An example of paradigm shift I've seen quoted many times goes like this - 'In the 1920s, a US battlefleet was on nighttime maneuvres when the watch on the bridge of the flagship noticed a light dead ahead. The Captain orders a signal sent for the errant vessel to move out the way.
"You turn," came the terse reply.
The Admiral duly ascended to the bridge and, outraged, ordered another signal sent.
"I'm a battle squadron of the US Navy and you will get out of my way. Turn away now!"
A reply promptly arrived. "I'm a lighthouse. I suggest you turn."
The battle squadron turned.'
I've read some learned dissertations on whether it was a true story or not. My feeling is that it's not, for several reasons.
A lighthouse should be obvious. Its light revolves - ergo, flashes. Ships don't emit flashing lights unless they are signaling. To attain the rank of Admiral, or even Captain, would suggest a basic mastering of the art of navigation. It stretches the imagination that an Admiral would steer his fleet towards foul water, even at night, even in the 1920s. Likely he would not be an Admiral for long. Watches are kept and, even at night, the simple art of dead reckoning using charts would give the crew a reasonable idea of where they were and if there was any danger. Titanic bumped an iceberg, sure, but they knew where they were (even if they didn't know there was an iceberg there. In any case, few icebergs have a lighthouse attached to them.)
Admirals and Captains do have moments of faulty inspiration. In the 19th Century, HMS Camperdown rammed HMS Victoria at Alexandria while trying to impress the Egyptians with the might and superior training of the Royal Navy. The Victoria was sunk with high loss of life. British sailors in those days rarely learned to swim. Steel battleships weren't supposed to sink, in any case, particularly by ones own side.
The maneuvre wasn't in the textbook and the Admiral hadn't allowed sufficient distance between ships - clearly. Some worthies have suggested that Camperdown's bow ram was the culprit and Victoria wouldn't have sunk if not for this protuberance. Maybe, but neither would've it been sunk if it hadn't been hit in the first place.
In 1905, Rozhdestventsky's Russian flagship, Suvorov, put a salvo into its own escorting cruiser, Aurora, while in the act of pounding the British, Hull fishing fleet. Why the Russian Navy was engaging a fishing fleet, and British at that, is another story. But Aurora survived - to signal the start of the Russian revolution in 1917. Aurora's fire crews were exemplary and the blaze was put out, but, it has to be said, they had a lot of practice. Rozhdestventsky's gunners also fired live rounds at their own Kamchatka - which was supposed to be towing the target - and blew in the after deckhouse. Target towing must have become the least sort after duty in the Russian navy at that time.
But Aurora's dilemma was in the midst of a battle - even if the 'enemy' were fishing boats and, likely, they weren't shooting back. There was enough wildly aimed Russian ordinance flying around anyway to make it seem like a 'real' battle. Mistakes happen in the heat, as it were, when lives are at stake. Mistakes happen during training - that's the point - but measures can be taken to ensure the result isn't fatal. People panic in action and make mistakes sometimes. I understand that.
But, hapless, undertrained and under-motivated as many of Admiral Rozhdestventsky's crews were, they never steered the Russian Second Pacific Fleet onto rocks, despite sailing all the way from the Baltic to the sea of Japan. After the battle of Tsushima, some individual ships drove onto rocks. but some did so deliberately to save the crews. The Cruiser Izumrud ran onto rocks while trying to escape along the coast of Korea, but then, it was taking risks to evade enemy warships.
So my point is - I think - if the Russians didn't ground their fleet in 1905, I doubt the Americans risked their fleet like that in the 1920s.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Harveyisation
'Harveyised' or 'Harveyisation' was a process to produce armourplate for warships in the late 19th Century. 'To be Harveyised' could also relate to the process I've been going through the last few days. First, load onto the IPod all ones PJ Harvey CDs then listen to all 12 or so albums - including collaborations and sundry - end on end.
The result is a complete rewiring of the brain where nothing quite works musically unless it's being sung by PJ. It also creates a desire to find bootlegs and anything at all one might have missed over the years. Such a search took me into the shadowy world of fileshare sites offering dubious copies of dodgy disks apparently recorded by cellphone or a nano in someone's shoe. The quality is often bad and shouldn't worry Universal Music one iota, I would've thought.
Back in the day, fan networks used to distribute these on cassette, re-recorded 10,000 times. Crank the stereo up and you can hear the artist as if they're playing in a cornfield during a gale. Some moron is always having a conversation near the mike - there was no bass worth a damn and the lead always came out of the speaker at the other end of the stage away from the tape.
But these 'booties' were proof positive of a devoted fan and you trumpeted the acquisition to all your mates, who became suitably jealous. I had a drawer full of the shit - only ever played once because they were so bad.
It struck me, though, how easy it now is to download everything - studio albums, concerts - in good quality and not paying a cent to Universal or a shekel of royalty to PJ. I'm no saint and, in truth, I've grabbed the odd song off Limewire and their ilk. But, if I didn't already have most of PJ's music, I could correct that situation in a few hours of free downloading - everything, from 'Dry' to 'A Woman a Man Walked By.'
Yeah, I see the point clearly, if I didn't before. I always thought Limewire was a lottery, with as many trojans out there as the real deal. But these sharing sites are astonishing in both the quality and comprehensiveness. I bought 'White Chalk' as a digital download from the Vodafone store - it cost me 15 bucks, I think. I could've got it for nothing, complete with artwork and lyric sheet. It's not okay - this is PJ's livelihood - she deserves the income.
So how do you convince a spotty teen they're screwing the artist who has to eat like the rest of us? For every lavishly wealthy artist there's 300 or so struggling musicians. How does one appeal to teens' better natures?
You can't - they don't have one. I've never met a teenager who wouldn't take something for free if they knew they could get away with it. The only thing that stops them is consequences. Risk doesn't often figure large as a brake on teen behaviour, but a security camera, guard, road spikes and razor wire give them pause to reflect. Teens are amoral - they always have been. They don't develop a true conscience until they're my age - or older. Cops are the only thing that stops teens running riot.
