Lancaster, Pennsylvania 

After surviving more than a decade in a Tanzanian refugee camp where learning was limited, Riziki Elisha, 11, wanted nothing more than to attend the elementary school just a few hundred yards from her front door. 

Though she could see the playground from her porch, she wasn’t permitted to partake: Paperwork delays left her sitting at home for weeks, spending long afternoons watching CoComelon, a cartoon created for babies and toddlers.

“I was very frustrated,” she said with the help of a translator on a recent afternoon. “I felt bad.”

It’s been nearly nine years since the School District of Lancaster was for denying or delaying enrollment for young refugees — or for sending them to an off-site, for-profit alternative school focused on behavior management. The case was settled in  

But families, staff and advocates say the district, which serves kids in an , is once again erecting barriers that have left dozens of newcomer children idle in the past few years — some for months. A major contributing factor, they say, is Lancaster’s insistence on tuberculosis testing. 

Other Pennsylvania districts with sizable multilingual learner populations have chosen not to require a test for the infectious lung disease, including Philadelphia, Reading, Norristown, Harrisburg City, Pittsburgh, Lebanon and Chambersburg. Upper Darby does require TB testing. State officials told ����Ӱ�� schools “should not delay a student’s enrollment while TB test results are pending” and that parents or guardians concerned about this issue should .

Another holdup, newcomer families note, is the district’s need for birth certificates. They can be hard to obtain quickly, and, according to federal guidelines, their absence Proof of address, they say, has also been an obstacle as some families initially struggle to secure permanent housing. 

Immigrant advocates, including staffers inside the district, say these students should be seated immediately while their families are given time to produce the requisite paperwork. The new arrivals, many of them behind their American-born peers, would be able to make fast gains, they argue, if granted speedy enrollment.  

����Ӱ�� presented its findings to the district, which said it wants students to be enrolled “as quickly as possible when all requirements are met,” — and those include TB testing for some kids.

It said the district’s clinic provider contacts families directly to schedule the tests and that it recently added a full-time bilingual enrollment navigator to identify and work with families “who are slow to complete the process.”

State officials said schools have been able to opt-out of student TB testing since 1997 — and many do. But not Lancaster.

It asked the state to keep its TB testing requirement for a specific group: newly enrolling students who have been outside the U.S. within the past six months. The district cited recommending testing for those who are at higher risk of exposure, including people “who are born in or frequently travel to countries where TB is common, including some countries in Asia, Africa, and Latin America.”

The state is clear that enrollment should not be held up pending results.

Riziki’s father, Elisha Sumaili, who hails from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, told ����Ӱ�� through a translator that he was confused by the delay, which stemmed from his inability to immediately produce a lease. The family tried to enroll October 25, 2024, but his daughters were not admitted until November 22. 

Sumaili wants his children to hold tight to their education so they might one day become doctors. Instead, Riziki and her high school-age sister were kept out of the classroom.

“When the kids were home, it was really bad,” their father said in Swahili. “It was bringing the family a lot of distress.” 

Carolin Cruz, 29 and from the Dominican Republic, has always prioritized education, both for herself and her daughter. Cruz completed more than two years of college — she dropped out because of the cost — and wants 10-year-old Ferolin to go even further, which is what prompted the pair to move to the United States last fall, she said. 

“I want to see her become a great professional so she can have what I cannot,” Cruz said. 

Public education in her home country is and expensive, she said: She’d have to pay for her daughter to learn English. Plus, her local school was overcrowded. 

“If there are 30 or 40 students, there is no way a teacher can pay attention to any one student,” she said. 

She hoped for much better in the United States, but her daughter’s start date was delayed by two months, primarily because of the TB testing requirement. When she tried to schedule the shots, Cruz said she was told the only available appointments were weeks out. 

On two occasions, she said, the appointments were cancelled. 

Ferolin, a fourth grader who loves mathematics, said she felt sad sitting at home. 

“I was not doing anything,” she said through a translator. “I wanted to go to school so I can learn more. I would get up, help my mother around the house, and then I would be on my mother’s cell phone watching TikTok and YouTube.”

Fifteen-year-old Kevin, whose family asked that their last name not be used because of immigration-related concerns, suffered the same fate — except his went on for several months. 

His family fled Cuba because the country lacked a “functioning economy,” Kevin’s mother Neydis told ����Ӱ��. They arrived in the U.S. in March 2024. 

Neydis’s husband, a medical doctor in his home country, wanted his son to enroll in eighth grade right away. Kevin tried to register for school on April 16, 2024, but wasn’t seated until the next school year on August 26 — mostly because of immunizations and the TB test. His mother said they sent the TB results to enrollment staffers several times and assumed they would call back with a start date, but the call never came. The family was forced to restart enrollment because the process had dragged on for so long.

Kevin spent those months at home surfing the internet and watching nature programs. 

“It was boring, I would just sit on that sofa,” he said through a translator, pointing to a cream-colored couch in the living room. 

By the time the district admitted him, he had missed the rest of his eighth-grade year and had to go right into high school.

Born in a forest

Such delays are not unique: Rwamucyo Karekezi, who served as ����Ӱ��’s translator with the Sumaili family, is a refugee and immigrant community organizer with Church World Service. He estimates that he’s helped more than 100 children register in Lancaster public schools between 2021 and 2024. 

Karekezi, who noted that he was not speaking on behalf of Church World Service, said month-long delays are common — most of the children he worked with experienced them — and stressful on the families. 

Vaccinations play a key role in the delays, he said, as does proof of address. Many families initially live in temporary housing — Airbnbs and hotels — and can’t quickly prove they reside in the district, he said. 

“Sometimes it takes months to find a house,” he noted. “This becomes a challenge for registration to go smoothly.”

As for birth certificates, some children around the world aren’t issued such formal documents upon their birth — or their families might lose them in their chaotic journey to safety. Karekezi, 30 and who is also from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, understands their plight.  

“I never had a birth certificate,” he said. “I was born in a forest, not a hospital. In Congo, they don’t register kids like that. And even when you bring a birth certificate, they don’t recognize it: It’s a scrap of paper in another language.”

Karekezi said he sent the district follow-up emails on students’ behalf, but they did little to expedite the process. 

While Lancaster has its own history of refusing or slow walking newcomer students’ registration, related issues are now playing out on the national stage: President Donald Trump pledges to deport undocumented families — — and opened schools to immigration enforcement actions. 

His conservative allies in multiple states seek to in a direct challenge to the Supreme Court’s landmark 1982 Plyler v. Doe decision.

Likewise, federal budget cuts have crippled the agencies that help immigrant families most, including , a faith-based group founded just after World War II that resettled more than 100,000 people in the United States in its first decade. Trump recently and even though that move was blocked in the court, he said it will . 

