A beautiful flower

Chapter 1: The Breakup

“Joe, I want to end our relationship.”

I looked up from the suitcase I’d started to unpack. My girlfriend, Staci, and I had just arrived back at our apartment after what I'd thought had been an exhilarating one-week vacation in Cancun, away from our medical school studies at NYU. Then I heard Staci’s words.

Why would she say that? Was she joking? I turned to check on her,

“What did you say, Staci?”

With her hands on her hips, Staci fixed her brown eyes on me. She stood five feet six inches tall with short, brown silky hair. Again, she stated, “Joe, I want to end our relationship,”

At first, her words refused to sink in. Then my heart raced, and my legs threatened to give way. What was happening?

“What?” I stammered, hoping against hope that she was playing some cruel joke.

“I've been thinking this for a while now, and I believe it's the best course of action for both of us. I shouldn't waste your time,” Staci reiterated.

It took me a while to accept that this wasn't a nightmare from which I could wake up. I started screaming, “What? You can't be serious! We just had an amazing time in Cancun. What's going on? Did I do something wrong?” The tears threatened to break free, but I fought to hold them back.

I felt like a frightened child, threatened with abandonment in a dark room, bargaining for a reprieve. Staci's response only added to the cruelty of the moment.

“It’s not you, Joe. It’s me.”

There it was—the cliché sentence. So much for her being different from other girls— another cliche. There was no empathy in her tone. How could she be so composed? I wished she would at least show some remorse —perhaps some tears.

I started to tear up. “Staci, you can’t do this. I love you," I confessed like a fool, my pride forgotten as I clung to a sliver of hope that she might reconsider. How long had she been harboring these thoughts?

“I’m sorry, Joe. My decision is final.”

“Don’t feel bad, Joe. We have been together for the past ten years. There isn’t anything wrong with you. So, please don’t ask me such questions because I won't be able to answer them, and all you will find yourself asking me is even more questions. The truth is, we are just too perfect for each other.”

My anger rose, and sweat poured down my forehead. Although I usually never got mad at Staci, I could not control my rage.

“What are you on about? Do you even know what that is? What we have is perfect for each other, so why the hell are we doing this? Have you lost your mind?”

Staci turned her body slightly, avoiding my angry face. I was sure she didn’t want to listen. Did she really think I would accept her decision as a matter of fact?

“Don’t you turn away from me. I have loved you more than I ever loved myself. Everything I do, from the clothes I wear to the food I eat, I think of you. Every decision I make is in accordance with your preferences. My life revolves around you. What more do you want? Tell me what it is, and I will do it or give it to you.”

Staci moved her body so she could face me. I could see some anger on her face.

I tried to soften her up. “Staci, we grew up together and have been inseparable by the time we were both accepted to NYU Medical School and shared an apartment. I enjoy making you laugh and acting silly. The way you cover your mouth when laughter bubbles from your lips—I adore you”.

“You’ve just identified the problem. We are kids still. We are only twenty-four years old, and all this time that I have been in school has been shared with you and no one else. Haven't you ever noticed this? We never made friends. We always hung out with each other.”

My mouth opened, and I rubbed the hair on top of my head continuously as I stared at her. I felt utterly helpless, realizing that I could do nothing to fix the situation, nothing that could erase what she had just revealed.

Staci, however, barely showed any emotion. “Look, Joe—In two years, when we begin our residency, we'll embark on separate paths for the first time. I want to meet new people in medical school. I don't want to study, eat, and socialize with only one person. In fact, I'd like you to move out tonight. You can come back next week to get the rest of your things.”

The shock of her words left me speechless. It was late evening, and I couldn't fathom where she expected me to go.

“What now?” I finally managed to utter, my confusion evident. “Where am I supposed to go? This is my apartment, too.”

Staci folded her arms. “I found this apartment, and most of the furniture is mine. You can visit your parents or stay at a hotel and come back and get the rest of your things later,”

The pain ripped through me. I clenched my fists, my jaw aching.

“Staci, why don’t you move out? You’re the one breaking up with me.”

“Grow up. My name is on the lease, not yours. If I move out, I will tell the landlord to cancel the lease, and then both of us will have to leave. If you have any respect for me, you will be the one to go.”

I ran my hands through my hair. Like a child, I kept reassuring myself that this couldn't be real, but slowly, the harsh reality set in, turning what I hadn't even anticipated into a haunting memory.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch a hole in the wall. The hurt ran too deep for me to engage in any further conversation with her. I repacked my suitcase and grabbed my schoolbooks.

Staci watched me. How could she not even express a single emotion?

“I don’t want to discuss this further,” I muttered, my voice heavy.

I turned my back to Staci and continued aggressively stuffing my belongings into bags—clothes, books, and anything that was mine to take. My desire to leave everything behind burned within me, but I knew I had to maintain some semblance of dignity. I wanted to fight, complain, and argue, but her mind was made up, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.

Yet, as I packed my bags, I couldn't help but feel lost. For the first time, I left without taking a moment to say goodbye or kiss her. Was it truly over? I slammed the door to our apartment on the way out and pondered this question as I made my way to the Long Island Railroad, purchased a ticket to Great Neck, and boarded the train.

During the ride, I remained surprisingly calm. It was late at night, and few passengers shared the carriage, most either asleep or deep in thought. I would’ve loved to share my misery with a total stranger at a bar, but it was not to be. It felt like I had been thrust into a nightmare where a mugger might appear to seal my fate at any moment.

I was scared and exhausted, but most of all, I was overwhelmed by the loneliness that enveloped my heart. Who would I confide in now, sharing the little things that bothered or excited me?

Was this what loneliness is? It wasn’t people leaving you and having no company around to share secrets and moments of despair and joy. It was when you didn’t talk to yourself anymore. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. I wanted to cry but couldn’t. I wanted to hate but couldn’t.

At precisely eleven twenty-three p.m., I arrived in Great Neck, hailed a cab, and found myself standing on my parent’s doorstep after a brief five-minute drive. I knew what awaited me inside and was entirely unprepared for it. The only thing I craved at that moment was sleep. With a deep breath, I pushed the doorbell, and within minutes, the sound of approaching footsteps confirmed that I had roused my parents from their slumber.

“Joe, what are you doing here this late? Is everything all right?” My mother, Leah’s voice rang out, filled with concern and a hint of breathlessness. She stared at me, all five feet four of her, with her eyes wide with surprise, while my father, much taller at five feet ten, stood beside her in his bathrobe and wore a similar expression. As the dean of the NYU medical school, he dealt with crises every day and never rushed to make an impulsive decision. However, the difference was that he preferred not to speak his mind while she chose otherwise.

I stood there, not knowing what to say. Should I tell them about my breakup with Staci now, in the dead of night? Or should I wait until morning? My mother would bombard me with loads of questions. Concealing the truth seemed pointless. If anything, it had been a mistake to come here. I should’ve gone with the other option of staying in the hotel.

Right now, I was too weary to pretend that everything was fine. My hair was disheveled, my face tattooed with a frown, I needed a shower, and I looked sleep-deprived. Speaking felt like an insurmountable task.

“Why don't you come inside?" My father, Robert, finally spoke, his voice soft but lacking compassion.

We settled at the dining table in the dimly lit hall, and a silence hung over us. My mother returned with a glass of water, which I gratefully accepted.

“Tell me the truth, son. Is everything all right? Aren't you supposed to be with Staci? Did you two have a fight?" My mother showed no mercy. In the middle of her interrogation, the sound of a ticking clock reverberated in the room, making me even more uncomfortable.

I wanted to throw up, but “Mother—" I forced the words out, my voice strained. "Staci broke up with me.”

“What?” She nearly stood up, her hand covering her mouth. My father remained silent, his gaze locked onto my soul, while I stared at the almost empty glass of water.

“What do you mean she broke up with you?" “You must have done something. Did you apologize to her?”

“What do I apologize to her for?” I shouted, “I didn't do anything. We went to Cancun and had a great time, or so I thought. She smiled, laughed, and played. She seemed happy, and I was, too. We didn't argue once the whole time.

My mother interrupted. “You mean she never told you what was wrong? Did you even give her a chance to tell you?”

Damn it, she didn't even mention a single thing she didn't like about me. What the hell would I have apologized for, Mom? For being nice? Loving? Caring? Responsible? Hygienic? Trying to make her happy?”

I finally broke down and covered my face with my hands. I couldn't bear to hear my mother seemingly siding with her. Why? It wasn't like Staci was her best friend. She liked Staci, yes, but not to that extent. She hated the idea of me being without a girlfriend. She believed that if I had a stable relationship with a nice Jewish girl, my life would be on the right track, and my future would be secure.

I found solace in my father's stoic demeanor and silence for the first time. I wouldn't say I liked his judgmental looks, but they were exactly what I needed today.

“Calm down, honey,” My father directed his first words at my mother, “Panicking won't do any good right now.”

