Northside Urban Partnership

Editor’s Note:  We’ve asked Nicole Watts, Executive Director of Hopeprint, to write guest articles for us on a monthly basis. All of her posts are organized under the “Hopeprint” Category. You can learn about her organization and read more of her writing at blog.hopeprint.org.

Give me a rainy day, a soy latte and a few hours to wander Barnes and Noble and you will have yourself a contended woman. There is something about running my eyes over the titles and pages of books that brilliant people have written and read that just makes one feel slightly more intelligent.

The sections on immigration, refugees and citizenship tend to have a way of catching my eye (big surprise, I know). Thumbing through the pages of one such title Refugee Roulette, it states, “Nationals from well over one hundred countries applied for asylum in recent years” (Ramji-Nogales, p. 17). Another claims, “It’s harder than ever to get into the United States. It’s even harder to stay. This book helps you do both” (U.S. Immigration and Citizenship, Wernick).

In the midst of a bookstore, it’s easy for those topics and facts to stay purely academic. However, in these times, such conversations are becoming common and sometimes pressing. Why do we as America open our gates wide to the immigrant and the refugee? Why are we tightening those gates and should we? Should U.S. citizenship be extended to the world?

My friend (and Hopeprint volunteer) Bob recently reminded me, “This is our heritage. Almost every single one of us that claim American citizenship are the children of immigrants and refugees. It is the heritage of the founding of this nation, as well as its growth.” In the historical documentary series America – the Story of Us, General Colin Powell states, “The great strength of America is our people… our immigrant tradition, our bringing in cultures from all around the world.” At a main intersection entering our neighborhood there is a sign that reads, “Welcome to the Northside – Home to Generations of Many Nations.” This is the heritage of Syracuse’s Northside, yet the questions still remain.

Why do we as America open our gates wide to the immigrant and the refugee?

Why are we tightening those gates and should we?

Should U.S. citizenship be extended to the world?

I do indeed understand the heart of the questioning, and am a firm believer that if we are going to welcome people into our land we ought to be prepared to be hospitable and empowering. Yet, I know my own sheltered perspective was not able to see the answer quite so clearly until I found myself on the Thai border of Burma, dipping my toe into the river that separates the two lands. I had met hundreds of refugees on this side of the ocean, but I had yet to sleep in a refugee camp, taste their food and hear their stories, like Ah’s…

Her hair was cut short and she ran about with the maximum energy of a seven year old little girl. She grabbed my hand and motioned to come and sit, using the only language one has when we don’t share a tongue – our hands. Her little hands started to motion into the air and I soon realized she was teaching me a clapping game, complete with the Karen version of “Miss Mary Mac” from my playground days. Brushing off my kindergarten skills, I soon became her favorite clapping game partner. Each time she saw me she would come running, grab my hand and pull me to the floor practically singing the song as we went.

The monsoon rains poured literally non-stop for days, and with flooding the electricity went out in the room packed with small orphaned refugee children at the camp where we were staying. As the candles were lit to finish out the evening, a young Burmese man picked up his guitar and began to sing; the children’s voices soon overcame his own. The tears threatened to overflow from my eyes as I listened to their songs and watched their faces sing to their God with such genuine faith that only a child can seem to have. To the right sat the young boy who had lost a leg to a mine bomb on the border during his escape; he had lost a father to a similar bomb. Or the little angel cuddling up next to me with one eye blind due to physical war trauma. Or my little clapping friend who had lost both of her parents and now called this refugee camp her home.

Why do we as America open our gates wide to the immigrant and the refugee?

Why are we tightening those gates and should we?

Should U.S. citizenship be extended to the world?

I cannot ask those questions the same way anymore. It is not possible to objectify the refugee. They are no longer simply 42 million; they are one and another one. They are orphaned children and homeless families. They are uprooted business men and blossoming adults. They are teenage girls and old men. They are Ah Shim, Jerome, Rana and Bhim. They are friends and they are strangers. They are people. And some of them are our neighbors.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

(Inscription on the Statue of Liberty by Emma Lazarus)