US State Dept staffer resigns over Washington’s Gaza policy
A US State Department staffer responsible for promoting human rights in regions including Gaza has resigned in protest of the continued delivery of weapons from the US to Israel.
There is nothing more wonderful than to have a helping hand when one is in a jam. But what to do when you are in a new country where you know nobody? I realized, to my surprise, that helplessness can sometimes be an asset. My experience is that new immigrants to the U.S. help each other whenever they – we – can.
We have all learned the hard way that, as Euripedes said, there is no greater loss than the loss of one’s first country. I misplaced my briefcase in a large conference in Washington and went to the organizers for help.
They barely listened to me; they had other priorities. The recovery was critical for me, for the briefcase contained important work papers. Having no success with the bigwigs, I went to the humblest, a janitor. He took me to the head janitor, a Mexican wetback, who liked my Spanish accent, and asked all the janitors to initiate a thorough search.
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I had my briefcase by the end of the day. For my first visit to the U.S., I accidentally packed my visa in my checked suitcase instead of my carry-on handbag.
When I changed planes in Paris, the French authorities told me that I could not board the flight to the U.S. without the visa. Luckily the gendarme was a Senegalese immigrant. He led me to the baggage room, against the rules: I spotted my suitcase and retrieved the precious document.
One time I flew to attend a close friend’s wedding in a small town near Berlin, but on arrival found there was no room at the only hotel in town. The only option was an expensive hotel some miles away.
But a Bangladeshi bellboy was willing to listen to my woes and told me to have a drink in the bar. Ten minutes later he returned with the key to a top-floor room. Another time a cousin died in Rochester, Minnesota. On my way there, the connecting flight from Minneapolis was canceled because of bad weather, and I couldn’t get another.
As I told my sob story to an airline official, a Salvadoran overheard and offered to give me a lift to Rochester on his way to an adjacent town. He drove through a snow storm and went out of his way to get me to my exact destination. He wouldn’t even take a cent for gas. He said he owed help to a brother.
(The writer is a Washington-based international development advisor and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at mnandy@gmail.com)
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