Michael Caine’s first starring role saw him riding through the veld on a cheetah in Zulu. As Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead, he is the very epitome of British imperial heroism: resplendent in his starched red tunic, a cloud of arid African dust trailing behind him, one hand raised in a rallying battle cry. He fearlessly cuts a swathe through the heat of the battle, leaving only the destruction of the enemy in his wake. Glorious. And it is this glorious figure in the 1964 film that has perforated and subsequently come to define the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879 in the British popular imagination. A conflict of epic proportions, the war saw valiant British soldiers fended off infinite hoards of barefoot Zulu warriors in a swashbuckling defence of Queen, country and empire.

It was certainly this patriotic spectacle that was prominent in my expectations as my family and I drove three hours from Durban to visit the battlefields of the conflict. I must admit, the thought of seeing the glory of the British Empire was somewhat submurged under the dread of wandering the Natal landscape in the sorching heat and leaving behind the azure sublimity of Cape Town. Such preconceptions could not have been more misguided.

Over the next few days, thanks to this visit to the battlefields and a series of accompanying lectures, my view of the Anglo-Zulu war, and indeed my view of the future of South Africa, was transformed. This transformation is wholly due to the formidable influence of David Rattray, the founder of the lodge in which we stayed – ‘Fugitive’s Drift’, which lies on the site of the British retreat from the battle of Isandlwana. Obsessed with what he considered to be the untold story of the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, Rattray dedicated his life to the retelling of the Anglo-Zulu conflict.

The story in itself is astonishing. The battle of Isandlwana on January 22nd 1879 was arguably the most humiliating defeat in British colonial history; mere hours later, at Rorke’s Drift, 139 British soldiers successfully defended their garrison against an intense assault by 3000 Zulu warriors. Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded to the British defenders, the most ever received in a single action by one regiment. Faced with the juxtaposition of these two battles, I was immediately struck by how these events conveyed at once an indictment of man’s inadequacy and a tribute to his bravery. The lectures crafted by Rattray, however, take this story to another level.

First of all, they go some way towards redefining heroism – the heroes of Rattray’s story are not the swashbuckling Michael Cains of Zulu, nor even the battle-hardened warriors of history text-books. Rather, they are the cooks and bottle washers whose courage coursed from their comradeship. The story dwells on the actions of Hook the Cook, who ran back time and again to rescue the patients from the blazing infirmary at Rorke’s Drift, dragging them to safety by the light of Zulu fire. Another one of Rattray’s unconventional heroes that emerges is Charlie Herford, a peripheral participant whose writings Rattray used to recount the Rorke’s Drift battle. Herford was an eccentric young officer whose passions and talents lay with entomology (the study of insects) rather than military leadership. As a result, when he suddenly disappeared in the heat of battle, he was presumed dead. Moments later, he reemerged clutching a rare beetle he had spotted and captured in a matchbox.

These effervescent anecdotes, which infuse the story both with humour and depth, stem from Rattray’s ability to speak both English and Zulu fluently. He was able to use a hitherto untouched mass of oral history sources passed down to him from the grandchildren of Zulu survivors who work the land as farmhands and goatherds. This affinity with the Zulu community is crucial, however, in allowing Rattray’s lectures to view the conflict sympathetically from both sides. It provides a refreshing comparison to the gung-ho version of the struggle that had informed the empire’s children for more than a century. For whilst the lectures in no way mitigate the extraordinary display of courage at Rorke’s Drift, they present Isandlwana as a Zulu triumph, rather than a British failure.

Indeed, one of the concluding themes of these lectures is the spirit of reconciliation, which the battlefields themselves seem to represent. The battlefield of Isandlwana is filled with dozens of gleaming white cairns marking the mass graves of the British soldiers. Whilst it might seem natural that the Zulus who still live in this area might resent the constant traipsing of British tourists over their land, the battlefields remain almost exactly as they were 130 years ago. Indeed, in this time, there has not been one single act of desecration or vandalism of these graves. On the contrary, the relationship between Zulus and British appears to be one of mutual respect. On the 125th anniversary of the battle of Rorke’s Drift, the Zulu priest of the Church on the original site of the battle, upon hearing of the visit of British war veterans to Natal, insisted that a church service be held to celebrate the bravery displayed on both sides. Indeed, Rattray himself, being both Anglophile and Zulophile, seemed to embody the very essence of this reconciliation.

