By Blake Gilmore

My last two weeks have largely consisted of introductions. From greeting staff members throughout the building to meeting the other (amazingly ambitious) interns, my memory often fails me in recalling names- and foreign pronunciations make it more difficult!  There is one name I haven’t had trouble with, however: Elizabeth.  It’s an easy name to recall, not only because it’s easy to say, but because it belongs to such a dynamic human being. 

As I anxiously waited to be assigned someone to teach in my first English class, I heard a voice resonating across the room.  “Ey, what’s your name?  You new?  I’m Elizabeth,” summoned a woman sitting at a desk, her gold outfit contrasting with her rich ebony skin.   She motioned for me to sit, eagerly informing me she left Liberia four years ago with her daughter.  “I was married to king of village,” she affirmed, mouth running like a cheetah’s, “He have seven otha’ wives, but I no care.  I am the first wife, so I get food first!”  Though I don’t catch everything she says, it’s impossible not to be engaged in her narrative.  In a somewhat awkward gesture, she then lifted up her shirt and pulled a beautiful necklace from beneath her belly.  Staring adoringly at the rainbow assortment of beads on a string, she told me this is what her husband gave her when he proposed.

Luckily, noting Elizabeth and my quick companionship, the director of the English tutoring classes paired us together.  Elizabeth had already answered the daily questions while the other clients were still copying from the chalkboard.  “Today is Monday,” she exclaimed as I looked over her work, “Today is sunny!”  She danced around in her chair, clearly proud of her correct answers.  She struggled as we read the Level 2 Day 5 passage, continually mispronouncing passeenyahs (passengers) and pardame (paramedics).  Instead of getting frustrated when I correct her, however, she lets out an infectious laugh. 

While other students filed out immediately after the bell, Elizabeth stayed to tell me why she left Liberia. “The poor men no like the rich men.  There was big fight over dahn-mo,” she stated.  Dahn-mo?  My curiosity piqued, I researched recent Liberian conflicts at home.  Her comments about “danh-mo” suddenly made sense, as Liberia’s former president was involved in the illegal diamond trade.  The country’s second war, a conflict between various rebel groups and the Liberian government, surged from 1999-2003.  Thousands of Liberians narrowly escaped the volatility engulfing their nation.

Elizabeth’s optimism in spite of all she’s been through inspires me.  In fact, I might create a photo-documentary share her story!  I will certainly never forget her. 

Another guest post from Ashley Mace:

As today is World Refugee Day, I logged onto my computer to find some uplifting statistics about the effects of our efforts to resettle victims of overseas conflict and oppression. The statistics on solely refugee aid seemed a bit inconsistent so I stuck with general foreign aid statistics. Laudatory claims that the U.S. is the leading donor of monetary assistance could be found on many websites, as we donate a whopping $12,900,000,000 to general foreign aid initiatives. We comprehensively blew other countries like Great Britain (we send $8 billion more) out of the water. The next closest donor gives $3.5 billion less.  I thought, “Way to go, America! You rock! What a great example of benevolence for the other stingy countries.”  And then reality struck… 

One web site I stumbled upon opened my eyes by putting this statistic into perspective. As you scroll down the page the U.S. drops to LAST PLACE in a comparison of ten internationally respected countries when the foreign aid is a function of our GDP (gross domestic product).

Norway, a country that certainly does not carry the international clout that we do, offers fully 6.5 times more than we do. An average citizen in Norway gives $390.39 annually while an average American gives $43.22. Who is the stingy country now?  

In this entry I don’t mean to confuse with statistics and lingo, but I want to highlight the fact that although we claim superpower status, our immense power has not been met with an equivalent generosity towards others. To me it seems absurd that we should give so little when we have been blessed with so much. No clear solution exists to rectify the situation but we could begin by urging our representatives to support expansion of our assistance. 

With great power comes great responsibility, and accordingly we need to be more responsive to the interests of other countries with much more immediate dangers than we experience here in America.

Against All Odds is a refugee simulation game created by the UNHCR. You can play it here: http://www.playagainstallodds.com/. Today is World Refugee Day, so tell someone you know to play the game and learn about the refugee situation world wide.

Our intern, Blake, played it recently, and here’s her reflection.

