Thunder and Rainbows from the Same Sky

The title for this post is borrowed from a beautiful Martyn Joseph song. which feels like it sums up much of what my life feels like at the moment (and I'm not just talking about the British summer weather): the darkness and the lights that shine through it, the dead ends and the long winding roads, the heartache and the hope. 

This isn't new. I've written before about the juxtaposition of joy and suffering in my life and work. Last week felt like it brought that reality into particularly sharp focus so I'm writing about it again. 

The week began with something of an adventure involving 43 people, three buses and some spectacular rainstorms: I joked with colleagues that if I ever write the sitcom of my life, that journey would definitely feature! But we made it ... and the rain had stopped by the time we turned the corner into a park. The kids were off, running and playing; and the grown-ups were no less excited: I wouldn't want to even begin to try and count how many selfies were taken! But then, in between the sound of shouts and giggles and kids calling out to me, I ended up in conversation with one of the parents, who told me how this little bit of woodland we were walking through reminded him of the thirty-something days he'd spent living in a forest on his journey to the UK. 

It reminded me of another trip a few weeks earlier when the little girl skipping along beside me had broken off from whatever incidental thing we were talking about to look out at the reservoir and tell me "we were in water like this when we came to England but then they rescued us" before, barely missing a beat, before I'd really had chance to catch my breath sufficiently to think of an appropriate way to respond, going straight back to chatting away about the kind of things 6-year-olds usually chatter about. 

The new 'illegal' migration bill is so hideously awful that I think somewhere in the midst of preparing for what it might mean, we were somehow clinging to a sliver of (admittedly probably misplaced) hope that at some point they'd realise and just call the whole thing off, but on Tuesday it was confirmed that the Lords had capitulated and it was indeed going to become law. The same morning, the barge / floating prison arrived in Portland harbour, another symbol of the hostile environment the current regime seem determined to create, and the antithesis of the welcome I want us to offer. It was not lost on me that Portland is a place of many happy childhood holiday memories and that I went there only last month. I walked in the sunshine, clambered over rocks and rode on an open-top bus: it was a wonderful, memorable day with some of my most precious friends: precious friends who the government would prefer me never to have had the privilege to meet. It was a fabulous place for a holiday: it is not a suitable place to accommodate 500 people seeking safety. 

A couple of days later, after a late evening counting out hundreds of sunflower seeds with a good friend for company, on Thursday I was at the Birmingham REP. Everybody: the creative learning team, box office and front of house staff, stage managers and tech teams put these people and their stories, my friends, who are so often pushed to the margins, centre stage, quite literally. We stood on this stage, no treated no differently to the professionals who grace it on other occasions. We looked out on an audience of hundreds of school children. The performers excelled themselves and, equally importantly had a lot of fun in the process. It wasn't lost on me that it was the same day the new law received royal assent ... but that was easier to put to one side on what was an incredible, exhilarating morning. Even the weather cooperated, allowing us to relax and enjoy ourselves afterwards at a post-show picnic in the sunshine.   

After the sheer joy of Thursday, almost exactly 24 hours later, on Friday morning, I broke down in tears in a meeting about hotel accommodation as we confronted the enormity of the detrimental impact of long periods of time in unsuitable accommodation on people's wellbeing, and my sense of utter powerlessness to make a meaningful difference. I accept that being rather tired was probably a factor in my struggle to maintain my usual equilibrium, but I think it was also a reflection of the reality of just how challenging working in this sector is at the moment and the weight, and the guilt, we are carrying with and for the friends we would like to be able to welcome better. I know I am not alone in this: conversations and WhatsApp exchanges with friends and colleagues and others suggest that relentlessness of the chaos and the cruelty is getting to us all.

By the same evening I was back at the REP for the kind of swanky event I don't often attend for the official opening of the Hub space and presentation of their theatre of Sanctuary Award. And the following morning I woke up to see one of the amazing schools we have had the privilege of working with were featured in the national press for taking on Robert Jenrick's heartless gesture of painting over the cartoons in the Kent Intake Centre and the reminder that these school visits really do make a difference. 

There is a lot of thunder at the moment.

