A Londoners Ode to Mr. Trump

img_2877A Londoners ode to Mr. Trump

Thank you Mr. Trump for shaking me out of my despair and complacency

Thank you for inspiring me to try harder, love harder and be better

Thank you for being the reason my thirteen-year-old attended her first march

Thank you for waking us up to the truth that we can never take our rights for granted

Thank you for delivering to my kids the words of Angela Davis, Van Jones and Valarie Kaur all inspired by your actions to share their truth

Thank you for being the reason that my 8 year – old daughter now aspires to be like Alicia Keys and wishes she had an afro

Thank you for reminding us that we live in an inter-connected world and that what happens over there affects us over here

Thank you for inspiring me to sign more petitions, give more money away and talk to the crazy lady in Archway who I usually avoid

Thank you for reminding us that people power counts and that elected politicians can’t always be trusted

Thank you for waking me up to the power of social media

Thank you for making rebellion and activism mainstream

Thank you for making shopping for shit less interesting than designing banners and searching for truth

Thank you for giving my kids something to believe in, to fight for

And most importantly…

Thank you for reminding me of the power of love.

Advertisements

Crossing Borders

 

Dropped the kids off at school this morning and headed straight for my favourite café run by a Romanian guy called Alex. We chatted about the state of the world whilst his Polish chef got busy preparing me scrambled eggs on sourdough toast. His insights were incisive yet somehow world-weary. I sensed resignation. He talked briefly about his activism back in Romania while he was a university student and how he had wanted to be part of creating a more just and equal society. He had lost hope when he realized that the regime there was too corrupt to change. He then decided to come to the UK. He came with a determination to work hard and a belief that things here would be different. This spacious café with great food and beautiful art on the wall was the result of his years of hard work but he was tired. I asked him about his future plans. He shrugged his shoulders and looked up to the sky with a gesture that spoke volumes. I left thinking about how far he had come since his student days in Romania and whether his weariness was because he sensed what was coming. My next stop was the GP surgery in Archway. I was pleased that I was seeing the German woman doctor who had recently joined the Surgery. She was by far the most compassionate and straight talking of all the doctors there. I talked and she listened and then related my experiences to her own. I appreciated that. It’s not easy for a busy GP to connect in that way. From there I headed to Camden Town to meet with a Slovakian bike mechanic with a wry smile and a passion for cargo bikes. A few years a go he saw a gap in the market and set up a shop dedicated to building and promoting tricycles for Londoners. We struck a good deal over a fresh cup of coffee out the back of his shop. We talked about recent developments and what it meant for him personally. He hesitated but then a slow smile spread across his face and he said  “hey if I have to leave this country maybe it will be a blessing in disguise. I could really use a holiday”. We laughed but we both knew that he didn’t mean it. I quickly said my goodbyes and left. I dashed to pick up the kids and get them to their trapeze class at the local community centre. We arrived just in time and were greeted by their French trapeze teacher who is rather severe yet totally dedicated to her craft. She doesn’t do ‘politeness’ so if she says something positive you know she means it. I like that.  Me and the kids were starving at this point so we went home and I made a bowl of steaming bean stew inspired by my Turkish Cypriot friend’s mother!

 

Many of the people with whom I connected to today or who inspired me in some way were born elsewhere in Europe. At some point in their lives they had decided to cross our borders and bring with them their vision, their hard work and their cultural differences. I am grateful that they had the courage to make the journey and I am sad that despite their years of hard work, they feel on less solid ground than ever.

Sunshine and Rain

 

I have a good friend who lives in a large house in the heart of Hampstead village.  He is a high earner and has a good standard of living. I love him although our values are quite different.

 

I was recently offered the chance to move from my smallish flat in Archway to a spacious flat in Hampstead overlooking the Heath. I declined. When my friend heard the news he was shocked. His exact words were: “I don’t get it. Why would you choose rain when you can have sunshine?”

 

Perhaps he didn’t know that my “rain” was a place where there is a disproportionate amount of celebrities and bankers for such a small area and where the soul of a place is hidden behind too much wealth. My “sunshine” is a place where there is still a strong sense of community, where all walks of life move together in the same space, where there are shops that sell a bowl of avocados for a pound and where fresh olives come from a local Turkish shop not a designer deli.

 

I guess we all experience the weather differently.

