by Susan Kuklin
In one town the smugglers and I were recognized. Tanzanians can smell Burundians. They recognized us by our clothes and mannerisms. My first fear was: I don’t want to be burnt.
Luckily, they just robbed us of everything we had. I had a small stereo/radio almost the size of a phone. That was a gift I got from the school for my top grades and stuff. Obviously I wanted to show it off to my father. They took that. I also had a thousand Tanzanian shillings. A thousand Tanzanian shillings is probably under a U.S. dollar. They took them too. But they let us go and we continued with the journey.
When we got to my old village, I saw some refugee camp friends who had returned to Burundi the year before. I asked them to take me to my dad’s house because I had forgotten where it was. “Oh, it’s Friday,” one friend said. “He might be at the local bar. That’s your dad’s favorite spot.”
We went downtown to the local bar. Inside, there was a long bench filled with many men drinking and talking. I thought he must be here. I’ll just go and surprise my dad. “Hey, surprise!” I looked at everybody there but didn’t see him.
The last time I saw my father, I was about six years old. Now I was twelve. My dad was sitting right there, and I didn’t recognize him. And he didn’t recognize me. I had obviously grown. As I was leaving, the man sitting next to him said to him, “Is that your son? The one who was here a year ago?”
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t think he’d be coming back so soon.”
“But that young man looks just like him.”
My father got up and followed me. As soon as I turned around, there he was, my father, right behind me. “You’re so tall,” he said to me.
“You’re so old,” I said to him. We hugged. I think we hugged for a good ten minutes. We cried. We were glued to each other. There was much catching up to do.
My father introduced me to my stepmother and three half-siblings. It was right for him to have somebody; I didn’t want him to be alone. My father had been a very loving man to my mom. He was a genuine, loving man. He was my idol. I wanted to be like him when I married. My stepmom is great. She’s loving and quiet. She’s soft-spoken, which is very unique for our outspoken, fun, and crazy family. I cherish my half-sister and two half-brothers.
Our house had been burnt by the bad guys after they found out that we had escaped. They destroyed a lot of stuff on our property. My dad was trying to rebuild the house. Once my family and I were in America, and working, we offered to move him into the city. He was, like, “Nope, no, thank you.” He was happy on his own land. I stayed with my father for a week before heading back to the refugee camp. He was thrilled to learn I aced the national test and was going on to high school.
Five years after we had begun the immigration process, we got a letter of acceptance. That was the most joyful moment that we had ever, ever had. My sister and her husband were the ones who got the letter, but it was for our entire household. By now, Victoria and Justin had three kids: Sheila, Nagrasia, and little Patrick. All the siblings who lived in the household, my brother Balthazar, and me were included in the letter. My two other sisters, Virginia and Suazis, were married and each living with their husbands’ families, so they were not considered in our family anymore. They signed up for resettlement and participated the same way we did, but immigration turned them down. Many people were turned down. I don’t understand this. Why did some get no, and others get yes? This is a mystery to me. Everybody had a strong story in the refugee camp. You would think that my sisters’ stories were closest to ours. You would imagine they would take everybody, but no, they did not.
By 2006, there was some stability in Burundi. The U.N. decided to close the camp. The U.N. based their decision on the fact that there was no active militia fighting. But the rebel group had not yet signed a peace treaty with the government. Many refugees moved from our camp to another one because they were afraid to return to Burundi. Virginia, Suazis, and their families, for example, did not feel safe in Burundi. Rather than return home, they decided to go to a different refugee camp in Malawi. They are still in Malawi.
Seven hundred people from our refugee camp were accepted by the United States. There was pure joy. It was an unforgettable night. Unforgettable. By 2006, I was a few months shy of seventeen and about to have a new life in a place called the United States. We had no idea how we were going to get there. We had no idea how far away it was. All we knew was that it was a place somewhere out there. It had to be a hundred million times better than where we were now. Think of it this way: When we think of heaven, we know it is something good. But we can’t paint it. We can’t imagine whether it would be green, yellow, grassy, floating on the clouds. We don’t know anything about it, but we know that it’s good. Right? That’s how we thought of America. It was like heaven.
We learned that we would be living in an area with white people. I had seen white people who came with the U.N. When they came to our camp, kids would rush to them, to touch them, just to see if they felt like we feel. We touched their hair to see if it felt different from ours. Sometimes the volunteers would hang out with us kids. At first, it was a shock to get close to one. Even their eyes, their eyes looked like a cat. A cat’s eyes. They were so unreal to us.
We learned a few things about the United States, like how to call 911 in case of an emergency. We were taught to respond to a question by saying, “No English.” That was all the English we were taught. It’s funny, isn’t it? Once we were here, Americans would come up to me, and say, “Oh, we’re so excited to have you here.” And I’d respond, “No English,” and look away. It was bad!
We thought that we would be taken to a protected area like our camp. We had the mind-set of a refugee. We didn’t know that we were going to live in a larger society.
