24 Jun Illegal Alien

One day I woke up and realized that my dreams no longer contained my native tongue, Urdu, from Pakistan but the language of America- English. When it happened a part of me was lost forever. I was around seven years old.

My paternal grandparents, the only grandparents I have ever known, Daada and Daadi migrated from India, their ancestral homeland to Pakistan in 1947. In 1979, during political turmoil and within a corrupt country, Daada and Daadi decided it was time to migrate again but this time to Umrica.

As immigrants, refugees, and dreamers there is much we are willing to sacrifice in order to live in this great country. You don’t leave the only area that your family has known for a thousand years, the soil that holds ancestral remains, the rivers that flow within your veins, the connections you have made along life’s journey just because of a whim. It is to stay alive. It is to survive. It is so your family name lives on, and your children and grandchildren do not die for a political stance that they did not take.

Being their only granddaughter at the time, Daada and Daadi took me wherever they went. Taking my fingers in his leathery, deep mahogany hand, Daada would guide me into homes of family members, friends, neighbors, and former colleagues to visit. The summer of 1979 there were so many people to visit, but as opposed to the regular chatter of elders, card games, chai and snacks being served, and the usual festive atmosphere, there were hushed tones, silent tears falling into my Daada’s lap, his handkerchief quickly being handed to his sister, brother, cousin, or someone else.

“Even as a five year old child there was a sense of finality in these visits, that we would never see each other again, that this was good bye…”

Even as a five year old child there was a sense of finality in these visits, that we would never see each other again, that this was good bye, but I didn’t grasp the concept until my swing was brought down to be given as a gift to my cousin for safe-keeping. The swing Daada pushed me on. The swing I ran to before my boy cousins could get to it first. The swing that gave me blisters on my hand but I still refused to stop using it. That swing was gone now.

Puppa left for somewhere. Daada and Daadi left for somewhere. My uncles and aunt left for somewhere. And then there was one uncle, my expecting aunt, Umme, my two young brothers and myself. We boarded a plane in Karachi and that was the last time I was in Pakistan. We landed in Umrica in October of 1979 where we were reunited with all the family that had gone somewhere. We left all that we had ever known. We left the land, the people, the homes, the careers, the community for hope, dreams, and a future.

We left all that we had ever known. We left the land, the people, the homes, the careers, the community for hope, dreams, and a future.

Whether we arrived here by foot, car, boat, train, or plane we were searching for a safe harbor to land on and be given the opportunity for life. Except for my Native brothers and sisters there is not a single soul that can claim indigenous claim to this country. Except for my African-American brothers and sisters, who were the only forced migration to our land, the rest of us willingly came to these shores for a better life.

These are the times where we are tested. Where it will show who remained quiet, who allowed defenseless souls to be turned away, sent back to whatever horrors await them at “home”. These people have names. They have lands lost to them. They are homeless within our world and they have knocked on our doors.

Will we as a “civilized society”, a democracy, turn our head away to those legally permitted within our border? Will we obey a leader and administration that has no intelligence of our Constitution and laws of this land? Will we remain quiet at home because it doesn’t effect or affect me and my family? Will we take note of the Dow Jones because our stocks are doing well but our souls are plummeting? Will we not answer our doors and pretend no one is at home as the cries of our citizens, legal citizens, are on the other side asking, begging for help? Will we remain quiet?

These people have names. They have lands lost to them. They are homeless within our world and they have knocked on our doors.

Will we as a “civilized society”, a democracy, turn our head away to those legally permitted within our border? Will we obey a leader and administration that has no intelligence of our Constitution and laws of this land? Will we remain quiet at home because it doesn’t effect or affect me and my family? Will we take note of the Dow Jones because our stocks are doing well but our souls are plummeting? Will we not answer our doors and pretend no one is at home as the cries of our citizens, legal citizens, are on the other side asking, begging for help? Will we remain quiet?

You who remain silent for whatever reason you tell your conscience so you can sleep at night, yes YOU- I’m calling you out. Where is your Jesus now and all of His teachings? Where is your Messiah? “What would Jesus do” considering He was turned away with His parents seeking asylum? He was also a Middle Eastern refugee. He is knocking on your door- right now. How will you answer?

-Samita Syed-Needelman