Disconcerted by their American dream

“Should I become an American?”

Every man and woman in our extended Iraqi family of interpreters, stringers, drivers, bodyguards, housekeepers and cook is asking that question.

Most of them had thought, or dreamed, of it before. They’ve all been traumatized by their country’s upheaval. Many have had a friend or relative killed. All live in fear of being identified by their neighbors as a sympathizer with the West. The gifts I bring for their children are carefully chosen not to carry a “Made in America” label.

Escaping to the United States was a useful daydream, something to keep the mind off reality.

Now, with a stroke of U.S. policy, it’s become reality. The State Department has said it will extend refugee status to employees of Western news organizations, and, to make it easier for them to apply, it has opened an office in Baghdad.

When I heard this back in the States, I immediately thought of my last conversation with Qusay, a tall, muscular driver with two boys and a girl at home.

We were at the end of an enormous line outside the Green Zone, waiting for his car to be sniffed by a dog.

“I want to take my family out of this country,” he told me. “Can you help me?”

The finality in his voice was poignant, considering the incredibly long odds against his plan.

At the time, his best shot was the lottery. Every year, the U.S. picks 50,000 from the multitude of applicants seeking immigrant status. The rules of the game are brutal. If chosen, you’re sent a letter. Otherwise, silence. Because Iraqis don’t trust the mail, I had offered the use of my U.S. address to Saif Rasheed, a pharmacist who works for The Times as an interpreter. Saif has put his name in the mix every year since his 2-year-old daughter was born. He’s heard nothing.

I had wondered about the prospects for Qusay, a martial arts specialist with great self-assurance but a man who lacks marketable skills. Now, however, anyone on our staff has only to e-mail the application and go on with his life while the request is processed.

Under the new policy, it appears to be almost a sure thing. The State Department has a goal of admitting 12,000 Iraqi refugees this year, including those who worked for the news media, and last week said it would accept an additional 5,000 Iraqis who have worked for the U.S. government or military.

It was no surprise that Qusay and Saif had already applied by the time I returned in mid-June on my fifth one-month stint in The Times’ Baghdad Bureau.

But I didn’t anticipate how thoroughly the question has come to dominate the climate in our bureau, nor did I imagine how it would affect me.

After three years, I had become increasingly apprehensive about how I would end my relationship with a number of staff members to whom I had become unexpectedly attached.

Is this the time, I asked myself, I’ll tell them honestly, “Goodbye forever” instead of “See you next time”?

Now, every one of them was considering a move that would change everything for all of us.

Was it actually possible that I’d be telling some of my Iraqi friends, “See you at my house”?

I can’t say whether I was more saddened or relieved when our desk guard told me he was not filing an application. Salman, a dear man who brings me tea and confections every day and diligently pursues the study of English by battering his way through classic novels, told me he is too old to uproot his family and start afresh.

“For 100 years, our country has had troubles,” Salman said. “It is our way.”

I think America would be hard on Salman.

Yet I was astonished at how completely others had renounced their country and how much of a sacrifice they were willing to make to leave it.

“In this country I have nothing, not one square meter,” our driver Ahmed told me. “I want to change my chances.”

With the staff divided about 50-50, office manager Salar Jaff, a slender Kurd who holds a bachelor’s degree in English literature and has seen a good deal of life outside Iraq, is aghast. He sees this tally as a case of collective hysteria.

Even the part-time cleaning lady and guards hired by the hotel to man the concrete bunkers outside are applying, he told me in amazement. “They don’t even speak a word of English!” he said, fingering his string of beads.

Salar has become the refugee Scrooge, sometimes painting a harsh picture of life in the United States.

His case comes off as a blend of logic and condescension. He says the Iraqis have fantasized the U.S. Particularly the drivers and guards, who generally have police or military backgrounds and little formal education and are misled by the wealth and apparent sincerity of the Americans they’ve come in contact with. Their experience in a paternalistic society that provides free food for all has not prepared them for the dog-eat-dog competitiveness of American capitalism, he says.

Some staff members have questioned his motivation, suggesting he might be trying to hang on to trusted employees.

Salar’s position is indeed complex. He is the head of a tribe, though not the traditional kind held together by blood ties. His keen sense of character is the bond. Each member was chosen according to Salar’s estimation of his trustworthiness, competence and compatibility.

Salar acknowledges that he would hate to lose anyone. He would miss them as employees and members of his family, he says. But he also wants what is best for each of them.

He quotes an Arab proverb that says a man should follow the one who makes him cry, not the one who makes him laugh.

Because I too have come to feel a strong kinship with these men, who unquestioningly put themselves in danger to ensure my safety, I am in an equal quandary. Some of them have asked me what I think. I want to help them make the right decision, but I don’t know what it is.

What would assimilation be like? As much as I want to embrace Qusay and say, “Welcome to America!” I worry that Salar’s prediction is on target.

I can see Qusay driving a cab for 15 years, or being a bellhop, or standing guard in a supermarket to gain his children the freedom he believes America offers.

“I will do whatever it takes,” he told me. I don’t doubt him.

My deepest worry concerns Saif, a quiet, sensitive young man who has always been my preferred interpreter. He’s unflinchingly guided me through the streets of Baghdad, and I’ve dragged him through the bizarre and often brusque world of a U.S. military base.

Saif comes from a family of some stature in Baghdad. Chances are that in some not-too-distant time, he’d be able to resume his pharmacist practice and build a life here that in most ways resembles the one he had before the 2003 U.S.-led invasion.

But he didn’t have a daughter then, and now he does. He told me last year that he had set his course and it was final.

Probably in a year or less, Saif and his family will be living in the U.S. He says he understands that he’ll have to accept any job while he prepares for certification exams.

I embrace his decision and welcome him. But it would break my heart to see him standing guard in a supermarket.

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doug.smith@latimes.com