When refugees arrive in Utah from battle-ravaged and unstable countries, they typically are placed in English classes for an hour or so a week. Motivated refugees may get as much as 45 minutes a day studying the new language.

But such short barrages of English don't cut it for most refugees, particularly those who aren't literate in their own languages, says Gerald Brown, director of Utah's Refugee Services Office.

"You could almost argue it doesn't help at all," Brown says. "It just frustrates people."

That realization led the Utah office to team up with the LDS Church, Granite School District and the English Skills Learning Center on a one-of-kind project: intensive English classes for on-the-job refugees.

Since October, 100 refugees speaking 17 languages have been "associates" at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints' Humanitarian Center on Salt Lake City's west side.

Half the refugees spend their weekday mornings sorting and packing clothes for shipment overseas, cooking and cleaning in the center's kitchen and packing hygiene kits.

The other half spends the morning -- nearly four hours -- in English classes, divided according to the refugees' proficiency.

In the afternoon, they swap places and all 100 get paid for a full day's work, five days a week.

"People can pay their rent, and people are learning English," Brown says.

"The gains we're seeing are much more substantial than the typical ESL [English as a Second Language] program," says Mary Beth Vogel-Ferguson, an associate professor at the University of Utah's Social Research Institute.

She is tracking the pilot project, which apparently is the first of its kind in the United States.

Chuku Kalafo, a 27-year-old from East Africa's Eritrea, says his English is improving rapidly, thanks to the intense schooling. "I like to practice more and more."

Role playing

On a recent afternoon, Jennifer Christenson's "green" class, comprised of refugees with high English proficiency, works on algebraic word problems to prepare for the GED (high school equivalency) or college-admission tests.

"Put your phone away, my friend," Christenson admonishes Karim Kathem, a refugee from Iraq, as class begins.

An employee of the Granite School District, Christenson coordinates the English program at the Humanitarian Center and is one of three teachers.

The nine students in class this day think through the English word problems so they can express them in numbers, the way they learned in their own countries or in refugee camps.

Along the way, they learn the American meaning of such words as "management" and "push-ups."

An hour later, Christenson is in a class with 25 refugees from around the world, working on basic words such as "refrigerator," "key" and "toilet."

She illustrates examples on the white board and has the students line up in the front to practice their English on a classmate, who pretends to be a property manager asking each, in turn, "What is your problem?" or "How can I help you?"

"I have cockroaches," says one refugee, using the phrase Christenson provides on a slip of paper.

"The toilet is stopped up," says another.

"My refrigerator is broken," says a third. "It is very hot."

Bhagiratha Bhattanri, a mother of four from Nepal, beams as she discusses her growing confidence with English.

Even so, the worries of home remain on her mind. Her 23-year-old son has been unable to find work since the family arrived last year. "No job. No job. No job. My son crying. 'No find work.' "

'Thinking big'

For an hour of each day, the refugees spend time in small groups with volunteers from the English Skills Learning Center, reviewing vocabulary they have learned in class and discussing life skills.

"It's a win, win, win situation all around," Christenson says.

In typical ESL programs, refugees who cannot find jobs or who work odd shifts have spotty attendance. "When you're in crisis," Christenson says, "it's hard to get that focus."

At the Humanitarian Center, it's rare for a refugee to miss work -- and thus, class -- and that consistency makes all the difference.

"This is so far beyond anything that's been tried," Christenson says. "It's a step in the right direction, and it's due to people thinking big."

Bart Hill, development manager at the Humanitarian Center, says it didn't take long to create the program, conceived last year in a brainstorming session at the Department of Workforce Services, which includes Brown's office.

The LDS Church's center already was employing 50 refugees, most of them church members referred by bishops. The object then, as now, was to prepare refugees to find permanent jobs.

"What is our biggest barrier to employment?" Hill asks. "Really, it's language."

Mormon bishops continue to refer half the 100 refugees.

Utah's Refugee Services Office, which is tapping federal funds for its share of the program, refers the other 50. One criteria attached to that money, which will last for another 18 months, is that the refugees be parents of underage children.

A 'blessed' community

The Humanitarian Center, Hill says, seeks, among its top goals, to equip the refugees with sound work habits such as teamwork and punctuality.

International flags drape the walls where most of them work, reminding them they are part of a larger community of immigrants.

Women stand above huge sorting bins, holding 1,000 pounds of clothes, to separate men's, women's and children's apparel. The men run forklifts and the machines that squeeze and bind the clothes into 100-pound bales.

The refugees generally start at minimum wage and then move up the pay scale. They have job coaches who monitor their progress and, ultimately, help them find permanent employment. For some, that might be after just three months. For others, Hill says, it may take 18 months.

The prospect of moving on weighs on the minds of the refugees, even as they enjoy learning English while getting paid.

Santa Thapa, a Bhutanese refugee and father of four, runs the baling machine at the Humanitarian Center, but wants to be a pharmacy technician because he worked in a pharmacy before coming to this country.

Albert Kalubi was an elementary school principal in Congo and, like Thapa, bales clothes. The father of six hopes to work with people who have mental disabilities or visual or hearing impairments. "To find another job," he says, "is very hard."

Gary Newren, an employment counselor for Workforce Services, says the refugees at the Humanitarian Center have formed a community -- even though they hail from all over the world and speak many languages.

Each Monday morning, they gather for a devotional. They celebrate birthdays. They mark their progress up through the English class levels. And they are told where, in the world, their shipments were sent the week before.

"It creates that family, that community," Newren says. "We are unique in having a partner willing to put this together. We are, as a community, blessed."

Vogel-Ferguson says researchers at the U.'s Social Research Institute searched the literature for similar programs serving refugees in the United States.

"We couldn't find anything. So the incredible commitment of the LDS Church and the state to pilot this. ... It definitely will be a model."