Refugee and migrant rights

On this workshop we discussed the landscape of refugee and migrant rights in the UK, examining the humanitarian implications of border policies and the ongoing political, social and legal struggles surrounding small boat crossings.

Small Boats

by Mira Mookerjee

Drifting out to sea,
With waves raging, 
Armed with only life jackets,
On a vessel too heavy to float – 
Bodies shaking, 
Wind pushing back against them,
Vessels thick with fear and faith, 
On a vessel too heavy to float –
Battered motor, perforated rubber,
Carrying the core of what we know,
Vessels thick with fear and faith, 
A faith carved deep into bone,
Bodies shaking, 
Wind pushing back against them,
On a vessel thick with fear and faith,
Heavy with the hope of home.

DARK PASSAGE, WORDS ARE CHEAP;

by Angela Baker

I am scraping dog shit off the new carpet. I am happy to do this, I love my shitty dog, But would I love my shitty life, if I had no other distractions, NO OTHER OPTION?

Imagine the sheer night desperation of ask-no-questions, or else,
live forever-frozen in aspic?.......  Time waits for no man, Tock -TIC!
Cornered right now, the smell of your own humanity fills your nostrils,
the unborn foetus in your belly, knee-jerks you in your throat,
Do you choke yes or no?, and right there and then vomit your baby`s consent.
Go on, pay the forfeit, do not pass go, do not collect £200.

LIFE MAYBE SHORT BUT DOES IT HAVE TO BE SO CHEAP?
Is a leap of faith all that`s left?
Are you desperate enough to always live in fear?
Go on, make that ONE sketchy-passage that will change everything,
Go on! You know you want to leap into that dingy, with the rest of them,
But don`t believe in that dark fool- hardy idiom;- “Safety in Numbers!”

Talking of shit on a lovely carpet, afterwards I can always wash my hands of the whole `Done-Deed!`.
How do those vile human traders, wash their hands before they eat?
... What , No Killer`s remorse refrain? ......like Lady McBeth?
Do they not even pass that test?
“Who would have thought there was so much blood in the old man”??? SHE NEVER SLEPT EVER AGAIN.

Words are cheap; Leaps of faith are dear,

Threats are real, whilst fresh promises run clear.

If your faith requires you to leap into a blow-up coffin, Could you do it?

If your eyes the `size of plates` sold your whole life savings for a second servin`? Would you eat it?
This life is precious, Can you live it?

Their coming on boats

by Jane Gregory

Their coming on boats across the sea from a land far away he said to me
Their taking our jobs the foreign bods, There be nothing left for me and my family
Their changing our British history their ruining the country
Then he stood there and stared at me

I stood there open mouthed I couldn't believe his north and south
I took a deep breath and held up my head
Yeah their coming on boats across the sea
From a land far away from bloodshed and misery
Their houses have been bombed or burned
From rogue armies who left no stone unturned
Their villages and cities burnt to the ground
Forced at gunpoint to leave their homeland
All their family history a pile of rubble and misery

How would you feel to see your wife shot dead ?
A bomb land near your child and blow off their head
Imagine foreign soldiers walking down this street
A gun aimed at you telling you to leave
Where would you run to, where could you go
Our whole country robbed from us imagine the sorrow

I've worked with some refugees and child soldiers from across the sea
I've heard the screams throughout the night reliving the nightmares of their lost fight
The memories will always stay with me
The horrors they endured across the sea, He just stood there and stared at me !

Settled Status

by Joao Godinho

Today:  
The sea is my home.  
I'm settled. At the very bottom.  
No light, no views.  
Also no hunger or bullets.  
Death is bliss when it's the only thing left.

But yesterday:  
My home was a dinghy  
with an ocean view.  
Rogue waves, towering surf,  
and greedy sharks  
with bottomless wallets for teeth.  
My S.O.S. returned translated.  
'Settle Or Suffer'.  
Drowning is bliss if it leads to the only thing left.

And before:  
My home was an office  
with a filled form on a desk,  
like an agreed mortgage  
lacking only some law and a deadline.  
But the deal failed to proceed  
because the deadline was the law.

Even before:  
My home was a desert trail.  
Vultures circling up high,  
tallying thirst like compound interest.  
The border was a figment  
in the shape of the nearest well,  
and the water I reached for  
turned to iron and badge  
in the shape of a border patrol.

Long before:  
My home was a wall.  
Plenty of light, as in searchlight.  
Many bullets. Missed them all.  
But I don't miss the hunger,  
or the freedom in the form of hope.  
Escape became a mission impossible to escape.

In the beginning:  
Far away.  
My home was my wife  
and my beautiful newborn.  
Picket fence made of famine.  
Front lawn seared by drought.  
The nanny cam was a smart bomb  
educated to explode in our school.  
The church was a burning bush  
setting fires all around.  
The only safe place was a bank,  
and so the banker bought my body  
and accepted my soul as collateral.  
Slaves have no use for souls. One more mouth to feed.

In the end:  
Just because I'm dead  
it doesn't mean I'm homeless.  
It only means that my home  
won't slip away again.