“Even in times of recession the political debate around migration should be more positive”, so said Helen Clark in a recent article. She is the head of the UN Development Programme and former Prime Minister of New Zealand. We know that, whether it was a sense of adventure or desperation which caused them to uproot themselves, migrants often have a desire to better themselves. Often coming from places which lack opportunities, on arrival they take full advantage of whatever facilities surround them. This can be true of both adults and children. Is it time in education we also reconsidered our perspectives in this respect?

Looking at the recent figures from Birmingham City Council, over 62% of children in our schools are non-white. If we assume all of them are of ‘migrant-heritage’, that is a lot of young people in a large community such as ours. What difference does their presence make? Is it always negative as ‘host’ parents tend to assume?

Although, many of our schools find their immigrant heritage students work harder and are more motivated than the rest, sadly, the discussion tends to focus on the negatives. We are used to talk of what immigrant children lack or what a drain they are on the system.

What is often forgotten is the good that can result from the arrival of these students, each of whom bring with them a new outlook. Their arrival can lead to improved behaviour in the school as well as raised standards. In a world used to taking a deficit view of immigrants it is very easy to over look their assets and strengths. To help us understand this a little better, we could do worse than take a look at the case study provided by Martha Bigelow of an immigrant girl.

The oldest of 10 children, Fadumo, is of Somali background. When she was 6, her family fled Somalia due to the civil war in the late 90s. They spent the next 8 years in a refugee camp in Kenya before ending up in the US. She was now, at age 14 years, to have her first exposure to formal schooling.

Fadumo had a supportive family. She saw her mother as a strong role model. The expectation in her family was that she and all her siblings would study and one day obtain good jobs.

Her mother closely monitored who her daughter’s friends were. She believed that it was better not to have friends at all if they were not ‘good’. This was internalised by Fadumo. She resisted making friends, thinking they might distract her from her study.

At school, she was able to show her teachers that she cared about her studies. She had a flawless attendance record and always did her homework.  She made the best use of the world that surrounded her and all the facilities it had available. If she needed a quiet place to study, she would go to her local library. If she needed help with her school work, she would hop on a bus to another neighbourhood where there was a homework club.

I was a Somali girl!

Reading about Fadumo, made me realise that I was also a ‘Somali Girl’ and continue to be so, given my love for lifelong learning. I also had the benefit of high parental expectations. My father, especially, was very influential in my success. Given that he lived in Pakistan while I was in the UK, he would encourage me to work hard in my education through his letters. I took his advice very seriously. I was a keen user of my local library and even enrolled at evening classes while still at school, quite likely the first pupil to do so from our school. Because I was not an adult, who these classes were aimed at, I had to get a letter of permission from my Headteacher.

My father would ask me how I was getting on at school. Was I working hard, doing what I was asked to do by the teachers? He would remind me that in our culture, teachers are our spiritual parents and should be respected accordingly.

Dad would ask me how I spent my time after school. Did I associate with the right kind of friends?  I was able to tell him that I had little time left to spend with friends, good or bad. In any case, I was of the view that my friends were a distraction to be avoided given few of them seemed to value education. Like Fadumo, I was often amongst the minority of children who paid attention to the teachers and did, as asked, the simple things of not talking or doing my homework. I also attended everyday without fail. Why shouldn’t I given my school was much more interesting than being at home.

Arrival of immigrant children does not just result from newcomers arriving from other countries but can also come about as a result of within-country people movement. In my role as an Independent Education Adviser, I occasionally come across schools telling me that the arrival of ‘immigrants’ is causing consternation amongst white parents who worry that their own children will be held back. Someone needs to tell these parents that these visible minorities- with their headscarves and prayer requests- are not immigrants but second or third generation British citizens. The parents also could do with being informed that the demographic change may help to improve behaviour in the school and possible raise standards. Mind you, some of the teachers in these schools have also given me the clear impression that they wish things were like in the good old days ie with a different colour of pupils.

Research[1] by Steve Strand and Joe Winston at Warwick University has pointed out that ‘immigrant’ pupils can often have higher aspirations than their peers from white communities. They found that the white teenagers showed the lowest aspirations. All of them had come from families who had lived the longest in the neighbourhood.

