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Homeless in Rome
- Monday, February 2, 2009
Thousands of refugees sleep under the bridges and in the open spaces of Rome.
Every weekday 200 and more crowd into the Joel Nafuma Refugee Center in the crypt of St.
Paul's Within the Walls, a 20-minute bus ride from
the apartment near the Porta Portese where my husband and I are living for six
weeks.
On rainy days this center for political refugees from Africa,
Asia, and South America is SRO.
This fair morning there was enough room at the tables for a dozen exhausted
men to nap with their heads cradled in their arms; others had fallen asleep
sitting up in folding chairs. Groups played foosball, ping-pong, or chess; a
group of twenty or thirty watched CNN news on a TV at one end of the room,
where a recently released popular film is shown each afternoon; others sat
talking together or staring at nothing. All were glad to be off the radar
screens of any officers of the polizie who
might stop them to demand papers - many have no papers, or have only
temporary documents making them vulnerable to official hassling.
80% of these refugees are Afghan. Some were trafficked from Afghanistan
through Iran,
Turkey, and Greece
to Italy,
having paid large sums of money to get to a place where they had been
promised legal documentation and jobs. All in this basement are men; the care
of women refugees and children is overseen by the city of Rome,
although rumor has it that much of the money earmarked for their services
ends up in the pockets of officials. In general, human services for refugees
in Rome and Italy
under Silvio Berlusconi are among the poorest in
the EU. Faith communities and churches here - like the St.
Paul's Anglican-Episcopal community - do much of the
work.
The men file into the cavernous basement at around 8:30 AM and line up for a breakfast of tea and bread.
Church officials can no longer afford the fruit they used to be able to offer
as well. After breakfast, staff and volunteers distribute hygiene supplies
along with clothing and shoes until needs are met or everything's gone.
Around 4 PM the center closes. The
refugees move on to another church where showers and a hot meal are provided
and a very few beds are available. Some have beds in shelters and campsites,
but due to housing shortages, for the huge majority it's another night
sitting in the train station or lying in the open. Lucky ones find places under
a viaduct or inside a discarded section of giant concrete pipe.
Today [Monday, February 2] I met many Afghans, Iranians, Iraqis, and Africans
at the center. My Italian is serving me well - many of the refugees learned
to speak some of the language during the months they spent at refugee camps
farther south while being processed into Italy.
Fluency in Italian being required for employment, some charitable
organizations are offering free classes in Italian for refugees, but they
want to learn English, too, because, they tell me, it's THE international
language. There are no free classes in English for refugees, so starting
tomorrow I'll offer practice in English conversation for two hours every
morning. It's a joy and a great privilege to be here.
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Afghan refugee in Rome:
Amit - February
4, 2009
A vigorous man probably in his late forties, Amit
has a sensitive, open gaze. Until the Taliban falsely accused him of spying
for the Afghan government, he owned a thriving automobile parts business.
Taliban thugs wrecked his shop and his house, forcing his wife and their nine
children to seek shelter with her relatives, and drove him out of Afghanistan.
Amit and I sit down for some English conversation -
he's already quite fluent. On this first day of volunteering, I learn that
conversing in English means hearing painful stories like his.
He tells me that he paid thousands of Euro to be
transported to Italy
through Iran,
then Turkey,
then Greece.
He spent four months in a camp for political refugees in the Italian town of Crotone, but in January was
given a letter of deportation back to Greece,
based on an EU agreement that the nation which is the refugee's first port of
entry shall be the nation responsible for providing asylum. Bureaucratically
the regulation may make a kind of sense, but Amit
is in despair. “In Greece,
unemployment and refugee services are even worse than here,” he said. “What
will become of me there? How can I begin repairing my life?”
In Rome he sleeps under a tree.
He comes to the refugee center in this church basement each morning for tea,
bread, and a chance to wash up, and stays because there’s nothing else to do
with his day. He wants to make a case to the Italian authorities for
remaining in Italy
but, he tells me, he doesn't know how to start. His friendly smile grows
fierce, and his eyes flash. “Italy,
Europe – these places are said to be enlightened, but
they have made my situation impossible! I can’t go back to Greece.”