However, it is perhaps idealistic to believe in the reality of this appeasement. Indeed, Rattray himself, having done the most to bring about harmony between Zulus and British, was the victim of his own efforts. Two years ago he was killed by Zulu intruders who entered his house demanding money. Whilst the legacy of the story he created and the values that he espoused live on, it is impossible not to be disillusioned by this murder. It seems to highlight the lawlessness engulfing South Africa, where 20,000 people are murdered every year. Following his death, a spokesman for the Democratic Alliance, the opposition party in South Africa said ‘people like David Rattray used their lives contributing to the body of knowledge that is in this country, whereas the criminals contribute nothing but an evil vacuum that sucks in our best and brightest.’ In this culture of violence, it seems that Zuma’s anthem ‘Bring me my machine gun’ is still being trumpeted.

It’s just turned 2pm, and I’m perched nervously on my chair in a private room at the back of Claridge’s hotel, waiting for the first lady of Hollywood, Meryl Streep, to show up. Just as I’m reaching for my eighth mini-sandwich, in she strides, as imposing a figure in the flesh as on screen. Instantly she fixes her eyes on me with a look that says ‘I was winning Oscars when you were still a shitting/eating/sleeping machine’ – then smiles, and all the fear flows away.

For somebody on the cusp of their sixtieth birthday, she’s looking gorgeous, certainly placing high in my list of top ten sexagenarians (barring any facial deformities or amputations that might occur between now and June). Not that I tell her any of this. Instead I ask about how she came to make a film like Doubt, ‘Well I’d seen the play, years before, and I…I thought it was a great, great, great play. I thought it was extraordinary, and I never thought it would be made into a movie until John [Patrick Shanley] called and said ‘let’s have lunch and talk about it’. And talk about it they did. At first Streep felt that her close friend, Cherry Jones, would be a better choice, having played Sister Aloysius in the stage version, but for many reasons (marketing undoubtedly foremost among them) Shanley didn’t want anyone other than Streep, ‘John explained that among every other financial consideration there was also the fact that he had not directed that production [in which Jones played the lead] – he wanted his own hands on this, and I thought that’s really valid, and I sure would like a crack at that Sister Aloysius’ – but why? – ‘all really good pieces of literature I think hold a lot of different interpretations- you can see this play over and over again, you’ll see a lot of different kinds of Sister James, and a lot of different interpretations of Mrs Miller- but this one is the one- I’m really proud of this…so what was the question?’

She laughs. I laugh. The room bubbles with it. It feels like we’ve known each other for years. Like we’re the kind of old friends that have never lost that early sexual tension that comes before permanent migration to the ‘friend zone’, knowing that something could always happen, but never will. I ask about the Oscars and more specifically Kate Winslet, ‘as you can imagine, all day, this has come up. And I just have to say…it is so much more fun to publicise a film in July, because you talk about the film. You aren’t talking about the horserace, it’s a completely different thing altogether. It has to do with marketing, and jockeying between studios, and campaigns- it’s a political thing. Having said that, I think Kate Winslet is great…and I’m glad she wasn’t in three movies this year.’ Diplomatic as well? I think I’ve found my soul mate, not that I say so to her face.

And funnily enough, her ‘face’ is the very next topic of conversation. Taking on the role of a nun in Doubt, Streep had to ostensibly forego any make-up, and so I ask how far that prohibition went, and how she coped seeing herself on the big screen without the regulation cosmetics, ‘Well I had a great deal of old-age makeup on’, she chuckles, ‘I mean prosthetics- that nose…you know’, she pauses to collect her thoughts, and then, ‘it’s really freeing, the really free thing about playing these characters, speaking for the nuns, is that you throw away everything that women normally waste a great number of hours of the day on – you throw out what you’re going to wear, how your hair looks, how your face is, and everything is gone. All you are is what you do. And it’s probably the way we should be, you know, instead of wasting a lot of time on the things that get you ahead in the world- because as we know, they do. But it was very, very liberating, and sort of spiritual, if I dare use the word.’ There is a long silence. This is Streep at her most honest, and probably me at my most uncomfortable. But it’s ok, because behind her words sits nearly half a century of experience in the film world – Streep is a woman who knows what she’s talking about, her tone of voice echoing with the sound of comfortable assurance.

