by Sharon Bala
Nice weekend? she said.
We had our annual general meeting on Saturday. Charlie rolled her eyes. Bunch of Lankans this-and-that-ing for five hours. But there was a good booze-up afterward.
Are you with the Tamil Alliance full-time?
No, no. I’m a free agent. I do jobs for them when they need it, sometimes for money, mostly not. My ASL work is what really pays the bills.
Sign language?
You know those conference interpreters? Charlie nodded proudly as if to say, Yeah, that’s me. Then she added: The Tamil Alliance is a good group. You should come to the socials.
Priya demurred. Maybe. Work is pretty all-consuming right now.
In Priya’s family, there had always been a tacit discouragement against fraternizing with other Sri Lankans. When Priya had mentioned her university’s Tamil Students’ Association in passing, her father had said, Don’t get mixed up in all of that.
All of what? she asked.
Politics, he said darkly. We’re here now. Stay out of it.
On the few occasions when the family went to temple, they left straight after puja and never lingered for the potluck. Priya’s mother used to say Sri Lankans were petty. Everything is always a competition with those people, Ma complained. Whose husband makes more money. Whose child is a doctor. If you are happy, what do I care?
Instead, her parents had made friends with other immigrants – the Nowaks, the Dhaliwals, and the Wangs next door. And Priya was left with a vague distrust of other Sri Lankans. For years, they’d paid for an unlisted number. Her father’s mysterious explanation: I don’t want any trouble.
Priya and Charlie watched the main door, where a security guard stood checking IDs and riffling through bags. She saw a familiar face and realized it was a reporter from one of the local newscasts. He was shorter in person.
Charlie grumbled: The gutter press has access, but they won’t let a not-for-profit community group bear witness.
Detention hearings were closed to the public. Charlie would have to wait in the lounge while Priya and Gigovaz took their clients in one by one. They’d have a different interpreter inside, a neutral third party appointed by the Immigration and Refugee Board.
Is this normal? Charlie asked. Imprisoning refugees?
Priya expected Gigovaz to reply. This was his specialty; she was just a tourist. But when he said nothing, pretending not to hear, she was forced to answer: This isn’t really my area of expertise, but from what I understand, detention isn’t the norm.
Then what are they playing at? Charlie asked. These people have literally fled a prison camp to come here. The men, at least, okay, are in a separate jail, but locking the women and children up with actual criminals! It’s inhumane! How soon can you get them out?
Gigovaz got cagey whenever anyone asked for a timeline. You must be patient, he’d counselled their clients the week before. And to Priya: Usually, my cases are wrapped up in a few months. But when this many people come all at once? And the political will is against them?
How long? Priya had pressed.
Years, he’d admitted. It could be years. To which she’d thought, relieved, there was no way he expected her to stick it out for the rest of her articling term. Surely, once their clients were released from detention, she’d be free too.
Now Priya told Charlie: If today’s detention reviews go in our favour, they could be out by the end of the week.
Don’t get your hopes up, Gigovaz said darkly, folding his newspaper and slapping it on his thigh.
Priya scowled before she remembered Charlie was watching. It was just like Gigovaz to give her an impossible test then discredit her when she failed.
Here’s how the process typically works, Gigovaz told Charlie, turning his back on Priya. Let’s say you arrive at the airport as a refugee. First you need permission to make an asylum claim. That’s called admissibility, and it’s usually a rubber stamp. Usually. Unless you’re a known criminal or you’ve been deported before, someone at the border – Immigration or Border Services – determines that, yes, you’re eligible to seek asylum. That takes a few hours, maybe a few weeks, during which time people are usually given the benefit of the doubt and allowed to go free while their admissibility is reviewed.
The real hurdle, Gigovaz said, came months later, at the Refugee Board hearing. Two or three adjudicators grilling the claimant on every detail of their story. The Board made the final call.
On permanent residency, Charlie said, nodding her understanding.
Permanent residency. Gigovaz reached up and grasped the air tight in his hand. That’s the brass ring.