Then the gaze of this proud patriarch and businessman falls to his shoes.
“Please, what can I do?”
I have no idea what he can do. But I can sit with him in his grief and rage.
I tell him that I don’t know how to help him and that my heart aches for him.
And I ask permission to tell him something about myself. He nods, his eyes
brimming now, and I tell him the story of my son’s schizophrenia. I finish by
saying, “You and I each have our own terrible heartbreak. But your pain and
mine are in this world together.” Amit’s tense face
relaxes, and we sit in silence for several minutes. Finally, “Thank you,” he
says. “Will you be here tomorrow?” When I say yes (How can I not spend
part of my day with these brave, open-hearted people?) he smiles and grasps
my hand in both of his. Then he rises from his chair so he won’t lose his
turn with a razor and a toothbrush in the refugee center bathroom.
I nod to a thin boy who's been listening to our conversation while patiently
waiting to practice his English. Tariq is nineteen
years old and misses his mother.
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Afghan refugee in Rome:
Tariq - February
7, 2009
Tariq spends long days in this center for political
refugees. Growing up in Afghanistan
he learned the art of gem-cutting from his father. "I know all the
stones," this nineteen-year-old says proudly, "and all the shapes
and how to make them." Almost the first thing he tells me is that he
misses his mother. She paid $12,000 to the trafficker who brought him to Italy.
Tariq touches his earlobes, wrists, and breastbone:
"She sold all these, all her jewels, so that I could come here."
His older brother died in the war in Afghanistan.
"Now," says Tariq, "her hopes are
all in me."
He sleeps in Rome's Stazione Termini train station and is often
hungry, some days subsisting only on the breakfast of bread and tea served at
the center weekday mornings. "On the telephone I do not tell my mother
this," says Tariq. "I tell her I am
sleeping in the casa of a friend. I tell her I am eating
chicken." Tariq knows that he is young and has
many years to build a new life, but, he mourns, "My mother has not so
many years. Her heart is bad and now her heart is very bad with worry for me.
I am sorry, I can think only of my mother."
During our conversation practice sessions Tariq
patiently helps Kabir, whose
English is limited to a phrase or two, and who can write only Farsi letters.
Now that Tariq has told me his story, his burden
seems lighter and he occasionally smiles.
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Ivory Coast
refugee in Rome: Ousmane - February
9, 2009
Gentle, slender Ousmane wears his hair in tiny
braids close to his scalp. He patiently reads his pocket-sized English
dictionary page by page - he has no other English text. I make a mental note
to photocopy something for him next time. He asks the meanings of the tiny
words in his table of irregular verbs. "What is 'abide, abode,
abided'?" he asks. He gives me a list of punctuation marks he's
encountered: "Please you write definitions?" As I write
"quotation mark," "exclamation point," and "question
mark" next to the symbols he spots a pattern, prints "TION,"
and asks, "What means this?" ... "Ah, I see. What means
'ending'?" ... "Ah, I see. What means
'noun'?"
I ask Ousmane to tell me about his life while I
write out his story for him. Haltingly he says he's 21 years old. He came to Italy
from Ivory Coast
to escape the civil war. His parents were killed in the fighting. When Ousmane was a child he loved learning French and history
in school. His favorite teacher was a kind man "and he liked me very
much." It's easy to see why.
I fill almost a page, Ousmane reviewing each
sentence as I print it and correcting the way I spell the Ivory
Coast president's name. We arrive at the
year when Ousmane mastered motor scooter mechanics
and started working as a repairman. Then I fold the page, ask him to practice
reading it tonight, and promise that if he brings it tomorrow we'll continue
writing his story. By the time I turn to another student, Malik,
Ousmane has unfolded the page and is reading to himself in a whisper, smiling broadly. He reads the page
several times while Malik shows me the words he
doesn't know in an English newsletter he found somewhere on the street. Malik, from Afghanistan,
speaks five languages including Italian, English, Urdu, and Hindi.
As I pack up to leave, another small moment of peaceful reconciliation between
a Muslim and a Christian is happening in this basement filled with political
refugees of conflicting faiths. Malik is telling Emmanuele why Jesus is considered one of the major
prophets in Islam. As Malik explains the Islamic
appreciation of Jesus, his English is fluent and fast. Emmanuele,
eyes shining with grateful friendliness, replies, "I sorry, I not
understand what you speak." Malik sits down
again to walk Emmanuele through his words.
