Virtual-Doug

The New Normal

Home is behind them and they have no way of knowing when they will return.  War continues in Syria – to go back is to put oneself in danger again.  Life may be hard in the Domiz Camp, but at least the refugees feel safe.

Ramadhan, my young guide and translator, is just one of the many people who belong to sundered families.  While he and two sisters are in Kurdistan, his mother and father, along with a younger sister and brother, remain in Syria where the parents are professionals working for the government.  Whether they support the Assad regime or are just afraid to leave, I don’t know.  Ramadhan the teenage boy must learn the new normal – a world without parents in a camp radically different from the middle class home he grew up in.

Though the camp is officially a refugee camp, the United Nations has seen situations like this before.   They know that the longer people live in the camp, the more they will want to make it home-like.  To keep living in small tents with poor sanitation, muddy streets and no jobs, refugees can become restive.  People need a sense of permanence and security. They want to be surrounded by familiar things.  As I watched new arrivals walk through the gate, I also saw veteran refugees adapting to a new world.  One family planted something green in front of their shelter trying to make things more normal.

The German hospital does a great job caring for new arrivals, but they will be packing up to go home in December.  Doctors Without Borders will be here a lot longer, but sooner or later, there will have to be local medical facilities with local practitioners.  Health care must be a part of the new normal – a normal where common childhood runny noses are treated before they develop into worse diseases.

 

The only dental care in the camp is provided by a rolling clinic donated by the Korean government, funded by the United Nations and staffed by volunteer dentists from Germany, supported by local Kurdish technicians and translators.  As expected, the dentists do extractions, but they will do fillings and other necessary care on a case-by-case basis.

All cultures have a spiritual component to their view of normal.  For most Kurds, that  means practicing their Muslim faith.  (There are some Christian Kurds.  There is a large church in Dohuk.)  An imam – himself a refugee – set up a temporary mosque in a tent.  Friday is the Muslim day of prayer and I was very welcome and I could take all the photos I desired.  The men gathered to say their prayers (women have a separate time) as per the norm back home.  The new normal may dictate a tent, but at least it is a form of normal.  The crowd overflowed the improvised mosque, but another prayer rug was laid outside and the late comers could add their devotions.
 
The new normal also means passing on beloved Islamic rituals to sons, just as they would have done back in Syria.  The few boys in the mosque seemed a bit confused, but they will be the first to get accustomed to the new normal.

What is more normal than kids going to school?  Harikar, a Japanese non-government organization, donated the funds to have UNICEF erect modular buildings.  The refugees themselves provided the teachers and the Kurdistan government provided some funds for books, pencils and other study material.  Only in operation for three weeks, the place is still chaotic.  One teacher explained that not a few kids were having mental problems adjusting to their new surroundings and feeling insecure.  For now, only the first eight grades are in session.  A high school is planned for some time in the future.  In the meantime, teenage boys wander the camp, bored, restless and a potential problem.  The girls stay home, closely watched by their families.

In an earlier post, I mentioned that “shopping” in the usual sense of picking over the food you buy and comparing one product against another is not something done in the camp – you take the bag of rice or flour given you, and carry it back to your tent.  But the new normal can mean shopping the old way as entrepreneurs open little stores in their tents and shacks.  Fresh fruit and vegetables can now be a part of the family diet – provided you have the dinar (Iraqi currency) to buy them.

Normal means kids playing together and parents playing with their children.  Family love trumps hardship.  All the hatred of the civil war cannot destroy the love parents have for their children.  If this post had audio, you would hear the child squeal with delight as Dad tossed her in the air.

A kid flying a kite as he runs down the street is normal, even if the street is a dirt track between refugee tents.  Normal is kids laughing.  Normal is dad peeking over my shoulder to see a picture of his son.  Normal is a kid showing off as he repeats his run over and over until he is panting.

Day ends in the Domiz refugee camp near Dohuk, Iraqi Kurdistan.  Sunset is the normal thing to happen at the end of the day, even if it sets on uprooted people trying to figure out how to reshape their lives.

The Crossing

As we approached the border, we went through more and more military checkpoints. The usual smiling welcome disappeared and was replaced by careful examination of my passport and the letter of passage I received from the provincial media relations minister. Finally, we hit a checkpoint where the AK-toting pesh merga (Kurdish fighters) didn’t care about the letter of passage. They eyed my cameras suspiciously and sent me off to see the general.

