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Without Borders...
By Baghdad Burning
23 October, 2007
Baghdad Burning
Syria
is a beautiful country- at least I think it is. I say “I think”
because while I perceive it to be beautiful, I sometimes wonder if I
mistake safety, security and normalcy for ‘beauty’. In so
many ways, Damascus is like Baghdad before the war- bustling streets,
occasional traffic jams, markets seemingly always full of shoppers…
And in so many ways it’s different. The buildings are higher,
the streets are generally narrower and there’s a mountain, Qasiyoun,
that looms in the distance.
The mountain distracts me, as it does many Iraqis- especially those
from Baghdad. Northern Iraq is full of mountains, but the rest of Iraq
is quite flat. At night, Qasiyoun blends into the black sky and the
only indication of its presence is a multitude of little, glimmering
spots of light- houses and restaurants built right up there on the mountain.
Every time I take a picture, I try to work Qasiyoun into it- I try to
position the person so that Qasiyoun is in the background.
The first weeks here were something of a cultural shock. It has taken
me these last three months to work away certain habits I’d acquired
in Iraq after the war. It’s funny how you learn to act a certain
way and don’t even know you’re doing strange things- like
avoiding people’s eyes in the street or crazily murmuring prayers
to yourself when stuck in traffic. It took me at least three weeks to
teach myself to walk properly again- with head lifted, not constantly
looking behind me.
It is estimated that there are at least 1.5 million Iraqis in Syria
today. I believe it. Walking down the streets of Damascus, you can hear
the Iraqi accent everywhere. There are areas like Geramana and Qudsiya
that are packed full of Iraqi refugees. Syrians are few and far between
in these areas. Even the public schools in the areas are full of Iraqi
children. A cousin of mine is now attending a school in Qudsiya and
his class is composed of 26 Iraqi children, and 5 Syrian children. It’s
beyond belief sometimes. Most of the families have nothing to live on
beyond their savings which are quickly being depleted with rent and
the costs of living.
Within a month of our being here, we began hearing talk about Syria
requiring visas from Iraqis, like most other countries. Apparently,
our esteemed puppets in power met with Syrian and Jordanian authorities
and decided they wanted to take away the last two safe havens remaining
for Iraqis- Damascus and Amman. The talk began in late August and was
only talk until recently- early October. Iraqis entering Syria now need
a visa from the Syrian consulate or embassy in the country they are
currently in. In the case of Iraqis still in Iraq, it is said that an
approval from the Ministry of Interior is also required (which kind
of makes it difficult for people running away from militias OF the Ministry
of Interior…). Today, there’s talk of a possible fifty dollar
visa at the border.
Iraqis who entered Syria
before the visa was implemented were getting a one month visitation
visa at the border. As soon as that month was over, you could take your
passport and visit the local immigration bureau. If you were lucky,
they would give you an additional month or two. When talk about visas
from the Syrian embassy began, they stopped giving an extension on the
initial border visa. We, as a family, had a brilliant idea. Before the
commotion of visas began, and before we started needing a renewal, we
decided to go to one of the border crossings, cross into Iraq, and come
back into Syria- everyone was doing it. It would buy us some time- at
least 2 months.
We chose a hot day in early
September and drove the six hours to Kameshli, a border town in northern
Syria. My aunt and her son came with us- they also needed an extension
on their visa. There is a border crossing in Kameshli called Yaarubiya.
It’s one of the simpler crossings because the Iraqi and Syrian
borders are only a matter of several meters. You walk out of Syrian
territory and then walk into Iraqi territory- simple and safe.
When we got to the Yaarubiya
border patrol, it hit us that thousands of Iraqis had had our brilliant
idea simultaneously- the lines to the border patrol office were endless.
Hundreds of Iraqis stood in a long line waiting to have their passports
stamped with an exit visa. We joined the line of people and waited.
And waited. And waited…
It took four hours to leave
the Syrian border after which came the lines of the Iraqi border post.
