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2ECOND THOUGHT A publication of the North Dakota Humanities Council

spring 16

[THE NEW AMERICANS ISSUE]

SEEING AMERICA FOR THE FIRST TIME The reason I love great literature is because it affords me the privilege of looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. How amazing to try on another worldview for a while—to walk cobblestone streets with Charles Dickens in Victorian London or wander barefoot through the slums of Mumbai with Thrity Umrigar. A good author shows us the places they love, warts and all, in order to make us fall in love with the inhabitants of their worlds.

Photo by Joleyn Larson, Mandan, ND

Like great literature, this issue of On Second Thought allows longtime American citizens the opportunity to experience their country through the fresh eyes of people who grew up outside of its borders. It reminds us of the precious value of the things we take for granted every day—freedom, justice, equality, safety, community—and challenges us to consider whether the image we project to the world is an accurate mirror of the reality on the ground here in the United States.

...this issue of On Second Thought allows longtime American citizens the opportunity to experience their country through the fresh eyes of people who grew up outside of its borders.

Are we still the America we think we are? Do the ideas and values we hold sacred in this country have the power to endure even during a time of so much turmoil, both at home and abroad? How do we strengthen our democracy and keep the American Dream alive for all of our citizens? These aren’t always easy questions, but sometimes it takes a fresh perspective to truly see what is right in front of us. Brenna Daugherty Gerhardt Executive Director

Cover photos by Andrew Cullen.

NEW AMERICANS

4 Introduction: The New Americans By Kevin Brooks

10 Teaching New Americans: Our Journey Together

By Leah Juelke

14 Some Things Change Forever

By Nakafu Kahasha

46 Putting Diversity into Practice

By Meg Luther Lindholm

50 An Archaeology of Care

By William Caraher and Richard Rothaus

52 My Journey to America

By Newzad Brifki

[THE NEW AMERICANS ISSUE]

18 The Risk I Took

By Chandra Dulal

20 My Life Divided

By Laura Restrepo

24 In the Blink of an Eye

By Majda Hussein

28 The Purpose of Life

By Bebek Rai

ON SECOND THOUGHT is published by the North Dakota Humanities Council. Ann Crews Melton, Guest Editor To subscribe, please contact us:

32 Neighbors

By Alicia Underlee Nelson

36 The New Assimilated American

By Nicole Montclair-Donaghy

38 The Silent Narratives

By Jonix Owino

44 Mother of Water

By Madelyn Camrud

North Dakota Humanities Council 418 E. Broadway, Suite 8 Bismarck, ND 58501 800-338-6543 council@ndhumanities.org

ndhumanities.org Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this magazine do not necessarily represent those of the National Endowment for the Humanities or the North Dakota Humanities Council.

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The humanities teach us what it means to be human. In engaging with these authors and their stories, I hope we have created a small window into the hopes, fears, and dreams shared by all of us.

EDITOR’S NOTE The stories and experiences of New Americans have become increasingly important as we learn to engage with each other in a pluralistic society. Since moving to Bismarck in 2014 from Queens, New York—a borough full of immigrants and refugees—I have tracked with interest the growing diversity in North Dakota, including the reactions of the public and the media to the state’s newcomers (of which I am a part, although privileged as a white American). This region has a complex history unlike anywhere else I have lived in the United States. This history should be both celebrated and wrestled with, from acknowledging past and present prejudice against Native Americans to connecting the rugged spirit of European homesteaders to the plight of modern-day refugees. Here in North Dakota, refugees are often resettled by organizations rooted in the homesteaders’ religious traditions. Many of these traditions speak of the grace we may encounter by welcoming the stranger. With this issue of On Second Thought, we hope to illuminate the singular journeys of New Americans making a home in our state. In editing the stories from New Americans themselves—particularly the ELL students at Fargo South High School—I tried to use a light touch, both to maintain their original voices and to convey the impressive mastery of the English language the authors have achieved. The humanities teach us what it means to be human. In engaging with these authors and their stories, I hope we have created a small window into the hopes, fears, and dreams shared by all of us.

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EDITOR

ANN CREWS MELTON is a writer,

editor, and proud board member of the North Dakota Humanities Council. A native Texan, she landed on the northern plains by way of Boston and New York City. She lives with her husband and daughter in Bismarck.

PHOTOGRAPHER Many of the photographs in this issue were captured by ANDREW CULLEN. Andrew is a photojournalist based in Bismarck, North Dakota, with a passion for telling the stories of rural and otherwise out-of-the-way people and places. Andrew was a Peace Corps volunteer in Bangladesh and Mongolia, teaching English as a second language, before becoming a photographer. His work has been featured in the New York Times, the Washington Post, and on NPR.

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INTRODUCTION: THE NEW AMERICANS By Kevin Brooks

Top left: Kevin Brooks and his family. Back: Deng, Agot, and Caity. Front: Elizabeth Birmingham, Makeer, Griffin, and Kevin Brooks.

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Lower left: The author, second from the right, received the Chamber of Commerce Award for Distinguished Faculty Service in May 2015.

On Second Thought brings the humanities’ perspective to issues of vital public importance, and refugee resettlement and immigration are among the most hotly debated topics of the young twentyfirst century. The humanities’ perspective pays attention to history, to language, to nuanced elements of arguments, stories, and situation, rather than getting caught up in the ongoing and complicated refugee crisis in Syria, the vitriolic rhetoric about immigration heard on the 2016 campaign trail, and even media and community conflict in North Dakota around refugee resettlement. On Second Thought privileges stories rather than statistics and gives voice to New Americans who might not otherwise tell their stories.

Immigrant and refugee stories almost always contain tragedy, but among that tragedy, we listeners, readers, and watchers find inspiration and catharsis. The challenges of our comfortable lives, for those of us fortunate enough to have them, are put in perspective; our view on the world is widened; our hearts are both opened and troubled when we come to understand that people just like us—farmers, teachers, nurses, truck drivers, journalists—from around the world have had their lives completely upended by a conflict or a natural disaster outside of their control. They are forced to rebuild their lives from scratch, often in a foreign language, while enduring bitter winds and cold temperatures like few ever thought possible.

activity. Human life evolved in Africa and spread throughout the continents, including migration from Asia across the Bering Strait to the Americas. The willingness and sometimes necessity to move in order to survive is a powerful human instinct, and people will continue to move, legally or illegally, often as a matter of survival. Refugee protection and resettlement managed by the United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees (UNHCR) is a sophisticated means of handling the flow of dangerously displaced humans around the globe, and to end or significantly curtail resettlement, as some critics of Syrian resettlement suggest, would risk millions of lives and add pressure to an already volatile geopolitical system.

In this introduction, I provide a very brief history (yet very long perspective) on human movement and refugee resettlement, especially as it has played out in North Dakota over the past twenty-plus years. I then try to bring some clarity to the language and labels often used when discussing refugee resettlement: New Americans, secondary migrants, and host communities. I am offering an introduction on the topic of New Americans for those who need or want it; I am not introducing the essays and poems in the magazine, because these authors do not need my help achieving their voice.

As the nation and the state debate immigration and refugee resettlement issues today, we should also take at least one other very long view and remember that what has come to be called “the Americas” had a population of fifty to one hundred million indigenous peoples, 80 to 90 percent of whom were killed or displaced by the settler colonies from Europe. To claim that the United

HUMAN MIGRATION AND REFUGEE RESETTLEMENT In Exodus: How Migration Is Changing Our World, economist Paul Collier makes the compelling point that migration has been a constant human

The willingness and sometimes necessity to move in order to survive is a powerful human instinct, and people will continue to move, legally or illegally, often as a matter of survival. 5

Kevin Brooks working at the African Soul, American Heart compound in Moyo, Uganda, with Deborah Akon Deng, the student he and his wife have sponsored since 2010.

States is a “nation of immigrants” is insensitive to the history of the indigenous peoples of the Americas, and overlooks the fact that the United States has, according to Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, “welcomed—indeed often solicited, even bribed—immigrants to repopulate conquered territories ‘cleansed’ of their Indigenous inhabitants” (50). While the United States’ official definition of a refugee is that he or she is of “special humanitarian concern to the United States,” we cannot be blind to the fact that refugees are often a source of cheap labor, despite the degrees and qualifications many bring with them. And like the waves of cheap immigrant labor before them, they are never fully accepted as Americans. “[N]o matter how much immigrants might strive to prove themselves to be as hardworking and patriotic as descendants of the original settlers,” says Dunbar-Ortiz, “and despite the rhetoric of E pluribus unum, they are suspect” (51). Or, as I point out in more detail in the next section, former refugees/New Americans are seldom ever understood to be just “Americans.” For those of us who attempt to welcome and support New Americans today, we should not forget this history of imperialism and white supremacy that has shaped the nation. Neither should we forget the ways in which the oldest Americans face many of the same challenges of social, economic, and political disenfranchisement that New Americans face. Resettlement efforts concerned with the human rights of refugees might be undertaken in conjunction with those pursuing indigenous rights and social justice. Philosopher Cornel West, in Democracy Matters, claims that for deep democracy in the United States to be achieved, we must recognize and then overcome the ways in which the US as an imperial nation marginalizes the indigenous peoples of America, as well as the global poor and the non-white. So that’s the very long view on human migration, the relationship between settler colonialism and refugee resettlement, and the work that needs to be done to achieve a more equitable democratic framework for all Americans. The precise and legal history of refugee resettlement can be found on the US Office of Refugee Resettlement’s website: 6

Congress first enacted legislation in 1948 to govern refugee resettlement after World War II. Congress rewrote legislation after the Vietnam War to standardize resettlement services for all refugees admitted to the United States. Annual admissions figures have ranged from a high of 207,116 in 1980 to a low of 27,100 in 2002, with the Obama administration using a target figure, seldom reached, of 80,000 a year. In between those two acts, the 1965 Immigration and Naturalization Act, according to immigration expert Margaret Sands Orchowski, brought the annual total of legal immigrants allowed into the US to over one million a year and changed the “ethno-racial-national population to ‘resemble the world’ rather than the nation that had grown out of the thirteen British colonies (and thousands of African slaves)” (Ch. 4). This expansion and diversification of immigration has affected refugee resettlement because it raised anxieties about immigration of any kind around the country, and the “diversification of immigration” is of course code for an increase in non-white immigrants. Anthropologist Aihwa Ong, in Buddha Is Hiding, puts this change in the context of refugee resettlement. She explains that between the end of World War II and the end of the Vietnam War, 90 percent of refugees were from communist countries, were considered “freedom fighters,” and were most often white. After Vietnam, the refugee acquired a more ambivalent image. Floods of refugees—both legal and illegal—escaping natural disasters, civil wars, ethnic wars, and adverse conditions in poor countries, flowed into the country. More and more, refugees came to be viewed as the byproduct of regional conflicts and underdeveloped economies that appeared to have little to do with American interests. Public sentiment gradually began to turn against the ‘boat peoples’ of the world arriving in a recession-slowed United States. . . . They arrived

[new americans] just as American domestic policy, under Republican regimes [Reagan and Bush, 1980–92], was shifting away from a welfare-state notion of custodial, collective support of the weak and poor towards emphasis on individuals’ civic duty to reduce their burden on the state. (82) Despite two Democratic presidencies since the ReaganBush area, resettlement policy has not shifted back to “custodial, collective support of the weak and poor.” The expectation placed on refugees by their resettlement agency, whether Lutheran Social Services of North Dakota’s New American Services or other agencies throughout the US, is that the head of household will find work within ninety days of arrival, and the individual or family will be self-sufficient within eight months, regardless of the local economy, their knowledge of English, or their work skills. The North Dakota history of refugee resettlement looks like the national picture, but the debate about immigration sounds a little different in the state. The North Dakota settler culture first marginalized the indigenous, then adopted, protected, and maintained an inward-looking, morally superior, racially coded attitude of “keeping the riff-raff out.” The state has never felt pressure from a large, visible minority that confronts the structural racism of the region; North Dakota has not seen significant migration from the US South or immigration from Central and South America like southern states or gateway cities (e.g., New York and Chicago) have seen. The weak agriculture economy and general economic downturn of the 1980s resulted in a state that had little to keep young people at home and nothing to draw immigrants from other states or countries, so refugee resettlement turned out to be one small stop-gap in the population drain. But that didn’t always mean these newcomers were welcome. The first decade of professionalized resettlement was not without its controversies and pushback, but the 2002 Refugee Impact in the Fargo-Moorhead Community report prepared by sociology faculty at North Dakota State University offered a cost-benefit analysis: “It is clear that refugees impose dependency costs on the community, especially during their first year of resettlement. At the same time, refugees enrich the community culturally and, in the long term, provide positive economic returns on this community investment through their own employment, their employment of others, and their payment of taxes” (Slobin, Klenow, and Thompson 25). When asked, “How much money did you receive from the United States taxpayers?” and “When are you going to pay it back?,” Anna Astvatsaturian Turcotte, who came to Wahpeton in 1992 at the age of 13, responded, “I’ve repaid my debt ten times over.” After the 2000 census, Minnesota Public Radio produced a story that documented the ways New Americans were enabling manufacturing companies to stay open while

the state was losing its American-born workforce to out migration (Reha). The growth of higher education, the technology sector, and the medical sector in the Red River Valley and to some extent across the state, has resulted in a “foreign-born” population that is a mix of highly educated professionals coming to the area for economic opportunities and refugees resettled to the state over the past twenty years (Springer). The past twenty-plus years of refugee resettlement has diversified the three largest cities in North Dakota, but in much more modest ways than one might expect from the state that resettles more refugees per capita than any other state. According to US Census data, Fargo’s percentage of white population dropped from 94 to 90 percent between the 2000 and 2010 censuses, and of course, not all of that change can be attributed to refugee resettlement. The city of Fargo’s foreign-born population has grown, but remains at only 7 percent; Grand Forks is a modest 4.5 percent, and Bismarck a miniscule 1.8 percent. Because the home countries for refugees change as global crises change, North Dakota does not have one dominant refugee group. The Bosnian refugees of the early 1990s came in large numbers for a few years but are not a visible minority because they are white. Somali and Sudanese populations have maintained a steady growth since the late 1990s and are more visible to the still predominantly white state. The large Somali populations in Minneapolis and St. Cloud move back and forth between the Fargo-Moorhead area, Grand Forks, and the Twin Cities area, making them the most likely secondary migrants in the state. The Liberian diaspora across the US has been discovering that Fargo and North Dakota generally provide good opportunities. Bhutanese refugees, who spent almost thirty years in Nepali camps that are now closed, have been the predominant group resettled the past five years, with Iraqi and Congolese families making up two other growing New American communities. When the humanities’ long and thoughtful perspective is taken, none of the changes of the last twenty years have warranted the local anti-immigrant, anti-refugee rhetoric that emerged in 2015. An online petition calling for an end to refugee resettlement in North Dakota topped out at 3,287 signatures and claimed victory, but resettlement has continued in exactly the same manner as before the petition with no noticeable strains on the state’s economy, safety, or well-being. The (Fargo-based) Valley News Live four-part muckraking series on resettlement in fall 2015 went looking for trouble but couldn’t find any, and the extensive vandalism and damage done to Café Juba in Grand Forks in December actually generated an outpouring of support for the business owner and his Somali-American family. Returning to Collier, the issue is not whether there should be migration or immigration—there will be. The questions 7

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should be how much, where, and who? Lutheran Social Services of North Dakota monitors its capacity and participants closely without violating civil liberties. State and city local partners, like schools, businesses, and community organizations, generally continue to be supportive of the five hundred or so refugees who arrive in North Dakota each year.

