The arrival of immigrants and refugees on our shores and at our borders has sparked a controversy across our nation. Many lump the two, but they are distinct and separate issues. An immigrant is a person who arrives at our borders with the desire to make our country their home. They come with passports, visas, other identification, often with a job lined up and a group of people to support them. It is a clear decision on the part of the immigrant to settle in our country.
On the other hand, a refugee has been misplaced from their country of origin often due to devastating wars in their home country from which they have been driven with no home and no future unless a foreign country will allow them access to settle permanently or until it is safe to return to their own country. They may not have passports, visa, other identification, job prospects or persons who will receive them and care for them. They have not made a decision to move to our country but are forced to seek refuge in a country open to receiving them.
The controversy arises when the current citizens do not wish to have ‘foreigners’ arriving at our borders. Often the issue is jobs. It is argued we do not have enough jobs for our citizens, so why should ‘outsiders’ come in and claim jobs that should be given to ‘our people’. Others fear foreigners will bring their troubles with them causing fractions in our own country. Or the fear may be that other religions will come in with the goal of turning our country into something it has never been.
Race, religion, foreign customs, jobs; all play a part of the fear generated by new arrivals.
Countries often encourage immigration because it can bring skilled, educated workers into our economy, thus assisting the country to move forward in many areas. Even though they may bring different customs, that can be overlooked, and the hope will be these new arrivals will adjust to our culture and embrace our customs.
For many, the refugee situation poses an entirely different hurdle.
For a moment, let me take you into the heart of a refugee (the story is fictitious, but has a ring of authenticity.)
My name is Selda. I’m thirty-four years old, wife to Orthan, and mother to three small children. We lived in an apartment in a city that has been under siege for three years. My husband has gone to join the army fighting for our freedom. I haven’t seen him or heard from him in several months. Last night our building, and several others on our street, took the brunt of several missiles, killing many, and displacing the remainder. We have nowhere to go.
I’ve heard from a neighbour, that outside of town there is a refugee camp. It’s a three day walk from here, daunting with three little ones and no husband to help. My parents live several miles away and have already been displaced. I no longer know where they’re located. I’ve cried so many tears I am depleted and would like to lie down and die, but I must live for my little ones. They must have a chance at life and freedom.
We’ve lost everything, so there is not much to carry, but my youngest is only fifteen months old and will need to be carried most of the way. I lead my crying children through the rubble of the once beautiful streets. Twice we’ve been stopped while gangs raged before us, fighting with each other amid the most awful destruction I could ever have imagined. I hold my baby tight with one arm, grab the hand of the three-year old, and depend far too much on my six-year-old son who thinks he can become to head of our family. Too much, too soon, his childhood is gone.
Let me not dwell on the journey. Three days became six before we caught a glimpse of the camp. Row after row of tattered tents set in an open field. No privacy, no means of support, no bathrooms, no food. What will I do? I can’t go on. I want to sink to the ground and leave this world behind. But little arms clutch my neck and baby kisses and low moans bring me back to the present. I’m all they have. I must live for them.
We’re greeted by a group of men who administer the camp. Scruffy beings with eyes that seem dead. So sorry, they say (but I hear no sorrow in their voices or see any in their eyes.) There is no room for us, but we can try to find a space on a crowded open area until a tent becomes available. We can’t go back and there is no prospect of going further, so I lead my little family through the dirty laneways to the large open space which is already crowded with families no better off than mine. There is no grass, only rocks and dirt. I find a small space and sink down in exhaustion. I look around. There is no hope. My children lean on me and gradually fall asleep. The sleep they embrace eludes me and I stare ahead with empty eyes.
A shout goes up and a dusty truck stops at the edge of the field. Two men jump from the back and hand out food and water. I must get some for my children. The baby makes no cry when I lay her beside her brother and sister. On legs that feel nothing, I manage to walk the distance. One of the men hands me bottles of water and a cardboard container of food. I look into his eyes and thank him. His response is a smile. It touches me. I haven’t seen a smile in many months.
The days fall into a wearisome pattern. Gradually I learn where to go to find water and food, where to find primitive bathroom facilities, and where to go to check on tents becoming available. After a fortnight, I’m finally assigned a small tent, wedged in among all the others. But I’m grateful for even this tiny, tattered shelter. It at least keeps the sun from burning our skin and gives us a little privacy and protection for the night.
I long to be able to move from this refugee camp to a country where I can build a life for my children, but the situation seems hopeless. Until that happens, we wait and weep, dreading each setting of the sun ending another impossible day among the displaced of our people.
I acknowledge the fears of people who live in peaceful countries. Some of their arguments make sense on an economic level, but my heart goes out to the lost and hopeless, looking for a place to rebuild their lives and provide for their families.
What is the solution? Or is there a solution? I don’t have answers. It’s a complex problem. I am reminded of what Jesus had to say: ‘For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ Matthew 25:35-36 (NIV)
This applies to us individually, but does it apply to an entire country? I don’t know. I only know that if I lived in a war-torn country, I would be desperate to find a country willing to feed me, invite me in, clothe me, and look after me.
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