It’s Friday night. I’m home alone. I have a nice bottle
of red wine and a big box of chocolates. I have internet access, and I have plenty of
time to think. Few combinations could be more dangerous.
Ned Nederlander is playing old man’s football and will be
home late, no doubt after enjoying several convivial post-game beers with his Howling Hamstrings team mates. He’ll be a bit sore tomorrow and will do his usual weekend thing of
bemoaning his aging body. A couple of hours prostrate on the sofa after his
morning coffee and a lazy breakfast tomorrow will help him forget his problems.
Dinner at a lovely restaurant tomorrow evening and whatever marital benefits
might follow that will certainly help him forget his aching muscles.
Right now Kleine Jongen, after a day innocently kicking a
ball and eating junk food with friends is sleeping comfortably in a beautiful
house in the canal district, cared for by adults we know, love and trust – in the very heart of one of the most beautiful
cities in the world. Poor boy broke his arm two days ago. But within an hour of
arriving at a clean and modern health facility, he was treated by competent,
compassionate, hijab-wearing health professionals and sent on his way. His biggest problem
right now is that his injury might hinder his chances of selection in the Junior
Varsity football team, and that he has to play Xbox left handed for the next few
weeks. His cast also gives him a few toileting challenges. Oh well.
Grote Jongen popped
home earlier tonight to recharge his phone and to down a quick bowl of pasta. As
he refuelled, he mused over how easy it is to accept quirks and eye-rolling
frustrations in friends that add more to our lives than they demand in return. I
inquired about the chances of a similar attitude to parents. He smiled. I
silently thanked whatever god was listening for allowing me to become the
mother of a fascinating and engaging human with thought-provoking perspectives
on life. Said child has since cycled off into the autumnal Amsterdam night to
do whatever it is that 16 year olds do in Amsterdam on a Friday night. Because
Ned and I are utterly opposed to using technology to track our children’s whereabouts,
I have only the vaguest idea of where he is. However, I am reasonably confident
that he will be home in a few hours. He will fall into his warm bed, with few
concerns other than his overdue biology assignment.
And then there’s Petra.
Petra turned up on my doorstep late this afternoon. She lives in the
same street as me, but in almost four years here I’ve never met her before. She
introduced herself before confirming that 450 male asylum seekers are being temporarily
housed nearby. She asked if I could donate some clothing for them.
These men; real live men, with real live children, and real live
mothers bereft with worry about them, are ONE HUNDRED METRES from my house. The
house where I‘m drinking my red wine and eating the pasta cooked by my happy, assignment-avoiding
16 year old. The house where I hugged my other boy and his plaster cast after we
caught the reliable public transport home from hospital together. The house
with the internet connection that allows me to post whatever I damn well want
on social media. The house where I will sleep soundly tonight.
One hundred metres away from where I sit right now, four hundred and fifty men
sit and wonder about their future, and no doubt about their past. If I lean a
little to my left, disconnecting myself slightly from my bottle of red wine, and
peer out of my double-glazed window, past a charming window box of fresh herbs,
I can see the fence that contains those men. If I walked down 34 carpeted steps,
onto the footpath, past the Thai take-away, over two tram tracks, across a bike
path and through a small gate, I could be amongst them. It would take less than
two minutes. When I got there, if I spoke Arabic, I could understand their
stories and find out what had driven them to take the unfathomable risks that
have landed them there.
I could hear stories of men who have fled their own homes
leaving behind their own teenagers. I could find out what drove them to risk
their lives and all that is familiar and comfortable and comforting and dear. What
unthinkable force caused them to leave the lovers with whom they had shared
beds and dreams? What drove them to tread unknown roads and leave sons with
broken arms and broken hearts? What strength
was needed to leave an unfinished conversation with their son about friendship
and loyalty and tolerance and trust? I cannot imagine.
These men need many things at the moment. At the very least
they need a change of clothes, they need shaving cream, they need paracetamol to
ease their sore arm, and miracle cures for sore hearts. They need a new
toothbrush. They
need a conversation about friendship.
Petra is collecting clothing, toiletries and time passers like chess games and decks of cards for those men. She knows someone who can somehow magically bypass the bureaucracy that seems to insist on regulated giving via well-meaning but cumbersome non-profits. She knows someone who will ensure that our donations are given directly to those men at the end of my street. Come Monday she might also need to explain to Ned why his wardrobe is almost empty, his wife having emptied most of it into a large green garbage bag and handed it over to a woman she just met.
Amsterdam readers - if you have a jacket, a pair of
jeans, a t-shirt, a scarf, a pair of socks or indeed any small token of
friendship and masculine compassion, then please get in touch with me this weekend.
I’ll do what I can to ensure that the angelic Petra is able to take it across
those tram tracks and through those gates on Monday.
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