Sweet Cardamom by the Syrian Border

by Munibah Qureshi (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Jordan

Syrian Border, 11km. We had arrived at the village emblematic with the displacement of Syrians, hosting Zaatari Refugee Camp; one that holds over 80,000, more than half of which are children. The distance painted blue & white, bent by heat, blurred by dust. We took a right, pickup trucks checked in earth tones and black; keffiyeh’s remained in perfect place as the men donning them shook to the uncertainty of the terrain, eyes tightened in surrender to the wind. A quick stop, with an associate I was ushered to a kiosk to support local business. Conflict in the eyes of the two wholesome aunties lent on a crate, steps from the entrance a compelling voice stopped us with, “Salaam” - peace. I turned, an uncle stood; stories of violence etched into his cheek, stories of culture marked his chin. His eyes frail, in contrast to the strength of his presence. His smile left a scent of cardamom, one that took me to the streets of Downtown Amman, even if just for a brief moment, I lost myself to the city. I came back to Zaatari to the sound of Damascus Arabic. Displaced, or re-found; the sound of the Syrian people always sweetens the air. Unassuming and unable to understand, I attentively smiled as conversation around me deepened. Pausing to take small sips from a plastic cup with steam lingering, the uncle’s voice honeyed with each pause. Uncle raised his hand, freckled from the sun, he gestured to follow. His being so rich with wisdom, feet grounded with serenity on land enveloped in turmoil. His staff pressed the dry earth, parting dust to lead the way. Uncertain of our collective destination, but certain of my purpose; to learn. Our path, imprinted by those whose journeys are uncertain, took us to a small square house, built with what resembled the stones of Egypt’s pyramids; again reminding me of where I was, reminding me of the strength of this region and its people. True to his Syrian nature, uncle welcomed us in. Moving the white sheets draped over the entrance, a wave of cardamom greeted me. A faint bubbling accompanied the sweet scent, in the corner a brass dallah glistened on a camping stove; somewhat symbolic of the lived experiences of the Zaatari people. Comparable with my mother's Bosnian culture, and my Northern upbringing; with no hesitation, uncle poured me a hot drink, a brew. I felt at home. With my first sip of Zaatari cardamom tea, uncle’s tone of voice changed. He spoke in pain of years of uncertainty, conflict, and war. Children and teenagers, all of whom have only ever known war, never having experienced formal education. He spoke of how I’d soon see the effects of war on children; unbeknownst to him, I had been raised by a child of war. Naive of me, I had no idea of the scale of Zaatari. As the cardamom warmed me, his stories of lost childhoods, forced displacement and violence exposed me to the cold realities of too many. His aura remained calm, smiling in content, he expressed the importance of the local organisation I interned for, how there was no place for these children in government schools; ones already operating in double-shifts. In what I first understood as struggle, my associate translated as sentiments of hope, “Our children can learn now”, “With them will be progress, in God's will”. With each sip of tea, I thought more of my privilege, my purpose. I thought of the life of my refugee mother, my British upbringing and the contrast of our lived experiences. I thought of why my mother stayed in the UK when her family had returned to Bosnia; her determination to give me an education. With the last sip of sweet cardamom, looking out to the camp stood strong in the horizon, I realised uncle had taught me not only clarity in times of adversity, but the importance of our roots, environment, and identity. He taught me how my mother’s journey, like many of those navigating uncertainty, ignites our shared desire to catalyse progression and seek knowledge in all its forms.