The last week on Lesvos was intense. I had arranged for a French speaking student of mine to meet with the resident lawyer, a fierce woman who has been working day and night for the past two years, getting people ready for their “interview” with the local authorities, the main gateway to a possible blue stamp allowing entry into mainland Greece. I had also offered my student to go with him and interpret the meeting, an offer which he accepted. We went, I interpreted, and in some ways, I never left the small, window-less room.
There are many French speaking refugees on Lesvos, most of them men who fled their African home countries. From what I was told, there are not so many French interpreters, and this creates a potential problem, the outcome of which is that the months pass and pass while these men remain on the island, living in Moria , and losing hope. Knowing that I would only be there another few days, the lawyer asked me to stay by her side and translate as many case intakes as we could manage. I agreed.
It’s hard to explain what these hours did to my brain - and to my heart.
I think that no matter what the topic, even if one were to interpret fairy tales, simultaneous translation is a taxing magic trick, one that may require a whole lot more training than I have to accomplish this on a regular schedule without becoming deeply exhausted. The way it works is that information comes in through the ears in one language, and the task at hand is to spit it out of the mouth in another language - while more information is coming in through the ears at the same time. In a way, it’s kind of fun, as it happens almost without thinking. Pretty soon, the flow becomes seamless and it’s as though we are a conduit, very much part of an intimate triangle of communication. During the easy, initial meeting with my student, my core Essences of Community and Contribution were singing happily and I was excited to keep going.
Later that night, I headed home a different person, and a stop at the harbor for a short sob barely made a dent in the grief pool that was filling up.
What I interpreted that afternoon, without giving my brain the time to comment, understand, digest or even barely acknowledge, is something which I will never been able to un-know. The things we humans do to each other in the name of fear, in the name of power and in the name of a god that looks different from someone else’s god.
I just did not know.
I just ... did not know.
And now I do.
Not because I read about it in a book or in a report, not because I saw it on TV or in a movie. But because for several hours, I sat in a tiny airless room, my right thigh touching another person’s left thigh, my eyes on their face while they looked straight ahead, my mouth becoming their voice, hearing my own words weave stories which my imagination could not have began to create, words which my heart was not fully listening to because there were many more of them pouring out which also needed a voice.
My heart knew it needed to stay out of the way so that my brain could do the work. My ears heard the words in both languages, repeatedly, and my heart kindly agreed to wait.
For a while.
My heart also agreed to my request to please dole out the understanding in small doses, doses that would allow me to return the next day and do it again. Which I did.
When I left the island, I was fully ready to go. I knew that I had accumulated as much backlog of soul-cracking information as I could take, given my lack of preparation.
I made my way to Athens, put up a No Disturb sign on the hotel room door, and stood under a hot shower for a long time, letting my heart catch up a little bit. Just a little bit.
Then I slept for hours.
Later that afternoon, I was given the gift of watching the sun set on the Acropolis as I sat on a bench facing that mass of grace and its 2400 years of witnessing. I asked wordless questions about a situation that seems so much bigger than me. How can I serve without self-destroying? How can I not let the hugeness of it all prevent me from seeing the tiny-yet-big places where I may make a difference? Please. Tell me.
As I made my way down the hill, my phone alerted me to a voice mail and a photo.
Right there, on the small screen, was the image of an official document with a big fat blue stamp smack in the middle of it. Underneath, the words: We are freeeeeee! I pressed the voice mail arrow and heard my friends Manan and Mahsa’s excited voices telling me how they had just received the news that their paperwork (which I had had nothing to with) had gone through, and that they were going to be on their way to Athens very soon. That day was Mahsa’s 20th birthday.
That’s when my heart decided that it would no longer hold back. Whether they were born of heartbreak or of celebration, tears flooded down in rivers and heavy sobs as I looked up and asked the Acropolis to please watch over these kids and the many others who were going to make their way there, for a new chapter of an excruciatingly difficult book.
It was a privilege.
It was a privilege to give an understandable, workable voice to stories that may help someone make their way towards the next step of their journey.
It is a privilege to know that I can serve in this way, and not just because I speak languages but because I like to believe that I am able to bring a bit of softness, light and hope to these horrible hours of retelling.
