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.

Its Your Name on the Line Not Mine

"This is the tragic story of a friend of mine, around the age of 15 living in Najaf, Iraq.
In Iraq, especially in the city of Najaf, we don't possess this concept of casually talking to boys as friends, if we do take part in something like that, we are subject to shunning, discrimination and denunciation by our families. It's simply not done. This phenomena became more and more strict after the 2003 invasion, when Iraq, once secular, was drowned by a veil of religious sectarianism as a form of identity. At this time it is not and it was not seen as okay for a women and a man to talk without the permission of their parents, or the intention of getting married.

This friend of mine, let's refer to her as Sara. Sara somehow managed to get hold of a boy's number, she never told us how or why, but she managed to do it regardless. They would text daily, and since we in Iraq use credit as a method of making calls, he would send her credit to text him or call him. However, they would never physically meet.

One day, two or three weeks after they started talking, he told her to meet him on a side road a near enough to her house to know where it was, but far enough from it so that her family would not know what was going on. And because the general society of Iraq became increasingly restraining on women, due to the dangers of war and terrorist threats, women posses this craving of rebellion against that 'imprisonment'. So she did it. She wanted to see what she was missing out on. Because this girl hasn't had contact with other males, or taught about the dangers that come with meeting males alone, rape or assault, she did it. All these subjects are taboo in Najaf, so she thought 'what's the worst that could happen?' and went ahead with meeting him.

He met up with her, making her feel all empowered and in control of herself; finally being able to be "free". They went around in his car, driving around Najaf, along the river; all the while she felt happy and content. He then took her to his house-not his house, sorry, a random empty building. I'm not sure which one, or where, but it was an empty building. You can all guess what happened next. Yes, he raped her. He didn't leave her there though, he took her back to her home (as if that made it any better) and told her not to tell anyone because in the end if she did, it would be her name that would be shamed not his.

Sara was traumatized, she did not know what had just happened to her. All she knew was that she was in immense pain and agony. She was not aware of the safety precautions to be taken, and she was not aware that she had basically been sexually assaulted and abused. And even if she were, it wouldn't make a difference because the blame would be placed on her for being 'stupid enough to have contact with men'.

Her parents eventually found out, and instead of being comforting and assuring the poor girl that it was not her fault, and that they would protect her, they shunned her. They were more concerned with their place in and how they were seen by society to even make an effort to do anything except tell her how she had disgraced the family. Sara was not allowed to continue her education and was forcefully married off at the age of 15 to a man much older than her.

I'm telling this story because Sara is one of many women that have suffered the same fate. I'm not saying that women should go around naked hanging out and hooking up with random men all the time, I'm saying that restraining women to this extent is dangerous for the women. We think we are protecting them but in reality, were only subjecting them to further pain and discrimination. It's easy to look past these issues and claim them as simply a side effect of war, but we shouldn't. These women are oppressed, and not just the western version of the word. This is a subject which is constantly avoided when Middle Easterners discuss their countries and this should not be the case any longer." - Anonymous, Iraq