Well done, good and faithful servant

Sad news tonight from Brigid, whose beautiful black Labrador retriever Barkley shuffled off this mortal coil today.  He was more like a child to her than a pet in many ways, absolutely 'one of the family'.  Miss D. and I thoroughly enjoyed visiting with him during our trips to see Brigid and other friends in that part of the world (even if he did steal the underwear out of our suitcases at every conceivable opportunity, and defy us to chase him to get it back).

Very sorry to hear of your loss, Brigid.  I hope you and Barkley will be reunited one day at whatever waits for us on the other side of the river.  (If so, you'll probably find he took with him one of your slippers and a couple of pieces of underwear, to have them waiting for you!)

Peter

It's been 55 years since 'The Day The Music Died'

I missed an anniversary yesterday.  On February 3rd, 1959, a light aircraft crashed in Iowa killing musicians Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J. P. Richardson and the pilot, Roger Peterson.  The date became known in music legend as 'The Day The Music Died'.

Don McLean immortalized the event in his song 'American Pie'.  Here's the full version, set to a music video specially created for it in 1989.

I sometimes wonder whether pop and rock music would have evolved differently if they'd lived, and been able to influence it through the 1960's and 1970's.  Would the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and their ilk have made such an impact without the vacuum left by the death of these young men?

Peter

Send not to know for whom the bell tolls . . .

Death is a subject none of us particularly like to dwell upon.  It's the 'final destination' for all of us as far as this life is concerned, and means the end of all earthly hopes and dreams - although, if the Good Book is correct, there'll be something altogether different on the other side of that great divide.  Nevertheless, most of us avoid speaking of death.  It makes us uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, death is less scrupulous about avoiding us.  Over the past few days I've learned of the terminal illness of two people, one the spouse of a long-term online correspondent, the other a friend and fellow blogger.  Both learned of their condition too late to do anything effective about it.

The lady and her husband have decided that it's not worth putting her through the hell of chemotherapy and radiation, particularly when the doctors give her a poor prognosis even with that treatment.  She'll enjoy the remainder of her time with her husband and family and friends, aiming for quality rather than quantity of life.  I applaud her decision, and will be praying for her, her husband and all around them.

Miss D. and I spoke with our blogger friend today.  He's been given six months to a year before incurable cancer takes his life.  He's as cheery as possible under the circumstances, but he's still looking after his elderly mother.  I know the thought of leaving her care to others, who may not be as devoted as himself, must be weighing heavily on his mind.  I may take a trip out his way in due course, to lend a hand for a while.

(Miss D. is a wonderful example of how to cope with this sort of adversity.  She's lost all too many friends in Alaska to flying accidents - it's a far more common occupational hazard up there than it is in the Lower 48.  For that matter, only a few months after we'd got engaged I had a heart attack, followed by a quadruple bypass.  She promptly resigned from her job and flew down to help nurse me back to health, ignoring the disruption caused to her own life and career by doing so.  She knows my heart isn't in the greatest condition, and may kill me sooner rather than later - although I hope and pray to have many years with her - yet she continues to enjoy each day as it comes, refusing to dwell on the negative, focusing on the positive.  She's a real blessing to me.)

These double blows of bad news have reminded me, yet again, that we can take nothing for granted.  All we're given is now.  It's up to us to make the most of what we have right now, because it may not be here tomorrow - or, if it's still here, we may not be around to enjoy it.

• Tell those important to you that you love them.  Do it now, and keep on doing it.  Don't let them take it for granted . . . because when you're no longer able to tell them, you'll regret not having done so more often.
• Enjoy each and every day you're given.  Don't spend all your time looking down at the problems and difficulties and challenges you face, and being gloomy.  Look up at the sunshine, breathe deeply, give thanks for your life - even if it isn't a very good life by your standards.  At the very least, it's better than nothing!
• If you don't have any particular faith, be grateful to those who gave you life, and try to give something back to those around you to make them glad to be alive.  If you do have faith, give thanks to God for each day, seek forgiveness for all your faults and failings, and try to do better each day according to the standards revealed to us.  Again, the time may come when it's too late to plead for mercy.  Do so while you still can!
• Finally, be there for those facing the end.  Don't shun them, or back away as if they were radioactive or rabid.  Dying's hard enough at the best of times.  It's worse when we have to face it alone, without anyone to lean on.  Sure, we all die alone in the end;  but a comforting shoulder, an arm around us, and a warm, friendly kiss, help us to carry our burdens when they seem otherwise intolerable.  If we hope to receive those gifts in our hour of need, we'd better be giving them to others while we can . . . because 'what goes around, comes around' - or, if you prefer, see Luke 6:31.