Those were even longer. We joined one of the lines of weary, impatient
Iraqis. “It’s looking like a gasoline line…”
My younger cousin joked. That was the beginning of another four hours
of waiting under the sun, taking baby steps, moving forward ever so
slowly. The line kept getting longer. At one point, we could see neither
the beginning of the line, where passports were being stamped to enter
Iraq, nor the end. Running up and down the line were little boys selling
glasses of water, chewing gum and cigarettes. My aunt caught one of
them by the arm as he zipped past us, “How many people are in
front of us?” He whistled and took a few steps back to assess
the situation, “A hundred! A thousand!”. He was almost gleeful
as he ran off to make business.
I had such mixed feelings
standing in that line. I was caught between a feeling of yearning, a
certain homesickness that sometimes catches me at the oddest moments,
and a heavy feeling of dread. What if they didn’t agree to let
us out again? It wasn’t really possible, but what if it happened?
What if this was the last time I’d see the Iraqi border? What
if we were no longer allowed to enter Iraq for some reason? What if
we were never allowed to leave?
We spent the four hours standing,
crouching, sitting and leaning in the line. The sun beat down on everyone
equally- Sunnis, Shia and Kurds alike. E. tried to convince the aunt
to faint so it would speed the process up for the family, but she just
gave us a withering look and stood straighter. People just stood there,
chatting, cursing or silent. It was yet another gathering of Iraqis
– the perfect opportunity to swap sad stories and ask about distant
relations or acquaintances.
We met two families we knew while waiting for our turn. We greeted each
other like long lost friends and exchanged phone numbers and addresses
in Damascus, promising to visit. I noticed the 23-year-old son, K.,
from one of the families was missing. I beat down my curiosity and refused
to ask where he was. The mother was looking older than I remembered
and the father looked constantly lost in thought, or maybe it was grief.
I didn’t want to know if K. was dead or alive. I’d just
have to believe he was alive and thriving somewhere, not worrying about
borders or visas. Ignorance really is bliss sometimes...
Back at the Syrian border,
we waited in a large group, tired and hungry, having handed over our
passports for a stamp. The Syrian immigration man sifting through dozens
of passports called out names and looked at faces as he handed over
the passports patiently, “Stand back please- stand back”.
There was a general cry towards the back of the crowded hall where we
were standing as someone collapsed- as they lifted him I recognized
an old man who was there with his family being chaperoned by his sons,
leaning on a walking stick.
By the time we had reentered
the Syrian border and were headed back to the cab ready to take us into
Kameshli, I had resigned myself to the fact that we were refugees. I
read about refugees on the Internet daily… in the newspapers…
hear about them on TV. I hear about the estimated 1.5 million plus Iraqi
refugees in Syria and shake my head, never really considering myself
or my family as one of them. After all, refugees are people who sleep
in tents and have no potable water or plumbing, right? Refugees carry
their belongings in bags instead of suitcases and they don’t have
cell phones or Internet access, right? Grasping my passport in my hand
like my life depended on it, with two extra months in Syria stamped
inside, it hit me how wrong I was. We were all refugees. I was suddenly
a number. No matter how wealthy or educated or comfortable, a refugee
is a refugee. A refugee is someone who isn’t really welcome in
any country- including their own... especially their own.
We live in an apartment building
where two other Iraqis are renting. The people in the floor above us
are a Christian family from northern Iraq who got chased out of their
village by Peshmerga and the family on our floor is a Kurdish family
who lost their home in Baghdad to militias and were waiting for immigration
to Sweden or Switzerland or some such European refugee haven.
The first evening we arrived,
exhausted, dragging suitcases behind us, morale a little bit bruised,
the Kurdish family sent over their representative – a 9 year old
boy missing two front teeth, holding a lopsided cake, “We’re
Abu Mohammed’s house- across from you- mama says if you need anything,
just ask- this is our number. Abu Dalia’s family live upstairs,
this is their number. We’re all Iraqi too... Welcome to the building.”
I cried that night because
for the first time in a long time, so far away from home, I felt the
unity that had been stolen from us in 2003.
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