Refugee Boy Read online

  When Alem arrived at school the next day, he received a hero’s welcome. Students he had never noticed before said hello to him. In the playground Robert came rushing up to him. ‘Did you see us on the telly?’

  ‘What?’ Alem said. ‘Slow down.’

  ‘Did you see us on Newstalk South East on the television?’

  ‘No,’ Alem replied, ‘we don’t have a television, only a radio.’

  ‘Well, did you hear us on the radio? They used part of your speech.’

  ‘No.’ Alem was surprised. ‘They used my speech?’

  ‘Yes, well, part of it.’

  ‘What did it sound like?’

  ‘It sounded wicked, guy. You were like Martin Luther King or some freedom fighter.’

  The school assembly proceedings started as normal until the headmaster stopped talking about students running in the corridors and started talking about Saturday.

  ‘On Saturday there was a large event which many of you took part in and some of you may have seen on television. That event was organised by many pupils from this school and I think that it was a very significant event. As the headmaster of this school it is not my job to get involved in your politics, but I do think that it is very good that so many of you here felt so strongly about an issue that you were willing to take to the streets for it. When I saw the size of the demonstration and the publicity it generated, I thought of how much you kids can do when you really want to achieve something and the way you worked together. I won’t mention any names but I know that many of you worked hard to make that demonstration a success.

  ‘I do feel as if what I should be doing this morning is giving you all a Positive School Certificate, but I fear some other headmaster in some other school might think me arrogant. What I would like to do, in a way on behalf of you all, is give the Positive Pupil Certificate to one very special boy, Alem Kelo. Not only has Alem had to deal with coming very suddenly to a new country and a new school but he has also had to deal with family tragedies that anyone would find hard to endure. When times were hard and many of us would have stayed at home, Alem came to school. He values education. Within a very short period of time he has excelled in the classroom, his interest in literature and language is passionate, his quest for knowledge is relentless, and I have never met anyone who has had a bad word to say about his behaviour and attitude. He is a hard-working, strong, intelligent student who must be seen as an example to us all, and I now ask him to step up here and collect his Positive Pupil Certificate.’

  The students and teachers clapped. For a moment Alem just couldn’t move from his seat. Cheers were added to the claps and Alem could hear someone say, ‘Go on, Alem.’

  Alem stood up and made his way on stage. As the clapping died down, the headmaster handed Alem the certificate and spoke again. ‘Well done to all of you for standing up for your beliefs! And well done, Alem, for showing such great character!’

  Alem held the award high in the air and the applause started again. It didn’t finish until he was back in his seat, totally engrossed in reading the wording on the certificate to himself.

  The moment school was over, Alem headed to Meanly Road to see the Fitzgeralds. At the door Mrs Fitzgerald hugged and kissed him as she praised him. She took the certificate from him and ran into the living room to show it to Mr Fitzgerald, who was reading a newspaper.

  ‘Alem, we are so proud of you,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said as she admired the certificate in its frame. ‘You have done so well!’

  Alem sat down and shook his head. ‘That’s what I don’t understand, Mrs Fitzgerald – what have I done so well? I haven’t done anything. Ruth has done more than me, Robert has done more than me, you have done more than me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Fitzgerald, dismissing Alem’s comments, ‘you’ve done plenty.’

  ‘Plenty of what? I haven’t organised a demonstration; I haven’t given anyone a home. I’m not a teacher, I haven’t taught anybody anything.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Mr Fitzgerald.

  ‘Very wrong,’ said Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘You have shown courage. Look how well you’re doing in school, you’re like a role model. Yes, that’s right, a role model. Someone that people look up to – even we look up to you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mr Fitzgerald said, throwing his newspaper on the table. ‘Kids give in too easy nowadays, they’re what I call the impatient generation, but not you, you don’t give in.’

  ‘And that’s why people respect you,’ Mrs Fitzgerald filled in. ‘Now, do you want some cola?’

