Blood on your Hands

The images have started pouring in on us again in news reports of the carnage being inflicted by Turkey on North Syrian Kurds and anyone else caught in the crossfire. In particular, the sight of the Syrian woman refugee in Akçakale whose baby son was killed by a mortar this week reminded me of this poem by Nelly Sachs, which I translated several years ago.

Those in power with blood on your hands, will you never stop?

Already wrapped in the arms of heavenly solace
stands the demented mother
with the rags
of her tattered mind,
with the cinders of her burnt brain,
laying her dead child in his coffin,
laying her lost light in his coffin,
bending her hands to bowls,
filling them from the air with the body of her child,
filling them from the air with his eyes, his hair,
and his fluttering heart –

then kisses the air-birthed babe
and dies!

German Original:

Schon vom Arm des himmlischen Trostes umfangen
Steht die wahnsinnige Mutter
Mit den Fetzten
ihres zerrissenen Verstandes,
Mit den Zundern ihres verbrannten Verstandes
Ihr totes Kind einsargend,
Ihr verlorenes Licht einsargend,
Ihre Hände zu Krügen biegend,
Aus der Luft füllend mit dem Leib ihres Kindes,
Aus der Luft füllend mit seinen Augen, seinen Haaren
Und seinem flatternden Herzen –

Dann küßt sie das Luftgeborene
Und stirbt!

Synopsis of On The Run

This is a true story

Two young people, Désiré and Joséphine, growing up happily in secure loving families and making plans for their future careers, are suddenly torn violently out of their peaceful everyday lives as civil war destroys everything they ever cared about. They flee from their homes in Rwanda, Africa, to neighbouring Congo-Kinshasa. They survive in desperate conditions in refugee camps, are forced to flee again and spend months wandering through the jungle where they encounter all kinds of danger from wild animals, pygmies, pursuing armed forces, and even nature itself, until they again reach safety, this time in Congo-Brazzaville. They settle down, have two sons, and then have to flee yet again.  Although they manage to build a new life for themselves, they are homesick for Rwanda and so in 2000, six years after the civil war, decide to return. This is a disastrous decision. Désiré is arrested, jailed and tortured but manages to escape and get back to his family.

They find themselves fleeing a fourth time, to Cameroon, where they are attacked and the family is split up. All alone with her third son, still a baby, Joséphine is taken in 2004 to Switzerland where she applies for asylum. After a long battle, this is granted but she has no idea what has happened to her husband and two older sons. Fortunately, the Red Cross succeeds in tracing the two boys and after yet another battle they are admitted to Switzerland to join their mother and little brother in 2006.

Although she has no news of her husband, she never gives up the search for him and remains convinced he is still alive. Meanwhile, Désiré has been close to death from sickness and disease, enslaved in Chad, escaped, and finally arrived in Nigeria. Here he tries to search for his lost family and finally discovers that they are all together in Switzerland. 9 years after the family was split up, Désiré is finally allowed to enter Switzerland and be reunited with his wife and three sons.

Throughout these harrowing experiences, Désiré and Joséphine never lose faith in God, constantly give thanks and recognise His hand over their lives.

Now available in English from

Wedding Joséphine + Désiré

Finally – A white wedding in church, with their children present

On The Run

Those among you who have been faithfully following my ramblings here for a few years may remember the story of a Rwandan family that was separated and split up by the terrible events in Rwanda and the Congo in the 1990’s. The young mother landed in Switzerland with only her baby in her arms, but never gave up hope of being reunited with her husband and her other two sons. Amazingly, her trust in God’s grace was rewarded: some years later, first her children and then her husband were found, and they were able to settle together here in Switzerland. How I came to be involved in their lives is told  in these blog posts:

An account of some of the ordeal they went through – much of it far too ghastly to describe in detail – was published in German in 2016 under the title of Auf der Flucht getrennt. As soon as I heard of this project, I offered to translate it into English for a wider audience, as a story of inspiration at a time when sympathy for refugees seems to be at a very low ebb in many parts of the Western world.

Happily, my offer was accepted and I finished revising my version of the book in English just over a year ago. The search for a publisher for the English edition was unsuccessful, so the author Johanna Krapf has finally decided to self-publish.

I am very pleased to announce that On The Run is now available online from
at a cost of 21,99€.


Even if you are tired of hearing about asylum-seekers and their problems, I would like to urge you to buy a copy of this book, if only to confirm the fact that miracles do still happen and faith is a powerful force.

And if that isn’t enough – well, this book is also my work! So why not buy it for my sake? Please!


Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Agreed to have a battle
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoilt his nice new rattle.

