When Hands Hurt

One of the first things that I noticed about the children here is how darn cute they are. As I walked around the playground on that first afternoon, their quirky child-like behaviors, life-giving laughter, and inexhaustible exuberance won me over in a heartbeat.   

But it didn’t take me long to make a second, more sobering observation:

The children here are violent. 

Especially the younger ones. If a conflict occurs and so-called “negative” emotions arise, most of the younger kids are quick to resort to physical fighting. For some, it is in fact their first resort. This is not “a boy thing,” by the way: girls hit girls, girls hit boys, boys hit girls. They are always separated and scolded, of course. But it always happens again. 

Now, perhaps what I’m seeing here isn’t all that different from what I would see at schools back in the States. Having been home-schooled, I’ve never watched young children play at recess and don’t have much with which to compare what I’m seeing here. Even so, I think that my observation is legitimate: these children are uncommonly violent. 

If so, then what’s going on? I have a hunch. 

Many of the students at Holy Land Institute have little or no knowledge of Jordanian Sign Language when they first arrive at the school. They learn language here. Hopefully, families have previously devised some of their own signs, but these elementary linguistic innovations are unlikely to keep pace with the child’s natural development and meet her or his communicative needs. 

So, when many of these children begin at the school, they are not able to effectively communicate everything that they want to, everything that they must. Some can only communicate a very small percentage of these things.

When hearing children fight, what do we do? We stop them, we reprimand them for fighting, and then we suggest (require) an alternative: talking. We teach kids to describe how they’re feeling, to come up with possible solutions to the conflict, to agree on a solution, and to apologize. 

So, what happens if children haven’t learned (more specifically, haven’t been given the means to learn) how to describe, devise, agree, apologize... how to communicate with language?

They keep fighting. What other options do they have?

One possible definition of violence is the physical expression of negative emotions. 

The goal, then, is to provide and encourage other avenues of expression. 

...Writing a blog, perhaps? 

Stretching

When I was in high school, I worked as a lifeguard. Which means that I worked as a baby-sitter at a pool. And like all baby-sitters, I saw my fair share of bumps and bruises. ...And gashes. 

I vividly remember one injury in particular. A little boy, maybe six years old, slipped, fell, and cut his bottom lip. I was on break at the time, cooling myself in the office. A fellow baby-sitter rushed the crying child inside and began to work. 

She was holding an ice packet to the boy’s lip, and he was whimpering, over and over again, “Owie! Owie!” It was quite cute, actually. While I stood there watching, thinking that there was nothing for me to do, the cashier Chris walked over to the boy, knelt by his side, and grabbed his hand.

“It’s okay bud, I know it hurts, but here, squeeze my hand. There you go, squeeze it hard, harder! That’s right, all of that pain you’re feeling, you just give it to me!”

Chris knelt like this for about a minute. I watched. 

A few days ago, I was sitting next to and touching Rumais while she was sitting in her car-seat (each of the younger children has one of their own). 

Her baby fingers are almost always clenched into fists, and my finger was gently breaking in. Slowly making my way through a collapsed tunnel.

One of the teachers walked up, sat down on the other side of Rumais, and began a session of physical therapy. 

As always, Rumais began to cry. I felt her fingers tighten, and I immediately thought of that little boy at the pool.  

And then, I thought of Jesus.  

He is constantly stretching our bodies and souls towards sanctification, and sometimes we don’t know what’s going on, and sometimes it’s painful. Very painful. 

But it’s okay. Because at the very same time, he is holding our hand. 

“Come to me, all who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

“All of that pain you’re feeling, you just give it to me.”

Initial Musing on Deafblind Ministry

"...So, what will you do?"

The question that I was most frequently asked after telling people that I was going to work with the deafblind in Jordan. Most of the time, I smiled, shrugged, and just said, “Touch.”

I want to share a brief reflection on my one-word answer.

In deafblind ministry, there is bad touch and there is good touch. Contrary to what many would assume, the difference is not that bad touch causes pain and good touch gives pleasure. Rather, the difference is that bad touch aims to control, while good touch strives to empower. 

If Morhaf needs to go to another room, I do not grab him by the wrist and walk, forcing him to follow me; instead, I slide my hand (palm up) underneath his, gently take hold of it as he takes hold of mine, and then we walk together. 

If six-year-old Mohammed throws his upper body on the table during snack-time and should be told to sit up in his chair, I do not push his chest or pull his shoulder; instead, I tap him. Persistently, annoyingly...and eventually, I will probably resort to gentle pushing or pulling. 

Sometimes, you control in the moment for the sake of empowering in the future. 

And sometimes (though these situations are much less common), you cause pain in the moment for the sake of giving pleasure in the future. 

Rumais is a deafblind baby girl whose arms and legs are severely underdeveloped. Like several other students, she must receive physical therapy numerous times each day. Bend one of her knees an inch, and her other leg starts to shake, and she cries and groans. 

I am glad that it is less common, because it is much more heart-breaking. 

You've Never Had This Much Fun.

See the Boy

His name is Morhaf. 

A  few others... 

This is Mohammed. My SALT predecessor, Brent Stutzman, worked with him for three years. Now, Mohammed possesses language skills that are nothing short of extraordinary. 

This is Issa. His spirit is utterly tranquil. The other day, he prepared (with the help of his teacher) a delicious pudding snack for his fellow deaf-blind students.