“But this is bad. Can't you see? There's nothing that can't be solved by talking things out. Please tell him to talk to her,” she implored.

“Talk about what, Mom? She fell out of love with me. Please, tell me, how do I make her love me again?”.

“Listen, Joe,” my father interjected. “You shouldn't be dwelling on this now. Whatever has happened is now in the past. Move on and focus on the things that matter. “Your studies should be your priority. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

I took back what I’d said about my father. He was as unyielding as ever. If this was what he believed being strong was like, I wished no part of it. I wanted to mourn my losses, regret my decisions, and celebrate my victories. Unlike with my mother, however, I couldn't negotiate or express my opinions regarding my father.

When he spoke, I listened. When ordered, I complied. I wasn’t exactly afraid of my father—he’d never hit me when I was a child—but he preferred things to be done his way, which had brought me here. Even in my broken moments, I didn’t talk back.

My academic success was undeniably tied to my father's influence. Given his position as the dean, it was almost a given that I had no choice but to excel. He’d played a pivotal role in pushing me to choose NYU over Yale’s and Harvard's offers. His rationale revolved around the idea that NYU was my superior option, primarily because he could look out for me.

The hours my parents spent talking to me— “Give it time—Things will work out” felt more like a series of instructions than a consoling conversation. I couldn't help but wonder if they truly understood the extent of my heartbreak, as their words only seemed to reinforce that I had failed beyond repair. And, in all honesty, I had indeed failed miserably. It was a humbling experience. It was like God himself wanted to punish me.

My father stressed that regardless of my feelings for Staci, I had to preserve my sanity and, more importantly, my academic performance. I reluctantly agreed, but I knew my attention in the ensuing weeks would remain fixated on one person and one person alone: Staci.

###

Two days later, I was back in class surrounded by hundreds of medical school students. Our relationship and shared apartment had been an open secret. Everyone knew about us. We attended all our courses together, sitting side by side, sharing meals, and chatting. But now, I found myself alone in class, my gaze fixed on her. I noticed several people staring at me. What was going through their brains?

It was an odd sensation, not because I was unaccustomed to solitude. I had mentally prepared for that. What made it peculiar was that she never met my eyes when I looked at her in class or the hallways. Instead, I found her absorbed in the professors' lectures, diligently taking notes. Not once did she spare me a glance.

How cruel you are, Staci. Do you even have a heart?

My days became an unending punishment. Each morning, I woke up, went to NYU, and fixed my gaze on Staci. I would then tune out the conversations of supposed friends until I returned home, where I would listen to my mother's relentless reminders of the mistake I had made. I would dutifully report my academic progress to my father and then lie in bed, consumed by thoughts of Staci. This pattern repeated itself day in and day out.

Some nights, the weight of my sorrow was too much to bear. I would curl up, clutching at my chest as if I could hold the heartache at bay. The evidence showed beneath my eyes in the form of dark bags, but it seemed like no one cared about my suffering, not even Staci.

I wished for her to reach out just once to inquire about how I was holding up. I had accepted that she was gone, but I craved a small acknowledgment that perhaps she could have been kinder the way she left.

Days dragged on, and I found myself sinking deeper into a self-destructive abyss.

Then, one day, I heard a voice, the feminine voice I had once loved so deeply. I turned around to see Staci standing there, looking exactly as she always had, with no hint of sadness in her eyes.

“Staci,” – I started, but she cut me off.

“You've left some of your stuff behind. Come around this weekend and get it,” she said before walking away.

I stood there, dumbfounded. She hadn't waited for my response, and I couldn't help but think she loathed me. That was how I spent the next few days—grappling with uncertainty.

I eventually made my way to what had once been our home to retrieve my belongings. She wasn't there, so I went about the apartment, moving from one room to another, reminiscing about all the memories we had created together. The apartment was eerily quiet, except for a note that caught my eye. It read, “Leave the keys on the counter once you're done.”

Seeing that note gave me a strange sense of happiness. She had written something for me, no matter how brief. How low had I sunk to find solace in such meaningless gestures?

In the following days, I half-heartedly began preparing for the second-year final exams at medical school. My motivation was nonexistent. I was going through the motions for my father's sake. It was evident in my study habits, or rather, lack thereof. The outcome reflected my lack of dedication—I passed but with a B grade.

As expected, my dad was disappointed. For the first two days, he didn't even make eye contact with me, let alone talk. However, as his initial anger and embarrassment subsided, he finally sat down with me.

“Joe, what the hell are you doing?” he asked,

I shrugged, incapable of defending myself.

“Is this the real you?” he continued, his disappointment mingled with a hint of compassion.

I was relieved that he had taken the first step to address the situation, even if his self-interest drove it.

“You're a smart kid, and seeing you like this… it's embarrassing,”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, I found the courage to speak my truth. “I can't do this. I just can't. Not with Staci around. I can't take my eyes off her. You may think that changing my section or putting me in a different class will help, but it won't. I'll still look for her. I tried my best, and this is the result I got. She performed better because somehow, this didn't affect her."

There was a moment of silence as my dad absorbed my words, “Give me a few days.” Then he left the room, leaving me to wonder what he had in mind.

I couldn't help but entertain the notion that my father might be planning a vacation for me. That idea seemed absurd because he was not the type to allow a vacation, especially when my grades were less than stellar. However, a few days later, what he revealed to me was surprising.

He motioned for me to sit across from him at the kitchen table. I sat down, and my mother joined us. I waited for him to begin.

“Son, I have a friend in Jordan, Dr. Thomas Johnson, overseeing a hospital in a Syrian refugee settlement. I believe this is a good opportunity for you to divert your focus from Staci.”

My mother nodded, but I could see the sadness on her face.

“Sounds interesting. How long would I be gone for—a month or two? I guess I’d be home in time to start class again in the fall.”

“No, son, you will be gone for one year.”

As I looked back and forth at my mom and dad, My mind and body froze. One year! How could I possibly survive for one year in a Syrian refugee camp surrounded by thousands of Sunni Muslims?

“What do you mean one year? That means I’m going to miss a whole year of school, which means my graduation from medical school will be postponed.”

My dad showed no emotion; he simply stared at me. “Yes, one year. The internship will also be valuable for your future.”

It was ironic and somewhat cruel. This was the same person who had opposed the idea of me joining Yale or Harvard so I could be close to home, and now he suddenly endorsed the idea of me living thousands of miles away for an entire year.

I couldn't help but wonder what had prompted this change of heart. If only he had allowed me to go anywhere other than NYU, perhaps none of this would have happened.

“Dad, can I refuse this? I mean, I’m twenty-four years old and capable of making my own decisions.”

“Yes, you are twenty-four, and yes, you can make your own decisions. However, if you decide not to accept this internship, you can pay for medical school and all your living expenses. So now you have a choice to make.”

“My mother butted in. “Joe, I know you don’t want to go to Jordan, but your dad has told me so much about Dr. Johnson. Your dad and he were very close years ago when they did their residency together in the Philippines. You will learn an incredible amount of surgery, as that’s what they do mostly there. Plus, you really need to get your mind off Staci. If you go to class with her next fall, that will never happen.”

My mom was right about the part about Staci. I still thought about her every night.

“OK, so, if I accept this internship, when will I start?”

“July first.”

“That gives me a month to have some fun at home and see a few friends.”

“Yes, we will help you get ready for your trip and spend some fun time together.”

I put my hands over my eyes. Shouldn’t I have gone somewhere close to home in the United States? I don’t know a word of Arabic. How will I communicate? I put my hands down on the table.

“OK, dad and mom. I’ll go to Jordan for a year like you want. I have no idea how this will work out, but what the hell.” Then, the three of us hugged and went our separate ways for the day.

I thought it was the right decision. Perhaps the distance could solve my problems.

A month later, I boarded a plane embarking on a grueling ten-hour flight to Amman and then to a Syrian refugee camp in Za'atari, Jordan, where I hoped to find a new beginning.

Chapter 2: Welcome to Jordan

I boarded the plane bound for Amman, Jordan, and was stuck between a woman sitting with her baby and a tall, heavy male. I turned to the man beside me and said, “So, where are you from? I’m Joe.”

The man replied in Arabic. I guess all conversations with him on this trip just ended.

      After five or six hours stuck in the middle seat in economy, a sensation akin to poison coursed through my bones. My legs had gone numb; my back felt like it had borne the weight of an elephant. I desperately longed for some inhumane force to twist and crack my body, to break the relentless grip of my physical turmoil, not being able to move.

A more profound concern gnawed at me. I was supposed to be with Staci, teasing her while we studied our medical books. But here I was, stuck on a ten-hour flight to a Syrian refugee camp in Za’atari, Jordan.

I had time to reflect on the events that led to my breakup. How could this have happened? Everything had been going so well. I’d been so happy. Was God punishing me? I felt terrible and lost. God, I didn’t want to wake up anymore.

