Setting out on a constitutional

From Bella Caledonia’s special edition on Arts and Community:

Kirkgate House window

Welcome to Constitution Street in Leith. Maybe you know it. Maybe you don’t. You will certainly know another street well, perhaps the street where you live or work. In the decade that I lived and worked here, Constitution Street has undergone rapid socioeconomic change. During the last year, I have been documenting this change set against the broader context of constitutional crisis in Scotland and the UK in order to write a love letter to the street I call home.

Human beings are storytellers at heart. And a street’s residents, its neighbours, are the narrators of a succession of stories telling of the past and reimagining the future. We have heard a lot of late on this street and streets up and down the land about our differences. The Yes and the No. The Leave and the Remain. The them and the us. Binary positions. Some neighbours displayed posters in their windows. Others closed the curtains. Some sang protest songs and wrote plays. Some felt anxious. Some felt excited. It is now time for new conversations and new ways of considering the distribution of power, land and decision-making, because if we don’t tell our own stories, others will do it for us.

If Constitution Street sounds a revolutionary sort of a place it’s because it is. Or it once was, what with a name like Constitution Street, built in the late eighteenth century amidst the Scottish Enlightenment and the birth of new nations. As you may know though, the UK doesn’t’t have a written constitution. Rather, there are constitutional conventions based on case law and principle developed over centuries. There is an ongoing debate amongst legal scholars and activists about whether or not now is the moment to write a new constitution to better safeguard against excessive executive power, particularly in light of Brexit and the particular threat that Brexit poses to economic, social and cultural rights such as workers’ rights and environmental protections.

Much as a street belongs equally to all the individual neighbours who call it home, human rights belong to us all. Rights are universal, indivisible and interdependent upon one another. Indeed, the preamble to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights famously states that human rights begin in the small places closest to home. Few human rights, however, are absolute. Rather, they are subject to limitations and derogations, both legal and political in nature and the most sensitive of balances embedded in human rights law is the relationship between the individual and the community.

My community on Constitution Street is rich with the retelling of old stories. Key constitutional characters from history have walk-on parts, including Robert the Bruce, Henry VIII, Mary Queen of Scots and Oliver Cromwell. I think it is a special street but it is in fact much like any street. It is a place where we go about the routine of our day to day lives as we always have done.

Streets, like stories, have a beginning, middle and an end. By convention, which is after all the constitutional, principled way of doing things, we should start at the beginning with a welcome because storytelling is about hospitality- the giving and receiving of life experience. So, make yourself at home. The street stretches east to west for half a mile, from the entrance to the North Sea at its Port to the beginning of Edinburgh city centre on Leith Walk. The mix of Victorian tenements and high-rise tower block, to the industrial docks, warehouses and medieval churches, embody the constantly shifting dualities of old and new in Scotland’s capital city and the waves of immigration and emigration that continue to blend culture, language and perspective. Here is a liminal land on the cusp of change in our age of anxiety.

We have the best and the worst of times here. In this dynamic, fizzing space ideas bubble, ferment and rise or fall. Just like the grain imported to Leith Docks that becomes the flour that was once traded inside the Leith Corn Exchange or brewed with yeast and hops inside the whisky bonds, we are constantly warming and fermenting our stories and our sense of place in the world, preparing to prove ourselves ready. Ready for change.

And how to develop empathy? You must think yourself into the story. I am interviewing the residents of this, one street in one city, here and now. I am listening to my neighbours who voted differently from me in the constitutional choices posed by recent referenda. I am challenging my own assumptions and prejudices, to consider what rights, if any, we would want to enshrine in a new constitution. And I am being surprised by known and strange things right outside my doorstep. I have heard from Maddie aged twelve as she prepares to transition to secondary school, from JP on the 16th floor of Kirkgate House in the light of uncomfortable home truths about housing inequality, from Mary on the last night of the Port of Leith bar where she was the landlady, from a Buddhist nun meditating inside the former Bank of Leith, and from the First Minister in the same car park where an alligator was found inside the boot of a Vauxhall Corsa.

This is our Constitution Street. You will likely also live together with your own neighbours in a form of social contract, a living constitution. If you don’t, start that conversation. My conversations have so far taken me from the Foot of the Walk in Leith, to Aristotelous Square in Thessaloniki and Placa Catalunya in Barcelona- meeting with ordinary people living through extraordinary constitutional times in their own small places closest to home. Mostly though, I walk up and down Constitution Street every day and I pay attention to change so that I might come to name it, and therefore to know it, and myself, better. In this way, I am setting out on a constitutional. Hear me to the end of the road.


Street Haunting: A Leith adventure

In Virginia Woolf’s 1927 essay Street Haunting, the narrator imagines the secret lives of others in her neighbourhood as she walks through the wintry, lamp-lit streets of London. ‘What greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality’, the narrator asks, to feel ‘that one is not tethered to a single mind, but can put on briefly for a few minutes the bodies and minds of others’.

November is not the longest month in the calendar but it often feels like it is. A brooding time of mulching, damp decay and dark, slow and cold days. A month where is seems to always be 3.30pm and the light, like the year, fading away beyond control.

Yielding to a lack of control is a form of confronting demons. This year, I have been aided by finding Projekt42, a community gym at the end of the street in the New Kirkgate shopping centre. Nestled between Poundland and ‘Harvey Lidyls’, this empty shop unit has been transformed into a space for yoga classes, circuit training and a collective effort to boost endorphins in winter. Many classes are free and others affordable, making the gym a welcome contrast to commercial fitness studios in the city.

The other welcome surprise of November was to be cradled in a cabin in the Cairngorms for a week while a guest of Scottish PEN at Lesser Wearier. The Highland fresh air and solitude brought a calm focus. I got two of the most awkward book chapters (Streetview and The Right to Housing) written. I jumped in snow drifts. I watched pheasants roost in silverbirch trees and fallow deer tiptoe over fields. I burnt old drafts on the fire. And I felt well again. One day, I want to build my own cabin in the woods and offer the same generosity that I have benefited fromnto others.

