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Refugees from Eden Voices of lament, courage and justice
Rosemary Power (Ed.)
www.ionabooks.com
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Contents of book © individual contributors Compilation © 2021 Rosemary Power First published 2021 by Wild Goose Publications Suite 9, Fairfield 1048 Govan Road, Glasgow G51 4XS, Scotland the publishing division of the Iona Community. Scottish Charity No. SC003794. Limited Company Reg. No. SC096243. ISBN 978-1-84952-785-9 Cover image © jycessay/123RF.com The publishers gratefully acknowledge the support of the Drummond Trust, 3 Pitt Terrace, Stirling FK8 2EY in producing this book. All rights reserved. Apart from the circumstances described below relating to non-commercial use, no part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including photocopying or any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher via PLSclear.com. Non-commercial use: The material in this book may be used non-commercially for worship and group work without written permission from the publisher. If photocopies of sections are made, please make full acknowledgement of the source, and report usage to CLA or other copyright organisation. Rosemary Power has asserted her right in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this compilation and the individual contributors have asserted their rights to be identified as authors of their contributions. Overseas distribution Australia: Willow Connection Pty Ltd, Unit 4A, 3–9 Kenneth Road, Manly Vale, NSW 2093 New Zealand: Pleroma, Higginson Street, Otane 4170, Central Hawkes Bay Printed by Bell & Bain, Thornliebank, Glasgow ®
MIX Paper from responsible sources
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‘Render a decision. Make your shadow like night – at high noon. Hide the fugitives, do not betray the refugees. Let the Moabite fugitives stay with you; be their shelter from the destroyer.’ Isaiah 16:3a–4 (NIV)
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6 Refugees from Eden
Contents Introduction, Rosemary Power
9
Prologue: Lament Requiem, Charles Hulin 12 Dè cho fada, a Thighearna?/How long, O Lord?, Rory MacLeod
14
Beyond our shores Yad Vashem, Margaret Connor 18 Conversations I can’t forget, Elizabeth Davison 19 Keep on dancing the samba!, Neil Paynter 22 Butterfly, Laila Khaled Alrefai 24 Hearing the silent voice, Rosemary Power 26 I took a bus to Bethlehem, Godfrey Meynell 29 At the edge of Europe You’ll die at sea, Abdel Wahab Yousif 32 Refugee, Rosemary Power 33 The power of the child, Fiona Kendall 34 At the foot of Europe’s mountains: Bihac, Bosnia, Hannah Parry 36 Aziz and Wahid: Best friends in the Balkans, Hannah Parry 37 Flüchtlinge – challenging the churches/Remembering, Reinhild Traitler At the edge of the nation Autumn north: Iona dialogue for two voices, Robert Walker Volunteering in Calais, 2020, Clare Sibley 48 In sight of Britain, Rosemary Power 49 God grace us, Rosemary Power 52
46
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Contents 7 At the edge of society For the child – Lord, have mercy, David and Rose-Mary Salmon 56 Dawn raid/Detention day, a member of the Iona Community 57 Voices in a Hostile Environment, Bob Thomas 62 Breaking the camel’s back: The hidden cost of fleeing and seeking refuge, Stella Olugbire 63 Sent to Coventry, Sabir Zazai 64 Strangers and neighbours Behind the smile, Simon Evans 68 You and I, Ruth Burgess 70 Zizzi from Zimbabwe, Sally Beaumont 71 We get a glimpse, Liz Gibson 74 Meeting Christ over tahini, Josh Seligman 76 At the heart of humanity, Penny Gardner 77 The knowledge that empowers Migrants and refugees as social entrepreneurs, Robert Swinfen 80 Environmental factors in the movement of people, Miriam McHardy Blessing Beannachadh/Blessing, Donnchadh Sneddon/Duncan Sneddon Some websites
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Sources and acknowledgements The writers
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Refugees from Eden 9
