thedrifter
02-07-08, 08:39 AM
Asylum is no comfort
By Kevin Cullen, Globe Columnist | February 7, 2008
He was glad Saddam was gone. There was no question about that. But as he walked toward the checkpoint, south of Baghdad, he was still not sure what to make of the Americans.
Like other Iraqis, he had to make up his mind: liberators or crusaders?
When he asked, in flawless English, whether his friend could get beyond the checkpoint to his farm, the American GI, a tall guy with ebony skin, smiled. The soldier assured him that his friend could get through.
"What's your name?" the soldier asked.
"Hayder," he replied. "What's yours?"
"Mark," the soldier said.
"Well, Mark," Hayder said, his mind made up, "you are welcome to my country."
A few days later, Hayder approached an American officer and said he wanted to work as a translator. He was hired on the spot. He was paid $10 his first day. He worked with the Marines, ensuring that fuel got into his town.
He saw all sides. He helped process compensation claims for Iraqis. He was impressed when some Marines helped him make sure a man who had been accidentally hit by US fire got into a hospital.
"It wasn't perfect; nothing is," Hayder said. "But I thought we were helping my country."
Some saw him differently. Translators, deemed collaborators by insurgents, started getting killed. The brother of one of the translators he worked with was murdered.
"He was in his brother's car," Hayder said. "They called out his brother's name before they shot him."
Since the 2003 invasion, more than 250 Iraqi translators have been murdered. The US government created an asylum program so translators and their families could resettle in the United States.
After working for US forces for more than three years, Hayder decided the risk was too great. He was introduced to American bureaucracy, which was a lot less efficient than the US military. It took more than a year to get the paperwork approved, and when he showed up in Jordan for his interview, the American diplomat asked where his wife and two kids were.
"They are home in Iraq," Hayder replied. "I could not afford to bring them."
His visa was approved. He could leave for America right then.
He called his wife and said he couldn't leave them. But his wife begged him to go. He could raise the money in America faster. Besides, a translator who lived nearby had just been shot.
Racked with guilt, but knowing his wife was right, Hayder landed in Boston in September. There was no one to help him navigate a new country, a new culture, no one to help get his family out. Our government gave him a green card and told him he was on his own.
He figured he needed $7,000 to get his family out of Iraq. After months of looking, he found a job, selling carpet. He works six days a week, and on his day off he takes a course in medical interpreting.
But, after paying the rent, there is little left over. He skips meals. He scrimps, he saves, and he looks furtively at the calendar. He sees the Ides of March. If he doesn't get his wife and kids out of Iraq before March 15, he must start the process all over, which could mean another year or more.
He sat in the coffee shop at Borders in Downtown Crossing and pulled out a piece of paper, a blurry photograph from a cellphone camera, showing a smiling boy and girl.
He is a proud man. But when he started talking about his kids, Hayder's eyes welled up. After every phone call home, he dies a little.
"My son, he is 3 years old," he said. "My daughter, she is 5, and she asks, 'Daddy, when will I see you?' And I don't know what to say to her."
Hayder looked out the window and tears fell on his jacket.
"My work, my career, it is words," he said, "and I have no words for my daughter."
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com.
Ellie
By Kevin Cullen, Globe Columnist | February 7, 2008
He was glad Saddam was gone. There was no question about that. But as he walked toward the checkpoint, south of Baghdad, he was still not sure what to make of the Americans.
Like other Iraqis, he had to make up his mind: liberators or crusaders?
When he asked, in flawless English, whether his friend could get beyond the checkpoint to his farm, the American GI, a tall guy with ebony skin, smiled. The soldier assured him that his friend could get through.
"What's your name?" the soldier asked.
"Hayder," he replied. "What's yours?"
"Mark," the soldier said.
"Well, Mark," Hayder said, his mind made up, "you are welcome to my country."
A few days later, Hayder approached an American officer and said he wanted to work as a translator. He was hired on the spot. He was paid $10 his first day. He worked with the Marines, ensuring that fuel got into his town.
He saw all sides. He helped process compensation claims for Iraqis. He was impressed when some Marines helped him make sure a man who had been accidentally hit by US fire got into a hospital.
"It wasn't perfect; nothing is," Hayder said. "But I thought we were helping my country."
Some saw him differently. Translators, deemed collaborators by insurgents, started getting killed. The brother of one of the translators he worked with was murdered.
"He was in his brother's car," Hayder said. "They called out his brother's name before they shot him."
Since the 2003 invasion, more than 250 Iraqi translators have been murdered. The US government created an asylum program so translators and their families could resettle in the United States.
After working for US forces for more than three years, Hayder decided the risk was too great. He was introduced to American bureaucracy, which was a lot less efficient than the US military. It took more than a year to get the paperwork approved, and when he showed up in Jordan for his interview, the American diplomat asked where his wife and two kids were.
"They are home in Iraq," Hayder replied. "I could not afford to bring them."
His visa was approved. He could leave for America right then.
He called his wife and said he couldn't leave them. But his wife begged him to go. He could raise the money in America faster. Besides, a translator who lived nearby had just been shot.
Racked with guilt, but knowing his wife was right, Hayder landed in Boston in September. There was no one to help him navigate a new country, a new culture, no one to help get his family out. Our government gave him a green card and told him he was on his own.
He figured he needed $7,000 to get his family out of Iraq. After months of looking, he found a job, selling carpet. He works six days a week, and on his day off he takes a course in medical interpreting.
But, after paying the rent, there is little left over. He skips meals. He scrimps, he saves, and he looks furtively at the calendar. He sees the Ides of March. If he doesn't get his wife and kids out of Iraq before March 15, he must start the process all over, which could mean another year or more.
He sat in the coffee shop at Borders in Downtown Crossing and pulled out a piece of paper, a blurry photograph from a cellphone camera, showing a smiling boy and girl.
He is a proud man. But when he started talking about his kids, Hayder's eyes welled up. After every phone call home, he dies a little.
"My son, he is 3 years old," he said. "My daughter, she is 5, and she asks, 'Daddy, when will I see you?' And I don't know what to say to her."
Hayder looked out the window and tears fell on his jacket.
"My work, my career, it is words," he said, "and I have no words for my daughter."
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com.
Ellie