Monday Moments: Building Bridges Through Storytelling
Introduced By Amber Hall
This month marks the start of our new theme, which is ‘Difference.’ We’re stepping into a different season here in the UK, with the past few weeks feeling noticeably more autumnal, so it’s a timely topic to touch on. But for my page this month, I wanted to explore the ways that stories build bridges and unite us, despite our differences.
We live in a world that seems increasingly divided, with some online spaces becoming ever more hostile. Writing and the arts can help us cut through the digital echo chambers that deepen those fissures, so that we might begin to reconnect. So much of what’s communicated online is fractured, half-baked. You can’t tackle complex ideas in 200 or so characters, and you probably shouldn’t try. If we’re to offer olive branches and get to a place of understanding, stories – real, brilliant, heartfelt stories – are the best way to go. I really believe that. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I write.
When we share our stories, we reach across the divide and see one another as we really are; collective in our humanity. The pieces I’ve chosen for my page this month explore this idea, offering hope for a more connected future.
First, we have a prose piece by Claire Buckle, who sensitively and eloquently writes about the plight of refugees. Here, storytelling acts as a uniting force in the community, and an important tool for building empathy.
Storyteller
Will we ever be able to call this country our home? What we once knew – our house, our neighbourhood, has been reduced to rubble. But, at last, we are now staying in a hostel in England, the days a mix of waiting and wondering. Yet outside, I have heard angry voices, sharp words like broken glass. Through the window, I see faces twisted with hatred and suspicion. Unlike us, these people have homes to go to, kitchens in which to prepare their food, and comfortable beds to dream in. We have a bag of clothes and a box of memories I grabbed before we fled: my child’s first tooth, a lock of hair from her first haircut, the tiny gold bracelet her father bought when she was born. Here, shared loss and resilience intertwine our lives. Each face tells a story, untold to anyone outside this place – until today.
Today, a group of us head to a meeting in a hall organised by the council, where, protected by burly security guards and police, we will share our stories with the community. Many of our fellow refugees refused to take part. “What difference can our words make?” they said. “How can we compete with lies that echo through screens, where we are seen as violent intruders?”
After much debate, a few of us agreed to go. Now we enter, glancing at people seated in rows and at others standing in small groups – arms crossed, with eyes that flicker between scepticism and curiosity. I sense tension in the murmurings. Just a few offer hesitant smiles. An interpreter stands to the side, ready to translate our words. My heart races, but I remind myself why I’m here: to share and make peace.
When my husband speaks, he tells of the vibrant village we once called home; of the festivals and traditions that filled our lives with joy. He speaks in hushed tones of the day the deafening bombs fell, of the terror and the desperate flight to safety. As the interpreter relays his words, I watch some faces in the audience soften. Others remain guarded, untouched.
Stories are shared of families torn apart, of journeys across dangerous waters, of the hopes they cling to despite everything. I speak of my ten-year-old daughter, who loved making up stories, who said that one day she would be a writer, but who has not uttered a word since we left. I see empathy in the tearful eyes of the woman in the front row, in the nod of understanding from the elderly man with a military tattoo.
Before we leave, one of the council members suggests a writing project where we can write about our experiences and have them brought to life by actors whose heritage is the same as ours. Maybe this idea will motivate my daughter to create again. The road ahead is uncertain, but for the first time since we arrived, I believe there is hope that we will find a place to call home. Not only because we need it, but because, through our stories, some people might understand why.
© Claire Buckle, 2024
Connect with Claire on X: @ClaireBuckle and Instagram: @cloubuckle.
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Next, we have another prose piece, this time by Jilly Henderson-Long. In this thoughtful reflection on the power of creative writing, we are reminded that stories – whatever our age – are the greatest force for connection.
