It Only Took Her a Few Hours to Call Me Daugher

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9:30pm – The Night We Left Lesvos, Greece

It only took a few hours for her to call me “Daughter.”  As I look at this woman called Maria, and her four children, I am in wonder at all they have been through and I just try to imagine what she might be thinking, might be feeling in this moment.  They have escaped Syria and survived when many of their family and friends did not.  They made it to Greece when many other boats went down before reaching shore.  They survived more than a month in Moria under the care of Euro Relief and Christians who showed them God’s love.  Now, we are here, on this boat, this ferry, an eleven-hour ferry to mainland Greece.  Her ferry to freedom.  She is clearly excited to be out of the refugee camp and independent again, though I know this is not the end of her journey.  Less than an hour ago, she and her children dealt with blatant racism in a form that I only thought happened in the United States before “Racial Equality.”  The way they were treated reminds me of separate water fountains, separate schools, and separate seats in the back of the bus.  It reminds me of what would happen if an African American tried to use the wrong fountain or tried to sit in the wrong seat on the bus.  Racism and inequality is not dead; it just has a very different face today.

But first, I want to share the moment we met. 

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6:30pm – Just a Few Hours Earlier

Team Monarch and Team Willing Wanderers are waiting to board the ferry from Lesvos, Greece to the port in Athens.  As we walk closer, we see that there are a few refugees also waiting to board the ferry.  We look closer and realize that they were in Moria with us!  We saw them in the camp and now they are free and being re-united with their families!  What an awesome way to end this month…I think to myself.  Minutes later we see the doors to the ferry open; so we all gather our things and start walking toward the ferry.  With all of the strength I have in me, I heave my big pack up off of the ground, resting the right side on my hip.  Ok! That was the hard part!  I buckle my big pack, then pick up my day pack…both together weighing about 80 pounds.  Big pack on my back, day pack on my front, now to pick up my pillow and bag of souvenirs…apparently this is the real challenge.  I bend over to pick up my pillow…and oh, wait.  “Ahhhh!” I fall right on my back just like a turtle!  And….I can’t get up!  I hear roaring laughter from the refugees and Mary as they are the only lucky ones there to witness this oh so fun moment in my life.  I join in the laughter and then one of the refugee men come over offering me his hand and he pulls with all of the strength in his body lifting this purple and teal turtle to her feet.  Moments after this, the small boys start mimicking me by putting a back pack on their backs and then another on their fronts…and then they repeatedly fall over and “turtle” just like me.  I am so proud…I had no idea that hours later I would be calling them my brothers.  Now, it is time to board the ferry. 

 

The next ten minutes of our lives is best described by my teammate Danielle.  Please read her blog below to find out what happened…

Danielle Curtis – The Journey Hasn’t Ended Yet

http://daniellecurtis.theworldrace.org/post/the-journey-hasnt-ended-yet

After this emotional and frustrating ordeal, we find a comfortable place to relax in our economy section with sofas and tables.  Mary and I sit on the ground with this beautiful family and play Go Fish while Mary shares all of her snacks with them.  After this, her oldest daughter, Padivan, decides I am her new best friend.  So excited about being able to freely move about on the ferry, she drags me around everywhere…from economy (where world racers are) to the second level up (where her family is) to the deck, where she prances around like a baby bird that just learned how to fly. 

 

They have already forgotten.  Grins from ear to ear communicate only joy from each of their faces.  The moment of racism was nothing to them.  It is not the first time they have experienced this and it won’t be the last.  In this moment, they choose to only focus on joy, the joy of freedom, the joy of being re-united with their husband and father in Sweden, the joy of meeting new friends on a ferry.  A simple joy I believe many mothers may take for granted is a joy I see this mother thriving in on this ferry during dinner time.  I watch as she feeds each child, some by hand.  I watch as she tears off each piece of bread, rips up each pepper, opens each soda and serves it to her children.  I walk in the room in order to show her My Story book of pictures from home to give her a page.  Not wanting to interrupt their dinner, I turn around to leave, but it is too late.  She wants to look at the book, but first, she has to feed me…by hand!  Such an interesting moment; I’m pretty sure the last time my mom did that I was four years old.  I look past the cultural difference of feeding your children and see that this woman has adopted me into her family.  She takes some of the food for her and her family and very gladly feeds me dinner and gives me a Coke.  Love crosses language barriers.  Following dinner, she cleans off the table with a wipe and her smile sparkles with pride at cleanliness and responsibility over her own space…something she has gone without for months.  Following dinner, she searches through my book and chooses a page carefully.  She chooses a page of me and one of my best friends, Mandy.  She likes the picture in the center and wants to remember me by it.  I then remember some US coins, bracelets, and hair bands I wanted to give away in Moria, but never did.  I run down stairs with Padivan and return with my small gifts.  The three boys choose the orange, green and blue bracelets while Maria and Padivan choose the pink ones.  After explaining each of the US coins, she retrieves something from her purse.  It is a Syrian coin!  What?  She can’t go back to Syria.  The meaning behind this gift sinks in as seconds pass.  We both cry and hug each other, taking pictures so we won’t forget each other. 

 

“Now you have a mother in Sweden,” she tells me as Padivan translates.  “These are your brothers and your sister,” she points with pride to her children.  They each give me a hug and I leave their little home on the ferry.  Maria looks at me and says with her eyes, “I won’t forget you, daughter.”