A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea

by Melissa Fleming

  Nervously they waited to board. Doaa shifted from foot to foot in the long line to get through customs. Hamudi clutched his mother’s arm, while Saja and Nawara sat on their suitcases, standing only to shuffle forward whenever the line moved. It felt as if every part of the journey were about waiting. Jordanian customs officials seemed to be singling out Syrians for security searches, and Doaa’s family was asked to come forward with their luggage, while a group of Egyptian travelers were waved through. Doaa lifted her suitcase onto the table in front of the customs officers. When they unzipped her luggage, she looked at what she had hastily selected in the overwhelmingly emotional last hours at home: two dresses, a couple of pairs of pants, two blazers, a few skirts, several veils, and a few accessories. She stared at the meager contents of her suitcase and thought of the books she had left behind because they were too heavy—one about dream interpretation, a few novels, poetry by Nizar Qabbani, and a workbook on English grammar. She pictured her small teddy bear that lit up and made a kissing sound when she squeezed it, and her fashion sketches of the clothes she dreamed of wearing in a future she no longer had.

  She suddenly looked away from the open suitcase, blinking to keep herself from crying. She mourned silently to herself, I left my life back in Syria! Not wanting to burden her family with more of her sorrow, she remembered that her treasured belongings were now being stored at her grandfather’s house. She hoped that their presence there might protect her hometown and keep it safe for her while she was gone. If she left a part of herself in Daraa, surely she would someday return, she thought hopefully.

  The ferry was delayed four hours by bad weather. Doaa sat waiting for the weather to change and dreading the next five-hour leg of her journey, which would take them across the Gulf of Aqaba. She had never overcome her fear of water and had never been on a boat. The waves were high, and they slapped against the sides of the vessel, making it rock back and forth at the dock. Though the ferry’s large size and stable appearance gave her some reassurance that they would have a safe journey, she was still frightened. Every time a wave pushed the ferry against the wooden dock, Doaa jumped a little at the harsh scraping sound it made. She had to call on all of her stubbornness and courage to force herself to step aboard the ship once the time came.

  As her mother and Hamudi settled with all their bags on the lower level, Doaa and her sisters rushed to the top deck for the fresh air. But while Saja and Nawara moved to the side of the boat to look at the sea, Doaa stayed as far from the edge as possible. For the first hour of the trip, her sisters leaned excitedly over the railing taking in the view, while Doaa sat unmoving at the center of the deck, gripping the sides of the bench she sat on for balance as the shores of Jordan faded from sight. When her fingers cramped, she shifted her weight, but didn’t dare let go.

  Saja turned back to look for Doaa. When she saw her face, she grew concerned. “Doaa, your face is sheer white!”

  “It’s just that I can’t see the land anymore,” she explained, looking toward the shore she could no longer see, trying to be brave. Even though she couldn’t swim, the sight of land calmed her as she thought that she could make her way back to shore somehow if need be. As they drifted farther out to sea, Doaa finally admitted to her sisters, “I’m scared.” She asked them to help her down to join their mother and Hamudi on the lower deck. Saja and Nawara obliged and the family clustered together down below, sharing a small picnic.

  Finally, they reached the port of Nuweiba on the Sinai Peninsula. When the Al Zamels stepped off the ferry into Egypt, Doaa was so exhausted that she felt as if she could sleep for a week. Smiling officials greeted them as they checked their passports without much scrutiny, stamped the documents, and explained that they had an automatic six-month residency, which could be renewed. Mohamed Morsi was president at the time, and his government had an open-door policy for all refugees arriving from Syria.

  The family waited in the immigration line, watching as other passengers had their luggage weighed, and noticed that many of them were getting charged for excess baggage. Shokri looked uneasily at his own family’s luggage, worried that they would have to pay a fee, too, considering all they had brought with them. Doaa noticed the concern on his face and wished she had some way to comfort him. She knew they didn’t have enough money to pay any fees. The family hesitantly approached the customs agents.