This month I have been reading: Winter by Ali Smith; Out of the Wreckage by George Monbiot; The Givenness of Things by Marilyn Robinson; and The Collected Essays of George Orwell.

On Constitution Street, project highlights were interviews with Kristin Hannesdottir, Icelandic Consular, at Lamb’s House and Ani Rinchen Khandro at the Tibettan Buddhist Centre, and attending lectures by Ali Smith (on Muriel Spark), George Monbiot (at the Scottish Parliament where we discussed the Commons), Kathleen Jamie (at the Centre for the Living Book), Jackie Kay (The Radical Book Fair) and Katrin Oddstoddir on the Icelandic constitution (Nordic Horizons). I enjoyed presenting my work in progress talk at IASH with props including a gull feather, a bag of flour, a bone, a beer mat and a Persevere t-shirt.

The adventures in Leith continue.


In situ

30/11/11, 4pm

(St Andrews Day)

People stumble, regain composure


A number 16 bus passes by, Silverknowes

The advert on the side of the bus shows a young woman with hands raised to her face

Her faux surprise and jewels travel west under the caption ‘see the wonderful’

Men on a rooftop at no.57 do pull-ups from scaffolding poles

The cafe is full

With froth and steam

Tourists arrive in search of holiday lets and jab at phones

A man gets out of a meat van and unloads white boxes at 44a

A dog’s nose twitches

A woman licks stamps onto a postcard outside no.42


The slabs of pavement line up like a game of tetris

It’s not rained in over a week

Grey bands stripe the sky like milk gone off

A little boy holds onto a helium balloon in his left hand

Don’t let go, he remembers

Now the lampposts click on,

Their sodium light flickers and teases like a knowing smile

The half-moon moon rises

Wallace sits at his favourite table in the window of Nobles

I see my own reflection (rings, fingers, lips)

The man returns to the meat van


The sound of a fire engine is far away


The girl next door

(From The Right to Education, Constitution Street)

“We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back”

Malala Yousafzi

Sitting at my desk one day during the summer of independence in 2014, I noticed something unusual across the street. Sticky-taped to the panes of glass at number 59 were six pieces of white A4 paper spelling out five words and a question mark in a child’s deliberate but uneven handwriting: DO YOU WANT TO PLAY? My heart lept. Five syllables- the first line of a haiku- and a direct, unambiguous question with a choice of two answers. I scrawled my response in marker pen on one sheet of printer paper, positioned it in my own window and waited for the reply. And so began the first of many surprise conversations visible to all passers by in the street, confusing Yes/ No Indy pollsters and reviving the Scottish ballad tradition of etching verse onto street windows.

Maddie is a true child of Constitution Street. The youngest of four, her parents met at the Port of Leith bar and were married in South Leith Parish Church. Now separated, Maddie’s father, an Englishman, voted Yes to Scottish independence and is an active member of the local branch of the SNP. Her mother, a Scotswoman, voted No and is fervent in her disdain for Scottish nationalism. Such is how our lived experience and the people we meet shape our layered identities.

Having babysat her older siblings when they lived at home, I know the family well. On the occasions when Maddie stays the night in my spareroom and I have to get her up, dressed and breakfasted in time for school, I feel truly useful. I want people to notice us on the walk to the school playground and for some to mistake me for her mother or older sister. These are mornings with purpose. I wanted her to know that spending time together is not a chore or act of neighbourly goodwill so I told her that anytime she felt like meeting up, she could simply send me a sign. In the age of instant messaging and emojis, ours became a window to window, face to face friendship. She has taught me a lot.

No. 59 Constitution Street is the old Manse adjacent to St John’s Church. Once a Georgian townhouse with stable block and servants’ quarters, the ruin of the building remaining was bought as a project by Maddie’s father thirty years ago. Now sub-divided into three, the small, curved doorway flush with the front of the building opens like a Scooby-doo bookshelf onto a cobbled pen and courtyard beyond. Residents and visitors in the know push against the hidden door and stoop to enter. Inside, children from the street mount a discarded mobility scooter that used to belong to Maddie’s grandmother and steer it like a chariot caroling around an assault course of old whisky barrels. I watch these comings and goings from across the road. Maddie’s parents tell me that they have twice had television and film producers ask if they could use the soot-stained facade of the building in a Dickens dramatisation. And as goes the chorus from the musical, I’d do anything for her.

Three years on from the first window text messages, we sat on the edge of her bed amongst a detritus of early adolescence and Sunday mornings- teddies, laundry, phone chargers, milkshake cups, makeup samples and our dogs- to discuss Constitution Street. The news in the wider world spoke of Britain’s failure to uphold its commitments under the so-called Dubs amendment. The Dubs amendment, known as section 67, was passed in April 2016 amid a campaign to bring 3,000 lone refugee children stuck in camps in Europe to Britain. By July 2017, the press reported that not a single extra lone child refugee had been brought into the country.

Maddie and I could hear the raucous squawks from seagull chicks waking inside their nests atop the flattened spire of neighbouring St John’s Church, the mini-dinosaurs demanding to be fed some more before flying solo. We had found an injured chick alone in Leith Links earlier that morning. Its white, feathery shape lay splayed on green grass like the chalk-outline of a crime scene victim. We deliberated over whether or not to intervene. Tethering our dogs on short leads, we approached the bird cautiously and decided that the best course of action was to calmly and gently lift up the bird and place it in a less exposed area of the park to protect it from being trampled on by walkers or dogs. Reluctantly, I put my hands around the bird’s surprisingly soft, warm middle, taking care to avoid getting pecked by the jurassic beak. I then lay the bird down as softly as I could in the shade of a tree in a quieter section of the park. The bird and beak seemed to eye me malevolently, before flying away with gusto. Well, that’s bloody grateful, I said, wiping bird shit deposited in my hands onto a tuft of grass. We continued our walk home to the street.

