INVISIBLE AMERICAN FAMILIES: FROM PAGE 13
PHOTO: GRAHAM LIENHART: Mapping memories: African refugees try to pinpoint their homeland.
cessing center in Kenya, however, is expected to prevent expectations from being fulfilled.
“They are not standing in line to come to America,” says Cindy Grieme, director of the refugee placement program run by CSS (www.cssdoorway.org). “They are try ing to save their lives.”
Not all will grow
It’s not unusual for Burundians — the largest refugee population in Greater Cincinnati this year — to run between 15 and 90 miles to escape east to neighboring Tanzania. Sleeping in trees during the day, they advance across the border when the sun goes down. They visit foreign embassies in hope of getting interviewed and fingerprints taken, part of the process to be granted status as a refugee. In order to have even the chance to come to one of 10 countries where the United Nations places them, they have to wait — a wait that often takes decades, according to refugees who were inter viewed.
Now in southwestern Ohio, these Burundians exist virtually unnoticed as laborers in the back of restaurants, nursing homes and hotels.
Back home, Nzobigeza says, the people of Burundi are motivated to have large families because they know at least some in the family unit won’t survive.
“They have to make more children because they are not sure they will all grow,” he says. “Some will be killed and some will die of disease. They are motivat ed to have many children, stay strong as a unit, have protection.”
Lewis left Liberia for Ghana.
The situa tion in the refugee camp there, where he estimates 40,000 people lived in brick or mud houses or tents, wasn’t much better than his home country.
In addition to mysterious violence, malaria and starvation pounded the camp inhabitants. The sun beat down while they waited in line for hours for rations of rice, potatoes, beans or lettuce.
“In Liberia and Ghana, people are mur dered and no one know who does it,” Lewis says. Though he’s spoken English all his life, his words drip with a French- African dialect.
He recalls a 6-year-old boy shot dead urinating next to a house and a middle aged man butchered in his neighborhood. The perpetrators remained anonymous.
Now a resident of South Fairmount, Lewis moved with his family from Winton Terrace, where he says several African refugees live. The violence and drugs he saw in Winton Terrace irritated old scars.
Lewis says that he and local refugees he’s become friends with are not comfort able in areas where people are socially aggressive. He doesn’t like a hostile envi ronment.
While crimes against vulnerable refugees have been the exception, a CSS councilor says it’s stressed to refugees that they remain within “their box” as they could easily be — and have been — preyed upon. “Downtown is OK,” Lewis says, “provid ed you don’t get in anyone’s way.” About 2.5 million refugees have reset tled in the U.S. since 1975, according to the Brookings Institute. This is approximately twice the number of the combined nine other countries accepting refugees via the United Nations.
The flow of global refugees had slowed in recent years, but spikes in Iraqi and Afghani refugees in the last year have reversed the trend, according to a recent Associated Press report.
“Where is the post office?” asks a newly retired high school teacher, Patty Reitz, a volunteer with Catholic Social Services.
“Help me find the post office,” she inquires forcefully. For refugees in a placement program like this one, practical tasks that are learned over decades by natives of the Western world — local customs, laws, how to use a bank — must be grasped within weeks.
Today, Reitz’s lesson is directed at a young-looking couple seated across from her. Tootsie Rolls, which are called the “universal pacifier” when they occupy the mouths of refugees’ young children as the adults take their weekly lessons, are scat tered in a few bowls throughout the base ment room in the CSS office downtown.
Salvator, a 36-year-old from Burundi, alternates glances between the teacher and the laminated map sprawled out on the table before him. Trying to read his teacher’s body language, his palms press down on the map. On it are illustrations of a generic, quaint municipality. His wife of more than 15 years, Vanancia, is seated to his left. She locates the post office.
The couple’s four children were born in a camp in Tanzania and were assigned Jan. 1 birthdates when they arrived in the U.S., as there was no concept of a calendar in the refugee camp. Their next task is to find the school for the children.
“Excuse me ... can ...” Vanancia offers, pushing forward through a veil of what someone later describes as African Creole.
Her expression is of hopeful frustration. “Excuse me? Can you help me find the Kroger?” Despite the dramatic change in culture, refugees have only a short time to familiar ize themselves with American life, more than 7,000 miles from home. In their new home, their children bring home permission slips or notes from