It's another Amnesty International awareness campaign this week focused upon Women's right's, our monthly topic.
I always find that there's alot of stigma surrounding Women's rights. Anyone fighting for women's rights seems to be automatically deemed a feminist, as thought they might be promoting legislation to wipe the Earth clean of men. Really, all most people are, are freedom fighters.
Women in Afghanistan have very little basic human rights, far fewer than anywhere else in the world. Giving women access to education, access to health services and security from rape and physical abuse isn't such a crime, is it?
For this month's Amnesty post I've just written a short story about a female victim of domestic abuse, and here it is:
She stood trembling. Her eyes barely registered herself. It was her normal morning self; slanted sleep-drugged eyes, straw-slung hair and a crusty trail at the corner of her lips. It was the same her, but just so so different. She couldn't quite pinpoint why. Why should one night change everything? Why shouldn't it change everything?
The mirror wasn't as kind as those ugly watery reflections of the mud puddles in the street. They contorted her in the most complimentary of ways. And now, as she gazed through herself, this clarity, this glass like still, took her exactly as she was. Completely broken and wholly fragmented.
A hole, just above her stomach bled cleanly through the cream of her jumper. She lifted it, savouring the woolen kiss of the fabric. Her breathing intensified. The moment was like the birth of a newborn; so fragile, breath-taking yet so irrevocably frightening.
It began to emerge. A purple stain with green smudged rims. The work of an inexperienced painter. She hazarded a touch, reaching so slightly forward with her fingers. Their cool tips stung the enraged heat of the bruise. She drew back quickly and tugged her jumper back down. How would she explain this one? How did anyone explain this one?
Thursday, 31 October 2013
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
25 things Uni has given me
So, I've been at uni for about 7 weeks now and of course there has been may changes, so much to learn and a handful of things to remember but most importantly there have been several 'gifts' (corny, I know!)
Here are 25 things that uni has given to me:
1. A reason to eat kebabs in the morning
2. Fresher's flu
3. Free condoms and wall posters
4. A double chin
5. An internet connection better than the wifi at home
6. Constant and insatiable hunger
7. An incentive to get drunk
8. A concept of money
9. £300 of free money
10. A comfy mattress
11. A gym membership
12. A partial cure for my two left feet
13. A love of cranberry flapjacks
14. Multiple reasons to enjoy hot chocolates
15. A free bus pass
16. A large bill for replacing ruined shoes
17. The awkward task of peeing into a tube
18. The knowledge that, actually, I'm not as good at cooking as I make out
19. A desperation to use a dish washer
20. Topics for my blog posts
21. Free food when family or friends come to visit
22. My own shelf in the fridge
23. An appreciation of a free washing machine
24. A writers account for the University magazine
25. Some of the nicest flatmates and friends
Here are 25 things that uni has given to me:
1. A reason to eat kebabs in the morning
2. Fresher's flu
3. Free condoms and wall posters
4. A double chin
5. An internet connection better than the wifi at home
6. Constant and insatiable hunger
7. An incentive to get drunk
8. A concept of money
9. £300 of free money
10. A comfy mattress
11. A gym membership
12. A partial cure for my two left feet
13. A love of cranberry flapjacks
14. Multiple reasons to enjoy hot chocolates
15. A free bus pass
16. A large bill for replacing ruined shoes
17. The awkward task of peeing into a tube
18. The knowledge that, actually, I'm not as good at cooking as I make out
19. A desperation to use a dish washer
20. Topics for my blog posts
21. Free food when family or friends come to visit
22. My own shelf in the fridge
23. An appreciation of a free washing machine
24. A writers account for the University magazine
25. Some of the nicest flatmates and friends
Friends on Pages
Opinion; such a crucial word at uni. You can't get by if you don't have a view, haven't read opinions or debated alternating arguments. And so, for this reason, I'm absolutely loving uni!!!
