by Karen Button

In the heat of a blistering mid-day sun, Ruweished refugee camp comes into view. A large worn sign proclaims in English and Arabic: Jordan Hashemite Charity Organization, Ruweished Camp, In Coordination with UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees).
Sixty kilometers from the Iraqi border, Ruweished camp sits in the midst of a hot and barren desert that stretches as far as the eye can see. The UNHCR camp was constructed in response to the US threat against Iraq; anticipating a mass exodus, it was built to accommodate 10,000.
The camp is surrounded by a barbed wire fence making it look more like a prison camp than a refugee camp. Indeed, armed security guards greet our car and only after producing a permission letter from Jordan's Ministry of Interior are we allowed entry. The safety measures, we are told, are for protection of the camp's residents although there have been no security issues.
Immediately, we're surrounded by people desperate to tell their story to someone from the outside world. For the nearly 900 refugees who've been living in the isolation of this desert outpost, it's clear we represent a certain hope to those who have little left.
While residents can leave for short visits to the nearby community of Ruweished, their home remains this camp of tents, patched together with tarps and canvass bearing the logo of the United Nations. CARE International provides some schooling and limited vocational training, and the Jordan Hashemite Charity Organization provides food, water, cooking stoves and other essentials, yet the mood here is depressing.
In fact, a number of Palestinians who originally fled decided to return to Iraq and take their chances rather stay at Ruweished.
As bleak as the camp is, about 750 of the residents have been recently relocated here from an even worse situation where they were stuck between Jordan and Iraq for two years. No Man's Land camp, as it came to be known, was under no state's jurisdiction. This left the refugees in a precarious security situation and the aid organizations' staff at considerable physical risk when attempting to access the difficult to reach camp.
According to the UNHCR, "Despite an agreement between UNHCR and the Ministry of the Interior to allow all Iraqis through, several hundred people were stuck between the two countries until just two weeks ago when Jordan finally allowed their relocation to Ruweished."
Several people I met with claimed three unexploded missiles had been found nearby No Man's Land and that a bomb-equipped car was intercepted only because a man ran from it, alerting both the community and security forces.
Second-generation Refugees
Most at Ruweished were already refugees of other nations residing in Iraq. Ethnic Kurds from Iran make up the majority population here, then Palestinians, Iraqis and a fourth group of mixed nationalities.
The first to arrive at Ruweished were the Palestinians. Having faced daily discrimination for years in Iraq from the community, many feared it would become worse after the fall of Saddam's regime. For example, one Palestinian neighborhood in Baghdad was collectively evicted after landlords raised their rents post-invasion. Several hundred fled, some ending up here. Those who stayed wound up in tent encampments within the city; only recently were the last of this group relocated back into apartments.
Here at Ruweished, the camp is divided along ethnic lines.
In the Iranian Kurdish section most families' stories are similar. They all fled Khomeni's fundamentalist regime; most are from Kermanshah. Some were with the peshmerga or PKK (the Kurdish resistance, also active in Turkey where the government there has engaged in armed battle for years). Most were farming families, sympathetic to Kurdish independence , but not actively resisting.
In 1979, the Khomeni regime began bombing their communities.
Zawar Malaki was just a child when three helicopters from the regime rained bombs on their village. His older brother Yawar unfolds a weathered piece of paper and hands it to me. On it are the names of 23 people who were killed during the bombing, a 24th name has written next to it in large bold letters, "executed." "We fled the very next day to Iraq," Zawar says as his brother carefully refolds the paper.
Some 12,000 fled to nearby Iraq, hoping for a sympathetic reception from the secular government. But, as 38 year-old Osman remembers, "Saddam wanted to bury us. Fortunately ICRC [International Committee of the Red Cross] discovered us, so we were relieved."
The UNHCR eventually settled the Kurds at Al Tash camp near the town of Ramadi in central Iraq where they remained until the current war. It wasn't an easy life. Work was hard to come by and medical care expensive.
"We fled death to Iraq but we were faced with such a hard situation. There was too much suffering and no money to go to the clinic." Osman points to his wife Fatima who holds two of their five children. Nine year-old Iysha and her seven-year-old sister Nasrim were both blinded at infancy from preventable causes, measles and high fevers.

