Today we were invited into a refugee’s home whom we met yesterday. He had quite a story to tell—about being kidnapped and tortured and chased and threatened and being scared and hungry and lonely and angry–all because he was Sunni and suddenly, after 2003, his country began to care…and kill based on religion.

But that’s not the story I want to share here. What I want to share here is a story about dreams lost, a story about a man who considered himself to be a hero in years gone by. He once was happy and successful, he said. He was actually a famous boxer AND he was an artist.  His brothers and sisters were artists and writers. He came from an entire family of artists–a family now torn apart by war. Now they are living in various far flung parts of the world—victims of the violent experiences their country has had. Now he has nothing. He has lost it all—due to our invasion of his country. Suddenly, religion became an issue in his neighborhood, suddenly he didn’t know who to trust, suddenly neighbors were turning on neighbors. And now he makes no art and is awaiting a life again, waiting no longer to be a hero to his family, but perhaps merely a provider (something he is unable to be in the current situation).

In his home, we met his beautiful wife and incredible children. They let us into their lives and their homes. He showed us how he makes mosaics–although he doesn’t do much art these days. His kids showed us an uncle’s soap art and one little girl named Shukraan (arabic for ‘thank you’–as hers was a difficult birth) wouldn’t let go of my hand. She clung tightly to it for as long as I would allow her.

It was a gift.

As we were leaving, after many hugs and kisses and shakes and shukrans, the father thanked us. He said our visit gave him the possibility of making art again. He felt inspired.

So did I.