"Three Years"

"Three years.
Three years of isolation.
Three years of torture.
Three years of constant pain.
Three years of prison under Saddam Hussein.

Out of the eleven of us that were captured, tortured and imprisoned I was the only one who came out alive, praise be to God. And for what you ask? Why did I have to face such hardship? Such misery? Such fate? Why was I sent to prison, you ask? Well let me tell you.

When I was 15, I was put into prison in Iraq because of the anti-tyranny, anti-Saddam graffiti my friends and I plastered over the walls of Basra. We got away with it for a while, until my friend had written "Saddam will not last, Long Live Khomeini" on the wall of his neighbor. He was then taken in by the police, tortured and interrogated until he gave the names of eleven of us; eleven of his closest friends. After he had given the names, he was executed, like the majority of prisoners.

When I was taken in, the suffering they inflicted upon me was incomprehensible by anyone who had not gone through it themselves. I was abused. I was tortured; physically and psychologically. I was starved. I was kept awake through out the length of the night; waiting for the next beating, the next abuse, the next form of pain that was going to be inflicted upon me for simply disagreeing with a murderous tyrant who threatened the lives of my people. Through out the day we were given little food, and sometimes none at all. We were hardly given any water. Ramadan, the month that was supposed to be joyous and celebrated, was the worst for us. We were given one glass of water for the whole day and the tiniest bit of food; unable to satisfy even the smallest of creatures. I remember drinking a gulp at futoor and attempting to save some for suhoor, but it was all in vain as I was constantly thirsty. Many of the people in the prison died due to the lack of water, food and the poor hygiene. I was one of the lucky ones to have lived.

My father passed away shortly after I was released. He had been grieving for me during my time in prison and had refused to eat. This had in time, resulted in a fatal gall bladder problem. He had undergone several operations in attempt to fix the issue, but they had all failed. I will forever live with this guilt; if I wasn't put into prison for such a silly thing my father would not have died the way he did.

These memories will never leave me and I continue to be reminded of them every day." -Jamal Mohsin (IRAQ)

"That's The Sound of The Candy Man"

"The summer of 2013 I had traveled to Jordan as I do every summer to visit my family. As daughter of Palestinian refugees who were exiled to Jordan, seeing my family was a tradition instilled by my parents who didn't want me and my siblings to grow up never knowing our grandparents. This summer, was different than all other summers I had gone before though.

The conflict in Syria had been raging for about a year. And the effects of the conflict were prominent in Jordan. Masses of Syrian refugees had escaped war torn Syria to Amman, and other parts of the country.  I didn't notice at first. But when I did, it was a shocking call to reality.

I had been sitting on the steps of my family home, which directly faces the street. My family’s home is in well off district of Amman, Dabouq, clean and well known. My grandfather had worked his entire life in factories as a Palestinian refugee until he had saved up enough to buy the land the house is built on, when land was still cheap in this area years ago. As I had sat, with a book in my hand, absorbing the rays of a warm Jordanian sun, I heard a clanging knock on the gate. I peered up to see a man, middle aged, looking awfully tired. He wore a white construction hat,  and I knew that he must be one of the workers who are always being hired to build or beautify a home on this street.  I ventured over to the gate, and without opening, asked how I could help him.  When he spoke, I was surprised to recognize the dialect of Arabic my best friend who is Syrian speaks. He explained to me how he had been working all day in the heat, and that the sun would set soon and he needed food so that he and his family could break their fast. I don’t think I answered at first. What was processing in my mind, that this was a Syrian refugee. That he had labored all day while fasting. That he didn't have enough to even bring food to his family. I said, sure absolutely, it would be my honor. He held out a plastic bag to me. I didn’t register that he wanted me to throw food into a plastic bag for him until a few seconds after he gave it to me. Oh my God, no way, I thought. I went inside to my mother and told her what had just happened. My moms eyes widened. She went into the kitchen, and packed up some of that night’s iftar that she had been cooking all day into little plastic plates, which she sealed up carefully with tinfoil. Then she placed all these plates of food into the plastic bag. She insisted on coming down with me, so in a matter of seconds, she threw on a black abaya and scarf and we descended down the stairs, through the garden, to the gate. The man still stood there, smiled when he saw us and greeted us warmly. I don’t even remember what my mother said to him, I just remember seeing his eyes fill with tears when he looked into the bag.

“No one’s ever put the food in plates before” he said in a quiet voice. I really had to hold myself back from getting emotional then and there. He thanked us graciously and left, and when I broke my fast on a date a few minutes later all I could think was ‘Alhamdulliah’ , thanks be to God.

