A Tear in Tangier
I’m not a sentimental soul so get surprised when something maudlin, corny or schmaltzy triggers a sniff. Let’s try that again: when something nostalgic, tender or passionate brings tears to my eyes.
These occasions are not rational or even legitimate, but they signal an aliveness within us, part of our emotional heritage but part primordial I think. We surrender to them or suppress them at our peril.
St Andrew's Church
Ambling around Tangier, I came upon the charming St Andrew’s Church built in 1905. With admirable grace its design engages with the local culture. It has a Moorish interior, ornamented with the Lord’s Prayer engraved in Arabic together with quotes from the Koran.
Buried in Morocco
The graveyard is almost English, lush green and shady; in it there are are buried a dozen or so downed RAF airmen. I was caught short by five of them, an entire aircrew, their headstones lined up, side by side. The youngest was nineteen and the oldest twenty-one. They crashed on 31 January 1945. At least sixty million people, some say eighty million, died in World War II. So why did these graves, well-cared for in a sunny spot, make me cry?
Because they were so young, the end of the war only months away - they were probably already talking about what they would do after the war - and they were on a routine patrol; engine failure or weather perhaps.
We don’t know how to mourn millions and millions, so we mourn the few and that’s all we can do, and do our bit for peace - keep trying to hold Government to account that keep wanting to make war. That’s all we can do.