by Jean Sasson
This must not happen! I would never forgive you!
I know that you promised Father that you would no longer keep important secrets from him, but this is not your secret, Mother, it is my secret. Therefore you can relax your mind and know that you are not keeping any secrets that belong to you from Father.
I am trusting you and my brother to fight the urge to violate my trust in you.
Mother, I know by now your eyes are rapidly moving over the page to discover exactly where I am and what it is I am doing that must be kept secret. I am sorry to bring this unpleasant surprise to you, but I am not touring Pompeii in Italy as you believe.
I apologize for my elaborate ruse. I am truly remorseful that you wasted many hours gathering information from travel agents on Pompeii. I felt most contrite when you sent me endless messages on what I must do if I heard Mount Vesuvius rumble. Mother, I could not stop laughing when you told me to keep wet towels in a bag and to put those towels over my face and head and to look for a huge boulder to cower behind in case the volcano blew. I blushed when you insisted that you must travel with me so that you could be my lookout for any smoke that might billow from the mouth of the volcano.
You were correct when you told me that Mount Vesuvius is the only active volcano in the region and that it has a tendency to erupt. I am so sorry that you have been carrying this worry in your mind since the day I misled you with my story of touring southern Italy and Pompeii.
You really are the most wonderful mother in the world, and when you said that you must be with me on this trip, and that you would throw your body over mine to perish with me if the volcano erupted, for you would die anyway when you heard that your daughter had choked to death on the hydrothermal pyroclastic flows, I felt so guilt-ridden for your worry that I almost told you the truth.
Mother, I will not torture you a moment longer. Here is my secret: I have made the trip safely to Turkey. Today I am on the southern border of Turkey, near Syria. I am donating my time and my money to support the refugees most in need, those who have escaped the horror of the Islamic State (ISIS) fighters and other terrorist groups.
Before you scream and pull out your hair, know that I am not doing anything remotely foolish. Mother, I am here to follow your path in life, which is to relieve human pain and suffering wherever possible.
I am in Turkey for a simple reason. The Turkish people have very kindly opened their borders to poor Arabs and Kurds fleeing the radical Muslims who are trying to destroy all life in their path. If the Turkish people can open their hearts, minds, and purses to help these poor refugees who have been forced to flee their homes to escape the violence of war, every Arab should do the same. I am an Arab woman without children. I am an Arab woman with financial resources. I am an Arab woman with the freedom to help.
If I do not help, who then?
Now, please stop weeping. I am safe. I am not alone. I am traveling with two friends who previously volunteered to work in the refugee camps. They are well established and know the “ropes of volunteerism,” as they call it.
One of my friends, Rabia, is from Turkey. Only a few months previous to now, she worked in the first of the refugee camps formed in her country for the Syrian refugees. Rabia is the reason authorities at the camp accepted us easily. My second friend, Hilda, is from Germany, someone who carries the guilt of her Nazi grandfather, who was an SS officer who was captured by the Russian army while stationed in Hungary and was subsequently worked to death in the coal mines. She travels the world helping others, trying to repay the debt she feels she owes due to her grandfather’s activities.
I am so pleased that I chose to live in Europe, Mother. How else would a Saudi princess ever come to know and befriend such fascinating people from Turkey and Germany?
The important point is that, thanks to Rabia, Hilda and I both have the proper credentials as volunteers to enter the camp and to work with the psychologically war-scarred children. However, not all Syrian refugees live in the camps, some have chosen to live in small Turkish villages and towns hovering on the border with Syria. Therefore, I plan to expand my work to include some of these families, as they do not receive shelter, food, and education from the Turkish government.
So you see, Mother, while I am a novice, both friends are well versed in this kind of work. Hilda, whom I mention above, has volunteered for three years with a small human-rights organization to work with women and children in Gaza. Hilda says it was a nightmare to enter Gaza through the Israeli Erez military checkpoint. The nightmare did not come from the long hours of waiting but due to the actions and words of the Israeli guards who tried to intimidate her with suggestive remarks, telling Hilda that a pretty blonde girl should be worried about rape from the animals she was going to help. Hilda said that while she never once had fear of the men in Gaza, she was nervous about the Israeli soldiers who had a special hatred for Westerners who volunteered in Gaza or the West Bank, considering those who help the Arab children as personal enemies of Israel and Israelis.
This was a surprise for me. I have always believed that all Europeans and Israelis were the best of friends. This is not the case, Mother.
To her despair, Hilda was recently forced to discontinue her volunteer work in Gaza. She said that each time she left Gaza to visit her parents in Germany, Israeli authorities required her to endure long waiting periods for approval to renew her visa. After her fifth departure from Gaza, she never again received a visa to return, although the officials in Israel would never say a direct “no” but instead reported that no decision regarding her visa had been yet made. The long delays were their special way of keeping people out of Gaza, even those who were offering free assistance to innocent women and children.