After this moment of pensive reflection, we return to the subject at hand, the film, and I ask how she eased herself into the role of Sister Aloysius, what research she may have done, ‘John [Patrick Shanley] did some wonderful interviews with some of the Sisters of Charity [the sisterhood the film is based on], one of whom was his first grade teacher, who was a model for Sister James in a way- she’s 71 now- and so she was just a font of information, she was just an inspiration, because she’s so liberated, and visiting the retirement home, it was really great – they were mostly in their 70s, 80s and 90s, and I don’t know how many retirement or old age homes you’ve been in, but they are not usually places that are happy, you wouldn’t describe them as happy. But these two retirement houses were filled with people who were happy. They were with their family, they were with their sisters, they were all productively engaged in some kind of work- no one was retired, they were all still tutoring kids, they were visiting the bereaved, they were in the communities. Anyway it was a great inspiration…and they taught us how to wear the habits because up until the 60s they were all wearing them.’

After this serious note, the interview turns a little ridiculous. I ask if there is any role she would like to revisit, and if she had to be one of them in real life, which it would be – ‘well I don’t…I have never even imagined revisiting all of those – although there is word of a sequel to Mamma Mia’, we laugh together, ‘I haven’t thought about which one I would be – I think I’m all of them, I think I’m right there if anybody cares to look. Right there in the Rabbi in Angels in America, that’s me. That’s really my father, but I’m a great deal my father’s girl.’

I ask if she thinks there’s a connection between all the roles she’s portrayed in the past, ‘well…yes, people have drawn parallels among my characters – Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada and this, I mean they don’t seem like similar characters to me, although they are similarly women in power, and they are dragons of a sort, and we are still adjusting ourselves to the idea of women leaders, we still aren’t very comfortable with it. And that’s all I’ll say on that subject.’ And then, just like that, she was gone.

Campsfield House Immigration Removal Centre is an imposing concrete building. Situated in Kidlington, just outside Oxford City, it is surrounded by electrified gates and rabbit-proof, 20-foot-high fences surmounted by barbed wire. The 216 men inside are victims of relentless UK legislation that is systematically stripping them of human rights, while hiding behind the facade of immigration control.

Campsfield House opened in 1993 and serves as a waiting room for persons who have been refused asylum in this country. UK Border Control alleges that detention provides care for people while they wait to be deported or removed. Since its creation, however, the treatment of those inside Campsfield has led to numerous hunger strikes and suicide attempts – some successful.

Within 15 minutes of being inside Campsfield, after being photographed, fingerprinted and searched I am approached by an African man who lifts his shirt and takes off his shoes to show me a body which has been punctured enough times to render 50 cent a cry baby. It is men like this who bear the scars and sometimes even the documents to prove that they are not safe in their homeland, and are still being dismissed as liars and criminals that pose a danger to British society. The Government plays a very manipulative game with these men; imprisoning them not only physically, but with inflammatory jargon which states that because a person made the mistake of coming to this country without the correct documents, or worked once they got here, they do not have the right to be listened to, or to be treated as human beings. I intend to explain what I have discovered since speaking to these men and those who have dedicated their lives to helping them.

The majority of the men in Campsfield and other detention centres have fled from persecution. Many are forced to travel to England without a passport, and come by the misguided belief that the UK is a safe place for those in desperate need. The standard sentence for someone arriving in England without a passport or someone who is found to be working despite not being granted asylum or refugee status is 15 months. This is often not the case, however, and many men who have acknowledged their crimes and served their sentences find themselves incarcerated indefinitely.

‘Stateless’ is a term used to describe a person who has not been granted status in the UK and is also not recognised as a citizen of the country they have left, either through lack of documentation or for political reasons. Statelessness is a major reason for detention lasting increasingly long and it has devastating effects on the physical and mental well being of the afflicted. Essentially it means that people are subjected to a never-ending limbo, not knowing when they will be able to leave, where they will go, when they will see their families again or even if their families are managing to survive.

It costs the taxpayer on average, £1000 per person per week to detain these ‘foreign criminals’. Detention is a waste of money as well as being a waste of innocent life. Considering that the ‘crime’ most of these men have committed is that they have worked illegally, there is surely a cheaper more effective and less dehumanising way to deal with the problem at hand. Some detainees are allowed to work inside Campsfield. They are paid £5 for a 6 hour shift and the waiting list is huge, giving you an insight into how mind-numbing life at Campsfield is. Money which should be being spent on the men’s physical and mental needs isn’t, with it being commonplace for psychiatric reviews to be postponed countless times, until the detainee is moved to a different detention centre in a new city, where they must start from scratch again, building trust and relationships with people on the outside who are willing to help. This sets their chances back for weeks, sometimes months and hardly helps with the depression. This detention centre ethos of ‘if they get too needy, move them on’ demonstrates clearly the disregard for these peoples’ quality of life. Sickeningly it seems they have adopted the NHS scheme of shuffling equipment in order to combat the superbug so bacteria does not have the time to settle and flourish. Except these people are not bacteria and they are not hurting anybody.

