Model migrant

At the end of January, with the women’s hearings already under way, they began admissibility hearings for the men. Prasad, their model migrant, was first.

You’re up, Gigovaz had told Priya.

Me?

Sure. You’ve researched the precedent. You know the case inside out.

Now, half an hour before the hearing, she loitered in the lobby with Prasad. Priya was preoccupied by a call they’d received the previous day, when Gigovaz hustled her into his office and put Singh on speaker. The RCMP had tracked down two of the people whose identification documents were found on the ship. They died in Sri Lanka, Singh announced. Last January.

Nervous? Prasad asked, nodding to Priya’s unconsciously tapping shoe.

Sorry, she said, and planted her foot.

It was nearly one thirty and the entrance to the Immigration and Refugee Board building was busy with people returning from lunch, everyone in ties and slick blazers, twisting around to stare at Prasad in his regulation sweatpants and numbered shoes. Even without handcuffs, he stuck out. Priya felt ashamed of herself for being so self-absorbed.

Prasad patted her shoulder. You’re a clever girl, he said. You’ll do well today.

His English – already fluent on arrival – had subtly transformed over the past seven months. How’s it going? he said these days, instead of How? In December, he’d given her the letter he’d written for the newspapers with a request that she remove the idiosyncratic turns of phrase.

Sri Lankan English is not Canadian English, he’d said. I’ve shifted here. Now I must learn the language properly.

Moved here, she’d corrected. Then added: But I like Sri Lankan English!

Prasad’s open letter had been reprinted in all the papers over the holidays and inspired a flurry of goodwill on open-line shows and in letters to the editor. Charlie reported that donations to the Tamil Alliance had spiked. Priya had been impressed by the quality of Prasad’s prose, the lines he had quoted from Niemöller (First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out…). She could see that he must have been a good journalist.

How are you? she asked. Are you worried about today?

Two people walked through the metal detectors, engaged in silent conversation. The woman signed at top speed; the man nodded his head, rapping his knuckles on an invisible door.

Prasad watched them as he spoke. When the president’s thugs forced me into the trunk of their car, I feared for my life, he said. But today, this is only a hearing. What is there to be afraid of?

The couple strode past them, hands flying, one barely completing a thought before the other jumped in. The man tapped the woman’s shoulder to get her attention then brought two fingers out, touching them to his thumb.

Mitchell Hurst is a good adjudicator, Priya said. He’s fair.

The couple paused at the elevators. Priya read frustration in their mannerisms, in the signs she could not decipher. She thought of Charlie. Language was a superpower.

I read all your articles, Priya said. You wrote bravely.

Prasad looked pleased when he turned. Thank you.

They stared at each other, nodding, grins gradually falling flat, unsure of what to say next.

Priya took a chance. Prasad, do you know who left those identification papers on the ship?

He didn’t answer immediately, and she could see him sizing her up.

Apart from pressing their clients for intel back in October, Gigovaz hadn’t taken further action. There was nothing to do, he said even now, but hold their breaths and wait. And hope nothing came of it.

I’m your lawyer, Priya told Prasad. I have to keep everything you tell me confidential.

Those papers were not mine, Prasad answered. He didn’t shake his head as he said this.

Do you know who they belonged to?

I have suspicions, he said. But not proof. I do not like to say more. They are only suspicions, you understand.

Two of those people died in Sri Lanka, she said.

I see.

They didn’t get on the boat, and yet their papers did.

Working for a newspaper, Prasad said, what I learned is that sometimes what is suspicious is not bad.

She didn’t tell him that, nefarious or not, if Singh found a way to connect those papers, even remotely, to any of the migrants, it would mean deportation.

—

The room was packed with reporters. Prasad’s open letter had been left unsigned, but most of the media knew he was a fellow journalist and guessed he was the key author. They were all there to see how he would fare.

A full house for your debut, Gigovaz whispered.

Jump in if I start to drown, Priya said. Then she was annoyed with herself. She would never have shown weakness in front of Joyce Lau. But then, shareholder meetings and stock splits weren’t life-and-death matters.

Mitchell Hurst walked in and took a seat at his elevated desk.

Okay, he said, turning on his microphone. This is how it’s going to work. I’ll hear from Border Services, then Mr. Prasad’s lawyers, and we’ll go from there. Please don’t raise your voices. Please don’t speak over each other. We’re all adults here, so let’s act like it.

Priya reached for her water bottle and took a deep breath. A low-grade tremor had gripped her entire body. She parted her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter in her head.

Singh launched in with her usual terrorist spiel and Priya listened carefully, each familiar refrain a balm on her nerves.

She was relieved to have Hurst in the adjudicator’s chair. He was frank and forthright and ran his hearings the same way, and though he didn’t always rule in their favour, his decisions were never arbitrary.