“New American” with a capital “N”—an

informal but increasingly accepted term in resettlement communities throughout the US—generally means a refugee who has arrived in the US with the intention of obtaining citizenship, but has not yet obtained that status.

LANGUAGE, LABELS, AND VOICE When people talk and write about New Americans, who are they talking about? That’s not such an easy question to answer, because government agencies have their own specialized language (typically, “refugees,” “foreign born,” “foreign nationals,” and “aliens”), and public debate largely swirls around immigrants and paths to citizenship. “Immigrant” turns out to be a broad category of people who come to another country with an intention other than visiting, but these immigrants fall into the categories of legal permanent alien, illegal alien, refugee, and various visa holders. All refugees are immigrants, but most immigrants to the US are not refugees. A refugee is legally defined by the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services as “someone who: Is located outside of the United States Is of special humanitarian concern to the United States Demonstrates that they were persecuted or fear persecution due to race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or membership in a particular social group Is not firmly resettled in another country Is admissible to the United States.” Upon legal entry to the United States, refugees become “permanent legal residents” who will have an opportunity to obtain citizenship after five years in the country. “New American” with a capital “N”—an informal but increasingly accepted term in resettlement communities throughout the US—generally means a refugee who has arrived in the US with the intention of obtaining citizenship, but has not yet obtained that status. The term “refugee” is one that many of the world’s displaced want to shake—it reminds people of the deserts, rivers, jungles, and oceans they may have crossed, the family and friends they may have lost. When someone from Bhutan, Somalia, or Congo arrives in North Dakota, they frequently will say, “I am not a refugee anymore.” The proper noun “New American” is not typically used to refer to Mexican, Central American, or South American immigrants, even when those arriving from a country like Colombia as refugees are in fact New Americans. One 8

reason this label isn’t applied is because Latino immigrants, according to Orchowski, are less likely to pursue citizenship than refugees who often see the prospect of returning to their home country as unlikely (Ch. 4). Canadian immigrants like myself blend so easily into the American milieu that we are never called “New Americans,” yet we bristle when someone says, “You have always been an American—a North American.” The Canadian identity is largely founded on being different, in subtle but important ways, from Americans—but I digress. So, when “New American” as a proper noun is used in North Dakota and other refugee resettlement centers around the US, the designation is most accurately used for recently arrived refugees/legal permanent residents, but commonly used to designate anyone who has arrived in the US via a refugee resettlement program. The term can also be used to refer to a group of visible minorities, like “the New American community.” The term “New American” tends to stick with refugees who earn their citizenship, especially if those new Americans (not capitalized, because newly sworn in citizens are indeed now new Americans) speak an accented English different from our upperMidwest, sing-songy “youbetchyas.” Two other labeling issues come up in conjunction with refugee resettlement: 1) who is a secondary migrant, and 2) what do you call the people who have lived in the same place/region for a long time? A secondary migrant is typically used to refer to a refugee who was officially settled in one location, like Des Moines, Iowa, but who has chosen to move somewhere else, like Bismarck, for education, a job, to be with family and friends, or for some other perfectly legal reason. The concept isn’t particularly difficult to understand, but secondary migrants are often perceived by anti-refugee groups as dangerous, because they are not restricted in their movement, not tracked when they move, and they can potentially produce an unanticipated influx of New Americans to either a location that doesn’t have a formal resettlement program or a location that perceives it does not have the schooling, housing, or social service capacity to handle this surge. North Dakota has been a popular location for secondary migrants because of the strong economy, the low unemployment rate, and the generally sufficient support services, especially in Fargo and Grand Forks. The Bakken oil patch has of course been a population destination for secondary migrants, immigrants, and anyone else looking for a good paying job.

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When trying to talk about New Americans in our communities, those of us who have lived in a location for a significant time have to figure out how to refer to ourselves. We can use the “mainstream community,” the “majority community,” or “the locals,” but the most palatable term, though by no means perfect, is “host community.” A host community is a welcoming community; the term acknowledges that refugees have indeed been invited to the community, and that in the best of hosting traditions, the guests’ needs are attended to and met. The negative implications of the term include an assumption that the host is in control; that this is their place, and the newcomers will always be outsiders. The term once again overlooks the fact that the so-called “host communities” were once terrible guests who displaced the indigenous communities throughout the Americas. Perhaps, as philosopher Jacques Derrida suggests in his meditation on this complicated notion of “hospitality,” we can be reminded of the negative connotations and work to overcome the controlling, possessive host as we pursue gracious and welcoming conditions. While host communities often struggle to find the right label for newcomers, the central linguistic and narrative concern for New Americans is finding a public voice. They have fled the country where they might have voted, held office, spoke the local language(s), and had access to power and self-expression. As refugees, these displaced peoples typically spend time in a transitional country where they cannot vote or hold office, may or may not speak the local language, may or may not be authorized to work, and are unlikely to have access to power or self-expression. When they arrive in the United States, they are without the first two options for at least five years; they may not speak, read, or write English effectively enough to express themselves; and they are unlikely to have access to power. The “New Americans” issue of On Second Thought is a unique vehicle for self-expression; the contributors do not necessarily have a record of publication. Some may have told their stories in other venues; some may be telling them for the first time. Perhaps the most widely read refugee story, What Is the What, is the story of Southern Sudanese Lost Boy Valentino Achak Deng, told through the powerful pen of one of America’s most popular writers, Dave Eggers. Deng and Eggers were able to tell a story that captures the best of the history, which often tells us what happened, and literature, which often tells us how events felt. We don’t have those stories set in North Dakota, yet, but some of the contributions to this issue will be a first step toward helping all of us understand better how it feels to be a New American in North Dakota.

advocacy and resettlement since 2005.

WORKS CITED Astvatsaturian Turcotte, Anna. “Paying Back Tenfold.” Originally appeared in the High Plains Reader, Nov. 21, 2013. http://www.annaturcotte.com/ selected-publications. Collier, Paul. Exodus: How Migration Is Changing Our World. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Derrida, Jacques. Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond. Translated by Rachel Bowlby. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000. Eggers, Dave. What Is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng. San Francisco: McSweeney’s, 2006. Dunbar-Ortiz, Roxanne. An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States. Boston: Beacon Press, 2014. Kindle edition. Ong, Aihwa. Buddha Is Hiding: Refugees, Citizenship, the New America. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003. Orchowski, Margaret Sands. The Law that Changed the Face of America: The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2015. Kindle edition. Reha, Bob. “Refugees Boost North Dakota’s Economy.” Minnesota Public Radio, August 20, 2002. http://news.minnesota.publicradio.org/ features/200208/20_rehab_nodakcensus-m/. Slobin, Kathleen, Daniel Klenow, and Kevin Thompson. Refugee Impact in the Fargo-Moorhead Community. Fargo: North Dakota Institute for Regional Studies / North Dakota State University, 2002. Springer, Patrick. “High Proportion of Immigrant Citizens in ND Have Advanced Degrees.” InForum, January 19, 2016. http://www.inforum.com/ news/3927317-high-proportion-immigrant-citizens-nd-have-advanceddegrees. United States Census Bureau. “QuickFacts.” Accessed March 4, 2016. http://www.census.gov/en.html. United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. “Refugees.” Accessed March 4, 2016. https://www.uscis.gov/humanitarian/refugees-asylum/ refugees. United States Department of Health and Human Services Administration for Children and Families. “About: History.” Office of Refugee Resettlement. Accessed March 4, 2016. http://www.acf.hhs.gov/programs/ orr/about/history. West, Cornel. Democracy Matters: Winning the Fight Against Imperialism. New York: Penguin, 2004. SUGGESTED READING North Dakota authors reflect on refugee experiences and resettlement in these outstanding works: From Africa to America: The Journey of a Lost Boy of Sudan by Joseph Akol Makeer Nowhere, a Story of Exile by Anna Astvatsaturian Turcotte

KEVIN BROOKS is a professor of English at North Dakota State University, president of the New American Consortium for Wellness and Empowerment, and vice president of African Soul, American Heart. Brooks and his family have been immersed in refugee

Walking Out into the Sunshine: Recollections and Reflections: A Palestinian Personal Experience by Ghazi Q. Hassoun 9

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TEACHING NEW AMERICANS: OUR JOURNEY TOGETHER By Leah Juelke

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Students complete an activity in Leah Juelke’s ELL class at Fargo South High School. Photo by Andrew Cullen. 11

Photo by Andrew Cullen

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These stories were about growing up in refugee camps, hiding under beds while villages burned, and losing entire families to war. These stories were also about the culture shock of seeing snow or touching a computer for the first time.

My students are all refugees or immigrants, and all have amazing stories about their lives before coming to America. I started the “Journey to America” narrative writing project last year as a way for the ELL (English Language Learner) students in my English 4 class to practice narrative writing and short story elements. I am an ELL English teacher at a public high school in Fargo, North Dakota. I work in one of the largest ELL high school programs in the state, which currently serves about 110 refugee and immigrant students—10 percent of the school’s student population. My students represent more than fifteen countries of origin; the students in my ELL English 4 class are all refugees or immigrants who have been in the United States for only two to five years. With this project, my hope was that others could learn from the personal stories the students shared with me in and outside of class. These stories were about growing up in refugee camps, hiding under beds while villages burned, and losing entire families to war. These stories were also about the culture shock of seeing snow or touching a computer for the first time. I was intrigued by these stories and wanted others to understand more about our resilient population of New Americans. Last year, the students wrote the first volume of Journey to America: Narrative Short Stories, published in a printed

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Laura Restrepo and Chandra Dulal, center, work with other students during an activity in Leah Juelke’s ELL class. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

anthology and online. Soon after, the Fargo School Board invited students to present their stories at a board meeting; a local radio station interviewed the students, and the story was picked up by Minnesota Public Radio. I was thrilled that people in our area were interested in becoming more culturally aware. This year, with the help of an Eleanor Laing Law Grant, I was able to bring Lost Boy of Sudan John Bul Dau to Fargo South. He spoke to the entire school in October about his experiences as a Sudanese refugee. Now a successful CEO, author, and president of his own organization, John inspires other refugees and immigrants to make the most of their lives. After the assembly, John worked one-on-one with the ELL English 4 students, answering questions about his life and giving the students advice on how to write a good story. Over the next eight weeks, students from North Dakota State University (NDSU), Minnesota State University Moorhead, The Giving Plus Learning Program, and NDSU professor Kevin Brooks’s classes, as well as volunteers from The Refugee Consortium, came to work with students on technical writing aspects of their stories. In addition to this wonderful help, my student teacher, Kalai Laizer, who is native to Tanzania, helped inspire students during the unit and wrote her own “Journey to America” story. This year’s Journey to America volume was again published in a print anthology and online. The students presented their stories during a public reading at

NDSU on January 27, 2016, to help further cultural understanding in the Fargo-Moorhead community. In the last three years, I have sometimes struggled with being able to understand the cultural backgrounds of all of my students. I speak Spanish fluently, but that doesn’t help much, since only two of my students’ native language is Spanish. I have tried to teach myself a couple of words in different languages. Although the students often giggle at my mispronunciations, they are thrilled that I am trying to connect with them. I traveled to Tanzania and South Africa through a Fund for Teachers grant in summer 2015 to learn more about African cultures. Attending cultural celebrations, diversity courses, and extensive traveling has made me a more culturally competent educator. Helping the growing population of refugees and immigrants with limited English proficiency in Fargo has been a wonderful experience. Sometimes, I find myself giving out donated clothing items to students after class, collecting old prom dresses, or helping students make phone calls for various appointments. My drive to help my students is fueled by their respect, compassion, and eagerness to learn. Their journeys may have ended when they arrived in Fargo, but mine began when I met them. LEAH JUELKE is a Fargo native who has been teaching for nine years. She holds a bachelor’s degree in English education and ELL and a master’s degree in curriculum and instruction from North Dakota State University.

Photo by Andrew Cullen

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The following five stories are excerpts of Journey to America: Narrative Short Stories Vol. 2, published by Fargo South High School’s ELL English 4 class in January 2016.

SOME THINGS CHANGE FOREVER “Shhhhhshhhhh,” my mom whispered. I was shaking uncontrollably. My two brothers, parents, and I were hiding under the bed. We heard people screaming outside, women, men, and children. I was scared and I started to cry. My mom told me to be quiet so that they wouldn’t hear us. After about five or six hours, it was dark outside and we came out from under the bed. We were hungry, so we were lucky we had bread and water. “Eat faster, so we can find a way to leave to a safe place,” my mom said. “But where are we going?” I asked my father. “We are going to Kigoma, Tanzania,” my father replied. In the middle of the night we left. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to my friends because everyone was in their houses, probably hiding under their beds. The reason I had to leave my home was because of the war. At the time, I was very young, and I was confused by many things that were going on. The soldiers from Rwanda and Congo were fighting because the people in Congo didn’t want the people in Rwanda to take their property. So, the soldiers from Rwanda would knock on the doors of the Congolese people and say that they were family. When the people would open the door, the soldiers would shoot them.

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Nakafu Kahasha, left, works at McDonald’s restaurant in Fargo in addition to attending high school classes. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

My family and I started making our journey to Kigoma, Tanzania. When we got to the road, there were a lot of soldiers. “Unaenda wapi?” the soldiers yelled at our driver. The driver lied to them, “I am taking the women to give birth in a different country.” “Where is your passport?” they shouted. The driver showed his passport to them and they let us go.

