I wrote this poem that I title, “sometimes,” in January 2020 to help me process my own emotions about writing expert witness declarations in gender violence asylum cases and the various people associated with each case. Since 2014, I have served as a pro bono expert witness for dozens of gender-based violence cases for Central American women seeking asylum in the United States.

An expert is someone “with the special skill or knowledge representing mastery of a particular subject.” For some of us, especially if we have been the first in our families to attend college, the label of expert feels several sizes too big, always too much to claim. It therefore took me many years to trust my training and serve as an expert witness in asylum cases.

I was compelled to do this work when I learned that immigrants are much more likely to be granted asylum when they have legal representation, especially when they count on an expert witness.

In preparation, I spoke to people who served as expert witnesses. Their general advice was technical—include the key parts of the declaration (a statement substantiating my expert opinion about what would happen to the asylum seeker if forced to return to their home country) and highlight pieces of my CV that make my expert status legible to the court. And it was financial—how much one could charge per declaration. I had ethical concerns about profiting from this work from the beginning.

The first lawyer I worked with was a young white woman who had recently passed the bar. Working for a large corporate firm, she was encouraged to do pro bono hours with a non-profit agency to gain “basic litigating skills,” she explained. She knew nothing about immigration or about Central America, and it was challenging to hear her try to build a case based on simplistic stereotypes, even when she had done a thorough job of reading up on how to prepare for asylum cases. In the process of completing her client’s declaration, she set up an appointment for us to meet with her young client at the girl’s home. The teenage girl lived in a small, crowded apartment with her family, and I was wary, feeling we were invading her space and making her uncomfortable.

The attorney asked her direct questions about the abuse she had suffered. I only managed to ask about how she was adapting since reuniting with her mother; how she got along with her U.S.-born siblings; and what it felt like to enroll in a new school in a new city where they spoke a new language. Her responses were short and hesitant. Her shy awkwardness—normal for her age—reminded me of my cousins and family friends.

I went on to complete my first expert declaration and as the case dragged on for years—not uncommon in this area of law—the lawyer likely changed jobs and never responded to my requests for updates again. I don’t know what happened to the girl, but I learned then, and in each case since, that the legal and bureaucratic processes of asylum law leave little room for humanity.

So I try to make space. I talk to lawyers about why some of their assumptions can feel dehumanizing, and when I am allowed to address judges in court, I provide socio-historical context for the prevalence of violence in the region. I recite statistics of gendered violence against women in the United States—all with the goal of reminding them about the humanity of the people whose lives they will rule over.

I have now worked with legal aid attorneys, some of whom have ethically and devotedly supported asylum applicants over many years, as well as with a few more corporate law firm attorneys assisting pro bono. I choose not to charge because clients struggle financially, often unable to afford the therapy so many desperately need. Although the asylum process denies their full humanity, I refuse the logic of the law and regard them as more than their trauma. Because I was born in El Salvador, because I speak Spanish with the same accent as them, or perhaps because they have walked the lands that my parents grew up in, I recognize them as whole human beings, survivors of violence who deserve gentle care.

Under the Trump regime, nationally only about 9.9 percent of asylum applicants are granted asylum while over 80 percent are denied or terminated without a hearing. Amid such systemic arbitrariness of asylum outcomes, it is still possible for expert witnesses to meaningfully accompany applicants. Rooted in our own humanity and with humility, we can ask how they are doing, explain what our role is in words they can understand, share a little about ourselves and why we do this work, listen carefully and intentionally, and express compassion when we sense that they feel vulnerable.

Over the years, in dozens of cases, I have spoken with asylum applicants, patiently engaging in attentive exchange as part of my own process of preparing the declaration. Humble dialog offers a space that grants them agency to choose when and what to share with me prior to their hearings. Listening without judgment and with care ensures that I have the most accurate and helpful details to explain their case to a judge. It also allows me to affirm and prepare them for the harsher context of their court hearing. On one occasion, a woman who had survived deep physical and psychological wounds asked at the end of our conversation if she could pray for me. Her offering touched me deeply and crystallized that our human connection forged in the inhumane confines of asylum law is in itself a gift. Even when cases are denied, we can have a lasting impact in affirming their and our own humanity.