It is not every day you get to speak to someone living in a warzone. Not just someone who has experienced war, but someone who is actually right there in it. And not just some bored soldier on active duty in a fortified compound, but a civilian hiding in a basement from heavy bombardment. And not just any bombardment, but the horrific sustained bombardment of Eastern Ghouta on the outskirts of Damascus that the UN chief has described as “hell on earth”.
We sat in a small room in Machynlleth's town hall, thirty or forty of us, whilst the call was set up. Amongst us were perhaps ten Syrian refugees, who now live in Aberystwyth and Newtown, who had come to this public gathering to testify and explain to us what was happening in their home country. We had just been shown the short film “The White Helmets” which followed a few men of the Syrian Civil Defence, the non-partisan first-responders who rush to the site of every plane attack and pull out the wounded, dying and dead. It was distressing to watch, but particularly so for the Syrians, one of whom told us he knew some of the people in it as it was filmed in his area.
One of the Syrian women had good English, having been in the UK since 2014. It was her idea to hold this event, and she took the role of spokesperson. She told us of the loss of hope that had kindled back in 2011, that now the tiniest of hopes that they had was to stay alive. She was so angry at the misinformation put about by Russia, tarring the White Helmets as partisan ISIS supporters and justifying Assad targeting them with bombs. Someone asked her how it was to live here, knowing what was going on there. She said it was so hard trying not to be constantly telling people about it, and that this evening was a chance to relate it to those willing to hear. She ended by saying how helpless she felt, that she could do nothing. To which someone replied no, she was doing something by speaking to us here.
The voice link was established over Facebook. No video, not enough bandwidth. The Syrian woman's friend was at the other end, in the basement. He spoke (in Arabic) matter-of-factly, without discernable emotion. We couldn't hear the bombs but I could occasionally make out a child speaking in the background. As his words were translated, we heard of the difficulty of getting food, water and medical supplies. The basement had nothing. Food prices were escalating out of reach. He asked for the West to send supplies and money. They were desperate.
It left me feeling ashamed on a number of levels - of our comfort, of our ignorance and indifference to the terrible need of others, of our Government's lack of meaningful action, of the peace and security which we take for granted.
But what to do?
One thing we can do is to make them welcome, those few who make it here.
Happy St David's Day! or “Dydd Dewi Sant Hapus!” as it should really be said.
Happy, especially if you like freezing blizzards and howling winds. We are hunkered down with the wood burner, having only dared to step out of the house to run across the road to the Co-op for supplies. Tonight we'll be celebrating St David with a warming meal with our landlords who conveniently live in the same house as us, and then we might brave the weather to head down the high street to catch the vibes at the Open Mic night at the Quarry Cafe.
Snow and music have been the themes of my week.
Yesterday Anna and I were on my land which was doing its best to audition for a remake of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. The soft whiteness transformed the place, and then the sun came out to make it all sparkle. We sawed and chopped the three big Christmas trees I felled last week to make the veg garden less shady. It was bitterly cold but we were quite toasty with the exertion. Pushing wheelbarrows of firewood up the steep track to the car certainly kept me from freezing.
After that I gave the weekly piano lesson to my neighbour's young daughter as I've been doing for a year and a half now. For the first time she tackled a C major scale with both hands! Playing the piano is so good for young people's manual dexterity. A recent news report lamented children's lack of ability to write with a pen since they are so used to tablets and phones. Pianos are an effective antidote.
And then back to Machynlleth in time for a bewitching Chopin event around a piano in the Museum of Modern Art. A local musician in his 20's, Tom McMahon, gave us renditions of his waltzes, mazurkas and nocturnes, interspersed by scholarly reflections on Chopin's musical influences. Now I know to play his mazurkas more in the style of jaunty Polish folk tunes! Oom-pah-PAH! Oom-pah-PAH!
We discovered in the pub afterwards that he and his friends have jam nights at the Friendship Inn in Borth once a month so we hope to head down there later in March. And we've also been invited to join a totally improvisional soundscape-style music event, where pieces are conducted and given a theme, but there is no tune, let alone sheet music. We could break new musical ground.
So the apple crumble's nearly ready. Stay safe and warm! Till next week...
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| Spring cleaning! |