Maybe the answer is with a use now pay later scheme? It would work a bit like those hire purchase things where 'you pay nothing for 12 months.' In this case, the kid downloads all they want - as they're doing now - but then pays the appropriate fee once they've grown up. By then they might acknowledge their sin and want to redeem themselves. It'll make them feel better at the same time they're discovering how boring marriage and a mortgage is.
Look, they've just given up booze, drugs, casual sex, parties, rock concerts in the belief they should 'settle down.' What better way to cheer themselves up by paying for all that music they pinched off the Net when they were kids?
Brilliant idea?
But really, I've been 'Harveyised' again. My brain has been case hardened against anything that's not PJ. I'll snap out of it eventually, of course, but I feel like I've fallen in love again.
Don
The result is a complete rewiring of the brain where nothing quite works musically unless it's being sung by PJ. It also creates a desire to find bootlegs and anything at all one might have missed over the years. Such a search took me into the shadowy world of fileshare sites offering dubious copies of dodgy disks apparently recorded by cellphone or a nano in someone's shoe. The quality is often bad and shouldn't worry Universal Music one iota, I would've thought.
Back in the day, fan networks used to distribute these on cassette, re-recorded 10,000 times. Crank the stereo up and you can hear the artist as if they're playing in a cornfield during a gale. Some moron is always having a conversation near the mike - there was no bass worth a damn and the lead always came out of the speaker at the other end of the stage away from the tape.
But these 'booties' were proof positive of a devoted fan and you trumpeted the acquisition to all your mates, who became suitably jealous. I had a drawer full of the shit - only ever played once because they were so bad.
It struck me, though, how easy it now is to download everything - studio albums, concerts - in good quality and not paying a cent to Universal or a shekel of royalty to PJ. I'm no saint and, in truth, I've grabbed the odd song off Limewire and their ilk. But, if I didn't already have most of PJ's music, I could correct that situation in a few hours of free downloading - everything, from 'Dry' to 'A Woman a Man Walked By.'
Yeah, I see the point clearly, if I didn't before. I always thought Limewire was a lottery, with as many trojans out there as the real deal. But these sharing sites are astonishing in both the quality and comprehensiveness. I bought 'White Chalk' as a digital download from the Vodafone store - it cost me 15 bucks, I think. I could've got it for nothing, complete with artwork and lyric sheet. It's not okay - this is PJ's livelihood - she deserves the income.
So how do you convince a spotty teen they're screwing the artist who has to eat like the rest of us? For every lavishly wealthy artist there's 300 or so struggling musicians. How does one appeal to teens' better natures?
You can't - they don't have one. I've never met a teenager who wouldn't take something for free if they knew they could get away with it. The only thing that stops them is consequences. Risk doesn't often figure large as a brake on teen behaviour, but a security camera, guard, road spikes and razor wire give them pause to reflect. Teens are amoral - they always have been. They don't develop a true conscience until they're my age - or older. Cops are the only thing that stops teens running riot.
Maybe the answer is with a use now pay later scheme? It would work a bit like those hire purchase things where 'you pay nothing for 12 months.' In this case, the kid downloads all they want - as they're doing now - but then pays the appropriate fee once they've grown up. By then they might acknowledge their sin and want to redeem themselves. It'll make them feel better at the same time they're discovering how boring marriage and a mortgage is.
Look, they've just given up booze, drugs, casual sex, parties, rock concerts in the belief they should 'settle down.' What better way to cheer themselves up by paying for all that music they pinched off the Net when they were kids?
Brilliant idea?
But really, I've been 'Harveyised' again. My brain has been case hardened against anything that's not PJ. I'll snap out of it eventually, of course, but I feel like I've fallen in love again.
Don
Friday, September 4, 2009
A New Start
I headed home from work with Ciaran's excited - and very loud - voice still ringing in my ears. 'I had to get to the Makino Pools, now, and...'
'But,' I told him. 'It's not 4 o'clock and the boss gets pissed if I leave early.'
'Come, now!'
And so on.
I waited until 4 and drove the usual way - down Aorangi to the BP service station, then down Church. The Makino Pool was a short distance from our house, down Grey. Ahead I saw the flashing of Police lights.
'Aha,' I remember thinking. 'They've pulled over some boy racer near our house. The local kids think it's a bloody race track.'
However as I got closer, I saw the police had closed the road between Grey and Fitzroy. Outside our house were hundreds of cars and spectators. A tourist coach was parked across the drive, completely blocking the house from view. I recall wondering whether it was a Denning and whether it had a Detroit Diesel. Mostly, though I was in shock.
I spun the Subaru into Grey and headed for Makino, wondering what the Hell we'd gotten ourselves into.
I guess it began when my oldest boy managed to gain the attention of the local police a few years back. Rohan had a positive knack for making wrong choices, based on the misconception he was 18, not 13/14 years old. He'd figuratively painted a target on his back since primary school - not a good idea when you live in a small town were everyone knows you.
We grew accustomed to having the police visit with another installment of Rohan's misdemeanours. I knew the authoritative knock of the patrol at 3-am in the morning and the hum from the I car stopped outside. There was always an accompanying squelch of radio traffic and the faint ticking from the revolving beacon. What was it this time? Theft, drinking, out after curfew, or pissing off some shopkeeper?
We tried everything and followed every professional's advice. There were parenting courses, anger management, psych assessments etc, but nothing stuck, nothing seemed to convince my boy there was a far less arduous course in life. Trouble stuck to him like discarded masking tape to a shoe. No matter how hard he shook, it was still there in the morning.
We moved into Diversion, and knew the next stage was the Youth Justice system.
One day, while in a rage he chose not to control, he clocked his mum with a balled fist sending her sprawling over the sofa. Tine had enough and called the police from a neighbours. Rohan had just slipped over into the legal age of criminal responsibility, so I watched in despair as the constable clicked the cuffs on my boy and hauled his ass off to lock up.