Lancaster’s local Church World Service office has recently shrunk in size and capacity. Once located inside a massive building on a well-traveled block, it’s now squeezed into an alleyway hidden by parking garages. It had to drastically cut services when it was forced to furlough 40 of its 67 staff members for three months at the end of January. Valentina Ross, its director, said she hopes to call some of those staffers back into the office soon.

After lost learning, big gains

Riziki Elisha has made great strides since starting elementary school just days before last year’s Thanksgiving break, her English language development teacher Laura Kanagy said. 

“In three months, Riziki went from knowing three- or four-letter sounds to reading and writing short sentences,” the educator noted. “She can identify the hydrosphere, biosphere and geosphere. She can add and subtract triple digits and fractions. Imagine what she’d be doing if we had been able to work with her for those extra months?”

Kanagy, who has taught at the district for 14 years, said she and her fellow educators “want the most time possible” with these new students. 

“Each day that they sat at home in front of their TVs was a lost day of learning: 10 new vocabulary words, a few letter sounds closer to reading, a math skill important to navigating the grocery store, a social phrase to connect with peers,” the teacher said. 

Enrollment also means these students — and their families — have access to myriad services, including English and GED classes for their parents, help obtaining eye glasses, clothing, food, dental care and other necessities.  

“The sooner they have access to English and literacy/math skills, the sooner they — and, therefore, their families — can make more of their own choices about how to live and participate here,” she said.

Once admitted, Neydis’ mother said her son, Kevin’s experience at the school was excellent.

“The teachers are nice and just go out of their way using different teaching strategies — a game or whatever they could come up with — to help him learn,” she said. “He would come home very excited, very, very content. And this was a huge relief for me.”

When Ferolin Nunez Cruz finally enrolled — she started the process on December 2, 2024, and wasn’t seated until January 27 — she thrived in the classroom. Since then, she’s begun using simple phrases in English around the house, her mother said, including “yes,” “hi” and “good morning” and shares what she’s gleaned with her mom and other relatives, helping them crack the language divide. 

“She is more focused in regards to her learning,” Cruz said of her daughter. “She is very motivated. And I want to say that I have received a lot of support from the teachers. They are paying attention to my daughter. I appreciate that very much because I really needed that.”

Asked what she loves about the experience of an American education, Ferolin’s answer was simple: Everything. 

If she could speak directly to Lancaster school administrators, Ferolin said she would ask them to make the enrollment process easier for students like her.  

“Help us,” she said. “They have to help us to make it possible to go to school. They should help me get into school so I can learn many things so I can help my family prosper, to help them when it’s my turn.”

Shaheen fled Iraq in 1998 during Saddam Hussein’s regime, made a harrowing escape to Jordan and eventually settled in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Shaheen is now a substitute teacher for the Lincoln public schools, but not without the financial burden of enrolling in courses to meet English language requirements and taking student loans because her Iraqi degree wasn’t recognized.

“It was almost impossible for me to start from the beginning, which is very difficult for someone learning a new language,” Shaheen told ����Ӱ��.

A new program launched by for internationally trained immigrants and refugees who want to become teachers in the U.S. aims to ease the challenges Shaheen faced. 

According to the , more than one in three educators, or 34 percent, are unemployed or not using their degree.

Yet, thousands of teacher vacancies across the country persist — with more than , according to Kansas State University’s College of Education.

“Even as we experience the Great Resignation, which heavily impacted the education sector, there’s still individuals who want to be part of this workforce,” said Mikaela Santos, senior program manager of World Education Services.

“The cultural perspectives and new ideas immigrants and refugees bring to the table becomes wasted talent because of the many regulatory and systemic barriers in the American education system,” she added. 

To combat this problem, three organizations were awarded a $100,000 grant in July 2023 to create pathways for foreign trained teachers to become educators in the U.S.

In the next year, the in Lincoln, Nebraska; the in Tulsa, Oklahoma; and in Chicago, Illinois will place more than 150 teachers trained in their home countries at schools in their communities.

Here is a snapshot of each organization’s effort to help internationally trained teachers and address racial disparities in the classroom.

Asian Community and Cultural Center

Nearly 50% of Nebraska’s school districts had unfilled teacher positions during the 2022-23 school year — with 66% saying there were either unqualified or no applicants, according to the .

Lee Kreimer, the CareerLadder director at the Asian Community and Cultural Center, said the organization is looking to place at least 35 foreign trained teachers into Nebraska’s Lincoln public schools and South Sioux City public schools.

The need for diverse teachers is especially great in rural areas like South Sioux City that have had a high influx of Latino families immigrating partly because of the that has historically relied on foreign-born workers, Kreimer said.

The reported a growing 47.8% Latino population in South Sioux City with more than 63.6% Latino students .

“We see this as a great opportunity to tackle multiple challenges at one time and it’s truly a win-win way to help everybody,” Kreimer told ����Ӱ��.

The organization recently set up programs at schools in both districts for immigrants and refugees to be mentored as they finish up their U.S. teaching licenses.

“Investing in schools by providing teachers that look like their students helps them succeed,” Kreimer said. “And from a racial equity standpoint, children seeing teachers that look like them and have experiences like them helps with retention, staying out of trouble and getting better grades.”

Mayor’s Office of Resilience and Equity

In Oklahoma, there were nearly 180,000 unfilled teacher positions in 2022 — more than twice the average a decade ago, according to the .

The Mayor’s Office of Resilience and Equity estimates nearly 650 internationally trained teachers in Tulsa have education degrees but don’t work in the field.

Chief resilience officer Krystal Reyes said the city wants to hire at least 65 teachers trained in their home countries — largely from Latino, Afghan and Ukrainian backgrounds to reflect the families immigrating to Tulsa.

“Because we have a diverse student body, we need our teachers to reflect that,” Reyes told ����Ӱ��. “So we know that our immigrant community can help us meet that language and cultural need.”

Programs include expanding job training with ESL courses and creating free courses for those seeking alternative certification.

“We need to do more as a government to make sure that there’s full participation, representation and economic opportunities from all our communities,” Reyes said. “There may be a money barrier or an English barrier, but they’re still trained educators that could be filling a great need in our schools.”

Richard J. Daley College

In Illinois, 73% of districts report teacher shortages — with 30% saying positions remain unfilled or filled with someone less qualified, according to the .

Janine Janosky, president of Richard J. Daley College, said the school aims to connect at least 50 foreign trained teachers to schools across Chicago.

“We’re seeing many immigrants and refugees coming with professional experiences already from their home country,” Janosky told ����Ӱ��, adding how more than 10% have teaching licenses.

Trish Aumann, vice president of academic and student affairs at the college, said the need to hire diverse teachers is especially great because of the influx of immigrant families — particularly Ukrainian refugees.

