For the last nine months or so my wife has been mentoring a Syrian refugee family. The family has been in the states exactly one year, and we no longer refer to them as our refugee family. They're our friends.
The wife makes such tasty and healthy food, and my wife brings some home whenever she visits. The husband's English has improved immensely; he worked cutting chickens for a while, but didn't like (among other things) that he was learning more Spanish than English so he switched to a different job. He's still hearing a lot of Spanish.
The young kids are picking up English very quickly; one of them learned about diseases in school, but she didn't know how to tell her parents about it because she didn't know the Arabic word for disease. This made her parents smile.
They're our friends. They invite our family over about once a month to feed us. I'm amazed to have this opportunity - to give, to learn, to teach, to love, to connect, and to know I'm doing a good thing as a parent by bringing my kids into our friends' world. Because their world is our world.
Initially I was reluctant to visit them. They couldn't understand me and I couldn't understand them. During my first visit, though, the husband showed me a picture on his phone of a piece of his life in Syria. He owned a vegetable and fruit store. The colors of the food were vivid in the image, and he stood in the Syrian sun wearing a blazer and sandals, talking with a friend or customer. I think I understood that.
They spent nearly half a decade in a camp in Jordan before being approved to come to the U.S. One of their kids was born in Jordan.
My wife organized a potluck for Syrian and American families about a month ago. I met another chicken factory worker who used to be a baker in Syria. He showed me pictures of his work, some of the most intricate cake designs I've ever seen. Another Syrian man, a current construction worker I think, showed me pictures of dresses and gowns he designed in Syria as a fashion designer. I met the high school-aged nephew of another Syrian family at the potluck, and he seems a little too acclimated to his life in Baltimore - he's been held up at gunpoint twice and literally shrugs it off.
Our Syrian friends invited us over the day after Thanksgiving. They were given a turkey by the husband's employer, and the husband grilled it into turkey dogs. They were really good. The salads and tea were good too. And the wife's baklava makes my mouth water even now.
Sitting comfortably among friends and their kids, I looked at the worn walls and carpet and thought about the bugs and rodents this family has managed. I enjoyed sunlight coming through the blinds that they usually keep closed for privacy and out of fear for their safety. They want to move from their current neighborhood; friends of theirs have been mugged, and the adults are fearful.
We sat on their living room floor eating lunch. I can't sit very comfortably on the floor to eat. It became comfortable. It was a great lunch.
After lunch, our hosts having cleaned up and the four of us sitting on the couch and chatting, the kids played a few board games and card games, then moved on to hide and seek. Their oldest child was counting in English at the bottom of the stairs, and there was very little prior discussion of the rules of the game; all the kids know the rules and how to count to 30.
Watching that little girl count, I found myself briefly confused and saddened, pensive really about the situation I was experiencing. Such clear appreciation of new friends of ours, residents of Baltimore, and such palpable connection with them. Really just an authentic relationship among humans. And our fulfilling lunch, shared generously, served on a camouflage tablecloth on the floor.
Camouflage, a tool of deception with an apparent military connotation. Our kids, their kids, the smiling in our conversation. Camouflage and concealment, aiming for an advantage. Our kids, their kids, the food and hopes and dreams. Camouflage and families separated, lives ended or displaced. Our kids, their kids, and laughter that I couldn't distinguish as American or Syrian.
I really like our Syrian friends. And I feel honored and lucky to share life with a wife who connected us, with kids who get why we care, and for the luck that birthed my atoms onto a land called America instead of a land called Syria. I don't want there to be needless war as so much of it is. And I can envision a world without it.
And I'm committed to it. Join me.
The wife makes such tasty and healthy food, and my wife brings some home whenever she visits. The husband's English has improved immensely; he worked cutting chickens for a while, but didn't like (among other things) that he was learning more Spanish than English so he switched to a different job. He's still hearing a lot of Spanish.
The young kids are picking up English very quickly; one of them learned about diseases in school, but she didn't know how to tell her parents about it because she didn't know the Arabic word for disease. This made her parents smile.
They're our friends. They invite our family over about once a month to feed us. I'm amazed to have this opportunity - to give, to learn, to teach, to love, to connect, and to know I'm doing a good thing as a parent by bringing my kids into our friends' world. Because their world is our world.
Initially I was reluctant to visit them. They couldn't understand me and I couldn't understand them. During my first visit, though, the husband showed me a picture on his phone of a piece of his life in Syria. He owned a vegetable and fruit store. The colors of the food were vivid in the image, and he stood in the Syrian sun wearing a blazer and sandals, talking with a friend or customer. I think I understood that.
They spent nearly half a decade in a camp in Jordan before being approved to come to the U.S. One of their kids was born in Jordan.
My wife organized a potluck for Syrian and American families about a month ago. I met another chicken factory worker who used to be a baker in Syria. He showed me pictures of his work, some of the most intricate cake designs I've ever seen. Another Syrian man, a current construction worker I think, showed me pictures of dresses and gowns he designed in Syria as a fashion designer. I met the high school-aged nephew of another Syrian family at the potluck, and he seems a little too acclimated to his life in Baltimore - he's been held up at gunpoint twice and literally shrugs it off.
Our Syrian friends invited us over the day after Thanksgiving. They were given a turkey by the husband's employer, and the husband grilled it into turkey dogs. They were really good. The salads and tea were good too. And the wife's baklava makes my mouth water even now.
Sitting comfortably among friends and their kids, I looked at the worn walls and carpet and thought about the bugs and rodents this family has managed. I enjoyed sunlight coming through the blinds that they usually keep closed for privacy and out of fear for their safety. They want to move from their current neighborhood; friends of theirs have been mugged, and the adults are fearful.
We sat on their living room floor eating lunch. I can't sit very comfortably on the floor to eat. It became comfortable. It was a great lunch.
After lunch, our hosts having cleaned up and the four of us sitting on the couch and chatting, the kids played a few board games and card games, then moved on to hide and seek. Their oldest child was counting in English at the bottom of the stairs, and there was very little prior discussion of the rules of the game; all the kids know the rules and how to count to 30.
Watching that little girl count, I found myself briefly confused and saddened, pensive really about the situation I was experiencing. Such clear appreciation of new friends of ours, residents of Baltimore, and such palpable connection with them. Really just an authentic relationship among humans. And our fulfilling lunch, shared generously, served on a camouflage tablecloth on the floor.
Camouflage, a tool of deception with an apparent military connotation. Our kids, their kids, the smiling in our conversation. Camouflage and concealment, aiming for an advantage. Our kids, their kids, the food and hopes and dreams. Camouflage and families separated, lives ended or displaced. Our kids, their kids, and laughter that I couldn't distinguish as American or Syrian.
I really like our Syrian friends. And I feel honored and lucky to share life with a wife who connected us, with kids who get why we care, and for the luck that birthed my atoms onto a land called America instead of a land called Syria. I don't want there to be needless war as so much of it is. And I can envision a world without it.
And I'm committed to it. Join me.
