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.

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.

All the stuff. And all the other stuff.

It is hardly news to say that I have thrown myself whole heartedly into the good, the bad and the ugly of the migration sector and, specifically within it, the reality faced by those seeking sanctuary.

It is a reality which I will, fortunately, hopefully, never be able to fully understand, but I have walked alongside people enough to know it is a reality which is very, very hard and one which is constantly getting harder. On both a macro scale and a micro one, there is always, invariably, just one more thing. One more challenge, one more trauma, one more barrier placed in the way. 

In a different way to that which is the case for people living within the reality of its impact on their own lives, walking alongside people seeking sanctuary absorbs much of my time and energy. There are days that are full of joy and hope, and days which are much harder, but certainly my days are very full. All of this a choice I have made, and a choice I do not in anyway regret. It is challenging, frustrating and utterly heart-breaking. But it is also life-giving and utterly beautiful.  

Even within this narrow area of activity I am frequently aware of how much I still don't know or understand, and how much needs to be done that I am unable to do.

But this post isn't really about that stuff, its about all the other stuff.

It is about the fact that every time I look up and look around, I am constantly reminded that there are a million other issues too. And all too often, I am reminded that I am not doing anything about them at all. 

Some of them are issues I have engaged with more actively in the past. Others not so much. 

As a student, my first real awakening into social justice issues was through the trade justice movement, and I know unfair trade continues to destroy lives and livelihoods across the majority world. Trips abroad educated me further about global inequalities and their impacts. 

Later, I was involved in campaigning within the peace movement: against nuclear weapons and against the arms trade as a driver of conflict and destruction. Now a genocide is being committed in Palestine and other conflicts continue to proliferate, many of which aren't even considered newsworthy enough to make the headlines, despite the daily death tolls.

Living in Birmingham City Centre for several years I was daily confronted with the issue of the number of people experiencing homelessness. And the impacts of the housing crisis extend far beyond just those actually sleeping on the streets to all those living in precarious, temporary, exploitative accommodation. 

The area I now live in is best known as the home to Birmingham's prison: I am well aware that the justice system is deeply flawed and prison systems hideously broken.

Minority communities continue to face exclusion and abuse and if, in certain areas, there have been positive advances that do need to be recognised, many still experience daily micro-aggressions and others, such as the trans community, are watching hard-won rights being eroded and abuses increase. 

Birmingham City Council's declaration of bankruptcy has been followed by the announcement of devastating cuts to public services which will inevitably have the greatest impact on the poorest and most vulnerable residents. 

We are on a collision course towards catastrophic climate climate change and total environmental collapse which may well end civilisation as we currently know it and is already wreaking havoc in many parts of the world. . 

And that's just some of the ones that immediately spring to mind. There are many others.

I am not doing anything about any of these things. 

I know that they all matter. I am grateful to those for whom any of these, and other issues, are where they place their passion and energy.

A lot of the time, caught up in the things that fill my days, I admit to giving limited thought to how I could / should respond to or engage with all these other issues. When I do find myself thinking about it, mostly, I feel able to justify the value in what I am doing and make peace with the reality of all the stuff I can't do. I also understand that none of these issues stand in isolation and that often, our attitudes and actions in one area do, indirectly, impact on others. 

But of course it isn't always so simple. There is, at times, guilt, and self-doubt, and questioning whether I have my priorities right: whether there is more, or different, stuff I could or should be doing. There are not easy right and wrong answers to such questions. Saying this, or writing it down, isn't about beating myself up for the stuff I am not engaged with; on the contrary, being able to acknowledge what I am doing, and what I am not, what I can do, and what I can't, matters. Acknowledging and letting go feels far healthier than trying to pretend none of this stuff, or none of the internal questions about it, exist. 

Because that making peace isn't necessarily automatic. It doesn't just happen. It involves a certain amount of reflection and even, at times, conscious discipline. It continues to be something I wrestle with. I do not do it perfectly all of the time, but generally, I think I am doing it ok. 

This blogpost has been an unfinished draft for a very long time. It still feels fairly unfinished in some ways, but perhaps that's quite appropriate given the subject matter it is attempting to communicate.

HSBC: nothing to be proud of

Birmingham Pride took place last weekend. 

I have friends for whom Pride events are incredibly important. I recognise they are an important place of witnessing to the inclusion of and radical solidarity with a community that is so often forced into the margins. 

I understand the importance for everyone to feel seen, represented, celebrated; the more so for those who often aren't. I believe deeply in the importance of welcome and inclusion: for everyone but especially for those at the edges. I believe wholeheartedly in stretching wide the boundaries of who is included ... and then stretching them further until they snap altogether. 

I am also acutely aware, as a person of faith, it is perhaps even more important, given the damage continuing to be done by the churches (and other faith communities) to the LGBTQ+ community that I nail those colours to the mast on this specific issue of inclusion even more publicly. 

I hope I find ways to do so. 

Birmingham Pride is not one of them. Even in the years the Pride Parade passed my front door, and was a member of a church which was actively visible at Birmingham Pride, I made a conscious choice not to participate. I do not necessarily need to justify this, but I want to. 

You see Birmingham Pride is sponsored by HSBC, and for all its rainbow window displays and beautifully written slogans, HSBC is not a force for good in the world. It is not a bastion of the kind of world and welcome I believe in. 

Climate change, the greatest existential threat to the future of humanity and our planet, is exacerbated by HSBC (and others) continuing to bank roll the fossil fuel industry and other extractive, exploitative industries.

HSBC remain guilty of massively financing the arms trade that fuels global conflict and keeps despotic regimes in power, (including, lets be honest, regimes whose approach to sexuality and gender identity is the very antithesis of the values of Pride). 

Big banks and the culture they create, are at the heart of facilitating the destructive practices which keep the poorest in our society, and the poorest in the world, locked into cycles of debt and powerlessness: helping the rich get ever richer while those at the bottom continue to suffer. 

This is not a well researched post with all the facts and figures and details about their investments and practices, but it is something I know to be true. Selling out to big banks and big business has no place in the world of radical inclusion I believe in, and that Pride at its best promotes.

