Basia Unleashed

Once upon a time there were three little girls (well, there will be four involved but that comes right at the end, just to keep you reading). Two of them grew up with nothing but love and hard working parents; the third had a fairytale princess childhood with everything a girl could want - but did she? The first two, Irina and Anna, knew the third one, Helena, because Helena's nanny lived in their tenement block. Helena's father was a pharmacist - they had a big house with a garden and she had all the dolls a girl could want. Anna and Irina's parents were just shopkeepers and factory workers, but that's childhood for you, no one's counting the pennies when you are just a girl. They were all nine years old.

Then one day, not to put too fine a point on it, shit happened. Helena disappeared. Anna and Irina did not understand why. And then Irina disappeared. And Anna was all alone. Anna was alone for the next sixty years.

So here comes the fourth girl. For her to be introduced at such a late stage of the story requires artistic license, so you are just going to have to bear with me and accept that as circumstances go, she got involved. Here's where it gets interesting: Helena hadn't disappeared, well not literally, someone had saved the day and saved her life.

And girl number four found her. After sixty years, after being hidden in a wall in a house in Lodz, after displacement and a lifetime of wondering, she had been found. Helena was alive and well and suddenly, thanks to girl number four, on the phone to Anna, crying and laughing and talking like nothing had happened to spoil the endless summers and the ice cream and the music.

So what about Irina? The missing girl? Well girl number four tried her best; she asked everyone, the saints, the scholars, everyone who might know. Until she went to the place where the ultimate truth lies and asked: Where is Irina Borenstein? But they had never heard of her. No one had ever heard of her, it was like she had never existed. So, that's six million and one.

Helena and Anna met up again. Girl number four never saw either of them again but she thinks of them all the time, like she did today for some reason. And at least three people know that a nine year old girl growing up in the Warsaw ghetto did exist and deserves to be more than a name that never even made a list.

__this was first posted in September 2006 but Irina will soon have made the list at Yad Vashem. I promise.

Posted by Basia at 1:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

New Year, new me, new you, new everyone. New hopes for you, me, world peace and Manolo Blahnik drastically reducing the price of his shoes. Every year it is the same, every year we say "ah but this year I'll make it so" and every year we realise that we haven't done anything.

Taking a chance seems the biggest risk imaginable, especially when it means giving up your comfort zone and striking out into the unknown. Jumping into the void with your eyes shut is, however, the biggest thrill that thrill seekers experience. Regret is not a word in my dictionary - especially when it comes to regretting things I have never done. If am lucid enough on my death bed, I do not, actually I refuse, to be thinking "what if I'd gone to....what if I'd done....how would my life have been?" Imagine ending your life with regrets.

Of course, wearing your heart on your sleeve ensures more than the average amount of heartache. Being open to the unknown brings with it a set of keys that can unlock unbelievable experiences of pleasure and pain. But eventually, the sleep walking through year after year, has to end.

As it is written, so shall it be...

Those of you who know me well will know that when it comes to upping and going, I am pretty good at it. My life has changed in ways I never imagined because I just did it. A holiday is nice, going to France and Ireland and catching up with those I love will be wonderful, but I'm talking about what I have realised is my life's work and maybe why I am here in this lifetime. I had an inkling of it on my first visit, on the second, something in my soul rang like a bell and now I wonder what took me so long to realise this.

And when I realised where I wanted to be, the soul bird, for so long curled up tight, huddled inside me, turned its face east to welcome the warmth of the rising light, spread its wings and it smiled....

Posted by Basia at 11:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When someone we love dies, we become selfish. Death becomes not about the person who died, but about those of us who are left behind. I remember when my mother died, my father kept it all in and if he cried about it, I never really knew. A year later when Sophie, our Burmese cat died, he cried inconsolably for days.

Losing an animal seems to bring out stronger feelings because, unlike humans, our animals never judge us, never bear grudges, never say things they shouldn't, never wound us with harsh looks or comments. They never stop loving us, no matter how mean, petty, disagreeable and wretched we are. This is what we need to learn to be like with other humans and this is why losing the one who loves you above all others cuts like knife.

