Resettlement

ANWAR

I met Anwar in Amman a year ago this month. Her positive energy, encouraging smile, and the story of her courageous and independent struggle as an Iraqi woman threatened for her work with the American government and American media agencies, made her the star of the documentary trailer and inspired the film title – Between Earth & Sky.

A month after I filmed Anwar in Jordan, I met her again, but in Michigan. She arrived in Detroit the night before on a plane from New York and was staying temporarily with cousins who were firmly settled in Dearborn – a city famous for its large Iraqi-American community – for over ten years. Anwar had a large jacket on; her hands always nestled warmly in her lap. Her overstuffed suitcases stood at the corner of the room, still unpacked. Yet she was anxious to get a driver’s license, find an apartment of her own, and any job to support herself. All efforts took months as she struggled to obtain all the necessary identifications and find a place to live. With a weakened economy, Anwar never found a job in Michigan.

Anwar heard from friends that things were better in Nashville, Tennessee. There was a growing Iraqi community and the sun shone just a bit brighter than in Michigan. Anwar packed a small suitcase to visit Nashville, but never made it back to Dearborn.

In Tennessee, Anwar found friends to support her and a job as an operator with a telemarketing company. Once an engineer and manager of a radio station in Basra, she was now making $8/hour dialing telephone numbers and living in an empty apartment with only a single bed. But Anwar was happy to just have a job and an apartment of her own.

A few months after her move, Anwar met a young Iraqi-American in Nashville who fell in love with her at first sight and quickly proposed to her and her family. Anwar decided to marry soon after knowing that he was a good man and that life would be easier for her with a strong partner, who understood exactly what she had been through, by her side.

Anwar is happy with her new life and with the new opportunities awaiting her. She has decided to study for a teaching license and to have her engineering degree accredited.

Although she is moving forward with her life, Anwar continues to look back at the loved ones she has left behind. Right now, savings aren't even a consideration as she and her husband struggle to make enough to send back to their families still stuck in Iraq.

ABU AHMED

Abu Ahmed, on the other hand, wonders when Iraq will become safe enough for him and his family to return. (To follow the complete story, see Safe Arrival, Uncertainty, Indi Watan, Double-Edged Sword, and A New Spring)

Almost a year ago today I was living with Abu Ahmed’s family. They had just arrived in Amman a few days before I arrived to film the trailer for the documentary. Yet, they still insisted I stay with them. It was tough watching them go through the transition of settling into a new home, the kids starting a new school, and the family shifting into a new life, all over again.

In April, Abu Ahmed and his family packed their bags yet again, but this time for the United States. They received only one week’s notice from the IOM (International Organization for Migration) to leave for the United States. They barely had enough time to get their things in order, notify the children’s schools, and return their keys to the landlord. The night they left, still uncertain, due to some failed IOM procedure, if they would be able to board the plane for the US, Abu Ahmed told us he was tired - tired of moving, tired of uncertainty, tired of starting from zero.

Now resettled in Virginia, starting from zero is all that they can do. Abu Ahmed and his family immediately found a place to live. Both their children, Ahmed and Mustafa enrolled into summer school as soon as they arrived. Tomorrow they will begin their first school year in the US. Om Ahmed is taking English classes. The family even purchased a car.

But amidst the country’s deep recession, Abu Ahmed, a former mechanical engineer and manager in Iraq, is unable to find a job to support his family. He has contacted everyone he knows, perused every website, flipped through every notice, but unsuccessfully. And each day spent in the US without work is costing the family money, money they have saved through many years of hard work.

The exhaustion of war, the exhaustion of fleeing, the exhaustion of always having to start over and over again has finally taken a toll. “If things do not change quickly,” says Abu Ahmed, “If I cannot find a way to support my family, we will have to go back…to Iraq.”

OHANNES

Ohannes and his family are ready to rebuild a new life.

Ohannes arrived in Glendale, CA at the beginning of June this year. He came with his wife, mother, and elder aunt. His brother, sister-in-law and niece followed soon after. All seven live in a small two-bedroom apartment in a small Armenian neighborhood, tucked away behind tall trees and well-trimmed hydrangea bushes.

Ohannes beamed when he saw us, greeting us with strong hugs and a youthful smile. Everyone looked younger and happier.

The house was furnished with a couch and dining set from IKEA. A calendar hung on the wall and a basket of fresh fruit rested on the kitchen counter. The family served us our usual Turkish coffee, reminding us of our past visits to their last apartment in Jordan.

But this visit was different.

The gloominess that pervaded their household in Amman had passed. The over two years of waiting and longing to be resettled had passed. Ohannes and his family now face a new future and a new opportunity to start all over again.

A former manager in Iraq, Ohannes was able to find a job as a superintendant for a construction company in Glendale. He found the job through family friends and was firmly aware of the difficulties of finding work in this flagging economy. But he is determined to work hard and do well within the small amount of time he’s been here.

This week Ohannes will start a new schedule. He will take English classes in the morning to improve his English and work from afternoon until 11 o’clock at night. Soon, he will begin taking management courses at the local community college to improve his management skills and his chances of being promoted. He told us the schedule works fine for him. He doesn’t need rest. He just needs to move forward with his life.

But despite Ohannes’ commitment and hard work, the family is still struggling. World Relief only provided them with resettlement assistance the first month they arrived even though other resettlement agencies have been able to provide assistance to other Iraqis for at least six months. Ohannes’ ailing mother and aunt have no health care and are not saavy enough to navigate the US health care system alone.

The transition has also been much more challenging for Ohannes’ mother and elderly aunt. In Iraq, surrounded by family and friends, not a day passed without a visit from a relative or a friend. Here in Glendale, they are confined to an apartment complex where they know no one.

Yet, they continue to smile and hope for the best for the future of their own children and their one and only granddaughter who just turned two years old last week. Tamar, her hair tied in a small ponytail, bounced back and forth with a telephone in her hand, silently chanting her ABC’s.

What's in a name?

I can’t imagine myself with a name other than Kalyanee. Many people mispronounce it. Some refuse to say it. Some have even asked if they could call me something else. I had people want to call me Kali and here in the Middle East, some have even suggested changing my name entirely – perhaps to something simpler, like Sara. But I always refuse. I lure them with an excuse that Kalyanee is such a beautiful name and how could anyone want to change that?

When my family and I immigrated to the US from Cambodia, all of us had difficulty with our names. In a state like Texas, names like Sok Sann, Vann, Sophaline, Makkara, Kunthear, Phalkun, Kalyanee and Sihakmony were not frequently heard of, but frequently made fun of. Jokes abounded and many feelings were hurt. It was no surprise when our family naturalized as American citizens, my father and a few of my brothers and sisters decided to change their names. Sok Sann became Peter, Makkara became Alex, Phalkun became Jacqueline, and Sihakmony became Jonathan.

Another family, also moving to Texas, is facing a similar problem and asking similar questions.

Mohammed and his family, mentioned earlier in the blog, is finally being resettled in Texas with his family, after waiting over a year in Jordan for the final good news. When we met with them in Jordan, they looked happy, but also a little worried.

Mohammed and Zina told us the family had been thinking a lot about whether or not they should keep or change their names. The DHS (Department of Homeland Security) officers in Jordan suggested that it might make their lives in the US easier if they changed their names. They even strongly advised persons with names like Saddam, Husssein, or Osama to change their names completely.

Their sons Saad and Ali were already determined to change their names to Cedric and Alex. They even have new email addresses to reflect their new names. But Mohammed is still hesitating whether to take the big step. After everything he and his family have suffered, he doesn’t think it’s such a big deal. It may make it easier for him to be considered at a job interview, to be hired, or even to step on a plane without stringent security checks. The only problem was that he had no name in mind to change his name to.

