Into the Arms of Strangers

In the documentary film entitled ‘Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport (2000), there is a scene where an elderly woman is questioned about her experiences as a Jewish child sent abroad before the start of the Second World War to the UK for safety. The British government accepted 10,000 such children. There were strict conditions about age and background and parents were excluded. So these youngsters were transported across Europe from Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland to the UK. Thanks to the actions of the UK Government some of these children would be the sole survivors of entire Jewish families by the close of the war. 

This sweet old lady spoke in gentle whispers about her experience. Of her fear on the train on being separated from her family. How her father ran alongside the train at the station waving goodbye and she a young child, not understanding the horrendous situation, sulked and refused to hug or speak. To her she was being forced abroad and she was angry, confused and very frightened. They were allowed only one small case and at the border German guards entered the train of the scared children and searched them and their small cases terrifying them. When they crossed the border at the very next stop complete strangers handed in through the windows chocolate and sweets to welcome them. She could remember both the cruelty of the German guards and the shocking unexpected kindness at this first station outside Germany. The taste of the chocolate was sweet and unforgettable. A taste of freedom and she remembered the children cheering. 

Later, she arrived in a hall in England where she awaited a family to give her a home. People came and chose a child at lunchtimes in the village hall where they were all eating. She remembered not been chosen week after week. Watching others being picked on all sides. After a month a couple eventually chose her and she was so excited and so grateful she could barely speak. Aged eight she arrived at a strange home and was shown her bed in the small room upstairs. Grateful for this family choosing her at last, she tried to show her feelings by giving them a hug before going to bed. She had memories of her parent’s good night routine. In a gentle heartbreaking voice almost a whisper, but still wounded, she described how the woman told her “None of that soppy stuff here!” and pushed her away. It did nothing to reduce her gratitude to the couple but as the weeks and months passed she realised they had wanted a servant. Her role was to clean and work not receive kindness and love. 

Her disappointment, even now, fills her voice, her eyes, the room, the screen and all eye watching. Unbearable in its longing for something more. You want to reach in and hug that eight-year-old, ease the pain of her rejection. Why are such simple memories so vivid and so raw? Why do they reach across the decades and make us long that things were different? Her gentle acceptance, her resigned tone, awakens you to the sweet child still confused by the world’s unkindness. Your heart feels whittled and besieged by the unfairness. These days when refugees again stream across Europe may we all fare better than this mean spirited example. But remember, although devoid of love or tenderness, that couple did save a young life. Perhaps, they claim a far higher moral ground than us today? Now, that thought chills the very heart.

plan B to lose weight, saw my leg off

I have longed to lose weight my entire life. In my earliest diaries, full of adolescent angst, my weight is recorded in red at the top of many pages. That tally seem to accumulate with the passage of time. Despite my best endeavours the weight just grew and grew. Relatives kindly referred to me as ‘big boned’. I told myself that this explained my higher than usual weight. Others had tiny bird like bones that weighed practically nothing whereas I had these dinosaur-like brutes inside. It all made sense. On good days I told myself that having big bones was a mighty protection. Citing the well-known incident at school when I was hit by a speeding car and thrown off the road to land quite a distance away on a pavement. The damage to the car, the speed and the distress of the driver and spectators was entirely balanced by my extreme embarrassment over the whole affair. Everyone else appeared in a state of shock when I just turned purple in agonising embarrassment. Obviously, those big bones are a source of protection, I thought, as I limped on to the school bus uninjured. I overheard Colin Atcheson, my nemesis, two seats ahead tell his friend,

“Did you see that! Bloody big heifer ruined the poor guys car.”

 I sank lower in my seat by shifting my heifer-like haunches and wondered anew if everything in the entire universe was designed to humiliate me.

In later years I grew more philosophical. There were tiny fine girls who people looked after and cosseted. Then there were the big cart horses like me that were designed to carry suitcases and gas cylinders. I accepted that people came in different breeds like greyhounds and Saint Bernard's. We all come with our own attributes.

Approaching middle age I ballooned even more than usual. Strange how suddenly size 16 just seems smaller. Much better to embrace size 18 and have that loose freedom rather than constriction. Elastic tops to trousers were a great discovery. Huge billowing tops hide a multitude of sins. My attempts to lose weight continued and now turned more Machiavellian. I instructed my dear cousin (Del -you know your duty!) to saw my leg off if I died. Given the considerable thickness of my thighs (big boned all over), I reckoned this would reduce my weight to 10 stone. She was then instructed to make sure my reduced weight was mentioned in the funeral address. By hook or by crook I was determined to get to 10 stone. Such is the desperation of the perennial overweight woman!

