Tuesday was the Islamic New Year, which meant I could sleep in.  But when Mercy pounded on the door in the early morning hours to clean the house, I was annoyed because I knew I could no longer sleep with him mopping the floors and fluffing my pillows.  So feeling grumpy, I plopped myself on the couch to catch up on some work.  

 “When you go to America, if you don’t take me with you I will scream very loudly!” Mercy said to me in his broken English as he was sweeping the bathroom floor.  Mercy and I had been down this road several times before.  He was a refugee from Ethiopia, living in Sudan for more than 20 years and he was determined to make it to the states--- even if it meant pestering me day after day. Because I was already annoyed from having been dragged from blissful sleep, his comment only agitated my mood.  “Mercy, America is not what you think it is.  Money is difficult, life is difficult.  You do not just go to American, and poof!  You have it all!” I explained sounding more than exasperated.  

“Yes, but here I cannot afford to buy a house even though I work all day, everyday!” he said.  “I want to be like you!”

“Mercy! I cannot even afford to buy a house!  You may think that everyone has all this money because of what you see in the movies, but that is not the case. You get paid more in the states, yes, this is true---but the cost of living is much higher!  It is not as easy as you think!”  I said, angry at his ignorance. But my persistence only caused Mercy to change his argument from money matters to how kind and wonderful our President and the American people were in comparison to the leaders in Africa and the Sudanese.

“Mercy!  In Sudan, I can leave my house open and never be robbed!  The people are very hospital here, sometimes too hospital!  And President Bush is not a saint just because he prays to God! He is bombing people in Iraq…not for the sake of terrorism but for oil---for money!” I nearly shouted, having lost my marbles from the fumes of the bathroom cleanser.

 “The people in America are killing one another in schools!" I continued. "Little children with guns! The streets in certain areas are very dangerous!” I went on in my stubborn rage until Mercy interrupted me, his voice even louder than my own, proving that he too had become intoxicated by the cleanser.

“Yes! Your right! This is a problem in America because anyone can buy a gun if they want to.  But at least you can choose to buy a gun if you want to!” he shouted, his words hitting me hard, despite the fumes, because I knew I could never win the argument when I was fighting to prove a point and he was fighting for freedom.  

[Ends]