What’s the story with these adjudicators? Priya had asked Gigovaz once. Why are some of them so erratic?

They’re in over their heads, Gigovaz said. And it shows.

Singh came around to the evidence: Prasad’s articles. The migrant was well-known for his pro-LTTE stance, she said. I’d like to draw attention to Exhibit B, a February 3, 2009, opinion piece in which he compared the LTTE to freedom fighters and wrote that they were quote working toward a homeland to which they are entitled.

Priya had anticipated this line of attack. She fumbled through her papers to find the printout she needed. It was covered in Post-its and yellow highlights.

Hurst asked Gigovaz: Would you like to respond to that?

Priya leaned in to her microphone and said, Ms. Singh is cherry-picking. Her voice, magnified and distorted by the speakers, took her by surprise. She tried to ignore it and ploughed through her practised statements.

Read in its entirety, she continued, the article criticizes the extreme measures used by both the Sri Lankan government and the LTTE.

The stenographer was clacking at her keyboard, recording every word. Priya felt the sketch artist’s gaze, hard, on her. She heard the reporters shuffling behind her back. How do my clients do this?

Priya held up her copy of the translated article and said, Exhibit B. Third paragraph, second line. And I quote: This should not be read as an endorsement of the LTTE’S methods. The Tigers are ruthless and bloodthirsty. No question, they must be eradicated.

The migrant’s reportage was overwhelmingly Tiger-positive, Singh said.

Priya heard the perfunctory tone in Singh’s voice and was bolstered. Her hands had stopped shaking.

We have submitted other articles into evidence, Priya said. Our client is on record criticizing the Tigers for their tactics, including the use of child soldiers and civilians as human shields. The fact is, Mr. Prasad was balanced in his reporting.

Yes, I’ve read the articles, Hurst said. I’m not buying the terrorism angle on this one, Ms. Singh. So unless you have some other proof…No? Okay, let’s move on to the issue of protection. Ms. Rajasekaran, you’re arguing for protection on the grounds of political opinion?

Priya felt slightly light-headed, high on the thrill of doing well. Don’t get cocky, she told herself.

Mr. Prasad is a person in need of protection, Priya said, the voice in her head competing with the voice she heard, loud and declarative, addressing the room. (Is that the way I sound?) He was kidnapped and tortured, an incident from which he still bears the physical scars. His home in Colombo was sprayed with machine-gun fire.

The words were speeding out of her too quickly, a runaway train: His editor was shot in front of him and Mr. Prasad himself has received death threats. (Slow down! Slow down!) We have submitted photos, his editor’s obituary, and the death threats into evidence…

She wobbled to a stop. Singh started to say something, but Hurst held up his hand and told Priya to continue. On her notepad was a message she had underlined to herself. More than a serious possibility.

It is our contention that Mr. Prasad will be tortured and killed if he returns to Sri Lanka. The prima facie evidence demonstrates there is more than a serious possibility of persecution.

Gigovaz wrote AMNESTY INT in large letters on the legal pad between them and Priya quickly added: Furthermore, Sri Lanka is a country with a notorious track record of suppressing journalists. Exhibits E and F are public statements to this effect from Reporters Without Borders and Amnesty International.

Hurst raised his brows. Finished?

Yes. Thank you. Priya heard her voice come through the microphone, small and embarrassed.

Someone behind her tittered. Gigovaz drew a happy face on the notepad. Joyce would never have done that, Priya thought, feeling grateful.

Hurst said, I’d like to hear from Mr. Prasad directly. Sir, I know this is difficult. Take your time. Please tell me why you believe your life would be in danger in Sri Lanka.

Priya sat back in her seat and reached for her water again as her nerves settled. She watched Prasad tell his story. The crowd at Priya’s back sat very still. She tried to assess Prasad objectively and she saw a man who was earnest, credible.

I am not a terrorist, Prasad concluded. Believe me. I left my country to escape the terrorists.

Thank you, Mr. Prasad, Hurst said. Does Border Services have anything further?

Singh said, I’d like to ask the migrant a few questions about his journey.

Amarjit Singh, Priya thought, irritated. With your pretty brown skin. What are you even doing here? But then Priya asked herself: What am I doing here? And she felt slightly less antagonistic.

Singh said: You came with a passport.

I did.

So why not take a flight? Why use this irregular means of arrival?

I was being watched, Prasad said. They would have killed me if I tried to board a plane.

And you saw no issue with resorting to criminal means to sneak into this country? Singh said.

Prasad thought for a moment, then said: I am reading a book right now about a very famous railroad under the ground. I believe there is a long history in this country of…irregular arrivals.

The stenographer coughed to cover a snicker. Priya and Gigovaz glanced at each other, both of them folding in their lips. Even Hurst seemed to be forcing the corners of his mouth down. Model migrant, Priya thought. If only they were all so fortunate.