Finding Butterflies in Jordan

By Shannon Paige

The eight-year-old whose face I was painting, finally took a breath. My first question, “What’s your name?”, had been rewarded with a quickfire list of facts that made up her entire self. 

Leila* began with the usual childish points of pride but quickly moved beyond her age and love of dogs to tell me about her older sister’s recent wedding. Her brown eyes were big and bright as she described how beautiful her sister had looked, how good the music had been, and how much fun she had had. 

    “Do you like your sister’s new husband?” I asked distractedly as I tried to keep interested onlookers from jolting my hand as the paintbrush neared her eye. This question drew Leila’s sweet prattle to a halt. She took that breath. 

    “I don’t understand your question,” was all she eventually answered.

***

It was the spring of 2019, and I was visiting Al-Azraq refugee camp in Jordan. The camp had the biggest surface area of any camp in the world. Unlike many others, it had been meticulously planned and constructed. Nevertheless, a restlessness hung over the buildings, the many unoccupied tents, and the United Nations blue flags; for those who live in Al-Azraq, each day resembles the one before. 

     Our day at Al-Azraq began just after dawn. We met outside the gates of the University of Jordan campus, where our Arabic language-intensive study abroad program was held. Instead of our usual class, the students in my gender studies class were packed onto a bus and set out east. We drove for hours, Amman behind us, sparsely populated desert surrounding us. Most students slept, though the frequent bumps in the road made that quite a feat. Finally, we arrived at the edge of Al-Azraq. 

     The barbed wire and border patrol shed, which had emerged suddenly out of the brown landscape, was the only sign of human life. Two heavily armed Jordanian soldiers ordered us off the bus, took our documents into their shed, and told us to wait. There we stood, sleepy, confused, painfully American. We waited as the mid-morning sun grew strong enough to warm our faces while the desert wind chucked sand in our eyes and chilled our bones. We waited until they returned, handed us our documents, and opened the heavy metal gate. Nervously, we walked through. We were inside Al-Azraq refugee camp. 

     A small, old van was waiting for us on the other side. The camp is divided into villages, and we drove past two or three before arriving at Village Four. Despite having spent most of the previous week preparing for our afternoon as amateur child entertainers, the primary purpose of our visit was the morning’s activities. We began our day with a 10:30 breakfast with a group of budding journalists who lived in the camp. They were young adults, no more than a couple years younger than we were. The room was quiet as we passed around staples of Arab breakfast. Between requests for za’atar, bread, and labneh, I began chatting with the only two women of the group of nearly twenty. They were shy and so alike in features and mannerisms that I was not surprised when Samira*, the older of the two, confirmed that they were sisters. Samira was thoughtful with each word spoken having been carefully considered. Amina* was bold the way younger siblings often are and freer with her smiles. They were nineteen and eighteen, respectively.

     When breakfast was over and we all separated into groups scattered around the room to have group discussions, Samira and Amina followed me. Our small group had only one man who was in my gender studies class, and we mostly ignored him. Instead of using my professor’s discussion prompts, we sat, our chairs huddled close for warmth, and compared our lives. We laughed about the ridiculousness of younger siblings and at the pompous young guy who had appointed himself editor of their newspaper. Samira complained about being far from home while Amina complained about having nothing to do besides the occasional few hours of school.

     Amina asked the most questions. As we moved past my favorite food to my dream job, we got comfortable. After checking that my professor was nowhere near us, Amina asked me in a hushed tone with eyes bright and teasing, whether I had a boyfriend and whether I was a virgin. Samira was horrified and hit her little sister’s arm before apologizing on her behalf. I had to laugh because Amina’s face said that she was absolutely not sorry. 

     “Ya shabab, two more minutes,” a pause followed my professor’s announcement. I filled the silence with the question I had been struggling to hold back.

     “Are you married?” I asked. Both girls burst out laughing. Between incredulous chuckles, they responded that, of course, they weren’t. They wanted to focus on school, and besides, they were too young.

“Akeed, of course,” said Amina, “Some younger girls in the camp are married, but we don’t personally know anyone our age who is.”

***

     My Arabic skills were robust enough for most of the day but faltered when faced with Leila’s demand that I paint a farasha on her face. The other little girls had wanted flowers, or stars, or hearts, but Leila’s will was firm. Nothing else would satisfy, and my poor attempts at miming out animals and objects failed to elucidate what a farasha was. Leila became frustrated by my incompetence and stomped over to ask a CARE employee to translate. From the other side of the cavernous room, the word ‘butterfly’ echoed. Ah.  

     Up along the bridge of her nose, I painted a straight black line that curled over her eyebrow. One antenna done. All I had left was its pair. Leila’s butterfly was majestic and pink, the wings stretching across the expanse of her chubby cheeks. The lull in our conversation had long since passed; she eagerly asked me questions.

     “How many siblings do you have?”

     “Two younger brothers,”

     “How old are you?”

     “I’m 20,”

     “You’re old! Are you married?”

     The question shocked a laugh out of me, just as mine had out of Samira and Amina earlier that day.

     “Akeed la, of course not, I’m too young.” I had just finished the second antenna when I thought to ask, “Ya Leila, how old is your sister?” The girl had already vacated the chair, and another had wriggled her way in.

     Still, before I lost sight of Leila in the horde of over-excited kids, she answered, “She’s fifteen! Thank you! Bye!”

***

     Amina asked for my Facebook information, and I left the camp, having virtually befriended both her and Samira. Over the following weeks, Amina and I messaged each other at least once a day, sometimes more. Gradually, we fell out of touch. I liked her posts when they popped up on my feed, and she occasionally sent me heart emojis via Facebook Messenger. We had not spoken in nearly three weeks, and she hadn’t responded to my last message. I was mindlessly scrolling through my news feed when I saw her latest post. A photo of two clasped hands, one male, one female. The photo had been edited with a transparent frame of hearts, curlicues, and butterflies overlaying its border. The post had a steadily rising number of heart reactions, though my own heart sank. Amina was engaged.