Last week, on Wednesday 23 April, the nation of England celebrated St George's Day. At Kumali's nursery the children were all asked to come in wearing red and white clothing, and they spent the day drawing and learning about castles, dragons and knights in shiny armour atop horses.
Now, despite being born and bred up the road in Scotland, I had no real objection to this show of Englishness. After all my parents are both London born and bred, and I like to think I am more mature these days when it comes to issues of nationality. As the Scots would say, "We're a' Jock Tamson's bairns." Loosely translated: one race, the human race.
But I decided to do a bit of checking into St George, and the other saints of the British Isles.
It turns out St George may not even have existed at all, and he almost certainly never slayed any dragon . If he was real, he was at best Turkish and was brought to England's attention by the Crusaders. Bottom line is he had nothing whatsoever to do with England.
I don't gloat writing that. St Andrew, Scotland's patron saint, had no links with Scotland. He was, allegedly, one of Jesus's apostles and his death inspired the national flag of Scotland, the Saltire, as he felt unworthy being crucified in the same way as Jesus so asked for a diagonal cross.
Ireland's saint, Patrick, was born in Scotland, lived in England and was imprisoned by the Irish! Only my own favourite, Saint David, the Welsh patron saint had any real connection with Wales. A man after my own heart, St David's last words were apparently, "Do the little things in life."
So what are all these saints about, why are they celebrated and isn't about time they, in line with all else in the world today, were updated and modernised? A Dr Ian Bradley, reader in practical theology and church history at St Andrew's University, thinks so. He is campaigning for the adoption of a new saint to unite the British Isles, and the man he has in line is St Aidan, Apostle of Northumbria.
Aidan was born in Ireland, educated in Scotland and lived in England, goes the argument, so he is representative of Britain. Except Wales!
None of it makes much sense to me, and in multi-cultural Britain, and bearing in mind the chances of us all being either Muslims or Taoists in the next 50 years, it seems we all need to be thinking a bit further out the box.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Tears For Zimbabwe
Having been fortunate enough to have lived in Zimbabwe, and even more fortunate to have married a beautiful Zimbabwean, I have more cause than most white British people to follow the fortunes of that amazing southern African country.
All too sadly the fortunes of Zimbabwe have been almost entirely trampled into the ground by the man who has presided over the country for the last 28 years. There was much that was wrong with the regime that Mugabe and his political party, Zanu PF, replaced back in 1980. But economically the country that was Rhodesia and became Zimbabwe was vibrant. One Zimbabwean dollar was worth one British pound and the country was able to feed it's people and export food to other African countries. And various other agricultural based products, most notably tobacco and flowers, also had a plentiful world market.
By the mid-90s you needed 20 Zim dollars to equal the value of one British pound. Fast forward to now and nobody really knows how many dollars make a pound. A loaf of bread alone, if you're lucky enough to be able to buy one, costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. Over 80% of the population don't have a job, life expectancy is pegged around 40, and every associated ill that comes with abject poverty is rife.
In the surreal parallel world of sickness that we currently inhabit, you can however dine on lobster, or any delicacy you fancy, in the five star hotels and restaurants in the capital Harare - providing you have the foreign currency to pay for it.
One man, and one man alone is responsible for the situation that Zimbabwe finds itself in. He blames white people with an all too familiar dogmatic, repetitive rhetoric. No question former colonial rulers have plenty to be ashamed of, but the ruin that is currently Zimbabwe is not of their making. The truth is clear, though.
You could talk for hours about the ills and woes of Robert Gabriel Mugabe and the way he 'rules', and I, and many others, have often in the past with family, friends and fellow Zimbabwe lovers. Suffice to say that I don't believe there are enough chemicals in existence that could be concocted into a drug strong enough to enable the 'president' to rest his weary, weary head at the end of each and every day. The greatest irony is that, aside from the fact he had long had no obvious issue with 'white people', Mugabe has become a caricuture of the worst embodiment of former white colonial rules in Africa.
The people of Zimbabwe have patiently and law abidingly used their electoral right to make it clear to Mugabe that his time is up over the last 3 or 4 elections going back 10 years. Most recently at the election 3 weeks ago that everyone is still waiting for clear results from. The man is not listening: he has made it clear, in words and actions, that as long as he is alive he doesn't intend to go anywhere or change anything.
