Running for Refugees

Above:  A Runner, Another Runner, Me

Well,  I never said I’d run the Great Yorkshire fast.  In fact, I quite distinctly and explicitly said I’d run slowly, and I did.   Slightly more slowly than last year, in fact.   However hard I try, I find myself falling back towards the rear of the last wave of runners, alongside people who are in fact walking, and people in cumbersome fancy dress.   If I’m honest, I do mind that, a bit.

I don’t expect to cross the finish line to a ticker tape welcome, cheer leaders waving pom poms, reporters queuing up to interview  me about the experience.  But for the stragglers, those last few runners to stagger over the line, there’s a bit of a sense of anti-climax as we stumble on suddenly jelly like legs to grab the last few goodie bags, and head home, as if we’ve arrived at a party after the booze has run out, and the music’s been turned down low.

I like to think, however,  that there’s something a little bit heroic about my continued efforts in a field where I am so clearly not gifted.   I like to think that the kind and cheery people who still line the route to the bitter end, who call out ‘Well done Catherine, keep going, you’re doing fine’, recognise a certain bloody-minded determination, whether or not they recognise or value the cause for which I run.

In recent weeks there have been cheers and tears for a Somali born refugee who’s proud to say that this is his country and to wear the British flag around his shoulders as he kneels on the track to pray.  And as we marvel at the Paralympics we remember also that it was a refugee from Nazism, Ludwig Guttman, who saw that people with spinal cord injuries who had been written off, left to die slowly and in despair could be given new hope, purpose and the chance to achieve through therapy and sport.  (And Guttman wouldn’t have been here without the help of the Society for Protection of Science and Learning, now the Council for Assisting Refugee Academics.)   This doesn’t prove anything, of course, except that amongst those who make their way here are some exceptionally gifted individuals.  But to me it says that a country that is confident enough in itself to be open and generous, hospitable and inclusive, will be enriched by that.    If we were to take away from our culture the contribution of refugees, we’d lose more than that gold medal, and more even than the Paralympic Games.  We’d lose landmark buildings, high street names, publishing houses, works of art  – in every field of business, politics, science, arts, sports, we’d lose.  The societies that drive people out because of their beliefs, their race, their sexuality, they lose.  And if the displaced and the exiled are not given sanctuary, then those people, gifted or not, destined to be famous or not, will be lost too, along with those who never got the chance to escape.

So, actually, I do like to think that I can use not only something I am quite good at (writing, communication) but something that I’m really
rather rubbish at, both for the same purpose, both to support the same cause, because more and more I believe that it is one of the most
important things we can do, to support refugees.

Refugee Action

If you’d like to help, you can sponsor me here: http://www.justgiving.com/Catherine-Annabel0

Find out more about the work of Refugee Action here:

http://www.refugee-action.org.uk/ourwork/default.aspx

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Isles of Wonder

Cover of "The Progressive Patriot: A Sear...

Cover via Amazon

There’s a conversation that’s been going on, here and there, across the blogosphere, since Danny Boyle blew our minds and melted our cynical hearts at the Olympics Opening Ceremony.  It’s not a new conversation for most of us, but it’s suddenly become more intense, more personal.

We – those of us who are having this conversation now, rather tentatively, almost apologetically – are generally of the left; our disposition is likely to be cosmopolitan and internationalist, and we’re likely to be sharply critical of current and previous government policies at home and abroad.  We’re highly unlikely to have celebrated the recent royal wedding, or the Jubilee, or to own or wear any clothing featuring our national flag.   We probably agree that the national anthem is a dirge even if we disagree about what – if anything – should replace it.

But we found ourselves recently coming over, as Mike Press put it, ‘a little bit Continental, even almost disarmingly American’, in the way we responded to that opening ceremony and the display of sporting excellence that followed.   Steve Sarson echoed this – ‘It was like I’d turned into an American, or something’.

A bona fide American, Kate Elmer of the ‘Yankee in Yorkshire’ blog,  mused earlier this year that ‘when I speak to English friends and colleagues about The Olympics they reluctantly agree that “Yes, I suppose this will be a rather large event won’t it?”  Some of them hope to attend events.  Most of them hope to keep their heads down until the whole thing goes away.’  Just the other week she wrote that: ‘I have never seen the British get so excited about their own success.  I have never seen them so patriotic.  The Jubilee didn’t do it.  The Royal Wedding didn’t do it.  The Olympics did.  It’s not an “In Your Face, World!” kind of pride.  It’s bone deep.  It’s real, true, forever love – the kind many of them perhaps thought might have been lost.  Every medal, every waving flag, every play of the national anthem has them physically on their feet and emotionally on their knees.’

Blake Morrison in the Independent was part of this too: ‘I didn’t expect to feel excited.  And as the opening ceremony grew closer, and the stories of mismanagement multiplied, I feared the worst.  I was wrong.  Most of us were wrong.  The last two weeks have been amazing.  I’m embarrassed to admit how many times my eyes have welled up.  And even more embarrassed that the cause has usually been a British medal’.

So our conversation has been about what happened to us and what it means for our perception of who we are.   There are two main threads to that, I think.  One is about the mood that prevailed – summed up in the opening ceremony – replacing our ‘seemingly eternal cynicism and negativity’ with the sensation that we are better than that, that we can be warm and open and welcoming, joyous and positive.    The other is about that tug of pride that we felt in the depiction of our ‘Isles of Wonder’, and in the performance of ‘our’ medallists.  The first is something we want to celebrate and nurture, the second, as another friend of mine said, is ‘complicated’.

It’s not a new conversation. Billy Bragg’s book The Progressive Patriot is an eclectic invocation of the history, literature and music of his homeland – one feels Danny Boyle must have read it – and a response to the BNP’s gain of a dozen seats on Barking & Dagenham Council in the wake of the July 2005 London bombings.  It’s an attempt to identify the narrative that explains ‘how we all came to be here together in this place, and how successive generations of those who were initially excluded from society came to feel that this was where they belonged … to reconcile patriotism with the radical tradition’.

That’s not straightforward, and it goes against a strain of radicalism that discards, as Gustave Hervé said in 1907, ‘a flag along whose folds are blazoned in letters of gold the records of so many butcheries’, that distinguishes the affection and loyalty we may feel for the place we were born or grew up, from love ‘for such countries of privilege and iniquity as are the great nations of today’.  Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks incurred the wrath of US patriots when she said, almost 100 years later, ‘I don’t understand the necessity for patriotism. Why do you have to be a patriot? About what? This land is our land? Why? You can like where you live and like your life, but as for loving the whole country… I don’t see why people care about patriotism.”

I agree.  With both of them.  And yet, and yet…   I  feel that tug of love without embarrassment or complications for another country, because of the place it holds in my childhood memories and because being there shaped how I see the world.   I’ve put Ghana’s flag on my desktop and my Facebook profile – I would never dream of doing that with the Union Jack.  I’d fail Tebbitt’s notorious cricket test if the England football team were to come up against the Black Stars.   So why is it OK for me to be gung-ho about Ghana, and not about the country where I was born, where I’ve lived the majority of my life, where my children have been born and raised?

What do we mean when we talk about pride?  What do we mean, come to that, when we talk about Britain?  Kenan Malik‘s response to the Olympics was sceptical.  He asked ‘What is the Britain in which we are supposed to have pride? The Britain of immigration and diversity, a diversity celebrated in Danny Boyle’s Olympic opening ceremony and that has resulted in the gold medals of Jessica Ennis, Mo Farah, Nicola Adams and countless others? Or the Britain that is suspicious of immigrants and immigration, and whose politicians continually seek to limit it and to preserve ‘British jobs for British workers’? The Britain that went all out to stage one of the best Olympic Games in recent memory? Or the Britain of austerity and public spending cuts? The Britain of the Levellers, the Pankhursts and Red Clydeside? Or the Britain of Knox, Rhodes and Rothermere?’   Easy answers spring to mind, but he’s right, my Britain may not be your Britain.

And yet, and yet.   I think there’s something going on here.  I don’t want to wrap myself in the flag any more than I did a month ago.  I’m the same person that I was before, but along with many others, I thought I’d had a ‘glimpse of another kind of Britain’, of a ‘soft and civic’  patriotism that maybe I could be OK with.   Jonathan Freedland said that  ‘It will slip from view as time passes, but we are not condemned to forget it. We don’t have to be like the long-ago poet who once wrote: “Did you exist? Or did I dream a dream?”’

So, do we treat Boyle’s vision of the Isles of Wonder as a requiem for what we value about our country, or a celebration?  Or even, perhaps, a warning and a call to action? Do we allow our ‘normal state of being’ to be reinstalled in the British psyche, without protest, without attempting to hold on to what we briefly experienced?  As Billy asks in his blog, ‘Has the euphoria of the past two weeks has caused a seismic shift in the meta-narrative of Britishness? …Can a new spirit of engaged and transformational patriotism emerge from this experience? One that seeks to build a fairer, more inclusive tomorrow, rather than constantly rehashing a narrow vision of the past?’

We could just say, well, we got a bit carried away there, but it’s ok now, we’re ourselves again. But with the Paralympics just around the corner, what if we get a bit carried away all over again?  What if we actually rather like it?  I think we need to talk.

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This is my country

I’m not given to patriotic outpourings.  I have difficulty saying I’m ‘proud’ to be British – I’m too aware of our colonial history to feel that in any simple way it is a matter of pride.   But I’ve always resented the appropriation of patriotism by the racists of the National Front, the BNP and EDL, and whilst flags and royal weddings and the like don’t move me terribly I do feel lucky to live here, and I love my homeland.

I wasn’t expecting to find anything about the Olympics that would move me, any more than that wedding did.   I was wrong.   Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony celebrated my Britain, my home, in all its glorious diversity, in a way I hadn’t for a moment expected.  It was a delight – I was laughing with pleasure, and with tears in my eyes.   And last night I was moved by our own Jess’s triumph in the heptathlon – a Sheffield lass, after our own Arctic Monkeys had greeted the nation with a cry of ‘Y’alreight?’ – and by Mo Farah‘s triumph in the 10000m.

