Dark days. This weekend I completed my third intensive training in treating traumatised children, learning to help victims heal from the trauma of rape and violence, to have faith in the power within. It is the stuff of inspiration - of hope in the power of human empathy and the body's miraculous ability to heal itself. Yet I have not been able to take it in fully, as the place that has my heart is in flames, and my friends are suffering, one of whom was killed just a few days ago, and I am still in shock.
Sleepless and on the verge of tears, I have been working to listen to every human story under the roaring of the bombs and violent rhetoric. My phone has been ringing and buzzing off the hook from Jerusalem and Gaza to London and even Hong Kong and Bangkok with friends and journalists bearing questions and anger and panic and so, so much grief. "Exactly how bad is it going to be this time?""What do you think will happen?" "Whose fault is it?"
"Why do we deserve this??" "I don't want to die". I tell them the truth - that I do not know, certainly not what the next hour or days will bring, except that no one deserves such violence and brutality, and that I helplessly wish I could do something. I ask them to text me every few hours (please) so I know they're still alive. I panic when they do not pick up the phone. I tell them "I love you" - a lot. One particular refugee child I used to teach dance had the heart to ask me if I was doing okay. I sort of lost it.
And so my love and I have been holding our breaths, our heavy hearts stuck somewhere in our throats, taking turns to hold each other's despair and watch the news and my Twitter feed when it gets too much for one of us. For once, I struggle to "Give thanks in all circumstances" (1 Thessalonians 5:18) - a core element of the Chen family's faith. I don't quite know how to give thanks in this circumstance.
And yet if this weekend's training taught me anything, it is that empathy between human beings has the remarkable ability to empower the most despairing. And that because we all breathe the same air, and all need nourishment and love to survive in our world, our lives are vulnerable in each other's hands. We owe it to one another not to abuse that vulnerability. We owe it to one another not to look away. I am in awe of the unexpected friends who have emerged out of the woodwork to express their solidarity for the victims of this ugly war - as far as South Korea, as equally besieged as Afghanistan. As Yvette Christianse says, when all else fails, be kind. Their voices give me hope.
And so perhaps Daoud Hari puts it best, in The Translator: A Tribesman's Memoir of Darfur: "How can you be safe if your people are not safe? And so who are your people? Perhaps everyone is your people."
And so my love and I have been holding our breaths, our heavy hearts stuck somewhere in our throats, taking turns to hold each other's despair and watch the news and my Twitter feed when it gets too much for one of us. For once, I struggle to "Give thanks in all circumstances" (1 Thessalonians 5:18) - a core element of the Chen family's faith. I don't quite know how to give thanks in this circumstance.
And yet if this weekend's training taught me anything, it is that empathy between human beings has the remarkable ability to empower the most despairing. And that because we all breathe the same air, and all need nourishment and love to survive in our world, our lives are vulnerable in each other's hands. We owe it to one another not to abuse that vulnerability. We owe it to one another not to look away. I am in awe of the unexpected friends who have emerged out of the woodwork to express their solidarity for the victims of this ugly war - as far as South Korea, as equally besieged as Afghanistan. As Yvette Christianse says, when all else fails, be kind. Their voices give me hope.
And so perhaps Daoud Hari puts it best, in The Translator: A Tribesman's Memoir of Darfur: "How can you be safe if your people are not safe? And so who are your people? Perhaps everyone is your people."
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