The women of Merje

In 2004, I was just starting to learn Arabic in Damascus. The Iraq war was a year and a half old and security was just starting to deteriorate. The influx of Iraqi refugees was less visible than audible through their characteristic accents (the Iraqi accent is the only one that uses the "ch" sound from Persian).

One night friends were telling me they saw Iraqi prostitutes cruising in Merje, a downtown square with some of my favorite baklava shops. I created a bit of a ruckus when I said “Man, I wish I spoke Arabic well enough to speak to the prostitutes.” Out of context, it sounded like I was looking for a different kind of sugar in Merje. But my motives were sociological and medical. In a culture where prostitution is a one way street, Muslim women must be at the very end of desperation to acquiesce.

I wanted to know their story. How they ended up in Damascus, in Merje. What exact unfortunate events led to the collapse of their social support. What legal system failed them, what violence caused them to flee and made life on the street a better alternative to what they were living before.

Fast forward to Tuesday. We were parked in a random part of Za’atari to pick someone up, offroading through the rocks and caked mud. Dusty kids threw rocks at fences and peeked through tent holes, laughing and running. We waited for Abu G and Um Z, two kind people who give us rides to the camp, then she climbs in the car. She heaves what looks like an overstuffed black gym bag on the floor and folds herself on top of it. I’ll call her Bint Sowra – Daughter of the revolution.

Um Z is like the camp’s social worker. She finds a way. Your child’s glasses broke? There’s no place in the camp to get them fixed, but Um Z finds a way. Every trip to the camp we make we’re squeezed between crutches, blankets and other provisions Um Z is distributing. Many conversations end with everyone agreeing that only Um Z can help.

I quickly realized Bint Sowra’s easy smiling face and fake Prada hijab were deceptive. She arrived in Za’atari three months ago from a small town outside of Dara’a, the cradle of the Syrian revolution. An orphan, she married young and had three children. But her husband beat her and took another wife. Now in her late 20s, she sought a divorce, which would have been feasible prior to the uprising. But no courts are functioning in Dara'a, meaning she can't argue for custody of her children and can't get alimony.

Having no family and no means, she headed to the border, and like all Syrians crossing without a passport, was registered as a refugee and taken to Za’atari. She set up her tent and received some protection from the Street President (an elected position).

But a single woman attracts unwanted attention. Men suggestively hit on her – not in a dating kind of way. She’s not considered dating material, really, since she’s already been married. And, alone, she’s not trusted. She has no family to protect or vouch for her.

Earlier this week, her tent was burned down. She’s not sure why, maybe some of the guys hitting on her. But now she’s homeless for the second time.  Um Z has offered to take her in.

She finished her story and Dr. B filled in the gaps where my Arabic couldn’t follow. He shook his head slowly and says, “This is how prostitution starts.”

Um Z and Abu G made it back to the car and we started the slow, dusty rumble through the camp, dodging children and passing tents and tents. I wondered how many women here have stories like Bint Sowra. How many women here are going to end up like the women of Merje.