Bbbbbrrrrrr, its cold in Ramallah, icey rain trying to turn to snow. I made an executive decision to work from home today because there is no heating in my workplace and hasn't been now for almost two weeks. Yet another consequence of the political situation. The office is in a building occupied by some government ministries, who because of the moratorium on financial aid are unable to work, hence they also have no money for fuel and as we are all on a shared, central heating system- those of us who continue to work are forced to endure Arctic conditions. C'est la vie on the West Bank.
Christmas was a mixture of memorable moments of hope, anger, uncertainty, generosity, beauty and of absences. Bethlehem was a revelation of pretty hilltop townships, Beit Sahour, accepted site of the angel's appearance to shepherds as they watched their flocks to inform them of the birth of the Jesus child. A kilometer futher up the hill, Bethlehem his birthplace, a town of 30, 000 people strung with lights and shining in its position nestled beneath Beit Jala perched atop it and all of this looking out on a landscape as old as time.
But something is dreadfully wrong in Bethlehem as with all of the West Bank but perhaps more acutely felt at this time of celebration and commemoration for many. The Wall, that indelible scar of unmitigated inhumanity and oppression snakes its painful way around Bethelehem overshadowing everything. The once thriving businesses, restaurants, small hotels and homes close to the site of the wall stand boarded up and abandoned and yet their location would once have been highly prised, providing views and an experience of the whole area.
Christmas lights, frosty nights and a sense of arrival notwithstanding, Bethlehem struggled under the weight of the burden of Israeli Ocupation this festive season. I watched the colourful, energetic parade of Palestine's youth scouts on Xmas eve as they displayed their musical and formation skills to the hundreds of onlookers in Manger Square in the build up to the arrival of the Patriarch in the mid afternoon. The Patriarch, better recognised outside Palestine as a catholic bishop was flanked by rows of altarboys, Franciscan brothers and priests- there's obviously no shortage of vocations in this part of the world. As we waited for his arrival outside the Church of the Nativity, three impressive figures dressed in ceremonial Ottoman costumes of brocade jackets and pantaloons, scimitars and fezs acted as his advance guard for the short walk to the Church portal. There was much stamping of feet amongst the long patient crowd to keep warm but then as the call to prayer came from the mosque opposite the church, I was informed that the ceremony would begin when the last cry had rung out. Pacing the rooftop of the Peace Centre that occupies almost one side of the square, heavily armed and flak jacketed sharpshooters kept their own watch. By the time the Patriarch drew parallel with the waiting crowd, he was all but drowned in a 3 deep ring of police locking arms around him in a security ring. I was struck by the fact that most of those who protected the leader of the Catholic Church in Palestine were Muslims.
I had woken on Xmas eve and gone outside in bright winter sunshine to listen to the sound of singing coming from the Greek Orthodox church in Beit Sahour and to enjoy the panorama afforded by my hillside location and my host's generous invitation to spend another night with her family. The landscape had an entirely different beauty in the morning light but I found myself lamenting the absence of greenery, I have been missing green. As the singing subsided, another refrain resonated across the hills of Bethlehem, the mosque call to prayer and I marvelled at the symmetry and co-ordination that accommodates these two evocations of different religious ritual and tradition.
Bethlehem works hard at respecting the religious and cultural traditions of its residents and is perhaps the most populated area by non- Muslims with up to 30% Christian. But the unity that so many invest in is threatened by the actions of some Christian churches who have sold of plots of land to the avaricious Israeli settlements that surround the area, facilitating the annexing of even more Palestinian territory to an Occupier who shows respect to no one.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
I have just the thing sir!
Does Tony Blair have a cosmetically disguised black eye? There was something distinctly asymmetrical about his right eye tonight during the live press conference with Olmert.
During which both men swapped platitudes when not being overtly evasive or as Blair twice admitted "elliptical". Elliptical?...mmm.. I'll stick with evasive. Daisy Mc Andrew of the BBC was having none of it:
"Mr. Blair the British Press has been dutifully following you on your whirlwind trip of the Middle East this last few days and its hard to see what, precisely if anything, has been acheived by this trip?"
" Mr. Olmert, you referred THREE times to new initiatives on the Palestinian situation which Mr Blair discussed with you today wouldn't it be helpful to tell us what EVEN ONE of those might be?"
Surgical Strike Daisy!
And all this activity and press hordes traipsing through an all ready overactive West Bank today to give public support and propping to Abbas' call for new elections. It would appear that Abbas is doing a Bertie.. when you dont get the result you like- call another election. Dontcha just love democracy? It comes in all sizes and shapes; "That one doesnt fit sir?, Here sir, let me get you this new style, faux-democracy, looks like the real thing, and with a few good spin cycles wears just like the real thing, but of course its totally synthetic."
During which both men swapped platitudes when not being overtly evasive or as Blair twice admitted "elliptical". Elliptical?...mmm.. I'll stick with evasive. Daisy Mc Andrew of the BBC was having none of it:
"Mr. Blair the British Press has been dutifully following you on your whirlwind trip of the Middle East this last few days and its hard to see what, precisely if anything, has been acheived by this trip?"
" Mr. Olmert, you referred THREE times to new initiatives on the Palestinian situation which Mr Blair discussed with you today wouldn't it be helpful to tell us what EVEN ONE of those might be?"
Surgical Strike Daisy!
And all this activity and press hordes traipsing through an all ready overactive West Bank today to give public support and propping to Abbas' call for new elections. It would appear that Abbas is doing a Bertie.. when you dont get the result you like- call another election. Dontcha just love democracy? It comes in all sizes and shapes; "That one doesnt fit sir?, Here sir, let me get you this new style, faux-democracy, looks like the real thing, and with a few good spin cycles wears just like the real thing, but of course its totally synthetic."
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Lethal year for Palestinian children
123 Palestinian children have been killed in 2006, more than double the 2005 figure, while 340 children (under 18 years old) remain in detention facilities.
UNICEF said Wednesday in a report that 2006 has been one of the worst years for children. "Across the OPT, the conflict and closures, the withholding of resources and suspension in funding to the Palestinian Authority, as well as the strike by some public sector workers, have collectively blocked the fulfillment of children's rights."This year, says UNICEF, whether it is health care and education, protection from violence and abuse, or opportunities to play without fear - the rights of Palestinian children have been violated on an unprecedented scale.
The events of 2006 have impacted children in ways that will take years to unravel. Sonic booms, incursions and shelling created a context of extreme violence, stress and fear for children and their families, says the report."The summer, rather than being a time of recreation and play, turned out to be one without recreational opportunities as well as one with fear since it was among the most lethal summers ever, with 40 child deaths in July alone. "At this point in time, more than twice as many children died due to the conflict compared with 2005 - 70 per cent of these deaths were in Gaza."
UNICEF said Wednesday in a report that 2006 has been one of the worst years for children. "Across the OPT, the conflict and closures, the withholding of resources and suspension in funding to the Palestinian Authority, as well as the strike by some public sector workers, have collectively blocked the fulfillment of children's rights."This year, says UNICEF, whether it is health care and education, protection from violence and abuse, or opportunities to play without fear - the rights of Palestinian children have been violated on an unprecedented scale.
The events of 2006 have impacted children in ways that will take years to unravel. Sonic booms, incursions and shelling created a context of extreme violence, stress and fear for children and their families, says the report."The summer, rather than being a time of recreation and play, turned out to be one without recreational opportunities as well as one with fear since it was among the most lethal summers ever, with 40 child deaths in July alone. "At this point in time, more than twice as many children died due to the conflict compared with 2005 - 70 per cent of these deaths were in Gaza."
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Passing the time
I have finally sucuumbed to the Ramallah ‘flu’. Its my third day of being housebound while the West Bank weather puts on a display of glorious early winter sunshine and pleasant temperatures. Luckily, I found a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle at the weekend which was not a nightscape of New York pre-2001 or a photocopy of a picture of a photocopy of a boy and his St Bernard circa 1970s . In fact it’s a rather challenging , colourful print of the circus with lots of action comprised of enticing, time-consuming individual scenarios within the Big Top. (My life may have gotten just too exciting!)
After weeks of evening time ennui and concerns about my rapidly disappearing ability to limit my television viewing to programmes with at least a teaspoon of acting and an outline plot, a veritable harvest of distractions have landed in my lap. First Al Jazeera went international- which means its inEnglish for mono-linguists like myself, then two great dvds arrived from a pal at home containing 4 hrs worth of the inimitable Helen Mirren in her final Prime Suspect, I got loaned a Raymond Chandler novel and then to top it all as from last night-Allah be praised- I’m now online at chez nous!
Perhaps, once the fog in my head has lifted and the capacity to breathe through my nose has been restored, I may even be able to make sense of what is happening between Olmert and the Palestinian negotiators. But that's just a maybe.. like a lot of other things around here.
After weeks of evening time ennui and concerns about my rapidly disappearing ability to limit my television viewing to programmes with at least a teaspoon of acting and an outline plot, a veritable harvest of distractions have landed in my lap. First Al Jazeera went international- which means its inEnglish for mono-linguists like myself, then two great dvds arrived from a pal at home containing 4 hrs worth of the inimitable Helen Mirren in her final Prime Suspect, I got loaned a Raymond Chandler novel and then to top it all as from last night-Allah be praised- I’m now online at chez nous!
Perhaps, once the fog in my head has lifted and the capacity to breathe through my nose has been restored, I may even be able to make sense of what is happening between Olmert and the Palestinian negotiators. But that's just a maybe.. like a lot of other things around here.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The other war.. against women
Human Rights Watch has just released its report : A Question of Security- Violence Against Palestinian Women and Girls.
It points out that despite the acknowledged and extremely repressive impact of the Israeli Occupation that there has been an inexcusable absence of protections for or response from the Palestinian Authority to gender-based violence in the Occupied Territories. The report unequivocally indicts previous and current administrations;
" the PA is failing to act diligently to prevent, investigate and punish violence against women, putting women's health and lives in jeopardy."
