Amir

Amir.

He told us his name was Amir.

The first summer in our new home, in a residential subdivision where a dozen houses were being built, we enjoyed sitting on our patio in the late evening when the noise and dust of construction crews and machines had ceased. Neighborhood children wandered along our sidewalk, some on their way to play soccer in the vacant lot across the street, some rolling past on bicycles, a few walking their dogs, and many strolling by in that bored and fretful way of pre-teens seeking something (anything!) new and exciting in this drab city where they must feel they are held captive.

Unlike the adult walkers who exchange the customary pleasant and passing greetings with us, children are boldly curious and talkative, stopping to chat, offering information about themselves, and asking us questions. Who are we? Where are we from? Why did we move here? Do we have family here? What are our favorite sports teams?

Of the hundred-plus households in this new subdivision, we are the only old people. Most are young families or couples, so these children know us as curious outliers, surrogate grandparents who are non-threatening and accepting of them. A welcome relief from their parents’ rules and restrictions.

Our favorite pre-teen visitor that first year was Amir. Seven or eight years of age, he came zooming by on his scooter, circled back at the street intersection, and stopped to talk with us. We introduced ourselves and ask him his name. “Amir,” he said. Having worked 25 years at a college, I have known a few young men named Amir, and all were from Middle Eastern countries, Muslim families, and usually Arabic. “Amir” means prince in Arabic, after all. But our youthful visitor was blond and blue-eyed, so I thought I just have mis-heard. “Amir,” he assured me again.

Over the course of the summer, we visited with Amir often and learned that his mother was a blond and blue-eyed Midwesterner and his father was a dark-haired and brown-eyed Middle Easterner. A three-generation household – grandparents, parents, three children – Amir’s family lived about three blocks from us. We did not pry, but we learned that Amir’s grandparents and his father were from Syria. Like many residents of our neighborhood in Rochester, Minnesota, Amir’s father was a medical professional. On our own walks we often meet neighbors who tell us, without pretention, they are a neurosurgeon, the coordinator of organ transplants, a nephrologist, an orthopedic surgeon…

Intimidating for someone like me for whom basic first aid is a challenge.

During that first summer, we also walked by Amir’s home a few times when his grandfather was hosting an afternoon gathering of three or four other men, sitting on lawn chairs in the driveway, smoking, and talking quietly. We would wave; they would wave back. We did not interrupt their socializing; they all seemed so serious.

When the school year began, we observed that grandfather would walk with Amir and his two siblings to the school bus stop, wait until they boarded the bus, and saw that they were safely seated on the trip to school. Each afternoon, regardless of the weather, he would walk to the corner about 10 minutes before the bus arrived, welcome his grandchildren, and walk them home. We also learned that grandfather was not comfortable with our chats during Amir’s scooter or bicycle rides. Amir would glance up the street, see his grandfather checking on him from a couple blocks away, and hurriedly say, “I have to go.” This seemed odd to us, but we decided it was a cultural difference, and grandfather must have thought Amir was being a nuisance. He wasn’t a nuisance; he was a welcome visitor.

Eventually a light came on in my head, and I realized that Amir’s grandfather may have been traumatized by some horrific events in Syria, terrors that made him fearful of allowing his grandchildren, these children he loved and cherished, to be out of his sight and protection for any length of time. Escaping to the United States where any dark-skinned person, including children, could be abducted and imprisoned in concentration camps by Immigration and Customs Enforcement thugs would certainly have increased his fears.

Amir and his family moved out of our neighborhood after a year or so. We miss our chats with him. He is an intelligent and compassionate young man, and we hope that he has a good life in the United States and does not have to deal with the demons that seem to be tormenting his grandfather.

But in the past year, ICE has murdered two innocent people in Minnesota, shot and beaten many more, abducted and imprisoned thousands of dark-skinned people, deported hundreds, and devasted families like Amir’s. I have sent email messages to my U.S. Congressional representative to voice my opposition to these terrorist acts. This congressman has endorsed and voted for every single vile and heinous action taken by President Orange to vilify and terrorize innocent people in this country, start a war that has killed more than 2,000 people, threaten to destroy an entire civilization, divide and promote hatred among Americans, enrich himself and his billionaire cronies through corrupt financial deals and tax breaks, destroy the nation’s economy and its middle class, encourage racism and misogyny, and violate laws and codes of ethic and morality that are the fabric of American life.

This MAGA Republican congressman has never replied.

When I cast my ballot in the November 2026 midterm elections, I will be voting for Amir.