Mohammed looked at us and begged us to help him. David and I looked at each and wondered if Mohammed was doing the right thing. What’s in a name anyway? Everything. One’s life, one’s dreams, one’s identity, one’s past. His family and his parents, when they were still living, all knew him as Mohammed. He married as Mohammed, he became a distinguished lawyer in Iraq as Mohammed, he gave birth to his children as Mohammed. Now his life will change and his memories and his past will change with it.

When we arrived in the US, my family changed their names to fit in, to assimilate, to accommodate, to be American, and to make life just a little bit easier for them. When Mohammed and his family come to the US, they will also do the same. In Iraq, Iraqis are also changing their names to avoid being targeted for being either Sunni or Shi’a depending on the neighborhood they live in.

These days, it seems the changes of names say more about the societies that we live in than the people themselves who have been forced to change their names.

Saoud

Saoud has curly and bushy hair, dark eyes and a curious smile that puckers when he laughs. Saoud has been drawing and painting since he was seven years old. He is now sixteen. When he was younger his drawings depicted cartoon characters and pencil portraits of his brother and sisters. Now his oil paintings portray the aftermath of war and his personal perspective on beauty and suffering.

All his paintings are dark.

"I can’t express Iraq in a way…in a way…with happy colors. Or in a way with bright colors or flowers. You have noticed that all my paintings are without flowers. I didn’t even draw a bird that stands alone because I don’t feel there is freedom; there is democracy. No, there is only a prison. Even if I tried to draw a bird and I draw it very well, I draw it with chains. I don’t draw it as being free."

One of Saoud’s paintings detail a story he had heard on television of a young Sunni boy that helped save the lives of drowning Shi’a victims in the Tigris River. For Saoud, the event illustrated the power and tenacity of Iraqi nationality and human relationship despite the rising sectarian divide between the Shi’a and Sunni sects. The painting shows the victims drowning, while government leaders, depicted as women with long, white hair watched on, unwilling to do anything to help the Iraqi people who are imprisoned in tombs stacked one on top of the other.


Saoud’s other paintings are equally sad and tragic. In one painting, he depicts Iraq as a baby but also as a bare and naked woman curled up in a fetal position, abandoned by her parents and left with no government, no freedom, and no democracy. Another painting is of a woman’s face painted blood red, sad and fragile, whose dark eyes face an unclear and uncertain future.

A month ago, Saoud finished a painting of his grandmother who died a year ago in Iraq. Saoud and his family could not be with her when she died. He painted a picture of her to remind him of the grandmother he loved so much. He tried to capture her expressions, but he also wanted to express the current life around her and around all Iraqis now living in Iraq. Her portrait is surrounded by small images – a chained pigeon, a little girl burned by the war, a prison, and the staircase they used to climb up and down at home. He also drew a chair, to represent the simplest things he and his family are now deprived of.

Saoud and his family live in the outskirts of Faisal, a suburb of Cairo. Every day, Saoud makes a ritual of walking into town with a red bucket he fills up with drinking water. They have no potable water at home. Saoud says he wishes he could fast and not have to drink water or eat food. And he could save the money they spend on water for other things he feels are more important.

"I wish we could save the money that we buy water with and we can stop drinking water and even stop eating, so that we can see our future. But we won’t be able to live without water or without food. We have to eat and to drink and to walk
and we have to do everything."

Saoud’s father worked as bodyguard for Saddam Hussein’s brother-in-law. When Saddam Hussein murdered his brother-in-law, his life was also threatened. He immediately fled to Jordan with his family, where they were offered an opportunity to resettle in Australia. But they had to turn that down. Saoud’s grandfather proclaimed he would die if the family moved away. The family returned to Baghdad, this time to face a US occupation and an impending civil war, which made it all the more easy for different groups to settle old scores and for Saoud’s father to be a target.

Saoud and his family faced two attempts on their lives, both times while driving in their car, surrounded by people dressed in black. After the two incidents, Saoud drew a painting of a head checkered black and white. The white refers to peace and the black, to destruction. He used those two colors to also illustrate how Iraqis are now being played like a game of chess.

After the incident, Saoud’s family could not remain in Baghdad for long. Saoud and his family finally fled for Egypt in 2005, where they are now finding it difficult to live. Saoud’s father worked in a restaurant for a little while but after suffering two strokes, was forced to stay home. Neither he nor his wife are able to find work here in Cairo, where the unemployment rate is high and the competition to find work among local Egyptians is also fierce. The family is also unable to afford to send the children to school, as government schools are only open to Egyptian children.


Saoud spends most of his time attending workshops and volunteering as an assistant at Townhouse Gallery downtown. The gallery hosts works and performances by local artists but also has an outreach program for young Egyptian, Sudanese and Iraqi children. The program introduces and teaches art to young children but also aims to foster relationships between local Egyptians and the burgeoning Sudanese and Iraqi refugee communities.

But Saoud’s father does not approve of the direction Saoud’s life is going. When he was a young boy, he taught himself how to drive a car. He put a pillow on his seat to disguise his small figure. He was strong and tough and knew how to take care of himself. Saoud’s father wants him to work, to be a man, and to help support the family. Accustomed to a better life back in Iraq and to money and position working as a bodyguard under the Saddam regime, Saoud’s father is unable to accept his new, emasculated life, in which he does nothing but sit at home.

With pressure and tension escalating between Saoud and his father, Saoud tells us he may soon leave for Iraq, where, even caged and imprisoned, he is at least free from the tyranny of his father.

Books and Ashes

Maysoun and Bassim met one day after Bassim came home from working as a geologist in the oil fields of Iraq. His hair was scraggly, his clothes drenched in oil, so it was to be expected that Maysoun would not spare him even a second glance. But when Bassim mentioned that Herman Hesse was one of his favorite authors, Maysoun changed her mind. The wild and unkempt hair and clothes no longer mattered. She had found her soul mate.

Maysoun and Bassim now live in a suburb an hour away from Cairo with their three young children Hadir, age 16 and Ramy and Fady, both twins and age 12. Maysoun works as a fashion designer, designing and sewing clothes inside their small apartment. Maysoun supports the entire family with her earnings.

Bassim volunteers four hours a week as a professor of math and science because the university will not hire him. Although unpaid, the work is good for him, to help keep up his morale and to keep him active doing something during the otherwise uneventful and monotonous days that fill up their lives. Bassim also cooks for the family while Maysoun works and boasts he can cook the most delicious Iraqi meals. But he is also careful to tell us that if they were in Iraq, Maysoun would be doing the cooking.

Hadir, Ramy and Fady are all going to private school, costing them 5,000 Egyptian pounds or about $US 1,000 a year, paid for by the family savings, which are fast dwindling. Unlike Jordan and Syria, Iraqi children are not permitted to attend primary public schools in Egypt. The only option for free education is the Al-Azhar school, which is devoted to Sunni religious teachings and open only to Sunni Iraqis.

Shi’a Iraqis are having a difficult time in Egypt, a Sunni majority country. Sudanese, Somali and Eritrean refugees are able to develop aid and service organizations to assist their communities, but not Iraqis. Fearful that the Shi’a sect would gain hold in Egypt, Iraqis are not permitted to build mosques or develop organizations and associations in their communities.

Here in Egypt, Maysoun and Bassim are finding it difficult to keep the family together. They used to live in another suburb with other Iraqi families, but have been forced to move to a less desirable neighborhood, due to dwindling savings.

Their lives in Baghdad seem only a distant memory now. In Baghdad, Bassim and Maysoun had a library, the shelves stacked to the brim with thousands of books, Eastern and Western, although Maysoun has a particular weak spot for German writers.

Before they fled Baghdad, Bassim offered his books to friends and neighbors but no one would accept his gift. He couldn’t understand why. Unable to imagine his books destroyed by strange hands that would occupy his home in due course, Bassim burned his books, one by one. Only ashes remained to remind him of the letters, the words, and the phrases strung together by great writers that inspired and touched his soul.

