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Please can we go home, now?

My story for The Guardian, about being marooned in a beautiful and distant place, isn’t about shipwrecks and daydreams, it’s about me and so many others all over the world whose lives depended – rightly or wrongly – on planes. Coronavirus, then, has put a spanner in the works…

Read it over at The Guardian, or below:

With borders closed, our lifelines to family overseas have been cut. The isolation is suffocating

The first exhibition I visited when I arrived in Sydney in 2010 was called On Their Own: Britain’s Child Migrants. I stumbled across those gut-wrenching stories, and their tragically false promises of a better life, as I wandered alone around the city I was born in but hadn’t lived in since I was two. What I saw in those photos and letters at Australia’s National Maritime Museum wasn’t the land of milk and honey I’d dreamed of – that progressive, independent, free-spirited modern life my Australian mother fondly imbued in us as we grew up, oceans away. Instead, I saw a nation filled with people who had come against their will from far, far away, building their new lives on land owned and lived on by a people and culture pushed far, far from their homelands and the mainstream. Children torn from their parents, hearts broken across hemispheres and deserts and whole cultures disjointed from their song-guarded spiritual homes. How many lives in Australia are built on loneliness, I wondered?

They came by boat two centuries ago, they came by boat in the 1960s and they attempt to come by boat now. I came by plane, and I chose to come. But it doesn’t matter how we got here. The point is that the vast majority of us came from somewhere else – and, whether through family, or stories, or on paper or in feeling, are still entangled in that somewhere else.

My tight tangles come in the form of friends and family. My parents and a sister live in the UK, my parents-in-law live in Germany, another sister lives in Dubai. And so, my life, like so many lives in Australia, is partly held in place by a scaffold of planes and airports, bouts of jetlag and survival tips on travelling through the stratosphere in a speeding metal canister with two toddlers for 24 hours.

Covid-19 has thrown a spanner in the works. For some, this strange moment in time will forever be remembered by loneliness, as those living solo bounce around quiet apartments, tend to pot plants and Zoom family and friends. For others, it’s the utter opposite: their time, their body, their privacy all noisily sacrificed to family as they isolate together from the long tentacles of this kraken-like virus. They are living at work and at school and at home all at once and the end is nowhere in sight. For many, it’s far worse. Illness, intubation, loss and questions. For me, the pandemic has become about existing too far away.

Each English summer, I’d fly back with my babies and spend a few months with my mother, who has early-onset dementia, and my father, and my sisters and my German family. It was doable, back then, before a novel coronavirus wiped out the global air industry, closed borders and shut down the seemingly endless flow of people around the world. Before the viral age, airborne rivers of human bodies poured from Beijing to Tokyo to LA to London to Johannesburg to Abu Dhabi to Moscow to Istanbul to Calcutta. Aircraft hopped from city to city, over mountain ranges and deltas and family separation and detached friends and brought pieces of me together. It couldn’t – shouldn’t – have lasted as it was, pumping carbon into the atmosphere at the rate of knots, but I hadn’t expected those lifelines to dissolve quite so dramatically and indefinitely.

The upshot is that I’m trapped in a wonderful place that, to me, worked because of the planes that came in and out, and because of the borders that allowed me to travel freely. I came for work, for my Australian family, for the lifestyle, and I reconciled living 15,000km from my sick mother by telling myself I could be with her in less than 48 hours, if the worst came to the worst. Now, even if I could somehow abracadabra my way to Heathrow, I couldn’t get to her anyway – she’s been in strict isolation in her high-needs nursing home since March, no touch from her husband, no visits from her children, no scudding clouds overhead or smells of just rained-on concrete to break the monotony of her months.

Being from somewhere else is all I’ve ever known. I’m a classic third-culture kid – two parents from different sides of the world, bringing children up in a yet another range of countries and continents. I’m used to feeling a little dislocated, but this feeling, this new government-mandated isolation on a national scale, is different. With every slowly processed application to leave Australia, every new cap on the number of international arrivals, or every $3,000 hotel quarantine bill, the bubble of Australia – fighting fit but utterly cut off – becomes more suffocating.

