Last week was Refugee Week. Apparently we’ve had twenty years of celebrating refugees and their contribution to Britain over the week. I didn’t know. I wasn’t aware. I don’t remember it being a thing.
A woman gave thanks in a poem last night and the evening reminded me of my privilege.
I give thanks for:
Not being a refugee or a displaced person, for not having my life uprooted by civil or external war, famine or all of the reasons that make people run from their homeland;
Living in a country which still believes in supporting those in need, however reluctantly, underfunded or minimally it is.
Having a council home and housing benefits, for not having to have worked 4 jobs just to pay rent whilst letting my children run wild.
The sun which shines upon me in this glorious morning, reminding me of the sheer power and beauty that is to be found in this world, this universe.
My sons, for becoming the amazing people they are, for the love we share and above all the ability to talk to each other and communicate.
All the people out there in the world who are striving to make it a better place, whether through writing poetry, spitting lyrics, being activists in one way or another; those who haven’t given up on the world and see us as capable of doing better.
Having a future that I can look forward to even if that is sometimes a struggle.
Music, sung in whatever language, played in whatever style, bringing people together and allowing emotions to be expressed by those who struggle to speak, by being a Voice for the Voiceless.