Photo by Dave Allen

“The wonderful thing about the Somalis is they’re very assertive. They’re very proud. They will do well here, assimilating."

Imagine you are walking in the dark, a dark so pitch that looking down you can’t see your own body. You are carrying a bowl of water in your hands. You’re unsure of the ground beneath your feet, of the road ahead of you; you must keep walking. This recurrent dream was called to mind when Abdullahi I. Aidid described Somali life in San Diego.

“We’re worried about the ability of the women to get hired wearing their veils. That may impede employment."

Photo by Dave Allen

“It’s like walking in the dark,” he said. Then the interview was over, and he left the International Resettlement Committee office. He lit a cigarette at the curb, watched for a space in the traffic on 30th Street, crossed over to his bus stop. The bus would take him back to East San Diego and the largest Somali community in the United States.

How many Somalis live here now is unknown; the figure used by the International Resettlement Committee, the organization responsible for bringing them here, is 1000. Some say the population’s closer to 2000. Abdullahi I. Aidid suggested 1500. They all live in East San Diego. They attend the Mid-City Adult Education Center next to Colina Park, Crawford High, or Mann Middle School, Marshall or Clay Elementary Schools. Their lives are bounded by the crowded apartment buildings between Euclid Avenue and 54th Street longitudinally, the latitudes of El Cajon Boulevard and University Avenue. The center of many of their lives, however, is the 50th Street mosque. Unlike other refugees we’ve received, Somalis come from an officially Moslem state. Many of them strictly observe the tenets of Islam.

Gretchen Bitterlin: “No other center has Somali students except ours,” she continued. About a hundred new Somali students have been arriving each month."

Photo by Dave Allen

These are the phrases Somalis use when discussing recent events in their country: “When things fell apart” and “When things got out of hand.” It is a way of distancing themselves from the horrors of civil chaos, one supposes, much as a molest victim might refer obliquely to “what happened.” The wounds are fresh in their minds. They do not want to talk about home. They do not want to talk about themselves. In fact, they do not want to talk about anything.

“Channel 39 came," the Mid-City Adult Ed Center’s Gretchen Bitterlin told me. “Abdi Duh, our Somali aide, wasn’t here. I went to all the advanced students I could find. I know they were advanced speakers. They could communicate if they wanted to. I couldn’t get one person to speak on camera. Not one. The women ran from the room. They’re very private. They’re very protective of each other. They don’t want to say anything to the public that will be considered representative of the community.”

It was the last day of the semester at Mid-City Adult Education Center. At two o’clock, immigrants from 30 countries (more variety than at any other

Abdullahi Aidid, Abdullahi Hussen, and Cindy Jensen. "Maybe six to eight people in a two-bedroom apartment. When people get that close to each other..."

Photo by Dave Allen

center in the city) began receiving their English language certificates. “They’re fantastic students,” enthuses Bitterlin. “They’re very motivated. They’re wonderful participants in the classrooms.

“No other center has Somali students except ours,” she continued. About a hundred new Somali students have been arriving each month; in December, there were 40. “We were quite impacted. It was the beginning of fall ’92. Our program was full anyway. It was a whole new influx that really hit us. We weren’t quite ready for it. Mostly because we didn’t have any preparation or cultural orientation on Somalis as a group of people. We got together this big meeting, had a Somali worker from IRC speak to us. They’re coming from different situations. Those that lived in the cities and are older had the benefit of some » education. They’re very well-educated, even know some English, depending on whether they’re from the British part of Somalia or the Italian part of Somalia.” Before 1967, Somalia was controlled by those two colonial powers. “Those who come from the rural areas have no education. They have very low literacy skills. They’ve been coming into our lower-level classes.” Instruction is given in English only. Classes are set up by level of language proficiency — any language.

As part of the Community College District, Mid-City’s funding is based on average daily attendance. Budget cuts last year necessitated an enrollment freeze. When the Somalis arrived — many of them not speaking a word of English and anxious to start classes immediately — some of them were placed on waiting lists. “The unfortunate thing was they didn’t understand that. For a while they thought they were being discriminated against, because they weren’t allowed in.”

