"Iraqi refugees are burdens here," a Jordanian government spokesman tells me in a stuffy Interior Ministry office. Patience in the country that has taken in up to 500,000 Iraqis is running short as schools and health systems take the strain.

And so, the Jordanian government has announced it will no longer issue or extend residency permits to Iraqis living in the kingdom. The government estimates 80 percent of Iraqis do not have the right papers to allow them to stay, according to the U.N. news service IRIN.

Jordan is not a signatory to the 1951 U.N. Convention on Refugees. This means displaced Iraqis living in the kingdom are not allowed to work. They must rely on their dwindling resources and aid from NGOs to survive. They are considered at best "guests" and at worse "illegal" by the state.

And for every day they outstay their permits, they build up fines - 1.5 dinar ($2) a day. But in a further move to encourage people to leave, the Jordanian government recently announced it would write off these fines for anyone who chooses to go.

The Iraqi government is also trying to encourage people to return to Iraq. It is offering financial incentives for returnees, including money to help ship their possessions back to their former homes.

But while Jordanian officials are trying to make people leave, and Iraq is encouraging them to return, one factor is going unacknowledged. Every family I met spoke of how scared they are, and how much their fear affects their everyday lives. Their two main fears? First, being arrested because of their illegal status, and second, being sent back to Iraq.

Because of this, they told me, they do not leave their homes. And spending each day with the same people cooped up in the same two rooms is only adding to the trauma they have suffered so far.

Hana, a young Iraqi woman who fled in 2005, now lives in east Amman, with her husband and 4-year-old daughter. She said that since she was attacked in her home in Iraq by militia, even a bang on a door can make her faint. As she spoke she could not stop the tears trickling down her face. She was pregnant when she was attacked, and suffered a miscarriage. And now she keeps her daughter as close to her as she can. "I am afraid something will happen to her," Hana told me. "She is always asking me, 'Why don't you let me go out and play?' But I am so worried; I embrace them (her husband and child) even when I am sleeping."

I visited another family, all at home in a small room in the middle of the day. As we spoke, one young boy lay asleep on the divan. His mother and brother sat on the edge of his bed. "In Iraq, he was caught and burned," she told me. "They want to go out but I won't let them. I am afraid, in case they get killed or assaulted." Though this is unlikely in Amman, her sense of fear was tangible in the airless room.

Many of the people I spoke to had received personal threats by letter or phone that forced them to flee. And since arriving in Jordan, some have felt themselves under threat once more, after taking part, as extras in the recently released film, "Battle for Haditha", directed by British filmmaker Nick Broomfield.

Made entirely in Jordan, the film tells the story behind the murders of 24 Iraqi men, women and children, allegedly shot by U.S. Marines in retaliation for the death of a colleague who was killed by a roadside bomb. The film is critical of both the U.S. military and the mujahideen who masterminded the bomb attack.

Being cast in the film offered some much needed income for the Iraqis in Jordan. But since its release, a threat has appeared on an Arabic website, calling for the deaths of those who took part for insulting the mujahideen.

Whether the threat is real or not, it has undermined the fragile sense of security that families have managed to build up since they left Iraq.

"Since being threatened again I feel scared all the time," said Nivine, wife of one of the extras who took part. Another told me: "I am worried about my children because of these threats." Unable to stop her tears, she said the tension had led her to take out her frustration on her children. "I have started to slap them because the pressure is so bad," she said.

Every person I met had an experience of terror and loss engraved on their memories, and some bear bodily scars. Some had been attacked in their homes, or had their homes destroyed while their families were inside. All they want is to be resettled legally in a third country. Going back to the places where they were so traumatised is inconceivable to them. As one mother of three small girls told me, "Even if I was the president of Iraq, I would not go back."

The Jordanian government has repeatedly stated that it does not consider Iraq safe and people will not be forcibly returned. But as their money runs out, and their children struggle to access schooling, some may feel the new restrictions leave them with no choice.

(Names of Iraqis have been changed to protect identities)

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