My Experience with Afghan Refugees
By: Morwarid Hatef
Tags: Refugees, Afghan, Volunteering, Afghanistan, Dulles

I don’t know how to start this and I probably won’t know how to end it either. Because there really isn’t an end to this. All I know was I had to be there. Even as I’m writing this, I’m cautious about making this about me; it feels selfish and shallow. I saw the plane taking off on the screen like many of us and watched in horror as Afghans clung on both for their dear lives but also for a chance of freedom at the expense of death. It seemed to be a horrible deck of destiny cards to be dealt; which one would you choose: would you rather stay in the life you currently live and live in fear every day from the Taliban or would you want a life of freedom but in order to obtain that freedom, you’d have to cling onto a plane taking off where there is a big chance of not surviving. As I watched the events unfold at the Kabul Airport in shock, I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

About a week later, when I read Afghan refugees that evacuated Afghanistan would enter the United States through the Dulles Airport near Washington D.C., I just knew I had to physically be there. I didn’t know much and in what capacity, I only knew it didn’t feel right to not be there and left the rest to the universe after setting my intentions. As luck would have it, a day before my flight, I learned Farsi translators were needed at the Dulles Airport to assist Afghan refugees with processing their paperwork. I wanted to immediately fly into Dulles and start assisting refugees; be their advocate and ensure safe passage. After registering to volunteer, I learned the first shift available to volunteer was on a Sunday and not the Friday I was flying in on. Still, I was ready. Ready for what? I don’t know. I think it’s a state of mind many of us Afghan Americans are feeling in current times; trying to go through the motions of regular life while trying to cope with our own survivor’s guilt and secondary trauma. Struggling through both states of mind at the same time, not sure if we are succeeding at either.

On Sunday morning, I sent a message to the organizers confirming my shift and received a message back stating the airport was no longer allowing volunteers to assist. My heart was initially very heavy reading volunteer assistance was no longer permitted. But if you know me, you know I’m not one to wallow in a feeling of helplessness. So I again put my faith in the universe and thought this must mean I’m meant to assist elsewhere. And that’s when I saw the sign-up form by a nonprofit organization to volunteer at the Dulles Expo Center. The Dulles Expo Center was the processing center set up by the United States Department of State (State Department) to process the entry paperwork for newly arriving Afghan refugees. The sign-up form was created through an amazing grassroots effort coordinated by diaspora Afghans living on the East Coast to assist Afghans with translation services and general needs. I signed up for my first shift, Sunday from 12 a.m. to 8 a.m. Perfect, I thought, I’ll be back in time to drop off my niece and nephew at the school bus. Given the experience of the airport, I messaged one of the organizers ahead of my shift to confirm. Almost immediately, I received a message back confirming my shift. Trust the process I thought; I was one step closer to being there. Still not even knowing what ‘there’ even meant.

Sunday night appears and I selfishly think, what does one wear to the Dulles Expo Center? An immediate afterthought was, what is an Expo Center to begin with? After a quick online search, I realize it is a massive warehouse-type structure so I opt for comfort and modesty. And off I go to the Expo Center in my sister’s car. It is only now, after having volunteered some arduous shifts for a week at the Expo Center, that I realize I was being protected and meant to get my rest in those first couple days of my trip- both physically and mentally- before witnessing what I witnessed. For a religious person like myself, I attribute it to God but if you’re a spiritual person, it just as easily could have been the universe protecting me, or some combination of both.

When I first park and walk up to the Expo Center, there is a heavy security presence. I wait outside while the guard calls in for someone to come get me. I make small talk with the guard and discover he is on hour 16 of a 24-hour shift. I ask if he typically stays up late at night given that it is midnight and he said no ma’am, it’s a struggle for me every day but I don’t mind because this is important work. A message that resonates with me. I am greeted by a gentleman by the name of Ali (name changed for privacy) who walks me in and thanks me for volunteering. We pass by what looks like a command center and Ali explains this is the contractor the US State Department has hired to run the operation. I can sense the disproval in his tone of voice. I see an American woman wearing a skirt and low-hanging blouse with cutouts and, being familiar with the conservative nature of Afghan people, I think to myself what an odd and inappropriate outfit choice given the environment. But I have little time to press further and give her the benefit of the doubt that maybe she doesn’t know the culture. As he opens the door to the center, his voice fades and all I can see are them. Several hundred Afghan refugees. Red-haired ones with beautiful freckles and dark-haired ones with the most striking features- piercing eyes and structured faces. So much beauty in the diversity.

The Expo Center is massive- think like a huge Costco. It is also akin to a bustling train station with some people on their cell phones, others pacing around, and little kids running back and forth. I instinctively want to run up and hug each child, let them know it is going to be okay, and fighting back tears, I think focus, Mo. You have to pay attention to be able to help and Ali’s voice resurfaces.

