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Monday, October 22, 2007



Syria is a beautiful country-at least I think so. I say "think" because when I see it as beautiful, sometimes I wonder if security and normalcy confused with "beauty." In many ways, Damascus is like Baghdad before the war-bustling streets, occasional traffic jams, markets seemingly always full of shoppers ... And in many ways is different. The buildings are higher, generally more narrow streets and there is a mountain, Qasiyoun, which is awesome, far away

The mountain attracts my attention, as it does with many and many Iraqis-especially those in Baghdad. Northern Iraq is full of mountains, but the rest of Iraq is quite flat. At night Qasiyoun mixed with the black sky and the only indication of its presence is a multitude of small, shimmering spots of light-houses and restaurants built into the hillside. Every time I take a picture, try to enter it Qasiyoun. Seeking to put the person in a position where Qasiyoun be the background.


The first weeks here were a special culture shock. It has taken me three months take away certain habits I acquired in Baghdad during the war. Funny how you learn to act in a particular way and not even realize that you do strange things like dodge the eyes of the people on the street or whisper in your prayers inside madly when you are caught in a traffic jam. It took at least three weeks to teach myself to walk again decorated the street with your head up and not constantly look back.

is estimated that today there are at least 1.5 million Iraqis in Syria. I believe it. As you walk through the streets of Damascus you can hear the Iraqi accent everywhere. There are areas like Qudsiya Geramana and which are crowded with refugees. Syrians are few and far between in these areas. Even the public schools of these places are full of Iraqi children. A cousin of mine is going to school in Qudsiya and his class is composed of 26 Iraqis and 5 Syrian children. Sometimes it's hard to believe the majority of families do not have to live on nothing but their savings are being rapidly reduced by the income and living costs.

At one month to get here, we started hearing talk that Syria would require visas for Iraqis and, like many other countries. Apparently, our esteemed puppets in power met with Syrian and Jordanian authorities and decided to end the last two safe havens for Iraqis-Damascus and Amman and. The talks began in late August and was only talk until early October. Now the Iraqis and entering Syria need a visa issued by the Syrian consulate or embassy of the country where they are. In the case of Iraqis in Iraq, said it also required an approval from the Ministry of Interior (a way to make it difficult for people fleeing the militias of the Ministry of Interior ...). Today we talk of a possible fifty dollar visa at the border. The

and Iraqis who entered Syria before the visa entry into force received a visitor's visa for a month. When the month passed, you could go with your passport to the local immigration office. If you were lucky, you got one or two additional months. When they began talks on visas, ceased to give initial border visa extensions. We as a family, we had a brilliant idea. Before the start of the commotion of visas, and before needing a visa renewal, we decided to go to one of the crossings, cross into Iraq and back again to Syria, everyone was doing this. This would give us more time, at least two months.


chose a warm day in early September and drove six hours to Kameshli, a border town in northern Syria. My aunt and her brother came to us, they needed a visa extension. There is a border crossing in Kameshli called Yaambiya. One of the simplest steps for between Syrian and Iraqi borders there are only a few meters. Sales walk from Syrian territory and you're on Iraqi territory. Simple and safe.

When we reached the border police post, we were surprised to see thousands of Iraqis had had our brilliant idea simultaneously-the lines at the border post were endless. Hundreds of Iraqis were in a long line waiting to have their passports stamped with an exit visa. We joined the line and waited. And waited. And waited ...

took four hours to leave the Syrian border after which came the Iraqi border queues. These were even longer. We joined a queue of weary, impatient Iraqis. "It looks like a tail of gas ..." My younger cousin joked. This was the beginning of another four hours waiting in the sun, moving in baby steps, moving more slowly than ever. The line was getting longer. We reached a point where we could see the beginning of the line, where passports were stamped, but not the end. Moving along the line, up and down, young boys were selling glasses of water, gum and cigarettes. My aunt grabbed one arm, as he passed quickly with us. "How many people are ahead of us?". The whistled and took a few steps back to assess the situation. "! Hundred! Mil. Ran was almost as happy to do business.

I was wrapped in a mixture of feelings while in the queue. He was caught between a sense of longing, a kind of nostalgia that gets me in the strangest moments and a heavy feeling of dread. What if we were not allowed out again? It was not really possible, but what if it happened? What if it was the last time I saw the Iraqi border? What if we were not allowed to enter Iraq for some reason? What if we were allowed to leave before?

spent four hours standing, crouching, sitting and bowing in line. The sun was beating us all alike, Sunnis, Shiites and Kurds in the same way. E. tried to convince the aunt to faint, so that he could speed up the process for the whole family, but she gave us a withering look and stood even straighter. The people standing there, talking, cursing or silent. It was another meeting of Iraqis-the perfect opportunity to share sad stories and ask about distant relatives or acquaintances.


found two families known as we waited our turn, we welcome and old long lost friends and exchanged phone numbers and addresses in Damascus, promising to visit. I realized that the 23 year old son, K. missing. I held my curiosity and I did not ask where it was. The mother looked older than I remembered and the father seemed absorbed in thought, or perhaps it was worth it. I did not know if K. was alive or dead. Needed to believe he was alive and thriving somewhere, not worrying about borders or visas. Ignorance is truly a blessing at times ...

