Dullah

Do you remember what you were doing around the age of three or four? Dig deep. Try and recall. Chances are, the memories this evokes will be those of sweet childhood, the kind romanticized about in films, or at least some of them will be. The fact that so many of us fail to realize, is that memories such as these, lives like ours, are the exception and not rule. Be it blessed, luck, divine intention, or complete randomness, so much of the world basks in a fundamentally different light. Knowing that is not a burden. It is a gift. This knowledge of the fortune you possess, through whatever means you want to chalk it up to, is enlightening, and thus understanding the means from which so many others, far less materialistically wealthy, have made their way in this world will hopefully expand your sense of compassion, your sense of harmony with the idea that regardless of circumstance and that from which we come, we are all one. We are one human race, and the time to not only see this, but to feel it is now.

This time, let’s start at the end and circle back to the beginning. Life is short and it is amazing what can be accomplished in twenty-three short, and yet ever so long, years. When Dullah, formally known as Mohamadullah, was three he was fleeing his childhood home of Kabul, Afghanistan as a refugee. Twenty years later he is living in the suburbs of Atlanta, GA with the majority of his family. He has received his BA from American University and embarked upon the path of a successful career working for a company with whom he sees a bright future.

Dullah’s story begins with wisdom gained through twenty-three years of life filled with peril and struggle, familial love and support, and the key component of limitless faith in that which is greater than oneself.

“My parents have been the biggest supporters of everything I have done. They always tried to be there for me. They sacrificed everything so I could get the opportunity that I have. It was because of them, I could never quit. I could never take a break from school or from work. They never quit. They never complained to me how hard it was for them. That was the biggest motivation for me. And something that my parents and religion taught me was to always be thankful for what you have and strive for more. Never feel sorry for yourself or give yourself excuse.

Every time I envision my future, it’s with my family. I don’t focus too much on what I am doing as a professional, I just envision that I am doing well enough to be able to be with my family and do the things that I want to do. 

I have never been proud of myself. I think the day that I will be proud is the day that I can do everything for my parents. In the meantime, I try to grow every single day. Grow as a son, as a brother and as a friend.

I try to work hard for my future, but the present is more important.  Making people happy now and giving to those in need NOW is more important than saying, “I will do it when I am more successful or when I have more money or possessions.”  

I am going to let Dullah tell the majority of this story, as it is his, and so much more powerful coming from the source itself.

“I was born in Kabul, the 7th out of 8 children. I was only 3 years old when my family moved to Ghorband , Afghanistan, a small village in the north, because the Taliban invaded Kabul. I remember arriving at the village feeling as though I had found heaven. The image I have in my mind is still that of the most beautiful place: a two story house right next to a big river and a farm in between the mountains. It was paradise.

But my paradise did not last very long. It was a day like any other day; the kids were playing in the water, the men farming and the women cooking (not being sexist, just stating facts). That’s when we heard gunshots, rockets, and explosions. The Taliban was coming.

For many days we were not allowed to go outside and the only food we consumed was potatoes. The gunshots and explosions were endless. Taliban were on one mountain and the group fighting them was on the other. We were trapped in the middle.

One day all of the people in the village, who were mostly my extended family, came together and decided that we all must go north where the Taliban had not yet taken control. So that is what we did.

It was a windy night when we decided to leave on foot. Everyone was carrying their most essential belongings, mainly clothing and food. We continued to walk for some time when all of a sudden, someone started shooting with an AK47 right in front of us. A man ran down the mountain and told us that we couldn’t go north because the Taliban were up ahead on our path.

We came together as a family and collectively decided we would try again later that night. But we would have to be quiet enough not to be discovered. There were a lot of families. When it was time for the second attempt, my father decided that he did not want to go north anymore. He wanted us to go back to Kabul instead.  Everyone tried to convince him that he was wrong - he was sending his family into sure death. But he had made up his mind, and sometimes the only way forward is to go back. He felt Kabul would be a better option. I guess you could say it was a gut feeling.

We walked four days and nights over endless mountains. I experienced some things I could never forget: seeing and hearing gun shots non-stop, being stopped by random people with guns, and not knowing who they were and what they wanted. It was a chaotic time, where everyone owned a gun and everyone abused their power. We eventually reached Kabul.  

We later found out that our family members [who we parted ways with when deciding to come back to Kabul] that went north were forced to hide in another village. The villagers knew that my family was Shia Muslim though, so they notified the Taliban. The Taliban gathered all of the males, grown-ups and children, blind-folded and killed them. They did not even let the women bury the men.

