The war in Somalia and the years he spent in Kenya's refugee camps represent another life, another world for Musa Matan.

He'd rather not talk about the squalid place where persecuted Somali Bantus sought refuge, the paltry food rations or the unforgiving hot sun. But he will talk about it, if only to explain how good life is since he and his wife, Fatuma Aden, left that world behind and moved to east Nashville.

"That was the toughest place I'll ever see in my life," Matan, 69, said through a translator. "Now we are so happy. We are so glad to be in this country."

A civil war has been raging in Somalia for about 15 years, and Somali refugees of varied clans have relocated to the United States since the late 1990s. Matan arrived in Nashville about three years ago through political asylum laws that welcome refugees who can't return to their home countries for fear of persecution or death.

Matan is part of what has been a rapidly growing Middle Tennessee Somali community, estimated to number in the thousands. But an agreement last week between rival Somali leaders could bring the fighting to an end and dramatically slow the influx of that country's refugees to the Midstate.

When the fighting began, combatants roamed the region near the Somali port town of Kismaayo, where Matan's farmland was located. Some Bantus were killed for their food, Matan said, so he fled with his wife and children. The family became separated while in hiding along with hundreds of other Bantus in a massive cave.

They were reunited by the United Nations at a Kenyan refugee camp. But that joy was soon replaced by the realities of camp life. They lived in cramped spaces and abject poverty for 12 years at different camps. His grown children eventually returned to Somalia. Matan and Aden arrived in Nashville almost three years ago. The United States was even better than they imagined.

"I expected life here to be just a little better than the camp," Matan said.
At their apartment on South Sixth Street, Matan and Aden no longer fear for their safety or possessions. There's plenty of living space and food in the refrigerator. Many of their neighbors in the public housing complex once lived with them in Kenyan refugee camps.

Even if peace spreads throughout Matan's native country, life is likely to remain difficult for the Bantus who remain in Somalia. An oppressed group of Somalis who once served as slaves, Bantus generally live in rural areas, receive minimal education and often can't read or write, said a spokesman for the U.S. Bureau of Population, Refugees and Migration.

"The Bantu, particularly, are a very marginalized group in Somalia," said Peter Eisenhauer, a public diplomacy officer at the bureau. "They were essentially slaves at one time. Peace is not going to immediately improve their prospects for living a decent life in Somalia."

In recent years, the U.S. has become home to more than 13,000 Somali members of the Bantu clan. The U.S. government named the Bantus a priority three years ago to more quickly relocate them. That designation was recently lifted because so many Bantus have been moved out of harm's way.

Relief agencies say Nashville's refugee population has always ebbed and flowed with the tide of the world's conflicts.

Catholic Charities relocated about 300 Bosnians to the Midstate during the height of ethnic cleansing in that country. Nashville's largest refugee group during the past decade is Kurds, many from northern Iraq.

But the recent wave of Somalis has made them the biggest group of clients for local relief groups, according to officials from Catholic Charities and World Relief Inc. Even if the peace holds in Somalia, the flow of people from that country won't end overnight.

"Lots of times in places with a peace accord, there is still fighting and we still see refugees coming," said Holly Lynn Johnson, director of refugee and immigration services for Catholic Charities of Tennessee.

Iraqis and Kurds who applied for resettlement still came for a couple of years after U.S. troops toppled Iraq's dictatorship in 2003, Johnson said. But there have been virtually no political refugees from Iraq recently.

"If this peace agreement holds true, we can expect to see no more Somali (refugees) within the next few years," Johnson said.

Matan attends English classes three days a week and takes part in the Catholic Charities elder program designed specifically for older refugees. He tends a community garden along with Sudanese, Congolese and Guatemalan elders, communicating with the limited English they've learned, or by pointing and using hand gestures. He takes weekly yoga classes, not wanting to let a battle with prostate cancer keep him from being active.

All the activities are meant to bring the refugees toward a more social, healthy and self-sufficient lifestyle, said Laurie Soileau of Catholic Charities. Cultural and language barriers often lead elderly refugees to isolate themselves, Soileau said.

"We want them to be engaged and have goals," Soileau said.

After five years in the country, political refugees are eligible to become U.S. citizens.

Matan already keeps a small American flag pinned to his collar. He is grateful for his wife's job at Goodwill Industries, his Social Security check and the freedom to live as he chooses.

"There are no words to say how wonderful life is now," he said. 

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