The other side

Good

Phoenix Café, Brixton

On the bus a child nestled into the crook of his mother's arm. She was a Black woman with simple hair: Afro hair in a bunch. Her child’s was plaited – looked like a girl with eyes shut, nestled into that duffle-coat hood. 

The man in front told his child: 'Sit down like a good boy. Be good – look at her,' pointing to the child behind.

The woman with the bunch looked tired. She barely moved. 'It's a boy,' was all she said.

'I'm sorry,' the man said. 'Be a good boy like him.'

So the little boy sat down in the seat, quiet now, no longer up and awake pointing out things in the window as the bus went by.

The woman pulled her child to her; looked down at his plaited head. She wore a black, market coat. No nails. No hair. They got off in Clapham and went into the Pentacostal church.

The man pulled a sack of Argos stuff from the luggage bin. It was green, seethrough plastic. Very large. I could see the jutting corners of boxes, threatening to tear the thin green plastic of the sack.

He said 'thank you' to the driver and got off the bus. The boy ran alongside him. He wore a little red shirt with white stripes.

The sun was coming and going. There is love, I thought.

A good place in heaven

Shop window, Oxford Street

‘Do you do much of this type of work? Catering?’

The woman looks up at me from under tight gold curls. I am putting out Haggadot at a communal Passover meal in London’s West End. To be honest, I didn’t even know there was a synagogue here until Dan invited me – a synagogue here, between Top Shop, Primark and the filthy grey streets.

I’m putting the Haggadot out because, frankly, I feel really shy. I know no one here apart from Dan – and he’s busy with last-minute stuff. I would rather help Dan and the Macedonian catering crew (‘Matzah – that’s like, the body of Christ, right?’) than stand awkwardly with this well-groomed crowd who are all, apparently, comfortable, and know exactly what to do.

‘Do you do much of this – catering work?’ the woman wants to know. She’s stopped me to ask for a ‘better’ Haggadah – a larger one, with pictures in.

‘I’m not working. I’m here for the Seder like you,’ I say.

‘I didn’t mean anything by it. Come on, dear – sit by me.’ There's space next to her, so I sit. Dan does too. He’s brought his own Haggadah – with hassidic explanations in. We find the place, which I lose again when he goes back to the kitchen to help out.

Nechama is 70. She has bright, lapis-lined eyes and lives off the Holloway Road. She used to be a prison officer – the only Jewish one, ever, in Holloway women’s jail. She stopped going to shul after the rabbi criticised her non-kosher pots. But it’s Pesach, and her sister’s here from New York and she just wanted to, somehow. So she came.

Nechama has crutches and finds it hard to stand. I fetch water so that she can wash for bread. ‘You’ll get a good place in heaven,’ she says. Her sister, Esther, helps serve the food. There are lots of people – maybe a hundred – and the Macedonian crew is finding it hard to keep up. I help serve too, when I’m not talking to Nechama, doling out bowls of watery soup with carrot and matzah meal. People lean back so I can put it down in front of them. They do not say ‘thank you’ or look me in the eye.

‘What’s this?’ says one – a young American with pale blond hair. I look at her. I’m still holding out the soup. She looks at me back. ‘Is this vegetarian? I ordered the vegetarian option.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, holding the bowl out until she takes it. If Passover is about overcoming our limitations, I realise, I’m not doing too well.

Back at the table, Nechama and Esther have scoped the room out for potential mates – for me, that is, not them. ‘What about him?’ asks Esther, through her teeth, nodding at a guy across the table.

‘I think he’s gay,’ I say.

‘The quiet ones are always best.’

‘Or him?’ Nechama says, of a South African to my right, who’s just told me he has a non-Jewish girlfriend with three kids.

Nechama married young. ‘It didn’t work.’ She curls her lip. ‘But’ – she brightens – ‘when I was 40 I met a man. He was much younger – 25 – and we were together until he died. Sixteen years.’ She smiles. ‘Not Jewish,’ she adds, out of the corner of her mouth.

