Between borders

People think immigration is a journey. A line on a map. A plane ticket. A stamp. They don’t understand that the real journey starts after you arrive, writes Sandra Pawar.

BY MAJOR SANDRA PAWAR*

This week just past has marked Refugee Week, with this year’s theme being ‘A Million Stories’.

Major Sandra Pawar, an officer original from the Australia Territory now serving in the Potomac Division of the USA Southern Territory, wrote the following poem for the Potomac Women’s Retreat. In the poem, Sandra explores challenging aspects of the immigrant and immigration experience.

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I wake up every morning before the sun, and for a moment, just a moment, I forget.

I forget the papers, the deadlines, the questions I don’t know how to answer. 

I forget the way my name sounds when someone says it slowly, like they’re trying to decide if it belongs here.

But then the world wakes up, and the remembering begins.

People think immigration is a journey. 

A line on a map. A plane ticket. A stamp. 

They don’t understand that the real journey starts after you arrive. When you’re standing in a place that is supposed to be your new beginning, but it feels like you’re still waiting to be allowed in.

I carry a folder everywhere I go.

Birth certificates. Letters. Proof of this. Proof of that.

Proof that I exist.

Proof that I deserve to stay.

It’s strange, isn’t it?

How a life can be reduced to paper.

How a woman can be reduced to a checklist.

Sometimes I sit at my kitchen table late at night, surrounded by forms I don’t fully understand, written in a language that still feels like borrowed clothing. I read the same sentence over and over, hoping it will make sense the tenth time, the 20th time. I worry that one wrong answer, one wrong date could unravel everything.

And the fear …

The fear is quiet, but it never leaves.

It sits beside me when I’m working.

It follows me to the grocery store.

It curls up at the foot of my bed.

People ask where I’m from, and I smile.

People ask where I live now, and I smile again.

But inside, I wonder:

Where is home when every place feels temporary?

Back where I came from, I am missed.

Here, I am questioned.

In between, I am stretched thin

too much for one place,

not enough for another.

I walk through this new city trying to look confident, but inside I am always bracing myself.

For the next form. The next appointment. 

The next reminder that my future depends on someone else’s decision.

I worry that one wrong answer, one wrong date could unravel everything.

And yet …

I keep going.

Because there is hope, even in the waiting.

Hope in the friend who helps me translate a letter.

Hope in the neighbor who says, “You’re doing great.”

Hope in the small victories –

a document approved,

a step forward,

a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

I am tired.

But I am not defeated.

I am a woman who crossed borders, yes—

but I am also a woman who builds,

who dreams,

who refuses to disappear.

One day, the papers will be settled.

One day, the fear will loosen its grip.

One day, I will stand in a place and feel, without hesitation,

“This is mine.

This is home.”

Until then, I keep walking.

I keep hoping.

I keep becoming.

Because I am more than my documents.

More than my status.

More than the spaces between countries.

I am here.

And I am still rising.

*Major Sandra Pawar is the author of More Than Just a Refugee.