 

The Ad (less) Tube

Wanted to reblog this one as links so well with CATS campaign I just posted! I love tapping into the zeitgeist!

Maya's London

We took the kids to the science museum today. As we boarded the tube at Archway, I started to do what I always do when I hit the London underground: try and deflect the onslaught of adverts that are taking up every freely available space on the walls so that ones gaze is not free to wander without falling on one. The constant interruptions to my reverie particularly pissed me off today as I noticed how each one kick-started a thought pattern that made me uneasy and in very subtle ways made me feel that my life was lacking in some way.  I became conscious that I couldn’t afford to take that city break to Istanbul or take my kids to see Cirque du Soleil and that I didn’t have time to read that latest book release or see that film when all I wanted to do was tune into the…

View original post 307 more words

Coffee in Qatar

IMG_0589

We left London yesterday on route to Nepal. We stopped over in Doha airport where we were greeted by a pristine transit lounge packed with luxury goods and stylish if a little over-designed cafes. I stopped to drink coffee in one and couldn’t help enjoying the comfort of the large, reclining chairs, the perfectly adjusted air conditioning and the fragrant smells of cardamom and coffee. There were plenty of immaculately dressed staff ready to serve but the one that happened to come forward was a man from the plains of Nepal. He smiled as he quietly took my order. Something about him felt very familiar. I told him of my family connections with Nepal and the places I had visited there. He was amused when we discovered that I had spent time in the village where he grew up. He was young, good looking and laughed easily. The conversation moved on to the coffee he had just served me. He told me that it was made using freshly ground Arabica coffee beans and that it was stronger than European coffee. I wondered what he knew of European coffee. I was pretty sure he had never tasted any kind of coffee before coming to Qatar. I was also near certain that when the time came for him to return home, he would not miss the coffee or the pastries he served daily.

 

I knew enough Nepalese that had worked in Qatar to know that at some point they always returned home. They were there because it was one of the few options open to them to earn money to support their families. They lived in self-contained dormitories and did not mix much with the locals. Instead they worked hard and sent almost every penny they earned back home. Young, able-bodied men were Nepal’s biggest exports. They leave in search of work usually before marriage and then return home to marry. After marriage or after the birth of a child they leave again. Many set eyes on their children only a handful of times throughout their childhood and sometimes not at all. I wondered if the young man from the café had a wife and child or if he was saving so he could return home to find himself one. Either way Nepal was his reference.

 

As I boarded the plane for Kathmandu I thought about how lucky I was to be able to travel for pleasure and not because I had to. This freedom was something most of us in the West took for granted. Not that life was all bad for the Nepalese economic migrant. My Nepalese friends had many tales to tell of fun and adventure during their time working overseas. Parties and live music sessions were common and the relationships they forged during their time working overseas were formative and long lasting. The work was hard and they missed home but they sourced joy where they could. This was a habit I was still learning.

 

The Teen from Belgrade

IMG_1377

I had moving encounter in the toddlers drop in gym session today. There is something about the place that makes connecting to others easy. Maybe because it draws people from all walks of life together in one enclosed space with nothing to do but play.

She was a young mother of a beautiful girl who gracefully shared the trampoline with my daughter whilst we chatted. She spoke perfect English with an accent that I initially mistook for Italian. She was in fact Serbian although she had lived in London since she was thirteen.  She was calm, eloquent and measured. We chatted about schools in the area, which led her to talk about the one she first attended when she arrived in the UK as a teenager.  The experience had been quite traumatic. Almost overnight she went from being a popular, outgoing girl who was also quite rebellious to a being a quiet, bewildered teenager who craved solitude.  Leaving her homeland and moving to a new country and a new school had changed her. She was still the same girl on the inside but had no one to reveal herself to so she shut down. In Belgrade she had been loud, cheeky and funny. Here she was a fish out of water. She was misunderstood and an easy target for bullies. She finally left the school and moved to another one further away. She was happier there as she was left alone. She still had no friends but at least she was given space and that gave her solace.

