Aberfan - October 21st, 1966

There are events in everyone's life that stick in the mind.  How often do you hear the question, "Do you know where you were when you heard John F. Kennedy was shot?"  I actually have no answer for that question, but, for me, the date that made such an impression is October 21st, 1966.

 

I never realised at the time, nor for many, many years afterwards, exactly what an impression the events of that day had actually imprinted in my psyche.  I was eight years old, and the grainy black and white television news images of the horrific disaster that occurred in the Welsh village of Aberfan, like most of the "grown up news" at that time, made little impression.  Or so I'd thought.

 

Then, almost 40 years later, I started to feel something strange inside - something that trembled in the depths of my soul - if that's what you'd call it - in a way that seemed to say "This is still there, and needs to be set free."  It's difficult to explain that feeling - it's like something trying to surface in your mind, trying to speak, so disturbing that it takes your attention away from the things you should be doing.  That "thing" that surfaced was a remembrance of those events back in October 1966, and the vision and clarity and emotion that came with the memory were both inspiring, and deeply saddening.

 

The expression of that "thing" - the vision, the clarity, the emotion - is the poem below.  I reproduce it hear, 47 years after the event that has become known by just one word all over the world - Aberfan.

It's now been 50 years since "Aberfan" - but not a lot has changed.

 

ABERFAN – October 21^st, 2016

 

It’s been forty fifty years since “Aberfan”,

One hundred and sixteen children

Did not live to be woman or man,

Their fragile bodies broken!

 

A village fair is Aberfan,

Hid in the Martyrs vales,

Nestled amidst the green and gold

Of beautiful south Wales

 

But deep beneath her scenery

Lies the diamond black of coal.

To ransom this dark gold they sold

The Merthyr collective soul.

 

They sunk deep pits in Mother Earth

And mined the coal to sell;

But mines spit more than coal and dust,

Slurry they spit as well.

 

The garbage rock and dust and dirt

The does not burn is piled;

A blight on verdant pasture that

Is hideous, reviled.

 

And we all know that slag-heaps move,

We played on them as kids.

Our fathers' would have tanned our hides

If they'd known what we did!

 

But build a slag-heap on a hill

That’s watered by a stream?

The NCB knew this would be,

A Nightmare, not a dream.

 

They had been warned and warned again,

Of these they took no heed.

They went on piling up the slag:

Theirs was an evil deed.

 

Those murdering bastards knew full well

The spring fed from the hill

Would turn the slurry into slime

That, given time, would spill.

 

October dragged Autumnal feet,

With heavy skies and grey;

As if to wash away the dirt

It rained day after day.

 

The men on number 7 tip

Were worried by the storm.

They watched in horror as it swelled;

Could they prevent that harm?

 

In Pantglas Junior school it was

The last day of half-term.

The children sang their harvest hymns

But had no heart to learn.

 

At 9.15 in the morning

Of October Twenty-first,

God blessed the tardy children,

And, those on time, He curs’d.

 

Like some primordial monster

The soakened slurry fell,

Unleashing on the junior school

A blackness dug from Hell!

 

A rumble, growing louder,

‘Till it drowned all with its din.

The slag-heap crushed the stone-walled school

And buried those within.

 

While some escape, and many try

To save themselves and others,

That awful blackness traps them all;

Whom it doesn’t crush, it smothers.

 

And then – an eerie silence as

The dark void fills each room,

Encasing those dear children and

Their teachers in a tomb.

 

Then, through the silence, people come,

Miners, fathers, mothers.

While there will be relief for some,

There’s mostly grief for others.

 

They sought hard for their children,

Digging through the rock and mire

While deep in their hearts, broken,

Burnt an ever-growing fire.

 

They dug all through the daylight,

They dug through darkest night,

And each pew in Bethania church

Held a devastating sight.

 

The lifeless body of a child

Each by a blanket hidden

Was laid to rest in peace when it

Had been pulled from the midden.

 

One hundred and forty-four victims

Died in the Vale that day.

Twenty-eight of them were adults,

The rest, children at play.

