The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The bus continued through London’s wet streets.
The previous discussion was not over. Some discussions never really end: they fall quiet for a few minutes, take a seat at the back and wait for someone to call them forward again.
I looked in the mirror. The donkey was still by the window. The woman in red was quiet. Lena had her hands on her knees, while the newcomer looked now outside, now at us. Even the monarchist, unusually, said nothing.
‘There’s still something I can’t make sense of,’ I said.
‘What?’ asked Lena.
‘What happened to the expression “political refugee”? Last time you explained the protocols and clarified the position in international law, but you never told us what happened to the political refugee.’
The woman in red raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean, happened?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps nothing has happened and I’m being over-sensitive. But there was a time when, if you said someone was a political refugee, people roughly knew what you meant: someone forced to leave their country because of political activity, their beliefs, opposition to the government, membership of a movement, something they had written, a protest, or fear of repression.’
I paused. ‘But later it was as if “refugee” stayed put and “political” quietly got up and walked away.’
The donkey gave a short bray.
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t decided what kind of refugee you are. Your case is more complicated than that.’
The woman in red laughed.
‘Perhaps the trouble begins when everyday language gets tangled up with legal language,’ Lena said.
‘That’s exactly what I want to understand.’
‘Isn’t a refugee just a refugee?’ asked the newcomer.
‘That simple question could keep us going for several more stops.’
‘We’d better have enough petrol, then,’ said the woman in red.
‘This bus runs on arguments. The tank’s full for now.’
Even the monarchist smiled a little.
‘In ordinary conversation,’ Lena said, ‘we’ve invented all sorts of names: political, social, economic, religious, ethnic, sexual refugees, and dozens more.’
‘And here is my question. Are all these genuinely distinct kinds of refugee in law? Or are they terms we’ve made up in conversation to explain why people have moved?’
‘Or to sort people into boxes,’ said the woman in red.
‘Or even to judge them.’
A few moments of silence followed. This time more was at stake than a word.
In the Iranian diaspora, I had often seen ‘refugee’ become more than a legal status. Sometimes it became a person’s social identity card. People would ask:
‘Did they come as a political one?’
‘An economic one?’
‘A social one?’
‘Were they really in trouble, or did they just want to come to Europe?’
Behind those questions a little court would sometimes convene, without a judge, a lawyer or a case file. Everybody handed down their own verdict.
‘Perhaps one of our problems,’ I said, ‘is how readily we pass judgement on why someone fled.’
Lena nodded.
‘One person might have fled because prison was waiting for them. Another because of their beliefs, their ethnicity, their religion, or membership of a particular social group. Someone might have several reasons at once. A human life isn’t an immigration form where you can tick only one box.’
I went on. ‘I think governments sometimes deliberately send some of their own associates abroad to muddy the idea of political asylum. Through television channels close to them, they try to discredit the name, then use the result as propaganda against refugees. There is a great deal of evidence, and unfortunately they have sometimes succeeded.’
‘But you still haven’t answered your own question,’ said the woman in red. ‘Why do you say “political refugee” has gone missing?’
‘I told you what I thought a few seconds ago!’ I said, surprised.
Then I continued. ‘Because I feel that, in the popular imagination, we’ve invented so many branches and labels that sometimes we forget there is a question of power behind many of these flights.’
‘Political power?’ Lena asked.
‘Power in the wider sense: who has the right to speak, to live, to hold a belief, to organise, to protest, and who gets to decide that somebody else is dangerous.’
‘So in your view all claims for refuge are political?’ the newcomer asked.
‘No. That would be another attempt to cram everything into one word. I’m saying we must distinguish why a person migrated, why they sought asylum, the legal definition of a refugee, and how society sees that person.’
‘Four different things,’ said Lena.
‘Yes. Otherwise we put someone who moved for a better job in the same box as someone who crossed a border in the middle of the night because they might be arrested the next morning.’
The donkey made another noise.
‘Another objection?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps he says he moved for better grass,’ the woman in red suggested.
‘Then the case is settled: economic migration for agricultural purposes.’
