In 2012, I didn’t really know that World Refugee Day was a ‘thing’. It was my first deployment and I hadn’t been working in Yida for very long when I was invited to a planning meeting for the event. Four of us sat around a white plastic table in a thatch-roofed tukal and tried to come up with something we could offer. I don’t think the others had much experience either because when the day came, we were running hours behind and had no plan in place for crowd control or seating arrangements for the sheikhs of honor. The girls from my program had put together a drama, which didn’t go over very well because one of them dressed like a boy and draped her arm over another girl. I thought the sheikhs were going to fall out of their chairs with shock, but somehow everyone recovered and we moved on. The turnout was low and I was glad when it ended.

I’ve hosted 2 more (successful) World Refugee Day events since then, and it turns out to be my favorite day of the year!

This year was a little different because I’ve started working with internally displaced people (IDPs) in Iraq. IDPs don’t get their own day. They get forced out of their homes just like refugees, but without the international fanfare. So today there was no celebration of community, no commemoration of the fallen, and no honor of the women and men, boys and girls who have persevered through so much pain. And more importantly, no looking forward to a more hopeful future, where the displaced return home and lives are restored.

For me, it was like being out of the United States on the 4th of July. You know there are delicious apple pies to be eaten, magical fireworks to be watched, and heroes to remember; just not where you are. You’ve been cheated.

That’s how I’ve been feeling today. Somewhere very nearby, children sang, stories were told, art was displayed, and fierce football matches were won and lost. Communities gathered to acknowledge the hard truth of being displaced, champion resilience, and seek peace.

I’m told that in Basirma Refugee Camp, my old stomping ground, the Syrian refugees came up with the message, “We are refugees; together we are strong.” It was a follow up to last year’s message, “I am a refugee; I am strong.” Thanks to the outstanding refugee leadership and staff from various NGOs, the community has been able to recognize its own strengths and weaknesses and never stops challenging itself to get better. The camp is small and far away from Erbil, meaning it has less access to resources and is a bit neglected compared to the bigger camps. But instead of bemoaning their lack of services, volunteers formed recreational groups for children with disabilities and later started a secondary school, borrowing caravans several hours a day from a local NGO. This is the same community that rallied around the Iraqi IDPs who were displaced last August, taking up a voluntary collection from their own WFP food rations and donating them to displaced Christians and Yezidis. Acting out of compassion despite their own circumstances, they gave selflessly. Neither did they do it for attention. I wouldn’t have even known about it if I hadn’t stumbled upon a towering stockpile of noodles in the community center.

I think about how this community stood with me in October, in the pouring rain, receiving new arrivals from Kobane until 6am in the morning. They formed a human chain, mud up to their calves, passing babies from person to person down a steep and slippery embankment. In the pitch black night, they held the hands of the elderly and the heavily pregnant until everyone reached safety. Young men hoisted suitcase upon suitcase down to the mosque where we squeezed hundreds of people. Hot meals were cooked and eaten by all. Volunteers arranged mattresses and comforted crying children while mothers tried to find pajamas and toothbrushes. Again a collection was taken to provide baby formula for the mothers who were unable to breastfeed.

And then they did it all again the next day.

And the next.

And for several days a week for months after; long after I had stopped coming.

These are the displaced heroes that I know. In a world where 1 out of every 122 persons is displaced, who is the displaced hero that you know? Look around, I bet you’ll find one. And when you do, honor them.

Happy World Refugee Day!