My personal acquaintance with migration
The draw for the migrant; and the force impelling them to migrate
I drove today down a country road and saw ahead, above me, a line of geese. Wild geese, taking to the air to seek their winter quarters across the globe in beautiful Canada; under my breath, I wished them good fortune and bon voyage. “Ye’re no awa’ tae bide awa’,” I said to myself. You’re not away to stay away. For, next year, the wild geese will return; from Canada to Europe, a journey they’ve repeated annually for centuries, if not millennia. Migrating birds. Free as the wind, to cross borders at will, without papers and without care. Aside, that is, from the odd shotgun…
When we humans migrate, however, we have much greater cares, and we don’t generally return in the following spring. But some still need to beware: of the odd shotgun…
I set out to challenge some migration suppositions of my own. Mine, not yours; nor necessarily those of those who migrate.
Immigration v. migration
First: migration is movement from one country to another for purposes that are not temporary, like secondment, detachment, assignment, holiday, city trip. In the temporary cases, the home base stays at home; when the home base moves, the individual migrates, for a variety of purposes. We’ll look at what they are below. Essentially the distinction is moving with a contract of defined duration or a travel itinerary and return air ticket; and moving without.
Emigration and immigration are poisoned terminology. Emigrants are those among us who no longer wish to be part of us. Immigrants are them, who want to be part of us and never will be: thus the mantras, spoken or unspoken. All are both, and all are therefore migrants: moving from one nation state to another. I’m one: UK to Germany; Germany to Belgium and, who knows, maybe one day Belgium to UK. Each time migrating. The why doesn’t change the act: “migrating.”
A migration story
Hafid was a Tunisian who approached me on a Brussels street just after I’d parked my truck. Could I help him – he’d not slept under cover for four nights. I had business to attend to. I told him, “Stay here, I’ll be back in 15.”
Clearly 15 minutes was not enough time for Hafid to scout for a better offer. Or he hadn’t understood, but reckoned the truck was mine and I’d be back for it some time. He’d waited. I invited him to get in, and he did.
It was quickly apparent that his French and English were as non-existent as my Arabic. The conversation broke down, and we still hadn’t crossed Boulevard Anneessens. “Se solamente sapessi parlare italiano!” he said in desperation. “Ma si, so parlare italiano!” I replied in jubilation. The Scotsman and the Tunisian in Belgium had found their lingua franca in Italian. I’d encountered Tunisians previously, and have done so since, who also spoke Italian. Quite what the reason for this is, I don’t yet know. Perhaps I’ll ask Walid.
Walid is a Tunisian acquaintance of mine who lives a few streets away from me. He’s married to a Belgian girl, and they have three youngsters. They’re quite the most adorable family I know, and Walid retains his native Arabic. I called his wife.
“Is Walid home?”
“He’s working late tonight. He’ll be home after nine.”
“Could you ask him to please call round?”
“What, after nine o’clock?”
“Yes. I can’t tell you why, but trust me, it’s important.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks.”
Next job was to get Hafid on the blower to his mother to tell her he was well – I insisted. It cost me 92 euros, and was worth every cent. Then, he stripped and climbed into a dressing gown, and then into the bathroom. His clothes went into the washing machine. By the time both of them came out, they were glowing. Hafid had a smile and pressed his palms together and bowed repeatedly. I threw some pairs of fresh underwear and an old pair of jeans at him and, before long, he looked like I did 30 years ago. The doorbell went. It was Walid.
I sketched out the situation to Walid, who nodded in sage understanding. I asked him, “Can you talk to Hafid in your own language and ask him what he needs and where he’s going and what I can do to help him on his way?” I left the two men to discuss in private. I’d not have understood too much, in any case, now the language had switched to Arabic.
“He’s wanting to get work in construction. Here or in France.”
“Here’s impossible: the authorities have cracked right down.”
“He’s knows that. There’s a bus will take him to Paris. A disguised delivery van fitted out with seats. It’s no secret: the police stand and watch the illegals getting into it and setting off for France. It costs 50 euros.”
I opined that, knowing they were headed for France, the Belgian police would be very unlikely to intervene to stop the operation. “Indeed,” confirmed Walid.
“I’ll give him his fare. What’s he doing this for?”
“The family at home. He’s a sort of emissary. He drew the short, or long, straw, whatever you want to call it, and it’s his job to set up in Europe so he can channel funds back to Tunisia.”
“He doesn’t have a passport, how come?”
“He does. It’s back in Tunisia. He deliberately didn’t bring it. If he’s taken in, he can bluff his way through as a refugee from another country as long as he doesn’t have proof of where he’s from.”
