Article
Comment
Freedom of Belief
Gaza
Middle East
Migration
7 min read

What the Gaza conflict and the asylum seeker row have in common

Iran’s persecution drives its Christians here. This is their story.

Graham is the Director of the Centre for Cultural Witness and a former Bishop of Kensington.

Rows of soldiers march away from the camera, two in the back row turn their heads back.
Officers at Iran’s Sacred Defence Week parade, 2023.
Tasnim News Agency, CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

The Israel-Gaza war and the recent row between the church and the UK government over asylum seekers don’t seem on the surface to have much to do with each other. But they do have a common denominator: Iran.  

Iran may not have directly sponsored Hamas’ infamous attacks on Israel on October 7th but without Iranian support for Hamas, it is unthinkable that they would have happened. Iran remains on the list of those countries who sponsor terrorist organisations across the Middle East, such as the Houthis in Yemen, and are widely regarded as a force for instability and undermining democracy across the region.  

It is also one of the most repressive nations on earth. It counts in the top ten of countries where freedom of religion or belief are restricted. According to the Open Doors’ World Watch List, list, Iran is the ninth most dangerous country to be a Christian in 2024, just behind Sudan and ahead of Afghanistan. With 1.2 million Christians in the country, they make up just 1.4 per cent of Iran’s population, and yet, they are considered to be a risk to national security and a means by which the West is seeking to undermine the Iranian government. This inevitably makes life incredibly hard for the Christians who call Iran home; to be a recognised Christian means to live your life as a second-class citizen, under constant surveillance, and enduring endless discrimination. 

Given that Iran is hardly a friend of the UK, the USA and its allies, you might have thought western governments would do all they could to support people seeking to escape the country, or a movement that draws people away from the influence of the mullahs. Which makes the attack on asylum seekers seeking baptism in UK churches all the more perplexing. 

Over the past week, Seen & Unseen has spoken to several Iranian Christians in the UK. These are definitely not bogus Christians. Some came to Christianity in Iran after a Muslim upbringing. Others were born into the small Christian community in Iran. Some are training to be ordained in the Church of England, and many of them have been imprisoned for their faith in Iran before coming to the UK. 

“The persecution that Christians are facing in Iran is absolutely real. Does that mean that some of them are leaving the country? Yes. I had to. I’m here. I had to leave my home.” 

One man, Mehdi (his name has been changed to protect his identity) became a Christian in Iran at the age of 18. His older brother converted to the new faith first and Mehdi, having seen his big brother struggling with violence, anger, depression and drugs, was curious about the complete and immediate change in his brother’s life. That curiosity led him to believe in Jesus. It became immediately obvious to these two brothers that their new faith was going to make their life complicated; and at the age of 20 and 26, they found themselves being arrested for the first time.  

He explains what drew him, and many others to Christianity. “It’s the same for many Iranians. There were people around us who are who were, and still are, dealing with lots of difficulties because of the economic situation, because of the oppression and corruption of the government. It feels like there’s no hope, no solution. The only solution can be found in the hidden places. It’s Jesus. He is the hope of a new life.” 

He tells us how Iran sees Christians: “They believe that Christianity is a weapon of Western countries, with a long-term plan to convert Islamic countries like Iran so that they can alter the culture and take the power.” 

After years in prison, much of it in solitary confinement in degrading conditions and yet more threats from the authorities, he was forced to leave Iran. He is now living in the UK with his wife, and at the midway point in his training to be a priest.  

We wanted to know what he thought of the comments concerning the church and ‘bogus asylum claims’: 

“The violation of human rights, the right to both free speech and freedom of belief, in Iran is real, it’s true, it’s happening. The persecution that Christians are facing in Iran is absolutely real. Does that mean that some of them are leaving the country? Yes. I had to. I’m here. I had to leave my home. And there aren’t enough legal routes, there aren’t enough ways to seek asylum in countries like the UK.  

So, it’s true that Christians are leaving Iran. I’m one of them. And I was incredibly lucky, I got here safely and securely.”  

Another convert, Hassan (also a false name to protect identity) while at home in Iran, went though the usual teenage angst, wondering about his place in the world, and whether God really exists. He delved into Islamic theology but says it left him ‘feeling empty’.  

After a few months of praying that God would somehow reveal himself, Hassan had a dream of a figure on a cross. This was the beginning of a journey that led him to faith in Jesus Christ. Hassan talks about his experience with the immigration system: “It’s hard for the Home Office, but the church has an important role to play – to support the people who have been persecuted, who have never before had a place to learn about or worship God. Those who have never had the freedom to express their faith, or live in their faith.”  

They are habitually religious people, so are not naturally drawn to atheism or agnosticism. On arriving in the UK, which they assume to be a Christian country, they naturally want to explore the faith of the country that they have arrived in. 

