The Refugees Trapped in a Corner of Syria, Now Free
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Today on State of the World, the refugees trapped in a corner of Syria now free.

You're listening to State of the World from NPR, the day's most vital international stories up close where they're happening. I'm Greg Dixon. In today's episode, we go to Rukban refugee camp in Syria, which no journalist had seen until NPR's Jane Araf arrived there recently. It's in a remote corner of southeastern Syria, near the border with Jordan. And for nine years, some 7,000 people have been trapped there, having fled the Syrian regime and ISIS attacks.

Now that regime has fallen and the residents of Rukban are free to go. But as Jane Araf tells us, many still can't leave. I'm going to.

These children chasing each other in the sand were born here in this remote desert encampment. Miles and miles of rocky desert. No water, no shade, constant wind. It's a place no one would ever choose to live. But nine years ago, Syrians fleeing ISIS left their homes and massed here in the desert of southern Syria, hoping Jordan would let them in.

For a while it did, but then the gates slammed shut, leaving them hemmed in by ISIS and regime forces. And the community grew. Children were born here, and children died. Without a single doctor here, in a lot of cases, no one ever knew why. They've seen snakes and scorpions. But a lot of these kids have never seen a tree. Some have never tasted fruit. They've only seen a few visitors before.

and certainly no journalists. One of the kids asks for a water pipe, another for cigarettes. Until the Syrian regime fell, this community of 7,000 people was cut off from the outside world. Many of the men here fought with opposition forces. Syrian and Russian troops controlled the highway out. The desert was mined.

I've been trying for years to get here. The U.S. military has a base near here, but it wouldn't bring in journalists. Jordan said it was too dangerous to let people across. You are the first journalist from anywhere of any kind to ever make it here. That's Moaz Mustafa, an activist and the director of a U.S. organization, the Syrian Emergency Task Force. In

In 2016, the U.S. military established its small base about 30 miles from here as part of its anti-ISIS operations. Two years ago, Mustafa persuaded the military to bring in medical supplies and visiting doctors when they had space on their aircraft. Water here comes from UNICEF, piped in across the border from Jordan.

For the past several years, Jordan has not allowed even aid deliveries, saying it's too dangerous for aid groups to enter. It sealed the border in 2016 after a suicide bomber killed six Jordanian soldiers. And there are other dangers. I'm standing in front of a sand berm about six feet high with a trench in the middle. On the other side is Jordan.

and an American base, Tower 22. It's essentially a support base for their outpost here in Syria at Al-Temf. It was the base that was attacked by Iranian drones earlier this year. Three American soldiers were killed in that attack. Mustafa says until he persuaded the U.S. military to visit the camp, there was almost no contact. After that, he says, the U.S. base embraced the community, helping to bring in and distribute aid and providing medical care when it could.

The U.S. military declined to speak about the camp. Funded by donations, Mustafa's group opened a pharmacy and started a school. It even took a census and held elections. Nine years we've been without a doctor, Abu Mohamed Khadr says. He had to leave school after the ninth grade, but he runs the pharmacy funded by the American organization.

He says all the medicine here is from the U.S. Allergy cream and infant formula and baby cereal, antibiotics. Khaled Hamadi comes in for blood pressure medication. They don't have a lot, but whatever they have is provided free. People here first came with tents.

But they were no match for the wind, cold and heat. After a while, we decided to use the clay to make bricks and then walls and then we built houses, Khother says. We came here because of the border. We thought maybe the neighboring countries would help us. But unfortunately, they didn't.

The few here who had some money could buy food smuggled in past regime forces, but most people survived on dried bread, lentils and rice. Father takes us to his home for breakfast, a relative feast now that the road is open. Cheese and olives and flavorful beans. There are small openings in the mud brick walls for windows, covered with clear plastic instead of glass. For years, there were no diapers for babies.

At another home, Afaf Abu Muhammad tells us that when her children were infants, she used plastic bags. Her eldest daughter, Sha'ala Hajib, is 16. She was born with a spinal defect and can't walk. The parents were told once by a visiting doctor it could be corrected with surgery. But here, that's a distant dream. In their hometowns, these people came from all backgrounds. Farmers, teachers...

Fawaz Taleb was a veterinarian when he fled Humps in 2015.

He shows us the mud brick rooms his family lives in. They can't afford to buy the sticks of wood that are sold for fuel, so in winter they burn plastic bags and even strips of old tires for heat. The children here have a lot of chest problems because of this, he says. In the small patch of earth outside, he shows us a fledgling garden.

planted with seeds brought by Mustafa's organization. He points out lilies and a rose bush, along with onions, potatoes and mint beginning to sprout. Taleb says even though life has been incredibly harsh, they didn't want to give up. There's a school funded by the emergency task force. It's a weekend, so the only kids are playing football. The head of the school, Mohamed Slira, opens a classroom door. Hi, Lina.

I'm walking into a kindergarten classroom. Like the rest of the school, it's made entirely of clay. With their bare hands, Zahra says. They've been painted with bright colored flowers and butterflies. Things the kids haven't seen in real life. Instead of desks or chairs, they're mud brick benches covered in concrete. Almost everyone says they'd leave here and go home now if they could.

But for now, they're waiting for help, for money to rent trucks to take them back. But they're overjoyed that they're no longer trapped. On the way to Rukhban the day before, we meet one family on the highway that managed to leave the desolate camp. The old truck is piled high with iron bars from their dismantled roof and mattresses. Hadi Fala says he's taking his family back to Homs. Hurry!

Freedom, he keeps saying. There is nothing more beautiful than freedom. All four of the children crammed into the front seat were born in the camp. We're accompanied by Mustafa, who's practically bouncing with excitement to see families returning home. Thank God, a thousand congratulations, he tells the family. They're welcoming me.

Back in the vehicle, an official from the Interim Syrian Foreign Ministry, Obeida Arnault, who's also on the journey, starts singing about Homs, also his hometown. He's saying, take me to Homs. My eyes have been crying for your homes. It was one of the many songs forbidden in the past. But for now, these few days after the fall of the regime, the future is an open road.

Jayna Raff, NPR News, in the southern Syrian desert. That's the state of the world from NPR. As we approach the end of the year, consider supporting our nonprofit journalism. We just took you to a place no other journalist had been to hear how world events are affecting individual humans. It was not an easy place to get to, and we need your support to make bringing you these stories possible.

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