Rationing the news.

I have to make myself watch the news at the moment. The political shenanigans in the UK and America are painful enough (the bungling might be comic if the potential consequences weren't so catastrophic) - but they pale into insignificance in the light of the recent onslaught of ‘natural disasters’. (The ‘..’ indicates a recognition that some of these may be the result of man-made climate change.) 

As one storm followed another - have we forgotten those who died in the mudslide in Sierra Leone? The floods in Asia that I wrote about last week, and those in China? Hot on their heels came the storms and hurricanes currently battering the Caribbean and America. A huge earthquake in Mexico has been relegated to the inside pages of the newspapers. 

Everywhere, or so it seems, people are homeless. Refugees from Africa and the Middle East brave the waves of the Mediterranean. Bangladesh - those areas not under water - are flooded with Rohingya Muslims from Myanmar.

It’s overwhelming - all this need and trauma. But we still have to deal with the realities of life. Domestic stuff has to go on - we need to decide what to have for supper and if we have enough milk. Lawns need mowing. Children need kisses before heading off to school.

I can only speak for myself here - I have to ration the news. If I catch every bulletin I risk being paralysed by the sheer extent of it all. But that way madness lies. And failure to look after the daily trivia helps no one. But there are times, when I musing over which book to choose in the library or picking over apples in the market, that I find myself reflecting on the insignificance of such choices. 

It's a dissonance that I find deeply uncomfortable. I don't have a solution - and maybe that's fine. We should not turn our backs - nor our feelings - on the millions of people in such terrible need. But there is no point on wallowing in their reflected misery - we have lives to lead. Few of us are able to  up sticks and do anything practical to help (though we can contribute to appeals). All we can do, it seems, is notice the enormity of it all and then keep the show on the road in our own small corners of the world.

Why I have no right to whinge.

Last week I had a bit of a whinge about the challenges of being the ‘new girl’.

Many years ago, I did a training placement in a refugee camp for Asian people expelled from Idi  Amin’s Uganda. For those too young to know what I'm talking about, Idi Amin - the then president - got it into his head that all Uganda’s problems could be sorted if the country were not home to so many Asian people. I know, yes, he was bonkers.

Many had British passports (a throw-back to the Empire) and arrived here in their thousands. Makeshift camps were set up, and bit by bit they were helped to find somewhere to live and many established their families here. But the initial phase was chaotic.

I worked in an old army camp, where families were housed in the barracks, divided from each other by flimsy walls or curtains. Most had left behind comfortable homes and flourishing businesses - and they arrived here with nothing. Adults seemed to spend a lot of time wandering around looking lost. The children - with their parents apparently so out of control - were all over the place. I spent a lot of time playing football, trying to run off a bit of the children's energy before they went back to the few square yards allotted to each family. 

But it soon became clear that many of our residents were mothers with children, their husbands apparently stateless and somewhere in Europe. And so the bulk of my work was in accumulating information about all these families - in order to show the government that it would be cheaper to allow the men in (as they would work and support their families) than to provide social assistance for the women and children. 

I spent hours and hours interviewing - often with an interpreter. These women, many of whom had never had to manage alone before, were frightened - and some were ashamed of the circumstances in which they were living. I discovered disabled children who had not been registered - their mothers had assumed having a disabled child meant they would be at the back of the housing queue. I found lone children, managing as best they could - not knowing even if their parents were still alive. 

I have never - before or since - worked as hard. But my efforts were a drop in the ocean, given the numbers and the need. These were families who had been forced to flee with almost nothing, arrive in a country with no idea what to expect and some with no English, and somehow they were expected to ‘make the best of it.’

And there must be thousands more refugees in similar circumstances today.

So when I complain about the challenge of walking into a new book group for the first time, you may - metaphorically of course - smack me.

Starting again.

Well, here I am. All sorted (well, unpacked) in my new flat. My books are on shelves. I've worked out how the washing machine works, and the cooker. My mind is beginning to settle - I can read again! (For me, an inability to read anything longer than a thousand words or so is indicative of Serious Stress.)

And now what? I've moved to a town where I know nobody. I have very good reasons to be here - there is a station, and theatres, and creative things for children in the middle of town. But I can't make friends with a station. Nor can I spend all my time using the station to see friends who live elsewhere. I have to do the brave thing - find book groups and writing groups, and walk in as the new girl.

I should, surely, be used to this? When travelling, I meet new people all the time. I can strike conversations easily. Can this be so very different?

Somehow it is. I've met some extraordinary people when I've been travelling. But most of them I'll never see again. In my experience, most travellers take very little prompting to talk about themselves and their travelling - and I'm more than happy to chip in with a reminisce or two. We might have a beer together, watch the sun go down, pass on information about bus or train times and great places to stay, and then it's farewell and on to the next town. (Tika and Everlasting, of course, are exceptions!)

But here - I feel a need to tread more warily. My interest in those I meet is as sharp as ever - but now it matters what they think of me. Where is the balance between being interested, and being nosey? I don't want to look pushy, or - like Nellie-no-mates - desperate for people to talk to. On the other hand, though I'm not unhappy on my own, I know that my life will be richer if I become part of this community.

It's over thirty-five years since I last moved to a new town. At the moment all this newness is an adventure. But sometimes I have to grit my teeth and be brave.

And if it's like this for me, when I know the language and systems and how to navigate the transport system … what is it like for refugees? My nanodrops of courage are nothing besides the reserves that they need.