Aaloo

i know who you pretend i am

"(...) and at the same time you know yourself (you've only to open your eyes) that you are not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything?"

My name is Nadin. I never imagined I would write something like this. I’ve always been someone who kept her worries quiet, someone who believed that even the hardest days could be endured with patience and faith. But right now, I am reaching out — not because I want to, but because I need to.

I am a wife, a mother, and one of many women in Gaza trying to survive days that feel like they have no end. There was a short time — a brief ceasefire — where we thought things might start to heal. Where the sound of war faded for just long enough to let us breathe. But that moment is gone now, and the fear has returned louder than before.

My days are filled with uncertainty, and my nights with prayer. We have lost so much. Our home was damaged, our sense of safety taken from us. But through all of this, I try to keep going. I try to hold on to what little peace I can create with my hands, my words, and my love.

I am not asking for much. Just a little help to keep our lives from falling further apart. To fix the small things — a cracked wall, a leaking roof, the pieces of daily life that help us hold on to dignity.

This campaign isn’t just about survival. It’s about holding on to what makes us human in a place that keeps trying to take that away. It’s about showing my daughter — even though I won’t mention her name here — that the world didn’t forget us.

If you’ve ever felt powerless in the face of suffering, please know that even the smallest gesture can carry great meaning. A kind word. A shared post. A quiet donation. These things remind us that we’re not alone.

I am still here. Still holding on. Still believing that people out there — people like you — still care.

But we look back everyday- rechecking emails, making sure a friend is still behind you, checking to see if you remebered to pick up your keys. It's second nature, a habit of care.

Also why done twitter have a word limit?? its horrible

So while I listen to alot of variety while working, Hozier is a common part of my weekly background, and while I was researching for an article on wells in gaelic culture after going out and taking photos of local Sí mounds aswell, I feel like I got hit with the conspiracy theory beam that sent me into an epithany hyperfixation while listening to Foreigners God and how you can read it as a lament for the last millenia of irish history

The first verse talking about a romantacism of pre-christian, or specifically, pre-protestant plantation Ireland (before the Tudor conquest in 1536), given even early irish catholicism was by papl standards, basically pagan, as a wilder, more free place without the stigma enforced through religious and planter society ["She moved with shameless wonder. The perfect creature rarely seen"].

With the arrival of the english "liar brought the thunder", with the lie being able to maybe be read as the lie of "civilising us" ["Since some liar brought the thunder"]

In this, you could view the "She" as being an anthropomorphism of Éire, with the spirit of the people looking towards the author, either a singulr or collective representation of native irish, whos been continuously emptied out spiritually and culturally under colonialism, and now is filled with a growing hatred for not only the planters, but protestantism itself , even at personal cost ["But still my heart is heavy. With the hate of some other man's beliefs"]

The pre-chorus could be seen as a reinforcing of the scorn for the colonial planters, who especially in the 18th and 19th century, would have been mostly interacted with via the landlordism of wealthy protestant english aristocrats who maintained that their actions were justified in the name of "civilising" us, which would always hinge on violence ["Always a well dressed fraud. Who wouldn't spare the rod. Never for me"]

The second verse could be read as the most forward and lamenting, since it opens with the speaker rhetorically questiong their attempts at conforming to the heirarchy and imposed british way of life, and how often for the likes of peasant and working class irish, would mean performing the role of the simple, obediant but charming worker, to cling onto both employment and avoid potential backlash from the planter ["Wondering who I copy. Mustering some tender charm"].

The line returning to the state of Ireland and, assuming this vague time around the 1700's- early 1800's, our country had in essence been stripped of the majority of its natural and cultural resources, let alone any autonomy held by our people. And in that state of oppression, with minimal success in terms of organsed large scale revolution or uprising (e.g the 1798 uprising), Ireland could be read as having little hope of gaining freedom ["She feels no control of her body. She feels no safety in my arms"].

The last stanza of the verse could by far be the most emotional, especially for gaeilgeoirí, with the author lamenting his lack of language to express his pain for whats happened to the irish people. Explicitly, this could be read as being through the massive, systematic decline of Gaeilge. At the end of the 1700's, our population of ~5 million had estimated 3.5 million irish speakers. By 1851, following the famine, this had dropped to 1.5 million, and by 1900, only 600,000 remained on the island. This targeted attempt at cultural extermination had been going on for centuries, largely through the implimentation of Na Péindlíthe, or Penal Laws, specifically and extension of the staute of Kilkenny, which banned the use of irish when natives spoke to colonisers, and in 1851, banned any use of Gaeilge in areas under english rule. And any attempts to use or express our native language, music or culture was met with either legal, or often, violent rebuttal. All which you can read the author as expressing how with all that leaving them increasingly unable to truly express or show true love for the old Ireland that irish people and growing republicanism at the time wished to return to ["I've no language left to say it. But all I do is quake to her. Breaking if I try convey it. The broken love I make to her"]

It then just gets outright literal with the pre-chorus. English was and is not our language. The english cultural, historical and political weights placed on us were not ours. They were foreign words, and foreign ideals of a coloniser forced upon us ["All that I've been taught. And every word I've got. Is foreign to me"]

In no way saying is this valid or a well informed reading, but it was hard not to get sucked into the theorising and seeing serendipity betwen the sadness and loss in our history and the lyrics from one of our best musicians. Anyway. Hope if you enjoyed the mental ramblings if you got this far