My first case

I felt sorry for him. He looked unhappy, uncomfortable and stressed. He said something about wanting to work. Putting his hand in his pocket, he brought out a phone, typed a few words and then held it towards me. Google Translate, Arabian to English. I couldn’t read it properly and took it in my hands. “I need to find work. I’m bored of doing nothing.”

His rugged mountain bike stood outside, so I assumed he was an active person, even sporty. “Do you like cycling?” I asked, typing it into Translate. He read the Arabian equivalent. To my astonishment he stood up, pulled up his t-shirt, and showed his bare chest and back. He pointed to scars, back and front. “Pain” he said. I can’t remember what I said, probably something like, “How terrible! How awful!”

I passed his phone back as he pulled his t-shirt back down. It gave me a moment to think what to say next. Before I could speak, Translate came to the rescue. Several short sentences came across the screen. “Bullet wounds. Not all pieces of shrapnel removed. Pain all day and night.”

Perhaps he wanted to talk about it so I asked what had happened. “Soldiers came to my farm, shot all my horses. Tried to shoot me. Nothing left.”

I felt sorry for him. He repeated that he wanted a job, was sick of being at home all day, in his wife’s way, having to take the children to school, having no objective of his own in life.

My gut feeling was to help this man. A colleague said he was a hopeless case, poor language skills, no education, no useful skills in this country. I told her I’d accept the challenge.

Now I’ve met him I’m going to do my utmost to help him find a job.