We prayed before going upstairs. It just seems normal to do that. It's a great reminder of why we're there and talking to Father helps calm any apprehension or nervousness.
Dania greeted us at the door and warmly welcomed us into her home. It was sparsely furnished. Maybe not as sparse as other apartments we've visited but sparse. There were two sets of sofas and a coffee table. Everything was really clean. More clean that our apartment. I was a little bit jealous of how clean it was.
Dania was wearing a long prayer hijab, light-mint green in color, with dainty rose buds printed on it. There were two small figures clutched to her legs. Hugging her tightly and staring, wide-eyed at the white women in their home. She introduced us to Samira, three-years old and Bashar, her eighteen-month-old brother. They were beautiful. Dania disappeared for moment leaving us alone with two toddlers staring at us from across the room.
When she came back in she'd removed her hijab, revealing shoulder-length brown hair, just like mine, cargo pants and sweatshirt. Her wardrobe was just like something I would wear if I was hanging out at home with my friends.
We talked about normals things: our children, their schools, our husbands. Just like when I visit with my girl friends back home. Intertwined in her story was the struggles. Syrian refugees have struggles unlike the things I worry about. Her husband has been gone for two years. He's in Europe trying to find work and a place of asylum for their family. Dania is alone, as alone as you can be with five children. Occasionally they talk on the phone but she's still very much alone. Isolation is one of the greatest struggles for refugees.
As Dania continued to talk her little ones warmed up to our presence. Climbing on us, playing with my earrings and necklace, trying on my scarf, starring into my eyes (apparently they'd never been that close to blue eyes). They were curious, silly and giggly just like my children would be.
We ate chocolate cake, huge pieces of chocolate cake, and drank Tang and Arabic coffee and shared stories and laughed, all those normal visit things. It dawned on me. I really liked this woman. She was warm, she was hospitable, she was sweet, she nurtured and loved on her family. She was just like me. What really got me was when we started talking about food and Dania pulled out her phone and started showing me pictures of food she'd made. She actually took photos of food. A foodie, just like me.
Before we left was asked Dania if it was okay to pray for her. She said, "Of course!" like it was normal. So we prayed for her family to be reunited again, for God to provide for their every-increasing needs, for Father to bless them and show them His love. As I walked out the door I promised Dania I would not forget her family. How could I? They are just like mine.
We read or hear the words Syrian or Iraqi or Palestinian...or American and sometimes we forget these words describe living, breathing people. People just like us. People that dream, that fear, that love, that hope...just like you and me. They really are just like us.
