Alem was taken aback; he didn’t expect it and he had nothing prepared. His father nodded his head in the direction of the stage and Alem began to make his way slowly. He was so nervous that when he lightly touched the microphone, he could see his hand shaking; he had to grip it tightly in order to stop the shaking.
‘I don’t know what to say. I just want you to know that we are so happy that you are helping us and we hope one day to repay you for your kindness. Maybe one day there will be peace in my homeland and I can invite you all back for a big party.’
Everyone laughed and clapped their hands.
‘Thank you very much, that’s all I can say for now.’
As Alem left the stage, Robert darted back and quickly uttered a few more words. ‘Before you go I just want to say that tonight we have raised seven hundred and thirty-five pounds, eighty-five pence.’ There was another round of applause. ‘And this money will go towards promoting the campaign and for expenses for Alem and his father if they need it. Thank you, and see you on Saturday!’
Chapter 22
˜ The Word on the Streets ˜
The next week flew past. Alem was quietly excited as he watched all his young activists organising the rally. Now posters could be seen all over the streets of Newham and neighbouring boroughs. On Wednesday night Alem and Mr Kelo were invited to St Emmanuel Parish Church, where the Newham Echo interviewed and photographed them for the weekend edition. The priest and the users of the community centre expressed their support for them.
On Saturday morning the sun shone. Alem noticed that the cold was less biting. He and his father took a bus to the school. They had simply not prepared themselves for what they saw. Hundreds of people had gathered there, many of them carrying banners with slogans:
‘Alem Kelo must stay.’
‘Home, sweet home.’
‘Refugees need homes too.’
‘There are no illegal immigrants, only illegal governments.’
Mr Kelo grabbed Alem’s hand. ‘Look at all these people,’ he said. ‘They are all here for us! Where did they come from?’ He was astounded by the range of people: young, old, Black, Asian, White, men in suits, girls in suits, new-age hippies, punks, Rastas and Buck lookalikes.
‘Look, Father,’ Alem said, pointing ahead, ‘there’s Abbas.’ And there he was carrying a banner: ‘Refugees are human, let us live.’
Then Alem felt a tap on his shoulder; he turned around to find an excited, smiling boy. Alem hesitated a little; he did not recognise the boy who was reaching out to shake his hand. His face was quite badly scarred.
‘Hi, Alem,’ the boy said, shaking Alem’s hand enthusiastically. ‘My name’s Martin. I made these for the campaign. What do you think of them?’ He handed a badge to Alem. It read, ‘Refugees make great lovers.’
Alem smiled and said, ‘Very good.’ He turned to show it to his father. Mr Kelo shook his head and smiled in amusement.
‘Wear it,’ Martin said. ‘Put it on, man.’
Alem looked towards his father for approval. His father nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
Alem pinned it on his jacket. ‘I must thank you for making them, it’s a great idea.’
‘No problem, mate,’ Martin said, taking another one out of his pocket and handing it to Mr Kelo. ‘Here’s one for you, Mr Kelo.’
‘It’s OK,’ Mr Kelo replied, ‘they don’t look very good on me.’
Martin laughed and said, ‘I just want to say good luck to you. I support you all the way – don’t let them get you down, stay strong! I must go and shift some badges – see you.’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared.
Ruth spotted Alem and Mr Kelo making their way through the crowd, so she waded in to rescue them and take them to what was to become the front of the procession. This was where most of his friends were; Buck, Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald, Asher, Mrs Kumar – the head of his year – and her son Ajay, as well as some other teachers, and they were all being watched by the police.
Robert appeared with a megaphone. ‘How you going, Alem? What a turnout! Good, hey?’
‘It’s amazing,’ Alem replied.
‘Hello, Mr Kelo.’
‘Hello, Robert. You have done such a great job.’
‘We haven’t finished yet, Mr Kelo. There’s this rock song, right, it’s a bit dull, a bit like that music you heard last week. Anyway that song says it ain’t over till it’s over. And that’s it, Mr Kelo: it ain’t over till it’s over.’