“We need multicultural and multilingual individuals in positions in our schools,” Aumann told ����Ӱ��. “So it’s that bigger picture of supporting K-12 schools that will in turn help immigrants and refugees with their economic mobility.”

Janosky said the college is creating a pilot program for internationally trained teachers to fill vacancies in Chicago’s schools.

“Within the middle part of the United States, there’s very few of us doing this work,” Janosky said. “That gives us a huge responsibility, but also a huge opportunity, to make a big difference for Chicago, Illinois, and the entire country.”

But, a year after Russia invaded its neighbor, upending the lives of millions, the Puzhalina family has stabilized: Anastasiia and her husband were elated to find an affordable rental and were relieved to receive their work authorizations in January. 

Central to their happiness, their children, ages 11, 10 and 7, are thriving: They felt welcomed by their new school and have made many friends. All have a penchant for mathematics and the eldest is no longer classified as an English language learner.  

“They are doing well at school and making really good progress in English,” Puzhalina said. “Virsaviia, my youngest, reads in English better than in Ukrainian already.”

And there was another development that will make life in America much easier for the family.

“I am learning to drive,” Puzhalina said. “It was hard for me to overcome my fear: It was something that paralyzed me. But now I feel more comfortable. I just have to practice backing up, parallel parking and get that license.”

The family’s progress comes amid ongoing tumult in their home country. The invasion has left , according to U.S. estimates. Some 5.9 million people are meaning they are running for safety inside its borders, and millions more have fled to neighboring countries and across Europe. 

There is no foreseeable end to the conflict. President Joe Feb. 20 came just a day before announced his plan to withdraw from the last major remaining nuclear arms control treaty with the United States. This latest move, , is among many policy changes that have left some Russians uneasy: Putin’s effort has prompted thousands here.

Other Ukrainians, including Puzhalina’s parents, remain under siege. Puzhalina would love for them to join her family in Washington, but at 57 years old, her father is not permitted to leave the country. 

Yana Annette Lysenko, working toward a Ph.D. in comparative literature and Slavic studies at New York University, is well aware of the war-time restrictions. 

Lysenko, whose boyfriend lives in Ukraine and also cannot leave, visited the city of Odesa from mid-August until the end of November 2022. Reuniting with family and friends, she worked on her dissertation and volunteered. She plans to head back for a week in April and again in May, perhaps for a month. 

“The last few weeks were probably the toughest,” she said. “That’s when the citywide electric outages started. Other than that, it’s surprising how in some ways things felt so normal, in others completely unlike anything before.”

Lysenko was moved by the solidarity of the Ukrainian people, and how they could find joy in the darkest of times. 

“There’s a lot of concern about this potential spring offensive, but more than anything Ukrainians aren’t losing faith,” she said. “They trust their armed forces and believe in victory. I think most people understand this war will continue for a long time so there’s a certain despair in that regard, but there’s a refusal to give up. There is an amazing sense of community no matter how hard things get: Almost every evening there were musicians singing on the streets of the city center and people would join in and dance and sing.”

But there is one fear she can’t shake, that her boyfriend will be called to serve. 

“That is a very real worry for me,” she said. “Every day they are mobilizing men, and one of the scariest things for me while I was there — even more so now — was seeing all of the soldiers walking around and going to people’s houses to give them military summonses. I’m terrified my boyfriend will encounter this soon.”

Marta Hulievska, a sophomore at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, has worried about her family ever since war broke out midway through her freshman year. 

Hulievska, a history and English major, saw her mother, Hanna, for the first time since she left for college when the two reunited in Berlin in December. They spent four days traversing the city and exchanging gifts: Her mother brought Hulievska’s favorite loose leaf tea, Ukrainian chocolates and a hair dye she couldn’t find in the States. The sophomore sent her mother home with candies, a backpack for one of her sisters and a stuffed animal for the other. 

“She was crying when she left,” Hulievska said of her mother. 

Her family’s life is not easy. Her father and one of her sisters are staying in Zaporizhzhia, minding the family home while her mother and another sister are across the country in Lviv. Separated by a 24-hour train ride, the family does their best to endure. 

Hulievska, who battles anxiety and depression, is often triggered by news from home. It’s hard for her to plan: She’ll occasionally miss class when she feels overwhelmed. 

“Recently, the anniversary brought back a lot of memories,” she said. “We thought this was going to end a lot sooner.  A couple of days ago, I saw a video of Mariupol two days before the invasion with people singing the national anthem. I was emotionally numb for the rest of the day. I have a lot of problems organizing and scheduling.”

Hulievska, who studied the Holocaust in Berlin, came to a disturbing realization while abroad, that the Russian invasion will one day be memorialized in a similar way. 

“I guess in 50 years, they are going to be talking about the Ukraine-Russian war, creating museums for the victims, commemorating what happened,” she said. “I’m going to be a part of history. But not necessarily the part of history I want to be a part of.” 

Despite their heartache about conflict at home, she and the others persevere. 

Puzhalina’s husband, Oleh, will soon become a maintenance technician, pending last-minute paperwork. But his wife has not yet found a job.  

“It is not easy to find something that will allow me to stay on the school schedule with my kids in the morning at least,” Puzhalina said. “But I’m not discouraged.”

Through all of the resettlement tumult, her children have latched on to their studies. At least two had a unique advantage: Illia, age 11, studied English in Ukraine, making his coursework easier to understand. Her youngest, Virsaviia, 7, became close friends with their landlord’s granddaughter, a native English speaker, so she had a partner with whom to practice upon arrival. 

Middle child, Yeva, 10, is taking a little longer to learn the language. 

“Her ELL teachers said she is doing really well, but her English is more academic,” her mother said. “What she needs is more like social English.” 

Illia, now a sixth grader, loves basketball, volleyball and his English literature class. Yeva, a fifth grader, adores mathematics, particularly fractions. 

Both children miss their family and friends in Ukraine. 

“We call them in the morning,” Yeva said of her maternal grandparents. “I want them to come here.”

Virsaviia, who is in the second grade, has adjusted well: She cherishes her teacher. “She’s so nice,” the little girl said. “She’s very kind.”

Despite all they’ve gained here, Puzhalina doesn’t know if her family will stay in America. 

“I am trying not to hope for anything — like living in the States forever,” she said. “The world is unpredictable. We have, at the moment, the right to legally stay here through October 2023 and then I don’t know.”

In recent weeks, thousands of newly arrived students and their families have settled in new communities and enrolled in district schools for the first time, often with confusion and wonderment for what lies ahead. If they are fortunate, like students in Elk Grove Unified School District in California, they will have the support needed to navigate the experience from the moment they enroll through their first few years in school.

