Are We Giving Up, People? Are we giving up this work?

I am praying to the Mother Of Us All: Still my frenetic mind. Still my racing heart. Move my hands across this keyboard and let the words flow, from my hands to all hearts. I pray now, to effect an immediate and radical change for Good, and for good, always, and in all ways.

Tonight, on the 2nd of July, 2009, I find myself stunned.

Sasha and Mary have just told me that the CRP has less than 3,000 dollars to work with. Minus the % that goes to IHC for their fiscal sponsorship. . Period. Kaput.

Are We Giving Up, People? Are we giving up this work?

The CRP, still a baby, really, is dying! Dying of neglect? Dying of starvation? Dying because no one really cared about the "collateral damage" from the war in Iraq? Because not enough people cared? Because not enough people cared enough?

To me, the CRP IS a baby, conceived and birthed by my friend Sasha Crow, and then nurtured in its fragile infancy by both Sasha and my new friend, Mary Madsen, who came in answer to Sasha's plea for help in this. Sasha was in Seattle; Mary, in Oregon.

Somehow they made this Project work. Out of nothing, they made everything.

From nothing, they came to Jordan and helped people, one family after another, pouring a shining ribbon of light into the darkest corners of one of the more hopeless situations unfolding on our planet today.

They are still helping today. It is powerful and beautiful. Their dedication is tremendous.

In the face of enormous odds against them, they have tenaciously, passionately, and truly helped people who have been discarded and forgotten, if they were ever known at all.

I spent much time, in the past, midwifing people through their process of death. Is it possible that I am here today to help in this terrible thing, the death of another baby, the Collateral Repair Project? I am reeling.

There is no lack of money on this planet. There is plenty of money. There is, instead, a Lack of Heart.

I weep for us all, now, as I grapple with what to say, how to communicate without alienating those who could help the CRP the most, if so moved.

"If we were so moved." Such a big word, this "if."

I have been in Amman for a grand total of three weeks. I see what the CRP has brought here, and is still bringing, every day. Everywhere we visit, people's eyes light up, with gratefulness and real, genuine, heartfelt love. Every family we have visited is profoundly changed by the small help the CRP has been able to give them.

We cannot erase the horror. CRP makes the horror smaller, every time, every single time.

Today for example: We went downtown and met Um Marwa. We went to the sewing machine shop and the CRP bought her Micro-project, a home sewing machine, a pair of scissors, and some extra needles and bobbins. Her worried face transformed in front of my eyes. Light came in where there was none before, only exhaustion and fear. When Sasha told her that the money for her new sewing machine came from people in America, from people in Japan, from Mexico, from Germany, England and other countries, she simply and sincerely responded, straight out and without hesitation:

"First: God Bless all these people, because they do it first for God, and then to help people in order for them to live.. God bless them and I thank them. Really." Later, at her house, a broad, slow smile lit up her tired face. "I was lost without my sewing machine."

What did the CRP give, here? Not only the machine, the bobbins, the needles, the pair of sharp scissors. The CRP gave hope back to this woman whose life has been so terribly changed by the War. Um Marwa dares to hope again, today, all because you gave to the CRP. Imagine it. Daring to hope again. Beautiful. Priceless.

Then, we went to visit Iklass and Raed, who will be resettling to southern Oregon in the next few months. They and their 5 children and another on the way....

I am not sure that the mother of this group, Iklass, was able to take in the news that they will get to resettle. Finally, slowly, as if she could barely allow herself to believe, she began to understand-- no more waiting.... no more endless Limbo... no more Waiting for Godot, who, if you remember or do not know, never showed up.

Raed, her husband, did understand. His entire demeanor changed in the winking of an eye.

From the depths of long-standing hopelessness and deep, toxic shame at not being "able" to provide for his own family here, a candle was lit in his heart.

I saw it light up, tiny at first, then beaming from inside him, out, out, touching his frightened and disbelieving wife, touching his hollow-eyed children. All of them could then smile, too. And laughter emerged, and Life was renewed, as though spring had come after an endless winter.

Trying as hard as they could to speak in English and to make themselves understood , they humbly thanked the CRP: "Really. Really. Thank you very much. Very much!" This, along with: "Muslims do Good, for God. You {all of you who have given to the CRP}, by doing all you have done for us, have already deserved to go to Mecca {the fulfillment of their highest and most sincere prayers}."

