Pleased to Meet You

There are those experiences that you'll remember forever. The sounds; the cry of a parent who's just lost their child. The videos; www.channel4.com/programmes/no-fire-zone/4od. And the image of a respectable monarch of your home country shaking the hand of an un-prosecuted and systematically immortal mass-murderer:

www.thetimes.co.uk

The world is the most perplexing place, even more so when you examine malicious hate crimes and attacks upon the innocent. 

  As part of our Amnesty International meeting this week, we watched a documentary called 'No Fire Zone' which detailed the absolutely horrific tragedies and deception that occurred during the 138 day Sri Lankan war. All filmed on handheld phone cameras and authenticated by experts, the film produces some of the most shocking and graphic images visible to the human eye; maimed civilians, total destruction and displacement and some of the most confounding and anger-provoking concepts that the human mind might ever know. 

To be honest, I didn't know all that much about the Sri Lankan war. I'd heard about it in passing, but I hadn't engaged with the full extent of the damage. Whilst I had been growing up, studying for GCSEs and going through an absolute fashion faux-pas, I had been oblivious, in every sense of the word, to the shocking daily struggles of our Sri Lankan counterparts. But as part of Amnesty International, my ignorance provided me with the motivation to prevent others turning a blind eye, or not realising, what was really going on in the world. 

We'd been campaigning in the main square at Uni, handing out leaflets to people who, either, thought we were trying to sell them something, didn't want to sign their name to a petition, thought we were mind-controlling activists or didn't care about human rights. In fact, we wanted as many people as possible to come and watch a documentary we were screening that evening and have them sign their names to prevent Sri Lanka chairing the Commonwealth. 

Having stood outside in the numbing cold for a few hours, we had managed to generate considerable support or interest, at least and as 4pm approached, I began to prepare to get myself back to Uni to watch the video. 

But I was, almost, reluctant to watch it. I haven't ever trusted myself with the strength of my stomach and my stubborn tears, which seldom appeared for anyone or anything would portray me as a cold-hearted brute if they did not fall at some point during the film. Nevertheless, I found myself seated in the second row. 

We were warned that it would be graphic. I had seen pictures of dead bodies before and I knew that I was alright with blood but what we watched that evening has scarred me in such a way that certain elements of the film shall never leave my mind. 

I couldn't stop the tears from falling as countless attacks on hospitals were announced, children waited for treatment on the cusp of death and women screamed in bunkers dug in the mud. The terror and grief of the whole scene was enormous. 

There was one scene that I know I shall hold with me forever. It was of a girl; I'd say about 15 to 22. She was laying on her back, in a foetal position behind a panel of corrugated tin sheltering a shallow pit. She was dead. The man filming the sight on his phone zoomed in to confirm it. Yet another tragic loss of life. Then, with a thunderous crack and severe jolt of the camera, the men were being fired upon. They ducked besides the girl, behind the guard she had made for herself, before they moved into a more stable shelter. As they came out, once the sound of shelling had ceased, her mother was besides the young girl. "Look at my daughter! Look at my daughter!" she screamed, arms flailing at her side. She was in despair. 

For me, this was the hardest part to watch and it chills me to think of it once more. I've been frustrated; agitated, and when I feel as though I can't find my way out, or I don't know what to do, I find myself flailing my arms, just as that mother did. I could empathize totally with her. In such a simple action, I could feel her pain. A deep wave of tears set in, right from the bowels of my stomach. I've never felt that way about an image. 

So when, at the end of the film, I saw the queen, eagerly out-stretching her hand to Mahinda Rajapaksa - the Sri Lankan President - I couldn't contain my disgust. He was, for the most part, to blame for the atrocities. Zones which has been designated as safe had been targeted by the army essentially trapping innocent people. 

I understand formality on the Queen's behalf. But there has to come a point in this world where someone, somewhere breaks the mould! And why couldn't that have been the Queen of England? Yes there would have been consequences for not shaking a diplomat's hand. Yes there would be criticism. But wouldn't that all have been justified if it was the right thing to do? Systems and tradition hold little importance when you are seen, publicly on television, to welcome a murderer. Maybe if I was the Queen I would have done the same. I hope I wouldn't have. But maybe under the strain I would have. But I don't think my heart would have let me carry on. You can plead ignorance in certain circumstances, but not this. If I had shaken the hand of a murderer - a mass-murderer - I could no longer hold my head high as I let people sing an national anthem asking for my protection. I would not show myself for birthday celebrations that I know very well, the nation will be watching. I wouldn't wave to spectators as I rode past in my horse-drawn carriage. I wouldn't even be in it. 

But if I didn't shake his hand - the hand of a killer - I would feel the revolution behind me. And I would be happy for it.