John Donne put it well.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Word.

Peter

In Memoriam: Nelson Rohihlahla Mandela

The news of Nelson Mandela's death reached me this afternoon.  It was a sad moment for me, the ending of an era of South African history - and perhaps the harbinger of a much more difficult time ahead, now that his stabilizing influence as 'Father Of The Nation' has been removed.  The other leaders of his generation - Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu, Beyers Naudé and the like - have mostly died already.  The few of them who remain - of whom Archbishop Desmond Tutu is probably the best-known - will die soon.

There are those who persist in regarding Mr. Mandela as an unreconstructed Communist terrorist.  Some of them - I've seen their words online - are already lauding his death, speaking of having a drink to celebrate the occasion.  They are fools.  They are blind to facts and to reality.  Certainly he worked alongside Communists, and had constant involvement with Communists in running the African National Congress, its armed wing Umkhonto we Sizwe, and eventually the government of South Africa;  but he always denied that he was himself a Communist.  In my (well-informed) opinion, this is true.  As he stated in his 'Speech From The Dock' at the Rivonia Trial in 1964:

It is perhaps difficult for white South Africans, with an ingrained prejudice against communism, to understand why experienced African politicians so readily accept communists as their friends. But to us the reason is obvious. Theoretical differences amongst those fighting against oppression is a luxury we cannot afford at this stage. What is more, for many decades communists were the only political group in South Africa who were prepared to treat Africans as human beings and their equals; who were prepared to eat with us; talk with us, live with us, and work with us. They were the only political group which was prepared to work with the Africans for the attainment of political rights and a stake in society. Because of this, there are many Africans who, today, tend to equate freedom with communism. They are supported in this belief by a legislature which brands all exponents of democratic government and African freedom as communists and bans many of them (who are not communists) under the Suppression of Communism Act. Although I have never been a member of the Communist Party, I myself have been named under that pernicious Act because of the role I played in the Defiance Campaign. I have also been banned and imprisoned under that Act.

It is not only in internal politics that we count communists as amongst those who support our cause. In the international field, communist countries have always come to our aid. In the United Nations and other Councils of the world the communist bloc has supported the Afro-Asian struggle against colonialism and often seems to be more sympathetic to our plight than some of the Western powers. Although there is a universal condemnation of apartheid, the communist bloc speaks out against it with a louder voice than most of the white world. In these circumstances, it would take a brash young politician, such as I was in 1949, to proclaim that the Communists are our enemies.

There's much more at the link.  I strongly recommend that you click over there and read the whole thing.  It provides much more information about Communism in relation to the struggle of African peoples for independence and equality - a perspective that many in the West don't understand to this day.  I wish that association had never happened, because it produced untold misery for millions and killed countless thousands over the years . . . but let's be honest.  Communism was, for a long time, the only major political movement that was prepared to support African nationalism in its struggles.  The West sat back and made money out of its former colonies (including making multi-millionaires and even multi-billionaires out of the rulers of those former colonies with misallocated 'aid' money, not to mention outright bribes).  If the West had been prepared to live up to its principles of human rights and democracy in Africa, much of the damage done to that continent and its peoples by Communism would never have been possible.

Mr. Mandela was, in my opinion, a statesman - one of very few politicians who rise to that status.  His death removes one of the last restraining influences on more militant African nationalist politicians - and, yes, Communist-influenced politicians - who have been pressing for swifter and more ruthless redistribution of the country's wealth (such as it is).  I think the restraint they've shown in the face of Mr. Mandela's implacable opposition to such destructive tactics may now evaporate, and politics in South Africa may become much more radicalized.  I hope I'm wrong . . . but only time will tell.  One can only pray that his legacy of wisdom, restraint and pragmatism will endure.  Thank you to Quotespick for putting that legacy into this image.

May the soul of Nelson Rohihlahla Mandela rest in peace, and may his sins be forgiven him.

In the tradition of African praise singers, let him be remembered.  (Lyrics and translation here - scroll down to see them.)

Peter

EDITED TO ADD:  In response to some comments to this article, and some very misguided articles elsewhere on the Internet, I've written a second article to address the subject of Mr. Mandela's involvement with terrorism in greater detail.

Refugees: the triumph of desperation

I was moved to read an account of refugees trying to reach Australia aboard a rickety fishing-boat from Indonesia. The author, a reporter, goes into great detail about the motivation of the refugees, and how they're willing to grasp at almost any straw for the chance of a better life somewhere else. Even official pronouncements that they will never be allowed to resettle in Australia don't deter them, because they don't believe them. They dare not believe them, because if they did, they would no longer have any hope.