The general was so gracious, he offered me the national drink – strong Kurdish tea served in a small gracefully curved glass with a thick layer of sugar in the bottom. After some discussion with his staff, permission was granted and off we went.

It’s hard to say Behar is a village. Half the town is in ruins from some other war and the other half has few residents. From the appearance of the herd dog roaming the area, I suspect most of the people are goat herders. There was a cluster of taxis at the foot of a hill, and then I looked up and saw them.

Refugees.

Lots of refugees, clutching the few possessions they had, holding babies and dragging suitcases. They crested the hill and for the first time, looked on Iraqi Kurdistan. They had spent the night across the border with no harassment from Syrian troops, and then walked the four kilometers from a small Syrian village to the equally small Iraqi village.

After a cursory and very polite check-over by the pesh merga , they walked the last few meters into Behar. There they met relatives who had already escaped or hired a taxi to take them to the Domiz refugee camp. The border crossing is only open from 9am to 2pm –I don’t know why – but in one 30 minute period, Ramadhan counted ninety four people passing by us. Round it down to ninety people and that equates to 180 per hour or 900 people per day. That explains why the Domiz camp has grown from approximately 28,000 people when I arrived to the 32,585 people counted on November 12th – and that was six days ago. I assume the faster pace of evacuation is because of Turkey’s reluctance to take any more Kurds in as refugees. Contrary to the Domiz camp where refugees come and go at will, once a refugee enters a Turkish camp, they are not allowed to leave. Word gets around and the Kurds head to where they are welcome – and that means Iraqi Kurdistan.

It’s a long walk, especially if you have to carry a small child as well as your luggage. People have truly had to decide what is precious to them because they cannot carry everything. The Syrian village is at the end of the road in this photo, way up on the ridge top in the upper right. As I stood there watching the exodus, I wondered what it would be like to leave your home wondering if you would ever see it again, along with the pictures of Grandma, the silverware given to you at your wedding or the dog who has been a member of the family for nine years. Neither did refugees know what camp living would be like. The danger and the fear must be sticky to the touch to cause a family to leave home and go towards the unknown.

Why do they leave home?

This woman and her husband Faisal have seven children. There had been more shooting in their home city of Hasici, but when two school children were killed by stray gunfire, the couple decided to leave. They will go home when Bashar Assad is dead.

Abdullah is a young man from Dargecit. He used to be a university student in Damascus, but the school closed. He has no job, but even if he had money he would have no food because almost all the shops are closed in his home city. He is also afraid the army will draft him and he does not want to fight his own people. He too will return when the civil war is over. Some few swim against the tide and return to Syria.

During the time we counted ninety four people coming into Kurdistan, we also counted twelve going the other way. One family of five was going back temporarily. The wife’s father had died and they wanted to get back for the funeral, but then they would return to Kurdistan. They didn’t want their picture taken either. But the other five were young men. They were restless and bored and could not find work in Dohuk. When we were held up at the checkpoint waiting for the general’s clearance, I’d seen about ten young men on the way back. There is some suspicion that young men may have been trained in secret by the pesh merga and were returning to Syria to fight the Assad regime, but that is all it is now – a suspicion.

And still they keep on coming. The last United Nations report on the situation indicated there were over 346,000 refugees from Syria – and that doesn’t count those who are internally displaced. The misery and the pain continues.

Time for Reflection

I’ve been here a week now. A week that overwhelms. A week that sears the heart. A week that begs to be thought about and prayed about and done something about.

Around me is misery. Like this discarded sandal, the misery was made in Syria by a madman who wants to cling to power at all costs.

(Readers - be sure to click on the photos so you can see a larger version of the picture.)

Ramadan is the young man I found here who has become my guide and interpreter. The Blackstar Group has also put him to work teaching families how to use the water filters. At the age of sixteen, he has leadership qualities and a work ethic that belie his tender age. He (like most people here) is a nominal Muslim. He believes, yet he is no fanatic. In a recent conversation, he explained that the maseha (Christians) were not so different from the Muslims. There is only one God, but there are many people – some bad (or very bad such as Bashar Assad), some good. He knows I am Christian and he said my being here must mean that Christians have a good heart.

“Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.” St. Francis of Assisi.

The human suffering around me is immense. I watch new arrivals come into the camp with apprehension on their faces. They don’t know what lies ahead – they just know they left death and destruction behind. This man’s luggage is nice – it probably means he was once comfortably middle-class, but now he will live in a tent. His neighbor may be an illiterate laborer – a man who would not have been his neighbor back in Syria. Here in the camp, all are now poor. What holds them together is that they are all poor, all want to go home, all are Kurdish and all rely on the friendship of others.

But it would seem it doesn’t take long for the human spirit to soar again. This lady doesn’t complain about the film left on her goblets by the malfunctioning dishwasher – she now is content to wash her dishes in a plastic tub – and she smiles.

She smiles.

As I sat down on the ground to talk to the head of a family (and refusing the immediate offer of tea), he was all smiles. His wife beamed at me and I watched their little boy eating some sort of mushy soup with relish. The child was obviously just one of many in family. I got down to his level to take the picture and as one of the nearby men helped me to my feet, I noticed the boy’s right leg seemed to be at an awkward angle. The father explained in fractured English that his son has a birth defect in the leg, preventing him from walking properly. The family is displaced, their son is a semi-invalid and they eat sitting on bare earth.

And they smile.

And I am humbled.

It’s Called Home

Newarrivals are a constant occurrence at the Domiz Refugee Camp.  Tired, frightened and totally unsure what to expect when they arrive at the camp, they straggle in with their meager possessions and tired children.  The dirt from her travels still caked on her face, this mother, along with her three children and husband, braved the dangers of the trip not for freedom, but for safety. Her husband lost his father, a brother and an uncle in the fighting, and he decided his family’s safety was more important than protecting their home.

(As always, please click on each photo to see it full size.)

Within sight of the border, a small Syrian village is the focal point of the exodus.  Evacuees stay there one night while they find a guide to assist them.  The guides are smugglers – Syrians who bring cigarettes into Syria, then extort payment from the evacuees to guide them through mountain paths as a way of avoiding marauding bands of Syrian militia.  The going rate is 25,000 Syrian pounds (about $355).

For some, the crossing was harder than for others.  Though the back of the wheelchair is broken, his children and grandchildren willingly carried and dragged him across the border.  His left arm totally immobile and his legs useless, he is still the patriarch of the family and gets his due respect.

Once residents of comfortable apartments or houses, most of the refugees are city dwellers used to running water, flush toilets, televisions and kitchens.  Their new home is a tent of dubious size.  Now they lay their head down to sleep while listening to the squalling of a neighbor’s child, smelling the odor of the community toilet only meters away and trying to figure out how to cook something tasty from the rations of rice, beans and other simple commodities.

And some of them have been doing this for six months – half a year of ducking their head to get into their home, of leaving their mud-caked shoes outside and trying to cope with constant bouts of diarrhea caused by the unsanitary conditions.  This is home now, not the comfortable place back in Syria.

Yet, for all the hardship, the Kurdish people smile.  The women struggle to make the tent a home.  The men try to protect their families by working in the community.  There is no shortage of volunteers to help distribute the new water filters and train the people in using them.  These are a hardy people.

Hardy though they may be, the fact of living in a tent city takes a lot of adjustment.  Most Kurds are Muslim, with widely varying ways of practicing their faith.  Some are very traditional and others very modern.  This woman needed to see how to operate and clean her new water filter, but she was not used to being seen by males other than her husband, father or her own children.  With great unease, she peered out of the tent flap to see, yet nervous about the strange men teaching her.

Nearby is a pregnant woman who is not quite as traditional in her dress, but insists on her face being covered as she does her chores.  After washing dishes, she scoops the remaining grey water out of the drainage trench at the front flap of her tent, and then empties it into an area between the tents.  Though not a sanitation problem, it does keep the area muddy.

Home is where children play.  With an average family of seven, there are lots of kids in the camp.  Their imaginations find ways to play, even if it is nothing more than tying a string to an old plastic bag and running up and down the street making it “fly.”  They laugh, scream, cry and run to mother just like kids anywhere.
 