  “We are Syrians seeking safety in Egypt,” Shokri told them. “This is all we have left.” Hanaa stepped up beside him, as Doaa and her siblings watched from behind for the customs officials’ reaction. Doaa held her breath, waiting for another insult from an apathetic official.

  To her surprise, the official manning the customs scale smiled at them and told them they wouldn’t have to pay anything, even though their bags exceeded the allowed weight. “You are coming from war and suffering,” he told them. “Syria and Egypt are bound together like family.” Another customs worker came and helped them carry their luggage to the bus bound for Cairo and wished them luck, while a family who were standing at the shore watching people file onto the bus called out in their direction, “Welcome, beautiful Syrian people!”

  Saja whispered that she felt like a queen. For the first time in months, Doaa felt both safe and welcome. They had heard that Egypt would happily take them in as refugees, and here, finally, was the proof. Yet despite the warm greetings, Doaa was still anxious about having to start over again, this time in a strange new country. Her instincts told her that tough times were ahead. She looked around the bus, taking in her new surroundings, and stopped when she noticed the look on her brother’s face. For the first time in a long time, little Hamudi was smiling.

  * * *

  It took ten hours by bus on a bumpy desert road to reach Cairo. From there, they had to travel another five hours to the northern city of Damietta on the Mediterranean coast, where Doaa’s brother-in-law Islam had found a home for them in the district of Gamasa. Islam’s friend Abou Amad had arrived as a refugee a year before them, and they took a taxi from Cairo to his home. After offering them a simple meal, Abou led them to an apartment nearby that he had arranged for them to stay in. The flat, on the ground floor of a multistory building, had two bedrooms and a living room with shabby furniture, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Islam had paid the rent for them for one month up front. With only 300 LE (Egyptian pounds), the equivalent of $40, left in his pocket after paying for the family’s passage to Cairo, Shokri was already worrying about how they would come up with the next month’s rent.

  The apartment was filthy, but Doaa and her family slept that night without bothering to clean or unpack; they were exhausted from their journey and not yet ready to face their new environment.

  Doaa tossed and turned that first night. She was particular about cleanliness and kept imagining the dust on the floor rolling toward her in her sleep. The next morning, the family went out shopping at a local market looking for breakfast and some cleaning products. When they returned home, they all pitched in to sweep and scrub the apartment. It felt good to keep busy and have something to take their minds off their unease in their new surroundings. Doaa threw herself into cleaning, doing what she could to take control of her new situation.

  In the afternoon, neighbors started stopping by the apartment with arms full of store-bought and homemade things to eat: salty Domiati cheese, fried chicken, steamed rice, trays of baklava, and baskets filled with fresh fruit. They were refugees as well from Damascus, Homs, and even some from Daraa. The Al Zamels quickly made friends with their neighbors, bonding over stories of the thrill of the revolution and the terror of war that had driven them from their country to Egypt. The atmosphere these people brought to the living room was festive and welcoming. Doaa found herself laughing and smiling with her new neighbors, relieved to be among her own people.

  Doaa’s family was part of the first wave of Syrians to flee to Egypt since the conflict began in 2011, most of whom came to join Syrian friends and family who were working there. Others ha
d business connections or other personal networks that could offer them shelter. To get by, most refugees relied on personal savings, found odd jobs, or opened businesses, and many were able to become self-reliant. That was the hope of Doaa’s parents, too, but soon after they arrived, a bigger influx of refugees brought more competition for work, making it harder to make ends meet. During the first half of 2013, the number of Syrian refugees rose dramatically. One year after the Al Zamels arrived in Egypt, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) registered 125,499 Syrian refugees in the country, and according to the Egyptian government, that figure was actually closer to 300,000 if all unregistered Syrians were taken into account.

  The supportive communities that formed among the refugees helped them get through the transition and helped ease Doaa’s loneliness, although she missed home desperately. What if the move wasn’t temporary? she often worried. What if she had to stay forever in this strange place? How would she ever adjust? She hated change.

