Around The Cauldron: Green grow the rushes

"Mu-uu-um!"

Footsteps thunder down the stairs as Jean opens yet another packing case. Ivy round the window casts a green gloom into the kitchen featuring a genuine Aga, which she plans to keep, and hideous 1950s cabinets she can’t wait to replace.

Adam is supposed to be sorting out the cupboards in his ‘new’ room?

“Never guess what I found!” he gushes at the doorway.

“You’re supposed to be putting stuff away, not dragging more things out.”

Blank stare.

“OK, go on. Tell me.”

“Ta da!” says the boy, pulling a large wooden disc from behind his back. “Isn’t it cool? Can we hang it on the front door for Hallowe’en?”

The size of large tea tray, but thicker and much heavier, it’s been carved from a solid piece of wood – oak or beech, perhaps. Intricate leaves and tendrils surround a man’s face leering up at Jean. Something about its grin makes her want to laugh, with unease. Dust blurs the lines, but does nothing to soften the gaze of the man staring out of the age-blackened wood.

She shudders. “Ugh. Creepy.”

“Exactly. Perfect for Hallowe’en!”

“I don’t want our new neighbours judging us by some old tat on our front door, so you’d better clean it up before I’ll consider it. You’ve got two weeks – plenty of time.”

Adam grins agreement and gallops back upstairs. Jean returns to her work, confident that his new find will be forgotten the minute he unpacks his GameBoy.

The afternoon passes in a blur of sorting and stowing in unfamiliar cupboards until the dying light of the watery sun reminds Jean of her rumbling stomach and the leftover shepherd’s pie in the fridge.

When Adam fails to respond to her shouts, she climbs the creaking stairs to his room. An involuntary ‘tut’ escapes her lips as she opens the door to a tsumani of Lego bricks. She stands for a moment, watching her son’s back as he sits cross-legged and intent in the corner, wondering if he’s too young for his fourteen years - and if it’s her fault for not bringing a father figure into his life. But no father’s better than an abusive one, isn’t it?

“Adam! Look at the state of this place,” she snaps. “Put that game down and come and have something to eat. Then, I want you to come straight back up here and sort your room out.”

“Not playing a game,” a sulky voice replies. Its owner doesn’t turn or stop its steady, repetitive, rocking movement.

Jean picks her way through the Lego minefield to Adam’s side. To her surprise, his hands aren’t busy with his Gameboy, but are doggedly rubbing with a damp cloth at the grime on the plaque he’s found. She can see it’s a good piece of wood.

“That’s a good start,” she says, touching his shoulder. “But you really need to get your room sorted out. And you must be hungry.”

After a double helping of supper and parental nagging, Adam leaves his mother to her after-dinner glass of wine and favourite soap opera. Heading upstairs, he swipes more rags from the cleaning cupboard and a bottle of linseed oil from her set of oil paints. She won’t miss it, hasn’t painted since that ‘retreat’ she dragged him along on after his dad raised his fist one time too many - and threatened worse.

That was five years ago, but Adam still feels a tightening in his chest every time he thinks of his father. He knows he’s better, calmer, safer, without him, but can’t escape the cloud of guilt for not missing him more.

Shaking off the thought, he starts collecting the bright plastic bricks strewn over his bedroom carpet. Funny, he doesn’t remember getting his Lego out….. but he must have.

Bricks safely gathered in their box, schoolbooks stacked on the desk and the last of his clothes safely stuffed into drawers, he settles down to the task at hand.

The Green Man waits, silent and strong. Bidden by a voice only he hears, Adam nods solemnly, sits down and starts wiping away the years. A branch from the hawthorn tree outside his window taps a soothing staccato on the pane, giving a gentle rhythm to his work. As he rubs away the grime, the wood warms and reveals details he hasn’t seen before: an oak leaf crown, woodbine tendrils tinged the faintest green snaking out from behind ears, delicate fern fronds intertwined with shaggy eyebrows, bullrushes surrounding the neck like a raised collar.  

By the time he hears his Mum call a tired goodnight through his door, the plaque is clean. Tomorrow, Sunday, he’ll finish it off.

Laying back against his pillows, Adam listens to the unfamiliar swhoosh of the wind through the trees in the copse at the end of the garden. An owl hoots. Further off, something – a fox, maybe? – screams. He’s asleep before the moonlight breaks its cloud cover to send cold light through a chink in the curtains onto his smooth cheek.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Jean trills as she bustles in and throws open the window. “It’s a beautiful day. Unpacking’s finished, the sun’s shining and I’m in the mood to explore. What do you say to a proper fry-up and a walk in the woods?”