Back at the Syrian border, we expect a large group, tired and hungry, having handed over our passports to be stamped. The Syrian immigration man sifting through dozens of passports, pronouncing names and looking faces as distributed passports patiently, "Stand back, please step back." There was a widespread outcry in the crowded back room where we were standing as someone collapsed-lifted him I recognized when an elderly man who was there with his family accompanied by their children leaning on a cane. By the time we

New Syrian border and back again to take a taxi ready to Kameshli, I was resigned to the fact that we are refugees. Every day I read about refugees on the Internet ... in the newspapers ... hear about them on TV. I hear about the estimated 1.5 million Iraqi refugees over in Syria and shake my head, but never consider my family or myself as part of them. After all, refugees are people who live in tents and have no running water or plumbing, right? Refugees carry their belongings in bags instead of suitcases and no phone or Internet access, right? Pressing my passport in my hand as if my life depended on it, with two extra months of stay in Syria stamped inside, I was shocked to see how wrong I was. We are all refugees. Suddenly I was a number. No matter how the rich or educated or comfortable, a refugee is always a refugee. A refugee is someone who not really welcome in any country, including yours ... especially yours.

We live in an apartment building where two other Iraqis are renting families. People on the floor above us are a Christian family from northern Iraq who were persecuted to outside of their village by Peshmerga and the family on our floor is a Kurdish family who lost their home in Baghdad by militias and are waiting for emigrate to Sweden or Switzerland or another European refugee haven.

The first night we arrived, exhausted, dragging suitcases behind us, with the moral a bit shattered, the Kurdish family sent his representative, a boy 9-year-old who was missing two front teeth, holding a crooked cake, "We're Abu Mohammed's house opposite yours, mom says that if you need anything, just ask-this is our number. Abu Dalia's family live upstairs, this is their number. We also are Iraqis ... Welcome to the building. "

That night I cried because for the first time in a long time, so far from home, I felt the unity that was stolen in 2003


- posted by river @ 1:42 a.m.

Cryocautery Of The Cervix Does It Hurt

Leaving home ....

bags two months ago were made. My lone, large suitcase was in my bedroom for nearly six weeks, so full Clothing and personal items to close the zipper needed the help of E. and our neighbor for six years.

Make that suitcase was one of the hardest things I had to do. It was "Mission Impossible" Your mission, R., should accept that it consider carefully the things you've accumulated over nearly three decades and decide which ones you can not do without. The difficulty of your mission, R., is that you have to put these things in a space that measures 1mx0, 7mx0, 4m. This, of course, includes the clothes you put in the coming months, plus all your personal belongings - pictures, diaries, stuffed animals, CDs and stuff similar. I did and got rid

the case four times. Each time the melted, swore he would delete some of the things that were absolutely necessary. Every time I did it again, adding more "gossip" than before. In the end, E. came a month and a half later and insisted zip up the bag so I tried to update its contents constantly.

The decision that we each take one suitcase took my father. He glanced at the various memory box we were starting to prepare and it was the end: it bought four identical suitcases, one for each family member, and a fifth smaller was rescued from a closet to need all the documentation: certificates, personal identification documents, etc.

hope ... and hope ... and waited. It was decided that we would leave mid to late June - the exams have ended and as we were planning to go with my aunt and her two children, that was the date we thought best for everyone. The day had finally fixed as the day, we awoke to an explosion less than 2 km and a curfew. The trip was postponed a week. The night before the day on which planned the trip, the driver who owned the GMC that would take us to the border, he apologized trip. His brother had been killed in a shootout. Again, it was postponed again.

At one point during the last days of June in which I simply sat on my suitcase shut and cried. In early July, was convinced that we never would go. I was sure the Iraqi border was as far from me as the borders of Alaska. Had cost us well over two months to decide go by car instead of by plane. We had taken another month to decide for Syria rather than Jordan. How we were going to take to reschedule the game?

happened almost overnight in the morning. My aunt called us with the exciting news that one of his neighbors would leave for Syria in 48 hours because their son was being threatened and they wanted another family hiciese the road with them in another car, like gazelles in the jungle is safer to travel in groups. It was a hubbub of activity for two days. We check to make sure that everything we might possibly need was prepared and packaged. We got a distant cousin of my mother who was staying in our home with his family, came the night before our departure (we can not leave the house empty because someone can take).

was a tearful farewell as we left the house. One of my other aunt and uncle came to say goodbye the morning of trip. It was a solemn morning and I had been preparing the last two days not to mourn. You're not going to mourn, I said, because you will return. You will not mourn because it is only a short trip as you used to do to Mosul or Basrah before the war. Although I assured myself that the return would be safe and happy, I spent several hours before the game with a big lump in my throat. I burned my eyes and nose dripping, to my regret. I told myself it was allergies.

