Authors: Benjamin Zephaniah
Refugee Boy
BENJAMIN ZEPHANIAH
For Million and Dereje Hailemariam
Benjamin Zephaniah on writing
Refugee Boy
It’s a hard life being labelled ‘political’. It seems that because I’m constantly ranting about the ills of the world I’m expected to have all the answers, but I don’t, and I’ve never claimed to. Besides, I’m not a politician. What interests me is people.
When I hear politicians saying that we are being ‘flooded’ by refugees, I always remind myself that each ‘refugee’ is a person, a person who for some reason has left everything they know and love to find safety in a strange and sometimes hostile country. I wrote
Refugee Boy
because I realised that every day I was meeting refugees, and each one of them had a unique and usually terrifying story to tell.
I have seen refugee camps in Gaza, Montenegro and other places around the world, but when I met Million and Dereje Hailemariam, two teenagers who were being denied asylum in Britain, I knew that I had to write a story that would illustrate the suffering and the struggles that many asylum seekers have to endure. Million and Dereje’s parents feared for the lives of their boys; they did not want them to grow up
in an environment where they would witness war on a daily basis. I have also met children whose parents were executed in front of them, or who had been kidnapped and tortured themselves.
For
Refugee Boy
I borrowed from the many stories that I have heard, and created a story that I believe many refugees would recognise. I would hope that anyone who reads the book would think before they accuse refugees of looking for a free ride. We all want to live in peace, we all want the best for our families. The Celts, the Angles, the Saxons, the Jamaicans are all refugees of one sort or another.
What kind of a refugee are you?
And what are you scared of?
As the family lay sleeping, soldiers kicked down the door of the house and entered, waving their rifles around erratically and shouting at the top of their voices. Alem ran into the room where his parents were, to find that they had been dragged out of bed dressed only in their nightclothes, and forced to stand facing the wall.
The soldier who was in command went and stood so that his mouth was six inches away from Alem’s father’s ear and shouted, ‘What kind of man are you?’
Alem’s father shuddered with fear; his voice trembled as he replied, ‘I am an African.’
Alem looked on terrified as the soldier shot a number of bullets into the floor around the feet of his father and mother.
His mother screamed with fear. ‘Please leave us! We only want peace.’
The soldier continued shouting. ‘Are you Ethiopian or Eritrean? Tell us, we want to know.’
‘I am an African,’ Alem’s father replied.
The soldier raised his rifle and pointed it at Alem’s
father. ‘You are a traitor.’ He turned and pointed the rifle at Alem’s mother. ‘And she is the enemy.’ Then he turned and pointed the rifle at Alem’s forehead. ‘And he is a mongrel.’
Turning back to Alem’s father, he dropped his voice and said, ‘Leave Ethiopia or die.’
As the family lay sleeping, soldiers kicked down the door of the house and entered, waving their rifles around erratically and shouting at the top of their voices. Alem ran into the room where his parents were, to find that they had been dragged out of bed dressed only in their nightclothes, and forced to stand facing the wall.
The soldier who was in command went and stood so that his mouth was six inches away from Alem’s mother’s ear and shouted, ‘What kind of woman are you?’
Alem’s mother shuddered with fear; her voice trembled as she replied, ‘I am an African.’
Alem looked on terrified as the soldier shot a number of bullets into the floor around the feet of his mother and father.
His father screamed with fear. ‘Please leave us! We only want peace.’
The soldier continued shouting. ‘Are you Eritrean or Ethiopian? Tell us, we want to know.’
‘I am an African,’ Alem’s mother replied.
The soldier raised his rifle and pointed it at Alem’s mother. ‘You are a traitor.’ He turned and pointed the rifle at Alem’s father. ‘And he is the enemy.’ Then he turned and pointed the rifle at Alem’s forehead. ‘And he is a mongrel.’
Turning back to Alem’s mother, he dropped his voice and said, ‘Leave Eritrea or die.’
˜ Welcome to the Weather ˜
Welcome to England, Mr Kelo,’ said the immigration officer as he handed back the passports to Alem’s father.
Alem stared up at the tall officer; the officer looked down at Alem. ‘Have a good holiday now.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alem’s father. He took Alem’s hand and began to head for the baggage-reclaim area.
Alem jerked his father’s hand and stopped suddenly. ‘Abbaye, yaw teguru tekatlowal,’ he said, brimming with excitement.
His father turned to him and spoke as if he was trying to shout quietly. ‘What did I tell you? From now on you must try to speak English, you must practise your English – all right, young man?’
Alem panicked. ‘Ishi abbaye,’ he said.
His father’s response was swift. ‘English, I said.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Now what did you say?’
Alem looked back towards passport control. ‘Father, that man who looked at the passports, what was wrong with him?’
‘He looked all right to me.’
‘I think something was wrong with his hair, he looked burned. Did you see his hair? It was red, red like sunset, he looked hot, he looked burned.’
His father shook his head and they continued to walk. ‘No, nothing is wrong with him. This type of hair is called ginger. In England you will see many people with this colour hair – and you must not say burned, you must say burnt – the word is “burnt”.’
