Adventures in Morocco

It is several years since one of my then St Chad's Sanctuary students (and now Stories group participant) said that one day, we should travel to Morocco together. At that point, as she engaged in battle with the Home Office and waited seemingly indeterminately for a decision, it seemed a distant prospect. One of those things said with genuine intent, but which I assumed would probably never come true.

And then, finally, earlier this year, those long-awaited papers were granted. A passport held hostage was returned. A date was set for a wedding celebration and that vague invite became something far more concrete. I debated with myself about the cost and the climate. I reminded myself that such opportunities don't come along every day. I booked flights, bought sun cream and got ready to go.

At some point I mentioned this possibility to Lydia and in the end (somewhat unexpectedly if I'm honest) she and her mum and sister all joined me for a Moroccan adventure. I very much appreciated their presence: firstly because it was lovely to spend the time with them; but also because not being the sole non-Moroccan, non-Arabic-speaking guest in the mix reduced the intensity and probably made things easier for both my hosts and me.

Of all the reflections I have brought away from my time in Morocco, the warmth and generosity of the hospitality we experienced is top of the list. People we did not know opened their homes and hearts and ushered us in. We were unquestioningly invited to share in both everyday life and a very special occasion. It is hard to put into words how, but it felt like we were simultaneously treated both as honoured guests and as members of the family. 

Much of this welcome centred around the meal table. There was always so much food! Not having a shared language didn't prevent us from very quickly picking up on the instruction to "go on, eat!". Without in any way wanting to offend my Muslim hosts by saying so there was, for me, something almost biblical about the way in which food was shared. Everyone ate together, with our hands, from a common plate in the centre of the table. Bread was broken and passed around. The pouring of tea was an act of ceremony and service. Often there was one or perhaps two water cups on the table from which everyone drank. In this context, communion made so much sense. 

As someone who spends much of work and life trying to create spaces where others are, I hope, made welcome, there was great value in experiencing hospitality done so well; and also to take my turn on the other side: the reminder of the feeling being the outsider, the one who doesn't quite understand the expectations, the one for whom the gestures of inclusion make all the difference to help them feel at ease.

I also want to find the right words to say something about my observations around gender: which I do with the caveat that these are simply my reflections of how I experienced my own particular brief stay. 

We spent a lot of our time in all-female or female-dominated spaces. Whilst there are, of course, times when I end up in female-dominated environments (or for that matter, most notably during my year in the Philippines, in male dominated ones), in my normal life it is very rare that I spend time in intentionally gender segregated spaces, and to do so gave me plenty of food for thought. 

Whether or not it is universally true, in the various home environments we experienced it felt like these were spaces where the terms were dictated by the women. They also felt like they were spaces of joy and laughter and conversation and community. To say a 'woman's place is in the home' has, probably rightly, hugely negative connotations and it would take more than ten days as a relative outsider in a culture I probably barely understood, listening in to conversations I mostly couldn't comprehend to make me re-evaluate that assessment. But equally, I can't deny there was much that felt very positive and empowered about these spaces. I saw nothing, obviously, of the other side of the coin: of what was going on in the male dominated spaces, relatively little of the spaces where genders interacted with each other, and nothing of where those whose gender identity doesn't fit neatly in to those boxes found themselves. 

To go out my Moroccan friend conscientiously covers up, and I have rarely seen her with her hair or any part of her body uncovered. But then we were at home and the contrast was stark. Head scarves and outer layers were discarded and it felt like everyone was entirely comfortable with one another other. People did not hesitate to get changed in front of each other or to sit wrapped in a towel to drip-dry after a shower. We shared sleeping spaces with people we had only just met. Towards the end of our stay in Morocco we visited a Hammam (a kind of public bathroom). It had been held up as a fantastic experience but to be honest I was expecting it to feel extremely awkward. Public nudity is not really my thing. Conversations with Lydia and Helena before and after betrayed that we all felt similarly: an expectation of awkwardness, a surprised discovery that it really wasn't, and was indeed the positive experience we had been promised. I experienced girls and women of every age seemingly at ease in their own bodies in a way that I am not sure I have ever seen before. 

Not that all the locals were covered head to toe out in public. I have always had the sense that my friend's choice to cover up was entirely her own, and my limited experience of Morocco was to witness a whole range of different choices (I mean true, I didn't see anyone in skimpy tops and mini skirts!) and it really didn't feel like anyone was watching or judging anybody else. Even as an obvious outsider I didn't feel watched. Even for our guided tour of the Casablanca mosque we were told head-covering was optional and while Lydia and I decided we would seeing it as a sign of respect for another culture into which we were being welcomed, I noted our Moroccan guide did not. 

