Your Daughter is with Us Pt.6

This is the story of a few Parisians, some of Chinese origin, others of French and mixed parentage. Some of the Chinese are or were undocumented, others have forged their way into French society. Some are blood relatives, others are bound by official documentation or unspoken agreement, pressure from and loyalties to distant dons.

I first met them through French friends of mine, a couple in Paris, long-time residents of the building where the drama unfolds. Occasionally I visit these friends; unfailingly they are gracious hosts. I started to write about them when I met one of their (now former) neighbours, a little girl I call Hua.

Previous posts about Xiao Hua’s life in Paris can be found here:

Pt 1 - May 31, 2007
Pt 2 - June 25, 2007
Pt 3 - September 14, 2007
Pt.4 – July 21, 2008
Pt.5 - May 14, 2009


As mentioned in Pt. 4, Hua and her family have moved house. My friends now have use of the space (once home to Hua, her parents - or at least the people now legally recognized as her parents - and then also to a baby brother), the room under the stairs originally used as a sweatshop, and they harbour resentment towards the French couple who they see as having sided with the landlord who evicted them. They don’t know that the wife negotiated to make sure the Chinese family received a pay-off in exchange for leaving.

Their story so far is better than many others. Not long after Hua’s detention, French police entered a first-floor apartment in the same neighborhood in search of a thief and/or stolen goods. A middle-aged Chinese woman on the premises jumped out of the window to avoid the police. She died in custody the next day.

Hua is now a young teenager. My friend runs into her only very occasionally on the street. The girl’s father turns up from time to time, looking gaunt, in a wheelchair. He has been ill for the past couple of years and a hospital resident, receiving treatment for tuberculosis – making him unable to work, but he has attained legal status in the country, at least temporarily. The status extends to his children, but not his wife. Last summer he went to China for two months with the children. He could never pay for the travel on his own, so one assumes he was performing a service for the network which brought him and the children out of China. Even as a sick man he was seen in Paris selling trinkets from a blanket on the pavement, perhaps encouraged to do so by influential figures in his daily life.

Meanwhile, the noise from the Chinese family upstairs (with windows opening onto the courtyard outside my friends’ apartment), introduced in Pt.5, dropped a few decibels when the (illegal) back-room gambling space where the father hosted games on Saturday night was moved to the street-side, the front. The back room is now the terrain of the 3 little sons. The oldest is about 9, and they are nearly identical, happy to communicate with my friend downstairs, squealing with delight when she responds to their proddings with ‘ni hao.’

The father is a professional gambler and a wife-beater. There have been fewer violent incidents since the night when my friend called the police. But the father does not like her. The boys, on the other hand, know that she intervened, and continue, when not pulled back inside by the mother, to greet my friend.

As mentioned previously, they all inhabit an old apartment complex with several stairwells rising inside two five-story buildings set back from the street, home to many dozens. A stone lane runs from the street door past older and lower row-homes straight back to the last stairwell. The key code to the street door had been passed around, and the dark area just inside had become a favourite haunt of local (Chinese) prostitutes and their Johns for their brief encounters. Before that, a brothel had flourished in one of the upstairs apartments, and the young women would chat and laugh with abandon as they came and went.

Eventually the landlord renovated the door area and supplied a new code. The prostitutes have stayed away. The entire building complex has had a facelift in recent months: outdoor walls and stairwells have been sanded, resurfaced, varnished and painted. Toxic fumes and dust plague the residents, but it’s good for the property.

At Lurline's Behest

From the International Letters Home Archive emerges correspondence between Lurline Birchum and her mother. The fonts in this typeset version appear to have been selected with the aim of replicating the appearance of the original handwritten version. It is unclear whether the earlier handwritten version was notated by Lurline herself or put on paper by another literate townsperson at Lurline's behest. The glossary with pronounciation guide indicates that reception of the letter would have been dependent on accurate phonetic delivery of the contents. In all their brevity, the documents offer poignant insights into small-town life.

Invigilation, Anarchy and Civilization

Laws and constitutions are subject to interpretation, that much we all understand by now. But when a Dutch lawyer confessed to me that nobody in Holland really knows exactly how many laws there are to begin with, because they’re all rumbling around in profusion on computer chips in The Hague, I wondered if this was an aspect which could at some point spawn unforeseen complications. Breaking the rules is a matter of pride in this country – so it would be nice to identify the limits - perhaps not nationwide, but certainly in Amsterdam, where violation of most recognized codes of behavior has become a code in its own right: hurtling along a crowded sidewalk on your bicycle, tossing a still-burning cigarette butt in the air. I’ve been confronted with challenges to the system, not only as a civilian on the street, but as the enforcer of exam roles, the protectress of the honest and the good. I have performed as the invigilator.

While presiding over distance-learners as their invigilator, I was often in one hall with dozens of individuals from various Dutch Provinces, Britain, Spain, Portugal, Nigeria, Cameroon, Thailand China, Pakistan, Russia, Poland and the Czech Republic. Most exam candidates were prompt, if not early, settled at their assigned desk in a state of concentration. Usually a small knot of desks in the middle would be empty until 5 minutes before the exam began. Suddenly the door would burst open and a noisy group of adult males – accountants doing the compulsory refresher course – would rush in to find their numbered seats, come to register at the front desk without the required papers, inquire whether it’s really necessary to sit at the numbered seats, smirk and roll their eyes at the reply, ask us to look up their seat numbers, slouch back to their seats, transfer plastic-sealed snacks and water bottles (allowed) from their bags (not allowed) to the desktop, etc. On one occasion, a young woman presented an expired (not allowed) passport as her photo ID, and returned triumphantly when the exam was over to show me the registration papers which stipulate that a photo ID is indeed required – but the word valid didn’t appear anywhere in the text.