‘Well mainly because I’ve grown up here, I like it because it’s home but also because I know mostly, roughly, about everybody who lives here…. And it’s like, when I’m on holiday and I come back and go onto the street, I just feel happy to be back. And it, it can be rough at times [giggles]. But it’s nice because it’s… you can trust it in a way.’

Is there anything you would like to change about the street?

‘Mhmn.. nothing I think. Except those birds! And I’d like there to be a street party. That would be very funny.’

What would happen at the street party?

Well, there would be like bunting all around the street and there would be bbqs going on and music playing and people if they wanted, they could sell some things that they didn’t want in their house anymore. And we could all just like dance and things and have a bit of ceilidh as well. And then I think some people would have a little bit too much to drink and I would just sit there watching them and laughing [giggles].’

Pink gingham bunting hung in loops at her window frame and the bedroom walls were decorated with polaroid snaps of school friends in uniform sticking their tongues out. Being age 12 and in-between primary and secondary school can be an anxious, exciting time. Twelve is the symmetrical point on a clock face where ticking hands complete the circle and are poised in a moment of equilibrium, both pointing north. Yet the joined hands do not pause for long, clock-wise as they are to continue their rotation, ever- forward into new seconds, minutes and hours. Being tall and slender with dark hair cropped at her shoulders, a cartwheeling Maddie resembles clock hands.

‘I feel terrified! And sad too because I’m the only one going to a different school. I’ve already made new friends. But they’re not really as close as my friends from primary school. And I’m also worried about the timetable and things. Like I understand how it works but it’s confusing like where the things are and how you’re supposed to get to them. Because it’s such a big school.’

At which point we were interrupted by another voice.

I’m having trouble connecting to the internet. Take a look at the health section in your app.’

‘She’s so rude! Ha ha!’

Who is that?

‘Oh it’s Alexa. She’s a robot.’

‘I’m having trouble connecting….’


‘It’s cause I said her name. She’s like this robot that you can ask questions and she connects to your phone and searches stuff up for you. So if you’re doing homework and you’re like ‘ah, what is this question’ you can just go ‘Alexa what is the answer to 3 x 20.’ That was the first sum to come into my head.‘

‘The answer is 60.’

‘Yeah! Ha!’

Alexa is quick at mathematics but she isn’t much help with more reflective tasks. For a school project on the Scottish Parliament, Maddie turned to her friend across the road for help. Her primary 7 class had all gone on a visit to Holyrood earlier in the year and it prompted us to talk about politics and about the Parliament building itself.

So did you get to sit in the debating chamber?

‘Erm yes but we were not allowed to sit in any of the chairs, which was a shame. But one of the boys in my class, when the tour guide wasn’t looking, he quickly sat down – just to be like ‘yeah I’m cooler than you!’.’

And did you learn about any differences between the parliaments in Edinburgh and London?

‘So I think Westminster is like the main place where they decide like what happens for the whole country and the Scottish Parliament is mainly for like Scotland and I think well obviously the debating chambers are a lot different too.’

Are you interested in politics?

‘I mean I like there to be a fair way of making decisions and things but I don’t think I would like to make a career out of it.’

Do you think we have a fair country?

‘Yes, I think it’s run fairly. Though I don’t like how sometimes people with more money get treated differently to people with less money. Brexit was not a good decision. Because, well mainly for my Mum’s job. Like she only gets paid if people buy things and people are kind of scared to now. So she’s not getting paid very well. And also when you go to the airport you’re going to have to sign lots of papers and things to go to places like France.’

And what do you think about Scottish independence?

‘Mhmn… well, I mean it’s quite.. I have mixed feelings about it because my Dad is very SNP, SNP you know and then my Mum wants us all to stay together. And I think that’s a good way to think- for everybody to just be together and not separate – because we’re less strong when we’re on our own. But also, I don’t think we’ll be able to go back into the EU and the only way for us to do that in my head is for Scotland to come away and then Scotland to join the EU as a separate country. But I think that’s the only reason why I like the thought of Scottish independence.’

Distinct from UK elections where the voting age is eighteen, in the Scottish Independence Referendum sixteen year olds had the vote. Still several years away from being able to vote in any election, I was impressed by the maturity in which Maddie grasped the complexities of constitutional change and weighed up the relative merits of the binary choices presented. We matched up the phone pics Maddie took on the school trip with some bullet points about devolution and Alexa the robot turned it all into a slideshow on a tablet device. We were smugly reviewing the efforts of our teamwork when my phone began to buzz with an incoming Facetime call and we paused the Constitution Street interview.

The call was from my friend Merwe, a fourteen year old girl from Afghanistan. I met Merwe and her mother, Debe, in Kara Tepe refugee camp on the Greek island of Lesvos where I had volunteered the previous summer. Debe and Merwe had since continued their journey onto Athens, hoping to eventually be granted family reunification status to join Merwe’s father in Germany. Back at my home in Edinburgh, I kept in touch with the family through instant messaging on our phones.

Before the refugee crisis Lesvos was famous for ouzo, olives, and the Ancient Greek poet Sappho. Reading aloud Sappho’s poem Time of Youth from my souvenir copy, participants in Kara Tepe’s youth group wrote bold, imaginative responses. Stateless, without leave to remain and with the constant possibility of being deported back to Afghanistan as part of a controversial EU deal with Turkey, young Afghans face an anxious, uncertain future. Merwe’s young adult life has been filled with much rougher streets than the one which Maddie and I call home. From Baghdad to Berlin, Aleppo to Amsterdam, young refugees are left waiting, spending their time of youth in limbo and without access to formal education, each day passing much like the one before it.

