Ten students (American, Canadian and Norwegian ), our Iraqi teacher Azhar, a couple Iraqi friends and myself, are squeezed into St. Andrew’s modest kitchen. Some students jot notes, while others cut onions or mix a concoction containing surprising amounts of garlic, spices and oil.
It’s RLAP’s second Iraqi cooking class, a fundraiser to support out work providing legal, psychosocial and cultural advising, as well as English classes to refugees in Egypt.While working as a legal advisor can become completely consuming, we’ve got to escape our endless interviews and piles of testimonies once in a while. Cooking delicious food and earning money to sustain our work seemed like the perfect break from the routine.
One of the best perks of my work Resettlement Legal Aid Project (RLAP) is the constant flow of sumptuous and inspiring Iraqi food. From frequent parties on weekends–whether a birthday, holiday or a resettlement case won–to homemade lunches sent to work, there always seems to be something to celebrate and a willing Iraqi ready to prepare the goods.When the topic of fundraisers arose it seemed natural to share our wealth of food knowledge with the wider Cairo community.
Some highlights of our first two classes are: 19 students (and me!) with hints about Iraqi cooking and newfound lust for Iraqi food, expats buying meat, (there’s a stereotype here that many expats never learn how to cook and buy meat in Egypt) hilarious translation bloopers (the first teacher who taught only speaks Arabic), new friends and connections(everyone seemed to leave the class with someone’s contact info).
And what caught me by surprise?
Cooking was only one of two draws to the class. More than one student loitered outside the kitchen, questioning our Iraqi friends about their lives rather than the culinary traditions. Working and socializing with Iraqis on a daily basis, it seems I’ve lost all sense of what thoughts about Iraqis and Iraq conjure for many other Americans. Will I get a reality shock back in the States in a few weeks?
Classes and menus are arranged on a weekly basis. Let me know if you’re in town and want to reserve a spot.
Otherwise, you better hope I feel like showing off my newly acquired skills the next time we meet =)
This Saturday afternoon found the majority of the Resettlement Legal Aid staff chowing down on delicious Iraqi cuisine and learning dubka dancing in one of our translator’s living rooms.
A couple weeks ago I posted a video of some Iraqi friends dancing dubka in a park. Apparently it’s a competitive form of entertainment across the Middle East.
Have you seen “Good Will Hunting” when Will rationalizes refusing a hot-shot NSA job?
“Why shouldn’t I work for the N.S.A.? That’s a tough one, but I’ll give it a shot. Say I’m working at N.S.A. Somebody puts a code on my desk, something nobody else can break. So I take a shot at it and maybe I break it. And I’m real happy with myself, ’cause I did my job well. But maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East. Once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels were hiding and fifteen hundred people I never had a problem with get killed. Now the politicians are sayin’, “Send in the marines to secure the area” ’cause they don’t give a shit. It won’t be their kid over there, gettin’ shot. Just like it wasn’t them when their number was called, ’cause they were pullin’ a tour in the National Guard. It’ll be some guy from Southie takin’ shrapnel in the ass. And he comes home to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job, ’cause he’ll work for fifteen cents a day and no bathroom breaks. Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes the only reason he was over there was so we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used the skirmish to scare up oil prices so they could turn a quick buck. A cute little ancillary benefit for them but it ain’t helping my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. And naturally they’re takin’ their sweet time bringin’ the oil back, and maybe even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholic skipper who likes to drink martinis and play slalom with the icebergs, and it ain’t too long ’til he hits one, spills the oil and kills all the sea life in the North Atlantic. So my buddy’s out of work and he can’t afford to drive, so he’s got to walk to the job interviews, which sucks ’cause the schrapnel in his ass is givin’ him chronic hemorroids. And meanwhile he’s starvin’ ’cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue plate special they’re servin’ is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State. So what do I think? I’m holdin’ out for somethin’ better. Why not just shoot my buddy, take his job and give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join the National Guard? I could be elected president.”
That’s kind of how I felt today, teaching an employment workshop for Iraqi refugees who will soon be living in the United States.
