US refugee finds first love

President Donald Trump's grotesque exaggerations and lies make South Africa's refugees a soft target for scorn, mockery and even taunts of cowardice. But the human story of why people decide to up sticks is far more complicated and interesting than the simplistic depictions offered by commentators. I spoke to one of the thousands (let's call him 'John') who has voted with a suitcase. John is not the stereotype Afrikaner farmer who is seeking US refuge. He's just an ordinary, 57-year-old, English-speaking Joburger who was self-employed and rented a cottage. John's application began almost casually. A black Afrikaans-speaking acquaintance sent him the link. He thought there was nothing to lose by registering an interest. One stage led to the next until, some 14 or 15 months later – after an initial screening, biometrics, a two-hour interview, exhaustive medical tests, police, military and security checks – an e-mail arrived. He was booked to fly out within a fortnight. John did not claim that a genocide was in progress. He did not produce a personal story of racial assault. His case was about the future. John believes that racial redress has become systematic discrimination. As a small white contractor installing and maintaining security cameras and alarms, he says, empowerment requirements shut him out of bigger corporate, municipal and insurance work. John is divorced and fears particularly for his teen daughter. The waves of xenophobic mobilisation are a warning sign, he says. Black migrants from elsewhere in Africa are identified by accent, name or appearance. If fury and violence can be directed towards one visible outsider, he asks, why is it unthinkable that it might one day swing towards whites, Indians or coloureds, who are even easier to identify? Then came the leap into the unknown. Refugees are dispersed throughout the US. John landed in a large American city and was placed in an unassuming apartment, in a predominantly Latino neighbourhood. Dozens of other South Africans live in nearby complexes. As a single man, he was allocated a two-bedroom flat and, a week later, a roommate. Although the lease is in their names, John's $2 450 (about R39 120) resettlement allowance was not handed to him to spend as he wished. The agency paid the deposit, electricity connection and rent and bought a basic folding bed and mattress, bedding, rudimentary kitchen equipment, toiletries and a few days' groceries. John received $100 in pocket money and was shown the local food bank. The agencies help secure documentation and direct people towards employment services, but nobody hands them a job. In John's estimate, the programme provides a financial cushion only three or four months thick. He was fortunate to have some money of his own from selling his car, possessions and business stock. He is looking for employment in the technical field he knows, but is willing to do deliveries or take whatever interim work is available. If Washington increased the number of places again, John has little doubt that they would be filled. Since his departure, several people in his social circle have applied, or are considering it. Each successful departure makes the programme real to another handful of South Africans. There has, however, been one improbable twist. Soon after arriving, John updated his location on Facebook. A message came from the girl who had been his first love at 15, before her family emigrated to America. She invited him to visit. Forty-one years after they wept goodbye at an airport, they are resuming almost exactly where they had left off. John is now preparing to move nearer to her and to continue his search from there. I had called to ask about political salvation. John had found love.