Building Houses for Fairies

“Mummy, I met Sime again today!” announced my young son, with a beaming smile on his face, this evening, as we were sitting, with my daughter, drinking our respective choice of banana milkshake, hot chocolate, and coffee, whilst looking out onto a busy road, from a café.  I had been lost in my thoughts, and was pleasantly surprised by my son volunteering some news of his day.  It was then, that I really noticed and appreciated the sunshine.  His new friend’s class had been on a return visit from their school, to his, and to visit the village church, as part of both schools’ religious education studies.  “We built a church together.  I helped Sime build it.”

I was reminded, that it was on another gloriously sunny day, when I had, had the privilege of being a parent helper, when my son and his class mates and teachers, went on their school trip to Sime’s school, exactly a month ago today.   I have been desperately trying to cling onto the memory of what was another, beautiful, perfectly imperfect day, in another Northern town, not far from Manchester.  It was a day full of joy, and hope and love.  A day of enlightenment, for me.  But a day, which ended so shockingly, tragically for others, and which seemed to be only the beginning of a month with a catalogue of horrific news stories, where people have suffered, have died, by neglect and by design.

Anyone with children or who works with children, will know the struggle with balancing safety and freedom, every day.  We had the usual, every day fears – will we manage to get the children to the bus on time, to the destinations on time, back to the bus on time, back to school on time; as they chatter along on their merry way up and down the hills, complaining that their legs hurt, dawdling all the way?  Will we manage this without anyone falling or dashing into the road?  As the sun was (unexpectedly) beating down on their heads, when we enjoyed a picnic lunch - were they too hot, would they burn, did they have enough to drink?  When they removed their cardigans and jumpers - would any of them lose them?  Would we lose any of Them, as we constantly counted heads?  It was a day of noise, of laughter, of minor squabbles, of toilet trips at less than convenient moments, of “Miss, he said…she did…!”  It was another beautiful, perfectly imperfect, day.  And like the concert goers in Manchester later that evening, the last of the worries on our minds, was whether a suicide bomber would break our journey home.

So, our school trip, on 22 May 2017, happened to be to join another school, in another part of town, and to visit a mosque together, and then to enjoy some activities together at the other school.  And I so wanted to share my story of that day, right from the off, but for a long time, didn’t know how.  The day after seemed so raw, and, in the midst of all that horror, how could I tell this story, without it appearing that I was making this terrible atrocity into something about me?  Mixed also with fear – fearful to go to see Robbie Williams that Friday.  Fearful of what reprisals might follow such an act, and they have.  But, there were so many acts of love too.  And those, braver than I, who I am so pleased have already found the words to speak out, to emphasise that people who act in such a way, are not representative of the many.  These acts of hate, whoever commits them, and whoever they aim them against, are representative of the few. 

So, here it is…

We were greeted by light at the doors to the mosque.  Smiling, welcoming faces, beckoned us in – a jolly Yorkshireman, who could have done a stint as a part time comedian, a confident Scottish lady, and the Imam.  Not the serious and sombre atmosphere, my mind had expected.  We were kindly shown, “this is what we do, and this is why we do it.”

I was in awe of the rainbow of books in the reading room, and the wave of peace that covered me when listening to the Imam demonstrate his call to prayer.  The children tried on different hats, and whilst they were well behaved and respectful, they were having fun.  The washing of hands and feet and faces, was especially poignant.  There seemed something very spiritual, calming and unifying, between the children, as they acted out the ritual.

We learned about the five pillars of Islam.  “We fast, so we know what it is like to be hungry and we can have compassion for others.”  Charity is one of the five pillars.  “If someone doesn’t have a coat, we give them a coat.” 

The children were divided into mixed teams and played games, and we were all unexpectedly fed and watered.  There was laughter.  There was love.

At the school, which is much bigger than my son’s, we walked through the classrooms to an outside play area.  On the way, there were whispers from other children.  “Who are they?  They look different.  They are wearing different cardigans.”

After lunch the children were invited to share in an activity together.  That was when my son met Sime.  Sime was looking for someone to help.  The two children worked so well together, as a team, building their house for fairies, with an upturned plant pot, glitter, beads, bits of wool, and straw.  Sime showed my son, how to cut out a hole for a door.  “What do you think of this?” said my son, as he placed some beads on the top of the house. 

As is usual with such things, there was a hurry to leave as time seemed to be running out to catch the bus home.  The children had all separated again, but my son had to find his “new best friend” to say goodbye.  I felt quite emotional, watching him seek out his new friend, just to say those important words.  So today, when he was so thrilled to have seen him, I wasn’t surprised, just pleased.  And it seemed so important to him to have seen Sime and to have helped Sime build something, for Sime to take with him too.  Our House for Fairies, still sits proudly on its shelf.

In the days that followed the Manchester bombing, and the culture of hatred towards Muslims from some, seems to have surfaced, it has occurred to me at times: If a school ground bully had come across and crushed “the house for fairies”, would we have blamed all the children in the school?  No. Ordinarily, one child would be punished for their crime, and the others would be encouraged to mourn the loss of their house, but to build another one.

We have so much to learn from each other, and especially from our children.  Let’s know each other more, and remember to keep building, together.  And remember (in the words of my Swedish friend) “there are always more nice people, than mean people”.

Annabel 💚