Al Karama

Introduction by Samuel Dunn

Al Karama is a dusty rural town in Jordan’s Fertile Crescent.

In the main street mechanics and welders work noisily while grocers and coffee shop owners smoke and wait for customers. Children rush across the road on their way home from school.

Between the shops there are views of the light-dappled mountains on either side of the wide Jordan Valley.

Al Karama is close to both the Jordan River and The Dead Sea. The area is greener than most of Jordan, but many areas are still desert landscape.

Across the plain are the Bedouins’ tents and farmers’ homes. Some are built of brick; others of corrugated iron, plastic or cardboard.

Through the desert haze, the people of Al Karama can see Jericho and the Palestinian territories. For many, this represents their home.

After the Six-Day War in 1967, the town was captured by the Palestinian Liberation Organization, led by Yasser Arafat.

A bloody battle followed between Israeli, PLO and Jordanian forces, resulting in Al Karama being largely destroyed.

Half a century later, the town perseveres.

Here are some of the stories from the people of Al Karama.

23rd November 2017

Words by Jennifer McMillan

In the southern corner of Al Karama, striking orange lights come from the welding sparks that fly through the air of the workshop. The screaming of metal drowns out the sounds of the nearby road.

In the workshop metal scraps are scattered on the table top. Screw tops, a rusted paint tin and sandpaper covered in a layer of dust.

Aged forty-seven, Hassan owns the tool shop. His family have been here since 1948, and are originally from Hebron in Palestine.

As he talks men come in and out buying pieces of rubber, metal scraps and pipes. A photo of his family hangs above the shop counter; a woman and four children.

“This is an agricultural area,” he says while pouring turkish coffee into a small porcelain cup only slightly bigger than his thumb. “Ninety percent of the population are farmers and we’re quite poor.”

While he stops to talk, out on the street most men are busy working. A group sits across the road sipping coffee, watching at a distance. A proud rooster is guarding its caged territory by their side.

Their rough hands are covered in grease. A father and son work side by side welding car frames and cutting metal pipes.

“We are near the Jordan Valley,” he explains, “Al Karama was the site of battle in 1967 between the Arabs and the Jews.”

Soon he starts working again. Once again, the only colour is from the orange sparks littering the air.

But he quickly comes back out of the shop. “I forgot to tell you,” he adds, “Al Karama means dignity.”

Words by Lucy Slade

Farahat is sorting styrofoam boxes ready to pack his fresh harvest of herbs. He is working on a farm just outside Al Karama.

He's a few kilometres from the Israel border. Across the valley he can see the Palestinian town of Jericho.

Farahat is one of the million Egyptian migrants who have come to work in the Jordan agriculture industry. He says his job is "tough" because he works from six in the morning until sunset.

But working in Jordan is less difficult than trying to find work in Egypt.

Yousef Nuseirat, a Jordanian produce seller, says Egyptians often take jobs that Jordanians don’t want to do.

Yousef sells his vegetables at his small shop on Al Karama's main street. He welcomes Egyptians because they are happy to work on farms, which is not something he says Jordanians "would willingly do".

On Farahat’s farm, he grows the same kind of herbs that Yousef sells. There are those recognisable to most westerners - parsley and coriander. There are also herbs less well known that are indigenous to the area - Rocca, Hindbeh, Khubayzeh and Rashad.

Yousef says they are used to make, “salads, side dishes or cooked with onion.” As he speaks you can hear the first rain of the season falling on the roof of his small store.

He is joyful the rain has come because they “depend highly on the water that comes with the rain”.

Words by Alex Chapman

Behind the main street of Al Karama there are four sandstone arches that stand in a field of gravel, providing welcome shelter from the sun.

A dozen children run from them and climb into the back of a pickup truck. Onlookers laugh when one falls out, unhurt.

Not all of these spectators are watching the struggling kids though. One is intently listening to the rough growl of the truck.

Flicking a stone off of the shoulder of his leather Lamborghini jacket, he turns to laugh at the run-down, green vehicle, overflowing with kids.

He is Sanad Nahnoosh, a seventeen-year-old Jordanian with a passion for cars. His friends call him crazy.

