It’s summer and I’m feeling lazy. So instead of a regular post, I thought I’d share a few of my favorite songs related to asylum and/or immigration.
This first song involves one of my favorite musical groups of all time, the Clancy Brothers. The song is based on some letters discovered in a house in Washington, DC. It’s about an immigrant from Ireland to the U.S. in the Nineteenth Century. Warning: This is one of the saddest and most sentimental songs I know (but you have to pay attention to the words):(more…)
Photographer Harvey Finkle has documented immigration to the city of Philadelphia since the 1970s. His work has been hailed as “visual anthropology” that records successive waves of settlement, mostly in South Philadelphia, by European Jews, Vietnamese, Cambodians, Burmese, Mexicans, Central Americans, and other immigrants and refugees.
In his new book, Faces of Courage: Ten years of Building Sanctuary, Mr. Finkle chronicles the first ten years of the New Sanctuary Movement of Philadelphia—a coalition of twenty-eight congregations that works to build community across religious, ethnic, and class lines to end injustices against all immigrants, documented or otherwise.
The Asylumist recently caught up with Mr. Finkle, to ask about his career, his book, and the New Sanctuary Movement. (more…)
An ambitious multi-media exhibit at the Phillip’s Collection in Washington, DC explores the “experiences and perceptions of migration and the current global refugee crisis.” The exhibition, called The Warmth of Other Suns: Stories of Global Displacement, presents the work of 75 historical and contemporary artists “from the United States as well as Algeria, Bangladesh, Belgium, Brazil, Egypt, Ghana, Iraq, Lebanon, Mexico, Morocco, Syria, Turkey, UK, Vietnam, and more.” Many of the artists are themselves refugees, and this lends power and authenticity to the show.
My office mates and I took a field trip to the Phillip’s to check out the exhibit, which consists of “installations, videos, paintings, and documentary images.” There’s a lot to see, and a lot to read–each artist has a story, and for me at least, learning about that story helped me understand what I was looking at. Most of the art is individually interesting and it would be easy to linger with each piece, but in this case, the sum of the show exceeds its parts. Indeed, the great strength of this exhibit comes from its diversity–diversity in experience, place, and time.
A photo from the exhibit, showing migrants waiting for a plane that never arrives (either that, or it’s a bunch of people boarding Wonder Woman’s jet).
The curators have anchored the show with a display of Jacob Lawrence’s Migration Series: 60 or so paintings depicting the Great Migration of African Americans from the American South to the North. Between about 1920 and 1970, more than six million people moved North to escape poverty and racism (or, more accurately, they moved to escape from severe poverty and racism in the South to somewhat less severe poverty and racism in the North). The Migration Series is a part of the museum’s regular collection, but placing it in the wider context of The Warmth of Other Suns adds to its emotional impact and gives it a sense of universality that is less obvious when it is viewed individually.
Other powerful exhibits include a video installation showing a conversation with elderly Central American parents whose son left for the United States. We hear their perspective of the son’s journey–phone calls from different stops along the road, and then finally nothing. The parents learn later that their son has died on the journey. The devastation of their loss is haunting. The mother can’t even speak about it. She talks about the weather and the coffee harvest instead, and somehow, this is harder to watch than a direct accounting of her son’s demise.
Another room has a floor covered in clothing. On the wall is a large photo of a rough ocean. The clothes are blue, indicative of the sea, and they represent the unnamed and unseen migrants who were lost while crossing the Mediterranean (thousands of migrants die each year on their journeys, many in the Mediterranean Sea). On the wall of this room are three world maps, but by a different artist. This artist commissioned Afghan seamstresses to sew the maps. Each country is represented by its colors or part of its national flag. The maps–with their distinct borders between countries–contrasts with the scattered clothing, lost in the liminal space between nations.
Another exhibit is a video of a young boy from Syria. He is deaf and mute, and he looks to be about 12 or 13 years old. He fled Syria after the Islamic State attacked his home town. Unable to speak, the boy describes the attack with gestures and facial expressions. The artist writes, “The power of his body language [has] made any other language form insufficient and insignificant.” I am not sure about that, but his non-verbal description certainly renders any other language form redundant, as it is all too clear that this boy has witnessed and suffered a trauma that no child (and no adult) should ever have to experience.
A more lighthearted exhibit called Centro de Permanenza Temporanea or Center for Temporary Permanence (pictured above) shows a group of migrants climbing an airport boarding ladder for a plane that never arrives. This exhibit symbolizes the inability of Western countries (here, Italy) to return their “unwanted” migrants, who are left to wait and wait.
