Yet with close to thirty people living in one house, friction was beginning to grow among the women. It was impossible to cook for so many people at once, so the communal meals that had once brought everyone so much joy came to an end. Instead each family would have a turn in the kitchen. Hanaa had the first shift, so every day she had to rush to the market, peel and chop vegetables, and cook everything in time to serve lunch when Shokri took his midday break from the barbershop at three. It was the main meal for the family, and for Hanaa it was important that it be special. She had always taken pleasure and pride in preparing this meal, but now she found herself rushing and trying to avoid any conflict with her in-laws.
Doaa and her family now ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner in their small room atop a plastic tablecloth they spread over the center of the floor. That room had now become the center of their universe. It served as a bedroom, sitting room, and dining room, all family activity happened within those four walls.
As the girls grew up, it became harder to cram their lives into it. At night, Doaa and her sisters took out their mattresses and, one after the other, laid them across the floor into every possible space, like puzzle pieces. Doaa always chose the space under the window so she could stare up at the stars until her eyes shut. When they were all finally asleep, Shokri and Hanaa had to step over a sea of tangled arms and legs to get to their corner of the room.
For Hanaa, the atmosphere in the crowded house had become intolerable. All too often, her sisters-in-law critiqued her for not having any sons. One evening when she overheard them gossiping about her in the kitchen yet again, Hanaa decided that she had had enough of these insinuations, the squabbles over the kitchen, and the unending noise. That night, when Shokri returned home from work, Hanaa stood in the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest and tears fighting to escape her eyes.
“Either you find us another house, or you find yourself another wife,” she demanded. “We can’t stay here any longer.” She stepped closer to Shokri. “It’s not just about me now either. Ayat is fifteen and Alaa is thirteen. They’re teenagers! They’re fed up with sharing a room with all of us. They need their privacy. I’ll leave you and ask for a divorce if you don’t find us a new place.”
Shokri had noticed the growing tensions and the difficulties the family was having getting by in their small room. After sixteen years of marriage, he could also see that Hanaa meant what she was saying. Her tight lips and fierce scowl told him that she would make good on her threat to leave. He knew that he needed to find a better-paying job so they could move to a better home.
Doaa, by then six years old, was oblivious of the simmering tensions and had no idea that she was about to find out, for the first time in her life, that her world was not as safe as it seemed. To her, the big house was still a place of happy memories: of intense smells of simmering meat and aromatic spices; of laughter and endless games with the cousins in the courtyard surrounded by fragrant jasmine flowers; of warm nights out on the roof listening to the hum of the adults chattering and puffing on the shisha pipe.
Barbering was the only work Shokri knew, but he asked around to see whether his old yellow Peugeot could be used to transport goods back and forth across the Jordanian border. The “yellow submarine” was the family’s only transportation and also the family joke. Rusty and dented, it tended to break down on weekend drives, but it was Shokri’s pride and joy. Now, it was the family’s one hope for moving out of their stifling, overcrowded home.
Shokri found a Jordanian businessman who offered to pay him to fill up his car with packages of locally produced Syrian cookies and take them to customers across the border in Jordan.
For the next two months, Shokri left home at dawn to drive to the factory in Daraa, where he would stuff the Peugeot with boxes of cookies and pastries. At times, he could barely see out the rearview mirror because the car was so full. If border traffic was light, he could make the trip in five hours and get home in time to have lunch with the family before his afternoon shift at the barbershop. Doaa and her sisters loved his new job; every time he came home, he would bring them treats from Jordan. They would wait by the door for the kubz ishtiraak, a type of thin pita bread that they couldn’t get in Syria, and Barbi-brand potato chips, which the girls liked better than the kind they could get at home. He also brought them dresses and other more stylish clothes than any they’d had before.
Then one afternoon, Shokri didn’t come home. Hours passed with no word from him. Hanaa and the girls worried; Shokri never stayed away longer than a few hours without letting them know first. Hanaa asked everyone in the family for help. She solicited neighbors and friends. Finally, after hours of frantic phone calls, Doaa’s aunt Raja learned from a friend in Jordan that Shokri had been arrested. Border officials had discovered that his car was carrying more than the allowed 220 pounds of goods. On top of that, the documents the factory owner had given Shokri allowing him to transport goods over the border were forged. Shokri was now being held in prison in Jordan.