Why Asylum Matters: The Story of Edafe Okporo
This new memoir by a Nigerian asylum seeker reminds us of what is at stake in Congress's attempts this week to shape the future of the asylum system.
The Senate’s proposed compromise immigration bill would have restricted access to asylum at the U.S.-Mexico border if it had not already been ruled “dead on arrival” by House Republicans. The bill continues to be debated online, with some Republicans and Democrats both claiming that the bill represents a good-faith compromise—but I have since lost interest in the ensuing circus.
What interests me more are migrants’ stories. So I escaped the heat of political rhetoric by doing what I usually do: look to human stories to bring me perspective.
I was reminded of the story of Edafe Okporo, a Nigerian migrant who escaped persecution after being outed as a gay man in a news article. I read his recently published book Asylum: A Memoir & Manifesto over the holiday break and felt drawn back to it in recent days.
Asylum is unflinching yet nuanced in its criticism of the various forms of oppression that Edafe experienced both in Nigeria and upon his arrival in the United States. Like most asylum seekers I have met over the past ten years, Edafe did not want to leave his home and his family. Through a series of escalating events, including his failed attempts to relocate to safe places in the country, Edafe is eventually outed (somewhat accidentally by an American newspaper) and brutally attacked by a mob on account of his sexual orientation.
He leaves Nigeria, arrives in the United States by plane, and requests asylum. Despite his expectations that he would be treated well in this country, he spent months at the Elizabeth Detention Center in New Jersey before finally being granted asylum.
But like most asylum stories, asylum is just the beginning, not the end, of the challenges.
Edafe had almost nothing when he arrived, and although he had a good college education, finding work and a place to live was not easy. Having cleared the hurdle of proving his asylum case, Edafe now had to contend with the reality of living in America as a Black man.
Edafe doesn’t pull punches with his critique of the role of race and racism in the U.S. immigration system. “One of the many reasons why this system seems to thrive is because it is deeply embedded within a white supremacist framework — the system is designed to deter Black and brown people from entering America” (p. 83).
And he has a point. The influential early years of the U.S. immigration system imposed race-based controls on who could come into the country. In recent decades, even though the formal racism of the old system has been abolished, a system of informal exclusions still affects non-white migrants in unequal ways.
For a more empirical discussion of the role that race might play in the immigration system, see my previous post about the disparate treatment of Haitian and Ukrainian asylum seekers below, or read my colleague Reece Jones’s book White Borders.
Although I have so much more to share about the role that race and racism play in his memoir, I actually want to talk about something else. Edafe’s story is framed as a story of asylum, of surviving the U.S. immigration system, and of the challenges of assimilation. But perhaps even more than that, it is truly a story of someone navigating their religious faith in a cruel and confusing world.
I grew up attending small-town churches in rural Ohio. My grandfather was the pastor of one of these churches, West Jefferson Bible Church. I lost touch years ago with the morbid enchantments of the Evangelical worldview, but I remain forever sympathetic to the ambivalence of anyone trying to square the lofty assurances of religion with the daily practices of the religious.
Edafe, who served as a pastor while also hiding his gay identity, struggles throughout the book with his faith. Edafe’s story glows with visceral humanity as his various identities, most of which are not under his full control, reverberate with one another in both harmonious and dissonate ways. Perhaps this is why the story of Edafe’s faith is heart-rending: it is one thing that he has control over, even as he wrestles with it internally.
Edafe is not the first migrant I’ve met (or heard of) to see the Christian story as a migration story, and the three passages from the book below illustrate his evolving relationship between his story as a migrant and his story as a person of faith.
Early in the book, Edafe holds on to his faith to help him survive the immigration system: “The one thing I held tightly to from my past life was my Christian faith. Stories from the Bible suddenly held new meaning and made more sense. I thought of Joseph, who went from prison to becoming a member of the king’s entourage. I remember Job, who lost everything, and got it back threefold” (p. 86).
His commitment to faith continues through most of the book, even as it evolves: “My relationship with the church as an institution has changed over the years, but my faith as a believer has remained strong, even as it has shifted” (p. 169).
Yet near the end of the book, he becomes exasperated and exhausted with the contradictions he experienced in both Nigeria and the United States as a gay man, a Black man, and a refugee. He discusses the role that American Christians have played in spreading anti-gay policies abroad, especially in Africa, which contributed to the passage of the Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act in Nigeria in 2014. This was a key piece of legislation that exacerbated discrimination and violence against LGBTQ people in Nigeria and, in effect, ultimately contributed to his need to flee the country.
“Religion and I would have to part ways. To me, the church was the same everywhere I turned—they pretended to be open-minded and loving, but they were not; it was all practiced with caveats, and on their terms” (p.180).
I won’t give away the ending of how he seeks to reconcile these tensions by the end of the story. Nor do I want to spoil the story of how he goes on to found an organization to support recently arrived migrants like himself.
But I do want to emphasize that while Edafe’s discussions about race are certainly important, I find his struggle with his faith to be even more personal and poignant. Readers who are not inclined to engage in discussions about race should at least consider reading the book’s honest and touching disclosures about Edafe’s faith.
And that’s where I want to circle back to the beginning of this post. I understand why there is so much confusion over how the immigration system works and how to reform the system. And I empathize with the urgency that many people must feel to find compromising solutions.
But the policy changes proposed in the Senate’s bill this week would have significantly limited access to asylum for many people. While it’s hard to see the personal effects of this legislation if you’re just watching sensationalized news coverage, Edafe’s story reminds us of the lives at stake in policy changes. He reminds us that we should understand policy changes not just through numbers, but through stories, as well.
I highly recommend Edafe’s book Asylum: A Memoir & Manifesto, especially in light of the contentious politics this week. I’ve only scratched the surface of all of the things I learned and took away from this book. If you want to learn more about Edafe or learn more about his organization, Refuge America, visit his website here.
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Beautiful post Austin. Thanks.
Thanks for the review of Edafe's book. I was just remarking to my husband the other day about how the local news seemed to get all excited about helping out Ukrainian refugees locally, but somehow they seem to want to know nothing about Afghan and other refugees/asylum-seekers in the area. The racism of the US and the US immigration system has changed very little in the last century it seems.