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Refugees and
Puppets
Riverbend - Iraqi Girl Blog
10/22/07 -- "Baghdad
Burning" -- 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 live upstairs, this is their
number. We’re all Iraqi too... Welcome to the building.”
I cried that night because for the first time in a long time, so
far away from home, I felt the unity that had been stolen from
us in 2003.
Please visit Baghdad Burning
Blog
http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/
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