Hear me, all of you good people all over the Earth! I beg you, be moved by these people.

They have every reason to Hate. Their country is ravaged. Their homes, gone. Their children, some born with terrible deformities from residues of Depleted Uranium, forced to journey to a foreign land where, even if they cannot legally work here, at least they are not being mortared. Do they hate? Not in front of me. Not one time since I have come here. Instead, they forgive. They forgive!!

They say "We must help each other. We must!." They are referring not to us, but to themselves!

They, who have nothing, offer us dinner. It is all beyond the pale. Over the top. Beyond the Fringe.

Some other brief examples of what I am trying to convey, here:

Shemeron, whose new prosthetic not only actually fits her leg, it is also PADDED at the 'stump' end, and weighs about 4 pounds. Her "old" prosthetic is a dinosaur. It weighs about 45 pounds. It did not fit her. It was a tyrannosaurus which caused repeated wounding, blistering, and bleeding, rubbing the end of her leg raw, making every step a torture and a reminder of What Is Gone.

She-- unimaginably, for me-- nearly refused the new prosthetic, putting it off for some time. Why? She felt she did not "deserve it."

"I am sorry," she said. "I am sorry for the burden which I have placed upon the American people who have donated the money for this, my new leg." She sat, in shame. I wanted to fall through the floor.

I am here now, remembering…

On her way home from teaching in Baghdad last December, Shemeron stopped to buy bread in the marketplace. Boom! Her foot was gone. Dead people and blood and carnage were all around her. Somehow she made her way here. Somehow, she survived. And she feels ashamed-- ashamed of burdening you.

On my birthday, June 28th, we took a 13 year old boy downtown with his auntie, to buy him some summer clothes. He is not a healthy child. He had a fever, and is weak and sickly, on top of tremendous trauma and displacement. Still, they came, hand in hand. After picking out two pairs of pants, a pair of PJ's, some new underwear, a couple of shirts and tee-shirts, his aunt wanted to "be sure" that we would convey her thanks to those who gave to the CRP for her nephew:

"May God bless them. And may God paint a smile upon their faces and the faces of their children always. Thank you, thank you. I will remember you in every time of prayer, every day...." How beautiful. How eloquent. May God paint a smile....

Would we, as Americans, be able to forgive and to thank, if the tables were completely and utterly reversed and we were the Refugees and they the Givers? Would we be that big, inside? I can only pray it could be so. I pray it will be so. I pray it is so, now.

"Friends Share," says a little sign in my friend's house in California. Well, then:

By simply coming here, Sasha and Mary have transformed America from being "The Enemy" to being caring, compassionate, and generous friends. Sasha and Mary have shared and are still sharing all that they have, and all that they ARE. They have brought you to Amman, Jordan. They give in your names. Never once have I heard either of these two beautiful women take credit for any giving. They give, they say, "for you." For those who give to the CRP, they give all credit and all thanks, all the time, every time, unfailingly. Unflinchingly. They bring you here today, and every day in the life of the CRP.

How long a life? I cannot tell.

Five times a day, a Call to Prayer rings out, in Song, throughout this city. It reminds all of us to pray, Muslims and Christians and all the rest of us. Every day. Like a giant Clock marks the passing of time in other parts of the world, men cry out to pray to God. . Five times. Every day. Every night. It does not stop. There is no day off from this Call.

I Call to you, from the bottom of my heart, and in unison with all beating hearts upon this planet, to take another look into the eyes of the Iraqi people on the CRP website. These people are not terrorists. They are suffering civilians and humans, all. They could be you. Their situations are a living nightmare of the lowest degree. We have all been dreaming a violent Chaos into Reality. I beg us all now to wake up... wake up softly. Wake up truly. Wake up gently, too, as all of us need that now. Wake up, darling people all over the planet, and begin again: a new day, a day for Giving, not for getting. Let this baby of my two friends’ hearts Live!

We can help them "If we so choose." Pick up your pens and write the checks. Or go to your computer--a few clicks , a few minutes to spend sharing with friends.

http://www.collateralrepairproject.org/Donate.html

And may God paint a smile upon your computers, credit cards, and bank accounts

Sincerely,

Annie Tanner - CRP volunteer in Amman

The Collateral Repair Project

P.O. Box 8160

Medford, OR 97504

http://www.collateralrepairproject.org

May God Paint Smiles Upon Your Faces - Always

On the second evening after we arrived in the big city of Amman, Sasha and I walked several blocks down the main street of our neighborhood. We were expecting our first guest the following day and had only two cups in the cupboard, so it was time to go out and buy another one. We walked along a busy, 4-lane road to the Mukthar Mall, passing many small businesses and shops of all sorts.

