Care home ‘a final dream’ for many

Elderly Syrians live out their days away from distant family

DAMASCUS // Alone in her room at an overcrowded retirement home in the Syrian capital, Naz Ashiti thumbs through photos of her daughters, who live overseas.

Sending elderly family members to a care home was once unthinkable for most Syrians, but almost six years of war and displacement have left many with little choice.

As the conflict has claimed the lives of young people, or forced them abroad, their parents have been consigned to increasingly overburdened care homes.

Ms Ashiti, 85, is one of the 140 elderly being cared for at Dar Al Saada (Home of Happiness) – one of Damascus’s biggest homes for old people. “I came here because my house was destroyed and my children were displaced to a different country,” says Ms Ashiti.

Her three daughters now live in Jordan, Germany, and Iraqi Kurdistan, but she remains in Damascus after fleeing the rebel- held town of Douma that has been under government siege since 2012.

“Here the service is excellent, the place is warm, but today I feel humiliated by my solitude,” Ms Ashiti says. “I didn’t expect to spend the rest of my life looking at photos of my children and lamenting over them.”

Residents at Dar Al Saada pay US$ 120 ( Dh441) a month for meals, care and a bed in a room with two other people, equipped with a TV, a small table and an electric heater.

There are support railings on the walls and stairlifts. One of the four floors in the complex is for those who cannot afford to pay for their accommodation.

The home was close to capacity before war broke out in Syria in 2011, but would only receive requests for a bed there once or twice a month.

But since the war – which has displaced millions and killed at least 310,000 – elderly Syrians without families are flocking to Dar Al Saada. Applications come in every day, says 82-yearold manager Lamis Al Haffar, who helped found the charity that runs the home 25 years ago.

Despite her age, Ms Al Haffar shuffles around on her walker and oversees all the home’s operations – down to the amount of salt in the stew. She says three of the seven old people’s homes in Damascus are private and four are government-run.

“Every time there is a new empty bed I feel sad and happy at the same time – I know someone has died and left us, but I’m happy because that bed will be a refuge for someone in a tough place, who hasn’t found anywhere to sleep,” says Ms Haffar. “Getting a bed here has become a final dream for many old people in that situation.”

Hassania, 75, keeps a box of sweets to distribute to occasional visitors and her fellow residents. She lost her son Ahmed in 2012, when he was killed in a blast near Damascus, and still asks her friends to pray for him. “I depended on Ahmed for everything. I never thought there would come a day when he would die and leave me all alone,” she says. Nearby, Hamida Al Haddad fiddles with her prayer beads, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she recites the Quran.

The 85-year-old has gone two years without seeing her children, who live in their besieged hometown of Madaya, about 40 kilometres from Damascus. “I was sick at home and my son brought me to hospital in Damascus two days before they closed the road,” she says. “When I wanted to go home, the road was closed and I was forced to sleep in the street until a young man brought me here.”

With heartbreak in her eyes, she stares out of the window, trying to avoid the gaze of those around her. “The war pushed me away from my children and grandchildren, and I feel I will die before I see them again. Death with my children is better than life away from them.”