Just then flew down a monstrous crow
As black as a tar-barrel
That frightened both our heroes so
They quite forgot their quarrel.

Lewis Carroll


Two ugly fat men, noted for their silly hairdos and megalomaniac personalities, revel in world attention as they compete in throwing their toys out of their prams.

Of course, once nuclear conflict actually starts, there won’t be any admiring audience left. But that doesn’t matter to a megalomaniac, who craves attention NOW and damn the consequences.

Where’s that tar-barrel-sized crow got to?

Holocaust Memorial Day

I didn’t want to let Holocaust Memorial Day pass without a comment, but what could I add to the millions of words already spoken and written, expressing the grief and tears and hopes of the ever-dwindling numbers of survivors?

Television brings Auschwitz into our homes, and as that footage is shown again and again we risk becoming inured to the sight of those living skeletons filmed as the camp was liberated. That must never happen. We need to continue to feel, just as strongly, the horrified outrage and revulsion that hit us in the solar plexus the first time we ever became aware of these atrocities. This is a wound that must never be allowed to fade into a mere scar.

I have wandered through the heart-wrenching Berlin Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and felt nauseous on the tilted floor of the Garden of Exile in the Jewish Museum there. I think of the Jews I know and have known, people of my own generation or slightly older who were saved by the Kindertransport, or whose parents and grandparents were victims of Auschwitz and other concentration camps; each story a unique mixture of horror and miracles. I think of my friends in Israel, born in the Diaspora but who have returned there, made Aliyah, drawn by their centuries old homing instinct, still facing the attacks of their enemies, day in and day out.

What can I say about the Holocaust, and what it stands for on a global scale, where genocide continues in many parts of the world even now, and man’s inhumanity to man seems to be escalating out of control? It isn’t only about anti-Semitism, though that remains a focal point.

What can I add? I can point to my other blog, with 100 translated poems of Nelly Sachs. Nothing else I can say can be more poignant than that.

A Tale Of Two Brothers

Last February, I was moved to write a poem about my mother’s cousin, killed soon after his 20th birthday on the Somme. I had found out quite a lot about Cousin Willy, but the image that haunted me was of a bright-eyed young lad eager to get out of the choking dust of the coalmine and see something of the world. Enlisting promised adventure, foreign travel, and glory on the battlefield. Instead, less than a year later and after serving at Gallipoli and in Egypt, he was one of 430 British “other ranks” of the 34th Brigade butchered in one day in the Battle of Thiepval Ridge. His body lies in an unmarked grave, but his name is carved on the Thiepval Memorial.

A couple of days ago a comment was made on this post by someone called Tim, so I replied to Tim’s e-mail address, thinking perhaps he was a relative. No, he isn’t family but the story is interesting nevertheless. Tim has recently purchased some medals in an auction, one of which is a memorial plaque for William Musgrave.$_12

The Internet linked him to my poem. Luckily, another cousin who is an expert on WWI had done some research for me, so Tim now has the full story behind that plaque as I filled him in on the details I have about Cousin Willy’s brief army career and death. In return, he sent me photographs of the medals in question, the death announcement in the local paper and the War Memorial in the local church where Willy is

The medals are interesting for various reasons. They were awarded in the early years of the twentieth century by the City of Sheffield Education Committee to William and his younger brother Walter for “punctual attendance and good conduct” over 4 years, and another one to Walter for 5 years. That is some record. This site gives some background information on these medals, showing how difficult it was to achieve this award:

Regular and punctual attendance

The precise definition of regular and punctual attendance varied slightly over the years but in their conception the requirements were very strict. The 1902 School Management Code, for example, stated that ‘a medal is to be awarded to every full-time scholar who has attended punctually on every occasion on which the school has been open during the educational year ending July provided that absence on not more than four half-days or two whole days in a year shall not debar any child from receiving a medal if at least two days’ notice of such absence has been sent by the parent or guardian’. It went on to say that ‘By punctual attendance it means attendance at school at 9am in the morning and 2 p.m. in the afternoon’. These were, of course, the standard starting times in the days when virtually all children went home to their midday meal. As a proviso, the Code stated that ‘No child may receive a medal who has not satisfied the head teacher as to his or her cleanliness, tidiness and good conduct throughout the year’. For some years after 1908, a restriction of not more than six medals per class or form at any school was made.  

