IrishStoryteller

Tales - some short, some long, some tall - from Ireland and other assorted European countries by the writer Robert Allen, author of No Global (Irish community resistance to the globalisation of hazard), Pluto Ireland, The Dioxin War, Pluto Press, and Rendezvous with Rousseau, a novel about a dead European, a very alive American and a lot of very interesting people

Thursday, April 28, 2005

COMMUNITY TALES: Reclamation in the Face of Globalization: Fighting the Global Heroin Trade

An Introduction to the work of CHELLIS GLENDINNING

A sprawling village, home to about 3,000 people, Chimayó is the spiritual centre of the Río Grande in the upland desert of northern New Mexico, USA. Every Easter thousands of pilgrims trek by foot to the edge of Chimayó where they rest at a Christian sanctuary (El Santuario) to pray. It's a procession rooted in the earthly pagan history of the village.

On a Saturday morning in May 1999, a new date was etched into the spiritual history of Chimayó. The villagers - despairing that their village had the most drug dealers and users in the county, Río Arriba, with the most drug overdose deaths per capita in the US and increasing numbers of drug-related killings - came together on an interfaith procession to pray for the end of the violence from drugs and alcohol. Catholic, Tewa, Jewish, Sikh, Muslim, Aztec, Pentacostal and Protestant marched along the highway to the Santuario, 450 people with a collective voice that screamed, needing to be heard.

Yet the local, state and federal authorities didn't hear the scream, didn't seem to care and didn't appear to want to do anything about the drug culture in Chimayó - the drug-related robberies, the deaths, the murders, the fear. Then, out of the wide blue sky beyond the desert - four months after the procession, on September 29, 1999, an army of 150 officers - local, state, Drug Enforcement Administration and FBI - raided the homes of five drug dealers. Some say it changed Chimayó forever. Some say it was a watershed for drug-culture USA.




Chellis Glendinning, author of the award-winning Off the Map: An Expedition Deep into Empire and the Global Economy, lives in Chimayó, with its diverse mountain mix of Spanish, Mexican native, local Pueblo Indian, Lebanese, French, Greek and Anglo-American. "I fit right into this north New Mexico Chicano world," she writes. "Or at least I do now that I have navigated the inevitable hurdles and the hoops thrust into my face during my first decade [she moved to Chimayó in 1993]. Not the least of these hurdles has been the drug world - the trafficking, shooting up, syringes along the riverbank, bulgaries, throat-slittings, police presence, and prison culture associated with the abuse of chiva [the street slang for heroin]."

Glendinning fits right in because she counts as her friends in Chimayó chile farmers, community organizers and state troopers among bank robbers, ex-cons and drug dealers. "I have learned to open my heart to a wisdom that does not flee from suffering, breakdown, or error," she writes. "Rather the wisdom of this place knows these aspects of life as inseparable from job, triumph, and communion."

She argues that such wisdom is needed, especially when it comes to dealing with the complexities of the global heroin trade and its impact on the land-based communities who are forced to grow opium, the raw source of heroin, and the rural and urban communities and individuals who are affected by its consumption and abuse.

The author had become involved in the "passions of living" in Chimayó, and then, "as an afterthought" she was inspired to write about what she had seen. Because of her approach to the subject, her consequent book, Chiva: A Village Takes on the Global Heroin Trade, courted controversy before it hit the bookstores.

Glendinning's approach was to take the local (the victimisation of the users and the exploitation of the growers) and place them in the context of globalisation. The heroin trade, Glendinning quickly realised, was not a social sideshow on the periphery of society. She writes: "Through a daunting history of collusion between traffickers, business and banking institutions, governments and military dating back to the British Empire, the illicit drug trade has come to be essential to the accumulation of capital that fuels the expansion and plunder we call corporate globalization."

What makes the book instantly political and deeply personal is the way that Glendinning experienced the impact of the global heroin trade in Chimayó. "Chiva," she says, "is the story of the global heroin trade woven into the tale of my love affair with a former drug dealer - all in the service of the telling of the uprising my village undertook to rout out our heroin epidemic."

That uprising started in earnest with the procession in 1999 to the Santuario and has continued with a program Glendinning insists is community-led, "local people rising up using resources, ideas, values, strengths, and means that are peculiar to their place and history".

If the story of the community response to the drug epidemic in Chimayó is controversial, this is because, she argues, of the entrenchment of drug epidemics in society. "Like that of any imperial system, [it] always has the effect of fragmenting community into opposing predicaments, survival strategies, and factions. What we've done in New Mexico occurred by a convergence of domestic 'drug war' advocates, legalization activists, prohibitionists, police, federal drug agents, a right-wing governor, 12-step recovery professionals, department of health officials, behavioural health workers, drug addicts, former dealers, tea-tottlers, Aztecs, Catholics, aetheists, mothers of children killed by drug violence, you-name-it. My job was to reflect what the community did and its many perspectives."

Chellis Glendinning was able to do this job because she has a history of life in political movements. From an early age she was taken to civil rights demos. Born in 1947, with antecedents in Europe, and brought up in Cleveland, Ohio, she embraced the anti-Vietnam, anti-nuclear and feminist movements of the 1960s, went to Berkeley, San Francisco, and, over the next 20 years in the Bay Area, became involved in the natural foods, holistic medicine, ecology, indigenous rights and no-global movements. Her books reflect that experience - Waking Up in the Nuclear Age (1987) focused on the psychological effects of the nuclear arms race around the time she completed a degree in psychology in the mid-1980s. She moved on to write When Technology Wounds (1990 - "a study of people made sick from exposure to dangerous technologies"), My Name is Chellis and I'm in Recovery from Western Civilization (1994 - "an overview of how modern society emerged from the domestication process begun in the Neolithic and how addiction is embedded in the resulting nature/human split") and Off the Map (1999, 2002 - "about the friction edge between land-based cultures and empire, with a sub-theme of the practice of child abuse within dominating societies"). As a writer and thinker she has been influenced by Lewis Mumford, Paul Shepard, Emiliano Zapata, A.A. Milne, Che Guevara, Susan Griffin, Subcomandante Marcos, Samuel Hahnemann, Eduardo Galeano, Suzan Harjo, Jeannette Armstrong, Michael Ruppert, Kirkpatrick Sale, E.F. Schumacher and Frantz Fanon among many others. "I've been indelibly marked by all the movements I've been part of," she says, while acknowledging the influence of the Chicano culture of northern New Mexico.

