My Refugee Story

Today I wish to share with you a chapter from the book I'm writing about my time overseas. As the granddaughter of an Irish immigrant who came to America to find work at the age of 17, and the wife of a man who left his home in Lithuania at the same age, to move to a foreign country to pursue his dream of playing basketball, without knowing a soul, I know first hand there is nothing more beautiful, and more sacred to the core values of America than the hope of the American Dream. 

With that said, I don't remember a time in recent history that my heart has been filled with more sadness than is today. The mortification I feel having our President implement such a horrific law is only outweighed by the shame of seeing so many of my fellow countrymen not stand up for what's right because it simply doesn't affect them personally. Although I doubt this article will have any bearing on the beliefs of the opposite side, I need to share it for myself today as a reminder to not keep silent and to always speak up for those who can't.

It was my yearly ritual as soon as I made it to my new cities. Operation 1: Find the nearest Zara (even if it’s a plane ride away). Operation 2: Locate the best grocery store. Operation 3: Join a gym. Over the years my gym experiences have never lacked their share of comedic anecdotes. Whether it was the underground basement in Vilnius,  my amazing meathead personal trainer in Poland, or watching the women in full burkas on the elliptical in Bursa, joining a gym overseas has always provided some comedy. 

The first day usually includes me trying to convert kilograms into pounds, kilometers per hour into miles per hour and so on (and being gravely disappointed when the end number is NOT what I had in mind). My first day at my new gym in Giresun, Turkey was no different. Mid hating-my-life-two-minutes-into-the-treadmill, I was approached by the gym’s trainer. He asked to speak with me when I was done with my workout. FML, I thought. This has happened before. In every gym there’s always a trainer who comes up to me asking if I want to sign up for personal training lessons (because, come in, what fits the basketball wife cliche more than demanding a personal trainer). The rest of my workout, I brainstormed ideas of how to reject his offer. The truth is, I hate personal trainers. With a few rare exceptions, I’ve always had terrible experiences. The gym is a place I like to go to escape, not to make small talk while I’m struggling breathing. I’d tell him I’d think about it, that I’d get back to him… Or maybe the truth, that my best friend was a trainer and I liked to do her workouts on my own. 

After my workout I found him in the front desk on my way out. I waved, hoping he had forgotten about his plan to lure me into his training program. He stood right up and walked over to me. Shit. He introduced himself as “Mustafa”, a name that immediately  brought me to a smirk while reminiscing of “The Lion King”. “Nice to meet you, Mustafa”. He asked me where I was from and seemed excited when I told him America. “I’m a UN refugee from Iraq, I was wondering if you had any connections with someone in America that could help get me there”. I was immediately thrown off. I'd never met a refugee or an asylum seeker,  I wanted to just hug him and try to help.

Never have I felt like a bigger narcissistic asshole. Here I am worrying about rejecting his non-existent offer to train me, and turns out the guy is a UN refugee, fleeing persecution in his home country. I could really use someone to punch me in the face right about now. 

He didn't initially share his personal story, but we eventually learned of it through another basketball wife, who was an attorney and would do what she could to help him. He worked in his family’s convenience store in Baghdad when a terrorist group (who he now believes was the early stages of ISIS) came in, robbed him, and threatened to kill his entire family. The next day they were all on planes out of the country. His sister ended up in Denmark, and he had come to Turkey, in hopes that it would be a waiting place until he could reach the USA. 

I spent the remainder of my gym days in Giresun getting to know Mustafa and wishing there was more I could do for him. I eventually learned he was just 23, much younger than he looked, and my heart sank that there was nothing I could do.  There couldn’t be a worse time to be a UN refugee amidst the current climate where ISIS using the UN refugee path as a way to harbor terrorists had created a culture of immigrant hysteria in America. Our attorney friend knew it was in his best interest to suggest he find a backup plan. She was realistic and honest in saying that although he had officially been granted UN Refugee status, there was no way he would make it to America, he'd need to look elsewhere. She was right.

As our time in Giresun came to an end, all of us girls loved Mustafa and felt devastated that we couldn't help him. I often find myself thinking about him and wondering how he's doing. He was the first person I thought of when I read of Trump's Immigration Ban, which included his homeland of Iraq and I would be both embarrassed and ashamed if I had to face him today.

I'm not sure how so many can turn a blind eye to those who need it most. When did American pride outweigh having a conscience for those suffering in the rest of the world? I feel LUCKY to have been born in America, but I also realize this was never a choice I made, rather a luxury I was given. These poor children in Syria never asked to be born in the heart of a war-stricken nation, must they suffer because they were not granted the same luxury of being born American? 

 I hope as a nation we can open our hearts to feel compassion for those of different backgrounds, races, and religions than our own. I know there are many more Mustafas out there who need us and I for one refuse to be silent for them.