From Afghanistan to My Hand

/ Laura Grace Weldon

Afghan embroidery called Khamak.

A new friend is a refugee from Afghanistan, warm and gracious despite all she and her young family have been through. On my most recent visit, Maryam shows me a rare package she received from back home. She takes out each thing slowly and with care — beautiful embroidered cloth, herbs and spices, plus packets of henna to create celebratory mehndi designs on women’s hands.

The language barrier between us is considerable. For example, I know her mother is still in Afghanistan and they talk on the phone, but I don’t know if her father is alive. When I ask, she pulls her hands over her eyes and makes an explosion sound. My eyes fill with tears in response, but I don’t know if she meant to convey he had been blinded or killed. She’s lost so much in her 29 years.

Maryam offers to paint my hand with her new henna. I want to acknowledge her kindness, but don’t want her to waste any of it on me. So with a smile I say, no, no thank you, along with the head shake and palms up signals indicating no across many cultures.

Our language barrier isn’t the problem now, she is simply determined to share what she has with me. In moments she mixes henna with water in a tea cup and takes my hand. It is too late, I realize, the potion is mixed for me. I’m not much for personal adornment but this is a meaningful juncture between us. Hospitality is ingrained in Afghan culture. Although a guest’s refusal is a sign of politeness, repeatedly insisting a guest take what is offered is what a good host does. Even if it leaves the host with nothing, generosity is paramount. I have a horror of accepting a favor when I think it might cause anyone a moment’s extra work or take something they might use, so Maryam is also teaching me an important lesson about receiving.

She carefully pulls each of my fingertips through a hole she bites into plastic, uses her finger to coat my fingertips with henna, then wraps and ties the plastic around each finger. Next she coats part of my palm with henna. Finally she gets out a toothpick to draw designs. Unfortunately the mixture is very wet and her designs keep blurring, making them blocky. She wraps my hand in plastic and tells me not to wash it until later that afternoon.

Other than ceremonially serving tea, often pouring it from one cup to another to cool it so it doesn’t burn her guest’s lips, she hasn’t found many opportunities to share her traditions with me. Henna gives her that. The whole time we sat close together on the rug as she held my hand in hers and coated my fingers. Her one-year-old and three-year-old, who normally wheel around like galaxies, stood watching quietly. The natural henna filled the room with an exquisite sweet aroma that smelled exotic to me and surely familiar to her,  likely reminding her of her mother, aunts, and friends back home. As the dark design on my hand fades, I hope our friendship deepens.

Additional notes:

Maryam’s husband speaks multiple languages and in Afghanistan was a bank manager in charge of five branches. As the war’s devastation worsened, however, he began working for the U.S. Army both as interpreter and language teacher. This was a necessary but dangerous way to support his family, as interpreters were being killed daily by the Taliban.  Eventually he and he family had to flee.

They spent several years in a refugee camp before qualifying through the  Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) program for translators to come to the U.S.  (The Trump administration stymied this program’s effectiveness for four long years.) Refugees, who have endured horrifying violence and the loss of a homeland, bravely face settling into a new country. Everything is different: language, clothing, food, customs. They are expected to master the nuances of transportation, rent, taxes, employment, and language. And they owe the U.S. government for the airline tickets from the refugee camp to their new homes.

They also face prejudice, stoked by cruel falsehoods. In actuality, compared to native-born Americans, immigrants commit far fewer crimes, reach higher educational levels, are more than twice as likely to start new businesses and improve the economy.

I can’t imagine what Maryam and her family have been through, or how they are adjusting with such grace and dignity to their new lives here. Maryam’s husband works two jobs and tirelessly helps out others in their neighborhood. I’m glad to have people of their courage and character join us in this country.

11 thoughts on “From Afghanistan to My Hand”

  1. I can’t imagine the leap of faith and courage it must take to throw yourself into the void in that way. I hate how governments are so grudging and populations are so wary. We used to have a small investment property. The agent who managed it gave me a list of potential candidates to rent it one time. One was a young Sudanese single mother with two small children. He was amazed when I chose her, because the Sudanese are generally regarded here as undesirable – some of their young men can be violent and certainly disrespectful to women. This is a clash of culture and different social norms, and shouldn’t mean all Sudanese are tarred with the same brush. She was an excellent tenant, apart from burning a hole in the carpet – she had no ironing board and had to iron her clothes on the floor…

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    • Thank you for going against the grain and welcoming that Sudanese family to your property. At least in America, every single new wave of immigrants has met with prejudice. Early founder Benjamin Franklin found Germans inferior to English settlers. Ever since, people from different countries have been seen as inferior —- Asians, Irish, Italians, Poles, Mexicans, and so on. It’s all about fear and prejudice, although nature teaches us diversity is not only necessary but pivotal. The very people who have the foresight, courage, and ambition to emigrate are exactly the people we should eagerly welcome as citizens.

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      • I think it has been pretty similar here. Considering our first New Australians were convicts, the later Anglo Saxon immigrants were poorly placed to turn their noses up at those who followed. Fear really is key here. Those who don’t take the trouble to learn about their new fellow citizens are hostile. Those who do, are enriched. I myself am aware that I’m a not altogether welcome guest of a culture far older than this nation…

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  2. We can’t even imagine the horrors they have escaped and the grief they endure which must surely haunt their dreams at night for many years. We have many Syrian refugees here in eastern Canada, lovely industrious, entrepreneuring people, and thankfully a welcoming government and volunteer welcome and settlement groups wherever they are needed.

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    • Canada’s approach is a beacon for the rest of us. I cried when, a few years ago, I watched a video of PM Trudeau meeting the first group of Syrian refugees at the airport. I looked up what he said that day because I want to get such important words right:

      “They step off the plane as refugees, but they walk out of this terminal as permanent residents of Canada with social insurance numbers, with health cards and with an opportunity to become full Canadians. This is something that we are able to do in this country because we define a Canadian not by a skin color or a language or a religion or a background, but by a shared set of values, aspirations, hopes and dreams that not just Canadians but people around the world share.” ~Justin Trudeau

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