We were grateful for having made it back to Kabul alive, but the living conditions we had to endure were extremely difficult; there was no freedom, no jobs, and no food. After living in Kabul for a few more months we moved to Pakistan. In Pakistan, I was not able to go to school because we were illegal refugees, and in order to support my family I had to work. I did many things: made rugs, sold plastic bags, vegetables and even tea. But doing that wasn’t easy. We were always chased down by the police in the Bazaar; they would take our belongings and beat us in an attempt to stop us from working in there. 

I woke up at eight every morning and worked until seven or eight at night. In addition, three nights a week, my brothers and I would go back to the Bazaar at 1 am to collect card boards that store owners threw out. We sold them as recycling.

Out of all the work I did, selling tea was by far my favorite. Believe it or not, that one actually helped me the most in college. When talking to a girl I liked, I always started with the question, “Do you like tea?” If the answer was yes, I would brag about my tea and offer to make it for her sometime.  If the answer was a no, I would say, “That’s because you have never had MY tea.” Since I graduated college single, part of me wonders if I was ever actually any good!

We lived in Pakistan for seven years, until I was ten or eleven years old. In 2005 we came to the US as refugees. I came without any prior education. I didn’t know my native alphabet or how to count in English. I attended the International Community School where I learned how to communicate in English. After a year my math and English levels were tested. I vividly remember I was at a second grade reading and third grade math level when I was supposed to be at a seventh grade level. Coming to the US was extremely difficult. We didn’t know the language, we didn’t have any money and we were given three months of rent and then after that we had to pay for everything.

[The apartment complex we lived in when first resettling in the US had its challenges].The neighbors next door were drug dealers. One day there was gun fire from automatic rifle. I looked outside from the window and saw a man trying to hide under a red car. My dad told us to get away from the window.  Thirty minutes later, police knocked on our door and came to check if everyone was okay. [That was when we realized] bullets had come into our computer room.  One man died and several were injured.

Another time, I heard a gunshot while I was napping after school. I looked outside the window and  saw two men holding a gun at some guys inside a car. One male came out of the car bleeding from his left shoulder blade. We found out later that the man who was shot died in a restaurant across the street.

[Fast forward to high school] come ninth grade, I was finally caught up to the reading and math level. I was lucky enough to attend Atlanta International School (AIS) on a scholarship. But that did come with the realization that the ninth grade math and reading level I was on was for the state of Georgia levels, NOT the AIS ninth grade levels. I was behind, so I had to work even harder than I ever had before academically.

My time at AIS was truly an amazing experience. Even though most of the students had completely different childhood experiences and different backgrounds than me, I never felt like I didn’t belong.

Many people tell me, I am a very hard working person. But I think I just have been extremely lucky to have people and organizations [and schools] like AIS that have given me the opportunity to grow and achieve my goals. 

[Following high school I received a scholarship to American University in D.C. that covered 100% of my tuition fees. That still left cost of living expenses though.]College was an amazing experience, although extremely stressful because I was working different jobs, such as serving at a Mexican restaurant, coaching, and working as a student staff at the university.”

Dullah graduated from AU in May of 2017, and after securing a stable job, the first thing he did was go out and buy his dad a car. It was not just any car, but the one his dad had always wanted-a Toyota RAV 4.

This is the kind of human being Dullah is. One filled with humility and honor, perseverance and drive, and his greatest goals have and always will be to provide for others, and to live a life worthy of God and calling himself a Muslim.

I know this, because I was in that fifth grade classroom on his first day of school in the US. As the Teaching Assistance, I had left the classroom to grab something from the office, and upon my return took my seat on the floor in morning circle. It was then that I saw a young boy with big brown eyes and perhaps the brightest smile I have ever seen, looking straight at me. That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship; one that continues today. Knowing this boy, now man, has been one of the great honors of my life. Knowing people with stories, but more importantly, spirits like his, is the greatest honor of all.   

Full Circle

 I want to tell you a story about a boy becoming a man. To begin, this story may sound pretty typical with a dash of altruism as would be appropriate for a blog such as this, but I assure, this story is anything but.

This boy was born on April 2, 1990, surely the happiest day for his proud mother and father up until that point. He and his family moved around a bit during his youth, but right around the time he reached adolescence, they settled in the place that his parents still call home, Atlanta, Georgia.

This boy, now turned teenager, received a scholarship to a private high school where he performed well academically and made many a friend. These four years played a pivotal role in him receiving a scholarship to Berry College in Georgia.

