With a sense of wonder...

Four years ago today I sat around a wonderfully crowded dinner table in the home of my Syrian hosts and their Iranian guests enjoying a lavish holiday meal enjoying the overlapping conversations about politics, history, agriculture, and education abroad. My hosts were Sunni Muslims, their guests were Shi'a, and while I was raised a Lutheran my beliefs could more accurately be described as being of logic and science. One of the things that had drawn me to Syria was it's status as a secular state and the seeming ease with which various branches of Islam, Christianity, and to a small degree Judaism could coexist in a region where co-existence is rarely easy.

I spent two months living in Syria and have regretted leaving so soon since the moment I realized my plans for an imminent return trip were falling through. When this conflict started almost two years ago, I'm ashamed to admit I avoided the news and tried to ignore it. In the short time I was there I became quite attached to the place and the people. The thought of violence and warfare upon streets which I knew by heart was simply too disturbing. But mostly I was stupefied. I couldn't understand how a country that had seemed so stable and was in the midst of a slow but visible modernization could fall into such chaos. I have more thoughts on the politics and the fallout, but that is not what I wish to write about today. Today is a day of hope and love.

Grandmother and children in Idlib, Syria, January 2009.

Last night while watching my nephew's face light up both literally and metaphorically
with the candlelight church service I was reminded of a little boy I met in Syria who had that same unfiltered joy and wonder in his eyes (upon seeing his own face on my camera). That little boy lived in Idlib on a small rural farm with his siblings and cousins. While visiting with a fellow researcher, I had tea with the men of the farm while my colleague, Micheal, translated. Afterwards, I had the unique experience of visiting with the women and children. Michael was the only person in the group who could translate, and he did not accompany me. I spoke only a small bit of Arabic, enough to talk about family and my travels, the inevitable first questions. For thirty minutes the children and I pantomimed and giggled while my camera played a central role as entertainment. Their grandmother watched quietly, her eyes smiling to see the children playing.

I have a print of this photo at my parents house. I caught myself staring at it the other night, wondering where these children are, if they are safe, hoping the eldest hiding in the background is not now old enough to be involved in the fighting. Yet these children give me hope. It is always the way, but it will be the children who grow up in this internet connected world, making friends with people worldwide without politics/race/religion in their minds that will bring about change. As long as there are children with that look of unbridled wonder in their eyes, there will be a better tomorrow, for with a sense of wonder great things are possible.