My Christmas is a world away from yours.
By Anisa / Spinebreakers Crew
Here is a short story I wrote about a poor girl living in Uganda and her Christmas. I just thought i'd bring something fresh to the festive season, to make us all realise what really happens on the other side of the world. For not all of us are so lucky to be cosied up by the sparkling christmas tree on christmas eve, nor with family the next special day. It reminds us of the joys of Christmas, but also that we have more power than we think. For it doesnt take much to give a girl like her the perfect christmas. just some food, a smile and love.
My Christmas is a world away from yours
As my feet wear away on the harsh, stony ground; the twigs scratching and scraping, the sun blistering my battered feet. ‘Water’, I think.
Home is a sullen place of morbid expressions, as the emptiness of the same strenuous journey of the day drags on and on. There is no longer a sweet, smiling face by the pitiful excuse for a stove. No cheery chirps to keep the house awake and alive. For as the silence of the much loved and cherished heart-beat drew fainter, the silence engulfed us all.
No smiles or laughs, nor tears of joy. Still, we stay strong for each other, my four sisters and I. Bearing the burdens of a full grown woman and man. We must survive and work hard; labouring strenuously hour by hour, minute by minute. Keeping busy and busy through the day.
Although ‘busy’, more for the strength to keep our sickened shrills of grief at bay, ushered only under the solitude of the stars, though blind to all four as we bury our sodden faces into cushioned mud pillows and dust. Rolling and tossing and turning until exhaustion overcomes us. But not ever to dream, for we fear what sorrows we may face in the land of our minds, that have only thoughts of sheer poverty and strife.
For how strong can we really be? Even as I go to town with Adele to buy fish, I watch the pretty, playful children whose families manage to get more than just ‘by’. Yet while the festive season approaches, we can only but stare through at the crusty old TVs through the smeared window of the even crustier electronics shop, to marvel at pictures of the wonderful western world; of freedom and liberation. Of Christmas.
Christmas... These are the new images I will keep and remember:
Hearty feasts of turkey and spice, presents, crackers and a new born babe. The spread is sprawled down the length of the polished blue kitchen, where the sparkling tiles compete with the superior sparkle of the heavenly eyes, of a child’s absolute awe. A glorious feast with not a single spoil, for the shattered gravy boat only heaves a greater roar of joy. Laughter and happiness, combined to create bliss and a ‘happily ever after’.
But even though they are not memories of my own, I will cherish them and I will dream them. To hope hopeless hopes. For never can they, or will they, be any more than a dream. It is the way of the World.
And this is my Christmas.