Raveloe, London, Kabul, we cling to our ‘way of life’ even though it makes us sick, obsessive and lonely. Governments cling to policies that cause harm to ordinary people. In this article, begun while staying in Kabul, I ask what George Elliott’s Silas Marner has to tell us about our own ‘pile of gold’.
I recently travelled to Kabul, where I teamed up with the Afghan Peace Volunteers and Kathy Kelly of Voices for Creative Nonviolence. I took with me, to read under the covers when I couldn’t sleep, Silas Marner by George Elliott. Marner, estranged from his home town, sets up as a weaver in the small village of Raveloe. Through weaving he accumulates a pile of gold coins which he counts obsessively every night, until one day it is stolen. The plot turns when he adopts a small girl, the daughter of a drug addict, who wanders into his house. He mistakes her gold curls for his gold coins, miraculously returned to him. As he determines to look after the child he has to ask others in the community for help and so his life is transformed.
As a group of women in one Kabul refugee camp recounted their experiences of war, their injuries, the indignities they have suffered since being forced to leave their homes, Kathy Kelly asked at one point, ‘Did you know that the US has just committed 617 billion US dollars to military spending?’ The women implied by their gestures, ‘What do we care?’ One woman said, ‘I wouldn’t know the difference between one side of a dollar and the other, whether a dollar is black or white.’ It was at this moment the image of Silas Marner counting out his pile of gold coins, popped into my head. As well as a literal analogy with the ‘pile of gold coins’ devoted to military spending, there are political lessons for policy makers, for example the western governments whose migration policies cause such hardship amongst refugees.
In Europe, chances for Afghan refugees to claim asylum have grown slim, since the EU now considers Afghanistan to be a safe country, even though there were 5,600 casualties of armed conflict in the first half of 2016 alone. The EU plans to deport 80,000 Afghan asylum seekers. At the time of writing Germany and Sweden have already started the deportations. This is at a time when Pakistan and Iran are also pressurising Afghan refugees to return.
The refugees face homelessness and destitution when they return to Kabul, where there is not the infrastructure to support them. ‘A man-made humanitarian catastrophe could be the end result of these governmental policies’ writes Ahmed Rashid, a journalist in Lahore. 
At the Borderfree Centre in Kabul, Kathy Kelly and I spoke to Abdul Gafoor, of Afghanistan Migrants Advice and Support Organisation. He says everyday twelve deportees arrive from Norway, as a result of its cruel deportation policy. Young boys call him, not knowing where to go. Very often, as soon as they have the opportunity, they will leave again, for Pakistan or Iran. They are given $1200 from the Norwegian government, so they use this money to move on as it is too difficult for them to reintegrate. There is nothing they can do in Kabul; there is no work.
Kathy Kelly, Nematullah Ahangosh, who is an Afghan Peace Volunteer, and I visited the ‘Police Camp’ an unofficial camp for IDPs and refugees. We took a long taxi ride, through heavy morning traffic, into an area of new development, where private hospitals with tinted curtain walling and new apartment buildings, some already clad, others just slabs and columns, lined the broad, unsurfaced road. Opposite a petrol station, where gaily painted lorries were filling up, we were let out onto the edge of an open sewer, the size of a small river, its grey white waters swirling with scraps of rubbish. Salim, from the Jesuit Refugee Service, soon fetched us and led us down a narrow path between mud shacks, to a place where we took off our shoes, stepped inside a small room, with red carpet, whitewashed walls, a stove in the middle, a plastic sheet for a window. Soon the elected camp leader, Raz Mohammed, came to tell us about the camp.
Of the 700 families resident in the camp, one third have come because of recent conflicts, such as in Kunduz in the north east of the country and one third are refugees who have been forced to return from Pakistan and Iran. Sometimes educated people, this latter group already sold all their property when they left Afghanistan, so now they are homeless and destitute. Refugees can only earn three dollars a day. Men work as porters in the market. Other jobs include washing cars, and selling boloni, pastries stuffed with potato and spinach. Others, despite the danger, send their children out to work in the street, cleaning shoes and windscreens or selling windscreen wipers, tissues and sweets.
