“United States.”
He turned and moved on. I followed him down the line. Finally he turned around and said, “There’s nothing I can do but take your paper and send it to UNHCR; then I have to wait for them to come back to me. It will take more than five months.” In other words, he needed to verify that my documents were real. He took the duplicate of my refugee ID and ordered me to leave.
On the bus back to Eastleigh I was almost in tears. I didn’t have five months; the 2014 visa period expired in four and a half months on September 30. Besides, I didn’t believe him anyway. Not that it mattered—my number had not even come up for a visa interview.
Everything changed two days later, when good luck came to my in-box. It was an e-mail from the State Department:
Dear DV applicant. An appointment had been scheduled for you at the U.S. embassy in Nairobi on July 22, 2014 07:30 AM. You will be required to submit sufficient proof of identity upon arrival. If you fail to obtain a DV-2014 visa by September 30, 2014, your registration will expire.
So this was it. I was on the list! I had sixty-nine days to round up my paperwork. Sixty-nine days to arrange a medical exam and get transcripts from a school I could no longer safely attend. Sixty-nine days to somehow get that police background check. I texted all my Somali friends with the news. They did not encourage me.
“Shit, you are crazy,” wrote Yonis. “Forget about America and the lottery thing. That’s not happening.”
Even Hassan thought I was deceiving myself at this point. “I think it is time to give up, Abdi,” he said.
But I would not give up on my American dream until America slammed its door shut. So my brother and I made a pact that day: If I did not get my visa after the July 22 interview, we would join the refugees migrating north across Sudan and into Libya, hoping for the dangerous sea passage to Italy. We would not go back to Somalia, but we were done with Kenya.
* * *
—
First, the easy part. Africa Nazarene e-mailed my official transcript. The university was sympathetic to my plight and knew how hard it would be for me to travel to the school. If only it could be that simple to get my police report.
May 16, a Friday, sixty-seven days until my interview. Al-Shabaab blew up two matatus in Nairobi’s huge Gikomba market. At least ten died; more than seventy were injured. The police as usual came in floods to Little Mogadishu, what was left of the population there. They swept buildings floor by floor. These new police would not take bribes, they had orders to arrest refugees and even shoot them if they tried to escape. So gunshots were ringing everywhere. Hassan and I sat next to each other trembling in our room. We heard the voices of the cops coming up the stairs. Boots kicked at our door, but they left thinking no one was there. After a few days the police got tired of raiding. We looked out the window and saw them sitting in their trucks, eating and talking. I crept slowly downstairs to use the bathroom. Hassan was watching out the window for police and would text me if they came in the building. Then it was his turn for the bathroom while I watched. I checked Facebook on my phone; my friend Zakariye, who did not win the lottery, was taking pictures of himself in Mogadishu. He had been deported from Kenya.
When we could sneak out, Hassan and I bought cheap used books from hawkers on the street, always looking to improve our English. We liked the books by successful Americans who could inspire us: scientists, inventors, and businessmen. Bill Gates was one. Another book we liked was called The Art of the Deal by Donald J. Trump. Hassan and I read that whole book hiding in our room. We teased each other, saying someday we would be as rich and successful as this guy Trump.
I went back to the CID headquarters a few times, despite the risk, fighting my fear, to see if maybe I would get a different answer. Every time it was the same scowling guy in the dark suit, and he did not appreciate me.
“I recognize your face,” he said one time. “You are terrible! Did I not tell you to wait until I hear from the UNHCR?”
Time was running out. Thousands of lottery visas had already been approved for 2014. So many people were going for their interviews well prepared, less worried. The U.S. embassy in Nairobi was already doing extreme vetting of Somali visa applicants. A young man traveling alone, with no family in the United States, was highly suspect. Everywhere my hope was shrinking. I wished the embassy would read my heart instead of all these bullshit pieces of paper.