Tine has Huntington's Disease, an incurable, genetic, neurological disorder that affects balance, memory, brain function and which ultimately leaves the sufferer bed ridden and facing an early death. It's a tough break for, not only Tine, but the rest of us who have to try and carry on some kind of normal life as she gets sicker and sicker. Slowly, she was changing from that lovely, ball of fire that captivated me 19 years ago. HD affects the personality - makes her less able to cope with normal stress - makes her slow to grasp simple ideas. Her deterioration is a tragedy beyond words - and she's only 45!
A combination of all these factors and the intervention of this state agency and that came to a head a month ago. Our Family Support Worker - I'll name her - Robyn Duncan - stopped by and announced we were to have 'an extreme house makeover' at the end of August. Her husband, Bruce, was a builder and was willing to offer his time for a little renovation of our hovel.
Our hovel, you understand, was bought by us as a hovel to make into a decent home over the next few years - time and money willing. However, with Tine having to reduce her hours at work - due to excessive fatigue because of HD - we were being severely squeezed financially. We couldn't keep up with normal maintenance, let alone make improvements.
An out of control teenager had put holes in the wall. The roof leaked badly and had rotted carpets, floors and a roof beam. The back door had been kicked in once too often and had fallen apart. The house needed painting, inside and out, and the stove had only two elements running. The oven had died, the fridge leaked all over the kitchen floor, cupboards were broken and vermin were slowly chewing through the wiring - despite the attentions of two cats.
We all slept in the one room over Winter because there was no insulation and it was too expensive to heat. We had a log burner, but it was non-compliant and we had no money for wood. I used to forage fuel from the side of the road and various parks - chucking logs onto the back of the truck and spending hours trying to hack through it with an axe.
Strange how easily one gets used to the smell of one's own shit. We lived in disorder and chaos, but I couldn't see it. Most of our life had been characterised by struggle. This was just another struggle and I did what I thought I had to do to survive. Most everyone else was better off than us, but that was par for the course.
Robyn and Bruce got together with Police Youth Aid Officers - principally Constable Scott McKenzie - and decided to take our situation to the Mayor. Seemingly, overnight it became a community project to bring us help. Tine was finally leaving work to an uncertain future. The community of Feilding made a decision to make her final years as comfortable as possible.
From a few licks of paint and a tidy up, the thing escalated beyond anyone's initial conception. Finally, they assembled over 60 companies willing to offer time, goods or money. There were the Air Force boys from the Ohakea Base nearby, Police personnel, kids from Hato Paora College, Lions Club, Salvation Army, Manchester House Social Services, Huntington's Disease Association,our neighbours - to name those who we know about. Leader and Watt Appliance Store provided a washer, Gary Dyer Painter, Noel's Property Services, Tri Web Desktop Services, Insulation Specialists, Woolworth's Supermarket, TVNZ, Manawatu District Council, Raceway Motels, Tatton's Pharmacy. Some of these firms know us as customers - most don't. I do gardening for a couple of them but, I'm not sure they know that.
In all, teams totaling 75 people spent from Friday 28th, to Tuesday 1st giving us a new home to be proud of. If I could, I'd name every company, every organisation and individual publicly and broadcast their extraordinary acts of kindness and love all around the World. I wish I could, but, I simply don't know who most of them are. If time and labour had been totaled, it comes to over $100,000 spent on us. (I think about US62c to the 1NZD = roughly over $US62,000)
Budget Waste provided 8 skips and they threw out most everything we had, save our books, CDs, vinyl record collection and the clothes we were wearing. In return, they replaced everything ten fold. We have a new kitchen, bathroom, laundry. The kids and us have new beds and coverings, clothes, TVs. My pieced together stereo got biffed and they replaced it with a near new Aiwa with Kenwood speakers. Accidently, I think, my computer gear and camera went AWOL. No problem, the Salvos said, we'll find a new camera! Tine got a new sewing machine and desktop computer - a Windows machine, but who's complaining? Our lounge has new furniture, drapes and we're heated with a top range heat pump. Insulation has been put in under the new roof, as well as underfloor.
Outside, we have a new garden. Potted camellias and pansies surround our new front porch. We have a fruit orchard, with an almond tree, cherries and feijoas (pineapple guava) flower beds and a vegetable garden. Our old shed was torn down but the carport was fixed up and fitted with folding clothes lines.
Most everywhere we are discovering little touches. A drawer full of cosmetics, after shave, socks. Woolworth's Supermarket stocked our cupboards so full I'm not sure how we can chomp through it all. In addition, the MDC's Makino swimming pool gave the kids a year's free entry and lessons. Focal Point Cinema gave us 14 tickets to a family movie of our choice. Raceway Motels put us up FOC for 4 days.
The effect on our family is profound. I feel more powerful. Things have resolved themselves into a clarity - my thinking has been reordered.
We were whisked from the pools in a white Holden V8 accompanied by celebrity type security terse instructions by mobile. 'Ok, we're on our way now.' 'Ok, we'll let you through.' 'Move the bus - move the bus!'
The bus roared off as we got out of the car. It was a Hino, reared engined with a tag axle. Before us were hundreds of people, press, TV cameras. Robyn and Annette, the HD Social Worker, guided us up the drive while the TVNZ lady hovered with her cameraman. People were clapping and cheering. The smiling TVNZ reporter asked me how I liked my new home. I don't know what I said. I hoped it wasn't stupid. Someone told me they thought I was 'well spoken.' I guess that means I didn't make a dick of myself before the whole nation. Maybe it was good editing?
Ciaran's class got to watch our performance the next day on Breakfast TV. He's 11 and thinks the publicity will get him girlfriends. Taran tried to make a speech on his own but he folded. He's 8 and shyness took him in the end. Tine floundered a little before dissolving into tears. It was good television, I guess.
