As a Brit with an interest in US politics that’s lasted pretty much my entire adult life, all I can say is that if Brexit has taught us anything, it’s that those promoting the politics of fear and division don’t care about you or I. Their ideological, selfish campaigning has nothing underneath it. The vote to Leave was a shock, but not unexpected. The Remain campaign simply thought they could scare voters into staying, while Leavers simply peddled negative, xenophobic, racist and outright made-up figures that played to that populist, “we don’t need anyone else to be Great Britain” rhetoric. It resonated with people that thought politics had failed them and saw solutions through demonizing others rather than the very people telling them to Leave. The very same people from the heart of the establishment who were claiming to be anything but. Sound familiar?
But Bernie has forced Hilary into adopting more of his language and policies. This can only be a good thing. Is she as inspiring? As emotive? As warm and engaging? No, she isn’t. And she’s up against a candidate that, however abhorrent, knows how to speak in a way that (unfortunately) connects with many people, playing to their fear and anger. She has to be positive, she has to be able to reach out to voters that want to be heard, that are being attacked by her opponent. That’s a potentially huge demographic. The more he alienates, the more voters are up for grabs for the democrats. Simply refuting his “policies” won’t work, because he makes them up as he goes along, which makes them hard to lay a punch on. And yet Hilary seems to be held up to a level of scrutiny that no man and certainly not a “personality” like Trump ever is.
But however depressing it is to see another dynasty crowned (between Bush and Clinton, that’s most of my life covered, more than half if Hilary gets in) and feel as if there’s such a narrow choice for leader, the alternative surely must galvanize democrats? So many here voted Conservative in 2015 thinking it was a safe bet for a coalition only for a majority to get in and set about further ruining the country, culminating in our decision to leave the EU. Many voted there as a protest, or because they bought lies on immigration, the economy, public services, and it’s going to affect the rest of our lives in the UK.
Trump would be the same. It would be an atom bomb in the US political landscape. Like Leavers, I’m not even sure he wants or expects to win. It’s just about his own ego and popularity. He’s willing to divide the country to feed his own myth and coffers. It’s a crazy situation, but Hilary hasn’t even made her convention speech and yet democrats are fighting each other: it’s just what he wants. I can’t see any reason not to vote against Trump, and to prevent him from being in office, Hilary is the only choice, surely? Anything else is just giving a vote to the devil….
Back from the mud and pretending we’d not left the EU until I got home, I’ve been trying to rationalise the campaigns, the vote, the result, and what it means for the UK, England and the EU. Whichever way you look at it, it isn’t going to be pretty, and I very much doubt it’s going to be the ‘new Britain’ that many Leavers hoped from the mess that both sides threw around for the last few months. If we wanted our country back, what sort of country is that really going to be?
Some things to make clear: however disappointed I am in the result, and whatever bile and hatred is already emerging, all Leavers are neither racist, nor xenophobic, nor are they all little Englanders wanting us to return to the 50s (18 or 19), nor do they hate Europe, or each other, nor are they idiots. Some are some, many or all of these things, but just because some voted Leave as a protest (I mean seriously) and others regret it, that’s democracy. You can be disappointed in a result, detest those that drove us to it, even those that made that choice if you want to, but this is how democracy works. If we’re going to get angry, get angry that those that lied to us. Many voted to control immigration, save the NHS, ‘take back control’ (and what a loose and nebulous premise that was.. of what?), to make our own laws, to halt pressure on public services… all of which are admirable and sensible choices. Sadly, I very much doubt many of these things will be resolved.
The truth of the matter is – to me (my opinion, not attacking yours) – this was a referendum that no one but a section of the Tory party wanted. That section’s been there ever since we joined the EU in its earliest form. Cameron shat himself over the threat of ‘up to 10’ seats going to UKIP last May, so pledged this in their manifesto. He never expected to be in majority government, and suddenly had to deliver. All this from the threat of an ‘outsider’ who’s a former Tory councillor, stockbroker and pint-drinking middle England upper middle class Tory, Nigel Farage. This is the political mess our country has become.
