Article

Christmas survival

Comment

21 December 2023

7 min read

Dealing with death at Christmas

On the darkest December day, a grim anniversary is recalled.

Jean Kabasomi

Jean is a consultant working with financial and Christian organisations. She also writes and broadcasts.

A moody sky overshadows a shingle beach on which a lone empty deckchair stands. A pier with funfair is in the middle distance.

Brighton Pier.

Nick Fewings, via Unsplash.

Thursday 17th December 2020 - a day I won’t forget.

Christmas 2020 was already proving to be a little strange. The UK was in this weird place of tiered restrictions, a sort of semi-lockdown approach. In London and the southeast, we had a bit more flexibility than folks in the north of the country, but people were not really out and about. Most people were saving their interactions for Christmas Day, so the streets were mostly quiet.

Like virtually everyone working in the financial services, I was working from home. The night before, my older brother had left the house after an argument and not come home. My younger brother and sister were concerned about his whereabouts. His phone kept going to voicemail. They were worried. There wasn’t much to do or anyone to see because everyone was regulating their behaviour and saving themselves for Christmas. I, on the other hand, was more nonchalant about his ‘disappearance’. My view was that he was an adult and had a habit of doing ‘immature things’ to get our attention. I thought, ‘He would come back home when he needed to.’ Little did I know how wrong I would be.

At about 4:50pm, as I was winding up and about to log off at work, I saw a police car in our street. My room is on the second floor of our house and my desk is positioned so that I can look directly out of the window onto the street in front of our house. The police car stopped in front of our house. The officers got out and opened our gate. I remember I went downstairs and said, ‘The police are here.’, just before the doorbell rang. I was slightly annoyed, I remember thinking, ‘What silly thing has my brother done now?’

My Mum invited them in. But they wouldn’t speak to her. They were looking for my sister. This seemed really weird at the time. Mum kept asking them what they wanted. But they wouldn’t reply. They just kept saying that they needed to speak to my sister. They wouldn’t speak to my sister in front of all the family, so they led my sister outside into the garden. It was dark outside. We couldn’t hear what they were saying because the back door was shut but we could see my sister’s reaction. She was deeply distressed. My Mum was beginning to get upset too, because she could see my sister through the window. They came back into the house. The police remained silent. It was just strange. My sister kept saying that we all needed to sit down in the living room. Mum kept asking the police what was going on but they remained silent. My younger brother and I were also frustrated and wanted to know. ‘Just tell us what is happening’, I remember saying. But my sister kept saying that we needed to sit down and go to the living room.

We finally all sat down and then one of the officers began to speak. I don’t remember his exact words but it was something to the effect of ‘A body was found this morning at Brighton Pier. From the belongings found on the body, we have identified that it is the body of your brother.’

At this point, I don’t think any of us really understood what he was saying. Someone must have asked, ‘Does that mean he is dead? Are you saying he is dead?’ ‘Yes.’, was the response. ‘How did he die?’, was the next question. Again, more weirdness. It seemed that they didn’t really want to use the word suicide, but that’s what it was. We kept asking for more details. What time? How did it happen? Was there anyone with him? But nothing was forthcoming. It all felt like a cover-up. And then it was over. They left and it was just us left to process it. It all seemed so surreal.

That evening is all a bit of a blur. I am quite a practical person - I knew I was leading a bible study meeting that evening. So, I messaged, the pastor in charge to say I wouldn’t be able to lead it that night. After that, the next feeling, I remember is annoyance towards my brother. I felt it was selfish on so many different levels. Why did he have to do this? How does it solve anything? Why is he always looking for attention? Why would anyone do something like this just before Christmas? I remember feeling he had destroyed Christmas for us forever. Why didn’t he just say something to us? We had just started playing tennis on weekday mornings before I logged into work, why didn’t he mention he was upset then? My younger brother and sister were deeply disturbed and didn’t know what to say or do. Both were blaming themselves. Mum was totally shocked. I kept thinking and saying that he didn’t mean to do it. It was just a mistake that he couldn’t undo. If we weren’t in this quasi-lockdown situation, maybe someone would have noticed him in the water sooner and he would have been rescued? Maybe someone would have been walking along the Pier that night, seen him in the water, jumped in and pulled him out? We didn’t need a hero, maybe someone would have seen him in the water and just called 999? Maybe someone would have noticed him pacing up and down, and tried to speak to him before he went over the edge?

The run-up to Christmas that year was extremely difficult. The government announced a full lockdown again and my family had to travel to the morgue in Brighton to formally identify my brother. I chose not to go with them, I felt at the time, that I wasn’t ready to see my brother’s body. We also had a tree in our garden whose roots had ruptured the sewer pipe, causing our bathroom to flood. It was all one big mess.

