What is it like to work in a centre for asylum seekers?

So what is it like to work at a Red Cross centre for asylum seekers? Well, it is many things.

It's challenging. 

We house about 500 people from over 10 different nationalities, with a broad range of culture, education and background. Most are Muslims, some are Christians, a few are atheists. Some come from big cities, others from remote villages. We have single men, families (up to 10 children), single women, couples (including a few gay couples) and a few unaccompanied minors (teenagers). There's bound to be tensions and disagreements, and if you don't manage to calm things down and find a compromise everybody agrees on, you may very well have a fight on your hands. 

Because let's face it: this is a human population like any other. Some people are hard-working and offer to help out straight away, others are lazy. Some are kind and meek, others are angry and aggressive. They all have qualities and faults like the rest of us. Being asylum seekers doesn't make them angels (and equally, it doesn't make them demons either!). And all of them are under a huge amount of anxiety and stress, having gone through a rough journey (not to speak about the horrors of war and persecution), being housed in far-from-ideal conditions in a strange country, and living in complete uncertainty about their own future, as they don't know whether and when their asylum request will be granted.

Moreover, the centre is actually an old, de-commissioned hospital. Not only was it not in very good conditions to begin with, but it was never designed to accomodate 500 people. We get daily complaints about leaks, heating or water failures, or broken electrics. To top it all, we are in an rural area. The nearest village is 30 minutes away on foot, and the nearest town is 30 minutes away by bus (and busses don't run at the weekend). Residents feel isolated.

Then there is the language barrier. The majority of them only speak very, very basic English (or none at all), so communication can be a huge issue. When a mother comes to you in a panic, speaking quickly in Farsi while holding her child, and there is no one near who could translate what she is so urgently trying to tell you, it's intensely frustrating and stressful, because you know she needs you, but you can't help her until you've found someone who speaks Farsi AND English.

It's chaotic.

The centre only opened on October 1st, and a lot of repairs and refurbishment had to be done. We've had days when we knew a coach of 50 people would arrive an hour later, and workmen were still putting in showers and kitchens in the block where we were supposed to house them. The beds that were initially ordered turned out to be a disaster, as most of them broke, and we had to order new ones. Some rooms don't have a lock yet, resulting in children pillaging a room where we had stocked donated toys - I wanted to cry when I saw the state of the room afterwards. Fortunately, parents came to help us tidy up. In any case, we're often running around like headless chickens because there is so much to do.

It's heartbreaking. 

One man broke down in tears in front of me after being transferred to our centre. After enduring a dangerous journey, he had been temporarily housed in a camp under tents and had started making himself useful and getting to know people around him, only to be suddendly transferred here where he knew no one and felt useless. It was the last straw for him, and he cried and cried. Another man has no contact with his family at all - they live in Taliban country and he has no idea whether they're alive or dead. Yet another one, aged 24, lost his young son in an explosion.

It's wonderful.

You get to meet people from all walks of life and get a glimpse of their culture. If you're in the hallways at meal times, more often than not you're invited to share food with them. And then, they tell you their stories. They're doctors, engineers, barbers, singers, pilots, plumbers, therapists, artists. Theirs are human stories of joy and pain and loss and hope. A Muslim lady and her husband took a young lesbian couple under their wings - the girls now call them "Mama" and "Papa". Yesterday, a father and his daughter were reunited with his wife and 2 other children - they had been separated during the journey and we helped them trace each other. Seeing a 3-year-old girl scream, "Mama!", run down the corridor and throw herself around her mother's neck, then lifting up her 18-months-old brother and hugging him tight, is priceless.

It's joyful. 

I attended a "mutlicultural party" in another centre nearby. Afghan, Iraqi and Somali people showed us some traditional dancing, culminating in a big round dance where they grabbed by mother, my partner and myself, so we found ourselves in the middle of the dance floor. We're having such a party in our centre tomorrow night and I can't wait!