Discriminatory laws that condone and perpetuate violence against women and the virtual absence of institutionalized policies to prevent violence, assist victims and hold perpetrators accountable cant be dismissed as an Israeli plot- this is a home grown problem that needs a home grown solution- and it needs it now.
It points out that despite the acknowledged and extremely repressive impact of the Israeli Occupation that there has been an inexcusable absence of protections for or response from the Palestinian Authority to gender-based violence in the Occupied Territories. The report unequivocally indicts previous and current administrations;
" the PA is failing to act diligently to prevent, investigate and punish violence against women, putting women's health and lives in jeopardy."
Discriminatory laws that condone and perpetuate violence against women and the virtual absence of institutionalized policies to prevent violence, assist victims and hold perpetrators accountable cant be dismissed as an Israeli plot- this is a home grown problem that needs a home grown solution- and it needs it now.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Just another week- like any other
This week, the Israeli army invaded towns in the West Bank 30 times, killing two, injuring 13, and abducting 55, including six children and two women. Israeli troops invaded Al Ein Beit Al-Maa’ refugee camp near Nablus twice.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
This is Independence?
At first I thought it was firecrackers- it was Palestinian Independence Day after all, but it had been a quiet affair with just public buildings and schools on holiday. The main shopping street in Ramallah was its usual crowded bustling self. Lots of traffic, women food shopping, kids in tow, traders standing outside their shops ready to do business with anyone who cast more than a 2 second glance at their wares on display. Men in the coffee shops- doing whatever it is they do between drinking coffee and smoking. I was in the internet cafe on the corner, on the second floor. It was quiet there, but from the balcony windows overlooking the main street, I could hear the muted hubbub of Ramallah daily life below. So, at first I thought it was firecrackers, but it persisted. When the manageress of the internet cafe abruptly pushed back her chair and ran to the wall of windows opposite- I knew it wasn't firecrackers.
She opened the window and the distinct, unmistakeable sound of automatic gunfire pounded from around the street below, people were yelling, car brakes screeching. I joined her pressed against the wall between two large front windows. I managed with her direction to look down to my left where a large grey minivan had blocked off the street, its back doors lying open vomiting out Israelis soldiers in full fatigues, rifles firing. The street was in chaos. Women huddled in doorways, traders lying on their bellies outside their shops while a wave of young Palestinian men came surging up from the Menara ( the main square located at the opposite end of the street) straight towards the gunfire of the IDF, dodging and wending their way between the hastily abandoned cars whose drivers were crouched for cover behind their own vehicles.
The firing continued and as we peeked down I saw that scores of other witnesses in the first floor shops and cafes opposite were also looking down at the scene below- some eyewitnesses even calling out to the young men on the street to be careful. It was then I saw one Israeli trooper- stand right in the middle of the road with the kind of powerful, casual arrogance derived from being fully armed among unarmed people and point his rifle upwards and begin firing at the windows above street level. It did the trick, we all pulled back from our positions overlooking the street and hit the floor. The gunfire continued for at least 15 minutes but the noise of approaching Palestinian men and youth grew louder too as they ran down the middle of the road, determined to push out the Israeli troops by sheer force of numbers alone.
Just as suddenly as it jacknifed into the street, the grey minivan began to screech back into action, soldiers throwing themselves through its open doors, but they were not alone, we could hear the shouts and struggles of at least one , or it may have been two Palestinians whom they had dragged off the street. The ambulance sirens started to drown out everything else- but it also gave us a chance to raise our heads to the window again. Below, the street was packed tight with people, cars being pushed to the side to allow the ambulances through and on two of the street's corners, it was clear that casualties had occurred as people gathered round prone figures and attempted to give aid.
Twenty minutes of mayhem, determined shooting up of the most crowded street in the whole of the West Bank, terror instilled into its population, 2 or 3 people snatched from the street, others fallen bleeding and wounded, some unconfirmed reports say two dead, children left shivering in fear with nightmares to come. Palestinian Independence Day- some kind of Independence.
She opened the window and the distinct, unmistakeable sound of automatic gunfire pounded from around the street below, people were yelling, car brakes screeching. I joined her pressed against the wall between two large front windows. I managed with her direction to look down to my left where a large grey minivan had blocked off the street, its back doors lying open vomiting out Israelis soldiers in full fatigues, rifles firing. The street was in chaos. Women huddled in doorways, traders lying on their bellies outside their shops while a wave of young Palestinian men came surging up from the Menara ( the main square located at the opposite end of the street) straight towards the gunfire of the IDF, dodging and wending their way between the hastily abandoned cars whose drivers were crouched for cover behind their own vehicles.
The firing continued and as we peeked down I saw that scores of other witnesses in the first floor shops and cafes opposite were also looking down at the scene below- some eyewitnesses even calling out to the young men on the street to be careful. It was then I saw one Israeli trooper- stand right in the middle of the road with the kind of powerful, casual arrogance derived from being fully armed among unarmed people and point his rifle upwards and begin firing at the windows above street level. It did the trick, we all pulled back from our positions overlooking the street and hit the floor. The gunfire continued for at least 15 minutes but the noise of approaching Palestinian men and youth grew louder too as they ran down the middle of the road, determined to push out the Israeli troops by sheer force of numbers alone.
Just as suddenly as it jacknifed into the street, the grey minivan began to screech back into action, soldiers throwing themselves through its open doors, but they were not alone, we could hear the shouts and struggles of at least one , or it may have been two Palestinians whom they had dragged off the street. The ambulance sirens started to drown out everything else- but it also gave us a chance to raise our heads to the window again. Below, the street was packed tight with people, cars being pushed to the side to allow the ambulances through and on two of the street's corners, it was clear that casualties had occurred as people gathered round prone figures and attempted to give aid.
Twenty minutes of mayhem, determined shooting up of the most crowded street in the whole of the West Bank, terror instilled into its population, 2 or 3 people snatched from the street, others fallen bleeding and wounded, some unconfirmed reports say two dead, children left shivering in fear with nightmares to come. Palestinian Independence Day- some kind of Independence.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Aiding the Aid workers?
Happy Birthday Mum! And belated birthday to my little sis yesterday- ah the delights of being raised with all those scorpios! Hope its been a good few days for you both.
The "strike" called by Hamas in mourning for the deaths in Gaza went off without too many incidents- well not much more than normal. Its scarey how the "acceptable levels of violence" mentality takes over in such situations and perhaps is a too handy and familiar response learned from the conflict in the North.
Spent sometime talking to some of the expat aid workers here over the last few days. Many of them seem to be in the 25-30 age range which gives me a good 15-20 years start on them. There is a discernable amount of burn-out among them. Indigestion and sleeping problems abound, heavy drinking on their free time, and conflicting emotions of frustration and guilt. Guilt because they feel headwrecked by the situation and yet have an *out * clause if they need one while Palestinians do not, frustration at the lack of political progress and a sense of futility in trying to accomplish anything substantial while wedged between a national political vaccum and international apathy.
I have been surprised at the lack of emotional support mechanisms for aid workers on long term placements here. They are, after all in a war zone where the threat is constant if not always imminent around them. I know of one aid worker whose job it is to document the killings and injuries of children and I thought often about her last week and the appalling vistas of photographs and videos from Gaza she would have been examining and analysing. All without any avenue in which to de-brief and unload her own inevitable and justifiable distress at what she was seeing.
Of course, the people who live here have the greatest amount of trauma- but they also have family and community networks, a sense of struggle and identity to help sustain them. That is not to diminish the very real impact- emotionally and psychologically which the brutality they are subjected to has upon them, but it hardly helps the locals if aid workers are burning out prematurely or unnecessarily.
The "strike" called by Hamas in mourning for the deaths in Gaza went off without too many incidents- well not much more than normal. Its scarey how the "acceptable levels of violence" mentality takes over in such situations and perhaps is a too handy and familiar response learned from the conflict in the North.
Spent sometime talking to some of the expat aid workers here over the last few days. Many of them seem to be in the 25-30 age range which gives me a good 15-20 years start on them. There is a discernable amount of burn-out among them. Indigestion and sleeping problems abound, heavy drinking on their free time, and conflicting emotions of frustration and guilt. Guilt because they feel headwrecked by the situation and yet have an *out * clause if they need one while Palestinians do not, frustration at the lack of political progress and a sense of futility in trying to accomplish anything substantial while wedged between a national political vaccum and international apathy.
I have been surprised at the lack of emotional support mechanisms for aid workers on long term placements here. They are, after all in a war zone where the threat is constant if not always imminent around them. I know of one aid worker whose job it is to document the killings and injuries of children and I thought often about her last week and the appalling vistas of photographs and videos from Gaza she would have been examining and analysing. All without any avenue in which to de-brief and unload her own inevitable and justifiable distress at what she was seeing.
Of course, the people who live here have the greatest amount of trauma- but they also have family and community networks, a sense of struggle and identity to help sustain them. That is not to diminish the very real impact- emotionally and psychologically which the brutality they are subjected to has upon them, but it hardly helps the locals if aid workers are burning out prematurely or unnecessarily.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
I won't be walking this walk
Just for the record, even if the Pride march goes ahead in Jerusalem tomorrow, I just cant find enough motivation to support it, the reaction of Orthodox Judaism notwithstanding. Jerusalem is the most contested city in the world. Its Palestinian residents are subjected to numerous pressures to squeeze them out, walled in, permits required to move beyond the wall, their portion of the city continually annexed by Israeli developments and for those Palestinians who live outside of Jerusalem who want to worship at their faith's most sacred site, the mosque at Al Quds, the way is barred.
There is something very wrong with the priorities of this proposed Pride march, in asserting the rights of lesbians and gays to walk through a city while others who were born and live there have no rights at all.
There is something very wrong with the priorities of this proposed Pride march, in asserting the rights of lesbians and gays to walk through a city while others who were born and live there have no rights at all.