I cried when I heard this story. I could feel his passion and attachment, not just for the books, but also for what the books represented – a past life, a glorious life, of thought, study and reflection – all shattered by this tragic war. I imagined my own library of books destroyed and all the great libraries and museums that I loved since childhood burned to ashes and I cried for the tragedy that has befallen all of us.

That evening, Maysoun and Bassim and I recounted all the books we loved by writers that we cherished – Herman Hesse, Gabriel Garcia Marquéz, André Gide, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Yukio Mishima and so many more. The words that touched me also touched them once upon a time. We are not so different after all – seeking truth and beauty in life.

Now in Egypt

It's been a few months since we've updated on our progress and months since the blog has been updated as well. Our journey took us to Jordan from April to May, Syria in June and now we will complete our filming in Egypt this July.

It was a challenge for us to get permission to film in Syria. Due to current and recent political developments it took us two months to get a visa to go to Syria and later, weeks to get permission to film. We were recently granted permission to film, but for only one week. We decided to focus on only one story in Syria, a story that has actually taken us to Egypt to complete. While we are here, we also plan to cover our third and last story. Please feel free to email us if you have contacts or friends in Egypt you think we should get in touch with.

It was very difficult for David and I to leave Amman and Damascus and all the Iraqis that have become our close friends, many of whom also consider us as part of their family. Neither of us has ever met a people more open, more kind or hospitable and willing to do all they can to help make us feel welcomed. It is a tragedy what has happened to Iraq and to the people of Iraq. In the last few years thousands of years of art, history, and culture have been destroyed and millions of lives shattered or halted, forgotten by the world as we move on with our own daily lives, half questioning the rise in food and oil prices and perhaps unaware that what happens in the Middle East and all over the world affects all of us at home.

Coming to Jordan, Syria and Egypt and meeting Iraqis have been a journey and enlightening experience for both of us. We have learned so much about this region and its people and we have also learned a lot about ourselves, and how we can improve in our own lives. We have learned to be more patient, more open, and more tolerant. We have even learned to be stronger. Despite everything that has happened, despite the daily suffering and wondering of what the future will bring, Iraqis continue to persevere and have hope that, in God's hands, life will be better.

NEWS & UPDATES
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Same but Different

It’s been a while since we updated this blog. We thought we would be able to write more and write every day, but each day has been spent trying to just deal with the day – either filming or meeting with Iraqis or just spending time and getting to know people we have come to care for very much.

People here in Syria think we are journalists. It’s difficult to explain to people the kind of work we are trying to do. To explain we are not journalists and, practically speaking, not even documentary filmmakers, but simple, ordinary people trying to learn and discover the truth and trying to meet and connect with Iraqis the way we would normally meet and connect with our own friends – drinking in a café, watching a soccer match in a restaurant, or just talking late into the night, about our life and our dreams.

And then it hits us somehow that although the Iraqis we meet are the same as us – we are about the same age, we share similar hopes for the future – we have become different because of where we come from and the situation that we are in.

We met Rahman and his friends Saif and Ali almost two weeks ago, but we feel we are good friends. We joke and laugh over mouthwatering dishes of Iraqi kebab and biriyani. They tell us about their dreams for the future – Rahman wants to become a cinematographer. Saif wants to write screenplays like his uncle and Ali wants to perform in theaters. They also want to get married one day and raise children with security, a good job and a nice home. David and I have similar ambitions. We all want to do something with our lives.


The fan whirs slowly above the four twin beds crowded in the tiny studio apartment Rahman, Saif and Ali share with another friend in a run-down neighborhood in Damascus, known for the thousands of Iraqis that have settled there and for the Sayyida Zeinab mosque generally frequented by Iranian tourists. They pay about $100 a month for the place. But it is high tourist season and due to scarcity of hotels and high demand for empty rooms, the price of the apartment threatens to skyrocket.

Late last night, the landlord knocked on their door and demanded, that unless they can pay three times their normal rent, they must pack up their bags and leave that very night. No due notice; no advanced warning, only a simple threat. Young, single, male and Iraqi, they have nothing and no one to protect them in a country in which they cannot even rent an apartment based on a signed contract or even work for local wages. Without work permits, most Iraqis in Syria work illegally or serve as “volunteers.”

Despite events of the night before, Rahman, Saif and Ali still manage to get up at 6:30am, get dressed in their clown suits and put on a happy face for the children they perform for at the UNHCR registration offices. They perform every day, except Friday and Saturday, and sometimes twice a day. While the parents wait to be registered as refugees at the UNHCR, Rahman, Ali, and Saif bring smiles and laughter to children who have only seen war and violence until their families fled for Syria.

We wonder how they do it; how they can maintain such optimism and how they can manage to make others laugh while they struggle to maintain normalcy in their own lives.

But despite their strength and perseverance, many Iraqis, including Rahman, Saif and Ali, are approaching the edge of their ability to withstand a life without work, without study, without family, and without a secure future.

I went to say good-bye to an Iraqi friend this morning. We will leave for Jordan on Friday to spend some time with Haneen’s family before heading to Cairo on Monday to finish our last story. We had not seen each other for a while. I asked if everything was okay. She said it’s hard to be happy, hard to smile and have fun when life is so difficult. She was smiling and so hopeful when we first met.

We wonder what will happen if nothing is done to remedy, alleviate or assist in this crisis. The UNHCR and other organizations are able to provide some assistance, but their resources are limited. There are not enough funds to fully support educational and vocational training programs necessary to help, especially young Iraqis, move on with their lives.

There are approximately 1.2 million Iraqis currently living in Syria. Approximately 207,548 are registered with the UNHCR. Only 3,710 Iraqis in Syria have submitted applications to be resettled abroad, a decision not dependent on the UNHCR but on the capacity and willingness of sponsoring countries. The majority of Iraqis remaining in Syria and neighboring countries like Jordan and Egypt are left without any durable solution. They must either find a way to survive in these countries or return to Iraq.

One of our friends, a renowned Iraqi scientist, will be returning to Baghdad in a few days. His family left a week before him to assess the situation and recapture their home previously taken over by another family. They must request and even beg and plead to have their home returned to them.

As we walked Abu Mayada to the gate, we wished him a safe journey back, not knowing what else to say or when we would see him again. In a resigned and matter-fact tone, Abu Mayada told us he would surely be killed once he returns to Iraq.

Separated

From his apartment building, Safaa looks down at the city sprawling below him, wishing the immensity of the city did not make him feel so alone. Safaa has lived in Cairo for almost five years now.

After the war began, Safaa, a graduate of the Baghdad College of Fine Arts, organized a small group of clowns in Baghdad. Their mission was to entertain and to educate children about the importance of going to school. The clowns were popular among children and families and drew unwanted attention to their cause. After militias threatened and killed two members of Safaa’s group, Safaa fled immediately for Egypt, fearing his own life, but hoping also to continue his work and passion elsewhere.

When Safaa fled Iraq, he left behind his family and his younger brother Rahman who also aspired to become a clown. After being separated from his brother for over a year, Rahman decided to join him in Egypt. Overwhelmed with hope and excitement, he flew to Cairo expecting to once again reunite with his beloved brother. When he arrived at the airport, Rahman’s attempt to enter the country was severely rejected. Young, single, male, Muslim, and Iraqi, Rahman was far from being an ideal candidate for entry. That cold and desolate night, Rahman could only stare through the glass window and gaze with longing at his brother on the other side.

Rahman spent a night in the airport basement with other young men and families who were also rejected for the same reason – for being Iraqi. Some families had been living in the basement for over two weeks, without proper showers or toilets. The basement reeked of human odor and excrement.

Rahman returned to Baghdad, but did not remain there for long. Unable and afraid to practice being a clown in Iraq, Rahman fled to Syria with his friends and organized his own trio of clowns in Damascus. They now perform in community centers, entertaining children while the parents register as refugees at the UNHCR. The performances focus on education, urging children, whose education was stunted by the war and by years without proper schooling, to go to school.

