Two years ago, after winning the Kavya Prize for New Writers, I was reading poetry at the Abriachan Village Hall as a part of a collaborative program with literary giants like Jenni Fagan, Pàdraig MacAoidh (now Scotland’s Makar), and Daisy Lafarge. I was proud to be among them.

Exchanging words in Scottish and Irish Gaelic, Ukrainian, Tamil, and Māori, we were reminded of the synergies between our tongues, words that sounded similar, with possible common roots, and others that were new but never alien. The Gaelic aon, the Tamil onnu, the English one. Coiridh, curaí, curry. Paitsiúlaí, pachuli, patchouli. Athair, atthan, father. Tiaki, cúram, cure, and care. We knew this was a privilege, but we also knew that this was a necessity.

The soft smiles and familiarity that the audience in the Village Hall met our (often unfamiliar) words with was a gentleness derived from the wooded pathways at the Abriachan Forest School nearby, the glimpses of long sunsets at Moniack Mhor, and teachers who taught children to name the small animals, bugs, and plants near ponds.

The Village Hall sustained local culture, Gaelic, and us. Run by volunteers, it is sustained alongside the Forest Trust’s engagements with biodiversity preservation, forest management, local employment creation, and educational efforts.

Holyrood rarely hears voices from Abriachan. Over the past decade, not one motion celebrates the Village Hall’s work. Not one debate notices its work, over a lifetime, in sustaining culture and community. And when the Village Hall struggles, who listens?

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