Letters from Cathy Breen
Oct 16th, 2007 by admin
Sent in by Melissa Jamison:
Amman, Jordan, October 10, 2007
Dear Friends,
Yesterday I returned from a trip to Damascus, Syria.
While I was there I had the opportunity, together with
a young Iraqi Moslem friend, to visit the ancient
Syrian monastery of St. Moses the Abyssinian. About
80 kilometers north of Damascus and 1320 meters above
sea level, the stark and barren landscape brought back
memories of Bolivia where, over a span of about ten
years, I periodically sought silence in a hermitage
hidden in the bowels of the Andean mountains. More…
Dating back to the middle of the sixth century, the
present monastic church was built in 1058 and the
astoundingly intact frescos in the church are from the
11th and 13th centuries. The monastery is engaged in
deepening inter-cultural and inter-religious
collaboration and of building positive
Christian-Islamic relationships.
On the morning after our arrival, my young friend and
I were sitting outside at one of the low tables with a
Syrian man breakfasting on bread, goat cheese, fried
eggs and tea. At one point in the conversation I
asked the young Syrian how he was personally affected
by the massive number of Iraqis who have come to his
country seeking refuge. While larger than
Jordan and
with, I believe, a population of about 17 million,
Syria is poorer in comparison.
“Do you see this cup?” he asked, taking one into his
hand and then slowly setting it down again on the
table. “Once we were three people sharing from this
cup. Then two more people joined us. Now we are five
people drinking from the cup.” His voice was sad,
with no trace of resentment or rancor. “What shall we
do?” he asked. “How can we turn people away?”
Until recently Syria has been the final refuge for
Iraqis escaping violence. Hosting more than 1 1/2
million Iraqis, which is likely a gross
underestimation, the country is no longer able to bear
the strain of thousands of Iraqis
trying to enter
daily. In recent days, Syria has reimposed rules
barring entry to Iraqi refugees. Visas are now
required of all Iraqis entering the country. As a
spokesperson from the UNHCR described it, this means
that Iraqis “lose their only remaining safe haven.”
What the new visa requirement will mean for Iraqis
already living in Syria remains to be seen. I could
sense their anxiousness however, as heretofore they
have been able to go every two or three months to the
Syrian border and return with a renewed visa. If this
is no longer possible, they fear their situation will
become like that of Iraqis in Jordan, the vast
majority living “outside of the law” with long
since
expired visas.
In Damascus I was graciously hosted by our dear
friends, Gabe and Theresa, who live in a densely
populated Palestinian neighborhood. I learned that
during the bombing of Lebanon last year, Syria’s
President Bashar Assad issued a plea to the Syrian
people to open their homes to Lebanese refugees.
School openings were also delayed as many Lebanese had
taken refuge in school buildings. Imagine we mused,
if President Bush were to do the same in our country
in the face of such human tragedy and need. Sadly, we
couldn’t possibly imagine that. To the
contrary.
Wanting to learn how Iraqis are faring in Syria in
comparison to Jordan, I was struck by the consistent
accounts I heard of the lack of discrimination Iraqis
feel in Damascus. The Iraqis I met did not evidence
the fear and apprehension of police pickup and
possible deportation, to the extent that some of those
I spoke with didn’t even carry their UNHCR document
identifying them as refugees when they were out and
about.
The school system runs a morning and afternoon
schedule to deal with the large number of students,
and the parents I spoke with find the standard of
education higher than that of Jordan. If the children
are in school, the family receives a year-long type
of
residency. Unlike primary and secondary education
which is free, university costs about $4,000 a year
and thus is not an option for the Iraqis I met.
My time in Syria could best be described as “bitter
sweet,” as I visited with numerous Iraqis who are
unable to reach their loved ones in Jordan.
The young Iraqi who acted as my companion and
translator for part of my sojourn is brother to one of
our friends in Jordan. His eyes filled with tears
when he spoke of his mother in Jordan. He has no hope
of seeing her anytime soon. Another family father
related how he was unable to travel to Jordan to bury
his father who died three months ago. I had brought
greetings from his sister whom we know in Jordan, and
took pictures of his four small children to show her
upon my return to Amman.
I was able to visit with a family who had lived Amman,
but were separated when the mother and youngest child
were refused reentry to Jordan this past spring. She
had gone to Baghdad as her father had suffered a heart
attack. The father and other three boys had no
recourse but to move to Syria in order to be reunited
with his wife and smallest son. It was a joy for me
to see them all together.
