Last week I wrote a Facebook post which went sort-of viral:
Long post but important, I think.
There seems to be a lot of misunderstanding about immigrants, migrants, refugees, and asylum seekers. It’s important to know that asylum seekers Are Not Eligible to receive government benefits (no subsidized housing, no food stamps, no welfare, etc.) and they also are Not Allowed to work in the US for five months after their arrival.
Most of the people in the so-called caravan in Mexico are hoping to claim asylum. They have the right to do so under international law. That Does Not Mean they will be granted asylum; the process can take years, and only 10% will be approved.
Asylum seekers are people who have been tortured, imprisoned, raped, and otherwise abused by their own governments, militias, gangs, police, etc. This may have been because they were fighting government corruption, organizing small businesses or unions, they were related to someone who was doing these things, they were the wrong religion or ethnic group, or they were at the wrong place at the wrong time.
How would you survive for five months if you weren’t allowed to work and you couldn’t get any public benefits? While they wait for their cases to be heard, asylum seekers literally depend on the kindness of strangers. Many clients of my organization, the Center for Victims of Torture, depend on two local religious orders, the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Franciscan Friars, for housing. When you are thinking about year-end donations, think about contributing to one of them.
I don’t know why this particular post spurred people to share it. When I started working where I work, I remember being shocked that asylum seekers could not work or get government benefits.
“But how do they survive?” I asked one of our social workers.
“Barely, that’s how,” she replied. She explained that they go from couch to couch in the homes of friends of friends who belong to their same nationality, or they sleep in homeless shelters, because there’s no way the Sisters of St. Joseph and Franciscan Friars can house all of them. “You can imagine,” she continued, “how stressful it is for someone who’s been tortured and is having flashbacks and is afraid of being sent back—how stressful it is to be in a homeless shelter, with people yelling and fighting with each other.”
Heidi and I arrived at Ayers Rock Airport, located in Yulara, a five-hour drive from Alice Springs.
Here, I would have a comical flashback to my son’s time in prison.
Heidi, with the help of her sister—a travel agent—had planned this whole thing. I had followed Heidi’s instructions to bring only a backpack. She had also urged me to bring a pair of shoes I wouldn’t mind tossing when we left, since rugged hiking and the red dust would destroy any footwear but hiking boots. I don’t own boots and I didn’t have time to break in a new pair.
A bus took us to Ayers Rock Resort, which holds a monopoly on accommodations in the centre. There is every level of price and comfort, from a luxury hotel to caravan park, all owned by the same people.
Heidi had booked us in to a bunkhouse. “I reckoned we’re only here one night, so how bad could it be?”
It was actually named the “Pioneer Lodge.” There’s a reason they don’t show photos of the interiors on the website.
These people are outside because, well, who would want to spend any time inside?
“I feel like we’re in an episode of Orange is the New Black,” I commented as we surveyed the place.
“We’ll certainly get our thirty-eight dollars’ worth,” quipped Heidi. It was, indeed, only for one night—this was an adventure.
We “fought” over who would sleep up top with the giant pipe. Heidi sleeps through the night, while I get up several times to use the bathroom. “You can’t climb down that ladder in the dark,” she insisted.
“I could hold a flashlight in my teeth,” I suggested feebly. Heidi didn’t get much sleep, since the pipe turned out to be a hot air pipe.