Last year when I was in Australia and so lost I didn't know which end was up, a labrador dog came into my life. People come into your life for a reason and so do animals. My friend didn't need another dog, but there he was anyway, small and blonde and beautiful and suddenly in her garden and in my life. There were days when I thought I would go completely blind with the pain that was inside me, but everything changed when Toby came to town. He grew big, I mean huge, he wagged his tail so hard every time he saw us that it could have powered enough electricity for a small town, but there was something about his eyes that gave me a lifeline.

Toby could see right into my soul and in his eyes I could see the power of the universe. I could go on endlessly about how he would suddenly get up off the floor, come over and stick his big face on my thigh and stare up at me, or how he would sit beside me and cuddle right up close as if he knew what I was feeling, but all dogs are good at that. We could be like that too but we just never learn to read the signs in others. We could do it if we stopped thinking about ourselves alone, like Toby.

He taught me patience, because by God you need patience with a puppy; but mostly he taught me how to love again. Toby, I don't know who you were, or who sent you, but you came when you were needed the most and you gave of yourself so selflessly. To people who would say that you were just a dog, you didn't get the chance to experience Toby's love in your life, to have that full on joy to the world experience or be taught what is the most difficult thing for human beings to do - love unconditionally.

Nineteen months is not a long time to be on this Earth, even for a labrador dog. Often I have wished I wasn't so sentimental about animals because when they die, the pain, the loss of that unconditional love is almost too much to endure. But if I hadn't had him, I'd have lost so much more. Today has been a sad day because mourning the loss of a beloved animal reminds me that I still have so much learn and so much to give and I'll never quite match up to his high standards. But then again, he wouldn't want me to, he loved me for being me. He loved us all equally, the good and the bad, he made no distinction.

Today should be a celebration of pure love. Because love is pure and it rises to the top of all the mess in our lives and we should embrace it and reach for it whenever we can, no matter where it comes from. Today is the day that love came to town.

For Toby - March 2006 - December 2007

Posted by Basia at 12:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Just over a year ago, Leah, who was just two weeks past her third birthday, was taken to a Spanish hospital where the doctors thought she would not survive the night. She was diagnosed with leukaemia and a particularly vicious strain of the disease at that.

This past year has seen Leah fight back; her tiny body has been attacked and hurt and injured more times than you think you would be able to bear on your own body - and yet she still fights back. Laying down in defeat is not her style, nor is self-pity or depression or rage. Perhaps you need to be a four year old to be able to do that, but knowing her is a lesson in life for us all.

Last week, Leah celebrated her fourth birthday, unaware as always of the poignancy that this particular birthday brought. It was a day for cake, presents and a bouncy castle. The police closed off the road around her party venue so that everything could be organised. That's how highly she is regarded in our little Spanish village. A superstar.

Superstars, as is their right, win awards, and so it was fitting then that last night, Leah won the Child of Courage Award at the first ever Pride of Spain Awards, her victory sealed by votes cast by the public. Votes no doubt cast by the entire village, people who have rallied around the family from the beginning, sending the bright white light of love to their stricken baby over and over again.

The light of love, the healing kiss of hope, travels fast and travels far. People in New Zealand and Japan, people in South Africa and Ireland, who don't know this little girl, have devoted hours of their time to help. From famous All Blacks to 15 year-old schoolboys - there is something about Leah, who in a world of sick and desperate children, has inspired people to do something. She is the single inspiration for the formation of a new foundation, the BKS Foundation, which will continue to raise money globally for children and their parents in the same situation.

At her fourth birthday last week, Leah bounced on her bouncy castle as if the lifeforce itself was propelling her. She had to be pinned in a chair beside her beautiful sister Tasha to have her photograph taken (again) when all she wanted to do was hurl herself around the castle defying the odds, defying death, defying just about everything that is ever, ever gonna try and stand in her way for the rest of her life. It was the biggest display of lust for life that I have ever seen; it was breathtaking in its sheer power.

To those of us who have come to know Leah, her sister Tasha and parents Dave and Cal, her win at the Pride of Spain Awards was no surprise. There simply could be no other recipient of the Child of Courage Award than Leah. It was written in the stars, it was a done deal, every angel in Heaven cast a vote for her.

When people are forced outside their comfort zone, only two things can happen. They can lay down and die, or they can stand up and fight back. Standing tall is what Leah's parents have done, their humility, gentleness and grace and their unshakeable faith in their daughter and their family bond saying as much about the strength of the human spirit as Leah's own fight for life and health.

