The Origins of The Cotton Tree Trust
To celebrate Refugee Week 2022, Ruth Cigman wrote this memoir with help from Michael Ngyezi about how the Cotton Tree came to be.
One chilly day in December 2015, I got a call from my stepson in South London.
“We’ve been asked to host an asylum seeker on Christmas day,” he said. “He lives near you. Could you pick him up?”
“Sure.”
“His name is Michael.”
We turned up with our dog at the Catholic Worker hostel in North London on Xmas morning. We had no idea who Michael was or what to expect. We knew almost nothing about asylum seekers.
Michael turned out to be a friendly African guy with a big warm smile. He got into the back seat and instantly made friends with the dog, who licked and nuzzled him all the way to South London. Michael had brought her a tennis ball and I remember thinking what a great gift this was. He knew we had a dog, and he must have found it in a park or on a street. It was one of those gifts that hit the mark: instantly appreciated, muddy and chewed. Much better than the chocolates that, in our ignorance, we gave him. We had a great deal to learn, and it was on that Christmas day that our learning began.
It started with a torrent of talk from Michael. He told us about his solicitor, the lack of privacy where he lived, struggles with the Home Office, dismissive attitudes of people in the street, and much more. There was a detail that stuck in my mind because it was so human.
He and his house mates weren’t allowed to be in the hostel between 10am and 6pm. “Where do you put your pee when you’re on the streets all day without any cash?” he complained.
Michael talked steadily from North London to South London and back, with Ashira (our dog) in his lap or resting her head on his shoulder.
Lunch was a bit awkward, and I understand much better now how hard it is for an asylum seeker to join a family of UK citizens. We were trying to reach out to Michael, find appropriate things to say, and he was trying to find appropriate things to say to us. But the hosts were busy with chicken and burnt potatoes, and the kids were in a frenzy of excitement. I love seeing my family, but I was relieved when the four of us – three humans, one dog – piled back into the car to go home.
I must have learned something on that day. Michael later told us that most people ask asylum seekers the wrong questions. Questions like: where are you from? How long have you been here? I’m sure we asked those questions too, but after all those hours and all that pain, something else was obviously required. As we drew up at the hostel, I said:
“How can we help you?”
This became the question the Cotton Tree puts to every member. Of course, people want to know something about asylum seekers when they meet them, but their curiosity isn’t necessarily helpful.
“I need a suitcase to keep my things in,” he replied, so we arranged for him to come to our house a few days later to collect a suitcase and have a meal.
In fact, we had two spare suitcases and they were sitting in the hall when he arrived. I asked him to choose one.
“I’ll have both, please,” he said.
I can’t remember what we talked about on that occasion, except that the conversation included the horrors of a meat-free diet – his hostel was vegetarian – and Michael’s asylum application. Quite honestly, distressing as the asylum situation was, I wasn’t sure at times which was worse: living without papers or living without meat. The vegetarian diet was a terrible trial, as I’d gathered on Christmas Day when Michael lunged towards the roast. So I put a leg of lamb into a pot and when it was served, Michael fell silent for an unusual length of time.
Food was cleared and we started discussing his asylum application. My husband, also a Michael, was a retired judge. He would become known as ‘Judge Michael’ to distinguish him from our new friend. Judge Michael likes to see things in writing and go through them systematically.
“Bring your papers next time you come,” he said.
“Can I bring a friend?” said the other Michael, and a week or so later, he turned up on our doorstep with his friend.
The first thing that struck me when Michael and Aaron arrived was the laughter and the bear hugs. Most English guests turn up with polite smiles and limp hugs. There was none of that from these guys. Despite the veggie diet, they are tall men with loud voices and lots to say. I was enveloped with roars of delight. No doubt the smell of meat coming from the kitchen was part of my charm.
After we’d eaten, we got down to work, and Michael asked Michael some direct questions.
“How would you feel if you had to go back to where you came from?”
“I’d rather be dead,” Michael replied.
I was shocked by the question and pulled a face. Aaron shot me a stern look, and I realised how ridiculous my reaction was. I was concerned about hospitality – never upset your guests – and didn’t understand until that moment the harsh interrogation Michael would face. He gave the right answer. Any other would have given Home Office an excuse to put him on a plane.
Over the next few weeks, we spent several evenings with Michael and Aaron eating meat and going through documents. We constructed a statement that was clear, detailed and evidence-based, and we were able to do what his solicitor could not: take our time. Michael was getting something most asylum seekers can only dream of – relaxed time, professional expertise, a friendly welcome. The outcome of these meetings would be an organisation with the tag line:
We offer relaxed time, professional expertise and a welcoming community.
* * *
In the American south, two rivers meet: the Mississippi and the Minnesota. The indigenous people believe that this is the spot where they arrived from the stars many years ago. To them, it is the sacred place of their origins on earth.
The Cotton Tree is like the meeting of rivers. The evenings with Michael and Aaron were productive; not long afterwards, Michael got leave to remain. We turned the hostile environment into a friendly one and showed what could and should be done for people who claim asylum. They need friendship, time, expertise, and last but not least, they need nourishing food. For this sort of thing to become more widely available, the river of friendship and expertise needed to flow into the river of money.
In my personal life, another story was unfolding. My father, Jack Cigman, had died in 2012. From severe poverty (his parents had come to the UK from Poland as refugees), he had built a successful business. He didn’t want his four children to take his money for granted, let alone get rich from his labours. So he created a charity, made his children trustees and transferred a substantial portion of his wealth into the charity.
He had no specific aims for his charity and it must be said, no idea how to run one. All he wanted to do was relieve suffering. Even though his children were trustees, he didn’t want us to get involved. When he died, the responsibility was ours, but we couldn’t agree about the charity’s aims. We made small handouts from time to time, but everything turned into an argument. Most of the money was stagnating in the bank and I was desperately frustrated.
We told Michael and Aaron about the family charity and started to form a vision of how some of it could be used. There was no point in being too ambitious (there wasn’t enough money for that), and one of the first tag lines we came up with was based on our evenings together:
We aim to offer a good service to a few rather than a poor service to many.
I asked my siblings to donate a quarter of the funds in the family charity to the charity we wanted to set up, and eventually they agreed. To this day, the Cotton Tree follows the principle of trying to provide an excellent holistic service for a relatively small number of people. If a person has a case worth fighting for, we fight. We appeal and, if necessary, appeal again or get a judicial review. We find solicitors when they are like gold dust and we scrutinise evidence, do country research, support mental health.
These words by Winston Churchill could have been our motto:
…never give in, never give in, never, never, never – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.
* * *