Once the campaign started, you had one side (Leave) who were energised, with the EU as a punchbag, marking it out as the root of all evil – immigration, public services, economy, democracy, human rights, red tape – when much of it was created by the very govt they existed in. They had the might of the press behind them, whose lies they’d been supporting for years. They vented against the very experts that supported their last 6 years in power, as if figures just didn’t matter any more. A motley crew of Farage, Johnson, Gove, Duncan Smith, Patel and more, evoking the colonial era success of industrial Britain, an Albion that’s a figment of our imagination (we were a terrible country then) as if pulling up the drawbridge would move all our problems away, instead of merely making us having to deal with them in isolation. They preached lies from the start: 350m went to the EU every week, it would all go to: the NHS, science, arts, rural areas, defence… you name it, pluck out a populist idea and sell it. We’d solve immigration issues with a points system that already lets in 180,000 a year from outside the EU, we’d reclaim our democracy (as if forgetting our membership of NATO, WTO, UN, Commonwealth and many other climate and trade deals we don’t write ourselves) or complaining of unelected politicians (whilst choosing not to reform the Lords, which is exactly that), and then moved onto, emboldened, the rub of it all. They lost the economic argument, so they hit home on immigration. They may have criticised Farage’s posters, but did nothing while in power. The very Tories that decimated our public services in the myth of austerity now blamed immigrants for it, when they are net contributors to the economy, and have allowed the growing xenophobic and racist voices to rise and demonise them, the working classes and post-industrial communities. They caused the problem, they pushed it onto someone else. A perfect storm. They had no plan for victory (did they really expect it?) and didn’t care. They’d lie with impunity, it was never going to happen, was it? And these are the candidates for PM. Cameron was awful, but this lot… you just wait.
And Remain? Half-hearted or invisible campaigning, or simply not campaigning at all, so afraid of standing alongside they hated they sucked all momentum out of the positive message that could’ve been made. They led on the economy, supported by almost everyone, but couldn’t put out a good message. It was only one thing: DOOM. And yes, that’s what’s going to happen, but they were hamstrung on the truth. Blame the EU too much for immigration, and people will question how their austerity helped public services. Cameron and Osborne started strongly but were the only big voices that anyone recognised. Their hearts weren’t in it in the end. Then the rest? Greens and Lib Dems did work hard, but their voices were drowned out by the main protagonists, and the positivity submerged by the lies and negativity. And Labour? Split, as were Tories, down the middle, riven by an internecine war for the party. Corbyn appeared half way through to support an insitution he’s been opposed to all his career, and refused to share a platform with any other party for fear of his own reputation. His colleagues did, but the message was almost entirely negative, and positivity doesn’t resonate with fear. A half decent campaign would’ve likely won, and yet refuting all the Leave’s lies simply was ignored by the press most of the time. By the end, even after the tragic killing of MP Jo Cox, no one could appeal to compassion or sentiment. The campaign, like all politics now, seemingly, has been poisoned.
All the same, I, like many still held out hope that we’d sneak a win by a couple of percent. So, what happened? The split of age ranges said it all – 75% of young people (but not enough young people) voted to Remain, most cities did, Scotland did, as did Wales, but much of rural England and working classes voted to Leave, and this tipped the balance. Even then though, the result was a shock. Even personally, putting aside my beliefs, it’s depressing to think that we can survive in a globalised world where immigration, climate change, economics, crime and trade are all internationally formed and affected by shutting the curtains. But the supremely negative campaigns destroyed all hope in the whole referendum. Fears and worries were inflamed, division and hatred fed, to the point where many people simply saw it as the only solution. A kick against the elite? If you think Gove, Farage, Johnson and Duncan Smith aren’t elites then we are in trouble. Yes, kick Westminster, but this wasn’t a changing of the guard. It’s going to be a lot, lot worse.
