These guys :)

Busted!

I've cancelled the call to the ghostbusters. 

The poltergeist has been found and there's photographic evidence.

I ain't 'fraid of no ghost.

"Hey! I'm walking here!"

We have a walker in our midst. 

1 step on Friday.

6 steps infront of grampa yesterday... And 10 at Dada's (other grandfather) today.

Also he does not perform on request either... Hence no video evidence as of yet despite numerous efforts.

Oh Ezra... :)

A thirty two year wait...

There were rumors in the playground.

There were stories of what happened next.

Today at 4 o'clock I woke up having slept on the couch after a game of football.

I went collected my brothers to drive to get a train to London to find out the answer to a question that many had in 1983 following the Return of the Jedi.

Today, thirty two years later, my brothers and I ventured to the imax in London to find out.

Here's the moment captured at 6.20 this morning.

Oh and it was amazing!

Sounds of the jungle

The jungle camp in Calais was not the likely destination for my guitar.

It was found for me by my sister in-law when I was looking to play again. My family and friends brought me a new one earlier this year. I had two and I only needed one.

I recently accompanied a group of Mums, dads, music leaders and others with a whole heap of socks, jackets, carefully made up dignity packs for women, gloves, hats and... and did I say socks? 

None of these people were aid workers- they were citizens who all felt that they can no longer sit and watch a disaster unfold in front of us. One more death on our doorstep is one too many. 

I watched as they spoke to people saying 'what can we do to help you' and 'we will come back to help you'. Working in aid, I know the heaps of training people take before heading out... But this isn't 'out there' it's 'in here'.

I too felt that I can no longer watch this unfold in my armchair. 

As I walked through the camp I met a man named Jonathan and he was part of a church. We spoke to him. He showed us their centre for women. The small area they had made from make shift materials and even offered us some food.

When back at the car I asked our host, Dominique whether she would be kind enough to take my guitar and somehow get it to Jonathan and the group.

She took it from me.

Recently she sent me a few photos of Jonathan and the guitar. 

Enjoy bro.

Possessive and possession

Homework. Man it's endless. We even came home early from ukulele night as Caleb whacked his head on the short walk there saying "oh no, I need to hand in my homework tomorrow". He said he couldn't stop thinking about it whilst playing away at the jam. We left early.

After the short walk home we sat at the table learning about possessives, possession and where to place the apostrophe. 

At the end he said:

"Oh yes papa and this is from Joshie, Reuben and me" as he pointed to a small bowl of coins and a note.

"What's this for, Caleb?"

"It's for buying food papa. I put in the ten pounds and Joshie and Reuben gave the coins."

Days earlier we were sharing with them how we are praying for money and asked them to join us to pray that we may have enough for food.

Today, this evening, I hear my son say in not so many words 'don't worry papa, we're in this together'.

I'm pretty certain it was me that was taught about possession and the possessive this evening by my children.

Those Solanky Boys!

This photo makes me smile :)

Apparently he was mesmerised :)

A Mile in My Shoes

The other month alongside London’s Southbank I stepped into, together with a friend, a giant shoebox.

The Shoebox was the Empathy Museum’s ‘A Mile in My Shoes’ exhibition as part of the Totally Thames festival.

Inside was an emporium of shoes each carefully 'laced with a story'. 

The idea: you walk in exchange your shoes with a pair of shoes from their store that belong to some of the people who lives within a small radius of where you are standing and then you are given a snippet of their world, as told by them, through a pair earphones.

The steps involved are simple: step in, check your size, find a match, choose a pair of shoes and then step out and walk down the river with the ‘owner’ as your companion.

Personally, I couldn’t resist the subtle encouragement from my shoe shop attendant who asked “do you fancy trying the waders, they’re a match for you?!” despite the possibly peculiar looks it may attract, I accepted.

After getting fitted, the founder of the Empathy Museum, and if I’m honest a bit of a hero of mine in recent years, Roman Krznaric, came and pointed us in the right direction and said “enjoy!”.

We hit play and walked.

