Tuesday, December 06, 2016

This isn't my London

This is London by Ben Judah
Picador 2016
It's not all so bad: reproduced from https://www.flickr.com/photos/dgeezer/6141438138
I wanted to like Ben Judah’s This Is London, and certainly it’s a book which will stick with me for a long time. Partly undercover, partly through interviews, Judah investigates the hidden lives of migrant London. The haunting beginning sees him spending the dawn hours at Victoria Coach Station, ‘our miserable Ellis Island’, as the buses arrive from across Europe bringing new people to stay and work in the UK’s capital. In the chill grey rain, he follows a group of Roma people until he finds someone who will speak with him. His dedication cannot be understated, and at times, such as when he interviews the addict sex workers of Ilford Lane about the murder of one of their number, I was overwhelmed by his bravery and his honesty.

Judah reports faithfully on the homeless, the destitute, the beggars and addicts and jobseekers of the four corners of the city, from Barking to Shepherd’s Bush, Kensington to Peckham. A sociologist or anthropologist would be horrified by his style: he neither reveals his methods nor investigates his own motivation, after a short and troubling introduction:

I was born in London but I no longer recognise this city. I don’t know if I love the new London or if it frightens me: a city where at least 55 per cent of the people are not ethnically white British, nearly 40 per cent were born abroad, and 5 per cent are living illegally in the shadows. [1]

Monday, June 13, 2016

Drancy: this is not somewhere people choose to be.

Yesterday I went with a friend to Drancy, a Paris banlieue about half an hour from the Gare du Nord to the North-East. Drancy didn't seem to have that much going for it. In the rain, newer and older blocks of social housing, a copy-and-paste French mairie, a street market which seemed busy. We walked around and my friend, an expert in urban planning, told me about the different blocks, some pebble-dashed, some newer ones with bold curves and cheerful two-tone paint. At the end of a block in the main square was a billboard advertising new flats to come. Another, cheerless building reminiscent of lower-budget new build flats in East London was advertised with a drooping banner: 'Dernières Opportunités'. Between run-down businesses were small pavilons, modern and older detached cottages with small, floral gardens. 
Drancy Town Centre with statue of Charles de Gaulle


Tuesday, May 31, 2016

A month in Athens

I'm going to Athens for a month in July, to help build a social centre for migrants in the city, to work with around 30 colleagues and comrades from the university, and to attend a conference on the 'refugee crisis' on the island of Lesvos. There are 15,000 migrants currently stuck in the Greek capital and there's no infrastructure to help them. The government's attitude is rapidly changing and many are being forced into improvised prison camps without even running water or electricity.

We're paying our own fares, but we need to raise some money for general operations while we're there. If you have any extra money lying around, please consider putting a bit into our crowdfunding. Any extra will be given as direct aid. Thanks!

https://crowdfunding.justgiving.com/SoasGoestoathensandbeyond

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Blonds 2

I already knew the man's name was Biondo, because he'd been on the same train as me from Milan, drinking from a 75 cl bottle of Peroni and discoursing to some German Expo workers in English about freedom. When they got off the train they gave him a round of applause, but although the train was full no one else came to sit in the four seats around him.
However he wasn't blond but black, probably from Senegal I guess. He had a small rucksack and looked like he'd been sleeping rough. At Gallarate he stayed around the station, chatting to a couple of Moroccan boys smoking out the front.
'I'm a Musltian,' he said in Italian. 'I'm a Muslim and a Christian and  a Jew. I come from Egypt but one day I will be freed, w'Allah.'
I didn't hear the response but when he got on the ground to pray Muslim-style, calling out to Jesus and Mohammed, they seemed to become a bit uncomfortable and moved off calling back 'Salaam, brother, good night.'

Blonds 1

Gallarate station is not a particularly attractive place at any time,  and after the last train at 12.45 is utterly without charm.
I was waiting for the bus home to Varese, and smoking with two men in their fifties, taxi drivers on their way home from work.
'You shouldn't be waiting here alone. There's a lot of ugly people around  at this time of night.' When people say this to me I always wonder what evidence there could possibly be that THEY are not among the ugly ones.

Tuesday, June 02, 2015

Luxury: Zero Hours Stories #4


‘How the working life?’ asked my dad that evening. 

‘It’s OK. My boss is really nice.’ 

The agency hadn’t found me another office job although I’d been on their books for six weeks, waiting around to find work every day. Instead I’d eventually been given a Christmas shop assistant job, a few weeks working in the small central London flagship store of a luxury British food brand. For shop work, it was a great gig- the shop hadn’t changed its opening hours for decades, so it was closed at the weekend and every day we were mopping the floor by 4.45, unless a tourist chose to linger among the china, ignoring our practised British hints (up to and including pointedly mopping around their feet). 