Most of the candidates were impressive: young adults holding down full time jobs while they studied, preparing for promotions or for assignments overseas. The hours of quiet had great appeal, linked by a few sounds only: papers sliding on desks, the clicking of pens and soft tapping on calculators, the rare sniffle or sneeze.

Occasionally there was someone like the au-pair from New Zealand, sitting for ‘Chinese Literature and Society’. She finished early and as no other candidates were present that day, we talked. As a believer she had joined a Christian Church and had learned Dutch from reading the Bible. I told her about learning Dutch from reading newspapers when I first came to Amsterdam. When I started speaking the language, I sounded like a walking front-page article – full of a syntax which is effective in print, but less than convincing when applied in conversation. She told me yes, her Dutch did echo Scripture, but that she didn’t mind, and neither did most of her partners in conversation as they were members of the Congregation, too, where by the way she planned to linger for the foreseeable future. There was little to go back to, what with the Maori’s being coddled by the government and the foreigners getting all the breaks. I was sure she would fit in somewhere in NL, perhaps with the political party whose leader is now on trial for inciting hatred and discrimination. The nanny was uncertain about whether her visa would be extended and had decided to get a head-start on Chinese civilization in case she gets sent home – at least the Chinese are coming down and creating jobs, not just claiming them.

1001 Nights: Sports in Afghanistan

(Vacation Spirit 3rd and Final; Please see previous two posts for Vacation spirit 1 & 2)

Biomechanical analysis provides a breakdown of the race among the fastest men on earth. Click on the top photo for a closer look at the details. All related media coverage and commentary combine to make this a very lucrative 9.58 seconds, the time required by Usain Bolt to cover 100 meters at the 12th IAAF World Championships in Athletics in Berlin. Unfathomable grace and power are demonstrated by some runners. Bolt leads that particular pack at this time.

I should know. I watch as many qualifying heats as I can. Train-crouch-starter gun-speed, over and over again; useful for triggering and focussing my thoughts, especially while ironing clothes. Ironing is very satisfying as well, and I have a special bond with the activity, but that’s a different story.

The slowest men and women on earth are not competing in Berlin, but very slow racers do enter the heats. They hail from small places like Palau and Vanuatu, and from big places like Afghanistan. One male Afghan has competed at the Championships, and there is a young Afghan woman on the track. Her name is Robina Muqimyar.

Afghan women are on my mind. A few days ago, the Afghan government we (we know who we are) support voted in favour of a law which states that Shia women who refuse any sexual demands by their husbands can be deprived of food by their spouse. Fathers and grandfathers have exclusive guardianship of children, and a woman may not work outside of the home without her husband’s permission. A slightly different draft version of this law, basically approving rape within marriage, was taken back to the drawing boards under international pressure. Now, in the interests of stability (appeasing conservatives who are willing to participate in the political process), the new and improved version has been voted in. In areas of Afghanistan under Taliban control, girls’ schools have been shut down again and music stores bombed, but this new law promoting starvation applies to Shia women nationwide.

So when Robina appeared in the qualifying heats for the women’s 100m at the World Championships, I watched. She was off-screen for most of the 14+ seconds of her race, but I did catch a glimpse of her full-length pants and t-shirt with (short) sleeves. We know that she is 23 years old, an Afghan Olympian (already in 2004, but sort of by chance in 2008, when another runner sought political asylum in Norway weeks before the competition began). Run, Robina, run.

It’s true, look!
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/aug/14/afghanistan-womens-rights-rape

Your Daughter is with Us - Pt.5

When asked why I choose to live in Europe rather than in my native North America, I have on occasion been known to reply:

Things didn't work out that well over there. We're all coming back.

Just kidding! Some people laugh with me. Others are alarmed. Let's face it, this is basically an out-emigration continent, and it can take a while for both immigrants and natives to adjust.

An update from friends a few hours down the road in France: Hua was nine years old, an undocumented resident of Paris, when police picked her up in the metro and took her into custody a couple of years ago, triggering a recovery effort by French neighbors and social activists who succeeded in reuniting child with (undocumented) parents before the day was done.

Episodes 1-4 about Hua’s life in Paris are here:

Pt 1 - May 31, 2007
Pt 2 - June 25, 2007
Pt 3 - September 14, 2007
Pt.4 – July 21, 2008

Hua's release, on that first frightening night, became possible when the Chinese-made document declaring little Hua to be living in the company of her legal parents was declared acceptable by the French authorities responsible for minors. The 'document' was certainly as valid as the flimsy ‘lease’ provided by the French landlord. Nevertheless, when the landlord decided things were getting too hot under his feet, he forced Hua, a new baby brother and her parents out of the shack under the stairwell of the apartment complex.

It would have been hard to relocate to something worse. And indeed, they moved to a place with more light, and then moved again, to a place with two rooms, allowing the parents to rent out one of the rooms to a single Chinese man. Hua continues to attend school and her French has improved enough for her to describe her displeasure with the fact that she is now, at age 11, home alone in the afternoon and evenings (her mother works until late in the evening and the father has been hospitalized), taking care of her baby brother while in the company of this male lodger. She doesn’t like him very much. She didn’t say why.

Meanwhile, my friend, who still lives in the building where Hua and her parents lived until the baby was born, has befriended a pair of little Chinese boys who live upstairs in an apartment with windows opening to a view of my friend’s door below. The boys have discovered that they can come and chat with her if she is at her ground-floor window, but more importantly, that she will help if their drunken father begins to beat up their mother. My friend once called the police on him, and believes that her presence might not save the mother from beatings, but it might keep her alive. The boys no longer feel trapped and alone upstairs when violence breaks out – they can fling open their window and call down to their new French friend.

