You Must Earn Your Name

Sometimes, I revel at the idea that I am alive at precisely this moment in time. Humans were first recorded on Earth about 6 million years ago. Our evolution took place 200,000 years ago. Civilization as we know it is 6,000 years old and industrialization started in 1800's. And here I am, a 29 year old Canadian student, rife with privilege, sitting across from a woman, who is according to her case file, 3 years older than me, a thousand lives lived behind her eyes, shaking my head no.

"We can't help you with that," I say, meeting her eyes, dark brown and rimmed with an insatiable desire to be seen and heard, "the UNHCR has certain criteria for expediting registration, and..." I pause, and leaf through her case file, as if to demonstrate my commitment to her plight, "you don't have any... vulnerabilities... according to them."

The interpreter, a refugee named Khaled, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and turns towards the woman in the patterned hijab, translating my words into Arabic. He knows, as well as I do, how ludicrous it is to tell a refugee or asylum seeker in Malaysia that they "don't have any vulnerabilities."

The woman's eyes well up, and I force myself to meet her gaze directly, my eyes soft and steadfast, resistant to the intense urge that spreads itself through me, to stare into my lap and let my own tears fall freely. The registration process for UNHCR (or the United Nations Refugee Agency) is a long and drawn out one. I see it in the downcast of her eyes, that it has taken its toll on her.
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A truck bomb in Damascus.

A harrowing journey.

We meet the smuggler, Qays, a friend of a friend of my dead brother, a local man, his face pock marked, and mouth set permanently into a hard line, on an overcast afternoon in September of 2013.

"Malaysia has signed an agreement which ensures protection for refugees from Syria," he says, voice unwavering, eyes hard, "you and your family will be safe there."

He shows us the passports, our faces gleaming next to names I don't recognize.

"Memorize your details," he says gruffly, "we leave on Saturday."

My husband, Azad, pays Qays, $18,000.00, and we return home, to prepare the children.

I tell Azad later that I have heard stories about traffickers diverting migrants to secret camps near the Thai-Malaysia border, holding them for ransom and killing and torturing those whose families cannot pay up. He looks into my eyes, and he whispers, "that will not happen to us", brushing my tears away with the pad of his thumb. That night, I cannot sleep. I find myself in the dining room, running my fingers along the exotic, tinted wood table that my father had constructed in his woodshed only a few years before, thick eyebrows frosted with sawdust, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. I cannot reconcile this image with the reality of his current situation, kidnapped by the government of Bashar Al Assad, whereabouts unknown.

I let my grief take me then, falling to my knees in the dim light of the sliver moon. Clutching at one of the last remnants of my father, to steady myself, his words echoing in my ears.

"You must be brave, Najdah, that is how you earn your name."

Supported by the firm ground, and bolstered by my father's memory, I feel for the first time, a sense of calm, in the dense folds of my grief, my fear congealing into an intense resolve. I curl up beneath my baba's table, patterned wood blending black and brown, and drift off to sleep.

The journey itself is long, especially for Aashif and Amina, who are quiet and withdrawn, vulnerable to the anxiety that permeates into the fabric of every day that follows our decision to leave Damascus. We arrive in Malaysia in tact, shuffling through immigration, brandishing our documents and muttering prayers, as Qays, pockmarks glistening in the filtered light, talks to the guards. Their eyes linger on us, a look of disdain settling into their features, which are different from our own. I adjust my hijab, and they slam big square stamps into our passports.

Qays smiles for the first time, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, and motions for us to follow him.We crowd our way into a waiting car, and Aashif tugs at my sleeve, looking around bewildered, as we make our way, through a dense jungle of palm trees, into the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. We arrive at Merdaka Villa, a shoddy apartment complex, windows barred and laundry hanging from every balcony. The rotten teeth flash at us once more, and Qays hands us a set of keys. He directs us to a small flat on the 3rd floor in Block D. We climb the stairs with our suitcases in tow, everything we managed to salvage of our lives in Syria. Amina tugs at my skirt, and I offer my hand, which she slips her small fingers into tremulously.

The apartment is sparse, with one bedroom, a living area, a small kitchen and a bathroom. But it is also quiet, a light breeze blowing in from the balcony, a small brown bird chirping on the balcony grate. Qays introduces us to our landlord, a heavy set man with grey hair, and an Iraqi accent, waiting in the entry way.

"The rent is RM800 a month. You pay your utilities by taking the bill to the post office. Your deposit has been paid. I'll give you my card, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call."

Azad thanks the man, and he leaves.

"I should be off as well," says Qays, apologetically, and makes his way to the door.

"You're forgetting something brother..." says Azad

Qays turns towards us, his eyes unyielding, "I'm sorry, Azad, but these," he holds up our passports, "are not part of the deal. I recommend you go to the United Nations Refugee Agency and.. explain your situation to them.... they will be able to help you."

Before Azad can react, Qays turns on his heel, opens the door and is gone, just like that... We stare at each other in disbelief. The children can sense the cauldron of rage and panic brewing in the room, its vapors poisoning the air.

Later that week, we make our way to the UNHCR. The language barrier proves a challenge, and we end up paying twice the regular cab fare, because the driver forgets to start his meter. We wait in line, Aashif and Amina wrestling with each other, bumping into people who turn towards them, faces long and withdrawn, eyes vacant. Hours pass. The children are hungry. And we wait. At the end of the day, we are issued an appointment card - a thin piece of paper laminated in plastic, a UNHCR number on the front, and an appointment date on the back.

October 18, 2014.

We have no other form of documentation.

