Artist unknown.
We are what we always were in Salem, but now the little crazy children are jangling the keys of the kingdom, and common vengeance writes the law!
― Arthur Miller, The Crucible
The asylees and refugees arrived for a resume workshop. I could imagine my refugee parents in that room pulling an old suitcase with all their belongings, all their valuable dog-eared, well-fingered documents neatly held in a small satchel, the sorrow of family and friends left behind visible in their gestures and facial expressions. I am here because the United States took them in, a lifeline.
I had volunteered that day because I wanted to do something useful after the strengthened restrictions at our southern border and the belligerence against our neighbor to the north. We share a 5,525 mile border with Canada, the longest international border in the world; our problem becomes their problem, and though we may share firefighters during a wildfire season, as we did on the Minnewaska Ridge in upstate New York last summer, we don't share a culture of acceptance when it comes to refugees and asylees. According to the Pew Research Center, and the UNHCR, Canada leads the world in refugee resettlement.
I have two cousins who grew up in Canada because the refugee agency placed them there, separating our family. This happens a lot, even today, or even more so today. My husband and I recently mentored Nathan, a young Tamil man from Sri Lanka. His family was displaced during the Civil War after his father was killed. Nathan and his mother and sister fled, eventually reaching a refugee camp in Tamil-speaking South India. Because he was young and fit, Nathan was sent by the UNHCR to America to work and study; his mother and sister were sponsored by relatives in Canada. But Nathan had been granted asylum in the United States, which meant that he could not request asylum in any other country. "At least we are close enough to visit," he told us during one of our last visits before he disappeared. His mother's promise to find him a bride could be easily fulfilled from within the Tamil community in North America, he assured us. But he was having a hard time. He'd finished some schooling, received his US Citizenship, but he was still living with six other unmarried asylees and working two menial jobs. We had him over for dinner most Fridays to cook together, practice English, talk about everything and anything, a surrogate family, but not his family. And then he'd disappeared. We heard he was visiting his mother and sister in Canada.
At the workshop, I was matched with a young man from the Arab-speaking world whose father and uncle had been killed in a civil war. His schooling had been interrupted, his family scattered, many killed; his mother was missing and assumed kidnapped. I didn't get the full story; that wasn't my job. I had to find a way to create a one-page resume quickly so that he could find an internship or volunteer position while awaiting asylum, which can take years.
The young man has to be nameless here—asylum is not guaranteed, and deportation is always a possibility now—but suffice to say he was sophisticated, educated, a former competitive swimmer and marathon runner, easy to work with—eager like most young people are—to complete his education and remake his life. I enjoyed myself, enjoyed getting to know him, enjoyed helping him. I am a swimmer, too, so that was our first touching point. Many others followed.
It takes a village, and this young man had lost his through no fault of his own.