Music is my medicine
It heals my aching body
Soothes my shattered heart
helps my soul to fly…
Dance is my muse, makes my unheard voice seen,
Gives my pain wings, gives me back my identity.
The joy of singing
My exultation to the heavens above,
Lets my spirit soar & reminds me of who I am
When I sing my ancestor song.
There are too few words to truly express how I feel
So I shape my being into these gifts of art
& share my hope-filled love
Through my message drummed into the earth –
I want my life
I want my love
I want my heart
I want my home

Inspired by the stories of Iraqi refugees

These are just some of the sentiments that we have gathered from the many stories shared with us from the Iraqi refugee families that we have met.  All of them have been poignant.  All painful.  All waiting…hoping…wishing for home – to start life again in a place that offers the promise of peace & tranquility as well as a means to care for themselves and their families – if they still have one.

Yet through these stifled voices, I heard most loudly the deafening silence from the children.  The ones that are seen but never heard.  The ones often asked, no required, to forego school either because they need to work to bring home money for the family, or because they must remain in hiding so that they would not be found, kidnapped, and persecuted again.

It was the speechless, somber children that met me at the start of each and every workshop I gave, their large beautiful eyes staring and wondering who this new person was with the strange clothes and curious hair…but gratefully, they gave me a chance – and their silence quickly turned to cacophonous song and belly-filled laughter through the universal therapeutic heart-opening power and blessing of music, dance, play & song.

These beautiful souls just starting out on this life journey – all of whom have seen and heard atrocities I cannot even begin to imagine – these are the ones that slowly began to smile from ear to ear as they merrily played the drum with me, giggled when we danced the hokey pokey, and cackled uproariously when we tried with all of our might to learn from them how to say drum, shaker, bells, eggplant, & pumpkin in Arabic.

These sweet little ones are the key to keeping this culture alive.  They are the ones that hold the delicate thread of their ancestry, their traditions, and their culture, and although many of them have yet to receive these gifts because it is too painful for their parents to recount, they still carry the desire to play, laugh, learn, & mostly – LOVE.

As our music & dance workshop with the kids at the health clinic came to a close today, I heard them continuing to sing the songs that they had learned with eager ease. All of the parents and the clinic social workers were amazed at the way that all of them stayed so attentive and  joyful – particularly one child in a wheelchair, who normally remains disengaged due to his physical condition, but bounced and rocked with glee today as we all danced around him, gave him instruments to play, and included him in the fun.

All in all, to quote my colleague Eduardo Vargas, one of the co-directors of this trip, “No matter what else happens today, the smiles alone on the faces of these children, makes it a mighty fine day”.

Never truer words were spoken.  Shukran.