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.