Sanad’s obsession with cars derives from his adolescence, where he spent months working with his uncle in Amman.

Sanad’s goal is to work in his uncle’s garage, but first he needs to finish his mechanical engineering degree at the University of Jordan.

Until then, he lives in a quiet side street in Al Karama.

His bare feet crunch on the gravel as he steps over a lit cigarette and he pulls out his phone. A Ferrari logo is displayed as his wallpaper.

The old, green truck putters past and gives a honk of its deep horn, which is accompanied by the squeals of kids on their way home from school. Sanad gives them a look, and says something to the delight of his mates, who elbow him and called him crazy again.

But in a village with only one main road, why cars?

“I just love them,” he shrugs, and goes back to looking at the cars.

Words by Donal Sheil

Outside a convenience store Osamah is selling colourful kids’ backpacks and plastic toys.

“My family has been here since 1948. I love Jordan because I was born here.” he says. “I miss Palestine - I yearn for Palestine. Our lands are over there.”

Although the twenty-four year-old Palestinian refugee misses his native land, Osamah calls Al Karama home with a wide smile.

"I have my children here. There is good work, I have a store here. My wife and children live here; my home is here," he says. “All the possible opportunities are open for me, and it is safe.”

Palestinians make up a large proportion of Jordan's population.

Off Al Karama’s busy main road, on a quiet side street, Ased is cleaning his oil-stained tools. The forty-five year-old metal worker is also a Palestinian refugee.

“I was born in Al Karama. Most of my family is in Jordan. My family is originally from Palestine, we lived there for a long time,” Ased says. “And then as a result of the Israeli war we had to move to Jordan.”

Ased’s callused hands are smeared in black grease. He ushers passers-by into his workshop for quick cups of coffee.

He admits that he wishes to return home. “It would be better if I could go back to Palestine.”

On the opposite side of town, in west Al Karama, groups of adolescents wander the streets. seventeen-year-old Radwan Almohmmdieen is amongst them. The young Palestinian says education is important to him.

“I love my school; I think I wouldn’t amount to anything without school. I want to work in civil defence. If not, in agriculture.”

“We love our country because the Aqsa mosque is there,” he says. “I love it and I want to go pray there, and I hope that it will get liberated.”

When asked what it means to be Palestinian, Radwan gently places his hand on his heart and says “fakhour” - the Arabic word for proud.

Words by Krystal Mizzi

Khalil Nuseirat, aged fifty-two, has just changed his life.

After thirty-five years working as a barber, he has finally completed his certificate that enables him to teach younger barbers the tricks of the trade.

“I do love work but I love teaching more,” Khalil says proudly, before running over to the wall to show off his certificate.

While he has run his barbershop in Al Karama for the last decade, he and his family of eight live in nearby Salt – a small agricultural town in central-west Jordan.

It was there he taught himself the trade of barbering at seventeen.

Each morning Khalil takes thirty minutes to commute to his shop. He says business is good, but there is a lot of competition now. He says he doesn’t let this challenge get him down.

Khalil makes between JOD500 and 700 each month, which works out to be $AUD1000 -1400.

“Money is no problem,” he says, “we have everything we need, but we enjoy what we do.”

Khalil says his wife inspires him. “My wife is a teacher also, of primary school,” he said proudly.

Words by Amelia Barry

The Aisha Um Al-Muminin Primary School is on the edge of town. It is 12:30pm and in Al Karama that means it's "turn over time" - the time of day when the school switches from teaching Jordanian students to Syrians and Pakistanis.

The Jordanian children are screaming as their school day draws to a close. Inside, twenty-eight year-old teacher Hanaa Alsardi lets the kids play. They jump on one another and race from one end of the playground to the other, many with colourful Disney backpacks hanging loosely from their shoulders.

Hanaa has only been a teacher for a year and is clearly joking when she says "they drive me mad!" as she tries to settle the kids for the umpteenth time. She shrugs her shoulders and gives in to their cheeky smiles. Wearing a Minnie Mouse jumper and Snap-Chatting the chaos she is relaxed and entertained by the madness.

But teaching is only one of Hanaa's jobs. When the kids eventually go home she will walk down the street to the beauty salon she owns.