Those who work in the market can bring home potatoes or turnips but not enough for regular meals. The rest of the time they have only bread and tea. Some don’t even have tea. For fuel they burn plastic bottles, shoes and old clothes. Every winter twenty-five people die of cold. Water has to be bought at 10 Afs for 20 litres. On the way in we saw a single pump. Raz tells us that a woman who runs a beauty parlour noticed the women walking to buy water so she donated the pump but the water is not ‘sweet’.
After speaking to Raz Mohammed we went to visit a group of women who were finishing a class. They sat round the edges of the cold classroom. A teenage daughter ran in to drop off a baby to be fed. The women told us that all ethnicities are represented at the camp. Tajiks, Uzbeks and Baluchis living together. They said they felt safe in the camp, but conditions are dangerous to health, especially in cold weather, and there is no access to health care, despite the private hospitals next door.
‘If only we had had an education we wouldn’t be in this situation,’ they said. One woman, feeding her toddler under her black scarf, says she used to have a job in Kunduz. She made boloni and her husband sold them.
Another woman told us how she had fled from Kunduz, almost leaving her child behind. Another, from Laghman province, showed us the injuries to her upper arm she had sustained when she escaped. She said that she had no food for lunch. After the class she would cover her face and go and beg at the bakery.
The leader said he gathered people together and went to the government for help. The government only provides food. He thinks they should provide education, buildings. He said the UN had been to visit the camp, even the US ambassador. But nothing has changed. Eighteen months ago, during Ramadam, the authorities attempted to clear the camp, with armed police, but the refugee inhabitants responded with stones.
Without sufficient food, fuel, education or health care, the women concluded, ‘No one cares about us. The government doesn’t care.’
Another group of women I spoke to were seamstresses at the Borderfree Centre. They embroider scarves which are sold in the US and the UK to raise funds for the centre. All having between five and seven children each, their main concern is to feed their families. Despite their husband’s disapproval, they have to go out to work outside the home. Even so the wages are not enough to pay the rent, to buy clothes for their children, food and books for school.
‘The government doesn’t care about us,’ they said, echoing the words of the the women in the refugee camp. They said, ‘If you want to help, you must give money to us poor people’. The seamstresses said they saw all the huge construction projects, and concluded the government was spending money on these projects and not on alleviating the problems of the poor.
Government ministers just use aid to buy each other ‘a cow or a hen’. I asked if they had any means of making their voices heard, which was translated literally I realised. They said their husbands wouldn’t like it if their voices were heard outside the home. Not able to read or write, their only option would be to join a protest. They didn’t dare go on a demonstration, they said, because the government might come after them, or there might be a bomb.
Back in London this week, I did my regular shift in the local winter night shelter. Many of the homeless I encounter at the shelter suffer from poor physical and mental health, and even have mobility problems, which should be reason enough for the authorities to house them without delay. Many were caught between losing their job and waiting for benefits to come through; a gap of six weeks is enough time to lose your flat. Surprisingly some guests are actually working. Holding down a job while sleeping in a shelter must be almost impossible but one man I spoke to was doing just that. His car was parked outside, he wore the uniform of a building servicing company and over breakfast he was giving his mobile phones a last minute boost, checking the location of the first job of the day.
The residents of the refugee camp in Kabul and the guests at the London night shelter are all at the mercy of government policies. Worse than that, our government is unwilling to correct the very policies that made people homeless. As John Berger wrote,
‘The poverty of our century is unlike that of any other. It is not, as poverty was before, the result of natural scarcity, but of a set of priorities imposed upon the rest of the world by the rich. Consequently, the modern poor are not pitied … but written off as trash. The twentieth-century consumer economy has produced the first culture for which a beggar is a reminder of nothing.’