It was my first 'taste' of Amman and of our neighborhood.

The Mukthar Mall is a conglomeration of many types of businesses, all housed under one big roof. It includes a hardware store, a grocery store, a store which carries household goods, and what we would consider to be "regular" mall shops of every possible kind. It is a busy place, filled with many people.

As we entered, Sasha was greeted by a woman named Rukaiyah, part of a family the CRP had helped in the past. Rukaiyah was with her nephew Firas, who appeared to be approximately nine or ten years old. Rukaiyah does not speak very much English, but she tried hard to communicate with Sasha, who she obviously holds in high regard. After reconnecting with Sasha and warmly welcoming her back to Jordan, she launched into her broken story, speaking quickly, almost breathlessly.

Firas is her sister's only surviving son -- her other four children were killed in the street in their hometown of Baghdad in 2006. Firas was with his brothers, and saw them all die. His parents owned their own home there. One was Shia, the other, Sunna, which was quite common before the war.

With the ensuing dismantling of the infrastructure which keeps peace and provides social services , sectarian violence blossomed where before there had been tolerance. Firas's parents were targeted by fundamentalists, who told them to "get divorced." When they did not, their home was mortared while they were inside of it. Firas's father was kidnapped. He has never been heard from again, and is presumed dead. Firas’ mother’s hips were broken when their home was mortared and have never set properly. She no longer has use of her legs and is in constant pain. Somehow, they made their way -- mother and son-- to Amman. They now live with Rukaiyah and her two brothers in a small two-bedroom apartment. Rukaiyah begged us to come and visit her sister, to see if there is anything the CRP could do to help them.

A few days later, with our Iraqi counterpart, we went to their humble home. We learned that not only is the mother crippled, she also suffers from major heart disease which would require expensive and extensive surgery. Sasha explained that, sadly, the CRP does not have the money to attend to her complex medical problems.

Sasha asked about Firas and we were astonished to learn that he is thirteen years old. Like many other children of war, he seems to have stopped growing shortly after witnessing his brothers’ deaths and his father's disappearance. We learned that he, too, is not well: his stomach does not 'hold' food well, he is weak, small and not thriving. It would cost, they said, 48 JD (approximately $60) to see a doctor and have tests done. The CRP gave the family 50 JD ($70), enough to cover the cost of the doctor and the taxi ride to and from the doctor's office.

We also told the family that CRP would help them to get some summer clothes for Firas, as he had none, and the weather was getting hotter by the day.

One June 28th, we met Rukaiyah and Firas in the old downtown area of Amman, where prices are generally much cheaper, and the dollars can go further. Firas was ill that day. He had a fever. We went to two shops, and CRP money purchased him 2 pairs of pants, a pair of long shorts, 3 pairs of underwear, 2 short-sleeved shirts, a tee-shirt, and a new pair of pajamas. Firas was all worn out by now, but beaming with happiness and relief, too.

Rukaiyah told us that the doctors said that Firas has severe anemia and that he must have an iron-rich, meat-rich diet in order to heal and to grow. They have no money for meat, she tells us. The doctors wanted to do more tests, she said, but it would require an additional 27JD.

Through CRP’s Heart to Heart-Hand to Hand campaign, one generous American donor had given the $40 dollars which would get Firas the rest of his tests. Rukaiyah was overwhelmed and happy for this "miracle."

Standing there, in the open cavern of a hallway surrounded by bustling crowds, her eyes full with sincerity and grateful beyond wildest imagination, she said "We THANK him! We thank him. And may God paint a smile upon his face and the faces of his family, always. Always. I will pray for him, at each time of prayer, forever. We are having a hard summer, and CRP has come in time."

By the end of this beautiful thanking, all of our eyes were wet. There they were, so small, so honest, so real, filled with radiant humanity and absolute humility. They shone.

Firas, too, said, "Thank you! Thank you!," using up his entire English vocabulary. His eyes said all the rest, in bright eloquence, times two.

We will see them again to find out the results of Firas’ medical tests.