Hanaa spent four years studying 'cosmetology' in Virginia in the United States, which explains her proficiency in English and her well manicured eyebrows. She proudly lists the treatments she offers, including "haircuts, wedding make-up, face treatments, waxing - anything to make you beautiful."

While in America, Hanaa also met her now-fiancé. She says she "has to get married soon" She nods emphatically and repeats her age. "I'm twenty-eight." As for an exact date, she casually responds, "Maybe next month?"

Hanaa says she will "of course" take care of her own make up for the wedding and then plans to return to America to live.

For now however, she's teaching at Aisha Um Al-Muminin Primary School. She finally calls the kids to attention, before dismissing them.

Soon the Syrian and Pakistani teachers will arrive to take their classes for the day. This shift school, like so many in Jordan, divides the school day into two teaching session, an initiate encouraged by the King to alleviate overcrowding in schools following the recent influx of refugees.

Words by Shelby Garlick

Talal has striking soft grey hazel eyes.

Standing in the car wash he now owns, the young man is welcoming. He has a soft and calm demeanour, and greets people with a gleeful smile. The premises where he is standing is old – run down even. 

The inside is fairly basic, with two bays for cars to pull into. The garage doors are covered in rust. The ground is still wet from a recent wash and tangled hoses are sitting in the corner of the shop.

Talal was born in south Jordan but has spent more than half his life in Al Karama. He comes from a close-knit family, where he is the oldest of two brothers and two sisters.

“As a child I felt very protective of my siblings and know I want to set a good example for them to look up to.”

Talal is currently studying marketing and business at university in Amman. He has one year remaining of his undergraduate degree but wants to continue his studies to a Masters of Marketing or Human Resources.

The future seems bright for Talal who has already made a start in the world of business.

Three years ago, he bought his carwash that is located off Al Karama’s main road. He says most days he is fairly busy and likes to do as much hands-on work as possible.

“The people of Al Karama are special because they’re simple people who just get on with their day, their life, they work hard and have honest jobs.”

Talal has big plans for the future, in particular to keep expanding his shop and add to his business.

“Jordan is my home country, I was born here, I live here, I study here, and I love Jordan in my heart.”

Talal says his favourite thing about Al Karama is the people.

“The people of Al Karama are special because they’re simple people who just get on with their day, their life. They work hard and have honest jobs.”

Words by Sam Jonscher

Sheikh Salem’s Bedouin camp is a few kilometers along the road north of Al Karama. Like his father before him, Salem governs several thousand fellow tribesmen who live in twenty camps that are spread across the region. One day his son may do the same.

Bedouin life is cyclical. In winter, at the height of lambing season, the shepherds breed their livestock to replenish the year’s herd. In spring, they will sell these new lambs and prepare Jameed - a goats’ milk yoghurt that is dried and stored to last through the year’s scarcity. 

Once summer comes, the shepherds will herd their remaining stock north, away from the valley’s searing heat. Each year they leave their crops and a few permanent structures behind them - awaiting their inevitable homecoming for the next winter.

For the past fifty years this tribe has returned to this patch of land that straddles one of the Jordan Valley’s key irrigation pipelines. The camp sits low in the basin, on the edge of an inlet. 

To the east, it is bordered by the steep ridges of the valley. To the west, greenhouses fill the landscape as far as the Israeli border.

Once, this cycle rested on the work of camels. Today trucks carry the load. 

“We are very modern now, it’s not like before," says Sheikh Salem. "I have a phone, I’m on Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp.” 

Electricity is siphoned directly from the grid and each family in the camp has a television and fridge - even air conditioning. 

“I remember when I was six years old, we lived in a tent without electricity and only had kerosene lamps for light. Instead of television dramas, my mother would tell us stories.”

Story Credits

Special thanks to Najat Dajani, Andrew Dodd & Saba Bebawi

Writers & Photographers:

Amelia Barry

Alex Chapman

Samuel Dunn

Shelby Garlick

Sam Jonscher

Jennifer McMillan

Krystal Mizzi

Lucy Slade

Donal Sheil

Editor: Kate Bettes