The local paper, the Herald, had us front page featured for 2 days. The regional paper, The Manawatu Standard, managed one front page. There's stuff online too. I'm becoming as publicity conscious as Courtney Love.
Mostly, I can't wait to leave work each day and head home to the palace.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Secret Russians
Way back in the day my best friend Steve joined the Navy. He'd been a PO in the Cadet Corps and it was all he wanted to do. We had a mutual interest in things that floated - the bigger the better. As kids we eagerly roamed over visiting American aircraft carriers taking some R and R from the Vietnam War. I was young, and politics hadn't impacted my life yet.
Some few years later, he handed me photocopied pages of a training manual. They were silhouettes of Soviet Navy ships, below the stern heading, TOP SECRET. Carefully, I concealed them in my bottom drawer and, late at night, I'd worshipfully pull them out and pore over the pages. I'd never had anything TOP SECRET before. From then on I decided on a career as a spy - it seemed cooler than the army.
I committed to memory profiles of Kresta IIs, Victor 1s and the mighty Moskva. I memorised the dimensions, offensive capability and estimated performance of each vessel. Before long, I could converse knowingly on all things Soviet Navy - that is, if I could without exposing myself as a spy.
But wait, I thought, wouldn't the Soviets know all this shit anyway? What would stolen information about their own fleet tell them anything new? 'Aha, they think our Sovremennyy's are 2 knots slower than they are. ' Big deal! That is if they recognised the NATO Class name instead of Projekt 58 Protivoladochny Korabl - their own name.
And shouldn't such information be put into the public domain, anyway? Our coastal residents might then be able to report in exact detail the next time a Soviet Naval task force sailed close by. That is, if there were any Soviet Naval ships within 10,000 kilometres of us - which, of course, there never were.
The Manual was complete - that is, there were vessels in there that had been built in the 20's. An ice breaker had originally been built for the Tsarist Navy and a sail training ship had been part of the booty handed over by the Nazis at the end of the Second World War. It would take a stretch of the imagination to believe the Russians were so short of ships they were still using them 50, 60 years later. The mighty 'Morskoi Flotta', the 2nd largest fleet in the World, and still using coal fired ships built for the Tsar? And, besides that, the Royal New Zealand Navy regarded information on these ships TOP SECRET? I could read Jane's All The World's Ships and have access to far more up to date information than the RNZN provided for their training. I could buy a copy of Jane's and apply to the Navy for a job as a trainer - that is, if I hadn't already decided on a career as a Soviet spy.
Disappointed, I came to realise the alleged TOP SECRET manual was far from either TOP SECRET or a training manual. Rather, it likely came from the recesses of a library, probably from the historic section. It was a piece of nostalgia only, perhaps for old Navy men to reminisce over.
"Remember that Russian sailing ship we spotted off North Korea in '55?"
"Sure, it was accompanied by that ice breaker with the tall funnel belching coal smoke."
"Y'see that gun she had, Soupy?"
"Never forget it - a swivel mounted, black powder, smooth bore firing a 9 pound iron ball."
"Hey, yeah, I shit myself. I'm glad it wasn't a shooting war."
I still have that manual for the day Russia's coal fired fleet comes sailing over the horizon to enfilade our coastal defenses with grape shot.
Don
Some few years later, he handed me photocopied pages of a training manual. They were silhouettes of Soviet Navy ships, below the stern heading, TOP SECRET. Carefully, I concealed them in my bottom drawer and, late at night, I'd worshipfully pull them out and pore over the pages. I'd never had anything TOP SECRET before. From then on I decided on a career as a spy - it seemed cooler than the army.
I committed to memory profiles of Kresta IIs, Victor 1s and the mighty Moskva. I memorised the dimensions, offensive capability and estimated performance of each vessel. Before long, I could converse knowingly on all things Soviet Navy - that is, if I could without exposing myself as a spy.
But wait, I thought, wouldn't the Soviets know all this shit anyway? What would stolen information about their own fleet tell them anything new? 'Aha, they think our Sovremennyy's are 2 knots slower than they are. ' Big deal! That is if they recognised the NATO Class name instead of Projekt 58 Protivoladochny Korabl - their own name.
And shouldn't such information be put into the public domain, anyway? Our coastal residents might then be able to report in exact detail the next time a Soviet Naval task force sailed close by. That is, if there were any Soviet Naval ships within 10,000 kilometres of us - which, of course, there never were.
The Manual was complete - that is, there were vessels in there that had been built in the 20's. An ice breaker had originally been built for the Tsarist Navy and a sail training ship had been part of the booty handed over by the Nazis at the end of the Second World War. It would take a stretch of the imagination to believe the Russians were so short of ships they were still using them 50, 60 years later. The mighty 'Morskoi Flotta', the 2nd largest fleet in the World, and still using coal fired ships built for the Tsar? And, besides that, the Royal New Zealand Navy regarded information on these ships TOP SECRET? I could read Jane's All The World's Ships and have access to far more up to date information than the RNZN provided for their training. I could buy a copy of Jane's and apply to the Navy for a job as a trainer - that is, if I hadn't already decided on a career as a Soviet spy.
Disappointed, I came to realise the alleged TOP SECRET manual was far from either TOP SECRET or a training manual. Rather, it likely came from the recesses of a library, probably from the historic section. It was a piece of nostalgia only, perhaps for old Navy men to reminisce over.
"Remember that Russian sailing ship we spotted off North Korea in '55?"
"Sure, it was accompanied by that ice breaker with the tall funnel belching coal smoke."
"Y'see that gun she had, Soupy?"
"Never forget it - a swivel mounted, black powder, smooth bore firing a 9 pound iron ball."
"Hey, yeah, I shit myself. I'm glad it wasn't a shooting war."
I still have that manual for the day Russia's coal fired fleet comes sailing over the horizon to enfilade our coastal defenses with grape shot.
