TheBurg

20 | theburg | 06.17 O n a clear, cloudless morning in suburban Harrisburg, nine colorfully clad men and women work at tables in uninterrupted silence as teacher Charity Stowell exits the classroom briefly. eir stillness is not merely a product of studiousness. e students do not speak English fluently, and most do not speak the same language as the person seated to their right or left. All are attending a free English as a Second Language (ESL) class, held from 9 a.m. to noon Monday through ursday each week. Sponsored by Catholic Charities' Refugee Resettlement Program under the auspices of the Diocese of Harrisburg, the classes unfold in the basement of a nondescript office building in Lower Paxton Township. About half the learners are from Bhutan and Nepal. Others hail from the Congo, Sudan, Pakistan, China, Syria and South Korea. Interpreter Shira Adhikari, 30, and a young, bespectacled interpreter who speaks Arabic, are close at hand to help. Adhikari was born in Bhutan, a landlocked country flanked by India to the south and China to the north. He and tens of thousands of other Nepali-speaking Bhutanese were raised in cramped, primitive refugee camps in the shadow of the Himalayas, as the nation's leaders embarked upon a systematic ethnic cleansing campaign designed to build a homogenous race. Adhikari's cell phone still holds photographs of the thatch-roofed huts in leafy villages that were home to refugees living a life "more miserable than you can imagine." ESL services Manager Sarah Beck said that many Americans conflate immigrants with refugees, but these terms should not be used interchangeably. e refugees now living in Harrisburg had no choice but to flee their country of birth. ey are carefully vetted and came to America to save their families from persecution, as any parent would do. Adhikari holds a master's degree in physics. He relates the tale of his own parents, who have been in this country for four years. eir apartment is surrounded by refugees from other countries. Despite the language barrier, the children all play together, the adults all wave to each other, and neighbors shovel each others' walks, clearing away the pure, powdery snow that most have seen for the first time. When their neighbors speak kind words in a language that is foreign to them, the Adhikaris' response is automatic. ey smile, deliver two thumbs-up and say, "Everything is good." at sentence encapsulates how they have found every detail in America—the lights that always work; the clean, clear water that runs hot and cold, night and day; the dwelling space that is cavernous compared to their closet-sized huts; the drawers that are stuffed with clothes; and the grocery store shelves that are dense with a dizzying variety of cartons and cans, fresh fruits and vegetables. It is a far cry from Bhutan, where rain streamed in like a garden hose through the roof during storms and food was so scarce it was rationed. Clothing was extremely limited. Fires were frequent. When one hut burned, they all went up in black smoke. "We could see the moon from our bed," Adhikari said. "e roof blew off often." Today, in Stowell's classroom, the young Messiah College graduate is teaching the refugees how to ride a bus. Few have their driver's license, but as soon as they receive their Social Security card, they will try to get jobs. e classroom's whiteboard bears these words, written in marker: "Stay in your seats. Listen to your music with headphones." One refugee was called to the center of the "U" to assume the role of bus driver. neW land, neW lives Despite the political environment, refugees continue to come to Harrisburg—and Catholic Charities is here to help. bY diANe MCNAughtON Photos by Dani Fresh Stowell gently corrected a student who had written that pets were allowed on the bus. Paying the fare and watching your young children were also part of the lesson. "e class is like a one-room schoolhouse," Stowell said. Some students have never been to school, never learned how to write their names. Others have advanced degrees in their native countries. Volunteers help to personalize the instruction. Like the turmoil in the world, "the class is constantly rotating," Stowell said. When Cuba was in political crisis, Cuban refugees populated the class. Colleen Wisor Patterson, a young student support specialist with the migrant program, which works closely with Catholic Charities, helps the children of refugees cope with the trauma of life in Bhutan and then the double-trauma of leaving it all behind. She is keenly aware of the politically charged climate in which they are aiding refugees. She said many Americans choose to either demonize refugees or glorify them. She recalls one citizen who whipped out his cellphone when he saw the hijab on a woman, ready to call 9-1-1 or record events. "We see a lot of snap judgments, based on appearances," she said. She emphasized that the refugees are just regular people, wanting to be accepted and trying to make a better life for their families. Sunita Rai is a 20-year-old refugee, a small-boned woman in Stowell's class who was born and raised in a refugee camp in Nepal. Her parents are Bhutanese. Her mom is here in America. Her father passed away.

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