Iraqi Refugees in Jordan Part 4

rakim walking down his alley

Rakim receiving clothes and food distribution

A donated oil heater (soba) for Rakim

Jan 5th, 2009
Amman, Jordan

It’s distribution day. It’s only eight thirty a.m., but Najlaa is bouncing around like a kid at Christmas. Her tiny frame is lifting massive boxes of donated clothes, mattresses, rugs and bags of blankets into the rented van. She even has a bag of frozen lamb, donated by family who wanted to give the Iraqi Refugees meat for the Eid Al-Adha (the holiday of Abraham’s sacrifice). Most of the Iraqi families received their portion back in early December, but Rakim and his wife don’t live in Amman. The trip to travel back and forth to Zarqa is expensive, so Najlaa waited till she could accumulate all the household items the family needs before visiting them. Rakim is old, and has lost one of his legs to Gangrene, so the trip to Amman is really difficult for him.

Some of the NGO’s in Amman fail miserably at distribution. They don’t personally check with the families to see what they need, often double or triple distributing the same items to a single family, while other necessities go unfilled. They also don’t visit family homes to evaluate the condition of items they might already own, such as sobas (oil space heaters), which emit dangerous smoke when they are old. And families who do not have the means or ability to make it to these distribution centers are literally left out in the cold.

Najlaa’s primary concern is such families. She knows that the young and strong will find a way to sit in lines for hours upon hours to receive their rations of heaters, blankets and coats. Although Direct Aid serves such families too, her thoughts are concentrated on the most vulnerable: orphan children, the old and disabled, the very sick including the mentally ill, and those who live too far away from Amman where all the NGO’s are located. Rather than waiting for them to contact or come to her, she seeks them out. She regularly arranges for volunteers and drivers to penetrate the Jordanian countryside and other cities to provide needy families with the basics to survive the winter, personal items to live with dignity, and a mattress and pillow to get their bodies off the freezing concrete floors.

This kind of work makes Najlaa excited. She lives to see the smile on their faces when she can bring them things to make their life a little easier, or when a hard fought battle for resettlement is won. It’s their smiles that keep her going. Even among the hours of painful interviews she must conduct (their history, what kind of conditions made them flee Iraq, what are their current obstacles and struggles, etc), she finds ways to bring a smile to all present. She cracks jokes, compliments them, passes out chocolate to the children, listens deeply and fully, and always finds a way to come through. Everyone loves her, and whether she comes into their homes with meat or empty handed, she always brings something special into their homes. A friend they can trust. Someone that will fight for them. Dignity and hope.

Najlaa doesn’t exaggerate, or give false hope where there is none. She is always honest, and doesn’t steer the refugees onto useless paths. She is a pragmatic, and built with an internal compass of fairness and morality. She refuses to favor any of the families; whatever energy and commitment she provides for one case, she insists on the same for others. Her commitment is unwavering, but when I or others compliment her she quickly redirects the gratitude towards her organization, the “team” she works with, and the people she herself serves.

We arrive in Zarqa by 9:30, traveling up and down the busy markets looking for Rakim’s home. His simple directions require a telepathic talent. When we finally arrive, he greets us on the main road, a few young boys at his side. They are his neighbors, willing to help move all the items into his tiny home that sits back at the end of a windy and narrow alleyway. Rakim deftly navigates his way through the uneven terrain with his crutches and single leg. He’s full of life and jokes. His white hair shines over the brightness of his personality and spirit.

We sit outside his home drinking coffee and conducting his interview. Najlaa’s is surprised by stories Rakim tells us of her father, who passed away only a year ago. Rakim knew him from Baghdad, and recounts stories as far back as the 1970’s. She listens intently, beaming at the complimentary reflections Rakim’s memories express. But then the subject shifts to his own struggles; especially the killing of his family members, and the mood of the space darkens. He sobs quietly at the story of his uncle being dumped in the trash after his murder. His head is in his hands, his shoulders shake, but I don’t hear a sound. I watch his white hair glistening in the morning sun for a moment, but then I realize I should look away. After a few minutes, he lifts his head defiantly, and declares proudly that he has lived through six regime changes.

We all laugh, grateful for the moment.

The will to survive, the steadfastness in the face of injustice, and the determination to be better than those morally bankrupt beings whose actions destroy the lives of others…I see it here, day in and day out. Palestinians call it summound, steadfastness, and their Iraqi cousins possess the same grit; resolute not only in their own survival, but in helping their community as well. I am sure some will think I’m biased (I am half Palestinian and half Iraqi after all), but it is not just I who notices the similar tenacity of the two peoples. Both groups are largely without leadership, at odds and under occupation with the strongest super power countries in the world, betrayed by all governments, often denied of basic human rights, incarcerated by visible barriers while negotiating invisible boundaries not easily penetrated, internally and externally displaced in and from their country, and absent of a collective vision towards a future that can reunite them on their own land. The Iraqis and Palestinians I have met are always quick to offer their support in solidarity for the other. When I reveal my mixed identity to either Iraqis I met here in Jordan, or Palestinians in the West Bank, I often get quick grins and compliments of my two bloodlines. “Powerful combination” or “They must love you in America” are the usual retorts.

Rakim and Najlaa discuss possible resettlement locations for his family. They discuss America but dismiss it because their need of strong social services for refugees. They finally agree to Sweden. Suddenly, the subject changes. For eight months they have believed their son was dead. He was caught working illegally in Jordan, and was deported to Iraq some time ago. He then fled Iraq to Turkey, and tried to cross to Greece by water. His parents were told that his boat downed in the water, and that he didn’t survive. But several weeks ago they heard he actually survived and was jailed in a Greek prison. They didn’t know if this story was true or if family members that couldn’t bare to hear of their suffering decided a little lie might comfort them in their relentless anguish. They tried calling the prison to check on the story, but couldn’t get any information, and the language barrier was also a problem. Najlaa tells them she has a great contact at the Red Cross who can find out such things, so she promises to try her best to get them the information they so desperately want. They are ecstatic, jumping with joy, kissing her and asking God to protect her. The not knowing has been eating at them for weeks. They give Najlaa his picture, and praise her willingness to help.

We leave with tears streaming down our eyes, their calling praises and protection from God at our backs. Najlaa looks at the small photograph they gave her, the face of the handsome young man smiling brightly.

Her burden is now to find him, praying that he is still alive.