Christian Responses to the rise of the right

A few weeks ago I was invited to take part in a discussion about Christian responses to the rise of Reform and more generally the swing to the right in UK politics for the FaithJustice podcast, alongside Sally Mann, a Baptist minister from East London. 

I did have some reservations, but I agreed because I also know these are important conversations that we need to be having. I was not entirely convinced mine was the voice that most needed to be heard, and I went into the recording spectacularly unprepared, with neither political or economic facts and figures, nor any great theological insights at my finger tips. I did however, I guess, take my lived experience of working with and walking alongside people seeking sanctuary, some of the most marginalised of our society, and the personal reflection and discerning I have done in relation to said experience over a period of several years. 

There were, needless to say, probably things I could or should have said and didn't, and others I probably didn’t express as clearly as I’d have liked. I also don’t particularly like listening back to the sound of my own voice, but those things aside, I think / hope, you may find it worth listening to. We recorded it in one sitting, but it is split into three episodes of more manageable listening length:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Also available on Spotify and iTunes)

Looking back ...

Last week Stories of Hope and Home held our AGM, including presenting our annual report for 2024 -25. The other charity I work for, Birch Network, also published our annual report in the autumn. Annual reports can only ever tell a tiny part of the story and are almost always, inevitably out of date by the time they are published but nonetheless, between them, these do capture something of what I have been up to.

In an attempt not to waffle indefinitely (I know myself well!) while remembering to share some key points, I more or less wrote myself a script to introduce and offer an update to the annual report at the Stories group AGM. Having written it, it seems appropriate to share it here, together with both annual reports for anyone who is interested in something of an insight into two organisations who I genuinely believe are doing good and important things in a world where it has never been more needed!

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This annual report relates to the year April 2024 to March 2025. It is uploaded on to the charity commission website, and it stands as our official record of who we are, what we do and how we are fulfilling our responsibilities as a charity.

We decided to do something slightly different this year with how we put it together, and invited, encouraged (possibly slightly forced) lots of different people who've been involved in the project to contribute to it. We think, hope, that the inclusion of lots of different voices makes for a more engaging read, and it also fits with our ethos and values as a project: to centre the voices of our participants and make space for them to be heard. So thank you, to everyone who contributed to it. And for those of you who didn't, perhaps because you weren’t involved in the project at that point, thank you in advance for writing next year’s!

I am, obviously, not going to read out the whole report because you can do that at your leisure. I think if I want to summarise what it says, I would say I really believe that this report, and in fact this project, stands as a witness to the fact that despite challenging external circumstances and I think those do have to be named and acknowledged, that it is possible to create communities which are diverse, and which are also enriching, supportive and beautiful; and that human encounter is powerfully transformative. I think what this report says is that what we do makes a difference, and that it really matters, and I think everyone involved in it in every way should be proud of that.

Like almost all annual reports ours is chronically out of date before it has seen the light of day so I said I would give some kind of update to what's being going on in the nine months since. I think it can be summed up by saying, as we did in our performance,: "and still, we are here". The environment for people seeking sanctuary is hard, and getting harder, the way this subject is talked about is increasingly hostile ... but despite the best efforts of the home office and certain sections of the media and the public, we are still here and we are going to continue to be here with and for one another.

Last summer was particularly challenging ... with the flags campaign, the attacks on the schools of sanctuary movement with whom we of course work very closely, and with a series of somewhat vague but exceptionally hostile announcements from government. None of this is easy, nor should we pretend it is. But in the midst of it all, we have continued to provide safe space: space to understand and to process and to find support. There have been tears, and anger and frustration. There has also been plenty of dancing and cake and laughter and joy. There have been lots of hugs. We have been here for each other.

Since last April we have continued to welcome plenty of new participants, welcome, thank you for being part of this, we have coloured in new countries on our map, we have visited, I counted, 40 schools and other groups educating literally hundreds of people about the realities of the asylum system, we have had two incredible residential festivals of encounter, we have performed at the REP theatre and in several other smaller venues, we have had lots of parties, we have done some incredible writing, we have discussed both the serious and the very very silly, we have continued building a beautiful community.

So, still we are here … and this story does not end yet...

Stories of Hope and Home Annual Report

Birch Network Annual Report

Epiphany Reflection

We have just passed the feast of Epiphany, of "revelation from above". 

This was written last year as a reflection to lead in to a Stories group encounter, sharing their experiences with a group of teachers and inviting them to reflect on how we welcome travellers from afar ... It is, yes, a reflection on the journey and arrival of the magi, but primarily a thinly veiled reflection on the journeys and arrival of people seeking sanctuary. I failed to post it last year, and am already late posting it this year, but I want to put it here at some point, and refuse to leave it in my drafts folder until 2027!

'Today' is the day when we celebrate the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, possibly to the stable, possibly to whatever humble abode the holy family went to next.

We don't exactly know, but the Magi were, most likely, Zoroastrians from Persia … Gentiles, foreigners who looked to the stars for wisdom, who wore strange clothes, spoke strange languages, and worshipped strange gods.

Gentiles, foreigners who were guided towards this God expressed in vulnerable incarnation. Who travelled great distances, who poured out their gifts.

Gentiles, foreigners who went away by a different route, who were forever changed by their encounter with the infant Jesus.

Imagine seeing the star

Imagine a light that tells you something new is promised. Imagine conversations about whether to follow, or to wait and see.

Would you stay … or would you dare to go?
(Pause)

Imagine setting out on a journey

Imagine not knowing where the journey is leading but trusting in the promise. Imagine crossing borders, going beyond known realities. Imagine holding on to the hope through all the struggles along the way.

Would you keep going … or would you give up?
(Pause)

Imagine arriving at what you thought was your destination only to realise it wasn’t what you thought

Imagine the hope, and the disappointment. Imagine the conversations, the looking for answers, imagine not knowing the motivations of those purporting to help.

Would you press on … or would you stop here?
(Pause)

Imagine arriving, expecting a king and finding a stable

Imagine the star guiding you to the most unexpected of places. Imagine reaching your destination. Imagine it looking like this. Imagine the doubt, and the hope in the promise.

Would you question its validity … or would you accept this reality?
(Pause)

Imagine strangers arriving at the door

Imagine strangers who look and sound different to anyone you have ever known. Strangers from well beyond your sphere of experience. Imagine the sights, sounds, smells they bring with them.

Do you hesitate … or throw open the door in welcome?
(Pause)

Imagine knowing, or hoping, you had found what you were looking for, and pouring out your gifts trusting they will be received

Imagine the encounter between strangers with seemingly nothing in common, no shared culture, language, faith. Imagine finding a way to make a connection. Imagine gifts, poured out in that space.

