Amr Al-Faham, his wife Rasha and their 5-months old son Kareem arrived in Toronto from Turkey on December 6, 2016 - the second family sponsored by the Ripple Refugee Project. He describes what it means for him to be a permanent resident in a country for the first time in his life.
It’s been a week and I am still in the
denial phase that I am here, in famous Toronto. But more importantly, I am here
with a legal status that allows me to become a citizen in a specific number of
years. This means that there will be no more queuing and pushing and being
pushed for hours in the crowded residency permit offices in all the countries I
lived in. No more running back and forth for days to renew my residency and
repeat this process every single year. No more bribing and faking a smile to the
officers so they can facilitate my residency permit without complications. More
importantly, no more fear of the future and feeling vulnerable every time a
major incident happens in a country I live in.
I
still cannot believe that on arrival, and with a two-hour process, I was
provided with documents that will help change my life for the better and for the
rest of my life. I am a permanent resident in a country that I come to for the
first time in my life.
In the thirties of the last century, my grandfather
opened the fifth modern pharmacy in Damascus, and went to Iraq to open one of
the first pharmacies in an Iraqi city. This is where he got the opportunity to
get the citizenship of the back-then new-born kingdom of Iraq. He kept the
Iraqi citizenship believing that Iraq will be one of the best countries in the
world as it has oil and agriculture and an old civilization with a rooted culture
of education and production, and he dropped or neglected the Syrian
nationality.
After spending most of his life moving
between Iraq and Syria, he decided to settle in his city of birth, Damascus,
with his daughters and sons but he left us; his grandchildren, the legacy of
Iraqi nationality.
So I was born in Damascus, Syria but with
an Iraqi citizenship. And ever since, I had to renew my residency every year.
My father had to renew my residency for me when I was a child and I still
remember how difficult it was as the diplomatic ties were cut and borders were
sealed between Damascus and Baghdad for over 22 years. My father had to know
key people in the Syrian ruling Baath Party so he could succeed in keeping his
and our residency going, and each year he had to make the phone calls. When I
grew up I started to take his role and visit the residency offices but still my
father had to make the phone calls and the prearrangements with his connections.
Things kept going this way until 2003 when
the Americans invaded Iraq and millions of Iraqi refugees flooded Syria. In a
few months, I turned into “just another Iraqi” in Syria and the government did
not distinguish between my case and the newcomers’ cases. My father’s
connections became old and left their positions and thus became useless, and the
Syrian government had asked me to head to the “Bureau of Immigration and
Passports” to be issued a residency permit. I still remember the first time I
went there; I had to queue for seven hours in a very crowded and loud room.
While queuing, the person behind me advised me to put a bribe of 500 Syrian
pounds in my passport (which was worth USD10 back then) and hand it over to the
officer when I reach his desk. And yes, everyone was doing the same. Collecting
the residency permit was another painful process where people would crowd and
push each other and shout while collecting their stamped documents.
In the following years the residency
renewal became much easier - not because the Syrian government had improved it,
but because my elder brother figured out a new magical way; he would enter the
Bureau with a fat wallet and start distributing Syrian pounds notes here and
there. Once, he asked me to accompany him and I was astonished as he looked
like he was entering a bellydance night club where all the officers were saluting
him while receiving the notes and slipping them in their pockets and desk
drawers.
In 2013, two years after the demonstrations
started and developed into a war, the Syrian regime was torturing and/or
killing all the activists. Being one myself, I had to flee Syria to what was
supposed to be my country: Iraq. I left to Iraqi Kurdistan to the city of
Suleimani (Assulaimaniyya). Being classified as an Arab in their eyes, the
Suleimani Kurdish local authorities issued me a yearly residence permit after a
long interrogation process, asking me unfamiliar questions such as “what is your
race? What is the name of your clan? Are you Turkmen but pretending to be an
Arab?”
I was alright with that as long as I received a legal status, but it was surprising to me that I had to have a
residency permit issued in my own country of citizenship. The more surprising fact was
when I was traveling from Suleimani to the other Kurdish city of Erbil to meet
my brother who had just moved there. The Kurdish Assaiish (Police) had sat up a
big checkpoint at the city’s entrance, and the first time I was passing there,
they stopped me and asked for my residency card, saying that my Suleimani card was not valid in Erbil because I was an “Arab” in their eyes. I was asked to
proceed with the Erbil residency permit in order to be able to enter the city.
Of course Turkish and European citizens did not require this permission; it was
only the citizens of Iraq from another race.
On the second trip to Erbil I met Rasha,
whom I fell in love with, and decided to travel to Erbil every second week to
see her. But this meant that I had to cross the Erbil check point with an entry
permission card every time I wanted to see her. The Erbil entry permission
issuing process took between an hour to four hours. The process starts when the
Assaiich member discovers that there is an Arab in the car and he would scream
to his colleagues: ”Here is another Arab!” I then would be asked to go to a
large fenced open area with no chairs or trees and queue, sometimes push and be
pushed, and fight until I got this permit card. I had to wait in the heat
of 45 degrees summers, and in the cold of -1 degrees winters, I have seen old
men crying, and sick people begging the officers so they can enter the city to
receive treatment.
The Erbil checkpoint became much more crowded
after ISIS invaded Mosul and a big wave of Mosul’s residents fled to Iraqi
Kurdistan. But across the two years I stayed in the Kurdish region, I have lied
to the officers, played tricks with them and faked the dates of old permit
cards so I could access Erbil and meet my love.
In late 2014 I moved to Turkey with Rasha
whom I married later, and for the first time in my life I did not have to bribe
or call connections or key people in order to get a residency permit.
Everything was clear and the process was relatively easy. But I still have renewed
my residency two times, as I had to renew it on a yearly basis. I had this sense
of insecurity and of the “what if”: what if the Turkish government changed the
rules of treating the Syrian refugees, what if I was not allowed to renew my
residency for any reason? Where would I go as I cannot go home? What will
happen to me?
In July 2016, the Turkey coup attempt has
raised the same fears and the same “what if” questions I always had. My newborn son
was in the incubator in a faraway child hospital, and we did not know what will
happen to us if the coup had succeeded.
So here I am in Toronto at my Canadian
sponsors' family house, with a document that will last for years and with a
clear status that will save and protect my rights as a normal human being who
doesn’t have to bribe, use dodgy connections, explain whether he is Arab or
Kurd, state his religion or swear to the officers that all he said was
true. On the other hand, the sponsoring group is offering us with all possible
ways of support; introducing us to basic knowledge of our new home country and
offering us all sort of help and support. To be honest, this is too good to be
true and I am still living in the denial phase.