Introduction The current large-scale movement of refugees across the world is a matter of urgent humanitarian concern. This short book reflects, from a Christian perspective and its requirement for acting justly, on the consequences, especially in Europe and in the United Kingdom. It engages with people the French call Exilés: refugees, asylum-seekers, migrants, those who, for whatever reason, have been forced to wander from their own country and culture, and seek support, often temporary, in another land. Here, carrying the scars of their experience they may meet with ignorance, hostility, uncertainty, forcible return, and the kindness of strangers. We are, all of us, refugees from Eden, whether the journey is spiritual or physical. Many of us yearn for a return there, while others set out in hope of a promised land of safety and new beginnings. Some of the writers here are, or have been, refugees themselves; some have chosen to remain anonymous; and some, because of the impact their experiences have had on them, or because of uncertainty with English, have preferred that their story is told by others. Many of us who are not ourselves refugees are descendants of refugees. Some writers are natives of our continent, who have sought to support through volunteering where displaced people have gathered, or in their own localities, providing hospitality and supportive action. For many this is bound up with the consequences of Brexit and the further tightening of the nation’s borders, even as people seek safety by crossing the dangerous waters that divide Britain from France. Writers include members of, and people in sympathy with, the Iona Community, a Christian organisation with a commitment to the costly peace that arises out of true justice. This book seeks to explore, mainly through the medium of story, how we accept our responsibilities under scripture, international law and human morality to provide sanctuary to
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10 Refugees from Eden
those fleeing violence and persecution. Written in the hope that each of us can provide ground for our politicians to seek new ways of addressing the forced movements of people around our world, the authors offer their reflections to inspire, support and encourage others as they seek the strength of Eden, ‘the goodness at the heart of humanity, planted more deeply than all that is wrong’ (from an Iona Community affirmation). We start with lament, grieving the departed, and our part in the loss; then move to the wider world situation; then to Europe and to the U.K. As we see, most who come to our shores are eager to contribute to the common good, whether their stay is temporary or long-term. This book is dedicated to the memory of all who have undertaken the perilous journey from their homelands, and have not lived. Their bodies may lie unclaimed in sand or sea, and we have lost potential medics, climate scientists, carers, parents and grandparents, and much more. A society is valued for how it treats its least-known members, and we cannot forget those lives cut short through desperation and when fellow-humans let them down. As refugees from Eden, wanderers, committed to providing hospitality as Sarah and Abraham once did, we are required to deal rightly with the stranger in our midst. Further, we are bound to seek Christ in the face of each person, the Christ forced as an infant into exile. Rosemary Power
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Prologue: Lament
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12 Refugees from Eden
Requiem Requiem
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j œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ qui - em ae - ter - nam
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© 2020 Charles Hulin
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Prologue: Lament 13 Requiem Requiem aeternam dona eis, requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Eternal rest give unto them, eternal rest give unto them, Lord, Lord, and light perpetual shine upon them. Words: traditional Music by Charles Hulin
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14 Refugees from Eden
Dè cho fada, a Thighearna?/How long, O Lord? Dè cho fada, a Thighearna, dè cho fada? Shìos, shìos fon talamh tha fuil Abel a’ glaodhaich, a’ chiad neach a dh’fhuiling murt: Dè cho fada, a Thighearna, dè cho fada? A-mach anns an fhàsach tha Hagar a’ caoidh ann an èiginn a trèigsinn: Dè cho fada, a Thighearna, dè cho fada? Tha màthraichean na h-Èiphit fo bhròn an ciad-ghin a’ gearan mu raige Phàraoh: Dè cho fada, a Thighearna, dè cho fada? Thig mac-talla bho Bhetlehem, Raonaid a’ caoidh a cloinne, ciad mhartairean an Tighearna Ìosa Crìosd: Dè cho fada, a Thighearna, dè cho fada? Coltach ri boladh geur, cuiridh iad an glaodhaich ris an fheadhainn a dh’èireas fon altair nèamhaidh: Dè cho fada, a Thighearna, dè cho fada?
