A Journey from Iraq into Disneyland: Part II

After our meal Rozelyn, Nabeed, Isa and I moved to the couch to stretch out and digest. Post-dining is around the time when I begin to feel guilty, when I begin to doubt if I am a valuable employee and not just some satiety-seeking creep. But if I have learned one thing from my travels it is that America is the only place where people can eat and run and not terribly offend. So I face a dilemma, of whether to teach my lovely immigrant hosts a cultural lesson and most definitely hurt their feelings, or to spend an extra half hour and keep our relationships strong. I always choose the latter.
"Do you cook like this every day?" I asked, impressed.
Rozelyn shook her head yes, and hung her head heavy. "Every day Miss Kacie, every day."
Looking at Rozelyn can make a person tired. She is in her mid-40's, but if her hair turned gray she could pass as an 80 year old. I cannot imagine the journey she has traveled, and nor would I want to. Much of what she eludes to is too much for my imagination to bear, too graphic and disturbing that i prefer to not even write about it here. It is mankind at his worst, and these memories are seared so deeply in to the psyche that we spent only a few minutes digesting our lunch and she began again.
"You know at times Miss Kacie it became so horrible, that I tried to make a joke with some friends. They would ask me how everything is going, during the war, and I would say to them, it is just as happy as Disneyland. I no longer knew what to say, so I just said this." She laughed to herself, incredulously.
At times it is uncomfortable because I don't know what to say. I don't want to minimize her experience with filler conversation or wrong words muttered, so i try to remember in the power of stories. When a victim is given a chance to share their story, when they have reached a point when they CAN share their story, a divine work begins to happen at a deeper level. I believe they are closer to healing, to some sort of freedom, to knowing their truth whatever it may be.
So I sat and listened and a little thought began tinkering away in the back of my mind.
My sister became a manager of the busiest Jamba Juice in all of America last year. This Jamba Juice also happens to be located on Disneyland property in Anaheim, which in turn, allows for her to obtain 3 free daily passes in to the park. The tickets are meant for mostly employee related business, but with 3 a day, everyday... c'mon! My sister has a big heart and not a lot of time to spare so after a few months she had to make some rules. I backed off from asking her any Disneyland favors, not wanting to be another secret headache she said yes to.
But listening to Rozelyn speak, and holding the power to make something happen, I had to give her a call.
When I finally got back to my office I wrote her a brief email explaining their situation and asking for her magic. She wrote back and said of course. I called Rozelyn to ask if this was something she thought Isa would want to do and she gasped and said she wanted it more, but that "Of course Miss Kacie, for Isa too."
We set a date 3 months in advance, to give her time to save a little extra money (I informed her of Disneyland prices!) and frankly I thought 3 months of excited anticipation could be a healthy medicine. The night before we left I called her and asked if she was prepared. I was worried they wouldn't have enough money to buy food and she wouldn't know how to pack food to-go.
"If anyone is a professional at preparing for a day it is me." She said. "You know, when I was applying to become a refugee, do you know what I had to do? I had to travel 12 hours on a bus once a week and get in line at the UN by 4:00 in the morning. Then I would stand in line ALL day until they shut their doors. I would pack food, but once you were inside the building you could not bring your food in. Sometimes you were inside the building all day. So believe me Miss Kacie, I am very skilled at this. I will bring food tomorrow, I am finished preparing it. But even if I don't eat I am fine."
I told her to wear comfortable shoes and bring a hat and that I'd see them at 7:30 am. She hung up with power and enthusiasm.
The next morning I had a slight premonition that I should buy them a disposable camera. I wasn't planning on spoiling them, the trip up to Anaheim was as much for me as it was for them. I hadn't seen my sister in awhile. I wasn't giving them extra money or buying them souvenirs. I was just a vessel transporting them into a dream. But I wanted them to be able to capture this dream in an image, or multiple images, that would last forever. I stopped by a Rite-Aid and bought a cheap camera and some sunscreen.
