Letters to a Syrian Refugee

January 2015
To My Dear Friend Safaa,

How can I tell you everything that I wish to say? I wish I could explain how I experience our friendship. You are the Syrian refugee mother of six, and I am an American career woman with no children. We couldn’t be more different, but I think we might be more similar than we realize. There is so much I want you to know. But we have a barrier between us. This barrier is not religion. It is not culture. It is language. I can’t communicate my fears or insecurities to you. I want to share with you the details of my journey to this friendship, so I write them now while they are fresh in my mind. I hope one day you will be able to read this so you will know all that I was unable to say in those first months.
I remember the day we met. I wonder if you were as nervous as I was. I didn’t know much about Islam, but there was one thing I did know in November 2015: I wanted to represent the America that I believe in. The Paris bombings had sparked anti-Islamic rhetoric among politicians that saddened me. As an American, I did not want to be identified with the hate language I was hearing. I felt an obligation to my country to do something that represented the United States as I understood it to be. I know that I’m an idealist, but I have to admit I love the language in our Constitution and the values our country was founded on. I love the words found on our Statue of Liberty that my own ancestors sailed past four generations ago:
“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-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
When I learned that two Syrian refugee families were living nearby, I went to the neighborhood mosque and volunteered. Yes, I would be the good American—the welcoming American. Before I even met you, I thought of ways to help you. Maybe I could drive you to the grocery store or run errands. I hoped you wouldn’t see the anti-Muslim hate that had been sensationalized in the media or from people you encountered in daily life here.
At the mosque, I was directed to a wonderful man, Mahmoud, who had been helping you and other Muslim families in the community. He explained that what you really needed was an English teacher. I had no idea how to begin, but I said I would do it. Then I went home and called all of my teacher friends: “How do you do this?”
I gathered materials and arranged to meet you. I spent the day preparing, daydreaming about being a wonderful teacher—then worrying if I had any idea what I was doing. I wondered what I should wear, what I should or should not do. My ignorance of Islam and my American attitude about women might be a problem. This made me wonder if I was suited to do this at all.
These were my thoughts on December 2, the day we met.
Our meeting was set for 3 p.m. At noon, I turned on the news and learned there had been a mass shooting in San Bernardino, just miles from where we were. The shooter was Muslim. His motive was not yet known, but I hoped with all my being that it was not terrorism. As if that would make it better. Fourteen people were killed. No matter who killed them, it was tragic.
I grabbed a scarf from my drawer and headed for your home. I wondered if you had seen the news. Would you be uncomfortable? Would I? Would you think you escaped one violent place only to arrive in another?
I arrived at your apartment building, with its long wrought-iron fence like a fortress. I wondered if I should cover my head. I saw women in hijab and pulled the scarf loosely over my hair. I never told you how I felt about hijab—how I once thought it was oppressive. How I didn’t understand it. I love clothes, makeup, high heels. I used to think hijab was a wall. But how could I know then that later I would feel more real as a woman when not defined by my body, but by my heart?
I knocked. I was nervous. A boy helped me gain entry. All eyes followed me into the courtyard. I wondered what I’d done wrong. My clothing was modest, my scarf in place.
Then I met your son Omar. “Welcome, Teacher!” he said, beaming. I saw the pile of shoes and took mine off. Your daughters greeted me warmly. You kissed my cheeks. I instantly felt welcomed.
Across the room, the television was muted, but a police standoff in San Bernardino played silently behind us.
Despite the news, we laughed. We tried words in each other’s languages. You served fruit and delicious chai. I instantly liked you. Later, when you and your daughters returned wearing hijab, I was surprised at how much it changed your appearance. I didn’t know how I felt about it. I was confused. And learning.
Mahmoud translated for us. You told him you liked me very much. I held back tears. I liked you too. We scheduled our first English lesson.
The next morning I learned it was terrorism. The killers had come on a fiancé visa. They brought hate. You brought hospitality. The two are not the same. But in American culture, they often get conflated.
Now that I know you, I can never fall into that kind of fear. I’m not perfect. But you’ve made me better.
With each visit, our friendship has grown. I no longer think of you as a Muslim woman—I think of you as a woman, a friend, who happens to be Muslim. I see no barriers. Removing my shoes feels normal. Waiting for you to put on hijab before leaving the house is routine. You embraced me as family. You call me sister. You share your children with me.
On the day of the Brussels airport bombing, we were celebrating Omar passing his driving test. We laughed. Your husband said it felt like we’d known each other for 10 years.
When I hear the hate rising in political discourse, I wish I could tell a different story. A love story. I wish people could sit at your table, hear your children laugh, eat your food, watch us at the dentist office with little Massa.
Yes, you wear hijab. But your love is uncovered.
I didn’t intend to fall in love with your family. But I did.
You have helped me become more human. I’ve learned so much, and yet I still struggle. I look at your young daughter Maram with her beautiful auburn hair, and my heart aches to think of it covered. I confess this to you. I’m still learning. I want to understand. I may never fully understand. But I will always be respectful.
You are my teacher more than I am yours.
And if you ever encounter someone who seems to hate you because they see only your hijab, please know: they do not hate you, Safaa. They hate something that does not exist. A monster of the imagination.
You and I—we are just two people. Ordinary. Human. But together we are a love story that counters hate.
When I enter your courtyard now, I smile. Your neighbors smile back. They always did. I just didn’t see it.
I didn’t have monsters under my bed. I was my own monster. Doubt was my shadow.
Now, I am wiser. But I still have much to learn.
Our love story continues.
And I am a better person because I know you.
Your friend,
Kathleen

Learning to Juggle: Kids and Schools

Beloved Safaa,

At some point I realized that the school year was fast approaching, and something might need to be done about registering your children. There are many things I know how to do—but when it comes to being a mom, I’m a bit lost. That’s where you are the expert. I can only help you navigate the bureaucracy—I hope.

Since I don’t have children of my own, I’ve never done this school registration thing. I had no idea how involved the process would be—especially with four children, each at a different school. The paperwork alone was daunting. I couldn’t believe how many times I had to write the same information over and over: medical details, emergency contacts, permissions, acknowledgments, donations, immunization records...

Speaking of immunizations, that prompted some rushed visits to the doctor to get the kids up to date. I guess if I were an experienced mother, I’d have known to set this up ahead of time. You wouldn’t know what the requirements are for American schools yet. Aren’t we a pair?

Through all of this, I was so afraid of letting you down. But one thing I noticed about myself: I took on the fierceness of a mother. That’s because I love your kids so much.

When I couldn’t get your kindergartner into the same school district as the other three, I turned into a full-blown mama bear. And I’m still not done with the district over that one. I told them, “Your child will be at the same school as her siblings—even if I have to come down there every day.” No, that fight isn’t over yet.

After all the paperwork came registration day—school pictures, stations across campus, schedules on one side, books on the other. Lockers, P.E. clothes, health checks, library forms. All while juggling work emails and dialing into a conference call from the school parking lot.

I found myself wondering how parents do this. Surely we’re not the only ones navigating this. Millions of parents do it every year. It’s just… I’m not one of them. And after registering two kids on a hot summer day, I crawled home and fell asleep on the couch—completely drained.

Throughout the process, I felt irritated, hot, frustrated—and just plain confused. Four kids. Different schedules. Homework. Websites. School apps.

For one child, it’s a lot. For multiple children, it’s a huge undertaking. I have to hand it to mothers: I never knew how hard it is to be one.

When you told me that you share your children with me, I didn’t realize I’d also be sharing the emotions that go with being a mother. But I am. For all the chaos, the forms, the worry—I love your children so much. And I was carried through the process by the power of love.

That’s the experience you have given me.
That’s the gift you gave.

Your friend,
Kathleen

Speaking English While Driving
9/21/2016

My Dear Friend Safaa,

Yesterday, I had to fight to hide my anger as we encountered a passive-aggressive kind of prejudice. I don’t think you or your husband were fully aware of it at the time—it all happened so subtly and with such confusion. But I saw it clearly. It happened at the DMV, when first your husband, then you, took your driving tests.

There are many types of prejudice. Some are blatant—loud and obvious. Others are quieter, harder to name. Sometimes, people are fully aware of their racism and hide it behind polite tones. Other times, it leaks out in their behavior, even if they’re not conscious of it. That quiet kind of racism is hard to spot, especially when there’s a language barrier.

When the DMV employee walked up to your husband’s car window, I handed him the paperwork and explained that language would be a challenge, but your husband knew the basic driving words. That should have been enough.

