The precious lost

I sat on the floor at Sitey's house, shuffling through immigration documents. As I filled out the state's required forms, I tried to make small talk with someone who doesn't speak much English.

I first met Sitey about two years ago, not long after she had arrived in the U.S. She was isolated on every level--linguistically, socially, and geographically. The other Bantu lived on the far, opposite side of the city. Most speak Maay-Maay or Kizigua, and socially speaking, the community functions as a collective unit.

As a Mazagway speaker, Sitey is in the minority even in this obscure Somali Bantu ethnic group. She is someone's second wife, a fact that came to light when she gave birth to a son a year after her resettlement. She will not say who the man is; the Bantu are afraid to admit their polygamy believing they will be arrested, even though these marriages are unofficial by American legal definitions. Still, human services would like to know so the fathers can be held fiscally liable for supporting their children.

Sitey is quiet. She is what is commonly known as a tough cookie. She has seen unbelievably horrible things. She has struggled to survive, to adapt, and to depend on no one except for herself. The other Bantu call her "crazy." In fact, she is stubborn and independent, even when she was almost catatonically depressed. In a culture where collective consciousness is more fact than fiction, Sitey is an anomaly and as a result, seriously misunderstood.

After five minutes on the floor, I realized my butt was wet. When I said as much, Sitey said, "Wet? Oh!" We both started to chuckle as we realized her one-year-old had left a puddle on the woven floor mat. Sitey shrugged her shoulders, and I wiggled to adjust my position. There's a reason all of my clothes are machine washable.

"Sitey, you have six children, yes?" Sitey leveled an expressionless gaze at me and said, simply, "No. Seven. Five here."

I waited for more. The living room was dark, blinds and curtains drawn against the sunny afternoon. Instead of traditional furniture, Sitey's living room was furnished in the style most familiar to her: A mattress on the floor, straw mats, and a small, tattered loveseat for the American visitors. I decided against the loveseat. If I am going to talk to someone about her life, a life that most certainly has seen trauma and loss, I prefer to share the floor.

"Sitey, tell me about your two children who are not here."

Sitey's two youngest sons rolled onto the mattress. Sitey reached back and pulled a coverlet over each boy and rubbed the baby's back as he drifted off to sleep. She looked back at me and said, "Kenya."

"Your kids are in Kenya? Why didn't they come to America?"

I could see that Sitey was weighing her words. With minimal English, the complicated story to come was going to require some advance planning. She tried to explain.

Sitey told me that when her village and home were attacked, she grabbed her youngest kids and everyone scattered. There was shooting--Somali soldiers, soldiers of fortune, were making their way through the Bantu villages, brutally raping, killing, burning, and torturing. Sitey ran for her life, assuming her family would meet up in the fields.

She was wrong. Sitey made it to Nairobi, then Tanzania, then back to Kenya. She moved from city to city, hoping to locate her children at an IOM, UN, or Red Cross facility. Eventually, she was forced to enter a camp, and although it felt like giving up on her kids, she checked into Dadaab as a UNHCR-sanctioned Refugee.

After three years in Dadaab, Sitey was moved, along with the entire Somali Bantu population, to Kakuma. Kakuma is an enormous, hot, dusty refugee camp in northern Kenya. Originally built to shelter Sudan's Lost Boys, the camp has been annexed several times to accommodate an ever-burgeoning influx of African refugees. A special section was built just for the Bantu.

Once Sitey and her four kids were housed in Kakuma, she set out to ask for help finding her missing eldest children. She said, "I see. They Kakuma, orphanage section. Not Kakuma Two. Not Kakuma Three. Kakuma--original--orphanage section. My two kid. I want they with me, but UN, State Department say 'No!'"

I asked why her kids couldn't be with her. She sighed a deep, deep sigh of frustration and fatigue. She explained and told me a heartbreaking story I have heard far too many times in my work. By the time Sitey found her children, all of her immigration and refugee resettlement paperwork had been filed, signed, sealed, and delivered. Once the petition goes through, the State Department does not allow amendments. Sitey was left with the troubling reality of having to leave behind the two children she had traveled all over central Africa trying to find. This left her with only one option--to petition for family reunification when she was on American soil, a prospect that is uncertain at best, and usually extremely protracted under successful circumstances.

Sitey's concern now was the mail. She can't read or write, but she understands what mail is and she knows that she hasn't received anything important in a very long time. She said she used to get mail from INS, but the letters have stopped. She doesn't know if that means that the petition has stopped, too, or if there is a problem with her mail, or if nothing is happening. She is frustrated and sad and I cannot help her. That makes me feel frustrated and sad, too.

Her youngest son stirred on the mattress and murmured. Sitey reached over, and softly clucked her tongue. She rubbed his back and pulled up the coverlet. Her face softened for the briefest moment as she rested her hand on her son's belly. Sitey's eyes found their way back to me.

I asked, "Sitey, how old are your children in Kakuma?" She didn't hesitate. "Now, 14 and 17." Then, silence as Sitey looked at her bare feet. We both knew what this meant. When her oldest child turns 18, Sitey can longer petition for reunification as a parent. The process will have to start from zero, and her son will have to petition for refugee resettlement as an adult individual. Except, right now, UNHCR and the State Department have shifted their focus, and the Bantu have slipped far down the list for transfer, no longer a priority in the politically-charged process of resettlement.

I wrapped up my interview with Sitey. She smiled. It was the first time I had ever seen her smile. She thanked me and thanked me for what assistance I was able to give her, assigning a teacher to help her with language and literacy. She reached over and shook my hand in the manner of a person who has been taught this gesture, something done for my benefit. It was awkward and heartfelt. I squeezed her hand and wished her good luck. I wished I had more, so much more, help to offer.