Iraqis in America

As Robert Frost saw it, home is the place where, when you have to go there they have to take you in. That may be true, but for many of America's newest arrivals, it's not as clear cut. That's perhaps felt most acutely among the Iraqi population that has been resettled in the United States in the past few years, after some 5 million were displaced by the war.

After coming under fire for failing those who worked with the struggling American administration in the first years of the conflict, the United States has increased the number of Iraqis refugees it accepts each year, up from 202 in 2006 to about 17,000 this year. But according to a recent report by the International Rescue Committee, which resettles refugees in their new communities, many of those Iraqis face a harsh welcome once they arrive. At the same time, the main program to help U.S.-affiliated Iraqis has become clogged in the bureaucratic pipes: according to Kirk Johnson, who runs the List Project, out of 5,000 slots open in the past year, only about 600 were filled. With American troops now withdrawing to their bases, he adds, the dangers for "collaborators" only become greater. "What's the postscript on this? The historical precedent on what happens to collaborators after withdrawal is not encouraging," says Johnson.

 

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NEWSWEEK caught up with five Iraqis whose decision to work with U.S.-affiliated organizations in Baghdad ultimately drove them from their homes and landed them in America. Their experiences are as diverse as their backgrounds. Some can't believe their good luck in resettling to the States, while others have a more complicated relationship with their new American home. Their stories are funny, heart-wrenching, frustrating, and inspiring; in other words, they are human. No matter how the history books cast the circumstances under which they arrived, what is undeniable is that they are now a permanent part of the American cultural mosaic.

Names with an asterisk have been changed to protect the security of immigrants' family members still living in Iraq.

Farid al-Zahawi, 62, Salt Lake City
A pilot for Iraqi Airways for 15 years, Farid al-Zahawi has seen most of the world's must-see spots. But his favorite has always been California. It might have something to do with the memories; he first came to the U.S. to attend flight school in Hayworth, Calif., in 1975. After the war, when Americans began setting up their offices, Zahawi saw notices posted on the new business center's Web site soliciting Iraqi bids. He got along famously with his American counterparts, he says. Generals negotiated deals with him to supply the police force with equipment, and soldiers, who knew he had been educated in the States, routinely came over to his home for dinner.

That is probably what put him on insurgents' radar. In 2006, he received his first threats. Shortly after that, he found the body of his security guard, filled with nearly 40 bullets. "I couldn't see a place in his body without a hole," he recalls. He waited for two months for his son to finish the school year, then gathered his family and fled to Jordan. He didn't even have time to sell the house. Neighbors told him it was looted not long after he left.

Now, from Salt Lake City, he worries that the U.S. withdrawal is premature. Friends tell him each group is sitting tight and preparing to take their revenge after the Americans leave. But Iraq's endless clashes no longer preoccupy Zahawi's every thought. Some Iraqi-Americans obsess over Arabic satellite-TV channels and keep constant tabs on the news from their old worlds, but Zahawi did not even bother getting a satellite. His kids make frequent calls to their friends in Baghdad. "They have their memories—you know, teenagers' memories," he says, chuckling. One day, after visiting his sister-in-law in a nursing home, his wife wondered aloud if they could ever go home. He pointed back at the building. Even if they had no money left to get him a room inside, he told her, she could just leave him on the roof. He would rather live his days out there than ever go back. "All my life, I've felt like an American, ever since I came to California," he says. With citizenship finally in sight, he's never looking back.

Mohamed Anees, 31, San Diego
When Mohamed Anees first headed to Baghdad to translate for U.S. forces, he never thought it would eventually land him in America. He was a fresh-faced 26-year-old, armed only with a bachelor's degree in English literature and a stint in the Iraqi Army. He ended up going out on patrols with the U.S. Army and the Marines. He loved it. "Originally, I just wanted to practice my English, meet different people," he says. "They taught me the little things, like how to use the F word. And they sacrificed for me." One time, on patrol at a car factory, a Marine made Anees stand behind him because he wanted to take any bullets coming their way. He'll never forget it.

The death threat came in 2007 amid a round of AK-47 fire. Someone threw a sloppily written letter at his parents' house, announcing that insurgents knew where he was working. His father told him to leave. Anees had a wife and an infant daughter by then. "Let me think about it," he said. "There's nothing to think about," his father responded. He prepared his application for a special immigrant visa, a program designed for Iraqis whose lives are threatened because of their work for Americans. A year later, he took his family to Jordan and then, finally, to California.

Anees knows he has it better than most. He's had little trouble finding work in San Diego, where there are military bases and consulting companies looking to hire Iraqis with experience on the front lines. These days, Anees is taking new recruits out into the Mojave desert for training before they ship out to Iraq.