‘I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.’
Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
I spilled out of the plane with the other passengers and into a cathedral of steel and glass at Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok Airport. Despite – or perhaps because of – the heavy security, I felt relatively safe inside one of the world’s busiest terminals. I wasn’t expecting any trouble until landing in Toronto, where anything could happen. Canada was the end of the line. Make or break.
With no baggage to collect and with time to kill before the connecting flight, I passed through the shops in search of a jacket. A check of the local weather in Toronto showed a forecast of well below freezing for my arrival. This was a climate and type of cold I had only read about, and seen in the movies.
Changing money and buying a jacket left me with exactly forty-five Canadian dollars. Although my gut had begun to ache, I decided not to waste my money on food in case I had costs to cover when I arrived.
Taking a seat in the departure lounge, I phoned Nina, and then Tessa. I told them I’d made it safely to Hong Kong, and that I was boarding Air Canada flight AC016 to Toronto.
The flight was late. The first announcement was for a four-hour wait, but when that time came, there was still no sign of the plane. The news was that an epic winter storm had convulsed the airport in Toronto, and the plane that would take us there had been severely delayed.
It was past midnight when the boarding call was announced. We were told to board in stages according to our seat numbers. I was in the last group.
‘Good evening, sir, may I see your boarding pass and passport, please,’ a ground staff member asked. I handed them to her.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She held my passport close to her bespectacled eyes. ‘Where is your permanent resident card?’
By now it had been drilled into me how unusual it was for a Solomon Islander to travel to Canada through Hong Kong. I was expecting a cross-examination, and had prepared a series of replies in my defence. ‘I don’t have a PR card because I’m not a permanent Canadian resident.’
‘If you’re not a permanent resident, why don’t you have a visa?’
‘Because I don’t need a visa with a Commonwealth passport.’
‘Where is your luggage?’
‘Oh, this is my only luggage.’ I nodded at the small carry-on bag at my feet. ‘Only that?’
‘It’s all I need!’ Despite my jaunty tone, there was no likely scenario where I would fly across the world, from one hemisphere to another, from one climate to another, with just a carry-on bag, especially over Christmas. She asked me to step out of the line.
As I followed behind her, I pulled out my phone and texted, ‘Here comes trouble.’ This was to a messaging group that had me, Winiaka and Nina as members. The title of the chat, which Nina had created and named back on 25 June 2017: Prison Break.
I was led to another counter to be questioned further. Other staff joined us. The brave spirit of my doppelganger rising within me, I made my case with clarity and poise. ‘I’m a citizen of a Commonwealth country. I don’t need a visa to enter Canada, but I do have an eTA that I obtained through the correct channels from Canadian immigration.’
I had even memorised the eTA number in case something like this happened, or in the event my phone were lost or confiscated.
‘Why don’t you have any money?’
‘I do have money. I’ve got a little cash and I have credit cards.’
They weren’t really credit cards. One was the Load&Go Travel Visa, the prepaid card that Tessa had sent in the mail, and the other was a long dormant debit card attached to a Burmese bank account, which my cousin Suu Myatt had arranged for me. The credit card had about $20 on it while the other was worthless, but not when it came to putting up a smokescreen.
My research into the security of prepaid and debit cards had shown it was difficult for anyone outside the issuing bank to check whether or not they had funds in them. The mere act of possessing the cards was a way to gain legitimacy. With them in hand, I was better able to bluff my way around the world.
Every other passenger had boarded the plane but the officious Hong Kong staff still were not buying my story. ‘May we see your credit cards?’
‘Sure.’ I handed them over.
As the staffers disappeared with my cards into a side room, I texted Shahed. ‘Airline in HK thinks I’m suspicious. Won’t let me board. Could be the end. If you don’t hear from me, just pray.’
The employees returned and handed back my cards. ‘We’re still not convinced you have sufficient funds to travel to Canada,’ said a thin Hong Kong official in a dark suit.