Staci, the girl of my dreams—the only one I’d loved—was the reason I was floating l in this misery. I hate you, Staci.

A whole bunch of random thoughts entered my brain. Was I scared to fly thousands of miles from home to a place ravaged by war and death? Or was my confusion stemming from the very reason I was leaving home? Had my heart truly been shattered to this extent? I couldn’t help but question my father’s decision. Yet, simultaneously, I felt a restlessness, as if something awaited me on the horizon, something that could offer solace—enough of Staci. I needed to wipe her from my mind and focus on my future.

Perhaps this journey to the refugee camp holds more than physical displacement. Maybe it’s a quest for solace, redemption, or a chance to redefine my purpose.

My mind swirled with questions as I pondered my one-year stay in Jordan. What would the people be like there? Were they just like us, or had the media painted an entirely wrong picture? How long would I last in this unfamiliar place? Perhaps my father had sent me here as a test to force me to confront my current reality. If that were the case, I must admit he was as astute as everyone believed.

But would a father truly go to such lengths? I’d long understood that my dad had his way of showing affection. Instead of hugs and expressions of love, he molded me into a responsible and successful person. It was a thoughtful gesture in his eyes, but a child was still a child. All I wanted was for my father to demonstrate empathy when I needed it. I wanted him to tell me that the world hadn’t ended when Staci broke my heart instead of sitting there and watching my Mom blame me for everything.

I understood my father might not have sent me to Jordan as a punishment or to make me long for home but rather to teach me about life and people and foster my growth as a medical practitioner. Or maybe he was trying to show me, after seeing life in Jordan, how much better I had it in New York. However, he never considered what I wanted.

I needed to prepare myself for whatever lay ahead. The place I was exiled to was administered by an individual my father knew and trusted. What of Dr. Johnson? He was someone my dad believed in enough to entrust with my guidance.

So why was I complaining? Ever since Staci bared her heart to me, all I’d been doing was whining and griping. As we were nearing Amman, I texted Dr. Johnson, informing him that I would land at the airport in an hour. His response indicated that he knew and would be there to pick me up personally.

As the plane touched down and I exited the tunnel, the sight of people embracing their loved ones made an impression on me. Everyone was reuniting with the people they cared about while I scanned the crowd for Dr. Johnson.

A thought of concern occurred to me. I was a Jew in a predominantly Muslim country. I couldn't help but wonder if the refugees would accept me. However, the immediate concern at that moment was Dr. Johnson. It struck me as foolish that I hadn't brought a photo of him, and I wished for a sign or banner with my name, as the alternative would have been quite awkward— having to call him and ask him to identify himself. After all, I needed to uphold my father's i.

“Joe!” a robust voice called out from my left. I turned to see Dr. Johnson, who waved from the midst of the crowd. He was easy to spot: an African American, tall like me. I noticed he didn’t have a banner with my name, suggesting that my father had shared my pictures with him.

I approached the man I hoped to be, Dr. Johnson, with a practiced smile. Internally, I was a bundle of nerves, praying he was the one I sought. If not, I hoped he would be here soon. As we drew closer, I offered my hand in anticipation of a handshake. Yet Dr. Johnson, it seemed, preferred a warmer welcome, and thus, we stumbled into an embrace.

“It’s a pleasure to meet and see you, Joe Gold,” with an enthusiastic smile. “You look like your father did thirty years ago.”

I replied, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Dr. Johnson,” though my tone revealed my shyness.

Dr. Johnson looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ve grown so much now. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-four,” I admitted, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Twenty-four?!”

Dr. Johnson looked at me thoughtfully as if trying to discern my age.

“Has it really been this long? I should pay America a visit. The last time I saw you was when you were four years old. I don't think you'd remember me, but I remember you well. I was in the hospital when you were delivered.”

So, Dr. Johnson genuinely had a close relationship with my father, and I may have met the man. Strangely, his name had never been mentioned, but then again, Dad had never been one for gossip.

Dr. Johnson's vibrant energy and optimism seemed out of place for someone who had been and still was a surgeon in a country surrounded by war. He was the same age as my dad, in his fifties, and looked in good shape.

“I hope you are prepared for the journey ahead, Mr. Joseph Gold,” he teased as he began heading to his car, pulling half of my luggage.

“Yes, sir. I’m really excited about this internship opportunity,” I said as I followed him.

“Oh no, no. I was talking about the drive. It's a two-hour drive to the camp even though it’s only fifty miles.”

A two-hour drive after a ten-hour flight? This had to be some form of punishment. I could barely keep my eyes open.

“And as far as the internship is concerned,”– he paused, his lips curving into an enigmatic smile— “our patients desperately need us. Just make sure you're motivated enough to help and keep them living.”

I gulped nervously and replied, “Yes, Dr. Johnson.” We headed to his car and began the two-hour ride.

“By the way, you don’t have to call me Dr. Johnson all the time. You can call me Dr. J.”

“OK.” I settled into my seat to endure the torment of the ride to the camp; I couldn't help but feel a growing interest in Dr. Johnson's connection with my father.

“So, you and Dad are close?”

“We were once inseparable, but the tides of time and space have pulled us apart. In our hearts, we remain best friends despite the rarity of our meetings.” His smile softened as he reminisced, “Our paths crossed in college, and frankly, my initial impression of him was less than favorable. He was reserved, which I mistook for arrogance. His penchant for witty retorts was, I’ll confess, somewhat irksome. Yet, his intellect was undeniable. He was always buried in his studies; debating him was an exercise in futility. Our first encounter? A trivial quarrel over bacteria. It was an inconsequential clash, but your father was a wellspring of knowledge. His most memorable feat, however, was compelling me to end things with my then-girlfriend.”

“Really? How?”

“That’s a long story I prefer not to share right now. Perhaps one day I will.”

“Well, that's terrible of him.”

“Not really. If it weren't for him, I'd have never met Mika. She's my wife, and you will meet her soon.” Dr. Johnson's smile grew warmer. “He introduced the two of us and, it seems, put in a good word for me, which I only found out years later through Mika. I don't know if this was his way of apologizing or if he genuinely believed I was the right match for her. He held Mika in high regard, partly because she was a nurse working for him. He treated her like a sister. So, I think he truly trusted me, even if I believe he was the reason behind my breakup.”

Maybe my dad was the reason for my breakup, although I seriously doubted that.

Dr. J’s willingness to make the long trip from the camp to pick me up showed the depth of their friendship. It reinforced my decision to spend most of my time at the camp for my father's sake.

“Is he still as stubborn as he was?” Dr. J inquired.

“I'd say he's even more stubborn now, especially with me,” I chuckled.

“Just a month ago, he called me out of the blue with an unusual request. He wanted me to arrange for his only son to come here for an internship. I had a hard time believing it. I tried to convince him that it wasn't right, that a refugee camp in Jordan might be too depressing for a New Yorker, but he is, as you mentioned, quite stubborn. I owed him a great deal, and he is usually right about things, so I agreed.”

I fell silent, still unable to fathom my father's true intentions, but I had resolved not to question his judgment and refrained from asking Dr. J for more details, even though my curiosity burned within me.

“But don’t worry much, Joe. You will be all right here. Sure, you are not in the place you imagined you would be, but trust me, for the career that awaits you, this will be a good experience for you. By the way, did you sleep on your flight?”

“I would not regard it as sleep. I just closed my eyes for an hour.”

“Well, then, what did you do for ten hours? Please don't tell me you stayed awake just because you found yourself sitting next to an attractive young woman,”

I felt a slight blush creeping into my cheeks. “Oh, no, not at all. Unfortunately, I was seated beside a tall, heavy man and a woman with a baby who cried nonstop.”

“I wonder, who cried more, the woman or the baby?”

His humor might not have been of the highest caliber, but it felt genuine and comforting after a long flight.

“Anyways, I’ll show you your room once we reach camp. You can take a shower and refresh a bit, and then I will take you to meet some doctors,”

“Can't that wait? I haven't slept in a while and feel quite worn out.”

Without hesitation, he dismissed my plea, stating, "No chance."

His swift refusal took me aback.

“Why? I’m exhausted. Surely, a few hours won’t make much difference. I intend to work hard, do everything you ask, and learn as much as possible.”

“I’m sorry for your discomfort, but I have already scheduled an introductory meeting with a group of doctors and nurses you will be working with. They are giving up their free time to meet with you. So, again, I'm sorry, but doctors who work with me are often more exhausted than you.”

“Understood.”

“We have ninety minutes left in our journey. How about you take a nap during the ride? I will wake you up when we arrive. Either that or, if you prefer some company, we could chat while listening to some classical Arabic music, with maybe a Taylor Swift song in there somewhere.”

