Tea and Tutoring: Friendship Without Borders
My experience with Refugee & Immigrant Transitions.
“I never knew if they were coming back home,” my grandma once told me, when I asked her what it was like to raise kids during a civil war.
There were lots of stories I heard, growing up in a family of refugees, but this one stands out. I would imagine my grandma watching the street from her bathroom window, wondering if the people she loved would survive the perilous days of Beirut in the 1970s.
The wars in the Middle East have kept millions of mothers like her in a constant fear of loss. Ancient, poetic landscapes have been ravaged. Cultures have grown more divided, amongst groups that are more similar than different. This darkness has drowned the global perception of the Middle East in violence and media clichés.
But as strong as this darkness has been, the light of the Middle Eastern people is stronger.
I see it most clearly in refugees — the survivors in my family, and in the displaced community of Refugee & Immigrant Transitions.
A couple years ago, around my birthday, I was reflecting on the abundance of my life. I was comparing my lifestyle of workout classes and tech companies to the tubs of bath water and underground bomb shelters that housed my mom and her siblings. I was grateful for my life, but I needed to translate my gratitude into action. I wanted to support the same community as the one that had raised me, and after a quick Google search, I found Refugee & Immigrant Transitions.
After my trainings and background check, I was paired with M., a young woman from Yemen in her early 20s who spoke Arabic. I later discovered that — like many refugees — she had navigated various cultures and countries on her escape route. Survival meant moving through Africa, the Middle East, the East Coast, and California, where she finally settled with her husband and newborn daughter.
In just a couple years, my student had adapted to more cultural environments than some of us will experience in a lifetime.
I remember my first time walking into M.’s building, seeing Yemeni kids playing outside while somber adults whispered to each other in the lobby. There was a lingering scent of fried onions and garlic, just like my mom’s kitchen.
As soon as I walked into her apartment, I could feel M.’s strength in the first hour of meeting her.
She pieced sentences together to answer our questions, despite feeling shy. She shifted her baby from one arm to the other while serving us adeni tea — a hot mix of cinnamon, herbs, and sweetened milk. Her warm hospitality towards me and Grace, the RIT staff, reminded me of my own family. Throughout the initial introductions and paperwork, M. and I gave each other shy smiles. We set expectations for learning, of which her husband was deeply supportive. He didn’t show much emotion towards us, but I remember him clasping her hand with pride when he said, “Make sure you keep it challenging for her. She’s very smart and picks up quickly.”
In the beginning, I didn’t know how much to ask, or what to say. I didn’t want to pry into her past, and I wasn’t sure how much of my Lebanese Arabic she would understand. I was dependent on textbook lessons, pictures in our booklets, and post-it notes I stuck on objects around her house.
Once a session, her alarm would go off. It was a man’s voice, chanting in Arabic. She would shift around on her couch and look up at the clock, but she never said anything. One day I asked her what the alarm meant. “It’s the holy call to prayer,” she said quietly, and I realized how much I didn’t know about Muslim traditions. Growing up in a Lebanese Christian culture, I had never been in the home of a Muslim family. From that moment on, we stopped our tutoring whenever the chant came on. I would play with her daughter, while M. washed her hands and prayed in the bedroom with the door closed.
In the silence of those moments, I could feel something sacred and ancient taking place.
M. showed passionate dedication to her studies. I would give her homework from the RIT textbook; I would ask her to translate short songs in English; I would make up assignments to keep her engaged. She completed everything, every week, without fail. She asked insightful questions about our complicated language. She wrote down corrections in Arabic and English. She juggled childcare with our lectures flawlessly.
I knew she wouldn’t be challenged with random homework assignments forever, though. I started asking about goals, like holding a conversation with someone at the store. I figured little things would be accessible, given the few months we’d shared.
M. had bigger plans. “I want to get my driving permit and pass my citizenship test. Maybe go to school.”
As I got to know her better, I stopped being surprised (but remained infinitely impressed) by M.’s ambition.
I began introducing more complicated language concepts. I had her write out entire stories, dreams, ideas she had. I helped her research a few different language school options.
The sessions became a mix of school research, grammar, written assignments, and — my favorite part — two women from opposite sides of the world, talking over tea.
As a working class family trying to make ends meet, M. and her baby were supported solely by her husband’s delivery and rideshare income. While this was not an easy feat, especially in the Bay Area, M.’s generosity never ceased. She brewed her special adeni tea for me every time, with a spread of Yemeni snacks. She painted a sunflower on canvas for my birthday. She made to-go bags of treats for my parents. I accepted her gifts with humility and gratitude, each time.
Over tea, we would talk about her tight-knit upbringing, Yemen’s lush landscapes, and her siblings abroad. I would talk about my job, my parents, and the experience of being born here, with each foot in a different culture. As her English evolved, we discussed bigger topics, mixing Arabic with English — belief systems, family dynamics, love, philosophy, art. We laughed at jokes. I looked forward to my visits with her, excited to see what new discussions were possible between two people with such different circumstances.
With M.’s permission, I brought my mom to her house for a visit. My mom made us breakfast, and shared stories with M. about what it was like to raise a baby girl in a new country.
Watching M. sitting at the table with my mom, while I played with M.’s daughter, was a transcendental moment. Three generations of women filled that living room, each from a different time and faith, united by the borderless love of a mother for her child.
Half of me savored this unique, intercultural moment, while the other half of me was angry that these eye-opening connections weren’t more common within my culture.
About eight months into her tutoring, M. shared an idea. One of her neighbors had discovered an adult English school nearby, and she was considering attending. I mentioned that she didn’t have her driver’s license — how would she get there? “No problem — I’ve figured out the bus system”, she reassured me. She asked her husband to stay with the baby during her class time, knowing how important her goals were to their family’s future.
At that same time, RIT sent a new English assessment test to gauge M.’s progress. The results showed that M. had graduated from Beginner to Intermediate English! I was so proud that her consistency and commitment had paid off. She could now enter adult school with head start — and sure enough, she placed into an Intermediate English course, and hit the ground running.
We’ve since transitioned from a working relationship to a supportive friendship, as M. continues her formal English studies. My work gave M. the foothold she needed, but our time together was never the end goal.
I wasn’t “the expert” I had imagined myself to be, as a privileged native of this culture. I was a starting point.
My purpose was to advocate for her — and that, to me, is the role of a mentor. We are here in service, to amplify the voices of a displaced community as they adjust to a life they didn’t anticipate. M.’s ambition parallels my family’s survival, my vision for myself as a woman, and so much more.
In hindsight, I’m not entirely clear on who was mentoring whom. What I know with certainty, is that the simplest moments of connection have the power to transcend borders.
The commonalities we share, bind us together and transform diversity from our divider to our collective power. It is with this power, and these shared experiences, that we actively create a stronger future than we could’ve ever imagined.
And for that, I’m immensely grateful to Refugee & Immigrant transitions for the chance to learn this lesson.
