The Shala Daily

The courtroom felt different that morning—smaller, more intimate than I’d imagined immigration court would be. A lot of blue: the walls (a cheap matte blue), his lawyer’s suit, Sergey’s eyes. He sat beside his attorney, hands clasped in his lap, the picture of contained dignity despite the weight of what hung in the balance.

I knew Sergey in ways the government attorney could never understand. We’d been dating for about a year. My friend Pam had set us up, thinking we’d hit it off. We did.

Sergey was a charmer. Affable, goal-oriented, handsome too. His nose stood a bit crooked—a visible reminder of why someone might need asylum in the first place. Being murdered by your own government for being gay isn’t theoretical in Moscow. Getting sucker-punched is the mild version. Lean with the build of a swimmer, he didn’t look like much of a fighter. But he sure was.

He’d gotten that swimmer’s build working as a lifeguard in the DC area back in high school. Places like Kings Dominion. When shit hit the fan back home, Sergey was confident he’d find safety in America. He trusted the process. He knew what forms would get him through Lady Liberty’s door.

His case had been sent to the back of the stack years before—one of the government shutdowns kicked the appointment just weeks before it was scheduled. A total bureaucratic kick in the teeth. Still, he persevered. Was patient. Trusted the process. Attaboy.

That patience is how he got such good pro-bono representation. You know, lawyers are expensive, yes? It was an easy yes when his attorney strongly suggested I come to the hearing. At this point, Sergey was a homeowner in Hyattsville. Was he less American than me? He was living the dream—a homeowner well before I was.

But I’d also been there for the darker moments.

Like that Fourth of July a few years back. We were playing cards in my aunt’s backyard when her husband leaned forward, his voice casual but loaded:

“So, Sergey. Are you here legally?”

The moment hung there, suspended. All the easy chatter died. I felt Sergey stiffen beside me, his smile freezing into something careful, practiced.

Later, when we were alone, Sergey admitted how those questions always landed—the way they made him feel like he had to constantly justify his right to breathe the same air as everyone else.

Now, sitting in that courtroom, those moments replayed in my mind.

The charge was simple, devastating in its technicality: Sergey had lied on his visa application. When he’d entered the United States years ago, he’d checked “vacation” instead of revealing his intention to seek asylum. The prosecutor was absolutely right—he had filled out the form and said he intended to return to Moscow.

The irony wasn’t lost on anyone. How do you tell a border official you’re fleeing for your life when you don’t yet know what safety looks like? “Or so he says?” the prosecutor may as well have yelled.

I had rehearsed my Norma Rae speech, ready to testify about Sergey’s character. I didn’t get a chance to deliver it—a perfunctory “Hi, I’m his boyfriend!” about all I got, shining how well Sergey had integrated into the community.

And he had integrated. Potlucks, beer gardens, neighbors who called when they needed an extra hand. Sergey was their man.

But the prosecution wasn’t interested in rose bushes or painted living rooms.

America, at the time of these writings, no longer takes immigrants seeking asylum on the basis of being gay. When being killed by your own government for being who you are is reality, you don’t get to choose to not be political. Society chooses for you. Your existence is not a crime, nor a whim—and there are places that would argue different.

The story has a happy ending, lest you turn blue from holding your breath. Sergey got a judge who noted how important the judicial branch of our government is, helping with oversight in moments like this. I recognize that today, this would be called an activist judge. I’m so glad he was.

Sergey’s happily married now to a wonderful man, still living out in Hyattsville. We’d broken up by then, but we stayed friends—the kind that goes deep enough to last through relationship changes.

I didn’t realize the risk and reward a moment like that could bring.

🧘 Why This Is Practice

Here’s what yoga prepared me for that day: the capacity to stay present under pressure. To show up in a room where the stakes were real and the outcome uncertain. To witness—literally—for someone in my community who needed one.

I didn’t meditate my way out of that courtroom. I didn’t transcend the injustice through spiritual bypass. I sat in that uncomfortable chair, felt my damp palms, noticed my racing heart, and stayed anyway.

That’s civic practice. Not changing the world through grand gestures. Showing up in the specific moment where your presence actually matters.

The practice doesn’t make you immune to injustice. It makes you capable of facing it.

— MJH