We save lives

"I am busy saving lives"

Few days ago, I was standing in the middle of a very busy A&E with a matron and a consultant, discussing the issues and safety in the department at the time.
A man, in his late sixties, approached us with his wife walking behind, a big smile on his face, holding a box of chocolates and a card, he handed them over to us and said: early November I was brought to A&E and when I arrived here my heart stopped, I almost died. I could hear the tears in his voice, his wife held his hand as he gathered his strength and continued: but you saved my life, without you and what you did I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't be alive, he paused for a second or two and said: thank you for saving my life..

We thanked him for the card and the nice words, and as he walked away I said to my colleagues: that is what we do, we often forget that because of the pressures and strains, but that is what we do ; we save lives and we are bloody good at it.

Whenever my friends text me to go out or do something and if I am at work I often reply "I am busy saving lives", I don't say I'm working, because I'm not just working, I am saving lives.

I am part of a big family : Barts Health, that I am proud to belong to. Part of a great institution : the NHS that I am proud to work for. Part of a noble profession : Nursing, that I have always been proud to be. And in nursing, in Barts Health and in the NHS: We save lives, day and night, that's what we do, it's a job, but not "just a job", so what do you do for living?

I knocked on the door

Little girl at the door 

By Harriet Halhed

A great painting that when I first saw at Canterbury museum I fell in love with, bought a small replica and put it in my room, no one could see what I saw in the painting and I didn't have the words to explain it.. Today, it came to my mind and I managed to write this :

 

 

I knocked on the door, not because it was my door

I knocked on the door, not because I knew what was behind it

I knocked on the door, not because I was looking for adventures

I knocked on the door, not because I wanted to walk through it

I knocked on the door, not because I knock on every door

I knocked on the door, not because I do not like closed doors

I knocked on the door because I felt I need to knock on the door, every knock hurts, waiting behind the door hurt, the chance of the door opening hurts, the questions of what to do when the door opens hurt. But I- selfish me- felt that I need to knock on the door, because what I felt when I knocked was- in the moment- bigger than the thoughts that followed.

I knocked on the door, and the door never opened...

Why I write

Why I write

Why writing

Inside me, between the blood vessels, the muscles, the thick layers of fat, there is a magical creature I call it human.

Science tells me that light reflected from a leave will land on my retina, sends a signal to the brain and it will recognise it. But the magical human inside will see the sun softly touching the leaves, transforming a dead branch into a green one, through it I see, recognise and understand summer, trees, life and death.

I come to know life through my senses, and every time I sense new or even old experiences whether hearing, seeing, or whatever, a little something sticks with the magical creature inside, and suddenly a volcano erupts. I find the words boiling in a big cauldron inside my heart trying to jump out, some escape and travel with my blood looking for an exit: they first go to my throat wanting to be shouted out, but I hold them back, I remain silent. They then rush to my fingers to fall on the paper, I could feel the heat as I write them, as they slowly travel from my hand to the pen to the paper. The bubbling continues and my memories and emotions start to unravel, every second of my life wants to squeeze a word out, even the moments I didn't live but imagined living are sending their share.

I start writing stuff down while inside I could feel the words boiling, jumping, running, crashing into each other forming more words, more thoughts, more joy, more pain. The words race and fight trying to reach my finger tips and escape the mortal hell inside to the promised land on the paper, and become immortal.

Eventually the volcano calms down and I start looking at the new born words on the paper, my words, my feelings brought to life before me. The pain is great, 

though the reward is greater, 

like giving birth, 

we have to go through labour.

Few minutes will pass and suddenly I start to hate my words, my new-born, my writing, because I could see the human inside through these wrords. Sad, weak, lonely , dark, angry, and often frustrated, mostly misunderstood and usually miserable, all of that was inside and now I am looking at it., at him, at me.

When I was a teenager I used to hide my words from the world, happy of my produce, but also ashamed of it at the same time. I would keep the paper for few days and before anyone finds it I would burn it, burn the cradle of the newly born words and watch my feelings dying with it. I was sad that I couldn't keep my words, could not share it with the world, joyful that I was more powerful than my feelings, more alive than my dead words. The smoke would go up, 

the letters, 

words,

 sentences, 

meanings, 

feelings, 

all become thin air, 

taking flight from the boundaries of my paper, 

the limits of my world, 

to go anywhere, 

everywhere 

in the world.