Do you know what you would give… and what you would receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of gold

Imagine gifts of material wealth. The wealth of money and stuff, but also of time and of talents.

What gold do you bring … what gold are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of frankincense

Imagine gifts that speaks of God. Imagine gifts which invite a different and deeper understanding of the divine.

What incense do you bring… what incense are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of myrrh

Imagine gifts overlaid with the sadness of suffering. Imagine gifts which come wrapped in stories of pain, gifts which offer and demand sacrificial love.

What myrrh do you bring … what myrrh are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine Magi
Imagine the Holy family

Imagine strangers bearing gifts
Imagine them welcomed and accepted

Imagine that this is where we find God is revealed

And then imagine that inherent in the revelation
Is a call
To change
To go back by another way

Would you take it?

And then there was August (and some of September) part 1

Once again, August threw up a very mixed bag of experiences and emotions. There have been opportunities to rest and reset and some truly joyous shared moments filled with light and laughter ... but there has also been frustration, anger and tears. September looks like it is following a similar pattern.

The more comfortable parts to write about might be the joyful bits, of which there have been plenty, and I will do that too some point soon. But the more necessary things to write about are definitely all the other stuff. All the stuff that is sapping my energy and making it that little bit harder to keep seeking out hope and light in a world that feels increasingly dark. All the stuff that feels incredibly hard to to put into words, but incredibly important to try. So here I am, trying.

Last summer threw up some exceptionally challenging moments: the depths of hate and violence we saw on our streets was terrifying, leaving many of my friends afraid to leave their homes. A year has passed. A lid was gently placed over some of that boiling fury, but, as predicted at the time when there was a failure to really unpack and deal with what was going on, instead of being dampened down, it has been fermenting. Fermenting and ripe for exploitation by those whose agenda is founded on fear, division and hate.

Overall, while we may not (yet) have seen quite the same extremes of violence as last summer, I think there are many signs that we are in a much darker place as a society, and the pace at which we have got here genuinely worries me. There are several things I feel have been more difficult to stomach this year. I have been trying (and failing) for some time to wrestle this post into coherence, so I might just leave it as snippets which don't necessarily entirely slot together in to a cohesive, well-ordered whole but which capture at least some of what I think I want to say. I know it's too long. There's a lot to say.

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It may only have been lip-service but in summer 2024, my sense was that there was at least some attempt to condemn the behaviour of those spreading hate and fear about people who have arrived on our shores seeking safety. There were calls for calm, there were arrests and convictions. This year there has been a stark lack of public opposition from people in power, or indeed anyone who has been given much media coverage. Violence and hatred has been met with the suggestion that these are "legitimate concerns". Protesting outside people homes (if hotels can really be called such a thing) has been completely normalised and seemingly justified. Members of mainstream parties have joined them. Language which was the preserve of the far-right has slipped into everyday political discourse and everyday conversation.   

I remember when I first noticed that the BBC had started using the term "illegal migrants" (but without the inverted commas) for people in the asylum system (quick fact check: if you live in a hotel which is being used as asylum accommodation you are, by definition, in a legal process, and not, therefore, by any reasonable definition, "illegal") and that is just one example among many.

The first campaign I was involved in after starting to volunteer at St Chad's Sanctuary was to ask for those seeking asylum to be allowed to start college without having to wait six months. At the time, it felt like an entirely reasonable and potentially achievable ask. Now it feels like cloud cuckoo land thinking.

I was going to write something about the gradual shift of what has come to be seen as acceptable, but sadly, it doesn't feel so "gradual" anymore. The Overton window has not so much drifted towards anti-migrant sentiment as hurtled there. What once felt well within the range of reasonable now seems to be considered outlandishly radical while what once felt consigned to the history books is making its way into policy. I am not sure how we slow its pace. I'm not sure how we shift it back the other way. I am not sure how we make "woke" into the compliment it ought to be. 

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I am not going to deny that there are people within the asylum system who are not particularly nice. I am not even going to attempt to justify it all away by trauma and circumstances, although that is often a contributory factor. The reality is there will be some asylum seekers who will commit crimes and some who are playing the system. People seeking sanctuary are no more perfect than the rest of us. They are not all heroes any more than they are all villains: they are simply humans who should be treated as such.

The same is true of people of every race and nation. Sarah Everard's murderer was a Met police officer, but no-one is standing outside police stations implying everyone on the inside is dangerous. Harold Shipman is the most prolific serial killer in British history but we don't use that as a reason to spread hate and fear of all GPs. We don't think everyone from Yorkshire should be sent back there because of the Yorkshire Ripper ... 

No crime by any individual, whatever their ethnicity or immigration status should be allowed to justify the demonisation of an entire (tiny) segment of the population. Aside from that, there is zero statistical evidence to bear out the idea that increased migration has caused increased crime. On the contrary, while migration has increased in recent years, serious crime has, whatever the public perception from media coverage may be, been decreasing. 

There is a reason why we have moved away from "stranger danger" messaging: and it is that it has consistently been proven that it just isn't true. If this is really about protecting women and children we need to name the fact that as a woman, you are far more likely to be killed by your partner that someone who has just arrived in our country looking for safety, as a child, you are far more likely to be harmed by a family member than someone who happens to have been made to live in a hotel in your town. We are at far greater risk from those we know and trust. Statistically, if we want someone to demonise, it should be our family and friends. 

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Another aspect of the summer which has felt particularly difficult has been the targeting of the Schools of Sanctuary movement, the movement, and some schools, including of schools we have worked alongside have experienced vicious threats and abuse. Beginning with a Telegraph article and picked up by the far right keyboard warriors and others who have weighed in online. When we left X / twitter, our decision to do so was based on safeguarding as well as ethical concerns. I would like to have been proven wrong but fear we have been proven very right. While neither of the charities I work for have been directly targeted it did leave me deeply conscious of how vulnerable to attack we could be. I know we are not alone within the sector in having to be realistic about the increased risks we face. 

The crux of the criticism was around a valentine's day campaign to write cards of welcome for refugees, but it drew in wider issues, seeking to sew seeds of doubt about whether it is right to educate children about the lives of people seeking sanctuary, whether it is ok to create cultures of welcome, tolerance and acceptance of all. This education, and the specific bit of it I am involved in, facilitating encounters between people seeking sanctuary and the children in our communities feels more important than ever, but also more vulnerable. It is still early in the school year: it remains to be seen whether this campaign will make schools more apprehensive of engaging with the work we do, or make the people seeking sanctuary I work with feel less safe to contribute, less able to voice their stories aloud.

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You have to hand it to the far right: their marketing strategy and ability to mobilise has been spectacularly successful. It has helped of course, that they are backed by very significant resource, but their messaging has also been very cleverly designed. They have been exceptionally adept at playing on fears and discontent and choosing images that draw people in and mobilising them. 