In all cultures, it is women who do the food shopping.  But there is no “shopping” in the camp.  You go to the headquarters building to find your name on the lists.  That’s where you’ll find out when and where to go to get sugar or cooking oil or rice or other basic commodity.  This isn’t done daily, but rather according to the schedule of the camp authorities.  You go get your rice when you are told to get your rice.  You don’t examine the bag of beans – you take the bag given you.  There is no shopping in this home.
 
Laundry too is women’s work.  You find or buy a plastic tub, get some water and soap and scrub, then go find a handy place to hang your clothes to dry.  If a fence topped with barbed wire is nearby, that makes a handy place.  No dryers in your home now.
 
The new home has no flush toilets.  The portable toilets are community “squatty potties”, one per four families, and they require you to bring your own water to flush.  The diarrhea that ravages many areas of the camp is evident in this photo.  It is hard to keep your home sanitary under these conditions.
 
There are about 30,000 people in the camp at this writing, but rumor has it Turkey has just closed its border to all new refugees and they will therefore come to Iraq.  The United Nations forecasts this camp will grow to 42,000 within another month or so.

Both the United Nations and the Kurdistan Regional Government expect those numbers to stay high.  In the newer parts of the camp, more permanent structures are going up.  Though hardly luxurious and only slightly larger than the tents, the cinder block structures have indoor plumbing with septic tanks, a shower in each home and lockable storage space.  As time goes on, the Domiz camp will change from a refugee camp into a settlement camp – a place where home really is the camp.
 
Like people anywhere, the Kurds of the Domiz Camp want to make their home a better place, but it’s going to be hard.

The Teacher, Negotiator and Good Samaritan

(Sorry for not posting last night.  The Internet was a bit iffy.)

After slopping around the mud teaching refugees how to use the water filters he’d brought to Kurdistan, Steve Chung wears the same mud-spattered black shirt to a meeting with the Dohuk state governor’s senior advisor.  He’s too busy to worry about appearances.  He will tell anyone who will sit still for more than five minutes why he came to Kurdistan, even if he wears a muddy shirt.

He’s here because he loves the Kurds and wants to help them in this period of crisis with the civil war in Syria.  Tens of thousands of Kurds (like many Arabs) have been forced from their Syrian homes to flee across borders into refugee camps.  Most have had friends or family members killed in the fighting.  Many have lost their homes.  All have lost whatever wealth they once had and now suffer the indignity of living a life of poverty in a tent.  People who once took pride in their work, families and lives are now dependent on others for survival.

Chung comes by his love of the Kurds naturally.  He served as a U. S. Army officer during Operation Desert Storm in 1991and volunteered to serve in the northern part of Iraq after the war ended.   Though there are Kurds in Iran, Jordan, Syria and Turkey, most live in northern Iraq.  The Kurds are the largest ethnic group in the world without a home land of their own, and they had been brutally treated by Saddam Hussein’s regime.  Over eight thousand Kurds were killed by poison gas by Hussein, but he murdered many more.  After Desert Storm, the American military conducted Operation Provide Comfort, protecting the Kurds from more slaughter at the hands of Hussein.  Chung’s service saw shadowy combat as he worked closely with the people.  Something else good happened when he met his future wife Christine, a French nurse serving at a Kurdish hospital during some of the worst fighting.

Twenty years later, coupling his military experience with his participation in United Nations refugee operations, Chung, Michael Perlongo and Gary Kintingh co-founded Blackstar Group USA , a small business based in Mission, Texas, that provides disaster relief training to governments and law enforcement.  When Chung heard about the Syrian refugee camp for Kurds, Chung looked at his check book and decided he was going to help, even if it meant paying for everything himself.

After a quick assessment trip to Iraqi Kurdistan last month, he returned home to negotiate with a water filter manufacturer and succeeded in not only halving the cost but having the same company pay eight thousand dollars to ship the filters to Kurdistan.  Kudos to Sawyer Filters. 

At the Domiz Camp, he alternated between talking to the refugees and talking with United Nations and Kurdish government leaders.  Bureaucracies had to be mollified, petty differences overcome and many “grip and grin” meetings held before he could unpack the four thousand filters and start training the refugees.
But unpack them he did, and immediately got them to the camp to begin training refugee volunteers how to assemble, use and maintain the filters.  Part of Chung’s plan to use camp residents rather than paid staff was to give the refugees a sense of pride in their camp community and be active citizens again.
 

