I remember when I first found out I was going to speak at a TED conference. I ran across the hall to one of my classrooms to inform my students.
M'arregordu candu apu iscobertu ca depemu chistionai in d'unu TED. Apu cutu in su passaditzu po lompi in d'una classi e ddu nai a is studentis.
"Guess what, guys? I've been asked to give a TED Talk."
"Ddu scireis, piciocus? M'anti domandau de fai unu TED".
The reaction wasn't one I quite expected. The whole room went silent.
Sa reatzioni non fudit cussa chi mi creemu. Totus citius.
"A TED Talk? You mean, like the one you made us watch on grit? Or the one with the scientist that did this really awesome thing with robots?" Muhammad asked.
"Unu TED? Cument'a cussus chi si faint biri in Internet? Cussus cun is scientziaus chi faint cosas bellas cun is robot?" m'at domandau Muhammad.
"Yes, just like that."
"Eja, propiu cussu".
"But Coach, those people are really important and smart."
"O Maista, cussa est genti importanti e abili meda".
(Laughter)
(Arrisu)
"I know that."
"Ddu sciu".
"But Coach, why are you speaking? You hate public speaking."
"O Maista, poita ddui chistionas?
"I do," I admitted,
A ca non ti praxit a chistionai a genti meda".
"But it's important that I speak about us, that I speak about your journeys, about my journey. People need to know."
"Est berus", apu nau, "ma est importanti a chistionai de nosus, de is biaxius de bosatrus, de is biaxius cosa mia. Ddu depint isciri".
The students at the all-refugee school that I founded decided to end with some words of encouragement.
Is istudentis de sa scola po disterraus chi appu creau ant detzidiu de serrai cun fueddus de incoragiamentu.
"Cool! It better be good, Coach."
"Togu! Adessi mellus chi siasta brava, o Maista!"
(Laughter)
(Arrisu)
There are 65.3 million people who have been forcibly displaced from their homes because of war or persecution. The largest number, 11 million, are from Syria. 33,952 people flee their homes daily. The vast majority remain in refugee camps, whose conditions cannot be defined as humane under anyone's definition. We are participating in the degradation of humans. Never have we had numbers this high. This is the highest number of refugees since World War II.
Ci funt 65,3 milionis de personas disterradas a fortza de domu insoru po sa gherra o is persecutzionis. Is prus medas, 11 milionis, benint de sa Siria. 33.952 personas si fuint de domu insoru dognia diri. S'un prus abarranta rifugiaus meis campus in conditzionis chi nisciunus podit cuntziderai umanas. Seus partecipendi a sa degradatzioni de is umanus. Non eus mai biu numerus aici artus. Est su numeru prus artu de disterraus
Now, let me tell you why this issue is so important to me.
de is tempus de sa segundu gherra mondiali.
I am an Arab. I am an immigrant. I am a Muslim. I've also spent the last 12 years of my life working with refugees. Oh -- and I'm also gay. It makes me really popular these days.
Lassaimiri nai poita custa chistioni est aici importanti po mei. Seu araba. Seu disterrada. Seu musulmana. E traballu de a su mancu 12 annus cun is disterraus. Ah, e seu gay puru. Totus cosas chi oi in diri mi faint agradessia meda.
(Laughter)
(Arrisu)
But I am the daughter of a refugee. My grandmother fled Syria in 1964 during the first Assad regime. She was three months pregnant when she packed up a suitcase, piled in her five children and drove to neighboring Jordan, not knowing what the future held for her and her family. My grandfather decided to stay, not believing it was that bad. He followed her a month later, after his brothers were tortured and his factory was taken over by the government. They rebuilt their lives starting from scratch and eventually became independently wealthy Jordanian citizens.
Ma seu filla de unu disterrau. Aiaia mia s'est fuia de sa Siria in su 1964, in su primu regimi de Assad. Fuet pringia de tres mesis candu at fattu is bagaglius, pinnigau is cincu fillus e pigau sa machina fintzas a Giordania, chene isciri su chi depiat sutzedu a issa e a sa famiglia sua. Aiaiu iat detzidiu de abarrai, ca no creiat che fuet aici legia. Ndi ddus at sorigau apustis de un mesi, poita ianta torturau a is fradis e sa fabrica cosa sua ndi dd'iat pigada su guvernu. Nd'ant torrau a pesai sa vida insoru e a s'acabada funti diventaus citadinus giordanus arricus.