“I think I’d better take a nap.” Even though I enjoyed conversing with him, nothing was more enticing for me then than a sound sleep with no dreams, pitch black with no thoughts at all. I needed some rest, and his rigid stance made me wonder if he thought I was some tireless mutant.

As the landscape of Jordan rolled past our car window, I reclined my car seat and prepared for much-needed rest. Although the seat was far from ideal for sleeping, it was the best option I had encountered in the past twenty-four hours. Fatigue washed over me, and soon, I surrendered to a nap.

***

I felt a hand on my shoulder and then a voice. “Wake up, Joe. We are outside the gate to Za’atari. I need your passport.”

I stretched momentarily, retrieved my passport, and gave it to Dr. J.

Dr. J stepped out of the car, his face tense, and handed over a document and my passport to the stern-faced Jordanian authorities. Their eyes scanned the pages with practiced efficiency. I held my breath, waiting for their verdict.

Finally, a nod—a silent permission to proceed. We were cleared to enter.

As we drove deeper into the camp, the landscape shifted. The road wound through a maze of tent homes, their canvas walls weathered by sun and wind.

Children played near the entrance, their laughter echoing off the makeshift soccer field nearby. The goalposts were crooked, the net frayed, but the players' passion was unwavering.

Women in colorful abayas carried water jugs on their heads, their footsteps leaving imprints in the dusty earth. Men in thobes walked purposefully, their sandals kicking up small dust clouds. Their conversations flowed in a melodic blend of Arabic, punctuated by laughter and occasional gestures.

Few cars passed us. Instead, the camp thrived on foot traffic—the pulse of life moving along the narrow paths.

Dr. J said, “You will be given a tour of the camp tomorrow. I suggest you take the time to acclimatize yourself to the camp's people and culture. Once a refugee enters, it’s not easy to leave. For your information, you may want to know that over twenty thousand babies have been born here since we opened in 2012. That means many children have never seen Syria.”

“Wow. I look forward to seeing the camp and hope I do some good while here.”

“That’s a good attitude to have. The people here have tried to establish some resemblance to a normal life, whatever that means to them. This refugee camp stands as a testament to the strength and endurance of those displaced by the conflict in Syria, and I’m sure you will learn a lot about the people and the culture.”

We drove for about five more minutes before arriving at our destination, the hospital. Dr. J arranged for an assistant to guide me to my assigned room in a separate building. It looked like it had been constructed similarly to an army barrack. I tried not to set my hopes too high but held out for one simple wish: that the room would be equipped with an air conditioner. Za’atari was known for its scorching heat,

Dr. J's assistant sighed as he showed me to my room. A single bed, one dresser, and a desk were all there was. There was no air conditioner. Damn

The assistant must have noticed the shock or disdain on my face. “Well, if you were expecting the Four Seasons Hotel, I’m sure this will be a shock for you. Make yourself at home.”

With that, he handed me the room keys and started to leave without offering any further guidance or details. He suddenly turned around as he reached the door and said, “Oh, and meet us at the hospital lobby in thirty minutes. Dr. J will be waiting for you. Make sure you’re not late, as he doesn’t like it.”

Emotions churned within me—a storm of frustration and exhaustion. But instead of yielding to tears or tantrums, I took decisive action. My bags, heavy with the weight of my journey, were flung aside. Determination fueled my steps as I reached for the essentials: a shirt, a pair of boxers, and a towel. The bathroom beckoned—a compact haven where I could wash away the weariness.

I examined the shower. A glass partition separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom, creating an open and airy feel. A slip rainfall showerhead hung from the ceiling, providing a gentle cascade of water. I imagined standing there, eyes closed, as water enveloped me—a baptism of renewal.

There was one hook on the wall for a towel. But fortune smiled upon me: clean towels lay neatly folded on my bed, a soft promise of comfort.

Within those modest confines, I shed the dust of the road. Water embraced me, and for a fleeting moment, I was suspended—between weariness and hope, between the past and the unwritten future.

After my shower and a clean shave, I put on a crisp white formal shirt and black pants. Then, it was off to my meeting.

As I walked to the hospital, its three-story structure loomed before me. I could only speculate that it encompassed roughly fifty thousand square feet. Upon entering the lobby, I noticed the entrance also served as a patient's family waiting room. Dr. J waited for me as expected and led me down a corridor. We passed several operating and recovery rooms. At first glance, The equipment appeared to be very modern. I didn't see any patient rooms, so I was sure they were kept on the two floors above.

Dr. J led me into the conference room. The door creaked open, revealing a space that defied the polished elegance of NYU’s conference rooms. At its heart stood a round wooden table, its surface etched with decades of conversations. The chairs encircling it bore the weight of countless visitors. The room’s walls were unadorned, and their pale paint chipped in places. A clock hung near the entrance.  Unlike NYU’s bustling corridors, where screens glowed, and fingers danced across keyboards, this room embraced simplicity. No computers hummed; no phones buzzed. Instead, the silence settled like dust on the window ledge.

I counted thirteen individuals around the table, including Dr. J. My gaze swept briefly over each attendee—six men and seven women. About half were dressed in doctor’s outfits and half in nurse’s outfits. Dr. J gestured, prompting me to take my place next to him.

He spoke softly to me so the other people in the room would probably not hear him. “I'm sorry if this gathering caught you off guard. We don’t waste money on elaborate furniture. This is our Shangri La conference room, as you can see.”

I nodded, waiting for Dr. J to speak further.

Dr. J looked at everyone in the room. Some were engaged in small talk. “May I have your attention, please?” Immediately, everyone quieted down.

“Everyone, this is Joe Gold from New York. Joe will be interning with us for one year. To be transparent, he is my best friend's son and mentor from many years ago. Having said that, please treat him as you would anyone else who works here. He will be a third-year medical student, so we will start him with easy tasks until he builds up his skills. Welcome, Joe.” They clapped and said, “Welcome, Joe. Or “Nice to have you with us, Joe.”

“Thank you, “I said.

Dr. J began speaking again. “I’m not going to bore you by introducing you to every single person in the room. You can meet them and learn their names while doing your rotations and work here. However, I do want you to meet two people. To my immediate left is Dr. Schmidt. He’s like the Vice President of this hospital. Dr. Schmidt, who is from Germany, and I work closely together. He is a well-respected trauma surgeon who performs many amputations and reconstructive surgeries. I glanced at Dr. Schmidt, who must have been around fifty years old.

Dr. Schmidt waved at me and said, “I look forward to working with you, Joe.”

“Same here.”

Dr. J gestured toward the woman seated to my right. “Meet Dr. Salama,” he said. “She’s a top surgeon from Egypt.” Her eyes held a quiet confidence, and I wondered about the countless lives she had touched with her skilled hands and if I would have the opportunity to work with her.

“Our surgeons and nurses are fluent in both Arabic and English and some in French. That is true for everyone except me. I’m not fluent in Arabic, although I can converse in it. When I meet with Arabic-speaking patients, I use an interpreter, which you will also use. Half of our doctors are from the Middle East. Some of our patients prefer to have someone like them as their doctor, and we try to grant that wish.”

Dr. Salama looked at me and shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Joe.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” Her skin complexion was dark brown, which I thought was probably indicative of someone from her country.

Dr. J then looked at the six people on the other side of the table facing him. All of them were dressed in traditional nurses' scrubs.

He pointed to them and said, “These are some of our nurses. We have twelve in the hospital, but some are working now as we speak. Please meet one particular nurse who sits closest to you. That is Mika, and she’s my wife. Mika and I met in the Philippines years ago.”

Mika and I made eye contact, and we shook hands. She said, “Nice to meet you, Joe. I know your dad well.”

“Really? Nice to meet you, too.”

Dr. J continued. “Some of our nurses come from Syria. They may be refugees, too, but they are well-trained and have the respect of the entire community, and we couldn’t do what we do without them. The last three in the row are from Syria.” I waved, and then it hit me. I was looking at a young woman with the most radiant smile I have ever seen. My heart skipped a beat, and my tired eyes snapped wide open.

In that fleeting moment, her beauty was a snapshot etched into my heart. My sole mission was to draw closer to her. Her hair, black as the darkest night, flowed like the silkiest charmeuse. Beauty radiated from her. However, regardless of how much I wanted to meet her, this was the wrong place to say anything. I waved at everyone and smiled. I definitely hoped she liked the way I smiled.

Dr. J went on. “This is primarily a surgical hospital. Although we can handle just about any emergency sent to us, Our examining, operating, and recovery rooms are all on the first floor. The second and third are used for patients who stay overnight. We don’t have a twenty-four-hour emergency room like they do in the States, but we are open twenty-four hours a day. We have a few more medical facilities where people with everyday maladies and needs can get excellent care. Please let me know if you would like to visit these places. Now, I’m going to dismiss everyone except Joe, who I need to talk to for a few minutes. Thank you for coming, everyone.”

All the doctors and nurses dispersed, probably returning to work with their patients.

