I went to the university, yesterday, to teach. I turned up but the students didn't. I asked another lecturer about this and he said not to expect any students at all.
"Why," I asked.
"Well, your students are all Indians and Bangladeshi, aren't they?" he asked, as if that was an explanation.
"And?" I asked, stupidly.
"India is playing Pakistan," he said, as if explaining to a child. I assumed this was a cricket match which was much more interesting than attending classes. I soon found my assumption was right and that Indian, Bangladeshi and English people hate Pakistani ones … well, all the English people at the university who followed cricket, did. The only other lecturer (apart from me) who had no interest in cricket also had no opinion of Pakistani people - just people like every other people, she mused.
I discovered, in these puzzling conversations, where people tried to make me like a pointless exercise of throwing and hitting an inanimate object about, that, several years ago, some Pakistani (or was it Indian? I forget now) players were killed by the opposition to reduce their chance of winning … a bit like the All Blacks being drugged in South Africa the last time they were at the Cape. Apparently, some losing cricket players have returned home to find their houses burned and their families beaten.
In 786 BC, for a country to be allowed to participate in the Olympic Games, it must not have been at war with any other country for a least a year before the event - the true and original spirit of the Peaceful Games.
I must be really stupid, really thick, to not understand that beating someone else is progress, is uplifting and worth killing for. We recently had the gory spectre of one of England's princes who came-of-age (not maturity) and the only useful thing he could think of doing was to rush off and kill a whole lot of people he didn't know. He was bereft, devastated, not to be in the middle of this killing spree and Britain mourned along with him.
It was only in 1967 that Aboriginals were recognized as Australians (as people) and could no longer be hunted and killed for sport.
We're not allowed to kill foxes (in England) or magpies (in Australia) but we're paid and praised well for killing people we don't know. The Peaceful Olympics are a distant, 2,771-year-old memory and our humanity to man seems to have been superseded by a great love of blood sports - cricket and war.
'Is this progress?' I wonder. I also wonder who is winning.
So, how are Arthur and Mary dealing with conflict? Read their story, continued from the previous blog ...
"Yeah, cheers to all the sad bastards of the world!" said Angus raising his glass and leaning over to clink it with hers. "Anyway, I'm here, I've broken out of me little cage, I have no idea where to now and I'm scared and excited but, in a way, I don't really care. Does that make sense?"
"Aye it does - sounds just like I felt when I first left home to come down here … and it all worked out. It's not perfect but I'm alive and reasonably sane, I think," said Mary, cheerfully.
"Yeah, when I moaned about all the reasons not to do something different, Belinda said that the worst that could go wrong is that I could fail and what would that mean? I wouldn't get rabies, my bum wouldn't fall off and I'd still be alive and kicking," said Angus, laughing at the memory of that conversation. "I'll actually survive, no matter what I chose to do."
"Yeah, I guess we all do, don't we," said Mary, musing over the recent dangers she'd survived.
"Not guess, Mary. We absolutely do survive," said Angus with a determination she'd not seen before. "Whatever decision we make, as Belinda put it, we're all looked after so, really, nothing matters. So I did it - took leave from the job, left me home, left me mates and here I am. I can always go back if I want to."
"And what did Mum and Dad think of their rebel son, off on his adventures to unknown lands?" asked Mary.
"Well, Mum didn't say much, just grumbled as usual," said Angus. "Dad was dead against me going. Said I'd regret it and predicted all sorts of painful and immoral things. I actually think he'll be missing me but couldn't say so."
"You'll be right, Angus, for you've always been there," said Mary. "It'll be a wrench for them. And now I've finished me whisky, Angus, I really do need some sleep." She got up and pulled the bed clothes back. "We can talk more in the morning."
"Aye lass, lots more to talk about," said Angus, finishing his drink. "Good night, Mary."
An Inside Job
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 4.33 p.m.
As the shadows of late afternoon stretched their darkening fingers across the expansive lawns and solid walls, the house was quiet. Unusually quiet. Deathly quiet.
Two men were unconscious and the plump bodyguard was standing over them, as if wondering what the heck to do next. He'd never actually hit anybody before and he wondered, in panic, if he'd gone too far. He stood and gazed at the prone figures, uncertainly.
In the kitchen the six had been stopped by the yelling, crashing, grunting and thumping in the corridor through the wall. They looked at one another and seemed to have the same confused mind. Do they rush out and help Arthur and be injured themselves? Do they creep out to find a band of thugs waiting for them? Do they continue through to the office and find the thugs there? The unknown, as always, posed a greater threat than the known and they didn't know much - where they were, who they were saving, why they were saving him/her/them and who was waiting round dark corners for them all.
