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One resettled Iraqi

Wednesday, December 2nd, 2009

If you have been reading this blog, you know we recently interviewed hundreds of Iraqi refugees and listened to their stories. Most left Iraq because they watched family members get kidnapped and killed and ultimately their own lives were threatened. I learned that among their many woes, most Iraqis are stuck between a rock and a hard place—they cannot return to iraq (for safety) and cannot move forward by getting resettled (not enough countries willing to help). So they are stuck in their host countries unable to work, school, provide for their family or live, really.

There a  few “lucky” ones who have received resettlement in the U.S. I say “lucky” because Iraqis face MANY challenges when they arrive in US—no family or friends, new language, difficult cultural assimilation and of course financial challenges. Unless they unexpectedly (in this economy) find a job—they are at the mercy of the government support which is miniscule and brief (3 months!), to land on their feet. These are mostly formerly middle-class, professional people now living in poverty.

I was recently introduced to one such Iraqi living in Houston, Texas of all places. Her name is Abeer and she is in great need. Her family all still in Baghdad, she is alone, depressed and out of money, her gov’t subsidy having run out. She has been looking for work unsuccessfully for 3 months.
 
She will have to return to Baghdad if she cannot make it in the U.S. where she will face almost certain death for working with the Americans.  She is a professional woman, 40 years old, a Pyscho-therapist/PHD from Baghdad and a smart and kind woman.

Yet another aspect of this crisis, that we, the U.S created by going into Iraq.

Refugees often think their problems will be over once they get resettlement…but often, their problems multiply. The only thing different is the scenery.

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still back, still there

Friday, November 13th, 2009

Middle East 3 015

 

So, it’s been almost a month since my return to the states, and I still feel half in the Middle East. The voices still follow me and the responsibility I have to share their voices still calls. I want to do right by the Iraqis. I owe them that. So I write. And write and write and will hopefully have a show that will transport you all to a world where you can experience and hear the stories like we did.

The one thing that resonates most with me these days is that as I ease back into my life and my routine, most of the Iraqis we met are in the exact same spot, same chair, same empty fridge, same waiting, same fear, same hopelessness, same homelessness that they were in when we visited them. Nothing changes for them. I go back to Starbucks and get my mani/pedis and think about Christmas shopping. And there they still sit. Waiting.

I’m afraid I’ll forget. I am trying not to.

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Reflections upon return

Monday, November 2nd, 2009
An Iraqi refugee child.

An Iraqi refugee child.

So … one week post-Middle-East-Iraqi-refugee experience. I feel lost … a bit like a refugee myself. A bit.

Trying to wrap my brain around the experience is not easy. New York looks different. My friends seem new. All I have seems shocking. And after only three short weeks! I’m trying to spend each day growing back into my skin without losing the skin I have acquired from the Iraqis we met. I don’t want to lose what I experienced in their skin. This urban refugee crisis screams for attention, although the refugees are not screaming. They are quietly waiting … for something to change … six years later…

The refugees, social workers and children swirl around my head. I keep thinking about Peter and his four beautiful children, and his brother who was shot and killed in the passenger seat right next to him. And I think about the once-famous boxer and artist who came from a family of artists, now scattered all over the world. I think about his need to tell his story on his terms, the way he wants it heard –– the threatening letters, the dismembered bodies, his inability to create anything artistic anymore, the disclosure that he feels like a bat, only coming out at night. I think about the woman whose husband abandoned her and her daughter in Damascus and who wouldn’t let us take her picture, not because of fear of persecution, but because she no longer feels beautiful. I think about the poet we met, who also was a victim of intense torture, and who chose to share a love poem with us. A love poem.

I think about the artists displaced in Damascus because art is dead in Baghdad. And I think about the hopeful Iraqi teens and young adults who are brave enough to believe in a future with education, a future of college in America. And I think about the children, always the children –– who look up at me with empty, confused eyes that have seen what children should never see.

This is what I think about now that I am back. These people who did nothing wrong but survive and flee — becoming refugees of our choice, OUR country. This is the face of our war in Iraq. This is the fallout. I feel the weight of responsibility to tell their stories as a call to action. After all, this is our mess to clean up.

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Last leg

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009

Tomorrow we leave Damascus- our final leg of this astounding journey. We get to leave– rather easily, in fact (Syrian border control notwithstanding). Iraqis living in exile in Syria, Lebanon and Jordan can’t. Plus, they have no where to go. Many refuse to go back. “Go back? Why? There is nothing there for me now. Iraq is destroyed.” They can’t go forward as they are awaiting news month after laboring month that a country –any country will accept them. “I do not care where I go– US, Sweden, Australia. Anywhere but here. Anywhere I can have a life! This is not life.” And they can’t stay in their “host” country. “We cannot work. We cannot provide for our family. We have nothing.”

So what is the answer? I have no idea. But I think it begins with America cleaning up its mess. We have a responsibility to these people. At present, most of the Iraqis don’t blame American people, just the American government. But that may soon change, if we don’t. If we don’t start making this a national priority, I fear for a generation of Iraqis growing up uneducated, unsupported and equating the U.S. with all their hardship. Amends needs to be paid.

Inside of cinder block home

Inside of cinder block home.

