Trading Places: Unexpected Perspectives on Refugees’ Experiences
I got really excited about getting lots of psuedo-travel writing in one place, so here is an article I wrote for the VT Refugee Resettlement Program’s newsletter cause I doubt I’ll actually be going to Somalia any time soon, so spending time wtih Somali refugees is as close as I’ll come:
Excitement! Staring eyes, smiles, music — monotonous to my ears, but pleasing. Unknown foods. Talk, talk, talk – not words, only sounds, Incomprehensiblesoundsandconfusion . . . repetition, frustration, silence — awkward silence. Happy kids, understanding, laughter.
These are some fragmented memories from visits with a Somali Bantu family I’ve known for the past 2.5 years. Though I can only speak for myself, my feelings working with refugees may — in a humblingly small way — parallel their daily experiences in the adjustment to Vermont. Their home represents a microcosm of Bantu culture, and I, if only for short periods, find myself the foreigner. While welcomed and accepted, I often feel self-consciously different, and ignorant of the majority culture.
Physical differences protrude as the most immediate distinctions. “My” family’s infant cousin screamed inconsolably when he first saw me or other Caucasians. Though we all chuckled at his “shyness,” I felt slightly embarrassed at my skin color and was irrationally hurt by his rejection. When worrying about how Bantus would be perceived regarding their appearance, I forgot my own experiences and reassured myself: “Burlingtonians are accepting”. As I should’ve learned, however, blatant racism is hardly the only cause of self-consciousness. Last week at an art-program for kids, a young Bantu girl asked me to draw a princess. When I suggested an African princess, her reply — as she scrawled long blond locks — was an unequivocal, “No, a real princess.”
I’ve gained appreciation for linguistic challenges faced by refugees and the irresistible temptation to avoid the struggle. I had decided to try to learn some Mai Mai . . . I know 4 words: koi (come) Aiye (mother), sor (corn) and baredeena (good morning). How can a language be so hard? I still try to pick up words here and there but am generally content to relate in ways I’m comfortable, even if they are insufficient. I see this same clash as Bantu women, in particular, struggle to learn English. They desire to learn but often shyly resign themselves to familiar tasks or conversation in lieu of extra practice. Though I’ve heard whispered comments of the newcomers’ apathy, I know first hand that sheer overwhelm, and even heightened self-expectations can lead to a shocked immobility and need for familiar comforts.
Feeling pressure to live up to expectations in other areas is a theme that I considered, as I drove excitedly to their home one day for a visit. On this day I’m presented with a letter from some housing assistance program. As I stare at the paper, the legal jargon, lease agreements and figures might as well be in Mai Mai. As I try to explain that I don’t understand this document, I feel like a let down. Here they’ve come all this way and I’m supposed to help them and my most useful skills are drawing with children and shuttling people to doctors’ appointments! These ruminations makes me imagine how refugees must feel starting a new job or school, with the boss’s or teacher’s expectations weighing much more heavily, and significantly than my friends’ expectations of me. They may think “what if I don’t understand the instructions or get fired . . . if people think I’m dumb? What if someone gets hurt if I mess up? My family is expecting me to succeed, what if I fail? ”
One day, with one child grinning at the Beattles-like hair-do he’d formed on my head, while his sister lovingly carries her toy monkey on her back like a baby, I consider useful versus negative assimilation. Should I try the “no violent TV, sugar is bad” tact lest the vacuum of their knowledge be filled by American pop-culture? Should I offer unsolicited advice on dental hygiene, floor cleaning and garbage removal? Are these insulting or merely necessary elements of learning a new way? I know I’d want advice on these issues if I landed in Africa but I don’t want to condescend to people, who although nearly my age, have 4 children and vastly more life-experience. Generally we understand that I possess US social capital, and thus the authority to explain car-seats and soccer-camps. Still, the gray areas threaten to wash out the spectrum of proper assimilation. I’d read that using children as translators usurps parental authority, but if often feels better than hand signals, what to do? Is it rude to impose our strict adherence to time schedules or will that help them to keep jobs and appointments? These questions are small compared to what they may be wondering – will the other children at school treat my children well? Should we adopt Western dress? Is it safe to let our kids play at other people’s houses? Should we try to live in Burlington where we have a community or father away in cheaper housing? Should I take a job or try to finish my education?”
Overall, my experiences have been incredibly positive, which I hope mirrors my refugee friends’ experiences in Vermont. Despite some of the dilemmas I’ve presented, I feel a kinship that isn’t based on shared politics or upbringing. As I twirl the children, screaming with laugher through the air, I sheepishly apologize to their mother for the noise, although she doesn’t mind that I’m the human jungle gym, for once. I am constantly charmed by love and innocence: yesterday while driving, a boy asked me “why does the moon follow us wherever we drive?” I feel welcomed to their house just because, “Nilima” the father used to tell me, “you are always welcome, you don’t need a reason to visit.” I can only hope that they do not feel that they have to prove themselves in Vermont, but rather that they are already accepted and are welcomed to take advantage of our city’s offerings.
Tags: US travel
nabrams
Leave a Reply