The visitor

Paul Martin Emery writes about offering a helping hand

Recently my partner Ruth and I had the opportunity to open our home to a special visitor. Like many others, our home became a place of welcome for a refugee from a war-torn country. In this case the country was Syria and, more pointedly, the city of Aleppo. At one time it was a beautiful city, the most populous in Syria, and one that served as the capital of the Aleppo governorate.

Aleppo is a city now in ruins: its heart and soul literally torn apart by the war; its streets a maze of rubble with what counts for daily life being conducted underground.

What a glaring contrast this is with a simple little back bedroom, in a village called Silsden, resting by the shadow of the far side of Ilkley Moor. The only rubble here is that left from the repairing of the roadside walls after the floods of 2015. No bombs in the morning – just the sweet sound of the birdsong greeting the coming day. This visit was a learning curve in so many ways.

As Friday – arrival day – dawned I busied myself preparing our visitor’s room. Small touches: a face cloth and towels neatly arranged on a chair, books about England and the countryside and seasons on the bookcase. I had an awareness in myself of anticipation, nervousness and emotion. What would this be like? How would it go? Would our guest feel welcome? The answer was his smiling response when I bade him ‘welcome’ in his native Arabic as he came up the steps to the front door: ‘Ahlaan bik.’

He said a warm ‘Thank you’ in response and as he settled into the lounge added a gracious: ‘You have a beautiful home’. It was a simple enough compliment but, it seemed to me, one accompanied by a sense that he at one time had lived in a similar place. We responded by bidding him welcome again, inviting him to make himself at home and indicating that all we have is his too.

We sat up until midnight, our eyes heavy after the emotion of the day, talking and sharing his war experiences and the story of his journey. His voice was not angry or bitter. His tone was more one of recognition that this is how it was and this is how it is. Later it struck me, as I lay in bed, that one hears the words describing terrible events but the imagination takes much longer to register fully what has brought this young man half way round the world to our little back bedroom.

A moment of connection

The imagination cannot truly recreate that all too personal experience of bombs and destruction, and a boat on the high seas with water up to the knees. Nor can the imagination do justice to the situation whereby once you think you have reached safety, you find yourself in a caged compound grateful for any bit of half-clean cardboard from which to make a bed. We simply cannot put ourselves in their place, or fully appreciate their level of suffering and displacement. We do what we can. They are here and they are welcome.

There were lighter moments with our visitor – moments of simple domesticity: the choice of breakfast cereal; the choice of jam for the toast; and that quiet coming together over the first meal of the day.

Later on, as we sat in my recording studio, I played, as promised, a small selection of guitar tracks. ‘What would you like me to play?’ I asked. The theme from The Lion King and ‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles were played with care and love. There was appreciation from someone who clearly loves music, and a moment of connection. Later our visitor asked that I record a music programme for him. It was an unassuming request that spoke to me of someone feeling at home – an incident of normal life.

Our home suddenly felt empty after we said our goodbyes and our visitor left. There was a sense of tender sadness as I tidied away the books from his room and looked at the perfectly made bed. It was not just a bed, but a resting place in every sense of the word.

An act of trust

His visit was a tender and humbling experience – a weekend that touched both Ruth and I. It was two days of sharing, joy and, yes, at times, sadness and near tears. But more than that it was a weekend of giving and sharing – from his side as much as ours: two worlds, very different, two cultures and faiths coming together in a profound act of trust.

I gathered my thoughts in the quiet after his leaving:

The way we open our doors, hearts and minds to the refugee is a measure of our humanity. To close our door, our hearts and our minds is to diminish our humanity, as we deny to ourselves that richness of cultural experience and opportunity of learning and sharing that the simple act of saying… you are welcome brings into all our lives.

We sent our visitor off with a book on our landscapes and wildlife, and we inscribed the inside cover with the following:

Lord… Allah… there is a terrible war in Syria and many are suffering. Please grant peace in that place. We ask you this in love and humanity…

For our brother in humanity:

May love be your guide and peace be at your side…

Again those words, ‘Thank you’. We wish him well and, as he put it, an angel by his side. Thank you to our visitor for enriching our lives, and thank you friends.

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