You can be comforted that I am not in Gaza, Mother. Hilda says that volunteering in Gaza was the most dangerous work of her life, while volunteering in Turkey holds little danger. Turkey is safe. So long as one does not cross over into Syria, there is nothing to fear. And, Mother, a trip to Syria is one I would never make. I am not dimwitted, Mother. There are radicals nearby to the Turkish border who yearn to kidnap Western reporters, or attack Syrian refugees on their way in to Turkey, or back in to Syria. Can you imagine how excited they would be to capture an al-Saud princess? Never would I give those false followers of Islam an opportunity to cause you and Father one moment of anxiety, or to create a vexing problem for Uncle Salman.
So, put your troubled mind at ease. I will keep my distance from the Syrian border. You have my word.
Now, please remain calm as you read my letter.
There is much misery all around me, but I have concluded that I must use my time and resources to allay some of this misery. I am most eager to tell you how I am spending my days. To do this, I must describe the camp, the village, as well as the lives of the refugees, people who have had to “run for their lives.”
First of all, please know that I am financing this trip and paying all expenses. My friends have little money to spare, as both are so generous that they give away nearly everything they have to those who have nothing, so it is only fair that the one with the expendable income pay the expenses. It is the best money I have ever spent in my life.
You will be relieved to know that my friends and I are not living in the camp, nor are we living in a dangerous neighborhood. I have rented an acceptable apartment in a safe area in the village nearest to the camp. Knowing how you and father worry about my safety, I have hired three men as security officers, and they have signed documents agreeing to be discreet and as inconspicuous as possible. I have also rented a car and have two drivers on call. Like the security officers, they have agreed to be as inconspicuous as possible, as we must not stand out in the area. (No one other than my two close friends know that an al-Saud princess is a volunteer. I am using the special passport Father paid to have issued several years ago in the event our family had to flee revolution in Saudi Arabia and, as you know, the document does not identify me as a princess.) Many volunteers ming
le with the hired helpers in the camp; a large number live in the village, so it is not unusual to see men and women of other nationalities in the area.
I know you will want to know about my living arrangements, so I can reassure you that we are in a safe neighborhood. Where we are staying is not a luxurious villa but a modest and simply furnished apartment with three small bedrooms and two bathrooms. There is a common living area and kitchen. There is a balcony, which is fairly spacious, so it is pleasant to enjoy our early morning coffee there and plan our workday. Yes, Mother, early morning!
I know this will surprise you, as I have always been a late sleeper. But now I am so motivated by what I am doing that I awaken by seven each morning and, after a simple breakfast, the three of us are driven to the camp.
Oh, Mother, the camp! I would send photographs of the camp and of the people but since I am not an official photographer I do not want to create unease in the hearts of the refugees. I have witnessed how they become reluctant and even fearful when people insist on taking their photographs. I have been told that they are frightened that, if identified, their family members left behind in Syria will be targeted by the government or by other factions.
I will not cause them any unnecessary anguish by taking photographs.
Most of these people were once respected, hardworking middle-class people in Syria, but are now individuals without jobs, homes, or schools. While lucky to have survived the war in Syria, and the subsequent flight through violent factions of gangs who are fighting each another, their lives are now incredibly bleak, marked by the repetitiveness of life when there is absolutely nothing to do but to talk, eat, and sleep. These are people who once lived in good homes, enjoyed careers, and found joy in raising their children and visiting with their families and neighbors in a normal manner.
But such lives are now nothing more than hazy memories or even dreams. Their everyday lives today are like vivid nightmares that they must endure.
Mother, I will now describe for you the sights my eyes have seen, the odors my nose has smelled, and the sounds my ears have heard. I have a strong desire for my memories of the camp and of the refugees to become memories for others. Perhaps this will happen.
On that first day, when I was allowed entry and walked past the guarded entrance into the camp, I was pleased that there was no stench. In fact, the camp is kept as spotless as a camp can be that is inhabited by thousands of people. There was noise; my ears heard the clamor of a large city occupied with many large families. I heard the cries of babies, the shouts of children, and the sporadic chatter of adults. Because everyone is on foot, the camp lacks the sounds we generally hear from automobiles, buses, trains, or airplanes; this is a city with few motorized vehicles, although occasionally you will see the delivery trucks carrying stoves, refrigerators, and other heavy-duty goods.
My eyes saw endless white containers, the type of huge metal bins I have seen transporting goods on cargo ships. Thousands of these were placed in neat rows. Drying laundry was hanging on lines within a few steps of nearly every container. There were pathways between the containers. My imagination took me to the image of those pathways being a well-worn history of thousands of human feet going here and there.
I peered into a few of these—what I thought were empty—containers. Within, I saw neat stacks of blankets, clothing, and other supplies to one side, while there were inexpensive carpets on the floor, and small kitchenettes on the other. Although I did not actually inspect any of these container homes too closely, I feel certain there are toilets or some kind of similar facility in every container.
