We’ve just finished our final workshop with 62 extraordinary Iraqi, Palestinian and Jordanian children.
Jim Webb and the folks at National Geographic had the genius idea to give the kids simple writing exercises during the course of the workshops – to help us better understand their lives, experiences and thought processes.
The exercises included answering questions like: “I remember…” and “I dream of…” We also had the children write an imaginary letter to someone they love or admire.
Below is a sampling of what they wrote.
On Friday we’ll be exhibiting the kids’ photos at the Children’s Museum – Jordan, under the patronage of Her Majesty Queen Rania Al-Abdullah.
=======
-Bassme: “I remember when the war started. My mother and I were sitting on the porch, I had final exams, and a man got killed in front of me.”
-Aya: “I dream of becoming an active person in society, and to be able to help others. My hope is to become a successful architect, and to travel to Venice. I remember once I had one friend, but now I have a lot.”
-Saber: “My life's dream is to help people. I would love to make a study about the percentage of homeless people, and to open a project for the people to be able to donate for the poor families. Since I was a little kid I dreamed that I would have a magazine to write in with my friends and the people I love about the common issues, Palestine and general opinion. We are now the generation of revenge. Everyone wants to fight with each other. Why aren't we like brothers? Like the Quran says: ‘We are all brothers in Islam’. So why can we not live like that?”
-Fatima: “I remember that my happiest days were with my father before he died, and I remember that when I was little my father used to play with me and my sisters. I remember the war in Iraq, and I see something burning in my eyes, the cars, and the homes. I also remember my cats and my sisters in Iraq. I hope that things will get better in Iraq.”
-Noora: “I remember the first day I came to Jordan we didn't know anyone, and I didn't know the language that this country was speaking. But after living here for many years, I mastered the language, and I got used to my life in Jordan and now I am very happy.”
-Mohamad: “My cousin's car impresses me a lot, because, it is very fast, and it has a turbo engine and it has big speakers, an amplifier and two screens and a system.”
-Hawa: “To my father and mother. They are the most valuable people to my heart. I love them with all my heart. I live in their shade (in a good way) and I love them. They made me. They taught me how to love and respect others. I hope for them health and peace, and to stay in a nest. I hope that Allah dear will keep them and to keep them for me forever. Thank you.
-Fatema: “To my dear sisters who are in Iraq now, I'm sending this letter to them and wish they could come with their husbands and kids here. I love mom very much and respect her, I wish she could stay with me forever. And this letter is also for my dear father who is dead but I still feel him with me. I hope he is in heaven now. I also wish that all Muslims will be in heaven with him.”
-Rashad: “I love you dad, because, you helped me and you taught me how to think about my life, my career. I know that you get tired every day so that we can stay alive, so when I grow up I am going to take good care of you.”
-And this from 11-year-old Sandian, whom we called “The Philosopher” because of her astonishing analysis of photos during the workshops:
“I remember the war, and the screams I used to hear at night, they were from a child who lost his parents or from a mother who lost her children, or from a wife who lost her husband. Yes, all of this is tied to the war. From it I saw eyes filled with tears, but from this pain I found support, for hope was my title, and the light of love and forgiveness I held in my arms, so that I may finish my journey. The sentence I love and always say is: ‘From the young of the future; the little ones of the nation; the heroes of tomorrow.’”
Showing posts with label IMC Field Dispatch-Jordan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label IMC Field Dispatch-Jordan. Show all posts
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
National Geographic Photo Camp in Jordan
Jordan Photo Camp - Day 1
We just finished the first day of our Photo Camp in Jordan with National Geographic.
International Medical Corps conducted one of these two years ago with NatGeo for refugee kids from Rwanda, Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo, who were living in Uganda.
This time, we’re working with Iraqi and Palestinian kids living in Jordan, along with vulnerable Jordanian youth.
There are about a million Palestinian refugees and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis living in Jordan, so the strain of this population influx is profound. And for these kids, who have all witnessed violence, many having lost one or both parents, an art therapy project like this provides a much-needed window into their world – for them and for us.
