Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

Yazidi refugees

The Real Story of What Makes America Great

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The moment he spots me through the glass doors, he breaks into a run, bounding down the steps, coat flapping, backpack spilling papers, arms open wide. Yazin’s hug nearly knocks me off my feet onto the cold concrete. His two sisters trail after him, a flurry of long, dark braids, beaming smiles, and exuberant chatter. They both have hugs for me too.

All three vie for my attention, interrupting and talking over one another during the five-minute drive from the elementary school to their apartment. Dara loves math. Yara loves her teacher. All three of them love school. When they were all out sick with the flu last week, Dara tells me, they couldn’t wait to get better so they could get back to the classroom.

Mun, their four-year-old sister, has burst out of the front door of the townhouse and is standing on the steps in her socks before I’ve even turned off the ignition at the curb. Afia, their mother, kisses me on the cheek, motioning for me to take off my coat. When I tell them I can’t stay, the kids’ faces fall.

I promise I will visit for longer next time. “Don’t forget, we have to go ice skating one of these days,” I remind them, waving as I close the door behind me.

I wish so much that America could know this family. I wish so much that everyone could see, as clearly as I do, that the intimidating, frightening picture of immigrants and refugees our president paints from his lofty podium is simply not the whole story.

Not even close.

We hear from our president about drug dealers, murderers and rapists crossing our borders. We hear about terrorists killing and maiming our neighbors with guns and bombs. We hear that immigrants are threatening our livelihood and our lives. No matter that statistical evidence does not support his claims, that’s the storyline, and we believe it because fear sells.

What we don’t hear about are the beautiful, thriving children who love school and have mastered English in a year.

We don’t hear about the father who works hard during the day and attends community college classes in the evenings to earn the lab technician certification he already holds but which is not valid in the States. The father who drives his children to school and doctor’s and dentist appointments. The father who tells me, “I wish there were 35 hours in a day so I could get it all done.”

We don’t hear about the mother who is caring for her family, learning to drive, diligently attending weekly classes, practicing her English. The mother who kisses my cheek and hugs me warmly and serves me sugary chai and a plate piled high with homemade kulicha. The mother who prepares a four-course luncheon feast for my family on her birthday.

We don’t hear about the families who literally ran for their lives, who lost virtually everything they owned, who saw friends, neighbors, loved ones massacred, kidnapped, sold into slavery. The families who step foot from an airplane 7,000 miles from their homeland with their belongings packed into six suitcases. The families who left mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins behind, possibly forever.

A couple of weeks ago, when we visited the Aldakes in their home, Azzat’s mother was live on the smart phone screen, propped on a table in a corner while we ate lunch on the living room floor. This is often the case when we visit, and at first, we thought it was odd – why was Azzat’s mother always on Facetime, hanging out on the phone screen in the living room?

But now I understand. She lived with them in Iraq; the kids’ name for her is the Kurdish word for “mother.” This phone screen is a way to stay close, to be with her in the ordinary, everyday moments, in spite of the thousands of miles between them.

Last winter, Azzat’s mother came within weeks of emigrating to the United States – the two-year security screening process was completed, her paperwork was approved, her bags were packed. When Trump issued his travel ban, her visa was deferred, indefinitely.

She waves to us from the phone screen across the room. Azzat’s mother speaks in Kurdish as she sits on the floor, slicing kiwi into a bowl. “She’s blessing you,” Azzat says, turning to Brad and me. “She is saying a prayer, thanking you guys for everything you have done for us.”

I can’t speak. I shake my head no, mumble thank you, wave and smile back at the phone. She’s got it all wrong. We are the ones blessed by her family. We are the ones who should be thanking her for her family. But we can do nothing but wave and smile, wait and hope. We can do nothing but pray she will someday be reunited with those she loves most.

Afia brings out a platter of fruit and pastries. We sit side-by-side on the sofa. I show her photos on my phone from our ski trip to Colorado.

