Brother

Sometimes love feels like a heavy weight across the shoulders. 

I saw my friend this morning—well, heard him first…his voice outside my window as he talked to an old neighbour. “Good to see you!” I know that voice well. Ahmad is a former Kinbrace resident who is a brother to me.*

(Before I go on, I want to say that I struggle to write about these strangers-turned-friends who I have shared life with at Kinbrace. I do not know how to use my words as instruments of peace, but I pray that this practice is a way of learning. I ask myself ‘What if Ahmad came across my writing? Or Zahra or Abdul?’ I fear writing in a way that could be objectifying, or mis-using the privilege of holding the ‘pen’. I have all kinds of invisible assets which render me all-but-immune to the experience of exile that my neighbours know so well. But I know that not writing is not the solution. So I press on...and pray for mercy.)

About a year ago I ran into Ahmad as I was on my way out of the house and we had an encounter that left its mark on me. He had just received a concerning assessment at the hospital and I was the first person he crossed paths with in the aftermath. In his distress, I tried to reassure him, telling him that he could always come back to Kinbrace for support. “We’re like family,” I said and, almost before the words left my mouth, he stopped me in my tracks. “No, we are family. You are my brothers and sisters,” he asserted. 

That encounter affirmed something for me. I don’t want to live in simile, with clichés down pat and ‘there-there’ sentiments...niceties that allow me to keep my distance and move on with my day. If I believe that kinship goes far beyond flesh and blood, I want to live it. I needed Ahmad that day to catch me in my words. I needed him today, too. 

A few weeks ago he had his refugee hearing—finally!—after two years of waiting in another attempted country of asylum, and another year and a half in Canada. (Meanwhile, he has been separated from his wife and his young children, who remain in his country of origin.) To our great delight, the hearing ended with a positive decision: he was found to be a convention refugee and deserving of protection in Canada. What relief! 

Relief, and yet...still he waits. It could be some time before he is reunited with his family. (Family reunification for refugee claimants is a lengthy process that involves applying for Permanent Residence in Canada.)

“I will see if they can come sooner. I will talk to my lawyer,” he told me. “I have some savings. I haven’t taken a day off in six months...it's hard work, but it takes my mind off things.” 

I long for complete and full relief for Ahmad. For a day off work. For a deep breath. Sometimes I doubt it will ever come—for him, and for countless other neighbours. I feel grieved for him and angry at the odds, ever-stacked against people seeking safety and belonging. In these feelings of powerlessness, sometimes I turn to prayer. I trust that—despite the odds—God is compassionate, faithful, and just. And I trust that it is God who is knitting us together as kin. 

Please pray for Ahmad. My brother. Our brother.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of my neighbours.