The bus laughed, but the laughter soon faded. A real issue stood behind the joke.
‘What troubles me,’ I said, ‘is that “political refugee” can become a badge of honour in everyday conversation, while the other labels become ways to put people down.’
‘Someone says, “I was political, so my claim was more genuine”?’ Lena asked.
‘Exactly.’ I paused. ‘And that is wrong too. Suffering isn’t a competition. We can’t make a league table of first-class, second-class and third-class refugees.’
‘But there are differences,’ said the newcomer.
‘Of course. Recognising a difference isn’t the same as assigning a person’s worth.’
The lights turned red. I stopped the bus. The rain had grown heavier again. The windscreen wiper swept across the glass, and for a few seconds the street looked clearer.
‘There’s something else we ought to clarify. We Iranians often say “social refugee”. What exactly do we mean? Is it a defined legal concept, or an expression we’ve created in our conversations?’
‘The same goes for “economic refugee”,’ said Lena.
‘Yes. Someone might move because of poverty, unemployment or the hope of a better future. These are important human realities. Whether that person is legally a refugee is a separate question.’
The monarchist joined in for the first time. ‘But plenty of people invent political stories to get asylum.’
The bus fell silent. I saw him in the mirror. I had heard that remark many times during my years in exile, and not only from him.
‘There may be fabricated claims,’ I said, ‘just as someone may lie in any legal system. But neither you nor I can tell from someone’s face whether they’re telling the truth.’
‘You know it has happened, though.’
‘I do. I also know that when we see a few cases and apply them to thousands of people, we’re no longer talking about reality. We’re talking about our own assumptions.’
‘Perhaps those assumptions are precisely what we should discuss,’ Lena said.
The lights turned green. I drove on.
‘Yes. For now, I’m more interested in those attitudes than in the law.’
‘Which attitudes?’ asked the woman in red.
‘The ones that sort people before we’ve heard their stories.’
‘Political.’
‘Economic.’
‘Social.’
‘Genuine.’
‘Not genuine.’
‘Old.’
‘New.’
‘Activist.’
‘Opportunist.’
And then we imagine that one label tells us an entire human life.
Lena looked towards the window. ‘Perhaps the trouble starts when we forget that seeking refuge is a human story before it is a designation.’
‘And sometimes the story of a political failure,’ I said.
‘Whose failure?’ asked the woman in red.
‘A good question.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps the failure of a society that could no longer make room for some of its people.’
The monarchist said nothing. Neither did Lena. I shifted my hands on the wheel. The discussion was reaching a place where we would have to proceed more carefully.
‘But one issue remains,’ I said.
‘Which?’ asked the newcomer.
‘What exactly is a “political refugee”?’
The donkey pricked up his ears.
‘No, sir. This time you don’t have the answer.’
The woman in red laughed. Lena did not.
‘If we want an answer,’ she said, ‘our personal experiences won’t be enough this time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We must look at what the law says and at the history of asylum. Then we can see how far the expression “political refugee” in our streets, cafés and migrant gatherings is from those definitions.’
The bus turned into another street.
‘Very well.’ I looked at the passengers in the mirror. ‘Nobody get off just yet. It seems everybody’s asylum case has been reopened.’
The donkey protested louder than anyone.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll get you a duty solicitor.’
Laughter filled the bus. But the question still sat among us, on one of the empty seats: who is a political refugee? And how did those two words become so casually used, change their meaning, and become mixed with other labels until sometimes the politics itself disappeared?
‘I gave a general explanation,’ Lena said. ‘Perhaps I should tell you a little of the history too.’
The monarchist laughed. ‘You leftists reach for history and historical materialism the moment anything happens.’
‘Actually, Khalo is right,’ the woman in red said, with a perfectly serious face.
‘Well, we’ve certainly lost the thread!’ said the newcomer.
Then she began stroking Coco. Lena let the monarchist’s jibe pass in silence.
To be continued…
Naser Kamali
Translator’s notes
- Political refugee: Used here as an expression in the characters’ conversations. The preceding part distinguishes this from the legal definition of a refugee under the 1951 Convention.
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