There is no greater reward than working from your heart and making a difference in the world.
~Carlos Santana
When my 14-year-old daughter Ellie lamented that she’d “only ever lived in one bedroom,” I mentioned it to my wife, Jane. She responded, “Isn’t she lucky to have a stable family?” But something else rocketed through my mind: Let’s chart a new course.
Ellie sparked a fire in me. iPhones, Whole Foods and fancy soccer teams were not the be all and end all. I quit my comfy Creative Director job in San Francisco, and Jane and I began to design an adventure. She suggested that if we were going to embark on something new, we should do community service everywhere we went.
Jane is Greek, so Greece became our first destination. She found an NGO — Yoga and Sport for Refugees (YSFR) — on the island of Lesvos. They were looking for a running coach. And since I run, they wondered if I might help out. Our stay in Greece matched their needs, so we committed instantly.
Soon after we arrived on Lesvos, we met YSFR’s founder, Estelle Jean, at a coffee shop. A new yoga volunteer, Maria Clare, from Argentina, was with her. After a few minutes, Estelle excused herself to go and say goodbye to a refugee heading to Athens. It dawned on me that Estelle’s relationship with each refugee was personal. She needed to give a hug and wish the refugee safe travels.
My commitment to Estelle was to coach running on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I didn’t know what to expect the day of that first track workout. I’m a distance runner — slow, steady and long. I am no track guy. Estelle led us in stretching and warm-ups, and I relished the sweat above my brow. By the end of our session, I knew these young athletes didn’t care if I was slow or fast. What they wanted was someone to spend time with them, someone to lead them, someone they could count on.
With each passing lap, more young refugees arrived, some in flip-flops, most in jeans. Eventually, Estelle needed to turn people away. We didn’t have enough running shoes, shorts or socks to share. I caught my breath. I just couldn’t accept that some guys had to sit out because they had no shoes. We needed running gear — immediately. I whispered to Jane, “These guys only have what’s on their backs. It’s not right.”
I wrote a fundraising video script. Within days, and with generous help from VidMob Gives, our family recorded, edited and posted a call for help on social media. Our goal? Raise $10,000 in two weeks. We hit our goal in six days. Within two weeks, we neared $20,000. Boom!
We bought running shoes, shirts, socks, water bottles and more. Our new friends received things that we take for granted. Even more importantly, they were accorded dignity and respect. And they had a spot on the track. Slowly, we were building a band of brothers who ran for the sense of belonging. They were a part of something good.
As my days with these wonderful men piled up, my heart melted. I learned about their lives, where they came from, and the miles they’d walked. I heard about the trucks, boats, and rafts that brought them to Lesvos. I heard about dead brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers, and about people who lived for two years in a bombed-out stadium. One young man was subjected to carrying rocks in a quarry when he was just eleven years old. Early on, my family and I fell in love with this young man, Majid, a soft-spoken, warm-hearted teen from Afghanistan. Something about his presence lifted us. He was kind, gentle, and appreciated everything. Most of all, he gave us purpose and sowed seeds of affection and love.
We saw Majid often at the track, on the trails, and across the dinner table. Although we didn’t share a language, our communication was crystal clear. He became the big brother my girls didn’t have. He was their protector, superhero and inspiration. I took him to doctors’ appointments, bought him a watch and, at training, pushed him to run harder and faster. Jane cooked for him, doted on him and encouraged him to study English. As he let go of some of his innate caution, he accepted our love. For our part, his tenderness, humility and vulnerability were palpable. He’d been dealt a tough hand, and we accepted him for who he was and respected him for all that he’d endured.
The days passed quickly. Our time with Majid, Estelle, Maria Clare and all the guys was coming to an end. At dinner on our last night on Lesvos, we celebrated a cherished month together. We laughed, cried and hugged. We promised that this would not be the end but a beginning. We were family now, and family doesn’t let space and time erode it.
To our astonishment, Majid, Estelle and Maria Clare were there to say one final goodbye when we got to the Lesvos airport. Tears, photos and hugs were exchanged.
As we were going through security, I was told, “Your knife’s blade is too long. Drop it here or go back out and stick it in your checked bag.”
Damn! My knife was always with me. On long runs — 50 to 100 miles — I used it to pop blisters, carve off unwanted pieces of skin or make alterations to my clothes. My dad gave me a similar knife when I was a boy. With a lump in my throat, I ran back and searched for Majid. I found him outside peering through a frosted window at our gate. Since I didn’t speak Dari, I asked Estelle to translate. “Tell Majid I love him, and I want him to have my knife — forever. May it always keep him safe.”
She replied, “No, you do it.”
I turned to Majid, looked him in the eyes and held out my hand. Without saying a word, he took the knife gently from my palm and closed his fingers around it. Words were not needed.
— Burr Purnell —