I was born in Jordan 11 years later. It was really important to my grandmother for us to know our history and our journey. I was eight years old when she took me to visit my first refugee camp. I didn't understand why. I didn't know why it was so important to her for us to go. I remember walking into the camp holding her hand, and her saying, "Go play with the kids," while she visited with the women in the camp. I didn't want to. These kids weren't like me. They were poor. They lived in a camp. I refused. She knelt down beside me and firmly said, "Go. And don't come back until you've played. Don't ever think people are beneath you or that you have nothing to learn from others."
Deu seu nascia in Giordania apustis de undixi annus. Aiaia ci teniat chi nosus sciremus s'istoria e su biaxiu cosa nosta. Tenemu ott'annus candu m'at portau a biri su primu campu de disterraus. Non podemu cumprendi poita. Non podemu cumprendi poita fuet aici importanti chi nosus ddui andamus. Parit ca mi biu caminendi a manu pigada cun issa in su campu, e mi narat "Bai a giogai cun is pipius", in su mentris chi issa torrat visita a is feminas de su campu. No bolemu andai. Cussus pipius non fuenta cumenti a mei. Fuenta poburus. Biviant in d'unu campu. Mi seu impuntada. Issa s'est inginugada ananta mia e at nau severa "Bai. E non torris fintzas a candu no as giogau. Non ti pentzis mai chi is aterus funti a suta de tui o ca non podis imparai cancuna cosa de is aterus".
I reluctantly went. I never wanted to disappoint my grandmother. I returned a few hours later, having spent some time playing soccer with the kids in the camp. We walked out of the camp, and I was excitedly telling her what a great time I had and how fantastic the kids were.
Seu andanda, mancai murrungendi. Non mi praxiat a fai inchietai a aiaia. Seu torrada a pustis de cancuna ora, emu giogau a bocia cun is pipius de su campu. Bessendinci de su campu fuemu contendiddi tottu prexada ca mi fuemu spassiada meda e ca is pipius fuenta togus meda.
"Haram!" I said in Arabic. "Poor them."
"<i>Haram</i>!" apu nau in arabu, "Poberitus".
"Haram on us," she said, using the word's different meaning, that we were sinning. "Don't feel sorry for them; believe in them."
"Poberus nosus", at nau issa, imperendi su fueddu cun d'un atru significau, ca fuemus fendi pecau. "Non ti dispraxias po issus, creinci".
It wasn't until I left my country of origin for the United States that I realized the impact of her words.
Fintzas a candu seu partia po andai in America no apu cumprendiu s'importantzia de cussus fueddus.
After my college graduation, I applied for and was granted political asylum, based on being a member of a social group. Some people may not realize this, but you can still get the death penalty in some countries for being gay. I had to give up my Jordanian citizenship. That was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, but I had no other choice. The point is, when you find yourself choosing between home and survival, the question "Where are you from?" becomes very loaded. A Syrian woman who I recently met at a refugee camp in Greece articulated it best, when she recalled the exact moment she realized she had to flee Aleppo.
A pustis de s'universidadi, apu domandau e arriciu s'asilu politicu ca fuemu parti de unu grupu sotziali. Cancunu no ddu cumprendit, ma ci funti logus chi ti podint cundannai a morti poita ses gay. Apu depiu lassai sa natzionalidadi giordana. Est istetia sa decisioni prus dificili de sa vida mia, ma non podemu fai atera cosa. Su fatu est ca candu depis scerai a intru de domu tua o sa sopraviventzia sa pregunta "De innui ses?" diventat gai meda. Una siriana chi apu connotu de pagu in d'unu campu po disterraus in Grecia dd'at nau mellus candu m'at contau de su momentu chi at cumprendiu ca si depiat fuiri de Aleppo.
"I looked out the window and there was nothing. It was all rubble. There were no stores, no streets, no schools. Everything was gone. I had been in my apartment for months, listening to bombs drop and watching people die. But I always thought it would get better, that no one could force me to leave, no one could take my home away from me. And I don't know why it was that morning, but when I looked outside, I realized if I didn't leave, my three young children would die. And so we left. We left because we had to, not because we wanted to. There was no choice," she said.