I’m in good, if a little lost, company: 34% of Australia’s population over 15 years old – some 6.9 million people – were born overseas. Every one of my toddlers’ daycare friends has grandparents overseas. We all made this far-reaching life work, because we knew, if things went pear-shaped, we could be on a plane home within hours. That comfort has frittered away, like an air mattress deflating without warning. We can go, sure, but it takes an application to the government to leave, then a lottery to find flights to get back to Australia, then the expense and difficulty of hotel quarantine for a family of four. I have friends who are sick with worry about not being able to visit elderly relatives, and there are all the missed funerals, missed births, missed weddings and missed grandchildren – missed, because, although we choose to live with immense distance, the all-important option of being able to be there, if we so choose, has been ripped away. One friend, in Dubai, couldn’t be with her husband as he died in the Philippines.

Through it all, I’m hyper aware that my needs are few and my comforts are many. But, even for those who have been forced into physical or emotional exile, for those who have no financial power, for those whose worries are far more immediate than I’ll ever know, I sense the basic need for human touch, for family, for home – in whatever form – is universal.

For forced migrants who find themselves in a new place they never expected, but most especially the refugees and asylum seekers who are now held in detention, itself a cruel, trident-headed isolation from new beginnings, from society, from life, homesickness – if that’s what this is – on a massive and interminable scale is, I imagine, wrapped into the ordeal.

So, thanks to this coronavirus, the great global experiment that, in recent years, invited so many of us to call so many distant shores our homes has lost a little of its sheen. Perhaps this version of FIFO, cross-pollinated living, toes physically dipped into different cultures and lands and languages and opportunities, relying on planes and planes alone to fuel those rivers of workers, families, of snatched weeks of togetherness, wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Or perhaps things will spring back to form, contrails criss-crossing the planet, delivering jetlag, grumpy toddlers and huge, irreplaceable parental hugs sooner than I fear.

One of the funny things about all of this is the hyper-connectivity that has gone unabated, even accelerated. As vulnerable to cyber attack as our lives may be, our virtual lives can’t be directly touched by this particular virus. But, despite all the video calls, my body still, resolutely, remains stuck in Sydney.

These days, I sometimes feel I might have taken a wrong turn and ended up in one of those black-and-white images I saw hanging at the maritime museum in 2010. A self-orphaned child miles from her loved ones and unsure where to turn, carrying a face mask and a useless passport, waiting to be rescued. And feeling very, very far away.

But perhaps that’s the nature of our nation. With the help of planes and technology, we’ve learnt to forget that we live with the tyranny of distance, that our isolation is in-built and deeply shapes our collective soul. Loneliness is part of the Australian condition. But, if I’m feeling like this in a stint that we know to be temporary – god help us if it doesn’t turn out that way – then I have no idea what it must have felt like for those helpless migrant children, or for the millions who are forced to leap from all they’ve known, never to return home.

Because, I know, unlike so many from these lands and beyond, that I came by choice and I will, when things settle, be able to leave by choice, too.

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Cake #259 was different

Update: My story of Justin’s epic baking efforts was picked up by the ABC. It’s attention so well deserved by him and his a marathon of flour sourcing, carrot grating, rainy scootering and hot oven handling.

Read it over at the ABC: Justin Mackee had baked 258 cakes to get though coronavirus isolation in Tokyo, but cake 259 was different

Or here:

You’re in lockdown, so you baked. So did your neighbours, and your colleagues — and the whole pandemic-rattled world. But you didn’t bake like Justin Mackee.

Isolated, lonely and with a massive heart, the Tokyo man — a risk consultant whose work dried up as COVID-19 bit Japan — decided he would fill his newly empty time by baking a cake, then selling and delivering that cake for charity.