I finished my first essay today (one of my finer moments). One of my guilty pleasures is analyzing - I absolutely LOVE it and so writing a critical analysis of a short text was most definitely a task I was willing to complete. Not even food could disturb me when I immersed myself. My stomach - for once - was challenged by my brain's over-riding desire to write and write well all of the perspectives I had on the book; the monosyllabic sound of the words counting down like seconds, the entrapment, the historical context. Every weird thought my mind conjured could contribute to something.
Another guilty pleasure, which has revealed itself at uni, is reading essays. Having studied To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf this week, I went into the library - head held high - and browsed the shelves. The first time I entered the uni library, I wanted to come out and cry. I had been equipped, reference call code in hand and the optimism of setting myself between hundred and hundreds of shelves of books spread between five floors.
P...P...ah, here we go. Now, I'm looking for PN...PN...
If you've ever entered the library alone, you'll know finding a book is hard. But, what's even harder, is when you walk in with the arrogance that I did and the derogatory glare of students - who already know they're way around the library and are well aware that you don't - following your trail. They all said that you get lost in the library, but I wasn't about to take their word for it.
Come on! I thought. I've been in hundreds of libraries. Of, course I'll be able to find the book.
Needless to say that when I didn't, I was on the border of tears. Betrayal kept streaming through my head. I had devouted so much time to books and now, a member of the same sub-group, couldn't reveal itself and let me read it. I felt dejected.
The next two weeks I distanced myself from the library. I glowered at it as I passed and went on a slight strike until I gathered the courage to go in and actually ask the librarian for directions.
I've now, touch wood, cracked the code and can find almost any novel that I've needed so far, including the current title I'm reading; Virginia Woolf; A room of one's own & Three guineas. I've got a fetish for essays now because I guess they're just like this blog; they mainly consist of ramblings and subjects as obscure as how to answer an essay question titled; women and fiction.
These enthused passions, I find, rather unique. How someone can write one hundred plus pages on answering a question is something I simply aspire to. I can't help the over-whelming desire I feel to write and then read what other people have written about writing. That's just so me!
So I can tell so far that I'm enjoying myself and so long as the library is good to me, then all will be well!!!
I finished my first essay today (one of my finer moments). One of my guilty pleasures is analyzing - I absolutely LOVE it and so writing a critical analysis of a short text was most definitely a task I was willing to complete. Not even food could disturb me when I immersed myself. My stomach - for once - was challenged by my brain's over-riding desire to write and write well all of the perspectives I had on the book; the monosyllabic sound of the words counting down like seconds, the entrapment, the historical context. Every weird thought my mind conjured could contribute to something.
Another guilty pleasure, which has revealed itself at uni, is reading essays. Having studied To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf this week, I went into the library - head held high - and browsed the shelves. The first time I entered the uni library, I wanted to come out and cry. I had been equipped, reference call code in hand and the optimism of setting myself between hundred and hundreds of shelves of books spread between five floors.
P...P...ah, here we go. Now, I'm looking for PN...PN...
If you've ever entered the library alone, you'll know finding a book is hard. But, what's even harder, is when you walk in with the arrogance that I did and the derogatory glare of students - who already know they're way around the library and are well aware that you don't - following your trail. They all said that you get lost in the library, but I wasn't about to take their word for it.
Come on! I thought. I've been in hundreds of libraries. Of, course I'll be able to find the book.
Needless to say that when I didn't, I was on the border of tears. Betrayal kept streaming through my head. I had devouted so much time to books and now, a member of the same sub-group, couldn't reveal itself and let me read it. I felt dejected.
The next two weeks I distanced myself from the library. I glowered at it as I passed and went on a slight strike until I gathered the courage to go in and actually ask the librarian for directions.
I've now, touch wood, cracked the code and can find almost any novel that I've needed so far, including the current title I'm reading; Virginia Woolf; A room of one's own & Three guineas. I've got a fetish for essays now because I guess they're just like this blog; they mainly consist of ramblings and subjects as obscure as how to answer an essay question titled; women and fiction.
These enthused passions, I find, rather unique. How someone can write one hundred plus pages on answering a question is something I simply aspire to. I can't help the over-whelming desire I feel to write and then read what other people have written about writing. That's just so me!