A Deadly Recipe
Take an entire community, fence them in with an apartheid wall, prevent them from having freedom of movement, separate them from their families, crops, schools and places of worship, raid their towns on a regular weekly if not daily basis, abduct large numbers of residents, demand that all males between 15- 45 years old leave their homes and present themselves for interrogation, knock them about a bit for good measure, demolish their homes, shell them with some of the most powerful weaponry available and to be on the safe side use some of that stuff that's banned and burns its human targets from the inside out, shoot the women who protest, kill their children too, keep increasing the number of checkpoints, ignore all international standards and protections, and stir every chance you get.. within a few weeks you will have produced a whole army of suicide bombers focussed on nothing but Holy Jihad.
Oh and then when it happens- dont forget to perfect your look of shock and outrage!
Oh and then when it happens- dont forget to perfect your look of shock and outrage!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Just another mother murdered.
Daily deaths in Gaza caused by Israeli forces are obviously no longer of much interest to many US media- but the negligence and dismissiveness with which this story was treated by the Washington Post is an indication of how little interest there is in covering the scale of Israeli oppression let alone critiquing it:http://www.imemc.org/content/view/21947/1/
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Taxi Madam?
“ Just go to the line of big yellow Mercs, ask for Al Khaleel, Arabs don’t call it Hebron. Once you get through the checkpoint outside Hebron, call me on your mobile and I’ll talk to the driver and give him instructions on where to drop you.”
Oooo..Kay! I can do this. Plot and execute my journey from Ramallah to Hebron/ Al Khaleel via the West Bank transport system without a word of Arabic. I can do this. The words of encouragement and direction were from my colleague, Sahira who had invited me to spend Eid with her inexhaustibly extended family in the Hebron area. Goddamn it I intended to get there and experience the whole nine yards of Islam’s biggest festival within the bosom of a Palestinian family.
I was the first passenger for my driver, having left my digs early to find the Merc rank and give myself plenty of time to get acquainted with the vagaries of the Palestinian equivalent of a Falls Road Black Hack service. But these lads on the West Bank win hands down, no contest. I had surrendered myself to a transport system sans speed restrictions, sans any rules of the road, few road markings and as for indicating- well that’s for wimps!
While sitting in my car, (I was beginning to think of it in the possessive, having spent the best part of an hour waiting for it to fill) I took some time to take in its fallen- on- hard- times interior. An iron bar separated the driver and front seat passenger, (me) from the six others on the two back seats. My seat kept sliding every time I moved my ass, so I settled for a yogic position of stillness out of necessity rather than familiarity. In fact the whole trip was a lesson in reaching and grasping for dear life to my core tranquillity- who knew I had one?
Then we were off, well nearly, the pre- Eid traffic was gridlocked around central Ramallah. Regular, prolonged use of car horns have neatly substituted for the absence of any traffic flow system. Not that anyone pays any attention to the car- horns but it produces an endearing caucophony to accompany the chaos. The main road out of Ramallah is a rally-driver’s tetesterone-fuelled dream, diving and pitching with abandon past run down businesses and rubble strewn, rubbish-laden streets.
The drive to Al Khaleel should take 45 minutes- but that was in the good old days when the logical route was through Jerusalem but now Jerusalem must be circumvented and the checkpoints accommodated, all of which takes at least 2 hours, 3 hours when the Israelis are having a bad hair day.
Once past the first checkpoint, the driver put his foot down and the landscape outside began to blur, I reached in and tugged hard at my inner tranquillity willing it to last the course. Just as I thought I had lost the battle, I noticed the Merc’s speedometer stayed static at 20km, even though the speed of sound was about to be broken. By the time halfway into the journey, that the car climbed the 80 degree hill out of the Valley of Fire and began to nonchalantly overtake a 16 wheeled HGV on a hairpin bend I had transcended into some kind of outer body experience and was at one with the universe. Although it may have been the next universe as I seemed particularly close to entering it.
But I not only got there, I also got back and the post traumatic stress has been well and truly ameliorated by the most wonderful 4 days in between where; I got adopted- twice, gave stunted English lessons in return for bad Arabic ones, drank what seemed like sixteen types of tea, partook of my first (and hopefully not my last ) hubbly-bubbly, laughed until I almost peed myself, went cucumber –picking, ate Middle-Eastern, home-cooked food fit for the Queen of Sheba, nervously mangled the traditional greeting for Eid in front of 10 local elders, got kissed so often I was walking around on a permanent high and found a whole community of friendship and welcome that has made me feel very, very privileged. But that’s a whole other story.
Oooo..Kay! I can do this. Plot and execute my journey from Ramallah to Hebron/ Al Khaleel via the West Bank transport system without a word of Arabic. I can do this. The words of encouragement and direction were from my colleague, Sahira who had invited me to spend Eid with her inexhaustibly extended family in the Hebron area. Goddamn it I intended to get there and experience the whole nine yards of Islam’s biggest festival within the bosom of a Palestinian family.
I was the first passenger for my driver, having left my digs early to find the Merc rank and give myself plenty of time to get acquainted with the vagaries of the Palestinian equivalent of a Falls Road Black Hack service. But these lads on the West Bank win hands down, no contest. I had surrendered myself to a transport system sans speed restrictions, sans any rules of the road, few road markings and as for indicating- well that’s for wimps!
While sitting in my car, (I was beginning to think of it in the possessive, having spent the best part of an hour waiting for it to fill) I took some time to take in its fallen- on- hard- times interior. An iron bar separated the driver and front seat passenger, (me) from the six others on the two back seats. My seat kept sliding every time I moved my ass, so I settled for a yogic position of stillness out of necessity rather than familiarity. In fact the whole trip was a lesson in reaching and grasping for dear life to my core tranquillity- who knew I had one?
Then we were off, well nearly, the pre- Eid traffic was gridlocked around central Ramallah. Regular, prolonged use of car horns have neatly substituted for the absence of any traffic flow system. Not that anyone pays any attention to the car- horns but it produces an endearing caucophony to accompany the chaos. The main road out of Ramallah is a rally-driver’s tetesterone-fuelled dream, diving and pitching with abandon past run down businesses and rubble strewn, rubbish-laden streets.
The drive to Al Khaleel should take 45 minutes- but that was in the good old days when the logical route was through Jerusalem but now Jerusalem must be circumvented and the checkpoints accommodated, all of which takes at least 2 hours, 3 hours when the Israelis are having a bad hair day.
Once past the first checkpoint, the driver put his foot down and the landscape outside began to blur, I reached in and tugged hard at my inner tranquillity willing it to last the course. Just as I thought I had lost the battle, I noticed the Merc’s speedometer stayed static at 20km, even though the speed of sound was about to be broken. By the time halfway into the journey, that the car climbed the 80 degree hill out of the Valley of Fire and began to nonchalantly overtake a 16 wheeled HGV on a hairpin bend I had transcended into some kind of outer body experience and was at one with the universe. Although it may have been the next universe as I seemed particularly close to entering it.
But I not only got there, I also got back and the post traumatic stress has been well and truly ameliorated by the most wonderful 4 days in between where; I got adopted- twice, gave stunted English lessons in return for bad Arabic ones, drank what seemed like sixteen types of tea, partook of my first (and hopefully not my last ) hubbly-bubbly, laughed until I almost peed myself, went cucumber –picking, ate Middle-Eastern, home-cooked food fit for the Queen of Sheba, nervously mangled the traditional greeting for Eid in front of 10 local elders, got kissed so often I was walking around on a permanent high and found a whole community of friendship and welcome that has made me feel very, very privileged. But that’s a whole other story.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Altogether Now: Do the Restrictions Shuffle
Altogether Now- Do the Restrictions Shuffle.
The bureaucratic St. Vitus’ Dance more commonly known as negotiating the nightmare that has replaced freedom of movement for Palestinians goes a little like this: Listen up class, I will be testing you all on it later.. but not as ruthlessly as the Israelis daily test Palestinians on it.
A PALESTINIAN from JERUSALEM who has a Jerusalem residence card issued by the Israelis may travel to the West Bank or 1948 territories (inside Israel). But an East Jerusalem Palestinian wanting to enter Gaza must give an acceptable reason to receive a permit usually limited to one day.
A PALESTINIAN from the WEST BANK with a West Bank residence card must apply for special authorisation in advance to go to Jerusalem or the 1948 territories. This is only given on production of a work contract or hospital certificate. The patient must travel alone to hospital unless a family member has also applied for and received a permit. It is not generally possible to visit the Muslim or Christian centres of worship in Jerusalem even on religious feasts. It is out of the question to go to Jerusalem for family visits or religious reasons without a permit.
A PALESTINIAN from GAZA must obtain special permission in advance to go to Jerusalem or anywhere in the State of Israel. If so s/he must go by way of Egypt and then Jordan to enter the West Bank. ( Think- travelling from Belfast to Dublin via Scotland and Liverpool)
A PALESTINIAN of 1948 Territories (in Israel) can theoretically go anywhere under Israeli jurisdiction except Gaza. There are also many restrictions for anyone originally from Gaza married to a Palestinian Israeli. The Gaza spouse may obtain an Israeli residence card but remains without a nationality, making foreign travel extremely complicated, if not impossible.
You still with me at the back of the class then? Do try to keep up.
Okay now for the advanced class in Repression, once you have secured your particular pass card this does no necessarily mean that you get to pass Go automatically. Here are the definitions of the various points of access and egress through the WALL also known as the Barrier at which you will be required to present your permit:
(Please note the term Gate is used loosely, imagine if you will queues of Palestinians on foot or in vehicles, facing soldiers of the Israeli army or State Police with carte blanche to behave as they like no matter how valid the paperwork).
Agricultural Gate- allows access to agricultural fields, green houses and orchards located on opposite side of the Wall. Farmers must obtain a green permit to get to those fields.
Checkpoint Gate- is a crossing point from the West Bank into other West Bank areas under de facto Israeli jurisdiction (like East Jerusalem). These are manned by Israeli Border Police or members of the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) and are also used by Israeli settlers. However, Palestinians of the West Bank must have a permit to enter Israel. The Wall lies inside many WB areas so many of the gates are not located on the Green Line.
Military Gate- not permitted for Palestinian civilian use.
Road Gate- installed at the junction where the Wall blocks a road. Permits are required to cross the road gates and continue on the road.
