Dozens of weary passengers made their way down the long hallway to baggage claim at LAX. I peered anxiously through the clear glass doors, searching every face. Then I saw him.
He wore a name tag around his neck -- like a kid who might get lost. He clutched a white plastic bag with big blue letters: IOM. International Organization for Migration. He looked happy, but tentative. I must have looked the same.
We hugged awkwardly and made polite chitchat about his 48-hour journey from Baghdad, about the jet lag and the airplane food. The trip was his first by air. He'd rarely been out of Iraq. Now he was a refugee who would make his home in America.
We loaded up his suitcase and headed down the 405 to start our new life together.
My brother-in-law Ali and me.
When I married an Iraqi I'd met on assignment in Baghdad, I knew I would help his brother start a new life in this country. I just never imagined I'd be doing it alone.
::
The phone jarred me out of my sleep.
"Good morning, habibi. Did I wake you?" My husband's familiar voice and Arabic endearment instantly soothed.
For nine months we'd been awaiting word on his application for refugee status. Saif was eligible to apply because his work as a reporter for the Los Angeles Times put his life at risk. He had also applied on behalf of his younger brother, Ali. They both received provisional approval from the U.S. State Department, but the wait for final security clearance felt endless.
Now, in late February, Saif was calling to say the State Department had given an Iraqi colleague permission to resettle in the United States and a departure date. I tried to feel happy for our friend.
"Just kidding!" Saif said, his voice gaining excitement. "It's me! I'm coming! I'll be there March 4!"
I didn't care that it was early morning and my whooping and hollering might wake my neighbors.
I fired off e-mails to spread the news and began a round of jubilant calls.
"Saif is coming!" I told a good friend, trying not to shriek. "He's coming! We got the call! We got the call!"
No further explanation was needed.
In the midst of my next conversation, the call waiting beeped.
Saif's voice had a strange tone. Government officials had called again. "They said they made a mistake. They meant to call Ali."
I hung up the phone and wept.