I was a little overwhelmed by everything I saw that first day. As I continued passing by these “homes,” it suddenly dawned on me that up ahead people were spilling out of them and, in the early morning light, I could see they were beginning to line up for their food rations for the day. Some were mothers, tugging at their hijabs with one hand and clutching their coupon books in another as they walked rapidly down the path. This, it turned out, was part of the women’s daily chore. There are just ten grocery outlets servicing all the families in the camp, and although I hear the food on offer is fairly bland it is plentiful. No one is going hungry. (All Arabs should thank the Turkish government for their generosity. No country has done more to help these people.)
I recall that some of the men had heard gossip that their families might be moved from the camp into a Turkish village (which is something all desire). I overheard their conversations with one another, searching to seek what truth lay behind the rumors; they were obviously concerned about the welfare of their families. Others, however, were hurriedly making their way to meet other men to play backgammon or other board games, a means of whittling away endless time in a camp where few have jobs. There were children of every age and size, so many that I thought of a disturbed beehive. The children captured my attention. I’ve become accustomed to joyful faces and spirited shouts from children at home, as they play and squabble, but this is not the situation for these camp children. Nearly every child’s face was aged far beyond his or her years. I’d never before seen a small child with an old face, and it touched me greatly.
The children break my heart, Mother.
Once we arrived at the container marked ADMINISTRATION, specifying the meeting place for volunteers to receive assignments, the appearance of those children had so pained me that I specifically pushed for permission to work with them.
The attention to detail by the people who are running this camp is impressive. Although I had previously submitted to a number of meetings and interviews, I was again questioned and even given two tests to ensure that I have a suitable disposition to relate with children. You know more than anyone how I adore my niece and nephews. Obviously, my relationship with them has prepared me a little for working with children, and I was assigned to the special classes for the most troubled children, which is what I requested.
After two days of special instructions, I began my work.
There are specially trained pediatricians who work with these children. I am one of six volunteers whose only purpose is to make these children feel safe and secure. We attempt to entice them to play games. We hug them. We coax them to eat their meals. We indulge them in every way possible, for these are children who were caught in the epicenter of one of the most brutal wars in the Middle East. These are children who have lost parents, grandparents, and siblings. Their little lives have been shattered.
This is what I do every day. I play with children; I comfort them and make them feel the hand of human kindness. If only I can bring a smile to one of their faces, then I will ask nothing more of life.
There are twelve children in my group. Their ages range from four to six. Four are boys. Eight are girls.
All four boys are mute. Two of the girls are mute. All six of the mute children have lost a parent. Three of the boys lost their fathers during the war, although thankfully they did not witness their deaths.
One of the mute girls lost her mother in a particularly gruesome manner. The woman was shot in the head in front of her three children by a young fighter who was out to prove his bravery. I was told by another volunteer who makes the mental assessments of the traumatized children that the poor girl was splattered with her mother’s brains, and a chunk of her mother’s skull struck the girl’s cheek so violently that the child’s face was visibly marked by cuts and bruises. Mother, I could only think of the girl’s mother and how she would have mourned to know that her fragmented skull would physically and mentally wound her baby. The medical staff who are in mental care and work with the traumatized children discover these details when questioning the children or the surviving adults who were with the children at the time.
Two other girls lost both parents in a Syrian government bombing attack. It is said that one of the two girls actually pulled out her mother’s head and her father’s leg while she was sifting through the rubble looking for them. It was from that moment that the girl lost her ability to s
peak, although we were told that she screamed for hours. Since her shrieks of anguish subsided, she has not made another sound. This small girl with large dark eyes and a lovely little face sits quietly with lips compressed for the entire day. She takes no notice of the toys and games we use to try to entertain her and lift her spirits. She does eat, but you can see that she takes no pleasure in the food. She usually drinks water and only reluctantly sips apple juice when coaxed. There is no spark of life in her eyes. She is completely withdrawn and detached from everything around her.
The medical team is becoming apprehensive because they were informed by the surviving uncle, who assumed responsibility for his dead brother’s children, that if the child does not recover her ability to speak, he will be forced to consent to give her in marriage to a rich Gulf Arab who noticed the beautiful child and offered a large sum of money for the pleasure of marrying her. The uncle claims that he is married with children of his own and cannot be responsible for a girl who is mute. She is almost seven years old, and the uncle says that she will soon be old enough to learn the responsibilities of adulthood and marriage.
Does the uncle not care that the potential groom would be raping a child—a child already so psychologically tormented that she cannot speak? I am going mad with worry for this child. I must save her!
Such a plan would have been unthinkable for Syrian families prior to the civil war. These educated Arabs lived tranquil lives and would never have agreed to sell their daughters. But sadly, the war has brought much misery and poverty, and today the unthinkable is now a real possibility for some desperate people.
At the end of the day, the children go to the containers to join family members, or those family members who have survived the war and the journey from Syria to Turkey. What they do at night while home I do not know. Most likely they are left to their own resources, ignored by family members who consider them a burden.