Having previously done the same project in Africa, I am struck by the contrast between the cultures of kids there and the kids here in Irbid, a populous town in northern Jordan with a distant glimpse of the West Bank. The 20 children we worked with today, ages 12-19, are urbanites. All had experience with cameras; they’ve either used one or own one. So they were relatively quick to grasp the technology. They’re also not as shy and reticent about taking photos as the kids were in Uganda.
Then there are the young girls. As a woman and a semi-professional photographer, it is difficult for me to watch a young girl whose cultural mores make her reluctant to push the physical envelope required from photography – crouching down to get a great angle, sticking the lens close into the face of a male shopkeeper, maneuvering herself aggressively around someone to get the shot. For one girl named Ayat, I hesitate to push, knowing I need to respect the way she’s been raised as a female in Muslim society. And yet, something interesting happened when I, the pushy instructor, left Ayat alone to do her thing. Away from my gazing, judgmental eye, she started maneuvering around others, taking more shots, finding interesting angles. I can’t wait to see the images she captures as the 3-day workshop unfolds.
Tomorrow, we will go out into their home environments again to shoot more photos. Then, we’ll come back to the Child Protection Society center to sit with the children, the photographers and a team of mental health experts and let the children tell us the stories behind the photos they took.
This is always the most powerful part for me: sitting with the kids to review their photos – stunning, heartbreaking, joyous portraits of their lives – and hearing the stories of behind the images.
Over the next 10 days we’ll be working with 60 kids in Irbid and in East Amman at the Queen Rania Center. When the workshops are over, we’ll have sorted through probably around 20,000 images. Each student will help us choose their two favorites for a closing-day exhibit in Amman, with subsequent exhibits around the world. The students also will receive a few prints of their photos and a CD with all of them.
But just as important, one of our partners on the project, VisionWorkshops, has donated cameras for us to keep at the centers so the kids will be able to continue their photography and storytelling after the workshops end.
I often think back to the kids in Uganda who participated in Photo Camp there. Kids like Theo, Joyce, Andre, Mapendo and Ester. I wonder where they are and how they’re doing. One corresponds with me quite often. She is now 18, still struggling to survive in the refugee settlement where she has now lived for many years. She tells me she still takes photos with our cameras and that it’s still important to her that others know her story. We have shown the Photo Camp Uganda exhibit at schools around L.A., and have sent books of photos and letters from the L.A. students to the Uganda students so they can share their lives with each other.
I am very aware that once I leave – whether it’s Uganda or Jordan - these kids’ stories will continue to unfold and they will continue to need an outlet for expressing themselves and sharing their experiences.
We just finished the first day of our Photo Camp in Jordan with National Geographic.
International Medical Corps conducted one of these two years ago with NatGeo for refugee kids from Rwanda, Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo, who were living in Uganda.
This time, we’re working with Iraqi and Palestinian kids living in Jordan, along with vulnerable Jordanian youth.
There are about a million Palestinian refugees and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis living in Jordan, so the strain of this population influx is profound. And for these kids, who have all witnessed violence, many having lost one or both parents, an art therapy project like this provides a much-needed window into their world – for them and for us.
Having previously done the same project in Africa, I am struck by the contrast between the cultures of kids there and the kids here in Irbid, a populous town in northern Jordan with a distant glimpse of the West Bank. The 20 children we worked with today, ages 12-19, are urbanites. All had experience with cameras; they’ve either used one or own one. So they were relatively quick to grasp the technology. They’re also not as shy and reticent about taking photos as the kids were in Uganda.
Then there are the young girls. As a woman and a semi-professional photographer, it is difficult for me to watch a young girl whose cultural mores make her reluctant to push the physical envelope required from photography – crouching down to get a great angle, sticking the lens close into the face of a male shopkeeper, maneuvering herself aggressively around someone to get the shot. For one girl named Ayat, I hesitate to push, knowing I need to respect the way she’s been raised as a female in Muslim society. And yet, something interesting happened when I, the pushy instructor, left Ayat alone to do her thing. Away from my gazing, judgmental eye, she started maneuvering around others, taking more shots, finding interesting angles. I can’t wait to see the images she captures as the 3-day workshop unfolds.
