Defiance in Exile

Syrian Refugee Women in Jordan

Waed Athamneh, Muhammad Masud

• Publisher: University of Notre Dame Press
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9780268201180
• Topic: Politique et relations internationales
• Subtopic: Politique du Moyen-Orient

This book offers a glimpse into Syrian refugee women's stories of defiance and triumph in the aftermath of the Syrian uprising.

The al-Zaatari Camp in northern Jordan is the largest Syrian refugee camp in the world, home to 80, 000 inhabitants. While al-Zaatari has been described by the Western media as an ideal refugee camp, the Syrian women living within its confines offer a very different account of their daily reality. Defiance in Exile: Syrian Refugee Women in Jordan presents for the first time in a book-length format the opportunity to hear the refugee women's own words about torment, struggle, and persecution—and of an enduring spirit that defies a difficult reality. Their stories speak of nearly insurmountable social, economic, physical, and emotional challenges, and provide a distinct perspective of the Syrian conflict.

Waed Athamneh and Muhammad Musad began collecting the testimonies of Syrian refugee women in 2015. The authors chronicle the history of Syria's colonial legacy, the torture and cruelty of the Bashar al-Assad regime during which nearly half a million Syrians lost their lives, and the eventual displacement of more than 5.3 million Syrian refugees due to the crisis. The book contains nearly two dozen interviews, which give voice to single mothers, widows, women with disabilities, and those who are victims of physical and psychological abuse. Having lost husbands, children, relatives, and friends to the conflict, they struggle with what it means to be a Syrian refugee—and what it means to be a Syrian woman. Defiance in Exile follows their fight for survival during war and the sacrifices they had to make. It depicts their journey, their desperate, chaotic lives as refugees, and their hopes and aspirations for themselves and their children in the future. These oral histories register the women's political outcry against displacement, injustice, and abuse. The book will interest all readers who support refugees and displaced persons as well as students and scholars of Middle East studies, political science, women's studies, and peace studies.

CHAPTER 1

A Chance to Listen

Permit to Visit

When al-Zaatari Camp opened in Jordan in July 2012, it made international headlines. Jordan’s reputation as a moderate nation encouraged interest in the newly expanding regional conflict. Soon media outlets, reporters, government officials, and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) started visiting the camp. Then came the celebrities, like Angelina Jolie and Janet Jackson. These high-profile visits helped draw global attention to the ordeal of Syrian refugees. The eyes of the world were on this place.

On the surface, al-Zaatari appeared exemplary in comparison to other refugee camps in the region. The tents in which refugees were initially housed were quickly replaced with mobile shelters called caravans. These new housing units were made of metal and provided much better protection from the elements. They looked like large shipping containers with small windows. Al-Zaatari also had other things that are usually slow to arrive at refugee camps. There was electricity, and there was water. There were health clinics, schools, soccer fields, playgrounds, small shops, hair salons, bakeries, and even wedding gown shops. The list went on and on. Life sounded too good to be true for a camp.

There was a missing piece. What is it? we wondered.

The only people who could answer this were the camp’s residents. So we set out to visit the camp, but we promptly realized it was not so simple. We learned we needed an official permit. Going into the camp without an official permit would be risky. Why were things so complicated? Were they hiding something?

The official narrative was that the camp was open to international media, journalists, and really anyone who wanted to visit. The official narrative was that there was nothing going on in secret. Many problems were in need of solutions in the camp. But it was all out in the open. And, to be fair, other researchers, journalists, documentary filmmakers, NGOs, and officials were regularly visiting the camp. But we needed to put the official narrative to the test.

And thus began our journey to secure an official permit to enter the camp and speak to women there.

After several attempts to reach the right person, we learned it would be best to request the permit from the highest possible authority. At the time, that person was Major General Dr. Waddah Humoud, director of the Department of Refugee Affairs. He was in charge of all Syrian refugee camps in the country. We asked for an appointment and were surprised to receive a quick and positive response.

We left in the early morning hours for our meeting with Major General Humoud. We arrived a bit early at his office in Amman and waited anxiously, thinking of what questions to ask. Major General Humoud was a busy man; visitors and officers constantly went in and out of his office. When we were finally admitted, he welcomed us with a smile, although it was clear that he was managing difficult issues at the national level. His cell phone and office phone rang throughout our meeting, and people repeatedly interrupted our discussion.

