The Reclamation Project

Burmese refugee integration course at IPFW: Continuing effects?

"Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work."

—    Mother Teresa

“the times - they are a-changin’”

Figure 1 Fall leaves of Huntington, IN by Garrett Martin

People like to say, “the times - they are a-changin’.”  They get that from Bob Dylan’s song of the same title.  The lyrics of the song remind us that there are things changing all around us.  Dylan concludes with a recommendation: “Then you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone. For the times they are a-changin’”

There is a lot of change in our lives.  Just look at the trees outside: we live in a part of the country that bravely declares the changes coming!  Recently, my pastor has been preaching on the changes that the resurrection brought to the disciples.  They knew Jesus one way – they were not quite prepared for the Jesus AFTER the resurrection.  After all, they had never SEEN a resurrected body before!

I teach many refugees who are adjusting to life in the United States.  They adjust to a new language, a new currency, new foods, different modes of transportation, different communication styles, different clothing, different temperatures; almost every day a refugee in Fort Wayne must change.  Recently one of my students shared a change with me: her brother is ill with cancer and she must leave Ft. Wayne to go care for him.  He lives in another city.  She has just barely adjusted to life in this city.  She has figured out how to live and go to school here.  And now another change for her…

Change is here to stay.  Have you read the news lately?  Just open your newspaper and read about the many changes that face us every morning.

Catherine Kasper Place closing in January creates yet another change for our refugees.  I know many are wondering where they will find the services they need to continue to help them adjust to the changes all around.  [The Reclamation Project is blessed with the Rialto location and there are no plans to move …] 

  Fort Wayne refugee resource center to close          http://www.journalgazette.net/article/20111101/LOCAL/311019958

 Elected Myanmar government offers taste of change          http://www.journalgazette.net/article/20111108/NEWS0402/111109605

 Library offers e-books   http://www.journalgazette.net/article/20111108/FEAT/311089982

Myanmar’s government is changing; even the library is changing!  At least we know, as we are faced with daily changes in our world, that God is consistent and unchanging in His character.  God even used change to prove His existence in Exodus 7:17.   Over and over in Scripture God shows us that He does not change.  {Try Psalm 55:19, Malachi 3:6, James 1:17 for reassurance}.  My prayer for us is that we can be consistent for our refugee friends and so reflect God’s character to them: available to help and unchanging in hope for their successful integration in Fort Wayne.

Martha Martin - TRP friend and ENL teacher

  

  

An International Language

Last Wednesday I attended a “house warming” party for five refugee families. The party was hosted by the Circle of Friends who have chosen to come alongside these Congolese families.  I have to say, the party was the most invigorating house warming I’ve ever been part of.  We sang, danced a little, prayed, and ate, of course—very American cupcakes and snacks.  I learned, kind of, a praise song in Swahili and realized again that praise and worship is an international language.

I chatted with Ben who is part of the Circle, and he shared some of the challenges of trying to overcome communication barriers.  I could see that this new ministry was a stretch but also that he had a heart that was so eager and willing to serve.  I watched him smile as he interacted with our new friends from Congo, and realized again, that all God needs is a willing heart.

The highlight of the evening was a conversation my husband and I had with Jean Pierre.  Jean Pierre was a student at a university when he had to seek refuge in a camp.  After five years, he was able to come to the United States.  The other refugees in the room were all relatives.  Jean Pierre is fluent in at least three languages.  I had barely asked two questions about him before he began asking us questions about us.  Soon the conversation was all about how we can trust God because He is faithful.  And Jean Pierre was encouraging us to pray and ask God to provide.

The faith of these refugees from Congo makes my own look pale.  As we drove home, I pondered what it would be like to have to escape from my home, what it would be like to live in a camp, what it would be like to resettle in another country where the culture is so different and the language unknown.  I couldn’t fathom what it would be like.  I stand in awe of my brothers and sisters from Congo: their courage, their faith, their hope, their resiliency.

Pam Jordan, TRP friend

Relationships

I was thinking the other day of all of the relationships that have been made, and I suppose broken in that theater we all love. I know my life would have been on a completely different course had I not walked through the doors to volunteer to scrape plaster off of the gallery walls. Thinking back, some of my most memorable relationships got their spark inside the walls of the Rialto.