Rahman shares a small studio apartment with his friends, Ali and Saif, in Saida Zaynab, a seedy neighborhood in Damascus, popular for the thousands of Iraqis that have settled there. They talk about the dreams they left behind and the dreams that seem so intangible in their cramped and run-down apartment. Rahman wants to become a cinematographer. Saif wants to write screenplays like his uncle and Ali wants to perform in theaters. The prospect of getting married and having children also seem so distant now. They want jobs; they want security; they want a home before they can ever consider becoming a parent.

The fan turns slowly above their head. Ali reclines on a small bed in the far corner smoking a cigarette. Saif sits against another bed on the floor. Rahman lies on a third bed, tapping his fingers against the dusty windowpane. There is nowhere to go and they feel restless.

Although living apart in two separate countries, Safaa and Rahman each day wake up to the same morning and to the same routine. Clown by day, they struggle to make children smile. Alone at night, they struggle to be happy and hopeful about their own lives. Safaa and Rahman wonder when they will be able to reunite and work together again.

Shema

Shema is a young widow now living in Damascus with her son, Mostafa (age six) and daughter, Zina (age 3). She speaks with softness in her voice but wells up with strength and conviction when she speaks about her children and the many other children she assists at the UNHCR. Shema works as a volunteer, teaching Arabic to Iraqi teenagers unable to read or write; their education stunted by the war and now by years without proper schooling.

Shema’s own dreams were shattered by the war. Militias attacked her husband, an engineer, in March 2006 for working with an American company. Shema still has his badges, his certificates, his photographs, locked in his suitcase. Wedding photos, photos of outings and family gatherings, even photos of her husband’s girlfriends from college, remind her of him, and of herself, before the war, young and beautiful. She no longer feels beautiful here. She hides behind a black scarf and black pants.

Shema also lost her father in a bomb explosion right after the war began. Her only sister is in Egypt with her mother, studying nursing. She cannot join them in Egypt because there is no work for her there.

She lives alone in Damascus with her two children, climbing five flights of stairs every day to get to the top floor of her apartment building. After a full day of work, she is too exhausted to climb, too exhausted to do much more than spend time with her children. The apartment is small with mattresses laid out on the floor. Shema is ashamed of her surroundings as she remembers her spacious home in Iraq with a garden.

Shema longs to get out of Syria and resettle abroad so that she can build a more permanent life for her and her children. She’s always wanted to translate poetry. Her favorite is Shakespeare – his sonnets, his plays. But more than her personal dreams, Shema wonders about the future of her children.

Mostafa, traumatized by the death of his grandfather and subsequently, the recent death of his father, does not behave normally. He is selfish with his toys, rips apart dolls and only plays with guns and violent video games. He refuses to believe that his father is dead or that he has gone to heaven. His mother tells him his father is away on an extended trip to Jordan or Sweden.

Shema steps out onto the balcony and looks five flights down to the ground before looking out again at the city sprawling before her and her children’s future dim in the distance. The light, though dim, gives her strength to keep going.

Young, Single, Male, Muslim, and Iraqi

Mohammed is young, single, male, Muslim, and Iraqi – the formula for refusal into any country right now. He is the only male in a family of women, his father killed during the war.

Mohammed’s mother and three sisters were able to resettle in Atlanta, Georgia due to his elder sister’s previous work with the World Health Organization. But they left without Mohammed. His sister drove to the Syrian border fighting to get him into Jordan, but failed. Ultimately, he returned to Syria to face a future without his family, without work, and without even an understanding of what his future might bring.

Mohammed fled from Iraq a few years after the war broke out. Mohammed lived in an extremely vulnerable neighborhood. He left soon after receiving a threat on his life. His only fault was that he had a Sunni last name. His friends encouraged him to leave, to go far away, to a place where he would be safe. Mohammed fled quickly, leaving behind most of his closest friends, many of whom have been killed since the war. He admits he no longer keeps informed about the news in Iraq, afraid to know and afraid to find out.

Mohammed’s mother calls him from the US and asks him how he is doing. He tells her he is fine, he’s doing well and he doesn’t miss her or his sisters. Mohamed’s mother and sisters, in the meantime, struggle to get by in the United States, without any kind of resettlement assistance. They have been there for eight months. His older sister is looking for a job that can meet her qualifications as a human resources manager and is able to help support her two young children left fatherless after her husband was killed in the 2003 bombing of the Jordanian Embassy in Baghdad. His middle sister turned down a scholarship to study civil engineering at a German university in Jordan in order to go to the US. Now, unable to attend college, she works at a supermarket to support the family. Only Mohammed’s younger sister is attending high school in Atlanta.

Mohammed is unsure when he will see his family again. There is no hope for him in Syria and there is little chance any country, including the US, will accept him.

No apologies

Noor is quiet and soft-spoken. She only speaks when spoken to. She laughs often; folding in her lashes to hide her eyes.

Noor was crossing a bridge in a car with her mother and brother, on their way to visit an uncle at Abu Graib. An army tank drove up to them. Without warning, without a shout or even a shot fired in the air, an American soldier shot at them, hitting Noor in her left eye. Her mother was hit on the shoulder. Her brother lost his fingers.

The American soldier that shot at them only said he was sorry, gave them a bottle of war and drove away. Noor was rushed immediately to the hospital. She was given nothing there but weak painkillers, while her head throbbed with pain, liquid slowly dripping where her eye once was.

No representative from the American army or the American government came to offer apologies or compensation for the accident.

Noor’s family had to spend their own savings to pay for the doctor’s visits and medication. Noor’s father drives a taxi in Fallujah, making barely enough to provide for the entire family, let alone pay for unanticipated medical expenses. Without the assistance of a non-profit medical organization, Noor and her family could never have afforded the plastic eye surgery.

Noor never imagined this would happen to her. She was young; only 16 years old. She was still studying and engaged to be married. When the accident happened, she suggested canceling the engagement. But her fiancé refused, insisting he would stick by her side.


But her husband soon divorced her, unable to cope with all the stares and gossip. Even Noor’s own son, now three years old, refuses for her to feed or touch him. He points at her left eye and runs away to her mother.

Noor’s mother sits beside her, tears brimming in her eyes. They were living in security when the Americans came to occupy Iraq. Now look at what has happened. Life is too difficult now in Iraq.

Noor, like many others, expected the Americans to bring democracy to their country. Now there is only chaos. She understands firsthand when American forces say their actions are mistaken. They could have shot in the air; they could have shot at the wheel of the car; but the American that shot them, shot at them directly.

Noor and her mother have been in Jordan for three months now for her medical check-up. They will return to Fallujah on Friday. Noor cannot stay here. Although she was able to gain refugee status through the UNHCR, her son is still in Iraq. There is no way she can bring him here. Noor’s mother cannot stay either. Her entire family including her other three young children are still in Iraq and are unable to enter Jordan.

Haneen

Haneen laughs from the heart and smiles with her eyes. Haneen means longing in Arabic.

Haneen belongs to a family of artists with two sisters, ages 16 and 13 years old. Her father is a poet and a painter and her mother is a painter. Kobra is a sculptor and Ayah is an actress. Their house is a gallery of paintings and a treasure of Iraqi art, culture and history. The mother and father are working in a sewing shop, earning 1JD per hour in order to survive and continue their painting and poetry.

Haneen left Iraq when she was 16, driving along an expansive, dusty road from the border of Iraq to Jordan. She is now 20 years old and dreams of becoming a film director but is unable to study and pursue her dreams in Jordan. Her parents work hard in the sewing factory to provide for their three daughters, while their daughters remain at home, passing their days cooking, cleaning and painting. Only the youngest daughter, Ayah, is able to go to school free of charge.