Meanwhile the most vicious of Mugabe's tactics for maintaining power and control at all costs have long since been unleashed. Again, it is not worth pouring over it: it is all too familiar and predictable. Suffice it to say Mugabe is a man who has publicly stated many times that he has 'degrees in violence' and has no compunction about using them.
Until he dies, I can only see tears for 95% of the people of Zimbabwe and feel deep sadness for them, the countryside and the animals.
All too sadly the fortunes of Zimbabwe have been almost entirely trampled into the ground by the man who has presided over the country for the last 28 years. There was much that was wrong with the regime that Mugabe and his political party, Zanu PF, replaced back in 1980. But economically the country that was Rhodesia and became Zimbabwe was vibrant. One Zimbabwean dollar was worth one British pound and the country was able to feed it's people and export food to other African countries. And various other agricultural based products, most notably tobacco and flowers, also had a plentiful world market.
By the mid-90s you needed 20 Zim dollars to equal the value of one British pound. Fast forward to now and nobody really knows how many dollars make a pound. A loaf of bread alone, if you're lucky enough to be able to buy one, costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. Over 80% of the population don't have a job, life expectancy is pegged around 40, and every associated ill that comes with abject poverty is rife.
In the surreal parallel world of sickness that we currently inhabit, you can however dine on lobster, or any delicacy you fancy, in the five star hotels and restaurants in the capital Harare - providing you have the foreign currency to pay for it.
One man, and one man alone is responsible for the situation that Zimbabwe finds itself in. He blames white people with an all too familiar dogmatic, repetitive rhetoric. No question former colonial rulers have plenty to be ashamed of, but the ruin that is currently Zimbabwe is not of their making. The truth is clear, though.
You could talk for hours about the ills and woes of Robert Gabriel Mugabe and the way he 'rules', and I, and many others, have often in the past with family, friends and fellow Zimbabwe lovers. Suffice to say that I don't believe there are enough chemicals in existence that could be concocted into a drug strong enough to enable the 'president' to rest his weary, weary head at the end of each and every day. The greatest irony is that, aside from the fact he had long had no obvious issue with 'white people', Mugabe has become a caricuture of the worst embodiment of former white colonial rules in Africa.
The people of Zimbabwe have patiently and law abidingly used their electoral right to make it clear to Mugabe that his time is up over the last 3 or 4 elections going back 10 years. Most recently at the election 3 weeks ago that everyone is still waiting for clear results from. The man is not listening: he has made it clear, in words and actions, that as long as he is alive he doesn't intend to go anywhere or change anything.
Meanwhile the most vicious of Mugabe's tactics for maintaining power and control at all costs have long since been unleashed. Again, it is not worth pouring over it: it is all too familiar and predictable. Suffice it to say Mugabe is a man who has publicly stated many times that he has 'degrees in violence' and has no compunction about using them.
Until he dies, I can only see tears for 95% of the people of Zimbabwe and feel deep sadness for them, the countryside and the animals.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Planet, Or People, Facing Disaster?
I can't be the only one who is mystified to the point of cynical about the constant and plentiful written and spoken references to impending 'disaster for the planet' and the urgent need to 'save the planet.' It's not that I don't think, feel and know that the human race appears to be 'hell' bent on a one race race to do as much damage as possible to the planet in the shortest amount of time since our time began. Is anybody in any doubt about that?
It's just that the idea of 'planetary disaster' and the need to 'save the planet' seems to be missing the (very obvious) point. It's not only factually inaccurate, as far as I can tell, it's actually the greatest fallacy of modern times. And if that ain''t enough, the messages are largely falling on deaf ears and closed minds anyway.
Ultimately I'm an optimist (actually I'm more of a hopeful idealist) and I've lived long enough to have started to learn that nobody really knows much about anything at all - including, or especially, what will or won't happen in the future. But that's not my point. My point is: assuming the worst case scenario, who is actually facing disaster and therefore needing saved, the planet or the people on the planet?
I'm not a betting man, merely an occasional and amateur flutterer, but my money would be on planet earth to be around longer than the human race. As far as I can tell, the worst we can do is damage the planet up to the point where it is at least in danger of no longer being able to sustain human life. If or when that were to happen, commonsense, rather than scientific theory, tells me that it would then be the human race that was facing 'disaster' and not the planet.
Call me a naive old hippy. Tell me we're the human 'race', and the race may be about to end. Tell me anything in between. But don't try and tell me that the human race today are any less inclined to want to ensure the 'survival of the species' that at any other time in our existence. As far as I'm aware, the human race can't survive in isolation from the very thing that keeps us alive: planet earth and the atmosphere.