The co-opting of the flag as a symbol to rally behind has been particularly clever. If swastikas had appeared on lampposts across the country, or big signs saying migrants out, they'd have undoubtedly been called out and hurriedly removed. It is much harder to challenge someone for flying the national flag, even if you know the reasons for raising it are not entirely innocent and are aware of the discomfort it is causing. It comes with an easy to parrot defence, which seems to have successfully taken in many 'good' people. It requires a more nuanced response which can't be captured in a social-media friendly three-word slogan.

I have heard people who I respect, even people who I have campaigned alongside on social justice issues, repeat the line that this is purely a show of patriotism and that communities should be allowed to take pride in their British identity. I have heard many people who see it as no cause for concern. I wish it was true. Don't get me wrong, I am sure there are individuals who are making less consciously informed choices, and don't fully understand the agenda behind "raising the colours", but I think we dismiss or justify it as just that at our peril. Michael Rosen's description of fascism has never felt more real, more chilling, more immediate: "I sometimes fear that people think that fascism arrives in fancy dress worn by grotesques and monsters as played out in endless re-runs of the Nazis. Fascism arrives as your friend. It will restore your honour, make you feel proud, protect your house, give you a job, clean up the neighbourhood, remind you of how great you once were, clear out the venal and the corrupt,
remove anything you feel is unlike you... It doesn't walk in saying, 'Our programme means militias, mass imprisonments, transportations, war and persecution.' "

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One of the things that saddens me about all of this, is that it is serving as a very effective distraction from the very real issues people in many of our communities (both those with migration in their recent histories and those without) are facing. Because I am not denying that many in our society are really struggling and feel genuinely disenfranchised and unheard. 

I am drawing something of a distinction here, clearly, between those who, caught up in lives that are potentially far from the ideal ones they'd like to be living lack the energy and the political education to really understand what is going on here, and those who are pulling the strings behind the scenes who know exactly what they are doing and why.

The wealth of our country is being concentrated into fewer and fewer hands with the richest in our country hoarding staggering amounts of wealth, accounted for in numbers most of us can't really get our heads around. Technological change is happening at a pace none of us can keep up with or really understand, and the accompanying societal and relational changes leave many of us feeling destabilised. Housing and employment feel less secure while prices of the things we have come to see as essentials continue to rise. With climate change gaining pace, we can't even trust the weather to be its usual unpredictable self.  

When everything feels like it is shifting beneath our feet, it is no surprise people want to find solid ground on which they can come to rest. When everything looks like it has become a grey area, sharp black and white is very attractive. I have spoken often of the need for all of us to find a community, a place were we feel we belong. Looking for easy solutions to complex problems isn't new. Nor is, in the face of things going wrong, looking for scapegoats and someone to blame. Nor is uniting around a common enemy: defining who is 'out' has long been a way to also define that we are 'in'.

But for as long as people are convinced that migration is the cause, they are less likely to fight for the real solutions to the real problems. And for as long as the politicians think that's what will make people vote for them, they will continue to introduce policies that will demonise people who have migrated to our country but that will make no material difference to the quality of people' lives.  

People seeking sanctuary make up a tiny proportion of the UK population. The same can be said of the trans community, another group being consistently demonised. They are among the most vulnerable and powerless. They are a very easy target. 

None of this has, in my opinion, happened by accident. There are people who this agenda suits exceptionally well. They are not, mostly, the people whose own lives have been pushed to the margins, who are, in some ways, as much victims of this ideology as anybody else.

This isn't about letting anyone involved in all this off the hook, but I do think that somehow the solution is in discourse not demonisation. I don't know how we facilitate that. There are a whole lot of people who aren't currently ready to for rational debate, but just angry dismissal, tempting though it is, probably isn't the solution. 

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If the summer has been difficult for people seeking sanctuary it isn't only because of the rhetoric out on the streets and in our social media feeds. It is also because that rhetoric is driving policy decisions in Westminster. There have been so many, one after another, that almost every day I have checked the news in trepidation wondering what hideous new policy or procedure is going to be announced today. Most feel like they are simply performative cruelty which will have no demonstrable benefits but will cause untold harm to the wellbeing of some of our most vulnerable neighbours.  

Don't get me wrong: I don't want people to have to get into small boats across the channel either. Nor do I want people to be forced to live in "hotels". I want policies that genuinely challenge both of those things. I want to be able to campaign against them because we are in search of better options not worse ones. I want climate change to be taken seriously and an end to an arms trade that makes war and repression a valuable business model forcing more and more people to flee their homes. I want safe routes that stop people resorting to ever more dangerous methods to reach our shores. I want decent, community-based accommodation models and faster and fairer decision making processes to allow people to integrate. How do we get there? 

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One of the things I have always said to reassure friends, and perhaps myself, about the anti-migrant agenda is that while it is very real, it doesn't represent the wider British public: that overall we stand for tolerance and welcome. As the summer has worn on, I no longer feel able to be quite so confident in those assertions. I still maintain that there are plenty of people for whom this is the very antithesis of what it really means to be British, what they want the union flag to represent. 

But with more and more people caught up in either participating in or justifying actions which are clearly being orchestrated (and funded) by the far right, with views once the preserve of said far right being increasingly deemed acceptable within mainstream political discourse, with people I thought of as reasonable espousing views which to my mind definitely aren't, and with the very real threat of a Reform government after our next general election, I feel less able to state confidently that these are only the views of a tiny minority. 

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I probably also need to acknowledge that there is a cumulative affect of the ongoing awfulness that I have watched the people I support be subjected to over the past few years. That things feel heavier now not only because, objectively, they are, but because they come not in isolation but in addition to all the stuff that has come before.

The fact that I am 'finalising' this post a couple of days after the biggest far-right anti-migration / anti-migrant march I can remember is not lost on me. The fact that even that has not been met with solid condemnation from all sides speaks, I fear, of where we are. 

But this is not the end of the story, mine, or ours. Part 2 to follow ... I am not giving up.

An examen of the moment

As a student at university I was introduced to St Ignatius of Loyola's 'examen' prayer. It is an exercise which invites you to reflect on things that have brought you 'consolation' and 'desolation' and use both to try and understand what God might be trying to say to you. It is an exercise we shared sometimes at chaplaincy morning prayer, and I often used to struggle to have anything at all to put in the 'desolation' column. I was young and naively idealistic, but it was true: even in things that weren't perfect, I could see enough light, life, learning to hesitate to describe them as 'desolation'.

I would still describe myself as an incorrigible optimist, but I have long since ceased struggling with this. As for this summer, there have been times when the balance has felt very different. Don't get me wrong, I still consistently have plenty to put in the consolation column. But there have been days when the desolation side has weighed far heavier.

