I am an Australian born son of English parents, in the midst of my first visit to my parents birthplace and I have been travelling from family homes to castle keeps and back again and I have been having an eclectically great time.
I had just stepped through the South Transept and main entrance of York Minster Cathedral and I was in awe of the intricate architecture and obvious devotion of people to their faith. Not a Christian myself, I am not even baptised, yet I was amazed and touched by such effort contributed so many years ago to a religious belief.
Then, outside the small chapel of St Nicholas in the North Transept I read a small sign that asked for candles to be lit in flaming prayer for the victims in London. It was 11 oclock in the morning and I had no idea of what had transpired in this nations capitol.
The people in this sacred place, the priest, nuns and volunteers could not offer me any details, only that terrorists had set-off bombs in the underground and on at least one double-decker bus. I was numb and speechless; when I had first arrived in Great Britain one of my childish desires had been to take a trip on both of these English icons and now to hear how they had been twisted and manipulated affected me deeply.
I quickly left York Minster to scrounge information from people but no one could help me, they just didnt know. All that they could do was confirm that at least ten people were confirmed dead and hundreds wounded. In a daze, I found myself back inside the cathedral and I wandered to the Undercroft; a series of chambers below the great cathedral that detail a history of original foundations and buildings on the site that chart through Roman, Norman, Saxon and Viking times.
In slow steps I wandered and found myself alone in a small chamber below the High Altar, a place of worship that pre-dated even my wildest imaginings and there, I kneeled and spoke aloud to the empty stone room.
I talked of my guilt at not being at Gleneagles, protesting at the G8 summit as I had done many years ago now in Melbourne at the event called S-11, back before the September 11 terrorist attacks. My involvement there, sparked, I can still clearly remember, by the accusations of my old English teacher, preaching how issues such as globalisation was my generations Vietnam. This was of course pre-Afghanistan and the second Gulf War.
I spoke of the arguments that I had avoided with my newly met English family members about such topics as refugees and terrorism and others such as free-trade and world debt.
I spoke of how I dont understand Why?
And I dont.
I am tired of these events and I am saddened by people suffering because others are. I am tired that terrorists keep attacking innocents and I am tired that governments are still declaring wars. I spoke not to God, or Gods, no, I spoke to myself in an empty room built by people that nobody truly remembers. All that I expected in return, was silence. And that was what I got.
Silence.
York Minster with all its honours to a faith, held no great solution or resolution, instead it offered only a place to vent.
To grieve.
It gave me a place to grieve for people that I will never meet, for families that will never be, for friends never welcomed and for future repercussions that will sadden me further. This event will only spark bad decisions on both sides, as has been shown in the past. Repeatedly.
I left York Minster resolute that I will never shy from my own beliefs again, I will not back down on my notions on refugees, on globalisation, on free-trade or on world debt. I will not let racists speak their mind without letting me speak mine, I will not allow homophobics to comment without rebuke and I will not let terrorists or governments or religions take away my own faith.
My faith in people.
take care y'all.
Z out.
I had just stepped through the South Transept and main entrance of York Minster Cathedral and I was in awe of the intricate architecture and obvious devotion of people to their faith. Not a Christian myself, I am not even baptised, yet I was amazed and touched by such effort contributed so many years ago to a religious belief.
Then, outside the small chapel of St Nicholas in the North Transept I read a small sign that asked for candles to be lit in flaming prayer for the victims in London. It was 11 oclock in the morning and I had no idea of what had transpired in this nations capitol.
The people in this sacred place, the priest, nuns and volunteers could not offer me any details, only that terrorists had set-off bombs in the underground and on at least one double-decker bus. I was numb and speechless; when I had first arrived in Great Britain one of my childish desires had been to take a trip on both of these English icons and now to hear how they had been twisted and manipulated affected me deeply.
I quickly left York Minster to scrounge information from people but no one could help me, they just didnt know. All that they could do was confirm that at least ten people were confirmed dead and hundreds wounded. In a daze, I found myself back inside the cathedral and I wandered to the Undercroft; a series of chambers below the great cathedral that detail a history of original foundations and buildings on the site that chart through Roman, Norman, Saxon and Viking times.
In slow steps I wandered and found myself alone in a small chamber below the High Altar, a place of worship that pre-dated even my wildest imaginings and there, I kneeled and spoke aloud to the empty stone room.
I talked of my guilt at not being at Gleneagles, protesting at the G8 summit as I had done many years ago now in Melbourne at the event called S-11, back before the September 11 terrorist attacks. My involvement there, sparked, I can still clearly remember, by the accusations of my old English teacher, preaching how issues such as globalisation was my generations Vietnam. This was of course pre-Afghanistan and the second Gulf War.
I spoke of the arguments that I had avoided with my newly met English family members about such topics as refugees and terrorism and others such as free-trade and world debt.
I spoke of how I dont understand Why?
And I dont.
I am tired of these events and I am saddened by people suffering because others are. I am tired that terrorists keep attacking innocents and I am tired that governments are still declaring wars. I spoke not to God, or Gods, no, I spoke to myself in an empty room built by people that nobody truly remembers. All that I expected in return, was silence. And that was what I got.
Silence.
York Minster with all its honours to a faith, held no great solution or resolution, instead it offered only a place to vent.
To grieve.
It gave me a place to grieve for people that I will never meet, for families that will never be, for friends never welcomed and for future repercussions that will sadden me further. This event will only spark bad decisions on both sides, as has been shown in the past. Repeatedly.
I left York Minster resolute that I will never shy from my own beliefs again, I will not back down on my notions on refugees, on globalisation, on free-trade or on world debt. I will not let racists speak their mind without letting me speak mine, I will not allow homophobics to comment without rebuke and I will not let terrorists or governments or religions take away my own faith.
My faith in people.
take care y'all.
Z out.
Don't for one second shy away from your beliefs again Mr z. Thee world needs more precious ones like you to give them a better direction.
Come home safe
None the less, there was still fear you averted from routine behaviour (such the nature of tourists) and somehow, frighteningly got mixed up within that hell.
And now, I am greatly relieved that this morning found you safe and well my wandering pirate.
Keep your beliefs, your convictions, your opinions. For a human with opinions, is a human who watches, and a human that watches is one with their eyes open, and when you have your eyes open, you can see truth when she unveils herself.
your passions emanate from the words.
Churches are strange places. But pure. For those that built them hundreds, thousands of years ago knew, and understood that the purity of the foundations of that refuge were paramount. Every brick they shaped and fitted, every carving, moulding, pillar is erected with the conviction that something beautiful was still theirs. If you feel, then you can sense the hope, the awe, the reverance, the goodness of thoughts that seeped their way into the bricks.
We leave our guilts, our pain, our confessions behind, knowing they never won. For what was built into those walls will always overcome what unfolds within them.
I wrote a childrens story about a fearsome pirate, a fair young maiden and messages in bottles that travelled the seas and brought them together.
I told it to a little boy, and at the end he looked up at me and asked me;
"Pippar, Why was the pirate man sad?"
I still don't know.
[Edited on Jul 08, 2005 8:34PM]