Yaser's Diary: A Touch of Color on a Gray Day

In Yaser's Diary, Syria Relief and Development's Turkey Country Director, Yaser Alsaghrji, reports on his journeys into Syria to help those in need. 

In the last two weeks, I've crossed the Cilegozu border point between Turkey and Syria at least eight times to distribute relief items to inhabitants and refugees in cities, villages, and towns across northern Syria.

If I was asked to describe the border using one word, it would be “gray," which is ironic, considering that prior to the revolution, my experiences traveling between the two countries were always colorful. 

Everything is completely colorless now:  the border-gate, the wall, the barbed-wire, the rocky hills and even the people who wear mostly gray and black galabyehs--robes. 

This particular morning was grayer than ever with all the fog and pouring rain. Still, I was content, because I had finally found a driver brave enough to transport our winter kits to an area I have been trying to reach for a few days. 

As I was thinking about this, I noticed the first non-gray spot in the area: a girl of about six years old in an orange shawl.

A woman walking with the girl--her mother, I soon discovered--who was carrying a baby saw me wave at the girl and suddenly tensed. I approached the family with their spot of color to learn more about them. 

The family of five--the father, mother, and their three children--had been living in a cave before leaving to seek new shelter. The night before, they had packed up all of their household items and carried them for eight hours in the rainy darkness of night trying to avoid snipers. They had finally found a driver willing to give them a lift to the border. The family was tired and soaked from walking in the rain. 

The family had no passports and very little money when they reached the border. It took awhile before they were approved to enter Turkey, a country they knew nothing about except that it is faraj--the light at the end of the tunnel.

The father asked me if 4,300 Syrian liras ($48 USD) were enough to rent a small house for a month in the neighboring city of Reyhanli, Turkey. I was too choked with tears to tell him that a single room goes for at least $250 (USD) per month.

I offered the father some financial support, but he refused to take any money from me. I asked him whether his family had been helped by any people or organizations where he came from. He told me that his family, along with a few other families, had sought refuge in a remote mountainous area where they were isolated and saw nothing at all.

For a moment I felt helpless against the gravity of the situation inside Syria. It often feels like we are doing so little when there is such a great need. Then I remembered something my wife told me: just imagine if no relief work was being done.

I waved good-bye to the little girl in the orange shawl, later regretting that I forgot to even ask her name. But her family will remain etched in my memory as the spot of color on a gray day. 

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إرهاب الطفولة قصة قصيرة بقلم : نور اليقين / Maria's Story

(Translated in English below)

ألم يئن للأرض أن ترتجف غضباً من آهاتِ القتل و التدمير ، و للسماء أن تصرخ في وجه من فاقوا وحشية 

كلّ مخلوقات الكون ، ألم يئن للإنسانية أن تتمزّق مع تلطّخ ذرّات التراب على امتداد بقاع الوطن ، بشلالاتٍ دافئةٍ من دماء الأطفال الممزوجة بالطُّهر و البراءة ، التي لم يكن ذنبها إلا أنها ولدت على أرض سوريا الحبيبة ...

كانت الشمس حينها تطلّ بكبرياءٍ عبر الأفق البعيد في وسط الظهيرة ، و ترسل خصلاتٍ من أشعتها المتلألئة موحيةً إلى كلّ عاشقٍ لهذا الوطن أن بشائر الخلاص من الحقد و الظلم قد شارفت على الوصول ، معلنةً اقتراب اللقاء  بربيعٍ مزهرٍ جديد ...

اصطحبت ماريّا الصغيرة رفيقتها المدللة إلى حوض الاستحمام داخل منزلهم القابع في إحدى قرى درعا الأبية ، لم تكن تلك الصديقة التي اعتادت على تنظيفها بسرورٍ في كلّ يوم سوى دميتها الملساء الناعمة ، فأمست بالنسبة إليها عالمها الورديّ الذي تستقي منه أحلامها الرقيقة ، و تتعلم من الولوج في سحره الطفوليّ روح الأنوثة ...

ما فتئ الحوار اللطيف بين الرقّة و البراءة يتزلزل في عنفٍ غريب على إثر ارتطام قذائفٍ ثقيلة  بجميع زوايا المنزل ، فيتهاوى السقف أمام بريق عينيها المذعورتين اللتين ما عادتا تشهدان سوى الجراح و الألم ، عندما أطبقت ألواح الحجارة المحطمة على جسدها ، محوّلةً حوض الاستحمام إلى تابوتٍ مظلمٍ يجمع ماريّا فاقدة الوعي بلعبتها التي تألّمت أيضاً من هول ما تعرّضت له من إجرام ...