Immigration issues are sticky wickets all around Europe, and with elections for the European Parliament coming up soon, the anti-foreigner temperature is rising. On this blog, on March 3, 2008 (see: A Win-Win Situation), I stated that the right-wing Dutch PVV Freedom Party was losing some of its steam. I was dead wrong! A recent poll of political parties positioned the PVV as the FRONT-RUNNER, the largest party in the Netherlands. Polls can be off the mark, but few will dispute the staying power of this anti-immigration anti-Islam group. If the poll is accurate and if the PVV does expand to the point of qualification for inclusion in a government coalition - who knows what will happen? A number of (centrish and leftish) parties have vowed to never enter into a coalition with the PVV, the Dutch variant on anti-foreigner fevers registering throughout Europe.

If only there was more time. My native North America has its own new immigration problems to solve, but some of the old ones worked themselves out. If people just pile in decade after decade, stuff happens.

In New York’s East Village I lived on a Ukranian block where the women wore headscarves while scrubbing the front steps of our apartment buildings. Baseball games were organized during quiet hours on the street by the tiny Puerto Rican grocery store mid-block. We were all watched over by the self-appointed neighbourhood guards, the Jamaican Rasta’s, who scared off purse-snatchers and other ne’er-do-wells at all hours of the day and night.

These were old tenement buildings originally constructed without any sanitary facilities. Rodent control experts occasionally made the rounds. I was in a conundrum one day when I couldn’t get one such expert, a huge, friendly guy now living in a New York suburb, to leave, after he performed his anti-rodent duties. His reluctance to depart had nothing to do with me (or the mice) – he was overcome with nostalgia. The big man shed tears at my table as he described having grown up in a railroad apartment similar to mine, with the whole family jammed into two rooms. He came through the rough & tumble well and did what most do: he emigrated to a more spacious environment nearby, with an entire house for his own family, and a lawn to mow.

It's just not the same as being all close with your family and neighbors, all the time, and those stories of making do with less are not very interesting to my kids.

Maybe later on, when they’re bigger?

That, too, takes time.

One Small Victory in the Bailout Era

I have two months to study this brochure and determine whether or not I qualify for the $35,000,000 (thirty-five million dollars) class action settlement from Bank of America. As it stands, I think I have to send them a letter either way: I can include myself or exclude myself. I think. 35-mln, peanuts these days, especially for what will in all likelihood turn out to be a pretty big class, but the tiny trickle of funds into my account has produced a balance modest enough to encourage an accommodating attitude towards any additions which may arrive, so I'll reread the brochure. It arrived unrequested in the mail. I didn't ask for it.

Having skimmed through once or twice, it doesn't look good, in fact, because I don't have a Bank of America debit card, but like I said, there's time to comb the fine print. I do have other credit cards occasionally in use, and recently I had an interesting experience related to personal finance and customer relations.

A letter from the credit card (CC) company arrived informing me that unfortunate transactions had occurred involving their lists of CC numbers and illegitimate participants in global markets, who might be planning to incur costs on others' accounts. Mine. For this reason, I would be receiving a new CC from them and could cut up the old one.

I called them to ask for more information. Specifically, I thought it opportune to inquire about the way in which my CC number might have been targetted. Where had this occurred?

That's confidential. We are not going to tell you that, as it could lead you to avoid doing business with the enterprise in question in the future. The fraud was no fault of their own, and these businesses are our clients. They must be able to rely on confidentiality at all times!

Oh, even as a small CC-holder, I'm a client, too. Aren't I? Don't I have a right to know what's happening with my miniscule account, especially if something goes wrong? It's my card, after all.

It's not your card. WE own it.

Actually, your company earns quite a reasonable rate of interest on anything that transpires involving the card which bears my name. If you wish to keep me as a client, you might want to respond to my request for transparency in a more civilized tone. But you sound quite angry and upset, so I think I'll just thank you so much for your time and get off the phone now and send a letter to your office.

You DO that. The letter will arrive on my desk and I'll answer you with the EXACT same information.

I sustained this tranquil mode while composing a short letter which now included both my original message and my disappointment at having heard that CC-holders were viewed as second-class clients. I never did receive an answer on paper, but the letter evidently landed on someone else’s desk, because within a few days, the phone rang, and a different voice from the CC-company greeted me in the most cordial of tones.

It is most regrettable that you were left with the impression that certain clients are more valuable than others. We are really in a bind here. I hope you can understand.

I do understand. If I were investigating this subject, I guess I would somehow gain access to the information about potential dangers to CC-accounts. Now of course I am not conducting an investigation - even though I am experienced in the field of journalism; I could forward you some of my work if you'd like - but I must stand by the principle of having a right to know what goes wrong when it goes wrong out in world of retail and apparently I’m involved.

I don't think anyone mentioned retail.

Well, you mean it wasn't retail?

And so forth. This quite pleasant conversation continued with the utmost respect from and towards both parties. At a certain point, disclosure of both the geographical and retail locations became inevitable, as we agreed that principled action and accurate exchange of knowledge was the most fulfilling premise for all business relations. I truly believe that this second young man from the CC-company had a new professional experience on the phone that day, disclosing the information which his company was not supposed to provide. In doing so, we sealed a deal based on trust. I vowed that I would never report having found out the name and location of the store where my CC-details were fed into a crime ring.

I Promise You

Some good news in the final weeks of 2008: this Polish-language sign was removed from the window of a store in my Amsterdam neighbourhood. I do not read Polish (please see http://lifebeforenews.blogspot.com/2007/06/no-vocabulary.html) but upon inquiring inside was told that it warned potential shop-lifters of the presence of security camera’s. Theft had become a major problem for retailers in 2008; a majority of those caught came from Eastern Europe. Polish was selected as the most effective language of deterrence. I will eventually ask why the sign was removed. For the moment, I’m banking on a cheerful explanation: robberies were down/the shop-owners decided not to stigmatize Poles/the sign did not enhance the Holiday mood.

