The Journalist

Part 23: My Samaritan name

In this conflict-filled place ..not only was it the beginning of my complicated love story, but it was also the beginning of my adventure as a real journalist ....

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From the description of the date and year listed, the blog has been made about three years. However, losing is far more popular than my personal blog that was just created a week ago. I also just found out that he is part of my blog followers.

I tried to get to the main blog page. There's nothing I can read because all posts use Arabic. I opened one of the posts where there are photos of comparisons between Syria before and after the war. Since I was interested in reading the post, I tried to translate it.

I cringed when I read the translation. There are some sentences that I do not understand even though they have been translated into my language. Probably because it uses Arabic literature as a kind of prose. It is like a poem that tells the longing of a country that is peaceful, safe, and far from war.

Apparently, he only made his blog a kind of personal journal book that contains beautiful writings with the use of poetic words. Because his blog does not provide chat services with readers, then I can only leave a message in the comments on the post.

"Hi, thank you for following my blog. I've been following your blog. May I request your e-mail address? I'm interested in getting more intimate and chatting with you." I wrote that sentence using Arabic as a result of machine translation on the internet.

Honestly, I asked for his e-mail address to be close to him. I thought, maybe he could exchange information with me about the events happening around him to be published as news material. The people of this country are still very closed to us, so it is very difficult to get information directly from the victims of the war. Moreover, we are also constrained by language to interact with citizens. For almost two months here, Aoba and I only managed to get news from other journalists, one of them from Kamal Malek.

I started looking for other writing. I chose the post with the main image of a desert. It was the latest post to be released on his blog, but was written about two weeks ago. Just about to decipher the contents, Aoba came to me in a hurry.

"Ayano-san, we got news this morning from the Idlib refugee camp. There are many people who have been injured by pushing each other while fighting for help from volunteers in the refugee camp there."

"How many people were injured?" I immediately opened Microsoft word to prepare to write news from the information that Aoba just delivered.

"There were 113 victims, 93 of whom were women the rest of the children her mother had taken with her during the relief effort."

I'm appalled. "How's chronology?"

"As soon as the volunteer car came, the impatient ones immediately ran over. These women are crammed into each other and encourage pushing for fear of not being parted. I got footage of the incident from one of the reporters who was there." Aoba showed me the video footage.

I cringe. "Isn't there an international aid agency operating 24 hours? Why are they still fighting for help until they have to cram like that?"

"Let's know, it looks like these refugees are turning down aid from UN volunteers. It's helped still be picky!" ketus Aoba's.

I'm stunned. I don't think it's like that. My index finger tapped on the table slowly as this brain began to analyze the events of the past few days in a different shelter. I still remember the moment I collided with a woman who was carrying a bunch of stuff from an international aid post. There must be something that discourages refugees from taking the help the UN has provided. This got me interested in doing some investigation in some refugee camps. I'm sure there must be something behind all this.

"Where are So and Eiji?" my many.

"They were already there to pick up the documentation. Eiji told me he saw your girlfriend there."

Knowing that Yuna was there too, I said, "Well, we'll follow after I write this news."

I had to stop browsing the Syrian women's blog. However, I do hope he will provide his email so that we can establish a personal communication.

We then headed to a new refugee camp. It takes two different buses to get there. Every refugee camp is dominated by women and children. The war has left four million people homeless. This is proof that all the things we have cannot last forever.

During the trip, I tried to reopen the blog page of the Syrian woman. Damn, there is no internet. If there is still no internet network in the refugee camp, it will have to wait to return to Damascus.

We arrived after a road trip that took hours. Yuna came up to me still wearing a white coat. Yes, I did contact him while still on the way. I was a little stunned to see her wearing Ameena's veil on her head that made her look like a Middle Eastern woman.

"Don't look at me for too long, I know I'm pretty." Yuna's narcissistic sentence managed to disperse my vague daydream.

"Most of them experienced shortness of breath and were trampled upon while jostling each other. Fortunately the CPR action was quick to take," Yuna replied.

I recorded the information Yuna gave as the latest news material. "Do you know why they're scrambling for help from the newly arrived volunteer car? Isn't there a relief post there, too?" I asked Yuna.

"I don't know. But ... maybe they're just afraid of running out."

"Aoba, can I interview one of the women here?" I asked Aoba who was standing next to me.

"It doesn't seem to you. You're a man .. Look, they're on average wearing a burkak to keep the line between a man and a woman."

"Ah, I understand!"

I look around. Yes, the women in this refugee camp mostly wear clothes that cover their entire body, including the face. However, there are also ordinary hooded like Ameena.

"What if you're the only one interviewing them? I'll write them a question!" I said to Aoba while picking up a little notebook in my backpack.

"Do you think I speak the language in this country?" sahut Aoba grimaced.

I can only snort. Soon, So and Eiji came to us. They told us that we had to put up a tent here because there was no transportation operating at night. Yeah, what can I do. After all, I'm still curious to conduct an independent investigation in this refugee camp. In addition, Yuna also became a doctor who served in this camp for a while.

Me and Yuna then went around to take a look at the atmosphere of this place. While walking, I noticed several women and children sitting in front of the tent with bandages on their faces. Some of them hurriedly entered the tent while clashing with me.

The wind whistled along with the sky scene emitting a golden complexion. The beauty of the sky this afternoon I immediately made with the camera I brought. Just about to take aim, the veil Yuna was wearing fluttered and covered my camera lens. I stopped taking pictures for a moment, my gaze turned to Yuna. He looked busy with his veil constantly slipping from the head.

"That's not how you wear it!"

Holding back a smile, I turned his face to face me. I held down the two sides of the veil and tried to re-imagine the way Ameena was wearing it. What came to my mind was the scene when I put the veil on Ameena's head, shortly after we confronted the robbers.

"I think .. how to wear it wrapped like this so it is not easy to escape," I said as I shifted backwards to wrap both sides of the end of the veil around Yuna's neck.

"If you're like this you want to strangle me!" yuna protested when I tied the veil too tightly.

"Sorry .. sorry," I said with a laugh.

As it was almost nightfall, I, Eiji, and So started setting up the tent. This time our tent was close to the medical tent. I rushed in and immediately picked up the laptop just to reopen my blog. I really hope that woman replies to my comment.

Yosh! Right, he replied to my comment. I directly copied his comment to the machine translation page.

"Thank you for coming to my blog. Thank you also for responding to the request for a photo of the little boy. Regarding the e-mail address, I can't give it because I don't receive private chats with the opposite sex. Sorry ...."

I put on a sour face as a disappointment. Are women in this country very allergic to men? This reminds me of Ameena was very afraid of physical contact with me.

Not giving up, I typed my comment reply on the translation page. "Sorry, you may have mistaken. Actually, I'm a girl. My name is Khai but my name is my name ...."

I thought for a moment, is there a female name that starts Khai said? I then shifted the cursor to open a new tab and searched for information on the names of Middle Eastern women that started Khai said.

This eye is so focused on seeing a list of rows of names presented in internet search engines. "Chi ... Khai .... Yeah! Found it!

I went back to his blog page to reply to a comment. "My name is Khairunnisa."

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