March 2022

I suppose millions must be writing down their thoughts now as war yet again ravishes Europe. I admire people who so readily seem to tap out their thoughts, almost as if it were as natural to them as talking. But my words have been stuck, in the stutter of writer’s block. Or perhaps I really should just call it inertia: the inability to achieve motion, to be static. I think that is more me. I am a static person- one who is loath to move. I find any kind of action incredibly difficult, and I must always prepare myself carefully and well ahead of time  for any action that is necessary. So while other people are organising aid for Ukraine, volunteering, donating money, driving aid convoys, volunteering to fight, I sit here transfixed by the ever growing flood of news. I have however baked for Ukraine for a school bake sale. That’s my measly contribution.

Some would say, or rather those of us inclined towards psycho-babble,  that this freeze mode is probably a result of shock or some kind of trauma. But it’s not. Because I’m not shocked, and I’m not even surprised. The experts are all saying that they could not envision that Putin would attempt a full-on invasion of the entire Ukraine, but this is exactly what I was expecting. I saw it in his eyes and read it expressed clearly in his actions; his bloodthirst. 

Like a chieftain of old, he craves blood. Like a cold viper he waits for his prey in the long grass before he strikes suddenly and without mercy.  Like a school bully, he picks his victims carefully, always choosing those who somehow dare question his worldview through mere existence. And the unassuming victims invariably ask the same question: why? But he does not care to answer- such is his power that he simply waves away the questions, like incessant flies, and keeps his own counsel. Your thoughts, your feelings, your questions, your life is of no consequence. Don’t you see? Your only function is to serve him, to do his bidding for you are nothing but a lowly serf, indentured for life. And if you, or I, succumb to such tyranny then we will be nothing more than little specks of dirt.

 Astrid Lindgren taught me that long ago when I listened spell-bound to her tale of tyranny, repression, courage and humanity in Nangijala. The heroes were unlikely. A small weak boy who finds his inner strength, a teenager who dares to question the reigning structure of power, an old woman and her carrier pigeons, and a compassionate old man- a grandfather- who saves an unknown child’s life. Ranged against them is the fearsome tyrant Tengil, his armoured men clothed in black, his network of spies and informers,  and Katla- the fire breathing dragon.

How does one resist such an evil? I guess one just keeps banging the dual drum of democracy and decency while  sounding the horn of humanity as they reverberate deep into Helm’s Deep in the face of the orcish onslaught. I am guessing that Tolkien was of that opinion. But that is all good and well in the realm of the fairy world, but surely not here, in Reality? Because banging on the drum and sounding the horn is not something one does lightly. These actions that have consequences for the drummer or the hornblower, graver and harsher the longer this war and its political tsunami continues. And just like the fiery eye of Sauron, Putin takes note and sends his faithful wraiths to execute vengeance: to silence through incarceration or death. The pervading result is silence, fear and darkness.  Or fear and silence and darkness. People cower under the yolk, and toil listlessly through the inky night….in silence. Or work themselves into a frenzied fanatical mob, hunting dissidents by torchlight. Meanwhile, missiles tear cities, parks, residential streets, factories, offices, supermarkets, museums, maternity wards, playgrounds, limbs, torsos and heads apart. The great war mill is churning and churning.The blood of the innocent and the guilty alike accumulate- the mill does not discriminate- and the great wheel churns faster and faster. And as the sacks of bone meal grow, so does hatred- the momentum that keeps the great war mill churning.  

 Night is here. Tend your fire, and do not let the dying embers expire. Light your candles and your oil lamps. Wrap yourself in warm blankets, huddle closer to your hearth for comfort and light, and do not fear the shadows. If you can, keep  a lit candle on your windowsill. Dawn returns- even after the coldest and longest of nights.