But I knew we were in trouble when the man launched into what sounded like his personal opinion, not a DMV policy. He said the written test was available in every language—and in his view, that made it too easy. He had no idea how hard it was for your husband to navigate that test, especially given the complexities of dialect and formal Arabic. But he didn’t care.

He went on to say that people must understand certain words to drive, which is true—but then added, “I’m not an English teacher,” while clearly turning the driving test into exactly that. He acted like he was giving a secret language exam—and he was grading harshly, not on driving, but on English.

At the time, I still had hope. Your husband has been driving for 30 years. He is a good driver. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The test wasn’t fair. He didn’t fail because he can’t drive. He failed the English portion. Or maybe, in that DMV worker’s eyes, he failed something else—being American enough, or Christian enough. I’ll never know what that man was really grading.

Then it was your turn. Same DMV worker. Same car. Same language barrier. I expected you to fail too. But by then, I had nothing to lose—so I spoke up. I told the man you understood all the words if he just spoke clearly. He gave me his rehearsed speech again, about needing to understand English. So I asked him: Why is the DMV employee ahead of us giving the test in Spanish?

His only reply was: “No one here speaks Arabic.”

That’s when I mentioned I would speak to the DMV director and asked him to spell her name, which I already knew. I told him I would advocate for Arabic-speaking testers. Maybe that rattled him. Maybe not. But when you returned from your test, his face was red and tight with anger. He handed me the test paper like it was on fire. And to my shock—you had passed.

You didn’t even realize it right away, you were so nervous. But I looked at the form and saw mistakes—many of them. You shouldn’t have passed. Your husband should have. If the test had been fair, the results would have been the opposite. But I think he passed you because he was afraid—afraid of being reported, or simply afraid of having his own bias called out.

I know this is all confusing. But you and your husband did nothing wrong. You simply showed up as yourselves, trying to start a new chapter in a new country. He failed your husband because he could. And then, maybe, he passed you because I refused to be quiet.

During our debriefing afterward, you told me the tester grumbled about how dirty the cars were. He mumbled instead of clearly saying “left turn” or “right turn.” All I can guess is: this is an unhappy man. Angry, bitter, and taking it out on people who don’t deserve it.

But here’s what he can’t see. He doesn’t know what your family has survived. He doesn’t know what it means to flee bombs, to lose a home, to begin again in a strange country. He doesn’t know what it is to start over. He has no idea of your courage, your strength, or your grace.

I wanted to tell him to be grateful. Grateful that he has a home. Grateful that no one is dropping bombs on his family. Grateful that he doesn’t have to learn a new language just to survive. I wanted to tell him to do his job with fairness and dignity. And if he’s going to hold onto anger, I told him—direct it at me. At least I gave him a reason.

But what I did say was simple: I expect fairness. And I will accept nothing less.

You are not alone. I will walk beside you, every step of the way.

Your friend,
Kathleen

A cloud of smoke rises following an air strike by Syrian government forces on Douma 5 February, 2015 (AFP)

7th Grade Homework Assignment: Writing About the Boom Boom
9/12/2015

Beloved Safaa,

My heart broke last night as I helped your son with his homework. He is incredibly smart for a twelve-year-old. He moves through the world with a kind of fearlessness I didn’t have at his age. I see how he helps interpret for you, how he carries a weight of responsibility so often seen in immigrant children—wise beyond their years, burdened with more than they should ever have to bear.

Usually, helping with homework brings me joy. But when it comes to writing assignments, I see the frustration on his face. He doesn’t yet know enough English to express what he’s thinking and feeling. And that gap—between what he feels and what he can say—hurts me to witness.

This assignment was to write his autobiography and then interview a witness to one of the events and compare the stories. For most kids, it would be about summer vacations or winning a soccer game. Maybe a car accident or the loss of a pet. Some might even write about a grandparent dying. But I doubt the teacher has ever received a story like your son’s.

In his young life, he has already experienced so much trauma. As I sat beside him, he talked about the boom boom. That’s his word for the bombs that fell on Douma. His word. His experience. I wanted him to use it, to claim it in his own voice. So we wrote about the boom boom.

Sentence by sentence, we pieced it together—about the crumbling houses, the escape to Lebanon with a smuggler, the fear that his older brother might be taken by soldiers. I stopped him after the boom boom. It was too much. Too much pain. Too much loss. The story would be short.

I held back my tears. I stayed calm and asked gentle questions. He was so matter-of-fact. He knows no other childhood but this one, so his memories don’t shock him the way they shock me. But for me, it was devastating. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and shield him, to erase every line of that story, as if that could erase the trauma from his mind.

I wished I could rewrite his childhood—to replace the sounds of bombs with bedtime stories and the fear of soldiers with family vacations. But I don’t have that power. The boom boom is part of him now. It is carved into the bedrock of his memory.

That’s why it means so much to me to bring him joy in small ways—an Xbox, new running shoes, a silly joke. I want to crowd out the darkness with light. I want to help joy take up more space than fear.

And then I remember—you were the one who held him when the bombs fell. You were the one who comforted him, who steadied him, who loved him through it all. He has your strength, Safaa. And because of that, I know he will be alright.

You are safe now. You are together as a family. Still, I cry on my drive home. I cry because I cannot comprehend what you’ve endured. I cry because I love your family. I cry because being with you brings me joy. And I cry because of the boom boom.

Your friend,
Kathleen

American History Lesson: The Wound of Racism
7/9/2016

Beloved Safaa,

I don’t even know how to begin this letter. I want to explain what’s happening in the news these days because, sadly, this is part of American culture. You’ve been seeing it: protests in the streets, more African American men shot by police, more outrage, more grief. You just heard that five police officers were killed by a Black man. It feels like the country is unraveling. But this is not new. It is something very old, rearing its head again and again.

The truth is, I don’t feel qualified to explain any of this. As a white woman, I cannot possibly speak to the experience of being African American. I’ve never lived it. I can only speak from where I stand—with all my limitations and the deep ache in my heart. You, as a Syrian refugee, come to this country with fresh eyes. I wish this wasn't one of the first things you had to learn.

What broke me open, Safaa, was your daughter’s question. Her beautiful, innocent question.
She looked up at me with confusion and asked, “Why do people say bad things about Black people?”

She wasn’t angry. She was genuinely perplexed. Her face was open, searching for understanding, and in that moment, I saw what it looks like to come from a place where racism has not yet taken root. From another country, with a different history, a different wound. Her question exposed the sheer absurdity of it all—and it stunned me. Because to her, it didn’t make sense. And to be honest, it shouldn’t make sense to anyone.

Her question was full of light. She didn’t yet know how tangled and old this wound is in America. But she will. That’s the part that makes me want to weep. She will hear the messages eventually—through media, school, peers. That’s how it seeps in. That’s how racism works here: not always loudly, but persistently, quietly, almost invisibly. And that’s what terrifies me the most.

I wish I could tell her that this will not touch her. But I can’t.

So I start here—with history.

America was born with a wound. At the very moment our founders declared that “all men are created equal,” they held people in chains. Slavery was baked into the bones of our nation, and even when it was abolished, the injury remained. The Civil War, the Civil Rights Movement—these were not healing salves, just more attempts to stop the bleeding.

People thought the wound was healing. But it wasn’t. It was just covered over.

Children are not born with prejudice. They are taught. I was taught—through television, movies, the news, and casual conversations. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was being fed stories that shaped my view of the world, that painted people who looked different than me in ways that were biased, unfair, and dangerous.

Even as I resist those messages now, I sometimes wonder how deep they went—how much seeped into my cells without me knowing. This is the hard truth about racism in America: it's not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s just a quiet whisper shaping how we see one another. And that, too, is part of the wound.

Safaa, I beg you—protect your daughter’s heart. Protect her question. Shield her from the answers this culture will try to give her. Because those answers will not be rooted in truth. They will come wrapped in fear, in stereotype, in stories told by those who’ve never dared to ask why the wound is still open.

What your daughter showed me is that there is another way to see. And it comes from not knowing. From not being soaked in the old messages. Her question reminded me of what decency looks like before it is shaped by culture.

I hope that in your home, in your faith, and in your love for her, she will stay connected to that innocent clarity—the part of her that sees racism and says, “But… why?”

I pray that one day our country will heal. But even if it does, there will always be a scar. And maybe, just maybe, that scar will remind us to listen to the children who still ask the most important questions.

