Friends of Refugees

Clarkston, Georgia. Every Tuesday, I get in the car with my brother, and we drive past an Elementary school, a grocery store, a shopping center, a Target department store, CVS, and other establishments. But then, we cross over the bridge. On the other side, there’s a whole different world.

                It’s kind of funny – as soon as you cross over, you see women in their saris and traditional dress, often carrying baskets on their heads. You see groups of kids carrying backpacks, which they call their ‘book bags’. You see men on bicycles, walking, teenage girls giggling as they walk in their groups of friends. But one odd thing is, they are not the typical people you see.

                Clarkston used to be just a regular area of Georgia. However, it eventually began to be a place where a lot of refuges came, fleeing their war-torn countries. Some weren’t allowed to worship their own God, some were hearing gunshots all night, huddled in makeshift houses, praying for their lives. And now, they’re settled in Clarkston, which is now a predominately refuge community.

                What my brother and I, along with other people, do on Tuesday afternoons (however, volunteers come in on Monday through Thursday afternoons every week), is drive to Kristopher Apartments, and go to the community center and children come in, lugging back packs which are just as big as their tiny bodies. They sit down by grade, kindergarten through second grade at my table, third through fourth at my brothers, and fifth grade at Carissa’s. Mrs. Pitts, our wonderful leader, helps wherever she’s needed, sometimes explaining things to parents who speak hardly any English, reading books to kids, and helping with homework where we’re running behind.

                We have kids from Burma, Iraq, Uganda, and teeny little tribes in Africa that we had to Google just to know what the kids kept trying to tell us. We have kids from China, Korea, and countries from all over the world. It’s sad, though sometimes, to see their little faces smile, at the same time they’re covered in scars and scratches. Or the woman who comes in every week to translate for her five year old daughter who speaks no English – she’s so sweet and gentle with her daughter, and yet her cheeks are completely covered in horrible looking scars. Yet she smiles, and patiently listens to Mrs. Pitts’ instructions.

                The kids work really hard, but the coolest thing is the love they show, even though they care for their younger siblings, cook dinner, and sleep alone at night because their parents are working. But still, they show up each week, often lugging along a sibling, and come in and say in their sweet heavily accented voice “Can you help me?” Or when one girl, a sweet girl from Iraq, smiles shyly and says, “Can we be cousins?” Or when sweet Zaly, from Burma, slipped her hand in mine and asked “Will you walk me home?” she was in fifth grade, and there were still kids who needed my help.

                “Why do you need me?” I asked, “You’re a big girl!” She looked at her shoes, which, like most of the kids’ are falling apart.

This is Halima hard at work!

                “I’m scared,” she confessed. So, I walked with her. I found out why she was scared. Every day, she had to walk through a group of teenage boys, who would yell at her and ask her questions. I felt Zaly squeeze my hand tighter. Then we caught sight of her mother. She squealed, and dashed to her mom and little sister and they beamed and hugged her. I smiled and waved, and they waved back, and I headed towards the center. There are so many kids that just make me smile: Halima, Mohammed (even if he can’t concentrate for more than one minute at a time) Ali, Omanye, Sanu, Kela, Zaly, Thint, Anne, Partigya, Sequir, and so many more. And one thing that is really the whopper – I’ve never heard them complain about their too small clothes, falling apart shoes, or anything. They just tackle us and smile. And even though a lot of them are not Christians, I can really feel God there, just loving them.