What Matters

I applaud anyone who has the courage to start making a difference. Because I really do believe that small gestures can grow into larger movements. The grasping hands used to hold the handles of jute-tote-bags can then reach further, hold on stronger, to the little fists of children as they teeter along walls. Our holds need to be strong. We are their protection between balance and falling.


I write about a metaphorical wall and I use it to comment on a level of care for future generations. It acts as a nice poetic device. It can, however, also be used as a comment on a certain world leader and his tantrums about a different kind of wall. One erected to keep some people out. One that serves as a barrier. One that is all about dividing things. People and land specifically. And these according to wealth ratios and generalised demographic values.

The gesture of a hand hold is so simple. So small. But oh so significant I feel. As a gesture it acts as a beginning grasp, a foundation for possible chains of connection. It prompts people to stand united in picket lines. Kids sing of peace on earth under dark triangles of trees. They are often holding hands. I sometimes want to laugh at the naivety. But I don’t. Because that would mean I would have lost hope.

Because I believe that gestures like hand holds, can become movements, in both senses of the word. The comradery of gesture can inspire body movements in the foot steps strode on pilgrimage. People sit their bodies down next to the statues of long-dead-leaders. They wish they could hear their Wisdoms.  Because the world sure as hell needs Wisdoms. Lines are walked holding placards. Voices are raised, not so much in song this time, but in shout.



They shout out to give voice to an un-balanced climate. They shout out against the inequalities of sex and gender. They make noise for the right to choose. They seek redress for past wrongs. They want apologies for things that have happened. They want promises to prevent them from happening again.

Protesters are often photographed falling to the ground, their blue knees thread bare. This seems to be part of the common experience. Being pushed down has been part of protest for millennia. And yet, while they fall, as individuals, as groups, at the same time some ideas about who can say what and when and how, also fall. Its who gets up again, often with the aid of a helping hand, that matters.




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