Kendra Rinas with Darfuri children: “April 2009, during my first mission to Abeche, the children initially were scared of my white skin, and would not come near me. After a few days of working with them and showing that I cared, they eventually became fascinated with me, and wanted to touch me at any chance they got, trying to rub my skin off and explore the texture of my hair.” Photo: CWS
Kendra Rinas, on staff with the CWS Resettlement Support Center (formerly Overseas Processing Entity) for sub-Saharan Africa, spent February to June 2009 in Chad helping prepare refugees’ case files for final review by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Then, in March 2010, CWS relocated her to Chad, where she leads the work to interview additional resettlement candidates and start their orientation to U.S. life. Here is some of her story:
February 2009:
I finally arrive in Chad, hot, dusty, insecure Chad, with daily temperatures over 120 degrees. So many new challenges to tackle: a French and Arabic speaking country, the logistics of getting equipment through customs, and watching out for the safety of my staff in a region the U.N. designates as “for emergency staff only.” Refugees from Darfur, Sudan, have been through some of the worst brutality imaginable. I am eager to hear their stories, understand their culture, and, I hope, help many of them begin anew in the United States.
April 2009:
I arrive in Abeche, the third largest “city” in Chad, with one paved road a.k.a. the airport runway, mostly servicing U.N. and NGO passengers, refugees who need emergency medical treatment, and army fighter planes to patrol the border area for security. Abeche is about 100 miles west of Chad’s border with Darfur, Sudan. The closest of the 12 refugee camps in Chad that host more than 260,000 Darfuri refugees is a four-hour drive away; the farthest, 12 hours.
After many too-late nights planning convoy movements and interview schedules, I wait in the Transit Center to see the first refugees arrive for their interviews. Tired from the long journey in what was for many their first time in a car, the women step out wrapped in layers of bright fabric – red, yellow, blue, pink – the cloth protecting their tall thin bodies from the heat and their faces from the blowing sand. The men wear long white single piece dresses and sandals. The children are miniature images of their parents.
Djouma and Halima Moussa Photo: Kendra Rinas
Two of the first Darfuris I interview are Djouma Moussa and his wife Halima. What happened haunts them each night. In 2003, men on horseback yielding machetes, guns and whips rode into town and set homes on fire. As people fled their burning homes, the Janjaweed fired guns and raped some women. Halima and three of her children were shot, leaving now 18-year-old Mohammed paralyzed and wheelchair-bound; Saadyia (17) shot in the hip and with a severe limp, and Awatif (12) shot in the ankle.
Neighbors helped the family get to Eastern Chad, where they spent weeks in the hospital before settling into the refugee camp. In late 2008 they were selected by the UNHCR to be considered for the U.S. Resettlement Program – just the start of a long process.
March 2010:
I move to Chad. I hope the excitement, challenge and opportunity to build up resettlement for the Darfuris will outweigh the loneliness, isolation and security risk of living in Chad. For now, the chance to be near the beautiful Darfuri is certainly worth it. I try to make regular trips to the Abeche Transit Center. Djouma and Halima are there, waiting for their 17-year-old daughter to give birth before they can travel. Each time I go I make a point of sitting with my Darfuri friends. I enter the compound. “Candra!” the children shout and they run to hug me. Today the children are fascinated to see the photos on my laptop computer of Sudanese living in America.
May 2010:
Saadiya gives birth to a beautiful, healthy girl. Now there are nine children for me to play with and learn from! Today I bring paper and pens on my visit. I give each child a pen, and write their names on a piece of paper. I show them how to hold the pen, and they copy their names.
Halima and a friend Mariam prepare cucumbers for an afternoon meal in the Abeche, Chad Transit Center. Photo: Kendra Rinas
All, from the three-year-old to the 17-year-old new mother, joyfully practice. “Candra!” they shout as they thrust in my lap their pen and paper with their name carefully written on it. “Salim!” Salim’s name is written well for a nine-year-old boy who has never attended school.
After our impromptu writing lesson, Halima calls me over. She is peeling the largest cucumbers I have ever seen in my life, looking more like watermelons than cucumbers. She chops them into a large bowl, then grinds hot pepper and salt in a large mortar and pestle to pour over the chopped cucumbers. I am invited to sit under the shade of the mango tree on their mat, eating the delicious sweet and spicy dish with the other women of the family. We laugh as I attempt to explain how much smaller the cucumbers will be in America.
November 2010:
I travel to the United States for the holidays with my family. I am not sure if when I return to Chad my Darfuri friends will have left, or whether I will ever see them again.
January 2011:
They are booked to travel! Not only that, I am still in the United States and able to meet them at JFK Airport. I anxiously watch the arrivals board. Then coming toward me, a group of 11 beautifully dressed Darfuri. I start crying and hugging them – they have finally made it! After hours of immigration procedures, we finally make our way to the connecting flight to Syracuse, N.Y. The babies get passed around to keep them occupied. Eight-year-old Said takes three identical U.S. Airways magazines and turns through each page. Pointing to every white girl, he smiles at me and says “Candra!” He points to the black men. “Me!”
We land, exit and find staff of InterFaith Works of Central New York, the joint CWS-Episcopal Migration Ministries agency assigned to help the family, an EMM case, adjust to life in America. They present all 11 family members with warm winter coats, hats, gloves.
Several of Djouma and Halima’s children and grandchildren upon arrival to the U.S. Photo: Kendra Rinas
It seems like a convoy of cars is needed to get all of us to the house. Everyone presses their faces to the windows, “America! Big!” We enter the house. Several volunteers from InterFaith Works and from Eastern Hills Bible Church (Manilus, N.Y.), the family’s congregational cosponsor, welcome us. The children are shown their rooms. Each child has his or her own bed, and on each bed is a box of school supplies and toys. The women in the family are eager to learn how to use the stove, as they no longer will need to fetch firewood or cook on coals. More volunteers from the local church arrive with half a dozen bags of groceries, taking into consideration what foods a Darfuri might like: bread, milk, apples, rice, beef.
I return the following morning with InterFaith Works caseworkers. Several family members have their winter coats on, their bodies still in shock from the cold, snowy Syracuse weather. We discuss the basics: Children should not be left alone as in Darfur and Chad, where the community cares for everyone’s children. Eat three times a day. Washing is important. How to call 911. Attend English classes. We learn the family arrived with just one or two changes of clothes for each person, along with prayer beads and traditional cloth. Three girls feel awkward wearing shoes, but quickly realize it is too cold for sandals.
Fatna, 14 and Awatif, 12, already start asking if they can go to school. Despite all the fears Darfuri have expressed to me about moving to America, most of the fears subside when they hear how education in America is free for all children, even girls.
Later that day it is time for me to leave my friends and head back to Chad. I am touched at seeing this family welcomed by so many people in America. I am sad to leave them after working with them for 21 months, but feel blessed that I have gotten to follow their journey this far, and know that as they continue theirs.