I looked online and immediately found the title of Jean Paul’s book (Jean Paul is not his real name). It was exactly as the judge who eventually granted him asylum had noted: anyone who wanted to check Jean Paul’s political record in his native country had only to Google his name. The book is a study of democracy and its failings in Africa. Jean Paul has also published scholarly papers on the nature of language.

I met Jean Paul for the first time at the British Library, an institution devoted to the preservation of words, voices, testimony and knowledge. He told me about his experiences of flight and refuge, focusing on what he saw and heard while held in indefinite detention here in the UK. “You’ve no voice when you’re inside there,” he said.

But Jean Paul does have a voice. He has a degree in modern languages from the University of Strasbourg and a masters from Soas University of London, and has taught for many years in London schools, with a special focus on inspiring children from ethnic minorities. It takes only a few moments in his company to understand that he has a gift for communicating gentleness, energy and enthusiasm. He is skilled at helping others to find their voice.

So, I asked him, why did he want me, or anyone else, to tell his story? Wouldn’t it be more powerful coming directly from him? His response was that he needed someone else to hear, a person outside the immediate experience, to acknowledge and record what happened to him and to those whose sufferings he saw and shared. He wanted me to be his witness, not because his narrative required verification, but because of the fact of hearing itself; because it signifies that in a world that so often seeks to deny and disbelieve such accounts, his story has been absorbed by a listening heart.

We talked together for hours and, as I noted down what he told me, fearful of making mistakes, I became a partner in testament to the ongoing reality of cruelty and suffering. This is an obligation to which I am deeply committed – my own parents were both refugees from Nazism at the age of 16.

Researching the fate of my family taught me the importance of being a vigilant witness against evil and heartlessness, and of standing up for human solidarity, beyond all seeming borders of nationality and creed.

As I listened and recorded, I became a companion in defiance against the silence in which vicious regimes try to bury the knowledge of the crimes they have committed against the dead, and disavow the living trauma of those who manage to survive them.

Jean Paul needs me – us – to be allies.

He fled on foot with his family from the brutality of the regime in his country. During their long and exhausting trek, which lasted for 30 days, he saw many people worn out from hunger, weariness and grief. Noticing an abandoned child who no longer had the strength to walk, Jean Paul carried him on his back until he became aware that the child’s body was lifeless.

After three months in exile, Jean Paul and his family were told that it was safe to return to their homeland. They took the boat back across the river to their native country, but as the crowded ferry approached the landing beach, all the young men were separated for questioning, to assess whether they might have been part of the militia fighting against government forces. Anyone suspected of belonging to such rebel groups was removed and “eliminated” without a trace. The militia in turn opened fire on the passengers, many of whom were killed.

“It was chaos; people took revenge, lots were shot,” Jean Paul recalled.

Four hundred people perished in the massacre. Jean Paul, his brother and their two cousins were taken away and detained for several days. He and his brother were subsequently released, but their cousins were not with them. They simply disappeared, together with many hundreds of young people.

“He was with me on the boat. After we landed, I never saw him again.”

Jean Paul began to work with the families of the victims, many of whom had likewise vanished; no graves were ever found.

Relatives were concerned that those responsible for the killings would never be brought to justice. A collective was formed to gather together evidence of these atrocities; many of the survivors were afraid to come forward and testify, fearing that the regime would take revenge. Nevertheless, with the assistance of human rights organisations in the UK and France, enough material was assembled to force a trial at a criminal court in the summer of 2005. The judge ruled that the state was indeed responsible, but no specific individuals were deemed accountable, and the perpetrators remained unnamed. The result was that no one was brought to justice.

During the course of their investigations, Jean Paul and his colleagues uncovered numerous crimes. Realising that they knew too much to be safe in a land in which tyranny and corruption were incomparably more powerful than the law, he and his close family fled to France. There, life was better. Jean Paul studied, obtaining his first degree in modern languages from the University of Strasbourg. Yet, perhaps inevitably, he always felt like an outsider. Later, Jean Paul was invited to read for an MA at Soas University of London, so moved his family to Britain and was eventually given a visa that described him as a “highly skilled migrant”.

