Australian Aboriginies move to block shipments of Scottish nuclear waste | The Herald

First published September 25, 2017 by The Herald:

ABORIGINES in South Australia are fighting a plan to ship nuclear waste from Scotland amid fears it will be dumped on land regarded as culturally and spiritually sacred.

Wallerberdina, around 280 miles north of Adelaide, has been earmarked as a possible location for Australia’s first nuclear waste dump despite claims that it is a priceless heritage site rich in archaeological treasures including burial mounds, fossilised bones and stone tools.

Some have claimed the impact would be similar to “building a waste dump at the heart of the Vatican”.

Now campaigners have appealed to the Scottish Government to halt controversial plans to ship nuclear waste processed at Dounreay in Caithness to Australia, amid concerns that it will eventually end up on the culturally sensitive land.

The waste transfer is part of a deal with saw spent fuel from nuclear reactors in Australia, Belgium, Germany and Italy processed at Dounreay – the nuclear facility in Caithness currently being decommissioned – to enable it to be safely stored after being returned to its country of origin.

The UK government has previously confirmed that “a very small quantity of Australian-owned radioactive waste” is currently stored in the country.

Scottish Government policy allows for the substitution of nuclear waste with a “radiologically equivalent” amount of materials from Sellafield in Cumbria.

The Herald understands that a shipment of such material is due to take place by 2020.

While the waste will be initially stored at a facility near Sydney, concern is growing that it could end up at Wallerberdina, one of two areas under consideration as a nuclear waste dump site.

As well as sparking anger over the site’s cultural and sacred connections, the proposed location has angered local people who still recall British atomic bomb tests in the area in the 1950s without permission from the affected Aboriginal groups.

Thousands were adversely affected with many Aboriginal people left suffering from radiological poisoning

Gary Cushway, a dual Australian/British citizen living in Glasgow, has now written to the First Minister asking that the Scottish Government review the agreement to transfer the material “until a satisfactory final destination for the waste is finalised by the Australian Government.”

He argues that doing so would allow the government to “take the lead in mitigating mistakes of the past that the UK government has made in regards to indigenous Australians.”

The proposed dump site is next to an Indigenous Protected Area where Aborigines are still allowed to hunt, and is part of the traditional home of the Adnyamathanha people, one of several hundred indigenous groups in Australia.

It is currently a cattle ranch and is part-owned by the director of the country’s Liberal Party. The Australian government’s move to shortlist it as a potential nuclear waste dump site last year led to condemnation from the Aboriginal Congress of South Australia and the local indigenous community who described the decision as “cultural genocide”.

Regina McKenzie, an indigenous woman from the Adnyamathanah community who lives on land adjacent to Wallerberdina, told The Herald: “We here the Adnyamathanah people say no to any waste on our traditional land. No consent was sought by the federal government here in Australia. Our rights as first nation people have been ignored.

“I hope Scotland, who knows quite well what colonisation does to traditional peoples’ rights, would see the struggle of my people who are trying to hold onto our cultural beliefs.”

She has previously suggested the waste dump was “like me and my sisters going to the Vatican and saying we want to put a waste dump right under the pillar where they say St Peter is buried.”

Friends of the Earth Australia say they share concerns that the material due to be transferred could end up being stored in a facility at Wallerberdina against the wishes of local indigenous people. They encouraged those involved “to acknowledge that it is highly problematic that there is a real likelihood of the waste being foisted on an Aboriginal community that wants nothing to do with it.”

A Scottish Government spokesperson said: “We recognise that the management of nuclear waste must take full account of human rights and equality obligations. That includes the importance of ensuring that security and waste management arrangements protect public safety and avoid harmful environmental impacts.

“Any concerns expressed by indigenous peoples must be addressed in full and action taken, to ensure that vulnerable communities do not suffer future adverse impacts.”

Lady Florence’s Island Legacy Lives On | Scottish Catholic Observer

First published on December 23, 2016 by the Scottish Catholic Observer

JAMES MCENANEY reveals the story of the English woman who built a chapel on La Gomera in 1935

In many ways the island of La Gomera, one of the smallest and least developed of the Canaries, seems the perfect opposite of its larger, more famous neighbours. This is not a place defined by flesh-covered beaches, crowded hotel developments or hedonistic night life; instead, the true value of this precious gem is measured in its stunning viewpoints and the faultless warmth of a people who understand just how lucky they are to call this place home.

