The last Syrian family and a show of support

Since he arrived in New Haven three months ago, Ahmed has eagerly awaited his family.

“Ahmed’s family is here for their English assessment!”

I glance at the clock — right on time. I grab their registration forms, make copies of the alphabet, and head down the hallway to meet the last family allowed into our country from Syria.

“Hello, Teacher!” Ahmed beams.

Since he arrived in New Haven three months ago, Ahmed has eagerly awaited his family. He sits with his two sisters, his brother, and his mom in the crowded reception area of our refugee resettlement agency. I show Ahmed’s family the classroom where they will soon start learning English. I hand them a folder, a notebook, a pencil, and a photocopy of the alphabet.

“I’m very happy to welcome you to my English class,” I say. “I will be your teacher.”

Ahmed translates for his family. His mom smiles and answers in Arabic. Ahmed translates back for me: “My mother say she is so happy. She say thank you America and thank you God.”

The State Department treated Ahmed’s case separately from his mother and siblings. With such a thorough vetting process, it’s normal for refugee families to be parsed into batches, and to arrive here in waves. The courage to part hands with a father or a daughter in Jordan and board a plane to America comes from the belief that goodbye is only temporary.

If dad’s application gets accepted first, he can look his family in the eye and say “I’ll see you soon.” Dad knows America will keep its promise. Mom and the kids will get plane tickets soon. Their applications have already been accepted. It’s only a matter of time. Bureaucracy is slow, but America is fair. America is generous. America does the right thing. Not anymore. With the stroke of a pen, President Trump has suspended the refugee program. Trump’s executive order keeps thousands of families trapped in harm’s way. Thousands of kids will spend crucial years without access to school. On the day of the ban, fully vetted people who had sold their belongings, kissed their loved ones goodbye, and flown to America, were suddenly blocked from entering our country. At airports around the nation refugees were forced back onto planes. They were sent back into danger without belongings, money, or faith in America.

Needless to say, I was expecting a difficult class on Monday. I had braced for teary eyes. I had prepped for panic. But as usual, my students defied my expectations. I didn’t see panic. Mostly I saw confusion and sadness, but also hope.

The outpouring of support for refugees in Connecticut has been uplifting for my students, and for me. They see their neighbors standing up for them. They realize that while our president has closed the door, they live in a city, and in a state, that they can call home.