We hailed them a cab. The door closed, and with a last wave, they disappeared into the traffic like a whisper, like a thought that dissolves before morning erases the clouds from our eyes.

by Annie Tanner - CRP volunteer in Amman

Abu Rukauyah and his Angels

Yesterday we went to visit Abu Rukaiyah and his beautiful wife and their kids. Abu Rukaiyah, the dad, is a handsome 36 year old man. He came to the main road, at the bottom of a mountainous hill, to meet us and walk with us up to his house. We have come, this day, to set up the delivery of his new micro-project, a tile-cleaning machine, and to document their story.

He and his wife have been in Jordan since fleeing Iraq in 2004. Their trip to Jordan was harrowing. They were followed, their car was shot at by machine-guns. The tires were hit first, and Abu Rukaiyah was shot in the leg, twice. (He rolls up his pant-leg, to show the scars, as though to prove that he is not making this up. It is mortifying and unnecessary to us, but despite this, the exhausted-looking young man was compelled for his own personal reasons, to show us.)

It appeared to me that he had been required to prove his story, perhaps over and over. He provided documentation of all possible details. This is not unusual for the refugee families. The papers were well-worn, all, but official and kept safely, for repeated re-use. After rolling the pants back down from the knee, he quietly and smoothly went on.

"I continued to drive. What could I do?" Another bullet just missed their then one year old daughter, lodging in his back. Miraculously, little Rukaiyah slept through all of this. They came upon American soldiers, who stopped the terrified young couple. They gratefully "helped us, me... they... fixed my leg..." and then escorted their limping vehicle and family to the Jordanian border between 2 Humvees.

Just after they got to Jordan, his wife, who was 6 months pregnant at the time of their flight to safety, hemorrhaged. They all spent the next 5 days in a hospital, where she gave birth to a tiny baby girl, who spent the following 56 days in an incubator in the hospital, Abu Rukaiyah paying all the rest of the money the family had in exchange. Miriam is about 4 now. Her heart is weak and cannot be repaired. She has multiple problems, both physical and mental, though she is absolutely adorable, all curly black hair and big eyes.

She cannot keep food down, as she cannot swallow properly. She will not ever grow normally. They must take care when touching her, as her skin is hyper-sensitive and she cries even with the gentle touch of her obviously loving mother. "It is hard for parents to look at their child like this," they sadly tell us.

Yet they clearly cherish her as they do all their children, three of them now, with their new baby boy, Yusef, who is darling, ever-cooperative with his patient parents for the entire time we were there (about 2 and a half hours). All the children were well-behaved, polite, and soft-spoken. Miriam is almost mute.

She continues to live almost exclusively on a special baby formula, which is expensive here. The family receives SOME aid but hardly enough. Sasha takes down a lot of information. She will "check in" with the doctors and other agencies, to see if there is money to help with the buying of the formula for tiny Miriam.

It is not certain that there will be help for them, as there are many thousands of others who also need. They know this. We know this, too, especially Sasha. I am just a learner, on the low end of a steep curve. "Whether there is help or whether there is no help, we thank you, and we thank the CRP, because you are here, and you are helping us."

As always, Sasha tells them that it is not we who are helping them, but donors from the U.S., Italy, Japan, England, Lebanon, Mexico, Canada, France, and many countries, many people who are really helping them:not her, not us. She never once takes credit for what others have given. Ever.

We note all their documentation about Miriam's health, for follow-up.

This family, as all the others, offer us tea and sweets. They surely gave up something to provide these things, but it is a point of honor for them, as with all those we visit, to be able to offer food to their guests. They insist we share; it would be insulting to them to refuse. They are sincere, and so dear and sweet-natured that it cracks your heart open, if not apart.

Abu Rukaiyah is possibly one of the gentlest men I have ever met. He has suffered from acute PTSD, and is still "shy" to ask for help. The men here have a terrible time, as they feel deep and toxic shame at not being able to protect or to adequately provide for their families. It is heartbreaking to read his doctor reports. Night terrors. Insomnia. Clinical depression. "No hallucination. No suicidal thoughts," reads his chart. He works, as much and as often as he can. He is hopeful that some men he knows are going to "allow" him to work with them with his new micro-project. "I know them... I trust them, " he says. He looks quiet and worried.

His beautiful young wife tells more: her father, too, journeyed out of Iraq in 2004. After having a VERY difficult time surviving here, he chose, instead, to return to Iraq in Dec., 2008. Two weeks later, he was kidnapped. No one has heard from him again. She looks bleak, introspective, as she thinks about what she has just said.

