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CNN
13-07-2025
- Politics
- CNN
It can be scary to be a refugee. New York's famed culinary scene is teaching these newcomers how to thrive
Immigration FacebookTweetLink Alpha Oumar Diallo hunches over a kitchen counter at a library café in Brooklyn, his nose hovering above a plastic container of brownie batter. Eyebrows furrowed, he tries to pinpoint where this batch went wrong. 'I don't know what you did,' chef Ashley Fils-Aime lectures from behind him, both hands on her hips. 'But I can tell you it's shiny and dark and not as solid as the other mixtures.' Diallo and his classmates groan. Can they at least give it a go in the oven, they ask. Fils-Aime shakes her head. 'Throw it away,' she says, 'immediately.' However stern, the rebuff is also gentle. It could never match what this man was facing just three years ago. Back in his native Guinea, Diallo's evenings had been a blend of watching soccer and baking. As he kneaded dough for bread, biscuits or cookies, his shouts of 'Goal! Goal! Goal!' echoed through the kitchen, replaced with disappointed grumbles when his favorite player missed a shot. But as his west African nation's government began to tighten personal and press freedoms, Diallo joined thousands protesting in the capital Conakry. Military personnel brutally beat him, he says, leaving scars. He got arrested, he continues, leading to three months curled up in a tiny prison cell, tortured and starved, the agonized screams of others being electrocuted within earshot. After another arrest for protesting – a two-month ordeal – Diallo's family urged him to leave, he says. So, in August 2022, he set out on a grueling, two-week journey through Senegal, to Turkey, across the ocean to Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala, then an 11-hour nighttime walk through Mexico to the US border in California. With little more than a backpack, Diallo eventually made it to New York with the help of his uncle. He struggled for months to find work before a new friend – aware of his love of baking – told him about a special school tucked inside a Brooklyn Public Library branch near historic Prospect Park that teaches newcomers like him how to cook. In a city long celebrated for gastronomic excellence and diverse international cuisines, nearly 60% of New York restaurant workers are foreign-born, many having brought a wealth of culinary knowledge. Not all arrive, though, with the skills to survive in a professional kitchen. And refugees can face peculiar workplace stresses rooted in the political violence or extreme poverty they fled. For some, the Trump administration's immigration crackdown now exacerbates the strain. Diallo holds up his cell phone to show a photo of his six sisters and mother, still in Guinea, where safety and freedom – especially of girls and women – are not guaranteed. He has requested asylum in the United States and hopes eventually to bring his relatives here, too. He kisses the screen and smiles. Tears begin to fall. 'Anywhere I go, anywhere I am,' he says, 'I'm thinking about them.' Also never far is Diallo's work ethic: 'I learned it from the advice of my father,' he says. 'A man has to work for himself, for his integrity, for his honor. It isn't easy, what we go through to get here or what we have escaped.' Diallo kisses the phone screen again and wipes his cheek with a small towel. Then, he turns to grab a fresh container for the next batch of brownie batter. About 15 minutes away by bus, at this cooking school's other café, a quiet morning slips into a busy afternoon, soft light spilling over every table. In the corner by the windows, two gray-haired friends trade cups of coffee, pausing to contemplate flavors. Eyebrows lifted in approval, they dive back into a passionate exchange of stories. Migrants shape every corner of the place, which like its counterpart at the Brooklyn library is called Emma's Torch to honor the poet whose verses on the Statue of Liberty's pedestal beckon the world's 'tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' Ani Tsetskhladze, in a black apron and a cap, chops up onions, peppers and mushrooms for an omelet sandwich soon to be served to the table where a couple, immersed in playful banter, sip glasses of red wine. Her apron bears a simple quote: 'In the eyes of the stove, we are all equal.' 'After my first week here, I realized I didn't know many things about myself,' Tsetskhladze says a few minutes later, sitting with her hands in her lap. 'I was always a very quiet person inside. But now I see I am very competitive. You come here and you start learning, and you immediately want to be the best.' The soft-spoken mother of three immigrated from the former Soviet republic of Georgia with her husband – her love since they were 9 years old – and their three children. 'The Georgian government is now pro-Russian, and there is severe discrimination against minority groups,' Tsetskhladze explains. 'Everything went from worse to worse for us. I was on the street demonstrating, and we were tired. For our children, I would like a better life.' Georgia's ruling party recently passed a 'foreign agents' bill likened to Russian laws used to silence dissent. Hundreds of arrestees have alleged beatings, torture and other ill-treatment by law enforcement, while opposition politicians have faced public assaults. In Tbilisi, Tsetskhladze was an actress who quietly dreamt of attending culinary school, an ambition she could not afford. Breaking into New York's competitive theatre scene, especially with a language barrier, proved challenging, so when Tsetskhladze found Emma's Torch, it felt like destiny. Tsetskhladze and other migrants in this kitchen are among over 500 students at this school who are paid to get culinary training, funded by private donors. The non-profit's mission is to empower them and help them gain employment, confidence and financial independence while overcoming the challenges and traumas of forced migration. Culinary careers also can present invaluable opportunities for immigrants, especially in New York, where they can embrace their full identities – including their knowledge of native dishes – in the rich mosaic of ethnic restaurants. The menus at both Emma's Torch cafés – plus one in Washington, DC, and its catering operation – reflect this diversity. Dishes like the black-eyed pea fritter salad and North African shakshuka are inspired by students' cultural identities. The menus are part of the curriculum, so students learn how to master every recipe. 