As an organisation rooted in mental health, wellbeing and community support, we know how important it is for people to feel heard, welcomed and valued. Through our work with refugees and asylum seekers, including partnerships with organisations such as Active Horizons, we have seen first-hand how stories of migration, belonging and resilience shape lives and communities.

This commitment to listening runs throughout our work. Previous projects such as Minding Histories which was based on migration, resettlement and mental health have explored how oral history and personal testimony can help preserve lived experience, challenge stigma and build understanding between communities. We believe that behind every journey is a human story, and that listening to those stories with empathy is an important part of creating healthier, more compassionate communities.

To mark Refugee Week, we are pleased to share the poignant poem The Death of the Fruit Picker by our CEO, Dr David Palmer. Drawing on his work in oral history, research and performance poetry, the poem reflects on migration, labour, belonging and the lives of those whose stories are often overlooked or unheard.

Refugee Week is not only about awareness. It is about solidarity. It asks us to consider the kind of communities we want to build: places where people are met with compassion rather than suspicion, where difference is respected, and where those seeking safety are welcomed with dignity and kindness.
Together, we can honour the courage of refugees and people seeking sanctuary, recognise their contributions to our society, and continue to stand for community, understanding and hope.

The Death of the Fruit Picker

By D. A. Palmer

The flags hang high above the pubs and clubs,
St George fluttering in the summer heat,
while inside they cheer the goals
of men whose stories reach back to
Ghana,
Senegal,
Congo,
and Iran.

Nobody notices the contradiction.

The strawberries do.

Some are bruised by rain.
Some swollen with sweetness.
Some hidden beneath leaves.
Some ripening in plain sight.
Some arrive early.
Some take longer.
No two quite the same.

Yet the harvest needs them all.

The fruit hangs heavy in the fields,
waiting for hands no longer welcome.

The pickers have all gone.

The harvest waits.

The field remembers.

I remember another time.

Brighton.

Nineteen eighty-four.

The Grand Hotel.

The whispers.

The headlines.

“No Irish wanted here.”

The faces change.

The accents change.

The fear remains.

Today it wears a different slogan.

Stop the boats.

Stop the stranger.

Neighbours become strangers.

Strangers become threats.

And somewhere,
without ceremony,
compassion quietly leaves the room.

The phones glow.

TikTok scrolls.

Algorithms feed.

The headlines shout.

Politicians strike the match
and step back from the fire.

Children wash ashore
before anyone learns their names.

The crowd grows louder.

As Brecht warned,

Arturo Ui does not arrive marching.

He arrives smiling.

He arrives reasonable.

He arrives disguised
as common sense.

Dangerous ideas rarely announce themselves.

They settle slowly.

Like dust.

Like mould.

Like rot beneath the skin of fruit.

The fields are still fertile.

The fruit still grows.

But who will gather it?

A country built by journeys now fears the traveller.

A people shaped by arrivals
now fear the arrival.

And every banner taken down
takes a story with it.

The Irish labourer.

The Jamaican nurse.

The Nigerian carer.

The Polish builder.

The refugee child.

The fruit picker.

Standing at the edge of the field,

I find myself wondering

not only what will become of them,

but what will become of us.

Fear becomes inheritance.

Suspicion becomes habit.

Kindness becomes something
people apologise for.

The fruit still ripens.

The harvest still waits.

The fields keep their own counsel,
unconcerned with where the rain began
or where the seeds first travelled.

They ask only

whether anything will grow.

For nothing…

not strawberries,

not communities,

not countries…

has ever flourished alone.

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If you would like to find out more about more about Refugee Week, please visit the website