Amidst all of this, however, it is simply impossible to ignore another charming feature of La Gomera: the beautiful, tiny chapels sprinkled all around the island, many just a few metres from the roadside. Some are found in the heart of the various towns and villages, but many stand, stoically and timelessly, on the edge of towering cliffs, looking down on incredible valleys, ocean views and improbable, picture-perfect settlements clinging to the rocky slopes.

There is a real sense of these buildings being woven into the history of the island itself, providing a physical link between the present and the past; their very existence a testament to the dedication and devotion of a people who have quite literally hacked their living out of the steep, volcanic slopes.

Every single one feels genuinely special but, in speaking with the people here, one name comes up again and again: Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Lourdes (Hermitage of Our Lady of Lourdes).

Locals enthusiastically describe a tiny chapel with a remarkable story to tell, hidden away in the heart of the ancient, UNESCO-recognised forest of the Garajonay National Park. It was, they tell me, ‘built by The Englishwoman, Doña Florencia’ in 1935, and was once the scene of huge fiestas that went on through the night. I must, they insist, find the time to visit.

The road to El Cedro, a tiny hamlet that is the closest settlement to the Ermita, is an old but perfectly formed ribbon of paved stone that wobbles and hiccups beneath the rear wheel of my motorbike. It does not reach all the way to the chapel itself, but that’s not a problem: in a place like this it would be disrespectful not to do at least some of my exploration on foot.

The narrow path meanders through the forest, mostly following the route of a shallow, burbling stream as it twists and turns its way up into the valley.

Along the way it skirts around a handful of scattered, empty houses, some little more than a stone shell in the process of being swallowed whole by the encroaching plant-life.

Passing by, the feeling is not dissimilar to walking through an abandoned croft or hamlet in the more remote areas of Scotland, the ghosts of lives not lived hanging in the air like fog. And then, finally, I see it: the briefest, brightest glimpse of whitewashed walls piercing through the vibrant greens and browns. Within moments the path emerges from beneath the canopy and the forest gives up its incredible secret.

The Ermita stands serenely within a bespoke, stone-floored clearing, its brilliant white walls awash in the flooding rays of the mid-afternoon sun. The only sounds are the low hush of the stream— the only water source on the island that never runs dry—and the melodious chatter of birds bouncing from branch to branch. The building itself is formed of a pair of rectangular, stone structures adjoined at the rear under a typical red-tiled roof. The only decoration is a small stone arch above the front wall—within which an ancient bell hangs below a plain white cross—and, below that, a rectangular, grey-stone plaque bearing a simple, fascinating inscription: “Rogad por doña Florencia Stephen Parry, En 1964, A cuya devocion mariana, Debemos la ereccion de esta ermita.”

Translated, it simply means: “Pray for Lady Florence Stephen Parry, 1964, whose devotion we owe for the erection of this hermitage.”

Born in India to a British father and a Greek mother, Florence grew up in England where she worked as a nurse and, later, as a journalist.

Having lost her fiancé to the battlefields of World War One, she sought to escape by starting a new life in the Canary Islands, taking on the role of governess to the children of a wealthy Italian, Mario Novaro Parodi, who owned a fish cannery on La Gomera’s rugged southern coast.

Florence worked for the family until the children had either grown or, in the case of the boys, been sent to Italy to continue their education.

At this point she relocated to the beautiful northern village of Hermigua and began working for the Ffyfes fruit company, arranging exports of bananas and tomatoes from La Gomera back to the UK. It was during this time that Florence began to visit El Cedro, forming a special bond with the tiny settlement and even keeping a small house there. Upon her retirement, she oversaw the construction of a building known as The House of Peace in Hermigua, then turned her attentions and energy to the construction of a chapel.

In 1935 she succeeded in ensuring that proposals to create a place of worship for the people of El Cedro were accepted and financially supported.

Perhaps in appreciation for what she regarded as the healing qualities of El Cedro’s remarkable climate, which she believed had helped address the symptoms of her asthma, the chapel was built in dedication to Our Lady of Lourdes.

Having converted to Catholicism in 1924, Florence finally saw her ambition and devotion realised with the completion of the Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Lourdes.

