Iraqi Refugees in Jordan Part 5

Somewhere, Jordan
Jan 2009

We got permission.

I hand the driver an address written in Arabic, and we drive a long time. Somehow we received the unexpected chance to shoot at a factory where men made the concrete and stone materials used for building fabrication. The factory sits behind a row of tall buildings, completely hidden by the main highway. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell where we are.

The landscape exposes a scattering of shanty homes and makeshift factory zones. It all looks very temporary, like the whole factory could be placed on a semi truck bed overnight and hauled away. Disappeared, with only a pile of smashed tomatoes left by the workers, their lunch rotting in the afternoon sun.

The men who work at the factory are almost ghosts. For weeks I have heard of such men, but I have not seen them. When our taxi arrives, the workers instinctively pull down their caps and hattas. From a distance they look to be sheltering their eyes from the sun, or protecting their faces from the continual rise of dust and debris.

They must know a stranger is among them, yet their reaction is one of restraint. Later, I hear that raids often occur in factories like these, and the workers are known to run away as fast as they can. But our taxi car doesn’t set off enough warning bells, so they hold steady.

Being girls can also have its advantages.

A boss looking figure asks me where I am from, and I pretend to not understand his Arabic. He asks again in English, and I reply that I am from Arizona. My American accent appears to satisfy him, and he leaves us alone. I focus my camera on the cracked hands, the steady chipping of limestone blocks, the hammer pounding away. The hauling and moving of wet cement are shaped into blocks, each man on his own ground, lost in the noise and the monotonous motion of difficult work.

Normally when I pull out my camera in the public spaces of Jordan, a huge crowd gathers. It is the most unfortunate circumstance, often killing all hope of spontaneous footage of ordinary life. But here I am ignored. I notice that a few edge away from the pointing camera. Those who remain in the shot turn their back, or pull their chins into their necks, revealing only the tops of their heads. We negotiate this careful dance without any words between us. I tape, they work, but we both do our part to keep their faces out of the frame.

I start to wonder about this exchange between the workers and myself. I wonder if they knew what I was doing, maybe secretly hoping my taping was part of some undercover mission to expose their exploitation. But I quickly dismiss this thought; after all, they desperately need the work; why in the world would they want to be exposed?

Perhaps they were simply afraid to deny me their likeness, worried it would make me suspicious of their nationality. After all, why would a laborer have any problem with the some random taping of them hard at work, the banal footage of them pounding limestone, Jordan’s proud progress in its rapid (over) development? Or maybe they didn’t even have the time to think that far, of what implications of having their presence recording on video meant to their security or future. The camera presence is tempting; it can make you feel a little important. I could be making infomercials for a construction company, or working for a major newspaper, or even taping their likeness as evidence to incriminate them in their illegal employment. Did they even think of that? Did those thoughts stand a chance against the seduction of feeling important? A stranger with a camera, choosing you as her star.

This thought makes me feel guilty. I don’t want to use anyone, or hurt anyone. Ever. I have an obligation not to exploit these people who don’t have the power to even say no to my taping. The boss said it was okay, so who are they to say no? Even worse, saying no might further incriminate them.

I know what I am shooting, and there is nothing damaging on my tapes. You can’t see anyone’s face. You can’t figure out where the location is. It is just a pile of cement, in a nondescript space, with some anonymous guys trying to survive. Their hands alone can’t reveal their nationality.

But I know. I know they work for shameless wages, doing what they have to do. I know that everything is against them. I know the truth. I know they have no choice but to stand there and work, while I tape. Even if my tapes are being used to help such men, and I work to keep their identities a secret, it still might wrong. Maybe my good intentions aren’t enough. I suddenly didn’t feel like taping anymore.

We get back to the car, and the guys suddenly stop working. They stand around, each one on his own, looking our way. They are staring at us, trying to figure us out.

We drive away slowly while the workers wave goodbye.