The Shatila camp from my apartment's rooftop

I’m sitting on the roof of my apartment in the Shatila Refugee camp after a long day of trainings for our first week of classes that start tomorrow. The view before me still overwhelms and shocks me. It really is unlike anything I have ever seen or been in. I don’t say this to pity them but to fully relay the reality of these camps.

The conditions that these people live in are unimaginable, conditions that are not suitable for a family or any person. Approximately 8,500 refugees are registered (with UNRWA) and live in an area that occupies a small neighborhood space (appx. 1 square km). As I wrote earlier, the streets are narrow and some are literally alleys, the buildings cramped so close together that I could reach out my window and touch my neighbor’s window. The streets are filled with sewage, trash and rats. I’ve had to train myself not to jump each time I hear or see a rat because it’s becoming a common daily occurrence. I’m almost becoming used to the rats and the roaches…almost. Never thought I’d ever say that. There are no street signs so we use landmarks like “turn left at the smiling picture of Arafat.” There is no drinking water, so we use bottle water and so do the people living here. Odors fill the air, some that I’ve never smelled before and don’t really want to know what they come from.

There is a road that I take frequently in the camp that has a hill at the end of it. Each time, I look back as we reach the top of the hill on the road. From there I can see a view of the camp, each time it still shocks me that this is where people live. But this is life for them. For these refugees there is nowhere else to go. When they left Palestine, they had no choice. Sixty-four years later, these families are still here, there are third generation refugees still stuck here in Shatila.

For refugees in Lebanon, they are denied rights such as owning land, working in certain professions such as doctors, lawyers, etc., even if they were one in Palestine. Children cannot go to public schools but only to schools in the refugee camp and the camps lack solid, strong healthcare. These families have found ways to support themselves by starting shops and markets in the refugee camps but they still struggle below the poverty line.

Like I mentioned earlier, for these past two days we have had orientation and trainings for the teachers. Part of this orientation has been learning more about the Palestine/Israeli conflict, hearing from the UN/UNWRA about their work with refugees and other topics concerning the region. The most powerful moment of this weekend was when they had refugees from 1948 come to share their narratives and stories to us. Their words were filled with pain, sorrow, anger, frustration but also hope and most of all, perseverance.

There was one woman who fled Palestine when she was ten years old after her father was killed. She remembers before fleeing to Lebanon, how a fence was put up to separate the Israelis and Palestinians, and how as a child, she did not understand why. These were her friends and she wanted to continue playing with them. So they would meet at the fence to talk and play together -even with the barrier of the fence- until she was finally forced to flee to Palestine.

This woman also shared about life in the Shatila camp during the civil war in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s. The Shatila camp has an intense history that includes a massacre which happened during the civil war (I will need to do more research before I share about that but feel free to do your own research). She told us the story of how her husband was killed while going out to get her and the children tomatoes and fresh vegetables for dinner. Even now, when she sees a tomato she cries and prays for his soul. As she said this she started crying, and I couldn’t help but cry with her. It was beautiful and somewhat humbling to watch this woman who has lived through so much pain, heartache and trouble become so vulnerable in front of us. Although she was frustrated, she kept a strong sense of perseverance.

This is what has stood out to me from all of the refugees; their perseverance and hope. It has been a common thread that is woven in all of their stories: they keep persevering, hoping and have faith that one day their life will change. That one day they will have a home to call their own. Each of them said to us, “we hope to see you again, in a free Palestine.”

This whole experience left me feeling pretty overwhelmed. The knowledge I have about this conflict is scarce and pretty much summed up by what I’ve read on the news: it’s a conflict about land, they can’t decide on who should live where and they can’t settle on an agreement, so they fight each other. But it’s so much more. It goes so much deeper. I hope to gain more insight while I am here so not only I can be better aware but I can share and create more understanding towards this conflict. Through the stories and information I heard today, I know I am on the way.

As these refugees shared their stories, I couldn’t help but think, “what if this was my life?” As I walk through the camp and leave to go grab dinner in a swanky hookah café in downtown Beirut, I find myself breathing a sigh of relief. Then, I instantly feel guilty. I get to freely walk out of the camp, grab a cab and enjoy a nice, warm dinner. But these people cannot leave. I have found myself thinking about how I can’t wait to sleep in a real mattress that is not on a floor in which cockroaches freely roam (yep, I keep a can of roach spray by my mattress).  Again, I feel the guilt.

Tonight as I walked into the camp from a night in town with my friends, one of my students ran up to me. “Ms. Kim, where did you find such beautiful Baklava??”, he asked.  I didn’t realize that I was still carrying leftover baklava from dinner. Again, I felt extremely guilty and mad at myself for holding that food out in the open like that.

The guilt can be overbearing at times. I am only here for the summer…these people are here for their whole lives. Why am I so lucky? What would it be like to be forced out of your country, only to be told that your country no longer exists and that you are now a refugee?

Why was I born into a family in a country that is conflict-free, a country in which I do not have to worry about being forced out of my home only to watch my home be bulldozed over by another army?

Why was I born in a country in which my government really does care about me despite the challenges we face as a nation? A country in which I have a government that works and allows me to speak my mind. I know that it is not my fault but it still overwhelms me and makes me feel completely helpless at the same time.

Why was I “chosen” and born into a life of privilege when these beautiful, loving people were not?

This conflict and issue is so much more than me and what I can do. I remind myself that I am not here to fix it. I honestly don’t even know what will come about from me being here, I really do feel helpless at times. But what I have learned so far that it’s not about what will be produced from this experience so much as what will be done IN this experience, in this moment.

How can I love these people, these children in the time that I am here and through what I am doing?

By keeping this frame of mind, I believe that my guilt will turn into hope…and purpose.

More views from my rooftop