Colin is the American director of the Jesuit Center for Refugees where I teach Iraqis once a week.  The first day I met him, he was telling me about this house full of Sudanese guys he had met that he really wanted to start something with.  They couldn’t come to the school in the afternoons because they go out to look for day labor jobs, but they were interested in learning very beginning English, maybe some type of night class. I expressed a strong desire to get involved, and went back to the subject later in our conversation.  I asked what it would take to get something going with these guys, and he turned to me and said, “you.” I laughed and asked if he was kidding and he replied, “only kind of.  You know, if you want something done here, you just have to do it, that’s how it works.” So, I’m doing it. Today, Colin, myself, and my flatmate Hannah went to the residence of 25 Darfur refugees, basically just to say hi. One of the guys does go to the Jesuit school so he knows a little more English than the rest and speaks pretty good Arabic.  He welcomed us in and we shook hands all around.  The house is owned by a very nice man who has been in Jordan for 20 years now and started helping friends and family back home in Sudan.  It has three small rooms, most of which just have mattresses laid out on the floor.  Just inside the front door there is a small sink with a cup that held somewhere around 20 toothbrushes and a shoe rack with probably around 25 pairs of shoes.  They produced three chairs, Hannah and I each sat in one; Colin joined the rest of the men in the circle on the floor.  What unfolded next was perhaps a bit awkward, but in some ways much more natural than any sort of small talk or niceties that would’ve happened had we spoken any of the same languages.  We all said our names, I asked how long each man had been here.  Hannah asked if they spoke English and if they wanted to learn.  No, definitely did not speak it, yes definitely wanted to learn. We laughed a little, I learned the Sudanese numbers and said them in English as well. Things took a turn for the sad when we were shown into a small bedroom where a small boy was lying in bed.  They had been in a bad car accident, his mother had died and the boy now had a broken pelvis. His father was taking care of him from here in the house.  We were then served mango juice, given candies, and started talking business.  We will go to teach them twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  The owner of the house gave them a lecture in Arabic (which I understood!) about the severe consequences that would happen if we were ever given any trouble.  Even still, I think we will be adding a male volunteer to our teaching brigade for good measure.  The whole thing was a lesson in great humility and great appreciation for what I have, and even more than that I am excited to get to know these people, start to share a language and just time in the week.  I like that I get to go to their house, that there are no teaching materials other than what we procure, and that I feel like we are meeting a need not yet met by anyone.  Grassroots at its finest.  No official NGO work, no dumb title, no bureaucracy, no money, no nothing, just a house full of guys who asked to learn English, and a couple of native speakers who can help teach, and want to get to know people with a completely different life experience.  I am one million percent sure that I will learn more about life than they will English, but if they think they are getting a good deal, I won’t spoil it.  We left the house after about an hour and a half, and as Abu Salaam walked us out he was saying, “people are very happy today!” And I whole heartedly agreed.