The three of us, Daoud, Rob, and myself, positioned ourselves at different exits in order to find new American citizen, Nadia Dildar, amidst the crowd of 5264 other new citizens and the thousands of people who came to support them. In her excitement, Nadia had left her cell phone and camera at home, so we had no way of contacting her after the ceremony to let her know where we were waiting. As the happy faces and teeny flags streamed endlessly past us, I saw Rob jump up and down, waving a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers, shouting “Tabrik!! Mobarak!!” He doesn’t usually shout in Farsi, but wanted to get Nadia’s attention in the crowd and had previously asked Daoud what the word for “congratulations” would be. Turns out there are two words, so Rob used them both. And they worked. She looked up and saw him and gave him a hug. Her first words were, “I can’t believe it! This is my dream!!”
I’m not exactly sure if my dad was watching, but we were at the Sports Arena, right across the street from USC where he played baseball and met my mom and took accounting classes, so I took that as a sign that he was nearby. It was his dream too - to see his Afghani friends become Americans. Two down and seven to go.
We alloted almost two hours to get to the Sports Arena. At 2:45 PM we were a mile away, with plenty of time to get to the ceremony which was scheduled for 3:30. The last mile of traffic was a nightmare and as 3:30 approached, I was ready to ditch the car in the middle of Vermont Blvd. A few expletives later, with no signs, no direction, no clue where we were supposed to be, we somehow found a parking spot.
We could see small pods of immigrants moving in one general direction, but I thought that they might be in the same boat as we were, so we asked a policeman who did not seem particularly interested in seeing that anyone get to their promised land. We walked past the swim stadium where, 24 years ago, Rob and I were dressed in Balkan costumes of some sort, preparing to be in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. Our part in the ceremonies was a little less dramatic that that of Beijing, but a pretty memorable thing for the two of us.
As we approached the Sports Arena in 94 degree heat, there seemed to be two long lines going in different directions. I asked someone in line and they explained that it was one line looping back on itself. The ceremony was scheduled for 3:30 and at 4:15 we’re wilting in an endless queue. Rob calls Daoud who says that we should come in a different door. He says that we are guests and therefore don’t have to stand in line. Rob tells him thanks, but that we’re no more special than anyone here in line and we feel uncomfortable trying to go ahead of someone else. Daoud is pretty insistant that we need to go to a different door, but we decline.
Fortunately, we start talking to the woman in front of us who is there for her aunt, whom she left sitting on a bench near the entrance. One of the big problems with this whole set up is that elderly people are being asked to walk long distances and then stand in long lines. I suggest that there must be a separate line for those taking the oath and we offer to hold her place in line while she escorts her aunt inside. When she returns, she says that the line we’re in is the one for those taking the oath! Not needing to take an oath, clinging on to an increasingly sad bouquet, we hustled over to the entrance where we walked right in and found Daoud who was sitting by himself. His mom is in London right now, and his dad was home babysitting the kids. Zakhia couldn’t come as she was working. We tell him he was right and we were wrong. We took our place behind a man with a fuzzy Uncle Sam hat.
We had no idea where Nadia was in the crowd. Daoud said she was wearing black, which did not work in our favor. I began to wish she, too, had a fuzzy Uncle Sam hat so we could locate her. However, the lack of a Nadia-sighting does nothing to dim the glow accompanying what we are privileged to be witnessing.
The oath actually comes, surprisingly, right at the beginning. The judge says it’s because the applicants have done enough waiting. Daoud and Nadia applied on the same day and somehow Daoud never received his notice that he would be included in this ceremony. So he has to wait until the next ceremony. There is a giant flag hanging behind the stage, but Nadia says she could only see one thing in front of her eyes – “Mr. Tom Kemp.”
I’m not sure if there’s anything more wonderful and inspiring (especially compared to a presidential campaign) than saying the pledge of allegiance along with 5264 new citizens, from over 100 countries, and their friends and family. Well, maybe singing the anthem. Or God Bless America. It was all wonderful.
Suddenly the lights went dim and there was President Bush on the screen, welcoming everyone to the country. And everyone cheered. I’m not sure you would have heard anything like that even at a Republican convention. The President was followed by a photo montage of scenes of America and new Americans, to the tune of “I’m proud to be an American.” I was seriously concerned that I didn’t bring enough Kleenex. Later Nadia mentions the lights going out and Rob said, “Were you scared?” She said, “No! I saw President George Bush and I thought this is the greatest moment of my life!”
Outside the arena are McCain/Palin supporters on one side, and Obama/Biden supporters on the other. The Obama supporters are louder and taller than the McCain supporters. I see new Americans carrying both types of signs under their arms, along with their new certificate. Welcome to American politics. After we had all reunited, Nadia asks me, “You must tell me. Who would Mr. Tom Kemp vote for? I will vote for whoever Mr. Tom Kemp votes for.” I tell her Mr. Tom would be voting for McCain but that she should look at both the candidates and ---- she interrupts me. She believes in the things Mr. Tom Kemp believes in. End of story.
