Last Sunday, I resumed my walking. I woke just before the sun rose and decided to head off. I wanted to walk up to Waikumete Cemetery. It is uphill from our place and I hoped to be there in time to see the view of the sun rising over our part of this city.
It was cold, around 8 degrees. As the cold air hit my skin and my eyes watered, I felt full of energy. There was no one else around. I felt like I owned the neighbourhood. I even managed to jog a bit of the way, spurred on by this energy and my desire to beat the sunrise.
I went in the bottom entrance of the cemetery, an area set aside for WWI soldiers. I was still thinking about The War Tapes and the futility of war. I took time to look at some of the grave sites and read some of the names. So many young men.
The cemetery was quiet and the air very still. There was a slight frost, unusual for Auckland, on the grassed areas. Still no sign of other people out walking, jogging or taking their dogs for a stroll. I was deeply moved as I read the names and the water spurting from my eyes was now not only the result of the cold morning air. I was thinking of all the families who sons, brothers, fathers, cousins were laid to rest here, as the result of war. I was feeling frustrated at the senselessness of it all. Such a waste. All of these people.
The sun was trying to force its ways through the cool morning air. I walked up the hill a bit further to a point where I had a view of Kelston falling away towards the flat, towards the estuary. I took in the view and then slowly turned around and headed up towards a large Pohutakawa tree with the narrow shaft of sunlight on my back.
The tree was huge and the sun cast my shadow on its wide trunk. There was complete silence. There was nothing else but me, the tree and my shadow. For just one split second, as I looked at my shadow on the tree, I had a sense of Shelley’s shadow, as a little child, hand in hand with me. I could feel her little hand in mine. The two of us there, safe and saved in the tree. It was quite beautiful.
I knew if I turned away, turned around Shelley wouldn’t be there. I knew it wasn’t that moment that we had had, laughing and giggling at our shadows. The delight a child takes in realizing they have a shadow, that they can make it dance and move. That it is them.
Sometimes grief hits with a physicality that is indescribable.
Both experiences were running in my head at the same time. I was transfixed to the spot, juggling both realities. The beauty of the present moment, like a secret door into the past, together with the knowledge that Shelley was not there. That Shelley was dead. The impact was like a punch in the gut. My tears flowed uncontrollably. It was a moment, one of those moments that are precious, fragile and painful. It felt magical and beautiful at the same time. I stayed in it and held it for as long as I could. I stopped it when I sensed the beginning of an almighty scream, of a weeping and wailing that I knew, once set free would engulf me.
I turned away from the tree and faced the sun. I shut my eyes, breathed in the cold air and held Shelley with every cell of my body and mind until I was peaceful again.
After a while, I walked on. Down a dip, up a hill and rounded another corner. I was taken with a small area of graves with amazing structures on them. The grassed area was still frosty and a light mist hung in the air as if protecting them. I approached and realized the structures were things like dolls’ houses, toys, amazing montages of babies toys. The headstones showed life spans of a day, birth dates and death dates the same. These families hadn’t had the privilege of getting to know their children, of having them in their lives for any length of time. They would have had so much hope and joy for their lives. There is no right time for the death of a child. I left them with some of my tears.
By the time I walked out into the streets again, the city had awakened. There were cars everywhere dashing up and down the hill. People out running as opposed to my jogging and uphill as well!. I gave them the Kelston hello, (two raised eyebrows) and made my way home. Those precious moments, the unexpected awareness and emotions had given me a sense of grounding. I had stopped holding my breath, stopped being on guard for my grief and walked into the reality of my life. This was not a bad thing.
Arohanui
KG
31 Jul 2007
26 Jul 2007
Contrasts and Clarity Part II
Now where was I…ah yes, contrasts.
We had watched “The War Tapes” (see previous post) and HB was surfing the channels, as you do when you are sprawled out on the sofa in the sun recovering from the flu. Purely by chance we came across the second documentary I want to tell you about. It was run in place of the scheduled programme. So it was even more by chance that we viewed it.
The contrast between The War Tapes and this documentary by Paul Smaczny, entitled, “The Ramallah Concert: Knowledge is the beginning…..” was incredible. It was like the contrast between winter/summer, sunshine/rain, night/day or depression/optimisim.
I am finding it difficult to find the words to describe the power and magnificence of this documentary..
Again if I refer to the heading on this blog site, “Words frame our reality. Actions define our lives”, this documentary encapsulates that philosophy.
What we were watching was an incredible collective of young men and women from the Middle East. Young people, whose reality had been framed by the place of their birth and the information , language, history and stories of their families. They were from Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Syria and Spain. People, whose reality encompassed inbred fear, mistrust and a history of hatred between these states. Histories of oppression, war, death and destruction at the hands of each others ethnic grouping. Words of hatred and mistrust had framed the only reality they knew about each other.
Most of them had never met or spoken to anyone from the other ethnic gorupings. This was their first experience of being able to talk one to one with each other. They are segregated into geographical areas with no access to each other. This is a situation that is ongoing in the Middle East with no clear sign of any changes in the near future.
How is it then that this particular group came together?
That is where the magnificence of the human entity comes in. That is where the power of the arts and contribution from artists comes in. That is where creativity and vision come in.
Two men, one an Israeli Musician, one a Palestian academic had made this possible. Daniel Barenboim and Edward Said had joined forces on this project. They breathed life into it and made it happen.
Part of my delay in updating my blog is that I have been finding out so much about each of these amazing men that I have disappeared into the internet!! I already knew that Daniel Barenboim was a musician who had once been married to Jacqueline du Pre. My sister introduced me to du Pre's magnificent cello playing many years ago. On first hearing the her play, I simply wept. It was so beautiful. It stirred my soul and touched my spirit in a way that only wonderful music can do. That is a rare feeling. I will never forget that particular moment.
What was extraordinary about this documentary was that it was much more than the story of an orchestra, (the group was called the West-East Divan Orchestra).
The process of living, working, travelling and playing music together provided a backdrop for dialogue. Dialogue between people that do not normally have a chance to speak to each other. To air their views, question each other and learn about each other’s lives. There were animated discussions the content of which were so honest and truthful that I was again brought to tears. There were heated discussions about the viability of playing at Ramallah. Consensus had to be reached and then extraordinary measures taken to make this happen. That it happened at all was a miracle.