We climbed many, many (possibly 100) uneven steps to their apartment on a high hill overlooking the center of downtown Amman. They have a balcony outside, a large open area, as they live on the very top floor of their building. The view is beautiful and dizzying to look down into.

How will he get the heavy machine up and down these these stairs? Where will he store it that will be more logical and still safe? We are hoping he will be able to persuade those who say they will help him to work, to help this shy man yet again. It is clear that he is nervous to ask. It is clear to him, too, that he will have to ask. "Tomorrow," he says, visibly steeling himself.

Abu Rukaiyah has done any work he can do to help his family. Like most of the men and women we have met, he sincerely and even passionately says, "I will do anything. Anything." Sometimes he has worked as a volunteer for CARE organization. They intermittently take temporary volunteer workers who are paid a small stipend. This paid volunteer work is legal. Other employment is forbidden for non-resident Iraqi refugees though. He, as all the refugees, greatly fear the random raids on illegal workers from authorities and possible immediate deportation back to Iraq if they are caught. Working helps him - steadies him.

He, like all Iraqis, must make no problems for anyone while here in Jordan. Like so many others, he and his family do not hold a legal "refugee" status, which would provide them with some set rights. This legal status is not usually given until resettlement is granted. The process can take years. Until then, no matter what, he must not cause any anger from any boss or neighbor. There is too much risk. He can only hope that those he trusts will not greatly under-pay him or not pay him at all. If they do, he will have no recourse whatsoever.

In Iraq, he had a spare auto parts shop. After the initial bombings and the following breakdown of all security and safety infrastructures, sectarian violence and on-going war changed their world even more profoundly. He went home. "This is not your neighborhood. This is not your home." When he stayed, the front of the house was bombed out. They are grateful that they were not home.

Going to work, he was told,"This is not your shop." It was burned to the ground, with all of the money inside it. On that day, he tells us, he suffered a heart attack, as all was lost. This, too, is documented, as is every thing. Both the home he owned and his business are just "gone." After recovery, he went back to gather his family, and was greeted with these stark words: "This is not your country."

They fled.

Somehow, they have survived. They endure. How? "We believe in God. God is helping us. God is Good." How they actually survive is beyond my scope of understanding. Their inner strength, even when they are clearly still suffering emotionally and in many other ways, too, tangible and intangible, is a testament to the strength of their beings.

Our Iraqi translator/companion has a knack-- a gift, really-- for helping people to laugh, one who brings life and encouragement into the hearts of all the people we have gone to see. The 'mood' somehow remains easy, relaxed, open. These people with nothing, share everything with us. We are their honored American guests. They are beautiful.

Their plight, now, is "a terrible beauty," as one of my friends coined, an uncannily, horribly accurate phrase. These people are mightily struggling yet not giving up, but bending heavily under the load they must carry every day now. Hideously, their story is common, though the details are uniquely their own.

Abu Rukaiyah and his family were too afraid to resettle to the U.S., as they heard on the streets it would be very hard for them in the States. They will await resettlement, instead, to Germany. They ask us, "But how it will be for us, there?... as Muslims?" We do not know. We do not have any answers.

We can only care. We do care. We are proxies for you who cannot be here. We know that shared grief lessens the load for each. We are moved, profoundly, every day we are here making a chronicle of these once-proud people's stories, so that they will not be lost along with everything else.


We brought small and inexpensive gifts for the girls. Wings that light up, one purple pair, one bright pink, and crowns with fluff on them. The sisters look like fireflies, eyes sparkling with pleasure and with delight at this small present. I think they look like angels.





Out of the bedroom came a girl, Sahra, aged 10. We did not know she would be there. We have brought nothing for her. She brushes this away, all grace, and kind-faced too. She speaks little English, but really tries her hand at communicating. "Hello. Hello. I am Sahra. How are you?" She kisses us on each cheek, looking directly into our eyes. She is intelligent and soft.

We discover that she is Abu Rukaiyah's niece. She recently arrived in Amman with her mother, after her father was killed in Iraq. She listens silently while her uncle explains all this, displaying no emotion at all. She just looks at me. We make an arrangement to return to meet with Abu Rukaiyah's sister, who has, so far, not received any aid at all.




After dark, we leave. As we walk down the many, many stone and marble steps, the children call out, "bye!.... bye!... sala'am... bye!" I cannot see them, but they are there, close to the sky. We hope their new micro-project helps them. We will come back again, another day.