Steve trained the trainers.  He monitored their teaching and is making sure all families have a filter.  “If the volunteers do their job well, in about ten days, we won’t have any more kids with diarrhea or have the risk of a cholera pandemic” said the tired but happy Chung.  That’s good news because of the first nine families who were trained to use the filter, eighteen of the thirty five people had diarrhea.

But his day is not done.  Back in his room, he has little time for sleep as he calls back to America to arrange for some other items to be sent to Kurdistan, then call more people for more meetings.  Chung’s adrenaline addiction will show in the morning when he greets others with his enthusiasm and genuine love of the Kurdish people.

The Mud Camp

It rained overnight and showers played with bouts of sunshine most of the day.  The occasional muddy spot was replaced by omnipresent mud.  Sticky mud.  Gooey mud.  Cement-like mud.  Few of the refugees have boots as I do, wearing sandals or flip-flops instead.  They had to figure out some way of getting the mud off their feet before entering their tents.  It’s not much, but the tent is home and nobody wanted to foul their nest.

(Be sure to click on each photo to see a larger version.)
 
But the day brought a new surprise – I seem to have acquired my own guide and translator.  The young man’s name is Ramadan, the same word used for the Muslim month-long time of fasting.  With quite decent English skills, he also became helpful in finding stories and suggesting different ways for me to do things.  Notice the camera on his shoulder.  I asked him to hold it for me while I wiggled around to get some tight shots in a shelter.  It was a bit brave (or foolish) of me as I didn’t know if he would run off with such a valuable item, but he has proved quite trustworthy.  He is drinking clean water that had just been filtered as part of a demonstration to a family.

The camp has one section for young single men.  There is no matching area for single women because females live with their families until married.  The men are free to go elsewhere in the camp, but no one else is allowed into their area.  As expected, the section fairly vibrates with testosterone, which is probably why these two young boys come in to sell cigarettes.  We Americans might be prone to cluck our tongues and tell them how bad cigarette smoking is for their health, yet I would be inclined to look around the camp, shrug my shoulders and ask rhetorically “And this is what?”
 
With the average family in the camp having seven members, there are a lot of children.  A Japanese NGO is setting up a school, and we saw a very few kids with backpacks for books, the school is not really operational yet.  Kids are everywhere, and they are usually being kids, which means chasing each other and yelling.  For all their masculine ruggedness, Kurdish men are very comfortable with their small children.  If I see a male nearby, I always glance at the child and then at Dad, silently asking permission to photograph the child.  I get approval, usually with a smile showing pride that their child would be selected.

As I interviewed more refugees, I noticed many of them were very willing to tell me their story, but they did not want their picture taken.  They fear photos will get back to Syria where the police will see it and harm or kill family members still back home.  One young man told me he had deserted from the Syrian army while a father of four said he had worked for the government at one time.  Both wanted their story told, but politely refused my request for a photo.

Some have reached the age where they don’t care.  This old man took a bus from his hometown to another town near the border, then walked the last ten kilometers (6.2 miles), carrying only the clothes on his back and his cane.  He is one of the very few who said he would stay in Iraqi Kurdistan when the current Syrian government falls.
 

The work of distributing the filters to families has begun.  Yes, the water in the camp has been purified, but after the water truck hoses have been dragged through the mud and the family supply contaminated by fecal matter coming from nearby latrines, the water is causing outbreaks of diarrhea, which can be very dangerous to children.  Each head of household must be taught how to use the filters and keep them clean.  Notice this man’s uniform indicating he is a member of the Kurdistan army.  Remember – there is no such country but rather it is an autonomous region of Iraq, but there is a military force of the region. 
 
Night falls at 5:30, and life moves indoors.  There are a few “street lights” in the sprawling camp, but not enough light to allow people to negotiate the mud.  A small child peers out into the darkness, and life goes on in the Domiz Camp.
 

First Look – the Refugee Camp at Domiz

The area around the city of Dohuk, Iraq, is bleak – a windswept desert bounded by brown hills.  The short drive north of the metro area brings you to the refugee camp of Domiz.  Housing about 30,000 people who have escaped the civil war in Syria, they came to this camp because it is in Iraqi Kurdistan and most of these refugees are ethnic Kurds.  Domiz is only about twenty five miles from the border.