It was incredible that this group formed, it was incredible that they learned so much from each other.It was incredible what they brought to the people in the Middle East. It was incredible what they brought to me.
At one stage Barenboim was asked for an interview after one of the concerts. He simply said words to this effect: there is no need for words after that (the music).
That is why it has been so difficult for me to find the words to convey any of this.
Truly incredible and life altering.
The dvd is available through Amazon if you are interested.
We had watched “The War Tapes” (see previous post) and HB was surfing the channels, as you do when you are sprawled out on the sofa in the sun recovering from the flu. Purely by chance we came across the second documentary I want to tell you about. It was run in place of the scheduled programme. So it was even more by chance that we viewed it.
The contrast between The War Tapes and this documentary by Paul Smaczny, entitled, “The Ramallah Concert: Knowledge is the beginning…..” was incredible. It was like the contrast between winter/summer, sunshine/rain, night/day or depression/optimisim.
I am finding it difficult to find the words to describe the power and magnificence of this documentary..
Again if I refer to the heading on this blog site, “Words frame our reality. Actions define our lives”, this documentary encapsulates that philosophy.
What we were watching was an incredible collective of young men and women from the Middle East. Young people, whose reality had been framed by the place of their birth and the information , language, history and stories of their families. They were from Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Syria and Spain. People, whose reality encompassed inbred fear, mistrust and a history of hatred between these states. Histories of oppression, war, death and destruction at the hands of each others ethnic grouping. Words of hatred and mistrust had framed the only reality they knew about each other.
Most of them had never met or spoken to anyone from the other ethnic gorupings. This was their first experience of being able to talk one to one with each other. They are segregated into geographical areas with no access to each other. This is a situation that is ongoing in the Middle East with no clear sign of any changes in the near future.
How is it then that this particular group came together?
That is where the magnificence of the human entity comes in. That is where the power of the arts and contribution from artists comes in. That is where creativity and vision come in.
Two men, one an Israeli Musician, one a Palestian academic had made this possible. Daniel Barenboim and Edward Said had joined forces on this project. They breathed life into it and made it happen.
Part of my delay in updating my blog is that I have been finding out so much about each of these amazing men that I have disappeared into the internet!! I already knew that Daniel Barenboim was a musician who had once been married to Jacqueline du Pre. My sister introduced me to du Pre's magnificent cello playing many years ago. On first hearing the her play, I simply wept. It was so beautiful. It stirred my soul and touched my spirit in a way that only wonderful music can do. That is a rare feeling. I will never forget that particular moment.
What was extraordinary about this documentary was that it was much more than the story of an orchestra, (the group was called the West-East Divan Orchestra).
The process of living, working, travelling and playing music together provided a backdrop for dialogue. Dialogue between people that do not normally have a chance to speak to each other. To air their views, question each other and learn about each other’s lives. There were animated discussions the content of which were so honest and truthful that I was again brought to tears. There were heated discussions about the viability of playing at Ramallah. Consensus had to be reached and then extraordinary measures taken to make this happen. That it happened at all was a miracle.
It was incredible that this group formed, it was incredible that they learned so much from each other.It was incredible what they brought to the people in the Middle East. It was incredible what they brought to me.
At one stage Barenboim was asked for an interview after one of the concerts. He simply said words to this effect: there is no need for words after that (the music).
That is why it has been so difficult for me to find the words to convey any of this.
Truly incredible and life altering.
The dvd is available through Amazon if you are interested.
Arohanui
KG
23 Jul 2007
Clutter, Contrasts and Clarity
'Tis a strange thing the human mind.
I have wanted to put up another post but have not been able to focus on a topic. Writers’ block already!! More likely that had I put fingers to keyboard and spewed out the contents of my mind, I would have received a visit from the white-coat brigade and been carted off for some R&R and intravenous drugs. (Would that have been so bad? Hmm).
My mind feels overwhelmed with clutter. Our senses are constantly assailed with news stories and I use the word “news” tongue in cheek. Newspapers, TV, radio stations, emails all assault our ears and eyes with items they call “news” or at least items they think will sell papers and boost viewer ratings. Most of it is pretty shallow crap, skimming across the top of what they deem is of interest. What has happened to in-depth reporting? Investigative journalism?
I mean come on –
Paris Hilton’s traumatic days in prison. Am I supposed to care?
Britain and Russia have had a spat which might impact on global warming as all parties drift towards Cold War status. Cold War is somewhat sneakier than a Hot War, as currently screening in cities and towns in Iraq. (So, definitely a bad thing apart from the possibility of slowing down global warming?)
Mugabe has had another turn of his brain and citizens are fleeing in droves. The surrounding countries are feeling somewhat pressured by the sheer number of uninvited guests. Where are the mercenary hit men these days? (Off reading the final edition of the Harry Potter series?).
John Key, the opposition National Party leader has had his $8 million home burgled while he was in Hawaii with his family during the school holidays. He apparently owns six houses but this one just happened to be the one he and his family dwell in. He immediately blamed “the druggies”. This revelation was presented prior to any Police investigation being completed or probably even started. So he is a pretty bright spark and he does dress nicely. Maybe he won’t need to have empathy for the underprivileged or drug addicts if he gets a turn at being the PM.
Meanwhile our PM, (Labour Party in case you don’t know), wants to spend $4.6 million on a football sculpture in Paris during the Rugby World Cup. It’s not as if you can even kick the thing!! As well there are social services being closed due to lack of funding. They would require only a tiny wee bit of that amount of money in order to continue.
George W. Blunderbuss just wants to be loved. He will not be deterred from his path on Iraq even if his dog and his wife (not sure I got the order right!) are his only remaining supporters. Well, hey George, take a look. It’s down to those two. But maybe they love him.
The planet is both flooding and heating up to terrifying levels. Britain is experiencing severe flooding with three people reported dead. The Mediterranean is enduring “furnace like temperatures” that may severely impact on the tourism industry.
Aghh!! All of the above clutter has been rattling around in my head for the past few days.
And I miss Shelley every day.
That on its own is enough.