Peace. Salaam. Shalom.
Your friend,
Kathleen

Fun At The DMV With A Syrian Refugee
6/23/2016

Beloved Safaa,

One of the fastest ways to immerse yourself in American culture is to apply for a driver’s license. I’m not saying it’s the best part of our culture, but it’s certainly a major part of American life. I knew helping your family get driver’s licenses was on our long to-do list, but I hadn’t fully considered what it might be like to navigate the DMV through the eyes of an immigrant. I’m used to it—I endure it as just another part of being American.

During our visits to the DMV, you simply followed me from window to window on what looked like a scavenger hunt. I know it felt like we were going in circles—because we were. There’s no good way to explain something that makes no sense. When things got so ridiculous that I was embarrassed, all I could do was make our little sign language motion for “crazy” and say, “DMV crazy!” I could tell by your smile that you understood me.

No American looks forward to going to the DMV. Surely there must be a similar institution in Syria, because it seems universal that humans create difficult processes for simple tasks. The DMV reminds me of something from Dante’s Inferno—a level of hell where you wait in eternal lines, only to be sent to another, and another, and another.

I’ve wanted so badly to help your family with this task, but this is one area where I feel I’ve failed you. I know you felt bad about all the trips and thought it was a burden. But I never minded. I just wanted us to celebrate every driver’s license earned. So far, we’ve only celebrated your son’s—and I can’t even take credit for that one; he went with a friend.

I’ve learned how difficult it is to get a driver’s license when English isn’t your first language. I’ve heard from friends that the Arabic translations of the written test are not great, and I don’t read Arabic well enough to judge. But I do know many Americans think the test should only be offered in English. They don’t understand why that makes no sense.

I didn’t either—until I met you.

This isn’t a linear process where you learn English fluently first, then take the test. Public transportation in Southern California is sparse. People want immigrants to work, not rely on public assistance, yet they also want to make the path to independence harder. I’m ashamed to say I once shared some of those views—until I saw it from the inside.

I wasn’t even sure how to help teach the driving rules with our language barrier. I haven’t taken the test in years, and honestly, I might fail it now. I haven’t had any accidents or tickets, by some miracle. I kind of make up my own rules—but always drive with kindness and manners. After that, it’s improv.

After your daughter failed the written test three times, I insisted we start again. I knew she could pass with some focused study. So we scheduled a new appointment and paid the $33 fee to restart the process. Or tried to.

I wish I could explain to you what happened that day when we were bounced from one desk to another. They sent us to the front desk, then to the appointment window, then back to the front desk. This is what I now call “DMV cardio.” I’d already been to the gym that day—I didn’t need another workout.

After a little DMV huddle, they decided we had to go home and make an appointment online... to come in and pay the $33. That’s right: we needed an appointment to pay money. Then, once the payment was made, we could make another appointment to take the test. It defied logic. I tried to reason with them, but this is an alternate universe with its own natural laws. Logic doesn’t apply. Challenging the system could tear a hole in the space-time continuum. So, I gave up and said, “DMV crazy,” and home we went.

I once joked with the DMV manager that she’d better get used to seeing me. I’ve learned so much from our many visits, I told her I could probably work there—though if offered the job, I’d say “no thank you.” Twice. DMV employees don’t make the rules—they just try to follow them. But I wouldn’t last a day in that system. I’d try to fix things.

Thinking outside the box isn’t allowed in places like that. If one clerk did it, another might. And soon there’d be chaos—or worse—efficiency. And we can’t have that!

Sometimes I imagine the DMV employees dreaming in monotone: B78 to window 15. F29 to window 11. G25 to window 5. It’s the soundtrack of purgatory.

I also dread the words: “You made a mistake on the form.” It means starting over, even for the tiniest error. Then back in line. Again. I’m sorry about that. You were always so patient. I wondered what you thought as I filled out the same forms over and over, whether from a mistake or because they updated to a new version.

Now that you’ve passed the written test, it’s time to practice driving. You did so well the other day—especially since it was your first time behind the wheel. I should have taught you some driving vocabulary before sending us onto Foothill Blvd. The Google Translate app wouldn’t open fast enough while cars were honking and swerving around us.

Twenty miles per hour is not ideal for a major road.

But you know what? We laughed and laughed. I saw the smile on your face and I felt so proud. That’s friendship.

Safaa, I’ll go to the DMV with you any day. Because you are my friend. I’m here to support you, help you, and stand beside you in any way I can.

And I know you would do the same for me.

Your driving buddy,
Kathleen

A Call Beyond Tolerance
July 6, 2016

Beloved Safaa,

I’ve been so frustrated these past few days. I try not to pay attention to Donald Trump, but this is a presidential election, and the stakes are high. I’m troubled by the hatred I see growing in this country. I imagine much of it comes from people who don’t know a single Muslim. I’ve invited people to talk with me so I can share what I’ve learned—but I’m only one person. What we need is a movement. We need ambassadors for Islam. Many already speak out, and I don’t wish to diminish their work, but we need more voices. It will take a great chorus to drown out the lies that have been repeated for too long.

A friend of mine is married to a Palestinian man who is now a naturalized American citizen. He was born and raised in a refugee camp. Today, he is a respected professor and contributes greatly to our society. He and my friend have children—and those children hear the news. They hear that a man running for president wants to keep all Muslims out of America. One of them asked her mother, “If Trump becomes president, will they make Daddy leave?” It is unacceptable to me, as an American, that a presidential candidate has caused this kind of fear in a child.

Safaa, I’ve been in your home while you prayed. I’ve felt the love and peace there. I’ve met your Muslim community, seen them pray, and been welcomed into the mosque. I’ve witnessed the inward peace of a loving faith. But who else has seen this? Not the average non-Muslim American.

Because I know you, I’ve come to see the peacefulness of Islam. And yet, I know that so many fear it. I only have to search my own memories to recall how I once thought of Islam, in my own ignorance. I didn’t know a single Muslim, and what I saw of Islam came only from the media—rarely from anything but news about terrorism. I attended interfaith programs, but Muslims were often missing from the table unless the event was held at a mosque. Do you see how easy it was to buy into a negative narrative?

I’m ashamed to admit that right after 9/11, I sometimes felt fear when I saw someone who looked like they might be Muslim. But I wrestled with those feelings. Even then, I couldn’t fully believe the negative labels. Most non-Muslim Americans have no knowledge of Islam. And when there’s an absence of knowledge, people fill the empty space with whatever they’ve heard—especially when it’s repeated over and over.

I kept that empty space open with a concept of mystery. I didn’t fear Islam, but I didn’t understand it either. There was a veil—both literal and metaphorical—that made me feel separate. I assumed Muslim women wouldn’t like me. Maybe they assumed the same. We stared across an imagined divide. The hijab, to me, was a barrier. And yet, nothing anyone said or did made me feel that way. It was ignorance that built the wall.

Perhaps Islam needs more ambassadors—people willing to open the door to relationship and learning. But then again, maybe it isn’t fair to ask Muslims to prove themselves. Still, I speak only from my own experience: once I met you, everything changed. Not only were my eyes opened, but I could no longer tolerate the lies being told.

The first time I went to your mosque, it was for an interfaith Seder hosted by the Claremont Interfaith Working Group for Middle East Peace. I had never witnessed anything so beautiful—Muslims hosting a sacred meal for Jewish and interfaith neighbors. I could have wept. Hope stirred in me. If this could happen here, perhaps it could spread everywhere.

Later, I returned for an interfaith peace walk. We visited a church, a synagogue, and ended at the mosque. Muslim children greeted us with coffee, hijab demonstrations, and Qur’an readings. I saw the Qur’an for the first time, written in Arabic on a beautiful stand. The children were so eager to read from it. One girl was chosen, and she recited with such reverence and maturity—it was a holy moment. Those children were ambassadors for Islam.

The third time I visited, it was for a press conference. Your family had just arrived in the U.S. and was meeting with a member of Congress. I watched the microphones pile up in front of your husband and children. That day, I didn’t meet you—but hope stirred again. I wanted to be an ambassador for America, to show a face of welcome.

I never expected how much you would teach me, or how deeply I would come to care for your family. Now, I speak out whenever I can—not as an expert, but as someone who loves you. I want this country to be better for you. I want people to know Islam so you feel welcome everywhere you go. You cannot get back the home you lost, but I want you to feel at home here.

Recently, I was invited to speak at the Baitul Hameed Mosque in Chino, part of the Ahmadiyya Muslim community. It was only the second mosque I’d visited, but this time, I had a better understanding of customs. I know your tradition is more orthodox, but I wish you could have seen the event. The leaders had invited mayors and congressional representatives. The children led the pledge of allegiance. This wasn’t performative patriotism—it was authentic civic engagement. The mosque was known to city leaders because of regular dialogue and participation.

