Kandahar Cockney: A Tale of Two Worlds. James Fergusson

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       2 June–December 1998

      Aaron Stein’s office in Islington was on the front line of the immigration war. From three rooms in a rundown house off Upper Street he waged a heroic and almost single-handed battle against the massed forces of the Home Office, which constantly threatened to overwhelm his position. Rows of wonky filing cabinets burst with case histories, correspondence with officialdom, notices of changes to the law. The precarious stacks of papers on his desk added to the impression of a hard-pressed general in a well sandbagged bunker. In the Stygian corridor, made gloomier by the grime on the frosted glass above the door onto the street, the traffic of applicants for asylum never stopped. It was interesting to try to guess their nationalities – Kurds, Iraqis, Tamils, Albanians. During office hours the door was left on the latch so they could come and go, for as an underpaid legal aid lawyer Aaron could not afford the luxury of a receptionist. It felt a long way from the Inns of Court in central London, with their oak-panelled and book-lined chambers, their aura of history and learning and respectful hush. Aaron Stein’s legal practice operated in a permanent state of near chaos.

      We squeezed past other asylum seekers who waited patiently in the corridor or on the narrow staircase like medieval supplicants. There was a queue to use a payphone on which someone was jabbering in a subcontinental tongue. Aaron, one telephone jammed to his ear, another ringing unanswered somewhere beneath the awesome clutter of his desk, beckoned us in with a perfunctory wave.

      – The name is Chandrasekaran, he was saying. All one word. First name Bari, not Chandra. That’s B,A,R,I…No, B. B for Bravo…

      He spoke with a slight but unmistakably Semitic sibilance. There was a recognisable archetype here, a north London Jewish lawyer fighting for international justice in an underfunded garret of an office, principled, romantic, determinedly left wing. He looked younger than he had sounded on the telephone, only a little older than I was, although behind his John Lennon glasses his eyes were supremely tired. The telephone conversation went on and on. Some vital application form had been lost in the Home Office system. The consequence for Bari Chandrasekaran, who appeared to have been filed away as Chandra Sekaran, would be a significant delay in his asylum decision. Aaron was arguing the unfairness of this, but it seemed there was nothing the Home Office could do. Bari Chandrasekaran, properly logged and registered, would have to go to the back of the queue and start again.

      – Three months, said Aaron flatly, putting down the phone at last. Another three months, she says. At least.

      He looked up for the first time and took us in with a quick, joyless little smile.

      – The system is utterly screwed, he observed. They never get the names right, never. Now, what can I do you two for?

      I realised that he had no idea who we were, and reminded him of the letter I had sent the previous week, outlining what had happened to Mir in Afghanistan and the case for his political asylum. Aaron looked uncertain at first, but then it came back to him. He fished in a pile of papers and emerged with my letter with a speed that suggested there was at least some reason in the madness of his desk.

      – I remember of course, he nodded, rereading the letter. It’s quite a story. Quite a story.

      Hamid the former tour guide had been correct in his assertion that Exceptional Leave to Remain was virtually automatic for Afghans. In fact it was so automatic that a significant number of asylum seekers from other countries had taken to destroying their identity papers and claiming Afghan nationality. There was a particular problem with applicants from Iran and Pakistan, Aaron explained. Twenty years of war had driven some three million people across Afghanistan’s borders into these neighbouring countries, where many had settled and intermingled. Pashtu is the majority language of Afghanistan and is widely spoken in north-west Pakistan. Dari is the secondary language, and is a dialect of Persian. It was therefore a simple matter for Pakistanis and Iranians to dress up as Afghans and hoodwink unwary immigration officers at Britain’s ports. Disentangling the true asylum seeker from the false was one of the greatest challenges the system faced. Some Afghan refugees claimed that fully a quarter of their purported number in Britain, possibly tens of thousands of people, were fakes.

      Aaron couldn’t see any problem in Mir’s case, which he said was open and shut. Sponsorship from two credible Western journalists was unusual, and would almost certainly be decisive in countering any challenge from the Home Office. In short, he would be delighted to take us on. He thought we should apply for ILR, Indefinite Leave to Remain, right away. He wanted more detail, and began to ask questions. When, precisely, had Mir become aware that his life was in danger? As a Pashtun, how dangerous had life been in the Northern Alliance town of Mazar before the arrival of the Taliban? Mir’s father was a Sharia judge: did he also play a role in the political life of Mazar, and what was his relationship with the Hazara Shi’ite community? None of this was easy to answer, and Mir responded hesitantly. I tried to help him along, but Aaron swiftly raised his hand.

      – No, no, no. I appreciate your intentions, Mr Fergusson, I really do, but this is official testimony and I’d like to hear it from Mirwais himself, if you don’t mind.

      Mir began again. Aaron scribbled notes on the back of my letter, СКАЧАТЬ