'We also learn about the history of food, especially talking about colonization through food. What does it mean to have certain flavors, like hummus, that originated in some countries now be seen as the norm in others?' says Kira O'Brien, Emma's Torch's chief impact officer. While 60% of the culinary program curriculum is divided into fundamentals, covering skills like knife techniques, kitchen sanitation, food safety and recipe reading, the remainder focuses on equity, employability and empowerment. A 'Know Your Rights' workshop, for instance, helps migrants understand the law and learn self-advocacy. Students also learn to read a paycheck – and protect against wage theft and employer exploitation. Some workshops are led by Natalie Manukian, a program specialist whose lesson on a recent day focuses on how students should research restaurants, using three specific examples. The daughter of Armenian immigrants, Manukian wears an evil eye pendant over her black turtleneck, her hair in an elegant, messy bun. 'This is the country of immigrants,' she says. 'Whether you were born here or your parents were born here, somebody in your lineage immigrated to this country, and no one should have the right to decide who can or can't be here.' Vicheslav Komotopchyk prefers not to dwell on his trauma. He leans back against the wall, his classmates listening as they cook, and recalls the day he fled Ukraine after Russia's 2022 invasion, one of some 10 million Ukrainians now displaced by the war. 'Take your time,' he says he first told his children as they prepared to flee. Fifteen minutes later, a missile flew past their kitchen window, striking a few blocks away and shaking their house, he says. 'After that I told them, 'Never mind, hurry!'' Within minutes that day, Komotopchyk's wife, three children and father-in-law – along with hastily packed backpacks – were crammed into a minibus, he continues. They drove for nearly 28 hours, he recalls, slowed by heavy evacuation traffic until they reached Warsaw, Poland. 'I don't like to think about it,' he says, shrugging. 'We did what we had to do, that's it. I can't keep counting: How many rockets? How many bombs? How many people died?' Almost every student at Emma's Torch has a story like this: fleeing war or violence, driven by the choice to pursue a safe future for their families or lose everything. 'When you're working with folks who have experienced trauma, there are certain things that we try to be really mindful of,' O'Brien says from a table in front of the library café. In New York, where waves of undocumented immigrants and asylum-seekers arriving by bus from Texas have ignited national debate, sudden shifts – in public policy or daily routine – can be devastating. Some 234,000 migrants have come through the city intake system since spring of 2022, with more than 41,000 still relying on shelters, Mayor Eric Adam's office told CNN in April. 'We try to make sure they're feeling psychologically safe,' O'Brien says of Emma's Torch's students. 'But when you have ambiguity about your own physical safety on where you're going to live and things are out of your control, they become really scary, especially for survivors of forced migration.' The cooking school collaborates with other non-profits to make sure each student gets health care, shelter, food and access to immigration lawyers. Meanwhile, instructors teach with a focus on transparency and accountability. 'If I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs?' I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs because they're going to need it later for service?'' O'Brien explains. 'That's very different from the experience a lot of our students have had, where it's been: 'Get in that line.' You don't know why you're in that line, you don't know what's gonna happen to your kids, you don't know anything.' Students also are empowered to make their own decisions, from which marker their teacher will use on the whiteboard to new menu suggestions. The authority, O'Brien says, is deeply meaningful, especially to migrants living in shelters, where they have no say in where they sleep, what they eat or, sometimes, what they wear. 'Think about all the different ways across the migration experience that people lose pieces of their humanity,' O'Brien says. 'Trauma-informed care tries to help add those pieces right back.' In the kitchens of Emma's Torch, migrants run nearly the whole operation. And for his part, Diallo isn't giving up on the brownies. He pours out a fresh round of batter and slides the tray into the oven. After one of his releases from a Guinean prison, his friends and family begged him to stop protesting. 'But I was not fighting for myself,' Diallo says with conviction. 'I was fighting for the future, for the new generation.' Now, he longs for those evenings back home, baking interrupted by soccer chatter and the giggles of his mother and sisters. He yearns to walk the streets of his hometown, to hear his native language, to feel his land beneath his feet again. Above all, he dreams of a homeland where freedom is not just a hope. Diallo also wishes for freedom for himself in the United States, even amid his concerns the asylum process – already long and uncertain – will be more challenging under Trump's governance. 'If you don't have freedom, to me, dying is better,' he says. In this New York kitchen, he can taste it. The oven timer dings. The scent of brownies fill the air. 'And thank God,' he says, 'I am finally free.'