I think Pride is a good thing: any public protest against HSBC's sponsorship of it would be at risk of being misconstrued as an objection to Pride itself so clearly I was never going to do that. So perhaps this private act of objection benefits no-one, perhaps it just sounds like an excuse to not walk in solidarity with a community who need support. But sometimes we have to do what we believe to be right even if it makes no difference and goes entirely unnoticed. Perhaps that's why I am writing this, too.

So I'm sorry: to all those who needed last weekend, and at whose side I should perhaps have been standing. I wasn't there, and this is why. On behalf of a whole other group of excluded and vulnerable people who are victims of the corruption of power and money, I couldn't. 

The stories we hear, and those we don't

Several weeks ago, from an already uneasy peace, violence erupted in Sudan's capital Khartoum. Against a backdrop of negotiations and supposed ceasefires, violence has continued and spread to other parts of the country. And while military leaders vie for supremacy, the innocent population suffers.

All of this made a brief appearance on the front page of the BBC news website and in various media headlines.

For a little longer, you could consistently find it if you made the effort to go to the world news pages. Now, even there, it is mostly hidden away.

While my Sudanese friends scour the internet for news of the conflict, while they try to maintain contact with loved ones, while they wait anxiously to know if those they care about are ok, while, in some cases, they hear the news they dread... the conflict has all but disappeared from our news, and probably for many people, from our consciousness. 

One of the things somebody said to me when they witnessed the outpouring of compassion in response to the Ukraine crisis last year was words to the effect of "of course people here don't care as much about us, they don't even know about the war in my country" I had little to offer by way of comfort. I knew it to be true.

And here we are again.

There has been no extended family reunion offer, no homes for Sudan scheme, no fast-track way to refugee status for the Sudanese people languishing in the asylum system. No airlines or Eurostar offering free travel tickets and safe passage, no collection boxes in every corner, no flags flying, no social media awash with the colours of Sudan. 

And yes, there have been, there are, people calling for at least some semblance of equality between those fleeing this conflict as those fleeing another, but without the same mass outpouring from all corners of society that couldn't be ignored it seems little will happen. 

I am obviously not criticising that all those things happened when Russia invaded Ukraine: it was a beautiful show of solidarity and compassion. But maybe I am questioning why they aren't happening again now. 

Do we care less? Possibly. Do we know less? certainly. Is their conflict, their suffering less? Probably not. Are their lives somehow worth less? Absolutely not.

---

Two of my friends have told me about family members who have been killed. 

Another was telling me about his family moving away from Khartoum and while he is happy they are hopefully in a safer place, there is no internet or phone coverage where they have fled to, so he has lost contact and doesn't know when he will next have news of them. 

I have watched people struggle, trying not to be overwhelmed with fear and sadness, and the guilt of being safe and powerless to help.

---

Someone I used to teach contacted me recently. Her sister, trapped in Khartoum, has an ill child who, due to the hospitals being either closed, or overrun or not having supplies or all of the above can't get the medical care they need.

She wanted to know what form she should fill in to bring them over here so the child could continue their treatment. If she was Ukrainian it would be that simple. And rightly so. 

Because she is Sudanese, the reality is there is nothing she or I can do. She wants, even expects me to have an answer, to have something to suggest, some grain of hope. I have forwarded her a petition,  helped her write a letter to her MP: I suspect it won't help but I guess partly I don't want to be the person to take away the little hope that something might be done, to say that my country doesn't want to help.

If that child dies for want of the medication to keep them well, they will not officially be a victim of the war. They will not officially be a victim of fortress Europe and Britain's hostile environment. In reality they will be both. 

Hers is one untold story. There will be thousands more. 

What should I say to her the next time she calls?

I am not shocked

Recently I was at a hotel being used to accommodate people seeking asylum. As people arrived and left they said a number which was duly noted down on a list. I presume the justification was some kind of fire register.

It made me deeply uncomfortable. 

Perhaps it was because it was shortly after Holocaust Memorial Day where images of individuals with numbers tattooed on their bodies were much in evidence, or perhaps simply because I know these people as individuals with names and stories; I found it extremely troubling ... 

And yet I wasn't shocked.

I think I have lost the ability to be shocked by anything at all in relation to the hostile environment.

I don't think that means I have become hardened by my exposure to these realities, or desensitised to the suffering ... on the contrary I continue to experience deep emotions in relation to what I see my friends experience on a daily basis.

I am often frustrated, angry, outraged. At times I feel a deep sense of guilt and shame that these things are perpetrated in my name. I have been reduced to tears, or held them back out of respect for those living with these realities.

But shock implies something unexpected and sadly, though I wish it were not so, it seems there is nothing that surprises me about the way we as a country (and the west more widely) respond to the desperate people who turn to us seeking sanctuary.

While I was reflecting on this I saw a tweet by UNHCR expressing that they were shocked and saddened about the deaths of a group of asylum seekers in Europe's borders. Perhaps they were. Perhaps it was just a turn of phrase. 

I wish I had been shocked. Just as I wish I had been shocked when the bodies of 21 people were fished out of the English channel. 

And it's not just about the stories that make the headlines, I also wish I was shocked by all the little individual stories of suffering which are never going to make the news but which impact on the lives of those I care about every single day. 

I wish I was shocked about the person in a wheelchair who has no step-free access to their accommodation. I wish I was shocked that there are people who have been stuck in inadequate "contingency accommodation", unable to so much as cook a meal for themselves, for more than a year. I wish I had been shocked when a mum and new born arrived in their accommodation to find the heating was broken. I wish I was shocked when people are counting in years rather than months how long they are waiting to be interviewed by the Home Office, let alone receive a decision on their claim. I wish I was shocked when people are ripped away from their communities to be taken to accommodation many miles away in other parts of the country with no thought to the impact on their wellbeing. The list goes on.

I wish I was shocked by those individual human beings who are finding themselves identified by a number. 

But there is something else which used to take me by surprise and no longer does, but which I am determined always to celebrate and never to take for granted ...

I am also no longer shocked by the hope and resilience, by the generosity and open-heartedness, and by the capacity for laughter and joy I see in the midst of all this too. 

Of asylum reform

I don't often let twitter make me cry.

