Breathing in words
They said, “Talking is like breathing” I am breathing.
For a while, I have been in this beautiful, peaceful country, surrounded by a community where people walk, talk, study, and work without any fear for their safety or security. I even see dogs and ducks crossing the road with confidence, knowing that cars will stop for them with respect. It always amazes me, and I think, what a lucky nation to live in such a progressive system. But then I reflect on my own situation and feel a deep sadness. Here, dogs have tags for identification, yet I live among them without any form of ID. I possess skills that could contribute significantly to society, but I remain invisible, without the entitlement to participate. I can’t help but ask myself—why me? Why did I have to flee my home, my family, and my entire life? Why did I have to become a refugee?
I once lived in my country without fear. I had a loving family, a humble and cozy home, and a bright future ahead of me. But then, war came knocking on our doorstep. Bombs started falling from the sky, and bullets whizzed through the air. My family and I were forced to flee, grabbing what we could and leaving behind everything we had ever known. We ran for our lives and were scattered and separated.
I embarked on a perilous journey, traversing treacherous terrain, facing hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. I witnessed unspeakable horrors, saw families torn apart, and innocent lives lost. And yet, I pushed on, driven by the hope of finding safety and refuge.
But why me? Why did I have to experience this? Why did I have to lose my family, my profession, and my dreams? Why did I have to become a statistic, a mere number in the grand scheme of things?
As I look around in my refugee circle, I see countless faces like mine – faces etched with pain, fear, and uncertainty. We are all asking the same question – why me? Why did we have to suffer this fate?
But as I reflect on my journey, I realize that I am not alone. There are millions of refugees like me, scattered across the globe, each with their own heart-wrenching story. And in this moment, I understand that the “why me” is not just a question, but a cry for help, a plea for humanity to acknowledge our struggles and our resilience.
We are not just refugees — we are survivors. We are strugglers. We are human beings, worthy of dignity, compassion, and love. So I ask you: Why not me? Why not us? Why shouldn’t we be the ones given a second chance — the opportunity to rebuild, to heal, and to thrive?
The “why me” will continue to echo in my mind, but I know that I am not alone. And together, we can rise above the ashes of our past and create a brighter future – a future where no one has to ask “why me” again.
I am Mr Question
Wow, that line ‘Talking is like breathing’ hit me hard. Have you found that speaking out has helped you in small daily ways here — like chatting with neighbours or at the supermarket?
Thank you so much for reading my blog. I’m truly glad to hear that it touch you. To answer your question, yes, I speak about this topic wherever I find someone willing to listen: at work, in cafés, in shops, any place where there’s an opportunity. My main purpose is to raise awareness about who a refugee is and why someone becomes one.
When I hear a judgmental comment, whether from a person or the media instead of feeling offended, I see it as a chance to reach out and educate. I think of it like this: I have a blind friend, and even if he steps on my foot or spills my coffee, I don’t blame him or raise my voice. I explain. I try to help him understand. I see it the same way when someone makes a negative or misinformed statement about refugees.
Thank you again for your support and for taking the time to engage with this message.
Thank you for sharing so honestly. I do wish more of these stories led to concrete change. Is there a call to action here for readers, or is it mainly to start a conversation?
Thank you so much for reading my blog. I’m truly glad to hear the voice of solidarity in your response. At this stage, the purpose of the blog is simply to start a conversation to open a space where stories can be heard and understanding can grow. I hope it will help connect with more voices of alliance and empathy. Who knows where this may take us?
I am really impressed with your writing skills and also with the format for your blog. Is this a paid subject or did you modify it your self? Either way keep up the nice quality writing, it’s rare to look a great blog like this one these days!
Thank you so much for reading my blog. I’m truly glad to hear your encouraging message it means a lot. This isn’t a paid subject or a professional project; it comes from a broken heart, reaching out to the public with a message that seeks empathy and understanding. Your support reminds me that these words are not going unheard.
Yes, the system has flaws, but simply asking for more isn’t enough. What are refugees doing to contribute and become part of New Zealand society, beyond just surviving?