The center’s hallways had the musty, urine-tinged odor of public buildings. On a bulletin board in one corridor was pinned an essay by a Somali man, an homage of love and sadness to his country. For a while, Bitterlin said, there was another story next to it on the board. It mysteriously disappeared. Bitterlin knows some Somalis found it objectionable, but she doesn’t know why.

Peeking in the classrooms, small, colorful tents drew the eye: Somali women, heads and shoulders covered by hijab. The garment makes them instantly identifiable as observant Muslims. In one room, there was a row of hijabs in turquoise cotton, pale blue cotton edged with embroidered flowers, sheer black rayon figured with gold paisleys, and red satin jacquard with deco swirls. Thus framed, the women’s serene and symmetrical faces habitually wear an expression of catlike aplomb. It’s the expression of a woman who knows she is noticed and has learned not to care.

Gretchen Bitterlin agreed the visual effect was remarkable. “We’re worried about the ability of the women to get hired wearing their veils. That may impede employment. There may be other customs that would interfere as well. We’ll have to have orientations on that down the road. I'm convinced that eventually they’ll set up their own businesses. I can see them working for each other or being self-employed. A lot of the women are very interested in sewing classes.” The center offers classes in office skills, job training, housekeeping for hotels and convalescent hospitals. “They’re trying to get into sewing, maybe with the idea that they could do some work at home. They’re very cautious, protective of their children. They don’t want other people taking care of their children. I can’t imagine them leaving their children in child-care centers.”

A teacher, once a student here herself, called out names. “Nguyen Nguyen!” She held a certificate out to a frail creature in pink. Other students clapped and repeated the name, giggling. Another name was called; a dark shrouded figure, a Somali woman, rose. Even her mouth was modestly covered by a square of black cloth. She walked forward and extended a small hand to her teacher, and gave her hand a vigorous shake.

“Because they’re very strict Moslems, we have to be careful that we don’t pair the women up with men of other cultures. Sometimes we ask students to shake hands with each other. Well, you don’t ask Somali women to shake hands with any male.” Any male does not touch a Somali woman. Bitterlin mentioned a story, later confirmed by a source at Crawford High. At that school, a boy trying to get a Somali girl’s attention by touching her on the arm received a slap across the face for his pains. It became quite an incident. “We try to be sensitive to those issues, because if we aren’t, they won’t come to school. If you offend someone, they’re not going to come.”

The handing out of certificates was nearly over, students flooded the halls. A Somali woman waved her certificate in a Somali man’s face. “Wan-handred-sixty hours!” She taunted him. “You have 59 hours! Ha ha!” They walked away together, laughing. A secretary, a Hispanic woman, watched from down the hall. It was an unusual moment of male-female intimacy, for Somalis. Somali women stand behind the men and let the men do the talking, the secretary noted.

“When a group initially arrives, they tend to be very religious,” Ms. Bitterlin said. “The ones that have been here longer have Westernized a little bit." But the process is long and slow. “They pray five times a day. This became an issue. They were finding empty spaces in the school and praying there. In a couple of situations there was a conflict over the use of the space. The Somalis thought they should have a room for praying. Teachers thought they should be working in there. It came up in our meeting. We tried to explain the separation of church and state. I don’t think we got the point across. To them it’s not a matter of church and state; it’s a way of life.

“It’s a very sensitive issue. It wasn’t resolved — well, it was to a degree. We talked to them about it. We had our Somali aide translate and try to explain, but he was criticized by the community for not representing them correctly. He was more moderate in his views. Part of the procedure before praying is washing their feet in the sinks. That was another problem. This was going on in the restrooms, creating water on the floor. It was not received well by other students of other nationalities. They didn’t like that going on. We asked them if they could possibly wash their feet at home instead. We finally had to give out letters from the school, translated into Somali, saying that washing feet in the bathrooms cannot be allowed because of health and sanitary reasons, so if you’re seen doing that you’ll be asked to leave the school. I haven’t heard of any problems since. They may have decided to pray at home. I don’t know where they pray now. When they pray at noon, it’s after morning classes and before afternoon classes, so we haven’t had a problem with that. It could be because it’s winter now. They have to pray at sundown. During summer it got dark in the middle of our classes, so they would leave their classes to go pray around the school. For the moment, it gets dark before evening classes begin. The course of nature has temporarily solved our problem.

