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  For the refugees from everywhere—men, women, and children whose fates have been held by the interests of nations, whose rights have been contested and denied, whose thirst and hunger go unheeded and unseen.

  quilting

  somewhere in the unknown world

  a yellow eyed woman

  sits with her daughter

  quilting.

  some other where

  alchemists mumble over pots.

  their chemistry stirs

  into science. their science

  freezes into stone.

  in the unknown world

  the woman

  threading together her need

  and her needle

  nods toward the smiling girl

  remember

  this will keep us warm.

  how does this poem end?

  do the daughters’ daughters quilt?

  do the alchemists practice their tables?

  do the worlds continue spinning

  away from each other forever?

  —LUCILLE CLIFTON

  Prologue

  I was born a stateless Hmong girl in Ban Vinai Refugee Camp in Thailand. For the first six years of my life, I understood that the camp was only our holding center. We lived in the third sector, in the third subdivision, in room six, a small sleeping quarter I shared with my mother, father, and older sister. From the moment of my birth, the people who loved me told me that it was not my home. Home was once the tall mountains on the other side of the river. Home would one day be some foreign country on the other side of the ocean.

  I had not experienced war myself, but I was surrounded by its consequences. The adults around me told me stories of what had happened in Laos. On the hot days when the sun blazed in the blue sky, beneath the shade of thatched roofs, I traced the scars on the adults I loved, ripples of rising skin, sunken flesh where bones should be. I knew their different cries in the dark of night, the nightmares from which they fought to surface each morning, the tired, empty look in their eyes, and the fear in me that perhaps the people I loved were broken inside. On paper, I was a refugee.

  I looked the part. I was small for my age, thin and short, had big round eyes that peeked at the world from beneath my bangs with suspicious curiosity. I was a little creature, kept in a little cage. I was a child keenly aware of the dangers of a world in which I belonged to no nation.

  When my family came to America and I was sent to school, I was placed in a class with many other refugee children, mostly Hmong like myself, but also Cambodian and Vietnamese. I was one of the youngest in a mixed-aged class. During art, some of the big students drew pictures of things they had seen before coming to America. A tall boy with watery eyes drew a picture of a thick green jungle, and then a single foot sticking out onto a dirt path. The foot looked heavy and stiff and blue, like a stone statue of a foot. The boy said that the foot belonged to his brother. He’d found his brother after an ambush. He hadn’t had the courage to look into the heavy brush, to see if his brother’s body was intact, to look at his face. The older children who had seen more than we had wanted to let their stories out, for us younger ones to carry the weight of their memories together with them. We were willing because they were like our older brothers and sisters, our mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles—all those who’d lived through the wars.

  I have carried the stories of those around me all my life. I never thought that I would write them down, and I wouldn’t have had my grandmother not died illiterate and fearful that the journey she had traveled in her life would be forgotten. So I told a story that much of America did not know, about a people who were new to the written form. Traveling across the country to speak about my book, from state to state, city to city, I met many refugee resettlement workers and refugees. I discovered how little we knew of each other’s lives and how the isolating loneliness many of us felt was a shared experience.

  Other refugees asked me to tell their stories, but I wasn’t ready. I was a young writer then, looking for legitimacy in literary America, in a genre dominated by white authors. I was struggling to build confidence and stand up for the Hmong and I could not fathom how I would carry the stories of other people. But, even then, I was bearing witness to the heartache and the yearning of refugee men and women wanting to be understood.

  Over the past few years, I could not fail to see an America that was questioning its long history of refugee resettlement, an America that seeks to define itself by casting its vulnerable immigrants and incoming refugees to the margins of society. Greater than my fear of what I could not do was a growing need to convey the refugee lives around me, to show our shared understanding of war and hunger for peace, our vulnerabilities and strengths, and to offer our powerful truths to a country I love.

  * * *

  When the cold comes to Minnesota, it arrives quickly. On an October evening, the air feels particularly balmy. The colorful leaves of autumn sway in the dark wind and the moon, a sliver of a fingernail, hangs low in the heavens. Then, the next day, the world feels different. The air has turned crisp, and the soft yielding grass of yesterday is gone and covered with frost.

  I have lived in Minnesota for more than thirty-two years. I understand the process of the changing seasons well enough. But even with this knowledge, each cycle of fall becoming winter strikes me as something new. My heart is never quite ready for the frigid wind that will seep through my clothes, skin, flesh, and bone. Without central heating, insulated walls, the buffer of a jacket, hat, scarf, and mittens, I won’t survive. Winter is humbling in Minnesota.

  Winter here prepared me for the work of writing this book. The endless days of gray gave me ample opportunity to reflect on my own journey and see that this once stateless child is here in Minnesota telling stories because I walked a broad margin of possibility; I met extraordinary people who gave me the gift of their experiences, which shaped my understanding and informed my conscience.