So I can tell so far that I'm enjoying myself and so long as the library is good to me, then all will be well!!!
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
Oh...Rainy Days
Rain, rather than symbolising depression and having striking connections with it's synonyms; woe, melancholy and gloom, now signifies healthiness - for me at least. The past 2 years in Dubai have left much want of change and, though I previously despised the rain like the devil, I am comforted by its forced coziness.
My favourite sensation - and; yes, I do have one - is the tingling of a body warming up. Feet frozen from ice feeling the blood rush. A nose, just about ready to drop off, restored to full colour. Hands that, at first, couldn't feel the radiator, now being burned by the warmth.
If 80% of the people of England had their wish, it would rain no more and the earth would be baked by sun rays. And what would ensue would be toilet brush trees, scraggy for want of leaves. Brown rugs of grass targeted by youths for their potential as fire starters. And girls walking the streets in all but a bikini. Green wouldn't feature in our colour range.
Imagine an England without green. Imagine the country without the single colour that epitomises it besides grey. Where would the appeal lie?
For most tourists, if they're not besotted with London, they are with the countryside.
I find England works rather well. Throughout the year, the country is nourished by rain and it's beauty is saved for those glorious summer afternoons where we can appreciate it all.
So, I no longer hold a grinding antagonism for rain. You can pray for the sun, but that won't stop the rain.
My favourite sensation - and; yes, I do have one - is the tingling of a body warming up. Feet frozen from ice feeling the blood rush. A nose, just about ready to drop off, restored to full colour. Hands that, at first, couldn't feel the radiator, now being burned by the warmth.
If 80% of the people of England had their wish, it would rain no more and the earth would be baked by sun rays. And what would ensue would be toilet brush trees, scraggy for want of leaves. Brown rugs of grass targeted by youths for their potential as fire starters. And girls walking the streets in all but a bikini. Green wouldn't feature in our colour range.
Imagine an England without green. Imagine the country without the single colour that epitomises it besides grey. Where would the appeal lie?
For most tourists, if they're not besotted with London, they are with the countryside.
I find England works rather well. Throughout the year, the country is nourished by rain and it's beauty is saved for those glorious summer afternoons where we can appreciate it all.
So, I no longer hold a grinding antagonism for rain. You can pray for the sun, but that won't stop the rain.
Sunday, 13 October 2013
Finding your sanctuary
University leaves so much unlocked potential for the individual. Societies, clubs, clubbing, new faces, lectures. The increased freedom and focus on self can lead, either, to a slow but sure regression or - in the majority of cases - a bountiful exertion of one's happiness and ambition.
With a routine, that I have now had to plan myself, the importance of management is evermore crucial. This morning I set off to rekindle my love of the church. It was a small affair; not many in the way of congregation numbers - well, certainly fewer than I had previously known. But what was lacking in individuals was made up in general happiness, ambiance and devotion.
I sat as far from the altar as could be. Not for dislike of being new, but for the simple reason of losing my voice when the hymns began. Singing, largely, was never a quality I admitted owning, despite the 'pop star' phase of year 3 - a career move I took very seriously.
So I sat and stood to sing when the time came, all the while, during organisational pauses, taking in the peachy coloured walls, the static of the chairs, the decked flooring. It certainly wasn't the image of a typical church, save for the religious memorabilia decorating the hall and the willing congregation, amongst whom sat the formally dressed family and friends of a toddler who was to be baptised.
I got thinking in those moments; what is a church? This building didn't have the age-old, stained glass, musty smelling character of what is usually taken as a church. But did that make it an less of a church than an 17th century stoned work of architecture? It was, however informal, by definition, still a church.
Religion in general is an idea of concept. There is very little concrete about a service and other particulars. Of course, there are the formalities; holy scriptures and communions, declarations of faith and pilgrimages but those aren't the things that necessarily underpin religion and, more specifically to this case, a church. So, if it is only a matter of conception that creates religion and Gods, might we all go to church in some form or another regardless of whether we are religious or not?
