Entering someone else’s house is always a privilege. As a guest, you are able to see how rooms are arranged, what kind of decorations line walls, and what stories inhabit the visited, private spaces. Through a series of intimate conversations with women living in the Harsham Camp, a space of sharing was created. This photo graphic project aims to portray the surprising beauty of the fact that even in the harshest situations, hope is still alive, and that this time, it took on the shape of flowers.
Dear Mom,
The story I am about to tell you is about those days I spent
at the Harsham Camp in Erbil, Iraq. It seemed to me a land of extremes: the heat of the sun, the dryness of the desert, and the sweetness in the tea came in excess.
I met families that had lost everything, women who had lost their husbands, children who had lost their parents. Cities destroyed completely by war. I can somehow put myself in their shoes, because I know what it means not to be able to go back to the place you call “home”. It is a feeling that can only be understood by those who have gone through it,
I guess. Once you’ve gone through this, you live in constant gratitude, in a way: for being alive, for having a roof over your head, for looking towards an uncertain future, but
at least a future. Both in Venezuela and in Iraq, societies have been oppressed and abused by powerful regimes. Therefore, I have come to understand that when we are away, we learn to remind ourselves to be grateful.
When I was in the camp, I entered every house I could, talking to all the women of the families. You know me, just as I am interested in places of the world, I will also always be
interested in the lives of those who inhabit them. From the outside, it was just a standard shelter unit, a container. But inside, I began to wonder about cultures and societies, how I was raised, about women in the Middle East, and the ever-Western point of view. There are rules and codes, clichés and truths. I tried to avoid misjudgments because
I am, in reality, a foreigner there.
The story I want to share is about the women who welcomed me, about respect, kindness, and hospitality. During the day, the temperature was never lower than 42°C.
They would offer me cold water, Coca-Cola, or tea. It was nice to be indoors: it was cooler,
a small breeze from the fan would move the curtains. We would take our shoes off, sit on the floor, talk. In these moments, you would forget that you were in an UNHCR camp. I would look around and notice the white walls of the container – that and the numbers used by the camp managers to identify the houses of the 300 families were the
only ‘cold’ things about the camp. Inside, the containers had been transformed with decorations, flowers, tapestries, textures, paintings, and Arabic letters spelling out ‘Allah’.
None of them were from before, they were part of a new beginning.
I never felt sadness in these places, instead, I felt ease and calm. It was more like they were accepting their role, the role they were born in, the one God gave them. In some moments, they had to ask for their husband’s permission to be in a photo. In other moments, they (without their husbands) would ask me not to show their faces. A few of
them allowed me to, but then asked me not to publish the photos, for their protection.
It was always better when there were no men. I met widowed women who were still wear-
ing their wedding rings, ones in arranged marriages for money, second wives, women who could not read or write. I would hear details about how they fled, sorrowful stories about how they had lost someone. I found that a veil covered them all.
This project made me think of you. They all had the same answer when I would ask them
what they wanted: a better future for their children and to be somewhere safe. Mom, can we all find a home somewhere else, or are we just decorating over a pain that does not go away?
It also seems ironic how I found so many flowers in the desert.
Te quiero,
Ale
