April was for me an intensive course in the plight of minorities, human rights, and conflict-affected peoples.
It started when I attended a documentary screening of “Education Under Fire,” which tells the story of how people of the Bahá’í faith in Iran are not allowed regular access to higher education. That has not stopped them from learning, though. They’ve simply started their own underground university, the Bahá’í Institute for Higher Education (BIHE).
My friend Roxana Saberi spoke after the screening. She shared experiences from her time in Evin Prison for 100 days in 2009, when she shared a cell with several women of the Bahá’í faith, and has since spoken out on their behalf. She challenged those in attendance to imagine a life where they could not pursue their educational dreams, no matter how modest.
While I scarcely need the reminder, I was indeed reminded of how precious education is and what a privilege it is to receive. It took me back to 1999, when I visited Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was held in prison for years, just off the coast of Cape Town, South Africa. During the prison tour, I was inspired by the stories of resilience, where political prisoners came together to teach and learn from one another, to advocate for themselves. No matter the circumstances, they would learn, and they would come out better.
The weekend following the documentary, I went to my hometown in North Dakota, where I organize a speaker series called Prairie Talks. The event in April was a one-person play called “No Place Called Home,” which is a compelling and emotional play about the Iraqi refugee experience in Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon. With only a few simple props and no major costume changes, the audience heard the stories of some 12 people—men, women, and children—who had escaped lives of fear, but who are still coping with confusion, isolation, and depression as they live in limbo.
The play was followed by a panel dialogue with the audience. An Iraqi gentleman, Hussam, a refugee himself, drove three hours with his wife and daughter that day to participate in the panel and, at the last minute, was integrated into the performance itself. His presence added both depth and authenticity. People could imagine his struggle as he left his homeland, looking back at a war, arriving in the U.S. with a Ph.D. in business administration, but a novice in the English language.
The playwright of “No Place Called Home,” Kim Schultz, and I then traveled to Parkers Prairie, Minn., home to just over 1,000 people and surrounded by farms. There, she taught a two-hour class to high school students who’d had understandably little exposure to refugee issues. She asked them what one thing they would take if they were told they had to leave their home that night because of war.
A car, one group said. Okay, she said, but what will you do when you run out of gas? A gun, another group said. Okay, she said, but what will you do when you run out of bullets? Money, a third group said. Okay, she said, but will that currency be of use somewhere else?
There’s no right answer, and that was exactly the point. Of course, no one said documentation so they could prove reasonable fear of persecution or torture in order to gain asylum status somewhere, because most of us haven’t grown up with fear of persecution or torture. Most of us expect that we’ll stay exactly where we are for as long as wish.
Earlier in the talk, she’d read 10 minutes from her play—just two people’s stories out of hundreds and hundreds of thousands of refugees. You could hear a pin drop in the gymnasium. When she was done, she asked them to say one word that describes how they felt after hearing those stories.
Scared. Worried. Depressed. Spoiled.
They got it. We wish it didn’t happen so they wouldn’t ever hear about it. But it does. And they got it.
The next weekend, I went to Detroit, where I met Bob and his wife, Gayane. Bob has dropped a line after nearly every piece I’ve written for this very paper. A born connector, he’s been after me to meet a few people for a while, one of whom I met in D.C. and another in Detroit. This second person was none other than Baroness Caroline Cox.
It was a stimulating weekend. Even the car rides were entertaining. The air was filled with the accents of Bob from Detroit, the Baroness from England, her U.S. representative from Virginia, and me from Minnesota. Someone could have made some brilliant sketch comedy from it all.
But really, it was a weekend of being steeped in the passion of Baroness Cox and her work through Humanitarian Aid Relief Trust (HART). Were I to tell the same stories of crossing borders illegally to help those most in need in Burma and Sudan, I can guarantee that people would call me irresponsible and worse. But when they hear her tell them, they giggle and cheer, embracing the vision of an English grandmother of 10 showing those who abuse their populations that they are not in absolute control, that they never will be.
And now I’m on my family’s farm in North Dakota recalling it all. The winds were at 30 miles per hour today. I imagine it was something like that day in 1899 when my great-grandmother came the last 50 miles by wagon without seeing even one tree. The shelterbelt of towering blue spruce evergreens and sturdy cottonwoods that she planted on three sides of the homestead are evidence that a lot can grow in 114 years.
As spring welcomes us, let’s plant more seeds for those who need shelterbelts. Shelter from the wind and otherwise.
Kristi Rendahl
Latest posts by Kristi Rendahl (see all)
- Using Armenian Professionally - June 8, 2022
- My Dad - April 12, 2022
- New Year’s Resolution: Humility - December 31, 2015
Be the first to comment