The unskilled, third-world refugee must find within himself a knack for patience. Life would be unbearable without it. In the camps, there is little to do. There is seldom electric light in the dirt-floored, tin-roof shack he and his family are provided, and so they wait for sundown and rest, and sunrise and food. They wait for reprieve, for resettlement. When years pass without change, they wait for the end of time.
For the Lamungu family, people of the loathed and preyed upon Bantu tribe of Somalia, it was 12 years of flight and waiting, squatting on their heels in the shade of an acacia, or thorn tree, before despair descended upon them, hitting the man of the house, Hassan, especially hard.
Hassan, who is 42 years old, looked after his mother, Kadija, 61, his wife, Nurto, 38, and his children: Halima, 16; Arbai, 14; Mohamed, 9; Amina, 6; Shamsi, 4; and Abdulwahad, 2. The four youngest children were born in the camps. The older two girls were born in their village, Manamofa, in southwest Somalia. There, the parents were married, in a year they cannot recall, although the ceremony is still vivid to them. This is Hassan’s recollection, filtered through an interpreter: “Her father and my father go together and sign the contract. After they sign the contract, then they make daytime lunch. They slaughter cows and goats, and everybody eats and everybody becomes happy. The groom’s family gives to the bride’s family a month of sheep and goats and some money, if we have some. Then at nighttime we sing and dance, and then we are married. Then the bride and the groom go home.” Hassan smiled at that last part, and Nurto covered her blush with her hand.
In Manamofa, Hassan, a one-eyed farmer (his right eye was shuttered by a childhood disease that he can describe only as “like chicken pox”), tended livestock, and grew maize, tomatoes, plantain and whatever else he could coax from the soil. To those unaccustomed to a humid heat that breaks on the cheek like a tear, or days so ablaze the back of a wristwatch could raise a blister, the life would appear unbearably hard. But the Bantu of Manamofa had known so much persecution that, left to farm for themselves, they were serene.
The Bantu’s roots are in Mozambique and Tanzania. Outnumbered by other tribes, they have risen scarcely a rung since their days as slaves a century ago. In Somalia, they have ever been a minority ethnic group, second-, third-, in some minds even fourth-class citizens. They have been excluded from education, the idea being to keep them as menials, the word “slave” having passed out of fashion. Even physically they stand apart from the Somali majority, who, given their Arabic bloodline, tend to be identifiable by their thinner lips and aquiline noses. Think Iman, the high-fashion model. The Somali majority has been known to refer to sub-Saharan Africans like the Bantu, who have kinkier hair than their oppressors and a nose that is broader and flatter, as “tight hairs” and “fat noses.”
The Somali civil war in the early 1990s brought an anarchic horde down upon the Bantu. Hassan, speaking again through an interpreter: “Militiamen from two tribes come to the village. A lot of guns. They come through our house. They break down the door with the bullets of their guns. They robbed us. They took the maize, the barley, the wheat. No, they did not harm us.”
The family fled on foot to Kismayu, the market town a three-day walk away on the Indian Ocean, where they had always taken their crops after the harvest. This was in 1991. Hassan: “We walked only in the nighttime because in the daytime the militia will see you and shoot you.” On the coast, Hassan got a $1-a-day job helping the warlords fence their loot. The militia had torn out most of the wiring in the country, and Hassan would cut the cables, especially the copper, into pieces more manageable for sale or transport. After paying him for a day’s labor, the militia would hold him up on his way home. He soon learned to get himself quickly to the town market and to hide his money inside the belly of a stinky fish or some vital organ of a goat.
Then, for 14 nights, Hassan and his family walked along the coast to the Kenyan border. They joined a long, dusty line of refugees. They carried only corn, water and sugar. As they stepped over the corpses of those who didn’t make it, they became afraid they themselves would die. Four refugee camps later, they were still alive. They stayed in one, Marafa, near Malindi, in Kenya, for three years, beginning in 1992. At the request of Kenyan officials, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees closed the camp. But the Bantu refused to leave. Denied food and water, they hung on for three months. Then the Kenyans burned their tents.
The Lamungus’ story does not lift up from the unrelievably grim until May 2003. They had learned in 2001 they had a shot at resettlement in America. They were then among thousands in the Kakuma camp in Kenya. The cold war was done, and the State Department had turned its eyes from Soviet and Vietnamese refugees to the displaced millions in Africa. From 1991 to 2001, the number of African refugees let into the United States leapt from under 5 percent of the total number of refugees to nearly 30 percent. Hassan got himself to the head of the line and commenced the processing.
Hassan: “I become happy. Some people in the refugee camp get money from relatives in America. They send money. I was dreaming about this life—being the people in America who send back money.” The wait lengthened beyond a year. What had happened was the September 11 attacks. Before 9/11, the State Department had intended to resettle as many as 12,000 Somali Bantu to new homes in the United States. But all of a sudden Somalia and Kenya were seen as breeding grounds for terrorists. The red tape for getting into the States became longer than the security lines at American airports. “We lose hope,” says Hassan. “We become depressed. We forget about America. This is just illusion. We become tired morally. This is just a lie.”