She reached up on her tiptoes to give him a hug. She teased: “You know the rules. No making me cry while in uniform.”

Shelli Sonnenberg is a Boise police officer. For the past four years, she has been the Refugee and Immigrant Liaison Officer, a job she created within the department to work with Boise’s growing refugee community.

“They’re adding so much to our community — the way their families function, the way they raise their children, their work ethic. There are so many things they’re bringing to us that make us better. Truly.”

The tall young man she hugged was Fidel Nshombo, who had just been honored at a Boise City Council meeting after he became a citizen. Having fled Congo as a boy, Fidel is himself a liaison between refugees and the city, and he had given an eloquent and moving speech honoring his citizenship.

Shelli says: “I wonder how Americans would do if we landed in Congo and had lost all our possessions? Didn’t speak the language; didn’t know the laws; didn’t know where to go. If you put yourself in their situation, how would you do anything?

“The things some of the refugees have lived through, the majority of us can’t fathom. … (Their stories) make me feel very grateful for what we have, and it makes me understand how grateful they are, too.”

Shelli grew up in Eagle (“I lived in Eagle before it was cool”) and can remember when the city got its first stoplight. She’s a 1989 Centennial High School graduate.

The idea of a career in law enforcement came from an unlikely event when Shelli was about 4 years old. She was with her grandparents, who lived in Cascade. They were driving down the road when Shelli spotted a police officer.

“And I say, ‘There’s the cops, Gramps, step on it.’

“My grandfather, in his infinite wisdom …turned around and had me meet the police officer — my family called them "nice police men." My grandfather took the time and made sure I wasn’t afraid. It was Marv Miller, an Idaho State trooper. He checked up on me repeatedly over the years.

My grandfather took the time and made sure I wasn’t afraid. It was Marv Miller, an Idaho State trooper. He checked up on me repeatedly over the years.

“Ultimately, my interest in police work came from him, seeing that he truly cared about people. From my first cmment about an officer to my becoming one — he really had a big influence on me.”

In addition, her worldview was marked by visits to her father, who was in the Air Force and moved every several years. (Her parents divorced early.)

Her dad traveled internationally to more places than she could visit and came back with stories; she got to visit him in places such as Arizona, Virginia, Florida and attend a bit of school in Germany.

“He always came back from these wonderful places and instilled in me wanting more.

“I really did have the best childhood. I got to meet new people, try new things, and I had the comfort of home waiting for me. I got to see a lot more of the world than most kids.”

In college, Shelli studied criminal justice, skeptical that she could even be a police officer: She was too short, and she was a woman. But in her Peace Officer Standards and Training, she was elected president of her class, the first female president in the academy’s 123-class history.

“That gave me a lot of momentum. I was making a bigger deal of my sex than anyone. You just have to prove yourself. But everyone has to prove themselves, (because) if an officer calls for help, you need to know that the cavalry is coming.”

All of these experiences — her travel, her gender, her sense of purpose — came together as an officer.

“You have to figure out your assets,” she says, naming her own “gift of gab,” among others. On patrol, she became particularly sensitive to and concerned about calls that had to do with refugees.

“My grandma told me: God created all of us like he wanted. And he doesn’t make mistakes. Whoever it is, remember that God created that person, and differences aren’t anything to God.

“When you look at people, it’s so easy to recognize our differences. I look at our similarities.”

Still, cultural differences made responding to police calls challenging.

Language was often a barrier; and some of her early dispatches, she found, escalated needlessly because of cultural misunderstandings — for example, if an officer spoke to the woman first, instead of the man.

“I really tried to work on finding what keeps peace the best. Does it matter who we talk to first? If we can make it run smoother, that’s how to solve the problem.”

Shelli sought out refugee agencies to understand dynamics that went awry.

She talked to refugees about their culture; she listened as she sorted out altercations. In many other countries, police are to be feared and avoided; in many countries, laws are very different.

“The minute they step off the plane, we place expectations on them. And they don’t know what they are.”

Shelli began teaching classes to newly arrived refugees to clarify some of those expectations. She teaches refugees things like:

Æ If you have a driver’s license, you also need registration and insurance.

Æ Statutory rape. In some countries, daughters are married at 13, 14 or 15 years old.

Æ Domestic violence. There are no laws against it in other countries.

“For (refugees), it’s an opportunity to try and understand. They want to do what’s right. Sometimes, they don’t know what that is.”

For instance, in America, it’s common for tenants in apartment complexes to leave things on their porches. In refugee camps, important possessions are always brought inside.

“To one person, a planter is stolen. To another, it was perfectly obvious that she didn’t want it because she left it out. Both sides I can see, but the intent is so different.”

In another example, Shelli was visiting an apartment complex when a man asked how he could get a pass to go to the store down the street. Shelli told him he didn’t need one; he was free to come and go.

“He had been here a couple of months; it was heartbreaking. We think we’ve told them everything they need, but we take so much for granted, like our freedom. Freedom means different things to different people. For him, freedom meant walking around outside the apartment complex, but not leaving.”

Shelli teaches other classes, to businesses that want to understand the people they hire and work with; to newly hired police officers; to groups that want to understand about refugees — there’s so much misunderstanding, she says, starting with “what is a refugee.”

“They can’t go home. They have nowhere to go. Our government agreed we would take 76,000 refugees this year. (Idaho will get about 1,000.) It’s right there on the Statue of Liberty — we are taking perhaps the ones that nobody wants. Refugees didn’t get to choose — they were placed here. They had no ability to prepare to come here (like learning English beforehand).

“If we don’t look at their plight, we are turning our backs. We offered to help them; our government said ‘You are welcome here.’

“But sometimes our citizens are denying that help. It’s heartbreaking. The refugees themselves are doing the best they can.”

Shelli notes how Basque immigrants faced initial discrimination in Idaho, but that now their culture is welcomed, celebrated and cherished.

“We already have Indian food, and Mexican, Italian and Basque food … I hope that eventually the communities here will be able to integrate and feel that same sense of belonging. (Someday) we’re going to have a Somali festival or a Burmese festival …

“Wouldn’t it be nice to add their cultures to our menus? Can you imagine — Boise, Idaho?”

In her classes, Shelli gives her phone number to refugees and makes them understand that they don’t have to pay police — so common in other countries — and it’s the job of the police to help.

“I tell them, ‘Call me before you get in trouble. After you get in trouble, I can’t help you much.’ ”

A recent class with refugees who had been in Boise for several months affirmed to them that a 911 call is free (someone had been told it costs $1,000).

It also included a reminder to tell an officer that you don’t speak English if you get pulled over; and it touched on DUIs and domestic violence — all translated into several languages. At the end, Shelli thanked the refugees for coming.

“ ‘I am just so grateful that all of you came to Boise, Idaho, to live. You add so much to our community.

“ ‘I’m just grateful you’re here, and if you need help, please call.’

“I love my job. I love that I can be the person somebody calls — and I hope I can help them.”

Know someone living “from the heart”? Idaho Statesman photojournalist Katherine Jones spotlights someone in the Treasure Valley who influences our lives not only by what they do, but how and why they do it. Do you know someone we should know? Call 377-6414 or email kjones@idahostatesman.com.