Jean Paul settled down in London, working for five years at a school in Islington, supporting children from ethnic minorities and assisting in the modern languages department. He also served as a volunteer in several homelessness projects through his church and began to assemble and publish his writings.

But it always remained his long-term intention “to go back home and work for my country”. He was even offered a university post there, but it was made patently clear to him he was not wanted in his home country, and that it would not be safe to return. When his father died, neither Jean Paul nor any of his brothers and sisters were able to attend the funeral. In 2015, Jean Paul therefore decided to apply for asylum in the UK.

He prepared the necessary documentation with great care, including the latest United Nations information concerning his country, a report commissioned from a Stanford University professor known internationally for his research on the country, a further dossier by an expert in the UK, and an 11-page letter explaining his personal history and the circumstances underlying his application.

During his appointment with the Home Office, the official who interviewed him kept interrupting him. It quickly became apparent that she had read none of the documents Jean Paul had submitted. Matters proceeded in this desultory fashion until, eventually, the woman instructed him to wait. After two hours she returned and informed Jean Paul that he was going to be detained forthwith, “for a few days, while the case is examined”.

This attitude epitomises the environment of intentional hostility, the culture of disbelief, that those at the top are held to be encouraging. There is a time and a place for scepticism. But the persistent discrediting of the meticulously assembled and carefully corroborated evidence of another person’s suffering is a form of cruelty. It undermines the humanity of the victims and also of those who practise such policies.

Harmondsworth Immigration Removal Centre in west London. Photograph: Tim Ockenden/PA

Jean Paul was taken to the detention centre at Harmondsworth. “At first it looks beautiful,” he said, “from the outside. There’s no barbed wire. But once inside, you go through a first and then a second set of security doors. You’re locked in; you can’t open them from the inside. It’s really a prison. There’s nothing to do in there.” It was very frightening. “There are some there, too, who’ve just completed sentences for serious crimes. When they’re released, they’re handed over to immigration – together with people who are simply seeking asylum.”

Jean Paul’s smartphone was taken from him and replaced with a primitive device that allowed no access to the internet. For the first two days he was simply bewildered. Then he began to contact his friends. Staff at the school where he worked soon started to ask where he was and what had happened to him.

His church wondered why he was missing: “Where is Jean Paul?” they wanted to know. They were baffled and confused: “No one could believe what had happened, that such a thing could occur here, in a country like Britain.” His friends had never even heard that such a place as Harmondsworth existed. They prepared an application for bail.

Injured physically and mentally by his own experiences, Jean Paul was nevertheless more concerned with the sufferings of others. What about all the people who had no one on the outside to support them, who knew no one who could set in motion inquiries about why they had been taken away and where they were now being held? Who was there to help them?

“I saw a man sobbing,” he told me. “He told me he’d been in the UK for three years and held in detention for six months: ‘When I was brought here my girlfriend was pregnant. Meanwhile, she’s given birth. I haven’t ever seen our baby.’

“Another man tried to kill himself twice during the two weeks I was being held. He did it out of despair. I heard he’d been inside for over a year. He didn’t know when he was going to be released or how to move his case forward. He’d had no update. He didn’t understand what it was that the authorities were waiting for. The first time, I don’t know exactly what he did. They found him hanging from the bunk bed – he must have used the sheet or something similar and tied it round his neck. He was taken to hospital. A day later he was back.

“The second time, another guy from the same country was moved into his room. The new guy was on blood pressure medication; when he got a chance, he took all his new companion’s medicine to try to kill himself. The toilets weren’t private; there was only a curtain and you could see people’s feet. Someone saw that he was in there for a long time. They opened the curtains. On the floor were all the pill packs, empty. They called the medical staff; they took him to hospital, for the second time in two weeks. They soon brought him back. He had no one outside to help him. I never heard that anyone had come to visit him.”