 

Lord Robens was too busy to

Attend to Aberfan.

Receiving another honour,

Such an important man!

 

And when he bothered to attend

He lied about the cause.

The NCB were not to blame,

It was hidden springs, of course!

 

But the people of that valley

Were much wiser than him!

They’d played in that stream on the hill

Before it was filled in.

 

And, at the inquest, folk would take

No heed of Coal Board lies.

They knew who’d killed their little ones,

They knew whom to despise.

 

‘This is the truth - these words we want

This inquest to record,

'Asphyxia, no, sir! Buried alive

By the National Coal Board.'’

 

And who would pay the price for this,

The foul neglect and lies?

Why, no one from the NCB!

Spit in Welsh miners’ eyes!

 

“And, if you want those slag-heaps moved,

You’ll have to pay the cost.”

Well, Aberfan has dearly paid

With every life it’s lost!

 

Don’t ask how they recover

In their Welsh idyllic bliss.

Truth is – there’s no recovery

From tragedy like this.

 

It’s been forty fifty years since “Aberfan”

And not a day goes by

When a young survivor from Pantglas school

Wonders how they did not die.

 

They feel a sorrow and a guilt

For being still alive.

When all their friends were lying dead,

God, how did they survive?

 

Many of them that live there still

Take tablets for their pain,

But they don't take those pills, sir, no,

When it begins to rain!

The fear lies deep inside of them:

They won't get caught again!

 

And resentment and bitterness

Have, over the years, grown

‘Tween those who lost their children

And those that had lost none.

 

No, Aberfan will never truly heal

While memory lingers.

There’ll always be some hurt ones there

To wag their tongues and fingers.

 

There’ll always be some nosey fool,

Or morbidly sick tourist

Who wants to visit Aberfan

To see what they have missed.

 

The folk of Aberfan deserve

Our honour, respect, love;

Not idle stares and curiosity.

Remember, when you’re giving thanks

To Whom you deem above,

“But for the Grace of God, it could be me!”

 

Epitaph

Don’t ask if I believe in God

Or in the good, sweet Lord.

The proof that there is no such thing

Exists in just one word:

“Aberfan”.

 

Copyright © Paul J. Todd, October 21^st, 2006

 

Filey Summers - A Memoir in verse.

I guess, as a self-proclaimed author and poet, I should publish something now and then, while I'm waiting for fickle fame and fortune to strike!  But,  being honest, I wasn't sure whether to post this little poem about one of the great experiences of my childhood, on this blog, or on my Barney Blog, although this is far from a rant, and much more of a reminiscence!

 

Filey Summers

 

How do I spend my daydreams?

Wandering the paths

Of Butlin’s Filey Holiday Camp,

Reliving childhood’s past.

 

Old Sir Billy’s pride and joy,

The biggest Butlin’s ever,

Bringing summer fun to all

Despite the English weather!

 

The night before was sleepless,

Like a Christmas in July,

Our tummies full of butterflies

As hours dragged slowly by.

 

And then the rail or coach trip

With so little else to do

But sit in angst and wonder ‘til

The camp came into view!

 

The rows on rows of chalets;

Red and Yellow, Blue and Green,

And White for the self-catering,

The likes we’d never seen!

 

And over them, the chairlift,

Where we rode high in the sky,

Laughing down at the tiny folk

Below as we pass’d by.

 

 

 

The Indoor Pool was busy

And was always very warm;

A tropical oasis where

We were all safe from harm.

 

The clear and frigid water

Of the giant Outdoor Pool

Had tiered concrete fountains where

My brother sprayed the fools.

 

 

Two sittings in the dining halls

Of Windsor, York and Kent,

And seconds could be had without

More money being spent!

 

The first freshly cooked donut

That I had ever had,

Still hot, and sugar-coated,

Was a taste that drove you mad!

 

 

The Wild Mouse Rollercoaster

And the free Amusement Park

Kept the children entertained

From morning until dark

 

And then the glow of neon lights

Would drive the dark away

And make the camp a fairyland

Of fun and endless play.

