The Imaginary Bus: Khalo Who Foresaw His Own Death in a Dream — Volume One
The monarchist looked at me, then at Lena. ‘These are the ideas that led you young people astray. You set Iran on fire and ruined our lives as well.’
Lena glared at him but said nothing. I quickly turned towards the back of the bus.
‘Look, we haven’t even discussed the history of philosophy, the growth of ideas or the part new ideas played in people’s struggles. Unfortunately you’ve latched on to a single line without reading about any of it, and you keep moaning.’
He tried to speak, but I did not let him.
‘Let Lena finish. She certainly knows enough to address your doubts or questions. If you have a view based on reading and reason, please tell us. We’ll all be glad to hear it.’
The donkey suddenly brayed.
‘You told him, Khalo!’ said the woman in red.
I laughed. ‘Though it seems our distinguished donkey has offered the first scholarly opinion.’
‘And what’s the translation?’ asked the newcomer.
‘He says the five fingers aren’t alike, but you can open a book with all five of them — provided somebody actually reads it.’
Laughter filled the bus. The monarchist turned to the window.
Lena gave me an affectionate look. ‘Now that I have your permission, Khalo, I’ll pick up where we stopped.’
‘By all means. I have the steering wheel, but for now you’re driving history.’
‘Last time we established that human beings have always moved, but with the arrival of property, class, states and borders, free movement came under control. Now we must ask when fleeing power acquired a political meaning.’
‘When the left came along, no doubt,’ the monarchist muttered.
This time Lena looked straight at him. ‘No. Rulers exiled their opponents long before “left” and “right” acquired their modern meanings.’
He said nothing.
‘In ancient societies, someone might have to flee for opposing a ruler, joining a rebellion, defending an idea, belonging to a defeated group, or even competing within the ruling family. A philosopher, poet, commander, prince, rebellious slave, community leader or someone who simply refused to bow to power might suddenly lose their home and city.’
‘Were they political refugees?’ asked the newcomer.
‘In human terms, many had an experience resembling that of a political refugee today. But the designation and its specific rights did not yet exist. The fugitive’s fate depended on the ruler of another land. If that ruler wished, they offered shelter. Otherwise they handed the person over, or used their presence as a bargaining chip with an enemy.’
‘So instead of going to an immigration office, they went directly to the king?’ I asked.
‘And if the king wasn’t having a nap, he heard their case the same day,’ said the woman in red.
‘If he’d slept badly, the applicant went to prison for disturbing the royal sleep.’
The donkey gave a little bray.
‘Don’t you start praising the administration of that age.’
Lena smiled. ‘In some societies, temples, churches and other sacred places offered sanctuary. A pursued person could seek shelter there and hope political power would respect the place. But this was not yet a right. It was a privilege that might be granted or withdrawn.’
‘A person’s safety depended on a ruler’s kindness,’ said the woman in red, ‘rather than on a right that person possessed.’
‘Exactly. There is a great difference between a ruler taking pity on you and a law requiring them to protect you.’
‘You can’t have safety without government, though,’ said the monarchist.
‘The question is not whether government exists,’ Lena replied. ‘It’s whether government owns people’s lives or is responsible for protecting their rights.’
‘When a government owns its people’s lives, it isn’t governing; it owns a human farm,’ I said.
‘You see everything in terms of class.’
‘Class keeps showing up everywhere. That’s hardly our eyes’ fault.’
‘As states expanded and religious and political conflicts spread, the exile of opponents became more common,’ Lena continued. ‘People whose beliefs did not conform to an official religion or a government’s wishes were forced to leave. Yet other countries did not necessarily take them in from pure compassion.’
‘What do you mean?’ the newcomer asked.
‘Sometimes a government admitted its enemy’s opponents in order to use them against a political rival. Sometimes it wanted their labour, skills, knowledge or capital. The very government welcoming one group of refugees might imprison or exile its own dissenters.’
‘So asylum was entangled with states’ foreign policy from the beginning?’ asked the woman in red.
‘Yes. A government could shelter the opponents of another regime and present itself as freedom-loving, while calling its own opponents dangerous traitors.’