The situation at Al Tash quickly deteriorated after US soldiers targeted Ramadi during the invasion. Since the Americans weren't securing Iraq's borders, most feared reprisals from the Iranian government once Saddam's regime fell. The community fled once again. Some of Al Tash's refugees went north into Kurdistan, some to Syria and some to Jordan where they now find themselves safe, yet with little hope for the future.
"I was in al-Tash since my birth in 1982. I am afraid to die in a refugee camp. I can't understand the meaning of a real life," 23 year-old Nakim Azizi admits as he holds up his hands in defeat.
Few Options for Camp Residents
We are standing under a scorching sky where the afternoon wind is picking up speed, blowing sand through the desolate camp. There is not a tree or bush in sight. The only escape from the sun is the shade offered by the tents, which are transformed into saunas during the day. There is no escape from the sand, which covers everything.
I'm invited inside one family's tent where the I'm welcomed profusely and offered the customary shay (tea). The floor consists of tarps with blankets laid atop and a few scattered worn-out pillows. There is no furniture, save a long dresser on which sits a television, which, ironically, most people here have. Numerous small satellite dishes are
scattered throughout the camp. Cell phones are also common, in glaring contrast to the camp's inaccessibility.
Here, in this place where one can smell the latrines before seeing them, the UNHCR is doing their best to find countries that will accept Ruweished's refugees, but it hasn't been easy. UNHCR, under tremendous pressures, does their best, but some of the refugees are embittered, feeling that the agency is not doing enough.
Nazakat Yossefi's is one of the families recently moved to Ruweished from No Man's Land. She is alternately full of fire and despondency.
"For 26 years we are living a bad life [in Al Tash]. We are vagrants. I went on a hunger strike to save my family from a situation of death. To save my children's family." Forty-one year old Nazakat and about 25 others went on a hunger strike earlier this spring to bring attention to their plight.
Nazakat ended her 26-day protest when UNHCR promised hers would be one of first families helped. But 384 people were later accepted to Sweden and her family was not amongst them. Now she is angry and she blames UNHCR.
"I feel so bad toward UNHCR. They didn't keep their promise. They didn't act for me." She believes," if UNHCR wants, they can save us."
She looks unflinchingly into my eyes, "Suicide is maybe better, or another hunger strike, If UNHCR does not save me, I have no choice. I prefer death to this life."
Her husband and children sit quietly by as she says this. She repeats, "I prefer death to this situation."

I look over at the two youngest girls, one is watching her mother carefully, the other looking down at the floor, which consists of tarps covered by some wool blankets. I don't know what to say in the long silence that follows.
Her eldest son, 18-year-old Khalil speaks up. "You are in a jail in No Man's Land. Now this is another jail. It is like before we were in Abu Ghraib, now we are in Guantanamo."
Nazakat's situation is made more unbearable, she tells me, because the rest of her family were granted entry to Europe years ago, but since she had married, she couldn't go with them. Now, her mother calls her frequently from Finland where she has appealed to the government on their behalf. Finland, though, like most countries, aren't accepting refugees from this camp.
Resettlement Not Easy
According to the UNHCR office in Amman, "UNHCR has had limited success in finding longer-term solutions for people stuck on the Iraq-Jordan border. In 2003, the Jordanian government accepted 384 Palestinian men and children with Jordanian spouses and mothers. Close to 400 others have been resettled to Sweden and Ireland."
There are some 800 Iraqi nationals in Jordan who are so-called "recognized" refugees, which means they have the option of "being integrated in to Jordan" or the UNHCR will attempt to resettle them in a third country, according to Protection Officer for Amman, Hanan Handan.
Another 15,000 who've fled since 2003 have been offered "temporary protection" status, meaning they are "protected from being returned by force to Iraq."
When I ask how the US and Britain have responded to resettlement applications, I am told, once again, that the officer I'm speaking with does not have the jurisdiction to answer.
After numerous thwarted attempts to reach UNHCR representatives, I begin to understand the intense anger some of Ruweished's residents vented toward the agency.
Epitomizing the bureaucracy is the standard UNHCR letter numerous refugees produced when explaining their case. In it they are told there is no guarantee that their resettlement application will be accepted and, if not, "there is no procedure to appeal the rejection."
A Plea to the World
People at Ruweished feel forgotten and that is their greatest concern.

"I want to communicate to the world after 23 years of suffering, now our children are deprived of everything," an angry Yawar Malaki states. His young daughter died last year while at No Man's Land he sadly tells me while holding a tiny laminated copy of the UNHCR letter.
Rabiah Azizi, more soft-spoken, puts it this way, "I know you are working hard, but please work harder. The world must know we are here. We need your help."