Who owns the right to grief? Reflections on September 11th.

On the 11th of September 2001 I was due to be in Manhattan, staying on Lexington Avenue in quite a nice four star hotel. I was meant to have arrived on the 10th in the evening, from London, and due to the time change, would have likely been up and walking around early in the morning.
Instead, I had called in sick, and was at home when the phone rang. It was my father, telling me to put the television on and had I heard what had happened. I switched on the TV just in time to witness the second plane crashing into the World Trade Centre.
As a flight attendant ( I would normally use the term Cabin Crew but deliberately choose the more American term out of respect for my fallen colleagues), the attack was very close to home. The previous year I had started temporarily working as a Crew Resource Management (CRM) facilitator whilst flying for a leading British airline and had been privy to some disturbing news.
A man by the name of Bin Laden had vowed to take down a British or American plane, and was a credible threat. Although there is no doubt that security was amped up quite significantly after this news was received, what really made the difference was an incident on the 29th of December of the previous year when a schizophrenic passenger gained access to the flight deck of a Boeing 747-400 aircraft on its way to Nairobi, Kenya.
I spoke to a number of the crew and passengers that were on that flight, including a lady that was in the flight attendant rest space built into the tail of the aircraft. The bunk area is a square room with a total of 8 bunks inside it, 2 on each side. A cramped area, where it is impossible to even stand upright, and with an enduring aroma of stale air, each bunk is also equipped with a seatbelt which is meant to be worn at all times in case of turbulence. This is because the rear of the plane moves around a lot more than the rest of it and turbulence is accented quite dramatically. One of the ladies I spoke to was attempting to sleep on a top bunk when the madman gained access to the flight deck. I asked her if she was screaming and if she was scared and she told me that the G-forces were so strong that it was impossible to move or make a sound. But that she had eye contact with those on the other top bunks, that it was clear the were all going to die, but that the inability to scream resulted in such an eerie calm that her overall sensation was one of acceptance. This was the end, and there was nothing that could be done.
The madman had been sitting in the last cabin of economy. He had not seemed quite right and in subsequent interviews it would emerge that he had spoken to most of the crew individually as he worked his way through the aircraft, asking questions that were not suspicious by themselves, but when put together would paint a picture of deliberate and wilful malice. He took advantage of half the crew going on their break and managed to make his way to the upper deck, pretending to be a business class passenger looking at the snacks available. When the single crew member on the Upper Deck went to the toilet, he calmly walked up to the flight deck door and stood next to the toilet at the front. The madman opened the flight deck door and walked up to the First office who was the only pilot at the controls as the captain had gone for a rest. He grabbed the control wheel and turned it sharply downwards and to right, at which point the plane plummeted towards the earth. The first officer was an ex-RAF pilot who had a significant amount of experience in fighter planes, prior to becoming a commercial airline pilot. He wrestled with his controls and managed to get the plane to ascend several times. However, the madman seemed equipped with an almost superhuman strength. During this time the plane enters the highest rate of descent that a commercial plane has ever recovered from. Boeing later revealed that the plane was not designed to physically withstand the dive, and should have broken up. At one point the plane was a mere four seconds from impact. Captain Hagan managed to crawl back into the flight deck and started to assault the madman, trying to get him to let go of the controls. This had very little effect. In desperation, Captain Hagan reached over and gouged at the madmans eyes, at which point he let go of the controls and directed his aggression at the captain himself. As first officer Watson stabilised the plane, two further passengers gained entry to the flight deck and assisted the captain in subduing the madman. A video of the incident is available here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYhMG4BwIi4
Once the situation was under control, the captain made a short announcement and the madman was handed over to police upon landing. Curiously, this incident was made available in training flight simulators and not a single pilot was able to prevent disaster.
I spoke to a couple that had been passengers on the flight and they told me how initially it had felt like bad turbulence. So much so that she had given an inadvertent gasp only to be told not to be silly by her husband. He ruefully told me that no sooner had he spoken the words, it became very clear that it was not turbulence at all, and that they truly believed they were going to die.

