Exactly one year ago, I left Istanbul after four wonderful days.  This encounter will always be etched into my memory of that lovely place and its people.

She stood on a grimy street corner in Istanbul. The old shops with dark windows smelled of spice and ancient wood. Narrow sidewalks with broken pavement lined the narrow road where cars parked on both sides, leaving a precarious path for moving traffic. An old city wall careened up a hill toward the historic Blue Mosque, one of the most beautiful sites in Turkey. But this woman, this refugee, possessed none of the airs of grandeur carried by the once proud sultans who trafficked this ancient road with their royal entourages, jewels, silks, and splendor.

She stood there…in a worn dark blue dress that swept the ground as she moved. A long plaid scarf draped her black hair illuminating her pleading dark eyes. A sleeping child, hair plastered against its face with sweat, lay across her outstretched arms his feet dangling on one and his head dangling on the other.“Syria…Syria…” was all she could say as her eyes connected with mine.

She stood there…begging, pleading not just with us as we passed. She pleaded for her home…for her memories…for a life where laughter and food and a bed in which to lay her sleeping child had once been hers.

She stood there…one of the four million refugees who fled their war-torn country. Two million found refuge across the border in Turkey, our closest ally in the region. Within this country 25 camps were created; yet, 1.7 million Syrians are trying to survive on their own scattered among 82 cities. This Muslim country as well as a secular democracy, pledged to provide aid. But the crush of people has put a strain on everything…housing, education, food, medical care. Over half of the refugees are children. Meanwhile in Syria, Assad’s regime has decimated their country. Nothing much is left to go home to.

As the politics of fear and hate fill the echo chamber of around the clock news, two things in particular brought back this moment in Istanbul motivating me to write this piece.

• A gun-toting Nevada Assembly member Nicki Fiore infamously stated earlier this week:

“I am not OK with Syrian refugees. I’m not OK with terrorists. I’m OK with putting them down, blacking them out, just put a piece of brass in their ocular cavity and end their miserable life. I’m good with that.” 

• And then, two days ago, Republican front-runner Donald Trump postured:

“Refugees from Syria “could be ISIS … and by the way, it is turning out that they probably are ISIS,” said Trump in Rock Hill, South Carolina. “There’s so many men, they’re so young, they are very strong. Where are the women? Where are the children?”

We crossed the street and approached her… standing there… far from her home. Curt reached into his pocket and put 50 Turkish lira in her hand. I touched my hand to my heart trying to say with this simple gesture that we saw her and that we hoped to help. Her eyes…and mine…filled with tears. She raised her arms with the dangling sleeping child and looked to the sky hands upraised thanking Allah… and in her own way… she spoke the words that needed no translation for her gratitude to us.

Of all the images during those four days in Istanbul, that particular moment remains the most vivid. Putting a face…her face…on the turmoil in that region made the struggle more real. It became personal. Everything I believe about my country is that America is based on our common decency and that our role in the world is to demonstrate that democracy leads to a better life. It was the grand experiment of our Founders that made America a place of opportunity, a place where anyone can achieve his or her dreams. Our freedom is not threatened when we accept the oppressed, the lost, those “yearning to be free.” We are enriched with this colorful tapestry of cultures and races woven with the bright gold thread of hope.