Dates, Immigration and the Pursuit of Happiness

August 2015. It was a chilly, rainy evening in downtown Munich. We hailed a cab, got inside and was greeted by a friendly driver. We chit chat for a little bit: where are you from, how long are you staying — the usual pleasantries of a tourist and a resident.

“They are flooding the cities, they are everywhere. Most of them live in government housing but some of them don’t stay because it’s too crowded there. I met one who came from Turkey with his brother and they are trying to get to Austria because they have a relative there. I don’t know how they do it. It’s very sad. I talked to some others and when you hear their stories… it’s terrible.”

I don’t remember how we got into this conversation. I do remember being amazed at the empathy you can clearly here in this man’s voice as he talk about the migrants coming into his city. He didn’t talk about whether they are legal or not. Or what harm they can do. He talked about getting to know some of them, about learning who they are, where they came from. Understanding their story, not in a global scale, but on a personal level. One human being to another.

We asked some questions, bid him goodbye and went back to our hotel room.

The next day, we went to Dachau Concentration Camp. We walked through the halls of the barracks, we saw the prison cells, the medical experiments, the gas chambers, the crematorium. It was depressing. The whole place was a crime scene, a very tangible reminder of the horror that humans can inflict to one another. Now, it’s a museum, a part of history. Something you hope never happens again. And then I remember the conversation we had with the taxi driver.

What if, in some ways, it’s happening all over again? And what if, just like back then, the rest of the world didn’t care enough until it was too late?

August 20, 2015. It was Hungary’s National Day. After watching the fireworks and eating a delicious Hungarian meal we started walking back towards the train station so we can get back to our hotel. It was a nice, warm evening in Budapest. There were a lot of people in the streets and you can feel the celebration in the air. As we neared the train station, we saw people in groups, with big bags. Some were standing, some were laying on the floor. They looked like homeless people. I didn’t think much of it. Even in the US, especially in big cities like New York, you see a lot of homeless people. Just not in groups, a quiet voice in my head whispered.

About ten days after, we saw in the news that hundreds of migrants staged protests outside the Budapest train station demanding to be allowed to board trains to Germany and Austria.

Sept 10, 2015. Pictures of a drowned little boy exploded in the internet. The whole world was outraged, shocked, horrified.

In the next few weeks and months, the Syrian refugees and their tragic plight took center stage. Global and moral responsibility became words you hear in the news. Debates on whether to let them in or not were being held not only in the political arena but on social media. Everyone seems to be involved; everyone seems to know what’s good or bad; and most people not only have opinions, but solutions.

As the refugee crisis unfolds, the issue of immigration was put on spotlight like never before. Going on Facebook was like watching a boxing match. Team Right taking a jab at Team Left; Team Left issuing a counter punch— both hoping that their hits would be the one to deliver the knockout punch. Nobody ever did. Polarization has never become so evident.

Friday, October 2015, I drove to Hartford for my naturalization interview. I sat in the waiting room, nervous and excited. I know I can read and write English but I started testing myself, just in case. What is my name, how old am I, where is my country of birth… I also know I’ve spent a good deal of time learning specifics about the history of the United States — but just in case, I re-read the list of 100 possible questions that they’ll ask. What is the Supreme Law of the Land, who wrote the Declaration of Independence, how many Amendments does the Constitution have…

I used to hate history. In my young brain, it was boring and useless and why do I have to memorize dates that I’ll never remember? In the last few years, I’ve had a change of heart. Maybe it was my husband’s influence; Maybe it was that history is being presented better now than it was when I was in school; Maybe I just grew up. It’s possibly all three. As I watched historical films and documentaries, as I visited museums, and read about the past, I often get goosebumps. Sometimes it’s the air-conditioning. And sometimes, it’s just that feeling that it clicks. That you know these people and you’ve seen these places and that you are a part of them and they are a part of you. And you say a little prayer — of sorrow, of respect, and of gratitude.

Or maybe, as Mr. Potter from A Wonderful Life likes to say, it’s all just  “sentimental hogwash.”