"When I first moved to Chimayó, I asked a local farmer his take on the state of the world. We were riding horses across the badlands at the time, and he took enough of a moment to contemplate that a tumbleweed bounced by in the wind. Then he answered, 'The down-to-earth people are finishing.' People, I think, tend to get fired up to insist on change when our hearts are touched with realization of the most basic insights and goals.

"My friend, the Chicano activist and poet Arnoldo Garcia, says that culture is not adjunct to a political movement; it IS a political movement. Storytelling, song, poetry - these are the essential ways humans communicate meaning. They are the ways we teach and learn - and survive. It is only since imperial systems have made society monstrous, fragmented, and complex that sociological, economic, political, psychological, etc language has become necessary to describe what's going on. We are challenged as we protest and as we restore to be aware that we are creating culture - and to make sure the effort reflects the vision we wish now and ultimately to inhabit."

So Chellis Glendinning gradually found herself writing about the New Mexico community that she lived among. "This book is nothing if it is not for my community," she says. "My hope is to reflect back to the people of northern New Mexico a slice of history in order to encourage us to continue our beating out the encroaching forces of narco-trafficantes, government, and corporations through drug epidemics.

"I wish to hold up Chimayó and northern New Mexico as a model for other communities who wish to stage an uprising against drug epidemics. Or against any insidious penetrations. And I wish to alert us all to the global nature of the heroin trade. I have come to believe that the purveyors of illicit narcotics are as ambitious - and ruthless - in their dream of world domination as are Wal-Mart, Citibank, or Exxon. Right now the illicit drug business takes up a whopping eight percent of the global economy. That's more than automotive, tourism, textiles, and legal pharmaceuticals!"

In the face of this seemingly overwhelming giant, the people of Chimayó adopted an adversarial stance, that of David versus Goliath, but the real accomplishment has been their autonomous unity, which Glendinning is quick to acknowledge. "I am awed by what a group of courageous folk were able to accomplish - from turning the tables on fear and terror, to beating the dealers out of town, to inventing methods for drug recovery and launching healthy venues for youth - all in ways that spring from and enhance local traditional culture. We have a long way to go - and more battles to mount as global corporations have discovered us - but we've made a worthy launch.

"The model of Chimayó does not require that people come to New Mexico to grasp what we are doing. It's reclamation in the face of colonization. At heart it's anarchistic creativity and courage, followed by vision and sustained effort to build a different kind of world from what's been foisted upon us.

"If the humble down-home folks of Chimayó, New Mexico, can do what we did - and what we continue to attempt - why not anyone?"


Chiva by Chellis Glendinning is published by New Society Publishers and distributed in Britain, Ireland and continental Europe by Gazelle Book Services

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

TOXIC TALES: Agent Orange: Operation Trail Dust



Phan Thi Phi Phi has indelible memories of the American war in Vietnam. For five years, between April 1966 and July 1971, she saw the horrors of warfare. As a physician in Quang Nam and Quang Ngai provinces she treated the maimed and wounded. As director of Number One Hospital, which operated mobile units near rivers and streams and close to the Ho Chi Minh trail valley, she stared into a heart of darkness - a gloom so pervasive that it is still present in Vietnam today, almost 30 years after the end of the war.

Dr Phi Phi knew what she was letting herself in for when she arrived in the jungle. The Ho Chi Minh trail, which allowed the Vietnamese to transport 60 tons of aid per day and 20,000 soldiers a month from Hanoi to the edge of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City), snaked through the forests where Dr Phi Phi and her colleagues set up hospital units.

When the trail was established in the early years of the war, the trek south was a hardship that took six months to endure. One in ten of those who carried supplies succumbed to malaria and other diseases. As the war progressed the trail brought a constant stream of Vietnamese soldiers accompanied by American bombs. It also brought something else, a horror so deadly it could not be imagined.

The American war in Vietnam began in 1961 when the fledgling administration of John Fitzgerald Kennedy inherited a conflict it did not want. It was a conflict that would escalate into a full-scale war in the post-JFK period, but in 1961 it was about the US-supported southern Republic of Vietnam government and how the Americans could aid its war against the northern Democratic Republic of Vietnam and the Vietnamese National Liberation Front.

Kennedy's administration did not want a global war machine. This contrasted with the interests of American business - specifically the armaments and electronics corporations but also the interests of the chemical industry giants, which, since 1940, had co-operated with the Pentagon on biological weapons research.

With big business keen to see an escalation of the war, the Kennedy administration was keen to bring about its end and when counter-insurgency operations were suggested they were given clearance. A memo from the State department to President Kennedy on 'Defoliant Operations in Vietnam', dated November 24, 1961, suggested that defoliation was an accepted tactic of war. President Kennedy was told that the north Vietnamese and the NLF operated in forests and mangroves, and were using a trail through heavily forested valleys to bring aid, weapons and personnel.

Specially prepared herbicides, he was told, could be used for defoliation. At the end of November 1961, believing that the north Vietnamese and NLF could be routed from the jungle, President Kennedy approved a joint recommendation from the departments of State and of Defense to initiate biological warfare in Vietnam. The order was for defoliation only. With the co-operation of the South Vietnam government, Operation Trail Dust was put into practice. At long last the US military had the chance to use a biological weapon it had been preparing for almost 20 years.

In 1940 scientists isolated indoleacetic acid - the hormone that regulates growth in plants - as part of a programme to synthesise plant compounds. Among these were 2,4-dichlorophenoxyacetic acid (2,4-D) and 2,4,5-trichlorophenoxyacetic acid (2,4,5-T) - simple bondings of chlorine and phenol. Researchers discovered that tiny amounts of these synthetic plant hormones were capable of stimulating plants. When they increased the dose they learned that these synthetic hormones could also kill. Researchers realised that each compound had different effects on different plants. In combination these phenoxy herbicides formed a lethal weapon against unwanted vegetation.