"Apu castiau a foras de sa ventana e non ci fuet nudda. Sceti arruinas. Non ci fuenta butegas, arrugas, scolas. Tottu sciusciau. Fuemu criada in domu de mesis, ascurtendi is bombas arruendi e castiendi sa genti chi moriat. Ma pentzamu sempri ca iat a essi mellus, ca nisciunus mi nci podiat bogai, ca nisciunu mi ndi podiat pigai sa domu. E no sciu cumenti, unu mengianu apu castiau a foras e apu cumprendiu ca chi non mi fuemu, is tres pipius mius iantessi mortus. E seus partius. Si ndi seus fuius poita si depemus fuiri, no poita si ollemus fuiri. No apu tentu scioberu", at nau.
It's kind of hard to believe that you belong when you don't have a home, when your country of origin rejects you because of fear or persecution, or the city that you grew up in is completely destroyed. I didn't feel like I had a home. I was no longer a Jordanian citizen, but I wasn't American, either. I felt a kind of loneliness that is still hard to put into words today.
No fait a ddu crei ca t'agatas candu non tenis una domu, candu sa natzioni cosa tua ti nci bogat po timoria o persecutzioni, o sa bidda innui ses istetia pesada est totu sdarruta. No mi pariat de tenni una domu. No fuemu prus una citadina giordana, ma no fuemu nimancu americana. Mi intendemu aici a sola ca non ddi potzu chistionai ancora.
After college, I desperately needed to find a place to call home. I bounced around from state to state and eventually ended up in North Carolina. Kindhearted people who felt sorry for me offered to pay rent or buy me a meal or a suit for my new interview. It just made me feel more isolated and incapable. It wasn't until I met Miss Sarah, a Southern Baptist who took me in at my lowest and gave me a job, that I started to believe in myself. Miss Sarah owned a diner in the mountains of North Carolina. I assumed, because of my privileged upbringing and my Seven Sister education, that she would ask me to manage the restaurant. I was wrong. I started off washing dishes, cleaning toilets and working the grill. I was humbled; I was shown the value of hard work. But most importantly, I felt valued and embraced. I celebrated Christmas with her family, and she attempted to observe Ramadan with me.
A pustis de s'universidadi, su disigiu de tenni una domu fuet mannu. Seu arrumbulada de stadu in stadu e d'apu acabada in North Carolina. Genti coru bonu, ca ndi ddis pariat mali, mi olianta pagai s'afitu mi olianta donai a papai o comporai unu bistiri po s'atobiu de traballu. Mi seu intendia prus isolada e bona a nudda. Fintzas a chi tanti apu connotu a Miss Sarah, una batista chi m'at arregotu de terra e m'at donau unu traballu, e apu cumentzau a crei ca ci dda podemu fai. Miss Sarah teniada una tratoria meis montis de North Carolina. Mi pentzamu, poita m'anti pesau privilegiada e seu andada a iscolas bonas, ca mi adessi domandau de dirigi sa tratoria. Mi isbagliamu. Apu cumentzau sciacquendi su strexiu, allichidendi is bagnius e traballendi a sa cardiga. M'at apocau, apu cumprendiu ita olit nai a traballai diaderus. Ma, pruschetotu, mi seu intendia apretzada e acullia. A Paschixedda fuemu cun sa familia cosa sua e issa at provau a fai su Ramadam cun mei.
I remember being very nervous about coming out to her -- after all, she was a Southern Baptist. I sat on the couch next to her and I said, "Miss Sarah, you know that I'm gay." Her response is one that I will never forget.
Fuemu nervosa meda prima de ddi nai ca seu gay - issa fuet una batista de su sud. Setzia in su divanu acant'e issa dd'apu nau: "Miss Sarah, fostei ddu scidi ca seu gay". Non m'apu mai a scaresci s'arrisposta cosa sua.
"That's fine, honey. Just don't be a slut."
