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Elaina nodded her head. “OK, Joe or Mr. Gold. You can call me Elaina or Nurse Elaina in front of patients, but you still have not answered my question about your religion.” The way she looked at me told me she wanted an answer, and she wanted it now.
I sat there expressionless. I wanted to answer the religious question but couldn’t bring myself to. “Do you have a last name?”
“Nagi. It means ‘a close friend of Allah’ in Arabic. Does Gold have any specific meaning?”
“I never even thought about it. It has been my family name for generations. I suppose someone in my family had a lot of gold. Now that we have our names out of the way, shall we begin the tour?”
Elaina frowned. “Not yet. Again, you still haven’t told me your religion. It’s such a simple question.”
I clasped my hands in front of my body and shook my head. There was just no way around this. This looked like the beginning and end of my so-called relationship with Elaina. Although I was shocked a little by her being a Muslim, I was trying to accept it. Hopefully, she would do the same for me despite the history of fear and hatred between Muslims and Jews.
“Please try not to be upset. I’m Jewish, although not a very religious one.”
“So you are Jewish. So are half the doctors I have worked with here. They are all wonderful people. None of them are Israelis, though.”
“You don’t like Israelis?”
“I was never allowed to go to Israel due to the differences between our governments. Growing up, I only heard bad things about them. It’s hard to say whether I like or dislike them. I can only go by what my parents told me. Wait, I did meet a few in England, and they were all nice people, but I never associated with them. It was taboo in my family.”
“I see. Well, I’m not Israeli and have only visited Israel once, when I was thirteen years old. I am also not always a fan of the Israeli government. You mentioned your parents. I don’t mean to pry, but are they still alive?”
As soon as I asked, the smile on her face disappeared utterly. Her lips tightened as she shook her head several times. She looked down at the ground. “No, my parents were killed in a van as we tried to avoid the bombs of the Syrian Army. They were killed instantly, but my brother and I survived since we were sitting in the back.”
I could see tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I have no idea what you feel, as I have never experienced anything like that. I’ve never been to war, and my parents are alive and well in New York. Again, I’m so sorry. Forgive me for asking. It must be tough to talk about it.”
“Yes, it is. I was in shock for a long time, but my brother needed me to take care of him. He became deaf from the bomb blast and now depends on sign language to communicate. Yet he is happy here.”
“How old is he, and does he live with you?”
“Fifteen. He was young when our parents died. No, he lives with Salah and two other teenagers. Salah is an older man who is like an uncle or father to me. When I need help with something, I often talk to him. I would love to have my brother live with me, but I am so busy working and visiting patients that I do not have enough time to care for him. Plus, there are not enough rooms in the hospital area for Ishmael. He needs his own space. However, we see each other frequently, and I try to cook him a meal at least a few times a week.”
“I assume that Salah communicates with him via gestures or signs?”
“Yes, Salah knows how to communicate with him. He is not as good as me, but he tries hard to teach Ishmael how to work in the bread factory and learn new vocabulary words in writing. It’s not easy being deaf in this refugee camp.”
“I imagine it’s not. Does he have any hope to get his hearing back?”
“At this time, no. Maybe if he was in the United States, the doctors there could do something for him.”
“That’s so sad.”
That seemed to piss Elaina off. She folded her arms in front of her chest and frowned at me. “Yes, he’s deaf, and yes, it would be great if he could hear, especially in a place like this, but he’s happy, so that is not sad. What is sad is the thousands of Syrians who were killed by the monster controlling the government and the rest of the world that ignores the actions of the government.”
I sat there, torn between the desire to comfort Elaina and the realization that such an intimate conversation had unfolded between us—a conversation that delved into our family histories, particularly hers. My arms remained at my sides, unable to offer the solace I longed to give. Elaina’s vulnerability hung in the air, and I waited, my silence echoing hers. How did she endure the unimaginable horrors she described? Her resilience astounded me. To carry on after witnessing such devastation required an indomitable will that defied the darkness that threatened to engulf her.
And yet, there she sat, recounting her past with a courage that humbled me. How did one find the strength to smile after enduring the unspeakable? Elaina’s spirit was unyielding, her determination unwavering.