It was Professor E. J. Kraus, head of the Botany Department of the University of Chicago, who alerted the US military to the existence of these hormone-like substances. Kraus suggested to the military that it might be interested in "the toxic properties of growth regulating substances for the destruction of crops or the limitation of crop production".

By 1943 Kraus had recommend 2,4-D and 2,4,5-T to a US National Academy of Sciences committee on biological warfare. A year later Kraus moved to the US army's centre for biological warfare at Camp (later Fort) Detrick. But the plan to use 2,4-D and 2,4,5-T to destroy enemy crops was thwarted by peace when the 1939-45 war ended. The research, however, continued. Kraus oversaw a programme that resulted in the screening of approximately 1200 compounds. Eventually some of these compounds were tested on tropical vegetation in Puerto Rico and Thailand. By 1961, when President Kennedy gave the order for their use in Vietnam, the military was ready with six chemical mixtures - named Agent White (2,4-D, picloram); Agent Blue (cacodylic acid); Agent Green (2,4,5-T); Agent Orange (2,4-D, 2,4,5-T); Agent Pink (2,4,5-T) and Agent Purple (2,4-D, 2,4,5-T). The US military had successfully tested Purple in 1959 at Fort Drum in New York, and US Army veterans allege that the military sprayed toxic chemicals on Flamenco Island in Panama in 1958.

Kennedy administration policy initially emphasised that the South Vietnam government would only be assisted with the herbicide operation. A 1962 pact assigned the ownership of the herbicides to the South Vietnam government, and South Vietnam soldiers handled their loading and transportation when they reached Vietnamese territory. The plans for herbicide use were co-ordinated by the US Embassy to the South Vietnam government, the US Military Assistance Command of Vietnam and a subdivision of the Saigon General Staff of the South Vietnam government, codenamed Committee 202.

From August 10, 1961 when airplanes targeted Kontum, for five months US military personnel using South Vietnam aircraft conducted tests using the new herbicides. By January 1962, after President Kennedy's order, the first shipments of the herbicides started to arrive.

Purple, Pink and Green were used to defoliate forest and mangrove. The spraying was done by airplane, helicopter, truck, boat, and by soldiers on foot. Throughout 1962 spraying of all targets required prior approval from the White House, until later in the year President Kennedy delegated limited power to the joint US/South Vietnam staff in Vietnam.

In Operation Ranch Hand: The Air Force and Herbicides in Southeast Asia, 1961-1971, William Buckingham revealed how the decision to begin destroying Vietnam's stable crops - beans, manioc, corn, bananas, tomato, pineapple and rice - was gradually wrestled from Washington.

"The decision to begin destroying crops with herbicides was longer in coming, even though President [Ngo Dinh] Diem was an early and enthusiastic advocate of crop destruction. He maintained that he knew where the Viet Cong crops were, and South Vietnamese officials had difficulty in understanding why the Americans wouldn't give them a readily-available chemical that would accomplish with much less effort what they were already doing by cutting, pulling, and burning. Although the Defense Department favored chemical crop destruction, several influential people in the State Department, notably Roger Hilsman and W. Averell Harriman, were opposed. They argued that there was no way to insure that only Viet Cong crops would be killed, and the inevitable mistakes would alienate the rural South Vietnamese people. Hilsman maintained that the use of this technology would enable the Viet Cong to argue that the U.S. represented 'foreign imperialist barbarism,' and Harriman urged that crop destruction should be postponed to a later stage in the counterinsurgency struggle when the Viet Cong would not be so closely intermingled with the people."

On October 2, 1962, President Kennedy decided to allow restricted spraying of crops.

By 1964, with Kennedy assassinated, the war escalated and with it the use of the phenoxy herbicides. Authority and restrictions were gradually relaxed and the areas sprayed expanded from forest and mangrove to include Vietnam's crops. In July 1965 Purple, Pink and Green were replaced by Orange and White when the operation went airborne under the codename Hades. The spraying was done from the air by camouflaged Fairchild C-123 planes fitted with 1000 gallon tanks and removable identification insignia in what became known as Operation Ranch Hand.

When they performed crop destruction missions, US military documents reveal that the aircraft bore South Vietnam insignia, the US Air Force flight crews wore civilian clothing and were accompanied by a South Vietnam army crew member, all working under the US departments of Defense and State, codename Farmgate, with the sole purpose of "decreasing enemy food supplies". In 1965 almost half of the total spraying was designed to destroy crops, a war crime in contravention of international law.

Agent Orange comprised of almost two-thirds of the herbicides sprayed, 95% of it from the air. Approximately 20,000 missions were flown. Between July 1965 and June 1970 13.05 million gallons of Agent Orange were sprayed over Indochina, in Laos and Cambodia (Kampuchea) as well as Vietnam. A frequent target of the Ranch Hand operation was the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which received the bulk of what has since been described as the largest chemical warfare operation in history.

It has been estimated that up to four million Vietnamese were exposed to herbicides between 1961 and 1971. It is not known how many of the 4.2 million US personnel deployed in Vietnam were exposed. Anyone - like Joseph Isaacson, a US Air Force crew chief who handled the herbicides at any of the US bases in Vietnam - Bien Hoa, Da Nang, Nha Trang, Phu Cat, plus the Aluoi and Asau valleys - faced exposure. They also included Vietnamese workers like Dr Phi Phi.

Now, in a legendary legal battle as long as the war itself, she is joined with veteran Joseph Isaacson in a compensation fight in the courts of New York seeking justice for the hurt and pain caused by Agent Orange and its deadly toxic contaminant - dioxin.

ART TALES: Protest Art and the Struggle to be Creative in the Modern World



Allegory and symbolism play a huge part in how we see our world. When Roberto Benigni, the Italian comedy writer, wrote his Oscar winning film La Vita e Bella (Life is Beautiful) - taking the title from a comment made by Leon Troksky when he realised that Stalin’s assassins were coming for him in Mexico - he literally inverted the horrors of the holocaust to create a story of love and joy for life. He took very seriously the words of the film's title song:

Smile without a reason why
Love as if you were a child
Smile no matter what they tell you,
don't listen to a word they tell you
'cause life is beautiful that way.