In its simplest terms, a church is a place of worship. A more close-fitting definition would be a common place of worship. Is this then applicable to a commodity such as a bed?
Who doesn't like bed? Or sleep for that matter? A minority of the human race. The bed is a place of common love.
In church, our reason for being is God. In bed our reason for being, mostly, is sleep. In such circumstances, therefore, our beds are like our own personal churches. My bed will not be the same as yours. Though it may look the same, the meaning of it will be different. Yet, you and I are commonly joined in the notion of going to bed and sleeping. Similarly, my notion of God will not be the same as yours. Perhaps, you don't even believe in God. Or you may not believe in just one but many. Still, whatever your values, we are joined in thinking and evaluating the world through our own dynamic system of beliefs.
When you're welcomed into a Parish, such as I was this morning, you are given a wider appreciation and room to think. You don't have to agree with the conventions of service or practice because every worship is different.
I suppose, in the end, what is important, however, is that you, eventually, find your own sanctuary and church whether it be in the actual building, with you family and friends, or in that bowl of warm buttered popcorn sitting beside you.
With a routine, that I have now had to plan myself, the importance of management is evermore crucial. This morning I set off to rekindle my love of the church. It was a small affair; not many in the way of congregation numbers - well, certainly fewer than I had previously known. But what was lacking in individuals was made up in general happiness, ambiance and devotion.
I sat as far from the altar as could be. Not for dislike of being new, but for the simple reason of losing my voice when the hymns began. Singing, largely, was never a quality I admitted owning, despite the 'pop star' phase of year 3 - a career move I took very seriously.
So I sat and stood to sing when the time came, all the while, during organisational pauses, taking in the peachy coloured walls, the static of the chairs, the decked flooring. It certainly wasn't the image of a typical church, save for the religious memorabilia decorating the hall and the willing congregation, amongst whom sat the formally dressed family and friends of a toddler who was to be baptised.
I got thinking in those moments; what is a church? This building didn't have the age-old, stained glass, musty smelling character of what is usually taken as a church. But did that make it an less of a church than an 17th century stoned work of architecture? It was, however informal, by definition, still a church.
Religion in general is an idea of concept. There is very little concrete about a service and other particulars. Of course, there are the formalities; holy scriptures and communions, declarations of faith and pilgrimages but those aren't the things that necessarily underpin religion and, more specifically to this case, a church. So, if it is only a matter of conception that creates religion and Gods, might we all go to church in some form or another regardless of whether we are religious or not?
In its simplest terms, a church is a place of worship. A more close-fitting definition would be a common place of worship. Is this then applicable to a commodity such as a bed?
Who doesn't like bed? Or sleep for that matter? A minority of the human race. The bed is a place of common love.
In church, our reason for being is God. In bed our reason for being, mostly, is sleep. In such circumstances, therefore, our beds are like our own personal churches. My bed will not be the same as yours. Though it may look the same, the meaning of it will be different. Yet, you and I are commonly joined in the notion of going to bed and sleeping. Similarly, my notion of God will not be the same as yours. Perhaps, you don't even believe in God. Or you may not believe in just one but many. Still, whatever your values, we are joined in thinking and evaluating the world through our own dynamic system of beliefs.
When you're welcomed into a Parish, such as I was this morning, you are given a wider appreciation and room to think. You don't have to agree with the conventions of service or practice because every worship is different.
I suppose, in the end, what is important, however, is that you, eventually, find your own sanctuary and church whether it be in the actual building, with you family and friends, or in that bowl of warm buttered popcorn sitting beside you.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
The Con - lessons learnt from the imminent release of Tracey Connolley
The average person in the UK has a life span of around 80 years, according to the World Health Organisation (WHO) who make estimates that men live for around 77.8 years and women live for 81.9. I'm 18. I have, potentially, 63 more years at life. I'm lucky and, if you're alive today, you are too. Others are not so. Baby P, as he was nationally known, lived only 1 year and 5 months. That's over 75 years of potentially life changing decisions and energy lost and wasted.