Smiling down at her son, she’s surprised to see the first fuzz of facial hair. Where’s that come from? How hasn’t she spotted it before? Dammit, her boy’s finally growing up and she’s too busy to notice. Adam blinks and stretches luxuriously before turning back over. But the smell of toast and bacon soon works its magic and he joins her in the kitchen, disheveled and sleep-smudged, rubbing the soft bristle feathering his jaw and mumbling “Thanks, Mum”.  

As Jean hangs sheets out to dry in the autumn sunshine and prepares a chicken for the Aga, Adam brushes oil over the knots and whorls of the Green Man’s face. He polishes it to a high sheen like a conker in the grass on a November morning, admiring the details his work brings out – tiny veins in ivy leaves and a twinkle in the eye that almost seems to be winking at him.

The morning passes in a warm glow of mother-son companionship walking the woods, identifying trees, spotting a tangle of mistletoe high in the branches of an old oak and gathering armfuls of apples from the orchard at the bottom of the garden.

Peeling windfalls at the kitchen sink, Jean smiles to herself as she watches Adam through the window. No need to worry that he’s young for his age. After just a couple of days since moving into the old house, he seems taller, more assured. Almost a man.

A rook’s harsh caw makes her look up. Adam is at the far end of the garden, where the woods begin. He seems to be arguing with someone, his flailing arms shouting anger. Or fear?

He looks her way, flashes a fake smile and stomps back to the house. With a grunt, he pushes past her and heads upstairs before returning and thrusting the restored Green Man into her hands.

“Wow!” she says, admiring his handiwork. “That’s great, Adam. Well done. But, who were you talking to out there?”

“No-one. Just some stupid dog.”

His fingers trace the warm wooden outline of the Green Man’s face, moss-furred cheeks, hooked nose and grinning lips. The leaves surrounding it have leapt into life after cleaning, and the rushes around the man’s collar seem somehow taller. Adam takes the plaque and turns it over, checking its hook, then opens the front door and hangs it from a nail left over from some long-forgotten Christmas wreath.

“There. Now it’s a proper home,” he murmurs. “And we’re a proper family.”

A frown flutters across Jean’s brow but she decides to let it go.

Monday morning. Dim light floods the front bedroom at Cernunnos Cottage. A hand emerges from beneath a thick quilt to beat the alarm clock into submission. Its owner throws the covers aside and sits up to face the first school day in a new home.

Jean pulls on her robe and heads for the bathroom, knocking on her son’s door as she passes. “School day. Time to get up, Adam.”

Minutes pass. Teeth cleaned. Tea brewed. Toast made and cereal placed on the kitchen table. No sign of Adam.

Angry now, Jean stomps up the steps yelling “Get up!”

She stops short outside his room. A strand of ivy is creeping beneath the door and heading for her room. She laughs at her own over fertile imagination. They must have brought in on their boots after their walk in the woods.

She pushes her way into a room swamped in damp green light. The window is covered with ivy leaves and a hawthorn branch has broken through the latch. Fern fronds creep up the walls, thickest where the bed sits in the northern corner. Inside, where Adam lay down the night before, a thicket of bullrushes has taken root.

At the front door, the Green Man’s grin stretches a little wider as laughter echoes through the woods.

This story was featured in an evening of dark tales and improv in the Iron Clad Improv & Castiron Theatre's 'Halloween Dukeanory' at the Dukebox Theatre in Brighton, Sussex, UK, on Friday 30 October 2015.

Big thanks to everyone at Iron Cast & Castiron for making my words part of their night. For more about what they do, go to www.facebook.com/ironcladcastiron 

News from the writer’s desk: Dispatches from the Dark Side

Well, October has come and almost gone. It brought with it rain, chilly mornings and the evenings drawing in. The first fireplaces have been lit, warming soups have been rediscovered, roast chestnuts appeared on braziers manned by street vendors, and I have been reunited with my boots and sweaters.

On the writerly front, I’ve been embracing my dark side – and getting an unexpected kick out of it.