The Nazis played classical music to drown out the screams of their victims. Benigni turned this into a symbolic retort by broadcasting Offenbach's The Tales of Hoffmann: Barcarolle in a gesture designed to engender hope.

Benigni was severely criticised for this film. It is a film that is not easy to understand. This is not because of its comical approach to the holocaust. It is because Benigni introduces the audience to an allegorical journey that embraces the political art of Dante Alighieri, Arthur Schopenhauer and Leon Troksky among many other artistic references. The film is a rich tapestry of human culture and only those who understand what art can achieve are able to see what lies behind the obvious.

Does this mean that Roberto Benigni is a radical? Or simply an artist who understands the role of allegory, comedy, music and art in a world where the corporate-controlled multi-media, in the words of Irish writer John Healy, 'sledge-hammers its cultural values' into the minds of our young?

John Zerzan, the Eugene-based anarchist whose writings are said to have inspired the anti-World Trade Organisation protests in Seattle in 1999, would probably say he isn't either because he uses symbolic culture, one of the harbingers of civilisation, which many in the No Global movement apparently want to destroy. If Benigni felt a need to debate such an argument he might counter using Zerzan's own words: 'The magnitude of symbolization testifies to how much has been repressed; buried, but possibly still recoverable.'

This is not a new argument. Understanding what the artist means, when the artist's work is not easy to understand because it has to be expressed using allegory or symbolism, is why we need art to interpret the world. Art without emotional or political input is art for art's sake. It reduces and debases the role of the imagination.

In his 1926 novel Steppenwolf, Hermann Hesse, the German author, discussed the soul of the artist. When asked to summarise the meaning of his book, Hesse said: 'The story of the Steppenwolf pictures a disease and crisis but not one leading to death and destruction, on the contrary: to healing.'

Can art heal? Many artists would argue that it can, if the art under scrutiny is art that moves the senses. So what are the implications for creative artists tackling themes that are not part of the mainstream? Does art have a future in a world where all media is controlled by giant corporations, where the voices and actions of creative and imaginative artists are oppressed because their work cannot be homogenised into a commercialised entity that supports the dominant world view? Has the expression of creative art become another aspect of the social struggle against globalisation? Why is it that the art we see around us is not a reflection of what is really happening in the world? Is it because the images, stories, songs and artistry of our immediate environment are the product of the corporate world, the commercial world, the world of profit and gain?

We do not live in a world of warp-drive spaceships but we do live in a world where disaffected teenagers mow down their schoolmates. We do not live in a world that shows the bloody aftermath of a smart bomb strike but we do live in a world that shows a Hollywood hero escape unscathed from a cartoon-like hail of hi-tech bullets. We do not live in the cinematic world of constant competitive conflict but we do live in a world where mutual aid defines the lives of millions.

The reality of the real world is apparently boring by comparison with the images we see everyday from multi-media yet real life is much tougher and much harder to endure than any contrived media fest and despite this, one element of human life shines through, our ability to be creative. All over the world imaginative communities are building new futures through mutual aid, co-operation, sharing, self-respect, dignity and especially through their art in the face of oppression and injustice.

The secret to the success of the Zapatista revolution in the Chiapas region in Mexico is the way they use their imaginations. In much the same way that it was language and our ability to imagine that created civilisation, the Zapatistas changed the symbols that defined their lives. 'The Zapatistas have tried to move away from what they see as the tired language of revolution and to develop a new language of revolt,' says John Holloway, the Dublin-born lecturer in sociology at Puebla University in Mexico, who has studied the revolution. 'The role of imagination, storytelling and so on is very important: not so much as a way of getting a serious message across in popular form, but above all because the language of revolt is basically different from the language of domination. Domination is serious and boring, revolt has to be fun.'

The role of the artist, the storyteller, the poet, the balladeer, the musician, the puppeteer, the sculptor has always been crucial during conflict against oppression. In our automised, electronic age we seem to have forgotten the inspiration singers and songwriters, for example, give us, making it easier to get up in the morning and continue the struggle.

A primary reason for this is that we have become polarised into fiercely competing and mutually intolerant ideologies. This has not led to communication and understanding, it has instead resulted in a paralysing gridlock. Creative people provide the means to break that gridlock. We need creative people to present us with new visions for living, with new visions for the future, with alternatives to the models that have repeatedly lead to failure and misery.

We live in a world of competing lies. The old virtues of honour and honesty have tragically been lost and forgotten. Whenever we hear a statement coming from a politician, a corporation CEO, or a news reporter, we can have good faith that what they are saying is very likely to be partially or completely false. The absence of honour and honesty leads to the decay and collapse of nations, communities, families, and individual lives. So, who will tell the truth?

Throughout human history, creative people have been truth-tellers. They have played important roles in countless dramas of social change. Today, it is no different.

Jim Page is a Seattle-based singer-songwriter well known to radical audiences for more than four decades. By the end of the 20th century this street singer was still celebrating the protest movement's effect on culture and politics, with his masterly summation of the Seattle protest in November 1999 in his ballad Didn't We.