There are advantages. In storms I am manage remarkably well. Others may cling to fences for support but my big bones anchor me quite sufficiently. When normal people walk into me on the pavement they invariably bounce back with a great velocity. The conservation of momentum is in my favour. I don't regard huge loads, shopping bags, suitcases or furniture as immovable. I have become accustomed to such obstacles giving way to my will. It is not all positive. I have an unfortunate tendency to pull handles off things. Tug doors of microwaves, break windows and other stuff. It seems most inanimate objects are not big boned like me! They are surprisingly vulnerable. Family members are accustomed to my ability to break things. They are also rarely worried about my safety. When I visit strange cities they worry more about my carelessness than my safety. Who knows what I might break while there? I do not expect to be attacked any more. Instead I am on guard in case I nudge someone onto the road or rail. Goodness knows what/who I could reverse into in shops and damage with my flanks.  These big bones carry a heavy responsibility.

Then suddenly a month ago my weight started to plummet it for no apparent reason. Do I have some strange wasting disease? Out of the blue I have become a size 14 and all of my wardrobe hangs like joke tents around my frame. I am shocked!  After over five decades of weight gain this has come left-of field. My latest theory is that those big bones been hollowed out by some calcium deficiency. They are large but now are hollow and don't weigh as much as they did. Don't worry I am no Greyhound, more of a cuddly Labrador. Just when you think you know yourself, something odd happens. Life is increasingly full of jokes that sneak up on you. It's sometimes hard to catch the punchline. I have not worked out this one yet.

PS I'd like to point out that when Clark Kent, or that thin vampire guy, stopped speeding cars, then both of them were admired as having superpowers. Note that when women such as I, demonstrate such abilities they are merely seen as excessively bulky!  That has got to be unfair!  

* Heifer is a young cow 

Managing Animals with kindness

Teaching animal management for two years in a college in Northern Ireland was a good experience. The teenagers were full of heart and soul. They looked out for each other and radiated goodwill. I was shocked at how wholesome the group was despite Mohican haircuts, piercings and tattoos. In the animal room in the college we had hamsters, guinea pigs, birds, rabbits and on occasion dogs, cats, kittens and puppies, miniature goats and snakes. The students had to learn animal handling skills and needed to practice. When I started I viewed these kids as dangerous to the vulnerable animals. With each passing month I reversed my position and realised the kids had much more to fear from the animals.  

These kids harboured no nastiness but I knew even carelessness can damage. However, I saw nothing but consideration and kindness shown towards the animals. Even then I was careful. People in my experience can be kind in public but in private moments lash out. Just because they were gentle when I watched did not mean that when left alone in charge of an animal they might show another side.  Being a teacher made you suspicious of humanity! You discover those with no discipline, those who are physically careless, the occasional student totally void of conscience and it makes you guarded and cynical. For example, I taught pure science in a college in a different town twice a week.  The science students there had a few cruel students in their midst. You saw the way they hurt others in the corridor by word and deed. As a teacher you intervened as necessary, but was well aware that such viciousness would find its expression in other areas outside your control. Students who desire to hurt others can find spaces to practice their favourite sport. Educators have to be equally inventive to spoil their game. 

Walking from one group with such dynamics back into my animal management class was like emerging into sunlight. You got to focus on niceties instead of the basics of civil behaviour. On one session on euthanasia they were shown videos of dogs being euthanised. Such was the effect on these tender hearts I learned to have a game or outing to compensate for the anguish it in engendered. Many of them did their weekly placements in vets around the town. They spoke of young healthy dogs been put down because owners had lost interest, moved house or divorced. Their outrage was tangible. Another student spoke about how an animal nurse had sniggered while euthanising an elderly ill dog. The class was outraged at this insensitivity and all pledged to do things better. No laughter or smiles in such circumstances. The ending of life deserved respect. Months after the death of a dog, a heartless snigger can be both brutal and unkind for its owner. One boy said a man brought in his dog to be euthanised and acted as if it was no big deal. All swagger and brass indifference. As the dog died the vet gently stroked the dog on the table. The owner started sobbing and crying in an emotional outburst which surprised the student.  It was another lesson learned. People often hide what they're really feeling. Don't make assumptions.