These two brothers were obviously keen, industrious lads doing well at school. Their father was a colliery labourer and not able to pay for William’s education so he had to leave school and go down the pit at 14 as a pit-pony driver. Walter, however, gained a scholarship to the prestigious King Edward VII School, apparently the only working class boy to do so in 1910, and went on to gain another scholarship which enabled him to obtain his university degree.FullSizeRender

He was then ordained as a clergyman in the Church of England. He spent some time in Africa as a missionary, then worked as a Prison Chaplain at HMP Dartmoor and Bedford before going back to Yorkshire and becoming the Vicar of Knottingley; eventually he was made a Canon, and finally, a year before his death in 1966, Master of Readers at Holgate Hospital, Hemsworth, where his ashes are buried in the wall of the Chapel of the Holy Cross. He left a widow, Monica Violet, whom he had married in 1931, and two daughters. His memorial plaque is very modest and unassuming, like the man he was.20140428_104513

I met Uncle Walter when I was a little girl, visiting him and his elderly mother – my Great-Aunt Polly – at the Rectory in Knottingley. Aunt Polly and my mother corresponded regularly, in spite of Aunt Polly being blind. She didn’t dictate, but wrote her letters herself in pencil on folded sheets of paper, following the fold-lines with her finger to keep her writing straight. It wasn’t easy to decipher, but my mother usually managed to figure it all out.

After her death in 1952, we lost touch with Uncle Walter and his family, so I have no idea whether he has any living descendants or not. The fact that these treasured medals have appeared on the market would suggest that there are no relatives, or at least, none who care about family ties.

I am pleased that Tim has them now, and is interested in finding out about the boys who earned them. And I am very pleased that we have been able to help each other in this quest. What he needs now is to find the other medals that William would have been awarded: 1915 Star, British War Medal and Victory Medal, and the Memorial Scroll signed by the King issued to next-of-kin. That would be quite a valuable little collection for him.

Cousin Willy: A Yorkshire Lad

Cousin Willy turned fourteen:
Time to leave school and become a man.
Dad was a collier down the pit
And said, they need a lad down there
To drive the ponies.
Nice job, thought Willy, driving ponies.

The pit was dark and dusty,
Coal dust in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your hair,
The ponies came out blinking once a year
To feed on fresh green grass
But not too much (colic!)
Then back into the black.
Willy and his pony were a team
Short and sturdy both
Bound by a bond of mutual dependence in the dark,

Willy turned eighteen:

Your King and Country need you!

Screamed the posters
So Willy came out blinking,
Went to war, seeking
Adventure, glory, honour, fun!
He went abroad, to Egypt,
Gallipoli, and France
And Flanders fields.
And fell.

MUSGRAVE: Pte. William, 15083, 8th Bn. Northumberland Fusiliers. 26th Sept. 1916. Age 20. Son of Joseph William and Mary Musgrave, of 41, Hatherly Rd, Tinsley, Sheffield.

Battle of the Somme

Sic transit gloria mundi

war memorial

The war memorial, bearing all the names
Of fallen heroes on its marble plates, stands
Guarded by its useless angel amidst the games
Of shrieking urchins. No more brass bands
Playing mournful dirges, no everlasting flames
Kept burning in their memory, no loving hands
To place a wreath of honour. Graffiti shames
And desecrates, ignoring the commands
To remember and respect young men who died
In agony and fear in foreign lands.
Mere lads. Mere lads the vandals too, who tried
To daub obscenities denying the demands
Of duty. Would they believe their death was justified
If they could feel their children’s scornful brands?

On This Day

Today – 9 September 2013 – is the anniversary of the Battle of Flodden 500 years ago.  Coincidentally, it’s also the anniversary of the day I started Grammar School in 1952 and the day I left England to start a new life in Germany in 1963, though at the time I didn’t know that, blissfully believing I was going for just one year. I prefer not to reflect on how many years ago that was, as it means I have to admit to being over 45.

Both days seem like yesterday but a torrent of water has passed under the bridge since then, and if I dip my toe in it is most decidedly not the same river I was paddling in at that time. Not the same toe, either – I’ve forgotten how often cells regenerate in the human body, but I doubt even the oldest of mine were around in 1963, let alone 1952.

Today archaeologists digging on Flodden Field for remains of the men who slaughtered one another that day paused in their labours to allow a special service to take place honouring the fallen. It was attended by a large congregation, including descendants of those killed in the battle.

If you are the scion of a noble family, it’s easy to find out if your ancestor was there or not. But how can you tell if you are descended from a simple, illiterate pike- or cudgel-bearing foot soldier?  Some of the people there claiming to be relatives looked very ordinary to me, hence my question.

By digging around myself – metaphorically, not with the archaeologists – I have traced some of our family tree back to the sixteenth century, though not as far back as 1513. It is very difficult to ascertain who was who among hoi polloi in those days, unless they came to acquire some kind of fame or notoriety. The average law-abiding serf or villein was regarded as scarcely more than the animals he tended, just another pair of hands that the feudal lord could call upon when needed and pack off as cannon fodder when the King wanted to raise an army.

