| The Collateral Repair Project in affiliation with the International Humanities Center Amman Reports # 3 CRP North American team members, Sasha and Mary, report on the Iraqi refugee crisis from Amman, Jordan (click on thumbnails of photos for larger view) |
RUNS WITH SHARP, ELECTRICAL OBJECTS - Or: Looking for an outlet
Shlair works as a seamstress in the tailoring shop of a cousin of her husband. The shop is located on the 2nd floor of
a large building on a busy thoroughfare. She meets us at street level and leads us upstairs and through glass doors
into the small tailoring shop. Three small children are rummaging through drawers containing cloth and sewing items.
Two are twins, about age 7. A younger boy, age 4, plays quietly on the floor by himself. The twins are non-verbal but
not non-vocal, and extremely hyper-active. Conversation with their mother is almost impossible in the midst of the
chaos. They grab at our purses, pull on our arms and clothes, dash about, scream, climb on shelves. One has found
a small electric hand drill and waves it about, running from one person to another, the cord dangling wildly as if it is
searching on its own for an electrical outlet. The younger child is quiet and remains almost stoic as his brothers rush
and screech around the shop, often stopping to hit him or grab at the items he is trying to play with.
Shlair shows us the medication they are taking, Risperdal. According to www.Drugs.com this is an antipsychotic
medication that works by changing the effects of chemicals in the brain. It is used “to treat schizophrenia and
symptoms of bipolar disorder (manic depression). Risperdal is also used in autistic children to treat symptoms of
irritability.” Irritability? There are many side-effects to this drug and its use with children is cautioned. Shlair indicates
that she has not administered the medication today, so that we may see the children when not under the effects of
medication. She tells us that they have been enrolled in a special education school but that she can no longer afford
the costs. She is asking for help with the tuition, so that she can work. She says that while her husband can
sometimes take care of the children, he loses his patience and temper and sometimes beats them. Otherwise, the
children must be with her at work all day, clearly an untenable situation for all involved – for the business owner, the
children and Shlair. We ask to her to meet us the following day at Faiza’s office and bring the children’s medical
records so that we can discuss options under less chaotic conditions. We almost literally peel the twins off us and
make our exit. Once back on the street, the pandemonium and cacophony of Amman traffic seems suddenly mild and
orderly.
The following day we meet up with Shlair at Faiza’s office. Mercifully she has left the boys are home with their father.
She has their medical records, which indicate severe hearing loss in one of the boys and autism and hyperactivity in
both. Shlair says she is only able to pay 90 dinar per month toward the school fees of 150JD a month. She describes
how much improvement the boys had made after only 1 week in the school. Sasha and Faiza make plans to visit the
school and evaluate the program and its potential to help these two youngsters. Meanwhile, we agree to pay for the
balance of one month’s tuition, after Shlair’s portion, with CRP funds and to hope that one of our donors will commit
to finance the continuing costs (approx $100 mo) Shlair offers to teach sewing to people on a volunteer basis as way
of contributing something back to CRP.
Shlair works as a seamstress in the tailoring shop of a cousin of her husband. The shop is located on the 2nd floor of
a large building on a busy thoroughfare. She meets us at street level and leads us upstairs and through glass doors
into the small tailoring shop. Three small children are rummaging through drawers containing cloth and sewing items.
Two are twins, about age 7. A younger boy, age 4, plays quietly on the floor by himself. The twins are non-verbal but
not non-vocal, and extremely hyper-active. Conversation with their mother is almost impossible in the midst of the
chaos. They grab at our purses, pull on our arms and clothes, dash about, scream, climb on shelves. One has found
a small electric hand drill and waves it about, running from one person to another, the cord dangling wildly as if it is
searching on its own for an electrical outlet. The younger child is quiet and remains almost stoic as his brothers rush
and screech around the shop, often stopping to hit him or grab at the items he is trying to play with.