But today the Home Secretary unveils her overhaul of the asylum system. I am spending too much of the day scrolling through twitter and feeling depressed about the state of our nation. I guess there is some light relief from the fact that bumbling around in my echo chamber means that in amongst the sharing of the government's horrendous policy suggestions are the shoots of opposition and resistance.  

I would be the first to acknowledge that it is a system in need of an overhaul. The first to suggest it needs to be made fairer and more humane.

Despite the posturing, these proposals are neither of those things. Please do not be misled by the framing of being compassionate and welcoming to "legal refugees", please do not be sucked into the good immigrant / bad immigrant narrative.

The discourse, and its popularity, is deeply disturbing and all of us, not only those who have the privilege to be actively engaged with those seeking sanctuary should be worried by the direction it takes us. Coupled with the dismantling of our rights to disagree and protest, I fear we are heading towards dark and dangerous times. 

There is so much to say on this subject. And yet, mostly, right now, I have no words.

Except to say this:

These people of whom she speaks are those who have immeasurably enriched my existence. They are my community. They are my friends. 

Today they are being told that they, and those who come after them are a little less welcome, a little less safe.

I am sorry.

Choosing our narratives

I spend a lot of time thinking about stories: about what stories we tell and how we tell them: about who tells those stories and to whom, and who gets to frame the narratives.

Earlier this week I attended an excellent workshop as part of the Refugee Week Slow Conference which focused on storytelling ... and identifying and unpacking both the power and the problems of inviting and encouraging asylum seekers and refugees to share the first-hand stories of their lives.

Little of what was said was new to me ... this is, after all, what I try to do and while I'm sure I have made many mistakes along the way, I was reassured that much of what I hold to be important was reflected in the speakers' contributions.

A lot of it was about process and not just product. A lot of it was about ownership and agency. 

And a lot of it was about simply creating a space that respects the humanity of each individual. Any of us may sometimes find ourselves speaking as the "representative" of a group or type, but all of us, also want to be heard as speaking simply for ourselves.

Some of that touches on moving away from how migration stories are very often framed: the good immigrant / bad immigrant; worthy / unworthy; legal / illegal narrative. The narrative that starts by suggesting the migrant protagonist of the story must be either victim or villain or hero. A narrative which is unhelpful because most migrants, like most of the rest of us, are none of those, or perhaps a mixture of all of them. Our humanity encompasses our flaws and failings, our suffering and our triumphs. 

*     *     *

In another of my many zoom calls this week, a Lenten liturgy session, we were invited to reflect on forgiveness. Among other things, the person leading commented on the fact that knowing what we do about child development, about the teenage brain, and about everything hormonally, socially, emotionally, that teenagers are going through; they are generally much easier to forgive than adults. She suggested that perhaps we should reflect on how we could learn to offer that same grace that we feel able to give to them to ourselves and one another in adulthood. At least that's my memory or interpretation of it.

*     *     *

So all of these thoughts, and others, have been floating around my mind this week when today I found myself scrolling through the Stories of Hope and Home twitter feed. It is mainly made up of refugee charities and campaign groups, the odd immigration lawyer, with the occasional faith or arts organisation mixed in for good measure. I am well aware it is an echo chamber which doesn't represent public opinion. For at least some of those I follow, today's hot topic was the supreme court judgement in the latest stage in the Shamima Begum case.

In case you missed it: the edited highlights (as far as my non-legal brain understands them) are that this was not a ruling about whether or not she should have been stripped of her British citizenship but on whether she should be allowed to enter the UK in order to make that appeal. And the upshot is that despite acknowledging that it means she will not be able to have a fair appeal process, that is not sufficient reason for her to be allowed to come to the UK to contest the case. For any more than that, Free Movement offers a much fuller commentary of what it is all about.

To my mind there are a few facts which need to be remembered. 

She has Bengali heritage but was born and brought up in the UK and has never lived in Bangladesh, the other country for which she is potentially entitled to citizenship. When she travelled to Syria to join ISIS she was legally a child at just 15 years old. Whether it was her own fault or other wise, she has suffered an extremely traumatic six years including, while still a teenager herself, giving birth to and losing three children.

More than any of that, she is, as should not be forgotten, a human being. This too is a fact.

Alongside the facts there are lots of very, very strong opinions about this case. I know. And plenty of suppositions too. 

Perhaps she was a victim, groomed and abused by others who exerted power over a vulnerable young person. Perhaps she was phenomenally stupid, with consequences that turned to be somewhat more far reaching than the phenomenally stupid decisions of lots of other fifteen year olds. Perhaps she actually intentionally and deliberately acted in ways that were very, very wrong and destructive. 

Perhaps she is still a risk to national security, and perhaps she isn't. Perhaps she should have to face some kind of justice or accountability for her actions. Perhaps that needs to be in the country where, whatever the circumstances surrounding it, she made the decision to travel to a warzone and join the side we hold to be the enemy. 

Perhaps she needs a whole lot of help and support. Perhaps her experiences have given her something she could offer back to others.  

Perhaps some mixture of all of the above is true. Perhaps none of it is

Even in the worst case scenario that she is in fact a very unpleasant person who poses some level of risk to the rest of us ...

There are plenty of unpleasant people who I would still argue should have the right to a fair trial; who I would not want to see stripped of the citizenship of the country of their birth; who I think should still have their human rights respected rather than dismissed as secondary considerations. 

There are plenty of unpleasant people who can still be forgiven, who still have some hope of redemption. 

There are plenty of unpleasant people who are still human.

I wish we as a nation had remembered something of Shamima Begum's humanity before we turned this child into a pariah. Before we decided that someone else was always going to be able to frame the narrative. Before our home secretary, upheld by our highest court, ruled that whoever else is going to be given ownership and agency in telling this story, it won't be her.

(If you want a powerful and coherent explanation of why the removal of anyone's citizenship is problematic: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/nov/17/unbecoming-british-kamila-shamsie-citizens-exile)

Saying goodbye

On the 31st December 2019 I was walking along the spectacular coast path of northern Cornwall. It was also, officially, my last day at St Chad's Sanctuary.

