Giving in a time of war
By Mark Peterson, Executive Director, Bridgeway Foundation

I walk through many hotels in developing nations throughout the year.  But this one was unlike any other.  It had the expansive lobby, the marble floors, and the exotic lunchtime buffet.  But the best hotel in this country was literally an armed fort. 

Crossing the threshold of the hotel in the centre of the capital meant sniffer dogs and soldiers with machine guns, metal detectors, full body frisks, and mirrors on long poles scouring the bottoms of vehicles for car bombs.

It was my first time in a war zone.  In the middle of the chaos: a seemingly tranquil five star hotel making do with brownouts, lockdowns, and army generals convening in the conference rooms.  I gazed out my window and saw soldiers from Turkey and the United States and Spain mobilizing in the courtyard. 

That night I couldn’t sleep – at 3 am I was wired, my body clock complaining, my stomach growling for mealtime several time zones away.  To avoid waking my roommate, I found myself in the lobby with book in hand.  It was a dark, lonely night.

Opening my book and settling into the couch, I felt a pair of eyes gazing at me.  The feeling of being watched persisted as I read.  By page four I was fed up; I looked up and locked gazes with the night clerk.  He offered a shy smile, “Can I bring you hot tea?”  I nodded my agreement.

Rather than sit on the lobby sofa in my bubble of privacy, I stood to drink my tea at the reception desk.  I began to talk to a young man I’ll call Mohammed.  An hour sped by; we covered language, politics, the role of women, the war, family and work, and the loves of our lives.  And then, once I realized I had a full day of meetings beginning in a few hours, made a half-hearted attempt at leaving and said goodnight.   As I left, Mohammed’s question hung in the air: “Will you come back tomorrow night?”

That week I burned the candle at both ends: working during the day and witnessing poverty and the stresses of wartime, and midnight conversations gulping down hot tea at the reception desk.  In this part of the world, they say that drinking three cups of tea is about building relationships: on the first cup, you’re a stranger; on the second cup, you’re an acquaintance; and on the third cup, you’re family.  And so it came to be with Mohammed.

I remember my conscious decision to pass the point of no return.  This was the point where I knew that to drink another cup, to stay up one more night, would mean that I was communicating friendship, and more than that, commitment.  I understood that given the grinding poverty of the nation, the size of his family, and the severity of the war, that my willingness to sustain a far-flung relationship was a lifeline, a silvery thread of hope that would require more from me than other relationships I had.  It would need to lead to an investment of my time and money, patience and exceptional cross-cultural understanding.  It was not a friendship to enter into lightly.  But I took the plunge and returned home having a new friend — one sustained through the internet and cell phones, and shared with my family.

It didn’t take long to get intense.  Two months after my three cups of tea, suicide bombers attacked the hotel with guns and bombs.  Mohammed’s colleague – the one who was standing next to him at the front desk – was killed; Mohammed was spared, falling to the ground and playing dead.  Fundamentalists began texting him threatening messages, and anonymous letters began to be posted at the front door of his family home. 

Since then, his workplace has been attacked two other times by rockets aiming for international headlines.

Yet Mohammed perseveres at his risky work, earning money as the main breadwinner for a family of eight – son of a crippled father and several children in the mix of extended relatives supported in the home.

Drinking three cups of tea linked me to a world teetering on the edge of a yawning chasm.  Our friendship helped me move from a two-dimensional understanding to a broader appreciation for the complexities behind the daily news ticker.  For example, I could never support the wearing of a burqa.  But he offered a thought: in his culture, it cloaks and protects the woman from other forms of abuse common in the culture.  I still don’t agree, but Mohammed offered me the gift of an alternate perspective.

When I look at the tasks and concerns that fill my day, and my blackberry buzzes with a text message from Mohammed, I say a prayer of thanks for him before keying him back.  Over the past two years, our frequent text messages and “missed” cellphone calls (too expensive to answer), facebook chats and longer emails are not an interruption in my day.  I’ve been challenged to view them as God’s intervention, an angelic message to help me understand my urgent priorities are not as important as I think they should be.  They are a door that opens to a world that needs reaching out and kindness expressed.  It’s only through small, caring, consistent actions by individuals that our world can be healed.

My monthly visits to Western Union wire the value of a restaurant meal for two to allow him the opportunity to study off-hours at a vocational school.  He is upgrading his skills with the hope of a better paying job in the future.  In fifteen short minutes he can pick up the funds on the other side of the planet!  What is a frivolity for me is miraculously transformed into substantial educational development for him, and deeply appreciated.

The gift of this relationship to me is that I have allowed someone else into my heart.  I have made myself vulnerable, and find joy in bridging the gap between west and east.  Giving is no longer draining, but becomes enriching. 

Giving as a transaction is easy.  Flip a loonie in an outstretched Tim Horton’s cup.  Sign up for automatic monthly deductions for the kid on your fridge.  Fill in the online form with user ID and password, and click ‘donate’.  Each of these acts of kindness is a good thing and we must do more. 

But better yet is the sort of giving that offers the hope of transformation for both giver and receiver.  It requires making oneself vulnerable and open to being hurt.  It is risky, and full of potential misunderstanding; the relationships we sustain are complicated and frequently messy.   Transformational giving calls us to a deeper level of commitment and grace with others.  It challenges us to rethink our notions of who gives and who receives; it’s not only about exchanging cash.  For in my relationship with Mohammed, I find that I receive as much as I’m giving.

Mark Petersen is the Executive Director of Bridgeway Foundation, based in Cambridge, Ontario.   This private grantmaking foundation’s mission is to stimulate innovation within the social sector and strengthen organizations’ capacities to serve in Canada and the world. He is also the author of a blog on faith and philanthropy entitled Open Hands.