On a 2001 world trip, a British traveller was approached by an Afghan refugees with excellent English in the Iranian city of Shiraz and offered guiding services. What followed was lunch at the refugee's home, a thrashing at chess and a voyeur's viewpoint of the lonely and dangerous road to successful asylum in the UK. This is the third and final part of the story which starts with Poverty in Iran - Shiraz Travel with Afghan Refugees.
“People in England despise us – I know that. But do you know what? Even though my dream was always to come to England, and even though I made it, if I had known then what I would have to go through to get here, there is no way I would have left Iran. There is no way I would do that again, and there is absolutely no way I will consent to putting my family through that torture.”
His family again. He so obviously missed them. So would they be reunited?
“Yes, yes, soon I hope. With my wife here, I can do great things. We can start to prepare Afghan food at home and sell it locally. I have an idea that will work. I can cook, but not like my wife.” He flashed a smile. “Well, you know, you remember the rice at my house in Iran? I have it all planned. But I need my wife here. I miss her so.”
“But how will she come, if you will not let her come the way you did?”
“I must save, save, save. Open a bank account. Pay my bills. And then they will give me a loan. I will need ten thousand pounds to get my family. I will not ask people for the money, I will get it myself and then pay the bank off when we start our cooking business.”
“But how will they come?”
“The way I came is no way for a woman. It is no way for a human being, Afghan or otherwise. They will fly from Pakistan. Ten thousand pounds will get them papers and flights to Heathrow.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that. When they arrive, my wife will lose their papers and tell the authorities that her husband is here and please call this number.”
“And then?”
“And then we will be reunited. And because of the children, we will get a private flat, much better than this. Perhaps we will have to leave London, but at least we will be together.”
“But it can’t be that easy to enter this country, surely? On an aeroplane?”
He smiled, he didn’t have to use words to counter my incredulity. And I smiled back, full of admiration. I suppose that, as an occasional tax-payer, I should have been outraged, but the more I thought about it, the more I was impressed. He had obviously done his research and reckoned that England would be the best bet for him and his family to have a better live and who was I to argue? Life had dealt him a bum deal as a penniless Afghan refugee in Iran, and life had dealt me a somewhat more comfortable hand in middle-class England; even when my life had fallen apart, there was the safety net of the proceeds of the housing boom to provide for a spot of self-indulgent travel to decide on the next move.
Samir had no such luxury and his trip was borne of a greater desperation. Although our situations were completely different, I often reflected on our two journeys: we had both become stuck in intolerable situations, our usual surroundings had to change, and we had both chosen a journey to enforce that change. But that was where the comparison ended and I felt almost foolish for thinking my tragedy so important.
Since our last visit, Samir had managed to go home and finally meet his baby daughter. He was proud when he talked of his family, proud too as he related all the chance encounters on street corners in Shiraz. What I had not known is that many people openly mocked him because of his determination to reach England. But now he returned, his family in more spacious quarters and he with stories of the bright lights of London. I could not suppress a smile as he told me of his new-found status in Iran. I also could not help wondering how much encouragement his return had given to other potential asylum-seekers. Mr. Home Secretary, I think your policies need urgent review. Samir, God bless you and I wish you well.
Paul Bradbury - Author of Hvar: An Insider's Guide to Croatia's Premier Island, and Lebanese Nuns Don't Ski
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