The Meaning of Personalization II

June 24, 2009
Necklace from Nadia

Necklace from Nadia

The other day I got a call on the landline in our flat. Someone had taken great pains to look up the hotel, call the front desk and track us down.

Broken English—it’s Nadia. We need to see you!
Nadia? From the English class or somewhere else—which Nadia?
Confusion.
In Arabic: We must see you immediately!
Is something wrong?
Fast complicated Arabic…
Okay, can you call Dr. Fadhil (name changed?) to speak with him in Arabic?
No no, we want to see you, only you.
Okay. We will come tomorrow, inshalla.
Okay.
I worry all night.

The following day we visited one of our most beloved families: Two beautiful daughters, the father who was brutally tortured for being a gardener for the US military (see previous blog, The Intranslateability of Experience). The mother who makes the best coffee in the world…
They were eating pigeons when we found them, living on almost nothing, but luckily they are now on the proper cash assistance… They are still in a bad way, but there is a lighter mood in the house.
A little turtle I have never met before crept up to me to say hi. The father, Mohammed (name changed), insisted that I take the little turtle with me.
Please take him– I want to give you a gift!
We can’t, my mom says, they’ll think there’s a bomb in his shell…

Oh. Well alright.  –He grins the toothless grin of a man who has been tortured.

Mohammed seems a little disappointed, but I know the girls would also be sad to see their family creature leave.
What is the emergency? We ask.
The emergency is that we must give you something before you leave and we heard you were leaving soon!
Nadia, shy, pretty Nadia, comes creeping out of the back room, just like her pet turtle, with a little pink bag.
She hands it to me and I open it— a beautiful red necklace, I tell her—you know this is my favorite color?
Yes, she says, pointing to my red hijab.
She must have studied my clothing closely in order to so accurately note my sense of style…
She was beaming.
I feel close to you, like a true friend, she said in Arabic.
A gift.

She must have been terrified to go out and buy the necklace—her family has been horribly harassed by the Jordanian police, who threaten them and frighten them. They attacked her father just a few days before our visit.
She must have also saved money for a long time. Even a 2 or 3 dinar gift is a huge expense for this family.
And more moving to me than anything else was her ability and will to track down our hotel, call us up, and brave the English language.
I will always wear this necklace, like a big red beating heart.
What love she gave me.
It’s personal.

So that’s the other side of personalizing a refugee crisis.

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The Meaning of Personalization

June 20, 2009

People have been asking for details about my own personal experience here.  So I will talk about that.

Everything you have read is personal to me.  When I describe refugees’ sense of futurelessness, it’s personal.  When I describe disorientation, restless sleeping, increased mistrust, frustration with the UNHCR, it’s all personal.

How is it here? It sucks.  If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing this right.

My goal in coming here was to bare witness to the suffering of Iraqi people, and to bear what I witnessed as part of the reconciliation process between Americans and Iraqis.  Part of the baring and the bearing is sharing the burden of refugeeness.  And it sucks.  It really does.

Sharing in Time Distortion:

Some hours last days, some days last 2 hours.  Time is not linear, and my own disorientation in the space-time continuum is complete.

I forget things.  I walk into the grocery store and forget what I came to buy.  I look up and realize it is 2 am and I can’t remember what I have been doing for the past six hours.  My mind is muddled.

I am always late to meetings with NGO officials, in part because they chronically underestimate the travel time, and in part because I have no personal sense of time.  There are three clocks in our flat; 2 are broken.  I don’t trust the other one, because no matter what time it says, it doesn’t feel like the right time.

(Timelessness can make a person very passive, which certainly benefits agencies and NGOs who need to keep track of the movements and activities of refugees— their institutional success relies on the passiveness of their clients.  It is hard to overcome the urge to sit and watch TV nonstop.)

Sharing in Mis-sleep:

When I close my eyes to sleep, I see faces, and I am constantly bothered by what I can’t do.  The faces always ask for something, or worse, they don’t, but I see what they need anyway. 