Rob says that the other thing Mr. Tom believes in is dinner and asks if we can take them out somewhere to celebrate. Daoud says he’s fasting (it’s Ramadan, of course!) but Nadia isn’t fasting so he’ll go along with what she wants. We decide on the Pacific Dining Car which is a place that Mr. Tom took Rob to a couple of times and wasn’t too far away. Fortunately, it takes us so long to get out of the parking lot and through the streets of L.A. that by the time we reach the restaurant, it’s 7 pm and Daoud is no longer fasting.
Ramadan is 30 days long and you’re supposed to fast from approximately 5 AM to 7 PM every one of those 30 days. Not even a sip of water. I try to wrap my head around that kind of discipline. Daoud says that it’s “cleansing” and a reminder of the plight of the poor around the world. During Ramadan, you’re supposed to donate the price of your daily meals each day to charity. The alternative is to not fast, but then you have to donate the equivalent of 60 meals per day for 30 days. Not gourmet meals, of course, but it has to be 60 meals of some sort. Daoud says that he no longer gets hungry during his fasts. All I can think about is dinner.
“It’s a dream!” Nadia repeats, not for the last time that night. “I can’t believe I can say it! I’m an American!” She is giddy with joy and it’s a good thing she doesn’t drink. It’s just pure, pure joy and pride. I ask her what she knew of America back, say, ten years ago and she says she knew that it’s where people are free. When she first came to America she was told, “Over there is a mosque, and over there is a church. And no one can tell you that you have to go to one or the other. You get to choose for yourself. That’s America.
Rob asked them both about the Taliban. Nadia says the Taliban are not from Afghanistan. They were outsiders and they were, in her words, “dirty.” She said she was watching the early BBC news stories about Taliban and she asked her mother, “Who are these Talibs? I don’t know what the news is talking about!” She learned about the Taliban from the foreign press. Rob asked if Daoud knew anyone who joined the Taliban. He said one day he was stopped by Taliban and one of the Taliban said, “What school did you go to?” Daoud responded and asked why he wanted to know. The Taliban fellow said, “I went to the same school. We were classmates. Do you recognize me?” It was then that Daoud realized he knew him. What do you say after that?
I don’t know how we got on the subject of burqas, but I guess when you’re talking about Taliban, it’s a hard topic to avoid. Nadia said that one hot summer day she was in a cab, wearing her burqa as required, and she felt like she was going to pass out. She needed air and the hood of her burqa was not allowing it. She tried the regular thing of lifting it to the side and fanning herself, but it didn’t help. If she removed the hood, the Taliban would see her uncovered head and she could be beaten. So she chose to leave it on and risk fainting. She ended up making it home, but she could never get that experience out of her mind. Not being able to take off a part of her burqa, even when she couldn’t breathe.
Next burqa story was one that took place at a shrine in Kabul. It’s a shrine where many poor people gather. And Daoud’s mother was there with Zakhia, one of her daughters. All the women were in burqas and Daoud’s mother took her coins and began to distribute to the poor women. She continued around the shrine and eventually got to Zakhia and handed her a coin, not knowing that it was her own daughter. Daoud and Nadia laugh about the absurdity of it all, and I try to imagine not being able to distinguish between my daughter and a stranger. And then I try to imagine a group that would think that's a good thing.
Last burqa story was told by Daoud. He and his 100 year old grandmother were travelling by bus when she leaned in and said, “Look at that woman. I must tell her that her burqa is inside-out." Daoud suggests that they just leave the issue alone, but grandma is insistent. The burqa hood has only a small window of teeny holes, making it impossibile once you’re fully dressed to see if you’ve done it correctly. And it was important to grandma that this one little bit of dignity be restored to the other woman. Grandma tapped the woman on the shoulder and began to explain, but the woman didn’t understand. So, in some obscure Afghani dialect, Daoud had to point out to the stranger that her burqa was inside out.
Daoud said that one time his mother, who would only wear a chador (scarf) and not the burqa, came running home. She wouldn’t explain what had happened to her but he found out later that she had been beaten by the Taliban with a leather strap that had a metal piece affixed to the end. His dad was given electrical shocks. Nadia’s brother was murdered in a suspicious car accident and her brother-in-law was shot on his own doorstep. Daoud was given a death sentence by the Taliban for the audacity to tell women the locations of land mines. The Taliban sent him a letter stating their intent to kill him. Daoud put the letter in his pocket and didn’t tell anyone as he went to the nearest UN facility. This is the event that later prompted the family’s journey to America.
We started talking about all the wonderful things to see in her new country. Daoud says he wants to see Colorado, Washington (which one?), and what he thinks is his favorite (from looking at photos), Idaho. He said that people in Afghanistan don't travel. He says in America, if there’s a mountain with snow, people drive or fly to that mountain to have fun skiing. He said, Afghanistan has mountains. And the mountains have snow. But no one skiis. They’re too afraid to leave their home.
Coincidentally, this revelation comes right at the time my brother and sisters and I are selling the family ski condo in Mammoth. The irony is not lost on me, but I'm now absolutely certain that one day I'll go skiing with the Dildars. Tabrik, Nadia!
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