Out of stricken Baghdad, into uncertainty

Jordanians imagine them to be rich. Some are comfortable, but more typical are people like the Obeidys, who were both longtime schoolteachers. She taught primary school, he taught math. He's supposed to be getting an Iraqi pension now. He can't work here, and their money is quickly disappearing.

"If they see you working illegally, they'll throw you out," Ali Hussein says. "We just want to assure our survival. I'm ready to pay to stay here, if they would let us."

"We're spending our savings and we don't know how long it will last," he says. "We don't blame the Jordanians – they don't have so much money. But why doesn't the world help the Jordanians so we can survive?"

When they arrived, Mayada went to the UNHCR and registered as a refugee. However, unless she can prove they are specifically targeted for violence, it's unlikely they'll meet the current standards for asylum here or in most Western countries.

She displays the card, which has yet to be of much use to the family, and shrugs. "Does America not know how terrible things are for us?" She asks the question with a quiet calm, as if genuinely unsure of whether people in the US are aware of the scale of the carnage in Iraq. "Why are we allowed to come only to Jordan and Syria? Our situation is just getting worse. If we go back, we will be killed."

In Baghdad they knew several other middle-class families whose children had been kidnapped. They were sure it would happen to them sooner or later.

Before leaving, they invited a poor family who'd been living in a slum to come and stay in their home. Few would pay rent for a home in Adamiyah. And if the Obeidys left the place empty, it would be sure to be taken over by squatters or militant groups.

So began the dynamics of becoming a reluctant refugee: handing over the keys to your house in the hope that one day, they'll be returned in peace. You make a choice: your belongings or your very being. When you leave this way, you really never know when you are coming home again.

It's afternoon in Jebel Hussein, a busy part of Amman that is so heavily populated with Iraqis that Baghdad-accented Arabic dominates the streets.

Jordanians complain that the influx of Iraqis has driven up real estate prices and the cost of living in general, making it harder to find affordable apartments. At the other end of this resentment, Amman society is buzzing with chatter about the crime rate going up due to the Iraqi refugee population. In the Iraqis' defense, one Jordanian analyst pointed to the fact that Iraqis here are economically trapped: They can spend but they can't earn. Many are getting desperate, and in such circumstances, it wouldn't be surprising for them move into the black market or find other ways to survive.

All of that is to say nothing of the fear that the Sunni-Shiite conflict could spill over into Jordan.

Newspapers reported that Shiites here might want to build a Shiite mosque, drawing ire from several Islamic leaders in Jordan, which has always been an almost exclusively Sunni nation.

The Obeidys, who are Sunnis, dislike even talking about the sectarian divide, which they prefer to leave behind. Before 2003 and today, they say, they've always simply been Muslims.

At home, Mayada and Ali Hussein are in a much smaller apartment than the home they had in Baghdad. They spend a lot of time watching TV and then calling people back home to make sure they are OK.

"You hear the news and we know we have friends and family there," says Mayada. "It's in your head all the time. It's not like you take everyone you know out with you. Things are shaky. We're not sure of anything now. Mortars fell yesterday right on the area we lived in."

Five days earlier, a mortar landed on a school just like the one their daughters went to, killing five girls.

The children are confused, unsure of where they'll be attending school next year. The adjustment was rough at first. Other children made fun of their Iraqi accents, but soon enough, they caught to the new dialect. Jordan is a hospitable country. Still, Jordan is not home.

And where is that? The children can't decide. They sit, quiet, and well-behaved, watching "The Biggest Loser," a US reality show about obese Americans competing to lose weight.

What should the family do now? Each child has a different answer.

"Stay here," says Nur, 9.

"Go back to Iraq," answers Mustafa, her fraternal twin brother.

"To America," declares Shams, 13 and slender, and stares back at the TV.

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