Elk Grove is the state’s fifth-largest school district and . are spoken there. When new families arrive, they’re directed to Newcomer Welcome Centers where they will find someone to answer their questions, assess their needs and help them with school enrollment — all in their home language. Students are immediately placed in a school that will support them and, if needed, are assigned an on-site English language coordinator. Throughout the year, that coordinator will work directly with the students, collaborate with their teachers to identify their strengths and meet their needs, and ensure they are happy and successful.

In Elk Grove — one of three districts spotlighted in a just-released from Next100 — newcomer programming is thorough and thoughtful, planned with and informed by student and family data collected over years. Natasha Moore, an English learner program coordinator at Florin High School in Elk Grove, provided an example: She was enrolling a brother and sister pair in school and describing the programs available to them when their father expressed gratitude for her warm welcome. She recalls that he told her, in his home language, that “[we] were the first people that smiled with sincerity, and that he felt truly welcomed to our community.”

This work — the programming, data collection and assessment, and staffing — is possible only with compassion, commitment and adequate funding. District leaders know it’s not cheap, and despite evidence that , many districts that serve newcomers often cannot acquire adequate funding to maintain such robust programs. This is, in part, because there is only one federal source — — of grants explicitly targeted to support newcomer students. 

Restrictive limit the number of districts in each state to those that demonstrate more newcomer enrollment than in previous years. Further, advocates argue that Title III funding is woefully inadequate. According to the Office of Elementary and Secondary Education, Title III appropriations have , even , when the effects of the pandemic were for English learners and newcomer students.

Ultimately, all districts that serve newcomers and aim to create meaningful programming to meet their needs require sufficient funding. But Title III, in its current structure and at its present level, fails to do so.

For too long, districts serving newcomers have had to be smart and scrappy, gathering funding from alternative sources to start or maintain newcomer programs without consistent support through Title III. Now, pandemic relief efforts provide a unique opportunity for districts to target relief funds toward newcomers in lieu of Title III. 

This past year, to receive a Title III subgrant, . Instead, the district dedicated a portion of its American Rescue Plan funding — — to bolster its English learner and newcomer programs. This September, the district is opening two new newcomer centers, enabling a further expansion of resources. 

But as every district leader knows, . Districts shouldn’t have to scrape together resources on their own just to do this work well. Systemic funding problems require systemic funding solutions from the federal government.

Among other recommendations, the Next100 report urges the federal government to steer away from restrictive eligibility requirements and to distribute Title III subgrants on a per-pupil basis, so any district that supports newcomers can receive the funding it needs to do so thoughtfully, sustainably and equitably for each student enrolled. 

What would this potential change in how grants are distributed mean? 

It would mean that newcomer students who enrolled in Elk Grove for the first time this year would continue to receive the same support from their English learner coordinator for a few more years, regardless of whether newcomer enrollment increases in 2023-24. It would mean Elk Grove could respond to the changing needs of its newcomer community, hire interpreters for languages new to the district and diversify its programs as new needs arise. And it would mean that other districts could deliver on the promise of a quality education by building and sustaining newcomer programs. 

Every new student deserves adequate investment to be able to thrive. To make this a reality for newcomers everywhere, the federal government needs to step up.

The second grader, who lives with her mother, father and two older siblings in Tacoma, Washington, was excited to return to class, though she was worried about having a new teacher. 

“Back home,” in Ukraine, her mother, Anastasiia explained, “elementary students have the same teacher from first through fourth grade.”

But Virsaviia’s fears melted after just a few hours.

“I like my new teacher,” said the little girl, sitting in the family car as her father drove her and her sister to Elmhurst Elementary on the second day of school last week. “I liked my class and my new friends.” 

Virsaviia’s brother, Illia, 11, felt the same: The sixth grader, who moved up to middle school this year, was thrilled to have Ukrainian- and Russian-speaking students in his English language classes. And middle sister Yeva, 9, was elated to have the same 5th-grade teacher this year as her big brother did for the few months the siblings were in school last year. Not only did Illia speak highly of her, Yeva got to meet her during a spring parent-teacher conference. 

“She was excited to see her (again),” her mother said. 

But underneath the joy that accompanies the start of the new school year is a painful uncertainty about the future. Virsaviia’s parents worry daily about their immigration status, their ability to work and about the family they left behind. 

They and others with strong ties to Ukraine wonder when and how the invasion, now in its seventh month, will end. 

����Ӱ�� has been keeping pace with expats since last winter and with Virsaviia’s family since meeting them at a refugee camp in Tijuana, Mexico in April: They were among more than who fled the country since the invasion began Feb. 24. 

Another 7 million Ukrainians are internally displaced and are living in areas prone to conflict, unable to leave because of security risks, battered infrastructure and a lack of money and information about how and where to head for safety, according to the United Nations.  

More than had been killed by early August and more than 7,400 others have been injured, the UN reported. 

The Zaporizhzhia power plant, located inside a city that has become , is currently being monitored by while Ukraine’s armed forces, bolstered by volunteers, held by the Russian military. 

Marta Hulievska, a rising sophomore at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, has been worried about the power plant ever since war began: It’s located in her hometown. 

The history major is anxious about her parents’ recent decision to reunite there after months spent apart. Married for 21 years, they were eager to live together again.  

“Sirens go off every hour,” she told ����Ӱ�� earlier this summer. “My dad ignores them: If you would go to the bomb shelter every time the alarms go off, you would not be able to function.”

Hulievska, who spent her summer in New York City working as an intern at a human-rights focused organization founded by Eleanor Roosevelt and Wendell Willkie, worries whether her father, a 57-year-old attorney, will be called up to war. 

“So far, he has not gotten any documentation about it,” his daughter said, speaking of the draft. “But it happens kind of randomly. It’s always in the back of our minds.”

And her parents’ financial situation is dire. The Ukrainian by the end of the year. Hulievska has been sending them money for several months. 

She isn’t sure when she will see them again, though she does plan to participate in a three-week study abroad program in Berlin in December. Hulievska hopes her mother and sisters, who are free to travel outside Ukraine, will join her. If they make the trip, it will be their first visit since she left for college. 

Wartime restrictions mean her father will not attend. Men in his age group are prohibited from leaving the country. And no one knows when — or how — the invasion will conclude. 

Her parents remain divided on the topic.  

“My mom feels it will end soon, which helps her to not panic,” Hulievska said. “But my dad is pessimistic. Whenever I talk to him about coming back to Ukraine, he thinks I might not be able (to).”

Yana Lysenko, a graduate student at New York University, wasn’t willing to wait any longer. Her boyfriend lives in Odesa, which is partly why she headed back to the country in late August. She was so worried about alerting her parents to her plan that she told them only after she bought her plane ticket. It took two days to enter the beleaguered country. 