Collectively, whether in the UK or Afghanistan, we must turn to the poorest, most helpless members of our society and learn, just as Silas Marner did, from experiencing community again.
Silas Marner, once he accepts his loss and turns to another, a helpless child, builds relationships with the other members of his village community. It is when he turns to another helpless being, and becomes helpless himself, that healing begins. Our governments, and therefore we, are addicted to unsustainable policies that keep many displaced and homeless. When we accept our own weakness, our own loss and turn to look after the poorest there is hope.
George Elliott also asks us to reflect on the nature of work. Silas Marner sits at his loom day in day out, even on Sundays, weaving linen for the well to do of the neighbourhood and collecting gold coins to no end other than to be counted and hidden. US taxpayers are paying nearly $700 million dollars a week for the military in Afghanistan, money which the US government spends without attempting to avoid corruption.
Reading this you might ask what do all these things have to do with each other. Visiting Kabul, not somewhere people normally visit for a holiday, gives a heady ride into geo politics, but mainly the opportunity to see the effect of government policymakers on the lives of the poor. You might think it odd I would use Silas Marner as a way to reflect on lessons from Afghanistan. George Elliott chose novel writing as a medium to comment on social conditions in her time and the novel has a lot to tell us now.  If you haven’t read Silas Marner, or not since school days, I would recommend a visit.
 Ahmed Rashid Viewpoint: Why Afghan refugees are facing a humanitarian catastrophe http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-37607785
In Our Time: Silas Marner
As I write this it is Gaudete Sunday. I am staying with the Afghan Peace Volunteers in Kabul, on delegation from Voices for Creative Nonviolence UK. I have been reading the daily scriptures throughout Advent, although Christmas seems very far away. Today I read this passage,
‘Why did you go into the desert? To see a reed swaying in the wind? Then what did you go out to see? Someone dressed in fine clothing? Those who wear fine clothing are in fine palaces. Then why did you go out?’
Listening to the sounds the doves make in the garden, at least I think they’re doves, it’s easy to imagine Mary sitting on her sack in the corner of her courtyard, unstitching another sack, ready to say her ‘Here I am’ to the angel Gabriel when he appears.
That was last week. Today the reading for today, the prophesies in Isiah speak to me as I prepare to pack up and return home. Why did you go to Kabul? Jesus asks. Was it to see the blue sky, the flags flying from the schools and mosques, the little birds puffing out their feathers in the bare branches, the heavily polluted river rushing by.
On the flight from Istanbul, there were plenty of rich people, those who could afford a ticket and who had passports, if not fine clothing. There are glimpses of people in polished four by fours, or the people who have built high bomb barriers and a sentry box for their personal armed guard.
I went there maybe to meet a prophet, maybe a messenger. I can’t say I had any religious experiences, clutching my duvet as I wrestled with anxieties and sadness at the days stories, feeling far from home.
In one sense the message from the prophet is very clear. ‘Make the ways straight..’ while there is such inequality, such as the basic inequality between the West and the rest of the world, rich and poor, while the US continues to use Afghanistan as a strategic outpost, while the world sees Afghanistan as’ a cow that every one can milk’, as one activist described it, it seems nothing much can happen to solve the plight of the poor in a country like Afghanistan. Many people we spoke to sounded hopeless and some desperate. These are obvious mountains and valleys; the deprivation that we’ve seen on this trip, where the number of displaced people rises, where some are so destitute they cannot even, as one camp leader put it, afford to buy tea.