You don’t need to be a legal expert to observe that human rights violations are being committed on a daily basis in Greek camps. There is a lack of formal education for school-aged children, a lack of adequate or accessible housing, and in some cases a lack of access to healthcare. Even in the relatively well-organised Kara Tepe camp, children play next to bulldozers and immediately outside the camp exit, children and their parents have to negotiate the walk into town along a busy and poorly-lit highway. Kara Tepe was designed with infrastructure and accommodation for 1,000 individuals. There were 1500 people when I visited and about 3,000 today.

Across Greece, volunteers work independently and in organised groups, filling the gaps left by established agencies. They take over abandoned buildings to ensure people have somewhere to shelter, provide nutritional supplies to young children and establish language programs. None of this can be a substitute for securing safe, permanent homes for refugees but it is something.

Short-term volunteers, well-meaning grown-ups, come and go in the lives of refugee children, particularly over the summer holiday season on Greek islands. My last day helping at Kara Tepe camp was memorable for me but just like any other day stuck in the dust, sweat and frustration for those waiting in a limbo not of their own making. Grand farewell gestures aren’t appropriate. I said a personal thanks to the women like Merwe who assisted as translators and welcomed and befriended me. Other than that, it was a sincere ‘hope to see you soon’.

Late in the evening when the sun had gone down and the camp had quietened down, children and some of their parents sat on UNHCR blankets watching Disney’s Peter Pan subtitled into Farsi and projected onto the walls of a portacabin. Aside from the occasional cry of a baby or the whine of mopeds from the main road outside, there was a settling hush. The kind of collective reverence that makes committed atheists whisper on entering a cathedral or mosque. I tip-toed across a gravel path toward the camp exit to wait for a taxi back to Mytilene town. As I stood next to the makeshift snack bar and mobile phone charging station, a little boy of about five that I didn’t recognise appeared by my side as if from nowhere and tugged on my arm. He called out ‘my friend, my friend’ in broken English and gestured for me to lean in close. I bent down and smiled at him. And then he slapped me. Hard. Across the face.

I gave him a row and he ran away laughing. I wanted to say, Yes, ok, fair enough. I feel ashamed that I’m leaving you here and that you’ve been ignored. I see you. I hear you. And thanks for the send-off.

Lost boys and girls marooned in a Neverland of false promises, smugglers and ticking clocks can’t fly away and must constantly negotiate the safest boundaries. It is a real land very near to us if we chose to notice.

Sitting on the edge of her bed in Constitution Street, Maddie and I were joined by her mother. In the heat of a Scottish July day in the Athens of the north, we three huddled together under a fleece blanket. Alexa, the digibot, was there too of course but she doesn’t feel temperature or emotion. And through the phone screen, we could see and hear Merwe and her mother inside their tented home at a camp about 40km beyond the sprawling suburbs of Athens of the south. They complained of the sweltering Greek temperatures. Two mothers, two daughters, a robot, and me, in conversation.

Through the medium of virtual and digital windows, Merwe and Maddie have come to be forever linked in my mind. Two highly intelligent, brave young women on the cusp of big life changes. All things being equal and fair, Merwe would be offered a safe, forever home in Scotland, could stay in my spare bedroom and attend secondary school up the road with Maddie. As it stands, Merwe hasn’t been to school for five years. The Taliban prevented girls from attending school in her region of Afghanistan and, today, she gets harassed by some of the older Afghan boys at the refugee camp for walking alone without the supervision of a brother or father. She tells me that she is avoiding the occasional school lessons offered in Greek for this reason.

Merwe wants to be a doctor when she grows up. I want to help people, she tells me, and to make money to send home to Afghanistan. Maddie wants to be a forensic scientist or a lawyer, she’s not yet decided, because she likes watching Nordic crime dramas on TV. Both girls follow youtube makeup videos, tong their hair into intricate loops in preparation for a Facetime video call and live alone with fierce, loving mothers who have welcomed me into their homes.

The central Leith area of Edinburgh has about 2,500 school pupils and 15% have a first language other than English. Edinburgh has the highest net migration in Scotland. Maddie tells me that her primary 7 class in Leith had a diverse mix of nationalities and languages with fellow pupils speaking Polish, Spanish, French, Italian and Urdu as first languages. She learnt a few words in Spanish.

A native speaker of Farsi and Pashto, Merwe is self-taught in Kurdish, Arabic, Turkish, Greek, Spanish, English and has a smattering of German. The list of languages are reeled off like flag pins in a spinning globe and hint at the many national borders she crossed by foot and boat to reach Lesvos. Aged fourteen, she picked up conversational Spanish and English from volunteers working in the Greek refugee camps and is trying to learn German using Google translate and a dictionary I bought her. She says it’s by far the hardest language so far. If she succeeds in training to become a doctor in Germany, it might yet come to be her most useful.

I presented her with the pocket German dictionary on a return visit to Athens in late summer 2017. When I was a teenager, a dictionary wouldn’t have been my choice of gift request but she seemed delighted.

On his military service, the Greek soldier assigned to watch over our reunion at the camp gates didn’t look to be much older than a teenager himself. He gave an apologetic smile from under his khaki cap and offered us cheese sandwiches from his packed lunch. Merwe suggested that we make up our own picnic and head to the nearest beach for a trip away from the camp. Deb, her mother, liked this idea too and assembled a tupperware of peaches and a flask of homemade iced coffee.

Theirs is an open camp in the sense that, once registered, residents are free to come and go within the possibilities that limited funds stretch to. Local train journeys are free for refugees. After a short train ride through parched scrubland and a stroll along the boardwalk of an end of season seaside resort, the warm, turquoise water of the Aegean Sea lapped at our ankles. It resembled the cover shot on a package holiday travel brochure and, us, the three most unlikely of models posing as an odd family group amongst many on holiday.