I find this hard to admit, to myself or out loud, and I think there are a number of distinct but interrelated reasons why...

By almost every set of criteria, I am incredibly privileged. I am, I like to think, deeply conscious of my privilege, and I aspire for that to drive me to use it well, but that doesn't change the fact of it. I am white, British, well-educated, neurotypical, cis-gendered, middle-class. I have never experienced any significant trauma. I have had amazing opportunities to travel and to learn and to have many beautiful different experiences. I have a comfortable home, am financially stable and get paid to do what I love. I have good physical and mental health. I have a supportive family and an incredible community of friends around me.

The same cannot be said for many, perhaps even the majority, of those I share my life with, many have whom have experienced, and continue to experience, multiple forms of disadvantage. 

Over the summer I have been deeply affected by the hostility towards people seeking asylum and other people who have migration as part of their story. But I have also carried a nagging sense of guilt that I *shouldn't* be finding it so hard. I am not the target of any of this hostility in the way that many of my friends are. I am not being targeted by the flag-waving or the hate-filled rants which mis-represent entire communities, nor will I be personally impacted by the endless stream of hostile policies being spewed out of Westminster. When all of this leaves me feeling, to stick to the theme, 'desolate', a voice in my head nags me that, from my position of privilege, I have no right to feel less motivated, to have less energy, to want to just curl up in a corner. That instead I have more responsibility than ever to be a source of light and hope and support for others. And while the guilt may be unhelpful, it also carries truth within it: in many of the situations and relationships in which I exist, I do have a greater capacity and therefore greater responsibility to be the carrier rather than the carried. If I lack the energy, or motivation to do the thing, whatever the thing may be, that almost invariably impacts on someone in a far more difficult situation than I am. 

I guess this links to my other main about this, which is my realisation of just how much my role and my very identity feels tied up in my boundless positivity. As I said further up, I describe myself as an incorrigible optimist and I think that is how most other people think of me too: as someone who is full of joy and recklessly hopeful. I picked up the nickname Tigger at university and the image of irrepressible energy, if not the nickname, have followed me ever since. A fellow English teacher at St Chad's Sanctuary once used me as an illustration / definition to explain the word 'enthusiastic' to language learners. This is who I am, and it is who I want to be. I am, for the most part, honoured that it is what others see in me ... but there is a certain pressure here too. If this is who I am, then what is my role or my identity or even my worth in the moments when those things desert me? Of course I do know, rationally, that my inherent value is not tied up in this, but what we know rationally and what we experience don't always correlate!   

Plus let's face it there's probably just some plain old pride and ego mixed in there too. Maybe none of us like to admit to the things we perceive as weakness or failure.

But while I may not like the fact, and may not like admitting the fact, the reality is my desolation column is overflowing at the moment. I have had days when it has been much harder than usual to identify signs of hope. I have had days when I have felt sapped of energy. I have had days when I have cried. Being as I'm in my forties, I could probably blame it all on hormones and the perimenopause, but frankly, objectively, I think it is all an entirely rational response to the state of the world. I don't think this is the place to go into why (I have another partially written post dealing with that which may or may not see the light of day some point soon if I can wrestle it into some sort of coherent text from the swirl of random snippets of words it is currently!). This is simply about acknowledging the struggle and accepting the vulnerability implicit in doing so. 

I could end there. 

But the wisdom of the examen is that there are always two columns. In a way that I perhaps didn't in the naivety of my youth, I do now understand the value in identifying and naming the desolation. But that certainly hasn't replaced seeking out the consolation. It might take a bit more effort right now, but it is still there, so much of it is still there (a more upbeat post outlining some of this will come soon too, I promise!). 

The general principle of the examen is to aim to do less of the stuff that brings desolation, and more of that which brings consolation, because God wants us to find our joy and to have fullness of life. That isn't always possible. We, I, can't always avoid the stuff which is causing desolation; nor is doing more of anything, even that which brings consolation, always quite the right answer either. But there is definitely a place for making space to intentionally recognise and appreciate more the signs of love and light and life and for cultivating hope and gratitude wherever I can. 

I have recently started using the Carrs Lane Community morning prayer book again. For many years it was the anchor of my days and I am grateful to still be able to return to it periodically. The opening prayer each day is borrowed / stolen from Br Roger of Taize. A couple of mornings ago it started with words which felt very apt:   

God of consolation, even when we feel nothing of your presence, still you are here. Your presence is invisible but your Holy Spirit is always within us. Amen

There is always consolation. I will keep seeking it out. May you be able to do the same.

School's out for summer!

I have written a couple of posts recently, but prior to that, once again, more than a month, in fact almost two, had slipped by without any blogposts making their way on to the page / screen. In fact in general, my blogpost output this year has been significantly reduced: it looks very likely that 2025 will be the year with the fewest published post since I began this whole endeavour all those years ago. There have been a number of different contributory factors, but over the past couple of months, sheer busy-ness has probably been the main one.

With Refugee Week falling in the middle of it, June has long been one of my busiest months of the year. July, which includes our now annual REP performance and Kintbury residential, is often not far behind. This year was no exception. 

Knowing what was coming, and aware that the early part of the year had taken quite a heavy emotional toll, when May seemed to be shaping up to be a little calmer than some months I managed to be quite intentional about keeping it that way meaning that, perhaps more so than in some years, I faced my busiest season feeling very much ready to go. 

I hit the beginning of June looking at a couple of months in which my diary was certainly very full: with both regular commitments and all the extra things to fit in around them. Already full with things planned well in advance, I also knew there still needed to be space for things which inevitably needed to be squeezed in last minute. 

Refugee Week was filled with activities and celebrations: there was poetry and paint, there was dialogue and dancing, there was laughter and love. This year's theme: Community is a Superpower was a fitting reminder that we are enriched by one another when we create a culture of togetherness rather than isolation. Summer generally makes other trips, activities and outings more possible and more appealing and I had a number of fun days out with different groups of people enjoying fresh air and sunshine and a break from the stresses and strains of their everyday. The REP performance, Home is Where We Belong, already has its own blogpost. The Festival of Encounter would also probably need one to do it justice too.

The number of invitations for school visits always ramps up in the summer term, but this year even more so. We ended the academic year having done a rather satisfying total of 52 visits. For comparison, the previous year's total was 34, so suffice it to say this part of my work has become an increasingly significant time commitment. These visits can, of course, be emotionally heavy but they are also a source of great hope. In a society where the hostile rhetoric around migration sometimes seems to be winning, they feel more important than ever.

