Under Siege!

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By Radical Rhymes

I was scrolling down my Twitter feed recently and I came across a discussion about feeling under siege. Two US citizens were discussing the possibility that if Trump loses in November, and I pray to the universe he will, would he leave quietly? Would there be pitched battles in the street?

One was a veteran trying to reassure a civilian that if things did deteriorate to become a privatized civil war, there were enough armed progressives to make the right wing gun nuts sorry for it. She responded that her husband had firearms and she would dig in and protect her loved ones and property.

It was an interesting and frightening discussion to read. And yet, there’s something seductive about the prospect of a siege, isn’t there? Maybe it’s just me.

I’ve always been fascinated with the concept. From the ancient desire to reclaim Helen from Paris, through the siege of Krishnapur, to the movies about Rorke’s Drift and surviving in post apocalyptic societies, they’ve thrilled and oppressed me in equal measure.

For a very long time I couldn’t quite understand my own investment in them. Certainly, there was heroism in many of these tales. The movie Ironclad for example, where a handful of men defy the tyranny of King John to preserve the light of Magna Carta. Brave souls making the ultimate sacrifice for freedom, truth and justice!

But that wasn’t it, at least not for me.

It was about being confined in a place, having what you need to survive, but being constantly under threat. Safe but not safe. Sound a bit weird? I thought so too, that is until my therapist introduced me to the notion of ‘The Room’.

You see, when I was three, I was playing ball with our family German Shepherd. Unlike the cat, who’d left home when I arrived, Stevie was my loyal friend and protector. Apparently, she’d even taught me to walk by letting me pull myself up on her and carefully guiding my early steps.

She was a beautiful dog.

But this day I was being a tease, pretending to throw the ball, but not letting it go. How many times did I do this? I have, of course, no idea. It wasn’t, by all accounts, the first time I’d done this. But this day Stevie was in pain. She had an abscess on her tooth that no-one knew about.
She snapped. Grabbing me by the upper arm and shaking me like a rag doll. Thankfully I only have snippets of memory now, but I know that if we hadn’t had council painters in to decorate our house, I would have been dead. One of them pulled her off me and I survived.
Funny how a basic imposition like having your house painted by a local authority, whether you wanted it done or not, should prove a lifesaving imposition. I wish I could thank that man, bless him. I have the scars on my arm to remember it all by, but the real wounds went deep, deep inside.

Instead of rehoming Stevie we kept her. This meant that I was shut in rooms, often alone, while the dog had the run of the house. I was, for seven years, literally under siege. If I made the mistake of leaving the room, she was always there, snarling, slavering, desperately trying to finish what she’d started.

Safe but unsafe. And then there was the guilt and terrible sense of failure that ran alongside all this. Periodically, my mum and sister would sit at the bottom of the stairs and encourage me to put my hands through the bannisters and stroke Stevie. If only I would try harder, want that reconciliation more, it would happen. It never did.

Freedom finally came when I was nine or ten. I came home to find all the doors open and I knew that she was gone. It was a joyous and terrible time for me. I had to pretend to be sad when I was dancing inside. My liberty was shortlived though, we bought a German Shepherd puppy less than a week later.

Did that impact on my sense of freedom? Did it create the mental and emotional problems I’ve had to navigate? Definitely.

I am still holed up in The Room. It’s hard for me to be spontaneous, to venture out into crowds or open spaces. I like to be in a safe and confined space, well, like is the wrong word. Actually, it makes me feel safe, and unsafe. That’s the eternal paradox.

However, I do not intend to rot in that room. No. I am going to venture out, see the world, enjoy my liberty, and that must also be the way to challenge the darkness being wrought by men like Trump.

We cannot let them force us into our rooms, we must not allow them to keep us confined, too scared to speak or to act. They thrive from that feeling of unsafe safety. It is time to leave the political version of the room, to talk to the neutrals, to get out and march, to protest peacefully, and, above all to vote.

A siege may seem romantic, but the scars are deep and enduring and they must not be allowed to define us, neither personally nor politically.

See… Speak… Act…

Radical Rhymes is a professional artist working with a range of media – predominantly animal/human portraits and landscapes – including, most recently, hand painted furniture. You can see his work on Instagram Radicalrhymes1969 or on Twitter @RhymesRadical.
For commissions, please contact him on Twitter via Direct Message or by email at: radicalrhymes@outlook.com His work is also available to buy on Etsy

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