As for myself, I wondered: had I witnessed my family torn apart, their lives shattered by violence, I might have crumbled. Perhaps I’d be confined to a mental institution, haunted by nightmares, or worse, swallowed by the very darkness that had consumed her homeland.
Elaina’s bravery was a beacon, illuminating the path forward. I glimpsed tragedy and triumph in her eyes—the indelible marks of survival etched upon her soul.
And yet, there she sat, recounting her past with a courage that humbled me. How did one find the strength to smile after enduring the unspeakable? Elaina’s spirit was unyielding, her determination unwavering.
After being silent momentarily, I said, “Your story is incredible. Most people in your shoes would have crumbled. Are you all right to give the tour?”
I looked down and shook my head. After a moment, I heard Elaina’s sweet voice. Somehow, her mood had changed. Indeed, I was not expecting that.
“I am OK now. Shall we begin our tour of the camp? Hopefully, you will find it interesting and enjoyable,” she said with a playful tone. “The people here have a lot to offer if you get to know them.”
I nodded, and Elaina and I got into a golf cart with her in the driver’s seat.
Our initial destination led us to a play area where a lively group of young children awaited. Elaina gracefully stepped out of the golf cart, immediately capturing their attention. She conversed with each child individually, her words flowing in Arabic—a language foreign to my ears. Yet, comprehension wasn’t necessary; the transformation on their faces spoke volumes. Elaina, an unspoken inspiration, illuminated their world.
I stood there, a silent observer, witnessing the magic unfold. Her bond with those kids transcended language barriers. She embraced them, one by one, and they responded in kind—a symphony of hugs, laughter, and shared warmth. In that moment, Elaina became more than a person; she embodied hope, resilience, and the power of human connection.
We got back into the golf cart and turned onto the street; Elaina said, “Za’atari has a busy market known as the Sham Elysees, which stretches almost three kilometers through the center of the camp.”
I looked down the road and saw what seemed like a thousand shops.
“This is unbelievable,” I said. “How do they do it?”
“The Jordanian government trains with us and helps us out. Many trucks bring goods here daily. We will see more of this later. Of course, you are free to explore some of these shops whenever you wish. They will love your money.”
“I’m sure they will. So, what’s next?”
“This refugee camp comprises all kinds of people from all over Syria. We have doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, and so forth. They all had to leave their previous lives at home and start over. Most of them are unable to work anymore in their chosen field.”
“So, what do they do all day long?”
“Some of them have part-time jobs. Some have become vegetable growers. Some work at improving the electricity grid so we can have internet. They do not wallow asking for pity.” She pointed toward a building adorned with Arabic writing on a blue background. “That’s where the bread is prepared. It is a grand kitchen. The bread is delivered to the people in the camp for free. Depending on their family size or caravan, which is like a mobile home, they get a certain number of loaves each day.”
I seized the opportunity to engage her in conversation.
“I can see that. Can we visit? I’d like to see.”
“Yes, you will have the opportunity to meet Salah and Ishmael.”
“Wow, bread for everyone. That must be some task.”
“Yes, it is. They make thousands of loaves a day. My brother works there. Salah is the boss of the bread factory. He has experienced great tragedy in Syria, as his whole family was killed. Yet, he always thinks optimistically. He has looked out for Ishmael and me since we arrived here and treats us like his children.”
As we approached the bread factory, a cheerful old man called, “Welcome, Elaina!” He rushed over and gave her a big, warm hug. His thick grey mustache, bald head, and aura of genuine warmth welcomed me. He pointed to me. “Who dis young man?”
“Salah, I want you to meet Joe Gold. He’s doing an internship with us for one year.”
I reached out my right hand to shake his firmly.
“Joe, this is Uncle Salah.”
“Please excuse English. It so good to meet you,” Salah said, greeting me with a warm smile. “Anyone a friend of Elaina, a friend of mine, too.”
“It’s good to meet you, too,” I replied. “Elaina told me a lot about you.”
“Joe, you can talk to Salah. Give me ten minutes, and I will get my brother. Uncle, please keep him company. I’ll be right back.”
I nodded as Elaina excused herself.
