What If?
“What if today...you extended as much good will and kindness
as you can possibly muster to every person you meet?
And what if you did it with no thought of reward?
I’m sure of one thing: it will be a day you will never regret.”
There's nothing like the experience of feeling welcome, especially among strangers. Being greeted, embraced, fed a home-cooked meal. It's rare, that electricity of connection when strangers connect. It restores equilibrium to the world. A welcome is a reprieve, a second chance for all. Hostile and hostage share the same root as hospice, hospitality and host.
Like physical symptoms, humanitarian crises tell a story that reveals the nature of the underlying illness that afflicts us, and a glimpse of the map to address it with kindness and compassion. Here in the west, we think of aid as a one-way street, as if other people's dilemmas are a nuisance to throw money at; as if the structural imbalances that tilt in our favor in the so-called "developed world" will keep the less fortunate from sliding into our lives on their way to the abyss that our advantages create. We behave as if foreign aid justifies and guarantees our apparent good fortune; as if our delusions do no harm when in fact we are the ones most severely diminished.
We are taught that might makes right, and cruelty for a cause is justified. How interesting that might is such a lopsided signpost: might as strength, might as possibility. Might those mights be twins? When natural systems fall or are pushed out of balance, what we humans call pestilence clears the way for regeneration to follow. Pandemics, locusts, floods and fires are part of Nature's cleanup crew. Because most calamities are the result of drastic imbalance, they bear gifts beyond their own short-lived thriving. Pestilence becomes the blessing. Pestilence and Blessing are twins.
In Liberia and other parts of West Africa, twins are a potent sign of good fortune: interacting with twins imparts blessings to all, as my friend, Deena Metzger, and I learned when we got stuck in the mud on the road to Monrovia, the capitol, from Voinjama, in northwest Liberia, near the borders of Guinea and Sierra Leone. The distance isn't far, only about 250 miles, but it's a bone-jarring drive over dirt roads that turn to slime during the rainy season. It can take two days.
The equatorial monsoon flings itself earthward during the summer; autumn and winter are normally dry. But the demarcation between seasons has long been blurred. Though it was mid-September the day we attempted to return to Monrovia, the monsoon continued unabated. It was late afternoon when the cars in our convoy got stuck on a steep curve in thigh-deep mud, along with everyone else who was traveling that stretch of road, which, on that day, included Billy Graham, Jr. and his truck full of missionaries. There were fifteen of us in our group, and, though we had set out before sunrise, by twilight we had only been able to travel a handful of miles. By the time we got stuck, we were tired, dirty, hungry, and tense – the hardest time to be cheerful or peaceful. Belatedly, Deena and I realized it was also Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish new year, the Days of Awe, when one reflects on the year that is ending in order to make amends for any wrongdoing, in order to be "inscribed in the Book of Life for another year".
The road was closed in both directions. Most of our group had walked ahead as Deena and I plodded along. We had been walking for about an hour along the edge of the suddenly quiet road through the rainforest, serenaded by frogs and birdcalls, shaded by towering trees, and we were appreciating the cool air when we suddenly arrived at a village. The rest of our group was already there. It was nearly twilight. Kerosene lamps had been lit, illuminating the smiling faces of the boisterous circle of people who had gathered to receive us. In the traditional way, the Town Chief came to greet us, saying proudly, “You are our strangers, and we welcome you!” Someone handed each of us an infant to hold - two smiling, plump, twin baby girls. It was a wondrous gesture of trust and inclusion.
That collective generosity changed us. We weren’t just any strangers; we were their strangers! In spite of the fact that we were the only white people, the only Americans, the only Jews, we weren’t defined by our nationality, our race, our gender, or our religion. We were simply strangers who belonged where we had happened to arrive. Our presence was a blessing, an opportunity to be generous to people in need.
The community’s way of welcome made us feel so much less of a burden, though undoubtedly it was a challenge to feed us, given that there were still food shortages so soon after the recent civil war. In the gathering darkness, we had a fine meal of country rice – home grown, freshly harvested brown rice, with a delicious sauce. How they managed to fill fifteen extra hungry tummies we cannot know. Likely, there were people in the community who volunteered to go hungry so we could be fed. It is a rare privilege to receive that kind of hospitality. It's the essence of humanity - the level playing field of needing mercy, needing assistance and care. The level playing field of generosity as a way of life.
The following morning, after sleeping on the cement floor of the local clinic, we awoke to find that the drivers of our vehicles had miraculously gotten the cars out of the mud, and we were ready to roll. We thanked our hosts and continued on our way. It was a Monday, the day that Liberian women faithfully continued to demonstrate for peace. In every village, every major junction along the road, they stood with their white T-shirts and lapas – lengths of gorgeous local cloth wound into skirts – carrying peace signs, singing, praying, and holding Liberia’s leadership accountable to their promise of peace. If we hadn’t gotten stuck in the mud, we would have missed them. We learned, again and anew, the blessing of twins.
In some Indigenous cultures, strangers are understood to be returning ancestors. The Statue of Liberty proclaims welcome to all those in need. Muslim hospitality is legendary. During Christmas in Mexico, the celebration of Las Posadas reenacts the Holy Family seeking shelter as groups of mendicants go house to house, and the families that receive them offer refreshment and words of welcome. In these times of such cruelty, we can reclaim our humanity by honoring the humanity of someone else. There are plenty of traditions to choose from.
What might happen if we welcomed everyone fleeing war and starvation in the most beautiful way we could think of - the way we would hope to be welcomed if we were the ones needing care? We nourish change when we "give with both hands" as the I Ching instructs. The pairing of pestilence and blessing creates a kind of magic that comes at incalculable cost. It's the magic of the global moment we are in.