As they stood waiting for their luggage to appear on the carousel, Alem looked up at the high ceiling. He loved the large airport building, it reminded him of space stations that he had seen in science-fiction films. Everything seemed so busy but so organised; everything looked so large. He looked towards the next carousel, where people were waiting for their luggage after a flight from India. Many of the people were Sikhs; the men were wearing turbans. They looked familiar. ‘Father, are they all priests?’ Alem asked.
‘They are from India,’ his father replied, ‘they are called Sikhs. Just like our priests they wear turbans, and they are also religious, but I have never seen any in Ethiopia.’
They collected their luggage and headed towards the exit. Alem was looking around frantically, trying to take in the big building and all the different people while trying to avoid bumping into anyone, which he
inevitably did a couple of times before reaching the customs hall.
The customs hall had an eerie atmosphere about it; customs officers stood silently observing as the passengers passed through in a rather nervous silence. The silence was broken by a large bearded officer leaning over his counter in the direction of Alem and his father. ‘Excuse me, sir, could I have a word with you, please?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Alem’s father as politely as he could.
‘Could you put your luggage on the table, please, sir?’
As the officer spoke, he was looking behind and in front of the couple. ‘Just the two of you travelling, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Alem’s father replied, looking behind to make sure they had not attracted any followers.
‘Now this is just a routine check, sir. I just need to ask you a few questions and provided everything is all right, you should be on your way soon. Right, sir, where have you arrived from?’
‘Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.’
‘Did you pack your suitcases yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is the purpose of your visit?’
‘We are having a holiday.’
‘I take it this is your son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you tell me why you only have two pieces of luggage? It does seem odd,’ said the customs officer as he looked around their feet for other pieces.
‘Well, we only have one each because we are only going to be staying for a short time and we were planning to buy many things here in London, in the famous Oxford Road and Piccadilly Circle,’ Alem’s father replied, trying to put on the best upper-class accent that he could, but sounding rather clumsy.
‘I think you mean Oxford Street and Piccadilly Circus. Could I see your passports, please?’
The man spent a good two minutes checking the passports before he put them down on the table next to the suitcases. Alem could sense that the words the customs officer was speaking were well rehearsed, he could sense that he was trying to be well-mannered and inoffensive, but at the same time there was something dangerous about him. It was as if he were an animal of prey waiting for a chance to pounce.
‘So you are having a short holiday, sir? I would have thought that after coming all this way you would want to stay with us a little bit longer. Do you mind if I have a look in the cases, sir?’
‘No, not at all. You should do what you have to do.’
The officer spent the next five minutes searching through the luggage. Alem wanted to tell him to be careful when he started to search his case but he was very self-conscious of the fact that his English wasn’t
great. In fact, Alem’s English was quite good but he had never spoken English to an English person before. So he just watched in silence as the officer looked inside his schoolbooks and his toiletry bag, he even checked his underpants and looked in his socks. The officer then made an attempt to pack everything back as he had found it but it wasn’t happening. Alem’s father ended up helping him to push everything into the cases as best they could before the officer gave them permission to continue.
‘That will be all, sir. I’m sorry for keeping you and I thank you for your co-operation.’
By now Alem’s father was so annoyed that he didn’t respond, he just picked up the suitcases and the passports and they continued towards the exit.
After changing some traveller’s cheques, they headed outside for a taxi. It was a damp and chilly October day, and the sky over Heathrow was grey.
‘It will rain, Father,’ said Alem as he pointed to the sky.
His father smiled. ‘You haven’t been here for one hour yet but you have become English already; the English always talk about the weather. No, young man, that is not rain clouds, that is just English clouds. You will get used to them, they come with the territory.’
They approached a waiting taxi and Alem’s father
handed a card to the driver. ‘Is that where you wanna go, mate?’ he asked, holding the card away from himself to compensate for his long-sightedness.
Alem’s father nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
‘The Palace Hotel, High Street, Datchet, Berkshire. That’s just up the road. I don’t go there often – good job too, I’d never earn a living. OK, hop in.’
They did and they were on their way.
Alem’s father came from the Amhara tribe of Ethiopia. His large forehead, light-brown skin and large eyes were typical of his people, as was his short, jet-black, curly hair. It is said that the Amhara people have Arab as well as African blood flowing through their veins, and the facial features of Alem and his father did reinforce that theory. He was a man who tried to smile as much as he could to please others but he took the business of life very seriously. In the taxi he sat straight-backed throughout the journey and looked silently straight ahead while Alem’s eyes explored the black taxi’s interior. Even the back of the taxi was a source of wonder for Alem, but his excitement was contained as he could see that his father wasn’t in the mood. He looked deep in thought. To keep his mind occupied Alem tried to practise his English by reading the notices in the cab, whispering the words as he read them: ‘No smok-ing. Li-censed
Hack-ney Car-riage. Red light in-di-cates doors are locked. This seat-belt is for your per-son-al safe-ty.’