This is Hazem. He and his teacher have walked to the cafeteria and are picking up a fruit snack for the deaf-blind students. 

Starting next week, I will be working almost exclusively with Hazem whenever I am serving in the deaf-blind unit. 

Lord willing, Morhaf will follow in the footsteps of these three boys. 

Where No Hand Moves?

See the boy

slam his forehead on the tile floor,

again and

again.

He is three years old.

Hear the boy 

scream

from the belly of his throat,

as if tortured

by someone else. 

It takes two seconds

for God’s hand to move

in between floor and flesh.

This hand has freckles

and looks smaller than mine. 

Oh my God,

what of those places where 

the unseeing and unhearing

are unseen and unheard?

Where no hand moves?

See the boy 

slam his forehead on the tile floor, again and again. He is three years old.

Hear the boy 

scream from the belly of his throat, as if tortured by someone else.

His soul must protest

his body’s condition. 

More than disability,

all the shit that comes with it.

Like Saint Peter, he was carried where he didn’t want to go.

But his body can’t

obey his soul.

He knows no means,

except despairing self-harm. 

So he slams and he screams.

See the boy slam his forehead on the tile floor, again and again, he is three years old,

Hear the boy scream from the belly of his throat, as if tortured by someone else

The man after your own heart

said

that you are abounding in steadfast love to all

who call upon you.

Does this count?

Seetheboyslamhisforeheadonthetileflooragainandagainheisthreeyearsoldheartheboyscreamfromthebellyofhisthroatasiftorturedbysomeoneelse

Now see him smile.

Big.

Hear him laugh.

Loud.

Mystery.

All of this is a mystery.  

God alone comprehends.

Welcome

On the streets, in the taxis, even at a medical clinic. I have lost count of how many times Jordanians have told me, always with a smile, “You are welcome here.” 

And yet, my acute awareness of my own foreignness has fostered persistent fears. I am afraid of miscommunication. I am afraid of doing or saying something offensive. I am afraid of being taking advantage of. And the list goes on. 

These fears are paralyzing. They prevent me from fully engaging in my host culture and cause me to behave as if I was not welcome. 

One evening, two American friends and I went looking for a Jordanian restaurant that had been recommended to us. We knew that the restaurant was located on a particular street in central Amman, but after wandering up and down the crowded sidewalks for nearly half an hour, we were at a loss. As we began to cross a less-crowded street, I saw a group of four or five older men on the other side, standing behind a glass door, opening that door, motioning to us. 

We turned the other way. More specifically, I turned the other way, and my two friends followed. 

After another minute of wandering, we found ourselves in more or less the same spot from which I had anxiously departed. One of the men, dressed in a black business suit, was standing outside, holding the glass door open, still looking at us. 

We walked towards him. 

And before I could get a word out, he said, with a smile and a sophisticated Jordanian accent, “It seems that you have lost your way.” 

With a tinge of embarrassment, I returned the smile and then told him the name of the restaurant we were looking for. He gave us directions. I said “thank you” in Arabic and began to turn around, but he stopped me.

“Do not hesitate to ask for help here in Amman. The people are happy to help you. And welcome to Jordan.”

It is appropriate to be a bit fearful when entering an unfamiliar culture. But when members of that culture consistently behave in ways that alleviate those fears, it is also appropriate to start practicing trust.

I was nudged to this starting line on the following day. 

It’s Friday, and I have nothing planned. Previously, I’ve noticed a beautiful black-and-white mosque at the top of a nearby hill, so I decide to hike it and snap some photos. 

As I leave my apartment and head in the direction of the hill, I realize that I can’t see the mosque from where I am. “No matter,” I think. “Surely I’ll be able to see it once I start walking.”

So I walk. And walk. Take pictures along the way, which is lovely. But still can’t catch a glimpse of the mosque. 

An hour or so into my hike, I find myself wandering through a residential area. To my left are several large white apartment buildings. A large man walks out of one of the doors and says, with a smile and in broken English, “Where you go?”

I am caught off guard, but not frightened. I say “black and white mosque” in Arabic, and he nods in recognition. 

“I drive you!” 

Parked right outside of his front door is a taxi. After a second’s hesitation, I decide that I’m fine paying for a ride -- although I’m fairly certain that the mosque is nearby. 

He walks across the street to a small gray car, not the taxi. This is very different now. I am no longer paying for a legitimate means of public transportation, which I have already done twenty times; I am climbing into the personal vehicle of a stranger.

Another second’s hesitation. I smile at the awkwardness of the situation and recall the previous evening’s experience. I follow the stranger, slide into the front seat, and buckle up. We drive. 

And talk. I use a little Arabic, he uses a little English, and we cheerfully stumble through the basics: I am an American who is currently living off of Rainbow Street and working as a volunteer in Jordan for one year. His name is Sufian, and he is a Jordanian who has a family and owns a shoe shop down the hill. 

We arrive several minutes later. (As it turns out, I was not very close to the mosque.) I thank him profusely and then begin to get out of the car, but he stops me. 

He tells me that I shouldn’t go down the way I came up, that I can walk further down this street until I get to a large road that will take me straight down the hillside and cut my hike in half. 

I thank him again. He smiles and bids me farewell with “You are welcome here.”

And I am.