I lived with an “illegal” for six months.

I was living in Greenfield and working in Washington D.C., renting a room in a big house from a young guy trying to cover his mortgage. My room was in the attic on the back of the house. The other room, in the front of the attic, was home to Firat. Firat was from Turkey.

I had never met anyone who was Turkish before, and he scared me at first. He was a big, hairy guy with one eyebrow extending from ear to ear. I got to know Firat. He left Turkey because he was not a Muslim and his government was starting to mistreat anyone that wasn’t sufficiently pious.

He left for college in Germany, became fluent in the language and got an engineering degree … but Germans don’t want Turks taking their jobs. He wasn’t able to find work or housing after school. He applied to come to the United States, he paid his fees and filled out his forms and was told he’d be allowed in, he just had to wait for the process … 10 years.

Firat did not have resources to wait 10 years, he couldn’t go home to Turkey and he couldn’t stay in Germany. So he fled to Canada and came across the border, all the while keeping his paperwork for legal citizenship up to date and dreaming of having a place to call home.

In D.C., Firat installed bamboo flooring for senators and congressmen — the most anti-immigrant ones with the biggest houses and the illegal nannies, cleaners, yard care workers. He couldn’t legally have a driver’s license, but he needed to drive to survive, so he broke the law and drove without a license. When he was pulled over, he said, “I pretended to be Mexican and couldn’t speak any English … the police knew all of the Mexican illegals were there to work, so they just let me go. If they found out I came from a ‘terrorist country,’ I would probably disappear.”

Firat was a sweet, caring man who called his family regularly, sent them money when he could. He was studying finance at night and on weekends and told me that he just wanted a wife and little, hairy babies. He fed me strong Turkish tea with cardamom and Turkish delight candies.

When I found a new job closer to home, Firat and I stayed in touch. He came to Greenfield and visited with us once. We drifted and when I checked in on him a year later, I found out that he was killed in a car accident. This is one story of an “illegal.” He was my friend. He was a good person who only wanted a good life.

Chris Joseph

Greenfield