Debe napped in the shade while Merwe and I prepared to wade into the sea for a swim. Not planning for a day at the beach, I hadn’t brought a costume and, instead, was sweating under long sleeves and scarf. I had tried hard, too hard, to not offend my Muslim hosts and looked and felt a bit ridiculous fully clothed in the midday sun. I opted to roll up my trouser legs to the knees and strip to vest. Merwe, meanwhile, had removed her hijab and ran confidently into the waves wearing her light summer dress and leggings. Turning around to see what was taking me so long, she shook her head in dismay and shouted to me, loud enough for all on the beach to hear, Jemmy! You’re European- take some clothes off!.

I was back at Craigiebarns Primary School, writhing and twisting on a wooden gym bench- learning through doing how to skillfully remove thick, woollen tights and starched cotton pinafore without revealing an inch of white flesh to classmates or teacher. These are the elaborate moves of a practised circus artist or a Scottish school pupil changing for PE. I looked around at the bronzed Greek goddesses sunbathing topless under sun parasols on the shoreline and at their young children building sandcastles, happily naked. Everyone was now staring at the multicultural, intersectional spectacle unfolding in the waves. I quickly peeled to my un-matching bra and pants and stomped, laughing and squealing, into the salty sting of the old Aegean with my new friend.

Our limbs fully submerged by water and only our heads and shoulders bobbing above the surface, we became two women dancing, playing and, at home, in our own bodies. Fluid and free. Powerful and equal. Brown skin and white skin tones refracted by the blinding midday light to become a continuous marbling of human shapes thrashing the sea with glee, safe in the sensation of being able to still touch the seafloor with our feet. Debe waved from the shore. Merwe somersaulted like a mermaid gymnast. I attempted to copy but made wide, sweeping circles with my arms underwater instead. We said nothing but splashed and grinned and were carefree for a few precious minutes.

How did you learn to swim so well?, I gasped, carelessly, regretting the words as soon as I spoke them. Merwe pretended not to hear and held her breath under water. The bond had broken and we were back to being heavy and anchored in our established roles.

Afghanistan is a landlocked country. To reach Europe’s border by foot is a perilous journey fraught with danger across the Hindu Kush mountains bordering Pakistan, then on into the vast expanse of politically volatile Iran and Turkey, all the while relying on intelligence further up the line from those who have made the journey before as to where to avoid Taliban strongholds, Daesh terrorism, Middle East proxy wars and military checkpoints. No one chooses to leave their homeland and extended family without very good reason. Mothers and daughters like Merwe and Debe flee in the middle of the night with only the clothes on their backs.

The crossing from Turkey to Lesvos in Greece is five miles at its shortest point and looks about the same width as Edinburgh to Fife on a clear day but it is anything but straight-forward when crossed in the dark with poorly equipped boats and no sailing experience. It has been a migration route in both directions for centuries and was the hotspot for people escaping violence and persecution at the height of the current refugee crisis. Refugees arrived in inflatable dinghies, often with poor or faulty life-jackets supplied by people smugglers.

In the very same sea where Merwe had two years previously spent a long, dark night treading water while clinging to the side of an upturned dinghy before being rescued by a Frontex ship, we felt our holiday skin begin to wrinkle uncomfortably and we paddled back to the shallows to dry in the afternoon sun. We ate slices of peach with Debea and dozed for the rest of the afternoon until it was time to catch the last train home. Home to a refugee camp and a guest house in Athens respectively- temporal, transient homes.

Waiting at the train station, a crimson, angry sky beat down on the cluster of faded waterfront hotels, the setting sun casting long splinters of shadow onto the train tracks in front of us and marking the turning of another day. Debe sharpened a twig against the metal arm of a bench on the platform and then began to scratch lines into the pale, honey-coloured hues of an olive tree trunk as though a teenage girl graffiting her school desk or jotter. The date 14/04/14 emerged inside a heart-shaped bubble. This is the date when the family left their home in Afghanistan. The date is forever etched in their minds. It signifies where they are from and where they want to return to with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren one day. These are exactly the sort of people we should want as neighbours.

I thought back to what Maddie and I were doing in spring 2014 at home on Constitution Street. International Women’s Day, 8th March…. Her mother had asked if I could pick Maddie up from gymnastics class after school and babysit while she worked late. I asked Maddie if she wanted to come with me to a spoken word event at the Scottish Storytelling Centre on gender and power and, to my surprise, she was keen. We enthusiastically listened and clapped to a series of personal narratives about the fourth wave of feminism, delivered by confident young women . I relaxed into my theatre seat and felt a self-congratulatory glow, pleased as I was about the education of my young friend into the ways of the sisterhood.

Then the final act of the night. A performance piece about women’s empowerment and the reclaiming of language- every stanza concluding with a rallying call for liberation from the patriarchy and a prompt for the audience to shout in unison an increasingly loud, resoundingly clear shout of ‘CUNT!’ I winced, slunk into my seat and pulled the fury hood of Maddie’s puffa jacket up over her head.

Travelling home through the dark of old Edinburgh in my car afterward, I turned down the car stereo volume and proffered, So there were some choice words at the theatre tonight, Maddie. Should we have a chat about that, together with your Mum maybe?

Jemma, she sighed deadpan, looking straight ahead, when were you last in a school playground?

Not for the first time, this clever, curious girl next door had something to teach me. They say it takes an entire village to raise a child but the street is a good place to start.


Barcelona, #1Oct

With October came the rain hot and hard. It fell as strokes of batons, balaclavas and rubber bullets. A disfigured umbrella split a puddle into two, its spokes bent upward like jabbing fingers demanding of the sky Votarem! Votarem! Votarem!

At the entrance to Escola Pia de Sant Antoni steel shutters crumpled in on themselves- a fan snapped shut by assaulting hands and vain tongues. And I saw the ballot papers too- white slips raked, swept and counted. Then kicked along the streets and stuck to the soles of boot-blacks from Madrid.

