56. Politics, Immigration, and Sanctuary

5th May 2016, my visitor visa expires. I must return to the United States before then. Ms Keogh, my cherished companion and wife of twenty-nine years, will stay in Cardiff, Wales, where the lease on our flat continues to the end of September.

The mistake was ours. We had looked into the requirements for my immigrating a few years ago, when it was easier. We should have checked again before we left the United States. After selling and giving away everything, we embarked on the Queen Mary 2 last summer. Half way across the Atlantic, the immigration officer aboard ship explained that the laws had recently changed. I was expected to apply from my homeland, where I no longer had a residence.

The immigration laws changed because the Middle East and Africa are crumbling in sectarian wars and ethnic cleansing. In Europe, fear of terrorists, fear of exhausting the nation’s social resources, and fear of the dilution of familiar traditions have made for tighter immigration laws in recent years. This is making it very hard for me to procure “indefinite leave to remain” in Wales.

These days I have been miserable, knowing that in May I must return to the United States without Ms Keogh and having no place to live when I get there. I obsess on how uncomfortable and how unhappy I will be, yet it is hardly the pain and desolation felt by Syrian refugees. Even knowing my hurt is trivial compared to theirs, I cannot discipline my emotions to refrain from self-pity. Yesterday, I went into Cardiff’s City Centre to seek sanctuary somewhere; I needed a place where I could collect my thoughts and try to derail this obsessive worry. I found Eglwys Dewi Sant, an Anglican church of grey stone sitting on a grassy oval in downtown Cardiff. I needed to bring my emotions under control and not exacerbate an inconvenience into a tragedy.



The church serves a Welsh-speaking congregation. A pleasant lady first welcomed me in Welsh, then switched to say, “Or would you rather I spoke in English.” I told her American would suit me best. She smiled and said she didn’t think she could manage it.

I confess, I love stone cathedrals and churches and chapels. They are inclined to be tranquil, an escape from harsh traffic and the loud rush of babble outside. They are often possessed of the beautiful craftsmanship of masons and carpenters, chock-full of decorative arts, and sometimes filled with soul inspiring music. The effect these places have on me is both calming and uplifting, so long as there isn't a sermon. Indeed, church interiors are usually best when one can find them deserted. It causes me much disappointment that there are no temples for Atheists. What is this Atheist to do, except borrow time on a pew in a Christian nave or an old library insulated by walls of books. I sought refuge in Eglwys Dewi Sant.

Sadly, I was not able to meditate in Eglwys Dewi Sant. The church organist was sitting at the keyboard reading a magazine while assisting in the tuning of the church’s famous Henry Willis organ. The organist would hold down one long note until a voice from somewhere inside the instrument called out to move to the next. In this way, they made the tedious progress ascending the scale of musical notes. It was not soothing.

On the way out, the pleasant lady apologized that so much work was going on making the church a noisy place. She asked me how I was enjoying my vacation in Cardiff. I explained I wasn’t on vacation, but trying to live here, then gave her a synopsis of my crisis. She said, “We have a parishioner with the same story. His wife is American and he’s British, and was born here. He’s having the same problem with immigration trying to bring his wife over, and he’s a solicitor!” Her words did not console me.

I found a brief retreat from my sorrow and obsessing under the ocean, well, actually in the National Museum of Wales. One of the first things I did upon arriving to Cardiff last summer was become a member of the Friends of National Museum Wales. At the time, I was more hopeful of being able to stay in this country. I sat in a bluish gallery made to feel like one was underwater.



Suspended in the center was the 29-foot skeleton of a 4-year-old humpback whale that washed ashore on the coast of South Wales in 1982. The poor creature had died during an Atlantic hurricane, killed by a piece of timber. A dulcet tone of a man’s low voice from hidden speakers was narrating the behavior of humpback whales intermixed with their songs. I was comfortable until the peace was broken by a tumble of school children pouring into the gallery. There were multiple groups of school children that afternoon. Unable to dodge them, I left.

Dejected at not having found a haven in which to ruminate, I headed back to the flat by way of Marks & Spencer’s food hall, in order to procure some readymade meals for dinner. On Queen Street they were putting together a giant two-story carousel. I thought to myself, what a beautiful symbol for the proper way to live life, with gusto. Cardiff is always showing the way. I shopped at the food hall, filling my rucksack, and still did not go directly home.

Trying again to have some harmonious sanctum for reflection, this time I entered Saint John the Baptist City Parish Church.

The pews here are pressed between tall columns. I picked one near the front. All I wanted was some relief from the unwanted mantra of pessimism in my head. It was pleasant enough, although even here there was still my tinnitus. I would have stayed longer, but the Marks and Spencer’s ready meal of Lamb Rogan Josh needed to be refrigerated.



I like to think of myself as a reasonable person, but I am frequently stunned by the powerful influence of my emotions. The people I meet are welcoming. The resentment I feel towards the UK Home Office for making it so difficult for me to stay in Wales with my British wife is inappropriate. It is resentment I am not entitled to. I need only keep in mind the difficult migration of my grandparents escaping from Eastern Europe’s pogroms to reach New York City. I'm dealing with annoying obstacles and not impossibilities. I am luckier than the Syrian refugee, or my grandparents.

Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about the events and concerns of his life. If you've any comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you. 

Selected Suburban Soliloquies, the best of Mr Bentzman's earlier series of Snakeskin essays, is available as a book or as an ebook, from Amazon and elsewhere.