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Prologue: Lament 15 How long, O Lord, how long? From under the earth the blood of Abel yells, victim of the first murder: How long, O Lord, how long? Out of the desert Hagar cries out in the anguish of her abandonment: How long, O Lord, how long? The mothers of Egypt mourning their first-born protest the stubbornness of Pharaoh: How long, O Lord, how long? An echo comes from Bethlehem, Rachel crying for her children, first martyrs of the Lord Jesus Christ: How long, O Lord, how long? Like a pungent aroma, they mix their voices with those which scream from beneath the heavenly altar: How long, O Lord, how long? Rory MacLeod
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Beyond our shores
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Yad Vashem In considering the current international crisis, we might go back to the origins of our 1951 Refugee Convention, on which subsequent legislation is theoretically built. The vilification of certain groups in the Nazi period, most particularly the Jews, and the consequent attempt to murder a nation, lies behind the creation of laws that remind us that never again should those fleeing persecution be turned away. Outside the World Holocaust Remembrance Center, Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, a large outdoor sculpture by Nandor Glid, a Holocaust survivor, commemorates the Jewish dead. (Ed.) We did not find you in the bazaar on the Way of the Cross so we bought bright baubles and carried carved camels. Our ersatz experience cost thirty pieces. Then we came to a place where skeletal forms stretched starkly under a livid sky. Backs arched in one continual agony over the twisted iron limbs; fingers spread like giant thorns pushing us away; skulls screamed silently accusing us
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Beyond our shores 19 who were not there when it happened – or were we? It was this – this metal monument of death which pierced our apathy and brought us back to life again. We shed our tears then, burning with shame and grief. And we found you there – weeping with us. Margaret Connor
Conversations I can’t forget I We’re drinking coffee on a suburban stoep. ‘I’ve got this great kid in my class,’ she says. ‘You know what a rough school it is. And he really stands out. I noticed a pattern: he was absent one Thursday a month. So eventually I asked him: “What is it that keeps you away from school one Thursday a month?” I thought maybe he had to go to a hospital for some sort of treatment or something. “I sell drugs,” he said. Well, I nearly fell over! And he’s such a good kid. I couldn’t speak. Not that drugs are unheard of at that school. But him!
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“The money pays for school fees for me and my brother. And rent. We are from Mozambique. We ran away”.’ He didn’t mention desperation, fear, grief, hunger, loss. He didn’t mention that they must have waded or swum across the Limpopo, the Limpopo with all its crocodiles. He didn’t mention that they must have walked through the Kruger, the Kruger with all its lions. He offered no excuses. ‘He trusts me,’ she says, ‘but now I have this information. What should I do?’ It’s years later and I still don’t know the answer. II We’re working alongside each other in an artists’ printing studio. He works there every day. I come once a week. He’s young and talented and black. I’m having my little rant about corruption and he listens politely. ‘We simply mustn’t pay bribes,’ I say. ‘If a cop catches me speeding I must simply pay the fine. If I want my water problem sorted I must stand in the queue. No bribes!’ He steps back from the table and gazes at me as if amazed. ‘Are you saying that never in your life have you ever paid a bribe?’ ‘Yes’, I say. ‘You’re so lucky,’ he says, very slowly and very seriously. It is then that I remember that he is Mozambican. And I remember that I am indeed lucky. Holding the moral high ground is an economic privilege.
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Beyond our shores 21 III We’re on a rural school campus in Zimbabwe. I’m visiting for a week. ‘Sue, who are those men I hear calling to each other in the night? And what’s that clinking of tools?’ ‘Oh, it’s the illegal miners,’ she says. ‘They’re reworking the old dumps. Panning in the river. When they’ve got a big enough lump of gold they put it in their pockets, nice and portable, and try to cross the Limpopo to South Africa. They pay bribes all the way. What’s left if they reach so-called safety is easily changed into cash.’ Elizabeth Davison
Notes: Although the civil war in Mozambique ended in 1992, there have been no gains for the poor, conflict continues and there are now armed Islamist groups there as well. The South African government grants very few people refugee status, so refugees have to depend on their own ingenuity. A quarter of the Zimbabwean population has fled Zimbabwe, mostly to South Africa. There are regular reports of refugees drowning in the Limpopo or being eaten by crocodiles. People originally fled because Mugabe’s government became increasingly repressive, and this repression continues post-Mugabe. Since South Africa does not officially recognise human rights violations in Zimbabwe, 14,000 Zimbabweans are deported back every week. Small amounts of money are sent home by refugees to help keep their country going. See Relief Web: https://reliefweb.int Human Rights Watch: www.hrw.org
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Keep on dancing the samba! In my early twenties, as a summer job while I was trying to finish my university degree, I taught English as a second language to refugees and asylum-seekers at the YMCA in Canada. It was an amazing job – I met so many amazing people – from Central and South America, Vietnam, Eastern Europe ... Meeting all those people really opened my eyes – and mind. I met a family who had taken to sea in a leaky boat with twenty others to escape government troops who had attacked their village. I met a man who had escaped a prisoner of war camp in Iran, and had walked over mountains and deserts in his bare feet. I met a woman who had fled the Shining Path in Peru, not long after giving birth to her daughter, whom she carried through jungles and cities on her back. And I met Marco, who had been a labour leader in a factory in El Salvador, and had been arrested and tortured by the police – he was the most gentle, generous person. It amazed me how someone who had been tortured could still be so gentle and loving. I certainly wouldn’t be. I guessed he understood something about the fragility and preciousness of life. I had a certain respect and status as a teacher. Government departments would contact me to enquire the progress of certain students; and sometimes I would write letters to colleges and schools for students so that they could get onto training courses. It felt good to be able to help these new friends.
