Category: Personal Fragments

A kindness that repairs the world

BABY LOSS WEEK PIN
Baby Loss Awareness week 9-15 Oct

Kindness, whether one follows a particular faith or creed or not, is regarded as an essential human virtue, and acts of kindness  – whether large or small – help strengthen the fabric that binds our lives to those of others. While no one has a monopoly on kindness, one of the primary virtues of Judaism is that of Chesed – usually and roughly translated as ‘loving-kindness’. It is through such acts of love and kindness that one engages in and contributes to Tikun Olam ‘repairing the world’.

A few years ago I witnessed at close hand a great act of both loving-kindness and determination that helped to repair someone’s world.

There is a double sadness behind this story. A good friend of ours was in the final stages of terminal cancer. We had known her, her husband and their family for a long time, and one of their sons and our son were the best of friends. She was at home, surrounded by her family, who were dealing with the terrible situation as best they can.

As is so often the case when individuals are facing the end of their life, there was an unfinished life event that Esther (not her real name) wanted to resolve in order to soothe her own passing and comfort her family.

The gaping hole in her life was that her first child, a baby boy, died at birth nearly thirty years ago. As was common in those days the baby was immediately taken away and buried in an unmarked grave, in this case in one of the several Jewish cemeteries in the city where we live. Our friends got on and carried on with their lives as best they could amidst a profound, silent grief, and very little if anything was ever said.

Now, as the end of her own life approached, Esther wanted that chasm in her life and the life of her family to be filled with knowing not only where their son and brother was buried, but also to mark his grave in a way that told the world that he lived, though very briefly, is loved, and is remembered.

We became involved in that poignant quest not just because they were close friends but also that we, too, are bereaved parents, and that our baby son also died at birth, in 1990. Unlike our friends, however, we have the comfort of being able to visit his grave whenever we so choose. For a number of years, it being a new cemetery, his grave stood alone in what was the designated ‘children’s section’, out by the cemetery fence and separated a long way from the ‘adult’ section. Now, sadly, there are three small graves in that section. But all are visited regularly and cared for.

Since our son’s death, we – and particularly my wife Jo – have been involved in Sands, the UK charity that supports those whose babies have died: either still-born or soon after birth. Jo promised Esther that she would do everything she could to provide her with the information that she so desperately wanted.

At first it didn’t seem hopeful. Though Jo had the baby’s name, the date he died and the name of the cemetery, there seemed to be no record. Eventually there was a breakthrough when she realised that the cemetery that our friends have, for 27 years, believed to be the one where their baby son was buried was not the right one. Slowly but surely, after hours of trawling online through various official registers and documents concerned with death and burial, and various telephone conversations with various official and unofficial organisations, Jo managed to identify the location of David’s grave. (David is not his real name, but he has a real name, and that’s important because he is no longer an anonymous ‘Baby – deceased’

Once Jo had identified the general location, the next task was to obtain confirmation of the precise location amongst the graves of other babies and young children, and to get a small gravestone made and erected as soon as possible. After some more detective work and once she was absolutely certain of the precise location, Jo rang the main Jewish burial organisation. When she had explained what she was doing and why she was doing it, the phone at the other end was passed to the head of the Beth Din – the Jewish religious authority.

Jo again explained the background to her quest and the fact that Esther did not have much time left. Once the Rabbi was assured that everything about the circumstances, identification and location was correct, he said that it must and will be done as quickly as possible. He added that all the administrative costs would be borne by the Beth Din as an act of Chesed, and a tiny but important rent in the fabric of the world was well on the way to being repaired.

Having finally identified and confirmed the precise location of David’s grave, Jo spent a few hours trying to arrange for a gravestone to be made and set in place. After the local stonemasons who had been recommended didn’t work out, in desperation she rang the stonemasons who had made the gravestone for our own baby.  The woman who answered the phone turned out to be the daughter of the woman we had dealt with twenty seven years ago when our own baby died. Responding to the urgency of the situation she said that there was a small, spare piece of black marble in their workshop, in perfect condition, that would be ideal, and that as soon as they received the details of what to put on the stone they would start work.

Just four days later, Jo received an email, with photographs, showing the stone – beautifully engraved in Hebrew and English – set in place and marking David’s resting place.

Esther departed this world knowing that a large wound in her life had been healed, and the family – amidst the sadness and sorrow – found great comfort in knowing not only where their son and brother lay, but also that there are kindnesses that do, indeed, repair the world.

 

On history and all that (Part 2): a marvellous lesson

I was once privileged to witness the most marvellous history lesson…taught by a drama teacher.

It was in a comprehensive school. The students, a mixed class of girls and boys, were taking GCSE History, and the theme was England in the 17th century. The ‘teacher’ was Dorothy Heathcote, the eminent and inspirational drama education specialist. (For those who have never heard of her, do read this http://www.mantleoftheexpert.com/community/about-us/dorothy-heathcote/.)

One of the things Dorothy used to say was that the most powerful word in education is the word ‘might’. Ask a child “what IS the answer to this?” pre-supposes there is a single ‘right’ answer. It’s a closed question. But ask “what MIGHT be the answer to this?”, then you open up the possibilities, the curiosity, the imagination.

