A lot in common

By Timothy Pratt

Sunday, Oct. 30, 2005 | 8:10 a.m.

Standing in a hallway, 42-year-old Baharu Alebachem motioned to the Gold Coast ballroom where an Ethiopian film called "A Tear That Didn't Dry" was showing.

The film, about a woman who was tortured by government officials and fled to the United States "is almost my story," he said.

Wednesday night's screening was the second local event dedicated to the film in a month, part of a national tour. About 125 members of the local Ethiopian community saw the film, according to Gezahegne Teffera, who helped organize the showing.

The decision to include Las Vegas in the tour was a sign of how much the Ethiopian community in Las Vegas has grown. When Teffera moved to the valley 20 years ago, there were about two dozen Ethiopians here -- less than there were seeing the film Wednesday.

The 2000 Census shows 1,764 people of Ethiopian ancestry in Clark County, but Teffera estimates that there are about 6,000 Ethiopians in the valley now. Other Ethiopians say there are at least 4,000.

Whatever the number, what is unquestionable is the population's growth. That growth is driven by the large number of visas the government has given to Ethiopia in an annual lottery created in 1990 for people from countries who traditionally haven't sent immigrants to the United States.

A steady influx of 3,000-plus Ethiopians arrives in the United States each year and many wind up in the valley, Teffera said.

Las Vegas is increasingly chosen over larger metropolitan areas because of the jobs available to immigrants, several people said.

Teffera, like many of his fellow Ethiopians, drives a taxicab on the Strip.

Others, such as Elshaday T. Belete, work in casinos. Belete, who at 22 was one of the younger members of the audience at the film, deals cards at the Monte Carlo.

"I don't gamble. I let everybody else gamble," he said.

More difficult than learning card games, however, was learning English. It's a far cry from Ethiopia's Amharic, an ancient Semitic tongue.

Alebachem said he remembers when there were only a few hundred Ethiopians in the valley a decade ago. Now the community has its own church -- St. Michael's on West Robindale Road -- at least four restaurants and its own association.

The oldest surviving restaurant -- an older one folded -- is Meskerem, near the Strip. After the movie, several filmgoers met there to talk about Ethiopia's recent elections and share curried lamb. Taxi drivers sat at adjoining tables, drinking dark, thick Ethiopian coffee.

A guitarist took to the small stage at 11 p.m. and sang in Amharic.

Scenes like that, and the growth of the community in general, make it "easier to help each other," Alebachem said.

"If somebody gets sick, we fund-raise. We share information ... like how to apply for a credit card. Everybody depends on their community before asking for help outside the community."

Alebachem, who has an easy smile and dresses in the sporty clothes and solid-colored baseball cap of a young clubgoer, said he remembers when he came to the United States and didn't know how to open a bank account.

"I thought it was only for rich people," he said.

"Now, newcomers have more information than before."

Just about everything in the United States was embraced by Ethiopians -- such as Alebachem and Teffera -- who, as refugees or under political asylum, fled the violence portrayed in the movie.

Teffera said he was tortured as a suspected opponent of the military government that lasted from 1974 to 1991. Teffera said he escaped to Kenya in 1983 and applied for refugee status at the U.S. Embassy.

Alebachem has lived for 23 years in the United States -- 10 in Las Vegas -- and left under circumstances similar to Teffera's.

Alebachem, 42, is younger than his 59-year-old friend, and was targeted by the military regime as a student, many of whom were suspected of being against the government.

Alebachem remembers going to San Jose, Calif., in 1982 and living through what he called "a different nightmare."

He worked on a factory assembly line, studied to become an electrical technician, moved to Seattle and eventually bought a 7-Eleven franchise -- while his family fell apart under the strain of adapting to a different culture.

After years of double-digit-hour work days, his wife divorced him. Now he lives with the younger of his two daughters, who was also at the film.

"Trying to succeed here -- it's tough," he said.

"The way you live here is so different. In Ethiopia, there is more time for family."

Alebachem said though it's been a long road, "now I'm adapted. I'm American. I think I'm an American. Though still I'm an Ethiopian."

Timothy Pratt can be reached at 259-8828 or [email protected].