Following college this boy joined the Peace Corp and spent the next two years shaping and refining his world view in Burkina Faso, and upon his return, he settled into a career in the nonprofit realm.

Here’s the thing though, a lot of the time a story such as this is about a boy born in the US, growing up with the cushion of comfortable socio-economic status, who ventures out into the world because of his curiosity about the bigger picture.

Naing however, was and is the bigger picture. He was born into a world where a child becomes a man far too soon because this is what is required to survive. That life chose him, and the remarkable thing, is that while his life took an amazing turn, and he secured a solid and successful future for himself, he chose the bigger picture yet again, and not for himself, but to be of service to those whose lives might never take a turn such as his.

 Born in Burma, also known as Myanmar, Naing grew up surrounded by love. I know this, because I know and love his family dearly. They are some of the first refugees I befriended when I moved to Atlanta, GA. His younger brother was in the second grade class I assisted in, and as my co-worker, his mother and I ate breakfast together every morning for two years.

His father was forced to flee the country and declared asylum in US, and after not seeing him for three years, Naing, along with his mother and two younger siblings, fled as well. They joined his father in the US, declared asylum, and with the entire family being legally recognized as asylees seeking refuge, began their next journey of resettlement in a foreign land, where they did not know the culture, or another living soul.

In Burma, Naing’s family belonged to a very tight knit community. His parents were well educated and came from fairly well-to-do families. Naing’s father was a marine engineer and his mother was successful in real estate. Coming to the US meant starting completely over for them, building from the ground up; something they did with fierce determination and exceptional grace, both of which were passed on directly to their children.

While existence was a struggle, the home was filled with so much laughter, and I know this because I heard it, every time I went to celebrate a birthday or share a meal with them. Naing was the older brother who would actually play with his much younger siblings, not out of a sense of familial obligation, but because he wanted to.

The stability in the home was love, commitment, and drive. These three things never wavered and the three children who were born out of that have arisen into accomplished and heartfelt human beings.

Naing was granted a scholarship to a private high school in Atlanta, and then Berry College where he studied international affairs. His natural charisma and easy going nature led him to be voted Mr. Berry, a title for which he danced passionately to NYSYNC’s Bye Bye Bye.

Despite being surrounded by peers coming from extremely privileged backgrounds, his attributes his ability to stay grounded to his family and circle of friends. Naing’s journey to this country as an asylee will always be a part of him.

Following college graduation, the Peace Corp beckoned and Africa called his name. 

“I always knew my purpose is to serve for the better of others, which is what led me to Peace Corp and my bubble was busted. I was in a village with 800 population, no electricity, no running water, [and the] poverty level was so high that Burkina Faso is the poorest country listed in the Peace Corp. I went to ‘help’ my village, but what they have taught me is indescribable.”

This experience was a catalyst for what came next in Naing’s life upon his return to the US. He began working with refugees through the International Rescue Committee. 

“Working at the IRC was great. It was crazy that now I am on the other side of the fence helping these new Americans come and settle in the States.”

This, and in so many other places throughout his young life, is where I see Naing’s story coming full circle, from asylee to working with refugees and from being served to dedicating his existence to being of service to others. Naing wished for world peace in his Mr. Berry speech, and while this might sound completely cliché in the world of pageantry, I can’t help but think that if everyone led a life as authentic as his, it might actually be possible.

So what is Mr. Berry up to these days? He is living the life in New York City. Naing was accepted to NYU for graduate school but deferred for a year to work at the Hot Bread Kitchen, a non-profit social enterprise working with low income women to give them skills for the culinary institute.

Ultimately though, his goal is to study for the Foreign Service Test and become a Foreign Service or  Refugee Officer. In his own honorable words, 

“The opportunity this country had given me and my family is just extreme. I love the USA and I want to go around the world and represent us and say, ‘Hey, here is an immigrant who became a US citizen and who is the person he is because this country shaped him up like this by all these different opportunities and life experiences.’

I believe in working hard to get where you want to be, but once you make it to the top, send the elevator back down.”     

Revitalize and Renew

I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I'm worn out by the pervasive negativity that seeks to create a dingy, discolored aura around so many things in this world. I used to love reading the news. BBC.com was and is my jam, and I am an NPR junky, but now I approach both media outlets with a hint of hesitation, where before was simply an eagerness to be in the know on a global scale.

I take my news with my morning coffee, and on my daily commute to and from various activities. Now however, it is no longer the voice calling me from darkness, elevating me above ignorance; it is something I take with a serious grain of salt, because even the most reputable news outlets seem to be on a reckless mission to drive their ratings up, up and away through creating a sense of fear in the public domain.