 

 

 

Shows in the Gaiety Theatre

Or billiards in the hall,

Or dancing in the discotheque,

While parents had a ball.

 

The Regency, the Viennese,

The French and Oasis bars,

The Sportsman and the Beachcomber

Where dads could have some jars.
 

 

With playing fields and a cinema,

TV rooms and a lake,

With street trains and with endless games

He gave our folks a break

 

From looking after active kids

All day long, and, at night,

The chalet patrol kept careful watch

To make sure we slept tight!

 

So much to do – day in, day out,

No matter what your age;

It’s easy to see why Filey camp

Was all the Butlin rage!

“We know where you’re going! You’re going for a wee wee!”
 

 

Copyright (c) Paul J Todd, 2013.

All rights reserved.

The Songs of Distant Earth - Arthur C Clarke

Arthur C. Clarke is very well known for his two most famous science-fiction novels, 2001: A Space Odyssey and 2010: Odyssey Two, and is considered one of the "Big Three" authors of the genre, along with Isaac Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein. 2001 is considered one of the greatest sci-fi classics of all time, and the film version by Stanley Kubrick has a huge cult following.  That being said, I had always found those stories difficult to access beyond the surface of Kubrick's visual representation.

In the mid-1990's, I bought the album The Songs of Distant Earth by Mike Oldfield.  Having long been an Oldfield fan, I bought the album for the music, and, at the time, did not pay too much attention to the science fiction story it was based on.  What a fool I was! I recently, finally, read the novel, and have to state that The Songs of Distant Earth by Arthur C. Clarke is exactly the kind of science fiction novel we should all be reading! "Why is that?" I hear you ask. (I did, honestly!)  Well, let me tell you...

 

The Songs of Distant Earth is one of those rarities in the science-fiction genre - a truly accessible, BELIEVABLE story, full of romance, strangeness and danger, that doesn't overwhelm its reader with spurious amounts of incomprehensible science, and which tells a good yarn while still delivering that science, along with a excellent moral sub-plot that is highly appropriate to audiences today.  While the main storyline tells of the arrival of the Starship Magellan, with the last remnants of Earth's civilisation, at the new human colony of Thalassa, a beautiful, Earth-like planet, some 400 years after Earth has been destroyed when our Sun went nova, and the interaction between the new humans and the Earth humans.  We are treated to breath-taking descriptions of Thalassa's peaceful beauty, and gently introduced to the quantum physics and the discovery of the neutrino, in understandable terms that don't blind you with science.  

But the real story to The Songs of Distant Earth isn't the love affair between Loren and Marissa, nor the discovery of the Quantum Drive and the subsequent creation of the Starship Magellan, nor even the creation of the new civilisations like Thalassa. The real message Clarke delivers, the real Catch 22 of the novel, is the process of selecting the historical literature and art from Earth's enormous catalogue, so that they could prevent these new civilisations from commiting the same mistakes Mankind had made during their tenure on Earth. As Clarke puts it:

 

"With tears in their eyes, the selection panels had thrown away the Veda, the Bible, the Tripitaka, the Qur’an, and all the immense body of literature— fiction and nonfiction— that was based upon them. Despite all the wealth of beauty and wisdom these works contained, they could not be allowed to reinfect virgin planets with the ancient poisons of religious hatred, belief in the supernatural, and the pious gibberish with which countless billions of men and women had once comforted themselves at the cost of addling their minds."

 

So the message, if not warning, that Clarke delivers is that, given the opportunity to create Mankind anew, in order to avoid the self-destructive society we have today, we would need to keep from these new civilisations the huge amounts of religious texts that have driven our civilisation to the point of continual warfare and enmity. In other words, if we want to have a truly peaceful society, we would need to remove every aspect of religious control and dictates from our entire knowledge base.

Of course, while Clarke proposes this solution as one method of achieving truly peaceful new worlds, there is no guarantee that these societies would not create their own religious myths and beliefs, thereby potentially subverting the planned peaceful process of existence.  After all - isn't that exactly what we have done to this Earth?

The Songs of Distant Earth should be required reading in every high and secondary school on this planet - if we are ever going to save it!