Don
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Gaza '88
Driving south from the Eretz checkpoint we passed the turnoff to the Jewish colony (now dismantled) just to the north of Jabaliya. There was another checkpoint, there, backed by a Merklava battle tank. Most Palestinians taking part in this first Intafada were armed with nothing more than a molotov cocktail and a rock. The tank says it all - go in with overwhelming force. No 'graduated response' here.
The Intafada had been grinding on since 1986 - it was now 1988 and the thing had evolved into a brutal routine. Palestinian youths would set up a roadblock in Jabaliya with burning tyres and the IDF would turn up and fire tear gas, rubber bullets, and sometimes live rounds. If the IDF didn't turn up the youths wouldn't set up the roadblock. If the youths didn't set up a roadblock, the IDF wouldn't bother turning up. The obvious solution was everyone stay home, but that wasn't the point.
The Intafada began with a boycott of Israeli goods to force the IDF to relax restrictions on free travel through the Gaza Strip and to cease random closures of the border crossings. It quickly gained momentum as hellholes like Jabaliya and Khan Younis erupted with mass protests, usually degenerating into stone throwing. All Palestinians working for Israeli utility companies went on strike - and there lies a tale.
Down Jamal Abdul Nasser street, where the Red Crescent compound was located, was a hot box for the street's power. The IDF came one day in an armoured car and pulled all the fuses - including that to the Red Crescent. After the IDF went, striking Palestinian power company employees came with a ladder and replaced them. The IDF came back and removed them again that evening. This farce continued for a couple of days with the Palestinians restoring power and the IDF disconnecting it until the armoured car came back again and the soldiers smashed the hot box with a sledge hammer. The Palestinians had refused to pay their power bills and the Israelis would rather smash their own equipment rather than allow them free power.
The ever polite and hospitable Palestinians workers then came and apologised they couldn't give us power.
Everything depended on electricity - sewage, water, as well as domestic uses. With no power, the sewage flowed out onto the street - that in an insufferably hot environment. The smell was beyond words. The rubbish wasn't collected, either, because those workers were on strike. Instead, the locals built huge rubbish fires - just imagine!
I didn't know that much about Hamas, then. Hamas, an offshoot of the Egyptian Moslem Brotherhood, were one of a number of Palestinian groups who sprouted like mushrooms during the eighties. Nobody had organised the Intafada - it just happened - but Hamas assumed a sort of leadership by default. Al Fatah wanted nothing to do with it - although they later tried to muscle in and claim credit. It's on record that Mossad helped fund Hamas way back in 1982 as a counter to the secular, and Soviet backed, Al Fatah.
Palestinians tend to call Westerners 'Shalaf,' derived from 'Chevalier,' the French word for 'knight.' It dates back to the Crusaders and was clearly a perjorative once. But, now, it's used much like 'honky,' as a kind of affectionate derision. I was also called 'Christian' or 'Merican'. It's weird being defined by a Religion, but that's how it is. You're a Westerner, therefore you're Christian, regardless of your personal beliefs. You're also 'Merican,' even though you're not American. Don't we cover Arabs with one blanket term? They sure as hell don't. Anyone wearing a kuffiah becomes 'an Arab' to Western eyes, be they Saudi, Moroccan, Syrian, Israeli Arab or whatever.
Even then, we read in Western papers how Palestinians were using their kids as shields. Palestinians, like most Moslems, regard children as gifts from God. Traditionally, Palestinian children are fed before the adults at mealtimes as a way of affirming their exalted status in the household. To claim 'Terrorist' Palestinians would push kids out in front of them is scurrilous beyond reason. Palestine is also rather a macho and paternalistic society and your average male would rather die than be caught hiding behind a child, or a woman for that matter.
No way can I believe this ever happens and I'm waiting for the evidence to back such claims.
Similarly, the Red Crescent and United Nations Mission in Palestine are extremely well respected by everyone in Palestine. To don the orange vest gives you and instant invitation to people's homes, because you've volunteered to come help out and share for a very brief time what they've had to endure most of their lives. They only ask if you would 'tell your Government back home' what's really going on. It's ridiculous to suggest 'terrorists' would try to hide in the UN school or the Red Crescent compound. To shoot from those buildings would likely get the perpetrators lynched by their own people. One of the few things Palestinians from all factions agree on is they don't want either the UN or IRC/RC to pack up and leave.
The Intafada united the Palestinians as never before. The merchants in the old British Mandate quarter and the stallholders in the Old Town combined with the middle classes in the hills and the poor of the camps. It didn't start with any overtly religious agenda - just a spontaneous eruption of pissed-off-ness. It's significant that the hot spots, Khan Younis and Jabaliya, were adjacent to large Jewish colonies that overlooked the locals with watch towers, security fences, and priority roads. The Jewish Colony next to Jabaliya, (I forget the name) was ludicrously close - about the width of a four lane highway. Every now and then a 'Settler' would fire a round into Jabaliya, and vice versa. Two girls were shot to death on their way to school while I was there - likely by an ultra orthodox settler - one was nine and her sister was 11. The 11 year old was shot in the back running away.
Back then, as now, complaints to the Israelis followed a predictable pattern - (1) ignore - (2) blame the Palestinians - (3) Begin an investigation which traditionally goes on for 2 years or more - (4) Decide it was an accident and completely exonerate someone who everyone knows had nothing to do with it anyway (Often a Jordanian Bedouin IDF auxiliary)
Hardly any Jewish 'Settler' or IDF soldier has ever been held to account for 'excesses' (ie cold blooded murder). Justice is what's dished out to Palestinian 'terrorists'. Israel's Kahan Commission cited Ariel Sharon as having 'co-responsibility' for the Sabra and Shatila massacre in Beirut yet it didn't impede him becoming Israeli Prime Minister - go figure?
Lastly, everyone, Israeli and Palestinian, has a memory that goes back generations - and, IMO, that's the problem. It's also a problem that the Western Media have short memories or don't bother going back to find out 'why?' Hamas has been firing rockets into Israel - why? It's simple to refrain, 'they hate Israel,' or 'they hate freedom' or other such 'Bushisms.' Yes, they hate Israel, and vice versa, but two years ago, the IDF began a blockade against the Hamas administration in Gaza.
