On Monday, May 5, San Kyi followed the daily routine of his new life in Pittsburgh.

He awoke early, left his Troy Hill apartment and rode his bike to the Strip District's Parma Sausage, an Italian meat shop where he patiently trims lard from hefty slabs of prosciutto for $8 an hour.

The work had much greater value that day. It was a distraction from the unrelenting stream of horrific news coming from Myanmar, his homeland.

Two days before, Cyclone Nargis had ravaged the Southeast Asian country also known as Burma, striking some of its major population centers, including Yangon, a city of more than 5 million people. Among them were Mr. Kyi's wife and 8-year-old son.

He tracked news reports as the death toll continued to grow throughout the weekend, reaching the hundreds, then the thousands, then the tens of thousands.

But good information was scarce, with the ruling military junta blocking journalists and most aid workers from entering the country.

Mr. Kyi hadn't seen his family since 2002, when he fled after authorities discovered an underground newspaper in his microbus. He had faced imprisonment, or death.

Now he couldn't reach his wife on the phone. He was terrified.

At Emanuel's Lutheran Church in Bellevue, he asked the congregation to pray for him and his family. At Parma, he put on his white coat, tried to smile and concentrated on his cutting knife.

"He showed up to work as he always does," said Darren Schumacher, whose wife's family owns the business. "I've never seen him not focused."

Even before the cyclone, Myanmar was a nation of tragedies. The military junta strictly limits contact with the outside world and brutally suppresses dissent. More than 200,000 Burmese refugees are living in Thailand, Malaysia, Bangladesh and India, according to the U.S. State Department. They make up the largest refugee group in East Asia.

In recent years, the U.S. government has resettled thousands in American towns and cities. About 17,000 Burmese are on track to come to the United States between October of 2007 and September.

Pittsburgh received its first batch in 2004, with the help of Jewish Family & Children's Service. The organization has helped about 175 Burmese settle here.

Catholic Charities of the Diocese of Pittsburgh, the region's only other refugee resettlement agency, found homes for 80 Burmese last year and will bring about 40 in 2008. Some are Karen, an ethnic group that has warred with the military junta.

Mr. Kyi, a slight man with graying hair and tired eyes, arrived on Sept. 26, 2007. One of only a few fluent English speakers among the refugees, he soon became a linguistic bridge between Catholic Charities' caseworkers and Troy Hill's Burmese population, now nearly 40. He helped both sides navigate a list of needs: food, clothing, housing, transportation, school for children, language classes for adults.

On Monday nights, the community gathers at Troy Hill's Grace Lutheran Church, where children can play pool and table tennis and their parents can share concerns about life in their new city with officials from Catholic Charities and volunteers from other local churches.

At last Monday's meeting, a line of people waited to talk to the 45-year-old Mr. Kyi.

"He's one of the most humble people I've ever met," said Lloyd White, of Ross, a volunteer who works with the refugees. "He never asks for anything for himself."

From a young age, Mr. Kyi had opportunities that many Burmese never had. His father worked for the government and earned a decent salary. His mother's family owned a restaurant.

He attended university in Yangon, then the country's capital, studying English and history. And he found a job as a clerk at the same government agency that employed his father.

But Burma was undergoing rapid changes. In 1988, four decades after the country won independence from Britain, tens of thousands of students took to the streets and demanded a move toward democracy.

The government struck back violently, with soldiers shooting and killing demonstrators.

"A lot of people died in front of my eyes," Mr. Kyi said.

He and several friends wanted to retaliate. They started an underground newspaper, "Morning Shine," documenting the regime's crimes and the work of pro-democracy activists.

Using an aging mimeograph machine at Mr. Kyi's government office, they printed only about 50 to 100 copies at a time.

Yet it was enough for the authorities to notice. In September 1988, Mr. Kyi was arrested. (To this day, he suspects that his supervisor betrayed him.)

Police held him for two weeks. They beat him. But he never admitted to knowing anything about the newspaper.

He was forced to sign a document saying he would not participate in politics. He was then freed. But he still lost his job.

Two years later, the country held a national election, and the National League for Democracy -- headed by Aung San Suu Kyi, who would later receive the Nobel Peace Prize -- won a solid majority. But the military junta never recognized the results, and it placed Mrs. San Suu Kyi under house arrest.

For the next decade, Mr. Kyi kept a low profile. He earned a living driving a microbus and working at the family restaurant. In 1999, he married. His son was born the next year.

One day, two years later, he received a phone call from an employee. A soldier had discovered an underground newspaper in Mr. Kyi's bus. The authorities were looking for him.

Mr. Kyi knew immediately he would have to flee the country without seeing his family. He called his wife and said goodbye.

For the next several years, Mr. Kyi worked at construction sites in Thailand and Malaysia. His anger at the government never waned. He was arrested during a protest in front of the country's embassy in Malaysia, and spent 20 months in prison there.

When he was released, the United Nations registered him as a refugee, allowing him to go to the United States.

In Pittsburgh, Mr. Kyi has been able to adjust to life faster than other Burmese refugees, many of whom speak little English.

During his time in prison, Mr. Kyi converted from Buddhism to Christianity. He now regularly attends Sunday services at Emanuel's Lutheran Church in Bellevue.

A parishioner at Discovery Christian Church in Cranberry, which is helping refugees settle here, donated a bike to Mr. Kyi. He uses it to ride to his job every day.

But Pittsburgh can't fill the absence of his family. That absence became overpowering when news of the cyclone reached him.

In the days that followed, he monitored developments from Burma over the Internet. He found a picture of a dead boy floating in a river.

"If this boy is my son ..." he said, as he placed his hand over his mouth.

But it wasn't his son. Almost a week after the storm, he reached his wife on the phone. They spoke for three minutes, and then the connection failed.

It was enough time to get the most important details: the cyclone shattered his house's windows and tore away the roof. But his wife and son escaped without injury. They are staying at a friend's home.

As Mr. Kyi continues to build a life in the United States, he wonders when he will be reunited with his family. During an interview last week, he shook his head as pondered the future.

He can't go home. And they can't leave.

"They are my life," he said. But, "if I go back to Burma, I go to die only."