There was of course Jeff and Kristie, who made me feel welcome right from the start. I figured out several years later that one of the reasons they were so nice was because they desperately needed someone with the appearance of having some kind of construction experience. I met Joe that first day I volunteered. He would eventually marry my wife and I and help pave the way for Ang to become an important part of TRP. Harvey and I hit it off that first day as well. I was always amazed how he loved to work on the bricks like he did. The task back then looked even more daunting than it does today. He went brick by brick until he was finished with the gallery space. I still see him every few weeks, and he still says he’s doing as well as my hair.

There were others that have since left. I think my favorite out of all of them was Larry. We had so much fun together with the other guys on Saturday mornings. We used to wear t-shirts to work in the theater that we couldn’t (or our wives wouldn’t let us) wear in public. There was Russ, Bob, Jim and Aaron and more. For one reason or another God has moved them on to other places in life. I on the other hand, am still around.

At this point, I have a relationship with the building. It’s kind of odd to say, but it’s true. I wish it was like a CD player where if it doesn’t work, you can hit it, and it will start working again. If you hit the building, you may get hit back. It will moan from time to time when the wind is blowing, and is perfectly still during the cold winters. The upstairs room is full of light, and the basement is the darkest place I have ever been, and oddly warm in the winter. I can hear the building sigh as it waits patiently for someone to reopen its front doors again. It has so much potential that it draws me to day dream about the opening night one day. (insert harp music here) A fully lit marquee, a large stage, stacks of speakers and lighting, hanging from the ceiling, Jeff sitting in the gallery, putting the finishing touches on what will be by then, the 3^rd book in the So I Go Now series….  

I had the honor of tearing out the old mirror front doors and helping to install the new wooden doors. I remember that day well because of all of the light the new doors let into a dark place. The building is scarred from the past as we all are. People from the past will just walk in while I have the front doors open and share their memories of the past of what they remembered about the theater. It’s a good reminder of how important the building was for the past relationship of the community and the Rialto. I think after all is said and done, the building will be restored to be used for the community. There will be more relationships made inside of the walls. A whole new generation of people will one day be able to enjoy the space of the Rialto. 

By Joe Baker, TRP volunteer, Jack of all trades, go to man and general Rialto lover

The American dream, with a Bantu twist.

Several years ago, through another family in our church, we heard about the need of refugee families in our community for housing.  Many of these refugees were Somali Bantus who were living in Centlivre Apartments.  At some point, the apartment management decided there were too many refugees and too many headaches with these new arrivals and wanted them to move on.  Late rent payments and other culturally-influenced tenant issues combined with the landlord’s maintenance neglect created a climate of unwelcomeness.  A small exodus was beginning for these families with few options and resources.  We met one of these families, Hassan and Naderi* and their then 5 young children, and our hearts went out to them. 

I had a friend who owned houses he fixed up for resale, and talked to him about the need of this African family, and he had one that seemed suited for them.  It was located in the same school district as Centlivre, was near Hassan’s work and not far from a bus route and shopping.  The 3-bedroom house with one full bath was small for a family of eight, but large compared to their apartment.  It even had a small yard, two-car garage with a basketball goal.  The American dream, with a Hoosier twist.

While we knew they had many needs, a home of their own was a priority.  Without much money in the bank, little credit history, lack of English language skills, and other challenges, my friend was willing to sell the house to them on contract.   Five families from our church worked together to help them make the move. On a Saturday, a crisp-sunny fall day, we made several trips in SUVs and pickups jammed with their belongings and then packed with the family themselves, we welcomed them in.  They were thrilled. 

We started a journey with Hassan and Naderi that first encounter at Centlivre that continued for many years.  So many things they needed to learn.  Family budgeting, paying bills on time, changing furnace filters, putting the trash out on the right day.  Besides our families, many other people reached out to help them with work, health care, and home repairs.  Small quarters became tighter as babies number 6, 7, and 8 have come along.  We’ve helped them through a home addition and bank financing to buy the house outright.  