It was fiddly walking around in the waders I must admit. I soon forgot the ambient noises around me as a focused in on his voice and gazed out on the beautiful river that I walk passed so frequently yet take for granted it’s vital lifeline for this city. I learn, too, about the history of the man whose shoes I was wearing: how he loves seeing a different side to this city around and in the river. Each adjective he said carefully lit up his tone for his work and I slowly was absorbed.

After a while I swapped stories with my friend and listened to a man who worked on boats and shared about his older friend who kept an eye out over him.

We walked back, said thank you and took off their shoes and slowly laced up our own shoes stepping out and away.

For a brief moment these creative and imaginative empathy steps transported me into the world of strangers and their lives. It even fueled more empathy through the fascinating conversation that followed between the friend and I comparing our experiences and sharing what struck us about our time with these people.

If asked that classic empathetic question: how do I feel... hmmm...well I would say: I feel grateful for this insight, albeit brief, into a complete stranger's life. Thank you whoever you are for sharing this with me.

... jokes

I brought some gifts back from Eden for the boys.

I got Joshie (as he wants to be a writer when he grows up) a really cool Elephant Dung paper note book.

After a few seconds he said "Papa, what did the cow say when she saw a cow pat?"

"I don't know Joshie...."

"Poooooooooo"

Back at Eden today

Love this place. Fourth time here and keeps getting better :)

Football in the fog

Watching Caleb play at Ridgewaye is among my fav things to do. 

This morning it was a foggy affair. 

A couple of wins and a stint up front. Very enjoyable. Still waiting for his first goal :)

The Solankys 28.09.15

Inset day. 

A day off. 

And a fine afternoon for a walk in the woods with the family.

72 hours

Travelled over 800 miles over ground.

2 concerts. One with the after back stage party.

Night drive to north Wales.

Coasteering and jumping heights of nearly 9m.

Watching England get schooled by the Welsh in the rugby World Cup... In a Welsh patriotic pub where the locals said "you're brave coming in here".

There's a lot you can achieve in 72 hours.

Crawler

He's crawling properly now!

I hate charity adverts

A couple of months ago Charlotte Whittaker wrote a guest blog entry... She's been helping me at Empathy Action a little bit and she wrote another great piece that I edited.

Confession: I hate charity adverts

by Charlotte Whittaker (Empathy Action volunteer)

I know I shouldn’t, but I do. 

I hate watching them as they bring the suffering of those affected by war, poverty and disease into my comfortable cream living room. 

I hate my impulse to turn them off or distract myself on my phone, because I know that ignoring them doesn't make the situations in Syria, or Nepal, or Libya any less real. 

I hate the pictures of starving children who belong to a nameless number beyond my help even if I text £2 a month to the number flashing on the screen. 

I hate the jarring contrast of the Loreal model’s sleek waves with the wispy hair of the old lady rocking back and forth in grief, a juxtaposition which seems like an insult to her suffering and yet is part of the crazy world we live in. 

I hate that organisations which I believe in and support are driven to use manipulative music and images because we are all so deadened to advertising that nothing cuts through. 

I hate the one-sided picture of the world that adverts give; Africa reduced to cracked earth and crying children and people with hopes and loves and individual quirks transformed into a sea of pitiful faces. 

I hate that even when charities see the more nuanced picture they feel they have to tug on our heartstrings to raise the money they need.

I hate charity adverts even though I think they’re necessary and all the more because I believe that those who live comfortable lives like me should be reminded of the suffering of the world and spurred to act. 

I suspect I’m not alone too. I’m sure others would join me when I own up to wishing I could empathise more sincerely with the people who appear so fleetingly on my TV screen, newsfeed and google sidebar. The problem is: it’s very difficult to empathise with someone you’re being encouraged to pity. 

I’m not really relating to them through conversations, sharing of stories, taking time to do things and building up that shared-ness that empathy so powerfully helps deep connection with one another. But I am pitying them and settling to relate to the next best thing, a charity or even the TV, tablet or phone. 

This suggests that seeing the positive aspects of the lives of those living in even the most horrendous conditions is essential for relating to them as people rather than as symbols. 

I was recently impressed with the call for seeing 3 year old Aylan to be remembered as a happy boy rather than the refugee boy who was washed up upon a beach last week. This seeing and taking a new vantage point, however, is not easy. And that’s the thing: pitying is easy and empathising, perspective taking, understanding others, is hard. Convenience is winning all around us. 