Posted by Annie Tanner - CRP volunteer in Amman

Your Gift Keeps on Giving - Salwa's Micro-Project

When your donations purchase equipment and supplies for a family to have a home-based "Micro-Project" cottage industry, we ask each recipient to sign an agreement that they will not sell the equipment and that they will return it to us for another family to use if they are granted resettlement to another country or if they *return to Iraq.

(*we often agree to allow families to take their Micro-Project equipment with them if they go back to Iraq, knowing that the situation there is even worse than in Jordan and that their project can help them earn a living there)

When Abu Abbas and his family were granted resettlement to the US (read more about this family in the post below this one), they returned the Iraqi bread oven CRP had given them for their Micro-Project so that another family could use it to earn a small income. We did not have anyone on our long list of those waiting for Micro-Projects who had requested an oven so we called another past recipient - also a baker - and asked if she knew of anyone who could benefit from the oven. She referred us to Salwa.


Salwa lives with her daughters - 11 year old Noorham, 18 year old Sally, two sons: 19 year old Saifadeen and his 23 year old brother, Ethier. They share the small apartment with her eldest daughter, Hadeer, who is married and has two small children - 4 year old Amir and his 8 month old sister, Rafaf.





Salwa is an Iraqi who had married a Palestinian man and they had raised their family in Iraq with no problems because of their different nationalities until after the lawlessness caused when the US invaded and dismantled the police and security forces. Then Salwa and her husband began getting death threats: They found notices tucked into the gate to their home that stated: "You are the cause of our problems because you are Palestinian" Salwa tells us of a taxi driver who drove between Jordan and Iraq and he was killed because it was assumed that he was Palestinian. The family was terrified. Salwa's husband left to go to his family in Palestine. No one in his family have seen him though - they think he may be held in an Israeli prison - but no one knows for sure.


Salwa's daughter, Hadeer, was married to an Iraqi man at the time and she was pregnant with Amir. Hadeer, her husband, Salwa and the other children fled to come to Jordan. Hadeer's husband was caught and forced back to Iraq (as were many "military age" men at that time). The women and children stayed in Amman. When Hadeer was nearly ready to have the baby, she returned to Iraq to be with her husband for this important time. When Amir was 2 months old, she and her husband attempted to go to Jordan again. Hadeer and the baby were allowed to enter but her husband was turned back at the border. He then attempted to come to Jordan again two weeks later. He never made it. The bus he was traveling on was attacked and everyone on it was murdered.

Hadeer has remarried - to a poor Palestinian man who lives here in Jordan. He is the father of baby Rafaf. He works but his job is intermittant and has very low wages. Salwa's eldest son works part-time in a restaurant at very low wages. The family all live together and pool their meager resources to get by. They are not enough.


Salwa is excited to receive the bread oven. Although a grandmother, she immediately ran to help the delivery man carry the heavy oven up the hillside to their home. Salwa made this type of bread when she lived in Iraq and looks forward to having useful work and being able to contribute to the family income.


She thanks you:

"Thanks to God there are people who care for us Iraqis. It is beautiful that they feel our feelings and try to help us. We pray only to see the end of our suffering here. When - insha'allah (God willing) - we can return to Iraq, we will always remember you as the only people who helped us"

Saying Goodbye to Old Friends as They Start New Lives in the US

For those of you who have been following CRP since the beginning, you may remember Abu and Um Abbas and their family. Abu Abbas was the very first CRP Micro-Project recipient; he received an oven specifically tailored to make the wonderful Iraqi flat bread. The flattened rounds of dough are thrown against the inner walls of a large drum oven, blistering and drying as they cook. After receiving their Micro-Project, this family was able to escape an exploitative situation where Abu and Um Abbas worked long hours and very low wages for the same man that also rented them an exceptionally low standard apartment at very high rent. After escaping this situation and through their hard work to establish customers for their bread - and expanding their wares to include Iraqi pickles and other Iraqi foods, their lives were much improved - but they still lived in poverty and with the uncertainty and lack of rights and options that all Iraqi refugees here endure.
(an old photo of the entire family)

Now they have been resettled to the US.