The first order of business is setting up my badge to get in and out of the facility. I take a picture and even in a humanitarian crisis moment like this, vanity kicks in where I hope the picture turns out alright. We begin to walk to the station where I will be volunteering. As we are walking, there are sheer curtains that serve as screening everywhere. “What’s behind there?” I asked. Ali lifts one of the curtains and to my horror, it is a sea of thin, green cots with Afghans sleeping. This was the moment of realization that it wasn’t hundreds of Afghans here at the Expo Center, it was thousands of Afghans. What is meant for one person is, in actuality, a cot with a mother sleeping with one child cradled to the right of her and another to the left, with a foot in her face and the body of the second child half hanging from the flimsy cot. Their possessions stowed away under their cots in plastic bags- what little they were able to grab before fleeing Afghanistan and many arriving to the Dulles Expo Center with only the clothes on their backs. I saw distressed looks on the faces of those that couldn’t sleep and were awake, there were many and an image I will not soon forget.

Ali’s voice resurfaces again. He explains to me that they are divided into different areas. This one is for families, this one is for males, this one is for single females, and this area is for unaccompanied minors. He then explains in this most recent week, there wasn’t as much of a need for a separate space for unaccompanied minors because none had come in. The area was converted into more family space. I feel a sense of slight relief and think thank God. Then I realize, this is a horrible silver lining to an already horrible situation.

He shows me the food station, medical station, the kids’ area, and the prayer area. He shows me the bus area where Afghans will line up once the busses are ready to take them to their next destination- often a U.S. military base in Virginia, Philadelphia, Wisconsin, or Texas, and he shows me where the Red Cross is set up to provide needed toiletries. We then walk over to a high-security area. We show our badges and enter a wing of the Expo Center set up for welcoming refugees and processing their paperwork. I scan the large warehouse room. There is a line of US Department of State and USAID employees with their laptops registering Afghans in excel spreadsheets. There are linguists donning bright, orange-colored t-shirts hired by the State Department to translate in the two most common languages spoken in Afghanistan, Farsi and Pashto. There is a FEMA station set up to provide the Covid vaccine to newly arriving refugees. And there are members of the US military and Air Force to support and secure the area. I turn to my left and there is the desk for the nonprofit I am going to volunteer with. It is an unassuming tabletop desk, with some information flyers and cardboard boxes with donations.

Ali shows me the doors where the refugees will enter by charter bus. At this point, I am told it is a slow night and the busses hadn’t come in. After being told the rules- no photos, wear your mask at all times, and countless more that I probably should have paid more attention to- we are told to walk around and see if any of the refugees need anything. I pair up with another volunteer and we begin our mission. We walk past a charging station area, which primarily consists of young Afghan men sitting at roundtables charging their phones. Child after child walks or runs by, with disheveled hair and soiled clothes. Some had shoes, some only had a single shoe on, some were barefoot, and others were dragging adult-sized sneakers with their tiny little feet because that was the only option they could find for shoes. Many had smiles on their faces, seemingly oblivious to the horrors they endured at the Kabul Airport, while many others looked tired, drained, and desolate. The trauma and pain were evident with a simple glance into their eyes. Many were carrying bags twice their weight. I offered to carry their bags, and many refused. I admired their independence and thought I should share this example with my five-year-old nephew who innocently asks me to carry his iPad from the car to the house.

We enter the first curtained-off area with seemingly endless rows of forest green cots. At this point, it is about 3 a.m. and many refugees are sleeping. In the distance, I see a baby, who appears to be less than one year old, crying at the top of her lungs. Her brother kicks her to stop crying and the mother does not appear to comfort her. Both appear exhausted themselves. I walk over and kneel and ask the mother if I can hold the baby. Without waiting for an answer, I pick her up. A rule I was undoubtedly breaking, which I would soon discover was the first of many. But in this environment, you aren’t thinking about rules and regulations, you are simply thinking of humanity. She stops crying and I get a smile, but she then reaches out for her mother. The mother picks her up and covers the both of them with her thin blanket.

At this point, a little boy and his brother run up to me. He and his brother have matching three-piece navy suits, very British and debonair looking and the only thing missing was a monocle in their pockets. The older one looks at me and says, “Excuse me, miss” in Farsi, “do you have an American flag?” Here I was, preparing for a clothing or diaper request, and my first request from an Afghan refugee is for the American flag. Never in a million years did I ever think this, of all things, would be a request, let alone the first. Myself being too aware of American foreign policy (and lack thereof), the look of confusion must have been written all over my face as to why this little kid would ever want an American flag after being displaced by our Country. His father comes over and apologizes for his son troubling me. I said it is no trouble and he proceeds to tell me his son is an artist and shows me a photo he has drawn of the American flag and the Afghanistan flag. The father tells me the little boy wanted an American flag to ensure he depicted the correct number of stars on the flag. The tears swell up in my eyes. What a touching request. I run over to the State Department desk and they are able to find me a flag to give to the little boy.

A couple of hours into the shift, it becomes increasingly clear there is a need for clothing. Refugees are walking around in soiled clothing, many have not had a change of clothing since fleeing Afghanistan. I ask the State Department representatives and they point me to cardboard boxes of donations. I peer into these boxes and they are filled with sleeveless tank tops and shorts- nothing of use to Afghans who are used to dressing conservatively and showing the least amount of skin. I go over to the nonprofit desk and the donations are scarce there, too. I am informed the nonprofit runs out of clothes almost every day and the State Department is not allowing donations from nonprofits even though the community has gathered several boxes. I am confused by this as there is clearly a need.

