The Linguist

Chartered Institute of Linguists WINTER 2025 The Linguist 9 FEATURES A COMMUNITY GRIEVES Posters searching for the missing, and flowers laid for the dead, following the fire in June 2017 As a child, I would stand outside the area's first Iranian grocery shop to hear my language spoken and breathe in the familiar sights and smells of Iran. Things changed dramatically in 1979. I lived through the Islamic Revolution with Kensington and Chelsea at the centre of my lived experience. I could map every nook and cranny of the borough with memories of the before and after, and found that my language skills kept me connected to my community and our shared histories. Over the next three decades a new community of Iranians arrived as refugees, housed in tower blocks and crumbling street properties. When I saw the burning tower, I knew that my community was likely to be affected. And just like a homing pigeon, I was on the ground five days later with the deep desire to be of service. As I walked the streets, I saw pictures of the missing taped to lampposts and bus shelters. I came across a photo of two Iranian women arm in arm: Fatemeh and Sakineh. Instinctively I knew the journey that had brought them here, to North Kensington. To that tower. Standing in front of their smiling picture I broke down in tears. The next day, I attended the first meeting for survivors. On the wall was a list of names of those alive and those missing. The survivors were almost entirely black and brown British citizens, with nervous officials, who were not, surveying the room. There were no interpreters. I asked one woman in Farsi 'Shoma Irani hasteed?' ('Are you Iranian?'). She said yes and implored me to stay with her and translate. And so began my role as the interpreter for the Iranian and Farsi-speaking Afghan victims. As a Chartered member of CIOL, my linguistic expertise meant I could be of service, and I have continued in this role pro bono for over eight years. My number, scribbled on scraps of paper, passed from hand to hand, and soon a network of Farsi speakers began to call. The duty to interpret In the local sports centre, where families were sleeping on makeshift mattresses, I met an Afghan family. They had lost their father and his wife was crying uncontrollably as a young woman manning the desk tried to unscramble what she needed. I stepped in to help. At one of the hotels where survivors had been put temporarily, I met a young man of Afghan heritage whose father had died and whose mother was in a coma. When I visited the hospital a few days later, his mother was awake. Her sister asked me "If you are going to help my sister, will you promise to stay with her until the end?" I made that promise and have kept it to this day. As word spread, victims from beyond the Farsi-speaking community began calling. Soon, a cross-section of survivors, bereaved family members and residents from the surrounding estate sought help. It was no longer just about language, but also about navigating complex systems and understanding what support was available. The authorities seemed to struggle even to contact the next of kin abroad. One woman who had lost her only child and grandchild was in Sierra Leone. I asked a friend travelling to Freetown to buy a phone, find her and call me. That human connection enabled our first meeting. Hannah speaks a dialect of Krio but with the help of a bright young man I was able to ensure she had a solicitor who could accommodate her needs and the realities of the communication challenge. One of the most difficult passages I had to translate was only nine words long. It was the final voicemail of Saber Neda, a former Afghan officer who had stayed behind to help four women seeking refuge in his flat. Tragically, none of them survived and he leapt to his death through the flames. His widow, Shakila, sent me a message, "I can't listen to this. You listen first for me." As my finger hovered over the play button, I knew that whatever I was about to hear could never be unheard. Amid the sound of the crackling of the fire, he said in Farsi: "Goodbye, world. I'm leaving now. Please forgive me. Goodbye." Complex language needs The interpreting differed in different circumstances and there had to be flexibility. The authorities found this challenging at times due to a lack of experience in such circumstances and a lack of understanding of the needs of the individuals involved. At individual casework meetings with the ONGOING RESPONSE A poster expresses anger over the investigation into the fire (right); and (below) green hearts quickly became a symbol of remembrance

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