دقائقٌ معدودة مضت باكيةً بحرقةٍ على ماريّا الصغيرة ، قبل أن ينطلق والدها كالبرق الخاطف في أنحاء المنزل باحثاً عنها وهو يغرقُ في كابوسٍ من الضياع ، فلم يكن الشيء الوحيد الذي شعر به يتسلل إلى أعماقه حتى يدلّه على مكانها سوى خفقان قلبها المشتاق إلى نداء قلب أبيها الجريح ، رفع سقف المنزل الملتصق بأطراف حوض الاستحمام  فألفى فلذّة كبده تعانق دميتها بين أشلاء الحجارة و ألوان الدماء وقد غابت عن الوجود ...

احتضن فتاته و مزيجٌ من الهَلع و الأنين يتغلغل في كل شهيقٍ و زفيرٍ لامسَ أنفاسه المتوترة ، لينتقل بها إلى المشفى الوحيد في تلك القرية التي أبت الظلم والإهانة ، فكان جزاؤها تدمير كل لَبِنةٍ اصطفت بعرق جباهِ أبنائها فوق رؤوس الأطفال الذين هزّوا عروش  الطغاة بابتساماتهم الصافية البريئة...

أجرى الأطباء الإسعافات الأولية الضرورية للطفلة الفاقدة الوعي ، فتبيّن بالفحوصات السريرية والشعاعية إصابتها بنزيفٍ دماغيِّ يتوجب مراقبته في وحدة العناية المركّزة ، بالإضافة إلى عدة كسورٍ أهمها في الرأس و العنق ...

ما هي إلا ساعات قليلة حتى قام أحد الأطباء من أصحاب القيم و الأخلاق النبيلة بالتسلل خفيةً إلى سريرها ، ثمّ حملها رغم حاجتها الماسّة إلى ذلك المكان وتوجّه بها إلى الباب الخلفيّ للمشفى مودعاً الطفلة ووالدها ، بعد أن علم بقدوم مجموعة من عناصر القتل و الإجرام إلى غرف المرضى يبحثون عن هذه الإرهابية التي لم تتجاوز ربيعها الثاني عشر ...

تعاطف الليل مع العائلة الصغيرة محاولاً أن يظهر لها الحنان بالرغم من برودته القاسية ، فأطبق بظلمته و حزنه على ماريّا ووالديها ، حتى يتيح لهم الهروب من قريتهم وعبور الحدود الفاصلة مع دولةٍ مجاورة ، ليتسنّى لها متابعة العلاج بأمانٍ بعيداً عن عصابات الحقد و الغدر ، تاركةً دميتها الممزقّة ملوّنةً بدمائها القانية الزكية ، لتكون شاهدةً على دناءة مغول العصر مهما طال الزمن ... 

دخلت الطفلة بحالة إسعافية نتيجة وذمة شديدة في الوجه و آلام شديدة في الرأس و العنق نتيجة كسر في الفقرة الرابعة للعنق ، مع وجود جرح ملتهب في فروة الرأس و كدمات شديدة في الوجه ، بالإضافة إلى العرض الأهم و هو نوب الإختلاج المتكررة عدة مرات يومياً ، بعد أن تم تخريجها من أحد المشافي بحجة عدم وجود تمويل كافٍ لإتمام علاجها ...

الصور التي حضرت فيها المريضة إلى المشفى :

تم قبولها في مشفى عاقلة وتقديم العلاج لها تحت إشراف جمعية سوريا للإغاثة و التنمية SRD  التي أولت الطفلة إهتماماً خاصاً لكونها تعرضت لرضوض نفسية و جسدية هي و عائلتها .

حيث تمت معالجة الجروح و الكدمات و وذمات الوجه و العنق بالإضافة لضبط نوبات الإختلاج  بشكل تام بعد تقديم الإستشارات الطبية اللازمة العصبية و الجراحية ، والطفلة حالياً بحالة ممتازة من الناحية الجسدية و النفسية ، و إليكم الصور الحالية :

At the Syria Relief and Development (SRD) wing of Akilah Hospital in Jordan, there is a little girl from Daraa, Syria who suffers from the atrocities inflicted upon her. This is her heartbreaking story, written by Noor Alyaqeen.  

Isn’t it time for the earth to tremble from anger at the sound of killing and destroying? For the sky to scream in the face of those whose brutality is laid on all creatures of the universe? Isn't it time for humanity to be demolished when the country’s dirt is drenched with the warm blood of the children, mixed with purity and innocence which has no fault except being born over the land of beloved Syria?

The sun was then gleaming with pride across the distant horizon in the middle of the afternoon, sending tufts of shimmering rays suggesting to every lover of this country that the promise of salvation from hatred and injustice was almost here, announcing the approach of the spring where new flowers arise.  

Maria carried her small pampered companion to the bathtub inside her home which lies in one of the villages of Daraa; that friend was not a person, but rather her smooth soft doll which she happily bathed every day. It became her rosy world from which she derived her elegant dreams and from entering this magical place, she learned the spirit of femininity. 