Because I refuse to be ignorant however, I listen and I read. I pilfer what I find to be most credible from the pile and go with that. I'm still tired though, of the process itself. I decided early this morning, right around 5 am when I was awakened by my bright eyed four-year-old and asked if it was time to get up, that I was going to do something to shift the focus, to change the dialogue. Then I remembered this blog, which was started for this very reason, and which I haven't touched in almost five years.

When I asked myself what was something impacting and manageable that I could steer, this was the answer, a relaunching of something I started but didn't see through-The Gold Lining.

So, where does this leave me? Well, it takes me to a reiteration of the mission of this blog, which is to reinforce the fact that there is hope and there is good  on a local, national and global scale, and this is what I want to focus on, even if it is for only a short time each week.

I want balance.

I need your help though. I need your stories. If you are so inclined to share how you or someone you know has overcome adversity and rocked it, or is going through that adversity right here and now but sees hope through it all, tell me, and I will tell all those willing to tune in.

My oh so wise four-year-old told me the other day, that Friday was "peace day", and she was right. I could not think of a better day to start-up this project again, but remember, in order to do so, I need your assistance. If you are not inclined to share, I hope you will occasionally read, and perhaps the stories you find here will succeed in leaving a touch of gold in the lining of your life as it stands right now.
 

The Passing of a Great Man and even Greater Spirit

My hope, for this most recent development in what is now a benchmark of South African history, is that the passing of Nelson Mandela be viewed as an opportunity for further progression in his name, not further discord between the established political parties and regression from what he dedicated his life to: equality, justice, and progression for a nation and the world.

The global outpouring of love for this man in the days since his passing is unprecedented, at least in my life time.  It is not a "seeming" truth, but a glaringly obvious one, that the virtues Mandela both preached and possessed, are ones the world longs for, both in governmental leadership and citizen  to citizen.

Nelson Mandela's cell of thirty years while imprisoned on Robben Island.  My husband and I had the fortune of being able to step inside and bear witness to this man's resilience and belief.

As we embark on this path toward a globalized future, made more possible each day through things such as the Internet specifically: social media communications such as Facebook and Twitter, what I cannot ignore is the evident universal ethic that is being shared across this world's new wireless boundaries.  This ethic is one of longing, longing for an alternative to war for solving political turmoil, a demand for international mobilization to aid in crises that cross political lines, such as the recent polio epidemic in Syria, and longing for embracing the light side of the human spirit in each and every man, woman, and child.

So what is the gold lining to be found in the passing of a man as noble and magnanimous as Mandela, affectionately known as Madiba (the name of his tribe, Xhosa)?  It is the fact that his physical passing is merely that, but the greatness of his spirit, and the ethic he himself perpetuated will live on, inevitably in the hearts and actions of each person who embraces it in his or her day to day life.  We are not all destined nor purposed to live a life such as that of Madiba.  The capacity to dedicate your life to a cause such as equality for all peoples, regardless of the color of their skin, to be jailed for thirty years on an island prison and not waver in your ambition and fortitude, and to eventually become your nation's President, a winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, and Elder, is not something each individual is born with, nor capable of developing.  This is why such grace is recognized when upheld and maintained in an individual such as Mandela.  We are all capable of seeing it and understanding it.

What each person IS capable of however, is perpetuating kindness, tolerance and empathy in our day to day lives.  These small actions give birth to the possibility of global transformation.  Madiba, Martin Luther King, Gandi, Mother Teresa, these are the greats who pave the way, but we must be the perpetuators, the carriers of their torches once they are gone.  It is the many who stand beside the few, inspired and mobilized, who will create such pressure and force, that the dams of present day ethical confinements such as human trafficking, child labor, oppression of women, and pointless wars have no option other than to burst, so that the waters of purity can flow freely and unhindered

  

On December 30, 2012, the body of a twenty-three year old female Delhi (India) resident, who was brutally gang raped earlier that month, was laid to rest.  She, along with a male companion, were attacked when boarding a bus in the city.  After beating her male friend unconscious, several men proceeded to rape and brutally beat her.  When the offenders were through, they tossed her body, along with her friend's, from the bus, only to fail in their attempt to run them over.  The young woman was hospitalized, and after undergoing several surgeries which failed to assist in her recovery, she was flown to Singapore for specialized care.  There, she died, after going into organ failure.  Her body was then flown back to India and her ashes were scattered across the Ganges river.

