CINCINNATI — Oumar Ball was in a rush. The eight men crammed into his 2006 Honda Odyssey needed to clock into work at a chicken-processing plant by 4 p.m. It was 3:40 p.m. and the traffic on the Ronald Reagan Highway wasn’t moving fast enough.
As Ball wove through the cars, he toggled from one call or WhatsApp message to the next. One man needed help making a down payment to a lawyer to begin his asylum paperwork. Another wanted to know how many more days before he’d get permission from the U.S. government to work.
Ever since thousands of his compatriots began arriving from Mauritania to the United States border with Mexico two years ago, they’ve been making their way to the quiet Cincinnati neighborhood of Mount Airy, where they have found refuge in Ball’s home.
Up until recently, few Mauritanians made the 10,000-mile trekfrom Africa to South America and then onto the United States. But poverty, corruption and racial tensions between the Arab-dominated government and Black Africans have compelled many to flee and apply for asylum in America, where most are allowed to remain while waiting for their cases to be heard.
Last year, at least 15,500 residents from Mauritania arrived in the United States, according to U.S. Customs and Border Protection data analyzed by The Washington Post. The influx represents a 2,800 percent increase compared with 2022, when just 543 arrived.
The sharp increase in migrants is part of a broader pattern of immigration that led President Biden to issue an executive order Tuesday blocking new asylum seekers once unauthorized border crossings exceed 2,500 a day.
A sizable share of Mauritanians arriving in the United States are settling in a city that has drawn little attention as migrationinto the countrysoars: Cincinnati. Mauritanians first laid roots here in the 1990s, drawn by manufacturing jobs. In 2023, of more than 2,700 Mauritanians who settled in Ohio, a little more than half went to the “Queen City,” the data shows.
Cincinnati has a reputation for welcoming immigrants from distant lands. In 2016, the city offered new arrivals identification cards to access basic city services. Then-Mayor John Cranley said he wanted to make Cincinnati “the most immigrant friendly city in the country.” The city’s mayor today, Aftab Pureval, is the son of immigrants from India and Tibet.
Ball says there is rampant inequality between the Arab-dominated government and Black Africans in Mauritania. (Video: Maddie McGarvey/The Washington Post)
But the arrival of so many people in such a short time has tested that goodwill. Cincinnati does not have a welcoming program comparable to initiatives in bigger cities like Chicago and New York, where immigrants have been offered housing in hotels and shelters. Instead, the new arrivals from Mauritania are relying on fellow immigrants to offer them a first home in America, and on charitable organizations that are already stretched thin.
Poorer residents sometimes complain they aren’t getting as much chicken at the local food pantry. Emergency services in small bedroom communities like Lockland have responded to numerous calls from overcrowded buildings. And earlier migrants like Ball are being pushed to the limit as they try to help their compatriots while trying to realize their own American dreams.
“It’s not uncommon to find apartments with 10 or 14 people in a two-bedroom apartment,” said Ousmane Sow, a Cincinnati community activist and Mauritania native. “And it’s all because none of us want to see Mauritanians out in the streets.”
Ball sees what he is doing as a God-inspired mission. He was once in their shoes and knows those who arrive are seeking a better life after enduring violence and what human rights groups describe as modern-day slaveryin Mauritania.
Over the course of the last two years, about 50 people have calledhis house home. Hundreds of others have passed through his doors seeking helpsince he became a homeowner a decade ago. He offered them meals, translated legal documents and helped them apply for work.
Then in late February, he lost his job at a nursing home after being repeatedly late to work because he was busy helping the new arrivals. Recently, he couldn’t pay his full water and electricity bill. His wife, high school daughter and disabledson are growing anxious.
On a recent March morning, 15 migrants were living in his one-story home. The handles on his newly remodeled kitchen are worn from so many people grabbing them. Holes are developing in their couches. The family’s weekly food costs are climbing.
“It’s very, very tough,” Ball said. “These people, they don’t have nowhere to go, so you have two choices: You kick them out, and they are going to be on the street, or you help people and trust that God will help you.”
Ball’s own journey to America started with his brother’s murder.
His older sibling was a corporal in the country’s army back in 1990. At the time, the Arab-led government was engaged in a brutal campaign to purge suspected opposition members from the military — almost all of whom were Black. Thousands were detained and several hundred killed or tortured.
Against that backdrop, Saidou Ball was due to be married. A day before the wedding, he made the journey back to his hometown. Along the way, his relatives said, he was beaten to death.
Worried that Oumar could be next, his mother asked him to flee.
Mauritania, in northwestern Africa, is a land of arid desert expanses bordering the Atlantic Ocean to one side. The country of 4.6 million has been engulfed in turmoil since its founding in 1960. Black residents were routinely enslaved by wealthier, White Arab Moors.