Were you born here? Charlie asked, and when Priya nodded, Charlie said: We came when I was three. As immigrants. We were lucky. She addressed Gigovaz: You keep saying usually.
Gigovaz tugged on his ear and exhaled a long breath. Five hundred plus claimants and the government is hell-bent on deportation. We’ll have to argue for admissibility, which is not the norm, no. And with so many detention reviews to get through, like the ones we have today, it’ll be months before hearings on admissibility are even scheduled.
Does get-out-of-jail come first? Charlie asked.
Not necessarily, Gigovaz said. They could still be held in custody when admissibility hearings begin. It’s not unheard of.
Detention reviews, the admissibility hearing, then the Refugee Board hearing: a long series of judgments, each an opportunity for failure and deportation. Priya was thinking of what Charlie had said. We were lucky. She felt an upswell of melancholy and for a split second was sorry for Gigovaz too, that wading through this legal morass was his job.
Gigovaz indicated the newspaper he’d been reading – Priya caught the words illegal and ship in the headline – and said: Pay attention to how this plays out in the press. Sovereignty? Blair will have instructed Border Services to press the issue of public safety and throw every specious argument in the book at us.
Gigovaz had Priya clipping all the news coverage, a task she hated. Beat reporters who knew nothing of the law, and worse was the online peanut gallery. Already, the sight of Fred Blair, the way he screwed up his eyes and glowered when he proclaimed the line must be drawn somewhere, made her fists clench. Two decades overseeing toll booths and now he fancied himself the authority on public safety.
But the Immigration and Refugee Board was independent. It was not the government. The IRB acted within the framework of the law, and its adjudicators were the ones who made the decisions. She wasn’t ready to adopt Gigovaz’s cynicism.
This whole thing has become a sideshow, Gigovaz said. Blair is going to drag it out for as long as possible.
Don’t they realize how traumatic prison is? PTSD, depression…Charlie trailed off.
We’ll put forward the psychological assessments as mitigating factors, Gigovaz said. But whether compassion plays any role in the adjudicators’ judgments…that’s anybody’s guess.
Where will they stay when they get out? Priya asked.
Some have family here, mostly in Toronto, Charlie said, still frowning. We’re trying to get in line for spots in boarding houses. And there are volunteers who have offered their spare rooms and basement apartments. Refugees are eligible for a small stipend as well, but really, it’s not enough to get by on, not in Vancouver.
Priya felt chastened by this, the goodwill and camaraderie of so many people willing to take strangers in, all because of a shared sense of, what…ethnicity?…diaspora?
Charlie motioned to the revolving glass door. Here they come.
The two women arrived first, in their matching outfits and numbered running shoes. Priya had met them at the prison in Burnaby the week before.
Savitri Kumuran was thirty-one, a widow with two dead children left behind in Sri Lanka and a six-year-old son. During her interview with Gigovaz, she had been calm and well-spoken, candid in her answers. She and her husband had run a jewellery store in Sri Lanka. At home, she’d said in a dreamy way. Back home.
&
nbsp; But later, Gigovaz told Priya: That one’s a depressive. If we don’t get her out of there fast, she’ll crack.
Today, Savitri’s thick hair was gathered in a scrunchy at the nape of her neck and hung down her back in heavy, undulating waves. She was surprisingly light-skinned for a Tamil, with high cheekbones and a cleft chin, a natural stunner. Her hand rested at the base of her throat. Priya saw her blank, despondent expression and thought: This woman is two years older than me.
The second woman was Hema Sokolingham, who was thirty-eight and also a widow. Jittery and nervous during her interview, she’d avoided Gigovaz’s eyes and addressed herself exclusively to Priya and Charlie. She had made the journey with her two teenaged daughters, who, as minors, were mercifully spared the reviews and hearings.
What about Hema? Priya had asked Gigovaz. What are her chances?
But Gigovaz had only shrugged and said, There’s something she’s not telling us.
Charlie leaned over and whispered: Do you see this? They’re being led in chains like slaves!