But what is more shocking, in the grander scheme of things, is that Peter Connolley didn't have a choice. Before he could even be in control of his life, it was taken away from him. I am, now, as independent as I ever have been. I'm at Uni. But that's not to say I'm fully unconstrained. No human is fully individual. There are people; friends, families, colleagues and other, abstract concepts which mean that we shall never be eternally free. The decisions we make everyday usually are formed due to the restraints that are put on us by other people. If I wanted a cheese toastie with ketchup, as do my flatmates, making it wouldn't be the only stumbling block which involved me making a decision. One of the first points of call would be; Do I actually need this? This is a simple and commonly used sentence, not least by people like me. But the reason that I would have asked myself that question is because I am bound by a series of transcendent connections. Do I actually need this would be a question that derived from the fact that those extra calories could make me put on a few pounds. Worse, it could lead to a break out of spots. Would it be worth it? Would my friends notice? By these questions alone, I would be bound.
If I then went on to eat the sandwich, slicing the cheese and allowing the molten wax to dribble from the toastie machine, I would still be bound. Where should I eat it?
Questions, as well as people and attachments, keep us far from freedom. So, if we are never free and always, though begrudgingly, reliant on something; is it ok for those attachments to dictate us? Should we listen? Should we take notice to the point that we could die?
Baby P was innocent. And, in the grand scheme of things, he has reached a more attainable freedom through death than anyone alive can have a hope of knowing.
So what is it to be free? There is no such thing on earth. I believe you can never be free; just free-er. Tracey Connolley is to walk 'free'. A 6 year term for the death of a baby doesn't seem much. Think back 6 years. A lot can happen. In the first 6 years of my life I learnt to walk, to eat, to go for a wee on the toilet rather than in a nappy. I learnt to sing, to laugh, to smile, to run, to watch TV, to count, to write, to play, to draw, to love. A lot of things. And these are the fundamental aspects of my childhood. These are the things Baby P didn't get.
I could count the mistakes I've made too. I could count the purposeful wrong. However morbid, if Tracey Connolley were to repeat her actions, in her lifetime she could potentially be linked to the murder of 5 additional children. To me, 6 year imprisonment, doesn't seem just. Tracey Connolley - hypothetically - served 1 year in prison for every 12.5 years that she took of her son's life. I fail to see the atonement in such a 'punishment'.
The Baby P case infuriates me. For one, I find it incomprehensible that someone could actually abuse someone, no less a toddler, in this way. But second, the pure injustice of it all. How could a sentence of 6 years, or even 5 as she should have served, be a deterrent for anyone. Prisons, as I've posted before, are barely a hardship. The guilt of crime doesn't even seem to exist anymore. What with the need for humane ways of treating criminals (which, don't get me wrong, I am not against), punishment doesn't even seem to incorporate its fundamental concept; to punish.
I get particularly passionate about life, and rightly so. You only have one and if it is taken away from you at the bitter age of 2, when the only experience given to you was abuse, then that is not worth having.
Freedom shouldn't be an early release from prison or a return to normality after murder to shop as you would have in ASDA or Tesco. Nor should it be an eternal rest from life on Earth, regardless of religious affiliation. Freedom should be living; simply, unchallenged with no strings attached.
But what is more shocking, in the grander scheme of things, is that Peter Connolley didn't have a choice. Before he could even be in control of his life, it was taken away from him. I am, now, as independent as I ever have been. I'm at Uni. But that's not to say I'm fully unconstrained. No human is fully individual. There are people; friends, families, colleagues and other, abstract concepts which mean that we shall never be eternally free. The decisions we make everyday usually are formed due to the restraints that are put on us by other people. If I wanted a cheese toastie with ketchup, as do my flatmates, making it wouldn't be the only stumbling block which involved me making a decision. One of the first points of call would be; Do I actually need this? This is a simple and commonly used sentence, not least by people like me. But the reason that I would have asked myself that question is because I am bound by a series of transcendent connections. Do I actually need this would be a question that derived from the fact that those extra calories could make me put on a few pounds. Worse, it could lead to a break out of spots. Would it be worth it? Would my friends notice? By these questions alone, I would be bound.
