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.

Introduction of the Gaza Series: No More Silence

"A Palestinian boy walks past a drawing by British graffiti artist Banksy, along part of the controversial Israeli barrier near the Kalandia checkpoint."


Recently, I have had the pleasure of getting into contact with a few people currently living in the blockaded Gaza strip of Palestine. This 139 mile-squared piece of land is enclosed by Israel and Egypt, and is unfortunately subject to the trapping of its people by the two countries, forming the largest open air prison in the world. The population density of Gaza exceeds 13,000 people per square mile, equating to a population of well over a million imprisoned Palestinians with nowhere else to go. Gaza has been subject to Israeli military occupation since 1967, and has faced similar conditions at the hands of Egypt before that. Currently, Israel practices indirect external control over Gaza by "controlling Gaza's air and maritime space, control of six of Gaza's seven land crossings (the seventh is controlled by Egypt), reserving the right to reenter Gaza at will through regular military incursions, maintaining a no-go buffer zone within the Gaza territory, and maintaining Gaza's dependence on Israel for trade, water, sewage, electricity, currency, communication networks, issuing IDs, and permits to enter and leave the territory and the Palestinian Population Registry." These conditions, along with the lack of international intervention, awareness, and pressure, have suffocated Gazans, and have subjugated over a million people to life in horrifying conditions; without sufficient access to basic human needs such as water, food, electricity, movement, healthcare, education and dignity.

Unfortunately, these aspects of life in Gaza have been widely accepted as an inevitable, yet unfortunate, consequence of Israel's "justified" right to exist. Others have attempted to rationalize Israel's inhumane derogatory treatment of Palestinians by shifting them all under the umbrella'd label of "Hamas terrorists"; a highly, highly flawed argument considering Hamas was formed after Israeli occupation of Palestinian territories, expulsion of Palestinian natives, and terrorist attacks against those who refused to leave their homes. What also fails to be considered by pro-Israeli analysists is the documented, widespread lack of support for Hamas among Palestinians themselves. However, these aspects of the conflict don't seem to appeal to many. Politics has cheapened the value of Palestinian life; it has attempted to justify mistreatment, torture, murder, and inhumanity. As a result of this widespread desensitization to the issue, as well as a constant influx of excuses for this desensitization, e.i "we can't do anything about it, so what's the point of talking about it" or "both sides are guilty" or "it's too complicated" etc., I, along with the amazingly brave, influential, inspiring people of Gaza, specifically Sayel Al Wahidi, have decided to begin a Gaza series.

This series will be based on submissions of pictures, stories, and injustices which occur daily in the occupied, suffocated, imprisoned lands of Gaza. This series will attempt to illustrate the extent of the humanitarian crisis inflicted on the populous of Gaza. This series will show you what Gazans have suffered under for decades. This series will explain to you why the excuses formulated by politicians, as well as pro-Israeli lobbies, are insufficient. This series will show you why this is illegal and not justified. This series will humanize you. This series is one of Gaza's many voices.

"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)