There is Mohammed with his spine curved up the wrong way because of the Depleted Uranium that also poisoned the Tigris river Jamila loves so much.  His spine is bent grotesquely, and there are his big eyes smiling smartly.
Oh, and then there is the Jordanian hag who finds food in the trash—I leave things for her behind the dumpster.  No NGO is serving her—she’s not Iraqi.

The General who I tried to bake a cake for?  He’s gone.  When I brought my cake to his house, he had left, probably couldn’t afford it, or he got sick or returned to Iraq.  You never know.

I haven’t had a “normal” dream in months.  Instead I toss around like a fish in the sheets, between dreaming and thinking, that restlessness you have when you had an unpleasant conversation or did badly on a test for no good reason; you should have done something differently…

Sharing the -isms:

The most painful experience we’ve had here is a repeated one.  We meet a family.  They have the wrong cash assistance or their file has the wrong last name… something simple.  They’ve been calling UNHCR for the past 2 years to fix the error.  They have written letters, dropped by, scheduled appointments…  all to no avail.

My mom accompanies them on day to a visit with UNHCR.  The family is asked to wait in line.  My mom is offered a comfortable air-conditioned room for waiting.  The family she came with is offered a hot, sweaty tent just outside the white building.  (Of course my mom chooses to wait with the family).  My mom never sees the UNHCR officer who finally meets with the family, but the family mentions that their American friend, Debra, is waiting downstairs.

The next day their file is fixed and they are visited by two NGOs who promise to meet their medical needs.  Instant gratification.

Two years they waited, and it took my mom’s general American aura (no one even saw her) and a few hours of sitting in a tent to get things fixed for this family.

When you become family with people, when they call themselves your brother or mother, and you have to leave them on the other side of a wall because someone you’ve never met sees some apparent difference between you…  it is the most alarming feeling in the world.

This is not a one-time thing.  It is institutionalized racism and institutionalized classism:

You’re a refugee?  Go wait in the tent.

You’re an American?  Please come in.

You’re black?  You drink out of this fountain…

I am reminded that my own mother was in the 9th grade (1974) when her high school was finally integrated.  Even then, her black friends sat in the back of the room.  (A different kind of time distortion…) 

What’s this nonsense about “restoring human dignity” that sits at the top of UNHCR’s statement of purpose?

I’m so angry.

Sharing in Diaspora:

First, I am Diaspora, the very meaning of it.  I am the single spore that was blown off the pod—dia-spor-a.  The American with Iraqi blood, the loophole in identity.  One who is, but really isn’t.  And so I am accepted and not accepted, I am the future and the past of Iraq in the eyes of my neighbors. 

Am I proof that you can raise a well-mannered girl even in the Wild West?  Or proof that blood is meaningless and that ‘place’ takes over? 

Whatever people think of me here, we share Diaspora together.  I am the end of it and they are the beginning.  If they see the second and third generation in me, I hope they see a Future.

“Flats change faster than the season,” my mom says.  People move.  The General left, who knows where.  Two families have switched flats in the city in just 2 months.  People get resettled, addresses change, phones expire, there are rarely email addresses.  I am anxious about how I will keep track of the families I know.  They can’t tell me their plans, since they can’t make any:

Ahmed was packing up and ready to fly on the 15th of this month.  But he learned two weeks before leaving that his sponsor is on vacation.  He’ll have to wait until September now.  Cancelled his lease and everything.  Said goodbye to friends.  Had all his last suppers.  And then, like always, things change.

“Inshalla” takes on a new meaning here.  I never use the future tense without qualifying it with an emphatic “Inshalla” —God willing. 

I love the people I love.  Inshalla I will sustain some form of communication with them, whether they are stuck here for 10 more years or are resettled tomorrow morning. 

Where will you be in relation to me?  Far away or close?  Inshalla I will see you again before I die.

Goodbye, goodbye.  Maybe…

The unknown is killing me.  It drives me crazy.

So, there is something about personalizing a refugee crisis.