The rest, as they say, is history, and although the donations and support of many people were crucial to the founding of the Ermita, it is the vital contribution of Florence Stephen Parry that is still celebrated. Every year, on the last Sunday in August, a fiesta is still held there, with local people coming together for a joyous procession punctuated by the beating of drums and the cheers of the faithful.

Florence finally left La Gomera in 1950, moving to the neighbouring island of Tenerife. She spent her final years in the town of Santa Cruz where, in 1964, she passed away.

Although her last days were spent away from La Gomera, her memory lives on, forever bound to her wonderful, timeless gift to the island, its people, and anyone lucky enough to have the chance to see it for themselves.

Even now, in the second decade of the 21st century, it is obvious that the miraculous Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Lourdes remains precious to the people here. What is also clear is the real, lasting affection for Doña Florencia, the English woman who came to La Gomera to escape her past and became a part of the island’s history.

Feel the Bern – inside the Sanders campaign HQ in Brooklyn | Daily Record

First published 19 April, 2016 by the Daily Record –

LOCATED in a small warehouse on Brooklyn’s 8th Street, surrounded by industrial and residential buildings – and near one of the best pie shops in town (Four and Twenty Blackbirds, in case you’re in the area) – Bernie Sanders’s New York HQ is remarkably understated.

Were it not for the blue-and-white banner cable-tied to the rust-stained fence – and this city’s visitor-friendly grid system – it is doubtful I’d ever have found it.

It is from here the New York campaign for Sanders – a 74-year- old Vermont senator whose genuinely social-democratic platform has electrified the race for the Democratic presidential candidacy – is co-ordinated.

I haven’t called or emailed to let them know I’m coming. This is partly because I want to see what things are really like at the heart of this campaign – and partly because I couldn’t find any contact details on the website.

I haven’t called or emailed to let them know I’m coming. This is partly because I want to see what things are really like at the heart of this campaign – and partly because I couldn’t find any contact details on the website.

It is, therefore, with some trepidation that I pull open the heavy metal door and step inside.

I needn’t have worried. Even by US standards the people here – almost all volunteers – are incredibly welcoming.

The space is bigger than I expected. Two separate walls are piled at least six feet high with boxes containing flyers, posters, leaflets and other campaign materials. On the wall facing the door is a huge whiteboard with a list of “Things We Need”, including snacks, post-it notes and toilet paper. It’s all very familiar.

Another wall is covered with posters and stickers. Some are the standard campaign material I’ve seen in different parts of the city but two stand out. The first is a black-and-white photo of a 21-year-old Sanders being arrested during a protest against racial segregation in schools.

The second is a poster emblazoned with a slogan I’ll hear variations of, again and again, over the coming days: “Finally, a reason to vote.”

Next to the door stands a table topped with sign-in sheets and more campaign literature, the most striking of which is illegible to me due to being written in Russian. This spot is staffed by Tina.

“My daughter was really involved in the Occupy Wall Street campaign and we bought a button-maker back then,” she said. “We remembered we had it the other day so we’ve started making Sanders buttons.”

I ask how much they are. “No charge. Just take them.”

Across the room, a training session on data-entry is in full flow. More than a dozen volunteers are huddled around a folding table, laptops open, smiles on their faces, while another volunteer walks them through the process.

In another part of the room, a handful of recruits are being guided through their first “phone-banking” session, which involves cold-calling potential supporters, gathering their details and encouraging them to vote in the coming primary contests.

I may be more than 3000 miles from Scotland but, after the explosion of grassroots energy that characterised the 2014 independence referendum, I feel very much at home here.

I may be more than 3000 miles from Scotland but, after the explosion of grassroots energy that characterised the 2014 independence referendum, I feel very much at home here.

As the morning progresses, the flow of people, the enthusiasm and the noise increases. There is a buzz, a real sense the work being carried out here is important.

The door just keeps on opening, with more volunteers joining the action. They come in pairs, in groups or even alone. They come to make calls, to collect canvassing materials or just to ask what they can do to help.

In a city as diverse as New York it’s not surprising to find that the motivations for getting involved are varied but, as I speak to different people, one key theme emerges – these people want to see a radical, structural shift in the way their country operates.

Almost all of them seem to have voted for Obama in 2008 and 2012 but this time it feels different. Sanders, they tell me, represents real change in a way the current president never did.

