Ofia Begum Ali

I keep a paper boat on my desk.

It's signed and dated July 2025.

And my father folded it when he was in the emergency room.

And by the time he made that vote, I had been translating for my mom and dad most of my life.

And the first time this responsibility falls on my shoulders, I am about 10 years old.

And I am wearing a mustard yellow velour tracksuit with little princess written across the chest.

Nothing says ready for court like rhinestones and anxiety.

My mother and I take the E train to the Queens Criminal Court and we hold the same cold metal pole in silence.

And we hold on like it's the only thing that's keeping us from falling apart.

And in the courtroom, the fluorescent lights make everyone seem more miserable than they already feel.

It's the first time I see my brother in handcuffs and his lawyer walks up to us and she starts talking really fast.

The translation back and forth is a bit slow because I am translating from Sileti to English and English to Sileti except I can't find the word for raiment.

The closest translation I can come up with is he stays in jail unless we come up with the money for the judge.

Now I don't understand the criminal legal system but I do understand my brother is not coming home.

So I cut her off and I say, look lady, I am only 10 years old and my mother doesn't understand what you're saying.

So she squats down so her eyes meet mine, and this time in a softer voice, she explains where my brother's going, what is bail, and how much we have to pay.

And I just nod as if I am comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life.

In that moment, I learned a rule.

If I don't stand up for my mom and dad, no one else will.

But the truth is, I don't want this role.