
During a guest lecture for one of my classes this past year, the speaker, Nick Schmidle, said that his goal as a foreign correspondant is to make the exotic and extraordinary seem familiar. Schmidle's task isn't an easy one — he spent two years in Pakistan living among the Taliban and reporting on them. How do you make the members of the Taliban, a collective enemy of the citizens of the United States, seem like real people?
That is my challenge here. I'm not writing about the Taliban — far from it — but about a family of refugees who I picked up from the airport on Wednesday night. My roommate works for an organization that helps refugees establish themselves in the United States (she asked me not to mention the organization's name on the Internet), and she occaisionally has to do airport pick-ups as part of her job. When she asked me to accompany her, I jumped at the chance. I knew the refugees probably wouldn't speak English, and I certainly had no intentions of playing 20 Questions with them in hopes of concocting a story about them, but I was eager for the experience of interacting with people from a completely different part of the world (in this case, Bhutan).
Picking up refugees from the airport was not on my list of things to do this summer in DC, but it's one of the many weirdly wonderful opportunities I've taken advantage of since I've been here. As I watched the refugees (a family of three) walk into the terminal at the airport, I was struck by their beauty and the mix of emotions in their faces — fear, excitement, relief. They were dressed largely in traditional clothing, and they couldn't have looked more exotic if they tried. It was almost hard to see them as real people because frankly, they looked like they had jumped off the pages of National Geographic. But that's when I remembered what Nick Schmidle said. These weren't refugees, they were a 60-something couple and their 30-ish daughter. They could've been my aunt, uncle and cousin. Nevermind that they were small and slight rather than American-sized, or that the older woman wore a sari instead of Land's End's finest. It was next to impossible to communicate with them, since only the daughter spoke a little English, but from the moment it occurred to me that these were people and not characters, I gave them the same respect that I would've given my relatives. Sure, in an American airport, the older man looked tiny and out of place, but in Bhutan, I'm sure he held a job, had buddies that he watched sports with and had given a toast or two at his childrens' weddings.
As we dropped the newly-arrived family off at their family's home, I watched while both families ran to greet each other and exchanged the biggest hugs I've ever seen. It was the same reaction I would've had, and it further cemented Schmidle's words. We are all human, no matter where we're from or what we're wearing. Schmidle's task — and mine — is to portray each human in the stories we tell not as a character in a set of circumstances, but as a person — as someone's father, mother or daughter.