A Kurd with PTSD

In my blog, I have decided to (in general) not state what the person’s ethnicity is. It may be relevant. It may not be. I think ethnicity can tell part (a big part) of our story. I believe my ethnicity tells a story. But, just to be non-stereotyping and non-racist or politically correct, or whatever…I’ve decided to leave that mostly out of my blog. You’ll have to use your imagination.

In my assessment of and work with refugees and immigrants, I don’t know if I can do that – not mention their nationality or ethnicity. Their journey to the US and their experience in the US can have a profound impact on their socialization, their mental health, and their physical health.

Anyway, enough of my tap dancing. I went to do an assessment on Gelavej. She was in her mid-60s and was a refugee from Iraq. She was from Northern Iraq and was Kurdish. Let me tell you, from the moment I walked into the door, she was afraid. She was afraid of me, an American. She didn’t want to talk to me. Well, she COULDN’T talk to me. She spoke no English. And, she didn’t speak my broken second language, either. But, even with no words we could understand from the other – I hoped. I felt like body language and tone of voice would go a long way. I pointed to her picture of Jesus on the wall and pointed to my heart. I wanted to do anything that would help. I thought relating to her would help her feel comfortable.

Not for her.

Her son, Akam, explained that his parents were driven from their home and came to live in a refugee camp in Northern Iraq. If that wasn’t enough, they were gassed with chemicals by “you know who.” Gelavej’s husband and other family members were killed. Gelavej survived. I can’t remember the story Akam told me about how she survived and came to the US. I just remember him telling me that she had become “insane.” She had seen atrocities like I will likely never experience (I hope).

She was intensely afraid to go outside. She was very afraid of Americans. We didn’t dress like her. We didn’t act like her. We didn’t eat like her and we didn’t talk like her. Everything – absolutely everything – was foreign. She had no way to function outside their tiny apartment. She was also afraid that Saddam or his people would somehow find her.

She felt like she was on fire. She said she burned all the time. Most unfortunately, in order to quench the fire, she drank water – too much water. She drank so much water as to injure her health.

She hurt all over from arthritis. She felt like she was burning (chemicals? memory?). She knew no one except her son. She had no language to communicate in the outside world (way too traumatized to go out and get to know other Iraqis in Phoenix).

It made me wonder about the strength of the human spirit. If I had been driven from my home, gassed, and watched my husband die, I think I would just go ahead and die myself. I certainly wouldn’t have it together enough to cross land, cross an ocean, cross more land, and plant myself in a foreign city where I essentially can’t function. I think a lot about my grandmother who came to the US not knowing anyone, not knowing the language.

I have met some strong people in my life. Gelavej was one of them. Although frightened, she was still surviving. My heart was filled with so much sorrow about what she’d gone through and where she was going to go from that point onward.