"Andat beni, sa pipia. Ma no fetzas sa bagassa"
(Laughter)
(Arrisu)
(Applause)
(Tzarracamanus)
I eventually moved to Atlanta, still trying to find my home. My journey took a strange turn three years later, after I met a group of refugee kids playing soccer outside. I'd made a wrong turn into this apartment complex, and I saw these kids outside playing soccer. They were playing barefoot with a raggedy soccer ball and rocks set up as goals. I watched them for about an hour, and after that I was smiling. The boys reminded me of home. They reminded me of the way I grew up playing soccer in the streets of Jordan, with my brothers and cousins. I eventually joined their game. They were a little skeptical about letting me join it, because according to them, girls don't know how to play. But obviously I did.
A s'acabada sei andada a Atlanta, ancora circhendi sa domu mia. A pustis de tres annus, su biaji miu est cambiau a pustis d'essi connotu pipius disterraus gioghendi a bocia. Non emu intzetau sa 'ia e dd'emu acabada in d'unu condominiu, custus pipius fuenta gioghendi a bocia in sa 'ia. Fuenta scrutzus e gioganta cun d'una bocia de tzapulu e cun is perdas po fai sa porta. Ddus apu castiaus po casi un'ora e apustis fuemu arriendi. Cussus pipius m'anti fatu pentzai a domu. M'anti arregordau de candu giogamu a bocia meis istradas de sa Giordania cun fradis e fradilis mius. Apu bofiu giogai deu puru. A principius no fuenta meda sigurus de mi lassai a giogai cun issus, ca, segundu issus, is feminas non scinti giogai. Ma deu sciremu giogai.
I asked them if they had ever played on a team. They said they hadn't, but that they would love to. I gradually won them over, and we formed our first team. This group of kids would give me a crash course in refugees, poverty and humanity. Three brothers from Afghanistan -- Roohullah, Noorullah and Zabiullah -- played a major role in that. I showed up late to practice one day to find the field completely deserted. I was really worried. My team loved to practice. It wasn't like them to miss practice. I got out of my car, and two kids ran out from behind a dumpster, waving their hands frantically.
Ddis apu domandau chi ianta mai giogau in scuadra. M'anti arrespustu ca nou, ma ddis iat a essi praxiu meda. A pagu a pagu ddus apu cunvintus e eus fatu sa primu scuadra. Custus pipius m'anti fatu unu cursu acelerau de disterraus, pobertadi e umanidadi. Tres fradis de s'Afganistan - Roohullah, Noorullah and Zabiullah - funti cussus chi m'anti imparau de prus. A pustis de cancuna diri, andu po s'allenamentu e non agatu a nisciunus. Fuemu preocupada meda. Sa scuadra mia ddis praxiat a s'allenai. Non s'ianta a perdi unu allenamentu. Ndi seu calada de sa machina e duus pipius ndi funti bessius de addia de un caxioni, fadendi sa manu.
"Coach, Rooh got beat up. He got jumped. There was blood everywhere."
"A Rooh dd'anti arropau. Dd'anti fatu sa posta. Fueda prenu de sanguni".
"What do you mean? What do you mean he got beat up?"
"Ita? Dd'anti atripau?"
"These bad kids came and beat him up, Coach. Everybody left. They were all scared."
"Piciocheddus malus funti benius a dd'arropai. Si funti fuius tutus, si funti totus spantaus":
We hopped into my car and drove over to Rooh's apartment. I knocked on the door, and Noor opened it. "Where's Rooh? I need to talk to him, see if he's OK." "He's in his room, Coach. He's refusing to come out." I knocked on the door.
Eus pigau sa machina po andai a domu de Rooh. Apu adubau e Noor at obertu. "Innui e' Rooh? Ddu depu chistionai po biri si andat totu beni". "Est in sa stanza sua. Non ddi olit bessiri". Apu adubau a sa porta.
"Rooh, come on out. I need to talk to you. I need to see if you're OK or if we need to go to the hospital."
"Rooh, bessindi. Ti depu nai una cosa. Ollu biri cumenti staisi e si depis andai a su spidali".