In between times, my regular commitments continued: running regular sessions for both Birch and Stories and offering support around the edges to lots of different individuals. The days when my hotel sessions felt like light relief of 'just doing some fun stuff with kids' are long gone: over time they have become increasingly complex and involved, and while often characterised more by what I can't do than what I can, I continue to believe that friendly presence and a listening ear are a valuable contribution to a sense of welcome and wellbeing. As for the Stories group, as well as building towards the REP performance, we've been working on a writing project the outcomes of which I think are going to be incredibly powerful and which I am looking forward to sharing in due course.

I should possibly add that it wasn't all about work: there were plenty of other non-work things, including chances to host visitors and catch up with friends, that also contributed to my over-flowing diary ... not that there is always a clear boundary between work and play in the way I live my life, nor do I want there to be. 

And so here we are in August and despite the fact that June and July were, by any objective standards, a bit bonkers, I reached the slight lull of summer admittedly rather behind on admin, and conscious of big questions to reflect on about capacity going forward from here, but generally feeling like I am in a good place. That's partly because despite the weight of the stories and the state of the world, much of what I have spent my time doing over the past couple of months is, without wanting to underestimate the cost, stuff that gives me life and energy and hope. 

The school summer holidays always mark, for me, a shift in rhythm and routine as well as the ending and beginning of a new year. There is plenty to look back at (and catch up on!), as well as plenty to look forward to. A new diary is waiting to be filled. I am ready. 

Home is here, but it's also there

It is a couple of weeks since Stories of Hope and Home once again took to the stage at Birmingham REP theatre with their latest performance. We have done this enough times now that when, several weeks out, we have lots of ideas but no real form to the script, and when only a couple of weeks out, we still don't really know who the cast will be, I am more able to genuinely believe it'll all be alright, or more than alright, on the day. And as ever, of course, it was. 

For the past couple of years our starting point has been the theme given to us by the REP: after last year's "Love and Rebellion" I didn't think we could possibly be gifted such an appropriate theme again but as it turned out this year's theme "Home and Horizons" was also an excellent fit! Apart from that, we start, in about January, with an entirely blank canvas, with no preconceived ideas of structure or content. And then the conversations begin, the ideas emerge, and slowly but surely, something starts to take shape. It is a genuinely collaborative experience and a process I actively enjoy. The fact that each performance has been so very different in scope and style is testament to the many different people who have been involved in devising, writing and performing each piece: to who they are, individually and collectively, and to what they want to communicate.

One major difference this year from previous years was that we had all of the cast speaking live on stage, something we have never previously attempted. They were, or some at least were, palpably apprehensive, understandably so: but it worked, better even perhaps than they or I might have hoped.  The content was also quite different: while last year's piece focused exclusively on life in the UK asylum system, this year's also drew on the other places our participants call home, as we explored the shared experience of so many of the group of feeling partially at home in two (or more) places, but fully at home in neither. I told someone in advance that I thought it was also less overtly political than last year's piece, but after watching it, they questioned whether that was really true.   

For all the differences each year there are also significant similarities: each year I watch people support and encourage one another, achieving together something many of them didn't think they could do, each year I watch people grow in confidence and find their voice and new ways to express themselves, each year I watch an audience be educated and moved by the stories they hear, each year I watch people get a glimpse of just how amazing this group of people are, each year I am immensely proud of what this wonderful groups of people produce and perform. Above all, each year I watch people who are enjoying the process and having a whole lot of fun!   

"Home is Where we Belong" ended with the performers weaving together ribbons while reciting this poem, itself woven together from words and phrases from the group. It tries to capture much of what home means to them, what it feels like to always be stuck somewhere in the middle, as well as how, when our stories weave together, we can create something beautiful. 

Home is a meal and all those who share it,
Home is the flavours, home is the sounds,
Home is the joy, the dancing, the laughter
Home is the people by whom we've been found
Home is the love of all we call family
And the table we gather around

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

Home is the cold I'll never get used to
And my skin warmed by African sun
Home is a language that sings in my ears
And one that still tangles my tongue
Home is a place of childhood nostalgia
The things that I've seen, the things that I've done

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

Home is a place where all is familiar
But a place I was forced to flee
Home is a place that is still slightly strange
But a place where I feel safe and free
Home is traditions I've known forever
Home is where I can truly be me

And home is there, but it's also here

A heart tossed and tugged and torn

And home is here but it's also there

A heart in two places at once

And home is this space in the middle

Where strangers can soon become friends

And home is this space in the middle

Where we each find a place to belong

An island of strangers, and of friends

In announcing the latest "let's see which party can do the best job of blaming migrants for all the issues of late-stage consumer capitalism" measures, Keir Starmer made a speech in which he stated that we risk "becoming an island of strangers." 

On one level, he's not wrong. 

We do risk becoming an island of strangers.

But it isn't because of migration.

We risk becoming an island of strangers because, with our heads down and noses buried in devices we don't see the people around us. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are allowing algorithms to choose what we hear and who we interact with. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are surrounded by messages telling us to focus solely on ourselves and trying to convince us that it is consumption rather than community which will make us happy. We risk becoming an island of strangers because we are constantly being told to be afraid of anyone who is in anyway different to ourselves or to a perceived norm. 

I am not denying there is a problem here. The impacts of rampant individualism and of so many individuals drowning in isolation are significant for individual health and wellbeing, for the fabric of society and for the very future of our planet. 

But it isn't because of migration. 

On the contrary, if we let it, I'd argue that migration has the potential to be far more a cure than a cause of this isolation. My own experience tells me so.

We do not become strangers because our neighbours are from different countries or cultures: we become strangers because we lock our doors and do not ask their names. And when we dare to unlock our doors and speak to each other? ... We find ourselves living instead on an island of friends.

Of all the places I have ever lived, (and there have been quite a few!) Birmingham is the place I feel most at home. Initially, that took me by surprise: excited as I was by the opportunity that brought us here, one of my hesitations was that I wasn't at all sure how much I'd enjoy living in Birmingham. Those doubts have long since been dispelled. I have now lived here for longer than I've lived anywhere else and find it hard to imagine ever moving away. I describe myself, confidently, as an adopted Brummie.

The map on my living room wall shows the countries of origin of everyone who has visited my home 

If my itchy feet have more-or-less stopped itching, and I have reached a point of being content to put down at least some kind of roots, it wasn't because I lost interest in learning about other cultures and meeting new people: it wasn't because I was ready to retreat to an "island". It was because I came to rest in a place where staying put continued to allow me to feel connected to the world, for my story to be interwoven with and enriched by the stories of so many others whose lives look different to mine. 

Birmingham's diversity, and the communities I am privileged to be a part of which are made up of friends and chosen family from across the globe are definitely a core part of why this place is home. I am deeply grateful for the colour and culture and conversation these friendships have brought into my life. Oh and food, did I mention all the good food?! Far from making me feel like a stranger, migration has played a huge role in me finding a place where my life feels vibrant and fulfilled, a place where I feel I belong. 

