A New Home

To Rami Sweis, America is all about independence. Born in Chicago and raised in Jordan, his is a story of opportunity and a life shared between two homes: one in Arizona and one in the Middle East.

Rami at a young age. Picture c/o Rami Sweis and family.

He was born an American citizen by birthright, to his Jordanian father who had moved to the US to start a liquor store business with his brothers. When Rami was two years old, though, his parents decided to move back to Fuheis, Jordan, a small town outside of Ammam full of history and rich traditions.

There, he grew up – made friends, graduated from Ammam Academy High School, and learned about life. When he was 19, he made a tough decision. He decided to leave the life he had to known to start anew in America and to try to make a name for himself here.

“Here, you have more of an opportunity to become independent, more of an opportunity to become an entrepreneur and start something on your own,” Rami says, adding that the economic situation is a lot harder in Jordan.

Life in the US

After coming to America, Rami went to a community college in Chicago for two years, where he shared his heritage by organizing a seminar discussing Middle East politics and Arabic history. On the side, he practiced his English skills by working in a grocery store and then as a tele-marketer.

The cultural differences between the Middle East and the US are drastic, Rami tells me. He says that religious beliefs and family ties are stronger in Jordan. Children stay in the family home until after completing university degrees. They certainly don’t date. Rami broke many of these cultural norms. He left home. He dated. He adjusted to American life.

“When you’re in Rome, you act like the Romans,” Rami says. He’s quick to add, though, that Jordan is close to his heart, and he still lives by the values he was raised with on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

Rami today. Picture c/o Rami Sweis.

Two years into a degree, in 2001, he transferred to Arizona State. It was then that he opened his own business, a smoke shop called Big Bear Tobacco that’s now one of the oldest smoke shops in Phoenix. He surrounded himself by successful people who encouraged him to raise the bar. In 2003, he graduated from ASU with a double major in Finance and Global Management. Since then, Rami started a second business in Chicago.

“I got everything I need… I never would have really grown as a person like I did here. That’s something I contribute to coming out here, being on my own, and being independent,” Rami says. “Sometimes, you know, you have the feeling of missing home, but when you put it in perspective of what you have to gain to what you have lost, it turns out that my move here was the best thing that I did.”

To Rami, who will soon be marrying a Jordanian woman who he met here in the US, there is a home in both Jordan and Arizona. 

“I guess home is where you feel comfortable and where you have people you love and care about. It doesn’t matter what country, what house, what state. As long as you have people you care about that you can go back to whenever you need to, that’s home. “

Melbis is like many 20-year-olds in Phoenix. She goes to the mall with friends,  watches the Twilight movie series (her favorite), and travels with family. Her wide brown eyes show a curiosity for the outside world and a love for life.

Her family came to Phoenix from Sonora, Mexico in the North of the country in order to find a better life just like people have for centuries. Her dad came first, 14 years ago. Her mother, brother, and Melbis joined him two years later when she was 12 years old. They had been visiting her father since he had moved, so when her family packed up their belongings, she thought it was just like any other trip.

Instead, they became part of a culture within a culture, and Melbis became inextricably linked to the words illegal immigrant. She is still struggling to find her place in a country that doesn’t quite know what to do with her.

Melbis had a quinceañera, a traditional celebration honoring a 15-year-old girl’s transition into womanhood. Her family offers food to dead relatives on Dia de los Muertos, another Mexican cultural tradition. She listens to Mexican music like banda and reggaeton. 

But she has also formed a life for herself here, after coming into the country through a tourist’s visa – learning the language, celebrating the 4th of July, and making friends from diverse backgrounds here in the United States.

When she crosses the border back to Mexico now, she doesn’t feel like her whole life is there. Phoenix is home. After all, she did grow up here.

The trouble, though, is that she isn’t a permanent resident – at least not legally. When she applied to Apollo College, they told her she was in. When they found out she had no Social Security Number, she was out. She’s currently taking a semester off school.

“I had to quit and my brother too… I see my friends getting loans, and I just can’t get any loans.”

When she tries to work, it’s hard too. While Melbis can’t get jobs at major companies, she did help a woman at a hotel for a while. When the recession hit though, business got slow and she was left without a job.