Oumar Ball shares lunch with his house guests, all Mauritanian migrants. (Video: Maddie McGarvey/The Washington Post)
In 1981, Mauritania became the last country in the world to abolish slavery, but the practice nonetheless persisted. An estimated 149,000 people in Mauritania, about 3.2 percent of the population, live in “modern-day slavery,” according to the Global Slavery Index. The State Department has confirmed that “slavery and slavery-like practices” continue.
In recent decades, Mauritania has also been rocked by military coups, extrajudicial killings and allegations that Black residents were being forced to resettle to less fertile areas of the country.
Ball sought refuge in what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo,but soon enough, that country’s civil war forced him to flee again. In 1996, he received a tourist visa to the United States and flew to New York. He lived in a small Brooklyn apartment for a year, but he only spoke Fulani and othertribal languages and could not find a steady job.
Then came a fortuitous encounter with another immigrant from his homeland.
“He said, ‘Come to Cincinnati,’” Ball recalled. “‘There are a lot of companies looking for people for manufacturing.’”
The next day he bought a bus ticket to Cincy.
At the time, Cincinnati’s Mauritanian population consisted of just a handful of residents lured by factory jobs with big manufacturers like General Electric, Johnson & Johnson and Tyson Foods. Ball didn’t know anyone in the city with few people who looked or prayed like he did. For the first few nights, he slept on the floor of a mosque.
“I told everyone, ‘I am here. I am African. I don’t have nowhere to go, so if someone can help me, that would be great,’” he said.
A man from Bababe, Ball’s family’s village, offered him a place to stay.He learned English, was granted asylum and, eventually, got an apartment. Nearly as soon as he got the keys, he began taking in anyone who arrived from Mauritania.
“I know it’s time to share and pay back,” Ball told himself.
The number of new arrivals was small. As recently as 2016, fewer than two dozen Mauritanians were crossing into the United States annually, the CBP data shows. In 2000, he brought his wife, whom he had met in Mauritania before leaving, to the United States.A decade later, he became a U.S. citizen.
Oumar Ball takes part in daily prayers along with his house guests, all new arrivals from Mauritania. (Video: Maddie McGarvey/The Washington Post)
The couple had five children and bought a three-bedroom home in a development of ranch-style houses with spacious yards and driveways, drawn to Mount Airy’s lush parks and diverse elementary schools. He also became an engaged U.S. citizen — attending community meetings, voting in local political races, rooting for the city’s NFL team, and starting a small company that ships U.S.-made items back to Africa.
Then in 2019 one of his children was shot in a robbery attempt on Mother’s Day. His then-17-year-old son was left using a wheelchair. For a time, Ball and his wife considered leaving Cincinnati. They’d left one country’s violence only to end up victims of another. But this was the city that had taken him in and given him so much.
Leaning on their Muslim faith, they decided to stay.
The sky is still dark as Ball drives the migrants who live with him and have permission to work to their jobs each day starting at 4 a.m. The beat-up black vehicle squeals as it moves and now has 252,000 miles on it.
Not that long ago, he mostly used the car to shuttle around his children and get to work. But these days, his home is a de facto welcoming center for migrants.
Like new arrivals from other corners of the world, Mauritanians have decided they can’t afford to wait for U.S. visas. Instead they are flying to Turkey, and then on to Brazil or Colombia. From there, they walk and take buses through Central America and Mexico to reach the southern U.S. border.
Ball isn’t sure how the new route suddenly became the favored path. But he suspects it has something to do with growing access to the internet and smartphones, even in remote villages — opening access to coyotes who charge $8,000 per trip.
After crossing the border and surrendering to U.S. Border Patrol, Mauritanians are typically released on parole to apply for asylum. Many then go live with friends and family while waiting for permission to work. But for those with no one to help them, the road leads to Ball’s home in Mount Airy in northern Cincinnati.
The bedroom communities in this part of the city have become a magnet in particular for those from the African nation. Doug Wehmeyer, the administrator and fire chief in nearby Lockland, estimates as many as 3,000 Mauritanians are now living in the village, effectively doubling its population.
That uptick is being felt by Lockland’s firefighters, who Wehmeyer said are frequently called to overcrowded homes where so many people are sleeping in one room that emergency responders sometimes trample over them. Enforcing occupancy limits is difficult, he said, because tenants must be alerted before an inspection.
Some of the calls are fire-related emergencies, accidents that arise as newcomers learn how to use the bevy of kitchen appliances not easily found back home, while others are calls to help treat minor medical issues.
“For a small community of 3,600 residents, I don’t know how they are finding my little village,” said Mark Mason, Sr., Lockland’s mayor.
After the early-morning work drop-off, Ball often heads to the grocery store to buy rolls for breakfast and any other food they might need. On occasion, he turns to help from Lockland’s community center, which opens its doors twice a month and provides frozen meat, canned beans and clothes to those in need.
John R. Keuffer, executive director of the Valley Interfaith Community Resource Center, said he first noticed the new arrivals last July.
“I came back from vacation one Friday and we had 100 Mauritanians at the door who couldn’t speak any English,” he said. “And then on Monday, we had a new 100 at the door … They just hit and we weren’t really sure where they came from.”