Salah turned to me. “She love her brother, do not like separate much. I tell her he’s old enough now to take care of himself. But she doesn’t listen.” He shrugged. “She is her brother’s voice. She speaks and listens for him.”
“Yes, I see. She must love her brother a great deal. Out of curiosity, how many loaves of bread do you make daily?” I asked as I glanced at all the piles of bread being made.
“I never count. Many, thousands, who knows. We deliver bread to hospitals, camps, houses, all over.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of work,” I said in amazement. “How long have you been working here?”
“I came here when I fifty-five. Now I’m old, I’m seventy, so fifteen years.” His face and hair looked its age, but he seemed in good shape and had a lot of energy. However, his expression darkened. “It feels like it’s been forty years already. My family all killed by government murderers.”
“I’m sorry you lost your family. That must be very tough. Yet you treat Elaina as your daughter or niece. That is special.”
“Thank you, Joe Gold. Yes, Elaina very special. Wonderful woman.”
Our conversation was interrupted by Elaina, who returned with a young man by her side. “This is Ishmael, my younger brother.” Ishmael was slightly shorter than Elaina. He had the beginning of a beard, short curly hair, and a face that exuded innocence. I reached out my hand, and he politely shook it. While holding it, I said, “Hello, Ishmael. How are you doing? I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister.”
Ishmael responded with a big question mark on his face. Then he looked at Elaina and moved his head sideways towards me as if to say, Who is this man, and what is he doing here?
Elaina said, “It’s nice you talk to him, but he is deaf, so he cannot hear you, and he knows almost no English.”
My embarrassment was palpable as I realized I had forgotten this crucial detail she had shared. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just—” I started to apologize but stumbled over my words.
Elaina reassured me kindly, “It’s all right. You’ll get used to it.”
She then turned to her brother and began communicating with him through gestures. She wrote my name on the palm of her hand, and Ishmael, attentively watching her, turned to me and offered a warm smile. Feeling embarrassed about my earlier mistake, I signed “I’m sorry” by pointing to my heart and expressing sorrowfully to convey my apology.
Ishmael’s eyes widened in understanding, and he shook his head. “It’s OK,” he said with a forgiving smile.
Salah said, “Joe, would you like to taste bread? Very good. You enjoy.”
“Sure.”
We followed Salah into the building, where they baked the bread. Stepping inside the shop, I was struck by the unexpected grandeur. The factory appeared a bit congested, but as I ventured deeper into the shop, I discovered a labyrinth of interconnected compartments that extended the space even further.
The shop nestled in the heart of the Za’atari camp was like no other I had ever seen. Men and women of all ages, adorned in an array of traditional Middle Eastern clothing, were engaged in breadmaking. Some were kneading dough, while others showcased their skills in rolling out paper-thin rounds with practiced precision. A woman wearing a colorful hijab formed the dough into circles, her nimble fingers flipping them onto a large, concave griddle known as a ‘saj.’ Nearby, a baker with a weathered face tended to a roaring tandoor oven, using long wooden paddles to place dough onto the inner walls. The bread bubbled and blistered under the heat, creating an enticing charred aroma. Meanwhile, a young girl with curious eyes sprinkled sesame seeds onto dough brushed with olive oil, enhancing each round of bread with a burst of flavor.
There must have been fifty people, all hard at work. Many of them glanced at Elaina and me and smiled. Since I knew no Arabic, I could only wave and smile back.
Salah approached me, cradling a freshly baked round of bread. The bread had been baked to perfection, with a tantalizing aroma that made my mouth water. Salah extended the bread to me with a warm smile.
“Try this,” Salah said, his eyes twinkling with pride.
“Thank you, Salah. I can’t wait to taste it. Shall I do so now?”
“Sure, go ahead. Try.” He looked at my face anxiously to see if I enjoyed the bread.
As I chewed, I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. It was as if the bread held the essence of the people’s warmth, and their culture’s richness rolled into a single, humble round. I felt a deep connection to this place, its people, and their traditions, as if I had stumbled upon a hidden treasure. I had eaten plenty of pita bread with hummus and other foods at home, but this was so homemade.
Salah, observing my reaction, smiled even more expansive. “Good, yes?”
