‘We sat in tearful silence, just holding hands across the table’

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez, Unsplash

I FIRST met Aisha at an English conversation class at an asylum hotel in Berkshire.

A middle-aged woman from Sudan, it was her first time in the drop-in class, organised by a Care4Calais volunteer group.

Aisha had been in the hotel for two weeks with her 16-year-old son after fleeing her home on the outskirts of Khartoum and crossing the border into Ethiopia and on to Kenya.

We sat at a table, together with a group men of various ages, all wanting to practise their English. It was decided to split the class into smaller groups, and I found myself sitting facing Aisha.

Her English was good, but I realised quickly that she was not here just for the class. I asked if she was happy to be here in England and where she was from, and I felt awkward with my clumsy questions.

This was not an occasional, spontaneous conversation you usually have with a stranger. This woman and mother sitting facing me had escaped horrific violence and had endured a perilous journey to find sanctuary here in the UK.

She began to tell me her story. The escape from her village with other friends and neighbours, packed tightly in a minibus, the long journey to the Ethiopian border and the fear of being stopped by the armed men that had already attacked their village.

It was then that she hesitated, stumbled. Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I leaned across the table to listen.

“My parents were killed last year, and my two elder sons were shot by the soldiers who came into the village.”

“When?” I asked.

“Two weeks before we left Sudan,” she replied.

It was then that I realised why she had come to the conversation class. Not just to practise her English, but to unburden her story. She needed to release her emotions and share her grief. We sat holding hands across the table, both depleted of conversation and tearful.

Aisha sat in silence, and I asked her if she would come back next week.

Jean-Marc Hall