October 5, 2005

Halima and Sheikh-noor Hassan were farmers in Somalia, the country on the northeastern tip of Africa that juts into the Indian Ocean, directly below Saudi Arabia and the Middle East hot spots. She was 14, he 24. Every day they were "visited" by robbers. Every day more and more of their possessions were taken. The intruders came again when there was nothing more to take but life.

In front of their 2-year-old son, Mohamed, the robbers killed Sheikh-noor’s father, shot Sheik-noor’s arm off below the elbow and raped Halima. Thirteen years later, Sheik-noor, Halima and Mohamed were rescued from the persecution by the U.S. State Department.

In May 2004, the Somali Bantu family, now numbering seven, stepped off an airplane at Mitchell International Airport. They sported sweatshirts and new tennis shoes, except Halima, who wore a brightly colored native print dress with a scarf wrapped around her middle, completely covering the toddler on her back. And she was very pregnant. Mohamed, now 15, Faduma, 9, and Khadija, 6, (named after Muhammad’s wives), and even 3-year-old Fatah with smiling eyes, stretched out a dark hand to shake. Each one’s short-cropped hair hid no lack of similarities between child and parent.

Fadumo’s dark eyes embraced mine, awesome, seemingly too large for her small body. They followed me to the car. I felt them on my back, taking in the speeding cars on the freeway, as social worker and interpreter Nasrin Ali; Catholic Charities representative and fellow St. Monica’s parishioner, Carol Bergmann; my husband, Paul, and I escorted our refugee family in two cars to their home on Milwaukee’s ethnic South Side.

The day before, they’d been in New York where their flight from Africa’s bloody civil wars and a refugee camp on the Somalia-Kenya border had ended. "These families are running for their life, and for food and education for the children," says Ali, whose own family fled five years ago. "Finding a home is everyone’s dream," Ali told us.

After living on dirt floors and sleeping on layers of grass, would they feel comfortable climbing into bunk beds? Would they know how to turn on lights? Flush toilets? They reached hungrily for oranges stacked in the small kitchen, where an immigrant Somali lady was boiling chicken and rice, their welcome to the land of freedom and plenty.

Though he didn’t know any English when he arrived in America, Mohamed, 16, was named to the honor roll at Washington High School. Faduma, 10, plays with brother Abdulkadir, one of the twins who were born here.

The Bantu people of centuries ago trekked the vast continent, some to be sold into slavery to farm Somalian land. In the 1970s and 1990s, these poor farmers of Africa were exiled during long wars. We imagined what it would be like to be a targeted people, to be torn apart by war, to lose our jobs and homes and then to flee to another continent, where culture and language were not our own.

In 2003 the U.S. State Department approved the resettlement of 70,000 Somalian refugees, of which 13,000 have come to 50 U.S. communities, from Vermont to Texas to Arizona. Estimates put the number of Somalis in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area on par with the number in Mogadishu, the Somalian capital. In Minnesota, most are not Bantu coming from a refugee camp, but are the more educated Somalis. Of 3,000 Somalis in Wisconsin, 1,000 Bantu are designated for Milwaukee.

It seemed like something our parish, St. Monica, Whitefish Bay, needed to do. We had active human concerns as Habitat for Humanity, food and clothing drives, community services, but we needed something more in the third millennium. As Eva J. Diaz wrote in the Milwaukee Archdiocesan newspaper, it was time again to " … link (our) faith and social dimensions in life and in so doing bring rays of hope to others."

Faduma, 10, plays with brother Abdulkadir on of the twins who were born here.

After two rain-drenched evenings of explanatory meetings, we committed creative minds, dirtied hands and unselfish time-givers to two Somali Bantu families, the first through the International Institute of Wisconsin, the latter through Catholic Charities. The six-month time commitment didn’t consider the family’s size — or the component that love doesn’t end when the six months are over.

We agreed to help with food shopping, transportation, education, finance, tutoring English language and adult employment. We would supply furnishings and clothing and implement the search for living quarters and show how-to with hands-on, while building the family’s independence.

