The week of October 23 was a week of smallness.
Name calling. Presidents tweeting schoolboy taunts, seemingly unaware of what’s at stake. Hollywood dotards dominating the news. Women around the world revealing that they, too, have been sexually harassed or abused – this last act, though, is only small in that each woman’s voice is a small drop in a large, shameful bucket.
So it was a week that did not restore my faith in humankind.
It was also a week where I met a couple of women who are part of the Kent area lobbying campaign, working hard for refugee rights. They, unlike our friend DT, are painfully aware of what’s at stake right now in the whirling political dervish that is the refugee rights debate.
I met Jill and Valerie at a demonstration supporting the “Dubs Amendment” which supports child refugees. The demonstration took place right across the street from the Parliament buildings in London.
One of the most topical points in the refugee rights debate in the UK revolves around children – minors, if you will – who are trying to get into the UK. Advocating for these minors is Lord Alfred Dubs, Labour MP and a former refugee from the Czech Republic.
He is responsible for the “Dubs Amendment” to the 2016 Immigration Act, an amendment that requires the UK to accept unaccompanied refugee children into the UK, in response to the global refugee crisis. He spoke with great eloquence at the demonstration, responding to a young man from Syria who had been welcomed into the UK as a refugee, and who has gone on to attend university here.
The Syrian man was going to go into Parliament after the demonstration and do some advocating for the Dubs Amendment. It was amazing to see such strong activism from both British folks and those who have already benefited from Lord Dubs’s (and his supporters’) hard political work.
While I was standing there listening to the boys speak to the crowd, I looked over my shoulder and saw – gasp! – Juliet Stevenson!
Now, I am not normally one to become weak-kneed at a celebrity sighting, but … Juliet Stevenson! And… Truly, Madly, Deeply! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please stop reading this blog, drop your coffee cup on the carpet and run, do not walk, to your nearest computer and stream, illegally if necessary, Truly, Madly, Deeply. After you watch it, you’ll understand why I gasped (quietly, politely, Canadianly) when I Juliet Stevenson standing right next to me.
Whether Juliet Stevenson heard me gasp and politely, Britishly, decided to ignore my exclamation, we will never know. She simply took the stage and spoke movingly about the need to ensure the UK is living up to its obligations regarding child refugees.
It was a powerful demonstration, and I am incredibly glad I went. What an antidote to the week’s news of intolerance and misogyny. Standing in the crowd of demonstrators, it was rejuvenating to see a group of people who took time out of their day to speak up for some of today’s most vulnerable people. Here was an empathy that had led to political action.
After the demonstration, the organizers told us that were all going to march into Westminster and ask to see our MPs, and speak to them about the child refugee issue.
At this point I said goodbye to Jill and Valerie and said it was best to let the actual British people (who would vote in actual British elections) handle this part of the protest. But Jill insisted I come along (thank you Jill – you’re a woman of great wisdom!) and so I toddled off to the queue to go through security.
I actually thought that at some point my Canadian identity would be discovered but no one seemed concerned with my identity at all; the armed guards merely wanted to ensure that I was not armed.
So, having cleared security, I toddled off through a massive hall and upstairs to the reception area, where we all filled out green cards asking to see our MP (I had had enough wits about me to Google the Canterbury MP).
We were told that if our MPs didn’t come out to the reception area within 45 minutes, we could toddle off to the great outdoors. Clearly this was a paradigmatic act of going through the political motions. No MP would appear, but the masses would be appeased.
The odds of a Canadian student getting in to see her MP at Westminster seemed slightly less than winning the Loto 649, so I handed my green card to the nice man and toddled off to the Parliament canteen to get coffee and sandies for Jill and Valerie. I sat down in the canteen to gobble a sandwich, and tried to eavesdrop on the men in dark suits huddled next to me, but I have little of interest to relate, other than they were feeling refreshed and ready for their upcoming meeting.
So I toddled back to the reception area and sat down to wait out the remainder of my 45 minutes. But then a young man in a dark suit approached and asked, Had I requested a meeting with Rosie Duffield? I admitted I had, and steeled myself for a question regarding my status as a foreigner/fake voter/rabble-rouser/interloper.
But the young man, Duffield’s researcher, just wanted to assure me that Ms Duffield would be out as soon as she possibly could – please could I wait just a few more minutes.
I assured him I could, assuming that hearing my accent would spark accusations of rabble-rousing and imposterhood. But no, he got on his phone and started texting his boss, and in a few minutes Rosie Duffield appeared.
She was startlingly young (although many people are, as I creep through my 50s) and exceedingly generous with her time. I decided to come clean right away and told her I was on a study abroad program from Canada, but she seemed most interested in hearing my opinions on the refugee rights issue. My friend Jill ambled over and we stood chatting, the four of us, for about 20 minutes about the situation with the refugee crisis.
It was an amazing conversation – I am grateful to have had this opportunity to stroll through Westminster and have a meaningful conversation with the MP for Canterbury about an issue that means a great deal to me. Ms Duffield even asked me about my research, and we then had a conversation about the politics of empathy, and the debate around empathy’s ability to spark prosocial behavior.
I am pretty jaded about politics but must confess I found Rosie Duffield to be sincerely passionate about the plight of refugees in the UK.
So that day will go down in the record books for me. The moral of the story, if there is one, is either: Never risk going to the canteen while waiting to see a British MP! Or perhaps: You can never be too Canadian – even while making an appointment with a British MP. Or, better yet: No amount of smallness can completely wipe out my faith in humanity.
Whatever the moral, I am sure that the experience will somehow inform my dissertation. At this point I have no idea how – I will have to let my Westminster experience settle a bit before I figure out how it will work its way into my novel. And what better place to ponder the experience than the LM Village refugee camp in Kyllini, Greece? Which is where I am right now. But that’s a story for another day.