Sunday morning joggers paused on the kerbside to take up arms on hips and knees. And to catch our breath- a breath punctuated by the rhythm of power ballads on shuffle. Our soft, sweating bodies making us believe that the people, the people must surely be sovereign.

A bedsheet stained in felt-tip pen We’re with you Catalunya hung from a balcony in El Raval and swayed to the tune of red, trumpeting geraniums. But who would be without her? Not the Basques, the Galicians or the Scots sitting back to back, en comu, banging pots and pans and shooting with cameras. Nor the wide-eyed hacks scrolling, lusting for a scrap.

In Placa Catalunya, independistas dressed in the flags of their grandparents- caped, accidental superheroes inheriting the Republic. Their clenched fists boxed the air and the air gathered in close and fat with tobacco, anxiety and the smell of damp dog. What folk songs from the Mosques, at the breasts of new mothers and from the one million estrangers without a vote? Still, the seasons rolled round as ever and Europe looked the other way.

At midnight, darkness came creeping, seeping through the city on strike. Hope held hands with hopelessness. It was a long look back and a short kiss goodbye. So I will remember Spain in my Autumn journal, glory veneered and varnished like an old, prized conker in a coat pocket. As if veneer could hold.



The Circle Game

There is an old Nordic proverb that says ‘what outward has been lost, shall inwardly be gained’.

When the Moon waxes it makes a B, when the Moon wanes it makes a D. And C is for circle and the widening circumference in between. The Moon is moving slowly but steadily further from Earth as it extends its orbit radiance many light years away. It is as though we have taken its circling embrace for granted.

Down at Leith Links in a thicket of bruised, tender stems there is an empty bottle of vodka, torn condom wrappers and cigarette butts discarded in the grass. These, an assembled totem to near misses with life and death. Or perhaps an offering from our nocturnal neighbours. A wasteland, some might have called the space before the big clean-up five years ago. But land is never truly wasted, just resting, waiting. All land is liminal. This late Sunday morning, inhaling deeply and looking deliberately into less beaten paths, a harvest can also be found.

In the long continuum of natural drama occurring in and around the Leith Links area of north east Edinburgh, today’s community garden and yesterday’s night-time shop floor exist only on the top soil of a midden. (I love that word, midden. It could only be old and of the north.)

Dig deep and there will be clues to the first drainage system providing clean, pumped water from Lochend to the townhouses of nineteenth century Leith merchants. Buried beneath this, are the remains of the 1645 plague victims, an outbreak that killed over half of Edinburgh’s population and weakened the city’s defences against later siege from Oliver Cromwell’s forces who built their citadel in Leith. A little deeper yet and there will be evidence of the first written rules of the game of golf, said to have been played by both Mary Queen of Scots and John Knox in the sixteenth century on the Links, but not together one assumes. And then deep, really deep, deep down, there will be oyster shells, grit and fragments of sea urchin from when the old ice melted, the sea became beach and the beach became grasses and dunes under the lunar pull of North Sea tides.

Now a Sunday in September- the marker of a new week, new season and, briefly, a new moon. Sept- em- ber… the three syllables tumbling lisp-like out of my mouth and landing in open air, still glowing warm, just, from the fire of late summer. The Sunday papers speak of nuclear destruction, a rocket-boy and the Donald, of a Noble Peace Prize winner presiding over ethnic cleansing, of Spanish police detaining Catalan journalists, of the UK Prime Minister hiding from her Foreign Secretary and of hurricane storms obliterating homes on tiny Caribbean islands. Some Scots reflect quietly to themselves that it’s exactly three years since our once in a lifetime vote but really, in the grand scheme of things, what does any of that matter now?

Further west along Constitution Street, the bells of South Leith Parish Church toll, calling believers to worship and to sing hymns, a particular type of protest song. Meanwhile, inside Leith Crops and Pots community gardens, Evie is faithfully collecting seeds from her crop of sunflowers. Their tall, creeping stalks hunched as though with arthritis brought on by the return of cold and damp and their black faces looking away somewhat embarrassed to still be in the ground. The flowers of the garden are fading quickly now like our tan freckles but the ground is still soft and dusty. It gives up its secrets to Evie’s tilling with rake and trowel.

On an exhale she stands to straighten her back, leans against the wooden handle of the rake with one forearm and with extended hand attached to the other offers me a fallen apple. ‘Here, a present,’ she says, catching her breathe in the soapy sting of September as I prepare to catch the fruit. Permitted fruit from an Eden project and a woman called Evie. It’s almost perfect. I clasp my hands around the little moon-shaped sphere of compressed juice and wonder if it would please her more for me to treasure or to taste the gift. I keep a hold of it for now and roll its reassuringly cold, hard smoothness up and down the curve of my neck and across the dip of my throat into the space where some men have what we call an Adam’s apple.

My back is pressed flat onto a picnic table bench and I am blinking up at the big, shuffling sky- an upside down kaleidoscope of kinetic colour and shape. The season is only hinting at the change to follow. Green foliage on chestnut trees shows glimpses of a racier yellow and orange at the corners- frayed, delicate edges where leaves will soon disintegrate, fall and land at our feet and in our laps like garments of antique lace that have shrunk in the wash. In his long-form poem from 1938, set against the backdrop of impending war in Europe, Louis MacNeice wrote of the tin trumpets of nasturtiums and the sunflowers’ blare of brass. It seems that Autumn is a big strip tease and September its cabaret warm-up act.

Rings of cigarette smoke move across the lowest tranche of my upside down skyscape and I sit up with a dizzying bolt to meet Andy across the table of the picnic bench. I realise that he has also been taking in the seasonal show and we eye each other suspiciously- two fair-weather gardeners with clean fingernails.

