Reaching for hope
It’s hard to write a ‘humanKIND’ newsletter when we are witnessing daily acts of inhumanity.
I’ve been trying to think what I can offer at this time. This space has always been about our human connection, about how our stories can bring us closer to one another. Perhaps what I can offer is a place of refuge that reminds us of the good side of humanity; a place to share stories that reveal who we are, and can be. A place to gather to dare to hope, as we continue to agitate for peace.
Two stories in particular keep coming to mind. One is about Blanche, a Holocaust survivor who I had the chance to meet a few years ago. The second is perhaps my all-time favorite story, by Naomi Shihab Nye—my go-to when the world feels too dark.
I’m also including an opportunity for us to come together (via Zoom) to cook soup, on World Kindness Day, November 13th. We can nourish our neighbors and those in need in our own communities, even if we can’t feed those suffering on the other side of the world. I’ll end with a beautiful and timely “prayer for mothers”.
Deb and I first met Blanche Porway, 94 at the time, in 2017 in her apartment; I remember it was Rosh Hashanah and we had apples and honey together and sang a Jewish prayer for the new year. We were organizing a KindWorks Inspiration Day on refugee stories throughout U.S. history, and were connected to Blanche, a Holocaust survivor. Blanche lost her father and brother to starvation in the ghettos in Poland. She, her sister, and her mother were sent to Auschwitz. She told us about that day—she was holding on tightly to her mother's hand when the Nazis yanked it away and sent her mother to the gas chamber line. Blanche was ready to give up, but her sister convinced her to persevere so that they could grow up to tell their story.
Blanche shared her story at our Inspiration Day and stunned the audience with her courage, tenacity, resilience, feistiness, and endearing charm. I remember when it was her turn to speak and I went over to help her to the front of the room, she said "I can do it”, did a little shimmy, and walked up on her own. That was Blanche. She had one resounding message that day and she made sure we all heard it: "I've been to hell. But never again. Never never again. It should never happen in this world again."
Blanche passed away about a year later. I was heartbroken. I kept thinking of her smile, of the dance in her step, of how she insisted on reapplying her lipstick before I took her photo, of the joy she exuded after the life she had lived.
Blanche's daughter got in touch with us and said she wanted to donate some of her mom’s furniture to set up a KindWorks refugee apartment. "Mom would have wanted this,” she told us, “she was all about the mitzvah, and she loved you all." We were deeply touched; not just by the gracious gesture, but by the poignancy of furniture from a refugee who arrived in this country more than 70 years ago furnishing the home of a newly arriving refugee family from Afghanistan. As it happened it was Holocaust Remembrance Day the day we transported Blanche's sofa, chair, coffee table, and dishes to an apartment we were setting up for an Afghan family.
It felt poignant that these two refugees' stories—from different times in our history, different countries, different faith traditions, and different circumstances—are forever connected. Blanche’s furniture, and her story of hope, form the foundation for a new family’s life in America.
Blanche was the epitome of humanKIND.
I’m not sure the first time I read this story by Naomi Shihab Nye, but I know I’ve turned to it dozens of times for comfort, solace, and connection. “This is the world I want to live in. The shared world,” is my constant refrain right now.
“Gate A-4” from Honeybee, © 2008 by Naomi Shihab Nye (hear Naomi tell it)
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: "If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately."
Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. "Help," said the flight agent. "Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this."
I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. "Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?" The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, "No, we're fine, you'll get there, just later, who is picking you up? Let's call him."
We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.
And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.
This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
Monday, November 13th is World Kindness Day, and we’ll be doing a special session of KindSoup, via Zoom, 5pm-6pm EST. (We’ve been making KindSoup every Monday for the past four years and have shared nearly 15,000 quarts of soup with people in need.)
My daughter Saanya and her startup Soiree will lead us in making a hearty Moroccan Green Lentil Soup. We’ll tell stories about the kindnesses we’ve received and shared. We’ll share the soup with neighbors going through a hard time and with people at shelters and food banks in our own communities.
It won’t change the world, but I promise you it will calm your soul, nourish your heart, put a smile on those you share your soup with, and remind us of the most important ingredient of life—hope.
I’ll end with a prayer I came across in Suleika Jaouad’s excellent newsletter. It’s called “The Prayer of Mothers”, co-written by Palestinian Sheikha Ibtisam Mahameed and Rabbi Tamar Elad-Appelbaum from Israel, and translated by Amichai Lau-Lavie.
God of Life
Who heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds
May it be your will to hear the prayer of mothers
For you did not create us to kill each other
Nor to live in fear, anger or hatred in your world
But rather you have created us so we can grant permission to one another to sanctify
Your name of Life, your name of Peace in this world.
For these things I weep, my eye, my eye runs down with water
For our children crying at nights,
For parents holding their children with despair and darkness in their hearts
For a gate that is closing, and who will open it before the day has ended?
And with my tears and prayers which I pray
And with the tears of all women who deeply feel the pain of these difficult days
I raise my hands to you please God have mercy on us
Hear our voice that we shall not despair
That we shall see life in each other,
That we shall have mercy for each other,
That we shall have pity on each other,
That we shall hope for each other
And we shall write our lives in the book of Life
For your sake God of Life
Let us choose Life.
For you are Peace, your world is Peace and all that is yours is Peace,
And so shall be your will and let us say Amen.
Sending love my friends, Salma
“Hope is often misunderstood. People tend to think that it is simply passive wishful thinking: I hope something will happen but I’m not going to do anything about it. This is indeed the opposite of real hope, which requires action and engagement.” -- Jane Goodall
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This is newsletter #35. If you know anyone who might enjoy this newsletter, they can subscribe for free here. A few past newsletters:
Flying with chains (Wisdoms from Angelique Kidjo, Sanjay Gupta, Shahidul Alam)
What I learned from my father-in-law
Let go and let God (Yusef Salaam)
Farhan Latif’s wisdom from his dad
Journalist Mehdi Hasan’s wisdom from his dad
A Letter of Gratitude, for my Husband’s Surgeon