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At the refugee center in Rome
- February 15, 2009
It's clear and beautiful in Rome,
but cold, too. On weekends, when the refugee center where I volunteer is
closed, I wonder whether the refugees are finding places to stay warm during
the day. I doubt that having to sleep outside in weather close to freezing every
night can toughen you up for being cold 48 hours straight.
I look forward to Monday mornings. Descending the stone steps from the
courtyard into the dimness I see crowds of refugees watching TV, playing
foosball or chess, sleeping in chairs, or lining up for a turn with hygiene
supplies at the bathroom sink. Some sit and talk with each other in small
groups or just mill around restlessly. As I move past, the expressions of the
men who look up range from impassive to wary until I say hello. Then each face
lights up with a friendly grin.
The inevitable odor of unwashed humanity is strong. It reminds me of the
tinge in the air of the apartment where my father lived out his last years,
and of how my son smelled the year he lived on the streets. I breathe the air
here with happiness. If that sounds ascetic or
self-mortifying, believe me, it's not.
At the Sunday flea market that extends for at least a mile starting half a
block from our apartment near Porta Portese I found a new First English ABCs
children's book with colorful illustrations for only €3. I'm excited to show
it tomorrow to Abdul, from Mali,
who's having a terrible time with English sounds. He's also mystified by
pronouns, although on Friday after long labor he was proud to be reading two
sentences over and over to himself: "My name is Abdul. What is your
name?"
Also on last Friday, across the table sat Hakim, an Afghan who had asked me
to "please write down all the best difficult English words with
definitions for me." Hakim was now making do with a detective novel left
behind by American students at the U.W.
Rome Center
and asking me words he didn't yet know. Ousmane was
methodically pronouncing the English sentences in a children's book - What
Do You Know About Camels? - written in Arabic, English, and Ivory
Coast's official language, French (Ousmane's other language is djoula).
When I told the proprietor of a used book shop in Rome's Trastevere
neighborhood what I wanted this trilingual book for, the lovely woman kindly loaned
it to me, together with a good volume of English conversation exercises.
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Learning a little English - February 23, 2009
I try to spend one-on-one time with each person who comes to my corner of the
room at the refugee center. After the men eat their breakfast of bread and
tea, twenty or thirty gravitate to my table. Some spend the entire two hours
working with me; others come and go. Some who know no English want to
memorize the alphabet. Others copy words with which I've labeled items
pictured in a newspaper photo, or recite simple sentences: "What is your
name? My name is _____." Those who can read some English enjoy Aesop's Fables
(conveniently downloaded from Bartleby) and ask me questions about things
they don't understand. Aesop has universal appeal, especially his fables
about rapacious wolves and vulnerable lambs: back home, these political
refugees have felt on their very skins the brutal exercise of tyrannical
power.
Today a group of students from a Virginia
church visited the center and had one-on-one English conversations with
refugees, a powerful experience for all. One young American wrote down the
story of an Afghan man as he told it, and kept this amazing story to bring
back home. Some of these refugees were beaten bloody by Taliban, or saw
relatives murdered. Some were able to escape across the Afghan border only by
squeezing into the undercarriages of trucks and managing to hold on while the
vehicles roared for miles over bumpy terrain.
When our time together ends each day, many of the refugees leave their papers
on my table because they sleep outside at night and have noplace
to keep their things. Last week some men discussed with me a newspaper photo
of a horse race and, for practice, wrote down what they saw. (The boy Tariq - see my earlier post - was not among them.) At the
end of the day, on one piece of paper I found the following: "This is a
picture of a race. There are 3 horses. There are 3 men. I miss my mom."
With his pencil the writer had gone over and over the last four words until
they were as thick and dark as his sorrow.
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Impatient to build a better life - February 24, 2009
Political refugees often tell me how hard it is to wait so many months for
the documents they need in order to find employment in Italy.