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Beyond our shores 23 Sometimes we’d all go for coffee after class. One thing that amazed me was how active in Canadian life many of my students already were – in parent groups, tenant organisations, credit unions – and how involved in life back home they remained. They had escaped horrific conditions, yet were in regular contact with not only family and friends but underground groups and organisations working for freedom and justice in their lands. I probably would have just wanted to leave the past behind; keep my head down – for the fates of many of my students were far from decided: some could still be, and likely were, sent back ‘home’. One Christmas, Marco invited me to a party at his community centre after midnight Mass – it was great. There was dancing and live music – a band with conga drums, guitars, a flute, someone playing the marimba. There were fold-up tables crowded with food – roast chicken, rice, potato salad, fruit – cold Mexican beer sweating in a big metal washbasin. The hall was so hot and cooking with music, dancing and conversation I forgot it was twenty below outside. For a moment I forgot I was in Canada. I watched Marco, who had been tortured by death squads, dancing the samba. I watched him expertly move his feet that had been bastinadoed. You can’t chain down the human spirit, I thought. His daughters were full of life. Over the passionate music, Rosanna told me that she wanted to study to be a doctor after high school. Maria said she wanted to be a schoolteacher. Their open smiles radiated spirit, and I thought of how lucky Canada was to have this family as citizens. They seemed hope and new life for a country that seemed to me – cold, hard, stiff, apathetic, individualistic; still white as snow in places. Marco came over and gave me some rum to try. It had a spicy, hot sweet kick. He laughed, and we went out to watch the fireworks. Later, Maria tried to teach me how to dance the samba.
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I received Christmas cards from the family for years after. Every Christmas it warmed my heart. In the last one I received, Rosanna was a doctor, and Maria was a nurse and was married – and had just had a baby girl. ‘Thanks for being such a great teacher,’ Marco wrote. ‘And keep on dancing the samba!’ he nudged and winked. I could hear his laugh and see his great big smile. Neil Paynter
Butterfly I was like a butterfly dancing over the spring flowers. I was like a breeze caressing the jasmine trees to reveal their fragrance throughout the place. I was like a yellow leaf that fell from a branch, covering the ground with a new colour. I was like a cloud that blocked the sun, so that raindrops fell on the thirsty earth, and watered them. In my country and on the land of my ancestors, the country of Jasmine, where there is security, safety, goodness and beauty. We were living the most beautiful moments of our life and the spring of our days. But what happened that evening? A black cloud occupied the middle of the sky, pouring its anger on the jasmine, burning its perfume, and turning its pure white into a dark red colour.
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Beyond our shores 25 The freezing cold attacked the atmosphere of Jasmine to become the country of death. Even the butterflies hid in fear and terror in the country of safety, and the spring flowers migrated, which withered in sadness for Yasmine Al-Sham. Our tears fell on that miserable evening to irrigate the wasteland. We decided to stay, but to leave was the strongest. So we packed our bags that contained some memories, a handful of our country’s soil, and a single white jasmine that had fallen on our balcony before that evening. We bid farewell to our land and our home and went out into a new world in search of the security and safety that we had lost. We lost a warm hug. We lost a part of our soul. We were displaced. And we became west. Laila Khaled Alrefai
Note: The Jasmine country is Syria, and its mother, Yasmine Al-Sham, Damascus.
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