 All had tales to tell of pets they lost. The bereavement was often still raw years later and would fill the classroom with its intensity. The tenderness of their hearts was a mighty lesson for me. I confess I had become jaded in teaching. You begin to expect less of students and even less of yourself. You wait to be disappointed with their actions.  This class revived my hope in humanity. They were therapy to be with and to this day I am so grateful for what they taught me -  “Every child is potentially the light of the world.”

Education, diamond cutting or sausage filling?

When I was in primary school our tiny village school in the heart of the Sperrin Mountains (N. Ireland) was visited by two trainee teachers. They were full of new ideas including dividing up the class into groups and targeting us with topical questions. This was heady new material in the days of the 1970s. Especially, given our normal teacher, an aged limping man, who insisted on teaching us in the old currency (which included crowns and farthings! ). 

tea clipper

He was the son of a pilot of a tea clipper (a very fast sailing ship of the middle third of the 19th century) and started every day by reading biblical passages threatening brimstone and hell. Not used to the excitement of actually being asked to contribute, I'm afraid it all went to my head. The question was asked if girls should be educated separately from the boys, I stood up and announced that it would be akin to separating the cream from the milk. Not sure what I meant, one of the student teachers asked for clarification. I didn't hesitate to point out that separating the girls would mean taking away the best brains in the room.  This brought an enraged response from our old teacher who spluttered his rage and ended our first topical debate.  

In my teens, I attended a course of St John's ambulance service. They instructed us in how to prevent someone choking with the Heimlich manoeuvre. They showed how somebody could be resuscitated. If they had a heart attack they demonstrated how the heart could occasionally be restarted and how breathing for them could be maintained to avoid brain damage.  This actually seemed useful stuff!  It was one of those Road to Damascus experiences.  I remember thinking that all the education I'd had up to that point was a total waste of time. Years and years of fractions and factorial functions, history of Columbus and Hitler. Geography of the valleys, mountains and oxbow lakes all of it seemed completely pointless. Was education really all this crap? Was everything we learned entirely for the purpose of passing an end of year exam?  How did fairly intelligent people stand in front of the classroom and convey such a rubbish year after year without questioning the whole rotten system?   What on earth was the purpose of it all?

Years later when I worked at University I was reminded of the pitfalls of our education system. Here, in this university was supposed to be ‘the best of the best’. The cream of society, its thickest and richest. I found them devoid of real interest or real intelligence. Whatever our present educational system does, it certainly results in inoculating almost the entire population against any future education.

Don’t think you can avoid it all by home teaching or buying ridiculously expensive private schooling.  In my experience such children are usually academically brilliant but socially deformed.  They can have the most idillic childhoods but then are released into the real world.  The shock is traumatic and sometimes never recovered from.  The difference between what we would choose for our children and the playground dynamics that they often have to face are light years apart.  We would not wish it on our worst enemies but our children must weather such storms on a daily basis.   After all, workplaces are just playgrounds for adults and equally taxing.  If you missed the school bully don’t worry you will encounter them in your employment sooner or later.  

I wish it were not so.  I wish education was about finding the gems that lie hidden within us all.  Mining for those treasures that each individual uniquely possesses.  Crafting such gems into sparkling jewels that illuminate humanity.  Such delicate faceting of planes within crystals to catch the light and reflect more light is an art that is far cry from today’s sausage filling education system.  My grandfather used to call sausages, 'mystery packages' for all the wrong reasons.  He was a pig farmer after all and knew what he was talking about.  I feel the same about today's educational systems - they are not fit for purpose.

Growing a Tail

Outside The Point in Malta, here on Malta,  there is a small unusual building. Almost in the shadow of this modern shopping mall. It has an unusual atmosphere. I have passed it many times and feel strangely drawn. I'm not sure as to its age, purpose or history. I keep meaning to investigate further. But life comes along and 100 other things get in the way.

If I achieve nothing in this life, it will be because of the ‘other things’. Mind you, I like, others am endlessly distracted. We are all hard on youth these days. Accusing them of being online instead of living. Well, this online existence is very addictive. You can feed any interest, follow any news story, play any game, chat/machine message anyone, watch entertainment from all countries, old films, new films, award winning documentaries. 

Be honest, if it had been available to us at their age we would not have  played cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians and endless chase games. We climbed trees, walked the tops of gates (like tight rope walkers), played marbles and had endless football games on our street. The latter was so intense that it had its own cup. A small golden coloured statue which doubled as a pencil sharpener was competed over with an enthusiasm that never abated. They were also endless fights with kids on the street but that was accepted as the norm. The next day your opponent would be on your football team. Loyalties were fluid and your nemesis could morph into a colleague you danced in victory with after scoring a hard one goal. You got to learn a lot about yourself and others in these interactions. For good and bad. You examined your peers and saw what behaviour was worth emulating or warranted aversion. Each day was an opportunity to be a different person. In the fluidity of who you mixed with, the multitude of unexpected conversations, a dynamic environment triggered change and chances. 

