What I learned about myself from volunteering in Syria, Jordan, and Gaza

It took only a push of a button to let everyone know that we were looking for donations. We wrote a little paragraph explaining what we do — collect donations, water, canned food, used toys, clothes, and blankets to give to poor Jordanians, Syrian refugees, and Gazans, then posted that little paragraph on Facebook. Within hours, we had people calling us, texting us, asking about us, and willing to help as much as they could. We gave them about two weeks, and I remember how proud my brother, his friends, and I were as we searched through the things people had donated to make sure they were in a good condition.

We got toys, new t-shirts, all kinds of canned food, water, clean shoes, socks, kitchen supplies, baby clothes, pampers, underwear, accessories, hats, belts, button-downs, suits—and an extra 2,000 Jordanian Dinars. In only one week, we were swamped with so much support that we could not fathom it. And so the journey began.

It was the morning of January 23rd, 2014. Our bags were packed, hoarded upon our shoulders as we climbed into a pair of cheaply rented vans. I felt a warm breeze graze my skin, telling me that it was going to be good, good day. When the doors of the van slammed shut, I took a moment to check that we had everything we needed: donations, donations, and more donations. Guided by the nod I offered, with a flick of his wrist, my brother started the engine and the vehicle choked out miniature, grey clouds. Soon, we were headed to Madaba in Jordan for our first stop.

The way to Madaba was itself therapeutic. The sky exploded into beds of pink, blue, and baby purple, ever so often peppered with clumps of soft, white cloud. Small, archaic houses were scattered around the city like boxes, some of them painted, others plain. People sat outside, watching each car as it passed by with hints of intrigue and curiosity. Old men wore dusty Hattas on their heads and sipped on their freshly brewed mint tea. Children ran around in their torn underwear, their hair tousled into fountains and explosions of chocolate brown, dirty blonde, and raven black. Their knees were scraped, but their smiles told stories of pure joy and innocence. We pulled over and asked them what their names were. One of them, the taller of all three, said confidently, “Omar. My name is Omar. Who are you?”

Offering him a smile that was as equally warm as his, I said, “Natascha. And that’s my brother Zaid. We’re here with a couple of friends, we would like to say hello to your family, if you don’t mind.” “Walaw (Of course),” Omar replied boisterously as he balanced his homemade soccer ball on his hip, “let me show you the way.” With that, Omar led us to his house as his cousins, Ghazi and Rami, stumbled after him and we made sure that we went slower, keeping a safe distance between our van and their little confident figures.

“Ya Allah (Oh my God),” I whispered shakily to myself the moment my eyes lay upon their house. It was a box, just like the others, but was completely wrecked. Iron wires stabbed out of the cement walls, water dripped from the ceiling, and rocks puddled in circles around the cube, looking quite dangerous. With the donations in hand, we made it inside safely as the children instructed us where and where not to step. They knew what they were doing, but since when was knowing what to do a child’s job?

“Salam (Hello),” my brother greeted Ammo Ahmad, Omar’s grandfather. They shook hands and soon, we sat on torn rugs. Cross-legged, Ammo Ahmad sat before us and smiled warmly. Believe it or not, the house smelled like soap and baby shampoo. It was clean but it was not safe. We told them that we were there with our collections. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get them through the summer and winter.  The family were taken by surprise. His eyes followed my brother’s and my hands as we pulled out some water bottles, canned food, clothes, kitchen supplies, toys, and blankets. I could have sworn that I saw a tear roll down his old, wrinkled cheek.

“Oh God bless you, my sweethearts. Oh, God bless your souls.” He repeated, over and over.  Then, after reaching out to grab his walking stick, he got up and trudged over to my brother, gently pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, son, thank you.”
Omar, Ghazi and Rami squeaked when they saw the toys. They huddled around us then snatched the toys and hurried to show their grandfather. “Jiddo!! Jiddo! They got us toys!”

One thing I will not forget about this trip is the following: how ecstatic those people were as they took ahold of the bags. You see, there is always a chance for us to take that further step and build something new—become agents of change. Voluntary work will always, no matter how insignificant the cause, make better the lives of others. Be it by sharing a post, starting a project, or simply handing a hungry person a piece of bread, trust me, you will always, always, get the most thankful of smiles in return.