I don’t know why Muslims tend to be so private. Perhaps it’s religious tradition. If so, I will always respect that. But these are extraordinary times. Maybe it’s time to be more visible. To tell your story. Because the alternative is letting Donald Trump and the media tell it for you.

I spoke about that at the Ahmadiyya mosque. Here is what I said:

Salaam-Alaikum, Peace Be Unto You

I have one message:
Tolerance is not enough. Acceptance is better. But friendship is best.

We are each other’s teachers.
So, what message will we teach?

In a world where misinformation flows so freely it becomes culture,
we must be seen together in friendship.

We must interact beyond special occasions.
Beyond interfaith panels.
Beyond shared grief.

I was invited here because of my friendship with a Syrian refugee woman.
I want such friendships to become so common they are no longer worth remarking on.

I want us to be so familiar that no one bats an eye when they see
a woman in hijab and a blonde woman laughing together at Target.

People believe what they hear repeated.
They’ve heard a false story about Islam again and again.

It’s time to tell a different story.

So I write about friendship.
I live the message of friendship.

We can change the story.
We can step beyond tolerance and walk together.

Who will walk with me and call me friend?
Who will join me, shoulder to shoulder?
Let it be a parade of friends.

Peace. Salaam. Shalom.

I think my message was well received. I wish I could speak at your mosque, but I understand the structure of services, and I respect the separation of men and women. So I tell you here what I would say:

You have peace in your hearts and in your mosque.
Take that peace into the world.
Let people know you. Tell your story.
Don’t let Trump—or anyone else—define you.

Friendship is a partnership.
You affirm me when you call me sister.
I affirm you every time I speak up.

When you step into my church for interfaith meetings, you are not diminished—you are a bearer of sacred beauty. You are an ambassador. And I am honored to walk beside you.

With love and hope,
Kathleen

Bombs Bursting In Air 7/3/2016

Beloved Safaa,

Summer in California brings heat, Santa Ana winds, and blazing brush fires fueled by wind and drought. We live in the shadow of the San Gabriel Mountains, in a valley called the Foothills, running parallel to the San Andreas Fault. In the final days of Ramadan, smoke filled the sky and turned it an ominous grey. As the sun lowered, the sunset burned a dirty orange—an eerie, haunting display for your first California summer. I tried to explain these fires to you, and I wondered: did the bombs in Syria turn the sky grey too? Did they create sunsets like this? I hope you know that you are far enough into the valley to be safe, but those darkened skies speak of destruction, one way or another.

I will never forget how you told me about the day a bomb fell on your house. You said you grabbed a daughter under each arm and ducked as you fled. You’ve spoken of extended family members who didn’t make it. This is a kind of existence I cannot fathom. I can’t imagine what your eyes have seen, what your heart has lost. I am so glad you are here now—in this country, in safety. The fact that you made it out of Syria with your husband and all your children is nothing short of a miracle. As you say, ḥamdu lillāh—praise be to God.

We are approaching the 4th of July, and I’ve tried to warn you about the loud sounds you’ll hear late into the night. When I described fireworks, your daughter called them “bombs.” I never wanted to teach a word as much as I want you to know this one: fireworks. These are not pretty bombs. We can call them “light flowers,” “night sparkles,” or “falling stars,” but please, don’t call them bombs.

This year, since the holiday falls near the end of Ramadan, I know we won’t be able to celebrate it together. Not because you don’t want to, but because you’re fasting from both food and drink—and it’s hard to stand out in the heat, waiting for the sky to burst into color. Still, I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you trust me to take your two youngest daughters to the parade and festival. You know they’ll be safe with me. I won’t take my eyes off of them for even a second. I love your children as if they were my own, and I’m excited to share this tradition with them.

This year, the 4th of July feels different. I’ve always loved the stories of our Founding Fathers and their vision for a new kind of nation. I imagine you have your own vision now—for a new life in this country. I know that when you fled Syria, you lived in Egypt for a time. Your daughter told me how unhappy she was there. I asked her if she’s happy in America. She said yes.

I don’t know why that touched me so deeply. Maybe because I know life is still hard for your family. You started from nothing, in a foreign land, with a foreign language, and you knew no one. But you have a supportive community at the mosque and in the wider interfaith circle. The fact that your daughter is happy tells me so much: that you feel at home, that you feel welcomed. That you feel loved, in spite of the hardship. That you have hope. And that, Safaa, is exactly why this country was founded: for freedom of worship, for the chance at a better life, for the hope of becoming.

I hope to teach you about this history soon.

This Independence Day, I’ll be thinking about what freedom really means. I will never take it for granted—especially now. I believe each American has a responsibility to pick up the torch and carry it forward into the future, where it will be passed to the next generation. That next generation includes your children.

And what is that torch?

It is hope. It is freedom. It is liberty.
Hope for a better life.
Freedom to pursue happiness.
Liberty to live in peace.

I hope, Safaa, that you will grow to love this country—not for its perfection, but for its potential. I hope you’ll fall in love with the principles written into our founding documents, the ones that say:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,
that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

In the shadow of this divisive election season, you might not see those ideals clearly. What we’re witnessing is marginalization, blame, and bullying. We’re hearing hate. And the reason that’s allowed is because we also have freedom of speech—even speech that harms. Someone is using that freedom to manipulate the frustrated and empower the prejudiced. The real heartbreak isn’t one blowhard candidate—it’s the sea of people rallying behind him.

This is not the best of America. It’s the pain of a nation still learning how to be a community. It’s the tension between our highest ideals and our lowest fears.

Our founding documents dreamed bigger than we were ready for. We declared equality in a country that still held slaves. We moved forward, two tectonic plates grinding—one toward justice, the other holding fast to old systems. The result is an earthquake we now call Trump.

But earthquakes don’t last forever. They do damage, but we rebuild. And when this one ends, we’ll sweep up the broken pieces, throw them out, and keep walking forward—toward liberty, toward equality, toward becoming.

That’s what this country was meant to be. And I still believe it can be.

With love and hope,
Kathleen

We Are All Just Humans
6/17/16

Beloved Safaa,

I have been thinking so much these past few days that I want to share more about myself with you. I guess we are all influenced by our childhood and our neighborhoods. I am definitely a “California girl.” I grew up going to the beach, eating tacos, and attending school with a large Chinese population. I hung out with the theater crowd in college. I love cultural food, clothing, and music. I love Ethiopian food, Thai massage, Mexican folk art, Flamenco dancing, and Indian clothing.

When I see the faces of you and your children as you scroll through the pictures on my phone, it makes me smile. What a curiosity I must be to you! You find pictures of me wearing Indian saris or Japanese kimono. I am an eclectic person, and I find beauty in the way people express themselves.

They often call America a melting pot, but I like to think of it as a potluck. I don’t want you—or anyone else—to melt into something that is all the same. I love the differences in each of us. I love the spice and flavor of this country and the idea that we each bring the best of our heritage to the big potluck dinner that is America.

I am just as curious about you, and you are so willing to share. I am learning so much from you—but not just about your culture. I am learning from your grace and your strength. I love how we’ve found ways to communicate with so few words. I think we are making up our own type of sign language. I only struggle when I want to tell you something that really does require words. There are some things I want to make sure you understand very well, but they are so complex that I don’t know how to explain them at our current level of communication.

There is a picture of me that you keep seeing when you scroll through my phone, and I know you wonder about it. In the picture, I am dressed up as a wedding cake and walking in a parade. What you don’t see is the top of my hat. Attached to it is a cut-out drawing of two men standing side by side. They are grooms.

In the picture, I was marching in a parade with an interfaith group for the legalization of same-sex marriage. You see, Safaa, I believe in love, and I believe that love is not dimmed by the filters people think apply. Love shines too bright. Love is not changed by those it touches. Rather, it changes us.

Some love is shared between a man and a woman, and sometimes it is shared between two men or two women. Love is just love. In my church, we say we are “standing on the side of love.” I am a straight ally for the LGBTQ community. I don’t just tolerate. I don’t just stop at acceptance. I stand up and speak out for equal rights. This is who I am, and I want you to know me. But I also want to make sure you understand how important this is to me.

I don’t know your thoughts on this topic, but I remember something you said to me through Google Translate when I told you that I wanted to respect your customs and that I didn’t want to offend. You said, “We are all just humans.”