I was sure to learn an awful lot from such a distinguished company. My stomach churned with a sense of queasiness. Perhaps I didn't belong with these heroes.

“If you keep staring at her like that, she'll call the cops,” Dr. J playfully interrupted me.

“What—what do you mean?” I stammered, my face burning.

“Oh, come on, kid. What do you take me for? I was your age once and was far smoother with the ladies than you are. You really are Robert Gold’s son. You can walk around the hospital for an hour, and then we can meet for dinner in the mess hall. I have a few things I need to take care of.” He stood up and left.

Seriously, he was relentless. I couldn’t tell if my dad had sent me here to learn something or just to be teased by Dr. J. Was it that obvious I was staring at her?

After an hour of looking around the hospital, I joined the dinner crowd. I noticed that Dr. Johnson had saved a seat beside him, and much to my surprise, it was meant for her— the girl who had captured my heart with a single smile.

“Elaina, meet Joseph Gold,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Joe, meet Elaina.” Dr. Johnson, you sly fox. Elaina, so that’s her name. It's a beautiful name, a match for that flawless face.

“I'm glad,” I awkwardly nodded. Seriously, Joe? That's the best response you could come up with? I continued smiling, and she reciprocated until the old, boring doctors started bombarding me with questions again.

“Joe Gold will be with us for a year.” Dr. J said.

Elaina smiled at me. “Nice to meet you, Joe. I look forward to working with you. We need all the help we can get.”

“Thanks.” Her smile was so contagious that I could barely breathe.

“Elaina, Joe will join us tomorrow; please give him a tour of the camp in the morning and explain how we do things. I don’t want him to fall behind, and I don’t want to go easy on him. I want to make sure he's up to speed.”

“I will, Doctor.”

I gave Dr. J a funny look. Was he trying to match me up with this woman? She was going to give me a tour of the camp. Was this a dream? Filled with anticipation for the day ahead, I went to bed, eager to start tomorrow's adventure. I could feel my palms sweating, and for some reason, I was nervous.

Chapter 3: A Tour of the Camp

Joe

After a restless night, my first night in a strange bed far from what I was accustomed to, I awoke to the sunlight pouring through my window. I dressed in casual clothes and sneakers. Walking to breakfast, I noticed a group of men speaking Arabic and stepping into the mosque near my location, no doubt heeding the call to prayer. I had always admired the intense devotion to prayer that Muslims showed. While I attended Sunday school and had had a bar mitzvah, I'd rarely attended services in the last few years. The High Holidays were basically it for me. Studying and sports always kept me busy.

With a sense of excitement for the day ahead with Elaina, I headed to the mess hall for breakfast. The hall accommodated fifty people across several tables. As I entered, approximately twenty individuals were already seated—some in groups, others alone. The cafeteria-style setup offered an enticing spread: a buffet featuring a mix of Arabic delicacies and traditional American breakfast fare.

My choice for the morning was Shakshuka, a delightful dish that beautifully blended cultures, with poached eggs nestled in a spiced tomato and bell pepper sauce. The rich flavors and warm spices made it a perfect start to the day. Alongside, I sampled a small dish of hummus, a staple in Middle Eastern cuisine, which I paired with fresh pita bread. To complete the meal, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the nearby machine and settled at a table, ready to savor my breakfast and enjoy the company of friends and fellow diners.

I was eager to explore the camp, but my primary interest was Elaina. There were hundreds of questions I would love to ask her. What was her story? How had she ended up in this camp? As I sat down to eat, a few doctors came over to shake my hand and introduce themselves. Two were from the United States, and one was from France. As I nibbled on my food and drank coffee, I eagerly waited for Elaina to appear.

Five minutes later, she entered the room and settled into the chair across from me. Her eyes, warm and expressive, met mine, and she bestowed upon me a smile that could melt glaciers. Yesterday, she had been clad in the starched white of a nurse’s uniform, But today, she wore something different—a casual ensemble that whispered of everyday life. The most striking change was the hijab that framed her face. It cocooned her hair, encircled her neck, and veiled her ears. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might be Muslim.

“Good morning, Dr. Gold. Sorry, I’m late. I was doing morning prayers.”

“Good morning. That’s all right. I didn’t know you were a Muslim.”

“Didn’t Dr. Johnson tell you I am a camp native?”

“No, but yesterday, you didn’t have a hijab. Plus, you speak English very well with a slight British accent.”

“I am fluent in English because I went to school in England for four years, but my first language is Arabic. So, what religion are you?”

Caught off guard by her question, I hesitated. Elaina’s unwavering gaze bore into me, awaiting my response. Back home, revealing my Jewish identity wouldn’t have posed any issue. But here, surrounded by thousands of Muslims and with the desire to impress Elaina, I grappled with uncertainty. Perhaps it was best to steer the conversation elsewhere. I shifted gears, choosing a different topic, hoping to maintain the delicate balance between openness and discretion.

I decided to change the subject. “I need to get something straight first. Please don’t call me Dr. Gold. Call me Joe when I’m not around patients. Technically, I haven’t finished medical school, so I’m not quite a doctor yet, which means you can even call me Mr. Gold when we are around patients.”

Elaina nodded her head. “OK, Joe or Mr. Gold. You can call me Elaina or Nurse Elaina in front of patients, but you still have not answered my question about your religion.” The way she looked at me told me she wanted an answer, and she wanted it now.

I sat there expressionless. I wanted to answer the religious question but couldn’t bring myself to. “Do you have a last name?”

“Nagi. It means ‘a close friend of Allah’ in Arabic. Does Gold have any specific meaning?”

“I never even thought about it. It has been my family name for generations. I suppose someone in my family had a lot of gold. Now that we have our names out of the way, shall we begin the tour?”

Elaina frowned. “Not yet. Again, you still haven’t told me your religion. It’s such a simple question.”

I clasped my hands in front of my body and shook my head. There was just no way around this. This looked like the beginning and end of my so-called relationship with Elaina. Although I was shocked a little by her being a Muslim, I was trying to accept it. Hopefully, she would do the same for me despite the history of fear and hatred between Muslims and Jews.

“Please try not to be upset. I’m Jewish, although not a very religious one.”

“So you are Jewish. So are half the doctors I have worked with here. They are all wonderful people. None of them are Israelis, though.”

“You don’t like Israelis?”

“I was never allowed to go to Israel due to the differences between our governments. Growing up, I only heard bad things about them. It’s hard to say whether I like or dislike them. I can only go by what my parents told me. Wait, I did meet a few in England, and they were all nice people, but I never associated with them. It was taboo in my family.”

“I see. Well, I’m not Israeli and have only visited Israel once, when I was thirteen years old. I am also not always a fan of the Israeli government. You mentioned your parents. I don’t mean to pry, but are they still alive?”

As soon as I asked, the smile on her face disappeared utterly. Her lips tightened as she shook her head several times. She looked down at the ground. “No, my parents were killed in a van as we tried to avoid the bombs of the Syrian Army. They were killed instantly, but my brother and I survived since we were sitting in the back.”

I could see tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I have no idea what you feel, as I have never experienced anything like that. I’ve never been to war, and my parents are alive and well in New York. Again, I’m so sorry. Forgive me for asking. It must be tough to talk about it.”

“Yes, it is. I was in shock for a long time, but my brother needed me to take care of him. He became deaf from the bomb blast and now depends on sign language to communicate. Yet he is happy here.”

“How old is he, and does he live with you?”

“Fifteen. He was young when our parents died. No, he lives with Salah and two other teenagers. Salah is an older man who is like an uncle or father to me. When I need help with something, I often talk to him. I would love to have my brother live with me, but I am so busy working and visiting patients that I do not have enough time to care for him. Plus, there are not enough rooms in the hospital area for Ishmael. He needs his own space. However, we see each other frequently, and I try to cook him a meal at least a few times a week.”

“I assume that Salah communicates with him via gestures or signs?”

“Yes, Salah knows how to communicate with him. He is not as good as me, but he tries hard to teach Ishmael how to work in the bread factory and learn new vocabulary words in writing. It’s not easy being deaf in this refugee camp.”

“I imagine it’s not. Does he have any hope to get his hearing back?”

“At this time, no. Maybe if he was in the United States, the doctors there could do something for him.”

“That’s so sad.”

That seemed to piss Elaina off. She folded her arms in front of her chest and frowned at me. “Yes, he’s deaf, and yes, it would be great if he could hear, especially in a place like this, but he’s happy, so that is not sad. What is sad is the thousands of Syrians who were killed by the monster controlling the government and the rest of the world that ignores the actions of the government.”

I sat there, torn between the desire to comfort Elaina and the realization that such an intimate conversation had unfolded between us—a conversation that delved into our family histories, particularly hers. My arms remained at my sides, unable to offer the solace I longed to give. Elaina’s vulnerability hung in the air, and I waited, my silence echoing hers. How did she endure the unimaginable horrors she described? Her resilience astounded me. To carry on after witnessing such devastation required an indomitable will that defied the darkness that threatened to engulf her.

