When “home” means mother

For some people, “home” is not first and foremost a place but a person. Like a mother.

For over eight years, Syrian couple Khaldia and Mohammed have been living in a refugee camp in Jordan, together with their children. They both feel a painful longing. A longing for their mothers. “A mother is the most beautiful thing in the world,” says Khaldia.

Little Mohammed and his mother. His sisters are standing behind.

The girls have wedged their Barbie dolls high up between the cupboard and the ceiling to make sure their little brother Ahmad, 2, can’t reach them.

Ahmad hangs around the neck of his father, Mohammed, 40. The big man barely notices; he has eight children and is used to being climbed on. He holds a tear-soaked tissue in his hands. He talks about his mother, who is still in their home village in Eastern Ghouta, Syria.

His voice trembles, and his eyes glaze over:

“She came to visit us six months ago. I hadn’t seen her in eight years. Just before she arrived, I was having a very difficult time. I cried for three days,” he says, and wipes away a tear.

His wife, Khaldia, 37, nods. She hasn’t seen her own mother since 2014:

“A mother is the most beautiful thing in the world. I miss my mother very much. I miss seeing her. Holding her. I miss hugging and kissing her,” she says.
Khaldia

Their youngest child, seven-month-old Abdel Rahman, sleeps soundly next to Khaldia. She strokes his stomach.

\"\" — Left: Arabic coffee. Right: Ahmad and Rima watch as their older sister Marah plays on her mobile phone.
Left: Arabic coffee. Right: Ahmad and Rima watch as their older sister Marah plays on her mobile phone.

\"\" — Left: Arabic coffee. Right: Ahmad and Rima watch as their older sister Marah plays on her mobile phone.
Left: Arabic coffee. Right: Ahmad and Rima watch as their older sister Marah plays on her mobile phone.

Their daughter, Marah, 14, comes in from the kitchen, carrying a tray of coffee cups. There is a waft of cardamom as she pours steaming hot cups of Arabic coffee. The youngest children are very energetic; they climb on each other, on their parents and on their older siblings. They wrestle and have petty squabbles about whose turn it is to play with Dad’s cell phone.

And from the ceiling, a Barbie doll stares blankly down on life.

Bilde: Mohammed is a loving father.

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Love in Azraq

On a damp window, someone in the family has written the letter “M” with their index finger and the words: “I love you”. It’s hard to say who is behind it and who the words are for.

When Khaldia and Mohammed fled to Jordan and Azraq refugee camp in May 2014, they had four children. For the first six years, they lived in a one room shelter with dirt floors, no electricity and no garden. During that time, they had more children.

Three years ago, they moved in to two shelters, which together contain two rooms, a kitchen, a bath without a shower, a toilet and a garden. And they have electricity. They have painted the walls, built a tall cupboard and laid a concrete floor. The home doesn’t have running water – they have to go to the camp’s water station twice a day.

“Longing – oh – that’s not the worst thing. All that is beautiful and good grows in the shelter of longing.”
Fridtjof Nansen

Azraq refugee camp
The camp is currently home to 39,300 Syrian refugees and is located in a desert area of northern Jordan. It’s around 90 kilometres from the Syrian border, and a little over an hour’s drive from the Jordanian capital Amman. The camp was set up by the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNCHR) in April 2014, and contains clinics, schools, a hospital and a market. The Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC) is the lead partner with UNHCR. Among other things, we are responsible for providing shelter and basic needs assistance, for example to new arrivals to camp.

\"\" — Azraq refugee camp is located in the desolate and cold desert landscape.
Azraq refugee camp is located in the desolate and cold desert landscape.

\"\" — Azraq refugee camp is located in the desolate and cold desert landscape.
Azraq refugee camp is located in the desolate and cold desert landscape.

Right now, it is winter in Azraq.

They say that it gets so cold here that a cup of water standing indoors can turn to ice during the night.

And then there are the sandstorms. They almost never bring rain or snow – but rather intense hailstorms.

Find out how you can help people who have been forced to flee their homes.

The mothers – Asreyeh and Hameeda

Mohammed breaks into a big smile.

“My mother’s name is Asreyeh. She is 65 years old.

“I was spoiled as a child. She loved buying me clothes. When I was little, I had curls. She dressed me a bit like a girl. My four sisters took care of me. They did everything for me. They would just give me whatever I wanted to eat. If my mother didn’t think they were taking good enough care of me, she would get angry at them,” he says.

\"\" — Left: A bicycle is also good to have in Azraq. Right: Muhammed opens the gate for his daughter, Lujain.
Left: A bicycle is also good to have in Azraq. Right: Muhammed opens the gate for his daughter, Lujain.

