After the Last Border

by Jessica Goudeau

  Laila’s scream was otherworldly. She would not stop. Hasna took her home.

  They had no comfort to give each other.

  * * *

  —

  Throughout the day, other men made it home, and the rumors began to solidify into a coherent story: The soldiers had taken the men of the city to the soccer field, the only place large enough for so many people to gather. There they had killed many of the young men. They arrested several of the others and took them back to Damascus.

  By nightfall, it was clear that Yusef and Malek were among either the dead or the group taken to Damascus. By Hasna’s count, there were nineteen young men still missing in their neighborhood. In addition to Yusef and Malek, also unaccounted for were some of Yusef’s best friends—the loss of these bright young men, the pillars of their families, beloved and treasured, was incalculable.

  Time seemed to have escaped its boundaries. Hours felt like years. Laila looked younger and Rana older, the eight years between them erased. Jebreel’s face and hunched shoulders were those of an old man. Hasna felt hollowed out. She saw the circles under her neighbors’ red-rimmed eyes when they brought her food and knew she must look the same. The food remained uneaten. One neighbor gazed at her compassionately: “Um Yusef, I have never seen you like this.” She sat outside in the street or inside in the courtyard. She rose distractedly at times as if she were missing something, before sinking down again. People spoke to her and sometimes she responded.

  One day Jebreel went to Laila’s to pack up some things so that Laila and Hamad could live with them for the time being; she could not stay alone in a house with no husband. Hasna was sitting with her back against the wall on her favorite part of the bench with no coffee and no Fairuz record when she heard a knock at the gate. She jumped, her heart racing.

  The hinges squeaked and she heard the voice of her childhood friend, Um Ahmad, hesitant and polite: “Um Yusef?” Her voice was high-pitched and airy and never seemed to Hasna to fit her sturdy, compact body.

  Hasna’s own voice felt raspy and foreign: “Welcome, peace be upon you.”

  She gestured for Um Ahmad to come in. The two women embraced and kissed cheeks. Um Ahmad’s face always reminded Hasna of a small owl—her angular nose too small for her round cheeks. Her wide eyes were a striking gray-green color. They were more like sisters than neighbors. Hasna’s dark-eyed children had grown up with Um Ahmad’s gray-eyed ones—Khassem and Ahmad were the same ages, Um Ahmad’s married daughter was a year older than Laila. Today her nose was red, her eyes puffy.

  Um Ahmad sat down at the table in her usual chair while Hasna went to make the coffee. After a few minutes, Hasna brought in a brass tray with two porcelain cups and the silver pot of strong Turkish coffee. She poured for her friend—black coffee the way Um Ahmad liked it.

  Looking at each other, they both teared up. Um Ahmad took her hand. “I am praying every moment that Allah will spare your boys. Allah be merciful.”

  “Allah be merciful.”

  “Um Yusef, I have to tell you something that you cannot tell anyone else.”

  “Of course.” The tears coursed freely down Hasna’s cheeks; she could not seem to check them.

  “The soldiers came to our house today. They put a mark on it, an ‘X’ just above the door.” And now they were both crying, their coffee cooling between them. “I think something else is about to happen.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, but I think they are marking all of the houses that are . . . that will be . . . I think everyone who works for the government or for the police like Abu Ahmad will be safe. And I think . . .”

  “The other houses will not.”

  “Yes.” They gazed at one another for a minute, contemplating what that meant—the neighbors they both knew so intimately, the impact on their houses, the relatives and friends who were in danger.

  “What is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know, but I want you to be ready. I want you to pack some things and have them in a bag. Tonight I want you and the girls to come stay with me. Please come through our neighbors’ houses, so that the soldiers will not see you in the street. You can pass through the alley on the other side of the square. You can tell our neighbors that I am feeling nervous because my husband’s services have been required by the army—that is true—and that I asked you to come. We are old friends; everyone knows that. I want you in my house tonight.” Her eyes filled again with tears.

  “Where is Abu Ahmad?”

  “He and the other officers are out trying to keep the protesters . . .” And she stopped. Hasna understood—Abu Ahmad was trying to do his job to stop the protesters without hurting anyone. These were his neighbors and friends; he did not want anyone killed. The lines were not clear in this battle, there was no black and white. Good men had worked for the government for a long time; it did not mean they didn’t share their neighbors’ frustrations. Hasna wished again, passionately, that the protesters would stop, that the government would back down, that they could all sit down over coffee and have a reasonable conversation.

  They talked over their other neighbors who had already fled to relatives’ houses outside of town. And then they made plans. Hasna would cook dinner in her own home; she wanted to use up the rest of the meat she had bought at the market two days before because it would not last any longer without electricity. After today, they would have to rely on bread and rice, chickpeas and beans to keep them full. Her gas canisters had been filled recently; they could at least cook for the next several days if they were judicious. She would bring food when she came that night. She realized as she was talking that she already assumed the electricity would not come back on, that the situation might last for a while. She fought against a sinking depression.

  Um Ahmad’s forehead wrinkled as she stood, a sign that she was trying to find the right words. Hasna touched her arm. “My friend, you can say whatever you need to. Let us not mistrust one another now. You are my sister.”

