I didn’t know what to expect when we landed in Athens. I knew we were going to be meeting with refugees and hearing their stories, but I did not expect what I saw and heard. For one thing, I may have expected a strong narrative of unbearable suffering that ran through every one of these meetings. A narrative of victimhood and helplessness. A narrative which wanted so badly to be heard and listened to so that it could expose its most tragic and historic aspects to create greater awareness and anger for it. I may have expected helpless, uncontrollable tears rolling down my cheeks in response to harrowing tales of torture, imprisonment, of separation – mother from child, husband from wife, brother from sister.

What happened, instead, has left me incredibly perplexed. I heard the harrowing tales of torture, imprisonment, separation, familial betrayal, the difficulties of escaping a brutal crackdown, and of near-death situations. But an almost unexplainable sense of calm ran through these people as they told their stories. A calm motivated by faith and the belief that God is with the Hizmet, or “service,” Movement and has already manifested His mercy by preserving the movement despite these hardships. These atrocities did not destroy the Movement or break its spirit; they look more united than ever.

The narrative that believers suffer at the hands of unjust oppressors, as many prophets did under the tyranny of various pharaohs, is all too common in the Abrahamic texts. But it is an entirely different experience to physically see and talk with someone who has gone through these kinds of traumatic experiences, who is still in the thick of trying to find a home for themselves and their family, to be able to tell their story while showing the utmost reliance on God’s plan. They were also weary of putting their experiences in the context of other refugees, as they understood that others suffered even more.

I believe that their reliance upon God, and their calm approach to faith in the midst of such turmoil, is real. And the reality is clear for all of us to see and hear. Reading about their stories through an article such as this one, or even hearing them speak on the news, pales in comparison to actually being with them during their greatest hour of need. I feel that my mind is not the same as before. I am not claiming that the refugees, the heroes who were persecuted and driven from their homes for crimes they never committed, are completely okay with their situation. What I am pointing out is that, even in the midst of their losses and suffering, they thank God and are not hopeless.

The hospitality with which they welcome guests is astonishing. Considering the fact that they were refugees, they still took the time to host us and make us feel attended to.

Shaken by trauma, the brothers we spoke to find assurance by making dark jokes about their time in prison, or the difficulties they experienced while crossing over to Greece and other countries. Hours were spent strategizing ways to escape Turkey and flee to other countries or to reunite with family members that had already escaped. Their hopes hinged on the kindness of border police and passport patrol. There was rarely enough time to grieve about a father who might still be suffering in prison, or think about those in prison that were without medical attention, or the difficulty of having to share a single toilet among 50 people at a time. There was rarely enough time to grieve about the discrimination that they endured at the hands of their cruel jailors, who tortured and beat many of them until they went blind. I almost felt ashamed that I did not cry in front of them, however I did not feel that it would be respectful to show my pain in front of them when their suffering had outmatched mine so much more. So I sat there, listening quietly, waiting for their words to unfold into long complicated stories of imprisonment, release, escape, survival (or drowning to death), landing in Greece (or being caught), staying in a refugee camp, and then ending up with fellow refugees from Turkey.

The lessons that this experience taught me are too stark to ignore. It showed me that Hizmet is a movement that brings power into question. Every effort is made to mitigate whatever suffering and loss might come from the jihad of speaking out against injustice. But when it strikes, the experiences of those that are suffering, and have suffered, as a result of doing what is good remind us once again that to be comfortable, and to put all of our eggs in one basket, is not the way to live. We should not just strive to be productive people, and the best citizens we can be, even though this is incredibly important. We should also work within the social sphere to make active change to the way people think, and to the ways in which people oppress themselves and other people. And we must be prepared, as opposed to being scared, for a time in which we might need to make drastic changes to our lives. We might even be forced to do so. To work towards active change does not fit comfortably with people who are happy with oppression. As the common maxim goes, “silence is violence.”

Being as comfortable and privileged as we are in the United Kingdom, we need to remember that, even here, people are suffering. We must stand up for them.

I am still shocked that I had the honor of hearing these most intimate stories. I am also honored that Allah has given me the chance to see what real faith looks like. I say to myself that, if I cry, it should not just be because their suffering is too much to bear (not to say that we should not cry at all about this). But it should be because I have a long way to go to meet their level of faith and commitment to Hizmet and their service to humanity.

“You are a forlorn one in this world
Ergo laugh not but cry o heart!” (Yunus Emre)

Forlorn ones are only a few; a few heroes of the heart, and unknown holy ones. A forlorn person is one who sighs and groans, whose heart burns and aches. A person who is forlorn is beaten and persecuted because of the sublime truths they hold. They face trouble every day, and are threatened by all different kinds of death. They are despised and held in contempt.

Forlorn ones are not necessarily away from country or home, isolated from friends and companions. Forlorn ones are the ones whose societies do not understand them. They are considered odd and scrutinized by those around them. A forlorn one’s supreme ideals and transcendent thoughts are considered strange. They contradict the rules of their society through their willingness to sacrifice personal yearnings for communal good.

The masses forlorn ones run to help persecute them, sometimes exile them, sometimes throw them into prison, and sometimes even threaten them with death. The forlorn ones, however, grapple with these threats every moment, and live to rescue other victims. At times, they challenge dangers like Heraclites. When they can, they rush to put out fires; at the very least they moan like caring mothers. Society never tires of cruelty, and forlorn ones never tire of loyalty!

Mostly, forlorn ones feel alone and separated from their society on material terms, because they cannot establish a permanent dialogue with them. Nevertheless, a feeling of altruism and the thought of living for the sake of others takes over a forlorn one’s entire spirit. This feeling is deep and multidimensional enough to make them forget their separation and loneliness. Despite the fact that they might moan with a feeling of loneliness for a moment, they can be happy and elated with the idealist worlds established in their souls.