  This book is an endeavor of the heart. I listened to each of the people represented here and then processed their stories slowly. I made a promise to myself: I would tell the story of every person I spoke to. I’d too often witnessed members of my family and community recount their experiences, weeping as they returned to their past, only to have it live and die in the moment because the listeners deemed other stories more important. I didn’t want to be that person. I then wrote each chapter, weaving in research to fill in the areas of the world I’ve never been to, and then sent it on to the interviewee with a direct question, “Is the story accurate?” In the hopeful corners of my heart, I dream that Somewhere in the Unknown World will be received as an expression of my admiration for the individuals revealed here and that their stories will be helpful to their families and communities.

  Somewhere in the Unknown World takes place in Minnesota, my home state. There are refugees from everywhere here, f
rom wars past and present. In fact, the state is home to more refugees per capita than any other state in the nation. We have the highest concentration of Hmong and Tibetan in the country, the biggest populations of Somali, Karen, Burmese, Eritrean, and Liberian refugees. This much is known, but few know who we are or how we live. There are worlds within worlds, possibilities not visible, individuals who struggle and survive the unimaginable every day to be here.

  Part I

  OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN

  1

  From Irina to Irene

  ANY PASSERBY CAN tell you that Irina has dark hair and dark eyes, but if you look carefully at her, you’ll see that Irina’s thick hair is a deep auburn and that her eyes are a blend of brown and green—like gardens of kelp beds and seagrass meadows.

  Irina was ten years old. She was excited about the coming New Year, her favorite holiday.

  Underneath the bed she shared with her older sister, Edith, there were four bananas ripening. Each year, Papa received them as a bonus from the trucking company he worked for as a mechanical engineer. They were the only bananas the family got all year. The coming of the bananas was an occasion of pride and joy for the whole family. It was always with great ceremony that Papa unveiled the bananas from his work bag. They were green and hard. Mama would grab a small basket from the kitchen, line it with a white towel, and then carefully place the bananas side by side. Papa placed the basket underneath the girls’ bed and told them they were in charge of the ripening process.

  Edith was less keen on observing the bananas, but Irina took the job seriously. She knew from prior years that the ripening process for bananas is very specific: a green banana will first turn yellow with green tips before it turns completely yellow. If you don’t eat it immediately, its smell will grow sugary and strong, small brown spots will form on the banana’s skin. From the point Papa placed the bananas underneath the bed, Irina knew the family had four or five days until they were perfectly ripe for eating.

  Every night, the sweet scent of the bananas kept Irina up imagining the big day when the whole family would gather around the dining table to celebrate the new year and savor the delicious fruit. The thought of the bananas made her mouth wet with saliva. To distract herself, she thought about her birthday in March. Mama did not like to make a big deal of birthdays, but she allowed the girls to make just a little deal. Irina knew that Mama would get her a white dress to wear on her birthday. Irina fell asleep dreaming about the white dress and the sweetness of bananas.

  It was Mama who woke the girls up each morning, opening their door, poking her head in, dark hair pulled back into a clean bun. “Girls, it is time to get up!”

  The first thing Irina did each morning was check on the bananas underneath the bed. The sight of the yellow fruits brought on the morning cheer, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Irina’s smile revealed small white teeth, spaced slightly apart, dimples on either side of her face. She reached out her hand and gently brushed the bananas before attending to her morning routine.

  When it was finally time for 1989 to begin, Irina was jittery with excitement. On New Year’s Eve, the whole of their family gathered around the dining table in their crowded kitchen: Mama, Papa, Edith, and Irina, their grandma and grandpa, their beloved aunt and uncle, and their cousins. Mama and the rest of the women put a colorful feast on the table. In a glass bowl there was beet salad—a mix of sauerkraut, boiled beets in deep, dark magenta, diced with white beans in a tangy vinaigrette. There was a platter of small pieces of buttered white bread with gray caviar, a symbol of hope for the new year. There were saucers of pickled cucumbers and mushrooms. Irina’s aunt had made meat pies, beautifully browned in her oven at home. In the middle of the table, on a big platter, there was kholodets, meat jelly, and a side of grated horseradish. The bananas were always saved for dessert.

  Papa cut them up into chunks. The children got first pick. Irina held the peeled banana up to her mouth. She could eat the whole thing in one big bite or take tiny nibbles and spend her time savoring the long-awaited treat like she knew Edith would. Irina smiled her naughty smile and opened her mouth wide. She chewed with full cheeks and then slowly swallowed it down. She took a careful sip of sparkling lemonade. The adults drank champagne. Every year, Edith and Irina led their little cousins over to their grandma and grandpa, and all four stuck out their tongues. Grandma and Grandpa took turns pouring bits of champagne for the children to taste. The taste was more bitter than sweet. The girls made faces, and everyone laughed.