Like probably many of my culture I have questioned the need of women to hide away their bodies, to feel the need to erase their physical presence from public space. But this was my first real experience of the corollary: of how it then feels in spaces where those bodies are uncovered and it contributed something new to my perspective. I have never been sure that our theoretical wear-what-you-like environments which have descended into a highly-sexualised culture in which everyone's body is being constantly judged by others and even more critically by themselves is the answer either.  Perhaps, like gender, none of these things are the binary positions we have often been guilty of turning them into.  

Another thing that I was really struck by was how differently time worked there: I know it is a stereotype, one which I have to say many of my international friends do live up to, but the whole approach  to time and time keeping and the importance of time was just completely different. I learned to relax into the not knowing and the vagueness of what terms such as 'morning' might mean! I was on holiday, and so the relaxed approach to time really didn't matter but I suspect it would take some major adjustment to live in such a culture. Perhaps it should remind me to be more sympathetic to those who really struggle to get used to our expectations of time-keeping where two really does mean two! 

Morocco isn't, at least in the summer, in a different time zone to the UK ... but the way I felt when I got home did have some recognisable parallels to jetlag: because though it wasn't a different time zone, everything did happen in an entirely different time frame and my body clock was certainly very out of sync. The first evening was a case in point. Having landed well after 9pm, one might have thought a cup of tea, perhaps a light snack, and an early night ... but we arrived to a full meal and then an invitation, which we duly accepted, to go out and see the city. It was after midnight by the time we arrived in the square in the old city but there was no sign it was quietening down for the night, quite the contrary. It was the first of a series of very late nights!

At the heart of it all was the wedding ... or strictly speaking I suppose, the celebration of the wedding given the couple concerned have already been married for some time, but this was their first opportunity to celebrate surrounded by family and friends. Cue another exceptionally late night, well all night: we arrived for 10pm, the bride and groom appeared around midnight and the whole thing wrapped up around six am: it's a very long time since I've survived an all night party! 

The wedding involved the couple making five dramatic entrances, for the first two of which they were carried aloft in what I can only really describe as fairy-tale carriages, wearing five entirely different stunning outfits. There was music and drumming and lots of dancing as well as, of course, lots of food. Everyone made sure we felt fully included and even people we had never met were insistent we should get up on the dance floor. 

It was a truly amazing experience, quite unlike anything I have ever experienced before and as well as having a lot of fun, I was aware throughout of the incredible privilege of being there and not just witnessing, but being invited to be fully part of such a beautiful occasion. 

Morocco is, of course, a popular holiday destination, and we did do a few touristy things in the mix of our stay. We were mostly based in Marrakesh with a couple of days by the sea in Casablanca. In Marrakesh we took a day trip to the mountains, and visited the famous markets of the old city both by day and by night. In Casablanca we did a guided tour of a very impressive mosque, had a day at the beach, and had the location of "that" famous bar from the film pointed out to us.

But we also spent a lot of the time simply being welcomed into people's homes and lives. We were invited into conversations. We ate a lot of very good food. We drank many, many cups of Moroccan mint tea. We spent a lot of time being part of a community, of a family. And I really wouldn't have wanted to do it any other way.

Carrying the baton

A few weeks ago I was one of the thousands of people around the world who carried the Queen’s Baton on its journey to the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham. 

I confess, I had my doubts about the nomination: aside from really not anticipating being selected; I am, at best, ambivalent about the Commonwealth: about the complexity of its history and about all that it represents in terms of empire, aggression and stolen resources behind the glitz, glamour and excitement of a sporting event every four years.

If I accepted the nomination, which was for my role supporting, befriending, and empowering people who have sought asylum in the UK, it was for the chance to give voice to this issue about which I am so passionate. A chance to shine a light on the ways sanctuary-seekers enrich our communities and our lives; as well as on the unnecessary barriers they face in the hostility of a system which, with recent legislative changes in the shape of the Nationality and Borders Act is becoming even more cruel and inhumane. With the Conservative leadership candidates trying to out anti-migration each other, things don’t look like they are going to improve any day soon.

Even then, I was not convinced I wanted this platform. I spend my days championing the right of those with lived experience to have their voices heard: not for me to have the opportunity to speak on their behalf. These people who have escaped unimaginable trauma, experienced indescribably difficult journeys, arrived to an at-best-mixed welcome, and yet whose dignity and resilience shine through are, to my mind, far more inspiring than I will ever be. They too should be recognised for the positive change they bring to our complicated but beautiful communities. They too should be given the platform to speak out: but with their voices are so often closed out of public discourse, if I have the privilege of being given a voice, with it comes the responsibility to use it to speak, however inadequately, for those who have been silenced.

Just under three years ago I founded “Stories of Hope and Home”, with dual aims of providing safe space for people with lived experience of the asylum process to come together, build community and process their experience; and enabling and empowering them to share those stories with others to challenge misconceptions and change perspectives, one story at a time.

