Inbetween
For years, I have lived in the space in between. Between cultures, between languages, between people from two different corners of the world. Until recently, I believed that this was exactly where we needed to learn to exist. That this middle ground might be the cure for many of the ailments of the modern world. Because truth often lives on both sides, shimmering in shades of grey, yet we, guided by internet algorithms, find it far more comfortable to see things in black and white.
But I am slowly beginning to understand why so many of us choose only one side and settle into the simplicity of a binary world. The disparity between realities, between right and left, shameless wealth and extreme poverty, war and peace, is becoming so vast that it is almost impossible to bear mentally. Perhaps it has always been this way. The difference now is that all of these worlds are within arm's reach, available in seconds, in full colour and HD resolution, while our brains struggle more and more to hold these opposing horizons at once.
Mine included.
Cyprus
I close my eyes and jump. I try not to think about the distance between me and the water below because the longer I think, the more afraid I become. I hit the turquoise sea with a splash, open my eyes beneath the surface, and rise again. Everything is fine. We are halfway through a boat trip off the coast of Cyprus. We've stopped for a swim. From above, we probably look like survivors from the Titanic, clinging to foam noodles. Bliss seems to be everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. The rocks in front of us belong to an RAF military base, the very same base that was targeted by a drone during the attack on Iran earlier this year. Every few minutes, fighter jets roar overhead. In the opposite direction lies the coast of Gaza. The absurdity of the situation makes us laugh nervously.
Paris
On the way to Coventry. On the radio, somewhere between adverts for Greggs and the BBC's latest programme, comes an ad for Eurostar. The Louvre. Croissants. Accordion music in the background.
"Paris in 2 hours and 33 minutes. Why wouldn’t you?"
Why wouldn’t I? Let's think about that.
Perhaps because of the nationwide protests, burning buildings and people looting shops? Perhaps because we are still rather fond of being alive? Perhaps joining a street revolution wasn't on this year's bingo card? Strike out whichever answer doesn't apply. What genius decided that advertising Paris and painting it in scenes straight out of Netflix's Emily in Paris was the perfect marketing strategy at a time when, for days now, we've been watching the capital of culture burn? Both literally and metaphorically. Eurostar, I would seriously consider replacing your marketing director. Social awareness is clearly not among their strengths.
Milan
My daily dose of Instagram. I still don't know why I do this to myself. G. sends snippets from Milan: pastel-coloured trams, balconies overlooking narrow streets, ancient columns, and scoops of gelato in every shade of the rainbow. Above them, a cloudless sky and sunlight resting on Gothic spires. I keep scrolling. Someone is losing weight. Someone else is searching for themselves on the other side of the world. Małgorzata Rozenek is broadcasting from her perpetually open online boutique. This time she is selling anti-wrinkle creams that blend beautifully into the décor of her multi-million-pound bathroom.
A few reels later, more footage of street protests appears: a sea of people colliding with police. Paris? No. This time, Milan. I text G.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes. How about you?" she replies, clearly unaware.
The unrest missed her by a single day. I struggle to reconcile what I am seeing on my screen with the photos she has just sent. That these are, in fact, the same place.
And once again, I want to retreat into a cave. I don't want to know about any of these things.
Because what value is there in knowing, when your ability to act is so painfully small?
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