Rouila

“My sons are nine, seven, and six months,” she jiggled him, “We came together, with my husband. My parents said to go. My mother is blind. They said to go, rescue yourself, go. So we went. When we cross the border I call them. They do not answer. Finally I hear from my other relatives in the next village that the airplane came with bombs and dropped it on my village. My father, my mother, my brother, his wife, they all die.”

She can’t go on, the tears are too thick. The youngest starts crying, sensing his mother’s grief. The little boys sitting on the plastic chairs are silent, but deeply sad, with circles under their eyes. They had seen too much before they fled. The flight by night, through the darkness, to steal across a border was harrowing. But their real grief lies in the next statement. Their mother coughs and struggles on in her narrative, “I was working here, once I got work. It was at the public baths, hard work, but it was work, I was not complaining, I was thankful for work. Then I got pregnant again, which is also a blessing. But my husband he start to beat me, and complain. He started to knife me. Here,” she lifts her shirt to show an ugly scar, “and here.” This scar is even worse.

Sam, from our team, has quietly gone on over to be with the two boys who are hearing their mother give this story which is seared in their souls. He has offered them each a candy bar, and has pulled out a few puzzles on the table. The younger of the two is glad to have a distraction. The older is still sitting, eyes glued on his mother.

“That was so bad I lost the baby,” her tears continue, “I found he has a girl friend. But I try to go on and be a good wife. When I was pregnant with this little one he left me and married to that girl. He took everything in the house to go with him to the new wife. He never came back to see even his sons. I didn’t know what to do. In the past, when I have a husband, in this country, it’s ok that I work. I had the job. But after this baby is born, I can’t go back to work. I have a stigma because I must be a bad woman, because he divorce me.”

The older son gets up and goes to his mother, rubbing her arm, to console her. Then he paces. It’s hard. At his age most boys are already in jihad camp, training to be soldier, training to become killing machines. He feels out of place, like an adult in a child’s world, yet torn, because it is this very killing which has caused so much trouble in their family. One moment his face is clouded, the next it is angry.

She digs in her bag for a handkerchief, finding it, she blows her nose. “I think I am a bad woman, so I will suicide with these children, because we must be bad for him to leave us like that. But that day a woman gave me your phone number. So I messaged my plans, and you wrote back the words I have now memorized, “Do not be worried about anything, but in every situation, in prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, submit your requests to God in the Name of Christ Jesus." When I read this something in my heart came like a fire. I didn’t know who Christ Jesus was, but I knew I had to find out. So I came, and …”

The older son is at his mother’s side again. This time he speaks his mind, “I don’t know who this Christ is either, but he stopped my mother from killing us all. He must be a very powerful person. I would like to meet him.”

Sam and the child doing the puzzle have stopped to listen to the conversation. A woman whose heart is set on fire, a child who knows that Jesus stopped a suicide. It is time to meet Him.