“I just stopped my father from killing himself. Please help me.”
The call came through at eight in the evening. The man’ voice was trembling, but I could distinguish his Syrian accent clearly.
“There’s something wrong with him,” the man cried. “He tried to jump off the balcony. He has been seeing things that are not there.
“We are so scared, please do something. I was told that you can help.” At that time I was working as a mental health area manager with International Medical Corps in north Lebanon. During those days, the phone never stopped ringing.
I sat with the refugees on the thin mattresses and I removed my shoes before entering out of respect for their makeshift homes. I drank the strong black Arabic coffee that they offered me – it was too strong for me and I had already had a cup in every tent that I had visited that day.
It didn’t matter, though. What mattered to me was showing the refugees that what they had to offer me – even if it was a cup of coffee – was something I would value.
At the end of the day, with these visits behind me, I would often lie in my bed exhausted but unable to fall asleep because of all the different thoughts running through my mind.
Most often it was the thought that no matter how much we were doing, it never seemed to be enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment