I’d been here before. It was a Friday afternoon and I was the last person in the office. It was pouring with rain and I was sitting in front of my desk with several thick files I didn’t want to open. I had to call the refugee families who we’d interviewed earlier that week to see if they were fit for resettlement, but it was not good news. I’d be telling them that the resettlement panel had decided to de-prioritise their cases, and that any future prospects for resettlement looked poor because they did not fit the resettlement criteria.
While dialling the first family’s number I hoped that they would not pick up because it was already dinner time, or maybe the person answering would tell me that the family’s number had changed. Even though I’ve made these calls many times before, it does not get any easier conveying bad news. This phone call was the father’s only hope for a better future that would end his current situation. To him, resettlement meant his daughters would be able to go to school, and his young son would not be forced to go to work to support the family. As soon as I dialled the number the head of the household picked up the phone – of course he did, this was the call he’d been desperately waiting for. I tried to explain calmly that his family had been de-prioritised although this is always hard as I am not allowed to explain the reasons why. He was furious. He told me that I had taken his only hope away and that he would now have to marry off his daughter as he needed her dowry to support his family’s living costs if they were to remain in the refugee camp.
That night I wasn’t able to sleep, the voice of the Syrian refugee echoed in my ears and the picture of his 14-year-old daughter as a bride was imprinted on my eyelids.
Getting refugees resettled is a long and often heartbreaking process – both for them and us. On average, my office does preliminary interviews with 20 families a week who we have identified as potentially meeting the resettlement criteria, and 50% of them will go through to a second interview. Even if refugees pass that second interview, the final decision still lies with the resettlement state. That means more pain as refugees are asked to retell their story again and again with interviewers from Norway, Finland, Canada or whoever else has offered us spots. My job is just meant to be identifying potential resettlement cases but it’s hard not to get emotionally involved. While I’m not required to, I often end up calling and counselling families who didn’t make it through, and I hate feeling that I am increasing their misery. I try to offer help wherever I can – connecting them with local community or health services, for example, but I know that’s worth little to them compared with the dream of resettlement that must feel like it’s just slipped through their fingers.
After difficult phone calls I often need to offload. On one occasion my colleagues effectively told me it was my fault that I couldn’t detach myself from the people we’re meant to help in these situations. One colleague started to mock me for staying for such long periods in the office, saying, “Work can wait, nobody would die”, and accused me of not managing my time effectively. That remark really stung.
Being a grandchild of refugees who experienced genocide before seeking asylum in Lebanon, I decided to work in the refugee field because it is a cause close to my heart. I know that any person at any time might become a refugee.
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