Throughout this process – as with every other interrogation – I had to concentrate on keeping my voice from shaking, both from nerves and a growing irritation.
‘Listen, I have an eTA that was issued to me by Canadian immigration.’ I recited the number and held up my phone, showing the email that confirmed its validity. ‘I have a legal right to enter Canada and, with all due respect, you can’t tell me not to board the flight because you’re unhappy with the look of my luggage.’
The staff spoke in Cantonese and left me in the dark. The plane was tantalisingly just metres away. I wondered how long I’d have to rot in a local prison if everything unravelled in the next few minutes.
Finally, they told me I had to talk to an immigration officer in Canada. A number was dialled and I was handed a phone. A North American accent came down the line.
‘This is Toronto Pearson Airport Immigration,’ said the officer before launching into his own interrogation: ‘Why is your passport so new?’
‘Why was your ticket only booked a day ago?’
‘Why aren’t you taking the same route back?’
‘What is the purpose of your visit?’
‘Why don’t you have luggage?’
‘Why aren’t you prepared for sub-zero temperatures?’
All my mental preparation – my carefully crafted excuses, attention to detail and habit of having a Plan A, B, C and D – came down to this moment. If my hard work were to count for something, it was now, at the final gate of an epic six-month jailbreak.
I took a deep breath and began a calm recital of the reasons for my unusual travel plans. Claiming political asylum was not one of them. Instead, the account took in highlights of my midwinter holiday in Canada, including Christmas events and festivals in Toronto, a couple of which I had even bothered to memorise by name. There was so much to do in this bustling city.
‘I’m really looking forward to it,’ I said, after a summary of the awesome time I expected to have, bouncing from one tourist hot spot to another in the company of my mythical Canadian buddies. ‘It’s a quick three-day visit to celebrate Christmas with old friends. Kind of whirlwind, since there’s so much to see. Then I’m flying to Manila on the way home to attend a work conference. The work thing I could really do without but, you know, duty calls.’
‘So why don’t you have any luggage?’ he cut in.
‘I’m coming from the South Pacific!’ I said with a chuckle. ‘You can’t buy warm pants or a winter coat in all of Honiara. Anyway, the guys in Toronto told me not to bother – it’s only three days. One of them is the same size as me so I can borrow from his wardrobe. Though I did just buy a nice jacket this afternoon.’
The Canadian thanked me and asked to speak to the Hong Kong staff. I handed the phone to the thin man in the dark suit. I didn’t understand what was said but when he hung up, he turned back. ‘You can board the plane but the cabin crew will take possession of your passport. When you arrive, they will hand you and your passport over to Canadian customs. If they are satisfied, they will allow you to enter Canada. If they are not, they will put you on the next plane back here, and we will be waiting.’
‘Fine by me. I just don’t want to miss my flight.’
As I was the last person to board the plane, I didn’t even have time to text Shahed. The flight took off and I thought of him, back in Burma, wondering if I had been thrown back into prison.
In the early hours of Christmas Day, the Boeing 777 rose over the illuminated hills of Hong Kong and banked east towards the Pacific Ocean. The flight was packed with holiday travellers, but since it was an overnight service the cabin was quiet, the lights turned low. It was my third flight in forty-eight hours and I hadn’t slept for nearly three days. I was too focused on what lay ahead to bother closing my eyes.
Remembering Nina’s parting advice to always keep a record, I pulled a spiral notebook and pen out of my bag and composed the note that would likely determine how the rest of my life played out. With my statement written, I took a picture of it, folded the page in half and tucked it into the pocket of my new jacket.
I had learned the hard way that my claim had to be in writing to carry any weight. In the legal process I was about to enter, like the one I had left behind, documents often mattered more than the people they represented.
