Refuge.

The word itself might conjure up a scene from a survival show on TV, where a contestant seeks shelter from an oncoming storm. It is not a word used in common conversation in our society. It connotes an oasis or way station that might not look pretty, but gets the job done. The job? A safe place to rest.

More than one month ago, news outlets shared overwhelming images of people from Afghanistan taking any means they could muster to escape a nation that would soon be ruled by the Taliban. The world watched the gut-wrenching scenes from Kabul that filled TVs and smart phones with intense fervor and emotion.

The United Nations Refugee Agency estimates that 82 million people were/are in desperate need of refuge across the world, and many seek it in the United States. The latest crisis in Afghanistan has exacerbated that need exponentially.

More than 10,000 Afghan families are now in New Jersey, guests who now find themselves in the drawn-out process of getting documentation to then be sent somewhere to build a home and a new life in the U.S., all the while reconciling what has happened to them and their country.

They are shell-shocked, trying to gauge what might be next for their families as they catch glimpses into what U.S. culture looks like. Glimpses, though, can be deceiving, because they do not offer the full picture of what their new reality will be.

The U.S. Catholic Church is at the forefront of assisting people as they begin steps to start new lives. The Center for FaithJustice, a Catholic service and educational nonprofit in Lawrenceville, immediately sought ways to plug in and help. They made it possible for some people to volunteer for a day and let me join the effort in offering some sort of dignity, respite, “refuge” to people whose lives have been turned upside down.

There are so many details and moments that come to mind as I reflect on my limited opportunity to walk with our Afghan guests, but one situation really grabbed my attention. Taking a walk at lunch time, we’d passed four adult men, greeting them with a slight bow of the head and a hand over our heart. Shortly after they walked by, a boy about five years old approached us crying.

We tried to ask what was wrong and, despite the language barrier, he saw our concern and pulled up his sleeve, showing us his upper arm and then pointed at the group of men we had just passed. It seemed to us that he was indicating that someone had squeezed his arm hard, hurting him. Walking with him toward the military barrier the men had passed, I motioned to them, asking in English if one of them was this boy’s father, mentioning that he was hurt.

One man spoke some English and said that they did not know the boy. That’s when we began piecing together what had happened. The boy had had a tussle with one of their sons and, in separating the two, the other boy’s father, one of these four men, had grabbed his arm roughly, hurting him.

The men came over to us, keeping the barrier between us. The other boy’s father showed himself by stepping forward to speak directly with this little boy, still crying. He spoke fast in either Farsi or Pashto, smiling, but seemingly dismissing the child. What was clear is that there was obvious tension.

Then another man offered the boy a bag of potato chips. The child, still crying, took the bag and walked away. I looked at the four men and started to walk slowly after the boy, who disappeared into one of the dormitory buildings. It was a disconcerting scene for me. I was told by a volunteer organizer later during our debrief with staff who had spent a lot of time with the guests, that it was important and good that we had stood with that boy; that the act of doing so gave a glimpse into a part of what U.S. culture should entail for those who would be making their home here. We are called to be people of love who stand with the vulnerable.

What does “refuge” look like for a child? The eyes have always told me a lot. When a child feels insecure or disconnected, it comes through their eyes. The same holds true when they feel connected, safe.

It is hard to say when they will reach that point, these children in donated clothing, some barefoot, some in flip-flops or sneakers or shoes that do not seem to pair well with their daily lives or activities. They are learning vocabulary words: articles of clothing, greetings, colors and numbers, small phrases. And they know the word “line” in English because they spend much of their time in lines; lines formed by people who are not from the same place.

During my day with them, we played Red Light, Green Light, taking advantage of the game to practice the names of colors, as well as the words: stop and go. But the biggest hit was playing Rock, Paper, Scissors, which we turned into a team-building activity using hoola-hoops. I had to break up a lot of fights, mostly over cutting in line. They were kids after all, but kids fresh from a war zone.[[In-content Ad]]I was given a glimpse into another part of the world and another reality. I’d never heard of the language Pashto. “Manana” is the word for thank you. I said it many times that day. I am thankful for my time with them. They will need time to learn what refuge here can mean for them.

How long will it be until these children “feel” the refuge they’ve been offered, when it stops being refuge and becomes home? How long to learn the culture of the United States? Which culture will sink in first, as we have many, and they do not all always get along.

What will the eyes of these children say five years from now?

For my part, I want to be sure that my eyes say welcome and manana.

Matthew Greeley is associate director of the Diocese’s Office of Communications and Media and coordinator of Spanish-language media.