School Gate- where Wall blocks a school route. The gate is opened during school hours to allow Palestinian schoolchildren and teachers across.
Seasonal Gate- closed to Palestinians except at harvest time. No official dates or times are posted for these gates. Otherwise they are used for military access.
Settlement Gate- Primarily used by settlers. They are officially opened to green permit holders but Palestinian farmers tend to avoid using them because of hostility from Israeli settlers.
With thanks to the Alternative Tourism Group:
Alternative Tourism Group
The bureaucratic St. Vitus’ Dance more commonly known as negotiating the nightmare that has replaced freedom of movement for Palestinians goes a little like this: Listen up class, I will be testing you all on it later.. but not as ruthlessly as the Israelis daily test Palestinians on it.
A PALESTINIAN from JERUSALEM who has a Jerusalem residence card issued by the Israelis may travel to the West Bank or 1948 territories (inside Israel). But an East Jerusalem Palestinian wanting to enter Gaza must give an acceptable reason to receive a permit usually limited to one day.
A PALESTINIAN from the WEST BANK with a West Bank residence card must apply for special authorisation in advance to go to Jerusalem or the 1948 territories. This is only given on production of a work contract or hospital certificate. The patient must travel alone to hospital unless a family member has also applied for and received a permit. It is not generally possible to visit the Muslim or Christian centres of worship in Jerusalem even on religious feasts. It is out of the question to go to Jerusalem for family visits or religious reasons without a permit.
A PALESTINIAN from GAZA must obtain special permission in advance to go to Jerusalem or anywhere in the State of Israel. If so s/he must go by way of Egypt and then Jordan to enter the West Bank. ( Think- travelling from Belfast to Dublin via Scotland and Liverpool)
A PALESTINIAN of 1948 Territories (in Israel) can theoretically go anywhere under Israeli jurisdiction except Gaza. There are also many restrictions for anyone originally from Gaza married to a Palestinian Israeli. The Gaza spouse may obtain an Israeli residence card but remains without a nationality, making foreign travel extremely complicated, if not impossible.
You still with me at the back of the class then? Do try to keep up.
Okay now for the advanced class in Repression, once you have secured your particular pass card this does no necessarily mean that you get to pass Go automatically. Here are the definitions of the various points of access and egress through the WALL also known as the Barrier at which you will be required to present your permit:
(Please note the term Gate is used loosely, imagine if you will queues of Palestinians on foot or in vehicles, facing soldiers of the Israeli army or State Police with carte blanche to behave as they like no matter how valid the paperwork).
Agricultural Gate- allows access to agricultural fields, green houses and orchards located on opposite side of the Wall. Farmers must obtain a green permit to get to those fields.
Checkpoint Gate- is a crossing point from the West Bank into other West Bank areas under de facto Israeli jurisdiction (like East Jerusalem). These are manned by Israeli Border Police or members of the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) and are also used by Israeli settlers. However, Palestinians of the West Bank must have a permit to enter Israel. The Wall lies inside many WB areas so many of the gates are not located on the Green Line.
Military Gate- not permitted for Palestinian civilian use.
Road Gate- installed at the junction where the Wall blocks a road. Permits are required to cross the road gates and continue on the road.
School Gate- where Wall blocks a school route. The gate is opened during school hours to allow Palestinian schoolchildren and teachers across.
Seasonal Gate- closed to Palestinians except at harvest time. No official dates or times are posted for these gates. Otherwise they are used for military access.
Settlement Gate- Primarily used by settlers. They are officially opened to green permit holders but Palestinian farmers tend to avoid using them because of hostility from Israeli settlers.
With thanks to the Alternative Tourism Group:
Alternative Tourism Group
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Walled In
Walled In
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall” wrote Robert Frost about neighbouring New England farmers who go out to mend the wall that separates their two fields. Frost’s wall is built by hand of natural stones, yet the poem reflects on the unnaturalness of such a barrier, nature’s disdain for the structure and questions the necessity of the divide at all. One farmer believes in the wall and mantra-like repeats, “ Good fences make good neighbours”.
But the concrete abomination that runs across the landscape of the Palestinian Territories bears no resemblance to the stone dykes of farmland and even less to do with good neighbourly relations. It looms malevolently over the lives, land and future of the people of the West Bank with undisguised hostility. It corrals an entire people into such narrow confines that they must surely begin to feel a collective claustrophobia. Move a few hundred metres north, south or east and they collide with its impenetrability, even with their backs to the Jordan River, there is no safe, open space behind, but innumerable Israeli settlements poised to encroach.
A nine metre high wall, over 200 km long, on completion running to almost 700km requires reinforcement, watching and maintaining. The array of military support is staggering: watchtowers, checkpoints, roadblocks, a buffer zone of 30-100 metres, razor wire, surveillance cameras, ditches, and electronic fences. Overkill. Disproportionate.
However, it is an historical analogy that is most conjured by this penning in of human beings. To another time and place where, herded into one small area, a people were confined, forced to endure, deprived of all but the most basic of amenities, left to rot in the Warsaw Ghetto. The profound irony of that particular parallel is not lost nor does it rest comfortably, but it is unavoidable. Layer by layer, day by day freedoms, dignity and the means of survival are being stripped from the people of the Palestinian Occupied Territories. The Wall separates and consumes. Separates them from their fields and consumes their land, separates them from their livelihoods and consumes their freedoms, separates them from their neighbours and families and consumes the place they call homeland.
The daily crossings require permits, visas, a lowered gaze, a passive countenance and even then there is no guarantee of traversing to the other side. Agricultural gates providing access to fields and groves open and close at the whim of the military, stretching the endurance of farmers and jeopardising crops. Checkpoints manned by 18 year old Israeli conscripts already inured to the humanity of those wishing to pass, test the patience of queues of expectant, anxious people needing to get to prayer, to work, to school, to family. Regularly the conditions for crossing change, one day a permit which granted egress is the passport to movement, the next day the same permit is viciously flung back in the face of its holder and the way barred. And this on their own land.
Nothing is certain except that nothing is certain.
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall” wrote Robert Frost about neighbouring New England farmers who go out to mend the wall that separates their two fields. Frost’s wall is built by hand of natural stones, yet the poem reflects on the unnaturalness of such a barrier, nature’s disdain for the structure and questions the necessity of the divide at all. One farmer believes in the wall and mantra-like repeats, “ Good fences make good neighbours”.
But the concrete abomination that runs across the landscape of the Palestinian Territories bears no resemblance to the stone dykes of farmland and even less to do with good neighbourly relations. It looms malevolently over the lives, land and future of the people of the West Bank with undisguised hostility. It corrals an entire people into such narrow confines that they must surely begin to feel a collective claustrophobia. Move a few hundred metres north, south or east and they collide with its impenetrability, even with their backs to the Jordan River, there is no safe, open space behind, but innumerable Israeli settlements poised to encroach.
A nine metre high wall, over 200 km long, on completion running to almost 700km requires reinforcement, watching and maintaining. The array of military support is staggering: watchtowers, checkpoints, roadblocks, a buffer zone of 30-100 metres, razor wire, surveillance cameras, ditches, and electronic fences. Overkill. Disproportionate.
However, it is an historical analogy that is most conjured by this penning in of human beings. To another time and place where, herded into one small area, a people were confined, forced to endure, deprived of all but the most basic of amenities, left to rot in the Warsaw Ghetto. The profound irony of that particular parallel is not lost nor does it rest comfortably, but it is unavoidable. Layer by layer, day by day freedoms, dignity and the means of survival are being stripped from the people of the Palestinian Occupied Territories. The Wall separates and consumes. Separates them from their fields and consumes their land, separates them from their livelihoods and consumes their freedoms, separates them from their neighbours and families and consumes the place they call homeland.
The daily crossings require permits, visas, a lowered gaze, a passive countenance and even then there is no guarantee of traversing to the other side. Agricultural gates providing access to fields and groves open and close at the whim of the military, stretching the endurance of farmers and jeopardising crops. Checkpoints manned by 18 year old Israeli conscripts already inured to the humanity of those wishing to pass, test the patience of queues of expectant, anxious people needing to get to prayer, to work, to school, to family. Regularly the conditions for crossing change, one day a permit which granted egress is the passport to movement, the next day the same permit is viciously flung back in the face of its holder and the way barred. And this on their own land.
Nothing is certain except that nothing is certain.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Perimenopausal in the Middle East
Well, thats how my little sis would describe my decision to take off for 3months to Palestine. My impending departure has been met with uncharacteristic nonchalance by mother- interpreted by middle sis as mother's failing to know where Palestine is, just that its hot there, ( If she only knew) and middle sis' faith that I will be perfectly at home there ( best not to analyse that one too much) and youngest sis who thinks I'm mad and perimenopausal and has pleaded with me not to do it.
Nevertheless, from this weekend, I will be in the West Bank, hoping to contribute something to ameliorating the struggle of women in the conflict thereand to support their efforts at developing their social and political status generally. With the help of my good friend Maman Poulet, I will also be attempting to blog throughout my stay when both external and personal conditions allow.
As we speak, Maman is trying to sort me out on skype and trying to figure out how to unlock my new, do- everything- but- make- the- dinner- mobile phone. I may even learn how to download pics by the end of this afternoon. And then all I have to do after that is not make a tit of myself in Palestine!
Nevertheless, from this weekend, I will be in the West Bank, hoping to contribute something to ameliorating the struggle of women in the conflict thereand to support their efforts at developing their social and political status generally. With the help of my good friend Maman Poulet, I will also be attempting to blog throughout my stay when both external and personal conditions allow.
As we speak, Maman is trying to sort me out on skype and trying to figure out how to unlock my new, do- everything- but- make- the- dinner- mobile phone. I may even learn how to download pics by the end of this afternoon. And then all I have to do after that is not make a tit of myself in Palestine!
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Buffed and Butch on the Beara
Buffed and Butch on the Beara
Last summer’s ramblings of a new rural romantic.
