“Superman, can you fix my country?”

The small, sad voice echoed through the silence. It felt like everything in the room stopped at that moment. 

It was Superhero Week at the Jewish Coalition for New Americans (JCNA) summer camp. The half-day four-week camp provided refugee and immigrant children with a safe, fun and educational environment while their parents took classes in English, job preparation and citizenship at the International Institute of St. Louis. 

On this particular morning, Superman stood in front of the room — 6-foot-5-inch tall, blue bodysuit, billowing red cape, big S on his chest, even the curl on his forehead – ready to answer all of the campers’ most pressing questions. 

Can Superman fly? Yes, but not in this cafeteria, the ceiling is too low. 

Can Superman show us his superstrength? No, Catwoman, standing next to him, is holding a piece of kryptonite, sapping him of his superstrength.  

Can Superman fight bad guys and win? Of course, the toughest of the tough bad guys. 

Superman was acing the children’s questions. Then it came, the question even Superman could not anticipate: 

“Superman, can you fix my country?”

In that moment, the reality of these children’s lives rushed back to us.

This summer marked the second year of the JCNA summer camp. I am a speech-language pathologist and, after extensive involvement in the camp’s inaugural session, I agreed to be volunteer camp director. While the goal of the camp is to expose  campers to typical activities such as arts and crafts, organized games, music and dance, we also included a great deal of cultural learning. 

As I worked with other dedicated volunteers on devising curriculum, scheduling activities and getting the camp set up, I was concerned about how well the campers would understand English-speakers. Would they understand our directives? Would they follow our leadership and behave? What would they be like? Surely, they would be very different from my own daughters when they were that age and from the American children with whom I have worked.  

Camp day arrived, and with it, 65 campers with varying proficiency in English. But as it turned out, I needn’t have worried. They came in with smiles on their faces, ready for anything. 

The language difference, which initially seemed monumental, became rather unimportant as campers and volunteers learned to communicate in a different way. A giant, beaming smile meant “I’m happy to see you,” or “I’m happy to be here,” or even just, “I’m happy you’re here.” A thumbs up or a high-five or a pat on the back meant, “Great job,” and a laugh meant, “You made me feel good, and I like you.” 

Campers and volunteers showed their love of art, dancing, music and play. In doing these things together, we found a common bond. The campers were just children, like our own, with their own personalities, likes and dislikes, and love of a good time.  With all of the camaraderie at camp, it was easy to forget that these children have seen hardships most of us could never fathom. 

Then came that little voice. 

“Can you fix my country?” 

I could not imagine one of my daughters ever asking this question, especially at such a young age. What turmoil must these campers have endured? What had they seen?  

One child spoke about fighting he had seen in his country: soldiers with guns, shooting. Some of these children had lived in refugee camps for long periods. What we have read about in black and white from the comforts of our own homes, they have endured in Technicolor.

So how is it that they now seem amazingly like our own children?  It is to the credit of these youngsters that they are resilient and strong. I can barely comprehend the strength it must take for one to leave her country with children in tow and seek out a better life for her family. 

Yet, many of our ancestors did just that. Our campers are modern versions of the people from whom we are descended. We are the immigrants, plus time. 

When people in our country speak out against immigrants, it makes me wonder how they can so easily forget who they are.  If no one can or will fix their countries, we must welcome them to ours. And if camp makes their lives a little bit happier and better, count me in for next year.

Rhonda Banford is a speech-language pathologist with a private practice, actively involved in Central Reform Congregation’s Tikkun Olam Steering Committee.