And now you must run

The disaster has arrived. A war, whirring in drones piloted by men with sparkling white teeth, a million miles away. A flood, a tsunami, rising waters ready to lay waste to your world. A shaking of the earth that threatens to topple the towers of your life. Whatever it is, it is here, and now you must run. What do you grab?

Perhaps you saw this coming. Perhaps you are politically informed, prescient, perpetually prepared for the end. Perhaps you live in contingency plans, with wads of cash stuffed into your safe. You packed a bag weeks ago, didn’t you? Now you are calm as you dress, knowing that clothes for all of the world’s possible climates sit within your suitcase.

But, more likely, you have nothing ready. You’ve been too busy pretending nothing is wrong. You met with your child’s teacher, you complained about your boss, you did the weekly shop, you forced yourself to go for a run. You ignored the warning signs—a new president posturing about regime change; protests in the street, in cities far away, interrupted by speeding bullets; summer vegetables in winter, and your coat growing motheaten at the back of a cupboard—because you couldn’t contemplate a life that wasn’t this one. You worked so hard to build this life. This is the only home your children have ever known.

You hesitate between a suitcase with wheels and a large sports bag: one easier to carry, one easier to squeeze into small spaces. The suitcase has one broken wheel, so you load clothes into the holdall. Time is not on your side. Most of the family’s favourite clothes are in the washing basket; you were going to do three loads at the weekend. You are so concerned with your children that you almost forget to pack your own things. You certainly don’t take enough clean underwear, and this is something you later regret.

You have a cousin in England. Your impressions of the country contain rain, the Royal Family, and cups of tea. You speak English—it’s your third language—but you have an accent which rolls some of the words together and your intonation is not always correct. You know nothing yet of the hostile environment. You have not heard the news of zebra crossings spray painted with red crosses, of the mobs of disregarded people who might wish someone like you ill. To England you will go, because you have a cousin, because you speak the language, because it is meant to be a safe place.

Into the side pocket of the holdall you shove hastily assembled provisions for the journey. Saj bread embracing aubergine slices, tabbouleh, yoghurt pots and spoons. You pack enough to last for a day. You hope that you will be able to buy food on the way. One of your children is fussy about food. Hunger might make them less particular, but you can’t wish hunger on your children. You want them to always have full bellies. You know that if it comes to it, you will always give them your share.

And what to wear for such a journey, a journey with no parameters? You take what you can but there isn’t much space. You consider wearing layers of clothing, one on top of the other, bulking out your silhouette, a reassuring cushion around you. But you settle for simplicity instead: nothing too bright, nothing too beautiful. Your vanity will stay in the house.

Bags packed, children dressed, you survey your home, noting everything that you are leaving behind. The sentimental things: photographs and keepsakes that can never be replaced. But you think it is the sofa that you will miss most. How long did you save for that green sofa, tucked into the corner, angled towards the television? It is here that the family gathered, children sprawled across the carpeted floor, the low coffee table laden with snacks, sometimes dinner. Everybody home from work, from school, and this is the place where you exhaled the stresses of the day in one single breath. You had never known contentment like a child on your lap, their hands in your hair, and the feeling that everything that mattered was in one place.

You hold your breath. You close the door.

This is what I wish for you:

A journey that is not fraught with danger. A crossing that does not necessitate handing over your life savings to a ruthless profiteer. No heartbreaking choices. And your family, together.

When you reach your destination, I wish for you: a parade of good people, lining the streets of the city, the town, the village, bidding you welcome in English and in your mother tongue. Wide smiles and warm handshakes. A guide to help you understand the rules of this new place, where jumping the line is frowned upon, and no one ever says how they really feel. Headteachers out of retirement, accountants, plumbers, project managers who hate their jobs, mothers, fathers, all giving their time and their help, not because they pity you, but because they have never known danger, and they cannot even imagine the idea of needing to run. Because they are good people. Because they know that it is only an accident of birth that has put them where they are, and has put you in front of them.

When you reach your new home, I wish for you: carefully considered furniture sourced secondhand, swirling carpets on the floor, a fridge replete with all of the new foods you will soon learn to love. There will be toys for your children, and lessons in English, and meals dropped round by your new neighbours, who press the plastic pots into your hands, their faces made holy by kindness.

In your bedroom, there will be a wardrobe full of hangers. As the children play outside in the little garden, you take a moment to unpack your suitcase. The last remains of your old life hang before you, and you trail your fingers over the fabric. The two places blur together: the old home in the before, and this new beginning. You are both places and now you are safe. You think you could be happy here.

I hope that you are.