I have been visiting some American blogs lately. It has been an interesting experience, with an awfully rude awakening for me. My US cousins, who all have differing opinions on Iraq, tell me that a lot of Americans are ashamed of what their administration has done to Iraq. They also tell me some, including a couple of them, have exactly the opposite opinion.
I am usually a moderate blogger, don't make too much noise, and keep a low profile. I read a lot, but usually don't comment. But, in this instance, I will tell you exactly what I think.
The particular blogger I am referring to seems like a nice guy. http://iraqimojo.blogspot.com/.
I don't always agree with him, which is fair enough, it's his blog, and he has the right to say anything he wants. He is quite humble, which makes me appreciate his opinions all the more.
On the other hand, some (not all) of his commenters are the most arrogant, self opinionated, pompous puffed up little Peacocks I have come accross in blogger land.
They cannot stand criticism of the USA in Iraq, in any shape or form, and that is where arrogance comes into opinions. The arrogance does not do any favours for their cause, in fact it detracts from the validity of their statements.
A particular blogger also accused me of airing a Fake Video of Dog Abuse. That is being investigated, according to Pentagon News. Well, just for him this one is definitely not fake. There is also another little snippet at the bottom.
Low and behold, it's not just animals. At least the other soliders in the above video had the temerity to express their disgust at the shooter. In this one, they cheer when they kill a wounded Iraqi on the ground.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3yLLibNYhog&feature=related.
Soldiers in war are disgusting, which ever side they are on.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
More Torture Stories Leaking Out
I found this article, while roaming today. I was disturbed to see America is still up to these dirty tricks. After the world was made aware of David Hicks, the US was condemned for not only using 'soft torture', but avoiding her own Bill of Rights by using another country to implement the methods. I believe Cuba is one of several.
Despite US Efforts at Concealment, More Torture Stories Leaking Out.
http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=8358
(Sorry, my links aren't working)
While I realise that there are other countries out there that use similar methods, or worse, the US has set such high moral standards on other issues, you really don't think it is possible for them to do these things. They are 'better' than that. The question is, are they?
I also found the history of CIA Soft Torture, which makes for fascinating reading, but ugly dreams. http://www.slate.com/id/2130301
The Birth of Soft TortureCIA interrogation techniques—a history.By Rebecca LemovUpdated Wednesday, Nov. 16, 2005, at 5:07 PM ET
In 1949, Cardinal Jószef Mindszenty appeared before the world's cameras to mumble his confession to treasonous crimes against the Hungarian church and state. For resisting communism, the World War II hero had been subjected for 39 days to sleep deprivation and humiliation, alternating with long hours of interrogation, by Russian-trained Hungarian police. His staged confession riveted the Central Intelligence Agency, which theorized in a security memorandum that Soviet-trained experts were controlling Mindszenty by "some unknown force." If the Communists had interrogation weapons that were evidently more subtle and effective than brute physical torture, the CIA decided, then it needed such weapons, too.
Months later, the agency began a program to explore "avenues to the control of human behavior," as John Marks discusses in his book The Search for the Manchurian Candidate. During the next decade and a half, CIA experts honed the use of "chemical and biological materials capable of producing human behavioral and physiological changes" according to a retrospective CIA catalog written in 1963. And thus soft torture in the United States was born.
In short order, CIA experts attempted to induce Mindszenty-like effects. An interrogation team consisting of a psychiatrist, a lie-detector expert, and a hypnotist went to work using combinations of the depressant Sodium Amytal and certain stimulants. Tests on four suspected double agents in Tokyo in July 1950 and on 25 North Korean prisoners of war three months later yielded more noteworthy results. (Relevant CIA documents do not specify exactly what, but reports later claimed that the special interrogation teams could hold a subject in a "controlled state" for a long period.) Meanwhile, the CIA opened the door to pre-emptive psychosurgery: In a doctor's office in Washington, D.C., one unfortunate man, his name deleted from documents, was lobotomized against his will during an interrogation. By the mid-to-late 1950s, experiments using "black techniques," as the agency called them, moved to prisons, hospitals, and other field-testing sites with funding and encouragement from the CIA's Science and Technology Directorate*.
One of the most extreme 1950s experiments that the CIA sponsored was conducted at a McGill University hospital, where the world-renowned psychiatrist Dr. Ewen Cameron had been pioneering a technique he called "psychic driving." Dr. Cameron was widely considered the most able psychiatrist in Canada—his honors included the presidency of the World Psychiatric Association—and his patients were referred to him from all over. A disaffected housewife, a rebellious youth, a struggling starlet, and the wife of a Canadian member of Parliament were a few of the more than 100 patients who became uninformed, nonconsenting experimental subjects. Many were diagnosed as schizophrenic (a diagnosis since contested in many of the cases).
Cameron's goal was to wipe out the stable "self," eliminating deep-seated psychological problems in order to rebuild it. He grandiosely hoped to transform human existence by opening a new gateway to the understanding of consciousness. The CIA wanted to know what his experiments suggested about interrogating people with the help of sensory deprivation, environmental manipulation, and psychic disorientation.
Cameron's technique was to expose a patient to tape-recorded messages or sounds that were played back or repeated for long periods. The goal was a condition Cameron dubbed "penetration": The patient experienced an escalating state of distress that often caused him or her to reveal long-buried past experiences or disturbing events. At that point, the doctor would offer "healing" suggestions. Frequently, his patients didn't want to listen and would attack their analyst or try to leave the room. In the 1956 American Journal of Psychiatry, Cameron explained that he broke down their resistance by continually repeating his message using "pillow and ceiling microphones" and different voices; by imposing periods of prolonged sleep; and by giving patients drugs like Sodium Amytal, Desoxyn, and LSD-25, which "disorganized" thought patterns.
To further disorganize his patients, Cameron isolated them in a sensory deprivation chamber. In a dark room, a patient would sit in silence with his eyes covered with goggles, prevented "from touching his body—thus interfering with his self image." Finally "attempts were made to cut down on his expressive output"—he was restrained or bandaged so he could not scream. Cameron combined these tactics with extended periods of forced listening to taped messages for up to 20 hours per day, for 10 or 15 days at a stretch.
In 1958 and 1959, Cameron went further. With new CIA money behind him, he tried to completely "depattern" 53 patients by combining psychic driving with electroshock therapy and a long-term, drug-induced coma. At the most intensive stage of the treatment, many subjects were no longer able to perform even basic functions. They needed training to eat, use the toilet, or speak. Once the doctor allowed the drugs to wear off and ceased shock treatments, patients slowly relearned how to take care of themselves—and their pretreatment symptoms were said to have disappeared.
So had much of their personalities. Patients emerged from Cameron's ward walking differently, talking differently, acting differently. Wives were more docile, daughters less inclined to histrionics, sons better-behaved. Most had no memory of their treatment or of their previous lives. Sometimes, they forgot they had children. At first, they were grateful to their doctor for his help. Several Cameron patients, however, later said they had severe recurrences of their pretreatment problems and traumatic memories of the treatment itself and together sued the doctor as well as the U.S. and Canadian governments. Their case was quietly settled out of court.
By the late 1950s and early 1960s, CIA experts thought they understood the techniques necessary for "breaking" a person. Under a strict regime of behavioral conditioning, "the possibility of resistance over a very long period may be vanishingly small," several researchers concluded in an analysis used in the CIA's 1963 manual Counterintelligence Interrogation. At the agency, pressure increased to field-test coercive interrogation tools. The task, as CIA second-in-command Richard Helms urged, was to test the agency's techniques on "normal" people. At times, this imperative made the agency reckless. As part of the now notorious MK-ULTRA program—"one of the seamiest episodes in American intelligence," according to journalist Seymour Hersh—the CIA set up a safe house in San Francisco where its agents could observe the effects of various drug combinations on human behavior. They were in search of a "truth serum" and thought LSD might be it. Prostitutes were hired to bring unwitting johns back to the house, where the women slipped acid and other strong psychoactive substances into the men's drinks. From behind a one-way mirror, investigators watched, notebooks and martinis in hand. Sometimes the men took the drugs and managed to carry on. Sometimes they babbled or cried. An internal CIA review condemned these high jinks in 1963, but Congress didn't investigate them until 1977, after a post-Watergate crisis of confidence in the agency.
At least officially, the CIA ended its behavioral science program in the mid-1960s, before scientists and operatives achieved total control over a subject. "All experiments beyond a certain point always failed," an operative veteran of the program said, "because the subject jerked himself back for some reason or the subject got amnesiac or catatonic." In other words, you could create a vegetable or a zombie, but not a robot who would obey you against his will. Still, the CIA had gained reliable information about how to derange and disorient a person who was reluctant to cooperate. An enemy could quickly be made into a confused and desperate human being.