  The streets of their new neighborhood were filthy and smelled of decaying garbage. Stray dogs and cats ate from piled-up rubbish in the streets, and flies buzzed around the trash that seemed to be everywhere. Where were the streetlamps and the trash bins? Doaa would wonder as she wandered around town. The people of Daraa had prided themselves on the cleanliness of their city, and Doaa was shocked by the neglect in her new neighborhood. Gamasa did, however, have a lovely coastline and beach, and she was told that in the summer the city transformed into a resort for the working class. Looking around at the trash-filled streets, Doaa had a hard time believing it.

  Feeling disconnected and homesick, Doaa spent a lot of time worrying about her family’s future. She knew her father was running out of money fast. With her three older sisters, Alaa, Ayat, and Asma, married and in Abu Dhabi, Lebanon, and Syria, Doaa was now the eldest child in the family. This role carried responsibilities that she had no idea how to fulfill as she felt so helpless.

  She knew that she and her family were now safe in Egypt and tried to convince herself that they were better off here. She tried to focus on the new sense of safety and normalcy and reveled in hearing everyday city-street sounds instead of shelling and bombs. But despite all this, Doaa had trouble ignoring the numbness that overcame her. At least in Daraa, she had a purpose. She was a recognized member of a supportive community that was standing up for values that were under attack. Here, she felt like a tolerated guest living off sympathy: a refugee and one of a growing group of helpless people. Even worse, she sometimes felt that she had abandoned her country, even though she knew that staying in Syria might have killed her. But who was she without her community? What meaningful contribution could she make here while her country was destroying itself? Doaa tried to not reveal her gloom to her family. She would often remind herself, Be patient, this is a new challenge. Your family needs you to be strong for them. There is nothing more important to you than their well-being.

  One month after their arrival, the family’s funds ran out, and the depression that had gripped Shokri after his shop was destroyed worsened. His cholesterol and blood pressure rose and he would spend hours sitting on a cushion in the common room, smoking or drinking sweetened tea, without moving or talking. Doaa felt that her father was slipping away from her. She knew that he thought that he’d failed his family, and he was too proud to talk about it. Her parents never complained or argued in front of them, but Doaa could clearly see how the pressures of their new life were affecting them, especially when it became clear that they might have to stay in Egypt even longer than they had anticipated. As they watched the news showing more clashes and bombings back home, Hanaa would say, “Thank goodness we left.” Shokri, however, would insist that it wouldn’t be long until they could return, reminding them of the period of transitions that occurred in Tunisia after the uprising, and in Egypt after the Muslim Brotherhood took control. As much as Doaa wanted to believe her father, she knew that it was his despair talking; everything she saw on the news made it clear they wouldn’t be able to go home anytime soon.

  Back in February 2011 a popular protest took place in Egypt ousting its autocratic president, Hosni Mubarak. Over time the Muslim Brotherhood gained popularity in the country and rose to power. The secular and non-Muslim populations of Egypt were deeply uncomfortable with this development, and in June 2012, a few months before Doaa and her family arrived in Damietta, the Muslim Brotherhood chairman, Mohamed Morsi, won the presidency with 51 percent of the vote in Egypt’s first democratic election. Morsi promised to lead a government that would be “for all Egyptians,” but his critics soon accused him of awarding key government positions to Islamists and criticized him for not introducing the economic and social reforms that he had promised during his campaign.

  When Doaa’s family first arrived in Egypt, they were mostly unaware of the public opposition that had begun to build against the Brotherhood and President Morsi within months of his taking office. The family were more preoccupied with the news from their own home country. To the Al Zamels, the Muslim Brotherhood’s government was the one that had given them refuge and offered them much-needed help during a time of crisis. They also knew that Morsi was a vocal supporter of the Syrian opposition in its rebellion against President Assad. Up until then, the Al Zamels had had mainly positive interactions with the Egyptian government.