Years later, I stopped the burning, could not stop writing.. 

More years passed, more writing, more words burning, not the paper, but me.

Ahmad Baker 

2013

The bench stories - last story

The bench story 3

This bench has been a constant feature in my daily routine, and the people sharing it through the seasons and years have shared parts of their lives with me, some is real life, most are things I imagined.

Many people I have seen growing old, loosing companions and probably dying as I passed them on my daily life journey. There was also some that I have seen setting on the bench as lovers, then having new members running around them sharing the joys of the bench. There was a lady I passed so many times when she was a pregnant woman seeking some rest on this bench, later she was a mother with a baby, then two children visiting the bench.

So many stories I could share about the people shared the bench, but I never had a chance to find the story behind the bench itself and in who's memory it came to existence. One day, out of months and years of rushing through life I decided to make the time to know the bench. I arrived there with one purpose only, to sit on it and spend time feeling it and watching people, like me, rushing to pass it and pass the people sitting on it.

It was not special, nor magical, it was just an old wooden bench, uncomfortable to sit on unless you are really tired, and there was many people tired of life and living who needed that short rest. I looked at the engraved metal piece reading: in memory of, but it was rusty and very old, the name of the person it meant to remember, to glorify has fallen off. I looked around, underneath, everywhere to find, but it has gone, as the memory of the person, and the bench, me, the people shared it, and the people passed it are destined to same fate, oblivion.

Quickly I was tired of life, and tired of sitting on the bench, tired of watching life going by and tired of trying to find the unknown. I wanted to use my imagination to create a story for the person behind the bench, the memories they wanted us to remember, but I could not. Instead I felt it was my name that was missing, and my life has ended with no trace but a bench on the side of the park watching other lives making their own memories.

The bench story/ stories 2

I do not leave home till 8:30 on Tuesdays and Fridays so I witness the glory of the day unravelling, but the best mornings to attend are those between March and June. Spring mornings have their magic, the park is more alive, the sun penetrates the newly created leaves spreading light and shades on the warmth thirsty grass as  the birds compose and conduct their live performance.

Passing the park bench this late in the morning is a better time to meet people, usually I meet a couple sitting there resting from what appears to be a long walk. In their sixties, both over weight with the man more closer to obesity than the woman. The man holds a bottle, clearly out of breath and sweating even in cold mornings, looks at me as I pass them in my fast walk rushing to get to the train on time, our eyes meet, his eyes would say I am trying, it is really hard but I am trying and mine would smile encouraging his late effort to get fit.
His wife was less engaging, hardly had direct eye contact with her, but always felt her eyes on my back as I walked away.

They were regular, appear in early April and continue till late September. The first and last weeks of school holidays were the times they won't show, the grandchildren will be visiting, I guess. I imagined their house to be spacious with plenty of spare rooms that once were full of life, and now like them, just waiting for the school holidays. Their children, now adults and have children of their own, kept and enjoyed the love and passion they had but they can offer back is a reliance on them to assist with childcare. Still, they will not have all the kids at the same time, their two daughters' children will come first, and the last week they will host their son's children. Yes, I imagined that they have three children, two girls and a boy, the boy is the youngest and his wife does not get on with the sisters.

I witnessed so many family gatherings, arguments and plans discussed over the bench. The wife, who appears to be less engaged is clearly the real master and holder of the family, but she does it in a quiet way. Same as these long tiring walks in summer, the husband is more in need of exercise, apparently the sickest of the two, always carrying the water bottle, and trying to stay motivated, while she is the one behind these walks and why they still happen.

This spring came and went, followed by the lazy summer, and I didn't meet them once. At first I thought it was childcare, then said it must be something serious, maybe he died, and she now has no need for these walks. But also she might have died and he no longer has a companion or a reason to walk.

I felt sorry for both of them, the one who died and the other who is alone, and again my busy days kept me away from reaching out to the one still alive to share the bench with and more spring mornings.