The Holiday Season began to gather steam for me in the post-Thanksgiving and Sint Maarten period, as Dutch Muslims were gathering for the Eid al-Adha and others had just celebrated Sinterklaas, which I acknowledged at a weekend dinner party held mostly in anticipation of Chanukah at the home of a non-observant Jewish friend who grew up celebrating Christmas in Pennsylvania in the USA. There are those who would launch the winter celebrations in October with Halloween, running straight on past Chinese New Year (I have been advised to muster up lots of patience for the Year of the Ox) beyond the Ides of March and, why not, into Easter.

At the dinner party, we had a heated discussion about whether the City of Amsterdam is acting wisely in reducing soft-drug trade and red-light areas for prostitution. Arguments were made for protection of and health care for prostitutes to prevent their disappearance into illegal brothels where trafficked women (most are women, majority trafficked) and men from all over the world are held against their will. The economy of Amsterdam is fed not just by museum-goers and lovers of Indonesian food, but also significantly by soft-drug visitors from neighboring countries, Brits on wild weekends, and by hooker-gawkers from around the globe, including families who link hands with grandparents and kids, stroll by the windows and stare at the women as though studying an amusement park theme. Visitors also have a chance to stroll around sex-shops, such as the one just visible in the photo above, across from the store that had displayed the warning sign in Polish.

Still at the dinner party, a gay man, a long-time resident of Amsterdam, said he fears that a conservative crackdown on prostitution would damage the local economy and eventually result in correspondingly conservative anti-gay backlash-legislation. So!..If you plan to visit Amsterdam in the New Year, even as a one-day cruise ship visitor or a transit passenger at Schiphol Airport, do enjoy the architecture, museums, music, harbour ferries and good coffee! The city is already transitioning into a revised self – which would include less exploitation of women from far-off lands – it just hasn’t yet decided how to pay for it, what with so much money being allocated to over-budget transportation projects and the like. Give a call if you pass through town. I promise to show you a good time! Happy 2009!

It all comes together - even now

Interludes with friends aside, there were only two moments on that long day of travel and conversation in and around Havana when I felt that everything came together: during the regular broadcast of the nation’s favorite soap opera, and later on, at the police station. Apart from those two interludes, it was disjointed - in a normal way, like any series of encounters where people wonder if the other was really who he or she claimed to be, if the stated reason for being present was the guiding or subordinate thought and if the apparent pleasure in the other’s company was feigned or genuine. At the time, I was concerned that further disclosure of the police encounter could lead to problems for various parties. Enough time has passed, and now we could, in theory, all rub shoulders as we struggle to read a barely legible document.

The better part of the day had been devoted to a visit outside of the capital, where I saw medical facilities for foreigners and a small museum on the coast honoring local heroes. Conversations and background sound were recorded along the entire route. We made it back to the hotel in time for me to trot over to a street in the old part of the city where I was able to slowly walk along, microphone in hand, passing all of the windows open to private homes where, without exception, televisions were turned onto the favorite telenovela (soap opera) of the moment. Everyone had turned up the volume full blast and the dialogues resonated beautifully against the old walls. It was a very satisfying few minutes, and I now expect that this was the walk that triggered my interest in the acoustic properties of clay.

Later on that evening, I sat on the Malecon, the boulevard at the water’s rocky edge, talking with a friend, doing what everyone else was doing: enjoying conversation and a bit of a breeze after another day of intense heat. My bag with all notes and recording gear was at my side on the wall, and then suddenly it wasn’t, having been snatched by a large boy or small man who ran away and jumped onto the back of a waiting bicycle which wobbled off towards the old city center.

My friend ran after them in pursuit, but they were fast. They vanished into blocks of unlit streets, but not without dropping a shoe, and when the police arrived, the shoe was handed over to the sniffer dog unit. The healthiest-looking dog in Havana, a German Shepherd, picked up the scent and rushed to the entrance of one of the side streets. He then raised his head in confusion at the spot where the perp had lost contact with the ground by leaping onto the bicycle.

Several more attempts were made before the operation was called off. I was offered the opportunity of registering the event with the police. Down at the station at 2 a.m., we were received by a very tired policewoman who inserted paper into an ancient typewriter and began asking questions about the incident and pounding the keys. As the sheet of paper came to resemble an embossed monograph more than an official report, I understood why her efforts were so fierce: the typewriter ribbon was worn out and almost no ink was being hammered onto the paper by the keys. The veteran policewoman whipped the report out of the machine and laid it on the desk to acquire all needed signatures, telling me not to worry, that everything would be legible once a photocopy had been made of this original. This was the last passport theft I would report before becoming a dual national.

Tom Hanks and Charlie Sheen: True Crime Pt.2

Pt.1 - please see September 27, 2008.

No pen and paper was at hand, so the young man suggested that I use my cell phone to write down the information he was about to share. We met by chance, two customers in overcoats standing in the True Crime section of a bookstore in Glasgow. I scanned all the shelves; he noticed, smiled and asked if he could help. Typical, I thought to myself, of local people extending themselves in a friendly way. I explained that I was looking for two books related to the notorious Glasgow Ice Cream Wars in the 1980’s. The name covers turf-wars in rougher neighbourhoods over routes followed by ice cream trucks, whose owners stood to rake in attractive profits from the sale of stolen cigarettes, candies and according to some sources, drugs. Whatever the products, violence shaped the culture, and the Wars peaked with the deaths of six members of one family, including a baby, in a house fire. People were convicted and jailed, their sentencing and imprisonment later declared a miscarriage of justice. Two books have appeared on this saga, but the books are hard to find.