CNN
13-07-2025
- Politics
- CNN
It can be scary to be a refugee. New York's famed culinary scene is teaching these newcomers how to thrive
Alpha Oumar Diallo hunches over a kitchen counter at a library café in Brooklyn, his nose hovering above a plastic container of brownie batter. Eyebrows furrowed, he tries to pinpoint where this batch went wrong. 'I don't know what you did,' chef Ashley Fils-Aime lectures from behind him, both hands on her hips. 'But I can tell you it's shiny and dark and not as solid as the other mixtures.' Diallo and his classmates groan. Can they at least give it a go in the oven, they ask. Fils-Aime shakes her head. 'Throw it away,' she says, 'immediately.' However stern, the rebuff is also gentle. It could never match what this man was facing just three years ago. Back in his native Guinea, Diallo's evenings had been a blend of watching soccer and baking. As he kneaded dough for bread, biscuits or cookies, his shouts of 'Goal! Goal! Goal!' echoed through the kitchen, replaced with disappointed grumbles when his favorite player missed a shot. But as his west African nation's government began to tighten personal and press freedoms, Diallo joined thousands protesting in the capital Conakry. Military personnel brutally beat him, he says, leaving scars. He got arrested, he continues, leading to three months curled up in a tiny prison cell, tortured and starved, the agonized screams of others being electrocuted within earshot. After another arrest for protesting – a two-month ordeal – Diallo's family urged him to leave, he says. So, in August 2022, he set out on a grueling, two-week journey through Senegal, to Turkey, across the ocean to Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala, then an 11-hour nighttime walk through Mexico to the US border in California. With little more than a backpack, Diallo eventually made it to New York with the help of his uncle. He struggled for months to find work before a new friend – aware of his love of baking – told him about a special school tucked inside a Brooklyn Public Library branch near historic Prospect Park that teaches newcomers like him how to cook. In a city long celebrated for gastronomic excellence and diverse international cuisines, nearly 60% of New York restaurant workers are foreign-born, many having brought a wealth of culinary knowledge. Not all arrive, though, with the skills to survive in a professional kitchen. And refugees can face peculiar workplace stresses rooted in the political violence or extreme poverty they fled. For some, the Trump administration's immigration crackdown now exacerbates the strain. Diallo holds up his cell phone to show a photo of his six sisters and mother, still in Guinea, where safety and freedom – especially of girls and women – are not guaranteed. He has requested asylum in the United States and hopes eventually to bring his relatives here, too. He kisses the screen and smiles. Tears begin to fall. 'Anywhere I go, anywhere I am,' he says, 'I'm thinking about them.' Also never far is Diallo's work ethic: 'I learned it from the advice of my father,' he says. 'A man has to work for himself, for his integrity, for his honor. It isn't easy, what we go through to get here or what we have escaped.' Diallo kisses the phone screen again and wipes his cheek with a small towel. Then, he turns to grab a fresh container for the next batch of brownie batter. About 15 minutes away by bus, at this cooking school's other café, a quiet morning slips into a busy afternoon, soft light spilling over every table. In the corner by the windows, two gray-haired friends trade cups of coffee, pausing to contemplate flavors. Eyebrows lifted in approval, they dive back into a passionate exchange of stories. Migrants shape every corner of the place, which like its counterpart at the Brooklyn library is called Emma's Torch to honor the poet whose verses on the Statue of Liberty's pedestal beckon the world's 'tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' Ani Tsetskhladze, in a black apron and a cap, chops up onions, peppers and mushrooms for an omelet sandwich soon to be served to the table where a couple, immersed in playful banter, sip glasses of red wine. Her apron bears a simple quote: 'In the eyes of the stove, we are all equal.' 'After my first week here, I realized I didn't know many things about myself,' Tsetskhladze says a few minutes later, sitting with her hands in her lap. 'I was always a very quiet person inside. But now I see I am very competitive. You come here and you start learning, and you immediately want to be the best.' The soft-spoken mother of three immigrated from the former Soviet republic of Georgia with her husband – her love since they were 9 years old – and their three children. 'The Georgian government is now pro-Russian, and there is severe discrimination against minority groups,' Tsetskhladze explains. 'Everything went from worse to worse for us. I was on the street demonstrating, and we were tired. For our children, I would like a better life.' Georgia's ruling party recently passed a 'foreign agents' bill likened to Russian laws used to silence dissent. Hundreds of arrestees have alleged beatings, torture and other ill-treatment by law enforcement, while opposition politicians have faced public assaults. In Tbilisi, Tsetskhladze was an actress who quietly dreamt of attending culinary school, an ambition she could not afford. Breaking into New York's competitive theatre scene, especially with a language barrier, proved challenging, so when Tsetskhladze found Emma's Torch, it felt like destiny. Tsetskhladze and other migrants in this kitchen are among over 500 students at this school who are paid to get culinary training, funded by private donors. The non-profit's mission is to empower them and help them gain employment, confidence and financial independence while overcoming the challenges and traumas of forced migration. Culinary careers also can present invaluable opportunities for immigrants, especially in New York, where they can embrace their full identities – including their knowledge of native dishes – in the rich mosaic of ethnic restaurants. The menus at both Emma's Torch cafés – plus one in Washington, DC, and its catering operation – reflect this diversity. Dishes like the black-eyed pea fritter salad and North African shakshuka are inspired by students' cultural identities. The menus are part of the curriculum, so students learn how to master every recipe. 'We also learn about the history of food, especially talking about colonization through food. What does it mean to have certain flavors, like hummus, that originated in some countries now be seen as the norm in others?' says Kira O'Brien, Emma's Torch's chief impact officer. While 60% of the culinary program curriculum is divided into fundamentals, covering skills like knife techniques, kitchen sanitation, food safety and recipe reading, the remainder focuses on equity, employability and empowerment. A 'Know Your Rights' workshop, for instance, helps migrants understand the law and learn self-advocacy. Students also learn to read a paycheck – and protect against wage theft and employer exploitation. Some workshops are led by Natalie Manukian, a program specialist whose lesson on a recent day focuses on how students should research restaurants, using three specific examples. The daughter of Armenian immigrants, Manukian wears an evil eye pendant over her black turtleneck, her hair in an elegant, messy bun. 