Iraqi Refugees in Jordan Part 3

Taboon at Abu Abbas

Looking at family pictures with her sister in law

Jan 2nd, 2009
Amman, Jordan

Abu Abbas has brought the outdoor kitchens of Iraq to his backyard. A three way spit to hold “Masgouf” (the national dish of Iraq, cooked on an open flame and made of river carp) – stands ready for barbeque. He also has a large circular oven that he throws flattened dough onto its sides. The results are the delicious Iraqi breads – Taboon, circular and fluffy, fresh and warm. Our friend who introduces us to Abu Abbas stares at the oven pit and shakes her head. She points to her cheeks and tells us that she’s receiving laser therapy for the pigmentation shifts on her face. During the years of sanctions against Iraq, food was scarce and her job was to make bread for her extended family. Countless hours standing next the flames have discolored her face with America’s policy of collective punishment towards unfavorable regimes.

Abu Abbas hands us large rounds of warm bread, and I devour mine. The last time I had this bread fresh was in Iraq in the winter of 1981. We were living in Basra, during the Iraq Iran War. Food was a scarcity then too, and the bread shops rarely opened. On this occasion, we heard it might be opened. My mother sent my brother and I along to stand in line, and we brought our chocolate lab dog Snoopy with us for protection. We stood in line for nearly an hour on a chilly dark night, but my memories of it were actually quite joyous. Our neighbors also stood in line with us, and everyone was laughing and talking. No one really got out much anymore because of the night raids, so this opportunity of sitting in line for bread almost felt like an impromptu party. We took bags of the bread home, freezing much of it for later use. My mother pulled out a bowl of dibbis (date syrup) and we dunked our bread in the molasses mess and into our mouths. Warm bread and sweet dibbis. Sustenance of life.

I asked Om Abbas if she brought any special items from Iraq when they fled. I wanted to take pictures of the items she found too precious to leave. She replies that she brought her important papers and passports. I keep pressing her—items from your wedding, jewelry, and heirloom from your family. She shakes her head, and a look darts across her eyes. I don’t want to remind her of all of the things she left. She looks around the small room and shows me the bag she brought from Iraq. One duffle bag, stuffed with clothes. I photograph the uninteresting bag (still stuffed with clothes) and look around her place. One tiny flag of Iraq on the wall, otherwise fairly barren. The tiny apartment they live in is tidy, and a much better construction than Hamid’s. But it is barren, empty of life. Their home looks like many of the homes I have seen so far. They are indistinguishable from waiting rooms. The lucky ones have sponges for beds, perhaps a couch or two over used rugs. A small TV on its last legs. Abu Abbas has an old computer with a webcam that he talks to his family in Iraq with.

But there are no pictures, no tokens of identity and history anywhere. No plants or calendars. Just plain walls, with a tiny Iraqi flag.

For many Iraqis, Jordan is just an intermediary step, a holding place until their number comes up for resettlement. And so they live in this liminal space for years, not daring to get comfortable, not naïve enough to believe they can think of their guest status as something tangible enough to warrant putting pictures on the walls. Everyone lives in fear of deportation, and their homes reflect their fear. The walls hold their breath, waiting to exhale.

I ask about old family pictures. Om Abbas’ face lights up. She pulls out her wallet and shows me two pictures of her sisters. She tells her son to get the rest. He pulls out a small stack of pictures that appear to be pulled from an old family album. Pictures of their parents, their homes, their loved ones. Abu Abbas points to a woman in the picture and tells us it is his sister, killed in Baghdad. She was walking in the market with her young son when an explosion detonated. Over 200 Iraqis were killed. No one told Abu Abbas for months. Each time he called his family in Iraq, they will tell him his little sister was at her uncles, shopping, or at a friends. Once day, he called her home and her young son told him she was at their aunts. Abu Abbas, missing his little sister very much and wanting to speak to her, called to the home she was supposedly visiting. There he heard she was at another’s home. He tried there too. Four phone calls later, with his heart pounding, and understanding that something was gravely wrong, he demanded to know where his sister was. They finally told him that she was killed months ago. He dropped the phone and fell to the ground.

Abu Abbas tells us this story as he prepares Chicken Biryanni for us. Every few moments, he pauses, turns around, and sobs. Then he continues with the food preparation, wiping tears with his sleeve. He stands here in Jordan, away from his family, unable to properly mourn her. Surrounded by empty walls and only one picture of her, he tells us that cooking (which has become the source of his income here in Amman) is the only thing that helps him stay together. If he sits, he’ll be consumed with grief.

His family’s exile is due to their mixed religious affiliation. Abu Abbas is a Shi’a and his wife is a Sunni. The vulnerabilities people experience in Iraq has largely to do with what neighborhood they lived in. Some neighborhoods targeted professionals (like doctors and professors). Others looked for Christians. In Abu Abbas’ case, his neighborhood militias were targeting Sunnis in the area. Knowing that Abu Abbas’ own wife was a Sunni, they contacted him asking him to provide inside information of the Sunnis in the area. They also wanted him to prove his loyalty to the Shi’as by joining the militia’s activities, and killing Sunnis in the area. Of course Abu Abbas refused. But that evening, he returned home to find his neighbor shot dead in the street. His neighbor, also a Shi’a, was asked to do the same by the militias, and he too refused. Abu Abbas stood in horror, unable to help his neighbor even though his neighbors’ children begged him to. The street was filled with families watching behind blinds and opened cracked doors. It was known if they attempted to carry away this dead man, they would be shot too.

Abu Abbas received a call that same night from the militia. They told him that unless he joined and helped their efforts to rid the area of Sunnis, he would be next. Taking only the bag of clothes, a few pictures and their important papers, Abu Abbas and his five children escaped. He left his home not knowing if the militias were watching from the street, and was terrified he’d be shot dead getting into his car. They made it to a distant neighborhood where a friend lived, but received another call from the militia only hours later. They told him that they knew he had left, and he was being watched. They would find him wherever he went. There would be no escape.

Abu Abbas knew he had to leave Iraq, but needed time to get his family out. He told the militias that he would join them, but that he needed a couple of days to emotionally prepare himself to this kind of work. They agreed to give another day. Abu Abbas piled his children in the car, two of them were toddlers, and prayed that Jordan would let him in. He had heard that young men under the age of 35 weren’t being let in to Jordan for security reasons. He was exactly 35 year old, and only had one shot at saving his life. He would not kill others, and the only other choice was to be killed. He had nothing to lose.

The next morning, they drove to Iraq Jordanian border. At its edge, he received a call from the militia. Abu Abbas told them that he was finishing his tea, and would be right over. He then proceeded to his car’s turn in line. The Jordanian border agent looked at his passport, and the small children that packed the back of the car. The agent stated Abu Abbas’ age out loud, then asked him why he was coming to Jordan. Abu Abbas told him the truth. He told him that he had no other choice, he’ll be killed if he goes back to Baghdad. The agent took another look at his young children in the back, and gave back the passport. He motioned his hand towards the Jordanian side, and said, “Welcome to Jordan”.