In reality, my last 'proper' work day was ten days earlier when I had helped welcome seventy children, and their parents, to a Christmas party: complete with Santa, pass the parcel, and a scratch nativity play; to a room filled with noise and mess and laughter and joy.

Last Sunday I gathered together with some of the many, many friends I have worked alongside there, to mark the end of an era.

You cannot possibly have either known me personally over the last few years, or have followed this blog, without understanding that this place has been hugely important to me. It is where I met many of those I am privileged to now call my friends. It has played a significant part in Birmingham becoming a place I call home.

Deciding that the time was right to part company was, therefore, never going to be easy. There were, predictably, tears. There was a period of angst and uncertainty. But, in the end, for all the sadness, I am at peace that I have made the right decision. Of course there are many things, and people, and activities, that I miss. I'm sure there will be for many weeks (months, years ...) to come.

But there is much I will not miss ... because while I am saying goodbye to St Chad's Sanctuary, I am not going to be saying goodbye to much of what it has given me. There are many, many friends, who, I hope and trust will still be part of my life. The passion it has given me for campaigning about asylum issues and caring about those caught up in the struggle has not diminished. The desire to build supportive, inclusive community which offers safe space to hold both the beauty and challenge of life has not changed. All of that I will take with me, into the new projects I am trying to build and more importantly, I hope, into my approach to the kind of life I am trying to live. And tea. I will continue to drink countless cups of tea.

I will always carry a deep gratitude for St Chad's Sanctuary and all it has given me. In the past six and a half years I have learned a huge amount and grown much. I have discerned and deepened a sense of vocation, discovering and refining where my gifts and enthusiasms lie. Until recently, St Chad's Sanctuary was the right place to fulfill that vocation. Now, new adventures call. My head is already fast filling up with new ideas and possibilities; my diary is already fast filling up with new activities and commitments; and my heart is already overflowing with the love and energy to continue.

The farewells have been said, but the work is only just beginning.

*            *            *

I somehow feel I can't write a blogpost entitled 'saying goodbye' without at least a passing reference to the fact that there was that other significant farewell last week too: the one from an institution which, for all its deep flaws, (and however much I would like us to still be in the EU I'm not going to start pretending it was / is perfect), at least partly tried to stand for a sense that we are better together. 

So I will mourn the small inconveniences it will cause me, but more importantly I will mourn for the attitude of insularity it portrays and the insidious injustices that will cause to many much more vulnerable than myself. But while it is ok to make space to mourn, now is not the time to curl up in a ball and weep... now is the time to stand up and be counted.

The farewells have been said, but the work is only just beginning!

Election reflections

I started writing this post a while ago, when the election results were still a very fresh memory invoking very raw emotions. Since then, other priorities and activities mean reflecting on it has easily slipped down the agenda. There are still things I want to say.

Late on that Thursday evening, after the exit poll but while a small glimmer of hope was still alive before the results were actually confirmed, I wrote the following as my facebook status:

Tonight could be very depressing ...

Were it not for the fact that democracy is not just, and not even mostly, about what happens in the polling stations. It is about the choices we make every day. About the lives we choose to live.

So yes, I'll stay up shouting at the television tonight.

But tomorrow I will stand up and do my bit to create the kind of world in which I want to live. It might be a bit harder, but it will still be worth the effort. I am not giving up.

I wrote it because I needed to find a way to remain hopeful and believe I can still make a difference in a society which felt a little more broken than it did the day before. I wrote it because this is the reality we find ourselves in and I know that just blaming "the other" who voted for a set of values I find impossible to understand ultimately isn't helpful. Most of all, I wrote it because I really believe it to be true.

Those words remain at the heart of where I am at in relation to what happened on election night. They remain my most coherent reflection, but I have, unsurprisingly, had plenty of other thoughts too. Despite the elapse of time, my disparate collection of thoughts have not coalesced into some kind of succinct discourse; and if I wait until they form some kind of coherent reflection, the moment will have passed (to some extent,since I started writing this, it feels a little like it already has!), so I thought I'd just share them as random snippets, for what they are worth, just as they are:

*          *          *

I know I am very privileged that my every day reality provides me with many opportunities to help try and create this 'better place' I say I believe in. The tomorrow of which I wrote on Thursday night, mostly involved teaching twenty-something refugee and asylum-seeking children who are waiting for school places. Some of them have been waiting several months for a school place in a system that is clearly not really able to cope, many of them are living in temporary accommodation, in some cases in one room in hostel accommodation with no kitchens, no washing machine. I know their lives are not about to get any easier, and I may not be able to do much about that. I also know that for those couple of hours they learned new words, they shared ideas, they built friendships with each other, they smiled and they laughed. I know that is a good thing.

*          *          *

It feels like on Thursday simplistic certainty won over nuance and compromise. Whatever else one can say about the winning election campaign (and there is much I could write on the subject) it was unquestionably successful. Like the Brexit campaign before it, the strategy of choose a simple message, repeat it endlessly regardless of the topic you are supposed to be discussing, the question you have been asked, seemed to work. And if I found the failure to drop the stuck record intensely irritating ... I guess that didn't matter, because I was never the target audience. My immediate temptation, I think, was to wish that "my side" had perhaps done the same: found a simple, catchy repeatable message to hammer home. Given how election campaigns and media soundbite collection works, maybe some of that would have had value ... But at a deeper level, I know, ultimately, that isn't the solution. It is not what I want. I do not want a political game that is reduced to who can come up with the catchiest slogan. I do not want further polarisation of an already divided society. I want to remind myself not to give up on nuance, and complexity, and grey areas, and doubt.

*          *          *

Fear is an extremely powerful force. I've written about that before. I probably don't need to do so again now, but this election reminded me again of how significant a force it is in the way our society operates, and therefore how important it is, in lots of different situations, to resist succumbing to it. The election result didn't happen in a vacuum: lots of other decisions and scenarios where fear is allowed to dominate discourse have brought us to where we are. I think the message that love overcomes fear, the challenge to not be afraid, lies at the heart of the gospel call. I will continue to aspire to heed it.

