We writers know this: stories are powerful. Telling one’s story, listening to another’s… these are some of the most powerful acts we can do today. When I listen too often to the reports in the news, my imagination grows crippled, gets lost in heaviness or gives way to numbing. But when I listen to the stories of my neighbors, like our Kurdish friends, their journeying from their homeland, devastated by warfare–their loss, their bravery, their resilience–I am moved to be a better human being. I begin not only to imagine the beloved community that Dr. King dreamed of, but I realize that the beloved community is here every time I widen the table. Every time I open my ears and heart to another’s story. Every time I walk the bridge and introduce new neighbors.
This weekend our family ate again at the wide table of our friends from Syria, a family resettled here in Pennsylvania, after fleeing their country, when their home and place of employment were bombed, and having lived displaced in Turkey for three years. We brought along new friends, so they, too, could taste the elegant flavors of eggplant, rice, and tomatoes, of cardamom mixed in coffee, of Syrian hospitality, of friendship, laughter and hope.
Hearing the stories is hard. Knowing how many millions are still suffering, are still being crushed by terrorism, are stuck in refugee camps and countries that do not want them, is hard to hear, hard to take in. And yet, hearing the stories is also an act of healing. Like the weaving of threads, brokenness and trauma begin to be mended, every time the stories are listened to, taken in. And when they are given permission to move from the ear to the heart, something else happens, too. The mysterious work of prayer and imagination spark acts of compassionate consciousness. We are pulled into the workings of the beloved community. We are called to reimagine humanity. To envision our world anew. We begin to believe that flowers will soon grow in Syria.
With blood still wet in the streets
and guns still held to blinded eyes,
bent down at mamas, papas, children,
anyone with the wrong name, the wrong allegiance,
or lacking the impossible papers,
with bombs still dropping,
still buried on the borders,
still blowing the limbs from bodies of brothers
with hatred still rampant
and terror still strangling
hope from the little ones' eyes
with a people still on the run, still without a home,
still unwanted, forgotten,
how could anyone
ever believe – or even hope –
that peace will reign again?
Such audacity.
Would it not be better
to turn away,
to numb,
to build walls, like the nations do,
at the edges of our hearts,
to give way to despair, or defeat,
or worse,
indifference,
or perhaps to join the resistance,
fighting violence with violence,
a merry-go-round
of unending,
every-losing,
revenging bloodshed?
Or.... could Resistance be this?
to hold the outrageous belief
that flowers will one day grow
where bullets have been planted,
that sheep will one day graze
where battlefields now lay,
that feet will one day dance
where bodies now lie broken,
that healing streams will one day go
where rivers of blood now overflow,
That peace will reign,
peace will reign,
yes, peace will reign.
And while we hold this vision,
this prayer of imagination,
let us also
roll up our sleeves,
dig deep into our pockets,
build bridges to borderlands,
tell stories of the exiled.
Let us widen our tables
and invite our refugee neighbors,
and their bowls of rice pudding,
to our homes and fiestas.
Let us visit their wide tables, too,
kneeling as listeners and learners
to the stories that must be told.
Let us hold hands.
Let us join the revolution of peace-making.
Let us re-member the beloved community.
Let us be visionaries,
daring to believe
that love will have the final say.
...Let us plant flowers
where bullets now lay.
"Flowers will Grow in Syria"
©Annette Garber
