Wednesday, May 31, 2017

On getting used to mass murder and suicide bombers

Leye - Every other Wednesday

Source


80 dead. 350 wounded. Kabul, Afghanistan. Today.

23 dead. 116 injured. Manchester, England. 22nd of May, 2017.

30 dead. 40 injured. Baghdad, Iraq. 30th of May, 2017.

In each of these cases, the count of dead includes the suicide bombers responsible for the mass murders.

These are just three out of thirty-one terrorist incidents in May of this year alone.

I was going to write about governance when Kabul flashed on my phone. I was going to rant on how strange it is that countries, populations of millions, choose or endure one human being to lead them. One ruler. One person with ultimate responsibility for everyone else. I was going to propose what I’ve coined, Agile Governance, and I was going to start my argument from my observation of how the Nigerian state continues to exist even the absence of the President. I wish him full recovery from his undisclosed ailment. He is in London getting treated for something that till today is being kept secret.

And of course, I was going to touch on Trump in my rant. He, more than any other leader, more than President Buhari of Nigeria whose ill health does not tarnish his good intentions as a ruler, he, Donald Trump, is the perfect reason for countries to rethink choosing one individual to rule over them all.

But Kabul flashed on my phone screen and I stopped.

I have become used to this. To numbers. Eighty. Twenty. Twelve. One hundred. To violent, needless loss of human lives reduced to digits. To suicide bombers. I have become numb.

I think of the dead each time, but my mind hardly bothers with the wounded - until they are dead in the news updates, then they shift sides in the statics and they too get from me a pause. A pause and no more. And I move on.

I continue with whatever it was that I was doing before; writing, eating, chilling, dreaming, howbeit with noticeable quietness, like a subconscious minute’s silence.

But not today.

Today I stopped.

Suddenly, my Trump rant didn’t seem as innocuous as I hope (and I take it for granted) my rants to be. Today I asked myself again, ‘What makes a person strap a bomb to their body?’

I have my theories, there are many, and there are many more that are not mine but that are sound and have merit in their arguments, but who can tell what’s on another person’s mind as they bury their child, bend torn-off branches to build a fence along where they suspect the mines are, watch their parents dragged off to be executed for not saying prayers to the right God, live through another air raid, strap a bomb suit to their body.

Who can tell what’s on my mind as I’m writing this? Who, expect me, can know my true motives? Who, even hearing my motives from my mouth, spoken truthfully and with every intention to be truthful, can be sure that I have been truthful first to myself before attempting to be truthful with them? Who can know the mind of another? No one.

So I do not wish to know the mind of the suicide bomber, because I cannot know his mind. Or her mind. But still I wonder, why? Why, despite the billions spent and the intelligence gathered, why has the War on Terror failed? Quite evidently it has failed, it is failing now, and from all indications, it will continue to fail. Why?

Next week in the UK we are going to have a general election. Jeremy Corbyn, the Labour leader, speaking after the Manchester attack, claimed that there is a link between “wars our government has supported or fought in other countries and terrorism here at home.”


I don’t know if he’s right, but I know I want to try something other than what we have always done. Something other than giving other people freedom by bombing them. I want to get ‘unused’ to numbers of dead and injured. I want to feel again.  And that is why I’m voting Labour.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Le Téléphone Redux



Cara--Tuesday

Cara remains this week incommunicado in Cuba...and so this post from the past on "ancient" communication abilities seems particularly appropriate. :)

In the early 90's Parisians were getting rid of le télépone comme ça.  France and Europe had jumped to cell technology faster because of their archaic land line system.
Much easier for them to grab on to the 'new' technology. Far faster than we did. I remember thinking how cool and special that was. How advanced.
One time in the Marais, a hairdresser, had come out of the coiffeur salon in Place du Marché Saint Catherine.
This was a warm afternoon, a time to sit in cafés in the square.
He had a cell phone to his ear, gesticulated with a cigarette in his hand during a conversation and sipped an espresso from a cup he'd set on the hood of parked car.
He was poetry in motion involved in a very intense phone call. In the middle of it, he'd gotten a call from another cell phone he had pulled from his pocket. Two cell phones! Was it his mistress? His wife?
He managed all of this; the two phone calls, smoking and sipping from his demitasse in pure acrobatic fashion.
This is Bernard Henri-Levy the rockstar philosopher, not the coiffeur but it reminded me of him and to give you an idea. Also, I remember he wore a white shirt, the buttons undone to almost his navel and gold chains. Marseilleise? Corsican coiffeur? But whatever he managed all this with a certain style, a panache, a je ne sais quo manner that I've never forgotten.
Especially when today on the street all one sees is robot-like behavior with people at that cell phone texting stance which brooks no human contact. In Asia they even have walking lanes
Ah, those were the days when cell phones were part of life, not life.

--Cara

Monday, May 29, 2017

Memorial Day Redux

Annamaria on Monday

I am in California doing a couple of book events and visiting friends.  It's lovely, but involves some long periods away from my computer, and many activities rarely so satisfying recently.  It is Memorial Day, and I am spending it in Inverness , hiking in the day time, and then cooking, eating, and drinking good wine, while we chat or play mildly competitive games in the evenings. it's delightful.  So rather than spend it toiling over my laptop, i am giving you here a former Memorial Day post of mine.  I would have written something similar anyway, and certainly would have included the very same film clip at the end.  If I the local internet connection allows, I'll be watching it with my buddies. I hope you are having a wonderful time, wherever you are.  


Today is Memorial Day in the USA.

