Finding peace in America

By Eun-Kyung Kim
Of the Post-Dispatch
08/02/2004

For the first time that he can remember in his adult life, Aden Kabir feels some peace.

No longer does he worry about bandits stealing his family's meager food rations, or another child being killed by soldiers.

Instead, a daughter and son chase each other around their new "palace," a worn, two-bedroom apartment in St. Louis sparsely furnished with something they have never had: real beds. It was in one of them the night before that Kabir, for the first time in years, closed his eyes and slept without fear.

Kabir and his family join about 110 other Somali Bantus who have resettled in St. Louis since early last year. Slave traders brought the Bantus to Somalia in the 19th century. But because many Somalis still consider them second-class citizens, most Bantus fled Somalia during the civil war, seeking refuge in the desolate camps in neighboring Kenya.

The International Institute expects 200 to 300 more Bantu refugees to move to the area by mid-2006. Overall, about 12,000 Somali Bantus will be resettled throughout the country, according to estimates made early last year by the U.S. State Department.

While Bantus receive some general cultural orientation before they resettle overseas - extensive housing, health and work training in model kitchens and bathrooms - they are a group among the least exposed to Western ways and conveniences.

One day last month, the morning after his dayslong journey from a Kenyan refugee camp, Kabir, 43, is waiting for a caseworker from the International Institute who will pick him up for a grocery store orientation.

When Fadumo Ahmed arrives, Kabir and his two youngest are waiting in the doorway. After introductions, Ahmed looks around the apartment. On the dining table in the narrow kitchen is several days' worth of food the Institute has left for the family. A sack of onions and potatoes. A bottle of vegetable oil. Bags of sugar, rice and pasta. A whole chicken in the freezer, and a gallon of milk and some eggs in the refrigerator. Various pots and pans, dishes and tumblers stuffed with butcher paper are also scattered about.

Ahmed is here to take the family grocery shopping. First she shows the family a few things. The glasses belong in the cupboards, she says, picking up the tumblers from the table. Same goes for the pots and pans. Kabir's wife and their oldest daughter, 16-year-old Habibo, follow suit and help put things away.

In the bedroom, Ahmed picks up a sheet from a stack of folded bed linens shoved into the corner of each bare mattress in the room. She shakes one out and spreads it over one of the twin beds. Within minutes, every bed in the apartment is made.

Other lessons follow quickly. There are brief explanations of the shampoo, toothpaste, mouthwash and other bathroom items, as well as the cleaning supplies on the closet floor. And then it is time to shop.

Ahmed leaves with Kabir and Habibo. The other children, a daughter, 10, and two sons, ages 6 and 3, all of whom were born in the refugee camp, stay with their mother.

As they walk into the Shop 'N Save on Gravois Avenue, Habibo and Kabir show no emotion. Their eyes give away nothing as they push their cart among the heaps of lettuce, cabbage, carrots and herbs lined up along the walls and the bananas, potatoes and numerous other fruits and vegetables piled high on the islands.

In their first stop, Ahmed points to where the prices are posted. She shows them how to separate a plastic produce bag from the others and open it. Habibo drops in two bunches of cilantro, and rolls the cart forward.

Kabir looks around, his face still emotionless. So much green, he says of the various crops before him. So many choices. Does all this belong to a private owner, he asks Ahmed. Does one man own the entire store?


Back in Bualle, Somalia, Kabir owned a farm that once belonged to his father and, before him, his grandfather. He grew maize, red beans, sunflowers. He also harvested bananas, mangoes, watermelon and lemons. He abandoned the farm more than 11 years ago during the country's civil war. A group of militiamen roaming the country had seized him one morning and killed his brother and mother. Kabir eventually escaped. When he returned to his farm, he learned his wife witnessed their son's murder. The boy was killed because he tried to fight off the men raping his mother.

The next morning, Kabir, his wife and their surviving daughter became refugees. They left Bualle and walked hundreds of miles to neighboring Kenya, where life was no easier. Rape was common in the refugee camp, where Bantus were treated poorly. The meager food rations often needed to be cooked over firewood gathered in the barren desert where armed Kenyan bandits await.

Here at Shop 'N Save, the amount of food at hand nearly overwhelms Kabir.

The cart fills quickly and contents are reshuffled to make room for gallon jugs of milk and orange juice. In the pasta aisle, Kabir and Habibo contemplate all their choices. Curious about how each one tastes, they plop three types of pasta in their cart.

As they prepare to check out their groceries, Kabir is asked for his impression of the store and, finally, a smile emerges.

"It's too big. I won't be able to come back by myself," he tells Ahmed. Later, he will add: "I have to speak the truth: I have never seen anything as good as that."

At the cash register, Ahmed points to the monitor and explains how the total is added up. She helps Kabir endorse the grocery certificates he received that morning. The coupons are part of the limited funds most refugees receive in their first month to help them establish housing, utilities, food and transportation, which in Kabir's case, means bus passes.

They bag their purchases and their first trip to the grocery is done.

Back in the apartment, Ahmed has started putting things away. Habibo and her mother try to help, but they look confused. The bananas? Ahmed nods toward the top of the refrigerator. The bag of apples? Ahmed cuts it open and dumps them into the crisper. The loaf of bread? Ahmed points to the counter.

Once everything is put away, she makes sure they understand which items belong in the freezer. She knocks twice on the freezer door, and then points to the chicken that she took out earlier and is now thawing in a pan of water.

Before Ahmed leaves, she needs to demonstrate the microwave. She puts a bowl of cooked pasta shells inside and pushes some buttons. The beeping means the food is ready, she explains, taking out the bowl. Kabir tries it himself on the empty microwave. He pushes a few buttons, and everyone huddles around the microwave, waiting for it to beep.

Lesson over, Ahmed begins to walk out of the kitchen but stops at the counter. She asks about the large aluminum pot she had seen earlier filled with leftovers from last night's dinner, a tomato-based stew with onions and lamb brought by another Bantu family that came to welcome them.

Kabir's wife points to the cupboard. She had stored the pot away with all the others.

Ahmed pulls it down and explains how leftovers are refrigerated to prevent them from spoiling. She puts the lid back on the pan and puts the entire pot in the refrigerator.

Ahmed prepares to leave and Kabir escorts her out. The living room holds a worn but comfortable sofa, matching chair, a folding table and, in the corner, a twin mattress freshly made. The room looks cramped with all six family members in it, but Kabir says his children's eyes grew wide when they arrived and learned this apartment, with its electricity and running water, was theirs. No more digging pit latrines. No more sleeping atop makeshift beds stuffed with twigs.

Despite the cultural hurdles he and his family face in their new country - like learning English - Kabir says he has few fears about his new life. His only concerns now are about the family he left in Somalia and whether they are alive.

Kabir is eager to find a job and for his children to go to a real school and, one day, attend college. For the first time in his adult life, Kabir is hopeful, he says. The day before , his family arrived with nothing more than a change of clothes and a white plastic bag filled with legal documents. On this day, they have a home with walls, furniture and a refrigerator full of food.

For the first time that he can remember, he feels some peace.

Reporter Eun-Kyung Kim
E-mail: ekim@post-dispatch.com
Phone: 314-340-8116