Volunteering and what it means to me. By Korey Bonnett

My name is Korey Bonnett and I am an asylum seeker and volunteer at the West End Refugee Services.

First let me thank you, the members and staff of the West End Refugee Service for your magnanimous and continuous support.

There are times when I don’t talk about the hollow feelings that silently grow in my chest. When I feel like I have to make myself feel smaller just not to make a fuss nor advocate for myself for the sake of keeping the peace. Retreating somewhere quiet. Feeling the darkness creeping up within my throat and choking me on the way down. I became terrified of the deep end, feeling as though I’ve been drowning so I began to shut everyone and everything out. I became numb. It was the only thing that felt safe.

I remember thinking how everything in the world just kept moving, even when your own life feels like it has stopped. It was like being cryogenically frozen while being conscious. A place to sit and watch other people's life unfold. Witnessing everyone's life progressing while you’re stuck in this state of uncertainty that exists both within and outside of time.

Whenever I’m in the garden there is this silence that feels almost holy. It feels as though I’m standing on the edge of something. It is a simple space for most people but to me it has a view that makes you feel like you stepped outside the noise of the world. Like if I’d just stand still enough, the whole weight of my life would just finally catch up to me and let me breathe again. Just long enough for me to feel grounded. It is a place where everything feels less complicated. At the end of each session, after reflecting on the work completed, I would feel something close to peace.

Volunteering in the garden and doing the physical tasks gave me a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose, a sense of belonging. It felt like a ritual. As if the world was telling me that I was allowed to take up space again. It felt like I’d stepped into a world where the only voice I could hear was my own, and even that voice felt like it was learning how to speak again. It felt like mine, it was mine. I’d found my own. In the quiet of these sessions I started to see that this was real. I’ve found my community. Now I stubbornly reclaim what was mine, like my confidence, my self respect, my purpose, my peace, my life.

You can experience the kind of quiet that can make you feel every bruise that you’re carrying. In the evening you’ll see the sky changing colors. The sun is sinking behind the trees in a slow quiet dance. You can listen to the wind in the branches as they gently play a lullaby. A secret known only to them, for thousands of years. In this space there is a kind of power in vanishing and stepping away from everything. A gentle and accessible escape that lets you feel the grief, the relief, the small sharp joy of knowing that you are enough.

There is a kind of poetry in taking something neglected and making it whole again. I often reflect on my actions. As though restoring this garden slowly, deliberately, and with the support of a great team, I too can restore myself.