More importantly, through our friendship, I’ve learned to be patient and respect their culture.  Floor mats over the carpeted areas, heavy drapes over windows and walls, lights off in the living room, sitting in the dark.  Ignoring the push mower and spreading gravel in the yard instead.  Bright yellow house paint in a block of white and gray homes.  The American dream, with a Bantu twist. 

But more than the American dream, God loves them and Jesus died for them as much as He does and He did for me.  And we’ve tried to reflect that love in helping them.

Dave Steiner, TRP Volunteer

*Names changed for privacy

It’s called an escalator

Last Christmas I was looking for a slice of Americana to share with our Burmese family when I heard the ad for the Christmas Village display by Habitat for Humanity. It was free, seasonal, and simple, which were the criteria for our next group outing. We reserved the church bus and the volunteer driver who is always ready for an outing that involves the smiling faces of our Burmese friends. We purchased bottled water and juice boxes along with grapes and crackers as a snack in case anyone got hungry on the trip. We arrived at East Pointe apartments where our family lives and barely get out of our cars before squeals of laughter were heard from the windows and children came running.  We reminded them that it was the day for our surprise outing and they are elated. Coats seemed to be optional despite our warnings of the cold. Inviting additional family members and friends was not optional. Before we knew it our little outing for 12 had grown to 20+.  The drive was full of chatter, pointing fingers at the marvels of Christmas lights, tall buildings, trains, bridges and fire trucks!  The mood was festive as we arrived at the front of the Grand Wayne where we attempted to corral all the moms and children. The walk through the hotel was total awe as they absorbed the elegance, the elaborate flower arrangements, and the beautiful lights.  Skipping and laughing stopped abruptly however as we approached a barrier I had not thought of. You might remember this scene from the movie Elf, but if not, let me describe it for you.

It’s called an escalator. The fear on everyone’s faces was something like that of a person who has just come face to face with a grizzly bear.  First the mom’s began to cry and then the kids. They had never seen such a thing and were completely terrified by it.  After a total clutch at the top and several minutes of reassurance I took the hands of two of the kids who knew me most, put a big smile on my face and said, come on, let’s go! They each gripped my legs so hard I was ready to start crying too.  We got them down and everyone applauded. So, back up and I went for the next brave souls.  At one point a mother handed me her baby as if to say, save her for me! I thought the event of the evening was going to be the Christmas village but it ended up being the escalator as we went up and down, up and down so many times you would have imagined it to be an amusement park ride!

We did finally go on to see the Christmas village which paled in interest compared to the escalator! It certainly wasn’t our plan to teach them to ride an escalator that night but that is the beauty of unexpected surprises with our Burmese friends.

Kathy Bruce, TRP volunteer from Emmanuel Community Church

Unprofitable Living?

The idea of striving to be unprofitable sounds ridiculous.  When we hear the word unprofitable, it’s always a negative. It’s certainly not a state that anyone would desire to achieve.

Several years ago I participated in a volunteer activity at work. Shortly after the event, I received a “Certificate of Appreciation” in the mail. I felt offended by it but I didn’t really know why.  As I tossed it in the trash I wondered why I felt the way I did. After all, my employer was only trying to be nice and give encouragement. As I analyzed my feelings, my first thought was that if I was to be recognized for my positive actions, my negative qualities should also be brought to light. I hardly wanted to be recognized for aimlessly staring into space when I’m supposed to be working. But there was something else about the award that didn’t feel right.

Every morning there is a commercial on TV that urges people to volunteer in their community. It’s a cute commercial and it may persuade some people to volunteer.  I visited their website expecting to find volunteer opportunities. Instead I found a list of reasons why people should consider voluntarily serving in their community.  They listed a number of good reasons.  The presentation ends with the statement, “Perhaps the most important reason why you should volunteer is the mere fact that you are helping others and are making a difference in your community.”  This statement certainly sounds right. But is it? It depends on whose standard we use.

The concept of loving your neighbor and serving the “least of these“ is popular in today’s American culture, but would the idea still be popular if it were considered the minimum requirement? If giving to those in need was an obligation, who would we celebrate? Who would receive CNN’s “Person of the Year” award? There is no doubt that if giving in terms of time, energy, and money was adopted as the norm, it would be a shock to our culture. But I don’t think that should stop us from pursuing it as our goal.

