Safe, but not secure: Iraqi refugees struggle to make it in Silicon Valley

In Iraq, they were doctors, lawyers, teachers and engineers. Now they consider themselves lucky if they're selling computers at Fry's. For many Iraqi refugees, however, it's only the latest in a string of hardships spanning three decades. There was the takeover by Saddam Hussein, the blood-spilling war with Iran, the first Gulf War, the punishing economic boycott and the U.S.-led invasion–triggering an orgy of car bombings, kidnappings, beheadings and the flight of 2 million refugees. Now, as America's involvement in Iraq winds down, the influx of Iraqi refugees to the U.S.–and Silicon Valley–is ramping up. And they couldn't have picked a worse time to get here. Rather than savoring the sweet payoffs of coming to America, they've landed in a downbeat nation where it's virtually impossible to find jobs that match their skills. The stresses and strains of joblessness, underemployment and the resulting alienation are only deepening the psychological scars inflicted by the horrors of war. "The Iraqis are the most punished people in the whole world," said Haitham Jasim, 36, a former interpreter for U.S. troops who arrived in July at Mineta San Jose International Airport holding a "special immigrant visa," just in time for the Fourth of July. The economy has stalled the start of building a new life with his young family. Jasim is one of two Iraqis the Mercury News has followed since this past summer to illustrate the struggle of America's newest wave of refugees. The other is Mona Gholam, a 32-year-old woman with a gentle smile who now lives in Santa Clara. Her 4-year-old daughter was killed when an American bomb fell on the house in which her family had sought shelter. "My smile is not real," Gholam said. "Every night I can't sleep. And I always think of suicide." Refugee influx The war began in March 2003, but in its first four years only 764 Iraqi refugees were resettled in the U.S. In the South Bay, there was one. After refugee organizations accused the U.S. of not meeting its moral responsibility, the Bush administration in February 2007 announced it was ready to admit 7,000 Iraqi refugees who had aided U.S. troops. By fiscal year 2008, 13,823 were allowed to come; at least 17,000 are expected to come this year. Iraqis represent about a third of the refugees now being settled in Silicon Valley–127 last year, according to Catholic Charities and the San Jose office of the International Rescue Committee. "As is true with any wave of refugees, the best and brightest come first–the people with the most resources who were savvy enough to make their way through the system," said Rachel Lau, executive director of the local International Rescue Committee office. She said most Iraqi refugees in the Bay Area are settling in San Jose and Oakland. "Many of these people had very high standards of living in Iraq," she said. "They had drivers and maids and large properties. They had hoped to quickly become self-sufficient, but they're now looking for jobs in one of the worst economies in our lifetimes. It's not what they expected." Neither Lau nor Ellen Dumesnil, division director at Catholic Charities of Santa Clara County, could think of one Iraqi refugee here who had landed a professional-level job. If they're working at all, most have jobs as retail sales clerks or as restaurant servers, bussers and cooks. An outdated refugee system, Lau and Dumesnil said, doesn't provide funds to "recertify" doctors and other professionals so they can work in the U.S. "It's a waste of human capital," Dumesnil said. Some local Iraqi refugees are now looking for work in the Middle East, figuring they have better job opportunities in Arabic-speaking countries, particularly as engineers. Nationwide, a small number are even risking their lives and returning to Iraq to work for U.S. contractors so they can support their families in the States. Safety, but few jobs Jasim, an electrical engineer, was confident that he would quickly find a job in his field in Silicon Valley. But by the time he, his wife, Jamila Ghanm, and two young children had settled into a two-bedroom apartment in West San Jose, the U.S. economy had fallen off a cliff. So he searched in vain for employment for nine months before landing a job for $15 an hour. His search could begin again soon. His job as a case worker and translator at a San Jose nonprofit is funded only through June. He had arrived here to great fanfare, with the loving support of a Sunnyvale couple, Marine Capt. John Jacobs and his wife, Ronni, a former Marine. Jasim told his story to Bay Area television, radio and newspaper reporters, generating an outpouring of good will and more than $13,000 in contributions to his family. One anonymous donor gave him a low-mileage Volkswagen Passat. The fact that he couldn't find any job for so long indicates the uphill climb most Iraqi refugees face. "In Iraq, I could get a job but had no safety for my family," he said. "Here, I had safety but no job. America is beautiful, nice and clean. But if you don't have a job, there isn't much hope for the future. Your kids need to eat." Jasim's special immigrant visa entitles him to the same benefits as refugees–eight months of food stamps, cash grants and Medi-Cal. Refugee families with children under 21 are entitled to public assistance once the aid runs