Temporary Address

Temporary Address

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Immigrant

Someday, I want to write a book of stories about immigrants. I’ve know a few, most of them friends of my parents, and I’ve been fascinated with their stories. Most of the immigrants have a touch of “poor, tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free” somewhere in the stories of their journeys to America. For some of these people, I only know bits and pieces of the story.


Art had lived in Azerbaijan and, one night, had left his home and everything he owned. “Do you know what means ‘pogrom’?” he asked me.

Some time in the midst of World War II, Father George and thirty friends were trying to escape from Stalin’s Russia by way of the Balkans. They ran into a U.S contingent, and he was given the choice of being sent to Nazi Germany or returned to Russia. Then, miraculously, it turned out that the American secretary was a friend of his

Another friend escaped from Viet Nam on a small boat, and after several unsuccessful attempts made it to freedom.

Some of the stories seem too incredible to have actually happened. It’s like watching the news – sometimes it’s so bad that I can’t believe it’s not made up.

My story for September is “Immigrant” and it’s Omar’s story. I’m writing the story as I remember it from thirty odd years ago. I’ve changed the names – just in case – and please excuse the geography and politics, which include, I’m sure, some serious errors. Just enjoy the story.



It was an evening in 1988, and I was working late at the lab. Omar was the only other person working with me. I was probably grumbling about still being at work, and about work in general, and about how slow the gas chromatograph was. There's something about being stuck at work after everyone else has gone home that makes conversation very real. Sort of like a slumber party after midnight.

Somewhere in the conversation, I think I mentioned that my parents were immigrants, and I wondered if they were ever homesick. Omar said that he had wanted to be a doctor. He said he’d even started medical school in Tehran. And his black eyes glittered - as if he longed for his land and his life so far away.

“So what happened?” I was sitting perched on a lab stool, and, as I said it, I hoped I hadn’t blundered my way into a story where he was going to have to tell me that he flunked out.

“I always wanted to be doctor,” he said. "And there were rumors that they want to make military camp on university." The night was quiet, with only the hum of the machines breaking the stillness. "Then they want to draft me.” “I did not want to fight. So I leave. I do not take much. Only some money and passport and birth certificate. Some clothes. Maybe that’s all.

“I remember, my mother, the day I leave home she makes a special meal. And she cried. And my sisters cried too. I was not worried. I think the trip is big adventure. Maybe some small trouble. Nothing serious. I did not tell my family where I was going. Safer if they do not know. I just say good bye. I would be gone few weeks, and they do not hear from me, and then I call them when I reach America. All very simple. But I hugged my mother and she cried, and I hugged my sisters, and they cried. Now my father is a strong man and solid like a tall mountain. Never in my life he hug me. He does not show sadness or fear. I remember two times when I was a boy he patted my head. Two times, that’s all. Two times he touched me with sign that he love me. But that evening, he hugged me close to him and he held me to his chest so long and I think he never let me go.

“Next morning, I am supposed to report for draft. So I leave in the night. I leave city. I do not take car. I travel by taxi or by bus. When I reach Isfahan, I meet Nasser. And he say he help me. The way ahead has few roads. Much wild country. Nasser has camels and he knows where we find water, and he knows tribes who wander in the wilderness. He knows which men help us if we have trouble, and he knows which men –clck.” Omar made the a shlashing sign across his throat.

“We begin the journey. We walk some ways and we ride camels some ways, and after many days I become restless. I want the journey to end. ‘We can ride faster,’ I say to Nasser, but he shakes his head. “To our left,’ he say, ‘Dasht-i-Lut.’ And he shivers. ‘Allah protect us,' he say. Because Dasht-i-Lut is desert, very dry, very hot in day, very cold in night.

Next day, when shadows grow long before evening, Nasser takes me arm suddenly. He pulls the leads, and motions for me to follow. I do not understand. He pulls me behind large rocks, and gives me binoculars, and then I see. There is dust, tiny puffs like from a pipe after good meal, and the faint sound caclunk caclunk. And at first I do not understand. And then I hear it. Horses. Running swiftly. And Nasser find hollow place and we hide the camels there, and we stay back and try to be small. The ground is hard, and we leave no traces – no footsteps. They ride fast and they come close and I can see scimitars, curved swords, making shining flashes when sun hits them. But they ride past us and do not see us. And we stay there and we are quiet very long time. And then Nasser he say it is safe to go farther. But we turn toward the left. And we walk some more and we ride some more. And there are more rocks and less grass and I see waves like water, and I ask Nasser what is this. And he say Dasht-i-lut. How far I ask, and he say maybe twenty miles. And we walk some more and we do not talk. Finally, we reach Iranshahr and Nasser and I part ways. And he say ‘may you walk with Allah. ‘ And I say ‘may Allah be with you.’

"My journey is almost over. I inquire for a taxi who can drive me across border to Pakistan. In Karachi I can get on airplane to the United States. Abbas say he will do it. His car is old. A gray Volkswagen beetle. I paid him 500 rial, which was a very good fee. We taped my papers and my money to bottom of his taxi, in case someone should stop us at the border. We begin our trip and I pray that we do not get stopped. The crossing was peaceful. In Karachi, I thank Abbas, and I paid him and shook his hand.

"Then, just as we make farewell, we hear shots. Loud and close by. There was shouting. People ran. People screamed. I never knew what happened, what shooting and shouting was all about. We all ran to hide. Everything was confusion. I run until I was too tired to go farther. And I sit down and breathe hard. And then I think about what to do next.

"Then I remember my money and my papers still taped to bottom of the Volkswagen. I hang my head and I cover my face with my hands. I have no money. I have no friends. And I have no name. Karachi is full of beggars. No Salvation Army, no Red Cross, but many beggars. People die in streets all the time. This is nothing unusual. And there is nothing special about me. No reason why anyone should care about another beggar. I have nothing to do now. I walk in the streets and I try to beg. I am hungry and dirty all the time. Children spit on me. After four days I was disheartened to death. And I prayed to God. “I lay my life in your hands. Do with me as you will.” And that night, for the first time in Pakistan, I sleep. The next morning I woke up. In the hazy morning sun, I see grey Volkswagen . I couldn’t believe it. Abbas say the last four days he drive through Karachi looking for me. This was his last day to try to find me. Then he must leave Pakistan and go back home to his family. I hug him like my brother, and I cry like a child. With my papers and money I fly to Europe and then to the United States. "

Now I cannot pass a beggar but I give him money and a blessing."