London News’s illustration of the Christmas Truce by A. C. Michael.
An example of just how challenging Christmas can be, even when away from all the bloodshed in the world, is the latest update from Creed—‘CC’—O’Hanlon. I have mentioned CC and his gifted wife Given before. I hope they don’t mind me doing so again. They are talented people—with vast experience of the world. Important outliers and cultural disseminators of the world. Their perspective is unique.
In fact, only a few days ago I was admiring CC’s 35mm image taken on an Andersontown street in a Catholic area of Belfast in 1981. As CC himself pointed out, 1981 was the year Provisional IRA hunger-striker Bobby Sands died in custody in HM Prison Maze aged 27. A death I heard about from a young Moroccan while in North Africa, where until recently CC, Given, and their blue-hulled boat Wrack, had been moored. (Moored by the Moors.)
Their ageing boat has been a sanctuary and a burden for them, floating on a sea of uncertainty as they navigate a world offering few safe harbours. What expressive lives they lead, I am always thinking. Their work—writing and photography mostly—is important, and their lives no walk in the park even on dry land.
Given and CC have recently left Morocco for Spain, from where CC has recently posted: ‘We had planned on being off the boat for the ‘holiday season’ but for the first time ever, poverty and poor health will keep us apart from all our children (and grandchild). We’re heartbroken.’ He added: ‘This year began badly (with my youngest’s disappearance) and went downhill from there. We’ve had a lot of support—and a few bright spots (time with our first/only grandchild in Berlin)—but as the year ends, it feels like we’re clinging to the edge of the precipice with our fingertips.’ He ended: ‘We remind ourselves daily that, at worst, we have shelter within our ageing boat and there are millions (including a handful of acquaintances) whose circumstances are much worse. We are flat-broke, missing our small family, but for now, we are safe.’ I will place a link to their new fundraiser—set up by Irish multi-disciplinary artist and all-round breath-of-fresh-air Liz Cullinane—at the foot of this Letter.
Talking of matters maritime, we ran into 91 year-old Peter Kent at the weekend who has been telling stories of the river Thames through his tidy illustrations for years. As a young man he was involved through National Service in aerial photography. This left him with a powerful sense of perspective and overview. His popular ink representations of the river are always from above and pocked with nuggets of handwritten information. He keeps so many local stories alive.
He sat with us in a local bookshop, firmly gripping his walking stick while bemoaning with me the conflict in Ukraine. ‘Regrettably, it’s all about not losing face,’ he said, scratching his neat white beard. We went on to discuss the consequences, certainly from my point of view, of figures like Boris Johnson having over-egged the pudding somewhat some two years ago by insisting with uninformed gusto that Ukraine should push the Russians back over the border at a time when a purported peace plan was on the table.
Given this present state of the world, a better metaphor for shared humanity might be the retrospective one of the unofficial Christmas Truce of 1914. This was when German voices famously floated across the trenches requesting a ceasefire. What followed was quite extraordinary—soldiers exchanging cigars and booze, lots of carols sung, and a sudden bridging of the ugly chasm of war.
This inspired many to step out into the hardened mud and meet halfway. In the end, about 100,000 warring soldiers celebrated Christmas together. It was of course well documented that the Germans broke into their version of Silent Night, Holy Night, while Brits replied with hymns and songs of their own. Gifts were exchanged in No Man’s Land—alcohol, more tobacco, food. Grimly, also, it was an opportunity to recover the bodies of dead comrades.
On the Eastern front, meanwhile, Austro-Hungarian commanders also asked for a truce. The Russians agreed and the two sides went on the lash together, some partying right the way through to 1915, though not everyone on the Western side was happy. Corporal Clifford Lane of H Company Hertfordshire reported seeing German soldiers in good cheer and told his men to fire, later admitting he should have joined the party instead.
Genuinely struggling to maintain a perspective on everything, I found myself correcting someone on social media whom I caught decrying the presence of celebrating Syrians on UK streets. These were Brits saying in hateful tones they should go home. They will want to go home, believe you me. I met a number of Syrians who from day one of arriving on Lesbos—having risked their lives to get there—were, and will still be, determined to return home. I met several who, drenched and trembling as they stepped out of the water, spoke of their dream one day of rebuilding their homeland. Also, the UK government has frozen all applications by Syrians following Assad’s fall, so what more do our xenophobes want?
Thanks to an old friend visiting Blighty last week, I spent an afternoon with an Afghan and Iranian. The former was from an area of eastern Afghanistan I knew from 1983. His dignity was stirring. The latter, also full of self-respect and with an array of rather marvellous tattoos, registered serious misgivings about the prospects of any kind of peace in his own country. Both had been refugees.
At the time of press, CC O’Hanlon posts another update, saying they are struggling to keep their floating home—‘the only refuge we have’—from sinking. He says: ‘We need to lift our boat out of the water urgently and undertake a survey and urgent repairs. We are asking—no, we are begging—for financial support.’
https://www.gofundme.com/f/a-voyage-in-search-of-home