Time restrictions did not allow me to visit the UNHCR
or the U.S. embassy in Damascus, to see how they are
processing Iraqi refugees or handling cases of Iraqis
who served as translators or worked for the Coalition
forces in some capacity within Iraq. With the
exception of Holland, I couldn’t get a sense of how
many Iraqis are moving on to other countries. To my
great surprise, I had been able to speak over the
phone with someone from that embassy who agreed to
meet with me on the morning o f my return to Amman. I
learned that a month ago a special envoy from Holland
had come to Syria. They had taken 100 Iraqis
for
resettlement. I went with two Iraqi friends. The
mother of one was Danish. She lived her whole married
life in Baghdad with her Iraqi husband. The other has
a brother and relatives in Holland and his wife’s
siblings and parents are there as well. Is there any
hope for them? We were advised that they could apply
for a visa to visit their relatives, but it might be
problematic for them to return given Syria’s new visa
requirements. But they don’t want to return, I said.
They want to join their families in Holland. They
shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders. Such
decisions are met by the Ministry of Justice in
Holland. And, I thought, Holland has just agreed to
take 100 Iraqis for resettlement.
As in Jordan, people are without work and “in the
dark” with little or no idea of where in the system
their cases are. They are waiting for some miracle to
happen. And so we wait with them. Cathy
Breen
October 15, 2007
Amman, Jordan
Dear Friends,
Fall has come to the northeast of the U.S. from where I hail. Although it is still T- shirt weather here in
Amman, I imagine the leaves falling from the trees, a symbol of the passing of life, a forecast of the cold
grip of the coming winter months. It is a natural phenomenon. The landscape will become barren and
stark until spring arrives, if indeed spring comes again.
The other day Kathy Kelly forwarded one of David Smith-Ferri’s recent poems on to me. Kathy and
David will be embarking on a speaking tour in the states sometime soon. The poem entitled The Eyes
of These Two Children, became my reflection this morning.
Until I read David’s poem, I was only aware that two women had been killed in Baghdad earlier this
month when private security guards escorting a convoy of four vehicles opened fire on their car.
Contracted by the Australian-owned Unity Resources Group, this incident followed on the heels of a
controversial September 16th shooting involving a US security firm Blackwater in which 17 people
were killed.
How ironic, and shocking, to learn through a poem that there were two children in the back seat of
that vehicle, children who witnessed their mother, or mothers, being killed. Such an unnatural
phenomena, so horrible to imagine, must give us pause.
“If questions can lead us like a star or signpost” David asks, “if questions can steer us.draw us.
accompany usbecome a questlet this be one: ‘How can we be responsible to Iraqis ten thousand
miles away, caught in the teeth of war?’”
David describes the convoy of SUVs and armored security guards, this time as all-too-usual, “in its
deadliness, its taut and explicit threat, like unexploded ordinance. Come too close and I will maim
you.” He refers in the poem to an initial assessment made by the Security company’s corporate
officials: “Our security team was approached at speed by a vehicle which failed to stop
despite an escalation of warnings. Finally shots were fired at the vehicle and it stopped.”
I recall reading the same statement in the press here, and my shocked reaction at the use of the
word “it”. It stopped, the vehicle stopped. The vehicle died. The vehicle was killed. The loss
of precious human lives wasn’t noteworthy.
The statement, David writes, “failed to mention the two adult hearts that also stopped, or the heart
failure of guards who fled without securing medical aid for the injured. It also failed to account for
the two children in the back seat, their racing hearts failing, for the moment, to comprehend the
meaning of blood and brains and hair spattering the upholstery inside the car and their clothes, and
stuck to windows.”
The poem continues. “State Department spokesman Sean McCormack said the shooting had
nothing to do with the State Department or the U.S. government.” If my memory serves me correctly,
the Security company was guarding USAID officials.
“If a question can lead us,” David proposes, “try these:
What part of a child is amputated when her parent or relative is killed in front of her? When she wakes
up after surgery, where is the pain centered, where are the bandages laid, where does the wound ooze,
the scar form?”
A dear friend and mentor, Paul, wrote recently about an upcoming gathering of peacemakers in northern
New York. What suggestions, he asked, might I have to people in the states who want to offer “direct
aid” to Iraqis suffering the consequences of war?
Yesterday I met with a young Iraqi woman who had been kidnapped and abused in ways that defy
description. At one point I asked this sad young woman struggling with depression how we might help.
I knew for a fact that she is desperate to find work, any work, to support herself. “We don’t need
money, we need safety” was her answer to me.
I am aware, through the updates of Paul and other peacemakers in the states, of the tireless efforts
and persistent actions on the part so many to change our country’s war making mentality, to bring
an end to the killing. May the words of David Smith-Ferri serve to re-inspire and re-motivate the
downcast and discouraged among us. “Let us become the words that we embrace and walk,
voluminous into their offices, forbidding them to hide for another moment from the eyes of these two
children.”
Wishing you much strength and renewed resolve,
Cathy Breen