“With the Southeast Asians, touching on the head is very insulting, humiliating. I think it’s because that’s where the soul resides, or it’s the closest part of a person to God. Or to point with the finger, because that’s what you do to animals in Asian cultures. So we had to train all the teachers. Every group comes in with habits and customs that we need to talk about. Sometimes it’s spitting in the street, or spitting in the drinking fountains, behaviors that are fine in their own countries but not acceptable here.”

“The wonderful thing about the Somalis is they’re very assertive. They’re very proud,” continued Bitterlin. “They will do well here, assimilating. We’re all very confident of that because of their strength of mind. You can’t stereotype any group, but everyone here has observed that they’re very assertive." Perhaps the Somali people’s remarkable bearing comes from simple body pride. They are a people of excessive physical beauty. The men are tall and slender, the women short and curvy. They have large round eyes, often catted at the outer tip, long, slender noses, full mouths, high cheekbones. Their arms and hands flutter expressively. Their skins are smooth and unmarked and can be golden or the dark, rich brown of brown of teak.

Class out, students sauntered in twos and threes across the center’s asphalt parking lot, a parking lot ringed by Vietnamese-owned and operated businesses, a testament to earlier immigrant success. Along 52nd Street, a Zairian girl, hips snugly saronged, walked with a Somali girl in a bright blue and black hijab.

Driving west along Orange Avenue, one bisects the heart of San Diego’s most ethnically mixed neighborhood. The apartment buildings are run down, the pavement’s cracked, but business areas that looked shabby 15 years ago are thriving. Lighted signs offer goods in Vietnamese, Korean, and Arabic scripts.

A number of relief agencies and organizations brought these refugees here. In the case of most groups, it’s a task they share between them. In the case of the Somalis, the International Rescue Committee alone is responsible. A couple of miles west, the IRC is quartered in a small North Park storefront. In its one room, partitions are hung with posters appealing for donations. Workers hunch over busy telephones at their desks. Cindy Jensen, flanked by two men she called Abdullah and Abdullahi, led me to a conference cubicle in the back of the room.

“First off, the IRC provides relief services overseas for refugees that may or may not ever come to the U.S.,” Jensen said. “It’s funded by individuals, corporations, unions, foundations, human rights groups. Headquarters is in New York. We’re headed by a voluntary board whose members include civil rights activists, doctors, Liv Ullman, Henry Kissinger."

Commissions are assembled to assess situations around the world. They report to Congress. Currently, almost 11 percent of the IRC’s programs and services are located in Africa. The Somalis first came to the IRC’s attention during its activities on the Kenya border. The organization has since moved further into Somalia. “We focus on sanitation, medical services, education. We establish those services that are needed to take care of life-threatening needs,” said Jensen. “Once those things get stabilized, we move on to providing the necessities to continue life. Then we sort of back out.”

The IRC’s resettlement program is run from 13 offices around the United States. “Those people that get admitted to the U.S. as refugees, some of them are assigned to IRC. Most of these are family unification cases. The way they would get assigned is that relatives of the refugees already living here would come to this office and apply for their relative. A case begins. It could be a year or even longer.” Approval must be obtained from an immigration officer. “In some cases with the Indochinese, we waited up to four or five years. With the Somalis, the average wait has been about a year." Occasionally, there is no stateside family member to request it. For Abdullah — his full name is Abdullahi Abdi Hussen — and Abdullahi — Abdullahi I. Aidid — military connections qualified them to apply for asylum.

I was confused about their names. The men explained that as a people still dominated by a nomadic way of life, Somalis have had no use for last names. It is an African tradition to learn one’s lineage orally. The Somali language wasn’t even written until 1972. A man’s first name is his given name. His second name is his father’s. His third name is his grandfather’s. “All the way back to the name of the tribe,” Abdullahi Hussen said. “It can be 20, 40 names. Generally, you are known by your first three names. But names can be so similar you have to add a fourth name.” A woman takes her father’s names, then her husband’s.

“In Islam,” Abdullahi Aidid added, “a person’s names will be written on his grave. But at that time, a person will be known by his mother’s name.”