Another way of looking at it could be the different kinds of mountains and valleys we all encounter. The message is one of the transformation that will come, when the paths are made straight. The other night we went to visit the home of one of the Peace volunteers. Gulham Hussein’s mother and his younger brothers and sisters. The family live in a traditional house down a narrow mud lined path, in one room, within a dusty courtyard, the well in the middle, the latrine in one corner shared by three other families. We ate spinach and rice, served with oranges to squeeze over and spring onions. As a baby cousin was passed around, dressed up like a miniature queen in her tight swaddling, as the stove lost its stifling heat the room became pleasantly cosy. The smaller children came and snuggled up next to us, their eyes like saucers as they tried to stay awake, watching the foreign visitors. Outside was dark and foggy, I felt a little bit of anxiety as to how we should get back, but really I hardly wanted to leave. I found it consoling to be in a family environment, to enjoy the fellowship , joyfulness at gradually being able to share a meal, admire the children, communicate roughly in translation.
The relation of this experience and today’s scripture, is it this, fellowship and crossing borders and language barriers that can bring about transformation, that can make the way straight.
One last post from the Calais Jungle, soon to be published in the LCW newsletter.
As inhabitants of the Calais ‘jungle’ set off for the Centres d’Accueil et Orientation and as the authorities begin to dismantle their camp this afternoon, I look for links between the town and the camp, both positive and negative and some small curiousities, that the town offered up itself.
At first sight Calais seems like a sleepy town. By half past ten at night, all the houses have their metal shutters rolled down, not a peep of light shining through. A note from the neighbours on the wall of Maria Skobtsova House asks for quiet. ‘In this area,’ it reads, ‘the majority people work and go in bed on raisonable hour.’ It’s taken me two weeks to get a sense that people of Calais might ever bustle about.
Calais was our family’s favourite ‘town’ beach, to visit on the way home from camping, to grab a last minute swim and a bag of chips before catching the ferry. The minute I had visited the jungle camp my perception changed.
I wanted to be able to situate the experience of the visiting the ‘jungle’ within my experience of staying in Calais. It didn’t seem right to write about the camp in isolation. I struggled with the disconect between jungle and town, I struggled with a failure to make sense of everything I’d seen, the stories I’d heard, the people I’d met, everything I’ve been told and to know what to do with it. What happens, I thought, if I say here I am now, an english woman with memories of Calais, walking through the town, crossing canals, walking out to the camp.
So first I go to the beach.
Sand pipers, unfolding brown black white wings, in little flocks, scuttle this way and that, over the wet sand. There is the unceasing drumming of ships’ engines, as the ferries load and unload streams of cars and lorries, or as they pass each other a few hundred yards from the shoreline. Every half an hour or so another ferry from Dover slides in over the beach, blocks the view from the west. Tankers and giant container ships line up on the horizon.
In between the rows of white beach huts, a few townspeople walk their dogs, their children, stop for a chat, go for a run along the surf.
Saturday and Wednesday are market days. Arman, not his real name, a teenager waiting to join his brother in London, comes with me to buy vegetables and cheese for supper. A few minutes from Maria Skobtsova House, as we cross one of the canals, he points out the funnels of the P&O ferries. ‘Going to England’ he says. The market is much better than many I’ve been to in the south of France on holiday. We easily locate coriander, ginger, lambs lettuce, sweet sour muscat grapes full of pips. I’ve heard that some shopkeepers refuse to serve the ‘migrants’. Fresh chillies are only for sale in the camp.
On the way back, we cut through a small park. Arman tells me he is afraid to go into this park as this is where the ‘mafia’ hang out. They will approach you, sell you marijuana and take all your money for the passage to England, which he says is ‘impossible’.
At mass that evening the peripatetic parish priest blesses the children’s school bags, those famous french school bags, huge school bags. I am told that the level of education in the town is low, not many people progress beyond High School, that teenage pregnancies are high. Many shops and flats in the town centre have ‘a vendre’ signs in the windows, a sign of the economic straits .
But there is another side. When we walk to the house for prayers at eight o’clock, or walk home at night the streets are deserted, and yet whenever we pass someone in the street they nod and say ‘bonjour’ just as in the camp everyone says ‘salaam’ and shakes hands, puts one hand on their heart.