Since 9/11, as government documents and news reports have made clear, the CIA's experimental approach to coercive interrogation has been revived. Last week, as the Washington Post revealed the existence of secret CIA-run prisons—"black sites"—in Eastern Europe, Vice President Dick Cheney continued to campaign to ensure that the agency will not be prevented from using "cruel, inhumane, and degrading" methods to elicit intelligence from detainees. The operatives of the 1940s would approve.
Correction, Nov. 18, 2005: The article originally referred to the CIA's Technology and Science Directorate. The correct title is the Science and Technology Directorate.
Despite US Efforts at Concealment, More Torture Stories Leaking Out.
http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=8358
(Sorry, my links aren't working)
While I realise that there are other countries out there that use similar methods, or worse, the US has set such high moral standards on other issues, you really don't think it is possible for them to do these things. They are 'better' than that. The question is, are they?
I also found the history of CIA Soft Torture, which makes for fascinating reading, but ugly dreams. http://www.slate.com/id/2130301
The Birth of Soft TortureCIA interrogation techniques—a history.By Rebecca LemovUpdated Wednesday, Nov. 16, 2005, at 5:07 PM ET
In 1949, Cardinal Jószef Mindszenty appeared before the world's cameras to mumble his confession to treasonous crimes against the Hungarian church and state. For resisting communism, the World War II hero had been subjected for 39 days to sleep deprivation and humiliation, alternating with long hours of interrogation, by Russian-trained Hungarian police. His staged confession riveted the Central Intelligence Agency, which theorized in a security memorandum that Soviet-trained experts were controlling Mindszenty by "some unknown force." If the Communists had interrogation weapons that were evidently more subtle and effective than brute physical torture, the CIA decided, then it needed such weapons, too.
Months later, the agency began a program to explore "avenues to the control of human behavior," as John Marks discusses in his book The Search for the Manchurian Candidate. During the next decade and a half, CIA experts honed the use of "chemical and biological materials capable of producing human behavioral and physiological changes" according to a retrospective CIA catalog written in 1963. And thus soft torture in the United States was born.
In short order, CIA experts attempted to induce Mindszenty-like effects. An interrogation team consisting of a psychiatrist, a lie-detector expert, and a hypnotist went to work using combinations of the depressant Sodium Amytal and certain stimulants. Tests on four suspected double agents in Tokyo in July 1950 and on 25 North Korean prisoners of war three months later yielded more noteworthy results. (Relevant CIA documents do not specify exactly what, but reports later claimed that the special interrogation teams could hold a subject in a "controlled state" for a long period.) Meanwhile, the CIA opened the door to pre-emptive psychosurgery: In a doctor's office in Washington, D.C., one unfortunate man, his name deleted from documents, was lobotomized against his will during an interrogation. By the mid-to-late 1950s, experiments using "black techniques," as the agency called them, moved to prisons, hospitals, and other field-testing sites with funding and encouragement from the CIA's Science and Technology Directorate*.
One of the most extreme 1950s experiments that the CIA sponsored was conducted at a McGill University hospital, where the world-renowned psychiatrist Dr. Ewen Cameron had been pioneering a technique he called "psychic driving." Dr. Cameron was widely considered the most able psychiatrist in Canada—his honors included the presidency of the World Psychiatric Association—and his patients were referred to him from all over. A disaffected housewife, a rebellious youth, a struggling starlet, and the wife of a Canadian member of Parliament were a few of the more than 100 patients who became uninformed, nonconsenting experimental subjects. Many were diagnosed as schizophrenic (a diagnosis since contested in many of the cases).
Cameron's goal was to wipe out the stable "self," eliminating deep-seated psychological problems in order to rebuild it. He grandiosely hoped to transform human existence by opening a new gateway to the understanding of consciousness. The CIA wanted to know what his experiments suggested about interrogating people with the help of sensory deprivation, environmental manipulation, and psychic disorientation.
Cameron's technique was to expose a patient to tape-recorded messages or sounds that were played back or repeated for long periods. The goal was a condition Cameron dubbed "penetration": The patient experienced an escalating state of distress that often caused him or her to reveal long-buried past experiences or disturbing events. At that point, the doctor would offer "healing" suggestions. Frequently, his patients didn't want to listen and would attack their analyst or try to leave the room. In the 1956 American Journal of Psychiatry, Cameron explained that he broke down their resistance by continually repeating his message using "pillow and ceiling microphones" and different voices; by imposing periods of prolonged sleep; and by giving patients drugs like Sodium Amytal, Desoxyn, and LSD-25, which "disorganized" thought patterns.
To further disorganize his patients, Cameron isolated them in a sensory deprivation chamber. In a dark room, a patient would sit in silence with his eyes covered with goggles, prevented "from touching his body—thus interfering with his self image." Finally "attempts were made to cut down on his expressive output"—he was restrained or bandaged so he could not scream. Cameron combined these tactics with extended periods of forced listening to taped messages for up to 20 hours per day, for 10 or 15 days at a stretch.
In 1958 and 1959, Cameron went further. With new CIA money behind him, he tried to completely "depattern" 53 patients by combining psychic driving with electroshock therapy and a long-term, drug-induced coma. At the most intensive stage of the treatment, many subjects were no longer able to perform even basic functions. They needed training to eat, use the toilet, or speak. Once the doctor allowed the drugs to wear off and ceased shock treatments, patients slowly relearned how to take care of themselves—and their pretreatment symptoms were said to have disappeared.
So had much of their personalities. Patients emerged from Cameron's ward walking differently, talking differently, acting differently. Wives were more docile, daughters less inclined to histrionics, sons better-behaved. Most had no memory of their treatment or of their previous lives. Sometimes, they forgot they had children. At first, they were grateful to their doctor for his help. Several Cameron patients, however, later said they had severe recurrences of their pretreatment problems and traumatic memories of the treatment itself and together sued the doctor as well as the U.S. and Canadian governments. Their case was quietly settled out of court.
By the late 1950s and early 1960s, CIA experts thought they understood the techniques necessary for "breaking" a person. Under a strict regime of behavioral conditioning, "the possibility of resistance over a very long period may be vanishingly small," several researchers concluded in an analysis used in the CIA's 1963 manual Counterintelligence Interrogation. At the agency, pressure increased to field-test coercive interrogation tools. The task, as CIA second-in-command Richard Helms urged, was to test the agency's techniques on "normal" people. At times, this imperative made the agency reckless. As part of the now notorious MK-ULTRA program—"one of the seamiest episodes in American intelligence," according to journalist Seymour Hersh—the CIA set up a safe house in San Francisco where its agents could observe the effects of various drug combinations on human behavior. They were in search of a "truth serum" and thought LSD might be it. Prostitutes were hired to bring unwitting johns back to the house, where the women slipped acid and other strong psychoactive substances into the men's drinks. From behind a one-way mirror, investigators watched, notebooks and martinis in hand. Sometimes the men took the drugs and managed to carry on. Sometimes they babbled or cried. An internal CIA review condemned these high jinks in 1963, but Congress didn't investigate them until 1977, after a post-Watergate crisis of confidence in the agency.
At least officially, the CIA ended its behavioral science program in the mid-1960s, before scientists and operatives achieved total control over a subject. "All experiments beyond a certain point always failed," an operative veteran of the program said, "because the subject jerked himself back for some reason or the subject got amnesiac or catatonic." In other words, you could create a vegetable or a zombie, but not a robot who would obey you against his will. Still, the CIA had gained reliable information about how to derange and disorient a person who was reluctant to cooperate. An enemy could quickly be made into a confused and desperate human being.
Since 9/11, as government documents and news reports have made clear, the CIA's experimental approach to coercive interrogation has been revived. Last week, as the Washington Post revealed the existence of secret CIA-run prisons—"black sites"—in Eastern Europe, Vice President Dick Cheney continued to campaign to ensure that the agency will not be prevented from using "cruel, inhumane, and degrading" methods to elicit intelligence from detainees. The operatives of the 1940s would approve.
Correction, Nov. 18, 2005: The article originally referred to the CIA's Technology and Science Directorate. The correct title is the Science and Technology Directorate.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
What Have I Done?
I can't believe I resigned from my job, that I actually went through with it.
The Boss is really the Big Boss, the Manager is below him, and the Boss's brother is Hitler in disguise, because he is the boss's brother, and abuses his position. I also work a full 6 day week which is really draining.
I must admit, I had planned to leave last year, in early October, but a few weeks later decided not to go through with it. Departing from my money source was making me uneasy. I had spoken to the Boss in September about the hours being too long and having too many "Chief's". He told me to sort it out, and left me to it. In the meantime, he went on holidays. Hitler gave me an absolute blast about a perceived wrongdoing. He was yelling so close and loud, his spit was landing in my face. He would not let me speak a word, everytime I tried, he yelled louder. If he had bothered to ask me, I could have given him a very simple explanation.