Bernie, not Barack, is the one they’ve been waiting for.

The people here are angry –about inequality, about corruption, about the failures of their healthcare system and about what they see as increasingly limited futures for their children.

But anger is not the emotion that radiates most strongly; instead, there is an overwhelming feeling of hope which is utterly infectious.

Sanders’ supporters are not just raging against the dying light of the American dream, they’re setting out to reignite it.

Sanders’ supporters are not just raging against the dying light of the American dream, they’re setting out to reignite it.

To these people – and so many others across the country – Hillary Clinton is just another establishment candidate tied to Wall Street and the influence of what Sanders calls the “billionaire class”.

His campaign has been fuelled by small donors – Americans giving $25 or $30 a time – not corporations trying to buy power. “Paid for by Bernie (not the billionaires)” is printed on every leaflet and poster I can find. As several volunteers are keen to point out to me, “Bernie can’t be bought.”

It seems fitting that this is all taking place in Brooklyn and not just because Sanders, whose local accent remains unmistakable, grew up a few miles away in the Flatbush area of the borough.

Even when you can’t see them, the skyscrapers of the Manhattan skyline – one of which bears the name of Republican hopeful Donald Trump – loom over everything. Billion-dollar empires are just a subway ride away but, for the people who call this brilliant part of the city home, they might as well be in another world.

One of Sanders’s key campaign messages is that, “There is no justice when so few have so much and so many have so little.” Even here, in this relatively up-and-coming area of Brooklyn, it’s not difficult to understand why that narrative has energised people.

One of Sanders’s key campaign messages is that, “There is no justice when so few have so much and so many have so little.”

Even here, in this relatively up-and-coming area of Brooklyn, it’s not difficult to understand why that narrative has energised people. Sanders is quite obviously correct and New York, perhaps more than any other city in the entire country, proves it.

But for all the enthusiasm and dedication of the people there, the real strength of this campaign isn’t found in the official HQ. In a place where even the street art is political, the power of “movement politics” should surprise no one. Like all worthwhile movements – the indyref campaign included – the most important work is being done on the streets.

That effort is epitomised by what I see a few days later on the ground floor of what looks, at first glance, to be a semi-abandoned block of flats on Seneca Avenue.

This is where I meet Amber, who has been running regular “phone-bank parties” from her studio for several weeks, inviting complete strangers into her home to pool resources and enthusiasm.

Once again, she doesn’t know I’m coming and, once again, I receive a remarkably warm welcome.

I have arrived early but, even so, I’m not the only one here. Steven – a regular at these events – is already sitting with his laptop open, ready to get started.

He is enthusiastic and well informed, able to readily provide detailed information on
legislative changes and key policy decisions which, he says, have brought America to where it is. He is also deeply invested in this movement and desperate for it to succeed.

Steven said: “This is the first time I’ve been involved in a political campaign.

“People have been waiting to hear this message for a long time. Issues around wealth and inequality are so important and now we have someone willing to talk about them.”

“People have been waiting to hear this message for a long time. Issues around wealth and inequality are so important and now we have someone willing to talk about them.”

Does he really think that Sanders can beat Clinton, either here or nationally?

“A lot will depend on New York and Pennsylvania. If Sanders wins in New York then the Clinton campaign is in real trouble. Right now we’re probably around 11 points behind, but we can close that gap in 11 days. It’s definitely possible and we’ve got all the momentum.”

Amber is quieter and, she says, less knowledgeable than Steven, but her confidence and
determination are impressive.

I ask if, like Steven, this is her first campaign and get a surprising answer – she previously did some work supporting Ron Paul, an unsuccessful libertarian candidate for the Republican presidential nomination.

“I liked some of his policies,” she said, matter-of-factly.

It’s obvious that she has been drawn to Sanders not by a sense of identity, but by his support for certain key policies and the belief that he is the best candidate to deliver the sort of change she feels is desperately needed.

Amber approves of breaking up the big banks who caused the financial crash in 2008 but, for her, the issues are even clearer. She added: “Universal healthcare mainly and free college education – that would be great.”

“Tactically, it probably makes sense to tell people this is a once-in-a-lifetime shot but I don’t think it is. I don’t think he’ll be the last revolutionary candidate.”