If that's the truth, then what's with the government and the media?
It's just that the idea of 'planetary disaster' and the need to 'save the planet' seems to be missing the (very obvious) point. It's not only factually inaccurate, as far as I can tell, it's actually the greatest fallacy of modern times. And if that ain''t enough, the messages are largely falling on deaf ears and closed minds anyway.
Ultimately I'm an optimist (actually I'm more of a hopeful idealist) and I've lived long enough to have started to learn that nobody really knows much about anything at all - including, or especially, what will or won't happen in the future. But that's not my point. My point is: assuming the worst case scenario, who is actually facing disaster and therefore needing saved, the planet or the people on the planet?
I'm not a betting man, merely an occasional and amateur flutterer, but my money would be on planet earth to be around longer than the human race. As far as I can tell, the worst we can do is damage the planet up to the point where it is at least in danger of no longer being able to sustain human life. If or when that were to happen, commonsense, rather than scientific theory, tells me that it would then be the human race that was facing 'disaster' and not the planet.
Call me a naive old hippy. Tell me we're the human 'race', and the race may be about to end. Tell me anything in between. But don't try and tell me that the human race today are any less inclined to want to ensure the 'survival of the species' that at any other time in our existence. As far as I'm aware, the human race can't survive in isolation from the very thing that keeps us alive: planet earth and the atmosphere.
If that's the truth, then what's with the government and the media?
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Meaning In The Message
I was sitting in a train station last week, minding my own business while waiting for a train.
There were two young teenage girls sitting across from me and an elderly man sitting two seats away from me. After a couple of minutes the two girls walked passed myself and the older man. As soon as they had passed, the man lent into my space and said, "Young girls today are asking for trouble, aren't they?"
In the second or two it took to turn and face this accuser I thought to myself, "No, why would he say that and what sort of sick bastard is he?" As I looked into his eyes, ready for a confrontation, he struck me as being a very gentle, caring person. I adjusted my frown to a sympathetic smile and my planned response to a far more accommodating, "I guess you could think that."
I hoped he would leave it at that, but he leaned back into my space, touched my arm and said, "I was accused of rape three years ago, you know." My shackles were back up. I decided I had been duped and the man must be bad news. Two questions came to mind: why had he chosen to engage with me on this topic and what was I going to do? I looked at him again. Again he looked kind and gentle, nonthreatening. "What happened?" I asked, drawing myself in.
"I was driving to Truro and a young girl stopped me and asked for a lift. I didn't see the harm in it, but next day the police were at my door because the girl had reported me for rape." As he recounted the story he didn't seem bitter or angry, sad if anything. I really felt he was a decent human being, but his opening gambit, aimed at two innocuous enough young girls, and now this revelation had me concerned that he was using me to offload his guilt on.
Even though I was expecting some sort of story of how the girl he gave a lift to was wearing a short skirt and low cut top so was practically gagging for it, I couldn't help but ask again, "What happened?" I added, to try and avoid the expected unsavoury detail, "Did it go to court?"
The old guy looked at me, smiled a wry smile and said, "No. I'm DSO"
He must have known what I was going to say next, he had drawn me in fine style so far, and I didn't disappoint him. "What's DSO?"
"I was in the army, fought in the war. DSO. It's an army term."
"What does it mean?"
"Dick Shot Off. I don't mean to embarrass you, but that's what happened. I couldn't have raped that lass if I'd wanted to. I've not got the equipment; haven't had since I was 23, I'm 88 now."
I was reeling a bit. It was a lot to take in in less than a minute worth of conversation with a total stranger. Accused of rape at 85 years of age after doing a kindly deed, having your dick shot off at the age of 23 while fighting in WWII ... the ramifications were stretching my mind.
"That's terrible.", was the best I could offer. Feeling the need, as I always do, to fill the silence I followed it up with, "So I take it you never married or had a family?"
The little, 88 year old man sitting before me smiled wryly again, then said, "No, I had a wife and child before that happened." What compelled me I don't know, perhaps the way he said the word 'had', but I asked if they were still alive. You just couldn't make it up.
"No, son. They died during the war. Our house was bombed by the Germans. My wife and son were inside it at the time. I was never told; only found out when I went back home on leave."