I am in charge of the Christmas shopping operation in our house. Christmas is my favourite time of the year. I love the carols, the weather, the darkness, the cosiness, the services at church, the Christmas TV schedule, the food and the opportunity to rest, pause and reflect. I love everything about Christmas. But now it felt weird celebrating Christmas. The delivery came. On Christmas day, I cooked, my sister baked. But it was all just so sad. We sat in silence through a lot of it just eating. Sometimes we spoke about the days leading up to my brother’s death. At different points throughout the day, one or all of us would be struggling to hold back our tears or silently sob. That period was one of the most difficult periods of my life.

I do not have to be in a state of constant mourning throughout the Christmas period. Neither do I need to pretend or ignore that I haven’t experienced death at Christmas.

Three years later, Christmas is still my favourite time of the year. Why? Despite everything, I still believe in the hope that came into the world at Christmas through Jesus Christ. It is that hope that helped me pull through that time. I held on to the comforting words I found in the Bible. I found people who supported me and worked through my grief on the Bereavement Journey. On this course, I discovered that it was okay to be angry, guilty, disappointed and sad about death. It was all part of the process. It was okay to grieve differently from my siblings and my Mum. I didn’t have to force them to feel like me, nor make myself feel like they did. As we began to piece together my brother’s final days, I slowly understood that he had his own mental struggles and sadly was unable to find the help he needed.

I learnt that grief involves the whole person – the body, soul and mind. I understood why I sometimes felt exhausted and at other times I was wide awake. It all made sense when I suddenly felt sad on my way home from my first time at Wimbledon. The body has a weird way of remembering things even when you think you are okay mentally, so I wasn’t surprised when I got a severe migraine exactly three years to the day that my brother didn’t come home. My faith does not mean that I understand everything about my experience neither does it mean that I can’t lament, question or be unhappy about the way things unfolded.

For me, Christmas is still a time to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, the birth of Hope. But it is also a time of solemnity, even of grief. As the years go by, this will get easier but probably won’t go away. The two feelings are not mutually exclusive. I do not have to be in a state of constant mourning throughout the Christmas period. Neither do I need to pretend or ignore that I haven’t experienced death at Christmas. Rather, the most honest thing I can do is to acknowledge both feelings and take each day as it comes.

Article

Comment

Politics

2 May 2023

7 min read

What’s up with activism and what it is missing

As local elections occur in England, Councillor Elizabeth Wainwright is stepping down. Finding herself increasingly distant from activism, she asks if there’s any room for love.

Elizabeth Wainwright

Elizabeth Wainwright is a writer, coach and walking guide. She's a former district councillor and has a background in international development.

A protestor hold a megaphone up at a demonstration outside a building

A 2017 protest against London Fashion Week.

During my term as a Green Party District Councillor, I was once publicly congratulated by the local Extinction Rebellion (XR) group for taking on the new role of ‘Cabinet Member for Climate Change’.

A week or two later, I was questioned at a Council meeting about whether I was part of XR – opposition Councillors wanted to know if I’d be using their “extreme rent-a-mob tactics” in my role.

The local XR group are kind and knowledgeable and are making things happen. But to my Council questioners, this seemed to matter less than the fear of the ‘other’ – in this case, what they perceived to be a mob of environmental extremists that might do harm to the Council. It works both ways – I’ve also seen activist groups paint all elected Councillors with the same brush, assuming none of us care. It feels like there is little grace and a lot of judgement going round.

I’ve been curious why local non-activist residents and Councillors might not be keen to engage with activist groups (the term ‘activist’ is a broad one, and this article isn’t long enough to analyse it, but activist groups are generally engaged in activities to bring about social, environmental or political change).

Some tell me that they’re put off by what they perceive to be self-righteousness, judgement, anger, and the ‘hippy’ identity. I am put off by some of these things too, however much the media might falsely amplify these qualities – but still, perceptions close down relationship and possibility, and this is one of the things that keeps me at arm’s length from the ‘activist’ label, particularly when it gets caught up in group identity and expectation too. At a time when we need to see change in so many things – the state of the environment, politics, social equality – I’ve been wondering why I feel a distance from the ‘activist’ identity.

As well as getting elected, I’ve taken part in marches, signed petitions, joined social and environmental action groups. I want to walk alongside others who are doing something about the things that matter. But I have struggled to find the in-between of ‘slacktivism’ on the one hand (supporting causes largely online with little commitment), and intense commitment to a particular group or tribe on the other. And I am tired, because despite the protests, volunteering, and organising, the challenges seem bigger than ever. These efforts are important, but protesting the status quo isn’t enough.

I look at the NGOs, political groups, roles, funding proposals, slogans, meetings and glossy branding that are often part of activism and civil society more broadly – and are tools I’ve used myself – and I find myself doubting that these things can really bring about the change we need in our relationship with each other and the planet. We need more than better branding, or more funding, or more campaigns. As Audre Lorde said, the “master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” I find myself distancing from the urgency of activism, volunteerism, and campaigning in their current forms.