I am thinking of World War Two, the war that shaped my young life, so my post today will be highly personal one.  Here are some images that tell of the people who fought, the people who worked and prayed on the home front, of one who did not come back and one who did.

Here is the data; the numbers are in MILLIONS:


Here is the moral of the story:




 Here are my personal remembrances:


My brother Andy and me, wearing hats that belonged to our uncles.

My most vivid memories are of saying our good-byes and of how tense my mother and my grandmother were for all those years.


A flag like this hung in the front window of the two-family house that my family shared with my grandparents.  Ours had five stars, for my dad and for four of my mother's brothers.  They were all blue until the last year of the war.


Our gold star was for my godfather John Pisacane, who served in Patton's army and then in a tank battalion under General Eisenhower.  He was killed during the push to Berlin.




I was lucky enough to get my daddy back.  Sam always felt to me like the guardian angel that he appears as in this post-war trip to the beach.  I'm the little girl on the right next to my brother Andy.

The other children are my cousins Jimmy, Joann, and Tony.

I longed for my daddy so much for the years while he was gone that images of returning soldiers still move me to tears.



Every year, on Memorial Day I watch this clip from the incredible TV documentary Victory at Sea.  If you don't see the link, PLEASE find it here YouTube: Victory at Sea Episode 26 Part 3--
Don't miss it.


I have to go now.  I am sobbing.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

The Unbearable Beauty of The Nakasendo

--Susan, every other Sunday

Last autumn, I walked a 7.5 kilometer stretch of the old Nakasendo - a 17th century travel road that once served as the primary northern travel route between Kyoto and Edo (now called Tokyo).

The Kiso Valley, as seen from the Nakasendo


Although my books are set in the 16th century, the section I walked is actually far older. Known as the Kisoji, this ancient travel road connected the mountain towns of Nagano and Gifu prefectures. (And thus, makes a perfect setting for one of my upcoming historical mysteries.)

Almost 8km, start to finish.

When the Tokugawa shoguns established designated travel roads (for monitoring and controlling commerce as they unified Japan), the Kisoji was absorbed into the Nakasendo (which follows its route exactly).

Before walking the road, I spent the night at Magomechaya, a minshuku (traditional guest house) in the preserved post town of Magome--once, the southernmost terminus of the Kisoji.

Magome in twilight.


After the day-trippers leave, the shopkeepers set lanterns along the street, turning the village into a magical place as the sun goes down.

Magomechaya, the minshuku where I stayed.

The following morning, I woke at dawn and followed the steep, winding road out of town and past the ancient notice board where Tokugawa shoguns posted edicts for travelers and townspeople along the Nakasendo:

You didn't want to see your name on this notice board.


Shortly after I set out, the sun appeared above the mountains, illuminating a lotus field:

Parts of the Nakasendo haven't changed much in 1000 years.


The road remains uneven, cobblestoned in places:

17th century cobblestones.


packed earth in others:

Silent, untouched, and breathtakingly beautiful.

It winds through mountains covered in towering pines and glorious maples:

More metaphors than you can shake a stick at.

And it hides a hidden danger ... bears.

Please have a thing out of the sound. Not a clue what that means,  but fortunately I survived.


Since medieval times, travelers on the Nakasendo have had to watch out for the bears that inhabit the mountains. Brass "bear bells" hang on stands at intervals along the road, with signs warning travelers to ring them hard "against bears."

"Ring the bell hard against bears."

I saw no bears to ring the bells against, which was probably good. The signs did not include instructions on how to make the bears stand still long enough for me to ring a bell against them, anyway.

About two-thirds of the way to Tsumago - the next town north of Magome, and my initial destination -- a road branches off, with a sign that reads "Otaki-Metaki Waterfalls." Never one to bypass an opportunity for adventure, I took the proverbial road less traveled by...

Not sure which one is Otaki & which is Metaki


The falls sit about 100 meters apart, and each is about 40' high.

It did, indeed, make all the difference.

Afterward, I retraced my steps to the Nakasendo and continued my journey, arriving in the preserved post town of Tsumago in time for lunch and a visit to the fantastic museums there.

Tsumago, Japan Alps.
But that's a story for another day.

Preserved inn and teahouse, Tsumago.

Although it's not as well-known as many historical sites in Japan, the Nakasendo is one of my favorite places in Japan. I loved every minute of my walk, even if its beauty was ...

... unbearable.

(Sorry, Jeff, I had to beat you to it.)







Saturday, May 27, 2017

Of Course You Can Go Home Again

Jeff—Saturday

Well, we’ve arrived on Mykonos. So much has changed. Or is it we have changed? Time may answer that. Or not.  But, no matter, the creative juices are flowing, and CNN is tucked away, lost in the white noise background of competing local craziness, not trumpeting breaking news inside my eyelids.  As I said, things have changed.

Everywhere. It’s palpable.

But I’m not going to talk about that this week. This is time for easing back into the old life, and what better way to do that than through a return to the sea, the source of all life.

So, here’s a photo essay taken on a spur-of-the-moment sunset run between the island’s new harbor in Tourlos and the old port in old town Mykonos.  Nothing fancy, just a quick jaunty cruise with friends in their “zodiac.”  It’s precisely these sorts of unscripted moments that remind me I’m home again.  And what else can one hope for than to be back among so many friends who are more like family—and allow me to play the crazy uncle. :)


We're off!
Entering the old port






Huddled masses

Our Captain's imitation of the Statue of Liberty, Greek Style
A few ships along the way



Dusk, and time to move on.



Until anon...

—Jeff