2012 Summer Olympics opening ceremony (11).jpg

And so the whole thing, which I’d expected to be a massive bore, has turned out to be instead a massive, bonkers celebration of this marvellous, mixed up country, where the multiculturalism which a Tory idiot and the Daily Mail derided has brought us medals beyond all expectations, where the successes of a Yorkshire girl with a Jamaican dad, and a Somali refugee have been celebrated across all the boundaries that sometimes divide us.

Last night Mo was asked if he’d rather be running for Somalia.  His answer is powerful in its simplicity and confidence: “Look mate, this is my country. This is where I grew up, this is where I started life. This is my country and when I put on my Great Britain vest I’m proud. I’m very proud.”

That’s not a pride that requires disparaging or disqualifying anyone, it’s not a pride that is based on being white or being able to trace centuries of ancestors on British soil.  It’s not about believing that we as a nation have always been heroic or just, or that our policies at home or abroad are right now.

I’m proud that over centuries we’ve kept our doors open to people who’ve needed to find refuge here, from French Huguenots to Russian and European Jews, to victims of more recent conflicts and oppression.  That’s the Britain I love, and celebrate – whilst at the same time wishing we were more welcoming, less mean-spirited (see my series of posts for Refugee Week, and if you would, sponsor me to run for Refugee Action in a few weeks time!).   Our diversity is our strength, and I love and celebrate that too.

Danny Boyle’s vision for the opening ceremony was summed up in Tim Berners-Lee‘s gift of the internet to the world, a gift, as he said, that is for everyone.  That celebration of ‘the creativity, exuberance and, above all, the generosity of the British people’ had ‘a golden thread of purpose – the idea of Jerusalem – of a better world that can be built through the prosperity of industry, through the caring nation that built the welfare state, through the joyous energy of popular culture, through the dream of universal communication. We can build Jerusalem. And it will be for everyone.’

Idealistic, naive – perhaps.  But that’s my country.  And I’m proud.

Click to access OPENINGCEREMONYGUIDE_English.pdf

http://olympicopeningceremony.tumblr.com/tagged/music

http://www.justgiving.com/Catherine-Annabel0

http://action.hopenothate.org.uk/page/s/this-is-my-country

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16 July – Dark Hours, a Spring Breeze and a Winter Stadium

Thursday 16 July. At 4 in the morning, it is still very dark. The streets are deserted, the doors and windows closed. But on this early Thursday morning, police cars are converging on pre-arranged spots, carrying officers and civilian assistants. They consult their instructions, block the streets. Each small team has a list of names and addresses. Alongside the police vehicles, buses are parked along the pavements, awaiting their passengers.  At the appointed moment, the teams go in. They knock.  ‘Police – open up!’.

The occupants are escorted to the buses, and taken on to one of two destinations – single adults to transit camps, including a half-built housing estate on the edge of the city, recently cleared of many of its occupants to make room for this influx, and families to a nearby sports stadium. At the latter, no food or water is provided. It’s mid-July, and once the building is sealed, the heat rapidly becomes oppressive. The few working toilets don’t work for long. The people in the stadium are afraid, and some in despair throw themselves from the balconies to the floor below. A few manage to use the general chaos to slip out, provided that the police at the entry are either sufficiently distracted, or willing to be suddenly inattentive. A few manage to get themselves transferred to hospital (this may prove to be only a temporary respite).  Once space in the transit camp has been cleared again, the families in the stadium are transported there.   Until the trains take them, too, to their final destination.

Thursday 16 July 1942, Paris. The Vel’ d’Hiv round up, named after the sports stadium used to house the Jews who were dragged from their homes that morning and in the hours that followed. Drancy camp, next stop en route to Auschwitz.  13,152 were arrested, of whom 5802 were women, and 4051 children.  Some of the adults – less than 3% – made it home after the Liberation, to search fruitlessly for news of their children at the Hotel Lutétia. None of the children came home.

French Police checking new inmates in the camp...

This wasn’t the first round-up of Jews in occupied Paris, but it was the largest yet, and a turning point, both in the persecution and in the resistance to it. It shattered the illusion that in France, the land of liberty, equality and fraternity, nothing too terrible could happen, even under Occupation – an illusion which had led many Jews to register themselves voluntarily, thus providing the information required for the round-up. It showed the extent of collaboration, with the round-up being executed by French police, not by the Germans. And it shattered the myth that the deportations were intended to provide workers for the Reich, when young children, the elderly, the sick, pregnant women, were taken, as their neighbours watched.

François Mauriac wrote in his clandestine publication Le Cahier noir:  ‘Entire races are condemned to perish.  At what other moment in history have the prisons been so full of innocents? At what other era have children been dragged from their mothers, crammed into cattle trucks, as I saw one sombre morning at Austerlitz station?’.  People saw, and some were moved to active resistance by what they saw.

It is 70 [now 80] years since this event. Do we still need to tell this story?

In 2010 two new films came out which focused on the Vel d’Hiv round up, and the responses (if one sets aside those which focused on the merits or demerits of the films themselves) were polarised.  Some critics felt that they were  fulfilling an indispensible ‘devoir de mémoire’, particularly in drawing attention to the responsibility (only publicly acknowledged in the 1990s) of the French authorities , whilst audience members spoke of being shocked and overwhelmed.  On the other hand, some felt it was counterproductive – that the constant telling and re-telling actually creates ‘une certaine lassitude’, that if the younger generations see ‘remembering’ as a chore, the temptation to forget will become ever stronger.