November 30th '99 history walking on a tightrope line
big money pulling on invisible strings getting into everything so deep. it's hard to believe it's in the food and the water and the air you breathe and the chemistry, the biotech, the banker with the bottomless cheque, the corporations and the CEOs and the bottom line as the profit grows, the money talks, you don't talk back, they don't like it when you act like that but didn't we shut it down didn't we

November 30th '99, it was a Tuesday morning when we drew the line, it was the WTO coming to town and we swore we gonna shut it down and they stood there with their big police, they had the national guard to keep the peace with the guns and the clubs and the chemical gas but still we would not let them pass and they raged and roared and their tempers flared and there were bombs bursting in the daylight air and they'd run us off, do us in but we came right back again, yeah didn't we, shut it down didn't we

November 30th '99, millennium passing as the numbers climb and the people came from everywhere there must have been 50,000 out there there were farmers, unions rank and file, every grassroots has its own style, there were great big puppets two storeys tall, there were drummers drumming in the shopping malls, there were so many people that you couldn't see how that many people got into the city and the WTO delegates too but we were locked down so they couldn't get through yeah didn't we. shut it down didn't we

November 30th '99, locked down at the police line,
and they hitting you with everything they got
but you ain't moving like it or not and then they're tying your wrists with plastic cuffs and they loading you up on a great big bus and taking you down to the naked bays, pepper spraying you right in the face, trying to break you down, trying to get you to kneel but you got the unity and this for real and they can't break a spirit that's coming alive, that's the kind of spirit that's bound to survive, didn't we, shut it down didn't we

Now the media loves all the glitter and flash, you know the newspapers talking out a whole load of trash about the violence of the people in black and how the cops were so tired they just had to attack and the secret sittings in that deep dark hole they call the city hall may never be told, the major's out doing the spin, the police chief quits so you can't ask him but they can swear to God and all human law but I was there and I know what I saw. and the visible stains wash away in the rains, but this old town'll never be the same cause didn't we, shut it down didn't we

Now it's the greatest story ever told, David and Goliath are you be so bold, standing up to the giant when the going gets hot, and all you got is a sling shot but they tell me that the world turned upside down, they gotta pick it up and shake it, gotta turn it around, you gotta take it apart, rearrange it, I don't wanna see the world I want to change it, don't let em tell you that it can't be done because they gonna be the first ones to run just take a little lesson from Seattle town, WTO and how we shut it down, yeah didn't we, shut it down didn't we

November 30th '99


David Rovics sings songs of social significance, about what is really happening in Palestine, in the USA, in America, in Europe, and he places his songs in a personal context, like all good storytellers. Song for Ana Belen Montes from his 2003 CD release Return (Al-awda) tells the story of a woman who worked deep in the Pentagon establishment on Caribbean policy in the Department of Defense. And was a spy for Cuba. 'That is,' says Rovics, 'she was committed to a higher law, committed to fighting US terrorism …'

Twenty-five years was what the judge said
Then he banged his gavel and shook his head
You've done wrong, you broke our trust
Now we caught you and this is a bust

Now you'll spend these decades behind bars of steel
You thought you could play with us, but this is for real
He said you gave away secrets to the enemy
Now you'll live in prison in the land of the free

But here beneath this Cuban sun
I'd just like to thank you for all you've done
My heart today is torn apart
Ana Belen Montes, you are a spy after my own heart

'I obeyed my conscience rather than the law,' so you said at your secret trial
You took no money for your work, so says your declassified file
You warned the Cubans of the plans of the assassins from the US
Just what other good deeds you did, they may never tell us

But here beneath this Cuban sun
I'd just like to thank you for all you've done
My heart today is torn apart
Ana Belen Montes, you are a spy after my own heart

High up in the ranks of the DoD you served the common good
Working alone, night and day, you did just what you should
Of all the great people I have known, there are few that I'd call greater
Than one woman who obeyed a higher law, who the judge called traitor

But here beneath this Cuban sun
I'd just like to thank you for all you've done
My heart today is torn apart
Ana Belen Montes, you are a spy after my own heart


Humans became powerful because of our mastery of language - the power of our stories,' wrote Michigan poet Rick Reese. 'We studied nature intensively, learned a great deal about the ways of plants and animals, and built stories around this knowledge. We learned stalking from the cats, tracking from the wolves, deception from the possums, trapping from the spiders, community from the apes, and joy from the chipmunks. We learned the finest magic of all beings, and enriched our stories with it. Stories are our software. Stories are the heart and soul of every culture. Stories define who we are, what we believe, and how we behave. Stories are our most important and powerful possessions.'

Storytelling has been replaced in the modern world by novels, which in turn have been replaced by packets of pages containing words written to a specific formula usually about the same subjects we see on cinema and television screens conflict, murder and war.

Some people tell it as it is.

Two women shine in this patriarchal world as storytellers, an Indian woman called Arundhati Roy and an American woman who calls herself 'Starhawk'. Roy is the best selling author of 'The God of Small Things', a novel that is centered in Indian life but rooted in the intimate tragedy of humanity that our daily rites of passage are consumed by the little things, that we tell lies because it is easier than telling the truth and that these add up to destroy families. A former scriptwriter, Roy has a prose style that is chatty, erudite, passionate and witty. It brought her a global readership in 30 languages, and when the elites tried to co-opt her to their world she shrugged her shoulders, content instead to tell the world about the damage the World Bank were causing in her country with their funding of the Narmada Dam. Instead of writing another best-selling novel that would enrich the corporate publishers of the western world she wrote a book, 'The Cost of Living', about Narmada Bachao Andolan - the alliance of indigenous peoples willing to die to defend their land in the Narmada valley in the north-west of India criticising the Indian state over the building of first world-funded dams. Roy's participation in protests against big dams in India led to contempt of court charges against her by the Supreme Court of India, which eventually gave her a one-day jail sentence. This did not shut her up; her subsequent books have been collections of essays about globalisation and the role of the US in Chile, Palestine, Israel and Iraq.

Starhawk spent several weeks during 2004 in the West Bank, where she was doing what she does very well - recording the daily lives and actions of oppressed people and putting their stories into the public domain. Her writings are the stuff of real soap-opera. She too is a creative writer, conjuring up stories about eco-spirituality, and she too decided her talents were better employed telling the stories of those who, for various reasons, are unable to speak to the world. This is an extract from her April 9 report, Last Day on the West Bank.

