Newspaper Page Text
Entering the Would of Political refugees
■ ■■he dining hall was alive with conver-
[ sation and laughter. This would be
my second visit to the Tuesday night
I common meal at Jubilee Partners. Don
Mosley had informed me that two members of
a Liberian family had returned to visit, and
would be good candidates for an interview.
They had recently moved to Atlanta (generally,
refugees stay at Jubilee for two months, after
which a placement is found for them, usually
in the Atlanta area). Their reason for return
became obvious in the course of the interview.
Most of those present were volunteers
and staff, including permanent residents. The
mood I picked up on that night, and which I
have invariably sensed when at Jubilee, was
of a serenity mixed with mirth and kindness.
Such ways of being strike me as coming from
another time and place, possibly monas
tic, though no one would mistake the
crowd for an austere, religious order.
They were having too much fun.
Among the diners, comfortably
conversing at a table, sat Samuel and
Kartee Johnson. Introductions were
made. With his open, blazing yellow
shirt, bright eyes and carefully ringed
curls, Samuel seemed a shining young
man of the tropics. Kartee, wearing a
shirt of earth tones with ropey white
embroidery, had on a necklace of
wooden beads, in the center of which
hung a white shell. Not knowing their
origin, one might as easily conclude
that they were young African Americans.
They both greeted me in a friendly man
ner, yet I sensed a certain guardedness
that I inferred must come from years of
insecurity, and a part of me felt profane,
as a stranger, sitting down to talk to
these survivors of unspeakable woes.
Though the camps were established as a ref
uge from the ravages of war, the Guinean army
itself treated the refugees as enemies, mis
treating, and in many cases, killing defense
less women and children there.
It was in the camps, in 2000, that rob
bers broke into their living quarters, stabbing
one brother in the stomach and beating their
mother so badly she never recovered. She died
in 2006.
Kartee recalled life in the camp. "When
I stayed in the camp, it was like being in a
forest," he said. "There was wildlife and stuff
like that. They had scorpions. It's not some
thing you'd want to be playing around with.
You'd just lay down in a small bed, not a bed
but a mat. You'd just try to spend the night
there..."
When I came to the U.S., it was really hard
for me because I was afraid. I didn't know the
people would be nice, because first of all, I
moved from my country to escape war, then I
moved to another country and it was worse.
So, I was afraid at first."
Among the formalities upon entering this
country, one notable irony for these young
men was being pressed to register for the
draft. Samuel explained that he and his
brother were told they could "get better jobs"
if they signed these documents. Though I did
not press the issue, this part of the interview
has haunted me. After the horrors to which
they were subjected, the prospect of possible
enlistment seems unthinkable. Yet other males
their age in this country have the same reality
to face.
than they were with recounting the horrors
that they experienced. Kartee was intent upon
making a difference in the lives of others. "I
do feel that I have some part to play in the
future in some people's lives. Things happen,
of course, but if you can overcome it, it's a
good example to show to other people that
they can do it. I feel that God is calling me to
do something."
I looked with Kartee at a newsletter that
showed him and his siblings (three brothers
and two sisters) together having a blast at the
pond at Jubilee. "Right now in the U.S., this
is the family that is here, and we have other
family members, but since '98 we haven't seen
them," he said. I asked him who was missing.
"A sister and a brother and my dad and grand
parents," he replied. He has no idea where
his father might be, and continues to
search for him. I asked him how his
family got separated. "It was because
of the civil war. Nobody knows which
direction they took. When we escaped
from the war we were in a neighbor
ing country. We put in a notice that
we were looking for our parents. We
have spent eight years without getting
a response. And we will still continue
searching."
Samuel and Kartee Johnson, seen here on Stone Mountain with their sisters, fled civil war in Liberia and left behind life in
refugee camps in Guinea on their way to America and to Jubilee Partners.
n 1989, Liberia was a bad place to
be. The country was in a state of civil
war. President Samuel Doe, his own
reign the result of a coup, had survived
a failed coup attempt against him, and
in its aftermath faced an uprising from
the Gio and Mano tribes, rising in arms
against governmental abuses. The insur-
gence was led by Charles C. Taylor, an
elite like Doe, who had been groomed
for rule through high-level affiliations in the
country. Over the next seven years, 200,000
would die and a million would be displaced.