What you have to understand is that I am a city kid. I have never lived anywhere without a corner shop- literally on my street corner. As a non-driver, I have always lived where there are at least two bus routes serving my area. When I lived in Belfast there were six bus routes to my home, but public transport is a commitment up North, not a miracle. I’m an urban girl. I like to have a pub within staggering distance and a few neighbours, who are amiably disposed towards a gossip. I even get withdrawal symptoms if there are no kids kicking a football outside the door who I can give an ear-bollocking to- its so good for venting one’s frustrations- consequently I have never felt the need to see a therapist and it has saved me a lot of money.
So, it has all come as a bit of a shock to discover that I am in love with the vast, sparsely populated landscape of the Beara Peninsuala. I can sit for hours on end watching the sky- and doesn’t it go on forever? I stand outside at night in gobsmacked awe at the number of stars in the firmament. I voluntarily, nay, even with a spring in my step, walk two miles to the nearest shop. I practically skip along the hedgerows oohing and aahing at the wildflowers that spring up every visit to greet me. The dominant colour this month is the blood- red of the fuschia, last month it was the lavender of battalions of foxgloves, the month before it was the brilliant sun yellow of gorse and next month it will be my favourite hot orange as thousands of clumps of monbretia burst upon the scene. Listen to me- I’m an eejit for this stuff.
The last two visits have seen particularly extreme manifestations of my new, tree- hugging- smell- the- good- wet –earth- and –bless-the day-that’s-in-it self. It started when we bought a bow saw. Herself is a keen and extremely talented gardener, whereas I shuffle two paces behind as she attempts to explain to me for the one hundred and third time what the difference is between a weed and a plant that she has nourished and nurtured for months. (Did you know that a weed is just a plant that nobody wants? A bit like Michael Mc Dowell really.) Basically, she is able, knowledgeable and efficient in all matters horticultural and loves nothing more than to sink her hands into earth and tend to growing things. I usually admire all this from a safe distance- things crawl in the soil.
But then the bow saw came into my life. And I have been transformed- praise Jesus!
An ecologically –aware friend, (I’ve know her for 25 years and only now am I paying any heed to the wisdom she has tried to impart to me over the last quarter of a century), suggested we cut down some of the young sycamores on the land around the cottage because they seed quickly and choke the other trees. Hence, the bow saw. This sounded like a job even I could do- unskilled labour. Truth be told, ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to shout “TIMBER!” and mean it.
I have felled six of the buggers so far AND turned them into firewood. I am a Tasmanian devil with purloined, serrated teeth. There is a ritual to my toils. Up early, coffee cup in hand, sizing up the job to be tackled each morning, then I put on the kit. Men’s construction shorts with lots of pockets for ‘things’ and even a wee loop to hold your pencil, in good weather a sleeveless tee-shirt or vest, a pair of thick socks and walking boots and a baseball hat. Like those Japanese soldiers who were found in South East Asian jungles 30 years after the war ended, I look like the Greenham Commoner that time forgot. All I lack is my bender (a tent made from branches and a dog blanket- I think), a campfire and rolling tobacco. I have muscles on top of muscles but they are all on my right arm and the incongruity of my upper limbs is beginning to show. But who gives a damn- in my tree-felling rig-out I am the butchest looking thing around for a half a mile, until you get to John Joe’s farm and his prize ram. I am getting more ambitious as the weeks roll on, I now have a pair of giant, telescopic secateurs and those suckers can lop off a branch as thick as my arm- well, my less developed left arm. Lately, I have been pondering the technicalities of making my own wooden bench from the supply of logs I have amassed. I fancy something rustic, bound together by sheer grit and a bit of old rope-sort of Ikea without the straight lines.
I have amazed myself. All this from the woman who went to Greenham Common and lasted less than 48 hours there. They had no corner shop.
Last summer’s ramblings of a new rural romantic.
What you have to understand is that I am a city kid. I have never lived anywhere without a corner shop- literally on my street corner. As a non-driver, I have always lived where there are at least two bus routes serving my area. When I lived in Belfast there were six bus routes to my home, but public transport is a commitment up North, not a miracle. I’m an urban girl. I like to have a pub within staggering distance and a few neighbours, who are amiably disposed towards a gossip. I even get withdrawal symptoms if there are no kids kicking a football outside the door who I can give an ear-bollocking to- its so good for venting one’s frustrations- consequently I have never felt the need to see a therapist and it has saved me a lot of money.
So, it has all come as a bit of a shock to discover that I am in love with the vast, sparsely populated landscape of the Beara Peninsuala. I can sit for hours on end watching the sky- and doesn’t it go on forever? I stand outside at night in gobsmacked awe at the number of stars in the firmament. I voluntarily, nay, even with a spring in my step, walk two miles to the nearest shop. I practically skip along the hedgerows oohing and aahing at the wildflowers that spring up every visit to greet me. The dominant colour this month is the blood- red of the fuschia, last month it was the lavender of battalions of foxgloves, the month before it was the brilliant sun yellow of gorse and next month it will be my favourite hot orange as thousands of clumps of monbretia burst upon the scene. Listen to me- I’m an eejit for this stuff.
The last two visits have seen particularly extreme manifestations of my new, tree- hugging- smell- the- good- wet –earth- and –bless-the day-that’s-in-it self. It started when we bought a bow saw. Herself is a keen and extremely talented gardener, whereas I shuffle two paces behind as she attempts to explain to me for the one hundred and third time what the difference is between a weed and a plant that she has nourished and nurtured for months. (Did you know that a weed is just a plant that nobody wants? A bit like Michael Mc Dowell really.) Basically, she is able, knowledgeable and efficient in all matters horticultural and loves nothing more than to sink her hands into earth and tend to growing things. I usually admire all this from a safe distance- things crawl in the soil.
But then the bow saw came into my life. And I have been transformed- praise Jesus!
An ecologically –aware friend, (I’ve know her for 25 years and only now am I paying any heed to the wisdom she has tried to impart to me over the last quarter of a century), suggested we cut down some of the young sycamores on the land around the cottage because they seed quickly and choke the other trees. Hence, the bow saw. This sounded like a job even I could do- unskilled labour. Truth be told, ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to shout “TIMBER!” and mean it.
I have felled six of the buggers so far AND turned them into firewood. I am a Tasmanian devil with purloined, serrated teeth. There is a ritual to my toils. Up early, coffee cup in hand, sizing up the job to be tackled each morning, then I put on the kit. Men’s construction shorts with lots of pockets for ‘things’ and even a wee loop to hold your pencil, in good weather a sleeveless tee-shirt or vest, a pair of thick socks and walking boots and a baseball hat. Like those Japanese soldiers who were found in South East Asian jungles 30 years after the war ended, I look like the Greenham Commoner that time forgot. All I lack is my bender (a tent made from branches and a dog blanket- I think), a campfire and rolling tobacco. I have muscles on top of muscles but they are all on my right arm and the incongruity of my upper limbs is beginning to show. But who gives a damn- in my tree-felling rig-out I am the butchest looking thing around for a half a mile, until you get to John Joe’s farm and his prize ram. I am getting more ambitious as the weeks roll on, I now have a pair of giant, telescopic secateurs and those suckers can lop off a branch as thick as my arm- well, my less developed left arm. Lately, I have been pondering the technicalities of making my own wooden bench from the supply of logs I have amassed. I fancy something rustic, bound together by sheer grit and a bit of old rope-sort of Ikea without the straight lines.
I have amazed myself. All this from the woman who went to Greenham Common and lasted less than 48 hours there. They had no corner shop.
Family Fortunes
My store of optimism had been fast depleting with the increase in stories and incidents illustrating the continued hypocritical stance in this country about children, families and which ones are “worthy” of care and state protection.
The continued state neglect of unaccompanied, refugee and asylum seeking minors, the state sanctioned ruthlessness of forcibly removing other such families from the homes, communities and lives they have made for themselves in this country to return them to situations of brutality and fear surely demands that our Constitution give supremacy to the rights of children instead of the paltry lip service that currently exists towards children’s rights.
I know too, that I am not alone at feeling disgust at the predicament of young Tristan Dowse, returned to an Indonesian orphanage because it no longer suited his married, adoptive parents to keep him, while Irish right- wing fanatics presented the Oireachtas Committee on the Family with a highly questionable petition against same sex couples having a right to family life. A few days ago, a friend told me about a Christian fundamentalist website where members of its particular misanthropic sect had posted posed photos of their own small children wearing “ God hates Fags” t-shirts and it was then I truly felt the despair creep up around my shoulders.
But just when I felt like putting the duvet back over my head for the rest of the week, I found this little gem of a story. It is no panacea for all of the disgusting behaviours I have just outlined, but it brought a grin to my face and a whole new meaning to the “Mother and Child Campaign”.
It seems that the Cincinnati Reds, a major league US baseball team have got themselves a highly-talented, young pitcher by the name of Joe Valentine. Joe was first professionally signed on discovery by a talent scout to the White Sox in 1999. Last year, during Spring training with his new team Joe was interviewed by Newsday. The lad paid homage to his parents for all their support and encouragement throughout his life and their particular nurturing of his sporting abilities. Nothing unusual about that, just a well brought up young man who wanted to give due recognition to the parents he loved. Except Joe has two moms and always has. Deb Valentine, his biological mother and Doreen Price who raised him from birth have been together for 30 years. It was his mom, Doreen who was involved in competitive softball who nurtured Joe’s love of baseball.
Joe Valentine told the Newsday reporter about his upbringing with his moms because “ I just wanted to give them some sort of recognition for this. I feel in my heart they did a great job with me and I thought it would be nice to just have them see that I appreciated it.” Valentine’s nonchalant statements about his parents and family life have been received with a similar kind of “cool shrug” by his teammates in a sport previously renowned for the kind of anti-gay sentiment that bordered on paranoid.
Joe is married and trying to start a family of his own, his moms moved from their old family home in Las Vegas to be close to Joe’s new team home.
“ I don’t see myself as an activist although I will speak up if I need to. I think people need to judge others for who they are, not by any prejudiced ideas or thoughts. I’m a baseball player who was raised by two wonderful, loving mothers. How can anyone criticize that?” Indeed Joe, how could anyone criticize that?