On August 11, 2006, we were taken to the airport in big, nice buses, for a flight to Nairobi [in Kenya]. We didn’t have much to take with us, because we never had much in the first place. At the airport, I saw helicopters for the first time. We had seen airplanes in the sky but never helicopters. They made so much noise and caused so much wind. It was magical.
We waited for our turn to board the airplane. Once we sat down in our seats, something funny happened. The flight attendants started handing us plastic bags. We looked inside them. They were empty. We were, like, “Wait a minute. Are you supposed to be giving us something here? These bags are empty.” As refugees, we were used to being given stuff. For such a trip, I thought we’d score big. But the bags were empty. People started complaining, like, “These bags are empty. What’s going on?”
The person giving out the bags said, “Oh, those are just in case you throw up.” And you know, once we lifted off, many people did throw up. Thank God, I did not.
We flew to Nairobi and were given medical examinations just to be sure that everybody was healthy. For the last five years, as part of the immigration process, we had been given routine blood tests, physical tests, and interviews. This was to be our last set of tests.
Four days later, on August 15, 2006, we boarded a second plane, heading to the United States. The first stop was Chicago. Once we landed in Chicago, everybody had their own destination cities to go to. I didn’t know that we families were not going to live together.
As we walked through the terminal, going to our final boarding destinations, families began to disappear. I looked to my right, a family was gone. I looked to my left, another family gone. Walking, walking, walking, walking, walking. It seemed like people just disappeared. No one was even saying goodbye, because they probably didn’t know what was happening either. What’s going on? What’s happening to them? I thought this to myself. I didn’t say anything out loud because the only words I could say were “No English.”
We went to our terminal and boarded the plane to take us to Omaha, Nebraska. By now, we were just one single family, and we were terrified. Like, “What the heck happened to everybody?” Nobody told us what was going to happen today. We felt fear. We were so scared. When we
landed in Omaha, it was one a.m.
The city looked so beautiful. It was the first time we landed at nighttime and in an area where there were electric lights. Everything was so bright. The refugee resettlement agency that was to meet us was the Lutheran Family Services. Lacey and Jeff, who work for the agency, were waiting to greet us. Lacey was the first person to welcome us in Omaha. It was amazing.
I wish we had other Burundians to welcome us as well. But Lacey was there, and she was so good. She had already memorized our names, everybody’s. “Oh, Victoria. Hi, Justin. Hello, Balthazar. Dieudonné, welcome. Welcome. Welcome.”
We felt so good. We felt welcomed. Despite all the fear we had had, like, coming in and not knowing where everybody was going, and no English, we felt like we were home.
We drove down Dodge Street, one of Omaha’s main streets. The streets were wide, so big, and the buildings were tall. To someone coming from a refugee camp, a five-story building was big. Right? I looked up, and said, “New York?” And Lacey and Jeff just looked at me and laughed. In preparation for the move, I had seen pictures of New York in magazines and newspapers. When I saw such tall buildings in real life, I thought this meant New York. We drove to our first home, and that’s where everything really got started. Later, we learned that the Lutheran Family Services volunteers had spent months planning and setting up this house for us.
First, Lacey and Jeff showed us what a light switch does. Magic! Yeah, it was magic. They opened the refrigerator. Refrigerator? Then they showed us our microwave. What the heck? Microwave? What is this? We had never had such a thing in the refugee camp. As doctors for Médecins Sans Frontières, my sister and brother-in-law were used to all this stuff, but they were not up to the level of the technology that we had here in our very own home. In the refugee camp, the hospitals were run by generators. They only had basic things, like lights.
Lacey and Jeff had already prepared a meal for us. I don’t think they knew about Burundi cooking, because we were the first Burundi family here in Omaha. They prepared roast chicken. Chicken is very common good food in Burundi. I mean, everybody eats chicken, right? That was a smart choice.
In the refugee camp, the bathroom had been outside. Now it was inside. We had been told about these things but to see it . . . to see it . . . to be in it . . . amazing. We changed from getting our water outside the house to running water inside the house. Wait! You can have the hot water and the cold water come out from the same tube? How does that happen? Everything was just magical for us. We were like little kids all over again.
Lacey and Jeff did a very good job. The following weeks, they visited us on a regular basis. Probably they wanted to be sure that we hadn’t burned down the house. Really, though, they wanted to make sure that we’re doing okay. They tried to help us. We constantly put the wrong food in the refrigerator and left the right food out of the refrigerator. They would put everything where it belonged, and then we would rearrange it again.
Now my wife laughs at me when I tell her about this, because she’s from in the city, where they have running water and refrigerators. She was born and raised in Pointe-Noire, the Republic of the Congo.
It was way hard to relearn the whole societal structure. The society, the community, and the language were all new to us. It was like being born again. But we were old. We were being born old.
We connected to very good people. A lot of volunteers came to our house to show us where the market was, where the streets go, where the bus stop is, where the bus goes. We ate with them. We grew up Catholic. We had been baptized, gone through First Communion, all that stuff. They took us to their churches, and we worshipped together.