Are the cuffs necessary? Gigovaz asked the guard.
Hema massaged her wrists as the restraints were removed. Thank you, she said very softly in English. Her hair hung in a long braid down her back; she had crooked teeth.
Charlie rubbed Hema’s arm and asked in Tamil: Nalamaa? How are you?
The men followed: Prasad, Mahindan, and Ranga, all clean-shaven on Gigovaz’s orders. A brown man with a beard begging for asylum? he’d said to Priya. Not on my watch.
All five refugees seemed slightly altered since the week before. Fresher and well rested, with clear eyes and trimmed, clean nails. Priya wondered if this wasn’t a mistake. Would the adjudicators be more sympathetic if they saw the refugees as she had, filthy and shattered, disembarking at Esquimalt?
Prasad pumped their hands and spoke in English. Good morning, good morning. Very nice to see you.
The others hung back, craning their necks to peer at the soaring ceiling, scuffing the floor as if testing its quality.
Prasad was the only one unaffected by his surroundings. A journalist in Colombo, he had a degree and spoke fluent English. Gigovaz had already told Priya: He’s our best bet. Our model migrant.
Office workers, absorbed in their smartphones and newspapers, skirted around them. Priya had a vision of them as a tour group with Gigovaz as their guide. Prasad bombarded him with questions. For how long had Canada known about the ship? Why hadn’t they come out to meet them, sent help sooner?
Mahindan and Savitri broke off from the group, their heads close together. Mahindan appeared agitated, one restless hand twitching at his side, but Savitri only shrugged her shoulders and twisted her hopeless palms up. What was this about? Priya wondered. But then she remembered Savitri was taking care of Mahindan’s son. Had a visit been arranged yet? She felt guilty for not keeping tabs on the situation, then immediately annoyed. It wasn’t her job to be a social worker.
Ranga hobbled over and tapped Savitri on the shoulder, massaging his leg as he spoke. A greengrocer from a village in Mannar, he’d lost his livelihood after a midnight shell attack blasted his vegetable stand to smithereens. I came in the morning to find the place flattened, he’d told them. After that, what to do? My life was finished.
He’s asking about what Mr. Gigovaz said the other day, Charlie said. About their identity documents.
We’re not releasing your names to the Sri Lankan government, Priya said quickly. If you still have family at home, you don’t need to worry about reprisals.
Ranga started to say something, but Gigovaz checked his watch and announced it was time to go. Mr. Mahindan, you’re first. Ms. Jones will keep the rest of you company here.
As expected, the hearings room was dreary, a windowless box with fluorescent squares of light embedded into the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Four long tables had been arranged in a square, microphones affixed to each seat. It felt claustrophobic and subterranean, like the interior of someone’s cramped basement.
As they entered, a gaggle of reporters turned to stare. It was a full house: the reporters, a stenographer, a sketch artist, and a white-blond man with a transparent moustache whom Gigovaz introduced as the interpreter. He sat adjacent to Mahindan with two hardcover dictionaries, a notebook, and a pen laid out in front of him, all set at right angles to the edges of the desk.
Gigovaz pointed out their adversary: That’s Amarjit Singh, representing Border Services.
Border Services, the agency responsible for patrolling the perimeter, the country’s official bouncers. Priya had buckled down the night before and committed all the players to memory.
A clock ticked lazily on the wall. They were just waiting for the adjudicator. There were eight in total, and who a claimant saw on any given day was the luck of the draw.
We’ve got a new one, Gigovaz said. Grace Nakamura.
Is that good or bad? Priya asked.
He frowned and muttered: Government appointment. Handpicked by Blair.
The reporters had surrendered their smartphones to a box beside the guard. All eyes were on Mahindan as they scribbled in their notepads. There was a publication ban on the claimants’ names. In their articles, the reporters would have to be circumspect. Dressed in a prison-issued green sweater and grey sweatpants, the migrant sat with his fists clenched in his lap.