Still smiling, the source tilted his head and minced no words: You probably won’t find them in shops, they’re, uh, not usually available. Try the internet. He spelled out the full titles and authors’ names and watched me tap the data into my phone. I told him that I had looked in branch libraries, where a librarian had confided that True Crime titles tend to go missing in Glasgow. Protecting these books from theft has become a matter of library policy. My search of their catalogue reported the titles as On Loan or In Transit, catalogue code for Missing or Stolen, facts revealed when the librarian smirked as she scrutinized her more detailed in-house screen: The books have been missing from all of those libraries for several years. We used to fill the shelves with empty boxes bearing the cover, just like they do with DVD’s and videotapes. My interest was piqued, and she quickly shut down her search.

The entry on my phone was complete. Why are you so interested in finding these books, if I may ask? I paused in surprise, but my hesitation was misunderstood: Never mind, you don’t have to explain. I had been wondering why he knew so much about it, and I was happy to reply: I’ve been struck by Glasgow’s combination of such a forthcoming and humorous population with its legacy of hard crime. I had been reminded of Colombians, whose graciousness, hospitality and good manners are unsurpassed, in a country suffering from decades of violent civil conflict which, according to the UN, generated the largest humanitarian crisis in the Western Hemisphere just a few years ago. I didn’t say all of that, of course, but paused again, hoping he would show his cards. My book friend just beamed as he backed away: You’re rrrright. Kind of a contradiction. Oh well, must go, catch ya later.

An internet search soon afterwards did turn up second-hand copies of both books. Before purchasing, I wanted to see these tomes, and made my way to the main library where they were both stocked in the reference section. Correction: held in compound. As in libraries everywhere, certain books are produced for viewing under supervision only, and so I was guided past a turnstile to the special area where another librarian produced the titles, after acknowledging, with a twinkle in her eye, that our readers do tend to love to hold onto their True Crime titles.

My reading experience in Glasgow coincided with and was enhanced by the Crime Thriller Awards Season on television, a full seven weeks devoted to the work of crime writers. The series has featured profiles of the nominees, one of whom explained that English crime writing tends to be lighter and less bloody, while Scottish crime and thriller stories are darker and grimmer. Scotland’s crime series par excellence is Taggart, a program which branded the pronunciation of the word murder. The series does well abroad, and in the French version, the lead Detective has been given a Marseille accent. No other regional sound would convey the toughness required by the job. My reading experience has also been deepened by the airing of a TV special celebrating 25 years of Taggart. Its enduring popularity, say the makers, is due to both its ingenious stories and gruesome deaths. Actors are admired, but the city of Glasgow itself is one of the main characters – not its contemporary cosmopolitan side, but the traditional grit and humor.

The Taggart special was Sponsored by the Barra’s – Scotland’s local market. When I visited this street market maze, I was told by a local woman that it was still nice five years ago, but that now drug-related crime was making her nervous. I rode a city bus far into Glasgow’s East End, where many of the most difficult neighborhoods lie. Massive urban regeneration efforts are underway across the zone in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games in 2014, but there’s a lot of terrain to cover. When I reached the last area shown on the generous map in my hands, I got off at a local shopping center, a tiny, economically-challenged precursor to other giant malls closer to town. Community facilities are hard to find out here. When gang violence took over in the 1970’s, outsiders arrived to stage a production of Romeo and Juliet. Professionals filled the main roles, and kids brought in off the streets as extras understood the spirit of the play, with little explanation required.

An elderly woman was seated on a low brick wall outside the back entrance, with a view of the dingy apartment buildings dotting the hills beyond like forgotten bales of hay. Have a seat, Dearie, plenty of room here. She clutched shopping bags and smoked a cigarette, before I take a taxi back home, she volunteered. I live in a village nearby. This place is going to close down soon, there’s too many shops closing because of the recession. You having a nice visit here, are you? That’s lovely. Yes, Tom Hanks and Charlie Sheen like Glasgow, too – well, they didn’t come out here, they were in hotels in the center, but I heard they liked it.

I’m not sure what brought Tom Hanks to Glasgow, but about 10 years ago Charlie Sheen played an alcoholic detective from the USA chasing a serial murderer in Scotland. The good and the bad have broad appeal. Even Barack Obama pays homage, as we found out thanks to Katie Couric from CBS, who asked the presidential candidates to name their favourite movies.

Obama: My favorite has to be the opening scene of the first Godfather – where the caretaker comes in and Marlon Brando is sitting there and he is saying ‘you disrespected me, and now you want a favour’ …the combination of old world gentility and ritual with this savagery underneath it, and it’s all about families, it’s a great movie.

True Crime Pt.1

As a newcomer to the streets of Glasgow, I’ve been charmed by the one the friendliest urban populations I’ve encountered anywhere. If tribal registration standards were applied in Scotland, I would qualify in terms of bloodlines, reinforcing my perception that the willingness of Glaswegians to engage with a stranger is not a mere courtesy extended to an obvious foreigner. A quip on a street corner, chit-chat in shops or a wee bit of banter when caught in the rain – that’s all par for the course. If I do ask for help, the experience generally highlights endearing individuals, from the bus driver who bellowed out the name of my stop in beautifully baroque Glaswegian tones, prompting surrounding passengers to whisk me to the door with smiles, to the young lad who thanked me after he pointed the way to a destination I was seeking.

