Brothers Who Help

In my experience new immigrants help each other whenever we can. We have all learned the hard way that, as Euripedes said, there is no greater loss than the loss of one’s first country.

For my first visit to the U.S., I accidentally packed my visa in my checked suitcase instead of my carry-on briefcase. When I changed planes in Paris, the French authorities told me that I could not board the flight to the U.S. without the visa. Luckily the gendarme was a Senegalese immigrant. He led me to the baggage room, against the rules, and I retrieved the precious document.

One time I flew to attend a close friend’s wedding in a small town near Berlin, but on arrival found there was no room at the only hotel in town. The only option was an expensive hotel miles away. But a Bangladeshi bellboy was willing to listen to my woes and told me to have a drink in the bar. Ten minutes later he returned with the key to a top-floor room.

Another time a cousin died in Rochester, Minnesota. On my way there, the connecting flight from Minneapolis was canceled because of bad weather, and I couldn’t get another. As I told my sob story to an airline official, a Salvadoran overheard and offered to give me a lift to Rochester. He drove through a snow storm and went out of his way to get me to my destination. He wouldn’t even take a cent for gas. He said he owed help to a brother.

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