Rational Grounds

I met Helal in line at the immigration office, where Lily and I were trying to get new visas so we could both do a bit more traveling about the region (neither of us have any entries left on our Syrian visas, so coming back after a trip to Lebanon or Jordan would be highly problematic). I'm not sure why Helal was there, but likely to do some visa extending as well – Iraqi refugees have the same visa requirements as anyone else, one reason the immigration office is a veritable zoo these days.

We got talking with Helal a bit – he helped point us to the guy we needed to talk to about our situation – and exchanged numbers, promising to talk more that evening. I was eager to learn more about the situation of Iraqi refugees here, and Lily was keen to interview him for research she's doing. We met up at 8:00 that night near the Omayyad Mosque only to discover that he'd brought his whole family – Rana, 6 year old Meelad, and 9 year old Sandi. We quickly realized that the plan was to go to our place, where we had no food and everyone else was getting ready for a trek up to the top of Jebel Qassioun overlooking the city, so Lily ran off to a restaurant and ordered up several plates of salad, hummus, falafel, and jebneh, and I did my best to entertain the family in the meantime. Thank god for Hannine and Ahmad, who sat down with us and pretty much carried the conversation for a good part of the night. Hannine is from Raqqa, in the northeast of Syria, and her dialect is virtually identical to the Iraqis', and the young girls took to her immediately. Lily and I provided some scotch which was very well received, and somehow five hours later the whole family left sated and happy.

I spent most of the night trying to suss out what Helal's plans were. As you may have guessed by this point, Helal was interested in getting a visa for the US and he thought I might be able to help him. He apparently had a contact through his church (they're Chaldean Christians) who was supposed to be helping him get his application in order, but he hadn't been hearing from this guy. He hadn't been able to get into the US embassy consular area to talk to anyone – for some reason the Syrian guards had decided they didn't like him. He had a picture of himself and Ramsey Clark shaking hands, from his days working in a hotel in Baghdad, and he carried this like a talisman, sure that it would open doors for him if only he could talk to an American at the embassy.

We ended the evening promising to meet up in a few days where he would repay our feasting with a dinner at his place with authentic Iraqi cuisine and talk more about his situation. Sure enough, three days later he called and we arranged to meet at 6:00 that night and head to his place. His place is, naturally enough, in Yarmouk al-Mukhaim, the Palestinian refugee camp just south of the city (mukhaim means "camp").

There isn't any particular dividing line between the city and the camp; eventually you just start noticing that the buildings are more rundown and there are more young men hanging around on street corners doing nothing. Many of these people have been here since 1948, after all; the tents have long since given way to housing projects and slums.

Helal and his family live in a third floor studio apartment down one foul smelling alleyway off the main road. While the building recalls the same desperate poverty and decay of 1980s inner city housing projects, the apartment itself is clean and bright and happy, a testament to the Helal's and Rana's efforts to give their girls as decent a life as possible. When Lily and I arrived Sandi was playing Super Mario Brothers on a bootleg version of an old Nintendo, with Meelad looking on carefully.

Rana appeared quickly with nuts, mixed mezze (Middle Eastern appetizers), and water and we brought out some J&B scotch as our contribution. Helal put on some music. He has a few ancient laserdiscs of music videos that he's very fond of – Modern Talking, an early 80s New Wave band, and Boney M, a 70s disco-funk group, in particular. After the mezze we cleared things a bit and got down to dancing. Most of my experiences in Syria have been a tad surreal, but dancing, clapping, and drinking with an Iraqi family in a Palestinian refugee camp to "Rasputin" by Boney M – performed and recorded in Red Square in the 1970s – is pretty up there. (FYI: the "Rasputin" video is so very much like the version we did in SIPA Follies this year I practically fell over). Meelad and Sandi quickly forgot how shy they were and joined in with gusto – Meelad waving a flashlight around and jumping on the bed, and Sandi trying to either capture me with a pillow case or just whack me with the pillow itself. I eventually found myself tossing them both on to the bed in turns much like an older brother or cousin would, Meelad shouting each time "Marra thannia! Marra thania!" (Again! Again!). Just about the cutest kids I've ever met, really.

Just as we thought the party was winding down Rana brought out the main courses – chicken, rice, and stuffed and spiced potatoes and peppers that were about the best food I've had since getting here. We rounded out the night with tea and Helal offered us cigarettes (nobody there smokes, but Lily does and he was the consummate host). I felt pretty guilty about the lengths they went to for us - that meal must have taken quite a bite out of their budget this month – but of course there's no way to beg off from Arab hospitality even in the most desperate circumstances. They offered to put us up for the night as it was late and Helal had a dim view of the safety of the local streets, but Lily and I had class the next day and I'm not exactly sure where we would have slept in any case. I promised to be in touch, and next week we'll go to the embassy and see what the situation is there.

Obviously, there's not a whole lot I can do to help this guy out. I have no "wusta" (connections) at the embassy, and regardless US immigration doesn't really work like that. What's more, we aren't exactly throwing wide the gates to many Iraqi refugees these days, much less those who have jobs (however miserable) and apartments. But Helal seems pretty turned around about the process – the forms he's shown me don't appear to be filled out properly at all – so maybe I can use my mad English skills to at least get him into the right line with the right information so he has a fighting chance. Helal has some points in his favor: he's got a contact in the States, ostensibly, and he's a Christian (which shouldn't matter but of course it does). I've got the number of this guy who's supposed to be helping him in the States, and I'm going to see if I can find out more about the situation from him.

I should probably leave off there, as again this is pretty damn long. Next update: a barbeque at the Marine Barracks bar, and smoking hookah and talking politics with Syrian mukhabarat on the beaches of Tartus, with artillery fire in Nahr al-Bared for background. (Quick poll: how will this affect future security clearance processes?)