For someone outside the whole migration game, it seemed like a strange series of set moves and indecipherable play calls from pitch and dugout alike. I’d made couscous and announced to Hafid that we’d eat. I thanked Walid, and he left, wishing us luck.
A side note: after a day or two, it would transpire that Hafid didn’t quite know what to do with a knife and fork. “At home, we generally sit outside, and mother brings a large bowl of food out to us, where we sit in a circle. We dig into the food with our hands and eat with our fingers. We never use knives and forks.” Something as simple as table cutlery had served to separate us culturally; Hafid’s explanation had served to unite us culturally, in mutual understanding. I told him that we had the Dutch to blame – they’d invented the fork because they kept spoiling their lace ruffs in the time of Van Dyck. We laughed.
We laughed a lot. I showed him Leuven, the mediaeval town square, rebuilt so assiduously after the wreckage of the First World War. He enjoyed a few carefree days, and then I ran him into Brussels to catch his “bus” to Paris. We bade each other a fond farewell, and I wished him luck on his quest. He was an illegal, here looking for work, for money, for his family: a mission.
He failed. The promised work in Paris was a fantasy. He hung around there, Place de la République, for a few weeks but nothing turned up. In Brussels, I’d pressed a business card into his hand: just on the off chance. One day, a call came in, not from Hafid, but from someone else, who told me that Hafid had asked him to call me: he’d be arriving back in Brussels off the “bus” the next Sunday, if I cared to come and meet them.
I was quite excited at the prospect, and so I went to the appointed spot, near the Sunday market at Gare du Midi, and, sure enough, there he was with his friends. It wasn’t quite the closing scene from The Railway Children, but we were both happy at the reacquaintance, even though it betokened failure for the Paris excursion. A few days later, Hafid and I had a difference of opinion on a matter of principle, and I ran him into the capital, where we parted company. I was heartbroken, that my own venture into the migration question had ended so sadly, and I was again worried for what would become of Hafid. Returning home, as my car emerged from the tunnel that leads out of Brussels city centre, my phone rang. It was Walid: how were things? I tearfully replied: “Walid, some people just don’t want to be helped.” He said he was sorry. We hung up.
Speaking to migrants
Hafid came from a family that had nothing. And those with nothing in Tunisia have even less now than they did at that time. But, according to the 2019 UN survey Scaling Fences, over half of those migrating from Africa to Europe are actually in employment or schooling (58%). Most are earning well, although 50% expressed the desire to up their earnings. Two-thirds of migrants migrated despite positive prospects of employment in their home countries.
It is easy to halt the enquiry there: African migrants are simply greedy; just like everyone else. If you see an opportunity to up your income, who wouldn’t jump at it? Well, that’s an interesting question. Because only 2% of the migrants questioned for the survey would think again about travelling if they had known what they know now about the risks. And that says something to me more than just jumping at job opportunities, which are naturally a draw for them: but, over and above that, something is impelling them to leave.
A year ago I befriended a family in The Gambia, through a professional social media website. My LinkedIn contact is the head of his family, his father having passed away several years ago. But the man is jobless, and part of my engagement is to try and advise on how he might secure employment. If you wish, you may surf to a page on my blog where I have launched an appeal to try and set him up as a taxi service. It’s not yet come to fruition, so perhaps you can help that along a little bit…
Just recently, I asked him about the Port of Banjul, which sits at the wide mouth of the River Gambia, at the point where from one bank to the other is a distance of some ten kilometres. The port is reasonably thriving, has a depth of 20 metres, so can accommodate a good number of large ships. I told my contact to perhaps dress smartly and go down to the port to see what unskilled jobs might be available – stevedoring and the like. He said he would, but added that such opportunities are known to be held in reserve for “people who know people”. I sighed inwardly and resigned myself to an all-too-customary story of Africa: favouritism and corruption.
Quoting UK Home Secretary Suella Braverman, the past 20 to 25 years have, according to an article in The Kyiv Post, seen “‘too much, too quick’ migration in Britain and Europe.” The Kyiv Post, the clarion herald to the world from Ukraine, which itself saw a migration surge upon its being invaded by Russia, takes a stance that is sympathetic to Ms Braverman. Admittedly, the migration of Ukrainians within Europe took place under radically different circumstances to that from Africa to Europe: or did it?
