The Hand That Lifts You

Protest songs of hopes and dreams.

Will you search through the loamy earth for me?

Climb through the briar and bramble

I'll be your treasure

I felt the touch of the kings and the breath of the wind

I knew the call of all the song birds

They sang all the wrong words

I'm waiting for you

I'm waiting for you

Will you swim through the briny sea for me?

Roll along the ocean's floor?

I'll be your treasure

I'm with the ghosts of the men who can never sing again

There's a place, follow me

Where a love lost at sea

Is waiting for you

Is waiting for you

Detectorists - Johnny Flynn

Credit: Jonathan Foster

1.

We are sitting on a bench watching cars crossing yonder bridge, dreaming of a world we’ll never see, a world beyond reach, forever beckoning, like protest songs of hopes and dreams.

Over the years, we’ve flooded our lives with a torrent of discussion, you and I. But, now we sit in quietude, forsaking the futility of words and hovering instead in giddy silence, watching the never-ending procession of lights traversing the bridge, a never-ending procession that will, one day, like all things, end.

We sit in perfect harmony, two exhausted men, upon this bench, resting in the shelter of our friendship, delicately tended for so many years.

As we sit, you light a cigarette and inhale and a seagull suddenly and uproariously begins laughing into the starry night and I know you are smiling. And you say “fucking seagulls” and we both noiselessly laugh and then sit quietly once more until suddenly we stand and head back into the warmth.

2.

We are signposted; Immigrant. Foreigner. Them. Nothing specific like “Electrical Hazard” or “Slippery Rocks”, but vague foreboding signposts, warnings to be cautious, to be on guard, there may be danger ahead.

By accident, we have became skilled illusionists, perfecting a never-ending performance of deference. We’ve learnt the language. We’ve voiced the platitudes. We’ve celebrated histories and nodded along with traditions. We’ve pretended they’re ubiquitous and not parochial conceits. We’ve even smiled along when these provincial expressions of humanity are platformed as a little more special than every other.

We’ve heard the manufactured narratives of being overwhelmed, of loss and change. We do not mention that this is merely the nature of things. We do not mention that life is perpetually changing and all times are momentously different than times past. We do not mention that the iPhone alone has changed this land more than we could ever do, as they sit in their separate worlds and peer into their tiny screens, being slowly indoctrinated, while we sit still, as they say, in the boat.

But all of this is not enough. They are never quenched.

Sitting on the bench I’ve relayed an incident. The second incident that day. On the train, a mother and her son were glowering at me, until I finally raised my eyebrows - come on then, get it off your chest - to which the mother, with her face of stone, demanded “Are you Swedish?”

I look at the boy, all of 15 years old, with his Nike’s and designer jacket, and I look at her, mid 40’s with expensive hair, and breath in their incurious air of petulance.

“Well, that depends,” I say, my accent singing like a foreign folk tune, “are you asking if I'm Swedish? Or are you asking if I’m a smug, superior fucker that’d insult strangers on a train?”.

We laugh into the starry night like seagulls. We talk of all these lines being redrawn, all this righteous ordering, all this stuffing people like butterflies into dusty museum drawers. We talk of the entitlement and the intruding demands. We talk at the role-playing and the arbitrary privilege. We laugh at these frozen birds of paradise, with their gleaming blue and yellow feathers, dancing brazen territorial dances on commuter trains. And then we stop laughing and stare into the dark night and feel the weight of how quickly and how easily this ignorance has been conjured into existence once again.

Then we sit quietly until you say “fucking seagulls” and we noiselessly laugh.

3.

The sun is beating down on this 1st of May. And we are out, our hands lifting each other from the shadows into the sunlight, a spectacle of thousands, flags and songs and chants blossoming into the world, mystifying the cloud of crows that patrol the harbour waters until they land and tilt their heads in curiosity.

We are joyful and strangely triumphant as we dance behind the swinging tempo of drummers, great red and black and green banners and flags streaming in the wind. There’s an outpouring of glorious courage billowing from this parade of souls as the chorus echos throughout this heartless, relentless machine. There is life in this march. There is belief. There is humanity.

Children on shoulders and grandparents behind pushchairs and fingers loosely interlaced between young lovers beside mothers and fathers all pumping their fists into the air chanting. Songs bouncing back and forth as the procession sweeps along the harbour wall before the castle “No more tanks, no more guns, money for the old and the little ones.” As each group passes the castle they join in unison and laugh as they sing “Where shall we live? There shall we live. How many beds does one king need? 800 beds for this kings greed!”.

This is where courage is born. On the shoulders of love, where it’s nurtured and then set free to build another world, to escape from that which attempts to bind us down. To be truly independent. To think. This band of sisters and brothers that parade a kind of fearlessness, embracing their roots, their obligations and their responsibilities. Those that see beyond the glitter and the greed. Those that say “but what of my sister, shall we not feed her too?”.

We stroll and dance along on this beautiful 1st May as if we are entombed within the chamber of the bravest heart and with each beat we are reminded what a paradise the world could be, once again.

4.

And as the sun beats down (finally) I remember the women and her son in the train and I’m sorry I was so abrupt with them. I should never have allowed myself to forget that we are all lost and searching and so often find ourselves down the wrong road thinking dreadful things. I want to apologise to them.

I want to say Yes, I am Swedish because I’ve lived here for more than twenty years and so I know the rhythm of this place, and I see your fear and in some ways I share your fear. I feel scared that the world is being torn asunder and everything sacred is being replaced with emptiness. I’m scared that tiny powerful gangs of dangerous men and women cannot stop creating such intolerable inequality that history will repeat itself again. I’m scared that the symbolic has replaced the authentic and I’m scared that when you look at me you can never see me. And I’m scared that you don’t care to see me, that you prefer the symbolic. I’m scared we are forever lost and we’ll never find our way home. I’m scared we’ve forgotten how to love one another, and that we will all perish, for no good reason at all.

And as I’m thinking of these things I see you, my bench friend, strolling with your family, entombed in the chamber of the bravest heart, and I see how you shine with your deep loving kindness and I am grateful to know you. And as my courage strengthens I reach just a little harder for that world beyond reach, forever beckoning, like protest songs of hopes and dreams.