"Time to move!" whispered Amanda decisively, taking out her pistol.
"Amanda! You can't go shooting people!" pleaded Martin in a hoarse whisper, his eyes nearly popping out.
"And your idea is?" Amanda asked quietly.
"Oh, ah, yes, I see …" said Martin. "But we can't have guns … they kill."
"And someone's not dead already?" whispered Amanda, pushing past Martin. "And who's going to be next?"
"Oh, gosh, but we can't just … let's talk about this," pleaded Martin, going quite pale.
"Dominik, you take the rest through to the office and around," whispered Amanda. "I'll go this way."
"But you can't just go … you know … shooting people," whispered Martin, grabbing Amanda's arm.
"So, you come with me, mate," said Amanda, shaking off his grip. "You can keep me from killing someone." She continued out the door to the corner.
"I'll come with you two," said Toby, launching himself out of indecision mode.
Joan held up her hands and smiled to Dottie as if to say, 'whatever we do, it's a mess'. Dottie nodded and smiled back, grimly, and they followed Dominik to the back of the kitchen, to a door that must have remained closed for many years. Dominik grimaced as the door creaked and groaned, despite his efforts to open it quietly. He opened it enough for them to slip through, one by one. The three found themselves in the dark, but for light sneaking through the half-opened door from the kitchen. The uneven cobbles and the cobwebs impaired their progress in the shoulder-width passage. They scrambled along sideways and it was soon obvious that Dominik had no idea where to find the door into the office.
"There's got to be a torch somewhere," said Joan, awkwardly squeezing herself back into the kitchen. Dottie followed her and they rummaged through drawers and cupboards as quietly as they could. In the corridor they heard a man's shout, Amanda's yell, a thud and then silence. Joan's instinct was to rush out to help Arthur but her logical mind told her to leave it to the professionals who would help him more than she could. Her prayers went out to him as she returned to their search for light. They found candles and an old box of matches.
Back in their dark, dank passage, they fumbled with matches, lit three candles and handed one to Dominik. It was good to see a little more till Joan spied a large spider, then another, then another and she desperately tried to hold back a rising bile as she saw this space between walls was overrun by insects of all kinds. She would have leant back against the wall to steady herself but realised she'd be leaning into nests of spiders and other unmentionable critters. It was only Dominik's sigh of relief - she hoped it was relief - as he was scratching around the wall, ahead of her. There was a rattle of metal - a chain? - and bumping on wood.
"Why," I asked.
"Well, your students are all Indians and Bangladeshi, aren't they?" he asked, as if that was an explanation.
"And?" I asked, stupidly.
"India is playing Pakistan," he said, as if explaining to a child. I assumed this was a cricket match which was much more interesting than attending classes. I soon found my assumption was right and that Indian, Bangladeshi and English people hate Pakistani ones … well, all the English people at the university who followed cricket, did. The only other lecturer (apart from me) who had no interest in cricket also had no opinion of Pakistani people - just people like every other people, she mused.
I discovered, in these puzzling conversations, where people tried to make me like a pointless exercise of throwing and hitting an inanimate object about, that, several years ago, some Pakistani (or was it Indian? I forget now) players were killed by the opposition to reduce their chance of winning … a bit like the All Blacks being drugged in South Africa the last time they were at the Cape. Apparently, some losing cricket players have returned home to find their houses burned and their families beaten.
In 786 BC, for a country to be allowed to participate in the Olympic Games, it must not have been at war with any other country for a least a year before the event - the true and original spirit of the Peaceful Games.
I must be really stupid, really thick, to not understand that beating someone else is progress, is uplifting and worth killing for. We recently had the gory spectre of one of England's princes who came-of-age (not maturity) and the only useful thing he could think of doing was to rush off and kill a whole lot of people he didn't know. He was bereft, devastated, not to be in the middle of this killing spree and Britain mourned along with him.
It was only in 1967 that Aboriginals were recognized as Australians (as people) and could no longer be hunted and killed for sport.
We're not allowed to kill foxes (in England) or magpies (in Australia) but we're paid and praised well for killing people we don't know. The Peaceful Olympics are a distant, 2,771-year-old memory and our humanity to man seems to have been superseded by a great love of blood sports - cricket and war.
'Is this progress?' I wonder. I also wonder who is winning.
So, how are Arthur and Mary dealing with conflict? Read their story, continued from the previous blog ...
"Yeah, cheers to all the sad bastards of the world!" said Angus raising his glass and leaning over to clink it with hers. "Anyway, I'm here, I've broken out of me little cage, I have no idea where to now and I'm scared and excited but, in a way, I don't really care. Does that make sense?"
"Aye it does - sounds just like I felt when I first left home to come down here … and it all worked out. It's not perfect but I'm alive and reasonably sane, I think," said Mary, cheerfully.
"Yeah, when I moaned about all the reasons not to do something different, Belinda said that the worst that could go wrong is that I could fail and what would that mean? I wouldn't get rabies, my bum wouldn't fall off and I'd still be alive and kicking," said Angus, laughing at the memory of that conversation. "I'll actually survive, no matter what I chose to do."
"Yeah, I guess we all do, don't we," said Mary, musing over the recent dangers she'd survived.
"Not guess, Mary. We absolutely do survive," said Angus with a determination she'd not seen before. "Whatever decision we make, as Belinda put it, we're all looked after so, really, nothing matters. So I did it - took leave from the job, left me home, left me mates and here I am. I can always go back if I want to."
"And what did Mum and Dad think of their rebel son, off on his adventures to unknown lands?" asked Mary.
"Well, Mum didn't say much, just grumbled as usual," said Angus. "Dad was dead against me going. Said I'd regret it and predicted all sorts of painful and immoral things. I actually think he'll be missing me but couldn't say so."
"You'll be right, Angus, for you've always been there," said Mary. "It'll be a wrench for them. And now I've finished me whisky, Angus, I really do need some sleep." She got up and pulled the bed clothes back. "We can talk more in the morning."
"Aye lass, lots more to talk about," said Angus, finishing his drink. "Good night, Mary."
An Inside Job
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 4.33 p.m.
As the shadows of late afternoon stretched their darkening fingers across the expansive lawns and solid walls, the house was quiet. Unusually quiet. Deathly quiet.
Two men were unconscious and the plump bodyguard was standing over them, as if wondering what the heck to do next. He'd never actually hit anybody before and he wondered, in panic, if he'd gone too far. He stood and gazed at the prone figures, uncertainly.
In the kitchen the six had been stopped by the yelling, crashing, grunting and thumping in the corridor through the wall. They looked at one another and seemed to have the same confused mind. Do they rush out and help Arthur and be injured themselves? Do they creep out to find a band of thugs waiting for them? Do they continue through to the office and find the thugs there? The unknown, as always, posed a greater threat than the known and they didn't know much - where they were, who they were saving, why they were saving him/her/them and who was waiting round dark corners for them all.
"Time to move!" whispered Amanda decisively, taking out her pistol.
"Amanda! You can't go shooting people!" pleaded Martin in a hoarse whisper, his eyes nearly popping out.
"And your idea is?" Amanda asked quietly.
"Oh, ah, yes, I see …" said Martin. "But we can't have guns … they kill."
"And someone's not dead already?" whispered Amanda, pushing past Martin. "And who's going to be next?"
"Oh, gosh, but we can't just … let's talk about this," pleaded Martin, going quite pale.
"Dominik, you take the rest through to the office and around," whispered Amanda. "I'll go this way."
"But you can't just go … you know … shooting people," whispered Martin, grabbing Amanda's arm.
"So, you come with me, mate," said Amanda, shaking off his grip. "You can keep me from killing someone." She continued out the door to the corner.
"I'll come with you two," said Toby, launching himself out of indecision mode.
Joan held up her hands and smiled to Dottie as if to say, 'whatever we do, it's a mess'. Dottie nodded and smiled back, grimly, and they followed Dominik to the back of the kitchen, to a door that must have remained closed for many years. Dominik grimaced as the door creaked and groaned, despite his efforts to open it quietly. He opened it enough for them to slip through, one by one. The three found themselves in the dark, but for light sneaking through the half-opened door from the kitchen. The uneven cobbles and the cobwebs impaired their progress in the shoulder-width passage. They scrambled along sideways and it was soon obvious that Dominik had no idea where to find the door into the office.
"There's got to be a torch somewhere," said Joan, awkwardly squeezing herself back into the kitchen. Dottie followed her and they rummaged through drawers and cupboards as quietly as they could. In the corridor they heard a man's shout, Amanda's yell, a thud and then silence. Joan's instinct was to rush out to help Arthur but her logical mind told her to leave it to the professionals who would help him more than she could. Her prayers went out to him as she returned to their search for light. They found candles and an old box of matches.
Back in their dark, dank passage, they fumbled with matches, lit three candles and handed one to Dominik. It was good to see a little more till Joan spied a large spider, then another, then another and she desperately tried to hold back a rising bile as she saw this space between walls was overrun by insects of all kinds. She would have leant back against the wall to steady herself but realised she'd be leaning into nests of spiders and other unmentionable critters. It was only Dominik's sigh of relief - she hoped it was relief - as he was scratching around the wall, ahead of her. There was a rattle of metal - a chain? - and bumping on wood.
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