Another charming soul replied Yes, the handcuffs sell well. Children love them. She was proud, and rightly so, of working in the gift shop at the People’s Palace in Glasgow, a social history museum with powerful displays, ranging from reconstruction of the humblest of dwellings to a lady’s elegant shoes and gloves. Tobacco Lords fuelled Glasgow’s growth in the 1700’s; ship-building followed. Living conditions for working class people were never good, and industrial decline in the 20th-century led to unemployment, urban decay and organized crime. The People’s Palace is surrounded by gentle green slopes bordering the River Clyde, but the city’s most deprived neighbourhoods are not far away.

Glasgow is rich in cutting-edge culture and world-famous architecture. A smattering of reports, however, have cast a shadow: the most unhealthy people in the UK live here, where there’s little sun; life expectancy is the lowest in Western Europe; the majority of Scotland’s poorest areas, with their criminal gangs, are in this city; and the fires of sectarianism are fanned all too frequently at local sporting events. This reference to endemic problems is offensive to inhabitants who believe that local heritage deserves more attention. Regeneration efforts are everywhere, as in the tour organized by one local official who decided it was time to let people see the brighter side of life in the much maligned Easterhouse area: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/7626004.stm

Preview: Pt.2 (October 4, 2008) takes me to the True Crime section of a large bookstore in the center of town, where I set about searching for two books on a case that first rocked Glasgow in the 1980’s. You might be surprised, as I was, to find out why it's hard to get copies of the books today.

Let me count the ways

When I first caught sight of it, the sign was tacked to a wall in a shady corridor of the Municipal Judicial Authorities building in Kandy, கண்டி, a Sri Lankan mountain town. The three alphabets were graceful together; the colors enhanced by age. The message seemed either absolutely effective (the setting couldn’t have been quieter) or perfectly located, like a stage direction conveying a desired atmosphere which had been attained long ago.

A third possibility was to read it as a confirmation or announcement: This is silence, or as close to it as you’ll get for the time being. We walked into the building before office hours began, just passing by the Judge’s office for reasons which had remained unexplained, slowing down after a pre-dawn rush to the Buddhist Temple in Kandy where the faithful protect a tooth relic from the Buddha himself.

The Judge, the kindest person you could ever hope to meet, had picked me up at the guesthouse and run alongside of me in his loose sandals to the temple. He did this as a favor to his sister, a close family friend of a friend of mine in Colombo, but still, I had anticipated an element of formality in the temple expedition: a dignified stroll at the end of the night, slipping into the temple by a narrow entryway where religious supervisors would screen visitors with practiced looks.

Instead, the Judge rushed up to the guesthouse and bumped into the edge of the wooden porch several times as he greeted me, his crisp, white shirt contrasting with dark curly hair which even careful grooming with coconut oil, evident in the gleaming parallel locks, could not prevent from tumbling onto his forehead and cheek. In the dim light he looked like a schoolboy, ready for anything.

We said Must run! simultaneously and bounded across the garden lawn, arriving nevertheless too late at the temple, where the staff presumably recognized the Judge and allowed us to rush along the corridor as quietly as possible, only to reach the inner chamber housing the tooth relic just as the golden casket was again being sealed, leaving us to share this moment of disappointment with the smiling priests still bent over the treasure.

Which brings me to the fourth possible interpretation of the sign – which I fell in love with at first sight – hanging on the wall when we entered the Municipal building. Option #4 was conveyed by the figure of the apologetic man, a respected figure in this town who probably seldom failed in the execution of his duties. He shrugged just once and showed me inside without saying a word, the look of boyish anticipation gone from his face. As early as it was, we were warm from our exertions, ready for the cool interior, but the fine air seemed to cover the scene with a tinge of sadness rather than relief. The Judge padded around his office, with less urgency now, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards. I understood that this was a time for no conversation. I didn’t know how his relationship with his sister, his stature as a Judge, his religious convictions and relationship with the caretakers of this most sacred of sites were intertwined and how they all weighed in the balance.

I busied myself with a long, close stare at the sign. (This must have been when without a sound he slipped a small object into his pocket, producing it much later in the morning when he finally smiled widely again and opened his hand and peeled back tissue paper, which no longer crackled in the considerable heat, to reveal a small carved elephant, the beast central to the magnificent annual Perahera procession which appears to go on in spite of all extenuating circumstances) The Judge emerged, closed his office door and noted my focus on the wall, whereupon he offered to give me the sign without the slightest hesitation. They wouldn’t miss it in this quiet place, he assured me.

Fortunately I usually carried then as I do now a protective folder for flat, loose sheets of paper or objects, and I was able to slip the flaky cardboard rectangle into a cool, dry case for transport in my cotton shoulder bag. This was not the first time that I was able to make off with a sign.

An Extremely Brief Technical Reference

From left to right:

Who wants to answer a call when the number is withheld?

For the duration of a 23-minute skype call with a far-off friend, Skype tried to lure me to their online store by saying that the audio wasn't working.

Another Martha Hawley on IMDb has stolen my only film role and I want it back, but so far no luck.

(for a 'Very Brief Technical Reference,' see August 4, 2007)