Français : Rafle du Vel d'Hiv, jardin du souve...

There’s plenty of evidence that, however much people may have heard about these events, they are still fairly hazy about the detail.    When Andreas Whittam Smith wrote a piece for the Independent about how the film The Round-Up was bringing to light hidden events, a letter appeared in the paper arguing that the events concerned were never denied, that those responsible were executed after the war, that of the 300,000 French nationals registered as Jews, 80% survived, and that not all the deported children died in the camps.

In reality, whilst the fact of the event was not denied, the responsibility of French officials was  (a nano-second clip of a gendarme’s cap in Alain Resnais’ documentary Nuit et Brouillard had to be cut before the film was released).

A still from Night and Fog, showing a French p...

Of those most particularly responsible for the round-up, only Pierre Laval was executed –  Louis Darquier de Pellepoix escaped to Spain and died free and utterly unrepentant, and René Bousquet was acquitted immediately after the war, and assassinated in 1993, just before he was due to stand trial.

France did, it is true, lose only 20% of its Jewish population – if one counts only Jews with French nationality.  They managed this by offering up  non-naturalised Jews, aiming to meet their deportation quotas by filling the convoys with foreigners for as long as possible. To make up the promised numbers, the Vichy leadership persuaded the Germans that children should be taken along with their parents, even though most of them had been born in France and were therefore French citizens.  And on the day, the official exemptions eg for women in late pregnancy or with new babies were ignored. This deal with the devil did, arguably, save the lives of  many naturalised French citizens who were Jews – some were not arrested until much later so giving them slightly better odds of survival, and others had time to find a way of escaping or living under cover. But non-French Jews clearly didn’t count. They were expendable.

And did all the deported children die in the camps? Of those deported after this round-up, yes, all of them. The only survivors were those children who managed to escape either from the velodrome or from the transit camps. And of the 11,400 children deported in total from France, 200 did come back.  200.

So we must remember, in order to preserve the truth, in order to give back to the victims their names, their voices, their stories.

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Pamphlet distributed by the Mouvement national contre le racisme, September 1942.

French mothers and fathers, young people, teachers, educators!  When you kiss your child goodnight in bed before their happy sleep, in the morning when you catch their first smile on waking, think of those hellish trains where, crammed in like a herd of beasts on the way to the abbatoir, 2000 little Jewish children, alone, abandoned to their mortal anguish, crying with terror and thirst.   Is there anywhere in the world, in all modern history, anything more atrocious, more inhuman, more barbaric than the torture of innocent children?   These children, just like yours, have mothers and fathers ready to protect them.  But they are dragged from them without pity, with bestial savagery.  ..  These horrors happen amongst us, on our sweet French earth, with the complicity of the French government collaborating with those who starve us, who loot our treasures, who hold our prisoners, who murder the patriots fighting for a free and happy France….

French Youth!  Schoolchildren!  Students! When you go back to school, you will find in your classes thousands of empty places.  They are those of your Jewish friends, brought up as you are in the love of France.  Know that the Pétain-Laval government has handed them over to certain death.  Is this the new order?  Is this the National Revolution? …

Protest to the authorities! Shelter, protect, hide Jewish children and their families! Do not let them be handed over to Hitler’s killers! Save the honour of France!

From Hélène Berr’s journal:

15 July – Something is about to happen, something which will be a tragedy, perhaps the tragedy.   M Simon came here this evening to warn us that there was talk of a round-up of 20,000 people the day after tomorrow.

18 July – I thought on Thursday that life would stop.  But it continues. … [Mme Bieder’s] sister who has 4 children, has been taken.  The evening of the round-up she hid, but unfortunately came back down to the concierge just at the moment they came to look for her … They are separating mothers from their children.   I am noting the facts, hastily, so as not to forget, because we must not forget.

16 July 1995, Jacques Chirac:

These black hours will stain our history for ever and are an injury to our past and our traditions. Yes, the criminal madness of the occupant was assisted by the French, by the French state. Fifty-three years ago, on 16 July 1942, 450 policemen and gendarmes, French, under the authority of their leaders, obeyed the demands of the Nazis. That day, in the capital and the Paris region, nearly 10,000 Jewish men, women and children were arrested at home, in the early hours of the morning, and assembled at police stations… France, home of the Enlightenment and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, land of welcome and asylum, France committed that day the irreparable. Breaking its word, it delivered those it protected to their executioners.

Hélène Berr, Journal, 1942-1944 (Paris: Tallandier, 2008)
Hubert Haddad, Vent printanier (Paris: Zulma, 2010)
Claude Levy, Paul Tillard,  La Grande Rafle du Vel d’Hiv (Paris: Tallandier, 2010)
François Mauriac, Le Cahier noir (Geneva; Paris: Editions des Trois Collines, 1945)
AMEJD du XIème, Fragments d’histoire(s).  Lambeaux de mémoire: enfants juifs deportés du XIème arrondissement de Paris (1942-1944) (Paris: AMEJD, 2011)
Les fils et filles des deportés de France, Les 11400 enfants juifs deportés de France, Mairie de Paris, 2007
Adam Rayski, Il y a 60 ans – 1942-2002: La Rafle du Velodrome d’hiver (Mairie de Paris, 2002)
The Round Up, 2010. French film directed by Roselyne Bosch and produced by Alain Goldman
Sarah’s Key, 2010. French film directed by Gilles Paquet-Brenner and produced by Stéphane Marsil.