‘Very good,’ said Mr Kelo.
Alem heard a whisper over his shoulder. ‘Tena-yestelen.’ He had not heard any Amharic for a long time. He looked around quickly; it was Tibra.
‘Tena-yestelen,’ Alem replied.
His father heard Amharic being spoken and turned to see them both.
‘Tena-yestelen, Mr Kelo,’ Tibra said.
‘Tena-yestelen,’ Mr Kelo replied.
‘Father, this is Tibra,’ Alem said quickly. ‘As you can hear she’s from Ethiopia – well, she was born here.’
‘So you speak Amharic?’ Mr Kelo asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I just know how to say hello, goodbye, not much else. My family came here when there was all that fighting in 1974, a long time before I was born.’
Just then Robert began to speak with the loud-hailer. ‘Now we shall begin our march. Please try and keep in line! Be as loud as you can but be orderly. If anyone feels ill, please let one of the stewards know as soon as possible. And whatever you do, remember to be well-mannered to the pedestrians and car drivers. OK, here we go!’
Robert turned and began to lead with Alem and his father at his side. Alem’s closest friends were behind them, followed by the rest of the marchers. Robert started chanting into his megaphone and the crowd followed him.
‘Don’t make the Kelos go – no, no, no, no.’
‘Don’t make the Kelos go – no, no, no, no.’
And ‘What do we want?’
‘Justice for the Kelos?’
‘When do we want it?’
‘Now!’
And ‘Solidarity, solidarity, every refugee needs solidarity.’
People clapped as they chanted and a few people played small drums and cymbals. Martin was weaving in and out of the crowd, distributing his badges. There was a carnival atmosphere with many cars sounding their horns in support, but as the front of the march reached the junction of Romford Road and Shrewsbury Road, a large people carrier full of people slowed down.
The windows of the van were rolled down and six men in their early twenties began to shout, ‘Go home!’ ‘Go and march in your own country!’ ‘Pakis . . .’
One of them spat in the direction of the demonstration. Some demonstrators broke away and began throwing stones at the van. The men in the van started throwing stones back and for a moment there was a mini riot. Alem and his father were surrounded by their supporters. They were both frightened and saddened that violence had broken out. A group of police officers moved in on foot to try to part the warring sides, but it wasn’t until the sound of sirens could be heard that the men jumped back into their van and drove off. The police van followed behind them and the demonstrators watched the police stop them about half a mile up the road. The demonstrators reassembled and the march continued. Robert began leading the chants and soon got back the carnival spirit. As they crossed Green Street, an Indian restaurant started to hand out free vegetable samosas to those that wanted them.
Mrs Kumar smiled at Alem. ‘That’s my sister’s business.’
From the school to the town hall it took just over two hours but the conversations, the singing and the chanting meant that it felt much shorter. Outside the town hall the people gathered on the pavement on both sides of the road to hear the speeches. As the Fitzgeralds, Robert, Mariam, Alem and his father stood on the steps of the town hall, Robert lifted the megaphone and began his speech.
‘Thank you for coming here today. As you know, we have organised this march because we want
to send a message to the people who make the rules, the politicians. This march has been organised to let these people know that Alem Kelo and his father deserve the right to live without fear. Now I’m not a very good speaker, so what I’m going to do now is hand you over to Mariam Desta from the Refugee Council.’
There was clapping and whistleblowing as Mariam took the megaphone. ‘Girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen! I have been on many demonstrations in my time working for the Refugee Council. Every time people take to the streets it is important, but I have to say that this is a very special demonstration. Special because it is in support of two very special people, and special because it has been organised by some other very special people. The banner, the route, the publicity, the fundraising, the petition, everything about this demonstration has been organised by Alem’s friends. This march is truly an example of youth power. It is time that the voice of the youth be heard on this matter, because the youth matter!’
There was a loud round of applause, with shouts and whistles.