  The apartment was filled with photographs of old relatives, of Mama and Papa when they were younger, of Edith and Irina as little children in stiff-looking dresses with big collars, the good times the family had shared. That night the apartment was ringing with the noise from the television show Novogodniy Goluboy Ogonek, New Year’s Little Blue Light. The children loved the festive lights and the sparkling trees on the television screen. Irina was especially moved by the music the orchestra played. When the adults on the television held hands and danced in a circle, the four cousins followed suit. When the pretty lady with red lipstick held a microphone and started singing, it was only Irina who held her hand in front of her mouth and sang along.

  Irina had no idea that this would be her last New Year’s celebration in Minsk.

  The Jewish students had been disappearing from school for years. They never said much about where they were going or why, so their fellow students gave little thought to their departures. There were students whom Irina and Edith didn’t even know were Jewish until they vanished; when they were gone, all the children would laugh and say it like a joke. “Oh, they’re Jewish, too.”

  Shortly after the new year, on another cold evening, Irina’s parents, aunt, uncle, and grandparents gathered around the dining table and talked about how there were so few opportunities for Jewish people in Belarus.

  Mama said, “I want Edith and Irina to go to college and get jobs.”

  Grandma said, “I worry about their basic rights.”

  Papa said nothing.

  Papa’s whole family had been killed in the Holocaust. He did not talk about them often, let alone mention how they were killed. When Irina had wanted to ask in the past, Mama had said in a hushed whisper, “It’s too painful for Papa. Leave the questions be. It is enough to know that everyone was killed.”

  Uncle said, “The family beside our apartment are leaving soon.”

  Aunt said, “When are we going to leave?”

  She added, “What are we waiting for?”

  They talked about Mama’s cousin who had left in the 1970s and how their lives were going well in America. They talked about a plan.

  As the adults talked, Irina sat with her young cousins nearby, reading The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking aloud in Russian. The girls were a captive audience and Pippi was Irina’s favorite character in any book, so the adults’ conversation served as little more than background noise.

  It was a week before Irina’s birthday when Mama and Papa came into the girls’ bedroom as they were preparing for bed. A single lamp lit up the small room.

  Mama and Papa sat on the bed and said, “Girls, we are leaving Minsk soon.”

  One or the other said, “Don’t tell anyone at school.”

  The plan was indeed a simple one: like the other Jewish children, Edith and Irina would also just disappear with their family.

  Irina thought about how her disappearance would not be a big deal because she was just a student, but Mama’s would be. Mama taught English and teachers did not just vanish in the middle of a school year unless they had babies or were deathly ill or had family emergencies. Irina felt bad that Mama’s students would not be able to continue studying with Mama. She was a good teacher, stern but precise, just as she was as a mother.

  Later, when the lamp had been turned off and Edith had turned her back to find sleep, Irina grew excited at the possibility of leaving Minsk behind. It was going to be the first adventure of her life. She was finally going t
o be like Pippi. She, Irina, was going to see and experience the world. She wondered if she would be like Russian royalty and eat peeled sunflower seeds in a new country. Irina decided that wherever the family ended up, she would eat bananas every day. She fell asleep smiling, listening to the quiet of the city, feeling the cocoon of winter around her.

  On March 18, Irina’s birthday, no one remembered. She waited all day for someone to say something or do something, for a gift to be presented, but nothing happened. Everybody ran around packing the things they could not imagine living without. By day’s end, Irina’s eyes were pools of liquid waiting to spill. It was Mama who finally saw, and said to Irina, “Follow me.”

  In her parents’ room, a mess of open drawers and small packages, Mama riffled through her top dresser drawer. She turned around and handed Irina a little bag, a gift to cheer her youngest daughter on her eleventh birthday. Irina opened the little bag with trembling hands. She had been sure she was going to get a dress. What was this?

  Inside the little bag was a blue glass bottle with a small gold chain linking its neck to its golden cap. On the bottle was the prettiest flower, a red flower that looked like a tulip at the bottom, but whose petals opened like a rose on top. The gift was so delicate. Irina held it close to her nose. The smell that wafted up into her nose was like the image of the flower on the bottle, a combination of different blooms she couldn’t place. Irina held the perfume to her flat chest, feeling for the first time in her life like a woman.

  That night, Irina went to bed thinking about a faraway country. She saw herself as a grown woman. The woman in her dreams was small but beautiful: dark hair, dark eyes, the same naughty smile, a slimming dress, high heels, a microphone in her hands and a song on her lips.