I know I am, against all the odds, an incorrigible optimist ... but I am not naïve. 

I know there are people from every wave of migration who have, for a wide variety of reasons found integration incredibly challenging and have turned inwards into segregated groups, and that this does need to be addressed. I know resources are stretched thin and public services have been stripped bare by the systematic concentration of wealth into fewer and fewer hands, which places pressures on communities for which we need to find genuine solutions. I know there are issues around community cohesion that need to be faced head on. 

But I also know that more and more restrictive migration policies, and a rhetoric around migration that presents it as problem rather than gift is not the solution.  

I know this both intellectually and emotionally. I know it to the very core of my being. 

I know it, because I live on an island of friends. 

Joseph is Missing - Christmas poem 2024

The Stories group Christmas party was a magical afternoon: Christmas dinner for 40 people, home-made cake and traditional Eritrean coffee, hilarious and highly-competitive games of pass the parcel, a visit from mother Christmas, music and conversation and laughter. There was a lot of noise and a lot of mess and at times utter chaos: but there were also plenty of people who by the end had helped restore some level of order. There was a whole lot of joy and a palpable sense of being community. 

At some point during it, Joseph went missing from the nativity scene.

A couple of days earlier, I'd had a smaller (all things being relative) gathering of ten for Christmas eve / day which had been also filled with so many beautiful moments, and during which the nativity scene had been augmented by home made shepherds and sheep and a wide variety of other toy animals. 

Another few days later we had another party ... one of the group had told me she had never had a birthday party or birthday cake so we were determined to give her a celebration to remember: another houseful (though only 33 this time!), more good food, more silly games, more music and dancing and karaoke and disco lights. Joseph did not reappear. The angel has now disappeared too.

In between times there were other lovely smaller gatherings with friends and family, and quiet days to myself with lots of preparing, sorting and tidying to do, but also space for the gathering of thoughts and space to rest and relax. 

I have often (last year being an exception) written a poem for Christmas and if I was going to write something this year, I really wanted it to capture the beauty of these Christmas celebrations with all these wonderful different people who I have in my life. I wanted it to capture the chaos and the joy, and perhaps a little of the in between downtime too. I wanted it to capture that this, for me, was a most fitting celebration of the incarnation and the kind of celebration Jesus would approve of and want to be in the midst of. 

The thought that "Joseph is missing" was a starting point which might capture some of that began to flicker around in my head. That, gradually became this, and as I am fully embracing the idea that the Christmas season lasts until Candelmas, I don't think it is too late to call it a Christmas poem.

Joseph is Missing

Joseph is missing
And the elephant, 

Yes, the one from the nativity scene,
Has lost a leg

He might turn up

But he wasn't under the table
With the widely-scattered popcorn

With the biscuit crumbs and sprinkles

Nor, seemingly, on the draining board

Or in a kitchen drawer

Put away 

Helpfully, unhelpfully, 

In the wrong place.

It's unlikely he's been eaten
But you never know

There was so much food

Which I'm sure tasted better 

Than a wooden Joseph
But nestled in the branches of the Christmas tree
A half-eaten bauble, 

Souvenir of another party,
Suggests others have different taste

He might turn up

Tucked amongst the tinsel, perhaps, 

Or at the bottom of a box

With the toy cars and the lego bricks

With the pencils, the pompoms and the plasticine

Or down the back of the sofa 

The one where Santa sat 

And inner children were embraced

He might turn up

But there's a pretty high chance
That as the music played

And the chaos reigned

He was bundled up, 

Helpfully, unhelpfully,

With the pass the parcel paper
And thrown away.

The elephant has, 

Definitely, 

Been thrown away
Sharp edges didn't pass the risk assessment to stay
But the zebras are still here
Worshipping the Christ-child
With the cows

And some time later
When the chaos has calmed
Fairy lights still twinkling like stars
The magi also arrive

And Joseph is still missing

But I can't help thinking
That looking out 

From this unconventional nativity scene

Jesus is smiling.

Love is a Rebellion

Back in the summer I wrote about Stories of Hope and Home's latest performance, on stage at the Birmingham REP, "Love is a Rebellion". Six months later, I am still incredibly proud of everyone involved in devising, writing and performing this incredibly powerful piece.

While it isn't quite the same as seeing it live, we are celebrating International Migrants' Day by making it available to watch online:  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbvEMb3XzMs

One of the things which has been particularly precious about this year's play is that it has had a life beyond the performance day itself, special thought that day was. In the months since, we have been able to share the piece with different people in a number of different ways: we performed it to 150 teachers on an INSET day, used it as a vehicle to structure the sharing of stories on our residential with primary head teachers, and did a 'play in a day', helping a group of Year 9 drama students perform it to younger students in their school. We are looking forward to further opportunities to share it with others to help them understand the realities of seeking sanctuary in the UK.

The song from the show, "Love is How we Rebel" quickly became something of a theme tune for our community and, again with help from Birmingham REP we were delighted to be able to record and release it. You can now stream it in all the usual places you listen to music, and after a somewhat faffy process it now has synced lyrics so you can even sing along too! 

Our performance from the previous year, In the Shadow of the Trees, is also available to watch online.

The Last of England

Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery has been closed since 2020, first for covid, and since then for rewiring and other such things which, it turns out, in a building of its size and age, is fairly complicated. It is gradually heading towards reopening and over the summer one part of it hosted an exhibition of the "Victorian Radicals" which some of the Stories group headed to see one August afternoon. 

Once a teacher, always a teacher ... so I can never organise a trip that doesn't involve a task to do on the way around! I asked the group to each pick out their favourite piece, and we gathered at the the end to compare notes and describe what we had chosen and why. Interestingly, there were almost no duplicates: we clearly have very varied artistic tastes! 

My own choice was "The Last of England" by Ford Madox Brown. 

The painting depicts a boat setting sail, leaving England, filled with people in search of a better life in Australia, featuring in the foreground a couple with their young child, barely visible, tucked inside the mother's shawl. 

To be honest, I don't think I could really call it my "favourite", at least not aesthetically: I definitely wouldn't want it on my wall. But nonetheless, it is the one I picked out. 

It's a painting I have stood in front of many times at the museum, and pointed out to many people. I'm still not sure whether I like it, really, but I find it strangely compelling and it always draws my eye. I used to discuss it with groups of ESOL students on trips from the Sanctuary. I did so again this summer with my Stories group friends: some of whom arrived here by boat in search of safety and the promise of a better life than the ones they left behind.

The people who get into small boats to try and reach Britain's shores do so because they believe in the promise of safety, freedom and human rights to be found on the other side. They are, in my experience, not naïve about the risks involved, and yet they make a judgement that it is still worth it.  

