These nine months have been torture for me. I’m a heat-sensitive person, and American Samoa is like an open oven. No wind blows through here. It’s hard to breathe. I miss fresh vegetables and fresh-squeezed juices. I miss making lattes and baking cakes for customers at the coffee shop in Los Angeles where I worked. The only place I feel comfortable here is the local McDonalds, where I come every morning to use the free Wi-Fi and cool off in the air conditioning. I email with friends back in the United States. I blog about my experience. I email with advocates and petition them to help my case. But I wonder how long I can go on, and just how much one person can bear. I sometimes think of suicide.

Sixteen years ago, I came to America to seek peace and freedom. Now, I am stuck on an island in the South Pacific without the promise of escape.

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