A Conversation with Terry Waite

My friend, Jo, and I went to a talk last weekend at a local church. In the 1980s, as Special Envoy to the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, Terry Waite had been in Beirut, in civil-war-torn Lebanon, negotiating with the captors of Western hostages. Then one day he had been kidnapped himself.

I had become interested in the plight of the Lebanese hostages during my travels around Australia in 1990/91, when a girl I became friends with talked about them. Her ex-boyfriend had worked with one of the hostages, John McCarthy. Suddenly it became more real, rather than just another item on the news.

When I returned home I continued to follow their plight and rejoiced as they began to be released. Several wrote books about their experiences and I read them all. John McCarthy wrote his with his then girlfriend, Jill Morrell. American, Terry Anderson wrote his with his wife. These also gave the view of the relatives on the outside, not knowing whether their loved one was even alive. Most harrowing was Brian Keenan’s account of the horrors and treatment experienced.

Terry Waite had spent most of his five years of captivity in solitary confinement. He saw no-one, no daylight and was chained, except for ten minutes a day when he could go to the bathroom. He did the only thing he could and kept his mind active by reciting hymns he knew by heart. He wrote stories and a book in his head. He had no paper or pen. Taken on Trust was published three years after his release and will be republished later this year to mark twenty-five years since then, with an extra chapter about his thoughts now.

Terry is a tall and gentle man with an air of calm reassurance and is very approachable. Just before the talk was due to start, I thought I’d best nip to the loo. As I left the church, I was confronted with him on his way in. “Hello,” he said, as if he was greeting a friend. I replied with the first thing that came into my head. “Hello, you’re taller than I imagined.” What was I thinking? What must he think? But he was very gracious in his response. I imagine he was very good in his role as negotiator.

He has almost no anger about what happened to him and bears no grudge against his captors. During the first half of the talk, he spoke about his work with the families of current hostages and with those who have recently been released. The charity he set up following his own release, Hostage UK, is about to become International.

During the break, a lady showed him a newspaper with its front page headline, which she had kept from the day he regained his freedom. He had not seen it before and was clearly touched. It reminded me of how important and wonderful that day had been.

After the break, Terry talked more about how he had come to be captured and what had then happened. At the end there were more questions and answers with the audience than there was time for. He had captivated the attention of the full church for over three hours and nobody wanted him to stop. We could have listened for hours more.

 

 

A little bit of Culture

It was nice to be already in London when I got up the next morning. Over breakfast of a coffee and croissant, I looked out of the window across the road and saw heads wandering about behind what appeared to be a walled garden. On further investigation I discovered it was The British Library. In the middle of the peaceful oasis was a statue of Isaac Newton concentrating on something he was measuring with a mathematical instrument, an empty cafe and the entrance. I didn’t stay long. It was cold and a detour on my way to somewhere else.

Scootering to the pub the previous evening, I had passed a sign saying ‘London Canal Museum’ just before I crossed Regents Canal. I resolved to go there today.

It was a tiny museum in an old ice shed. Until the advent of mechanical refrigeration in twentieth century, ice had been shipped from Norway and stored underground before being distributed around London by canal. You could peer into the depths of one of the storage holes. There was so much ice it stayed frozen for months.

Also in the museum was information about the construction of the canals, and the huge network of them there had been across London and the country. There were stories from many of the barge owners who had worked them. There was half a barge in the museum where it was possible to see the cramped conditions that families lived in. Despite that there had been a community spirit of everyone working together.

From the museum I took a short stroll (scooter) along the canal towpath. It was hard to believe I was in the middle of London, it was so peaceful. There were birds and ducks bobbing on the water and colourful barges moored along the edge. I passed a couple of walkers and cyclists also on the towpath, but mostly I was on my own. When the canal disappeared into the Islington Tunnel it was time to return to the city. I was sorry to leave.

I consulted my map. Nearby was The Charles Dickens Museum so I headed there. The author had lived at 48 Doughty St for two years and was where he wrote Oliver Twist. The house has been preserved as it would have been at that time. It houses a huge collection of his personal books and other belongings and contains the history of both his writing and his social campaigning. If you love Dickens and his wonderful stories, it is a delight to visit. I must just return.

Laughter in London

I met Chris Douce on a Travel Writing course that we both did a couple of years ago. He’s a comedian, was having a mid-life crisis and was visiting one hundred randomly chosen Meetup groups, however bizarre. He then blogged about them at www.meetup101.blogspot.com. Now, he was hosting a comedy night in a pub in Kings Cross, in which they would feature. This would be Meetup group 101.

I then discovered a Youth Hostel nearby. Great, I thought. Instead of messing about with a train to get home late at night, I’d stay there and explore London for a couple of days.

I packed a small overnight bag and attached it to the back of my mobility scooter. My first stop was the Churchill War Rooms just off Horse Guards Parade. It was somewhere I had often thought I would like to go but had never yet made it.

Fortunately my scooter is small enough to squeeze through the narrow doorways in the underground warren as I explored my way through. Displayed throughout were first-hand experiences of the people who had worked there. Many could be heard on the accompanying audio-guide that took you round. Although conditions had been cramped, there was also a light-hearted atmosphere. Close bonds existed between staff, each aware that they shared something important and secret, that couldn’t be spoken about to anyone, even for many years after the war ended. And ever present, even today, was the force that was Winston Churchill. He had inspired a confidence, trust and loyalty that could never be broken.