‘So whether you were a “freedom fighter” or a “troublemaker” depended on which side of the border you stood,’ I said.
‘And who wrote your name in the register,’ Lena added.
The bus passed quietly through a junction. Shop lights were going out one by one, though rain still settled on the windows.
‘From the eighteenth century, and particularly the nineteenth,’ Lena went on, ‘revolutions, republican and workers’ movements, struggles for independence and protests against absolute monarchies produced more political exiles.’
‘Back to revolutions again!’ said the monarchist.
‘History didn’t wait for your permission,’ Lena replied.
The woman in red laughed.
‘Revolutions changed more than governments; they changed the language of politics. Ideas such as liberty, citizenship rights, equality before the law, popular sovereignty and the right to resist spread further. A person fleeing a government was no longer always seen as an ordinary criminal. To people in another country, that person might be someone pursued for their beliefs.’
‘So political offences gradually came to be distinguished from ordinary crimes?’ I asked.
‘Yes. That distinction mattered. A thief fled with another person’s property, whereas a political opponent might flee because of a speech, an article, organising, joining a strike or resisting the government. Of course states did not always accept the distinction. Repressive governments often portrayed political opponents as thieves, murderers, terrorists or traitors.’
‘Some could actually be criminals,’ the monarchist said.
‘They could. That is why each case needs to be assessed on evidence and circumstances, not just on the pursuing government’s claim, or on whether we happen to like the applicant.’
‘As we said last time,’ I added, ‘you can’t hand down a verdict based on someone’s clothes, accent or face.’
The donkey made a noise.
‘Though your face might arouse a little suspicion in court.’
‘Why?’ asked the woman in red.
‘You’ve been riding this bus without a ticket since the journey began.’
Laughter ran through the bus.
‘During the nineteenth century,’ Lena said, ‘many revolutionaries, republicans, socialists, liberals and opponents of monarchies fled abroad after their movements failed. Some governments tolerated them, not because they shared their views, but because a tradition was developing: a political exile should not readily be handed over to a government that might execute them.’
‘So the right to asylum gradually emerged from people’s own struggles?’ asked the newcomer.
‘Many rights developed that way. First somebody fights for them. Governments call them dangerous. Then, when they cannot suppress them completely, they put part of them into law. Years later they pretend the rights were their gift all along.’
‘Like a worker who strikes, is beaten and imprisoned, and later finds the very right they suffered for celebrated as a “national achievement” in a government brochure.’
‘You’ve claimed every achievement for yourselves again,’ said the monarchist.
‘No. Achievements belong to those who paid for them, not those who cut the ribbon at the opening years later.’
Lena paused. ‘But at the start of the twentieth century the issue became much larger. The First World War, revolutions and the collapse of several empires displaced millions or left them without a nationality. It was no longer a matter of a few writers, philosophers or activists. Whole populations were neither accepted by their former states nor taken responsibility for by others.’
‘People who existed, but belonged nowhere on paper,’ the woman in red said.
‘Yes. States required paper to recognise people, while those very people had none with which to prove they existed.’
‘What a world we’ve built. A person breathes, speaks, suffers and goes hungry, yet needs a sheet of paper to prove they’re real.’
‘After the Russian Revolution and the events around it, large numbers of Russians remained outside their country; many had no effective nationality,’ Lena said. ‘The League of Nations appointed Fridtjof Nansen to address the refugee problem. In 1922, a document to identify and enable travel for stateless refugees emerged. It became known as the Nansen passport.’
‘Was it really a passport?’ asked the monarchist.
‘Not a national passport in the ordinary sense. It was an internationally recognised document that allowed a stateless person’s identity to be acknowledged and enabled legal border crossing.’
I looked at the donkey. ‘See? A solution for you at last. If no country will recognise your citizenship, we’ll get you a Nansen passport.’
‘What would you put under occupation?’ asked the woman in red.
‘Independent political critic; specialist in grass and public transport.’
The donkey brayed so loudly that the newcomer had to calm Coco.