May 29, Thursday. Fifty-four days until my interview. I received a phone call from Pamela Gordon. She had been reading the e-mail strings with Team Abdi about my troubles getting the police certificate. She said her Kenyan driver knew an officer inside the Criminal Investigation Department and maybe he could help. At least with her driver at the wheel I could probably get inside the complex. She asked when I would want to try and I said right now.
That afternoon I snuck out of our room to catch a matatu downtown. The police were off in the distance and didn’t notice me. I hailed a bus, but the driver sped past me; he did not want a Somali on board. Several more buses ignored me. I was freaking out, watching for cops. Finally one bus stopped. I got off downtown and met up with Pamela and her Kenyan driver. On the way to the CID, Pamela handed me two hundred dollars to bail myself out if something happened. We easily went through the gate because of the white lady and the Kenyan driver.
At the main desk we mentioned the name of the driver’s friend, and I was taken by myself into his office. On his desk was the copy of my UNHCR document. The other guy had never sent it, no surprise. The man stood up from his desk. “Follow me,” he said.
We turned in to a hallway of the building, a place with no surveillance cameras. “Give me eight hundred dollars,” the officer said, looking around nervously.
“I don’t have that much money.”
“What do you have?”
I reached into my pocket and took out the two hundred dollars Pamela had given me. He snatched it from my hand and took me back into his office.
Thump! The stamp came down on my refugee document, music to my ears.
“Proceed down the hall for your fingerprints,” he said.
I waited in line for a few minutes in another room. When my name was called, a lady pressed all ten of my fingers onto a pad of black ink, then onto a white sheet that said:
DIRECTORATE OF CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS
POLICE CLEARANCE CERTIFICATE
REMARKS IN CASE OF PREVIOUS RECORD, NIL
“NIL.” No record. That was it! I couldn’t believe it. I talked to Leo that night from our room:
My police clearance is done! I’m looking at my ten fingers. They’re all black from black ink from fingerprints. This was the only problem, I dealt with it, it’s done!
June 6, Friday. Forty-six days until my interview. I had scheduled my medical exam, which was at the Migration Health Assessment Center in northwest Nairobi, near the U.S. embassy. Another scary dash for a matatu. This time when I left our building, I found a police officer standing in front. He was older and had a big belly, with lots of stars on his shoulder and a billy club under his arm. He took me by surprise, and I think I scared him more than he scared me. I could tell he was a high-level officer, not one of the usual beat cops who roughed up Somalis. Maybe he was out investigating some actual crime. When he saw me, he took out his walkie-talkie and called for backup, like he didn’t want to deal with me by himself. Soon two more cops joined him. The new ones tried to take me down to the ground for a beating, but the older officer stopped them. Maybe he felt sorry for me, I don’t know.
“Stand up!” he said to me. “Who else is in there?”
“No one.” I was lying because Hassan was upstairs.
The officer did not bother asking to see my ID; he just demanded some money. Minutes later I was on my way.
The guard at the gate of the Migration Health Assessment Center searched me with a me
tal detector, then let me in. I had all the required documents. First came a blood test; then they checked my weight and height, then a quick physical. In twenty minutes it was done. “You are all good,” said the lady. “We’ll send the results to the embassy. Good luck on your interview!”
June 15, a Sunday, thirty-seven days to go. Thirty masked al-Shabaab gunmen bombed a police station in the coastal Kenyan town of Malindi, stole its weapons, and went on a rampage, killing at least forty-eight people in the small village of Mpeketoni. Many of the victims were watching a World Cup match in a video hall. An al-Shabaab spokesman bragged about the attack and said they were planning more. We braced for more police raids.
