Reality

There is a small playground in Kara Tepe.  It has a couple of swings, a slide, and a see saw.  Mats of fake turf grass cover the cement ground.  A multicolored, wood slatted fence encloses it.  It’s a quiet place.  Not the usual way to describe a playground, I know.  But this playground possesses some sort of magic.  

Kara Tepe is an amazing refugee camp.  People are smiling here; they are taken care of here.  In Moria, the refugee camp just a couple miles away, there are not enough beds, not enough water, no medicine, and very little hope.  If the people there get to come to Kara Tepe, they have a container home, a clothes closet, three meals a day, and running water in the camp.  They get a living stipend of $90 a week.  They have a school for their children and a doctor’s office on site.  They can walk into town to sit at the harbor and drink a cappuccino.  They can go fishing and swimming at the beach.  NGOs in Kara Tepe provide entertainment to relieve the boredom and monotony.  Things here are “good”.

That’s the surface.  If you take a walk through the camp, that’s what you will see and that’s what every picture will show.  To really see how things are, go and sit under an olive tree and watch what happens inside and outside the magical boundary of that playground.  

Inside, mothers swing their children. They wave and greet you, “As Salaam Alaikum”.  “Wa Alaikum Salaam,” you reply.  Literally, “Peace be unto you”, “And unto you, peace.”  The kids smile while they swing.  They greet you in English, proud to be able to do so.  They will greet you over and over for as long as you can muster a response and some for even longer than that. You can see fathers walking back and forth in an awkwardly familiar rhythm.   As they pass close to the fence, the reason for both the awkwardness and the familiarity become obvious.  A toddler stands almost underfoot, held up by the dads’ hands holding his child’s hands. Walking practice, an apparently universal rite of parenthood.

Other kids sit on the fake grass and play with the various toys they have.  A doll, some marbles, six or seven playing cards, a paddle ball of which no one understands the point.  Older siblings lift younger brothers and sisters onto the see saw and “help it” go up and down.  The younger ones hardly make a sound as they grip the seat in apparent fear, but never seem to want to get off, either.  Everyone takes turns going down the slide. Sometimes, they will form a train to go down the slide.  It isn’t a big slide, so when they ambitiously attempt a four bodied train, their engine has her feet on the ground at the bottom of the slide while their caboose is almost hanging off the ladder.  Predictably, they don’t notice this.  They scoot down the slide and all jump up in excited victory, ready to attempt the challenge again.

Outside the playground, kids pass by in groups, some running, some not.  Four Congolese playing with a dog.  Two Arabic girls walking to class.  Some Syrian kids carrying empty bottles to the water fountain.  A lone Pakistani boy wanders past, hands in his pockets.  They call out greetings to you in Arabic and Farsi and French and Kurdi.

A few teenagers play soccer.  A bystander says something and a scuffle breaks out.  In less than thirty seconds, a group of ten teenagers are attacking each other with the sincere objective of causing as much damage as possible.  Security somehow materializes instantly and hauls the group away.  Two other kids fight over the soccer ball left behind.  

Over by the indoor amphitheater, you can hear women inside talking during a “women only” activity.  A volunteer guards the door, making sure only women go inside.  Several kids and preteens surround her, alternately begging and threatening to get inside.  After several failed attempts, a younger child picks up a handful of gravel rocks and begins to systematically hurl them with surprising force at the wall.  Another begins to kick furiously at the door.  Around the back side of the amphitheater, two older children climb the wall and sneak inside through a window.  They are chased down inside by other volunteers and have to be carried back outside.  In frustration and anger, these kids scream, kick, and spit at the volunteers before storming away. 

A little girl sits on a curb eating some potato chips.  Another child joins her.  He reaches for the chips and is refused.  As she holds them away, another child seizes the opportunity to reach out and grab the bag.  A volunteer runs over to restore order and return the chips.  He moves fast since the thief, aware of the impending loss of the chips, is stuffing his mouth as quickly as possible.  All three kids are between eight and ten years old.

I’ve sat and watched all this unfold many times.  The “survival of the fittest” mentality that is a must if you have to subsist on international handouts.  The instantaneous camaraderie of people from similar backgrounds that paints a clear picture of the cultural divides.  The wariness and distrust that explodes into violence at the slightest provocation.  The inability to express or even understand the resentment of boundaries and rules.  None of it surprising, all of it heartbreaking to witness.  

But the disparity of what happens inside the playground and all around outside it leaves me nonplussed.  Why the difference?  What happens to those fears and frustrations? What is it about walking through that fence that makes everything okay? 

Your reality isn’t permanent, but you do have to live with it.  I think most of us long for a different reality.  Certainly, every Christian longs for Paradise with Christ.  You hope for that day, you live for that day.  “My soul faints with longing for your salvation,” says David.  I think the refugees in Kara Tepe are longing for home.  Not just the place, but all the assurances that home brings.  The joy of being with your family, the sense of belonging somewhere, the right to choose what to do, the privilege of going out and enjoying what’s around you.  Like the movies, or the park, or…the playground.

I don’t know if it’s the potential of what life could be or the memory of what life used to be, but I think that playground represents both memory and hope for them.  And they won’t betray their memories and they won’t run out of hope.  So things are calmer inside the fence.  Because inside is the reality they hope for and while they are there, things are good.

I don’t go inside the playground.  None of the volunteers do.  We aren’t really needed inside.  But I sit outside and watch.  And ask God, “What’s next for these people?”

The Kara Tepe playground