[Picture: Saraf, Maryam, Vida] Maryam met me at Helping Hands with all 3 of Fatima’s children on Saturday. Fatima was working as she does 6 days a week. It was a crazy busy day with wall to wall children and mothers in the “baby room”. After I closed up, so the room could reopen as Greek class, she and I and toddler, Mohamad Aziz left the ARC. The girls ages 6 and 8 stayed behind to come home later with another family. We walked up to Omonia to catch the train to Attiki. The train was packed full of people. She asked, “Can you do it?” and I nodded my head so we smashed into the last few inches available as the door closed. Poor Mohamad was too short to see out the window, he had to have been very claustrophobic, I know I was and I could see out. When we arrived in Attiki, the door opened on the other side and I was not sure we could get out before it closed, but somehow we managed it.
I had not been to Attiki before. The entire city of Athens looks like a trash dump because of the trash collector’s strike, and Attiki was no exception. Attiki is in an older part of Athens that might have been clean (on a different day)with mature trees shading the parkways. The metro exits near a walled off area where buses are parked. We walked about 2 blocks and turned into a residential building. Her door was immediately to the right once we came in the outside doors, so I didn’t have to walk through the dimly lit stairwells of what our staff affectionately calls the “afghan hotel”.
I immediately recognized the living room furniture from the pictures I had seen of Christmas in the apartment. The living room had a window out at ground level to the street. There was a worn L-shaped couch with an oversized white teddy bear sitting in the corner of the “L”. Across from the couch was an entertainment center with a TV, DVD player and older stereo. Every square inch of the floor was covered in Persian rugs. We removed our shoes and left them in a 4 story cardboard shelf unit by the door. Double doors hid most of the hallway and the rest of the house. I can’t really tell how much more house there is. I can see that someone might be sleeping in the hall on a single bed. I know that Maryam and her husband; and her brother; and Fatima and her husband and her 3 kids all live here. With 5 adults working part-time, they manage to pay the rent on what I think is a 2 bedroom apartment originally intended for Maryam and her husband and her brother. I could hear Maryam putting Mohamad down for a nap and preparing food for me. I am wondering how we will fill the time when we have so little in common language and wondering whether or not I was stupid to not wait to invite someone to come with me (can you invite someone if the hostess doesn’t invite them? So much culture, I don’t understand). I had hoped the girls would be with us to entertain us, but Maryam very much wanted this to be just the 2 of us. Greek “m-TV” is playing on the TV. I’m wondering how refugees afford so much stuff, but then I suppose each time a family moves on, the accumulation gets passed on to those who stay.
Maryam comes back with oranges and apples on a plate and a box of Turkish sweets. As we eat, we talk about family. I ask about her mother. She brings me a picture of her mother as a 23 year old, holding her as a baby. Maryam looks very Asian. Her mother’s hair is brown and not black and very curly. She does not look Asian at all, maybe French? The picture is outdoors at the sea and her head is not covered, which is unusual for someone living in a Muslim country. She is beautiful and happy. She has told her mother about me, and about how she met me at “church”. Church is what she calls Helping Hands. Maryam has 2 brothers and 4 sisters. She is the 6th of 8 children and the first to be married. Her brother that lives with them is the oldest. The youngest is 16 years old. Her mom is pregnant now. She has learned to use Skype at the internet café nearby and is glad to be able to talk to her mom. I’m suddenly reminded of the gift I have for her. Last week was her 20th birthday and I brought a Farsi/English New Testament wrapped in a ribbon. I’ve written inside the cover and marked the scriptures that tell the story of salvation. Maybe we will get to talk about what she reads another day….if she reads. It is in God’s hands and I have “given Him something to bless” (thank you for that thought, my good friend George DeJong).
There are many knocks on the doors as talk. Fatima’s husband comes home and slips quietly to the back of the apartment through the mysterious double doors. Maryam’s husband comes home and does the same. A neighbor brings by a sack of vegetables from the open market. Another neighbor brings a sack of fruit. Eventually Fatima comes home from work. Neighbor children come looking for Vida and Saraf. Eventually the girls come home. Her husband leaves and brings us back Greek take out to eat (just Maryam and I). She sadly explains that she cannot cook, but Fatima is teaching her. Fatima comes in to eat with us. Mohamad wakes from his nap happy to see his mom. Later there is tea and chocolate. We talk about how Americans make tea from tea bags and don’t leave the leaves to fall to the bottom of the cup. This is a marvel to them as to why anyone would want to put tea in a bag. Maryam tells me that when she speaks English everyone can tell she is from Afghanistan, but when I speak Farsi, I sound like I am from Iran. She thinks I have a very good teacher. Too bad, I only know 100 words and most of them are not yet conversationally useful! I am exhausted from the long day and uncomfortable with the thought of trying to find my way back to the train in the dark, so I sadly tell them I need to go fix dinner for my husband, but promise that we can do this again soon. I kissed them all good-bye at the door (left cheek, right cheek, left cheek). I need not have worried, Maryam walked me all the way to the train and made sure I got on the right one before she waved good-bye. I think our friendship is little bit about how much she misses her mom and how much I miss my girls and God has given us the gift of each other.
One week later, she shows up at Helping Hands and wants to kidnap me again, but I already have dinner plans with teammates. Fatima was going to help her make dinner. I’m so sad. I love Iranian food. I guess our first visit must have gone well.