July 7, Monday afternoon. Fifteen days and counting. I was walking down Eighth Street when a gang of about fifty young men from the Mathare slum, armed with machetes and clubs, appeared from around the corner. Because I was a young man and certainly al-Shabaab, I was a perfect target of their anger. They chased me down the street, throwing rocks and swinging their machetes and clubs. I ran as fast as I could and threw myself headfirst into the mosque, then slammed the door shut, bolting it behind me. They knocked and kicked as I joined the other Somalis in the evening prayers. Finally they left. I am sure they would have hacked me to death because many other Somalis were killed by these vigilante gangs. The murders never made the news.
July 21, the day before my interview. I washed my shirt and pants under the faucet in the bathroom downstairs. I carefully laid the shirt under my mattress to press it overnight. Leo called. “I’m not going to bed anymore,” I told him.
I’m not going to sleep, I’m sure about that. Tomorrow’s going to change my life. It’s going to change my life to be the happiest person, or else it’s going to change my life to be the most devastated man on earth, so it’s these two. Tomorrow night I’m coming back to this room, breaking everything, smashing everything right here because I’m happy or I’m angry. In both situations I will break everything I know; I will just give a punch into my laptop.
I couldn’t sleep out of anticipation, but also pure fear. What if the police raided our room that night? What if I was taken out to prison or to the airport for a deportation back to Somalia? Once you miss your interview at the embassy, it’s finished. No more chances. My heart was racing.
At four thirty I headed downstairs carrying an envelope containing my Letter of Good Conduct, the letters of support from senators and journalists, Sharon’s sponsorship letter, and a printout of the e-mailed transcript from Africa Nazarene University. I reached the embassy gate by five. I sat on the side of the street next to the embassy building, which opened at seven. By six o’clock, a line of people arriving for their visa interviews trailed around the building. Many of them were Kenyans who had won the lottery like myself. At seven fifteen I went through the security check, proceeded inside, and paid the $330 fee for the interview. As I waited, I saw people walking out grinning. Their visas had been approved. Others had been denied and were crying. Seeing these different emotions made me even more nervous.
My number was called to Window Nine. An African American woman with a huge smile greeted me. “Hi!”
“Good morning, ma’am,” I said. So far so good, this woman was black like me and seemed nice.
“Please, can you raise your right hand and swear that everything that you will say is the truth?”
I did.
“Where did you go to college?” she asked.
I told her and indicated the transcript.
“This transcript does not have a signature. Did you know that?”
I looked at it. She was right. The e-mailed transcript had no signature. She took out a pink piece of paper and on the bottom wrote two words, “Missing transcript.” She handed it to me and said, “Sorry, I can’t give you the visa. Send it to us if you can get one with a signature. And don’t come back here. Just send it through DHL.”
Send it through DHL?
I was speechless, frozen. All I could do was look into her eyes and beg with my own eyes for mercy. “Please change your mind,” I was praying. “Please I need some luck today.”
But the lady didn’t change her mind. She picked up her microphone and called the next number.
Dazed, I walked outside and collapsed under a tree. I was holding my head in my hands, wishing this was a nightmare I could wake up from. But the pink slip in my hand felt too real. I texted all my friends: “This is the worst day of my life.” I sat there for a few more minutes, rubbing the pink slip between my hands. Then I stuffed it in my pocket, got up, and headed for the matatu station. The university was far and traffic was bad. As we sat stalled behind other matatus coughing black smoke, my heart raced and my right knee bounced. Please move, please move. It was four o’clock when I ran into the student affairs office. The woman behind the window said, “I’m sorry, we are closed.”
“Please!” I said. “Please help me!” The lady saw my face and realized I was on fire. She signed my transcript. I dashed back downtown on another bus, crawling through heavy rush-hour traffic, arriving at the DHL office at six.
“We are closed,” said the man in the office. “We close at six.”
I begged and pleaded just like at the school. He let me drop the package. Within a day the U.S. embassy would receive it, he said.
Nine days passed. I was calling the embassy every day, and every time they said, “No. We have not received the transcript.”
