The Apprentice

The Apprentice is on tonight and I am not watching it. I know that may be unforgivable by some... the diehard fans of this show but I refuse to be part of that apparent majority that look forward to the bullying, belligerant behaviour of a millionaire hard headed man of business. And I do not want to be part of the voyeurism that pits working colleagues against each other to the point where they will cruelly twist the truth, stab in the back while smiling in the face, in the name of defending their right to stay in the running to the very bitter end. As audiences lap up the poor creatures squirming and wriggling their way through the paces of task, result and who should be fired, I can't help but feel alarmed at the values this programme is teaching and wonder at how this makes popular prime time television. But that is what it is.. great television...pulling in the viewers in their thousands...even millions. So you watch it if you wish and when you find out who the unfortunate soul is that gets fired this week, let them know for me that they are well out of it. Why do young impressionable, vain, boastful young men and women think it is such a great honout to work for a man whose sole motive is the almighty pound, how to make more of it and how to be ruthless, callous, merciless for the job of a lifetime.

An Evening with Kate Mosse

At the Redbridge Book and Media Festival this evening was a visit by Kate Mosse, the writer of the epic historical novels Labyrinth and Sepulchre. It was a pleasant and enjoyable evening during which Kate spoke to the gathering about how she came to be inspired to write those novels. Set in the southwest of France she has managed to capture the spirit of the places: Carcassonne the old and new, the Pyrenees and the landscape of the area so well that I, as a reader, feel as if I have been there. The story of the persecution of the Cathars, the oldest non Catholic religion, and their eventual eradication through the inquisition of the Thirteenth century has taken the reader into a fascinating historical journey through the cosy little village streets, along the banks of the Aude, though the beautiful forests of the region, all described in a way to make you feel as if you are there living through it all. And to top it all is a deeply moving human drama of the persecution of a people by the French Catholic invaders from the north (given free rein by the Pope Innocent) to pillage and destroy the Cathar people and religion, to eradicate the Occitan language of the people and wipe out all traces of their presence. Their belief in reincarnation and the everpresent existence of their abiding spirit in the place was beautifully described in the choir of angels singing colliding in mid air with the Catholic hymns to create a deeply mystical and evocative atmosphere of the times. The novels have inspired me as a reader to visit this part of the world even if to just imagine that I shall share the ether with these mighty and memorable spirits.

Leatherback turtles

Returning home from as far as the northern temperate waters of the deep blue sea, the leatherbacks, having swum gracefully and more swiftly than sharks through the waters, lumber clumsily onto the soft thick sands of the tropical beach, remembering their early hours and days being hatched in the warm comfort of the dense earth. Measuring as long as five feet with flexible long leathery backs they lay their round, white eggs in clusters underneath in carefully dug holes in the ground. It is an amazing sight to see, a bold and unforgiving invasion of privacy, prying hands and leering eyes reflecting bright fiery torches across the quiet coast.

In the early morn at first rise of day birds pluck at the eggs and pick them dry, voyeurs waiting up all night take quick raw photos for their souvenir albums. Poachers gather and strip their wings and backs for their skins. While some visit to marvel, others invade to unravel, to poke and prod at the sacred maternal ritual of these beautiful but helpless creatures in the deepest throes of their life cyles. Clicking tongues and flashing lights and pointing, stroking fingers mar the night and morning with whispered awe and wonder, wanting to touch, wanting to see, wanting...more

Endgame for the Tigers

So many thousands caught up in the final endgame for the Tamil Tigers. So many innocents being used as human shields to fight the enemy. So many fathers, mothers, children on the run from the warring factions as the deadly Tigers fall and writhe in their final death throes. So many people deserting their homes, their lifelines, losing their loved ones, their limbs, their will to live as they become the unwilling pawns in this long running civil war. So many tragic stories unfolding, so much pain, suffering and grief. The world can be such a sad place at times. All we can do is hope that a permanent ceasefire takes place and so many hearts begin to heal.

