A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea(25)
When Doaa’s family first arrived in Egypt, they were mostly unaware of the public opposition that had begun to build against the Brotherhood and President Morsi within months of his taking office. The family were more preoccupied with the news from their own home country. To the Al Zamels, the Muslim Brotherhood’s government was the one that had given them refuge and offered them much-needed help during a time of crisis. They also knew that Morsi was a vocal supporter of the Syrian opposition in its rebellion against President Assad. Up until then, the Al Zamels had had mainly positive interactions with the Egyptian government.
Officials from the local branch of the Muslim Brotherhood government made regular rounds to the buildings housing Syrian refugees to check in with them. After enduring the anxiety-inducing raids back in Syria, the first time Doaa’s family heard knocking at their door, they all froze in fear, suspicious of any unexpected visitors. Doaa stood by her father, ready to offer her support, as he opened the door. Instead of aggressive soldiers with guns, they found two smiling men standing in the doorway, one holding a plastic bag, the other with an armful of warm blankets.
“You are welcome here. You are our brothers,” they said, offering Shokri their goods. Doaa peered over her father’s shoulder and discovered that the bag they held was filled with pasta, sugar, rice, and other staples. The man with the plastic bag handed it to Shokri, while the man with the blankets bent down to set them on the floor just inside the doorway. Shocked, Shokri stammered out his thanks.
While handouts like these were helpful, the family still had no money for rent. After two weeks, Shokri began to ask around for a cheaper place to live. To his astonishment, he heard of an Egyptian hotel owner who wanted to help Syrian refugees by offering free accommodation for the winter season while his hotel was empty. From May until October, the Gamasa neighborhood of Damietta was filled with working-class Egyptians who flocked to the beaches and cheap hotels along its Mediterranean shore for a summer vacation, but during the winter, the area was deserted.
Doaa and her family couldn’t believe that someone would be offering a free place to stay, so Shokri went to check out the place. When he returned, he was optimistic. So the Al Zamels once again packed up their belongings and took a cheap three-wheeled tuk-tuk to Hotel Amira. It was on a dirt road, in sight of one of the biggest mosques in Gamasa. The blue and white paint was chipping off the picket fence, which had collapsed in places as if a car had driven into it. Khalid, the hotel manager, together with his wife and children, rushed out to greet them, inviting them to explore the grounds and to choose a family suite. They were the first Syrian-refugee guests in the hotel, so they could have their pick of the rooms.
Inside the hotel was more chipped paint, and the single beds creaked from wear and age. Meanwhile the appliances in the small kitchen and bathroom were cracked and rusty, but the rooms did have wide balconies that overlooked the hotel garden, where they could see green grass, a huge palm tree, sculpted bushes, and welcoming benches. The hotel was a haven of humanity to them, and they were deeply grateful. They chose a suite with two adjoining bedrooms, and Khalid handed over the keys.
The hotel owner, Fadlon, would stop by now and then, offering the family his sympathy and respect. Whenever the Al Zamels expressed their gratitude for his generosity, he always claimed that he was happy to help them, and every time he spotted nine-year-old Hamudi on his own, he would slip some bills into his hand, knowing that Shokri and Hanaa would be too proud to accept his cash. Word of Fadlon’s generosity spread around town, and soon the hotel filled up with Syrian refugee families. In the afternoons, refugee guests gathered around a long wooden picnic table in the garden, exchanging stories about life before the war and the pain and suffering that followed. Locals and religious groups who sympathized with the Syrians dropped clothing and blankets off by the hotel. Time and time again, the people of Egypt made them feel welcome.
One evening after the Al Zamels had lived there for one month, Khalid invited them to his home for a meal. He, his wife, and their four sons lived about an hour’s drive away in a small suburb called Kfar AlGhab. Khalid’s wife cooked them a dinner of soup, salad, and duck with rice. After the meal, Khalid took them on a tour of his neighborhood and introduced them to neighbors as his Syrian friends. Khalid became the Al Zamels’ first Egyptian friend, and for the first time since leaving Syria, Doaa felt a comforting sense of home.
As winter came to an end the hotel began to fill up with guests, and Doaa and her family had to leave their haven. They searched for new accommodations, but this time they found no sympathetic building owner to help them. Landlords often price-gouged Syrian renters, taking advantage of their desperation.
Shokri earned a little money from odd jobs, but not much. The family soon moved into a small apartment in a noisy area of Gamasa that was littered with trash and piled with dirt from the unpaved road. Doaa’s heart sank the first time she saw it. Noise assailed the family day and night as Egyptian vacationers stayed up late, playing music and talking loudly in the streets. Doaa often lay awake in bed, unable to sleep and yearning for the quiet nights of Daraa before the war.
While her sisters made friends with the girls in the neighborhood, Doaa sank into a depression, unable to eat and spending entire days in the dreary apartment watching news from Al Jazeera, Orient News TV, and the Free Syrian Army channel, aching to be home and taking part in the revolution. She desperately tried to make contact with her friends back in Syria, but the phone lines were mostly cut or jammed and she rarely got through. Occasionally, she managed to reach her sister Asma for just a few minutes on Skype.