The sea was as indifferent to
human suffering as it had always been.
All it provided for the body washed ashore was a stretch of sand. It could have been a beached whale or a
diseased fish or even a seagull struck down in flight. The sight was bizarre; it looked as if that
sea had no room for it, that it had decided as a thoughtless matter of course
to spew it from its depths and leave it for vultures of the air to have a
feast, as if it cared a whit for the survival of even those predators. The photograph was taken from a medium range
position, the forehead turned in the direction of the camera, the face snuggled
into the chest so far that the countenance could not be distinguished. Only the size and clothing of the body
revealed that it belonged to that of a male child of somewhere between six and
ten years in age. The beach was
otherwise devoid of any human traffic.
Whose progeny is he? And how did parent and offspring become
separated? Were his adult companions
aboard the leaky, fragile boat also fatalities of the disaster that claimed the
child’s life or was he snatched by a capricious wave from the loving arms meant
to protect him? How many were on the
makeshift vessel?
If you stare at the picture
long enough you begin to imagine that the child is only sleeping, perhaps an
afternoon nap. I want to shout through
the frame for him to wake up, to stretch himself and stand on his feet. I want to ask him where he lives and suggest
to him that he go home where parents are waiting for his return, where love and
caring wait to shelter him and bestow upon him again their warmth and
protectiveness. Go home, little one, and
find a softer more snuggly bed on which to lie and dream your dreams. If your family is too far away for walking,
someone to be sure would be willing to give you a ride, maybe the photographer
who took your picture. I would, if I
were not on the other side of the world.
In the days following my
first viewing of the photograph I have been catching glimpses of elementary
school age children making their way to and from school, climbing aboard or off
the school bus or playing in my neighborhood, totally abandoned to their games
and oblivious to world events. The music
they make has been momentarily soothing to a soul stung by the nightmare of
displacement and persecution. But that
photograph keeps popping up in my head and I feel careworn again for those in
flight from atrocity and the immanent possibility of death.
So little can be known about
the kid’s origin or the circumstances of the drowning; those who gathered up
the body at some point after the picture was snapped must have faced the question
of how these remains could be disposed of.
Was an autopsy performed? Hardly
necessary! He had drowned for sure. What respectful burial rites were observed
and by whom? Was there any way he could
be identified and entombed along with the family that took him to sea, or is
the family still surviving somewhere?
The
image has gone viral; it has become a larger than life
symbol of the desperate migrations. The
whole world has been called upon to witness one of the singular shocks of the
current refugee crisis into which all nations have been drawn in one way or
another. Are these the ones who are
supposed to be our enemies? Is shutting
the door on such as these by the construction of a wall what so many are
calling for? Would the barring of them
really make our country safer?
We
in our relatively safe environments have all been wondering how children such
as these ever got jammed into one of those boats, how parents could bring
themselves to uproot them from their former nests. It tells us something about just how cheap
and dangerous life has become for innocent people in those war torn countries,
when rugged life over water becomes a more desirable option, when the cruel sea
is a more attractive alternative than the terra firma from which they seek
escape. It is hard for us Americans to
imagine, but the endless armada speaks most convincingly.
The
independent Christian church in Columbia, Maryland, to which my wife and I
belong, called Kittamaqundi Community Church, has cast its lot with those in
many parts of the country who are ready to roll out the welcome mat for the
thousands to whom our President has extended the invitation to find a home in
the U.S. On the evening of September 15
an assembly of caring people took place in our small sanctuary. The meeting was called forth by what is known
among us as a Focus Group, organized, instituted and led by a committed member
of our congregation named Don Link.
Fifteen others have joined him to pursue the commitment. As I understand it, it was that photograph of
the lifeless corpse on that remote and lonely beach, among many others
generated by the international press, that seized upon Don’s energy and
imagination to initiate our church’s part in the resettling of refugees.
The Lutheran Social Services
sent two representatives to our gathering to introduce us to their “Good
Neighbor” program. Prior to the meeting
that Focus Group had been collecting materials for Welcome Kits that LLS distributes
to the hundreds of refugee families they are resettling this year. All members of our congregation were invited
to attend, after the fifteen people who had joined the Focus Group had talked
it up. Our Pastor Heather Kirk-Davidoff,
herself an enthused member, shared in an email to the community the following
day that they had been expecting something like thirty people to be in
attendance. But no less than sixty-two
showed up including many from other congregations who had caught wind of
it. It was an ecumenical gathering, including
Jews, Muslims, Unitarian-Universalists, and Quakers. Our church has entered into a “Level One”
partnership with LLS, a one-year commitment to a refugee family that includes
rent assistance, employment assistance, completely furnishing an apartment,
providing help with clothing and food and transportation and all other things a
family might need. It is a project that
is estimated to cost at least $20,000. Pledge
cards were passed out and considerable money was collected by the end of the
evening, $4,825 in checks and $7,750 pledged.
And that was just a start.
I could not begin to describe
to you the current and force of the excitement that permeated that
meeting. Heather started things off by
reminding us that there are prominent voices in our country who are prepared to
say “NO!” to these refugees. But then
she asked all of us present that if we feel inclined we should answer those
voices back. She called upon us to say a
loud and decisive “YES!” to them and to say “WELCOME!” The entire room as far as I could tell did
just that; we all shouted “YES!” and “WELCOME!”
and we were then off and
running.
Hanging over our heads is the
cloud of worry as to whether for all our efforts we will ever lay eyes on the
family for which we wait. It is my
earnest prayer that if the Republican candidate is elected, he will have grave
second thoughts about turning all these suffering people away. If the United States government were to do
that, it would be a moral and humanitarian disgrace. Of course each refugee entering our country
should be thoroughly vetted upon admittance, but no one should be denied
entrance simply because they come from a war torn country or because they are
Muslim or any other religious persuasion.
If we did, our relations with the international community would be
poisoned, perhaps beyond recovery, especially those European countries that
have already commenced opening their borders and taken on the resettlement
process. They who are overwhelmed with
the refugee flow would be justified in asking why we, who are not so
overwhelmed and reside at a greater geographic distance, cannot do our part in
the crisis. Of course it is our hope and
expectation based upon information that the Lutheran ministry has supplied that
the family will reach us well before January 20, when the new President takes
office.
Finally, at our meeting, a
woman named Ann Ivester, whom we have personally known for at least twenty
years, put the case in the most profound and persuasive terms of all. “Tonight, when we take a step to help a
refugee family, we draw a thread of connection between our lives and
theirs. With this thread, we start
re-weaving a fabric that has been torn, the fabric of human community.” Local churches, mosques, synagogues and civic
organizations all across America can do a lot to help bring this about. There have been enough bodies of drowned
children and adults floating on the seas.
2016 is the year of the refugee, and it behooves our nation to step up
to the timely plate.
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn about me consult on the website the
blog entry for August 9, 2013.
