in Damascus, Syria
May 10, 2009
Dear Friends,
It has been a week since I traveled the road from Amman to Damascus. As I gazed upon mile after mile of wide open horizon, my spirit seemed to lighten. Maybe it has to do with the pent-up confined feeling that cities always give me, of leaving the city behind. I could not help but remember the drive from Baghdad to Amman six years ago. It was also in early May, after the “Shock and Awe” bombing campaign. It was 2003, and the city of Baghdad was smoldering as we drove away. Some distance outside of Baghdad, I was suddenly overcome by the stark expansiveness of the desert landscape, and a heaviness I had not even been aware of was suddenly lifted from me. It was a feeling I will never forget.
Mountain of the Sheik
My first days here in Damascus were spent in a poor crowded area of the city, a neighborhood which is home to many Iraqi refugees. In the bed so generously offered to me by a friend, my head was only inches away from the noisy street. It was as if the cars, venders, passers by and playing children were right in the room with us. Except for the night hours when the city sleeps, there was no thought of personal space. No matter, I told myself. This is exactly where I want to be. Things will work out.
I believe that God opens doors for us. When one door closes, another opens. I am trying not to force the doors, they will open by themselves when least expected. Through a string of circumstances I found myself having to move. I am now in a boarding house just a stone’s throw from the old city of Damascus. It is not what I had imagined, but I sense that for now it is right to be here. How easy it is for me to believe that doors will open. I have a passport, a community, country and family to return to.
The old city is a labyrinth. It could not be more different from the neighborhood I left. Yesterday I wandered through the endless maze of tiny streets and alleyways, only to find myself again and again at a dead end and having to retrace my steps. The old doors are particularly striking. I would wager that even someone walking down the street with an I-pod (something I’ve not yet seen here).would be drawn in by them. It is all still very new to me, but there is something almost magical about turning a corner only to be awestruck at the ancient doors, the intricate wooden overhangs and masonry. Last night I was hurrying to meet an “old” friend from pre-invasion days in Baghdad. He is a refugee in Syria. It was already dark, and the narrow lanes were dimly lit, casting shadows all around. A young mother was in a doorway with her little children playing around her. As I went by her, she indicated smiling that the street had no exit. She knew that I was lost, and we laughed together as she explained the way to me.
I had my second meeting with UNHCR the other day, this time with the Resettlement Unit. It was clarifying and depressing at the same time. Since my arrival I have been able to visit with several Iraqi families and individuals, and I went to the meeting with many questions.
I asked about families who have been rejected for U.S. resettlement despite having family there, family desperate to receive them. They’ve been advised by UNHCR-Syria not to wait around. They have been told there is next to no possibility for them to be resettled to another country. The few countries taking Iraqis are tightening their restrictions, pushing them to return to Iraq. What are they to do? I asked about a family who recently returned to Iraq after two years in Syria. Their money had run out, and they’d been told by UNHCR that they did not meet the criteria for resettlement. The family happens to be Sabean (aka Mandaean) and are at extremely high risk for assassination. Just last month three Sabean jewelers were killed in a busy market area of Baghdad in a new assault against them. Out of a community of 60,000 to 70,000 in Iraq before 2003 in Iraq only 5,000 remain. What should this family with four small children do? They have already lost many members of their family. What are the prospects for them now?
There used to be a macabre joke among Iraqis. You have to have someone killed, or be maimed yourself, before being accepted for resettlement. Sadly this is no longer true.
Now all roads lead to a dead end. All doors are closed to them. After experiencing betrayal after betrayal, how can they continue to believe that doors will open for them?
I send you warmest greetings from Damascus.
Cathy Breen