People are leaving. The meal is done. I play with Mendel, the Rabbi’s son, in the kitchen where Dan is. Then Mendel sits on his father's knee wailing for the closing prayers. Except it’s not wailing – he’s crooning along with his dad’s niggunim. This is loud because we’re all silent. A white-faced man with dark circles under his eyes winces as he glances the baby’s way.

I think of the synagogue in Jaffa, near me. Sometimes I walk there on Saturday to hear them sing. Windows always open – raucous prayer flung out to the street. Colourful headscarves and khol. 

Tonight, I listen to the Rabbi sing. I want his voice to reach heaven, and with it carry some of my prayers. 

Nechama has to go – her ride is here. She can hardly walk but will accept no help. Rising onto her crutches, she begins the slow, painful ascent to the street.

'You see a different world'

Jaffa Photography Project student Sama Shakra has just been to London for a week to promote our work and speak to the Jewish and Muslim communities about her life as a Palestinian citizen of Israel. We had an amazing time - the highlights were Sama's visit to a synagogue to speak about photography and Israel from 'the other side'; getting know the Afro-Caribbean and Muslim communities in Brixton; talking to the Jewish community, with Israeli peace activist Lydia Aisenberg, at an event organised by Psychosemitic's Daniel Silverstein; interviews for Islam Online, Radio Salaam Shalom and the Guardian; and a party at the house of our funder Andy Hart, at which Sama read her poetry and met English PEN World Atlas. 

You can listen to Sama talking about our work and her trip to London here, and read English PEN World Atlas on our work here. We'll update with links to the Islam Online, Radio Salaam Shalom and Guardian interviews once they're up.

What I learnt today - letters from Year 8 after Sama's talk at Alyth Gardens Synagogue

'I learnt that there are different sides to people, and that things are not always what they seem. You could look at something your whole life and not notice something until you look at it in a different way. I learnt about a different way of living, where you cannot speak out about your beliefs.'  (Megan)

'I completely understood what Sama was saying. I sympathised with the point she was getting across as when I am being told in what great danger the people of Israel are, and what great tragedies they have been put through by the Palestinians. I never thought about the same topic from the other perspective. The Palestinians have been put through as much tragedy because of the Israelis. I have learnt that when I am being told an opinion, to always take into account the other side of the story.'  (Ben)

'Today we learnt that photos can show people or places in a different way, and that being a Palestinian Israeli in an Israeli school it is very hard to show your views.'   (Louis)

'I have learned to look at things in a different way. Although the Israelis may look like the people being attacked, for the Palestinians it is the other way round. For Palestinians living in Israel, it is very hard to show their feelings and opinions. They may feel very differently towards the army and wars, but can't tell anyone.'  (Sally)

'Today I have learnt to look at things differently through photography and pictures. Palestinians see political and religious views differently to Israelis. For Palestinians it is very hard to share their views and opinions.'  (Phoebe)

'When you take a picture, you can see things in a completely different way. You see a different world.'  (Sophia)

Jaffa project in London

We have just opened a little exhibition of work from the Jaffa Photography Project at Rosie's café in Brixton. Come down and have a coffee if you're local. Email me for details.

Jesus on the Cross

At U-Turn. Tracey wants to take a picture of Jesus on his Cross outside the local church. We are on walkabout, doing photography. She can’t take the picture because her hands shake as she holds up the camera, and Jesus slips in and out of the frame. ‘I’ll help you,’ I say, steadying her hands. She has Dave Tracey tattooed on her arm.

Shel, Tracey’s sister, is with us too. She wants a picture of Jesus on the Cross for her boyfriend. ‘Our men are Catholics,’ she says. Their other sister, Susie, has gone to spend £1,700 social back-pay on the crack pipe. The money arrived today.

‘They’re drug addicts, Susie and her boyfriend. They just disappear into the bedroom with the pipe,’ Shel says.

It’s cold outside but Tracey’s only got a T-shirt on. She’s 43, having hot flushes, the change of life. Her hair is steel, edged with white.

‘Can you take a picture of Jesus for me?’ she asks. ‘It is for our boyfriends. They’re Catholics.’

