10
Girl plays hopscotch while holding baby brother. Shatila Palestinian Refugee Camp, Beirut, Lebanon. 2012.
It started with a question.
“If money wasn’t an issue or if you had no restrictions...what would you do if you could do anything?”
A dear friend, much older and wiser than me, asked the question. At a point in my life, I had a decision to make. I had recently transitioned from Beirut back to Denver. I was heartbroken by my experience working with marginalized groups and asking some tough questions about the morality of aid work. I had no idea of what I was going to do with my life.
I blurted out, “I would partner and support Palestinian NGOs in refugee camps across the Middle East. I would also educate Americans about Palestinian refugees.”
He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Well, do it. What’s stopping you?”
The simple answer was me.
After five years in Beirut, two wars, multiple riots, instability, an unsupportive mission organization, a faith shift, broken relationships, and loads of trauma, I couldn’t continue to live there. It was unsustainable. I pride myself on being strong and self-sufficient, but Beirut sent me home with my tail between my legs. I was disillusioned and heartbroken as I watched my dream of serving marginalized communities slip between my fingers. The rose-colored glasses were off, and I saw the underbelly of humanitarian aid. I knew the cost.
The interesting thing about pain is it is an excellent teacher. I learned from the (many) mistakes I made in Beirut that I wanted to do this work differently. I was (and am) concerned with the structure of international aid organizations. Most times, it is about THEIR work, THEIR name, and THEIR territory. I found a tinge of colonialism in international organizations. We think that we as first-world countries know what’s best for other communities. They need us and we need them to need us. We set many programs up for communities to rely on foreign aid. I saw little investment or systems put in place that would sustain and grow opportunities for indigenous communities. What I realized is people need opportunities, not dependency. This is much harder and requires a physical and emotional investment.
Another problem is communication by international aid organizations to donors. To promote their work to fundraise, lines are blurred by providing a narrative they can sell. The ends justify the means, stories embellished, photos used without permission, and vulnerable people put on display to make money. And if you’re Christian, you must show how donations are converting people to Christ. As I found, it is very hard to quantify someone’s spiritual life. I firmly believe this should not be a prerequisite for receiving help because, most times, it is.
All of this weighed heavy on me because I didn’t want to take part in what I saw as “being part of the problem.” It didn’t honor the people I was serving. For this reason, I couldn’t work for another international organization. Over the years I spent in refugee camps, I saw many grassroots organizations led by Palestinians doing incredible and hard work. But because they were local, they lacked funding, support, and resources to expand their work. They didn’t have an audience of donors.
To me, the best way to use my own resources would be to support refugees serving their own communities. I took the advice of my friend, got over my self-doubt and pursued a different way to work in Palestinian refugee communities, ways that honored them and felt morally congruent for me.
With the help of so many friends who believed in me, I wrote a mission statement, found a fiscal sponsor, and built a website. I launched Beirut and Beyond on September 1st, 2013. I was excited and scared stiff.
That first year was tough. I lost 80% of my funding from my mission agency to my new nonprofit. Luckily, I had more people who believed in me than who criticized me, of which I had plenty. It was a hard concept to sell, particularly since I had no partnerships in the Middle East yet. The thing is, it was personal. I felt like I knew too much about what daily life for Palestinians was like. As much as people said we were political, I kept it on the Palestinian story. The goal for me was for others to see Palestinian refugees as I do. It wasn’t just about fundraising for me; it was about amplifying the Palestinian refugee narrative.
Looking back on our beginnings, I am humbled by all who took a chance on me. Kathy Escobar and The Refuge hosted the very first Palestinian Refugee Learning Party only a few months after we began. I am grateful for the platform they offered, and they trust they placed in me. John Nordlander’s question to me was the catalyst for Beirut and Beyond. Tracy Trotter, Julie Mihevc, and Cana Wine Bar all hosted fundraising parties. My first Board of Directors was a smorgasbord of talented men, Alex Shegda, John Nordlander, Phil Gazley, Keith Swartley, and Steve Phillips. They put structure and systems in place for Beirut and Beyond. They held me accountable in my original vision, while they encouraged and supported me personally.
Our first donors gave us a foundation to build on.
And we did just that.
10 years later, we have built partnerships with Palestinian led organizations in both Lebanon and Jordan. For the fiscal year of 2022, between the two countries, we have sent over $37,000 to support our partners’ work.
I am honored to support our Palestinian partners on the ground. Over the years, they have provided education, sponsorships, medical aid, immediate response to crisis, emergency services, and employment. Just to name a few. I have seen the impact of their work on their communities. Our partnership with each other means we all take part in the impact.
It’s much harder to build partnerships and relationships. Trust takes time and involves opening yourself up to vulnerability and hurt. But it feels real, you guys. The work feels honest and real.
That’s dignifying for us all.
We’ll be looking back on 10 years of partnership, impact, and connection in 2023. We have so many memories.
Thank you to all our donors, volunteers, and board members. I deeply appreciate you joining a dream I had. Here’s to the next 10!