" You have not converted a man because you have silenced him." - John Morley
We hopped out of his truck and straight into a puddle of water. The rain was coming down heavy now and we ran into his building. As soon as he rang the doorbell, you could hear little children screaming "Baba Baba Baba!!!" in an excited frenzy. The door opened and instantly, 3 children stuck themselves like glue to him He walked into the house with one kid on each leg and the other around his waist. The women greeted us with such a warm greeting and invited us to sit down in their living room which like the other places we had visited, consisted of cushions on the floor.
I didn't realize how injured everyone in the room was at first because my heart was still guessing the thoughts that were in Abu-Mumtaz's head at the moment. I watched him lovingly cradle his three sons and tried comprehending the amount of appreciation and love he had for his remaining children. I wondered if he loved his only daughter more than his sons. If he could have chosen, and I know this is a horrible thing to think about, but would he have rather lost a son than his only daughter? Was he glad he didn't have to choose? I looked away from him and his 3 sons. I almost started crying again as I watched him handle his kids like they were treasures. I felt bad that he has to work so far away all the time delivering things and that the time that he is now here with his family, I had to rush him. He reminded me of a cat herding her kittens to stay close.
I started matching the stories from the car to the people that were in the room. Sitting across from me to my left was the pregnant woman with a shattered leg. No smile ever visited her face the entire time I was there. A huge scar running across her face described the fall she had taken. Directly to my left was the 74 year old mother-in-law with a missing leg. She was the most adorable old lady I had ever seen.. Her thin body, hooked nose, grey hair, and no teeth reminded me of a cartoon character. I tried not to keep looking at her missing leg. Abu-Mumtaz's words echoed in my mind as I looked at her "Is my 74 year old mother-in-law a terrorist?" Certainly not, I thought. Saddening how newspapers describe collateral damage so haphazardly- as an event; that once the words are read off the paper, the sorrow for having read it is to quickly disappear, as quickly as the ink was printed onto the paper. This room was the result of collateral damage. The little 5 year old son's scar running through his eye will always be a reminder to him of what he lived through when he was 5. Everytime that boy looks in the mirror as an adult, he will never forget. The wound will eventually become a part of his character and will be a reminder of the capability of human beings upon one-another.
Abu-Mumtaz's wife, Huda, came into the room and invited Aslan and I to come and eat lunch. ALthough there were many people in the house, everyone else waited to eat so that they could take turns using the plates and silverware. They also knew we had to leave soon. Mumtaz's mom and Huda, a lovely woman with big hazel eyes and plump rosy lips, joined us at the table. Abu-Mumtaz kissed her on the cheek and thanked her for all her hard work. We all sat down to eat the stuffed zuchinni, olives, and rice. I finally noticed Huda's face. Abu-Mumtaz saw me looking and then pointed to where the scar actually goes up to on her skull. Silence filled the room for a brief moment. Abu-Mumtaz's sister came into the room as well and sat near us watching us eat. His mom started telling the same stories Abu-Mumtaz told us. "We all lost family that day," she said. It goes in turns. She pointed at her daughter and said, "After Azaaz got attacked, her son joined the free army, he's probably next." Her daughter instantly started crying, then her, then Abu-Mumtaz, then Huda, then me, then Aslan. I couldn't eat. I felt like I was at a wholesale funeral. Yeah, the words wholesale and funeral should not go together, but this is the reality here.
Huda got up and grabbed tissues and handed them out to everyone.
"She was 7 years old. Seven," Abu-Mumtaz said.
"They took everything from us. Itbahdalna, Itbahdalna (Which is the arabic word for being emotionally robbed and humiliated)," his mom said.
"Praise be to God, this is our fate. One day your life is amazing, all the hard work you did in your life, building your home and family, it all gets taken in one day." Abu-Mumtaz said.
This family had so much pain. This was unbelievable. "We just want to go back to our lives, picking olives and sitting under the shade of our trees," his mom said. "No matter how nice the Turkish people are, or how nice Turkey is, nothing is as nice as your own country," She said.
After some more emotional conversations, Aslan, Abu-Mumtaz, and I got in the car and headed over to Samah's house. On the way over, I told Aslan I had some concerns about Samah.
