Don’t play politics with people fleeing war

Yuliia Bond

Six weeks ago I sat in the public gallery above the Senedd chamber listening to the Nation of Sanctuary debate.

And fuck me, I was disgusted.

I didn’t say that afterwards.

Of course I didn’t.

I found nicer words.

I always fucking find nicer words.

Because when it’s your country being destroyed, your people being killed and your family still living there, apparently you also have to make sure you talk about it nicely.

Don’t get too angry.

Don’t swear.

Don’t be emotional.

Don’t make people uncomfortable.

So I sat there.

And I listened.

And I remember thinking – do you actually fucking hear yourselves?

Because some of it didn’t feel like politics anymore.

It felt like fucking theatre.

Except the thing being played with was people’s lives.

People’s homes.

People’s families.

People who have actually had to run.

And I sat above that chamber listening to people who can go home afterwards turn sanctuary into a political argument.

A slogan.

Something to campaign on.

Something to provoke people with.

Something to get fucking votes from.

And I kept my mouth shut.

Because you get to talk about sanctuary.

We have to fucking need it.

And then last night I opened my phone.

And there was my home.

My fucking home.

In ruins.

I don’t even know how to explain that feeling.

You look at the video and your brain knows exactly what you’re looking at before the rest of you catches up.

I know that building.

Fuck.

I know that street.

I know those windows.

I’ve looked out of those fucking windows.

That’s home.

My neighbour was walking through what was left of it.

He and his wife survived.

People were digging through rubble.

Looking for people.

Pulling people out.

Trying to save whoever they could.

A three-month-old baby was killed.

Three fucking months old.

Eleven people were injured.

Seven seriously enough to end up in hospital.

A five-year-old boy.

A twelve-year-old girl.

And my mum is still there.

So you call.

That’s what you fucking do.

You call.

And then you wait.

And it rings.

And rings.

And for those few seconds your entire fucking body stops because you don’t know.

You just don’t know.

Please answer.

Please fucking answer.

That’s it.

That’s your whole world for those few seconds.

Just answer the fucking phone.

And then today I remembered myself sitting in that gallery six weeks ago.

Being polite.

And I actually feel sick thinking about it.

Why the fuck was I worried about being polite?

I was sitting there editing myself in my own head.

Don’t swear, Yuliia.

Don’t get angry.

Don’t react.

Don’t be the emotional Ukrainian woman.

Don’t give them a reason to dismiss you.

Be reasonable.

So I was.

And fuck, I hate that now.

Because I wanted to say: you have no fucking idea.

You don’t know what it feels like to recognise your own home in footage after an attack.

You don’t know what happens inside you when your mum doesn’t answer immediately.

Another attack

You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone and then someone else and then hear about another attack and your first thought is –

Who now?

Who did we lose now?

And I hope you never know.

I mean that.

I genuinely fucking hope you never know.

I wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone.

But if you don’t know it, then please don’t sit there and turn the people who do into some fucking political prop.

We’re not a concept.

We’re not a migration statistic.

We’re not a line in somebody’s speech.

We’re not something for you to use to make people angry enough to vote for you.

We’re fucking people.

Some of us were sitting right above you while you were talking.

Our mothers are real.

Our children are real.

Our homes are real.

Our fear is real.

Our dead are real.

That baby was real.

Three months old.

And I can’t get that out of my head.

My neighbours were digging people out of rubble.

Debate

And six weeks earlier I was sitting above the Senedd chamber listening to people debate whether people escaping this should be made to feel welcome.

How the fuck are those two things part of the same world?

Seriously.

What the actual fuck?

How much does somebody have to survive before you look at them and think, okay, maybe they deserve somewhere safe?

Their house?

Their friend?

Their mother?

Their child?

Everything?

How broken does somebody have to arrive before you look at them and think, okay, maybe they deserve somewhere safe?

How much fucking proof do you need?

I’m tired.

I’m so fucking tired.

I’m tired of explaining.

I’m tired of turning grief into nice sentences.

I’m tired of translating terror into language that sounds acceptable in a meeting.

I’m tired of taking something completely fucking unbearable and making it polite enough for everybody else to comfortably discuss.

Maybe you shouldn’t be comfortable.

Maybe I shouldn’t make this comfortable for you.

A three-month-old baby is dead.

Sit with that for a fucking minute.

My neighbours were digging people out of rubble.

My mum is still there.

And then come and explain to me why sanctuary is such a terrible fucking idea.

Because here’s the thing.

When the debate finishes, you leave the chamber.

You go home.

For some of us, this is home.

And yes, something in me has changed.

‘Russian bribes’

Next time I’m sitting above that chamber and somebody starts talking about Nation of Sanctuary, Ukrainians, refugees, “Russian bribes”, or whatever other shit gets thrown into the conversation –

I’m not sitting there swallowing it.

I’m just not.

Say it.

Say exactly what you mean.

But I’m going to fucking answer.

I’m going to ask what you mean.

I’m going to ask where you got it from.

I’m going to challenge what isn’t true.

I’m going to challenge the bullshit.

And I’m not going to spend half the time worrying whether my face looks angry or whether my words are nice enough or whether somebody might think I’m “too emotional”.

Of course I’m fucking emotional.

Look at my home.

What exactly would you like me to feel?

Speak.

You have every right to.

And I have every fucking right to answer.

Don’t expect me to sit above you smiling politely while people like me are turned into politics.

I did that once.

That’s enough.

Six weeks ago I sat in that gallery and worried about being too angry.

Last night I opened my phone and saw my home in ruins.

My mum is still there.

My friend was killed earlier this week.

And somehow, through all of this, I was worried about being fucking polite.

Fuck that.

Never again.

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