'It'th nithe to be home', the Lozenge sighed as he reclined on a beanbag after we got back from our trip to Aqaba. It's the first time he's ever said that word in relation to where we're living now. Before, home has always been London, and here hasn't quite measured up to that, until now.
His comment is not the only thing that has made me think about the concept of home this week, after spending 3 days talking to the inhabitants and aid workers in Za'atari refugee camp on the border with Syria. The pregnant 20 year old pictured below admitted that her spartan caravan already feels like home, after living in it for 3 months. It's not the life she would have chosen, she said, but it could be worse, and at least they are safe from the terrifying drone of Syrian government planes overhead, and from the equally frightening behaviour of motley bands of opposition under the umbrella of the Free Syrian Army. She has a place where she, her three boys and husband, can live in relative security. And from a Za'atari resident's point of view, she is one of the lucky ones to live in a caravan, not a tent. They have a door to shut behind them, and something that could be described as a window.
Her comments echoed the words of Mafusi, a Lesothan refugee I interviewed in London before we came to Jordan. Mafusi said she often went round to a friend's house who had everything - fancy furniture, wide screen TV, the lot. But whenever she came back to her tiny little room in Hounslow where she lived with her three year old girl, which had about 2 square metres of floor space left over once the bed had been put in it, she felt such a sense of relief to be in her own place. 'I have nothing here but this room,' she said, 'but I can shut the door and be here with my girl, and I feel safe.'
Izzeldin Abuelaish, the Palestinian author of the book I'm reading mirrors these thoughts exactly when he describes Ariel Sharon's tanks thundering down the tiny street where they lived, demolishing row after row of makeshift houses in Jabalia camp in Gaza. 'This small house was our home, our palace,' he writes. ' Couldn't anyone understand how important this was to us? It protected us from the winter cold, the rain; it gave us a place to be together, to rest, to eat.'
It makes you wonder how close the words place and palace, really are. For a human being on the grim brink of survival, they may as well be one and the same.
One of the main issues the aid staff are experiencing in Za'atari right now, is the availability of caravans. They cost $3,000 each and roughly half the camp now lives in one thanks to donations from Korea, Saudi Arabia and many other countries. By the end of July, UNHCR hopes to have provided the other half of people with a caravan too, but there has been immense frustration within the communities about the inequality so far - which has been leading to violent uprisings, and frequent attacks on the overworked staff. One wonderful Jordanian woman who showed us around this week, had had her arm slammed again and again in a car door by a furious Syrian man; and many workers are walking around in constant fear as they try to get their work done as best they can.
A charming Irish girl from UNHCR and I discussed it as we left one of the caravans where we'd been interviewing women and children about the conditions there. It would definitely have been cooler to sit in a tent, I said, and she agreed. She said the tents are actually better for comfort and practicality in all conditions. But we both agreed that in a complicated and conflicted community of refugees, to have a door to close behind you for privacy and security, a window to look out of, and to be able to stand up straight in your home, probably outweighed the scientific proof.
And there she stood, this Irish girl, probably no older than 28 years old, squinting her piercing blue eyes against the baking sun, so far from her own home in Cork. She works all the hours she can with other dilligent and burned out teams from around the world, all feverishly trying to figure out what's best for people in the camp. It's remarkable the individuals you find working in situations like this. And I know that she, of anyone, is completely convinced of the importance of the concept of home and how important it is for people to create one here, even if they hope to return to Syria one day, whenever that may be.
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