I can't begin to imagine what life is like for so many refugees from the civil strife but I do know for sure that it is only with enduring courage and hope and a will to live that those who are displaced and have become rootless and abandoned will survive. I know that every day will give them a chance to heal, to recover, to recuperate and to rebuild again...a home, a family, a life, a future. And to hope for a better tomorrow for the children, a tomorrow of peace and prosperity, of tolerance and good will to all, of love and harmony in a world where all can reach and realise their promise and potential.

The Gurkhas

A flimsy single sheet of government paper has handed down a carefully worded ruling that puts British gratitude firmly out of reach for the so many that have laid down their lives for the English way of life. All those brave and loyal soldiers of the martial race have been deserted by Whitehall treachery that draws a line that puts a home just beyond the reach of those who have served because they did not serve here long enough or lived through turbulent times but did not live here long enough or have family ties but do not have family ties here long enough. Who decides what is long enough and what is their measuring rod? Can courage be measured by time? Can loyalty be determined by length of service? What shameful hypocrisy the law and politics are when asylum seekers, refugees, convicted criminals receive full rights, benefits and protections and all that the frontline soldier gets is a cursory glance, a slight handshake and a distant, solemn nod and a 'thanks very much...you may go now...we don't need you anymore' No respect...no empathy...nothing. Only the lone, steady, steadfast voice of a determined actress stands with them, voicing their hopes, keeping their flame alive, her impassioned cries of protest falling on deaf ears and being answered with the dumb, insolent brashness of a minister too ignornnt to know, too blind to see too cowardly to be sympathetic. The fight goes on...

Exploring a paradox

Diversity or similarity, integration or assimilation, identity or rootlessness, belonging or displacement...all reflect the paradox that is the situation/condition of the day. Our differences are a gift to explore and celebrate as they give shade and colour to our present and are enriched by our past which is where the similarities lie...i.e. our historical antecedents. So when one talks of searching and not finding and feeling anger and frustration one is venting the rage of a sandfly as the poet says. It is the diversity of cultures, languages, races, beliefs which enriches us but only if we are large enough to be tolerant of another even if we do not subscribe to that other person's creed. To share is noble and laudable but to accept what is being offered in far nobler in the sense that one must have a certain sense of self-confidence and a sufficient amount of self-esteem to not feel threatened by the other. So that you can have a curry today, a kebab tomorrow and ackee and saltfish the next day while enjoying your weekend of Jelof rice and peas or roast beef and potatoes with as much relish as the one or the other. So coming from one crucible of a history our sparks fly, ignite and spread in many directions leading us into the worlds of tomorrow and the next day.

The Indian poet

I went to a poetry reading today...by Jeet Thayil at The Noble Sage Art Gallery in East Finchley. He left New York to settle and write in Bombay where he is now based. Very lyrical stuff...

Morning started with a useful discussion of Ngugi's A Grain of Wheat with my Year 13 class where the recurring image of 'barbed wire' plagued the post-colonial character Gikonyo so much so that he pricked himself to make sure he was alive and swooned when he became so overwhelmed with the pain and grief of his predicament.
Devoted some time to thinking what it would be like to tell the story of a walk in the park from the point of view of a dog. The excitement of the wide open spaces to run about free and boundless, following the sounds of rustling movements of little creatures like squirrels and lizards, nosing through the smells of bones and leftovers in bins and littered containers, a black and white view of the world. With mainly smells and sounds to lead me though this ecperience I imagine it would be quite a unique experience to become involved in. It certainly lends itself to a different view of the world, a view that I have never thought of before.
Late return home after snack dinner of Falafel at Belsize Park and animated discussion of the new kitchen, Kate Mosse's France in 'Labyrinth' and 'Sepulchre', particularly the persecution and destruction of the Cathars in Southern France and the seizing of their lands by the Northern French as sanctioned by the Pope in the Thirteenth Century. More on this next week after a reading at Wanstead Library on Monday.
Ironic though as the day started with the seeking out of a poetry Anthology first thing this morning and ended with us attending a poetry reading this evening.