Refugee poems - responding to Labour's plans

As the Home Secretary announces more changes that will affect the lives of refugees and torture survivors, members of Write to Life reflect on their situations.

Where is your home?

My mind went away.

I heard your voice

What do you say?

Where is your home?

I walked around

I heard a sound,

What do you say?

Where is your home?

You said, ‘Not this way.’

Is home that way?

The voice said, ‘This is wrong.’

What do you say?

Where is your home?

I’m here - but my mind is still away.

I’ve arrived. I’ve arrived. I’ve arrived.

But love is delayed.

What do you say?

Where is home?

How can I tell?

Where is that sound?

Can someone let me know—

Where is my home?

Ask My Shoes

They asked me,

What’s your story?

I said,

Ask my shoes.

They will whisper about a journey. They’ll say, We’ve seen things we never wanted to see. They’ll say, We’ve walked roads we didn’t choose. They’ll say, We were crushed, stepped on, soaked.

But look, we are still here.

Ask my shoes,

Which way did you come?

They’ll say,

We crossed borders we’d never heard of, stepped on soil that didn’t know our name. We walked through countries whose languages we didn’t speak, whose faces and landscapes and cities merged into blurred memories.

Ask my shoes,

Whom did you meet along the way?

They’ll say,

We met people we never expected to meet. Who somehow, without blood, became family – brothers and sisters of the road. We shared our bread, our silence and our pain. We held each other through nights that felt like years.

But we also met people who heard the tremble in our voices, saw the dust that covered us from head to toe, and turned away – who didn’t see us at all.

Ask my shoes,

Did you think you’d make it this far?

They’ll say, To be honest, we didn’t think we were strong enough. There were nights we thought we might never see the sun again. We were scared – so damned scared. Scared we might never speak to our mother again, that the laughter of our siblings would fade to an echo. That we’d never again have the chance to simply exist, without fear.

Ask my shoes,

Why did you not turn back?

They’ll hesitate.

They’ll say, Because the path was so long, so winding. Because you never know how close you are. Because even when hope is thinner than breath, you keep hold of it, because hope is the last thing that’s yours.

And because when we looked back to see the path, the path was no longer there.