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ubert Wetemwami will never forget the machete. It came through the early-morning darkness, a lethal shadow, swinging at his head, his abdomen, his groin. With his bare hands, Wetemwami tried to shield himself from the blows. His wife, hiding under the bed with the children, clamped her hands over the mouths of the youngest ones to stifle their cries. When the invaders had beaten Wetem-wami unconscious, they finally left.

Today, the former human rights worker tells the story of his native Congo, where the saga of violence continues, to anyone who will listen. Wetemwami now lives in Manchester, N.H., where he can walk the streets safely. He studies English, labors at a factory job, and comforts his wife, who weeps often. But he cannot hug his children, who remain in the Congo, living with their elderly grandmother. For more than a year, Wetemwami and his wife, Helene Muyumbu, have had only telephone communication with their seven children, all under the age of 18. They are never certain of their safety. "The pain of separation," says Wetemwami , "is indescribable."

As he and his wife work to adjust to their new life, they have only one goal: to reunite their family. Other immigrants and refugees have similar stories. They flee gunfire, corrupt governments, poverty. They seek safety, security and jobs. In the process, families are torn apart and beloved homelands are left behind. Those who embark on new lives in new countries are the lucky ones. But the transition is difficult, a bittersweet mix of challenge and opportunity.

About 1 million immigrants settled in the United States in 2002, as well as a smaller number of refugees (1.3 million between 1988 and 2001). At first, they speak little if any English. They have few belongings or resources. But families overseas are depending on them. Most find jobs, work hard, send money home. Many become U.S. citizens. But ties to their native land, the place they were born, remain strong. They stand firmly in two worlds.

"We assume you can have only one kind of identity, one kind of loyalty, but people don't work that way," says Nina Glick Schiller, UNH professor of anthropology, who together with Thad Guldbrandsen, a UNH research assistant professor, recently received a $100,000 John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation grant to study immigrant settlement and the phenomenon of transnationalism, which is essentially a simultaneous commitment to two countries.

Credited as one of the scholars who coined the term "transnationalism," Glick Schiller has given anthropologists a new way of looking at the world. "She is a leading figure in this approach to thinking about relocation across the globe," says Burt Feintuch, director of the UNH Center for the Humanities, which provided funding to Glick Schiller for a preliminary study.

The long-term results of their work, the UNH team believes, could help encourage public policies that support immigration and refugee resettlement. Even now, though, in the relatively early stages of their research, their theories have profound implications for the larger global community. "Transnational networks are holding up the world," says Glick Schiller, citing countries like Mexico, India, El Salvador and Haiti as dependent on remittances sent from families in the United States. Millions of people send money home to help feed and clothe families, provide medical care, build houses and schools, send children to college.

"If these networks of remittances were cut off, the level of human misery in the world would be drastically increased," she says. And that could have a direct impact on a much larger problem: "The causes of terrorism are desperation and hopelessness. People feel they have nothing to lose. Remittances provide hope."

In this post-9/11 landscape of fear and suspicion, the assertion that immigrants are good for global and national security is bold and thought-provoking. "We're at a crossroads in American history," says Guldbrandsen. "We have the capacity to make the world a very difficult and very mean place. Or we have the opportunity to be a bit more enlightened and go a different route." At the very least, he says, that route should be based on accurate information about how immigrants live their lives. Gathering this data can be a painstaking undertaking. But for scholars like Glick Schiller and Guldbrandsen, this work is more than an academic endeavor, it is a calling, an opportunity to give voice to people whose life stories might otherwise never be told.

In the home of Nhat Chi Anh, just above the dining room table, a worn cotton shirt is displayed on the wall. More than a piece of clothing, it is a piece of art and a statement. Across the front, carefully lettered, is a short poem in Vietnamese--rough translation: "Hate will send you to hell." A cluster of silk flowers spills from the front pocket. The man who placed this shirt on the wall in his Manchester, N.H., home is not a collector of contemporary art. He is a Vietnamese immigrant. The shirt is his own. He wore it during his five years in a North Vietnamese prison camp following the Vietnam War. It was a bad time. He was often hungry and ill. More than once he was on the verge of death. Today the shirt he wore during his ordeal is a daily reminder that is both sobering and hopeful, a warning and a testament to the possibility of redemption.

The shirt, though, tells only part of Nhat's story, which also includes a wife and two college-age children, extended family in Vietnam, a factory job, a love of fishing, and a passion for rare orchids, which he once grew with great care in Vietnam. Today, he has little opportunity for hobbies. Nearly all of his free time is devoted to accumulating overtime at work, so that he can help to support his extended family in Vietnam.

"I've never met anyone with such a strong sense of ethics," says Guldbrandsen. "He tells me, 'I survived inhumane conditions. I escaped death in a prison camp. Why? So I can accumulate wealth and go shopping? No. So I can help people and be a good person.'"

To learn the details of Nhat's life, Guldbrandsen has spent hours talking with him, asking questions and carefully listening. He has studied photo albums. He has been invited to family dinners and celebrations. "Lots of times what we do doesn't look much like research," admits Guldbrandsen, who carries a tiny pad in his back pocket on which he occasionally jots notes. For the most part, though, he observes and tries to be as unobtrusive as possible. When he gets back in his car to drive home, he turns on a digital recorder and recounts the details of his recent visit.

Just "being there," notes Guldbrandsen, is a big part of the research process, which is necessarily slow and circuitous. While participants are aware of the project and have given their consent, people don't just automatically share their life story. It takes patience, trust and time. This approach to research, known as "participatory observation," can have a profound impact on one's personal life. Glick Schiller, for example, has countless friends who began as research subjects, people she got to know because she found ways to participate in their lives--taking them grocery shopping, dropping in to chat so they could practice their English with someone they trusted. "She's always going off to events--parties, baptisms, funerals," says Guldbrandsen.

For Guldbrandsen, the personal enrichment has extended even to his 4-year-old son, who sometimes accompanies him on visits. "Zander has a rich collection of friends from different cultures,” says Guldbrandsen. “Along with being rewarding professionally, this project has been wonderful for my family.”

The researchers, who find their subjects primarily through word of mouth and introductions, have intentionally included many different countries of origin in their study: Sudan, Vietnam, the Congo, Bosnia, Russia, India. By not limiting their focus, the UNH team is able to show that the experience of transnationalism cuts across cultures.

The current study, which provides a comparative look at two smaller cities (Manchester, N.H., and Halle, Germany), is part of a much longer-term vision, according to Glick Schiller. “I think we’re starting early enough in the process that we can establish a baseline and watch the cities and the immigrant populations grow into each other and change over time. Thad and I probably won’t be the ones working on this 30 years from now, but we can say we were there when it first started.”

As a city built on the labor of immigrants who found work in the textile mills during the 19th century, Manchester is an ideal site for the UNH study. Today the city is home to about 8,000 immigrants (about four per cent of the metropolitan area’s population), who are once again a source of economic growth as they labor in low-tech, low-wage jobs from meat-packing to axle making.

Along with a generally enthusiastic reception, Manchester provides immigrants with a critical advantage not often found in larger cities: accessibility. “We know immigrants who know the mayor and the past mayor,” says Glick Schiller. “You have easier access to many different levels of officials.” Something else happens in a smaller city. “We’ve seen it a lot, both here and in Halle,” says Glick Schiller. “Some local person: a neighbor, a worker, an elderly person, makes friends with the new immigrants, adopts them and helps them out. When you come into a whole new world, this is something you desperately need.”

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. "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."

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 house."

Their Own Cause

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.