To be continued..

the bench story/ stories

Every morning, on my normal walk to the station, I pass by a wooden bench placed on the side of the park, a main feature on my daily commute and a great companion. A small engraved metal piece hangs on the top of the bench, half of it has fallen off and the remaining half reads: “in the memory of”. I always wanted to look around for the missing piece to find in who’s memory this bench was placed, but I never had the extra 5 minutes to look around.

 

The bench is a very popular spot in the park, always populated with different individuals, I pass it on specific times and I often find the same person, or people sharing the bench.

 

I leave home at 7am on Mondays, in summer in it is great time to be out in the park, while during winter when dark nights stretch its arms around most of the day, it is sad time to be out. I always meet on the bench a man and his dog. In his late 70s, thin, tall and always dressed smartly that I instinctively check my tie and shirt when I pass him  . His hair says that he has been proud of it all his life, all white but as in “ I was blond, you know” sort of white hair, and I often see him straitening it with his hand, which shows how much he cared about it. He would be sitting there watching his distinctively white Jack Russell playing with the leafs at his feet.

 

I imagined countless stories about his life, how many girlfriends he had, the places he has been to, the wars he fought in, and the many friends he buried through his life. Our eyes often meet, mine would say to his that I know so much about you, his would say to mine I do not think you do, but we never exchanged any words. Two years ago he stopped meeting me, or I stopped seeing him on the bench, at first I thought he might be sick, a couple of weeks passed by and I said to myself that I should visit him in the hospital but which hospital and  how can I find him in the hospital, I do not even know his name. Two months passed and I was sure he was dead, I felt guilty that I did not visit him and did not make the effort to attend his funeral, the cemetery is on the other side of the park and I must make the effort to visit his grave. After six months and as autumn was announcing its arrival through the falling leaves  and early sunsets I saw him sitting on the bench, 7 am Monday as usual. This time his distinctively white Jack Russell was not there, I immediately realized what happened, my tears filled my eyes as I remembered that cheerful dog, wanted to go to him and offer my condolences, tell him that he has lost his friend, but I am still his friend and I am there for him, but of course I did not, I continued through my path finding the rest of my Monday.

to be continued

 

icon of a goddess

I have to make a decision! He said

Ok, what is it? I replied, instantly.

There was silence, long silence, I could not even hear him breathing! He sat with his head in his hands, his fingers went through his dark black hear that had some silver lining. I was not sure what to say, how I could prompt him to say something? Eventually, he broke the awkward silence:

I say to myself this is wrong, this is not what I want, she is not what I hoped for. I start listing the things I really do not like about her, making stuff up, criticising her hair, her height, the way she talks, the way she walks, and many other meaningless details, I list them all and convince myself that she is not right for me. Then I start listing my own faults and how I won’t be a match for her till I convince myself that this will not work, I feel sad but relieved. I gather my strength, box my heart, and walk that long lonely road, I see her from a mile way, the spark in her eyes makes me forget all the things I listed, suddenly all I see is a goddess worthy of love and worship!

                                                                      

I could hear the tears in his voice, it is hard for a man like him to look weak, and now he is crying! I asked:

So do you love her or what?

 

He lifted his head, looked at me and smiled:

What is love? is it reciting all poetry and prayers in one word; her name? Is it seeing my past and present every time she calls my name? I do not know what love is, I have never been in love, but I know that when I look at her eyes I see two green forests in the shade of the moon, her hair is a holy river that runs down her back and my hands can only be saved if baptised in it. Her smile lightens my day and night, makes me forget all my worries and send me far away day dreaming. Every time I close my eyes I see her face, I raise my shivering hands to hold her pretty face and as I get electrified by the magic of her beauty the earth stops spinning, the wind stop blowing and life and death join hands to watch the scene! Is this love?

 

I could not find the words to respond, I looked into his eyes and said:

You are mad, all this love and you want to walk away?

 

Big sigh, felt like he exhaled 1000s of years in one breathe, stood up, put his forehead on the wall as if he was looking for a crack to get through it to the other side and said:

What is the point of all of that if she does not know!

 

 What? All this and she does not know? I said mixing anger with sarcasm.

