A couple of days ago, before our media workshop at Za’atari, one of the girls came up to Tasneem, my translator, and I and pulled out her phone. Wafaa scrolled down to a video of her brother, aged 20, filmed soon after his death. His body lay flat and straightened on the floor, with white, blood-stained cloths wrapped around the wounds that trailed down his body. Eyes closed, hands by his side, peaceful. He was killed a year and a half ago in their hometown in Daraa province. With an unbreakable smile, Wafaa told us that even though she misses him a lot, she is proud of the way he died, fighting for their freedom. *
I visit occasionally a Syrian family in east Amman, five children taken care of by their extra-ordinary father. Balqees, the 8-year old girl, and I have a routine of drawing pictures together towards the end of the night. Last night she nestled beside me and turned over a piece of paper. She drew a half moon, belly up, and said, “This is a hospital, okay?” Okay. “Do you understand?” Yes. She then drew a small triangle on top of the half moon. “This is a boy, and he is 6 years old.” Okay, I said. She drew another small triangle and placed it again on the curve of the moon, next to the first one. “The boy has a hurt leg, and it is bloody,” she said. Okay. As she built the story shape by shape, it became clear that she was telling the story of her younger brother getting shot in the leg back in Syria. By the end of her story, the shapes formed a picture of a mouse, and underneath she wrote with newly learned letters: m-o-u-s-e. Balqees looked up from the paper, beaming, and exclaimed, “Mouse!”
I visit occasionally a Syrian family in east Amman, five children taken care of by their extra-ordinary father. Balqees, the 8-year old girl, and I have a routine of drawing pictures together towards the end of the night. Last night she nestled beside me and turned over a piece of paper. She drew a half moon, belly up, and said, “This is a hospital, okay?” Okay. “Do you understand?” Yes. She then drew a small triangle on top of the half moon. “This is a boy, and he is 6 years old.” Okay, I said. She drew another small triangle and placed it again on the curve of the moon, next to the first one. “The boy has a hurt leg, and it is bloody,” she said. Okay. As she built the story shape by shape, it became clear that she was telling the story of her younger brother getting shot in the leg back in Syria. By the end of her story, the shapes formed a picture of a mouse, and underneath she wrote with newly learned letters: m-o-u-s-e. Balqees looked up from the paper, beaming, and exclaimed, “Mouse!”
*
A few minutes later, a bouquet of fireworks shot into the air outside of their apartment. Fireworks sound off frequently in Amman. With the first boom and crackle, the middle daughter Semah, who is 12, ran across the room and quietly bunched up beside her father. Her older sister, brother and uncle told her these were just games outside, and light-heartedly poked fun at her as they continued on with what they were doing. Semah did not soften. She periodically lifted her head from her knees to look at the floor until another round fired off. After a few minutes, her father pulled Semah up and they left the room. I asked where they were going, and her sister said every time this happens, her father takes her outside to look at the fireworks. It was clear this had been going on with Semah for a while, probably since they arrived in Amman over a year ago.
*
I wondered, of course, why the other children, two of them including Balqees younger than Semah, did not seem phased by the fireworks. On my way home, I kept thinking about the ways in which Wafaa and Balqees shared these difficult pieces of their stories. And I wondered if Wafaa and Balqees had, to a certain extent, found ways to rework the tangles and hard truths of their last moments in Syria. I thought about girls I have worked with in the past, each of whom I met at their own point in the continuum of this process. Before sharing her story with any kind of ease, there is a lot of work creating for herself her own narrative. It is the work of recounting, reshaping, and retelling a story that she can sit with. A story that will eventually let her recognize the sound of fireworks as the sound of fireworks, or as something else the imagination can hold.
* The names of the girls have been changed.
A few minutes later, a bouquet of fireworks shot into the air outside of their apartment. Fireworks sound off frequently in Amman. With the first boom and crackle, the middle daughter Semah, who is 12, ran across the room and quietly bunched up beside her father. Her older sister, brother and uncle told her these were just games outside, and light-heartedly poked fun at her as they continued on with what they were doing. Semah did not soften. She periodically lifted her head from her knees to look at the floor until another round fired off. After a few minutes, her father pulled Semah up and they left the room. I asked where they were going, and her sister said every time this happens, her father takes her outside to look at the fireworks. It was clear this had been going on with Semah for a while, probably since they arrived in Amman over a year ago.
*
I wondered, of course, why the other children, two of them including Balqees younger than Semah, did not seem phased by the fireworks. On my way home, I kept thinking about the ways in which Wafaa and Balqees shared these difficult pieces of their stories. And I wondered if Wafaa and Balqees had, to a certain extent, found ways to rework the tangles and hard truths of their last moments in Syria. I thought about girls I have worked with in the past, each of whom I met at their own point in the continuum of this process. Before sharing her story with any kind of ease, there is a lot of work creating for herself her own narrative. It is the work of recounting, reshaping, and retelling a story that she can sit with. A story that will eventually let her recognize the sound of fireworks as the sound of fireworks, or as something else the imagination can hold.
* The names of the girls have been changed.