Stuck in Iraq

by Karen Button

This past week the Jordanian authorities began strict measures at the border they share with Iraq. Though hundreds of Iraqis attempting to flee the untenable violence in their home country each day, only a few are now being allowed to cross in to Jordan. The Syrian government, traditionally very friendly toward fleeing Iraqis, has taken similar measures. The new measures are being touted as part of the new security plan implemented by the Iraqi government and carried out jointly with American forces.

As I arrived in Amman I learned my dear friend and translator was spending the night on the border between Jordan and Iraq. Hers was among dozens of other vehicles in a long line-up hoping to cross. Trying to reach her proved impossible. It was only late the next day when she called from Baghdad I learned she was among the unlucky who were turned back.

For the past three days life has been defined by a flurry of phone calls and text messages, worry and an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness. In other words, what some 700,000-1 million Iraqis in Amman go through every day.

Her neighborhood has been under fierce mortar attacks for the past couple days. “You can’t imagine what it is like,” she says over the phone. “Last night the mortars were really terrible. There was also shooting all night long.” In the morning a neighbor tells her 100 people have been killed.

“Oh my God,” she says suddenly. What? What? “There’s another attack!” she cries, just as I hear it hit in the background. Across the miles I hear the fear in her voice. Afraid for her life, tears spill from my eyes as I try to imagine the scene. The fabric of family, neighborhood, and country ripped apart in the struggle just to survive.

“We are living in a big prison,” she says, “especially now if we cannot even be allowed to leave!”

Though Syria has intermittently closed each of its three borders, her travel agent (who, in these times, arranges not just flights, but the car transport most Iraqis depend upon) has told her those borders are still open. Please, just fly to Syria, I tell her. She is promising to call the agent when suddenly the phone goes dead. I’ve run out of credit.

I quickly text message her that I’ll call back soon and dash out to purchase another phone card, which can be purchased only in small increments. Unbelievably, it’s much more expensive to call Iraq from Jordan than it is from the States.

When we finally reach one another again, she is laughing incredulously. “You won’t believe it--the travel agent just told me all flights to Damascus have been cancelled.”

The closure is part of the so-called new security plan put forward by the Iraqi government, in which American and Iraqi forces are “securing” Baghdad. Again.

By this time, she, her sister-in-law and two nieces had gone to a relative’s house in another neighborhood. Not that it’s safe, but at least there are no mortars or gunfights—for now. “If you can tell me you still have this feeling that we will see each other, then I will have some hope,” she tells me as we say goodnight.

When we next talk, she relates another harrowing tale. Today was her eldest niece’s birthday. “She was crying because she wanted a birthday cake, something to tell her it was her birthday. We wanted to have a small celebration, of course. So, my sister-in-law was able to buy her a cake and my sister and I went to a small shop nearby so I could buy her a present. When we stopped, a man came up to the car and told us we had to park in a nearby lot that he was wanted to charge us for. You know, this is how it is now, these gangs are running the streets. I told him, ‘I am just going to be in the shop for a minute and my sister will stay with the car.’ He started shouting at me, so I left and went to toward the shop. Then he started arguing with my sister. When I looked back, he had pulled out a pistol and was aiming it at her.”

My god, did he shoot? I picture her sister, a woman who is not afraid to speak her mind facing this man.

“No, because she drove away very quickly.”

And what did you do?

“I had to walk back--by another street, of course. And, of course, we had to go to the police. So, we drove to the traffic police to report it and he said it was none of his concern, go to the Iraqi National Guard, which was nearby. So, we did that. But then as we were going back, the roads were suddenly blocked from a car bomb that exploded nearby.

“This is how it is here. It’s a nightmare.”

I listen to all of this and realise this is what some 700,000-1 million Iraqis in Jordan alone contend with daily—the feelings of powerlessness and constant worry for loved ones still in Iraq.

Later on, while meeting with two other Iraqis, the elder man keeps looking at his watch. On the hour he tells me, “I will now send a missed call to my son in Baghdad to make sure he and his mother are still alive. Watch, he will send a missed call back.” Moments later his phone buzzes. He looks up smiling, “You see, they are ok. We do this twice each day at specified times.”