In the middle of the night we left. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to my friends because everyone was in their houses, probably hiding under their beds. 16

We arrived in Kigoma, Tanzania, after two days and we stayed there for one year. Then my mom and dad went back to Congo because my uncle called them to inform them that my grandpa had died. They left me and my two brothers in Tanzania. I was sad because I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to my grandpa. After one month, my grandma also died, so my mom and dad stayed in Congo even longer. I never saw my parents again. I never got a chance to say goodbye to my parents in person. While in Kigoma, we got a call from my uncle in Congo. “There are some people coming to kill you!” my uncle yelled into the phone. It had been six months since my parents left. My brothers and I knew we had to leave Kigoma. We escaped to the Kanembwa Refugee Camp. When we arrived, we saw so many people in the camp. There were many children. Later that day, the boys and girls were placed into different huts to sleep, and they got blankets and food. I had to share a place with other girls that I didn’t know. I was only six years old and it was scary. We even had to share the buckets for bathing and the outdoor bathrooms. Days went by and I missed my parents, but there was nothing I could do about it. I just cried and cried.

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After months, I got used to the Kanembwa Refugee Camp. I met some girls who were nice, and we became friends. Almost a year passed by and we were still at the camp. I got really sick. The nurse at the camp did not know what was wrong with me. My brothers were really worried. The medic decided to take me to another small town that had better doctors. I went there and stayed in the hospital for about one month. After I felt better, we went back to the camp. Then after two weeks, I got sick again. My brothers were worried and scared because they didn’t know what was wrong with me. The doctors said it was malaria. My whole refugee life was spent sick in the hospital.

“What is this?” I asked my brothers. Before my brothers could reply to me, there were men standing near us with big coats, scarfs, and boots.

I had been in the camp for two and a half years, when I finally did an interview to immigrate to the USA.

“Mungu wangu kweli hii baridi,” I said, in disbelief of how something could be so cold outside. We got into the car and he took us to our new home. He was talking, but we did not understand him. So when he smiled, we just smiled back. I thought that the land looked amazing but nothing like home, in Africa. We were in the car and dressed up in big coats but we were still cold. We stopped and got out of the car. We went into a tall building. Chris told us it was where we would be staying.

“Unajua nini Nakafu?” my brother, Aniceth, asked. “What? Are you serious? We are going to the US?” I asked. He told me we were going to America but I didn’t believe him. Then, I went to ask my brother, Eric, if it was true, and . . . it was! Everyone was excited, but then I got nervous. One month passed and we were all busy getting everything ready. During that month, we all had to get checkups. It seemed like every day we went to a clinic and got shots or some different medicine. I didn’t like the medicine, but in order to come to America, everyone had to take the medicines. The day we left the camp, all my friends cried as they said goodbye to me. I was really sad and scared, but excited. We got into a big bus and we went to the airport. I was scared because I never rode in an airplane! My brothers told me everything was going to be okay and somehow I managed to get on the bus. We got to the airport and we had to find the airplane. As soon as I sat down, I was not nervous anymore. The people in the airplane gave us tons food, and it was delicious. Later, we got off at an airport in Nairobi, Kenya. There was a hotel there and we stayed overnight. Early in the morning, we left on another plane that was bigger than the last one. We flew to Kenya, France, Chicago, and finally to Fargo. I don’t know how many planes we took but it seemed like a lot. The last plane we took landed in Fargo. I got off and I was scared because it was really cold and everything was white.

“My name is Chris,” one man said, and pointed to himself. “Put these on,” he said, handing us winter clothing. “Thank you,” we said. We put on the stuff and we felt warmer. I pointed to the white stuff on the ground. “What’s this called?” I asked Chris. “This is called snow,” he replied.

“Wow, this is a beautiful house!” I said, with surprised look on my face. I smiled thinking about our wonderful new place, but deep down I still felt sad because I knew my parents would never be able to share this life with us. SWAHILI LANGUAGE GLOSSARY Unaenda wapi? Where are you going? Unajua nini? Guess what? Mungu wangu kweli hii baridi. Oh my God, this is really cold.

NAKAFU KAHASHA was born in Congo and grew up in Tanzania. She came to the United States on April 12, 2010, with her two brothers, her sister-in-law, and her twin nieces. She is sixteen years old and a sophomore at Fargo South High School. She speaks four languages: Swahili, Kirundi, Kinyarwanda, and English. Nakafu has been learning English for four years. She likes to play soccer and volleyball and to dance. Her favorite subjects are math and history. She wants to be a nurse, a lawyer, or a flight attendant when she finishes college. 17

THE RISK I TOOK By Chandra Dulal

People take risks to achieve things. I am the type of girl who lives by the motto: no adventure, no gain. People only comprehend their full potential if they take risks and achieve something important. For example, in order to learn to swim, we must jump or put our body into the water first. We might swallow a bit of water at the beginning and become disoriented. In order to gain something, we sometimes lose things, too.

Photo by Andrew Cullen

Nothing is worse than being hungry and living in poverty. My life as a refugee was a miserable life. There was no healthcare, no opportunities, unemployment, and also bad education. I remember someone telling me that there were seven refugee camps in Nepal, and each camp had about 50,000 people. I, as well as other people, had to limit the food provided by UNHCR [the United Nations Refugee Agency]. There was a high crime rate because of the high unemployment rate. In the refugee camps, there weren’t any strict or specific rules, so people did whatever they wanted, which led to chaos and violence. People in higher positions used to dominate the lower class people. People were discriminated against in the camp by the color of their skin, social caste, and religion.

I never actually imagined myself going to America, but one day it was time for my family to take a risk and leave the refugee camp behind for a better life. I was on my way to the United States; destination Fargo, North Dakota. As soon as we landed in the USA, I was excited for our new life, but my body was exhausted from 38 hours of traveling. My eyes were tired from reading English and trying to recognize

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a place I had never been. I arrived in Fargo during the winter of 2010, and it was already snowing when we landed at the airport. I was very anxious seeing piles of snow on the sidewalk and in the parking lot.

“We are still seeking a better life,” she said. “Mali maan parana! I hate it here already,” I yelled.

I had never seen snow in my life before. I was afraid of cold weather and snow that was EVERYWHERE. After we got over the initial shock from the cold, my family started becoming frustrated because of snow in Fargo. For the first couple of weeks, I felt like we made the wrong decision.

We didn’t have a car or any kind of transportation. I was unfamiliar with everything, including the technology, the road system, markets, offices, and schools. The most frustrating thing was not being able to communicate. I had very little English at the beginning. I hated myself for not being able to order food or to make an appointment on the phone. I ended up spending many days in bed thinking of how we would survive in this kind of a world. It took almost a year to learn simple things like traffic rules, how to use a bank card, and how to write a check. My first two years were very tough. As I learned, I became more relaxed and comfortable. I was the first person in my family to get a driver’s license, which was very exciting.

“Hami yaha kina aako?” I asked my mom.

Finally, after a couple years, I felt better about our decision to come to

“What is that stuff?” I asked my mom. “Mayala bugena,” my mom said, looking confused. “I don’t know either. Maybe it means the world is ending,” I said in a panicked voice. “Nai. Chanta na garnu. It is probably just like rain,” my mom said.

the United States. The decision we made was positive. The one thing that I learned from my journey was that taking a risk can change your whole life. It is important to take risks, because they just might lead you down the path toward a better life.

NEPALI LANGUAGE GLOSSARY Mayla bugena. I didn’t get it. Nai. Chanta na garnu. No. Don’t worry. Hami yaha kina aako? Why are we here? Malai maan parana. I didn’t like it.

CHANDRA DULAL was born in Nepal. She came to the United States in 2010 and started school. Now she is a senior at Fargo South High School. She lives with her parents, and she has three older brothers. One of her brothers is still in Nepal. She likes Indian food. She wants to have a happy family someday.

I hated myself for not being able to order food or to make an appointment on the phone. I ended up spending many days in bed thinking of how we would survive. Chandra Dulal, far left, a high school student who came to the United States as a child from a refugee camp in Nepal, watches TV with her fiancé’s family at their home in Fargo, North Dakota. Photo by Andrew Cullen. 19

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“Ahhhh!” my mom yelled happily on the other end. “What happened?” I asked. My mom couldn’t talk because she was very excited. I didn’t know why. “Qué pasa Mom?” I asked. “Immigration accepted you, and you have to travel to Bogotá, Colombia, for some exams,” she said.

By Laura Restrepo I had been living apart from my mom since I was three years old. We talked on the phone often, since she was far away in North Dakota, USA. The next day, I went to school and told all of my friends that I had been accepted for immigration. I still could not believe it! “You are going to leave me!” my best friend cried. I walked up to her and hugged her. “I’ll never forget you. I just can’t pass up this opportunity to be with my mom again,” I said. Nine days later, my mom bought me a plane ticket to Bogotá, a big city in Colombia. I was so afraid of getting lost and not being on time for my appointment, so I left early that morning. In the hotel where I was staying, the concierge called a taxi because some taxis on the street could kidnap you. I was a little scared, but also excited, because I did not know what was going to happen when I got to the government office. When I eventually reached the office, many people were waiting in a line outside. I thought that I had arrived late, but when I asked an old lady, she told me that they let in ten people each time the door opened. Minutes later, the security guard opened the door. I wondered what kind of exams they would do to me. Now was the time that I would know the answers to my questions. I was in the waiting room when, suddenly, I heard my name. “Laura Restrepo!” the nurse shouted. “Here,” I said, nervously. “Walk down here,” she said. I was nervous because I’m afraid of needles. I entered the room the nurse had pointed to. A few minutes later, a different nurse entered the room where I was. “Do the exams include needles?” I asked. The nurse didn’t answer. After an hour, the nurse gave me a big package and told me very seriously, “Do not open this.”

Photo by Andrew Cullen

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Days after returning from Bogotá, I went back to school and told my friend everything that happened on my trip. My best friend was still a little angry with me, but I knew that she supported me. Soon after, my mom gave me the news that I could travel. My passport was already stamped with my American visa. I was so happy, but then I remembered my beautiful family, who I had lived with all my life. All those funny moments came to my mind so quickly, the good times with my family and friends. Weeks after, my family, friends, and I decided to have a farewell party, before the big day that I would make my journey to a new life.

I laughed, remembered, and cried with my whole family. The next day, I had to paint my long nails, cut my hair, and pack my pink suitcases. Laura Restrepo, center, folds laundry with her mother while her siblings play at their home in Fargo, North Dakota. Her mother, a refugee from Colombia, co-owns a cleaning business in Fargo. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

On March 3, 2013, everything was ready for the farewell party. Around 7 p.m., I was in my room, almost ready for the party, when I heard a knock at the door. “Who is there?” I asked. “Soy yo, tu abuela,” a voice said. “One moment, I’m not ready yet!” I exclaimed. “Quiero hablar con usted unos momentos,” my grandma responded. “Okay, come in,” I said. When my grandmother walked in my room, her eyes had tears of sadness. She didn’t have to say a word. I could tell what she wanted to talk about just by looking at her. I couldn’t say anything. The only thing that I could do was hug her. The next day, my grandmother and I went to my school. I had decided to withdraw from

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school because the courses had just begun, and I would be leaving soon. My grandmother had the idea to visit family outside of the city. It was a crazy idea, but I liked it, so we decided to go. I didn’t really want to go because I had to do other things before going to America, but in the end, I decided to go. Our first stop was Popayán. It is a big town, so it almost looked like a city. Popayán is four hours from Cali by car. My crazy cousins live there, but I only saw them on special occasions like Christmas and New Year’s. Then we went through a different small town that was nearby. Our last stop was a place where I had never gone. It was the family farm in the old highlands of Colombia. The estate was a little dirty. No one had been there for a while because terrorists inhabited that part of Colombia. It was great to see this part of my family’s history, because I always heard my family talking about it. No one told me what was going on, or why I had never been there before. My grandmother told me that the terrorists killed one of my uncles, so they were afraid that the terrorists would do the same to us. After our trip, my grandmother and I decided to go buy the things I would need for my journey to America. I was very tired when I slowly walked back home from the store. My favorite uncle called me on my cell phone and told me that we were going out to eat at 8 p.m. We would have a family dinner at my favorite restaurant. This place had the best fast food ever. That was one of the best days of my life. I laughed, remembered, and cried with my whole family. The next day, I had to paint my long nails, cut my hair, and pack my pink suitcases. At 3 a.m., my alarm sounded. I tried to turn it off, and it fell from the nightstand. I went to the bathroom and the light burned my eyes. I took a relaxing shower and then my grandmother called me for breakfast. Finally, I was ready to go. We got in the car, and my uncle drove us to the airport. After arriving, we weighed the bags to ensure that none had passed the weight limit. My uncle and I checked in the suitcases. The person who helped us told us that my mother had paid for a stewardess to help me communicate because I did not yet speak English. Next, immigration revised my papers and permits to leave the country. Since I was only 18 years old, my parents had to sign a permission form. The stewardess told me that it was time to say goodbye to my family. It was not a very pleasant time for me. I had a lot of feelings mixed up inside. I was happy for a new life with my mother, but sad because of everything that I had to leave behind. I was in the waiting room at the airport, and the only thing that was on my mind was what I would say to my mom when I saw her.

SPANISH LANGUAGE GLOSSARY ¿Qué pasa Mom? What happened, Mom? Soy yo, tu abuela. It’s me, your grandma. Quiero hablar con usted unos momentos. I want to talk to you for few minutes.

LAURA RESTREPO is a student at Fargo South High School. She is a senior and is eighteen years old. She is from Colombia in South America. She came to America on April 17, 2013. Her favorite classes are English and algebra II. She speaks two languages: Spanish and English. She enjoys listening to music in 23

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IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE By Majda Hussein

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” Gun shots rang out. It was 5 a.m. and we were sleeping in our little house near our farm. We had no idea where the sounds were coming from. “We need to go to the village and see what is going on,” my dad said anxiously. My heart was beating quickly. I was shaking, nervous, and scared. We found people running away from the village. “You do not need to see this. The Janjaweed started killing old people and small children,” one person told us nervously. If they found boys, they killed them by putting them in hot water, or throwing them in the scalding fire. Everyone was running, and many children were left behind. It was 2004, and war had started in Darfur. I heard that the boys were being killed because the Janjaweed didn’t want the boys to grow up and come back to take over the country. My dad and I ran to find my mom, when suddenly we heard a scream. “My chest!” she cried. “What happened?” my dad asked, sadly. “I got hit by one of the Janjaweed,” my mom said. When she was making her way back to us, she got lost because there were a lot of people running quickly around trying to get to safety. The Janjaweed found my mom in the forest and she heard one say, “Let’s kill her.” “No, let’s just go,” the other Janjaweed replied. They left my mom, but after awhile, one came back and hit her with the back of his gun. She fell down to the ground.

