London riots hurt more than Londoners by Khyiah Angel
I'm sitting in front of my computer trying to work on my novel. It's been flowing nicely for the last few days, my fingertips beating a steady rhythm on the keyboard. On a normal writing day the television is off and my wireless connection disabled to prevent my tendency for procrastination. But not today. Today I need to watch the news.
London is descending into anarchy. Ordinarily I would watch footage of such a disaster from the peace and safety of my lounge room on the other side of the world. I’d listen to the social and political commentary and read the blogs and pontificate about the whys and wherefores. I might chat with friends and colleagues about the nature of disenfranchised youth and the civil unrest that results from abject poverty and social exclusion. I’d comment on the difference between protest and senseless violence; I'd talk about the racism and classism involved and how sad it is and wonder how one of the world’s great cities will recover from this, if they can recover. And I would definitely be impressed by the insightful analysis of the situation from young Londoner, Laurie Penny.
[caption id="attachment_6277" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="London bus firebombed"]
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I’d look at the photos and videos and shake my head with sadness and think how lucky I am to live in the relatively stable and peaceful country of Australia. I might even post my comments on facebook. And when the tragedy of the situation and its imagery gets too much, I’d turn the television and computer off and go for walk in the luxury of a peaceful street.
Ordinarily, that is.
[caption id="attachment_6278" align="alignright" width="200" caption="Woman jumping from the second floor of her burning building. Photo by Amy Weston."]
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But today I don’t care about any of that. Today, my heart and tears and fear is trapped inside a small apartment in Lewisham with my daughter. The doors and windows are locked and the curtains are drawn. There is no television or radio in the apartment, only her iPad connects her with what is happening in the city in which she has lived and worked for only a few months. Online news reports and the hundreds of tweets every minute under #londonriots keep her informed about what is going on. As do the sounds of sirens and mayhem coming from the streets outside. She is alone.
And I am on the other side of the world. Helpless. Powerless. As a parent all I want to do is fly over and bring her home. The need to protect doesn’t lessen when they become adults. Every cell in my body aches to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. I am so scared. For her, for me.
She doesn’t know what kind of day awaits when she wakes. There are reports of the army being brought in to gain control; of the public transport systems being shut down. She has scant supplies in the apartment that has become her prison. Markets and shops closed yesterday as the police ordered people off the streets and into their houses for their own safety.
If there was a defining moment when a parent was forced to let their child go, or when a child had to stand in their independence and deal with life alone. This is probably it. And it’s hard. For both of us. I know she will be okay. I know she is a strong, intelligent, independent, autonomous woman. And I know she will cope with the fear and the violence around her and keep herself as safe as possible. I just wish she didn't have to - especially not alone.
London is descending into anarchy. Ordinarily I would watch footage of such a disaster from the peace and safety of my lounge room on the other side of the world. I’d listen to the social and political commentary and read the blogs and pontificate about the whys and wherefores. I might chat with friends and colleagues about the nature of disenfranchised youth and the civil unrest that results from abject poverty and social exclusion. I’d comment on the difference between protest and senseless violence; I'd talk about the racism and classism involved and how sad it is and wonder how one of the world’s great cities will recover from this, if they can recover. And I would definitely be impressed by the insightful analysis of the situation from young Londoner, Laurie Penny.
[caption id="attachment_6277" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="London bus firebombed"]
[/caption]I’d look at the photos and videos and shake my head with sadness and think how lucky I am to live in the relatively stable and peaceful country of Australia. I might even post my comments on facebook. And when the tragedy of the situation and its imagery gets too much, I’d turn the television and computer off and go for walk in the luxury of a peaceful street.
Ordinarily, that is.
[caption id="attachment_6278" align="alignright" width="200" caption="Woman jumping from the second floor of her burning building. Photo by Amy Weston."]
[/caption]But today I don’t care about any of that. Today, my heart and tears and fear is trapped inside a small apartment in Lewisham with my daughter. The doors and windows are locked and the curtains are drawn. There is no television or radio in the apartment, only her iPad connects her with what is happening in the city in which she has lived and worked for only a few months. Online news reports and the hundreds of tweets every minute under #londonriots keep her informed about what is going on. As do the sounds of sirens and mayhem coming from the streets outside. She is alone.
And I am on the other side of the world. Helpless. Powerless. As a parent all I want to do is fly over and bring her home. The need to protect doesn’t lessen when they become adults. Every cell in my body aches to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure her. I am so scared. For her, for me.
She doesn’t know what kind of day awaits when she wakes. There are reports of the army being brought in to gain control; of the public transport systems being shut down. She has scant supplies in the apartment that has become her prison. Markets and shops closed yesterday as the police ordered people off the streets and into their houses for their own safety.
If there was a defining moment when a parent was forced to let their child go, or when a child had to stand in their independence and deal with life alone. This is probably it. And it’s hard. For both of us. I know she will be okay. I know she is a strong, intelligent, independent, autonomous woman. And I know she will cope with the fear and the violence around her and keep herself as safe as possible. I just wish she didn't have to - especially not alone.
