by Jasmin Kaur
Eyes weary despite her smile, Mom says, “Well, hopefully at the end of all this, I’ll be able to work somewhere else. I mean, as long at the PR application gets accepted.”
“Yes, that’s the goal.” Valeria taps a thick fountain pen against the hot-pink cover of her journal. “And we’re here to offer support in any way you need. We’ll work with you on your application and we’ll be here every step of the way.”
My gaze wanders to her gray crewneck. ALL HUMANS ARE LEGAL is emblazoned across the chest in bold white lettering. The fearless declaration is badass as hell. I think back to all the years of fear and silence, to Mom’s dread that the wrong person would hear about her status and shatter our future.
A new reality sinks in as my eyes rove the table. We’re a group of brown people sitting in a crowded public space speaking the word undocumented aloud as if it won’t leave us at the scene of a crime.
Prem puts on her glasses and pores over the forms that Mom brought with her, nodding occasionally. “So, when we file your PR application, we’ll want to include as much information as possible to explain why you need to stay in Canada. Reasons why you couldn’t go back home to Punjab, info about Sahaara. Everything that will highlight to the government why it’s imperative you remain here.”
Clinging to her blue mug of cha, Mom doesn’t take a sip. “Can you tell them what you told me?” I gently ask. “I think it would help your case . . .” There’s no way her application could get rejected if they understood what he did.
“I, um, I . . .” Mom rests a hand over her chest as though trying to soothe her pounding heart. “I can’t. I can’t talk about it. Not . . . again. Is there another way?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, studying Mom’s quaky lower lip, a bramble of questions tangled within me. Last night, she shared more than she had over the course of my entire life. It was as though she was unfurling. Stepping out of fear. Today, she’s once again a locked door.
“It’s all right, Kiran,” Prem kindly says. “If you do feel like disclosing that information and you feel it would be pertinent to the application, we’re always here. But we did want to begin by noting that you have a strong case simply because of Sahaara.” The entire table glances at me and then returns to Prem. “As you have a Canadian citizen daughter, we can write about how you’ve made Canada your home with her for the past nineteen years. For humanitarian and compassionate reasons, you would be asking the government not to separate you.”
“The officers said something about that as well . . .” Mom rests her mug on the table. “Something about humanitarian and compassionate grounds.”
“Ah, okay. I thought they might,” Valeria murmurs, jotting something down in her journal. “There’s a really good precedent for cases like this. We just finished working on one that was pretty similar—Canadian-born child and a migrant parent. The father got his PR card a few months ago.”
I watch as hope softens Mom’s brow and steadies her hands.
“If our application based on these grounds does get rejected, there are other strategies we can employ.” Prem serenely smiles. “But I would say that I’m . . . cautiously optimistic.”
“Okay.” The corners of Mom’s lips slowly rise into a smile but soon fall with the gravity of another worry. “But what about the money? Sahaara isn’t earning enough to sponsor me yet.”
“It should be possible to apply with a joint sponsorship,” Valeria replies.
Mom shakes her head in soft confusion. “What do you mean?”
“It isn’t unusual for multiple people to sponsor an immigrant. You were telling us you live with a local family, yes?” Prem asks.
“My friend Joti—” Mom nods. “We live at her mom’s house.”
“Joti Maasi and Bibi Jee are like family,” I add. “The only people we can really depend on.”
“Would Joti be in a position to co-sponsor with you, Sahaara?” Valeria inquires.
“I think so,” I say, watching tension practically ease from Mom’s clenched shoulders. We both know that if there’s a way Maasi can help, she’ll insist on it. For my aunt, family comes before all else. “We’d have to discuss with her, but I have a good feeling she’ll be on board.”
“Woooonderful,” Prem melodically hums, stirring her tea with a metal spoon, before taking another sip. “Kiran, there was also something we wanted to discuss with you. And there’s absolutely no rush or timeline on this, but we’ve been debriefing all of our clients on the project, just in case they might be interested.”
Mom steals a glance at me. She nods slowly and Prem takes this as her cue to go on. “There are so many people out there who have similar stories to yours—migrants who want to seek support but don’t know where to go or who to trust. Fear often stops them from speaking and we want to help change this. If there ever comes a time when you feel comfortable sharing any portion of your migration story publicly, we’d love to help facilitate that.”
For the first time today, the fluttering, writhing feeling beneath my skin goes still. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“We’ve been filming social media content with our clients,” Valeria explains, “and setting up interviews with the media. My dad was super nervous about going public at first. He decided to speak on one of our panels after his papers were fixed, so that eased up his nerves a bit. He ended up finding it really cathartic to let everything out.”
My eyes widen at the thought of Mom on YouTube or national television speaking her truth without apology, reaching across oceans with her words. Her story could make the world a safer place for undocumented women.