There are, fortunately, however faint they seem, always rainbows too. 

The next generation

The end of the academic year is fast approaching. 

Over the last year Stories of Hope and Home have done 35 school visits to 28 different schools. We have performed pantomime and shared lunches and even done a little bit of sewing. Mostly, though, we have met children (and teachers) and shared stories with them. 

We have done so across Birmingham (and occasionally a little bit beyond). We have met children of all ages and abilities. We have met children who know from experience what it means to migrate, children who have been exploring this theme with their families or schools for quite some time and others for whom it is all very new. 

The incredible people I have the privilege of working with have stood up time and time again and courageously shared their reality, putting a human face to what it means to flee your home and seek sanctuary in the UK. I am in awe of their willingness to make themselves vulnerable and to share their stories with such dignity, grace and searing honesty. 

But however incredible they are, it takes two sides to make an encounter meaningful: and this post was always really meant to be not about them, but about the children.

Children from whom we encounter shocked faces and the occasional tricky question. Children from whom we unfailingly see warmth and compassion and generosity. Children from whom we witness incredible empathy and an inherent understanding of these human stories. 

Children who instantly recognise injustice and inhumanity. And who, in that recognition want to challenge and change it. Among the thousands of children and young people we have met, I don't think we have ever met a single one who has believed the current situation to be either fair or compassionate. And I don't think we have ever met a single one who has thought that the injustice and the hostility is either necessary or desirable. 

These children ... 

They get it. 

Every. Single. Time.

They get it and they want to do something about it. They want to make change and they believe that they can. They believe that something different is both preferrable and possible. 

It is a source of great hope. School visit days can be quite intense and exhausting. But despite that, I never leave a school feeling anything other than inspired and uplifted, encouraged and hopeful.

Perhaps it is simply the naivety of youth and they'll grow up to be no different. And yes, sure, some of their hopes and dreams and expectations are possibly unworkable and would need a few tweaks. 

But perhaps the next generation have also genuinely understood something those currently in power haven't. Perhaps they do and always will want something different to our current broken, hostile systems. Perhaps they really will, in fact create a better, fairer, more compassionate, more human society. 

I certainly hope so.

The Meaning of Life

I turned 42 last weekend and obviously, in a joke entirely lost on anyone unfamiliar with the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, that meant I had arrived at the point in life when I would have the answer to life, the universe and everything. Given how messed up the world seems to be right now, having all the answers definitely has a certain appeal! 

I had a bit of a cold and hadn't slept well on Saturday night. In some ways, what I wanted / needed on Sunday was a quiet day at home doing not very much: but it was also my birthday and obviously, much more than that, what I really wanted to do was surround myself with some of the many people I love and value and by whom I am loved and valued.

I had put out an invitation to a picnic in the park. Despite being organised at fairly short notice and the slightly menacing grey skies and cool edge to the air, over 50 people came along to share in a wonderful afternoon. I brought quiche and cake and picnic blankets and bin bags. Others brought contributions too. There was an amazing spread of food.  

The youngest person was about six weeks old, the oldest over seventy. There were people I've known my whole life, literally, and people I've known only a few weeks or months. There were, as someone else commented "the united nations of Birmingham", a gathering of friends from just round the corner and from all over the world.  

There were people from lots of different parts of my life. There were good friends spending time together, reunions of friends who hadn't seen each other for a good while, and people chatting to each other who had never met before and whose paths may never cross again. There were people who popped in briefly and people who stayed several hours. There were kids who had to be convinced to eventually go home.  

There were frisbees and bubbles and chalk pictures on the pavement. There was energy and life and colour. There was laughter and fun. There were some more serious conversations happening too.

There was food being shared and so much cake. There were very few leftovers. There were, just about, lighted candles sheltered from the wind. There was no rain.

And that was how I spent the day I turned 42. As I looked around the park, my heart was full. I could think of no better way to spend the day. I definitely don't have all the answers. But I do have some of them. 

I may not have found the meaning of life, the universe and everything, but I never really believed 42 would suddenly give me that anyway! 

On the other hand, I certainly think I have found a meaning for my life. It looks like this.

And, on balance, I think I'll settle for that.