Once upon a time, there was a girl with a broken heart who tried to fix it by helping others.
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 refugees’ possibility to find a job whatsoever.
In less than 4 months volunteering there, the girl trained her colleagues on how to interview a candidate and how to prepare an effective CV and cover letter, she prepared cheat sheets, CV templates and training materials for her colleagues, she held job search workshops for the refugees, she called each and every refugee over the phone to prepare an updated database of candidates immediately available to work, and she 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 the goodbye email that evening called to see what was happening. The only person who got in touch 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 like as much as that guy, not even herself. She assured him that she would find a bloody job for him even if she was leaving the refugee centre.
They worked together on a new job search strategy that did not involve the 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, two as a night and weekend pizzaiolo and the third as a casual security guard, she replied good for you man, good luck, and she hung up.
But it felt weird.
Each time she managed to find a job for a regular 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 fucking world.
With a CV.