I work a six day roster with three days off in-between. Yesterday was the first of my three days off. I blobbed with my cluttered mind. HB has a touch of the flue and laryngitis so the house was quite quiet!! Yes, I am doing my best Florence Nightingale impression while juggling my cluttered mind. Most of my blobbing took place in front of the TV apart from the occasional foray into the garden.
As it happens this wasn’t a total waste of time.
I came across a fascinating documentary on the Rialto Channel. Broadway: The Golden Age, By The Legends Who Were There. I was spellbound for the next two hours. Taken on a fascinating journey by the actors/resses who were the heart and soul of Broadway. Achieve footage of those long gone, stories from those still working. The spoke about the icons; Marlon Brando, James Dean and many more; the lifestyle of going to seven or eight shows a night for a mere 25c each show; the auditions and the desire to be the one chosen for the lead role. As they spoke their excitement and passion for the theatre at that time was tangible.
Tales of poverty and creative ways around the need to make an impression for the auditions. One group of actresses chipped in together to buy a dress that was given to whoever had an audition at the time. It was fascinating stuff. They were less impressed with current “musicals” with their computerized music systems or worse pre-recorded music. Not an orchestra in sight. Where is the “live” in such theatre they mused.
I felt the power, passion and beauty of their craft. There was certainly a depth and skill that marked genius. Success was in their hands, not in the hands of multi-million dollar marketing agencies, lighting or special effects operators. I
If you get a chance to view this documentary, I highly recommend it.
I had already noted another documentary that I wanted to see, so the blobbing continued. This one was entitled “The War Tapes”. Journalist Deborah Scranton had the opportunity to join members of the National Guard on the frontline for this documentary. However, instead of doing the filming herself, she gave three of the soldiers video cameras. The ensuing documentary is their footage edited by Scranton. It screened on the Discovery Channel at 7.30pm.
I wanted to see this documentary for a couple of reasons. One being that the son of one my best friend’s is currently serving in Iraq. His father is American and he had, in his mid 20’s, forfeited his NZ citizenship in order to join the American Army. He is a trained medic but also a specialist soldier and a leader of other men.
He knew Shelley as our families had met when they were both about 6 years old. He was devastated when Shelley was murdered by the London bombers.
I wanted to see what he might see and to have some sense of what he might be doing in Iraq. I could not understand his wanting to go. I wanted to be able to make some sense out of the whole thing.
As I watched the documentary, the words I had chosen for the heading of this blog site struck home. These three soldiers were motivated to serve in Iraq by words such as freedom, democracy for the people of Iraq, heroism and fighting the bad guys. These words framed their reality.
The unfolding of their stories from Iraq challenged the reality of these words. One of their main duties was escorting supply trucks. Trucks that all belong to KBR, ("KBR is a leading global engineering, construction and services company supporting the energy, petrochemicals, government services and civil infrastructure sectors." quote from website. One of the soldiers stated that Dick Cheyney was involved with KBR. This company supplies practically eveything in Iraq.
They also escorted the “poo” trucks, tankers that drove out to designated areas and then pumped out the human waste into the desert soil. One of the soldiers could speak Arabic and was often caught in the middle translating with the locals. His comrades joked about having to kill him for collaborating with the enemy. Soldiers are sent to Iraq with no cultural awareness of the local inhabitants, the people they are supposed to be saving. He stopped translating after having to advise the father of a local child, a small boy, that he could not cross the road to take the boy to the hospital. It was not permitted.
It becomes clear that war is not always about good vs evil and it is even not clear who is in each camp. It is more often than not about power and money. It is always a waste of lives, of brothers of sisters of sons and of daughters.
I will not tell you much more but there is much more. The documentary follows these three soldiers home as they reunite with their own families and local communities. They are attempting to rebuild their lives with PTSD and a couple of them have some physical conditions to deal with as a result of their service. Two may serve again.
The words that drove them to Iraq must be ringing in their minds as they learn to live with the reality of their actions.
I still do not understand why one of my best friend’s sons wanted to go to Iraq.
I hope he is kept safe in body, mind and soul. My love travels with him.
Again if you get a chance to view this documentary – take it.
I am slowly clearing the clutter but there is still one more bit of TV I want to share with you.
That is going to have to wait as I need a break. Next posting will be part two, Contrast and Clarity.
Arohanui
KG
PS the “save now” has not worked today. This is the third time I have put this together. Any tips from anyone? Am now writing in word, saving and then putting into the blog. The air was blue!!!
I have wanted to put up another post but have not been able to focus on a topic. Writers’ block already!! More likely that had I put fingers to keyboard and spewed out the contents of my mind, I would have received a visit from the white-coat brigade and been carted off for some R&R and intravenous drugs. (Would that have been so bad? Hmm).
My mind feels overwhelmed with clutter. Our senses are constantly assailed with news stories and I use the word “news” tongue in cheek. Newspapers, TV, radio stations, emails all assault our ears and eyes with items they call “news” or at least items they think will sell papers and boost viewer ratings. Most of it is pretty shallow crap, skimming across the top of what they deem is of interest. What has happened to in-depth reporting? Investigative journalism?
I mean come on –
Paris Hilton’s traumatic days in prison. Am I supposed to care?
Britain and Russia have had a spat which might impact on global warming as all parties drift towards Cold War status. Cold War is somewhat sneakier than a Hot War, as currently screening in cities and towns in Iraq. (So, definitely a bad thing apart from the possibility of slowing down global warming?)
Mugabe has had another turn of his brain and citizens are fleeing in droves. The surrounding countries are feeling somewhat pressured by the sheer number of uninvited guests. Where are the mercenary hit men these days? (Off reading the final edition of the Harry Potter series?).
John Key, the opposition National Party leader has had his $8 million home burgled while he was in Hawaii with his family during the school holidays. He apparently owns six houses but this one just happened to be the one he and his family dwell in. He immediately blamed “the druggies”. This revelation was presented prior to any Police investigation being completed or probably even started. So he is a pretty bright spark and he does dress nicely. Maybe he won’t need to have empathy for the underprivileged or drug addicts if he gets a turn at being the PM.
Meanwhile our PM, (Labour Party in case you don’t know), wants to spend $4.6 million on a football sculpture in Paris during the Rugby World Cup. It’s not as if you can even kick the thing!! As well there are social services being closed due to lack of funding. They would require only a tiny wee bit of that amount of money in order to continue.
