Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Share on LinkedIn






Matthew Scurfield Turning the Stone, all rights reserved.



A long way from the party, bemoaning the loss, trailing the monkey, searching for reason in leafy suburbs, a blur of easy joggers, washing lines, sparkling homes and crewcut lawns… up one way down the next… he made it through to the outskirts, only to see his primate friend, on the other side of the road, disappear down a narrow path through some thicket into the jungle. Taking breath, he blustered on, keeping apace, until he stumbled upon a small clearing amid the dense and shaded forest floor. With no sign of the monkey, unstuck, alone, in need of rest and a safer distance from any predators that might be lurking, he scrambled up toward the canopy. Halfway to the top, tired to the bone, he settled on a grand old bed, two massive branches, sculpted and entwined together over centuries of weather, reaching out from the gigantic girth of a trunk, the strong arm of a magnificent kapok tree.

Laying still, in another’s place… the sun, piercing the vegetation above, sparkles and dances across the underbelly of green, throws of light, weaving atomic patterns with the air… a subtle kindness, gently sweeping the contours of his face… his eyes closed, turning a cacophony of noise to an incantation… calming an anxious soul, now heartfelt, in paradise… caressed by a soft warm breeze, swaying to rhythms of the interior… within seconds… he was drifting in a sea of dreams.

Past, present and future, no matter who or what he conquered, whatever the distance, by foul means or fair, however high he climbed, unless he crossed the track to embrace the all-encompassing, almighty, vastness, a mass of conflict followed wherever he laid his head.

Like the firecracker shock of a hard slap, a Jack suddenly leaped out of nowhere, screeching and shouting… you’re an imbecile, a buffoon, good for nothing, lazy and in the wrong place… so unexpected he stood to attention, smacked the mosquito and fell out of his tree!

Back in the world… dazed, a little concussed perhaps, certainly confused, but by no means clueless… fact, fiction, head cracked, or not, he knew the ground beneath his feet to be alive, bore witness to the ebb and flow of nature’s fluctuations… primed and in place, he had taken enough falls to realise how simple it was to let go of the thread that pulls us together.

With so many diverts crying out from animated billboards and digital highways, daily doses of media, telling us who and what we are, on the hour, by the minute, every second… it’s all too easy to forget the main thrust of the narrative, fuelling the adult’s battle, kicked off by a child’s lament…

Corporal punishment and playground punch-ups played a central part in the life of a schoolboy growing up in post war Britain; if a severe caning didn’t catch you unawares, a fist was bound to smack you off guard sooner or later. When it came around to his turn in a brawl he’d invariably end up missing the target by miles, a tear driven snot ball of rage, surrounded by overexcited boys, braying like spectators, hungry for blood, at a gladiatorial arena… fight, fight, fight kill, kill, kill him…

His only compensation was to skulk off, vying for some mean fisted payback... of which, the torment and pent-up fury, saw little or no respite till the deed was done. Restless by a mile, pacing the floor, hiding from the night, it’d be folly to count himself among easy sleepers.

On the backend of a sleepless night, revenge seemed sweet in repose... the thought of a dagger thrust into the scoundrel’s heart, when least expecting it, was nothing less than a just and practical measure... and given the ethics of the curriculum and rigorous school policies, hardly surprising.

Survival of the fittest saw playground bullies, and sadistic teachers, having the last word. In the same breath, he and his class mates were officially taught that the preservation of favoured races in the struggle for life, was exemplified in British imperialism, taking civilisation, ethnicity and governance, across uncharted waters, to untamed continents and the wild beyond.

In certain pride, they learnt that their fellow compatriots, backed up by missionary elders, implicit in conquering the native inhabitants, with a sense of justice and moral authority, seized enough landmass, heaped thier lawful and religious ways on enough of the world’s population, to make Britain the largest empire in the history of humankind.

At home, away, in school or out, the underlying conviction of those formative years, the ethos of that Darwinian theory, becomes a legacy for life, set in stone, hard to shake off, and for the best part impossible to live down. Any clarity and innocence the child may have retained, is thwarted, separated, twisted, and indelibly linked, into the same imperialistic plan that set out to override, deploy and in most cases, destroy the indigenous lifeline across the globe.

By 1878 European empires and their former colonies, through military might and cunning diplomacy, claimed control of 67% of the world’s landmass; in 1914 that imperial stake, driven hard into the ground, secured 84% of the cake. By the 1890s Europeans had sliced up 90% of Africa; the lion share made by Belgium, Britain, France and Germany.

We speak of evolving, building higher walls, better roads, longer bridges, but nothing it seems in the human sphere shifts that much. Our campaigning and tactics swing left to right, while we thrash about in offensive and defensive ruts, trying to outmanoeuvre, outsmart our neighbouring countries. Forcing their hand, toward our own social and economic gain, we barter innocent lives, for a secure place in the history books, with a perfunctory salute to those lessons of antiquity that tally up the consequences.

After generations of controlling the other’s birthplace, reigning the waves, sucking the mother dry on route, governing and tenure have become untenable and the repercussions inevitable.

In July 2016, the UK government release a statistical report that proudly declares Britain as the second biggest arms dealer in the world, with most sales driven by war in the Middle East. In September 2016 UNICEF publish a document, “Uprooted: The growing crisis for refugee and migrant children”, stating that some 50 million children worldwide are forced to take terrifying journeys, fleeing their homes in frantic search of survival, thousands from war torn countries in the Middle East. Seeking refuge, swimming in poverty, they become victims of human smuggling, trafficking, and other extreme forms of abuse – bought and sold, as you would a piece of furniture, anything to get to the haven, of that same said country, that coincidently upholds the arms trade.

Orphans from Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Eritrea and Kosovo, to name some, are crossed off the map, destroyed by power hungry ministers, who see human rights as nothing better than a flea circus, unashamedly seeking power behind a dutiful mask, dishing out leading backhanders, of lies and deceit.

The illegalities and political corruption make the numbers and outcome, for the ravishes of evacuees, difficult to pin down. Nevertheless, a recent UK government paper – Revue of the National Referral Mechanism for victims of human trafficking, tells us that lives lost, to slavery and trafficking, has risen dramatically in recent years. In 2016, the UN agency, International Labour Organization, gives a clearer indication, registering 21 million men, women and children as enslaved against their will, in debt bondage, or working in appalling conditions.

It’s a wonder our respective leaders find any sleep to heal the wounds of state... wherefore to quell the conscience of heart... sleep... balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, chief nourisher in life’s feast…