Shlair shows us the medication they are taking, Risperdal. According to www.Drugs.com this is an antipsychotic
medication that works by changing the effects of chemicals in the brain. It is used “to treat schizophrenia and
symptoms of bipolar disorder (manic depression). Risperdal is also used in autistic children to treat symptoms of
irritability.” Irritability? There are many side-effects to this drug and its use with children is cautioned. Shlair indicates
that she has not administered the medication today, so that we may see the children when not under the effects of
medication. She tells us that they have been enrolled in a special education school but that she can no longer afford
the costs. She is asking for help with the tuition, so that she can work. She says that while her husband can
sometimes take care of the children, he loses his patience and temper and sometimes beats them. Otherwise, the
children must be with her at work all day, clearly an untenable situation for all involved – for the business owner, the
children and Shlair. We ask to her to meet us the following day at Faiza’s office and bring the children’s medical
records so that we can discuss options under less chaotic conditions. We almost literally peel the twins off us and
make our exit. Once back on the street, the pandemonium and cacophony of Amman traffic seems suddenly mild and
orderly.
The following day we meet up with Shlair at Faiza’s office. Mercifully she has left the boys are home with their father.
She has their medical records, which indicate severe hearing loss in one of the boys and autism and hyperactivity in
both. Shlair says she is only able to pay 90 dinar per month toward the school fees of 150JD a month. She describes
how much improvement the boys had made after only 1 week in the school. Sasha and Faiza make plans to visit the
school and evaluate the program and its potential to help these two youngsters. Meanwhile, we agree to pay for the
balance of one month’s tuition, after Shlair’s portion, with CRP funds and to hope that one of our donors will commit
to finance the continuing costs (approx $100 mo) Shlair offers to teach sewing to people on a volunteer basis as way
of contributing something back to CRP.
THIS CURSE HAS TO BE REMOVED
Um and Abu Shahed left Iraq in March of 2005. They have 2 children, a boy age 51/2 in kindergarten and
a girl in 3rd grade. They pay 130 dinars per month rent and have no source of income other than small
amounts their parents are sometimes able to send from Iraq. Abu Shahed is afraid to seek work in Amman
for fear of being arrested and deported back to Iraq, a certain death sentence for him.
Um Shahed was a college administrator in Baghdad prior to the invasion. She is a seamstress, and also a
professional cook and wants to be part of the Collateral Repair Project cook book project. Their daughter
wants to be a teacher and smiles, openly proud, when she tells us that she has the highest grades in her
class. The boy, just 5 ½, already knows what he wants to be when he grows up: “a painter” he says without
hesitation.
Abu Shahed worked for American forces as a translator in a police academy from July 2004 to February
2005, when insurgents issued a threat to his wife, telling her “this curse has to be removed”. “We had just
purchased a small house near my parents,” Abu Shahed tells us, “in the area of Baghdad that was a
popular, thriving shopping area.” After the death threat delivered to Um Shahed, “we were seeing armed,
masked men posted on our street, watching our house and decided it was time to leave.” Had they asked
for American protection, he adds, his whole family would have become targets for the militia. “They would
have all been killed. So I quit my job, sold the car and most of our possessions” he says. “We had money,
but it is all gone now.”
He describes his once thriving neighborhood in Baghdad as a ghost town since the Americans walled it in.
“People came from all over Baghdad to shop for specialty foods and items. “Sunni and Shia lived side by
side and, as is common throughout Iraq, inter-married. Most of the shops are closed now, and only people
who live in the area can enter through the checkpoints.” He remembers saying prior to the American
invasion “I would have welcomed the devil” to be rid of Sadaam, adding with a sardonic smile, “It seems the
Devil has come.”
Um and Abu Shahed left Iraq in March of 2005. They have 2 children, a boy age 51/2 in kindergarten and
a girl in 3rd grade. They pay 130 dinars per month rent and have no source of income other than small
amounts their parents are sometimes able to send from Iraq. Abu Shahed is afraid to seek work in Amman
for fear of being arrested and deported back to Iraq, a certain death sentence for him.
Um Shahed was a college administrator in Baghdad prior to the invasion. She is a seamstress, and also a
professional cook and wants to be part of the Collateral Repair Project cook book project. Their daughter
wants to be a teacher and smiles, openly proud, when she tells us that she has the highest grades in her
class. The boy, just 5 ½, already knows what he wants to be when he grows up: “a painter” he says without
hesitation.
Abu Shahed worked for American forces as a translator in a police academy from July 2004 to February
2005, when insurgents issued a threat to his wife, telling her “this curse has to be removed”. “We had just
purchased a small house near my parents,” Abu Shahed tells us, “in the area of Baghdad that was a
popular, thriving shopping area.” After the death threat delivered to Um Shahed, “we were seeing armed,
masked men posted on our street, watching our house and decided it was time to leave.” Had they asked
for American protection, he adds, his whole family would have become targets for the militia. “They would
have all been killed. So I quit my job, sold the car and most of our possessions” he says. “We had money,
but it is all gone now.”