George W. Blunderbuss just wants to be loved. He will not be deterred from his path on Iraq even if his dog and his wife (not sure I got the order right!) are his only remaining supporters. Well, hey George, take a look. It’s down to those two. But maybe they love him.
The planet is both flooding and heating up to terrifying levels. Britain is experiencing severe flooding with three people reported dead. The Mediterranean is enduring “furnace like temperatures” that may severely impact on the tourism industry.
Aghh!! All of the above clutter has been rattling around in my head for the past few days.
And I miss Shelley every day.
That on its own is enough.
I work a six day roster with three days off in-between. Yesterday was the first of my three days off. I blobbed with my cluttered mind. HB has a touch of the flue and laryngitis so the house was quite quiet!! Yes, I am doing my best Florence Nightingale impression while juggling my cluttered mind. Most of my blobbing took place in front of the TV apart from the occasional foray into the garden.
As it happens this wasn’t a total waste of time.
I came across a fascinating documentary on the Rialto Channel. Broadway: The Golden Age, By The Legends Who Were There. I was spellbound for the next two hours. Taken on a fascinating journey by the actors/resses who were the heart and soul of Broadway. Achieve footage of those long gone, stories from those still working. The spoke about the icons; Marlon Brando, James Dean and many more; the lifestyle of going to seven or eight shows a night for a mere 25c each show; the auditions and the desire to be the one chosen for the lead role. As they spoke their excitement and passion for the theatre at that time was tangible.
Tales of poverty and creative ways around the need to make an impression for the auditions. One group of actresses chipped in together to buy a dress that was given to whoever had an audition at the time. It was fascinating stuff. They were less impressed with current “musicals” with their computerized music systems or worse pre-recorded music. Not an orchestra in sight. Where is the “live” in such theatre they mused.
I felt the power, passion and beauty of their craft. There was certainly a depth and skill that marked genius. Success was in their hands, not in the hands of multi-million dollar marketing agencies, lighting or special effects operators. I
If you get a chance to view this documentary, I highly recommend it.
I had already noted another documentary that I wanted to see, so the blobbing continued. This one was entitled “The War Tapes”. Journalist Deborah Scranton had the opportunity to join members of the National Guard on the frontline for this documentary. However, instead of doing the filming herself, she gave three of the soldiers video cameras. The ensuing documentary is their footage edited by Scranton. It screened on the Discovery Channel at 7.30pm.
I wanted to see this documentary for a couple of reasons. One being that the son of one my best friend’s is currently serving in Iraq. His father is American and he had, in his mid 20’s, forfeited his NZ citizenship in order to join the American Army. He is a trained medic but also a specialist soldier and a leader of other men.
He knew Shelley as our families had met when they were both about 6 years old. He was devastated when Shelley was murdered by the London bombers.
I wanted to see what he might see and to have some sense of what he might be doing in Iraq. I could not understand his wanting to go. I wanted to be able to make some sense out of the whole thing.
As I watched the documentary, the words I had chosen for the heading of this blog site struck home. These three soldiers were motivated to serve in Iraq by words such as freedom, democracy for the people of Iraq, heroism and fighting the bad guys. These words framed their reality.
The unfolding of their stories from Iraq challenged the reality of these words. One of their main duties was escorting supply trucks. Trucks that all belong to KBR, ("KBR is a leading global engineering, construction and services company supporting the energy, petrochemicals, government services and civil infrastructure sectors." quote from website. One of the soldiers stated that Dick Cheyney was involved with KBR. This company supplies practically eveything in Iraq.
They also escorted the “poo” trucks, tankers that drove out to designated areas and then pumped out the human waste into the desert soil. One of the soldiers could speak Arabic and was often caught in the middle translating with the locals. His comrades joked about having to kill him for collaborating with the enemy. Soldiers are sent to Iraq with no cultural awareness of the local inhabitants, the people they are supposed to be saving. He stopped translating after having to advise the father of a local child, a small boy, that he could not cross the road to take the boy to the hospital. It was not permitted.
It becomes clear that war is not always about good vs evil and it is even not clear who is in each camp. It is more often than not about power and money. It is always a waste of lives, of brothers of sisters of sons and of daughters.
I will not tell you much more but there is much more. The documentary follows these three soldiers home as they reunite with their own families and local communities. They are attempting to rebuild their lives with PTSD and a couple of them have some physical conditions to deal with as a result of their service. Two may serve again.
The words that drove them to Iraq must be ringing in their minds as they learn to live with the reality of their actions.
I still do not understand why one of my best friend’s sons wanted to go to Iraq.
I hope he is kept safe in body, mind and soul. My love travels with him.
Again if you get a chance to view this documentary – take it.
I am slowly clearing the clutter but there is still one more bit of TV I want to share with you.
That is going to have to wait as I need a break. Next posting will be part two, Contrast and Clarity.
Arohanui
KG
PS the “save now” has not worked today. This is the third time I have put this together. Any tips from anyone? Am now writing in word, saving and then putting into the blog. The air was blue!!!
14 Jul 2007
The Frog Story...
No, not the story about putting a frog in a pan of cold water and heating it up and the dumb frog doesn't realise. The story about the frogs in the toilet cisterns and toilet bowls in outback OZ!!
I have been having nightmares ever since Second Born Son (SBS) told me in a phone call from Fitzroy Crossing, that that was part of his and his beloveds' job. Removing the frogs from the toilet systems. I tried to visualize them in the toilets, googly eyes peering up at up as you peed down on them or worse. I imagined he&she, plunging their arms into the loos to remove these unwelcome guests. Apparently the paying guests don't much like having these freeloading frogs in the loos.
He explained that they wore big rubber gloves, plucked the frogs out, put them in buckets of water which they covered, so the frogs couldn't see where they were going before they returned them to the river.
By now my neck was tingling with the imagined creepiness of it all!!
I have been having nightmares ever since Second Born Son (SBS) told me in a phone call from Fitzroy Crossing, that that was part of his and his beloveds' job. Removing the frogs from the toilet systems. I tried to visualize them in the toilets, googly eyes peering up at up as you peed down on them or worse. I imagined he&she, plunging their arms into the loos to remove these unwelcome guests. Apparently the paying guests don't much like having these freeloading frogs in the loos.
