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61 pages 2 hours read

The Ungrateful Refugee: What Immigrants Never Tell You

Nonfiction | Book | Adult | Published in 368

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Key Figures

Dina Nayeri

Dina Nayeri (born 1979) published two novels before The Ungrateful Refugee, both in the biographical “autofiction” style she learned in the Iowa Writers’ Workshop (227). Both novels draw upon Nayeri’s personal (and sometimes speculative) experience. Each of these works, in addition to her latest work (published in 2020), feature the many underacknowledged complexities of the Iranian refugee plight. Nayeri’s curiosity, activism, and grasp of nuance make her an excellent chronicler of the modern refugee experience.

The Ungrateful Refugee is a response to the creeping, pernicious nationalism in the West. Often alluding to philosophical and religious texts to explain the challenges of asylum and assimilation, Nayeri challenges bureaucratic institutions, nationalist movements like UKIP, and commonplace anti-refugee sentiment. The stories she shares show the physical ordeal of escaping to Europe as well as the agony of systemic barriers. However, Nayeri also explores a personal question of identity: “Am I still a refugee after decades spent transforming” (119)? In her younger years, Nayeri treats her origins as a stigma and aims to distance herself through Western success. However, she still remembers the beauty of Iran: She misses the family members she left behind, laments the loss of her homeland’s delicacies, and calls upon the rigor she developed in the Iranian girls’ school. Disillusionment with her career, personal struggles, and Kambiz Roustayi’s death drive her to reexamine and embrace her heritage.

Nayeri writes with a critical eye towards herself. She notes that it felt awkward to call Daniel by his Iranian name and regrets her arrogance towards her mother and the Romanian woman. She worries that she will “f*** Minoo up” while having nightmares that the new refugee is an Iranian agent (296). This self-awareness extends to her progressive ideals. Nayeri is a feminist and celebrates refugee women’s efforts to self-actualize in defiance against hardline patriarchal nations, yet she is self-consciously wary of exploiting refugees who have less privilege than she has. She wants to connect with immigrants without the condescension and carelessness that Western do-gooders exhibit—yet, while she becomes a favorite among the refugees at the Katsikas camp, the feeling that she is intruding on their lives and giving them false hope eats at her.

Nayeri sees the refugee’s goal not as owing a debt to their host country but as achieving their own path. Nayeri ends The Ungrateful Refugee discussing her biggest hope, Elena, and her biggest fear: that her success is only thanks to the West.

Maman

Nayeri’s family members, both those who flee Iran and stay there, offer different perspectives of the refugee experience. Nayeri’s closest and most complicated relationship is with her Maman, Sima. Nayeri sees Maman as the source of her academic rigor—to be “not seventeenth percentile, seventeenth person”—and her feminism, though Maman is too conservative to be feminist herself (23). Instead, Maman turns to Christianity, crediting all actions to God and distributing religious materials even at her own risk. Maman believes that most practitioners—whether Muslims in Iran or Christians in the West—are not truly devout, and she is critical of other Christian refugees.

Maman plays a fundamental role in her children’s development as she educates them during the asylum process and teaches them activities that would help them pass as natives. Conflicts between her and Nayeri grow over time: Nayeri at first blames the family’s squalid conditions in America on her mother’s faults rather than systemic prejudice. Later in life, Maman observes characters in Nayeri’s writings who resemble her, and she considers them dishonest portrayals.

Nayeri’s Other Family

Maman renames Nayeri’s brother as Daniel to be more appealing to Western ears, and Nayeri sees him as the affable, hardworking immigrant whom natives like. Yet Nayeri recognizes that Daniel’s dark skin means he faces prejudices that she can avoid with her lighter skin and cosmetic surgery. Nayeri notes that Daniel jokes with the TSA agent as a way to confirm the agent’s bias, and she accepts his criticism that she shifts her personality to suit her needs.