Americans, and most people in the First World, can't understand that sort of desperation.  I can. I've seen it all too often in Africa. Things can be so bad, so impoverished, so utterly hopeless, that flight or suicide are the only alternatives many people can see. They'll choose the first if they can . . . the second if it's the only other option. Continuing to live under the circumstances surrounding them is not something they're prepared to do. To illustrate, let me tell you just one man's story from my experience.

Omar was born in Ethiopia, and conscripted at the age of 15 into that country's army. He was sent to fight in Somalia by the Derg administration, which supported anti-government factions there, and was taken prisoner by Siad Barre government forces. He was brutally tortured, including being anally raped with a heated poker that left permanent scarring far up inside his lower digestive tract, then confined as a slave laborer for several years. During that time he married a female slave, and they had two children.

Somalia slowly collapsed into chaos and anarchy.  Being a (relatively) trained soldier, Omar was forcibly conscripted into three different militias. The first took him from his slave prison, separating him from his wife and children, whom he never saw again and never learned what happened to them. Twice in the next few years he was wounded and captured, then given a choice:  fight for his captors, or be shot.  Needless to say, he changed sides each time.

Omar finally managed to make his escape from Somalia, stealing enough gold and dollars from a trader to bribe his way north back to Ethiopia; but he found that his entire birth family had perished in the great famine of 1983-85. Their land had been expropriated for non-payment of taxes, and their animals and possessions were long gone. In desperation, he made his way to Eritrea by hitching rides on vehicles, stealing enough food to keep body and soul together, and taking whatever odd jobs were to be had. His most prized possessions were a folding-stock AKMS carbine that he'd acquired in Somalia, and its well-honed bayonet, sharpened so often on rocks and stones that more than half the width of its blade was worn away. (I asked him once how many men he'd killed with rifle and knife. Gesturing with the AKMS, he answered shortly, "About twenty", and then, with the knife, "Too many to count.")

I met him in Massawa, where he was working as an odd-job dock laborer, looking for a ship on which he could stow away to get to Egypt. (He planned to trade his rifle for passage if he had to - but not his bayonet.) From Egypt he planned to try to cross to Italy and enter the European Union. His reason? Local doctors and hospitals could do nothing for his long-standing internal injuries, which were slowly but surely getting worse, and would kill him within three to five years through adhesions in his lower digestive tract unless they were treated. He had heard that if you got to the EU, medical treatment was free.

That's just one example of refugee desperation from my experience.  I could have selected many others.  It's a state of mind that few people in the West understand, or with which they can empathize. To that end, I highly recommend reading the linked report. It's well worth your time to understand how bad some parts of the world really are - so bad that people will risk imprisonment or even death to get away.

Peter

A poignant musical backstory

I'm sure most of my readers will be familiar with Harry Chapin's folk rock classic 'Cat's In The Cradle'.  What I hadn't been aware of was the backstory to the song, as told by his widow and their son.  I came across this video clip today that provides both, and I thought you'd enjoy it as much as I did.

May we all take to heart the message of that song.

Peter

One nation, under too many gods, far too divided

I wasn't surprised to see a headline on the Drudge Report today: 'Poll Finds Vast Gaps in Basic Views on Gender, Race, Religion and Politics'. I won't bother to summarize the findings of the ABC News/Fusion poll, which you can read for yourself at the link.

What does surprise me is that the poll doesn't draw the obvious conclusions.  Most of the different views it finds surprising can be summarized in terms of six basic distinctions:

1. Rural versus urban;
2. Employed versus unemployed;
3. White/Oriental (i.e. Chinese, Japanese, etc.) versus other races (Black, Hispanic, etc.);
4. Older versus younger;
5. Religious/belief structure versus non-religious/humanist;
6. Constitutionalist versus who-the-hell-cares.

The people on the first side of each of those categories tend to hold more conservative and/or libertarian views than the last in each of them. Get someone who's on the same side of more than four out of six of them, and there's little doubt where they'll stand on just about anything!

We face a very awkward and difficult future, where the majority of those who bother to vote are now dependent on the 'nanny state' to run their lives and provide them with their daily bread. Take away the nanny state, make them provide for themselves, and most of them will probably go into meltdown. The working minority whose taxes support the dependent majority are getting more and more fed up with this situation.  Sooner or later, they'll have had enough . . . and then watch the sparks fly from those who consider themselves 'entitled' to the fruits of others' labor!

