Leaving Home...
by Riverbend
The difficulty of your mission, R., is that you must contain these items in a space totaling 1 m by 0.7 m by 0.4 m. This, of course, includes the clothes you will be wearing for the next months, as well as any personal memorabilia- photos, diaries, stuffed animals, CDs and the like.
I packed and unpacked it four times. Each time I unpacked it, I
swore I’d eliminate some of the items that were not absolutely
necessary. Each time I packed it again, I would add more ‘stuff’ than
the time before. E. finally came in a month and a half later and
insisted we zip up the bag so I wouldn’t be tempted to update its
contents constantly.
The decision that we would each take one
suitcase was made by my father. He took one look at the box of assorted
memories we were beginning to prepare and it was final: Four large
identical suitcases were purchased- one for each member of the family
and a fifth smaller one was dug out of a closet for the documentation
we’d collectively need- graduation certificates, personal
identification papers, etc.
We waited… and waited… and waited.
It was decided we would leave mid to late June- examinations would be
over and as we were planning to leave with my aunt and her two
children- that was the time considered most convenient for all
involved. The day we finally appointed as THE DAY, we woke up to an
explosion not 2 km away and a curfew. The trip was postponed a week.
The night before we were scheduled to travel, the driver who owned the
GMC that would take us to the border excused himself from the trip- his
brother had been killed in a shooting. Once again, it was postponed.
There
was one point, during the final days of June, where I simply sat on my
packed suitcase and cried. By early July, I was convinced we would
never leave. I was sure the Iraqi border was as far away, for me, as
the borders of Alaska. It had taken us well over two months to decide
to leave by car instead of by plane. It had taken us yet another month
to settle on Syria as opposed to Jordan. How long would it take us to
reschedule leaving?
It happened almost overnight. My aunt called
with the exciting news that one of her neighbors was going to leave for
Syria in 48 hours because their son was being threatened and they
wanted another family on the road with them in another car- like
gazelles in the jungle, it’s safer to travel in groups. It was a flurry
of activity for two days. We checked to make sure everything we could
possibly need was prepared and packed. We arranged for a distant cousin
of my moms who was to stay in our house with his family to come the
night before we left (we can’t leave the house empty because someone
might take it).
It was a tearful farewell as we left the house.
One of my other aunts and an uncle came to say goodbye the morning of
the trip. It was a solemn morning and I’d been preparing myself for the
last two days not to cry. You won’t cry, I kept saying, because you’re
coming back. You won’t cry because it’s just a little trip like the
ones you used to take to Mosul or Basrah before the war. In spite of my
assurances to myself of a safe and happy return, I spent several hours
before leaving with a huge lump lodged firmly in my throat. My eyes
burned and my nose ran in spite of me. I told myself it was an allergy.
We
didn’t sleep the night before we had to leave because there seemed to
be so many little things to do… It helped that there was no electricity
at all- the area generator wasn’t working and ‘national electricity’
was hopeless. There just wasn’t time to sleep.
The last few
hours in the house were a blur. It was time to go and I went from room
to room saying goodbye to everything. I said goodbye to my desk- the
one I’d used all through high school and college. I said goodbye to the
curtains and the bed and the couch. I said goodbye to the armchair E.
and I broke when we were younger. I said goodbye to the big table over
which we’d gathered for meals and to do homework. I said goodbye to the
ghosts of the framed pictures that once hung on the walls, because the
pictures have long since been taken down and stored away- but I knew
just what hung where. I said goodbye to the silly board games we
inevitably fought over- the Arabic Monopoly with the missing cards and
money that no one had the heart to throw away.
I knew then as I
know now that these were all just items- people are so much more
important. Still, a house is like a museum in that it tells a certain
history. You look at a cup or stuffed toy and a chapter of memories
opens up before your very eyes. It suddenly hit me that I wanted to
leave so much less than I thought I did.
Six AM finally came.
The GMC waited outside while we gathered the necessities- a thermos of
hot tea, biscuits, juice, olives (olives?!) which my dad insisted we
take with us in the car, etc. My aunt and uncle watched us sorrowfully.
There’s no other word to describe it. It was the same look I got in my
eyes when I watched other relatives and friends prepare to leave. It
was a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness, tinged with anger. Why
did the good people have to go?