Initially, Keuffer said, their arrival created some tension.
The Mauritanian immigrants tended to show up early at the food bank. And because most do not eat pork due to Muslim dietary restrictions, they often cleared out the fresh chicken before others could receive any.
Melissa Monich is a volunteer at the food pantry and the mayor of another nearby community that is also grappling over the region’s changing demographics. Once in a while, a disgruntled resident will complain to her about the newcomers. Then she informs them about the history of slavery in Mauritania.
“These guys are escaping from a bad situation,” she tells them.
After making sure everyone has eaten, Ball drives to Charleston C.K. Wang’s law firm. Born in Taiwan, Wang is an immigrant himself. He worked for years in corporate law but eventually decided he wanted to help asylum seekers. Ball helps translate from Fulani or French to English.
On a recent visit, a dozen Mauritanian immigrants crowded into Wang’s office, and another half dozen waited at the door. Some arrived to check on how many more days they needed to wait to apply for a work authorization. Others came carrying letters from Immigration and Customs Enforcement that they couldn’t read without translation.
The highlight of Ball’s volunteer work at Wang’s office is checking the mail to see which Social Security and work authorization cards have arrived. After six months in the country, most new arrivals applying for asylum can request permission to work; the paperwork then takes another month or two to process.
Wang said the U.S. immigration system is so backed up that most Mauritanian arrivals are still years away from receiving a hearing on their asylum claim.
When their cases are heard, the hardships in Mauritania are a powerful argument in favor of granting them asylum. Still, the migrants must show they were persecuted or feared being targeted. Many do not arrive with documents needed to prove their case — creating an open question of who will and won’t be allowed to stay.
In the meantime, there is relief in the tranquility of the suburbs.
After her brother’s murder in Mauritania, Aissata Sall embarked on a weeks-long journey, alone, through Turkey, South and Central America. When she got to the United States, she was detained and sent to a Louisiana detention center. Then she was let go, into a vast country where she knew almost no one.
But a relative did have Ball’s number.
He paid for her Uber ride to the airport and her ticket to Cincinnati.
“I’ve been suffering,” she said on a recent afternoon. “But right now, I’m okay.”
To feed and care for Sall and the other guests, Ball and his wife are pinching their pennies.
Each month, he goes to a local farm and buys a butchered cow for about $1,300. He has purchased a third freezer to store it in. He and his wife also buy 50-pound bags of rice and boxes of chicken and fish. In all it comes out to about $300 per person each month — $6,000 total for the entire household.
Standing in her living room, Ball’s wifesaid she fully understands the hardship that the Mauritanian immigrants are escaping. She whipped out her phone and played a graphic video that showed her cousin’s body after he was shot dead by police in early March.
But Aminata Ba now questions how much her family — and her house — can take in the name of compassion.
With Ball out of a job, the family relies on her work handling returned items at an Amazon warehouse and financial support from two adult children to make ends meet. They already had their hands full before the migrants arrived. Now the thought of another trip to the supermarket nearly makes her snap.
The box of fish they needed would cost $250. A 50-pound bag of rice is $52. A week’s supply of cooking oil will cost $50.
“We have had over 300 people pass through this house because they know my husband has a heart,” Ba said. “I buy everything for them — deodorant, toothpaste, soap. When they come across the border, they show up with one pair of pants and one shirt.”
“I can’t keep doing this over and over again,” she said.
For now, however, Ba knows she doesn’t have a choice. Dinner was approaching, and she needed to buy more groceries.
Eight of the migrants living at Ball’s home have now been in the country long enough to obtain permission to work while waiting for the asylum claims to be processed. Within days, each found a job at Koch Foods earning $16 to $18 an hour.
Grasping their Koch Foods identification badges, the Mauritanians squeeze into the back of Ball’s van. They are all eager to get to work, even though most have fairly mundane jobs packing food. All said they traveled to the United States in part to work.
“It’s just like I thought it would be,” said Amadou Sall, 20, who works as a machine operator at Koch Foods. “There is peace and happiness at work.”
Ball knows how much is at stake. Mothers, fathers and children back home are depending on them making it in America. There’s a lot at stake for him, too. Once the migrants earn enough, they will no longer rely on him for their survival.
Though he values President Biden’s compassion toward immigrants, at times even Ball contemplates whether the country has reached its limit, too.
“If they could close our borders for just a little bit,” Ball said, before an extended pause. “That would be great because right now too many people are coming and it’s too much … Everyone is tired.”
When Ball arrives at Koch Foods at 4:03 p.m., after being snarled in afternoon rush-hour traffic, the workers jump out of the van and run to the plant.
As soon as they do, Ball’s phone buzzes again. It’s another Mauritanian immigrant, a man in New York City. He wants to know how to get to Cincinnati.
Steven Rich contributed to this report.
Source link : https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2024/06/09/africa-immigration-shelter-mauritanians-cincinnati-ohio/
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Publish date : 2024-06-09 09:01:51
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