 

I asked if her parents had felt bad about bringing her to London. She laughed… “On the contrary” she said.  “They had managed to get us out of Serbia during the civil war and that was something they were proud of. As far as they were concerned they had brought us to safety and given us the possibility of a better life. We were taught to be grateful and to get on with it”. She paused, “In truth they were right. They were very hard years, but not damaging in the long run. I am happy now. I have a good life and a good husband who is also from Serbia. I didn’t plan to marry a Serbian man but in the end I realised it was important to have a shared understanding of what we had been through and anyway you don’t always choose what comes your way in life.” She was gentle and wise. She told me she was from an educated family in Serbia and as such was expected to do well and go to university, which she did.

 

I was intrigued by how the expectations placed on us and the values we are raised with shape us. I thought of all the other economic migrants and refugees of war that weren’t so lucky. But even for the lucky ones the experience of having to make your way in a new country is not an easy one. You come with no entitlements. Your old identity must be left behind and everything constructed anew. My mind turned to my own husband who is still constructing his new identity ten years on. In Nepal he was a pop star, a lead singer in a band. When he goes back he still is but with the added kudos of living in the West and having an English wife. His identity is there. Here in London he is simply Nepalese and he doesn’t care. Here he is raising his kids, giving them the education he never had, earning money to support his family and waiting to one day go home. I wasn’t sure that the mother from Belgrade felt the same way. She didn’t completely belong here but she had been here too long to call Serbia her home. Her children would have a different story to tell.

Stillness

 

 

She stood out. Not because she was noisy or wearing bright colours but because she was so still and calm.

 

She was sitting on the floor in a drop in gym session for toddlers. It was busy and as usual the mums were following their kids around, joining in the jumping, rolling and swinging or chatting to each other and checking their phones. No one was still. No one was just watching.  But she was sitting calmly, hands by her side, hardly moving and just looking. She didn’t shift her gaze, reach for her phone or get involved with the little girl she was with. And yet there was something about her that felt totally engaged. The little girl was happy. She was enjoying throwing herself over the elastic ropes.  She didn’t check to see if she was being watched, she didn’t call out ‘look at me’. She was focused on what she was doing and she couldn’t have been more than three years old.  The woman was holding the space for her and she felt it. I guessed from her age that the woman was her granny. She had something of the many mothers I knew that had raised children in the seventies in North London. Her grey hair was not neat. She wore no make up. She wasn’t trying to hide her age and she was beautiful. She had brownish yellow skin and wore a khaki waistcoat over a cheesecloth shirt and loose jeans. She looked Japanese but I reckoned that she had been here a long time, long enough to consider herself a Londoner.

 

She had an alert, peaceful way about her but other than that she was hard to read. I wanted to find out where she was from and what she felt about what was going on around her but wasn’t sure if she would be open to that. As it turned out though, I was wrong. She did talk. Maybe she made an exception because she could feel my interest.  Anyway, it was after the session had ended. We were sitting down next to each other putting on our shoes and helping the kids do the same when she turned to me and asked me about my daughter. Her accent was strong and she spoke quietly.  She told me that her daughter, the little girls mother, had gone to school locally and was now in her mid 30’s. I learnt that her daughter lived with her and worked part time. She took care of her grand daughter so her daughter could work. The little girls’ dad was Brazilian. He didn’t live with them. “Things have changed so much since we were raising children” she said. “Not everything depended on having money. It didn’t matter so much whether you had it or you didn’t and we didn’t feel so alone. Life was simpler somehow”. She smiled as if acknowledging her own nostalgia. I thought about the other women I knew of her age that had come from all over the world to north London to have kids and raise kids in an easy bohemian way. They shared common ideals and they experimented with new ways of living.

Her daughters aloneness clearly touched her but she also saw the bigger picture. Times had changed and she felt this strongly. Her offering was a steadfast commitment to her daughter and her daughter’s child and a calm unhurried presence – an attempt to keep things simple maybe? As she turned to say goodbye, I wanted to tell her that it was OK, that even though the spaces for just being were smaller and the pressures greater, people were still finding ways to connect, to nurture, to love and to create in ways that didn’t depend on money. But then again I am sure she knew that already.

 

Lush Boy

I was heading out of town for a few days by train. I had some time to kill at Liverpool Street station so I went in search of a  gift for my kids. I spotted a Lush store, the current favourite among my girls because of its heady mix of colours, textures and intense fragrances. I walked towards it preparing myself to be approached by an over enthusiastic sales assistant waxing lyrical about the wonders of Lush. I was slightly over its’ marketing style, which prides itself on not paying for advertising but instead invests in the power of the brand – homespun, ethical and natural. Its exponential growth is proof that this approach is working. People come out of the store feeling like they have bought a piece of something pure and good and overlook the fact that a few small bath bombs have cost over twenty quid.

