Until recently, I knew little about Islam, Afghan culture or how refugees live in the United States. I didn’t know that Muslims pray at certain times of the day, and that most believe we all worship the same God. I didn’t know they only eat halal meat, which has been slaughtered and blessed in a very specific way. I didn’t know that Afghans speak languages called Dari and Pashto. I certainly didn’t know that some refugees in San Antonio walk five miles to the supermarket, lugging their groceries home on foot.
But mainly, I didn’t know how incredibly kind and loving Afghan people could be — or how much of a lasting bond I’d develop with one family: parents Samira and Ahmad, whose names I’ve changed to protect their privacy, and their seven children.
I’m a 70-year-old grandmother and retired teacher and live on my own. In the fall of 2021, I watched a presentation about refugees hosted by the faith liaison for the City of San Antonio. Later, Zet Baer, the creative director of my faith community Celebration Circle asked if some of us would be interested in helping an Afghan family who’d been evacuated from Kabul and would soon be moving to San Antonio.
I was skeptical about how much I could do. I didn’t speak their native language and wondered if they’d really want an American woman like me around. Would they welcome me? Or would our cultural differences be too great?
But I was heartbroken over the many thousands of people who’d been forced to flee their homes after the U.S. withdrew its troops. I heard we were expecting close to 4,000 refugees in San Antonio. That’s a lot of families who needed help getting resettled. I couldn’t turn my back on them. I said I’d volunteer if my friend Betty would do it with me. She agreed. With no idea what we were getting ourselves into, we said yes.
Our first meeting with the Afghan family was in March 2022, soon after they arrived in San Antonio from a military base in Virginia. I went with another Celebration Circle volunteer to pick them up at their apartment in a 15-person passenger van with four car seats strapped in. We entered their small, sparse apartment, and the husband, Ahmad, greeted me with a hug. He had the biggest, warmest smile. All my worries about feeling welcomed faded away. Samira, came out of the room crying. She had recently learned her brother back in Afghanistan was injured. I put my hand on her shoulder to comfort her. She seemed shy and reserved but thanked me.
We loaded up all nine of them in the van, strapping in the youngest children and laughing when the big kids tried to sit in the car seats, and drove to a community meal at San Antonio’s New Living Spiritual Center. There were about a dozen of us from Celebration Circle, and we brought coloring books, drawing paper and books for the kids. Even with a language barrier, the children were outgoing and social, sitting on my lap as I read them a story.
Our first task was to help them buy groceries. Refugees are often given food stamps as they get settled, but Ahmad and Samira were still waiting for their application to be approved. Another Celebration Circle member and I drove them to an H-E-B grocery store near where they lived. Their eldest son was 13 and spoke the most English, so he helped translate for us. We stuffed my small Toyota Corolla with enough groceries and bottled water for nine people. My trunk dragged on the way home.
Soon I was spending entire afternoons and evenings at Ahmad’s and Samira’s apartment, using a translation app to help us communicate. I’d often drive them to local resettlement agencies, the food bank or a diaper bank. Every time I’d come by, the family would welcome me with open arms. The children would hug me and sit on my lap to show me a toy or a book. They’d insist I’d stay for a delicious meal.
One time, Ahmad called and asked if I could drive Samira to the hospital. I drove there as quickly as I could and discovered she was miscarrying. She held my hand during the exams, and I helped clarify the questions she had after the procedure. It was a painful process, both mentally and physically. I was grateful to be there for her and grateful for the loving care Samira received at our local University Hospital.
As time went on, Ahmad and Samira begin to call me “Ma.” This touched me deeply because I knew they had been forced to leave their own parents behind in Afghanistan. Of course, I’m no replacement, but I began to think of them as my son and daughter, and their children felt as much like grandchildren as my own.
In July, nearly one year since they’d arrived in the U.S., the family shared that they were planning to move to San Diego where Ahmad’s sister lived. He said they wouldn’t go without my blessing. I wanted the best for them, wherever that might be. But my heart sank. I was devastated to lose them. Still, I helped them pack their things while Ahmad arranged for one of his relatives to drive them there. Samira prepared a special farewell meal for me. Then it was time to say goodbye. We stood in their apartment, the kids crowding around, as tears streamed down our faces. They kept telling me in Pashto, “don’t cry, don’t cry,” but we couldn’t stop.
I still miss Samira and Ahmad dearly, but we stay in touch, and I plan to visit them in San Diego. Thanks to them, my world opened up. It became bigger than me and my life in San Antonio. I’ve since helped two more Afghan families resettle here. Our country can feel so divided, but when I think of Ahmad and Samira, I remember how connected we really are. We all want safe communities to raise our children. We want the freedom to make the best choices for ourselves and our families. And we want to feel part of our communities. It’s simple, really. But it took my friendship with Ahmad and Samira to be reminded of this. One act of kindness can change someone’s life — and all our lives — for the better.
