Editor’s note: This commentary is by Susan Amestoy, of Waterbury Center, an educator who is currently teaching English as an Additional Language.
[T]his past week’s reporting of the humanitarian crisis on our southern border, brought me back to another refugee emergency following the war in the Balkans.
A horrific campaign to eliminate the Muslim population through ethnic cleansing and systematic rape forced millions of Bosnian Muslims to flee their homes and country. Unlike today, these refugees were made welcome. Doors were open, church communities offered sponsorship, and businesses provided families with a sound start in their new homes.
One such family landed in our tiny town of Waterbury. The oldest child, Marima, joined my daughter’s eighth grade class and immediately made her mark as a leader destined for success. When Marima and my daughter were invited to represent their middle school at a local college symposium, I offered to give both girls a ride to the event. Arriving that morning to pick up Marima, I was pleasantly surprised to have the opportunity to meet her mother, who graciously invited me in for a visit. Over a cup of coffee, in hesitant English, she told me the story of the family’s journey to Vermont.
She and her husband had owned a successful furniture business in Bosnia. After their business was seized, and after Marima’s young cousin was arrested, tortured and driven to suicide, the family knew it was time to flee. Marima’s father shepherded his family out of war-torn Bosnia, into Austria, and finally to America. As Marima’s mother told of their exodus, it was clear that the chronology of their journey was just a small part of the story. Rather than painting a picture of a family progressing toward safety, the image that filled the room that morning was of a tempestuous struggle — one which the travelers were barely surviving. Once Marima’s father made sure his family had finally reached safety, he seemed to let go and let the storm sweep him away into oblivion; his whereabouts and fate unknown to his wife. Through tears this woman said to me that they had lost everything, but all she wanted was to have her husband back. There was no anger or bitterness in her voice, just heart-breaking sadness. Her husband had protected his family all the way through, but just couldn’t make it to the end.
On June 9, the Washington Post reported on the story of a 39-year-old Honduran father, who took his own life in despair after being forcibly separated from his wife and 3-year-old son.
Soon after Muñoz and his family were taken into custody, they arrived at a processing station in nearby McAllen and said they wanted to apply for asylum. Border Patrol agents told the family they would be separated. That’s when Muñoz “lost it,” according to one agent, speaking on the condition of anonymity to discuss the incident.
“The guy lost his s—,” the agent said. “They had to use physical force to take the child out of his hands.”
Marco Antonio Muñoz was found dead in his holding cell the next morning.
The need to protect our children is a basic human instinct, one shared by all cultures and classes. Most of us know someone who has also been lost to this kind of heartache and despair; feeling that the effort to protect loved ones, whether from physical danger or economic uncertainty, had ended in failure.
This border crisis is our time to come together, to recognize our shared humanity, to help each other survive the perilous journey and the trauma it causes. While others seek to divide us to profit their own agenda, we must rise up and recognize the need to protect each other and guide our democracy to safety.
