Refugee Boy (7 page)

After walking for over an hour, his feet began to hurt and the bag that at first seemed so light had gradually become a very heavy burden. He carried it in alternating hands in order to ease the burden, but as the night continued, the bag just seemed to increase in weight. The road twisted and turned. Alem had lost all sense of time and place and was now quietly praying that a city, a town or village would be nearby. He was hungry and exhausted; how he wished that he had eaten more!

At this point he decided that he needed somewhere to rest. Sick of walking, sick of the cold and sick of the dark, he took a risk and left the road by forcing his way through a hedge. Now he was walking across fields. He knew that he was doing something wrong, possibly illegal, so he tried to ease his conscience by causing as little damage to the crops as possible.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the road he came upon a house with the lights still on. He stood looking at
the house, wondering if he should knock, when he noticed at the edge of the field a barn-type building. That’s it, he thought, I shall stay in there. He made his way to the building, keeping his head as low as he could. It was a large wooden barn with large doors that were unlocked. He opened one very slightly and entered but he could see nothing inside. He began to feel his way around. Everything was dirty and muddy, he could feel cold metal; the barn was full of vehicles and machinery. In the centre of the barn he came across a big wheel, one of the wheels of a large tractor. Next to the wheel he felt a step, he climbed up and found his way into the cabin. It wasn’t warm but it was dry, and at least it wasn’t as cold as outside. The driver’s seat was reasonably comfortable and he thought that it was high enough off the ground to make it difficult for any hyenas or snakes to get him. He closed the cabin door, fiddled in his bag to find his extra shirt, put it on and then he fell asleep in the driving position.

In the morning he woke up to the sound of children laughing. He was quite high up, looking down at the various strange pieces of machinery in the barn. Realising that he couldn’t hang around, he quickly grabbed his bag and climbed down. He peeped out of the door to see three children getting into a large Land Rover jeep, which had a woman in the driver’s
seat. Alem presumed this was a mother taking her children to school. Soon all the children were in the vehicle and they were driving away. He wanted to head down the same path that the Land Rover had gone down, as he thought that it might lead to a major road. But to get to the path he would have to pass the house. He left the barn and made his way to the path, keeping low and hiding behind farm vehicles, hedges and walls as he went.

As he sneaked past the house he saw nobody and he thought that no one saw him until he heard, ‘Hey, you! What the hell are you doing here?’

It was the voice of a man from inside the house. Alem didn’t hang around, he ran down the path as fast as he could. Then he could hear the man on the stone-flagged path outside the house.

‘You’re lucky you ain’t been shot, lad. Watch out, the police will be after you!’

Alem just ran and ran without stopping or looking back until he came to a road. It was another quiet road that was very steep. He walked up it. Cars passed him periodically. All the drivers really stared at him. He knew he looked out of place and he could see no one else walking these roads.

On reaching the top of the hill he stopped to rest his legs. He looked around and was dismayed and angry by what he saw. There, right in front of him, was the drive to the children’s home. He threw his
bag down on the ground and burst into tears, crying quietly. He had done nothing but go around in a large circle. At no point was he more than half a mile away from the home. Now he was too tired to keep running. Silently acknowledging defeat and in desperate need of food, he began walking up the path.

Back in the home he was kept in the staff room, where Sarah Cohen washed and cleaned his cuts and gave him breakfast. Sarah had heard about the fight on the previous night, which Alem was unwilling to talk about; he just insisted on being moved from the home. Soon Mariam turned up with another young woman.

‘Alem, you poor thing!’ Mariam said. ‘What’s wrong?’

Alem sat in a high-backed chair with his bag at his side. ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ he replied, looking out of the window down the drive.

The young woman left the room with the other two members of staff, leaving Mariam and Alem alone.

‘So what’s the matter, Alem? Everyone was really worried about you. Why did you run away?’

