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.