The Power of the Swing
21st October 2023.
The last two weeks have been overwhelming. And it’s only going to get worse.
It has hurt me before to see children suffer. I still vividly remember the image of Aylan Kurdi that made headlines around the world—a Syrian toddler in a drenched red T-shirt and blue shorts, his body washed up on a Turkish beach, lying lifeless, facedown on the sand.
Aylan and his entire family drowned in the sea—the price that many other refugees like them also had to pay while trying to escape the conflict in Syria about a decade ago.
And now that hurt returns afresh. I guess being a dad deeply changes the way you feel about kids.
Abbu, are we going to play in the park for very wong? Zayn asks as we walk into the park, his soft little hand in mine. It’s more of a suggestion than a question. As he admires the possibilities of the playground before him, he looks like someone has given him chocolates.
He can’t pronounce the sound of the letters L and R. Rather, he uses W as a close approximation. I often have to guess the right word from the context. For example, in this instance, I know wong means long, not wrong.
If the park were actually a box of chocolates, the swing would be his favourite, and he wastes no time to reach for it.
I’ve been pushing Zayn on the swing for a while now. The monotonous screeching of the metal chains keeps us company while Zayn enjoys the wind on his face and I watch the kids playing and parents chatting away. The smell of the barbecue makes me crave lamb chops.
An elderly lady sitting on a nearby bench has been watching us for some time. Now she stands and makes her way towards us with slow steps.
I momentarily stop pushing Zayn, wondering if she wants to talk to us. Our eyes meet, but before I can say Hi, she sits on the swing next to us with a smile, and—albeit a bit shakily —with a kick from the ground, off she goes.
Can the swing carry her weight? Can she keep her balance? She seems not to share my concerns; she’s carefree like a child.
I wonder what kind of childhood memories the swing brings back for her. I can imagine a swing hanging off a thick branch of a banyan tree — ropes, a wooden seat. I can imagine her as a little girl. Her laughter filling up the air as Papa sends her swinging high into the sky. She squints as the sunlight, sifting through the thick network of branches and leaves, lights up her face.
She takes me on a journey with her back to her childhood.
After a journey through time, it’s time for a journey through space.
*
Now there’s a little girl next to Zayn, probably younger than him.
The moon or the stars? her father asks. He gives her a push and she sets off on an intergalactic ride.
Swinging back and forth between the moon and the stars, the little girl is on a different journey than Zayn. A different journey. Different memories.
And now back to the moon!
Perhaps she’ll remember this moment when she’s older. The swing will take her back in time and remind her how it used to take her around space.
The world is beautiful. Or at least it gives us — the few lucky ones — the illusion of being so. But this is how the world ought to be for every child.
It’s 1:30 pm in Melbourne. Probably 4:30 am Gaza.
The bombings started around 2:30 am. While we are creating or reliving memories on the swing, the children in Gaza must have been pounded for about two hours now.
Collateral damage. Human shields. Unintentional consequences of war. The price for someone’s ‘right to self-defence’.
Over the last couple of weeks, I have been hearing many political pontifications and justifications offered by grey-haired men in suits for why children must die.
I look at the happy faces in the park. Babies, toddlers, older kids. The smiles on their faces, their happiness. Really? Must any of them die?
Does Gaza even have a swing? I google it and come across a news report from Al Jazeera from 2014:
Eight people, including seven children, died following missile fire on a park inside the Shati refugee camp on the edge of Gaza City…
The kids were playing on the wheel… A rocket fell and cut them apart…
It’s believed that because it’s been relatively calm, many of these children went outside to enjoy themselves on this Eid holiday but tragically they’ve been killed.
This is the kind of horror we carry around in our pockets as we visit sunny parks. I turn off the screen and shove the phone back into my pocket.
Alright, who’s next?
Now it’s a teenage girl’s turn to give in to the temptation of the swing. She pulls on the chains, gradually walking backwards, like stretching a catapult to its furthest extent before release. Then lifts up her legs as she lets the swing go and leans back, looking up at the sky until her hair almost touches the ground. The exhilaration building up in her finally bursts out in a confession: I’m a baby! she yells to her friend.
Exactly—that’s what she is. That’s what we all are on the swing.
That’s the power of the swing. It turns you into a baby, a child. And it has a place for everyone—the old, the young, and everyone in between.
Maybe the old men in suits need to take a ride on the swing with the children they are about to turn into collateral damage. I mean, international law, the Geneva Convention, etc.—as important as they are, they can’t compare to the power of the swing. A swing—who can resist?
Shafi Huq studies and writes about Islam, Islamophobia, and racism. He has contributed articles to a number of online magazines including Overland, The Diplomat, and ABC—Religion & Ethics. He blogs at medium.com/@shafi.huq.
swim meet lit mag 