When we say 'blockade' we must remember that everything, I mean every little thing, has to enter Gaza with Israeli permission. Gaza is walled in, the airport and harbour destroyed, and water, gas, electricity, food, everything has to come from Israel - or from Egypt at Rafah by agreement with the IDF. Gaza has little, if any, economic activity at all. Israel has their fingers on the Gazan throat without needing to occupy the place. It's one 40 kilometre long prison camp crowded with 1.5 million miserable people who'd rather be someplace else but can't get out. Make no mistake, no-one lives in the Gaza strip by choice - there's just no way of getting out! (Except by tunnel into Egypt)
Like vigilant prison guards the IDF want to destroy those 'escape routes' and the Egyptians don't want 1.5 million refugees either.
Anyway, Hamas fired homemade rockets into Israel as a protest against the blockade. Israel said they'll ease the blockade if Hamas stopped firing rockets, Okay, there was a kind of truce, but Israel didn't ease the blockade and stated they want to bring down the Hamas administration. Okay, end of truce and beginning of invasion in response - etc, etc...
There's a predictability about the whole thing - like everyone's following a script. The Intafada of 1986-89 gave the IDF a shock, but the IDF learned the lessons. They learned the military lessons, sure, but not the political ones. Hamas learned, too, how to win the war of world opinion, against some pretty stupid Israeli misinformation. But, Israel doesn't care about world opinion - it gave up on that long ago. The only Israeli newspaper that reports from Gaza is Ha'aretz, and the editor needs an armed guard by him 24 hours a day. Ha'aretz is the only left wing paper of the four most popular dailies in Israel. Israelis are generally sick of the Palestinians, and Gazans in particular, and are extraordinary indifferent to their plight. Simply, they don't want to know and believe the world doesn't understand their situation. At least, that's the impression I had in Ashqelon, 1988.
Tell me different and/or tell me what's changed?
Don
The Intafada had been grinding on since 1986 - it was now 1988 and the thing had evolved into a brutal routine. Palestinian youths would set up a roadblock in Jabaliya with burning tyres and the IDF would turn up and fire tear gas, rubber bullets, and sometimes live rounds. If the IDF didn't turn up the youths wouldn't set up the roadblock. If the youths didn't set up a roadblock, the IDF wouldn't bother turning up. The obvious solution was everyone stay home, but that wasn't the point.
The Intafada began with a boycott of Israeli goods to force the IDF to relax restrictions on free travel through the Gaza Strip and to cease random closures of the border crossings. It quickly gained momentum as hellholes like Jabaliya and Khan Younis erupted with mass protests, usually degenerating into stone throwing. All Palestinians working for Israeli utility companies went on strike - and there lies a tale.
Down Jamal Abdul Nasser street, where the Red Crescent compound was located, was a hot box for the street's power. The IDF came one day in an armoured car and pulled all the fuses - including that to the Red Crescent. After the IDF went, striking Palestinian power company employees came with a ladder and replaced them. The IDF came back and removed them again that evening. This farce continued for a couple of days with the Palestinians restoring power and the IDF disconnecting it until the armoured car came back again and the soldiers smashed the hot box with a sledge hammer. The Palestinians had refused to pay their power bills and the Israelis would rather smash their own equipment rather than allow them free power.
The ever polite and hospitable Palestinians workers then came and apologised they couldn't give us power.
Everything depended on electricity - sewage, water, as well as domestic uses. With no power, the sewage flowed out onto the street - that in an insufferably hot environment. The smell was beyond words. The rubbish wasn't collected, either, because those workers were on strike. Instead, the locals built huge rubbish fires - just imagine!
I didn't know that much about Hamas, then. Hamas, an offshoot of the Egyptian Moslem Brotherhood, were one of a number of Palestinian groups who sprouted like mushrooms during the eighties. Nobody had organised the Intafada - it just happened - but Hamas assumed a sort of leadership by default. Al Fatah wanted nothing to do with it - although they later tried to muscle in and claim credit. It's on record that Mossad helped fund Hamas way back in 1982 as a counter to the secular, and Soviet backed, Al Fatah.
Palestinians tend to call Westerners 'Shalaf,' derived from 'Chevalier,' the French word for 'knight.' It dates back to the Crusaders and was clearly a perjorative once. But, now, it's used much like 'honky,' as a kind of affectionate derision. I was also called 'Christian' or 'Merican'. It's weird being defined by a Religion, but that's how it is. You're a Westerner, therefore you're Christian, regardless of your personal beliefs. You're also 'Merican,' even though you're not American. Don't we cover Arabs with one blanket term? They sure as hell don't. Anyone wearing a kuffiah becomes 'an Arab' to Western eyes, be they Saudi, Moroccan, Syrian, Israeli Arab or whatever.
Even then, we read in Western papers how Palestinians were using their kids as shields. Palestinians, like most Moslems, regard children as gifts from God. Traditionally, Palestinian children are fed before the adults at mealtimes as a way of affirming their exalted status in the household. To claim 'Terrorist' Palestinians would push kids out in front of them is scurrilous beyond reason. Palestine is also rather a macho and paternalistic society and your average male would rather die than be caught hiding behind a child, or a woman for that matter.
No way can I believe this ever happens and I'm waiting for the evidence to back such claims.
Similarly, the Red Crescent and United Nations Mission in Palestine are extremely well respected by everyone in Palestine. To don the orange vest gives you and instant invitation to people's homes, because you've volunteered to come help out and share for a very brief time what they've had to endure most of their lives. They only ask if you would 'tell your Government back home' what's really going on. It's ridiculous to suggest 'terrorists' would try to hide in the UN school or the Red Crescent compound. To shoot from those buildings would likely get the perpetrators lynched by their own people. One of the few things Palestinians from all factions agree on is they don't want either the UN or IRC/RC to pack up and leave.