He describes his once thriving neighborhood in Baghdad as a ghost town since the Americans walled it in.
“People came from all over Baghdad to shop for specialty foods and items. “Sunni and Shia lived side by
side and, as is common throughout Iraq, inter-married. Most of the shops are closed now, and only people
who live in the area can enter through the checkpoints.” He remembers saying prior to the American
invasion “I would have welcomed the devil” to be rid of Sadaam, adding with a sardonic smile, “It seems the
Devil has come.”
A MARRIAGE OF (IN)CONVENIENCE
Um Ahmed lives with her son, two daughters and sister in a sparsely, but nicely furnished flat. Her
daughters are ages 15 and 5 yrs. The son is 17. They moved to Amman in July of 2002, following the
murder of her brother-in-law. Um Ahmed is originally from Tikrit and belongs to the same tribe as Sadaam
Hussein. We are somewhat taken aback to see a large photo of him on a table in the living room. There
are no other photos or pictures in the flat but this one, so it stands like a presence next to us as we
converse over tea in the comfortable living room. But the story we are listening to is anything but
comfortable.
Because she is from the same tribe as Sadaam Hussein, Um Ahmed was of a privileged class. She is a
college graduate and was a teacher prior to leaving Iraq. Um Ahmed’s first husband was a pilot in the
Iraqi Army. Together they had two children. He disappeared while on a mission in 1999. His body was
never recovered and after four years she re-married a friend of his. They have one daughter together,
the five year old. Her second husband also has another wife, which is legal in Islam.
Because Uh Ahmed is from Sadaam Hussein’s tribe, she had great status and privilege prior to the
invasion. Apparently this was perceived as a potentially great asset to her husband’s family business and
the major factor in his proposing marriage. And then came the invasion and downfall of Sadaam Hussein.
Suddenly, Um Amed was not the asset he and his family anticipated. “After the invasion, everything
changed” she tells us. Her husband moved to Jordan six months before she did. She wanted to remain in
Tikrit but her family was being targeted because of their relationship to Sadaam. Her husband told her
that if her son was kidnapped, which was highly likely, he wouldn’t pay the ransom. “He has abandoned
us.” she says. “It is all for political reasons, to keep their business safe.” This is why she keeps the picture
of Sadaam Hussein on the table, “to remind him and to annoy him whenever he comes in the house.”
Um Ahmed lives with her son, two daughters and sister in a sparsely, but nicely furnished flat. Her
daughters are ages 15 and 5 yrs. The son is 17. They moved to Amman in July of 2002, following the
murder of her brother-in-law. Um Ahmed is originally from Tikrit and belongs to the same tribe as Sadaam
Hussein. We are somewhat taken aback to see a large photo of him on a table in the living room. There
are no other photos or pictures in the flat but this one, so it stands like a presence next to us as we
converse over tea in the comfortable living room. But the story we are listening to is anything but
comfortable.
Because she is from the same tribe as Sadaam Hussein, Um Ahmed was of a privileged class. She is a
college graduate and was a teacher prior to leaving Iraq. Um Ahmed’s first husband was a pilot in the
Iraqi Army. Together they had two children. He disappeared while on a mission in 1999. His body was
never recovered and after four years she re-married a friend of his. They have one daughter together,
the five year old. Her second husband also has another wife, which is legal in Islam.
Because Uh Ahmed is from Sadaam Hussein’s tribe, she had great status and privilege prior to the
invasion. Apparently this was perceived as a potentially great asset to her husband’s family business and
the major factor in his proposing marriage. And then came the invasion and downfall of Sadaam Hussein.
Suddenly, Um Amed was not the asset he and his family anticipated. “After the invasion, everything
changed” she tells us. Her husband moved to Jordan six months before she did. She wanted to remain in
Tikrit but her family was being targeted because of their relationship to Sadaam. Her husband told her
that if her son was kidnapped, which was highly likely, he wouldn’t pay the ransom. “He has abandoned
us.” she says. “It is all for political reasons, to keep their business safe.” This is why she keeps the picture
of Sadaam Hussein on the table, “to remind him and to annoy him whenever he comes in the house.”
