A few days ago I stood at customs. Tired from 30 hours of transatlantic travel, annoyed by the 20 minute wait, I crossed that line as easy as breathing.

Why do I get to come home so easily?

I have often bemoaned how difficult it is to love a place so fractured as America. But what must the heartbreak be to love a place so fractured it pushes you out in waterfall of tears and tells you it is not safe to return.

These thoughts bubbled up at customs as I rounded the last leg of a journey that brought me to Project Amal ou Salam to volunteer with kids displaced and exiled during the Syrian conflict. At the outset of the trip, I stood at another border, in another airport. “Welcome back to Jordan,” said the man behind the desk as he scribbled in my passport.

“Finally,” I grinned back at him.

The last time I was in Amman, it was late-summer 2014. The war next door had been raging for three years, and somewhere between 640,000 and a million Syrians had sought refuge within Jordan. The country wasn’t quite sure what kind of host it wanted to be.

Driving the highway from the airport to Amman, I pressed my face against the window and wondered how much had changed. I’d been looking for a way to return to Amman from the moment I left four years ago. But now that I was back, the city felt like a stranger.

When I signed on to work with Project Amal ou Salam, I did so not knowing much more than that volunteering would give me the chance to provide Syrian kids with a day to laugh and play and explore their world.

I was nervous, of course. The last time I was in any kind of teaching role, I was in high school and helping kids learn how to stand up on ice skates. The kids of Syria deserve so much more than what the world has given them. I was afraid I wouldn’t be enough.

But I didn’t have to be. I was one of 30 volunteers, and together we could be enough. Together we could have fun, maintain order, and create a space in which every kid had a safe, memorable and joyful day.

The work I did never felt out-of-the-ordinary. I spent time in the photography workshop teaching kids how to find the best light to take a photo of their friend, counting cameras and making silly faces when the lenses got pointed my way.

Every night after workshops, I passed out in minutes, never giving myself time to reflect on each day. And every morning, I’d wake up and still wonder if I was doing enough. But a week removed from the day-to-day work, I can see how meaningful every moment was. When I look back on the hundreds of smiling kids, I know that those days were full of love, solidarity and hope.

At times the world feels like it happens to you – like it’s all so far beyond your control. It is particularly easy to feel that way about conflicts like Syria’s, in which decision-making seems to happen in rooms towering above the people who face the greatest ramifications.

It can feel like it would take a superhuman to make a difference. But that’s not true.

There are choices we can make every single day – ordinary choices – to give ourselves hope and to spread that hope to others. So get to work. No matter where you are or how small you feel, there is space here to build a better world. And whether you’re an Amal ou Salam volunteer or supporter from afar, you know that the future will be lit by the dreams and aspirations of these incredibly resilient children. I’m not sure I’ve ever believed in anyone so fiercely as I do the kids I met through Amal ou Salam.

There is trauma here. Loss here. Fear and anger here. But there is also hope here.

There will be peace here

— Thanks Sam for:
– volunteering with us
– being such an amazing person
– writing a beautiful guest post for Project Amal ou Salam
– providing these stunning illustrations

-Project Amal ou Salam Team

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