A fully armed officer shoves a paper and pen before me.  “Do you give up the right to vote?”  NO, I mark.  I value my democratic rights, thank you very much.  A massive fist bludgeons my face, staining my paper crimson.  “Is homosexuality a crime?”  I check NO again.  Wasn’t gay marriage just deemed legal in California?  More blood.  Alright, perhaps there’s a pattern here.  “I promise to never spread information forbidden by the government.”  Yes?  Phew.  No reward, but no violent upswing, either.  Interrogated further, I agree to renounce my faith, discontinue speaking in my native tongue, and assert the police have treated me well. 

Okay, so this isn’t technically happening to me, per se.  I’m playing Against All Odds, a virtual reality game created by UNHCR to mimic what life’s like for refugees.  Though my artificial entity receives the blows, my physical self’s emotions are fully engrossed. It’s just a computer game, I try to remind myself, though it’s hard not to internalize events on the screen.In the next scenario, I haphazardly flee with only a few belongings.  Despite successfully crossing the border, I make dire sacrifices.  When my best friend neglects to bring his identification along, for instance, I’m forced to decide between getting caught at the checkpoint or leaving him behind.  I find myself in a philosophical conundrum.  Is one’s life the same without friends?  For the sake of strategy, I choose to abandon my comrade, but I don’t know what I’d do if this were real.             

Eventually I arrive at an intake center where an interpreter helps me adjust.  Surely, things will be easier from here, I think.  Wrong.  I’m humiliated in trying to determine my new classmates’ social cues, told I’m improperly dressed at my first job interview, and consistently overhear complaints about immigrants.  Even my neighbors slam doors in my face, claiming they didn’t take chances with foreigners.  So much for a warm American welcome…              

I sit and stare at the screen for a moment after the game ends, thinking about the awful decisions I had to make to survive and the harsh reality of prejudice.  I sincerely hope I’m never put in a similar situation.  Real life generally isn’t as merciful as computer game designers allow. 

This post begins a weekly issue-related blog submission by our Advocacy Intern, Erin Schmidt. Erin is a graduate student at Webster University. 

For the 1^st time in more than 15 years, it is looking as though peace in the small African nation of Burundi is possible. The gunfire has stopped, areas that have been closed for many years are now open and the people of Burundi are beginning to really think that peace is possible. The ongoing civil war in the region appears to be ending. The cease-fire agreement that was signed in late May 2008 is remaining intact, and the last of the rebel groups has agreed to come to the negotiating table. All the rebel leaders are currently assembled in the capital of Bujumbura.

 

Burundi, a country of 8.7 million people, has seen its civil overshadowed by conflicts in the Congo and Rwanda.  The conflict in Burundi had been brewing for years but it boiled over in 1993 when there was a coup by mostly Tutsi army officers who assassinated the country’s first Hutu president. The coup led to open warfare and over 200,000 people were killed with countless other being victims of violent acts. Despite election held in 2005, where the Burundians chose a Hutu government, the National Liberation Forces continued to fight and inflict violence (see Burundi and Rebels Break Impasse  for more information).

 

The next step in the peace process will involve the continued holding of the cease fire along with getting the remaining rebel fighters to disarm and integrate into the Burundian National Army. The number of rebel troops remaining is said to be 3,000 according the government and 15,000 is the number given from the rebel groups, many of the young fighters often wonder what exactly they are fighting over anyway. There have been failed peace agreements before but this time many are thinking that peace in the region is actually becoming a possibility.

The International Institute currently assists recent refugees from Burundi. If you would like more information on the crisis in

Burundi or for information on how you can help please access any of the following sites:

  http://www.theirc.org/?gclid=CLn5gP_g-ZMCFRghnAodGDW3Ww

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/country_profiles/1068873.stm 

http://www.state.gov/r/pa/ei/bgn/2821.htm

http://globalpolicy.igc.org/security/sanction/indexbur.htm          Information taken from UN Wire Article from the NY Times on 16 June 2008

Today’s blog post is by Intern Blake Gilmore. Blake is a student at Brentwood High School.

It’s the morning of my first internship. My father guides our Infiniti SUV as it circles the International Institute. Peering into the passenger mirror, I begin to apply the last coat of my mascara when the vehicle comes to a screeching halt. The wand scrapes an inky black line onto my upper eyelid. “Dad! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to stop? I need to set a good impression,” I exclaim, though I recognize this is probably what I deserve for applying makeup in the car. Mildly annoyed, I say goodbye and resolve to remove the mess in a bathroom before anyone sees me. Too late. A man unlocks the glass door just as I reach it, giving me a peculiar look.           

