The

Kennedy Center Millennium Stage | Washington DC | March 4, 2023 | 6pm

Featuring Rebekah Lau’ren, Spirit McIntyre and Like Water Curated by Be Steadwell

Powerful Black, queer musicians from the DMV share their take on love songs in this round-robin style show. In alignment with Roadwork’s 45-year long mission of nurturing coalition building, SISTERFIRE LOVE SONGS honors the DMV’s enduring Black arts activists who center love across movements and generations. In a world consumed with politics, what does it mean for Black queer artists to invite us to talk about love?

Roadwork is multiracial coalition of LGBTQ, social justice, and anti racist arts activists in Washington DC. From its inception in 1982, Roadwork’s Sisterfire Festival showcased an array of artists with an emphasis on women of color, performers like Sweet Honey in the Rock and other musical activists who tackled social justice issues both local and global. The Sisterfire Festival remains a cross generational celebration of resistance, coalition, and emancipatory imagination, creativity, and performance in the arts.

Basel Touchan

is a Syrian American immigrant and human rights advocate. A doctor by training, he works as a DEIB leader and consultant. Follow him @Basel_Touchan.

Our

Truth

Growing up in Syria, life was relatively stable — until it wasn’t. My world turned upside-down in 2011 when civil war ravaged the country, separating families, destroying buildings, schools and parks and displacing millions of innocent people who were forced to begin life anew in strange lands with virtually no supportive services.

I remember seeing videos of queer people being thrown from the top of buildings in areas controlled by ISIS and similar groups. Life was never easy for queer people in Syria to start with, but threats to one’s life grew exponentially amid the chaos and rise of religious extremists. I was closeted at the time; a young doctor eager to start a career in saving lives. I remember hearing the sounds of sirens, gunshots and blood-curdling screams echoing from a distance, and realizing that I had no choice but to flee.

This is the reality for many LGBTQ+ people seeking asylum in the United States who are escaping countries where homosexuality is criminalized, but what many Americans don’t realize is that seeking asylum isn’t as easy as filling out paperwork. The current asylum process is a tangled web of bureaucracy, politics, and legal barriers that traps asylum seekers in limbo for years.

In the U.S. today, there are 1.6 million people with pending asylum cases. Among them are doctors, students and other professionals who fled war, violence and persecution in search of safety. Now that they have found it, they face up to a 6-year waiting period before learning their fate. Asylum is a notoriously complex and discretionary system. Each case is determined on its merit by the subjective opinion of the presiding judge or immigration officer. Unfortunately, many applicants lack adequate representation, and more than half of asylum cases are denied each year. Tens of thousands struggle with coming out and living their truth against the threat of potential deportation, should their case be denied years later.

While a process to vet cases has to exist, there is no reason it should take this long. The system wasn’t always like this. In fact, over the course of a decade, the backlog in asylum applications increased seven fold — from 100,000 in 2012 to nearly 788,000 by the end of 2022.

At best, the current system is a careless abdication of responsibility by our government. At worst, it is intentionally weaponized to discourage asylum seekers from coming to the United States. This is unacceptable in a country that prides itself on being a beacon of hope and opportunity, which I know firsthand. I credit my ability to freely live life as my authentic self to the ideals this country is built upon. It is our duty to ensure all asylum seekers have the same opportunity.

Last week, I celebrated my 10-year anniversary of moving to the U.S. Five years ago, I became an American citizen. It wasn’t until that point that I felt I could finally embrace my true identity. I was fortunate to have pre-existing familial ties to the U.S., which helped me bypass the complicated asylum system, but many of my queer siblings don’t have that luxury.

Since moving to the U.S., I’ve been plagued by survivor’s guilt. Three of my medical school classmates lost their lives, and some are still missing to this day. Why them, and not me? I’ve often wondered. The news of the 7.8 magnitude earthquake that hit Syria and Turkey earlier this month, killing over 46,000 people to date, triggered many memories I thought I had long buried deep. It has also reminded me that, despite the hell I’ve been through, I made it to the other side whole. I never had the chance to be whole before calling the United States my home. Other people who were forcibly displaced, like me, deserve the same.

I want the images of destroyed buildings and the sounds of falling bombs to be replaced in their minds by those of Pride parades and drag shows — as it was for me. I want them to experience the excitement of holding another person’s hand without looking over their shoulders in angst. I want them to know what it’s like to celebrate their first Valentine’s Day with the person they love, a milestone I recently achieved this year for the first time.

This is what I fight for, and what every American should fight for.

I am unrecognizable from the person who stretched his shaky hands to give his Syrian passport to the CBP agent at Boston’s Logan Airport a decade ago. I am now an openly gay DEIB professional, human rights and LGBTQ+ advocate who is in a loving relationship. I am now a proud American citizen and a living testament to the power of compassion. It is our responsibility to ensure that the same opportunity is afforded to all those seeking asylum in the United States. The time for change and to fix our broken asylum system is now.