‘Trying to leave this miserable life’
Syrian refugees can’t make ends meet, caught in limbo away from country’s civil war
ISTANBUL— Salwa Hannan sits on a torn, brown plaid couch beside her daughters Roqyyah, 8, and Ameena, 12, and she cries.
There is not enough money for food or heat. They can barely afford the rent in their Istanbul apartment.
Hannan cries because her 13-yearold son, Ghadeer, works all day in a garment factory along with his father, Ali. And because Ameena has been forced to work in an underwear factory. And because Roqyyah, with green eyes and a pink ribbon in her hair, lost her hearing after a bomb went off near their Damascus home two years ago.
After Ali, a tailor, was wounded in the leg by sniper fire, the family decided to leave everything behind. Hannan applied for passports and within a month they were on the move. First to Aleppo, then by bus across the Syrian border to Gaziantep in southern Turkey.
They have been in Istanbul for one year. During that time, none of their three children has been to school. But the girls pretend to go. Ameena and Roqyyah like to wake early and play make-believe. They get dressed as if they have classes to attend. They sit on the couch and they wait and dream of school. Meanwhile, Ghadeer begs his par- ents not to be sent to the garment factory, where he works from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. daily. He desperately wants to spend his days reading and writing and is angry at his parents for sending him to work. Every day, these small family trage- dies play out in front of Salwa Hannan. “I would send all of them to school if I could. I can’t work because Roqyyah needs special care. We say to Ghadeer, ‘Look at the situation. We can’t send you to school because we need money.’ “We can’t afford life here. We have escaped the killing and now we suffer from a lack of money,” says Hannan. Ali, 41, makes 800 Turkish lira every month, about $415. His paycheque covers the rent on their 8th-floor, walk-up apartment, which is furnished with donated wooden tables, Turkish carpets and beds. Their son makes less; whatever he earns is spent on food and electricity. A neighbour generously supplies them with firewood for their wood-stove. “If it weren’t for our neighbour,” she says, motioning to the elderly, Turkish man cuddled up to the girls in the corner of the room, “we would die from the cold.” Even though they have nothing, knowing I was coming, Ameena picked two flowers from a nearby garden and set them in a small glass bowl on their coffee table. Hannan set out the family’s finest glass Turkish coffee cups. A few months ago, Ameena worked long hours sorting underwear packages in a garment factory that only employs girls. For five days of work, the 12-year-old earned 230 lira a month, about $120.
Disgusted, the family kept Ameena home and lost the income.
Hannan has lobbied the Turkish authorities for assistance. “I went to the municipality and asked for help but I got nothing,” she says.
She got her residency card, hoping that would help. “Instead, they have put obstacles in front of us,” she adds.
If they could, the family would leave Istanbul. But they are not sure where to go. Returning to Syria is not an option. “For the time being, never. It would be suicide there. But if the situation becomes good, we’ll go back,” she says. “There is no certain country. All of us are trying to leave this miserable life.”