Into the Arms of Strangers

In the documentary film entitled ‘Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport (2000), there is a scene where an elderly woman is questioned about her experiences as a Jewish child sent abroad before the start of the Second World War to the UK for safety. The British government accepted 10,000 such children. There were strict conditions about age and background and parents were excluded. So these youngsters were transported across Europe from Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland to the UK. Thanks to the actions of the UK Government some of these children would be the sole survivors of entire Jewish families by the close of the war. 

This sweet old lady spoke in gentle whispers about her experience. Of her fear on the train on being separated from her family. How her father ran alongside the train at the station waving goodbye and she a young child, not understanding the horrendous situation, sulked and refused to hug or speak. To her she was being forced abroad and she was angry, confused and very frightened. They were allowed only one small case and at the border German guards entered the train of the scared children and searched them and their small cases terrifying them. When they crossed the border at the very next stop complete strangers handed in through the windows chocolate and sweets to welcome them. She could remember both the cruelty of the German guards and the shocking unexpected kindness at this first station outside Germany. The taste of the chocolate was sweet and unforgettable. A taste of freedom and she remembered the children cheering. 

Later, she arrived in a hall in England where she awaited a family to give her a home. People came and chose a child at lunchtimes in the village hall where they were all eating. She remembered not been chosen week after week. Watching others being picked on all sides. After a month a couple eventually chose her and she was so excited and so grateful she could barely speak. Aged eight she arrived at a strange home and was shown her bed in the small room upstairs. Grateful for this family choosing her at last, she tried to show her feelings by giving them a hug before going to bed. She had memories of her parent’s good night routine. In a gentle heartbreaking voice almost a whisper, but still wounded, she described how the woman told her “None of that soppy stuff here!” and pushed her away. It did nothing to reduce her gratitude to the couple but as the weeks and months passed she realised they had wanted a servant. Her role was to clean and work not receive kindness and love. 

Her disappointment, even now, fills her voice, her eyes, the room, the screen and all eye watching. Unbearable in its longing for something more. You want to reach in and hug that eight-year-old, ease the pain of her rejection. Why are such simple memories so vivid and so raw? Why do they reach across the decades and make us long that things were different? Her gentle acceptance, her resigned tone, awakens you to the sweet child still confused by the world’s unkindness. Your heart feels whittled and besieged by the unfairness. These days when refugees again stream across Europe may we all fare better than this mean spirited example. But remember, although devoid of love or tenderness, that couple did save a young life. Perhaps, they claim a far higher moral ground than us today? Now, that thought chills the very heart.

Could one honest politician have the courage to say it anyway?

Is it ever so, the wealthy are greeted with open arms? Those who have money to spend are waved ashore.  A boost to the economy, the ring of cash registers heralds their entrance. The poor get no such welcome mat. They pile onto overloaded boats fleeing the intolerable to find the possible. They fill refugee camps around their country's borders. These are not rich enough to woo their suitor countries. They quite clearly are not wanted. They must scurry through dark places. Whatever savings they gather is used to bribe the smugglers. It is big business this trade. People used to earn lots of money capturing Africans and transporting them to be sold abroad into slavery. Now, there is a new currency in human flesh.  Money is to be earned transporting those who cannot bear to live in their homes to countries that do not want them, by those who make a livelihood from the spreading chaos. 

The deaths are a stain on Europe. It's red tide of shame. But compared to the loss of life and danger these refugees face at home, the journey is worth the risk. Does Europe bite its fingers in hatred that the victims don't die or suffer quietly in their own backyard’s? Don't these people see by fleeing to southern Europe they embarrass the developed world. We have become accustomed to the deaths, murders and atrocities of the third world but not in our own borders. However, Bosnia showed Europe could once more stomach the killing of large numbers.  Rwanda proved that even killings approaching a million caused handwringing but no action at the UN. The truth is less palatable than we imagine. The reality is hidden behind feel good charity endeavours. Our shame is not that we don't know what is happening. It is because we don't want to know.  