Apparently, others are too. As reported in my last News from the Writer’s Desk, one of my short stories – Gargoyle – was selected for a night of fairy and folk tales at the New Venture Theatre in Brighton on 16 October. If you couldn’t make it, you can get an idea from this clip, recorded by my good friend Strat Mastoris  https://vimeo.com/143775839

Hope you enjoy it – I certainly got a thrill hearing my words in a voice other than the ones in my head.

Another of my stories – Green Grow The Rushes –will get an airing, again down in Brighton this Friday (30 October), as part of the Halloween Dukeanory at the DukeBox Theatre. 

It promises to be a good night, full of dark tales and delicious chills. Details can be found at https://www.facebook.com/events/981465331891546/

Finally, after my delight at having a story selected for inclusion in The Grim Keepers anthology, I’ve got more good news. 

My offering “Seasons Greetings” has been accepted for another creepy anthology “Festive Frights”, due out in early December – just in time to remind you of the sinister side of Yuletide. 

Check out www.facebook.com/Festive-Frights-537143269771033/ for news of publication dates and where you can download or order a hard copy when the time comes.

So, roll on November. I wonder what surprises it will bring?

The Inri Letters - Part 1: Mother's lament

Dear Sarah,

Well, I suppose you’ve heard the news.

My boy's been arrested, and he’s not talking to anyone. Not even me. His mother, for heaven’s sake.

I can imagine the gossip in the village market this week. I bet they’re lapping it up, aren’t they? Especially that bitch Katy from the bakers. She must be having a field day. She’s always been jealous. 

Our boys were born on the same day, in the same hospital. Did you know that? And, if you wanted proof that there’s absolutely nothing to all the rubbish about star signs and horoscopes, it was those two lads. They grew up just a few blocks from each another, too. Matt was a loud, annoying child as soon as he was old enough to kick a ball around in the back streets. Always making a racket with the other lads after school when my boy was trying to read his books.

Not that it’s surprising. My son had my undivided love and attention, while Katy had five other brats to take care of. No wonder that Matt went feral. Even now, he’s nothing more than a glorified barrow boy, for all his millions and that awful, extravagant house he’s built just outside town.

I can’t help wondering what I did wrong. How I failed my boy. He had everything he ever wanted growing up - not that he ever asked for much. He was clever too, too clever for those idiots they called teachers at the village school. How else could he have possibly have been ‘just’ an average student?

So how we did end up here, with him sitting in prison and refusing see anyone? I wish I knew.

Personally, I blame that lecturer at college. Filled his head with all sorts of ideas. Introduced him to unsavoury sorts who filled my nice, clean house with smoke, loud music and long conversations late into the night. Eating my food without even a “thank you”as if I was some kind of skivvy serving at the table of their ‘higher cause’. They sat around talking about equality and fraternity – but who did the washing up when they’d all passed out on the living room floor? Yes, you guessed it.

And then there was that strumpet, always hanging on his arm. Stroking his hair like he was her special pet. Like he was her property. Not even she had the common decency to offer a helping hand when I fetched and carried as they plotted late into the night. Playing the Lady – like I didn’t know where she’d come from, or what she really was.

But did I ever complain, or leave them wanting? No. Not once. 

Let’s face it, they were the first group who ever really befriended him, the first friends he’d ever had over for a meal. I could hardly turn them away, could I?

The only one who showed the slightest decency towards to me was that Jude. A strange lad. Always so intense, so much in earnest. A little bit too eager. A little bit too fey (not that he stood a chance with my boy). But to give credit where it’s due, Jude was the only one to speak to me like I mattered. His praise of me as “the woman that made the man who leads” us was almost embarrassing at times. Almost.

I wonder what’s become of him  now?

Sarah, I want you to do me a favour. When they ask you what you know about the whole thing (and let’s face it, they will, everyone knows you’re my favourite cousin) just tell them that he’s a victim of wrongful arrest. That it’s all been a huge mistake, it’s a conspiracy, and that he’ll be out soon. That one day, they’ll be proud to tell the world that he came from THEIR village.

And if my mother asks you, just tell her that her grandson has gone abroad to study for a few years.

Please write back soon, and let me know what that fishwife Katy has been saying. I wouldn’t wish ill on anyone, you know that, but so far as I’m concerned she can go drown in all those fancy cushions her loud-mouthed son has swamped her with from the leftover stock from his import-export business.

And just one more thing? Can you drop this cheque in the collection box when you go to church on Sunday? Just make sure you leave it open so everyone can see who it’s from.

