It’s a rainy Monday afternoon when I receive this text from my husband:
My coworker, Nadia, who works for IRCO (Immigrant Refugee Community Organization), needs to find temporary emergency housing for a 54-year old disabled, Arabic-speaking Syrian refugee. I told her we have a spare bedroom this man can use until they find him permanent housing. He’s living in a fraternity house with college students who do drugs and abuse him. He has PTSD from the war in Aleppo. They need to get him out of there as soon as possible. He may move in with us as soon as tomorrow. I hope this is okay with you.
This is how my journey started. From the moment I stared into the dark eyes of the stranger folded like a cricket on our sidewalk, I learned. While I stared at his polio-ravaged legs, I learned. I learned to relish the silence of our bomb-free neighborhood, to drink Arabian coffee with unfiltered grounds and just to sit.
