Next to, Not in Front of
One of the greatest mentors I’ve ever had was Ahmed, an elderly Syrian man I had met in a psychosocial support (PSS) group in Amman, Jordan. Granted, we were more so friends than anything else, and our mentor-mentee relationship had never been an official one. Regardless, our conversations were riddled with thoughtful insights I continue to ponder today.
Photograph from a Diwaniya posted on Instagram by Collateral Repair Project (CRP)
During my very first session at the Diwaniya (the PSS sessions mentioned earlier) each member, including myself, was asked the question: Discuss a time you needed help, and didn’t ask for it. Why didn’t you ask for assistance?
I must admit, I had made my presumptions regarding how the session would go and the answers I would hear from our participants. The majority of the men in the room were elderly Syrian-born refugees who had fled the country with their families in 2013. I had learned, from classes and academic texts, that the refugee experience is more or less a life sentence, imprisoning a victim of these traumatic experiences to strictly unique struggles of the diaspora. Given the nature of such a struggle, I assumed that the answers given today would only talk about the men’s need for financial and material support as victims of forced immigration. My presumptions were inaccurate, dangerous, and ones I was unaware of as I set foot in the group therapy room.
As I made my way around the room, shaking hands of men who customarily stood up from their chairs as I walked in front of them, I was surprised to find an empty seat for myself. To observe a therapy session was nothing new, but to sit in and participate was a wholly foreign concept oto me. As I took my seat, for the first time I had felt as if my presence was not a strange one, and the men welcomed me to a community that, over time, I would come to realize I had also greatly needed.
The group session typically began with one of the eldest members first. After being handed the talking piece, a brightly colored Misbaha (prayer beads), no one else was permitted to speak. Along with the other members, I had an important role in listening attentively to each story that was told. There was a look of cathartic happiness each time it was someone’s turn to share their answer, as if it was their first time using their voices, or taking the center-stage. I began to realize how important, and healing, it could be to simply be quiet and listen. That therapy takes many forms, often nonverbal ones, was the first takeaway I learned from the Diwaniya. As each man spoke, my previous notions on the struggles and lifestyle of these men would be amended.
It was Ahmed specifically, however, who dealt the shattering blow to my former worldview. When his turn came up, I noticed his fidgeting hands grasping the Misbaha, smoothly sliding his fingers along each prayer bead in a way that told me he was a deeply religious man. It was his turn to answer the question, and I found my anxious self anticipating his response to a time in which he needed help before he opened his mouth. His answer, however, was one my untrained mind could never have anticipated.
“How does one ask for love?” With tears in his eyes, Ahmed asked how he was supposed to ask to be loved by his son, who was growing older. He feared that over time, as his children grew and forgot about Syria, he would be left behind as well.
When Ahmed answered, I recall a feeling of shock as chills ran down my neck. I sourced this reaction as a symptom of shame I had immediately felt in myself as he discussed these issues. Ahmed’s answer forced me to realize how greatly I misunderstood the refugee struggle. I felt naive in letting texts and slides in flashy American public health buildings create an image of refugees for me.
In the early days of psychology, the science was considered to be a study of the human soul, with the mind being only one aspect of an otherwise multi-faceted human being. Today, we limit therapy sessions to one dimensional aspects of our being, creating a reductionist view on the patients, beneficiaries, and populations we aim to provide for. Labelling Ahmed, and the other members at Diwaniya, a “refugee” was one manifestation of this reductionist view. On top of his diasporic challenges, Ahmed still faces a fundamental issue of belonging and love, an issue that you and I may be dealing with today.
Although halfway across the world, and living a different lifestyle in a vastly different culture, we are not as different from my friends at the Diwaniya as we think we are.
When I look forward to the next chapter of MERA, and the next chapter of my life, these shared experiences come to mind. Today, I recognize the mistake I made in allowing institutions to define a patient to me. As a future physician, I will be trained to observe people. To distance myself from them and analyze their one-dimensional struggles to reach a concrete diagnosis or solution. I see the dangers in this notion now. To learn about, and not from, a people is a precarious practice that leads to flawed assumptions and a lack of authentic understanding of a population.
In our own communities, people continually struggle with the mental, physical, and financial toll of forced immigration and health inequality. Since my return from Jordan, I found myself at the advent of a new chapter in my life. I constantly ask myself “where do I go from here?” How can I carry the lessons that Ahmed taught me into my medical training, and more importantly, into MERA’s initiatives. Authentic practices and remedies to our beneficiaries will not come from observation, nor will it come from distance. As we move forward, we realize ourselves as students first, before providers. Just as I sat in between, and not in front of, the members of Diwaniya, our team strives for dialogue with our communities before any service is given.
