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Henrietta Bollinger
The things we share
My family were German-Jews. This is the most succinct explanation, though the reality is more complex. My family were German-Jews in the eyes of the Third Reich. My great-grandmother had been brought up in Berlin, not Orthodox, but very connected through her parents to the rest of her Jewish community. She converted to Catholicism at eighteen and later married my great-grandfather who had been brought up Catholic. Yet it was Jewishness that would force them to leave their home in search of a new and safer life. Identity labels ascribed at either the will or grace of others were a feature of their story. My great-grandparents were expected to report to police frequently when they first arrived in New Zealand. Having fled from Germany they were suspected by authorities, because they might be spies for that same country. So, the road, which ended in their naturalised citizenship, was an uneasy one — despite New Zealand wishing to view itself as a gracious place that opened its arms to refugees. It is them I think of when looking at global politics today. I attended the Women’s March with a sign saying I was marching as the queerdisabled-granddaughter of a refugee. I thought of them when looking at the images of JFK airport. Closer to home, I thought of them as we debated our own refugee quota and when our Prime Minister failed, in my view, to respond to Trump’s refugee ban with adequate energy. The lack of response prompted me to write my first ever letter to the Prime Minister. We see the issue in such a different light from one another that I am skeptical whether my letter had any impact. I received a reply on his behalf assuring me that the Office of the Prime Minister were satisfied with their own level of response. However, I felt an urgency to convey that there is a heart-wrenchingly human side to the issue. This was once my family, and could well be me. It is easy to get lost when important debates like these are discussed in language of quotas and everything is so carefully measured. While some of this may be prudent, in terms of making sure we are providing for all citizens, it can also be a way of hiding. What we lose behind the statistics is that these are the lives of real people. Real people are always going to be harder to discuss; they cannot be as easily categorised or dismissed as numbers. I read somewhere that statistics are people with the tears wiped away. Real people have to be looked in the eyes. I think that braver and more empathetic leadership when responding to a refugee crisis or developing an immigration policy with heart requires putting real people back into the discussion. For a start, I would like to hear the word “people” used more by our politicians and media than quota, group, or population. I come back to the people present in my own history. My greatgrandparents Maria and John Dronke were exceptionally grateful and affectionate citizens of a country which, in accepting them, had saved their lives and the lives of their children. My great-grandparents went on to make