They sit before me–A man who has worked in the government nearly 30 years, a woman who specialized in surveying, a computer engineer, an engineering student, a petroleum expert and a couple of housewives, among others.
We invaded their country and toppled their government. Every kind of political and social unrest ensued. They all have horrific stories about what personally happened to them in Iraq and why they fled.
They made their way to Egypt, often through transitory countries and spent 1-5 years struggling through the resettlement process.
Interviews, security checks, health screenings and more security.
The more horrific their stories—if they were tortured, specifically targeted, lost spouses, are single woman with no means of support–the more likely they are to be the lucky few selected for resettlement.
Currently most do not have jobs and struggle financially. Some put their children’s education on hold and others live off dwindling savings. Some have money for the moment but no opportunity to earn more.
On a survey I asked them if they had means to support themselves in the United States if they do not find a job immediately. Each wrote, “No.”
Exhausted from years of waiting. Depressed because of all they lost, they look hopefully toward a new life in the country of their occupiers. Their ordeal is almost over.
Yet without fluency in English and a poor economy (9.5 unemployment rate), what will greet them in the United States?
I prepare them for the possibility of working as dishwashers.
One man asks, me a question:
We are not immigrants by choice, we are refugees. We were forced to flee our country. Some of risked our lives and livelihood to help the United States in Iraq. Won’t America give us anything? Won’t anyone help us find jobs?
Voluntary resettlement agencies in the United States receive $900 in federal money for each refugee they sponsor. There are some essential the U.S. government requires VOLAGS to provide newcomers.
The federal money paired with whatever the VOLAG can raise, is expected to cover the refugees first month of rent, food upon arrival, basic furnishings and any job training. English classes and other needs are often not required, though undoubtedly vital to successful resettlement.
Anyone want to calculate how far $900 is going to go toward that?
The International Rescue Mission, one of the main resettlement agencies, reported the average family of four receives $575 in aid a month, lasting a maximum of 8 months. The same report said in its branch in Phoenix, Arizona, the average employment specialist is carrying a caseload of 200 refugees.
I tell the man in my class he cannot rely on anyone, that he needs to learn what resources are available and how to use them.
There is no way to know how much aid he will get in the United States, no way to know who will hire him, if his caseworker will give him the help he needs or he’ll ever work in a high-level position again.
I explain about outlets for job searching, interviews, resumes and building contacts and references. We have lots to discuss and do not get through half of it.
They are receptive, they listen and ask questions.
These individuals will be going to cities and towns across the United States. They are strong independent people, used to supporting themselves. They do not want to rely social services–they want jobs and are willing to take ones they would never consider in Iraq.
They thank me at the end of the workshop. They ask if they can meet individually for more questions and resume writing.
I’m a student, with less education and life experiences than every one of them.
Ours is a crazy world.
* I would love some feedback–about the political/societal aspects of this situation and practical and creative ideas.
Does anyone know resettled Iraqi refugees living in the United States? How are they getting by? How are they being received?
My clients will be resettled anywhere from San Francisco to Boston, Arizona, Arlington Virginia and Detroit–to name a few places.
If you live in any of these locations and want to get involved—i.e. showing a newcomer around or helping them practice English and hearing a story over a cup of tea, shoot me an email. *
I relaxed in chair in an outdoor cafe in 6th of October and tried to coherently and sensitively express my thoughts.
Well, it’s just that, this is great we’re all having fun and learning so much from each other. I feel so lucky to be here. But we shouldn’t be here. None of us would be here if the United States, my country, had not invaded Iraq.
It was around 2 a.m. and our night was winding down with sheesha and drinks (fruit and coffee only!). The day had been a marathon of welcomes from our Iraqi co-workers and friends in 6th of October–a city 40 minutes outside Cairo, known for high immigrant populations.
Iraqi food was the named theme of the day. For lunch they treated us to a feast of grilled meat, tabouli, tahina, potatoes, eggplant , lamb, rice, and goza beans. Stomachs already full, we visited three more houses, where we were serenaded with delicious food and drink.