And yet, there she sat, recounting her past with a courage that humbled me. How did one find the strength to smile after enduring the unspeakable? Elaina’s spirit was unyielding, her determination unwavering.

As for myself, I wondered: had I witnessed my family torn apart, their lives shattered by violence, I might have crumbled. Perhaps I’d be confined to a mental institution, haunted by nightmares, or worse, swallowed by the very darkness that had consumed her homeland.

Elaina’s bravery was a beacon, illuminating the path forward. I glimpsed tragedy and triumph in her eyes—the indelible marks of survival etched upon her soul.

And yet, there she sat, recounting her past with a courage that humbled me. How did one find the strength to smile after enduring the unspeakable? Elaina’s spirit was unyielding, her determination unwavering.

After being silent momentarily, I said, “Your story is incredible. Most people in your shoes would have crumbled. Are you all right to give the tour?”

I looked down and shook my head. After a moment, I heard Elaina’s sweet voice. Somehow, her mood had changed. Indeed, I was not expecting that.

“I am OK now. Shall we begin our tour of the camp? Hopefully, you will find it interesting and enjoyable,” she said with a playful tone. “The people here have a lot to offer if you get to know them.”

I nodded, and Elaina and I got into a golf cart with her in the driver’s seat.

Our initial destination led us to a play area where a lively group of young children awaited. Elaina gracefully stepped out of the golf cart, immediately capturing their attention. She conversed with each child individually, her words flowing in Arabic—a language foreign to my ears. Yet, comprehension wasn’t necessary; the transformation on their faces spoke volumes. Elaina, an unspoken inspiration, illuminated their world.

I stood there, a silent observer, witnessing the magic unfold. Her bond with those kids transcended language barriers. She embraced them, one by one, and they responded in kind—a symphony of hugs, laughter, and shared warmth. In that moment, Elaina became more than a person; she embodied hope, resilience, and the power of human connection.

We got back into the golf cart and turned onto the street; Elaina said, “Za’atari has a busy market known as the Sham Elysees, which stretches almost three kilometers through the center of the camp.”

I looked down the road and saw what seemed like a thousand shops.

“This is unbelievable,” I said. “How do they do it?”

“The Jordanian government trains with us and helps us out. Many trucks bring goods here daily. We will see more of this later. Of course, you are free to explore some of these shops whenever you wish. They will love your money.”

“I’m sure they will. So, what’s next?”

“This refugee camp comprises all kinds of people from all over Syria. We have doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, and so forth. They all had to leave their previous lives at home and start over. Most of them are unable to work anymore in their chosen field.”

“So, what do they do all day long?”

“Some of them have part-time jobs. Some have become vegetable growers. Some work at improving the electricity grid so we can have internet. They do not wallow asking for pity.” She pointed toward a building adorned with Arabic writing on a blue background. “That’s where the bread is prepared. It is a grand kitchen. The bread is delivered to the people in the camp for free. Depending on their family size or caravan, which is like a mobile home, they get a certain number of loaves each day.”

I seized the opportunity to engage her in conversation.

“I can see that. Can we visit? I’d like to see.”

“Yes, you will have the opportunity to meet Salah and Ishmael.”

“Wow, bread for everyone. That must be some task.”

“Yes, it is. They make thousands of loaves a day. My brother works there. Salah is the boss of the bread factory. He has experienced great tragedy in Syria, as his whole family was killed. Yet, he always thinks optimistically. He has looked out for Ishmael and me since we arrived here and treats us like his children.”

As we approached the bread factory, a cheerful old man called, “Welcome, Elaina!” He rushed over and gave her a big, warm hug. His thick grey mustache, bald head, and aura of genuine warmth welcomed me. He pointed to me. “Who dis young man?”

“Salah, I want you to meet Joe Gold. He’s doing an internship with us for one year.”

I reached out my right hand to shake his firmly.

“Joe, this is Uncle Salah.”

“Please excuse English. It so good to meet you,” Salah said, greeting me with a warm smile. “Anyone a friend of Elaina, a friend of mine, too.”

“It’s good to meet you, too,” I replied. “Elaina told me a lot about you.”

“Joe, you can talk to Salah. Give me ten minutes, and I will get my brother. Uncle, please keep him company. I’ll be right back.”

I nodded as Elaina excused herself.

Salah turned to me. “She love her brother, do not like separate much. I tell her he’s old enough now to take care of himself. But she doesn’t listen.” He shrugged. “She is her brother’s voice. She speaks and listens for him.”

“Yes, I see. She must love her brother a great deal. Out of curiosity, how many loaves of bread do you make daily?” I asked as I glanced at all the piles of bread being made.

“I never count. Many, thousands, who knows. We deliver bread to hospitals, camps, houses, all over.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of work,” I said in amazement. “How long have you been working here?”

“I came here when I fifty-five. Now I’m old, I’m seventy, so fifteen years.” His face and hair looked its age, but he seemed in good shape and had a lot of energy. However, his expression darkened. “It feels like it’s been forty years already. My family all killed by government murderers.”

“I’m sorry you lost your family. That must be very tough. Yet you treat Elaina as your daughter or niece. That is special.”

“Thank you, Joe Gold. Yes, Elaina very special. Wonderful woman.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Elaina, who returned with a young man by her side. “This is Ishmael, my younger brother.” Ishmael was slightly shorter than Elaina. He had the beginning of a beard, short curly hair, and a face that exuded innocence. I reached out my hand, and he politely shook it. While holding it, I said, “Hello, Ishmael. How are you doing? I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister.”

Ishmael responded with a big question mark on his face. Then he looked at Elaina and moved his head sideways towards me as if to say, Who is this man, and what is he doing here?

Elaina said, “It’s nice you talk to him, but he is deaf, so he cannot hear you, and he knows almost no English.”

My embarrassment was palpable as I realized I had forgotten this crucial detail she had shared. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just—” I started to apologize but stumbled over my words.

Elaina reassured me kindly, “It’s all right. You’ll get used to it.”

She then turned to her brother and began communicating with him through gestures. She wrote my name on the palm of her hand, and Ishmael, attentively watching her, turned to me and offered a warm smile. Feeling embarrassed about my earlier mistake, I signed “I’m sorry” by pointing to my heart and expressing sorrowfully to convey my apology.

Ishmael’s eyes widened in understanding, and he shook his head. “It’s OK,” he said with a forgiving smile.

Salah said, “Joe, would you like to taste bread? Very good. You enjoy.”

“Sure.”

We followed Salah into the building, where they baked the bread. Stepping inside the shop, I was struck by the unexpected grandeur. The factory appeared a bit congested, but as I ventured deeper into the shop, I discovered a labyrinth of interconnected compartments that extended the space even further.

The shop nestled in the heart of the Za’atari camp was like no other I had ever seen. Men and women of all ages, adorned in an array of traditional Middle Eastern clothing, were engaged in breadmaking. Some were kneading dough, while others showcased their skills in rolling out paper-thin rounds with practiced precision. A woman wearing a colorful hijab formed the dough into circles, her nimble fingers flipping them onto a large, concave griddle known as a ‘saj.’ Nearby, a baker with a weathered face tended to a roaring tandoor oven, using long wooden paddles to place dough onto the inner walls. The bread bubbled and blistered under the heat, creating an enticing charred aroma. Meanwhile, a young girl with curious eyes sprinkled sesame seeds onto dough brushed with olive oil, enhancing each round of bread with a burst of flavor.

There must have been fifty people, all hard at work. Many of them glanced at Elaina and me and smiled. Since I knew no Arabic, I could only wave and smile back.

Salah approached me, cradling a freshly baked round of bread. The bread had been baked to perfection, with a tantalizing aroma that made my mouth water. Salah extended the bread to me with a warm smile.

“Try this,” Salah said, his eyes twinkling with pride.

“Thank you, Salah. I can’t wait to taste it. Shall I do so now?”

“Sure, go ahead. Try.” He looked at my face anxiously to see if I enjoyed the bread.

As I chewed, I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. It was as if the bread held the essence of the people’s warmth, and their culture’s richness rolled into a single, humble round. I felt a deep connection to this place, its people, and their traditions, as if I had stumbled upon a hidden treasure. I had eaten plenty of pita bread with hummus and other foods at home, but this was so homemade.

Salah, observing my reaction, smiled even more expansive. “Good, yes?”

I nodded vigorously, my mouth too full to speak, but my expression conveyed my delight. Salah clapped, and Ishmael followed his lead. “You come again anytime for more bread.”

“I will certainly do so. This is delicious.” I looked at Elaina, who informed me it was time to go, so we said our goodbyes.

