Syrian refugees in Mafraq: Voting for Assad

This is the concluding second part of a short personal series by Amjad Nasser, poet, novelist and al-Araby al-Jadeed editor. Read the first part here: Syrian refugees in Mafraq blamed for town's woes


My brother Khaled, a former non-commissioned officer in the Jordanian air force, does not share my father's opinion.

He worked in security at Zaatari, a Syrian refugee camp in Jordan near the Syrian border, from the time it was constructed until very recently.

Khaled says that most of the people in the camp are not from Syria's Daraa and Hauran governorates. They used to work in those areas, but are originally from Syria's al-Jazira region in the northeast or are Bedouins from Hauran, and are seeking refuge to improve their economic position.

He says that farmers simply cannot leave their lands, houses and livestock, and escape to another country - no matter what the circumstances are.

My brother Khaled, who is quite curious, says that most of the people who have come to Mafraq, apart from those from Daraa, a Syrian city near the Jordanian border, are from the Fawaarah tribe, the Khawalid tribe and the Naim tribe, which my family belongs to.

Many families from the Naim tribe have taken up residence in our neighbourhood, preferring life outside the Zaatari refugee camp.

Khaled has what seems to be a tough attitude towards Syrian refugees, one he does not mind expressing.

I disagree with him, and have analysed the "facts" he presents. He believes many refugees in Mafraq have nothing to do with the Syrian war, but decided to flee to Jordan after hearing about the money being given to help refugees.

Security personnel in the camp have had to intervene to stop altercations between Assad's supporters and opponents.

According to my brother, his intimate knowledge of Zaatari and his direct dealings with its residents gives him a better picture of the camp than journalists who are just passing through.

For example, he says every type of business imaginable is operating in the camp, including nightclubs and those involving drugs.

Furthermore, he says there are a number of Syrian intelligence operatives and Assad supporters who spy on refugees, and spread anti-revolution propaganda. They also incite hatred against the Jordanian government by accusing it of pocketing Arab and international funds meant for Syrian refugees.

Khaled also said that security personnel in the camp have had to intervene to stop numerous altercations between Assad's supporters and opponents. I was surprised to hear him say that many Syrians outside the camp voted for Assad at the Syrian embassy.

My brother Ahmed, who is a television journalist, confirmed this - and added that the queues in front of the Syrian embassy in Amman on election day were so long they obstructed traffic.

Ahmed tells me he was covering confrontations between Assad supporters and opponents that day. His team had received information that refugees connected with the Syrian regime also voted for the man whose brutal crackdown on protesters led to a war which has killed at least 200,000 Syrians.

Ahmed explained that refugees voted for the person who caused their displacement, and destroyed their country, out of a historical fear, or out of fear for family members still in Syria.

Ahmed added that there were hundreds of thousands of refugees who could have gone to the embassy to vote but chose not to. These people have nothing left to lose and their displacement has only increased their hatred of the Assad regime.

Mural for freedom

I wanted to visit Zaatari refugee camp. My brothers tried to arrange for me to do so with their contacts in the Jordanian security forces at the camp's entrance, but it was not possible. They said I was a journalist, which was a mistake as journalists need to obtain clearance from a special Jordanian authority in addition to the UN agency in charge of the camp.

We decided to take a chance and go to the camp in the hope of seeing someone we knew who could help us. The road to the camp is the same one that leads to the Ruwayshid border crossing with Iraq.

A few shops have popped up close to the refugee camp. A large and beautiful mural of a phoenix rising from the ashes, a mural for freedom, adorns a wall on one of the shops.

There is a security checkpoint close to the main road. We told the officer in charge we wanted to visit Zaatari, but he refused to let us pass. He said we needed clearance. My brothers tried to explain the situation but to no avail. No entry without clearance.

There is an entire city in the camp, including schools, bakeries, cafes, clinics, grocery stores, and barber shops.

The camp looked immense from the main road. It sits on an 8,500,000 sq m plot of land owned by Jordan's armed forces in the middle of the open desert, where sandy whirlwinds rise up forming huge columns in the air.

Now winter is beginning, temperatures drop to close to freezing at night. Khaled tells me that there is an entire city in the camp, which includes schools, bakeries, cafes, clinics, grocery stores, jewellery stores, tailors, and barber shops. The population needs half a million portions of bread every morning, and five million litres of water.

The olive saga

My visit to my family in Mafraq coincided with olive picking season, which Jordanians take seriously because olives and olive oil are essential items in every Jordanian pantry. My family has 15 fruit-bearing olive trees, and they did not wait until the first rain for the amount of oil in the olives to increase. They picked their olives early to reserve a place at the olive press.

The closest press to our family home is about 20km east of Mafraq, a stone's throw away from Zaatari. When we arrived a number of farmers were already there, and we had to wait over three hours for our turn. While we were waiting I walked in the courtyard in front of the olive press, where a number of workers were sifting through a large container of olives, removing any impurities.

Only the workers' eyes were visible. Their faces were covered with keffiyahs, and they wore hats on their heads. The only worker whose face was uncovered was a young man in his late twenties. A female worker covered in a red keffiyah and a baseball hat looked at me as I spoke to her colleague. Her wide black eyes that until a minute ago had been busy scanning olives unsettled me.

While walking in the courtyard, I had noticed a machine with Hebrew letters on it parked close to the workers; perhaps it was an olive picker.

Speaking to the man with the uncovered face I realised he was not local. I asked him:

- “You are not from here?”
- “I am from Homs.”
- “From Homs?”
- “Yes.”
- “Welcome. What do you do with the olive oil after sieving it?”
- “Its owners will export it.”
- “Do you know where to?”
- “Israel and Saudi Arabia.”
- “Israel?”
- “Yes.”

Except for the Jordanian who owned the olive press, we only saw Syrian refugees working there when it was finally our turn.

The olive saga, of which my father was chief of staff, took two days of picking, packing and pressing. Our olives were finally pressed into four 18kg containers. When we returned home at night our meal of makdous [oil-cured aubergine], zaatar [a blend of herbs], strained yogurt and cheese was ready. The only thing missing from our late dinner was the olive oil, which we brought with us.

The freshly pressed oil reminded us of the face of my mother, who is no longer with us, and her voice that told us to say "bismillah" [in the name of God], before dipping our bread in this abundant bounty.

This article is an edited translation from our Arabic edition.