I had been due for leave in November, but the Boss cancelled it because of low staffing levels. I just didn't want to hear it, you know how it is when you need time off. Being close to breaking point is uncomfortable, especially when it is stretched out and out.
Two days before I was due to go, I had a heap of stuff to do, unfortunatly I am the only one who knows how to do it. My bit involves a government dept. user id and password. I was feeling quite ill, which is unusual for me. I had eaten Beef in Black Bean Sauce for dinner the previous night, maybe that was the cause, or possibly just stress.
I am really a conscientious employee, and don't take sickies often, but this day I should have stayed home. I had the Boss yelling in one ear to do something, and then when he was out of sight, the Manager would tell me to do something completely different. I am really intimidated when men yell at me, just can't help it.
By this time I was close to tears and decided to have a coffee and smoke. When I had calmed down a little, I went back upstairs. The Manager had another go at me, and I really don't know what came over me in those few seconds in time. I threw the cup of coffee and it smashed on the wall, grabbed my bag and keys and left. I retreated to the park around the corner, where I spent the next couple of hours in tears.
When I got myself back together, and being a loyal employee, I went back to work.. I was obviously looking upset, red eyes etc. Low and behold, the Manager had another go at me. That was it, I lost the plot and wrote a letter of resignation stating: I hereby resign from my position as xxxx, effective 1 month from today, due to bullying and harrassment in the workplace, and non negotiable working hours, as dscussed with you in September 2007. I signed it and walked out.
My husband works shift, so when I arrived home he was pretty surprised. I told him I had resigned, and went to bed, with a bucket in hand, just in case.
My phone kept ringing, so I turned it off. In the evening, the home phone rang, and I didn't answer that either, but my other half did. I could have killed him (not really killed), I didn't want to speak to the Boss, but I did. I told him everything, and guess what he said? "I don't know anything about it, I thought everything was fine and you had sorted it out". What do you think about it? Is he Deaf, blind or stupid, or all three? A case of "Ostrich", burying his head in the sand, and ignoring everything.
He got such a shock, he sent me on leave at the end of the following day. No-one said boo to me, which was pure bliss, and I was able to complete the balace of paperwork.
If I was employed in a larger work place, I may have taken it further. That was my thought at the time, but after a lot of soul searching, I realised the experience would be extremely traumatic. I had had enough of that already.
The Boss has rung me a couple of times during my leave, to see how I am going, and also asked me to come in and see him. Guess What? "I am short staffed, can you fill in from the 25/3 until the end of April?" I said yes, I guess that's loyalty again.
The Boss is really the Big Boss, the Manager is below him, and the Boss's brother is Hitler in disguise, because he is the boss's brother, and abuses his position. I also work a full 6 day week which is really draining.
I must admit, I had planned to leave last year, in early October, but a few weeks later decided not to go through with it. Departing from my money source was making me uneasy. I had spoken to the Boss in September about the hours being too long and having too many "Chief's". He told me to sort it out, and left me to it. In the meantime, he went on holidays. Hitler gave me an absolute blast about a perceived wrongdoing. He was yelling so close and loud, his spit was landing in my face. He would not let me speak a word, everytime I tried, he yelled louder. If he had bothered to ask me, I could have given him a very simple explanation.
I had been due for leave in November, but the Boss cancelled it because of low staffing levels. I just didn't want to hear it, you know how it is when you need time off. Being close to breaking point is uncomfortable, especially when it is stretched out and out.
Two days before I was due to go, I had a heap of stuff to do, unfortunatly I am the only one who knows how to do it. My bit involves a government dept. user id and password. I was feeling quite ill, which is unusual for me. I had eaten Beef in Black Bean Sauce for dinner the previous night, maybe that was the cause, or possibly just stress.
I am really a conscientious employee, and don't take sickies often, but this day I should have stayed home. I had the Boss yelling in one ear to do something, and then when he was out of sight, the Manager would tell me to do something completely different. I am really intimidated when men yell at me, just can't help it.
By this time I was close to tears and decided to have a coffee and smoke. When I had calmed down a little, I went back upstairs. The Manager had another go at me, and I really don't know what came over me in those few seconds in time. I threw the cup of coffee and it smashed on the wall, grabbed my bag and keys and left. I retreated to the park around the corner, where I spent the next couple of hours in tears.
When I got myself back together, and being a loyal employee, I went back to work.. I was obviously looking upset, red eyes etc. Low and behold, the Manager had another go at me. That was it, I lost the plot and wrote a letter of resignation stating: I hereby resign from my position as xxxx, effective 1 month from today, due to bullying and harrassment in the workplace, and non negotiable working hours, as dscussed with you in September 2007. I signed it and walked out.
My husband works shift, so when I arrived home he was pretty surprised. I told him I had resigned, and went to bed, with a bucket in hand, just in case.
My phone kept ringing, so I turned it off. In the evening, the home phone rang, and I didn't answer that either, but my other half did. I could have killed him (not really killed), I didn't want to speak to the Boss, but I did. I told him everything, and guess what he said? "I don't know anything about it, I thought everything was fine and you had sorted it out". What do you think about it? Is he Deaf, blind or stupid, or all three? A case of "Ostrich", burying his head in the sand, and ignoring everything.
He got such a shock, he sent me on leave at the end of the following day. No-one said boo to me, which was pure bliss, and I was able to complete the balace of paperwork.
If I was employed in a larger work place, I may have taken it further. That was my thought at the time, but after a lot of soul searching, I realised the experience would be extremely traumatic. I had had enough of that already.
The Boss has rung me a couple of times during my leave, to see how I am going, and also asked me to come in and see him. Guess What? "I am short staffed, can you fill in from the 25/3 until the end of April?" I said yes, I guess that's loyalty again.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Grand Prix Weekend
What an interesting few days we had.
It's just about the end of 4 weeks Rec. Leave. We have had a great time, mostly in our own back yard (Victoria).
We decided to drive to Melbourne last Saturday, after spending a few days in the City last week, there was way too much to see and do in such a short stay.
We went to the Eureka Skydeck, 88 stories high. Because it is Grand Prix weekend, we were treated to an awesome display from the Airforce F/A 18 jets. At 88 stories high, let me tell you, the view was truly amazing. The jets noise output is absolutely phenomenal.
http://www.eurekaskydeck.com.au/cool-tower-facts.asp
We also visited the Art Gallery, one particular exhibition by an Asain photographer, whose name I don't remember. I don't think we are the arty types. While everyone was deadly serious, we were trying to stop laughing. It was a series of photo's on nude men, just backsides with private parts extending, here and there.
They were all talking about 'light and shade', and other expressions of artiness. I honestly couldn't see the point. Anyway, I was disappointed in the exhibition, we must have stayed a whole 2 minutes.
We moved on to the Middle Eastern Artifacts, and then I got angry. Little typed up cards saying "This was removed from the tomb of "whoever", and that was the seal of "so and so". I had to leave, although I was terribly interested. How dare they take someone else's heritage?
Sunday we did a day hike in the Mountains, with backpacks. Round 20k's or so. We met up with two snakes, a Red Bellied Black on one side of the hill, and a King Brown on the other. It was so hot, and they were sluggish. Lucky for us! We just rattled stones around until they moved out of our way.
It has been so hot over the last few days, into the evening as well. Usually at this time of year, the evenings are cool. Can't wait for winter and cool crisp days, with bright moonlight at night.
It's just about the end of 4 weeks Rec. Leave. We have had a great time, mostly in our own back yard (Victoria).
We decided to drive to Melbourne last Saturday, after spending a few days in the City last week, there was way too much to see and do in such a short stay.
We went to the Eureka Skydeck, 88 stories high. Because it is Grand Prix weekend, we were treated to an awesome display from the Airforce F/A 18 jets. At 88 stories high, let me tell you, the view was truly amazing. The jets noise output is absolutely phenomenal.
http://www.eurekaskydeck.com.au/cool-tower-facts.asp
We also visited the Art Gallery, one particular exhibition by an Asain photographer, whose name I don't remember. I don't think we are the arty types. While everyone was deadly serious, we were trying to stop laughing. It was a series of photo's on nude men, just backsides with private parts extending, here and there.
They were all talking about 'light and shade', and other expressions of artiness. I honestly couldn't see the point. Anyway, I was disappointed in the exhibition, we must have stayed a whole 2 minutes.
We moved on to the Middle Eastern Artifacts, and then I got angry. Little typed up cards saying "This was removed from the tomb of "whoever", and that was the seal of "so and so". I had to leave, although I was terribly interested. How dare they take someone else's heritage?
Sunday we did a day hike in the Mountains, with backpacks. Round 20k's or so. We met up with two snakes, a Red Bellied Black on one side of the hill, and a King Brown on the other. It was so hot, and they were sluggish. Lucky for us! We just rattled stones around until they moved out of our way.
