There were about fifty people ahead of him in line. The smell of airport arrival halls was hypnotically foreign. Overhead, to entertain—or tantalize—the crowd, large screens played a muted video on loop:
Welcome to the United States of America! We’re so happy you’re here!
The ethnic miscellany of travelers watched, transfixed, as the line crawled toward the understaffed passport control desks. Hadi was hypnotized too, drinking in, for the fourth time, the sunlit faces of every color, gender, age, and size greeting him.
In between those, variegated shots of the United States: cities, canyons, snowcapped mountains, apple orchards, cornfields. If his baba could see those… presidents’ faces. Some he recognized, some not. Forests, interstate highways, horses galloping across vast… America the Great.
No bullet-ravaged buildings. No emaciated faces. A close-up of a hot dog in a baseball stadium. Baseball! Hot dogs! How he had fantasized about hot dogs on the harrowing journey to Amman from Douma. And donuts, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, unable to even imagine such a concept. When they had crossed into Jordan and he had been allowed to stretch his legs at the Rukban settlement, a UN officer had actually given him one, with white bread!
Science fiction. The Boston Celtics, Thanksgiving, Saint Patrick’s Day, hip-hop, rap, cheeseburgers… those things were real! And they were right outside, and he was almost there!
There was only one person left between him and the booth. A tall, lanky boy with long hair in dreadlocks and deep coffee-brown skin. He wheeled a carry-on and had a guitar case slung over his shoulder, completely covered with iron-on patches of—Hadi assumed—famous singers.
Hadi had a rucksack that contained a toothbrush, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, a half-used bar of olive soap with which he also washed his hair, wrapped in the newspaper he had taken from the embassy in Amman to practice his English.
The cookies had made a mess. At the airport, they had taken Baba’s pocketknife and the bottle of water. And the four cans of tuna; no foreign meat allowed. No photos. They would have put his parents in danger if he’d been caught.
No flashlight. He had two sets of underwear and two pairs of socks. His khaki coat, he wore. He was, strangely, very cold. His teeth chattered, loud. The young man in front of him was in a hoodie and seemed quite comfortable.
Hadi put his hand in the inside pocket: ID, the lawyer’s name and address and phone number. Other numbers: the embassy, his UN case officer, the house in Douma he had left. He knew that one by heart, but Mama had insisted, in a shaky hand.
She had also insisted, at the threshold of the door, her back straighter than he had ever seen it, on a white plastic bag she thrust into his hand, exuding fragrant thyme and sumac, containing three zaatar sandwiches.
The bread was already limp and heavy with olive oil. “For the road.” The road to the United States of America. The sandwiches never left Douma: the oil seeped into the bag, he had to throw it out.
“I’ll call you when I reach Amman.”
“Don’t you dare. They might be monitoring the phone. Don’t call till you’re in Amrika. On the other side.”
He could see the other side, beyond the booth’s plexiglass walls, clean and streak-free. He could also see his reflection, forehead and passport glossy. The latter he clutched fiercely, his hand slightly lifted, as though he were practicing presenting it.
Almost there! If he was in, if he was stamped in, if he just got past that booth… no more Molotov cocktails, locked doors, windowless rooms. No more Syria. He gripped his heart and took his bag, his sole companion, bruised and scratched from the journey. He would always be Hadi Deeb, son of Kays and Iman. He would bring them over, to this place where everyone smiled and there was so much space.
Land of Immigrants! flashed the words on the reel for the fifth time. A homeland for those without one. Land of the Brave and Free! The big block letters were almost bursting from the screen. Declaring that he, Hadi Deeb, could have all they were promising, if he was let in… One more stamp. The boy ahead of him was called. Behind him, people fidgeted.