Silence and Space

When you first meet the refugee families I’ve worked with – these people who have been witness to horrors of war and unjust persecution – you start off silent. Afraid to ask the questions – and afraid to hear the answers – you offer a smile, a shared laugh, a face to recognize when they step through the doors. And that’s how the relationship begins.

Silence is key.

It gives them space to share their story. Not the politics, not the religion, not the sequence of national events. But the who, what and where of the territory in their heart.

My co-workers and I are sometimes entrusted with this history. We honor it, cradle it respectfully in our consciousness and live the story again with them, sometimes with tears, sometimes with pride.

I no longer see a Sudanese mom, a Burmese father, or a Somalian teenager. I see questions – What was your journey here? Who are your loved ones? What brings you strength when you are weary? I see stories now, not people. Unheard, but not unwritten.

Then, there is always that one recounting that makes me realize I am no longer just holding their story. I am changed.

As my own days at my agency draw to a close, I have been able to put aside the timesheets, invoices and cashflows and return to how I was during my first months there. If someone walked through my door, I’d turn away from the computer and the list of tasks and the two-week-old messages-yet-unreturned and stop to listen to the person in front of me.

When I started, I knew it was the only way to learn anything. And, now that I am leaving, I remember it is still the only way to learn anything. And with the renewal of this practice, my spirit starts to move again.

The wise and experienced in my field – those who have sustained themselves over the years – have observed that every time we listen to those who have suffered and triumphed, it lights a flame within us … whether it be of compassion, horror, anger, or hope. If we do not do something with this heat and fire, we risk burning out.

Perhaps it is this blaze that I’ve been holding for so long that is moving, flickering again within. I’ve been stifling it under proposal deadlines and media releases and staff turnover. And, as I leave the agency – now that I have time and space – maybe this flame can be used for something. Many of my colleagues turn to policy change, activism, song, dance – some form of expression to reflect how our daily life has been transformed from hearing the words of these survivors.

I am overwhelmed by the simple moments from over the last two years that are suddenly revealing themselves as something more. These moments will transform themselves, I am sure. It’s the fire within that will help in its rebirth. Maybe into poems, blog postings, short stories, editorial letters or even an informal re-telling over coffee with a neighbour – or a politician.

It is not with an easy heart that I leave my agency to make space for my art, for my writing.

But I recognize by making space for my words, I’m making space for the words of the families I have worked with. These words that have left a loving mark on my living story.

And I realize – perhaps – I am not leaving the most important part of my work behind, after all.