Living as a Migrant

For most of my adult life I have been a migrant. I have lived in lands that are not my own for reasons of employment or choice. Perhaps, that is why the scenes that we have seen unfold in many UK cities over the past week or so, have been so unsettling or disturbing.

We have seen violent clashes between the police and groups concerned about the numbers of migrants living upon our shores, or entering the country. Businesses have been destroyed, detention centres housing refugees and asylum seekers have been targeted by intimidating graffiti, violent destructive behaviour, and people of different colours and ethnicities are finding themselves marginalised and fearful as they try to live their lives.

I spent the summer of 1990 in London. It was a time of serious recession in the Republic of Ireland where I had grown up and, as a university student, I travelled a path many had travelled before me, including my own father. He had spent summers in England canning peas and working as a doorman in various entertainment venues to make some money during his own student days.

I slept on the floor of some school friends in a house in North London. They used their contacts in a recruitment agency to get me some work as a postman initially, and then later, working in a hospital laundry. As the IRA were still actively involved in terrorism in mainland Britain, there was a certain residual suspicion and hostility towards Irish people because of the misery and terror inflicted through this terrible campaign. You got called ‘Paddy’ or, at times, you became aware that getting even casual labour or renting a place wasn’t going to be possible because of where you came from.

I also experienced great kindness. Struggling with the weight of my postbag in a sweltering London summer, women from India and the Caribbean would try to show me how they carried heavy weights in their culture on their heads to make life a bit easier. Other Irish people tried to show me around, or take me to watch Ireland play in the World Cup in local pubs.

In 1991, after graduating, I moved to teach English in Portugal for 2 years. It was my first time living in a culture where people genuinely didn’t speak my language. I struggled with the basics, like opening a bank account, getting my identity card and residency permit, and I was fortunate to have English speaking contacts who took me on these bewildering appointments through Portuguese bureaucracy. I sat silently as people discussed my situation at what seemed like breakneck speed, not having a clue what was being said until I was told to sign various papers or come back again, until the necessary formalities were completed.

Again, I found great kindness. As my apartment had pretty poor facilities, I often ate out at a local café. The staff saw me leafing through my dictionary and encouraged me to point at dishes I thought I might like and wrote down their names and taught me to pronounce them so I could order them again. They embraced me like a rather helpless child and did all in their power to welcome me and help, me and I loved to take visitors there.

After ordination, I moved to work in Northern Ireland in 1996. In the Easter before my curacy started, my training rector wrote a letter to a local bank and they loaned me the money to buy my first car after I opened my account there. As there was only one curacy available in the Republic of Ireland that year, I needed to move to Northern Ireland for employment. I heard of a place called Drumcree for the first time and the streets around where I lived became a focus for protests and sporadic violence. I remember road blocks and wondered how I would ever find my way back to where I lived as I usually only knew one route.

Again, I found extraordinary kindness. After a car accident in my first weeks here, a parishioner phoned up offering to hire me a car as they knew I wouldn’t have received my first months salary and probably wouldn’t have much money. People offered me advice about routes to places like hospitals and nursing homes and did all in their power to protect and keep me safe.

I met my wife when she lived as a migrant moving from the UK to the Republic of Ireland to work in a hospital, and we subsequently moved to live again in Northern Ireland in 2003.

I realise how fortunate I have been over these years to live in a place where people have welcomed me, where I have had the opportunity to work in parishes and with people who I love dearly.

That is why the outbreak of violence and unrest is so upsetting. When our daughter was born with serious health issues our consultant was from Somalia. He treated her with the utmost compassion and tenderness. She has subsequently had many health professionals from all over the globe who bring incredible expertise and skills to our health service. As an occasional treat, we love the various cuisines that are on offer from different parts of the world. The man who makes my falafel wraps comes from Iraq, and I love to hear his stories of how beautiful his homeland is and how it broke his heart to flee from war to make a new future here. I know  how hard he has had to work to establish his business cycling around the city to office blocks and businesses, making his wraps in the early hours of the morning. He spoke of operating in a second language, trying to do his work, get his kids to school and build a good life for them.

The prophet Jeremiah, speaking about the Israelites time in Exile, spoke about the importance of immersing themselves in their new culture, giving all they could of themselves to build up the peace and prosperity of the city and honouring the Lord in how they did that.

Can I urge you to pray for the cessation of this current violence?  If you do know someone from another culture or religion residing in the city, get in touch with them to offer your support. People are incredibly scared and frightened. Can I urge you to pray also for the perpetrators of this violence, which is very challenging to do. So many people involved in this behaviour feel disempowered. They maybe lack opportunities in education and employment. Many have grown up without fathers, or in very unstable home environments, and people of different ethnicities and religious backgrounds represent a huge threat  to them.

We may not understand that, but it’s important to have hard conversations and do all we can as a church to offer a place of welcome, refuge and spiritual life showing the love of God to all.

Look forward to speaking again soon.

Much love to everyone,

Jono.

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