Giving Tuesday- Sharing Treasures, Providing Hope

Giving Tuesday -His Work in Progress providing basic needs, educational support clothing and health care to former middle class war refugees now living in third world conditions long after the Balkans war. Visit www.hwip.org -be a difference maker, Join our team and make a donation today for a double donation Tuesday (matching) contribution! Read the true story below.

"A Night to Remember"

Twas not that long ago. I remember the face of a little child smudged with dirt in the usual places. She could not be more than two and a half years old. She was staring up at me with her big brown eyes that seemed to present a plea to me. Her pouting lips quivered in the cold. Unsure of who this stranger was towering before her, she hesitantly started a half step and stopped abruptly. Her eyes never lost focus as her mind was trying to gauge this stranger’s trustworthiness. She wanted to believe, but her mother’s words kept returning to her “Never speak with strangers”. Was it curiosity or a natural survival instinct to get warm that made the decision for her? Slowly and guardedly her oblique path brought her closer while remaining at a safe distance. I smiled a knowing smile and said hello in my best reassuring soft voice hoping not to alarm her. She clutched her tattered doll with one hand to her chest and when she determined I could be someone that might be nice, she thrust her doll with outstretched arms as high as she could reach and standing on her tippy toes proudly exclaimed in Croatian, “See my baby”.

Unbeknown to me, both the little girl and I were under the careful watch of her mother standing in the moonless darkness that permeated the refugee camp. The chill from the winter winds added to the forlornness of this place. Her mother was walking slowly towards us when I heard her footsteps send the loose cinders bounding down the path. That is when I noticed her partial shadowy figure that would temporarily appear and disappear as the swirling fog wrapped around, enveloping, and releasing her figure at the winds discretion. “MAMA”, cried the little girl with a gleeful skip, as she simultaneously wrapped her arms around her mother’s leg.

The mother invited me in her humble 10x10 tin hut, for coffee, I politely accepted. She pushed aside the blanket, which to my surprise was the door. Inside was a battered sofa and a small table which served a multitude of purposes. There was a sheet hanging from a clothes line which separated the bedroom from the living quarters. It was when she handed me the cup, that I realized she meant Turkish coffee! This one tiny demitasse cup plus a gallon of water would probably have made the coffee palatable to the average American coffee drinker. 

Neither of us spoke each other’s language, except for the universal sign of appreciation and gratitude. I awkwardly searched through the translation pamphlet for the appropriate words and upon drinking my coffee, I stood up, waved while pointing out the door, to signal I was leaving.

The dampness in the brisk night air chilled me to the bone. The silence of the night was disturbed by the sound of the crunching cinders under my feet. I walked by the communal bathroom, it too only had a sheet for a door. There was a hole in the ground and a hose. I shuddered when the wind came swirling in and the thought of using such a facility in the cold, which only sent more chills through my body. It was a long walk to the entrance of the camp and it provided ample time to reflect on all that I had seen. Images bombarded my being. Snippets of mental photos raced through my mind colliding with comprehension of how this place and these people exist. I recalled seeing people standing in line, waiting with pot in hand, earlier in the day. The kitchen had barely opened when the announcement came that the camps kitchen was out of food for the day. The camp director stood with a big book and placed a check mark next to the last family to receive food. The next person on the list would be the first in line for the next day’s ration. 

I continued to walk towards the entrance and a feeling of sadness overwhelmed me. I thought of all the food we have at home, the grocery stores, farmer’s markets, restaurants, how can this place be without so many things. These people exist on so little food. Yes, they only just exist. Something must be done, who will help? The answer was painfully clear as I walked alone in the night. A tear formed as I recalled an old song heard during the Christmas season. I quietly sang the tune.” I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams”. The separation, the loneliness, the horrid conditions, how can these people smile? Where is the hope? A thought came to me “live for the day to make it to another day”, survival, mental toughness. I’ll be home for Christmas, maybe, but not this one. I turned to leave the camp and just outside was a series of broken train cars without bathrooms, where others lived like sardines in a can. Some insightful person wrote a sign in English and hung it on the side of the train it read “Nobody’s Children.” Oh, my! Anguish hit me like a wrecking ball, overflowing an already fragile ability to cope. I released a small cry of frustration as I continued to walk signing, I’ll be home for Christmas, now the road seemed blurry for some reason. Nobody’s children will become my children. This certainly will be, a night to remember.

Walter J. Miller- www.hwip.org

His Work in Progress