Where Calais residents and the camp cross paths, where there is a peaceful exchange held the most hope.
At the spotless regional hospital, outside the town near the motorway, volunteers from Maria Skobtsova House, often refugees themsleves, go from room to room to visit patients from the Jungle Camp bringing fruit, clothes, once a week spicy food. Two of the patients we visit have Lyme’s disease, mysteriously, picked up along their long journey but mostly we go to the first floor where there are injuries either from the dougar , or in a fight. Down at the entrance there’s the usual crowd of people you’d see outside any hospital, smoking, pushing drip stands.
At the centre for refugees, run by Secours Catholique, on a women only day, a group of volunteers have come from nearby Arras. They bring games and toys for the children, some give the women a French lesson. They eat lunch together. One woman has brought apples from her own garden, so we sit round peeling and coring them to make apple compote.
As I spend days in Calais, I see that in the places where the town crosses the paths of the jungle, or where the jungle crosses the paths of Calais, Calais has some unexplained curiosities of its own.
One Sunday I go with some Iranian Christians to the Anglican church, but the front door lock has been jammed with superglue. A member of the congregation tells me this has happened before. Only the Protestant churches have had their doors glued shut.
On the road to the Jules Ferry centre, almost always thronging with people, walking to charge their phone, pick up food and information, a man drives a quad bike, loaded with boxes of live ducks. Once I’d seen this several times, receiving no satisfactory explanation, one of the volunteers remembers: it’s beginning of the duck season. There aren’t any ducks so they have to bring them in. So soon next to the jungle camp there will be a duck shoot.
On the same small road, people climb into the trees to pick up the phone signal coming from the nearby houses. All along the Rue Mollien, outside LIDL, along the railway track, on the vast factory lawns, small crowds gather, wherever there is 3G.
Even though the shop keepers protested the presence of the camp, they missed a trick really. If they can stock coriander and ginger surely they could stock chillies. The jungle camp inhabitants will soon be potential customers, then students, teachers, nurses, business owners themselves. The phone companies could have made sure there was adequate reception.
These were ways the jungle camp and the town crossed paths. The camp is not suspended in a cloud over Calais. It is only divided from the town by a flyover, not even a fence, but I saw so many signs of growth, in faith, business, encounters in several languages at once, hospitality from all directions. People eat together, care for each other, worship together, greet each other in at least five languages. These things hopefully will not be destroyed by the démantlement.
I wrote this after my first day at Maria Skobtsova House and my first visit to the jungle camp. Even after ten days so many things have changed. As I post this coaches are taking people to ‘Centre d’Accueil et d’Orientation’, (CAO) or reception centres.
Calais is a sea shell shape of canals that make a circle around the old town.
I walk with Broeder Johannes towards the camp. The first sign of the camp, at the traffic lights, near the crossing of another canal, was a small group of people walking the other way, towards the town. Johannes greeted each one with a ‘Salaam’. As we cut through some estates of tiny bungalows and came out onto the same road, the groups became more and more frequent. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in October.
We walked along a straight road, bordered on each side by industrial parks some deserted, some with giant stretches of mown grass, the road to the ferry port crossing over a bridge up ahead.
Riot police stood around the entrance to the camp at a respectful distance.
At the entrance a there was a group of European looking people, huddled round the information point and many camp inhabitants eating meals out of cartons. We walked down the main street of the camp, a stony road, shops and businesses on each side, a phone charging shop, restaurants. I learn there are 11 mosques in the camp but only one church. We progress slowly down the wide street, salaaming and shaking hands with many people. This part of the camp seems to be mostly Afghan. Many things remind me of Kabul. The men walking past in shirts and trousers, with colourful scarves round their necks. A guy who says he lives in Hackney invites us to look inside his boxing studio, the smell of testosterone and sweat, which was to become familiar. Boxers stand around in shiny sweats, waiting for a film crew.
