Sci Fi as Radical Empathy

Imagine you are a middle class family in the UK. More specifically, one of the parents in the family.

You wake up one morning, suddenly having the memories and felt experience of knowing someone as your son. Someone whom you had never heard of yesterday. Maybe you wouldn't even have been able to pronounce his name, or find his country of origin on a map.

But you suddenly know his name. You remember when he was born. You remember his life as if you were his parent.

You know you are not his parent. But your feelings for this young man are just as strong as they are for your own child.

And you know exactly where he is. And you know how he got there.

He is waiting for a boat to cross the English Channel. You know how long he has been waiting in Calais. You know how long it took him to get to Calais from his country of origin and what that journey was like.

You grab your phone and see that you have his phone number in your phone. You phone him immediately to see where he is. How he is. If he has eaten. If he is safe.

Is he about to get on the boat? What kind of boat is it? Will it be overloaded? Does he have a real life saver or is it one of those fake ones?

You feel sick to your stomach. "Oh my God. Please. I don't want you to get on that boat."

You call in to work to say you can't go in. Your child is in danger and you must go to him.

You figure out how to get to Calais, trying to plan a route. You think about how, once there, you could smuggle him into the UK in your car. Would your car be checked? Would such a middle class person as you be suspected of smuggling in someone?

The young man phones you back. "There is a boat coming now. I am going to get on it. Don't worry. I will be fine."

Your stomach sinks. You remember all the news stories of migrants dying in the English Channel. You feel so sick, you can barely think.

"Send me your location."

He does. You try to guess where the boat will land and you get dressed quickly.

Your partner and children suddenly rush into your room and ask where the young man is. They too now have a felt sense of this human being part of the family.

Your voice quivers and you look at your partner carefully. "Uh, I think he's on his way."

Your partner looks scared. Your teenager looks anxious but glances at the pre-teen. "Oh."

"That's good, right?" asks the pre-teen. All three try to agree in various degrees of believability.

The pre-teen walks away uneasily.

The teenager whispers to you, "What are we going to do?"

You answer that you are headed to the coast to try to meet his boat. The teenager says, "I am coming with you."

Your partner says nothing and the three of you get ready, drop the pre-teen off at school. You phone a neighbour to ask if the pre-teen can go there after school. They say yes.

The three of you head to the coast. You text the young man. "We are on our way to pick you up from the coast. How is your battery? Where are you?"

No reply.

You keep driving and driving. Just silence in the car. "It's too quiet," says the teenager.

Your partner clicks the radio on. It's BBC Radio 4. The "migrant crisis" is a top news story, given it's summer and the sea has been calm. Record numbers of migrants are arriving.

Your phone pings. The three of you jump.

The young man has replied. "On the boat."

The teenager asks, "How long will it take the boat to get here?"

Your partner says, "I don't know. Let me look it up." They Google it.

"I can't find anything. It's just about numbers and nationalities," they say angrily.

The teenager pipes in. "The shortest distance is 20 miles. How long would that take? What's the fastest a small boat can go?"

Silence as the two people not driving are on their phones.

Again, the teenager. "A dinghy boat could be seven miles per hour. So maybe three hours."

"If it's lucky," mutters your partner.

None of you has eaten breakfast, yet you know there is no point in asking if anyone is hungry. It doesn't even cross your mind, really. Because the thought is immediately interrupted by wondering if he is hungry. Hopefully he has not eaten so that he does not get sick on the boat.

You arrive at the coast. He sends his location. You drive further down the coast, trying to guess where the boat will land.

You see several other cars and families, couples, individuals standing on the coast.

Your heart sinks. Your partner glances at you.

The teenager asks, "Are those far right protesters?"

"I hope not," you say, not very hopefully.

The three of you exit the car. People turn to look at you, suspiciously. Some are crying. You relax.

"Are you waiting for someone, too?"

Everyone begins chatting. You find out that no one is waiting for your young man. But each family, couple, individual is waiting for someone different. And none of you knew their person before this morning.

"What is going on?" an elderly man wails. "I can't bear this. What if she drowns with the baby?"

Someone gets a text with the location again. This happens periodically and everyone scrambles to move their cars.

"What do we do when they arrive?" A discussion ensues about whether they should contact the police to claim asylum given that they will immediately be sent to an immigration detention centre before receiving some kind of hotel housing.

"No. Absolutely not," cries out the elderly man. "They can't go into a horrific place like that. Not even for a few days."

Another person gets a text. "They are not coming the shortest way. This is going to take them hours."

A baby starts to cry. The father cuddles him and puts him in a sling. "What are we going to do?" he asks everyone helplessly.

They organise to get food, find out where the nearest toilets are, and decide to keep a look out for the far right and the police.

"If they need the Coast Guard, though," you say reluctantly, "they will end up needing to claim asylum. They will enter the system."

Silence.

"It's stupid to put them in overcrowded places when they can come home with us," a middle-aged man in a suit says angrily.

Silence.

A woman with a pushchair suddenly gasps, "Have we got blankets and warm clothes? Those special blankets that are shiny." Her voice is shaky. "We need supplies. Supplies for them."

Everyone organises around getting the supplies.

Hours pass. Some lose touch with loved ones on the boat as batteries die. Others are updated with locations and reassurances that they are still OK. People cry with relief after each text. But within minutes the worry kicks in again.

The hours pass by. And each person knows that three scenarios are possible:

The boat sinks.

Everyone arrives safely.

Only some arrive safely.

Only the children are able to eat.

Everyone else just waits, sick to their stomachs.