Author: Ellen Bell

There are all these levels of human experience that seem, especially at the moment, to exist in parallel with each other. The trauma that the people of Ukraine are going through plays out before our eyes and ears while we work, walk in the sun, eat, laugh, drink and sleep in warm, safe beds. I struggle to make sense of it. Perhaps there is no sense to be made. And then I think of all those who lost dear ones during the height of the pandemic. And then of my sister in law having to cope with the death of her husband and the stroke that took away, at least for a while, her capacity to walk, speak and be independent. She has responded to the cataclysmic upending of her world with such fortitude, humour and stoicism that at times I am moved to silence by it. Her much-loved home has been sold and her life is now lived out in one room in an old people’s home (along with her 100 teddies). She is cheerful enough. He called her at the weekend. Can’t talk now, she said, I’m off to Bingo.

There’s still this holding of breath and then those heart-rending news clips of Ukrainians imploring us for help. And then the 8 month pregnant woman crying out for her husband she had to leave behind. (And always through the medium of a translator who’s usually measured voice begins to falter.) What will be the end of it? Yesterday there was a glimmer when they told of anti-war demos in Russia. So brave. Will it work? Will Putin be ousted?

Oh, let there be no more. Let there be peace. Please.

I heard the news at 3.00 am and how President Zelensky is asking NATO to impose a no fly zone in place over Ukraine. They are suffering such torment. And he accused Europe of standing by and watching. I understand his pain. I do. And yet to go to war with Russia which is what would happen is too terrible to contemplate. The suffering would be astronomical. And yet. How difficult it must be for those leaders to stand by, seemingly powerless. And now Putin is stopping all, what he calls, fake news reaching the Russian populace. How will they know what is going on and why the sanctions are in place? Such chaos. And then there is Syria, Afghanistan, Myanmar, Somalia – it goes on and on. Have we learnt nothing?

Save us, for we know not what we do. I am adrift.

We talk about the invasion, about Putin. We try to reason through the unreasonable. We cannot. And I try to remember their plight every hour, every minute. Life plays out here and the real has become unreal. I go to the dentist and endure the drill and think of what they are enduring in the same moment. I feel the ache and discomfort in my bones and want to erase my inner and outer moanings at them. For my bodily injustices are but nothing in comparison.

He had made a 100 sandwiches for those fleeing the conflict. A 100 sandwiches.

We mustn’t forget the kindnesses. The kindnesses of strangers at such time. That is the gift in the horror. That. Let it bring solace.

‘You definitely have arthritis in your hips,’ said the consultant, ‘both hips.’ This was said as if he was merely confirming what I already knew. I didn’t. It was a bit of a jolt. He pointed to the X-ray of my femur, ‘see here and here, that’s arthritis. But the white areas, here, we don’t know what this is.’ So it’s more tests. Bloods and a CT scan. ‘What now?’ I asked. ‘No, you have to fast first,’ said the other consultant, a baggier man but also, it turns out, Egyptian. What a bugger. And I’ve so much work to do. And what an afternoon. It was interminable, as was sitting, being forced to listen to, virtually the whole of Jeremy Vine’s radio show. That dreadful mix of the horror of what is happening in Ukraine and Vox pop responses, interspersed with his choice of music. And all the gung Ho machismo.

And before that there had been my big gaff and the pain of irritating her. I tread such eggshells. And then the interview with that gentle being and longing to begin my writing of which I am so a feared.

I am growing old. No, correction. My body is growing old. And I no longer know it.

I thought about the people of Kyiv whenever I woke from my sleep. I haven’t heard the news, and I don’t want to. I tried to invoke a kind of impermeable membrane of light around the city to prevent that 40 mile convoy of tanks from entering it. I don’t know how to pray for them, what to say. I don’t believe in the taking of life, any life and yet I honour, celebrate their desire to keep their freedom and to fight for it. What do I ask for? Is peace so impossible? It appears so. Oh, my loves. Will someone deliver you to safety?

Meanwhile, back in the land of comparative safety we walk in the sun, I draw, we talk, eat, sleep and love. And think about our brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers under such strife. Bless us and keep safe all the days of our lives. Amen.

I’m a work-a-day kind of person. Though to be honest I’m not sure what that means. I need a focus, an object or someone to make something for. Following my whim, my heart, my inclination isn’t enough. I don’t have enough fire behind me. I have will and stamina and determination but self-belief is somewhat thin on the ground. I like having a brief, a purpose, money to earn (though I will still rail against criticism or too strict strictures, though I do like them to). Ugh. Facing oneself can be an ugly business. Other people seem so much kinder, nicer, happier, more talented, lighter…. I just do my best. And I do. I know this. Yesterday was a grey bugger. And we had a tiff, which is inevitable, I suppose. All that swirling of misunderstanding and rancour, and it must out.

And still the invasion goes on. I think of them waiting for the bombs to come. Oh, my loves. And here am I worrying about the dentist, the hospital tomorrow and my writing and how I will be able to fit in my drawing and how I can finish the application form and when the money will come. I want to transcend such pettiness and moaning but can’t seem to. I am so fortunate. I know this. I know this. And he is so well. Be at peace. Create a tiny corner of peace and perhaps it will spread and blood will not have to be spilt elsewhere. Oh, the futility of it.

It is their courage that brings me to tears. It is so simple. They want to preserve their freedom, their autonomy and their right to live as they choose. And for that, they are willing to sacrifice themselves. Such nobility of purpose. Would I have such courage? I cannot and may never know. They haunt my waking and my sometime sleeping hours. I think of them out there, waiting for the bombs, the machine fire and those other venial tactics that Putin has up his sleeve. But there are also the Russian soldiers, they too will be sacrificed. And there should be no loss of live. Thy shalt not kill. No, not ever. And yet, to defend one’s family, one’s way of life, and the right to live in peace. Oh, it is such a complicated one, and one that most of us, thank god do not have to wrestle with. I don’t know. I just don’t know. But how I honour them.

And in between I live out my little highs and lows. Highs? Well, that woman in the coffee shop coming over and saying ‘they’re amazing, I’ve been watching you, and you’ve made my day’. And she spoke with her hand on her heart. Lows? The dentist on Thursday, ugh and my appointment with the consultant, another ugh but perhaps that mystery and indeed the discomfort is nearer being solved.

But the sun was lovely.

Keep safe my brave ones.

It is always there, in the background for most of us, on the periphery of our everyday lives. Now it has come near. Poor loves. My heart breaks for them and for my powerlessness to do anything. Can it not be talked through? Must people die? Show me what to do, what to say, how to make the world a better, kinder place. Please.

It is those wee small hours and I think of how I used to walk in them, oh so long ago it seems now. The wind lashes the rain against the wind and I am not sorry for not going out, the cold and wet wasn’t pleasant but I do miss something. I miss that black emptiness, that space of no thought, just moving, just walking and being out in the bleak, exposed to the elements. And seeing the sea at that time, too, when no one else was abroad. I had it to myself. Walking in the light, in the sun seems almost pedestrian by comparison. I will return to my night-time walking soon, when my legs are better (or at least the mystery has been solved so that I know what I am dealing with) and when Spring brings that special blue morning light.

Meanwhile the world becomes a madness. Will we all be at war soon? So much misery, pain, loss and disorder. Do we really really want it?

Forgive us, we know not what we do.