I nodded vigorously, my mouth too full to speak, but my expression conveyed my delight. Salah clapped, and Ishmael followed his lead. “You come again anytime for more bread.”
“I will certainly do so. This is delicious.” I looked at Elaina, who informed me it was time to go, so we said our goodbyes.
Before leaving, Salah packed me a loaf of bread for breakfast. I expressed my gratitude to both and bid them farewell with a sense of warmth in my heart.
Just as we were leaving the shop, Salah called out to Elaina and said something in Arabic to her, to which she nodded in acknowledgment. With that, we continued our journey, my heart and stomach full of the memories and flavors of the morning,
After getting into the golf cart, Elaina said, “We need to stop at one more place, a teahouse. If you want to learn more about our culture, tea is our most important drink. Many Syrians like to drink yerba mate, which is a herbal tea. Please don’t say no. We consider tea to be not just a drink but a symbol of hospitality and generosity, so do you fancy a cuppa, as they say in England? They also have water pipes that people use to smoke.”
Her offer took me aback. She was so sweet. We had barely met, and she was opening her whole world to me. Besides, learning more about Syrian culture was a good idea if I wanted to work here. “Sure, lead the way. I’ll drink tea, but no way will I smoke the water pipe.”
Five minutes later, we were sitting in a tea café amongst many refugees. The teahouse had about twenty small round tables. The first person we met in the teahouse was Mohammed, the owner. He welcomed us with a loud, deep, and booming voice.
“Welcome to my teahouse, Elaina. Who’s this young, good-looking man you have brought with you?”
“This is Joe. He will be working at the hospital for a year. I am giving him a tour of the camp.”
Mohammed and I shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Mohammed. I look forward to trying some tea.”
“Sure. You are welcome here anytime. We welcome American money.”
I laughed. “I’m sure I will be here many times.”
“How do you like it here so far?”
“I have only been there two days, but what I have seen is very impressive.”
“Very well. I will let you and Elaina converse and drink some tea. If you need anything, please ask.”
“Will do.”
Elaina and I sat at a table near the wall in the back, which gave us some privacy. I looked around to see what people were drinking. I noticed a few people drinking from what seemed like a bowl.
“What’s that?” I pointed to one of them.
“That’s a gourd. We can share one as a sign of our new friendship.”
After a few sips, which I found very tasty, Elaina shared with me that Salah had asked her to attend a wedding.
. “Really? A wedding? I hope the two people getting married are in love. I bet it’s hard to find the perfect match here.”
“You are right. It’s hard to find a perfect match here. Most of these marriages are convenience marriages. People who arrive here have lost their families and loved ones, so those who have no companionship seek a partner to share meals and nights. While many do find love in their marriages, most don’t. Isn’t it strange? Every human yearns for love, yet we often fail to find it and end up feeling alone.”
“It is,” I agreed. “So, what about you? Do you… have someone you like?”
She chuckled, lightening the atmosphere and relieving me. “No. Uncle Salah keeps nagging me about it, but I’m quite busy treating patients, and Ishmael is still a kid. He is my whole life right now.” She looked straight into my eyes. “If you marry me, you marry him.”
Her response sparked a glimmer of hope and a newfound confidence in my heart. Since I had first laid eyes on her, my heart had been silently yearning for her. I had considered asking her on a date, but I was apprehensive about leaving the wrong impression or crossing cultural boundaries. However, I decided to heed my own advice and be patient.
“So, how long have you been here? You seem to know everyone.”
“I came to Za’atari eight years ago as a refugee.”
Though she appeared somewhat reserved, I could sense her confidence and readiness to engage. She wasn’t the type to remain silent while others talked, a trait I had picked up from our initial interactions.
“With the war raging on, our entire country was going through the worst,” she continued, her words heavy with sorrow. “Despite receiving news of my relatives and cousins dying almost every other week, I never complained much. Maybe it was because I was young, or maybe growing up in such an environment made me feel like all this was normal.”