'This is the country of immigrants,' she says. 'Whether you were born here or your parents were born here, somebody in your lineage immigrated to this country, and no one should have the right to decide who can or can't be here.' Vicheslav Komotopchyk prefers not to dwell on his trauma. He leans back against the wall, his classmates listening as they cook, and recalls the day he fled Ukraine after Russia's 2022 invasion, one of some 10 million Ukrainians now displaced by the war. 'Take your time,' he says he first told his children as they prepared to flee. Fifteen minutes later, a missile flew past their kitchen window, striking a few blocks away and shaking their house, he says. 'After that I told them, 'Never mind, hurry!'' Within minutes that day, Komotopchyk's wife, three children and father-in-law – along with hastily packed backpacks – were crammed into a minibus, he continues. They drove for nearly 28 hours, he recalls, slowed by heavy evacuation traffic until they reached Warsaw, Poland. 'I don't like to think about it,' he says, shrugging. 'We did what we had to do, that's it. I can't keep counting: How many rockets? How many bombs? How many people died?' Almost every student at Emma's Torch has a story like this: fleeing war or violence, driven by the choice to pursue a safe future for their families or lose everything. 'When you're working with folks who have experienced trauma, there are certain things that we try to be really mindful of,' O'Brien says from a table in front of the library café. In New York, where waves of undocumented immigrants and asylum-seekers arriving by bus from Texas have ignited national debate, sudden shifts – in public policy or daily routine – can be devastating. Some 234,000 migrants have come through the city intake system since spring of 2022, with more than 41,000 still relying on shelters, Mayor Eric Adam's office told CNN in April. 'We try to make sure they're feeling psychologically safe,' O'Brien says of Emma's Torch's students. 'But when you have ambiguity about your own physical safety on where you're going to live and things are out of your control, they become really scary, especially for survivors of forced migration.' The cooking school collaborates with other non-profits to make sure each student gets health care, shelter, food and access to immigration lawyers. Meanwhile, instructors teach with a focus on transparency and accountability. 'If I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs?' I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs because they're going to need it later for service?'' O'Brien explains. 'That's very different from the experience a lot of our students have had, where it's been: 'Get in that line.' You don't know why you're in that line, you don't know what's gonna happen to your kids, you don't know anything.' Students also are empowered to make their own decisions, from which marker their teacher will use on the whiteboard to new menu suggestions. The authority, O'Brien says, is deeply meaningful, especially to migrants living in shelters, where they have no say in where they sleep, what they eat or, sometimes, what they wear. 'Think about all the different ways across the migration experience that people lose pieces of their humanity,' O'Brien says. 'Trauma-informed care tries to help add those pieces right back.' In the kitchens of Emma's Torch, migrants run nearly the whole operation. And for his part, Diallo isn't giving up on the brownies. He pours out a fresh round of batter and slides the tray into the oven. After one of his releases from a Guinean prison, his friends and family begged him to stop protesting. 'But I was not fighting for myself,' Diallo says with conviction. 'I was fighting for the future, for the new generation.' Now, he longs for those evenings back home, baking interrupted by soccer chatter and the giggles of his mother and sisters. He yearns to walk the streets of his hometown, to hear his native language, to feel his land beneath his feet again. Above all, he dreams of a homeland where freedom is not just a hope. Diallo also wishes for freedom for himself in the United States, even amid his concerns the asylum process – already long and uncertain – will be more challenging under Trump's governance. 'If you don't have freedom, to me, dying is better,' he says. In this New York kitchen, he can taste it. The oven timer dings. The scent of brownies fill the air. 'And thank God,' he says, 'I am finally free.'
CNN
13-07-2025
- Politics
- CNN
It can be scary to be a refugee. New York's famed culinary scene is teaching these newcomers how to thrive
ImmigrationFacebookTweetLink Follow Alpha Oumar Diallo hunches over a kitchen counter at a library café in Brooklyn, his nose hovering above a plastic container of brownie batter. Eyebrows furrowed, he tries to pinpoint where this batch went wrong. 'I don't know what you did,' chef Ashley Fils-Aime lectures from behind him, both hands on her hips. 'But I can tell you it's shiny and dark and not as solid as the other mixtures.' Diallo and his classmates groan. Can they at least give it a go in the oven, they ask. Fils-Aime shakes her head. 'Throw it away,' she says, 'immediately.' However stern, the rebuff is also gentle. It could never match what this man was facing just three years ago. Back in his native Guinea, Diallo's evenings had been a blend of watching soccer and baking. As he kneaded dough for bread, biscuits or cookies, his shouts of 'Goal! Goal! Goal!' echoed through the kitchen, replaced with disappointed grumbles when his favorite player missed a shot. But as his west African nation's government began to tighten personal and press freedoms, Diallo joined thousands protesting in the capital Conakry. Military personnel brutally beat him, he says, leaving scars. He got arrested, he continues, leading to three months curled up in a tiny prison cell, tortured and starved, the agonized screams of others being electrocuted within earshot. After another arrest for protesting – a two-month ordeal – Diallo's family urged him to leave, he says. So, in August 2022, he set out on a grueling, two-week journey through Senegal, to Turkey, across the ocean to Nicaragua, Honduras and Guatemala, then an 11-hour nighttime walk through Mexico to the US border in California. With little more than a backpack, Diallo eventually made it to New York with the help of his uncle. He struggled for months to find work before a new friend – aware of his love of baking – told him about a special school tucked inside a Brooklyn Public Library branch near historic Prospect Park that teaches newcomers like him how to cook. In a city long celebrated for gastronomic excellence and diverse international cuisines, nearly 60% of New York restaurant workers are foreign-born, many having brought a wealth of culinary knowledge. Not all arrive, though, with the skills to survive in a professional kitchen. And refugees can face peculiar workplace stresses rooted in the political violence or extreme poverty they fled. For some, the Trump administration's immigration crackdown now exacerbates the strain. Diallo holds up his cell phone to show a photo of his six sisters and mother, still in Guinea, where safety and freedom – especially of girls and women – are not guaranteed. He has requested asylum in the United States and hopes eventually to bring his relatives here, too. He kisses the screen and smiles. Tears begin to fall. 