If I then went on to eat the sandwich, slicing the cheese and allowing the molten wax to dribble from the toastie machine, I would still be bound. Where should I eat it?
Questions, as well as people and attachments, keep us far from freedom. So, if we are never free and always, though begrudgingly, reliant on something; is it ok for those attachments to dictate us? Should we listen? Should we take notice to the point that we could die?
Baby P was innocent. And, in the grand scheme of things, he has reached a more attainable freedom through death than anyone alive can have a hope of knowing.
So what is it to be free? There is no such thing on earth. I believe you can never be free; just free-er. Tracey Connolley is to walk 'free'. A 6 year term for the death of a baby doesn't seem much. Think back 6 years. A lot can happen. In the first 6 years of my life I learnt to walk, to eat, to go for a wee on the toilet rather than in a nappy. I learnt to sing, to laugh, to smile, to run, to watch TV, to count, to write, to play, to draw, to love. A lot of things. And these are the fundamental aspects of my childhood. These are the things Baby P didn't get.
I could count the mistakes I've made too. I could count the purposeful wrong. However morbid, if Tracey Connolley were to repeat her actions, in her lifetime she could potentially be linked to the murder of 5 additional children. To me, 6 year imprisonment, doesn't seem just. Tracey Connolley - hypothetically - served 1 year in prison for every 12.5 years that she took of her son's life. I fail to see the atonement in such a 'punishment'.
The Baby P case infuriates me. For one, I find it incomprehensible that someone could actually abuse someone, no less a toddler, in this way. But second, the pure injustice of it all. How could a sentence of 6 years, or even 5 as she should have served, be a deterrent for anyone. Prisons, as I've posted before, are barely a hardship. The guilt of crime doesn't even seem to exist anymore. What with the need for humane ways of treating criminals (which, don't get me wrong, I am not against), punishment doesn't even seem to incorporate its fundamental concept; to punish.
I get particularly passionate about life, and rightly so. You only have one and if it is taken away from you at the bitter age of 2, when the only experience given to you was abuse, then that is not worth having.
Freedom shouldn't be an early release from prison or a return to normality after murder to shop as you would have in ASDA or Tesco. Nor should it be an eternal rest from life on Earth, regardless of religious affiliation. Freedom should be living; simply, unchallenged with no strings attached.
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Chocolate Finger Children
Lined in symmetry, like those chocolate Cadbury fingers you get, rigid, unmoving and sometimes - dependent on the weather - glued to the black carton of the package. There are those perfect, slender bodies which have made it to the present in perfection, regardless of the mishaps of trade and travel. Then there are others; obliterated in transit, many of which now lay dormant in a muddle of their own crumbs which greedy saliva dipped fingers haven't yet picked up.
Hungry? It's a nice image, isn't it. A consumer habit of desire for anything sweet, mouth-watering and hole-filling. And, when they're on offer, these things are even better. 2 for £1 tastes so much nicer than 1 for £2 . 74 . But, now what if I told you that this image is a depiction of Syria. Those white chocolate fingers are not cute biscuits at all. Not the boxed, sugar coated confectionery delights which you've most probably already made a mental note to put on the shopping list. These are children; the children of Syria. And they're dead among others who they don't even know. Not their parents, not their families. Just people. Other children. Other victims. They are dead. And there are more dying everyday.
It's hard to put your finger on the exact sentiments. It's not everyday that you think to ask yourself; how would poisonous gas feel if it was corroding my insides? How would it feel to go to sleep with the blasts of guns you didn't even know existed? The shredding of houses of people you knew and the houses of those, you didn't? How would it feel to know that that was all 'ok'?
People say you can't imagine it. But, you can. You can't know it. You can't, unless you've experienced it, know how it feels. But you can try to imagine. The sooner people put themselves in the positions of others, instead of dismissing tragedy through the it's-not-happening-to-me syndrome by faining disbelief and parading how you couldn't even dare think about what it would be like, the sooner we would get humanitarian responses. I'm sorry if this comes across heavy. But I think we need to take those pensive moments.