What could have been a tragedy was averted. But this incident was a much greater gift. As a direct result of this incident, British airlines changed protocols for flight deck door access and greatly increased security. This may well be one of the deciding factors explaining why the September the 11th involved only US airlines.
As an intercontinental flight attendant I had stayed in many of the same hotels as the flight attendants of other airlines. An extended community, it was usual for us to recognise each other, to share outlandish stories of what each airline tried to impose on us, on passenger incidents, on, well on life, because ultimately this was not just a job but a way of life. We shared our Christmases, our Easters, our birthdays, our joys and sadnesses with each other. On longer stays we shared drinks, meals, even trips to local sights, confident that we formed part of a greater family of people that had chosen this strange lifestyle for ourselves.
And I mourn, still today, the passing of so many of my colleagues at the hands of terrorists.

However, September 11th had been a day of mourning for many years prior to this. On the 11th of September 1973, the democratically elected government of Salvador Allende was ousted in a brutal US-backed and funded coup which led to the disappearance of close to 3000 Spaniards and the death, torture and disappearance of up to 100,000 Chileans. Amongst the dead, Victor Jara, poet, singer, songwriter, teacher. Together with thousands of others, he was rounded up and imprisoned in the football stadium in Santiago. recognised by a guard he was brutally tortured, his hands, the artists hands, crushed and mangled beyond recognition. When his body was discovered abandoned on the street, it was riddled with more than 40 bullets.

I was born in 1977, after the coup, and grew up in Spain, in a community which held a number of families that were in exile from the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile. Of the music I listened to as a child, the music of Victor Jara featured significantly. But nobody told me he was dead. Nobody said that he had not only died, but been murdered after brutal torture. I must have been around 13 when I found out. I remember it clearly. I was in the school library and was reading a book on popular protest in South America. I was shocked. I remember the tears pricking at my eyes, threatening to spill. I remember managing to hold them in, barely able to contain my emotions. And I vowed I would not forget. I would remember Victor, I would remember the coup, those tortured, dead and disappeared.
Years later, democracy returned to Chile and I was on one of the first flights to Santiago via Buenos Aires, working as a flight attendant. I was given the opportunity to disembark for a few hours, to accompany the captain as his interpreter to do a bit of sightseeing. We stopped at the football stadium where Victor Jara was murdered. We stopped at the Palacio de la Moneda where Allende, president and hero of the people made his last stand, the bullet holes still visible in the facade.
Some time after this, the old dictator started to lose his international standing. I recall the jubilation upon hearing that Judge Baltasar Garzón was demanding his extradition to face charges  regarding the many Spanish that he killed and tortured. And my shame that the UK let him return to Chile.
I remember. And I will not forget. You may misinterpret my words, you may believe what you wish, but my remembrance of the atrocities committed back in 1973 does not negate other atrocities. It does not make them somehow less. No nation has a greater right to grief and commemoration than another. 3000 Americans died on 11th of September 2001. Are these lives worth more than those of people from other nations? Are these dead somehow more sacred than all the others? Are we to mourn exclusively? Does the passage of time meant hat we may not mourn for those that died before this event on the same day and in greater numbers?
Regardless of what people may want to believe, I will continue to remember. Both those that have died in my lifetime as well as those that died before it. 

Betrayal

 

A sham, 

No friend of mine. 

You cloaked yourself with words of peace,

And I, believed you.

I did.

I offered up my best, 

My open hand,

My music, 

My very being.

When your words wavered,

poorly chosen, unkind,

I made excuses.

I stood stoutly by your side.

Defended.

Down to culture,

Down to stress,

Upbringing. Issues. All the rest. 

It has taken time,

But truly I do not wish you death,

though the thought of it lightens my soul.

I would prefer

you be stopped. A life of limbo,

suffering.

Knowing that I know what you are 

That there is no hiding

no safe port

no shelter from the storm.

Your betrayal.

Of the worst kind. 

For you betrayed yourself, your soul, 

Your one and all. 

How do you live with that? 