Jean Paul explained that the Home Office periodically required inmates to sign a standard letter agreeing to their continued detention on the basis that they could not be released because they had insufficient connections and support in London. The Home Office understood this as authorising them to keep the signatories in detention indefinitely.

“I saw everyone in front of me sign. But they didn’t understand the contents of the letter. ‘Have you read it?’ I asked one man. ‘No, I can’t read English,’ he said.

“When my own turn came, I tried to read the letter first. ‘Why can’t you just sign?’ the lady insisted. I went out for 15 minutes and read the document. I came back and told her I wasn’t signing. ‘You have to,’ she said. ‘It’s just our routine.’ ‘No, I don’t,’ I replied. I’d been living in London for 10 years; I refused to sign. I asked the lady what had happened to my file. The administration isn’t fit for purpose.

“One man told me how he’d been in and out of detention for two years. For the last couple of months inside, he’d heard nothing about his case. ‘I’m going back to my home country,’ he said. He’d had enough; he was giving up. They wear people down until they lose hope and agree to be deported.”

Jean Paul was allocated a duty solicitor and a different official was sent from the Home Office to interview him. He again gave his statement. The Home Office official explained that his application had been refused. “They make a decision, then you have the right to appeal,” Jean Paul explained. He prepared the appeal himself: “If you can’t write out your case for yourself, your solicitor can’t do anything, as he or she has at least 50 other people to deal with.”

Meanwhile, Jean Paul became ill; the removal centre was so dusty and dirty that he began to cough. “They pay people £1 an hour to clean,” he said – less than a tenth of the London living wage. One day, he coughed up blood. This really frightened him, so he reported to the doctor who came to Harmondsworth twice a week. He was taken to the infirmary, where he was kept in isolation, suspected of having tuberculosis. He had to wear a mask and was not allowed out. After three days, he had still been given no medicine, not even paracetamol; he was simply left to sit all day in the sick bay, waiting. But conditions were better in there; he had a room with a toilet and a small TV. Eventually, he was asked to do a spittle test, which came back inconclusive. A second, and finally a third test, proved negative.

Still, Jean Paul had to attend his appeal hearing in a mask. When the judge asked him why he was wearing such an item, he explained that he was suspected of having TB.

The judge, who was perceptive and well intentioned, observed that this was a “very complicated case which couldn’t be decided in a day”. Jean Paul recalled: “She looked at me and said: ‘I don’t see any reason why this person is here. This complex case has been mismanaged. Go home and I’ll write to you.’” She promised to contact him within three months and ordered his immediate release. She added that a copy of his book would be required for his future hearing, as well as an expert report on his native country.

It took Jean Paul two further days to secure his release. In the meantime, he was brought back to the medical centre. “All that time nothing happened,” he said. He called his solicitor, who merely said: “Oh, are you still there?” The medical staff had no idea what was supposed to happen next. Security staff claimed that they had received no notification about him being released. He had no choice but to stay a further night in detention while he tried to trace for himself who it was who was supposed to be responsible for organising his release.

“I was in detention for just two weeks and it had an impact on my mental health,” he said. “What about those who were in there for six months?”

The Home Office informed Jean Paul that he was henceforth not allowed to work. Unable to earn any money for himself, Jean Paul was dependent on his friends, who proved unstinting in their support. They made good on their offer to provide him accommodation for free. They looked after him with care and devotion, and raised the money to appoint him a good solicitor.

But the anticipated letter never arrived. “They’d discovered their mistake,” Jean Paul commented. Eventually the solicitor called the Home Office, only to be informed that they had no record of him ever being in detention. “They erased everything, to obliterate their error,” Jean Paul said. “That upset me more than anything else. I was the victim of a bureaucratic system where no one cares; where the decision is made beforehand and no one can be bothered.”