She goes on to explain that the US seems to lag a long way behind other countries in these areas, before opening up about why the issue of healthcare matters so much to her.

Amber said: “I had a roommate a few years ago, and one day he didn’t get out of bed. I assumed he was hungover but later on went in to check on him. He’d got hurt on the way home and hit his head and I thought he might have a concussion.

“And you know what? I was scared to take him to the hospital. I knew he didn’t have insurance and was worried he wouldn’t be able to afford it. He could have died.”

It’s a situation familiar to millions of uninsured Americans, and one in which Amber has also found herself.

She said: “I went without healthcare for six months or so. During that time I got pretty sick, but I couldn’t afford to go to the doctor. I just had to live with the illness and hope I would be ok.”

I tell them about the posters in the HQ and that a sense of hope is what’s struck me most during my brief experience of US politics. I ask whether they think it just might be enough to drive Sanders on to the victory they crave.

“Hope is invaluable and this campaign provides it,” Steven replied. “It’s all about giving power to those who have felt powerless for so long.

“We may not get another chance like this. It isn’t like other elections – it’s the most important in a generation, maybe more.”

Amber agrees but adds a caveat: “Tactically, it probably makes sense to tell people this is a once-in-a-lifetime shot but I don’t think it is.

“I don’t think he’ll be the last revolutionary candidate. He’s got such a movement going people will follow in his footsteps.”

She pauses for a moment, then adds: “I’m hopeful.”

Australia’s dark history and why it matters today

First published Jan 26, 2016 by Commonspace –

JUST 12 miles off the coast from Perth, the largest city on Australia’s western coast, lies beautiful Rottnest Island. With up to half a million visitors a year it is one of the country’s most popular holiday resorts; a quick search on Google reveals images of a beautiful island paradise, all white sands and turquoise seas nestling under perfect azure skies.

It is, without doubt, idyllic, but behind the glowing smiles and glossy photographs of the tourist brochures lies a dark past: for nearly 100 years Rottnest was an Aboriginal prison, Australia’s equivalent of Robin Island. Between 1838 and 1931 around 3,700 indigenous men and boys (some as young as seven) were incarcerated on Rottnest – 10 per cent of them died there, the victims of disease, malnutrition and torture meted out by a brutal, racist regime.

Some of the buildings within which these people were held still stand, but now they serve as luxury accommodation for tourists, with Australia’s largest mass grave just a few metres away. In so many ways, Rottnest is a crushingly effective symbol for Australia – the ‘lucky country’ whose dark history hides in plain sight.

Back in 2002 I was lucky enough to spend a month in Australia as part of a ‘world challenge expedition’ organised by my high school. Over four weeks we travelled from Adelaide to Darwin (via the mesmerising ‘red centre’ of this continent-sized country) and then on to Sydney.

We were even able to spend several days in the Mutitjulu Aboriginal community at Uluru, an experience which remains one of the greatest privileges of my life.

It was, in a word, extraordinary, but even among all the teenage excitement there was something else – a pervasive, persistent sadness which at 15 years old I did not understand, and at 29 am unable, and unwilling, to shake.

It took years to even begin to properly process the way I felt about Mutitjulu. For a long time I believed that I was responding to the obvious injustice of the historical loss and ongoing suffering of a community, and a people, whose warmth, generosity and dignity touched us all.

But the truth is worse. The truth is that my feelings at that time were, more than anything else, a pained and utterly uncomprehending response to something which I am only now, as an adult, able to name: dehumanisation. I may not have understood what I was seeing, but I knew that I hated it.

Nearly 14 years have passed since those days, yet that feeling has never really left me. It simmers away under the surface and boils over, magnified by age and the burden of understanding, whenever I read articles , watch documentaries or see speeches about the treatment of the first Australians.

And on this day each year, a day which, depending on your background and perspective, is known either as Australia Day, Invasion Day or Survival Day, it all comes flooding back.

All of this might seem far removed from the politics of this smaller, colder island, but the truth is that the dehumanisation behind Australia’s shameful treatment of its indigenous population – both historically and in the present day – is really a reflection of the British imperialist world view, the echoes of which still reverberate into the 21st century.

The reduction of those who are ‘not like us’ to beings of lesser value continues to this day, and though the means by which this is achieved are necessarily more subtle, the motivations are largely the same.