I suppose, once they have found a few bones, there may be a possibility of identifying more present-day descendants by means of DNA. However, unlike with Richard III, we won’t see the unearthing of the bones of James IV of Scotland, who bravely led his men into battle and achieved the dubious distinction of being the last king killed in battle on British soil, because his body was carted off to London and presented as a trophy to the crown. Henry VIII was off fighting the French (and leading from behind to ensure he survived), so it landed with Queen Catherine of Aragon, who had it dumped. By the time his grandson became King of England 90 years later, it had rotted away in a woodshed and there was nothing left to disinter. Thus even if he had wanted to rehabilitate his grandfather, he couldn’t.

There is one beautiful thing to come out of that horrific battle at Flodden field: the lament “Flowers of the Forest” which is played regularly when the Scots are remembering their fallen comrades, especially in the two world wars.  

1812 And All That

I’ve always enjoyed listening to music that tells a story. Sometimes the composer bases his music on an actual tale, but in other cases the music just seems to evoke scenes and events. For instance, Sibelius composed tone poems that would make wonderful soundtracks to a film, and I have spent many dreamy hours imagining the tales they tell.

On the other hand, overtures to operas and plays usually foreshadow the events, and so take you through the story. One of the earliest I stumbled upon as a child was Mendelssohn’s Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where I would listen for the jackass braying.  Another old favourite was The William Tell Overture, which tells its tale from the prelude through to the triumphant galloping finale with its much-abused  “Lone Ranger” motif.

(And just to throw in some trivia, did you know that the horn of the Swiss Postal Buses that is sounded every time the bus approaches a blind bend on a mountain road echoes those opening bars of the Prelude? Ta-taaa-toooo – exactly as Rossini wrote it, in the key of E.)

English: Tchaikovsky's famous 1812 Overture, w...

Tchaikovsky’s famous 1812 Overture, was played complete with cannons and pyrotechnics at the 2005 Classical Spectacular, in the Rod Laver Arena, Melbourne Photo taken at ISO 1600 with no tripod (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So I was pleased and interested when this post about Programme Music landed in my inbox this morning, with the story of the 1812 Overture. What I didn’t know until I read this post was that Americans often associated this piece of music with the Fourth of July and gaining their Independence in the War of 1812.  My first reaction to this was surprise that the stupid ignorant Americans hadn’t picked up on the French and Russian themes in the piece. Then I was surprised at myself for not having heard of the War of 1812. What was that? The War of 1812?  Who’s the stupid ignorant one now?

Well, a long time ago I took history at school and passed GCE O-level, focussing on British and European history from 1789 to 1914, so that certainly included 1812 and Napoleon’s Russian Campaign (I was very good on Napoleon) but I had never heard of this war before.  How remiss of my History teacher who used to drill us to a very high standard.

Then it dawned on me that we were studying for an exam that concentrated on European and domestic British history, and an American war didn’t come under that heading even if Britain had been involved (one of the pitfalls of studying for exams!).  As far as I knew, the USA had gained its independence in 1774 and that was that.  Of course I’d heard of the Battle of New Orleans, but I hadn’t known when it took place. Nor did I know of the precise circumstances described in The Star-spangled Banner. How lucky that nowadays we can turn to Google and Wikipedia to fill the gaps in our knowledge!

Cover of sheet music for "The Star-Spangl...

Cover of sheet music for “The Star-Spangled Banner” by Francis Scott Key, transcribed for piano by Ch. Voss, Philadelphia: G. Andre & Co., 1862 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The number of British troops involved in the War of 1812 was relatively small, because most of our fighting men were deployed in the Napoleonic wars, in which far more was at stake. This conflict in a distant former colony was just a minor matter in British foreign affairs, and is scarcely mentioned in our textbooks.  It was, of course, a defeat for the British hence something of an embarrassment, but since it resulted in a status quo ante bellum with no changes in borders etc, we could afford to sweep it under the carpet and forget about it. For the Americans and Canadians, however, it settled their status as independent nations with clearly drawn borders. In fact, last year while Britain was once again looking inward and self-absorbed with the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and the London Olympics, over the Pond there were all kinds of bicentenary celebrations going on in the USA and Canada.

English: Sculpture Monument to the War of 1812...

Sculpture Monument to the War of 1812 (2008) by Douglas Coupland in Toronto/Canada (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I wonder if the War of 1812 figures in modern British history books?

I must find a British teenager studying history …