An Iranian refugee Darbina, unlike the others, was born as a Christian into a Christian family. Yet she speaks of how Christians are persecuted in Iran. She says they are treated like second class citizens, unable to sell food because they are regarded as unclean, unable to enter many professions because they are Christian. She describes the open surveillance of Christians. Her father, a pastor, was imprisoned for ‘acting against national security’ by organising small groups and illegal gatherings. Eventually Daria herself was imprisoned for a year. She experienced degrading treatment as a woman in a predominantly male prison, and frequently had to listen to the torture of others.  

There is another common story. Many Iranians leave Iran not yet as Christians, but seeking a better life from an economically depressed nation and disillusioned with the form of Shia Islam found in the country. They are habitually religious people, so are not naturally drawn to atheism or agnosticism. On arriving in the UK, which they assume to be a Christian country, they naturally want to explore the faith of the country that they have arrived in, even when they find the UK church more lukewarm than they expected. Of course, there are a number of Iranian Christians already in the UK such as Mehdi, Nasir and Daria, ready to help them discover a faith which has become vital to them. This would seem a much more common explanation of Iranian Christians wanting baptism, then simply a cynical attempt to manipulate the asylum system.  

Of course, there are Iranian and migrants from other countries claiming false conversion as a means of advancing their case for asylum. No-one doubts that. Yet the problem has been exaggerated. A recent Times report found that since January 2023 only 28 cases were heard at the Upper Tribunal Court in which a claimant cited conversion to Christianity as a reason to be granted asylum – in other words, just one per cent of cases heard. And of those 28, seven appeals were approved, 13 were dismissed and new hearings were ordered in eight cases. Hardly an ‘industrial scale’ operation. Yet there is a great deal of evidence of numerous people like those we spoke to, who have genuinely converted to Christianity, either in Iran itself, or in the west.   

More significant than the comparatively small number of fake claims, is evidence of a genuine religious revival amongst Iranian Muslims, drawn to Christianity as a more attractive option than the oppressive form of Islam they find in their homeland. Attacks on Iranian and other migrants, with the implication that all Iranians seeking conversion are bogus, or at least feeding suspicion of such claims to conversion is undermining exactly the kind of movement that you would have thought that the British government would be wanting to encourage. 

If there is something of a spiritual revival taking place amongst Iranian Muslims then this should be something to be celebrated rather than penalised or tarred with the brush of deception. We owe it to these people who have risked their lives to find a better way of living and believing.  

Article
Comment
Politics
7 min read

What’s up with activism and what it is missing

As local elections occur in England, Councillor Elizabeth Wainwright is stepping down. Finding herself increasingly distant from activism, she asks if there’s any room for love.

Elizabeth Wainwright is a writer, coach and walking guide. She's a former district councillor and has a background in international development.

A protestor hold a megaphone up at a demonstration outside a building
A 2017 protest against London Fashion Week.

During my term as a Green Party District Councillor, I was once publicly congratulated by the local Extinction Rebellion (XR) group for taking on the new role of ‘Cabinet Member for Climate Change’.  

A week or two later, I was questioned at a Council meeting about whether I was part of XR – opposition Councillors wanted to know if I’d be using their “extreme rent-a-mob tactics” in my role.  

The local XR group are kind and knowledgeable and are making things happen. But to my Council questioners, this seemed to matter less than the fear of the ‘other’ – in this case, what they perceived to be a mob of environmental extremists that might do harm to the Council. It works both ways – I’ve also seen activist groups paint all elected Councillors with the same brush, assuming none of us care. It feels like there is little grace and a lot of judgement going round.  

I’ve been curious why local non-activist residents and Councillors might not be keen to engage with activist groups (the term ‘activist’ is a broad one, and this article isn’t long enough to analyse it, but activist groups are generally engaged in activities to bring about social, environmental or political change).

Some tell me that they’re put off by what they perceive to be self-righteousness, judgement, anger, and the ‘hippy’ identity. I am put off by some of these things too, however much the media might falsely amplify these qualities – but still, perceptions close down relationship and possibility, and this is one of the things that keeps me at arm’s length from the ‘activist’ label, particularly when it gets caught up in group identity and expectation too. At a time when we need to see change in so many things – the state of the environment, politics, social equality – I’ve been wondering why I feel a distance from the ‘activist’ identity.  

As well as getting elected, I’ve taken part in marches, signed petitions, joined social and environmental action groups. I want to walk alongside others who are doing something about the things that matter. But I have struggled to find the in-between of ‘slacktivism’ on the one hand (supporting causes largely online with little commitment), and intense commitment to a particular group or tribe on the other. And I am tired, because despite the protests, volunteering, and organising, the challenges seem bigger than ever. These efforts are important, but protesting the status quo isn’t enough.  