Although time moves rapidly forward, Haneen's life remains at a standstill. The click, clack of the sewing machines, the tick, tock of the clock in the factory contrast starkly with the slowness of their daily lives. When she looks in the mirror she wonders if she is still the 16 year old of five years ago or if she has changed. Her body is here in Jordan, but her spirit is floating somewhere in the sky.

As she looks out into the city, with the dusk falling around her, she wonders where her future lies. She cannot go back to Iraq, although she longs for her home country. She cannot remain here in Jordan where she is unable to afford an education. Haneen and her family want to resettle in another country. But, even after four years, their UNHCR application is still pending, like thousands of other Iraqi families. Haneen is floating, stuck somewhere in between. The streetlights blur around her, moving slowly and aimlessly towards uncertainty, disappearing into darkness.

A family portrait

Our friend, a music teacher here in Amman, introduced us to Abu Haneen and his family. He asked us if we wanted to meet a family of artists with three young daughters, ages 20, 16 and 10 years old. The father is a poet and painter, the mother is a painter and the daughters, Haneen, Kobra and Ayah are all painters and actresses.

We were immediately intrigued.

“Great!” said Ziad on the telephone, “Can you come now to the sewing factory? And bring your camera! Abu Haneen says you can film him and his wife sewing.”

The factory was on the top floor of a small building in Jabal Amman, with large panoramic windows overlooking downtown. Spools of colored thread stacked up in rows against the wall. Sewing machines lined up one after the other. Bolts of dusty cloth settled in the back of the room. The fan whirred in the background; the clock ticked against the wall.


It was six o’clock in the evening and only Abu Haneen and his wife, Om Haneen, remained in the factory. The other workers had already left.

Abu Haneen came to Jordan first during the sanctions, looking for work to provide for his family. Life during the sanctions was extremely difficult. Most work paid very little. A government salary earned barely enough in one month to buy a basket of eggs.

Abu Haneen’s wife and daughters soon joined him in Jordan after the fall of Baghdad in 2003. It was not safe for Atoor and her three daughters to be alone in Iraq without a man in the house. Haneen, the eldest daughter, was nearly kidnapped while walking to the bakery to buy bread. Life is different now in Iraq. Where once people used to help and support one another, there is now only chaos and instability.

When Om Haneen arrived in Jordan, Abu Haneen at first refused for her to work with him. The mother’s place is in the home, taking care of her children. But circumstances soon forced him to give in. They now work together in a Jordanian sewing factory. Without permanent residence and the ability to legally work in Jordan, Abu Haneen and Om Haneen earn very little – about 1 JD or 70 cents per hour. They work at least 10 hours a day. Abu Haneen works seven days a week; Om Hanee takes Fridays off to spend time with her daughters.

Abu Haneen and his wife never come home for lunch. Sometimes they don’t even make it home for supper, although their home is only 50 meters away. When their parents work very late, Haneen, Kobra and Ayah bring pillows and blankets to the sewing factory and spend the night with them while they work.

In contrast to the dark, neon-lit factory, the home is bright and covered with paintings, hung on the wall or stacked high above the ground, almost reaching the ceiling. White, empty canvases line the hallway.

The two elder daughters, Haneen and Kobra, spend their days tidying up the house and painting while Ayah, the youngest, goes to school. In Jordan, government schools are only offered for primary school children. Parents must pay for secondary school and university, which is very expensive, costing at least 3,000 JD a year. Haneen and Kobra study at home and work hard to have a few paintings ready to share with their parents when they return home from work.

The first day we spent with the three daughters, Haneen and Kobra recalled their memories of Iraq and life in Baghdad. They talked about their parents and the difficulties of living in Jordan. In the late afternoon, when the youngest arrived home, the daughters all sat near the open window of the bedroom and began to sing. The sun was just beginning to fade. It was a magical and golden hour.

We have been spending many days with the family. They are such a warm and beautiful family. David and I feel so at home with them. The family in many ways represents Iraq for us – the richness and beauty of Iraq now severed from its homeland.

Haneen, the eldest daughter, feels torn. Her body is here, but her spirit still lingers in Iraq. She wonders when her body and her spirit will join together again.

Safe Arrival

Abu Ahmed and his family arrived safely in Virginia. The first thing they told us was that the state is very beautiful and green. Om Ahmed and Mostafa caught a cold from the plane, but otherwise everyone is doing well. They are with their friends but are anxious to find their own place.

When we arrived in Amman, Abu Ahmed helped us find an apartment here. Now, we will help them find a place in Virginia in a small town just outside of Washington, D.C. Apartments are very expensive and we wonder for how long Abu Ahmed and his wife can afford to live in Virginia without a job.

Uncertainty

Abu Ahmed and his family left today for the United States.

We went over to their home to say good-bye. Everyone was gathered there.

Abu Ahmed still had not come home yet, although the family was due to leave for the airport in a couple of hours. He was waiting for a form to be faxed over from Egypt. The IOM informed them they would need this form before they could board the plane that evening.

He went to the IOM office twice that day and still the form did not arrive. With all the bags packed, the house keys ready to be returned to the owner, and just hours before departure, the family was still uncertain whether they would be able to leave for the United States that day or if their trip would be postponed for a few more weeks.

Ahmed looked frustrated. He was tired of waiting. He wanted to leave now. Om Ahmed served us soft drinks with her usual smile, trying so hard to remain calm. She had changed from her beautiful abaya into a matching jean outfit perfect for their trip to the US. Even Mustafa had changed into jeans.

Abu Ahmed showed us the receipt for the four plane tickets, each ticket costing over US $1,200. The family would be expected to reimburse this cost within six months of arriving in the US. Upon arrival in the US, they would stay a few nights with a friend, while looking for an apartment.

But there would be no resettlement office there to assist them. They heard many horror stories about Iraqis going to the US, receiving no assistance, and after finding it too difficult to survive there, returning home again.

They were anxious about what to expect from their new life.

Indi Watan

We were invited to a party to celebrate Abu Ahmed and his family’s departure for the United States.

Basima's sister and her husband, Abu Ali, prepared masgouf, a traditional Iraqi dish of carp staked to the ground and roasted before an open fire until crispy on the outside, but soft, juicy and tender inside. Usually the carp comes fresh from the Euphrates or Tigris. These days, the carp comes from Syria or somewhere from the Gulf. The dish is served with fire-roasted eggplant blended into a thick sauce, vegetables, pickles and plenty of flatbread.

After the meal, we sat in the sitting room. Abu Ali poured traditional Iraqi tea for us – served in small tea glasses. Ali, the eldest son usually entertains the guests after dinner with poetry and songs.

Tonight he sang a song that has become extremely popular among Iraqis, especially those living abroad – Indi Watan, by Husam Al Rasam, an Iraqi singer recently famed for his songs describing loss and longing for home and country in Iraq.

That night Ali sang in a southern-Iraqi style voice – strong and full, pushed deep from the throat, and straight from his heart. David and I looked around and noticed small tears in Om Ahmed’s eyes and in the eyes of her sister. Even Abu Ahmed and Abu Ali were unable to hold their composure. One song reminded them of so much.

What makes us human

Since our arrival here in Jordan, many Iraqis have greeted us with a warmth and hospitality neither of us have really experienced before anywhere we have traveled. The Iraqi sentimentality, romanticism, loyalty to family and friends, and love of food and music reminds me of the rich culture of my own country and many Latin countries I’ve traveled to.

Yet, even more impressive, Iraqis are warm and welcoming even while they are far away from their home.

The time we have spent here with many Iraqis and their families, have revealed to me more what is lacking in our own society and culture than simply who the Iraqis are. I am reminded of how busy we are in the United States, how we rarely have time to see family and friends, how we must always schedule lunch or coffee ahead of time.

In many ways I hope this documentary will help reveal something about all of us, helping us to reflect on the many things that make us human.

Alone in the wrong place

The Iraqi artist community in Amman expresses the torment of exile through art.