‘I have known Alem since he first came to this country,’ Mariam continued, ‘and he is one of the most conscientious, hard-working, intelligent people that I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of people, young and old. He has come through great hardship and he is a great survivor. But as you all know, we have reached a crucial point. A judge has said that he must return to his persecution. A judge who has never sat down and talked to Alem about his fears and dreams is sending him back to a nightmare to live in danger.We must not let that happen! We at the Refugee Council are supporting Alem and his father because we know what it is like to live in fear of your life. We work every day with people who are persecuted because of their political beliefs, their race, their gender and even their language, and we will never stand aside and watch them suffer. We support the Kelos and I just want to thank you for supporting them too.’
Robert took the megaphone from Mariam as she stepped aside, and he began to speak when the applause had died down. ‘Now, I must say that I haven’t warned him that I’m going to do this, and I hope that he forgives me, but I would like to ask Alem to say a few words.’
Alem shook his head vigorously. He didn’t want to stand in front of so many people. He looked at the large crowd and his stomach churned. He looked at his father, who shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘It’s up to you, don’t ask me.’ He looked towards Ruth, who just smiled, and Mr Fitzgerald put a thumb up to him. But still he didn’t want to face the crowd until the crowd started chanting, ‘Alem, Alem, Alem, Alem,’ and the longer he left it, the louder they got.
Alem moved towards Robert and took the megaphone. He looked out over the sea of people and took a deep breath.
‘My name is Alem Kelo and I really can’t understand why I am here. You see, in my homeland they are fighting over a border, a border that is mainly dust and rocks. I really cannot understand why these people are fighting over this border. If there is to be any fighting, we should be having a nonviolent fight to get rid of borders.’
The crowd erupted in cheers.
‘I haven’t come to England to become a problem. I didn’t leave the land that I love so much to be so cold.’
The crowd laughed.
‘But what can I do? At the moment they are fighting and not talking. If they ever start talking, they may arrange a time to negotiate. If they do ever negotiate, they may draw up a peace treaty. If they ever manage to draw up a peace treaty, they will have to agree on it, and if they ever agree on it, they may sign it. But it is only a peace treaty, a peace deal, a piece of paper. What we really want is a culture of peace! We must raise a new generation of peacemakers.’
The crowd erupted again.
‘I don’t know what else to say because I had not planned to make a speech. But I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support. Since I have been in this country I have made some very good friends, and now I look at all of you and I feel like you are all my friends.’
The crowd clapped and shouted, ‘Alem, Alem, Alem!’
‘You make me feel so good!’ There was more laughter. ‘Yes, my name is Alem. In my language Alem means “world”. I would love to see the day when there are no more refugees in the world and the world can live in peace. Then when I would come to England I would come to see my friends and instead of demonstrating we would be celebrating.’ He paused for thought. ‘But I would come in the summer when it’s warm.’
There was more loud laughter and applause. Alem let the crowd settle down. ‘Before I go I have a request.’
Suddenly there was silence as they waited to hear what he was in need of.
‘I would like one last thing: I would like my father to come up here and introduce himself to you.’
The crowd cheered. Alem, Robert and the other people on the steps all gestured to Mr Kelo to step forward. Mr Kelo knew from the noise of the crowd that it would be very difficult for him to decline. As he took the megaphone from Alem, they hugged each other to the delight of the crowd.
‘I want to thank each one of you for coming today. It really does mean so much to us. I love my country, so I will always try to work for peace there, but every day I and my son Alem have to live with the knowledge that right now our country is at war with itself. Mrs Kelo – my wife, his mother – was killed there.Her life was taken by people who are really not concerned about the wellbeing of our country. She was concerned, so now she is our inspiration, she is the symbol of what is possible, because she believed that human beings are capable of enormous love when we put our hearts together. And if she were here today, each one of you would know that she represents unity and that’s what we must strive for. And I have one last message; this message is for the Eritreans and Ethiopians that are killing each other. Stop it! War is not the answer, only love will conquer. Stop fighting and let us live!’