Nowadays, I watch as young people plug-in and somehow go off-line. They are there but not. In the virtual world which competes for their attention and life there is less room for the interactions we remember. Apathetic resentment seems fuelled by all that energy having nowhere to go. All these expectations of choice, entertainment wins out over family claims. Even within families, time is stolen away and fundamental unity eroded. It is an unseen war and we are losing it. What is worse we are losing a generation who know longer see their families/neighbourhoods/communities as places to implement change or influence.

Instead, we are breeding a captive mentality that accepts the state of things. Just embraces the hopelessness of change. Life becomes a game already lost because they opt not to actually live but become spectators of this world’s disintegration. We despair of them and they of us. We despair because we remember a different world, they despair because they know too much about this real world. Communication channels become fraught with our inability to coax them out of this virtual world they have become immersed in. We languish in the shallows of this world sensing its attraction but longing for real meaningful conversations. I clicked on my history (in Chrome) and was floored by what I have watched online the hours spent, the time wasted and realised I was no longer in the shallows but actually already out of my depth. 

Joining in a virtual world separated from those I love and my friends. My attempts to swim ashore are laughable. I write letters and post them. Not emails, letters with envelopes and stamps. I walk to the postbox and push them through as if participating in an archaic custom. Try to make it two a week. Reaching out hand over hand to draw ashore against the waves. I go on long walks disengaged from the Internet and find my thoughts have time to settle. I'm reflecting more on past events and the future. It's still hard to trigger conversations! I start to talk about some world event and I'm told that they have already seen the news online. Trying to speak about the things I've done or thought, I sense their desire to get back to the world of perpetual entertainment. How can any of us compete with all of that? 

At times I think I’ve neared the shore and safety. We share a walk and really talk heart to heart. Play a board game and laugh at our childish desire to win. But, these are just threads pulled from the weave that has us all caught fast. Is there a reason we all fear silence? Perhaps, because in that freedom from sound/talk/music we begin to measure ourselves. Not these people over here, or yesterday's news, today's happenings but us. Without all the distraction flowing in torrents over us we could be confronted with who we really are. What we have actually become? With this avalanche of addictive output to focus on, there is no need to look inward and take our own pulse. But if we no longer know ourselves have we not already lost our way? I'm back stumbling in the shallows determined to emerge on dry land and seem to have have developed a tail. How on earth did that happen and are you too becoming equally deformed?

What gives me joy!

I have ever filled notebooks with my scribbles.  A dear cousin in N. Ireland, foolishly volunteered to store my diaries and notebooks when I left for Malta.  When I turned up with five huge plastic containers filled to the brim with writings, she coped really well and kept her promise to look after them all.  I did feel guilty leaving her dining room a quarter filled!  My favourites are the moleskin books and for some reason they need to be with squared paper not lined.  They have an envelope at the back for bits and bobs, they can cope with photos stuck in, flowers, cards etc and are pretty indestructible.  

When, I was at school and university there was a family tradition that my Dad would present us with a parker pen before an important exam.  My parents never asked any of us if we had done our homework.  They never pushed school work or studying as of vital importance at all.  Strange in a sense because they were both teachers.  So this purchase of a pen was the sole encouragement to excel.  It was all that was needed.  To this day I get excited by a new pen.  Full of hope for the future and armed to cope with it all.

My mother uses Oil of Olay and every baby I ever handed her was pressed lovingly to her cheek while she sang songs to them.  When they were handed back at the end of the day they all smelt of this cream.  They later brought out a new version with suncream and I tried it, but realised that it was the familiar smell that I associated with my Mum that made the difference.  So I am back to using  the original cream and each time I use it I remember all the love and closeness we have shared.  Why is smell such a powerful trigger to memories?

I discovered Bach rescue cream decades ago.  When any of my children fell and hurt themselves this was the stuff that was slapped on.  We called it a miracle cream and I was never sure if its ability to cure was psychosomatic or genuine.  All I can say is that to this day when I find an ache, rash or pain this is the stuff I rub on and invariably feel much better. 

Look to this day,

For it is life, the very life of life.

In its brief course lie all the

Verities and realities of your existence.

The bliss of growth,

The glory of action,

The splendor of beauty;

For yesterday is but a dream,

And tomorrow is only a vision;

But today well lived makes

Every yesterday a dream of happiness,

And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day.

