Putting Faces to the Numbers

We are in need, David Stoic looked at us and exclaimed. His wife, Anique Stoic, was
listening along with us, her caring face and motherly figure stood strong at the corner of the
living room; near the door and parallel to the couch, as her husband spoke, she beamed at
everyone as if she was thanking us for being supportive. When myself and some of the others
were speaking with her on the narrow balcony outside, the smile never left her face; even though
what she had been through was unimaginable.
In fact, the smile didnt leave the Stoic kids faces either as this was their dream for an
exceedingly long timeto come to America and feel safe and accepted. The Stoics got approved
for resettlement in Phoenix after ceaseless interviews, paperwork, and hardship. Once an
outspoken professor, David now wakes his adult daughters up early in the morning to help him
with his new job at a warehouse. His daughters, Celie, Ruth, and Merveille were at the forefront
of my thoughts as soon as he mentioned them; they were scattered around the apartment
interacting with the others. As I was walking around the wooden-floored, cramped Canyon
Pointe apartment similar to other refugee apartments I had been to with multiple bunk beds in
each room, helping put things away, I caught a joyous momentCelie, tall with a bright aqua
shirt which stood out against her beautiful dark skin, was touching the cheek of a young blonde
girl, telling her how pretty she was. Celie was lifes perfect stranger to the young girl; her eyes
and hands told a story which allowed the girl to understand her despite the language barrier. The
twin sons, John, who was wearing a sports jersey with a Pepsi logo, a logo which has recently
been the iconography of trivializing the Black Lives Matter movement and Ioic, who then had a
CVS brand band-aid across his mouth, made the local news shortly after their arrival when they
became star athletes on their high school football team; all five children are enrolled in school,
speaking to the parents love for education. Their enthusiasm for education manifested itself in
the way young Ruth reacted when we handed her a brand-new backpack full of school supplies,
her eyes lighting up and a smile spreading across her tiny face, the way the Stoic twins stayed
humble while some of the volunteers raved about their already exciting sports careers, the way
Davids voice sounded almost nostalgic while describing his teaching profession in the
Democratic Republic of the Congo.
My attention drifted over to Anique, who had on one of the most colorful dresses that I
had ever seen; it had the color scheme of a toucan and was wrapped and folded perfectly neat,
framing her body just like curtains for a window which revealed both rough and smooth waters
beyond. Although she did not say a word to me, she did not need to; her eyes and kind face made
me feel more welcome into her home than any socially constructed language ever could. There
are those strangers in life who dont feel like strangers at all upon first glance because they carry
a nurturing gaze, they carry stories of resilience in the face of adversity, they carry their hearts on
their sleevesAnique was this type of stranger to me. I shook her hands, soft but slightly
battered hands, hands which have shielded, comforted, protected. Despite the comfort I felt, I
knew that those I was about to meet had persevered through situations of extreme discomfort, to
say the least.
The Stoics are a family of refugees, and we, myself as an intern for the Welcome to
America project and the others who were volunteers, were there to drop off donations and give
them a warm welcome to their new community. Sitting across from David Stoic, the father and
the main supporter of the family, I would learn what atrocities and feats of courage those years
were filled with not only by listening to his strikingly deep voice with a Congolese accent but
also by looking at his eyes while he was speaking. Despite the trauma and violence theyd
experienced, they welcomed me into their modest home, shared their story with utmost
generosity, and most of all, kept themselves together while speaking about the war.
The family had survived the civil war violence happening in the Democratic Republic of
the Congothe father, David, was a professor and photographer in the DRC who the
government persecuted for exposing the bloody reality of the civil war. With a heavy, emotional
voice he explained, They did not like my pictures, using an arm motion that relayed utmost
exasperation. In accordance with Dr. Carolyn Warner who is a Professor of Political Science at
Arizona State University with a research focus on religion and global conflict, government
exploitation and persecution of minority groups and those who practice free speech are,
unfortunately, common. In her words, Its not all about religion its also looking at state
repression and how that might affect people [one source of conflict is] the failure of the states
that many terrorists are originally from to provide outlets for their young people to have a
future, to be able to express themselves and have a peaceful protest without being thrown in jail.