For me as an attorney who represents asylum seekers, this exhibit was challenging. Our cases are serious and the stakes are high (indeed, just this week, I heard about a colleague’s client who was murdered after having been deported by an Immigration Judge). To do these cases effectively, we need a certain level of detachment (to preserve our sanity) and objectivity (to properly evaluate and prepare our clients’ cases). These qualities serve us well in the practice of asylum law, but they are the opposite of what is needed to appreciate an art exhibit about migration. But by lowering my defenses and engaging with this art, I find that it provides inspiration and serves as a reminder of why we do what we do.
For those who are not immersed in the world of migration, I think the great power of this art is that it gives voice to people who are frequently voiceless, and humanity to people who are too often used as political pawns (“invaders!” “rapists!”). The Warmth of Other Suns is a thoughtful and sobering testament to those who have journeyed–willingly and unwillingly–in search of a better life.
The exhibition runs through September 22, 2019. For more information, and to see some of the art, click here.
PS: The title of this blog post was shamelessly stolen from my friend Sheryl Winarick, who drove across Eurasia to document various communities and their experiences with migration. Learn more about her journey here.
PPS: I almost forgot the housekeeping. I will be off-line from about August 16 to 25, 2019. So if you post questions or comments, I will try to answer them after that time.
One of my more memorable cases involved testimony from my client’s uncle, a well-known singer from Ethiopia who had been living in exile in Sweden and the U.S. since 1974. He was testifying about conditions in Ethiopia and whether it was safe for his nephew (my client) to return home. He mentioned that even after 40 years away, many of his songs were about Ethiopia. I asked him about his feeling towards his homeland. “I love my country,” he responded. Did he want to return? “If I could, I would return tomorrow.” It’s a beautiful and sad testament to a life lived in exile, and it is not an uncommon story.
The Refugee All Stars embody the old proverb, “It ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward.” (Balboa 3:16).
It seems there is a natural connection between exile and art. Some artists are forced into exile after their art offends the powers that be. Others create art to remember their previous lives or to help heal themselves and their loved ones. I suppose there are as many motivations for art as there are artists, but memories of a homeland lost are a particularly powerful muse.
In that vein, one of my favorite musicians is Enrico Macias, an Algerian Jew who had to leave his country during the war of independence in 1961. He has not returned to Algeria since, but many of his songs reference his homeland and the loss he experienced by leaving.
Recently, I’ve learned about a band called the Refugee All Stars, which is currently touring American (their schedule is here). Members of the band are from Sierra Leone, and their story is inspiring:
Throughout the 1990s, the West African country of Sierra Leone was wracked with a bloody, horrifying war that forced millions to flee their homes. The musicians that would eventually form Sierra Leone’s Refugee All Stars are all originally from Freetown, and they were forced to leave the capital city at various times after violent rebel attacks. Most of those that left the country made their way into neighboring Guinea, some ending up in refugee camps and others struggling to fend for themselves in the capital city of Conakry.
Ruben Koroma and his wife Grace had left Sierra Leone in 1997 and found themselves in the Kalia refugee camp near the border with Sierra Leone. When it became clear they would not be heading back to their homeland anytime soon, they joined up with guitarist Francis John Langba (aka Franco), and bassist Idrissa Bangura (aka Mallam), other musicians in the camp whom they had known before the war, to entertain their fellow refugees. After a Canadian relief agency donated two beat up electric guitars, a single microphone and a meager sound system, Sierra Leone’s Refugee All Stars were born.
Now, the band tours worldwide and works with many well-known musicians and producers. They have also performed benefits for Amnesty International and the World Food Program, among others.
Like many people who have experienced war and exile–including many of my clients–it seems that the band members’ desire to carry on with their lives and work to improve the world has not been dimmed:
The senseless deaths and illnesses of friends and family, including some of the band’s original members, and the slimming hope for great change in their country as a result of peace, has only strengthened the resolve of Sierra Leone’s Refugee All Stars to do what they can to turn their country around. Their weapon in this struggle is music, and their message, while offering critique and condemnation of wrongdoing, remains positive and hopeful. Optimism in the face of obstacles, and the eternal hope for a better future motivates their lives and music.
Given the world’s current refugee situation and all the problems in the U.S. asylum system, optimism is in short supply. But it’s needed now more than ever.
