Monday January 7, 2008

Starting over in America

Somali Bantu women enjoy a craft group while learning other skills needed in their new home

By Katya Cengel
kcengel@courier-journal.comThe Courier-Journal

Louise Nyiramulinda knows what it is like to flee her country and to start over.

She came to the United States in 1998, leaving behind her native Rwanda, her degree in sociology and her job at a non-profit organization.

Seven years later, she was still laboring toward a bachelor's degree in social work at Spalding University while also working at Americana Community Center, a non-profit serving refugees and immigrants.

It was at Americana that she learned about the difficulties another refugee group from Africa, the Somali Bantu, was facing.

"We were hearing things about how they were struggling to adjust," said Nyiramulinda.

Unlike Nyiramulinda, who was from Kigali, Rwanda's capital, and had a higher education, many of the Somali Bantu were from villages where there was little opportunity for formal education. Descendants of slaves, the Bantu have faced persecution and subjugation in Somalia for more than 200 years.

In 2003, the United States began resettling about 12,000 Somali Bantu. About 1,500 reside in the Louisville area, said Hassan Muya, president of the local Bantu community. When they arrived, he said, they had to learn a new way of doing things, such as cleaning their apartments with soap and water, rather than simply using a broom, as one would to clear a dirt floor.

While their inexperience with technology, lack of English and often a lack of literacy in their own language were all hurdles, there was another obstacle as well, said Nyiramulinda.

"As a refugee, you go through a trauma, and then you come here and you think, 'Oh, OK. Phew, I can breathe now.' "

But the Somali Bantu, she explained, experienced a double trauma, because when they arrived they encountered expatriate countrymen of the same ethnic group who had repressed them there.

And the most isolated in their patriarchal society were the women, who rarely left the house, she said.

"At the time, we knew there was some mother at home because we would see kids," said Nyiramulinda.

So to draw them out, and help them to transition, she began teaching the women to crochet. She found two women willing to help -- Anne Peak, a social work student, and Pat Sturtzel, a fiber artist, art educator and art therapist.

The dozen or so women in the Americana Fiberworks program have sold some of their work, but that is not what makes Peak and Sturtzel the proudest.

The Somali Bantu women are working outside the home and carpooling. In addition to stitches and patterns, they are learning skills needed in their new homes -- such as English, money management and health.

"Part of what we try to do is to help them hold on to their cultural identity while learning to adjust," Peak said.

Hanging with the girls

When Bilisay Ali came to Louisville in October 2004, she didn't know the difference between a penny and a quarter and didn't understand the concept of rent. Where she is from in Africa, said the 19-year-old, "You don't have to pay rent; you can build a house anywhere and nobody will kick you out."

A senior at Waggener High School, Ali, who wears sparkly gloss on her lips, serves as the fiber art group's translator, an important job since there is a lot of talking when the women meet for several hours each Saturday to do needlework.

They also do a lot of listening, especially every other Saturday when Peak works on "transitioning life skills," which currently include health care.

Working with Loretta Estes, a cultural and linguistics coordinator for Passport Health Plan, a local Medicaid managed care plan, Peak is trying to teach the concept of health care to the women.

It is a problem Estes, who has worked with immigrant and refugee groups for eight years, became acutely aware of last year when a doctor told her about a Somali woman who lost her baby after refusing a Caesarean section. She also learned of another Somali woman whose husband became irate when a male doctor showed up to deliver the couple's baby. In a culture where women cover much of their bodies, said Estes, having a male doctor deliver a baby is a big deal. As for C-sections, she said, many Somali Bantu consider surgery a last resort that often ends in death or prevents them from having children.

For the Bantu, wealth is measured by family size, and the concept of family planning does not exist, according to cultural experts. Estes decided to translate Passport's booklet on prenatal care into Somali. That is when she discovered most of the women couldn't read.

One of them, Rowla Maalin, 30, had gone to school for a single month. Another, Zam Zam Haji, 21, was able to attend for three years.

To reach them easier, Estes decided to make an audio version of the prenatal pamphlet and train a member of the community in basic health care. Passport is providing a $1,500 grant to the group, which is funded by grants from places like the Kentucky Foundation for Women.

"I just know that this is going to be something that could be replicated throughout different ethnicities," Estes said.

The key, she said, is in gaining the women's trust, something that she feels can be achieved best when working with them. She plans to be there in coming weeks when the women start their next project, sewing.

Then, in a familiar and comfortable environment, Estes will start talking to them about health care.

"It's just like you're hanging out with the girls on Saturday."

Reporter Katya Cengel can be reached at (502) 582-4224.