Meanwhile, I’ll give my boy your love when he finally agrees to see me. And I’ll let him know that you’ll have a plate of your famous almond pastries waiting for him when he gets comes home.

Because he will, of course, be coming home.

Won’t he?

With love,

Your cousin, Mary.

News from the writer’s desk: Autumn harvest

The morning chill is chasing away memories of sweaty summer days. Evenings are drawing in, squally winds are blowing, leaves are turning and there’s a faint scent of damp and decay in the air. 

Yes folks, it’s autumn, that season of mists and mellow fruitfulness that signals that nature is approaching her annual semi-coma and a good night in involves hot chocolate and roaring fires.

Nature may be slowing down, but my imagination seems to have gone into overdrive. After a fallow period over the past two months, I seem to have got my story-telling hat back on and there’s a bumper harvest burbling up from the depths of my brain demanding to be told, just in time for Hallowe’en.

First off is the publication of “The Grim Keepers”, an anthology of dark little tales from 15 authors. Just the sort of thing to keep to awake and aware of things that go bump in the night after you switch off the bedside light! My contribution Evil Eye draws on some of the customs of my adopted home, Greece, and considers ow they might play out in a modern setting. There are lots of different voices in “The Grim Keepers” – we hope you enjoy them. 

It’s available for free download at Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/584161 and will be available to buy as a ‘real’ book on Amazon in just over a week.

Just as I was delighting in the news that the Keepers was coming out, news came that I had been selected as a winner in AuthorTrope’s “I Made the Darkness” competition. 

As one of those short-listed for the overall prize, my tale Guilt Trip was recorded and put online at https://www.youtube.com/attribution_link?a=I_lncEWRap4&u=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DgsZj02Os4pA%26feature%3Dshare where you can go and have a listen. It gave me a special thrill to hear my story told in a voice other than the one inside my own head. If you like what you hear, then please give it a thumbs-up on the YouTube page, as it’s the number of Likes each entry gets that will determine the overall winner at the end of the month.

Finally, at least for now, some more of my words will be spoken out loud on Friday 16 October in an evening of Folk and Fairytales at the New Venture Theatre in Brighton (that’s my beloved Brighton in Sussex, England). 

If you’re in town, check it out and keep your ears open for the title Gargoyle and my pen name AJ Millen. 

Details of the event can be found at https://www.facebook.com/events/146593105687498/

More’s to come from my restless pen, and even more restless brain. 

Stay tuned.

Coming soon

OK, OK. I know. Things have been very quiet round SheMeansWellBut Towers lately.  

My mental typewriter has been out of order for a while, not to mention otherwise occupied with all sorts of necessary but boring things. 

It's at the repair shop for a service right now, but will be back with a vengeance very soon. 

Some things will change (including a new pen name for my fiction), some will stay the same, but one thing I promise you....   I'll be back.

Watch this space (bar). 

Guest post: From London to Athens - expat or in-pat?

I left Greece running, without looking back. I didn't even spare a thought on coming back. It was my little rebellion and attempt to travel the world. 

Back in 2006, there was not a hint of cloud in the horizon to suggest how bad things will turn out for Greece. A few days ago, I had my first anniversary of being, well, an in-pat, settling back in Athens and dealing with a very different Greek reality. But Greece is Greece and England is England and no matter how much I love Athens, I will always have a soft spot for London where I spent the best part of these 8 years away.

I first arrived in the UK mid-August, in an attempt to get myself acclimatized before the Master's I came to do. Fresh British summer days greeted me, a relief after the baking 40^oC of Athens. There was a bit of a drizzle to add a note of originality. I was tanned and completely out of place. I was longing for that fog, cup of tea at hand, sitting behind net curtains gazing at the purple grey clouds, solving the mysteries of the new city I was about to call home; a bit like Agatha's Poirot I liked to think. Well, Poirot was on the background, on telly, and the mystical fog took a while to come, both literally and metaphorically.

When I just moved to the UK, everything was a little bit too exciting. Life seemed like snippets taken out of a film. Strangers crossing their gaze and immediately turning away. Popping red phone booths breaking through the grey. Obedient red bricks standing ageless next to each other, pubs with smoked fireplaces long out of use, a boat cutting across the Thames. The first restaurant meal was at a candle lit basement in Goodge Street. I had little to say to my companions, but share my enthusiasm about the move in the new city. Somewhat shy, somewhat overwhelmed I was content to sit back, overhearing whispers from here and there. From tube network to ordering etiquette, everything was a mystery. The outing was paired with a couple of pints at a pub round the corner. Pints? Why on earth would anyone drink out of a bucket I silently wondered. Of course, I spent the best part of that beer tasting visiting the ladies. And just before 12, everyone was swiftly running to the last tube, as if we were about to be turned into pumpkins when the clock struck midnight.