The first apartment was spacious, with exquisite new curtains matching sofas and tables. It was clear this family was well-off in Iraq and in there three years here, they had done their best to replicate.
The father family, an engineer who works as a translator in our office, drew our attention to a souvenirs given by friends from around the world and a family portrait. Lovingly displayed in a glass cabinet, they were the only personal things visible in the apartment. It was clear this place was a transit point.
The walls were bare.
In the other houses we enjoyed tea, deserts and conversational mix of English and Iraqi (to my dismay, very different from Egyptian) Arabic.
We were welcomed without reservation. Our thanks were met with thanks for our work and friendship.
In my three weeks working in the office no one has criticized my nationality. No one has asked me to justify America’s actions in Iraq. When I’ve brought it up there hasn’t been resentment, just a sense of we’re in this together.
What should we do now?
I don’t know.
I don’t know either.
One Iraqi suggested Americans put down the weapons and get to work rebuilding.
Wouldn’t they be targets? Would peace stick? I asked.
I don’t know.
In the cafe we do not spend time talking about things that did and do go on wrong. We accept the reality of the moments. We are here now. From Australia, American, Quebec, and Iraq.
We play ping-pong, enjoy food and each others’ company.
Momentum is toward the future. We are friends and co-workers, we have a lot of work at the moment, that is our focus.
Safely in a microbus zooming back toward Cairo, Rami calls us.
Our you safe? Are you almost there? You should be there by now?
We’re fine, we’re fine. We’ll be there soon, we tell him.
It is our responsibility to get our guests home safely too, he says.
Yet I still can’t help but wonder….
What if America policy lived by the same responsibility as our friends?
Change is my favorite. Today I returned to Cairo from Alexandria and tomorrow a new adventure begins.
The remaining Northeastern students will return to the United States (I’ll miss you guys =/ ) and I’ll begin my internship at the Resettlement Legal Aid Project in downtown Cairo.
I’m able to spend 6 months working in Cairo because of NU’s co-ops program.
The idea is students get real world experience and build their resumes while remaining full-times students.
While last year I took advantage of NU’s vast job database and enjoyed working at the New England Council in Washington, DC–this time around I decided to do my own thing.
Thanks to the advice, flexibility and patience of my co-op advisors, Lisa Worsh, Cynthia Sweet and Ketty Rosenfeld, among other professors and contacts, I’ve settled.
The aim of RLAP is to help refugees prepare testimony for the United Nations Refugee Agency and the International Migration Organization, in charge of resettlement.
I’ll be working with refugees already approved for resettlement to prepare them for life in new lands–usually the U.S.
I’ll find out more tomorrow, but this involves everything from assisting with housing, jobs, education and language to discussing cultural norms and expectations. After a bit, I might work on the legal side of things too—interviewing and preparing for testimony.
The project was originally specifically for Iraqi refugees and they continue to make up the bulk of the clients. For obvious reasons, the U.S. is accepting more Iraqi refugees than any others.
What kind of things are happening with projects of this sort now? Here’s one perspective.
I’m excited to begin this new phase.
Refugees of Memory is an exhibit at the Sawy Cultural Center in Zamalek.
The pictures are all from the Israel’s January assault of Gaza, which the exhibit labels a holocaust.
Picture of an exhibit picture–children looking in their school?
Though I consider the Israel’s actions an unjustifiable violation of human rights, the word “holocaust,” surprised me. To me the holocaust has only ever meant the Nazi’s actions to the Jews during WWII.
The young women who run the exhibit said they took the words from the mouth of an Israeli minister.
The United Kingdom Guardian reported this:
“‘The more Qassam [rocket] fire intensifies and the rockets reach a longer range, they will bring upon themselves a bigger shoah because we will use all our might to defend ourselves,” Matan Vilnai, Israel’s deputy defence minister, told army radio.’”
Where ever you stand on this issue, I think it’s a great example of the power of language and word choice.