He came out. He had a big gash on his head, a split lip, and he was physically shaken. I was looking at him, and I asked the boys to call for their mom, because I needed to go to the hospital with him. They called for their mom. She came out. I had my back turned to her, and she started screaming in Farsi. The boys fell to the ground laughing. I was very confused, because there was nothing funny about this. They explained to me that she said,
Nd'est bessiu. Potada unu trincu in conca, unu murru segau, e fuet spantau meda. Castiendiddu apu domandau a is piciocheddus de tzerriai a sa mama, ca depemu andai a su spidali cun issu. Anti tzerriau a sa mama. Nd'est bessia a foras. Fuemu furriada e at cumentzau a tzerriai in farsi. Is pipius fuenta arriendi cument'a macus. Deu fuemu afaltada poita non ci fuet nudda de arriri. M'anti ispiegau ca iat nau
"You told me your coach was a Muslim and a woman." From behind, I didn't appear to be either to her.
"M'estis nau ca s'allenadora fuet musulmana e femina". De palas no ddi fuemu pata ni s'una ni s'atera cosa.
(Laughter)
(Arrisu)
"I am Muslim," I said, turning to her. "Ašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾilla (A)llāh," reciting the Muslim declaration of faith. Confused, and perhaps maybe a little bit reassured, she realized that yes, I, this American-acting, shorts-wearing, non-veiled woman, was indeed a Muslim.
"Seu musulmana", dd'apu nau furriendimiri. <i>"Ašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾilla (A)llāh"</i>, sa dichiaratzioni de fidi musulmana. Cunfundia, ma fortzis unu pagu tranquillizada, at cumprendiu ca deu, trassada a americana cun is cratzoneddus crutzus e chentz'e velu fuemu diaderus musulmana.
Their family had fled the Taliban. Hundreds of people in their village were murdered. Their father was taken in by the Taliban, only to return a few months later, a shell of the man he once was. The family escaped to Pakistan, and the two older boys, age eight and 10 at the time, wove rugs for 10 hours a day to provide for their family. They were so excited when they found out that they had been approved to resettle in the United States, making them the lucky 0.1 percent who get to do that. They had hit the jackpot.
Sa famiglia cosa sua s'est fuia de is talebanus. Anti mortu centenas de personas de bidda sua. Su babu est istetiu impresonau de is talebanus, e candu e' torrau a pustis de cancunu mesi no pariat prus s'omini chi fuet istetiu. Sa famiglia s'est fuia in Pakistan e is dus pipius prus mannus, chi intzas teniant 8 e 10 annus, tessiant tapetus dexi oras a sa diri po fai papai a sa famiglia. Fuenta aici cuntentus candu ant scipiu ca ddus iant concediu su permissu po bivi in America, ponendiddus in su 0,1% de beni assortaus chi ci arrennescinti. Ianta bintu su primu premiu.
Their story is not unique. Every refugee family I have worked with has had some version of this. I work with kids who have seen their mothers raped, their fathers' fingers sliced off. One kid saw a bullet put in his grandmother's head, because she refused to let the rebels take him to be a child soldier. Their journeys are haunting. But what I get to see every day is hope, resilience, determination, a love of life and appreciation for being able to rebuild their lives.
S'istoria insoru non est unica. Totus is famiglias disterradas chi apu connotu ndi tenianta una versioni insoru. Traballu cun pipius chi anti biu a sa mama violentada, seghendindi is didus a su babu. Unu pipiu at biu sparendi a sa nonna in conca poita non boliat chi is ribellis ndi ddu pighessint po fai su sordau. Is biaxius insoru funti istetius terribilis. Ma dognia diri biu speru, resilientza e determinazioni, amori po sa vida e gratitudini po essi capatzi de torrai a costruiri is vidas insoru.
I was at the boys' apartment one night, when the mom came home after cleaning 18 hotel rooms in one day. She sat down, and Noor rubbed her feet, saying that he was going to take care of her once he graduated. She smiled from exhaustion. "God is good. Life is good. We are lucky to be here."
Una notti fuemu in domu de is pipius candu est torrada sa mama apustis de essi allichidiu 18 stanzas in d'unu albergu. S'est setzia e Noor dd'at massagiau is peis e dd'at nau ca a pustis de sa laurea s'iat a rendi cura de issa. Issa at arrisiu mancai cantzada. "Deus est bonu. Sa vida est bella. Seus beni assortaus de bivi innoi".