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Passing Time – the dark heart of Bleston

When I started this blog, part of my motivation was to enthuse, if I could, other readers about Michel Butor, and about this novel in particular.  The publication of Sebald’s poems which reveal his indebtedness to Butor has helped my cause because there are more people out there reading Sebald than there are reading Butor, and my exploration of the connections between the two writers has intrigued at least one fellow blogger sufficiently to inspire him to read Passing Time.   I reblogged earlier this week his reactions to the novel, and promised to post my own response here.

I’ve been lost in this book for years now.  I feel as much trapped in it as Revel is in Bleston – of course, I could turn my attention to another of Butor’s many fascinating works, just as Revel could at any point take a train away from Bleston at least for a break.  But somehow I always find myself back in the city again, traipsing, as Decayetude has it, around those miserable streets, searching for the dark heart of Bleston.  As he says, ‘we are subjects, held prisoner in the book/narrative as Revel is in his own story’.

Exasperating, yes, and rewarding.   Irritating, yes,  and wonderful.   Not quite a masterpiece as set against Sebald’s prose work and Ishiguro’s The Unconsoled?  I can’t say – but I would maintain that this is one of the great novels of the mid-twentieth century, one of the richest, most intriguing novels I have read, and one whose interest I cannot seem to exhaust.

To pick up on a few specific observations:

  • We’ve discussed the impossibility of  actually writing contrapuntally or fugually in relation to an earlier blog post – and I agree, that we cannot in a written work actually hear the different melodies/voices at the same time.  But Butor’s sentences echo each other and create an impression of layering, an illusion of polyphony.   I want to explore this in much more depth at some future point.
  • The musical structure is described as ‘quasi-mathematical’, and indeed one of the many contradictory things  about Butor is that he does use mathematical grids and so forth to structure his writing, but that as intellectual, as erudite as his work is, it is always at the same time warm, passionate, idealistic.   It never reads like an exercise.
  • Revel feels he has blood on his hands.  But so does almost everyone – or rather everyone, at least momentarily, seems guilty or dangerous.   Horace Buck is almost certainly responsible for some of the fires that are Bleston’s plague.   Burton himself writes murders, if he does not commit them.  Richard Tenn may possibly be the model for Burton’s fictional fratricide.   Jenkins not only comes under suspicion from Revel but suspects himself after a homicidal dream. Even the Bailey women suddenly appear in a sinister light when Revel tells them that he knows the pseudonymous author of the detective novel, so much so that he feels he has betrayed his friend and even endangered his life.    In Bleston suspicion and betrayal are in the air.

Decayetude says that there is also ‘in the last pages, a darkness I cannot quite get to the heart of ‘.  This is the quintessential experience of the reader of Passing Time.   This is what nags at one, that feeling that there is something we’re missing, something at the centre of the labyrinth.

Some critics became quite tetchy in response.  W M Frohock, reviewing the novel in 1959, said that ‘the hero… is not completely plausible, psychologically.  After all, it is one thing to experience a kind of depression in a city like Bleston, and a different one to stay, month after month, at the bottom of the slough.  Even in Bleston, Jacques Revel should really find his situation less grim on some days than he does on others’ (p. 60).  Which sounds rather like an exhortation to  ‘pull yourself together, Jacques’ .

These responses suggest attempts to read Passing Time as a realistic account of a year in a northern city – understandable, since we begin with what seems to be just that, and since the account is anchored in bus times and street names and the mundane detail of city life.  But from the start, from the first page, that terror is present, and it and myriad references on every page tell us that 1950s Manchester is onlyone source for Bleston.

That Manchester at that time should have triggered such an intense response is something I’ve looked at elsewhere.  (Aside from anything else,  the extremity of the climactic conditions linked to industrial pollution was extraordinary –  J B Howitt has talked of the ‘terrifying Manchester fogs … when the phenomenon of temperature-inversion produced near darkness and zero visibility around the clock for days on end’ (p. 54).)

And yet, and yet, there is more than this, and I think there are answers to be had.  You just might have to wander those rain-drenched fog-bound mean streets for a long time to find the heart of that darkness….

Frohock, W M, ‘Introduction to Butor’, YFS, 24 (1959), 54-61

Howitt, J B, ‘England and the English in the Novels of Michel Butor’, MA thesis, University of Manchester, April 1972

__, ‘Michel Butor and Manchester’, Nottingham French Studies, 12 (1973), 74-85

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Why I run, why I run very slowly – and why I run for Refugee Action

Those who’ve known me longest are the most surprised that I run – I spent most of my life strenuously avoiding unnecessary physical activity.  However, to my own surprise, I enjoy it.  It helps that where I live in Sheffield I can run for a few minutes from my home and find myself looking out over the lovely Rivelin valley, which lifts the spirits, even on a drizzly day.  On a sunny day, it makes me want to burst into song  (I don’t, as I’m usually too out of breath, and I don’t want to frighten the horses/dog walkers/other runners who are out there too).  On the flip side, you can’t run anywhere in Sheffield without having to deal with hills …

The Great Yorkshire Run is a great experience – there’s the full spectrum of runners, from the elite group (who were back across the finish line almost before my ‘wave’ set off) to unlikely runners like me.   I’m slow – though I get a tiny bit faster each time – which is fine, it’s a run and not a race, and I’m a middle-aged, traditionally built (thank you Alexander McCall Smith) woman, a pit pony rather than a gazelle.  But I keep going – once I start running I don’t stop, till I cross the finish line.

