A conversation of two halves

A significant chunk of the early part of the Stories of Hope and Home session yesterday was spent discussing football. It is not a subject in which I am an expert ... unlike, it turns out, several members of the group. So I mostly listened: I listened to their knowledge, their interest and their passion. 

All of them will, it seems, be supporting England on Sunday night (though they vary in how confident they are about our chances!)

One, no less, described himself as "England's number one fan"

He did so despite the fact that the UK has yet to tell him whether he will be allowed to stay; has yet to make a decision on his asylum claim five years after he arrived; has yet to allow him to settle, to rebuild; has yet to tell him when, if, he will be able to be reunited with his family.

That was the first half.

And then, perhaps inevitably, seemingly disconnected from the conversation thus far, someone brought up the Nationality and Borders Bill which had its first reading in parliament this week. It felt almost like we had all, perhaps subconsciously, been waiting for someone to be the first to mention it, to ask the question, to acknowledge the anxiety. 

Up until that point I had been very much a bit part player in the conversation. Quite rightly, no-one was really turning to me for my opinion or expertise on the England football team or the other football related tangents. But now eyes and ears turned to me as the one who might be able to describe and explain. It felt like an uncomfortable place to be. 

I didn't really want to explain to this amazing group of people just what the government was proposing. I didn't really want to describe a law which is being introduced in my name, in the name of my country, the name of the country they will all be supporting on Sunday evening. I didn't really want to be the bearer of the news that, however you try to dress it up, the new bill is downright nasty, further eroding refugee rights and further emboldening the destructive rhetoric designed to divide and exclude. 

Every sentence I uttered in that conversation felt like it needed prefacing with an apology. 

But this conversation mattered and so did the space in which to have it.  

One group of people. Two entirely separate conversations.

But something in the juxtaposition of their willingness to warmly embrace their host country; and the said country's failure to reciprocate seemed particularly stark.  

I am glad they will be supporting England. I long for the day when England will be supporting them too. It feels like there is much work to be done to get there.