The continued state neglect of unaccompanied, refugee and asylum seeking minors, the state sanctioned ruthlessness of forcibly removing other such families from the homes, communities and lives they have made for themselves in this country to return them to situations of brutality and fear surely demands that our Constitution give supremacy to the rights of children instead of the paltry lip service that currently exists towards children’s rights.
I know too, that I am not alone at feeling disgust at the predicament of young Tristan Dowse, returned to an Indonesian orphanage because it no longer suited his married, adoptive parents to keep him, while Irish right- wing fanatics presented the Oireachtas Committee on the Family with a highly questionable petition against same sex couples having a right to family life. A few days ago, a friend told me about a Christian fundamentalist website where members of its particular misanthropic sect had posted posed photos of their own small children wearing “ God hates Fags” t-shirts and it was then I truly felt the despair creep up around my shoulders.
But just when I felt like putting the duvet back over my head for the rest of the week, I found this little gem of a story. It is no panacea for all of the disgusting behaviours I have just outlined, but it brought a grin to my face and a whole new meaning to the “Mother and Child Campaign”.
It seems that the Cincinnati Reds, a major league US baseball team have got themselves a highly-talented, young pitcher by the name of Joe Valentine. Joe was first professionally signed on discovery by a talent scout to the White Sox in 1999. Last year, during Spring training with his new team Joe was interviewed by Newsday. The lad paid homage to his parents for all their support and encouragement throughout his life and their particular nurturing of his sporting abilities. Nothing unusual about that, just a well brought up young man who wanted to give due recognition to the parents he loved. Except Joe has two moms and always has. Deb Valentine, his biological mother and Doreen Price who raised him from birth have been together for 30 years. It was his mom, Doreen who was involved in competitive softball who nurtured Joe’s love of baseball.
Joe Valentine told the Newsday reporter about his upbringing with his moms because “ I just wanted to give them some sort of recognition for this. I feel in my heart they did a great job with me and I thought it would be nice to just have them see that I appreciated it.” Valentine’s nonchalant statements about his parents and family life have been received with a similar kind of “cool shrug” by his teammates in a sport previously renowned for the kind of anti-gay sentiment that bordered on paranoid.
Joe is married and trying to start a family of his own, his moms moved from their old family home in Las Vegas to be close to Joe’s new team home.
“ I don’t see myself as an activist although I will speak up if I need to. I think people need to judge others for who they are, not by any prejudiced ideas or thoughts. I’m a baseball player who was raised by two wonderful, loving mothers. How can anyone criticize that?” Indeed Joe, how could anyone criticize that?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Supernanny to the Rescue
The bunch of tantrum-throwing, ill-behaved, incorrigible, squabbling, bad-mouthed, dysfunctional brats we elected to government are an international embarrassment and a national disgrace. It is obvious that our ability to call them to account is wholly inadequate. The behaviour we have witnessed for several years now from the overgrown kids in Leinster House is spiralling out of control. It is only a matter of time before Michael Mc Dowell throws himself face down on the Dail floor kicking and spitting in uncontrollable rage if any grown-up dares to suggest that he is wrong.
It is obvious that lads like Jim, Conor, Michael, Micheal, Seamus, Martin, Mary and ringleader, Bertie are desperately seeking our attention- hence the fits of pique, the challenging behaviour, the bad language, the deliberate playing out, the offensive insults, mugging of the elderly and the interminable lying. This is a job for….. SUPERNANNY.
As fans of Nanny Jo Frost, aka Supernanny (of the Channel 4 programme of the same name) will tell you, brats who behave this badly are in need of a firm hand, consistent discipline and constant reminding that if they do not do what they are told there will be consequences-for them. Adults must hold the line on these principles. There must be no rewards for brattish, lazy, dishonest acts. They must learn that their behaviour will not be tolerated and that we, the grown-up electorate are the final authority.
If we apply Supernanny’s methodology to our own mob of malfeasants we will be on our way to creating a more harmonious and effective government. First we must establish a “cool down area”. This is to be used immediately the bad behaviour kicks off and the wilfulness takes over. Instead of bemoaning the situation and pleading for them to behave themselves or entering into arguments which they will always reroute, we must act decisively by removing them to the “cool down area” until they have learnt their lesson and are ready to apologise for the outrage they have perpetrated. Mountjoy prison is ideally placed to serve this function.
Once we have clearly established that there will be immediate consequences for criminal acts perpetrated under the influence, wilful obstruction and embezzlement of old people’s pensions as well as a few ASBOs served on the boorish element in the Office of Overseas Development, we can move to the next phase of treatment. This involves giving each brat something to aim for, a tangible means of measuring good behaviour that leads to a deserved reward. The system is already in place- it is called the General Election. But we must stick rigidly to the contract. No giving in and voting for them if they have failed to live up to their side of the deal.
Each upstart must be assigned a specific set of tasks to undertake and promises to keep. It must be made extremely clear in language that these outsized tikes understand that failure to comply will result in the forfeiture of all privileges and pocket money. We, the grown-ups, will in turn guarantee to provide proportional affirmation and encouragement when genuine efforts are made to; clean up their mess, abide by the rules of civilised society, treat the populace with respect and refrain from using inflammatory, abusive and racist language.
However, Nanny Jo would also point out that the disgraceful antics of the Leinster House louts continues because of our laissez faire attitude as an electorate. It is not that we are inadequate or unable to cope. We too, are exhibiting learned behaviour gleaned from decades of neglect, betrayal, making do and putting up with. Consequently, we have allowed the brats to get out of control and to believe that they are in charge. By allowing self-seeking, unprincipled, double-standards to go unchecked amongst our government ministers we have helped preserve a culture of democratic unaccountability and contempt for the basic rules of good governance.
Supernanny might find that given our predicament and the entrenched nature of our problem that specifically tailored measures are needed to copper-fasten good behaviour amongst our government delinquents. Five yearly check-ups by way of general elections alone only serve too give a long leash to these particular pups. Additional checks and balances are required: Dail Committees established to regularly monitor the performance of individual Departments, effective, independent procedures to investigate abuses of power by politicians and a grievance procedure operated by a Standards in Government body, identifying the types of misconduct expressly prohibited by any member of the government and empowered to enact consequences when misconduct occurs.
Supernanny does warn of having unreasonable expectations of undeveloped minds. The effects of this can be seen in those Departments headed up by Ministers who are quite obviously not up to the job. Nanny Jo says this is setting ‘kids’ up for a fall before they have even begun. Leaving us to consider that Bertie’s ministerial choices are the work of a much darker force.
Powerful Positions- No Women Need Apply
First published 4th April 2005 in Village magazine.
This was the week that the new Pontiff, Benedict XVI was elected and senior members of the DUP were invited to meet over dinner with Dublin’s Chamber of Commerce and other key business figures.
POWERFUL POSITION- NO WOMEN NEED APPLY
Have you ever noticed how, if you raise the issue of gender representation in decision-making within organisations, the first reply you get is- “ but we have a woman on the committee/board/management etc.” I force myself to think of that response as recognition that one, solitary, lone, token woman is the equivalent of the dozen men who have permanent residence on the committee/board/management. In allowing myself that little fantasy, I am working to suppress the overwhelming desire to deck the eejit who just said something that dumb.
My powers of self-restraint are really put to the test when the response goes along the lines of, “ but our meetings are open to women and they are just not interested.” Oh boy! That would be the meetings that are held just when children are being fed their main meal of the day, read to and put to bed, or the ones held in the morning when kids have to be got washed, dressed, fed and deposited at school. Or, maybe that would be the meetings that no one knows about especially not women because no one bothered to tell any women. Perhaps it’s the meetings where the ‘resident men’ enter into rhetorical pissing competitions with one another to see who is the dominant male, smartest lad in the class, or mummy’s clever little boy. These kind of meetings are lots of fun for men but as interesting as watching cheese mould for women (and not much better for those men who have more sense than the majority of their peers.).
Then there is the position much beloved of quite a few NGOs and semi-state bodies, “But- we- are- an- inclusive –organisation.” This is a revolutionary new approach to inclusion. It involves chanting “ we are an inclusive organisation” mantra-like over and over, until eventually the chant transcends reality. I am particularly intrigued by that response because it demonstrates the intense level of self-delusion that can be attained without the use of psychotropic drugs. The levels of self-delusion will be roughly proportionate to the gaps in representation of women, people with disabilities and ethnic minorities in the organisation. It is also important to note that a token disabled person working the phones or doing the photo-copying, several women in the typing pool and a Ukrainian cleaner does nothing to diminish my point.
But I bring you glad tidings on the gender balance front or rather, Minister Frank Fahey with responsibility for Equality does. He announced recently that he had requested, “ all Ministers put in place the necessary procedures to implement the Government decision on equal representation on State Boards.” According to the Minister, all nominating bodies must put forward both male and female options for appointments to State Boards. Fahey’s instructions are an attempt to finally get somewhere close to the 40% female representation which he identifies as having been promised in both the Programme for Government and Sustaining Progress 2003-2006. Minister Fahey’s actions are most definitely welcome.
However, women have been waiting just a little longer for government to take that kind of action than the Minister’s statement suggests. The 40% gender representation target has been around since 1991. The National Women’s Council of Ireland first proposed it as a target in their submission to the 2nd Commission on the Status of Women in 1990 who successfully recommended it be adopted as a policy guideline by government. So, it has only taken fourteen years to produce a specific action to bring about its implementation. And of course Minister Fahey’s timing has not been influenced by Ireland’s imminent attendance in July at the UN, Charter for the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) Committee where, our government will have to show what progress, if any, has been made on addressing women’s inequality in Ireland on a number of fronts.
Nevertheless, in a week that saw a global leader appointed in a ritual by 144 patriarchs invoking the elitism and sexism of a darker age, and a business dinner for unionist brethren hosted by the fathers of Irish finance and industry in a gentlemen’s Dublin club, then Frank Fahey’s small and tardy gesture is all the more essential.
This was the week that the new Pontiff, Benedict XVI was elected and senior members of the DUP were invited to meet over dinner with Dublin’s Chamber of Commerce and other key business figures.
