19. THE DRONE

LATER THAT SPRING, Ali leaned over his second-floor porch as if he might fly over it.

“Pratik!” he called down to the thin young man, who had just parked his car. “You’re late!” And then a minute later, “We’ve started without you!” he called to his friends Bob and Dana—native Uticans who had converted to Islam—getting out of the car with their three kids.

In his Pink Floyd tank top, shorts, and flip-flops, Ali ran downstairs to open the door.

Twice a week, he and Heidi have what they call “our crowd” over for dinner. These are friends they have made together, as well as a few of Heidi’s college friends.

“Ali’s happiest when people are over,” Heidi, said, “especially if it’s a diverse group, with lots of kids. It reminds him of home.”

But that night, he was keyed up, especially eager to be with friends.

He was finishing up an application for a government contract that would send him back to the Middle East for a year, as an interpreter for the allied forces. He would hate to be away from Heidi. And he did not want to leave Utica, where he now felt settled.

But these jobs were lucrative: He would return in the spring of 2019 with enough money to make a down payment on a house.

Ali was tired of sitting around as his interpreting work dried up because of Trump’s policies. “This is all I know,” he said. “I can’t work in a factory or a shop.”

He felt things were only going to get worse: Next year, only about 200 refugees were expected to arrive in Utica.

Nationally, the drop in the number of refugees admitted was dramatic: In Trump’s first fiscal year in office—October 1, 2017, to September 30, 2018—the United States admitted only about 22,500 refugees, whereas nearly 85,000 refugees were admitted in the last full fiscal year of the Obama administration, according to the Pew Research Center.

Recently, Ali was stunned when a friend of his, another Iraqi interpreter, stole a few of his clients while he was out of town.

He saw it as a betrayal, but then heard that the man was in dire financial need. There was so little work; it was as if people were fighting over grains of rice.

Ali kept pacing the living room, making sure everyone had fresh hummus, pita, and pomegranate juice. Then smiling broadly, he showed off a surprise from his sister: On the dining room wall was a large portrait of him, dressed in a black and gold traditional robe—a thawb—and a white kefiyah. It is what he wears to a traditional Iraqi wedding.

“It was supposed to be small—two feet max,” Ali said about the painting. “I didn’t know it would be so beautiful!”

Last to arrive was Heidi’s friend Karen. Ali—very fond of her—bent down to embrace her.

There was another reason Ali was tightly wound: It was just before Ramadan.

In hundreds of Muslim households across East Utica, there was a sense of expectation. People were getting ready: Rugs were carried outside, beaten, washed, and hung to dry. Old machinery and piles of bottles were dislodged from garages, bagged, and driven to the dump. Houses were cleaned from top to bottom—a little each day.

Anyone walking into Walmart or Hannaford can see families searching the aisles for special, beloved foods to stock up on, especially fruit, to quench thirst after a long fast: mangoes, pineapples, coconuts, dates.

Outsiders might pity those who observe Ramadan—no food or drink is allowed between dawn and sundown for 30 days. But “it’s the best month of the year,” Ali said, sitting for a moment in his reclining chair near his hookah. “You feel what poor people without food go through. It’s a good time to thank others for what you have.”

“It puts some mercy in your heart.”

And yet, he dreads Ramadan. “The closer it gets—I get sadder and sadder.”

“It’s not just me,” he added. “It’s the same for all Muslim refugees who a few years ago came to the United States. You compare—what it’s like here. And what it’s like there.”

“You’re away from your family.”

He leaned forward in his chair, remembering: “When I was working for ABC News, the first night of Ramadan, I’d leave work and go to an outdoor market.”

“I’d get a huge thing of kebabs,” he continued. “You pick the meat—lamb, sometimes a little bit of beef. You wait as they cut it for you. Then I go to the best baklava place in Baghdad.”

“Or my mom calls, and says, ‘I’m cooking! Get home at 6:30!’ ”

In his bedroom, he would wash up and change his clothes. “When they’re ready, they call me,” he said. “My sisters, my mother . . .” He did not mention his brother, Saif.

