Immigration

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Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Sanctuary

by Nanette

Since the beginning of time, when there is war, when there is no more food, when there is death or disease threatening, people have packed up what they could, left the rest to maybe never be seen again, grabbed their children and gone on the move. 

[Note]: This was written as part of 10 Stories the World Should Hear More About as identified by the United Nations for 2006, a Booman Tribune Group Project suggested and coordinated by ManEegee. For further information see Group Project: 10 Most Underreported Stories.

I have had a hard time starting this piece - why, I don’t know, as I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Even this morning I’ve torn paper after paper out of the typewriter, balling them up and throwing them on the floor. Well, metaphorically… in reality I just clicked delete which, while it may be quicker and cleaner, does not give quite the same satisfaction. This version I will muddle through with, regardless.

Perhaps I felt the problem was too big… taking the vast expanse of desert, the endless horizon of an ocean, the leaves on a thousand trees and trying to capture it all in a teaspoon. And it is that, to be sure. Big, I mean. Huge. Mammoth.

Stand anywhere in the world, and turn in any direction you wish and you’ll be facing towards uprooted lives, traumatized children, shoes whose soles have been worn thin from walking, walking, always on the move; bloodied hands that have been shredded by grasping barbed wire - and still they grip, attempting to pull it open; tongues hanging from mouths, white and parched, not even enough moisture left to wet the lips; a slice of bread that is the meal of the day, split among four; labored breathing, wide eyes and backward glances, hearts pounding, shushing the children as they try and hang on with little hands made slick with fear. On the move, on their way, to where some have no idea, but they hope when they get there someone will let them in.

I realized, however, that the problem is also very small, easy to understand, childs play to grasp. Clear, simple, basic and elemental, yet intricate - the percussion of one raindrop hitting the surface of the water.

Sanctuary.

Since the beginning of time, when there is war, when there is no more food, when there is death or disease threatening, people have packed up what they could, left the rest to maybe never be seen again, grabbed their children and gone on the move.

It makes sense, of course, to get out of the danger areas. There are other reasons too - bombs masquerading as food packets, lessons taught from the barrel of a gun, your young children stolen in the night, or even in broad daylight, by competing factions. Your son forced to carry water, bedding or arms; to learn to shut off all feeling and kill or maim indiscriminately; your daughter to cook, to carry arms and to be repeatedly raped until she is tossed aside like trash, to live or die.

Some uninvited guests never arrive without company.

There are individuals, groups and organizations that, before the echo of the first shot fades, it sometimes seems, also pack up and start out for some semi-safe spot to make the first catch of the invariable detritus of war, famine, epidemics - broken lives and broken people. I’ve often thought that in order to really know what is going on in the world, that these are the people to watch. They hear things we don’t, see things coming that we don’t know about til they’ve passed us, if then… they need to - in order to provide the first relief, to set up the first sanctuary, temporary shelter until things calm down. Although as I’ve grown older and more cynical, I’ve wondered if part of the job of some of them was not also to halt people in their tracks.

People are soooo tired of those seeking asylum (pdf), everywhere, it seems. Governments have fortified themselves, or even changed hands entirely -usually to the right wing, on the strength of keeping people out. Of course, creative marketing is sometimes needed to allow people to feel better about this… refugees and asylum seekers become "queue jumpers", "illegals" and "invaders" (or sometimes citizens and residents become "refugees", ala Katrina). Still, unavoidably, a few slip through. And still more await.

And you know what I noticed, while looking at picture after picture of interrupted lives, whether by war or by disaster, by acts of nature or acts of humans? They all look alike. Really.

Oh, they have different skin colors, different clothes, each has individual features and cultural artifacts… some may come from the city, some from a rural area, have different professions… teacher, banker, student, farmer, caregiver, mother, sports figure, many things… but they all have the same look. I don’t know how to describe it… not waiting, exactly, because I am not sure waiting has any meaning anymore for some of them. Not hope, although I am sure that is part of it. Maybe it’s simply… I am present, I think, but that is all I can say for sure. Even the children have it:

What do we do? At the moment, we tweak aside the curtains of our world to peer for a moment at the mass of humanity on the move, just outside, before we pull them tightly closed again and head for our own sanctuaries - the garden, office or study, the kitchen to check on the roast - pausing along the way to turn up the sound on the TV or stereo lest we accidentally hear the plea of those walking, walking, always on the move, for the scraps from our table. The richer we are, as a country, the more we have to share, the less inclined we seem to want to do so. Or sometimes, some think we already do share, in great amounts, because of rhetoric and myth.

Racism is a huge part of it, of course, but not the only part. Some of it is fear… fear of not having enough, especially when sometimes our own lives appear to be teetering on the edge - quite purposely so, if you ask me, as it benefits governments to have an insecure (but not too insecure), and thus fairly compliant populace.

There is so much more to this story… it will never all be told, and as long as there are wars, famines and upheavals, it will never end. In many cases, we are being overtaken by the shadows cast years ago which are only just now, in this time of increased mobility and knowledge, drawing over us. For the forseeable future; for years to come, someone will always be at the door seeking sanctuary.

What will we do?

Further reading

Stranded

Refugee Action: Challenging the Myths (UK)