“And these are my dogs Cooper and Killebrew…” in a moment of complete divine prompting, I just happened to show Zamzam pictures of my pooches as her three boys zipped up their coats to go over to my house for their first American Thanksgiving.
“Oh no…” she started speaking Somali to her husband Liban in a concerned tone. He turned to me and explained that in Islam dogs are considered impure and therefore they would have to take caution to not to come in contact with them.
Knowing that my dogs would likely pounce the moment anyone came through the front door, I shot a quick text home asking to keep the dogs outside for the evening.
To my (and their) surprise, the Ahmed’s had already had their first taste of Thanksgiving delicacies earlier that day when a volunteer from Meals on Wheels delivered turkey, mashed potatoes, and all the fixings for the family’s first American holiday sealed with notes in both English & their native tongue Somali.
Once coats were zipped, hats were on, and car seats were in hand, we headed outside to a fresh layer of snow, the first sticking powder of the season.
Liban and Zamzam grew up in Somalia, but have spent the past 15 years in a refugee camp in Kenya. All three of their boys, Khalid, Yusuf, and Elias were born in Kenya, and have called Kakuma home until three months ago when their world turned upside down and they hopped on a plane to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Needless to say, they had never seen snow before and were encountering it for the first time on Thanksgiving day.
With a little apprehension, the boys reached down to touch the white powder and squealed in delight over this foreign texture.
Upon arrival to my house, it was immediate sensory overload, even for me. My mom’s side of the family was there, my dad’s side was there, even some distant relatives from Canada were joining us for our joined holiday tradition. We made our way around the house as some of my family members attempted the Arabic greeting, “Assalaamalaykum.”
Since the Ahmed’s have only been in the States for a few months, their English is still very limited, but some of my cousins found common ground with the kids by playing soccer with them in our basement.
When it was time for dinner, we loaded up plates with turkey and potatoes and sat down at my mom’s beautifully decorated Thanksgiving tables, scattered around the house. Now, Zamzam has cooked for me many times while I’ve been over at their apartment and every time, she hands me a fork while the rest of the family uses their hands to eat, as is traditional in many African cultures. However, it didn’t click until we sat down at our silverware-set table that this family had never actually used silverware before. 4-year-old Elias picked up a knife with confusion and tried to deliver some food with it to his mouth. Liban quickly walked around the table, doing a tutorial with the boys on how to eat with a fork and spoon. It was evident even he was unaccustomed to our American way of eating when he started to cut up a dinner roll into small pieces.
After dinner, we headed outside to play in the snow and take pictures by my neighbor’s Christmas lights. At the end of the evening, we drove home with full bellies and joyful hearts over our first shared Thanksgiving together.
The Ahmed’s are just one family. One gaggle of refugees who by the grace of God, made it out of their war-torn home country and managed to get through years of processing and interviews before landing in the US. They represent many. Many people who are trying to escape violence and chaos in search of a better life. In their search for a better life, may we be people who beckon with the call to not just a better life, but to an abundant life (John 10:10).
The Ahmed’s are Muslim. They believe and practice a faith that is from it’s origin, directly opposed to the Gospel of Jesus. They represent many. Many who take up arms and many who don’t. In their search for the one true God, may we be people of peace who engage darkness with light, testifying to the Truth, the Way, and the Life (John 14:6).