Last year I shaved 3 minutes of my previous year’s time (which itself was 10 minutes faster than I’d ever achieved in training).  When I’d slogged up the final cruelly steep hill a sudden spell of dizziness and breathlessness led to an ignominious journey on a golf cart to the medical tent.   This year, I’ve had back problems which stopped me training for a few weeks.  Despite that,  I’ll be doing the Great Yorkshire again this year, wearing the Refugee Action t-shirt.

Anyone who read my Refugee Week‘s worth of blogs about refugees will not be surprised at my choice of charity.  It’s really important to me how my country treats people who arrive here seeking sanctuary from persecution, violence and war.   My parents offered hospitality to Hungarian refugees after the uprising in 1956. Ten years later we found ourselves in northern Nigeria during the violence that preceded the civil war, when Igbo people were killed in their homes, on the streets, on the university campuses and in hospital wards.   Even those trying to escape from Nazi Europe often found their accounts of persecution doubted, and were unwelcome where they sought refuge.  You only have to read the reporting in many newspapers of any refugee issues to see how many half-truths and complete falsehoods are trotted out to bolster the view that we should send them all back (or at least send them somewhere else).  I know how much Refugee Action does to support these people, and to counter prejudice and misinformation, and I’m proud to be raising funds for this work.

So, if you feel as I do about the importance of this work, please sponsor me here:

http://www.justgiving.com/Catherine-Annabel0

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No place like home

 

‘Borders can become stifling and murderous.   The dotted lines on the cartographer’s map can be transformed into walls of flame’ (‘Bricolage: An Interview with Michel Butor’, YFS, 84 (1994), 17-26)

 

All this week, I’ve been blogging about refugees.  I set myself the task of posting at least once a day on this theme, and whilst it’s been demanding (given the day job, and all that) to keep to that, there’s never been the remotest danger that I would run out of stories to tell.  The stories have spanned more than a century (Ukrainian Jews relocating to Sheffield at the end of the 19th century, through to Medecins sans Frontieres’ bulletin from South Sudan, and campaigns in the UK for refugees facing deportation and destitution), but only two continents, and every continent, every nation has its refugee stories.

 

The refugee story is perhaps the true story of our age.   In the chaos of Europe after the Second World War the numbers of people displaced – because they’d fled, or been deported, or been driven out of their homes by fighting or bombing – were so great (around 40 million) that for the first time the idea of the refugee was given serious consideration.   Our legal definitions come from that period, though they have evolved and adapted since.    Estimates of numbers vary considerably, based on the nuances of the definitions – from 8.4 million to 62 million if we include people displaced within their country of origin, as well as those outside it.

 

The classic definition – a person who “owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality, and is unable to or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country’ – is based on the idea of a national identity, and of national borders.  Borders change, of course, and are in the main arrived at through conflict, occupation or colonisation – or by nature’s arrangements of sea or mountains.   Nigeria’s ongoing hideous turmoil is felt by many to be a product of the arbitrary lines drawn on a map by colonialists with little notion of the land those lines were enclosing or the peoples who inhabited it.

 

Borders can be absolute – one step over and you are in safety or in peril – but there’s also the notion of ambiguity, in the old Marchlands – borderlands rather than borderlines – which were dangerous places where the rule of law might not prevail.  And there were also sanctuaries – places where the rule of God rather than man prevailed and so one could be immune from arrest.   That notion is powerful and long-lasting, despite the terrible roll call of abuses.   The flight to a hoped-for place of safety sometimes did the work of genocidal mobs for them, as in Rwanda where a church in Nyarubuye and the technical school which had been a UN base had attracted many hundreds of refugees, who were surrounded by the Interahamwe and massacred.

 

The frontier can represent the limits of exploration (‘Space.  The final frontier’), to be boldly gone beyond, with all of the implications that what lies beyond may contain unknown and unimaginable dangers.  It’s a romantic notion in a way – and one which when given a historical context such as the American West reminds us that beyond the frontier wasn’t empty space to be occupied but homelands and homes  and people to be displaced and destroyed.

 

‘I think I belong on the border.  I feel safer psychologically if I have two countries, two places to go’.  Carmen Bugan still feels this, decades after leaving Romania.  W G Sebald, no refugee, but an exile, unable to feel at home in the place of his birth, said that his ideal station might be ‘a hotel in Switzerland‘ – a non-place in a neutral country.   Going home – if one can – may be as painful as being a stranger in a strange land.  For Carmen, returning to Romania two years ago to revisit her family home and old school was “one of the worst experiences of my life”.  ‘Yet there is still an inescapable desire to reconnect. Her writing is circling ever closer to Romania. “Do I want to turn back?” she wonders. “Is Romania really the sun and am I the sunflower?”‘  A S Byatt said of Sebald’s narrator in Rings of Saturn that he “journeys in great circling spirals in order not to go home, to get away from his origins”.