We turn round and walk back to the church. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church the famous church, is much more beautiful in real life. Outside we leave our shoes and then walk inside onto the cool, soft carpet. Brightly painted paintings, St. Michael of all angels, the Last Supper and one of three bearded faces, the Trinity. I sink down into my prayer, prayer just comes over me as I kneel on the spotless carpet. Outside a large rat then a large chicken. The church is in a compound left behind after the other parts of the camp were destroyed. I’m introduced to one of the deacons and the security guards. Behind the church is a kitchen where a young woman is making a huge pile of Ethiopian pancakes, carefully covering the frying pan with a cardboard lid to let them steam.
Around the church compound are benches, tempting to sit on in the sun, but it’s on to meet Fiona who hands out tea from her van, small tables and chairs, people sitting round bent over meals chess. Then we set out across a sandy clearing, surroundings already overgrown since last eviction with hundreds of flowers, yellow flowers, J says are violets. The fire, during the last demolition, and the human excrement he says has meant the weeds have quickly overgrown. We join a narrow tarmac road, with roofs of brick houses visible the other side of a fence, join the columns of people walking, walking, with small carrier bags of take away meals. We are now in the Ethiopian part of the camp. Occasionally European volunteers drive past in a transit van.
We dive between two large tent structures. A tiny fire burns on the ground with about four young men sitting around it, still in shorts and T shirts, although the sun has disappeared from their small compound. A trivet that looks as if it was once a three legged stool, a small soot covered kettle. The young men quickly built up the fire with tiny pieces of wood, squirting the wood with cooking oil. I sit awkwardly on my seat. There is a long ritual of washing out each of the three cups three times with soap and water, then the water thrown out onto the path. The tea is a desert spoon of sugar whether you like it or not followed by a tea bag. When we’ve drunk our tea, the three cups get washed out again with the three washes ritual for the next cup of tea for other people.
We are there to speak to another deacon of the church. While we sit the young men pass round an iphone playing a song in their language, they pass it round and choose a new song. To take the place of conversation which is surely lacking, shared language is minimal, they speaking only a little English. J says we should go and asks the others to give our regard to the deacon who is sleeping. But this is interpreted as being time to wake him up. So the deacon comes out and sits next to us. He is a small neat man.
There are Egyptian neighbours we learn, which causes some tension. Then suddenly we must stay for lunch. French bread is handed round and a plate of hot tuna mixed with potatoes and chilli. I tried not to eat too much, scooping up tiny bits with the donated French bread but at the same time the teenager next to me says, Eat, eat!
As we leave and follow the narrow winding path, we turn into the sun, the strong seaside sun right in my eyes, smoke rising from people’s little cooking fires. that was amazing that tiny fire, how to make tea on a tiny fire.
As we walked we came across a phalanx of volunteers walking quickly towards us in a crowd, stony expressions on their faces, following a van. Someone waving a rattle in the air as they went. Suddenly people came rushing out from between all the tents. What’s going on? I asked in alarm. What’s going on? asked a lone French girl.
Nearly out of the camp, we stepped away from the main route into a gap between between tents, barely two shoes breadth apart, to a largish tent, already mouldy, the tent flap being held open for us. We took off our boots and stepped inside, sat on the carefully made blankets and mattresses, folded with new soft blankets. Our host had bought milk but instead disappeared to get tea, having no fire to boil a kettle on. About eight people in the tent, all young men, stared anxiously at their phones, low in the eaves of the tent, already mouldy. Johannes commented that these were recent arrivals. They had nothing, only bananas which they offered us.
The talk became very serious. J tried tried to explained what would happen on the 17 of October, eight days away. But no one really knew at that point what to say except to make sure you have your papers with you. Do you have Dublin? They were asked. A friendly young woman came to join us, with her son. The faces became serious as people brought out their papers, some so worn that they had split where they had been folded and refolded many times.
The 17th is now today, but the eviction has been postponed until the 24th October.