In our time together, you’ve communicated some things to me that I’ve found very beautiful. One was when you said I am your sister. The other was when you said we are all just humans. Even though we can’t get too philosophical with our limited words, I can tell that you are a very loving and accepting person. There is a beauty in your soul that I feel with my heart.

Is that the peacefulness of Islam that gets overshadowed by the sensationalized misinterpretations of it? I see it as a peacefulness that is humble and quiet.

I have no fear that you will disapprove of who I am, but I want you to know who I am. You know that I feel very protective of you and your family. I think you saw that in action when your apartment manager told you to take down the Ramadan decorations. Needless to say, the decorations stayed—after I had a talk with her.

Sometimes I fear for you in this country, and that breaks my heart. We turn heads when we go shopping together—you in hijab and me with my blond hair. I wish this was such an ordinary thing that no one gave us a second glance. Maybe one day. But we’re not there yet. I hope when people notice us, they think to themselves: We are all just humans.

I have written a lot about the shootings in Orlando, Florida because I need to explain this part of American culture to you. I feel like I’m caught between two issues because the LGBTQ community was the target of this attack—and the attacker was a Muslim man. I have friends in both of those communities, and my heart is breaking.

The timing of this attack will play into Trump’s hands as he continues to spread anti-Muslim rhetoric and misinformation. The LGBTQ community has suffered loss beyond comprehension. There are repercussions that are awakening deep fears in my gay and lesbian friends.

At first, I didn’t realize this. I thought it affected them the same as it did me, but now I see their pain is deeper. It was a big oversight on my part not to see it. I can’t begin to know what it feels like for them right now.

I hope this country does not alienate another community as a result of this horrible attack. Non-Muslim Americans must understand that what happened does not represent Islam. One mentally unstable person with a gun cannot speak for 3.3 million Muslims in this country.

We want to live together in peace and friendship—in this big potluck, with all our colors and diversity.

We are all just humans.

Your friend,
Kathleen

I See You, My Syrian Friend
6/17/2016

Dear Safaa,

I can’t watch the news anymore. These reporters talk and talk, but they really say nothing. Or maybe they do say something very harmful. They plant seeds with words that stick and become part of our language—words that are applied to situations to redefine them, to label them, at least in American minds, as something they are not. I am trying to teach you my language, but how do I teach this?

I think it is part of the human condition to need to label everything—to put it in a box. If we can’t put something neatly in a box, it makes us uncomfortable. What box should we put a gay Muslim into? Gay or Muslim? What about a homophobic Muslim? It seems that some people want to focus on the “Muslim box” anytime a person does something bad. I speak from no authority, but I would guess that when someone kills, that person is not acting as a Muslim. I think it offends Muslims that such people call themselves Muslim when committing acts that do not express what Islam is about.

I have begun to open my eyes to how much I have to learn in this world. Before I met you, I was living in my own little community, going through my days and thinking good thoughts most of the time. I think that is a very American attitude. Then I met you—and my world got bigger. Suddenly I care about things I had never considered. I can’t close my eyes or turn away now. I see beyond myself.

I see you.

You brought a story with you. It’s a story people can hear on the news if they want only soundbites. It’s a story Americans can turn off as easily as turning off the television. But I can’t turn it off. I see more of the story.

I see you.

I told you I want to teach you about the words acceptance and tolerance. These are words you will hear a lot in the media, but they’re not always used as they should be. I don’t want to be ignorant. I want to understand people who are not the same as me—which, really, is every person I meet.

Islam is a mysterious religion to me. I don’t want to read about it online. There are too many opinions out there—and many are hateful. That would only deepen the ignorance. I am learning about it from you. I see how you live Islam. And so far, I see beautiful things.

Once we truly know each other—really know each other through experience—then we can see beyond assumptions, prejudice, and ignorance.

Tolerance means I allow you to be and leave you alone.
Acceptance means I take your hand and walk side by side with you.
It means I know who you are and I embrace you for it—not in spite of it.
It means…

I see you.

Your friend,
Kathleen

Tragedy, Tears, and Reverence ~ Our First Ramadan in America
6/12/2016

Dear Safaa,

Today was such a difficult day. I don’t even know how to convey my feelings to you. I wonder if you heard the news—and if you did, I wonder how it was explained to you.

We had another mass shooting in this country. This time in Orlando, Florida. As I write, 50 people are confirmed dead.

I have to express this next part with sarcasm, because there’s no other way to tell you about the American relationship with guns. It seems that many Americans think gun regulation means that someone from the government will come to each and every gun owner’s door and physically remove their guns. I bet some of them think President Obama himself will be the one knocking.

You will come to understand this strange American gun addiction and the unnamed fears that are somehow embedded in our cells—passed on through our American DNA from generation to generation. I know you have seen much violence in Syria. From the little you’ve told me, I wonder if I complain too much about guns when I remember that you had to run from a bomb that fell on your house. I can’t claim to understand any of this violence. We both just want to live in this world without such fears.

There are multiple themes that came together at 3 a.m. this morning in Orlando. They wove around and around each other into a tight braid of ignorance, hate, and mental illness—threads of homophobia, guns, and extremist religion. Investigators will be pulling apart these layers for days, and reporters will keep feeding us the fear. Americans will scoop it up and add it to the flaming fire of anxiety: that eternal flame that has become a fixture alongside our national monuments and symbols. I can guess that many will feed the fear addiction by purchasing more guns.

I know the question in many American minds is this: Was it terrorism tied to Islam? Once again, I say that no matter the reason, it will not bring back those who were killed. I have only witnessed peace and friendship in my interactions with you and other Muslims. But to many Americans, Islam is mysterious. How can we turn on the light and show that the fears are created in imagination? There have been many acts of violence done in the name of religion—including Christianity. It is a shame to label a religion by the extremists who do not speak the truth of that religion. I wonder if together we can do anything about the ignorance.

I think today’s violence in Florida was more about homophobia than radical Islam. But still, this parallel theme of hate continues to be like a shadow that follows us on the path of our friendship in this country. We will keep ahead of that shadow, and the more light we can shine, the smaller the shadow becomes. Knowledge sheds a light, but love is the brightest light of all.

I am aware of my own ignorance of Islam, but thanks to you—my teacher and my friend—I am learning.

Last week I felt more part of your family than ever. We observed sawm and fasted for Ramadan. We all felt the hunger pains together but distracted ourselves with a wonderful Skype conversation with your sister in Jordan. I love using the few Arabic words I know. I even like it when everyone laughs at my failed attempts to make the correct sounds. I really want to pronounce the words correctly, and although I practice, my mouth and tongue will not dance together to the right song. When you speak Arabic, it sounds so beautiful and exotic. But when I try, I sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. How can we help but laugh at Auntie Kathleen’s sick-cat impression?

I know I ask you many questions about the Qur’an, and I loved seeing everyone so excited to share with me. The kids—each one trying to talk louder than the other to tell me about Mohammad—as if the louder they spoke, the better I would understand. Such enthusiasm and joy! Then there was a quiet and beautiful moment that did not go unnoticed. Farah closed the Qur’an and gently kissed the cover with such reverence that I felt I had witnessed a pure and private holy moment.

I admit a regret now. After reflecting on that deep reverence, I remembered that I had asked her about Surah 9:5, Sūrat at-Tawbah—“The Repentance.” This is the Surah that is often used in America by anti-Muslims to suggest that Islam is a violent religion. I felt guilty for even asking her, although I was careful to be respectful. I often feel so clumsy trying to understand so much that is foreign to me. How could we communicate about something that is obviously so sacred to her—with my difficult questions?

But I do need to understand this Surah. I’ve started wondering if someone at the mosque would consider offering a class on the Qur’an for non-Muslims. That would shine a light on the mystery that is Islam.

I am not looking to convert. And I am not looking to merely tolerate. I know Islam does not call to me for anything other than respect and acceptance.

I hope to teach you about the differences between the words acceptance and tolerance. I want to take many steps beyond tolerance. You are my friend—so why would I stop there? I want to walk with you along our friendship path in acceptance. I feel the gift of acceptance from you. Even so, I worry that I will stand out when we are around other Muslims and embarrass you. It’s in my own mind. You never make me feel that way.

I thank you for inviting me to the mosque for iftar. It was such a new experience for me, and food never tasted so good. I thought about how I was more appreciative of my meal after not eating all day. I never told you—but I did some more days of sawm. I don’t know why I did it, but it felt like a way to be closer to you, to support you in your own fasting through an empathetic action.

