People move from place to place, some search, some flee and
others resignedly take whatever faces them.
For centuries there have been the nomadic survivors creating a way of
life that gives attention to both the land and people’s needs; ensuring that
the delicate balance is maintained and life continues. Similarly, for centuries there have been
people seeking refuge and safety from attack, abuse, escaping from conflicts
and desperate for a life of peace; hounded from their homes through floods,
droughts and crying out for food and shelter.
This is nothing new.
What is new is that we can now so effectively terrorise our
neighbours and we can do it without leaving the comfort of our own little war
offices hundreds of miles away. Bombings
can be done to order, smashing the fragile growth of young children; strutting
militias can be directed to rape women and hack down men; and the politicians
of the world can play their deadly games whilst the men in the background grow
obese on the fare that is bought through the sale of death. We are all in it for the profit, and we are
all are clever people who can string together so many lies that for centuries
we believe it is the way of man to destroy another; to cut the flesh so that it
bleeds and ensure that only certain lives are worth anything at all.
Under the setting sun, in the cool breeze of an autumn
evening there is such a clarity to the air that the distant trees set on top of
the hill stand with stone like sharpness against the backdrop of a black,
crimson sky. Close by, the living
creatures that hop, spin, scurry and nibble are going about their business and
will leave traces for us to find in the dewy morning – a delicate web here,
small cavities in the ground there and many mysterious droppings. In the cold, clear air wisps of departing
mist cling to the trees and the dripping can just be heard, as the leaves
tremble from the weight of such fine liquid.
So time stands still in the English countryside, as time stood still all those years ago when a young man swam from the banks of the Euphrates, ate dates from the palms that swayed in stately fashion on the outskirts of Baghdad and walked the streets of Kabul resplendent in cheap Afghan coat and even cheaper locally crafted boots: time standing still in a world of magic, of exploration and where the stench of fear was conspicuous only by its absence – a time that connected this emotionally hungry and reticent youth to the World.
photo: courtesy of Maggie Alexander
So time stands still in the English countryside, as time stood still all those years ago when a young man swam from the banks of the Euphrates, ate dates from the palms that swayed in stately fashion on the outskirts of Baghdad and walked the streets of Kabul resplendent in cheap Afghan coat and even cheaper locally crafted boots: time standing still in a world of magic, of exploration and where the stench of fear was conspicuous only by its absence – a time that connected this emotionally hungry and reticent youth to the World.
Since then there has been progress and the advent of a
modern world, where money rules and violence comes in the guise of the smiling
politician whose only concern is our security:
and the hooded individuals prepare to shatter their bodies so that others
may be broken apart and made grotesquely disfigured, torn and bloodied. Life becomes even cheaper as the lifeless
float face down on to the soft sands of tourist beaches. We have arrived at that modern world that separates,
crystallizes and breaks everything down to its essential components – divide and
rule, divide, create enemies, real and imagined, divide and grow fat on the suffering
of others.
We do not stand by and wring our hands in a pathetic show of
empty concerns, but we blow through our cupped fingers, we blow the winds of
change, and they will be irresistible.