For victims of sexual assault.
Even if she had the security of her PR card, I’m almost certain she’d never agree. Telling this story is so painful. I can see it right now in the deep creases on her forehead, in her fiercely clenched shoulders. But, still, I can’t help but imagine it. The mere thought is mouthwatering in a bloodthirsty way. I am suddenly consumed by singular image of Mom telling the world what Hari Ahluwalia did.
i google his name again
i should be drafting my modern art essay
and brainstorming for my mixed-media proposal
but, instead, i’m standing at the bathroom sink
trying to do something i haven’t done in days
i’m terrified when i look up
and finally confront the truth in the mirror
i hold the picture on my phone
up to my face
studying the similarities
i see him most clearly
when i tilt my chin to the left
he lives in my jaw
in my sharp cheekbones
i stare into round, earnest eyes
inherited from my mother:
all that i can stand to face
we mail the pr application
and autumn falls into winter
and winter melts into spring
the waiting gnaws at our skin
but we have known patience for a lifetime
for days and months and years
we have lived in uncertainty
and managed to breathe in its waters
all we can do now
is hope for the best
and trust that there will be another way
if the story of me is not enough
sahaara
february 2021–june 2021
i have never known a rage like this
one that refuses to fade in the soothing arms of time
five months have passed
but i am still haunted
by the night that dug me from my body
and declared me a monstrosity
the dream is always the same.
it is a formula, by this point,
holding me in limbo
every time it replays.
mom is trembling on my bed
telling me the story
for the very first time
the walls of my room crumble
<
br /> when she explains the evil that concocted me
try to hug her but she is vapor
and the walls are cement
and each of them runs red
and i am alone in a cell
i awake in cold sweats
corrosive anger dripping from my skin
a helpless fury that gives way to silent sobs.
if this
is how
the truth
has broken me
simply from hearing it recounted
how has mom felt
carrying it alone beneath her skin
for all these years?
is there a way to free us both?
the letter
“Here goes nothing,” I mumble to myself. I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, nestled within a rainbow of fine-tipped markers. Although the carpet is covered in my usual piles of dirty laundry (I swear, I’ll clean up tonight), the bed is an oasis of peace. The space I need to draw this letter out of myself. With an indigo pen, I begin with the only two words I’m certain of:
Dear Mom.
A sigh. A deflated chest. Ink hovering over paper with no language to conjure.
Where do I go from here?
The letter was Jeevan’s idea. Well, technically, it was his counselor’s. Madhuri had him write a letter to his dad carrying all that needed releasing from his body. All that he couldn’t say in person. Sitting in his room last weekend, I watched as he poured out an ocean of words, dotted, in some places, with tears. As he filled eight pages, he was more silent, more focused than I’d ever encountered him. When he was done, we took a long, wordless walk. Then we drove to White Rock and lit a tiny bonfire on the barren midnight beach. As his letter hovered just above crackling flames, I asked whether any part of him wanted to send it to the prison. He shook his head no and the words charred and shriveled, his tears dripping orange in the bonfire’s glow. The way he saw it, healing didn’t come from his abuser. He wouldn’t beg his father to cry with him.
Once nothing was left of the burning altar but a gossamer strand of smoke, Jeevan called the process “liberating.” You need to do this, too, he said. And don’t overthink it. Don’t filter yourself. Just write what comes to you. No stress ’cause the letter’s only yours.
Only mine.
Okay. I think I can do this. With a deep breath, pen meets paper once more and I let my heart take the lead.
Mom. I write to you from outside my body. Which is to say, I am a shadow of myself. I don’t know who I am. I am your daughter, but isn’t that only half of the truth? Right now, and ever since you told me, I have become anger. I am not angry. I have embodied my rage—so filled with it that my heart no longer knows another way.
It never should’ve happened. It never should’ve happened and the fact that you know this pain kills me. It breaks me, Mom. I always thought the word undocumented would be the only label to hold me like a rope. But now there is another five-syllable term that has pulled itself tight around my wrists.
When you told me the truth, the term sexual assault was no longer just a painful concept that existed on the peripheries of my mind. It became a wildfire I couldn’t run from after double-tapping Instagram posts about rape statistics and tweeting about empowerment and hope. God damn, I am privileged, and how bloody twisted that this is a privilege.
Mata Jee, I am still only eighteen but I am so tired of this world. I am tired of a society that only demands accountability from the vulnerable and marginalized. I’m sick of how we are only worthy of safety if we follow the correct protocol. I’m sick of how powerful men make all the protocol. Enforce the protocol. But adhere to absolutely fucking none of it. I’m sick of watching monsters and predators rise through social ranks. Hold their prestige. Become CEOs. Basketball players. Presidents. Heroes.
