Of asylum reform

I don't often let twitter make me cry.

But today the Home Secretary unveils her overhaul of the asylum system. I am spending too much of the day scrolling through twitter and feeling depressed about the state of our nation. I guess there is some light relief from the fact that bumbling around in my echo chamber means that in amongst the sharing of the government's horrendous policy suggestions are the shoots of opposition and resistance.  

I would be the first to acknowledge that it is a system in need of an overhaul. The first to suggest it needs to be made fairer and more humane.

Despite the posturing, these proposals are neither of those things. Please do not be misled by the framing of being compassionate and welcoming to "legal refugees", please do not be sucked into the good immigrant / bad immigrant narrative.

The discourse, and its popularity, is deeply disturbing and all of us, not only those who have the privilege to be actively engaged with those seeking sanctuary should be worried by the direction it takes us. Coupled with the dismantling of our rights to disagree and protest, I fear we are heading towards dark and dangerous times. 

There is so much to say on this subject. And yet, mostly, right now, I have no words.

Except to say this:

These people of whom she speaks are those who have immeasurably enriched my existence. They are my community. They are my friends. 

Today they are being told that they, and those who come after them are a little less welcome, a little less safe.

I am sorry.

A year in a pandemic

I write, you may have noticed, quite a lot of words. But as a whole year of global pandemic, restrictions and uncertainty rolls around I thought I'd try and tell the story another way. So, I have scrolled back through my phone memory and tried to pick out just a few photos, with no words, no explanation, which somehow capture each month. Even in a year where nothing much has happened, I found it quite tricky to narrow it down and choose those which feel like they best encapsulate the year. Originally it was going to be one per month. In the end, I settled for four.

They are, of course, mere snapshots. They do not tell the whole story, but maybe they do tell part of it.

My City

Back in the autumn, arts organisation Maokwo put out a call for participants to take part in a series of creative workshops exploring the theme "My City" across Coventry, Wolverhampton and Birmingham. As it seemed to slot together nicely with some of the themes the Stories of Hope and Home group have been exploring, I decided it would be great for some of us to take part. I'm glad we did: we had some great sessions together, and some beautiful words and images were shared. For me personally, while I was partly facilitating others from the group taking part, it was also nice to be there as a participant: to reflect on and creatively express my own experiences of the city I now call home. The image which kept tugging at my mind, and which hopefully comes through in the image and poem below is how Birmingham is beautiful rather like the underside of a tapestry.

The (online, obviously!) exhibition launched today and is available to view and I'd definitely recommend checking it out (and checking back as they are going to be adding to it in the weeks to come) https://maokwo.com/mycityexhibition

Birmingham 

My Birmingham 

The Birmingham 

That embraced 

And adopted me 

Is 

Beautiful 

I am not naïve 

I know 

It is not 

Picture postcard pretty 

Like 

Bath or Buxton or Bury-St-Edmunds 

But 

It is 

Beautiful 

In all its cultures 

And its colours 

And its confused complexity 

You see 

Birmingham is beautiful 

With a hidden 

Unexpected 

Beauty 

Like the underside of a tapestry 

And 

To see it 

And 

To know it 

Is both 

A privilege and a choice 

An invitation offered 

But 

One which you are free 

Not to see 

Because 

It must be 

Lifted up 

By those 

Who made it 

And who make it 

and who remake it 

Those who sew 

Their very being 

Into 

The fabric of this place 

This sacred space 

This tapestry of stories 

Where 

The stark and the silvery 

The bright and the burnished 

The dazzling and the dark 

Make their mark 

Intertwined 

Not by some divine design 

But 

By each of us 

Unravelling spirals of silken secrets 

Stitched together 

From 

Each fragile thread 

With fraying edge 

Tangled strands 

Of lives 

Loosely looped, 

Stretched taut and tied, 

Tenuously, 

Tightly, 

To oneself and one another 

Thus creating 

A kaleidoscope of colour 

Uncovered 

By courage and compassion 

And somehow 

Unplanned and unpretentious 

There is beauty 

In 

This mess of colourful strands 

Held together 

By histories, humanity, and hope 

As its beauty 

Hangs 

By a thread 

So no 

It may not have chocolate box charm 

Like 

Bakewell or Bamburgh or Bourton-on-the-Water 

But Birmingham 

My Birmingham 

The Birmingham 

That embraced 

and adopted me 

Is 

Beautiful

(Also feel I owe a shout out to my mum and sister who helped provide some of the alliterative place-names when my mind drew a blank!)

When the post comes

We live in a building that doesn't have a letterbox. That means that each day, the postman has to ring the doorbell. 

Early on in the most strict version of lockdown, he was often the only other person outside our household I saw not through a computer screen for days on end. Collecting the post genuinely became one of the highlights which broke up the monotony of the day. The fact that most of the post was for the church not for us was irrelevant ... the postman was another human being!

I do, also, quite like receiving post. I am, like all of us, surrounded by digital communication, and while I like the ease of keeping in touch that the likes of WhatsApp offers, I confess that at times my email inbox feels more like a burden than a source of life! But there is something different about real post and I generally find receiving letters exciting. 

Several times in recent months, I have realised or been reminded that there are people for whom the post arriving evokes very different emotions.

* * * 

Way back in the first lockdown I remember facilitating a discussion with the Stories group about what the struggles of lockdown were, and what were the positives. Knowledge that in those strict early days, everything, including the Home Office had probably more or less ground to a halt led one member to say, and others to agree ... that the post arriving no longer left them feeling really anxious in case it brought bad news.

* * * 

Back in the summer, I sent some post out to the group members ... partly homework, partly just because I, at least, as stated above, like getting post and thought a bar of chocolate and a pen and a few other bits and bobs dropping through the door would be nice. I used, without giving it a second thought, brown A5 envelopes, because that's what I had. They were, all, I think, happy to receive them once they opened the envelopes ... but one or two did mention, next time we met, that they "thought / worried it was from the home office" when they saw it drop through the letterbox. 

* * *

Recently some of the group were speaking to some young adults. We have done a number of these virtual visits recently and they are always immensely powerful. Often, I find, it is not the big overarching experiences which are the most moving, but the small details, the snippets of stories which bring home the realities of seeking Sanctuary. One such moment recently was when an asylum seeker, speaking of the stress of living with constant uncertainty through the process, explained that every time the post comes, if you see it is a brown envelope you worry, will it be a letter from the home office, will they tell you you have to leave your house, will they say they are sending you back to your country where you are in danger.

* * *

I can't really begin to imagine living with that level of daily anxiety.

Knowing all this hasn't stopped me appreciating receiving post, hasn't stopped me enjoying opening letters, hasn't stopped me enjoying greeting the postman with his cheery smile each morning.

It has helped me appreciate that this too is a privilege.