Unlikely fresh start in the land of the free
Syrian family land in ‘hostile’ US and discover kindness of strangers
AMERICA’S newest family of Syrian refugees flew in late at night, and Sarhan Aldobai, 36, looked down from the aircraft at the distant lights of his new home. His wife, Houria, was nursing their baby in the next seat. His five other children had fallen asleep. Sarhan took out the small world map he had carried since leaving Syria in 2012 and tried to trace the plane’s path.
They were flying over the US, where polls showed that a majority of residents said they didn’t want more Syrian refugees. They descended into Kentucky, where the new governor had vowed to block arrivals because of “risks to our citizens”. They landed in Louisville, where at that moment late last month a Republican presidential debate was being broadcast live on airport TVs.
“What would you do with these people?” a moderator was asking the candidates about the 2 000 Syrians who had been admitted into the US in the past four years, since the war in Syria began. “Do they pose a terror threat? Would you send them back?”
Sarhan walked off the plane and stopped to wash his face and wipe his shoes. His three sons were dressed in winter jackets donated for their trip by the UN. His oldest daughter was carrying an American flag she’d been given before their departure, during cultural orientation for refugees.
They had been taught that Americans believed in wearing seat belts, that girls and boys attended school together, and that terrorist attacks in Paris and California had caused a backlash against Muslims.
They’d been told about Donald Trump, and how his supporters talked of shutting down mosques, banning Arabic and creating a government registry of Muslims. These were some of the things Sarhan knew about the US.
What the US knew about him was collected in his refugee case file. “Reason for resettlement: Physical protection needs.” “US ties: none.” “Prior occupation: Shepherd.” “English ability: Reads none, writes none, speaks none.” “FBI screening: Cleared.” “Department of Homeland Security: Approved.”
He had brought his family to the US at a moment when an increasing number of Americans considered themselves vulnerable and afraid, and now Sarhan turned a corner in the dimly lit airport and felt his own version of fear. There, at the other end of the security gate, were two dozen strangers staring back at him, pointing at his family, shouting, waving their arms and now surging closer. One of the strangers emerged from the crowd and spoke to Sarhan in Arabic.
“These people have come to greet you,” the woman said, explaining that she was an interpreter from a refugee resettlement organisation and the crowd were congregants from a church sponsoring the family’s arrival.
Sarhan nodded, told his children to keep walking and followed the crowd down the escalator.
He didn’t know where they would live, or if he would find work, or whether anyone needed an experienced shepherd in Louisville.
It had never been their plan to come to the US. They had hoped to stay in Syria, remaining in Homs even after snipers killed two of their neighbours, after a bullet splintered the door to their flat, after the nearby oil pipeline was blown up and military tanks opened fire on a crowd of civilians down their street.
Only after insurgents began shelling the adjacent block of flats did they finally decide to escape for Jordan in January 2012, travelling on a bus provided by aid workers.
They had hoped to stay in Jordan, too, but the desert refugee camps had limited water and the government denied Sarhan permission to work. He applied to the UN for refugee resettlement, stating a preference for Europe, where a few friends had been sent; or for Canada, which had offered to take in 50 000 Syrian refugees.
Instead, in the randomness of refugee assignment, his case had been referred to the US.
After two years of interviews and security checks his family had been booked on oneway flights to Louisville, where now the van pulled into a street of boarded-up homes and stopped at a refurbished yellow house. The interpreter and the caseworker from a refugee agency greeted the family at the door.
They followed the caseworker into the house for a short tour. She showed the children all three bedrooms, which had been furnished with donated furniture.
She demonstrated how to turn on the shower and showed Houria the electric stove. “I’m afraid I will start a fire,” Houria said. She had not used an electric stove before. She watched as the interpreter wrote instructions in Arabic and taped them over the knobs.
The caseworker led them back into the living room to sign paperwork. She explained that the government would pay their rent for the first three months, just as it had for 90 other Syrians who had arrived in Louisville last year. They would be given job training, cash assistance, food stamps and English classes. They were expected to be self-sufficient within five or six months.