Many have already spent many months in refugee camps farther south before
coming to Rome. Now many have
nowhere to sleep or even to keep any possessions, and their days alternate
between grinding idleness and being herded in groups among places where bread
or shelter are parceled out at certain times. Here is what an Afghan refugee
wrote yesterday and slipped into my bag:
First I want to tell you that in our country there is too
much problems, we are in a war there initially, but there is also much
problems here. First we sleep in a campsite and we can't have any house and
after we are going for bread to one Caritas [charity] after another Caritas
and we are coming and going in our life here, living like animals. No one
knows that's what we are doing. We want help, we want peace, we want work in our life in Italia.
I haven't met a single refugee who doesn't want to get
work as soon as possible and begin making a new life. In fact, some have
found work - passing out leaflets for restaurants, or cleaning up at a KFC -
at extremely low wages.
At any rate, today seemed a good time to read Aesop's "The Town Mouse
and the Country Mouse" together, downloaded from Bartleby.com and edited
with more modern idioms. The moral of the fable hit home: "Better to eat
beans in safety than cakes in fear." Not that any of these men came from
a place where they had much cake. Their courage and determination through a
protracted ordeal - and, yes, their patience - touch my heart.
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"Anticipatory Grief" - February 26, 2009
Long ago I leafed through a book called "Anticipatory Grief," and
though its content has leaked from my memory, the title remains. It names
exactly my feeling as the end of my time in Rome
approaches, only two weeks away. It will be difficult to quit my work with
these amazing men, blasted out of their homelands and plunked down in a
country where the welcome for foreigners, especially in a declining economy,
isn't very warm.
This morning about 30 Afghans and Africans surrounded two long tables to
learn a little more English. Their mastery ranges from elementary to fairly
strong, so they work on different things. When the four American women
attending Rome University
volunteer on Tuesdays and Fridays, there's more variety for the refugees. And
today some students from Duquesne U visited, which gave many of the men a
chance at extended one-on-one coaching or conversations in English.
Refugees who have notebooks and pens bring them each day, but many have
nothing, so I put out paper and pencils every morning even though
intentionally or accidentally some pencils occasionally disappear. At the end
of one table I dump out a bag of a couple hundred little oblongs of cardboard
with words hand-printed on both sides (tall/short; wet/dry; ride/walk;
come/go; father/mother; war/peace; give/take; hot/cold; today/tomorrow;
the/a; man/woman; ?/!), which can be used for forming sentences, with
blank pieces to stick in if the writer can't find a word he wants. Some men
go through the pile systematically writing down all the words; others form
sentences and copy them ("My girl friend is hot!"). Today
eight young men spent the entire two hours teaching themselves with these
fragments of English, occasionally asking questions.
For those who read some English, working through photocopies of slightly simplified
Aesop's Fables seems universally satisfying. I also made a little
dictionary booklet listing some common words (apple, boy, cat),
illustrated them with my ugly drawings, and printed them along with Aesop
stories downloaded from the Web. Ibrahim, the
Egyptian who owns the tiny Internet/photocopies business across the street
from our apartment, gave me a generous discount when he heard what the copies
were for.
I feel attached to all these people - including Ibrahim
and his brother Abbas, whose flower stall is a few
doors away from Ibrahim's shop.
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The real Rome
- February 26, 2009
Back in January when Bob and I first arrived, the sight of our street was
kind of shocking with its graffiti, dumpster clutter, roaring traffic, and glaring
billboards. I told the cab driver who had brought us from Fiumicino Airport,
"This can't be the right place!" But within a week the neighborhood
was our home, and we loved "the real Rome"
more than the historic center tarted up for
tourists.
One of our pleasures is watching daily life from our third-floor apartment
windows. Workers change the billboards each week, casually but with uncanny
precision using their brooms to slap up swaths of new signage. We check on clienti entering Ibrahim's
Internet/phone/photocopy business, and we count passersby who stop to browse
his brother Abbas's flower stall on the other
corner.
Abbas strolls over to Ibrahim's
several times an hour. During the last bitter January week we hypothesized
that Abbas must have needed to warm up inside his
brother's place pretty often, but now that the weather is milder his visits
are just as frequent. The brothers stand in the doorway of the Internet
Point, keeping an eye on the flower stall, chatting with passing neighbors,
and clearly enjoying each other. Both work hard to support themselves and
their families back home, though the Italian economy is collapsing faster
than America's.
