More Than One Kind of Flesh Market
The world around us in darkness
NO PLACE FOR THE WEARY TRAVELLER
On Monday there was a murder
of an unidentifiable
but clearly foreign man.
Stabbed
and left to die
between two blocks of squalid Council flats.
Multiple stab wounds -
the trail of blood
showed the victim's effort in
trying to get away.
Crawling towards the light.
His attacker making more lunges,
as he faltered and fell.
Between two blocks of squalid Council flats,
that tend to attract only the desperate
and those
with no choice in the matter.
Addicts and the unhinged,
immigrants,
asylum seekers,
refugees,
people
nobody really wants to think about,
only if something happens.
The killing is clearly a race crime,
or is it?
Then it starts -
a raid by the immigration police.
To punish those
who are already punished.
To evict those,
who are already evicted.
To lock away those,
who are already living locked away.
Policemen don't feel guilty.
They are part of the state apparatus,
that see the world
in terms
of evil – THEM,
and good - US.
Us, citizens,
who read about the raids
in our daily press.
We don't feel guilty
either.
We see the world
in terms
of evil – THEM,
and good – US.
WE PUT THE PAPER IN A BIN AND GO ON WITH OUR DAILY LIVES....
On Tuesday, the autopsy
of the (as yet) unidentified corpse
was already underway.
The human spirit reduced to meat on a slab.
Men in aprons and wellingtons,
slicing
all those victims,
without identity,
home or name.
Whose lives had ended,
before their interest in them
had begun.
On Wednesday you meet
a young politician.
His well known easy charm
has been replaced with something
much less winning.
An absolute confidence -
that he was always going to be
one of life's winners.
Not because of what he was,
or any qualities that he might possess,
but due to his lineage.
“I am not racist,” he says: “But our lives would be so much easier without THEM.”
“We are all racists,” you reply: “Even me. It is how we deal with the ugly fact
that the world is divided
between the wealthy and those with nothing,
and it is so unfair.
You listen to his pre-election speech,
that our population is ageing rapidly.
and that we won't have enough people in the future in the workforce,
or enough people paying income tax to pay for all the social provisions...
“So we need immigrants,” you say.
He shakes his head:
“ I won't win the election saying that.”
“They don't get much of a welcome,
here,
anywhere,
people don't want THEM.
But you are a politician,
you should provoke people to think,
about the darker side of the world
that we all inhabit.
That which is rife with racism,
bigotry,
slave labour,
the smuggling of human beings,
and the clever ways that these poor souls are used
as mules for drug deals.
They are referred to as asylum seekers,
but are housed in former prisons
under the most horrendous circumstances.
One of the ugliest crimes against humanity.
He shrugs his shoulders:
“Maybe, but no one wants to hear that.
We live in a democracy.
Politicians just express people's wishes,
who believe that we should just send
all these black bastards home.
That our country would be a paradise
if only it weren't for the 'Pakis' and 'Gypsies' and 'Sambos'...
and others like THEM.
On Thursday you visit
the family of the murdered victim
in an Immigration Removal Centre.
The condition of the road deteriorated into a pot-holed
single track.
Signs warned trespassers
that they would be prosecuted.
The twelve foot high perimeter fence had
guards watching your every step.
The cell was fifteen feet by twelve.
With a single bed,
wardrobe and a desk.
A mother sat there,
staring into space,
her hands in her lap.
Two small children drew a picture
next to her,
of an open door and balls of yellow sunshine
that never reached down to them.
The room was windowless.
The woman looked up at you
with hollow eyes.
Her six year old boy
went to her,
offering the comfort
of his arms.
His face
hardened
beyond its years.
His eyes telling you:
“Another intruder to let us down.”
On Friday the family travelled
in a immigration van,
with a guard on each side,
to the mortuary
to identify 'the piece of meat on a slab'
that was
their father,
their husband,
the only person they knew and trusted.
They have been put into a strange environment,
these asylum seekers.
Not confident about their role in this place.
Trying to make new friends.
They left their own country
because of daily murders
and are now displaced.
It was another culture, another country.
You yearn to do your duty as a policeman.
As a human being,
It is not an easy task to ask.
You help them out of the police van,
acknowledging the guards.
Walking on the street,
the stares of strangers
passing by.
You recognise them -
local people,
who don't like incomers,
immigrants, travellers...
People who see anyone
who is different to them
as a threat.
Then you bump into others,
hidden in the crowd,
who let the world pass by.
Determined not to notice.
People you pass on the street,
making eye contact
only with the pavement
ahead of them.
Because what you don't see,
can't hurt you.
And then,
there are others.
Hiding now,
in bright daylight,
waiting for their opportunity
at night.
Locals, bigots,
people with a grudge.
Packs of angry men,
prowling dark streets,
protecting most
of the harshly lit doorways.
Identical
in the way that
they see the world,
divided into two groups:
threat and prey.
This particular family,
just like other asylum seekers,
is such an easy target for them.
And then there are others,
who meet you in front of the mortuary,
and outstretch their hands
to help.
Who try to understand,
and are willing to share.
They have their own prejudices
and know that asylum seekers have theirs.
They never tire of asking the same question:
”How much common ground do we share?"
There is just a handful of them,
but it is a relief to know,
they are there...
On Monday there was a murder
of an unidentifiable
man,
stabbed
and left to die.
Sipping your coffee
reading this,
you know
deep down
that justice isn't always done.
The justice that you get in courts
isn't always
the kind of justice that satisfies.
YOU FINISH YOUR COFFEE AND GO ON WITH YOUR DAILY LIFE....
On Monday there was a murder
of the man,
you knew -
your friend,
your brother,
your father,
your son,
stabbed
and left to die.
Murder has ripples.
You never go back to being the same.
You look in the eyes
of the people that investigate
the crime,
the people who knew the victim,
even the murderer
and you ask: “WHY?”
YOU ARE UNABLE TO FINISH YOUR MORNING COFFEE AND GO ON WITH YOUR DAILY LIFE...
Something inside you has been profoundly changed.
There was a murder.
Something unique was taken away from the world,
something that can't be replaced.
HOW CAN YOU GO ON …
HOW CAN YOU PRETEND THAT NOTHING HAPPENED?
'There was a murder of an asylum seeker
on the streets of Edinburgh,
that made me think about the Scots
and about racism
and the myth of how welcoming we are to strangers.
Crimes tend to be hidden in Edinburgh.
There are conspiracies,
things happening under the cover of darkness.
It is a city ina pattern of grave robbers.'
introduces the writer Ian Rankin
his book:''FLESHMARKET CLOSE'