While waiting for acceptance, Abu Abbas told us that he hoped to find a community in the US where he can work, doing what he knows and loves best, cooking - feeding people. He hoped for a community that included Arab-Americans who would be familiar with the foods he creates. He knows that the employment situation for Iraqis in the US is not good - that even skilled US citizens who know the language are without work. But he has to take this chance - his only chance to make a life for his family - to be able to support them as a husband and father. He told me, "I will work hard; I am not afraid of work".

I met with Abu Abbas and his wife last week. They'd received notice that they were leaving in a few days to resettlement in Reston, Virginia and, as requested in our Micro-Project contracts, wanted to make arrangements to return the oven to us so that another family could benefit from it. Not everyone is as honest as Abu Abbas - even though it is only a very small percentage (less than 4%), some Micro-Project recipients sell their project equipment. Now that contributions to fund our projects have fallen off dramatically, we rely on turnover of existing projects to provide new projects for waiting families. We appreciate that Abu Abbas is honorable. In appreciation, we gave him $100 to help with the needs of his large family while traveling.

The following day, the eldest son, Abbas and his mother brought the bread oven to us so we could take it to a widow and her family. (story and photos of her and her family soon)

Iraqis are facing many challenges to successful resettlement to the USA. Some are even choosing to return to the dangers they fled from in Iraq rather than face absolute destitution in the US when they cannot find employment after their allocated initial resettlement support runs out. Having friends in their new communities can make a world of difference.

If you - or someone you know - lives in the Reston Virginia area and wants to offer non-financial, supportive friendship to this family, please contact us by e-mail: info(at)collateralrepairproject.org

YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE!

posted by Sasha Crow - CRP co-director in Amman

Catching up

Dear Friends of CRP

It's hard to believe that we've been in Amman nearly two weeks. We leaped immediately into activities here and the long days, the heat, and having been "intestinally challenged" have interfered with my grand plan and promise to make regular contributions to this blog. Now I have some catching up to do!

I'll post first about our partnership in celebrating World Refugee Day with two other NGOs (nongovernmental organizations) here: International Relief and Development (IRD) and Jordanian Alliance Against Hunger (JAAH). "Celebrating" is the wrong word - one cannot celebrate the fact that an estimated 35 million people worldwide are refugees. We cannot celebrate that one in every five Iraqis have lost their homes and the lives they'd had in Iraq and are now living stateless, without rights of citizenship and many without what they need for basic survival and well-being. This day is not cause for celebration for Iraqis in Jordan; it is yet another day, much like the days and now years that came before it where they struggle to make ends meet, cannot entertain plans for their futures nor can they return to what they had. With the exception of those who have been accepted for resettlement to a third country, most Iraqis here will be in the exact same situation as they are now when World Refugee Day rolls around again. We cannot celebrate but we can hope to raise awareness of this ongoing tragedy and ask you to not forget those who have lost everything when they were forced to seek refuge here.



JAAH and IRD sponsored two local events in Amman for World Refugee Day. Both events featured entertainment and activities for some of the 500,000 - 700,000 Iraqis in Jordan. Below are photos from these two events. At both events, CRP volunteer Annie Tanner shared her music and huge heart. At the JAAH event, CRP provided a children's art activity and also gave gifts to over 100 children.

Posted by Sasha Crow - CRP co-director - in Amman

We have the power to choose this and to make it so

Finally getting my feet on the ground here... jet-lag and insomnia are NOT a great combination. The past 2 nights I have been awake until AFTER the first "Call to Prayer", which happens at about 4:30 a.m.

1st 2 days in Amman: stark contrasts, poverty/wealth, a whole new culture to learn, great and profound sadness at the horror people are living while we do not know; humanity in the streets and in the city, new music, calls to prayer; rock, dust, spices, amazing food and outrageous music. All is different. All is the same.

I am well. I am safe. I am being alert. It seems appropriate, as I am still lost all the time. Sasha feels totally safe here, wandering the streets by herself, walking home at 11 pm through dark streets. She says she has done this alone for two years, and feels safer here than she did in Spain. I just got here, so of course it is all alien, still. Not to mention the chicken being one of my totem animals.

Yesterday we met a woman who the CRP had helped in the past. She was with her 10 year old nephew, and became very emotional when she saw Sasha.. We were in the grocery store at the "Mechtal Mall," a large conglomeration of stores and kiosks of varying types. Her nephew was a shy young kid, trying not to cry in public, while his auntie fell apart and told us that this kid's family all got killed in a 2006 bombing in Baghdad. One parent gone, disappeared off the face of the Earth, and both siblings, killed. Wars destroy innocent people's lives. I imagine this kind of story is just the beginning, just a taste of every refugee's nightmare story.