With one-week notice of the Hassans’ arrival, International Institute of Wisconsin secured a duplex accessible to the Immigration Center and ethnic food stores, but not near other Somali families living on the North Side of Milwaukee. The night before arrival, strong-backed teenagers and senior parishioners, including Deacon Gene Van Garsee, gathered on the school playground to pick up promised furniture at various homes, load it in the rain into vans and deliver it to the duplex. The next morning the rain stopped and cleaning began. In the midst of scrubbing the upstairs, we learned that the family couldn’t afford two floors on the W-2 allotment. The first floor would suffice.

Halima’s sister, Binti, and her husband, Mohamed, live upstairs from the Hassan family.

Two bunk beds were assembled for four children. Double bed and crib were set up in the parents’ bedroom, all donated. A refrigerator was purchased, fruit and staples were stocked. We were given a day’s grace when the family spent its first night in New York.

President Bush’s campaign stop in Milwaukee the next day coincided with their flight, so the Somalis were delayed until late afternoon. Journeying to the airport, we felt like the women going to the tomb on Easter morn, afraid, not knowing what to expect or how to roll the big stone from the entrance. Our apprehension shifted to the family who must believe that God or Allah was guiding them toward a better life.

The first week our shoppers walked the whole family to Pick ’n Save, about 10 blocks away, using a double stroller purchased at a rummage sale and a small cart on wheels. With a suggested list, the shoppers guided the selection of food, trying to keep it familiar to them, healthy and within budget. A big bottle of oil became a standard weekly purchase, most of which is probably used on their bodies. Oil is a Somalian lotion, thought to be healthy when rubbed on the skin and hair.

On the third trip, Linda Griggs walked with the family a total of 24 blocks on Greenfield Avenue, in the rain, to an ethnic meat market for goat meat (father’s choice), chicken (everybody’s choice) and beef. Pete’s produce store was 10 blocks in the other direction. Fruit is a favorite. They sprinkle sugar on almost anything. Weeks later we realized that their mailbox was not labeled properly so food stamps and Social Security numbers had not arrived. The past-dated government check bounced, locking the account.

Each family member receives $400 upon arrival. Families receive a weekly bus pass, medical coverage, food stamps and food supplements for children birth to 5 years old. W-2 entitles the head of family to collect $628 monthly for rent for up to two years until employment is found or if a disability prevents work. An 18-year-old son receives $672 for eight months until he finds a job.

Jobs are plentiful for Somalis in Minneapolis-St. Paul. Ethnic food can be found in Somalian restaurants, though some have closed. Department and chain stores welcome Somalis for employment as sales representatives and more. In an upscale store in the Twin Cities, it’s delightful to be waited on by a Somali lady in her floating scarves and native skirt.

It’s different in Milwaukee, among Somali Bantus who have been living in a refugee camp, with little education or knowledge of English. Financial knowledge is prominently lacking. In the beginning we instructed the family that money is to be spent. They were expert at stowing things away. Now they prefer to cash the government check and pay the landlord in cash. They’re fast finding ways to spend the rest.

Health appointments, weekly bus trips to purchase bus passes and to secure immigrant services were teaching and learning experiences for us. It seemed strange riding on the bus without being able to communicate. Within weeks the family was walking or busing on their own, to classes, shopping and visiting families across town, some whom they had met on the city bus.

Language is the biggest barrier. Mohamed reads English. His speaking skills are increasing. He loves riding his bike and kicking his "balloon" (soccer ball). We worried when he couldn’t be found, then remembered that people from refugee camps are survivors.

With the children we communicated through eyes, theirs the size of pingpong balls, copies of their parents’, curious, reflecting what we said. The girls’ eyes exude excitement, now being supplemented with English sentences. Halima’s eyes are always sparkling. Her first English words were, "Thank you," followed by, "Sit," her welcoming invitation to wait, while they finish eating their lunch of chicken and rice from bowls, without forks or spoons, on the living room floor. They are never ready to go. After 10 months, Halima proudly marched up to the desk at Medpoint medical clinic and said, "Good Morning." She, too, is taking English lessons.

About the Somalian case workers, Ali says, "There’s a lot of opportunity but it’s a very hard life (in the U.S.). It’s stressful, day and night — the pace is overwhelming. (Reports show Somali blood pressure rises here.) We do it for God.

"It’s scary (for them) to lose their … (Muslim) culture," Ali says. Sheikh-noor has attended Friday service at the South Side mosque.

