A refugee’s reflection

First, the chaos: I was on a Norse flight, the cheapest I could find. I got an Airbnb, the cheapest I could find. Both bailed on me. 


I came to London a day late, on June 2nd instead of the 1st. My original flight was delayed for “operational purposes” (Boeing airplane — probably needed to reapply duct tape after its last flight.) And the Airbnb did not contain the key I needed to get in. Now THAT WAS A SHIT SHOW. 

I sat outside the Airbnb for an hour that afternoon, in the middle of a busy Walm Road in Willesden, smoking poorly rolled cigarettes to pass the time, while my Airbnb Host ignored my pleading messages to find a solution to a missing key. 

I was in a foreign country with all of three bags of luggage and stuffed pockets: the valuables, my laptop and passport in my book-filled backpack; a 25-pound carry-on and a 50-pound checked bag with wheels that simply didn’t work; my phone and my debit card-containing wallet in my pocket. 

I was vulnerable. Anyone with a kitchen knife could have taken all my stuff.

Thank fucking Christ I was hungry. 

I found refuge next door to what was supposed to be my Airbnb. Hummyngbird, that small Jamaican take-away restaurant run by a 30-something-year-old man in a sleek fedora, Anthony, saved my (very sweaty) ass. 

I was beginning to tell him my situation when a drunk, old Jamaican man walked into the shop, telling Anthony he needed help with his car. He didn’t need help with the car, Anthony said when he got back. The guy needed a cab, which Anthony ordered for him.

Anyway, my situation was my fault. I procrastinated with the grant application for the research I was supposed to do in London. I procrastinated with the University travel registry. Last minute planning always has its side effects. Lesson learned, I guess.

I continued telling Anthony my situation, and when I asked for saltfish and ackee — a dish Zadie Smith introduced me to — he raised his eyebrows a bit and asked what I wanted with it. I was kind of dumbfounded. I thought that was the whole dish! He said he’d give me rice and peas with it. £10 (about $12.50). It’ll do.

Anthony, who seemed a bit bored from a slow Sunday’s business, graciously accepted my company. I was very grateful, because it was far better to be in his restaurant with my luggage than on the street.

I asked him if the ginger beer on sale had alcohol, because I needed something to drink. He couldn’t sell me alcohol, but had me try a fried Jamaican dumpling (basically a big ball of fried dough) with some fried chicken, which he didn’t charge me for. He also gave me oxtail, which I had never tried before and which he informed me is considered a delicacy in Jamaica. 

Anthony became a friend. He said he arrived in London from the Southeastern end of Jamaica when he was about 10 years old. His father first opened the restaurant decades ago, and Anthony said he was expanding the building. He also said he had four kids and a wife. 

Anyway, I thought the food was fantastic, but I was too panicked to indulge myself at that moment.  

In my state, I still hadn’t figured out where I was going to stay when Anthony had to close down for the day, almost 4 hours and three meals after I arrived at the shop.

Anthony let me keep my luggage at the restaurant, and I trusted him with it, telling him I’d grab it in the morning. I went to an Albanian cafe next and finally gave up hope of my Airbnb host replying. I booked the cheapest hotel I could find in Kilburn. And when I got there, I spent the night finishing Zadie Smith’s On Beauty and bullying Airbnb into giving me a nearly $400 discount on my next booking. 

When I got to Hummyngbird the next morning, I ordered porridge, which to my surprise was completely different from the porridge I’m used to. It was yummy and extremely filling, though I was still too stressed to finish my meal. The chef told me that back in Jamaica, if there’s not a lot of food around, the porridge can feed you for a whole day. You’ll just need some water. 

But more importantly, they still had my bag for me. I stumbled into N.W. London looking to research the literature of migrant communities, and I thought it was profound that an immigrant gave me the help I desperately needed when I needed it.

The immigrant is often scapegoated as the root of all our changing world’s problems. Looking at the political climate around me, immigration is treated with absolute contempt and bitter cruelty. President Trump’s first words in politics, after all, were to “build a wall,” a message which resonates with millions of America’s descendants of immigration.

But why should we accept this sentiment while masses of people suffer for it? 

A friend once told me her five-year-old daughter was still in Mexico while she worked in the U.S. I asked why, rudely curious. “Because I’m illegal,” she wrote on Google Translate. “And it’s dangerous and expensive.” Illegal? Is that an OK term to describe a human being as? I don’t think so.

Call me naive, but in a Western world that can’t seem to accept its immigrants, I think Anthony’s hospitality should be a lesson for the rest of us.