I see a huge disconnect between how our modern society lives and the way we are intended to live. As millions of people starve to death on the other side of the globe, in America we complain when we get slow service at a restaurant. While millions of people sit helplessly and hopelessly in despair after losing everything (including their immediate family members) we hand out kudos to those who serve an hour a week in a soup kitchen. I realize that it sounds critical to make these statements. I’ve tried to find a softer way to make my point without sounding harsh, but I haven’t found a way to state the truth and not state the truth at the same time

I would like to suggest that service to others is not an additional duty to be undertaken in our “spare time” (actually, since we all get 24 hours per day there really is no such thing as spare time). Serving our neighbor is not above and beyond the expectation. It is the expectation and it should be a part of our daily lives. Not only is it an expectation, it is a minimum expectation. I didn’t come up with this idea on my own. I’m simply restating the same words we’ve all been given.

Serving others because we are obligated isn’t a new idea. The concept is over two thousand years old and it’s as applicable today as it was when it was first stated. Jesus said, “When you’ve done all that I’ve commanded, you’re still an unprofitable servant” (Luke 17:10). What did Jesus mean by this statement? I suppose it’s open to interpretation but I would like to suggest that what he meant was that when we’ve done all that He’s commanded we are still unprofitable servants. No rewards. No awards. As a matter of fact, if we read Luke 17:7-9, we see that even saying “thank you” is not required. (Yikes!) I should make the distinction here that there is a difference between rewarding and encouraging. We should always encourage and support each other along the way.

There is nothing wrong with showing appreciation; however, the danger in honoring those who serve is that it can stealthily become the end rather than the beginning. Unfortunately recognition can also become our motivation. The more we as a society hand out accolades for serving our neighbor, the more we lower the bar. Of course, the lower the bar the easier it is to step over. This wouldn’t be a big problem if there weren’t still millions of people in immediate need…still suffering…still hopeless…still dying. 

The more society advertises that serving others is optional, the further we get from the truth. The truth is that we are commanded to love our neighbor and when we have done all that we’ve been commanded, we have only achieved the minimum.

Very simply, I believe that our culture is moving the wrong direction in terms of our attitudes on serving our neighbors (near and far). I realize that I am a long way from achieving the ranks of an unprofitable servant but there is no doubt that this is clearly the intended goal.

By Jo Bennett, TRP volunteer

my future déjà vu

When I walked through the door of the apartment and saw the activity around me, I honestly had a moment of realization – a déjà vu of the future, that this would be my life if I made it into the Peace Corps. There was a tinge of inspiration in that realization, but that tinge was far overshadowed by the emotion that I now recognize as an integral part of any very-first-time-teaching experience:  Abject Fear.

Rewind: Three years ago, I got in contact with the Reclamation Project (‘TRP’) in Fort Wayne.  I wanted something to fill up my last few weeks in the States until I would be flying across the world to start a job in Seoul.  Each Tuesday and Thursday, I’d meet a handful of ladies and join them in a free-fall into my first attempts at lesson-planning.  When I got back to Fort Wayne in August 2010, I emailed Angie (with TRP) about volunteering again.  We’d start classes right after the New Year. Emails were sent back and forth to determine a location and time, and after some kinks were straightened out, I found myself driving to Fort Wayne’s southeast side on a Tuesday afternoon in January.

The first thing I saw when I got to the apartment was how many pairs of shoes there were by the door.  I looked up from the shoes to the faces in the living room; twelve ladies sat on the floor in a semi-circle. But that makes it sound quiet, and it definitely wasn’t. I also quickly saw the flurry of young children. It’s an exaggeration, but it seemed like there was an average of five children under the age of three for each woman. Truthfully, there might have only been twelve or thirteen kids total, but it looked like there were about sixty children weaving in and out of their mothers.  There were also countless babies in the room: some strapped to or lying in front of their mothers, and maybe three or four sleeping inconspicuously among piles of coats on the floor. I almost stepped on a few of them, honest to goodness.

And that was the moment of fear. I’d felt that fear before, on my first day with my second kindergarten class in Seoul, the ones that started with almost no working English. I felt dwarfed by how much there was for them to learn. The first time I met the students would be noisy and unfocused. We were meeting in a middle place between that world and this one, with all of the clamor you would expect from a clashing of cultures. So many women looked at me with round faces and dark eyes, waiting for this next step in their journey toward freedom to begin.

