Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

  “He managed to pull us into a … a room. That had an airlock. He put a mask on and started the process for evacuating the air. I began to feel dizzy.”

  He keeps hitting me while asking who had sent me. After a while, I can’t get up any more but I still refuse to answer. He makes to leave the room. I hold onto his leg. He kicks at me but I don’t let go. I’m getting very groggy, losing consciousness. I feel him grab me under the arms.

  “A few minutes later, I came to, choking, on the floor of a small room. My face was underwater. The room was flooding. The water level rising fast. The man was gone. I tried the door, but it was locked. I knew that if I didn’t get out, I’d eventually drown in there.”

  I begin to panic, thinking about drowning. All that time in prison, the drowning torture. It was just practice for this. That’s what I’m thinking when Al bursts into the room.

  “My friend must have gotten worried when I didn’t come out as scheduled. He came in after me. Found the room I was in. Broke the lock on the door and rescued me.”

  Al’s pushing the other man ahead of him. Holding a knife to his throat. He gives me his other knife and tells me to tie the man to a chair. When I’ve done this, he tells me it’s time to go. The water is up to our knees now. “But he’ll drown!” I say. “Use the knife then,” he answers. “If you think it’s less cruel that way.” I shake my head. Not believing he’s serious. He explains that the man knows him, that leaving him alive will put us and others in jeopardy. That he’s involved in a higher level of operations and that I could be too, with time. That I could stay with him and he’d look after me and teach me until I’m old enough to be on my own. But only if this operation is ended appropriately. Only if I’m willing to trust him.

  “I was worried about the man I’d encountered earlier. I wanted to make sure he got out too. I didn’t want anybody to die.”

  Al carefully checks the man’s bindings. I feel cold. I tell Al I can’t leave a man to die, but Al says: “He left you.” The man protests, “No, I was coming back. Your friend … I don’t know what name you know him by, but don’t listen to him. He’s not who you think he is. He’s a liar. A traitor. I was coming back for you. I swear it.” I don’t know what to think. Why did the man drag me out of the airlock if he meant to let me die? But I would have died in that room if Al hadn’t come for me. How is it that Al always arrived at these moments?

  “Before we reached the exit to the complex, I decided to go back and look for the man.”

  We’re halfway to the exit when I tell Al I’m going back. That I’d rather use the knife than think of him drowning. I find the man. Give him the knife. After cutting through enough of the rope myself that he’ll have time to escape but not catch up to us. I find Al and tell him we can go now. But Al knows me too well. Asks me where the knife is. When I won’t answer him, he says he’s going back. Orders me to leave the complex and not re-enter it. I beg him to leave with me, to not do what he’s planning. “You have no fucking clue what I’m planning,” he tells me. He looks so angry. I don’t know what to do, so I do what I’m told.

  “I wasn’t able to make sure that the man escaped. Then, my friend decided to go back himself. He’d left something important. And I think he wanted to look for the man too. I exited the complex and waited for him outside. All night. But he never came out.”

  For hours, I scan the complex’s exits while lightning lights the sky. I watch for them even as I crouch on the ground, dry heaving, sick with anxiety. Over and over, I play out the most likely scenarios. I imagine the man cutting through the rest of his bonds and getting loose. Armed and dangerous when Al arrives. Killing Al with the knife I’d given him. I also imagine the reverse. Al killing the man with his other knife. Or the two of them fighting, killing each other. Or drowning, drowning in the waters I’d loosed. At dawn, I decide there’s no point in waiting any longer. I leave the vehicle for Al. Just in case he’s somehow alive. I don’t believe he is, but still. I have my magna skates. I take some water and food. I skate east and don’t look back.

  “What did you do then?” the Crown Officer asks.

  “I left.”

  “But your friend. What happened …”

  “I left,” I repeat. “I didn’t look back!” I’m gripping the table with both hands to keep from slamming my fists against it. Doesn’t she get it yet?

  “Can you tell us more about your friend who may have died?”

  I let go of the table, slump down in my chair. “No. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “Even some basic information? Name, gender, a brief physical description?”

  “I’m done. I’m done talking now.”

  I lay my head down on the tabletop in front of me. I just want to sleep. But then Pierre-Ryan puts his hand on my shoulder and asks me if I need to take a short break. I shake my head. He tells me that I need to sit up then. To be prepared to answer any questions that are asked of me. So I sit up. Wait to see if there are more questions. But there aren’t.

  Pierre-Ryan consults briefly with Janie. Now she’s standing up to testify. And in French, despite what she’d said before the hearing. I watch her struggle to find the right words.

  “I know Laek for seventeen years. I have never encountered anyone, man or woman, who is more gentle, sweet. More … more good. He is a dedicated pacifist. He avoids at all times any violence, to not make an, an injury. Please believe me, he would not pose a danger to security here. And he loves our new home so much. He loves Montréal. Please let him be saved here, to be secure. If you return him to the United States … Please. Give our lawyer’s words every … every consideration. Thank you very much.”