My dear teacher and friend, how can I express what a gift it is to know you?

To me, you are a light that will diminish the shadows of ignorance. I could see that the first time I met you and you smiled a real and genuine smile. I think there are many more lights in both of our faith communities, and if we all shine together—

Where can ignorance hide?

Peace. Salaam. Shalom.

Your friend,
Kathleen

It Is In Our Hands Now ~ We Are the New Ambassadors
December 30, 2016

My dear friend Safaa,

I’m sorry I haven’t written since the election. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say to you. I’ve never been so disappointed in my country. Still, I must encourage you: do not despair. We are already seeing a great wave of people rising up. Grassroots organizing is underway. On Inauguration Day, there will be protests across the country. All of these peaceful dissenters are ambassadors. They are coming together to help one another, to show the world that America is not as small or petty as Donald Trump.

I know, my friend—I practically guaranteed he could never win. I told you about America and our values. I said we had learned from our mistakes. I told you we had grown since the days of Japanese internment camps. I told you not to worry, that what you saw on television from Trump rallies was a small and extreme sliver of this country.

And then Trump was declared the winner.

How do I reassure you now? You fled a country where the president attacked his own citizens with bombs. Here, our president-elect attacks citizens with words—loud, careless, dangerous words. I hope you know that his mouth is the only real weapon he has. I know it’s hard to make sense of what’s happening. I’ll tell you what I do know.

America is a nation still in the process of becoming. We weren’t fully formed at the signing of the Constitution. Our founders set a high bar for liberty, but even they couldn’t reach it. Our country was born in contradiction—founded on freedom while denying it to women, to enslaved people, to Indigenous nations. But we have slowly, steadily expanded those freedoms.

Women fought for the vote. African Americans fought for civil rights. LGBTQ+ communities fought for dignity, safety, and the right to marry. With each victory, we’ve inched closer to becoming the country we imagine ourselves to be. But progress is never linear. There are always steps forward, steps back. The work is never done.

Now, it is Islam’s turn to demand liberty. It is time for Muslim Americans to insist that freedom of religion applies to them too. And I believe that struggle will help define a better America. Through this moment, Muslims will help take us one step closer to our ideals. I’ve already seen so many step forward, with courage and grace, as ambassadors of Islam. They will help lead this peaceful fight.

Donald Trump is, in truth, a small man. He does not have the temperament, curiosity, or character to understand the gravity of the presidency. He stumbles his way through it, thin-skinned and impatient. He will offend, overreach, and leave others scrambling to explain his behavior. But I believe he will grow bored. I believe he will fail.

There are limits to presidential power—and millions of us are watching. A man like Trump does not rise without skeletons in his closet. There are people already digging. I don’t believe he will finish a full term. If he makes it to two years without facing impeachment, I’ll be surprised.

But whether he stays or goes, our work remains. We must become the new ambassadors. We must come to the table and create peace ourselves.

I spent much of the summer in shock, then in anger. But I won’t let Trump define me. He doesn’t deserve that much of my energy. Instead, I will focus on what matters most. I am Standing on the Side of Love—which means standing beside you.

I will keep helping your family adjust to this American life. And when new refugee families arrive in our community, I’ll be there to welcome them too. That’s what it means to be an American ambassador in these times.

We cannot leave it up to this government. It is in our hands now.

With hope and friendship,
Kathleen

An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind
November 30, 2016

In the shadow of a vicious presidential campaign, we now approach the first anniversary of one of the deadliest terrorist attacks on American soil in recent years. On December 2, 2015, two assailants entered the Inland Regional Center in San Bernardino, California—armed with assault rifles and hatred. They opened fire on civilians. Fourteen people were killed. Twenty-two were seriously injured.

The attackers were Muslim. But what they did was not Islam.
This happened in my community.

Today, when I finish my work, I’ll drive a few blocks to a small apartment I’ve been visiting since that very day in December 2015. It’s the home of a Syrian refugee family—a family I’ve grown to love as my own. I’ll hug the children as they pile schoolbooks onto my lap, talking over one another with excitement. Their mother will serve me tea and homemade cookies. We’ll share stories from the long weekend, laugh, and catch up.

This is a home filled with love.
This is Islam.

Later tonight, I’ll head to the Mosque—not with my Syrian friends this time, but for an interfaith gathering in response to a recent hate crime. On November 24, 2016, a threatening letter filled with vile, racist language was sent to four mosques in California: the Islamic Center of Long Beach, the Islamic Center of Claremont, and the Evergreen Islamic Center in San Jose. One of those mosques is right here in my neighborhood. These are my neighbors.

And this is what we’ve come to.

The presidential campaign of Donald Trump normalized hate and made it feel acceptable. Now we are seeing the results. There are those who believe exclusion is patriotic. Some feel it’s their duty to judge and intimidate other American citizens simply because of their religion or skin color.

One year ago, when I began walking alongside my Syrian friends, I made a quiet vow: I would choose love. I would walk in it, speak it, and let it outshine the hateful acts of a few. I would learn for myself what Islam is, and I would share what I discovered.

I’ve kept that promise for a year, and I will keep it still.

But my story keeps getting hijacked by others who know nothing of Islam—people whose words and actions are fueled by ignorance and fear. What I want to point out—loud and clear—is that much of this hate is not coming from Muslims. It’s coming from non-Muslim Americans.

This country is violent. But we don’t see ourselves that way. We look outward for the danger. We imagine the threat is always “somewhere else.”

But it’s here.

It’s in the hate-filled letters.
It’s in the open-carry assault rifles.
It’s in the rise of hate crimes, racism, and mass shootings.

We are attacking ourselves.

I often wonder: what is driving this rage among Trump supporters? It feels as though they’ve been waiting for a chance to get even—with someone, anyone. They’ve been handed scapegoats, and now they are lashing out. Our President-elect has modeled emotional abuse. He has normalized cruelty. History will remember his presidency as one of the darkest periods in modern American life.

“An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.” —Mahatma Gandhi

Since the election, millions of Americans have been coming together—like a family mourning a tragic loss. Because something did die on November 8th: a belief.

We believed that America was better than this.

Now, across the country, schools are holding assemblies to reassure children they are safe. Churches and interfaith communities are gathering for candlelight vigils. There is grief, yes—but there is also resilience.

Last night, I stood in a circle of light at an interfaith vigil. There was song. There were words of strength. There was solidarity. We lifted our voices in support of our Muslim neighbors. The vigil ended with a recitation from the Qur’an—beautiful, resonant words rising into the night, silencing the echo of hate.

Our numbers are larger.
Our voices are stronger.

And so, on this painful anniversary of the San Bernardino terrorist attack, I honor the victims not with vengeance, but with love. I refuse to be defined by hate, and I refuse to allow it to define America.

I am American too. And I reject that label.

This country is too vast, too complex, and too beautiful to be diminished by small minds.

We are not perfect—but we are still capable of greatness.
And love is still stronger than hate.

Syrian Food Served With Love

"If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him... the people who give you their food give you their heart." — César Chávez

10/6/2016
My Dear Friend Safaa,

I have to write to you about your cooking.

Before I met you, I had never tasted Syrian food. I had eaten some Middle Eastern dishes—falafel, baba ganoush—but I had no idea what I was missing. Lately, I’ve discovered nearby towns with restaurants serving Middle Eastern fare, and I’ve been lucky enough to attend a few Iftars to break the Ramadan fast. The food was delicious, but I have to say: the best food I’ve ever tasted was at your table.

I will never forget the first time you invited me to dinner. The table was full of color and warmth. The centerpiece was kibbeh, made from scratch. I remember our funny attempts to translate the ingredients into English. We never did find the exact word, but I know now that it's made with bulgur and stuffed with spiced meat—something like a Middle Eastern empanada. You made a lemon chicken dish that remains the best chicken I’ve ever tasted.

But what I love as much as the food is sitting around the table with your entire family. We laugh and talk in English and Arabic. I don’t speak your language, but for some reason, I feel the words with my heart. I can tell by your husband’s face when he’s teasing. What is served at your meals is not just food. It is love. Love in the preparation. Love in the interaction. Love in your inclusion of me as Auntie Kathleen.

One day, after a long dentist appointment with your son, we returned to your home, tired and hungry—and you had prepared a beautiful treat for us. I still don’t know the name of that dish, but I’ll never forget its presentation: a spiral of eggplant, tomato, potato, and meat, perfectly arranged and seasoned. It was a masterpiece. I tried to look up the name based on the sounds I heard, but your daughter explained that it was a combination of the words “to put in” and “dish.” It was art and comfort at once.

