Rwanda (2)

It is perhaps somewhat ironic that just 24 hours after writing my previous post, I was catapulted into what was, even by my standards, an exceptionally exhausting week on both a practical and emotional level. 

I wrote a post about Rwanda when the idea was first raised, way back in 2022. I stand by everything I said then, and more. The 'Safety of Rwanda' law received royal assent on Thursday 25th April. The following Sunday a Guardian article revealed the intention to immediately start detaining people in preparation for removal, taking away the last vestiges of hope that the law wouldn't be acted on quickly, or at all.

If detentions were beginning, we knew that one of the places people would be most at risk was the home office reporting centre. Many people seeking asylum, and others who are subject to immigration control have a regular reporting condition, meaning they have to attend the home office centre to sign to say they are still here and still co-operating with the system. It is, at the best of times, a degrading and scary experience. With the threat of the Rwanda plan, those feelings were hugely amplified. If this was happening, I was not the only person to feel very strongly that was where we needed to be. 

Within hours of the article, a flurry of WhatsApp messages, much sharing of information, finding and creation of resources and the setting up of a rota meant we were ready to be on hand by the following morning. Whatever else the last couple of weeks has thrown at us, it has included an incredible showing of solidarity, and shown the value of being able to be flexible and responsive. What we would be able to offer the next day wouldn't be perfect, it would need to be refined as time went on, but we would be there.

The following morning I (and others) were outside the Home Office reporting centre by 9am. We were aware of the risk of whipping up further fear, but on balance, we knew people were already terrified, so helping people to be informed and prepared felt like the right response. We were still vaguely wondering / hoping that this could be a false alarm. It didn't take long to know it wasn't, as we realised that some of those going in were not coming out. 

I spent over twelve hours outside that building that day. During the week that followed, I lost count of the number of hours I worked, and the number of incredibly difficult conversations I had. Everything I have learned about having challenging conversations, about having to say no or not make promises I can't keep, about reassuring without offering false hope, were put to the test. 

In between there has been a lot of trying to keep on top of accurate information in a rapidly changing landscape where what seemed to be true on day might be different by the next; and attempting to disseminate that, and other, information and some gentle education for those who wanted to help but knew they had a lot to learn along the way. There is the building of a movement drawing together a diverse community of people who really care, coming from all sorts of different overlapping but not necessarily entirely aligned perspectives.

As if that wasn't enough there were also all the complexities of handling the media, the home office and the police in the mix too. 

And of course the rest of the world didn't stand still and the other demands didn't go away. Holding in tension the need for an emergency response to a specific situation and the need to continue offering the ongoing support for those facing all the other ongoing hostility and aggression of the immigration system has also been part of the picture. Building the sustainability of both will continue to be something to wrestle with.

The detrimental impact of these policies, and their implementation on those affected (and those who aren't but fear they might be) and those who care about them is significant. The fear in these communities and individuals is palpable. It will force people to disappear into places where they are at risk of destitution and exploitation. The acute mental health impacts will be felt immediately, and continue to be felt far into the future. I fear people will, literally, die. 

There is so much that we cannot do or promise. But I am also confident that almost everyone who has gone into our local reporting centre in the last fortnight has done so with a piece of paper with key information in their pocket and having seen a friendly face outside, hopefully giving them at least a vague understanding that there are others fighting for them who don't want this to be happening. When we can't do it all, sometimes we have to focus on what we can, and find ways to let go of the other. 

When the information-sharing with those reporting gradually morphed into a solidarity protest on that first day, one of the chants was "Tell me what community looks like: this is what community looks like".  And in the midst of some very, very dark days, it has looked like a lot of different, beautiful things: from being present on the ground alongside those who need it most to a whole lot of messages in support, from colourful banners and endless printing and copying to offering space to store materials, from lawyers fighting court cases, to individuals and organisations translating and sharing information in every way they can, from all important spreadsheets to donations of bottles of water and doughnuts, from lively chants to gentle conversations. And a whole lot more. On a personal level, it has also included lots of people checking in to make sure I am ok too, and hopefully me doing a bit of the same for others. Many many people, in many many ways are standing in solidarity. 

Much as I wish it didn't, this law exists and this government seems determined to implement it. But there are still ways to support, and ways to rebel: and all of them rely on an underlying willingness and ability to remain hopeful. So while I am not overly optimistic, in the midst of all the reasons why I might, I refuse to give up hope.