POWERFUL POSITION- NO WOMEN NEED APPLY
Have you ever noticed how, if you raise the issue of gender representation in decision-making within organisations, the first reply you get is- “ but we have a woman on the committee/board/management etc.” I force myself to think of that response as recognition that one, solitary, lone, token woman is the equivalent of the dozen men who have permanent residence on the committee/board/management. In allowing myself that little fantasy, I am working to suppress the overwhelming desire to deck the eejit who just said something that dumb.
My powers of self-restraint are really put to the test when the response goes along the lines of, “ but our meetings are open to women and they are just not interested.” Oh boy! That would be the meetings that are held just when children are being fed their main meal of the day, read to and put to bed, or the ones held in the morning when kids have to be got washed, dressed, fed and deposited at school. Or, maybe that would be the meetings that no one knows about especially not women because no one bothered to tell any women. Perhaps it’s the meetings where the ‘resident men’ enter into rhetorical pissing competitions with one another to see who is the dominant male, smartest lad in the class, or mummy’s clever little boy. These kind of meetings are lots of fun for men but as interesting as watching cheese mould for women (and not much better for those men who have more sense than the majority of their peers.).
Then there is the position much beloved of quite a few NGOs and semi-state bodies, “But- we- are- an- inclusive –organisation.” This is a revolutionary new approach to inclusion. It involves chanting “ we are an inclusive organisation” mantra-like over and over, until eventually the chant transcends reality. I am particularly intrigued by that response because it demonstrates the intense level of self-delusion that can be attained without the use of psychotropic drugs. The levels of self-delusion will be roughly proportionate to the gaps in representation of women, people with disabilities and ethnic minorities in the organisation. It is also important to note that a token disabled person working the phones or doing the photo-copying, several women in the typing pool and a Ukrainian cleaner does nothing to diminish my point.
But I bring you glad tidings on the gender balance front or rather, Minister Frank Fahey with responsibility for Equality does. He announced recently that he had requested, “ all Ministers put in place the necessary procedures to implement the Government decision on equal representation on State Boards.” According to the Minister, all nominating bodies must put forward both male and female options for appointments to State Boards. Fahey’s instructions are an attempt to finally get somewhere close to the 40% female representation which he identifies as having been promised in both the Programme for Government and Sustaining Progress 2003-2006. Minister Fahey’s actions are most definitely welcome.
However, women have been waiting just a little longer for government to take that kind of action than the Minister’s statement suggests. The 40% gender representation target has been around since 1991. The National Women’s Council of Ireland first proposed it as a target in their submission to the 2nd Commission on the Status of Women in 1990 who successfully recommended it be adopted as a policy guideline by government. So, it has only taken fourteen years to produce a specific action to bring about its implementation. And of course Minister Fahey’s timing has not been influenced by Ireland’s imminent attendance in July at the UN, Charter for the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) Committee where, our government will have to show what progress, if any, has been made on addressing women’s inequality in Ireland on a number of fronts.
Nevertheless, in a week that saw a global leader appointed in a ritual by 144 patriarchs invoking the elitism and sexism of a darker age, and a business dinner for unionist brethren hosted by the fathers of Irish finance and industry in a gentlemen’s Dublin club, then Frank Fahey’s small and tardy gesture is all the more essential.
Remembering the Holocaust in Ireland
First published in Village magazine January 2005
It begins with the belief that those who are different are in some way lesser beings. It continues with the infringement of their liberties, restrictions on their freedom of movement, the denial or removal of their rights, forcibly removing them from their homes, their campsites, confining them to camps and ghettoes and increased efforts to erode their human-ness by inflicting any number of small indignities leading to ever greater indignities. Until finally one day, unfettered and unchallenged bigotry and hatred proceed to the next level- extermination.
In answer to an interviewer’s question on whether he believed the Holocaust could happen again, Primo Levi, perhaps its most eloquent survivor replied; “ The idea is not dead. Nothing ever dies. Everything rises renewed.”
Mass graves, concentration camps, the destruction of places of worship, the bombing of schools and residential areas, starvation, forced migration, mass rape these are the ultimate expressions of tyranny and bigotry, from Cambodia, Indonesia, Rwanda and Bosnia to Darfur- and yet after Auschwitz the world said, “Never Again.”
In 2000 the Irish government signed the Stockholm Statement of Commitment pledging amongst other things, “ to strengthen our efforts to promote education and research about the Holocaust and other genocides” and, “ to encourage Holocaust remembrance by holding an annual Holocaust Memorial Day.” The Statement also recognises that “humanity is still scarred by the belief that race, religion, disability or sexuality make some people’s lives worth less than others’. Genocide, anti-semitism, racism, xenophobia and discrimination still continue.” It pledges signatories to, “ a shared responsibility to fight these evils.”
Three years after they had signed up to these pledges the Irish government had done nothing to meet their commitment in recognising the Holocaust. It was not until an ad hoc voluntary committee comprised of members of Ireland’s Jewish community and those who shared an interest in remembering the Holocaust organised a memorial event that leading members of the Irish cabinet sat up and took notice.
The first Holocaust memorial event in Dublin City Hall in 2003 was without question one of the most potent commemoration ceremonies to ever take place there. It did not focus on praising dead heroes or patriotic blood sacrifice. With the first Holocaust Commemoration a new tradition of remembrance was established wherein the common humanity of all is re-emphasised and the simple message conveyed that prejudice unchecked poses the greatest threat to that humanity.
All of the victims of the Third Reich are remembered during the event now in its third year. The centrepiece of the commemoration is the lighting of candles in memory of the minorities that Nazism attempted to eradicate forever, the Roma community, people with physical and learning disabilities, people of African descent, lesbians and gays and Europe’s Jews. Candles are also lit for those who were murdered because of their political and religious beliefs, trade unionists, communists, Quakers, Jehovah’s Witnesses and others.
Each candle is lit by an Irish representative of those minorities. On behalf of the six million Jewish victims, candles are lit by six of the tiny number of remaining survivors of the Holocaust living in Ireland. Several came as refugees via Britain on the kindertransport, the groups of children who were lucky enough to be evacuated from Europe by their families before the full terror was unleashed. Two of the Irish survivors, Suzi Diamond and Zoltan Zinn- Collis met as small children in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp were they were rescued after the liberation and brought to Ireland by an Irish Red Cross doctor, Robert Collis and his Dutch wife, Han who was a nurse. Ireland has very few Holocaust survivors because so few, so very, very few Jewish refugees were allowed to enter the country during the war or in the post-war period. Katrina Goldstone an Irish anti-racist activist who has documented Irish anti-semitism estimates that only 65-100 refugees were ever admitted.
At the 2004 Commemoration the Minister for Justice, Michael Mc Dowell publicly apologised for government predecessors of the 30s and 40s who denied refuge to those in such desperate need. This year, An Taoiseach, Bertie Aherne will also attend. An apology for the callousness of a previous government and official attendance at an annual remembrance event notwithstanding, there is little evidence to show that Irish officialdom has reflected on the lessons of the Holocaust in their current policies towards certain minorities, refugees and those vulnerable to bigotry.
Acts of omission in addressing racism comprehensively, indifference to the absymal provision of Traveller halting sites, the official feeding of public prejudice and paranoia in relation to immigrants and refugees as witnessed in the recent citizenship referendum, the scapegoating of those same immigrants for the absence of a coherent, transparent immigration policy, the refusal to allow asylum seekers the dignity of work, these are the responses of a government for whom the Holocaust is little more than an historical footnote.
Lynn Jackson of the Holocaust Commemoration Committee (Holocaust Educational Trust) is dedicated to ensuring that commemoration of the Holocaust is linked to the fight against racism,
“ The Nazi Holocaust is the extreme example of racism. It highlights where unchecked bigotry, prejudice and hatred can lead. It teaches us that we must all be mindful of the dangers of racism and protest in the strongest terms when we witness anti-semitism, xenophobia or any form of intolerance expressed in any of its manifestations.”
At the conclusion of the commemoration each year, Dublin City Hall resonates to the Kaddish, the Jewish prayers for the dead. For those who died in the Holocaust rest and peace are implored for; “ the souls of all our brothers and sisters… who were butchered, murdered, slaughtered, incinerated, drowned, shot and strangled…at the hands of the Nazi oppressors.” The cantor’s voice rises and falls in a cadence of heart-aching clarity as he asks that, “ the master of mercy shelter them in the shadow of his wings for eternity and may he bind their souls in the soul of life.” Amen.
It begins with the belief that those who are different are in some way lesser beings. It continues with the infringement of their liberties, restrictions on their freedom of movement, the denial or removal of their rights, forcibly removing them from their homes, their campsites, confining them to camps and ghettoes and increased efforts to erode their human-ness by inflicting any number of small indignities leading to ever greater indignities. Until finally one day, unfettered and unchallenged bigotry and hatred proceed to the next level- extermination.
In answer to an interviewer’s question on whether he believed the Holocaust could happen again, Primo Levi, perhaps its most eloquent survivor replied; “ The idea is not dead. Nothing ever dies. Everything rises renewed.”
Mass graves, concentration camps, the destruction of places of worship, the bombing of schools and residential areas, starvation, forced migration, mass rape these are the ultimate expressions of tyranny and bigotry, from Cambodia, Indonesia, Rwanda and Bosnia to Darfur- and yet after Auschwitz the world said, “Never Again.”
In 2000 the Irish government signed the Stockholm Statement of Commitment pledging amongst other things, “ to strengthen our efforts to promote education and research about the Holocaust and other genocides” and, “ to encourage Holocaust remembrance by holding an annual Holocaust Memorial Day.” The Statement also recognises that “humanity is still scarred by the belief that race, religion, disability or sexuality make some people’s lives worth less than others’. Genocide, anti-semitism, racism, xenophobia and discrimination still continue.” It pledges signatories to, “ a shared responsibility to fight these evils.”
