Greek Refugee Camp: Hiya’s Hair

                I open the small gate into the Greek refugee camp and wave a greeting to the various ‘gatekeepers’ sprawled on the white plastic chairs beneath the fig tree nearby.  They are, as usual, locked in heated conversation, likely about the trials of being indentured to an NGO, so I pass without much notice.  I am looking forward to my English conversation class that day; it will be with Hiya, a twenty-year-old Syrian and her parents.  Hiya sparkles with vitality, her English is excellent, and her elderly parents – both in their sixties – always make me feel warmly welcomed on their ‘hearth’ – a veranda outside their refugee container. 

                I like the way conversations with Hiya always flowed.  She is interested in so many things; passionate about her country, curious about mine, so that after exchanging greetings,  the dance from topic to topic would begin. Today, we compare costs of university tuition in our respective countries (and whether it would be free for refugees in Canada), housing, salaries (with gasps of disbelief at the costs in Canada), and then we go deeper into customs and beliefs.  She grieves for the Syria that was – the shopping, the fashion (snorting at what is seen as fashion in Greece), the food.  She tells me about the barbecues and woodstoves that were commonly used in cooking until wood became too prohibitive to buy.

Her parents, Aamir and Afrah, hover close by and offer me a Syrian tea called  yerba mate which is a herbal tea served in little glasses with a metal straw.  It is bitter, but I dutifully choke it down.  Afrah is my age and was a primary teacher in her long ago life.  It is clear she adored her work; her eyes well up with tears when she talks about her former students.  Aamir was a homeopathic healer in Syria and he proudly shows me a tome given to him as a gift about the indigenous healing plants of the island.

                Our conversation veers into more probing questions about faith.  Hiya and her parents would defend their Islamic beliefs with an almost evangelical zeal, likely to offset the ‘bad press’ that has plagued the Muslim faith of late.  They assert that, contrary to what the media portrays, Islam is about being good people and disciplined about one’s faith. Hiya shows me her copy of the Quran and how it can be accessed on her cellphone, as well as talks by Imams on Youtube.  Aamir waxes about his pilgrimages to Mecca, something he had been able to do four times. He describes, in a colourful mixture of English Arabic and gesticulating hands, the thrill of drinking from the sacred springs on the way to Mecca.

              As Afrah clears away the dishes and Aamir drifts to the ‘house’ next to their own, Hiya openly fields my questions about women and traditions in Syria.

                “The women do tend to get married – often still to a man of their parents’ choice – relatively early in life, around the age of sixteen,” she answers.  “I am fortunate to have parents who want me to have a say in who will be my future husband.”

        I ask if the tradition of wearing a hijab and long robes ever becomes tiresome for her.

          “There are times when it is ok not to wear it.  When I’m with my women friends – in one of their homes – I won’t wear a hijab,” she informs me. “But whenever it’s a public space where men could be present, we wear the hijab.”

                An air of resignation about the women’s dress code in Arabic countries is suddenly interrupted when Hiya leaps to her feet and asks, her eyes alight,

                “Would you like to see my hair?”

                There is only one answer to that question.  She takes my hand and guides me inside their shelter.  Ensuring that the door is closed, she turns towards me and deftly removes the hijab.  Billowing tresses of brunette hair  cascade to her waist, framing a face incandescent with the type of beauty young women wear so guilelessly. I am enchanted and feel honoured to be witnessing what a young Arab woman must conceal every day of her life; herself, her unedited self.

                Conscious of the depth of the confidance shared and chasm crossed over, as she scrambles to replace her hijab and usher me back out the door, I am the one with the eyes alight and glowing.