REAL SYRIAN REFUGEE BOY STORY- 11 AND ALONE

Ahmed is now most likely 12 years old. He was 11 when I met him last year. He is one of the many unaccompanied minors travelling from unlivable conditions in Syria to the promising, yet not so inviting shores of Europe. Devastated over the consequences of war on children and vulnerable people, I made two striking and life altering decisions amidst the autumn of 2015. The first one was to quit the job that was sucking the soul out of me from 9 AM to 5 PM on a daily basis. I didn't feel bold and invisible as many think you should feel after you literally just free yourself from the chains of modern day routine and senseless obligations. Quite the opposite, I was truly frightened by the abrupt loss of income and security. But with my mind already made up and my heart already with the people fleeing war and arriving on the shores of Lesvos, I packed my good old backpack, and made my way to Greece with zero insight as to the haunting moments and devastating scenes I was about to sink into.

But I am not here to share my stories, as they really cannot compare to the lives of the refugees I have had the honor to work with and to stand beside in solidarity for the past two years. Let's go back to Ahmed. He lived at Piraeus Port with his aunt and three young cousins. The Port was a temporary makeshift camp accommodating refugees that were pouring in via ships travelling from the Greek islands of Chios, and Lesvos. The Greek government was not yet prepared to house this large influx of vulnerable peoples, and needed time to set up appropriate official camps to house refugees on a longer basis. For the time being, they were to call the dirty port with lack of proper hygiene and with no services in sight to meet even their most basic needs a home. Tents poured in through UNHCR which thankfully made their way to the scene eventually and the people were at least accommodated with some basic shelter against the cold winds of the night. The military arranged for some packaged food to make its way there as well.

It is among these poor conditions that I found little Ahmed. His formal education had been interrupted but by now, months into the life of a refugee, he was wiser beyond his years. I would enthusiastically wave at him when we crossed paths at the Port. He would watch me with his big brown eyes assessing if I was worthy of his friendship.

The first time I spoke to Ahmed was to demand that he lower the makeshift gun he and his friends had fashioned out of balloons and sticks. They would load the balloon with tiny rocks and release upon their target. I was immediately upset. These toys could end up injuring them and other children especially if one of those rocks should fly into someone's eye. I remember grasping the gun out of Ahmed’s friend hand. The child resisted so he ended up grasping the sticks but I had removed his balloon. Essentially his toy gun was useless now. It is then that his 3 other friends turned their loaded balloons on me. I laugh now as I remember how silly the whole situation was. Ahmed was one of those children. The other two were his alleged cousins, Yasser and Omar. They all insisted that I run to retrieve another balloon for their friend's toy. “NO!” I put my foot down. “These,” I said pointing at their toys, “are not safe! No good. Finish now.” I spoke firmly and kept my fixed eyes on them suspiciously should they dare to try any tricks. The boys looked furious but also amused. I really couldn't tell if they were actually really mad or just playing with me. It was Ahmed who lowered his toy gun first, Mohannad (the boy whose balloon I had taken minutes earlier) was second. Yasser resisted and so did Omar. But Ahmed silently watched me. He walked over and extended his toy gun my way indicating that he was finished playing. I felt a surge of pride and immediately liked him. I reached to grab the gun and praise him, but he suddenly pulled back, taking advantage of my distracted self, and in one swift motion tore the balloon out of my other hand. The other boys laughed and danced around me and so did Ahmed. I realized I'd just been duped. But something about their laughter and the way their eyes shone with mischief. I fell in love with each one of them right there and then.

Fortunately, in the weeks to follow, they took a liking to me as well and my ears would rejoice when I would hear them singing my name around the camp: Yollaaaaaa!!! Yola! YOLA!!! When I would finally turn to see them, they would run towards me and I'd pick them up morning or night and swing them about, kiss their cheeks, ask if they’d eaten, walk them to the food distribution area and sneak them an orange or a peach. The peaches were their favorites but the camp typically received oranges. After a few months at the camp helping in the food distribution area, I was trusted to continue managing breakfast, lunch and dinner on a daily basis. I remember many times Ahmed and Mohannad would help me push a cart full of oranges or peaches to the full distribution area. Even though they could be little devils when they wanted to, when I trusted them with a job, they would take it very seriously and would never disappoint. But yes, occasionally, they would throw a few of the oranges in the sea to see if I would get angry enough to chase them about again. I was never tired of playing with them, and they most certainly did not need to sacrifice perfectly good fruit, but they didn't know this.

Ahmed loved with both the love of a child and the hesitation of a refugee who knows you won't last. That you are not permanent. After a solid seven months away from home, I was exhausted and needed to return for a mental break. It was a very hard decision to make but I knew the time had come. Many families gathered with me outside on my last night, each bringing with them some sort of a snack to share among us all, a ceremonial act of acknowledging our bond and solidifying us as a family.

Piraeus was a tough spot to be in. A interesting and unusual dynamic had formed among the four thousand refugees who were forced to share the little strip with one another. On one side were three long port buildings converted into living space for the people, where tents were lined up one after the other in long rows and zig-zags. On the other side was the sea, its salty smell drifting onto the strip and its soft waves inviting you in for a cold dip in the hot summer days. In between this small land, the people would spent countless hours fighting for resources, and racial tensions between the Afghans and the Syrians would bubble over the pot to create some devastating outcomes. Police would rush in with full force making countless arrests, some leading to deportation. It was a hurtful scene to watch and to be a part of. Yet, among the violence and desperation, there was so much friendship and solidarity. In the evenings I would watch Afghan mothers sharing their chai (tea) with the Syrian women. They would spread some nuts and fruit they had acquired through donations and sit among each other, each speaking in their own language, pointing and laughing at different things. They seemed so far, and yet so inseparable.

Each day I was weighed down by the countless stories that would be shared with me. It is on one such day, when I sat inside the tent of Ahmed’s aunt, watching her peel potatoes. The red bucket filled with water ready to invite the peeled ones in. I asked her if Ahmed was the son of her sister or brother. She was quiet for a while. I thought she didn’t hear me. I let her be for a few minutes and I asked again, “Ahmed, son of sister or brother?” She put down the knife and looked me in the eye. She was assessing my trustworthiness. I had been at the camp for at least 4 months at this point, living among everyone day in and out. “Not my family, Ahmed. Ahmed alone in boat!” My eyes filled with tears, understanding exactly what she was saying, as I had already encountered these stories before. A child separated from their family, travelling alone was exposed to many dangers ranging from prostitution, forced to sell drugs, human organ harvesting, deportation, abuse and neglect and so much more. More often than naught, kind women like this mother who was travelling alone with her three little boys, would pretend that the unaccompanied child was a part of her family to shelter them from dangers. I didn’t whisper a word about this to anybody. I went outside the tent and found Ahmed playing by the water with the other little children at the camp. He was alone. He was alone. He was alone.

Ahmed rested beside me on a blanket on my last night at Piraeus. His eyes full of tears and understating that I must leave. But it didn't stop him from begging me to stay just one more day. It didn't stop his small arms from wrapping around me the morning as I was setting on my way. I kissed his cheeks and whispered I loved him a million times and promised that I would return. I wasn't entirely sure at that point if I could honor this promise, but I just couldn't bare saying goodbye. I slipped a note into his pocket with my contact information begging that he keep in touch.

Before I left, young Ahmed brought me a small parting gift, a salmon pink nail polish which I treasure on the night stand of my house to this day.