Tomorrow, we will go out into their home environments again to shoot more photos. Then, we’ll come back to the Child Protection Society center to sit with the children, the photographers and a team of mental health experts and let the children tell us the stories behind the photos they took.
This is always the most powerful part for me: sitting with the kids to review their photos – stunning, heartbreaking, joyous portraits of their lives – and hearing the stories of behind the images.
Over the next 10 days we’ll be working with 60 kids in Irbid and in East Amman at the Queen Rania Center. When the workshops are over, we’ll have sorted through probably around 20,000 images. Each student will help us choose their two favorites for a closing-day exhibit in Amman, with subsequent exhibits around the world. The students also will receive a few prints of their photos and a CD with all of them.
But just as important, one of our partners on the project, VisionWorkshops, has donated cameras for us to keep at the centers so the kids will be able to continue their photography and storytelling after the workshops end.
I often think back to the kids in Uganda who participated in Photo Camp there. Kids like Theo, Joyce, Andre, Mapendo and Ester. I wonder where they are and how they’re doing. One corresponds with me quite often. She is now 18, still struggling to survive in the refugee settlement where she has now lived for many years. She tells me she still takes photos with our cameras and that it’s still important to her that others know her story. We have shown the Photo Camp Uganda exhibit at schools around L.A., and have sent books of photos and letters from the L.A. students to the Uganda students so they can share their lives with each other.
I am very aware that once I leave – whether it’s Uganda or Jordan - these kids’ stories will continue to unfold and they will continue to need an outlet for expressing themselves and sharing their experiences.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
"Marhabah" from Amman, Jordan
Hello, all.
I am in Jordan , where an estimated 600,000 Iraqis have fled the violence in their homeland, streaming across the border in hopes of finding a safer existence. Many of them have leveraged everything they have to secure visas and get their families onto flights out of Iraq .
By the time these refugees make their way to a major city like Amman , they have little money or economic prospects and limited access to health care. Most have also suffered the loss of a family member.
Yesterday I toured health clinics in a low-income area of East Amman , where large numbers of Iraqis have settled and where International Medical Corps is working to provide them with primary and mental health care services.
Their stories are heartbreaking. Repeatedly I heard the same phrase: “I have lost everything.”
One man morosely recounted the bombing that hit his home four months ago, killing one young daughter and paralyzing the other. His wife, who witnessed everything, has been so distraught she can scarcely leave the home. He has come to this particular clinic, which is funded by the UNHCR and run by the Jordan Red Crescent, to appeal for the expensive surgeries for his surviving daughter.
Injuries related to conflict are just part of the painful equation; these refugees have inadequate primary care and nutrition for their children, little or no reproductive or antenatal care, and many suffer from neglected chronic diseases like diabetes and high blood pressure for which they cannot afford care or medication.
At another clinic operated by the Jordan Red Crescent and French Red Cross, a little Iraqi girl was brought in by a father clearly fearful about her worsening condition. She was extremely frail, unresponsive and her pallor ashen. Her father described how hard life has been since fleeing Iraq . He is out of work and unable to afford care for his family. This clinic is literally their only lifeline.
But in addition to those seeking help at these facilities, there is an enormous population not being reached at all because they are simply unable to travel. IMC is targeting this population, planning to bring comprehensive primary and mental health services to them directly through mobile medical units.
IMC is just getting started here. The influx of refugees has been so vast and so rapid that we repeatedly discover whole new “gap” areas – suffering that is going either unnoticed or underserved. All of it is putting increasing strain on the local population, particularly among the poor who are in need of similar services.
Aside from the physical needs, these people have huge emotional needs that are largely being ignored. This is an oft-neglected area, and therefore one where IMC is taking the lead, integrating clinical mental health into primary care services.
The refugees we’re working with have been subjected to years of low-level warfare and large-scale regional conflicts, depriving them of basic life needs, and exposing them to trauma, depression and stress. This is to say nothing of those with pre-existing mental health disorders that aren’t being diagnosed or treated. For these refugees, the prospect of long-term recovery really hinges on their ability to recover emotionally as well.