(Be sure to click on each photo - you will see a larger version that way.)

The Syrian civil war has been raging for over a year and a half.  Many people have lost homes, family members or both.  Some of the refugees are poor, others wealthy, but the bell curve shows most are middle class.

Or were middle class.

They once lived in comfortable city apartments or in their own homes.  Most owned a car and sent their children to a nice school.  Now they find themselves living in a sea of tents, trying to figure out how to be tent dwellers and adjust to a life of forced poverty.

The United Nations High Commission on Refugees (UNHCR) runs this camp, just as it does other camps in Iraq, Jordan and Turkey.  Because Iraqi Kurdistan is an autonomous zone that sets its own laws, has a different currency from the Baghdad government and even has its own foreign minister, it has its own Director of Displaced Management.  Both agencies are assisted by numerous charitable agencies in providing the services necessary to run the camp.

Not all services are provided, not so much due to misgovernment as the shear explosive growth of the camp.  Drainage is not always the best, and a short rain turns the “roads” into quagmires.  Though a father and his family have been in the camp for six months, he is upset about the mud in the street.  Mixed in with the mud is old dishwater, urine and leaks from overflowing latrines.

Family size averages seven members in the camp, meaning there are lots of children.  Most of them seem to have adapted, despite their being no school, but some appear to need some counseling and reassurance.

  I’ll have more looks at different facets of camp life in the next few days.

On to Dohuk

If first impressions have any value, may I say I am impressed with Iraqi Kurdistan.  I landed safe and sound in Erbil (or, Arbill, as it is sometimes rendered), the capital of the Kurdish autonomous region, marveling at the spikes in the city's skyline.  The airport is spanking new and the road infrastructure is either very good or is being built.  Things are happening in Iraqi Kurdistan.

My friend Steve was waiting for me as I got off the airplane and got my journalist visa, and then we were whisked off on a three hour taxi ride to the city of Dohuk.  A check in at a decent hotel (nothing fancy) then a casual dinner of a gyro-like sandwich and tomato soup.  The city of 300,000 was busy and safe.

After a lingering kiss and a blessing from Cindy at the McAllen airport, I was off to Iraqi Kurdistan.  The legs to Dallas-Ft. Worth and Frankfurt were the usual boring rides.  The ten hours to Frankfurt was almost like going to Japan, except I was going across a different ocean.  I didn’t have a lot of time to get to my Lufthansa flight to Erbil, but made it with minimum sweat.

I noticed there very few women on the flight to Erbil –most of the passengers were western young men.  They all had the ability to throw a switch and go right to sleep.  I nodded for most of the four hour ride.
Tomorrow will be a day of preparation and orientation.  Friday is a Muslim holiday so there will be few people to work with. 

Good day for me to sleep in and get over the jet lag.

Off to Kurdistan

When Cindy and I first went to Việt Nam, we asked ourselves "Are we really doing this?"

I have the same feeling now - am I really going to Iraqi Kurdistan?

The answer is yes, of course.  I am out the door in two hours for a flight to Dallas, then Frankfurt, Germany, then on to Erbil, the capital of the Kurdish autonomous region of Iraq. 

Why, you ask?

Because I have a sainted wife who knows I am an adrenaline junkie.  When she passed by the conversation I was having with a man on his way back to Kurdistan to work in the refugee camps near the Syrian border, she just rolled her eyes.

The Blackstar Group is a small company based in deep south Texas.  Besides offering training to government agencies in coping with disasters, they also respond to crises themselves.  Two of their number have already been in the big Domiz refugee camp near the city of Dohuk, helping set up safe water systems.  At last count, the camp is approaching 30,000 refugees, mostly working and middle class people who are used to living in comfortable apartments and houses.  It is my hope to successfully capture their situation in word and photos as well as show how ordinary Americans work on global situations.  Hopefully, my work will appear in some news outlets.

Cameras are packed, I have long johns in my luggage and the passport is in hand.  I'll be back home the evening before Thanksgiving.  I am told I will have limited Internet access in Dohuk (none in the camps), so I hope you will join me on this adventure.