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Somali Bantu case workers Ali Abdikadir, center, and Abdikadir Hussein, at right, discover that refugee Abdirahman Abdi, sitting, accidentally confused a container of toilet bowl cleaner for table salt. The caseworkers try to educate refugees about navigating a world that is unfamiliar to them. Abdi has eight children, including Amino Aden, 2, left, and Abdi Aden, 3, at right.

Three years after leaving an African refugee camp for a new life in Utah, Abdirahman Abdi opened a container of toilet cleanser, tasted it and told his family to use it as salt.

Hours later, Ali Abdikadir and Abdikadir Hussein, Somali Bantu caseworkers, visited and prevented a culinary disaster.

"I am very happy," Abdi said through a translator. "We were at risk."

To his credit, the father of eight -- who cannot speak or read English -- originally thought the product was for the bathroom. But he changed his mind when he tried it and felt it didn't act like other cleansers.

The two caseworkers would not have been there to help if it weren't

Somali Bantu case worker Ali Abdikadir, right, tries to dissuade refugee Sitaya Mohamed, holding her7-month-old daughter Jaglani Aden, from covering the walls with fabric. He explains the cloth is a fire hazard. (Francisco Kjolseth / The Salt Lake Tribune)
for funding provided by a state grant to help develop refugee community organizations. Four groups shared $200,000 this year -- the Somali Bantu Association of Utah, Liberians United in Utah, the Organization for Refugees from Burma and the Burundi Community -- to help shoulder the enormous job of helping refugees live successfully in America.

The associations can help build a community, advocate, train and give advice that people trust. Some have been growing for years; others are just beginning. Since May, 18 leaders have been attending leadership classes at Salt Lake Community College.

Now groups are competing for the next $200,000, which is expected to benefit even more groups. This is the only state funding


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Utah provides directly to refugees.

The hundreds of Somali Bantu who have been in the U.S. for five years or more no longer qualify for resettlement services. Yet enormous problems remain. Most cannot read in any language. Unemployment, particularly among women, is high.

Abdi says education is the one thing that could really make his life better. It would have prevented him from putting his family in danger. Utah is better than anywhere else he's ever lived, he says, but he'd really like a job. He's been unemployed since October.

The last time the family paid their electric bill was in May. He worries that winter is coming and he doesn't have money to buy the family coats or shoes. Every few weeks they run out of diapers and hope some have been donated to the Asian Association, which helps refugees.

And they still owe more than $7,000 for their travel to America.

The Somali Bantu Association wants to help its community become more self-sufficient and integrate. Hussein and Abdikadir work with families on everything from fire hazards to preventing cockroach invasions.

On the visit to Abdi's home, they discussed how to save money on electricity by turning off radios in empty rooms, and the importance of covering food.

"The agencies can't do everything," said Osman Hassan, the president of the association, referring to the nonprofits responsible for refugees when they first arrive.

When the current caseworker grant ends, it is unclear what will happen to Hussein and Abdikadir's jobs. The association is applying for more money.

"Every group needs to organize because when they do that, they have a voice," said Gerald Brown, director of the Utah Refugee Services Office. "If the community is not getting the stuff they need, someone will stand up and say something about it."

 

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