One woman I met from Baghdad tearfully recounted how her brother was killed, forcing her to flee with her husband and four children. And yet she is effusively grateful for the care she is receiving at this clinic. On this day, she has brought in her young son, who has a bad cold – and she has discovered the happy news that she is pregnant.
I am astonished once again by the resilience of people who have endured relentless violence and crushing personal loss. For the man at the UNHCR clinic whose daughter was killed, and who faces losing his only other child, the outlook was grim. A Jordan Red Crescent representative explained to him that the hospital likely could not approve such expensive surgeries for one child, when so many others are in need. He gazed down, thought about this for a moment, then turned to me and offered a striking statement: “Maybe you tell people about the situation here - it might not save my daughter but it might save others.”
I am in Jordan , where an estimated 600,000 Iraqis have fled the violence in their homeland, streaming across the border in hopes of finding a safer existence. Many of them have leveraged everything they have to secure visas and get their families onto flights out of Iraq .
By the time these refugees make their way to a major city like Amman , they have little money or economic prospects and limited access to health care. Most have also suffered the loss of a family member.
Yesterday I toured health clinics in a low-income area of East Amman , where large numbers of Iraqis have settled and where International Medical Corps is working to provide them with primary and mental health care services.
Their stories are heartbreaking. Repeatedly I heard the same phrase: “I have lost everything.”
One man morosely recounted the bombing that hit his home four months ago, killing one young daughter and paralyzing the other. His wife, who witnessed everything, has been so distraught she can scarcely leave the home. He has come to this particular clinic, which is funded by the UNHCR and run by the Jordan Red Crescent, to appeal for the expensive surgeries for his surviving daughter.
Injuries related to conflict are just part of the painful equation; these refugees have inadequate primary care and nutrition for their children, little or no reproductive or antenatal care, and many suffer from neglected chronic diseases like diabetes and high blood pressure for which they cannot afford care or medication.
At another clinic operated by the Jordan Red Crescent and French Red Cross, a little Iraqi girl was brought in by a father clearly fearful about her worsening condition. She was extremely frail, unresponsive and her pallor ashen. Her father described how hard life has been since fleeing Iraq . He is out of work and unable to afford care for his family. This clinic is literally their only lifeline.
But in addition to those seeking help at these facilities, there is an enormous population not being reached at all because they are simply unable to travel. IMC is targeting this population, planning to bring comprehensive primary and mental health services to them directly through mobile medical units.
IMC is just getting started here. The influx of refugees has been so vast and so rapid that we repeatedly discover whole new “gap” areas – suffering that is going either unnoticed or underserved. All of it is putting increasing strain on the local population, particularly among the poor who are in need of similar services.
Aside from the physical needs, these people have huge emotional needs that are largely being ignored. This is an oft-neglected area, and therefore one where IMC is taking the lead, integrating clinical mental health into primary care services.
The refugees we’re working with have been subjected to years of low-level warfare and large-scale regional conflicts, depriving them of basic life needs, and exposing them to trauma, depression and stress. This is to say nothing of those with pre-existing mental health disorders that aren’t being diagnosed or treated. For these refugees, the prospect of long-term recovery really hinges on their ability to recover emotionally as well.
One woman I met from Baghdad tearfully recounted how her brother was killed, forcing her to flee with her husband and four children. And yet she is effusively grateful for the care she is receiving at this clinic. On this day, she has brought in her young son, who has a bad cold – and she has discovered the happy news that she is pregnant.
I am astonished once again by the resilience of people who have endured relentless violence and crushing personal loss. For the man at the UNHCR clinic whose daughter was killed, and who faces losing his only other child, the outlook was grim. A Jordan Red Crescent representative explained to him that the hospital likely could not approve such expensive surgeries for one child, when so many others are in need. He gazed down, thought about this for a moment, then turned to me and offered a striking statement: “Maybe you tell people about the situation here - it might not save my daughter but it might save others.”
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