ABOUT THE PROCESS

Over a period of eight years—from fall 2013 to spring 2021—I followed Sadia, Mersiha, Ali, and their families. I conducted hundreds of interviews, but mostly observed them at home as they went about their daily lives: chatting, teasing, and arguing with family members; cooking, eating, and cleaning; texting and talking on cell phones.

Occasionally, I attended a family event—a wedding or graduation—or saw them at work or went along on errands. But refugees are in tightly knit families. Home is safety, comfort—everything. And that’s where I visited them.

I took notes in longhand, getting down every word. As a journalist, I’ve done this for 35 years. It feels natural to me, and my subjects quickly get used to my scribbling. The pen and pad seem to fade away. And I—five feet tall, generally sitting in the corner of a couch or on a chair—fade a bit, too.

I found that short stints worked best. I’d drive up to Utica for about a week. My subjects were busy—in the middle of things—yet graciously made time for me, if they could.

If they couldn’t see me, I didn’t press. I didn’t want them to feel imposed upon; this was such a long project. Sometimes, I’d see one of my subjects a couple of times during a trip; sometimes, not for months.

I made about 30 trips to Utica, staying downtown and in nearby Clinton, New York. I did phone interviews from my home outside New York City.

Sometimes I had a specific reason to go: One of my subjects was going through something important, or I had a bunch of scheduled interviews with city officials or firefighters.

But mostly, I just made some calls and headed upstate.

It wasn’t always easy to connect: Zahara’s family frequently changed cell numbers and often didn’t pick up. So sometimes, arriving in Utica, I simply stopped by Zahara’s house.

Sadia was the hardest to reach: Like many teenagers, she’d lose her cell phone. Forget to check her messages. Her doorbell didn’t work.

Sometimes, she’d seem to disappear. But after a while, she’d get back in touch.

I interviewed about 100 other Uticans: bankers, contractors, factory workers, reporters, restaurant and café owners, bartenders, doctors, hospital administrators, city council members, community activists, people who were unemployed, politicians, professors, funeral directors, veterans, and amateur historians.

A few of them form a kind of chorus within this book.

I had a huge challenge: I lost Ali.

Before leaving for Iraq in 2018, Ali explained he wouldn’t be able to communicate with me. If I had a question, Heidi could forward it.

I could have decided to find another subject. But I’d known Ali since 2013, felt very connected—and wanted to keep following him.

It hit me I could continue telling his story through Heidi’s eyes. I felt this could work, because Heidi herself—wry, frank, and intensely loyal—is a wonderful subject.

Toward the end of Ali’s three years away, he and I started to correspond—and we spoke twice by phone.

For security reasons, his name—and his siblings’—was changed. Also, in the chapter “With Strangers,” Maggie, a young Utica woman, takes in Sadia; her name was changed to protect her privacy.

For years, I tried to visit Proctor High School. It has been an important part of young refugees’ lives. But its doors are closed to journalists. This may be a response to the controversy about New York State’s 2015 lawsuit against the school district for refusing to enroll refugee students over 16.

Then in 2019, a young woman who’d graduated from Proctor heard about my project—and offered to shepherd me in. Through her, I got a glimpse of the school, and connected to Danielle Brain, the remarkable English teacher.

I observed the majority of the scenes depicted in this book as they unfolded.

If I wasn’t present, then I interviewed multiple people who were involved, to get an accurate sense of things. And I gathered information, when possible, through articles, videos, and photos.

Hajrudin’s war story and the stories told in “On the Run” are oral history.

My subjects have been thinking about and telling these stories within their families for years.

I’d ask the storyteller the same questions, over and over. And I did my best to confirm details with family members and outside sources. But these are memories—and they stand as they were told.

When the manuscript was completed, I hired a fact checker.

I didn’t pay my subjects for interviews or their time. And no one ever asked me for money. Once Zahara asked if I could help her get a job; I explained I couldn’t. When Sadia was 15, she asked if she could visit me in New York City; I said it wasn’t a good idea.

She understood why—to tell the story, you need these boundaries. Sometimes it was a struggle—to not show how deeply I cared. These families welcomed me into their homes with generosity and patience: There was so much to admire.