‘The Nansen passport was an important step,’ Lena said, ‘but there was still no universal system to protect all refugees. Protection was organised largely around particular groups, nationalities or crises. The world was not yet saying that every person fleeing certain kinds of persecution should enjoy particular rights, whatever their nationality.’
‘So states still chose who deserved to be rescued,’ said the woman in red.
‘Yes. And later events showed how deadly that choice could be.’
Lena’s voice grew quieter.
‘With the rise of fascism and Nazism, millions faced persecution for their beliefs, ethnicity, religion, political activity or an identity assigned to them by the state. Many tried to escape, but countries refused to open their borders.’
A heavy silence settled over the bus.
‘Some had everything except permission to enter a safe place. They had documents and could explain the danger. They even knew what awaited them if they returned. But governments put quotas, restrictions, political expediency and border security before their lives.’
‘So it wasn’t that the world didn’t know what was happening. It knew, and kept the doors closed,’ I said.
‘In many cases, yes.’
This time the monarchist said nothing.
‘After the Second World War, when the scale of the crimes and displacement became apparent, the matter could no longer be left solely to each government’s whim. In 1948, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights stated that everyone has the right to seek and enjoy asylum from persecution in other countries.’
‘So asylum became a right then?’ asked the newcomer.
‘At least in the language of international human rights, a person was no longer merely a creature begging a king for mercy. But there is a great distance between writing down a right and putting it into practice.’
‘Sometimes a whole sea lies between the two,’ I said.
The woman in red looked at the wet window.
‘In 1951, the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees was adopted in Geneva,’ Lena said. ‘It gave a clearer definition of a refugee and set out rights and responsibilities for states.’
‘At last, the definition,’ said the monarchist.
‘Yes, but everyday discussion often misses something. The Convention has no separate hierarchy of refugee classes. Its definition rests on a well-founded fear of persecution for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion.’
‘So political opinion is a recognised ground,’ I said, ‘not a medal to pin on one refugee’s chest to rank them above the others.’
‘Exactly. Someone persecuted because of political opinion or activity might be called a “political refugee” in ordinary conversation. In law, their case is assessed within the broader refugee definition.’
‘Then the word “political” wasn’t removed from the law,’ said the woman in red. ‘It sits inside the refugee definition.’
‘Precisely. It is more likely to go missing in public attitudes, political propaganda and social classifications. The law has not declared political opinion irrelevant.’
‘How do you know somebody truly fled because of their beliefs?’ asked the monarchist.
‘That is what a case assessment is for. The person must establish that their fear is real and well founded, and that they face persecution if returned. But assessment is different from general suspicion. We cannot say everyone is lying because some people might have done so.’
‘If we followed that logic, we’d have to shut down every government because a few politicians have lied.’
‘Not such a bad suggestion, Khalo,’ said the woman in red.
‘Let me get the bus safely to its destination first. Then we can discuss closing governments.’
The donkey brayed.
‘One vote in favour recorded.’
‘One of the Convention’s central principles,’ Lena said, ‘is that a refugee must not be sent back to a place where their life or freedom would be threatened. It is called non-refoulement.’
‘If someone reaches a border and says they are in danger,’ the newcomer asked, ‘they shouldn’t simply be sent straight back?’
‘That is the principle: first assess the claim and the danger. If sending them back would expose them to imprisonment, torture or death, a state cannot simply say, “Your paperwork is incomplete,” and hand them to the very power they fled.’
‘An official stamp can sometimes become somebody’s death sentence,’ I said.
Lena nodded. ‘The 1951 Convention originally had a time limit and was tied to circumstances after the Second World War. Fresh crises elsewhere showed that refuge was not confined to Europe or that earlier war. The 1967 Protocol removed the original time and geographical restrictions, extending the definition.’
‘And that solved everything?’ asked the monarchist.
Lena smiled bitterly. ‘If adopting a document solved everything, we would not see so many people at borders, in camps and detention centres, or in unsafe boats today. The law was an important achievement. But state power, economic interests, foreign policy, racism and propaganda still shape how it is put into effect.’