‘You can do it,’ I tell her.

‘No, I can’t. I can’t do it.’

‘You can. Here, let me help you. Come on.’ I take her closer to the statue and hold her hands around the camera, framing Jesus. I have to be firm to steady them.

‘Press the button,’ I say.

She’s pushing on another part of the camera. I wait for her finger to find the shutter. ‘Now. Press now,’ I say.

Look. It’s Jesus suffering in the sun. Low-contrast Autumn light.

‘It’s lovely.’ Tracey looks at the image. Shel looks at it.

‘You did that,’ I say.

‘I never done that before,’ says another Tracey, ducked-under quarter smile.

‘Look what you did. It’s beautiful,’ I say.

Trust

I am working in London again, teaching writing and photography at U-Turn women's centre. U-Turn supports women sex workers, many of whom are homeless with drug and alcohol dependency. Our project, Change the Picture, was set up by charity PhotoVoice.

I have a long conversation in the garden with Emma. She doesn’t trust her mental health worker. It is evident from her diary, which she wants me to read, how much Emma likes photography and writing. She says that she writes for me, because I ask her to. She trusts me. Ever since we went upstairs to the therapy room and worked on her writing, just the two of us, she feels that I am her teacher.

I’m touched and encouraged to see how much our attention can mean to the women. I tell her how pleased I am that she is writing consistently. I show her my notebook, the one I carry round with me, and tell her that I write every day too.

‘It’s therapy,’ she says. I can only agree.

Emma has to defend herself even from the workers who are supposed to help her, especially in the hostel where she lives. Emma looks after herself, and doesn’t trust anyone there. She thinks that her mental health worker and other professionals are doing it for suspect reasons, maybe they’re not right themselves. Privately, I agree. My experience of the social welfare system is that a variety of damaged individuals find refuge in ‘caring’ for others (abusing by default).

Working in prisons, I saw how those at the bottom of the pile suffer, helpless, their ‘carers’ like their torturers. I remember this as we talk. I remember jailors and police laughing at the ‘scum’ in their care when I went to represent my clients. Emma has been in prison too, although she refers to this only in passing. The hostel reminds her of prison.

Emma has made a list of people she likes. This includes 'the nice security man with the glasses'. There is a gold star next to some of the names.

Nita will agree

Nita sits next to me on the step in the garden. She has eight chocolate Bourbons on a plate balanced against the earth, a little stony, of the vegetable garden that the women grow.

‘You like biscuits,’ I say.

‘Yes I do. I eat a lot of them. At the hostel – we get biscuits and cakes and I don’t cook. We’re supposed to cook but I need someone to come with me to Tesco’s so I eat biscuits and cakes instead.’

Nita has a cup of brick tea in a saucer. Whatever you suggest to Nita, Nita will agree.

I suggest she takes photographs of the flowers. She liked the picture I gave her of purple and yellow scrubby ones in the early sun.

Nita has a red T-shirt, she has pink shoes. In between is a track-pant, faded blue. Close to her you get sweat – old sweat, not new. You’d have to go some time not washing to smell like that. But Nita’s not on the street any more, her home is Hopetown now. Hopetown, where Floor 3 is for crack and smack. Keep trouble in one place. I hope Nita’s not up there, on Floor 3.

‘How long is it since you’ve seen your family,’ I ask.

‘10 years.’

She has not teeth, exactly, but a mouthful of crunched nicotine and broken black.

‘Do you miss them?’

‘Yes.’ But it is half a word, shrugged into her chest. She weeps. I am inches from her blue eyes in which inside corners rests yellow sleep.

Nita turns to me. Her hair is black with grease penetrated by threads of grey. Why is it 10 years since she’s seen her family? I do not know. I can not ask.

‘They say I’m stupid. I shouldn’t do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘The women ask me for money for their drugs and I give it to them. Off my dole.’

Not enough money for food. £7 a week in rent.

‘My social worker told me not to. I’m stupid aren’t I?’

NITA wants to take pictures of herself to send to the family back home. Home is across the sea and 10 years away. Nita has no kids.