I’ve felt public discourse and action become less patient, more certain, more fragmented, with little room for curiosity and open conversations.

As well as form, I also feel a disconnection from engagement with and discussion of the issues of our time. In my involvement in social and environmental action over 20 years, I’ve sensed the shift brought about by rapidly evolving technology and media, which mean social and moral norms are evolving too. I’ve felt public discourse and action become less patient, more certain, more fragmented, with little room for curiosity and open conversations – sometimes explicitly through cancel culture or more subtly through othering and unintentional judgement. I think of a song by Sam Fender called White Privilege which includes the lines

“Everybody's offended… I'm not entirely sure the nitpicking can count as progression… Nobody talks to each other for fear of different opinions…”

Perhaps that closing down of conversation is in part down to social media and its algorithms which respond well to noise, performance, and oversimplification – it is not a space designed to help us relate across difference and understand each other, yet this is vital if we are to create the change needed in ourselves and in the world.

I want to be part of meaningfully and wisely addressing the world’s sickness, not desperately and loudly treating its symptoms. I have been wondering if there’s another way I might think about creating change.

Author, educator and social critic bell hooks (who prefers her name written in lowercase) wrote her book All About Love because she was

“thinking about how we love and what is needed for ours to become a culture where love’s sacred presence can be felt everywhere”.

She laments the lovelessness that is pervasive in our society. She goes on to say,

“profound changes in the way we think and act must take place if we are to create a loving culture”.

Sometimes, the issues at stake demand that we weep, raise our voices, get angry. Jesus turned over trading tables in the temple when he saw the sacred space had been turned into a marketplace – he got angry. But ultimately, he asks that we love our neighbours, including our enemies.

And yet sometimes I wonder whether we know how to love in the world as it is today. hooks says,

“In the realm of the political, amongst the religious, in our families, and in our romantic lives, we see little indication that love informs decisions, strengthens our understanding of community, or keeps us together.”

In her lectures on ending racism and sexism, she notices that her audiences, especially the young,

“become agitated when I speak about the place of love in any movement for social justice”

despite the great movements for social justice having emphasised love. Her listeners seem

“reluctant to embrace the idea of love as a transformative force.”

We need to see love as a transformative force though. We say we believe in it; we make films and write poetry about it, we see it guide communities during collective experiences like global pandemics, we turn our faces towards it, we seem to want it. Perhaps this is where the hope is – that we want love in its various forms, even if we are embarrassed to say so. Love is not naïve, it does not ask us to be nice and polite, or eternally optimistic. Its presence does not remove negativity, disagreement, people who let us down. But I think it gives us the eyes and tools to work together, and to stand in compassion before judgement.

If we take love and affection for our neighbour and places seriously, understanding what it looks like in practice, then movements for change can begin right where we are – in our language, in our community, in relationships that ripple out. In a placeless and disconnected age, perhaps this is the kind of activism that would help us heal ourselves as well as the world. Author Simone Weil said that

“the gospel makes no distinction between the love of neighbour and justice.”

I am becoming drawn to a love-led activism, an activism that is made from the hard day-to-day work of listening, and patience, and loving what’s sometimes hard to love. It might mean taking time to build relationships with people who aren’t like us. It might mean breaking out of our institutions and tribal groups, hearing each other across difference, and imagining new possibilities together rather than form ever-tighter clubs. It might mean getting soil not screens between our fingers, rooting in relationship, slowing down, paying attention. Whatever it looks like, it must appeal to both activists and non-activists, because we must all be involved in calling forth new worlds.

The Bible is full of calls to love justice, to defend the weak, to provide for the poor and hungry, to defy the authorities when we need to – but to do all this, as Paul says, “rooted and grounded in love”. Micah says,

“what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”

As bell hooks knew, justice goes hand-in-hand with love. It is hard for one to exist without the other.

We can choose to open up conversations or shut them down, to walk with others or retreat behind ideological lines, to stand in judgement or relationship, fear or love.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter whether we’re catalysed by anger, indignation, love, or care – but it matters what we go on to do with that spark. We can choose to open up conversations or shut them down, to walk with others or retreat behind ideological lines, to stand in judgement or relationship, fear or love. I think about what might come next when I stand down as a District Councillor at the next election, following a pull to do justice, and to love kindness more than belong to a political tribe. If we choose, we could build a loving culture, weaving a social fabric where activists and non-activists can see past current paradigms and feel able to work together, holding each other up as neighbours whilst nurturing beauty, hope and the becoming world. It may have no clear identity, it may not suit the noise of social media, but this is work that I want to be a part of.