New column by Renato Baretic for T-Portal
Illustration / adaptation of an existing photo: Mario Jurjevic
One of Croatia’s most prominent novelists and columnists Renato Baretić dedicated his newest column to those who are hit the hardest by the refugee crisis – children. We are sharing it, with his permission.
Kids without a single toy
I don’t know if you’ve noticed it too: so many children are fleeing and yet there’s not a single toy in sight, not even the tiniest teddy bear. Maybe in all the hurry and fear there was simply no time to bring Teddy, maybe Mumo fell overboard, maybe it got lost during climbing through train wagon windows, maybe it was ripped by Orban’s sharp barb wire, maybe it’s still sitting, forgotten, somewhere in the bushes along the tracks near the train station…..
I’ve been watching them for months and I’m hurting without even knowing where the pain is coming from, inside or outside, whether it is spreading or getting denser, whether it’s malignantly dormant or pulsating. I’m watching them and it hurts, that’s all I know.
I’m watching them and on the TV screens I see the very same scenes I saw, in person, 25 years ago: I see them in lines, on the windows of buses and trains, in their parent’s arms and on their shoulders or walking by the feet of grownups. I am seeing lost, confused and scared children, children that – apart from the youngest ones – are not crying, laughing or talking. I am looking at children without a single toy.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed it too: so many children are fleeing and yet there’s not a single toy in sight, not even the tiniest teddy bear. Maybe in all the hurry and fear there was simply no time to bring Teddy, maybe Mumo fell overboard, maybe it got lost during climbing through train wagon windows, maybe it was ripped by Orban’s sharp barb wire, maybe it’s still sitting, forgotten, somewhere in the bushes along the tracks near the train station…..
Teddy, Bunny, Kiki, Lola, Dumbo, Pingo….They were all left behind somewhere, either at home or along the way, there was no time or no possibility to take them on this way of the cross. In 2015, mummy and daddy had to think of other, much more important things, you will understand one day my dear child and you will forgive them.
Just like you I am following everything that is going on, I’m looking at this mishmash of kindness and cynicism, humanity and cruelty, despair and confusion; I am a helpless spectator of something which has never happened before and I envy every fool that has a firm stand about this global humanitarian and civilisational tragedy. I tried to form one (because every person should, in order not to cry as soon as he wakes up every morning) but without any success. I’m debating with myself about the level of unquestionable guilt of the western greed, I compare it to the eastern fanaticism in celebrating bloody deaths, trying to predict which card, in a month or two, will Putin play in all this, but all these are just empty subjects the media, through which I am trying to find my own stand, is filled with. And then, in the early wee hours of the morning when I finally lay down and try to force myself to sleep, I realize that the only thing that matters in this whole deal: those kids without toys. Kids without a single toy.
Sure, they get bread and water along the way, milk and a wafer or two, juice or a piece of fruit, but where is their Teddy, Binky, Bubbi, the one thing they can turn to and whisper their secrets and fears in the dark when they lay their head on the pillow? Under how many blown up bricks is it buried today, from which ocean bottom are its glass eyes looking up, towards the bright sky? Did the foxes that found it under a tree next to the railway where they last rested tear it to shreds or did they befriend it? Is it already telling tales of its incredible journey, are the foxes and other forest animals discussing how to help it find a way to continue on so that he can find the legendary prince Ahmed of Hama, world traveller and most faithful friend somewhere in the outskirts of Mönchengladbach?
Please, if you can, answer this plea of mine, and then you are free to forget you ever heard of me, ok? Sit down with your own child, grandchild, nephew and ask them to give up just one plush toy, not too big, not too heavy, Put it then in your pocket or purse, head towards the refugee and give the toy to the first quiet child you come across. Try and explain that you were looking for him or her because you know they need a travelling buddy. And yes, please give the toy a short, simple name that’s easy to pronounce. Repeat it to the child a few times, smile and move on. It will all be ok, I am telling you.
There will always be warm water in bottles with crushed wafers, fences and barb wires, tents and containers covered with snow, someone will die on the next bed, many more people will put down mum and dad, but your Mumu, or whatever you decide to call it, will always be able to find the right comforting words for little Asan or little Maram once the night falls. And the legend of its unexpected appearance at the train station or at the Zagreb Fairground will be passed on from generation to generation of these new Europeans. And everything will be ok, believe me, it won’t hurt, only if you realize how big and powerful one small plush toy can be. Come on, take it to that child silenced by fear, it won’t take more than half an hour.
P.S. In cooperation with my editors, I have decided to deprive you of the possibility to ease your own mental troubles by typing up your comments under texts with my name and my face plastered on them. You are free to insult me and each other (face to face would be optimal, but I understand you don’t have the guts for it), but not under my name, you have your own. If this poses a problem of any sort, consult your doctor or pharmacist.
By Renato Baretić
Croatian version can be found HERE