Writing As A Voice For Children
I was a writer in residence at a primary school some time ago. I spent an entire school day there, starting with the reception class, all the way up to Year 6. The idea was to introduce every child, no matter what their age, to the concept of creative writing. At the end of the final session, I invited the children to come and ask questions. One young man came over. He told me he loved poetry. Not just reading it but writing it. Sadly, the only time he had mentioned his interest to family members, they had laughed at him, so he kept it a secret. That struck me as very sad.
Fast forward a number of years and the perfect opportunity arose for me to start a creative writing group just for children aged six to 11. The key, I found, lay in encouraging the children to be honest in their writing, by heaping constructive praise on them and helping them to find their own voices. I never forgot that sad little poet though, and I was determined to ensure that no other young writer had their dream quashed before they’d even had time to develop it!
Children are, after all, among the most honest of writers. They also tend not to judge or be prejudiced against their peers. Setting them exercises to be read aloud encouraged them to listen to one another’s viewpoint, thus expanding their understanding of the world around them. One of the best assignments I set them was to keep a diary throughout their summer holidays. They did not all choose to take part in this, but those who did appeared to enjoy it. They were, after all, telling stories from their own experiences which they were then prepared to share with other members.
It delighted me that, even as young as they were (and the average age of the members was eight to nine), they saw an opportunity to express themselves so openly and that, surely, is the crux of all writers. We need to learn from one another’s mistakes and errors. We need to share our imaginary worlds, our voices crossing barriers and overcoming obstacles. These are barriers that we all face as writers, whatever age and stage we’re at. I was proud these youngsters felt so comfortable attending the group; that they were prepared to listen and be listened to. It seems that acceptance in any peer-group is the way forward. We all want to be heard and identify with others. Writing is the common ground we all share, and it is also one of the few activities that does not discriminate.
I sincerely hope that, even as technology develops, we never, ever forget the grass roots of creative writing. It’s a gift, an honour and something to be proud of. Instilling that into youngsters as well as one another has to be the way forward. Fingers crossed!
© Jilly Henderson-Long, 2024
Connect with Jilly on X: @ Jilly52144833.
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Finally, Clara Khan explores the relationship between emotional expression and connection through writing. I was particularly drawn to the final sentence, which I think gets to the heart of the matter: Literature will continue to remind us of our humanity, but it is what you do with your humanity that truly defines you.
The Human Element
One of the first times a piece of literature stuck out for me was because I had identified with it: a fictionalised teenager querying the secondary school life. It was a strange experience. Someone, in textual form, was describing the same emotions I had, and had communicated it so articulately, humorously and intimately that I became forever captivated.
I think this type of experience is the reason we engage in the arts in the first place – to feel something. We read to experience different emotions, whether it’s escapism, liberation from the trials of life, identification, learning… the list goes on. No matter what it is, the underlying truth is that the written form evokes an emotion in us, and it is this that unites us as humans.
I want to take this one step further and say that literature has this role in all stages of human life. Babies are given books to activate their minds and open them to the world around them, while toddlers and children are given books to learn the basics of language and develop their imaginations. Teenagers are given books to both educate and entertain them while learning about life in adulthood, and adults are given books for any of the above. The written word is ultimately intended for the production of an emotion and serves a purpose for the human experience. So, what does this mean? That whatever emotion you have felt in life, someone, somewhere has felt the exact same way. There is nothing you have felt that someone else hasn’t.
The question is, what do we do with this information? If we know that human emotion is universal, and literature serves as evidence for this, what does this tell us about who we are? As prosaic as this may seem, underneath our skin and bones we’re all are the same. At our core, we possess the same emotions, and it is only external influences that change us. Literature will continue to remind us of our humanity, but it is what you do with your humanity that truly defines you.
© Clara Khan, 2024
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Issue 22 is available to read online here, you can also find it in libraries and other outlets. Read previous editions of our magazines here.
You can hear great new ideas, creative work and writing tips on Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo, or find us on Podcasters.Spotify.com.
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If you or someone you know has been affected by issues covered in our pages, please see the relevant link below for information, advice and support:
When we share our stories, we reach across the divide and see one another as we really are; collective in our humanity.