We went downtown to the main markets-- the same thing as the N. End markets in Boston, the open markets in NYC, the Porte Portese in Rome, only bigger and more of it than little Boston; the same things, with the vendors hawking and shouting, wanting you to come into THEIR shops, all highly organized chaos, new smells, mounds of spices in open barrels, tons of cloth for texture and color, all new things to see. The open markets have a universal feel.

It is really the same humanity, just a totally different culture. There is a lot of money here, smacked right up against intense poverty. We went and visited 2 families today-- absolutely stark nightmares being lived out by people who could easily be us, if we were unlucky enough to be in the way of our government. One teacher, a woman, with her leg blown off, a bad prosthesis, her 81 year old mother, crying through the nights with her broken daughter, with her brother, the only male left alive, an agricultural engineer who cannot even find a job cleaning the streets or toilets... the other family blown apart by this insane war we have orchestrated in the Middle East... I am crash-coursing on my history of this area (I know nothing)... all the people inCREDibly challenged-- imagine your most prosperous friends and family losing EVERYTHING and most of their family, then being displaced and then not allowed to work. It is crushing for these proud people. The few humanitarian aid workers I know find it difficult, at best, to find peace in themselves, maybe ever. They work tirelessly for the refugees. They will never stop, as long as there is a breath left in them. It is a testament to the nature of their beings. Powerful. Wrenching.

We also met today with 2 different local agencies that are giving "parties" for "World Refugee Day," which is Sunday, the 21st of June. The CRP was asked to donate something to these gatherings. They donated me. Music. What can singing a song do? I do not know, but I came here to help Sasha as she sees fit. She sees fit for me to sing, and so I shall. It is all beyond the fringe of my wildest imagination, yet clearly not that, but Real.

My job tonight? I am supposed to write a song about building bridges between Iraqi's and Americans, for the CRP and for a woman who works for an agency in London and travels around the world getting private donations from Iraqi's to help all these discarded people. My God.

Can a song change anything? Can it heal anything? Outside, a man in a mosque singing the 3rd of 5 Calls To Prayer. The timing is perfect in this, yes? PRAY. Then, ACT.

Me? None of the awfulness, the "collateral damage," is a big surprise to me, I have always KNOWN that wars rip and tear people to shreds, normal people, average people, doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs. Experiencing it THIS way, hearing story upon story of complete devastation, brings another whole set of emotions. I am all over the board, here, and not really answering even myself. How DO I feel? Sad. Impotent. Empathetic. Powerless but for compassion and small kindnesses given.

I am steady inside myself. My core is solid. I know who I am. I know what I can give and what I cannot. I am clear about my role. I do not make myself important. All I can give is myself, so I will give myself. If I cry every single day (I am sure I will), then so be it. I brought some of my mom's and grandmother's handkerchiefs. I carry kleenex and water. I will need to sleep more. I think I already said this but will plow on.

I can hardly believe I am here. Then I look around, and I AM here.

The difference between last week and the last two days? The pain here is visceral. We have allowed our government to destroy millions of innocent people's lives. For what? We need to change.

Imagine: we know NOTHING of the realities of life in Iraq before us. Imagine: thousands of years of Shiites and Sunna living together in peace in Iraq. They have a saying here: "The Daughter of the East Marries the Son of the West." That is the reality before us. The rest is smoke and mirrors. We are dazed. They are dying while we dream an ugly dream into reality. Wake up. Then, ACT.

WARS DESTROY. And for WHAT? and WHY?

Imagine: your beautiful life in an ancient and diverse culture. Imagine: monumental violence perpetrated, total manipulation. Imagine: massive loss, devastation, shock, death, mutilation. Imagine not a terrorist in the group, only teachers and doctors and engineers and mothers, fathers, orphans all, ripped from Home and no income now. Crushed by bombs and ignorance and passivity. Weep. Then, ACT.

While we are waking, weeping, praying, and then acting, could we please all stand up and ACT FOR PEACE? Peace. What a concept. NO MORE WARS. NO more participation in wars. NO funding for wars. We have the power to choose this and to make it so. DO IT. People are dying while we just forgot or never knew. PEACE NOW PEACE NOW PEACE NOW PEACE NOW

by Annie Tanner - CRP volunteer in Amman