So, what now? Economic shock, uncertainty, a plunging pound, and protracted battles for control of government and opposition. And what of the promises? 350m to the NHS, or schools, or public services? Just ‘suggestions’. Immigration? It ‘may well not fall’. Control is not constriction. Trade? Single markets mean free movement. Just ask Norway, Iceland and Switzerland. The EU council’s made that 100% clear. So we best invoke Article 50 now. Oh, that’s not going to happen? Why? When? Because the Leave campaign have no plan, no post-exit ideas. They didn’t expect to win. They’ll crow and laugh as the markets fall, we all lose money, because it won’t affect them. It never would. They’ve got their wish? Who cares what happens now? If you believe any of their lies, that’s understandable, the country is a mess that needs many many things solved, and so you feel hope and empowerment from voting to Leave. But this was never going to happen. It’s far more complex than a Yes/No choice. It’s a modern tragedy, a vote that should never have taken place, or was supposed to, on the whims of a party riven by internal division over Europe. This was never anything but a Tory civil war, that’s resulted in the country in panic. And it’s going to be the reason for division and hatred. We’ve seen that already, and it’ll be the excuse for everything ‘well we’re just the UK now, everyone else needs to leave, we voted for it’. It’s grim. Scotland will leave the UK, maybe Wales too. And we may end up with a result that betrays everyone’s hopes – both Leave and Remain.
What will the future look like? PM Johnson? A man so much more right wing than Cameron or Osborne, a born liar who ruined London if you weren’t an investment banker or CEO or foreign property buyer, or Gove, another former journalist that finds truth a mere inconvenience. Or Theresa May, a Remain campaigner that really was 50-50 and who gave us the Snooper’s Charter. We’ll have a UK Bill of Rights, tear up so much EU legislation that protected our workers rights, environment, industry…. and unless we have a sensible opposition party we’ll allow the Tory party to steamroller this country and sell it off to the highest bidder. All while the division they stoked keeps us busy. I’m no Labour cheerleader either, and I’m deeply disappointed in the party tearing itself apart, with neither wing wanting compromise, so while they should be uniting with Lib Dems, SNP and Greens to hammer this terrible government, they’re going to be fighting each other.
It’s a mess. And it’s a mess built on a decade of lies and mistakes from all sides. The rise of the right in Europe (and many elements at the extremes of it) is continuing and we have a battle to prove we’re a friendly, open country and region. Leaving the EU can only hurt that, and for the many Leave voters that do not share that sentiment, we have to come together to try and ensure we don’t retreat into ourselves and into hatred and division, because this result is the means for many to now see their views as accepted. I’m incredibly disappointed, and sad, and angry with the politicians that lied to us all along now being at the control. The country will suffer and I have no faith they will do what’s right.
I felt like I’d slept for a week, despite a good bottle of wine down me and only a shade under 7 hours passed out, but then Monaco seems to bring out the best in me. Today is far more sedate, in fact the most relaxed, racing wise, of all this week. With LCD Soundsystem‘s brilliant This Is Happening soundtracking my journey to the track today (I’ll put thoughts of their break-up to the back of my mind, because nothing can break the good mood I’m in), I feel like I’m walking on air, and just as with the previous two days, like I’m the luckiest guy in Monaco. Maybe that’ll switch to Hamilton or Vettel on Sunday, but until then, the title is mine. Today, with only the Porsche Super Cup qualy first thing, GP2 takes centre stage, with its feature race at 11.15 this morning. The stands are all free today, so there should be a substantial crowd, and compared to the deficit-bashing prices of the weekend, this ‘free’ day is a godsend. David is in good spirits after the birthday celebrations. Will, it turns out, is suffering a little, having downed a few more shandies than planned at the Red Bull party last night. I can’t keep up with these A-listers. The thing is though, come 11am, he’ll be grinning behind the mic alongside Karun Chandok – ex-GP2 and current F1 reserve driver and one of the nicest, most good-natured people you’ll ever meet in the sport – and breezing through commentary as if he’d gone to bed at 10pm, the pair bouncing off each others verbals like childhood best friends. If I had even half his enthusiasm on Monday mornings I’ve be far more productive. To this end, it’s a crime that the GP2 Series isn’t available on free-to-air in the UK, but I can hardly complain this weekend!