She says that he has been paying their rent and the youngest child’s school until now, but told her he will pay nothing more effective January 1st.
The family will have no means of support and will be forced to leave their flat. They have nowhere to go. We ask if he has physically abused her. “He
hit me once or twice, but mostly he just yells at me. He stands in the street and yells and calls me names in front of all the neighbors. I think he is
paranoid, that the situation of the occupation has changed him” She goes on: “His whole family treats me like their servant.”
As she talks, the 5 year old stands against her, clinging to her side, and I can’t help thinking she shouldn’t be hearing this. No child should have to
hear these things. But it is their reality and it can’t be hidden. In America we send children into another room, but that rarely hides the truth either.
And in this case, these children already know far too well the cost of war. The 15 year old tells us of American soldiers storming their house in Tikrit
on a regular basis. She has lived through having their doors kicked down, being threatened by soldiers with “big black dogs,” helicopters landing in
their school yard “to intimidate us” and soldiers on roof tops aiming lasers into their homes. She tells about their school bus driver having a traffic
accident because he was trying to avoid driving behind an American tank, frightened they’d attack. Once, in fact, soldiers did fire at their bus
“thinking we were insurgents, a bus full of children!” She describes bombs falling in their neighborhood, six bombs, coming closer and closer until it
stopped, just short of their house. “Then there was silence – for a long few minutes there was just silence” until they began hearing their neighbors
in the street, crying and calling out to each other. As we prepare to leave, Um Ahmed bursts into tears, pleading for help and safety from her
husband and his family.
This is every child’s reality in Iraq, these are the sights and sounds that comprise their days and nights --- the collateral damages that millions, adults
as well as children, will endure for the rest of their lives.
The family will have no means of support and will be forced to leave their flat. They have nowhere to go. We ask if he has physically abused her. “He
hit me once or twice, but mostly he just yells at me. He stands in the street and yells and calls me names in front of all the neighbors. I think he is
paranoid, that the situation of the occupation has changed him” She goes on: “His whole family treats me like their servant.”
As she talks, the 5 year old stands against her, clinging to her side, and I can’t help thinking she shouldn’t be hearing this. No child should have to
hear these things. But it is their reality and it can’t be hidden. In America we send children into another room, but that rarely hides the truth either.
And in this case, these children already know far too well the cost of war. The 15 year old tells us of American soldiers storming their house in Tikrit
on a regular basis. She has lived through having their doors kicked down, being threatened by soldiers with “big black dogs,” helicopters landing in
their school yard “to intimidate us” and soldiers on roof tops aiming lasers into their homes. She tells about their school bus driver having a traffic
accident because he was trying to avoid driving behind an American tank, frightened they’d attack. Once, in fact, soldiers did fire at their bus
“thinking we were insurgents, a bus full of children!” She describes bombs falling in their neighborhood, six bombs, coming closer and closer until it
stopped, just short of their house. “Then there was silence – for a long few minutes there was just silence” until they began hearing their neighbors
in the street, crying and calling out to each other. As we prepare to leave, Um Ahmed bursts into tears, pleading for help and safety from her
husband and his family.
This is every child’s reality in Iraq, these are the sights and sounds that comprise their days and nights --- the collateral damages that millions, adults
as well as children, will endure for the rest of their lives.
| Um Ahmed's two daughters |
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FOOD FOR THOUGHT AND HOPE
Today we are being treated to a meal at the home of Um Luay and her
daughters. We arrive to find two of the daughters busy working on
their craft projects – embroidering, beading. It seems they never stop.
When we visited last week, all three were busily at work in their chairs,
laps laden with materials. But today, one of the daughters, who is
somewhat ambulatory, stands beside her mother, leaning for support
on the sink’s edge next to the portable counter-top gas stove. Um
Luay is frying an oval, fritter-style dish made of rice called kuppa. Her
daughter is hand blending a potato mixture which will be formed into
patties and fried on the adjacent burner. Also in the works is a
triangular meat filled pasty called borek. There is a festive
atmosphere, much like an American kitchen when the Thanksgiving
meal is being prepared. The aromas that fill the small apartment and
drift out to the entry patio are not of turkey and sage but are equally
as enticing.
