The New Blood Sports - Cricket And War?

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 The Peaceful Olympics are a distant, 2,771-year-old memory and our humanity to man seems to have been superseded by a great love of blood sports - cricket and war.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.

Forgiving Your Kidnappers

Yesterday Yusuf*, one of my students, told us a story he'd not told anyone except his parents and uncle. His father had been a powerful figure in the Bangladeshi government and Yusuf was kidnapped some five years ago, for over a month. During that time he was constantly tortured, drugged and kept on a starvation diet.

He showed us the burn marks on his hands and arms, from the torture, and the scars on the back of his hands from where he'd been continually stabbed with syringe needles to keep him drugged and unconscious. He does not remember how he escaped but he does remember waking up on the lap of his uncle, the Bangladeshi Chief of Police, with his father and others around him.

As he told his story and showed us his wounds, the silence in the room from the others listening was palpable. We could feel his deep pain and confusion and, at the end, he asked me a question:

"Please, Sir, should I take revenge? Should I be angry with my kidnappers?"

I was about to answer but my inner voice asked me for silence. As I stilled my readied tongue, another student spoke the sentiments I was going to, though in a stronger way than I would have done:

"Revenge is not for you; it is for God. What you must do is give it to God or it will destroy you. That is always your duty and your way to freedom."

The woman who answered is from India's Punjab state, a Hindu. I was surprised that her philosophy, her beliefs and her ways of dealing with life were identical to mine though my nationality and religion are quite different … I thought. I think I surprised her - she kept nodding and looking surprised - as I explained that, from my perspective, forgiveness undoes the pain and fear of the past and present and sets our futures free. Giving our anger and confusion over to that which is bigger than all of us, all of this, allows us to live into a future free of those things.

So you see, Horatio, there is nothing in heaven and earth that is new and, in the end, we are all the same, despite the labels - Hindu, New Zealander, teacher, student etc - we use to separate ourselves from one another. We are all one and we are all forgiven, if we but give ourselves permission to accept that … and that is one of the several lessons Arthur Bayly, hero of The Importance of Being Arthur, learns as he is hounded, beaten and thrown into a strange world of conspiracy and fear.

* Yusuf is not his real name.

 
You can read Arthur's continuing story, blog by blog, and here is the next exciting episode which continues from two blogs ago ...

If Arthur had been used to such activities and exertions, he would have been alert to the approach of the other man, sneaking up beside him. But he wasn't.

The Happy Brother
Tuesday, 13th March 2012, 11.46 p.m.

John had phoned ahead to Belinda and when they arrived another room had been booked. With simple efficiency John arranged that Halee and Mary take one room and Angus and Ahmed take the third. After introductions all round they took the lift and then John and Belinda excused themselves.

"Ah, young love," said Mary wistfully.

"Tired love, more like," said Belinda as John led her to their room. Ahmed pleaded fatigue and went into the adjoining room.

"Look Mary, it's been a long day but would ye be wantin' to share a wee dram a'fore bed?" asked Angus. "I've a bottle of best malted in me room."

"Oh aye, why not, Angus," said Mary, smoothing her furrowed brow. "But you'd better fetch it out of your room - Ahmed's Muslim and doesn't drink. Bring it to our room."

"Look, Miss Collins, I'm knackered," said Halee. "You two have some catching up to do so how about I sleep with Ahmed … oh, you know what I mean, in his room and you two share the other one. They're separate beds aren't they?"

"Yes, twin rooms," said Mary. They knocked on Ahmed's door and Halee suggested she sleep in the bed next to him while Angus and Mary shared the room next door. Ahmed's mouth opened and shut and a deep redness crept out from inside his swarthy face. Mary had never seen him lost for words before, this suave, gentle, dynamic man.

"Ahmed, I'm not sure what you're thinking," said Halee with a tired smile, "but I will do my best, my very best, to resist your gorgeous body. You should be safe."

"Oh, ah, yes, of course," said Ahmed finding his voice at last, though uncertainly. "We can dress in the bathroom, I suppose, if you're alright with that."

"Actually, Ahmed, right now all I want to do is collapse into bed," said Halee. "I don't care what I'm wearing and I don't care who sees whatever it is. Angus, get your stuff and be gone will ya. Let this girl get some sleep."

Angus grabbed his few possessions and left with Mary who saw Ahmed standing there, apparently unable to move.

 "So, little brother, what prompted you to come down here?" asked Mary as she sat on the bed with her whisky in hand. "First time to the big city, aye?"

"Dunno lass, it just sort of happened before I knew it was happening, if ye catch me drift," said Angus, sitting back in the only chair in the room. "John and Belinda turned up in town. Their car was gone and they had a contact at an insurance company in London and Mr Fordyce knew you were in insurance and so I was hauled in and, hell, I dunno. Those Kiwis just sorta' inspired me to do what I've never done before. And here I am."

"What did they say to you?" asked Mary, intrigued.

"Don't know if it's what they said or what they did," said Angus, smiling through his puzzled look. He took a large sip of his whiskey, closing his eyes and sighing deeply, as if it was the elixir of life.
"They just seem to have no ties, no obligations. They want to do something and they just do it. No explanations, no excuses, they just do it."

"Sounds a bit irresponsible," suggested Mary.

"Not irresponsible, really. They care for people and are as honest as a die," said Angus, looking at Mary for the first time. "But if they need to act they just do … ah, I dunno, I can't explain it. Anyway, lass, something about them got me thinking about me life and what I've achieved."

"But I thought you were happy doing what you've always done," said Mary. "I thought you'd be welding and drinking ales and watching football for the rest of your life."

"So did I, Mary lass, so did I," said Angus, sitting back, looking at the ceiling. He quickly looked back at Mary. "John asked me what I was born for. Ye know, what me purpose is in being here. I hadn't thought of that before and I got a bit shitty with him. But it got me thinkin' and I thought …. well, I suppose I've thought about it before, a million times and kinda' pretended it didn't matter - have another drink, tell another lie, another day of work - just get on with it, getting busy …"

"But you weren't really happy?" asked Mary, feeling his rising sadness.

"No Mary, not happy at all but never wanted to admit it," said Angus, wiping his eyes and taking another sip of whiskey. "Actually, to be brutally honest, I was a bit of a sad bastard and, as John suggested, my getting shitty at him was actually me getting shitty at myself for wasting my time. He stopped talking to wipe his eyes again with his big calloused hand.

"Oh little brother," said Mary standing up. She sat on his knee and hugged him. His tears burst forth and he let the cry out - the cry so long held back from years of denial and frustration.

Mary waited till his sobs died down. "So, here you are, little brother, in this big London town, crying in the arms of your big sister. What a pair we are!"

"What? You're not happy either?" asked Angus, looking surprised as Mary got off his knee and sat back on the bed. "The big flash job, the money, the poncy flat in the middle of town - I thought you had it all."

"Well, not really unhappy, Angus, as I have my work but love keeps avoiding me," said Mary. "It sneaks up when I'm not looking and then buggers off when it gets near."

"Ye and me both, Mary lass," said Angus, smiling again, brightening up the room. "What a sad, sorry mess we've got ourselves into."

"You might be right, Angus but I suspect we're not the only dysfunctional ones," said Mary, raising her glass to him.