I think The Kyiv Post assumes that, once Russia is defeated in the war, the Ukrainians who fled will want to return, and I think there are good grounds to hold faith in that view, contingent upon the stated conditionality: Russia’s defeat. But why do those from Africa, and also from the Middle East and Eurasia, why do they flock to Europe? Nagorno Karabakh is a special case: its 100,000 inhabitants will assuredly be accommodated within Armenia; but Afghanistan’s, Iraq’s, Syria’s, Sudan’s, Ethiopia’s, Algeria’s, Libya’s huddled masses, are they drawn by an uptick in income, or do they not flee flood and famine, Taliban and ISIS, civil strife and military dictatorship, to boot? Is the income draw in Africa not more than offset by the rank unpleasantness of living in a society so lopsided in its succouring to preferred interests? Ms Braverman might like to duly note that the past 20 to 25 years have likewise seen a huge influx in influence by the Russian Federation and the Chinese Communist Party in huge swaths of Africa, as also elsewhere. Niger’s jubilant demonstrators who flooded the streets of Niamey in the white, blue and red of Russia’s flag obviously favour closer ties with Moscow way above their previous ties with Paris. But, for how long?
Any physicist will confirm: forces of magnetism will attract ferrous items towards them, with north attracting south pole; but they will also confirm that south poles and north poles will mutually repel each other. The politicians of Europe seem fixed on addressing only what attracts migrants to their shores. What few seem coherently to understand, let alone being able to address, are the forces within Africa that are impelling Africans to quit their continent. Clearly, the prospect of investment and control from Moscow is not endearing everyone to the notion of staying put, not even in the Sahel.
Western nations have painted themselves into an uncomfortable corner. When, in 2010, UK prime minister David Cameron announced to the Commonwealth nations that aid packages would be severely cut back unless there were palpable improvements in human rights, the Commonwealth nations replied in tones of outrage: how dare the old colonial master try to pull the strings of financial control over countries that had long since wrenched themselves free from his forebears’ colonial hegemony?
There are parts of Africa where summary execution is not an unusual criminal punishment. And the crimes for which it isn’t unusual extend to simply being: homosexual. Whether or not my forebears exercised colonial hegemony over a country that enforces such laws with relish is immaterial: they are repugnant, and I know personally for a fact that they drive hordes of young men out of the continent, who aren’t even able to express their sexuality as protected under the very UN Charter that their own governments have so … gaily and blithesomely signed and endorsed.
Aid to the third world is what keeps the third world’s leaders sweet: surely that is so, for their reaction to Mr Cameron shows how bitter they can become when it’s threatened. What a philanthropic plea by the Commonwealth on behalf of its poorest citizens! Except that much aid paid to African nations simply lines the pockets of their national elites. Some, of course, trickles down to new schools and institutions, before which proud hoardings are erected to proclaim the generosity of the old colonial master. Generosity to both the school pupils of the nation in question and (less ostensibly but to be sure) its elite politicians. When an old colonial master demands human rights in exchange for aid, therefore, that is an ennui at best. When a new colonial master, who, incidentally, wants to send private mercenaries to the nation, to help it out with annoying little Islamic ructions, says it’ll demand no human rights in exchange for its most-favoured nation status, then the choice is easily switched. The Commonwealth proclaims itself as a club of nations that share a certain set of values. I’d dearly like to know what values they are, for they don’t include taking any kind of a stance against Russia’s treatment of Ukraine (see my article here).
I suspect that there are those in Africa who look favourably upon Russian and Chinese investment, who will be all too happy to stay put; and there will be those who see such investment as no reason whatsoever to stay put, and even as a big argument to set sail.
The Refugee Convention would seem to be up for debate, and none are debating it harder than Ms Braverman and some of the more right-leaning governments of Europe: Slovakia, Hungary, Italy, Poland. People move when they’re being shot at. Ukraine and Sudan prove this. If you stop up their route of escape, you do not prevent them being shot at; you simply bottle them up. Like rats in a trap.
Perhaps if Ms Braverman knew personally some of those who seek a new life in the UK, she’d have a greater understanding for their plight. But, of course, she does. Her own parents, and those of Prime Minister Sunak were indeed themselves migrants.
Migrants calling migrants spongers and loafers and idlers, with nothing to contribute. Sad. Migrants, they say, are organising into gangs, roaming the streets of Malmö even. Do they do that because they’re born killers? Or is that a product of circumstance? The circumstances in which they fled; in which they learned to survive by instinct while crossing a continent; in which they were welcomed by reluctant hosts; in which they learned that the host society is avid for illicit substances; and in which they got to see how self-interested their host societies and their leaders truly are?
Heavens, migrants have turned our cities into ghettoes! And we had absolutely no hand in it! None whatsoever.
They say people get the leaders they deserve; perhaps leaders also get the people they deserve.