From Refugee to Headline
As immigration advisers, we walk alongside people at pivotal moments in their lives. Sometimes it’s a new beginning, full of hope and opportunity. Other times, the journey is complex, layered with hardship, trauma, or struggle. And every now and then, a client’s story stays with you. Not because of what went right, but because of how painfully things went wrong.
One of my first clients early in my career was a young man from Sri Lanka who had recently been granted refugee status. We were both under 25 at the time, just finding our feet. I remember him as quiet, withdrawn, and clearly unsure of where he belonged. He had no family or support network in New Zealand—completely alone in a place that was still foreign to him. Looking back now, at 35, I realise just how young he truly was to be navigating life in a new country, unable to return home because of the very real threat of persecution.
Eventually, like many clients, he moved on and our professional relationship came to an end. Years later, I heard through the grapevine that he had been imprisoned. I received a few calls from him while I was on maternity leave with my third child. I didn’t answer. By then, it was a matter for lawyers, not immigration advisers.
Then, during one of the COVID lockdowns, breaking news came on the TV. A terrorist attack. A Sri Lankan national. A knife. He had been shot and killed at the scene. Before they even said his name, I knew.
I stood frozen in my living room, heart pounding, quietly repeating, “no, no, no.” It was surreal. This was someone I had once tried to help. Someone I had once known.
I just want to be clear, my thoughts are with those who were hurt. They were innocent people caught up in something horrific, and there’s no excusing that. This story reflects someone I once knew, but it doesn’t take away from the harm he caused.
The year that followed was incredibly hard. The country, understandably horrified and angry, villainised him. And what he did was indefensible. But for me, there was an unsettling dissonance. I couldn’t stop remembering the boy I had met, years before he ever posed a threat. Before the world came to see him as a headline.
That experience stayed with me and I believe we need to take a serious look at the mental health services available to migrants and refugees. Especially those who have escaped conflict, persecution, or unimaginable trauma. Refugee status might offer safety, but it doesn’t undo what came before. And it certainly doesn’t guarantee a sense of belonging.
At a time when countries like the United States are pulling back from compassion, we need to move in the opposite direction. We need to create communities that bring people in, not push them out. We need to support newcomers in truly becoming part of New Zealand, rather than leaving them to feel like strangers on the outside.
This is not about excusing violence. It’s about recognising that prevention doesn’t start at the moment of crisis. It starts far earlier, in the small but crucial spaces where someone is seen, heard, and supported before they reach a breaking point.
Sometimes, I wonder if things could have gone differently. I don’t know. But I do know we need to be better at catching people before they fall through the cracks. Yesterday marked four years since the attack, and it felt like the right time to share a few reflections. It’s something I’ve thought about often over the years, and while it’s not an easy topic, I felt it was worth putting into words.