‘I hate it here,’ Alem said. ‘Nobody talks to me, everyone is so strange, and people want to fight me. I was beaten up in schools in Africa, do you think I want to be beat up here as well? You know, these
people are rubbish. Let me tell you something – they love to fight, yes, but these people are not fighting for land, they are not fighting for justice or their beliefs, these stupid boys are fighting for chips. Why should I stay here with them?’ He said all this while still looking out the window.

Mariam couldn’t help seeing it from Alem’s point of view. ‘Yes, you’re right. I heard about the fight and it was stupid, and it is difficult to make friends here, but you must understand that every boy here is here because they have problems at home, and some of them have no home at all. Everyone’s problems are different. People may seem strange to you, but then you may seem strange to them. You’ve been hurt in one way, they’ve been hurt in another way.’

Alem picked up his bag and put it in his lap. ‘I know, you’re right, but I still don’t like it here.’

‘All right,’ Mariam said, raising her tone. ‘You see that lady I came here with? That’s Sheila, she’s a social worker and she is here to help you. We – the Refugee Council – are a support group really, but she has connections, so she can really help you. What she said she could do is to fix you up with foster parents. She’s been working on it since yesterday and she already has a family for you to see.’

‘What is foster parent?’ Alem asked.

‘Foster parents are people who will take you into their home for a short time or even a long time. It’s
not a home like this; you’ll be living in a normal house with a family. Sheila will explain more.’

Mariam called Sheila in. She was well dressed and from the West Country. In her well-spoken way she explained to Alem that the family she had in mind knew about him and were willing to take him on for as long as necessary but that it was important that he would get on with the family.

Things were moving so fast that Alem was finding it hard to keep up, but he was sure that he didn’t want to stay in the children’s home and he could see no other option. He agreed to see the family and within minutes he was being taken from the children’s home.

Alem sat at the back of Mariam’s old Volkswagen and Sheila sat in the front passenger seat. As they drove towards London, Sheila would turn awkwardly in order to speak to Alem. It was mainly small talk until she quietly announced, ‘I’m afraid we have a little bit of bad news, it’s not the end of the world but it means we have to stop off for a while.’

‘What is the matter?’ Alem asked glancing from Sheila to the back of Mariam’s head and back to Sheila.

Mariam stayed silent. Sheila continued, ‘I’m afraid we have to stop off at the Home Office in Croydon for a screening. It’s something we have to do but it
shouldn’t take too long.’

Alem was very casual about it but he could sense Sheila’s nervousness. ‘What is screening?’

‘In a screening they take photos of you and they also do other things to make sure they know who you are. The government requires all asylum seekers to go through it now.’

‘It’s not very nice,’ Mariam said, without taking her eyes of the road.

Just after an hour they were at the Home Office in Croydon, and after waiting for half an hour Alem went in for the screening, with Sheila and Mariam closely watching every detail. Alem was photographed, fingerprinted, interviewed and given a number. On the way out he was given a piece of paper, which he had to sign to confirm his number.

Alem was humiliated by the process. As they drove deeper into London, Alem asked if he was now a criminal, to which Mariam replied, ‘The system is not fair. There is no one more innocent than you, but look at the way you’ve been treated. Criminals are all over the world but the big difference between a dictatorship and a democracy is that in a democracy the criminals are voted in.’

There was bitterness in Mariam’s voice, as watching the screening process had brought back memories of her own screening. She had to tell herself to stop talking; she didn’t want to bombard Alem with her
personal views. So, they continued the journey with Alem staring down at his hands, which were still stained with the ink from the fingerprinting session.

They arrived in the late afternoon at a house in an area known as Manor Park to the east of the city. Here he met Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald and Ruth, their only child, who was seventeen years old. Ruth had long black hair that she let hang halfway down her back and a slim face with brown eyes. She worked as a sales assistant in an electrical shop. Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were born in Ireland but Ruth was born in Manor Park.

Mrs Fitzgerald had completely lost her accent and now sounded like an older version of Ruth. As she spoke to Alem, she used a yellow cloth and dusted anything that came within arm’s reach. ‘Nice to see you, dear, we’ve heard a lot about you and you’re welcome here. It’s not much, but it’s ours. We’re not rich, but we don’t starve,’ she said, leading them into the front room.

