I'm so grateful for the many opportunities I've had over the years to sit with refugees from around the world and listen to their stories. It’s a privilege beyond words to be invited into someone’s pain, to listen and sit with them in their suffering.
Every time I’m given this opportunity, I wonder, “what could I possibly offer those who have suffered so much?” And, every time, I am the one who leaves changed. Their stories leave a lasting impact on me.
Over the next few months, I’m going to be sharing some of their stories here on my blog.
In 2018, while I was part of a YWAM school in Tijuana, Mexico, large caravans of refugees and asylum seekers began arriving at the Mexico/US border. They had left their homes in Central America, the South of Mexico, Haiti, and even as far away as Africa to attempt this harrowing journey, with the goal of finding a better life within the US. Some were fleeing violence, others seeking better opportunities for themselves and their children.
With nowhere to go while they waited for their potential asylum hearings, they set up camps throughout Tijuana and nearby border crossings.
My team saw this as an opportunity to live out the love of Jesus, so one chilly afternoon, we headed to the border with cups of hot chocolate, to sit with people and listen to their stories.
When we arrived at the border, I was stunned by a surreal sight: a mini refugee camp had been set up on the sidewalk, in the same place where I'd often walk across to the US.
The brokenness was… unimaginable. People were sleeping on tarps on the cement. The entire camp was swirling in chaos as volunteers attempted to distribute supplies to those around them. It was one of the hardest things I had seen in a long time, and my heart broke for them.
An air of hopelessness hung heavily over the place. People had been robbed at gunpoint and suffered horrendous things to get to the border. Not all of them had made it.
They had come so far, on the slimmest possibility of a better life. And now, they were stuck in limbo—just waiting without any guarantee of success.
And yet, in the midst of all of the pain and brokenness, there was also so much beauty.
Many of the people we spoke to had formed lifelong friendships with their fellow caravan members. People who started out as strangers were brought together through shared hardship, now sharing an inseparable bond. They looked out for each other and helped others who were sturggling.
After we listened to people's stories, my friend Olivia and I offered to take their portraits, print them with a portable printer, and give them the photos to keep. It was such a small gesture, but it still brought smiles to people’s faces.
Some asked to have their photos taken with the friends they had met during their journey, so that they could remember each other long after they parted ways.
Every person we met had their own unique story: their own reasons for leaving their homes, for traveling on such a difficult road, for choosing to start over. Each had their own hopes and dreams for the future.
Through the photos we took, we wanted to showcase each person’s individuality: to fight against stigmas that attempt to paint entire groups of people with generalizations. We wanted to capture their beauty as human beings, made in God’s image, instead of just some faceless statistics.
We wanted to show them that we saw them.
We heard them.
We loved them.
John (pictured above) was from Kenya, where he had studied to be a lawyer. I don’t know the specifics of what caused him to leave his home, but he took a ship to Brazil and then spent 6 difficult months traveling up to Mexico, in search of better opportunities. John shared with us that he wanted to use his law degree in the US to help bring justice to the marginalized—to use his gifts for the good of the vulnerable.
There was an… indescribable gentleness about him. For a man who had gone through unimaginable things, his eyes held such kindness. I know next to nothing about him, but I know that he was a beautiful person.
Now, as I look back on this experience years later, the words of Jesus make sense to me in a new way:
“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
I can't explain how, but on that chilly May day in Mexico, Jesus met me in a new way: through the kind eyes of a stranger named John.