As I walked in the kid behind the counter gave me a big smile. And that was it. Not a smile and then a sales chat, just a smile. He was mixed race, clean-cut, a little on the skinny side with a big easy smile. I asked about the ingredients in a bath melt. He showed me the list and pointed out that they were made with all natural stuff. He was at ease. He was giving me space, so I bought more. He agreed things were a little pricey and then disarmed me with some of his own personal tips for doing things the natural way:  “A squeeze of lemon under the armpits is a wicked alternative to deodorant. I tell my friends about it and they laugh as if it is some weird jungle talk, but I am tellin’ you that stuff works and you don’t need to spend money and put all those chemicals on your body. Mother nature has the answers”. He was a twenty something year old Londoner and he took the edge off my cynicism. I left feeling like I had come across something pure and good and it wasn’t the bath melt!

Gratitude

I saw her at my daughters’ nursery. She was settling her child in and so was I. She had a beautiful round face and a calm composure. We said goodbye to our kids at the same time and left. Once outside, we started to talk. I tried to guess where she was from. “Iran”? I asked. “No” she said, “Lebanon.” Her urban, hip-hop look suited her. I liked the combination. Middle East meets New York. And it worked. I was attracted and wanted to know more. We chatted easily. She told me that she was alone, that she had had a good job in Qatar but had left it all behind to come to the UK and get married. He was a British Muslim who followed a Sufi spiritual leader. He had urged her to come after meeting her through friends on his travels. He impressed her with his knowledge of Islam and Middle Eastern culture. Once married, he lost interest. He stayed out late most nights, holidayed without her and showed no interest in their daughter when she was born a year later. She was afraid to leave but she overcame her fear because he made the situation untenable. He found a young lover whom he impressed with his knowledge of Middle Eastern music as he had done when he first met her. He talked openly about how he envied his friends with more than one wife and refused to touch her. So she left. She talked in a gentle, measured way. I felt rage. When I expressed my anger she responded like this: “you know what, I am grateful that I have my beautiful daughter. Sometimes when I think of him and what he did I feel anger but mostly I am happy that there is now peace in my home and that I can enjoy my daughter. I am no longer afraid of being alone and I have my whole life ahead of me”. I trusted her sentiment. We said goodbye and I thought how strange it is that when faced with the challenges that life and love present some of us choose bitterness and sorrow and some of us choose peace.

 

 

The Sister

 

I met her in the local Catholic Church where my daughter does pottery. She looked about eighty. She was struggling to get up the stairs to the storeroom cupboard.  I offered to help but she refused. After a few minutes she came down with what she had been looking for. It was a box of shoes for a homeless young woman she had befriended. She introduced herself as Sister Anne. She was a Jesuit nun. She had bright blue eyes that were clear and youthful although her frame was weak and hunched over. She talked in a soft Irish accent about the homeless woman she looked after. She told me that the woman had been put into a home when she was a young child because she was considered too hyperactive. She had since drifted from home to home.  She was now a homeless young adult. “Imagine your own parents doing that to you. How do you recover from that?” she asked. I guessed it was a rhetorical question.

 

Sister Anne had been the young woman’s friend for over six years.  She was among the many homeless people she looked after. She talked about their antics as if to give them dignity, to ensure that they were seen as more then just homeless. “They are quite fussy you know. They still have standards even though they live on the streets. There is this one chap that is very picky about the kind of shoes I bring to him”.  The conversation then moved on to the best ways to parent. She talked about how important the early years were. She held the top of my arm in part for support but also to make sure she had my full attention: “Children need a lot of love especially when they are young but they also need boundaries. Kids today are given too many things they don’t need when what they really need is our time and our love”.  I could tell she had a lot more to say on the subject but she cut herself short…  “I must be going,” she said. She picked up the box of shoes and left. I wasn’t sure how far she had to go.  As I watched her walk slowly down the road I felt a sense of loss, perhaps because I guessed that once she was gone there would be no one to replace her. I was sure that the younger generation would produce their own version of Sister Anne but wasn’t sure what she would look like and whether she would value the importance of taking time, of slowing down long enough to notice what mattered.