Waiting

Do you know many who are experiencing the ill effects of Trump’s policies? The new administration has successfully instilled fear and trembling into the hearts of the forty-five students in my English classes with the latest Travel Ban, Version 2.0. And of course my students are just a drop in the administration’s bucket, just a small snapshot of the millions of the voiceless the world over who are being targeted for discrimination.

I recently asked my immigrant and refugee students, most from Africa, some from Iraq and Saudi Arabia, how many of them were awaiting the arrival of sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Half of their hands shot up, sadness creasing their young faces as they pondered the unknowable. Really? Half? Yep.

I’m not quite sure how the Travel Ban will ultimately play out for them and their families, but the reality is that anyone with “Somali” attached to their name, to their family, to their clan, is feeling attacked right now by the American government. Let’s add “Muslim” to that. And immigrant. And refugee. And dreamer.

Feisal is waiting for his sister, left behind in Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya because she is married and has a baby; her new family was hoping to be resettled soon. Hani is waiting for her mother, who sent her children ahead with her sister because she wants them to have a better life. Fadumo is waiting for her father to arrive from Ethiopia. His paperwork is not yet ready. Hamze is waiting for his best friend from the Kebribeyah Refugee Camp in eastern Ethiopia. Waiting. Aisha, age 16, just arrived, having been separated from her mother for five years. Five years of waiting.

Speaking of waiting, many of my beginning English language learners have been waiting for years to go to a formal school. They are incredibly eager to learn about new topics. I finished teaching them about the United States Government a few months ago, just prior to the 2016 election. I taught them about the three branches of government, their various purposes, and the balance of power that our Founding Fathers so brilliantly infused into the intricacies of our union.

My students learned about the Constitution and about the rights that we as Americans have as a result of it (and that they as refugees and immigrants also share since they live here). We talked about freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of the press. Freedom, freedom. It made me proud to teach them about the government, and they understood its basic tenants after a month-long unit. 

When Travel Ban 1.0 happened in January, one of my students raised her hand and asked very succinctly, “What about the separation of powers? Why can President Trump make laws that are not fair? Can’t the other branches tell him to stop?”

This teacher loves great questions.

So ensued a discussion of the rights that the President has to make executive orders regarding immigration. The conversation, while enlightening for the kids, did not change the Executive Order, did not quell their fears, and did not serve to remove the real possibility that, perhaps, they would never see their beloved relations again.

“Will I be deported?”

“Are my papers enough?”

“Will I ever see my _____ again?” 

“Why does he hate Somalis? Why does he hate us?”

We had similar dialogues right after the election in November, and here were more questions, in all their transparent ugliness, again. Heavy discussions, difficult answers, unknowns.

It makes me angry, yes, steaming mad, actually, that this is what my curious, insatiable, intelligent young students must fall asleep with each night. 

“He doesn’t like me. I have rights, too.”

“Will I be safe tomorrow?”

“Will I be treated fairly?”

“Are they looking at me because I’m wearing a hijab?”

Although the balance of powers did step in via the U.S Court System to, indeed, check President Trump’s powers regarding Travel Ban 1.0, he was right back at it again this week with Version 2.0, which was poured out with little fanfare but just as much targeted discrimination and bigotry. In the meantime, each night, my students' questions come back to them, interrupting hope, interrupting dreams. Waiting.

Can you imagine sending a child of your own to the United States given this political climate? Would you want to, even if you had endured life in a refugee camp from the time that your babies were born? Even with little water, meager food rations, no electricity, a tarp covering your makeshift home, little or no school for those growing kids?

I am not sure how to answer that question myself at present, and I certainly do not begin to comprehend the life or the circumstances surrounding the life of a mother in a refugee camp. But I do wonder. Would I want my children and family to be targets of my host government's exclusionary policies?

It is frustrating that my students and their families have to wait now, once again, for their loved ones, and that they must live with the reality that they may not see them again. I am dismayed that they have to discuss, debate, and, indeed, endure the present policies of the current administration and that our government, my government, your government is proudly, tauntingly waving the banner of exclusion. But I am also waiting for a new day, working hard in the face of this reality to fight back and educate those within in my sphere. To grant hope, to empower, to foster peace.

In the waiting, though, my heart breaks for my students. I hope yours does, too.