*          *          *

One of the conversations I had with someone the day after the election was about the fact that I and others, were quite openly sharing our disappointment and disagreement with the election result. It was one of multiple conversations in recent weeks with those for whom government repression on a scale I in my privilege will undoubtedly never experience, has been a very tangible reality. Those conversations stand as a rallying call: that apathy or running away is not a solution. I remain in an immensely privileged position and it comes with a great responsibility to struggle for those who, in myriad different ways, don't share that privilege.

*          *          *

If fear is an extremely powerful force,the desire to find someone to blame is an incredibly powerful temptation. 'Othering' and creating scapegoats to shoulder the blame has been a powerful political tool which has, in my opinion helped bring us to where we are... but for those of us who are unhappy with the results said election, the desire to apportion blame to those whose choices were different to our own is also a strong one. In some cases, and in some ways, that is possibly / probably justified. Democracy works on the assumption that people can take responsibility for their choices. But what to do when you have the deep sense that many of those who voted for the current government have and will suffer more as a consequence than I will, protected as I am by my privilege? And if I blame "them" in the way they blamed "the other" in the way they voted, am I not just perpetuating the same story that there always has to be someone to blame, and that someone is always someone else.

*          *          *

I have struggled to try and understand why it seems so many people are voting against their own best interests. Don't get me wrong: I get that there's a place for voting or acting against your own interests: for choosing to take the "preferential option for the poor", choosing to do what is best for those weaker or more vulnerable or more in need than ourselves even when it is against our own personal benefit. But to vote / act for something that is less good for ourselves than it is for those already richer or more powerful than ourselves? I have really struggled to make sense of that. I have more to say on that subject, I think, probably. But that might be a post in its own right at some point.

*          *          *

Enough. I think. For now at least.

Musings on care for the climate

My rational brain tells me that, of all the issues which currently confront us, and let's be honest,the list is quite long, climate change is the most significant. It is both the biggest threat, in that it bears the potential for the total destruction of life as we know it; and the most imminent, in that if we don't do something soon, it will probably be too late to do anything at all. That being the case, I know there is an urgency to this issue which surpasses that of other concerns.

At events and in discussions relating to climate change, that is what I will say: that this is an emergency on which I feel compelled to act. And it is, and I do. I am trying to reflect (with varying degrees of success) on at least some lifestyle choices which will have a positive impact on reducing my carbon footprint. I played a (tiny) part in the Extinction Rebellion protests in London. I marched for the climate with the school strikers and will probably do so again.

And yet ... while this is rationally true, I have to confess it is not the issue about which I feel the most passionate. What ever my brain tells me, somewhere deep in my gut this is not the issue which most stirs my emotions; it is not the issue about which I get most angry, fearful or sad.

I guess one of the things I am trying to figure out is both why not, and whether that is ok.

While my head tells me that all my campaigning energy should be directed to fighting climate change, my heart insists that it is the prevalence of global conflict exacerbated by the global arms trade; the insidious rise of ever-greater financial inequalities; and the creeping, gradual acceptance of destructive, divisive, racist political ideologies which demand my attention.

I know, ultimately, that all of these things matter and that all are interrelated in complicated ways. I know that no social justice issue can be fought in isolation and I guess I will continue to struggle with knowing I can't do it all, and with assessing and evaluating where my energy is best directed. I suspect it will be a lifelong struggle. I think I am prepared to keep struggling.

#GlobalClimateStrike

Yesterday was the global strike for the climate and I knew I wanted to be there. To stand in solidarity with those who would gather here in this place, and in so many other places across the planet. I don't know whether any of this is going to make any difference. I worry that we are too wedded to our greed and privilege to really take the steps needed to avert the catastrophe. I still want to be able to believe that I tried.

Friday is a day I teach at the Sanctuary, though, so it didn't really feel appropriate to strike from teaching refugee kids for whom I am fighting for the right to an education! My plan was to teach my class, and then head down to join the Birmingham protest.

Until I realised that this was a youth-lead strike, and my students might have better reasons than most for understanding the issues and wanting a better future. So I wrote a risk assessment, filled bottles of water (reusable ones, obviously) and rapidly replanned my lesson, to spend the first half of it talking about climate change and the global climate strikes, and the second half joining the climate procession with my little class of teenagers and nearly teenagers.

They did need to be given some vocabulary to know what it was about. The word climate was new to most of them. The word protest, likewise.

But the concepts of both were deeply familiar.

Despite hesitant English they could speak about experiences of protest, both peaceful and violent. And while they might need me to supply the words, they didn't me to explain the impact of climate change: for them it is not some future possibility, but a current reality; summed up for me in this contribution to the conversation "My dad is a farmer in Sudan. There is not enough rain any more."

And so we set off. To play our part. To stand together with others who care.

For these kids, climate change is a matter of life and death in a very real sense. Taking part with them made it all the more meaningful for me. It was a privilege to march alongside them.

Juxtaposed

The Friday before last I abandoned my usual responsibilities and headed to London. The reason for the trip was Westminster Abbey's decision to host a service of 'celebration' or 'thanksgiving' for 50 years of 'continuous at-sea deterrent' (for which read, nuclear weapons with the potential to annihilate the planet and its population). Stepping out of my routine on a "school day" isn't something I decide to do lightly, but it felt necessary to be outside Westminster Abbey that day.

I wish, when I had first heard about the event, I had been shocked by it: sadly, I wasn't. Sadly, while it seemed indescribably far from my understanding of the Christian Gospels, it fitted rather better than it should have done with my impression of where the institutional church aligns itself to the powers of empire. I was glad, relieved even, that many of those I told about the event, were in fact shocked that the church (or to be fair one particular, peculiar facet of it) would even dream of doing such a thing.

For me the message of the gospels is crystal clear: Jesus calls us to a ministry of peace. I do not believe that peace is achieved through the threat of violence, but through this radical invitation to love, not only our kin, our community and our neighbours, but even our enemies.

I have, haven't we all, heard the argument that nuclear weapons have, in fact, brought peace. I disagree. For one thing, I don't think the threat of aggression and a semblance of security is in fact peace. Peace is something much deeper,and much more beautiful. More importantly still, I fear that in creating a myth of peace for the wealthy west based on fear, separation, exclusion and the exporting of conflict to be played out in proxy wars in those places where we have decided the human lives have less value; denies the reality of the experiences of many of the world's population. My vision of peace is one which is found in genuine justice and freedom; and it encompasses all of my brothers and sisters,wherever they may be in the world. My vision of peace does not include having the possibility to deploy weapons of mass destruction at a moment's notice.