Six days after we arrived, school started. A volunteer took me to a high school where they tested me to determine which grade to start. I’m like, “No English! No English!” That was not the right answer.
Even though I was sixteen, even though I got the highest grade in the refugee camp, they put me back to the ninth grade. None of my secondary school time counted, because the refugee camp was on a different system, the French system. I spoke French well, but no English. The only thing I could handle was science. Science is the same wherever you go. I didn’t understand math because the terminology is different. The French system uses meters and kilometers, grams and kilograms. The American system uses yards, miles, ounces, and pounds. The American system didn’t make sense to me. I had to convert everything. I had to translate words. It took me longer than the other students to understand the lessons.
I was not angry about being left back. I mean, I didn’t know what to expect. The language was not there. The culture was not there. I did not know how things worked. I didn’t know the system. It felt normal for me to go back. I really kind of liked it because it gave me a chance to get a strong foundation.
The school they put me into had a program called ESL, English as a Second Language. I had a phenomenal teacher. Her name is Miss Gandel, Linda Gandel. She transforms students. Our classroom was diverse. We had Asians, South Americans, Africans, all in one class. We not only didn’t speak English; we didn’t speak each other’s languages. To communicate, we would point at things. It was chaotic. Somehow Miss Gandel worked through the chaos.
I met a young man from West Africa. Yannick, from Burkina Faso. He was the only other person in the school who spoke French. We bonded. He showed me the classrooms and hallways and offices. We became best friends. We are still best friends. We invite one another to each other’s parties and things like that. Miss Gandel became my friend too. She lives in the countryside, and I’ve visited her many times. For the last few years, she and her family have invited me to their Thanksgiving dinner.
For the entire first month, we were excited and happy. Then reality hit. We realized that we didn’t know anything. We couldn’t get from A to B alone. That’s when the uh-oh feeling came in. Wait! How we gonna do this? How we gonna do that? We can’t speak in English. We can’t ask questions. We didn’t know how to get to the market alone. And what happened to the people that we came with? We didn’t even know where they went, whether they are okay or whether they’re not okay. WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO HERE??? What the heck are we doing here? Anxiety crept into our bodies. We felt so lonely. We couldn’t talk to anyone, not even our neighbors. Everything was shockingly new. But we also realized that there was no going back. We may as well cope by learning and moving forward. And we did.
My sister and brother-in-law quickly learned that their medical experiences and their degrees didn’t transfer here. They could no longer work as doctors. My sister found a job as a maid in a hotel. My brother-in-law went to work in a meatpacking plant. They went to school at night to get their CNAs, Certified Nursing Assistant degrees. My brother-in-law Justin still works in a meatpacking plant so that my sister Victoria can continue school to become a full-time nurse.
There’s a ten-year difference between me and my brother Balthazar. He was too old to go to high school, so he went to the Job Corps to get a GED. Job Corps is for older kids to get schooled. Once he got his GED, he studied carpentry. He loved working as a carpenter, but it was not a year-round job. He found a second job, operating a machine that makes seed bags for farmers. He’s been doing that for years.
By the end of the first semester, I was communicating in English well enough to move to a regular English class. I was reading Shakespeare and stories like The Scarlet Letter. Although I didn’t really understand 90 percent of it, I was trying. By the end of the first year in regular English class, I was getting satisfactory grades and could move on to the next class. I’m still learning, even today. I run into a word that I don’t understand. Every day is a learning opportunity for me.
Many volunteers helped us. They came to the house with clothing and food. They invited us to their churches for worship. There was one church called Coram Deo. It was nondenominational, very new, started by a group of college students. They were all white Americans. They were part of the group who volunteered at Luthe
ran Family Services. Their pastor, his name is J.D. Senkbile, helped us get settled. I will never forget his generosity. He would come by to see how we were doing, drive us around so that we could become familiar with the city, drive us around during the holiday season to see the Christmas lights. Those were special moments that we will never forget. We agreed to visit his church even though we were already going to a Catholic church. For the first few months, when we went on our own to the Catholic church, no one noticed us. No one said, “Hello” or “Hi” or “You look confused” or “What’s your name?” We didn’t know the language. We stood when the congregation stood, and we sat when the congregation sat. Basically we understood what was happening because the hymns are the same — just in a different language.
When we went to J.D.’s church, it didn’t look like the beautiful cathedral that felt so heavenly. It was in the back of a coffee shop. There were only about fifteen white people drinking coffee. We were, like, jeez, what is this? People are so chill in this church; they are just kicking it with a coffee mug. They crossed their legs. They prayed with coffee mugs in their hands. We were, like, this is a church? We were confused. But as soon as we got into that group, we could feel their love and their enthusiasm. They wanted to know who we are, and where we came from.
More and more Burundians were immigrating to Omaha and wanted to know where to go to church. We told them about the church, and they started coming too. Eventually Balthazar reconnected with a girl we had known back in the refugee camp. She went to college at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. She had just graduated with a bachelor’s degree in human resources, minoring in marketing. They married and are living not far from us.