arrogant me

I am surprised that all my contacts who are seniors have not once supported my passion about helping in some way the refugees or Calais’ New Population as I like to describe the wretched traumatised human beings contracting EColi in an overcrowded stinking unsanitary place. I have heard not one voice . Maybe silently older people wring their hands and look up to the heavens. Maybe in a church  or a mosque,  seniors are splashing money and blessings into paper envelopes. Not one has initiated an enquiry about how to help in my earshot.

I only know what’s current because I am following the young people organising energetically convoys and collection hubs from Essex and east London. When I say “following” I mean using Facebook and of course most of my network contacts think Facebook is the devil herself. I am that disappointed in senior, my peers,  right now.

And it never occurred to me to donate second-hand clothing to the travelling people. People have only what’s on their back and in the push chairs so second-hand stuff to me smells of another blow to dignity. A woman here said to me, “I don’t have any socks to give”. Go buy them. She will spend £3 on a coffee in a café. I I I just don’t get it. And of course the racism is rife. “Help our own first”. Hard to change that; it all depends if you see yourself in a global world or a small island.

I am very upset about what’s happening regarding masses of people moving from land to land and being moved on. I never imagined I’d see it in my life-time. And see we do of course because of telly and social platforms. And to see disabled children in their wheelchairs being pushed to lines of barbed wire. Every day I cry, because I’m human. then I get on with the sensible practical list of things to do like attend a jumble sale to raise funds for the convoys to get going again and again.

When I was pre-pubescent I left a 50p coin in an envelope for starving Africans by the front door on the telephone stand so that when the collector came it would be right there for her. The next morning I checked the envelope to admire my donation. The coin was gone.

“Mum, did you take my 50p?” “Yes” she said. That was the end of that. She had eight mouths to feed.


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