“Usually at the funeral,” said Mr. Hussen, “it is a tradition to have to recite some Holy Koran, some verses. And then they ask God for forgiveness, and then they’re gonna say, for example, ‘Abdullahi, the son of the mother —’ so they gonna tell their mother’s name. The religion says, only the mother knows...” He smiled. “I mean, the father doesn’t, so to be absolutely clear...”

How did such a large community spring up here?

“Some people started living there," Mr. Hussen said matter-of-factly. “When they bring their people over, they want to be close to them so they can give them transportation, for their shopping or whatever, and whatever other help they need. Everybody is kind of trapped with each other. That’s why they all live there.” No one, he said, gets out of East San Diego much.

“ ‘Why San Diego?’ That’s a question we get a lot,” said Abdullahi Aidid.

“There are two main reasons,” Abdullahi Hussen continued. “One is the weather. The weather is perfect. Just like home. The beach, palm trees, the hot sun and everything. The other reason is the relatives. The relatives who sponsor others are here.”

Abdullahi Hussen came to the United States as a military trainee and stayed as an “asylee” — a person granted asylum — rather than as a refugee. (“The asylee,” Jensen explained, “is a person inside the United States who does not want to return home. A refugee applies for entry from outside the country.”) “I decided to stay here because at the time, my country was falling apart,” said Mr. Hussen. “After one year I came to San Diego.” He had no relatives here. After the country collapsed, his wife and son went to a military camp. They joined him here last March.

“In my case,” said Abdullahi Aidid, “I was sent to a school here for Army and Air Force. I went to school at different bases. When things got out of hand at home, anybody and everybody — military, civil servants, businessmen, who opposed or talked against Siad Barre’s regime — would either go to jail or get killed. My last school was in Mississippi, Kissler Air Force Base. Siad Barre was a dictator. He was getting more highhanded every day. By 1988, anybody who even talks against him, or his plans, or his connections, would go to jail or get killed. So I decided not to go back because I wouldn’t be safe over there. After school, I came to San Diego. I had a friend who was here. I wanted to go to D.C. until I found out it was very cold.”

We all laughed knowingly.

“I decided to go to either Florida or here. 1 happened to have a friend here, so 1 came to San Diego."

“By the time I was seeking my asylum, it was August ’89,” Mr. Hussen said. “By January ’90, everything was falling apart.”

“We were both officers,” Mr. Aidid continued. “He was a pilot, he flew MiG-21s. I was an avionics engineer.”

“When you are in a situation like this,” continued Hussen, “you have to put everything behind. You don’t want to stay all in your past.” “We were both trained in the Soviet Union, four years,” Mr. Aidid said. “I was trained in Egypt and in Soviet Union.”

“I was trained three years in the Soviet Union,” Hussen corrected, “and twice in the United States. First time I came here was in 1984, and everything was kind of safe back home, so I went back. Then they sent me back here again.”

Mr. Aidid speaks Arabic, Russian, English, Somali, Amharic — the language of Ethiopia. “I was originally from Ethiopia, a disputed area. There is an area between Somalia and Ethiopia which has always been in trouble. By culture, tradition, and language they're Somali but by boundary Ethiopian. Ever since I can remember there were wars in that area, so we would go back and forth. I went to part of high school in Ethiopia. The wars were more, so I came to Somalia. I stayed since then. My parents lived back in Ethiopia; my sisters, brothers, other relatives in Somalia. There’s not so much difference in culture, language, tradition.”

Mr. Hussen was also born in the disputed region, moving further into Somalia at age four.

“Since then I’m from the South. I consider myself from the South, especially from the capital of Somalia, Mogadishu. I went to school in Mogadishu. When I finished high school 1 went to the Soviet Union. Somalia had a very good relation with the Soviet Union during that time. Then when Somalia and Ethiopia had a fight in 1977, Somalia broke with the Soviet Union and then become friends with the United States. From one rich friend to another. That’s why East Africa has such good armaments, and agricultural, educational, hospitals — because of the superpowers.”