Thank you so much for reading my blog. I’m glad to hear your honest questions, and I completely agree expecting contribution from newcomers is a fair and reasonable expectation. In reality, refugees ask for very little. At the core, it’s about safety and acceptance. Given the chance, most are eager to give back to the community that welcomes them. Personally, I’ve been involved in both work and community volunteer activities since I arrived in New Zealand. I’ve worked in the settlement sector for over 20 years, and during that time, I’ve witnessed the remarkable contributions refugees have made at every level of society. We have doctors, paramedics, lawyers, nurses, psychologists, anesthetic technicians, pilots, accountants, social workers, members of the Police and NZ Army, builders, business owners, and even politicians. In case you didn’t know, the son of a refugee once served as Prime Minister of New Zealand. In truth, if we look back far enough, all of us are connected to the refugee experience in some way. It’s part of our shared human story.
Mr Question’s narrative is undeniably powerful: it deftly juxtaposes the tranquillity of Aotearoa with the vivid trauma of war, conveying the raw emotional toll of displacement (e.g., “bombs started falling… bullets whizzed” and “I remain invisible, without entitlement”). Yet, from a scholarly perspective, the piece remains primarily anecdotal and lacks engagement with structural, policy-oriented critique. It highlights systemic failures—bureaucratic inertia, lack of documentation, invisibility—but stops short of interrogating why these Aotearoa systems persist, despite clear strategic frameworks like the NZ Refugee Resettlement Strategy and the Safe Start/Fair Future report. There’s no exploration of how immigration entanglements, local political economy, or resource allocation contribute to these persistent inequities.
Additionally, the emotional emphasis on “survival” and “resilience” risks reinforcing a discourse that frames refugees as exceptional, rather than highlighting the everyday, mundane forms of participation that build social cohesion (e.g., employment, education, civic engagement). This representation, while compelling, may unintentionally preserve the “deserving refugee” narrative, making visible only the extremes of suffering rather than the nuances of integration and citizenship-building processes.
New Zealand can do better than this. If people can relate more to ducks crossing the street than to their neighbours, something is seriously wrong with our community.
Integration means adapting, not just waiting for handouts. It’s on refugees to make the effort to fit in, learn the culture, and participate.
It’s easy to criticise the government, but responsibility goes both ways. Are refugees willing to do what it takes to thrive here, or is it just about what’s lacking?
As a senior lecturer in migration studies in New Zealand, I read this article with a profound sense of both empathy and concern. The author’s account does more than narrate personal hardship; it offers a window into the structural mechanisms that perpetuate marginalisation within Aotearoa New Zealand. The persistent challenges around documentation and identity are not simply administrative oversights, but represent entrenched systemic barriers that continue to exclude and disempower those seeking refuge.
What is particularly striking is the way the narrative exposes the disconnect between official discourse and lived experience. While New Zealand prides itself on a humanitarian approach to refugee settlement, the reality described here is one of protracted uncertainty and bureaucratic inertia. Such barriers function less as safeguards and more as instruments of social control, determining who may participate fully in society and who must remain on its periphery. The author’s analogy of ducks crossing the road with confidence, contrasted with their own enforced invisibility, powerfully underscores how marginalisation is manufactured and maintained by institutional processes rather than by any lack of will or ability on the part of refugees themselves.
This has serious implications not only for individual wellbeing, but for the broader project of social cohesion. When newcomers are systematically denied opportunities to contribute, participate, and build a sense of belonging, we collectively undermine the fabric of our communities. Research in the field overwhelmingly supports the conclusion that successful integration is mutually constituted: it requires both accessible pathways provided by the state and proactive engagement by newcomers. However, the onus must fall first on dismantling the barriers that impede access, opportunity, and dignity.
The solution demands more than symbolic commitments or isolated acts of goodwill. Genuine change requires policy reform—accelerated processing of documentation, culturally responsive support structures, and the co-design of integration initiatives with refugee communities themselves. Until these structural inequities are addressed, the promise of inclusion will remain aspirational rather than realised.
— Dr Mary , Senior Lecturer