 

Yes, she does not know, she thinks I am just a nice guy! That’s why I keep trying to convince myself that it won’t work, because I fear failure, I fear rejection, her rejection. so I rather die of the pain of losing her than living realizing that she did not want to be with me, to share me, to love me!

 

I looked at my watch and realized that I spent more time than I planned to, I made up an excuse, muttered some supportive meaningless words and left. I sat in my car and instantly felt the warmth of my tears on my face, I felt sorry for him, and for his so-called love, how can he hold all this love inside him? The feeling he  holds for her is a blessing for anyone to be loved in that way, but yet he cannot share it with anyone, he cannot live it, enjoy it, for him it is a curse! Some people cannot find love, some do not deserve it, and many do not know how to express it. And then you have those few who Cupid succeeds in touching their hearts but they remain alone, like my friend, whom love is a story, painful to live, painful to express, but a joy to read.

Ahmad Baker

beauty of photos

Taking photos is now very easy, and they capture the moment, frame it and preserve it for ever. But what they fail to capture is the emotions, the things that you feel but cannot explain!

I went for a walk by the nearby canal the other day, there was a narrow boat docked by the side, clear sky and nice view, I took a picture. I walked further and there was a passage underneath an overgrown tree, I took a picture.

 

I got home and starting going through those photos, I could see the image but not the beauty of what I saw, I could not see the reason why I thought those images are pretty, those scenes were captivating for me, but the photos do not show that, they are average.

 

150 years ago photography started to catch up, more advanced and capturing still images and portraits that usually were done by professional artists. Many painters started to realise that they do not have to paint what they see, cameras can do that, they must paint what they believe they are seeing, what they feel about what they are seeing and painting what they are seeing actually symbolises and represents. That’s why we have the starry night, the scream, and Guernica!

 

The narrow boat photo was more than a boat docked by the side of the canal, it was a small cottage, its front garden on top, the chimney tells stories of warmth and meeting around the fire, the boat is so close to the bank that you think it is built on it, and so part of the water that you know it is a boat, water is not blue nor it is clear, but still it reflects the images of creation that it supports..

 

The passage underneath the tree leads to eternity, it is the gates to tomorrow; slightly dark to look at but you now it will be brighter once you go through it, It is serendipity. The skies are the same colour of the path, you know heavens on your side, the trees on this side are different from the other side because every path has its fate and future.

 

I edited the photos, still not what I felt when I saw them, but maybe what I see is different to what everyone else would see, and that is the beauty of photos, paintings and art, just free your mind from what your senses tell you and let it go wild so you can enjoy what you sense..

Ahmad Baker

 

Shoe story

Shoes

Every shoe has a story, or even many. The places they have been to, the weight the carried, the speed they travelled, and how worn out they ended up.

I was walking by the cemetery and I saw a shoe, on its side, alone, not in pair! I wondered why it was travelling alone and how it ended it journey in a cemetery? Was it owned by someone above the cemetery or someone underneath? My wild imagination even made think of a man running back to his grave and as he disappeared inside the shoe dropped off and stayed as a testimony of the journey.

I went the following day and I could not find the shoe, it must have been reclaimed by its owner, the man in the grave. Or maybe a passer-by picked it up, or the foxes took, or maybe the caretaker removed it. I know which explanation I prefer.

The thought of the abandoned shoe stayed with me for days, I wanted to know what stories it carried, what places it had been to, and why it was left alone in a cemetery. I asked my shoes what they think? I do not have many shoes, my work shoes said it must got lost, my work shoes only know the way to and from work, it has seen so much at work, but outside it knows nothing, probably it does not know if a world exists outside my work. My trainers were made for sport, but I don’t do sport, they live a life that they were not intended for, they said the shoe must revolted against its owner. My sandals said it must wanted some fresh air, my formal shoes said the shoe must have been mad to go to the cemetery on its own.

Van Gogh bought a pair of used shoes, wore them for hours, through rain and mud then decided to paint it because they became interesting enough to paint. The shoe must had so many stories, and Van Gogh added his own to it, then painted it.

Every shoe has a story, or even many, what’s your shoe’s stories?