It has been so hot over the last few days, into the evening as well. Usually at this time of year, the evenings are cool. Can't wait for winter and cool crisp days, with bright moonlight at night.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Stateless
I arrived in Australia at 8 months of age, on my Mum's British Passport, have never left the country, and have never considered myself to be anything other than an Aussie. Imagine my shock when I found out I wasn't one!
I am apparently stateless, and cannot get a passport. To gain citizenship here, I have to have a Permanent Resident’s Visa, which I don't have. To gain a Permanent Resident's Visa, I have to provide my Passport, which I have never had.
I thought I'd try the British Consulate, and get a Passport that way, so I am able to gain Citizenship here. I can't do that either, my Birth Certificate means nothing unless I can provide my parents certified British Marriage Certificate. No can do! They were married in Iran, Dad was working as an Engineer for Anglo Iranian Petroleum and my Mum an English Interpreter. I'm pretty sure England would not have a copy of an Iranian Wedding Certificate. I was going to ring them, but baulked at paying $1.10 per minute to listen to an automated voice and $2.65 per minute to speak to a human.
My Dad died here, I have been married, divorced and re-married, had 4 children, buried one of them, received Family Allowance for all of them, had a Centrelink number, have held an Australian Driver’s Licence since I was 18, worked most of my life, have a mortgage, voted, and paid my taxes. During this time I have spent 9 years as a volunteer Foster Parent with Anglicare, received a Victorian award for services rendered to Foster Care, and been an instructor in Bellydance for the local Neighbourhood House.
According to Immigration, I do not exist, but I do have an appointment with them on the 24th of April, where I have the privilege of doing a Citizenship Test, and if I pass, will be able to state my case, but am not guaranteed anything. I am not entitled to vote, although I have done so since I was 18. I am not allowed to do Jury Duty, but have been called upon to do just that on several occasions. Legally, at this point if I were to apply for a Tax File Number, I could not do so, because I can’t provide my Passport.
A conundrum, I am not in Australia, but also cannot get out of her, neither am I British, even if I was born there, neither am I Iranian. I feel totally alienated that I don’t count for anything, that my life in Australia, or anywhere for that matter, may as well be nonexistent. .
I am apparently stateless, and cannot get a passport. To gain citizenship here, I have to have a Permanent Resident’s Visa, which I don't have. To gain a Permanent Resident's Visa, I have to provide my Passport, which I have never had.
I thought I'd try the British Consulate, and get a Passport that way, so I am able to gain Citizenship here. I can't do that either, my Birth Certificate means nothing unless I can provide my parents certified British Marriage Certificate. No can do! They were married in Iran, Dad was working as an Engineer for Anglo Iranian Petroleum and my Mum an English Interpreter. I'm pretty sure England would not have a copy of an Iranian Wedding Certificate. I was going to ring them, but baulked at paying $1.10 per minute to listen to an automated voice and $2.65 per minute to speak to a human.
My Dad died here, I have been married, divorced and re-married, had 4 children, buried one of them, received Family Allowance for all of them, had a Centrelink number, have held an Australian Driver’s Licence since I was 18, worked most of my life, have a mortgage, voted, and paid my taxes. During this time I have spent 9 years as a volunteer Foster Parent with Anglicare, received a Victorian award for services rendered to Foster Care, and been an instructor in Bellydance for the local Neighbourhood House.
According to Immigration, I do not exist, but I do have an appointment with them on the 24th of April, where I have the privilege of doing a Citizenship Test, and if I pass, will be able to state my case, but am not guaranteed anything. I am not entitled to vote, although I have done so since I was 18. I am not allowed to do Jury Duty, but have been called upon to do just that on several occasions. Legally, at this point if I were to apply for a Tax File Number, I could not do so, because I can’t provide my Passport.
A conundrum, I am not in Australia, but also cannot get out of her, neither am I British, even if I was born there, neither am I Iranian. I feel totally alienated that I don’t count for anything, that my life in Australia, or anywhere for that matter, may as well be nonexistent. .
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Bag in the Cupboard Part Three of Three
The bag in the cupboard has been there for years. I have never opened it. It taunts me every time I open the door.
I have scrutinised it for a long time, several years in fact. I have stared at it for hours on end. It sits there begging to be opened.
At first, I didn't want to put it in there. I wanted to hurl it away from me, but I couldn't. I tried, time and time again. It has a hold over me like nothing else ever has.
I hate that bag, but at the same time I love it, and touch in tenderly.
If I hold it tight, it makes me cry. Damn bag. Throw it away, my mind tells me. Keep it, my heart tells me.
Which one do I listen to?
I even know the contents of that bag, I have seen them before. Damn that bag and damn it again.
If I open the bag, the contents will tear me apart. If I do not open the bag, it remains there taunting me, teasing me.
She wore what is in that bag. I can't bear to look. I can't bear not to look
I have scrutinised it for a long time, several years in fact. I have stared at it for hours on end. It sits there begging to be opened.
At first, I didn't want to put it in there. I wanted to hurl it away from me, but I couldn't. I tried, time and time again. It has a hold over me like nothing else ever has.
I hate that bag, but at the same time I love it, and touch in tenderly.
If I hold it tight, it makes me cry. Damn bag. Throw it away, my mind tells me. Keep it, my heart tells me.
Which one do I listen to?
I even know the contents of that bag, I have seen them before. Damn that bag and damn it again.
If I open the bag, the contents will tear me apart. If I do not open the bag, it remains there taunting me, teasing me.
She wore what is in that bag. I can't bear to look. I can't bear not to look
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The Bag in the Cupboard. Part Two of Three.
The funeral arrangements were made by the Mother on auto pilot, she had no help. She planned the wake, complete with sandwiches, tea and coffee. The husband was no help, completely useless by being perpetually drunk.
The funeral was hard on the family. The viewing of the body distressing, the Grandmother collapsed and was taken to hospital. The dead girls favourite song was played, her older sister devasated. The husband, still drunk, thanked everyone sincerely for coming and sharing HIS grief. The Mother did not cry.
The Grandmother was put on a plane, to be consoled by family living in the USA. The Mother breathed a sigh of relief. The husband, still drunk, refused to return to his business, the couple became bankrupt. The Mother still did not cry.
The family moved to a neglected old farm, miles out of town, where they did odd jobs and lived rent free. The elder daughter was put on the school bus every day, and came home in tears every afternoon. The Mother investigated and found the dead girls favourite song was played frequently by the bus driver She spoke to the driver, he did not play the song on the bus again. The Mother still did not cry.
The Grandmother returned from overseas, only to remember the horror of the past. The Mother now had another member of the family to look after. She supported her family by propping them up mentally and physically, always with the veneer, a smiling face. The Mother still did not cry.
In time, she gained a reputation. They called her the Ice Maiden. She did not celebrate the anniversaries of the death, she did not place Memorial notices in Newspapers. She did not visit the Cemetary. She still did not cry.
Two or so years later, while visiting an area hundreds of kilometes away, the Mother saw an acquaintance from the small girls pre school days. The woman asked, "How is ****** and *****? The Mother stared in horror. She answered " ****** is well and ***** is dead", turned her back and walked away.
Some years later, the couple divorced. The Father still drunk, moved to another State. The Grandmother still griefstricken, pulled herself together and started to live life once more. The Sister fared a little better, until becoming a Mother herself.
And the Ice Maiden? With no-one to support and prop up, she had time to think. She suffered a nervous breakdown, gave up her job, and was housebound for two years.
To be continued.
The funeral was hard on the family. The viewing of the body distressing, the Grandmother collapsed and was taken to hospital. The dead girls favourite song was played, her older sister devasated. The husband, still drunk, thanked everyone sincerely for coming and sharing HIS grief. The Mother did not cry.
The Grandmother was put on a plane, to be consoled by family living in the USA. The Mother breathed a sigh of relief. The husband, still drunk, refused to return to his business, the couple became bankrupt. The Mother still did not cry.
The family moved to a neglected old farm, miles out of town, where they did odd jobs and lived rent free. The elder daughter was put on the school bus every day, and came home in tears every afternoon. The Mother investigated and found the dead girls favourite song was played frequently by the bus driver She spoke to the driver, he did not play the song on the bus again. The Mother still did not cry.
The Grandmother returned from overseas, only to remember the horror of the past. The Mother now had another member of the family to look after. She supported her family by propping them up mentally and physically, always with the veneer, a smiling face. The Mother still did not cry.
In time, she gained a reputation. They called her the Ice Maiden. She did not celebrate the anniversaries of the death, she did not place Memorial notices in Newspapers. She did not visit the Cemetary. She still did not cry.
Two or so years later, while visiting an area hundreds of kilometes away, the Mother saw an acquaintance from the small girls pre school days. The woman asked, "How is ****** and *****? The Mother stared in horror. She answered " ****** is well and ***** is dead", turned her back and walked away.