Photo by Andrew Cullen

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We walked, we ran, and sometimes people gave us a ride. We eventually arrived in the Nuba Mountains after three months of walking through wilderness. 25

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“I can’t feel my right side of my body,” she cried. There was nothing we could do for her at that moment. My dad and I ran up the street and left my mom behind, so she could get our shoes and some of our clothes.

Majda Hussein works as a manager at a Little Caesars restaurant in Fargo, in addition to attending high school classes and raising a son. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

I was shocked because there were many things that I had never seen before, such as indoor plumbing, heat in the house, a stove, and a microwave.

We ran to another village and stayed for awhile, but soon we had to leave because the rebels were coming again. After running away from a second village in Darfur, we were tired. We kept going, though. We walked, we ran, and sometimes people gave us a ride. We eventually arrived in the Nuba Mountains after three months of walking through wilderness. It was during the rainy season and we didn’t know anybody. We were so hungry, and we didn’t have food to eat. After we stayed there for a couple months, we started to meet people that let us in their houses and shared their food with us. Eventually, the UNHCR [United Nations Refugee Agency] and UNICEF [United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund] came to give us medicine and shelter. We were so thankful that they found us. A woman came and gave us blankets. Her name was Deborah. She was so nice to us. She told us stories about how good America was. Soon, the government started to kill more people, and my mom fell sick. The doctors could not find medicine for her because the war was spreading fast. We did not have money, so we could not take her to the hospital. People from UNICEF came but they couldn’t help my mom. They ended up taking us to the Kakuma Refugee Camp. Moving to Kakuma was not easy. We only went because my mom was so sick. We needed a safe place to be until my mom got better. When we first got to Kakuma, it was a good place. We had to stay in an area called the Protection Center for 15 days in order for us to get food and shelter. After we got everything we needed, we left the center. Soon after, my mom and I both got sick with malaria. My dad was not there to help us. Life started to get really difficult in the camp. There was not enough food, so my mom had to work so we could get more food. Eventually, I started going to school in the camp. My dad came to Kakuma and found a job. He got a job for me too. Two years later, in 2008, I was married to a man in the camp. I was just 14 years old. In 2009, I gave birth to a mtoto boy named Juma. In 2010, the immigration process began for us. We were getting ready

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to go to America. We waited for two months after doing the difficult paperwork. Finally, one day we found our names on the board in the middle of the camp. We then began medical checkups that lasted two years! Finally, it was time to leave. The day before I went to America, I was sad. I had to leave my amazing friends and my loving husband behind. That was one of the hardest things that I had ever had to do. The next day, my friends, neighbors, and my husband came to visit me. They helped me take my things to the IOM [International Organization for Migration] office so we could get a flight. We flew from Nairobi to New York. The plane ride was not pleasant. I didn’t understand what the people were saying, and I saw people getting sick. My mom also had a toothache. We stayed in New York for one day, and then the next day we took a flight to Pennsylvania, and then to Fargo. It was April of 2012 when we landed at the Fargo Airport. Right away, we saw a man and a woman that had a sign with my son’s name on it. We didn’t know if it was meant for us, because they told us the sign would have my family’s last name on it. We began to look for someone else holding a sign that had my father’s name on it. Soon, a man and woman saw our refugee shirts and came to us. They called the name “Juma,” and my son nodded his head. We realized that they had made a mistake with the name. They took us to a car, which was very nice inside. I had never been in a car like that before. We drove to our new apartment and they showed us around. I was shocked because there were many things that I had never seen before, such as indoor plumbing, heat in the house, a stove, and a microwave. I couldn’t believe that my mother, son, and I were so lucky. I thought I was going to spend my whole life in the refugee camp. Although I was happy with my new place, a sadness took over me. I kept thinking about my husband and the family I left behind. There was a hole in my heart. I knew I should have been happy, but how do you live life without the ones you love? I pray every day that my family will be reunited.

AFRICAN LANGUAGE GLOSSARY Janjaweed an armed militia group mtoto baby

MAJDA HUSSEIN is twenty years old. She goes to Fargo South High School, and she is a senior. She came to the United States in April 2012 from the Kakuma Refugee Camp in Kenya. Majda speaks five languages: Massalit, Swahili, Arabic, Somali, and English. Majda’s favorite classes are history and math. Her favorite sport is soccer, and her favorite hobby is cooking. Her future plans are to become a certified nursing assistant and then a registered nurse. 27

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“Yes, I’m serious. We’re going to the United States,” he happily said.

“Why isn’t he wearing his uniform?” the principal asked.

“I can’t believe it. Don’t leave me alone here,” I said. I did not want my beloved friend to leave me. I didn’t know if I would ever see him again.

“We didn’t have any money to buy one,” my parents replied.

“I have to go. My parents won’t let me live here by myself,” he replied.

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” the principal asked.

“Mo timilai samjhiney chu,” I said. I started wondering if my family was planning to go too, so I talked to my parents about it. When I asked, they didn’t know if we were going to America or not. After a few days, they heard news that we could leave the refugee camp. We went to the office to fill out the immigration forms that were needed. We only had to wait for the departure date. We were so happy.

“We were going to let you know,” my parents said.

My parents came from Bhutan. It is the beautiful country with mountains, where many people used to live before they were forced to leave by the government. The people ended up in refugee camps on the border of Nepal and Bhutan. In the refugee camp, my family and I lived in a hut that was made of bamboo. My friends and I had to walk to the small school. Teachers used to beat us if we did not do our homework. They used to beat the students with sticks or by hand, and sometimes they would even kick us too. I felt angry when the teachers beat me. In the camp, we used to get water from the tank three times a day. We got vegetables, rice, and oil from the UN Refugee Agency. Most parents had to work more than nine hours per day. We didn’t have much money to buy school uniforms, which were required for school in the camp. If we didn’t wear a uniform, our principal beat us, and they would call our parents to see why we were not wearing uniforms.

One day, I didn’t wear my uniform, so the principal called my parents.

“You should have told us about your problem,” the principal said. From that day on, they didn’t beat me because of the uniform. In 2010, I heard about America. We used to think that the whole North America continent was the United States, and we didn’t know it was different. My parents didn’t want to come to America at first, because they didn’t want to go away from their motherland. “Wherever we go, we have to work for ourselves. We aren’t going to America,” my parents told me. They thought life in Nepal was just fine. They also thought it was easy to survive in Nepal. “America is better than Nepal, and we should go there,” I said to them. They didn’t listen to me. I started to think that they didn’t want to go to the United States. I was so tired of convincing them to go to America. When more people started moving to America from Nepal, then my parents started to come around. They realized that everyone was thinking about their futures. Finally, they said, “Let’s go. We are ready to go to America.” I was so happy! We soon went to the office of

Photo by Andrew Cullen

“Wow! Are you serious?” I asked.

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THE PURPOSE OF LIFE By Bebek Rai

immigration to sign more forms. In between 2011 and 2012, we finished all the work that we were supposed to do for immigration. We finally got the date to leave Nepal. On our final day, we went to the airport in Kathmandu. I was scared to leave Nepal because I had never been away from the camp. I didn’t know where I was going. We did not have a map for directions, and I felt uncomfortable sitting by strangers on the plane. I felt like I was in a dream because I had never seen an airplane before. I felt unhappy leaving my country. My heart started to cry because I was already missing my friends and family. I felt miserable leaving them. On the flight, my brain didn’t seem like it was working. Maybe, I was missing my homeland too much. I didn’t like the food on the airplane. I didn’t want to eat the food, but I had to because I was so hungry. My siblings are younger than me, and they were happy to be flying on an airplane, but they didn’t understand that we were leaving our country and never going back again. I didn’t want them to know I was sad because I knew they would feel sad, too.

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We did not have a map for directions, and I felt uncomfortable sitting by strangers on the plane. I felt like I was in a dream because I had never seen an airplane before.

Finally, we got to Paris, France. We were about to get on our flight from Paris when we heard something was wrong with the airplane. We got stuck in Paris and had to stay there for one night. In the morning, we went to the airport for our flight and headed to Chicago. Finally, we got to the Chicago airport, and we were confused again. We didn’t know what plane we had to take. We talked to one guy who worked at the airport because we were confused. We didn’t know what time we should get on the airplane. He helped us get to our gate and even to buy some food to eat at the airport. He did everything he could for us. Some people are so kind! On August 8, 2012, we arrived in Fargo, North Dakota. When we got off the plane, our Nepali case manager was waiting for us. “Hello! Are you guys from Nepal?” she asked.

with a car to take us home. We drove from the airport to our grandmother’s house. On the way to her apartment, we relaxed a little bit, but were still confused about everything. “Why don’t many people in Nepal have cars, like here?” I asked my uncle. “We didn’t see a lot of cars in Nepal because people were poor,” my uncle said. I hated feeling confused and disoriented. I wanted to know everything about my new home. “Can I get more information about America?” I asked. “Timilai thaha huneycha pachadi,” my uncle replied. I learned a lot when I made my journey to the United States. Whenever we got confused or when we didn’t know something, we asked for help. Sometimes people don’t treat refugees with kindness, or people would neglect us, show fake love, or betray us. I have experienced all these problems as a refugee, but I still keep trying to see the good in people. I am thankful for everyone who really helped me. Because of their help, my problems were solved and my journey was successful.

“Yeah! We are from Nepal,” I replied. “Welcome to Fargo! How was your journey?” she asked.

NEPALI LANGUAGE GLOSSARY

“It was very nice, and we are glad to be here,” I replied.

Mo timilai samjhiney chu. I’m going to miss you.

“We have arranged everything to get you started here,” she said.

Timilai thaha huneycha pachadi. You’ll get it later on.

“Thank you, sir. That will help us a lot,” I replied. She gave us some money to buy the rest of the items and food that we needed for our apartment. She explained some basic cultural differences to us. The interpreter translated for us when she was talking. She then checked out all the papers that we had with us. “You guys can go to your apartment now,” she said. All of my relatives, who came before us, were waiting there

BEBEK RAI was born in the Pathri Refugee Camp in Nepal. In 2012, he came to the United States from Nepal with his whole family. He has five members in his family. He is a student at Fargo South High School. He’s a junior and is seventeen years old. His favorite classes are English and math. He likes to sing songs whenever he has free time. He wants to be a singer in the future.

PULITZER PRIZE EDITION celebrating 100 years of excellence in history and journalism

SEPTEMBER 24, 2016 BISMARCK, ND

gamechangernd.com

FEATURING: SEYMOUR HERSH, ELIZABETH FENN, ERIC SCHLOSSER, SONIA NAZARIO, JACQUELINE JONES AND MORE.

In 2016, the GameChanger ideas festival is celebrating the 100th anniversary of the Pulitzer Prize. We have invited Pulitzer Prize winning historians and journalists to share their groundbreaking work and engage in dialogue with our audience. We have selected winners whose work focuses on current issues changing the face of our world, including: America’s troubled nuclear arms program; the legacy of racism in America; immigration; and accountability and abuse of power.

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NEIGHBORS The ends of their scarves danced in the wind. Their brightly colored tunics billowed behind them, a softly rippling swoosh of vivid violet, luscious saffron, and prairie sky blue, giving them the look of a flock of exotic birds about to take flight. I must have driven by this little procession daily. We were neighbors, after all. Yet I didn’t give them a thought until my first week back at work after a particularly great vacation. International travel wakes me up, makes me a little more engaged, a little more curious about the world around me. And this time, the effect clung to me long after my flight landed.

Abbas Jasam, Salima Rashieed and family visit Nolan and Doris Underlee and Wayne and Christy Underlee on the family farm.

I was back home, back to the grind and already frustrated. The world had opened up for me, but now I was right back where I started, smack dab in the middle of a calendar full of appointments, a twelve-hour work day with five minutes to inhale my lunch at my desk, and the constant ping of emails until well after midnight. This is what I was thinking about when I saw—really saw—the women on the sidewalk for the first time. They looked present, engaged, as if they were really seeing the sky and their friends and the kids at the bus stop and not rushing off to the next thing. This is a state of being I could only cultivate on vacation. I was jealous. I wondered who they were and where they’d come from. I assumed they were immigrants because of their decidedly non-western clothing, and the fact that they

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seemed to be walking not for exercise but just for the pleasure of it. I wondered what they thought of my city and what place it held in their world. So later that day I called Lutheran Social Services (LSS)—the only organization I could think of that might have answers. Then I asked the question that made all the difference: I asked how I could help. A week later, I stood outside an apartment complex on the very same street with an LSS caseworker. She waved at current and former clients. I was correct in assuming the women out front were recent immigrants. What I hadn’t realized was that the majority of them were also refugees, individuals forced to flee their homes due to violence or persecution.

I showed up a few days later at the appointed time, with my wedding album in hand. Her English was basic and my Arabic was nonexistent, so I figured showing her my family would be a whole lot easier than trying to explain them with hand gestures. She opened the door, and it was immediately clear she hadn’t understood what the heck the case manager was talking about when she made this appointment the week before. She glanced from me, into the apartment, and back again, with politely and expertly masked panic. Now that I work from home with a toddler, I realize that she was having one of those days—the kind where you don’t want anyone to see you or your nightmare of a house, especially not some stupidly smiling stranger with a stack of books in a language you don’t understand. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have left so the poor woman could have gotten some sleep during what was surely the only moment she had to herself all day. But she was—and is—the consummate hostess, so she recovered quickly and invited me in. She spent the next ten minutes conjuring up an impressive spread of juices, fruit, cookies, and cake so extensive I didn’t need to eat dinner that night. I ate quietly, and wondered what on earth we were supposed to do now. She sipped juice and fed the baby, who had just woken up and stared at me with enormous, knowing eyes. I had—I cannot stress this point enough—no earthly clue what

I had—I cannot stress this point enough—no earthly clue what I was doing. I didn’t know a single word of Arabic. How do you talk to someone without words?

Ayat Hussein and the author.

They were Bhutanese, Somali, Nepali, Iraqi. The caseworker was there to introduce me to one of them. She was not one of the women in colorful clothes, but a dark-eyed Iraqi with a shy smile. She cared for her two small children while her husband was at work, and she couldn’t get out to English classes with such little ones in tow. My assignment as a new volunteer was to chat with her and help her learn a little English before she started formal classes. I’ve been known to strike up conversations with strangers, so this seemed easy enough in theory. The reality was much more amusing.

