Why Do They Love Us So?
By Philip Griffith, Habitat for Humanity-Jordan National Director

February 2003

Ironically, it was 911 that inspired me to ask the question of why they love us so. I remember that day well: sitting in front of the television in Amman, watching the horror unfold. The reports of dancing in the streets in the West Bank made me queasy. Later, my Palestinian friend, Magid called and I was stunned to hear his voice consoling me from a place deep in his heart. Although his brother had been languishing for months in an Israeli prison cell without being charged and although America had stood behind the occupation of his homeland for fifty years, Magid had not been overwhelmed by hate. Rather, he had chosen to grab hold of the hope that many Americans had offered him in the course of his life – a critical operation and wheelchair for his disabled son – gifts to supplement his meager salary – respect for his position in a local bakery. There was no trace of “America deserves it,” in his attitude, but only a concern that those who had been living symbols of hope for him would now choose to embrace fear and grow weary of doing good.

By reaching out to me that day Magid confronted me with the ultimate truth that there is no us and them. There is only us. Together we are free to celebrate not if we will live together but how. One of our most important choices is to not let fear narrow our perception. So as we consider our own responses in these dangerous times, let's ask the Spirit to set us free to be who we truly should be. In doing so we will enlarge the choices of others to love us. And as Americans we will have used the personal freedoms we're famous for to do the good for which they love us so.

Through my work with Habitat for Humanity in Jordan, I have been especially inspired to consider how I will live by the testimonies of two women. I want to leave their voices with you. They bring to life the poet Rumi's prescription for living in community with each other: “Beyond right and wrong, there is a field. I will meet you there.”

The first woman is a Jordanian mother and a Habitat homeowner. Her name is Hasna al Barameh and her presence is in our lives day to day.

When the Habitat people came to my house for the first time with the local benevolent society, I never believed they would return. I am a poor widow, why would they come and help me. I had day dreams about what my new rooms might look like, but I wouldn't let myself believe that those people would return and help me. When they came back to my house, I could almost not believe it—they had returned and kept their word. God answered my prayers.

The second voice is that of an American mother and a member of our first international work team. Her name is Barb Chantry and her articulate reflections help Habitat Jordan better understand its role of building bridges between East and West. As I read it again today, I kept thinking how cool it would be if the American military started building houses with women like Hasna. They'd love her. She'd love them.

As I work on a set of wooden forms out in the street next to the house, an old woman slowly shuffles by. “Salaam aleekum,” (peace be with you) I greet her. “Aleekum is-salaam,” she replies, then stops and asks how many children I have. I manage to understand and tell her, in Arabic, tneen, “two”. She raises her hands to the heavens and speaks blessings on my children. I cannot understand the words she is saying, but I am deeply moved by the meaning. We clasp hands and look each other in the eyes. I have no other words to say but “Shukran” (thank you).

Perhaps God communicated to us most through Abdallah, a little boy who spoke neither English nor Arabic; he spoke no language at all. This little 5-year-old, the oldest son of the house and crippled with cerebral palsy, was well cared for by his mother, but spent much of his days lying on a mat in the courtyard with the flies and the chickens for company, shunned and tucked away from the neighbors. Suddenly, with our arrival the yard is full of people and languages and women he doesn't know are picking him up, walking with him, and carrying him around. People smile at him, talk to him, shake his hand, and Um Abdallah watches proudly from a distance as strangers enjoy her son. Gradually the mat gets pulled from the corner of the yard and Abdallah sits among us during the tea break. He is no longer shamed and confined, but accepted by strangers who are accepted by this poor and humble family. Here in this yard amidst concrete blocks, flapping chickens, and an endless parade of dirty children, we realize we are sitting on Holy Ground and all of us are precious children who belong to one God.

Salaam Aleikum!