Jumping up, Ali got his iPad and pulled over a chair for Julia. Clicking Ramadan, he showed her photos of crowds dancing joyously in the street; scores of families feasting outdoors under tiny blue lights; and a night sky filled with multicolored balloons. “This is how Ramadan is celebrated in the Mideast!” he said.

But then he added, not wanting to give her the wrong impression: “Well, this is Egypt, not Iraq. But it’s amazing.”

Julia, who is pale and sandy-haired, listened patiently. Recently, she had been in a state of mourning; her two old dogs had died. Depressed, she had skipped school for six days. Heidi was relieved when she finally emerged from her room, her hair washed, skin shining.

Spring was in the air: Ali opened the apartment windows. And as Heidi and her friends cleared platters that had held chicken and basmati rice, salads, and flatbreads, Ali picked up a carrying case holding his new drone.

He started ushering Pratik, who was a friend of Karen’s; Julia and her friend, Kurrine; and Bob’s three kids toward the door. Bob—an imposing-looking man in a full beard, skull cap, and long kurta—was packing up his own drone. A former musician, he got interested in Islam when a jazz musician he knew gave him a book about the religion.

“Ali and Bob had an adventure,” Heidi said. “They were flying their drones by the big waterfall at Hinckley Reservoir.” The reservoir supplies water to the Erie Canal and is the sole source of drinking water for many in the Utica area. “A week later, they got a call from the anti-terrorism task force.”

Somebody had reported them. But Ali did not take offense. “They questioned us a long time, but ended up being very nice,” he said about the task force. “By the end of the call, they wanted to take us out to dinner.”

Proctor Park was deep green in the fading light. The girls had no interest in the drones, which the men were unpacking—and they began heading off. “We’re going to the playground,” Julia said, pointing to swings in the distance.

“Uh, uh, no,” Bob said, sharply.

“You can go,” he told his daughter Molly, a rail-thin 16-year-old with a blond crewcut. “Stay,” he told Edith, his middle child, who was imploring him. “That’s teenage stuff. I want to keep you 11.” He put his arm around Oliver, his 7-year-old son.

Within seconds, Ali’s large, blinking drone soared straight up—100 feet, 200 feet. “It can go up to 3 miles,” he told Pratik, who looked on, amused. “But it’s not legal to go more than 400 feet.”

As if it had a life of its own, the drone flew across the field to the playground, then came back, hovering. Ali’s sense of dread about Ramadan—and his other worries—seemed to lift as the drone took off again, swooping to film the far side of the park, which was lusher, denser.

He recalled being in a helicopter, flying over a village, when he worked for ABC News in Baghdad. It was exhilarating: “I took video—hanging out of the helicopter—my left arm holding on to a strap.”

Bob’s drone suddenly appeared high above Ali. Then it dropped out of the sky, crashing in the grass.

Bob—on a nearby hill with his kids—came running. His mouth hung open. “That’s not supposed to happen!” he said. “It’s new.” He shook his head. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

“It’s under warranty,” Ali reassured him. “They’ll replace it.”

The park was quickly getting dark.

“Where are the girls?” Bob asked, packing up the broken drone. Looking startled, Ali started walking toward the playground.

There were a few streaks of green in the sky. Ali loved the park, with its long fields and trails; he knew every inch of it. He coached an Iraqi soccer team there. He, Heidi, and Julia picnicked there with Bob and his family.

“Julia!” Ali called.

Pratik was behind him. Bob and his kids quickly followed.

“Julia!” Ali called again.

He could dimly make out the girls on the swings, their legs pumping air as they went higher and higher.

“Julia!”

It was inconceivable they could not hear him. Their voices—giddy and rushed—floated across the park. “Julia!” Ali yelled.

“That’s a father’s voice!” Pratik said, laughing.

Slipping off the swing, Julia landed first. In the fading light, the girls started walking toward Ali.