I’ve met a young man, about my age, who has fled two wars in two different Middle Eastern countries. He has memories of being a kid and U.S. soldiers raiding his home. I can’t imagine what he and his family might’ve experienced or witnessed. I can’t imagine the feeling of moving from country to country as a child just to find safety. In my conversations with him, though, his smile always reaches his eyes and he has the most contagious laughter.

I’ve met a man who moved, alone, thousands of miles away from his home in the Middle East because his teenage brother went to war and never came home. His family received an arm in a box – that’s all that was left of his little brother. He successfully restarted his life on the other side of the continent. Recently, his apartment building caught fire and he lost everything he had (again). He reaches out to me frequently, though, letting me know that he wishes me well and is often praying for my safe travels.

I’ve met a refugee who moved to a new country completely unfamiliar with the language and the local customs. He built a life for himself, away from war, while simultaneously learning two languages just to be able to communicate. He is so curious about the world, though. He has pure eyes and really wanted to make sure I ate the best food in the city we met in. His entire life has been uprooted and violently destroyed, yet he remains one of the kindest souls I’ve met. 

I’ve met many miserable people, mostly in the Western world. Bitter people in countries where, at minimum, they’re safe from missiles and arms in boxes. But those I meet who have experienced the most horrific and unimaginable are often the softest and most giving, and forgiving, of those around them. Knowing these people is to know that the world is so much bigger than your life. Knowing these people is to know that human resilience knows no bounds – it is possible to start over, as many times as you need to. It is possible to have a heart full of kindness and curiosity, regardless of what has happened.

I consider myself lucky to even be able to have a single conversation with these souls. To hear their stories, to experience their beautiful energy regardless of the violence they’ve had to escape from. I consider myself lucky that they accept me, and want to know me – regardless of my country having been one of the root causes of the grief I know they must feel. Despite having the privilege to never understand what their lives have been like. To be able to laugh at the word “anomaly” and discuss music over tea with people like this; to have them thank me for my time. 

I am so very lucky. For many reasons. But I think, most of all, for this reason. I’ve been taught, firsthand, how important it is to love other humans. To turn toward my neighbor with patience instead of anger, with understanding instead of suspicion. Love other humans. Regardless of where they come from, or how different they are from you. Hear their stories and their worldviews. I think you’ll find your heart overflowing with gratitude, too.

From them, I’ve learned that the world isn’t defined by borders we draw or the violence we inherit. It’s defined by the love we choose to give. I carry their laughter, their prayers, and their courage with me always. I owe it to them to carry their stories forward – to challenge hate where I see it, and to build bridges instead of walls.

Free Palestine. Free Congo. Free Burma. Free Sudan. Free the oppressed. Free every heart from hate.

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