“She has no friends at school,” says Beka* sadly, speaking of her daughter. They’ve been in the US for 4 months now, and her daughter is turning 18. I’ve met her several times, and she’s a delightful girl—smiling and friendly, kind. But I’ve heard a similar refrain from several Iraqi mothers and children. It’s hard to make friends at school—in part because they spend most of their time in ESL classes, with other immigrants. Beka’s son tells of turning out for the soccer team, being asked if he was Mexican, and being told there was no room when he said he wasn’t.
“All the players and the coach were Mexican,” he says. I have no idea how accurate his perception is, but I do know that these refugee kids feel isolated.
It’s Beka’s daughter’s birthday today. I’ve been wanting to introduce our children to each other—I am particularly interested in getting Elliot together with her son, who’s about the same age—and today there was no school, because it’s the end of the trimester.
So I told Beka we’d be stopping by. Ok, she said. Come about one and stay one hour. I told her we’d bring a cake for her daughter’s birthday and I’d bring my kids.
We got there about 1:30 (yeah. Don’t ask. It wasn’t pretty). We had no cake because the cake had not turned out, at all. It tasted okay but was just a mess, half of it still stuck in the pan. I stopped by the store on the way there to pick her up a small gift, which I didn’t wrap, just left in the bag.
As soon as I walked in the door, I knew it was a party. There were the platters of cookies and candy, and a chocolate bakery cake. (Aside: a lot of their food comes from food banks, so a frequent treat is day-old baked goods.) I was so glad I hadn’t brought a cake! I was so glad I’d brought a present! I had clearly told Beka I’d bring a cake; had she not understood? Had I not understood her response? Life is just an adventure when you’re crossing languages like this.
We went in and I handed Hana* the bag with her present. (I’d chosen a necklace and earring set, in case you care to know) We introduced all the kids to each other.
Soon we were called back to the kitchen and seated round the table with its chairs held together with duct tape, and we were presented with a feast. There was biryani and qua’boo (or something like that. They are like samosas with a curried meat filling and the exterior is rice and potatoes and saffron and they’re deep fried. They are exceptionally tasty and have become my new favorites) and samosas and salads and yogurt (leban) and olives and pickled cauliflower and several other dishes, including meat in a tomato and garbanzo bean sauce. We all ate and were satisfied, and then the doorbell rang and it was my friend Susi’s 3 daughters, all of whom are much younger than Hana. Another woman and her 11-year-old daughter were there; she and Beka are related.
We moved away from the table and they all sat down and ate.
And then it was time for the party! Elliot, Abel and Beka’s son went off to his room which left the woman free to dance. Hana was wearing a tight, bright pink shirt and a long swishy black skirt that was sheer below her knees. (Ilsa adored this outfit) Her long black hair reaches her hips and she is gorgeous. She tied a black scarf with coins round her waist, cranked up the arab pop music, and began to dance while her mother ululated with joy. “We do this at birthdays and weddings,” she told me. “I know but I can’t make that sound,” I replied (although I have tried a few times in the shower. I sound like a weasel being strangled)
The party lasted several hours. All the girls and women danced; the males were secluded and not allowed even a glimpse of the festivities. And as I let my afternoon’s plans slip away and just relaxed and enjoyed myself, I realized: it’s like I’m not even in America. I am in Iraq right now, and I feel like I’m in Mauritania in Rana’s living room, watching her and her sisters and friends dance to the same music. For this short time, the incessant rain and the alien trees, the mold-stained ceilings and broken chairs, were gone: this was a time to celebrate. Everyone danced together and it was beautiful.
*not her real name
12 comments
March 18, 2011 at 12:30 pm
snacks from the cruise buffet
Sounds like you are having so much fun! Who says you can’t go home again?
March 18, 2011 at 12:46 pm
LIB
Teenager are REALLY into conformity and anti anything “different” or “other”. If anyone got to know Hana, they’d be able to find common ground, but sadly, most will not be able to get beyond her ‘otherness’. As teenagers see more Iraqi refugees, the ‘otherness’ of them will not be so great and SOME (read the mature ones) teenagers will be able to find the common ground. Unfortunately, this will not happen soon enough to help Hana.
It really made me smile to imagine your “strangled weasel” noise. You know–you might be fairly close cuz that’s what I think ululating sounds like. {That’s a VERY ethnocentric thing for me to say, isn’t it?:)}
March 18, 2011 at 2:23 pm
Karen
I enjoyed this. My heart hurts for Hana and her brother, maybe more for their mother, because I have said those same words. The rest of the post made me smile. I can picture you in that living room.
March 18, 2011 at 2:27 pm
Kara
I’ve thought and prayed about these kids several times since our talk…so thankful for the things you get me thinking about…
March 19, 2011 at 7:54 am
gretchen from lifenut
This was so beautiful. It actually made me cry.
I pray Hana and her brother make more friends.
March 20, 2011 at 4:53 am
Linda
How hard to be an immigrant-especially, I think, in USA. I’m amazed at some of the things I hear my own relatives say and wonder what’s going on there now.
March 21, 2011 at 10:35 pm
LG
ohhh, I want to be in Rana’s living room with you… and with Laura, and with my daugther and Rana and all her cousins and friends… so fun. Glad you could be there, holding hands across cultures, welcoming them to Oregon, letting them welcome you to Iraq!
March 22, 2011 at 4:14 am
Miss Footloose | Life in the Expat Lane
It must be so good to find some of your former expat’s life experiences back in your home life. So often coming home means you leave it all behind, and no one in your surroundings knows about it or cares to know about it.
And maybe even more important, now that you have made Iraqi friends, you are a helpful link for them to their new life.
March 22, 2011 at 2:44 pm
LG
And this post reminds me of living in Belgium, walking by the school grounds at recess, seeing my kids all alone by themselves, not “with” anyone… I remember standing at the gate of the school, hoping someone would say “HI” to me, so I could somehow become their friend and somehow make my kids friends of her kids…. And you know, one day, I met a lady at the gate, who said, you are the mom of the kid with the accent from Quebec… and so began our friendship and many Wednesday afternoon play dates — where she lavished on the food at 5 pm coffee time, and I did not know I was supposed to serve a huge snack (being as our supper was at 6, but theirs was at 9 pm)…. So many cultural issues, but my kids made friends because one mom made me her friend….
March 26, 2011 at 2:15 pm
Terri
I had no idea it was still so rough on kids in Portland. It doesn’t make sense to me that in an area where there are so many from other cultures that it would be so closed. But then, I was always fascinated with other cultures and wondering how to reach out.
April 28, 2011 at 11:28 am
Saturday amongst the Tulips « Planet Nomad
[…] to go to the tulip fields. Ok this isn’t entirely accurate. For weeks now, I’ve been telling Beka about them. “We will go in two cars,” I tell her. “One for all the men and one for all the […]
April 30, 2011 at 8:23 am
Carrie D
This post brought me to tears. I miss dancing with African friends.