Refugees Daily - Internal Global Press Review

EARLIER this month as part of my work with Inclusive Arts organisation Epic Arts, my wife, Laura and myself were invited to deliver some training in Za'atari Refugee Camp in Jordan.

The camp, 3 km south of the Syrian border, opened in July 2012 and is now home to an estimated 79,900 people or more fleeing the civil war and bombing in Syria.

Za'atari's current estimated population makes it Jordan's fourth largest city with a population density of 62,000 people per square mile.

As a youth I spent most of my time in Lichfield, and it wasn't until my twenties that I started to spread my wings as I wondered what life was like for other people in the world.

Most of my work since has been in Southeast Asia, particularly in Cambodia, but Laura and myself have been increasingly eager to do our bit for the refugee crisis and when the offer to visit Za'atari came, we could not refuse.

As we rolled up to the gates of the camp, I had to give a little smile. As usual, the flash of my British passport opened up the barriers and I got the typical nod from the guard.

It is something I have learned not to take for granted. Freedom. As a UK citizen I am free. Free to pretty much go wherever I choose.

For the people of Syria, however, it is a different story. In Jordan alone there are 600,000 Syrians, unsettled from their homes, fleeing from a bloody and complex war they didn't ask for. Their passports and identity cards are more like a ball and chain in comparison to my new, bumper page passport.

As we arrived at Jordan's capital, Amman, we read a statement from the UN that 12,000 Syrians were at the border trying to cross into Jordan and as we approached the camp we could see the hive of aerial activity.

I wondered how much of my country's recent involvement has thrust these people out of their homes.

What would people at home say if they could see this?

The first thing that hit me about Za'atari was the temperature, the usual sweltering heat had given way some time in November to cold winter air.

Looking around at the tents and sheet metal shacks, I couldn't help but think about the people inside, wondering how they kept warm. The best efforts of the aid organisations, In particular the UNHCR, are surely not enough to ensure everyone could beat these sub zero temperatures.

Children chased the vehicle in jumpers and wellington boots, shouting "Welcome".

Our first stop was to meet a young girl who invited us into her home, she had written a play that she wanted to tell us about. Her home was simply made up of one room containing rattan mats and a cushion for each member of the family to rest their heads, one electric heater and a lonely looking TV in the corner.

The claustrophobic walls were clearly no match for this young lady who used the magic of her imagination to create a different reality through her play writing.

Following this humbling first experience we headed further into the camp in search of the training centre. The camp itself seemed huge, an endless city of dirt roads, tents and modified shipping containers – a maze navigated only by water towers or the flags of the aid organisations working there.

There were Arabic slogans painted on each makeshift home to identify the family waiting inside. Painted Syrian flags and "I love Syria" graffiti – for the most part.

It was clear to us, These people don't want to be here. They just have to be. I think again about home and the common misconception that all Syrians are just out to reach Europe "for the benefits".

This could not be further from the truth. They simply want to go home and continue with their lives. Continue living, training, working and learning.

Instead they are left waiting to see what will happen, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Even leaving the camp is a laborious process taking sometimes days to get permission to set foot outside the camp to get supplies or visit the border to help other family members gain entry.

We arrived at the volunteer training centre where we were delivering our workshops.

Theatre is being used within the camp as a way to engage the young people and we were training a group of volunteers at the temporary theatre space. We quickly set about engaging the young volunteers, providing friendly new faces and something exciting to do rather than waiting.

Among them were trainee doctors, engineers and teachers. Skilled, educated people, far more so than I.

Some were in the middle of their training when the war forced them to flee, each now with a story about how they came to be in Za'atari or the pain of how their extended family failed to make it there.

They are waiting. Reliant on aid from the UN, but desperate to get on with their lives and leave this terrible time behind.

Yelling them we would return with my team next year they replied: "We'll be back in Syria by then, can you come earlier or bring your team to Syria?" I did not tell them I doubted what they said but smiled and said "of course".

The seemingly endless hope and optimism was heartbreaking though, as this war looks far from over.

"Can I add you on Facebook? What is your name?" one man asks in perfect English, his neck bearing a serious scar that I can only imagine how he got. Another common misconception of the west is that these people are poor and shouldn't have things such as smart phones or computers.

If you had to evacuate your house in a second, what would you take? If you set out on foot from Lichfield to Scotland, with your whole family in tow, you'd take your IPhone with Google maps right?

You'd be crazy not to and if you're anything like me your IPhone would not leave your side. Further proof that these people were living lives just like us.

The life of privilege and wealth they may once have enjoyed, means nothing now, but they don't care about any of that – they just want to see their own four walls, their farms and their olive trees again.

As we leave the volunteer centre our guide takes a call – "It's a previous volunteer, who left the camp in the summer and went home to Syria" she translates "Her and her family now has no food, she is no longer able to re-enter the camp and is stuck at the border trying to come back."

As we moved through the camp I was in awe of how organised it was and how efficiently things ran. Electrical wires linking from house to house providing power for a few hours each evening; a water truck filling tanks on its circular round; groundsmen in orange tabards responsible for litter picking; schools and health centres, all guarded and with obvious western methods of child protection and best practice in place.

We turned off the dirt track and made our way down a central road, lined with stalls and shops, much like a high street. Again, my mind wanders to home and the chaos of the high streets as we approach Christmas. These shops though, only sell the basics – soap, vegetables and shoes. There are no Santas here.

Everywhere we went the young children greeted us. Excitedly waving, chasing the car or showing off their latest bicycle trick. Some were probably born here, at the border or on the journey riddled with danger as they travelled from Damascus or Homm. Their parents obviously risking everything to make sure these little ones were safe.

For children they have seen and experienced far too much already and many have it written all over their faces. I wonder if they'll ever see their homeland again.

As we left the camp and its residents behind, we were filled with the overriding feeling that these people are people, just like us. Not terrorists or Islamic extremists but people just like me. With dreams and ambitions just like us.

For us, one thing is for certain, we will be grateful to wake up in our home over the Christmas holidays and see the friends and family we love, but as we sing along with all those Christmas classics from our happy childhoods we will remember, for our new friends in Za'atari, war is certainly not over. Not by a long way.