Waiting

I couldn’t figure out why our group wasn’t moving further into the building. If they stepped into the room we could get in with all the supplies: not only the food but also the bags of crayons and paper and candy.

Until I was able to squeeze in, myself, and discovered there was no “building,” and there was barely a room. There were 35 people, including 10 children and three infants, squeezed into a space about 5’ by 15’. You probably know I’m not good at assessing the size of a space; but there was a 5’ table just like the ones we use at church, so that helped. 35 people, living in one small room, with a tiny bathroom at the end.

Entrance to the room where asylum seekers wait. The woman pointing was the same who earlier told everyone "Tú eres Jesus."

We brought food from El Comedor to feed them. These people (today from Mexico, Central America, and - in a weird twist nobody could figure out due to the language barrier - Russia) are seeking asylum in the US. They are fleeing violence in their homes. Many have personally witnessed terrible violence, including the beating and murder of family members. They are awaiting what is called a "credible fear" interview. Actually, what they were waiting for today was their number.

When someone wants to ask for asylum at the Mexico border, they are given a number, like at a deli. And hopefully they stay at a shelter while they are waiting for their number to be called. The length of wait is unpredictable, often a few weeks, but right now we’re hearing it is shorter, sometimes a matter of days.

But the 35 people in that room don't have their numbers yet. Once they do, they will be distributed among different shelters in the city, providing there is room. The man in charge of that process looked about 20 years old. He works with Asylum Agents at the border to get people’s numbers, and then delivers the people to the shelters when there is room. I visited one of those shelters last week, and hope to write about that experience on Thurs.

But, again, these folks don't have their numbers yet. And so for the last few days they have been huddled together in this tiny room, piled together, grabbing sleep on the few mats on the floor. I can't imagine what it's like to sleep in there, with parents trying to comfort their children and quiet their babies. And thinking about the violence these folks have seen, how scared and vulnerable they must feel, herded into this small space with strangers.

Before we served food to them all, there was another (long) prayer. But I understood more of this one. The woman (a lay Catholic I believe) at one point in the prayer started pointing at each asylum seeker in the room, saying, “Tú eres Jesus, y tú eres Jesus, y tú eres Jesus.” You are Jesus. You are Jesus. You are Jesus. I saw a few people smile for the first time, and nod along. At least half were crying, silent tears running down their faces. I refused to let my tears show – we didn’t need my “white women’s tears” in that room – but when I stepped outside to grab some supplies I couldn’t hold them back.

When I’d asked what I could bring to help, I was told candy for the kids. I asked about crayons and paper too, and they said sure. Candy just seemed like a silly contribution – no protein, nothing to hang on to or occupy little kids for long.

Well the problem with the crayons and paper was immediately clear: there is no room. So we sent those supplies to the shelters instead; maybe tomorrow these kids will be there, coloring.

And, of course, the wisdom of the candy also became immediately clear. The kids’ faces lit up like all kids’ faces do when I offered little packages of M&Ms, Skittles and Kit Kats. I worried the parents would disapprove of me giving candy to their children, another sign of my cluelessness. Again and again, parents beamed at their children, so glad to see them happy for a minute. A teenager, probably Lincoln’s age (14), had his arms crossed and his head down. His entire body called out “Leave me alone.” A brave man (his dad?) nudged him to show the candy I was distributing, and once he saw what I held out he just gave me a big smile and took the little bit of sugar. A big smile for candy? Really? I wanted to fill all their pockets with the stuff. All those tears I held back this morning keep leaking out now.

It is cold today - not New England cold, don’t yell at me, but cold for here and certainly cold for people from further south. Many people had a sweatshirt, but several people only had short sleeves. One of the volunteers asked if we had brought any sweatshirts with us. Two of us immediately started stripping off our own clothes, but Panchito came to the rescue.

Panchito is a nurse who provides medical care to migrants at the shelters and on the streets. He is one of those people who knows everyone and can make everything happen.

(In this picture he is with Shura Wallin, founder of the Samaritans who, likewise, knows everyone and makes everything happen.) Panichito has his own ambulance! And in the ambulance he kept a supply of clothing, so we made a parade from the asylum shelter to the ambulance and added another layer for everyone who was cold.

It was easy to get Panchito’s name because it was on his shirt, ambulance, business card, etc., and there were no restrictions on taking photos of him. So right now he stands in for the amazing women who were organizing everything for the asylum seekers, the young man getting the numbers, the sisters cooking hundreds of meals, the Samaritans providing labor and laughter.

It's dark now, nearly bedtime for young children. Those who didn't get room in a shelter today are facing another cold night in that room. And new asylum seekers may have joined them. May there be some small feeling of peace as they face another night together. May they know that the strangers around them, and they themselves, are Jesus.