It takes a few minutes with the camera, only minutes and already a picture has been made.

‘I’ve never done photography before.’

She makes pictures of the flowers. Close up, the flowers have white sun patches and often seem to speak. We will print them for her room. She’s hoping to get some clothes today as well. She heard they give clothes here too.

‘I’ll just get a cup of tea,’ Nita says when I look the other way. She carries eight chocolate Bourbons in her hands. I want her to use the camera so I fetch a plate.

I take pictures of Nita laughing in the sun. She takes pictures of Shelly sitting on the step. Nita is happy. She forgets the Bourbons and takes the camera inside.

‘Look, I took pictures of Shelly,’ she holds out the camera.

‘Maybe you can take pictures of things you like and send them to your family too.’

Nita agrees. Nita will agree with whatever suggestion you make.

How old is Nita? I can not tell. I know that when I sit very close she does not move away, and when she weeps and I touch the blade beneath her cherry shirt, she does not flinch.

Nita has pink shoes. She loves her shoes. They’re from the market - £1, but someone said they’re like shoes from a proper shop. We take pictures of her shoes. And her cherry shirt. Her friend gave it to her; it’s the colour that she likes – or maybe it’s the cat on the front.

Nita has an album. We gave it to her. It’s got her name on it. It is hers. She stuffs her photographs between the leaves.

Nita in profile laughing. Did we make her laugh? How old is Nita? I can not tell. Her breasts hang low beneath her shirt, her skin is not that old.

Nita in profile laughing.

Shelly on the step.

Tracked bruised bloodied arms. Black shadow eyes.

Nita in profile laughing up on the pinboard. Nita wants her picture there. She pins it up. She could have chosen any one of her pictures – the flowers or her shoes – but what Nita wants is herself up laughing. Her name in thick black pen.

Her family says she shouldn’t be so unhappy.

Nita laughing on the board for everyone to see.

Change the picture

Erasure

 

Outreach with the U-Turn project in London. 10pm. I am on the streets, driving in a four-by-four, with the founder of U-Turn, a drop-in centre for women sex workers – aka prostitutes. We’re in East London. These aren’t courtesans, they’re not luscious, made-up sex artistes. They are young women with nowhere else to go. For £20, £30 a time, they will get into a stranger’s car, to keep it all together, from day to day.

Some of them sleep in cupboards or lift shafts: they are homeless, came from somewhere else – maybe ran away. Maybe their mother’s boyfriend raped them, or someone fell in love. But it doesn’t matter now. The reason – the origin – is lost, possibly in crack fear or heroin haze. What matters now is living – survival – from day to day.

These are invisible women. Erased. Nobody wants them, nobody knows.

They drain society of its poison: buy our drugs, provide sex without demands, and service the secrets of male child-abuse.

This is where it ends. If you think you’re glamorous, snorting some snow in Soho; if you think you’re cool, learning to dance round a pole. If, somehow, you admire the babes on MTV, here is where it ends. If you bareback a woman but don’t want her child, here is where it ends – your pleasure does not come free. Some woman, somewhere, pays the price.

We’re on the streets. It’s night time, after dark. We offer condoms, have a chat – how are you? How’s it going? Want to come to the centre? Have a shower, something to eat. Maybe later… Got to keep working. If I don’t work tonight I’ll wake up in a state tomorrow, have to get some cash.

There is a shadow man standing across the street, watching as we talk. Here is someone who wants them, someone who knows. He says: I love you darling. Be a good girl, go out there, get me what I need. He is called a ponce.

One woman just had her child taken away. Another is pregnant – if she can’t get off the streets they’ll take the baby at birth. She is beautiful – meets my rolled-down window with a sweetheart smile. We note names and streets, so next week, if somebody’s missing, we can ask around.

I’m part of Change the Picture, a photography project for women sex workers, run with charity PhotoVoice. Every week for 10 months, from May, we’ll run a workshop at U-Turn, in which the women can participate if they want. We’ll teach about making pictures and using words – talk about cameras, memory and image; help the women take another look.