The night before having to leave not sleep because it seemed we had so many little things to do ... It helped that there was no electricity supply - generator was not working neighborhood and "national power" was hopeless. There was simply no time to sleep.

last hours in the house were like a blur. It was time to go and went from room to room saying goodbye to everything. I said goodbye to my desk - which had been used in high school and college. I said goodbye to the curtains, and bed and sofa. I said goodbye to the armchair E. and I broke when we were younger. I said goodbye to the silly board games for those who inevitably discussed - the Arabic Monopoly in which letters and money was missing and nobody had the courage to shoot.

I knew then and know now that that they were just objects, people are much more important. However, a house is like a museum where they have some history. View a trophy or a stuffed animal, and opens before your eyes a chapter of memories. Suddenly it struck me that would leave a lot less than I thought.

finally gave six in the morning. The GMC waited outside while we gathered the things of first necessity: a thermos of hot tea, biscuits, juice, olives (olives "?!) That my father insisted that llevásemos with us in the car, etc. My aunt and uncle watched us afflicted. No other word to describe it. It was the same look I had in eyes when I watched other relatives and friends prepare to leave. A feeling of helplessness and hopelessness, tinged with anger. Why did the good people go?

I cried as we were leaving, despite promises to do so. The aunt cried ... the uncle cried. My parents tried to be stoic but there were tears in their voices when they said goodbye. The worst thing is saying goodbye and wondering if you'll ever see these people. My uncle I adjusted the shawl that I had put on the hair and advised me firmly "Leave it on until you reach the border." The aunt rushed out behind us as the car left the garage and dumped a bowl of water on earth, which is a tradition to wish the travelers a safe return ... over time.

The trip was long and smooth, apart from two controls by masked men. Asked to see identification, took a look at the passports and asked us where we were going. So did the car behind us. These controls are terrifying but I've learned that the best technique is to avoid eye contact, answer questions politely and pray quietly. My mother and I had been careful not to wear any apparent jewelry, just in case, and the two went with long skirt and headscarf.

Syria is the only country apart from Jordan, which was allowing people to enter without a visa. The Jordanians are being horrible with refugees. Families risk being turned back at the Jordanian border and denied entry at Amman Airport. It's a risk too high for most families.

waited for hours despite the driver that we had had "contacts", which meant he had been in Syria and returned many times he knew all the right people to bribe for a safe passage across the border. The tears had stopped about an hour after you leave Baghdad. Just seeing the dirty streets, the ruins of buildings and houses, the smoke-filled horizon, helped me realize how lucky I was to have the opportunity to something more secure.

As soon as we were outside of Baghdad, the heart stopped hurting as he did while we were leaving. The cars that were next to ours at the border were making me nervous. He hated being in the midst of so many possibly explosive vehicles. Part of me wanted to study the faces of the people around me, mostly families, and another part of me that has been trained to stay out of trouble during the last four years, told me to keep the light on myself, had almost finished.

Finally our turn came. She sat rigid in the car and waited while the money changed hands, our passports were examined and finally sealed. We did pass and the driver smiled with satisfaction. "It was an easy trip, Alhamdulillah," he said cheerfully.

As we crossed the border and saw the latest Iraqi flags, the tears began again. The car was silent except for the chattering of the driver who was telling us stories of adventures she had while crossing the border. I looked furtively at my mother sitting beside me and she tears surfaced. Simply not had nothing to say as we left Iraq. I wanted to weep but I did not look like a baby. I did not want the driver thought was ungrateful for the opportunity to leave what had become a hell for four and a half years.

The Syrian border was equally crowded, but the atmosphere was more relaxed. People came out of their cars and stretching. Some recognized and greeted others or shared sad stories or comments through the car windows. Most importantly, everyone was equal. Sunnis and Shiites, Arabs and Kurds ... everyone was equal before the Syrian border personnel.

All were refugees - rich or poor. And they all look like refugees - is a unique expression you'll find on their faces - relief mixed with sorrow, tinged with fear. Almost all the faces look the same.

The first minutes after passing the border were overwhelming. Overwhelming relief and overwhelming sadness ... How can it be that only a stretch of several kilometers and maybe twenty minutes, so firmly separating life and death?

How is it that a border no one can see or touch is erected between car bombs, militias, death squads y. .. peace, security? It's hard to believe, even now. I sit here and write this and I wonder why I can not hear the explosions.

I wonder how the windows do not rattle as the planes pass overhead. I'm trying to get rid of having the expectation that armed people in black will break into the door and into our lives. Try my eyes grow accustomed to streets free of gatekeepers, Hummer military vehicles and portraits of Muqtada and the rest ...

How does all this disappears with a short drive?


- posted by river @ 12:06 AM