Lessons in Einstein from a Refugee

I never know who I will meet when I step through the door of a new family’s home. Sometimes my nose twitches from the fermenting fish smell, sometimes I am warmly greeted by air fresheners and cooking rice.

Today, I pulled up to house. A red van sat in the driveway and a young boy sat outside. A “For Sale” sign sat out front, even though the family will be renting this unit on the North side.

Inside, Ali greeted me warmly. He is a tall, lanky man, speaks excellent English and worked for the US military in Iraq. He was formerly a veterinarian and has held many jobs outside of his trained profession. The man who sponsored him, Lee, is American. He is an older gentleman, late 50s with blue eyes and white hair that is reminiscent of Santa.

As we began to talk, I learned that they struck up an unlikely friendship in 2005. Lee was doing contract work outside of Baghdad; Ali was running a rental company the Air Force used. Ali became Lee’s confidant, each trusting each other in a place where the “other” was often considered the enemy.

The new family with Lee. (photo credit Mak Suceska) 

Seven years later, the family arrived in Des Moines; this time Lee as the guide. Lee has arranged everything, will show them everything-- will help with anything the family needs.

Ali’s wife doesn’t speak any English, but she was formerly a history teacher in Iraq. As we sat together she started crying. I asked if she was ok.

Ali replied, “When you walked through that door. You looked like her sister.”

I was so moved. She was homesick. She missed her sister. She doesn’t know if she will ever see her sister again.

The family has two sons. One 10, one eight. The younger boy has cerebral palsy and has spent his life confined to a wheelchair, but nonetheless has a wicked sense of humor and charming smile.

“Anything I do is for my sons.” Ali said. His hand rested on his sons arm, defending him, protecting him.

But it was when the conversation turned to Einstein that I realized that this job I have is so much more than resettlement.

Ali sat in the middle of the room. I was to one side, Lee to the other.

Looking me in the eye Ali reiterates, “To me, you are on my left, and Lee is on my right. But to you, Lee is on your left. But to me it is correct; to you it is wrong. Just because something seems different doesn’t make it wrong.”

An unlikely friendship between a man in a military and a man protecting his family.

Relativity. 

Through a Smile, a Promise of a Future

I looked at this little girl, her hair tightly braided down her back, her complexion dark. She smiled at me. It was a shy, timid smile. A smile reserved for someone she doesn’t know, but is thankful for nonetheless. I smiled broadly back and waved goodbye as I left their new house in Waukee.

How different their life is.

They are staying with family, temporarily, until they sign the lease on their new apartment in a few days in West Des Moines. The house is red, new construction, and is surrounded by evaporating corn fields.

Only five days before, this family was fleeing Damascus with bombs falling around their plane.  They were leaving the second home that they had known. See, this isn’t a Syrian family. This is an Iraqi family, who fled that country some six years prior.

This is a family that has seen evil, bloodshed and loss. And here they are—in Iowa.

Musallam was an IT professor and correspondent for the Boston Globe in Syria. His wife stayed home but spoke almost perfect English. Two of their children were born in Iraq. The third in Syria.

How they were one of the few to escape Syria to the US as a refugee so quickly, is a mystery to me, but one I am thankful for.

I met with the family on their fifth day in the US and went over the usual rules and policies of our office.

“You must attend ESL, Community Orientation and Job Club. You will receive an orientation on the bus. Do you know what 911 is? How about driving? Don’t drive on a permit! Make sure you keep your house clean. No Bugs!! Do you want a free cell phone? How about donated clothing? Do you have your address memorized? Where are you looking to work?”

Musallam paused. “Is it ok if I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” I reply.

“My brother. He is still in Syria. It is a dangerous place. I need him to be here. He didn’t sign up in time to be a refugee. What can we do?”

What can we do??? I know the answer to this question, and can give it without pause. But after my ramblings, I realize these are things that in the grand scheme aren’t as important as his brothers life.

“There is nothing we can do from this side,” I would normally say, “They must start the process over there.”

But for this family, I ached not to say those words. Not for them. Not after what they have been through.

But I had to say it. That is a limitation of my job. I work at a field office for refugee resettlement. I have no control of what goes on a world away in UNHCR Refugee camps or at the ORR, PRM or any of the other acronyms that only seem to stem the dreams of family reunification.

We are an agency that focuses on the present. The family is here now. We must get them social security now, food stamps now, housing now, Medicaid now, a job now school enrollment now.  Everything must be done now without giving credence to the past. Otherwise it can overtake a caseworker.

All clients must be treated the same. They all are here because they have fled persecution.

That is what a refugee is.

But when I look at the children. It doesn’t matter if they are Burmese, Bhutanese, Eritrean or Iraqi. These children are no doubt going to grow up in a better environment that what they lived in prior.

Many of them will grow up without accents, become citizens before they can drive and go to college.

Things that their parents wouldn’t have imagined just a few years ago.

When I looked at Musallam’s daughter. I saw everything she had been through, everything she had seen. But I also saw her future. She is only 10. She has a life now that is full of promise, full of peace and full of hope.