What brutality this young woman suffered.  What courage she had to fight back against her attackers when they initially began beating her male companion.  What strength she possessed to fight for so many days as she struggled for her own survival.

This woman, this hero, has remained NAMELESS throughout all of the media attention the story has received, both nationally in India and internationally.  I followed the story for days, wondering why this was.  What was her name?  The only logical reason I could think of, for the press to exercise such diligent and intentional discretion, was out of respect for the victim and her family.

I was shocked and saddened to discover that the reason was due to an Indian law prohibiting the release of a rape victim's identity, not out of respect for her privacy, or to allow her time to heal and recover in peace, but to SHIELD her from the STIGMA that would inevitably be attached to her, should people know what happened.  This law succeeded in shrouding the victim's identity in ambiguity, a right all victims absolutely deserve, but simultaneously it reveals a very disturbing aspect of deeply rooted sexism pervasive in Indian society.  The fact that a woman could be labeled negatively by society after suffering something as brutal and tragic as rape is horrifying.

All too often, crimes against women are ignored or disregarded in India, where they are largely seen as second-class citizens, and nothing more.  The outlawed, but still heavily practiced, custom of dowry in which the woman's family pays the man when arranging marriage, speaks to how far the country has yet to come regarding an actualized egalitarian ethic for its female population.  Ultrasounds have also been outlawed in India because of the increasing likelihood that female fetuses will be aborted because they are not males.  These examples support the fact that violence against women is a systemic issue and one that must be remedied.

As word of this young woman's rape and death spread, the streets in Delhi began to fill, with WOMEN.  They were outraged, and began demanding change.  Their collective voice became so loud that celebrations for the New Year scheduled to be held in various cities, and even that of the ruling Congress Party were toned down or canceled completely.  The question being asked was: how can I as a citizen, and we as a nation, celebrate in the midst of such a cultural crisis.  The fact that this question was not only voiced, but answered is a sign of progression.

The thousands of women who have been brave enough and selfless enough to take to the streets and demand acknowledgement of this injustice, have helped bring light to what has become an epidemic, one that can only be remedied through a cultural shift in perspective and action.  The women of India have inspired the international community and educated them.  Candle light vigils were held for the victim across the world.  The flames shined for both her and the women who are demanding she be the last!

Although tragic, it is all too often crisis and utter heartbreak that FORCE people to look inward and not only give nod to, but address the ills lying deep within.  This is the gold lining.  This is the hope-that from grief will arise inspiration, and that the wayward will give way to progression.

It is 2013, the beginning of a new year.  For many people, the concept of "new" is equivalent to fresh, revitalizing, a new start, and new beginnings.  New=opportunity, uncharted territory in the expansive terrain of life.  I began wondering, not what does this mean for me, this idea of "new", but for the world.  I have come to a single conclusion.  I have found one word out of millions of possibilities that, from my vantage point, sums up the global perspective, and it is HOPE.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where what receives the most press, the greatest amount of media coverage, and the freedom to enter our televisions, computers, phones and minds, is NEGATIVE.  Too often, I find myself succumbing to the darkness that one inevitably feels when confronted with an endless stream of war, rape, murder, coups, political unrest, natural disasters, child exploitation, human trafficking, and the list goes on and on and on.

I, however, want to be extremely well informed.  I want to know and understand the WORLD I live in.  The first thing I do every morning, after brewing coffee, is read the morning's news on BBC.com.  I will not stop doing this because I feel as though knowing what happened today, around the world, makes me a more conscientious, well-informed individual.  Where does the balance lie then?  This was the question I needed to answer, for myself, and I have.

The balance lies right here, in the commitment that I have made to myself and to you by creating this blog, by writing these words.  Here it is: I pledge to always look for the GOLD LINING, and when I find it, to pass it on, right here, right now.  In every story, no matter how dark, I truly believe that there exists a glimmer of hope, and that is the GOLD.  It frames the human existence, and is what allows people who have survived inconceivable loss to keep going, and not only survive but thrive.  I have seen this first hand, time and time again.  For almost ten years now, I have been involved, in one capacity or another, with various refugee population in the United States.  Never have I been so humbled, or inspired, as I was after hearing their stories and witnessing the lives they continue building for themselves here.

So, it is simple.  My plan is to find the GOLD LINING in different stories that I encounter, and to share them with you.  I encourage you to do the same.  I will not argue with the FACT that this world can be a dark and hateful place, but I will not succumb to it by ignoring the HOPE that simultaneously exists with it.  I am choosing to search for that, in everything I see.