To the Women of the Refuge

To the women who risked their lives in order to find refuge...

This is for the woman I met, wearing a child on each arm; trying to shelter them from harm as she got sprayed by tear gas and beaten by wooden sticks in Hungary. Comforting them with soothing words as she braved torture, agony, and pain in order to get her children to refuge. Persistent in her belief in the right to asylum. Resilient in her determination for safety and a new life. Resolute in her decision to cross the border. She was not going to give up. Her children were going to get the chance at a new life. And they did. This is for you.

This is for the woman I met that was jailed by Hungarian police with her two new-born babies. Ridiculed and laughed at by the guards when she asked for milk for her children. Told that they were not worth Hungarian milk because they were savages who did not deserve to step foot on Hungarian soil. Bruised by the cup of water that was thrown in her direction, was this supposed to be sufficient enough to feed her starving children? Lied to by those sworn in to protect, rather than exploit, "if you give us X amount of money, we will let you out- you will still get stopped on the way, but not by us". Spat at by those who thought that she was lesser than them because of the blood in her veins or the colour of her skin or the fabric on her head. To the woman who managed to escape prison after travelling alone with her two children, Noora and Hamada. To the woman who ended up in a refugee camp in Germany.

This is for the woman I met who travelled all the way from Syria, by herself amongst 11 men; and yet, was the strongest of them all. Presenting herself as a true leader. Someone with rationale, resilience, determination, wisdom, and belief. Approaching the ticket counter knowing exactly what she wanted from me, where she wanted to go, and who she wanted to be. Believing that although she was the only girl amongst a plethora of men she did not know, she was brave enough to handle herself. She trusted in her capabilities. She was not shy. She was not hesitant. She was not ready to let her chance at safety slip through her fingers because of her gender. She was not inferior.

This is for the woman I met, fighting for clothes for her sons, daughters and husband as they slept away their trauma. Standing in line with her worn out dishdasha, and ragged hijab. Refusing to rest until she provided for her family. Yelling the sizes, the colours, and the items they needed. Stepping on her pride in order to get what she needed. Refusing to back down until she reached her goals. Not willing to accept lesser than she deserved, "this is too big" she said; "this is not thick enough" she sighed; "please try again" she begged. Not giving up.

This is for the woman I met who was crying. Crying on the bottom of the stair case of Platform 9 refusing to tell me what was wrong- she was strong enough to deal with everything up until this point, why would she choose to rely on someone now? Why trust me to carry her burdens when she carried them herself every second of every day? Why let herself be portrayed as weak and incapable? She was perfectly capable. She could handle herself. She just needed a minute. A break. But she would come back from it. And she would come back stronger than before.

This is for the woman I met who sang. Who sang and sang and sang. And when she was not singing, she was dancing. And she didn't care who saw. She sang about everything, from something as simple as the coffee she made, to the complexities of the country she once called home. She would sing to us about her purple couch and her Persian rugs. She would tell us of her nieces and nephews who loved to listen to her voice. And she would dance traditional Kurdish dances once we played anything with a rhythm on the radio. She would make us laugh. And when we weren't laughing, we were smiling because we knew we would hear her voice again soon.

This is to the women. The strongest women I have ever and will ever meet. The women who braved the most horrifying conditions because they knew what they wanted and were determined to achieve it. This is to the Women of the Refuge. Happy International Women's Day.

"If I Wanted to Get Beaten by Men in Uniforms I Would've Stayed in Syria"

This is a story of one of the refugee families I worked with in Vienna at Train of Hope this summer.

Noor (age 2) and Hamoudi (age 7) are the children of Ahmed and Rana*, a family from Syria. They decided to leave Syria after their families had either fled themselves, or had been killed in the current civil war plaguing the country. The family decided to take the route most Syrians and Iraqis had taken; they were trafficked into Turkey in the back of a cramped truck. Once having arrived in Turkey, they were instructed to dispose of their paper work and passports by traffickers, as this was said to make the asylum process a significant amount easier. They then spent a large percentage of their life savings on the journey. They were put into a small, unstable, plastic boat; the women and children moved towards the center of the boat, while the men surrounded them on the outside. They said that the boat almost capsized multiple times on the journey to Greece. Upon arriving in Greece, they embraced the land as if they had never seen such comfort in their lives. Ahmed told me that he spent about 15 minutes prostrated thanking God that they made it. This, however, was not the end of their journey. They still had to trek through three countries mainly on foot; Macedonia, Serbia and Hungary. Throughout the journey, they had little to no access to any hygiene products or opportunities; their backpacks and supplies had been thrown off the boat by traffickers, and their were no places they could refresh themselves at. They resulted to taking baths in any bodies of water they could find; seas, lakes, rivers. Anything. During the days where they were tired, they spent the day at coffee shops buying just enough to stay there. Eventually they reached Hungary. There, they were jailed and abused by the Hungarian authorities. Ahmed showed me the bruises from where they had beaten him. Rana told me how she would beg the authorities for just a glass of water to give to her children; she told me how they would laugh and spit in her face in response to this. She told me about how they ended up beating her as well, and while this was happening, the only thing she would scream is “Take me back to Syria, even war is better than this! If I wanted to get beaten by men in uniforms I would've stayed in Syria!” They eventually let them out, only after forcing them to register, and this was only because they had no room left in the jail cells. They then proceeded to take a train from the Austro-Hungarian border into Vienna, where I met them. It was a day where we received around 500 refugees at Train of Hope in Hauptbahnhof Wien. Throughout all the chaos, I made eye contact with Rana, who looked distressed, confused, exhuasted and quite frankly, like she was about to burst into tears. In her arms, I saw Noor, and next to them I saw Ahmed and Hamoudi. I felt drawn to them in a way I will never be able to put into words. I immediately dropped what I was doing, and walked towards them. “Kil shy tamam? Tahtajoon shy?” (Is everything ok? Do you need anything?) I asked. At first, they were too shy and prideful to give an answer, but after me pestering them for a while, they finally explained that they were hungry and needed some fresh clothes and medical attention for Noor, who was ill. Upon hearing their requests, I immediately catered to their needs. After getting them all that they needed, and translating for the doctors who took a look at Noor, who was not only ill, but had a diaper rash that made the poor girl insufferable, I was dragged to the playpin by the two children. We played with the stuffed animals while their mother recounted their experiences to me as if she'd known me for her whole life. She told me about her life, about her relationship, and her children. She said she felt like I was her sister. At first, Ahmed was skeptical, but after a couple of hours, he opened up in the same way. I spent two days with the family, translating legal advice, advising, talking to the parents, and playing with the children. This was the first and only family I became truly attached to. On their last night in Vienna, they spent some of their money to invite me for a “thank you” drink. We bonded over that drink, as they asked about my studies, my life, and my family. They talked to me about Syria while Noor sat on my lap and played with her toys and Hamoudi recounted his favorite shows to me in excruciating detail. I still keep in contact with the family, Ahmed texted me just the other day wishing me a happy Eid. He also let me know that him and Hamoudi have made it to Belgium, got their papers processed and are now integrating into society- they now have an apartment, Ahmed is in language courses, and Hamoudi is in school.

*name has been changed for security reasons.

"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