Moving Forward

Amanda Barbeau

Narrative Feature Writing

Todd Frankel

Moving Forward

He opened the door to his new apartment on Morganford Street, with his wife and children at his

back, excited to see what their new home and new lives would look like. It looked liked a tiny

apartment, completely empty except for a bed and an army of cock roaches that scurried into the

corners when the lights switched on. "Well," the wife said, "It's better than Iraq."

Each year, 70,000 refugees from around the world come to America seeking shelter from their

home countries. A refugee is a legal status, as opposed to an illegal immigrant. When fleeing

a war-torn country, one must apply for refugee status and prove his need for safety. Tharwat

Ramadan is one such refugee.

After eating dinner on the only piece of furniture in the apartment, Tharwat tied up a bag of trash

and carried it down the stairs and into the alley behind the building, with his son and daughter

in tow. A large German Shepherd blocked their path and charged at the children. Used to

protecting them from worse evils, Tharwat threw himself in front of the dog. It ran away, but

Tharwat fell and sprained an ankle. An ambulance took him to SLU hospital, where he needed

surgery. And his wife, Anwar, stayed with the kids and the roaches in their new home in their

new country.

There was a pounding sound on the front door. "Open the door!" someone shouted from the

hallway. Anwar pushed the bed against the door. "Open the door!" The pounding and shouting

continued from three angry, male voices. Anwar held her daughter. Muhammad held a pot—his

only defense against attackers. The cell phone was with Tharwat in the hospital. They breathed

and waited until the pounding stopped. If they were thieves, they were robbing the wrong

apartment. There was nothing to take.

But it was better than Iraq.

Each year, the State Department allocates grant money to refugee agencies in major cities across

the U.S. Volunteers at the agencies pick up refugees from the airport and provide them with

housing and a living stipend for one to three months. After that they have to stand on their own

feet, find a job, speak English, navigate transportation, and pay their own expenses.

Many refugees don't make it. They end up homeless, living on the streets, unable to understand

when someone invites them into a shelter. Not trusting anyone. Refugees come to America

wanting to start over, to create new lives for themselves. But many refugees come with little

more than the clothes on their backs and post traumatic stress. And then it's hard to start from

scratch. It's hard to move on.

Tharwat grew up in Iraq. He married Anwar and had two children, Muhammad and Danya. Iraq

wasn't terrible in 2002, at least not compared to what would unfold a few years later. "We had

no freedom under Saddam," Tharwat says. "But we were safe."

It wasn't for freedom or safety that Tharwat left Iraq the first time. It was money. As an HVAC

engineer, he struggled to find enough work to support his family. So he took a job in Abu

Dhabi, the United Arab Emirates. Cyfas Systems was a British communications company. They

design, manufacture, and install radio control systems for large companies, military bases, and

police stations. Tharwat was provided $1500 a month, a company car, and most importantly, a

sense of stability and security for his family.

They spent two calm years in the UAE. While away from home, they missed the invasion of

Baghdad by U.S. forces in April of 2003 and the manhunt and capture of Saddam in December.

Tharwat was glad to be away, and to be able to provide for his family in safety.

In 2004, Cyfas assigned Tharwat to a new project that would take a year to complete. He would

install radio towers and antennas on a military base and outfit Humvees with radios. He would

need to relocate his family to be near the base. And the base was in Baghdad.

Tharwat's parents lived in Baghdad. They invited Tharwat and his family to live with them

during the duration of his work on the base.

The U.S. had control of Iraq and Saddam in a cell and people took their anger out in guerilla

tactics in the streets of Baghdad. Insurgents from surrounding countries poured into Iraq to

fight Americans and to fight the new Iraqi Governing Council that had formed in the Americans'

hands. 2004 was a bloody year in Baghdad.

Tharwat continued with his work on the military base, despite the fighting. Houses in Baghdad

have walls around them and a gate for a car to drive through. Every day Tharwat opened the

gate, got in his car, drove through the gate, parked the car, closed the gate, and drove away from

his house. The first few minutes in the car were the worst. Terrorists hid bombs under cars, set

to a timer. The bomb wouldn't explode until you were a minute down the street.