It's never dull, as we never know what might happen and there's always a funny anecdote waiting to be told. Yesterday, a resident came to me at 6:30 pm asking to see his social worker. I straighfacedly informed him that she had gone home, and that contrary to what it may seem at times, we do not sleep on the premises (we both burst out laughing at that point).

As a Christian, it is a true blessing.

I have a unique opportunity to serve people, and thus, to serve Jesus. When many hostile voices are rising against Muslims and refugees, I can show them love in a practical way (which, in terms of sharing the Gospel, speaks louder than any sermon). I am getting used to seeing different faces and this helps me overcome the fear we naturally feel when confronted to "the stranger". I am daily humbled by people's stories, and by my own lack of patience. I am learning daily to see people as Jesus sees them - beloved children of God. And trust me, that doesn't come easy when the same person comes for the same minor complaint for the third time while you're trying to deal with a sick child, or you have to face an angry, shouting man. It's a blessing, and it's humbling.

I love my job. Truly.

The need to be touched

Last week, I wrote a post about the need to be touched. Today I'd like to share a conversation I've had with one of the Red Cross volunteers who help out at our asylum seekers centre.

This lady is a trained reflexology therapist. She comes twice a week to give free foot reflexology massages to residents. Many of them have had to walk long distances, often with unsuitable shoes; and their feet are in a sore state (no pun intended). Add to that the stress of war trauma and of a perilous journey, the uncertainty about their own future, and the feeling of loss of control over their own lives. Our residents are under a lot of stress, and reflexology can really help. I am incredibly grateful to this lady for giving her time and skills for them. From two anecdotes she recounted, they are grateful too.

Those who come and see her often open up about what they've been through, as the treatment allows them to finally relax. At the end of the session, one of them took her hands in his and thanked her, saying, "You remind me of my mother. I miss her so much!" With that, he burst into tears and ran out of the room.

At the end of his treatment, another one said to her, "Now you sit down, madam." He then gave her a back massage. Turns out he was a trained massage therapist back home.

I think these stories speak from themselves about the importance of touch.

 

Cuddles: yes, please

I came across this video today. It's about professional cuddlers. Sounds plain weird, right?

Well, as it happens, this strikes a chord with me.

I have a complicated relationship with physical touch. I often rant about how much I dislike the Belgian and French custom of kissing people on the cheek as a way of greeting them. I feel deeply uncomfortable having to kiss people I'm not close to. At the same time, I am a very affectionate person. As a little girl, I received lots of cuddles from my Mum. Often, I would sneak into bed with her after Dad had gone to work. Mum often gave me back rubs, stroked my hands and arms with her fingertips, or just held me close. I transferred such affectionate gestures in my romantic relationships, and even in my close friendships - I once gave a friend a foot massage on the night before her wedding to help her de-stress. Basically, I love hugs, cuddles and massages.

It seems pretty straighforward, right? I like physical touch from people I love and not from strangers. Well, actually, it's not that simple. Although I recoil from having to kiss distant aunts or cousins (or shop customers), I have been known to let strangers touch me and be quite happy about it. And children are always welcome to touch me - I let them cuddle me, brush my hair and even paint my face. It seems the basic issue is whether I feel comfortable around the person touching me. Obviously, this is the case for close friends and family, but sometimes, a stranger can just feel safe to me.

During what I refer to as my wild years (when I went out partying and drinking during an episode of depression), I received physical affection from a stranger with immense gratitude. I was very vulnerable at the time. I was struggling to recover from a hurtful breakup, I was away from my family and from my best friend. There were no cuddles in my life at the time. I went out with a friend, and we met a couple of gay men. My friend hooked up with a guy, and he gave her a back rub. I complained that I would like one too, so one of the gay men stood up behind me and gave me one. Just like that. Later on that evening, he held me and cuddled me. If he had been straight, I wouldn't have relaxed because I would have thought he was after something more. As it wasn't the case, I just enjoyed the physical affection I felt so deprived of. It was a beautiful thing that man did for me. His name was Lewis; I never forgot him.

