Once upon a time, a girl was trying to fix her broken heart by helping refugees and asylum seekers get a better life in general, and a decent job in particular.
When she started volunteering as a CV writer and career adviser at the Job Centre of an international refugee organisation, things there were running in the following way: unqualified volunteers who could not tell a gas bill from a CV and did not speak a word of the local language the refugees were trying to learn, prepared for them useless resumes which actually reduced to zero any possibility for them to find a job whatsoever.
In less than 4 months volunteering there, the girl trained all her colleagues on how to interview a candidate and prepare effective CVs and cover letters. She prepared cheat sheets, CV templates and training materials, held job search workshops for the refugees, called each and every refugee over the phone to prepare an updated database of candidates immediately available to work. She also set the basis for future partnerships with local recruitment agencies.
Then, as the number of refugees being hired suddenly multiplied by 3, the upper-class BBB* who used to say things like these ones are not even good for olive picking, decided she had tolerated enough. She picked a ridiculous pretext and went into a huge fight with the III*, which resulted in the latter leaving the refugee centre forever.
*British Boss Bitch
*Italian Independent Insurgent
Only one out of her eight fellow volunteers who received her goodbye email gave her a call to see what was happening. This person was the least you’d expect, a senior volunteer with whom the girl had barely talked before.
All the others never replied.
Italians have a particular word to designate this sort of shit. Omertà cannot be translated, but you’ll find the meaning here.
From her side, the girl immediately phoned that 26-year old smiling Mali asylum seeker who had been pestering her for months with his CV. She had never seen anyone wanting a job as much as that guy did. She swore she was going to find a job for him in any case.
They worked together on a new job search strategy that did not involve the refugee centre, and she even gave him her number, and trust me, man, you never give a refugee your number, because they start calling you every ten seconds.
When, a couple of weeks later, Paul called to say that he had eventually found not one but as many as three jobs, she replied good for you man, good luck and hung up on him.
But it felt weird.
Each time she managed to find a job for a regular paying client, she’d feel incredibly proud and happy, but not this way.
Because none of her past clients’ families had ever been killed in the civil war.
This time, it felt like if she had saved the freaking world.
With a CV.