Yesterday, we met with a family– 5 children and 5 adults living in 2 cinder block boxes in the middle of a junkyard. For me, it was the worst conditions we have seen in our 3 weeks in the Middle East. I didn’t know what to do. It was nauseating to know these people used to have a home and a life. Now they barely live. Now their children play with cement pieces and old abandoned, broken toys. These are innocent children hit by crossfire. They had little water and less food and hope running on empty. We were 8 people that day. They offered us a meal. They have nothing to eat and they offered us a meal.

It is these people I cannot forget. These people who did nothing wrong, yet…yet…yet…

What do I make of all this? Hopefully a play. And some change. The Iraqi refugees could really use some of that: change. And hope.

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A gift from an artist

Monday, October 12th, 2009

Today we were invited into a refugee’s home whom we met yesterday. He had quite a story to tell—about being kidnapped and tortured and chased and threatened and being scared and hungry and lonely and angry–all because he was Sunni and suddenly, after 2003, his country began to care…and kill based on religion.

But that’s not the story I want to share here. What I want to share here is a story about dreams lost, a story about a man who considered himself to be a hero in years gone by. He once was happy and successful, he said. He was actually a famous boxer AND he was an artist.  His brothers and sisters were artists and writers. He came from an entire family of artists–a family now torn apart by war. Now they are living in various far flung parts of the world—victims of the violent experiences their country has had. Now he has nothing. He has lost it all—due to our invasion of his country. Suddenly, religion became an issue in his neighborhood, suddenly he didn’t know who to trust, suddenly neighbors were turning on neighbors. And now he makes no art and is awaiting a life again, waiting no longer to be a hero to his family, but perhaps merely a provider (something he is unable to be in the current situation).

In his home, we met his beautiful wife and incredible children. They let us into their lives and their homes. He showed us how he makes mosaics–although he doesn’t do much art these days. His kids showed us an uncle’s soap art and one little girl named Shukraan (arabic for ‘thank you’–as hers was a difficult birth) wouldn’t let go of my hand. She clung tightly to it for as long as I would allow her.

kim and shuikran

 

 

 

 

It was a gift.

As we were leaving, after many hugs and kisses and shakes and shukrans, the father thanked us. He said our visit gave him the possibility of making art again. He felt inspired.

So did I.

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Generosity.

Friday, October 9th, 2009
“It is very difficult to leave your home. It is like leaving a part of you.”
“Living here is like living in prison…”

“Who asked you America to be God on Earth? Stop it”

“Look, no dishes, food! Nothing! You have to help. I cannot provide for my family.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

These are some of the things we hear from the Iraqi refugees we are interviewing. I am continually struck by both the simplicity of their request and the complications it presents: a home. All they ask for is a place to call home, which is infuriatingly hard to accomplish.

They all have different situations, different specific reasons for leaving Iraq, different horrific events they’ve endured, different feelings towards America—but they all have one thing in common: a desire for a stable home in which to raise their families and live their lives. That’s it.

We had an amazing day Wednesday, met so many incredible people-both working for and maneuvering through the system. We met the head of UNHCR in Lebanon–Stephen Jacquemet. He is everything you want in someone in charge of a mess lke this. He spoke of his fear of a developing fatigue on the part of the US in this matter. He felt that without the US–the refugees are lost. We met amazing social workers and community center leaders who put their heart and passion out there every single day to make a difference in even one person’s life, which makes all the difference in the world.

AE_IraqRef_Leb_0884

Iraqi women and children wait at the UNHCR Registration Center

And lastly, we met with amazing refugees: one denied entry into the US with his wife and the rest of his family because of an ankle injury (yes, an ankle injury), one who recited to us a love poem he wrote, even after suffering unbelievable torture and one who wore a bright blue shirt and danced a piece of his history and of his heart that I will never forget.

I am grateful for the generosity with which these stories are shared. Amazing, really.

Oh, and lastly, feel free to post any specific questions you’d like us to ask the refugees and I will do my best to get an answer and post it right here on this blog. It’s interactive!!!

Tomorrow some of us are travelling to a house of a former boxer/painter.

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Hospitality

Thursday, October 8th, 2009

chocolate cakeI find it ironic.

The Middle East is one of the most welcoming cultures around. Almost every visit with every person in every situation involves them offering you tea, coffee, water, Coke, cookies, candy or even a fruit bowl! We haven’t been anywhere on this trip so far where we haven’t been showered with hospitality—good old-fashioned Middle Eastern Hospitality!

At the Caritas Center here in Beirut, we were offered beverages and a gigantic chocolate cake. At our hotel in the evenings, we are greeted with delicious mint tea. At the Migrant Center for vulnerable women and children, we were served an enormous, homemade traditional Middle Eastern lunch (with more cake!) Even in the refugee homes we visit, where their cupboards are bare, they bring us purchased Coke and bottled water, insisting in fact that we accept this gesture. These refugees have so little–so little, in fact, that the parents often go to bed hungry so the children won’t. Yet…they serve us—not only Coke and cake, but warmth and hospitality, love and generosity. They give us so much.

I find it ironic then, that despite all this welcoming to us, the Iraqis can find no country to welcome them.

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