Samuel and Kartee's father would disappear
during this time, and their mother and siblings
would flee to neighboring Guinea. Though the
family is Liberian, the majority of their lives
has been spent as refugees.
The two young men were open to talking.
Details of carnage and suffering, unfortu
nately the stuff of typical media fare, were not
uppermost on their minds; more salient and
life-giving were thoughts of their new home,
new friends and passions, such as school and
soccer. And who could blame them for fac
ing toward the future? They had lived most
of their lives in refugee camps, had come to
Jubilee in a state of literal deliverance from
evil. What most interested them was using
their experiences to help others achieve a
sense of hope and positivity in life. No small
part of these sentiments was fueled by deep
religious feeling.
In fleeing Liberia, the family ended up in a
situation the young men described as worse.
Kartee and Samuel, fraternal twins now
18 years old, had fled Liberia with their fam
ily in the late 1990s. They learned in early
2007 they were eligible to come to the United
States. Samuel reported that at the time of
their leaving Guinea, "there was a strike going
on; they wanted change." He continued, "As a
refugee, you don't have any rights. They were
looking for refugees; they were blaming them
for the problems; they wanted to get rid of
them. Life was very hard. One morning you
wake up and you don't have anything, only
your clothes. So life was very hard."
I was amazed at the maturity and com
posure o f this young man. Soft-spoken and
thoughtful, he recounted his family history
like a philosopher. Yet everything about the
experiences he related evoked a hell more raw
than most Americans will ever know.
"We thought we were saved when we
crossed the border from Liberia to Guinea,
but it was worse," Samuel said. "We were beat
up all the time by a group of military, but
we kept faith in God and prayed a lot; and
we have survived today because of our faith.
Samuel and Kartee both draw from a deep
religiosity, their resilience a far greater tes
tament to faith than the barrages of ersatz
born-agains ranting through amped-up media
outlets often seen in this country. And their
faith in Jubilee is just as real. Said Samuel
of the community, "I was very happy because
God answered our prayers and took us from
the hell of war in Africa to the paradise of our
life at Jubilee." But this paradise, as for other
refugees arriving at Jubilee, could only be
revisited, not retained. The next stop for the
Johnsons was Avondale Estates, in Atlanta.
Housing had been provided for them, but con
ditions were far from secure, prompting memo
ries of earlier troubles. "It was hard for us.
The police were always around. The [refugee
resettlement agency] was the one in charge of
housing. They found the apartment. They saw
it wasn't going good so we decided to talk to
them about a better place. The place we're in
now is much better. It's more secure."
In the course of the interview, I realized
that Kartee and Samuel were much more con
cerned with the possibilities of their new lives
amuel was drawn into the con
versation when it came to bear
again upon his home country. We
had been talking about what it was
like during their last days in Liberia.
He recounted the scenes of tragedy all
around him, of children on a path that
he had, amazingly, been able to avoid.
"There were child soldiers. They give
them drugs, they give them guns, and
they do not recognize their parents. So,
that was very sad," he said. He went on
to express his belief in how blessed we
are in this country not to have these
problems, but also said that he feared
there being so many guns in U.S. cities,
citing some events on the news that
made him think of war again. (Among
the brothers' spiritual qualities, I real
ized, is pacifism.) Recounting the case
of an armed elderly African-American
woman in Atlanta who was shot to
death by police, Samuel's summation was that
"he who lives by the gun, dies by the gun."
In addition to acknowledging his mother's
role through years of hand-to-mouth existence
as a source of spiritual strength and stabil
ity for the family, Samuel made clear to me
that he was also acutely aware of the slender
strand of good luck that attended his family's
rescue from the miseries of refugee life in
Africa, and the central role of Jubilee Partners,
which acted in their behalf as sponsors.
"Jubilee has been a lifesaver for me, because
everything started here," Samuel said. "If it
wasn't for Jubilee, I don't think I could be in
this country. They taught us how life goes.
They taught us that if you are meant to do
something with your life, you can do it. I had
courage before, but they reinforced my cour
age. I owe Jubilee a lot, and like I always say,
I consider it to be my one home."
Edmund J. Smith
To be concluded with the stories of an ethnic-minority
Karen refugee from Myanmar.
NEWS & FEATURES I CALENDAR I MOVIES I A&E I MUSIC I COMICS & ADVICE I CLASSIFIEDS
8 FLAGP0LE.COM • MAY 14,2008