“It was an exhausting trip,” she said in an Aug. 26 email from Ukraine. “I flew to Warsaw and then Moldova Saturday-Sunday, rested in Moldova overnight and then crossed the border via bus to Odesa on Monday night. Things are much calmer here currently than I expected. I’ve heard a few sirens over the past few days, but no attacks from what I know on the city itself.” 

Lysenko, working toward a Ph.D. in comparative literature and Slavic studies, longs to volunteer. 

“I’ve done a bit of inquiring and there are a lot of different opportunities, although I’m really leaning toward those that help prepare meals for people in need within the city, as well as those that help the elderly,” she wrote. “People are really struggling. Prices are very high for food and basic necessities right now, so I’d like to help the most vulnerable groups in that way.”

But vulnerability isn’t confined to those who remain in-country. Anastasiia Puzhalina and her family, who’ve been living in Tacoma for the past four months, have relied on the goodness of strangers as they navigate life in the United States. 

They currently live rent-free with an elderly man whom they met through their church. A recent widower who lost his wife to COVID, he enjoys their company. 

“He is an amazing man,” Puzhalina said. “His grandkids are almost the same age as our children, so this is such a great blessing for our family.”

He pledged to help them until they can live on their own but it’s a difficult position: Puzhalina’s husband worked for years at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant and she sold clothing online. They’ve always supported themselves. 

They’ve applied for Temporary Protected Status and employment authorization but neither has come through yet. Right now, they’re surviving on Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, or TANIF. 

The uncertainty makes it difficult to plan for the future: Puzhalina has no idea where they might be in a year.

“It depends on what status we will have,” she told The74. “I am praying for the end of war, but I can’t see the end yet. If the war does end, I think our Temporary Protected Status won’t be extended and we will have to leave. I don’t think we have any path to legalization. I think we will use this time as much as possible to help our family in Ukraine.”

Puzhalina’s parents still live in Chernihiv. Her father is not allowed to flee and her mother wouldn’t go without him.

Their daughter’s concern extends well beyond their physical safety. 

“It’s not just about the danger of being hit by a missile, but about inflation, the lack of work, the price for groceries, of fuel, for everything,” she said. “It is a really bad situation in Ukraine.”

Despite these fears, the family’s stay in America has been marked by many bright spots — particularly for the children, who spent the summer swimming in a backyard pool, visiting a local rock-climbing center and camping. 

Illia, who months earlier in Tijuana expressed worry about making new friends in America, has since forged a strong bond with a boy at school. The relationship has greatly improved his ability to speak English. 

And the children aren’t the only students in the family. Their mother has spent the past few months learning to drive. 

She’s already passed her written exam and will soon sign up for the road test. 

“It’s very challenging,” she said, “I never had to do it in Ukraine: We lived in a 100% walkable place. The big test, I’ll take it when I will feel more confident. I had never been behind the wheel before.”

Holding her fingers up, Allie Reeser asks the dark-haired girl in a bright, sunflower top how many times 2 goes into 8. Hakima, a fourth-grader from Afghanistan, has a lot of catching up to do, like learning multiplication tables. 

Pinpointing those skill gaps — and understanding the international backstories behind them — is Reeser’s job.

“If mom can’t read the homework, mom can’t help with the homework,” said Reeser, who leads an afterschool program at Willow Branch, an apartment community in Clarkston, Georgia that is often the first stop for refugees settling in metro Atlanta. As if making their way to the U.S. wasn’t hard enough, the pandemic’s two years of remote learning put students even further behind. “We have second- and third-graders who don’t know their ABCs.”

Reeser’s ability to weave these families into the community is often their key to success in school and beyond. And it all starts at home: Reeser, 29, has spent the past five years living among them at Willow Branch. Before the pandemic forced social distancing, her second-floor apartment served as a regular hangout for children late into the evening. To parents, she’s a guide, friend and neighbor, leading them through the bureaucratic thickets of their adopted country and offering assistance with everything from getting a driver’s license to communicating with doctors.

The program, which occupies the back of a leasing office, is part of Star-C, an Atlanta nonprofit that offers tutoring and enrichment to students in developments located near schools on the state’s low-performing list.

“She has been instrumental in building trust with families that don’t look like her,” said Margaret Stagmeier, Star-C’s founder. 

Stagmeier, a real estate investor and landlord, began the nonprofit in 2014 with the philosophy that strong schools, affordable rent and access to health care help stabilize communities. Willow Branch, a 1970s-era colonial style development, is one of four Star-C properties in metro Atlanta.

Since the 1970s, when scores of Vietnamese families fled the country in the aftermath of the war with the U.S., Clarkston has become known as the South’s , and now refugees per capita than any other American city. Willow Branch’s tenants have fled war and oppression — in Burma, Sudan and, most recently, Afghanistan.

Star-C is not a religious organization, but for Reeser, the daughter of a minister whose nearby church supports Clarkston’s refugees, living with immigrant families and offering their children a welcoming place to learn is simply an extension of the values she grew up with. 

That means helping high school students apply for college financial aid, sharing watermelon with residents outside on humid evenings and accompanying expectant mothers to the obstetrician — even though she doesn’t speak their languages.

She bridges that divide with hand signals and relies on older children to interpret the rest. 

“I speak body language, and that’s an important one,” she said. “But I’m pretty good at picking up what’s going on.”

Tarri Johnson witnessed this firsthand during pre-pandemic health fairs that featured routine  screenings for adults and immunizations for children. 

“She would use gestures to help the patients understand even when we couldn’t,” said Johnson, a manager for Medcura Health, a chain of clinics that works with Willow Branch. “She just had a rapport with them.”

Reeser began volunteering as a tutor in the complex at 14. She went on to earn a degree in theology and children’s ministry at Lipscomb University in Nashville and considered a career in teaching. After graduation, she returned home just as the Star-C position became available.

‘Mission work’

At Indian Creek Elementary School, which backs up to the iron fence surrounding the apartments, staff depend on the bond Reeser has with the families. She helps parents make sense of jargon-laden school memos and escorts them to events to meet their children’s teachers. 

“Parents don’t know how to introduce themselves,” said Adam Nykamp, who has worked at the school for 22 years and oversees its STEAM program. Having Reeser on hand makes an American tradition like back-to-school night less intimidating. 

A new student arrives almost daily at Indian Creek, where 80 percent are English learners, representing 40 languages. That alone is a challenge for any school. When Stagmeier bought Willow Branch, Indian Creek was a failing school, unable to hit annual achievement targets. Now it’s rated a B in the state’s accountability system, which gives schools credit for showing growth. 

Reeser had a small hand in that turnaround. She stocks the center’s shelves with donated games, books and puzzles. She reviews material with students before state tests. But she thinks the children benefit the most from their regular interaction with staff and volunteers.