Some years later, the couple divorced. The Father still drunk, moved to another State. The Grandmother still griefstricken, pulled herself together and started to live life once more. The Sister fared a little better, until becoming a Mother herself.
And the Ice Maiden? With no-one to support and prop up, she had time to think. She suffered a nervous breakdown, gave up her job, and was housebound for two years.
To be continued.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The Bad in the Cupboard. Part 1 of Three.
Five children, aged between 7 and 10, playing, laughing, enjoying a day full of sunshine. Two live there, three are visitors.
One of the three comes accross a well, this is a cause of great excitement. He has never seen one before, and calls the others over. Between them they manage to lift the lid, and peer down into the gloom, unable to see the bottom. It is 120 feet deep.
One older boy gives one small girl a shove, she looses her balance and starts to fall. The girls sister, 2 years older, grabs frantically at her clothes, unable to gain purchase. Finally, she manages to hold on to a foot encased in a sneaker, her little sister dangling precariously over the edge. Both girls are screaming for help. The other children do not come to help, they stand mesmerised, staring. As if in slow motion, the shoe and the foot part company.
There is no initial splash, just a dull series of empty sounding thumps echoing, as the small girls body bounces from one side of the shaft to the other. Eventually, after what seems like many minutes, there is a loud thump, and a small splash. She has reached the bottom of the well, and the end of her young life.
A little after 2 hours, her body was recovered and bought to the surface, smashed to pieces like a broken porcelain doll. The skull in 3 pieces, with one beautiful eye completely missing.
The parents identify the body. It is an horrific sight. The father suffers complete nervous collapse, and has never spoken of the event since. The grandmother blames herself, as she was minding the two girls. She still cries every night. The sister's life is never the same again, she blames herself because she let her sister fall. The event will haunt her to the end of her days. The family are never able to live in the house again. The well was their water supply. The eye is still down there. The marriage dissolved under pressure.
Finally, we get to the mother. She was working that particular day, satisfying the craving for money, to support her Western lifestyle. She also blames herself, of course.
This event was I hope, done in the innocence that comes with childhood, in a land where there is no war.
It is bad enough a child dies, let alone being killed in war.
To be continued.
One of the three comes accross a well, this is a cause of great excitement. He has never seen one before, and calls the others over. Between them they manage to lift the lid, and peer down into the gloom, unable to see the bottom. It is 120 feet deep.
One older boy gives one small girl a shove, she looses her balance and starts to fall. The girls sister, 2 years older, grabs frantically at her clothes, unable to gain purchase. Finally, she manages to hold on to a foot encased in a sneaker, her little sister dangling precariously over the edge. Both girls are screaming for help. The other children do not come to help, they stand mesmerised, staring. As if in slow motion, the shoe and the foot part company.
There is no initial splash, just a dull series of empty sounding thumps echoing, as the small girls body bounces from one side of the shaft to the other. Eventually, after what seems like many minutes, there is a loud thump, and a small splash. She has reached the bottom of the well, and the end of her young life.
A little after 2 hours, her body was recovered and bought to the surface, smashed to pieces like a broken porcelain doll. The skull in 3 pieces, with one beautiful eye completely missing.
The parents identify the body. It is an horrific sight. The father suffers complete nervous collapse, and has never spoken of the event since. The grandmother blames herself, as she was minding the two girls. She still cries every night. The sister's life is never the same again, she blames herself because she let her sister fall. The event will haunt her to the end of her days. The family are never able to live in the house again. The well was their water supply. The eye is still down there. The marriage dissolved under pressure.
Finally, we get to the mother. She was working that particular day, satisfying the craving for money, to support her Western lifestyle. She also blames herself, of course.
This event was I hope, done in the innocence that comes with childhood, in a land where there is no war.
It is bad enough a child dies, let alone being killed in war.
To be continued.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Yesterday's Children
This is subject to copyright and written by my Mother, the book is Yesterday's Children by Elizabeth Yoel Campbell, and the 2nd edition is being released later this month. The book has been edited by Carolyn Karam-Barkley, who has done a brilliant job. http://wwwyesterdayschildrenbook.com/
"Although I am not quite 80 years old, I have yet experienced life as it must have been lived in the Middle Ages. For the first few years of my life I lived in a walled city with great iron studded gates and narrow cobblestoned streets, flanked by two storey high adobe walls. Small latticed windows pierced the walls at the highest level and strong solid doors, always locked, barred entrance to the stranger. What goes on behind those doors is impossible to tell. Is it a rich man's abode, light and airy inside, with priceless hand woven carpets, silk cushions, golden ornaments, perfumed lamps and bejewelled harem wives, or a poor man's home, a warren of dark rooms and darker passages, where maybe twenty families live, four, five, six to a room? No, no one can tell from the outside. For one does not want to attract the evil eye, nor the attention of the greedy and fierce tribesmen, who from time to time and without warning, descend on the hapless inhabitants of un-walled cities, to sack and pillage, then withdraw to their mountain tops, where no government troops dare to follow".
"Our town walls are as thick as they are high, and when all the visiting caravans bringing in their wares from far off places like Samarkand, Bukhara, Isfahan, Khoisan, Baghdad, Basra and places further to the East are safely in, the gates clang shut and afterwards only a special permit from the Governor, or knowledge of the password can let you in or out".
"Inside those thick walls are granaries and storage's for all the necessities of life to feed the inhabitants in times of siege or famine, and barracks for the soldiers who guard the walls twenty four hours a day, always on the lookout for trouble, inside or out".
"By sunset the caravans have arrived at their destinations in the great caravansaries to seek food, shelter and rest for the night, after their arduous day long journey from their previous night's shelter across the desert and the interminable mountains. They open out on to the great bazaars to give easy access to travelling merchants to barter or sell their goods, purchase local wares and make ready to set off with the caravan next morning".
"There are acres and acres of bazaars crisscrossing each other, covered and vaulted, the only daylight coming in from the skylights set 25 feet or more at the apex of the arches. To us children, the bazaars are an enchantment, a wonder filled Aladdin's cave, a visit there to be prayed for, to be dreamed about".
"Just before sunset, after the caravans are out of the way, the streets are swept clean and water from goatskins is sprinkled on the parched ground to cool and settle down the dust, in readiness for the call to evening prayer. I can still smell the fragrance of water on parched earth and the Petunias growing inside private gardens...and then, thin and sweet in the evening air, comes the lilting voice of the Muezzin from his high perch in the minaret towering over all other buildings".
"By now everybody is heading for home and wherever he is, on hearing the Muezzin's call "Lah, Lah el Inlah, Mohammad Rasul Allah" ( Allah is great and Mohammad is his messenger), a Muslim spreads his prayer rug, which he has carried with him all day, to answer the call to prayer several times during the day, turns towards Mecca and performs the rituals of his faith without embarrassment. The prayers over and the Muezzin now silent, he picks up his rug, shakes and folds it reverently and goes home to his waiting family".
"At our home, as in every other house, oil lamps are being lit now. Some are very beautiful, gold and ruby glass, others in poorer families are made of tin. In warm weather, most people have their evening meal and then sleep on the flat roofs of their houses, for the city is malarial and troublesome mosquitoes stay close to the ground, in the damp vegetation of the garden".
"Out in the street all is quiet now, gates locked and barred against the evils of the night. But on the roof tops all is light, alive with laughter and expectancy, for this is the time for the main meal of the day and the man of the house, having toiled all day, is eager for his dinner and time with his family. This is the time for fragrant pilaf, spiced yearling lamb, chilled sherbet and yoghurt and many delicious fruits of the land. The lamps and lanterns are alight, tablecloths laid, and dishes set out in readiness. The roofs have high parapets for safety and to guard privacy, but you know that people are on their rooftops all over town, because you hear laughter and whispering voices nearby, and see the reflected light from lanterns on parapet walls in all directions stretching in to infinity, or so it seems to me".
"It is quite dark now, the voices around us stilled in sleep. The servants have cleared the remnants of the meal and gone down to their own quarters somewhere in the depths of the house. Finally, we are sent off to bed to sleep under the stars, which is absolutely magical. The deep silence of the night descends and wraps us round in slumberous peace. For a while I lie awake on my back gazing at the stars in all their glory, so far, far away. But tonight they do not seem so far away. To me it seems that I could stretch out and pick one and keep it for my very own. I gaze and gaze, fighting off sleep, wondering if somewhere out there among those millions of worlds, there are other little girls who would like to be my friends and come down to play with me. As far as star gazing goes, I am a true daughter of those far off Assyrio-Babylonian forebears who first turned star-gazing into astrology and then into a science".