\"\" — Left: A bicycle is also good to have in Azraq. Right: Muhammed opens the gate for his daughter, Lujain.
Left: A bicycle is also good to have in Azraq. Right: Muhammed opens the gate for his daughter, Lujain.

Mohammed’s family had always been small farmers. But eventually it became difficult to make a living. Mohammed himself became a lorry driver. His father is dead. In addition to having four sisters, he has a younger brother. His brother was in the military for a while but is now back home in the village, living with his mother and two of his sisters, who have now become widows. One lost her husband to illness, the other in a car accident.

Mohammed tells us that he, Khaldia and their children left Syria because he was no longer able to provide for his family there. In Jordan, he works as a security guard and handyman at a school for children with disabilities. Other Syrians in Azraq who are lucky enough to have a job often work as seasonal agricultural labourers.

Mohammed and Khaldia say that they have no chance of returning to their home country, because of the unclear security situation and limited job opportunities.

He looks over at his wife, who says:

“My mother is alive – thank God! Her name is Hameeda and she is 50 years old. The last time I saw her was the week before we fled.”

“I am the oldest of 12 siblings. My mother is only 15 years older than me – in fact, people think we are sisters. I have a brother who is the same age as our 11-year-old daughter Farah. And I have an uncle who is as old as Farah.

“My mother is a very good mother. She has a strong personality. Actually, it is difficult to describe her in words. She has a temper – she gets angry quickly. She is both hot-blooded and warm-hearted.

“And she is wonderful at providing comfort.”

Khaldia sees that her baby is still sleeping soundly. It will be a while before he wakes up and needs to feed. She continues:

“I talk to my mother on the phone every single day. We are close friends, and keep nothing hidden from each other. What do we talk about? We talk a lot about cooking. About what we’re going to make for our next meal. And we talk about her taking care of my father.”
Khaldia

\"\" — When her mother-in-law was visiting, Khalida cooked a lot of delicious food for her like this breakfast. Photo: private
When her mother-in-law was visiting, Khalida cooked a lot of delicious food for her like this breakfast. Photo: private

\"\" — When her mother-in-law was visiting, Khalida cooked a lot of delicious food for her like this breakfast. Photo: private
When her mother-in-law was visiting, Khalida cooked a lot of delicious food for her like this breakfast. Photo: private

“Things like that.

“The first thing I remember about my mother is her food. Stuffed grape leaves, called yabra. Every time I make it, I say to my children: ‘This is your grandmother’s very best food.’”

Heart-strong

Ahmed and Rimas, 5, quarrel over their father’s mobile phone. Ahmed knocks over a water glass. Rimas crawls under her father’s big arm. Mohammed hugs his daughter close, kisses her curly brown hair. Then, his eyes glaze over again.

Mohammed: “Even though we are adults now, Asreyeh and Hameeda are still our mothers. We need their love. Nothing can compare to a mother.”

Khaldia: “I miss my mother very much. I dream of seeing her again soon. But she says she doesn’t want to leave the younger children.

“For me, it was emotional when my mother-in-law came to visit six months ago. I felt very much for my husband then.”

Mohammed: “My mother has diabetes. It has changed her a lot.”

When mother came to visit

Mohammed hadn’t seen his mother in more than eight years. He had tried several times to bring her over from Syria.

He used all his savings to make it happen. Finally, she was able to come and stay with them for 15 days. He decided to film the reunion with his mobile phone.

“The bus was supposed to arrive at nine in the evening. Naturally, I wanted to meet her at the bus stop, but at first, something held me back. It suddenly felt too difficult – perhaps it all became too overwhelming. But I went to the bus stop at eight in the morning and stood there until she arrived in the evening. It was a shock to see her! She had become so small and thin. Only a fraction of herself,” says Mohammed.

He looks despondent.

He shows us the video on his phone, and we see how he broke down when he saw her. And we can see that he is crying and embracing a small woman dressed in black.

When Mohammed was finally going to see his beloved mother again, he brought someone to film the meeting. You can watch the video here:

He sighs heavily.

Then he continues:

“But we took very good care of her while she was here.”

Find out how you can help people who have been forced to flee their homes.

Bilde: For Mohammed, the extended family belongs together. It’s inhumane to be separated from one's mother.

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“In our culture it is a tradition to be invited to dinners. We call it a’azayem. We took my mother-in-law around to meet people here in Azraq and have dinner with them. And here at our place, I prepared festive meals for her – and only the kind of food that she can have as a diabetic. They were a good few days,” says Khaldia.

\"\" — Balls and shoes waiting patiently for playtime.
Balls and shoes waiting patiently for playtime.

\"\" — Balls and shoes waiting patiently for playtime.
Balls and shoes waiting patiently for playtime.

The baby opens his eyes.

She lifts him up. Kisses him.

Soon, she will call her mother.