I scroll back through months of images, show her the first photo I took of her family, in the Lincoln airport the afternoon they arrived from Iraq. They look weary, serious, a little bit stunned. Yazin, the boy who hugs me with abandon now, eyes me warily in that first picture.

The kids peer at the photo over my shoulder. They laugh, surprised I was there on that first overwhelming day: “We didn’t know you then! We didn’t even know who was taking our picture!”

They have come so far, across miles, around the globe, over heartbreaking terrain most of us can’t even begin to fathom.

I wish the rest of America could see what my family has had the honor to see. I wish the rest of America could experience what my family has had the privilege to experience. I wish the rest of America could understand that what Trump threatens from the podium about murderers, gang members, rapists, drug dealers and terrorists is not the whole story.

Not even close.

I wish America could see that these hardworking, resilient, joyful, generous immigrant and refugee familes are, in fact, the real story of what makes America great.

What You Might Not Know about Refugees

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I admit, before we sponsored a refugee family from Iraq, I knew nothing about refugees. In fact, let me be as frank as possible: I hardly gave refugees more than a passing thought. Sure, my heart sank when I saw photos of lifeless bodies washed ashore or heard stories of persecution and genocide, but in some ways it didn’t even seem real. I was able to keep myself at a distance. It was terrible, and I felt badly for those who suffered, but it didn’t impact me in any real way.

All that changed the day the Aldake family stepped through the gate at Lincoln Municipal Airport. In the three months since this family arrived from Iraq, the plight of refugees has become very real and very personal to me.

I’ve heard their stories firsthand. I’ve witnessed their struggles and their determination. I’ve seen their joy and relief at having arrived at a safe place, and also their deep heartache and pain over leaving so many loved ones behind in dangerous situations. I’ve laughed with them, shared meals with them, and felt my heart break for what they have suffered and endured. They have taught me so much about perseverance and courage.

I’ve learned a lot about refugees in the past three months, and much of what I’ve learned has surprised me. I want to share some of this information with you, because I suspect, if you’re anything like I was, you are simply overwhelmed by the contradictory information you get from the media. Here is some of what I know to be true:

More than 65 million people worldwide are currently displaced from their homes, and more than half of the world’s refugees — 51% — are children.

Refugees do not choose to leave their country; they are forced to flee.

While Azzat and his family are grateful to be in the United States, they would rather still be safely living in their homeland, a small village in northern Iraq that they were forced to flee when ISIS invaded in August 2014. The Aldake family, along with thousands of other Yazidis, literally ran for their lives with only a few hours notice. Azzat was lucky. He owned a car, and was able to save his family. The 40,000 who fled on foot to Mount Sinjar were not as fortunate. As many as 5,000 Yazidi were massacred by ISIS, and thousands more women and children were sold into sex slavery. Azzat personally knew many people who were murdered or sold as slaves.

Refugees are the most thoroughly vetted individuals entering the United States.

Azzat and his wife completed extensive paperwork, underwent medical testing and exams and were personally interviewed by immigration officials in a process that took nearly two and a half years. Usually the process takes even longer, but Azzat’s work as an interpreter for the U.S. military enabled him to be eligible for special emigration visas and a streamlined vetting process.

Refugees enter the United States legally.  They also pay for their own travel to the United States through a no-interest loan. 

Refugees pay taxes and most are employed within six months of arrival. 

In Iraq, Azzat worked as a supervisor for the medical laboratory of the 17,000-occupant Displaced Persons Camp. He also served as an interpreter for the U.S. military. He wants nothing more than to get a job, now that his family is safe and settled in Lincoln. His resume is complete and up to date, he’s already applied for several jobs, and he is anxious to get to work. As he said to Brad and me this past weekend, “I’m not used to not working. It doesn’t feel right.” Afia, Azzat’s wife, is enrolled in English classes and is excited about the prospect of learning to drive and getting a job, both of which are opportunities she was not afforded as a woman in Iraq. Azzat and Afia very much want to become contributing and productive members of society in the United States; they are not here to take advantage of the system, and being the recipients of public assistance makes them uncomfortable.