The environment was a standard classroom, with melamine tables and plastic chairs.

The session started with Dorothy hanging three large blank sheets of paper on the wall. On the top of one she wrote: ‘I know this about the 17th century’. On the second she wrote ‘I think I know this about the 17th century’. On the third she wrote ‘I’d like to know this about the 17th century’.

She then asked the students to fill out each paper. Not a great deal went on the first one. A bit more went on the second one. A quite a bit more on the third one.

Dorothy then quickly went through each one, checking to see if there was any more to be added.

She then asked the students to get into groups of two or three, and gave each group a set of photocopied sheets of paper. They were taken from one of those guides to antique furniture, and contained images and information about 17th century tables and chairs

Dorothy asked each group to look at the images and read the information, and then to select one – either a table or chair.

She then announced that from that moment on the classroom was now Heathcote’s Expert Antique Restoration Workshop. The students were now all experts at restoring antique furniture, and she was in charge. She then, pointing to the classroom tables and chairs, asked the workers to start restoring the piece of furniture they had selected.

Notwithstanding a bit of embarrassed bewilderment, the students started to ‘work’ on their chosen item: inspecting it, discussing what might be wrong with it, what needed repairing, starting to repair it, etc.

Dorothy walked round inspecting the work, and would ask questions. A typical exchange would be as follows:

Dorothy: What have you got there?

Student: It’s an oak dining chair, Miss.

D: Where’s it from?

S: Something Hall, Miss. I think it’s one of those big houses. [they’d read that on the sheet]

D: What’s wrong with it?

S: Er…it’s got a big split. [that wasn’t on the sheet]

D: Any idea how that split might have occurred?

S: Not sure, Miss. But there’s some scorch marks around the split, so we reckon it was in a fire and perhaps got chucked out of a window. [definitely not on the sheet!]

D: And how do you reckon that might have happened?

And you could see the students’ imagination switch into gear, and out came stories about corridors, and candles, and late night trysts, and a chase, and a dropped candle, and the panic, and the servants being woken up and being ordered to save the furniture, and the chair being thrown out of a high window….

Each group created and shared its own story, using what they knew, what they thought they knew, and what they imagined. And slowly but surely, a real sense of 17th century life began to be created and understood.

After a short break, the session re-started. Now two new characters were introduced along with a set of typical everyday ’17th century’ artifacts e.g: a ring, a quill and ink, a bell, a hand written letter, a pamphlet, etc. The characters – played by actors – were the lady of the house, and a male servant. Each sat at each end of the room, and the students – moving between the two – could ask them questions about their lives, and about the various artifacts which they could touch and examine, each of which had a story attached to it.

As in the first session, layer upon layer of knowledge and understanding gradually was created.

At the end of the session, Dorothy returned to the three sheets of paper, and once more asked the students to fill them in. This time round, what had been the sparsely filled ‘I know this…’ sheet was now filled – confidently and, in some cases, passionately – with information.

The obvious lesson, from this history lesson, was that it’s our natural curiosity about people, our ability to imagination the world through a different pair of eyes, and our love of stories, that powers our understanding of history. Facts and chronologies, of themselves, do not an understanding of history make. But engendering curiosity, imagination and, indeed, passion, might well encourage the pursuit of the factual.

On history and all that (Part 1): my deal with history

There’s been much sound and fury recently about the teaching of history in schools, prompted by the pronouncements and interventions of Michael Gove, the Secretary of State for Education.

Like many I really love and am fascinated by history. But, though I am an educationalist, I’m not an historian or history teacher (nor for that matter is Michael Gove) so I won’t comment on what should be in or out of the history curriculum – I’ll leave that to the experts to argue about. This is more about my own personal history of my journey into history.

I really didn’t get history when I was at school, though I did it for A-level. I loved art and english, couldn’t do music because it clashed with art, and history was the least worst option. In fact my attendance and achievement was such that Mr. Davis, the history teacher, who took great pride in the success of his students and in his teaching of the history of 19th century Europe and America, suggested strongly that it might be for the best if he did not enter me for the exam.

With pride suitably hurt, I decided to make a deal with Mr. Davis. In exchange for allowing me to take the exam, I would revise hard and ensure that I at least passed. He, somewhat reluctantly, agreed, and we shook hands on it.

As I lived in London, the next day I travelled to the centre of the city and headed for Foyles, the famous bookshop. There I purchased the past seven years of A-level history papers.

On my arrival back home, I cleared a space on my bedroom floor, laid out the A-level papers, and started to make a chart of the questions. By the time I’d finished I’d worked out that there was always a question on Bismark and German unification, always a question on Garibaldi and Italian unification, invariably a question on an aspect of the American War of Independence, the Corn Laws and so on.

I then went out and bought several of those ‘help with your revision’ books (the internet wasn’t an available option in those days) that covered the various topics I had identified as ‘favourites’. I read them carefully and made copious notes.

