We sit in Widad’s guest room. It’s a combination living room/sewing workshop, with cushioned seating lining three walls and a sewing machine placed near the window to take advantage of daylight.
Arabic coffee is passed around in pretty cups and saucers that clink as we resettle to hear each other better. Four languages are spoken as we listen to stories—two Kurdish dialects, Arabic, and English—but between us all, we’re able to translate for each other. A baby sleeps in the corner despite the cacophony of voices.
It is all perfectly ordinary, and perfectly extraordinary. Widad hosts us all in her home without skipping a beat. It’s almost possible to forget that we’re in a camp for Syrian refugees, sitting among women who lost everything in war.