The brightest lights cast the biggest shadows ….
…and I have been blessed to meet many bright lights from across the globe during my time volunteering. Saying farewell to these bright lights invariably casts shadows across my heart which become manageable with time but never disappear. I struggle with the fact that our cruel borders try so hard to dim these bright lights, so much effort and money to keep these lights from shining.
Below just a few open letters to a few of my blinding lights …
To my son
It has been 2 years, 4 months since we met in a desolate place where the rain and wind cut through to bone, the only shelters were summer festival tents, the weather was relentless. The conditions were so hard for everyone, especially for the babies, disabled and pregnant women – but also so hard for you, only 24 and alone in the world.
I remember how you laughed as you showed me your ‘home’ destroyed by wind and rain, your clothes and sleeping bag wet .. this was a genuine but dark humour. I hugged you as I thought about my small warm room I would later escape to and have a hot shower; heating, running water and showers were not available to you.
I remember how excited you were asked to work as a translator, typing information from English to Arabic for a grass roots charity. You told me it was one of the best days of your life, you got to use your skills and brain. I know your mind is sharp and eager to be used. The boredom in that place was killing your spirit.
For a time you called me mum, but I haven’t spoken to you for a couple of months now…. this doesn’t mean I don’t think about you – still waiting for your asylum claim to be processed – still in limbo after these years. You don’t know this, but I tried very hard to find a legal route for you to come to England and stay with my family. But the borders are high and cruel in this country.
I know you want to study and learn, to be successful. I hope with all my heart that this happens.
Love Emma
To my daughters,
I first met you three beautiful ladies, 9 months ago as winter approached Greece. It was a crazy evening, arriving at the tiny airport to be met by a van load of Greek Solidarity people. I was taken to the place were you were living as we were to share this place, this was my home for a time.. I didn’t know that you would be there, I had no idea. It was late, but slowly you appeared one by one, sitting on the outskirts of the room.
The conversation around the table was in Greek, with some translation on occasion, but I felt very welcomed and safe. When the Greek people left, we sat with your brothers at the huge dining table. I was tired and you were maybe a little apprehensive, I had 2 words of Arabic and no Kurdish and your English was in its infancy… but we communicated with our eyes, smiles and (of course) google translate.
The next morning, I came downstairs and it was like we had known each other for years. From then, we shopped, cooked, cleaned, laughed, played, cried and worked together.. we were together every day.
I remember the time you found a blouse in the warehouse which was exactly like your mum’s. You broke down, you were devastated, we sat and talked and hugged, you cried, you were shaken to the core. You returned to work .. but some damage had been done to your heart. Some deep emotions, buried, had been dragged from within you and you struggled to manage them. That evening you fainted and we couldn’t wake you, we lay you on the floor and made sure you were comfortable. We called the doctor .. he said .. these things happen .. its trauma.. he said you would recover, you would wake up eventually. You slowly woke, confused and lost – I was also lost and unsure how best to help you.
I remember you asking me to help your friend, she was so traumatised that she couldn’t stop vomiting. She had cut off her beautiful hair and she was now drifting in and out of consciousness, dehydrated an devastated. I am not sure I was much help, but I was there with you. After the doctor had left and your friend gone home, I lay on your bed with you, stroking your hair until you stopped crying. The next day whilst I was out, to thank me, you cleaned my room and picked a beautiful rose – placing it carefully next to my bed. I never told you, but this gesture made my cry with emotion, it was such a beautiful action and one that I will never forget.
I remember so much your laugh and sense of fun. It was contagious. You didn’t speak much English back in November but we communicated so well. I saw you again just a few weeks ago, you walked into the house we had once shared in the middle of a meeting – with many people. I saw you and jumped up .. running across the room to hug you. You looked the same, yet different. I could see you had grown in confidence. I didn’t care that we disrupted the meeting, my joy at seeing you again was intense and unstoppable. Now you translate as your English has improved so much, I am so so proud of you. You are strong and intelligent and an inspiration to me.
To my sister,
When I first met you, I could feel you were a force of nature – changing the landscape in ways others did not think possible. It was my first volunteering trip, I was alone and very unsure of how to help. I guess I wanted to hang onto your coat tails for a while, learn from you.
I think I had the energy and naivety of an annoying child, you had been working on Lesvos for months. But due to the intensity of that time, in reality the days were weeks and the months were years. You were patient with me though.
My first day working at the Hope Centre (the renovation of an abandoned hotel in Northern Lesvos) and I decided to investigate the waste water system. I remember how delighted you were that my background was in sewage treatment – random skills!! All of a sudden I felt like I could contribute something of value, 20 years working with shit was finally going to pay off!
Do you remember that I approached this task with the enthusiasm of a yappy puppy? How I worked, looking for the best solution so the Centre could have flushing toilets and showers. The treatment plant was beyond reasonable repair within a reasonable time scale. The electrics sat battered, laying out on the sand, the pipework rusted and damaged and the treatment plant itself was full of holes and in a very bad condition. But I had another solution for the short term – cheap and doable.
With enthusiasm I presented my solution to the man who had given his life to this cause, oh how he was angry with me, he shouted, he was angry. He wanted the plant repaired and was livid that I suggested this may not be practical. I was tactless and he was super passionate (and maybe unrealistic) about his project – the combination not a match made in heaven.
My confidence crashed, but you were there with kind words (and numerous obscenities). I remember sitting in front of the fire at Hope Centre until late that evening – a group of us. Drinking rose wine, on a freezing cold night, you told me about your experiences on Lesvos over the last 6 months. The deaths and human suffering you had seen, the people you had helped, the failure on all fronts of our so called leaders – Governments, NGO’s and big charities alike had all failed humanity on an enormous scale. I wondered how this would affect you long term, the trauma and the frustration and the intense fatigue.
After I had gone home, you stayed in Greece – moving around where the need was most. I volunteered a few more times, but managed to just miss you each time, until we met in Kavala. I guess you hadn’t changed much, the exterior of fierceness, determination and ability to get shit done on a huge scale, coupled with uncertainty and anxiety inside – hidden most of the time.
We have collaborated over the years a few times, but only met in person a couple of times – however, I know that one day we will share a rose wine (or tequila) together. Its the law my sister !!
Emma
To my best friend,
You are like no friend I have ever had. So shy, so reserved, so calm, so thoughtful – but still waters run deep. You are like the deep ocean, whereas, I am more like the chaotic waves crashing on the shore.
Your situation is so hard that I find it too hard to describe. Of course, I don’t know most of it, because you keep your hardships to yourself, refusing to tell anyone how bad it really is. I know only the surface, only small amounts that I managed to get you to talk about. But, I know there’s more.
I know you struggle to keep motivated and hopeful about your future. The authorities try so hard to dim your bright light: like torture they reject your asylum; like torture they make you wait for who knows how long; like torture they take away your choices and your freedom; like torture they take away your privacy and try to kill your dignity. Even though some days you may feel you want to give up to their tortuous techniques – you never do.
With all this and more, you retain your humanity and your belief in equality. You keep your thirst for the accumulation of knowledge, wisdom and understanding. I don’t know how you do this – really I am in awe.
One day you will have the freedom to choose and to determine your own future. I will be watching, because you are sure to be a huge success,
Emma
Solidarity for refugees 