Storms. And refugee camps.

Today we have Storm Ashley. It doesn’t really feel like a storm here, just rather wet and wild and windy. 

Yesterday, when we walked out in the afternoon sunshine we stopped to chat briefly with the chap whose garden is still full of sunflowers. He says he doesn’t really expect them to survive the gale-force winds predicted for today. And this morning, walking not running in the wind and rain, I noticed that the remaining rather fine pink daisy-like flowers in the house on the corner have all been cut down - tidying them up before they get battered by the weather perhaps.

It could be worse: 

“The north Italian city of Bologna was largely underwater on Saturday night after more than 80mm of rain fell in a few hours, causing the river Ravone to break its banks.

In addition to severe floods, there were reports of power cuts across the city as the mayor Matteo Lepore told residents not to go outside or to drive and to move to upper floors.”

“Sicily hit by bad weather: Catania transformed into a river city, flooded streets, vehicles dragged by the water. Emergency throughout the island, firefighters overloaded.”

Glancing out of the window just now, I notice that we have a bit of blue sky. 

Maybe the day will improve, despite the storm warnings! 

We need some of that brightness, as we had yesterday, since the news media are all full of doom and gloom.

Via various links from other news article I came across this article from January this year about a man in Shatila refugee camp in southern Beirut who paid large amounts of money to a people smuggler to get his 21 year old son out of the camp and give him a chance of a better life. Its strange. When we hear of refugee camps, we imagine tents or shack made of corrugated iron, essentially temporary structures. Shatila refugee camp began that way in 1949 with Palestinian refugees. Now, like so many “camps” it’s a kind of ghetto city with shops and schools and markets. It may not be elegant. Lebanon didn’t want them to have good building materials, in the hope that they would all go home. Now there’s a mix of different refugees from different places. A society of sorts has developed. And residents of Beirut actually shop there for goods which are cheaper than in Beirut proper. But still it’s a refugee camp and there are families who have been there for three or four generations. 

The young man who was smuggled out made it as far as a fishing boat headed for Italy. “His last call to his father came on the night of 13 June. He told Kamal (his father) that they were being loaded on the fishing trawlers. The boat, which was supposed to head to Italy, capsized in Greek territorial waters. Greek coastal guards rescued dozens of those onboard, but 79 men and women died, and many more are missing.

Hassan’s body was never found, and Kamal believes he is still alive somewhere. “His friend who was with him told me he saw him swim all night, and I am sure he is somewhere in Greece. As long as I don’t see his body, I will continue to believe he is alive and he will come back to us one day.”

The smuggler, whose boat capsized, is still running his business from the same apartment in Beirut.”

Here and in Italy and in Spain and in other places we call out to STOP THE BOATS. No amount of effort to do so is going to work until we tackle the problem of those refugee camps where young lives are wasting away. Some of them try (expensively) to escape, some join resistance groups, some turn to drugs to dull the misery of their lives. 

From the safety of our western homes we can express our horror but we are still letting it happen. The African American writer and civil rights activist, James Baldwin, died in 1987, but this poem he wrote is still relevant to today’s world.

   “Every bombed village is my hometown - James Baldwin

And every dead child is my child.

Every grieving mother is my mother. 

Every crying father is my father.

Every home turned to rubble

is the home I grew up in.

Every brother carrying the remains

of his brother across borders

is my brother.

Every sister waiting for a sister

who will never come home

is my sister.

Every one of these people are ours,

Just like we are theirs.

We belong to them

and they belong to us.”

There it is. We must not forget our common humanity. Meanwhile, here’s another bit of Michael Rosen’s King and his Tutor;

'The battlefield is in a bit of a mess, isn't it, tutor?' said the King to his tutor.

'Yes indeed,' said the tutor, 'but things are going well.'

'Are they?' said the King, 'but there's nothing but churned up mud, spears and shields. And all those huts where those people lived. What a mess it all is.'

'You're not thinking ahead, sir,' said the tutor.

'Ahead?' said the King.

'Are you not aware that the battleground overlooks the sea?' said the tutor.

'No, I hadn't noticed that,' said the King.

'There is a beautiful view of the shoreline and the sea, twinkling in the sun,' said the tutor, 'it would be a perfect place for you to have a palace.' 

'O that does sound very nice,' said the King, 'but what about the mess?'

'Don't worry your head about that,' said the tutor, 'we can clear that up.'

'And the huts?' said the King.

'And the huts,' said the tutor.

Life goes on. Stay safe and well, everyone!