  When Janie comes back to her seat, she lets me lean against her. I think Pierre-Ryan would like me to sit up. But just being in this room is about as much as I can take. I listen to the closing remarks but know that the hearing is already over. My trial was long ago and I lost.

  FORTY-TWO

  Janie

  “Stop saying you’re sorry,” I tell Laek. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Stupid, maybe, but not wrong. Laek turns to Pierre. He and I have positioned ourselves on either side of Laek, as though to offer him physical protection and support as we ride the métro back to the law office.

  “I’m sorry, Pierre-Ryan,” Laek says.

  “There’s certainly no need to apologize to me.”

  “I messed up your case.”

  “It’s not my case. It’s your case.”

  Exactly. And maybe stupid isn’t the right word. Self-destructive is more precise, which is what’s bothering me about all this apologizing. It’s like he’s apologizing for hurting himself, as though the only thing that bothers him about being self-destructive is the effect it has on others. Not an encouraging attitude, mental health–wise. Although finally airing those painful memories is a good thing for Laek’s mental health. I just would have preferred this to happen in front of his therapist instead of at our asylum hearing.

  Meanwhile, my brain is carefully shying away from any thoughts of the actual testimony, of Laek’s blood in the garden, of Al’s knife in his hand.

  “In any case,” Pierre says, “You made at least one friend in there, Laek.”

  Laek doesn’t respond.

  “Yeah, the Québec rep,” I acknowledge. “But how much influence does she have?”

  “Her influence is not insignificant, if she chooses to use it. It’s a delicate balance here between federal and provincial power. You understand that Québec’s role in the immigration process is unique?”

  “Yes. Laek explained a lot of the history to me. How the separatist movement regained power as the federal government got more and more conservative. And how the voting patterns of Québec kept diverging from the other provinces. Laek said that what tipped the balance was when the traditional Québec nationalists were joined by the anglophone progressives. And the … what’s the word for people who speak something other than French or English?”

&n
bsp; “Allophones,” Pierre says. I look over at Laek, hoping to get him engaged. Normally, this type of conversation would have him jumping up and gesticulating while he explains all the historical factors leading up to this fascinating political moment. Instead, he’s just sitting quietly, leaning a little against me, and gazing straight ahead. Yet the only thing in his field of vision is an elderly man sitting erect in his seat, the holo of the métro map projected just above his head.

  Pierre looks Laek’s way too, then continues. “So what we have is not quite sovereignty, not yet anyway, but some fairly radical compromises by the federal government. Autonomy in certain areas. And let’s not forget a bigger tax transfer.”

  “Is that why there’s free daycare and a free university system here?” I ask, still hoping to get Laek into the conversation, or at least to distract him.

  “In part. Also our own regimes for welfare, underemployment and pensions. But immigration is trickier. Québec wants control over choosing and integrating its own immigrants, but Canada, for obvious reasons, wants final say on refugee status and national security risks.”

  “So the compromise is to have the participation of the Québec Protectrice.”

  “Among other things. But the role of the Protectrice is still limited. She has to choose her battles. And when it comes to a question of exclusion …”

  “Yeah. I get it. That’s where Canada wants most to stay in control.”

  “That’s right. In any case, there’s little point in speculation right now. They said we’d have a decision by the end of the day.”

  “Thank you for letting us come back with you. Waiting at home would have been hard.”

  “It’s fine. I’d already cleared my schedule, not knowing how long the hearing would last. And this way, whatever happens, we can react immediately … Our stop, Laek.”

  Pierre takes Laek by the arm. We follow the underground network to Pierre’s office.

  *

  “It’s coming in now,” Pierre says, looking at his screen.

  I stand, leaning over his desk. He tilts the screen so I can read it too. Laek remains seated.

  “Scroll down to the bottom,” I say. This is what I always do when I receive a decision.

  Pierre is shaking his head. “It’s not necessary. Look. There’s no discussion, no analysis at all. Just the decision. Only the few lines you see.”

  I re-read the decision, desperate to find that I’d misunderstood—but no. We’ve been denied refugee status. I grip the side of Pierre’s desk as a wave of panic weakens my knees.

  “Our demand was refused, wasn’t it?” Laek says.

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding small. “I don’t understand.”

  “I do. I don’t deserve asylum. They’re right.”

  “They’re not!” I say, righteous anger pushing away the fear. “You never hurt anyone.”

  “I didn’t tell everything. I know you think I spilled my guts, but I left things out.”

  “I know that. I’m not stupid. You were talking about …” I look over at Pierre and then at Laek. “I know who you were talking about, so I know you left things out. I also know that what you left out wasn’t to protect yourself. It was to protect him. To … to protect Al.”

  I look at Laek defiantly, wondering how he’ll react to my mention of Al’s name. Mostly I’m past caring, though. I’m too angry at this man who would take a loyal, idealistic child and use him like that. A lonely, fatherless child, no less, who looked up to him. And yes, I’m frustrated with Laek too, for his pointless loyalty and his total disregard for his own interests. What about me? What about the kids? Does he think it doesn’t hurt us when he hurts himself?