I think I was starting to go into a bit of mild shock. "I'm so sorry. That must have been devastating. What did you do, how did you cope?", I asked while imaging how I'd feel if I lost my wife and daughter in circumstances like that: in any circumstances.
"It's alright son.", he calmly assured me, "It was a long time ago now. I went back to war to fight the Germans with ferocity, then ended up DSO. My parents looked after me for a long time, then I looked after them. Now it's just me."
People tell me I wear my heart of my sleeve, I think I wear it on my face. As I tried to take in what had happened to this man as a youngster, to comprehend how he had coped with it throughout his life, to imagine how broken I'd be, he must have seen the pain and anguish in my expression. He lent over again, squeezed my arm, smiled and said, "It's okay, son. Just make sure you have a good life." Then he got up and wandered off.
I sat for a good while after he'd gone: eyes bulging, head nodding, mind racing.
There were two young teenage girls sitting across from me and an elderly man sitting two seats away from me. After a couple of minutes the two girls walked passed myself and the older man. As soon as they had passed, the man lent into my space and said, "Young girls today are asking for trouble, aren't they?"
In the second or two it took to turn and face this accuser I thought to myself, "No, why would he say that and what sort of sick bastard is he?" As I looked into his eyes, ready for a confrontation, he struck me as being a very gentle, caring person. I adjusted my frown to a sympathetic smile and my planned response to a far more accommodating, "I guess you could think that."
I hoped he would leave it at that, but he leaned back into my space, touched my arm and said, "I was accused of rape three years ago, you know." My shackles were back up. I decided I had been duped and the man must be bad news. Two questions came to mind: why had he chosen to engage with me on this topic and what was I going to do? I looked at him again. Again he looked kind and gentle, nonthreatening. "What happened?" I asked, drawing myself in.
"I was driving to Truro and a young girl stopped me and asked for a lift. I didn't see the harm in it, but next day the police were at my door because the girl had reported me for rape." As he recounted the story he didn't seem bitter or angry, sad if anything. I really felt he was a decent human being, but his opening gambit, aimed at two innocuous enough young girls, and now this revelation had me concerned that he was using me to offload his guilt on.
Even though I was expecting some sort of story of how the girl he gave a lift to was wearing a short skirt and low cut top so was practically gagging for it, I couldn't help but ask again, "What happened?" I added, to try and avoid the expected unsavoury detail, "Did it go to court?"
The old guy looked at me, smiled a wry smile and said, "No. I'm DSO"
He must have known what I was going to say next, he had drawn me in fine style so far, and I didn't disappoint him. "What's DSO?"
"I was in the army, fought in the war. DSO. It's an army term."
"What does it mean?"
"Dick Shot Off. I don't mean to embarrass you, but that's what happened. I couldn't have raped that lass if I'd wanted to. I've not got the equipment; haven't had since I was 23, I'm 88 now."
I was reeling a bit. It was a lot to take in in less than a minute worth of conversation with a total stranger. Accused of rape at 85 years of age after doing a kindly deed, having your dick shot off at the age of 23 while fighting in WWII ... the ramifications were stretching my mind.
"That's terrible.", was the best I could offer. Feeling the need, as I always do, to fill the silence I followed it up with, "So I take it you never married or had a family?"
The little, 88 year old man sitting before me smiled wryly again, then said, "No, I had a wife and child before that happened." What compelled me I don't know, perhaps the way he said the word 'had', but I asked if they were still alive. You just couldn't make it up.
"No, son. They died during the war. Our house was bombed by the Germans. My wife and son were inside it at the time. I was never told; only found out when I went back home on leave."
I think I was starting to go into a bit of mild shock. "I'm so sorry. That must have been devastating. What did you do, how did you cope?", I asked while imaging how I'd feel if I lost my wife and daughter in circumstances like that: in any circumstances.
"It's alright son.", he calmly assured me, "It was a long time ago now. I went back to war to fight the Germans with ferocity, then ended up DSO. My parents looked after me for a long time, then I looked after them. Now it's just me."
People tell me I wear my heart of my sleeve, I think I wear it on my face. As I tried to take in what had happened to this man as a youngster, to comprehend how he had coped with it throughout his life, to imagine how broken I'd be, he must have seen the pain and anguish in my expression. He lent over again, squeezed my arm, smiled and said, "It's okay, son. Just make sure you have a good life." Then he got up and wandered off.
I sat for a good while after he'd gone: eyes bulging, head nodding, mind racing.
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