It’s been a while, but I’ve finally got my act together and started writing for this blog again! There’s a lot I want to write about over the coming weeks and months, but there was one issue I felt had to come first. I actually wrote this post yesterday, before the somewhat vague executive order in which the US President has promised to end the policy of splitting up undocumented families, but the crisis isn’t over yet and I still think it’s important to voice my thoughts on the issue.
By now, you have probably heard about the latest policy-related scandal coming out of the current US administration; children of undocumented immigrants crossing into the United States, including nursing infants, are even now being forcibly separated from their parents as part of a ‘zero-tolerance’ crackdown on illegal immigration. Much has already been said about the policy’s inhumanity, with journalists painting a vivid picture of terrified children kept in cages and screaming for their parents. But for me, the events of the past few weeks are chillingly familiar, as I look into my family’s own history of displacement and immigration.
My late grandfather, Sigi Friedmann z’’l, was many things; witty, eloquent, frankly spoken and, above all, loving. He was also a refugee, having come to the UK from Vienna in 1938 as part of the Kindertransport programme (thanks to the heroic efforts of Rabbi Dr. Solomon Schonfeld z’’l). It was this journey that saved his life as the horrors of Nazism spread across Europe. However, as the programme’s German name suggests, such lifesaving journeys were open only to children (Kinder). The British government at the time had agreed to accept a limited number of child refugees, but declined to offer sanctuary to their parents out of the fear that an influx of European immigrants would compete for British jobs (a fear that remains stubbornly persistent to this day). As a result of this decision, children, including my then 15-year-old grandfather, were effectively ripped from their parents’ arms and forced to flee to a foreign country alone. For many, it would be years before they would see their parents again, or even know if they were still alive. More heartbreaking still, many long-awaited unions never happened, as those lucky enough to have reached safety discovered that loved ones left behind had been murdered by the Nazis. My grandfather was no exception to this tragedy. Both of his parents had eventually sought shelter in Hungary but, whilst he was ultimately reunited with his mother, Basia, his father, Ephraim, was murdered in the Flossenberg concentration camp for the ‘crime’ of being Jewish.
Why am I choosing to share this story now? Precisely because of my family’s history, I am wary of drawing comparisons between modern-day events and the Holocaust lest the enormity of the Nazi genocide be trivialised. However, my grandfather’s story of separation and survival certainly demonstrates attitudes towards immigrants and refugees that we see influencing US policy today. First and foremost, the decision of the British government in the 1930s to choose fear of immigration over saving lives echoes the ways in which we see the humanity of undocumented migrants to the US denied in favour of racism and xenophobia. Just today, President Trump tweeted his fears that immigrants will ‘pour into and infest our Country’, evoking a nameless, verminous mass rather than individual human beings searching for a better life for themselves and their families (or just the chance to live at all). Even babies, toddlers and children are not exempt from this characterization. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that the current policy of separation treats them more as dangerous interlopers than innocents in need of the love and care of those closest to them.
In a wider context, we once again see racism and intolerance start to influence policies in countries that we take for granted as tolerant and democratic. The US government is by no means the only Western country to deny the fundamental rights of those considered ‘undesirable’. Again, as of today, the newly-elected far-right government of Italy has stated its intention to introduce a census of Roma people and to expel all non-Italian Roma from the country, plans with obvious parallels to 20th-century racial policies. Across Europe, anti-immigrant and anti-refugee sentiment is being allowed to flourish even in mainstream political spheres. It has now become almost clichéd to point to the events of the 1930s and 1940s in illustrating where such contempt for one’s fellow human beings can lead, but it is a point worth making nonetheless. Even if racist and xenophobic policies do not end in genocide, the suffering that they cause to innocent people, as well as the cycle of hatred they help perpetuate, cannot be underestimated.
Which brings me to a question I have been asking myself repeatedly over the past few days; what can I do, as an individual, as a Jew and as a member of the wider human family, to combat the Trump administration’s inhumane actions towards immigrant children and their parents? I’m still searching for the answer. As a (relatively extremely privileged) immigrant whose own residency in America will soon be under review for the second time, I am concerned that certain forms of action would threaten my own family life – cowardly, maybe, but a genuine fear nonetheless. I hope that through writing this post, I can start to turn my own skills and talents towards fighting this injustice. Whilst I may be for the most part preaching to the converted (I’m proud to say that the Jewish community in the United States has shown an unusual level of unity in condemning the child separation policy) , I hope that sharing my Grandpa Sigi’s story will help all of you reading this to consider the humanity of each individual affected by these current events, and perhaps to feel more empowered to stand up for families under threat, regardless of their country of origin or the colour of their skin.
The Desert 