I was thinking today about a story. About how strange these times are.
I was thinking today, about how writing is a form of resistance even when there are no other forms of resistance remaining. Writers have existed in every major society, in every major rebellion. And writers are persecuted for daring to have ideas that don’t fit into the mainstream vision for the nation.
Pushkin was exiled for his poetry.
I went to bed last night feeling hopeless. I went to bed last night worrying about what I’ve brought my girls home to. This is not their home, not yet. My eldest still sounds like any child in London, still says “rubbish” and “pants” and girl” and, sometimes, but not often anymore, “mummy.” My little one likes best the book with pictures of London, of red busses and taxis and the Eye that she has never ridden in. But we’ve walked on by.
I will always be mummy. I will also be mom and mommy and mama and mooooooommmmmmmmm and ugh and I hate you and none of these someday.
But writing is a form of resistance. And Pushkin was exiled for his poetry.
And every child in Russia knows his poetry now.
So I will remember that, for now. And I will write. And I will keep on living my life. Because this is my country, too. And someday it may be my girls’ country. And someday maybe it will be all of ours again too. And maybe it will be hard, and maybe there are those amongst us who will be persecuted, and maybe it will get darker before this dawn, this dawn we believe is coming. (We have to believe. The alternative to believing is worse.)
And Pushkin was exiled for his poetry.