I dream of healing for you. A full heart and clear skies. Everything feeling peaceful and right. But most of all, I dream that accountability can also be yours. Ours. When you told me the story, I was shattered because of the burden you carried in silence for two decades. I’m so sorry that you couldn’t tell me. Mom, I am young and perhaps foolish, but I know enough to know that you deserve freedom. You deserve safety and comfort and every listening ear in this world. Your story would make the mighty crumble. It would strike fear in their bloodless hearts. And what if you were not the only one? What if Ahluwalia never stopped? What if there are other girls who need to know they aren’t alone? What if our voices can stop him? I love y—
“Sahaara, puth! Darvaaja khol, mail ayee ah!” Bibi’s giddy voice nearly gives me a heart attack and the last word in my letter becomes a purple, thumb-shaped smudge.
“Mail?” I call, shoving the letter under my paisley duvet before opening the door. “Is it from the bookstore? I thought that was coming next week. . . .”
“No, bache.” Bibi grins through wrinkle-worn, doughy cheeks. She pinches my face as she says, “Mail from the government. For Kiran.”
My heart softens. I’m truly convinced that no one on earth has a bibi cuter than mine. Ever since we mailed Mom’s PR application in the fall, she’s been checking the mailbox twice a day, certain we’ll get the permanent resident card any day now. As always, when she excitedly comes home with a stack of letters, I remind her that the PR process will likely take many more months. At the very least, a dozen. I glance down at the pile of envelopes in Bibi Jee’s hands. To her credit, there’s one addressed to Mom with a Canadian flag emblazoned in the corner. It’s from Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada.
Hold up. The IRCC?
“Do you think—? Where’s Mom?” I gasp.
“The garden.”
We approach so delicately, Mom doesn’t even look away from the soil. She is the closest to peace when her hands are in the earth, planting new life and nurturing it as it grows. Back turned to us, she plucks out a carrot, fully ripened and drenched in dirt.
“Mom,” I softly whisper, and she startles, dropping the carrot and clutching her chest.
“Fitteh moo, tere!” Mom cracks up, returning her fallen pink chunni to her shoulders. “Since when are you two quiet?”
“We’ve got mail . . .” I hand her the letter, my excitement now stained with fear. Within this envelope could simply be a request for more documents. Or a rejection. Or an approval. Mom grasps the letter in both hands, her face a kaleidoscopic phulkari of emotion. First, her eyes widen in surprise. Then, the faintest smile. Slowly, her lips fall into a frown. Nervousness now hums in her trembling wrists.
“I’m not ready,” she whispers, still crouched next to the vegetable plot.
I kneel down beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here, Mom. Whatever it is, let’s just get it over with?”
The white envelope is specked with dirt as Mom tears it open. We read the letter in silence and my heart forgets how to beat.
“What does it say?” Bibi asks.
Mom’s voice cracks on each word. “Dear Kiran Kaur, your application for permanent residence has been approved.”
I think the letter lands on the golden-hour grass as Mom grasps me and sobs. Soon, Bibi is wrapped around us and we are all composed of water. That night, when Maasi comes over, the floorboards laugh with our giddha and the walls cannot contain our singing. We cry, we dance, we pray, we fill ourselves with gratitude, and we do not filter our joy. In this tired little home in a weary corner of Surrey, the three Punjabi women who have given me everything are smiling and safe. On this holy night, nothing hurts.
i didn’t mean to find the letter
i only meant to surprise her with a clean bedroom
a tidy space, for once, where she can gather her thoughts
but here it is
crumpled at the bottom of her sock drawer
and here i am
ears ringing with her words
while a fear washes over me
thorny and jagged and entirely new:
what if there are other victims?
limbs so exhausted with swimming
i kept my silence to survive
but what if there is another woman
lost at sea who needs my voice
like a rope
a buoy
a life raft?
conflicted
i hover at sahaara’s bedroom door
raising my hand to knock
and then returning it to my side
i am alone in the hallway
with my shallow breathing
and jumbled thoughts
if i speak out about ahluwalia i’m drawing attention to us
but if i don’t speak out i’m letting him get away
but if i speak out i’m putting us in danger
but if i don’t speak out i’m putting others in danger
but if i speak out i’m diving head-first into the memories
but if i don’t speak out i’ll be haunted by him forever
but if i speak out they could all call me a liar
but if i don’t speak out they’ll call another woman’s accusation baseless
but if i—
mom?
the door creaks open
and sahaara rubs sleep from her eyes
what’s up? why are you standing here?
i—
i think i—
i think i want to
do an interview.
she almost staggers backward
in surprise
you wanna talk about
being undocumented?
and ahluwalia.
nervousness flutters in mom’s voice
when she tells me that
she wants to speak out
i reach for the right words
to calm her nerves
to solidify her resolve
you’re challenging the status quo