He explained that they wore big rubber gloves, plucked the frogs out, put them in buckets of water which they covered, so the frogs couldn't see where they were going before they returned them to the river.
By now my neck was tingling with the imagined creepiness of it all!!
He said it wasn't too bad really!!
Judge for yourself. They look a bit belligerent to me. And they still give me the creeps.
SBS & his beloved have since moved from the frog place. That is no longer part of their duties. They are now running a brand new hotel in the Kimberly region and just have to deal with the fact that the building is not quite complete and that they will need to leave before the rainy season or they will be stuck there for a bit longer than they planned. They too are adventurers. The stories will continue. We are a family with a good pedigree in oral and written storytelling.
First Born Son, FBS is a wonderful orator. I love his stories. He is somewhat anxious being the only child physically available to me. He lives in the same city and threatened to change his phone number when I started muttering about taking him to feed the ducks at the park, like we used to when he was a little boy. These two are mature and wonderful young men, neither of whom needs a regressing mother mollycoddling them!!! (So I tell myself and they tell me!!)
FBS's stories revolve around his job in the key nightspots of Auckland. He says who can and cannot enter certain premises. He keeps me in hysterics with his retelling of drunken customers and their attempts at wrangling with him. My favourite is of a drunken midget, (FBS is well over 6'),who repeatedly threw himself at FBS, trying to punch him while at the same time accusing him of picking on him for being a midget. FBS replied, "No, it's not that mate it's just that you're pissed!! "
There are many more stories where these have come from. When we all get together there is much laughter and a wonderful feeling of belonging. We have Shelley in our hearts and their grief too is vast and painful.
They are my rocks. My solid grounding souls. They are so wise and generous. When I am down they bring me up and say we all have to live our lives bigger and better because of Shelley. I am doing my best and having their love means I can keep on trying. One for all and all for one. That's how we roll.
Arohanui
KG
10 Jul 2007
Bittersweet
Today is the 10th. I have been in a time capsule of sorts, for the past three days. I wake all hours of the night, thinking about all sorts of things. It feels like I have been holding my breath, not daring to breathe. I can breathe again.
The prelude to the 7th was horrendous. I wanted to stop it happening, that date, that day. Shelley's dying. The pressure and stress mounted as the day approached, two years on. Panic grabbed me. The physical manifestations of my grief ebbed and flowed; not interested in food; alcohol my solace.
There is a kind of dislocation that occurs for me. I operate in a seemingly normal manner, (many people would debate that quite rightly!!) but my mind is all over the place. I forget things I know, words I know. I don't know what to do so I keep on doing the everyday things, all the time fending off this sense of panic. All the time shutting down on conversations that might expose my emotion.
I try to rationalise that it is only another day. Another day without Shelley. But it is the day this torturous cycle of grief began. The day of the act that murdered 52 people and hurt and maimed so many others. It is no ordinary day.
I don't know what to do. How to mark this day. How to make it better for my family. I don't want to bring everyone into a deep dark hole of despair but I don't want her dying to go unnoticed. I know that isn't the case and that everyone will be feeling the same. We all do different things with our giref, our missing of her. All of us stumbling around in our unknowingness. Not sure how to reach out.
The solution came from Shelley's friends. They wanted to know if we could get together at our place. The place they know as Shelley's home. So we did.
We had a gathering. An amazing assortment of friends, Shelley's friends and our friends. All who had been there for us since Shelley's death. All who had known her at different stages of her life. Some who came into our lives as a result of her murder.
We have a large home that amazingly expands and contracts, as if by magic, to meet our needs. In 2005 there was a constant flow of people in and out of it, numbers ranging from 2 to 3, 30 or more, 50 or more. It seems to take on a role of its' own, knowing the importance of keeping us safe, allowing its walls to unfold and gently hold us all, no matter how many, in the warmth and safe harbour of its centre.
It has held our screams, our tears, our anger and rage.
It held Shelley's 21st with back doors wideopen to the garden and the fence then open to the reserve to take the 100+ that were part of that special night. Laughter, stories, tears, songs, speeches. Tons of food and an abundance of alcohol. It is an emotionally very mature dwelling, unlike its occupants.
On this 7th July I am sure it would have been a slightly nervous house, on high alert for any possibilities as we all stepped into the unknown edges of our emotions.
What transpired was wonderful. It was as if there was a collective sigh of ease. The fireplace glowed with flickers of orange and red flames, eminating heat and light. Pictures of our beautiful Shelley beam down on us from our walls. Flowers were placed, candles lit and stories told.
And then there
were the little people!! An amazing array of gorgeous new lives.
They can get you just like that, littlies. The joy on their face as you give them some crisps, a bisciut or a lolly. The way they look at you, straight in the eye, straight to your soul. The conversations they have, hilarious and extremely socially adept. There were no temper tantrams, no whining, no demanding this or that. They were just here, enjoying themselves, safe with their parents and family.
The prelude to the 7th was horrendous. I wanted to stop it happening, that date, that day. Shelley's dying. The pressure and stress mounted as the day approached, two years on. Panic grabbed me. The physical manifestations of my grief ebbed and flowed; not interested in food; alcohol my solace.
There is a kind of dislocation that occurs for me. I operate in a seemingly normal manner, (many people would debate that quite rightly!!) but my mind is all over the place. I forget things I know, words I know. I don't know what to do so I keep on doing the everyday things, all the time fending off this sense of panic. All the time shutting down on conversations that might expose my emotion.
I try to rationalise that it is only another day. Another day without Shelley. But it is the day this torturous cycle of grief began. The day of the act that murdered 52 people and hurt and maimed so many others. It is no ordinary day.
I don't know what to do. How to mark this day. How to make it better for my family. I don't want to bring everyone into a deep dark hole of despair but I don't want her dying to go unnoticed. I know that isn't the case and that everyone will be feeling the same. We all do different things with our giref, our missing of her. All of us stumbling around in our unknowingness. Not sure how to reach out.
The solution came from Shelley's friends. They wanted to know if we could get together at our place. The place they know as Shelley's home. So we did.