 

Every day’s papers bring more news of people forced to make unimaginable choices, people for whom home is no place.   South Sudanese refugees facing expulsion from Israel, boats carrying Sri Lankan asylum seekers capsizing in the Indian Ocean, Ugandan Asians returning to the homes from which Idi Amin drove them, Burmese Rohingya refugees seeking help in Bangladesh, refugee camps filling up in Turkey, in DRC.  It would be terribly easy to despair.   But the other side of the picture is, as it always has been, the story of generosity and hospitality, of people giving a damn when it’s not their turn to give a damn, of the marginalised and spectralised finding a place in a community and people to listen to their stories.

 

What could I say, to sum up what this week has been about?  Just that, as I said in my first Refugee Week post, every story that can be told is precious, a little bit of light in the darkness.

 

 

 

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PS – Many thanks to all those who’ve retweeted and reblogged these posts to bring them to a wider audience than I could reach.

 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/sep/22/artsandhumanities.highereducation

 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/jun/16/carmen-bugan-romanian-childhood

 

http://blogs.independent.co.uk/2012/06/22/note-to-refugees-from-south-sudan-israel-is-for-the-white-man/

 

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/africa/after-the-exodus-40-years-on-from-amins-terror-offensive-against-asians-in-uganda-7869878.html?origin=internalSearch

 

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/australasia/asylumseeker-tragedy-in-the-indian-ocean-as-75-people-are-thought-drowned-7873223.html?origin=internalSearch

 

 

 

 

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On the way to freedom

Walter-Benjamin

Walter-Benjamin (Photo credit: doylesaylor)

On 25/6 September 1940 a man took his own life in a hotel in Portbou, Catalonia.   He was 48 years old.  He was a writer, an intellectual, whose work, cut terribly short as it was, is still hugely influential.   He was Jewish, and had crossed the border from France, having escaped Paris ahead of the German army. He’d just heard that all transit visas had been cancelled, and that he and his fellow-travellers would be forced to return to France.

The UNHCR’s campaign for World Refugee Day focused on the ‘choice’ faced by refugees – to stay or to go, either one fraught with danger.  Walter Benjamin – and many others – took a third option.   He had contemplated suicide before, seeing Adolf Hitler’s rise to power.  He’d recently been interned in France as a stateless person, and knew already that the Gestapo had instructions to arrest him.

His choice is made bitter by our knowledge that his travelling companion, Arthur Koestler, took morphine tablets too, but survived and escaped, and that the embargo on visas was lifted a few weeks later.  As Hannah Arendt says in her introduction to Illuminations, ‘only on that particular day was the catastrophe possible’ (p. 18).

It’s also bitter because, if the scope of his influence on the humanities is so great on the basis of the work he published in his short lifetime, it could have been so much more had he lived.  In the words of his friend Gershom Scholem, his ‘genius united the insight of the Metaphysician, the interpretative power of the Critic, and the erudition of the Scholar’. (Reflections, vii).   Anyone interested in the city, in maps and labyrinths, in Baudelaire, Kafka or Proust, in text and translation, history and memory, will encounter Benjamin.

Walter Benjamin stands, in this context, for our loss, the loss of those who didn’t escape, and particularly those – notable and anonymous – who chose this third way.   On the memorial to Benjamin in Portbou these words are inscribed: IT IS MORE ARDUOUS TO HONOUR THE MEMORY OF THE NAMELESS THAN THAT OF THE RENOWNED. HISTORICAL CONSTRUCTION IS DEVOTED TO THE MEMORY OF THE NAMELESS.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/apr/27/hero-walter-benjamin-elif-shafak

http://www.haaretz.com/weekend/magazine/philosophy-awakenings-1.404599

Walter Benjamin, Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, preface by Leon Wieseltier, Introduction by Hannah Arendt (NY: Schocken Books, 2007)

Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings, preface by Leon Wieseltier, Introduction by Peter Demetz (NY: Schocken Books, 2007)

http://www.davidharding.net/?page_id=39

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Free to be me

Seventy or so years ago, homosexuals were arrested across Nazi Europe – around 100,000 of whom between 5 and 15 thousand were sent to concentration camps, where 60% of them are believed to have been killed.   Their place in the Holocaust was not recognised officially for many years – after all, survivors could not tell their stories openly in societies where their sexuality was still criminalised and stigmatised.

Today in Uganda the Anti-Homosexuality Bill, apparently withdrawn under intense international pressure, has been reintroduced to parliament.  It would broaden the criminalisation of same-sex relations by creating two categories: aggravated homosexuality (e.g. acts committed by someone who is HIV positive, is a parent or authority figure, a repeat offender, commits acts on a minor or using intoxicating substances),which would attract the death penalty, or the offense of homosexuality punishable merely by life imprisonment.  This legislation extends to those who engage in same-sex relations outside of Uganda, and includes penalties for supporting gay people or LGBT rights.  Uganda is not alone – homosexuality is punishable by death in a number of other countries, and criminalised across much of the globe.   In these countries, not only are LGBT people subject to judicial punishments but to unofficial violence, against which they can have no hope of redress or protection.

