From Baghdad to Brooklyn: My Journey with an Iraqi Refugee

"That one sounds like mortar fire," Mohamed said to me. "And that was definitely a sniper." My Iraqi friend and I were hanging out on the beach in Coney Island for the Friday night summer fireworks. Listening to the thunderous explosions over the water as we rode the Wonder Wheel, memories of life in war-torn Iraq inevitably came to mind.

The fireworks came to a close, and a song that most Americans have heard countless times began to play from the nearby sound system. "I'm proud to be an American … where at least I know I'm free …" The crowd began to cheer and raise lighters into the air.

I wondered what else must be going through Mohamed's head. Just two weeks ago, he had been a refugee living in the slums of Damascus, Syria.

To date, 1 in 5 Iraqis have left their homes. Two million have left the country, and another 2½ million are internally displaced. After the 2003 bombing of the Shiite shrine in Samarra unleashed a wave of sectarian clashes, those with the means to do so began fleeing in droves. Many have chosen to wait out the violence in urban areas of Jordan and Syria, the two countries that host the most Iraqi refugees.

Mohamed had been living like most of them. Unable to work legally in Syria, he relied on the meager savings his parents could send him from Iraq. Over the course of one year, he moved 16 times to a series of filthy, roach-infested, overpriced apartments. It's a seller's market. Iraqi refugees are taken advantage of by just about every crooked landlord who realizes how desperately they don't want to be sent back -- war profiteering on a new level.

Mohamed spent his days sleeping because, as he told me, it was too depressing to watch those going on with their lives while his own had hit a dead end. His nights were spent watching the news on television and worrying about those left behind -- his immediate family was still living in their Baghdad home near the Green Zone. During his time in Syria, five car bombs exploded on his family's residential street, each time blowing out all the windows and doors, but thankfully not harming those inside.

My work as videojournalist has brought me to the Middle East a number of times. I first crossed paths with Mohamed in January of 2007 in Jordan, where I interviewed him for a news piece on Iraqi refugees. I was immediately struck by how much adversity he'd faced by the age of 24.

The more I got to know him, the more I wanted to document his life. Yet at the same time, I felt compelled to use what power I had to see how I could change it. Sitting by and simply watching his life unravel didn't seem right to me.

Many journalists I know have gone through similar situations. You form a special connection to one of your subjects, and you decide to help them -- sometimes sending money for food, school or clothing.

I wanted to bring Mohamed to the United States. The eternal optimist, I was so sure I could make this happen that I took a photo of a bench on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, where one can take in the quintessential view of Manhattan. "We'll be sitting there together one day," I promised him.

From 2007 to 2008, I spent a collective five months in Damascus with Mohamed. Throughout this journey -- at times both tragic and entertaining -- I made a good friend, became part of an Iraqi family and realized the reach of the power that I have as a U.S. citizen in doing my part to clean up the mess that's been made in Iraq.

Life Before the Invasion

Mohamed and I bonded from the first time we met, and I was struck by the similarities in upbringing we had. When I was his age, I was working a full-time job in Portland, Oregon. I had graduated from college debt-free and rarely worried about money. With a 401(k), health insurance and a steady income, my future held promise and opportunity.