He wondered if anyone would pay for the cake and whether, maybe, he’d be able to make a few, or even a dozen, to benefit the Japanese food bank, Second Harvest Japan.

He hoped the only cake in his repertoire — a carrot and banana loaf — would cut it. He gave his impromptu project a name, then introduced Let Tokyo Eat Cake via Instagram. He decided he’d take and post a photo of everybody to whom he delivered a cake.

He went to the local supermarket, then to the next store and then the next as he battled supply shortages to find the wholemeal flour he needed. And then, and only then, he prepared his tiny counter-top portable oven for the handful of cakes he envisaged making.

Eight weeks on, the 39-year-old has baked 262 cakes from his cramped central Tokyo kitchen, raising over $US8,800 for the nationwide charity.

Baking through isolation

Justin’s impromptu decision to turn his small kitchen into the hub of his own cottage industry has led him, loaded with cakes on his scooter, to mansions and soup kitchens, to strangers and old friends, and to a sort of social interaction he craved.

“This is very much a selfish endeavour in the sense that I’m isolating on my own and I’m really struggling. I’m just struggling at home, struggling with a recent break up, struggling with worrying about my own business,” he said.

His parents live an hour away, beside the surf and in view of Mt Fuji, his 97-year-old obachan, or grandmother, in their full-time care. In less unusual times, he regularly takes the train to visit his obachan, taking her for breakfast and a walk and to watch the waves.

“I couldn’t see my grandma. I love being able to do something for someone I care about and I couldn’t do that,” he said.

Sweet surprise

His days now begin with mixing the fruit, nuts and flour together for his loaves, with the first batch in his oven by 6am. By mid-afternoon and eight neatly wrapped cakes later, he begins around three hours of deliveries on his scooter to anywhere within Tokyo’s 23 wards.

Most cakes are bought as presents for others, often as surprises, and he has delivered dozens to local children’s cafes, or local charitable organisations that provides meals for the children of financially disadvantaged families. Along the way, he has photographed every recipient, an ever-expanding gallery of loaf-laden customers — and fleeting social moments — filling Instagram.

“I’ve met old friends I’ve not seen for nearly 10 years, award-winning actresses, globally renowned chefs, the 70-year-old parents of children who are based in the US, millennials who want to do something to help others and a lady who was searching Instagram for cakes,” he said.

“As brief as the interactions are is just how much positivity it gives me being able to see a smile and deliver a cake to someone I’ve never met.

“From the beginning I was taking a portrait of every single person and, looking at them after a week or two, I realised the portraits were wonderful because there’s a little bit of joy in every one of them.”

Visiting customer 259

But it was cake number 259, baked on Friday, that gave pause to his epic efforts in lockdown.

That loaf was baked for Justin’s most special customer yet. After three months apart and a steady fall in coronavirus cases in Tokyo, he was finally able to hand deliver a cake to his obachan in her home beside the beach.

“I can’t tell you how happy it made me,” he said of their reunion.

“The tears in my eyes, just from her holding my hand, took me by complete surprise.”

——-

Read my original Medium story here. And please share the love.

All photos credit @let.tokyo.eat.cake.

View at Medium.com

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Coronavirus and a three-year-old

 

A three-year-old, two minutes, a mic and no warning: Welcome to Finia Fridays.
In this first interview, we talk COVID-19, social distancing and the locked-down state of international air travel. Kind of.

Me: Finia, what’s in the air and what are we scared of when we touch each other?

Three-year-old: Um, coronavirus.

And what is coronavirus?

You can’t touch things.

Why, what does it do?

It’s do get corona on your hand.

And then what?

Then what. You have to wash your hand. Huh?

Mmm-hmm.

And then you have to … mm, don’t touch things.

Why, is it because, does it make you sick?

Yeah, stay.

Makes you sickie. And then what.

Then what. Then what?

Do you have to go to hospital?

Yeah. Have to go to hosiple. Hmm?