Nayeri is nostalgic for her countryside visits to her paternal grandmother, Maman Masi, but has a tense relationship with Maman Moti, her maternal grandmother. Maman Moti left Iran before the revolution and refuses any connection to other refugees, even Nayeri’s family as they were fleeing Iran. Nayeri also sees Maman Moti as “addicted to waiting, to hope of rescue” as she longs for a man she briefly met years ago whom she believed would become her future husband (121). Maman Moti’s letter writing, though largely lost, may also foretell Nayeri’s own focus on writing.

Baba is a jovial man, but he lives with an opium use disorder and mood swings. Nayeri recognizes her father’s verbal and physical abuse of Maman, but still wants to see him as a progressive. Her perception of him changes after Baba remarries; he “was free to live unbothered in Iran, as is any straight, married man with money and open doors, a gentle, necessary profession, and a decorative Koran” (95). Nayeri feels embarrassed when he travels to America with his distinctly Iranian moustache, and when he participates in a baptism despite his atheist attitudes. Nayeri’s animosity extends to her half-sister, a potential version of Nayeri if she could have stayed in Iran. Nayeri believes her half-sister’s desire to enter Europe for education is insincere and ignorant of refugees’ suffering.

As Nayeri searches for her place in the world, she creates her own family. Nayeri considers her marriage with Philip, the type of White man Iranian refugees dream of, as pleasant but unfulfilling. Troubles with Philip include others prioritizing his career over hers and faux pas like his telling her she shouldn’t worry about Kambiz’s death because natives accept her. After marrying Sam and giving birth to Elena, Nayeri falls into a depression that she compares to the loss of self that many refugees feel while waiting for asylum. She interviews refugees partly because she wants better self-understanding as she raises Elena in an increasingly hostile world. Nayeri now considers Elena to be her repatriation to a place she lost, but Nayeri acknowledges that a time will come where they will drift apart the way she did with her Maman.

Kaweh Beheshtizadeh & Kambiz Roustayi

Nayeri links the stories of these Iranian refugees as they reflect the successes and horrors of the amnesty process. Both Kaweh and Kambiz are ambitious, talented, multilingual young men. Yet their fates contrast wildly, as “Every fruitful minute in Kaweh’s life is a minute Kambiz spent aimless and waiting” (224).

As a Kurdish resistance writer, Kaweh understands the asylum process. He makes shrewd, pragmatic decisions, and his extraordinary efforts make his transition seamless: learning English language and culture, working overnight shifts, and handling affairs for his multiple roommates. At the same time, he faces similar ordeals as do other refugees, including a failed attempt to cross into Greece, an advocate who doesn’t recognize his UNHCR papers, and asylum officials forcing his name into Iraqi Kurd naming conventions—a possible attempt to disqualify his application. Now an award-winning solicitor, much of the advice Kaweh gives to refugees contradicts what Kambiz receives. Kaweh maintains his political ambitions, and Nayeri considers his potential for Parliamentary office.

Kambiz’s suicide compels Nayeri to investigate his past and learn about the modern refugee experience. Unlike Kaweh, Kambiz has less trouble reaching Europe but can’t convince Netherlands’ asylum system that he was in danger in Iran. While Kambiz stayed in Holland for 12 years, his mental health suffered from financial stagnation and martial unfulfillment, combined with extended periods of helpless waiting. The system failed him at several points; the authorities detained him for a year without access to family or legal aid, and his lawyer could have accepted Kambiz’s visit or held onto his newly acquired documents so he couldn’t lose them.

Nayeri considers whether Kambiz chose his public death because he “wanted to burn his image into their memories” (214). However, Amsterdam’s mayor coldly denies any responsibility, and there are no memorials at Dam Square by the seventh anniversary of his death. Instead, Nayeri finds two men speaking in Farsi about the pain of death and the right way to live. Nayeri implies that Kambiz faced two paths: a passive life as an immigrant living in the country illegally, or a chance to escape that fate with asylum, which could be more rewarding or more painful.

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