Years of Persecution at the Hands of Polar Bears: an outsider's view of an insider's peril

Part 1

(the views expressed in this piece are the author’s own. They are made up from a compilation of thoughts, feelings and experiences. While they are based on some factual knowledge, you will find no boring quotes and no references backing up what is expressed. As a result, this piece is vulnerable and open to criticism, of which I expect some)

All animals are self-interested. The desire to preserve themselves is uncontrollable. The Universe, believe it or not, is perfectly balanced in this respect; it allows for the expression of this instinct, because if it didn’t it would cease to exist. Ninety degrees north lies the northern most point of the earth; located within one of the most hostile environments in the world – the North Pole. At the risk of sounding as stereo-typically banal as the brave men and women who offer us a running commentary of our natural world for our supposed entertainment, allow me to make the following statement - a great battle for survival takes place in this environment – a battle fought between the inhabitants of this barren wasteland. Polar bears have been persecutor(y) (introspectively, for their own survival), while seals (mainly) have suffered persecution at their hands. But can either party be seen as good or evil, or does this cycle of persecution just act to reinforce the smooth running of the Universe?

When I was 18 my brother was tragically killed. At some point after that, and I’m not sure exactly when, I became two people. One essentially good, compassionate and sociable, and the other angry, obsessive, anti-social and out of control. I am now actively trying to kill the latter. I’ve systematically blamed this turning point in my life, if you can call it that, on me leaving everything I knew and transplanting myself into an emotional void.

Arrival

The United Kingdom can hardly be described as vast, but can most certainly be described as diverse, and daunting. I use these two terms in a seemingly ironic fashion in an attempt to describe the form my own mindset was abruptly molded into when I first set foot on this rock of opportunity. It's a crisp morning – the day after Valentine ’s Day and my father’s birthday - when the wheels of my very own life support system touch down on runway Infinity. And it is at that very moment that I, myself – in my own mind - touched down into my own, very personal, hell. Having left the sunny shores or Cape Town, South Africa, it's much more than the bleak and unforgiving weather which creates the surreal sense that I have made possibly the biggest mistake of my life.

I exit the aircraft and am immediately struck by the busy, blind and elusive atmosphere which characterises Heathrow Airport and which extends far beyond its walls. Baggage claim is a blur – I am still stuck in surrealism, my mind wrung into tiny creases; folded over itself in disorientation, uncertainty and dread. I need something familiar; something on which I could stake my claim and say, ‘yes, I know this’. That something is waiting for me just around the corner and even though I know that I, at the very same time, doubt it’s surety with every inch of my body and mind. I tug my bag off carousel Ambition in an almost automatic fashion. I am in much the same state as the Boeing 737-400 I had just disembarked was in for most of my flight – trimmed for straight and level flight; on autopilot.

Immigration. Every foreigner’s worst nightmare and every Zimbabwean’s recurring worst nightmare. Will my visa be valid? Will the thing my family had paid so much for; this stamp on one leaf of my passport hold up against the scrutiny of the juggernaut-like immigration officer who seems so determined to turn me back; so sure that I am not meant to be here. How could he even think for one second that I was meant to be here when I, myself, had thought quite the opposite up to this point. Standing in the long queue with all my colleagues from flight Determination, and others from other flights from other far away places, I try and pick out the nicest-looking and least intimidating immigration officer and, even though I know that my efforts are totally and utterly futile, I try to position myself so that when I’m stood at the judgment podium, she’s stood on the other side. Relief – my futile calculations seem to have worked; I’m faced with the immigration officer I’ve had my eye on since the back of the queue.

A quick hello, and then to business - no emotion, no attachment, just business. I hold out my passport, almost embarrassed at its emblem and green cover. I am certainly not a European; I barely qualify as an African with my passport held out in front of me. It’s funny how a little book can determine your fate. The bible saves people in much the same way that my passport can strip me of my dreams and destroy me. I feel naked and exposed holding it out in front of me. I place it on the brightly-lit table for my immigration officer’s perusal. She places the page housing my visa under an ultra-violet light to confirm or dispute its authenticity. I’m half expecting the page to merely disintegrate, and for armed guards (perhaps a specialist unit formed for this very purpose; to make the lives of Zimbabwean’s with unauthentic visas a living nightmare) to drop from the ceiling and crash through the windows all at the ready; waiting to ship me off to a detention centre or, worse, to send me back to the country of my birth. But, the sane half of me knows it will all be alright and that half prevails in the end. My immigration officer then checks a blacklist of Zimbabweans who are not allowed to enter the United Kingdom for political reasons. Here, again, my irrational mind takes over. Even though I know I cannot possibly be on that list, I’m still fearful. Sane wins in this instance, and Irrational is left wanting…again. Finally, I’m through. A quick medical questionnaire in a white and sterile room and I’m through. Ejected quickly from the airport building into the land of opportunity. I can’t wait.