In this beautifully written and detailed short story Jetha Makieleka shares her family story and reflects on how she now supports refugees and in so doing solves the problems for others that shaped her childhood. A story of hope.
Crossing The Bridge
All she could hear was the sound of her heart beating, though she was surrounded by the sound of luggage wheels rolling on the airport floor and public announcements. She stood at the back of the queue. The officers wore navy blue uniforms and stood behind the desks, checking passports. She held onto both her children who stood beside her—one on the left and the other on the right, their hands locked into hers.
“Stay calm,” she whispered to herself.
Only three people were in front of her until she reached the front desk. Her eyes moved to scan the rest of the airport. Everyone was moving in different directions, yet they all shared a commonality: they were all headed to a destination. Everyone looked like they had somewhere to be.
Apart from them, she felt her mind racing back to reality. We stand out, she thought to herself, and wondered if the officers would pick up on it.
Only two people until she was face-to-face with the officers in uniform. She had made it to Europe, but the journey was far from over. She was still standing in the middle of the bridge, with her old life on one end and what would become her new life on the other side. Home was now a place she buried deep in her memory; her mind took her back to the last words her mother spoke to her, in 40-degree heat, as they sat outside under the blazing African sun:
“Nothing is left of this place—go for your future.”
One person left. She locked eyes with one of the women in uniform. She had short brown hair, dark brown eyes, and rounded glasses that sat on her nose.
“Excusez-moi, madame, pourriez-vous vous avancer s’il vous plaît ?”
She took a deep breath and walked over to the desk. She thought she felt her hands shaking, so she bent down and pretended to fix one of the children’s jumpers.
“Stay calm,” she repeated to herself.
She handed over three passports and locked eyes with the lady. There was a deafening silence. The officer flicked through the pages of the passports, and her eyes landed on the children. She scanned them head to toe.
Then she pointed to the left side with no expression on her face.
They followed the rest of the crowd walking toward the plane. She felt relieved—and in that moment, she felt like she blended in, just like everybody else. They, too, had a destination. Somewhere to go.
Building A New Foundation
Dusty blue carpets, vintage computers, uncomfortable chairs, and the sound of people murmuring. We stood in line while we waited to be seen by one of the ladies at the desk. The queue was long as usual. Everyone had that look on their face, like they had a problem—not injuries or health issues, but an urgent matter they needed help solving.
I hated going to the advice bureau when I was a child; it was no place for children. There was nothing colourful or vibrant, no activity or movement. Just people with problems and desks, computers, books, and advisers to help them. It was the place my mother went for help with reading her letters.
“My council tax has gone up; can you please explain to me why?” my mother asked. She spoke with an accent and the English she had never been taught but learned in the few years she had lived in the UK.
It wasn’t until I was a 21-year-old law graduate, working at Citizens Advice, that I realised that while little me spent time kicking my feet out of the buggy and making faces to entertain myself in boring offices, my parents were forced to start over in a new land where they spoke a different language and had to adapt to an entirely new system.
“Look, Jetha, that’s the house we first moved into when we came to this country.”
Pieces of the puzzle of their story were scattered, and they were collecting them by reminding us how it all fell into place.
A Disconnected Bridge
We shared the same home, but we felt miles apart. They never understood our world—my siblings and I. To them, our lives were simple. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and both parents alive. What else could be wrong?
They were raised in a place where orphaned children wandered the dangerous streets at night—surviving, not living. There was no such thing as a “bad day at school” when attending one was a luxury.
My parents were doing something they had never done before: raising children in a land where they were foreigners.
We grew up in a vibrant, multicultural city. We loved Chinese takeaways; our local corner shop was owned by an Indian family. We blasted dancehall rhythms while cleaning our rooms. Our taste buds were too adventurous. Our music was too loud. We didn’t have much in common with our parents aside from DNA and blood.
We felt a deeper familiarity with our friends, who watched the same TV shows and listened to the same R&B songs. Meanwhile, my parents talked about family members we only knew from stories but to whom they sent money every week.
There were parts of us my parents would never relate to. We all stood on one bridge, but a divide ran through the middle. We stood at one end, and they stood at the other.
There was a disconnection.
Building Bridges ‘Then’
“Let’s race to the shop!” my brother yelled as he beat my sister and me. Breathless, we caught up to him at the local corner shop.
“Can we buy a phone card, please?”
“Which one?” the shopkeeper replied.
“African Tel.”
“That’ll be £5.”
“I’ll race you back home,” my brother said, and the three of us ran out to see who would get back first.
It became our weekly routine: we were sent to the shop to buy phone cards for our parents. They were disconnected from their past. The phone card took them back to a place they once called
At 28 years old, I am a mentoring programme coordinator for a small charity helping refugee families overcome barriers in education. I coordinate a programme for children aged 4–7. I witness how they first walk into the room shy and clinging to their parents—and then see how their personalities grow as they become familiar with the space.
Every child has a mentor who guides them through reading and writing.
For many parents, English is not their native language. Sometimes they say they didn’t understand their child’s homework, or they bring letters from the council and ask if I can help find a translator.
In those moments, I see glimpses of my childhood. I recognise their determination to give their children a better life, even with limited resources.
After each session, the volunteers and I debrief.
“I noticed her reading has improved; she’s sounding out letters and spelling words correctly,” a volunteer shares.
I sometimes think about my parents starting a new life in the UK. It takes me back in time, and I smile knowing that my siblings and I would have thrived in a space like the one I now help build.
It’s rewarding to know that, in some way, I am giving back to the little me—solving the problems that shaped my childhood.
I guess we are all subconsciously building bridges, creating new foundations that link to our past but lead toward a brighter future.
