Font Resize
As leaders in their communities, Yahya Abdalla and Ler Wah help fellow refugees navigate the strange new world of American customs and laws.
Their information is vital: A conviction, even for a misdemeanor, might disqualify them for U.S. citizenship and lead to deportation to their war-torn homelands.
"Some of them never lived in countries with laws," Abdalla, a refugee from Somalia, said. "They don't really understand what is going on."
So Abdalla and Wah -- who learned to mediate disputes before they spiral out of control through a recent Utah Dispute Resolution program -- tell them. Driving without a license could lead to traffic tickets, an arrest and a stint in jail that could cost you your job. Disciplining your son by striking him might be acceptable in your culture but means your children are taken away from you in the United States. Trust the police but don't call 911 unless it's an emergency.
Wah, an ethnic Karen and refugee from Myanmar, goes door-to-door in apartment complexes with large refugee populations to share his knowledge. The hope is that these newcomers to the United States will, in turn, educate their friends and neighbors among Utah's approximately 25,000 refugees -- a boost in a time when resources are scarce.
Language difficulties and cultural differences are at the heart of most misunderstandings.
Refugee advocates say an African woman in Salt Lake County ended up in jail last year after being
Gerald Brown, director of Utah Refugee Services Office, said there have been several other similar incidents recently. In one, a refugee chased several nonrefugee children with a butter knife, he said. The man insisted the kids started the confrontation, but the children told police he was attacking them, Brown said.
"You're at a real disadvantage if you don't speak English," he said, adding once someone is booked into jail a situation becomes difficult to straighten out.
When they encounter a non-English speaker, police departments and social service agencies can contact interpreters though a telephone translation service but sometimes have a long wait when less-common languages are being spoken. Even then, the interpreters might not know a particular dialect.
Elizabeth Sollis, spokeswoman for the Utah Department of Human Services, said because refugee communities are small, available interpreters might know the families -- making it difficult to keep case information confidential.
Even English proficiency can't wipe out the effect of the mistreatment by police and other government officials that refugees suffered in their home countries.
Many come from war zones where uniformed officers are a threat to them, said Patrick Poulin, of the International Rescue Committee (IRC) in Salt Lake City. But police might not understand why a refugee is frightened, he said.
Utah Peace Officer Standards and Training, which trains and certifies law enforcement officers, gives two to three hours of diversity training at its police academy. That's now being revamped to increase the time to four hours. Some departments also offer additional training.
Lt. Don Hutson, of the Salt Lake County Sheriff's Office, said officers learn, among other things, that members of one culture bow when meeting someone or typically have a smaller personal space. But officers still have to assume people know the law and treat everyone equally, he said.
Detective Beau Babka, of the Cottonwood Heights Police Department, wore civilian clothes when he spoke to refugees at a dispute resolution class about police procedures. He talked about his family, he said, to show that "we're people, too."
Poulin praised the South Salt Lake police for holding community meetings after a 7-year-old Burmese girl, Hser Ner Moo, was strangled at her apartment complex. A fellow refugee is charged in the crime. At a new community center in the complex, officers talk to refugees about the law and crime prevention.
The most frequent question from the adults, according to Sgt. Glenn Smith: How to get a driver license. Officers like Smith also tell the children to let their parents know that police are there to help.
"The kids understand the police aren't someone to fear," he said.
Some challenges remain. A male head of the household may be the only one who can talk to police. Refugees might surround a patrol car to find out what's happening -- something that can seem threatening for police.
The refugees who went through the Utah Dispute Resolution program are tackling disagreements before government agencies step in. Most of their mediations involve landlord-tenant disputes and family arguments; they let the police or child protection authorities handle cases involving abuse or other violence.
In one of Abdalla's cases, a jealous husband was convinced his wife was having an affair and wanted to call 911 to ask police to arrest her. Abdalla sat the two down to work it out.
"I made sure the wife was honest and the husband was good," he said. "The other guy was happy because he did not have an affair."
Some mediations take longer. Members of an extended family met several times over two weeks with Abdalla to settle a dispute between a husband and wife.
In the final session, which was more than three hours long, four women and four men participated, a tradition in a culture where elders work out solutions. The discussion, held in the Zigua language, got heated at times but ended amiably in an agreement.
Abdalla said it's important to have more refugees with dispute resolution training. He pointed to a Kentucky case where a Somalia refugee is accused of killing his four children in 2006 after an argument with his estranged wife. The man allegedly told police he committed the crime because his wife had been disrespectful to him.
"That was a small problem that grew big," Abdalla said. "We would have the children here if they had help."
Pah T'may, a refugee from Myanmar who also took the dispute resolution training, said one man got into trouble after he threw a shoe at his wife during an argument. He missed but his father-in-law called police. Now, the husband has a criminal conviction that could hurt his chance to become a U.S. citizen.
"We educated them. Just hang up and think before you call the police," T'may said.
Aden Batar, director of the refugee resettlement program for Catholic Community Services (CCS), said education goes both ways. CCS and the International Rescue Committee hold cultural orientations for police, libraries and school districts.
When large numbers of African children came to the Salt Lake Valley about five years ago, school officials thought many of the children had behavioral problems. CCS and other agencies explained that many of the youngsters grew up in refugee camps and never were taught to sit in a classroom, Batar said.
For many members of Fatema Qasim's community, mediation was a little known concept in their homeland.
Most times, an elder simply declares what will be done. But through the Utah Dispute Resolution program, "we saw a way where both parties find a solution," she said.
Qasim, an Afghan refugee from Syria, hopes to go to law school eventually. Her favorite part of the program: an exercise where each participant tore or folded an identical piece of paper, changing its look.
"Everyone has a different result," Qasim said. "Everyone has a different point of view. Not everyone thinks like you."
Utah Dispute Resolution offered a 40-hour training program this spring to about a dozen refugees on conflict resolution.
The nonprofit Salt Lake City organization, with the help of other groups, then held six sessions at the Matheson Courthouse for 25 refugees on U.S. law, law-enforcement and service providers. The refugees observed a mock trial performed by high school students, reviewed how the Division of Children and Family Services handles complaints, learned about the services provided by public defenders and heard from police.
The training was funded with a $12,000 community development grant from American Express.