Before leaving, Salah packed me a loaf of bread for breakfast. I expressed my gratitude to both and bid them farewell with a sense of warmth in my heart.

Just as we were leaving the shop, Salah called out to Elaina and said something in Arabic to her, to which she nodded in acknowledgment. With that, we continued our journey, my heart and stomach full of the memories and flavors of the morning,

After getting into the golf cart, Elaina said, “We need to stop at one more place, a teahouse. If you want to learn more about our culture, tea is our most important drink. Many Syrians like to drink yerba mate, which is a herbal tea. Please don’t say no. We consider tea to be not just a drink but a symbol of hospitality and generosity, so do you fancy a cuppa, as they say in England? They also have water pipes that people use to smoke.”

Her offer took me aback. She was so sweet. We had barely met, and she was opening her whole world to me. Besides, learning more about Syrian culture was a good idea if I wanted to work here. “Sure, lead the way. I’ll drink tea, but no way will I smoke the water pipe.”

Five minutes later, we were sitting in a tea café amongst many refugees. The teahouse had about twenty small round tables. The first person we met in the teahouse was Mohammed, the owner. He welcomed us with a loud, deep, and booming voice.

“Welcome to my teahouse, Elaina. Who’s this young, good-looking man you have brought with you?”

“This is Joe. He will be working at the hospital for a year. I am giving him a tour of the camp.”

Mohammed and I shook hands.

“Nice to meet you, Mohammed. I look forward to trying some tea.”

“Sure. You are welcome here anytime. We welcome American money.”

I laughed. “I’m sure I will be here many times.”

“How do you like it here so far?”

“I have only been there two days, but what I have seen is very impressive.”

“Very well. I will let you and Elaina converse and drink some tea. If you need anything, please ask.”

“Will do.”

Elaina and I sat at a table near the wall in the back, which gave us some privacy. I looked around to see what people were drinking. I noticed a few people drinking from what seemed like a bowl.

“What’s that?” I pointed to one of them.

“That’s a gourd. We can share one as a sign of our new friendship.”

After a few sips, which I found very tasty, Elaina shared with me that Salah had asked her to attend a wedding.

. “Really? A wedding? I hope the two people getting married are in love. I bet it’s hard to find the perfect match here.”

“You are right. It’s hard to find a perfect match here. Most of these marriages are convenience marriages. People who arrive here have lost their families and loved ones, so those who have no companionship seek a partner to share meals and nights. While many do find love in their marriages, most don’t. Isn’t it strange? Every human yearns for love, yet we often fail to find it and end up feeling alone.”

“It is,” I agreed. “So, what about you? Do you… have someone you like?”

She chuckled, lightening the atmosphere and relieving me. “No. Uncle Salah keeps nagging me about it, but I’m quite busy treating patients, and Ishmael is still a kid. He is my whole life right now.” She looked straight into my eyes. “If you marry me, you marry him.”

Her response sparked a glimmer of hope and a newfound confidence in my heart. Since I had first laid eyes on her, my heart had been silently yearning for her. I had considered asking her on a date, but I was apprehensive about leaving the wrong impression or crossing cultural boundaries. However, I decided to heed my own advice and be patient.

“So, how long have you been here? You seem to know everyone.”

“I came to Za’atari eight years ago as a refugee.”

Though she appeared somewhat reserved, I could sense her confidence and readiness to engage. She wasn’t the type to remain silent while others talked, a trait I had picked up from our initial interactions.

“With the war raging on, our entire country was going through the worst,” she continued, her words heavy with sorrow. “Despite receiving news of my relatives and cousins dying almost every other week, I never complained much. Maybe it was because I was young, or maybe growing up in such an environment made me feel like all this was normal.”

Elaina paused and chuckled, “I tried to have a normal life if playing in the rubble is your idea of normal. Every night, we went to bed, and the sound of bombs broke up our sleep. Looking back, I can't help but feel sorry for my younger self, my brother, and everyone here or back home. It seems so foolish when I remember those days. I often ask myself, why wasn't I crying every day? Maybe it was because I still had my parents to protect me. I knew nothing would happen to me if I had my parents. They were the shield that saved me from the looming threat of death and destruction. My dad was an optometrist, and my mom was also a nurse, so we were well-off. That’s one of the reasons I was able to attend school in England. Once they died, I was in denial. I was only fifteen, and Ishmael was seven.”

My lips were chapped, and I couldn’t believe what I heard. I felt like a fraud. Every word she spoke left a hole in me, a realization that I had been nothing but ignorant and ungrateful. I couldn't believe what I heard. I felt like a fraud. Every word she spoke left a hole in me, a profound realization that I had been nothing but ignorant and ungrateful. Here was Elaina, a person who had lost her home, her parents, everything. Someone who knew nothing but war. A child who was cruelly robbed of her childhood. And here I was, a person who had everything I could ask for, yet I complained almost every day, grumbling just because my parents weren't as expressive as I wanted them to be. The more Elaina opened up, the worse I felt about myself.

“I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't mean to…” I stammered.

Elaina interrupted me with a reassuring smile. “I told you it’s all right.” She wiped away her tears, and I reached into my pocket, offering her a napkin. “Thank you. So,” she asked me as the silence grew, “what about you? Why did you come to Jordan? I have said enough about myself.”

Her question caught me off guard. I found myself standing at the crossroads of vulnerability and self-preservation. Why had I embarked on this journey from America to Jordan? The answer echoed relentlessly: Staci. She was the invisible thread pulling me across continents, weaving my purpose into existence. Indeed, I had no plans to mention Staci.

“I always heard so highly about Doctors Without Borders, and I always wanted to work here as a medical student. This place is out of my comfort zone, and working with doctors who are nothing short of superheroes is a dream of mine. Luckily, my dad and Dr. J are quite close friends, so when the opportunity came, I couldn’t just ignore it. I took a year off from NYU and applied for the internship. Now, here I am, next to you.” I spun my tale of deceit with a boldness that betrayed no shame, though deep down, I knew I was evading the truth out of cowardice.

“I can’t help but feel a little jealous of you. You’re studying at NYU, a dream I had once, which fate denied me. You’re fortunate to have a life of freedom. It must be nice. I may spend my entire life here. Yet all the other refugees have experienced similar fates, and all of us try to make the best of it even though we yearn to return to a peaceful Syria.”

So true. I would have lost my mind if I had come here as a refugee. “I’ve come to realize that I’ve been rather ungrateful for a significant portion of my life… that is until I met you.”

I wish I hadn’t said that. It was too soon. Before she could react, I said, with a playful glint, “I’m afraid that if I were to tell you that I’ve been cursing my life or certain aspects of it, you might just decide to splash a hot cup of tea in my face.”

“I think I might.”

I paused, my thoughts finally finding their voice, and confessed, “You know, I’ve been thinking of those children we met earlier.”

“What about them?”

“You, Elaina, have worked tirelessly to give them back what they had lost hope for. I already know this, even though I haven’t worked alongside you. I know because I saw those children’s smiles when you greeted them. Those kids ran towards you. I can’t change how you perceive things, but I want you to know that if no one has told you this before, you have saved humanity many times over, and everyone here is indebted to you. You have given them something they deserve—the chance to be surrounded by friends, play, love, be cherished, and live another day as the blessing it truly is. Life is a gift.”

Elaina rested her head on her hand and looked at me, a beautiful smile lighting up her face. In a calm voice, she whispered,

“Wow, your words are very heartwarming. I appreciate what you said.”

It felt terrific to express what she needed to hear and even more rewarding to speak from the heart. We were silent for the next few moments, perhaps pondering the bond that had just formed between us.

“I have another question for you. How did you become a nurse?”

“After I came here, I looked for a job to support Ishmael and myself. Salah introduced me to a doctor at the hospital. I guess they were impressed that I could speak two languages fluently and that I had gone to school in England. I trained at the hospital. My teacher was Mika, who is Dr. J’s wife. She took me under her wing and was very patient with me. Eventually, I knew enough to work on my own with the patients. I don’t have a degree, but I do have knowledge.

It felt terrific to express what she needed to hear and even more rewarding to speak from the heart. We were silent for the next few moments, perhaps pondering the new bond that had just formed between us.

Before we left, Mohammed came over to see how we were doing. He asked me, “Is there anything you would like to know about Za’atari?”

“Why don’t you enlighten us with some interesting facts?”

“Certainly, we currently have about eighty thousand refugees here, making it the largest refugee camp in the world. Did you know that we have had so many babies before here that half of our population are children?”

“Wow. Who takes care of all these children?”

“Besides Elaina, many charities, including the United Nations, lend a hand.”

“And what is your story? How did you end up here?”

“I was a restaurant owner in Aleppo. My wife and I fled here after the government started bombing the city. We have adopted three children.”

“You have a kind heart, Mohammed, even though I know you will try to sell me more tea and take my money.”