“They’re getting so much English help right now,” Reeser said on a sunny Monday afternoon in January as she watched the children play outside with 16 college-age volunteers from South Carolina. The visitors from OneLife Institute, a nonprofit gap-year organization for college-age youth interested in ministry, were spending a week in Clarkston to learn about the resettlement process. One group played tug-of-war while other children asked for piggyback rides. 

Barbara Porter, a retired educator, used to tutor children every Tuesday afternoon. She called Reeser’s life at Willow Branch “mission work.”

“You don’t just go in and take over for a couple weeks and leave,” she said, adding that she can’t bring herself to erase the reminder of the weekly shift. “I still have it on my phone. I don’t want to take it off because I’d like to get back in.”

The afterschool program is also a training ground for first-year medical students at Emory University. They developed a nutrition curriculum with Reeser and turned the center’s back study room into a library.

The partnership “gives us good insight into the community that we’re going to be working with,” said Cassidy Golden, a medical student interested in pediatrics and underserved communities. “Allie is such a pillar of consistency in these kids’ lives. She’s there every single day.” 

‘Sense of identity’

So are many of the children. Ten-year-old Kader Mohamedzen — whose mother is from Ethiopia and father from Eritrea — has been a regular since he was in pre-K. On a Friday afternoon in January, he kept glancing up at a Christmas movie on TV while practicing his opinion writing in a journal. Attendance at the program is light on Fridays because many boys accompany their fathers to prayers at the mosque across the street.

“Allie is a really good person,” Kader said. “Before corona, she took us on field trips. She took us to the dentist and a soccer game.”

She also cooked for Kader and his sister Flower when their mother was in the hospital with pneumonia a few years ago, said their older brother, Ogbai Afeworkie, a student at Georgia State University. 

Afeworkie’s father was among those displaced by the conflict between Eritrea and Ethiopia in the 1990s. His father and mother lived in a refugee camp for eight years before arriving in the U.S. in 2005. 

“They had to apply and do a lot of interviews and, most importantly, be patient,” said Afeworkie. Now his parents work as housekeepers, often picking up overtime hours because their children are in the afterschool program. Reeser, he said, has helped his family acclimate to the U.S.

“She explains the bills. She explains what the teachers are asking and what [my mom] is signing,” Afeworkie said. “My mom would say that Allie is like a gift from God because she has helped us so much.”

Many families stay in touch with her after they’ve left the program. But as they gain enough financial security to buy houses of their own, they sometimes lose the support they enjoyed at Willow Branch. Their children, Reeser said, might have a harder time making friends.

“My kids want to go back. It helped me a lot,” said Nshirimana Gorette, a Burundian mother of 11 who lived in the complex until 2020. Seven of her children attended the program. 

The family was among the more than 300,000 refugees who fled political strife and human rights violations in Burundi, beginning in 2015. They spent time in a Tanzanian refugee camp.

Now living in a two-story, single family home on a cul-de-sac in Stone Mountain, about seven miles away, the family is no longer eligible for Reeser’s program. But that didn’t stop her from guiding Karohe Dunant, Gorette’s oldest son, through the college application process.

“She was a big supporter in that phase in my life,” said Dunant, now at tuition-free Berea College, near Lexington, Kentucky. Arriving in the U.S. as a young refugee, he fought feelings of inadequacy. “She instilled in me self-esteem.”

Reeser keeps in contact with older children through social media. She’s sympathetic to the pressures on adolescents, pulled between family traditions and the relative freedom of Western culture.

“A lot of these kids don’t really relate to their parents, and they don’t really relate to Americans. Their sense of identity can be confusing,” she said from her apartment, where a woven “Welcome” banner made by a Nepalese mother hangs over the kitchen doorway.

Reeser has felt that turmoil in her own family. Her 19-year-old foster brother is an orphan from Myanmar who arrived in the U.S. about six years ago. Bullied in middle school, he got into fights and was sent to an alternative program, where he began using crack. 

“She knows very well how difficult it can be for these kids,” said Ike Reeser, Allie’s father, a minister at Northlake Church of Christ, about eight minutes from Willow Branch. “He’s truly one of the hardest cases.” 

When she was still living at home, Allie and her foster brother enjoyed watching movies and sharing chicken wings. She said she tries to be someone he can feel “safe and secure around.” 

As one of Star-C’s first afterschool directors, Reeser has helped build the model that Stagmeier expects to spread to more sites next year. In January, Star-C tapped Reeser to oversee all three of the nonprofit’s afterschool programs. 

That means she’ll be spending a little less time at Willow Branch. 

But the apartment complex will remain Reeser’s home. She’ll still shop at the same independent grocery store where residents buy halal meat and Burmese snacks.

“It shows that we’re equals,” she said. “I’m not trying to do some great thing, just be a good neighbor.”

Disclosure: The Walton Family Foundation provides financial support to both the Weave Project and ����Ӱ��.

From February until just this week, Mexico has been their second-to-last stop in a weeks-long journey; Tijuana a two or three-day respite on the way to something better, something safer, where their children can slowly work toward normalcy after their lives were upended by war. 

These displaced families — a flight away from Washington state or Illinois or South Carolina — are fanning out across the country, staying with friends and relatives, applying for food stamps and Social Security cards and enrolling their children in school. While they are far further in their relocation than the Mexican, Central American and Haitian asylum seekers waiting years for that same opportunity, these newcomers still face many hurdles.

“Everything is so different here in the U.S.,” said Anastasiia Puzhalina, a Ukrainian refugee who arrived in the States in early April alongside her family. “We must learn so much. I hope we’ll get through this.”

More than people have fled Ukraine since the start of the invasion: another have left their homes but remain inside the country. More than 1,000 education facilities have been attacked — the figure likely includes — according to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs.

The Russian invasion has been chaotic, surprisingly inept and unbearably brutal, often targeting civilians. — the exact number is a subject of debate and might not be — with hundreds discovered in . Women and girls have been to sexual assault. All of which has forced families with means to make their way out.

The refugees who arrive in Tijuana enter the encampment with pained expressions, scrambling to corral both their children and their belongings, their anxiety evidenced in their sharp tones and lack of patience with the worn-out youngsters they tote. Once inside, their mood shifts. Handed a water bottle and ice cream by dozens of Ukrainian and Russian-speaking volunteers, many of whom flew down from the U.S. to assist, they are directed to a check-in desk where a smiling blonde woman assigns each individual, couple or family a number that will be called when it’s time to leave. Other aid workers will drive them to their next stop: often San Diego International Airport. 

That’s exactly what Puzhalina was waiting for when she spoke to ����Ӱ�� inside the site. She listened carefully to each number, eager for hers: 2567. Sitting under the partial shade of a palm tree, she said the family felt safe in the encampment, though they were told not to venture out into the city. Tijuana, population 1.3 million, saw in 2021. By comparison, there were , more than six times its size.