This brings me back to the video. As human beings, we are physical creatures. We need touch. Yet, we live in a world where it can be increasingly difficult to receive the physical affection we crave, except in the context of a romantic or sexual relationship. Still during my wild years, I let a guy I'd met snog me in a club because he was holding me close to him. I remember thinking, "If this is the price to pay to get a hug, so be it." How sad is it that we have to put up with things we don't want in an attempt to fulfil a deep human need? More recently, my Grandma shared with me what she read in a book about palliative care: that elderly people long to be touched, too. They need physical affection as much as the rest of us, but are often denied it, especially if they are single or widowed. (I often hug my Grandma or hold her hand.)

We need safe people and safe places for cuddles. Not everyone will need or be comfortable with the same kind of touch. Yet, be it a hand squeeze or an all-embracing hug, it can really put a soothing balm on a lonely heart. If you can provide that act of kindness for someone, great. If not, maybe professional cuddlers can help.

Never a dull moment...

Yesterday was fun. In the morning, I had to go around and check room occupancy. Most residents offered me food (which I had to turn down, except once as the man wouldn't let me leave without having some of his tomato and onion scrambled eggs) and one made me a cup of shockingly sweet tea. At some point, I sat on the floor in a corridor to check which rooms I hadn't seen yet - and someone came out and gave me a chair.

I left work on time (for once) after a busy day, singing to myself in the car. As I drove into my village (15 minutes away from the asylum centre), I did a double take. Standing at the crossroads were a dozen residents from my centre. Rather puzzled, I parked the car and walked up to them.

Turns out they were coming back from the train station and had taken the wrong bus. "It's all Mr Abib's* fault", they said, laughing. "He said we had to get on that bus!" There were men, as well as a mother with her two young children. Bear in mind the cold weather is settling now, and it was dark and freezing. I picked up my phone and called the centre, who sent someone with the minibus to pick them up. I waited with them, and phoned Nicholas to warn him I'd be late - but his phone was off. So the residents started asking me about him. "What time does your husband get back from work?" When I explained we had to go buy some food, one of them looked a little puzzled. "Does your husband need to tell you what to buy?" "No, we go shopping together." This earned Nicholas a round of applause, so I added, "He also cooks for me most of the time, you know!" Second round of applause.

Our residents are fun.

(*Name changed for privacy reasons)

A message to all Muslims

In the light of the crimes of Daesh, of the Paris attacks, and of the raised alert levels in Brussels, I want to send a clear message to all Muslims in the world:

My dear brothers and sisters, I love you.

This is not a mushy feeling. This is a conscious choice.

I know that the overwhelming majority of you are NOT terrorists and have no wish to hurt anyone. You are my human brothers and sisters. Each of you has a mother and a father. Each of you needs love and acceptance. Each of you cries when you hurt. Each of you smiles when you're happy.

We are all human. We are the same. I will not pretend you are all saints. But there again, I will not pretend I am a saint, either.

Some of you are kind, some of you are less kind. Some of you are hard-working and some of you are lazy. Some of you are educated, some of you are not. Some of you are short-tempered or even aggressive (hey, you know what? I can be awfully short-tempered and aggressive, sometimes). Some of you are meek and soft-spoken. Some of you are articulate and vocal to speak up for others. Some of you are incredibly honest, some of you lie.

Guess what? We're the same. I'm the same. Whether we are Muslims or Christians or whatever else, we are all human. We all have our faults and qualities. We all have things we feel proud of and some we feel ashamed of. 

We are all human.

I am making a conscious decision to love you. Because I know the minute I start hating you and feeling scared of you, the terrorists will have won me over. They will have turned my heart to hate and fear. They will have divided us.

I refuse to let them win. I refuse to let them take over my heart. I refuse to let them divide us all, when we are all humans.

