Bloggers Without Borders...
Syria is a beautiful country- at least I think it is. I say "I think"
because while I perceive it to be beautiful, I sometimes wonder if I
mistake safety, security and normalcy for `beauty'. In so many ways,
Damascus is like Baghdad before the war- bustling streets, occasional
traffic jams, markets seemingly always full of shoppers... And in so
many ways it's different. The buildings are higher, the streets are
generally narrower and there's a mountain, Qasiyoun, that looms in the
distance.
The mountain distracts me, as it does many Iraqis- especially those
from Baghdad. Northern Iraq is full of mountains, but the rest of Iraq
is quite flat. At night, Qasiyoun blends into the black sky and the
only indication of its presence is a multitude of little, glimmering
spots of light- houses and restaurants built right up there on the
mountain. Every time I take a picture, I try to work Qasiyoun into it-
I try to position the person so that Qasiyoun is in the background.
The first weeks here were something of a cultural shock. It has taken
me these last three months to work away certain habits I'd acquired in
Iraq after the war. It's funny how you learn to act a certain way and
don't even know you're doing strange things- like avoiding people's
eyes in the street or crazily murmuring prayers to yourself when stuck
in traffic. It took me at least three weeks to teach myself to walk
properly again- with head lifted, not constantly looking behind me.
It is estimated that there are at least 1.5 million Iraqis in Syria
today. I believe it. Walking down the streets of Damascus, you can
hear the Iraqi accent everywhere. There are areas like Geramana and
Qudsiya that are packed full of Iraqi refugees. Syrians are few and
far between in these areas. Even the public schools in the areas are
full of Iraqi children. A cousin of mine is now attending a school in
Qudsiya and his class is composed of 26 Iraqi children, and 5 Syrian
children. It's beyond belief sometimes. Most of the families have
nothing to live on beyond their savings which are quickly being
depleted with rent and the costs of living.
Within a month of our being here, we began hearing talk about Syria
requiring visas from Iraqis, like most other countries. Apparently,
our esteemed puppets in power met with Syrian and Jordanian
authorities and decided they wanted to take away the last two safe
havens remaining for Iraqis- Damascus and Amman. The talk began in
late August and was only talk until recently- early October. Iraqis
entering Syria now need a visa from the Syrian consulate or embassy in
the country they are currently in. In the case of Iraqis still in
Iraq, it is said that an approval from the Ministry of Interior is
also required (which kind of makes it difficult for people running
away from militias OF the Ministry of Interior...). Today, there's
talk of a possible fifty dollar visa at the border.
Iraqis who entered Syria before the visa was implemented were getting
a one month visitation visa at the border. As soon as that month was
over, you could take your passport and visit the local immigration
bureau. If you were lucky, they would give you an additional month or
two. When talk about visas from the Syrian embassy began, they stopped
giving an extension on the initial border visa. We, as a family, had a
brilliant idea. Before the commotion of visas began, and before we
started needing a renewal, we decided to go to one of the border
crossings, cross into Iraq, and come back into Syria- everyone was
doing it. It would buy us some time- at least 2 months.
We chose a hot day in early September and drove the six hours to
Kameshli, a border town in northern Syria. My aunt and her son came
with us- they also needed an extension on their visa. There is a
border crossing in Kameshli called Yaarubiya. It's one of the simpler
crossings because the Iraqi and Syrian borders are only a matter of
several meters. You walk out of Syrian territory and then walk into
Iraqi territory- simple and safe.
When we got to the Yaarubiya border patrol, it hit us that thousands
of Iraqis had had our brilliant idea simultaneously- the lines to the
border patrol office were endless. Hundreds of Iraqis stood in a long
line waiting to have their passports stamped with an exit visa. We
joined the line of people and waited. And waited. And waited...
It took four hours to leave the Syrian border after which came the
lines of the Iraqi border post. Those were even longer. We joined one
of the lines of weary, impatient Iraqis. "It's looking like a gasoline
line..." My younger cousin joked. That was the beginning of another
four hours of waiting under the sun, taking baby steps, moving forward
ever so slowly. The line kept getting longer. At one point, we could
see neither the beginning of the line, where passports were being
stamped to enter Iraq, nor the end. Running up and down the line were
little boys selling glasses of water, chewing gum and cigarettes. My
aunt caught one of them by the arm as he zipped past us, "How many
people are in front of us?" He whistled and took a few steps back to
assess the situation, "A hundred! A thousand!". He was almost gleeful
as he ran off to make business.
I had such mixed feelings standing in that line. I was caught between
a feeling of yearning, a certain homesickness that sometimes catches
me at the oddest moments, and a heavy feeling of dread. What if they
didn't agree to let us out again? It wasn't really possible, but what
if it happened? What if this was the last time I'd see the Iraqi
border? What if we were no longer allowed to enter Iraq for some
reason? What if we were never allowed to leave?
We spent the four hours standing, crouching, sitting and leaning in
the line. The sun beat down on everyone equally- Sunnis, Shia and
Kurds alike. E. tried to convince the aunt to faint so it would speed
the process up for the family, but she just gave us a withering look
and stood straighter. People just stood there, chatting, cursing or
silent. It was yet another gathering of Iraqis - the perfect
opportunity to swap sad stories and ask about distant relations or
acquaintances.
We met two families we knew while waiting for our turn. We greeted
each other like long lost friends and exchanged phone numbers and
addresses in Damascus, promising to visit. I noticed the 23-year-old
son, K., from one of the families was missing. I beat down my
curiosity and refused to ask where he was. The mother was looking
older than I remembered and the father looked constantly lost in
thought, or maybe it was grief. I didn't want to know if K. was dead
or alive. I'd just have to believe he was alive and thriving
somewhere, not worrying about borders or visas. Ignorance really is
bliss sometimes...
Back at the Syrian border, we waited in a large group, tired and
hungry, having handed over our passports for a stamp. The Syrian
immigration man sifting through dozens of passports called out names
and looked at faces as he handed over the passports patiently, "Stand
back please- stand back". There was a general cry towards the back of
the crowded hall where we were standing as someone collapsed- as they
lifted him I recognized an old man who was there with his family being
chaperoned by his sons, leaning on a walking stick.
By the time we had reentered the Syrian border and were headed back to
the cab ready to take us into Kameshli, I had resigned myself to the
fact that we were refugees. I read about refugees on the Internet
daily... in the newspapers... hear about them on TV. I hear about the
estimated 1.5 million plus Iraqi refugees in Syria and shake my head,
never really considering myself or my family as one of them. After
all, refugees are people who sleep in tents and have no potable water
or plumbing, right? Refugees carry their belongings in bags instead of
suitcases and they don't have cell phones or Internet access, right?
Grasping my passport in my hand like my life depended on it, with two
extra months in Syria stamped inside, it hit me how wrong I was. We
were all refugees. I was suddenly a number. No matter how wealthy or
educated or comfortable, a refugee is a refugee. A refugee is someone
who isn't really welcome in any country- including their own...
especially their own.
We live in an apartment building where two other Iraqis are renting.
The people in the floor above us are a Christian family from northern
Iraq who got chased out of their village by Peshmerga and the family
on our floor is a Kurdish family who lost their home in Baghdad to
militias and were waiting for immigration to Sweden or Switzerland or
some such European refugee haven.
The first evening we arrived, exhausted, dragging suitcases behind us,
morale a little bit bruised, the Kurdish family sent over their
representative - a 9 year old boy missing two front teeth, holding a
lopsided cake, "We're Abu Mohammed's house- across from you- mama says
if you need anything, just ask- this is our number. Abu Dalia's family
No comments:
Post a Comment