The warns Americans to avoid the city, an essential corridor for narco-trafficking and human smuggling, because of crime and kidnapping. Puzhalina didn’t know this, but could see the poverty on her way to the site: When her family was riding through town in a taxi, they came upon a building covered in barbed wire.

“I thought it was a prison,” Puzhalina said. “They told me it was a school.”

The family didn’t stay in Mexico for long: Within days, they flew to Tacoma, Washington.

Anatoli Bassarskii, 37, of Chernivtsi in western Ukraine, hadn’t decided where he and his family would move: They planned on New York City but a volunteer inside the camp, a Russian transplant who lives in Washington state, suggested they move near him: He had a friend whose home was in need of repair. The family could rent the place cheap if they helped fix it, he said.

No matter where they settle, they intend to enroll their 10-year-old son Artur in school right away so he can learn English and have only a minimal disruption to his education. Bassarskii is concerned about the fifth-grader fitting in.

“With the language barrier and different cliques of kids, I’m worried about him being bullied,” he said through a translator.

Artur, handsome with bright blue eyes, had already found playmates upon his arrival to the camp in early April and hoped for the same in the States. 

He believed his American school would be an improvement over what he had in Ukraine, with better and more up-to-date facilities. An athlete with aspirations of becoming a dentist, he wasn’t worried about assimilation. “I’m sure everyone will say hi to me,” he said, a Nike backpack slung across his shoulders. “Everyone will be my friend.”

His father hopes his son is right, because the family plans to stay in the country permanently.

“We want to live in America forever,” Bassarskii said.

Unite for Ukraine

Other asylum seekers have not been given the same priority. Fleeing the twin atrocities of gang violence and poverty in their own countries, Mexican, Central American and Haitian refugees have not been offered the expedited pathway laid out for the Ukrainians despite waiting at the border for years. 

They have been held in place by a COVID-era policy called Title 42 which, enacted in March 2020, allowed the United States to refuse their entry because of health concerns. And their living conditions are atrocious: Their flimsy tents, flooded by heavy rains and blown away by high winds, sit unguarded and vulnerable in crime-infested places like Reynosa, across the border from McAllen, Texas, and far different from the clean and orderly Tijuana encampment. 

Here, volunteer nurses check children and adults for signs of heat stroke and aid workers from local churches come through nearly every 15 minutes with donations of toys and food, including fresh fruit and vegetables and Eastern European staples. 

Kids in clean clothes — either their own or taken from dozens of boxes of nearly new goods — play with Legos or visit a craft station where they make bracelets and necklaces with donated beads while the older children head for the basketball court or work out on the exercise equipment scattered throughout the park. 

Immigrant advocates recognize the disparity and wish for similar treatment for all. 

“I believe that everybody who has a legitimate claim and has a fear for their lives should be given the right to enter the U.S.,” Sister Norma Pimentel, executive director of Catholic Charities of the Rio Grande Valley in South Texas, told ����Ӱ��. Her organization has served hundreds of thousands of people crossing over in recent years.

“Someone coming to the border asking for protection should get it,” said the revered 68-year-old Mexican-American nun, who has frequently . “It shouldn’t matter what country you are coming from.”

But that has not been the case. Last week, President Biden, who has already pledged to welcome 100,000 Ukrainian refugees, announced , a streamlined immigration program that will allow those fleeing the country to arrive in the United States directly from Europe, bypassing Mexico. They must have been in Ukraine ; have a sponsor who can financially support them — this can be in individual or organization — complete vaccinations and other public health requirements and pass background checks. The new policy went into effect Monday.

Most will receive two years of residence and authorization to work in the United States. Those who continue trying to enter the U.S. through Tijuana are subject to Title 42, but that might not last long. The restriction is set to be lifted May 23 although lawmakers from both parties worry the southern border isn’t : Tens of thousands of people are waiting for entry, including 9,000 in Reynosa alone, Pimentel said.

Adding to these concerns, the Supreme Court on the Biden administration’s attempts to end the 2018 Migrant Protection Protocols, which require some asylum seekers to remain in Mexico for the duration of their U.S. immigration proceedings.

U.S. Customs and Border Protection has reported nearly 15,000 encounters with Ukrainian and Russian refugees since the start of the year. It logged more than 349,008 such incidents with asylum seekers from Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, Haiti and Honduras in that same time period. 

One request: Peace

The children of these Ukrainian families are just starting to trickle into the nation’s schools: South Carolina, for example, has 101 more Ukrainian and 29 more Russian students today than it did around this same time last year with many enrolling in Spartanburg, Lancaster and Greenville counties.

South Carolina school districts that have called the state for assistance in admitting newcomers without transcripts have been reminded of their legal obligation to enroll these students quickly. They’re also advised to find proper translation services so they can communicate with their families. State officials say, too, newcomers are invited to participate in summer programs to help with language acquisition.

They know at least some of these students have experienced trauma on the way out of their home countries and believe schools, flush with cash because of the pandemic, are likely more equipped to help them than in years past.

And qualifying South Carolina school districts will see an increase in funding for all new immigrants, no matter their country of origin.

“We want them to feel valued … and welcomed for all of the expertise they bring to our communities,” said Susan Murphy, who serves multilingual learners at the state level.

Oksana Bevzenko, who arrived in Mexico from Kyiv with three of her children, ages 17, 14 and 4, planned to relocate to Spartanburg, South Carolina.

She spent an afternoon in early April trying to feed her daughter an orange as the child walked along the landing of a large red, blue and yellow piece of playground equipment near the center of the Tijuana encampment. 

Asked what she wanted for her children in America, she had only one request: Peace.

She’s glad to have the youngest at her side. It’s her oldest she’s worried about. At 19, he was unable to leave the country, she said, and stayed behind to deliver food and other aid in Kyiv.

“We talk every day,” she said. “He tells me he’s OK.”

Diana Zhernovnikova, mother of four children, ages 7, 5, 3 and 1, held her baby in her arms as she sat in the shade of a large white tent, her next youngest sitting across from her in a small blue stroller. She and her husband, Alexandr, were on vacation in Spain when the war broke out. They’ve not returned to their hometown of Kyiv — and they’re not sure they ever will.

Too painful to look back, she’s only looking ahead. “We’re going to join relatives in Philadelphia,” she said. “We’ll enroll the kids in school right away.”

The family, as of April 22, had not yet reached their final destination. They’re currently staying with relatives in San Antonio but still plan to head to Pennsylvania. They have not enrolled the children in school because they are still in transition.

Hamburgers and chocolate milk

Anastasiia Puzhalina, who now lives in Tacoma, has already registered her children in school. Her 10-year-old son, Illia, had expressed worry about that transition, fearing he would be misunderstood because he does not speak English.