On December 11, 2015, Nick and I sat in a courtroom in New Haven for my Oath Taking. There were 30 attendees, all born from about a dozen different countries. There were two lawyers who got things in order — one was a man in his mid forties, funny and made you feel like you’ve known him forever; the other was a lady in her late thirties, quiet and shy but was full of smiles. I was handed a small flag of the United States and I repeated after a judge the Oath of Allegiance.

“I am honored to be the first person to welcome you as a citizen of the United States. You practicing your culture and sharing your skills, we learn from you as you learn from us,” the judge touchingly said. We stood up, shook her hand and took some pictures. Before we left the building, we were handed our Naturalization Certificate.

Then I go on Facebook and I watch the next round of boxing match begin again.

January 11, 2015. I woke up early and drove to Stamford to get my expedited passport so I can travel outside the country. When I was a permanent resident, I would have used my green card to cross the border. Now that I am a citizen, they take away your green card and in order to travel to and from the US, your passport is your new best friend. At noon, I have in my hands a dark blue passport book. With my name on it. My new citizenship has never felt more real.

On January 20, 2015, at 4 AM EST I drove to Bradley Airport so I can fly to Medicine Hat, Canada for work. I don’t remember ever hearing about Medicine Hat before this trip. It’s a small town and it took three planes to get there. The last leg of my trip, was from Calgary to Medicine Hat. As I was walking around the airport, I saw a man who looked lost. He would walk for 2 minutes and stop. Look around and start walking again.  He headed towards one of the Air Canada ground staff and pointed to his boarding pass. I heard him say a few  English words with a heavy accent. I kept walking to look for food.

About two hours before my supposedly boarding time, I headed to the gate. I opened my laptop and got lost in my own little world. When I looked up, I saw a few little girls smiling at me and when I looked down, I saw a little baby crawling on the floor. I smiled at them. I looked around for their parents and I saw the lost man, now with his wife. This is his family. They smiled at me, spoke in Arabic to the little girls, and picked up the baby. I smiled back and kept typing away on my laptop.

“You have a big family.”

I looked up again.  The Canadian woman to my left was addressing the Arabic speaking family to my right.

The mother smiled, “Yes,us, nine. Seven children. Girls. All of them.”

I smiled all throughout the exchange and waved to the little girls who stared at me. They were between the ages of 1 and 15 years old, I think. I started talking to one of the smiling little girls and asked how old the baby was. She replied, “Mela” and pointed to the baby. I assumed Mela was the baby’s name. She looked at her mother and spoke in Arabic.

The mother looked at me and said, “Syria.”

It took me a few seconds to understand that this family I am sitting next to are Syrian refugees. I didn’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say? I’ve heard all about you. No. I wanted to ask questions and ask them how they are doing but instead, I just nodded.

“Bombs in Syria,” she said again.

I nodded and added an awkward, “I heard, I’m sorry. I have friends from Syria.”

She gave me a blank stare and looked at her oldest daughter. I realized they are trying to understand what I am saying.

I tried again, “Are you from Damascus?” They said no, and tried to explain in English, then switched over to Arabic.

She opened her bag and took a book out. The book was in Arabic but there were some English letters. She pointed, “IOM”. I felt bad I didn’t know what this meant but i assumed it was a booklet they received when they got accepted to go to Canada.

So I nodded and asked, “Are you going to Medicine Hat?”

She said yes.

I don’t know how but at that point, we somehow both realized it was going to be tough to have a conversation. She smiled again and I smiled back.

My three-hour stopover became five hours. Finally, it was time to board the small plane going to Medicine Hat. The Syrian family was the first to be seated. When we were all in, the flight attendant announced that we needed to move the kids to the back of the aircraft and the older people in front so there’s an even distribution of weight. The Syrian mother and father looked around trying to understand what was happening. A few of the people got up and started explaining, gesturing what needs to happen. In 5 minutes, everything was okay again and the flight attendant went on to recite the safety procedure. He moved to the middle of the small aircraft and pointed to the Exit Doors.

Three minutes after the safety procedure, the oldest daughter, who I was seated next to, tapped me in the shoulder.

“What he speaking?”

