Hola chicos,
Yesterday, we had a really crazy day. 43 new families joined the shelter and 3 of the 4 Spanish speaking volunteers were sick with the stomach bug. That left me (who has only been volunteering at the center for a week) in charge of the whole shelter. Surprisingly, everyone survived and I did not burn the center down by accident… so I think we will call it a win. But I have to tell you, it was one of the most stressful and busy days of my life.
When you are in charge of the shelter, everyone is asking you a million questions every five seconds. When is the bus of new families coming? Do we have all the rides to the airport covered? My child has a bloody nose what do I do? My toddler is so weak and sick he can’t even stand up, should we call a doctor? How do you say clothesline in Spanish? Do we have enough food for everyone? Can I call my family? What do we do with these donations? Etc. Etc. But the hardest question to answer was one I really did not know the answer to: Where is my son?
This question came from one of the refugees and was one of the hardest questions I have ever answered in my life. Yesterday I learned that during the immigration process, after the families have come to the border to seek asylum, anyone who is 18 or older is treated as an adult and therefore not as part of the family. Now I know this makes sense to many of us because in the United States, we do consider 18 year olds as adults. 18 year olds can be drafted into the military and have often have other adult responsibilities. However, I do think that, regardless of it is correct or not, it must be extremely overwhelming and scary for these young adults to be separated from their parents and siblings and brought to another facility… especially a facility that keeps you in a metal cage with 14 other people, makes you sleep on a concrete floor, and gives you just a tin foil blanket for warmth.
As I tried to find this 18 year old boy yesterday, I learned many things that made answering the question “where is my son?” even harder. I learned that you are not able to locate someone in the detention centers until they have been there for at least 3 days, sometimes longer. I also learned that you are not able to contact the person until they have had his or her immigration meeting with ICE that can take weeks or even months.
Turning to that mother and telling her that not only did I not know where her son was, but that I would not be able to find out for a few more days, and that she would not be able to talk with him until he has his ICE meeting was heartbreaking. I held in tears as I told her that it could be a few weeks before she could even talk with him, and a while after that until they would even know if they would ever be reunited. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to tell someone.
Today, as I sent that woman and her younger child home to her family in Minnesota, I sent out as many prayers as I possibly could that one day soon she will be reunited with her older child.
“Where is my son?” is a question I hope I never have to answer in that way again.
Thanks for reading my thoughts,
Senora Traub
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