This year, Freedom from Torture had a garden at the Chelsea Flower Show. I’d been shown a picture of it a few months ago, but when I saw it planted and installed in front of me, it was beyond anything I had imagined. There were plants there that reminded me of home, a tapestry of elements woven together like the tapestry of survivors from every corner of the world, brought here to be healed. And right in the middle a sanctuary, a place to sit and reflect around the oven our bread group will be using in their baking sessions. I’m excited to see how it will look when it’s planted here in its new home, thinking of all the people who’ll be nourished and nurtured to blossom again, as I have been.
When I first set foot into the UK, I smelled opportunities all around me. I felt energetic; ready to immerse myself in doing something productive. But when my asylum application was refused and I was faced with deportation, all my hopes were dashed. My life, which had been so brightly-coloured, faded to grey.
After a chance meeting, I ended up being accepted as a client at Freedom from Torture. On the day of my first appointment, I was told to wait at reception. The dark sky outside mirrored the darkness in my heart. But as I sat quietly waiting, I noticed the sound of running water, and pots full of plants and flowers. I was so engrossed looking at them, that when the therapist called my name, I didn’t even hear it.
What I loved most
That first session was really hard. The moment my therapist put her hand on mine, the dam burst. Tears I had held in for so long cascaded down my cheeks. I sobbed until my nose was running, my eyes red and my head throbbing. But the tight knot in my heart began to loosen. Nothing much was said on that day, but she asked me what I loved most. I talked about my love of nature and how, even through the fog of misery, the reception area had lifted my spirits. Every week I went back. And I tried to answer her questions as fully as I could, without giving myself nightmares.
Back in my home country, Zimbabwe, the nights are hot. It’s normal for people to sleep outside, to watch the sunset and wake when the sun rises. When I was very young, my grandmother Nora used to sleep beside me and tell me how beautiful it was to watch the sun. She said that as it rises, something special rises in you. She talked about the magic of nature, pointing out how sweet the flowers smelled. I had so much love for Nora, I lapped up every word she said to me.
At home, I had a small patch in our garden, where I could plant flowers and vegetables. I tended to the cabbages, carrots, onions, ground nuts and potatoes as though they were my whole world. During prayer time, I would ask that the grasshoppers wouldn’t eat my vegetables. Everyone would burst out laughing – they still joke about it to this day. My love for the garden grew and grew with each sunrise. I would sing to my flowers, I’d tell them stories and I could feel them talk back. I was sure that the following day they would look even more beautiful.
The gardening group at Freedom from Torture
At Freedom from Torture, as the sessions progressed, I began to trust my therapist more. When you’ve been tortured, you’re not interested in somebody’s qualifications; just how much they care. Slowly, I began looking forward to my sessions.
After a few months, I was referred to the gardening group. I met people from all over the world, and in different stages of recovery. Together we planted different vegetables, harvested them and ate them, or took them home to share with friends and family. We even went to Kew Gardens. I’ll never forget the ferns there – they reminded me so much of the ones I grew back home.
Friendship
But what nourished me the most was the friendships I made in the group. We became a close-knit circle. These people revived me, propped me up, invigorated me. They rooted me, and rooted for me. After gardening, we’d sit side by side like the bean and tomato plants, sharing many cups of tea and much else. If someone cried, we would cry with them and pass each other tissues. Sometimes we just held hands. There was no condemnation: it was ok, not to be ok.
As the gardening sessions continued, I began to feel, smell and taste again. I started to see colours again. Before, I’d cared so little about anything that I often went out in odd shoes, or with my clothes inside out. But the day arrived when I found myself standing in front of a mirror, whistling, with a smile on my face. I saw myself reflected, no longer in black and white but wearing a bright red dress, covered in flowers.
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