*

Please, please, please, if you've been moved by this post, help Amnesty International to prevent Rajapaksa becoming the chair of the Commonwealth and raise awareness for the abominable degradation of human rights in Sri Lanka. 

Follow the link and save a life; https://www.amnesty.org.uk/actions/sri-lanka-no-commonwealth-seal-approval-abuses?from=issues

Thank you. 

Souls of Sri Lanka

Probably the most horrendous and soul-crushing thing I have seen this year, if not ever. I literally could not stop crying.

This (very graphic) No Fire Zone - documentary details the atrocious war crimes that happened to Sri Lankan civilians during the recent war and the appalling lack of human rights that still remain.

There are no elaborate words I can use to dress up this issue nor a frame in which I can put this situation so as it seems less disgusting than duly applies.

I defy you to be moved.

Our Little Miracle - a few hours spent in paediatrics

There is something miraculous about hospitals. They save people, breathe new life into people and allow people another chance. But there is something even more magical about the paediatrics department.

I had been quite excited - bizarrely. I loved London, so I suppose that had something to do with it. But I hadn't been in a hospital for years beyond which I could count. And I had never been in a hospital in London - particularly one of such stature as 'The Royal Brompton'.

It's a sad scene to see poorly children. The rainbows and butterflies on the walls seem to lose their vibrancy just that little bit. The building blocks in the play area you know have most probably been thoroughly sterilised. And the sharp, jagged colourings of pirates and fairies pasted upon the walls seem to scream; LIFE'S TOO SHORT!! - certainly too short to worry about colouring within the lines.

But you can make your own fun and there's no such test to optimism as in a paediatrics department.

Of course, as an 11 year old, table football was always going to be the pot of gold amongst the train sets and over-sized building blocks scattered upon the floor. And, of course, as an 18 year old with a strong aversion to football, horrendously poor judgement and a set of lanky limbs, table football was never going to be my forte.

Regardless, between appointments, my cousin and I set about a match with the chocolate figure players.

My heart was racing; a sudden, burning competitiveness shining through. It was to no avail however because it wasn't long before I was beaten. Hardly surprising. But it had been good fun, so I sat in anticipation for when my cousin would return and we could duel once more.

We were into our third game before a young girl stood as a spectator, first leaning over the sides and directing my awkward movements and, later, as half of my team. Despite being in charge of just 3 players ball after ball continued to fling itself through my control and into the back of our net. It was, therefore, a rare and joyous occasion when we could enjoy a goal.

"YES!" cheered my little partner as our first went in.

I smiled. For all my earlier apathy and general lack of competitiveness, scoring each goal felt good and wholly deserved.

She lifted her hand, her fingers splayed just above my chest and I clapped mine against hers.

That tiny boned, slender, warm hand of the young girl cushioned by my strangely large and utterly unfeminine man-hand.

In that moment of connection, I realised what life meant for the children of this ward. All these children in the ward who made multiple visits per month and even per week for another appointment, the next consultation and further treatment. That little hand, swallowed by my whole palm, was part of a body that had experienced more than I had. She had seen far more than I had. She knew more that I did, despite being at least 8 years younger. Whilst my head was in books, thinking very highly of myself as I sat and churned out essays, this little girl and many others like her already had more knowledge than I could ever study for. Their misfortune, in many ways, had lead them to fortune.

Whilst making them better and curing them, the hospital and its staff were educating them. Strengthening their emotions. Improving their perceptions. They could walk into that waiting area and not be saddened to the core, as I had, by the sight of little boys walking around wired to tubes. They could be amongst these children without any other feeling than what was normal and indifferent. They could demand that their daddy's not walk them to their next treatment in the room down the hall because they could go with the nurses on their own. They weren't scared.

It's not only hospitals that are miraculous but, also, these brave little soldiers who carry on with life - day in, day out. Hospital is just a different way of them living their life. And that is truly what they do.

Hair cuts from the old age

If you walk into Leonard's the hairdressers, there are a number of things that would strike you. The young, faded picture of a gorgeous Matt Le Blanc in the window, the interesting colour of sofa, the striking haircuts hung upon the wall that would sooner have you run out of the shop to take your service to a horrendously priced Toni & Guy, the oriental old-style fan, the spiral staircase and wicker woven laundry basket under the stairs.

This isn't your typical hairdressers.

Sitting in a part of town called the arcade, it fits quite suitably. Very 80's. It's unusual though, for all it's character. Whilst it offers modern day prices on trims, up to date magazines listing all the latest technology for Christmas and new, professional men's electrical hair trimmers, it is still quite a quirky and retro place. 

I sat, temporarily fixed on leaving my iPod untouched and stalling my desire for Craig David, to listen to the ceiling radio. The soft hum and the delicate hues of the browns and mixed creams of the decor for just a moment, transported me back to an old-fashioned coiffeur. 