I must have done the rounds of the major museums and parks within the first 3 weeks. From waxy celebrities, to theater costumes and dinosaurs skeletons, from a trip to the moon, to Dutch still lifes and stiff royal portraits, London museums are an inexhaustible source of entertainment, especially when you are broke and as a student you can expect little more than that. There is more treasure, it comes for free in the form of lush green parks. Pockets of oxygen in the metropolis, lest it rains, they become muddy nightmares. Ideally, parks are covered with fog too, and this is how London envelops you, in a thin sheet of drizzly fog. No matter where you are coming from or where you are going, the city has this ability to integrate you so smoothly, you will not even notice it. You start building a life from scratch, but you are not alone. You join some hundreds of other people that, just like you, are not from around there. In London, you are never really an ex-pat, no one is looking at you weird or cares what language you speak. If so, people are either too polite to show or too busy to care. You are allowed to be yourself, but please do not jump that queue and do share a cup of tea. You become part of that amasing fabric of people, a Londoner.

And you join the rat race. Once settled in your 9 to 5, you realise you live for the weekend. A crude awakening, but with a bit more money in the pocket, you are officially entitled to enjoy a few more of the dazzling treats London has to offer. You go to gigs, you manage to grasp some cheap tickets for the theatre, throw in a bit of clubbing and these Indian take aways. And did I mention shopping? Of course you stop by to browse at the shops after work on the way home and end up with a loaded credit-card and things you really have no clue why you bought in the first place. All hail consumerism.

So, did I miss home? Hmm, sorry, no, I didn't. I was too busy to realise there was no sunshine. I had a couple of good old friends from Greece and the Elgin marbles agelessly waiting for me at the British museum. I could always get my dose of Greekiness at a restaurant and the ubiquitous Turkish kebab was always larking round the corner. Food was becoming a bit of an issue, but hey, one learns to cook their favourites. I was visiting often enough for supplies (yes I was loading my suitcase with olive oil and pies from grand-ma). I got a chance to recharge these batteries, too.

 So I was all nice and settled, and one day I decided to come back home. Truth is, I was not all that settled, my bum was itchy for something else. Something didn't agree with me, it felt as if London was sucking the life out of me. I was always short of time. I had to schedule a coffee with a friend across the vastness of the city 3 weeks ahead, if lucky. The frenzy of London eventually got the best of me, it pushed me to the leafy suburbs. In retrospect, I think this made things even worse. The commute took 1/3 of my day and wages. It also left this metallic taste, I was becoming a machine. What with the rolling hills, serene canals and farmers markets around. There was not a hint of the blue, blue sea around. I think I became homesick with 8 years delay.

So here I am, back in Athens, taking in the blue horizon and trying to build up that tan. I was aware I came back to a very changed Greece. You live and breathe crisis these days, it has become second nature. Over here you don't go shopping to entertain yourself as in London. You do go out for a drink, perhaps an inexpensive meal at your local, but more often you will get these beers and enjoy them at home, in good company. There is a thin veil of worry behind everybody's gaze, very neatly concealed and tacked away. Some go ahead and in very eloquent French shower politicians with all sort of cosmetics. That's in the laiki, the farmers market. Some people pass by these outbursts grinding their teeth, others nod and join in, most of them laugh. We are rich, in spirit.

My return surely raised more than a few eyebrows. People are overjoyed to have you back but are looking at you weird. There is always this question: why on earth did you come back now, of all times now? Well, thankfully they do not expect the answer, they know it is home. There is one greeting from a good old friend that stayed with me and still puts a smile on my face: So Gen, did you finally realise where paradise is?

I guess I did. Paradise has some very awkward habits I struggle to swallow though. It's these moments when car drivers whistle at you in the middle of the road, I must be too sexy for my own good. Then you have to walk in the middle of the road, the pavements have become parking slots, because let's face it, no one needs a pavement. And to top it all off, you have to fight with grandpas and grandmas for they are jumping the queue, be it at the bakery or tickets hall. No angry letter will save you. You actually learn to laugh at it, something I had admittedly forgotten.