For the next fourteen hours I mentally rehearsed what I’d do once we landed. My best hope for the future was to claim asylum in Canada. Yet the tarmac and the transit areas of international airports were deemed international space. I did not want to get stopped and questioned in this area, especially not while holding a fake passport. Nina advised me to move as quickly as possible to the part of the airport officially on Canadian soil. To give myself a fighting chance of success, I needed to make my claim in person, in front of a Canadian immigration officer.
About two hours before we landed in Toronto, my gut was crawling with hunger and thirst, exacerbated by regular stabs of anxiety. While they had fed us – lightly – on the Air Canada flight, it was not enough to compensate for the three days of money-saving starvation and lack of sleep that had preceded it. The pain was a problem because I needed to be able to move quickly and effortlessly when we landed. Any unusual movements would attract attention.
Although we’d left Hong Kong on Christmas Day, we’d crossed the international dateline in the prolonged dark night, which meant we landed in Toronto in the early hours of Christmas Eve. As soon as we touched down I turned on my phone and texted Shahed, and sent the photo of my note of asylum to Tessa. But neither worked: I couldn’t connect to the internet.
The man sitting next to me was using his phone. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose it would be okay if I got on your hotspot for a moment? I have a couple of urgent messages to fire off.’
He did his best to oblige – this helpfulness was a Canadian trait, I’d soon learn – but after a few tries we were unable to get me online. Meanwhile, every second that passed brought the plane closer to the gate and whatever lay waiting for me on the other side.
I war-gamed what might happen next. If taken into custody by customs officers, I planned to hide my phone inside my underwear and tell them I needed to use the bathroom. Once there, I’d be able to send the document to Tessa, assuming the airport had free wi-fi, not always a given.
As soon as the plane rolled to a stop at the gate, I stood up and walked towards the forward door and lingered there. The door opened and I waited for the travellers to clear the first-class area, and then followed behind as if I were one of them. I had gambled that the cabin crew wouldn’t expect someone whose passport was being withheld to get up and leave without it.
After everything I had gone through to get my hands on the document, the passport was now a layer of unwanted skin, easy to shed. Goodbye, Michael Waradi, whoever you were.
Trying to move quickly but without attracting attention, I made an awkward scurry through the long corridors of the airport. There was an invisible membrane that separated international airspace and Canada itself – and I had to break through it before getting stopped.
Along the way I accessed the airport wi-fi and sent the photo of my refugee claim to Tessa, mid-stride. Next I texted my Prison Break crew, who hadn’t heard from me since the ‘here comes trouble’ half-message from the Hong Kong airport, to let them know I’d arrived. And lastly, a message for Shahed: ‘I made it!’
His reply: ‘Thank god, I was staying online for the last 14 hrs – standby so I won’t miss ur message, in case u needed me.’
There were two queues at customs: one for foreigners and another for Canadian citizens. The Canadian one was shorter so I lined up with the locals, thinking of how the customs officers were probably searching the plane at the same moment, wondering where the hell I was.
I could feel my heartbeat in my temples as the slowly moving line brought me closer to the customs desk. Any second someone might shout, ‘Stop that man!’
It was my turn to approach the counter. I stepped forward and found myself face-to-face with a fifty-something man with a long grey beard.
This was it. I handed him the signed and dated letter, scrawled in capital letters on the page torn from the notepad.
TO. CANADIAN BORDER SERVICES AGENCY
DATE. 24 DEC 2017
PLACE. TORONTO PEARSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
I JAIVET EALOM (ALSO KNOWN AS JAVET ALOM), IS APPLYING FOR ASYLUM.
I HAVE BEEN TRAVELLING FOR THE LAST THREE DAYS WITHOUT PROPER SLEEP.
THEREFORE, I AM ASKING YOUR KIND ASSISTANCE HERE FOR MY APPLICATION OF ASYLUM AND RELATED REQUIRED FORMS.
I AM A ROHINGYAN MAN FROM BURMA AND I AM FLEEING GENOCIDE BY ITS GOVERNMENT.