Likewise for the family in the painting, and the thousands of others like them who got into boats to escape Britain's shores, hoping that somewhere else held the promise of a better life. They too faced grave risks but chose or felt forced to do so, leaving behind all they had ever known to travel half way round the world in an era where there was no turning back. 

For many who arrive here, I know that what they find on arrival doesn't entirely live up to what they hoped and dreamt. I suspect the same was true for many who headed to Australia and America and elsewhere in Ford Madox Brown's day.  

But here we are.

Even though I wouldn't want it on my living room wall, I picked out "The Last of England" for its reminder that people always have and always will migrate and that I believe that (while I'd like people to be able to do so in ways that are far safer) the principle of migration is something to be celebrated not stopped. I chose it for its reminder that whatever the the pain and risks it involves, people will always find the courage to follow their dreams for the promise of a better tomorrow. It is part of being human and something in which we should rejoice: shouldn't we want people to strive for the very best for themselves and their children, qualities which, in other contexts, are admired and revered? I chose it for its reminder that there will always be boats: and for those of us who are lucky enough not to have ever felt we've had no choice but to get in one in order to live our life in safety and freedom, our responsibility is to offer as warm as possible a welcome to those who have. 

Five years

Last month marked 5 years since Stories of Hope and Home became a reality. In some ways, it doesn't feel anywhere near that long, but in other ways it has already far surpassed what I dreamed it might become. 

Our exact start date is somewhat disputed... wass it the moment the vague idea was voiced aloud, the writing of the first version of our constitution, the day we opened the bank account, designed the logo, set up our social media accounts, got our first grant, or held our first meeting...? One way or another, in autumn 2019, Stories of Hope and Home came to be and by March the following year we had welcomed over 30 different participants, visited multiple schools, had several trips and parties and our first slightly bonkers residential in Wales. The tone had been set, a family was being created. 

I have said many times since that if anyone is thinking of starting an organisation focused on building community which relies on spending time together over coffee and cake, then starting six months before a pandemic may not be the ideal time ... but then again, we are still here and still going strong, so maybe it was. 

As 2020 turned the world we knew upside down, our little community supported one another through some difficult days and survived to tell the tale of the zoom era. And then with risk assessments endlessly written and rewritten, as restrictions allowed we came back together: first outdoors, then 2 metres apart, and finally with hugs allowed once more. We have never looked back.

We have shared anger and frustration as we have watched a hostile system get ever harder to face, we have created safe space that has held many tears. But we have also laughed loud and laughed often. We have danced together and built beautiful friendships. We have shared hope and joy. We have welcomed many newcomers into our fold. We have engaged with thousands of children and young people, educators and others and gently (and at times less gently) challenged perceptions and misconceptions. I am convinced we have played a part in creating change. We have become a charity, published a book, performed on stage. We have eaten so much good food and drunk an uncountable number of cups of tea. Together we have done many incredible things, and touched many lives. Of all of it, I think the greatest achievement is that we have created a community that such a diverse group of people describe as their family. 

In early September, well over a hundred people turned out to celebrate together. I looked around a room filled with good food and friendship, filled with noise and mess and a fair degree of chaos, filled with joy and laughter and a palpable sense of community, filled with people from all over the world who I know face unimaginable struggles and yet who get up and keep going, people who have the courage to speak out and make a difference, people who look out for and care about one another, people who have allowed me to be part of the most incredible family.

Among the things I did in preparation for the celebration event, was spend time looking back over the preceding years. Whether or not it was the best use of time, I spent many happy moments scrolling back through old photos and adding up past statistics. 

Statistics are only ever going to tell a tiny part of what has been, and continues to be a beautiful story, which is mainly told through snippets of shared experience, but nonetheless...

(Almost all of these numbers are already out of date!)

I think it is ok that I am more than a little bit proud of what that germ of an idea has turned into. 

My heart is full. 

And there is so much more still to come.

The value of a life

Just over a week ago, news broke of a luxury yacht sinking in the Mediterranean. One person was confirmed dead, six missing, all of whose bodies were later found after extensive complex searches.

For several days it dominated the headlines. One of the days, when I checked the front page of the BBC news webpage, it accounted for the top six stories.

No-one, including me, is denying the tragic loss of life and the devastating impact on the family and friends of those who died. 

And yet, and yet.

By the end of May, in the Mediterranean, 880 deaths of people seeking safety had been recorded this year (so far). That statistic is likely to be an underestimate and will have increased significantly since. Many are never found, most never identified. 

There are no painstaking searches for bodies, no endless analysis of what went wrong, no interviews with families and friends. There are, mostly, no headlines. 

There is no recognition that each of those 880+ people is an individual human being with their own character, their own hopes and dreams, their own communities who care about them, and their own stories cut tragically short.

I know people who have made that journey.

Clearly, the people I know are those that survived, although many witnessed en route that others did not.

They tell stories threaded through with darkness, suffering, loss and fear. But they also tell stories imbued with hope and resilience. They tell stories which are fully human.

They have arrived here carrying their gifts and skills, their different personalities, and their dreams of rebuilding a life and contributing to the societies they are learning to try and call home. They carry, in many cases, terrible trauma, but they carry too an irrespressible zest for life.

I believe our communities are immeasurably enriched by their presence, and that our world is the poorer for the loss of all those who didn't make it. 

I believe their lives were / are worth as much as that of a millionaire and his friends.

It's hard to explore these subjects without the risk of it being misinterpreted, but it feels important to try. To at least ask the question as to how we got to a place where some lives are considered to be worth so much more than others. 

And after that 'starter for ten', to dare to ask how we might at least move in the direction of understanding that "All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights" (Universal declaration of human rights, Article 1) and then begin to act accordingly.

https://www.statista.com/statistics/1082077/deaths-of-migrants-in-the-mediterranean-sea/

Love is how we rebel!

On Thursday 18th July, Stories of Hope and Home took to the stage at Birmingham REP theatre with our latest performance, "Love is a Rebellion". As soon as the REP told us that the theme for their community festival this year was "Love and Rebellion" I knew we would be in our element! 

Early explorations of "what is love", "what is rebellion" and "where do they come together" generated some truly incredible discussions. As we started to devise what form our performance would take it became clear that the group wanted the focus this time to be on life in the UK asylum process. Much of what was shared spoke to where people were at and what they were feeling during what has been a particularly difficult year. As we began to shape the piece, we had some exceptionally challenging, but powerfully cathartic conversations about what the home office want from those trapped in its clutches. They did not hold back, and if anyone wonders how aware people seeking asylum might be of the the intentions and impacts of home office policies, the answer is they know exactly what it is all about. But we also reflected on the many gestures that help people to survive in the face of a hostile system. We explored how, in a system designed to divide, isolate and exclude, love is an act of rebellion.