Bail for Immigration Detainees (BID) provides a light at the end of the tunnel for thousands of detainees. BID is an independent charity that exists to challenge immigration detention in the UK. They work with asylum seekers and migrants, in removal centers and prisons to secure their release from detention. This happens in the form of ‘bail applications’. If bail is granted to an individual, they are allowed to live outside of detention, having to report back to the Home Office and have their bail renewed regularly. However, they are not granted the right to work and live on food vouchers. BID aids people in detention through the bail application process, helping them to understand the legal system and find legal representatives, though most represent themselves. They provide detainees with a life-line via their help in filling out bail related forms such as ‘Reasons for Leaving’, a paragraph sized box allocated to detainees as their only opportunity to appeal directly to the judge at the Asylum and Immigration Tribunal (and we thought our personal statements were hard). Where most will feel inclined to appeal on a humanitarian level in this space, it is BID’s job to help detainees recognise where their rights have been abused and use the space to clarify where the law finds itself in contravention of its own rules.

It is not uncommon for detainees to be refused bail 10 times in a row despite fresh evidence from charities such as Medical Justice who work to expose and challenge medical abuse in immigration detention and will support immigrant claims of torture in their homeland. I spoke with Gill Baden, who has worked for BID since the opening of the Oxford office in 2001. She is 73 and has spent much of her retirement helping immigrants abused by our system. It quickly became clear to me that not only does she provide information and advice for detainees, she provides them with support, care and hope that they will find nowhere else. When I ask her how much longer she will work for BID she says, ‘I don’t know how much longer I can do it. It’s difficult seeing things being made so much harder for these people. It’s getting worse.’ To see a woman with Gill’s strength and determination to make life better for others still disappointed after so much work was overwhelming and terrifying. Who will carry on fighting for these forgotten people? And where will they find such strength to do so?

Student Action for Refugees (STAR) have geared their campaign towards raising awareness about Campsfield and visit regularly conducting drama and poetry workshops. Eleanor Mortimer, president of STAR said, ‘the idea of detention without a trial is a threat to our human rights, too. It’s too close to home. That’s why I’m so passionate about star, we need to fight for these people who are from our generation, clever people who understand politics, who understand justice and have fought for those things. That’s why they’re going mad. They’re so far from being allowed to reach their potential.’ STAR is planning poster and street-theatre campaigns as well as a rally planned outside the Sheldonian on 26th February to raise awareness about Campsfield among students and the local community. Unfortunately, raising awareness about Campsfield is not the only objective as they are also campaigning against the proposed building of a new detention centre in Bicester which will be the largest one in Europe.

The Campaign to Close Campsfield holds a protest outside Campsfield on the last Saturday of every month. The mood at the last one was focused towards targeting the Government and reversing the proposed building of Oxford’s second Immigration Removal Centre. Bill MacKeith, a loyal supporter of Close Campsfield said, ‘you never win a battle unless you fight it – and this one can be won. We are fighting against the barbaric anti-asylum policies manifested by the UK Government’. The protesters sang ‘If I had a Hammer’ with faith and passion as they have done for many months. They peered through the fences surrounding the imprisoned immigrants, shouting ‘freedom’ and ‘migration is not a crime, close Campsfield’. A call of ‘SOS’ echoed across the tarmac in reply.

As a privileged person, I feel a duty to be aware of those who haven’t had my luck. I have spent so many hours trying to understand and empathise with the lonely desperation felt by those who aren’t allowed the most basic human rights. Still, during my visit to Campsfield I was unprepared when sitting opposite someone who had endured so much and was displaying all of the symptoms of being abused at the hands of the UK Government. ‘No talking can cure my problem’ he said with depressed agitation, ‘my problem is freedom. What have I done that’s so wrong? These people are wasting my life. I’d rather take it myself then let it be wasted any more’. All this, and only a 30 minute bus ride away from my room.

I wish Campsfield was as bad as it gets but it’s just the tip of the only ice-berg that doesn’t seem to be melting. In other places, children are detained under exactly the same conditions, causing unimaginable trauma. But Guantanamo is closing and there we have hope. There is no time to breathe a sigh of relief for we have our own dirty secrets lurking literally in our back garden. It is only our continued pressure and refusal to forget these people that will instigate change. It’s nothing radical, just the prospect of treating all humans with dignity regardless of where they were born. As one detainee puts it ‘we are not asking you to love us like your children but we are simply asking you to give us at least half the care you give your dogs.’