They follow different religions, have different skin tones, speak different languages. But they're all here on this sunny Wednesday for the same reasons: to feel more at home in their adopted country, more comfortable in their own skin, to find strength as women, to stop domestic violence in their community.

A table in the middle of the room is filled with items emblazoned with the word "Azadi," which means freedom in Farsi, Hindi, Urdu, Kurdish and several other languages. It is what these women are celebrating.

The Azadi program is a new focus this year on community education for immigrant women at License to Freedom, a nonprofit organization created in 2002 to provide crisis intervention, self-sufficiency programs, and advocacy for refugee and immigrant survivors of family violence in the San Diego area.

Not everyone here this day is a domestic violence survivor; some have survived war but not its aftereffects; some want an end to the isolation they feel from not knowing English, not venturing out much; others offer encouragement and support to newcomers. Above all, they support one another.

Most are Middle Eastern or African women, from cultures where talk of certain things is taboo, says Dilkhwaz Ahmed, License to Freedom's director.

"They have to say yes to elders, husband, religious leaders," Ahmed explains. "Here, they are learning that, sometimes, they have to say no."

Silva Jajo is learning. At 18, she arrived here from Iraq with her husband to live the American dream.

"The first day I came here, in April 2004, everything changed," she says. "We lived with his parents, and that first day, he left me alone with them and his relatives."

As the days wore on, she reminded her husband of his promise that she would go to college, learn to drive, get a job, live out her vision of the dream. It all quickly turned to nightmare and, occasionally, violence.

"He said, 'You don't need to go to school. You need to stay home and serve my parents. You don't need to learn to drive because you're not going anywhere.' I was like a piece of furniture. A slave."

Jajo's tone is sad, but her eyes are full of fire.

Four years later, she's on her own and talks proudly of having a Social Security number, a job, progress toward a college degree and a growing command of the English language.

"I want to be like you," she says to Ahmed in their native language.

Ahmed smiles and puts her arm around the younger woman's shoulder. A Kurdish woman from Northern Iraq, Ahmed grew up in a violent home. After earning a degree in psychology at Baghdad University in 1988, Ahmed became an activist on behalf of other women.

As executive director of Wadi Organization for Women, she made a trip to Washington, D.C., in late summer 2001 to participate in discussions on women's rights around the world. She was to return home Sept. 11, when the tragedy turned her short trip into what has become a seven-year odyssey.

She requested and received political asylum, but it took nearly three years to get her children here. Her husband, Bader Mohammed, who urged his wife to stay in America, where he believed she would be safer, is still awaiting permission from the U.S. government to join his family.

She found her way to San Diego, where she was told there is a large Kurdish and Iraqi community, and went to work with License to Freedom, founded by Arek Strzelecki, a Polish immigrant active in refugee women's issues. Together, they focused on two goals for battered refugee and immigrant women: driver's license education and employment services.

The learner's permit the women earn through classes at the agency is a step toward freedom, a symbol of independence. Strzelecki has moved on, and Ahmed is running the office alone now, no longer doing crisis intervention work of going to court for restraining orders and child support, but still helping women get their learner's permit, find jobs, apartments and day care.

It's the kind of work Jajo wants to do when she finishes her education.

"Like Martin Luther King, I have a dream," she says with a big smile. All the women at this meeting do.

Afrah Abdulkader, 42, is proof it can happen. Born in Iraq, she grew up in Kuwait and came to San Diego, sponsored by her older sisters. It took eight years to get her here and another six for her to become a citizen. She is strong and independent and wants to be a role model for others.

"I love my work," says the never-married woman of her sales and marketing position. "I have established an excellent life."

Abdulkader comes to the meetings to encourage those just starting down the same path. So does Violet, 25, who came here four years ago from Sudan with her sons, then 3 and 5, and a husband who told her she couldn't do anything.

"Life is getting a little bit easy," says the single mom who wanted to use only her first name. "I drive now. I even give people rides. I'm so proud of myself."

She's taking English-as-a-second-language classes and works as a biotech technician. She comes here for moral support.

"I like it here. It's a good group," says Siham Yousif, 65, who arrived 12 years ago from Baghdad. Sabah Helanto, 60, agrees, noting they are here just to enjoy each other's company.

"I want to exercise, learn English," Hayat Bahora, 77, says as Ahmed translates.

"We need a place like this," Abdulkader says.

At the very least, it is an opportunity for many of them to comfort each other for the trauma they've been through in their war-torn home countries. Khalida Henmes, 53, is a widow. Her husband died during the Iraq-Iran war. Amira, 55, and Hana, 46, who asked that their last names not be used, have lost children.

Ahmed is grateful to St. John's Lutheran Church for providing this space for two years, but she has longed for a place of their own. She will have that next month, when License to Freedom moves to larger quarters. The new facility will continue to address gender-based violence, discrimination and poverty and assimilation issues faced by immigrant women like Ida and Violet.

Both are from Liberia, both are raising children alone, now that they, too, have fled abusive relationships. Ida, 30, has three children, and Violet, 19, is the mother of a 7-month-old. Being at this meeting, they say in halting English, is not easy for them. But they want it. They need it.

"We keep telling people domestic violence is a crime," says Ahmed, 38.

When the agency moves, Ahmed will adjust its mission. "We will focus more on prevention and early intervention," she says.

Ahmed, just finishing the master's program in community counseling psychology through Springfield College, now teaches a course there on immigration, human trafficking and the impact of war. And she's coordinating with Catholic Charities and the International Rescue Committee here to reach refugee women who need services.

"We talk about domestic violence, the effects on the victim and the perpetrator, the impact on the kids, what a healthy relationship is," Ahmed explains.

But it must be as subtle as a butterfly brushing a person's cheek.

"Talking about domestic violence, for most Middle Eastern families, is taboo. You have to be very careful. Otherwise, everyone would disappear and no one would come back."

To that end, the Azadi Center offers more.

"We have cooking classes, yoga once a week, body conditioning," she says. "We are not just educating women about domestic violence, but about taking good care of themselves. To take care of others, she has to feel healthy." And the women need to learn about and from one another. Rather than judge and shun the woman who leaves her husband, they learn to see things from a broader perspective.

"What happened to her might happen to you, or your daughter," she tells them. "They build relationships, they help each other and, in the end, they have tears."

The Azadi Center would offer more to these and any woman, from any culture, who comes in the door, Ahmed says, if it had more money, more volunteers willing to teach English, legal rights in this country and, above all, leadership.

Ahmed, exhausted from looking for grants and people to help, says she is not about to quit. "I'm a single mom. I want to be a good example to my kids."

It seems to be working. Her son Yad, 16, wants to organize a group for teenage boys. And daughter Dalia, 13, participates in a new group, where Middle Eastern teenage girls talk about their problems.

"They live two lives: the culture as they have to practice it and their life here," Ahmed says.

There is an urgency in Ahmed's voice.

"They need a safe place where they can come anytime to talk, laugh, cry with other women," she says. "We came from Iraqi regime of Saddam. He made everyone hate everyone. In this group we are able to come together, sit at the same table and accept one another. We may be different in language, color, religion, but we have the same voice: We are women and we are here to end violence."

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