I Witness… Women working at Talbiyeh

He was not that light but was sent to bear witness of that light, John 1:9

An occasional series about the lives of Palestinians, as witnessed by Department of Service to the Palestine Refugee (DSPR)

The Talbiyeh refugee camp, about half an hour from Amman on the dusty Airport Road, welcomed me for a visit last week.  I met with Virginia Nasrawi, director of the DSPR Near East Council of Churches Committee for Refugee Work (NECCCRW) projects at the Women's Center, who explained some of the classes which are currently underway.

As we sit in her office, female students and instructors filter in and out, intrigued by the news of a foreign visitor and asking questions about their classes.  Three different types of classes are currently underway: fashion design, sewing, and communication.  These classes are accredited by the Jordanian Ministry of Women's Affairs, which confers certificates upon women who have completed them.

The center is abuzz with activity, despite the heat of the day and individual fasting for Ramadan.  In the first of four rooms in the modest center, I meet women learning about communication techniques.  Ranging in age from college-bound to elderly, they hug the center of the room in a circle, preparing to hear from their instructor Wafia about how to talk and listen to people.  Judging from some of the cherubic faces of the elderly women, I suspect they may be able to teach a lesson or two, especially as they are able to communicate kindly with me.

I ask Ufra, a bright, young woman accompanying me and Virginia around the center, about women's lives outside of the camp.  This question leads to a very confusing conversation.

"Women cannot leave the camp to work outside," she says.  "Or they do not want to."

Seeking clarification about how much choice women have in the matter, I ask "You mean they cannot go outside because the government does not allow them, or because their families forbid it?"

"Their families do not allow it," is Ufra's simple response.

I am not surprised.  Talbiyeh seems very conservative.  All women in Talbiyeh wear head coverings, except for two Christian women I meet.  Many of the younger women also wear a veil covering their face.  Some do not even want me to take their picture.  The men seem similarly minded.  Many have long black beards, one hallmark of the conservative Hamas political party in Palestine. 

"So what do they do in the camp?" I enquire, trying to change the topic.

"Some come to these classes or volunteer.  Others go outside to work," replies Ufra. 

Surprised by how this response contradicts her previous one, I ask, "You mean women can leave the camp and work?"

"Yes, they work in the neighboring village."  Evidently the contradiction is lost on Ufra.  Seeing the puzzled look on my face, she seeks to clarify by adding, "You know, they go outside."

Totally confused, I ask, "But they can't work in Amman?" trying to figure out if women venture beyond the neighboring villages or if families restrict movement to the general vicinity.

"Amman!  No!"  Ufra is so emphatic about this that, except for her smiling face, she seems offended I could even contemplate the question.

"Ufra," I say, exasperated, "does your family let you go to Amman?"

"No!" she exclaimed.

"So you don't go to Amman?" I repeat. 

"Yes! I go to Amman!"  At this point I think Ufra is just playing with me.  She smiles again and holds up her right hand, shaking the sparkly band on her ring finger.  "My husband is not like the others!" 

Before her marriage, Ufra's family did not allow her to go to Amman.  Now, though, her husband does not mind if she goes, though she says she does not have much desire to see the city.

We walk to the next room to see a group of young women studying designs on graph paper and then drawing and cutting to create traceable dress patterns.  Once this group masters the various designs and receives the instructor's approval, they move to the more advanced class of sewing and the art of embroidery. 

The small number of women embroidering in the adjacent room proves that this level is not for beginners.  The intricate patterns and bright colors hint at traditional Palestinian embroidery, except that these Muslim women are sewing more contemporary "Merry Christmas" motifs onto beige cloth, a strange sight in the sweltering heat of Amman's autumn.  Eventually, as with some of the dresses from the center, these products will be sold locally to generate modest income.

Thanking the women and snapping a few photos, I ask if I can stroll around the camp for a while.  Virginia, Wafia, and Ufra readily encourage it and suggest that I visit the Women's Program Center, which Wafia directs.

No sooner do I arrive than Ufra meets me there, having taken another route to avoid being seen walking with me in public.  I quickly tour the four rooms which are used for English and Arabic language classes, computer training, and physical fitness courses which are currently suspended during Ramadan, as everyone tries to conserve energy during daylight hours. 

In the main office the conversation turns political in tone.  Surprised a bit by just how settled and calm life seems to be in the camp, I pose the following general question: If you could go back to Palestine, would you?

The answers range.  Wafia from Gaza explains that her life is here in Jordan, even though she has been a refugee since 1967.  Her house is in Talbiyeh; her family is here, so she would not return.  Despite receiving only a two year passport from the Jordanian government ("Gazans are always a problem," she jokes, rolling her eyes), she feels more Jordanian than Palestinian.

Eman, another woman in the office, thinks that even though her family is originally from Ramallah, her future is in Jordan.  After thinking long and hard about the question, she says that she wants to return to Ramallah to see it, but admits there is only a slim possibility of wanting to stay.

Ufra, the youngest woman present, laughs when I suggest a hypothetical peace between Israelis and Palestinians.  She wants to visit Hebron and to meet relatives in the family homestead there.  Ultimately, though, she sees herself living permanently in Jordan, the country of her birth, or in the United States.

Talbiyeh camp does not cover a large area; its 9,000 inhabitants live in cramped but clean quarters.  Its well-defined presence in the desert outside of Amman provides shape to an otherwise featureless horizon.  The camp itself contains three mosques, two women's centers, an UNRWA-run school, and a clinic.  Despite being generally impoverished and marginalized, geographically as well as socially, it has begun its own outreach program of sorts, in which women from the surrounding villages attend some of the classes at the women's center.

I take one last look at the camp, a motley collection of buildings and brown earth with the Jordanian flag flying above it.  It is both inseparable from the desert around it and an unavoidable looming presence.

What will it look like in the future? 

As Amman's sprawl creeps closer and Palestinians integrate more into Jordanian society, maybe it will cease to exist altogether.

As the driver accelerates to break-neck speed, my thoughts shift suddenly.  Looking at the long road in front of us and remembering my conversation with Ufra, I begin to wonder if we will pass any women from Talbiyeh on their way to work in Amman!