Translator: Brandon Muschlitz Reviewer: Mohamed M Yousif
Terrorist.
Disease. Thief.
Are these some of the words that come to you when I say
undocumented immigrants, refugees?
Or, do you think of us as those escaping persecution, disaster.
Seeking home, belonging.
Today, in the media, our politicians are talking about undocumented immigrants
and refugees in a very negative frame.
Undocumented immigrants are called criminals.
Aliens who deserve to be detained and deported.
Thrown back to our countries of origins because we violated a law.
Refugees are called potential terrorists.
Maybe they bring disease to America, or feared to be too expensive
to be brought here.
Today, I want to share with you two stories from my life
as an undocumented immigrant.
In order to help you flip the script about undocumented immigrants and refugees.
In 2002 my immigration application
for permanent residency to the United States got approved.
I was super excited.
My dream of becoming an established researcher
was probably going to become true.
I may now have access to institutions of amazing higher learning and research.
Maybe, I would be able to have better income.
Save money and support my parents when they retire.
However, when I was going through the regular medical exam
as a part of the adjustment of status process,
I learned that I was living with HIV.
Not only was I worried about my long term health,
I was seriously afraid about my legal status in the United States.
As a researcher of immigration, I knew there exists an HIV ban on immigration.
This ban existed from 1993 up until 2010.
Now when the ban was passed, people didn't know much about HIV.
There wasn't medication.
People were dying in mass.
However, even though in 1996 there was combination therapies discovered
that halted the spread of HIV in our blood
this ban on immigration existed.
So in 2002, I was scared that if my HIV status
was put on my immigration file, immigration would null and void
my application even though it was approved and I would be detained and sent back home
How would I face my parents?
What would I tell them?
That their only son was sent back home because he's living with HIV.
I could see their shame and pain.
So, I decided to hide.
Not even seek treatment.
Discontinued communication with my lawyer.
And On July 4th, 2004,
when the entire country was celebrating American Independence Day,
you know, fire crackers were going off, I was shivering with high fever
in my bedroom in Brooklyn.
My tongue was dry, it's dry right now, but my tongue was dry.
I was shivering, sweating.
I found two purple lesions on my either hands and foot.
At this point I knew I had kaposi sarcoma and pneumonia.
All of these can be halted very easily at this point, by treatment.
So my friends assembled around me.
They decided they would take me to St. Vincent's hospital
in downtown Brooklyn,
Manhattan.
I was going to change my legal name from Debanuj Dasgupta to Delal Sen
for accessing treatment.
I remember the first night in the hospital bed very very well.
I was sweating profusely.
My tongue was dry.
I could feel hot and cold at the same time.
Fragile body.
My best friend Rodrigo sitting next to me, holding me, changing my nightgown
and bed sheet every hour and powdering me.
From that window, the 14th floor, of St. Vincent's,
I could see a sliver of West Village.
I could see my favorite cafe where I used to hang out.
I could feel Rodrigo's touch, warm hands on my cold body.
And I told myself that I was not going to die.
I was not going to die because I was not going to give up on my life
and I was going to live not just to tell my story,
but every other immigrant's story.
And I did live.
I lived, but in 2008 as I was taking the bus
from Akron to New York to access my medication
and go through my regular blood work, immigration raided the bus.
ICE found me and declared me as illegal.
At this point I am being taken into detention.
My worst nightmare is coming true.
Remember I was trying to avoid this all the while.
I am shackled, my legs and arms, and taken into a single cell
where it's my bed and the toilet.
For the first four nights I told, I am not going to break down.
I am not going to cry, because I need to get out of this place
and stay strong for my self.
On the fifth night I couldn't take it anymore.
A single dark cell without any stimulation.
Sitting there, I could smell my own human piss, and this was not going to be
a part of my story.
This dark cell.
And I couldn't take it anymore,
and I broke down, and I cried so loud that the guy next to me,
he was from the Dominican Republic, he heard me and he said,
"Indian, don't cry, because if anyone can get out of this cell it's you,
and when you get out tell the world our story."
And probably he thought that I have two Master's degrees.
I speak English.
Maybe I could get representation and get out.
I did. I fought my immigration case.
I didn't give up.
I stand in front of you today as a legal permanent resident
of the United States, doing research on refugee and immigration issues.
(Applause)
So when you hear how your politicians talk about undocumented immigrants,
and refugees as criminals, as aliens, think about me.
Think about me dying alone in that hospital bed with my friend
trying to save me.
Think about me alone shackled in a detention cell.
Is this justice?
Is this the greatness that America stands for?
Think again.
(Applause)