out, but refugee officials say most of the Iraqis are loathe to become part of the welfare system. "The Iraqis' sense of dignity and pride is so well-defined," Lau said. Although they might not have heard much about the system, she said, once they get here they sense from Americans that it's something to avoid. "I want to be a contributing member of society and give back," Jasim said. "I don't want welfare." Bomb changes everything But some Iraqi refugees, such as Gholam, were so emotionally and even physically scarred by the war that they have little choice but to accept a handout. Gholam can't stop thinking and dreaming of the life she once had. "I was completely spoiled as a child and had the best mother in the world," she said. "Then I got married and worked as a math and science teacher. I loved my husband. We had a beautiful house and a beautiful daughter named Iraq. No one had a happier life than me." Then came shock and awe. As American bombs began raining on her town near Al-Kut in eastern Iraq after the war began, her family tried to get away by moving to the house of some friends. But the bombs seemed to follow them. Gholam was too afraid to take her mom to the hospital when she had an appendicitis attack. The appendix burst and she died. Then, on the afternoon of March 31, 2003, she saw a U.S. plane buzzing the neighborhood. Terrified, she prayed for it to go away. Moments later, a bomb dropped on the house. Gholam was in a coma for four months, waking up in a hospital in Vienna. She was mostly paralyzed on her left side and was deaf in one ear. It took several weeks before her husband had the heart to tell her that their daughter had been killed in the air assault. "Iraq, my country, was gone, and my daughter, Iraq, was gone, too," Gholam said. She returned home with her husband, but he soon divorced her and remarried because he considered Gholam "damaged goods." In September 2005, she fled to Jordan, where she sometimes lived on the streets, hoping a car would swerve into her and end her suffering. Despite the fact that a U.S. bomb had killed her daughter and wrecked her life, she wanted to come to the United States, believing she would get special treatment and all the advanced medical care she needed. So she spent 21/2 years trying to get into the U.S. before being granted refugee status, after American officials confirmed her tragic story. She arrived in San Jose in February 2008. She now lives on $640 a month in Supplemental Security Income and complains that her Medi-Cal coverage doesn't provide the treatment she feels the U.S. owes her. Medi-Cal, she said, won't even pay for a hearing aid because she has one good ear. "No one from the government has ever even apologized to me, but even if they did it wouldn't bring back a moment of happiness," she said. Refugee trauma Dumesnil of Catholic Charities says Gholam's case is more tragic than most but notes that almost all Iraqi refugees have been through some kind of trauma. Haitham Jasim says his father was kidnapped in Baghdad in 2005 and hasn't been seen since. "It was psychological torture for the whole family, especially for my mother," he said. Bob Carey, the International Rescue Committee's vice president for resettlement and migration policy, has talked to dozens of refugees who have fled to neighboring countries. "You hear the same stories time and time again: family members killed or kidnapped, women raped. Many young girls and widows–so that their families can have enough food–have been forced into prostitution, which is particularly shameful in the Muslim culture." The conditions in Jordan and Syria–where most of the Iraqi refugees initially fled–are horrible, Carey said. "You have to pass through garbage-strewn alleys with broken windows to get to their apartments, where you often find everyone literally sleeping on concrete floors." In Santa Clara County, all refugees are required to go to the county's refugee clinic in San Jose for health screening, which includes a mental evaluation. Severe cases such as Gholam's are referred to the Center for Survivors of Torture, where Jasim now works. The center, part of the nonprofit Asian Americans for Community Involvement in San Jose, treats refugees who escaped murderous political regimes but continue to be haunted by their past. "With Iraqis there's a stigma around mental health," said Sally Sharrock, a psychotherapist at the 9-year-old center. "Traditionally, they would go to a religious leader or a family doctor and talk about physical complaints instead. The culture is more shame-based than in Western countries, and they may not know how to express their pain or suffering." Sharrock also helps screen refugees at the clinic. She says two-thirds of the Iraqis are suffering from depression, anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder–compared with less than 10 percent of the general population. In addition to intensive counseling, Sharrock said, the staff at the center also tries to meet the "basic needs" of the refugees to help allay anxiety and depression. That includes finding them housing, getting their kids enrolled in school or even finding them a job. Disappointment might be etched into their faces, say those who work with the Iraqi refugees, but so are their dreams that life will get better. "There's a remarkable resilience," Sharrock said, "and a will to survive."