Warner also goes into depth about how complex conflicts such as the DRC war arebecause
theyre not just about economic grievances either. Those who are at the top of the political and
social hierarchy are enabled to use the public discourse to their advantage and seek out
repression of unfavored groups by taking away rights and provisions they previously depended
on, also impacting personal and group identities for the worst: division, desperation, and worst of
all, violence. The children who are fed the food their parents refused themselves know violence,
the parents who have made the decision to flee home know violence, the family who trusts that
the side-roads and oceans are safer than where they came from know violence.
The Stoics fled to a refugee camp in Zimbabwe where during their seven-year stay,
Anique became a counselor and the Vice Chairman of Education. Both Anique and David
tutored French to the kids living in their camp and became mentors for them, so that they may be
able to, someday, move out of those horrific circumstances and into a life where they know how
to seek out educational and economic opportunities. While he was telling us all of this, I could
see in his eyes that he was upset, but I knew I had to take it upon myself to tell him that his love
for his family, his motivation, and his work ethic inspired me to no end. My heart shattered to
see him so down when, really, he had accomplished so much not only upon arriving in America,
but also in the Zimbabwe refugee camp; he and his daughters had work, everyone was in school,
and his sons made the news for their excellence at what they loved. He reminded me of the
people in my own family, choosing to do the best they could with what they had in order to
ensure stability. I told him some of my story: how my family, although not refugees by any
means, similarly came here in hopes of a better life. They worked all sorts of jobs on their way to
achieving their goals--my dad, after being at such a point where the government gave us five
thousand dollars after my birth, moved on to get his Doctorate in Business and become an
esteemed professor in multiple universities across Pennsylvania. My mom got a full scholarship
to Rutgers University and eventually achieved her dream of opening a Montessori school. After I
told all of this to him, I sort of studied his face to see his reaction. His expression was solemn
and he continuously nodded his head as if reassuring himself and although I was excited to see
my words struck a chord with him, I could not help but think that I told the story to reaffirm my
own faith in this country, in the fact that after we all left their home they would continue to feel
motivated and empowered by everything America has to offer. After a few seconds of silence the
other volunteers started up another conversation with David but I was fighting back tears. As
everyone started getting up to leave I noticed one of the other volunteers, the man with the young
blonde daughter, attempting to exchange contacts with David under the table since the
International Rescue Committee does not allow for such personal exchanges because,
unfortunately, refugees are often taken advantage of upon resettlement. I didnt perceive the
exchange as a blatant disregard for the rules, however. I saw it as a testament to how incredibly
much community members are committed to causes they are passionate about, willing to break
rules for those stories, those numbers which are no longer numbers to them, those people from
the scary news articles who have become real to them. That volunteer reminded me of my friend
and fellow frequent Welcome to America Project volunteer, Samantha Hill, a sophomore
studying Psychology and Muslim convert, who took her passion for refugees and turned it into
motivation to co-found the Refugee Support Alliance, connecting community members to
opportunities to help the tempest-tost of our world. In Hills words, One of the hardest things
weve come across is this fear of, you know, the world is too broken and theres nothing we can
do about it At some point you just have to say theres no way were gonna make it perfect,
theres no way to fix everything thats wrong, but unless we actually start doing something
nothing will get better. She argues that tangible support such as showing up to listen to refugee
stories is much more meaningful than staying home and comfortably liking Facebook articles
having to do with the crisis. As Hill points out, Theres this fear towards the other and this
fear towards immigrants, and I think once that fear is started its really hard to keep it under
control, so I feel like as the general population has shown us, fear can really spiral out of control
very quickly and I think its gonna be hard to convince people that refugees are people just
like us, who are trying to flee the danger; they are not the threat, they are fleeing the threat.
As we were getting ready to head out, I felt a pang at the back of my throat, gripping it
and spreading its web of stings down my throat and into my chest. At the time, I did not know
what an impact David Stoic and his incredible family of role models in terms of overcoming
adversity, would have on me. Their story shed light on the privilege I have in life, and how I can
use that privilege to reach out to those who need support, those who are the huddled masses
yearning to breathe free, yearning for any source of golden light to shine their way. After I got
myself together, I stood up and asked David for a picture, since he had signed the photo-release
forms and I did not want to forget the experience at all. Another volunteer took the photo as I
shook his sturdy hand. Once again, words were not necessary. They helped me understand him
better, but they could not tell me what looking at his eyes and feeling his rough, battered hand
did; Welcome to America, I softly uttered. As the others passed by and out of the apartment
they stopped by David as well, and with every handshake, with every good luck, with every
welcome, Davids smile grew.