The system is sustainable because our focus is on our own misery and fears. Terrorism, viruses,  Ebola, bird flu, the weak economy, threatening wars. The distracted developed world is like a selfish adolescent who is concerned only with how things affect them. This mindset has no room for global awareness. No matter what environmental considerations, wildlife extinctions, global warming, pollution of our land, sea and air. Never mind human loss of life the show must go on. Unfortunately, we are reaching the tipping point on all fronts. Beyond which, many fear, there is no recovery. 

Some solutions are obvious. This flawed view that we can continue to abuse and over use the earth's resources to fuel a growing economy at whatever cost. It beggars belief that are our leaders could be so disengaged from reality. They, of course, are singing from the hymmn sheet, that the developed world insists on hearing, business as usual! Everything is limited.  The amount of gold, gas and oil is finite. Natural resources such as water, fish and crops are not only limited but fragile. We would do well to give our leaders a reality check. We cannot grow ourselves out of the present problems. The growth they proclaim as future progress will be at a cost the world cannot sustain. Politicians are obliged to tell us what we want to hear, either business as usual or business better than normal. They fear divergence from this popular script. 

Could somewhere, some leader have the courage to say the unpalatable.  Okay, they will never be re-elected. The truth will have to be their swan song. But, could one honest politician of any nation or background have the courage to say it anyway.

Hugging our treasure troves of identity

Returned triumphant today Identity Card in hand!  Spent the morning in a long line of Nigerian, Somalia, Eritrea and Syrians and waited for an hour to collect it.  Began by feeling very sorry for my fellow queue members.  It seems work permits/ID officers, the world over; seek to instill Job-like patience in their clients.  I remember in Greece having a practical suitcase of documents, wedding certificate, utility bills, passport, qualifications - translated in Greek and stamped by relevant authorities (25 pounds per document), my birth certificate, work contract, bank statement, drivers licence, rental agreement only to be asked for my grandmother’s birth certificate!  No wonder all around me people clasp to their chests their own paperwork.  Armed with documents signed and stamped, those without such armour gradually feel a growing fear as they approach the official window. Some lose heart and scurry away from the field of battle and with each one that flees the rest of us hug our precious paperwork a little tighter. How precious they have become, shielding us from the public humiliation of failure and defeat.

One Somali woman cloaked in a long chador dropped her papers by accident.  Her head covering had caught on the corner of a sheet causing an avalanche of documents in all directions.   Everyone is shocked by her carelessness and she throws herself on her knees on top of the paperwork obviously expecting others to seize this treasure trove of identity.  Frantically, she retrieves them eyes scanning in case she has missed a vital one.  The rest of us hug our armour a little closer to our hearts in case we too falter on the eve of battle.

By now I am not so sympathetic to my fellow ID hunters.  An hour has passed and the three men in front look and sound like a Nigerian drug cartel.  The large lady pushing me from behind, with a colourful head scarf, has not only a horrendous hacking cough (with my luck it is probably Ebola) and her face is covered in weeping sores especially around her mouth and nose.  Now, I am suddenly of the opinion there should be two queues one for EU citizens and the other for non-EU characters.  I have noted the lack of UK queuing etiquette in front.  One fidgeting man with a woollen hat filled with hair braids thinks he is entitled to allow all family members, friends and passing acquaintances to jump in beside him in the queue.  I am impressed at how quickly one’s sympathy can turn to resentment in the mist of inconvenience and discomfort.

Much of Southern Europe has experienced this sea change.  As the economic situation deteriorates people have turned on immigrants/refugees with depressing consistency.  It appears inbred in our species that when things become difficult we need to blame someone.  Usually, we round on our governments who in turn will find a convenient scapegoat to deflect that anger on.  The invading foreigners are a good bet.  Easily identified and fairly defenseless they make handy targets for our discontentment.

The Mediterranean islands are becoming the front-line of the exodus of despair from Africa and the Middle East.  Many don’t make it to these shores and meet a watery death instead.  We never hear their last gasp for air as the sea consumes them.  But the rotting corpses create their own gas and this final fermentation of the life force raises them from the depths.  Their rotting bodies expose the vile/violent regimes that they have fled from and the corrupt/distracted governments to whom they flee for safety.