A tourist cycling through Europe finds the strength of his convictions in the middle of the Syrian refugee crisis.
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During breakfast in Innsbruck, an American woman leaned over to chat. Lamenting a canceled flight, she lowered her voice and said conspiratorially, “We drove down from Hamburg instead of taking the train because of, you know, all the Syrian refugees.”
Meanwhile, this lady from Virginia sat next to her starched-shirt professor husband and followed up her bigoted statement with, “Thank goodness the pool here is clean.”
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I didn’t counter her comment. Later, however, I couldn’t stop thinking that I should have questioned the statement instead of avoiding confrontation and burying my voice.
I didn’t tell this woman that my wife and I had recently spent hours reading about the conflict in Syria. Or that we’d researched relief organizations and were detouring to Salzburg in the midst of our three – five month European bicycle tour with hopes of assisting the waves of refugees arriving via train from Hungary en route to Germany.
Why do people speak of others the way she did? The refugees leaving their homeland are humans fleeing civil war, taking only a couple bags of possessions. Meanwhile, this lady from Virginia sat next to her starched-shirt professor husband and followed up her bigoted statement with, “Thank goodness the pool here is clean.”
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Three days later as we pedaled our way toward Salzburg, we noticed a line of cars at the German/Austrian border. We learned that Germany, bucking convention, may accept 800,000 refugees by the end of the year (in comparison, the U.S. may take up to 100,000 by 2017.) Now, German services were overwhelmed and Germany, along with other European countries, had shut its borders, even going so far as to pause train service from Salzburg to Munich.
Parents mostly sat dully, perhaps storing their energy for the next rush to the train and a fresh chance to rebuild their lives.
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Cut to the scene in the Salzburg train station. Tired families rested on any available surface; meanwhile, police officers blocked the train platforms. Then a rush of people flowed by, mothers towing wide-eyed kids, fathers herding their family through the melee. A train was leaving (I’m not sure why) and the wall of police politely, but firmly, allowed individual families through. One group at a time climbed the stairs to board a train west.
We talked to a volunteer named Tom who was providing coffee and tea for people. “The refugees live on rumors; they hear a train is coming, so they run to the platform. No train. Then one comes while they’re sleeping. There’s no rest, no ease.”
Tom ushered us past the police barricades and down into an underground parking garage, the temporary home for hundreds of refugees who slept on folding cots, though those had run out. As unaffiliated volunteers, my wife and I helped out as we could.
I grabbed piles of thin blankets to serve as beds and laid them on the cold, dirty concrete of the garage. At the same time, I studied the refugee families coping with their situation. Teenagers in hip jeans flipped through their phones. Kids played with balloons or ran around, lost in their imagination; their drawings festooned a concrete pillar repurposed as an art wall. Parents mostly sat dully, perhaps storing their energy for the next rush to the train and a fresh chance to rebuild their lives.
We returned the next day. I kicked around a soccer ball with a tireless kid, then spoke at length with a few refugees. An Iranian man, a sound engineer, had fled home and walked for days to escape persecution for being a Christian. He was considering striking out on foot for the German border and asked us if we thought it was possible to cross.
Another man, a young Syrian named Muhammad, paid 2,000 Euros for a ship to Greece, then shelled out many bribes to navigate Serbia and Hungary over a 20 day trip. He aimed to make it to Belgium or England, though he wore a red sweatshirt emblazoned with the American stars and stripes. “I love America!” he said, showing me his phone’s red, white and blue case.
My thoughts returned to the breakfast conversation with the American woman in Innsbruck.
Not voicing an opinion can unwittingly condone actions or allow the speaker of hateful comments to believe their thoughts are held by everyone else.
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I’ve encountered conversations like this too many times. The short (but unreal) discussion with a stranger in rural Oregon who ranted about “the BLM and their damn dykes” comes to mind. Or the man in Upstate New York who loathed gun control because he wanted to be able to shoot his cannon.
Usually I slip into a friendly, aloof stance and excuse myself quickly. This latest chat, while relatively benign, reminds me that sticking up for others who are victims of hate and ignorance is necessary.
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Dishonesty can wield the sword of an outright lie, but it can also fester in the silence of a truth unsaid. Not voicing an opinion can unwittingly condone actions or allow the speaker of hateful comments to believe their thoughts are held by everyone else. I’ve pondered this deeply since reading Sam Harris’s essay Lying, and Martin Luther King’s brilliant quote comes to mind: “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
Breathing the diesel fumes wafting through the underground shelter, I made a resolution. No more will I stand with a fake smile on my face while someone spouts hate or bigotry. It’s time to engage in a respectful, firm way, to tell my side of the story and share my opinion.
The experience won’t always be comfortable, and awkward moments will surface as I practice this skill. But I’m hopeful that Oscar Wilde was correct when he penned, “There comes a time when speaking one’s mind ceases to be a moral duty, it becomes a pleasure.”
Previously published at TraipsingAbout.com.
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Photo: Getty Images
I love this piece, esp this line “Dishonesty can wield the sword of an outright lie, but it can also fester in the silence of a truth unsaid. ” I’ve always been one to speak my mind, especially when i was younger, but I think I’ve become more polite as I’ve “matured,” and maybe that’s not okay. I think true maturation is being able to voice your truth in a way that isn’t antagonistic, which is probably how I came off a lot in my early twenties, but rather firm and compassionate.