After some feverish cleaning, I set out to explore the Institute with twenty minutes to spare. It’s a bit reminiscent of an airport, actually. Perhaps this is symbolic. The airy main hall is replete with ethnic decorations, from a cabinet filled with ornate dolls in traditional dress to massive photographs from around the world. I make my way towards the lobby and sit. A woman exits a classroom fully enwrapped in a tan burqa. Her stark brown eyes are the only parts she reveals. Suddenly, I’m fully conscious of my bare knees peeking out beneath my blue dress.  Kate Howell, the volunteer coordinator, cheerfully greets me shortly thereafter. She’s wearing a dress, too, albeit the fabric continues a few inches farther than mine. She leads me behind the welcome desk which we’ll be staffing until the man who usually works there returns. Non-profit employees must be versatile. I listen as she gives me more information on the Institute and the vast assortment of services they offer. They completely care for refugees, delivering them from their country of refuge, picking them up at the airport, and ameliorating every aspect of their lives to help them succeed.           

By 8:45, a smattering of cultures converges within the lobby. Various dialects merge, rising and falling in an indecipherable clamor. A small Burmese (or perhaps Bhutanese?) boy, dark eyes darting around the unusual environment, pulls on the pink satin fabric of his mother’s dress, chiming its embroidered gold trinkets. Muttering something in broken English, the mother sashays to the front of the welcome desk. All I interpret from her utterance is “I… class.  Okay?” Somehow Kate knows exactly what she’s trying to convey, handing the woman two red square passes. There are only a few basic accents to learn, Kate explains. Once you have these down, communication is infinitely easier. She makes it sound almost simple!  Then a woman who appears to be African shuffles over. “Hello,” I say. She nods and beams a warm, Maya-Angelou-esque smile. The withered lines of her face speak of the tribulations she’s endured. I look at her dress, wondering if she knows what its repeating phrase means. Then an epiphany: she doesn’t care about dress pattern, nor does she concern herself with dress length!  And this woman has triumphed in battles far greater than fighting with a mascara wand. This woman–like each of these immigrants and refugees–is just thankful this organization is here to help her assimilate.             

Considering the adventures within my first hour at the Institute, I can’t wait to discover what my next eight weeks will bring.   

This week we start a news series of posts from guest bloggers who are new volunteers and interns at the International Institute. Over the summer you will be hearing about their adventures and reflections on their work with the immigrants and refugees of the IISTL. We hope you’ll stay tuned.

Today’s post comes to us from Ashley Mace, who is a rising Senior at Lafayette High School. 

Making the journey from my humble middle-class abode to the International Institute not only serves as a time for me to listen to Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits but also as a journey into the most fascinating part of my week. It begins with a turn out of my subdivision filled with cookie-cutter houses, lawns of meticulously cut grass, and children playing with the latest and greatest of toys. I drive a bit further then enter onto the highway overflowing with expensive new cars passing each other, racing in agitation to get to work on time. Finally I see that glorious exit for Grand Blvd. and I turn down the volume on “Piano Man” just to take in the sights and the atmosphere. Although I’ve just eaten my breakfast for the day I can’t help but wish it was lunchtime as I drive past a few ethnic food markets and the Kabob restaurant I have been setting my sights on for a couple of weeks. And alas, here I am, at the intersection of all corners of the earth, entirely separate from our normal busy and materialistic culture, at the International Institute. 

Coming from the suburbs, my idea of diversity unfortunately consisted of ordering takeout Chinese on a Friday night. Then I enter into this entirely new world where people of all nations, backgrounds and walks of life congregate in their native dress to take an English class or secure a loan on their new small business. It is the perfect blend of honoring heritage but looking forward to new life in this great country of opportunity. These people have experienced things my peers and I cannot even begin to imagine from war to starvation to poverty, usually in the refugee camp that kept them from an even harsher life. You can see the pain in some eyes but often behind that dim shadow lays a different thing, a much greater thing. Behind that shadow lays hope for the future and for a new life.

The phenomenal staff at the Institute has a heart that beats for these clients and for making their transition to life in America easier. Many of them come from similar backgrounds in countries of conflict and actually made use of the services they now offer. It’s no wonder they came back to work here; this center is a truly integral part of the

St. Louis community that continues to shift and mold our city to be representative of the entire world instead of merely our Western ideals. Some people may be scared of change but I am convinced that international diversity of this kind will teach us about others and push our community to become more informed and cohesive. To this purpose and vision I will continue to make the trek out to the most interesting, crazy, and ambitious center of its kind, the International Institute.