While the sun is taking a while to duck out from behind the clouds – no great loss with my pink flesh, conveying all the stereotypical skill of an Englishman abroad, still a little tender from yesterday – the Porsches have already torn through qualifying, and it’s time to go our respective ways: me back to Stand K and David to the pits in time for the start. However mad qualy was yesterday, and I’ve seen less exciting months in F1, there’s no doubt that the one way to get the pulse racing is to get the red lights up for racing. Add the iconic location and I actually have butterflies as I weave through the streets to my perfect viewing spot, sandwiched between St Devote and Tabac. I may be sat amongst nationalities from across Europe and beyond, but we’re all here for one thing: watching state-of-the-art cars throw themselves around one of the most famous circuits in the world. But while I’m glad for the overcast conditions, when drops of rain start peppering the air I suddenly wonder if my friend Andi is about to appear, after his incredible rain-making abilities at Valencia back in 2007, when he was almost responsible for costing Timo Glock the GP2 championship. Thankfully, it’s just a passing shower, and the Andi Hawes voodoo fails to strike again.
And in a few minutes, the sun is back out, the drops of rain a mere memory, and the cars are screaming round the track on their parade lap. While qualy and F1 practise was sensational yesterday, seeing the cars ready to do battle proper is another level. I’ve always kept an eye on GP2 over years – as I’ve said before, its lack of free-to-air availability limits me to youtube clips and their well-stocked website – but this year with Monaco in mind I’ve been swotting up, and when you add to any prep work spending 48 hours in and around the race series itself, all of a sudden the names on the grid and the teams and personnel take on added significance. Motorsport in general is, considering its money and exclusivity, an amazingly open sport. Think of F1 grid walks, and even for those in pit and paddocks over racing weekends having access to drivers and teams, and there’s no comparison. You wouldn’t see cameras in the dressing room before a Premiership game in England, nor would you have the camera stuck into the middle of the England Rugby team’s huddle before the game kicks off, and yet motorsport seems to have a great tradition of access to the people that matter the most. For me, being in and around the whole system over the weekend only serves to make the events on the track even more special.
And it’s a great race. While Monaco may not be littered with overtaking, the sheer spectacle of the cars heading round the iconic twists and turns is enough to get the pulse racing. But Monaco is no walk in the park either. The claustrophobic barriers and barely two-car-width straights offer little respite for even the smallest of errors, and this would be in evidence today. The unluckiest man in the field is Englishman Sam Bird. A huge talent, leading the standings coming into Monte Carlo, but his car bogged down as the lights went out, and while he avoided being tagged (watch replays of similar incidents again and see just how lighting-quick drivers reactions are to avoid stationary cars on the grid), while the rest of the field was speeding up to Casino Square, he was limping out of the pits in P26. His race would be far from over though. Davide Valsecchi, of the newly formed Air Asia team of Team Lotus boss Tony Fernandes, streaked away from the field and ended up giving a masterclass of how to handle the idiosyncratic character of the principality. He looked at ease all race, and got to say what many would give a limb to say: “I won in Monaco”, something he has dreamed of all his career.