Three years after they had signed up to these pledges the Irish government had done nothing to meet their commitment in recognising the Holocaust. It was not until an ad hoc voluntary committee comprised of members of Ireland’s Jewish community and those who shared an interest in remembering the Holocaust organised a memorial event that leading members of the Irish cabinet sat up and took notice.
The first Holocaust memorial event in Dublin City Hall in 2003 was without question one of the most potent commemoration ceremonies to ever take place there. It did not focus on praising dead heroes or patriotic blood sacrifice. With the first Holocaust Commemoration a new tradition of remembrance was established wherein the common humanity of all is re-emphasised and the simple message conveyed that prejudice unchecked poses the greatest threat to that humanity.
All of the victims of the Third Reich are remembered during the event now in its third year. The centrepiece of the commemoration is the lighting of candles in memory of the minorities that Nazism attempted to eradicate forever, the Roma community, people with physical and learning disabilities, people of African descent, lesbians and gays and Europe’s Jews. Candles are also lit for those who were murdered because of their political and religious beliefs, trade unionists, communists, Quakers, Jehovah’s Witnesses and others.
Each candle is lit by an Irish representative of those minorities. On behalf of the six million Jewish victims, candles are lit by six of the tiny number of remaining survivors of the Holocaust living in Ireland. Several came as refugees via Britain on the kindertransport, the groups of children who were lucky enough to be evacuated from Europe by their families before the full terror was unleashed. Two of the Irish survivors, Suzi Diamond and Zoltan Zinn- Collis met as small children in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp were they were rescued after the liberation and brought to Ireland by an Irish Red Cross doctor, Robert Collis and his Dutch wife, Han who was a nurse. Ireland has very few Holocaust survivors because so few, so very, very few Jewish refugees were allowed to enter the country during the war or in the post-war period. Katrina Goldstone an Irish anti-racist activist who has documented Irish anti-semitism estimates that only 65-100 refugees were ever admitted.
At the 2004 Commemoration the Minister for Justice, Michael Mc Dowell publicly apologised for government predecessors of the 30s and 40s who denied refuge to those in such desperate need. This year, An Taoiseach, Bertie Aherne will also attend. An apology for the callousness of a previous government and official attendance at an annual remembrance event notwithstanding, there is little evidence to show that Irish officialdom has reflected on the lessons of the Holocaust in their current policies towards certain minorities, refugees and those vulnerable to bigotry.
Acts of omission in addressing racism comprehensively, indifference to the absymal provision of Traveller halting sites, the official feeding of public prejudice and paranoia in relation to immigrants and refugees as witnessed in the recent citizenship referendum, the scapegoating of those same immigrants for the absence of a coherent, transparent immigration policy, the refusal to allow asylum seekers the dignity of work, these are the responses of a government for whom the Holocaust is little more than an historical footnote.
Lynn Jackson of the Holocaust Commemoration Committee (Holocaust Educational Trust) is dedicated to ensuring that commemoration of the Holocaust is linked to the fight against racism,
“ The Nazi Holocaust is the extreme example of racism. It highlights where unchecked bigotry, prejudice and hatred can lead. It teaches us that we must all be mindful of the dangers of racism and protest in the strongest terms when we witness anti-semitism, xenophobia or any form of intolerance expressed in any of its manifestations.”
At the conclusion of the commemoration each year, Dublin City Hall resonates to the Kaddish, the Jewish prayers for the dead. For those who died in the Holocaust rest and peace are implored for; “ the souls of all our brothers and sisters… who were butchered, murdered, slaughtered, incinerated, drowned, shot and strangled…at the hands of the Nazi oppressors.” The cantor’s voice rises and falls in a cadence of heart-aching clarity as he asks that, “ the master of mercy shelter them in the shadow of his wings for eternity and may he bind their souls in the soul of life.” Amen.
National Sorry Day for Politicians
Originally published in Village Magazine 4th December 2004
I was tickled to read that in response to the withdrawal of their funding by Belfast City Council that “The Vacuum” a free monthly paper is organising a “Sorry Day” on December 15th. Admittedly, it’s a tongue in cheek retaliation to the Christian fundamentalists of the Council who withheld the paper’s funding and demanded an apology from the editors because they had the audacity to publish an article on Satanism.
The possibilities of a “Sorry Day” are endless but I think it would be particularly effective if it were aimed at politicians who are especially deficient in the apology department. On Sorry Day, career politicians would have to cease their other activities for the day and enrol in a training workshop entitled, “Mea Culpa- the Beginners Guide to Begging for Forgiveness.” The Elton John track, “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word” would be played on a continous loop throughout the day’s training-there has to be some opportunity for gratuitous revenge after all.
Mea Culpa would be an action- oriented workshop. At the end of the eight hour session each participant would appear on an extended RTE News to demonstrate their newly acquired skills by performing one wholehearted, unequivocal apology for something they should have apologised for much sooner. The National Grid would go into meltdown as the entire nation tuned in to watch a marathon broadcast of contrition.
Liam Lawlor ex-con, dirty politician, inveterate liar and greedy, self-seeking excuse for a public representative steps in front of the cameras outside the Dail. Chastened by his day of self flagellation and looking into the special Mea Culpa Mirror which shows him as others see him, Liam falls on his knees , tears open his shirt to show his exposed left breast and implores the country from the bottom of his heart to forgive him for betraying their trust, abusing his position and bringing a whole new level of debasement to Irish politics.
The Taoiseach shuffles coyly into view. He has spent a lot of his workshop time exploring with the help of an army of facilitators which specific sin/offence/ act he should choose to apologise for. Eventually it was decided it should be the most recent as that would hopefully act as a deterrent from committing further insults to the electorate. Once that was agreed the facilitators spent the rest of the day scripting a statement of apology for him to learn by heart so that at least his public apology would not be marred by any unnecessary verbal mangling. Bertie, directs his most doleful gaze into the camera and recites as he has been taught that he will never again exploit the plight of the poorest, most deprived people in the world to make himself look good in front of his international pals. He apologies profusely for his schoolboy boasting about increasing overseas aid and begs our forgiveness for his lack of sincerity and humanity.
Perhaps about now there would be a commercial break to allow viewers to partake of a stiff drink and pinch each other to ensure that they are not dreaming. Right after the advertisement for the newest line in sackcloth, ashes and hairshirts available now at all good stockists, we return to Kildare Street for my particular highlight of Sorry Day.
Standing very much alone but with a familiar defiance in his eye, is the Minister for Justice. For some minutes he continues to stand without saying a word, until a large, muscular facilitator sidles up to him and whispers in his ear. The facilitator remains at his side, as it is clear that the Minister is in need of extra coaching and persuasion. The facilitator attempts to push the proceedings along by telling us that the Minister has something he would like to say. It happens too quickly to be sure but eagle-eyed viewers are certain that the facilitator gives the Minister a hefty dig in the back which sends him falling to his knees. The camera pans down to the Minister’s now penitent face to hear him utter sotto voce that he wishes to apologise for being Michael Mc Dowell.
I am only sorry it will never happen.
Wordcount 697
I was tickled to read that in response to the withdrawal of their funding by Belfast City Council that “The Vacuum” a free monthly paper is organising a “Sorry Day” on December 15th. Admittedly, it’s a tongue in cheek retaliation to the Christian fundamentalists of the Council who withheld the paper’s funding and demanded an apology from the editors because they had the audacity to publish an article on Satanism.
The possibilities of a “Sorry Day” are endless but I think it would be particularly effective if it were aimed at politicians who are especially deficient in the apology department. On Sorry Day, career politicians would have to cease their other activities for the day and enrol in a training workshop entitled, “Mea Culpa- the Beginners Guide to Begging for Forgiveness.” The Elton John track, “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word” would be played on a continous loop throughout the day’s training-there has to be some opportunity for gratuitous revenge after all.
Mea Culpa would be an action- oriented workshop. At the end of the eight hour session each participant would appear on an extended RTE News to demonstrate their newly acquired skills by performing one wholehearted, unequivocal apology for something they should have apologised for much sooner. The National Grid would go into meltdown as the entire nation tuned in to watch a marathon broadcast of contrition.
Liam Lawlor ex-con, dirty politician, inveterate liar and greedy, self-seeking excuse for a public representative steps in front of the cameras outside the Dail. Chastened by his day of self flagellation and looking into the special Mea Culpa Mirror which shows him as others see him, Liam falls on his knees , tears open his shirt to show his exposed left breast and implores the country from the bottom of his heart to forgive him for betraying their trust, abusing his position and bringing a whole new level of debasement to Irish politics.
The Taoiseach shuffles coyly into view. He has spent a lot of his workshop time exploring with the help of an army of facilitators which specific sin/offence/ act he should choose to apologise for. Eventually it was decided it should be the most recent as that would hopefully act as a deterrent from committing further insults to the electorate. Once that was agreed the facilitators spent the rest of the day scripting a statement of apology for him to learn by heart so that at least his public apology would not be marred by any unnecessary verbal mangling. Bertie, directs his most doleful gaze into the camera and recites as he has been taught that he will never again exploit the plight of the poorest, most deprived people in the world to make himself look good in front of his international pals. He apologies profusely for his schoolboy boasting about increasing overseas aid and begs our forgiveness for his lack of sincerity and humanity.
Perhaps about now there would be a commercial break to allow viewers to partake of a stiff drink and pinch each other to ensure that they are not dreaming. Right after the advertisement for the newest line in sackcloth, ashes and hairshirts available now at all good stockists, we return to Kildare Street for my particular highlight of Sorry Day.
Standing very much alone but with a familiar defiance in his eye, is the Minister for Justice. For some minutes he continues to stand without saying a word, until a large, muscular facilitator sidles up to him and whispers in his ear. The facilitator remains at his side, as it is clear that the Minister is in need of extra coaching and persuasion. The facilitator attempts to push the proceedings along by telling us that the Minister has something he would like to say. It happens too quickly to be sure but eagle-eyed viewers are certain that the facilitator gives the Minister a hefty dig in the back which sends him falling to his knees. The camera pans down to the Minister’s now penitent face to hear him utter sotto voce that he wishes to apologise for being Michael Mc Dowell.
I am only sorry it will never happen.
Wordcount 697
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