THANK YOU
JE
24/12/2017
Without saying a word, the officer read it and looked at me. He read it again, and glanced at me again. He read it a third time, stamped something on the page, and passed it to another officer at the back of the booth.
‘Walk this way, please,’ the bearded one said, and ushered me past the booth into an area away from the other queues. By taking those few short steps I entered the sovereign realm of Canada.
The relief was intoxicating. I didn’t care if I was detained, arrested or forced to spend time in custody. I had made it as far away from Manus Island as it was possible to travel. I had entered a legal claim for political asylum in a country that recognised and understood such things, and hopefully I wasn’t going anywhere.
The bearded man asked me to take a seat in a small waiting area where he and the other officers discussed what to do next. By now, Air Canada staff had come forward with my passport and offered their account as to why I’d been allowed onto the plane. Clearly I had caused quite a stir. Five officials stood around arguing over how it was possible I’d managed to make it onboard.
I overheard snippets: ‘There’s no such procedure…’ ‘It’s not up to Air Canada…’ ‘Cabin crew don’t have the authority…’
From what I could piece together, the airline had been under pressure to take off from Hong Kong quickly, in part to avoid additional gate fees. Allowing me to board had been an economic decision, but one Air Canada did not have the legal authority to make. I got the impression my case was an exception, even a complete accident. Fine with me. I was well overdue a lucky break.
Another official with neatly combed hair and glasses arrived shortly afterwards and asked for my name.
‘Hello, my name is Jaivet Ealom,’ I replied.
‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yeah. My English is pretty good.’
‘Would you come with me, please?’
Bent at the waist to accommodate my stomach cramps, I followed him along a corridor to a small office where we sat at either side of a desk. My note was placed in the middle.
‘My name is Phil and I’m going to conduct an interview with you.’
This sounded like the interrogation that had been described in Hong Kong, which could result in me being packed up and sent on the first flight back. On the other hand, it might be a proper discussion of my asylum claim, the first step in the legal process.
Phil asked me to repeat my name and date of birth. As he waited for an answer, the pain in my abdomen made me lean forward and lower my head. Although this was potentially a major turning point in my life, I was struggling to concentrate. I was in agony.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Phil, ‘I just have a couple more of these and then I’ll get you a healthcare worker, okay?’
He asked me if I needed an interpreter. When I declined, he had me sign some paperwork to show I had forfeited the service. ‘So tell me, what’s happening with your health situation?’
‘Like it says there, I haven’t eaten or slept in quite a while.’
‘Well, I can’t question a man who is in pain.’
A few minutes later a paramedic arrived and checked me over. He said I was most likely experiencing a build-up of stomach acid, and that the problem should diminish once I had some food and rest. He asked if I wanted to go to hospital.
‘I don’t think I need a hospital.’
Seeing I was not at imminent risk of dying in his office, Phil asked me to outline my reasons for coming to Canada. I explained that I had fled genocide of the Rohingya in Burma, and claimed asylum on my way to Australia, only to be imprisoned on Manus Island for years. ‘After all that, they were making moves to send me back to Burma, so I escaped.’
After less than five minutes of my life story, Phil interrupted. ‘Okay, listen. I am going to process the asylum claim for you right here. But first things first. Please, wait.’
Having an immigration officer tell me to wait in his office was my idea of hell. If the authorities were going to swoop in and send me back to Hong Kong, now was the time.
But when Phil returned, he was alone. In his hands: a Subway sandwich and a can of Coke. ‘It’s time for you to eat.’
My first meal in days, paid for by the immigration official who was in charge of deciding my fate and future in the country. None of the ‘Let us mangle your name and send you straight to your cell’ treatment I had come to expect. Instead, a simple gesture of kindness, from one person to another. Canada was already turning out to be a place unlike any I had known before.
Phil watched me transform the sandwich into a pile of paper scraps. There was a sparkle in his eyes, a glint of warmth or curiosity, as he made his next request.
‘And now I want you to tell me your story, from the beginning.’