When I pulled up to their complex Nabeed was waiting in the grimy parking lot smoking a cigarette. Isa came bounding from around the corner and Rozelyn scuffled after him with bags hanging from every inch of her arm. Nabeed walked over and gave me his sweet smile, along with a handshake.
"Good Morning." He said, making serious eye contact as if to thank me already.
I hurried around to the back of my car and pulled the surprise out from a plastic bag in the trunk. "I was thinking you didn't have one of these..." I held it up "...so here you go!"
Both Rozelyn and Nabeed caved in to one another and looked up at me. "OH! How wonderful, how wonderful. Oh wonderful! I sent Nabeed to every house last night asking to borrow a camera, but no one here owns a camera. Even this morning he woke up and went around looking for someones camera, just for a day. Oh you do not know how great this is, oh! Look Nabeed, look, a camera!"
He grinned and I saw where his son got the sparkly eyes.
Despite all the beauty of that morning, and when the memory of Nabeed dashing to the Chevron counter to fill up my gas tank faded, I found that I was tired and amazingly... a little bit grumpy. Rozelyn pointed out that the rolling hills north of San Diego looked very similar to the mountains in Iraq. "It snows there you know." She wanted to chat, she was excited.
As much as I've tried, I've reverted. The mornings are not my time, so I smiled and rolled down the window and tried to wake myself up. I looked back at Isa who was clueless about the day. He didn't understand the power behind the word Disneyland, I could tell because he didn't perk up or recognize it at all. The car became humid with food smells so I had to ask. "What food did you bring?"
"I cooked chicken and potatoes."
I smiled at the thought, a sit-down meal on the go.
I learned once we arrived that from my house in San Diego I take less than 3 turns to get to Disneyland and I felt foolish for not having visited sooner.
My sister met us in the employee parking lot, where she walked us through Disneyland's Downtown- an area to eat and shop before you get in to the park. She filled them up on Jamba Juice smoothies and watched Isa as his eyes illuminated each time he saw a person wearing something with Mickey Mouse embedded on it. I watched him as the contagious thrill of Disney began to infect.
She looked at me and said "He has no idea what he's in for, does he?"
I laughed and said no.
"Kace, I'm here everyday and I can't stand walking through Disneyland, but look at his face! We might have to hang out."
I didn't take my eyes off of Isa, because his joy was so pure and overspilling it filled me up. My sister was doing the same thing. We could barely talk because we were smiling so much, and laughing at the mere idea that Isa's world was about to turn 3 dimensional and begin talking back to him.
Each time we passed through a line, whether it be bag check or getting our hands stamped, I noticed Nabeed became flustered and panicked. After having spent the last few years in lines at border crossings and getting stopped by Iraqi police, in United States immigration, in airports, at the United Nations- being questioned, scrutinized, and carefully interrogated and considered, I tried to explain that there are no interviews to get in to Disneyland, you just walk through the line and go.
The day was cloudy with a slight breeze, so my sister and I decided we had enough energy to deal with it for a few hours before retreating to her house to catch-up and relax. Isa's gait had turned in to a full-blown bounce, and he suddenly perked up with a confidence I hadn't witnessed before.
I'm glad we stayed, mostly because I now have a new perspective of Disneyland. Even though many consider it to be the happiest place on earth- including Rozelyn, Nabeed, and Isa- I'm sure we could all now agree that there seems to be an awful lot of bombs.
The first ride the parents laid their eyes on were shooting rockets that peacefully glided around in a circle. Similar to the Dumbo affair, but park goers nestle themselves into a rocket instead of an elephant. I was holding Isa's hand when I looked back and saw the two of them bent over in hysterics, pointing at the "amusement".
My sister asked what was so funny and Rozelyn blurted out "In Iraq we have the real thing flying through the air!" Then Nabeed wrapped his arms around his stomach as if to hug himself to stop the laughing. I saw my sisters mind shift, a subtle awareness of a world different than what she knows. We laughed, because it was funny, even though it wasn't.