You introduced me to fattouch—a wonderful salad with pomegranate dressing and crispy pita strips. I’ve come to love zaatar with its wild thyme, sumac, sesame, cumin, and other earthy spices, eaten with olive oil and warm bread. I never cared for falafel until I tasted yours—crispy outside, tender inside, and perfectly seasoned.

And then there’s your rice. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve never really liked rice—until I met yours. Fluffy, fragrant, perfectly seasoned, topped with toasted nuts... I can never stop eating it. I remember the night in the park with your Syrian friends, pan after pan of food laid out under the stars—chicken, rice, fattouch, dolmas. I watched the men bow in prayer as the sun set, and we sat under the moonlight eating, laughing, and listening to Arabic music late into the night. I smoked hookah with shisha. Someone nearby smoked tobacco. I thought to myself how much my life has changed since I met you and your family. How full of joy I feel at times like these.

I’m learning about Syrian hospitality. Every time I visit, you offer tea or coffee. Often there’s fruit, cookies, or candy waiting. This is new to me—at home, I’m used to being asked if I’d like something to drink. But in your home, it’s served without question, as part of being welcomed. I never drink coffee anywhere else, but I always drink yours—whether it’s the rich Turkish brew in a tiny demitasse or the sweet, comforting coffee you make in the afternoons. And your chai... it’s perfect. But I have to admit, I’m especially hooked on the cumin tea with salt and lemon. I even make it at home now.

My dear friend, you teach me so much. You let me into your life. You make me part of your big, beautiful family. I know you think I do so much for you, but what you do for me is just as meaningful—if not more. You share your table, your laughter, your children. You feed me with joy and love. I have never been served anything more wonderful.

Thank you, my friend.

With love,
Kat

You Have to Believe in a Better World
October 25, 2017

I just finished watching Ken Burns’ Vietnam. It’s the story of how the U.S. got involved in the war and the repercussions that followed—deaths, protests, and the historical events that shaped the 1960s and 70s. I felt depressed after the first episode. As I continued watching the documentary about events that began before I was born, I experienced a flood of emotions: anger, shock, disbelief.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe what happened. It was that I couldn’t believe we let it happen. All I could think was, Why? I’m not the first or only person to ask that question. I’m very late to the game. I knew some of the history, but clearly not the full picture.

I’d heard about the war while growing up, as the U.S. was starting to pull troops out. For someone like me—someone interested in history—it’s telling that I hadn’t read about Vietnam as widely as I did other wars. I think I sensed, on a deep level, that it was too complex.

I’m sure my parents talked about it. They met on the day President Kennedy was assassinated. My father had been discharged from the Navy before the U.S. started sending troops to Vietnam. He was pro-military. Though not exactly in favor of the war, he believed it was the best way to “keep the commies from expanding.” He once explained the domino effect to me when I was a child. I remember being confused. I asked what dominoes had to do with countries. They seemed like two very different things.

My mother was less in favor of the war.

Halfway through the documentary—after watching civil unrest, assassinations, and the clash between protesters and police at the 1968 Democratic Convention—I called my mother.

“How could you bring a baby into the world in 1966?” I asked.
“Didn’t you have reservations, considering what was happening?”

“I had hope,” she answered.

You have to have hope.
You have to believe in a better world.

And maybe the surest sign that you still trust in humanity is choosing to bring a child into it.

I have no children of my own. Maybe I don’t have the kind of hope that’s required.

My Syrian refugee friend, Safaa, will have her first child born in this country—an American citizen. As a newly documented resident, Safaa will also begin her own path to citizenship, alongside the rest of her family.

She has seen bombs fall. She has seen blood in the streets. Even her children have seen death.

They are safe now. They are dealing with the everyday reality of American life. Sometimes, I forget what they’ve been through—but they don’t.

Sometimes something as simple as a car backfiring will bring it all back.

The memory of the sniper who once shot into their kitchen.
The moment one of the teenage daughters flicked on the light.
The bullets came for them.

How does one have hope after that?

Safaa is naming her daughter Shaum, which means Damascus.

Will the child ever see the land of her family’s birth? Only time will tell.

But in her name lies hope—for a whole and peaceful Syria.

Women in Pink Hats 1/24/2017

My Dear Friend Safaa,

This past weekend, millions of women marched in cities across the country. I’ve tried to explain this to you, but I can see on your face that this is something that surprises you. I wonder why. I think about what I know of you, and I run through the possibilities. I know that as a Muslim woman, you practice a quiet modesty—yet I showed you pictures of loud, proud women. I could see you scanning the photos for hijab, and you found them. Muslim women did march—alongside lesbians, feminists, elders, the young, transgender women, and women of color. There were men marching too.

I was in such a tight crowd, surrounded by thousands of people. Everywhere I looked, people were expressing themselves. The creativity was stunning—funny and serious signs, colorful costumes, spontaneous songs. I heard drums and chants.

The one thing that really stood out were the pink pussy hats. Yes, it was bold and a little shocking, but it made a statement. I felt safe to say that the real theme of these marches was an anti-Trump message. There were many other messages, but most of them were tied to opposition to Trump’s policies. I was happy to reassure you that so many Americans do not support Trump’s hateful rhetoric, especially his anti-Muslim speech.

I tried to tell you about the suffragettes—those fierce women who fought for the right to vote in America. I know their spirit was alive among us on January 21st. Our group wore sashes reminiscent of those early feminists. Mine read: Expect Resistance. For me, I think of these strong foremothers every time I vote. I keep a photo of Alice Paul on my shelf, to remind myself of the hunger strikes and the forced feedings that so many women endured behind bars.

My friend, I tell you about them because I want you to know: we can change policy. It takes persistence. It takes community. It takes people willing to speak, march, and act.

This is a great opportunity for you to see American democracy in motion—so different from the form of rule you endured in Syria. I know that the protests in Syria in 2011 led to terrible violence and destruction at the hands of Bashar al-Assad and his regime. That is something no people should ever have to endure.

But here, even when we see abuses of power, we can resist—and we can vote.

I would love to see the day when you are able to vote. I would love to see you add your voice to the chorus of women who refuse to accept hate as policy.

Your friend,
Kathleen

Why I March

I am here, hear my voice—
It is the echo of Alice Paul,
Susan B. Anthony,
and the many who went before me.

I will be seen. I will be heard.

I march with legs that are my own,
with my body that is my own—
a body I govern,
that will not be regulated
or controlled by law.

I march with thousands of women.
We have our different reasons,
but we march together.

I uphold these reasons—known and unknown.
I uphold these reasons—spoken and unspoken.

I march so that I will be counted,
even if I am only one.

I add to the many voices,
and with each voice
we become louder—
until we are impossible to ignore.

We call out to our leaders.
Our message is this:

Hear my voice.
See me march.
Because I am watching you.
I am vigilant.
I am engaged.
And I vote.

—KR

Just Us Girls January 2017

I knew I had to leave this relationship.

What I once thought was love had twisted itself into something I could no longer recognize. He was controlling. Jealous. Gaslighting me so often that I began to doubt my own memories. My own instincts. My own voice. The emotional abuse crept in quietly, almost imperceptibly—until suddenly, everything in my life felt smaller. Dimmer. Muted.

Leaving wasn’t just a choice. It was survival.

But as I prepared to take that step, one unexpected fear gripped me—not about the man I was leaving, but about my friend Safaa. I had no idea what she would think. Safaa, my neighbor. My sister. My teacher. A devout Muslim woman who had embraced me into her home and her family, who called me sister and meant it. And yet, despite our deepening bond, I hesitated to tell her the truth.

Would she judge me? Would she see my divorce as a moral failure? I realized, painfully, that despite all our hours together, some part of me still feared I was on the edge of rejection. That one misstep—something as personal and out of my control as the breakdown of my marriage—might fracture the fragile bridge we had built across our differences.

It’s strange to admit, but I was afraid that divorce would make me unacceptable. And not just to her, but to the world I’d come to love within her home. Her children. Her warmth. The belonging I felt with them.

It’s funny, and sad, to think that even I, who have written so much about dismantling the walls between “us” and “them,” was still caught in the net of othering. Still susceptible to the subtle belief that certain doors would close on me if I no longer fit the mold of a “good woman.”

I didn’t bring it up right away. I carried that fear with me like a shadow. And then, one afternoon, something ordinary and extraordinary happened.

