I was recently put in touch with an Iraqi couple who have come to Amman as refugees.
Yeh-Yah is deaf and his wife, Wesaal is hearing. Yeh Yah became deaf as a result of the first Gulf War. He was driving in a car with his first wife, who was pregnant at the time. A bomb hit their car and his wife and their child was killed. Yeh Yah spent the next nine months in the hospital and has lingering scars and injuries, including his deafness. I was asked to do an informal language assessment for them before they immigrate once more.. this time to the southern USA. We had the nicest time together... what a delightful couple! They leave this coming Tuesday heading to a new life. They have no idea what to expect; they're nervous and fearful. What if Americans don't like them because they are Arab? Will their neighbors be friendly? Will they be able to learn English? The questions hang over them heavily. Through the mercy of the U.N. they will have refugee status in the U.S., which is how they'll be able to stay. With all of my heart I wish I could be there waiting on the other side and welcome them; help them get settled. Thankfully I have some co-workers who happen to be in the same city Yeh- Yah and Wesaal are moving to. My co-workers will be there for another two months and I'm sure they'll be very helpful!

If you think of it, pray for these two as they face huge changes ahead. Love on someone who you cross paths with today... someone who looks like they may not "belong", who are unsure of how to fit in with our American culture, maybe they don't speak English well (or at all), maybe they are controversial....whoever they are they need your warm smile and encouragement.



Ad (the director of the Deaf Center), Yeh-Yah, Wisaal, Bonnie

Funeral Blues

We buried Mr. Hejazeen on a sunny, breezy Thursday. At noon that day a friend and I got in a taxi and we chugged and choked our way through town, up and over the Amman hills to the Christian cemetery. When we arrived, I joined the women inside the chapel while my friend waited with the men who were congregated outside.

As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit chapel I could see that we were sitting in a round, domed room painted white and pastel blue. There was a huge, gold chandelier hanging from the center of the room directly over a marble slab/counter, which is where the body in the casket was to be laid during the service. On another alter stood a tall, gilded, and worn picture of a sad-faced Jesus. Us women sat together on one side of the round room clutching damp tissues and muttering under our breaths tearful words about the family- “Anxious to know how they're holding up”, “Did you hear about the way he died?” “Can you believe how suddenly it happened?”, “Poor Laila- what is she going to do now, will the wedding be post poned?”. On and on we muttered and dabbed our tears.

As the women’s benches slowly filled up I sat in awe at these exquisite village women who were trickling in one by one: Women covered in black cloaks with very long, black hair which was parted in the middle and braided down both sides then covered with a black lacy scarf and tied in the back. The women were olive-skinned; brown eyed carrying themselves with an air of dignity. In them you could see grief and resilience, sensuality and fatigue, calm and mischief mingled together. On their rough hands they wore the traditional gold bangle bracelets and gold rings. Gold earrings drooped from their ears. Their eyes, red from crying, were lined with khol liner. Dramatic. Enchanting.

And all at once with a collective gasp from those of us sitting and waiting, the immediate family swooped into the chapel. The women entered first, all dressed in simple black, no make up, no jewelry. The women grasped on to each other in desperate grief and lead one another to their assigned wooden benches; the casket followed carried by Mr. Hejazeen's sons, grandson, and sons-in-law and behind the casket all of the men who had been clumped together outside waiting now bustled through the doors and either sat on their side of the chapel or stood lined up in front of the doors. The Greek Orthodox priest began his chanting prayers and Bible reading. We stood and sang out "aaaahhhmmmmmeeeen" when appropriate, sat down again and repeated this motion a few times. There was one song that the people sang together- a chanting song from a passage of the Bible. One thing I love about the ways Arab-Christians sing is that they don't try to sing pretty. Most American Christians will only sing out if they think their voice sounds good and they don't mind others around hearing them. If they think their voice might crack or they may sing the wrong note they simply mouth the words and let the tune come out quietly under their breath. Not so here. The point of singing here is to have your voice heard- loud and clear. And so voices rang out in a boisterous melody. The congregation belted out the last, shaky note and we all sat down again.

The service came to an end and the priest prayed over the open casket. He poured olive oil over the body of Mr. Hejazeen and sprinkled dust over him. He signaled with a nod and backed away from the open casket and with a startling, loud clamor the immediate family of Mr. Hejazeen rushed to the casket which was laying on the marble slab and roughly reached for him, leaning in to kiss him one last time, touch his face, and say good-bye. They clung to each other; pulled one another away from the casket, cried out sobbing, fell on the floor in hopeless loss. The casket was pushed closed and the men bustled their ways back out the church doors to the graveyard. The husbands and brothers left the room with the other men throwing sympathetic, helpless looks back at their wives and sisters.

The women were left inside to grieve the way we do... with messy tears and streaked faces, hungry for comfort. We scooped the daughters off of the floor and carried them to the hard, wooden benches. We were hot and sweaty and helpless- at a loss for what to say. Sometimes the most comforting thing we, as friends, can do is simply be there- a silent companion. So we stood around the round, pastel blue chapel kissing the sisters and squeezing their tired shoulders. We stood there with the picture of Jesus looking down at us sadly. We dug through purses looking for one more clean, dry tissue and when Mrs. Hejazeen or one of the daughters threw back her head and choked out a sob we murmured soft words in her ear and let our tears run freely down our sweaty cheeks. A couple of the women pulled out cigarettes and shakily tilted their dainty chins and blew out smoke right there in the pastel blue chapel; right there with Jesus looking down sadly at them. And after a time when all of the cheeks had been kissed and all of the tears had, for the moment, been cried out, we cleaned our faces, smoothed back our hair and stepped out of the dim chapel into the sunny, breezy Thursday afternoon joining the men who were clustered around waiting...grieving in their own sort of way.


I decided that it takes a lot of courage to grieve without restraining yourself. It takes a lot of courage to freely express your emotions.... to really let yourself feel. And if anyone has the courage... Arab women do. I used to be ashamed of myself because I am a very emotional person. I try to numb myself to how I really feel because if I don't then I am afraid that my emotions will over-take me. After today, though, I feel more proud of that "feeling", emotional woman inside of me and more determined to free her. After all... it really would be a sign of my courage not my weakness, right?