As a child I always loved Mr. Toad's wild ride so I convinced our pack to wait in the short 15 minute line and take a spin. The three of them crammed in to a cart in front of us and flew off in to the darkness of make-believe. Tess and I loaded up and just as we were going in to a dark cave-like room a fake bomb exploded and shot us around. Lights began to flash and dry ice filled up the area. I never remembered Mr. Toad's Wild Ride reenacting a war scene? Our cart sped through into another room where explosions were occurring on every side of us. I grabbed her arm and screamed out a few cuss words, dodging the figures of the exhibit stole my thoughts. What had I done? I tried to catch a glimpse of their faces as they sped by on the opposite side of the track, but all I saw was darkness. More bombs, more rattling, more disarray.
When the ride finished I jumped out and ran over to Rozelyn. She looked a bit shaken, but her husband and Isa appeared just fine. "How was that?" I asked, embarrassed at having claimed that as one of my favorite rides.
"Ahhh- it was..."
"Scary?" I asked.
"Uhh...?"
"Stupid?"
"I would like to go somewhere happier than that."
My sister had ideas that ToonTown would relieve our last experience, so we trudged across the park and immediately Isa was in heaven. We walked over to all the fake cars, the bright blue cars and bright orange cars and he climbed inside and drove like a madman. ToonTown literally looks as if you just flew into your children's Saturday morning cartoon set and decided to spend the day. Isa was obsessed with the cars and Nabeed had to gently remind him that other kids were waiting. We turned the corner and laying in front of us was a fake TNT handle which supposedly linked up to the second story of the ToonTown home in front of us, where a pile of explosives is activated which causes ANOTHER explosion and the entire house to light up, shake ferociously and spit thick clouds of smoke out from up above. It came as a complete surprise, just as our nerves were settling and we all were feeling easy again. I looked at Tessa and shook my head, while Nabeed and Rozelyn ducked for cover. Isa was oblivious. I ushered them out of the area as if a true attack had just taken place and asked them if they were alright. Rozelyn laughed a true laugh and shrugged her shoulders. "I guess I was not lying when I told people Iraq is as nice as Disneyland. From all that I have seen I think they are taking their ideas from my country!"
Her husband looked fine, he was enjoying himself by watching his son's delight.
"Yes, Nabeed is not scared because we are familiar with this Miss Kacie. But here, it is not real, so it is funny. Why Americans do this for fun I do not understand, that is what is funny! Actually I am happy Miss Kacie. Did you see how Isa did not notice a thing? There are bombs all around here and he is just fine. He is doing well. I don't think his life in Iraq has done the same thing for him as it has for us. I am very happy for this, I am very glad to be here."
After this my sister and I forced them to follow us on a manic search to find the real Mickey. He was our only safe bet, unless he now stored ammo in his pockets or carried an AK47. As if a divine force had carved out the way, we quickly found Mickey's house where all visitors are welcome, there were no lines, and hugs were given freely. When Isa nuzzled his face into Mickey Mouse's stomach and stretched his arms as wide as they could go without ever making them around and wanted to refuse to let go after a few minutes of intense gripping (but has been raised with better manners than that so he didn't) I knew the trip was worth it. I never thought watching a kid hug a big fake rat could restore such peace, but it did.

A journey from Iraq: Part I

Rozelyn and Nabeed are both refugees from Iraq who recently were resettled into a crowded apartment complex in one of the poorer neighborhoods of South Central San Diego. They share a son, a life-filled jubilant 4 year old who literally has twinkles in each of his eyes. Rozelyn, fluent in English, shared with me a few months ago that she and her husband Nabeed were looking for work. They desperately needed jobs. I verbally informed her of a few job leads, one of which had great promise in landing in employment, however she rejected each one. Initially I was frustrated. When a person says they desperately need work, when they call me and leave messages of "Please help, help me, help me we need work" I expect them to compromise.
I wasn't sending her to a strip club, or a Port-a-Potty cleaning crew, it was a nice solid full-time position as a caregiver.
"Miss Kacie, I can't do that. I am sorry."