Refugees have suffered greatly…and continue to suffer even after they have settled into a safe place.

After years of fearing for their very lives, refugees are not simply “all better” once they arrive at a safe place. Azzat told Brad and me that though he tries to forget, he can’t escape the memories of being persecuted by ISIS. Even when he can keep the terrifying memories at bay during the day, they return at night to torment him in his dreams. Azzat and Afia also worry daily about Azzat’s mother and his two brothers, who are still in Iraq awaiting approval of their visa applications, which have been deferred indefinitely.

Refugees are ordinary people, just trying to make a better life for themselves.

They have hopes, ambitions, and dreams. They aspire to make a better life for themselves and their families. They are grateful for ordinary gifts you and I typically take for granted, like a safe environment for their families, an education for their children, and to make a meaningful contribution to society. They are gracious and warm, excited to learn, generous and hospitable, and quick to share what little they have.

I am so grateful Azzat, Afia, and their four children made it to Nebraska safely. I’m so grateful they’ll get to see their children and someday perhaps their grandchildren grow up in a safe place where they will not just survive, but thrive. I’m so grateful they have this chance to dream, create, and live a new life for themselves, but my heart breaks for the thousands like them who won’t.

[Facts from Greateras1.org and the UN Refugee Agency]

Weekend One Word: Possible

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“I’ll put my spirit in you and make it possible for you to do what I tell you and live by my commands.” (Ezekiel 36:27)

A few months ago, after I heard an Iraqi refugee speak at a local event, I felt compelled to do something I’ve never done before. A few days after the event, I called the refugee resettlement department of Lutheran Family Services and volunteered to sponsor a refugee family.

Within a few weeks we had received the names and ages of the six refugees who would be traveling from Iraq to Lincoln. My family and a small group of friends collected furniture, household items, and other donations and set up an apartment for the family.

That was the easy part.

Vanja, our resettlement coordinator, asked my husband, Brad, and me if we would be willing to drive the family to the doctors and other appointments after they arrived in Lincoln. Even as I heard myself say yes, I knew that interacting personally with the family, only one of whom speaks English, would push the boundaries of my comfort zone.

I was right.

One afternoon, as I stood on the curb with the mom and her four kids after driving them home from a doctor’s appointment, I thought they were blowing kisses to me. Figuring it was a Yazidi goodbye custom, I blew kisses back, only to realize mid-kiss that the mom was actually trying to convey an invitation to come inside to have something to eat. I felt my face redden as I shook my head and laughed uncomfortably, trying to communicate, as graciously as possible without language, “No, thank you.” I felt more than a little stupid and embarrassed as I drove away.

Jesus simplified God’s commands for us in the Gospels when he reduced them to two: Love God, and love your neighbor as yourself.

Notice the way the second commandment is phrased. It’s not simply: “Love your neighbor,” but “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

To love your neighbor as yourself means to go all out, no holds barred, 110%. Our society and our biology insist that we put ourselves first, but God expects us to treat our neighbors the same way we treat ourselves. Living out God’s command in real life is a tall order – dare I say an impossible one on some days (depending on the day and the neighbor).

The Holy Spirit – God in us – is a powerful force. When we listen to the Spirit and heed his prompts, we will be compelled to step into scenarios we ordinarily wouldn’t dream of considering – commitments that far exceed our comfort and our perceived limitations.

This is exactly why God gives us the Holy Spirit. He knows we need the Spirit in order to fulfill his commands. He knows, on most days, we are incapable of truly loving our neighbors as ourselves.

Only God’s Spirit in us makes it possible for us to live out what often feels like an impossible command.

Where Do You Draw the Line?

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Where do you draw the line?

A couple weekends ago my family and I spent some time with our Yazidi friend Azzat, and his wife and four kids at the Lincoln Children’s Museum. While we were there, Azzat spotted a large wall map, and he called us over so he could show us where he was from.

