​An Iraqi émigré's new life in America

With U.S. war planes back in the air over Iraq, we got to thinking about some of the Iraqis who have fled their war-torn home in search of a better life here in America. One immigrant's story we told you about in September of last year has taken a decidedly happy turn. So we sent our Lee Cowan back for another visit:

Whether it's Baghdad or Bangladesh, Gaza or Guatemala, the plight of those looking for a better life has only intensified the debate over immigration in this country.

Last year we told you about one Iraqi immigrant -- a friend of Cowan's -- who had made the leap. But when we last left him, his future remained uncertain.

He had moved to Lancaster, Pa. In a place where the old so easily meshes with the new, it seemed a pretty fitting place to find an old friend's new home.

Atheer Hameed Hussein hadn't seen Cowan in more than a decade, since the unwelcome circumstance that first brought them together: the war in Iraq.

It was in Baghdad on the eve of the U.S. invasion that Cowan first met Hussein. He was an Iraqi photographer, a cameraman well-known in Baghdad for his work shooting soap operas and documentaries.

CBS News hired him not only for his eye, but for his language and local knowledge. But it turned out Atheer's greatest asset was his courage.

When the U.N. headquarters in Baghdad was attacked in 2003, Atheer was inside. He kept his compassion, his composure -- and his camera rolling.

"After the blast happened, everything became dark. Too dark," he said. "Even I can't see my hand. All of the people around me laying in the floor, some of them dead, some of them injured, some of them crying, some of them screaming, and only me, I am good."

He led people to safety using the light on his camera.

But it wasn't just the violence he covered. In his battered Volkswagen Bug, he and Cowan bounced around Baghdad to find the touching, too. They found the Baghdad Symphony getting back to playing music again. They ventured to the Baghdad Zoo, where starving animals were fed and watered thanks to the U.S. military.

And they went to a hospital maternity ward, to witness the first of a generation NOT born under the dictatorship of Saddam Hussein.

"Nice, nice memories," said Atheer. "It was a tough time, difficult. But when you remember when you see them, remember that you think you did something."

"We did do something, didn't we?" Cowan said.

"Yes, we did, we did something yes, for sure."

But it all came with a price. Any Iraqi working with Westerners soon became a target. Atheer's brother, who worked for a local TV channel in Baghdad, was murdered.

"It was a big shock for us," Atheer said. "And it was a big sign for me. Some people told me, 'You will be the next, so take care. Take care and leave the country. Better for you.'"

Baghdad would always be their home town, but it was too dangerous to be home any longer. So, five years ago, Atheer and his family fled Iraq.

The threats against his family had allowed him to gain legal refugee status from the U.S. government. And with little more than they could carry, they arrived in America.

So of all the places, Cowan asked, "Why Lancaster?"

"It's a quiet and peaceful town," Atheer replied.

But his wife, Areej, says the adjustment hasn't been easy. "Nobody knows us, nothing. We start from zero," she laughed. "But we are a strong family."

Strong, indeed. But the price of their much-deserved peace meant they couldn't return to Baghdad, not even when Atheer's mother passed away. "I couldn't say goodbye to her because I was here," he said. "Make me cry for three days. But what should I do?"

Atheer also lost his job as a cameraman. There wasn't much of a need for a war photographer in the Pennsylvania countryside, so he took what he could find. His first job was on an assembly line at a chicken processing plant; and then a job as a custodian at a public school in Lancaster.

His college degree was of little consequence in that job, nor was the fact that the images his camera once captured were seen by millions.

His station in life had indeed changed -- and when we last visited, it was a reality that brought him to tears.

"This job is respectable, good job," Atheer said. "But it's hurt me. But I had to do it because I need to survive, to feed my family. And now, I have a big family."

The sacrifice meant he could provide for that family: Haneen, his daughter; his son, Haider; and his twin girls, both born as U.S. citizens in late 2012.

The chance to start over was indeed a blessing, but Atheer told us last year that there was still one gaping hole.

"I still have hope to find my real life as a cameraman," he said.

"You're not giving up?

"No, never."

And he didn't.

A few weeks after we visited, while he was vacuuming another classroom, his phone rang. It was KYW-TV in Philadelphia. They had seen our "Sunday Morning" story, and it turns out they were in need of a cameraman.

"So you've got a vacuum cleaner in one hand, the phone in the other hand telling you, you get to be a cameraman again, you probably dropped the vacuum pretty quick!" said Cowan.

"I dropped the vacuum and I turned it off right away and I said, I will exchange you with a camera!" Atheer laughed.

Within a few weeks, Atheer was right back to earning a living as a news photographer . . . on this day covering a carjacking, and a memorial that was set up for the victim.

He's still covering life and death, but it's different now: "Imagine, I am carrying my camera and walking on the street with you. Normal. Nobody will attack me. Imagine that!" he said.

"Different than what we were used to, eh?" said Cowan.

"Yes, very different."

Something else is different now, too. Last month, Atheer became a U.S. citizen. And two weeks later, he watched his wife, Areej, become a citizen as well.

"I can tell this is not the ending," she said. "This is just a beginning. For our story, for our life, for our kids."

But there are still a lot of challenges ahead. Atheer's job is only part-time at the moment. There are few benefits, and no health insurance, not yet.

But after all he's been through, Atheer Hameed Hussein will be the last person you hear complaining.

"Now I am living the American reality," he said. "I don't call it the American dream."

"Why is it not a dream?"

"It is not a dream, it is real. I am living a normal life, I have a good family, a good job. So it's real. It's not an American dream, it is an American reality."