I see many parallels in US society today to the tribalism with which I was so familiar in Africa. That familiarity helped me to cope with prison gangs in the USA when I worked as a prison chaplain (see my memoir for more details). I think I must work up a blog article or two about tribalism in America today, and how I see it developing. The parallels are ominous.

Peter

The Epic of Gilgamesh and class discrimination

I was very interested (but also saddened) to read how the discoverer of the Epic of Gilgamesh was denied at least some of the respect and recognition that was his due - almost certainly because he was from the lower class, in a society that was class-conscious to a fault.  The Telegraph reports:

[George] Smith, an unlikely scholar, was the man for the task. Born of modest parents in Chelsea (his father was a carpenter), he left school at 14. He married young, moved to Crogsland Road in Camden, and had six children. Unsatisfied, he spent what spare time and money he had pursuing his interests of Assyriology and biblical archaeology. He was so often seen at the British Museum that Sir Henry Rawlinson (the discoverer of the Behistun monument, a “Rosetta Stone of cuneiform languages”) eventually employed him as a classifier. But even for such highly skilled and specialist work, he was paid little more than the cleaning staff.

On the evening he came across Layard’s fragment, Smith is said to have become so animated that, mute with excitement, he began to tear his clothes off. (Though much repeated, there is only a single source for this story, E A  W Budge’s Rise and Progress of Assyriology – published 50 years after Smith’s death.) Smith quickly prepared a paper to present to the Society of Biblical Archaeology.

. . .

... it was not until January 1873 that the Telegraph stepped in to offer the British Museum £1,000 for Smith to conduct further excavations. Taking travel advice from Arnold, Smith departed for Ottoman Iraq later that month.

His journey was not an easy one. Smith had never travelled before, and his letters home (illustrated for his children) demonstrate that he suffered chronic seasickness. On his arrival, Smith found himself beset by officialdom. His permissions were not valid, the papers had not been signed by the right people. He was delayed for months.

Digging began on May 7, and within three days he believed he had discovered more broken fragments of the “Deluge”. In fact, he had discovered another long-lost poem: The Epic of Atrahasis. In Smith’s own words, “The proprietors of The Daily Telegraph, however, considered that the discovery of the missing fragment of the deluge text accomplished the object they had in view, and they declined to prosecute the excavations further… desiring to see it carried on by the nation.” The brief excavation was over. The question of future funding would depend on Gladstone.

Permission was granted and on a second dig (in 1874) Smith discovered Babylonian accounts of the creation, the fall of man, the pestilence, the Tower of Babel, and fragments of many other legends. But it was on the third excavation in 1876 that Smith ran into difficulties.

He left England in 1875, and was so delayed by Ottoman officials that he did not arrive at Nineveh until July 1876. By then, with temperatures already in the mid-40s, it was too late to dig. He fell ill.

Smith’s notebooks in the British Library recount his descent into delirium, and the final pages make for heartbreaking reading. He set off for England, but died before he got as far as Aleppo. He was 36, only four years into his career as an Assyriologist. The newspapers mourned Smith’s early passing. They explained that he had died exercising a heroic commitment to the science. The dedications and obituaries, though, masked a slightly darker story; one where Smith may have been subject to coercion in his decision to delay.

Smith had previously written to request curtailment of the dig because “plague” was sweeping the lowlands of Syria and Iraq. Permission was refused. He was told by the museum secretary that the trustees would consider it to be “very objectionable” if he were to terminate the excavation early. It is impossible to imagine the same being said to Rawlinson or Layard.

There's more at the link.

How sad that a mind of such quality could be judged, not by its intellectual capabilities or accomplishments, but by the social class into which its owner had been born.  As the article notes, if Smith had been a member of the upper classes, he'd never have been pushed around as he was - and he'd probably have been allowed to leave the area of his excavations sooner, thereby avoiding contracting the disease that killed him.

If you're interested, you can download an e-book version of Smith's translation of 'The Chaldean Account of Genesis' in several formats, or read it online in HTML format (click each chapter title to read it).  Recommended.

Peter

Is this the end for the Martin Mars?

Readers may be familiar with the Martin Mars, the largest flying-boats ever built in the USA.  The prototype first flew in 1942.  Only seven were produced, the last of which is still flying as a water-bomber in Canada.

Now comes news that its days may be numbered.

Nearly a dozen jobs are on the line at The Coulson Group of Companies aviation division after news that the provincial government has cancelled a direct award contract for the Martin Mars waterbomber.

Coulson’s flying tankers unit employs up to 20 people during the height of fire season.

Wayne Coulson bought both Martin Mars waterbombers—the Hawaii Mars and the Philippine Mars—from TimberWest in 2007. He has had a direct award contract since 2007 and has worked on more than 20 fires across B.C. since then.

