America provides refuge, but not always prosperity

What a time to come to America.

The country is in a recession, jobs are hard to come by, and cash-strapped states are looking for all kinds of ways to cut back.

In the midst of that, more than 60,000 of the world's most vulnerable people arrived on the nation's doorstep between September 2007 and September 2008 — poor and in need — fleeing political upheaval in their home countries.

Some of the most recent arrived with few or no job skills, having lived years and sometimes decades in refugee camps. Few speak English; some, in fact, are illiterate even in their native tongues.

In Washington state, where 2,247 refugees settled, they are competing for work with a growing number of jobless Americans who have a strong home-court advantage.

With rents rising in the region, it's becoming increasingly difficult for agencies to find them affordable places to live. And as the state looks for programs to cut, there's concern they could lose critical services, such as help with English or finding work.

That's not the America that Hom Nath Bajgai dreamed of during the 17 years he lived in a refugee camp in Nepal, where everyone holds the unshakable belief that, in the U.S., jobs are plentiful and life is good.

He and his parents were among thousands of Bhutanese of Nepalese origin driven out of the Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan after 1990, in what the Bhutanese called "ethnic cleansing."

"Everybody says there are good job opportunities there (in America)," said Bajgai, 26. "With a good job you can live independently in America."

World Relief Seattle has helped in his resettlement, but in the four months Bajgai has been in the Seattle area, he's not found employment among the hotels, warehouses, restaurants, grocers and retailers where he's applied.

Neither has anyone else in his seven-member family — his parents, his wife and three siblings — who share a three-bedroom apartment in Kent.

"The economic situation is bad now. I know that," Bajgai said. But, "I have hope. You have to have hope. I know that if I keep knocking on door, it will open one day."

In the meantime, some refugees are trying to temper the expectations of friends and family in the camps, in line to reach the U.S. over the next few years.

May Wah, a Burmese refugee who arrived here in July with her husband, tells them: "If you don't speak English, don't come."

But they don't want to hear it. So they respond, "you are already in America. ... What does it matter?"

A ticking clock

Traditionally, even the staunchest immigration critics have tended to accept the country's long humanitarian practice of taking in refugees from trouble spots around the globe — from people fleeing war and political persecution to victims of ethnic cleansing and, recently, Iraqis who have helped the U.S. military.

The United States leads all other countries in the resettlement of these refugees, with up to 80,000 to be allowed in through next September.

But now, given the current state of the economy, some are starting to suggest a moratorium on refugee resettlements until conditions here improve.

"We're broke. Millions of Americans are losing their homes," said Leon Donahue of Washingtonians for Immigration Reform. "We don't have jobs for our own people," let alone the immigrants who have arrived in the past few years.

"Under these conditions," Donahue said, "I can't imagine they'll be any better off here."

More than three-quarters of those arriving in the U.S. are from countries across Asia and Africa.

Some of the most recent have come from the South Asian countries of Bhutan and Myanmar, the former Burma, farmers by trade whose skills are of little use to them in their new urban lives.

The Bhutanese are at a special disadvantage, with virtually no one else from their homeland already here to offer support.

In the Puget Sound, a network of social-service agencies helps refugees find housing, get jobs, learn English and understand how to live in this new country.

Federal funds and sometimes money from these social-service agencies help pay the living expenses of most refugees, who also qualify for food stamps and medical care.

But they face a ticking clock: when the financial help ends — sometimes after just a few months, depending on individual circumstances — refugees are left to fend for themselves.

That's what makes May Wah and her husband, Htoo Hey, most anxious.

They speak almost no English. Before arriving in the U.S., they lived for 24 years among other Burmese refugees driven into camps along the Thailand border. As refugees, they were not allowed to leave the camp. Their teenage daughters were born there.

Assisted by Jewish Family Service, Htoo found work at a Redmond hotel three months after he arrived, just as his financial assistance was running out.

But with the slowing economy, the full-time housekeeping job has been cut to part time — a reduction that left him barely able to cover November and December expenses on the family's Kent apartment and clueless about what he'll do when the bills come due next month.

"I worry if I can't pay rent, the manager will force us out and then what will we do?" Htoo said, anxiety sketched on his face. "There are no relatives here we can turn to."

Still, there are more opportunities here than there were at the camp, so he and his wife push the girls to improve their English and do well in school.

"Hopefully we will be better," his wife said. "We are in a developed country. In the future we will be fine."

Fewer jobs, more costs

It wasn't so long ago that resettlement agencies were fielding calls from desperate employers seeking workers; five, sometimes 10, it didn't much matter if the workers even spoke English.

"They were practically saying if they can breathe, we'll take them," said Cal Uomoto, Western Washington Director for World Relief Seattle.

Agencies develop relationships with employers who in the past have hired refugees. But most simply aren't doing much hiring now. When they do hire, they get a flood of applicants for a single job, including those for whom the language, culture and workplace behaviors are not foreign.

"We've not seen a lot of our refugees lose their jobs yet, but we are worried about that," said Shane Rock, director of refugee and immigrant service centers at Jewish Family Service. "Many of the refugees we work with are working in hotels, cleaning companies and with manufacturers. As those industries cut back, our refugee employees are at risk of losing their jobs."

At the same time, affordable housing is getting harder to come by.

With foreclosures forcing some former homeowners into apartments, and a growing number of people choosing to rent instead of buy, case workers struggle to find apartments refugees can afford.

Historically, Uomoto said, the agency has tried to find housing close to its center in Kent, where refugees can walk to English classes and get job training. But rent has been increasing so fast in some places, World Relief has had to look elsewhere and refugees are now scattered across South King County and even Tacoma.

Lornet Turnbull: 206-464-2420 or lturnbull@seattletimes.com