A door on the far side of the room opened and the adjudicator strode in. She wore a crisp pantsuit, her hair slicked back in a chignon. A guard followed in her wake, closed the door, and stood in front of it with his hands in his pockets.
Nakamura had the best seat in the house – a tall-backed chair with padded armrests. She was small but commanded the room with the air of someone much larger. Even without an elevated bench, robes, or a gavel, there was a stern aura of judgment in her demeanour. But she was not a judge and this was not a court, Priya reminded herself. This was an administrative hearing. It existed in the fuzzy boundary between bureaucracy and the law.
Nakamura spoke into her microphone. This is a detention review for Mr….She consulted her notes and with a small frown of concentration struggled out, Mr. Poon…am…ba…lam Ma…hindan. Let’s begin with attendance.
The interpreter’s name was Nigel Blacker. Nakamura asked him and Mahindan to confirm they understood each other and they exchanged a few words. When Blacker spoke, Priya was struck by the incongruity – the flawless Tamil coming out of this blond man’s mouth. It was impossible to know what he and Mahindan were saying.
Back at Elliot, McFadden, and Lo, Joyce Lau would be shepherding the merger of Henley and SunEx. A week and a half earlier, Priya had been checking off the boxes for the regulatory approvals. Why was she here? Charlie had more right to be in this room than she did.
Nakamura said: We will begin with Ms. Singh, who is representing the Canada Border Services Agency.
Singh leaned forward and depressed the red button on her microphone: The Minister of Public Safety is of the opinion that the claimant’s identity has not been established.
Gigovaz waited until Blacker had translated, then said: My client has provided ample evidence of his identity –
Singh cut him off, addressing her rebuttal to Nakamura: Additionally, the Minister is concerned the migrant is a flight risk.
On what grounds? Gigovaz asked.
We have reason to believe the ship was part of a smuggling operation. If that’s the case, everyone on board is in danger of being coerced to avoid future hearings.
Mahindan’s eyes swivelled back and forth between Singh and Gigovaz, watching their body language and expressions, and then he listened carefully to Blacker’s translations. His expression was by turns terrified, expectant, hopeful, and helpless.
Priya wanted to reach out and pat his arm as Charlie had done to Hema, but she didn’t have the nerve. She watched the interpreter at work instead. Blacker indicated the person who had spoken then altered his tone and mannerisms to reflect theirs. What was his story? This Viking of a man with
his unaccented Tamil, his perfectly vibrating r’s?
Gigovaz said: I request the Minister provide evidence of this smuggling claim. Otherwise, it is hearsay.
Photos taken on board have been submitted, Singh said. It’s clear the vessel underwent extensive refurbishments. For example, it was equipped with sanitation systems to accommodate a long trip. All of this suggests a broader criminal enterprise.
Priya had reviewed the photos of the boat in the Evidentiary Package. She had seen the rusty toilet, an aluminum funnel elevated on a platform with a plastic footrest on either side, the whole crude contraption ringed in orange-brown rust and enclosed in a tiny closet.
Nakamura cut in. Five hundred people arrived on a retrofitted cargo ship. Who arranged for all of this, if not a smuggling ring?
With respect, Gigovaz said, that is all circumstantial. We must follow the best evidence rule.
Nakamura scowled briefly and Priya squeezed her fingers together. What Gigovaz was saying made sense. Singh should not have introduced conjecture into the proceedings. There was something so informal and unseemly about this whole review.
Gigovaz cleared his throat and tried again. Instead of guessing what might be, let’s consider the direct evidence. Mr. Mahindan has provided a birth certificate, a national Sri Lankan identity card, school certificates, and a marriage licence, as well as the death certificate for his late wife. He is co-operating fully with the government’s efforts to establish his identity.
Nakamura turned to Singh, neutral again. Have the migrant’s documents been verified?
The legal back-and-forth progressed with infinite slowness, each person speaking only a couple of sentences at a time to allow for translation. While Blacker interpreted, everyone else murmured. The reporters, without the benefit of their recorders, scribbled in their notebooks. Clumped together on one side of the room, they reminded Priya of a jury.