'Anywhere I go, anywhere I am,' he says, 'I'm thinking about them.' Also never far is Diallo's work ethic: 'I learned it from the advice of my father,' he says. 'A man has to work for himself, for his integrity, for his honor. It isn't easy, what we go through to get here or what we have escaped.' Diallo kisses the phone screen again and wipes his cheek with a small towel. Then, he turns to grab a fresh container for the next batch of brownie batter. About 15 minutes away by bus, at this cooking school's other café, a quiet morning slips into a busy afternoon, soft light spilling over every table. In the corner by the windows, two gray-haired friends trade cups of coffee, pausing to contemplate flavors. Eyebrows lifted in approval, they dive back into a passionate exchange of stories. Migrants shape every corner of the place, which like its counterpart at the Brooklyn library is called Emma's Torch to honor the poet whose verses on the Statue of Liberty's pedestal beckon the world's 'tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' Ani Tsetskhladze, in a black apron and a cap, chops up onions, peppers and mushrooms for an omelet sandwich soon to be served to the table where a couple, immersed in playful banter, sip glasses of red wine. Her apron bears a simple quote: 'In the eyes of the stove, we are all equal.' 'After my first week here, I realized I didn't know many things about myself,' Tsetskhladze says a few minutes later, sitting with her hands in her lap. 'I was always a very quiet person inside. But now I see I am very competitive. You come here and you start learning, and you immediately want to be the best.' The soft-spoken mother of three immigrated from the former Soviet republic of Georgia with her husband – her love since they were 9 years old – and their three children. 'The Georgian government is now pro-Russian, and there is severe discrimination against minority groups,' Tsetskhladze explains. 'Everything went from worse to worse for us. I was on the street demonstrating, and we were tired. For our children, I would like a better life.' Georgia's ruling party recently passed a 'foreign agents' bill likened to Russian laws used to silence dissent. Hundreds of arrestees have alleged beatings, torture and other ill-treatment by law enforcement, while opposition politicians have faced public assaults. In Tbilisi, Tsetskhladze was an actress who quietly dreamt of attending culinary school, an ambition she could not afford. Breaking into New York's competitive theatre scene, especially with a language barrier, proved challenging, so when Tsetskhladze found Emma's Torch, it felt like destiny. Tsetskhladze and other migrants in this kitchen are among over 500 students at this school who are paid to get culinary training, funded by private donors. The non-profit's mission is to empower them and help them gain employment, confidence and financial independence while overcoming the challenges and traumas of forced migration. Culinary careers also can present invaluable opportunities for immigrants, especially in New York, where they can embrace their full identities – including their knowledge of native dishes – in the rich mosaic of ethnic restaurants. The menus at both Emma's Torch cafés – plus one in Washington, DC, and its catering operation – reflect this diversity. Dishes like the black-eyed pea fritter salad and North African shakshuka are inspired by students' cultural identities. The menus are part of the curriculum, so students learn how to master every recipe. 'We also learn about the history of food, especially talking about colonization through food. What does it mean to have certain flavors, like hummus, that originated in some countries now be seen as the norm in others?' says Kira O'Brien, Emma's Torch's chief impact officer. While 60% of the culinary program curriculum is divided into fundamentals, covering skills like knife techniques, kitchen sanitation, food safety and recipe reading, the remainder focuses on equity, employability and empowerment. A 'Know Your Rights' workshop, for instance, helps migrants understand the law and learn self-advocacy. Students also learn to read a paycheck – and protect against wage theft and employer exploitation. Some workshops are led by Natalie Manukian, a program specialist whose lesson on a recent day focuses on how students should research restaurants, using three specific examples. The daughter of Armenian immigrants, Manukian wears an evil eye pendant over her black turtleneck, her hair in an elegant, messy bun. 'This is the country of immigrants,' she says. 'Whether you were born here or your parents were born here, somebody in your lineage immigrated to this country, and no one should have the right to decide who can or can't be here.' Vicheslav Komotopchyk prefers not to dwell on his trauma. He leans back against the wall, his classmates listening as they cook, and recalls the day he fled Ukraine after Russia's 2022 invasion, one of some 10 million Ukrainians now displaced by the war. 'Take your time,' he says he first told his children as they prepared to flee. Fifteen minutes later, a missile flew past their kitchen window, striking a few blocks away and shaking their house, he says. 'After that I told them, 'Never mind, hurry!'' Within minutes that day, Komotopchyk's wife, three children and father-in-law – along with hastily packed backpacks – were crammed into a minibus, he continues. They drove for nearly 28 hours, he recalls, slowed by heavy evacuation traffic until they reached Warsaw, Poland. 'I don't like to think about it,' he says, shrugging. 'We did what we had to do, that's it. I can't keep counting: How many rockets? How many bombs? How many people died?' Almost every student at Emma's Torch has a story like this: fleeing war or violence, driven by the choice to pursue a safe future for their families or lose everything. 'When you're working with folks who have experienced trauma, there are certain things that we try to be really mindful of,' O'Brien says from a table in front of the library café. In New York, where waves of undocumented immigrants and asylum-seekers arriving by bus from Texas have ignited national debate, sudden shifts – in public policy or daily routine – can be devastating. Some 234,000 migrants have come through the city intake system since spring of 2022, with more than 41,000 still relying on shelters, Mayor Eric Adam's office told CNN in April. 'We try to make sure they're feeling psychologically safe,' O'Brien says of Emma's Torch's students. 'But when you have ambiguity about your own physical safety on where you're going to live and things are out of your control, they become really scary, especially for survivors of forced migration.' The cooking school collaborates with other non-profits to make sure each student gets health care, shelter, food and access to immigration lawyers. Meanwhile, instructors teach with a focus on transparency and accountability. 