We are not winning the war against convenient judgements that reinforce our stereotypes.. 

Rather the battle is much harder. We need to seek out the hope, creativity, fun, laughter, bravery, sacrifice and beauty that exist alongside the pain and tragedy. We need more modern films and novels about the experience of poverty to give depth to the people in the adverts and more direct interaction, particularly over the internet, to help create the real human bond on which empathy depends.

Inevitably this deep human connection is missing from most charity adverts that have barely 90 seconds to convey a deep message, despite the real efforts many do make to put a name and face to their appeals. Different styles of advertising that go beyond pathetic appeal may be part of the solution, but the onus should not rest solely with the charities. After all, their first duty is to the communities they seek to help and where the need is so great who am I to suggest they change the way they advertise because it makes me feel uncomfortable and guilty? 

On the contrary, I think the responsibility rests with people like me, watching the suffering of war torn countries flash onscreen between men selling deodorant and PPI claims. At very least I think we have a duty to educate ourselves. We cannot let a minute of emotionally evocative images be our only guide to complex political situations, awful conflicts or even whole countries. 

I think it is almost impossible for most of us to instantly empathise with the little girl we see drinking dirty water on a poster, rather than pity her. I wonder whether one way to start to empathise, and in doing this unlock a more genuine response to her suffering, is to try imagining her as she is - a whole person, with a best friend, a favourite song, talents and dreams. I hope that maybe empathy might be a way to break through the impenetrable barrier of the TV screen and a better motivator for me and others to take action through giving and working to combat the atrocious injustice of global poverty. After all, I may not like charity adverts, but they remind me that I need to understand others.

"Welcome" by Rachel Salter age 7 (from 1972 to a family fleeing a violent regime)

"Welcome"

While wars are raging far away,
People sent out of happy homes
Including you we sadly say
So join with us here, be merry do
We're all so eager to help you
We stitched a matres
Made up a cot
We've empty draws for all you've got
A jolly room with curtains bright
A flowery wastebin
A purple light
Welcome welcome that's what we say
So do please join us any day

by Rachel Salter age 7 (October 1972)
(typed up with the original words)

These words were written in a beautiful note to my father, mother, eldest brother, grandfather, grandmother & auntie as they were thrown out of a country forced to flee and entered into their house for but a short period.

Rachel, along with her family housed my family and gave us a second chance.

Afterwards a community group, St Nicholas Church in Sevenoaks helped us slowly rebuild our lives.

Humanity has not failed. This has happened before and the solutions came through children, their parents, community groups and others who helped their brothers and sisters in need. From what I am seeing right now: the will is there. I'm overwhelmed by the mass public and their response to this Refugee crisis.

#refugeeswelcome

Today I cried

Yesterday I cried because of a picture. 

I actually cried. Tears came flowing down. 

It was the picture of a boy washed up on a beach in Turkey. He was fleeing with his parents a country that all its citizens are leaving in fear of their lives.

I don’t cry.

If I do, it’s rare.

I can hold my tears back no more. I’ve watched and watched and watched this crisis unfold. I’ve even been to the place (the World Economic Forum) where it is about “Improving the state of the world” about this very issue. Even right now I’m working on ways to help and events to help more engagement. But I’m still stunned by these pictures. I read one group say about this that “Humanity has failed”. I don't believe it especially as a person who was saved as a son of refugee, but right now, at this specific time, I'm a doubter.

Today I have run out of words, efforts and all I can do is cry.

#nowordsjusttears

Lucy Masi's Thanksgiving

We buried and gave thanks to Lucy Masi yesterday. 

She lived to 89. 3 of her siblings died before her. Her mother passed away at 4. She lived through Indian independence. Fled the partition between India and Pakistan in 1947 during her third year of medical school (she never finished this degree). Became a teacher. Studied in London and Dublin. Taught in Uganda. Thrown out by a tyrant. Started again in Sevenoaks and continued to teach. Cared for her elderly father during his final days. Brought up 2 generations. Loved to read, especially her bible. 

We said farewell... Thank you... And remembered how much you loved others above yourself.

Going to miss you Masi, but thank you for all you have shared with me.

Angie :)