Homage to Antifa

 

Chanson dàmour

Originally designed to be accompanied by a lute, this poem in the ancient style of the medieval troubadours quickly morphed into something else. Why? Simple. I don't have a lute. The words made sense as a stream of consciousness for me, but I make no claim to them being written in grammatically correct French, this was not the point of the creation- Personally, re-reading the poem soothes the sense of inner anguish that clouds my existence sporadically. 

Quand on trouve le vrai amour 

l`amour chantait par les trouvères, 

l`angoisse D`aimer sans être aimé

est toujours moins que la perdition 

de respirer sans vous avoir connu.

Même si je suis presque perdu

même si mes mains tremblent

sans vous toucher

mes yeux ne desirent pas voir s'ils 

ne peuvent pas vous contempler.

Et si mes premieres pensées sont a vous

et mes lèvres rêvent de votre goûts

Mon enfer est rendu moins insoutenable

En sachant que vous marchez sur la terre

 Et si ma chanson parvient à votre oreille

Je prie pour qu'un sourire traverse vos lèvres

Sachant que je pense toujours à vous 

et que mon amour est éternel.

Washing with Conkers (Horse chestnuts)

I have started doing this and it works well for coloured washes, darks AND whites and is completely sustainable, ecological, planet and people friendly. It has been tested on..myself! Note that conkers are NOT edible. They are rich in saponins, which is great for cleaning. 


1. Go out and get yourself as many conkers as you can. if you have children they are almost definitely going to be happy to help!

2. If you are going to use some straight away (recommended!) take a handful and put them in a blender with 1 litre of water.

3. Blend until you have a frothy mix. Bear in mind that if your blender is small, you may want to do this in 2 goes, as it grows in size quite a bit with all the froth.

4. Leave to sit for 30 mins to an hour

5. Sieve it, and keep the liquid. I store mine in empty jam jars.

6. Compost the remaining solids. DO NOT EAT. Please note these are horse chestnuts which are inedible and not suitable for human consumption

7. Place about 250 mil of the liquid in your washing machine with the clothes.

8. Hang up washing, have a cup of tea and feel smug that you have saved some money whilst helping the environment.

9. Spread the word! If we all do this, it will save a huge amount of laundry detergent from getting into the environment.

10. If you liked it, dry a load of chestnuts and store them somewhere dry. (Or freeze them) so that you can do this throughout the year.

The Sufi, on friendship

We sat in the market square, 'neath the morning sun, in a canopied café, plastic chairs dotted round plastic tables, all of which had seen better days. An old Sufi approached us, grizzled beard, sun-scorched skin, wearing a grey jellaba and ancient leather sandals. The 3 opaque buttons at the top of his jellaba were scratched and pitted, one of them worn almost through, and virtually transparent, in stark contrast to his sky-blue eyes, which were bright and filled with life.
We had heard of him, the wise man of the mountain, who descended once a week into the village, not just to shop, but also to converse.

 He came over to each of the four tables outside and greeted the few of us that were resting, sipped tea quietly after our mornings chores. He took a seat at the central table, and the waiter, a surly little man who had verged on the unfriendly towards us, came out with a steaming pot of dark tea, smiling.
“Salaam Aleikum Master!” he said, placing the tea down. With a flourish he placed the masters favourite mug on the table and poured him a cupful of the hot tea, the gentle aromas rising and perfuming the air around. We gravitated towards the central table, chairs scraping in the dust as people moved closer, the final few seats being taken by passerby who clearly recognised him, while the old Sufi lit his pipe, took a few puffs and began to speak.

“Let me tell you about friendship, about betrayal and trust.

May years ago I became friends with an interesting character, Abu Habibi. He completely captivated me with his outlook which was completely different to mine, but we had one area where we really struggled to find common ground.

 You see he was friends with a member of a radical jihadi group, the Al Shabaab Martyrs, a Mullah called Abn Alfani, who he had met during his youth and spent a lot of time with. Although Habibi recognised that the form of Islam that the fake Mullah Alfani subscribed to was abhorrent, he still considered him a close friend and would often speak and correspond with him over a variety of subjects.