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I was doing. I didn’t know a single word of Arabic. How do you talk to someone without words? I assumed I’d just figure it out, but instead we both sat politely on the sofa and stared at each other. She found the solution in the end. This was just the first of many, many times when she would quietly lead the lesson. She would pick up my glass and give me a prompting look. “Milk,” I’d say. She would nod and repeat the word in English. Then she would point to the glass again and say “halib,” and I would obediently say the word in Arabic. We’d worked our way through the oranges, grapes, and desserts on the table in front of me by the time her daughter woke up, and I remembered my photo album. Her face lit up. “Ah, married!” she said, pointed at me. “Yes,” I nodded. “Married.” We had that in common, at least. She ran to get her wedding album and we sat with the black bound books open on our laps, side by side on the sofa. She was a lovely bride, so young and pretty in a spectacular ball gown, dark curls cascading down her back. “You look beautiful,” I said. Her cheeks went pink, but she smiled as she ducked her head. She touched a photo in my book. “Beautiful.” “Thank you,” I replied. We smiled, and they were real smiles this time. We’d had a conversation. Maybe we could do this after all. Before I left, I asked her to choose a day on her calendar to meet again. I would go back a few times a month to eat and chat and pretend that I could teach her something. Some ideas worked (magazines, movies, and our lifeline— an Arabic-English picture dictionary—were hits), while some (flashcards) didn’t. Eventually the baby would sit with me, and I’d stay until her husband got home, and we’d laugh at my horrible Arabic pronunciation. I still think they brainstormed lists of the longest words for me to say, but I didn’t mind. Then one day she said maybe I should stop teaching her and we could just be friends instead. My stint as a volunteer was both a complete failure (she improved her English all on her own) and a complete success, because I’d made a friend, a real one I probably never would have 34

I’ve learned how to eat dinner without utensils, that some of the best meals are consumed on the floor, and that my obsession with making plans is both silly and quintessentially

met on my own. My days as a teacher were over, but my education had just begun.

One day I talked to four of her sistersin-law on a webcam. The second youngest served as the translator. She was wideeyed, precocious, and already trilingual. They would be coming to the United States any day now, she said. Her mother and father had ten children, scattered by war across the US, Iraq, Sweden, Canada, and Syria. By now, I’d already learned how difficult it was to get refugee status, and how agonizingly long the process can take. But before that conversation, I didn’t realize that refugees don’t get to choose where they live. They can ask to join relatives, but for the most part, where they land is a game of chance. I’ve learned a lot since that first halting conversation. My Arabic is still horrible, but when my son is naughty, it’s “la”—not “no”—that rolls off my tongue. I’ve learned to dress up for birthday parties, and to come hungry and leave a little on my plate, or else my hostess will keep giving me more. I know the secret spot to find the best grape leaves for dolma and how to line my eyes like a contestant on Arab Idol—even though the end result looks pretty ridiculous on me. My friends have painted my hands with henna, introduced me to the beauty of Arabic poetry, and the over-the-top romance of Egyptian cinema. I’ve learned how to eat dinner without utensils, that some of the best meals are consumed on the floor, and that my obsession with making plans is both silly and quintessentially American. “Inshallah [Lord willing],” my friends laugh. “This crazy girl, she thinks she controls time.” The world has changed since we first started talking. Friendships have a lovely way of multiplying, and I’ve had the privilege of meeting more of my neighbors from around the world at parties and community gatherings. I smile when I see new Asian and African markets full of staples that are unknown to me, and Liberian, Nepali, and Somali restaurants that promise new flavors. When my friend, the former pre-teen translator, graduated last spring, she received her diploma from the most diverse and fastest growing school district in the state. Many of the students surrounded by clouds of balloons and roses and ecstatic, beaming family members were new immigrants

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and refugees like her. But not everyone is happy about that. Two boys fight over a girl—a story as old as time—and local headlines wonder if it means some kind of immigrant street war is coming. Terrorist attack in Paris, and it suddenly gets a lot harder for my girlfriends who wear headscarves. Someone firebombs a Somali coffee shop and social media hisses that maybe they deserved it, maybe the owners did it themselves, maybe now they’ll just get out of town and go back to their own country once and for all. Governors try to stop new refugees from coming. Presidential candidates make comments that sound like something straight out of Nazi Germany. Maybe I would have been silent before. It’s easy enough to stop following someone on Facebook—one mouse click and it’s done. I could have politely changed the subject at a dinner party, ignored a joke or a comment at a meeting. But now I can’t. Because when people talk about “those people” I don’t see a group, an abstraction, a scary mass that’s impossible to understand. I see women in rainbow-colored clothes strolling on the sidewalk. I see my friends, telling me about their day at work. I see the little ones playing at their feet, the boys who play soccer in the park, the sweet old men who play chess and wave to my son as we walk back home. These are my neighbors, my friends, my people.

“Why don’t they learn English? Why can’t they just get a job and work like the rest of us?” Ask the older-than-average student who goes to school during the day and stocks shelves while most of us sleep at night. “I should be better,” he says, “but English uses a different alphabet. And you read left to right. I’m not used to that.” He is apologetic. English is his third language. I wonder how many languages the haters on Facebook speak.

“Why don’t they just go home?” They’ve never seen the ache in a father’s eyes when he talks about home, his garden, his fruit trees, the house, the life, the family he worked his whole life to nurture and build. He and his sons narrowly escaped with their lives, hidden in the back of a friend’s truck. They drove away from a country they loved and never went back. It is a memory now, something that burns in him, just another thing he fought to save and had to lose. His oldest friends, his family, and his children are scattered around the globe. Where is home? What does that word even mean now?

expect hand-outs.” Listen to the busy, bubbly woman, so vital to her family and her church as she tells the story of the day everything changed. Let her tell you of the armed men at the door. They came without warning. They told her to take what she could carry. They let her have five minutes to carry away the whole of her life. What would we do, staring down the barrel of a gun? What would we choose? She told me this story one afternoon while the afternoon sun streamed through the curtains. Only some of the teardrops slowly spreading across the lovely embroidered tablecloth were hers. These are not people to be pitied. These are not people to be demonized. These are people who should be honored for their resilience and their dignity and their incredible tenacity in the face of horrors most of us cannot even imagine. They have walked through grief and loss, and they have come out on the other side of the world. And they need us now, though they will certainly be too proud to admit it. They are already Midwesterners that way, stubborn, strong, and awfully reluctant to call attention to themselves. So it’s up to us, the native born, to take the lead. After all, nearly all of us are the children of immigrants, too. They need us to smile when we see them in the grocery store, to wave at the park, to introduce ourselves at the party. They know that we’re eyeing their hijab—they can feel us watching—so they need us to take a moment to show them that we’re admiring the fabric, not wondering if they’re a suicide bomber. They know that we know they weren’t born here, but they’d love for us to talk about the weather, the game, something, anything to acknowledge the many things we have in common, instead of the things that are different. They need to feel like one of the mamas at the playground, because they are one of the mamas at the playground. They are different, yes, but they are not separate. They are one of us. They are welcome. They need us to stop, to notice, to reach out, to listen. I did that once. And it changed my life.

ALICIA UNDERLEE NELSON is a freelance writer and photographer based in West Fargo. She covers art, fashion, travel, and culture for various publications, including Delta Sky, AAA Living, Nat Geo Travel, and Matador Network. Follow her adventures across the Midwest and beyond at prairiestylefile.com.

“They come here with nothing and just 35

[new americans] My name is Kampeska Cinkila Win, Lakota for “Little Shell Woman.” My English name is Nicole Montclair-Donaghy. I’m an enrolled member of Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. I’ve long debated whether or not to share this piece. I believe that our stories should be shared, as they are a part of all of our histories as humans. In 1924, my people were given the right to become American citizens after being on these lands for centuries. A few years prior to that, the US Department of the Interior’s “Ritual on Admission of Indians to Full American Citizenship” was performed when any Indian wanted to denounce their traditional ways and live the life of the farmer. This is an important time in history, as it was not so long ago—within my grandmother’s lifetime. History books do not tell the correct story of Native American peoples, as they incorrectly portray our people as conquered and defeated. On the contrary, we have learned to become what the plan for us has always been: colonized, assimilated, and everything other than who we have always been. My poem, “The New Assimilated American,” touches on the historical ritual that was used to relinquish our identity as a people. To become the farmer, where men harvest the earth, and where women become the foundation of the home. Ironically, we were already all of those things. It also speaks to the beginning of the boarding school era, in which many Native children were taken from their homes and forced to assimilate to western ways. Although there are many people who consider immigrants the “new” Americans, we as Native people were new citizens in our own land, just sadly forgotten.

THE NEW ASSIMILATED AMERICAN By Nicole Montclair-Donaghy

Learn or die, that is the only way Tell me who you are, but be careful what you say No native tongue, No savage cry Your name will now be Christianized The noble savage Kill him, save the man Learn our ways as fast as you can Run into the shadow of grace The Lord doth love you Now let me replace, Everything you’ve ever been Your primitive lifestyle is a sin Cut your hair and stand up straight For your ritual is here, and all await Denounce yourself, You’re not yet like us Everything you’ve ever known is now in our trust Stand proud and walk this way You will be a real person after today Shoot your last arrow, and leave the Indian behind Take the hand of the plow and then decide It’s savage or man, be this thy choice Make our words, but use your voice A stranger in your own lands, This is not your country Forced to live a different life abruptly Your ancestral lands, gone forever Still all is well, this dream is better You’re a citizen now, ward of the state Children at boarding schools, learning a trade Be a good citizen, stay in your place Our religion will save your hellish fate Be a good American, for your own sake This is how we assimilate

James McLaughlin performs a citizenship ritual for Native Americans of the Standing Rock Indian Reservation in Fort Yates, North Dakota, on December 18, 1917. The ceremony included the shooting of last arrows and the symbol of a plow to farm. (State Historical Society of North Dakota 1952-00372 Frank Fiske Photo)

NICOLE MONTCLAIR-DONAGHY is a Lakota/ Mandan and is an enrolled member of Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. She is a field organizer for Dakota Resource Council and works on oil and gas issues in western North Dakota.

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THE SILENT NARRATIVES AFRICAN REFUGEE WOMEN AND THEIR INTEGRATION STORIES

Photo by Andrew Cullen

By Jonix Owino

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My village was attacked on the day war started in my country. My husband was killed. I had to take the kids very quickly and start running away. For many days we’re running and hiding. People were fighting and fighting and you know I had many kids so it was very difficult for escape. I thank God because I don’t know how we made it to the refugee camp in [African country].* We used to travel at night and hide in the forest during the day. The war was targeting the people from my tribe, [tribe name]. When we arrived at the refugee camp, it was very crowded. There was no clean water to drink and so many people were dying from diarrhea and many children had malaria. The environment was too small for the people. The food was being measured in small amount to make sure everybody gets little something to eat. One of my kids died in the camp. I lived in the refugee camp for eight years before coming here. This is but one of the many heartrending background experiences of African Refugee Women (ARW) prior to their transition to the United States. In my recently concluded research study on “Integration of African Refugee Women into the Fargo-Moorhead Community,” the women shared their past experiences as well as stories of their integration into Fargo-Moorhead. I engaged in in-depth interviews with ten African refugee women ages forty and above from Congo, Somalia, South Sudan, Sudan, Liberia, and Rwanda who are currently residing in Fargo, North Dakota, or Moorhead, Minnesota. The women possessed unique characteristics in terms of their length of stay in the United States, marital status, religious affiliations, number of children, and cultural practices. Drawing from the research study, I bring to light the background experiences of the ARW; how the women perceive, understand, and relate to the Fargo-Moorhead community; and also some of the integration challenges shared by the ARW during the interview process, such as social isolation, the local (non-refugee) population generalizing the experiences and cultural origins of ARW, and social exclusion.

BACKGROUND EXPERIENCES

The term “refugee” carries with it several connotations, and it is understood

and described differently by various individuals. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) in 1967 described a refugee as a person who is outside his or her home country, or if he or she has no home country, then outside of the country in which he or she last habitually resided, and who is unable or unwilling to return to his or her country of nationality because of persecution or well-founded fear of persecution based on the person’s race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion. Most ARW flee from their home countries due to civil unrest, war, forced migration, and/or fear of being persecuted, and, in search of a safe haven, they migrate to neighboring/ bordering countries within Africa, where they reside in refugee camps. Life in the camps is not easy, as one of the women explained in the above narrative. The refugees flee from their homelands with very little or no clothes or other types of resources. They become severely limited in their options for survival, particularly in the camps, where they have little or no access to work, agricultural or grazing land, or other means of selfsufficiency. With no choice, they become totally dependent on humanitarian and international aid from organizations such as the Red Cross, which provides housing in the form of tents, and the World Food Program. Unable to go back to their home countries, many refugees remain in exile for several years and even decades until the UNHCR intervenes for relocation to western countries. The difficult life experienced by ARW poses psychological challenges to their well-being, including experiences of grief and loss of loved ones, torture, unpreparedness during departure, disruption of education, and posttraumatic stress issues. The women I interviewed explained that it was after they arrived and settled into the new community that the memories of what they had experienced began to unfold. Mourning for their loved ones had been short-lived, because they had to be on the go and were also distracted by the challenging and problematic situations

*Certain identifying details have been removed to protect the anonymity of the research subjects.

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they were already encountering. A deep sense of sadness gripped their hearts as they remembered family members and friends who continue to endure the harsh life in the camps to date. One of the women mentioned: Some of my brothers are still at the camp, and I sometimes get worried about them because I don’t know what will happen to them. It gives me sleepless night. Sometimes it is also hard for me to eat when I don’t know whether my other families and friends had something to eat in the camp. All of the women in my study named close family members, relatives, or friends who are still in the refugee camps or still living among conflict in their home countries. The refugees who came to Fargo escaped the conflict but are haunted by their past and their families’ ongoing challenges.

LIFE IN FARGO-MOORHEAD

When I asked the women how they relate to and understand the Fargo-Moorhead community, they were quick to affirm that the community was a safe haven for them. They considered it peaceful and secure compared to the areas they had lived in in Africa prior to their transition to the United States. They emphasized that the environment was conducive for them, as well as for their children, who could now pursue education without interruption. One of the women mentioned: Life in [African country] was good, but it became very tough because of the killings. I prefer America. Compared to the war we had in my country that made so many people die, here [Fargo-Moorhead] it is peaceful and I raise my children without worrying about war. My children also go to school with school bus and read well and that make me happy. Similar sentiments were echoed by another participant, who stated: I like Fargo. It is good here and safe for me and my children. You know now, when I am going to sleep, I don’t have to think and worr[y] that someone will light fire and burn me and my children in the house. At the camp we live[d] in tents and fire [could] start anytime. Also, my children here can go to school. 40

Fires in the camps were a concern for the women, as they would affect numerous tents that are closely connected and also contribute to several deaths, especially if they occurred at night. The living standards in the Fargo-Moorhead community did not go without notice as the women narrated their integration experiences. In comparison to the lives they had in their countries of origin, ARW considered life to be expensive and vary depending on the seasons. This was attested to by comments such as: Life here is very expensive. . . For example, I lived in the refugee camp before I come to America, and I did not use to pay rent because we live in tent. I did not pay for electricity because there was no electricity in the camp and we use, hmmm, what is it called? Hmm, lamp, yes lamp. In winter it is more expensive because it is cold so you pay more for heat.

