Refugeescapes

In this spoken word poem, Amina Atiq evokes the traumatic memories and harsh journeys of stateless refugees who made their way to Yorkshire during the Second World War. This immersive work, informed and inspired by stories collected by the Holocaust Survivors’ Friendship Association based at the University of Huddersfield, transports the listener across the sea to the sounds of North England. Listen to find out how refugees adapted to new surroundings and found employment in textile manufacturing, while carrying with them the memories and traumas of past experiences.

This content was created during COVID-19

All it takes, is wolves to pry, what are you?  

I am the sea, a man-made shipwreck  
fake life-jacket and a waterproof armour  
the shelter from the storm. 
I am seasick drifting away 
awake in the belly of a shark, the peddle on the boat 
the listener of silent cries, caressing strangers 
in my arms, escaping the horrors leaving the past behind.

I am the friend of the night and a scattered moondust in the sky a lifetime overnight crossing of the North Sea. 

What am I, you ask?  

I am the night, the eyes of an Owl painting an Island in a pitch-black canvas. When the whistle blows I am a lifeguard washing away
the wrinkles of the sea. I am a runner,
runner on water carrying the tides. To close my eyes one last time, to dream the stars to lead the way 
to the borders tonight, what if the sea drowns?

I am a guest at the border and you are my witness. 
The separation between a homesick child and its land, 
the tango between war and faith shipped away 
like a lost and found luggage.

What am I, you ask?

I am a ballet and dancing shoes ripped 
away from the birth of my stage 
they cut the dance out of me. 
I created my own melody gifted a new tongue, taste too much foreign, I spat it out, it looked back at me  
when will home return? 

I am a rucksack on my back
few belongings for my spine to meander
sketching two worlds on a one-way road. 
The train don’t stop for running souls 
or children. I am the thirst on an empty stomach. 

What am I, you ask? 

I am stateless in my fathers’ sacrifice  
my mothers’ home  
twenty-five-word hand-written letters missing between soldiers patrolling barbed wired fences in my new arrival, to sleep on loose straw  
another horror to another  
not welcomed with open arms  
I was shy to knock on doors for help 
these thick walls stare, eyebrows raised 
afraid of latecomers’ invasion. 
But you get used to the dark, the drizzle grey autumns  Yorkshire stone, grimy towns up against 
the English climate finding my way home 
in smoked chimneys, bleaching out the burns of a post-war fever, rotted in streets we make ours 
wondering when I will see the Green countryside. 

What am I, you ask?

I am new beginnings and blackout curtains 
in bricks and mortar moulding  
a new place to call home 
sculpting the North England in my hands. 
I am a ping pong ball kitted in uniform 
never eaten toast, kippers, 
marmalade or porridge all the things perfectly normal here  
until you speak again,  
what’s the weather like in Yorkshire? 
I say yes 

What am I? You ask? 

I am now the working-class resilience 
England a marvellous place on earth  
I am North, longer than anywhere else I have lived 
I am the North in a Yorkshire tea and pudding 
rising past the crowd. I am a factory 
a machine with my hands. I am a Gannex coat producing a cloth of my own, a stitched journey 
for strangers to wear. Don’t forget 
to begin with we didn’t have much 
but we created our new homes of new beginnings 
but to put yourself on the ground, this earth is yourself you learn to run. I can’t sleep the night before 
and tired afterwards.
This is the cost it pays to survive
when the sea is safer than the land.

All it takes, is wolves to pry, what are you? 

I am history, is not what was, it is 
wishing one-day oppression will surrender 
its arms, rest its armour, fill the sky with hope 
not airstrikes but until running on water 
becomes a choice, floating life jackets 
are names engraved in headstones 
man-made shipwrecks rebuild new homes 
children lifeguards return to school 
boat peddlers lead the sea to unify borders 
the pitch-black canvas is a painter 
and the night belongs to the moon. 

I am a friend of the sea the scar of war 
a survivor of the Holocaust. I am a Refugee.