  Alem stood up. ‘No, thank you, I must go home. My father is waiting for me.’

  When Alem arrived at the hotel he found that the door to their room was locked and his father was nowhere to be seen. On the floor there was a letter addressed to his father. He picked it up and sat on the top stair, holding the letter and the certificate, waiting for his father to arrive. But he just waited and waited and after an hour he decided that he had to make some enquiries. He went to the first floor and knocked on Abbas’s door.

  His mother answered. ‘You want Abbas?’ she said in broken English.

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Alem. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Yes,’she said, ‘but you must wait one minute, he is praying. So you are Alem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are from Africa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see you on television. You are revolution man, yes?’

  ‘No, not really. I am just a normal boy.’

  ‘No, you revolution man. Everybody say you are like Nelson Mandela.’

  The thought of being compared to Nelson Mandela panicked Alem. ‘No, I’m not like Nelson Mandela! I’m not revolution man.’

  ‘So what you on television for?’ Her expression became very serious.

  ‘Nothing. I want … freedom, that’s all – freedom and justice.’

  Suddenly her expression changed to a smile but it was the smile of a beggar. She held out her hand. ‘Can you get freedom and justice for me? On the television you must talk about me too.’

  ‘All right, Mum,’ said Abbas, interrupting the conversation from inside the room. ‘I’m here now.’

  She thanked him, turned and walked away. Abbas took her place at the door. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Alem, ‘but I have a little problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just my father. He’s gone out somewhere and the room is locked so I can’t get in.’

  Abbas began to put on his shoes that were behind the door. ‘No problem. You want to get into your room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will get you into your room, easy.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You watch me,’ he said as he went up the stairs ahead of Alem.

  Outside the door Alem looked on in amazement as Abbas took a phone card, inserted it in the area of the lock and moved it about a little, causing the door to open, all in less than thirty seconds.

  ‘How did you do that?’ he said, staring into the room.

  ‘It’s easy. Every room is the same. You must never leave valuables in these rooms. Everyone knows how to get in them.’

  ‘Have you seen my father today?’ Alem asked.

  ‘Yes, I saw him going out. Actually I spoke to him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much. We just spoke a little about the demonstration and he was saying how proud he was of you, and that was it really.’

  ‘About what time was that?’

  ‘It was just after two o’clock. I know because I had just finished praying.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Alem.

  ‘Hey, what’s that you have there?’ Abbas asked, looking down at the frame Alem was holding closely to his chest.

  ‘I was given a certificate today at school. It’s nothing really.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you later,’ Abbas said heading downstairs.

  ‘Yes, later,’ Alem shouted.
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  Alem entered the room and closed the door behind him. He looked around the room for the best place to put his certificate. He wanted a place where his father could easily spot it as he walked in. No nails and hammer meant that it couldn’t be hung up, so, knowing that his father would turn the radio on when he came in, he leaned it against the radio. Once he was happy that the certificate was in the best place, he began to browse through his dictionary.

  Soon Alem heard footsteps coming up the stairs. His first instinct was to look towards the certificate to make sure that it was still standing. He sat up at the end of the bed as if waiting to be inspected, but then he realised that the footsteps might not be his father’s. He could hear a conversation so he knew this was more than one person. However, they approached the door and there was a light knock. Alem went and opened the door to find Sheila and Mariam, but they were accompanied by a man that he had never seen before.

  ‘Can we come in, please, Alem?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘Sorry, of course,’ Alem said, realising that he had been staring at them for some length of time.

  Sheila and Mariam went into the room, leaving the man loitering at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Alem,’ said Sheila, ‘please sit down. You must prepare yourself. We have some very bad news.’

  Alem sat on one of the chairs. He could see the seriousness on everyone’s faces. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said anxiously. ‘What’s wrong? Who’s that man?’

  Mariam dropped her head as if trying to avoid Alem’s eyes. Sheila continued, ‘Alem, something terrible has happened. This afternoon there was an incident and your father was shot.’