Still, there are slightly more important things one has to deal with daily. It can all be summed up in one word: survival.  Within the chaos of the crisis, you actually see people reaching out for each other. Not just family, it's strangers becoming friends over a coffee and keeping in touch. Neighbours exchanging pots of homemade jams. The cava owner insisting on you trying every single barrel of wine he has, before you buy a humble bottle of liquor It's people actually being human. In London, you might have to dig for this sort of connection. Here, even amidst the craziness of Athens, people open up and spare a moment to listen. I have overheard the most interesting political debates in the Metro and exchanged the most delicious tips on wild greens with a grocers and two grand-mas whilst savouring a slice of melon at laiki. It's the little things that make Greece so special to me. Oh, and the sea breeze.

And I am going to let you in in a little secret: I am not the only one who came back to Greece. There are 3 more good friends who braved it, after being abroad for years and are getting themselves settled back home.  A few more friends left London for more exotic lands. It's by no means an easy thing to do, but not impossible. We all weighed the odds and decided to give it a go.

As for me, I have my pet project going. I get things cooking in a little blog that goes by the name Eat Yourself Greek. I love the simplicity of Greek cooking, fresh veggies and fragrant thyme. But what I like more is sharing good, honest, everyday food. So, I set up cookery workshops. You can find more about me on the blog and why not, come and share a meal. All things are best enjoyed when you share them, especially a meal.

***************************************************

Most non-Greeks struggle to pronounce Eugenia Makrogianneli’s name (it’s Ev-yen-ee-a Makro-yian-el-li, in case you’re curious). She became a translator as she really wanted to help people communicate. She also wanted to travel and take photos. But instead of becoming a modern day Philleas Fog, she relocated from her native Athens to London in 2006, from where her scattered wonderings across the globe taught her one thing: people connect better through cooking.

She moved back to Athens at the height of Greece’s economic crisis in 2014. At that time, she decided to take up another craft along with that of wordsmith, and she now embraces and shares the cuisine of her homeland on her blog, http://EatYourselfGreek.com. It's also her online refuge for her Greek cooking intelligence and travel adventures.

For good or bad, Athens won her over London and she now lives in a little place between the city centre and Piraeus, from where I can get to the sea or Down Town in less than 15 minutes. 

Everyman

I am you.

Well, obviously, I’m not. But I could be, but for an accident of birth and location.

I was cause for great celebration when I came into the world – the first-born, a boy. My father must have been grinning all over his moustache and offering cigars left, right and centre. Growing up, I was a normal boy – eating my mother’s special desserts, playing football in the streets with my friends, watching too much TV, playing too many computer games. But I worked hard at school. I went to University and got my degree. Then I got a good job as a Civil Engineer. I was someone with something to show for my efforts.

I was normal, boring even, a classic example of the aspirational middle class. Just like you, and you… and especially you.

Then ‘I’ became ‘we’. I met a girl, fell in love and married her. We now have two beautiful children – a boy and a girl – and there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for them.

Of course, every parent says that. But not every parent is forced by circumstances to prove it. We were. We still are.

At first, we thought it was a passing phase. The first protests were peaceful, sparked by the arrest of some schoolkids who had supposedly scrawled anti-Government graffiti. Stupid, yes. Excessively criminal? Not really. I didn’t really pay much attention. To be honest I was up to my ears in a special project at work and had little time or patience for the TV news droning in the corner of the lounge.

Even when the protests started spreading and becoming more general, I kept my head down, looked after my family, attended to my duties. I thought it would burn brightly but briefly, and then we would all be able to get back to our everyday lives.

That was more than four years and tens of thousands of lives ago.

Since then, more than nine million people have fled their homes. My family is just a drop in that sea of displaced humanity.

We didn’t want to leave. I love the land where I grew up, I loved the life I had once had there, mundane though it seemed at the time. My parents are old now and unwell. If they’re still alive – I have no idea. They couldn’t leave, and even if they could, I’m sure they wouldn’t. My father is probably the most stubborn man ever born and my mother would never leave his side. So, now there is no-one to pass on the secret family recipe for the best honey and almond cake in the world.

But as the fighting got fiercer, work dried up and the schools closed (some reduced to piles of rubble), every day brought home the unavoidable truth. If my children were to have a chance of a future, we would have to leave, abandoning everything we had ever worked for in exchange for…  who knew what?