  Um Ahmad nodded. “I trust you. I’m trying to decide if I am being ridiculous. But I think it would be a good idea for us to hide our valuables. There’s no way to know what will happen. I think it would be best to be prepared.”

  Hasna hugged her friend and kissed her cheeks good-bye. She was grateful for a task to break up her stupor. She stood in the dim house, assessing what she needed to hide in case things got worse. But what could “worse” be? She shook the thought from her head. There was much to do before tonight.

  * * *

  —

  She began by cleaning the house, sweeping and wiping down surfaces as best she could by the light from the windows. She doubled the amount of bread she would make and set it out to rise so that they could eat it for dinner and over the next few days if they did not have access to more food. She packed a bag for her and for Rana with enough clothes and toiletries for three days; she would tell Laila to do the same with enough diapers to last Hamad for some time. She also picked up Rana’s pillow and some blankets to make pallets on the floor for her and Hamad.

  She created a new hiding place for her valuables. In between her bedroom and the room where her young children had slept, now occupied by Rana, there was an open bookshelf so that she could hear them if they cried at night. She rearranged the rooms so that the open space between the walls was now covered. She stacked pillows in Rana’s room to cover up the bottom half of the space and arranged them to look like a small couch. When Jebreel came back with the girls and the baby, he helped her move the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe in their room so that it covered the open bookshelf. From their room, it looked like one continuous stone wall with a wardrobe; from Rana’s room, it looked like a wood-backed bookshelf built into the wall. She surveyed her work when she was done—the pillow couch made it appear as if the bottom shelf were the base of the bookshelf. If no one looked carefully, they would miss the hollowed-out
portion below it.

  There she put the gold that was their entire life savings. No one really trusted the banks in Syria; gold was the only stable investment. They had almost 35,000 liras’ worth of gold in the form of bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and rings. She put them in a sack hidden behind some books at the bottom of the space, and then her children’s pictures on top of that. They had other valuable possessions—artwork and Persian rugs and their family motorcycles—but she did not see how she could hide them. They would have to be taken care of later.

  She baked the bread and seared the meat and sliced the last of her fresh vegetables for a salad. They ate outside while it was still light. Hasna did the dishes quickly, packing up a basket of food to take with her to Um Ahmad’s. She went with Jebreel to make sure that all of the windows were shuttered and locked, and that the gates were securely fastened—he would not think of leaving if their home were in danger. If anyone came, it would be easy for one man to hide, much harder to hide the children.

  Hasna showed him twice where the food was wrapped up for him. When she mentioned it for the third time, he pushed her gently toward the internal gate; she would make her way from neighbor’s to neighbor’s until she reached Um Ahmad’s house with the small “X” etched over the door on the other side of Al-Salam Square. They hugged and he kissed the girls and she felt as if she were leaving on a long journey rather than just going across the square.

  When she passed through her neighbors’ homes, she told the few neighbors who asked that Um Ahmad had requested she come spend the night to amuse the younger children and keep her company while her husband was gone. She also mentioned that perhaps it was best for everyone to lock their doors and gates that night; her neighbors nodded—the rumor of another attack had made the rounds. Hasna passed through a dozen houses before crossing the alley and knocking on Um Ahmad’s gate.

  Um Ahmad pulled them quickly into the kitchen. Her friend’s urgency made Hasna fearful again. Within minutes, there was a low rumble that shook the walls, and then a series of explosions. The tanks had arrived.

  * * *

  —

  After the grief and fatigue of the last few days, that night took on the ragged, surreal quality of a nightmare. Laila, Rana, baby Hamad, and Hasna sheltered in Um Ahmad’s kitchen with Um Ahmad’s younger children, away from the windows, trying to keep Hamad as quiet as they could. They hoped, but were not sure, that the “X” on the door would deter the soldiers they could hear moving through the city. Hasna’s lips formed prayers almost constantly.

  They could hear the shouts and screams of their neighbors all around them, the pounding on the doors, the shots that rang out through the night. Rana slept fitfully, her head cradled in Hasna’s lap. Laila, Um Ahmad, and Hasna stayed up all night. Hasna felt sick with worry for Jebreel and their home. She should have insisted he come with her.

  By the time the sun rose the next morning, Hasna’s head buzzed with exhaustion and shock. The city had been silent for over an hour. She left Laila with the children at Um Ahmad’s and went back to her home, this time along the roads instead of through the back way. The gate to their house was untouched—a good sign. When she unlocked it—something she could not remember doing, because they had always left their house unlocked before—Jebreel was sitting at the table drinking coffee. Soldiers had come through the house quickly, opening cabinets and looking under beds; Jebreel had lain behind the couch cushions in the living space and no one had checked there. The soldiers had not found anything.

  A few minutes later, they went back to Um Ahmad’s to get Rana and Laila and Hamad. Two soldiers now stood, hands gripping their machine guns, on the corner of the main street out of their neighborhood. They watched Jebreel and Hasna, who kept their eyes studiously in front of them. She felt sweat prickle her scalp.

  Daraa was under siege.