  Alem went numb. Everything and everybody in the room went out of focus as he tried to take in what had been said. ‘No,’ he moaned quietly. Then he shouted loudly, ‘No! He is only missing, he will be back soon.’ Alem shook his head to clear his vision and his mind. He looked at Mariam. ‘Where is he? Mariam, where is my father?’

  ‘It’s very hard, Alem, but try to be calm,’ Mariam said.

  He looked back at Sheila. ‘Who is that man out there?’

  ‘A police officer,’ Sheila said softly.

  ‘My father has been shot.’ Alem grabbed his jacket. ‘Take me to him!’

  ‘Try to calm down,’ said Mariam.

  ‘How do you expect me to calm down – he has been shot, is this really true?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is true, Alem,’ Sheila said.

  Alem put his jacket on. ‘And where is he now? Take me to him,’ he said forcefully. ‘I want to see him now. Please take me to the hospital now.’

  ‘Please, Alem, sit down,’ Sheila coaxed him gently.‘I need to talk to you some more.’

  ‘I want to see my father now,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Please, Alem, please sit down.’

  Alem sat back down on his chair and Sheila pulled up the other chair and sat in front of him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alem, but your father has died.’ Sheila bowed her head after she spoke. As Alem looked at the silent bowed heads he knew that this was real.

  The silence was broken by Alem’s crying. It started with a slight sniffle, slowly building up until there was an explosion of tears. Mariam went and stood behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. They let the crying die down naturally until he was just sniffling and trying to wipe away his tears with his sleeve.

  As Sheila handed him a small packet of tissues, Alem tried to talk but talking was difficult, pushing words out of his mouth felt like hard work. ‘Who killed my father? Where was he killed?’

  ‘We don’t know who did it,’ Mariam replied. ‘The killer got away. But it happened outside the office of EAST, in Tottenham, just as he was leaving.’

  Sheila stood up. ‘The police are trying to find out who did it. You must get some rest, Alem. Tonight you should go and stay at Meanly Road.’

  ‘No,’ Alem said firmly, ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘You can’t stay here on your own,’ Mariam said, ‘you really can’t.’

  ‘Come on,’ Sheila said, ‘let us take you. They know what’s happening and they asked you to stay with them.’

  ‘I want to stay here,’ Alem insisted.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Sheila.

  Alem thought for a while and then stood up. ‘Do I have to take anything?’

  ‘Not for now,’ said Mariam, rubbing his back.

  As they were leaving, Mariam was about to shut the door when Alem said, ‘Hold on, don’t shut the door.’ She waited as he went back into the room and took the family photograph from the table. Then they left.

  Alem and the Fitzgeralds stayed up together until three o’clock in the morning and even after retiring Alem didn’t sleep until four. At times he tortured himself trying to imagine the painful and brutal ways that both his parents had died. He would run various scenarios through his mind, then shake his head when he couldn’t take it any more. He wondered what the future held for him without them, and then he began to feel guilty for thinking about himself. When he did sleep, he slept very little, and he woke up before anyone else in the house.

  Later in the morning Sheila came to the house. She took Alem back to the hotel, where the police were now searching the room. Alem disliked the intrusion.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ he asked Sheila.

  ‘Well, they have to do these checks to see if there are any clues that could help lead them to the killer.’

  ‘But we have so little here.’

  ‘Yes but it’s their job. For now you should take what you need.’

  Once again Alem was packing his suitcase. The policeman he had seen the night before began to speak to him. ‘I’m sorry for having to bother you now but I just wanted to say . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Alum, is it?’

  ‘It’s Alem.’

  ‘Al-em – I’m sorry, can I call you Alan or Al maybe?’

  ‘No,’ Alem replied firmly, ‘my name is not Alan, it’s Alem.’

  ‘Yes, of course, excuse me,’ he said tactfully. ‘Well – we may have to interview you at some stage.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I know it’s very difficult but if we leave all our inquiries too late it becomes harder to find the perpetrators. We need to get things done soon, so we’ll be in touch.’