'If I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs?' I'm going to say, 'Hey, can you bring this upstairs because they're going to need it later for service?'' O'Brien explains. 'That's very different from the experience a lot of our students have had, where it's been: 'Get in that line.' You don't know why you're in that line, you don't know what's gonna happen to your kids, you don't know anything.' Students also are empowered to make their own decisions, from which marker their teacher will use on the whiteboard to new menu suggestions. The authority, O'Brien says, is deeply meaningful, especially to migrants living in shelters, where they have no say in where they sleep, what they eat or, sometimes, what they wear. 'Think about all the different ways across the migration experience that people lose pieces of their humanity,' O'Brien says. 'Trauma-informed care tries to help add those pieces right back.' In the kitchens of Emma's Torch, migrants run nearly the whole operation. And for his part, Diallo isn't giving up on the brownies. He pours out a fresh round of batter and slides the tray into the oven. After one of his releases from a Guinean prison, his friends and family begged him to stop protesting. 'But I was not fighting for myself,' Diallo says with conviction. 'I was fighting for the future, for the new generation.' Now, he longs for those evenings back home, baking interrupted by soccer chatter and the giggles of his mother and sisters. He yearns to walk the streets of his hometown, to hear his native language, to feel his land beneath his feet again. Above all, he dreams of a homeland where freedom is not just a hope. Diallo also wishes for freedom for himself in the United States, even amid his concerns the asylum process – already long and uncertain – will be more challenging under Trump's governance. 'If you don't have freedom, to me, dying is better,' he says. In this New York kitchen, he can taste it. The oven timer dings. The scent of brownies fill the air. 'And thank God,' he says, 'I am finally free.'
France 24
11-07-2025
- Politics
- France 24
Guinea: Doumbouya's power leaves opponents mute with fear
The new draft constitution presented to Guinea's President Mamady Doumbouya on June 30 contains several big changes, including a new seven-year term for the president and the creation of both a special high court and a senate. It does not explicitly say that Doumbouya, who seized power from former president Alpha Condé during a coup d'etat on September 5, 2021 can be a candidate. A referendum on the new constitution is set for September. The transitional plan established the day after the coup says that no member of the junta, the government, or anyone in transitional structures can run for the next elections. But for the past few months, many have been calling for General Doumbouya to run. In the four years that he has been in power, Doumboya has become omnipresent in Guinea – omnipotent, according to his detractors. In the latest episode of the Observers, which went live on July 5 (watch the video at the top of the article), these Guinean activists are speaking out against a regime that they say shuts down any and all dissent. Protests for 'continuity' 'Before, you couldn't go two metres in Conakry without seeing one of these portraits,' says a journalist, who requested anonymity. Up until spring 2025, hundreds of posters featuring images of General Doumbouya adorned the streets of the Guinean capital as well as other cities across the nation. A variety of groups supporting the Guinean president paid for the posters and plastered them around town. However, in recent months, more and more people had been taking to social media to complain about the posters. Authorities in Conakry finally removed most of the posters in May. 'In a context where the cult of personality has sometimes weakened our institutions, this move is a clear indication of a desire to break with that,' said Ousmane Gaoual Diallo, the spokesperson for the Guinean government, who spoke to our team. 'It's to make more place for posters promoting the census, in light of the referendum and the presidential election,' set for the end of the year, says one activist. He notes that the slogan featured on some of the posters 'Ka Doumbouya fo ka, Doumbouya ké', which means 'Doumbouya said, Doumbouya did' is well placed. When they are not busy hanging posters complimenting the general's acts, his supporters – which include activists, high-level government officials, and political and religious figures – are often organising protests 'for continuity'. Translation: for Mamady Doumbouya to stay in power. These protests continue despite the fact that the government banned all protests in May 2022. 'Citizens are pressured to come to these protests and given five euros if they do it' Our Observer Alseny Farinta Camara, who directs the anti-corruption NGO Renade, says that supporters of the junta have changed their strategy in the wake of a recent tragedy. On December 1, 2024, there was a deadly stampede during a football match organised in Nzérékoré to honour the junta and its leader. According to official reports, 56 people were killed, though human rights defenders say that the real toll is closer to 140 dead. Officials were accused of hitting spectators with their cars as they fled. "After Nzérékoré, the government changed its strategy, shifting to a policy of calling on political figures, artists, and religious chiefs to support the General by organising local rallies for 'peace and national unity'. From the information we've gathered, these protests in support of Doumboua seem to receive public money. Citizens are then pressured to attend these protests. If they do, they are given t-shirts and a sum of 50,000 Guinean francs, equivalent to 5 euros. " Alseny Farinta Camara with the NGO Renade Vincent Foucher, a researcher specialising in West Africa at French research institute CNRS, says, 'All the businessmen, all the people who were the financial backers of the RPG [Editor's note: the political party of previous president Alpha Condé] participate financially in these ceremonies, football matches and concerts in honour of Doumbouya. It's a way to make everyone forget that they had close links to the prior regime.' Government spokesperson Ousmane Gaoual Diallo denies these claims. 'The government didn't organise or finance these protests,' he says, adding that "these accusations are aimed at delegitimising the sincere engagement of many Guineans' who support the junta. A car in exchange for supporting Doumbouya? In the past nearly four years, the junta has been able to recruit a lot of supporters. The current government is run by Bah Oury, who is from UFDG, the party of Cellou Dalein Diallo, who opposed both former president Alpha Condé and the junta. A number of officials in the party were kicked out for having shown support for the new authorities. Same for officials from the party of the former president, Condé, who is now in exile. 'There are always marginalised factions within the big parties and the junta is an opportunity for the people who were part of these factions to raise their profiles,' Foucher says. 