As we move closer to the presidential elections here in the United States, the immigration issue becomes hotter and hotter. Claims of criminals streaming through open borders conflict with the situation I encountered last February, when I was invited by the Earth Church in New York’s East Village to make some drawings of their warming center for migrants. There I found a group of men seeking asylum from political violence in West Africa, eager to learn English and find work in the United States. I also found a group of dedicated New Yorkers who donated items or spent time in the space on the corner of Avenue C and 3rd Street to help them to keep warm and maintain dignity in their plight.
Below are a few of the drawings from my visits; I’ll post more in the weeks ahead:

Lim, one of the volunteers, sorts the many donations from East Village residents into bins.

This is Savitri, a volunteer who seems to manage the daily operations of the warming center. Here she is hard at work at the sewing machine, custom fitting donated shirts for some of the men. As she sewed she explained the problem that many of the men faced: “They are in the neighborhood because St. Brigid’s [church] is nearby, where they line up for a ticket to get a spot to sleep at one of the shelters scattered around the city. But women and children have first priority, and sometimes these men have a ticket number as high as 15,ooo. So they sleep in the park, on a  subway, wherever. Sometimes they get a summons and a $100 fine for sleeping on the subway.” As I listened I wondered how they could possibly pay that.

The warming center provides them with a place to rest, charge their phones (and connection to home) and learn some English from the volunteers who come to offer lessons. The English lessons are well attended, and the men learn phrases such as, ” I can wash dishes.” “I can do deliveries.”

The men have an opportunity to charge their phones, and rest a little bit in a warm place. Several times a day, some of the Muslim men could be found praying in the corner.

Most of the men who were in the center when I visited were from Guinea, and their path to the US was a long and arduous one: By car from Guinea to Senegal. By air from Senegal to Turkey, and then to Colombia. By car or bus from Colombia across Central America to get to Mexico, from there by car or bus to Tijuana, bordering with the US, where they presented themselves to request political asylum. Reminded me of the stories I’d read about Ellis Island, and the hardships of sailing steerage from Europe across the Atlantic. Different era, same circumstances. I wish I knew why we romanticize the people in one situation and villainize those in the other.

I was slightly hesitant to draw at first, not sure how the men would feel about me documenting them and their circumstance. It turned out that they were eager to be drawn and recognized, and there was an actual line of men waiting to have their portraits made. A commonality we all share, to be known and be seen. Each man seemed to enjoy signing their portraits; I’ve blocked out their last names here to preserve their privacy. Below are Nabi and Abdul, who described themselves as brothers and sons of Africa.

In response to the fear mongering stories of unknown and unnamed immigrants used for political points, I will post their portraits in the next few weeks between now and the election, to show a few of the faces of the many who come to the US seeking political asylum and dignity of life. The same as my ancestors did, escaping the potato famine in Ireland. The same as the ancestors of so many Americans did, that is, the ones who were lucky enough to come freely and not in chains.

As I drew the men, my husband spoke with some of them who were fluent in French, as he is. We asked them why they left their country, and the reasons they presented were similar:

“I was beaten and jailed for political involvement.”

“I was targeted for being aligned with a political party.””I feared for my safety and the safety of my family.”

“I want to be free. I want to bring my mom here. My mother sold her chickens to pay for my voyage.”

I’ll post more portraits and drawings from the warming center in the weeks to come. I hope that these drawings in some small way can encourage Americans to see those emigrating to our country as individuals, not as a nameless, faceless threat.