'After the last day of the women's training, we go home with Arish to her village of Sarda, open the door in the blank cement wall that faces the street, and enter a walled garden, with mint and fava beans, fig trees and grape vines, sages and roses lining the paths. In front of the house is a wide porch, and on the sides and back are courtyards. Arish brings us inside, to sit and drink tea and admire a perfect model of the Al Aqsa Mosque made by her brother, the engineer. Arish is young, in her early twenties, not yet married, an artist and writer. She shows us her drawings of her nieces and her mother, She has a round, bronze face and half-moon eyes that crinkle up as she smiles. Then the women beckon us out back, and we crowd onto a low bench in a small, cement-block outbuilding. In one corner is a sunken oven, heaped with coals and ashes from burning olive pumice, what's left after the oil is pressed. Arish's mother presides, patting out flat slabs of dough, and Arish removes the lid which has a long, vertical handle so they can lay them in the pit, replace the cover, and heap the ashes on. After just a few moments, the bread is done. Wide sheets of flat bread dripping with olive oil, with flat leaves of zata sandwiched in, and thin pasties of crisp, sweet bread basted with honey. They fill our hands with it, and we eat as tea is poured. It's a warm, intimate women's space, heated by the oven, like a sauna or a sweat lodge, and we laugh and smile and eat. I have seen clay models of this oven in sculptures thousands of years old. Generations of women have patted the dough, baked the bread, gathered at these hearths to gossip and laugh a warm and womblike female space in a male world. I feel so safe, so welcomed, that I'm lulled into being happy, a feeling I just can't shake as the afternoon goes on. In spite of the harsh realities we've been discussing in the training, the techniques for self-protection when facing tear gas, sound bombs, rubber bullets, beatings, the ominous approach of the Wall that will shatter the fabric of these villages, the overwhelming oppressive realities of the occupation, something strong and sweet as this honey bread survives. For a little while longer.'


Artists show us other ways of looking at the world. Painters like the Belfast-born artist, Dermot Seymour, reveal the obvious through their art, which can satirise the politics of power. When asked why he painted cows all the time he said, 'There are 8 million cattle in Ireland. Bewildering, isn't it? It is often obvious to work with the obvious …' But when the obvious is shown, as he did with a painting of an Orangeman, a crumbled harp can and a cow, he drew criticism from the Unionists because they claimed he was 'taking the piss' out of them.

Dermot was simply painting an obvious scene, yet taking the piss is an old artistic tradition. In medieval Europe, particularly in southern Europe, street theatre artists deliberately took the piss out of the ruling elites. These artists were called the giullari and they were the beginnings of the street theatre we now know as Punch and Judy and Zanni the clown. Giullari were wandering performers, actors and comics who travelled from place to place poking fun at church authority and rich people. Dario Fo has continued this tradition, particularly with his play 'Accidental Death of an Anarchist', which tells the story of an anarchist called Giuseppe Pinelli who police said fell out of an open window. Fo wrote his farce to show people this was a lie, that police had pushed him to his death. The Spacecraft street theatre group in Dublin took Fo's plot to present 'Hypothetical Death of an Activist', facilitated by Felicity Ford and Les Shine, to describe the events behind the garda (police) violence against the Reclaim the Streets protest in Dublin in 2002.

'The play,' says Felicity, 'has a history of being re-appropriated to various political situations, and it lives as a continually evolving artwork, which Dario Fo has generously given to anyone who wants to re-write it. It acts as a common cultural reference point for events that display similar characteristics across a globe where police habitually abuse their power. It connects lots of activist theatre groups in this way, and contests the idea of the artist as some kind of specialised figure whose work is a holy cow that can't be taken, played with, re-written, and re-configured. The lack of ego with which Fo has passed that script on to different groups is, to my mind, a really progressive way of making a type of art that genuinely encourages group input, co-operation, and discussion. I believe art is made to make sense of the times; that it does so on many levels, from personal through political (for they are not really separate) and in terms of creating art that is truly dissenting, an irreverence for external forms of validation of expression, and an almost insane confidence in the validity of one's own perception and vision are to be highly encouraged among artists. It is my fervent hope that healthy selves, not afraid to openly reject the values of society, the counter-culture, or any other dogmatic belief systems, are creating, as we speak, inspiring artworks, plays, songs, and stories that will encourage more to do the same. Inspiring each other is the best way for us to engender change and hope. A sustainable form of artistic resistance can be created only in the presence of real affirmation and confidence.'


Graciela Monteagudo is an Argentinian puppeteer who has taken the tradition of the Giullari onto another level. When Dario Santillan and Maximiliano Costeki were killed by police in Buenos Aires on June 26, 2002, Graciela joined 50,000 people who marched to the Plaza De Mayo to protest the murders. In the days before the march Graciela organised people to help her create what she called 'a giant puppet street theatre piece'. This piece led the march through Buenos Aires, and is now seen a symbol of the creative will of the unemployed peoples of Argentina.

Graciela tours the world with a unique puppet show. She uses a variety of puppet styles, acting and singing, also involving the audience. The main character is a woman, who used to be a worker and is now picking up cardboard from the streets of Buenos Aires every night to sell for a few cents. The message, says Graciela, 'is about organising and struggling.'

Images, like pictures and paintings, can portray a meaning and get to the heart of an issue much quicker than the use of words. Posters, which combine the subtle use of both images and words, are an artistic outlet those who are organising and struggling can use to great effect.

There is a rich world of struggle out there and without our creativity it would be a joyless place. Creative artists, whether they are poets or puppeteers, bring that world alive by sharing with the rest of us their ability to dramatise daily events and to highlight the truth. There are no implications for creative artists tackling themes that are not part of the mainstream. Once art becomes part of the mainstream it is no longer art, it is a commodity, something that has to have a value.

This was a point made by Neil Young, the Canadian singer-songer writer, when he was with the super group that included David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash. Four students were shot dead on the campus of Kent State University in Ohio in May 1970. Their crime was to protest against the Vietnam War. Crosby was enraged by the event, but Young expressed his reaction by writing a song there and then. The pair flew to Los Angeles, and went straight into the studio with Stills and Nash, to record the song, which was released within the week. Although it was banned by several radio stations, the CSN&Y single, simply titled Ohio, was a hit. Seven years later, when Young included the song on his Decade compilation, he wrote that "it's ironic that I capitalised on the deaths of these American students". Even more ironic is the inclusion of the song in Young's 2004 compilation of his best songs and his suprise at the continued popularity of the song. "It felt really good," he said, "to hear it come back so fast, that whole idea of using music as a message and unifying generations and giving them a point of view."