One of the volunteers says come with me. I and another volunteer jump in a car with her and drive across the street. I am surprised by the short two-minute drive because upon arriving, I realize it is well within walking distance. We drive up to the back of a building and there, stacked seven feet high, are boxes of donations neatly sorted by size and gender. She calls her friend who is overseeing the donations and asks if we can take some of the clothing. We are infuriated why these donations are not being permitted in the center by the State Department and I’m in disbelief that these donations are sitting literally across the street collecting dust in a time of dire need. Like a bunch of humanitarian rebels, we then decide to go rogue and smuggle clothes in to the Expo Center. We cut open boxes and fill an IKEA bag (and her trunk) with long-sleeved maxi dresses and pants and sweaters for kids. Many Afghans complain how cold it is at the Expo Center with their kids only in thin t-shirts and some are not even wearing pants at all because they don’t have any to put on their infants. We make our way back and try to act as confident as possible entering with our IKEA blue bag in tow. We do not get stopped. As they say, confidence is everything. We then walk around the Expo Center, identifying needs like seeing a little kid with no pants, coming back to the desk, and returning with a pair of pants to put on the child. Multiple trips are made that night back and forth from the car to the Expo Center, smuggling modest clothing in, depleting donations, and refilling.

Before I know it, it is 5 a.m. I am shocked time has flown by so fast. Being in the last year of my thirties, before signing up for my volunteer shift, I, at first, wondered how I would make it through the night with an all-nighter. I didn’t even really pull those in college, let alone now in my old age where a good night out consists of returning to bed before midnight. I begin to hear clapping in the distance. I think what an odd noise to hear in this environment. I rush over and see a charter bus with its doors opening wide. A stream of Afghans is getting off the bus one by one and entering the Expo Center. They are greeted by all the volunteers and workers, from State Department to FEMA representatives, to the Army and US Air force members, and linguists. Many stop what they are doing, line up by the door, and start clapping as the refugees walk in. Again, the tears swell up in my eyes. Refugees smile and graciously bow their heads to say thank you. Little kids are smiling from ear to ear while others look exhausted. I see people scarred and bandaged, little kids with stitches and bruises, men with dressings, and I wonder if these are the result of the chaos at the Kabul Airport. You are safe now, I think internally, and pray that I am right. I line up and join them, clapping and high-fiving the little kids as they enter, and quickly realize this is my favorite part of volunteering here. Charter bus after charter bus arrives that night and the joy of an attempt at a warm welcome persists with each arrival.

Each day of my week-long volunteer stint at the Dulles Expo Center is carried out similarly. I spend many hours at the kids play area, teaching Jenga and hula hooping with the kids. Their resilience and ability to smile and laugh through this all is an inspiration in itself. There are so many more experiences to share, like witnessing the frantic and panicked dash of hundreds of Afghans when the busses come to take them to their next destination while TSA agents and military members yell to step back to maintain some sort of order in the pandemonium. And there are so many more refugee stories I can share, like the mother who tells me she had to choose a single child of hers to bring with her and asks if she can show me pictures of her three children she had to leave behind in Afghanistan as tears are streaming down both of our faces. Or the California native who happens to be in Afghanistan visiting family when the Taliban take over and the carnage she witnesses firsthand at the Kabul Airport as she tries to leave with her family. Or the little girl who pokes her head out of the curtained area and tugs at my shirt screaming, “miss, miss, that is my brother can you please get him?!” as a charter bus arrives with Afghan refugees walking into the center. I go over and ask him his name and point toward his sister and family. He drops his bag and immediately runs over to embrace them- tears of joy and relief running down their family’s faces for a son, brother, and grandson they thought they may never see again. And countless other tales that I will carry with me for years to come.

The situation is ongoing. Things change constantly on the ground and information can become outdated quickly. The most recent counts are that 30,000 Afghan refugees were processed at the Dulles Expo Center with another estimated 30,000 more to come. The State Departments’ efforts improve day by day at the processing center, like providing halal food for the Afghan refugees, adding a tv to the children’s play area for cartoons, and reorganizing the bus lines into a more streamlined fashion. But there is still much opportunity for improvement- like coordinating with Afghan nonprofit organizations that are more familiar with the culture to allow donations and syncing their database systems so Afghans can more easily search for missing family members that have arrived in the United States. Many good people are working tirelessly to welcome and resettle Afghan refugees. Like the American US Airforce member who spoke more fluent Farsi than me, distributing tea he had taken from the employee and volunteer lounge and passing it around to the Afghans because he knew how much Afghans love their tea. This, too, was not allowed but I understood the desire for humaneness. These small acts of compassion were seen throughout my experience. And it reminds me of a quote by the famous Afghan poet Rumi: out beyond the ideas of right-doings and wrongdoings, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.