All Tar No Feathers

I tried to get a specific and clear appraisal of the roof problem from the plumber-turned-roof repairman still lingering in the doorway before he bolted down the stairs and vanished. I say ‘bolt’ because of his surname, which translates into English as “Rabbit,” and I imagined him, reluctant as he had been to use the ladder leading to the skylight roof access, applying equal strength of feeling to the moment of departure. We had climbed up onto the flat roof shared by adjoining buildings, hoping to see an obvious explanation of the new leakage once again leaving a delta of dark stains on my ceiling. There was in fact nothing at all ‘rabbity’ about the man, a lanky Dutchman with a broad, confident smile, unless one considers his enjoyment of conversation in a negative light. I did not. I was surprised, in several ways (mainly because he had initially politely turned down the customary offer of coffee/tea after descending from the roof and then suddenly said ‘Well let’s have that cup of tea’ when I persisted in my efforts to extract some meaning from this excursion to the roof, part of a long drawn-out sequence of viewings, assessments, e-mails, conversations and shoveling of roof debris into garbage bags), but my surprise diminished with the subsequent observation that his eagerness to converse found quite coherent expression.
The subject matter, it must be said, was changed almost immediately, from the roof dilemma to intercommunal frictions in the Netherlands. He asked for my opinion of an anti-immigration/anti-Islam Dutch Parliamentarian who attracts considerable attention with his inflammatory remarks about not only Muslims in general and their Holy Book in particular, but about most of his left-of-center colleagues and Her Majesty the Queen as well, remarks which have considerable following in the Netherlands, as demonstrated by his emphatic victory at the polls. In reply, I acknowledged that the Parliamentarian was successful in occupying the limelight but in the end must be seen as mostly destructive, prescribing more sanctions against those he did not like than solutions for problems facing us all. “Mr. Rabbit” revealed that he is a loyal Christian Democrat at election time, but one who is not indifferent to the persuasive arguments of the right-wing rabble-rouser, the only person addressing his anxieties experienced on the street where he lives when surrounded by roughly-hewn individuals of North African descent, most of whom do not appear to like him. Some of whom get away with very bad behaviour, when what is needed is severe punishment for their crimes, as demonstrated by the outbreak of extreme violence in Iraq following the defeat of the dictator Saddam Hussein. These people, he said, without wishing to offend anybody, clearly need to have the lid kept on tight, and if things do get a bit out of hand, force should be used to maintain order.
The conversation had shifted considerably from the moment in the doorway when I was intent upon gleaning something, anything, useful in thinking further about the roof. I tried in vain to return to the subject of repair, talking about the more recent efforts on the roof next to ours. I offered to show him the video I had made of the East European workers loading up the rubbish container under the supervision of a Dutch team leader, who became nervous when I popped up through the skylight and began documenting their labors which involved, with our permission, use of our roof space for their supplies.

The plumber didn’t want to see the video, so I tried to get him back on the topic of the disposal of roof rubble, which, in our case, had been left in our hands. The City Waste Collection Service, I had been told, will not retrieve roof debris containing dirt and vegetation as it could hold toxic waste. We had a dozen or so bags needing transport to a different kind of disposal lot, where the license plates of approaching cars are computer-checked as the driver approaches the entrance gate to verify the address of the owner and confirm eligibility for that particular dumping site. We never got that far, because someone bribed the city garbage collectors that same morning and they removed the whole lot. I don’t blame them for a minute. The garbage collectors receive little thanks for what they do, and the ultimate sham was perpetrated by the City itself, when a series of posters were printed in expression of gratitude towards these people. The words (in translation) “Thanks Joe!” (or other names, depending on the picture) accompanied images of smiling, handsome street cleaners and rubbish collectors - later exposed as male models! The workmen themselves weren't good enough? Some thanks. I had hoped to engage the plumber on these and other issues, but a pot of tea only goes so far.

My Aunt and General Noriega

Lots of snow had fallen by 6 p.m. that day. We drove along the hilly Connecticut roads flanked by magical scenes. Majestic trees, stone walls lining the slopes, the front porches of wooden homes - even the vast parking lots at shopping malls were beautiful under the snow.

I had lived in Amsterdam for a decade and my daughter was born there, so the New England winter scene was nothing short of spectacular for us both. Amsterdam winters are mild, and if it does snow, I rush to an upper-story window to watch the airborne flakes. More often than not, they melt before reaching the ground.

Another difference: the snow in Connecticut that day was heavy enough to weigh down pine branches and restrict car routes to those which had been shoveled free, but the point was - the roads and entrances to lots had indeed been cleared for traffic. The Netherlands leads the pack in protecting human infrastructure against the sea, but a light dusting of snow inevitably overburdens road-clearing resources each time.

Nevertheless, progress was slow on the drive back to my Mother’s home. By sometime after 6 o’clock, the rental van needed gas and we needed a snack, so on December 20, 1989, my daughter and I ate hotdogs sold at a roadside service station in the USA. This was possibly her first real hotdog. No one would dare serve second-rate dogs to Connecticut motorists, and these were really good. I kept the receipt, and used it to note the day's historic importance before tucking it into my wallet.

We drove on, happy with the warm food, the exotic setting and with each other’s company. The car radio was another source of pleasure, with Connecticut’s Hispanic stations a major attraction to both me and my half-Colombian daughter. That day, we listened to less music than usual because the invasion of Panama by U.S. forces dominated the news. I was appreciative of the listening time carved out by the car ride. My normal attention to radio and TV news is always interrupted on the road, especially during family visits.

The news was not surprising: another U.S.-backed agent in Latin America was being taken down. It took a few days to capture General Noriega, allowing time for the image of his face to take on a dartboard function in the press and on TV. All reports backed the notion that Noriega was big, nasty fish, that it was worth killing people to get him and that his removal would pave the way for government by virtue. Noriega’s pock-marked face drew derision nationwide.

Many, many Panamanians died as a result of the invasion. To the extent that I was able to tune into mainstream TV and radio during that period - I heard no one questioning U.S. motive or strategy. Friends and family, even those attached to critical, left-ish causes in the past - they were either indifferent towards or enthusiastic about the assault on Noriega. Articulate, well-educated individuals sneered at his bad complexion. The only exception was my Aunt, my daughter’s Great-Aunt, who we had visited that day in the Connecticut countryside.

My daughter had rolled in the snow like a pup, bending over to rub her long dark hair in the fresh drifts, shrieking with delight as she jumped up and whipped her head around. I was deeply happy, seeing her delirious in play, and remembering being a small child myself on those same hills, where my lanky woodsman Uncle would glide along on snowshoes in order to pull my sled. The final packing before moving from this home was happening that week in December. This chance at a final romp was pure coincidence.