With attention drawn to the event and media coverage questioning the Abbey's decision to host it, lip-service was paid to it not being about celebrating the potential for mass destruction of this abhorrent weaponry. In the end though, the ringing of the celebratory bells as the invited guests poured out of the Abbey belied all the conciliatory words, and showed its true colours: that at least those sections of the church, monarchy, government and military who gathered in that place, at that time, wanted to celebrate the fact that we could wipe out the world at the flick of a switch.

All of which is, to some extent, preamble for the blogpost I was actually planning to write, which was going to be based on being asked, multiple times, variants on the question "did you enjoy it?" And on my struggle with exactly how it was appropriate to answer.

Because yes, actually, I did. In many ways I had a really lovely day. Much of it was good fun, and there was plenty of energy among those of us who had gathered outside in protest. I believe praying for peace, especially in such contexts, always has beauty and value. I met up with many friends, people who I am glad I know and people who continue to inspire me by their commitment to peace. I had good conversations. I spent a day outdoors in the fresh (ish) air and it didn't rain. It felt like a positive and important gathering and I was glad that the media showed an interest. My personal highlight was the chance to tell a whole bunch of French school kids (and their teachers) about why we were there (probably not a part of the standard London school trip they were expecting but they seemed reasonably interested!)

So yes, I did enjoy it, very much so, but to just say yes feels like it fails to express the complexity of my emotions about the day. I'm not sure I have the right words to describe how I felt, but it's definitely more complicated than just saying I had a nice time. Given that the service in the Abbey was going ahead, I was very glad to be there but I wish, to the very core of my being, that no church would ever even contemplate hosting such an event, rendering the presence of those of us outside superfluous.

For all the joy and sense of hope which such gatherings inspire, there was also something almost sickening about seeing and hearing the glorification of destructive potential, the more so for the fact it was happening in a church, a space in which it should have been the absolute antithesis of what is acceptable as a cause for celebration. The medals and uniforms, the pomp and ceremony, the ringing of the bells, ... It all felt so very, very wrong; so very out of kilter with how I want the world to be: so yes, I enjoyed the day, but I somehow at the same time felt deeply uncomfortable that that was the case.

Whatever the complexities of describing how I felt, I am sure it was the right place to be.

Investing in Peace

Following weekly vigils in Advent and Lent, Midlands Christian Action (MiChA) the small Christian Peace group we are helping to try and establish has again been holding space outside HSBC, with the aim to have a regular presence, perhaps once a month. We are usually only few in number, and we gather only briefly. Simple prayers, a few placards, leaflets to explain what we are doing to passers-by. It is a tiny drop in the ocean. It feels like an important one.

It is undoubtedly immediately obvious why peacemakers would protest or vigil outside the DSEi arms fair where regimes and companies from around the world come to buy and sell weapons, or why we might place ourselves outside ROXEL, our local bomb-building factory. For some, it seems, the link is perhaps less obvious to HSBC. Engagement with those who stop to speak to us frequently includes responding to questions about why we are there.

I know why I think standing outside HSBC is an important place to be. I know why I believe thinking carefully and making difficult decisions about what to do with our money, as communities and as individuals really, really matters. So this is my attempt to explain it in slightly more detail than the two minute conversations with those who stop to ask.

As part of the peace movement I think, if anything, drawing attention to the role and involvement of finance in the workings of the arms industry is even more important than witnessing outside the factories that build the bombs and the fairs that sell them.

Whether we like it or not, capitalism is the system which currently dictates how our world operates: it dictates our political and economic systems, controls our media, and has seeped in to the majority of our thinking as the "only possible way" to operate.

Financial pundits often seem to want us to believe that the inner workings of capitalism are immensely complicated, and send out the message that we should leave it to the experts who, they hint, have our very best interests at heart. But at its core, capitalism is also incredibly simple: it is based on the premise that capital (the having of money or stuff) should generate more capital (more money or stuff).

As such, I believe, financial involvement in the arms trade, in environmentally destructive practices, in industries which fail to respect human rights and dignity, is not simply an inconvenient by-product: it is the very driving force of making those industries continue to exist and expand.

With some notable exceptions (Triodos, Oikocredit, Shared Interest...) I don't think financial institutions usually choose which industries they invest in for any deep ideological reasons: they choose to invest in things which they believe can make their capital generate more capital, in sectors which they believe are profitable, or which they believe they can influence to be profitable.

If money is to create more money, it relies on selling more stuff. If money is invested in industries whose purpose is destruction and death, then selling more stuff relies on creating more destruction and death. The desire for financial gain from the arms industry is dependent on promoting the proliferation of conflicts, on entrenching divisions, on accelerating militarisation, on reinforcing a message of fear which is contrary to the gospel promise of freedom and love.

HSBC invest obscene sums of money in industries with whose very existence I fundamentally disagree. It is not just them, of course. There are numerous other financial institutions: banks, pension schemes, investment portfolios which are complicit in the exacerbation of global conflict, of human rights abuses, of the destruction of our finite planet. They are guilty too. If we choose to stand outside HSBC it is partly because the global scale of their operation means they are a major player and could be a real game changer in redesigning our economy from one which promotes death to one which enhances life. It is partly because they have just moved their HQ to Birmingham so it feels like an appropriate target. It is partly because just because we can't be everywhere doesn't mean we shouldn't be somewhere.

Our next vigil is on Wednesday 18th July at 8.30 - 9.30am and all are welcome to join us.

A People's Weapons Inspection

Yesterday morning involved a very early start to be here, outside the gates of the Roxel factory near Kidderminster. This "People's Weapons Inspection" set out to investigate the suspicion that propulsion technology for missiles built here, not so very far from where we live, will, in coming weeks and months, be used to power death and destruction in the deadly conflict in Yemen; where there are well documented reports of war crimes and the breaking of international humanitarian law.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P1_ZC0X-D4A&feature=emb_logo)

Easter is the Season of Light. The Resurrection is about bringing into the light that which is hidden and about bringing light and life into places of darkness and death.