I spoke with her a few more times all of which held the exact same result. I decided she was not ready for a job developer, that any help I could give her she was not willing to receive, so I crossed her name off my list, never input her in to the system, and moved on.
Rozelyn happens to live next door to one of my clients, a man from Sierra Leone who was in need of work boots. Just as I was dropping off the goods, leaving his house I noticed her son Isa leaned in their doorway smiling at me. I walked over to him and ruffled his hair while he grabbed my leg and hugged it tight.
"Hey you." I said, tickling his sides.
He ran in to the apartment.
Rozelyn was inside cooking lunch, and on their small round dining room table lay a spread of food that looked as if it had taken quite a lot of time to prepare.
"Oh hello Miss Kacie. It is so nice to see you." She smoothed her coarse hair and extended her hand offering me a seat on their couch. Isa ran over and pounced on my lap.
"Isa!"
"It's okay. I don't mind."
"Oh I am so sorry Miss Kacie, he has so much energy you know! I am sorry. Please make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you some tea?"
"Sure."
"Or will you stay for lunch? It is almost ready. Oh I hope you will stay for lunch."
She opened the stove and hot air escaped past her face and above. It smelled of meat and onions and it was lunchtime and I was hungry.
"Yes I'd love to have lunch with you."
"Oh wonderful Miss Kacie wonderful. Nabeed he is not home but anytime now he will come back. Isa!" She spoke rapidly to Isa in Arabic and then turned to me, batting her eyelashes and smiling. After each reprimand he would creep off my lap but slowly return while his mother tended to the big boiling pot.
"Your apartment looks great." I said, exaggerating slightly but considering relativity.
"Oh do you like it? Everything is other peoples trash!" She clasped her hands together and moved through the room pointing out everything she had salvaged from the dumpster outside. "That is how it is here. Our monthly check is very small, we get about $750, rent is $550, and gas, and groceries, and laundry detergent- you see? Life is very difficult so I cannot go and buy things to make my house look beautiful. But I love decorations. In Iraq, I had a lot of money Miss Kacie. And here I do what I can."
Nabeed walked in smoking a cigarette and gently bowed his head to my presence. His thick black feather eyelashes glanced in Rozelyn's direction and he gave her a loving smile. Isa ran to him and jumped around his legs, while Nabeed flicked his ears and tried to hide from his son's constant swivel.
"Lunch is ready!" They didn't have enough chairs to accommodate my dropping in, so Isa regrettably had to sit at the couch and eat his meal. He kept peering over and asking questions that his father finally gave in and made a makeshift seat so he was able to dine with the grown-ups.
So much trust can be built over something as simple as a meal. I sometimes feel guilty when I accept an offer to eat with my client's. I have so much fun doing it, and it usually lasts longer than my mandated 1 hour lunch. But the information, the stories, the understanding I receive far surpasses anything I could get in my office. Therefore, I have unofficially written "family meals" in to my job description.
On this day, I was reminded that what you see is usually not what you get. What had first appeared to me as laziness or pickiness, neither of them accepting my job leads, was actually something much more.
I wanted to know how they met, so I asked between bites and she put down her fork and told me the story.
Rozelyn and Nabeed were family friends and had known each other their entire lives. Both had a strong attraction towards one another, and decided to marry despite the fact they believed in different religions. "Nabeed is the sweetest, most gentle man I know. He knows my heart. We are okay that we have different religions because we trust one another with everything."
Christians are heavily persecuted in Iraq. Nabeed, driven by love and sustained by his Muslim faith, had risked quite a lot in asking her to marry him. Rozelyn, a Christian woman having married a Muslim man, was now like a wife with a bulls eye tattooed on her forehead.
"We would go to the grocery store and men would walk by me and whisper that they were going to kill me, all because they knew I was a Christian."
She shared that she lived in constant fear, but in Nabeed she found rest. They continued to live under verbal threats or dodging bullets shot through their house. The war in Iraq was devastating everything. "My people, they have black hearts. There is something wrong in Baghdad and it is in their hearts." She continued to live, and work, and love. And soon enough, she found she was pregnant.