I hope, next time you are told that your school is to have migrant heritage pupils, you and your parents may think a little differently. Mind you, you may already have a few ‘Somali Girls’ including those who actually are from that country. Like Bigelow, you may have your own stories of newcomers who are model students.

Venue: Barber Institute, on the campus of Birmingham University.

A room full of people; about 50 in all. Out for an unusal cultural experience.  It’s nice to be surrounded by such adventurists. 

Two poets, both female. The third poet, male, could not get a visa.

First poet on stage, with the translator, from the organisation that arranged the event; the Poetry Translation Centre. The poet could not see in the poor light so decided to stay in the corner. The translator stood in the middle of the stage. For some reason it was decided that the English translation would be read first. So the translator would read from her position, centre stage, and then the poet would read in her own language from the sidelines. Surely it should be the other way round!

Thankfully, the second poet read her poetry first and then the translator read the English. This worked. You could see who the main act was and who the translator.

Both the poets were wearing quite Western clothes. I wondered whether it would have worked if they had just come from Iran or Afghanistan with their heads covered or in full burqa!

The first translator/organiser made two references to Afghanistan; both equally appalling. First she referred to it as the worst country in the world. I thought to myself; how would I feel if I came from there. We have quite a few in our city who do. But then this evening was not for them as the audience or the poets amongst them. She then said, when about to translate a love poem, “this is quite surprising given what has gone on in that country”. Does this mean people in Afghanistan don’t or can’t write poetry? Is poetry only written in nice peaceful places like in the west? Don’t we have the War Poets? What gives her the right to stand here and damn a whole country. I am sure awful things are going on there. I am equally sure that there is beauty, poetry and birdsong; something they tried to ban many years ago. I wrote about it at the time.

Then we came to ask questions. I had no plans to say anything. A few comments and questions later, I put my hand up to suggest that in future they should always have the poet ‘centre stage’ and the translator on the side. I am afraid this did not go down well. The organising lady/first translator said she didn’t like being criticised and would have preferred it if I had had a quiet word with her on her own.

I felt bad about making a comment which had made her feel uncomfortable. 

Then just as the discussion was being wound-up, a member of the audience, probably an Afghan, commentd with sometheing like “my country had not been a part of Persia”. I think by this time the organising lady was probably thinking “who are these awkward people?”    

The evening ended. One person came to me and said she had agreed with what I had said. She could see the organiser had been defensive and didn’t really want to hear any critical feedback. We also had an interesting conversation about the need for white Brits to learn minority languages especially Urdu in places like Birmingham; local education as she had worked in Birmingham schools teaching English as a second language; her visit to Pakistan /Kashmir …. We exchanged cards so might be getting together for a coffee given we live near each other.

How about an evening of Urdu poetry and literature from Birmingham Pakistani community! But the audience would have to change their expectations as the local Pakistanis are just that; local! Equal citizens instead of exotic outsiders.

I had better get back to reading some more of Orientalism or should it be Everyday Racism. Maybe I should read something safer!

As a society and culture we are big on anniversaries. In case you didn’t realise, next month is the 30^th anniversary of the Falkland’s war. I was about to call it conflict but I think ‘war’ sums it better. After all, there was killing and dying. Sadly, some of it could have been avoided. Even during the war, more could have been done to reduce the numbers who died.

I was told over the weekend that after one particular battle the whole war could have been brought to an end. But apparently the Brits didn’t just want surrender but they wanted a big victory with all its glory- and, of course, more deaths.

At the time I was a full-time student doing my teacher training course at the Selly Oak colleges in Birmingham. I remember going to an anti-war meeting at the George Cadbury Hall. We had the great EP Thompson speaking. During the questions and answers I made a little speech. I tried to remind everyone present that, of course, life in far away islands was precious but it helped if you had a white skin. This meant that the Falklanders were seen as worth rescuing with the use of the full British might. However the residents of Diego Garcia were not. This was an island ruled by the same Brits which had been ‘depopulated’, a euphemism for colonising and clearing out a people so their land could be put to other use, deemed to be more beneficial to the national interest. Although the crime had been committed from as far back as 1968, I learnt about it in 1983 when a compensation claim had been made by a group of the islanders who obviously were still waiting 15 years on.

Anyway, my claim to fame is that when I made my little speech, with some anger, I recall, there was uproar as everyone clapped very loudly. I sat down feeling a little embarrassed.