I look at the NGOs, political groups, roles, funding proposals, slogans, meetings and glossy branding that are often part of activism and civil society more broadly – and are tools I’ve used myself – and I find myself doubting that these things can really bring about the change we need in our relationship with each other and the planet. We need more than better branding, or more funding, or more campaigns. As Audre Lorde said, the “master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” I find myself distancing from the urgency of activism, volunteerism, and campaigning in their current forms.  

I’ve felt public discourse and action become less patient, more certain, more fragmented, with little room for curiosity and open conversations.

As well as form, I also feel a disconnection from engagement with and discussion of the issues of our time. In my involvement in social and environmental action over 20 years, I’ve sensed the shift brought about by rapidly evolving technology and media, which mean social and moral norms are evolving too. I’ve felt public discourse and action become less patient, more certain, more fragmented, with little room for curiosity and open conversations – sometimes explicitly through cancel culture or more subtly through othering and unintentional judgement. I think of a song by Sam Fender called White Privilege which includes the lines  

“Everybody's offended… I'm not entirely sure the nitpicking can count as progression… Nobody talks to each other for fear of different opinions…”  

Perhaps that closing down of conversation is in part down to social media and its algorithms which respond well to noise, performance, and oversimplification – it is not a space designed to help us relate across difference and understand each other, yet this is vital if we are to create the change needed in ourselves and in the world.  

I want to be part of meaningfully and wisely addressing the world’s sickness, not desperately and loudly treating its symptoms. I have been wondering if there’s another way I might think about creating change. 

Author, educator and social critic bell hooks (who prefers her name written in lowercase) wrote her book All About Love because she was 

“thinking about how we love and what is needed for ours to become a culture where love’s sacred presence can be felt everywhere”. 

She laments the lovelessness that is pervasive in our society. She goes on to say,  

“profound changes in the way we think and act must take place if we are to create a loving culture”.  

Sometimes, the issues at stake demand that we weep, raise our voices, get angry. Jesus turned over trading tables in the temple when he saw the sacred space had been turned into a marketplace – he got angry. But ultimately, he asks that we love our neighbours, including our enemies.   

And yet sometimes I wonder whether we know how to love in the world as it is today. hooks says,  

“In the realm of the political, amongst the religious, in our families, and in our romantic lives, we see little indication that love informs decisions, strengthens our understanding of community, or keeps us together.”  

In her lectures on ending racism and sexism, she notices that her audiences, especially the young,  

“become agitated when I speak about the place of love in any movement for social justice” 

despite the great movements for social justice having emphasised love. Her listeners seem 

“reluctant to embrace the idea of love as a transformative force.”  

We need to see love as a transformative force though. We say we believe in it; we make films and write poetry about it, we see it guide communities during collective experiences like global pandemics, we turn our faces towards it, we seem to want it. Perhaps this is where the hope is – that we want love in its various forms, even if we are embarrassed to say so. Love is not naïve, it does not ask us to be nice and polite, or eternally optimistic. Its presence does not remove negativity, disagreement, people who let us down. But I think it gives us the eyes and tools to work together, and to stand in compassion before judgement. 

If we take love and affection for our neighbour and places seriously, understanding what it looks like in practice, then movements for change can begin right where we are – in our language, in our community, in relationships that ripple out. In a placeless and disconnected age, perhaps this is the kind of activism that would help us heal ourselves as well as the world. Author Simone Weil said that  

“the gospel makes no distinction between the love of neighbour and justice.”  

I am becoming drawn to a love-led activism, an activism that is made from the hard day-to-day work of listening, and patience, and loving what’s sometimes hard to love. It might mean taking time to build relationships with people who aren’t like us. It might mean breaking out of our institutions and tribal groups, hearing each other across difference, and imagining new possibilities together rather than form ever-tighter clubs. It might mean getting soil not screens between our fingers, rooting in relationship, slowing down, paying attention. Whatever it looks like, it must appeal to both activists and non-activists, because we must all be involved in calling forth new worlds.  

The Bible is full of calls to love justice, to defend the weak, to provide for the poor and hungry, to defy the authorities when we need to – but to do all this, as Paul says, “rooted and grounded in love”. Micah says,  

“what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”  

As bell hooks knew, justice goes hand-in-hand with love. It is hard for one to exist without the other.  

We can choose to open up conversations or shut them down, to walk with others or retreat behind ideological lines, to stand in judgement or relationship, fear or love.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter whether we’re catalysed by anger, indignation, love, or care – but it matters what we go on to do with that spark. We can choose to open up conversations or shut them down, to walk with others or retreat behind ideological lines, to stand in judgement or relationship, fear or love. I think about what might come next when I stand down as a District Councillor at the next election, following a pull to do justice, and to love kindness more than belong to a political tribe. If we choose, we could build a loving culture, weaving a social fabric where activists and non-activists can see past current paradigms and feel able to work together, holding each other up as neighbours whilst nurturing beauty, hope and the becoming world. It may have no clear identity, it may not suit the noise of social media, but this is work that I want to be a part of.