Hayden’s work, first and foremost, is a record of the manufactured “migration crisis” and the people suffering as a result of the policies offered as solutions to this non-existent problem: a problem created not by refugees, but by states who routinely violate international law in preventing black and brown people fleeing poverty and violence from seeking asylum-in addition to, in many cases, contributing to the destabilization of refugees’ home countries and the climate change that makes them uninhabitable in the first place. That fury was reignited as I frantically underlined journalist Sally Hayden’s first book, My Fourth Time, We Drowned: Seeking Refuge on the World’s Deadliest Migration Route. But witnessing, repeatedly, the cynical manifestations of this international body has created in me a deep anger. If I were to navel gaze sufficiently, it’s likely I would still agree with the UN’s ideals. When I started freelance reporting from East Africa nearly eight years ago, one of the first notions of which I was disabused was the idea that the United Nations is a positive force in maintaining a moral world order. “The UN,” I shriek, not without glee, “is really fucked up.” It’s not yet dark, but I’ve already sampled too much of the punch. The inquirer observes, without judgment, “So you don’t really live in. The UN staffer says, “I live in a compound with other UN workers, so it’s organized for me.” They further explain that their contract is only for a year or two-flexibility in living locations, not getting bogged down by furniture and the like, is optimal. The inquirer continues, “So, how do you find a house or an apartment in ?” “I get two weeks off every six weeks, so I travel a lot.” They go on to mention other plans of places to venture to during time off. “Oh,” the resident of the far flung, war-torn, sometimes hot country replies.
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“How did you even get here today, to come to this party?” The inquiring someone is duly impressed, not expecting such an exotic response. They work in this country as a staffer with a United Nations agency. The second someone answers and names-somewhat grandly, ready to enjoy the response-a country many miles from the East Coast of the United States, which has been called war-torn and which all would agree is seasonally exceptionally hot. Someone asks someone else where they live.
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I am at a party on the East Coast of the United States with (mostly) white Americans. All quotes are general recollections that convey the spirit of the conversation. My Fourth Time, We Drowned: Seeking Refuge on the World’s Deadliest Migration Route by Sally Hayden.