"Something wakes me up. Not a sound, (apart the perennial chatter of Sufi Chai, (the river) outside the city gates) light or whisper anywhere. I listen and listen and then-yes-it is the sound of donkey hooves on cobble stones down below. I run to the parapet and climb on to a chair. In the pitch dark I see a lantern bobbing up and down as it approaches and then just for a brief moment a man comes into my line of vision, running ahead of his master astride his donkey, to light the way. The master is a Mullah on a mission of mercy, perhaps to be at the bedside of a dying man. For no-one (except on illicit business) would be out at this time of night without a pass, or knowledge of the password. Papa, being a doctor, knows the password, which is changed every few days. The 'word' is passed on directly to Papa by the Governor himself, the two being close friends. Papa is at the Governor's compound almost every day, for there is always someone sick in his large household."
"As the Mullah's light is swallowed up by the night, I hear the Town Crier's voice approaching and every few metres he stops and calls out at the top of his voice 'It is now ...O'clock and all is well. Sleep well all of you true believers, for Allah is Great'. Then he too vanishes from sight. I still do not want to go back to bed for I am waiting for something special. Then I hear it, clippity clop, clippity clop, the sound of horses hooves of cobble stones and the chink of weapons on metal. They too come into view and by their lanterns I see they are armed to the teeth, fierce looking men - and they have to be. For this is the Night Watch and because of them we all sleep more soundly. They too vanish in the velvet darkness, the noise of their passage gradually diminished by the distance".
"There is a hush now and all the world is sleeping. The silence is so deep and eerie that I seem to hear dim, unintelligible fairy voices singing the songs of Arabian Nights Sirens and calling me from the stars above. Suddenly I am afraid and very lonely, I no longer like the night. Finally I find Mama and Papa's bed and climb in to be held in their arms and comforted, before being carried back to my own bed. I am happy now for the night holds no more terrors".
"The night is warm, the breeze has dropped and the poplar leaves which have been rustling all night as if singing a lullaby to the children of the land, are quiet too. All nature seems suspended, waiting for the rising of the sun and the renewed life it brings with it. That is good and I am happy, for I like playing in the sun".
Visit the website: http://wwwyesterdayschildrenbook.com/
"Although I am not quite 80 years old, I have yet experienced life as it must have been lived in the Middle Ages. For the first few years of my life I lived in a walled city with great iron studded gates and narrow cobblestoned streets, flanked by two storey high adobe walls. Small latticed windows pierced the walls at the highest level and strong solid doors, always locked, barred entrance to the stranger. What goes on behind those doors is impossible to tell. Is it a rich man's abode, light and airy inside, with priceless hand woven carpets, silk cushions, golden ornaments, perfumed lamps and bejewelled harem wives, or a poor man's home, a warren of dark rooms and darker passages, where maybe twenty families live, four, five, six to a room? No, no one can tell from the outside. For one does not want to attract the evil eye, nor the attention of the greedy and fierce tribesmen, who from time to time and without warning, descend on the hapless inhabitants of un-walled cities, to sack and pillage, then withdraw to their mountain tops, where no government troops dare to follow".
"Our town walls are as thick as they are high, and when all the visiting caravans bringing in their wares from far off places like Samarkand, Bukhara, Isfahan, Khoisan, Baghdad, Basra and places further to the East are safely in, the gates clang shut and afterwards only a special permit from the Governor, or knowledge of the password can let you in or out".
"Inside those thick walls are granaries and storage's for all the necessities of life to feed the inhabitants in times of siege or famine, and barracks for the soldiers who guard the walls twenty four hours a day, always on the lookout for trouble, inside or out".
"By sunset the caravans have arrived at their destinations in the great caravansaries to seek food, shelter and rest for the night, after their arduous day long journey from their previous night's shelter across the desert and the interminable mountains. They open out on to the great bazaars to give easy access to travelling merchants to barter or sell their goods, purchase local wares and make ready to set off with the caravan next morning".
"There are acres and acres of bazaars crisscrossing each other, covered and vaulted, the only daylight coming in from the skylights set 25 feet or more at the apex of the arches. To us children, the bazaars are an enchantment, a wonder filled Aladdin's cave, a visit there to be prayed for, to be dreamed about".
"Just before sunset, after the caravans are out of the way, the streets are swept clean and water from goatskins is sprinkled on the parched ground to cool and settle down the dust, in readiness for the call to evening prayer. I can still smell the fragrance of water on parched earth and the Petunias growing inside private gardens...and then, thin and sweet in the evening air, comes the lilting voice of the Muezzin from his high perch in the minaret towering over all other buildings".
"By now everybody is heading for home and wherever he is, on hearing the Muezzin's call "Lah, Lah el Inlah, Mohammad Rasul Allah" ( Allah is great and Mohammad is his messenger), a Muslim spreads his prayer rug, which he has carried with him all day, to answer the call to prayer several times during the day, turns towards Mecca and performs the rituals of his faith without embarrassment. The prayers over and the Muezzin now silent, he picks up his rug, shakes and folds it reverently and goes home to his waiting family".
"At our home, as in every other house, oil lamps are being lit now. Some are very beautiful, gold and ruby glass, others in poorer families are made of tin. In warm weather, most people have their evening meal and then sleep on the flat roofs of their houses, for the city is malarial and troublesome mosquitoes stay close to the ground, in the damp vegetation of the garden".
"Out in the street all is quiet now, gates locked and barred against the evils of the night. But on the roof tops all is light, alive with laughter and expectancy, for this is the time for the main meal of the day and the man of the house, having toiled all day, is eager for his dinner and time with his family. This is the time for fragrant pilaf, spiced yearling lamb, chilled sherbet and yoghurt and many delicious fruits of the land. The lamps and lanterns are alight, tablecloths laid, and dishes set out in readiness. The roofs have high parapets for safety and to guard privacy, but you know that people are on their rooftops all over town, because you hear laughter and whispering voices nearby, and see the reflected light from lanterns on parapet walls in all directions stretching in to infinity, or so it seems to me".
"It is quite dark now, the voices around us stilled in sleep. The servants have cleared the remnants of the meal and gone down to their own quarters somewhere in the depths of the house. Finally, we are sent off to bed to sleep under the stars, which is absolutely magical. The deep silence of the night descends and wraps us round in slumberous peace. For a while I lie awake on my back gazing at the stars in all their glory, so far, far away. But tonight they do not seem so far away. To me it seems that I could stretch out and pick one and keep it for my very own. I gaze and gaze, fighting off sleep, wondering if somewhere out there among those millions of worlds, there are other little girls who would like to be my friends and come down to play with me. As far as star gazing goes, I am a true daughter of those far off Assyrio-Babylonian forebears who first turned star-gazing into astrology and then into a science".
"Something wakes me up. Not a sound, (apart the perennial chatter of Sufi Chai, (the river) outside the city gates) light or whisper anywhere. I listen and listen and then-yes-it is the sound of donkey hooves on cobble stones down below. I run to the parapet and climb on to a chair. In the pitch dark I see a lantern bobbing up and down as it approaches and then just for a brief moment a man comes into my line of vision, running ahead of his master astride his donkey, to light the way. The master is a Mullah on a mission of mercy, perhaps to be at the bedside of a dying man. For no-one (except on illicit business) would be out at this time of night without a pass, or knowledge of the password. Papa, being a doctor, knows the password, which is changed every few days. The 'word' is passed on directly to Papa by the Governor himself, the two being close friends. Papa is at the Governor's compound almost every day, for there is always someone sick in his large household."
"As the Mullah's light is swallowed up by the night, I hear the Town Crier's voice approaching and every few metres he stops and calls out at the top of his voice 'It is now ...O'clock and all is well. Sleep well all of you true believers, for Allah is Great'. Then he too vanishes from sight. I still do not want to go back to bed for I am waiting for something special. Then I hear it, clippity clop, clippity clop, the sound of horses hooves of cobble stones and the chink of weapons on metal. They too come into view and by their lanterns I see they are armed to the teeth, fierce looking men - and they have to be. For this is the Night Watch and because of them we all sleep more soundly. They too vanish in the velvet darkness, the noise of their passage gradually diminished by the distance".
"There is a hush now and all the world is sleeping. The silence is so deep and eerie that I seem to hear dim, unintelligible fairy voices singing the songs of Arabian Nights Sirens and calling me from the stars above. Suddenly I am afraid and very lonely, I no longer like the night. Finally I find Mama and Papa's bed and climb in to be held in their arms and comforted, before being carried back to my own bed. I am happy now for the night holds no more terrors".
"The night is warm, the breeze has dropped and the poplar leaves which have been rustling all night as if singing a lullaby to the children of the land, are quiet too. All nature seems suspended, waiting for the rising of the sun and the renewed life it brings with it. That is good and I am happy, for I like playing in the sun".
Visit the website: http://wwwyesterdayschildrenbook.com/
Saturday, December 8, 2007
The Wings of Change
Something is not quite right in my small part of the world. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I am sure this is the right time for change. Change from the silly theme, back to my roots.
