Latest / The Good People Project: Kindness, Service & Community / Voices for the Voiceless: The Weight of Translation in Asylum Stories | The Good People Project
Transcript
- I used to think translation was just about swapping words from one language to another, until I sat in a cold government office and realized I was holding someone’s entire life in my trembling hands. It wasn’t a dictionary exercise; it was an act of radical survival. Let me take you back to that room. It smelled like stale coffee and industrial cleaner, the kind of smell that sticks to your clothes long after you leave. I was sitting across from a young woman named Amara, who had fled a conflict zone six months prior. She didn’t speak English, and the official interpreter was running late. So, because I had studied some Swahili in college—though I’d forgotten half of it by then—I sat down to help. Amara’s eyes were wide, not with fear exactly, but with a profound exhaustion. She had been asked the same question three times already: 'Why did you leave?' And every time she tried to answer, the system failed her. Not because the question was wrong, but because the nuance was lost. In her culture, leaving home isn’t a decision made in a single moment. It’s a slow unraveling, a series of small deaths. When I translated, I didn’t just say 'she left.' I said, 'Her world collapsed piece by piece until there was nothing left to hold onto.' That difference? That is the difference between being processed and being heard. We often talk about volunteering as giving time or money. But sometimes, volunteering is holding space for a truth that is too heavy for one person to carry alone. Here is the thing about translation that no one tells you until you’re in the trenches: it is never perfect. Language is not code. You cannot simply plug in a variable and get the same output. Every word carries history, trauma, cultural weight, and emotion. When we volunteer as translators for asylum seekers, we are not neutral machines. We are participants. We feel their shaking hands. We see the way they flinch when a certain word is spoken. I remember translating for a man whose dialect marked him as belonging to a specific region known for persecution. Just hearing his accent make the interviewer nervous changed the entire dynamic of the room. I had to decide, in real-time, whether to soften the edges of his speech to make him more palatable to the authorities, or to let his raw, unfiltered pain stand as evidence of his suffering. There is no right answer. Only hard choices. And this is where we have to get real about what it costs to care. It costs us our comfort. It asks us to sit in the discomfort of other people’s trauma without trying to fix it, without trying to look away. It demands that we be present, fully and painfully, in the gap between two worlds. People ask me why I do this work. Why spend my Saturday mornings in fluorescent-lit waiting rooms instead of sleeping in or hiking in the woods. And the answer is simple, though it sounds cliché: connection. But it’s deeper than that. It’s about dignity. For many asylum seekers, the interview process is dehumanizing. They are stripped of their stories, reduced to checkboxes on a form. Their humanity is questioned at every turn. When we step in as volunteers, we are saying, 'Your story matters. Your voice matters. I am here to ensure it is heard accurately.' This is the quiet work of showing up. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t get likes on social media. No one posts a selfie from a immigration court hallway. But it changes lives. I’ve seen women who haven’t spoken a word in weeks begin to cry when they realize someone finally understands them. I’ve seen men who were told they were lying find their credibility restored because someone took the time to explain the cultural context behind their answers. These moments are small, but they are seismic. They remind us that beneath the politics and the policies, there are human beings desperate to be seen. We cannot ignore the elephant in the room. The system is broken. It is designed to overwhelm, to confuse, to exhaust. It relies on the fact that most people will give up, will fold under the pressure, will sign papers they don’t understand. And while we fight for systemic change—which we must—we cannot wait for the system to fix itself before we act. We have to meet people where they are. Volunteering as a translator is a form of resistance. It is a refusal to let bureaucracy erase individual identity. But it’s also exhausting. Burnout is real. Compassion fatigue is real. I’ve had days where I felt like I was drowning in sorrow, carrying weights that weren’t mine to carry. And that’s okay. It’s okay to admit that this work hurts. It’s okay to need rest. We are not superheroes. We are neighbors. And neighbors check in on each other. We celebrate each other’s wins, however small. A granted visa. A warm meal. A moment of laughter shared over tea. These are the victories that keep us going. They remind us that we are not alone in this struggle. So, where does this land in your spirit? Maybe you’ve never volunteered as a translator. Maybe you’ve never thought about the power dynamics embedded in language. But think about the last time you felt misunderstood. Think about the frustration of trying to explain something complex, something personal, and watching the other person’s eyes glaze over. Now imagine that feeling multiplied by ten, amplified by fear, and trapped in a room with people who hold your fate in their hands. That is the reality for millions of displaced people around the world. We have the capacity to bridge that gap. We have the capacity to listen. To really listen. Not just to hear the words, but to hear the heart behind them. This episode is an invitation to pay attention. To notice the people around you who might be struggling to find their voice. To offer your presence, your patience, your empathy. You don’t need to speak five languages to make a difference. You just need to be willing to sit in the silence with someone and say, 'I am here. I hear you.' Let that sink in. Let it settle. Because kindness is not just a feeling. It is an action. And sometimes, the most powerful action is simply listening. In the last episode, we talked about the ethics of shelter and how overcrowding impacts mental health. We discussed how physical safety is only one part of the equation. Today, we’re talking about emotional and linguistic safety. It’s the invisible architecture that holds a community together. When we provide legal aid or shelter, we are building walls. But when we translate, we are building bridges. Bridges require maintenance. They require trust. They require us to show up again and again, even when it’s hard. I want to challenge you this week to find one way to build a bridge in your own life. Maybe it’s learning a few phrases in a neighbor’s language. Maybe it’s volunteering with a local organization that supports refugees. Maybe it’s just being more patient with the person behind you in line at the grocery store who is struggling with something you can’t see. Small acts of radical empathy add up. They create a culture of care that ripples outward. So, let’s commit to being the good people. Not because it’s easy. But because it’s necessary. Because in a world that often feels divided, our ability to connect is our greatest strength. Thank you for letting me into your day. Thank you for listening with such an open heart. Until next time, keep showing up. Keep caring. And remember, you are never alone. Bye for now.