The brutal reality, whether we wish to face it or not, is that the ghosts of the Terra Nullius philosophy – which legitimised the theft of a quarter of the world because those living there were at best uncivilised and at worst sub-human – have never been exorcised, and we are all haunted by them.

In Australia this is manifested not just in the treatment of the Aboriginal people (who still die far younger than non-indigenous Australians and whose children are more likely to go to prison than to finish high school), but also in the plight of asylum seekers and refugees herded into internment camps on the islands of Nauru and Papua New Guinea.

Here, 9,000 miles away from Australia’s beautiful yet blood-soaked lands, that same inhuman ideology – forged in the fires of imperial expansion, exploitation and extermination – persists in our response to a refugee crisis which bears all the hallmarks of being the great challenge of our age. We may not have a ‘Great War’ to define us, but we are not short of suffering.

Faced with more than 50 million displaced people worldwide – many of them fleeing conflicts in which we are directly complicit – the UK Government (led by a man who saw nothing wrong with describing desperate human beings as a “swarm”) grudgingly agreed to accept 20,000 people over a five year period.

Now, when it is rumoured that Britain might move to help 3,000 of the unaccompanied child refugees in Europe (26,000 of whom arrived last year alone) the international development secretary is only willing to say that they will consider whether Britain, one of the richest nations on earth, “can do more”.

Nobody wants to see the bodies of drowned children washing up on European beaches, but so long as they are not ‘our’ children they are dehumanised, their suffering delegitimised. Just like Australia’s indigenous people they are condemned – first, foremost and forever – by their ‘otherness’.

Terra Nullius is the ideological thread which runs through so much of our interaction with the world. We – the civilised people – occupy the highest, most privileged position in a grotesque human hierarchy which has justified, and continues to justify, acts and attitudes of such inhumanity that they are as close to real evil as you are ever likely to experience.

So long as we refuse to face up to this we will be unable to learn from history, and we know what happens then: man’s continued inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn.

A photo means more than all the words we can write

First published Sept 24, 2015 by Commonspace –

ON the 4th of May 2014 my son – Ciaran Harris McEnaney – was born in Glasgow’s Southern General Hospital.

The latter stages of my wife’s pregnancy had been difficult, as was the birth itself, but he was finally here. When I held him for the first time – hands shaking, chest tightening – I remember feeling that the world had gotten just a little bit better in the instant of his arrival.

That initial elation didn’t last. Ciaran was obviously jaundiced and it soon became clear that he was struggling to maintain his body temperature; eventually, he was taken to intensive care.

I will never, for the rest of my life, forget how it felt to sit in that room, the index finger of my right hand pressed into his tiny palm, eyes fixed on his yellow-tinged body, literally begging – first aloud and then, when the words just wouldn’t come, silently – for him to stay warm, pull through and come home.

He did, but in those moments – when single seconds seemed to stretch out into eternity – I think I would have done anything to save him.

Ciaran is now 16 months old and is a happy, healthy child growing up in one of the most affluent areas of an incredibly rich and stable country, but the fear I felt in those early days has stayed with me ever since.

When I returned home from work today he was in the garden. He now recognises the sound of my motorbike and ran up to the gate as I approached. He stood there, smiling and waving until I pulled off my helmet and reciprocated.

This usually happens immediately, but not today – today, after all that I had seen, I had to take an extra few moments to compose myself.

Ciaran is upstairs now, asleep and mercifully unaware, the sound of his breathing drifting out from the baby monitor. I am sitting with my laptop on my knee, trying desperately – and futilely – to displace from my mind the image which has tormented me all day: the body of a little boy washed up on a European beach.

Alan Kurdi was a little older than my child, his clothes a little bigger, his skin and hair a little darker, but in every way that really matters this boy was no different from the son who means the world to me.

Every time I see that photograph of Alan I cannot help but think of Ciaran, and every time it makes me cry.

In my teaching I spend a lot of time impressing upon students the importance of thinking about their intended purpose and audience – why are you writing, and who are you writing for?

Right now I don’t have an answer for either question. I don’t know who this is for or what it’s supposed to achieve, only that these words demanded to be written.

I do know that in London right now David Cameron has finally been forced – forced – to accept that Britain must offer a safe haven to more of the refugees so desperate to reach Europe that they are willing to risk everything.