Middle Eastern and Scottish. A great mix, Middle Eastern passion versus the dour Scot. East meets West, intermingles and balances out, living together in harmony. The way it should be.
The air is heavy with the heat of Summer, the humidity high, and the blossoms fragrant. I feel sleepy, but there are things that disturb me greatly. I dream of my Mother's last days in Maragha, about 20 kilometers east of Lake Urmia. She and her brothers and sisters watched my Grandfather die tragically, whilst trying to defend them from the dreaded Coral Snake.
My very brave Grand Papa, the only Doctor for hundreds of miles. At one time kidnapped by Kurds to help their wounded, and then released and sent back to the walled city, only to be used on other occasions.
Grand Papa, a member of one of the 5 Assyrian clans of Baz, a leader is his own right. Grandmama, again Assyrian, from Armenia, named by Reza Shah as Ghozal (beautiful).
The story is very long, with political twists and turns.
A diary of times past, and well worth the telling.
Middle Eastern and Scottish. A great mix, Middle Eastern passion versus the dour Scot. East meets West, intermingles and balances out, living together in harmony. The way it should be.
The air is heavy with the heat of Summer, the humidity high, and the blossoms fragrant. I feel sleepy, but there are things that disturb me greatly. I dream of my Mother's last days in Maragha, about 20 kilometers east of Lake Urmia. She and her brothers and sisters watched my Grandfather die tragically, whilst trying to defend them from the dreaded Coral Snake.
My very brave Grand Papa, the only Doctor for hundreds of miles. At one time kidnapped by Kurds to help their wounded, and then released and sent back to the walled city, only to be used on other occasions.
Grand Papa, a member of one of the 5 Assyrian clans of Baz, a leader is his own right. Grandmama, again Assyrian, from Armenia, named by Reza Shah as Ghozal (beautiful).
The story is very long, with political twists and turns.
A diary of times past, and well worth the telling.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
The Spooky Room and Angel
I have been involved in Wicca for quite a long time now. My interest evolved quite slowly and very much to my surprise. In fact, it scared the living hell out of me.I was driving to a friends new home, and became very lost. Along the way I saw a property with a For Sale sign , the garden lush and overgrown. I felt an urgent need to see inside. Just as I was about to knock, the door opened, and before me was a woman with the most striking green eyes I had ever seen. She held my attention for quite some time. Before the day was out, I had bought myself a house. I felt such affinity to that place the moment I laid eyes on it.
It began about 2 weeks after we moved in. One of the girls contracted measles, I had put her in my bed for some needed peace and quiet. About half an hour later I went in to check on her, the room was freezing and the hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle. I could see the steam coming from my breath.
Let me explain. It was February, a late afternoon in Perth. The Freemantle Doctor had given us a miss that day and it was stinking hot, around 43 degree's. The house was double brick and had high vaulted ceilings, which helped it remain reasonably comfortable in the heat. There was no air conditioning.
I stepped in and out of the room several times, to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I called the others, on the pretext of visiting their daughter/sister. I wanted to see if there was any reaction from them. There was, "it's a bit chilly", " it's freezing in here", and "it's creepy". At this point I had not mentioned anything about "the room". There was even a reaction from my dog Becky, who loved to be on my bed. She refused to go in. She sat just back from door, hackles raised, growling.
That was the first time "it "happened.. My other half thought I had gone slightly loopy. When he was working away, I couldn't sleep in the bedroom. I slept with one of the kids, or on the couch. I bought extra blankets, I even had thermal pj's sent over from Victoria, and was still cold. No, definitely not joking, or crazy either.
The kids named it the "Spooky Room", except for the one who had measles. I found that very strange at the time. She explained later that she was burning up, and felt comfortable in "there".
Anyway, the rumor's ran rife within the school community. My bedroom gained quite a reputation. Some weeks later, there was a knock on my door. It was one of the Mum's from the school, we had seen each other before, but had not met as our kids were in different classes....so, she introduced herself to me, and said she had heard I had a problem with "The Spooky Room"
She went on to explain the previous owner was a member of the Wiccan community, and used the Ouija board every Friday night, quite successfully. I was dumbfounded, and just stared at her. I didn't believe in that rubbish. I must have appeared quite rude, she talked for about 10 minutes before I asked her in for coffee.
We did a lot of talking, over many weeks. The more she talked, the more interested I became. I researched a lot. I had no Internet at that time and the local library was quite outdated, although I did happen upon some copies of Grimoire's that were extremely interesting.
This story is by no means finished, I'll call it Installment No. 1.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Wings of Hope and Angels
For my blogger friend, who thinks this site is dark and a bit depressing. I hope this picture cheers you up, Pegasus is exquisite.Iraq is, at this point destroyed. Lives, livlihoods, sanity, are all gone. It is burnt and razed to the ground. There will never be another Iraq, as we knew it. This is a given, for her citizens. Millions of displaced Iraqi's are spread over the Middle East, most not welcome in their host countries. Hell, they're not even welcome in their own country, just ask the Americans, I'm sure they will tell you. A lot living in squalor, dying of disease, and lack of everything you or I would take as granted.
If perchance the US were to leave Iraqi's to fend for themselves it would possibly be called abandonment, by a lot of do-gooders. Really though, those who can have left the nest, leaving what's left to the vultures. You know, those Iranian, American Turkish, Kurdish, Israeli, Shia militias. Oops, forgot Blackwater and the other private contracters. Anyone else want to join in the militia group? Why not, the more the merrier.
The US is in debt to China, up to it's neck. Their rising mortgage crisis is damaging their credibility and their economy is shot to pieces. Bush and his war mongering mate, Cheney, have destroyed the strong economy of two countries, for a war that cannot be won. It makes you wonder how gullible the American voters are. Isn't is about time the citizens of that "fair" country got rid of their government, who have shown themselves to be corrupt to the very core.
It's about time we, Britain and Australia got off our backsides, and did something about this mess. That we helped cause it, is morally bankrupt, that we let our elected leaders join Bush is more than remiss, it is gross negligence.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Bush's Gift to Iraq & No Angels
The Gift
Copyright AL
The tears fall
As she lays dying
Screaming in pain
She follows us
On the path to death
Destruction
Darkness
We took her
Broke her
Tore her down
We broke her heart
Hatred fills her veins
She knows we did this
For oil and lies
Hating us for it
We have given her
Something to fight for
Her heart is filled with love
For killing
For hatred
Hatred for us
She is now
A place of pain
A place of death
A place of sorrow
Dying
Suffering
Torn and bleeding
She still strives to live
Copyright AL
The tears fall As she lays dying
Screaming in pain
She follows us
On the path to death
Destruction
Darkness
We took her
Broke her
Tore her down
We broke her heart
Hatred fills her veins
She knows we did this
For oil and lies
Hating us for it
We have given her
Something to fight for
Her heart is filled with love
For killing
For hatred
Hatred for us
She is now
A place of pain
A place of death
A place of sorrow
Dying
Suffering
Torn and bleeding
She still strives to live
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Christianity and the Angel of Death
Christians these days, do not associate themselves with being the cause of death and destruction. That is strange, given our history of invasion and colonisation. Here is a little example of Christian Terrorism, how very apt for this to turn up, via Layla, at this time.
http://uruknet.info/?p=m37419&s1=h1
It was us, was it not, that invaded the "Holy Land" first? What do I hear to that? No comment.
We have a long history of invasion, destruction, and death. We cannot see it. That was back then, right? Yes, but it is still happening now. No, I'm not talking about Iraq, amazing!
We are often reminded by the media and the USA, of the age old feud's in the Middle East, between Sunni and Shia, Palestinians and Jews, Turks and Kurds, the list goes on and on. "They are killing each other" Unfortunately, that is partly true. Do we ever associate the rivalry with current day events in the West? The answer is no, of course.
Now, a reminder. The Hell's Angels and the Gypsy Jokers, as an example, are tribes that are warring. The rival gangs we hear about in Western cities, are tribe's of a sort.
These people are raised as Christians, or at the very least, in the so called "civilized" West. These "civilized" people are killing each other with guns, knives, and whatever else they can lay their hands on. If one of them is killed, there is a revenge killing, or a savage brutal beating.
What would you call this? Gang warfare. In tribal terms, or even soldiers terms, it would be "looking out for your family", or "watching your mates back". An Americanism, "we blood, bro, you kill my blood, we kill your blood". This is all out war, yet no-one can see it. Why? Because it is part of everyday life. There are none so blind as those who cannot see.
What we refuse to see, is that this IS tribal, it IS war. Did I hear you say they don't blow each other up? Really?
Dare I mention Northern Ireland? Or are they all Muslims too?
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Angels Crying and Christian Terrorists
The following came out of a discussion on blogocrcy, the topic was of tortured kidnap victims and offering terrorists the ability to sit and talk of their grievances, over tea and cake. The hypothetical subject, a child has been kidnapped, by, who else, except those of the Muslim Faith. On the blog, no-one pointed out that Christians are just as capable of terrorism as any other religion. The terrorists were repeatedly referred to as Muslims.
