Letters From Young Refugees in Jordan
Letters From Young Refugees in Jordan
I am a 19-year-old Syrian man. I am the fourth son of an educated father and an illiterate mother, but I was always among the best students in my class, especially in sciences. When I was young, my dream was to be an engineer. But I studied law first and wanted to pursue studies in international law. But with what has happened in my country, that dream didn’t come true. I had to leave it behind me and come to the dear country of Jordan. My suffering here began as I started working as a laborer in order to guarantee a decent life for my family. In this way, I lost my dream and the dreams of all the young people of Syria, who exchanged their dream for the need to just stay alive now.
Note: Nour is a 19-year-old male refugee who volunteers at the CARE East Amman Refugee Center.
My name is Amir. I am 33 years old. Here is my story, in brief.
I lived for a long time in a foreign country, far from my beloved homeland of Syria and far from my family, my relatives, my loved ones, and my friends. I did this in order to work and earn money for a house. So that I can get married and settle down and live in my home and have a beautiful family (the dream of every young Syrian). When I had enough money for a house, I returned to Syria and I did buy a house with the guidance of God. But I lived in it for a short time because the Arab Spring began in my country. The bombing began. My precious house, which I had worked hard for, built from the ground, and looked after day and night, was destroyed. So was my dream. My family got scattered throughout the country, and in other countries. I live alone now in a foreign country and I anxiously wait to be reunited with my family.
I’m 26 and I am from a city called Shahba in Syria. I grew up there but went to Halap to continue my university studies. There I met young people from all over Syria, and made some very good friends. I returned home after my studies, and found work as a public servant. Then the fighting started. My family had an internet café. It got broken into. It was tense, hostile. We left Syria. Now I am happy that I can volunteer for CARE. All I want is peace and hope for Syria and all countries suffering like mine. I want to go back and achieve what I planned to do.
Note: Hint is a 26-year-old female refugee who volunteers at the CARE East Amman Refugee Center.
“Do not try to play with life as life will write upon you what life has planned, willed. Life will not make you the king, but it will make you live a life of dreaming only to reach the throne.”
This sentence expresses the life of Anas, who is a young man of 24 but carries the features of someone who is 50 years old, with sunken eyes, deep wrinkles, and a tightly-closed mouth.
He used to leave every morning to the university, carrying a notebook of dreams and hopes of building a beautiful future. He used to return to his club and work out so that he could carry out his dream – to raise the flag of a free Syria in the Arab Games.
He stopped in front of a stoplight. Its colors − red, green, and yellow − were like the colors of life: red for the despairing, green for the optimistic, and yellow for the rebellious.
Unfortunately, the color of the stoplight was red, which meant: “Stop. You can’t achieve your dreams.”
It was March 18, 2011.
This was the day when everything changed, everything that he has planned and thought out.
The young man Anas stood there, astonished, in front of this color that flowed in the streets of his country – a country that he is madly in love with.
He stood there, astonished, in front of his university, which became a combat zone.
He stood there, astonished, in front of his club, which got shut down.
He stood there, astonished – an orphan of the Syrian Revolution.
He stood there, astonished, at the airport, about to leave, knowing that his dreams would be lost in this vast world.
And after Anas, who among us will be able to achieve our dreams?
Note: Anas is a former Syrian bodybuilding champion and Damascus kickboxing champion.