A Bantu Welcome

by Joyce L. Carroll

Photos by Margaret Michniewicz

To live in a healthy environment; to live free from persecution; to feed the wishes of children with the breath of success - these are universal dreams. A refugee’s reality is as far from these simple aspirations as the country of Somalia is from Winooski, Vermont. Three Bantu families have bridged that gulf, bringing children, hopes, dreams, and a need for survival to our community. As part of a nationwide effort to resettle 12,000 Somali Bantu throughout the United States, these families have survived the war, the destruction, the paperwork, and the long wait that paved their paths from persecution to freedom here in Vermont.

Safe at Last

Asha Abdulle, Muslimo Ahmed, and Abai Abdi, readily acknowledge that the happiest moment of their lives was when they learned that they would be coming to America. In order to qualify for resettlement, a persecuted group must usually first find refuge in a neighboring safe country. The three women and their families had been in Dadaab just a few years when they learned that they would be resettled in Mozambique. "But, they were starving there also," explained Muslimo. In 1999, under then Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, they learned that a large number of Bantu would be resettled in the United States. It took four years for that possibility to become reality.

September 11th has significantly slowed the tide of refugee resettlement in the United States. This country may be cautious to open its doors as a result of terrorism, but refugees are the least likely group of people to cause harm, says Stacie Blake, director of the Vermont Refugee Resettlement Program (VRRP). After all, Blake reasons, they have been the victims of terror themselves. "There are 13 million refugees in the world," she says, "and last year the U.S. admitted 25,000. They have waited 10 years in camps and have had 13 levels of investigation before they could come to this country. It is not a likely avenue for a terrorist."

Former neighbors in Kenyan refugee camps, the three families arrived in Vermont at two-week intervals in July and August. After spending two weeks with a host family, they were reunited as neighbors in side-by-side apartments in Winooski. These families continue to provide strong support for one another. The challenges are many. Refugees are expected to be self-sufficient in just 90 days, so the men in the family are looking for employment. They are also attending English as a Second Language (ESL) class. A tutor comes to the apartment building to provide ESL instruction to the women who, for the time being, will remain home with their young children. These children will turn to their parents for the emotional balance they need as they acclimate themselves to a new world filled with possibilities.
As a part of the Rahanweyn tribe, the local Bantu families are practicing Muslims. In accordance with their faith, their tribe doesn’t take part in ceremonial dances and other rituals of celebration more common to other African traditions. They will join the 251 Muslims registered at the Islamic Society of Vermont in Colchester who practice their religion in a peaceable fashion.

Family Life

Asha, Muslimo, and Abai have 12 children between them, five of whom are in elementary school. The children have never known life outside of a refugee camp. The seven who are at home range in age from one to five years; the three youngest are still breast feeding. During a recent visit to Abai’s apartment, the children rarely left their mothers’ sides. It was evident that their attachment stemmed not from shyness, but from sheer contentment. Smiles were abundant. The sofa, the only large piece of furniture in the room, was an explosion of color, a three-dimensional tapestry of mothers intertwined with their children and their children with one another. The children climbed in and out of their mother’s laps as they chatted comfortably. Including an interpreter, we numbered six women and seven children in a living room the size of an American bathroom.

Nimo Girreh is the lifeline that connects these families to their new community. Nimo, a Somali caseworker and interpreter with VRRP, came to this country seeking asylum 13 years ago, as civil war broke out in her homeland. She will do everything to help them succeed, from driving families to endless medical appointments to enrolling older children in school and obtaining their social security numbers.

These women rarely have the opportunity to speak freely and openly, but with the men off to Friday prayers, they took the time to share their thoughts with us. Abai, who has been in the United States for less than two months, was more reserved and subdued than the other two women. She warmed slowly toward her visitors. Muslimo, in a garbasar of bright red, magenta, aqua, and white covering her floor-length dress, at once animated and intense, did most of the talking. She has been in Vermont since early August. Asha, petite, and with a ready smile, was less talkative than Muslimo. Both Asha and Muslimo wore wrist watches. No longer can the women use the sun as their guide. In this world, time must be managed, scheduled, and observed; In this world, electricity, telephones, televisions, stoves, and refrigerators are the norm.

A New World

These families have adapted as well as can be expected given the pace of their lives since their arrival. Their first few weeks were a blur of medical appointments, with all the children requiring shots and physical exams. Area medical personnel received extensive training about the history and practices of the Bantu, and have administered a battery of tests to the men and the women. Still, nothing prepared the women for what was in store.

In a sudden outburst of nervous laughter and overlapping chatter, the women readily admitted that their own physicals were among the most traumatic experiences of their lives. Upon returning home from the appointment, the women said they were so embarrassed that they couldn’t even talk about it amongst themselves let alone tell their husbands. The revelation that they had each experienced the same level of anxiety, and that most American women are equally uncomfortable with gynecological check-ups forged a new sisterhood that transcended any language barrier. "I’ve had all these kids, all these pregnancies. No one ever touched me. So why do they have to look at me now," Muslimo exclaimed, adding that her mother had served as her midwife. Nimo added that.

Abai was so upset at her for not forewarning her that she refused to speak to her for two weeks. But, when asked if the women would forewarn the next Bantu woman to arrive, they paused, and ultimately decided that each woman should learn for herself.

Leap of Faith

The women have had to trust that those making the decisions that impact the health and welfare of their children, know what they are doing. They’ve experienced separation anxiety in small ways and large. These are women accustomed to carrying their young wherever they go. Car seats, required by law, run counter to their maternal instincts. "We insist that these new mothers put more seats in a car that already has seats. Their baby is crying and needs comforting. But you can’t comfort a baby in a car seat," explains Blake. Blake also points out that the mothers really took a "plunge of faith" when it came to the older children. "It is really brave how the moms have physically sent off their children to us white staff to go to school. They don’t know where that school is and they have to trust that their children will come back okay," she says, recalling how difficult it is for American parents to leave their child at the kindergarten door. "And we know the system," she adds.

Slowly lives are calming down, a new rhythm is developing. The women agree they feel safe here. They readily acknowledge that their children are happy; they have things they’ve never had before. The women want to better understand and accept American culture. They are undecided over the premise of equal status among husbands and wives, something they all believed to be guaranteed by American law. They are unsure how, given their religious beliefs, the dynamics of their families will change and adapt. "It is typical in Islam for the women to follow their husbands and to stand behind his ideas," Abai explained, adding that her family structure will likely remain the same. Muslimo had a slightly different point of view. "If the culture is that, I’ll accept that. I’ll be ready for a change," she acknowledged. The men are also trying. "What we’re seeing is real participation on the part of the dads in terms of caring for the kids," Blake says.

Their desires for their futures were articulated through the eyes of their children. They want Vermonters to know that they are good mothers. They want their children to be successful and to get a good education. They will pass their religious traditions and expectations on to their children. When pressed about their dreams for themselves, Muslimo said she wants to learn English and get a job so that she can work to support her family. Her family back in the Kakuma refugee camp is large, her grandmother is still alive. She holds out hope that they will soon join her in the United States. She wants to help her community and the Bantu who will be coming to join them in Vermont.

These are strong, resilient women; they are survivors. "You have to be strong to keep your child alive in a refugee camp," Blake says. "I am struck by their dignity. To come here with nothing, to have everything be so foreign, including how you look, and how they still hold their chins so high."