My Aunt was my father’s baby sister. Clan complexities had imposed a fairly formal grid on our communications, and that day was not much different. While my daughter rushed around in celebration of all that was new and snowy and beautiful, I cautiously asked my Aunt what she thought about the invasion of Panama. She felt that truth was being withheld by the government, and she questioned the legality of propping up a leader elsewhere and then ferociously bringing him down, asking U.S. citizens to back both campaigns. Our conversations expanded into other fields after that day.

Global Local Something Like This Pt.1

The globe you see was made by imprisoned Sinhalese Marxists sometime before December 1993, when it came into my hands as a gift from a therapist in the Sri Lankan capital Colombo. This therapist worked with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) sufferers, including combat and torture survivors. Among his patients were leftist Sinhalese nationalists seized during anti-government uprisings.

Once in prison, these Marxist-Leninists were encouraged by occupational therapists to make globes out of papier-mâché, an excellent paper and glue precursor to plastic, lightweight but sturdy. (Nevertheless, as a precaution I carried it in my hand luggage on the return flight home)

There is something supremely optimistic about mustering up the energy and curiousity from inside a jail on a war-shattered island to produce a replica of our planet. At the same time, this particular group was indeed part of a movement which ascribed to world revolution. Small-scale globe production could be seen as a valuable pastime behind bars. As you can see, Leningrad has not yet been renamed as St. Petersburg on this object, suggesting either that it was made before the name switch in 1991 or that a Trotskyite craftsperson chose to ignore this minor detail.

Many accurate placenames are correct, others are correct but misspelled, and still others attest to bold flights of the imagination: Algeria is fine, while Balgeria, Hungeria and Yogoslo are evidence of the will to try. Interrupted education shines through (in fact perhaps they hadn't yet heard about Leningrad being dropped from the list), with Switzarland alluding to imperial pasts, albeit not of the alpine variety. Unite Kingdom Britain, an irreverent amalgamation of often inaccurately interchanged names relating to the former colonial power, could be the opening verse of a church hymn. It’s not, of course, but then again, Protestant missionaries have run many a school on this isle, so they can't be ruled out.

Your Daughter is with Us Pt.3

In parts 1 & 2 (see May and June archive) Hua was introduced as the 9-year old illegal Chinese immigrant, picked up by police on the streets of Paris, taken into custody, and released into the custody of her parents that same evening thanks to the intervention of alert neighbors and experienced social activists in the ‘quartier.’ An estimated 50,000 illegal children are in France, where solidarity with their plight is strong in this country still saddled with the memory of Jewish children lost through collaboration with the Nazi’s. Hua and her family - now four in total, following the birth of a baby boy - still live behind the last door on the ground floor of an old apartment complex at the end of a stone lane which extends from the street and runs past several stairwells providing access to separate buildings.
Hua lives with her brother and parents in a space owned by an absentee but not unknown landlord, who lives well renting properties - at least 80 others, he says - such as this box-with-a-skylight and other more conspicuous and more profitable premises in the red-light district. They won’t, however, be there much longer: the landlord is selling the property, claiming that electrical and other features are sub-standard. Selling allows him to avoid either a fine or the costs of renovation. Acknowledging the defects allows him to evict, and illegal tenants have no recourse.

Before Hua and her family lived there the space was a 24-hour work space for seamstresses. So now, for the neighbors, the idea of a noisy sweatshop with new streams of human traffic replacing the family is unappealing. Hua’s mother told me that she hopes to be able to stay in the neighborhood so that her daughter doesn’t have to change schools. I told her I understood her predicament, having faced deportation and eviction notices in the Netherlands when I was a new immigrant there.

Typed Like He Talked

He was the most professional newsreader on the night shift at the radio. His colleagues preparing to read the news (to other listeners, in other languages) routinely entered the soundproof booth way in advance to shuffle papers, sift through the news items to locate pronunciation hurdles and to fumble with the soundboard knobs in the minutes leading up to a broadcast. Throats were cleared, tissues and water set near the mute button by the microphone, the double doors firmly secured to increase the intensity of the concentration. But he always strolled in at the very last minute, never late, slipped into the chair and found the bulletin on the table. A swift flip through the sheets of paper as if separating a deck of cards, and he read the stories on air, sight unseen, without hesitation.

A veteran sports announcer back at home in the Southern Cone, he survived for a time as a dissident and eventually fled to Europe where he was granted political asylum in Holland. Presiding over broadcasts to his continent of origin provided steady work, but it was too easy and what he really wanted to do was to return to live football commentary. When the opportunity to apply for this work arose in Spain, he was nervous for the first time in years. To prepare for the interview and announcing test, he sat in front of his TV during a live football game, turned off the sound, and recorded his own roared commentary on the players, their moves, the scores, prospects for the season and club histories, all of which he understood profoundly. There was no hesitation here either, and the only word which received extra time and, astoundingly, even more volume, was ‘GOOOOOOOOAL!’ The neighbors in his Dutch apartment building were concerned, and they called the police, who were relieved to discover that the man who had been shouting non-stop was unaccompanied. They silenced him that day, so there really was only one practice session, but he got the job in Spain, and sent a few letters, which rang true.

Very Brief Technical Reference

My bank's website provides information which is apparently legal in one language and 'without legal force' in another. I do not immediately understand what is so 'convenient' about this arrangement, but I'm sure there's a very good explanation. Previous correspondence with the bank concerning their designer use of Arabic texts led to an impasse (please see blogs of May 25, June 5), and I will not pursue this particular point any further with their offices.