I watched the signing of the Good Friday agreement in Croatia, in the sitting room of a family I stayed with for a few weeks in 1998. My friend and former pen-pal translated the words of the news reel so I knew, word for word, what the likes of Gerry Adams was saying. It was an Irish war and the family I was staying with thought that this news would really affect me, knowing what the end of war meant for Croatia and wanting me to feel the same relief.
I felt an utter fake. I didn’t know war; I was a 20-year--old people-pleaser who didn’t want to spoil the party by saying that the Irish war had nothing really to do with me.
In my three weeks visiting Croatia, I received such a warm welcome, but I was old enough to know not to mention the bullet holes littering the campus walls, the grandfather pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks on the side of the road where houses were demolished, and the lack of food on the table. They made sure I always had food on my plate. I said nothing; I had the cop on at least for that.
These days watching the news of the refugees seeking asylum, I am reminded of my Croatian friends and once again feel a fake. It’s awful, I think. I shed the odd tear but am glad of the comfort of my couch, knowing that my own children are tucked up safely in bed. Glad I’m not the one carrying my baby over my shoulders cross-country. This isn’t my war. I know nothing about it, but I don’t switch because I know that for every one person that carries their home on their back, there must be another willing to do something to help.
In Croatia, I left the contents of my knapsack, bought rounds at the Irish bar in the capital, and tried to sing U2’s One on a loop in the college dorms. God help them.
There is always something we can do to help those who are trying their hardest to deal with adversity – an adversity that we can only begin to imagine from the anonymous images fed to our TV screens. There is surely something more we can do today to help those who are suffering, really suffering, as a result of this Syrian war. What can we do, using this momentum gathered from our nights in front of the TV, in order to impress on our leaders the need to do something meaningful to help our neighbours looking for refuge?
www.girlinwellies.com
I watched the signing of the Good Friday agreement in Croatia, in the sitting room of a family I stayed with for a few weeks in 1998. My friend and former pen-pal translated the words of the news reel so I knew, word for word, what the likes of Gerry Adams was saying. It was an Irish war and the family I was staying with thought that this news would really affect me, knowing what the end of war meant for Croatia and wanting me to feel the same relief.
I felt an utter fake. I didn’t know war; I was a 20-year--old people-pleaser who didn’t want to spoil the party by saying that the Irish war had nothing really to do with me.
In my three weeks visiting Croatia, I received such a warm welcome, but I was old enough to know not to mention the bullet holes littering the campus walls, the grandfather pushing a wheelbarrow of bricks on the side of the road where houses were demolished, and the lack of food on the table. They made sure I always had food on my plate. I said nothing; I had the cop on at least for that.
These days watching the news of the refugees seeking asylum, I am reminded of my Croatian friends and once again feel a fake. It’s awful, I think. I shed the odd tear but am glad of the comfort of my couch, knowing that my own children are tucked up safely in bed. Glad I’m not the one carrying my baby over my shoulders cross-country. This isn’t my war. I know nothing about it, but I don’t switch because I know that for every one person that carries their home on their back, there must be another willing to do something to help.
In Croatia, I left the contents of my knapsack, bought rounds at the Irish bar in the capital, and tried to sing U2’s One on a loop in the college dorms. God help them.
There is always something we can do to help those who are trying their hardest to deal with adversity – an adversity that we can only begin to imagine from the anonymous images fed to our TV screens. There is surely something more we can do today to help those who are suffering, really suffering, as a result of this Syrian war. What can we do, using this momentum gathered from our nights in front of the TV, in order to impress on our leaders the need to do something meaningful to help our neighbours looking for refuge?
www.girlinwellies.com
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