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            <text>The story of the Syrophoenician Woman from the Gospel of Mark 7:24-30.&#13;
My friend at Sojourners hopes the poem will find a place. I can think of no better place than at Davidson. It represents what was planted on the grounds of  Davidson.</text>
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              <text>Refugees: Covid-19</text>
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          <name>Creator</name>
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              <text>Kemmer Anderson</text>
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              <text>Alumna/us</text>
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              <text>04/15/2020</text>
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              <text>After hearing that President had canceled funding for W.H.O. I checked with a retired doctor-writer on Signal Mountain. He felt like I did, this was an immoral betrayal. After taking part in a phone conference with Amnesty International on Refuges and COVID-19 and listened to the first question about the funding for W.H.O. I wrote a first draft and sent it my classmate Dr. Steve Humphrey ('67) who had just returned from Uganda on a cardiology teaching mission. He said go with it. I wrote another draft with his words "manage on the ground"  Here is the poem:&#13;
Refugees &amp; COVID-19&#13;
Mark 7:24-30&#13;
&#13;
I am the daughter of the Syrian-Phoenician woman,&#13;
The child whom Jesus healed long ago.&#13;
Now we are in a refugee camp. My mother&#13;
Is dying from coronavirus and cannot breathe.&#13;
&#13;
Her fever is high. The virus is like that demon.&#13;
But this time it ravages the lungs unlike the demon&#13;
That tore up my mind with that evil spirit.&#13;
I am looking for Jesus.  No one can help us.&#13;
&#13;
Your President has cut off funding from W.H.O.&#13;
The World Health Organization knows how to manage&#13;
A crisis on the ground: governments lie to their citizens.&#13;
Where is Jesus?  He is nowhere to be found.&#13;
&#13;
Our hospitals have been bombed. We need intensive&#13;
Care, an international rescue. No one will help us: &#13;
All we get is silence. The virus is sweeping the camps.&#13;
We need doctors, masks, gloves, ventilators.&#13;
&#13;
Cramped like cattle in a stockyard, we live in tents.&#13;
Help us. Even the dogs in your humane society&#13;
Eat better than we do on crumbs of foreign aid.&#13;
Your indifference is killing us. Your hearts are ice.&#13;
&#13;
Where does our help come from? Bishops&#13;
Sing God has the whole world in his hands.&#13;
But there are no hands in the refugee camps&#13;
But yours. Are Christians dead? Where is Jesus?&#13;
&#13;
Who can make a vaccine to cast out this evil &#13;
Germ that eats away our lungs like a man dying,&#13;
Heaving breath on a cross from execution?&#13;
Who? Come quickly. People are dying.  &#13;
&#13;
Kemmer Anderson ‘67&#13;
&#13;
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              <text>In my office at 6:30 AM 4/16 after wrestling and planning it out. Since I had published poems and written letters to the editor and rode back from England sitting next to a Syrian-American returning from Damascus, I moved into poem space with talent for justice that I learned from my janitor and friend during the 60's Tam Connor. </text>
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