When I first heard that a woman had been set on fire and burned to death on the New York subway, I had questions. Something about the story didn’t add up. How could a man wielding only a lighter—not a gas can, not a blow torch, not a canister of hair spray, but a mere cigarette lighter—possibly have produced a flame large and hot enough to consume her so rapidly? Why hadn’t she fought him off? Why hadn’t she shed her burning clothes before it was too late?
Then I learned that she’d been homeless, and asleep, and those questions were answered—but others were raised.
Back in Morocco, I spent six years homeless. During that time, I slept very little, but when my body did collapse from sheer exhaustion, the intense fatigue rendered me vulnerable. I slept on rocks that dug into the space between my bones. I slept on blazing pavement, which burned my skin and produced minefields of blisters, and in rain and snow, which injected me with aching cold. I slept through sexual assaults and beatings. The strangest thing, really, is that I kept waking up.
Had someone approached me while I was sleeping on the streets and held a lighter to my clothes, I’m sure I would’ve burned. I always did my best to remain clean, visiting public baths when I could and washing in streams when I couldn’t, but the dirt and oil built up too quickly on my clothes and my skin. They would’ve acted as accelerants.
Even if I’d woken up in time, I would’ve struggled to quickly remove my clothes, for their filth and grease would’ve clung to my body. Likewise, I know from experience that I’d have stood no chance of fending off my assailant. On a few occasions, I did manage to divert would-be attackers by pleading, bargaining, and distracting them with stories—this worked best when I was dealing with other homeless people, most of whom mentally ill rather than outright malevolent—but I never could’ve defended myself in hand-to-hand combat. I ate too little. Starvation had left me too worn-out, too thin.
What I have in common with Debrina Kawam, who burned to death on the New York subway, helped me understand what happened to her. But I have something in common the alleged perpetrator of this crime, too, and instead of clarifying things, this factor only left me more confused.
Like Sebastian Zapeta-Calil, the thirty-three-year-old Guatemalan citizen who’s been indicted for the 12/22/24 New York City subway murder, I am an immigrant to the United States. Yet I cannot put myself in his shoes. I have tried. I have failed. I keep trying. I keep failing. I cannot understand.
The NYPD have confirmed that Zapeta-Calil, who returned to the US illegally after being deported, most recently resided in a homeless shelter in Brooklyn dedicated to supporting men who struggle with substance abuse. He has also voluntarily admitted to using alcohol, and though he claims to have no memory of the day in question and his guilt has not been proven, he has identified himself as the man in the images taken at the Stillwell Avenue Station near the time of the attack.
It’s not easy to move to a new country. It hasn’t been easy for me, a blind woman who came here alone, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be easy for someone who’s addicted to drugs or alcohol. Perhaps Zapeta-Calil struggled to communicate with Americans, to understand the local laws, to navigate the system. Perhaps he faced discrimination. These are possibilities. Real ones. What they are not is excuses.
Moving to a new country should require hard work, commitment, patience, gratitude, and dedication, not to mention an ethic of personal responsibility that can only truly be achieved when one is alert and sober. In other words, it should not be easy. It should motivate you to give more than you take. It should inspire you to prove yourself.
Because he’s failed to prove himself in any other way, Zapeta-Calil will now have to prove himself in a court of law. I do not know whether he committed this crime or not, but even if he didn’t, I very much doubt that he’ll be able to prove himself equal to the task of earning his place in this country.
The US is a land of opportunities. This I believe. Those of us who choose to come here should not take this lightly. Presumably, most of us had few, if any, opportunities back in our countries of origin. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.
Just getting here isn’t the point, though. The point is to take the opportunities this country offers and to do everything in our power to better not only our own lives, but also to enrich our adoptive society. We must remember that we’re here to give, not take; to honor life, not desecrate it; to contribute, not indulge in violence or hedonism.
It took six years, but eventually, I worked my way out of homelessness. Perhaps, given time, Debrina Kawam would’ve worked her way out of homelessness, too. Now she will never get that chance. No one will ever know what she might’ve offered the world: what wisdom she might’ve gained from passing through hell and coming out the other side, or how that wisdom might’ve enriched the lives of others. Somebody took that away from her—from all of us—in the most heinous way conceivable.
Let’s not go on squandering these opportunities. Let’s stop investing in those who have nothing to offer but senselessness and violence. Let’s help those who help themselves, for they are the ones who will know how to give back when the time comes. Let’s insist, together, on a better way.
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