Recently, someone said that we probably wouldn’t have gone to war if we had had a different prime minister instead of Mrs Thatcher. But I thought we were a democratic government with a cabinet and accountability to a parliament and nation. If this is what can happen here, it is not worth contemplating the damage that can be done by real dictators.

As Bruce Springsteen once said, “trusting your leaders will get you killed”.

At last, I was able to share with my students my all time favourite book. I was convinced then that Steinbeck was not about the displaced of Oklahoma but of Mirpur. They had recently (I first read the book in 1973) been forced out of their family homes where they had lived for many generations. Now they would have to resettle in other parts of Pakistan where, often, like the migrants in the book, they were treated as unwelcome aliens by their fellow citizens inside their own country. Like Steinbeck’s ‘Oakies’ they were called names such as ‘MPs’.

We then got onto some writing. Given below is a contribution from my students.

What I see in the mirror

If I really analyse what I see, I only capture a small insight of what I really am. It is rare to be able to know someone and gain an understanding of them from one glance at their reflection.

But the little part that I do see complements my extrovert personality. It allows me to see who I am; something you cannot know just by thought.

When I look in the mirror, I make sure I see the things people miss, how my eyes seem to change colour depending on where I am, how my mischievous smile hints that I have something up my sleeve. Truth is, you never really understand for yourself who you really are, until you explain what you see in the mirror.  

I am going to let one of the students tell you the next instalment of my work with the Writers Group in a school:

 “You can never really understand a person, until you climb into their skin and walk around in it”, read Mr Iqbal from the book ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’. An interesting statement that made me ponder; that you cannot really judge a person until you’ve experienced what they’ve experienced, until you’ve felt what they’ve felt, until you’ve seen what they’ve seen. As humans, it is our natural instinct to judge others. We do this everyday at work, on the bus, walking down the street or even at home. We form judgements without seeing the story from the other side”.

I peek out of the window and see that it is a lovely sunny day. Perhaps, I will be able to walk the dog to my favourite spot. It’s the one which, although in Birmingham, always takes me back to my birthplace. It happens especially on days such as this. Maybe, it’s the way the light hits the bushes and all the wild grasses. Both locations have such a higgledy piggledy feel; so wild and wonderful.

But for now, I am with my writing group. I check on their homework progress. Some of them tell me they were able to visit my website and read the blog. Just to make sure they weren’t just saying it, I asked them what they had read and was told about the entry I had made about working with their group the previous week.

I will let one of the students tell you what we did:

He talked about his own life and how it was like for him at school, where he had to sit in a row on the hard stoned floor and learn for the next 5 years. He then showed us a picture he had taken of his school and the way it looked. In the picture, it was a school assembly.

He read an extract from a book ‘Cider with Rosie’ which was written by Laurie lee. The extract also described the boy’s first day of school relating to Mr Iqbal’s own experience.

He seems to be a man who reads a lot and considers his past important along with his present. He seems to enjoy telling stories of his past remembering what it was. He always talks in a soft, gentle tone with a smile on his face.

Sadly, I never made it to my favourite walking spot. By the time I came back, checked emails etc, the cloud had set in. Of course, I did take the dog out (you have to; he won’t settle down otherwise). But, it was only a functional walk; down to the bottom of the hill and back. I always feel warmer afterwards, no matter how cold it is and today was no different.

Let’s see what I bring away from my next meeting with my writers group

I met my youth worker friend at the gym this morning. It had been quite a while since our last conversation. There were a couple of minutes, in the steam room, when we talked about his plans to politically educate the young people he is working with so that they can make informed decisions at election time. We agreed that they shouldn’t vote for someone just because he (when are the Pakistani women going to come forward!) was from their community or biraderi, extended family. I suggested he should invite all the political parties, one at a time, to send in local election candidates so there could be meaningful exchange. Also, this way he would not be accused of favouring any one political party.

We then got talking about Pakistan, how often we go back, the specific areas we each come from (except in his case it was where his family came from as he was born a Brummie). Later, I said: “isn’t Chakswari over the other side of the bridge?” He said: “No, it’s Dadyal that’s over the other side”.

I think the ‘the other side’ depends on which side of the bridge you are standing!