I love you. It will not always be easy to love you - after all, it's never easy to love people, whoever they are. People can be damn annoying. People are not perfect. But I will strive to show you kindness always.

Love wins. Love trumps fear.

 My friends Sara and Lexi.

I'm not a serious blogger.

I think it's time I made a confession.

I'm not a very good blogger. I'm not very serious about my blogging.

I always seem to have an opinion on whatever world event is ripping the world apart. And because the Internet is such a great tool, I feel obliged to share it with the world. Only, if I am totaly honest, I'm not sure my opinion is worth that much. I don't necessarily research the issues I am blogging about. Most of the time, I have heard about it on the news and read a few articles and opinions online. If I'm very keen, I may have read a serious newspaper article or two. You know, real paper ones. Mostly, I will have had some kind of knee-jerk reaction to some other people's opinion that I deem unloving or closed-minded.

Because you know, I am a dumb idealist at heart. I dream and hope for a world where we can all live together in peace and harmony. And I strive to follow Jesus, and he said an awful lot of things about loving your neighbour, even loving your enemies, showing compassion and helping those and need. And he loves me, and helped me when I was in deep shit. So, I guess my naive idealism and my faith colour a lot of what I post. I have that silly notion that maybe if I join my voice to those who preach peace and love and forgiveness, maybe together we can counter voices of hate and make a tiny contribution to a better world.

So I write half-baked, not-so-well-informed, idealistic opinions online.

I guess that doesn't make me a very serious blogger, now, does it?

Ah well. Now you're warned.

No French flag for me.

I did not change my profile picture to the Facebook French flag thing, and here is why.

I appreciate the sentiment behind it - stand in sympathy with the French people and the victims. Which is why I put up the Eiffel tower/peace sign picture. And I don't criticize people who chose the French flag profile, either.

But using a national flag to represent this sentiment does not sit well with me. The attackers apparently said things like, "Blame your president" and "This is for the people of Syria". France is taking part in fighting ISIS. French president François Hollande has called the Paris attacks an "act of war" committed by a "terrorist army" - worryingly echoing the words of former predident Bush after 9/11. Now, before you berate me, I do not condone terrorism as a response to military attacks - but equally, I do not condone military attacks as a response to terrorism. Military attacks make too many innocent victims, and fertilize the soil in which extremism grows. Military attacks, in my opinion, do not solve anything, but make everything worse. But then, I'm not a diplomat, and I never studied international politics, so I might be blinded by idealism - and this is not me being sarcastic, this is me being honest.

Moreover, I am uncomfortable with any ideology of "nations". I am uncomfortable with the fact that I have more rights in my country than asylum seekers do, simply because I was born in the right place. I did not earn those rights, and they are denied to people who need them simply because they have the wrong nationality. I don't like the idea of borders. At the same time, I am grateful to live in a place where I enjoy freedom of speech (one of the things radical Islamic terrorists stand against), so maybe I just want my cake and eat it too.

The French flag thing is also too reminiscent of the French national party, which preaches national pride and patriotism, and has a racist ideology. People who will no doubt benefit from the Paris attacks, spout out nationalistic, islamophobic and anti-migrants rethoric - "French people first!", by which they mean only white people, of course, definitely not migrants, not second- or third-generation migrants, not Jews...

Finally, as has been pointed out, and without minimizing the suffering of the victims and their families or the trauma France are going through, the profile French flag thing is incredibly Eurocentric. Such attacks happen regularly in countries such as Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, or Pakistan - and Facebook didn't offer us the option to change our profile picture to their flag. Yet their pain and trauma is the same as ours... only, it doesn't feel so close, does it? They live far from us, they look and live differently. I am pointing at myself too: I felt more shocked by the Paris attack than by the Beirut one. Only later did I realise that I was being biaised in favour of my own culture.

I mourn with the victims' loved ones. But I think this wasn't an just attack on France... this was an attack on humanity. I will mourn and pray... for our whole world.