Such is the salutation of the dawn!

(A beautiful old Sanskrit poem) 

Doing the Headless Chicken

Sometimes, when you have experienced trauma the best remedy is to get right back on the horse as soon as possible. It's what everyone tells you in their eagerness to help you get over things. The theory is by climbing back into the situation that caused the fallout you can quickly close the book by creating fresh associations to correct the bad ones. A sort of memory hard drive rewrite. For me, eight years ago I had a gruesome experience in Brussels working as an independent science expert. I'd been two times before that and survived, but that third experience was a humiliation too far. Such things can be a mighty lesson in humility and a positive spur to growth on many levels. Akin to ploughing deeper to produce a better crop. That depth of disturbance can also, on the other hand, do damage. 

It took me around six years to be able to put the whole experience behind me. Every time I came back to write about it I felt re-traumatised. Stupid, really over something so minor.  When I could, eventually, put the whole experience in print, there was a catharsis of sorts. (for details see following link - Dragging my entrails behind me) I thought I'd settled the whole ghastly business. Then, the idea of getting back on the horse was put to me. What better way to erase horrible memories and to re-write them. When I re-applied I rather suspected that the EC would write back 

“WE REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID EIGHT YEARS AGO!! SOD OFF!! 

They didn't. I found myself summoned to Brussels again to deal with funding applications. By the fourth day in Brussels I was drowning yet again in a sea of fear and in a total state of despair. Loved ones on Skype were confronted by a tearful me, in my hotel room, trying to articulate why I was impersonating a headless chicken.

This is a state I instantly revert to when stress levels rise above a certain level. It is characterised by huge effort, energy, endeavour, a lot of hysteria but absolutely no progress. A similar incident occurred 15 years ago while I was working for a travel agent in Rhodes (Greece) as their financial person. Here, I can guarantee those who know me are snorting in disbelief that anyone would trust me with such financial responsibilities. Entering my typical headless chicken routine I can remember the 20-year-old supervisor furious that I could not add a page of expenses and get the right answer. Such was my state, that despite an Excel spreadsheet, my calculator and even a pen and pencil basic approach did not avail me. In such moments, my degree, my PhD in physics and my mental faculties have been removed from me. That's why I call it my headless chicken routine. In such a state even finding a toilet in a strange building/airport is beyond me. What is worse I have never cultivated the veneer of professionalism to hide my discomfort. Instead of acting like ‘it is alright’, which can convince many that you are more competent than you seem, I instead really despair in gigantic waves. Everyone in my vicinity instantly recognises my distress. To summarise, not only am I a headless chicken, but I am the sort who having lost my head race about bleeding and traumatising others in the process.

Back to Brussels. After conversations via Skype with loved ones I was able to formulate a plan of sorts. What I needed was a miracle. What else could help me but divine assistance?  With a strange mixture of resignation, fear and pleading in prayer, I realised a truth. Why do we only pray genuinely to God when we are totally helpless and devoid of hope? Is it that we can no longer rely on our own ability to fix things? Do we really need to have our uselessness exposed before we let go and trust. Perhaps helplessness rips away the veils that have interposed between us and our own hearts?

The next day was the last day in Brussels. There was  small window of opportunity. The deadline was midday and I flew out in the evening. There were different dynamics in place. That morning really nice people helped, progress was made. Once two or three reports were completed my confidence began to be resuscitated. I came out of my headless chicken routine and completed tasks on time. I'm so grateful for this. 

At times we forget to thank God for the things that work in our lives. Its good practice to cultivate an attitude of thankfulness. Not just because it is appropriate but because being grateful is conducive to happiness. Instead of looking around and seeing only what is wrong with our lives we begin to celebrate the unseen.  All that is good, our family our friends and our Faith.

The night I flew back from Brussels all the shootings and killings in Paris happened.  Such numbers dying, reminded me that my priorities needed re-calibrated. The fact that such events are happening in so many countries to people of different races and religions, damages us all in fundamental ways. 

“Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

(John Donne, English poet, 1572 – 1631) 

In responding to such events, a headless chicken response is just not appropriate nor productive. How often do I focus on things that don't deserve my attention or prayers? I want to be fuelled by sound principles not frenetic activity.   These principles should underpin my actions and my responses. These two are as far as I've got. I offer them for what they're worth, from one headless chicken to another.

“The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.”

“Let deeds, not words, be your adorning.”

(two quotes from Baha’i writings)