So now think to yourself. You can do it. Imagine being on the wrong side of the Syria. What is the wrong side? Imagine being a mother or a father, in modern Syria. I did;
She cried; Laila did. She needed to sleep. Can't you just stop?! was closer to a lullaby than I've ever sung her. My baby needs rest! I do too! But it was one night, when the tension was particularly riotous, when men walked right by our room, when a little boy a couple of doors down shrilled and then just stopped, when the police struck and the whole ambulance unit was deployed; that was the night she slept right through. Her first night for seven months, properly asleep. And then I knew; she could only do it with the sirens.
And now, now she needs the rubble. Can't hold herself straight if she's not walking on the upturned street. Can't balance if there isn't a thick wire of plumbing in the middle of the road. Can't move if she's not walking towards a burnt out car. That's the only reason she's moving forward, when she should be doing the opposite. She should have her little fingers in mine and be letting me lead her backwards. But she's going forward. Further and further away from me.
This is home for her. This dismal existence. And Laila; she can only do it with the sirens.
Hungry? It's a nice image, isn't it. A consumer habit of desire for anything sweet, mouth-watering and hole-filling. And, when they're on offer, these things are even better. 2 for £1 tastes so much nicer than 1 for £2 . 74 . But, now what if I told you that this image is a depiction of Syria. Those white chocolate fingers are not cute biscuits at all. Not the boxed, sugar coated confectionery delights which you've most probably already made a mental note to put on the shopping list. These are children; the children of Syria. And they're dead among others who they don't even know. Not their parents, not their families. Just people. Other children. Other victims. They are dead. And there are more dying everyday.
It's hard to put your finger on the exact sentiments. It's not everyday that you think to ask yourself; how would poisonous gas feel if it was corroding my insides? How would it feel to go to sleep with the blasts of guns you didn't even know existed? The shredding of houses of people you knew and the houses of those, you didn't? How would it feel to know that that was all 'ok'?
People say you can't imagine it. But, you can. You can't know it. You can't, unless you've experienced it, know how it feels. But you can try to imagine. The sooner people put themselves in the positions of others, instead of dismissing tragedy through the it's-not-happening-to-me syndrome by faining disbelief and parading how you couldn't even dare think about what it would be like, the sooner we would get humanitarian responses. I'm sorry if this comes across heavy. But I think we need to take those pensive moments.
So now think to yourself. You can do it. Imagine being on the wrong side of the Syria. What is the wrong side? Imagine being a mother or a father, in modern Syria. I did;
She Can Only Do It With The Sirens
I watch her stumble. Fat feet, too flimsy to hold up all that body. Or, maybe, just too weak. She can't go to sleep. Not until she hears the blasts. I spent half of that first year of her little life, shielding her ears. When she cried, I thought she couldn't take it. The war; it's too scary, even for me. I sat quaking. Half waiting for the room to collapse, for next door to disintegrate. The rest of me was already willing to die. But I couldn't do it myself. Only being killed made dying seem less cowardly. She cried; Laila did. She needed to sleep. Can't you just stop?! was closer to a lullaby than I've ever sung her. My baby needs rest! I do too! But it was one night, when the tension was particularly riotous, when men walked right by our room, when a little boy a couple of doors down shrilled and then just stopped, when the police struck and the whole ambulance unit was deployed; that was the night she slept right through. Her first night for seven months, properly asleep. And then I knew; she could only do it with the sirens.
And now, now she needs the rubble. Can't hold herself straight if she's not walking on the upturned street. Can't balance if there isn't a thick wire of plumbing in the middle of the road. Can't move if she's not walking towards a burnt out car. That's the only reason she's moving forward, when she should be doing the opposite. She should have her little fingers in mine and be letting me lead her backwards. But she's going forward. Further and further away from me.
This is home for her. This dismal existence. And Laila; she can only do it with the sirens.
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