This scenario happened many times after, sometimes the same man, sometimes other refugees. One night, I was sitting on the marble veranda with my young cousins when I heard the sound of a toy whistle. My cousins Dana and Omar heard it too, and they recognized it immediately. “Thats the sound of the candy man” they squealed in excitement. Sure enough, at the gate I saw multi-colored lights laced up on a bar that was hoisted on the shoulders of a relatively old man. The bar had tiny bags of cotton candy tied onto it. My cousins rushed to the gate and I followed closely behind them. The old man smiled, took the bar off his shoulders, and offered each of them a bag of cotton candy. One bag only cost a few Jordanian ‘irshes’ or quarters. I paid for both, and I noticed a small Syrian flag pin on the mans shirt. “Are you Syrian, uncle?” I asked politely. He smiled, a smile that reminded me of my grandfather’s smile, who was actually sitting in his garden on the other side of the house at the time. “Yes I am, ya binti”  he replied warmly. I told him that I wished all the best for his people, and his reply to this day is something I’ll never forget. “We all just want to return, but I am glad that while I am here I can make children smile”. Then he left, the sound of the toy whistle echoing in my ears. I well and truly lost it when he left. My grandfather, sitting in the garden, could hear me crying. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a selfless optimistic person in my life , someone who had to escape the violence of their country only to come here and have to work a foolish job to make a living, yet still make the best of it, still be thankful, still make little children smile. And I returned to cry on those stone steps where a few weeks ago I had encountered my first disenfranchised Syrian refugee, and thats where my grandfather found me. The moon was still high, I could hear my cousins playing, and my parents and uncles were still not home from the Ramadan night prayer, taraweeh. These small series of events inspired me to go visit the Syrian refugees in the North of Jordan a few days later.

My dad and uncle went with me. We drove through the winding valleys of Jordan. We stopped by a complex called Circuit City, but decided that donations would be futile here since the residents of the complex got a room for each family and an allowance of ten dollars a week to buy food for their families. So we drove a bit farther north until we reached the city of Al-Ramtha which is so near to the Syrian border that you can actually see the smoke of the war on the horizon. There, through a small Islamic organization, my father and I gave refugees who had literally just arrived from Syria money, as they had come with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Al-Ramtha is interesting. Many self proclaimed revolutionaries there, many shabihs as well. Politics wasn't really discussed,  and people kept their political sympathies to themselves. My father delicately had asked people who he had given the donations to what their viewpoints as Syrians were and almost every person gave a different answer. But they could all agree, they wanted the violence to stop and they wanted to return to their homes and lives as soon as possible. To see the young children who were smiling and playing on the streets, the old woman who begged on the sidewalks and praised you with blessings when you sat next to them and helped them out and heard their story was a life changing experience.

Now, its 2015 and the war in Syria is raging on. Sometimes, when I turn on the news, it seems so hopeless to me, and I remember all the people I met in Jordan. I wish the best for them, I truly from the bottom of my heart do. People always tell me that I was too young to have seen such suffering but I think it motivated and inspired me. The people of Syria are forever in my prayers, and the refugees who’s narrative seems to be lost in a sea of violence are in my heart. I hope that they do not face the plight of what my people, the Palestinians faced. I hope that generations are not born outside of Syria and raised in refugee camps. I hope, that soon this will all end. That  everyone I saw and every refugee in  exile returns to rebuild Syria and create a future that will outshine the past." - 17, Syria

"I Dare You To Call For Help"

"It was just another 'normal' day for me. I woke up in the morning wishing this day wouldn't be like most other days; filled with the fear and anxiety of being a target of these terrorism attacks that have been so frequent recently. After I got ready I said goodbye to my mother, and as usual the tears she was trying so hard to fight back were noticeable by not only me, but all my siblings. But that was just the 'normal' beginning of just another 'normal' day.

I remember these days to be the most awful, dreadful and disgusting days of my entire life; I just wanted the day to end so we could all go back into the safety of our home, lock the doors and enjoy a little relative serenity before the next horrible day was to begin. This is not how any child should feel about going to school. But this is what we felt about going to school.

When the teacher dismissed us a little bit earlier than usual, I had already packed all my things and ran to the school exit as fast as I could just to get back to the security of my family and my home. I had arrived to the school gate before anyone else had, waiting to be picked up by driver, and that's when I saw him. 

He was my friend's driver so his face was quite familiar, we smiled at each other our usual greeting smiling. Then it happened.

A car pulled over and four men with guns got out of the car. I could not see their faces because they had them covered with a black mask. Next thing I know, I hear a gun shot.

My eyes were sealed shut, and when I finally gathered the courage to open them, I saw a gun pointed towards my face and through the suffocation of fear, I heard laughter in the background.

The man said to me 'he is not dead, but I dare you to call for help. It would be your last day little girl!' Two of the men then stole my friend's driver's car and left him on the floor bleeding to die a miserable, painful death. I froze in my place; my hands in my pocket ready to take my phone out but I just could not muster up the courage. The man's voice was still ringing in my ears; it was as though I was paralyzed with fear, unable to move a muscle without the man's permission. I was stuck there as though time had stopped.

When the rest of the school got to the gate, the man had already passed away. I carry this guilt everyday of my life; always thinking 'what if...maybe they were just messing around with me...maybe I should have taken the chance...maybe they wouldn't of known I had called for help.' For the rest of my life I would hold myself responsible for this murder; was it selfish of me to choose my own life instead of his? After all I was merely a 13 year old girl; what did I know about sacrifice and bravery? I don't think I will ever find the answers to all these questions, and I will have to face the fact that this incident will haunt me for the rest of my life." - Iraq, 22