I didn’t understand at first what she meant. She repeated herself, sounding frustrated and pointing to the Exit Doors. And I finally understood. They were nervous and wanted to know what the flight attendant was saying.

I tried to smile reassuringly, “It’s just security. They are explaining how to open the doors in case of an emergency.” The mother and father looked at each other. I tried again, “It’s okay. Don’t worry. There is no problem.” I gave them a wider smile this time, hoping that communicates more assurances rather than confusion.

The daughter nodded and stared out at the window.

After a one-hour flight, we arrived at the small airport of Medicine Hat. The Syrian family were greeted by a few people, some were Arabic speakers and some English. I can see the relief in the face of the parents. The seven kids looked around — some were smiling, some just looked tired and some were altogether indifferent. I watched as the father picked up their luggage. They had two carts filled with multiple big bags. Two carts for nine people. Two carts to rebuild. Two carts to start over.

I waited for my luggage as the Syrian family walked away. A ground staff came over after a few minutes. “There’s no more luggage. Yours must have been left behind.”

My luggage was left behind. Seriously? I have to go to work tomorrow and need my clothes. “When do you think it will arrive?” I asked.

“Maybe tomorrow but no guarantees,” the ground staff said with a look of pity on her face.

But how can I complain? I thought about the Syrian family: the parents and the seven children. Displaced, uprooted, and probably traumatized. What they must have gone through to get here. What did they have to leave behind? What did they lose on the way? How many times did they get the answer, “No guarantees?”

January 24, 2015. After some unfortunate events with my flight, I finally arrived at the Hartford Airport and began my drive home.

Home.

Aside from love, home is probably the next four-letter word that everyone wants to have. Not just a house they can call their own, but a place where they actually belong. Where they feel nurtured, safe and protected. Where they can go at the end of a long, bad day and recuperate. Where they can lay down with a heavy heart and get back up with hope and fresh vision for the future.

I remembered them again. The Syrian family. The smiling eyes of the younger girls and the haunted look in the older ones. I wonder if they know where “home” is anymore. I remember the look of strength and vulnerability in their parents’ eyes. I wonder how they are going to explain to their children (if they do) where home is. I think about the hundreds of refugees who are trying to find a home, while the rest of us, we just talk about them.

***

I was called an alien up until I got my citizenship a month ago. It’s funny but a perfect term that showcases what happens when a person from another part of the world moves to another country. (It changes your perspective on what UFO’s might actually be.) The paperwork, the fingerprinting, the interviews, the stamps, and the permits… When I came to the US about six years ago, I was lucky. I came for self-improvement and self-discovery. The refugees, not so much. They are coming because of chaos, of destruction, of war. But I don’t have to tell you that. The word “refugee” already tells you all that.

And as much as our circumstances are very different, I can never really separate my story from theirs. How could I? I am an immigrant. They are immigrants. That will forever connect us.

But most importantly, they could have been me. I could have been them. They could have been us. The truth is by the “luck of the draw” I was born in the Philippines. They were born in Syria. You are born in — you can fill in the blank. It wasn’t my choice, like it isn’t yours. Nor was it theirs. Shouldn’t that simple fact forever connect all of us? 

***

I had shut my mouth on the issue of Immigration because I didn’t know how to process all the things I’ve personally seen, heard and felt. I wasn’t sure either how to put in context everything that society says. There’s the talk of legals vs illegals,  refugees vs safety, foreign work sponsorship vs work for citizens. You hear all these concepts like everything is black and white, good or bad, life or death. But is it?

It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To always divide life into two clean lines.Left or Right. Like two sides of a coin. Head or Tail. But we know better than that. Life is too messy and unpredictable. Life is always the exception to our rules.

And what makes things worse is when we buy into the narrative that it’s “us versus them.” You against the aliens.

In times like this, when there is so much noise and smoke regarding a particular issue, it’s never a bad idea to look to the past. In this instance, what resonates with me is one of the most beautiful pieces of literature that I’ve ever read. Profound words written more than a hundred years ago, but still rings true today. It will ring true forever.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

I guess at the end of a really really long day, we’re all the same. You, me, and all the aliens in the world.