I witnessed most of this from the now familiar Stand K, peerage over the back as the cars flew through St Devote at the start, and being surprised to see no one approaching it in mid-air. As the race settled down, I decided to race back to the GP2 paddock. Purists may gasp, but with only a big screen 100m away up Massanet, and no commentary, I struggled for much of the race to see what the order was, and who was making moves. In an era where there’s HD tv, online coverage, blogs, twitter and multiple commentary, sitting in a stand gets the adrenaline pumping, but leaves you bereft of where the cars shake down, and much as I feel like a philistine for doing it, I race away through the blistering sunshine back round the corner to the paddock. I arrive with 15 laps of 42 to go, astonished to see that 7 cars have retired in the 15 minutes since I ducked under the track. Perhaps I’m cursed, as while I’ve been on foot, Romain Grosjean’s cut a swathe through the field to be P4, and Sam Bird, from flat last, is now dicing with his team mate for 9th. And, as predicted, calling the events is a refreshed Will and Karun, sounding for all things like they’re chatting over a crisp beer, jousting with each other like best mates. I could listen to them commentate on tiddlywinks. Once again, while I love F1, there’s something gloriously laid-back and inclusive about its little brother. Will even appears for a post-race lunch, looking jaded, but still with more energy than I can muster at work in the week. I don’t know how he does it.
In the end, the race is more than eventful, with safety cars aplenty in midfield, while the top three of Valsecchi, Parente and Fillipi cruise to a comfortable podium, iSport’s Bird and Ericsson seem to get into a tit-for-tat ding-dong that starts with Bird budging his team-mate into the wall at Noghes, and ends with both retiring as Ericsson’s rear wing gives way at speed coming to the chicane, and Bird’s tyre punctures. Either way, the team meeting will be interesting this afternoon, and two drivers will see the dreaded DNF against their name. The series may lack the glamour of F1 but no one can accuse it of coming second in terms of competitiveness. These guys know that good win and a strong championship and they could be in the big show next year, and it’s a golden carrot dangled tantalisingly in front of the grid every year. And, breathlessly, in 24 hours, we’ll be doing this all over again. It’s a relentless weekend, and I’m caught up in it helplessly. And the more time I spend here, in Monaco, but more pointedly, with the GP2 circus, the more I wish I was around it every race. You get to feel part of the action, and that’s addictive in the extreme.
In Monaco, you’re never short of a bit of glitter, even if you are parked round the corner from Port Hercule. During the GP2 race as I rush back to the paddock, I pass a couple of familiar looking middle-aged men in fairly uncool denim and shirts talking at the entrance to the car park. On second glance, when I get up top, it’s Jeremy Clarkson and James May (I recognise that bald patch and Wurzel Gummidge hair anywhere) from Top Gear. Lord knows what they’re doing, but it’s no surprise they’re here, no doubt about to squeeze their expanding waistlines into some shiny sports car and drive around Casino Square insulting the locals. Ho hum. I know I’m in a minority but I grew out of Top Gear years ago. It’s like the Daily Mail on wheels, so count me out. Strangely, there’s no sign of Richard Hammond though. Maybe he was behind one of the bollards. Or a hub cap. We’re also buzzed by a helicopter, that hovers around the building for a good half hour over the sea. There’s a jet-ski, and boats aplenty in the sea, so maybe it’s a rescue, but it’s not clear until we zoom in that none other than Prince Albert at the centre of the flotilla. We never quite work out what’s going on, though scuba diving appears to be involved. But when you rule the Principality, if want to head out for a spot of sea air in the afternoon then who are we to argue? In Monaco after a while, nothing seems strange. That’s the beauty, and the wonder, of the place.
Being a half day, it’s late afternoon when the dust settles, driver interviews complete, and the hubbub dies down (until the stewards do their work) – refreshing, as last night we left the paddock at gone 9 – but as ever behind the scenes no rest is really taken if you’re one of the army of support staff here, be it caterers, production, administration, not to mention all the teams, mechanics and everyone else. At 5pm it may be quiet in the paddock but the GP2 team are still hard at work, and I’m anticipating another top-notch blog from David. Beers will be richly deserved tonight. But sitting here, looking over the sea outside the marina in Monaco as the sun gets lower in the sky, part of me is more than happy to watch it all go by. I’m sure many motor racing fans in Monaco are heading home to get their gladrags on, or sitting in one of the hundreds of cafes thinking about F1’s big boys tomorrow. For me, THIS is where it’s at.
