I overslept again, delaying the inevitable moment of departure one second at a time. The plan, disrupted by tardiness, aimed for a swift farewell at the bus station. Amidst tearful goodbyes, I was overwhelmed by the weight of separation from my loved ones as well as my home country of Georgia. As my mother and I embarked on our journey to the United States, the quiet realization that the worst lay ahead at the Mexico-US border was slowly starting to sink in. To make the voyage less painful, I was advised to treat it like a movie. I was in the audience, as a fourteen-year-old girl pleaded with border patrol to declare asylum; as she was denied a legal procedure at multiple ports of entry; as she spent five days in a cell with women, and their children, some not even a-year-old who endured a similar path. Five days, but a lifetime of injustice. During our asylum interview, the officer immediately told us we would be transferred to another detention center. After asking how long we would have to stay there, he told us "a few days." Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months during our time at the South Texas Family Residential Center. Every night at the facility a security guard would drop off notices to the residents’ rooms. One night we got a notice from what was referred to as "El Centro de Abogados," the center where you could go to speak with a volunteer attorney. The attorneys all worked for the CARA Project, a pro bono organization dedicated to helping detained migrants and reforming the immigration system. The next day, my mother and I stepped into a room full of busy, ambitious, yet burnt-out lawyers trying to assist an overwhelming number of detainees. Our appointed attorney went over the process with us: interviews, hearings, right to an interpreter, and the expected timeline. "Do you have any questions?" He asked. "We were told we would only be here for a few days," I said anxiously. "That is a lie," he responded reluctantly. In a place built by dishonesty and injustice, it was refreshing to see people committed to transparency and compassion. Over time the CARA project attorneys ensured we had proper resources and representation throughout the whole journey. As draining as their job likely was, it was temporary. They were working to close the detention center, they were working to be jobless. My education in the legal field is galvanized by millions of immigrants, who have been exploited, crucified, and discarded in similar ways. My education is for their justice, as I am among the few lucky ones who made it to the self-proclaimed “land of opportunities.” The land built by the underpaid, backbreaking labor of second-class citizens. What I have learned from my mother, along with other inspiring refugee women and legal practitioners, is when you’re lucky it is your duty to give back and uplift the communities that sheltered you, and whose name you proudly carry. I am Liza Tsertsvadze, a Georgian-American asylum-seeker, and my broader understanding of legal studies and international affairs will forever be used to alleviate the suffering of my namesake.

We were running late to the bus station as everyone dear to us was gathering up to wish my mom and me good luck. Arriving at the station was overwhelming since I was bombarded by everyone’s grief over us parting for who knew how long. I helplessly broke down into tears, not even about saying goodbye, but over the quiet realization that the worst lay ahead at the Southern border of the United States. We were transferred to the South Texas Family Residential Center housing hundreds of detained migrant women and their children, mostly from Latin American countries, none of whom we could communicate with. Regardless of the language barrier, there was a shared fear of deportation. The few families that spoke Russian or English became our homeland. While we awaited our hearing dates, we cried, laughed, supported, entertained, and stood by each other every second of every day. We carried both the burden of our and our friends’ suffering. Every night we stood in a circle, holding hands, praying to whatever God we believed in to look after us, and our found family. I have never cared more deeply about people who were strangers just a few months ago, a common struggle united us, we cared about problems we could sympathize with. Every night at the facility a security guard would drop off notices to the residents’ rooms. One night we got a notice from what was referred to as "El Centro de Abogados," the center where you could go to speak with a volunteer attorney. The attorneys all worked for the CARA Project, a pro bono organization dedicated to helping detained migrants and reforming the immigration system. The next day, my mother and I stepped into a room full of busy, ambitious, yet burnt-out lawyers trying to assist an overwhelming number of detainees. Our appointed attorney went over the process with us: interviews, hearings, right to an interpreter, and the expected timeline. "Do you have any questions?" He asked. "We were told we would only be here for a few days," I said anxiously. "That is a lie," he responded reluctantly. In a place based on dishonesty and injustice, it was refreshing to see people committed to transparency and compassion. Over time the CARA project attorneys ensured we had proper resources and representation throughout the whole journey. As draining as their job likely was, it was temporary. They were working to close the detention center, they were working to be jobless. My education in the legal field is galvanized by millions of immigrants, who have been exploited, crucified, and discarded in similar ways. My education is for their justice, as I am among the few lucky ones who made it to the self-proclaimed “land of opportunities.” The land built by the underpaid, backbreaking labor of second-class citizens. What I have learned from my mother, along with other inspiring refugee women and legal practitioners, is when you’re lucky it is your duty to give back and uplift the communities that sheltered you, and whose name you proudly carry. I am Liza Tsertsvadze, a Georgian-American asylum-seeker, and my broader understanding of legal studies and international affairs will forever be used to alleviate the suffering of my namesake.