I met Mohammed S. after visiting an art gallery during my last visit to Amman. The gallery was filled with paintings and sculptures of Iraqi artists and Mohammed’s work was one that I noticed. I requested his phone number from the curator, called him up, and asked if we could meet for a chat.

Our first meeting was at the art gallery. The sun had just set. We sat on a bench outside overlooking the city and across the hill at the old buildings in Jabal Amman, the smell of summer jasmine sweet and pungent.

Mohammed began telling me his story of how he fled and came to Jordan and the difficulties of being away from Baghdad - his source of inspiration. Amman is so cold and stale, he said. Art was just a fledgling here before the Iraqis came. Galleries are now popping up everywhere and cafés and restaurants fill their walls with Iraqi art.

Seven months later, I see Mohammed again tonight for a gathering of food and drink with friends and other Iraqi artists. Mohammed looks 10 years older; his hair has become gray and scraggly. But it seems his pain has stirred him to create a new and different art. He now makes video art inspired by the war, inspired by exile, inspired by being away from his home country.

We sit around a table on the balcony and Ali Z. pours us small glasses of arrack mixed with water that turns a cloudy white. At first, Mohammed’s friends are a bit hesitant in their welcome. They do not know what to make of David and I and our documentary project.

Qais, a former engineer, a painter, a plastic artist, and now a video artist, eventually breaks the silence. He asks us what kind of documentary we want to make. A documentary about Iraqi people must understand the true diversity of Iraq and must find a way to reach deep in its understanding. And the single question that must be asked of every single Iraqi is when was the fracturing point; when did each Iraqi decide to leave Iraq.

Qais’ openness and honesty is touching and confirms how critical it is for us to develop relationships and trust and to portray the Iraqi refugee experience in meaningful, complex and multi-dimensional ways.

Rather than talk about the kind of documentary we want to make, David asks if we can play music. Ali brings out his classical guitar for David. And Ziad, a musician and music teacher, begins strumming his guitar. Through tender notes and fragile music David and Ziad begin to communicate.

The candles burn and flicker on the table and Ali starts plucking notes on his oud. The music soon give way to traditional Iraqi songs. Qais places his hands over his face, silently remembering his home country and the days when Baghdad was beautiful and when old friends sat in the restaurants by the river joking and chatting.


Mohammed is now preparing to move to Texas with his wife and children. Ziad will be leaving soon for Arizona with his mother. Ali is thinking of going to Florida where he can continue his salsa and tango lessons. Qais is still in Jordan with his wife and three daughters, unable to find it in his heart to leave for the US, although his parents are already in California. For all, the move will be temporary, until they can have a passport and the freedom to move; a freedom they now lack intensely.

The friends meet at least once a month to eat and play music. Mohammed and Ali, meet almost every day. In a matter of months, the meetings will end. Twice exiled from their home country, alone they will stand in what they call the wrong place.

Double-Edged Sword

Seven months after attempting to live a normal life in Amman, Jordan, Abu Ahmed and his family will have to pick up their bags and start from zero all over again. They will be leaving for America in one week. The news come as a double-edged sword – they are happy for the opportunity to finally settle in one place, but anxious to start a new life and ultimately, to leave their country and their old life, behind.

Abu Ahmed is tired and exhausted from moving these last five years since the war began – between houses in Baghdad, between countries in Jordan and now between two worlds, two cultures, and two distinct identities.


How can he find a place to live? Does he need a car in the US? Where can he find a job? What are the schools like for his children?

David and I walk over to their home for a visit to congratulate Abu Ahmed and his family on the big news. Om Ahmed's sister and husband and children are also there, talking and laughing and drinking tea. I have some new tea for Om Ahmed to try. So the women move to the kitchen with me to make tea and talk.

Om Ahmed is excited to finally go to “America.” Besides a trip to Syria and their move to Jordan, this will be her first long-distance “trip.” She wants to go to Virginia because it is green and she likes green.

Her older sister sits next to her, eying her closely, and wondering if Om Ahmed understands the full consequences of leaving for the United States.

Om Ahmed’s sister has six children and is struggling to provide for them here in Jordan. Schools in Amman are expensive – college tuition costs around 3,000 Jordanian Dinars or 4,233 USD a year. Neither she nor her husband, a landscape architect, is able to work here, so all living expenses are drawn directly from their savings. She has two children attending university and one that just finished and is now looking for a job that does not exist here in Amman for Iraqis. Her daughter may even return to Iraq to study if she cannot find work here.

Om Ahmed’s sister is also applying for resettlement in the US, but unlike Om Ahmed, her application is not moving forward. Neither she nor her husband ever worked for the American government. And unlike other Iraqis, she says, they refuse to lie about being threatened. They refuse to wear torn clothing for their interviews and look poor and destitute.

Nevertheless, Om Ahmed’s sister wonders if it will be possible to raise six children in the United States. I smiled and told her about our family of seven children. When we first arrived in the US there was only six. Yes, it is possible to raise a family of six, but very difficult.

I also want to be honest with them about the American family and way of life in the United States. I notice many Iraqi families here are extremely close. Family members do not go one day without seeing one another. And children, even those in college, are with their parents all the time. This will not be the case in the US. There may be a chance that children will live far away from home to attend college, they way I did. There may be a chance that children will live far away from home to work where jobs are available.

Om Ahmed’s eyes open wide. She refuses to believe me, exclaiming that her eldest son, Ahmed, soon to enter college, would never leave her! He would go to school near her and he would work near her!

After Om Ahmed’s sister and her husband and children leave, David and I stay behind to talk to Abu Ahmed and his family. Abu Ahmed and Ahmed, sit across from us in the living room. Om Ahmed sits next to me, squeezing my hand in her lap.

We ask Ahmed, who is now 16, how he feels about leaving and going to the US. “I don’t know yet how I should feel,” he says. Everyone is nervous about leaving and starting a new life.

We ask Mostafa, the little one, if he wants to leave. He says no, burying his head in his father’s lap. We ask him if he wants to go back to Iraq. He shakes his head, no. We ask him if he wants to stay in Jordan. He says, yes. He is getting used to the school here and he has friends here now. The choice between staying and going is a simple one for Mostafa.

But the choice is not so simple for Abu Ahmed and his wife. Without residency they cannot live a normal life here in Jordan. Abu Ahmed can lose his job and then they will be forced to return to Iraq like so many other families no longer able to live off their savings. Even if they do not want to go the US, it is still a chance to finally settle somewhere.

David and I do our best to calm their fears and anxiety. Tomorrow we will introduce them to the world of “craigslist” and garage sales – the way things are bought and sold in America! And we will make a list of everything they need to know about settling in a city in the United States.

The family walks us out to the door and wishes us a good night. Abu Ahmed looks tired. I wonder if he will sleep tonight.

Beyond expectations

Like many fellow Americans, my understanding of Iraqis and Iraqi culture has been through the lens of the American media.

It is my first week in the Middle East region and already my preconceived notions are washed away by the generous warmth and hospitality of both Jordanians and Iraqis. I wasn’t expecting arms as open as we’ve experienced. To be honest, I was a bit unsure of how things would go.

On our flight here, I was a bit anxious when it hit me that I was going to be so far away from home for such an extended period. How would Iraqis treat me? Would their memories of war make them distrust me as an American? I really wasn’t too sure what to expect.

Since our arrival we have met with several Iraqi friends. Their hospitality has been almost more overwhelming than their stories. They have opened up to us and are sharing their stories of survival, war, and tragedy.

While their stories are heartbreaking, they maintain a smiling face and a bright sense of humor towards us. Our Iraqi friends wait here in Amman, either lingering with uncertainty or waiting for a letter granting them resettlement in the US. This wait is long and devoid of any assurance they will be able to settle somewhere in safe hands. During this time they are not permitted to work or drive. Some are even afraid to leave their temporary apartments. Most spend their time with families at home while living off their precious savings.

Jordan is not what I had expected.