 

Just another day

Just another day

Everyday looks the same, 

feels the same, 

lived the same
Waking, walking, eating, drinking,
Living, loving, hating and surviving,
The sunrise, the tides of time and being,
the cold feelings,
The lonely nights, the dark sky,
Everyday is just another day

Except today, it is not
10th of August 2009,
And every 10th of August for the rest of time,

Standing in front of the grave,
The body of the most beloved is lifeless
The one who gave me life, no longer has it
Mouth shut, no sound, no smile, eyes lost their shine
Not sure if that was her face or mine

The tears, the heartache, the bowed shoulders,
The coldness, the tremors, the grieve,
The broken soul, the loneliness inside,
The pain that words cannot carry or say
It is not just another day

I see her face in the moon, in the night sky, in the children’s smile,

In the weeping clouds, in the blossomed flowers and the falling leaves

I see her face every time I shut my eyes, every time I open my mind

I hear her voice in the music I like, the poems I recite, the prayers I pray

I hear her voice when silence is around,

Alone or in the crowd

She did not die on that day, she just stopped living
And now, everyday is just another day 

Nakba 70 years

Nakba, catastrophe, many think it happened 70 years ago, but look how Palestinians live and you realise it is happening to the Palestinians every day for the past 70 years.

Population living under occupation, in refugees camps, for many generations! Checkpoints, imprisonment, targeted assassinations, damage to infra-structure, and the list goes on…

Today is just another day, the occupation will continue, the massacre will continue, and silence will continue. Today is not just the 70^th anniversary of the Nakba of Palestinians, it is the 70^th anniversary of the world Nakba, when the entire world has lost its dignity and humanity.

Today is no difference to any other day in the Palestinian calendar: Israeli army will kill few Palestinians, arrest few more, and injure many more, the refugees will wake up as refugees and go to bed as refugees, meanwhile: the world will continue to watch, majority will remain silent, many will hesitate to condemn, few will blame the Palestinians, and some will try and do something: which one are you?

Dear World; We are sorry that we have bothered you with our existence. Our existence is our identity, and our identity is not occupation and massacres and refugees, our identity is Palestine, and Palestine should be no bother!

I am a Palestinian, lost many things but not my identity. I am a Palestinian, and every time I mention that, every time I introduce myself I have to give an explanation of what do I mean, to where I belong, and what is Palestine.

For me, Palestine is my homeland, by choice. Unlike many people who are born in countries they call homeland, I was  born in Syria, but not Syrian, was given a Jordanian citizenship, but told I am not Jordanian, living in England but not English. I have no home in Palestine, our entire village was uprooted and erased from existence,  but still I chose to be Palestinian, not because my parents are, but because that is where the sun likes to shine as a golden dome, where the mountain is holy, the river is holy, the valley is holy, the mosque is holy, the church is holy and land is blessed by God, where the olive groves are thousands of years old, with its branches kings were crowned, in its oil goddesses were bathed, in its shades prophets sought shelter, and it still look young.

I chose to belong to Palestine, a population that never stopped giving, every nation had a share of our bloods, Assyrians, Pharaohs, Hebrews, Romans,  Crusaders, and many more. All came and went, and we remained as legends, descendants of all the populations of the world, but like our vineyards and olive groves, like our churches and mosques, we remained Palestinians.

Nakba: n. catastrophe

شهداء مسيرة العودة

شهيد غزة
على حدود الوطن وقفوا
على حدود الوطن سقطوا
نادوا بأعلى الصوت :
بالروح بالدم نفديك يا فلسطين
وكذلك فعلوا

يشبهوننا، لهم أسماءٌ كما لنا،
ولهم أحلامٌ كم لنا،
لكنهم الآن شهداء ونحن كما نحن.

استيقظوا صباحًا، فطور الجمعة مع باقي أفراد العائلة، شاي بالمرامية تحت الدالية التي بدأت اوراقها تُعلن فصل الربيع. اغتسلوا للجمعة ناسينَ أن الشهيد لا يُغسّل، واتجهوا إلى الصلاة. استمعوا للخطيب يتحدث عن نعيم الجنة، فاشتاقوا لفلسطين أكثر. بدأت الجموع تتحرك نحو "مسيرة العودة" الهتاف يعلوا، الناس كُثر، والكل يحمل في صدره هويته: فلسطين.

