“When are you coming home?”
Mustafa’s front door is 15 minutes away from mine.
He sleeps on the floor. I sleep in a warm bed and have only slept on the ground while camping.
We have three cars. He walks 40 minutes to work each way and returns home at 2 a.m., six days a week.
My refrigerator and pantry are full of food. Mustafa hopes to have enough for each day.
In Afghanistan, he was a respected community leader, working for NATO and non profits to make a difference in his country that’s been ravaged by violence and corruption. Now, he works 16 hour shifts at a food processing center.
I see my kids every night. He doesn’t know when he will see his kids again.
Mustafa has two children under 6, and they don’t understand why he’s gone. How could they? He used to leave home for weeks at a time, helping NGOs serve the vulnerable in their country. But they always knew he was coming back. Now, from a continent away, they ask him each day, “When are you coming home?”
Most of us can’t imagine leaving our families behind across an ocean. It’s a heartbreaking decision that wasn’t made lightly. Mustafa was the one who knew English from his support of western organizations. He was the one with work experience. And because of his history assisting U.S. agencies, he was the one more likely to be a target of violence after the country’s collapse last year. So he made the choice to come to America, to use his English to find work and lay a foundation for his family to eventually come and join him. He is the family’s best chance of success and a sustainable future, so he left when he had the chance, as things fell apart in Afghanistan last fall. And now, every day he works towards one goal: bringing his family back together.
Mustafa and I live only a few miles from each other, but our situations seem worlds away. And yet, despite the differences of our circumstances, our deepest hopes are the same: we both want a hope-filled future for our kids, and a safe place to call home.
Mustafa’s story is hard and complicated. We know it’s uncomfortable to enter into the depths of other’s pain and struggles. There aren’t easy answers or quick fixes, and it’s hard to imagine how we could possibly make a difference. It’s certainly simpler to just turn away.
But each day we have a choice. Will I open my heart to the pain and suffering of my fellow man? Will I see Mustafa, just minutes down the road, as my neighbor? Will I learn his name, and not keep him at a distance as a faceless number among thousands, part of a problem far away? One thing is clear: he’s not so far away.
Some days I have to confess it’s easier to go through the motions and keep the door to my heart locked up. But on the other side of fear, on the other side of comfort, on the other side of the time and effort it takes to get to know my fellow man, something surprising is waiting to be discovered.
We find kinship. Mustafa and I aren’t so different after all.
We find love. Mustafa is not a project to be completed—he’s a person worthy of compassion.
We find hope. Mustafa doesn’t expect me to fix his problems—but when I come alongside him and offer what I can, he’s tangibly reminded that he’s not alone. Hope Tribe is a group of people who decided to jump off the sidelines and onto the field of loving our refugee neighbors. We hope you’ll join us. Visit our “Assist a Refugee” page to learn how to get involved.