Forlorn ones are like the early spring grass. These flowers of the dawn face snow and ice. They undertake a sublime fight against blizzards and thunderstorms, occasionally finding reprieve from the snow and ice.

Yes, forlorn ones running to the light with a thousand joyous shouts in the realms beyond the heavens are just like the snowdrops, showing off under the sun, their dimples and white muslins rising from multicolored snow. They appear before heat warms the land, before the ices melt. Their survival is a hard one; they grapple with hazards defying them, are injured and torn, are devastated and destroyed without even experiencing a breeze of the earthly joys. They go, but their going is brave. They do not go under the earth without a few hyacinths. They die once, but revive twenty times.

Every day, forlorn ones, with a dozen of the most sacred thoughts in their hearts and minds, stand on the gate of society to offer life to the dead ones, and to return the values they lost. They knock on the door a few times, cry out the inspirations of their soul, and then turn back. They are roughed up, scolded and exiled; but they never fear, they never grow tired, and they especially never resent. They always keep their eyes on the spiritual realms and expect tidings of revival every time the sun rises and sets. They are freshly enthusiastic every new day, rushing to every corner to assume responsibilities, and to show the masses the path to Khidr fountain.

Those who understand and sympathize with them achieve eternal existence. Those left apart fade away forever. They have united with Archangel Gabriel and met Khidr fifty times; as the dirt on their feet becomes an elixir of life, the earth beneath them grows very green.

Disbeliefs, heresies, and misguidance melt away like ice under their warm breath, and it is their breath that turns arid places into gardens of paradise.

They always suffer. They are disappointed and bent over double in the face of the varying emotions and thoughts and deteriorating customs of the society that raised them. Nevertheless, they are also faithful, hopeful, and marvelously motivated. Occasionally, they are left alone and unattended, and are insulted by society. Yet, they are always joyful and in peace.

No familiar face like it is empty everywhere;

Roads are curly and slopes are steep:

Suffering, agony; cry, groan and there is the path!

How sweet is this path despite everything, and how pleasant it is to be forlorn!

All sorts of sorrow and sadness are apparent in the broken hearts and misty looks of the forlorn ones. With their groans and sighs, they remind us, respectively, of Prophet Adam and Prophet David, peace be upon them. Because they are reproached and are far away from home, they say, “Now that I am left apart from the beautiful ones, I say woe, my longing!” They groan, and yearningly await the moment of reunion, the moment when they will become a constant companion with the Beloved One. They wait, and reach a distinct union and zeal in every moment with the winds blowing from the city of mercy to the longing hearts. And if they find familiar hearts to discharge the intuitions of their spirit into, they let themselves go, turning into a waterfall. The forlorn ones never demonstrate sorrow, even if their wealth is looted and their family perishes on this path they took with love. As they see that the light they’ve spread amongst the spirit of their people is shining, the forlorn ones soar to infinity singing “O friend!” with the delight of the heavens!

A thousand heralds of good news to the forlorn ones! A thousand glad tidings to those breathing hope and fulfillment, forgetting their personal pleasures and tastes for the welfare and happiness of the public in a period of anarchy and turmoil that terrorizes everyone!

And there are also forlorn ones – in other words, the poor in character – who become estranged from their own people and their own culture in their own country, and they are very similar to the former ones with their sorrow and misery. But they are slovenly, wretched, hopeless and unenlightened. More than anything, they are lackluster and debilitated in their heartfelt and spiritual lives. Their days are darker than their nights; their nights remind of the grave. These miserable ones, their spirits torn by numerous paradoxes and deprived of a root and a personality, almost forget what it is like to be human. Questions arising from their minds and afflicting their souls make it impossible for them to benefit from the joys of this life – in fact making it even more miserable. They are dark inside; their thoughts are foggy; their eyes are misty. The questions they endlessly puzzle over remind us of one stuck in hell. Would you call this experience a “life”? But because they think of death as final, they have no choice but to prefer this life comprised only of hesitation and doubt.

For them, life is torment; being a human is another misfortune; death is a maelstrom, a black hole; existence is chaos, and the only way to avoid pain is intoxication.

How unfortunate this way of thinking is and those miserable ones are! Have pity on these kinds of forlorn ones!

instead of a picture, multiplication table adorns my kitchen wall.

I have 8 arms like an octopus reaching in every direction.

Nobody can worry as much as I do.

There is always some stain on my clothes that detergent won’t remove.

I am a mother,

my notebook has dinosaurs drawn on it

the wall of my bedroom a little artist’s exhibition.

Me and my cell phone fall apart too often.

I lose my keys every other day.

I am a mother

and a pediatrician though I never went to medical school.

I play the cook, the nurse, the teacher, the driver, the singer

selfless like the rain, the earth, the sun.

I am a mother,

small things make me cry for joy.

like little notes that say “luv mom”

or sketched portrait with ugly teeth and fuzzy hair,

every line reflecting admiration and care.

I am a mother,

my heart deep and vast like an ocean.

I am a mother,

paradise lies under my feet.

Mirkena Ozer pursues MA in creative writing at the University of Georgia, Atlanta.

The nightingale sings in gardens secluded.

Each of its tunes sounds like the whistling wind

To those seen as foreigners in their native land.

It cries, like my ceaseless wails and laments,

Each resonates, high and low through the slopes

It bemoans all night until the sun rises,

Each breath comes out as a burning sigh.

On virgin trees untouched by man’s hand

It groans unceasingly for a lifetime,

And shed tears, full of grief; but who is there

To appreciate it, to sympathize with its pains?