هناك على مرمى البصر  يقبع الجنود، لكنهم لم يروا إلا بيارات يافا، شواطئ عسقلان، قلعة عكا، بيت الجدة الذي لا زالت تحمل مفاتحه.
أرضنا، فلسطين، ترقد خلف السياج، تنادي من تنادي؟ سمعوا أسمائهم بدر الصباغ، محمد النجار، وحيد ابو سمور، امين ابو معمر، محمد  ابو عمرو، احمد عودة، جهاد فرينة، محمود رحمي، عبد الفتاح عبد النبي، ابراهيم أبو شعر، عبد القادر الحواجري، ساري ابو عودة، حمدان ابو عمشة، عمر سمور..

تابعوا المسير، هل يقف من سمع فلسطين تنادي إسمه؟ هل يقف من سمع فلسطين تنطق بإسمه؟ صوت الرصاص يعلو، لكنهم لم يسمعوا إلا صوت فلسطين.

لا شيء يقف بيننا وبين أرضنا إلا هذه اللحظات الأخيرة، "تسابقوا على الموت" ليحتضنوا الأرض بأجسادهم، تشربت فلسطين دمائهم الطاهرة فنبتت شقائق النعمان والدحنون وأغصان الزيتون لتفتح لهم أبواب الجنة، أبواب فلسطين..
مسيرة العودة، لقد عادوا
إلى منتهاهم،
إلى مبتغاهم،
عادوا إلى الوطن، وفي أحضانه يرقدون
مبتسمين،
مرددين :
بالروح بالدم نفديك يا فلسطين..

ليتني معكم
أحمد بكر

Rahnel's memorial service

Rahnel's  memorial service was held today, and I was honoured to say few words on behalf of the team :
Dear Melissa, friends and colleagues,
What is life? I often wonder. Is it the joyful moments that we live with friends and families, or is it the sorrow, pain and grieve we live when we lose them; it is all of that and much more.

Today is a hard day for all of us, it is much easier to mourn in silence; where tears are the most appropriate words. But silence or not, we all appreciate being here together, sharing each other’s silence, words and thoughts for Rahnel.
We are grateful that fate made our paths cross, and will always cherish the moments we shared with him. . We were lucky to have known him unlucky to lose him, 
Palestinian poet Darwish once said:
I have no role in what I became or will become...
It is luck. Luck has no name
We might call it the blacksmith of our fates
call it heavens postman
call it the carpenter of the crib and the coffin
or call it the custodian of gods in legends
in which we wrote the texts for them

Our friend, colleague, and more; Rahnel, lived life to enjoy it. Never intended to hurt anyone, and he never did. I could share many memories of laud laughter, childish banter, and innocent jokes I had with Rahnel, but I know I am not unique in that, because that was our Rahnel, funny, bubbly and full of life and all he wanted is to share that joy with people around. And I think he would be happy to know that we are here sharing that joy and love.
Many have asked me if he is now at peace, or if he is in heaven looking down at us? What do I know! I know nothing, except that we have lost him! And we are now looking at photos of him, he is smiling and we are grieving. I could say that I hope he is in heaven, but honestly, I hope he is here with us.
Every time I sit for handover I look over my shoulder hoping that he will be rushing through the office door, marching the long corridor, spreading his nice scent, wide smile, mumbling curses and excuses for running late.
I look at the door, patiently, and wait,
tears racing to my eyes looking for him, and wait,
the piercing pain in my chest as my heart searches for his presence, and wait,
my voice struggling in my throat trying to say his name, and wait,
seeing his face every time I close my eyes, and wait,
wishing he will walk through this door again explaining why he was late, and I wait.
We can turn our back on tomorrow and live yesterday, but I choose to be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday. We can remember him and only that he is gone, or we can cherish his memory and let it live on.

My dear Rahnel, your texts to me often were “I missed my train, I am sorry I am late”, and today I say to you: I am sorry you went really early, and we miss you.
Ahmad Baker