I told them through my interpreter, Myo Myint, that I was happy and excited to be their teacher, and a little nervous too. I told them about my job in South Korea, and that we’d begin with a language assessment.   A false start; I had wanted them to have something to do while I found out who knew what. I had imagined that I’d be in a room with a table for this class, but had known we probably wouldn’t be. I stopped the assessments and showed them how to make table tents for their names, an idea I’d had to help me get to know them.  I opened my pencil box full of craft supplies, and every kid in the room was on it like ducks on water.  When the language assessments were done and half of the table tents had been crumpled by a wandering foot or a grasping, meandering baby hand, I began.

“Who can read this?” I asked, showing a card that read ‘What is your name?’

 Kap Cing, at whose apartment we were meeting, leaned forward and squinted. “‘What is your name?’” she said.

 I made sure that everyone understood, and then I moved onto the next card: ‘My name is.’

 She squinted and read again, “‘my name is.’”

 I went around the circle again, giving each woman a chance to read. Some read confidently, and some repeated with nervousness, embarrassment, and laughter. I held up the first card again, and they all read out loud, and then I held up the ‘My name is’ card and my own table tent, saying, “My name is Joel.”

 I had them do a chain drill, all asking what each other’s names were. When that was established, I moved onto the second part of my lesson.  “What day is today?” I asked, holding up a large calendar.

One woman leaned forward on her knees and pointed to today’s date, and the group murmured variations of, “Tuesday… January…” I held up cards to build the sentence: ‘Today is Tuesday, January 18.” I couldn’t find the card that said ‘2011’; that got lost when the kids stampeded over to see what was in the pencil box, so I kept the sentence at ‘Today is Tuesday, January 18.” We worked on days of the week, and when I was satisfied that they knew them, we also worked on the months. We even managed to do some work with seasons, and then we had a discussion of ‘What do you like?’, ‘I like,’ and ‘I don’t like.’ I finished class by having them break off into pairs and talk about the days and seasons they liked and didn’t like.

Eight months later, classes with the Chin students are my favorite parts of my week.  A few hours with them can turn a bad day around.  I’ve been treated to spicy, delicious Burmese and Malaysian meals after class, and snacks of corn on the cob and fried banana bread.  I was even invited to a family wedding, my friend and I the only white faces in a sea of Zo.  I marvel at their carefree laughter when I’ve made a joke they’ve understood and how we get to know each other over our language and culture barriers.  I started volunteering because I wanted to help, but as with any similar experience, each person brings me something I didn’t have before.

Teaching refugee adults throws in a wild card that teaching wealthy, privileged children never did.  Though I don’t know each individual story, everything I know about where they came from sings strength in the face of chaos.  I still wonder how I can take everything I know about the way I talk every day and boil it down to the relevant parts, or the “survival English.” What right do I even have to assume the title of Teacher to these women who know so much more about life than I do?  That first day was filled with fear and breath and quickly glancing to make sure I’d brought everything I needed. That was my Peace Corps moment, my future déjà vu: seeing their shoes and their faces and their children and their eyes and knowing that this was what I meant when I’d told myself years ago that I wanted to be part of reconciliation, putting the world back together, brick by brick.  

By Joel Miller, TRP volunteer

what defines a refugee?

(originally posted Sept 2, 2008, by Stephanie Struck)

in my last entry, i defined the word refugee for you. but i told you it was not a word study, but a people study.

if this is a people study, then what defines a refugee in people terms?
i suggest a refugee is defined by his or her courage, heart, dreams, and the way he or she uses their past to build a future.

many of you have probably passed someone in a local walmart who looks like my friend halima*. she is a young, african, muslim girl in brightly colored clothes including a dress and head scarf. some of you may have wondered her story, but likely you passed her by admiring the color of her scarf at most.