The news filled with stories of suicide bombings and mortar explosions in Baghdad. 35 killed

at an army recruiting center. 12 police officers killed in a drive-by shooting. 58 killed in a

mosque, a hotel, a church, and finally, the military base where Tharwat worked. His boss said he

would understand if Tharwat wanted to quit. But he didn't.

Tharwat drove home, parked, stepped out of the car, and went to open the gate, when he noticed

something on the ground. A piece of paper folded up into a two inch square. And a bullet

punctured through the center. He pulled the bullet out and unfolded the note. "We will end your

life," it said, "if you keep helping the Americans."

Anwar wanted him to quit immediately, but he didn't.

Muhammad was five years old and in his first year of school. He was the youngest of all the

boys on the school bus. On his ride home one afternoon, terrorists blocked the road with their

cars. The bus driver slammed on the breaks. The terrorists pulled the driver out of the bus and

into the street. They shot him dead, with a bus full of little boys watching from the windows.

Danya was two years old. She could put together a few words in short phrases like, "Hi, Mama."

A gas station near their home exploded. It frightened the toddler so much she stopped speaking

after that. Tharwat and Anwar took her to multiple doctors to see if the explosion had impaired

her hearing, but all tests were negative. By all appearances, she was fine. She was just too

afraid to speak a word for the next three years.

Tharwat quit his job on the base and prepared to get his family out of Iraq. He planned to

move back to the UAE. But he couldn't. After spending a year working in Iraq, his visa had

expired. They couldn't leave, and he was jobless for two months. So he took a new job as a

sales manager for Red Bull.

While riding in a taxi with one of his Red Bull co-workers, two cars pulled ahead of the taxi and

forced it to a halt. Seven men jumped out of the cars, machine guns in their hands. "Get out of

the van," they said. They obeyed, slowly, and stepped out of the vehicle. This same scenario had

played out in many newspaper articles throughout 2004.

With the butt end of his gun, a terrorist pounded Tharwat's temple, damaging the nerves in his

right eye. They blind folded Tharwat, the co-worker, and the taxi driver; tied their hands behind

their backs, and shoved them into a car. Thirty minutes later, they forced the captives out of the

vehicle and into three separate holding cells in a dark building.

The phone rang at Anwar's house. She answered the phone. “We have your husband. You will

give us $300,000 or we will slit his neck and set his head in front of your house.”

“But I don't have that much money,” she said.

“Find it,” they said.

She sold the car. Sold the furniture.

Tharwat spent a day, blindfolded, hands tied, in his cell. They beat him and kicked him, cursed

him, took his wallet and his wedding ring. "Why are you doing this?" Tharwat asked. "You

work for Americans," they said.

The next day, Anwar received another call. She still didn't have the money. She borrowed from

family. Borrowed from friends.

Tharwat spent a second day in his cell. "Just kill me, please!" he said, unable to bear the pain in

his body. "It would be mercy!"

Anwar received a third call. She managed to pull together $20,000. She didn't know what else

to do. Luckily, it was enough.

The terrorists dropped Tharwat in the middle of a highway, far away from buildings or people.

 "Keep your eyes closed," they told him before removing the blindfold. "When you hear the car

drive away, count to ten, then open your eyes." The engine started, the car accelerated, and the

sound grew faint as the car drove away.

Tharwat counted to ten. He didn't want to open his eyes. He counted to 20. He didn't trust

them. He counted to 30. As soon as I open my eyes, he thought, they will shoot me. He

counted to 40. Was there one man left standing in front of him? He counted to 50. Was there

a gun aimed at his forehead? He counted to 60 and opened his eyes. He was alone, bleeding on

the blacktop, with hands behind his back.

A taxi drove by and stopped. As a kindness, he took Tharwat into his car, without charge, and

brought him home safely.

"They warned you with a note," Anwar said. "They held you in a cell for two days. The next

time it will be your life."

Tharwat's co-worker and taxi driver never made it out of their cells. Their families couldn't

come up with the money.

Tharwat's parents urged him to flee the country. It didn't matter that most of their possessions

had been sold and all their money given away. It didn't matter that they had no visas. They had

to leave immediately. Tharwat knew they couldn't get into the UAE. They had to try a different

border.