The following, from a blogger:
Of course if she died yet could have been saved you could
always pray at her graveside & try to explain, “Sorry dear, I couldn’t save you on moral grounds.My response, based on real life:
At the time, I did try to explain that one to my Mother and Grandy, but they didn't take it very well, and were absolutely distraught. No-one could save anyone on moral grounds. The morality of the Americans had disappeared.
No-one could pray at the graveside, the cemetary, blown up by the Americans was unavailable for burials. Apart from that, the body bits didn't match, or were unaccessible due to miniscule sizes. Sort of like a jigsaw puzzle, with missing pieces. No coffins either, just cardboard boxes.
The US terrorists were offered tea and cake, to placate their thirst for bloodlust and torture, fuelled by self righteousness and outright lies. With the thrill of the kill fresh in their minds, they refused, and shot them one by one. The shootings continue to this day.
There are make believe scenarios and there are real one's. Some of you seem to be unable to decipher differing types of torture, and who applies it. You choose to ignore the fact that terrorism in Christianity exists.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Trapped Iraqi's, USA and Angel
Do you ever have the feeling that you are not seeing anything outside you own little world? That you are encapsulated, confined, and sheltered?This is what is happening to me. I feel guilty, I have been neglecting to take note of the human face of misery that is Iraq.
I haven't forgotten, it has just slipped by me. It's so easy to get enmeshed with small things in life, that seem to spiral out of control so that you can't see the wood for the trees. Today, I woke up, and the outrage has returned.
The every day punter is sick and tired of hearing about Iraq, I really believe they don't care. It has come down to an article here and there on the main news channels . Bits and pieces, just the insurgents killed "how ever many" today. The "how ever many" don't count, they are only Iraqi's, and no-one gives a damn.
An interesting article from ICH today http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,22471872-2,00.html. US snipers baiting Iraqi's. Just how low can the US Military go? Apparently all the way, USA. Utterly, totally disgusting. How can you NOT care, when it is done in your name?
The following quote is very interesting, being compared to Bushism's. There are many quote's from Bush that are nearly word for word with Hitler. Makes you wonder at the mentality of the man.
Through clever and constant application of propaganda, people can be made to see paradise as hell, and also the other way round, to consider the most wretched sort of life as paradise" : Adolf Hitler .
The following is from Bush:
In my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and
over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda. George W. Bush
Note the similarities between the two. Do you equate Bush with Hitler? The answer is no, you don't and the scary thing is, you should. This is what you have invited into our world, the leader of "freedom and democracy" is nothing more that a megalomaniac, just like Hitler was, and with the same type of views. One small difference though, Hitler hated Jews, and the US President loves them.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Angel's, Iraq, Nukes and Flying Bush's.
If trees could fly?There is an interesting article at ICH, today. As there is most days. But, this one is a little different, and so are the comments. Have a sticky beak at the article here: http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article18325.htm
Apparently there are some funny going's on at Barksdale Air Force Base. Tut, tut, does this mean the US is up to no good? Again?
According to one of the comments on this article, it is an extremely sophisticated process to arm a nuclear bomb. You don't just load the nukes, and then drop them. It doesn't happen this way.
If sophistication is the key, why was it so easy for the US to 'nuke' Japan, during WW11? It must have been more sophisticated then, seeing it was so simple? Right.
Really though, this is not what I wanted to write about. It is one of the comments, that has me thinking.
"The worst part about all this is that no one else in the world even cares what happens to the American people and who will come to our rescue? NO ONE"
Well, which of you cared for the lives of innocents when Iraq was bombed? You did? LIAR. Did you all stand, mouths open, when you watched Operation OIL's first hours? Were you crying at the time? You were? LIAR. You were cheering your soldiers on, while our people were being mutilated, and blown to pieces. You weren't? LIAR. You were yelling in triumph, US military kicking butt in Iraq, while our kids were dying in our arms and you didn't care! You did? LIAR.
And you continued to show your arrogance, by video taping all your disgusting carnage. You posted them on you tube, in the hundreds, you were so proud. You didn't? LIAR .You didn't vote for your President? LIAR. He did not get into office using thin air.
I don't care for your administration, your President with a capitol P, nor his 700 odd contingent that arrived in Australia with yet another "shock and awe" campaign. We were, by the way, truly grateful the '"shock and awe" was the exact opposite of Iraq's version. As it turned out, it was Australian comedians that shocked, making headlines, and also Bush's inability to remember where he was, and what he was here for . Austria and OPEC?
It's about time you got off your backsides, and did something about your embarrassing problem. Bush is your liability, your shackles and the noose around your neck. The reputation of America and her people are at an all time low.
DITCH YOUR PRESIDENT AND THE CURRENT ADMINISTRATION.
And for heavens sake, make your vote count, regain your reputation, if indeed it is possible..
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Angel , Demons , Four B's and X.
The demon in this instance, is Bush and the US administration. At least one of my B's, possibly two, voted Bush back into office.Just prior to the last US election, my Uncle B the first, sent me an email. Told me that if Al Gore was elected, he was going to leave the US in disgust and move to Aus. and to look for a property nearby for him.
I got the shock of my life. I could not believe he wanted Bush to serve a second term. Being a dutiful niece, I would never disrespect him by telling him I thought he was nuts. I did not send a return email.
I have another Uncle there, Uncle B the second. He also surprised me, not by voting for Bush, but by telling me the US was God's own country. He was bursting with the pride that we see in their military forces. I can remember, when I was much younger, being told by this B that the country X, was the land of milk and honey.
Then there is Aunt B, she is the third of my B's and is one classy lady. She is also in the US, but very covert in her thoughts. She sent me some pictures of Tabriz, where she and my mother were born, saying she would hate to see anything happen to that beautiful city. I figured there was a hidden meaning mixed in there.
None of them have said one word about Iraq. I can't believe they said nothing. Have they been struck deaf? Do they not read the paper, or watch the news? Or is it laundered, smoothed over so as not to invade their delicate senses?
Thank goodness for my Mother, who is distraught at the devastation wrought in Iraq. Mum has no trouble voicing her disgust regarding the USA, possibly because she does not live there. She has some very interesting stories to tell about CIA 'black' ops, misinformation, intervention, and the last Shah of Iran. I will save those stories for another time.
Who is the fourth B? That is Bush, and thank Ishtar he does not belong to my family of B's.
As for country X, there are branches of my family everywhere, with roots reaching into Iraq, Iran, Turkey, Armenia, Syria. They are all lands of milk and honey, according to each individual branch.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Slaying Angels
There have been other times in history where genocides have largely been ignored by the Christian West. This story has been told to me by my Assyrian Grandmother many times. God rest her Soul.Assyrian lands were hemmed in by ring after ring of Christian hating Kurds, who in the past had often made armed incursions into their lands. In spite of this and because of benefits to both sides, certain trade routes had remained open. Now, one by one, these routes were being barred. Outgoing goods never reached the markets. Incoming goods never reached their intended recipients, being either filched or confiscated. Tea, sugar, flour, kerosine for lanterns, and ammunition for self defence, or hunding of wild game, and for protection of their flocks from wild beasts. All gone.
Turks, the overlords had never seen eye to eye with the fractious Kurds, except in times of Jihad. This was a constant worry to the Assyrians. At this time the Turks and Kurds had a blossoming friendship, a joining ot the two, making very strange bedfellows indeed, all in the name of Jihad against the infidel Christians, even though these Christians were in their own land.
Thousands of rabble had taken up the cause against the Christians. The Turks and Kurds were well armed, the ring around the Christians was tightening slowly, with ululating voices chanting "Jihad, Jihad". The Assyrian lines grew thinner and thinner, until there were only mostly women and children left. A lot of them chose to jump over the side, and die, taking their children with them Those that did not jump, were disposed of when Turk and Kurd had no further use for them.
Around this time, a million and a half Armenian Christians were massacred in Turkey. When the lust for Christian blood and cooled down a little, thousands of mostly old men, women and children were driven like sheep into the harsh Anatolian desert and made to march without food or water, until they dropped from sheer exhaustion.
No apologies or acknowledgements have ever been made, by either Turk or Kurd regarding the Genocide of the Assyrians. No compensation has ever been made to the Assyrian clans for the green lands they had carved out with such care, from a once barren land.
All appeals to Western Powers have been ignored, as Turkey is a valued ally to the US, these days.
As for the Poor Kurds, 'victims' of the so called 'wicked' Saddam Hussein, they carried out yet another Assyrian massacre, this time with Arab help, wanting to finish off once and for all what their kin had failed to do in Turkey in WWI. When Justice and self interest come into the the equasion, we all know which side is the winner.
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