Each day they make a pilgrimage to the third floor of the Boys & Girls Clubs of Porter County in Valparaiso. They bring notebooks. They bring snacks. They bring smiles.
"Good … morning," one woman said with broken but polite English.
A physician, a pharmacist, a writer, a housewife, an elementary school teacher and a mother of three, among others. A middle-aged man looking for work. An 18-year-old woman looking to study law. A 2-month-old baby looking up to his mother. More than a dozen in all.
Their stories are diverse. Their backgrounds vary. Their faces show different shades of worry and excitement. Their names are Bedeea, Zholya and Dalal. Joelle, Jumana and Wessam. Ghusoon, Dalal, Salim, Ibrahim and Omar.
They don't describe themselves as refugees. That word triggers images from TV news reports showing millions of Syrians fleeing their war-torn homeland for neighboring countries. Without a home to return to, those refugees are desperate to find a new home in any country. They have no choice.
Members of this group in Valparaiso have choices. Yet they also seek refuge in our country after fleeing their homes in Syria and Iraq. A few arrived more than a year ago. Others arrived just weeks ago. Some are here for the long haul, proudly calling America their new home. Others are here with a six-month visitor visa as the clock of fate ticks in their head.
Can they stay here? Can they find jobs? Can they learn our language? Master our culture? Understand our values? Realize our world-renowned American Dream?
Today, I'm beginning a series of columns on this new group of Northwest Indiana residents as they attempt to meld into our bubbling melting pot. I'll talk with them about their hopes, dreams, concerns and efforts to assimilate into this country, a controversial trend involving displaced Arabic-speaking Muslims forced to escape their country.
They're not only facing their own fears. They're facing our fears too.
Will they steal our jobs? Will they drain our dwindling resources? Will their Muslim religion trump our American way?
"Some people here just don't like Arabic-speaking Muslims," said Rhiannon Roesler Alobeid, who teaches an English-as-second-language class to this group of mostly Muslims.
Alobeid also is Muslim, converting to this religion after marrying her husband, who's Syrian. Her legal name is Rhiannon, which her family and friends call her. Her Islamic name is Noor, which she goes by during the ESL classes.
"Some people in this country are confused and fearful about Arabs," Alobeid told the students, who silently nodded their heads. "All they know is what they watch on TV, and it isn't positive."
Alobeid volunteers at the Valparaiso Adult Learning Center, operated through the Center of Workforce Innovations and Community Education Connection. The agency oversees several learning centers throughout the area, including this one in the Boys & Girls Clubs of Porter County.
This center is under direction of Daniela Mancusi-Shreve, the lead instructor, who has noticed a significant increase in Middle Eastern students over the past year.
"It can be heartbreaking to see these families' situations, with their heritage at home just obliterated, but it's so inspiring to see them flourish here," she told me during a recent class.
When she started in this program several years ago, most students were Spanish-speaking. Today, most are Arabic-speaking.
Most are here to build their academic skills, gain experience for the workplace and improve communication skills. Some are graduate students. Others are spouses of students. They learn here while their children attend schools in Valparaiso.
"We have become their new family," said Mancusi-Shreve, who goes by "Aunt Danni" to the students' children.
One woman named Ghusoon moved here a few months ago, following her husband who arrived two years ago to attend Valparaiso University. He graduated with a degree in digital media and is still looking for a job, a common problem for families in this group.
"This group is very smart. Most had professional careers in their own country," said Alobeid, who hopes public exposure will help their job search.
Ghusoon, who has two children, plans on staying here, but her husband's career must first take hold.
"This is our home now. Most American people have been very kindly to us," said Ghusoon, who requested her last name not be published.
The students are fearful something could happen to their families back home, where some are considering a return despite the dangers.
"It's our home," explained Wessam, who moved to Valparaiso two months ago with his wife, Jumana, and their three children.
The family is here on six-month visitor visas, unsure if they will stay or return home to continue Wessam's shipping business.
One Syrian man, a surgeon in his country, said, "I hope Syria will improve so we can return there. I miss my job."
"I miss my life there but we have hope here," added his wife, who was a hospital pharmacist in Syria.
The highly televised exodus from that country is unparalleled in our time, with 12 million Syrians forced from their homes, half of them children. Many of them have relocated multiple times since the conflict began in 2011.
Last month, U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry said our country would accept 15,000 more refugees this year than last year. Even more are expected to arrive here and start new lives amid mixed feelings from Americans. It's an inner conflict between compassionate humanitarianism and hardline territorialism.
Amid these conflicts both here and abroad, we should keep learning about these residents aspiring to become Americans even as they learn about us.
"As you know, Arabs are smart, caring and hard-working people," Alobeid told the families. "Not all are fanatical Islamists who will harm Americans. It's up to you to change Americans' opinions. You will only perpetuate these myths about your people if you don't share your story with them, starting by sharing it with Jerry."
They looked at me. I looked at them. We smiled at each other. It was a start.