Both men have lived in San Diego for four years. Abdullahi Aidid has “done a lot of odd jobs here and there. Now, I’m a teacher’s aide at a high school, working with Somalis.” He also does volunteer work at the IRC. Abdullahi Hussen, who is employed by the IRC, initially followed “the African Man’s Ladder to Success" — a lot attendant for Ace Parking, a cab driver, a hotel housekeeper.

“The advantages, I would say, are that one gets a lot of help from the existing community,” said Abdullahi Hussen. “They live together. They babysit for each other. They depend on each other for transportation. The other thing is that area is close to all the schools. But also, it’s a very small area, and everyone lives close together. So it has its problems."

“It has its problems,” echoed Abdullahi Aidid. The men shot each other a look.

Hussen continued. “They live close to each other in apartments, so it’s kind of congested. Maybe six to eight people in a two-bedroom apartment. When people get that close to each other..."

“Cabin fever!” said Abdullahi Aidid. “Especially when some of them have small kids. When they are not at school, there are no playgrounds. Kids get into trouble. Sometimes you hear so much noise!”

Cindy Jensen was eager to point out this is common to refugee life. At first, new arrivals collect around one neighborhood, because it lends support. This can also be a disadvantage. “Too much support and they don’t integrate into the community as quickly. You might think you don’t have to learn to speak English because you’re only dealing with other Somalis. They remain separate from the American community, so they don’t force themselves to learn to understand English or to acculturate.”

“When it is starting it is very good,” agreed Mr. Hussen. “When people are coming here they are very anxious. They are coming full of fear for the unknown. They don’t know this society or how things work, how the living is, the culture and traditions for this country. If you just drop into such a society, you don't know what’s right and what’s wrong, what’s accepted and what’s not. It’s good if someone can tell them the whole story, the tradition and culture, what they’re expected to do, and how to perceive what the welfare system is. For the first two, three, four months, everybody could help them out for their shopping, which store is cheaper, how to get a car, where you can buy what is very good for the price. But when it comes to the point when those people arc stuck in that place, that’s when it comes to be a disadvantage. But always there’s going to be a Little Somalia. Those people who don’t sec and who don’t change.”

Somalis eat goat meat, milk, beef, vegetables, pastas, rice, and foods made from corn and sorghum. The food is not so different from Ethiopian cuisine, which has become familiar to San Diegans. Mr. Aidid considered: “One thing that’s close between the two is ingera."This is a round, spongy bread, made of a grain called tes, which is used to pick up other foods and mop up sauce. “But our ingera is smaller and softer,” Mr. Aidid said slyly. Mr. Aidid and Mr. Hussen cast each other another look and laughed very loudly.

Obtaining ingredients for cooking traditional dishes has not been especially difficult, the men said. “The ladies do a lot of shopping around.” The exception is spices. “They are to be found in Oriental markets.” Clothing for observant Muslim women is harder to obtain. “Usually they get the fabric from overseas. Already some places on the East Coast and in Canada, where there are large communities, they have shops. Sometimes they send out from here.”

Immigrants have historically done well in small businesses here. They tend to take up the occupations that others of their background have succeeded in. San Diego is dotted with Chaldean grocery stores, Vietnamese restaurants, Cambodian doughnut shops. The idea amused Mr. Hussen and Mr. Aidid, but they could not suggest a Somali profession. As yet, they are too new to be associated with a business. A lot of them don’t even have jobs.

“This is a fairly new community all around," said Cindy Jensen. “We have Armenians coming in too, but they’re coming into a well-established Armenian community that’s been here for years and years and years. The Somalis coming now are falling right on top of other Somalis who just got here. They haven’t had time to go through school, to get established in professions."

What makes these Somalis unique among immigrants to San Diego is their strong Islamic belief. This could become a source of conflict, as Gretchen Bitterlin can attest. Cindy Jensen bristled at the thought. “You’re confusing the religion with the fact that it makes them visible. We had Southeast Asians come who were just as strict Buddhists, but they didn’t dress in a way that made them stand out.”

