Features

David and Katie Hoang mug for the camera with friend Zander Guldbrandsen.

Paulo Mongkuier was a teenager tending cattle in his village in southern Sudan when war erupted in 1983. Arab Muslims from the north swept through the villages of the largely black Christian south, burning and killing, and capturing children to sell into slavery. Mongkuier and his family fled into the surrounding countryside, then moved north to live as refugees in the city of Khartoum.

In the following years, Mongkuier, who originally spoke only his native Dinka, managed to become fluent in Arabic. He attended high school, then college, where he studied chemistry and biology. He taught school to other refugees and worked as a volunteer catechist in the Catholic church. Constantly harassed by government officials, he frequently received death threats. At one point, he was held by government security forces. For 20 days, he was tortured and badly beaten. When he was released, Mongkuier knew he was lucky to be alive. Another friend, a priest, was beaten until he was paralyzed. Many died of abuse.

Finally, in 2000, Mongkuier left Sudan with his new wife, Victoria Yak. He took only a few valuable possessions, including his high school diploma and a letter of recommendation from his parish priest. They made their way to Cairo and began the wait—three long years—for their refugee emigration paperwork. Mongkuier and Yak, along with his teenage nephew, are now settled in Manchester, N.H., with their new baby daughter. They no longer fear for their lives. For this they are unspeakably grateful. But they endure a new kind of hardship now, the pain of separation from their loved ones. They know it will be many years—if ever—before they see their families again.

"I just completely admire them," says Emelia Smallidge '04, an anthropology major who drives to Manchester twice a week to tutor Sudanese refugees. Yak and Mongkuier, her most enthusiastic students, have become friends as well. "In anthropology classes, you learn there are all sorts of different people in this world," says Smallidge. "And you know people have a lot of hardships. But when you're sitting with a woman, teaching her English, and she starts crying because she's just had a baby and her mom isn't here—you start thinking, 'My God, what if I were in her situation?' She had to pick up and move without anything. I can't even imagine it."

Smallidge is working on a thesis that examines the challenges faced by refugees and new immigrants. Her findings will contribute to Glick Schiller's data on immigrant life. "The students are part of what makes this research so great," says Glick Schiller. "They really blossom. Emelia's a different person now. She's more confident, she's interacting with her studies in a whole new way, She's tackled a difficult situation and is making a difference in people's lives."

Helping hand: Above, Glick Schiller and Helene Muyumbu kibbitz.

Smallidge visits Mongkuier and Yak in their tiny, sparsely furnished apartment next to a laundry. She sits down next to Yak, who opens her latest notebook of words. "They're usually things like 'fabulous,' 'incredible,' 'sale'—words she copies from television advertisements," says Smallidge. "We practice these and I help correct her pronunciation." Whenever Smallidge teaches her a new word, Yak writes it carefully in English. Then, underneath, from right to left, she adds the Arabic translation. "She must have about 15 notebooks by now," says Smallidge.

While his wife studies English and cares for the baby, Mongkuier works the night shift at a meat-packing plant, trying to bring in enough money to cover expenses. (The imminent closing of the plant means he must find a new job.) But in the midst of this life of starting over, he is determined not to lose sight of his plans for the future, his hopes to return to his studies and, ultimately, to enter a nurses training program.

Immigrants like Mongkuier often lose years to hardship and readjustment. Many never return to their former lives as teachers, architects, doctors, lawyers. Maintaining their sense of identity and self-worth in a new country where they are known only as factory workers can be a challenge. "This is one of the primary motivations for transnationalism," says Glick Schiller, "to stay connected with people who know who you are."

The UNH research team is driven by the same goal: that better understanding the complex lives of immigrants can encourage greater awareness of who these people really are.

"Most of my friends don't get it," says Smallidge. "They say, 'How can you spend so much time in Manchester?'" The research requires tremendous patience, it's true. But some of its rewards, Smallidge has learned, are immediate. These days, when she leaves after her visits, she gets a warm embrace. "God will bless you," Mongkuier says to her. "And remember, my house is always your home." ~

Their Own Cause

Glick Schiller and members of CORAJ: back row, Kaitlin Leary '04, Brian Donohue '06, Jimmy Ryan '07; front row, Chelsea Mukon '05, Glick Schiller and Kelli Swazey '05.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. When Hubert Wetemwami and Helene Muyumbu escaped the chaos of the Congo in September 2002, the plan was to find jobs and save money as fast as possible in order to fly their seven children over to join them. But by the time they had settled in Manchester, N.H., and located a lawyer, the couple discovered that the children's visa eligibility had expired. Plus, saving the $20,000 needed for airfare seems an impossible task:half of their $300-per-week salaries helps to support their children in the Congo; the rest is needed for their own living expenses.

When Kelli Swazey '05 met the couple for the first time, she saw an opportunity to help. Swazey found a lawyer to take the case pro bono. She began tutoring them in English. And recently, she started a student group, the Committee for Rights and Justice (CORAJ, pronounced "courage") to organize help for the family. "They are always thanking me for all that I have done for them," says Swazey. "But my contribution is miniscule in the face of the things they have taught me."

Swazey gets no academic credit for her efforts. What she does get is a crash course in human rights, the field in which she hopes to work. The anthropology and international affairs major was introduced to the couple by anthropology professor Nina Glick Schiller. "Nina instills a sense that there's a world out there and it's your responsibility to find out and do something about it. There's a social responsibility inherent in what she teaches."

When CORAJ met in mid-November, seven students came to report on their progress: articles for local papers, fund-raising efforts and petitions. "It was a highlight of my semester," says Glick Schiller, the group's advisor. "The students took up this cause as their own."

The students also expressed shock at what they had learned about the situation in the Congo: the arms trade, the politics behind the war. Most UNH students, Swazey points out, are walking around with a piece of the Congo in their pockets. Coltan, used in cell phones, is one of the resources that has sparked the ruthless fighting in the country.

One challenge of teaching anthropology, Glick Schiller says, is helping students deal with what they're learning. "You tell them about all these awful things going on in the world and they get demoralized. They ask 'What can we do?' Well, here's this committee and they're doing something."

For more about CORAJ, e-mail coraj_unh@hotmail.com.

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