It was founded off the back of my personal experience of seeing the importance of safe space to build community and explore personal histories and of the transformational power of encounter; and off the back of the words of a primary school child who said, on having the chance to hear the stories of some of my wonderful asylum-seeking friends “but they don’t look like refugees, miss, they just look like us”

Of course they do. Because they are “us”.

My experience of Birmingham is of a place which, in its own unassuming way, allows people, whoever they are, to belong. Those I call friends, and even count as family, come from all over the world. When I picked up the baton, I was cheered on by friends from four continents. I carried the baton for them. For them and those like them I will never have the privilege to meet: for those whose paths will not cross with mine, for those who will die at the borders of fortress Europe. For those our government will fight hard to keep out and who if they arrive at all will do so retraumatised and facing increasing social exclusion by being prevented at every turn from integrating into the communities which are ready to welcome them.

With the arrival of the Commonwealth Games, Birmingham and the wider West Midlands welcomed the world. I was always confident they would do it well, because welcoming the world is what Birmingham does on a daily basis. But as we celebrated the games, we did so against a backdrop of a significant failure to join the dots.

The Commonwealth is our celebration of conquering and exploiting the world: but then we question why those self-same people might choose to come to our shores when they find themselves in need of sanctuary from the legacy we left behind. It is our celebration of holding ourselves up as a bastion of civilisation and yet we question why we should welcome those who come in search of the peace and freedom we claim to champion?

As well as those wider questions of imperial history there were various specific issues which I felt could or should have been highlighted by the arrival of the games. In reality, it didn't happen: most of the media discourse and discussion seemed to cast a very uncritical eye and shied away from the more difficult parts of what the commonwealth represents.

One of the very few countries in the Commonwealth never to have been part of the British Empire is Rwanda. It proved barely to get a mention in the coverage I saw, but I had suspected that, whatever their prowess on the pitches, the Rwandan athletes might come in for more media interest than usual. Not since 1994 has Rwanda featured in so many headlines, albeit for very different reasons this time. Undoubtedly, the trauma of the threat of deportation is less visceral and visually impactful than those grim images of genocide, but I don’t think we should underestimate the torture it is causing to some of the most vulnerable people in the world who have come here desperate for help. The anonymous statistics who have got off those little boats? I have met some of them. They are people who bring stories of tragedy but also hopes and dreams for the future, people who just want to be free to be who they are and get on with their lives, people who need support not threats, people who are, as that schoolchild said, “just like us.”

The other story that overlapped with Commonwealth Games coverage, even though he wasn’t competing in Birmingham, was Mo Farah’s recent revelation of his childhood experience of being trafficked to the UK. One of our most successful ever athletes has, years later, felt able to finally process those experiences.

Without being as headline-grabbing as the Rwanda policy, the introduction of the New Nationality and Borders Act rips its way through Refugee Protections and is set to be hugely detrimental to people who are already extremely traumatised. There are so many aspects of this law that are utterly horrendous that it is hard to pick out the worst, but discrediting evidence on the basis of people not revealing it immediately on arrival must be up there.

It does not surprise me that it took Mo Farah many years to come to terms with his traumatic past. Nor do I think he should be penalised for it. When he finally revealed the truth of his past he did so from a place of privilege and, despite some risks, relative security. He has a supportive family around him, he has British citizenship, and he has the respect and adulation of millions of people in the UK, including from within the establishment.

The new law fails to see why someone who has been traumatised, someone still living in uncertainty and fear, someone without access to meaningful support, might not be in a position to share the deepest, darkest realities of their past. Not all those who seek asylum have access to someone amazing who will champion their cause or to a talent that will turn them into a hero.

Some of the friends I work with, who have built a loving community with one another, don’t even feel able to tell each other about their experiences. Why would they feel safe to do so to someone who they know is part of a culture which sets out to disbelieve or discredit them? Have I met people who have not been able to tell me the whole truth about their lives: almost certainly. Have I met people who have only gradually, with the healing of time and trust felt able to reveal some of what they have experienced: most definitely. Have I met anyone who has claimed asylum who I think came here for anything other than seeking freedom and safety: not even once. Have I met anyone whose story I would discredit for the time it took them to feel safe enough to share it, never. For this, and many other reasons, I will continue to fight against the inhumanity of the new legislation.

Despite my ambivalence, I did, in fact, really enjoyed my baton-bearing moment. I enjoyed sharing it with the friends who stood alongside me. I enjoyed the tea, cake and conversation that followed. I also enjoyed the games of which, thanks to my bout of Covid, I watched many, many hours of coverage. I enjoyed hearing this city that I love so much getting the praise and recognition it deserves.

The fact of that enjoyment being genuine does not have to detract from my acknowledgement of the challenge and complexity of all things commonwealth-related. So here I am, I will continue to sit uncomfortably in the paradox.