THE JUDGEMENT CALL
"Listen, Sumaya is very good and she has already done so much work in going around visiting all the families, but she is restricted by her older brother and father. She comes from a very over-protective, male dominant family. Plus, there is something about her brother I don't trust. He was very pushy with me about taking all the resources and sending them into Syria. I worry a bit that although Sumaya might have good intentions of helping the families in this area, her dad and brother might overtake her work. Lets be cautious and observant today." I told her.
"I absolutely agree. These blankets and this money that you used to buy these blankets are an Amanih, (a trust), and we need to make sure she knows what she is doing."
"Sumaya will either kick butt at this and be better than you or I, or, she will let her brother and dad boss her around and be submissive. It could go this way or that way."
We were careful and ready.
SUMAYA AND THE 70 BLANKETS
We got to Sumaya's house, looked at the families she had visited and mapped out a chart.
"Samah, this is Aslan." I had said to her. "Aslan is a Med student and also works with the organization. She is very good at talking with families. These first families we visit, just watch how we work with them. Do not promise them anything. We will leave the blankets in the car until we see what they need then we will distribute them." I said to her.
"Okay." she agreed.
Sumaya, Zack, and her dad took one car and Abu-Mumtaz, Aslan, and I were in the truck following. It was raining and the unpaved red clay streets were becoming muddy and slick. We only had time for 5 houses total. The idea was to show Sumaya the ropes and let her finish the job. To train someone in this area to keep the work going.
It was Sunday and the fighting in Ras Al-Ain was very bad. Over 5,000 refugees crossed the border on this day and we were seeing the ones that had just come. The first family we visited had just arrived this morning. The woman had just given birth recently and had a 2 week infant. Since Aslan began a new pregnant refugee and nursing mom program, she took down her information. Her other daughter had huge open cuts that needed stitching from climbing over the barbed wired fence as many had done that day in a crazy frenzy to get out of Syria.
"How many blankets should we give them?" Sumaya asked.
Aslan and I looked at each other and in telepathic language came to a decision. We both put two fingers up. We came back with 2 blankets and the mom started crying and she looked away, off into the hills of Syria that you could see from her house.
"My entire life, I've always been used to giving to people. This is the first time in my life that I need to take from people. Please excuse my crying, I'm just not used to this."
Aslan, Sumaya and I hugged her and told her to stop crying. "Consider us family. If you need anything, please let us know."
"Please, won't you stay for a little?" she asked, wiping tears with her scarf.
"I'm sorry, we have so many houses to visit still." we said.
Off we went, getting in and out of trucks, knocking on doors, getting our tire out of the red clay, grabbing blankets, telling people it was going to be alright, assessing people's wounds, getting back in the car, getting out of the car, knocking on doors, etc. Of the 5 families we visited that day, 3 had just arrived yesterday or today and 3 had one person who had open wounds from the barbed wired fence. Sumaya had registered 30 families and we were barely just starting and it was already dark. We still had a 4 hour ride back and Aslan had to be back before 11pm.
Sumaya's dad asked me if he could have 4 for the clinic if there were any left over. I said sure. I had visited his clinic and was quite alright with that. But the way he asked made me worry about the safety of storing the blankets at Sumaya's house.
An hour later, he asked me if he could have 6 instead. This worried me a bit more. I shot a look at Aslan. She got it. We told Sumaya that we will head back to her house now and that she can finish the work tomorrow.
On the drive back to her house, we agreed that we would take Sumaya into a room alone and warn her that this work was to remain a secret, even from her dad and brother. Aslan would speak with her. Tuba hardly speaks, but when she does, an epic, award winning speach comes out. I was looking forwad to hearing her speak to Sumaya.
We arrived and asked Sumaya to go into a seperate room.
"Sumaya, listen to me very very carefully," Aslan said, with a very serious look on her face. "My mom doesn't even know I'm here right now. Why? Because in order for this work to be successful, it has to be a secret. Your eyes on everything. NOt one blanket gets passed out without you being there. Not your brother, not your father, not anyone can say they will hand it out without your presence. I will be needing a list of each family, their phone number-"
"But many of these families do not have a number," Sumaya retorted.
"I don't care, a neighbor's number, any number and an address, because I will be coming back here and knocking on every door and asking them how many were handed out to them and how it was handed out. Sumaya, we are living in a turbulent time, and donations are being stolen left and right. We have to work like this."
Sumaya looked shaken. Aslan was being very firm with her.
"We will come and get help for all these people, I will get them all the help. Just see what they need. You don't have to be the organization, you only have to be our correspondent."