We had a gathering. An amazing assortment of friends, Shelley's friends and our friends. All who had been there for us since Shelley's death. All who had known her at different stages of her life. Some who came into our lives as a result of her murder.
We have a large home that amazingly expands and contracts, as if by magic, to meet our needs. In 2005 there was a constant flow of people in and out of it, numbers ranging from 2 to 3, 30 or more, 50 or more. It seems to take on a role of its' own, knowing the importance of keeping us safe, allowing its walls to unfold and gently hold us all, no matter how many, in the warmth and safe harbour of its centre.
It has held our screams, our tears, our anger and rage.
It held Shelley's 21st with back doors wideopen to the garden and the fence then open to the reserve to take the 100+ that were part of that special night. Laughter, stories, tears, songs, speeches. Tons of food and an abundance of alcohol. It is an emotionally very mature dwelling, unlike its occupants.
On this 7th July I am sure it would have been a slightly nervous house, on high alert for any possibilities as we all stepped into the unknown edges of our emotions.
What transpired was wonderful. It was as if there was a collective sigh of ease. The fireplace glowed with flickers of orange and red flames, eminating heat and light. Pictures of our beautiful Shelley beam down on us from our walls. Flowers were placed, candles lit and stories told.
And then there
were the little people!! An amazing array of gorgeous new lives.None of whom Shelley had the privilege of meeting.
Her friends M&M, now with a 2yr old and 8 month old K&H; J&G with J, two and abit and No 2 son due to be born a week ago!! M&;T with J four years old; D with her wonderful daughter S and her beautiful 7 week old son. It was incredible. These little people brought laughter and life into the home, they played together, they ate, they danced, they squealed they hugged us all and had a ball. You could almost feel a tangible sigh and relaxing of the walls as the evening unfolded. How loved and lucky all those littlies are. They were shared by all, eveyone only too keen interact with them to get to know them a little.
They can get you just like that, littlies. The joy on their face as you give them some crisps, a bisciut or a lolly. The way they look at you, straight in the eye, straight to your soul. The conversations they have, hilarious and extremely socially adept. There were no temper tantrams, no whining, no demanding this or that. They were just here, enjoying themselves, safe with their parents and family.
They can get you just like that, littlies. I held the littlest one, 7 weeks old. Perfectly formed, a beautiful little boy. He kept sleeping. I held him, hugged him, smelt his lovely newness, snuggled his neck and breathed in his warmth.
Then I was weeping. I handed him back gently. He got me. He got in under my protective layers.
I looked at him, and thought of all the hours ahead in his life. All the teaching, loving, training we do with our children. From where he is now at 7 weeks until he is a grown young man, off on his own path, how much time and love he will hold. How much love he will give back. How much a part of his family he is and always will be.
It broke my heart. It breaks my heart that anyone dares to end this. How dare someone harm a child. Any child. My child. My baby. No matter their age.
It was the best night. The best way to honour Shelley. The best way to remember all the losses.
We will never forget. We will love and protect our families and friends always, knowing as we do, that it is not always possible to protect them from evil. That is the heartbreaker.
One thing is for sure, we will be doing this more often. It was like tickling the underbelly of our grief and making us chuckle. A journey to other emotions, sharing a wonderful connectedness that Shelley had made for us all.
And I swear the house has a certain jaunty tilt to its' roof now.
Arohanui my dear ones
KG
Then I was weeping. I handed him back gently. He got me. He got in under my protective layers.
I looked at him, and thought of all the hours ahead in his life. All the teaching, loving, training we do with our children. From where he is now at 7 weeks until he is a grown young man, off on his own path, how much time and love he will hold. How much love he will give back. How much a part of his family he is and always will be.
It broke my heart. It breaks my heart that anyone dares to end this. How dare someone harm a child. Any child. My child. My baby. No matter their age.
It was the best night. The best way to honour Shelley. The best way to remember all the losses.
We will never forget. We will love and protect our families and friends always, knowing as we do, that it is not always possible to protect them from evil. That is the heartbreaker.
One thing is for sure, we will be doing this more often. It was like tickling the underbelly of our grief and making us chuckle. A journey to other emotions, sharing a wonderful connectedness that Shelley had made for us all.
And I swear the house has a certain jaunty tilt to its' roof now.
Arohanui my dear ones
KG
Backyard with gate to reserve.
I
I
7 Jul 2007
7/7 Anniversary 2007
Today is the 7th.I will recite the names of the dead and light a candle.
My thoughts are with you all.
All the familes, friends and survivors.
Through our love we are strong.
Shelley Marie Mather
27/01/1979 - 07/07/2005
Russell Square
James Adams
Samantha Badham
Philip Beer
Anna Brandt
Ciaran Cassidy
Rachelle Chung For Yuen
Elizabeth Daplyn
Arthur Frederick
Karolina Gluck
Gamze Gunoral
Lee Harris
Ojara Ikeagwu
Emily Jenkins
Adrian Johnson
Helen Jones
Susan Levy
Shelley Mather
Michael Matsushita
James Mayes
Behnaz Mozakka
Michaela Otto
Atique Sharifi
Ihab Slimane
Christian Small
Monika Suchocka
Mala Trivedi
Tavistock Square
Anthony Fatayi-Williams
Jamie Gordon
Giles Hart
Marie Hartley
Miriam Hyman
Shahara Islam
Neetu Jain
Sam Ly
Shyanuja Parathasangary
Anat Rosenberg
Philip Russell
William Wise
Gladys Wundowa
Aldgate
Lee Baisden
Benedetta Ciaccia
Richard Ellery
Richard Gray
Anne Moffat
Fiona Stevenson
Carrie Taylor
Edgware Road
Michael Brewster
Jonathan Downey
David Foulkes
Colin Morley
Jennifer Nicholson
Laura Webb
The Wounded Angel by Emily Young placed at St Pancras Church in honour of the victims of 7/7
A moving and beautiful tribute.
Full list of Obituaries
5 Jul 2007
The Point of Terrorism is..
I guess I am a bit dense. I really don't understand the point of terrorism. I know it can be an effective method or murdering people. That has been proven to me by the loss of my daughter Shelley, in the London 7/7 Terrorist strike on the underground.