Amman is the fastest growing economy and city I have ever seen in my life. Construction is everywhere from high-rises, hotels, supermarkets, and mega-malls. It feels like a new world dawns upon us. While the economy in the US suffers, Jordan is SKYROCKETING! The malls and shopping areas are full of US businesses. One’s guess would be if anyone has gained fiscal benefits from the war, it would be Jordan.

The newer modernized buildings divide the city to one side, leaving Amman’s downtown area looking old and underdeveloped. A generation has embraced this new modernized part of Amman where young people fill its malls, stores and restaurants like KFC, Starbucks, and even Applebee’s (which I didn’t think even existed anymore). Some citizens feel this modernization threatens the essence of Muslim society.

At this point I can only really say that being here will be no less than a life changing experience, as an American, filmmaker and musician. I’ve posted a short song that I recording a few days ago here on my laptop. It has an electronic vibe to it - I guess reflecting on the way I feel here. Hope you like it.

Lucky to be "Omar"

The days are crisp but the nights are chilly here in Amman. I have to wear a scarf around my neck to keep warm.

The taxi drops us off at a corner and we stand and wait for Omar to come pick us up and take us to his home for dinner.

We are about 20 minutes late - we stopped by Abu Ahmed's house to give his wife, Basima, some chamomile tea for her upset stomach. A five-minute drive-by turned into a half-hour "please stay for some tea and biscuits!"

But Omar, as usual, is kind and forgiving and just simply excited to see us. Through a dark alley and up a small road, we arrive at his house. There is a grapevine hanging above the gate and a small porch in the front. Omar's mother and sister both greet us warmly. I hug and kiss them three times as they usher us into the sitting room.

Omar was a journalist for Reuters. He published several stories – one on an Iraqi fisherman pulling corpses from the Tigris, a river which flows through the heart of Baghdad, another on Iraqis rushing to change their names to hide their sectarian identity, and still others on the general mayhem in Baghdad.

Following a threat on his life, Omar was forced flee the country and leave his wife and two sons behind.

Once I flew the airplane I figured out the borders are just like very sharp knives. They were cutting me piece by piece. When I arrived at the Amman airport I looked at myself. Nothing left at all. Nothing left, just a ghost, just a symbol of a man. I was a big part of him still in Iraq.

Unable to bring his family to Jordan, his wife and sons fled for Syria. Unable to join his family in Syria, Omar eventually asked them to return to Iraq. It was better for his wife to be with family in Baghdad then alone with two young children in Syria.

It has been almost a year since Omar has seen his wife and children. Within that year, he has only seen them a total of thirty days.

Since I last saw Omar almost seven months ago, he is still without work and living illegally in Jordan. Although Omar was threatened due to his work with a foreign newspaper agency, Reuters provided him with no assistance or compensation. The best they could do, they said, was to offer him his old job in Baghdad.

His mother and sister now join Omar in a small flat in Jabal Al-Hussein. His 61-year-old mother is in Amman for medical treatment. This is one of the few ways Iraqis are able to enter Jordan temporarily. Omar's mother and sister have one month to visit and care for him before they must return to Baghdad.

Omar's mother has prepared for us, what we consider a grand feast, but what they regard as merely a light dinner. A true welcome would take place on the family farm, the table piled with food, measuring at least 15 feet long! They look forward to the day when they can truly welcome us, although we all know that day will not soon come.

Omar’s mother watches us as we eat and enjoy the food she has prepared. It seems she is savoring the moment to take back with her to Baghdad, to remember later when Omar is no longer with her.


Omar wants to return to his family - to his wife and children, to his sister and two younger brothers, and especially to his mother who still sees him as a young child. Despite her longing to have her son close to her, she refuses to have him return to the danger that will await him in Baghdad. “You are lucky to be alive,” says his sister. “Not all Iraqis are so lucky.”

Omar is truly lucky considering many Iraqis with the Sunni name “Omar” have changed their names to hide their sectarian identity and risk being killed in predominantly Shiite neighborhoods.

But while many Iraqis have been forced to hide in the shadows, Omar continues to walk proudly, as an Iraqi, beneath the blazing sun.

Surprises

Mohammed and Zina invited us to have dinner with them and Zina’s brother and sister-in-law in a restaurant. It was a restaurant they frequently visited when they needed a night out and some time alone together.

Mohammed and Zina even took a long walk from their home to the restaurant once, leaving the house at 9:30pm and arriving at the restaurant faint and exhausted around 11.

When we entered the restaurant, Mohammed asked the waiter if we could be seated downstairs. They immediately told him there were no tables available, although most of the tables were empty. The waiter then led us up the stairs and we sat down at a table across the way.

Mohammed began to whisper to us but eying David, “You know, David, since you are American, if you had asked for a table downstairs they would have given it to you. But we Iraqis, we are considered less than second-class citizens here.”

I have heard the same refrain before from other Iraqis. They are thankful to be in Jordan. The Jordanians have been kind to allow them to enter the country as guests. But that’s what they are considered here – guests. And now they have overstayed their welcome.

The prices are rising in Jordan and many Jordanians are blaming Iraqis for the inflation, for the rise in gas prices and rental prices, for the increase in traffic. The economy has surged since the war. Massive office buildings are being constructed, more and more flats are being built and immediately occupied by Iraqi families. Iraqis are everywhere – in the shopping malls and grocery stores, in the cafés and restaurants.



After about 15 minutes, as we waited for Zina’s brother and sister-in-law to arrive, the waiter asked if we wanted to move to a table downstairs. Mohammed looked at us and raised his eyebrows. That evening, the waiters were especially kind and cordial.

At the end of the night, the owner of the restaurant even stopped by to offer us bags of baked bread as compliments of the restaurant. They noticed Mohammed and Zina frequented the restaurant often and wanted to thank them for their patronage.

David and I were happy the evening ended well. We were reminded of something Ahmed Abu Ahmed's 16-year-old son, had told us earlier that evening when we visited their home and talked to him about his schooling. He told us he was making more friends now at school and even with the Jordanian kids. "I’m really surprised that some of the Jordanian kids are even nicer than the Iraqi kids.”

Looking behind

Faiza keeps a blog – A Family in Baghdad – with her three sons, Raed, Khalid, and Majid. The father, Azzam, “is not interested.”

I first got in touch with Faiza last year after reading the family’s blog. She always kept journals but stored them away for private perusal and away from public eyes. The blog was her son’s idea, a way for her to express her thoughts and share with the world all the things that touched her.

And Faiza had much on her mind when David and I first met her for coffee.

I asked Faiza to meet us in a small café near where we are staying. I selected the place because it was fairly quiet and I had met another Iraqi woman there before.

David and I arrived a bit earlier so we could grab a quick snack. We were the only ones there. As time passed, the music became progressively louder and more people entered, including women with tight jeans, busty blouses and smoky cigarettes. I immediately became nervous. I had never met Faiza, but something inside me knew she would disapprove of the place.

Faiza was calling on the phone so I went downstairs to receive her. We walked up the stairs slowly. I hoped Faiza would not notice the women sitting across the staircase, trying to block her view with my body and avert her attention with conversation.

It was useless. She immediately began commenting on the blouses, the trendy cafés and restaurants and the mega malls that were popping up everywhere in Amman. I apologized profusely for our selection on a meeting place, but she told us not to worry. She understood our mistake. But she did not understand so much all the people around us.

For Faiza, the Middle East is losing its identity, grounding itself more and more on materialist values rather than humanity and compassion.

For Faiza, the consequence of the Iraq war is a case in point. Millions of Iraqis have been displaced within and outside of Iraq. Over a million Iraqis have been killed. But everyone sits and watches without taking action.

The rich and affluent Iraqis are simply fleeing and saving their own lives while others less able are left behind. Why can’t they do something to help? Why can’t they offer some of their resources to help their brothers and sisters in need? Faiza works with the Jordanian Women’s Union to assist the UNHCR in providing assistance to Iraqis now living in Jordan. Faiza is doing something to help. Faiza is also married to a Jordanian and has permanent residence.