What was wavering between tenderness and innocence was violently shaken following the collision of heavy shells in all corners of her home, and the ceilings fell right before her frightened eyes, which no longer saw anything besides pain and heartache. 

When her body was crushed by the collapsed ceiling in the bathtub along with her companion, her surroundings became a coffin making her lose consciousness from both the pain and horror of the situation.

After a few minutes passed, Maria’s father cried bitterly over little Maria before he took off like a bolt of lightning searching for her in the house, drowning in a nightmare of loss. In the darkness of their home, it was only the beating of her longing heart which led him to her. He raised the debris off of her body, where she was gripping her doll amid the stones and a pool of blood.

He hugged his child and a mixture of panic, fear, and pain permeated every inhalation and exhalation that touched his strained breath as he took her to the only hospital in that village which defied injustice and humiliation. For this defiance, its punishment was the destruction of every brick which was built by the people of the village over the children of this same village who shook the thrones of tyrants with their innocent smiles.  

Doctors provided urgent care for the unconscious child with their first aid supplies on hand. Clinical and radiological tests were performed and indicated a brain hemorrhage that needed to be monitored in the intensive care unit; in addition to that she had several fractures, primarily in her head and neck.

After only a few hours, a physician of noble character carried Maria from her hospital bed to the rear door of the facility, accompanied by her father, out of protection for them from the group of murderers who arrived at the hospital searching for a so-called “terrorist,” who had barely surpassed twelve years of her life.

The night sympathized with this small family showing them affection in spite of its cruel coldness and surrounded Maria and her parents with a darkness allowing them to escape from the village and cross the border to a neighboring country. This enabled them to continue treatment for Maria safely away from the hatred and treachery, leaving her doll in pieces and soaked with her crimson blood, to be a witness to the atrocities of the Mongol era, for all eternity.

Maria entered a hospital emergency room with edema, severe facial swelling, severe pain in the head and neck as a result of broken vertebrae in her neck, an inflamed wound in the scalp, and severe bruising to the face. More importantly, she suffered from multiple seizures during the day. She was released from the hospital she was staying at due to a lack of adequate funding to complete the treatment. 

Her family arrived at Syria Relief and Development's medical wing in Akilah Hospital. Little Maria was  admitted to Akilah Hospital and provided with treatment under Syria Relief and Development's supervision. Special attention was paid to Maria who, along with her family, had been subjected to physical and psychological trauma that will be difficult to forget.

Maria's wounds, bruises, and edema of the face and neck as well as the convulsions she suffered from were treated in response to the provision of neurological and surgical consultations. Maria is currently in stable physical and mental condition. 

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Yaser's Diary: A Night at Qah Refugee Camp

In Yaser's Diary, Syria Relief and Development's Turkey Country Director, Yaser Alsaghrji, reports on his journeys into Syria to help those in need. 

It was already 8:30 p.m., hours after sunset, when Ahmad and I crossed the border into Syria by foot through the tahreeb--illegal--side amid darkness headed to Qah, a refugee camp in northern Idlib. Our goal was to distribute winter kits the next day in the southern Idlib where many refugees who fled Hama are staying. But fighting in the area has made it unsafe for drivers to travel there so we decided to drop the winter kits off at a warehouse near Qah and deliver the kits when the situation is safer.

Just after we crossed the border, Ahmad, who was a mechanical engineer before the revolution began, recognized a Qah patron who offered to give us a ride to the camp where Ahmad's brother, Mohamad, and his family have taken shelter. We traveled through rough terrain and bone-chilling cold to arrive at Qah where we walked through muddy paths along tents to reach the only one properly lit, Mohamad's tent, affectionately dubbed by Ahmad as "The Five-Star Tent."

The tent had a partition at the entrance that the family used as a kitchen where they cooked food, washed clothes and bathed the children. Mohamad's two daughters, three sons and wife were surprised to have a visitor. And I was surprised at seeing their red eyes and hearing their coughs, caused by smoke rising from the sobya (heating furnace) that they fueled with green olive-tree branches and some diesel.

"Blinding smoke is better than severe cold," said Mohamad.

The youngest of the children was called "penguin" by his siblings due to a penguin-like walk caused by a skin condition that developed between his legs from remaining in urine-soaked pants. I asked him where the restrooms were and he took me outside and pointed in the direction of a line of more than 30 people waiting for one of five toilets, three of which were not working. I found myself becoming teary-eyed thinking of how all of the camp's refugees have difficulty in accessing even the most basic of necessities.

Back inside the tent, the children were excited and laughing hysterically at my silly jokes. "I haven't seen them laugh like this since we walked into this prison," Mohamad's wife told me. They laughed because kids need to laugh, I thought.

After tea we all went to sleep. I watched the boys pile on top of their dad for warmth, or maybe just to feel safe again.

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