The Haj Khalaf family is safe and all together now. The Syrian refugees reunited at O’Hare International Airport in February, when the family’s 23-year-old daughter, her husband and their now-18-month-old daughter were finally allowed to join the rest of the family in the U.S. after being stuck in limbo by an executive order banning immigrants from that war-torn country.
The family members say it is hard for them to make sense of the starkly contrasting responses to the Syrian war they have encountered as they settle in the Chicago suburbs.
There are helpful Chicagoans — the nonprofit Refugee One, an Evanston church and a Lincoln Square moms group, in particular — who held up signs welcoming them in Arabic when they stepped off the plane at O’Hare. Members of those groups now drive them to weekly appointments and take turns stopping by for encouragement, helping them navigate public transportation and offering other practical assistance.
There also are resentful Americans who, on TV and online, contend that Americans have no responsibility to devote resources to a country at war with itself on the other side of the world. Bringing in more Syrian refugees, some say, could inadvertently allow in terrorists.
Perhaps, Khaled Haj Khalaf said, reconciling both positions is not unlike the realization he had when he first saw potholes on Chicago’s streets — in a country he assumed would be “heaven on Earth.”
Nothing is perfect, not even in the U.S.
“People are very loving here, and they really love strangers,” he said. “But I didn’t expect to see the streets full of holes like in our country.”
Still, potholes are nothing compared with the conditions the Haj Khalaf family endured in Syria and the refugee camp in Turkey where they lived for nearly five years.
In Turkey, the family joined tens of thousands of other Syrian refugees resigned to pass the time in a makeshift outdoor encampment, where people stood in long lines for food and to use the bathroom.
Women wore hijabs and grew dizzy from the heat in the desert sun. The food menu was a tiresome rotation of pasta, bulgur and rice, often served by Turkish workers who chided the refugees for their sorry circumstances.
Khaled’s daughter Baraa Haj Khalaf, who arrived at O’Hare with her husband and their daughter in February, said it wasn’t uncommon to be called savage or barbarian. She moved out of the refugee camp soon after she married her husband, Abdulmajeed Haj Khalaf (who has the same last name).
Because her husband had a job, the young couple was able to afford a small apartment not far from the refugee camp. But she visited her parents and siblings often and she saw the difficult conditions yet again.
“I once told (my family), if I cut myself, you will find bulgur, pasta and rice because there is no blood anymore,” Baraa said.
It was because Baraa and her husband had their own young family that they were not permitted to come to the U.S. with her parents and siblings when they arrived in Chicago in September. Turkish authorities contended that the second generation of Haj Khalafs needed separate paperwork, interviews and background checks — which they had finally completed by Jan. 30, when they were scheduled to arrive at O’Hare.
But Baraa, Abdulmajeed and their daughter weren’t permitted to come to the U.S. after Trump signed an executive order that banned Syrian refugees indefinitely. For an excruciating week, the family waited at a relative’s apartment in Istanbul for word that the entry to the U.S. would still be possible. They were heartened by calls from American lawyers and refugee organizations, who worked tirelessly to bring over the family when the executive order was blocked by the courts.
For days after their emotional reunion, witnessed by dozens of members of Unitarian Church in Evanston and the Lincoln Square moms group, Baraa said she was overcome with joy and gratitude.
“Until now, every time I remember (the reunion) my heart just beats a huge beat,” she said. “We’re very, very happy.”
The Haj Khalaf family still is learning their new surroundings.
On one occasion, a few weeks after Khaled’s arrival, he and his youngest daughter, Aya , went outside for a stroll in their neighborhood. After walking for some time, the father and daughter panicked when they realized they were lost. Thankfully, the 19-year-old had the phone number of one of the sponsoring church members, Jane Kenamore, saved in her phone.
Kenamore, of Evanston, said she was puzzled when she picked up the call to hear Aya trying to describe the problem in English.
“She said she lost her father. Then I realized she meant she was lost with her father,” Kenamore said, adding that she found the pair more than a mile away from home, only after Aya sent photos of their surroundings which included a day care center for which she could locate an address.
Family members have been hesitant since then to venture too far from their apartments, although they try more every day, they said.
New jobs have also allowed several of the family members to get their bearings. Mohamad, 22, and Uday, 15, have taken part-time positions packaging products at a prepared food company. They have hopes of attending college in the future. Baraa said her goal is to finish her degree in literature.
Her husband, who completed his degree in economics before fleeing Syria, is looking for a job in the U.S. in his field.
Three weeks ago. Khaled was offered the opportunity to work at Real Kitchen, a takeout restaurant in Ravenswood owned by former Charlie Trotter chef Nick Schmuck. In an effort to help the family, the restaurant buys ingredients for Khaled to make Syrian pastries. After the cost of the ingredients, the family receives all the profits from the sale of the treats.
This week, Khaled spent hours layering phyllo dough, pistachios, walnuts, ground coconut and other ingredients for hundreds of pastries. Then he accompanied Schmuck to a fundraiser in River North benefiting international refugees, where he sold his wares.
Before the event began, Schmuck saw him pause to take in the breathtaking view of Chicago from the venue’s rooftop deck.
“He just wanted to sit and look for a while,” Schmuck said. “You can see the peace, in a sense, is kind of entering back into his body.”
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