Elderly Refugees Losing Federal Payments Without Citizenship, Benefit Ends After 7 Years

It wasn't luxury, but it sure seemed that way to Iman Mohamed Osman, a Somali refugee. A subsidized, two-bedroom apartment on a traffic-clogged street in Arlington . A monthly payment of $545 from Social Security. And Medicaid to cover his blood-pressure medicine.

"From the first day they brought me here, I thought I was born again," said the 73-year-old tailor, who was resettled by the U.S. government in 1995, after Somali soldiers repeatedly brutalized his family and slashed his son's throat.

But a year ago, Osman's benefits suddenly stopped. Bewildered, he went to a Social Security office and learned of a measure that is having drastic consequences for some immigrants. Under a 1996 law, many refugees have seven years to become citizens -- or lose their Supplemental Security Income, a payment for poor elderly or disabled people. Osman says the horror in his homeland left him too traumatized to learn enough English for the naturalization test.

"The most powerful country in the world saved us. I'm thankful," said Osman, speaking through a translator. But, he said, since losing his benefits he no longer can afford his medication and must rely on his cash-strapped children for food. "I just want some help so I can survive."

Thousands of disabled and elderly refugees such as Osman are being cut off from federal benefits as a little-noticed provision of the 1996 welfare-reform law kicks in for a growing pool of people. The refugees could continue receiving Supplemental Security Income, sometimes their sole cash income, if they became citizens.

Supporters of the law argue that the refugees have been given ample time and support to naturalize. But refugee advocates say the citizenship tests are nearly impossible for some to pass.

Advocates and officials agree that those affected are a tiny fraction of the 7 million people who receive Supplemental Security Income, a safety net available to some poor people who don't qualify for Social Security. About 4,300 refugees and immigrants who were granted asylum have been notified that their benefits are being cut off this year, and approximately 7,800 face the same fate next year, according to the Social Security Administration.

"But each individual case is extremely tragic," said Josh Bernstein, a policy analyst with the National Immigration Law Center , an immigrant advocacy group. Many of those losing the payment face cancellation of other benefits, too, notably Medicaid, although some of them might qualify for health assistance in other ways.

The Welfare Reform Act of 1996 was aimed in part at curbing the spiraling use of public assistance by older immigrants. At the time, legislators were alarmed that many immigrants were sponsoring their parents but then neglecting pledges to support them. From 1982 to 1995, the number of elderly non-citizens receiving Supplemental Security Income quintupled, reaching nearly a half-million.

"Immigrants come to this country, hopefully, to contribute. To have them automatically eligible [for assistance] didn't make a lot of sense," said Lavinia Limon, at the time a key official dealing with welfare and refugees at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

But she and others argue that refugees are unique. Most immigrants must be sponsored by a relative or business for residency. Refugees, in contrast, are considered humanitarian cases.

"We do not make judgments about their ability to support themselves. The criterion is, they have been persecuted," said Limon, now executive director of Immigration and Refugee Services of America. Refugees and asylums typically make up a small percentage of foreigners granted U.S. residency.

Rep. E. Clay Shaw Jr. (R-Fla.), who helped write the 1996 law, said Congress recognized the difficulties faced by refugees by making some eligible for benefits for seven years -- something other poor, elderly immigrants don't have.

"We did this with a great deal of compassion, trying to do the best we could to help these people get back on their feet and obtain citizenship," he said.

"In any program, any welfare program, there are people who fall through the cracks," he said. "But you've got to set your goals, set your parameters, and then enforce them."

For Osman, the loss of benefits has been a severe blow. With no income, he said he lies awake nights worrying about how he can pay a recent hospital bill for $183.25. He lives with his wife and a son and gets help from his eight children in the United States . But he said they earn low wages and struggle to provide for their own families.

"Sometimes, if I don't have enough food, I drink water and go to bed," he said at a refugee-assistance center in Arlington .

In Somalia , where he ran a large tailoring shop, Osman never imagined he'd be in a center like this, wearing a hand-me-down blue shirt, faded tan jeans and yellow sneakers. "I was a man with a big name," he said. With trembling hands, he produced a photo showing a packed memorial service for his grandfather, a Sufi religious leader.

But one night, shortly after the Somali government collapsed in 1991, soldiers broke into Osman's Mogadishu home, apparently looking for money, he said. First they killed his brother. Then they gunned down his niece.

"Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" Osman cried, waving an imaginary automatic rifle. He stopped, hung his head and vigorously rubbed his bald pate. But he couldn't expunge the memories.

The soldiers returned with a jug of gasoline, he continued, dousing his screaming wife. "They set her hair on fire," he said, shuddering. Then, they shot and wounded his daughter-in-law, who was seven months pregnant.

A month later, marauding soldiers broke in again. They forced his son into a chair and, brandishing a knife, executed him in front of his terrified father.

A British aid worker came upon the bloodied, haunted family and videotaped their horror.

"That's what brought me to America ," Osman said. Evidence in hand, the family fled to Ethiopia and applied for the refugee program.

Officials at the Social Security Administration said refugees are notified about the seven-year limit when they start receiving benefits and are supposed to receive periodic reminders about becoming citizens. "Does this come as a surprise? It shouldn't," spokeswoman Carolyn Cheezum said.

Osman said he was stunned when his aid was cut. But he acknowledged that his memory has been failing since his family's tragedy.

"God knows, sometimes I get up and walk. I'm looking for something, but I don't know what it is," he said.

Advocates say that while some elderly refugees are too ill or traumatized to learn English, others struggle because they had little schooling in their homelands. That's particularly true of women, who account for nearly two-thirds of the non citizens receiving Supplemental Security Income.

For example, Le Thi Vang, 67, a Vietnamese refugee, made it through only fifth grade. "My father, he was old-fashioned. He thought girls didn't need a lot of education," she said through a translator. She arrived in 1994 with her husband, a former military officer who had spent a decade in a reeducation camp, and five of their 11 children.

"I study English one minute and forget it the next," the tiny Columbia Heights resident said softly. Her $265-a-month Supplemental Security Income payment was cut off in 2001 because she didn't naturalize within seven years.

Her husband, who was more educated, became a citizen in 2000 and receives the federal benefit. But the couple is so pressed for cash that they separated recently, each living with their adult children a few blocks apart.

"You know, it affected me a lot. Before, we could afford to pay for our place," said Vang, who visits her husband daily in a one-bedroom apartment he shares with three sons.

Steven A. Camarota of the Center for Immigration Studies, which advocates less immigration, said elderly refugees are far more likely to use Supplemental Security Income than natives are. But, he said it is unreasonable to expect all of them to navigate the citizenship process.

"It's clearly one of the unavoidable costs of immigration," he said. "It's why you want the rest of your immigrant flow to be more educated and not using a lot of welfare."

Language is not the only barrier for those facing the seven-year limit. Asylums face another hurdle: Only 10,000 a year are allowed to become permanent residents, the first step toward citizenship. Unlike refugees, asylums generally apply for residence in the United States , not abroad. But some have to wait up to 10 years for residency papers because of the annual cap.

Some refugee organizations are looking at expanding their citizenship classes to accommodate those facing a cutoff in benefits.

"We're really scared. The [refugee resettlement] agencies are starting to really get the heat," said Seyoum Berhe of the Arlington Diocese Office of Resettlement.

But some immigrants said they feel even extra study won't help. In eight years in the United States , Osman has picked up just a few English words.

For example: "Have a nice day."

And: "God bless you."

And: "Help," he says, blinking back tears. "Help."