The next day, Anwar's mother rented a taxi for Tharwat, Anwar, and the children to travel to

Jordan, but at the border of Jordan and Iraq, they were denied entrance. They had no visas. The

border of Syria was only an hour west. Tharwat gave the driver another $200, and they headed

west.

Syria allowed them in and placed them in a refugee camp for ten days. After that, they had no

money and nowhere to go. Anwar's mother rented them an apartment in Damascus. There, a

Catholic charity paid for him to have surgery for the injuries he incurred in his captivity. They

hoped they had found a home in Damascus. They hoped they would breathe easier.

But Syria denied Tharwat access to a job, and Syria overcharged Anwar for groceries and

supplies. Even Syria didn't like that his work history was affiliated with Westerners. They

stayed in Damascus for three years, recovering from injuries, recovering from shock, but still

unable to move forward and start a new life.

Anwar contacted the United Nations. The UN was shocked at how they had been treated and

said Syria had hindered them way too long. "Come to America," they said.

"Where in America?" Tharwat asked.

"St. Louis."

Tharwat had never heard of this place. He looked up the weather on Google.

Living in America was difficult the first month. Then Tharwat met other Iraqis in St. Louis

who helped him find resources. "Have you contacted Oasis International?" a friend asked.

Tharwat had never heard of it, but he found the website and sent an email. Oasis is a non-
profit organization that collects home goods to distribute to refugees. After an email to Oasis,

volunteers came to Tharwat's apartment with furniture, appliances, and books for the kids.

Now, Tharwat and his family have been in America for four years. Their apartment is still small,

but colorfully decorated. Two red, overstuffed couches and a coffee table take up most of the leg

space in the living room. A small dining table and four chairs take up the rest. Carved elephants

guard the window and plastic flowers hang in the doorway to the hall.

Tharwat is a middle aged man with black hair brushed straight back. He sinks into the couch and

crosses his legs. American Idol plays on the TV. Anwar is busy making tea in a kitchen that is

only big enough for one person to occupy. Turn to the right and open the oven, turn to the left

and open the fridge.

She sets a tray on the coffee table—blue and white painted tea cups setting on blue and white

painted saucers. "It's an Arabic spice tea," she says. "Cardamom pods." She is radiant in a long

black dress with a bold floral pattern and fuzzy house slippers. Her thick brown hair cascades

down her back in wavy tresses. "Don't use the ground cardamom. It's not the same."

Tharwat opens a tattered folder filled with wrinkled papers. He removes a folded note with a

hole through the center. "This is the death threat I received in front of my gate." Tharwat has

kept every email and letter that proves what he experienced in Iraq.

As he recounts his story, Anwar shushes him and glances down the hallway to see if the door is

closed to Muhammad and Danya's room. Tharwat tells the rest of his story in a hushed tone.

People will ask Tharwat, "You are a Muslim? Muslims are terrorists." Tharwat shakes his

head. He is familiar with terrorists. "Terrorists don't have a religion," he says. "They don't

kill for religion, they kill because they are brainwashed. Because your wife's hair isn't covered.

Because you want to kiss her on your doorstep before you go to work."

Tharwat needed six surgeries during his first year in America. After he was well enough, he

spent two years studying at Ranken Technical College. Today he is still looking for a job, but

he is thankful to have friends and family who have supported him. With his time, Tharwat

volunteers at Oasis, sharing his story at speaking engagements and encouraging compassionate

people to help refugees.

Even though Tharwat retells his story over and over, he doesn't talk about it with his family.

They are trying to forget what happened in Baghdad. "We have to keep moving forward,"

Tharwat says. "As long as we're moving forward, we can forget what happened."

Danya and Muhammad are now nine and thirteen years old. Danya enjoys ballet and hip hop.

They ride bikes together, swim at the YMCA, and they hope to visit Disneyworld some day.

After five years, a refugee can take a test to become an American citizen, and they are studying,

as a family, America’s own bloody history, resilience, and achievements.

If you saw this family on Morganford Street, riding their bikes down the sidewalk and grabbing

shawarma from a Middle Eastern grocery store, you wouldn't guess their lives were once

characterized by death threats and bomb blasts. And someday, they won't identify with that at

all. Their new memories and new friends and new country will overshadow the dark days spent

in Baghdad.