In the last two years, we have seen an escalating anti-refugee sentiment. It's global. The numbers continue to grow because we do nothing to prevent it and nothing to stop it. The issue shouldn't be stopping refugees from coming into our countries. The issue should be not forcing them to leave their own.
Meis urtimus dus annus apu biu crescendi su sentimentu contras a is disterraus. In totu su mundu. Is numerus crescinti poita non fadeus nudda po dd'evitai e nudda po ddu firmai. Su problema non est a non fai benni is disterraus a is natzionis nostas. Su problema iat a depi essi a non ddus sortai a si fuiri de sa insoru.
(Applause)
(Tzarracamanus)
Sorry.
Mi dispraxit.
(Applause)
(Tzarracamanus)
How much more suffering, how much more suffering must we take? How many more people need to be forced out of their homes before we say, "Enough!"? A hundred million? Not only do we shame, blame and reject them for atrocities that they had absolutely nothing to do with, we re-traumatize them, when we're supposed to be welcoming them into our countries. We strip them of their dignity and treat them like criminals.
Cantu soferentza, cantu atera soferentza depeus poderai? Cantu atera genti depit essi sortada de si fuiri de domu sua prima de nai "Est ora de d'acabai"? Centu milionis? No sceti ddus sbregungiaus, ddus acusaus and ddus arrecusaus po is atrocidadis chi non ddi tenint nisciuna curpa, ddus torraus a traumatizai in tambus de ddus aculli meis natzionis cosa nosta. Ndi ddis bogaus sa dignidadi e ddus trataus cumenti a delincuentis.
I had a student in my office a couple of weeks ago. She's originally from Iraq. She broke down crying.
In s'ufiziu tenemu una studentessa cancuna cida faidi. Ndi beniat de s'Iraq. S'est posta a prangi.
"Why do they hate us?"
"Poita si tirriant a nosus?"
"Who hates you?"
"Chini ti tirriat?"
"Everyone; everyone hates us because we are refugees, because we are Muslim."
"Totus. Totus si tirriant poita seus disterraus, poita seus musulmanus".
In the past, I was able to reassure my students that the majority of the world does not hate refugees. But this time I couldn't. I couldn't explain to her why someone tried to rip off her mother's hijab when they were grocery shopping, or why a player on an opposing team called her a terrorist and told her to go back where she came from. I couldn't reassure her that her father's ultimate life sacrifice by serving in the United States military as an interpreter would make her more valued as an American citizen.
Unu tempus, arrennescemu a cunvinci is istudentis ca in sa prus parti de su mundu no tirriant a is disterraus. Ma cust'orta non ci seu arrennescia. Non dd'apu scipiu ispiegai poita a sa mama dd'anti tirau su mucadori candu fuenta in sa butega, o poita un aversariu de s'atera scuadra dd'at tzerriada terrorista e dd'at nau a si ndi torrai de a ca nd'est benia. No dda podemu cunvinci ca su sacrifitziu de su babu, serbendi s'America cumenti a interpreti, dd'iat a fai tenni prus valori cumenti a citadina americana.
We take in so few refugees worldwide. We resettle less than 0.1 percent. That 0.1 percent benefits us more than them. It dumbfounds me how the word "refugee" is considered something to be dirty, something to be ashamed of. They have nothing to be ashamed of.
Aculleus diaderus pagus disterraus. Non ndi sistemaus mancu su 0,1%. Cussu 0,1% si profetat de prus a nosus che a issus e totu. Abarru spantada de cumenti su fueddu "disterrau" parit una cosa bruta, una cosa de si ndi parri bregungia. Non teninti nudda de ddi ndis parri bregungia.
We have seen advances in every aspect of our lives -- except our humanity. There are 65.3 million people who have been forced out of their homes because of war -- the largest number in history. We are the ones who should be ashamed.
Eus biu progressu in dognia aspetu de sa vida nosta, foras de s'umanidadi. Ci funti 66,3 milionis de personas fuius de domu insoru po sa gherra: is prus medas de totu sa storia. A nosus si nd'iat a depi parri bregungia.
Thank you.
Gratzias.
(Applause)
(Tzarracamanus)