Sudan
October 7th, 2025
The train halted and picked up passengers.
A Black man sat down next to me. I wrote a few more lines of code, then closed the laptop.
"How is your day going?" I asked.
"It is okay."
"What's your stop? Mine is ———."
"I'm stopping at ———. I am on probation."
Probation?
"What for, if you don't mind me asking?"
"For stealing. I steal all sorts of things and resell them."
I don't reach for my backpack.
"There is a shopping mall at your stop," he continued. "I got caught stealing there."
After a pause I asked, "Why do you steal?"
He hesitated, "To make money. It is hard in this country to live."
Then he asked, "What do you do?"
"I work in tech. At ———. It is about ———."
"I see. It is a good job."
"Where are you from?"
"I am a refugee. I came in 2014—from Sudan."
"I see." The South Sudanese Civil War.
After a moment, he asked, "Where are you from?"
"I am Vietnamese."
He paused. For a moment, we weren't rich and poor seated side-by-side, but two refugees a generation apart, sharing stories.
"My parents came as refugees in the seventies," I said. "My step-grandfather moved to ——— to do crabbing."
"What is crabbing?"
"On the ocean. Catching things."
"Ah, a fisherman."
"Yes."
"You live a good life?"
"Yes. My parents wanted a good life for me."
"I see. Do you visit them often?"
"I do."
"Very good."
The train slowed to a stop at ———, his station.
He stood, extended his hand, "What is your name?"
I shook it, "Lanhful."
"My name is M. Nice to meet you. Good luck."
"Thank you. Good luck to you too."
The doors closed. I looked out the window.
Maybe one day, his children would live a good life too.