So we left. Sold everything we could, mostly for a fraction of its worth, and gave the rest away to those who stayed. The children understood, and were stoic, but that didn’t stop my boy melting into a pool of hysterical tears when he had to say goodbye to his pet rabbit. For three days, he sat red-eyed and tear-streaked by the hutch, talking to the animal, telling it to run away to the hills around our town to escape the hungry people left behind.

 We joined a convoy heading westwards. At first, we crowded onto a bus ‘liberated’ from the local municipality, sometimes travelling through areas where we knew a stray bullet would bring another life to an end, sometimes driving through the night without lights for fear of attracting unwelcome attention. Then, one day, the fuel ran out and we had no choice but to continue on foot.

I have no idea how long or how far we walked. I lost track of the days, and only the dialects of the locals watching us with suspicion as we passed marked the changing places we walked through. Some watched with pity, then turned away. Others offered a smile and maybe a bottle of water or a plate of food for the children. Once, we reached a camp with tents that stretched as far as the eye could see. We stopped, were fed, and a man with tears brimming in his exhausted blue eyes tried to explain that there was no room for us. His Arabic was dreadful, but I managed to remember enough of my schoolboy French and English to thank him anyway.

One of our group, a University lecturer before he fell foul of the authorities, said he had heard that if we could get to the coast, we could find people willing to get us across the Mediterranean and the promise of safety. For a price. But who wouldn’t give everything they have to make sure their kids are safe?

So we carried on walking. For days, I forget how many. Until one afternoon, a cry from the front made us look up to see a bright blue something sparkling on the horizon. The sea. Our pace picked up and by evening we had reached the coast, and had taken off our battered shoes to paddle in the waves lapping at the shore.

We set up camp as well as we could in a car park near the beach. After the initial excitement of reaching the sea, the children settled back into their somber, silent games of make-believe before surrendering to sleep at their mother’s side. Somewhere in the middle of the camp, we heard the heart-wrenching keening of a women. A glimpse from my wife told me it was probably the young widow who had been struggling to nurse her sickly new-born throughout the trip, as her desperate hope was snuffed out with her child’s life.

In the morning, a man arrived in a jeep. He and his helpers went from family to family, explaining that they could get us to Europe. We unpicked the cash sewn into our clothes and handed it over for the promise of life jackets and a place on a boat for us all the next day. They also demanded our papers. Meekly, we obeyed. We could nothing else, given the rifles they carried. I doubted we’d ever seen them again.

To my surprise, we did. They arrived early the next day with a flotilla of trucks to take us to the ship waiting for us at the port. But when we arrived, the ‘port’ was an abandoned wooden jetty held up by rusting iron legs and the ‘ship’ was an open boat that looked like a large dhow. Surely that wasn’t what was going to get us across the Mediterranean? one of the women asked. But it was, and we were piled aboard.

I had read about sea-sickness before but nothing had prepared me for the reality. I thought I was tough. I thought that I had been through the worst but those days at sea were like nothing I’d ever known. The constant rolling and pitching. Feeling my stomach shift to my throat with every lurch of the boat. Losing the horizon. Consoling the kids in between heaving over the side. The constant thirst. The raw scrape of sea water in our clothes against our skin.

Then, as dawn broke, a shout of triumph. Ahead was an island. A big one, its coast laced by beaches and little towns with white-painted houses. The edge of Europe. Our destination, our salvation.

To my surprise, we were steered away from the pretty fishing port I could see to the west and taken to a deserted beach where we landed and were told to get out.

Eyed smudged with nausea and lack of sleep opened wide at the sensation of standing on solid ground again after so many days at sea. Some couldn’t stand at first. I had to hold my daughter’s hand as we scrambled ashore. She was disorientated, disheveled, scared. But we had arrived. We had survived.

We walked up the beach and sat in the shade of the trees that fringed it. Beyond was a road, and after a couple of hours’ rest, we decided to walk westwards to the village we had seen.

So, that’s how I came to be here, on this island, trying to explain in my broken English to an over-stretched policemen with an equally halting grasp of the language why we have no papers.

He says I have no proof of who I am. That I could be a terrorist come to infect and obliterate his society. I tell him I am just a man, a husband, a father. To look at, we are the same. With our dark eyes and light olive tinged skin, we could be cousins.

I tell him: “I am you”.