ON PAPER, the clamour of a family breakfast table is not an ideal teaching venue. In our house there are four children to wake, feed, dress and ship to school before 8.30am – the window of opportunity for imparting sage life-lessons is constrained by a persistent tick. But, as small hands fight over hot toast and sticky jars, more often than I would have ever thought possible John Humphrys unknowingly lays the foundations for important conversations.
“UK bombing raids have begun in Syria,” intones the voice from Radio 4.
My lot are a perceptive bunch, yet only one seems perturbed by the dismal news piping into the air from the corner of the room. One six-year-old searches me for answers; his twin and elder sister direct their energy into the pressing task of smearing butter on bread and transporting bread to face.
“Mama, what was that about bombs?”
“Hurry up and eat your toast – we’ve got to get ready for school.”
My nine-year-old Stoic interjects. This knee-jerk insouciance could be many things: a lack of understanding, minimal global awareness, or even just the fact that she’s not quite big enough to really get it yet. Left unchecked, that absence of response could easily turn into nonchalance, and acceptance of anything delivered with enough perceived authority. Both are dangerous. Her brother complies and returns to his bread.
“MPs voted for air strikes in Syria last night. Not all of them – but more than those that didn’t. That means they’re going to be dropping some bombs.”
“Bombs?” His brow crumples. “Like, ones that fall out of planes and explode?”
I watch Felix, four, fumble with the butter knife. He struggles to deposit a reluctant glob of lemon curd. I reach in and offer guidance. As reflex. By instinct. This simple act is something we all teach our children – though in the grand scheme of things, it’s utterly trivial. The world will not implode through a lack of dining finesse. With something so physical, it’s easy to step in and course-correct. Though the most important lessons we must impart are invisible finding the right moment to teach is considerably trickier.
“Yes.”
“Oh no!”
The natural urge here would be to reassure him – but that alone feels wrong. I want to comfort him, but not shield him from reality while there’s an opportunity to start talking about alternatives early. For now, I’m more concerned with the three who are thoroughly unperturbed by the anonymous voice announcing war as we eat. As the mother of an introspective and at times anxious little boy, naturally I don’t want to cause undue stress – but there’s a balance to be struck here, between those fretting over crumbs and those fretting over lives.
“Is this because of what happened in Paris?”
I remember last week’s conversation about shooting, fear and the importance of separating Islam from acts of extremism. The topic quickly turned to the safety of returning to Disneyland – an understandably childish vignette. I had to hope I’d done enough pre-emptive damage limitation to keep them from perceiving their friends any differently.
“Yes and no. France asked for support and the UK Government decided to step in.”
“Why are we doing it? Does France not have its own bombs?”
I spend 10 minutes trying to distil foreign policy and global politics down to simple sentences. When comprehension forces you to peel away agenda and spin, the reality of the situation is a slap in the face.
“So, is David Cameron doing it in his new plane?”
“No, he’s not. He won’t be doing any of the bombing.”
“Huh.”
And just like that everything seems clearer and more hopeless in a heartbeat. They’re growing up in a world where we simultaneously dissolve borders with technology and fortify them with intolerance. I look at them and their luck punches me in the gut. Socially. Geographically. Temporally. In a few weeks Santa will drop presents down our chimneys, while we drop bombs on others. People are running to us for refuge while we transport harm on Tornado wings.
When the toast runs out, the conversation ends. Little behinds dutifully shift from seats, onwards to teeth brushing, bed making and getting dressed. Things I’ve managed to impart gradually, with varying degrees of success and compliance. As I gather up plates and knives, I think about all the conversations we still need to have. All the things I want to teach them before they’re the ones out there, electing the people who make our decisions. How many loaves does it take to nourish social justice? How much jam is needed to dismantle stereotypes? How much apple juice waters a free-thinker?
I’ll never shield my children from the media. Nor is it realistic to expect them to glissade through the world without encountering misinformation. Reflecting on a year when journalists are shot in their offices and babies are strewn like flotsam on foreign beaches, I know now that it’s never too early to make them question the world around them. I hope that by making room for compassion and kindness in our daily routines – no matter how fleeting – they might just grow into adults who grasp on to the unity we simply can’t reach.
Tim Dalyell: Tony Benn would turn in grave at his son’s speech
Prime Minister urges UK to be patient as intervention in Syria ‘will take time’
Petition against air strikes gets 80,000 signatures in a day
Patrick Harvie: There are other ways to strike at Daesh
Gordon MacIntyre-Kemp: Westminster: Out of touch, out of date, out of time...
The National View: Bombs over Syria demonstrate UK’s willingness to act in ignorance yet again
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