I cried as we left- in spite of
promises not to. The aunt cried… the uncle cried. My parents tried to
be stoic but there were tears in their voices as they said their
goodbyes. The worst part is saying goodbye and wondering if you’re ever
going to see these people again. My uncle tightened the shawl I’d
thrown over my hair and advised me firmly to ‘keep it on until you get
to the border’. The aunt rushed out behind us as the car pulled out of
the garage and dumped a bowl of water on the ground, which is a
tradition- its to wish the travelers a safe return… eventually.
The
trip was long and uneventful, other than two checkpoints being run by
masked men. They asked to see identification, took a cursory glance at
the passports and asked where we were going. The same was done for the
car behind us. Those checkpoints are terrifying but I’ve learned that
the best technique is to avoid eye-contact, answer questions politely
and pray under your breath. My mother and I had been careful not to
wear any apparent jewelry, just in case, and we were both in long
skirts and head scarves.
The trip was long and uneventful, other
than two checkpoints being run by masked men. They asked to see
identification, took a cursory glance at the passports and asked where
we were going. The same was done for the car behind us. Those
checkpoints are terrifying but I’ve learned that the best technique is
to avoid eye-contact, answer questions politely and pray under your
breath. My mother and I had been careful not to wear any apparent
jewelry, just in case, and we were both in long skirts and head scarves.
Syria
is the only country, other than Jordan, that was allowing people in
without a visa. The Jordanians are being horrible with refugees.
Families risk being turned back at the Jordanian border, or denied
entry at Amman Airport. It’s too high a risk for most families.
We
waited for hours, in spite of the fact that the driver we were with had
‘connections’, which meant he’d been to Syria and back so many times,
he knew all the right people to bribe for a safe passage through the
borders. I sat nervously at the border. The tears had stopped about an
hour after we’d left Baghdad. Just seeing the dirty streets, the ruins
of buildings and houses, the smoke-filled horizon all helped me realize
how fortunate I was to have a chance for something safer.
By the
time we were out of Baghdad, my heart was no longer aching as it had
been while we were still leaving it. The cars around us on the border
were making me nervous. I hated being in the middle of so many possibly
explosive vehicles. A part of me wanted to study the faces of the
people around me, mostly families, and the other part of me, the one
that’s been trained to stay out of trouble the last four years, told me
to keep my eyes to myself- it was almost over.
It was finally
our turn. I sat stiffly in the car and waited as money passed hands;
our passports were looked over and finally stamped. We were ushered
along and the driver smiled with satisfaction, “It’s been an easy trip,
Alhamdulillah,” he said cheerfully.
As we crossed the border and
saw the last of the Iraqi flags, the tears began again. The car was
silent except for the prattling of the driver who was telling us
stories of escapades he had while crossing the border. I sneaked a look
at my mother sitting beside me and her tears were flowing as well.
There was simply nothing to say as we left Iraq. I wanted to sob, but I
didn’t want to seem like a baby. I didn’t want the driver to think I
was ungrateful for the chance to leave what had become a hellish place
over the last four and a half years.
The Syrian border was
almost equally packed, but the environment was more relaxed. People
were getting out of their cars and stretching. Some of them recognized
each other and waved or shared woeful stories or comments through the
windows of the cars. Most importantly, we were all equal. Sunnis and
Shia, Arabs and Kurds… we were all equal in front of the Syrian border
personnel.
We were all refugees- rich or poor. And refugees all
look the same- there’s a unique expression you’ll find on their faces-
relief, mixed with sorrow, tinged with apprehension. The faces almost
all look the same.
The first minutes after passing the border
were overwhelming. Overwhelming relief and overwhelming sadness… How is
it that only a stretch of several kilometers and maybe twenty minutes,
so firmly segregates life from death?
How is it that a border no
one can see or touch stands between car bombs, militias, death squads
and… peace, safety? It’s difficult to believe- even now. I sit here and
write this and wonder why I can’t hear the explosions.
I wonder
at how the windows don’t rattle as the planes pass overhead. I’m trying
to rid myself of the expectation that armed people in black will break
through the door and into our lives. I’m trying to let my eyes grow
accustomed to streets free of road blocks, hummers and pictures of
Muqtada and the rest…
How is it that all of this lies a short car ride away?
Writings 
Two months ago, the suitcases were packed. My lone, large suitcase sat in my bedroom for nearly six weeks, so full of clothes and personal items, that it took me, E. and our six year old neighbor to zip it closed.
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