Few among the popular mainstream who have had success with politically-tainted songs have attempted to reconcile the contradiction that art, once successful, is no longer art, it is commerce that benefits the artist financially. Young is joined only by Bruce Springsteen among the best-selling giants of popular music with their ability to use their creativity to highlight political events and issues. Bob Marley was a beacon with his songs about Jamaican political culture, which got into the mainstream, but few mainstream popular groups achieve today what the Rolling Stones managed in the 1960s and 1970s when songs like Street Fighting Man and Sympathy for the Devil sold in millions.

Today the images, stories, songs and artistry of the corporate world are manufactured items that serve a function for commerce, they do not and never will be mistaken for creative art. Thea Gilmore, a second-generation Irish, English-born singer-songwriter, hit this particular nail bang into the corporate drum with a line from her song, 'Mainstream'.

'If we grow up we're all going to be famous.'

MORE TO GET YOUR HEAD INTO
Change the World without taking Power by John Holloway, Pluto Press, http://www.plutobooks.com

Running on Emptiness: The Pathology of Civilisation
by John
Zerzan, Feral House, http://www.feralhouse.com

The Checkbook and the Cruise Missile: Conversations with Arundhati Roy
, Interviews by David Barsamian, South End Press, http://www.southendpress.org


Power Politics
by Arundhati Roy, South End Press, http://www.southendpress.org


War Talk
by Arundhati Roy, South End Press, http://www.southendpress.org


The Algebra of Infinite Justice (The Cost of Living and Power Politics)
by Arundhati Roy, Flamingo


Webs of Power: Notes from the Global Uprising
by Starhawk, New Society Publishers, http://www.newsociety.com


Accidental Death of an Anarchist
by Dario Fo, Methuen


Jim Page, http://www.jimpage.net


Sean Tyrrell, http://www.seantyrrell.com


David Rovics, http://www.davidrovics.com


Starhawk, http://www.starhawk.org


Dermot Seymour, http://www.dermotseymour.ie


Graciela Monteagudo, http://www.autonomista.org

Thea Gilmore, http://www.theagilmore.com

Friday, July 30, 2004

ECO-TALES: A Sense of Place


credit: swiss-image.ch

When the Geneva-born philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau wrote that "the sweet voice of nature is no longer an infallible guide for us" he was referring to a time when the civilised world was about to embrace a new alchemical age. It was the beginning of an era that would bring us to where we are today – living in a civilised, human-built environment that is based on our ability to play the role of Gods using the natural resources of the planet – iron, salt, water, oil, plants and trees – combining them with natural elements to make electricity and petrol, engines and tools, medicines and plastics, computers and televisions, microchips and transistors, furniture and paper, and many other items we now take for granted. Rousseau, who added that the independence we have received from nature is not "a desirable state", would not, in his wildest dreams, be able to imagine the world we live in today or the precarious relationship we now share with the planet's species and its dwindling resources. By the time of his death, at Ermenonville in July 1778, his native Swiss were destroying their natural environment by stripping the mountains of their tree cover, so much that today avalanches, floods, landslides and rock falls are a serious threat, despite an equally serious attempt to erect defences.

The Valais canton, in south-west Switzerland, was devastated by floods in 1987, 1993, 1999 and 2000. The storms of October 2000 brought an earthflow of immense proportions into the Rhone valley, laying waste the carefully constructed human-built infrastructure. In Gondo 13 people were killed when the earthflow burst through a barrier that was insufficient to withstand the pressure. Flooding is now costing between one and two billion Swiss francs a year.

Despite this threat from nature in its fury the human-built environment continues to expand with 40 billion Swiss francs (€25.7 billion) spent each year by the federal government on the country's infrastructure. In 1998 the Swiss people voted to spend 31.6 billion Swiss francs (€20.3 billion) on two base tunnels through the Alps. One of these, the 34.6 kilometre Lötschberg base tunnel between Raron in the Valais and Frutigen in the Berner Oberland, started construction amidst the chaos of 1999 and 2000, workers beginning to blast and drill out 16 million tonnes of rock.

Nowhere on this planet is the social relationship between the civilised, human-built environment and the natural, ecological world better defined than in Switzerland, where nature in its fury frequently destroys what humanity has built, with blood, sweat and tears, and where the ecological balance is a constant concern to every Swiss person. Suddenly the sense of place that has always existed among the Swiss has become an emotional issue among its people. Heimat, the German word that describes identity, place and belonging, has taken on a social and ecological significance among the Swiss that is slowly becoming apparent – and which Rousseau might have approved of. When Rousseau was advocating a social contract between the individual and society, Europe was attempting to drag itself out from an era of barbarity that the philosopher despised and that left him a pathetic paranoid figure whose philosophical thought was centuries ahead of his time. In his 1755 essay, A Discourse on Inequality, he wrote: "All the inequality which now prevails owes its strength and growth to the development of our faculties and the advance of the human mind, and becomes at last permanent and legitimate by the establishment of property and laws."

Rousseau argued that humanity could never return to a state of nature, no matter how hard it tried. Civilisation, as Rousseau perceived it, had ruined humanity and there was no turning back. The late 20th century would see a movement develop that Rousseau might have approved of and then referred its philosophers to his argument: "The philosophers, who have inquired into the foundations of society, have all felt the necessity of going back to a state of nature; but not one of them has got there ... Peace and innocence escaped us for ever, even before we tasted their delights. Beyond the range of thought and feeling of the brutish men of the earliest times, and no longer within the grasp of the 'enlightened' men of later periods, the happy life of the Golden Age could never really have existed for the human race. When men could have enjoyed it they were unaware of it; and when they could have understood it they had already lost it."