In those days I was a much younger man, and although devout, I was also guilty of many sins. But the greatest of these in the eyes of fake Mullah Alfani was to try and build bridges between people of other faiths. He seemed to have a loathing for all infidels, particularly those who followed the cross. I never met the fake Mullah, but Habibi would share snippets of their conversations, and would offer refer back to our conversations in order to give me the fake Mullahs point of view, despite it being clear that we did not share the same beliefs. The fake Mullahs path was one of blood and bones, which refused to recognise or engage with any path”

“ Ah I know people like this too, Master!” I exclaimed.

He shook his head sorrowfully.

“But of course, we all do, they still walk amongst us.  As I got to know Habibi better, I began to get concerned about the extent to which Mullah Alfani seemed to influence him. Habibi still recognised that the fake Mullah was dangerous, but always reassured me in our conversations by saying that he could not possibly harm me because of my close friendship with Habibi. I believed this for it was clear that Habibi himself believed it to be the truth wholeheartedly.

And so we lived for a time, in a sort of uneasy truce in which I would loudly condemn the violence of radical groups, but was protected from their attack. This was all to change when the first IED exploded in my village. There was no warning or sign. The pomegranates hung ripe in the trees, covered by a light coating of dust from the dry air, and yet it was a time of plenty, of abundance, of happiness.
The peace was shattered by a massive explosion which left my friends wife and daughter widowed and fatherless. His car was blown sky high and his soul departed with a whisper, a whisper which clung to the land, pointing a finger of guilt firmly towards the fake Mullah Alfani and his group.
I heard the whisper and shuddered, as if knowing that this was just the start of a much darker time which would nearly see my own life ending.
Yet at the time, knowing not of this, I entered into a period of mourning, both for the dead (for there were many) and for those left behind. I also gave Habibi a candle to light in honour of the dead whilst I attended the funeral. To my absolute disgust, members of the Martyrs group showed up at the funeral and made it very clear that they had been involved in causing the carnage in the first place. Later Habibi was to tell me that the candle had fallen and been destroyed, although I suspected that the fake Mullah may have taken it and tried to use it to summon the djinn.”

“The Djinn, Master? Do you mean the spirits?”

“Yes, the spirits, which some would label good or bad, but which more often than not are as complex and unfathomable as people. The fake Mullah was known for trying to communicate with the spirits, and although it is clear that he spoke to them, it seems unlikely that they ever listened, let alone replied.
But so I questioned my friendship with Habibi. At the time many of my other friends would point to his closeness to the fake Mullah and warn me that he could be dangerous. At the same time, Habibis unique and brilliant manner of thinking and clear intellect simply made me want to converse with him more. Now I question if this was not somewhat perversely because there was a risk involved, that although I still believe his soul was clear, there was a chance that it was as dark and twisted as that of the fake Mullah.

The days shortened and the nights grew colder. Up in the high mountains the first snows fell and as they did, so the number of radicals swelled in number. They fled their mountain strongholds as every year, for the warmer and safer village. The mountain is no place for the weak-hearted to be in winter.”.

“But Master, now you live high on the mountain, all alone?”

 Indeed, but my fear of death is vanquished. Now I am able to sit here alone on the mountain and welcome death as an honoured friend that I yearn to see. For friendship brings with it weighty choices and accompanies us in good and bad.

Despite the deaths and the clear increase in radicals in the village, I continued to speak out, to call for peace, for dialogue, for the sake of us all. I was warned, a target had been painted on me, and that it was of my own doing, but to be silent, to be quiet in the face of evil, is to commit the greatest sin of them all.
And so it happened. I was due to travel, far away for an extended period of time, and you must understand that in those days there was no guarantee of return. This has not changed now, but many of us falsely believe that we will always return. I remember noticing the wires, and a feeling of weightlessness as the explosion rippled through the car, buffeting my body and sending me flying. By the Grace of God I landed in some bushes, badly injured but still alive. Word spread that I had been killed, partly in order to protect me from further attacks while I recovered. Had I been killed? There are days that I wonder if I did die, and if everything from then on is simply an illusion. Have you realised that your life is a dream, an illusion? What sort of dream are you dreaming?".

