What Comes Nextby Jenna (Boote ’09) Kuik

“A, D, C, D.” I wondered if my “student” realized it would be strange if two symbols, B and D, actually had the same sound. “B.” I emphatically pressed my lips together, encouraging her to make the distinctive sound during her first 15 alphabet attempts. Forty-five minutes later, we were still sitting across from each other, quite uncomfortably, in the lobby of the low-income housing complex. We still hadn’t made it to E.

She knew it as well as I did: There was no way she was learning English. Her frustration was surpassed only by my exasperation. We were wasting each other’s time. I kept glancing around, trying to catch the eye of the one Somali translator in the room, but she was nowhere to be found. By now, Hasna and I had exhausted our communication possibilities. She knew her name and her country. Nothing else.

To numb my frustration and amuse myself until the time came to leave, I studied everything about Hasna. She was tiny. Her bright red hijab complemented her deep brown eyes. Her face looked a bit like a dried and wrinkled grape, giving the impression that the mounds of fabric surrounding it were heavier than they should be.

“C, D, d-D, A.” A is for Angry. I am so angry. A site leader brings me a sheet of paper to fill out. Find out her name, her birthday and her family, he tells me. Then give her a test to see how much English she knows. I glance down to see that the first question asks her to identify an E. I unleash my fury on this innocent man. “She doesn’t know E! She’ll never know E! It will take this woman 17 years to learn English!” Hasna smiles. She has no idea what I’m saying.

In a few minutes, the translator finally joins me at the table and asks Hasna some questions. She translates for me: “Hasna, what can we do to help you? Are there things you need—medicine, transportation, food?” Hasna’s appreciation for the familiar language is evident, but she shakes her head and responds tersely. The translator informs me that Hasna won’t talk here—she wants a private meeting. I look down, notice my assignment still lying in front of me on the table, and seize the opportunity to complete it. I direct my questions to the translator.

Name? Hasna Isa. Age? She doesn’t know. Somalis don’t celebrate birthdays. She guesses she is about 75. When did she come to Minnesota? Three years ago. Has she lived anywhere else? Yes, a refugee camp in Kenya. Children? All dead.

I begin to understand the vulnerability required to answer what seemed to me to be a simple questionnaire. Any health concerns? She lifts up her sleeve to show where the bullets went in. Two in her shoulder and one in her elbow. Under the layers of black fabric, the arm hangs limp and useless. I hadn’t noticed.

And suddenly my mind loses itself in the horror of a 70-year-old woman, lying outside in the sand, covered in blood. A. Guns fire and people scream. D. She’s watching her family, her country and her life—watching it all die. “A, D, c-C. C.” See.

I don’t want to look. I can’t handle this. A is to the English language as Hasna is to Somalia. A is a reason to give up. Hasna is a reason not to care. She’s fine without English; I’m fine without the discomfort of knowing people like her exist.

If you’re hoping for a happy ending, I’m sorry. I do believe God is love, and I do believe Jesus died to save Hasna. They say that prayer can lead to miracles—I’m sure that’s true, too. But Hasna’s still at A, and I’m still at Hasna. And for a moment we’re united by a poignant commonality: Neither of us can say what comes next.

Jenna Kuik and her husband, Jon, are students at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, Calif. She wrote this essay in March 2009 after a Spring Service Project trip to Minneapolis to teach and learn from refugees enrolled in S.A.L.T. (Somali Adult Literacy Training), an English language learning program that is part of The Crescent Project.