Walking back to Rascasse with David for a cold one, we pass two joggers, and I almost miss the fact that the smaller one is Fernando Alonso, taking the chance to get some laps in under the golden skies before the big weekend. As we’re in Avenue de la Quarantine, he must’ve run straight past the massive banners with his face on. I wonder what he’d have made of the huge one next to him for Racing Engineering, cheering on Dani Clos and Alvaro Parente. It was almost as big as his. Maybe next year it’ll be bigger. Rascasse is its usual packed with the full spectrum of fans, teams, hangers-on and randoms. It’s something to just stop, look, chuckle, and wonder at the whole cross-section of motor-racing faithful mixing in one place. So many people are sporting over-glamorous garb; understatement doesn’t seem to be a term that’s well abided by here, but that makes it all the more entertaining. A band starts up as David and I wait for Will to arrive, and it’s fair to say they’re not going to be memorable for musical reasons. Murdering a series of ‘big hits’ – starting with Coldplay’s The Scientist, and further maiming the likes of With Of Without You, and even Radiohead – it actually becomes a fantastic game of spot the intro, often proving wrong as the song that’s played sounds only vaguely similar to the original. The singer’s interesting inflection – I love a good song when English isn’t the singer’s first language, it’s why Eurovision is so classic – is intriguing, so when Will turns up with motor racing photo whizz Matt, we spend a fantastic half hour extolling our music tastes, good, and bad, and getting misty-eyed about the golden days of Britpop. What I’d do for a bit of Bluetones now.
We leave the fun after a quick couple before things get too shifty, as next stop is back to Beaulieu for dinner with the GP2 team. Unfortunately we keep them waiting longer than planned when we narrowly miss our train but all seems to be forgiven as we settle down at Le Max in the marina in Beaulieu. It’s one of a small boulevard of restaurants that cluster along the waterfront, and just down from where David and I enjoyed a birthday drink the night before, and it’s a nice arena of calm after Monaco’s daily bluster. I’m very lucky to have been invited along for dinner, treated as I have been throughout this trip as a grateful guest of the GP2 crew, and once again, just as I was in Bahrain and Valencia in 2007, I’m overwhelmed by their hospitality. I could just as easily be heading off for a bite, but I’m ushered along and made to feel part of the family. The food is good, as is the conversation with Alexa, Tony, David and Didier and his wife, with my attempts to speak faltering French to her taken with patience and good grace! I may have spoken it fluently as a child and teenager, but I still struggle to find the correct words, even after a few glasses of vin rouge to lubricate the vocal chords. It’s frustrating, but it’s better to try I always feel, even if the end results are a bit of a mess! As we head back for the night, I reflect on another brilliant day and look forward to rest before the GP2 Sprint race, F1 Qualy and the business end of the weekend tomorrow. I’m tired, but, as I have been all week so far, elated.
Since Tuesday afternoon the world feels a fresher place, and while Barack Obama’s near-deification over the last eighteen months has at times taken on unrealistic proportions, his first days in office have been cause for great optimism: the closure of Guantanamo Bay (or its start), the dismantling of US intelligence’s ‘Black Sites’, the repealing of the 25-year gag order on US funding for organisations that are linked to abortions, and the freezing (and ultimate reversing) of many of Bush’s late-breaking laws.
And one song seems to be echoing round my head today – Marvin Gaye’s sublime What’s Goin’ On? The lyrics are as resonant today as they were when the song was released, but they now sit against the backdrop of a hope for a brighter future, and that is something that means I can wake up with a smile on my face each morning, however cold it is.
Do we take death for granted too much these days? Are we so enveloped by its presence in the world, that when it truly touches us, we’re totally unprepared to deal with its proximity. We see so much suffering, on such a grand scale, on 24-hour rotating BREAKING NEWS from every angle that death seems just a fact of life. But it’s never us, never HERE, (apart from the rare and affecting days of July 7th, which highlights how much such a relatively small loss of life affects us, when as many die each day in Iraq) and so we watch it, absorb it, assimilate it, until news of bombings in Baghdad, killings in America, murders in Pakistan, typhoons in the East, it all becomes news, not real suffering, just a headline, a bulletin. Have we really become immune to it?
