Sparks Fly

Today I filled out a job application for an Iraqi man to work on a production line at a factor in Kennesaw. This man owned his own import/export business in Iraq. His refugee 'camp' was in Damascus, Syria. The Iraqis' situation is a little different that that of most of the rest of the refugees. The Bhutanese and Somalis, for example, have typically spent several years in refugee camps in neighboring countries. You know, the camps that you'll occasionally see featured in TIME Magazine or on the news -- decrepit conditions, shantytowns, filthy, overcrowded, in desperate need of ... everything. Most of the Iraqis, however, fled to neighboring countries and were somehow placed in apartments and several had jobs (albeit lower-class jobs than they were used to.) Most of the Iraqis come from relatively well-educated and affluent backgrounds. So one might think it a tad odd at first to hear them ask for a bike for their kid or for a TV or a 3-person couch. But, as I explained it to my very surprised parents ("aren't they happy just to be in America?!?!"), their situation is comparable to my family being uprooted and placed in a rural village in, say, Kazakstan ... Just chew on that for a while.

Later in the day, I took two Iraqi couples to a grocery store called Thriftown (similar to Save-A-Lot) to buy groceries. One of the men, Atheer, spoke good English. He was a civil engineer in Baghdad before he had to flee and thus was very well educated and came from a position of influence. He is jealous of my freedom to go to university and study whatever I please. I taught Atheer and his wife along with a couple from a neighboring family how to budget a week's worth of groceries for a family of four for under $150. They asked me to help them leave $5-10 off their grocery bill so they could have money to buy halal meat and bread. Halal meat is cleansed by the prayer and blessing of an Imam. . .

In the afternoon, I taught my new Somali family how to use their new, $5 calling cards to call relatives back home. I almost cried when I saw how happy they were to tell their friends back in the camp that they were safe and happy in America, and that they were very surprised at how hot it is here, and also that there are 'street people' here, too. I did cry when another Somali family came to their apartment when I was there - they all shouted with such incredible joy and laughter and hugs and kisses at seeing familiar faces and hearing the same language. It was like My Big Fat Greek Wedding except it was My Big Fat Somali Reunion. In the Somali family under my case management, there are three men and one woman. The woman is of the sect of Islam that requires women to cover every inch of their bodies except their eyes (rather than allowing the shawl to show their faces). I think I saw Sparks Fly in this woman's eyes as they lit up; I heard her smile when she saw other Somali women smiling and bringing comfort food.  

No one with any shade of dark skin seems to understand why I have "rash-like spots" all over my skin. They all think my freckles are some kind of terrible misfortune. When I was visiting with the Somali men, the time came to pray. They stopped the conversation, pulled out their mats, faced East, and prayed to Allah and praised Mohammed. 

... I prayed silently for Christ to stir their hearts.