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For months you’ve been reading about asylum-seekers coming to the U.S. The news says the borders are flooded and the immigration system can’t handle the need.
But you don’t hear from the people who arrive at the borders with everything they have on their backs. We’re not just numbers or statistics, but real people who have gone through so much to seek safety in the U.S.
I am one of those people.
I was born in Cabinda, a region north of Angola. Or in northern Angola, depending on whom you ask. Cabinda is considered Angolan territory, but many Cabindans, including myself, believe that our home should be independent.
Armed conflict has torn Cabinda for decades. The Angolan armed forces illegally occupy Cabinda, and commit human rights violations such as murder, kidnapping and lack of basic freedoms.
Free speech does not exist in Angola. Because of my work as a political activist, I was arrested several times. I was threatened and harassed by the police and once I was detained for three days, deprived of food, documents and contact with my family.
I am not the only one. When authorities make an arrest, they often take people to military bases, where they are tortured with gun butts, clubs and electrical wires to make them confess. The perpetrators continue to go unpunished.
I decided to flee my home. I simply wanted to live in a place where my political opinion does not put my life, and my family’s lives, at risk.
I crossed more than nine Latin American countries before arriving at the border at San Diego. Someone told me about Riverton Park United Methodist Church in Tukwila, a place that welcomes immigrants who have nowhere to live.
When I arrived at the church, Pastor Jan Bolerjack and other staff welcomed me with love. They gave me a tent and a phone number for a shelter. I called that number every day, but most shelters didn’t have space for a single man. When I did find a space, I immediately wanted to leave. It was loud and the people seemed unpredictable. That same day, I returned to my tent in Tukwila, where I felt safer. I have since moved, but I am always at the church working with the community and supporting them. I’m one of the only asylum-seekers here who speaks English — it’s one of the five languages I speak.
I didn’t expect that a journey that started out with so much hardship and pain would transform into one where I found community, and that it would reignite what I started fighting for back home: justice and freedom. I think the asylum system is unfair and there are not enough resources to support asylum-seekers’ needs. When I met organizations like OneAmerica and The Washington Immigrant Solidarity Network, I started to see that we, as asylum-seekers, had the opportunity to change our circumstances even though we’re not citizens.
I went to Olympia, where I talked to elected officials and participated in democracy, something that was shut down in my home country. But most important, I started to reclaim a part of myself. I saw myself as a leader again and joined a community that is now like my family.
When I heard the state had budgeted about $25 million for asylum-seekers, I was so happy. It means that more of us will have enough to eat, a warm place to sleep and help finding work.
The asylum process has been hard, but I finally feel safe. I don’t worry about someone killing me in the night. I can walk the streets without being chased. I’m no longer afraid that Angolan government agents will torture me.
Just as I came here, millions came before me and millions will still come. The anti-immigrant bias in this country is strong, but immigrants are stronger. We have run from worse things than rumors.
I am seeking asylum in your country, and I will work to make it better.
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