On August 1, Leo called the U.S. embassy. He identified himself and said he was on deadline for his story and wanted to know when a decision would be made on my application. The embassy staff member had no information for him. But two hours later I got an e-mail from the State Department: “Your document has been received and your visa will be sent by tomorrow.”
15
White Rooms
On the phone that night, Leo asked me what I did when I got the e-mail. “Oh my God,” I said, “I jumped off the bed and hit my head on the ceiling!”
It’s issued! I’ve never had such a big smile, never ever ever. It feels like the dream has just become real. I feel like I am not a refugee. This is not a refugee that is hiding from the police. I’m an American citizen!
Well, not exactly. But I had won the right to live and work in America. Not won. I had earned it. Years of practicing English, a lifetime of dodging bullets and bombs, risking death by refusing to join the Islamists, hiding from crooked cops, and above all never giving up. Leo asked Hassan if he had any jealousy that only I had won. He replied,
Actually, Leo, I tell you I don’t have the least jealousy at all. If two of us get visas to get out of here, it would be even better. But if someone told me right now, “There is one visa, which one of you will take it?” I would say Abdi. Because he’s new to this country and I know how we are so fearful at night. And I know how he can’t sleep at night. For him to get a visa is my biggest pleasure. Yeah, there’s luck there, but luck can be fair.
Leo asked the State Department if his phone call had made the final difference. They replied, “The journalist call played no role in the timing of the visa issuance. Any visa process coinciding with a press inquiry is merely a coincidence.”
Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t care. Abdi American was finally going to America.
On August 8, I got a call from DHL that it had my visa and I could come collect it. By noon I walked out of that building carrying my amazing, beautiful American visa. It was Friday in downtown Nairobi, and the streets were packed with thousands of people happy that the workweek was ending. But no one was skipping like me. I had to be the happiest man in Nairobi that day.
With my visa in hand Sharon and Ben quickly bought me a plane ticket for Boston. My flight was on Monday at five in the morning, connecting through Addis Ababa and Frankfurt. With all of this confirmed, Leo flew into Nairobi that weekend to meet me and finish the radio documentary we were
doing together. Sunday evening, my last day in Little Mogadishu, Hassan and I snuck past the police and caught a matatu decorated with photos of President Obama. The driver was playing Michael Jackson songs. It was perfect. Before meeting Leo at his hotel, we made a quick shopping trip. I needed luggage for my stuff—all I had were plastic shopping bags—and some clean clothes.
At nine o’clock that evening, a small Mazda car hired by the BBC staff showed up in front of the hotel. I don’t remember breathing during the twenty-minute drive to the airport. What if a terrorist attack happens, or a bomb is thrown somewhere? They could lock down the airport and I would never be able to leave! Leo had his microphone in my face asking me what I was feeling like. I told him I felt like the clock was ticking. I was so nervous about the airport and if the immigration people would arrest me for being a refugee. Meanwhile, I was thinking Hassan would have to go back to that room, alone, in the dark with no company, just the brutal police.
At the airport entrance we were stopped by the police, they peeked into the car, Leo said hi, and the Kenyan driver waved. They let us go. We all got out and entered the airport departure terminal. Leo took some pictures of Hassan and me. We hugged and said good-bye. I was so choked up I couldn’t say anything to my brother. Hassan told me to stay strong. His last words were “Remember to support Mom!”
With that, I proceeded inside. The Kenya immigration officer looked at my visa, stamped my refugee documents, and waved me through. So easy with the right piece of paper. It was ten o’clock when I sat down at the gate for the long wait until my flight. I was the first passenger there.
Hassan and Leo decided to wait at a cafeteria inside the airport until the flight took off, to make sure I departed without being arrested. I sat there looking around the airport, watching people come and go. In a few hours many other people joined me in the wait. Finally our boarding was announced. I had a window seat. When we took off, the sun was just rising above the horizon. My American dream was now becoming real life, and it seemed like everything in my past life was becoming a dream that I needed to wake up from.
Call Me American Page 24
