Since 1967

I struggle greatly to describe this experience, as it is one upon further reflection that I find to have been somewhere between sorrow, disgust, and complete frustration. About 20 kilometers north of the Amman lies Al Baqa’a refugee camp, an area now inhabited by around 120,000 Palestinians displaced during the 1967 Arab-Israeli war.

The day began around 10am when Sasha another volunteer and I took a taxi to the local bus station. We had much difficulty trying to identify where the bus to Al Baqa’a was located among the many buses lined up at the station. It was probably most challenging because when we would ask people where to find this particular bus, people looked at us with either total confusion or surprise wondering why two white Americans and myself would want to go to such an area. After asking five or six people and being pointed in the general direction, we found and then boarded the bus to Al Baqa'a. Unlike bus schedules in America, Jordanian buses leave when the bus is filled up not at a specific time, so it was another 20 minutes or so before the bus departed for our destination. When aboard the bus, an older woman behind us tapped my friend Lucy (the other volunteer) on the shoulder and began going off in Arabic. Not understanding much until about 10 seconds into her lecture, the phrase “haraam!” or “forbidden!” in English made it completely clear what exactly she was intending to communicate. Although I was already wearing very modest clothing, the area to which we were traveling was a severely impoverished community, thus assuming it to be much more religiously conservative than most other places I had been. After buttoning my long-sleeve shirt up all the way to my neck, she seemed to bring her speech to a close. Although some may have been offended by this elderly woman’s words, I took them only to convey her best intentions. Maybe assuming I was a fellow Muslim from a less impoverished and less conservative area, or maybe just a tourist, I chose to think that she was only asking me to do what would be the most safe and save me the most harassment when arriving to Al Baqa’a.

When we stepped out of the bus, we were probably the only three tourists or Americans within a five mile radius. We stopped for a meal first, as we had been riding the bus most of the morning and did not eat breakfast beforehand. After lunch, we began walking through the alleys that made up the camp. Street vendors selling everything from mangos and bananas, to sink drains and curtain rods, to remote control toy helicopters and light up bracelets. With little to no sanitation, I found myself stepping over little streams of dirty brown and yellow water. While some of the details mentioned may not be most pleasant to read, they are a necessity. The streams of dirty water, the clothes people were wearing, and the items vendors were selling. All of these seemingly insignificant details are indicative of the specific reality that I experienced, and it is that specific reality that I intend to share.

When people think of “camps”, many think of small children laying in their mother’s arms with protruding stomachs and malaria carrying mosquitoes swarming around. It is this image that we see on television adds, and it is this image that we are then encouraged to respond to with “a small donation”. I am making clear that it is not at all in my interest to persuade you to think that this particular image described above is not worth responding to, as notion of starving children and disease ridden villages is a problem that should always be given adequate attention. The problem I face however, after a seeing a place like Al Baqa’a refugee camp, is that I now understand the in between. I understand how easy it is to forget those whose stomachs are not protruding but whose livelihoods have been stunted and whose dreams have been paralyzed as a result of a war over which they had no control. When we began walking through the housing or neighborhood area of the camp, the following prospect took over my mind. I will turn 20 this summer, and have spent my entire life working for and dreaming of things that I always believed could and would become reality. My work and dreams expanded beyond that of my own home, my own town, and even my own country, and even within the first 20 years of my life I have traveled to and visited more places and people than most all Palestinian children and families will ever have the opportunity to see. The point I want to make is that while not all of my goals and dreams may have manifested themselves exactly as I may have hoped, my future has almost always been within my own control, and that is a blessing that so many of us seem to forget. For the average 20-year-old born into Al Baqa’a refugee camp, control over his or her hopes and dreams and any hope or dream that expands beyond living in this camp, (what college to attend, what country to travel to, etc.) is part of a reality far beyond reach. It is not so much the direct situation (scenery, sanitation, etc.) that bothered me with such great intensity. What frustrates and disgusts me beyond explanation is the thought that the 120,000 Palestinians living in this camp have had to settle into this area. They have had to call these "non-permanent" housing structures their homes, to accept that these dirty, fly-ridden alleys now make up their neighborhood, and have done so with the understanding that one woman, her children, and possibly her children's children may live this way in this "non-permanent" camp, permanently.

The idea of a “camp” is meant to signify non-permanent housing. Because of international requirements associated with the definition of non-permanent housing, you will find many houses with scraps of metal, sticks, and whatever else can be found to be used as roofing. Permanent roofs indicate permanent housing, and that was not the purpose of these camps when they were set up in 1967. Only five years ago did organizations such as the UN recognize the impossibility associated with living through the coldest and warmest of seasons with only sticks and stones to keep a family safe from these conditions.

In 1967, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were forced from their homes and now live here. One in every three refugees is Palestinian, and even more terrifying is the fact that this statistic seems to have had no influence on the reality of the situation. While this situation is one for us that may be distant and irrelevant to our daily lives, it is one that has left the majority of an entire people without a home, without hope, and without a future.