I know that discussions will be taking place where the political concerns of our government are weighed against the value of thousands upon thousands of human lives.

I also know that two-and-a-half thousand miles away Abdullah Kurdi is forced to confront something which I can barely comprehend: the loss of his wife and children.

Alan’s photograph may well be the catalyst which changes Europe’s attitude to the refugees screaming on our doorstep, but how can that possibly even begin to compensate a father whose family – whose world – is gone?

Even now I cannot find the words to properly express the way in which Abdullah Kurdi’s experiences make me feel, but I keep thinking about Ciaran, safe and secure a few metres above me.

I ask myself what I would be willing to do to keep him safe, where we would go if Scotland descended into the sort of hell engulfing countries like Syria.

I find myself trying to imagine how it would feel to take my infant son out onto a dangerous sea – one which has already claimed thousands of lives – simply because the land from which we have come is more dangerous than the journey across the water.

I struggle to understand how a continent whose collective identity was forged in the fire of almost unfathomable suffering could have failed so many for so long; how any human heart can be so hardened by hatred that it becomes possible to be indifferent to the suffering of millions; and how a prime minister can claim to have ‘done enough’ for refugees and then bear to look at his own reflection.

But there is something I absolutely can understand, and that is the words of Abdullah Kurdi, whose dreams of a better life in Europe have been ripped apart: “I just want to see my children for the last time and stay forever with them.”

Picture courtesy of Mustafa Khayat

The guilty silence which leaves blood on all of our hands

First published 18 June, 2015 by CommonSpace –

ON Monday Amnesty International offered its contribution to Refugee Week by publishing a scathing report entitled ‘The Global Refugee Crisis: a conspiracy of neglect’.

The entire document (click here to read it) is a searing indictment of the response to the “growing refugee crisis”, with 35 pages laying bare the abject failure of the so-called international community.

The report outlines, in devastating detail, the scale of suffering being experienced by human beings across the world, but perhaps the most shocking point is made in the opening lines of the executive summary: the number of people ‘forcibly displaced from their homes’ has, for the first time since the Second World War, risen to more than 50 million people.

Fifty. Million. People.

To put that figure into some sort of context it is higher than the populations of Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Finland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Iceland, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania combined.

There are more refugees in the world than there are people living in Spain, Argentina or Canada. Of the nearly 200 countries on earth only 26 have more residents than the number of people that Amnesty International argues have ‘been abandoned to an unbearable existence’.

Across Africa, the Middle East and south-east Asia millions of men, women and children endure daily suffering which, to us, is utterly unimaginable.

In the Andaman Sea Rohingya Muslims make a desperate attempt to escape persecution in Burma. Their journey, which includes prison camps, forced marches, beatings and weeks crammed into boats with minimal supplies was briefly highlighted several weeks ago; in truth, the Rohingya’s plight has been common knowledge for many years.

In the Middle East half of Syria’s population is currently to be found in refugee camps, having fled first the forces of President Assad and now the death, torture and sexual slavery meted out by Islamic State militants.

Last year the United Nations High Commission for Refugees assisted half a million internally displaced persons in Iraq, while the United Nations Relief and Works Agency recognises the rights of around five million Palestinian refugees – denied the right to return to Palestine by the West’s main ally in the region – to access its services.

In sub-Saharan Africa the Dadaab refugee camp is currently home to 350,000 people (more than the total population of North Lanarkshire), with around 3.4 million refugees in the region as a whole.

Conflicts in Somalia, South Sudan and the Central African Republic have ensured the continuation of what may be the longest-standing refugee crisis in the world.

Meanwhile, on the continent’s Mediterranean shores, human traffickers exploit thousands upon thousands of people so desperate that they are willing to undertake a voyage which they know will possibly be their last.

So far this year almost two thousand have drowned trying to reach Europe and, despite the eventual reintroduction of the ‘search and rescue’ campaign which includes the HMS Bulwark (at least for now), it should never be forgotten that innocent human beings were initially to be abandoned because Europe’s political leaders calculated that they were of more value dead than alive.

In a world with 24-hour news services and ever-expanding social-media platforms it is a wonder that any of us sleep at night.

And yet sleep we do.

Of course we are affected – to varying degrees – by the snapshots of agony which appear on our television screens: we mumble that our leaders should be ashamed of themselves as we eat dinner; our ‘eyeballs prick with tears between bath and pre-lunch beers’; we might even donate a few pounds a month to Oxfam or hand over an annual tenner to Children in Need.