The allotments are common ground hard-fought by the families of Constitution Street and its surrounds. Unlike other areas of Edinburgh, few of the tenements in the Shore have communal back gardens, such was the pressure on available land for housing during the over-crowding of Leith in its seafaring heyday when the Port was the busiest in Scotland, exporting coal and wool from the Lothians across the globe and importing grain and timber from Canada and the Baltic states. Old maps from the archives at the National Library of Scotland hint at market gardens extending from the back of dwellings in the medieval Kirkgate but traces of these have long since been replaced by carparks and budget supermarkets. Rather, we have window boxes with geraniums and heather. Little nods to a horticultural wish list and entirely incongruous plonked as the plants are in shallow plastic or aluminium troughs lassoed onto window ledges.

The Leith Links communal croft doesn’t have the neat rose bushes or beech hedges of rented city council allotments with their inexplicably long and secret waiting lists. Instead, the rough mounds on the Links are topped by hand-painted signs spelling Stanwell Nursery or Citadel Youth Centre but like the inside of school jumpers marking goal posts on a playing field, these embroidered labels can be easily ripped and re-sewn. This land is our land. It has soft borders and is beautiful only to its mothers.

We can hear but not yet see Evie’s four children stamping out an angry dance behind us in the far edges of the garden. Mini street gods, they test the boundaries of adolescence by wresting then embracing and quarrelling once more, flinging large handfuls of what Aristotle referred to as organic matter at one another. ‘Hey, that’s Enough!’ yells the children’s’ Earth Mother. Enough. Commanded as a reprimand but loaded with tacit approval, acceptance and therefore love. Like the crops, the bees that pollinate the crops and the birds that eat the crops, the children have nothing more, nor less, to prove today. They just are.

There is a fresco hanging in the Vatican by Italian Renaissance artist Raphael called The School of Athens. It depicts Plato and Aristotle in conversation at the centre of a semi-circle filled with other ancient Greek philosophers. Plato is concerned with matters spiritual and looks up towards the Heavens while Aristotle casts his gaze down to Earthly physics. Sitting apart from the others and appearing to daydream with his head resting in his hands is Heraclitus. He is best known among contemporary environmentalists for his insistence that no one ever steps in the same river twice and that the path up and the path down are one and the same because of the ever-present flow of nature. The Raphael fresco also depicts a paradoxical tension- that humans are intrinsically part of the natural world- we breathe the same air and eat the same plants and animals as our fellow creatures- but humans have also developed the reasoning and technological skills with which to debate with one another in a semi-circle. Humans are both natural and social beings. This is our second nature.

I interviewed my friend and neighbour, Maddie. She is twelve years old and was on the cusp of starting secondary school at the time of our recorded conversation. Twelve is the symmetrical point on a clock face where the ticking hands complete the circle and are poised in a moment of equilibrium, both pointing north. Yet the joined hands do not pause for long, clock-wise as they are to continue on their rotation, ever- forward into new seconds, minutes and hours. Being tall and slender with dark hair cropped at her shoulders, a cartwheeling Maddie resembles clock hands.

Tall and slender

Newly torn from the field

Are their stems so tender.

Two girls in matching dungarees,

Pursed lips, puffing and pouting

The younger more at ease.

Dogs at their feet playing chase.

Nothing left to exhale

But here, a breathing space.

Seed heads scatter,

Drifting over whispering grasses.

And turning to look straight at her

I ask how to tell the time

With twelve years and twelve breaths,

My darling Madeleine?

I asked Maddie what, if anything, made her anxious in life, about her hopes for the future of our street and about her assessment of political leaders at Westminster and Holyrood. She told me that she too would one day like a garden of her own and that if she had the job of Prime Minister or First Minister, her top priority would be for Scotland to become more eco-friendly.

‘So there was a thing on the radio I heard that by 2030 or maybe it was 2040, there should be only electric cars. Which I think is a good thing. And I’d prefer if we tried to rely more on renewable energy instead of fossil fuels and things. You know?’

In transcribing interviews, slowly measuring each word against the press of my fingers on the keyboard to record its weight, I’ve become increasingly aware of the tendency we all have in spoken conversation to emphasise ‘you know?’ or ‘do you know what I mean?’ at the end of a comment. This appears less of a question and more of an empathetic plea. It seems important, quite urgent actually, that the communication lands and is accepted friend to friend, neighbour to neighbour.

Inherent to the human condition and our second nature is to be in community. Communities are slippery things to define. Most of us are in multiple communities of interest and place, professional and social, digital and virtual and these sometimes overlap like concentric circles in a Venn diagram. Where do communities begin and end? Is the decision-making of a community to be determined by those who shout the loudest? And what if you don’t want to be in the community, can you leave? These are some of the unresolved complexities in the Scottish Government’s community empowerment and land reform laws that commendably aim to open up access and ownership to Scotland’s wild spaces in both urban and rural areas.

A street community of neighbours is comparatively easy to define because a street has obvious start and end points on a map. It has a name and quantifiable members or residents who know that they have an address with a street number and so belong by default and can leave by default when they move house or business. At the far east of Constitution Street, tacked onto the arched, stone gateways to the Port and Docks that still frame the sea or city beyond- depending on which way you are facing- there are signs reading exit and entrance. This is a favourite place on the street for my neighbours’ four year old son, Orrin. He loves Thomas the Tank Engine and calls this spot his tunnel.

Resilient communities need dispersed and authentic leadership, drawing upon different skillsets and life experiences. Common ground for growing a few sunflowers, tatties or for flinging handfuls of dirt at your siblings might just offer up some coping strategies to deal with today’s urban struggles. Here is the commons where we put food on our tables, enhance the aesthetic, negotiate boundaries, stretch our limbs and must dig where we stand. It is the essence of thinking global and acting local.

The Great Leith Improvement Scheme in the 1880s marked the real transformation of the Links area. Work began to level the ground and mark off the traditional paths, fertilising the soil with ashes from the gasworks and, on the insistence of Rev. Mitchell of South Leith Parish Church, trees were planted- not by the local authority but by residents themselves. The popularity of the improved green, civic space reportedly brought a return of golfers, cricketers and footballers to the commons. New by-laws were then approved by city administrators to regulate access and maintenance of the space.

