Ahad 28 Jul 2013 01:05 WIB

The dark times of baby Taymaa

Foto: AP/Raad Adayleh

In this Wednesday, July 24, 2013 photo, Syrian refugee Ali Shteiwi holds his newborn daughter, Taymaa, at the Zaatari refugee camp in Mafraq, Jordan, near the border with Syria.

REPUBLIKA.CO.ID, ZAATARI - Before they left Syria, six months ago, Ali and Walaa Shteiwi spent weeks sounding out friends and relatives on a name for the child Walaa carried. They decided to call her Shymaa — a beautiful name, meaning good traits.

But now they live in the bleak world of a Jordanian refugee camp, fenced in amid tens of thousands of others. And when their baby was born Monday, they named her Taymaa — Arabic for a desert, huge and arid.

"This ugly desert was the only thing I could think of when I named my daughter so it would remain a stark reminder of the dark times we're living," said Ali (39 years).

They are there because they fled the war between rebels and the forces of Syrian President Bashar Assad. Ali has no job; the family depends on UN food donations.

Ali had to wait under the sun for six hours with his newborn on his hand to have her registered with the United Nations refugee agency. When an AP reporter arrived at the site, the baby was weak and the frustrated father was weeping. She was admitted briefly into a Moroccan field hospital, where a pediatrician said she was showing signs of dehydration.

"I wish I remained back home and lived under Bashar's air strikes and destruction. But I feared for my wife's life and that of my expected daughter. But here, my daughter will have no life. She will die in the heat. My little, poor thing. ...

"I fear for my daughter's life. If we continue to live here for 10 or more years, what kind of a life will she grow up to see? There is oppression and humiliation here in this camp. We lived a good life and I'm satisfied with that. But God help this new generation of refugee children. They have nothing to live for, except wars. God help us."

Said Walaa (20 years): "My dream is to see my daughter play in front of me, to grow up and become a doctor, or a respectable miss. I want to see her as a bride, but certainly not in Zaatari. I want to tell her 'forgive me that I brought you here.' ...

"When I saw her after her birth, it felt like I regained my life. I hope that the people who see how I live like now would not endure the same and would not taste the bitterness of my days. I wish that any woman refugee who thinks of getting pregnant not to do so and if she indeed does, not to live the life I am living."