Okay, I realize the title sounds a bit gimmicky, I get that but bear with.
I think by the end of the video you'll find it makes sense.
So Mr. Beast, if you’re listening: I want to tell you about Syrian Taekwondo.
Okay, let’s start with a couple quick facts.
This episode was filmed in Al Zaatari, the largest Syrian refugee camp on earth.
It’s eleven years old and houses around seventy thousand people, which makes it the 12th largest city in Jordan.
And I know what you’re thinking. This guy’s gonna ask me for money. Or at the very least a hamburger.
But don’t worry. I’m not gonna ask you for a goddamn thing. I just wanna tell you a story, because I made a promise to a friend.
So about a year ago I’m sitting in my home, as I do.
Probably tweeting something that would make any rational person mute me when I get an email from my sister.
She’s a psychologist who works with refugees fleeing war. A professor in Dublin. Not really important to this story.
But what is important was the email. Because she was writing to introduce me to a woman named Lina.
Who, in my opinion, is a saint. A very fashionable saint, but a saint nevertheless.
And I say that because she was willing to do the infinite amount of paperwork it would take to get me into this camp.
And she didn’t even really want anything in return. Just that I tell the truth.
Which to me, was a pretty big deal. I don’t get offers like this very often. I’m not a famous guy.
Nobody really cares when Mr. 50,000 views shows up. And you just can't go here. You need a Lina to get in.
It’s a bureaucratic nightmare. The cops even held my cameraman in a little booth for three hours
just because they’d mistranslated his name - or something, they didn't actually ever really explain.
But, anyway, there I am, in my home, staring at this email, thinking, “what have I gotten myself into”?
And so, I went online and started collecting the facts.
You know, Wikipedia, little UN documents, a map of the camp. Looking over all this stuff.
And in the corner of my eye, I see the words Taekwondo studio.
And I don't know much about Syrian refugees,
but what I did know definitely didn’t line up with the words Taekwondo studio.
So naturally, I was a bit intrigued.
Fast-forward a few months and I’m on a dusty little street, standing before a gate under a flapping Korean flag.
To the front of me was what appeared to be a construction site and behind it a small aircraft hangar.
Surrounding them, two gardens. One vegetable, one kinder.
And looking back, I’d say the whole thing felt kinda like a military compound, but also somehow friendly.
It’s the Korean government’s national gift to Zaatari. Their response to this still-compounding crisis.
But nations aren’t people, and the true success here is actually thanks to a soft-spoken, kind, and extremely dedicated couple.
They’ve been running this for years, and it wouldn’t be wrong to say that
they’re having probably the deepest effect of any two people in this entire camp.
They’ve changed more lives with their service than virtually any of us could ever hope to, anywhere.
But when I first arrived to meet them, they were a bit too busy to see me. Naturally.
They’re important people with real jobs and I was somewhat early anyway so I decided to take a minute
and check out what I guess you could call their side gig: the kindergarten.
And once inside, I tried to be as polite as one can be while aggressively filming children.
I met a German, some Syrians. All very nice people.
We sang a couple songs, made sure everyone knew the wheels were still on the bus.
You know, pretty standard kinder in a pretty standard garden.
And I only mention that because after about thirty minutes I actually kinda forgot I was in the camp.
The moment was just too normal. The people were too normal.
All my expectations of what I was supposed to be experiencing were being broken down with these tiny little claps
that were failing to meet the rhythm. It honestly got to the point where it started messing with my brain.
And that feeling only increased as the sounds of teenagers started to grow behind me.
The cacophony of youth that signaled it was time for taekwondo.
So I grabbed my slippers, entered the dojang, and settled into a genuinely impressive routine.
The sort of show that makes my now nearly forty year old back hurt just to watch it.
Jump kicks, backflips, eleven year old girls screaming out some Korean words
and then slamming into a pad six feet off the ground. It was, for lack of a better term, cool as hell.
But what impressed me most was the dedication. The drive. The happiness. It was inspiring.
In that room, I didn’t see a single frown. Everybody took it seriously and yet, nobody took it too seriously.
This wasn’t a show, they weren’t there by force. It was just good.
And so after the routine I spoke to the staff,
and my cameraman went off to find some students to talk to.
There were a few who wanted to practice their English, but even more than that,
they just wanted to hear what it was like being a YouTuber.
Mr. 50,000 might not be much online, but he was big enough for them.
They made sure we knew that we weren’t the only people to come and film them. A bunch of crews had come over the years.
Big ol’ BBCs and PBSs and NHKs, none of them knew exactly who’d been.
Just that none of them had ever sat down to talk. They all just took the film and left.
So we figured why not. We set up a little circle, had them all sit down, and just gave them the floor.
Those who understood English translated for those who couldn’t,
and one by one we went around that circle and asked them all the same question: what is your dream.
What do you enjoy in life? What do you want to do with your future?
And without a hint of hesitation, they told us exactly what they wanted.
Over a dozen young men, fifteen to twenty years old, and every single one agreed that their future would be one of two things:
Either they’d someday go back to Syria and open a taekwondo studio, or they’d become YouTubers.
Because those were the two singular positive experiences that they’d ever had in their lives.
They knew that they loved taekwondo because the Korean government gave them the opportunity to enjoy it.
Because a dedicated couple had spent their entire lives making something worth pursuing.
Every single one of them loved taekwondo. They loved the feeling it gave them. It was the greatest thing in their lives.
But their second love was YouTube.
It wasn't just entertainment. It wasn't just an escape. It was the way that they could see the world outside their camp.
And what’s more, they didn’t just love YouTube, Mr. Beast, they loved you.
Because what they saw in you was not a guy just doing a job,
but a person who could make them feel that their world was more than just dust and war.
That a real human in this world could find success through giving.
That a real human in this world could find happiness in helping.
And maybe that’s not how you perceive what you do, but they do.
They all asked me if I knew you. Which I don’t. They asked me if I could somehow send you a message.
Which thankfully I could, and did, in a DM. And I genuinely appreciated your response.
It mattered to me, because it mattered to them.
When I stepped into this camp I didn’t know how I was going to help. I honestly didn’t think I could make a difference.
But when they told me how they felt inside, how watching your show had made them forget where they were,
forget the circumstances of their lives and just dream. I realized that I didn’t have to.
Just like Lina, all they ever wanted from me was that I tell you the truth.
So Mr. Beast, if you're still listening: Thank you!
I hope you understand I’m not asking you for anything. I hope you understand that they’re not asking you for anything.
They just wanted me to make this video to let you know that they love you. That they’re thankful for what you've done.
Because whether it was your intention or not you’ve changed their lives.
You’ve made this camp into a bigger, better, happier place to be.
You’re a popular boy here, Jimmy. Almost as popular as Taekwondo.
This is Rare Earth.