Amira walked past row upon row of white tents, gripping her cellphone. It had been raining lightly for weeks, so she trod carefully around puddles. Staying clean and dry was difficult at Reyhanli Camp. With few places and opportunities to wash, most children ran around wearing mud-encrusted clothes. For Amira though, after having already lost so much, keeping her pride was essential—and for her, that meant staying presentable. Her parents would have never allowed her to run wild and dirty, nor would she allow her own children to do so, no matter the circumstances.
The damp, chilly air matched her mood. She got to the edge of the camp that was closest to Syria. Her Turkish SIM card usually worked for calls up to ten kilometres inside Syria, and she hoped to reach her parents who still lived in Azaz, just south of the Turkish border.
Amira dialled and waited. The call failed to go through. She made two more attempts. A man walked by smoking a cigarette, and the smell of tobacco revolted her. She turned her back to him as her nausea passed.
“Hello?”
“Mother, hello? Can you hear me? It’s Amira.” Relief spread through her like butter on toast. She rarely managed to connect with her parents and lived in constant fear that she’d lose contact with them completely. Reception today was poor so she slipped her phone underneath her black hijab and pressed it directly against her ear to see if that helped.
“Amira, Amira, are you well? I thank Allah every day you’re safe at the refugee camp, and I pray every day that He keeps you healthy,” her mother said.
“Yes, we are safe now far away from the bombs. The Turks are taking good care of my family and there are humanitarian aid agencies here, too.”
“What a relief. I am so glad.”
Encouraged, Amira didn’t stop exaggerating the positives for her mother’s benefit. “And Ahmed goes to a school funded by Canadians. He’s doing so well there, Mother. He’s learning to speak Turkish and English. You would be proud.” The words tumbled out of Amira’s mouth in a hurry. She had much to say and little time.
“He’s a clever boy. And Sami? Yasmine? How are they?”
Amira didn’t want to concern her mother with their news. Yasmine had days where she wheezed constantly and hardly got up from the mattress, and because Sami had started seeing patients in the camp as well as in nearby camps and villages, he was often absent. The tension his career caused still strained their marriage.
“They’re fine, too. Yasmine has started going to the nursery tent, where she likes to paint and play with putty. We are all trying to make a life here.” She originally thought they’d be at Reyhanli Camp temporarily, but it had already been two months and there was no talk of returning to Syria any time soon—if ever. Amira didn’t know what would become of them. She tried to keep her spirits up, but hopelessness loomed always, and lately she’d been turning away from Sami on their mattress and crying herself to sleep. Seeing patients again gave him satisfaction, but her sense of purpose was shaky. Without going to their mosque to pray with others, without an hour here or there on the sofa with a good book, without dressing up and rimming her eyes with kohl to celebrate Eid, without the ability to cook her family their regular foods, it felt like she was only just surviving, not living.
“Tell me about you, Mother. How are you managing?” Amira was nervous to ask. Many of Azaz’s residents had fled to Turkey when it came under siege by rebels. Amira had begged her parents many times to leave, but they repeatedly told her they were too old to start their lives over anywhere else. She knew they’d already lived through bombings and massacres, but yet they resolved to stay in Syria even if it meant they would die in this war. Their stubbornness frustrated Amira, but she was raised to be deferential and respectful so hid her feelings from them.
“Your father and I remain alive and uninjured. We are more fortunate than many.”
Amira wanted to lighten the mood. “Mother, you would laugh. There are Syrian businesses opening up in the nearby town of Reyhanli. There’s a new store called The Revolution Bakery selling Syrian-style bread. Some people even call that area Little Syria.” Amira and her mother knew this was both a positive and negative thing. Familiar services and products were a comfort but also made life here more permanent.
The phone kept cutting in and out and they knew they could lose connection at any second. Amira rubbed her free hand in circles over her belly. “Before you go, Mother, I have to ask you again. Please come join us. It’s safer here than in Azaz. We have our own family tent. It’s not grand, but it can fit two more—you and Father. Say you’ll come.”
Her mother replied without pause. “We will not, my darling daughter. Give our love to Sami and the children. Call back when you can. As-Salaam Alaikum.”
“Bye, Mother.” Though she didn’t know it at the time, it would be the last time Amira would speak to her mother in Syria.
Tears slid down Amira’s face and mixed with raindrops on her walk back to the tent. She composed herself before opening the door flap, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief. Inside, she found Ahmed sitting on pillows, carefully chopping parsley on a small cutting board. This was a good sign. It meant Sami had bartered medical care for fresh produce with a local farmer or one of the vendors who came to the camp. Amira thanked Ahmed for helping and gave him permission to go find Abdo to play soccer so she could take over. She liked having help but wasn’t ready to relinquish her role as homemaker and still wanted to be in charge. She began peeling a cucumber to add to the chopped parsley. A tomato and lettuce leaves were already washed and sitting on the cutting board. These simple vegetables were a bounty. It was a relief to once again be able to access fresh produce occasionally, and though it also shamed her to have more than her neighbours, who were likely eating rationed lentils and rice, she knew she needed the vitamins, particularly now.
“Did you reach your parents?” Sami asked from the mattress, where he was sitting with Yasmine.
“Yes, I spoke to Mother.”
“How is she?” Sami had his stethoscope pressed up to his daughter’s chest.
Amira, suddenly exhausted, sat on a pillow. “Her voice wavers. She tells me nothing about day-to-day life in Azaz. I know it’s dangerous.” In fact, she suspected her parents were housebound. She’d heard there were men fighting in the alleys of Azaz and soldiers shooting out of windows, but she didn’t want to voice these details in front of Yasmine.
Amira rose again to continue preparing their meal. It was a challenge in this makeshift kitchen to cook food so that it would all be hot at once, and tonight they may eat in stages. But they would be together and eating, Amira reminded herself. Not everyone was so lucky. She filled a pot with water so she could boil rice for kabsa.
“What are we having tonight, Mama?” Yasmine asked.
“Tabbouleh and kabsa.” Amira was pleased that her daughter had an appetite today. She wished that she was offering fried kibbeh, too, but such a special dish was just a memory from her former life.
She began mixing spices for the kabsa, measuring and pouring pepper, cloves, cardamom, saffron, cinnamon, and nutmeg into a bowl. As she stirred, the flavours wafted into the air. Suddenly Amira had to vomit. She ran from the tent but only got as far as a nearby ditch before her stomach contents blasted up into her throat and out of her mouth. When she finished, she looked around to see who’d witnessed it. Thankfully it was dinnertime and people were inside their tents preparing or eating their meals. She grabbed the tear-dampened handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her mouth, and returned to their tent, embarrassed but also feeling better.
Sami was smiling weakly as she entered. “Poor Amira. Night sickness is always worse than morning sickness. But this too will pass.” He lowered to his knees in front of her and began whispering to her stomach.
“What are you doing, Papa?” Yasmine asked, giggling.
“Telling your future baby brother or sister to be easy on your mother. She’s already dealing with enough.”