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Ankara, Turkey had thousands of refugees that Christmas season. There were refugees from both sides of the Iran-Iraq war. There were Iraqis who had fled from the bombing during the Gulf War. There were Kurds fleeing from abuse at the hands of Saddam Hussein. There were Sri Lankans who had fled to Kuwait to escape from Sri Lanka's civil war, only to flee again when Iraq attacked Kuwait.
Mahmood and Layla had a double reason for seeking refuge. Layla was a Kurd. Mahmood was an Iraqi journalist whose reporting had been critical of Saddam. The dictator had killed his mother and brother.
The refugees stood forlornly in line at the United Nations office seeking official refugee status. That status provided a small allowance from the UN, their "salary" as the refugees called it. It was also the necessary first step towards finding a country where they could establish a new home.
My wife and I walked and slid down the steep, muddy path to the house, carrying our gifts. Shopping for those who have nothing is easy--fruit, nuts and cheese are treasures. The door opened into a tiny, dark room that served both as a closet for coats and boots and as the kitchen. The only other room had no furniture. Blankets spread on the floor served as beds at night and sofas during the day. There was a small wood-burning stove in the corner, with no wood. It was obvious the friend whom Mahmood called "The man of fuel" had not visited them recently. The weather outside was fairly mild for December; the same temperature inside felt frigid. We were fortunate this visit was on a dry day. In a heavy rain, water leaked through the roof and seeped up through the floor. Mahmood, Layla and their three boys--the oldest about 10--shared this one room. Layla was pregnant.
The only source of heat was a single electric element on which a kettle boiled cheerfully. Layla spread a plastic tablecloth on the floor. She served us hot, sweet tea with some of the treats we had brought for the family. Even desperate poverty must not interfere with traditional Middle Eastern hospitality.
Mahmood and Layla talked about the things that concerned all the refugees. They talked of hopeful rumours of an embassy that was sympathetic to the refugees. There were disappointments at refusals, and frustrations with delays. Layla worried about the impact this sort of living was having on the boys. As refugees, they had few legal protections against abuse.
There was also something special about the conversation in this home. Several times during their troubles, Christians had helped them. Mahmood and Layla were attracted by their love and had come to believe in Jesus. They knew very little about their new faith. They were refreshingly eager for Bible reading and prayer.
By the end of tea-time, we realized how terribly cold the house would be during the night. I walked with Mahmood to the nearest wood-seller. We were too late; the shop was closed. I gave Mahmood the equivalent of a few dollars to buy wood in the morning. There was no way to make the family more comfortable for the night.
We said goodbye to the family and walked back along the winding streets to find a taxi. Our apartment was comfortably heated and decorated for Christmas. The contrast between the two homes was shocking. In their poverty, Mahmood, Layla and their boys had the more realistic Christmas. Conditions in the stable where Jesus was born may not have been much different from the tiny house we had just left. Our visit had given us a new appreciation of the price Jesus paid to be born on earth.
George and Emmeline Bush live in Bedford, N.S. and are members of Gateway Community Church. The events in this story occurred in 1992, when George was teaching computer science at a university in Ankara. The names of the refugee couple have been changed to "Mahmood and Layla" for their protection; they were later accepted for immigration to Australia.
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