Ibrahim's business is starting to fail, and Abbas glumly observes that Italians are less romantic
than they used to be - they buy fewer flowers these days. Still, Bob and I
enjoy our laughing, mostly cynical conversations with them about politics. Obama is popular in Italy,
but these Egyptian brothers have a strict "wait and see" suspicion
of all politicians' motives.
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An American Christian with Muslims abroad - February 27, 2009
90% of the more than 200 men who spend their days in the church basement
where I volunteer are Muslim. Right now I'm the only American in Rome with
whom they spend 2-3 hours each weekday, and because of the setting they
assume (as it happens, rightly) that I'm a Christian. I often wonder what the
refugees think of Americans and in particular American Christians, especially
when refugees' homelands happen to be countries the U.S.
has conflicts with, maybe for reasons grounded in religious differences.
Regardless of wider political hostilities the men who gravitate to my table
in the morning are eager to learn English. And fortunately there are ways of
blending even a paltry knowledge of Islam into our conversations. For
example, while explaining that Aesop wrote his Fables in the 6th
century B.C., a time line drawn from 2009 A.D. back to 600 B.C. marked with
milestones can include 570 A.D. for the prophet Muhammed.
Some of the men want to footnote the fact that the Muslim and Christian
calendars differ.
For readers of Aesop's "Country Mouse / City Mouse" fable who stall
at "bacon," the word can be defined as a meat they probably don't
eat because it's pork. "Ah, pig meat!" they exclaim, with happy
recognition and disgust. And a farewell of "See you tomorrow
morning!" can end with the beautiful Arabic expression "Inshallah" - "God willing." As a
sentiment I truly feel, it doesn't seem to come across as false camaraderie,
a cheap attempt to "get down" with Muslims.
When Yakub tried to pick a quarrel with me about
the war in Afghanistan
- "You're destroying my country!" - I didn't explain that American
forces attacked the Taliban because they sheltered the mastermind of 9/11. The
conversation easily turned to the war's impact on Yakub's
family and friends back home. It wasn't until two weeks after this
conversation that I saw Yakub at the center again.
It was noon - time for me to leave
for the day and meet my husband for lunch. I paused by Yakub's
chair at the table where he was about to eat the bag lunch doled out at a
nearby church on the condition that every taker return to the refugee center
to consume it.
Yakub was angry again. He slapped at his 5-day
beard and told me that his new job keeps him away from the center in the
mornings, when the men are given shaving supplies and time at the bathroom
sinks (which he still needed because employers here typically delay paying
first wages for weeks). I sympathized, but added that he looked pretty
dignified with facial hair. Another minute of chat about how hard it is for
refugees being herded here and there in Rome, and he waved his hand with a
graceful gesture of invitation above the tiny tin of sardines, the single
roll, and the orange that he had arranged in front of him on a clean
newspaper. "Please, you will join me?" he asked. Hungry as he was,
he may still have felt a little disappointed that I couldn't stay.
It's easy to find something to appreciate, even to love, about each one of
these extraordinary human beings. We can hope that this, too, may have a
small "political" impact - one person at a time.
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"Do you like Rome?"
- March 1, 2009
A couple of mornings each week I lead an exercise in English conversation
that these political refugees seem to love. Afterward those who haven't made
copies for themselves ask me to spread it out on the table so they can write
down the question along with the answers they like. I hold up a long list
printed on sheets of paper taped together, and when I shout out the question
at the top, refugees crowd around to shout it again with me: "Do you
like Rome?" Then, as I point
to each word, in chorus we read the paired responses below the question:
DO YOU LIKE ROME?
Yes, Rome is sunny and warm.
No, Rome is rainy and cold.
Yes, there is no war in Rome.
No, there is no work for me here.
Yes, the people in Rome are kind.
No, Italians are rude to me.
Yes, I made new friends here.
No, I miss my family.
Yes, it is safer here than in my country.
No, it's dangerous - we have to sleep on the streets at night.
Yes, Rome is a beautiful city.
No, in Rome there is nothing to
do except wait around.