We explained what we wanted to do in the camp, and Major General Humoud was very receptive. He shared with us the latest official statistics concerning Syrian refugee affairs in Jordan. He described the latest technology the Jordanian government was using to manage refugee data, including biometric tools to ensure refugees have official IDs and . . . “It’s for my shepherd!” came a shout from the back of the office.

We looked behind us, surprised not at the interruption but at the words that had been uttered. An old man was approaching, accompanied by an embarrassed officer who had been trying to keep him outside. The man greeted us and apologized for interrupting our meeting. Humoud, not at all surprised by the interruption, allowed the man to make his request. He seemed accustomed to constant, sometimes bizarre, requests.

The man was from a local tribe and owned a large number of cattle. He had hired a Syrian refugee as shepherd, but the refugee’s wife needed to renew her expired papers. He needed Hamoud’s permission to expedite the process so that the shepherd’s wife could remain in the country legally. The major general welcomed him and listened to the man’s stream of demands with patience.

This transition from biometric eye-print technology to a local tribesman making a request on behalf of a shepherd’s wife was unexpected. But moments such as this encapsulate the struggle of a country striving to change its old ways while also supporting hundreds of thousands of refugees.

By the end of the visit, Major General Humoud assured us our request to visit the camp would be granted. Sure enough, the permit arrived a few days later in a sealed envelope. We started planning the logistics of our visits to the camp.

Our small black Hyundai, with its 1.2-liter engine, was hardly prepared for the journey. As we drove down Baghdad International Highway under the scorching sun, the engine started to overheat. It took us about an hour to reach al-Zaatari Camp from Irbid. The camp was located in Mafraq Governorate, just a short stretch off the highway.

We arrived to find that there were no trees there, no plants or grass, nothing that even resembled green. Instead, we faced an endless stretch of sand. It washed everything with a pale yellow tint, even the soulless white caravans the UN had provided. Everything muddled together until the sand seemed like the only constant physical reality.

As we drove into the camp, we saw women and children gathering around large water tanks and filling water bottles, buckets, and gallon containers. Each water tank was raised on a foundation of cinderblocks. Small children passed us, pushing wheelbarrows many times their weight. Since the refugees had no cars, wheelbarrows had become a valuable possession in the camp. They were used to transfer everything from water to furniture to small children.

We drove straight to the headquarters to speak to the camp director. Along the way, we saw young men walking aimlessly in the burning heat. Children chased our car in curiosity, some raising their hands in the peace sign.

We explained our plans in a brief conversation with the director. Waed would visit the caravans and speak to the women. That way, the women would have the chance to speak more comfortably, without the presence of men. Meanwhile, Muhammad would speak to members of a few NGOs in the camp. A female police officer would accompany Waed and guide her through the camp’s districts. Everything had gone as planned thus far, so the next episode came as a complete surprise.

An Attempt to Silence
Narrated by Waed

When the police officer first introduced herself, it crossed my mind that she seemed upset with this assignment. I quickly shook off that idea. How silly, I thought, she’s just doing her job. The camp director delivered some last instructions to her, and then the officer asked me to come to her office. I obliged.

To my surprise, that office visit quickly turned into a long series of questions. She was skeptical of the permit we had obtained, but she asked for it so that she could make copies. I then sat there for at least an hour as she looked at her computer monitor and made phone calls. She continued questioning me from behind her computer screen. I had not expected such treatment, but I answered all her questions. She addressed me only once, to volunteer her opinion of Syrian refugees in the country: “You know they are now letting Syrian kids into my daughter’s private school? They don’t even have to pay. It’s all covered for them. They’re filthy and full of diseases. I don’t pay all that money every year so my children can share the same school with them.”

Eventually she returned to her interrogation. “Why are you doing this? For whom? What are your plans and intentions?” And then it hit me. I came here to interview the refugee women, but now I was the one being interviewed.

The questions slowly morphed into veiled threats: “You have to be careful about what you write. Every word will be read. You are being watched, so be careful.” I tried to answer each question respectfully, but it was hard to ignore the hostility. One worrisome thought occupied my mind the whole time: If she is treating me this way, how is she treating the refugees, whom she just called all these horrible names?

“Why do you want to talk to these women? They are liars. Don’t talk to them. They never have enough. They only take and complain. Come, I will show you some better people to talk to,” she said. I explained that the whole point of our visit was to listen to these women and learn about their experiences from them, not from officials in the camp. But she was adamant.