We do not have to accept the words others use to describe us. We do not have to submit to the images that they make. Pictures and words of our own can change the view.

Invisible women drain our poison. Find a way to see.

Ripped apart and forgotten about

I am working with refugee children in London, making a book of their short stories, to be published under the title Visible. The project is organised by Westminster Befriend a Family, a charity supporting refugee and asylum-seeking families in the capital.

Yesterday, we had our final workshop – Endings – designed to help the children finish the stories they’ve been working on since last October. It was an eye-opening experience. Check this out – from Stella, 12, whose family is from Nigeria: ‘There’s drama happening in my life, so writing makes me feel better’. Or Jannetal, 13, whose family came from Bangladesh ‘to seek happiness’ – she likes writing because ‘I go into another world.’

Hadia, in England only three years, ‘uses lots of colours in her stories. She also likes to draw in her stories because she wants everyone to know what the text means and what it is saying.’ Hadia writes of a soft school haven: ‘The Cushion Corner reminded me of my old home in Afghanistan, where the rooms had silk embroidered cushions. Each cushion was different. Some had golden threaded braids and fringes, some were very old and worn.’

Imagine living in two rooms with your parents and three brothers and sisters, your parents fighting and friendless, bemused because they can’t read the language, or even understand what to do to get the benefits they need to buy food. Or going to school and sitting in a corner with another immigrant child whose language you can’t speak – because she’s the only one who will sit next to you. And then imagine what it means to have someone let you tell your story, to build your own future as a writer with something to say.

Back to the workshop. All the children are having difficulty finishing their stories. Starting’s the easy part but finishing makes you a writer.

‘Look,’ I tell them, ‘if you’re going to be professional writers, you’ve got to learn to work to a deadline and with a brief. Your work won’t be published if it’s not ready in time.’ We’re going to produce a finished piece to a brief – here and now. The exercise, courtesy of friend and mentor Karen McCarthy is ‘my writer’s biography.’ I hope this will inspire them – they all want to grow up to be writers. So we do it – me included – 10 minutes, finished work. Read aloud.

They all produce brilliant, beautiful work. They all think it’s rubbish. I tell them, listen: you are good enough. They’re barely teenagers, but they need to know about the critical voice, the inner one, that will stop them in their tracks. ‘You’ve just got to get the writing down,’ I say. ‘Don’t listen to that voice. Be the editor afterwards, but in your writing time, write, don’t think.’ As Nathalie Goldberg says, ‘you have to think on the page.’

They seem to be listening but they're so quiet it's hard to tell. Then I remember that they’re only 12, 13. You’re not exactly assertive or shouting at that age. Specially not if you came from somewhere else, and you’re used to being ignored.

Working on The Cushion Corner with Hadia, I understand how she misses Afghanistan. She left when she was 9, travelling to the UK via Iran. Phrases in the text that need clarification open doors to her world: ‘games we played’ – which games? The Cushion Corner tells of two girls, one Polish, one Afghan, who find each other at school. Both are lonely but the Cushion Corner is their refuge – to Hadia, it feels familiar, like Afghanistan. Why is that? Because it is soft and calm, not full of rush. So what was it like in Kabul? I ask her. Let’s think about what it was like there, what you remember, and try to get that into the writing. Conjuring can comfort. This is what she wants to tell.

Jannetal’s story – Velasco – is about facing a monster. It is set on a far away island where Velasco, the young girl narrator, landed after running away from home. A Goliath figure named Sergio holds captive a young boy, Oceanne. Velasco kills Sergio but as she tries to escape with the boy, a huge sea-storm overwhelms them and they die: ‘It was too late. The sand engulfed us. There was darkness. No escape.’

Jannetal, reed-slim dainty, tells me about the storm – we’re trying to get the ending just right. ‘The storm is because I’m angry,’ she says. ‘When I get really angry with Sergio, the sea erupts into a huge storm.’

Why is she angry?

‘All I can think of is Sergio. How he treated Oceanne, like he was worthless, a piece of rubbish, ripped apart and forgotten about.’