I wondered how to respond to her questions. Many of my friends have fled or are in the process of resettling in a third country. None are rich or affluent but all of them care about their future and want only the best for their children. They cannot get permanent residence and are therefore unable to find permanent work in Jordan. They have no future here. At least in a third country they will be able to “settle down” and establish some kind of life for their children before or if they can return to their home country.

As I faced Faiza, I wondered about my own family, the way we fled our country without looking even once behind. Once we left, my father vowed never to return to Cambodia. He kept his promise until the day he died.

Faiza said all these things as we were saying good-bye. I looked into her warm eyes and knew she felt strongly for her people and her country. In many ways she is right.

What happens to Iraq if everyone leaves? Who will be left to help rebuild the country? We are witnessing the consequences of that now.

But can anyone be expected to sacrifice the future for a present that is uncertain?

A cup of coffee

I first met Mohammed through a friend, who was working on Mohammed’s resettlement case in Jordan. Mohammed worked with an international contractor in Baghdad, where he worked his way from being a translator to a top legal adviser. His work ended with several assassination attempts on his life, the last of which left him severely wounded and eventually fleeing the country without his family.

When Mohammed and I first got in touch through email, Mohammed was working in Dubai to support his family while his wife Zina and his children Ali and Saad stayed behind in Jordan. He wrote me this in his first email:

Loneliness is just like standing in a big dark room with a spot light exposed only on you and darkness devouring the rest of the room, feeling helpless and weak knowing you were put there against your will and u can only feel the hunger and cold tears of your beloved ones dreaming of nothing but RESPECT and a better chance of life that was once so happy and warm. If I’m lucky I might be able to get out of that room by opening the door to bring my family to a better standard happy life.

Mohammed returned to Jordan to reunite with his wife and sons late last year. The company he was working with in Dubai was not treating him well, was paying him half the salary of the other workers, and like many Iraqis, his UAE visa was eventually canceled.

The loneliness eventually passed, but empty days spent without employment or the ability to work to support his family tore at his pride and sense of self-respect.

“After almost twenty years of marriage, Zina and I never fought,” said Mohammed, his wife still gazing at him with soft, fresh eyes. “Now, we find ourselves fighting like other couples. This is not good.”

Today was our first meeting after communicating solely through email and skype. I felt I already knew the entire family. They welcomed David and I with the same hospitality I found in my own country of Cambodia, with open arms and without reservation.

We sat in the sitting room, which also doubled as the family bedroom, drinking mint tea and Turkish coffee. David and I sat facing Mohammed and his wife and two sons, the sun shining behind us and lighting their faces in front of us. The understanding that David and I felt so naturally in our intimate encounter with Mohammed and his family was somehow missing in so many stories Mohammed recounted that afternoon.

Mohammed recalled one small incident involving a large gathering of Iraqi and international advisers. In Iraqi culture, once offered a cup of coffee one should immediately drink from the cup and when done, one should shake the cup lightly to indicate one is finished and is satisfied. To place the cup on the table without first drinking it, shows one is unhappy or unsatisfied.

Many of the foreign advisers placed their cup of coffee on the table, intending to drink at a later time. The Iraqi advisers grumbled beneath their breath. One of the foreign advisers asked Mohammed what was the matter; he could feel a sudden tension in the air. “Just tell everyone to drink immediately from their cup and give a small shake when they are done. Everything should be fine.” As Mohammed predicted, the advisers drank, shook their cup, and all was well.

One unfortunate adviser, sitting in the back of the room, did not hear the instructions to shake his cup. Every time he finished his coffee, his cup was replenished. He was drinking coffee the entire afternoon!

I don’t remember if David and I set down our cup first or drank our coffee and tea immediately or if we gave our cups a little shake when we were done drinking. That really didn’t seem to matter this afternoon. What mattered was that we were talking, communicating and sharing stories and opening up a rare line of communication almost unheard of between Iraqis and Americans.

For David and I, this feels like the appropriate first step towards true understanding.

A New Spring

We arrived late this afternoon to Amman. It is spring here – the snow this winter brought green, lush grass along the highway and a booming economy is bringing freshly constructed limestone buildings to the city.

I remember my trip to Amman last September to connect with Iraqis and families that have fled their homes for Jordan and to shoot the trailer for the documentary.

An Iraqi friend of mine, Abu Ahmed, greeted me at the airport and brought me home to his wife and two sons. They had only been in Jordan for ten days and had recently moved into their new home only five days before. They arrived with only two suitcases for the entire family. They did not bring more; fearful they would be turned away at the airport in Amman, like thousands of other families.

The night I arrived, Abu Ahmed's wife, Om Ahmed, kissed me heavily on both of my cheeks and assured me that her home was my home, although she was barely getting used to the new kitchen, the new cookware, the new furnishings that were so different from the ones she left behind. She showed me their small front yard with meager bushes and flowers and reminisced about the fig and palm trees in their spacious garden in Baghdad. "When we left our home," she said, "I felt like my arms and legs had been cut off."


I stayed with the family for the entire two weeks I spent in Jordan. I noticed the children were eating less and less. Since they arrived in Jordan, they had lost their appetite. Mostafa was six years old and Ahmed was just turning 16. They had recently enrolled in a school but were always asking to stay home. They said the children made fun of their Iraqi accent and refused to sit next to them or associate with them. They feared making friends, concerned their situation was only temporary and they would be forced to return to Iraq and start their lives all over again.

Six months later, I returned to their home for dinner, this time with David. Mostafa rushed to the door, poking his head through the iron grill to give me a hug, while Ahmed searched for the keys. Mostafa had been waiting anxiously all day for me to arrive.

Om Ahmed cooked a feast for us setting large trays of lamb and potato biriyani, stuffed dolmas, cucumber and tomato salad, grilled eggplant and a turine of meatball soup on the table, a stark contrast to the simple dinner I was greeted with six months ago when Om Ahmed was getting used to her new kitchen.

Om Ahmed held my hand while we ate and told me she was so happy her “sister” had returned. She dreamt of our arrival two months ago and knew that we would be back soon.

I was also delighted to be back with them again.

David’s parents visited us before we took off. It occurred to them suddenly that we were leaving to a strange part of a world they had never been before and had only heard about on television. They were both scared and worried about all the things that could possibly happen to us “over there.” I assured them that we would be fine, that people in the Middle East are extremely kind and hospitable, and that we would always have family to help and welcome us in Jordan and Syria.

We talked and laughed about many things over dinner. I noticed Mostafa was a little plumper. Ahmed cut his hair and his cheeks were rosier than before. School is better now. The Jordanian children have become more accepting and they are making new friends. Mostafa even speaks like a Jordanian picking up the accent and using Jordanian words.

Their faces lit with hope.

The family is looking forward to leaving and resettling soon in the United States. Ahmed is excited but also nervous. He always dreamt of going to the US. For Ahmed, everything American is better. But like most of his family, he is also anxious about what to expect when he is there.

Abu Ahmed and Om Ahmed are both determined to resettle in the US, but only temporarily. As soon as the security situation improves in Iraq, they promise they will return to the country that is their true home. Ahmed, however, insists he will never go back. There is nothing for him in Iraq but suffering and hardship. He never knew Baghdad the way Abu Ahmed and Om Ahmed knew it – when the streets were full and the markets were bustling and there was some kind of stability and peace.

Tomorrow, the family will drive two hours outside the city for a picnic. It is their first time out of Amman since they arrived in Jordan. The trip cost them $600 (the fine they were forced to pay for overstaying on their visas) and a three-month extension on their visas, which they were only able to get because they will be leaving for the states shortly. Like many families living in Jordan, they feel trapped, unable to move freely outside their home.

The move to America is a move towards freedom, but also a move further away from their home in Iraq.