Beautiful Things Hunter Biden (children's books read aloud txt) 📖

met was appreciative and energetic and incredibly generous with one another. Amid all that loss, it turned out to be one of the most inspiring trips I’d taken to a place where people had just experienced their darkest moment. Their hope and perseverance were infectious.

More common was the kind of heartbreak prevalent during a visit in 2011 to the Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya, near Somalia. More than 200,000 refugees and asylum seekers had fled drought, famine, and conflict to settle at a complex set in the middle of a semi-arid outback. It is the third-largest such encampment in the world.

Starvation and malnutrition were inescapable. Mothers told me harrowing accounts of crossing the Somali desert with five children and arriving in Dadaab with only two—the others were killed by lions. Established in 1991 in response to what relief workers hoped would be a temporary crisis, the camp now spanned generations.

The stark realization of what it’s like to exist as a stateless person—with nowhere to return to, no community to live in beyond the camp’s perimeter, being dependent on governments with no direct interest in your fate or freedom—was disturbing on an almost fathomless level.

My trip to the Middle East had its own challenges. I landed there battling my grief, my alcoholism, and my knowledge that I was advocating for people whose stakes were, at base, life-and-death.

Accompanied by Rick Leach, CEO of World Food Program USA, and fellow board member and former Secretary of Agriculture Dan Glickman, I arrived at the royal palace in Amman at the end of our six-day mission.

We had come from Beirut, where we’d spent most of each day driving through tense neighborhoods to meet with the prime minister, a UN-appointed administrator, and other players and actors with that chaotic government feeling the enormous economic and social pressure caused by the influx of a million-plus Syrians. We discussed the WFP’s push for more assistance through an electronic debit card system that would benefit both refugees and the deteriorating local economy. There were a lot of moving parts and competing agendas; discussions were arduous. We would eventually get enough cash aid to launch the program in Lebanon without violence or incidents in the many pop-up camps throughout the country.

Now our goal was to convince King Abdullah II to allow more Syrian refugees into Jordan’s Zaatari camp. The king was understandably reluctant: he feared infiltration by ISIS or other terrorists.

We arrived at the royal palace and were escorted to the king’s office door. I entered alone. The only reason the king had agreed to meet, after many denied requests from WFP headquarters in Rome, was out of respect for my dad. I guess you could chalk it up to nepotism, in the best possible way.

I sat down across from the bright, personable king, a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, with thoughts of my hotel room’s minibar intermittently racing through my head. I was determined during the trip to regulate my drinking. I kept it private inside my room, walking the tightrope between being debilitated by the DTs because I didn’t drink enough, and drinking too much to be effective. Now, I was sweating beneath my shirt but not through my jacket.

The king spoke first about our families and how much he respected my father. He went on about how my dad not only speaks with knowledge and experience but always tells the truth—which, in the king’s estimation, was the foremost compliment he could pay someone engaged in the high-stakes politics of war and peace. He appreciated how blunt my dad was while still managing to remain diplomatic. They were cut from similar cloth: steeped in history, respectful, relaxed.

I’d come to advocate for refugees but also to listen and learn. We exchanged thoughts on the historical context affecting the dynamics throughout the region. The king made it clear that he was working from a place between empathy and realism. He saw the situation as a life-or-death struggle both for the refugees and for Jordan, expressing to me the tenuousness of national security in a region as volatile as his. One mistake could cost lives. Yet he was vetting refugees wanting entry into Zaatari even as we spoke.

I was fully engaged: thoughts of those vodka mini-bottles back at my hotel were quickly subsumed by the gravity of our conversation. Lives were on the line. The discussion went on for nearly an hour, just the two of us.

When we finished, King Abdullah spoke briefly with Rick, who then took the lead as we met in another part of the palace with one of the king’s aides and had a more detailed discussion about programs the WFP hoped to implement in Zaatari.

Not long after we returned to the States, King Abdullah let many of the isolated refugees in Syria into Zaatari. My meeting was not the only determining factor in persuading him; there were many others advocating for these desperate, proud people. But it clearly helped. More important, considering my personal battles at the time, I hadn’t blown it. I hadn’t cost innocent lives.

That accomplished, I needed to get back to my apartment, uncap a bottle, lock the door.

I picked up where I left off—with a vengeance. I soon was drinking to avoid the physical pain caused by not drinking. Forget the underlying roots of alcoholism—unresolved trauma, genetics, disease—I was drinking now just to banish the ache of withdrawal. I felt lucky if I passed out. I’d be in such physical pain if I went any length of time without a drink that every joint in my body felt like it had been soldered shut. My anxiety spiked so high I’d wake with the pillow soaking wet and the couch cushions drenched with sweat, as if someone had poured a bucket of water over me. I’d have chills and a fever until I threw down another drink. Then, for an instant, it would all go away. But that effect became harder and harder to achieve. If a shot of vodka gave me