As he pointed to a tiny region in the northern part of Iraq, Azzat described what happened the morning ISIS invaded his village. He traced his finger along his family’s escape route, away from the mountain where hundreds of Yazidi people, trapped by ISIS, would later die of starvation and dehydration.

Azzat also explained that the Yazidi people have been persecuted by ISIS because they are not “people of the book,” as he put it. Unlike Christians, who have the Bible (which isn’t to say Christians have not been persecuted by ISIS); Jews, who have the Torah; and Muslims, who have the Koran, the Yazidi people do not have a sacred text. Their lack of a sacred book is unacceptable to radical extremist groups like ISIS.

It’s where ISIS draws the line and how they justify their persecution of the Yazidi people.

God used Azzat’s story to remind me that I, too, have a line I’ve drawn. Obviously I’m not going to execute anyone on the other side of my line. But what I realized, in reflecting on Azzat’s story, is that there are people on one side of my line I accept, and on the other side, people I am against.

I did not vote for Donald Trump, and in the months following his election, I have publicly denounced what I consider his moral and ethical flaws and his hostile views of marginalized people. Privately, in my heart and among my closest confidants, I have also denounced those who elected Donald Trump president.

It’s been easy for me to keep Trump supporters “over there,” on the other side of my line, in the “unacceptable” camp. Easy, that is, until I opened my Bible and read this verse in Paul’s letter to the Philippians:

“Make it as clear as you can to all you meet that you’re on their side, working with them and not against them.” (4:5-8)

Note Paul’s word choice: “to all you meet.” He isn’t referring only to the people we consider “on our side.” According to Paul, we are to be on the side of everyone we meet, not just the people who think, act, look, worship, or vote like we do.

My friend Helen did not vote for Donald Trump. However, in the days following the election, instead of railing publicly or privately against those “on the other side,” Helen made a different choice: she invited a small group of Trump supporters to her home to share a meal and conversation.

In extending that invitation, Helen made it clear that she was interested in working with, rather than against, the people who thought and voted differently from her.

As she later explained, “We would do well by each other to share a meal with those whose perspectives differ from our own in an effort to understand the complexity of their humanness. We mature and grow when we spend time with those who challenge us.”

I don’t know who is on the other side of your line. But I do know this: even when we don’t stand with their beliefs, we can and should stand with all our brothers and sisters, each of whom has been created in the image of God.

This post was originally published in the Lincoln Journal Star. 

When You Forget You’re Not the Author of the Story

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“Well that went one hundred percent NOT like I thought it would.”

These are the words I said to Brad as we pulled out of the airport parking lot last Thursday. We had just met the Yazidi family whose arrival we’d been preparing for and anticipating over the last six weeks. During that time we’d acquired hundreds of donated items; filled our garage, basement, and living room with pots and pans, bedding, kitchen utensils, furniture, clothes, and food; shopped for them with the monetary donations we’d received; and thought about and prayed for this family of six daily.

Brad had even researched Yazidi recipes so we would know the culturally appropriate foods to purchase. I had exchanged dozens of emails and texts with the friends and strangers who were helping to furnish the apartment. We’d checked and rechecked our Google doc, worried we’d forgotten something important, fretted over whether the kids needed another set of pajamas.

The night before our family’s arrival I tossed and turned in bed, trying to imagine what it would be like to finally meet them. The day of their arrival, I was so nervous/excited, I couldn’t work. I paced around the house and checked Facebook 4,900 times instead.

Turns out, the much-anticipated meeting was, in a word, anti-climatic. [And let me stop right here and stay this had nothing to do with the family or the organization responsible for their arrival; it was all me and my own baggage. Read on.]

Lincoln is home to a close-knit and vibrant Yazidi community – the largest in the nation, in fact. This is good. It means our family has a ready-made support network – people who have been in America for a while now and will help our family make the transition. In fact, about 20 Yazidis were at the airport to welcome our family and another who arrived on the same plane. It was clear, when they walked into the terminal, that our family knew a lot of the people who had shown up at the airport to welcome them.