‘So people gained rights on paper,’ I said, ‘but a border official can still turn the page without seeing the person.’
‘Or see only their skin colour and the kind of passport they carry,’ said the woman in red.
‘Yes. Governments continue to treat refugees differently. They call one a victim of tyranny and another a security threat. They welcome one at the airport and hold another behind barbed wire. The difference does not always reflect how much danger they face; sometimes it reflects the politics of the day.’
‘Capitalism’s fault again?’ asked the monarchist.
‘No, this time it’s the donkey’s fault for boarding without a passport.’
The donkey brayed more loudly.
‘Very well. Your objection has been entered in the minutes.’
Lena addressed the monarchist. ‘At the start you said these ideas led young people astray and set Iran on fire. But an idea that calls for freedom, justice, workers’ rights, equality between women and men, and opposition to despotism does not itself light the fire. We must ask what conditions brought people to protest, which forces were involved, who took power and who later became victims of that very power.’
‘Are you saying the left made no mistakes?’ he asked.
‘I said no such thing. Every political movement should examine its own history critically. But criticism is different from erasing the historical background. You can’t wipe out decades of despotism, inequality, repression, dependence and lack of political freedom, then sum up the whole history in one sentence: “The left led young people astray.”’
‘Just as you can’t blame every problem today on a refugee who arrived with one suitcase,’ I said.
‘Power would rather have people look at somebody who has just crossed the border than look upwards,’ said the woman in red.
‘And here the history of political asylum meets the history of class struggle, movements for liberty and repression,’ Lena said. ‘A political refugee has not merely left a place. In many cases that person is a living witness to something a government wants to deny.’
The bus fell silent again. Those words came to rest somewhere near the steering wheel. Not like a legal definition, but like a memory carried across borders for years.
‘So a government isn’t only afraid of what that person does,’ I said. ‘Sometimes it’s afraid of the story they brought with them.’
‘Exactly. Prison, torture, killings, censorship and repression become harder to hide when their stories cross a border and are told in another country. That is why some governments try to destroy the credibility of political refugees even abroad.’
‘By doing what Khalo mentioned last time?’ asked the newcomer. ‘Sending associates, making up false accounts and mixing genuine and false cases?’
‘Yes. When you can’t silence a witness, you try to discredit the very idea of testimony. You make people say everyone lies, everyone came for money, nobody is really political.’
‘Still, you can’t assume everyone who claims to be political really is,’ said the monarchist.
‘Nobody said we should. We’re saying you ought not to have your verdict ready in your pocket before you hear a person’s story.’
He looked outside. This time he did not answer.
The rain had almost stopped. Only a few drops remained on the glass, sliding slowly down as the bus moved.
‘Now we can give a clearer answer to the question from Part Thirty-Six,’ Lena said. ‘The “political refugee” has not disappeared. Political opinion remains in the legal definition as one recognised ground of persecution. What sometimes goes missing is our historical memory.’
‘Memory of what?’ asked the woman in red.
‘That this right did not fall from the sky. It came out of the suffering of millions, failed revolutions, the exile of opponents, wars, camps, closed borders, and the struggle of those who insisted that people must not be handed back to their executioners.’
The donkey made a little sound.
‘I think he really said something important this time,’ I said.
‘What’s the translation?’ asked the newcomer.
‘If it took all this history for humanity to realise you shouldn’t hand a victim back to an executioner, why have so many people still not understood?’
Nobody laughed. Even the monarchist stayed quiet.
The bus travelled along a quiet London street, and another question sat on the empty seat beside us:
If refuge is a human right, why do passports, skin colour, government policy and the interests of the powerful still decide what a refugee’s life is worth?
To be continued…
Naser Kamali
Historical note in the original
The Refugee Convention was adopted in Geneva in July 1951, and the 1967 Protocol removed its original time and geographical restrictions. Under the Convention’s definition, ‘political opinion’ is a recognised ground of persecution, not a basis for ranking one refugee above another. The original cites the 1951 Convention on the website of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and its official record in the United Nations Treaty Series.
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