It is also an effective way of maiming, physically and emotionally any given number of people who happen to be present at the time of the act. None of whom mean anything to the terrorist murderers - all of whom do mean a great deal to their families and friends.
It can also causes anxiety for people not directly effected by engendering some level of "insecurity" into their lives.
But what does it achieve?
They are not blackmailers or kidnappers, who, if you believe the movies you see, pretty quickly present a list of demands. At least you have some idea of what they want and they are still around to get it! You may even be able to produce a helicopter at short notice, along with pizzas and drinks and a large bag full of money.
The Mission Impossible tapes (one they prepared earlier!), produced by terrorists after they have obviously accepted the mission, such as the tape produced to time in with last year's first anniversary, shed some light on their thinking. Khan called all in sundry nasty names, praised his god and sang the praises of al-Quaeda. Blaming this and future actions on the evil of the Western world and the Iraq war etc etc. He had indeed, taken the righteous path to teaching us all a lesson. But what was that lesson?
If the Point of Terrorism is a mystery to me given my circumstances, how much more of a mystery must it be to others not affected by a death in their family?
The words I chose for the heading of this site say: Words frame our reality. Actions define our lives.
I did not choose those words lightly. It seems to me that words are the true weapons. These latest attempted terrorists were highly intelligent. You have to have some brain to succeed in medicine. Yet they allowed inflamatory words to change their thinking. Or did they? Were they already thinking along those lines and the previous part of their lives were not true to their beliefs? Did they secure the jobs at London hospitals in order to be inconspicious? Or were they turned by someone elses powerful use of words. The words of the Koran, the words of a passionate Islamic teacher? I don't know. What I do know is that they used words, carefully chosen words to frame their ultimate action of attemting to committ terrorist acts. They knew the likelihood of the loss of lives, yet as doctors, they chose to ignore that side of the equation.
Maybe ultimately, they withdrew at the last minute. Maybe some sense of reason and humanity snuck through their fuddled, minds. Who knows? Maybe they just didn't want to kill themselves. Only they know. Did the attempts fail because of incompetence or because of a realisation of the greater good?
We will not necessarily find out the answer to these questions.
I only know that every child born belongs to someone. That that child usually is loved and cherished, not always, but more often than not. I know that a child is not born with hatred in their hearts or with murderous intent. I can understand that if you are exposed to tyranny and murder, that if your social group is targeted whether as a result of racist, religious or any kind of prejudice, you may become ticked off with the oppressors.
What I cannot understand is the belief that any one group has the right to stamp their way of living, thinking onto any other group by force. By war. By genocide. By homicide. By war.
Disputes over land, oil, money and power these are the makings of war and terrorism.The need to prove oneself right at any cost. At the cost of all the dead in Iraq, civilian and solider.
There has to be a better way but it will not be tapped until there is a desire for this all to end. Until words are used in healing and constructive ways as tools to find pathways through the history of anger and revenge. Until actions of co-operacy and collective well being follow those words. Then maybe we can move forward to a different way of resolving our issues.
The 7/7 bombers and those who attempted the latest bombings did not bother to start a dialogue about their issues. They skipped straight to cowardly, murderous acts for which they, as individuals are responsible. It matters not that they may have taken on some identity of a disaffected group. That is too easy a solution.
Acts of death and destruction do not change thinking; do not convert one to another set of beliefs. Constructive dialogue with goodwill to find solutions has more chance of changing the world.
The current stakes of being stronger, more violent, more sinister, more underhand than the opponent who may not even know they are an opponent, can only lead to more destruction.
The words we use to define groups are in themselves inflamatory; Terrorists, Islamists, Muslims, Westerners. It is easy to generate hate for a group. To see that group then as the named enemy to be destroyed. Individuals make up groups. We need to see the individual. We need to draw back to individual family groups. We need to take responsibility for our children, partners, brothers, sisters. Anyone in our social grouping. We need to use words as assetts to define actions of healing.
Below a poem from my book "Dear Shelley" in which I attempt to make this same point.
TO THE GOVERNMENTS/DICTATORS/PRESIDENTS/RELIGIOUSLEADERS AND SUNDRY TITLED PERSONS WHO HEADCOUNTRIES/STATES
ENGAGED IN ACTIVE WARS
you send them off to war
to fight your fight
in the name of god
in the name of justice
you send them
you say “we are saving this country”
by invading it
you say “it’s what their people want”
you say “we have to stop them, they
are developing nuclear capability”
you say “we must expect collateral damage”
speak-ease for dead soldiers from
your country and dead civilians
from the country you are “rescuing”
you say “they stole our land 100’s if not 1000’s of
years ago – it isn’t fair”
you say “they have insulted our god – they must
die for that”
you say “our god is a peaceful god who must be
avenged with violence”
you say “they have killed one of us, we must kill
more of them – to show them they cannot
do this”
you say “we must fight terrorism”
you say “to fight terrorism we must take away
some of your basic democratic civil rights”
you say “we are right – it is for your own good”
you say “you don’t understand it is complex”
you are right on one count
and one count only
I don’t understand
I don’t understand in the name of god, any god
I don’t understand in the name of justice
the continual sanctioning of the waste of lives
on endeavours based on any of the above reasons
I probably don’t understand because it is complex
you say
and I am only a mother of one of the dead
but I know something you don’t understand
because it is too simple for you to understand
that every death is a person not a number
that every death is someone’s child, maybe
a brother or a sister too
that every death is not a solitary step
that every death effects that person’s family
and friends
that if you received a knock at your door
to take your son to war for the better good
that if your child were waiting for the tube
and a bomber said the him/her
I am going to randomly set off a bomb
people will die
you might die
you can call a parent to substitute
would you go or would you say
he/she is collateral
the price of our war on terror
has to be paid by someone
it is simple
and I do not understand
Kia kaha
Arohanui
KG
It is also an effective way of maiming, physically and emotionally any given number of people who happen to be present at the time of the act. None of whom mean anything to the terrorist murderers - all of whom do mean a great deal to their families and friends.
It can also causes anxiety for people not directly effected by engendering some level of "insecurity" into their lives.
But what does it achieve?
They are not blackmailers or kidnappers, who, if you believe the movies you see, pretty quickly present a list of demands. At least you have some idea of what they want and they are still around to get it! You may even be able to produce a helicopter at short notice, along with pizzas and drinks and a large bag full of money.