  Sheila handed him her business card. ‘He will be staying with foster parents. That has my work and home number on it. I would appreciate it if you got directly in touch with me when you want to speak to him.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘One more thing; we found this letter and we’re a bit concerned about it.’

  He held up a letter. Alem could see that it was the letter that he had picked up the day before.

  ‘Why does it concern you so much?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘Well, we can see that it has come from the courts, it has the coat of arms on it and we just felt that it may be important. What I would like to suggest is that you open it now, so that if it is something important you can act on it straightaway, and we can see if there’s anything that we can do to help.’

  Sheila took the envelope from him and opened it. She read it to herself. Then she looked at Alem. ‘It’s about your appeal. It says that your appeal will be heard on 27th March, 2000.’

  Chapter 24

  ˜ The News ˜

  The Metropolitan Police are investigating the killing of a man in Tottenham, north London. The incident happened yesterday afternoon as the man was leaving a community centre in Lordship Lane. Police believe that the killing may have been politically motivated. The victim held both Ethiopian and Eritrean nationality and was involved in an organisation set up to try and bring the two warring communities together. A statement issued by the police said that, although the police do believe that the shooting was political, it may be very difficult to identify any single political group that would have a motive. The statement went on to say that the killing could have been done by an Eritrean or an Ethiopian group, or any other group opposed to peace and reconcil
iation in the disputed region.

  On the Saturday edition of this programme we covered a demonstration in support of the man and his son, who were being denied refugee status by the Home Office. In that report we featured speeches by the father and son, who have earned the respect of many young people in the East End of London. Friends and supporters say the boy is devastated and that he has been offered counselling.

  Chapter 25

  ˜ Judgement Day ˜

  It was 27th March. The court was full of Alem’s friends and supporters. Those that could not fit inside gathered outside, making what amounted to a demonstration. Outside they chanted and sang in support of Alem; inside they sat silently as the new adjudicator read the many papers in front of him.

  The adjudicator looked up and spoke. ‘I have given careful consideration to the background material placed before me. While I shall say that the previous ruling in this case was a valid one, I have to take into account the appalling tragedy that has fallen upon you. I do have the power to make extrastatuary recommendations and today I shall exercise that power. Due to the exceptional circumstances of this case, I shall be recommending to the Home Office that the previous judgement be overturned and that you are granted exceptional leave to remain. You are free to go.’

  Chapter 26

  ˜ The End? ˜

  On Tuesday 20th December, 2000, the Ethiopian government and the Eritrean government signed a peace treaty in Algeria.

  Chapter 27

  ˜ Let Me Speak ˜

  My name is Alem Kelo. I live with the Fitzgeralds, my foster family, at 202 Meanly Road, Manor Park, London. I have also lived in Ethiopia and Eritrea. I have spent a few nights in a hotel in Datchet, one night in a children’s home in Reading, and for a short while I stayed in a hotel in Forest Gate, which was a bit rough. I have stayed in all these places in the last year. To be really honest I would prefer to live in Africa with my mother and my father but they have both been killed and there is war in my country. Things are very hard for me. Look at me, look at all the things that I am capable of, and think of all the things you could call me – a student, a lover of literature, a budding architect, a friend, a symbol of hope even, but what am I called? A refugee. Some people believe that I gave up my homeland and lost my parents in order to become a refugee; some people actually believe that I gave up thirteen months of sunshine to live in the cold and to be called a scrounger. I didn’t. Circumstances beyond my control brought me here, and all that I can do now is pick myself up and try my best to make something out of what is left of my life. If good can come from bad, I’ll make it. Fortunately, I have some good friends and a family that cares about me so I am not alone. I’m going to get some qualifications, a bike, and a girlfriend maybe, and if I’m able to, some time in the future I shall repay all that this country has given me. I am not a beggar, I am not bogus. My name is Alem Kelo.