The Intafada united the Palestinians as never before. The merchants in the old British Mandate quarter and the stallholders in the Old Town combined with the middle classes in the hills and the poor of the camps. It didn't start with any overtly religious agenda - just a spontaneous eruption of pissed-off-ness. It's significant that the hot spots, Khan Younis and Jabaliya, were adjacent to large Jewish colonies that overlooked the locals with watch towers, security fences, and priority roads. The Jewish Colony next to Jabaliya, (I forget the name) was ludicrously close - about the width of a four lane highway. Every now and then a 'Settler' would fire a round into Jabaliya, and vice versa. Two girls were shot to death on their way to school while I was there - likely by an ultra orthodox settler - one was nine and her sister was 11. The 11 year old was shot in the back running away.
Back then, as now, complaints to the Israelis followed a predictable pattern - (1) ignore - (2) blame the Palestinians - (3) Begin an investigation which traditionally goes on for 2 years or more - (4) Decide it was an accident and completely exonerate someone who everyone knows had nothing to do with it anyway (Often a Jordanian Bedouin IDF auxiliary)
Hardly any Jewish 'Settler' or IDF soldier has ever been held to account for 'excesses' (ie cold blooded murder). Justice is what's dished out to Palestinian 'terrorists'. Israel's Kahan Commission cited Ariel Sharon as having 'co-responsibility' for the Sabra and Shatila massacre in Beirut yet it didn't impede him becoming Israeli Prime Minister - go figure?
Lastly, everyone, Israeli and Palestinian, has a memory that goes back generations - and, IMO, that's the problem. It's also a problem that the Western Media have short memories or don't bother going back to find out 'why?' Hamas has been firing rockets into Israel - why? It's simple to refrain, 'they hate Israel,' or 'they hate freedom' or other such 'Bushisms.' Yes, they hate Israel, and vice versa, but two years ago, the IDF began a blockade against the Hamas administration in Gaza.
When we say 'blockade' we must remember that everything, I mean every little thing, has to enter Gaza with Israeli permission. Gaza is walled in, the airport and harbour destroyed, and water, gas, electricity, food, everything has to come from Israel - or from Egypt at Rafah by agreement with the IDF. Gaza has little, if any, economic activity at all. Israel has their fingers on the Gazan throat without needing to occupy the place. It's one 40 kilometre long prison camp crowded with 1.5 million miserable people who'd rather be someplace else but can't get out. Make no mistake, no-one lives in the Gaza strip by choice - there's just no way of getting out! (Except by tunnel into Egypt)
Like vigilant prison guards the IDF want to destroy those 'escape routes' and the Egyptians don't want 1.5 million refugees either.
Anyway, Hamas fired homemade rockets into Israel as a protest against the blockade. Israel said they'll ease the blockade if Hamas stopped firing rockets, Okay, there was a kind of truce, but Israel didn't ease the blockade and stated they want to bring down the Hamas administration. Okay, end of truce and beginning of invasion in response - etc, etc...
There's a predictability about the whole thing - like everyone's following a script. The Intafada of 1986-89 gave the IDF a shock, but the IDF learned the lessons. They learned the military lessons, sure, but not the political ones. Hamas learned, too, how to win the war of world opinion, against some pretty stupid Israeli misinformation. But, Israel doesn't care about world opinion - it gave up on that long ago. The only Israeli newspaper that reports from Gaza is Ha'aretz, and the editor needs an armed guard by him 24 hours a day. Ha'aretz is the only left wing paper of the four most popular dailies in Israel. Israelis are generally sick of the Palestinians, and Gazans in particular, and are extraordinary indifferent to their plight. Simply, they don't want to know and believe the world doesn't understand their situation. At least, that's the impression I had in Ashqelon, 1988.
Tell me different and/or tell me what's changed?
Don
Friday, October 17, 2008
Domestic Blitz
Dave is my oldest friend. We met way back in primary school and bonded over scale models and a fondness for inconsequential facts.
Dave is probably the most intelligent person I have ever met. He has an encyclopedic memory and can recount what I was doing 5 years ago, date and time of day. That's no exaggeration - he really can, I've tested him.
We were nerds together through school. His dad had built him a shed out back of his place and we'd hide there with our ship models and history books away from our fucked up families.
Dave's family had a penchant for alcoholism and suicide that would see off one of his brothers and his father. His mother was heavily inebriated for most of his childhood and his other brother was a full time car thief. Not that Dave would ever talk about that - he'd rather talk about ancient Rome and the latest model of the Graf Spee.
We knew that Dave would go far. He'd pass with honours any exam placed in front of him and would continue to do so as my schooling unravelled amid a dizzying variety of pharmaceuticals.
Socially awkward, Dave would still come to our parties. He'd be hanging out the window lest he got a whiff of dope smoke.
Dave was perfect as the straight guy you could always rely on as a comparison. We'd be having so much fun, then there'd be Dave, morose, out of place. We were certain he'd eventually commit suicide - we just weren't sure of the time and place.
Dave went on to Varsity while our school band, 'Swipe' petered out. He was doing science and history and didn't know whether he was going to be an astro-physicist or a history professor. He could do both if he liked.
Our guitarist, 'Rock' and I went on a series of motorbiking road trips that would leave us both hooked on smack. We drifted around various squalid flats, losing jobs and getting high, until he found a beautiful girlfriend and cleaned up.
A little later I, too, fell in love - with Dave's girlfriend. I contrived to hook up with her in a stunning bit of self-serving cunningness that even surprised me with it's success.
I felt a little bad, sure, but some things were meant to be. W and I remained together for 6 years and she probably saved my life. Dave never said anything but I know he was profoundly hurt. He cared for her a great deal.
I lost touch with Dave for a few years while I spent time in Europe. Eventually, though, I was to return and Dave and I met up again.