The Mission Impossible tapes (one they prepared earlier!), produced by terrorists after they have obviously accepted the mission, such as the tape produced to time in with last year's first anniversary, shed some light on their thinking. Khan called all in sundry nasty names, praised his god and sang the praises of al-Quaeda. Blaming this and future actions on the evil of the Western world and the Iraq war etc etc. He had indeed, taken the righteous path to teaching us all a lesson. But what was that lesson?
To my way of thinking, Terrorists appear to be cowards . They puff themselves up to be something greater than us remaining mere mortals. Of course, they have have taken the short route out of life by knowingly and willinging killing themselves as well. They leave their families, the victims and families of the dead to deal with the reality of their pathetic actions. This reality is where true courage comes in. Not the death by default stance they take. Death is just too easy an option.
Perhaps the attempted bombings last week in London, full of the incompetencies that they were, mean that the next layer of terrorist/murderer is not so fully convinced that such a death is honourable. l mean for supposedly highly intelligent medical professionals, (what about the hypocratic oath?) they were abysmal. Not only did the bombs not activate but they were caught damn quickly. No wonder the health system is in disarray!!
I am by no means equipped to comment on the political landscape and am not privy to the inner workings of governments. My area of knowledge is based on my family and the society in which I live.If the Point of Terrorism is a mystery to me given my circumstances, how much more of a mystery must it be to others not affected by a death in their family?
The words I chose for the heading of this site say: Words frame our reality. Actions define our lives.
I did not choose those words lightly. It seems to me that words are the true weapons. These latest attempted terrorists were highly intelligent. You have to have some brain to succeed in medicine. Yet they allowed inflamatory words to change their thinking. Or did they? Were they already thinking along those lines and the previous part of their lives were not true to their beliefs? Did they secure the jobs at London hospitals in order to be inconspicious? Or were they turned by someone elses powerful use of words. The words of the Koran, the words of a passionate Islamic teacher? I don't know. What I do know is that they used words, carefully chosen words to frame their ultimate action of attemting to committ terrorist acts. They knew the likelihood of the loss of lives, yet as doctors, they chose to ignore that side of the equation.
Maybe ultimately, they withdrew at the last minute. Maybe some sense of reason and humanity snuck through their fuddled, minds. Who knows? Maybe they just didn't want to kill themselves. Only they know. Did the attempts fail because of incompetence or because of a realisation of the greater good?
We will not necessarily find out the answer to these questions.
I only know that every child born belongs to someone. That that child usually is loved and cherished, not always, but more often than not. I know that a child is not born with hatred in their hearts or with murderous intent. I can understand that if you are exposed to tyranny and murder, that if your social group is targeted whether as a result of racist, religious or any kind of prejudice, you may become ticked off with the oppressors.
What I cannot understand is the belief that any one group has the right to stamp their way of living, thinking onto any other group by force. By war. By genocide. By homicide. By war.
Disputes over land, oil, money and power these are the makings of war and terrorism.The need to prove oneself right at any cost. At the cost of all the dead in Iraq, civilian and solider.
There has to be a better way but it will not be tapped until there is a desire for this all to end. Until words are used in healing and constructive ways as tools to find pathways through the history of anger and revenge. Until actions of co-operacy and collective well being follow those words. Then maybe we can move forward to a different way of resolving our issues.
The 7/7 bombers and those who attempted the latest bombings did not bother to start a dialogue about their issues. They skipped straight to cowardly, murderous acts for which they, as individuals are responsible. It matters not that they may have taken on some identity of a disaffected group. That is too easy a solution.
Acts of death and destruction do not change thinking; do not convert one to another set of beliefs. Constructive dialogue with goodwill to find solutions has more chance of changing the world.
The current stakes of being stronger, more violent, more sinister, more underhand than the opponent who may not even know they are an opponent, can only lead to more destruction.
The words we use to define groups are in themselves inflamatory; Terrorists, Islamists, Muslims, Westerners. It is easy to generate hate for a group. To see that group then as the named enemy to be destroyed. Individuals make up groups. We need to see the individual. We need to draw back to individual family groups. We need to take responsibility for our children, partners, brothers, sisters. Anyone in our social grouping. We need to use words as assetts to define actions of healing.
Below a poem from my book "Dear Shelley" in which I attempt to make this same point.
TO THE GOVERNMENTS/DICTATORS/PRESIDENTS/RELIGIOUSLEADERS AND SUNDRY TITLED PERSONS WHO HEADCOUNTRIES/STATES
ENGAGED IN ACTIVE WARS
you send them off to war
to fight your fight
in the name of god
in the name of justice
you send them
you say “we are saving this country”
by invading it
you say “it’s what their people want”
you say “we have to stop them, they
are developing nuclear capability”
you say “we must expect collateral damage”
speak-ease for dead soldiers from
your country and dead civilians
from the country you are “rescuing”
you say “they stole our land 100’s if not 1000’s of
years ago – it isn’t fair”
you say “they have insulted our god – they must
die for that”
you say “our god is a peaceful god who must be
avenged with violence”
you say “they have killed one of us, we must kill
more of them – to show them they cannot
do this”
you say “we must fight terrorism”
you say “to fight terrorism we must take away
some of your basic democratic civil rights”
you say “we are right – it is for your own good”
you say “you don’t understand it is complex”
you are right on one count
and one count only
I don’t understand
I don’t understand in the name of god, any god
I don’t understand in the name of justice
the continual sanctioning of the waste of lives
on endeavours based on any of the above reasons
I probably don’t understand because it is complex
you say
and I am only a mother of one of the dead
but I know something you don’t understand
because it is too simple for you to understand
that every death is a person not a number
that every death is someone’s child, maybe
a brother or a sister too
that every death is not a solitary step
that every death effects that person’s family
and friends
that if you received a knock at your door
to take your son to war for the better good
that if your child were waiting for the tube
and a bomber said the him/her
I am going to randomly set off a bomb
people will die
you might die
you can call a parent to substitute
would you go or would you say
he/she is collateral
the price of our war on terror
has to be paid by someone
it is simple
and I do not understand
Kia kaha
Arohanui
KG
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