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Despite the high costs of living, seven of the women in the study were quick to appreciate the availability of electricity as well as other amenities and applauded their advantages.

INTEGRATION CHALLENGES

The African refugee women’s narratives revealed various challenges encountered in their integration into the Fargo-Moorhead community. The women perceived integration in terms of the level at which they participated in various activities within the community. Local integration is the ability of the refugee to participate with relative freedom in the economic and communal life of the host region, including cultural and political participation, legal rights, and full self-sufficiency. In comparing the Fargo-Moorhead community to the communities back in Africa, the women spoke of their countries as placing value on the community rather than on an individual. Members of traditional African societies experience a collective consciousness that is absolute, as well as a collective type of personality in which the component individuals are completely fused, dissolved, and highly integrated. On the other hand, the ARW considered the FargoMoorhead area as a place where everyone lived for themselves and by themselves. Refugees who had experienced close communal and family ties in their own culture experienced social isolation in Fargo-Moorhead and found the lack of a local strong community to be alienating. Back at home we were very close with family, neighbors and everybody. . . I miss that. . . Before fighting started in my country, we would go to the garden together and dig and plant. It was good. Here, it is different, you not see anybody. People go to work, come back home and stay there. Sometimes I don’t know if my neighbor is in or out. . . I live by self [alone] because my children are big. It is difficult to find somebody to talk to. I miss my family and relatives. I think about them all the time and hope they are doing fine. It makes me very sad to not have them near me.

Refugees who had experienced close communal and family ties in their own culture experienced social isolation in FargoMoorhead and found the lack of a local strong community to be alienating. Left: Jonix Owino, a student at North Dakota State University, wrote a thesis on the experiences of African Refugee Women. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

Some of the women felt detached and withdrawn from the community because their contact with members of the community is very minimal. The shift in coming from a community that highly values community ties to one that has greater focus on individuality is hard to accommodate, and thus poses a challenge in the integration process. One woman emphasized this by mentioning: It can get very lonely here, especially if you don’t have family. It you have family it is at least . . . [pause]. Otherwise, you become lonely and sometimes sad. This feeling is aggravated when one lacks companionship in terms of family or friends. If these ARW perceive a foreclosure from community structures and institutions because they cannot find meaningful connections with local community members, it makes sense that their day-to-day experiences are filled with loneliness. Similarly, the feelings of sadness they experience are exacerbated by their feelings of loneliness. One of the barriers to successful integration that emerged was that cultural diversity among the African refugee women is overlooked in most cases, and the African women are categorized as if they all share similar cultural experiences, beliefs, and ways of life. The participants emphasized the importance of their new community to pay attention to their diverse cultures of origin and ways of life. Universal categorization of women in non-western countries, such as those located in Africa, is mostly done through constructed monolithic terms and classifications that overlook their diversity and heterogeneity. As much as the ARW come from the same continent, they are endowed with different 41

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ideologies and approaches to life that are contingent on culture, history, and geography. Their cultural practices vary from country to country and even among individuals of the same country, as there exists among the ARW other subcultures dependent on tribe, religion, region, or ethnic background. This was revealed through statements like:

to integrate. Social exclusion is a dynamic process, and its study involves examination of interrelationships across time and place, focus on the way host societies may exclude refugees from participation (not necessarily intentionally), and how systems need to adapt to ensure people are included.

Yes, we are women from Africa, but we see each other as different with different ways of doing things.

In describing social exclusion, the ARW spoke of low English proficiency and transportation problems as factors that contribute to their exclusion and present obstacles to successful integration. Being able to speak the main language of the host community is central to the integration process. Not being able to speak English in the United States becomes a barrier to social interaction, economic integration, and full participation in the community. Inability to communicate comprehensively and adequately with Fargo-Moorhead locals made the women feel excluded, and some of them shied away from community endeavors. The women showed interest in wanting to learn, and some are learning English.

Eight women in the study asserted that they did not appreciate the tendency of the local community members to generalize the experiences and practices of refugees. It is important to them that the existing diversity among groups be accorded due recognition. In providing clarification, the women discussed affirming cultural differences among themselves despite coming from the same continent. I don’t mean this in bad way, but I think some activities should be separated by, for example, countries. When people mix together, sometimes it does not go well because our cultures are different. Someone can do something from their country and another person will not feel good because they are not used to it. Now, next time, people will not come to the activity, they just stay away. . . We are different people. Overlooking one’s beliefs or carrying out activities without providing explanations or acknowledging differing cultures within the African sphere creates misunderstandings and feelings of disrespect and infringes on relationships, thereby causing some women to shy away from gatherings. However, it is important to note that there are instances, depending on the nature of the activities or gatherings, where the women from Africa unite as a whole.

SOCIAL EXCLUSION

Social exclusion emerged in the study as the ARW described the challenges they experience as they integrate into the community. Social exclusion is the inability to participate in the normal relationships and activities available to the majority of people in a society, whether in economic, social, cultural, or political arenas. It denies individuals the capability to exercise the personal agency of participating and contributing to different aspects of society and can only be judged by comparing the (non) participation of some individuals or groups relative to others, in a given place and at a given time. Successful settlement of ARW depends on their social inclusion rather than exclusion. Social exclusion experiences pose an additional burden acting against ARW in their efforts 42

Sometimes when the[re] is activity in community I don’t go. Surely, what will I speak? My bad English? [laughs] It is embarrassing . . . maybe if I know good English it will be different. Getting job is difficult for me because my English accent is very bad. Sometimes I get job then when I go for interview and they hear my English, they just say “I will call you,” and they don’t call me. I cannot speak like American because I am from Africa. I am hoping I will speak good one day because I go to school now to study English. Some of the women, however, wondered what would be considered English fluency: I don’t know how good my English is supposed to get. When I came here I speak very, very bad English. But now I think it good. The problem is the people for employment think it is still not good. I don’t know, maybe they want to hear American accent. [laughs] I just don’t know. It was a concern for the women that after being in the community for a long time and perceiving themselves as being better in English, this improvement was not noticed or did not even appear to be recognized when they were interviewing for jobs or communicating with potential employers. Their distress posed the question: How good must their English be to be good enough? In exploring social exclusion, lack of (and limited) transportation leads to the ARW opting out of community programs. The women mentioned transportation problems as another significant challenge to community

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involvement. The primary mode of transportation in the FargoMoorhead area is a car, and not having a car creates challenges in getting around the community. One woman mentioned: You know in Africa, you can walk to go to school and job. But here, if you don’t have a car, you cannot do anything, you just stay at home. It is even hard visit your friend and just talk. The women’s desire to interact becomes restricted with limited means of transportation, thus furthering their social exclusion. Some of the women mentioned the difficulties associated with having a car, as well as problems with limited metro bus routes that restrict their movements. I take the bus to go to some place but not everywhere. There are places the bus don’t go. So I can only go where the bus go. I wish they could go in all places. . . . Buying a car is expensive. I am struggling to pay bills here, so when I buy a car, it will be difficult to survive. But a car is good. I wish I have a car, especially in winter when it is very cold.

The participants emphasized the importance of their new community to pay attention to their diverse cultures of origin and ways of life.

CONCLUSION

By revealing their individual experiences, ARW draw attention to their diverse and unique situations. This is essential in debunking stereotypes in the community that emerge through generalizing and categorizing ARW as a single entity. During the course of the research study, I interacted with several locals of the FargoMoorhead area with a desire to learn how much familiarity they had with the refugee population. Eight out of ten of the individuals I engaged in conversation had very minimal knowledge on the specifics that constitute refugee status. This in itself reinforces the experiences of the ARW in the research study. There seem to be misunderstandings about who refugees are, what it means to be a refugee, and how they enter the community. This makes understanding the isolated experiences of ARW even more challenging, for the community must make efforts to reach out and better understand the struggles ARW face. Knowledge shapes our perceptions, and providing a way for understanding and perceiving the individual experiences of ARW could go a long way toward addressing the issues of social isolation. Incorporating or adopting interventions that encourage cultural exchange and enhance the relationships between the ARW and the local people would bridge the gap and help the two communities know each other better, learn from each other, and appreciate each other’s lifeworld.

A woman works on an English exercise during a tutoring session with Jonix Owino. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

JONIX OWINO recently graduated from North Dakota State University with a master’s degree in sociology. She is geared toward applied research and passionate about serving subaltern populations. Her research interests include refugee integration, ethnic relations, ethnographic methods, and international migration. 43

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I hear you drumming in the belly of that steamer, bobbing over like a note sent in a bottle; seasick, heaving up, down, coming up for air to live. Begin the dancing now, the strumming, shoes thumping the salty planks, pumping your arms up and down, red-bearded uncle your partner, dancing as if your life depended on the rhythm, wooden deck, steam-driven ship. Eating dried fish, moldy bread, white cheese and yellow, I hunger with you for milk and potatoes. Mother of water, I am calling; answer me in language broken, but sure; find me in the dank stench of that galley, wooden barrels, trunks and kegs; hear me on that trek of sky and water, admirers passing, turning their heads, eyes feasting on you not quite five feet in high shoes, a waist nipped, cotton to bone. Trønder woman from close to Lapland, saucy cheekbones high and stern, jaw lifted to face the wind, let me catch with you the sea’s flavor, the salt of the ocean on our tongues; let me love you for your daring, floating to distant shores, beginning in a new country. Let me ride with you, east to Midwest, that long rail to the valley, posten: Reynolds, North Dakota: muddy streets, boardwalks, lutefisk in wooden barrels, ambitious men. # For love, she found Olaus; two-day wedding, dancing the schottische and polka, eating kjøttballer, potetklubb; crossed the threshold to that small house and, hair down, fell warm into his arms. The green earth ripening, water flowing for hope of a better life: cows to milk; pails to carry; cream to churn. Earth turned, plowed deep;

By Madelyn Camrud

Mali and Olaus, a team: horses harnessed, hog throats slashed for meat; chickens axed, feathers picked— she cooked, baked, and cleaned. For love, she birthed nine children, chewed a wooden plug for pain, pulled a rag tied to the bedpost and pushed through blood and water, pushed until she pushed into the mud and slush that April, black cloak draped over her shoulders, riding the carriage, horse-drawn, behind the hearse bearing Olaus.

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Stjørdalen church: stern-faced preacher led her and the mourners in black arm bands, a long line down the aisle to that bald hill, the bell tolling until silent in cold wind, they stood where the stone still bears his name: Olaus Hjelmstad, a stone, stone-cold, and stoney. She kept a calf tied in the barn, fattening for winter meat. One morning she went out to milk, found the calf strangled in its rope. # She had a black horse named Florrie, white star on her forehead, too old to sell at auction. They dug a hole in the pasture; stood her beside it, and shot her. Every year she grew smaller, seated on that stool as if bent by a north wind, gray hair drawn into a bun, black shoes buttoned at her ankles. I never once heard her hum, but I sensed a song inside her, through lips pressed tightly shut; there was the slightest hint of strumming in her chest, arms crossed under her breast. I imagined songs from years of filling the pantry; cool, yellow shades stored lefse and meatballs, milk soup dumplings shaped perfectly as stitches taken to make her apron, dotted-Swiss; she was neat as small pins that stretched her lace curtains, pulled them tight on wooden racks. Once, she offered me sugar lumps; another time, she asked to hold my son. Mali, a small note grew into a letter, pages like those from her Mother, sisters in Norway; a brother’s rhyme about their Mother, how she whispered from her grave for her daughter in Dakota, asked that he sing a greeting: poem found in her trunk long after she died, long after she flew back

and lit that mossy mountain, a brook streaming below.

MADELYN (ROEDER) CAMRUD was born in Grand Forks and has been a North Dakota resident for all but nine months of her life. Her poetry books include two full-length collections by New Rivers Press and a chapbook by Dacotah Territory Press. She holds a master’s degree in English from the University of North Dakota and is a North Dakota associate poet laureate.

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If you want to find cultural diversity in North Dakota, look no further than Cardinal IG (Insulated Glass) in Fargo. The factory, on the western edge of town, manufactures insulated glass for window companies like Marvin Windows. When the factory was built in 1998, many immigrants and refugees found jobs there. Fluency in English has never been a requirement, and the company has a reputation for treating workers fairly. Today there are 285 employees from twenty-three countries working around the clock in eight-hour shifts. The countries include Bhutan, Bosnia, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Haiti, Iraq, Liberia, Mexico, Nepal, Romania, Rwanda, Somalia, South Sudan, Sudan, Togo, Vietnam, and the United States. Mike Arnston has worked at the plant since the beginning and is now the factory’s top manager. He says it was never anyone’s intention to hire refugees—it just happened, and it worked. Meg Luther Lindholm first visited the plant in 2003 and 2004. She recently returned to photograph and interview current employees and to ask Arnston how he manages such a diverse workforce. Meg: How did Cardinal IG come to be such a diverse workplace? Mike: Well, we’ve always hired the best qualified candidates at Cardinal IG, and sometimes that means those people weren’t born in the United States or in some cases don’t even speak English, but they happen to be the best candidates for the job. There was no plan to develop a diverse workforce. It just happened. It is interesting to see that so many refugees who were here years ago are still working here. Why do you think that is? I think we have a good culture here, and when people begin working here, they keep working here. What is the culture? It is five values: family, safety, teamwork, excellence, and respect, and we live by those values. The employees who work here helped to choose those values. And anyone that seeks 46

PUTTING DIVERSITY INTO PRACTICE AN INTERVIEW WITH CARDINAL IG PLANT MANAGER MIKE ARNSTON By Meg Luther Lindholm

“I love to drive here. That’s something I never did at home. I’d like to be a flight attendant.” Irene Wymon, Liberia Came to the US in 2010 employment here is hired based on being able to operate within the realm of our corporate values. Talk a little more about respect—how that is operationalized, and what that means. Respect is one of our five values. Folks are raised in different cultures and different religions, and we all have to respect each other as human beings. If we can do that and make accommodations where necessary for religion or cultural differences, then we do that. If an employee comes to me and says, “Hey Mike, I have a church program to go to at the Lutheran church,” then we try to make accommodations. It’s no different if an employee says, “Tomorrow is a Muslim holiday. I need to go to the mosque.” We try to make accommodations for that sort of thing.