As I've advanced in my teenage years I've developed an innate love for the 1920s period onwards, partly fuelled by obsessively watching and re-watching Downton Abbey. Since then, I've been desperate to live a simple life; no TV, no iPod just me walking out with a hamper basket full of sandwiches, apples and juice and sitting at the base of a big tree trunk and reading until the sun falls. 

Easier imagined than done. 

I only just realised in March, about half way through year 13, that - in fact - my dreams were unattainable. I remember that realisation so clearly. I was in the shower. I'd always said to myself that once I got out of Dubai and through my teenage years and degree, I could then buy a house near the countryside and complete my olden day ideal. And then, one sleep disillusioned morning in the shower before Sixth Form I thought; 

Hang on. Wait, you know you're never actually going to get to travel back in time. The 1920s will never come again! You can't, in the 21st century, live without Internet. It's a physical impracticality. A near-on social suicide. 

I remember that morning in tutor, telling one of my best friends; Danielle, my sudden, disturbing and heart-breaking epiphany. From that day onwards, I became incredibly conscious of how I could still live my dream and avoid alienating everyone around me. 

And so, sat in that old fashioned hairdresser, I could, if only for 2 or 3 minutes, allow myself to drift forward into the past. To a setting I could seldom every dream of being in again. 

In with the crowd

I've always held such respect for the commuters of London. How one might navigate the underground amongst the pull and tore of the trains and jolts of fellow passengers without their daddy's hand to hold was always something that baffled me. Could a transport network be more complicated? It took me until the age of 15 to understand the local bus system which involved just one change at the central station. 

As I left secondary for sixth form, my classmates were commuting by train everyday to their colleges. So unknown to me was this method of travel that I was constantly petrified of  having to return to England and visit family. Yet, when I arrived at uni, I came with a new sense of independence, maturity and courage. Armed with a debit card that would ensure that in my immediate needs I would never run short of cash on a journey, without my parents own anxiety in my mind and with the determination to be confident and outgoing, I began to anticipate the journeys I would take over the coming year with great excitement. 

I'm a novice on the train. In the past 2 years I've travelled only twice an just once was alone. 

But anxiety deserted me as I left my halls for Clapham this morning. Taking pride in step and with a bubbling excitement of finally being in an ACTUAL house sent me on my way. I had had an idea of what I was going to pack at least a week in advance and with 2 days to go, I was already packed. 

I felt a maternal instinct towards my room. There was so much I needed to do. I took the example from my parents. I locked the window, drew the curtains, turned off the radiator, took out the bins, changed the towels and tidied my whole room. In the warm orange light as I lay to sleep at 11:45pm, I felt proud. Finally, I had a responsibility that was entirely mine. I had a duty to fulfil that wouldn't leave me penalised if I didn't do it. Instead it would teach me something I shouldn't forget next time. 

I went to church that morning, feeling the glee of self pride. I was looking after myself. Doing all the things I'd longed and planned to whilst anticipating my return to England from Dubai. I was being independent. But most importantly I was establishing me - I was being someone without boundaries. 

And so I jumped on the bus at 12pm from Southampton to Eastleigh. I caught the train from Eastleigh to Waterloo, Waterloo to Euston, Euston back up to St Pancras and, finally, St Pancras to Bedford. And I knew it was partly a service at Church that morning and the knowledge that home was a 3,000 mile flight away had led me to do it. To remove the apprehension and take the journey. 

And I have done it. I've commuted the underground with less than 2 grunts of sudden one second panic. I've made my way into London, been through it and got myself out the other side in under 4 hours. As sad as it sounds, I don't think I've ever felt so pleased with myself :D 

A Truly Frightful Evening

England seems to run on a chain of festivities. Everyone looks forward to Christmas and after Christmas; New Year. After New Year, Valentine's day. And after Valentine's; Easter and after Easter; summer. After summer; Halloween and then it's starts over.

Of course I love festivities; Christmas, Easter ... but I've never struck a solid relationship with Halloween. When we were kids we never went out for Halloween, as much as our chocolate fed minds wanted to. We stayed in. We had dinner, answered the door to 'trick or treaters', decorated the front door, had oranges left on our steps, carved pumpkins, drunk our blackcurrant juice through plastic skull straws, dressed up and, once, even had a Halloween disco between the three of us. Halloween was fun for that reason, but that particular day wasn't the reason I lived through the winter.

But this year, I felt a communal spirit. When you're mixing with thousands of people, many of whom worship Halloween like God, it is inevitable that you'll get caught up in it. So this year I thought; Hey! Why not?  and put my all into finding a suitable costume.