"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked Sumaya.
"Yes, its just that I don't want all this responsiility." She said.
"You only finish handing out the blankets. Nothing more." I said. We need a list of names and phone numbers. Sumaya, in Prophet Muhammad's time, Aisha his wife fought on the front line with him. She rode horses with him. There was no time for her to stay at home and do nothing. These people need you." I said.
"You are right," she agreed. I still felt a bit uneasy about her trepidity. I know she wants to and is honest but felt like she is under the influence of her brother and father.
Abu-Mumtaz wanted to rest at his house before we left. We agreed but pleaded to not take a lot of time. We had to pick up his 5 year old son so that he could take him back to Gazientep for his surgery the next day.
While waiting for Abu-Mumtaz to rest and get his son ready, we sat again with his family. I told Aslan I wished I could film them. Up until this point, I rarely filmed people because in the middle of them telling their story, its quite rude to say, "Hey can you freeze for a second while I film you? Wait. Hold that tear." So I am quite sensitive about filming people. Up until this point, I hardly justified what I had seen. I knew that if I had taken better pictures, the stories would feel more real, but I have issues with pausing "the moment" of a family breaking in tears in the middle of a story and me going "hey, can you hold that tear so I can take a picture of you?" They are already humiliated and scared and I therefore have a bit of a problem with asking to take photos. I wanted them to feel comfortable. Aslan said to ask them.
"Does anyone want to share their story on video?" I asked. All of them were afraid of the government. Then once again, Aslan spoke up.
"The hand that claps aone does not clap. If you want help and want the world to respond, you need to stop fearing this government." Aslan said to them.
"You have a point, they already stole everything from us. What else do we have to lose?" Abu Mumtaz's mom said. "Okay you can film us."
I pulled out my video camera and at first, everyone was formal about their stories and then it broke out into a heated expression of the woes of being a refugee. I was glad I filmed. The 74 year old with the missing leg started crying when I pointed the camera near her so I stopped. She already felt so humiliated.
It was finally 7pm when we started driving back to Rehanliye. My respect for my traveling companions was through the roof. Abu-Mumtaz was more than a driver, but was happy to be handing things out with us. He was part of the team. His son was in the back seat and every so often, he would reach back and stroke his son's face with his hand. Tuba and I sang the entire way back. Abu Mumtaz enjoyed the singing and occassionally sang with us. He later told us that although it was a long long day, it was one of his favorite delivery days yet.
Yaman kept calling every 15 minutes to see where we were. He was freaking out that we were taking so long. "Calm down," I told him. "We are on our way."
"Okay Okay," he said. Then he would call back a half hour later.
He didn't tell us over the phone but the next day, we found out that he had just gotten wind that 300 Mukhabarat had just crossed the border into Rehanliye at the time we were there. THe Mukhabarat are the Syria Intelligence Mafia who indiscriminately kill, kidnap, or torture any who help refugees. There was a reason we were rushing.
On the drive, Abu-Mumtaz apologized for the way his family was acting. "Sorry you weren't received with a happier note. We can't help the way we feel." he said, very apologetic.
"No way, you were so hospitable and everything. Please don't apologize," I said. "What a stupid response," I thought. I had no words for him. I tried thinking of what to tell him. I hate it when I don't know the right words to say back.
I handed Abu-Mumtaz 500TL, "This is extra, to help with the cost of the surgeries," I said.
"No, I don't want any money at all from you. We all did good work together today," he said.
"No, No, Please. Work is work. Besides, gas is so expensive," I said and pushed the money into his hands. "I wish you better days. I'm so sorry for what you and your family are going through," I said.
When we arrived back in Gazientep, it was too late for me to catch a bus to the next town so I slept at Aslan's house. The house that has 12 people in it. Some of them were staying at a friends house that night so there were only 6 of us in the room that day. They gave me the one bed they had in the room and when I tried my hardest to not take it, they were very angry with me. So I slept on the bed and felt guilty about it. Here they go again, refugees giving me the best that they have.
Before I entered the dream world, the image of Abu Mumtaz holding up the picture of his seven year old daughter while his eyes were watering made me cry myself to sleep. I tried not to be loud about it. That image will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Side note: I wrote this entry in three different sittings, and each time I sat down to write this, I cried. This was the hardest one for me to write. I only say this to you because I want you to know how real this is. Coming and seeing with my own eyes strips away the desensitization of news and makes you human again.