A ripple of consternation and muttering swept through the growing crowd, listening to every word the master spoke. 


"Close friends of mine pointed straight to the fake Mullah and to Habibi, for he had clearly had access to the vehicle prior to the bomb.  Remains of the explosives were examined and identified as coming from the Mullahs group if not from the fake Mullah himself. Who had given the order to have me executed? Who had placed the bomb under my vehicle? Who knew what my movements were and how to best execute an attack?

Habibi was no longer the same after the explosion. I moved to a village some distance away and he made sure to never be in town when I came by. Never. Not once. He moved to a different address but never gave it to me. Despite this, he would still correspond, but would not say a word when it came to the Mullah, a wall of determined silence seemed to shut this topic down forever. Could I still be friends with Habibi despite everything that had happened? Could I be friends with Habibi even if they remained friends with the Mullah?

As I lay recovering (and it took me years to be able to move properly again, the pain is still there) I realised that I could not ask Habibi to break his connection to the Mullah. This had to be his decision and I would not influence him one way or another. No man has the right to determine who their friends are friend with. But neither could I stop challenging the Mullah and doing all I could to prevent him from gaining more radical supported with which to bloody the earth.

The next time the fake Mullah preached in the market, one of my followers alerted me. Still injured, it took me some time to limp, crutch in hand to the market and by the time I got there he was gone. But I still raised my voice, and addressed the crowd, warning them that the Mullah was a fraud, who prepared his sacred texts based on his own whims and desires and not on any attempt to help better his brothers and sisters. I cannot be silent, cannot quiet when my spirit calls for me to shout out.

The following week, a gilded manuscript was left in the market for the town criers to read out. It was from Abu Habibi, who had disappeared. He wrote not that he supported the Mullah, but that he did not see how he could be friends with me, and that he no longer had any interest at all in our conversations. I wondered if it was because I had spoken out against the fake Mullah? Was this connected? But then is not everything connected, always?

When there is no interest left at all, there is really no point in trying to further a friendship, and whilst Habibi will always remain in my heart as a dear friend, many of those around me still question his connection to the fake Mullah. The pain of losing the friendship was comparable to the physical pain caused by the explosion, but I learned and grew from this. Now I am less quick to smile, less quick to trust, to receive people, to host them. Yet here I live, high on the mountainside in a place where I  trust, I smile and I host all the spirits of nature, the mountain djinn who have taught me so much."

"But master, have you given up on humanity, turned your back on us?" asked a young man, sitting at the table next to the old man.

"No, not at all, I have simply decided to focus my energy on other things. Like the way people say that the bees are vanishing. They are not, they are simply choosing to live in a world which is not inhabited by most people. I pass by unnoticed by most, not because I hide, but because their very existence is questionable to me. You choose what you allow to exist in your universe, and by nourishing and protecting the parts that are most sacred to us, our universe expands and engulfs those around us. What is the dream that you are living? Are you truly living it?
My friendship with Abu Habibi may have caused me great grief and changed the way I perceive the world, but is this not also a gift? And in changing my perceptions, am I not also enriched?"

Without another word, the Sufi master drank deeply from his cup. Leaving a few coins on the table, he rose up and walked swiftly away, leaving, as always,  more questions than answers. I stayed and sat for a while, slowly sipping my own tea, and pondering on his words. Could hearing him speak have any effect on my own life? 

Lacking

 

 

You told me you had died.

I wasn't there to lick your wounds, 

to soothe the pain, 

to hold you when you cried.

You made it sound ok,

like these things happen every day,

that the colour wasn’t black but grey

that you were sailing forth and not 

wrecked, in pieces scattered on the rocks.

You told me when you would arrive,

And I wasn’t there to meet you

to hold you in my arms and 

say how sorry I am that you died.

You told me you had died.

And I wasn’t there, 

to lighten the load for you to bear.

You told me you had died.

I didn’t make it clear.

I am sorry, 

I care.