Despite this, for a long time in UK asylum law, the idea that one’s sexual orientation could be grounds for seeking refugee status was not accepted.  As a result, even where people could show that they had faced persecution because of their sexuality, and that their home country criminalised homosexuality, they were told to go home, and be discreet.   Two years ago this was overturned by the UK Supreme Court.

‘The Home Office argument paralleled the idea that if Anne Frank could have avoided persecution by hiding forever in the attic, then she wouldn’t have qualified as a refugee. Sir John Dyson calls this argument “absurd and unreal”. The test essentially creates two parallel persecutions – the objective risk from the state or society one comes from, and the living lie required to hide from it. Moreover, the court holds that there is no possible yardstick for measuring when suppressing ones sexuality is “reasonably tolerable”. The question the court of appeal posed regarding what is “reasonably tolerable” is fundamentally unanswerable. As Lord Rodger points out, in the final analysis, “there is no relevant standard since it is something which no one should have to endure”.’ (Bernard Keenan, ‘Milestone victory for gay refugees’, Guardian, 7 July 2o10)

This was obviously a huge step forward.  And the refugee organisations who helped to bring about this change also lobbied for improved training for UKBA staff, to enable them to deal with these issues more sensitively, and with a greater cultural understanding (see Stonewall’s report for the background to this).  Things may well have improved in this area too, but the number of cases where gay asylum seekers are currently threatened with deportation suggests there is some way to go.

Julia Kristeva argued that the stranger/refugee multiplies masks and false selves.   In their homeland the refugee may have had to ‘pass’, as conforming to whatever set of beliefs and behaviours will make them acceptable.   In their place of sanctuary, the immediate threat may have been removed, but they still need to keep themselves as inconspicuous as possible, given that the very fact of being a stranger makes them vulnerable.   And if the reason for their exile is their sexuality, their claim for refugee status is dependent upon their ability to be open about something that has been a source of shame and fear, something that may still expose them to violence.   A new report from the Organization for Refuge, Asylum and Migration says that  ‘LGBTI individuals are virtually invisible in the international refugee protection realm despite being among the most pervasively and violently persecuted in the world. Moreover, they are placed in housing where they are exposed to violence, or are compelled to hide the true reason they were persecuted, which puts their legal status in jeopardy.’

So, if the gay asylum seeker conforms to the norms of mainstream society, they may not convince officialdom that they are genuinely in need of asylum because of their sexuality.  If they conform to officialdom’s expectations of gay identity, they put themselves in even greater danger should their claim fail and they be deported, and they expose themselves to prejudice and aggression here – most poignantly, the communities which for many asylum seekers provide a vital support network, their compatriots in exile, may be the most hostile.    Double jeopardy. 

 

 

http://www.newint.org/blog/2012/06/20/lgbt-refugees-protection-oram/

Click to access oram-opening-doors.pdf

http://madikazemi.blogspot.co.uk/p/asylum-seekermigrant-support.html

http://www.refugee-action.org.uk/campaigns/freetobeme/default.aspx

http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2012/03/13/consultation-seeks-views-on-draft-lgbt-asylum-protections/

http://www.freedomfromtorture.org/get-involved/campaigns/5462

Stonewall, No Going Back: Lesbian and Gay People and the Asylum System, 2010

http://www.uklgig.org.uk/stories.htm

http://www.lgbtiasr-doublejeopardy.org/CONFERENCE_2012/GREENWICH_DECLARATION.html

Julia Kristeva, Etrangers à nous-mêmes (Paris: Gallimard, 1988)

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Refugee Stories

Médecins sans Frontières report from South Sudan:

Upper Nile State in South Sudan has seen an influx of some 35,000 refugees over the last three weeks, with a further 15,000 refugees said to be on their way. Most arrive on foot, carrying their most precious possessions. Many have been walking for weeks and some describe having had to leave the weakest members of their party by the roadside.

Most are fleeing fighting in neighbouring Sudan. They arrive to find refugee camps already overcrowded and aid workers struggling to provide enough water for the 70,000 refugees already in the area, because of this thousands chose to walk to other temporary camps.

“All these people in the camps are normal people who had normal lives. They had houses and clothes, and then one day, they had to pack their things, leave their lives behind and start to walk. If they were lucky enough and strong enough, they made it to one of these camps. And if they weren’t, then they died along the way” – Chiara Burzio

http://supportus.msf.org.uk/

Meanwhile, closer to home, Refugee Action‘s appeal will be broadcast on Radio 4 this weekend:

Tune in on Sunday 24th June at 7.55am and 9.26pm when we’ll be broadcasting a very personal message to 1.9 million Radio 4 listeners. The Refugee Action appeal will focus on how, with your support, we’re providing a lifeline for thousands of destitute asylum seekers across the country by giving food parcels, clean clothes and small amounts of money for a hostel bed for a few nights. It will be read by Santok, one of our caseworkers. Please share this with your friends, family and colleagues so we’re able to let as many people as possible know.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01k1n54

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