Humanity Washed Ashore

There is so much being written about the refugee crisis. I specifically use the word "refugee" over "migrant" unlike many or our news publications. A migrant is someone who moves to a different part of the world to find work or better living conditions. A refugee moves out of fear for their human rights and safety, not for a better economic chance. Those fleeing from their lives are not doing so because they have a choice. They are doing so to live. I'm not sure how much I can add to the debate, but I can tell a personal story:

In my first year of university I lived in halls of residence, a self-catered apartment with six rooms. Across from me was Adis Kulo. Adis had been a refugee from Sarajevo and arrived many years before I met him. He had fled Bosnia as a child, been separated from his mother and temporarily lived in France with a family of strangers. He was finally reunited with her in the UK, which the Adis Kulo Foundation website calls a "country that has always welcomed immigrants and encouraged creativity, provided ideal surroundings for Adis to flourish." Flourish he did. He graduated from one of the best grammar schools in the UK, achieved perfect A-Levels and came to University College London (rated the no. 5 university in the world rankings) to study Philosophy & Economics. 

Adis did not bleed the state dry. He was a productive member of our society who gave all he could to succeed. He is the success story in the tales of refugees. Or he was until our last year of university. Adis went to Bristol for an interview with a top accounting firm a few months before graduation. He went out with friends, got a bit tipsy, and got into an argument with another young man, which became a physical fight. By all accounts not a very long, nor gruesome one. Adis hit his head on the bathroom floor as he went down and the other boy put his foot on his head. After going to the hospital, Adis was sent home without a scan. He had a seizure in the small hours of the morning and died. A life full of promise dashed in the UK, where he was safe from war, but not safe from a mindless bar fight. The other boy went to prison for manslaughter. Two boys graduating from university. Two lives ruined. 

The point I'm trying to make is that we are all human. Including the "swarm" trying to reach our shores. Some will be like Adis, others nothing like him. He, to me, was a fine example of a person. It's easy to ignore this crisis of humanity when we have no experience of it. Their lives are as far from mine as I can imagine. But I have an experience. I had a friend who had a name. He was human. Let's try to be human too. For their sakes and the sake of our souls. 

The piece I wrote about Adis following his death:

The Story of a Boy

he has dark hair and dark eyes

this boy

he has long limbs and longer strides

walking down the hallway 

my hallway

our hallway now

i live with him

this boy

he shares my life for one whole year

he was late, later than everyone

younger too

and immature we all thought

but maybe it was just his lightness

the way he was

he had this lightness that could only come from experiencing intense darkness

he was, you see, a refugee

this boy

a refugee

from far away

from Milosevic

separated from his mother for many years 

before they met again

in this place

this place of tolerance and peace and a new life

he would annoy me when I was asleep

drunkenly stumbling past my room at night

banging on my door 

shouting to me in his too perfect English

to prove his too perfect intellect

he would annoy me when I was awake

he would come into my room and tease me

and I him

we would laugh and scream 

and fight

playful violence 

the sister he never had

the way he would with the brothers he left behind

he broke my plate

he called me his 'flat-hate'

but I learnt to love him

later when we moved and no longer lived with one another

truth be told I missed him

i would call him

we stayed in touch more accidentally than anything else

his name began with A

our surprise conversations from my pocket turned into discussions of our lives

occasionally we would meet

never intentionally only ever on the tube or the street

i would send him messages

from my pocket

always blank

he wondered how I could accidentally call him so often

and never do it with intention

i explained it was because I didn't need to 

my pocket knew when I was being neglectful

then there was another boy

he too with dark hair

i never met this one

i didn't live with him

his name began with O

but if striked me that they might be similar

they both had attitude

they both were too cheeky for their own good

they both enjoyed their drink

but my boy enjoyed it more

his stumble in the bathroom

became a bump into the boy

a small punch from O

it sends my boy tumbling to those cold hard tiles

covered in dirt and sweat and other remnants of humanity

my boy, drunk, feels a foot on his head

a shoeprint marks his face

in that place with the white walls

he is examined

he is sent home

what is he thinking? I wonder

what happens in those few hours?

does the inside of his head change?

does he feel it? 

is the boy I lived with still too clever for me?

i would never know

his body aches

his body shakes

his skull breaks

weeks later I'm still calling him accidentally

sending messages to the other side

but the only reply is 'call failed'

i toy with it in my hand for days

knowing I cannot delete him

finally I do

now another A is called

i did not live with this one

i do not really know her

i couldn't tell you her last name

but I can tell you his

it was Kulo

his name was Adis

he was a boy

he did annoy me

he was my friend