After three months, Jean Paul was given a date to attend an appeal tribunal. Once again, he carefully prepared the latest and most updated reports about his home country. He included letters of reference from his former employers at the school, from the priest of the church where he volunteered, as well as from a friend working at the Foreign Office. He included a copy of his book and his other writings, as the judge at Harmondsworth had advised.

On the day itself, he came accompanied by his British girlfriend, his friend from the Foreign Office and his priest, who brought his wife and his guide dog with him.

‘When they’re released, they’re handed over to immigration – together with people who’re simply seeking asylum.’ Photograph: Heloise/Alamy

It proved to be a theatre of the absurd. The court appointed an interpreter, even though Jean Paul spoke and wrote excellent English and held two degrees in modern languages. The Home Office solicitor had neither read, nor even possessed copies of, any of the new documents. The judge deferred the proceedings for 30 minutes and provided her with the materials. She then proceeded to ask ridiculous questions, based on an outdated 2007 report, when Jean Paul had provided the most recent 2015 findings. “The Home Office hadn’t even updated its information online,” Jean Paul said.

She asked Jean Paul questions about his native country’s rating, which should have been well-known to the Home Office; it ranked among the highest ever assigned for persecution, lawlessness and violence. She declared in conclusion: “Since a previous trial had been held, justice surely had no doubt been done.” Jean Paul was left in tears.

The judge brought the proceedings to a close with the pronouncement that she was not going to make her decision on the spot. She would make it known within the following two weeks.

In her letter, which followed soon afterwards, she gave Jean Paul leave to remain in the UK until 2020, noting that this had been granted on the basis of “the evidence provided”, with the added observations that “one had only to type the referent’s name into Google to see that he would be arrested at once if he returned to his native country”, and that, “if he ever went back, even for a visit, he’d certainly have to change it.”

The tribunal determined that the case would be kept anonymous, purportedly on account of its sensitivity. “But was this the genuine reason?” wondered Jean Paul. “Or was it not rather that the Home Office was trying to cover up its confusion and erase the traces of the mess it had made?”

I asked Jean Paul if he thought the system was cruel, callous, careless or just plain chaotic. “The problem with the Home Office,” he said, “is that you never see the same person twice. The next man or woman doesn’t know your case; there’s no real follow-up. The system is overloaded.” The staff themselves, he acknowledged, were as varied as anywhere else: some were unfeeling, some couldn’t care, some were genuinely kind.

Had he pursued the reasons why his papers went missing? No, he had not. He had started a new job in Whitechapel; he had become engaged and hoped to be married the following summer. “My life has moved on since then,” he said. Looking back was evidently too painful, and, at this juncture, pointless. It had taken six months to return to normal life. But his experiences had left him with nightmares. “And I had friends on the outside to help me,” he said. “Many of the people in there had nobody, not a soul to speak on their behalf.”

In the UK, people don’t disappear in massacres or acts of terror committed by the government or by militias that everyone knows are implicated but no one has the power and authority to indict. That is why Britain and similar democracies are not places from which persecuted people generally long to escape. Their longstanding humanitarian tradition, their reputation for tolerance, and the widespread rule of law make them islands of refuge from state-sponsored murder and mass violence. People don’t vanish into hidden mass graves.

But there are other ways of disappearing: when you’ve got no voice; when, even if you have, those around you don’t, or won’t, find the time to listen; when they lack the will to hear you in their conscience, or the compassion to care about you in their hearts.

You don’t go missing – only your files do, and your presence in the thoughts of those who ought to care, and the record of the experiences that hurt you, and that drove others to despair.

This piece appears in Refugee Tales Vol III, edited by David Herd and Anna Pincus, which is published on 4 July by Comma Press and available at guardianbookshop.com. Refugee Tales is an outreach project of Gatwick Detainees Welfare Group, and all proceeds from the books go to GDWG and Kent Refugee Help.

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