The eyes of the new U.S. resident cast a curious gaze.

As 18-month-old Nisreen dawdled between her parents, Mohanad Abdulwahab Hussein and Hadeel Naser Jabr, who sat on the bed in their studio apartment in East Oakland, her chestnut brown eyes trailed the conversation.

Her tiny feet pitter-pattered on the wood floor as she changed positions to peer around the notebook propped on my crossed leg. It obstructed her view. Never too old to play peekaboo, I lifted the notebook to block my eyes.

Hussein, 23, and Jabr, 25, are Syrian refugees who came to the United States almost two months ago after spending four years in Zaatari, a refugee camp in Jordan. The makeshift desert city of aluminum prefab houses and trailers, tents and tarps holds 80,000 residents displaced by the Syrian civil war.

Zaatari is now one of the largest cities in Jordan, a country that has absorbed 1.5 million Syrians. Nisreen was born there.

The Syrian civil war, which has claimed half a million lives and left millions homeless, has been a flash point in the presidential debates between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. Trump has reduced the tragedy to political bluster, claiming “hundreds of thousands” of Syrian refugees are coming into the United States.

Wrong.

In 2016, of the 85,000 refugees resettled in the country, only 12,000 came from Syria, and 34 were placed in Oakland this year.

America was built by immigrants, and this Syrian family is part of the new wave of foreigners who will frame our country’s multicultural identity. A campaign of intolerance and fear can’t delay the arrival of the future Americans.

One rambunctious new resident wears a blue bow in her hair that matches the flowers on her dress, and she makes Hussein laugh as she yanks the hood of his sweatshirt.

“She’s just happy. Always happy,” Jabr says through an interpreter.

“She doesn’t know anything,” Hussein says.

There are 65 million refugees and displaced people in the world, and 12 million to 14 million will never be able to return to their homes.

One of the groups helping refugees is the International Rescue Committee, a nonprofit that responds to humanitarian crises, helping rebuild lives affected by disaster and conflict. The U.S. accepts less than 1 percent of refugees applying to its resettlement program.

“On a humanitarian level, these numbers are teeny compared to the need,” says Karen Ferguson, executive director of the IRC’s Northern California offices. “But they’re also vital. How can the U.S. encourage other countries to step up and help if we’re not even beginning to do our part?”

Generally, IRC doesn’t place refugees without local ties in Oakland because it’s one of the most expensive cities in the country. With real estate tracker Trulia calculating the median rent at $3,125, there’s not much time to adjust after arrival.

“We get all their needs taken care of as quickly as possible so they can focus on starting to figure out how they’re going to pay rent,” Ferguson says.

Hussein and Jabr grew up in Daraa, a southwestern city with a high poverty rate about 10 miles from the Jordanian border. In March 2011, during the Arab Spring protests that swept the Middle East, a Daraa boy and his friends were arrested for writing in graffiti, “The people want the fall of the regime.” The residents protested corruption, and Syrian troops responded with a siege and bullets, killing hundreds and arresting thousands.

Syrian nationalists, Syrian rebel forces and the Islamic State group continue to skirmish in the city gutted by building-toppling explosions.

The first night in Oakland two months ago was the first time Hussein and Jabr had unpacked their suitcases since leaving Daraa four years ago. They have about 20 family members who remain in Zaatari.

In Oakland, the family takes daily walks around Lake Merritt.

“Here is better,” Hussein tells me, his Arabic relayed by Sohail Morrar of the IRC. But Hussein misses many things about home — “the land, the people, my friends, my country.”

The Syrians are the first IRC clients for Morrar, an Oakland-born caseworker. He’s introduced them to the Yemeni grocery store owner on 14th Avenue. He’s shown them how to ride the bus. He keeps in touch.

Inside the apartment, Jabr sets a tray of cold, fizzy Coca-Cola on the coffee table. Nisreen’s drink spills out of her sippy cup as she offers wet high-fives. Jabr goes into the kitchen, where a rack of clothes dries in front of the window, to get paper towels. She later brings out apples and bananas.

I accept a banana for the road. When I turn the door handle to leave the apartment, the knob falls from the mounting plate.

“It’s OK,” Morrar assures me. “I’m not worried about putting clients into Oakland, but at the end of the day, paying attention to whether or not they can afford the place and if the place is safe and if the place is clean, that’s a different story.”

Outside of their apartment, Hussein raps a cigarette out of his pack as Nisreen clings to his leg. As I leave, the young new U.S. resident waves goodbye.

Otis R. Taylor Jr. is a San Francisco Chronicle columnist whose column appears Tuesday and Friday. Email: otaylor@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @otisrtaylorjr