We were just sitting on the floor—Safaa, her three daughters, and me—surrounded by apple slices and scattered laughter. There was no hijab in the house that day, no visible distinctions of faith or tradition. We were just five women. Five friends. They asked me to sing the “Hawaiian song”—the Israel Kamakawiwoʻole version. I sang, and they tried to sing along, giggling when they stumbled over the words.

Then Farah found a song on her iPod—an Arabic song about heartbreak and moving on without a habibi. The translation wasn’t necessary. I could hear the ache in the melody. The resilience. The knowing.

And there we sat, the five of us, listening to what was essentially the Arabic version of I Will Survive. No explanation needed. No judgment passed. Just women, understanding each other. Just a moment that told me: You are safe. You are seen. You are still loved.

It was a typical girl-time moment: music, support, laughter, healing. And yet—there was nothing typical about it at all.

That was the day I stopped being afraid to tell her.

Building Bridges, Not Walls: Interfaith Walk for Peace 2016
October 17, 2016

“The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.”
— Jalaluddin Rumi

My Dear Friend Safaa,

Yesterday at the Peace Walk, I felt such deep inspiration—witnessing what is possible when people choose to build bridges instead of walls.

I was so moved to see you, a Sunni Muslim woman, standing at the Shia Islamic school where our program began. My heart swelled as Shia and Sunni Muslims walked alongside Christians, Jews, Hindus, Unitarian Universalists, Earth-Centered Pagans, and so many others. The walk’s theme of building bridges felt especially meaningful in light of the growing opportunities to support and welcome Syrian refugees.

I’m sorry I couldn’t walk beside you that day. I was pulled in every direction and barely had time to participate in the bead exchange, though I hope you were able to take part. If you did, you would have received a small bag of green beads and a string—green representing Islam. I had yellow and brown beads for my own paths as a Unitarian Universalist and an Earth-Centered practitioner. (I could have claimed a third color for Buddhism too!)

The idea was simple: trade beads with others of different traditions until you had enough variety to make a bracelet. In doing so, the hope was not just to collect colors, but to trade stories—to learn about one another. The resulting bracelet, a rainbow of beliefs and backgrounds, became a symbol of connection. All the colors together form something beautiful. What a wonderful way to reflect on diversity.

My dear friend, I know you come from a country where Islam is the majority faith, and I imagine this kind of religious diversity is new for you. I’m so glad that your first real experience of interfaith America was something so hopeful and warm. One day, you will know enough English to also hear the painful side—prejudice and ignorance. But when that happens, I hope you’ll remember this day. Remember the kindness, the shared laughter, the exchange of stories, and the solidarity. This is the America I want you to know. This is the country at its best.

Along the walk, I had many small, beautiful encounters. A kind Shia woman served me Turkish coffee and dates as we waited for the program to begin. She chatted with me and found me quite a curiosity. I greeted her with “As-salaam-alaikum” and she began speaking Arabic to me. I’d already exhausted most of my Arabic vocabulary! I smiled and managed a “hamdulillah,” which works in many situations—but I think she was expecting more.

I was sitting next to your daughter, who looked as though she could easily have been my daughter. The woman was clearly confused—why did the mother not speak Arabic, but the daughter did? I explained that I’m Irish-Italian, and your daughter is Syrian. That only added to the confusion, until it finally clicked for her: these two very different people were “family,” even if not by blood.

Yes, love creates family. Even across cultures and languages. We just have to open our hearts, expand our understanding, and let go of rigid categories. There’s more than one way to belong.

This Peace Walk reminded me that when we come together in friendship—across faiths, backgrounds, and stories—we embody the deepest truth of what it means to be human.

In friendship,
Kathleen

” For each of you these is a different way. If God had pleased he would have made you all the same. We are all made by God so we should be kind to each other. We should compete with each other only in doing good deeds”

Into the Light

When I look at how my life has changed over the years, I am amazed that I was once so ignorant about the world. I lived in a little bubble, and I didn’t worry about anything I thought didn’t directly affect me.

But when we open ourselves up to great love, we also open ourselves up to pain.

This new vulnerability—this aching awareness—has made me more alive, more connected. And that, strangely enough, has become what feels normal in my life these days.

This week, as I spent time with my Syrian refugee family, we did what has become our usual routine: sorting through mail, paying bills, playing with the baby, sharing a delicious meal, and talking about Syria—the latest news, who is still alive, and who is not.

There aren’t many left.

Safaa showed me a photo of her husband’s cousin, Mahmoud Wawieh, holding one of his two daughters—a two-year-old with a sweet smile and a lacy dress. Then she showed me a second photo.

In this one, Mahmoud’s body sat slumped in a chair, headless.

He had been decapitated by a piece of shrapnel while meeting someone to sell gasoline. His body remained upright, eerily still—one hand in his lap, one hand dangling by his side. It was such a human pose. The only thing missing was his head.

There was so much blood.

These images are taken and distributed by a network of photographers who remain in the city to bear witness—to show the world what is happening, to help families like Safaa’s know the fate of their loved ones.

She was afraid to show me. But this is real. In my mind, it already exists. Not looking doesn’t make it less real.

Later, she played a video—footage of their hometown of Douma before the war. A soft song played in the background, a love song for a city now gone. The video was simple: a rainy day, windshield wipers keeping time with the melody. We saw streets lined with parked cars, people bustling under umbrellas, trash bins tucked near tall apartment buildings.

It could have been any city.

Who could have guessed what was coming back then? Douma is now reduced to rubble. Most of the people rushing through that video are likely dead.

Safaa wiped away a tear. I pretended not to notice. I save my tears for the drive home.

That’s when I try to process what I’ve seen.

I thought about that photo of Mahmoud, and then about my own family—safe here in California. I asked myself why I feel so much sorrow and rage. It wasn’t my cousin who died. It’s not my city in ruins.

And yet I feel heartbroken.

But I don’t want comfort. That doesn’t seem right.

How have I suffered? What do I need? I don’t know. Even after two years, I don’t know how to process images like that.

But I make myself look.

I look because I need to understand what is real—what human beings are capable of doing to each other. I need to stay awake. I spent too many years living in a fantasy that didn’t stretch beyond my own neighborhood.

Opening myself to love has opened me to sorrow.

But it has also opened my heart to a depth of compassion I didn’t know I possessed.

I feel this sadness because I love. I love my Syrian family. I love the people they’ve told me about from Douma.

I love the world more now than I ever did.

I want to help heal the pain I see.

I see a bigger picture now—not just of suffering, though that’s certainly part of it.

I see beauty too.

And because there is tragedy, we must notice the beautiful things. We must savor the small, sacred moments. We must cherish those we love.

We must be kind.

This is the world I am learning to see—and this is the person I want to be in it.

About This Series: Letters to Safaa

This series began as a collection of personal letters written to my Syrian refugee friend, Safaa. I met her and her family shortly after they arrived in the U.S., and what began as an attempt to offer help turned into a deep friendship that reshaped my understanding of love, faith, resilience, and America itself.

I visited their small apartment weekly. We shared meals, laughter, errands, long DMV lines, and even school registration. I held her children close when memories of war surfaced, and they opened their hearts and home to me with trust I didn’t feel I’d earned. I learned about Islam not from books, but from the gentle cadence of daily life. I saw how healing can happen over tea and shared silence.

Our adventures continued every week—until the pandemic. That’s when everything shifted. I lost the job that gave me the flexibility to be there. I took on part-time work, went back to school, and began caring for my aging mother. My capacity dwindled, and the weekly visits stopped.

The eldest daughter married an American and had a child. I knew her husband would help them navigate this country, and I stepped back knowing they were not alone.

We had a new president then. Someone kinder. I had hope again.

But now… now our country is once again in turmoil. Donald Trump is back in the headlines, and the hate is being stirred up with more force than ever. Targets are everywhere—Muslims, immigrants, the LGBTQ+ community, people of color, even democracy itself. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost faith in this country.

We used to fear others being radicalized. Now, it seems we have become what we feared. We’ve been radicalized by our own fear, and fear is corrosive. It eats away at reason, compassion, and the good things that bind us.

I’m not sure what to do now. But I do know this: these letters are not just about the past. They’re a reminder of what’s possible when we dare to build bridges instead of walls—when we refuse to let fear define us.

Maybe by sharing these stories again, I’ll find a new way forward.

—Kathleen

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Letters to a Syrian Refugee

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Whole Being: Life Alchemy

Being, Belonging, Becoming

Letters to a Syrian Refugee

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