The energy of yesterday felt like a witness to both of those things: in the making visible of the turning of the wheels of war which is happening, hidden in plain sight, virtually on our doorstep; and in the beautiful creativity of people of good conscious offering time and energy to stand against the powers of darkness.

This is Easter. And this was exactly the right place to be.

Litany of Resistance

During Lent, as during Advent we have been holding a prayer and protest vigil outside HSBC for one hour each week. This time we have opened and closed the time there by praying together the "Litany of Resistance." You can read it in full here.

It is a very powerful prayer which speaks to and of a God who weeps with the suffering of the world, those who are still being crucified by systems and practices which promote death rather than life.

As we have repeated the words each week, one phrase more than any other has spoken to me:

"With the violence of apathy; we will not comply"

I guess it's the juxtaposition of two words which might seem at first glance to be incompatible which seared it in to my consciousness.

Apathy holds a sense of inactivity, of nothingness. And yet I guess this statement stands as a reminder of the fact that to do nothing is to side with the powerful; to choose not to engage is a privilege only the powerful have.

I can only ignore the devastating effects of climate change, the horrific implications of trading in weaponry for profit, the horrifying reality of the "hostile environment for migration", the desperate poverty created by the extraction of resources or imposition of complicated trading legislation, the anxiety and fear caused by cuts imposed by austerity,  because I am one of the privileged few.

I can only say I do not have the energy or the time to fight those battles because to not do so has only a limited, if any, impact on the life I can lead.

And so it stands as a call: not to stick a sticking plaster on a gaping wound, but to find ways to speak against a rhetoric of fear and exclusion and hatred of the other; to find ways to challenge systems and structures of destruction and death; to stand, as God does, with those being 'crucified' today and offer the hope of resurrection.

I find it a deeply beautiful phrase because it reminds us of the potential we have to make a difference. I find it a deeply challenging phrase because I know I have a very long way to go.

The Antidote (part 1)

December can be a particularly depressing time to live in Birmingham city centre. I realise this is not exactly a cheery upbeat beginning to a blogpost, sorry. But December in Birmingham city centre, even more so than the rest of the year, becomes a frenzy of consumerist excess which seems to have little (for which read absolutely nothing) to do with the forthcoming celebration of Christmas.

It saddens me that the slightly manic hysteria that surrounds Christmas reaches fever pitch so far before the day itself that people are virtually ready to take their Christmas decorations down on boxing day (the shops of course are already doing so on Christmas eve); and that a celebration that should be about innocence and love becomes an excuse for obscene excess and seems to result in so much angst and dischord.

But I'll make a confession: I love Christmas, I really do. I believe this story of the incarnation really matters. It matters because it allows the God I can believe in to exist: a God who is weak and powerless, a God whose own suffering is integral to his identity. A God who is here, in the midst of the mess. And don't get me wrong, I love sparkle and good food and wine and excuses for parties too.

In the midst of all this, then, it isn't always easy to find ways to live the seasons of Advent and Christmas that holds in balance the joy and challenge inherent in this celebration. It remains, though, important to try.

It can be easy to forget what a privilege we have, in our community life here, to regularly make space for silence in our daily life. Our commitment to the rhythm of prayer does, of course, involve sacrifices, but above all it offers an opportunity, day-by-day to pause in the midst of the busyness of life, to rest in the presence of God, to know ourselves to be loved. In Advent, perhaps even more so than usual, it was important to remind myself to appreciate this time.

Each Wednesday morning during Advent, a small group of us gathered outside HSBC, who continue to invest huge sums of money in the arms trade. We met to pray together, to hand out leaflets, to engage with curious passers-by. We stood in the cold to bear witness to the incompatibility of investment in the arms trade with the message of the coming of the prince of peace. It was but a brief interlude each week. It was little more than a gesture. Sometimes, small gestures matter.

After Christmas we found another opportunity to find meaning in the madness of this season. Hot on the heels of the joy of Christmas in the church calendar is the feast of "Holy Innocents": the memorial of the babies of Bethlehem who were killed by Herod in his anger at Jesus' arrival in the world. We spend a couple of days at the Catholic Worker Farm for the Holy Innocents retreat: a chance to reflect with others on this story and what it means for us now. To share together about who are the Herods of our day, and who are the Innocents. To pray for them, and for ourselves as we live out the incarnation in a hurting, violent world. The retreat ended with a vigil outside Northwood Military Base. While it perhaps doesn't sound like a particularly up-beat theme for an end of year retreat, I have consistently found in the Christian peacemaker movement a place of life and vitality, and I was glad to find this space for reflection and companionship, for discussion and for silence, for prayer and for protest.

Christmas is about stars: bright lights that keep on shining when we are wrapped up in darkness; it is about the courage to sing songs of peace on earth however far that seems from the messy reality around us, it is about the promise of new life that comes with the birth of a baby.

So these were some of the pieces in the jigsaw of my efforts to make Advent and Christmas fit more comfortably with my understanding of what this thing is all about.

* There's a part two to follow which picks up the cheerier bits!

Wearing white

In recent years I have always chosen to wear a white poppy in early November. On a good year, when it doesn't get destroyed by going through the washing machine, I am still wearing one by November 11th.

I wear a white poppy because it commemorates all the victims of war.

I know that those who wear a red poppy will have their own understanding of what it means to them, but the Royal British Legion who distribute them are very clear that it represents only British military deaths: no enemy combatants and no civilians. The failure to recognise those on the other side as equally victims of the systemic violence of war zones seems destined to continue a cycle of violent destruction. Whilst choosing not to remember the innocent civilians caught in the crossfire seems utterly absurd. As technology has advanced, warfare has become increasingly deadly, and it is most often civilians who have born the brunt: those who die, those who are injured, those who suffer as the result of destruction of infrastructure, and those who are displaced from their homes.

Wearing a white poppy is a way to mourn with and for all those who suffer as a result of armed conflict.

I also wear a white poppy because it carries with it an inherent commitment to challenge militarism and work for lasting peace.