“Islam is relatively new to Somalia," Abdul-lahi Hussen broke in calmly. “When things fall apart, people have a tendency to turn to religion. So most of the people who adopted strict religious practices did so after the capital fell and there was no law and order. There always were a few people who were strictly religious, but not so many. Somalia was co-education all along. We had women in the military, women in the government, working in the offices, everywhere. But now, in the last two, three years, more people turn to religion. When you turn to religion, especially women, you dress that way. By coming here, I don’t think it could cause serious problems except that most Americans don't know how to deal with Muslims. So in that sense, with the hesitation in what to say and would they be offended, that could cause a lot of inconvenience.

“When it comes to the clothes, it’s only the women who stand out. With the male, you can’t tell whether he is strict or if he practices his religion or not. He has very normal or casual clothes. For the Somali female, when she’s devoted to her religion, she is wearing a hijab, and that could cause a little bit of distance from people.” Mr. Hussen pointed out that hijab is an Arabic word.

“No one will hire such a dressed lady. So far, that’s the issue. They’re trying to preserve their culture and do the right thing in their religion. But there’s no way that they can find a job that is allowing them to wear that. Even if they could find a job, it would be very menial. How things will happen in the future I don’t know. They have to do something about it. Some ladies are trying to go out and find work in factories. I don’t know if they will let them dress like that. It could be dangerous working with machines. But if they can sit there quietly doing some assembly thing, maybe that would work.

“Plus,” Mr. Hussen continued, “usually by nature, people don’t want to be noticed as belonging to part of an ethnic group. If you see a Somali woman you say, ‘Oh, Somali people,’ you know. Every time, even coming to the bus. Probably they're going to get a bigger space on the bus because they’re wearing one of these!” He gestured to show the girth of a Somali woman in her flowing garments. Again he and Mr. Aidid exchanged a meaningful look and chuckled. “But such clothing also shows everyone that these are religious ladies, and they will try to respect them.”

Abdullahi Aidid interjected, “Actually, the way some Somali people dress right now, it’s simply being fanatical. It’s not the only proper dress for Muslims to wear.”

To address this issue, more moderate members of the San Diego community invited a speaker down from a Somali community in Canada. “Those in the community who understand both sides of the situation have tried to address this issue,” Cindy Jensen emphasized. “The visitor from Canada explained aboqt the history of the religion. He said the dress wasn't totally necessary. They could wear long sleeves and pants and sort of a baggy shirt, which is kind of in vogue now anyway.

“Over time,” she concluded, “this will adjust itself out.”

Abdullahi Hussen was not through with his point. “In some Arab countries they have a more relaxed way of dress. And in Pakistan, Afghanistan, a kind of big shirt is worn. She can be covered but still kind of relaxed. That way she can still be religious and still get a job.”

“One other problem, too,” Abdullahi Aidid said, “is that religion is a sensitive subject.” I had the feeling he was talking to me. “So if you talk to people about religion, they tend not to understand that you’re educating them or telling them something which is good for them. Their first instinct is just to say no to everything. They think, ‘You have been here longer, and you have lost your faith. You have adopted an American way of life.’ ”

In fact, community efforts to come together and hold meetings to discuss such issues are “still very controversial,” Mr. Aidid admitted. (Gretchen Bitterlin had mentioned a community meeting held recently at the Colina Park Recreation Center, attended by some 400 persons, for the purpose of ironing out this sort of thing.) “The committee to solve these kind of things is still new. For some people, it is still controversial to say, how is the best way to get into the mainstream of the United States? We are unsure of the whole thing. Some are saying, no matter what, we are proud of our own country and tradition and religion, and we don’t want to lose any of it whatsoever. And they should let us do our best and still keep our own things.”

Mr. Hussen said that back in 1988 there were only seven or eight Somalis in San Diego. “Sometime in ’90, we put together a group and just named ourselves the Somali community. But we were so small there was no necessity to form a community, because, I mean, there was nobody. So now that they came in large numbers, in a short time things got out of hand. We are trying to put things together right now. Forming a community to educate them, talk to them about these things. But we have not succeeded yet.”

On February 20, a conference on the Somalis will be held at Crawford High for the purpose of educating the non-Somali public. The daylong event will include a “Somali workshop,” and experts from various universities will talk about Somali history and culture. “We’ll talk about education, health, crime, everything,” Mr. Hussen said.