I watch Evie heave the contents of a plastic trug- weeds and rotten fruit I guess- onto the communal compost pile. Decay and renewal. Another day, another neighbour might stir the mulching, stewing vat with a long stick and feel inwardly smug about the fermenting brew as another might experiment with a home beer kit for it is satisfying to make new out of old and then necessary to show and tell, to complete the circle.

Today, the sails of a child’s plastic windmill anchored into the ground are spinning with each gust of a breeze and sounding a tat a tat tat like a football rattle. Its motion scatters fury dandelion wisps up into the air and they come to land on the surface of the dark compost. And I am reminded of the Joni Mitchell song.

‘We can’t return we can only look behind

From where we came

And go round and round and round

In the circle game’.


Autumn journal

and I am in the train too now and summer is going South as I go north…

the rain with the national conscience, creeping,

Seeping through the night.

Briefly witnessing first-hand some of the human and environmental crisis unfolding in Lesvos, Greece, last summer felt bleak and over-whelming at times. Europe had utterly failed in its response to the biggest migration of people since the Second World War. Despite good intentions, it was difficult to see how short term volunteers in the refugee camps were making any sustainable contribution. I sought out reasons to remain hopeful among the kindness of strangers- from the friendship of women like Merwe and her mother Debe from Afghanistan- and by snatching moments alone, walking in the pine woods outside Mytilene, listening to old Leonard Cohen songs.

Three weeks ago, I again left Edinburgh, our Athens of the North, and chased the end of summer in Greece. I was clearer about my expectations this time and despite the undeniable human rights challenges that persist in camps across Greece and elsewhere, I encountered some good news stories when reconnecting with old friends. Merwe and Debe took me to the beach for a picnic and talked excitedly about their new life ahead in Germany now that they have been granted boarding passes for onward travel. And Jamal and Jalal, two friends from Kara Tepe camp, are both now employed by international aid agencies and hopeful of reunification with family in Belgium and the Netherlands respectively. We caught up with one another’s lives as we sipped iced coffees on the rooftop of an occupied squat and community centre in Thessaloniki, northern Greece.

I was in Thessaloniki for the TRISE conference on social ecology. The conference seminars hugely expanded my learning about the interconnection between human rights, environmentalism and economics. I left with a long reading list and felt humbled and inspired hearing presentations and interventions from Greek colleagues who took part in the Squares Movement of 2011, from Spanish housing rights activists leading Barcelona En Comu and Madrid Ahora, and from meeting Kurdish writers who introduced me to the work of imprisoned Kurdish leader, Abdullah Öcalan. His ‘non-state’ solution is particularly radical for those of us schooled in state to state diplomatic relations.

Then with the start of a new month, I returned to Constitution Street and surprised neighbours Reyhan and Aykut, owners of Rocksalt cafe, with a ‘rojbas’ greeting (good morning in Kurdish). Interview highlights this month have included with PC Mark Muir at Leith Police Station (the old town hall on Constitution Street), with Edinburgh City Archaeologist John Lawson (about the medieval remains excavated during tram works) and with Ray Clark on a tour of Leith Docks.

And back to Room 31 at IASH, Edinburgh University, in Hope Park Square when I have been joined by a new intake of research Fellows. Early autumn, the season North Americans call Fall- the time of students returning to term, of sticky fingers picking blackberries in the hedgerows, the smell of woodsmoke drifting above city chimneys, of ruby-coloured plums, hydrangeas and leaves- leaves everywhere, giving, falling away. I went in search of these romantic scents, textures and colours in the glens at the weekend but was out of sync by a week or two and found only a smudgy green blotting the home landscape of hill fog and steely-grey lochs. Perhaps I was characteristically too impatient for the seasonal transition to complete. Instead I found discarded antlers in the long grass behind Glen Clova bunkhouse- remnants of the rub and fall of deer rutting on the heather moor, the young males competing for dominance of their herd.

It was the ancient Greek philosopher, Hereclides, who observed that one can never swim in the same river twice, such is the perpetual and dynamic flow of nature. That we too are part of nature’s diverse and interconnected ecosystem was a key principle in the work of Murray Bookchin, father of the modern social ecology movement that I was introduced to at the TRISE conference in Greece. Nature is a web of inter-dependent species. The unity and complexity provides for peace and stability and so a continuum of human possibilities requires a re-harmonisation of the relationship between human and nature- to understand that we are of, by and within nature and not its master or mistress. We begin by building the new world in the shell, or the leaves, or the antlers of the old.

This month, I have been reading:

Autumn Journal by Louis MacNeice

Harry Bingo by Peter Ross

Revolution in Rojava by Anja Flach, Ercan Ayboga, and Michael Knapp

The Life and Times of Leith by James Marshall

The Hand That First Held Mine by Maggie O’ Farrell 

In my edition of MacNeice’s long-form poem, Autumn Journal, the introduction by publishers Faber and Faber states that the poem records ‘the trivia of everyday living set against the the events of the world outside, the settlement in Munich and slow defeat in Spain’. The poem was written between August and December 1938 and yet it feels wholly contemporary.

Observing the wider world outside today- a Brexit UK poised for economic collapse and European isolation, the Spanish state’s increasingly hard-line opposition to Catalan self-determination, a Nobel Peace prize winner presiding over ethnic cleansing in Burma, the ever-present threat of nuclear fallout between Trump and Kim Jong Un and the continuous environmental degradation of our rivers, parks and seas at home and abroad…. it is clear that our ecosystems are entirely out of balance and peace. Recording everyday trivia seems the essential, perhaps the only, place to be right now. It might just be here that we can see and feel our way to any thin cracks in the darkness that let in shards of soft autumn light. I certainly hope so.