Reunion

The family I lived with in Damascus in 2004 was not your typical Muslim crew. The mother wears a hijab, but the daughters don't. In most places, even having men over to your house is haram - forbidden - but in this house there were multiple single, foreign men living with single, unhijabed women. We were the scandal of the neighborhood, but we also had a lot of laughs. This is where I met Andrew, now one of my good friends. Its where I took my first colloquial Arabic lessons (from one of the daughters) and also where I learned all of my Arabic curse words (from the matriarch, no less). I had recently finished one of my pediatric rotations, so the family liked to humor me, saying I was Adam's doctor, Adam having been born a month before I arrived. Adam is now 8, beat me at chess, and can handle himself in English, Arabic and Danish.

Last time I saw them, it was 2006 when my brother was in the Middle East. We took a service mini bus up Muhajireen and had a small dinner with the family. Since the war started I'd been afraid to contact them because I'd heard of people who were arrested being kept longer or worse just because of things written by their friends on Facebook.


Then I heard they were in Amman and reconnected. Andrew, who is spending most of his time in Turkey, happens to be in Amman this week, so we had a semi-family reunion.

The youngest was seven classes from finishing a degree in English, but things were too unsafe in Damascus to continue. They've come to Amman, but everything is more expensive - medicine, oil, transport - meaning that the fees one daughter charges for Arabic lessons are barely making ends meet. The matriarch has growing cataracts in both eyes, but surgery is very expensive and must be paid for out of pocket.

Sounds like stories I've heard from refugees in Amman, in Za'atari. But this one hits a bit closer to home.