A Call for Kindess

A mother is the giver of comfort, the easer of fears, the one who absorbs the shock of the outside world to create a nurturing environment for her child—yet I had to dig deep to hold my 3-year-old boy, smile, caress his forehead and promise that everything would be just fine.  

Decorating a jack-o-lantern

The blood we found in his stools prompted immediate concern but luckily turned out to require minor surgery to remove benign polyps.  And everything did turn out just fine.  We had all good things going for us.   My husband had a good job; we had good insurance; and the toy airplanes from the gift shop after the whole ordeal was finished would smooth over any trauma he might have felt.  Afterward whenever we drove by “Motol,” he would smile, point and say “that’s the bum hospital,” all tears forgotten. 😊  But harder to forget were my feelings of anxiety trying to navigate my desire for his safety and comfort, unfamiliarity with the healthcare system, and inability to speak the language.  Nothing felt worse than feeling powerless to protect the one I love.  

Motol University Hospital in Prague - the "bum hospital"

Many times I felt powerless when my family lived in Prague, Czech Republic, but never more-so than in that hospital.  Not being able to read signs to the children’s ward, the inability to speak to the nurse, white walls rather than colorful murals, the business-like manner of personnel administering the IV, watching my baby go under the anesthesia all created an overwhelming feeling of complete vulnerability which I masked with a calm and reassuring smile to shine down on my boy.  Regardless of the uneasiness I felt in a foreign environment, he could only know that he was safe, that all would be well, and that I would be there when he woke.

The little man

If I, who had comparatively no worries in this situation, felt lost, confused, and apprehensive, how must a refugee mother feel when she is forced to leave her home to search for a safer one for herself and her children?  I can only imagine—her fleeing her country with basically what she can carry, having no income, no guarantee of education or medical care, let alone food and housing.  How does she filter the world that her child grows up in?  What kind of shocks must she absorb?  Spence had a Lebanese colleague from work who grew up in Beirut during the violent and tumultuous 80s.  When Spence asked what impact it had on him, he remembered happy times with family, shielded from the air raids and car bombs.  He could see in retrospect how his parents had absorbed the shock of it, and as best they could, created a nurturing environment in which he would grow into a happy adult.  Vihn Chung, author of Where the Wind Leads (a memoir of his experience as a Vietnamese “boat person”), describes a similar situation where his father worked every day of his life in the U.S. at a sweltering factory to provide for children who went on to be ivy-league educated and have rich, productive lives.  But who buffers the effects of a harsh world for the parents?

That is where the International Rescue Committee (IRC) comes in.  The IRC aspires to help suffering refugees and are in over 40 countries. They are the mother for the mothers, as well as anyone else who needs them, providing vaccinations, helping save victims of human trafficking, offering relief wherever they can—from the countries that refugees flee, to the countries where they are temporarily given asylum, to countries like ours that provide a stable place to land.  Once refugees get here, the IRC is a lifeline to help them become self-sufficient: find access to English, learn how shop, how to search for a job and land one, navigate the naturalization process, find family members still overseas, and help their children adjust to new schools. 

It’s a critical time—the 90 days that the government formally allots the IRC to help—they are doing all they can to ensure these individuals hit the ground running: job, license, housing, SS card, transportation, all while the moms are wracking their brains trying to create a new “normal” for their children.  But we can't expect to turn a blind eye and let the IRC do it all!  They need our help to empower mothers and fathers to take control of their lives and build a better future for their children.

In Prague, I learned to live for kind people, those who sometimes counted my change for me and gave me directions when I couldn’t verbalize where I wanted to go.  I’m not unintelligent, but I became nervous in public and made silly mistakes.  We (the bumbling American family with six children) needed help, and I quickly lost all pride, learned to accept assistance, and be grateful when it was offered!  There were some people though, who weren’t kind.  A dark-haired woman on the metro in crisp white pants pointed to my little one kneeling up to peek out the window (feet off the seat, btw), and firmly declared, “Shoes down!  Shoes down!”  Moments like these made my cheeks burn hot with shame, look for a place to hide and forfeit my plan for the zoo that day, or any other outing for that matter.  Gratefully, there were many more Czechs like the 86-year-old gardener who rode his bike to our house with pockets lined with sweets, and a face full of smiles.  When we left, he gave us a swan he made from clay, and an old Czech story book that he read to his own son.  His kindness meant so much, and taught me more.  

Cherished Czech mementos

My little disappointments pale in comparison to what a refugee mother must feel when after the lengthy vetting process she went through to get here, she hears false rhetoric that we should fear violence from people like her, one who abhors violence; conversely, I am sure of the relief she feels when someone opens a door for and smiles at her in the grocery store.  We are each so powerful—there are no small acts of kindness, no small snubs.  They all matter, because all people matter.  We have no idea.

Now that I am home, Prague seems like a distant dream.  I am back to where I don't feel powerless.  I speak the language and know the system--but in my life of relative ease, I ask myself, “Who am I to the stranger in this land?”  Am I a stiff woman in white pants?  Am I a gardener?  Am I a mother, who softens blows with gentle touches and smiles?  I can’t be everything to everyone, but I can open my eyes and see what’s going on in the world around me.  Seeing others in my own circle of influence, and seeing suffering takes courage.  It almost always induces discomfort, pain, and the recognition of a need to change—it means inviting the family who just moved in from Turkey over for dinner, smiling at a neighbor that I barely know, or taking food over to someone who had surgery. 

Maybe you've been asking yourself what you can do.  Maybe you’ve been touched by the millions of refugees that are displaced and the humanitarian crisis that it represents? There is something you can to today, right now.  You can contribute to the IRC in their effort to raise money to provide critical transportation to newly relocated refugees.  This is more than vehicle; it's a lifeline for these mothers who are fighting to help their families find “normal,” getting to job interviews, medical appointments, school registrations, and other key services, our generosity gives them a fighting chance to stand on their own.  I need to do more, because I have been there!  I have been a stranger who needed a little kindness.  

We all have. 

MadHops4Humanity.  Let’s get mad.  😊