We return home. Eat chicken kabobs and rice for dinner, spread out on the floor like a picnic. And things seem OK for a while, until the police begin to crack down on our neighborhood, stopping Azad twice in one month on the street. The first time, he returns home boiling with anger.

"They robbed me in the street, Najdah," he sputters, "300 ringgits... lining their filthy pockets now."

I try to touch his shoulder but he swipes my hand away, his eyes black, the sense of promise they once held, all but extinguished. But he keeps going out. Because he needs to find work, if we are to survive here. In Damascus, he was a lawyer, a political activist. After 3 months of searching in Kuala Lumpur, he finds an under-the-table job as a waiter at an Arabic restaurant. He works 12 hours per day,  6 days a week, for RM 1200.

The second time he is stopped by police, they take half of his month's salary, and we dip into our emergency fund to pay the rent. Amina and Aashif are restless. Azad loses his temper. It only happens once, and I threaten to divorce him. I see it in his eyes, that he has lost himself, and he asks for forgiveness on his knees that night, his body stretched out in prayer.

The days blur into nights into days into weeks into months, until finally our appointment at UNHCR arrives. We are given printed, plastic cards which are meant to offer us protection from the police. They call us asylum seekers. We have also found a local organization, the Malaysian Social Research Institute, which offers support to minority refugees and asylum seekers from places like Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Palestine and Syria. We are registered with them, and use their family health centre to obtain a referral for Aashif, who has lost hearing in one ear from the bomb blast near our home in Damascus, which claimed the life of my only brother, Aashif's uncle, Sabir.

Amina has developed asthma from the haze in Malaysia, and she keeps me up at night, coughing into her pillow. I think I should take her to the hospital, but there is no point. I can't communicate the problem, and they can't communicate the solution. And even then, the cost is exorbitant, since we are charged the foreigner's rate. At MSRI, the health center is free, and provides an interpreter, so I hunker down with Amina for the weekend, stroking her hair and monitoring the dark tinge which is spreading into her cheeks and across her chest, and lug the two children to Ampang Point on Tuesday morning, to sit in the waiting room for four hours, waiting to see Dr. Veena.

We want to register the children at the MSRI school, but we are told classes are overloaded, so we put our names on the waitlist. We recieve a letter from UNHCR, informing us that our RSD interview is scheduled for December 12, 2018. The RSD interview is the one that makes or breaks a person, as far as displaced people are concerned. It determines your eligibility to meet the criteria of "refugee", which means you are entitled to international protection, and may be eligible for re-settlement. There is also the possibility that you will be rejected, which means any support offered by organizations like UNHCR and MSRI are revoked, and you are left to float alone, in a sea of uncertainty, jobless, stateless, hopeless. I do not want this for my children.

The weight of 2 more years in this place sets down into me. My body, an anchor, weighs me down, threatening to pull the vessel of my life under. I go to MSRI's community centre, Amina and Aashif in tow, and schedule an appointment for open day. Azad has lost his job at the Arab restaurant, the owner accusing him of stealing money from the till. To compensate for "his losses", he withholds Azad's salary for the month. Our savings are gone. We eat one meal a day, and the children have been out of school for almost 2 years. Azad sets out each morning, to scour the city for work, returning home each night, dejected, forlorn. I find out that I'm pregnant again.

And finally my appointment for open day arrives. I climb the stairs, my bones creaking and groaning in protest, past the beauty parlour on the first floor, the family health centre on the second. Siti Hajar, the woman who runs the community centre sits at her desk, and I read out my name to her. After an hour, a young white girl wearing a red flannel shirt and tight brown pants exits the room, her hair cut into a short bob, laughter tinking out, as she collects a file and says something to Siti Hajar.

She turns in the room, and says "Najdah?"

She smiles at me, and I follow her obediently to the interview room, shuffling apologetically in her energetic wake. We sit at a small table, surrounded by plastic chairs, and I notice that another interview is taking place on the opposite side of the room, a young man sitting with a tall, springy haired woman named Gloria, who interviewed me on my last visit.

"What are you here for today?" says the young girl, leafing through my file. She looks at me with kind eyes, and I catch myself wondering about her life, so different from my own.

"We haven't heard anything from UNHCR in over a year," I say, pleadingly, and the interpreter passes my words onto her. I have no idea what he is saying, or if he is getting my message across in the way that I intend it. She nods, and looks at me, her mouth turning down at the corners slightly, in an expression of concern. I forge ahead.

"We would like for you to contact UNHCR on our behalf, to speed up our case," I say, getting the words out as quickly as I can.

"You must earn your name, Najdah", says the voice in the back of my mind.

I see her leaf through my file once more, searching for something. She re-reads her notes.

Children are hungry - eating only one meal a day. Husband cannot find work. Robbed by police 5 times in past 6 months. Husband detained for 3 days. Rent is overdue by two months - landlord threatening eviction. 

I see something that resembles pain cross her face, and I know my answer, before she speaks.

"The UNHCR has certain criteria for expediting registration, and..." she pauses, leafing through her case file, as if to demonstrate her commitment to my plight, "you don't have any... vulnerabilities."

The interpreter sits with her words for a moment, then shifts uncomfortably, before he turns to me and translates their meaning.

"I'm so sorry," she says, "but we can potentially offer you some food support... rice, oil, things for cooking... and some livelihood support for now. You might also qualify for our 'support a family' program, which would ensure a more regular source of income, until your husband can find another job..."

I think of Amina and Aashif, of my unborn child, a numbness flowering it's way into my extremities.

I nod, and whisper, "that would help... thank you", tears leaking down my cheeks.

She hands me a box of tissues.

What more is there to say.