“I’m afraid someone will be unfriendly to me because I’m a refugee,” he said when interviewed back at the encampment. “I wish I could have at least one Ukrainian- or Russian-speaking kid in my class so I could feel comfortable. I want to make friends.”

His 6-year-old sister, Virsaviia, picking up her brother’s trepidation, said she wished her cousin could be in her class, but the child is a full year younger, her mother said.

The children started school April 21. 

“They loved the first day,” their mother reported. “They remembered the names of their teachers, but didn’t remember some names of their new friends because they sound so different from our Ukrainian. They liked the lunch: burgers and chocolate milk. It sounds like a dream lunch for them. They take English classes most of the time. Everything is like in an American movie for them.”

It’s difficult to align those images with the terror the family experienced just weeks ago. 

Food was running low and the local markets were empty in Puzhalina’s hometown of Slavutych, near the border of Belarus. She had stocked up on supplies at the start of the invasion — volunteers from nearby towns brought milk, potatoes, corn and wheat for bread making — but, eventually, her community lost both gas and electricity. The family was forced to cook all of its food at once, outdoors, on an open flame fueled by wood they gathered from a nearby forest — lest it rot.

They had no internet, no working cell phones, no way to see or hear the news of what was happening in Slavutych. Puzhalina’s village wasn’t under direct fire, but there was no safe way out: The surrounding region had already been bombarded, key bridges destroyed.

Puzhalina said she asked God to show her “silence in her heart” so she and her husband would know the exact moment to escape with their three children. So, she waited for that clarity, when she could no longer hear bombs dropping in the distance, when all she heard was silence. Just then, a neighbor knocked on her door to tell her some of the families in her community were preparing to leave. She believes God answered her prayers.

“In that moment, I packed our bags, and we left,” she said, pressing a closed fist against her chest.

The family made its way to Poland along dirt roads, praying as they passed several checkpoints in a caravan of between eight and 12 cars, each packed with people. The Puzhalinas’ tiny Chevrolet Aveo, crammed with two adults and three children, was ill-suited for the off-road journey. But they somehow made it out. 

After two days of travel, they crossed into Poland on March 15. Puzhalina’s sister hosted them for a week before they moved on to Germany, where they stayed with another relative for nearly 14 days. 

Eventually, Puzhalina’s brother-in-law helped the family buy tickets from Frankfurt to Amsterdam to Mexico City and, finally, Tijuana, where they arrived April 7. 

There is only one way to describe their safe passage, she said: “It was a miracle.”

Lead Image: The Puzhalina family waits inside a Tijuana encampment for their chance to cross into America. From left to right: Illia, 10, Oleh, 32, Yeva, 9, Anastasiia, 33, Virsaviia, 6. (Jo Napolitano)

Under a partnership with the International Rescue Committee, Afghan families evacuated through Operation Allies Welcome, as well as special immigrant visa holders, will live on the campus for up to a year while IRC helps them find permanent housing. It will also help them find employment, education, counseling and other social services.

“Public education is really about public good,” said Patty Perillo, the university’s vice president for student affairs, in a statement on April 5. “We are creating the model here at Maryland. We are developing the structure and systems for others to carry forward, helping many more refugees in need.”

According to the university, the families underwent extensive government processing, including background checks and medical screenings.

IRC is a nonprofit that serves people impacted by humanitarian crises, helping them recover and rebuild their lives.

The families will arrive on campus over the next several weeks, the university said.

“We are grateful for University of Maryland’s welcome of Afghan evacuees, which is reflective of our state’s broader welcoming spirit,” said Ruben Chandrasekar, IRC’s executive director in Maryland.

As part of Maryland Matters’ content sharing agreement with WTOP Radio, we feature .  for the WTOP News website.

The state is poised to resettle approximately 4,500 Afghan refugees, second in the nation behind California. 

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“These students are resilient,” said Salimah Shamsuddin, Refugee Family Support Coordinator for the Austin Independent School District where about 50 refugee students from Afghanistan have recently been resettled. 

“They’ve been through something so traumatic, and they’re coming to a new country, learning a new language, and it all can be challenging, but even so, they do pick up English a lot faster when they’re in the classroom.”

Still, she said educators are keeping in mind the hardships they have faced and the worry they feel about those left behind in Afghanistan.  

“We do have to consider that they’re still really concerned for the well being of their family back at home,” she said. “So even though they’re here, it’s still a challenging time.” 

The students, who join about 350 refugee students from Afghanistan who had previously been resettled in the area over the past few years, are arriving with limited English-language skills, so teachers use imagery as much as possible, she added.

Using images or drawings can help students express what they know conceptually before they have the words, Shamsuddin said, adding visual cue cards are used with words like “line up,” “stop” and “take turns.” 

The cue cards are currently being translated into Dari/English and Pashto/English, Dari and Pashto are the most widely spoken languages in Afghanistan. 

ESL teachers are equipped to teach second-language acquisition skills, said Cody Fernandez, director of Secondary Multilingual Education at Austin ISD. 

Austin ISD uses counselors and may also refer students to outside providers as well who understand different cultures, Shamsuddin said.

She said that for many, especially those who arrived in August and September — when the Taliban took over and there was heightened instability — there were concerns about families still in Afghanistan. Some may have experienced trauma,  depression, anxiety, PTSD and other challenges.

Shamsuddin and her team have conducted training for educators so they can be aware of cultural differences, including body language and communication style differences.

 In western societies, people are individualistic and value the promotion of personal goals, while in non-western societies, there is more of a focus on group goals and the social unit, she said. In the school system, there is also a peer-support program that pairs a newcomer with an established student to better equip both with learning about the other person. 

Shamsuddin noted that Austin ISD is used to new students arriving and that interpreters are available for families.

“So often, an interpreter is not used for things,” she said. “And if we really want to be truly equitable, then it’s important that we’re communicating to parents in their preferred language.”

Meanwhile, at Dallas Independent School District, the district considers not only the time needed for a newcomer to learn the language but also the new cultural and social environment, said Zeljka Ravlija, program coordinator for the Refugee School Impact Program.

Ravlija is currently conducting orientation lessons via Zoom using a PowerPoint presentation to prepare the schools and educators for the newcomers. 

“These orientations are teaching on the cultural background of Afghans,” she said, including   lessons on ethnicities, the various regional languages spoken, and religious values in the country.

Educators are also being taught basic phrases such as “hello” and “thank you,” what holidays are important to the students in their home countries, gender roles, and name pronunciations, among other topics

Ravlija noted the challenges that many refugee students experience before their arrival in Texas, which may include poverty, war, trauma and other unstable factors. They often spend time in a refugee camp before resettlement.