Asylum

Today as I was passing through the church vestibule, I looked through the glass part of the door and saw a young person standing on steps looking uncertain, so I opened the door and invited them in. "What's your name?" I asked. The client responded with a common arabic male name and then hesitated. "What do you prefer to be called?" "L." "Welcome Ms. L," said Dilo coming into the office, and the client lit up like firefly. "I'm from Iraq," she said. "I got here two weeks ago. I miss my home and my mother," she said, starting to cry. "But I had to come. My father forced me to be injected with testosterone so I would grow a beard. "A year ago, I posted a picture on Tik Tok," she sayws, holding out her phone so I could see the photo of her in make up and a long wig." "You look beautiful" I tell her. "Someone sent that picture to my father and he put a gun to my head." "I'm glad you got here," I tell her, and she nods. "I was raped three times. The third rapist is in the government. He would wait outside the store where I worked, trying to catch me so he could rape me again. I didn't want him to know where I lived, so one night I walked the streets until 2am, with him following me in a car. He threatened to blackmail, to send the police to my home. They can do that there." "I know." I tell her. "Have you applied for asylum yet?" I ask. "No, I need help with that." In my mind, I am seeing pictures of migrants being snatched from the halls of immigration court, being crammed into subhuman detention facilities, shipped off to prisons in countries not their own. I am afraid for her, but I try not to let it show. I fill out a referral form for legal assistance and hope they are not too overwhelmed to help. Later, I check my email. N., a young man from Afghanistan currently in Pakistan, emailed us a few days ago. I wrote back explaining, like I too often have to do these days, that America is not a safe place for migrants right now and suggesting that he try Canada or Holland. Now, he has written back. His message, reaching out across the distance for a lifeline, breaks my heart. All I can offer are my words, my witness. It doesn't feel like enough. "Dear New Alternatives, Thank you for responding. I know you can't help me - I understand that. And I know coming to the US right now would be difficult. The reason I'm writing again is not to ask you to solve my situation. I just feel very lonely and have no one to talk to about what I'm going through. I'm 23 years old. I have spent the last 4 years of my life - from age 19 until now - alone in a room in Pakistan, sending emails to hundreds of organizations around the world, begging them to help me not die. Most don't even reply. Some send automated responses. A few, like you, respond with kindness but can't help. I know Canada and Holland exist. I've contacted organizations in both countries. Same answer: "We can only help if you're already here." I don't know what to do anymore. Every day I wake up afraid that today is the day Pakistan deports me back to Afghanistan. The Taliban visits my family home every month searching for me. If they find me, they will execute me and my entire family. Sometimes I think about just ending it myself. My mind tells me: if you're dead, the Taliban can't kill your family. Everyone will be safe. I have no one to talk to about these thoughts. I sit alone in this room every day. The only human contact I have is emails to strangers who mostly don't respond. I'm not asking New Alternatives to save me. I know you're a US organization and can't help someone in Pakistan. I just needed someone to acknowledge that I exist and that my situation is real. Thank you for responding. That small act of kindness - just acknowledging my email - means more than you know. Thank you for the work you do for LGBTQ+ youth. I wish I could have reached New York when I was 19. Maybe things would be different. With gratitude for your kindness,"