Mohammed laughed. “Yes, I will. Enjoy your stay here, Joe.”

“Shukran.”

After the tea, we continued our journey, with Elaina diligently showing me around and sharing insights about how electricity and water were supplied to the camp.

We reached the hospital thirty minutes later, signaling the end of our time together. Although we had spent the whole day with each other, it felt as though only a few hours had passed.

“So, this was the tour of the camp, Mr. Joe,” she giggled.

“Is it? I guess my luck has run out,” I attempted to flirt.

“But seriously, I had a wonderful time.” I praised her with a smile. "Taking a walk around the camp was nothing short of magic. You're a terrific guide, Elaina. I hope that from here on, the two of us cross paths more often.”

“Thank you,” she blushed.

“Shukran,” I said, attempting to thank her for her time in my less-than-fluent Arabic.

“Not bad,” she laughed. “Don't worry, I'll teach you some Arabic.”

“Looking forward to it,” I replied, tipping my beach hat.

With those words, we bid our farewells and went our separate ways.

***

Elaina

Once the tour was finished, Elaina went to see Dr. J. She went into his office and sat across from him.

“How did it go?” Dr. J asked.

“Everything was fine. There were no problems at all.

“Good. What did you think of Joe?”

“I only met him today.”

“I know that. I don’t want to know your personal feelings for him—but do you think he can work and survive here?

“Probably. He’s very curious about everything in Za”atari and appears to want to learn more about my culture. He seems like a good guy.”

“Who did he meet?”

“We met Salah, Ishmael, and Mohammed from the tea place.”

“All right. I guess the day was fine. I’d like you to please keep an eye on him and help him out if he needs anything. I will handle his medical training, but you know a lot more about Za’atari than I do.”

“OK. I will help him if he needs it. Right now, he’s doing fine and making contacts.”

“Thanks for stopping by. You can rest now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Elaina left and went to her room to rest. One thing she didn’t tell Dr. J was how interested he seemed to be in her. Maybe that’s just his personality. Yet, she felt she would like to learn more about Joe. He had been very kind and gave her many compliments.

Chapter 4: The Daily Routine of Za’atari

During the next few days after the tour, there was little time to converse and socialize with Elaina. We would occasionally share meals in the mess hall, but always in the company of other hospital staff. Most of our conversations focused on work or Ishmael. Private conversations remained elusive.

As Dr. J’s intern, I adhered to his rigorous schedule, often spanning sixteen-hour days. The operating room became my classroom, where the delicate choreography of life and death unfolded with each precise incision. Dr. J’s unwavering focus impressed me; he seamlessly performed multiple surgeries daily, never faltering or showing emotion. His tools spoke for him, orchestrating the intricate ballet of healing and recovery.

Deciding whether to save a limb was a constant battle of ethics and emotions. The world's harsh reality, so relentless and unforgiving, starkly contrasted with my idealistic notions. The scenes of suffering and trauma shattered my preconceptions, forcing me to confront the raw and unfiltered nature of reality.

During the operations, I often observed Elaina, a nurse with a unique aura of diligence and compassion. Her mere presence seemed to uplift everyone’s spirits. Elaina would gently grasp patients’ hands, offering comfort and solace with her soothing words spoken in Arabic. Remarkably, her compassionate approach consistently yielded positive results. Even when faced with patients who had endured the loss of a limb, Elaina’s empathetic demeanor managed to coax a smile from their weary faces.

One morning, I was assigned to observe an operation on a young boy named Ali. His eyes bore witness to the unspeakable horrors of war, and now he faced the necessity of having part of his leg amputated. To my astonishment, Elaina would also be part of the surgical team for this procedure. My task was to prepare Ali in his room for the operation while Elaina took on the delicate role of comforting and explaining the procedure to him and his anxious mother. The weight of responsibility settled upon us as we stepped into that room, knowing our actions would shape Ali’s future. When I first observed him, he looked extremely nervous. His lips quivered, and his forehead was sweating.

As Ali faced the impending amputation of his leg, mentally preparing for a life without the physical freedom to run through the streets whenever he pleased, I couldn't shake the arrogant comparison I drew between his fragile form and my privileged childhood. The room hung heavy with the weight of Ali's suffering and my shame.

As I assisted another nurse in putting in the IV line, Eliana patiently spoke in Arabic to Ali and his mom. She was able to coax a smile from him.

During a momentary break, I asked Elaina, “What did you tell him? He is in much better spirits since you spoke to him.”

“I told him he was strong and could get through this. Also, I spoke the truth. I told him that if he wanted to grow up, he must go through with this. Then I told him the hospital staff, including myself, would be here to comfort him and how much I admire his courage.”

“Wonderful words for the boy. Good job.”

Elaina and I escorted Ali to the operating room, where Dr. Schmidt would perform the critical surgery. Elaina provided comfort, holding Ali’s hand until the anesthesia gently lulled him to sleep. As the room hushed, Dr. Schmidt assumed control. He beckoned me to his side, inviting me to witness the stark reality—the damage inflicted upon Ali’s leg.

He pointed to the scar above his knee. “You see all the rough texture. Over here, pointing to another area is untouched skin. Notice the contrast. You can also see remnants of stitches with the scar, which hints at previous attempts to mend the leg.”

“Is there no possibility of saving the leg?” I asked.

“No. Believe me, if I could do so, I would, but his leg is too badly infected. If we do not amputate the leg now, his pain will increase greatly, and eventually, he will die. This is the only course of action.”

Dr. Schmidt and the surgical team moved with precision, which belied the emotional gravity of the situation. My discomfort at the sight of blood transformed into a deep respect for the resilience of the human spirit and the lengths to which medicine reached to mend shattered lives.

The moment the scalpel touched Ali's leg, my stomach tightened. Vivid with raw blood, painting a distressing portrait of the struggle for survival. Dr. Schmidt seemed to sense my discomfort even while focusing on Ali.

“You can stand back and observe from a distance if you wish. I know this must not be easy for you. You’ll get used to it.”

I stepped back and moved next to Elaina, who was also observing. My body brushed against hers. She patted me on the back, trying to comfort me. No doubt, she had seen numerous operations. Unfortunately, my nausea got the best of me, and I grabbed a bag and threw up into it. After discarding the bag, Elaina presented me with a bottle of water. I was genuinely embarrassed, but Elaina and the others in the operating room were—Thank God—focused on Ali and not my discomfort.

As the surgery unfolded, my unease transformed into an acknowledgment of the dedication before me. The room was soon filled with antiseptic smells and the rhythmic beeping. After a few hours, Ali was sent to the recovery room and then back to his hospital bed.

Every day after the operation, I went to Ali’s room to assess his progress. Initial visits revealed the intense pain he endured. However, as days passed, a heartwarming scene unfolded: Elaina, standing by his bedside, held his hands firmly and gently brushed his hair with her other hand. Despite the weight of his tragedy, Ali smiled at her, finding solace in her presence.

I stood there watching them.

After a moment, I said, “It seems you are the only one who can make Ali smile in the hospital. I know I can’t.”

“You don’t speak the language, so it’s more difficult for you. I’m sure Ali has met very few people who do not speak Arabic. It’s a matter of trust.”

“I see. Please tell Ali that Arabic is a beautiful language, and I wish I could speak it well.”

Elaina said, “All right.” Then she spoke to Ali. Ali looked at me and gave me a thumbs-up.

That melted my heart. I bowed to him, and he laughed.

Ali was on his way to recovery. Of course, there were other patients to work with. A few days later, Dr. Salama assigned me to change some bandages on a twenty-five-year-old man, Suleiman, who had recently had his leg amputated above the ankle. To my surprise, I found myself teaming up once again with Elaina. I couldn't be more grateful for this arrangement. Her proficiency in English made her an invaluable asset to the medical staff and the patients, and I was glad to have her by my side.

As I walked into the patient's room, I heard, “Look at you,” from a familiar voice that I recognized as Elaina's. “You've gone quite pale since I last saw you. Aww, has this been too much for you?” Her teasing demeanor put me at ease, dispelling my concerns about potential awkwardness after not seeing each other for a while.

“At least I hope I don’t throw up again in front of you. That was quite an experience. Maybe I should have fainted instead.”

“You will get used to these operations. Think positively. We are saving someone’s life each time we operate.”

“I’ll try. So what are you doing today?”

“Dr. Salama asked me to apply an ointment and a dressing to an amputated leg wound.”

“Ok. Great. How can I help you?”

“Suleiman doesn’t speak English, so right now, he can’t understand us. He’s not the most excellent patient and complains quite a bit. Let's bring in a regular interpreter, as I don’t always like the way he speaks to me. I need to be able to focus on my job as a nurse.“

“OK.” I went outside for a moment and brought a female interpreter with me.

As Elaina began talking to me in English, the interpreter spoke in Arabic to Suleiman. “First, we must remove the old dressing and examine the wound for infections.”