A Firsthand Look at Syria’s Refugee Crisis

A Firsthand Look at Syria’s Refugee Crisis

July 30, 2015 • From theTrumpet.com

Syria’s civil war has become the worst humanitarian catastrophe of our time. Evidence of it is abundant in Turkey and the other nations bordering Syria.

By Shane Granger

IZMIR, TURKEY—Many things come to mind when you anticipate visiting Turkey. Guidebooks and websites all offer a lot to educate the traveler. But there are things you experience when traveling that are not in the guidebooks. Things you can only discover on the ground, at close range and in person.

My visit to the southwestern port city of Izmir proved to be educational and heartrending.

After a long day of touring, our bus pulled up just after midnight to a hotel in the center of this city near the Aegean Sea. In the middle of the street was a large park-like median covered with grass and trees, and at the end, a small garden of flowers. On this median, dozens of homeless people were sleeping on the ground. They were in small groups and slept close to one another.

Our tour guide told us, “They are refugees from Syria.”

Syria’s civil war has become the worst humanitarian catastrophe of our time. It began in March 2011 when protests erupted attempting to overthrow the government of president Bashar al-Assad. The government cracked down firmly on the protests, and rebels started fighting back against the regime. More than four years on, and that war has killed over 220,000 people, half of which are thought to be civilians. The crisis is the world’s largest source of refugees, with 11.5 million having fled their homes so far. Thousands more flee the country each day, as more and more neighborhoods are engulfed by the violence.

We had been hearing about these refugees since we arrived in Turkey, but had seen relatively few, save several families begging along the freeway in Istanbul. Perhaps the government keeps them away from tourist places, but even driving through the country we hadn’t seen this. I wondered, Why this city, so far from the Syrian border? We determined to find an interpreter and talk with these people the next day.

Around 7:30 a.m. we found most of the refugees awake or gone. A few were still sleeping, and we could see them clearly in the morning light. Three men who appeared to be in their 30s were linked head to foot in a triangle with a few plastic bags in the middle. I assumed this arrangement was for security. Nearby a man and a young boy slept on the bare ground, without a blanket or sheet, huddling close. Was this his son? I wondered. At his head was a makeshift pillow: a plastic water bottle. They appeared to have no other possessions. The little boy opened his eyes and looked in my direction, then went back to sleep. I could only imagine what those little eyes had seen.

Our group had found three interpreters at the hotel: One who spoke English and Turkish, another who spoke Turkish and Arabic, and another, Arabic and Syrian. So the questions were asked and then translated down the line, like a game of linguistic “telephone”—and the awful answers came flooding back.

One man was from Aleppo. He had lost six family members and eventually fled his home with two friends. To get to the border, they had to cross minefields. Carefully stepping in the footsteps of others in front of them, they inched across the border into Turkey. Others hadn’t been so lucky and stepped on mines. Miraculously this man and his friends made it over and began the long journey to Izmir. Somehow they managed to get bus tickets.

The mystery of why so many refugees come to far western Turkey was explained to us. Izmir is the gateway to Greece, across the Aegean. They hope to make it to Germany, where many have family or friends. The hope of a better life draws them.

Yet remarkably, one man told us, “When the war is over, we want to return to Syria and rebuild our villages.” He said he hopes the United States can help end the war. Just days ago, America was given permission to bomb Islamic State from air bases in Turkey.

We had visited an ngo (non-governmental organization) in Istanbul that helps refugees on the Syrian border. Here in Izmir, we saw the ones who were lucky enough to get away from Syria. Their experiences, however, are no less harrowing.

Another refugee spoke of how President Assad’s forces targeted villages who opposed his rule. “They wait for the call to prayer, and when we go to the mosques to pray, they bomb us,” he said. Another began ranting, “Assad is Saddam Hussein! American must to bomb and destroy him!” Fervent emotion poured out. Our interpreters struggled to capture the vitriol spewing from the man. He woke up two young boys and used them as examples. The interpretation was clear and unmistakable: “They kill my children, the same age as these boys.”

The older boy was scrappy and dirty, and had a look in his eyes that spoke volumes. He was a survivor. A street-wise kid who knew the ropes and how to stay alive. I asked him his age; he said 14, puffing up his chest—clearly enjoying the attention. He looked closer to 12. The younger boy held up his fingers in that awkward way children do, indicating he was all of 6. Wide-eyed and bewildered by all the fuss, he looked scared and confused. He must have been wondering who these people were speaking a strange language and pointing cameras at him.

One in our group produced two children’s coloring books and a set of crayons. He gave one to each boy and they looked at them as if they had never seen a coloring book before. It was clear the 6-year-old didn’t know what to make of it. We opened it and showed him what to do. I’m not sure he was that excited about it; he was bewildered by the whole thing. I wondered whether he could even read or write.

An older man, himself a refugee, watched all the commotion with keen interest. His face, leathery from too much sun, contrasted starkly with his white shirt. When he realized we were giving gifts to the boys, he was moved to tears. Caressing their heads, he wept openly. Perhaps this was the first act of kindness he had seen in a very long time.

We also gave the boys a lapel pin that said “Oklahoma” on it. It was in a small plastic wrapper. As the crowd dispersed I approached the 6-year-old and took the pin from his hand. I opened the package and gestured that I was going to pin it on him. I took hold of his dirty shirt and placed the pin on the collar. Still nothing but bewilderment. The older boy explained it was a pin and how shiny the gold was—that’s what I assumed by his reaction as we were alone now with no interpreter.

The boys turned and walked away from me and sat down across the street on the curb, examining their coloring books. I turned to walk away and let out a little belch from my breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee, orange juice, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese—I was full. A scripture went through my mind, “And one of ye say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warm and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not the things needful for the body; what does it profit?” (James 2:16). I realized that we had given these children gifts, and maybe they could sell them to get a little money. My belly was full, theirs were empty.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the cash in the zipper pocket. Twenty-five lira. I walked over to the 14-year-old and put the money into his hand. I made a gesture, putting my fingers to my mouth and said, “You eat today. You make sure he eats, do you understand?” He looked me in the eyes, and his countenance changed. The tough-guy facade was gone. He nodded his head slowly to let me know he understood, and then looked down at the ground, as if to compose himself. Then he put his arm on the younger boy’s shoulder and smiled at him. Today they would eat.

As I turned to walk away I said a silent prayer: “Father, thy Kingdom come!” ▪