The change in him was unbelievable. From class nerd, he'd embraced punk rock with a passion. He now had a band, 'Domestic Blitz' that had been something of a pioneer on the scene in Wellington. He wore stove pipe trousers and jacket loaded with Union Jack buttons. He'd shaved his hair and clumped around in Doc Martin's.
Dave now had a vast circle of acquaintances and admirers including a fair number of women. The fact he never seemed to be interested in dating them led me to question his sexuality. They liked him - I couldn't see why - unless?
Dave also had a prodigious appetite for other people's stash - he took his Scottishness seriously. I'd kind of cleaned up - I was now the straight guy.
We never so much as talked as hung out, unless I primed him with a few scotches. Then he do 'morose' or ramble on about me being a 'bloody commie.' It bugged him and I'd blatantly tease him to death about it.
About the late seventies, I tried to regather my education and subsequently won a place at WTC. I took Drama and Geography as my majors and set about studying, taking odd jobs to pay for our house, be a daddy to our two children and work on a failing marriage. After a year, the strain was too much.
The roof of my domestic life fell in among much rancour and accusations. I called on Dave, depressed and desperate. He didn't know what to say - merely took me to some ghastly club where we sat on our own and got pissed. None of his friends were around - punk had metamorphised into New Wave and left him behind.
I thought he wasn't interested in my problems. Instead, he rambled on about nothing in particular and people I didn't know.
But, he did care. He got on the phone and rung people he knew would help. Soon, support arrived - support old Dave felt he was unable to offer personally. He hooked me back up with old friends and helped me reclaim some social life.
Later, I heard he'd gone on tour with Siouxie and the Banshees as - God knows what. He's also friends with Robert Smith of the Cure. Dave has a unique ability of coming on to celebrities without appearing a suck-up. He's also writes to Robert Fripp of King Crimson and the guy out of Van Der Graaf Generator - they write back, go figure?
He soldiers on someplace - probably back down in Wellington. Most likely he's in some job way below his skills so he doesn't have to break a sweat. If he'd topped himself I'd have heard on the grapevine.
I'll never forget the old bastard.
Don
Dave is probably the most intelligent person I have ever met. He has an encyclopedic memory and can recount what I was doing 5 years ago, date and time of day. That's no exaggeration - he really can, I've tested him.
We were nerds together through school. His dad had built him a shed out back of his place and we'd hide there with our ship models and history books away from our fucked up families.
Dave's family had a penchant for alcoholism and suicide that would see off one of his brothers and his father. His mother was heavily inebriated for most of his childhood and his other brother was a full time car thief. Not that Dave would ever talk about that - he'd rather talk about ancient Rome and the latest model of the Graf Spee.
We knew that Dave would go far. He'd pass with honours any exam placed in front of him and would continue to do so as my schooling unravelled amid a dizzying variety of pharmaceuticals.
Socially awkward, Dave would still come to our parties. He'd be hanging out the window lest he got a whiff of dope smoke.
Dave was perfect as the straight guy you could always rely on as a comparison. We'd be having so much fun, then there'd be Dave, morose, out of place. We were certain he'd eventually commit suicide - we just weren't sure of the time and place.
Dave went on to Varsity while our school band, 'Swipe' petered out. He was doing science and history and didn't know whether he was going to be an astro-physicist or a history professor. He could do both if he liked.
Our guitarist, 'Rock' and I went on a series of motorbiking road trips that would leave us both hooked on smack. We drifted around various squalid flats, losing jobs and getting high, until he found a beautiful girlfriend and cleaned up.
A little later I, too, fell in love - with Dave's girlfriend. I contrived to hook up with her in a stunning bit of self-serving cunningness that even surprised me with it's success.
I felt a little bad, sure, but some things were meant to be. W and I remained together for 6 years and she probably saved my life. Dave never said anything but I know he was profoundly hurt. He cared for her a great deal.
I lost touch with Dave for a few years while I spent time in Europe. Eventually, though, I was to return and Dave and I met up again.
The change in him was unbelievable. From class nerd, he'd embraced punk rock with a passion. He now had a band, 'Domestic Blitz' that had been something of a pioneer on the scene in Wellington. He wore stove pipe trousers and jacket loaded with Union Jack buttons. He'd shaved his hair and clumped around in Doc Martin's.
Dave now had a vast circle of acquaintances and admirers including a fair number of women. The fact he never seemed to be interested in dating them led me to question his sexuality. They liked him - I couldn't see why - unless?
Dave also had a prodigious appetite for other people's stash - he took his Scottishness seriously. I'd kind of cleaned up - I was now the straight guy.
We never so much as talked as hung out, unless I primed him with a few scotches. Then he do 'morose' or ramble on about me being a 'bloody commie.' It bugged him and I'd blatantly tease him to death about it.
About the late seventies, I tried to regather my education and subsequently won a place at WTC. I took Drama and Geography as my majors and set about studying, taking odd jobs to pay for our house, be a daddy to our two children and work on a failing marriage. After a year, the strain was too much.
The roof of my domestic life fell in among much rancour and accusations. I called on Dave, depressed and desperate. He didn't know what to say - merely took me to some ghastly club where we sat on our own and got pissed. None of his friends were around - punk had metamorphised into New Wave and left him behind.
I thought he wasn't interested in my problems. Instead, he rambled on about nothing in particular and people I didn't know.
But, he did care. He got on the phone and rung people he knew would help. Soon, support arrived - support old Dave felt he was unable to offer personally. He hooked me back up with old friends and helped me reclaim some social life.
Later, I heard he'd gone on tour with Siouxie and the Banshees as - God knows what. He's also friends with Robert Smith of the Cure. Dave has a unique ability of coming on to celebrities without appearing a suck-up. He's also writes to Robert Fripp of King Crimson and the guy out of Van Der Graaf Generator - they write back, go figure?
He soldiers on someplace - probably back down in Wellington. Most likely he's in some job way below his skills so he doesn't have to break a sweat. If he'd topped himself I'd have heard on the grapevine.
I'll never forget the old bastard.
Don
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