In 2009, 2 days prior to Labor Day, and just a day shy of the Day of Rest, I shared a day with my mentor family as arranged by the International Rescue Committee over the summer. Although my experience with this family extends through my employment at the IRC, the event I wish to illustrate took place between 10AM and 3PM Saturday, September 5th in a room outfitted within the metro atlanta suburb.
The family includes the mother, Rajaa, the father, Abdel, a little girl, Marianne, and two young boys, Yousef and Ameen. While the family seeks refuge from the quarrels of Iraq, the children were born while Rajaa and Abdel were stationed as asylees in Jordan and most recently, in Syria.
Our morning progressed through puzzles, pretzels, and tea. The mother, Rajaa, has a limited understanding of English, and invited a Sudanese woman living in the same complex to come over. Our guest worked in several embassies as a translator for Arab-English conversations after attending college some years ago. Her disposition was kind and very intentional, and her presence was of great help for our conversations.
As the children plowed through the puzzle I brought in tow, Rajaa, her friend (whose name I cannot recall), and I "met as women". The Sudanese woman shared with me that it is common place for the women to talk over tea, and that our visit was to carry on in no exception. Mostly, we talked about our families. While I thought my family of six to be of impressive size, Rajaa's family took trump. To paint a picture, Rajaa is a very strong Arab woman and she currently stands to match her husband barrel belly for barrel belly--she's pregnant! The urgency of a woman to have children comes from Iraq she told me. Rajaa's mother and household matriarch stands with 85 grandchildren to her name. 85! I thought such number to be serious misunderstanding--a number mixed in translation, but our tea-time translator confirmed the remark.
Well, morning turned to noon and Abdel returned to a house laced with the smells of slow-roasting lamb, fried rice and potatoes--lunch! By this time our morning's guest had returned home to prepare lunch for her husband, the children had showered and dressed for lunch, and Rajaa had bowed in prayer. Since I was well aware of the income of an unemployed refugee I intended to leave before lunch. Also, I was a vegetarian and quite unsure about how to explain such reality without being disrespectful and within the margins of her limited vocabulary. Although I thought my pre-lunch departure was an act of kindness and respect, Rajaa felt just the opposite and insisted that I stay for a meal.
She adorned the table with plates, platters, onions, and olives ("veryyy old, from Syria" she explained) while Ameen, age 3, serenaded us with a song and dance routine. He was quite the charmer and ever so entertaining! When his song ended, we sat down for lunch with Rajaa and I seated at the table's ends. Even though the smell of meat still filled the air, Rajaa aborted the dish -- much to Abdel's dismay.
As we finished our plates the children ran upstairs for an afternoon nap, and Rajaa begin to clean the table. Abdel waved me into the living room and Rajaa later joined us equipped with three cups of orange soda. We talked about Iraq, about starting a new home in the United States, and about the soon-to-be new addition to the family. After some time, Abdel rose in excitement and retrieved a film depicting the crucifixion of Christ. He placed it in the old VHS player at the end of the room and pressed play. The video was confusing for several reasons:
1.) I'm not Christian, and neither are Abdel and Rajaa
2.) The language was Farsi--one in which was foreign to all 3 of us
3.) Why now?
At the close of the film, I had the impression that I was imposing uponAbdel's nap time. I packed away the puzzles, books, and colored pencils, and Rajaa and Abdel saw me to the door. Sharing smiles of pearly whites, we said our goodbyes and good evenings.
The global scope hones in on and concludes with one thought. In the few visits I have shared with this family I have come to articulate a question:
How do I act among a family displaced in a country that invaded, now occupies, and promises reconstruction for their own country of origin?
While I never felt like the question was at the forefront of our relationship, it was indeed the parameters for our introduction. Thus far, I have not an answer.
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