Leave the land of the free

Last month, finally, Bendu Simpson told her young daughter about the ticking clock that keeps Mum awake at night: Come October, no more karate class, no more zoo trips to see the otters, no more zipping around smooth suburban streets on your purple scooter. No more toilets, showers or central air conditioning.

On a recent night, 8-year-old Ami picked at her popcorn shrimp basket in the cool confines of a Red Lobster in Gaithersburg, Maryland and described her feelings upon learning she might soon have to abandon their neat Clarksburg, Maryland, townhouse for the war-shattered terrain of her mother's native Liberia, a nation Ami has never seen.

"Mad", grumbled Ami, her dark eyes gazing at the table. "I thought, I'm not going back. I'm scared of the things that are there."

Fear and anger are pulsing these days through the Liberian community in the Washington region and nationwide. Barring action by the Bush administration or Congress, Simpson and about 3,500 other Liberians will be subject to deportation on October 1. Since 1991, they have been allowed to live and work in the United States while civil war seethed in their homeland. They have had children, bought homes, paid taxes — and they want to stay. But last year, the US government deemed their West African nation stable, so Liberians with temporary protected status must go.

"You've come to a greener pasture and are trying to make a better life for you and your family, and all of a sudden it's going to be taken away from you," said Simpson, 38, a financial counsellor, her words trailing off as she looked worriedly at Ami. "It's hard. Because I've worked hard here in America."

Still inhospitable

Liberia's bloodshed ended after 14 years in 2003, and President Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf is trying to build democracy out of devastation. But Liberians in the United States say the country is still no place to return to. Electricity is scarce, as is running water. According to a 2006 UN report, 85 per cent of Liberians are unemployed. The average life expectancy is 39 years, and just 26 doctors practice in the country of 3.4 million. Malnutrition and infectious disease are rampant. The CIA World Factbook refers to the security situation, which is aided by 15,000 UN peacekeepers, as "still volatile".

The Liberian government does not want them back — not yet. The country has no jobs or homes for them and an influx of jobless people could imperil the nation's tenuous stability, Liberian Ambassador Charles A. Minor said in an interview. Liberia's rebirth depends on expatriates, he said: According to a government analysis, Liberians in the United States sent $6 million to their homeland over the past 15 months.

Simpson estimates that her earnings support 10 to 15 relatives, nearly all of whom have no jobs. She was visiting the United States in 1998 when a rebel uprising occurred in Liberia and she learned she was pregnant with Ami. She stayed under temporary protected status, or TPS, a permit granted to nationals of a few countries beset by conflict or disaster.

Many Liberians with TPS became permanent residents through marriage or work. But those without sponsors have renewed their permits each year, paid their taxes and stayed put, hoping for a solution. TPS holders cannot leave the United States except in extreme circumstances. One chance died last month with the failed Senate immigration bill, which would have given them a path to residency. Now, as they have each year since 1999, they are pinning hope on a legislation sponsored by Senator Jack Reed of Rhode Island, which would grant permanent residency to Liberians in the United States. A similar bill has been proposed in the House of Representatives.

It is "an issue of fairness," Reed said. "They've worked very hard, and they have been part of the community."

Each year, the bill has gone nowhere. Liberians fear that current national tensions over immigration might doom it again.

That is likely, said Mark Krikorian, executive director of the Centre for Immigration Studies, which supports limits on immigration. "It really does highlight the absurdity of 'permanent temporary status,' " Krikorian said. "Either we make them leave or we convert their status to something permanent."

Community leaders say panic is mounting. Some TPS holders have lost jobs because their employers noticed their imminent work permit expiration dates, Lloyd said. She said some will go underground in the United States rather than return to Liberia, joining the illegal immigrants with whom they so dislike being compared.

On a recent Sunday, a group of women gathered after a spirited service at the Little White Chapel in Silver Spring, Maryland, a Liberian Pentecostal church. The sermon was about having faith. The women said they were losing it.

"We are not a liability to the US!" shouted one woman, sounding like a preacher. "We are not!" echoed a church regular.

"We contribute to the community!" the first said. "We contribute!"

"We are not going," vowed Gaithersburg resident, Jandera Bamah. "We are going to hang onto any branch on the tree."