The first summer, our education chairman, Sandy Sandvoss, registered Sheikh-noor in the English as a second language classes at the Indo-Chinese Center, where he also takes math, the teenager in high school summer English and the girls in summer activities at Wisconsin Avenue School, their future elementary school.

Thinking Halima was about five months pregnant, her first obstetrical exam showed that she could have the baby as early as the next week. She was instructed to telephone at the first contraction but the installation of a telephone had not been successful. Having seen her squat when tired, I wondered if she would even want to give birth lying down in a hospital. My fear was unfounded, as laboring mothers in Somalia lie prone, but not in hospitals. There were none until last year when a maternity hospital was built in the northern part, nowhere near the Kenya refugee camp. Trained midwives are available in the cities. Many babies born in the country die.

Next, Halima’s ultrasound showed two babies whose births were expected in two months. At the same time, her sister arrived from Africa. She would live upstairs and seemed to understand some English. The phone was finally connected and we were asked to prepare for arrival of our second family.

Females of the extended family, which we are considered to be, are present at Somalian births. A month later the Hassan family called our nurse, Jeanette Kirchner, at 4:10 a.m. She instructed them, "Call 911. Say, ‘Baby coming.’"

Upon Kirchner’s arrival, frustrated firemen pleaded, "Do you speak their language?" Halima was sprawled on the floor with the entire family except the youngest around her, helping her through contractions. Within the hour, twin boys were born at Froedtert Hospital, seemingly easily for her, both over 5 pounds. Two days later, the babies were on their way home with their parents and oldest brother. Halima nodded that she liked birthing in the hospital and she accepted the need to alternate bottles with nursing the twins.

Being caught without newborn clothes and supplies, our parishioners responded generously. Mary Yost has collected so many donated clothes and furniture — some off the Internet — that she invites other immigrants in the city, to "shop" in St. Monica’s Ministry Center.

Plagued by the observation of our transportation liaison, Maggie Stoeffel, that, "Other Somali families have more going for them because they live close to other Somalis," our second refugee family, a fatherless family of four, was placed in an apartment complex on 64th Street off Silver Spring Drive, with other Bantus. They and other Somalis have since moved to low-income housing on Cherry Street. A few months later, on the Northwest Side, off of Silver Spring Drive, we found a lower four-bedroom flat, roomy enough for the Hassans, then numbering 11. The number has grown to 12 with the marriage of Halima’s sister and will be 13 with their expected baby.

School buses pick them up in their new locations. Banking and financial education, intermittent rides to the immigration office and constant medical appointments, some emergency, continue. A bright light shines. Cruel discrimination in high school has given way to Mohamed’s making the honor roll at Washington High School. "He’s going places," Ali says, and we all agree. Fadumo’s lack of cooperation in grade school is a puzzle we’ve yet to solve, with the help of Ali who now works at the school.

Prodded by Sheikh-noor’s disability employment needs, the search brightened when Mohamed called to say, "Sheikh-noor want work!" He was overcoming his fears. The Rev. Don Hying, pastor at Our Lady of Good Hope, offered to try Sheikh-noor’s ability on a "volunteer basis." He was put him to work immediately cleaning the school, for which he earns food vouchers, food from the parish’s food pantry, used clothes and diapers. Immigrant internships are recommended to gain experience. A prosthesis is on the horizon for Sheikh-noor.

Shouldn’t we be weaning the family? Are we doing too much? Anthony Uzzi, the International Institute case worker, reassures us, "You are doing great!"

Kerry Shaffer feels that the building of relationships is most important, not just the giving of food or things.

Sandvoss says, "While we have a ‘sort of’ awareness that there are people living in the world with much less than even the poorest people in this country, (their) interacting with our families, to whom things that we’ve always taken for granted are big novelties and a source of amazement, is probably what struck me the most. It makes the ‘poor of the world,’ for whom we frequently pray, more real, puts a human face on an abstraction. To see the children’s faces when they learn a new word, or just because you paid attention to them, is a priceless experience."

Questions need to be wrestled with, sicknesses healed, language barriers overcome, paid employment sought, but we are no longer afraid. Our steps are surer even if overcoming one obstacle begets another. The bright-eyed, hugging, always welcoming family is becoming a way of life, perhaps filling some holes in our lives — our stone has been rolled back.