LIZA by Klara Dannar

I prepared for my first visit to the refugee camp in Ghana by reading and talking with friends who had been there before. I meditated on the obvious contrasts: my life of comfort and privilege vs endless loss, hunger and discrimination.

My family had received so much, from so many, two years before when my father and sister both died of cancer. Friends and strangers carried us through that heart-breaking time. It was impossible to thank them all, so I embraced the decision to go to Ghana as an opportunity to give something back; in a way I believed my father and sister would have embraced.

It surprised me that I was going on a church mission trip. I had avoided organized religion since high school. As a perpetual spiritual seeker I had experimented with Buddhist meditation, Native American ceremonies, Sufi dancing and just about every other group I could test drive from the sidelines. A year before, in the darkness of grief, I started attending a small rural Christian church near me. I cautiously checked the waters by volunteering to be the parish nurse for the congregation and assisted members with health concerns.

I was comfortable in the caregiving role and looked forward to working in the refugee camp clinic. I met Liza my first day in Ghana. That evening, we were alone when she looked into my eyes, then away, while she held both my hands.

“I only opened the door,” she said quietly. “The rebels stormed in. They killed my father, and raped and captured my mother in front of all of her six children. As the oldest, I gathered my sisters and brothers and fled. Later we returned home. When I was out foraging for food, the house was torched. All of my siblings died. I was captured. I was a young girl, not familiar with the ways of men. I was raped repeatedly, until I lost consciousness. I awoke later with my vagina filled with salt to stop the bleeding. Soon I realized I was pregnant and escaped and fled to this camp.”

She released my hands. I remember repeating, “I am so sorry….so sorry…”

The next morning Liza led the morning prayer. In a clear, confident voice, she began, “I am so grateful for my life, for my opportunity to be of service to others, for the richness of my many blessings.”

I had imagined the refugee camp as an opportunity to give back, but by the morning of the second day it was clear everything had shifted. It was no longer possible to stay on the fringes of a belief system, or to continue to hide behind the secure role of caregiver. I listened in silence and contemplated the contrasts in our lives, and in our reactions to grief and loss.

I had been launched on a personal spiritual pilgrimage that would challenge me look deeply into my own soul.