Paperwork

I hate paperwork at the best of times. I hate filling out forms, grinding through the interminable bureaucratic labyrinths that seem to be part and parcel of modern life. Sign this waiver. Check that box. File this form. Send that release. Print it for your records. On and on it goes. Paperwork is slow death.

I hate paperwork even more today. I spent an hour and a half with a young Syrian woman in our city who is trying to get her family out of Lebanon and over to safety here in Lethbridge. We sit together, poring over documents, puzzling over official-looking documents with strange names like “IM0008” on laptop screens.

We answer questions as best we are able, we flag areas we’re not sure about. We survey past correspondence with the people in charge, trying to determine which forms are necessary for which people and how old do you have to be for this form and what counts as a dependent here and what do we do if their identification documents are still in Syria because they didn’t have time to grab them before they fled? We scratch our heads and “hmm” and “I wonder why” and “do you think they need?” … This paperwork. It’s so complicated. And so much depends upon it.