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Mike Arnston, Cardinal IG plant manager, in his office.

What happens when there are disagreements or arguments? We talk about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes before they disagree with them, and we try our best to live by that rule of thumb. So when two employees aren’t getting along, it’s really no different than two employees that grew up in same neighborhood. When they don’t see eye to eye, it’s your job as a leader to facilitate understanding. I don’t know that we have any more challenges here at Cardinal because of diversity than any place else without diversity. There’s always going to be disagreements, and everyone just needs to respect each other and understand that sometimes we may not agree. Talk about the company’s zero tolerance rule. We cannot tolerate things like racism or any type of discrimination based on religion. But guess what? That’s the law. There’s no special sauce there. If other companies are doing things like that, they ought not to be. There’s no wiggle room. That’s not to say there haven’t been situations where people have been discriminated against, but we work through those—and depending on the severity, sometimes we’ve had to say if that’s your belief, then this is not the right place (for you) to work. Other times we’ve had to teach people about what it means to live in the United States of America. Some cultures don’t value women, or they value women in a different way than we value women or respect women in the US. And even though you didn’t grow up with it in your culture, if you’re going to live and work in the United States, that’s something you have to get used

“I had to leave my country because of the war. We came here because of the kids. They both have MBAs now. I am very proud of them. I’ve worked here for sixteen-and-a-half years. I’ve got my American dream. I’m done.” Ziajada Pekmic, Bosnia Came to the US in 1998

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“Now I can speak (English). I didn’t take classes. My coworkers and my family helped (me learn). Essa is my best friend.” Akoutete Gbadoe, Togo (pictured left) Came to the US in 2011

“I trained Akoutete and helped him learn English. I told him to feel free to ask questions. He was very interested. I have more friends here than I did in Iraq. On weekends we (AG and I) visit each other.” Essa Albawi, Iraq (pictured right)

to. We’ve had to educate some folks about what it means to have a supervisor who’s a woman. What are the criteria for hiring here? When you apply to work here, we have a couple of different screening tools that we use. There’s a computer test that tests primarily for math skills. If they pass that, then they take a values survey to survey what their personal values are. And we do an emotional intelligence survey. Then based on those tools, employees are ranked within our available-to-hire pool, and then supervisors are contacted to conduct interviews. Then based on those interviews, they’re hired by their production supervisor. So as far as the actual mechanics of job—math skills are important? Math skills are pretty important for most of the jobs we do here. But English is not. Not necessarily. If you’ll be on a team where the team leader speaks languages other than English, as long as you speak one of those languages, then you’ll assimilate to that team pretty well. If you work next to someone who speaks the same language as you, we can communicate through that other person. Are you ever concerned about the backgrounds of people who are recent arrivals from other countries? 48

No. We have pretty thorough screening tools that are used by the immigration services and the (US) State Department, so we basically assume that if someone passes those screening tests, then they’re eligible to work here. We’re not going to come up with a screening method here at Cardinal IG that’s better than our intelligence services. There’s been concern about immigrants coming to work in the United States since the United States became the United States. People have been immigrating here for a few hundred years now, so that shouldn’t be unusual for the United States. What shouldn’t be unusual? That we’re going to be a country of immigrants. I mean neither of us are Native Americans, so at some point our relatives immigrated to the United States from somewhere else for opportunities they didn’t have wherever they came from—whether economic, or religious, or whatever. People come here to start a new life. I mean, I can understand where it’s a concern when we have terrorist attacks taking place around the world. But the United States will never shut its borders. In addition to managing employees at Cardinal IG, Arnston has also had a career in the US Army. In 2005 he was sent to Sinjar in northwestern Iraq as a civil affairs team leader, where he stayed for a year. His job was to advise his unit’s military commander on ways to help civilians in areas with fighting between insurgents and the US/Iraqi military. His

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team dug water wells and repaired schools, among other projects. In a somewhat ironic twist, he found himself in the place of his Cardinal IG employees—an outsider trying to understand a new culture and language.

Yes, except that I sort of saw it backwards.

“I converted to Islam in Egypt thirty years ago. When we married, (my husband) didn’t speak Spanish, and I didn’t speak English or Arabic. But it’s better that way. There’s less fighting. (laughs) Now I speak English, Arabic, and Spanish. And I love watching Korean TV shows. I’m learning some words.”

And you were in a situation where now you were new to the place, new to the culture, new to the language.

Nour Zuniga, Mexico Came to the US in 1998

How did your experience at Cardinal IG influence your experience in Iraq? I knew a little bit about the culture, because we had a number of Iraqi and Kurdish associates working here. So just through my job and getting to know them, I got to know something about their culture. I even knew a very little bit about the language, so I was able to say “hello” and “thank you,” which goes a long way, honestly, in a foreign land to show you are trying to connect with them. And knowing that our associates here had fled Iraq right after the First Gulf War, I felt I had some connection. I saw people there (in Iraq) in similar circumstances to the ones that had prompted our employees to leave. So it gave you an understanding of the journey your employees had gone through.

Right, and I talk to people about that now—about how it stinks sometimes, for example, that we shut down on Christmas Day here. Well, it kind of stinks for some of our employees who have religious celebrations on days we don’t take off. We try to accommodate as best we can, but we can’t shut the plant down. But I talk about how in Iraq I worked on Christmas Day and I took the Eids off, because when in Rome, you gotta do as the Romans do. What else did you learn in Iraq that influenced how you run the business now? Maybe I have a better understanding of what a refugee from another country has gone through—some of the hardships— because I’ve seen it. Is there anything else you’d like to say? Having worked with a diverse workforce almost since the beginning, this is not amazing to me. This is normal. We have something special here—a special culture. But to me these are just Cardinal associates. They’re my Cardinal family. That many of us come from different backgrounds, it’s cool, but it’s not that big of a deal. And that’s the way it should be. The United States is a melting pot; it always has been a melting pot.

“I drove a friend to interview for a job at Cardinal IG, and I ended up also getting hired the same day. My English was very limited, but people here really helped me learn English and the job. Now I’m a team leader, and I supervise fourteen people.” Muhumud Banade, Somalia Came to the US in 2001

Since moving to Fargo in 2002, MEG LUTHER LINDHOLM has worked as a freelance radio producer for Prairie Public Broadcasting and National Public Radio. She also produces photo documentary projects using visuals, text, and sound to explore how social, cultural, and political issues impact individuals. 49

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AN ARCHAEOLOGY OF CARE By William Caraher and Richard Rothaus

Like many archaeologists, we have been horrified and outraged by the recent destruction of antiquities and monuments in Syria. But our predictable outrage is probably less interesting than ISIS’s relentless desire for media attention and access to the outrage amplifier of the Internet. It would be unfair to find fault with the archaeologists, scholars, and members of the media who have expressed their horror at the destruction at sites like Palmyra and have used this horror to publicize the larger catastrophe that ISIS represents to the archaeology of both the Middle East and the world. We think, however, that archaeologists could perhaps use their skills and knowledge more productively. Our greatest concern throughout the continuous outpouring of outrage and horror regarding the destruction of archaeological sites is that there has been so little effort by archaeologists to see their discipline as a way to understand more fully the human cost of the destabilized Syria. We were particularly moved by the International Rescue Committee’s September 4, 2015, article “What’s in My Bag?: What Refugees Bring When They Run for Their Lives,” which asked Syrian refugees to show the contents of the bags they carried. This article is meant to be a provocative play on similar stories run on tech websites, where overprivileged techsters show off the tools of their trade. Reading the short article on the contents of refugees’ bags made us wonder whether archaeology has a greater role to play in the current conflict and refugee crisis. Over the last decade, archaeologists have become more and more attuned to the archaeology of our contemporary world. This work has expanded our view of homelessness, poverty, consumerism, contemporary race and class conflicts, and many other aspects of the modern world (including punk rock music). Our own work has used archaeology to engage seriously the issues of workforce housing and industrial landscapes in the Bakken oil patch of North Dakota. The ongoing refugee crisis offers another important opportunity for archaeologists to document the human condition. That the refugee crisis is playing out partly in Greece, a place with more archaeologists (both foreign and local) per square kilometer than almost anywhere in the world, amplifies the potential of this opportunity. An archaeology of the refugee crisis could help us recognize what these displaced people value when they are forced to leave their homes, what they look for and need during 50

their arduous journeys, and how they arrange their lives when thrust into the unfamiliar (and usually under-resourced) conditions in a foreign place. Archaeological inventories, plans, and descriptions of refugee camps, places of transit, and personal goods could also help local communities accommodate and understand the influx of temporary residents. Archaeology can both protect the distant past and contribute to a more sophisticated understanding of the current human crisis. One of the lessons we’ve learned from working in the Bakken alongside social work historian Bret Weber is that our work is more than systematically documenting and understanding material culture. Our work in the field demonstrates a kind of care for the communities in which we work. Our conversations with people, attention to detail, and willingness to take seriously the everyday life of individuals and communities creates a connection between the wider world (which we represent, oddly enough) and their very personal experiences. We have taken to calling this work the “archaeology of care.” The “archaeology of care” was not something we set out to invent, nor is it unique to our work. It is a natural result of sincere and caring people working with other people in difficult circumstances. Richard first stumbled upon this when he was doing fieldwork on the archaeology of earthquakes by going into areas immediately after major seismic events. The first such trip, to Gölcük, Turkey, in 1999, found Richard’s group arriving even before search and rescue teams. To his surprise, and contrary to his fear of being seen as ghoulish, Richard found that he was welcomed by people whose entire lives had just been destroyed. The locals understood that the archaeologists were not going to fix anything, but that did not matter. What mattered was that the archaeologists came and studied, which showed that they cared about the lives and experiences of the people.

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Gölcük, Turkey, 1999. Photos courtesy of Richard Rothaus.

Our very presence reinforces the idea that their experiences and lives are important. It took a few years to wrap our heads around the “archaeology of care,” but its genesis was in Turkey, when Richard was invited into shattered homes to share what food could be found, and was encouraged by walks and talks with families wandering through apple orchards gleaning food. Richard’s team spent one night in a family’s large tent, next to a fallen minaret, as waters from an erupted hot spring flowed by in the street. As the team ate fresh hazelnuts and listened to the history of an extended family who had homes no more, Richard began to understand why an archaeology of care was necessary. When it comes to the idea of care in the current Syria crisis, archaeology has two advantages. First, we focus on the relationship between objects and people. As if our imaginations were not enough, the little essay on the bags of refugees demonstrates that displaced people carry with them more than just the practical needs for survival, but also objects that link them to their homes. We care about this connection between an individual and an object. It’s what we do. The contents of refugees’ bags, the arrangement of their camps, and the difficult choices about what to bring and what to leave behind are significant to the history of the world and carry equal weight in our eyes to the monuments targeted by ISIS or the Taliban.

As archaeologists express outrage and deep sadness over the destruction of the region’s (and the world’s) archaeological heritage, we work to ensure that future generations can witness the history of these regions and celebrate the meaningful and tangible narratives of their past. At the end of the day, however, these sites will survive, whatever the crisis. The history of careful documentation, the durability of the materials, the expansiveness of the monumental material culture, and the hard work of outraged and dedicated archaeologists will ensure that these sites will continue to form visible monuments to the region’s past. Evidence for the difficult recent circumstances will be both wiped away and, where appropriate, commemorated in the fabric of these long-lived places in the landscape. We are confident of this. What we are more concerned about, however, are the more subtle, ephemeral, and elusive histories, artifacts, and sites of the refugee experience. Documenting and understanding the experiences of refugees might seem like a fairly low priority when temples at Palmyra are being bulldozed, but we’d like to suggest that it might be a higher priority to the discipline, to the communities housing the refugees, and to the people forced from their homes in these desperate times. In the Syria crisis, the more we focus on the communities and individuals as real people with real lives—not as abstract victims—the less we give power to ISIS’s obsession with destroying monuments. We could turn archaeology against the flashy ISIS show, and rather than giving it free publicity, focus instead on the people whose lives must go on. WILLIAM CARAHER is an associate professor of history at the University of North Dakota and an active field archaeologist with projects in Greece, Cyprus, and western North Dakota. He is an avid blogger and coproducer of the podcast Caraheard with Richard Rothaus. RICHARD ROTHAUS, PhD, is the interim vice chancellor of academic and student affairs for the North Dakota University System, a research assistant at the Center for Heritage Renewal at North Dakota State University. He has conducted fieldwork in North America, Greece, Turkey, Oman, India, and Belize. Both authors are board members of the ND Humanities Council.

Archaeology also carries with it the burden and benefit of its past as a discipline. When archaeologists turn their focus to a monument, a landscape, or an object, the world recognizes that “thing” as important. In fact, ISIS relies on this professional recognition of artifacts and monuments to direct its attacks on civilization. When archaeologists and historians focus on the everyday life of particular communities and individuals, they place these individuals and communities into a larger historical and archaeological narrative. In other words, we show that they matter. I’ve experienced the impact of this realization on people living in workforce housing in the Bakken. Our very presence reinforces the idea that their experiences and lives are important. North Dakota man camp. 51

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MY JOURNEY TO AMERICA

By Newzad Brifki

We were given small rations of food, hygiene supplies were scarce, there was no clothing or running water, tents were in horrible condition, and we barely had anything to sleep on or to cover ourselves with at night. Left: Newzad Brifki holds a picture of his family in a refugee camp in Turkey. Right: Newzad, founder and director of the Kurdish Community of America, in his office in Moorhead, Minnesota. Photos by Andrew Cullen.

My name is Newzad Brifki. I am from Kurdistan. Well, technically Kurdistan does not exist—it was split into four countries (northern Iraq, southern Turkey, eastern Syria, and western Iran) after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire during World War I. I am from the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. My life started in Duhok, Kurdistan, on October 12, 1984. I am the youngest of six siblings. Fighting between the Kurds and the Iraqi government turned into a genocide, in which Saddam Hussein used chemical gas on us and we had to flee our homes. More than two hundred thousand Kurds were brutally executed by firing squads, hangings, beatings, gas attacks, torture, being buried alive, and other things that are inhuman to describe. My father was one of the victims of Saddam’s campaigns; he was killed in 1985. On top of the hundreds of thousands of deaths, many were injured or paralyzed and have severe mental health issues today because of the war. After our home was destroyed by Iraqi bombs, we had no choice but to leave. We tried to flee into Turkish Kurdistan, but the Turkish government refused to allow us in. After several days stranded with no food and water, during which time several children and elderly refugees died, the United States and the coalition forces saw what was happening. They dropped food and supplies for us by air, but the cold still killed many in the mountains. Finally, the western countries pressured Turkey into allowing us to enter as refugees. They let us in under one condition: for us to be placed in concentration camps surrounded by their soldiers. No one was allowed in or out without the Turkish soldiers’ permission.