On the day of the History A-level examination, I sat down in the school hall along with c. 50 other boys (it was an all-boys grammar school) and at the words ‘You may start’ I turned over the paper and opened it. There were seven questions, and I’d got six direct ‘hits’…and I could just about waffle through the seventh.

When I went to school some weeks later to pick up my results, my path crossed with that of Mr. Davis. He stopped, smiled a bit weakly, and said: “It seems I underestimated you, Kleiman. The powers that be have seen fit to award you a ‘B’. Erm..congratulations!” With that he shook my hand, shook his head, and walked off.

(to be continued…)

Sad, strange days…of comfort but little joy.

A few weeks ago we were standing by the luggage carousel at Malaga Airport waiting for our cases to arrive. Next to us, also waiting, were a middle aged man and a young woman. We got chatting – as you do – and it turned out they were a father and daughter, off to spend a long weekend at a villa he owned nearby. We had a lovely chat, about this and that, especially with the daughter who was in her first year at university. She was fun, vibrant, and immediately likeable.

It also turned out that they were Jewish and lived only a few miles from us in Manchester.

In a few days, while we were in Spain, it was to be the first anniversary of my mother’s death, when it is customary to go to synagogue to say memorial prayers. We knew there was a synagogue in Malaga, and as he was sort of ‘local’, I asked him if he knew anything about it. He said he did, and that he’d text me the details. So we swapped names and numbers and, when our luggage arrived, we said our goodbyes.

He never did get back to me, but we found the synagogue anyway.

Yesterday, in Manchester, we heard through a close friend that the daughter of someone she knew through her work had gone to a beauty salon, had suffered a severe asthma attack, and had died. She mentioned the devastated family’s name, and I knew immediately that it was that lovely, vibrant young woman at the airport.

We’ve just returned from paying our respects to the family at their home. A heartbreaking and heartrending scene, but also one that showed the strength of community as well over a hundred people waited patiently, both inside the house and outside in the rain, to pay their respects.

We approached the father to say the traditional words of comfort. Even in his grief he looked at us that way you look at someone who approaches you as if they know you, but you haven’t the faintest idea who they are. I told him who we were, and how and where we met. He stood up from his low wooden ‘mourning’ chair and hugged me, and smiled, and thanked us for being there…and he asked me if I’d found a synagogue and apologised for not getting back to me. I said I had, and thanked him for pointing us in the right direction. His wife said it was the first time she’d seen him smile.

They both seemed genuinely touched and overwhelmed that a couple of complete strangers should make the effort to visit them and to say words of comfort.

Walking away from the house, we met a couple we knew. He said “It’s just crap, isn’t it? But it makes you stop , doesn’t it?”

Yes, it does, and it also reminded me of something I wrote some years ago, also at a sad time:

‘We forget at our peril just how thin and fragile is the layer of everyday normality, and how easily that layer can be torn and ruptured, sometimes in a matter of seconds…and just how important small acts of kindness are: the smile, the greeting, the helping hand, the thank you, the small talk before getting down to business, are all, in their way, small acts of kindness that bind us together and strengthen the fabric of our lives’.

I know it sounds a bit soppy and clichéd, but give a hug to the people you love and care about, and tell them how much you love and care about them…and do it every day, or certainly whenever the opportunity arises.

Where have all the conkerors gone?

There are several large horse chestnut ‘conker’ trees near our house. When we first moved on to the street, thirty years ago, and at this time of year, one would spot small groups of (usually) young boys collecting conkers for their conker fights – usually by throwing sticks up into the trees to dislodge the conkers, as those on the ground would have already been grabbed. For those for whom this is an alien pastime, October was the month for conker fights – in the school playground or in the streets around one’s home. Along with all my friends, I’d gather around the nearest trees, particularly those known to have the biggest conkers. Having collected a suffient number, I’d then select one that seemed to be the hardest – particularly if it had a sharp edge. Real conker afficionados would experiment with hardening techniques such as soaking them in vinegar.

Having selected what I reckoned was the most likely candidate, or even candidates, I’d make a hole through the conker, and thread through some string. Tying a knot that the conker would rest on. At which point I was ready to participate in the conker fights.

The aim of the fight was to destroy your opponent’s conker by hitting it with your conker, using the string to swing it like a hammer on an alternate ‘I hit yours, you hit mine’ basis.

If you were the victor, then someone else would challenge you. Those who claimed several victories with the same conker were able to say that their conker was a ‘fiver’ (five victories) or a ‘tenner’ etc, and slowly a sort of league table would organically form.

Naturally there were the occasional bruised knuckles when your opponent missed, but to use anything but bare hands was – by common assent – wholly unethical. (There was an interesting media furore a few years ago, when a school insisted that children playing conkers must wear protective gloves and goggles).

This is all a preamble to the fact that I’ve noticed, on my daily dog walk, that those once much sought after conkers now lie in their dozens on the ground around the trees. The only creatures interested in them are the local squirrels who either gnaw at them or squirrel them away somewhere to be stored for some unspecified time later.

So…
Where have all the conkerors gone?
Gone to computer games, every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?