I recently met a 19-year-old mother as she arrived at the border in northern Iraq, after fleeing Syria. Nawroz came by foot, in the rain, with her four-month old daughter in her arms. She told me about the bombing in Damascus, and how afraid she had been. For me to get to the border from Domiz, 60km away, I travelled with two armoured cars and a police escort. Nawroz left Damascus by car, but the final leg of her journey was a 5km hike through the deserted, hilly no-man’s-land between Syria and Iraq. I was told it had been raining there for four days. Nawroz shivered as I spoke with her, her dark hair dripping and her thin red top soaked through. Her husband queued at the registration desk in a sodden tee-shirt. But her baby daughter, Ava, was warm and dry. She gurgled, grabbing my fingers tightly, as I played with her. Miraculously, Nawroz had kept Ava dry, wrapping the infant in layers
Posted on: Sat, 03 Jan 2015 14:42:15 +0000
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