|
|
hafan |
|||
|
|
||||
|
Between a Mountain and a Sea: Refugees Writing in Wales - online edition - Page IV
Published by Hafan Books, Swansea, 2003 ISBN 0–9545147–0–X Editors: Eric Ngalle Charles, Tom Cheesman and Sylvie Hoffmann Online edition at www.hafan.org (October 2004)
All texts © the authors and editors. Not be used without permission from Hafan Books. For details of contributors and translators, see Part I. Page I - Page II - Page III - Page IV
Swansea Collage composed by Sylvie Hoffmann The following texts are based on conversations with French-speaking asylum seekers, women and men from countries including Angola, Burundi, Cameroon, Congo, Congo ex-Zaire, Guinea, Mali, Rwanda and Sierra Leone. They all prefer to remain anonymous. I have translated their poems as faithfully as I can. – SH
Behind the Facades
What is behind? Is this a church? No, no… it’s a school Is this a church? No, no… it’s an Indian restaurant Is this a church? No, no… it’s the old Swansea police station
What is behind? Is this a church? Yes, this is a church You can come in if you wish
The Community Comprehensive School
Four girls Why treat my child so? Why treat my child so?
“I’m a good listener” says the School… It is true We speak for three hours Communication restored
Just Arrived
The cars I am frightened The streets I am frightened The sea I am frightened I am frightened for my children
Swansea Bandits
broken glass fires lit on the hills twelve-year-olds who smoke they like to drink telephone bills we have to pay yet do not call
The Docks
The ferry from Swansea to Cork I wish…
I bitterly want to see Paris
At Home
We get up with the sun We go to bed with the sun No one sends us an electricity bill at the end of the month
The British
They say “sorry” but do they mean it?
In the Fish and Chips Shop
Broad smile: – “Are you on holidays?”
Swansea Central Library
We send each other e-mails round the computer table A good meeting place A safe haven
Clyne Gardens
Do you have to pay to come in here? No, no, it’s free of charge
Here you can walk in peace and safety, play football, meditate… it’s one of Swansea’s best kept secrets In May the gardens are in full bloom, they are magnificent
It makes me nervous, this dog off its lead Dogs should be on lead, some owners do not care
At the Kingsway Centre
How is your English coming along? – “I must”
White Man
Never has any time Rushes everywhere
Swansea Wedding: the Fool’s Tale
I saw the sun adorned with black ribbons I saw red white and yellow flowers warming the street with light I saw the cake tied to the shop window I saw banners and balloons cut in western fashion I saw cars arriving, deliciously cooked I saw meat, fish and fruits, guests in dashing outfits I saw men and women with the patience of angels I saw children dancing the day away I saw a blue dress walk with magnificence I saw the bride and groom who saw these wondrous sights
Sketty
Scissors, paper and stone Ministers at their pulpits Politicians at their politics Economists at their economics
We are here for something else! We are here for something else!
Greetings
Mon ami My friend Mon pote My mate Mon coeur My heart
The Tides
Ebb – Llanw yn uchel “The old man ’it me on the ’ead” Pardon? “The old man ’it me on the ’ead” Pardon? “The OLD MAN ’IT ME ON THE ’EAD”
A llifo – And flow Two young men from Cameroon… Swansea Enforcement Unit They came to get them in the middle of the night… The way they knock! I was scared… Do you need to knock like that? What’s that got to do with you, Boy? I’m frightened… Boy I’m frightened.
Low tide – Llanw yn isel
Sunday Morning Patrol
On the way to church Meet and greet in Humphrey Street Police He takes his time Car parking : checked Car tyres : checked Sellotape holding petrol cap : checked Driver’s licence : checked Driver’s address : checked Driver’s date of birth : checked Driver saved by her birthday Granted leave to leave
Llangennith
Sylvie Hoffmann
As I walked on the sun The sea came flooding in Fluid shadow with silver fishes Causing the sand to drift Bishopston Valley
Gabriel L. Vingu
Were I to forget all of the places and landscapes in Swansea, never would I forget Bishopston Valley; were I to forget the Arches Hotel, which put me up in such abysmal fashion in Swansea for eight months, far from me the thought of forgetting you, Bishopston Valley; were I to speak five times of the hardship, the difficulties and the suffering endured in Swansea as an asylum seeker, I would speak a thousand times of the solace and the joy experienced in Bishopston Valley; valley who brought solace to my heart and filled it with joy in place of the sadness and anxiety created by the negative realities of the phenomenon of seeking asylum; Bishopston Valley! You shall remain everlastingly engraved upon my memory! The first time I visited you it was thanks to a walk led by Mr Ray Diddams, accompanied by his partner Olive Davies, their friends Sheila Manning and Sylvie Hoffmann, and her daughter Maria Williams, all of them people of good faith, and full of love for the asylum seekers living in Swansea, God’s blessing be upon Ray, Olive, Sheila, Sylvie and Maria her daughter, for having given me the opportunity to visit you, Bishopston Valley; when I think of the beautiful stream flowing through you, the hills and woods which make you, I shall pray to God to bless Swansea because of you, oh! Bishopston Valley, you filled me with intense joy, may my joy abide! I remember when we arrived by the small stream that flows through the valley, and when I exclaimed: “Oh! What a wonderful stream, Sylvie!” – “Yes Gabriel, it is a beautiful nature reserve,” replied Sylvie. – “Indeed, Sylvie. This stream is exactly like a stream that runs through Kizauvete Valley, a valley in Democratic Congo where I met up with my father and saw him for the last time, in Africa, in the year 2000.” – “Are your father and mother still living today?” Sylvie asked. – “Yes, they are still alive today and I still remember my father, and praise him for showing manly courage, in that he did not let his tears flow much as we were saying goodbye to each other that last day of seeing one another, as my mother had shed a great quantity of tears, unable to restrain herself on that last day, when we were saying goodbye, as I was preparing to leave the land of my ancestors.” Stunned, Sylvie was attentively following my words, and I continued: “I still remember well that last day when I saw my father, by the stream that flows through Kizauvete Valley, so exactly like this stream that flows through Bishopston Valley; on that day, my father and I had washed our clothes in the stream and laid them out on the stones to dry, and we were sitting near the stream, speaking of everything and nothing, when my father asked me this: ‘Are you thirsty, Gaby?’ I answered: ‘Yes, papa, extremely thirsty,’ thinking that my father had a bottle of mineral water in his bag. He replied: ‘Well, go down to the stream and drink the water from the stream!’ – ‘Drink water from the stream? No, papa, I cannot drink that water!’ – ‘Why not?’ said my father, ‘This water comes from a spring, it’s pure, clean water.’ – ‘It’s very dirty and murky, papa. It’s not purified.’ – ‘You are wrong, my son. This water comes from a spring, it is well filtered, well purified, naturally, as it passes through the rocks.’ – ‘No, papa, I’m scared of catching a disease.’ – ‘No, no, this water will do you no harm. Watch me, now I’m drinking it,’ and my father drank the spring water in the stream and did not die, and then he said: ‘Here, take, drink. I’ve been drinking this water for 55 years, each and every time I come to the village I drink this water and it does me no harm. Drink!’ he said; and so, to please my father, I drank the water, and my father said: ‘So, Gaby, are you dead?’ ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Good. This experience will help you wherever you go,’ concluded my father.” “It’s a beautiful story, Gabriel, thank you for sharing it with me,” Sylvie commented. “Yes, Sylvie. A living human being always has a story to tell, for someone with no story to tell cannot be said to be a human being.” With her silence, Sylvie left me time to speak and I continued: “Today I am recording another story from my life, the story of the walk in Bishopston Valley, a valley which has been visited in the past, and today was visited by me, and will be visited by others in the future. May the blessing of God be upon you, oh! Bishopston Valley, you who were the place of my joy and my solace in Swansea, and I shall never forget you, oh! Bishopston Valley!”
Nigel Jenkins
What begins for you where the waves break - sea or land, land or sky -
depends on where you’re coming from, depends on where you’re going to
and whether you have legs or fins, lungs or gills. Claiming Asylum is World-wide
Million Gashaw Woldemariam
First I will mention what I observed when I was claiming asylum in Croydon on March 25, 2002. Before I claimed asylum in the UK I had wrong ideas about who is a refugee or an asylum seeker. But after some time I was able to understand the definition of these terms. In the course of claiming asylum I had to get to Croydon. When I arrived, there were long queues of people waiting their turn to enter Immigration. I became confused, because there were a lot of people in the queue, and approximately 80% of them were white people. I wondered if they were all working in the Home Office Immigration department. I saw a police officer at the front of the queue, guiding and disciplining as appropriate, and I tried to get some information from him about how to make an asylum claim. He told me that all the people in the queue were there for the asylum claiming process, and he advised me to join the queue like the others. I did as I had been advised. Even though there were such a lot of people waiting to claim asylum, the process was so fast that I soon had the opportunity to enter Immigration. As I began claiming asylum, I saw a fellow countryman who was working there. I told him where I was from, and mentioned how I had been surprised to see that a lot of white people were there claiming asylum. Because I thought that, most of the time, only black Africans are in danger of being subjected to persecution and harassment in their country of origin! However, he told me that people from different continents, of many different races, ethnic groups or nationalities, apply for asylum because of a well-founded fear of persecution due to their race, religion, nationality, political opinion or membership of a social group. After applying for asylum, I was dispersed to Swansea by the National Asylum Support Service (NASS). In Swansea, where I am living with other asylum seekers, one morning I was explaining the situation I observed in Croydon to one of the other asylum seekers. At the time, we were both trying to prepare breakfast. I remember this guy was trying to fry an egg. I observed that he took an egg, broke it with a spoon, and then he put the egg-shell in the frying-pan and threw the yolk and white into the rubbish bin. I said to him: “What are you doing?” He answered: “What I am doing?” Then I told him he was doing vice versa, the yolk in the bin, the shell in the frying-pan. Then he became aware of his mistake and said: “Oh my God, I am going to be crazy!” I tried to cool him down. Finally he told me that he had got a Refusal from the Home Office, and since then he was in constant fear. It is terrible. Isn’t it?
A Mountain and a Sea Eric Ngalle Charles
A story from a distance. They were my only witness, A mountain and a sea Whose lips engulfed the green sky, A lasting kiss, Washing her waves off-shore, Leaving behind a boat.
That for my home-coming.
The mountain Like a giant slate, With trees keeping vigil Like relatives awaiting Their departed children.
Her giant gaze Looking down at me Like Yomadene, The guardian, The mountain Where my grandmother Lived after her death. A mountain of broken hearts.
That for my home-coming. A shining mountain Where sheep grazed, By which means My heart rejoiced.
That for my home-coming.
On a wet journey to Llandudno Washing away pain and longing, A re-born voice crying Between a mountain and a sea.
Where voices echoed Across the town’s horizon And conversation on common things. Wake me from my slumber Then this poem Will be over.
That for my home-coming,
Between a mountain And a sea.
|
||||