VOICES columnist Amy Idem, originally from Lancashire, lives with her husband and three children, in Idil, in Turkey’s southeastern province of Şırnak. She writes about her cultural and life experiences here, and on her blog:https://memyselfandidil.wordpress.com/

My Little Idil

I’VE never been a brilliant sleeper, it takes me a long time to drift off, usually with the assistance of a good book and once I finally enter the land of nod, I sleep fitfully. Waking every so often for no particular reason.

I find it even harder to sleep nowadays, wondering what will become of our small town, of our future. My ears tune into the subtlest of sounds.

The rational part of me is telling that it’s the airconditioning unit’s motor causing the propeller-like noise. The irrational part urging me out of my bed to check that it is not the sound of an approaching helicopter.

As I peer into the blackness of the night, I see that indeed my fears were in my head. I take a quick scan of the horizon and see nothing. All is silent barring the occasional interruption from the local wildlife.

I’ve stood here many times before unable to sleep, looking through the windows and the bars in the dead of night. Looking out to what is just fields upon fields of burnt grass and the distant mountains. Wishing I could be anywhere but here, longing to be in my hometown surrounded by familiar faces and sights.

I think to myself and realise how far I’ve come in the past few years, every waking moment is no longer consumed by thoughts of all I left behind and instead I think more about what we would be giving up if we were forced to leave İdil.

In the first few months of being here, I would have jumped at any chance to escape from the dreary day to day boredom of this small insignificant town.

I dreamed of returning to my place of birth and setting up home with my husband and children. Living somewhere I could be safe from interfering inlaws and probing questions from complete strangers.

Now that there is a real possibility that İdil could become too dangerous for us to stay, I find myself becoming more attached to the place I once wished I would never have to see again.

The thought of leaving the house we have made a home behind makes me feel sick to my stomach and I feel a wave of sympathy for the millions of refugees pouring out of Syria.

At times this year I have felt panic-stricken with fear for what may happen to us, when the bullets and explosions have been close to our house, followed by a cloud of tear gas. We close the windows, turn off the lights and try to make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible.

During Ramadan we would be in the kitchen with all the windows open until 4 in the morning, just two short months later I daren’t step foot in the kitchen after 10pm with the curtains open anymore for fear of what may be outside: fear of the unknown.

We would go down to the corner shop at 11pm to buy ice creams and be at the park at midnight chatting while the children played. Now I daren’t stray further than my next door neighbours house at night and all the shops shut at 9pm.

I wonder about how terrified those refugees must have felt when risking their lives to enter a completely strange land where they know nobody and don’t speak the language.

I think about how devastated they must have been to leave behind their homes, businesses and potentially other family members who may be too old or weak to survive the endless walk to safety.

I feel disheartened and saddened to see people claiming that they are using the state of their country as an excuse for a better life in Europe.

The world needs to wake up and see that these people are not running for a better life, they are running for their lives.