The Martin Mars has also fought fires in California and Mexico.

. . .

Coulson said he’s … looking at his options, which would include selling the Hawaii Mars if someone made an attractive offer.

“We sent out e-mails on the weekend, to some of the Red Bull folks and Virgin Air folks to see if there’s any interest. We may advertise it for a time to see if we get some interest.

“Whether we operate it for them or look at selling it, or if everything fails it will be time to retire it,” he said.

“The worst thing you can do with an aircraft is let it sit.”

There's more at the link.

It'll be a sad day if this 'gentle giant' is no longer to be airborne.  It's the last survivor of its kind in airworthy condition, using the same engines that powered the B-29 Superfortress and other giants.  There's a lot of history in that airframe.

Peter

Sadness

I've been so preoccupied with getting my books ready for publication that my reading of other blogs has suffered over the past few months.  I was therefore blindsided when I paged through to Suz's blog, 'Shining Pearls Of Something', and found that her husband had been diagnosed with cancer, out of the blue, and died on June 30th.  I'll let her tell the rest of the story.

In spite of this wrenching loss, I think I'm one of the most fortunate people on this planet.  I spent twenty-five years married to a man I never deserved (no, I'm not being modest) and I have a family whose love, kindness and generosity defy description.  I also have more friends than I ever realized.  I am humbled and overwhelmed by the kindness and the offers of support and help that I have received from so many readers, both here and at AVfM, most of whom I have never met in person.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Emotionally I've been somewhat numb, out of necessity, but not completely shut down.  Back in early June, when Mac and I came home after his CT scan, and his doctor called to send him back to the hospital for admission, I was looking over his shoulder as he wrote down what they found on the scan.  (I have since thrown out that scrap of paper, but those words are forever etched in my mind.)  I knew right then what was coming but none of us knew how fast it would happen, and the panic attacks started immediately.  I hid most of my fear and grief from him because I didn't want him to worry about me - and he would, especially being too sick to offer me much comfort.  But I learned how to cry again.  I don't cry often and I rarely get upset, but there was no denying I had a lot to cry about and I couldn't pretend otherwise.  I spent those three weeks grieving, both for what he would face and for what I would face. Of course he hid his fears from me as well; I might try to convince myself that he had no idea what was happening in his body while we waited for a diagnosis, but I'd just be deluding myself.  He was hoping to regain enough strength to fight the cancer, at least for a while, but he knew where it was heading. And I now know that he was protecting me and carrying his burden even more quietly than I was carrying mine.  Like he always did.

It is just such realizations which bring the tears.  While stumbling through estate paperwork and attending to the many tasks I need to accomplish, I keep tripping over so many things he has done for my benefit, things he did without my knowledge, never expecting a word of thanks.  And I'm absolutely certain there is much more that I'll never know.  He never "kept score."  He never expected praise for his praiseworthy actions. He simply, reflexively even, did to the best of his ability, what he knew he needed to do.  Right up until hours before he died.  And not once since I've known him has he complained that it wasn't fair, even when it really wasn't fair.  Maybe he took pride in being a man I could take for granted, while I tried hard not to take him for granted.  I guess I'll never know, but I sure wish I could have at least a few more years to try to even the score, that score he never kept.  I know I was a pretty good wife, but he was a man who deserved so much more.

I probably won't be writing with my heart on my sleeve any more; it makes me uncomfortable anyway. I'll continue to move forward now, but a part of me will be kicking and screaming along the way for quite some time. I just don't want to leave him behind. I believe he's with me in spirit and I know that his personality has largely shaped my personality, so he'll never be entirely gone.  And I see much of him in our son.  I know that those ashes buried in a bronze box in his hometown are not what I treasure of him, but it was so hard to walk away from his grave.  My life is not empty or meaningless, and I suspect it never will be, but there's a Mac-shaped hole in my heart that I couldn't fill even if I wanted to. I'll have to get used to that.

There's more at the link.

Suz . . . I'm sorry.  I wish I had more comforting words than that, but I don't.  There aren't any, at this level of loss.  I lost a very dear and beloved friend to cancer in the same way, a decade ago.  From diagnosis to death took only ten days.  It hurt, very much.  You'll be in my thoughts and prayers.

Friends and readers, may I ask you, too, to say a prayer for Suz, and for the soul of her late husband, Conard Brewer McCarley Jr.?  As John Donne put it:

No man is an island, entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thine own or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls.
It tolls for thee.

Please head over to her blog, too, and leave her your good wishes.  I'm sure she'll appreciate them.

Peter