‘Frank, no boss is nice. They stop being nice once they become a boss. Whatever they’re giving you, you can be assured they’re getting it back twice over in your labour. That’s what bosses do.’

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Office Worker - Zero Hours Stories #3


This was 2000, in the days before London’s employment agencies decided to deck out their premises with garish colours and wall-length photos of happy workers like a cross between Foxtons and the first class lounge at Heathrow Terminal Five, and even though this was a well-known international employment agency the waiting area was shabby, like a national health dentist’s office, with potted plants and stacked plastic in-trays.

I was waiting in the Strand branch, sitting uneasily on a plastic chair as people rushed busily past me. People still had smoking areas in offices then. It was 8 am on a Monday morning and the agency was busy supplying emergency cover for receptions and telephones across London. They forgot about me pretty soon.

I’d been at home since I left the hotel job. I’d been writing (the novel is still on a floppy disk somewhere, where it can stay forever as far as I’m concerned) and every day around 11am when the Evening Standard was delivered to the Woodgrange News around the corner, I would get 30p off my dad and go and buy it to look at the ads section, circling everything that seemed likely with a highlighter. I’d applied for every job I was half-qualified to do but got nothing other than interviews in a few seedy warehouses with even seedier bosses. ‘We’re really looking for someone more experienced,’ was better than ‘What do you want a job for with grades like that?’

Sunday, May 24, 2015

The Zero Hours Stories: Introduction


In my working life of 16 years I've done 36 jobs. (Lots of overlapping/ working three jobs at the same time so not as bad as it seems).
Of these jobs, 6 were abroad. For all of those I had a contract.
Of the remaining 30, two were freelance.
Of the remaining 28, 21 were Zero Hours. So 3 out of 4 jobs I've done in London at every level, from working at Greggs as a teenager to teaching in an exclusive private school, offered absolutely no guarantee of hours or pay and no security whatsoever.

'Hungry' - Zero Hours Stories #2

I left the hotel when I became unable to go to sleep at night. I would lie in bed watching the red numerals of the alarm clock dripping slowly towards another day and finally drift off to dreams of bathroom sinks and hospital corners when I knew it was already too late to get a full night.

Another morning getting up at 3.45, making coffee and then slipping unshowered (no point in washing if you’re doing a cleaning job) onto my bike and slogging the 8 kilometres through the summer dawn to the City. Many colleagues got in early to avail themselves of the free breakfast in the staff canteen but I rarely made it. It was as much as I could do to get in to the break room, change out of my shorts into my green polyester pinny, the pockets still full of miniature toiletries, cleaning cloths and used tissues from the day before. My nose ran all that summer, and I had headaches all day at work.

Dressed and ready to go, I would join the 5am queue for printed sheets of our days’ rooms. If you hadn’t worked fast enough the day before or a manager had asked you to do a room over, you would get fewer rooms to clean that day. The printer was old and beige and ran faint green print over that old kind of paper with spool holes on each side. Towards the end I often came in last in the morning queue, with 10 or 12 rooms to do while other women had 25 or 30. Ten rooms was £20 before tax. A good-looking Italian couple, only five or six years older than me, who were living in London for the summer and had the rather more prestigious job of cleaning the corridors and the lobby, told me it was because I wasn’t ‘hungry’.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

An election fought on migration?

The Grapes of Wrath- Large scale waves migration is a recurring phenomenon within  the capitalist system.
Europe’s shame fills the headlines today. The shame of our politicians who treat some lives as more important than others. The shame of a Tory government firefighting against UKIP and constantly embarrassed by its own inability to reduce migration during its last term. The shame of Labour’s decision to engage with this anti-immigration rhetoric at its own sordid level.

Now more than 800 migrants – otherwise known as human beings – have died, less than a hundred miles from Europe and following swiftly on the EU’s reprehensible decision not to finance a continuation of Mare Nostrum, Italy’s search and rescue policy. Italy is in the spotlight, having scaled down its operations considerably after Mare Nostrum was abandoned. But everyone is guilty. In particular Germany and the UK’s callous and illogical claim that migrants were encouraged to continue coming by search-and-rescue missions has led, directly, inevitably, horribly to these deaths.  (see Parliamentarydebate from 30th October 2014)

So why do they keep coming? Maybe I have an unusual perspective: I grew up in an area where as much as 84% of the population comes from a migrant background, and has done so for all my life. The last census revealed that 53% of Newham is foreign-born, yet according to some estimates (based on school attendance) as many as one person in four in Newham is undocumented. However migration and its effects over the last twenty, fifty, two hundred years have become increasingly visible in every remote pocket of the country. There were 2.8 million foreign-born people in London in 2013, almost a third of the city’s population.