And then, what about all the planes in the sky?

All the plane is gone in the sky co’ we can’t go on plane co’ we can’t reach the plane cos all the plane in the sky so we can’t fly in the plane. Everyone fly in the plane, now we got no more planes to fly in. That why it’s really sad.

And are you, do you miss seeing anybody?

She buries her head in the sofa. Ok, now she’s looking sad and she’s told me she’s not doing any more talking. Ok, Finia, thank you for the interview.

Huh? What?

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On running and crying

 

There’s a part of my running route, a short and gentle uphill climb that turns a right corner at the top, where the path curves round a busy set of traffic lights. 

I’ve come to remember sections of my runs by what I was listening to when I trod each section. Or maybe it’s the other way round – I remember pieces of podcasts and news stories, reports of global events and snippets of heart-warming anecdotes when I think of the places I’ve run. The beach in Queensland that is all about Turing and sentience, the corner of summertime Munich that now reminds me of alien invasion, the Kenyan elections unfolding alongside a corn field in west England. 

Maybe it’s the rhythm of my jogging, or the fresh air, or the lack of distraction, but I have a curiously vivid memory of those places and their soundtracks.

The path has got a lot busier than usual, we’re allowed out of lockdown for exercise and the gyms and beaches are closed in this part of Sydney, Australia, so everyone seems to have taken up running, or walking with their families, to escape the four walls of home. I tread from the pavement to the road and up again, skirting around prams and masked couples where I usually pass next to no-one. 

And as I tread the warm tarmac, sweep around roadworks and pass boats parked on trailers alongside the golf course, I listen to news from America during the Covid-19 crisis. My runs have become 

That’s what I was doing as I approached the small hill a few days ago, and that’s how I learnt how hard it is to run and cry at the same time.

I’m listening to a story about a woman who is barred from visiting her mother who has ALS and lives in a hospital and, with coronavirus spreading, the woman worries about never seeing her mother again. She stumbles with grammar, her syntax muddled by the overwhelming reality that, if coronavirus reaches her mum’s ward, it’s very likely she’ll die. She lives across from the hospital and can see her mum’s window. She’s forced to ask questions she never imagined she’d ask – will she have to stand in the park as her mother dies, and imagine what’s going on behind that glass as she looks up from her safe distance?

And I think of my own mother, in a high-needs unit in a care home in England. She has early-onset dementia and is hoisted from her bed into an armchair and back again each day. Because of the virus, she’s not allowed to leave her room or to have visitors, so, even if I was to somehow abracadabra my way through aeroplane-less empty skies to Covid-ravaged Europe, I’d get no further than looking up at the double-glazing in her window, too. 

My chest seizes up as the woman describes her dream of getting her mum the fuck off planet earth and how irrationality sometimes takes over – could her mother’s ventilator be given to a younger, more potentially fruitful patient? She has no breath of her own, and no chance of taking another breath, after all. 

It’s happened a few times, now, as I run and listen to what sound like dispatches from a third world country. The hospital worker in New York City who couldn’t be with his wife as she died at home. The immigrant who, sick with Covid-19, is sleeping in his car because he was thrown out of his accommodation by his scared, pregnant landlady. 

I struggle for air, my throat clamping down and my chest feeling like it’s buckling under a heap of sand bags. I can’t breathe. I imagine asthma attacks as I try to keep moving. I hear a whimper – it’s me. I stop, fold over and catch my breath as tears merge with sweat, pricking my eyes.

I leave the green of the park behind me and run towards the ocean cliffs. I lean on the railing and suck in big lungfuls of salty air, the foam churning 100 feet below and, in the distance, with the land, people and the virus behind me, I look to the calm, grey horizon.

The accounts go on – ventilators puffing and emptying broken lungs. The suffocating coughing, the good samaritans and the thought of so very many, locked down, locked away and locked out. I miss you, Mumma. I’m not running, so this time, when the tears roll and my face crumples, I can breathe.

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