For the first time since the very first play I facilitated which precipitated the creation of Stories of Hope and Home, this was an entirely 'in-house' creation (apart from some wonderful support from the tech / stage team at the REP on the day itself). There was a bit of overlap with those involved in devising and performing last year, but it also involved many who were new to the group and who came to the fore in expected and unexpected ways. It was, importantly, very much "us." 

In the midst of many moments when it felt quite hard to see how it would all come together, little by little a structure and script emerged. It was simple and understated: but didn't shy away from the challenges the participants wanted to share. Music was added: a piece of gentle background music ... but to those in the know, the hold music for Migrant Help which all those in the system, and all those who have walked alongside them have listened to for many more hours than they'd like. We also wrote the closing song: words drawn from our shared conversations, and with thanks to our very talented young volunteer for a catchy tune. It looks set to become something of an anthem for the group. 

We played around with movement and actions. Many of the on-stage interactions reflected keenly observed reproductions of their own lived experiences. Key cast members fell into place, other roles were gradually filled and endlessly switched around. Confidence grew and people stepped up in ways they might never have thought possible, which is always a very beautiful thing to watch and be part of.  We had, probably predictably, our first full run through with the complete final cast just three hours before the performance. But carried by energy, enthusiasm and a fair amount of talent, it worked, if I do say so myself, exceptionally well. 

Our previous performances have been to audiences of school children but the timing meant that wasn't possible this year and for quite a while we had no idea how much of an audience we would have. We knew that the experience of being on stage would still be incredible for the performers but it turns out we needn't have worried, as we had a brilliant turnout. One of the most special parts was that, having reached out to as many different charities and organisations in the sector as possible, a good proportion of the audience was made up of other people seeking sanctuary, and feedback from them suggested there was something beautifully beneficial in them seeing stories which resonated with their own experiences shared and celebrated on stage. Others in the audience spoke of being given shocking and important insights into a system and its impacts that they had not realised was so cruel and destructive. We are now talking and thinking about how we find ways to take what we believe was a truly special performance to a wider audience.  

Most important of all, it was clear that, despite the sometimes challenging subject matter, everyone on stage had a huge amount of fun, both in the preceding months and on the day itself. It worked, because it reflected the lived experience of this incredible community of people: in the challenges they face, and in the community we build and the ways we are together: that love is indeed how we rebel!

Dancing in the storm

With my previous blogpost having been entitled "after" the tsunami, you may notice that with this one I'm referring to being back in the storm. It is not a mistake: because although though that specific wave has subsided, I don't think it would be appropriate to suggest that the storm has passed for those subject to the hostile environment.

They, we, are still in the storm. But they, we are still dancing in the midst of it. 

The week before last was refugee week.

For a number of years it has been one of the busiest weeks of my year. This year, I would say, in terms of busy-ness, it stood out less. Not because it was any less busy, but because the previous weeks had been equally full-on, and the next few are looking relatively hectic too! 

What did set it apart though, was the sheer joyfulness of it. 

Don't get me wrong: the challenge and struggle were never far away. We did three school visits, all of which involved the sharing of difficult stories. We did three performances which didn't hold back from acknowledging the reality of the hostility faced by people seeking sanctuary in the UK. I still spoke with lots of individuals struggling with specific issues. There were still tears.

But there was also laughter.

And there was poetry and song, and the confidence of standing on a stage and knowing that your voice is being heard. There were reasons to celebrate, and excuses for parties with plenty of good food and friendship. There were signs of support and solidarity, in the sunshine and in the rain!. There was the building of community, the sharing of time. There was forgetting about it all and having a bit of fun.

And thus, in the midst of the storm, we danced! 

I reached the end of the week tired, but reminded that, joy, too, is a form of resistance, and, just as we said and sang: love is how we rebel*.

I did intend to write this more than a week ago, and therefore before the election which has perhaps also given us reasons to be tentatively hopeful, so this post really isn't about that, although there may be others to follow that are!  

* Love is a Rebellion is our performance at Birmingham REP this year, written and performed by Stories of Hope and Home it promises to be a wonderful show and if you are in Birmingham (or nearby), and would like to join us, you'd be most welcome! https://www.birmingham-rep.co.uk/whats-on/stories-of-hope-and-home/

After the Tsunami...

I am hesitant to speak too soon, but it seems the Rwanda plan, which has dominated my life in recent weeks, in terms of time, energy and headspace, may be dead and gone. Even if / when that proves to be the case, it has left a trail of devastation in its wake. When people have asked (or assumed) that the news of its demise must have come with a great sense of relief, and also a lessening of the hectic pace of the past few weeks, my response has been measured: yes, of course; but also, well no. 

I was in a meeting recently where someone described those few weeks after the Safety of Rwanda Law passed as having been like a tsunami. It seemed a very apt image. The damage in the moment was immense, but now that the wave has passed through, the clean-up operation is also going to be long and slow and difficult. We will be picking up the pieces for quite some time.

Some of that 'clear-up' is entirely practical. It is no secret that I am never the best at keeping on top of admin and my email inbox, but I am sure that I am not the only one now playing catch-up on a million 'not urgent' tasks, some of which have grown out of the response to the Rwanda plan itself, many more of which are a backlog which have built up and now acquired a certain urgency by having been even more neglected than usual. I know I now need to make a concerted effort to get my to do list back down to a manageable length ... but the clear-up after the wave is about much more than that.

It is also about the significant emotional impact that the last few weeks has had: on those at risk of the Rwanda plan, on those who were or are detained and those who saw it happen to their friends, on all those subject to immigration control even if not specifically at risk of Rwanda who were remined again of the cruelty of which these systems are capable, as well as on those of us trying to offer support in the midst of all the awfulness. Like the interminable jobs list, none of that is just going to go away. This too will take effort and energy and time and intention to begin to heal and rebuild. It will take care and conversation and community and the creation of safe spaces. And there will still be sore spots and scars that need to be acknowledged and held. 

And then, after the wave of destruction and the clear-up, there is is the creation of space to reflect on the 'what next'; on how we rebuild, how we build on the movement of solidarity and continue to fight against the hostile environment. Like many others, of course I greeted with joy the news that the Rwanda plan might be finished. We need to celebrate the victories, big or small. But my celebrations remain tentative, and not only because it isn't yet guaranteed. If this one particular facet of the hostile environment is on its way to being dismantled, the policies and rhetoric of hostility are not going away any time soon. The scapegoating and criminalisation of those who simply dared to seek safety began long before the Rwanda plan had been dreamt up, and continues apace. Marginally less bad can still be utterly awful for those trapped in this system. Taking an emergency response and turning it into a sustained movement for systemic change will take time and energy, but it will be time and energy well spent.

So yes, of course, I am very glad the wave has subsided. But the work still goes on!

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.