For the moment, such points of intersection between Somalis and Americans are fraught with confusion. “Similarly to when the Indochinese first arrived,” said Cindy Jensen, “there was no medical assistance with a knowledge of them. I remember taking someone to a hospital; the medical personnel had no idea even where Vietnam was, who are these people, how are they getting here, what status they’re coming in under. The schools had no translators or resource materials to help them deal with the people coming. Same thing is happening with the Somalis.”

Abdullahi Aidid’s employment at Crawford High, and that of another Somali aide at Joh> Marshall Elementary, are the first signs of a gen -eral response to Somali needs. (Schools can’t hire a language-specific assistant teacher until a certain number of students require it.) UCSD has asked the IRC to present an orientation on Somalis, as have Marshall and Clay elementaries, Mann Middle School, and Crawford High.

“The whole thing is new,” Abdullahi Hussen reiterated. “Somali people go to hospital, have a baby, it’s much harder for them. But it’s beginning. Children go to school, both the man and the female go to school, too.”

Cindy Jensen nodded and took the floor. “The biggest concern, both for the assistance agencies and the Somalis, is employment. Getting people in so they can have jobs, support their families.” All refugees entering this country legally are assigned to an agency such as the IRC. Their initial resettlement needs are thus assured. Children are immunized and enrolled in school, people are directed towards health services. Prior to a refugee’s arrival, the IRC works with the “anchor relative,” the new arrival's sponsoring relative, to find appropriate housing “in the right place on the right block, not next to so-and-so,” and to pick up the new arrival at the airport. “We get the gas and electric turned on, the furniture delivered. Once they get here, we help them apply for social security and every other thing they need,” Cindy Jensen said.

There are other sizeable Somali communities in Seattle, Washington, D.C., Minnesota, South Dakota, New York, Boston, and Miami. “In Minnesota and South Dakota, usually it's young people,” she said. “Those communities came out of San Diego. They couldn't find work here, so they went to look for jobs.”

According to Mr. Aidid, the problem is that “Somalis are used to a state of government where the government owns everything. Health care, everything. So, they’re used to depending on the government. It’s very hard to educate them on the way of life here.”

At first, refugees are taken care of through the welfare system. Years ago, during the massive influx of Indochinese, the government decided that the only structure capable of distributing cash to such large numbers of people in an organized way was the welfare system. Refugees used to be fully funded for three years; that’s dwindled down to eight months. Because of the strict time frame, refugees have come to see it as an entitlement program. The thinking is, Jensen explained, “I get eight months. Leave me alone, don’t talk to me about jobs until I get my eight months.” The other problem Jensen sees is that people are being oriented about the United States using the welfare system as an example. “A lot of us grew up with the idea that the last thing we’d ever do would be take money from welfare. So how do you translate that to a new arrival and at the same time introduce them to the welfare system as their source of money? It’s difficult to say, ‘This is not the way of life. This is not the way it should be. But here it is, you’ve got to view this as a temporary situation until you can get yourself off.’ ”

“Exactly,” Mr. Hussen chimed in. “Not only that, but the Somali way of how the family works is very much different from the welfare system. In the Somali way, the man always has to go out, get the food and clothes and everything, for the whole family. No matter what, he has to feed his own family. When they came here, they’re sitting around, watching TV, doing nothing. The check will come — to the mother, usually, in this country. The husband will work less or not at all. All his dignity and honor would be thrown away.

That’s a lot of times where the problem starts. That’s why a lot of times a family’s husband will move away to South Dakota or Minnesota, in order to find a job. What they’re brought up to do is work for their families, and now it’s just handouts.”

Mr. Aidid broke in. “That’s what causes a lot of separations. All their lives they’ve worked and provided for their families, and all of a sudden they’re here. They can’t do anything. They can’t get a job. It’s very hard for a Somali man to feel, ‘Yeah. You’re worthless. You can’t do anything.' It kind of...hurts. The way he grew up, the man is the head of the family, he provides for everybody. All of a sudden he has to be provided for. It hurts. Especially, it hurts emotionally. And there’s no way out. There’s nowhere for them to go, there’s no established community for them to depend on, there’s no agencies available to help them. We must bring the community together, to educate them about the system. But it’s a lot of work, and it will take a long time. So it’s like finding your way in the dark.”