She dragged me through the offices of several governmental and nongovernmental organizations. At each stop, she led me to employees who raved about the “better than you would expect” conditions in the camp. “They live for free.” “They have playgrounds!” “It’s a fivestar camp!” “This is better than what they had back home.” As we walked from room to room, the officer lectured me further on how ungrateful Syrian refugees were.

I decided to put an end to this game. The camp director had clearly instructed her to facilitate our mission. I told her I would talk to the Syrian women now, or I would return to the camp’s headquarters to file a complaint. Reluctantly, she agreed.

She still did not do it. Instead, I found myself in an NGO office that hired Syrian women. The officer said, “Here are good examples of women who are employed here.” Oh, for heaven’s sake! Do I just burst out of the room? I thought. It was too late. I was already standing in a circle of chairs occupied by women employees. So I decided to take this as an opportunity to introduce myself. I explained the nature of my research, interview ethics, and the women’s right to decline or participate in the conversation. I explained that I would not be asking questions since the officer refused to leave the room, but I would instead like to chat about anything of their choice. That earned me a threatening stare from the officer.

To my surprise, most of the women ignored the officer. And so the conversation covered mundane, everyday things . . . until it did not. One of the women was simply complaining about the difficulty of day-to-day life when the officer decided to interrupt her. But that was a big mistake.

The woman proceeded to berate the officer: “Things are not going to get any worse than they are. No, the situation here is not ideal, as you claim. I had a great life back in Syria that you can’t steal from me. I am only here because the war forced me to be here. I don’t want your money or your caravan. I wish I could leave today, before tomorrow.” She reminded the officer that she, too, is a human being and that this life at the camp was nothing but a temporary stage she was forced to go through. She knew it would end sooner rather than later. This strong woman spoke fluently and intelligently about the challenges faced by refugees at the camp.

The officer could not believe she was being undermined, but the woman said to her, “Things are not good anyway, and we are not happy.” The officer said, “You know we are giving you everything we can.” The woman replied, “Thank you, but that does not mean the living conditions are great here. This is what I have.”

Still uncomfortable with the presence of the officer, I asked to return to headquarters to meet Muhammad. The officer walked next to me the whole way, ensuring that I did not stray farther into the camp. Does she really suspect I am planning to sneak off to the caravans? I must admit that the very thought of her panicked face was tempting. I wanted to quietly sneak off anywhere, even if just around the corner, to catch a glimpse of that expression.

But before I could act, the officer started ordering a ride back to Irbid for me. She tried to put me on the first bus returning to Irbid. We knew we had to speak to the camp director, but he was gone for the day.

Upon returning to Irbid, we did not know what to think. Was that officer working on orders to disrupt our plans, or was she acting on her own?

We got our answer a few days later when we returned to the camp. The camp director was busy receiving an American convoy visiting al-Zaatari. He still spared a quick minute to learn about our problem. He was surprised to hear about what had happened, and he condemned the officer’s behavior. He then gave us his personal phone number. We were to call him immediately should we face any issues.

We later came to learn that the hostile officer was likely motivated not by policy but by her personal disdain for Syrian refugees. Of the many other officers we later met, not one held such animosity toward the camp’s residents. We felt that most of them realized the plight of the refugees and empathized with their struggle.

The officer was likely aware she had little authority over the camp’s residents. On the contrary, she was expected to work with the refugees—not the other way around.

In its early days, al-Zaatari Camp suffered from lack of security. There were incidents of violence, riots, and theft of food rations and health supplies. Jordanian authorities constantly tried to enforce security in the camp. Things finally started to improve but only after the authorities realized it was more effective to work with the refugees instead of trying to manage them. So the authorities enacted the so-called community-based protection approaches that engaged the camp’s residents.

We still needed officers to guide us through the districts of the camp, so we were assigned three new officers to help us. The director instructed the three men to take directions from us, accompany us wherever we wanted to go, and remain for as long as we needed them.

The unfortunate early encounter with the officer was probably a blessing in disguise. Our way now cleared, we had a plan: I would speak to the women inside the caravans, and Muhammad would ensure that the men and officers remained outside. We wanted only the women and sometimes their young children to be present during the conversations. Adhering to the institutional review board (IRB) regulations, the presence of men was not an option.

And so began our work.

Keeping the Men Out
Narrated by Muhammad

We all huddled close to each other in the tiny patch of shade. When the temperature is well above 100°F, any small spot with shade is beyond value. In the distance, I saw that one of the officers had stayed in the truck. He had the windows open, and I wondered how he was able to withstand the heat.

The other officer was sitting right next to me. So were six other men representing different generations: thr...