Yes, I am getting my documents.
No, it is very hard to get documents.
Yes, I have a shelter where I can sleep.
No, I have no house here.
Yes, I can learn Italian in a free class.
No, there are no free classes in English.
You get the picture: the statements are all true.
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Rome's
political refugee grapevine - March
2, 2009
I heard it through the grapevine: Norway
must be doing better than some other European Union economies. Today Yakub and his friend told me they're heading for Norway
ASAP because they're sure to get jobs there. Refugees and homeless immigrants
often have more (and possibly better) information than refugee center staff
or volunteers have. Of course, a piece of news might be just a rumor.
My first morning at the center, the Italian volunteer who hands out hygiene
supplies was telling four African newcomers that they could get their clothes
laundered at San Martino, a church a dozen blocks (and many twists and turns)
away. The route she showed them on the wall map looked like leftover
spaghetti. The men silently stared at the convolutions. "I'll walk them
over there," I told her. It wasn't yet clear to me what kind of help was
needed from me at the refugee center, and a good map was in my pocket.
"Would that be useful?"
"Useful and useless!" she replied. We both laughed, and she went on
to explain: "The refugees know more about resources than we do! They
probably already know the way to San Martino." Still, in guiding
(following?) the four men to their destination, I learned the Santa Maria Maggiore neighborhood more intimately, and on the way I
got to talk with some interesting strangers from Ethiopia.
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Four political refugees in Rome
- their stories - March 8, 2009
These stories by political refugees were written for my fellow volunteer
Mary-Ann, a teacher from England.
The first is from an Eritrean refugee who like others at the center made a
dangerous, circuitous journey to safety in Italy.
Like others, too, he worries about whether it's possible to build a life in
this country.
My name is Hamid.
I was born in [the town of] G--- in my country of Eritrea
and studied 12 years in A---. I left my country in 2004. I arrived in Ethiopia
the same year and lived there 2 years. After that I went to Somalia
and stayed 3 months. After that I cross the Indian Ocean.
I stay on the sea 2 weeks but there is danger on the ship. Then I arrived in Yemen.
After 2 months there I went to Saudi Arabia.
I stayed 2 years. After that I returned to Ethiopia
but was put in prison for 3 months. After that I went to Sudan,
and from Sudan
to Libya by
desert. I lived in prison one year and 5 months. After that I arrived in Italy
last year. My history is very long. I am not explaining simply. I am 25 years
old. Now in Italy
I live a dog's life. My dream is I want to finish university and I want to help my family. I like peace and work.
Some refugees found it hard to tell their stories. Most
Americans if asked about themselves would happily
launch into narratives well elaborated by life in a society that privileges
self-assertion and self-revelation. For these refugees, a sense of privacy and
a self-protectiveness hardened by memories of war-torn homelands and of
dangerous years on the road vie with their courteous willingness to share
themselves with us. When I wrote down the story Ousmane
dictated to me about growing up in Ivory Coast,
he arrived at a certain point in the narrative and simply stopped. I told him
I'd continue writing his story if he brought it the next day. He came to the
refugee center every single morning for the next 5 weeks to work with me on
his English, but never again opened the story in my presence. Similarly, Rashad abruptly breaks off his personal narrative:
I am from Eritrea.
I was born in 198_ in a small village. Eritrea
is found in the horn of East Africa and got its
independence in 1991 from Ethiopia.
I completed my school in a town near to my village. I loved school life. I
remember my friends very well, because they were very helpful, funny, etc.
Anyway I am not ready to write more about my life story. It just feels bad.
It's not my potential to write all about my past days, all the feelings,
emotional violence as well as my desires [for the future]. It terrifies me to
think about myself. I hope you will understand me even if it doesn't mean
that I wrote all the necessary points to make you understand me. What makes
me not to write more is, I am upset with my life.
However, if you tell me what is the purpose of this,
I will write more. Thank you.
I've posted before about the refugees' passionate desire
and need for work. Here is Khaled:
In the name of God: My name is Khaled. I'm from Afghanistan.
But I was born in Iran.
I lived in I--- [an Iranian town]. I was a student,
but in Iran
we can't go to the university. The Iranian people are very racist. In Italy
I have a document but I don't have work. What do I have to do? I don't know.