As she finishes each batch, Um Luay arranges the food artistically on
a large silver tray. All of the food is traditional Iraqi fare. We take
photos of each step of the procedure and of the finished product. Um
Luay also sets out a platter of cut, fresh tomatoes and sliced green
peppers, alongside a dish of her famous pickles. The pickles are slit
down the center, stuffed with herbs and each tied with a small piece of
string to hold in the stuffing. The pickle-making was her original micro-
project with Collateral Repair Project and she has clearly been
successful. They taste just like Kosher Dills but with the extra delight of
the garlic and herb stuffing.
Finally all is prepared and arranged and we indulge in a grand feast.
The high spirits and sense of humor of Um Luay and her daughters is
contagious and totally up-lifting to the CRP team that has been
documenting so many tragic stories over the past 3 weeks. These
women have faced, and continue to confront, so many obstacles –
estrangement from their homeland, friends and family, physical
disabilities, poverty -- it is hard to comprehend from where their joy
and optimism is drawn. There seems to be an inborn and indomitable
will to survive and find hope amid the direst circumstances. They have
each other, they are family, and over and over we are witnessing the
relevance and strength of family ties. Even when separated by the
ravages and consequences of collateral damage, family ties are
primary and, when broken or interrupted, deeply mourned. We take
heart in the example of Um Luay and her daughters. They represent
the core of the meaning of Collateral Repair in finding an avenue of
stability and, primarily, of hope. But, it is clear that they also have a
basic, perhaps inborn, optimism and a will to survive against the odds.
They have found their niche, but it is not always so easy or available
to the millions of victims and, while we take hope from their example,
we must not lose sight of the others who may not have this innate
sense of optimism, the ones who need so much and receive next to
nothing, who survive by the thin, rapidly unraveling, strings of hope.
Today we are being treated to a meal at the home of Um Luay and her
daughters. We arrive to find two of the daughters busy working on
their craft projects – embroidering, beading. It seems they never stop.
When we visited last week, all three were busily at work in their chairs,
laps laden with materials. But today, one of the daughters, who is
somewhat ambulatory, stands beside her mother, leaning for support
on the sink’s edge next to the portable counter-top gas stove. Um
Luay is frying an oval, fritter-style dish made of rice called kuppa. Her
daughter is hand blending a potato mixture which will be formed into
patties and fried on the adjacent burner. Also in the works is a
triangular meat filled pasty called borek. There is a festive
atmosphere, much like an American kitchen when the Thanksgiving
meal is being prepared. The aromas that fill the small apartment and
drift out to the entry patio are not of turkey and sage but are equally
as enticing.
As she finishes each batch, Um Luay arranges the food artistically on
a large silver tray. All of the food is traditional Iraqi fare. We take
photos of each step of the procedure and of the finished product. Um
Luay also sets out a platter of cut, fresh tomatoes and sliced green
peppers, alongside a dish of her famous pickles. The pickles are slit
down the center, stuffed with herbs and each tied with a small piece of
string to hold in the stuffing. The pickle-making was her original micro-
project with Collateral Repair Project and she has clearly been
successful. They taste just like Kosher Dills but with the extra delight of
the garlic and herb stuffing.
Finally all is prepared and arranged and we indulge in a grand feast.
The high spirits and sense of humor of Um Luay and her daughters is
contagious and totally up-lifting to the CRP team that has been
documenting so many tragic stories over the past 3 weeks. These
women have faced, and continue to confront, so many obstacles –
estrangement from their homeland, friends and family, physical
disabilities, poverty -- it is hard to comprehend from where their joy
and optimism is drawn. There seems to be an inborn and indomitable
will to survive and find hope amid the direst circumstances. They have
each other, they are family, and over and over we are witnessing the
relevance and strength of family ties. Even when separated by the
ravages and consequences of collateral damage, family ties are
primary and, when broken or interrupted, deeply mourned. We take
heart in the example of Um Luay and her daughters. They represent
the core of the meaning of Collateral Repair in finding an avenue of
stability and, primarily, of hope. But, it is clear that they also have a
basic, perhaps inborn, optimism and a will to survive against the odds.
They have found their niche, but it is not always so easy or available
to the millions of victims and, while we take hope from their example,
we must not lose sight of the others who may not have this innate
sense of optimism, the ones who need so much and receive next to
nothing, who survive by the thin, rapidly unraveling, strings of hope.
