on the floor – they didn’t have any furniture. While speaking to mum, dad walked in proudly carrying one of the food packs being distributed. He smiled at us and bowed his head in respect. Through a translator the couple shared with us their hardships including having no heat in the one room shelter they stayed in with their six children. As they spoke my mind kept wandering back to their little girl playing with her plastic figurines. Eventually I excused myself to sit with her. She invited me to play, proudly showing off her cheap plastic toys. After a few minutes I had to readjust my seating position (the cold, hard floor isn’t the most comfortable for someone used to the softness of a thick carpet). I glanced up and saw one of the first-time volunteers subtly wipe away a tear as she listened to the couple’s story. I didn’t ask what had been said or what had upset her. It felt like the experience was too personal to talk about and I remember all too well the feelings of confusion, sadness and humbleness you get from being a first-time volunteer.
Making a shelter a home
Some would use the mattresses we distributed as beds to avoid sleeping on the cold hard floor, while others used them to insulate their shelters to try to keep the cold out. When distributing we found some refugees preferred one mattress design over another. At first this confused me. I couldn’t understand how they could be picky given their circumstances. But just because they’re confined to a tiny one room shelter why shouldn’t they want to make it feel like a home? Having a preference doesn’t make them arrogant or ungrateful, it says they’re resigned to their fate and are trying to make the best out of a bad situation. If anything, for me that’s worse and I’m ashamed I was so quick to judge.
When the scars run deep
During a day of distribution in Arsal I wandered aimlessly through the camp, listening to the sound of laughing children playing with volunteers. I almost missed her but in the shadow of a shelter doorway I spotted a young girl, Fariha, watching me. I waved and when she realised she’d been clocked moved back into the shelter. I slowly approached the doorway and got out my google translator. I asked why she wasn’t outside playing with the other children. The question was answered by her mum who was hovering in the background. “She doesn’t like going outside when it’s too crowded because of the scar on her neck. She got it when she was a baby in an airstrike and doesn’t like people seeing it.” I hadn’t noticed the scar and tried not to look. Instead, I pulled up my sleeve to show her the faded scar on my wrist and told her our scars are what tell our stories. She tentatively reached out to touch my wrist and gave me a small smile. I asked her if she’d join me for a walk around her camp and, as we walked in silence, I wondered painfully how far she’d get in life stuck in the camp, even if the scar didn’t hold her back.
Broken pride
While distributing cash donations one of the volunteers said to me he wanted to give his next set of donations to the men of the family, to help them feel they’re providing for their families. My initial reaction was to argue this was a sexist comment. But looking up at him, this first time volunteer and father of two young girls, I understood what he meant and thought who am I to question his intentions, or his experience.
As I looked around at the men, so tired yet so grateful, queuing up to receive their food parcels, I couldn’t help but think how my own father would have felt if he was thrown into a situation which meant he couldn’t provide for his family, a situation that had him relying on the kindness of strangers to put food in his children’s mouths. If we could help restore even a fraction of the broken pride these men faced, then why not?
Thanks and prayers
When distributing the fuel, we helped carry it to some refugee’s homes. This was usually for females who had lost their male relatives to the war. Split into groups of three we walked with them to their homes carrying their supplies. During one of our trips, as the lady waddled behind us, panting for breath we took a moment to let her catch up. I gave her my arm and encouraged her to lean on me as she walked. After a few steps she let go, saying she didn’t want to weigh me down as I carried her supplies. Her spirit and consideration humbled me. How could someone who had been dealt some of the worst cards in life show such kindness? The rest of the journey was done at a slower pace and we listened as she thanked us in Arabic saying a prayer for our safe return home when it was time.
Taking a piece of Lebanon with us
On the last day of the deployment, we spent time with orphans. Maybe I was just tired or maybe it was the prospect, again, of leaving the country having not done enough but the sound of excited laughter sent my emotions into overdrive. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as my eyes stung with hot tears. It goes against every instinct but the louder the shrieks of laughter, the bigger the lump in my throat and the harder it was to blink back the tears. I pushed the feelings aside and played with the children. It was a stark contrast to my first experience with the orphans in March. Back then I was too nervous to approach anyone. I noticed one of the first time volunteers leaning against a pillar, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and pain. I saw a lot of myself in her as she wiped away the tears hoping no one had noticed. This had been me on my first deployment, taking it all in, trying to make sense of it. I knew this would be a memory she would cherish so I let her have her moment and make sense of her feelings.
While it’s hard to say goodbye at the end of the deployment, many of the volunteers chose to sponsor a child. This means for £30 per month they can help ensure the child is fed, clothed and given a better start in life. I listened as some of the volunteers spoke excitedly about the child they had chosen to sponsor, showing pictures and describing how they had melted their hearts. I admire their generosity but couldn’t grasp the idea choosing just one child out of the hundreds we had come across. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t let anyone in close enough to have that impact on me or maybe I was too overwhelmed. It seemed to me the children who were confident enough to interact with the foreigners made the biggest impression and gained sponsorships. I thought back to the quiet little boy I’d spotted sitting at the back of the room. The one who looked as if he was hoping to blend into the background. I had sat next to him and in very broken Arabic asked his name. He didn’t answer but looked at me with a blank expression. There’s a good chance I wasn’t clear, and he didn’t understand what I was saying, but more likely he just didn’t know how to be a child. That his experiences had taken that privilege away from him.
What did I get?
As I boarded the plane to start my journey to Lebanon a friend had messaged me saying, “I hope you achieve what you’re aiming for.” This stuck with me as I realised I didn’t know what I was aiming to achieve. Was it a sense of peace? A sense of achievement? Or simply to help as many people as possible? If these were my aims, I don’t think I achieved any of them.
What I can say is my second charity deployment has highlighted my privilege. I can be who I want to be, work where I want to work and live where I want to live. Although our country has some way to go before being truly inclusive, we are, for the most part, free to be our own people. I’ve found that to be called a refugee is a badge of courage and strength because these are people who have overcome and survived. I’m grateful I could play a small part in Muslim Charity’s work to help better the lives of Syrian and Palestinian refuges in Lebanon.