'There are people who say: this junta is unavoidable. It needs civil and political partners. We can try to push it towards a better direction – or a less bad one.' Aside from politicians, the president also has the support of some activists and journalists: "Yesterday, Aboubacar Condé and Lamine Mognouma Cissé were running a media outlet that was critical of the president, Djoma Media. Today, they are running a government [communication] platform, 'Guinée GOUV'. Culture minister Moussa Moïse Fila was a journalist who was very critical of the Condé regime as well as the start of the CNRD [Editor's note: National Committee of Reconciliation and Development, the junta's official name.]" A Guinean journalist Our team contacted the three journalists, who all responded. Aboubacar Condé says that he is 'not part of the government'. 'I am the coordinator of a service that takes care of the production of films made by the authorities,' he said. 'I'm still a journalist,' responded Lamine Mognouma Cissé. 'That's why I fight every day to carry out my profession through my website my economics magazine Émergence, and the weekly paper Le Punch." Culture Minister Moussa Moïse Sylla said that he had 'freely chosen, after ten years in the press, to use [his] experience in the service of the Republic alongside President Mamady Doumbouya'. The junta has been able to turn opponents into supporters, but it is also looking for footholds in all sectors. For that, it is ready to provide material compensation for those who show their support – and they aren't hiding that fact. In May, clerics in the towns of Boké and Kamsar were offered cars by the executive, on behalf of the president. Singers, including Singleton, Oudy Ier, Camara Mousto and Johanna Barry, all of whom have thousands of followers on social media, have all posted photos recently posing by enormous cars and thanking President Doumbouya for his generosity. After that, each of these singers recorded a song in the president's honour. Perhaps the most newsworthy support that President Doumbouya has managed to drum up is the French-Guinean rapper Black M. The former member of Sexion d'Assaut posed with the president and wrote a song about the mining project Simandou 2040. He did not respond to our questions about if he has been rewarded for this support. Disappearances of opponents blamed on the junta Most of the opposition figures who refused to collaborate with the junta are either in exile or are remaining silent. In 2024, the junta banned six radio and television stations, including the popular Espace TV and Djoma médias. One journalist, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said that he has started to censor himself: "It's very hard not to be able to carry out a profession as you should, and it makes me feel very guilty. We write some of our articles under a pseudonym. Sometimes, we don't publish anything, but we do document what is going on. We put it on our site without making it public, but one day we will." Our team asked the government about the impact of the closures of these media outlets in light of the upcoming elections. The government told FRANCE 24 that they were 'in support of pluralist election coverage, as long as the rules are respected' and that the freedom of information was paired with 'a minimum of rigour, equity and respect for the law'. 'Who really opposes Mamady Doumbouya?' posited the magazine Jeune Afrique. In their article, they mentioned rallies… but also disappearances. In the past year, six men have been abducted. On July 9, 2024, Mamadou Billo Bah and Oumar Sylla, known as Foniké Mengué, were the first two to disappear. They were members of FNDC (an acronym for National Forum for the Defence of the Constitution), a coalition of NGOs brought together to oppose Condé's bid for a third term. In October 2024, Saadou Nimaga, former secretary general of the Ministry of Mines and Geology went missing. In December, journalist Habib Marouane Camara disappeared. In February 2025, opposition activist Abdoul Sacko was kidnapped from his home. Videos of his home show the roof of his covered patio destroyed. Witnesses say that is how the kidnappers entered his home. On June 20, lawyer Mohamed Traoré disappeared. Abdoul Sacko and Mohamed Traoré were released the day after they were kidnapped. They were both covered with injuries and evidence of torture. As for the other four men, there has been no news of them since they were taken. Witnesses and people close to those who were kidnapped share similar stories. They say that men in gendarme uniforms were present during the kidnappings. 'A gendarme pick-up truck cut off his car and intercepted him,' said Alpha Madiou Bah, a colleague of Habib Marouane Camara at the magazine Le Révélateur. 'Gendarmes got out and broke his windshield. (...) They beat him with a truncheon. They knocked him out. They took him away while he was unconscious, according to witnesses of the scene.' Camara's wife, who was pregnant when he was captured, is still fighting for his release. The authorities say they have nothing to do with these disappearances. 'The government has requested that the justice system shed full light on the matter, strictly within legal bounds,' said government spokesperson Ousmane Gaoual Diallo. 'No state structure was mandated or implicated in these acts. We have no interest – neither political nor institutional – in situations like this occurring. The respect of human rights and individual dignity is at the heart of what we do. We want the truth, like the families, and we'll do everything for that to become clear.' 'A small group of us created a circle of trust' In the Observers show, Lansana (not their real name), an activist who said that they have been threatened with kidnapping, explains how they have changed their behaviour in light of these threats: "A small group of us have created a circle of trust. When you go somewhere, you let the others know that you are at X location and you say who you are meeting and for how long. Then, when you leave, you let the others know that you have started the journey back. If you are in a taxi or a moto taxi, you send the others the license plate. Sometimes we'll even take a picture of the driver and send it to the group. Then, if something happens, they know where you were, what journey you were undertaking. The aim is so that people know your last location and who you were with, which enables an investigation to be carried out." Lansana (not their real name), a Guinean activist Activists denounce a 'policy of terror'. Researcher Foucher has analysed the situation. 'These disappearances are a way to freeze the debate in an extreme way. There is much to criticise about Condé's regime, but that is a new level of pressure. If you can disappear like that, without any news, then who is going to take the risk to stand up to the regime? Who is capable of that?' When it took power, the junta announced that the transition period would take three years. All of the deadlines have now been exceeded. While the referendum is set for September, everyone has eyes on the presidential election. And even if the president has remained silent on the topic, both his supporters and the opposition are in agreement that Mamady Doumbouya will run and win.