Even twenty years ago, things were different. The internet was a twinkle in the eye of military computer systems, 24-hour news was the exception and not the norm, and suffering on the scale of the African famine touched the globe. In the cynical, saturated 00s, it barely pricked our conscioucness. So where did it change? Like many things, it’s subtle. You can’t notice it from year to year, but go 5, then 10 years ago, and then it starts to crystallise.
So, when we’ve lived through the ‘ordeal’ of watching the tsunami, 9/11, 7/7, (when of course, unless you’re there, how much of an ideal is it for us really?) the line moves further and further back, but it’s only when it affects us directly that we begin to realise how helpless we are. I remember 7/7, the fateful day, as the horror of the events slowly unfolded like a live telethon in front of us. A strange and silent atmosphere as thousands walked back home that night, in shock more than grief. Then the odd and confusing notion that, as it dawned, that I was indirectly affected. A friend’s partner was lost in the tube at Russell Square. It was a terrible time, to watch the family of someone so young (younger than me by years) that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their anger, their pain, their anguish, never being able to say goodbye to their daughter. We all cried at the funeral, and it’s still one of the hardest things I’ve had to go through.
But, I only truly faced death on my own family did the realisation dawn on me that I was unable to really comprehend what had unfurled. My grandmother, so long frail and unwell, had finally gained peace. I’d never known my father’s parents, to mine and (never broached but never needed) his sadness, and then, 30 years into my life, someone I knew, was close to, all my life, was gone. And in the succeeding days, I felt, not cold, but confused. I didn’t know how to rationalise the feelings, to understand what I should feel, and experience. Because that was it, it was something never before encountered. And while others grieved around me, my exterior was assumed to be strong and steadfast, but I hadn’t even understood how to start.
And then it came. Our family, so rarely all together, suddenly, in the cold and stark reality of the church. It was there for me to see, inescapable. And the tears flowed. Like I’d never known before, unbridalled, and confusing, strange. But right. My emotion of losing someone that was one of my first memories, that had been there as I grew and changed, and who I watched slowly and distressingly become a ghost of the person they had once been. The fragility of existence was laid before me, and the short journey from birth to death spelled out in chapters of sadness and sorrow, as this person passed from being tangible to a memory.
And now I’m at this place again. Her husband, my granddad, the father of my mum, now also gone. And while I understand it much more, it’s no easier to navigate. The end of an era. I can no longer say I have grandparents. My niece and godson nave lost a generation. And with it their memories. And I feel compelled to preserve them, to document them. Such an incredible life, from the Second World war – so much just a date and an event to my generation – to Scotland, to Africa, Malta, Moscow, and back home to Britain. He saw first hand the horrors of war, lost his brothers, but he endured. For they are the memories of all my family, ones that already begin to fade. I want to sit with my parents, ask them to recant while I write, so i can hand something more tangible than objects and photos down to my children. Because it is important. Our lives are shaped by those that come before us, and we’re part of the world they lived in. And it will fade with the months and the years if we don’t grab what we can of it. Life is fleeting, and it’s our choice to make as much or as little of it as we can.
So, as the day approaches, and I prepare for another farewell, I’m reminded just how little our generation in the cossetted western world is shielded from this most stark of realities. We can watch millions die on screen, read about it print, see photos of the mutilated and disfigured, but it’s not US. It’s never US. It’s Iraq, it’s Iran, it’s Pakistan, it’s Bangladesh, it’s Darfur. We grieve, we wring our hands, we donate, we turn the channel. And when it finally hits us, and we multiply our personal experience into this monumental suffering, it finally dawns. We know nothing. And, sad as it is, we should be thankful for that.
It’s his memory that I’ll honour next week. And so many others.