  Officials from the local branch of the Muslim Brotherhood government made regular rounds to the buildings housing Syrian refugees to check in with them. After enduring the anxiety-inducing raids back in Syria, the first time Doaa’s family heard knocking at their door, they all froze in fear, suspicious of any unexpected visitors. Doaa stood by her father, ready to offer her support, as he opened the door. Instead of aggressive soldiers with guns, they found two smiling men standing in the doorway, one holding a plastic bag, the other with an armful of warm blankets.

  “You are welcome here. You are our brothers,” they said, offering Shokri their goods. Doaa peered over her father’s shoulder and discovered that the bag they held was filled with pasta, sugar, rice, and other staples. The man with the plastic bag handed it to Shokri, while the man with the blankets bent down to set them on the floor just inside the doorway. Shocked, Shokri stammered out his thanks.

  While handouts like these were helpful, the family still had no money for rent. After two weeks, Shokri began to ask around for a cheaper place to live. To his astonishment, he heard of an Egyptian hotel owner who wanted to help Syrian refugees by offering free accommodation for the winter season while his hotel was empty. From May until October, the Gamasa neighborhood of Damietta was filled with working-class Egyptians who flocked to the beaches and cheap hotels along its Mediterranean shore for a summer vacation, but during the winter, the area was deserted.

  Doaa and her family couldn’t believe that someone would be offering a free place to stay, so Shokri went to check out the place. When he returned, he was optimistic. So the Al Zamels once again packed up their belongings and took a cheap three-wheeled tuk-tuk to Hotel Amira. It was on a dirt road, in sight of one of the biggest mosques in Gamasa. The blue and white paint was chipping off the picket fence, which had collapsed in places as if a car had driven into it. Khalid, the hotel manager, together with his wife and children, rushed out to greet them, inviting them to explore the grounds and to choose a family suite. They were the first Syrian-refugee guests in the hotel, so they could have their pick of the rooms.

  Inside the hotel was more chipped paint, and the single beds creaked from wear and age. Meanwhile the appliances in the small kitchen and bathroom were cracked and rusty, but the rooms did have wide balconies that overlooked the hotel garden, where they could see green grass, a huge palm tree, sculpted bushes, and welcoming benches. The hotel was a haven of humanity to them, and they were deeply grateful. They chose a suite with two adjoining bedrooms, and Khalid handed over the keys.

  The hotel owner, Fadlon, would stop by now and then, offering the family his sympathy and res
pect. Whenever the Al Zamels expressed their gratitude for his generosity, he always claimed that he was happy to help them, and every time he spotted nine-year-old Hamudi on his own, he would slip some bills into his hand, knowing that Shokri and Hanaa would be too proud to accept his cash. Word of Fadlon’s generosity spread around town, and soon the hotel filled up with Syrian refugee families. In the afternoons, refugee guests gathered around a long wooden picnic table in the garden, exchanging stories about life before the war and the pain and suffering that followed. Locals and religious groups who sympathized with the Syrians dropped clothing and blankets off by the hotel. Time and time again, the people of Egypt made them feel welcome.

  One evening after the Al Zamels had lived there for one month, Khalid invited them to his home for a meal. He, his wife, and their four sons lived about an hour’s drive away in a small suburb called Kfar AlGhab. Khalid’s wife cooked them a dinner of soup, salad, and duck with rice. After the meal, Khalid took them on a tour of his neighborhood and introduced them to neighbors as his Syrian friends. Khalid became the Al Zamels’ first Egyptian friend, and for the first time since leaving Syria, Doaa felt a comforting sense of home.

  As winter came to an end the hotel began to fill up with guests, and Doaa and her family had to leave their haven. They searched for new accommodations, but this time they found no sympathetic building owner to help them. Landlords often price-gouged Syrian renters, taking advantage of their desperation.

  Shokri earned a little money from odd jobs, but not much. The family soon moved into a small apartment in a noisy area of Gamasa that was littered with trash and piled with dirt from the unpaved road. Doaa’s heart sank the first time she saw it. Noise assailed the family day and night as Egyptian vacationers stayed up late, playing music and talking loudly in the streets. Doaa often lay awake in bed, unable to sleep and yearning for the quiet nights of Daraa before the war.