A Grey Blanket with Embroidered Flowers
By Zol H, May 2009
In a WW2 prison camp in Germany, a Norwegian woman started to embroider her life on a grey prison blanket. Little did she know that this blanket and her story would touch so many hearts decades later. “A Grey Blanket with Embroidered Flowers” is a 35-minute long documentary portraying this woman, a fisherman’s wife who had been sentenced to 15 years’ imprisonment by the Germans. She was arrested together with her husband for their involvement in the resistance movement. He was sentenced to death.
A Grey Blanket with Embroidered Flowers
Her name is Dagny Loe. When the war broke out, she lived with her husband Osvald and their eight children in the arctic village of Berlevaag at the top of Norway. They agreed to assist the partisans who operated from a nearby mountain, he by collecting information that the partisans then forwarded to Soviet Murmansk, she by making soup and supplying them with warm socks. They knew the risk. One day Osvald was captured by the Germans, then they came for her. She took the youngest child, a 6 week old baby girl, with her, while the others were left behind.
The sentences were harsh, the human costs even harder. Before she was transported to Germany, her baby girl died and was taken away for burial by a woman. Her husband was executed, beaten to death, together with six others. She saw him one last time before the sentence was carried out. “You have to survive for the sake of our children,” he said.
It was in the German prison camp that she started to embroider her life on that grey blanket, just to survive. Some of her cellmates embroidered their names on it, too. One of them was from France, another from the Netherlands. Women from all over Europe, all with similar fates, who never allowed themselves to show any weakness in front of their guards. On the blanket, she also embroidered her name and address in the hope that it would find its way home should she not make it.
She did return home a few years later, to what was left of it. The Germans had efficiently applied their scorched earth tactic as they were forced to retreat from the north. She was reunited with her children, raised them, later there were grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
The fate of her baby girl was revealed 50 years later when she received a call from the woman who had taken care of the burial of that little body. The woman told she buried the baby in the arms of an elderly lady who had just passed away.
In the film, Mrs. Loe, now in her nineties, tells her story in a matter-of-fact way, calm voice, beautiful mild face. Maybe the story is one she has told many times before.
She still has her wedding dress, that was dyed red and came to good use during the war years. Her wish is to be buried in it, firm in the belief that she will meet again the man she loved, he who used to sing Edvard Grieg’s I Love You to her in such a way that it could melt the ice.
Despite the underlying sadness to the film, it is full of love and hope. Love for a husband, a country, the life. Hope because there is always someone who is willing to make sacrifices when they are called to serve. And I wonder: Would I do the same?
Click and scroll down to see a picture of Mrs. Loe
The prize-winning documentary “A Grey Blanket with Embroidered Flowers” is made by Swedish journalist and director Gunilla Bresky. Swedish title: “En grå filt med broderade blommor”
Declaration of Compromise
By © Zol H, January 2009
I for one believe that we are way passed the point of permitting
ourselves to relinquish responsibility for our own actions
whether taken in the name of history or vengeance or personal pursuit of power
or because of our sense of superiority or inferiority
or some inherent divine right
We are better than this.
Day 21 in Gaza
DAY 21 IN GAZA
(By © Zol H – January 2009, during the Gaza War)
Death toll: 1,133
Why is it that those old words “Let my people go” keep spinning in my head?
A duty of war
A DUTY OF WAR
(By © Zol H – January 2009, during the Gaza War)
Civilian losses in Gaza? Most regrettable,
but not really our responsibility, they started it
We are just defending ourselves
If so, could you please sit down by the side of that old lady
who was so severely injured just yesterday,
gently stroke her cheek and say,
I know it hurts, dear, but you have to understand
that this is really for your own good.
The Ultimate Poem
From time to time, evergreen poems and stories and speeches emerge that touch hearts. Like Dr. King’s I Have a Dream speech. I have a dream, too, to write The Poem of my life, so precise in its wording that it conveys exactly what I want to express about human relations. Raw, free from clichés and affectation.