The Meaning of Gathering

May 31, 2009

Today was long.

We spent the morning, afternoon, and evening with a ______ of people.  I say ________ because it wasn’t a crowd, wasn’t a family, and not a group…

What do you call this kind of gathering?

Dr. Muna, a little overweight, very kind and warmhearted; her 50’s-ish husband who is wild, talks with his mouth full, and wears a gold chain on his gangly arms; Mahmud, a stout, chain smoker gentleman who pays for everything and loves his mother; Muna’s two beautiful daughters, quiet, well-preened, and gentle; Mahmud’s mother, very old, religious, insistent, perplexed by our habits and opinions; the youngest boy (age 8), socially awkward, his first boy-party running through the hall in masks…

It is not a family, but there is something like familial warmth.  It is more intimate than a crowd, but there are so many people in and out.  It is not a group, because it does not remain cohesive, but shifts from moment to moment—besides we hardly know each other.  One thing, though, is that all of these people, expect for my mom and me, are Iraqi refugees finding solace in their unity.

So, this ______ of people ate and talked and passed the whole day together.

Of all ages, classes, religions, genders, and political views, we talked over four kinds of meat, three salads, and three rounds of desert.  There was argilla (hooka) wafting across the women’s faces, and a big, winged bug that twilighted around us for awhile before one of the men stomped him out.

There was “Why do you eat with you left hand?” and “I hate the Iranian government” and “What is the rent in Oakland?” …and then the stories of Iraq.  Always the evenings are washed in Iraq.

The stories come out just when you think you will leave, but when they start, you know the evening has only begun.  We had lunch, you know, not dinner, but we didn’t leave until 10:30 pm, and only then because I was very sick and sleepy.  Pictures, cell phones, tea and after tea after tea.
Homesickness, cigarettes, homesickness… it laps at our ankles like the mosquitoes.

A debate about the name of a thing, then tea and tea after tea.

“Dr. Muna, you should lose weight!”

“Oh yeah,” I say to Mahmud,” When is YOUR baby do, fatty?”

Everybody laughs and laughs.  Iraqis joke all the time, even about death.  How can they not?

“I am very much afraid that in the US they burn the bodies, they don’t bury!  I want to be buried on Arab soil, but I am up for resettlement,” says Mahmud’s mother.

“Don’t worry,” my mom responds, “We can put you on icepacks and fly you back here to be buried.”

Everybody laughs and laughs.  “It’s true though, I mean it!”

Okay, okay.  So you will freeze me not burn me?

Laughter.

Out comes another story.  The militias, the slaughter…  “my uncle was killed last year, you know,“ someone whispers before putting the argilla to his lips.

“They came in and cut him up—just like this fish!  He says, pointing with a carving knife.  (We are eating a big fish.)

Hahaha… we laugh, “Like a fish!”

“Here, take this.”  The old woman gestures to my mom…  “You are obviously Arab underneath, you are my daughter.  Take this Koran and learn to read it!  And here, I will show you this: prayer beads—you say, ‘One for Allah, one for Mohammed, one for Allah, one for Mohamed.’”

‘Thank you.  An honor.”

“No daughter…  you know, when I was in America—my husband was a very famous writer and we traveled the world—I saw all the sites on the East Coast!  The statue of Liberty has almost no clothes on!”

I say, “She is not the statue of chastity— she’s liberated…”

“Like Iraq!” says Dr. Muna.

Hahaha.  Laughter.

And so the evening goes, darkening, homesickness, a pause as we argue over the direction of Mecca while someone steps off the pray.  Space is essential.  North South East West.  Where are you now, do you know?  Mahmud knows.  He is praying.

Shall we go inside now?  Yes, lets go.

Okay, we say, but we sit and sit.  No one moves for three hours more.  That’s “going inside.”

“Oh Muna, not another desert!  You bring them out an hour apart so I can’t say no!”

“These are special Iraqi deserts.  We call them Lady’s arms, because they are shaped like the upper arm of a fat woman, and rolled in cheese!”