While her family has worked hard for a small part of the American dream, with her father painting and her mom cleaning houses, the reality of life as an illegal alien in this country and in this county is not the story of Ellis Island and dreams.

A hot-button issue characterized by passionate feelings on all sides about topics ranging from human rights to the economy to drug trafficking and safety, illegal immigration has produced a generation of children who can often get lost in the midst of battleground politics.

Melbis tells me that the hardest part is just having to be careful all the time.

“Cuando estoy manejando, siempre me dan miedo que me van a agarrar y pedir mis papeles.” Or, In English, “When I’m driving, I’m always worried they’re going to pull me over and ask for my papers.”

 Maybe she will be able to reconcile the two. But until then, Melbis is just a name and face of another immigrant – this time, without the papers to tell her where she belongs.

All smiles. Picture c/o Rabia Abdulmajeed.

Meet Rabia Abdulmajeed.  

An ASU senior majoring in Nursing, she has found her way of life in Phoenix.

Phoenix, however, was not her first home. Born in Somalia, her family decided to leave the country when she was 5 years old, due to a civil war. The clash brought her to Kenya, where she would live for 4 years. When her father left for England to secure arrangements, the family thought they would be moving to London. Instead, they were sponsored by the International Rescue Committee to come to the US as refugees.

Coming to the United States, for Rabia, was a huge culture shock. “The food, was different, the language was different. The whole atmosphere was different.”

She had studied English with a private tutor in Kenya, but her first language was Somali. Going into public school without speaking the language was a big adjustment.

Over the years, she heard questions like, “Do you cover your hair because you’re bald? Did you wear grass skirts in Africa or have a tiger as a pet?” She was confused by the way people perceived her homeland.

Rabia wears a headscarf, a practice of Islam - a religion that she feels is not as widely practiced in America, typically seen as predominantly Christian country. While she says she has felt prejudice against this, she is quick to point that she believes religion and culture are two separate things, and she is still trying to iron out her religious viewpoints.

Rabia says that all of these experiences has helped to make her more accepting of people from different backgrounds.

What is home to Rabia?

She has adjusted to Phoenix and life in America. She was President of ASASUD (Associated Students of Arizona State University Downtown) from 2008 to 2009. She is nearing college graduation. This is her home. But this 21-year-old woman in Phoenix is still trying to bring the two together – her cultural roots and her life in America.

“I consider myself American, but I also consider myself Somalian.  I am bi-cultural. Every day, I am trying to find a balance for the Somalian aspect of me and also trying to be American. At times, it’s hard to inter-mingle the two or mesh them together… I’m still struggling with it. I don’t know if there’ll ever be a day where those two come together easily for me.”

I moved to America at the age of six, having never even been to this country before. I had a quinceañera. I spoke with a British accent, in Spanish, and in an odd attempt to fit in with the little girls around me who sounded straight out of the movies. I used to call it a “Barbie” accent.

I packed a backpack to visit my dad’s house in England, and so the term “backpacking Europe” to this day reminds me of trying to find my way around an airport under the term “Unaccompanied Minor,” or “ums” as the flight attendants liked to call us.

Eventually, I adopted the accent, went to prom, and went to college. I will still put on the English accent on request sometimes and eat my Abuelita’s cooking as often as I can. Our family has attended Spanish-language churches, visited relatives across all different borders, and found ways to honor our heritage in this country.

I’m currently applying for citizenship, all of 13 years later. My mom, who came to the United States by way of Mexico and later England, and my older sister Carmen, are going through the process with me. An application, a test, an oath of allegiance… While it’s going to take some time to get through the USCIS process and all of its red tape, we’ve realized it’s time. Despite shared reservations about giving up a part of our identity in exchange for citizenship, our family has found its place in the tapestry of immigrants that is America.

Coming to a new place can be hard – leaving behind the people, places, possessions, and memories that are most familiar and facing all kinds of new challenges. My story is fortunate, that of a little girl finding a new home through wide-eyed excitement. Some people come to new lands through bitter hardship, earning hard-won freedom and a chance at prosperity. Others set out for new adventures because of a job or for love.

The question to me is really all about “home,” finding a place in American culture and holding onto roots – roots that give our country beauty and diversity. Home, after all, isn’t really just a place.