Elaina paused and chuckled, “I tried to have a normal life if playing in the rubble is your idea of normal. Every night, we went to bed, and the sound of bombs broke up our sleep. Looking back, I can't help but feel sorry for my younger self, my brother, and everyone here or back home. It seems so foolish when I remember those days. I often ask myself, why wasn't I crying every day? Maybe it was because I still had my parents to protect me. I knew nothing would happen to me if I had my parents. They were the shield that saved me from the looming threat of death and destruction. My dad was an optometrist, and my mom was also a nurse, so we were well-off. That’s one of the reasons I was able to attend school in England. Once they died, I was in denial. I was only fifteen, and Ishmael was seven.”
My lips were chapped, and I couldn’t believe what I heard. I felt like a fraud. Every word she spoke left a hole in me, a realization that I had been nothing but ignorant and ungrateful. I couldn't believe what I heard. I felt like a fraud. Every word she spoke left a hole in me, a profound realization that I had been nothing but ignorant and ungrateful. Here was Elaina, a person who had lost her home, her parents, everything. Someone who knew nothing but war. A child who was cruelly robbed of her childhood. And here I was, a person who had everything I could ask for, yet I complained almost every day, grumbling just because my parents weren't as expressive as I wanted them to be. The more Elaina opened up, the worse I felt about myself.
“I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't mean to…” I stammered.
Elaina interrupted me with a reassuring smile. “I told you it’s all right.” She wiped away her tears, and I reached into my pocket, offering her a napkin. “Thank you. So,” she asked me as the silence grew, “what about you? Why did you come to Jordan? I have said enough about myself.”
Her question caught me off guard. I found myself standing at the crossroads of vulnerability and self-preservation. Why had I embarked on this journey from America to Jordan? The answer echoed relentlessly: Staci. She was the invisible thread pulling me across continents, weaving my purpose into existence. Indeed, I had no plans to mention Staci.
“I always heard so highly about Doctors Without Borders, and I always wanted to work here as a medical student. This place is out of my comfort zone, and working with doctors who are nothing short of superheroes is a dream of mine. Luckily, my dad and Dr. J are quite close friends, so when the opportunity came, I couldn’t just ignore it. I took a year off from NYU and applied for the internship. Now, here I am, next to you.” I spun my tale of deceit with a boldness that betrayed no shame, though deep down, I knew I was evading the truth out of cowardice.
“I can’t help but feel a little jealous of you. You’re studying at NYU, a dream I had once, which fate denied me. You’re fortunate to have a life of freedom. It must be nice. I may spend my entire life here. Yet all the other refugees have experienced similar fates, and all of us try to make the best of it even though we yearn to return to a peaceful Syria.”
So true. I would have lost my mind if I had come here as a refugee. “I’ve come to realize that I’ve been rather ungrateful for a significant portion of my life… that is until I met you.”
I wish I hadn’t said that. It was too soon. Before she could react, I said, with a playful glint, “I’m afraid that if I were to tell you that I’ve been cursing my life or certain aspects of it, you might just decide to splash a hot cup of tea in my face.”
“I think I might.”
I paused, my thoughts finally finding their voice, and confessed, “You know, I’ve been thinking of those children we met earlier.”
“What about them?”
“You, Elaina, have worked tirelessly to give them back what they had lost hope for. I already know this, even though I haven’t worked alongside you. I know because I saw those children’s smiles when you greeted them. Those kids ran towards you. I can’t change how you perceive things, but I want you to know that if no one has told you this before, you have saved humanity many times over, and everyone here is indebted to you. You have given them something they deserve—the chance to be surrounded by friends, play, love, be cherished, and live another day as the blessing it truly is. Life is a gift.”
Elaina rested her head on her hand and looked at me, a beautiful smile lighting up her face. In a calm voice, she whispered,
“Wow, your words are very heartwarming. I appreciate what you said.”
It felt terrific to express what she needed to hear and even more rewarding to speak from the heart. We were silent for the next few moments, perhaps pondering the bond that had just formed between us.
“I have another question for you. How did you become a nurse?”
“After I came here, I looked for a job to support Ishmael and myself. Salah introduced me to a doctor at the hospital. I guess they were impressed that I could speak two languages fluently and that I had gone to school in England. I trained at the hospital. My teacher was Mika, who is Dr. J’s wife. She took me under her wing and was very patient with me. Eventually, I knew enough to work on my own with the patients. I don’t have a degree, but I do have knowledge.