Leaving the Churchill War Rooms, I scootered along in the warm sunshine. Spring was here today at least. Arriving at the Youth Hostel, I sat with a cup of coffee thinking about my fascinating afternoon.

That evening I met Chris at the door of the Star of Kings pub and he introduced me to some of his friends and fellow comics. Then it was time to make our way down the steep steps to the basement. The room soon filled and a good atmosphere. He needn’t have worried no-one would turn up.

The evening started with seven very different comedians, and it wasn’t just the front row who was picked on to participate. One poor audience member was shrunk.

After the break, it was time for Chris. He spared us all one hundred groups but still managed to cover a good number. Some seemed quite normal like “London Writers’ Cafe”. Others intriguing, such as “500 Miles” and “Orgasmic Meditation” Others still, sounded painful like “Finance and Tax Surgery”. With just a few words about each he gave us a flavour of his encounters that had us both wincing and shaking with laughter.

I returned to the hostel happy. Next week – Culture in London

End of an Era

After two years, the trial is now finished. No more visits to the Clinical Research Centre. No more assessments.

In some ways I’m back to where I started, and yet I’m not. I’ve not lost anything by taking part, except for a bit of time and a bit of blood. Instead, I have gained so much. From the first suggestion of the opportunity to take part, it has been a fascinating experience.

It’s been daunting, terrifying and reassuring all at the same time. Every aspect of my health, physical and mental, has been assessed. I’ve discussed MS (Multiple Sclerosis) symptoms I’d rather ignore. Bowels and bladder, that kind of thing. I’ve had lung function tests (they’re hard work), MRI scans, eye examinations, skin examinations, EDSS assessments (Extended Disability Status Scale used to measure disability in MS), questionnaires of all kinds, ECGs, urine samples and blood tests. Lots of blood tests. I’ve parted with so much blood, that most of my veins now run for cover when they see a needle.

 

I’ve been able to monitor the fluctuations in my symptoms and watch the variations. I’m intrigued how some things improve and others get worse, and how they swap about like they’re dancing.

It all means I have known exactly where my MS sits, and so I’m more confident in my discussions with my local consultant. I’ve met some interesting people. I’ve debated the pros and cons of assessment tools with doctors and nurses, and had conversations about the trial process and progress. I’ve compared notes with fellow trial subjects and we’ve laughed about some of the assessments - The depressing tone of the recorded voice asking questions about suicidal thoughts and actions.

I’ve enjoyed going into town every few months. I’ve got to know all the station staff who organise a ramp to help my scooter and me on and off the train. And the staff who do the assessments have become friends. I’m quite sad that it’s come to an end. I shall miss them.

At the same time, this is the exciting bit. This is when two years of work, by over 1500 people in more than thirty countries across the world is collated and analysed. This is when we discover whether the drug has been as effective as hoped, and whether or not it can progress towards becoming a viable treatment. It is when I will find out whether I’ve been on the medication or the placebo.

What do I think? It’s a question I’ve been asked endlessly since I began this process. The honest answer is... I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I’ve been pushing my limits and getting away with it. But is that because I’m on a new drug? Or is that because I’m in a more positive frame of mind?

Whatever the outcome, it has been exciting and has given me hope. And hope is an important commodity. Hope is everything.

European Union?

By the time the referendum arrives,
Our decision may be irrelevant.
There may no longer be a European Union to stay in
Even if we want to.
The union is being tested.
Syria’s war is our war.
Its people are fleeing to us.
Desperate people
Exchanging one war-torn area for another.
It’s a different kind of war, but it’s still a war.
One of harsh words and closed borders
Within Europe as well as on the edges.
Rejection from every country
Not just their own.
Refugees are not wanted here.
Europe fears letting them in will let terror in.
But terror is already here.
Frustration and anger,
Anger bred by fear.
Terrified individuals and terrified families
Looking for a future.
There isn’t one.
Babies born on the road
Have no home or nationality.
There is nowhere they belong.
No home to return to;
No home to go to.
Nowhere to shelter.

The Beach A-Z

Approach the beach

Beat the sand

Crumble the castle

Dig a hole

Eat ice-cream

Fish in the sea

Gamble your pennies

Have fun

Invite friends

Jump the waves

Kick the sand

Lick the ice-lolly

Make another castle

Need a flag

Open the basket

Picnicking for lunch

Queue for the loo

Run from the rain

Sing for the sun

Tempt it to shine

Umbrellas at the ready

Venture forth

Win the race

X marks the spot

Yawn as the day ends

Zzzzz.....

 

Where? Nowhere.

I wrote this poem last year. I think it is almost more relevant now than it was then. So here it is again...

Where do you go when no-one wants you?

Who do you turn to when you have nothing?
When everything you ever knew has been destroyed.

When the line between life and death is paper thin,

When the journey to safety is fraught with danger,
And when safety won’t let you in.

When the Convention of Human Rights no longer seems to apply.

When the United Nations no longer seem united.
And the European Union is in disarray.

How do you comfort your children

When you are as scared as they are?

When the only thing left to lose is your life

And nobody is willing to save it.
Where do you go?