They occupied a three-bedroom house on Meanly Road where Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald had lived since getting married in 1977 when they were both just eighteen years old.

Alem was surprised at how comfortable he felt with the family. Mrs Fitzgerald told him that they had fostered many children in the past, some of whom were teenagers from various parts of the world. Mr Fitzgerald didn’t say much but they very quickly made Alem feel at home without pampering him or seeming condescending. The room that was to become Alem’s was built as an upstairs extension at the back of the house. It had its own television and a computer, and a large collection of books which immediately caught Alem’s attention. So far he had only seen the inside of museums, restaurants, the hotel, the children’s home and the barn. This was his first look into a British home. It was warm and he liked it.

There was no formal interview. The family sat with Sheila, Mariam and Alem. They just talked, mainly about other boys and girls that the Fitzgeralds had fostered in the past, but also about the area, the local schools and the increase in cars now parked on the road. Alem was offered lots of cups of tea and he refused them all, but he ate every biscuit in sight, while Sheila and Mariam drank every cup of tea that came their way.

As he ate, Alem observed Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald. Mr Fitzgerald had a shaven face but was going bald. He still had traces of an Irish accent and was a short, round sort of a man with a belly that made him look as if he was about to give birth. Mrs Fitzgerald was of
a similar height to her husband but without the belly, and was a lot more alert than he was. Mrs Fitzgerald explained that her husband had taken early retirement from his electrician job and spent most of his time whispering to the fifteen fish that he kept in the garden. Mr Fitzgerald sat nodding in agreement saying ‘Yes’ and ‘That’s right’ periodically. It occurred to Alem that if he didn’t know that they were husband and wife, he could have taken them for brother and sister.

After the visit to the house, Sheila and Mariam took Alem to the local Social Services offices, where he was asked the big question: ‘Do you want to stay there?’

‘What choice do I have?’ Alem asked Sheila.

‘Well, there are other families and there are other children’s homes. We know you don’t like children’s homes, and I have checked out the possibility of you seeing other families, but they would take time to sort out. The good thing about this family is that you can move in tonight; all I have to do is sign some papers. But it’s up to you.’

Alem quickly sensed that things could be much worse and that he was on to a good thing. ‘I want to stay with this family,’ he said.

‘Great,’ Sheila replied. ‘I really do think you will get on fine there. I’ve known the Fitzgeralds for ages and they’ve never let us down yet. And look, Alem,
you don’t have to stay a day longer than you want to. If you feel that things aren’t going well, we’ll think again, and we will keep reviewing your situation anyway. If there are any problems, all you have to do is tell me or Mariam, and we will try our best to help you out.’

Alem was happy to have succeeded in getting out of the children’s home, but he couldn’t help thinking about the bigger picture. ‘How long will I be staying here for?’ he asked.

‘No one can say, Alem. We could trace members of your family tomorrow.’

‘I haven’t got any family here,’ Alem interrupted quickly.

‘OK, but your parents could turn up tomorrow, or the fighting could stop tomorrow; we just don’t know. First of all we must make sure that you’re safe and secure, then we will look further into your case.’

Early that evening Alem was taken back to the Fitzgeralds’ household, where he received a lively welcome from Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald but a more cautious one from Ruth.

Alem spent the first two weeks doing nothing but watching television and reading books. Mr Fitzgerald hardly ever left the house, except to go to the shops with Mrs Fitzgerald. Ruth didn’t talk to him much;
she spent most of her time in her room listening to Brit-pop bands complaining about love and the system, or patrolling the streets with her girl gang. Alem could sense a deep unhappiness about her.

He would get quietly excited when he walked the streets and saw other Ethiopians and Eritreans. He could identify East Africans easily but they didn’t seem to acknowledge him in any way. It didn’t take long for him to realise that this was not malicious, it was simply the way that people lived in London; everybody was minding their own business. There were many Africans and he would go nowhere and do nothing if he was to have a conversation with every one that he saw.