I’ve never really understood that word - solidarity. Most of the times I heard it, it had some kind of political connotation. We stand in solidarity with the LGBTQ community, or pro-choice voters, or whatever. It was usually used in some type of protest march or political rally. It usually implies agreement with and promotion of a certain belief or opinion.
Recently, however, I’ve begun to see it differently. My new line of work is in refugee resettlement. I am both a practical facilitator and a public advocate for refugees. This is not a popular position and it is not without political baggage. Somehow, it seems that everyone everywhere has their own viewpoint on the immigration of foreigners to their own country. And most of these opinions are based primarily on how they will affect “me and mine.”
This work has placed me in direct contact with people who are very different from me. Our skin is different, our speech is different, our backgrounds are different, our religious beliefs are different, our worldviews are different, our political positions are different, our financial status is different. But whatever differences we may share, I am here for them. I am here to help them, to serve them, to support them, to know them, to love them, and to welcome them. Publicly and personally, I stand in solidarity with refugees. Only now am I beginning to realize what that means and does not mean.
As I have begun to spend time with refugees, I have felt overwhelmed. I feel entirely incapable of meeting their needs. I have felt an unbearable sorrow over the lives they have barely lived through. I feel a tremendous gratitude for the life I have lived. At times, I have been left speechless over what to say that might help them.
Let me tell you about a few of them. One friend of mine ran from the civil war in Syria after a plane dropped a bomb on his brother’s house, killing everyone inside. Another friend ran from the Ivory Coast in desperation, unable to provide for his mother’s household which his father abandoned when he was a boy. He struggled to find work as each neighboring country he entered would chase him out with death threats, surrounding his house with weapons and ordering him to leave. Eventually, he gathered enough money to pay human traffickers to cross him into Europe, but when he arrived at the coast, the big boat he was promised was an inflatable raft, heavily overloaded. His choice was to die in Africa or maybe die in the Mediterranean. During the crossing, the raft got a hole in it and they tried desperately for three hours to keep the raft afloat and scoop the water out. At last, they were spotted by a small plane and within another hour, just as the boat really started to sink, the Spanish coast guard sent a boat and rescued them. Another friend fled the Ivory Coast after the military (or rebels, not sure about the translation) came to his home, attacking his mother and trying to kidnap him and force him to join their unit. Being without a father as well, he tried to protect his mother. He showed me and my friends the scar above his eye and where he was missing a tooth from the rifle butt. Many of the women here have stories, too, but they don’t feel safe to share them with me or other men. The girls on our team listened to theirs. A refugee family from Palestine has told me of the difficulties they faced living in Jericho and the mistreatment they received from Israeli soldiers.
How can I help these scarred and damaged lives? What could I possibly say that could help them? I know the only permanent solution I can offer them is the living hope offered by a relationship with Jesus. And there will come a time for that message to be explained. But when I hear these stories, I often have nothing whatsoever to say. With our Ivorian friends nobody on our team could speak after hearing their stories. We just sat there beside them and cried. They didn’t. I expect their supply of tears had run dry long ago. All that was left was a dull, hopeless look in their eyes as they shared their stories. But something happened then. Something that we did brought their spirits back to life. I wish I could show you pictures. I have pictures of them before this conversation happened. And I have pictures of them afterwards! I had never seen any of these three smile before they told us their stories. It was as if they had been silently carrying around all alone one of those massive boats that pulled them from the sea. It was a weight too great for any person to bear alone. But as we sat there with them, listening to their stories, saying nothing, putting ourselves into their shoes, and feeling what they had felt, it was as if we had all gathered around them and begun to lift that weight off of their weary shoulders. We were gathered there - about 8 of us - standing in solidarity with them. None of those three has been the same since that night. Their relief was immediate and palpable. We took them to dinner that evening and they started to laugh, smile, and ask for pictures. When the team had to leave, the goodbyes were difficult - none more difficult than when the two young Ivorian men said goodbye to the 40-something year-old man on the team who had filled that hole in their lives that their fathers had left behind. But they smile now. They know, or feel somehow, that they are not alone anymore. We are their family. We are their supporters. Because we stood in solidarity with them.
I’ve begun to feel that solidarity is the opposite of solitude. It’s when I can stand beside someone who was standing alone. I may not be able to say anything. I may not even speak their language. But I can stand with them. I can cry with them. I can hurt with them and carry their burdens with them.
Solidarity doesn’t mean I agree with them on everything. It doesn’t mean I fully understand everything they’ve been through. It doesn’t mean that I approve of everything they’ve done.
It means that I am there for them - that they are not alone anymore. It means I have heard them and will hear them. It means that all the things that threaten to divide us are brushed aside. It means that I receive them. It means that I love them.
