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. “What do you and Dad think?”
“Sure,” I said.
“He lives near you. Could you pick him up?”
“Of course.”
“His name is Michael.”
So my husband and I 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 stream 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 urine when you’re on the streets all day without any cash?” he complained.
Michael talked steadily (I won’t say non-stop, but it was pretty close) from North London to South London and back, with Ashira (our dog) in his lap or resting her head on his shoulder.
Christmas 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 something else was obviously required. If I learned something on that day, it was because Michael was a gifted teacher.
He told stories of unbelievable human misery, and he told them with insight and compassion. Towards the end of the journey home, there was only one question to ask. I asked how we could help him.
This later 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 kind or helpful. Although he didn’t realise it, the question ‘how can we help?’ came from Michael himself. He was so open and lucid about his pain.
“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 was expecting 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 obviously a trial, as I’d gathered on Christmas Day. So I’d put a leg of lamb into a pot and when it was served, Michael fell unusually silent for a while.
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 his friend 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 Michael and his friend. Despite the veggie diet, they are big guys with loud voices, and I was enveloped with roars of delight. No doubt the smell of meat coming from the kitchen was part of my charm.
It was easy to talk to them. They lived at the Catholic Worker hostel and was ravenous for meat. 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. Michael’s friend shot me a stern look, and I realised how ridiculous my reaction was. I was concerned about the niceties of English 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.
We spent several evenings with them 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. This was a steep learning curve for me. 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 his friend 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 hopefully 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.
Jack’s job during the Blitz was digging dead bodies out of bombed buildings. News of the Nazi concentration camps was filtering through, and his mother was often in tears as she learned the fate of the family she had left behind. She lost two children in London, Jack’s younger brother and sister – one in a horse-and-cart accident, another in a routine operation.
When his parents died, Jack had a comfortable life and no relatives apart from his children. He had a bad case of survivor’s guilt and always reached out to people in need. When he got dementia in his later years, this became a problem; he took out his cheque book when people came begging to the door and would write too many zeros. He was a proud man who resisted handing control of his finances to his children or anyone else.
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 let us get involved. When he got ill and eventually 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 stagnated in the bank and I became desperately frustrated.
When we got to know Michael and his friend we told them about the funds in 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 a good 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.
* * *
We created two main branches, the legal branch and the branch we call heal & grow. There was little point, we felt, in focusing exclusively on leave to remain. Most asylum seekers are isolated and traumatised. They need friends, regular meetings, opportunities to tell and re-tell their stories. They need to share their experiences with others in similar situations and explore their feelings through painting, poetry, conversation. Without such opportunities, they struggle to tell their stories clearly and persuasively, and become easy prey for the Home Office.
Our weekly heal & grow meeting is now facilitated by Michael – the Michael we met on Xmas day 2015. He also leads our school talks programme, which has been a huge success. He goes into schools with a rucksack, showing how he travelled to the UK with next to nothing, and he blows the kids’ minds. There are high fives, shrieks of laughter and a torrent of questions as they learn not only what it means to be a refugee, but what it means to be human.
The word ‘family’ is often used in the Cotton Tree – members say we are ‘like a family’ – and it in this spirit that we sometimes talk about ubuntu. Ubuntu is a Bantu term meaning ‘humanity’, and it’s often translated ‘I am because we are’.
Our members care about each other. Instead of envy or bitterness as they see others get leave to remain while they are still waiting, they respond with warm congratulations. This is remarkable for people in such difficult circumstances, and I believe it is the humanity of Arnold and Michael – plus others who joined the organisation later – that makes it possible.
It’s wonderful that Cotton Tree members feel like a family, but we are also an organisation and organisations need boundaries. Michael tells a story from the early days:
“The first couple of times I came to your house, Ashira (the dog) let me sit in her place on the sofa. The third time was different. When I stood up for a moment, she jumped back into her place. I feel that she was teaching me about kindness and respect. Welcoming people is great if they don’t take advantage. On the third visit she was telling me that, yes, I am welcome but please respect my boundaries. I’ve never forgotten that lesson!”
* * *
Why are we called the Cotton Tree? As we were approaching Charity Commission registration in early 2017, a group of us explored ideas for a name. Michael wanted a symbol of life and hope. “What about water?” I said. “What about a tree?” he replied.
Then Michael’s friend started telling us about the great cotton tree at the heart of Freetown, Sierra Leone, where he came from. He told us about the former African-American slaves who arrived here in 1787 after a long sea journey. Tradition says that they knelt in the tree’s shade and gave thanks for their deliverance. This tree is inhabited by many birds and animals and represents freedom and sanctuary to Sierra Leoneans.
This was the perfect symbol for the organisation we wanted to create. It has a connection to Africa and one of our founder members, but the words ‘cotton’ and ‘tree’ are universal. The Freetown cotton tree has a long history – it is said to be 500 years old – and Michael reflected one day:
“You can’t change history, but you can be happy to be part of the historical moments that change lives.”
How right he was.