Zawya
09-07-2025
- Politics
- Zawya
A Year On, Guinean Activists Still Missing
Guinea 's military authorities should credibly investigate the disappearances of two political activists, make their whereabouts known, and either charge them with a recognizable crime or release them immediately, Human Rights Watch said today. One year ago, security forces arbitrarily detained three members of the opposition coalition National Front for the Defense of the Constitution (Front National pour la Défense de la Constitution, FNDC), Oumar Sylla (known as Foniké Menguè), Mamadou Billo Bah, and Mohamed Cissé, in Conakry, Guinea's capital, and transferred them to an unidentified location. Human Rights Watch received credible information, confirmed by national and international media, that security forces had tortured the three men. Cissé was released on July 10, 2024, while Sylla and Bah remain missing. 'It's been one year since Sylla and Bah went missing, and the Guinean authorities have yet to carry out a credible investigation,' said Ilaria Allegrozzi, senior Sahel researcher at Human Rights Watch. 'Guinean authorities should thoroughly and independently investigate the disappearances and prosecute those responsible.' The authorities have opened an investigation into the disappearance of the three men. But they have denied any responsibility and failed to acknowledge the men's detention or disclose their whereabouts, despite requests for information by lawyers representing the men, and by international and national human rights organizations. On July 9, 2024, dozens of soldiers, gendarmes, and armed men in civilian clothes, stormed Sylla's home and arbitrarily detained him and the others. The security forces repeatedly beat the three political activists, then took them to the gendarmerie headquarters in Conakry, and then to an army camp on Kassa island, off Conakry's coast. The FNDC has been calling for the restoration of democratic rule in Guinea following a military coup in September 2021. In August 2022, Guinea's junta, headed by Gen. Mamady Doumbouya, dissolved the FNDC on politically motivated grounds, but it has continued its activities. On the morning of his disappearance, Sylla, who is the FNDC coordinator, had urged his supporters to go out and protest on July 11, 2024, against media shutdowns by the authorities and the high cost of living. Sylla was one of a number of people arrested in 2022 on charges of 'illegal protest and destruction of public and private buildings' following violent demonstrations in Conakry in which at least five people were killed. Bah, the FNDC outreach coordinator, was previously arrested in January 2023 on charges of 'complicity in the destruction of public and private property, assault, and battery' for taking part in protests. Both were released in May 2023 and cleared of all charges. Since taking power, the junta has suspended independent media outlets, arbitrarily arrested and forcibly disappeared journalists and political opponents. Security forces have used excessive force, including tear gas and gunfire, to disperse peaceful protesters, leading to dozens of deaths since January 2024. On June 21, gunmen abducted and tortured Mohamed Traoré, a prominent lawyer and former bar association president, in apparent reprisal against his decision to resign from the National Transitional Council, the junta's leading transitional body. The military authorities promised to hold elections before the end of 2024, but failed to meet the deadline, sparking opposition-led protests in Conakry in January. Following the protests, officials announced a new election timeline. Gen. Doumbouya has set September 21 as the date for a constitutional referendum and Prime Minister Amadou Oury Bah announced in May that presidential elections would take place in December. 'Four years into military rule, the suppression of rights and freedoms has only intensified,' said a prominent FNDC member who is in hiding. 'The government has stifled free expression and assembly; it has incapacitated the political opposition through arbitrary arrests, enforced disappearance, harassment, and intimidation. Enough is enough.' Enforced disappearances under international law occur when people acting on behalf of the government arrest, detain, or abduct people and then refuse to acknowledge the act or conceal their whereabouts or what happened to them. International law prohibits enforced disappearances, which violate fundamental rights to liberty and security and the right to be free from torture or cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment. The International Convention for the Protection on All Persons from Enforced Disappearances provides that 'no one shall be subjected to enforced disappearance' and imposes an absolute ban on secret detention. It also requires countries to end abusive practices that facilitate enforced disappearances including arbitrary incommunicado detention, torture, and extrajudicial executions. Guinea is not a party to the treaty but is still bound by international human rights law prohibiting unlawful arrests, abduction, arbitrary detention, ill-treatment of detainees, and other due process violations. It guarantees victims of abuse the right to an effective remedy. 'When authorities deny knowledge of the detentions, they deprive detainees of any protections and make them vulnerable to even worse crimes, like torture,' Allegrozzi said. 'The authorities should take immediate, concrete steps by credibly investigating the disappearances and ratifying the International Convention for the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearance.' Distributed by APO Group on behalf of Human Rights Watch (HRW).