I went through the motions; classic zombie, vampire, corpse bride but eventually settled on Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmatians.

Let it be known that I really really LOVE dressing up, but only when I make the costumes myself. So I ransacked my drawers looking for anything white, black and spotty. I found all three and headed off to Primark; useful for most necessities and cheap fancy dress. I was looking for some fishnet tights but instead found a perfect white below the knee dress with black shoulder pads. Size 6 was a bit of a squeeze and with a 30cm mud stain right down the middle and a broken zip, it wasn't the definition of classiness nor the piece de resistance but with a tight budget and a price tag of only £5, it was worth it.

I brought it home, alone with a toy dog in a spotty coat that I planned to take with me, and spent 30 minutes rubbing rose scented soap and a flannel into the stains. I managed to remove the majority - it was halloween after all, it didn't matter how awful you looked.

My excitement for getting ready was rising. I had the dress, the dog, the gloves now all I needed was the hair. I back brushed both sides and worked hairspray and flour into one and left the other. I can still, even now, feel the doughy remnants at my roots. It wasn't perfect and not crystal, but as I had already proved with the colour of my dress that grey was now the new white!

For £12 a ticket I was expecting the night to be a blast. Everyone was dressed and, surprisingly, there were far fewer provocative dresses than had crossed my mind. I assumed that I would easily make my money's worth. I had a good time, at least. But I walked away with a feeling of disappointment in hindsight. My dog hadn't even made it out with me, the dress was too tight but generally the whole night just felt so overrated. Everywhere was packed, which I supposed could have been expected, but apart from a good chance to get creative and dress up, the night meant little else. I don't understand why Halloween is so popular. Clubbing was never in the interest of ghosts, nor zombies, nor demons, was it?

But it was different, I suppose, and I gave it a go and now onto the next; Christmas!!

Ten minute trip down 'special lane'

Uni, if anything, has been a massive learning curve. In my independence, I've found all about the weird intricacies of my mind; how happy eating tinned sweetcorn makes me, how closing any drawer in my room after having opened it requires more effort than it's worth and how I am in absolutely LOVE with literary symbolism.

I'm very stubborn, though it might not seem so. I listen to others and accept their opinions but interpretation allows me to always be 'right'. The thing is, I couldn't care less if I was right or wrong, I just want to have a say. I want to say something that makes someone stop and think; actually, you do have a point. In an argument, I don't think there is ever just one winning statement. Maybe I'm biased because I can't debate for toffee but I believe that each person can win in the same debate with multiple good points and so whilst I may agree with what you're saying, I can counter your statement in more ways than one.

I was walking home from Uni today in black leggings, some brogues, my one and only scarf draped round my neck with a vest top, red coat and woolen cardigan in-between. It's an old cardigan, one of my favourites. It has a hole, only small, and, despite the fact that I can sew, the great tear in the fabric never worried me quite enough to have me fetch my needle and thread. In fact, it's a good job I never did, because I probably wouldn't be sat here writing this post.

My hands, in the winter, seldom leave my pockets. I love the image; girl walking through a street of fallen leaves, ankles boots, hair pulled back and her hands burrowed in a coat.

So there mine were, in my pockets when two of the fingers fell through the hole. I looked down and saw them poking through. A pair cold reeds quilted by wool. I walked, for a moment, thinking of nothing else but a scene from The Polar Express; when the young boy takes his hand, puts it through his dressing gown pocket and finds it empty. His two fingers come poking out the end.

I don't know why I had the need but I began to question: what does this mean? I was reliving a scene from a cartoon film. But why?

(Yes, these are the kind of things that go through my mind!)

I concluded, after much thought and multiple possibilities, that someone was trying to tell me something. The boy in the film loses the bauble that he was given by Father Christmas. If the boy believed in him he would hear a ringing when the the ball was shaken. If he didn't he would hear silence.

What had someone given me that I wasn't meant to lose? Was someone going to give me something that I was supposed to keep hold of? Was there someone I needed to believe in? Something?

Or was I just meant to sew up that hole?

This all occurred in one 10 minute walk from the bus to my front door. But it's the symbolism. I don't know why I had to attach some meaning to the laziness of not sewing up a hole. What if I'd have looked at my fingers from another angle, what would I have seen? What if I hadn't have looked at my fingers at all? Or was that just it; was I meant to see?

Things like these will endlessly entertain me. I could think of a thousand scenarios. A million interpretations. Symbolism will just never fail to please me. But, in a sense, I'm so glad that it does. I think I've always been a little eccentric. The oddball. The kid obsessed with watching the butcher fill sausages - I'm literally obsessed! But I don't think that's weird - well, maybe the sausage part - it's definitely not a bad thing; it just makes my life a lot more fun!