At the United gate, Brad and I were briefly introduced to Azzat, the dad, and I quickly snapped a photo of the family. Then, in a matter of minutes and in a jumble of confusion and chaos, both refugee families and all the Yazidi people who had arrived to welcome them disappeared, presumably to have a warm meal together and connect after such a long and painful separation.

I was quiet for a few minutes as Brad and I drove from the airport to our house, where we would meet up with the rest of our sponsorship team and begin the process of moving and setting up our family’s apartment. During the short drive I wrestled with feelings of disappointment and disillusionment.

“This is a surprise to me,” I said to Brad, laughing sheepishly. “I never knew I had a hero complex.”

The truth is, I had written the whole story before our family had even stepped foot in America. I had it all worked out in my own mind: the poignant meeting at the airport; the excitement of the kids when they saw their bedrooms, their new backpacks, the cute stuffed animals propped just so on brand-new sheets; the friendship we would forge…dinners together, laughter, conversation, pass the lamb stew!

I had written a beautiful story in my head, a perfect story, really – a fairy tale, complete with a knight(ess) in shining armor and the quintessential happy ending.

The problem was, I had forgotten one critical detail:

I’m not the author of this story. In fact, I’m not even a main character.

God is the author of this story, and long before I even knew a single detail about the Yazidi people, long before “sponsorship” and “refugee” and “resettlement” were part of my daily vocabulary, long before I was even born, in fact, he had already begun to write it.

He knew how this family of six would flee persecution in Iraq; he knew that they would land in Lincoln, Nebraska; he knew what my role would be in their lives. He had plans for each one of us in this story, plans for hope and a future. 

The problem was, my plans didn’t match his. The truth is, they rarely do.

I had forgotten, again, that God is the Planner and the Author of all good stories. I had forgotten that he had already written this story and had already written a storyline for me – a storyline that was much different, and honestly, a lot less limelighty, from the one I’d written for myself.

An hour after Brad and I left the airport, our friend Nathan backed a moving truck into our driveway. Our friends showed up, and together we all emptied the garage, basement and living room. Then we all drove to Kristen’s house to pack more into the truck, and then to Deidra’s house to carry her sofa down her front steps, up the ramp, and into the back of the truck. Then Nathan drove the truck across town to the apartment, where we all unloaded it box by box by box.

We spread sheets and comforters over mattresses; assembled bunk beds and end tables; screwed lightbulbs into lamps; stocked the fridge, pantry, cabinets and drawers; arranged fruit in a bowl; set placemats on the kitchen table; stacked extra blankets in the linen closet; laid toothbrushes on the bathroom counter, propped stuffed animals just so on freshly made beds.

When we shut off the lights and closed the door behind us four hours later that night, the apartment was a home.

This was the role God had for me in his story – to welcome this refugee family to America not by being their hero or savior or even their friend (God himself has all that covered), but to slip in like an elf behind the scenes on a cold winter night and make them a home — a home that would say, “Welcome.” A home that would say, “We’re glad you’re here.”

God writes the most beautiful stories. Our job is to help bring those stories to fruition – to be his hands and feet and heart on the ground. He is the Author, we are the “characters,” and sometimes, our role, our storyline, is small, hardly noticeable, a bit part. But that doesn’t make the story less perfect or less beautiful.

I’m over my initial disappointment, have my head back on straight, and have handed the pen back to its rightful Owner. No one but God himself knows the rest of this story. Perhaps this is merely the first chapter. Or maybe, when Brad and I left the keys on the kitchen table and closed the door behind us last Friday morning after putting the last touches on the apartment, we turned the final page.

Regardless of whether it’s the beginning or the end of our role in this particular story, I’m really grateful God wrote a part in it for me. Helping to create a home for a family I might not ever even know is one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.