A Haven of Peace

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Poverty

By M. Smeenge ⋅ July 2, 2006 ⋅

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Morning dawns before light reaches into the constricted streets. The loud speaker coughs out the 4am Muslim ‘Call to Prayer’ from the local mosque. It echoes down the narrow cobblestones where men are already shuffling off to blue collar jobs. The less fortunate sleep in shadowy doorways, oblivious to noise through the mechanics of sniffed thinner. Later in the morning a shepherd will wander by, his sheep browsing incredulously through the inner city trash. Laundry will hang bravely between apartments streaked with pollution. Children will play at war with fake guns and tin cans while watching grannies do their knitting in a bit of shade on the sidewalk.

Rachel has been up since 2:30am. Yasemine and Gulben showed up, not knowing where else to go. Their families are gypsy in origin, but their identity is splintered. Fathers fade into twilight existences playing mournful tunes at questionable night venues. Mothers spend so much time with alcohol and fortune telling reality and imagination have blurred, leaving women who move from hovel to hovel with their entourage of children and ever-changing male partners. What is it to them that their twelve year old daughters were out in the darkest hours?

To them Rachel’s simple three room flat is a haven. When Yasemine couldn’t get into the local school because she had missed too many weeks with a moving mother, Rachel took her and faced the teacher on her behalf. School books and uniforms had to come from somewhere. Since Rachel lives as simply as any of her neighbors Yasemine did not look to her to provide, but when there was an unexpected gift from someone at church, Rachel could use this as one more testimony to the child that Jesus loves her and had supplied her need.

The weekly day care and after school facilities Rachel provides have been the safe place in this community. The children shyly slip off tattered street slippers at the threshold, eager to be inside. When they come, they try to wash. They nudge each other if someone slips and uses bad language, knowing it is not welcome in this warm and loving place. Here they have a chance to do their best. For some bigger boys even holding a pencil can be a challenge. Having spent most of their days without routine or a regular home, learning to sit still and listen to simple directions has made a big difference for these children. Before Rachel came most did not make it past first grade. Now there is a chance they could make it out of this neighborhood one day.

Rachel takes a lot of flack. When she went to see Yasemine’s mothers that morning she got a face full. She offered to let the girls sleep at her house so they could get consistently to school. Of course, the verbal abuse happens out in the streets, as these gypsy mothers have no living space to speak of. “It’s just like the media informed us; you foreigners are here to steal children and sell their body parts!” one spat at her. “You are CIA, trying to twist children’s minds and take over our government! You Christians have orgies and eat children, we know!”

Turning the other check takes practice and this is a great arena to get it in. Rachel calmly smiles and waits until the barrage is over. The women know for many years she has cared for the children in her little day care center so they can go and beg or clean toilets. She has provided them with winter clothing when they had none. She has wept with them when a child was hit by a car and killed. She has visited and prayed for a son who needed heart surgery. Rachel knows the anger is all hot air.

They are curious that she takes time to pray. They are fascinated when she and her co-workers actually sing to God. Sometimes they pause in the street outside to listen. Yes, raw sewage sometimes leaks through the ancient bathroom walls from upstairs. The walls are so thin every sound carries through from arguing couples next door. The air pollution weighs like a heavy blanket and sickness lurks in many corners. Sometimes it seems the city never sleeps as the night people come out with their unique life style. But Rachel and crew know if you aren’t there with them they can’t see Christ in a way they can comprehend.

“You are forbidden to come near my daughter ever again!” Yasemine’s mother screams. But days later when Rachel comes down the street the child gives her a furtive hug. Truth speaks loud: they may lash out, but when these women need her, Rachel is there. She recognizes the wall of pain they are hiding behind. There are generations of betrayal and living with a hard heart to ward off feelings. Patient love will win through. With Yasemine it already has. “I know Jesus loves me,” she confesses, “He keeps doing kind miracles to me through you.”

by M. Smeenge, who serves with her family in Asia under Cross Cultural Connections