“There is another name I can’t say,” grins Mahmud.

“I can guess!”  Girls giggle.

Pause.  “Before 2003 we had no Sunni Shiite nonsense.  We were all the same, Iraqi, and I had many friends from all different religions, Mandean, Catholic, Sunni, Shia, even Jews!  Now though, Iran and Saudi are pulling in both directions, dividing people to take the resource, the oil and the social political power.  At least with the US, it’s a known enemy, I can say: What do you want?”  But with Iran, it’s ME they want…  I can’t negotiate my own self…”

“Oh this war this war—another war, and this time we are not rebuilding like before…”  mutters Dr. Muna.

Yah Allah!

Quiet, gargling argilla; warm, sweet smoke on my face.

“Wow, Kali, you are very thin!”   “I am sick… “

“Why are you sick?”    “I don’t know, germs.”

“No no, you are too thin!  It must be homesickness.”

“But she is close to home here, next to Iraq!”

“No, she is apart form her friends, her familiar country…”

“No, she is home here—she is thin because she is anxious.”

“Maybe the heat.  Hm.  I think it is ghareeb…  tisk, tisk— home-sick-ness!”

“…Well, we can send her back to Iraq and see— if she comes out fat, then we know she is home!”

Hahaha— laughing, laughing, laughing…

Home-sick-ness, we all sigh together.

And so the night rolls on, and even as we are truly leaving, it takes 30 minutes to kiss everyone three times goodbye …and then we took a taxi back with Mahmud and his mother, who paid the whole trip even though they got off before us …and then the taxi driver tried to teach us as much Arabic as he could …and then we were home trying to haggle a working refrigerator into our hotel flat with the Egyptian brothers downstairs.  And then we are borrowing their fridge, and then we were…

Alone, the two of us, as alone as we can ever be from that warm ________ of people, and only then did I feel at all homesick.

That, I think, is what Gathering means.


The Meaning of Neighborhood

May 1, 2009
Children Playing Hashmi

Children Playing Hashmi

This post is written by Kali Rubaii and co-author Debra Ellis:

A neighborhood in the US has basketball hoops, driveways, cars, and swept sidewalks. It has green lawns, garage doors, and it’s almost always empty…  Here in Amman, Jordan, no one would call that a neighborhood.

In Hashmi, a predominantly refugee area, there are no driveways, no swept sidewalks, and definitely no grass yards, but the streets are always lively with children.  Poverty has a steady grip on this neighborhood, and the lack of resource is glaring, but in many ways children are better off.  They laugh and play in the streets together, safely unsupervised and free to develop life skills that American children never will.  For whatever reason, even in this densely populated capital city, children still have a true neighborhood.

Boys of all ages play soccer in the streets or vacant lots, resourcefully constructing goal posts out of discarded rebar.  Girls as young as 2 drag their dolls through the dirt, distracted in girl-talk.  Yesterday on our walk we saw children playing hopscotch and rollerblading (sharing two blades between four boys, which as you can imagine requires a lot of diplomacy).  From our bedroom window we can always spot a gaggle of children arguing and negotiating their own social rules without adult interference, observation, or worry.

Many parents in the US still remember playing unsupervised in streets this way, but now their own children find “play” on a routine of scheduled activities. When they do play in parks or shoot hoops at the end of a caldasac, it is not without the watchful eye or regulating voice of an adult.

While we offer children material wealth in the US, we no longer offer them neighborhoods, for it is in the absence of materials, schedules, and parents, that children gain life skills. In Hashmi at least, a neighborhood has nothing to do with a physical environment, but is defined instead by a social atmosphere that allows children space and time to develop, rather than be developed. We have robbed our children of the organic opportunity to learn conflict management, power dynamics, resourcefulness, and empathy.

It is possible that we have deprived our children of the most potent tool for conflict resolution by taking away their neighborhoods. In a world besieged with violent conflict, what will this mean for the future of American children as they interface in a globalized civil society?