Sarhan pulled the baby on to his lap and looked around the room. He had questions about everything. He wanted to know more about the bus – when it would come, where it would take them, and why they would be going there.
He wanted to know if the city bus went to Detroit, and how close Detroit was to Kentucky, because a distant cousin had been resettled there earlier in the week. The caseworker smiled and said goodbye. Sarhan followed her to the door and watched her leave.
Outside it was quiet and dark except for a streetlight casting shadows. Sarhan took out his keys, turned the lock and secured the deadbolt. He pushed and rattled the door to test its strength. Then he opened it back up and practised locking it again.
Morning came, and they returned to the door. All three boys, 10, 9 and 7, worked against the lock until the door cracked open and they could see outside. There was sunlight coming through the trees in front of their house. Across the street were a bicycle shop, a block of flats and a parking lot filled with puddles left by an overnight rain.
Sarhan came up behind them. He reached for the door and closed it. “We have to wait,” he said.
The boys went back to their rooms and tore into boxes of donated items from the church. They tried on new clothes, dumped out Lego bricks, assembled puzzles and rode through the hallway on bigwheel bikes. Soon they were back at the door, asking again to go outside.
“Please. For one minute,” Jasem said, and this time Sarhan led them out to the porch.
There were no mountains, no farms, no olive trees, no pastures filled with sheep – just a busy street rimmed by billboards they couldn’t read. The air was cold. Sarhan finished a cigarette and led the boys back into the house.
“This isn’t Syria or Jordan,” he told them.
“You can’t just go wandering off into America.”
So they waited in the living room as America began coming to them, visitors knocking at their door and offering gifts. A woman from the Syrian association brought a cellphone. A neighbour who was a US Army veteran welcomed them in stilted Arabic. Peggy Cummins, an organiser from the church, helped fill their fridge.
Sarhan opened a jar of coffee and smelled the familiar cardamom. “This is too much,” he said. “This is more than we could have hoped for.”
Late in the afternoon, a man named Noor Eddin arrived with a compass to locate the direction of Mecca, so Sarhan would know which way to face when he prayed. Then he gave Sarhan a schedule for prayers at the nearest mosque.
“They have a mosque right here in Louisville?” Sarhan asked, surprised. Eddin pointed out the window and down the street, where Sarhan could see a small mosque popular among refugees from Somalia, Burma, Afghanistan, Iraq and, lately, Syria too.
“It is safe?” Sarhan said. “No problems,” Eddin said, but then he told Sarhan about one problem, which had occurred at another Louisville mosque in September.
The building’s walls had been vandalised one night with phrases such as “Nazis speak Arabic” or “Stop being terrorists”. Then early the next morning, before the police could even file their report, the mayor had come to the mosque with a bucket of paint, followed by hundreds of other residents, and together they had helped repair the mosque.
“Most Syrians are good people,” Eddin said. “Most Americans are good, too. This is the Western world. They respect the rights of a human being. You have to look for goodness in people. You have to trust.”
The next day there was another knock at the door, and this time it was a driver from the refugee agency who told Sarhan that they needed to leave the house for an appointment. They had to sign up for benefits and social security cards at a government office downtown. Both Sarhan and his wife needed to go.
A few days earlier, Sarhan had received a phone call from their relative in Detroit, who had only recently ventured away from his house for the first time. He had gone to a grocery store a kilometre away and become lost on his way back home. He had forgotten his address. He had no way to ask for directions.
He had wandered the city for five hours before he found someone who spoke enough Arabic to help him get home. He had stayed there since, more scared and embarrassed than before.
Sarhan had his address in his pocket and the interpreter’s number programmed into his phone. The appointment was to begin in 15 minutes. The couple needed social security cards to become permanent residents, and they needed residency before applying for citizenship.
Sarhan looked at Cummins. He saw goodness. After so many awful years, he wanted to trust. “Thank you,” he told her in halting English. Then he said goodbye to the children, unlocked the door and walked outside. – The Washington Post