  Chapter 10

  US REFUGEE RESETTLEMENT, 1880–1945

  The 1940s brought a transformative shift in the American political landscape. The Displaced Persons Act, the Marshall Plan, the Nuremberg trials, the establishment of the United Nations—the years following World War II were extraordinary not only because of the fast pace of change. They also signaled a new direction in the immigration debate.

  In the decades preceding World War II, isolationism, blatant racism, and fearmongering guided immigration policy in a way that is almost unparalleled in American history.

  Almost.

  * * *

  —

  The positions in the immigration debates solidified in the 1880s with the rapid influx of newcomers from around the world. From the 1880s into the 1910s, more than 20 million immigrants arrived in the United States. Many of the newly arrived people were not from Northern and Western Europe, as had been the case in decades past. Historians have identified two distinctive sides of the immigration debates that were established in those years and that would remain in place for more than a century. The sides divided often (but not only) along partisan lines: The “restrictionists,” led by the Democratic Party, wanted national quotas and limited admissions; the “liberalizers,” led by the Republicans, favored more open immigration policies. For decades, Republican liberalizers managed to win many of the immigration battles, though not all. The sheer number of people who came to turn-of-the-century America demonstrated the liberalizers’ political victories. But as the numbers increased, so did anti-newcomer resentment.

  The more effective restrictionist arguments at the time paired economics with racism. In op-ed pieces and political cartoons, in congressional debates and town hall meetings, in conversations and letters and pamphlets, restrictionists created a fill-in-the-blank formula that would be trotted out in almost every debate about immigration that followed: “These _____ immigrants are taking our jobs and we need to stop them.” Over time, that blank would be filled with a number of nationalities: Irish, Polish, Italian, Vietnamese, Mexican, Honduran, and Haitian, to name a few.

  The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 was a massive restrictionist victory; it was the first US immigration law to limit an entire group of people based on their ethnicity or country of origin. While economic arguments probably persuaded the public, the act didn’t really save jobs. Chinese people made up a tiny percentage of the population and excluding them from the US did very little to mitigate the lack of employment in the West, where the majority of Chinese immigrants lived, and where they were disproportionately blamed for economic woes. Restricting all Chinese immigrants was clearly much more about race and culture. The lack of strong Chinese lobbying groups, or community ties among business leaders with influence in Washington, meant that it was relatively easy to push through the bill. Certainly, anti-Irish and anti-Italian sentiment was high at the time, and yet there were no correlating anti-Irish or anti-Italian bills. In part this was because liberalizers effectively blocked other restrictionist legislation. But the lack of opposition to the Chinese Exclusion Act had to do with the racialized hierarchy that viewed Chinese immigrants as a cultural threat, one that liberalizers weren’t generally concerned about overcoming—it was a battle they were not willing to fight.

  One political cartoon from the years leading up to the Chinese Exclusion Act shows how race and culture trumped other factors. The cartoon features an Irish man (wearing a tattered hat and coat with a bundle at his feet) and a Chinese man (with a long pigtail coming from the back of his head) consuming “Uncle Sam.” In the first frame, the Irish man is eating Uncle Sam’s head and the Chinese man, his feet. In the second frame, they have almost finished swallowing him whole. In the third frame, the Chinese man is depicted wearing the Irish man’s hat and coat; the Irish man’s feet dangle from his mouth. The cartoon reads: “The Great Fear of the period—that Uncle Sam may be swallowed by foreigners.” This cartoon was one of dozens, possibly hundreds, in major newspapers, local publications, or partisan magazines that used stereotypical markers to show that immigrants were
a threat to “naturalized” US citizens, and that some were greater threats than others.

  Liberalizers might have conceded defeat with the Chinese Exclusion Act, but they were winning the overall immigration policy war. A year later, in 1883, to raise money for the Statue of Liberty, the poet Emma Lazarus wrote “The New Colossus,” a poem that could have been the liberalizer anthem at the time. Declaring the statue the “Mother of Exiles” who offers “world-wide welcome,” Lazarus imagines her speaking out to other countries: “Give me your tired, your poor, / your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” The poem was permanently affixed in bronze to the Statue of Liberty in 1902, a powerful symbol of America’s liberalizer movement.

  The cartoon and Lazarus’s lines point to the lack of distinction and the use of stereotype in US politics and rhetoric about immigrants by both sides in those years. The debates lumped together people who fled targeted persecution and those searching for more economic opportunities, portraying them as either a massive influx of people coming to take jobs or the desolate and destitute in need of American benevolence. The precise immigration categories that determined actual arrivals would begin to be parsed out only after World War II, when “refugee” shifted toward a specifically defined legal term. People who would have met that later definition—like those escaping the Armenian genocide from 1915 to 1917—were not differentiated from other immigrants. The conversations raged as the American public decided not just which foreigners were welcome, but how the United States would define itself.

  Immigration debates have always been about American identity.

  * * *

  —

  From 1900 to 1914, the wave of immigration became a flood; 15 million new arrivals in that fourteen-year period taxed even many liberalizers’ goodwill. As Europe became increasingly tumultuous, fears over an impending war made national security one of the more persuasive arguments against open immigration. Public opinion began to turn.