“Things are changing,” says Hadi. “They will start sending back Syrians who left the camps without the proper papers.” He stops to think. “If the rumours are true, the things you are learning will be very different after two months.”
A pinprick of panic struck me. Everybody leaves the camps without proper papers; those I interview, my companions, the people I work with. My friends. Hadi notices. “Well, maybe they won't enforce it?” he mutters.
The conversation with Hadi is the first suggestion I heard of the shifting political tectonics in Jordan. It is exactly what people tell me they fear: a shift in the tolerance. The impossible choice between vulnerable life in Syria, or a secure atrophe in a dirt-floor cabin in Azraq.
Later, in Amman, a friend with UNHCR confirms. There is a new set of rules. Before, they could register with UNHCR no matter the status of their documentation. Since the date—July 13th or 14th—no new registrations are allowed without proper bailout papers. Is it retroactive, I ask? Will those who left previously be affected? And for those who hold expiring UNHCR cards? Can they renew? The room breaks down in argument. Nobody, it seems, is quite sure what the new rules indicate.
The official procedure to leave the camps is slow, requires a Jordanian guarantor, and—if widespread beliefs are true—corrupt. A Syrian family must locate a male head of household in Jordan, ostensibly someone in their personal network, who is over 35, married, and with a stable job. The Jordanian family vouches to care for the Syrian family. This policy was etched out to serve not Syrians, but Jordanians with relatives and friends from across the border who would otherwise be contained to camps. The Syrians who are released should not be working, theoretically, because their Jordanian sponsors have sworn to care for them. But in reality, most of those who secure a bailout have bribed someone to fill in the papers. And many more, the vast majority here, slipped away in the night, unaware of the consequences.
Previously, Syrians without formal papers were able to register for UNHCR assistance and Jordanian Government identification, which gave access to health care and education. Now, in an attempt to curtail the ever-blossoming urban refugee community, those rights will be revoked from an unspecified number of people.
“Up to now, we have found that UNHCR's population estimates are accurate,” says my UNHCR source. “There were many benefits to registering, and few risks involved. With these new rules, we expect that to change—there will be many more unregistered Syrians hiding in Jordan.”
It seems that things are beginning to change. What that means for the friends and families who currently enjoy some shreds of protection—some thin opportunity for dignity—remains to be seen. Back in Irbid, I find a UNHCR team in the waiting room of the office. People are on their feet, upset, shouting in a short, panicked way.
“They are telling them about a new rule,” says one of the office staff. “Maybe in a few months, you won't find anyone here.”
A pinprick of panic struck me. Everybody leaves the camps without proper papers; those I interview, my companions, the people I work with. My friends. Hadi notices. “Well, maybe they won't enforce it?” he mutters.
The conversation with Hadi is the first suggestion I heard of the shifting political tectonics in Jordan. It is exactly what people tell me they fear: a shift in the tolerance. The impossible choice between vulnerable life in Syria, or a secure atrophe in a dirt-floor cabin in Azraq.
Later, in Amman, a friend with UNHCR confirms. There is a new set of rules. Before, they could register with UNHCR no matter the status of their documentation. Since the date—July 13th or 14th—no new registrations are allowed without proper bailout papers. Is it retroactive, I ask? Will those who left previously be affected? And for those who hold expiring UNHCR cards? Can they renew? The room breaks down in argument. Nobody, it seems, is quite sure what the new rules indicate.
The official procedure to leave the camps is slow, requires a Jordanian guarantor, and—if widespread beliefs are true—corrupt. A Syrian family must locate a male head of household in Jordan, ostensibly someone in their personal network, who is over 35, married, and with a stable job. The Jordanian family vouches to care for the Syrian family. This policy was etched out to serve not Syrians, but Jordanians with relatives and friends from across the border who would otherwise be contained to camps. The Syrians who are released should not be working, theoretically, because their Jordanian sponsors have sworn to care for them. But in reality, most of those who secure a bailout have bribed someone to fill in the papers. And many more, the vast majority here, slipped away in the night, unaware of the consequences.
Previously, Syrians without formal papers were able to register for UNHCR assistance and Jordanian Government identification, which gave access to health care and education. Now, in an attempt to curtail the ever-blossoming urban refugee community, those rights will be revoked from an unspecified number of people.
“Up to now, we have found that UNHCR's population estimates are accurate,” says my UNHCR source. “There were many benefits to registering, and few risks involved. With these new rules, we expect that to change—there will be many more unregistered Syrians hiding in Jordan.”
It seems that things are beginning to change. What that means for the friends and families who currently enjoy some shreds of protection—some thin opportunity for dignity—remains to be seen. Back in Irbid, I find a UNHCR team in the waiting room of the office. People are on their feet, upset, shouting in a short, panicked way.
“They are telling them about a new rule,” says one of the office staff. “Maybe in a few months, you won't find anyone here.”