There was plenty to talk about as we swapped stories and shared memories but I soon remembered how little we really had in common. I wondered if his views on immigration had mellowed over the years. No such luck. Soon this Scot who had made a new life for himself thousands of miles from his place of birth was sounding forth about the perils of unbridled immigration. The irony was lost on him.
My aim was to get through the evening without too big a falling out. After all, I would probably never see John again. I tried to explain that the movement of people who have come to Scotland as refugees or asylum seekers is the very history of the country whether they stay for a short time or permanently.
“It’s just plain wrong to present this as exceptional, threatening or new. And then there is a parallel history of emigration running alongside this. Most of us will have experience of one, or both, within our own lives or those of our families.”
I could have gone on about the history of solidarity from local communities, campaigns to support newcomers and to fight against injustice. I was tempted to lecture him on the animosity from the settled population, structural racism and discrimination, fear and loneliness. But I could tell it would be a waste of time. He wasn’t really listening. So I changed the subject.
“You were admiring the water colour of the cottage as you came in. Let me tell you the story behind it. It was painted by a young Yemanese artist called Nabiha. She lived with her brothers and mother on a small patch of land on the outskirts of Hudaydah, Yemen’s main Red Sea port. Originally from Al-Mokha, a city further down the coast famous for its historic coffee trade, they had fled to Hudaydah after the death of her father but again found themselves caught up in the fighting that erupted in the city at the end of 2017. The violence killed thousands of civilians and damaged more than 6,000 homes, countless schools, roads and bridges. Since 2015, there have been more than 20,000 civilian deaths and and more than 4 million people have been forced to flee within the country’s borders. Nabiha managed to make it out of Yemen travelling 4,000 miles in 9 months till she arrived here in the UK. In depressing temporary accommodation in London, she spent night after night plagued by memories of eight of her friends who died after a boat they were travelling in capsized on the Danube River in Romania.
She decided to take her chances on the road and set off in a battered old motorhome lent to her by a local refugee charity. She sketched painted and drew her way up through England and into Scotland. I came across Nabiha through a friend who works with refugee organisations in Ayrshire and commissioned her to do a painting of the cottage. She was only here for a day. She set up her easel early in the morning and worked through till late. We went for a meal in the local Wheatsheaf Inn but she refused my offer of an overnight stay preferring to sleep in the motorhome which she had parked in the car park just behind our house. In the morning she was gone. She had said something about heading north to Dunblane to paint Sir Andy Murray’s gold postbox.”
At least this story seemed to hold John’s attention more than my earlier lecture on immigration. The evening drew to a close and he got ready to leave, stopping to take another long look at the painting in the porch.
“Well I had better confess” I said. “The truth is I found the artist online, somewhere in Somerset I think. You email her off a couple of photographs of the house and a few weeks later you get back a rather pleasant water colour. So you see there never was a Nabiha - or perhaps there are hundreds of Nabihas all over the country.”
John left muttering something about having had a nice evening but made no mention of keeping in touch.
John left muttering something about having had a nice evening but made no mention of keeping in touch.