Maybe I have to go to another country. I have gone to Sweden,
but I have fingerprints in Italy.
[Khaled means that Italy
was his port of entry. Under European Union law, Italy
is responsible for his political asylum, including arrangements for shelter,
employment, etc., so Sweden
would have sent him back here.] Maybe once upon a time I'll come back to Afghanistan.
I'm not sure. I am in Rome. Rome
is one Big city.
Finally, Laurent embodies some of the gifts these
political refugees bring to their adopted countries, including an impressive
determination to meet daunting challenges. Already fluent in French, the
official language of his native Ivory Coast,
Laurent is now learning Italian and English:
I was born in 1974 in Ivory
Coast. I lived in Korogho,
the capital of the north of the country. I was a trader. I grew up in a
nuclear family composed of 4 (four) members. When I was young, I always went
to school for study. During break times I played games with my schoolmates.
My favourite subject was philosophy and my ideal
philosopher was DENIS DIDEROT. I was a fan of reggae, slow rock, and the
Beatles. The music listening made me an English lover. English for me wasn't
a subject, but a necessity. I saw the conquest of English worldwide. I
remarked also, that most information was in English. My dream is first to get
a paper of stay. After to get a good job and then to try to build my future
the second time. My dream is also to build a nice flat where I am living with
my family. I want to be reliable - ponctuel
- and very efficient - organise'.
On my last day of volunteering here, the men I worked with
were courtly and ceremonious in their farewells. As each one spoke to me, he
placed his hand over his heart. It was very difficult to leave. Now that I'm
back in Seattle, my heart is full
of their stories and faces.
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Postscript
It was easier than I thought to put in some significant volunteer time while
on a 6-week vacation in Rome.
Lists of churches in the city are online, and my very first Sunday morning,
seeking a volunteering opportunity, I happened to visit St. Paul's Within the
Walls - and discovered that the church has a big refugee center in the
basement. Good opportunities might have been available at other churches, but
the following morning I dropped by St. Paul's,
and Father Michael drafted and oriented me immediately.
Volunteers who know no Italian do just fine at the refugee center. One brings
in pictures and speaks slowly, and it's fun to act words out (refugees
especially enjoyed my impersonations of Wolf, Lamb, and Frog). Some of the
refugees speak good English and are willing to help by translating for their
countrymen.
Through volunteering I feel more strongly connected than before with Italy
and its people. In the past my husband and I had spent two separate 3-month
academic terms in Rome (in 2002 and 2004) and two consecutive academic terms
in Siena (Jan-June 2006). This was the first time I wasn't ready after 3
weeks to leave Italy
and come back home. This time I didn't want to come back at all.
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From readers:
What struck me about all these posts is that these
gentlemen were much like me. Many of them were my age just sorting out who
they will be in the midst of a quickly changing world and culture. The sense
of shared humanity was strong.
The people were inspiring.
Africans are everywhere in Rome
selling inexpensive knock-off handbags, belts, etc. on sidewalks and piazzas.
These enterprising merchants can be found walking the hot sands of Italian
beaches hawking bath towels, rugs and other items. What amazes many American
tourists is that the Senegalese live together in communities sharing their
day's profits with fellow boarders. The fact that they sell the same wares
within sight of each other confounds Americans used to competitive commerce.
There is no panhandling among the Senegalese in Rome,
as far as we could tell. Americans have come to stereotype poor Blacks as
well as Whites in our cities as street people begging for change. Not in Italy.
Their stories are moving, and yours is inspiring. I am a tourist with a
purpose, mostly in Haiti,
but I love Italy,
and you give me good reason to head back some day. Please keep the stories
coming!
My heart goes out to all the refugees.
Welcome home! This was a thought provoking account of your work. I'm glad you
wrote it and made sure I had more than a fuzzy understanding of your project.
How welcome a little consideration and respite must be from the
vulnerabilities these folks endure. A fearsome world it seems,
and blessings on efforts to soften the blows here and there.
Who knew there are Afghans in Italy?
I learned something.
Tears in my eyes.
The narratives are really interesting and should be useful for students who
want to consider volunteering
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