But still we sleep – soundly, every night, safe in the knowledge that our birth certificates are also winning lottery tickets.

But we know all of this. We know about the terrible events happening in the world. We have seen the photographs and the videos; we have watched the news reports; we have read the adverts for UNICEF and MSF appeals. How, then, are we able to detach ourselves so completely from the unspeakable suffering of fellow human beings?

On the one hand such detachment is absolutely necessary – we simply could not function if we were to be emotionally affected by every single unnecessary death, and it is entirely reasonable that the loss of someone close to us has a far greater impact than the end of a stranger’s life – but this does not even come close to telling the whole story.

In reality, when terrible crises occur beyond the boundaries of ‘Fortress Europe’ our responses are all too often driven not by a sense of shared humanity, or a belief that we all belong to the ‘same human family’; instead, we separate ourselves from the suffering on the basis that it is not our problem. Worse still, we are able to do this because those suffering simply do not look like us.

This phenomenon is perhaps most easily understood through the overlapping prisms of the Rwandan Genocide – where up to a million people were hacked to death in full view of the international community – and the Bosnian Civil War.

As Stephen R Haynes points out in ‘Death was everywhere, even in front of the Church’, Rwanda and Bosnia were “different stories” because in the latter, despite “the difficult-to-pronounce names and the unfamiliar traditions, we were able to identify victims who ‘look like us’.”

David Livingstone Smith goes still further in his book ‘The Most Dangerous Animal: Human Nature and the Origins of War’ when he argues, correctly, that “we feel that people who resemble us are more valuable than those who do not”.

Consider this: if the sort of outrages to which we have become shockingly accustomed were affecting Europeans or North Americans would our response – both individual and collective – be different?

If the faces staring at us from our smartphone screens and newspaper pages were white would we care enough to act? If we could see ourselves in those 50 million refugees would we, as a nation, still largely turn our backs on them?

In the extraordinarily powerful ‘Spiritual Damage’ – a short reflective essay exploring the impact of reporting on the Rwandan Genocide – Fergal Keane makes clear why this apathy is so dangerous when he argues that “if we ignore evil we become the authors of a guilty silence”.

When faced with terrible injustices inaction becomes complicity and, by that measure, we all bear responsibility for the suffering of refugees around the world.

We are citizens of a country which has provided refuge for just 187 people fleeing a living hell in Syria, which refuses to accept a Europe-wide approach to helping those “in clear need of international protection” (click here to read more), and which, just last week, deported a Pakistani asylum-seeker who is now feared dead.

The UK – as one of the world’s wealthiest nations – should be leading the way in developing the ‘global response’ to the refugee crisis called for by Amnesty International.

Their recommendations, such as the establishment of a global refugee fund, fulfillment of resettlement needs as identified by UNHCR and, most importantly, “an absolute commitment to saving lives” should underpin the foreign policy of any compassionate nation. The UK should be throwing its full weight behind these demands, but it won’t.

Instead, politicians subtly, but persistently, encourage the electorate to blame the ongoing economic crisis on groups of poor and powerless human beings including – though not limited to – asylum seekers and refugees; newspapers boost their circulation figures with articles invoking the dehumanising language of genocide; and, according to a recent YouGov poll, nearly half of Britons believe that our country should not be “a place of refuge for people who have fled from conflict and persecution overseas”. (Click here to read more).

We could and should do so much more, but the truth is that, as a nation, we simply sit back and look on, happy to benefit from the consequences of a globalised world (we have the world’s sixth-largest economy and are also one of the top international arms dealers) but unwilling to share our privilege with those left with nothing but the hope of a better life.

The challenge for all of us lies in facing up to our collective complicity in this ongoing act of evil, particularly when our lifestyles so often directly depend upon the inequalities and conflicts which are driving so much of the horror experienced on a daily basis by innocent men, women and children across the globe.

Our ‘guilty silence’ is written by our refusal to acknowledge that the very structures of our specific society and broader world order put politics and profits before people.

Despite our occasional protestations, the actions of our government – carried out in our name, for our benefit, and ultimately with our consent – coupled with our understandable yet inexcusable apathy leaves blood on all of our hands.