Leah still has at least 15 months of intensive treatments to endure before the dedicated doctors in Alicante will even consider giving her a chance of life without chemotherapy. It is still a long and winding path this child of courage has to walk but she will never walk alone.

for more information on The BKS Foundation and how you can help please email bksfoundation@gmail.com

Posted by Basia at 6:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I have a Kalashnikov. Yes, that's correct, you didn't misread that. I. Have. A. Kalashnikov. I keep it in the kitchen cos well I never know when I might fancy taking it out and admiring its clean simple lines, functionality and beauty.

And how did I get my hands on such a treasure? Well from the daddy of all things kalashnikov, from the General himself. Mikhail and I shared a couple of shots one evening. He is quite by far the most enigmatic and most humble person I ever met and left me with more than his clever invention for memories.

I've been reading several reviews lately of a new book about the AK-47 and its impact on the world. Beloved of armies, guerillas, terrorists and Quentin Tarantino characters, when you absolutely, positively gotta kill everyone in the room, the AK-47 is your only weapon of choice.

Most people know the history of how Mikhail Kalashnikov came to invent his deadly weapon, a weapon that also fires underwater, and the new book claims he wished he'd invented a lawnmower instead.

But on a cold day in London, in full Russian dress uniform, the most gentle of human beings, slightly bewildered by the all fuss being made of him, spoke about the mother of all necessity - survival. Mr Kalashnikov has been an inventor all his life - he invented a vodka glass for the Russian navy that would never tip over, not even on the highest of seas - and lately in his old age and not exactly the richest man in Siberia inspite of all his achievements - he put his name to a brand of vodka.

This is not a paean to a weapon but to the man I met. I have a wonderful photograph showing the moment when he, surrounded by photographers, saw me trying to sneak a photo of him on my phone and reached out to me. The photograph I have was taken by one of the snappers present and given to me later as a surprise gift. The General and I are laughing and look like we're down the pub having a few swift vodkas...which technically we were.

But that evening, at a party given in his honour, I received his favourite invention. The one that people can't resist touching, can't resist trying to defeat. Everytime I take my Kalashnikov out of the cupboard and fill it with Russia's finest, I think of that humble, honourable man and how I'd been lucky enough to meet a whole lot of history in one person.

Russian toasts are notoriously long and sentimental, he said, and once you open a bottle it must be finished. So even when I'm completely whacked on vodka, I'll never spill a drop, thanks to my Kalashnikov.

Posted by Basia at 5:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Every morning I drive to work, there is a group of small children waiting on a corner for the school bus. They are little kids, not more than maybe seven or eight years old, and one of them, a little dark haired, flashing eyed boy, every day I drive by, without fail, is hanging off the pavement, his face full of excitement, watching for the bus to come around the corner.

Now before I go any further, let me explain a little about Spain and how it deals with its children. The school buses are luxury coaches, they come on time, every day a parent is on board (having drawn up a rota with all the other parents), the police close off the surrounding streets during school opening and closing times and the buses are paid for, in the case of state schools, by local government.

A Spanish child would never be stolen from her bedroom because a Spanish child would never be left alone to guard a pair of infants while she slept. A Spanish child would be in the restaurant with extended family and friends all taking responsibility for her. And she would never be seen by any other Spaniard in the restaurant as a "bloody child who shouldn't be here."

Community means everything here. If Spain is losing a lot of its individuality because of EU inclusion, community responsibility is one thing (apart from endemic law breaking), thankfully, that remains.

Now back to the kids at the bus stop. My little man, as I said, every morning, practically jumps off the pavement with excitement, his face full of expectancy for the day ahead. And every day, his brother pulls him back from the edge of the pavement, while a posse of adults stand guard.

And I got to wondering, that little boy, cute as a button, will he spend the rest of his life heading for the edge? Will he always have someone to pull him back? Will he even want that?

And if he does always prefer to live on the edge, will people realise, will even he realise, he's not drowning, but waving?

Posted by Basia at 10:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

How long have I been back? Five minutes? Someone or something or someplace is calling me, calling me insistently. Like the small voice that you hear in the dark when everything is peaceful, it won't go away.

But where is it? Where am I going?

Posted by Basia at 12:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)