The crowd went absolutely wild. The Fitzgeralds, Alem, Mariam and Robert joined hands across the stage and held them high.
Robert whispered to the doorman of the town hall, who then went inside. Mr Kelo handed Robert the megaphone and Robert began to speak. ‘I have here –’ he waved in the air many pieces of paper tied together with a ribbon – ‘six thousand signatures that have been collected in less than three weeks, which I am now going to present to Mrs Leonie Ranks MP.’
Mrs Ranks came out from the town hall with the doorman standing at her side. Robert’s words were now addressing Mrs Ranks but he was still using the megaphone so that the crowd could hear.
‘Mrs Ranks, as you can see by the size of this demonstration and those six thousand signatures,there are many people who are not happy with the way refugees are treated. We are the young people who are growing up in this country and we demand better treatment for refugees, you know, more compassion. I have looked at your family history and I see that your family came here as refugees. This country of ours was once empty and barren so in some ways we are all refugees. So please take this to the Prime Minister and let him know how we feel.’
The crowd erupted again and Mrs Leonie Ranks MP went back into the building without saying a word. Robert raised the megaphone to his mouth one last time and shouted, ‘Go home now, people, and prepare for a revolution!’
The crowd clapped and began to disperse.
Chapter 23
˜ This is War Too ˜
Alem and his father made a conscious decision to take it easy the next day. For most of the morning they stayed in the hotel, but late in the afternoon Mr Kelo decided that he wanted to do some shopping.
As they were going downstairs, they heard a voice shout out, ‘Hello, my friend!’
It was Abbas, who then started to chant, ‘Alem, Alem, Alem!’ He was soon joined by what looked to Alem like Abbas’s smaller brother and two other African children whose little voices began to accompany Abbas. ‘Alem, Alem, Alem!’
Alem and Mr Kelo smiled.
‘Hey, Alem,’ Abbas shouted down the stairs, ‘much respect! You’re a freedom f
ighter!’
They didn’t spend very long at the supermarket; all they put in their basket was a small amount of vegetables, more tinned meat and a packet of biscuits. As they were queuing for the cashier, Alem noticed that other checkouts were less busy.
‘Father, look at those other counters! Why are we waiting in this long queue? Let’s go to one of them.’
Mr Kelo’s eyes dropped as he realised that Alem didn’t know the deal. ‘We can’t,’ he said, ‘we don’t have any money.’
‘So what are you paying with?’
Mr Kelo took out his wallet and pulled out what looked like tickets. ‘These, I have to pay with these. These are vouchers; look up there.’
He pointed to a sign above the counter where they were waiting. It read, ‘Food vouchers only.’
‘What is this all about?’ Alem asked.
‘These vouchers are for asylum seekers. We cannot buy clothes with them, we cannot get any change from our shopping with them, and we cannot use them at any other counter.’
Then Alem realised that he was waiting in the same place where he had seen Abbas three weeks ago and that Abbas may have not responded to him because he was feeling humiliated. The queue was long and full of exactly the same kind of people Alem had seen outside the courtrooms, Asians, Africans, Romanians and Kosovans, all waiting with their heads hanging down, looking humiliated. Meanwhile many other cashiers were sitting filing their nails or combing their hair, waiting for customers. Other shoppers just seemed to be a lot happier and some looked over to the ‘Vouchers only’ queue as if the customers there were exhibition pieces.
Alem could also see the humiliation on his father’s face but as for himself he felt angry; he didn’t want to show it but he felt really angry. His father was a qualified person who had been in a good job and always proud to have earned every penny he had, but now he had been reduced to what amounted to living off aid. As Alem looked up and down the queue, he wondered how many people there were in the same position. Which of the men and women were doctors, lawyers, nurses or mathematicians? Could he be standing next to one of Bosnia’s most promising architects, or an Iranian airline pilot? His father saw him silently shake his head in disgust as they shuffled down the line.
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