  “It doesn’t matter, Janie. It’s not as though that was his real name. Nothing matters.”

  Was. He’s saying “was” even though we both know Al’s still alive. But it’s the “nothing matters” that chills me. I open my mouth to argue, but Pierre says: “Listen, I’m thinking about how this decision’s been crafted. We’re all assuming that the denial is based on exclusion and I’m sure it is, but it’s not what the decision says.”

  “What do you mean?” Laek asks.

  “All the decision says is that you haven’t met the criteria for protection under the Act. There’s nothing about you being a security risk or criminal acts or anything like that.”

  “It’s true. They would normally have spelled it out. So why didn’t they?” I ask.

  “I think that this is where Laek’s favourable impression on the Québec Protectrice came into play. She negotiated for a decision that doesn’t mention exclusion.”

  “But how does that help us?”

  “It could clear the way for an application for permanent residence on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. It’s Québec who will process that application. Only …”

  “Only what?” Laek asks. Pierre hesitates, but Laek answers the question himself. “The Canadian Border Agency. You’re thinking about them.”

  “Yes. They could still decide that you present a security risk and block the application.”

  “When would they decide this?” I ask.

  “It could be at any point in the process, but … We could ask for an expedited decision on the security question. It would be based on the claim that returning you to the U.S. would present a well-founded fear of torture or persecution. But we’d need to file right away—within twenty-four hours of receiving the negative decision on the refugee claim.”

  “What’s the down side?” I ask.

  “First of all, we couldn’t add anything to the file. They’d make the security determination based solely on the written application and the hearing testimony, beamed to them real-time. And on their own dossiers, of course. If we waited, we could submit more evidence. Also, well, the longer it takes them to decide, the longer you have to … to make back-up plans.”

  By back-up plans, I assume he means going into hiding to avoid deportation. Living underground has always been an unspoken possibility. We chose Montréal because it’s a sanctuary city, part of the international solidarity network. I now know very well what the flag we saw when we crossed the border means, the one with the round globe and the hands. So I know we can go underground and still receive services and support. It would be a very precarious, marginal life, though, not a life I would choose for my children. It’s also the worst type of life for someone who’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Laek needs safety and security if he’s ever going to completely heal.

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve had two lucky breaks. First, when the Officer who interviewed Laek at 1010 St-Antoine allowed the application to move to the next phase instead of flagging it as a security risk. And now, with nothing written in the decision about exclusion. Without those red flags, maybe, if we push for a quick determination, they’ll be more cursory in their examination of the file and just pass you through.”

  “How likely is that, really? They have the hearing testimony and they have their own sources of information,” I point out.

  “I can’t answer that, except to say that they’re a mysterious agency. Secretive and difficult to gauge. I’ve seen them act in cases where I was shocked that my client was even on their grid, and then pass on cases of well-known political operators.”

  “And if we wait?”

  “They’ll do a security evaluation in any case, but we’d have the opportunity to present more evidence, which could be useful. If you had more to say, Laek, for instance, about extenuating circumstances in the events you describe …”

  Pierre looks up questioningly, but Laek seems lost in his own thoughts. I’m afraid he hasn’t even been following the conversation, but then he meets Pierre’s gaze and says firmly, “Let’s file now. There’s nothing more I have to say. We gotta just go for it.”

  Pierre hesitates only a moment. “Alright, perfect. I already completed most of the application before the hearing, just in
case. I’ll add some finishing touches and send it off.”

  Laek asks if we’re needed right now, and if not, whether there’s somewhere he can lie down. Pierre directs him to a couch in the corner of the room that he uses when he’s having a late night. I stay where I am in case Pierre could use my help. We spend a few minutes checking the application. After a few small additions, I watch him submit it.

  “Well, that’s done,” he says.

  “What do you really think’s going to happen?” I whisper, once Laek is asleep.

  “I don’t like to make predictions, and the truth is, I have no confidence in my powers of divination, particularly in this case. But …” He looks over at Laek curled up on his couch, his chest expanding and contracting in a slow, peaceful rhythm. “I’ll admit I’m nervous about this.”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m going to leave you alone now so you can get some other work done.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Janie.”

  “It’s OK. I think I’d like to sit with Laek for a while.”

  “Alright. In that case, I do have some messages I should return.”

  I walk over to the couch where Laek is sleeping and carefully lift his head so I can slip underneath. I cover him with his jacket. He stirs only a little as he finds a comfortable position on my lap. After a few minutes, I start drifting off too …

  I don’t think much time has passed, but I feel like something’s shifted. I look around and see Pierre working quietly at his desk where I left him. Laek is still sleeping, his head resting on my thigh, but his breathing is different—more rapid—and his eyelids are twitching. I put my hand on his cheek, hoping to calm him. When that doesn’t do the trick, I stroke his hair, murmuring that it’s OK. He settles down and even seems to smile in his sleep. But then he’s suddenly awake and sitting up, shaking his head as though to clear it.