1/19/23

By Josh Rubin

Migrants fleeing their home countries to stand at the gates of ours must stand like beggars. It is the posture we expect and the one, for the most part, they accept. Notwithstanding the lies of those who despise them, they do not not bear arms or malice. They arrive in states of desperation that they are aware might crush them. They dare not raise their voices. They fear the wrath they see before them: armed men wearing uniforms adorned with patches that bespeak authority; and they hear, even if they do not understand the words, the tone of authority and, all too much, derision.

It seems to me that the tone of humility and supplication that is forced on people at such a disadvantage is belied by the courage summoned to take the journey that brings them. They give up their lives to risk it on another, to follow a dream they may have glimpsed on some screen or heard tell about from those gone before. They have gone all-in on a single hand, a poor one dealt them by a crooked dealer, who like those who stand in their way, never seems to get blasted with the outrage they deserve.

Generations of oppression build this mien of humility that is worn along a trip to the gates of our kingdom. People speak of the gentleness of the migrants who come; those who help have their hearts warmed by displays of shy gratitude. And it is not only the supplicants themselves that wear this garb. Many of the people who respond to the needs of migrants have borrowed some of the same cloth to ply their suits for mercies. They remember dutifully their pleases and thank yous for each and every little amnesty won against monumental injustice.

And perhaps they are right to do it. Maybe they are right to acknowledge the mighty and reckless power of the rich who have built the gates of inequality and to cherish each morsel carelessly tossed in the direction of the hungry. Perhaps one of those morsels will carry a soul toward life.

But is there never a moment for those of us lucky enough to be on this side of the wall, with less to fear, to find in our voices the strangled agony we feel as we watch the trembling lines of humanity make their way northward? And as we hear the soft spoken speak in their behalf, painstakingly accepting negotiated baby steps for the few, doesn’t the universe seem to beg us to rend our garments and shriek, if only to remind ourselves how outmatched we are, how high the mountains, how far there is to go?

To listen for an echo?