We are all humans

When we were on holiday there was a moment when I thought my five year old had drowned. She was in a rubber dinghy, playing with me in the shallows. While I was pushing her around in her boat a little wave surprised us and capsized it. She plunged headfirst underwater. She can’t swim. For a stomach-lurching second I scrabbled around, panicking that I couldn’t find her under the water. She emerged spluttering, able to stand up, but crying from the shock of it and the water in her eyes.

Within a few minutes we were playing happily again and the moment was forgotten. But today I was reminded of it, as I tried to imagine just how it must feel to see your children drown in front of your eyes. To not be able to scrabble around in the water and fish them out. To reach helplessly as their lifeless bodies drift away from you.

For the past 24 hours all I’ve been able to think about is that photo. Buried in a fug of post-holiday blues and inconsequential chores and deadlines I’d blocked out much of the reporting on the Syrian refugee crisis. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, it’s just that I wasn’t listening.

And then I saw that photo of little three year old Aylan, his body washed up on the shore in Turkey after drowning along with his mother and five year old brother.

I was meant to be writing about our holiday today. Sharing happy photographs, a joyous video, tips on places to visit and what to eat when you go to France. But the words get stuck in my fingers, they won’t go onto the page today. It feels wrong writing about those things when the images and thoughts in my head are of desperate families, terrified children, stricken mothers.

The holiday post will have to wait.

Nine years ago I trained to be a journalist. Back then, fresh with enthusiasm I had grand ideas of becoming a foreign correspondent. I wanted to work in news, to travel the world and report on real people battling terrifying situations simply because they were born in the wrong country. I wanted to do my bit for humanity by telling the stories of these people. I wanted to show families in their safe, cosy living rooms in the UK that there were humans just like them in other parts of the world, who needed help.

Then I became a mum and my world shrunk. My priorities changed. I suppose I got a bit selfish. These days I write about frivolous things; pretty cushions and ways to update your living room, funny baby stories and heartfelt pieces on parenting. Nothing that actually matters, in the whole scheme of things.

So today I’m making the decision to write about something that does matter. Because, although I might not be reporting from the front line in Syria, I do still harbour those same feelings about humanity. As I breastfed my baby to sleep just now, sitting comfortably on a rocking chair in her nursery, I thought about other mothers who are trying to breastfeed their babies as they journey in cramped boats across treacherous waters. Mothers who are so desperate they are willing to attempt a dangerous journey with their little ones, because they have no choice.

This post from The Unmumsy Mum really struck a chord with me today. It made me see that you don’t need to know the political ins and outs of the Syrian situation. This isn’t about politics or refugee quotas or whether you voted right or left. This is about humans. We are all humans.

I’ve seen comments on social media over the past couple of days, heard conversations in the supermarket, statements that I’ve closed my ears to. “It’s not our problem”. “We can’t let any more in – they’ll swamp us”. “If it came down to it – would you let them in your home?” And all I can think is, these are real people you’re talking about. So many of these comments have come from people proud to be British, to be living in a country that did its bit in the Second World War. Proud of relatives who heroically pitched in and helped total strangers in other parts of the world, took in anonymous children fleeing the blitz, stood up to Hitler.

As I’ve been thinking about little Aylan this morning and wondering how scared he was in his final few moments, I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to be quiet any more. I can’t just kid myself that RT-ing a tweet or liking a passionate Facebook post is enough. I write a blog. Even if only one person reads this post and decides to donate to a charity or start a collection for Syrian refugees, then that’s worth a thousand words about home makeovers and family holidays.

I worried, before writing this, that this subject wouldn’t fit on my blog. Would it stick out like a rusty nail among all the holiday spam, thoughts on motherhood and home updates? But you know what? There are mums who, right now, don’t know where they’re going to lay their children down to sleep tonight. Mums just like me. Mums who, if they’d been born in the UK would probably be tidying toys off the living room floor this morning and making a cup of tea after doing the school run. Who knows – maybe some of these mums would even read this blog.

So, for those mums, I ask you, too, to stop being silent. Don’t just turn the radio down or close your eyes when the news comes on. Don’t think liking a Facebook post is enough. If you blog, write about it – even if it might not fit amongst your usual upbeat posts on cushions and outfits, mucky children and exciting travel.

We are all mums. We are all humans. We don’t have to stay silent.

 

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If, like me, you want to actually do something to help with the Syrian refugee crisis then this article in The Independent lists five practical things you can do, from donating to starting a collection.

Alternatively, you can TEXT 70008 and the word SYRIA to donate £5 through Save the Children. Or you can donate to the charity’s Syria appeal online here.

 

 

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