The last fortnight has been something of a roller coaster of emotions.
Two weeks ago, on the evening of Monday 13th June I found myself dissolving into tears while scrolling through twitter. I remained emotionally fragile throughout the following day. It was the day the first deportation flight was scheduled to fly to Rwanda.
I had had a particularly long and intense day and was probably overtired. After an all-day school visit I headed straight into a Stories group session. I was out for more than twelve hours without really having much of a break. Turning to mindless scrolling on twitter was perhaps not the best choice of relaxation strategy.
Nonetheless, it is not often I let this stuff really get to me. But that day, it really did.
Perhaps because I had spent all day in school with a young man as he repeatedly shared his story of speaking out for equality and human rights, of being forced to flee his country, of undergoing an unimaginably difficult journey, of arriving to an at best mixed welcome in the UK. He speaks with immense dignity and grace. Already, he says that although to stay in his home country meant certain death, he wishes he had never left.
He spent several hours in the channel in a little boat and feared for his life. It was a terrifying experience for which he should be offered support, not be threatened with punishment.
That Rwanda flight wasn't due to be full of anonymous statistics. It was due to to be full of people like him. If he'd arrived six months later that softly spoken, inspirational young man could have been in detention awaiting deportation. He could have been dragged across the tarmac to that plane.
And I might never have had the privilege of meeting him. I cried for him, and for those like him locked up in immigration detention. For all those who still live each day in more fear than they should since arriving in their longed-for safe haven which turned out not to be so safe.
By the time it was due for take-off the presence of every single person who had been due to be on that flight had been deemed illegal by one court or another.
I think I was supposed to feel euphoria or at least relief: there was very little of either.
Don't get me wrong: I was relieved for those who would sleep another night in the UK: albeit retraumatised, still in detention and with a hideous threat still hanging over their heads. And I was encouraged and reassured by the shows of support and solidarity from up and down the country: from the legal teams, the people and organisations supporting the individuals most effected, those who raised their voices, those willing to take direct action to block the vans.
But the threat still looms large. Far from backing down, the government are wedded to the cruelty of this and other equally vile policies and, sadly, significant chunks of the electorate seem to support them in it. Our country's commitment to universal human rights is being called into question. There is much work still to be done.
But I recovered my equilibrium. I am too busy and life is too short to spend too many hours crying over my twitter feed. Not least because we were hurtling towards Refugee Week, which has long been one of the busiest of my year and I had various things to get organised and get ready for. There was work to be done ... and fun to be had!
If Refugee Week is partly an opportunity to raise awareness and to campaign for things that need to see drastic improvements, it is above all an opportunity to celebrate: to recognise the richness and joy which those who have sought sanctuary here bring to our communities, to our lives. To my life. And there is so much to celebrate!
I filled the week with enjoyable activities with people I care about.
There were walks in both the sunshine and in the rain, performances of poetry, a little bit of art, and a lot of music. There was an art gallery and a giant puppet. There were good conversations with good people. There were warm reunions with people I hadn't seen in a while. There was a school visit thrown in for good measure. There was hospitality offered and received. There was support and reassurance in places where it was much needed. There were reasons to smile and to laugh. There was the excitement of children. There were hugs. There was food and cups of tea to be shared. There were reminders of generosity and solidarity and compassion and a desire for justice. There was even some much appreciated good news about funding.
Yesterday, a busy week drew to a close with the final event of Refugee Week: a picnic in the park, and a musical extravaganza in an outdoor theatre. The sun shone, mostly. We sheltered from the rain storms when it didn't. I ate delicious samosas. I watched my talented friends perform their poetry. I chatted to many friends.
I danced with abandon almost all afternoon.
I am definitely not a particularly good dancer. It didn't matter.
Because I did so with friends (and strangers) from all over the world. With this community who have made Birmingham their home.
The theme of this year's refugee week was "healing". This laughter and joy and friendship; these beautiful shared moments with an amazing bunch of people was just what I needed as fuel for the fight.
There are times when the tears can and will flow. There are times when it is right to rage against all that is wrong with the world right now. There are times for working hard.
There are times when love and life and laughter are radical acts too.
I will keep dancing, however badly.