4 months after Isa was born the front part of their house was destroyed by gunshots. She was asleep with her baby when it happened. She and Nabeed were so terrified they did not leave their house, and the fear sat in their stomachs and leaked in to their bones. Rozelyn found she could no longer produce milk but could not leave her house, so she fed her baby water mixed with sugar for over a week.
"The doctor told me I had become too fearful to make breastmilk, so we wanted to move to go someplace safe. But then that is when they kidnapped Isa."
Her son was taken from her for over two weeks, while messages relayed from a murderous tag team only solidified that her future remain very uncertain. "He was very young and he needed to be fed. The kidnappers called me and asked if I wanted him to live. They said they weren't feeding him anything, and if I wanted Isa to eat I should send some money."
Isa was returned, and on the night they had planned their escape, Nabeed was dragged from inside his house and beaten outside.
I looked at him eating the french fries, smiling at his son, stiffly turning his body and reaching for a second helping. He held the scars from that day, not in his face- or his eyes- or his soft easy smile, but his body was unnaturally erect as if someone had slipped a wood board down his shirt. His neck and spine were damaged, he moved in small calculated doses.
"The bad men told Nabeed that if he did not divorce me the very next day they were going to kill me and kill Isa."
They packed up their things that night and left while it was still black out. "We had money, and before the war we were very comfortable, but now it is very different. Can you imagine Miss Kacie?"
After safely arriving in Syria, and spending 8 months trying to gain status as refugees and begin a new life in a new land, they landed in San Diego. I asked them how they like it here. "It is a nice place. It is safe. But I am sorry, I cannot talk to these other Iraqi's who are here. I cannot look at them. I cannot make friends with them. I do not trust them." I did not feel it was my place to remind her many of them had been through similar traumas.
She went on to tell me that she never leaves Isa alone, there is always one pair of protective eyes on him. "When Isa is sleeping, I stay up and watch him. After 4 hours, Nabeed will wake up and I will sleep. That is how we live." I realized the job I referred her to required overnights.
The dark circles under her eyes now held a reason, and the general nervousness that leaped off her every pore was rooted in an awful reality. Despite it all, despite their battered bodies and their wearied souls, their love for each other and for their son was easily felt. "Isa is our hope. We are tired Miss Kacie, very tired. This life has been very difficult and terrible but we look at Isa and we know it is good."
Each time I cleared my plate of food a large spoon dangled above it and dropped another load of salad, french fries, or a weird portion of that meatloaf looking dish. Nabeed would laugh and point at my stomach, motioning for me to fill it up. I wondered if he knew the story his wife was telling, as he doesn't have any English speaking skills. I sensed he did, that it was now as much of a part of them as anything else.
There was a long silence and some chewing noises and I decided to ask Isa if he had made any friends in the complex. He gave a little nod.
"Oh really? A best friend?"
Another nod.
"What's your best friends name?"
He smiled, looked at his mom and dad, and through the gap in his front tooth, his little pink tongue spun around in circles and said "Thu-thu-thuthu-thu!"
I thought he was speaking Arabic, so I asked his mom to translate. She said she had no idea what he was talking about, so I asked again.
"Who is your best friend?"
He kicked his legs under the table excitedly and tried to convince me of his best friends name: "Ha-thu-thuthu-thal!"
Small sounds began to emerge and resemble something Mexican.
"One more time?" I asked, and he repeated. After a group effort of trying to figure it out, we asked "Is it Jose Salazar!"
He jumped from his chair and danced around the table. "Yes! Huh-thu-thuthu-thal!"
His mother explained to his father, in Arabic, about the confusion that just took place, and we all broke out in infectious laughter as we watched the space between the teeth fill up with Isa's wild twirling tongue.
We didn't return to the story she had been telling before, instead we moved on and let the refreshing antics of an inspiring 4 year old cheer us on into another chapter of the day, if not into another chapter of the future.