LIFE IN THE REFUGEE CAMP

Life in the camp was very hard. We were given small rations of food, hygiene supplies were scarce, there was no clothing or running water, tents were in horrible condition, and we barely had anything to sleep on or to cover ourselves with at night. This was very difficult because many families had lots of children, and the limited supplies did not feed, warm, or cleanse everyone. Winter and rainy seasons were the worst in the refugee camp. We children had no toys; we used to roll up our socks—we had only one pair each—to play soccer with, and the mud was our playground. I remember many nights where we did not even have bread to eat and fell asleep hungry in the cold. Many of the other times when we were given bread, it was poisoned by the Turks to make us sick and kill us off. Spending a whole four years in a camp was tough. I mean, even though camping may be fun for some people, that’s when it’s for a couple of days, not four years. During the last year of our stay at the refugee camp humanitarian organizations from the United States and other western countries came. A couple of Lutheran families from Fargo, North Dakota, sponsored my family to start a new life in America. We came to the United States on September 21, 1992, when I was seven years old, and that is how my life started in Fargo.

COMING TO AMERICA

When I arrived in the United States for the first time it was snowing big time. I had seen snow before and was used to it, but never had I seen so many cars before. It was really a

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cultural shock, because listening to English for the first time, it sounded like Chinese. I asked myself, “How do they talk like that?” My first neighborhood and school was Horace Mann in North Fargo. Life was good in the beginning, because I had never felt so good as a kid after four years of hell in the camps. The Horace Mann neighborhood kids were awesome. They brought me into their homes and we broke bread together. Their families were very nice and took care of me like I was their son. They paid for me to be in a soccer team with their kids for many years. They bought clothing for me, gave me money, took me fishing, took me to church, took me to the movies, and paid for other activities. My favorite was my first McDonald’s experience—I had never had a hamburger before, nor a Happy Meal, and it sure put a smile on my face. I still have many memories from that time that I will never forget. There were many other Kurdish families who resided in Fargo, but not close to where we were living. My mom, a widow who had no skills to find a job and couldn’t drive, made us move closer to these families who could provide some assistance to us. I did not understand at that time and was very angry that we were moving, because everything was good for me. Overall this was beneficial for my family.

GROWING UP IN AMERICA

I am fortunate to have been raised here in America, even though life was hard in the beginning because of poverty. My mother never had the chance to get an education. Her life was more difficult, as she became an orphan when both of her parents were killed at an early age by the Iraqi regime. Being a single mother with no education or skills made it hard for her to find a job or even drive a vehicle, let alone raise a family in a completely new country. Our family faced extreme poverty and I used to hate going to school, because all the other kids had different sets of clothing on every day and I didn’t. On top of that, even though the school lunch food was free, it was not like the other kids’. They got to choose what they wanted, and I didn’t. My family moved to Moorhead, Minnesota, in 1995 because of the lack of social services in North Dakota. We moved to a bad neighborhood called Romkey Park. At that time, gang activity was high in that area. I was exposed to so much bad stuff as a kid being around those people. Even though I tried to stay away, it was kind of hard, because I was surrounded by them. If I didn’t hang out with some of them, they would beat me up. So I used those few as a protection unit. They were constantly peer pressuring me to join their gang(s), and my answer was always no. Finally, they had enough of me, and one day I got jumped by over twenty people. Luckily I had a bigger brother and told him what had happened. He confronted them and told them to stay away from me. We finally moved to a nicer neighborhood after four years.

EDUCATION

Elementary school was my favorite. I did not know the English language but I really tried hard in learning. Also that time was more fun, with lots of activities, field trips, and recess time. When I got to middle school things were changing. My friends in elementary school started forming groups—popular, unpopular kind of thing. I had to really protect myself at this time as bullying was everywhere. My tactic was to be silly and be a goofball. I was disruptive to the teachers many times and to other students to get others’ attention. Even though I did not mean it, I had to do this for the other kids to look up to me in thinking I was funny and at times fear me rather than pick on me. I got into fights with older and bigger kids while protecting my friends, which got me suspended from school a couple of times. This helped with my reputation, and I was enlisted as one of the popular students. Going through high school was a challenge for me as well. My freshman year, the family decided once again to move. More opportunities were supposedly in South Dakota, and we moved there for about three years. I didn’t really do my work and didn’t show up much for my classes. I really struggled with trying to fit in and making new friends. The friends I chose were not that smart or good decision-makers. I got into lots of trouble with them. Most of them were doing drugs, and that made me experiment with some as well. My senior year was coming and I decided my fate. Do I want to graduate with these guys who I just met for three years, or should I go back to Moorhead and graduate with my elementary friends? I finally decided to convince my family to move back. We did and this was the best thing that happened for me, even though I struggled during my senior year. I had to correct and make up for all the missed work from the previous years to be able to graduate. I was going to school from 7:30 a.m. to around 6:30 p.m. most of the week. There was a barrier coming back because of the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, which made my religion supposedly a threat. I was born a Muslim and did not understand what was happening at that time. A lot of old 54

I was born a Muslim and did not understand what was happening after September 11. A lot of friends looked at me differently, and some stopped speaking to me.

A photo of Newzad Brifki’s father, who died when Brifki was an infant, and a hat bearing the emblem of the Kurdish militia known as the Pesh Merga sit on a cabinet in his office. Photo by Andrew Cullen.

friends ignored me because of the political situation at that time and my religious background. A lot of them looked at me differently, and some stopped speaking to me. Despite it all, I didn’t give up, and I was happy because I still had a few great friends left. I graduated in 2003 with my head up high. My family was very excited for me, as was I. This was a good decision I had made. After graduation my mother became very ill and this made me stick close by her side. I helped a lot around the house and in looking after her. It was great, because I started spending lots of time with my mother. She would tell me stories from the past and what she had gone through. Every day sitting with her I became wiser. She suggested I continue my education, and I did. I went to M State in Moorhead and got my associate’s degree in 2006. I would have finished faster, but I had a car accident and badly broke my left arm, requiring two surgeries, so I had to take a year off. I then went to Minnesota State University Moorhead and earned my bachelor’s degree in business administration in 2008. After completing my undergrad, I started a nonprofit organization called the Kurdish Community of America, promoting cultural education and acting as a resource center for the community members in need. I decided to continue my education, and in August 2014, I got my master’s degree from the University of Mary in business administration.

THE FUTURE

in how to become a better person. I did a fundraiser in 2014 through the organization I run to help the refugees affected by ISIS (Daesh). The humanitarian aid was focused in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq with winter supplies to children, where there are over 1.5 million refugees displaced. This was great for me, because looking back, when I was a refugee, not much was done to help my family out. I had a calling and took action in helping these refugees. I was successful in raising around $20,000, which is more in the Iraqi dinar, and supplies are cheaper there as well. I, along with other volunteers in the Kurdistan Region, was able to help around 145 families, including 459 children. On top of that, I am learning to be a good father for my children, which I never had. I want to be the change in the world. If I had the money and power, I would try to do more than what I can now to serve more people. My goals for the future are to be a successful entrepreneur and politician. I have been blessed to have been given the opportunity to be raised in this country. To be what I want to be without being from a specific religion, class, or ethnic group. At the end of the day, here we are all Americans. We have all come from somewhere else in the world, or at least our ancestors have, to make a new beginning in this country. A beginning under the Constitution, where all can have a chance for “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” God bless the United States of America.

Looking back, I have been through a lot. Despite it all, I have learned from the past and learned from my mistakes NEWZAD BRIFKI is the founder and director of the Kurdish Community of America based in Moorhead, Minnesota.

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“THE WORLD LEADERSHIPwhich has come

to the United States cannot rest solely upon superior power, wealth, and technology, but must be solidly founded upon worldwide respect and admiration for the Nation’s highest qualities as a leader in the realm of ideas and the spirit.” – National Foundation on the Arts and Humanities Act of 1965 RECENT DONORS SUPPORTER $500 OR MORE Thomas & Jane Ahlin Elizabeth Birmingham Noel & Judith Fedje Jack & Kristen Paris ASSOCIATE $250 - $499 Bethany Andreasen Madelyn Camrud Joel & Kristie Frieze Melissa Gjellstad John J. Petrik Richard M. Rothaus CONTRIBUTOR $100 - $249 Najla Amundson Barbara & Steven Andrist Alvera M. Bergquist Char Brekke Catherine L. Carlson Kevin Carvell Kathleen B Cunningham Cami Dixon Earl & Patricia Donaldson David & Karla Ehlis William Flaget Bruce & Lorraine Furness Ellen Gasner Brenna & Thomas Gerhardt Ron & Joyce Gerhardt Kenneth J. Glass Tina Grumbo Verlaine Gullickson Margaret Hagler Kate Haugen Stewart W. Herman Patricia Hinkle Phyllis Ibes Joseph C. Jastrzembski Mary Ann Johnson

Carol Kapaun Ratchenski Nancy Koupal Christine Kujawa Carol Jean Larsen Kimberlee S. Leite Elton & Dolores Leppke Russell & Joan Lorenz Cathie and David Lutgen Brenda Kay Marshall Thomas & Michelle Matchie H.L. Meschke M. Kay Moxness David Olson Sonja Prestangen Daniel Rice Ken & Debi Rogers Stacy L. Schaffer In Honor of Jack & Leane Schaffer Beth Schatz Kaylor Laura Schmidt-Dockter Arne & Gayle Selbyg Gene & Noreen Smestad Marvin J. Snyder Teresa Lyn Tande Ryan & Nikki Taylor Dwight Tober Thomas Turk Sarah M. Vogel Cecil Watson Thomas A. Wentz FRIEND $99 AND BELOW Anonymous John L. Allickson Alice Jean Anderson Enid Bachman Judy A. Barstad Aaron Barth Three Rivers Arts Council Roxy Boelz

Erika Bolstad Bradford & Georgia Brakke Pamela K. Burkhardt William R. Caraher Carol Christianson Ceil Anne Clement Ann Crews Melton Jo Anne Curl Charles & Karen Dahl Tom & Karen Daley Mary Liz Davis Orrin DeLong Betty L. Dendinger Barb J. Evanson Nancy J. Farbo Arland & Sandy Geiszler Robin Gense Ruby Grove E. Bruce Hagen Judith Hammer Mac R. Harris John S. Heinen Gary & Laureen Hendricks Laura Hjelmstad Mr. William F. Hodny Coral Hoff Michael & Susan Howe James Johnston Don & Caroleene Jorgensen David & Christi Kluzak Arvid & Darlene Knutson Paul Koetz Mary Louise Kowalski Joyce Krabseth Ann E. Kraft Jeanette LaRock Laverne & Kathy Larson Linda L. Larson Reed & Marianna Malm John T. Martsolf, M.D.

*Without the humanities, life is not life. History, music, philosophy, arts and literature – the humanities teach us where we’ve been, who we are, and empower us to grow; they are the epitome of human expression. The humanities inspire the innovators of tomorrow by providing real knowledge for real-world reasoning. These skills allow us to gain new insights into everything from poetry and paintings to business models and politics. Make an investment in yourself today and support the North Dakota Humanities Council! 56

Penelope D. Moore Louine & Mike Ness Gerald & Jean Newborg Burton M. Nygren Tristan Olson Barbara Olstad Jim & Sonja Ozbun Jane Paulson Leslie W. Peltier Marge Peterson Amy Phillips Shirley Quick Bridgette & Randy Readel Susan Reinhiller Carol G. Robertson Connie Rosencrans Ron & Nancy Saeger John Sakariassen Susan Schlecht Ken Schmierer Gerald K. Schultz Lynnell Simonson Popowski Gerald M. Skogely Gail M. Smith Norman & Bonnie Smith Sheryl Solberg Nathan M. Steffen Carlyn Stevens Jennifer Strange Elizabeth Sund Iris Swedlund Lawrence L. Thompson Jessie Veeder Scofield Arnold & Donna Wallender Sarah & Jacob Warren Bret Weber Jean Wold

ndhumanities.org

think deeply. live fully. engage in the humanities! READ a Pulitzer Prize winning book to celebrate the 100th anniversary. ASK somebody older than you to tell you about their childhood. STUDY the platform of a candidate you usually would not vote for. WATCH a documentary film about something you know little about. LEARN the original tribal names and history of three places near where you live. WRITE a letter or short story that can be cherished by future generations. BRING a first-timer to the theater or an art exhibit and talk about what you see. ATTEND or live stream the GameChanger ideas festival. COLLABORATE with somebody who has different interests and experiences than you. DISCUSS a current issue with somebody who holds an opinion opposite of yours. VISIT a museum to compare the past with the present. TAKE somebody from a different culture out to lunch to get to know them better. DONATE and become a member of the North Dakota Humanities Council. *Inspired by Humanities Nebraska

North Dakota Humanities Council 418 E. Broadway, Suite 8 Bismarck, ND 58501 800-338-6543 council@ndhumanities.org

ndhumanities.org

We have ways of making you think. Board of Directors CHAIR Melissa Gjellstad, Grand Forks VICE CHAIR Elizabeth Sund, Minot Bethany Andreasen, Minot Aaron Barth, Bismarck Elizabeth Birmingham, Fargo William Caraher, Grand Forks John S. Heinen, Dickinson Ann Crews Melton, Bismarck Leslie W. Peltier, Belcourt Carol Kapaun Ratchenski, Fargo Richard Rothaus, Bismarck Nate Steffen, Bismarck Ken Schmierer, Ellendale Karel Sovak, Bismarck Iris Swedlund, Velva

Staff

Brenna Daugherty Gerhardt, Executive Director Kenneth Glass, Associate Director Stacy Schaffer, Development Director Kayla Schmidt, Program Coordinator Freddie Campbell, Intern

CELEBRATING 100 YEARS OF EXCELLENCE IN HISTORY AND JOURNALISM September 24, 2016 Bismarck, ND

The North Dakota Humanities Council is a partner of the National Endowment for the Humanities. The humanities inspire our vision of a thoughtful, respectful, actively engaged society that will be able to meet the challenge of sustaining our democracy across the many divisions of modern society and deal responsibly with the shared challenges we currently face as members of an interdependent world.

“Above all nations is humanity.” — Goldwin Smith