I am not a trained writer. I have, however, opinions I want to get across, but regretfully not the patience it takes to write longer pieces. Once in a while, I construct word-pictures that I am really satisfied with, and a broad smile bursts over my face. But overall, my poems remain commentary in style, more like compressed blog posts with line breaks that make them look like poems. Maybe that is simply my natural mode of expression, the best vehicle for me to give my words the edge I want. Nevertheless, I will keep looking for those words to create The Poem of my life.
IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD
By © Zol H
Words, you cannot hunt them
They come in their own time,
when you least expect them
or when you most need them,
in the middle of nowhere and everywhere
You never know what sparks them
Best to arm yourself with pen and notepad,
because all the sudden, they fade away
like dreams in the early morning hours
My theory is that
they set out from the point of origin
at the dawn of mankind,
travelled down the centuries,
comforting, blessing, inspiring
Platon and Shakespeare and Ibsen,
Cohen and Kerouac,
Woodward and Bernstein,
declarations of war and peace,
pro et contra
Constantly travelling,
telling the human history.
To the Youth of the Middle East
TO THE YOUTH OF THE MIDDLE EAST
(By © Zol H - January 2009, during the Gaza War)
Last night on TV:
young eager faces at the Birzeit Univesity in Palestine,
peaceful protests against the carnage in Gaza
In the south of Israel, a young girl:
I can seek shelter before the rockets hit
In Gaza, they do not have that possibility
The war? It is wrong
We should talk instead
That’s what she said
You are the sunrise generation of the Middle East
On your shoulders you carry the burden of your forefathers,
but also the hopes and dreams of tomorrow
Your most courageous act will be
to reach out a hand,
raise above the “us” and “them”
and “their faults” and “our rights”,
and say to those of yesterday:
Enough is enough
Among you are future leaders, doctors, scientists and poets,
bright minds,
capable to think for yourselves
If someone cries out for retaliation and revenge
or encourages you to become a martyr,
tell them it is not your responsibility to
satisfy the power-hunger of war hawks and occupiers or
feed the pompous egos of self-proclaimed protectors of the Faith
Your calling is a higher one
This is your time!
May your journey be a joyous one
The beacon ahead:
Two prosperous nations
side by side
at the crossroads of three continents
It can happen, you know.
Generations
GENERATIONS
By © Zol H
After sending him my latest peace poem,
my old grandpa texted me:
piz b with u
He had just bought his first cell phone.
With a big smile on my face, I texted back:
& with u 2
Dialog
DIALOG
By © Zol H
Jew: My parents were killed in Auschwitz
Palestinian: Your army forced me away from my house
J: I despise your attacks
P: I disapprove of your wall
J: Now your daughter is marrying my son
P: They are very much in love, aren’t they
J. Indeed
P: That will make us family
J: I guess
The Ghost of a Suicide Bomber, Age 13
THE GHOST OF A SUICIDE BOMBER, AGE 13
By © Zol H
They call me a martyr
and this should be Paradise,
but here I stand at a loss
Death came so sudden
I wanted to become a doctor,
to heal, not kill
When they told me to sacrifice myself,
I should have said: Why? You go
Mom? Dad?
Did you cheer when my body was blown to pieces?
You, who gave life to me,
then let them slaughter me
And for what?
Because they are the true holders of the Faith?
Or did they pay you?
If so, how much was I worth?
Do you miss your little boy?
Me, who now wanders the deserts and cities
You can see me on every street corner
and at each bomb crater,
together with the likes of me:
ghosts of those who set out for Paradise,
bombs around our waists,
burning fanatism in our eyes
Those who taught us and killed us, we will haunt
in their camps and homes and mosques
In their dreams we will make them relive
their desecrating all that is holy,
over and over,
until their eyes are forced open and
they look at themselves in horror and cry out:
My God, what have I done?
Then we can rest in peace, Insha’Allah.
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