(*i changed her name because i think that’s what you’re supposed to do with stories like this)

i sat with halima tonight, as she prepared her meal to break the fast on this first day of ramadan. i asked her to share with me more than she had before about her journey from somalia to the refugee camps in kenya.

travel with me back to 1992…
now, if you are my age then in 1992 you were rocking it to MC Hammer (too legit to quit) in your leggings & puff paint shirt with the biggest drama in my life being how big i could make my bangs!

yet, on the other side of the world a war was raging in somalia where the somali bantu had been a minority slave tribe for hundreds of years. at this time in history, the somali somali were killing the somali bantu. halimas father worked as some sort of handy-man and was at the market one day working. on the way home, with his wages in his pocket, he was killed by a somali somali who wanted his money. his 25-year-old wife was told of the news and had to come identify the body, though she was not given the right to take him for burial. halima told me,

if you stayed inside, you had no money
if you went outside, you would be killed

this young 25-year-old widow gathered her three children and with at least a hundred others set out by foot for refuge in kenya.

in case i was not clear, they fled for their lives.

halima shared that the journey was 15 days by foot, if you walked day AND night. if you only walked during the day, it would take 1 month. they walked to the border of somalia and kenya where UN vehicles awaited to help refugees.

during the grueling journey, the refugees ate leaves or killed wild animals for food when they had the chance. if they stopped at night, they themselves became vulnerable prey for wild animals. halima shared that many people were killed by animals or died of sickness along the way.

halima was 4 years old when her family left somalia, her brothers were 6 and 2. she shared that on day 14 of her mother’s 15 day journey, her older brother got sick and died. one day away from help. her mother buried him there, on her path toward life and hope.

fast forward from the border of kenya to dadaab refugee camp where halima spent the next 10 years of her life. in this camp the somali bantu were among refugees from ethiopia, sudan and somalia who had all fled for their lives.

 

did you catch the fact that somali somali’s were also there? the camp did not provide safety from the conflict. somali bantu were still killed by their enemies. halima shared that police patrolling the camp were easily bribed to look the other way.

the refugees were given tents or sheets of plastic as housing, though they could choose to build their own homes with sticks and mud. in order to build or even make a fire to cook, one would have to leave the camp for nearby forests. these forests were “owned” by the turkana people of kenya who, to the bantu, were also known to kill people who came to get firewood and did not pay.

every 15 days, each family unit would be given rations of corn, beans, flour, oil and some salt. it was not enough for the family to eat everyday for 15 days. we also go back to that little problem of needing firewood, but risking your life to get it. halima’s husband added to the story memories of being very hungry and having such small meals, once a day on average.

think of all the meals you ate between 1992 and 2002.
were you ever honestly hungry?

halima’s youngest brother died shortly after arriving the refugee camp. she doesn’t remember either of her brothers, or the foot flight to kenya. but her mother told her these stories as she grew up. halima remembers her aunt having 5 children, and she remembers watching all of them die. she recalls death as a constant part of her childhood.

the camp did not have medical care or education to speak of. 10+ years lost to hunger, poverty, boredom, hopelessness.

a glimmer of hope came in 2000 when president clinton authorized asylum to 20,000 somali bantus. they had been waiting for somewhere to go, somewhere to start a life and finally a door had opened. thousands of bantus were moved over the next couple years to another camp in kenya called kakuma.

to halima, kakuma holds memories of vicious dust storms and still very little food, security, or social systems. 

since 2002, many in kakuma have now been granted resident visas to the USA, including halima who came here with a relative in 2004. she hoped that in being allowed to come with them, she would have a way to help her mother come faster.

fast forward to today, 2008. halima’s mother still lives in kakuma desperately waiting and hoping for resettlement to the US. that’s 16 years of life in a refugee camp.

i can’t even imagine. 16 years virtually lost.
what did you do for the last 16 years?

she hears from halima by phone occasionally, she must be so proud. 20-year-old halima lives here in fort wayne, indiana. she is married to another somali bantu and has two beautiful daughters. she proudly graduated high school this year.

death, war, and hardship is part of a refugee’s story.
but a refugee is not defined by these things.
a refugee is defined by courage to flee, overcome, and hope.
a refugee is defined by heart to make a difference for the next generation.
a refugee is defined by dreams of education for her children, food for her family, and impact for the world.
a refugee is defined by the way she uses her past of fear to build a future of hope.

that is a refugee.