In the total destruction of the western front, I can see how the survival of the apparently fragile poppies in the midst of a never-ending sea of mud and corpses served as a sign of hope: surrounded by destruction and death here was a bright glimmer of the possibility of new life. But while it may not always have been the case, the red poppy has, whether we like it or not, become a political symbol: it has become mixed up in questions of identity and patriotism; as well as with support for current military campaigns and the political ideology behind them.

Wearing a white poppy is a way to step outside any association with justifying ongoing military action and to commit to a search for peace.

It is only a symbol. But symbols are important. I will wear one again next year.

Put Down the Sword

Last weekend, on Peace Sunday, I was offered the opportunity to reflect on an appropriate bible passage. I chose to say something about Matthew 26: 47-52, where Jesus, in the garden of Gethsemane, at the moment of his betrayal, tells his disciples to put down their swords. This is, more or less, what I said:

This text is one which means a lot to me: it inspired the title of one of the first books which introduced me to active non-violence and inspired the name of the group with whom I have pursued a path of creative peacemaking.

Together with its parallels in the other gospels, it is a text I find both immensely challenging and deeply beautiful because I think it deals with one of the biggest questions we face as people told we are “blessed” when we take up our role as “peacemakers”: the question to which every aspiring pacifist has to have an answer ready to roll off the tongue. The question that asks: peace is all very well in theory, but what does one do, in practice, in the face of great evil? How does one respond to Hitler, al-Assad, to Kim Jong Un? To terrorism or white supremecism or the oppression of empire?

What does one do in the face of the slaughter of the innocents?

For me it is this text which holds the key, the answer of how Jesus calls us to respond to our anger, our fear, and our pain.

When the betrayer comes to condemn innocence to death, Jesus greets him as “Friend”. This is loving your enemies in action. And make no mistake, these were the enemy. They are either a rather unsavoury vigilante mob, or they are the soldiers of an oppressive, militaristic occupying regime, or most probably a combination of both. Let’s not pretend this was somehow easier than the enemies we face today and therefore doesn’t really count.

So Jesus responds by greeting his betrayer as a friend. And his followers ... hmm, not so much. One of them, unnamed here, but according to John’s gospel it is Peter, one of Jesus’ closest friends, draws his sword in defense of the innocent. This is ‘just war theory’ in action, which the majority of the church as well as the majority of society subscribes to. A theory that would have said yes, on this occasion, violence is justified to protect the innocent. Tonight, in the garden, force can be used. This is the culturally comfortable answer.

But it is not Jesus’ answer. The final commandment Jesus offers to his disciples before the passion is “Put down your sword.”

There is never, Jesus says, a just reason to use violence. This is never, he says, the right answer.

And it seems that this is the moment when his followers realise just how serious he is about this whole love your enemies thing: serious to a point where he’s going to get them all killed. And they run away. They run away because guess what, peace is not the easy way out, the soft option. There is a big difference between being passive, and choosing pacifism: and the latter can be a pretty scary place to tread.

Fortunately though, although this is Jesus final commandment to his disciples before his death, it is not by any means the end of the story. Jesus does offer an alternative to violence. He does offer another way out.

He offers the way of resurrection.

Jesus final act of non-violent resistance is to rise from the dead: to tell the empire powers of violence, darkness and death that they will not have the last word and to invite us to be part of a different story instead. The way of resurrection is to offer forgiveness instead of seeking retaliation, to peacefully resist the aggression of the status quo, to dare to love those we are advised to fear or to hate.

The poet Edna St Vincent Millay wrote “I shall die, but that is all I shall do for death”. Peace is not some big out there thing beyond our control: it is every thought we nurture, word we speak, decision we make, every prayer we pray. Life and death choices are the bread and butter of our everyday decisions as those who try to follow Jesus. They are our personal pledges to do something, however small, in our own lives and in our interaction with the life of the world, that say we will try, today to put down our swords and to live as people of the resurrection.

#stopDSEi

Last week governments, military officials and private companies from around the world (including from some of the world's most repressive regimes) were, by the invitation of our government, in London buying and selling weapons. 

This is, in my humble opinion, absolutely not OK.

The week before, hundreds of others were, not by explicit invitation of our government, in London trying to creatively and non-violently disrupt and witness against this hideous undertaking, the DSEi arms fair.

This is, in my humble opinion, absolutely more than just 'OK'.

I spent two days outside the ExCeL centre, adding my voice to those who wanted to stand up and be counted, to witness and to take action against this very visible manifestation of the evils of the arms trade. It was deeply encouraging that both the number of people and the variety of creative actions had definitely multiplied since the previous arms fair; making the whole week much more effective both in its capacity to disrupt the set-up of the arms fair, and in its ability to attract broader media attention and raise awareness of the evils of profiting from war and insecurity.

I am generally a fairly law-abiding citizen. At school I'd have been horrified of doing something that might get me in to trouble with the authorities (although my parents will attest that didn't necessarily extend to my home-life!) Even as a teacher, I was often (irrationally) slightly apprehensive if I was summoned to the head teacher's office. And yet two weeks ago I was honoured to be able to support people whose consciences told them they must put themselves at risk of arrest to obey the spirit of a higher law. 

That higher law is one which speaks of justice and peace and fullness of life. It is in direct contradiction to a system in which economic growth is dependent on the continuation or escalation of aggression and war, and in which death and destruction are being sold for profit. I deeply believe that the God who calls us to strive towards life in all its fullness, weeps in the face of bombs and border fences. I deeply believe the same God was there in the joined hands, the standing, the sitting, the lying down, the abseiling off bridges; in the prayers, the dancing, the laughter, the art, the songs and the silence, outside the arms fair earlier this month. 

The road outside the ExCeL centre was a very good place to be. It was a good place to be reminded that, when it is not confined by the rules of institutions and the walls of its buildings, the church is very definitely alive. It is diverse and it is united. It bubbles with energy and passion. It speaks a gospel which has something to offer to a world which needs it. It isn't always the case, but on the streets outside the ExCeL centre I was pleased to count myself as a member of it.

The DSEi Arms Fair takes place once every two years. If we haven't already stopped the arms trade by then (*ever the optimist), I warmly invite you to join me there in September 2019.