It is a privilege to no longer not know.
And, it is also a privilege to have gotten close enough to be invited into the celebration part of the cycle.
What happens next, I am not sure, but I do believe that this is something which was not presented to me by accident, and which I receive as an invitation.
I am grateful to have lost my emotional virginity. I am grateful to be blessed with enough reserves of deep joy that I can still melt at the sight of the sun rising behind a row of palm trees in Florida, where I am now spending a couple of weeks with my family.
I am grateful to know, so that I may do. Or be. Or both.
I am also grateful to know that I am stronger than I thought I was. That while my heart is forever cracked quite a bit more than it used to be, it is also stronger for the knowing.
I believe that we can allow our hearts to crack, that we don't have to believe that doing so will kill us or send us to bed with a box of chocolates for the rest of our lives.
Today, I invite you to celebrate how strong you are, how powerfully you can function in the world. Even when you know.
Meet my new friend Noor. We met when she offered to help me with the Happiness Wall, today. She is an extraordinary young woman. She explained to me that her parents are three times refugees.
First, they left Palestine to go to Kuwait, then when the war came, they went to Jordan. Finally, they made their way to the US, where Noor was born. The way she describes herself, her family, her call to work in refugee camps (and her parents' initial reaction to it) makes me so happy that because she was born in the United States, she may one day be president.
The first Muslim Woman president, who is as intelligent, well spoken and kind as she is beautiful.
I have been here nine days now, and it feels more like nine weeks. So much happens over the course of one day that it is hard to digest it all. So it accumulates for a time when there may be a moment to absorb it. For some people, I have a feeling that there may be months of backlog waiting for a chance to get digested.
Backlog of stories, and also backlog of this crazy blend of huge joy and terrific horror - often dancing with each other within minutes.
The last nine days have been full to the max and every night I tell myself that I will write about these amazing people I am meeting, these stories, these sounds and sights and smells. Every night, I crash without writing more than a post or sharing a video on my Facebook page.
There is so much ... backlog ... to share with you. So much horror and ugliness and so much beauty and kindness. Like I say, it's a crazy blend.
And until a few hours ago, I thought I was doing a really god job of assimilating this crazy blend. I saw the good, I saw the bad, I made sure to see the good more than the bad. I was uplifted and I was telling myself that I was contributing. I created and facilitated a Women's Circle modeled after the Soft Place to Land group I lead back home, and did not let the different languages get in our way. We had an afternoon of Mandala coloring resulting in a beautiful community tapestry of colors, I taught the basics of English to French-speaking people, I gave chocolate to a man who was celebrating his 34th birthday alone ... that kind of stuff. My energy was up and my smile easy.
Yesterday afternoon, I started to feel really tired. On the way home, I heard a story from a friend about the way his dad had died. I listened, I nodded. I dropped him off. Then I pulled over on the way to my own place because I could barely keep my eyes open. I made it home and after a small bite to eat, I slipped into bed, thinking maybe I was coming down with a cold. I felt numb and I felt exhausted. This morning, still thinking I had a cold, I knew I had nothing to offer anyone and needed to take a day off. I went back to sleep and three hours later, while laying in bed, the dam broke and the heartache spilled out. For a good long, hard time. Waves of sobs I did not know I had inside of me.
Alongside what I now know is heartbreak, I feel an awful sense of uselessness. As though no matter what I throw at this (and I see people throwing everything they have - and more) it will never be enough, it may never even make a dent. Sure I can print more mandalas and give more smiles and teach more sentences and listen some more... and then what? This is so huge and so complex. Where is the solution?
Somewhere in me, I know that the way I feel is temporary, that it's most likely something many people go through in this situation, and that on the other side, is something much better and more powerful. I know it. I know I would not have made my way here if there wasn't a really good reason, something I could bring. I also know that small things, many of them, do add up to big changes.
And I also know that this is a sign that my heart is working well, that if there was no heartbreak and outrage, something would be wrong.
So I trust.
And I allow the heartbreak, and the humility and the not-knowing to do their thing and to brew together, to create whatever soup is needed.
SCARED OF THE SACRED