Those who call themselves social ecologists and many others now argue that Rousseau got it wrong, that humanity cannot return to a state of nature because it never left it; all humanity did was evolve using its imagination and its ability to interact and adapt; it was the process of using tools and exploiting the planet's resources that changed humanity into a social animal that Rousseau believed had left nature behind. Rousseau, looking around him at a world that was being swiftly changed by science and technology, was viewing the world through a glass as dark as his moods. What he really wanted to see was a society that was not based on the exploitation of nature and of labour, a society that did not define itself by unequal competition and a flawed belief in a red-in-tooth-and-claw nature. Rousseau's obsession with nostalgia meant he believed humanity had abandoned its natural state, and it wasn't until the Russian geographer and anarchist Peter Kropotkin came along with the evidence that the planet's species actually cooperated with each other using mutual aid that human society began to understand its true relationship with nature. Kropotkin would argue that it was not a return to a state of nature that was required but a move forward towards a time when humanity could live in a world defined by cooperation, mutual aid and respect.

It was no co-incidence that the first no global protests took place in the multi-cultural, international city of Geneva, in 1998 and that some protesters, with their mouths gagged, carried a coffin to bury the 'social contract' in front of Rousseau's memorial. Switzerland has been the scene of two of the most brutal police responses to the no global protests, in Geneva in 1998 and in Lausanne in 2003, while the continent of Europe has become a violent battleground, the forces of globalisation killing one protester and hospitalising many others during peaceful protests since 1998. This is not what Arne Naess, the Norwegian philosopher, expected when he advocated non-violent direct action and the ideal of a biocentric, eco-defence movement (Earth First!). It was, however, exactly what Murray Bookchin, the American radical and one of the principle authors of social ecology, expected when he advocated a left-libertarian eco-social movement that would challenge and set out to radically change the hierarchical structure of society (Peoples Global Action, Social Forums).

It was George Marsh, in his seminal 1864 work Man and Nature or Physical Geography as Modified by Human Action, who remarked that man (sic) is everywhere a disturbing agent. "Everywhere he plants his foot, the harmonies of nature are turned to discords." Lewis Mumford, who challenged the role of technology in the destruction of both humanity and nature, called Marsh's book "the fountainhead of the conservation movement". Sadly, this is where the challenges, against those who would destroy so that they could gain personal wealth and power, went astray. The conservationist movement, especially in north America, attracted people with bourgeoisie sensibilities. It became a liberal movement that naively believed it could prevent the destruction of nature using polite protest. By the 1980s it was no longer called a conservationist movement, it was called environmentalism and its philosophical core was known as deep ecology – and it was flawed.

The emergence of Bookchin's social ecology differed significantly from Naess's deep ecology, yet both could be seen to influence each other, especially in modern Europe, where anarchism and socialism would become the defining forces in an eco-defence movement that was evolving into an eco-social movement. Rousseau's eco-social ideals and nostalgia had been clarified and modified by Kropotkin, with his argument for mutual aid in society. This brought the debate back into the realm of the individual, where sense of belonging, identity and place are paramount in the relationship between humanity and nature.

In modern Ireland sense of place is often confused with nostalgia though its more recent association with culture and with ecology would gave the impression that we too, like the Swiss, have an understanding of the relationship between the human-built and natural worlds and are aware of the philosophies of deep and social ecology – and what needs to be done. The evidence however is sparse. Attempts to save waterways, woodlands and bogs, prevent the denuding of mountains, the planting of ecologically-destructive commercial pines and quarrying at ancient sites, and generally improve the quality of Ireland's ecology have been met with failure, with few exceptions. The greater failure, however, has been our inability to marry the philosophical thought or theory with the ecological and social practice. Deep ecology has never had a hearing in Ireland while social ecology has been misunderstood, in much the same manner that Bookchin has been maligned. The history in Ireland of eco-social theory and practice is, so far, a short one. It consists of an attempt to form an Earth First! style direct action collective to protect Ireland's wild places and ecologically sensitive areas and ecosystems; an attempt to form an alliance between eco-social non-violent direct action groups in other countries and use their knowledge and experience to develop both an ideology and a campaign structure in Ireland; and an attempt to introduce a debate about the differences between environmentalism, sustainable development, self-sufficiency and social ecology.

Bookchin's definition of social ecology is not even a subject for debate. "Social ecology calls upon us," he wrote, "to see that nature and society are interlinked by evolution into one nature that consists of two differentiations: first or biotic nature, and second or human nature. Human nature and biotic nature share an evolutionary potential for greater subjectivity and flexibility. Second nature is the way in which human beings as flexible, highly intelligent primates inhabit the natural world. That is to say, people create an environment that is most suitable for their mode of existence. In this respect, second nature is no different from the environment that every animal, depending upon its abilities, creates as well as adapts to, the biophysical circumstances-or ecocommunity-in which it must live. On this very simple level, human beings are, in principle, doing nothing that differs from the survival activities of nonhuman beings." In Ireland it is a definition that has no resonance in society.

In Ireland all we are concerned with is development and destroying the natural world – for gain. Only the wind and rain brings the kind of devastation that the Swiss in their mountain valleys are used to. It is all that reminds us of our relationship with nature, as we seek to stand apart from it. We talk about self-sufficiency and sustainability when we actually mean something else, something Rousseau identified 250 years ago, when he said we contradicted our need to return to nature with "want, avidity, oppression, desires and pride".

Nowhere was this more apparent than during the campaign to prevent Wicklow County Council widening the road through the Glen of the Downs and destroying one of the few remaining natural woodlands left in Ireland. There was no real debate, among the greens, among the bureaucrats, among the academics, among the politicians. What should have been an eco-social reaction to the state's desire to spend EU funds on road building became a misinterpretation of the EU's desire to move freight off the roads, for environmental and ecological reasons. It also made a mockery, at the same time, of an non-EU country, Switzerland, putting in place a project that would reduce vehicle emissions while EU member states prevaricated.

The campaign in the Glen of the Downs said more about the problems within Irish society than it did about any desire to protect a threatened eco-system. It did not seem to matter that various species would be affected by the road widening and that the slopes of the valley and the tree roots would be compromised by the destruction. The campaign was mirrored by other campaigns around the country, against other threatened woodlands, against the planting of genetically-modified sugar beet, and against the against the erection in rural areas of telecommunication masts. The real interface between the human environment and the natural world has occurred among the grassroots within communities who understand the meaning of heimat. While they attempt to define what this means to modern Irish communities they realise they are up against power and money. These days land and property are seen as essential elements in our lives and to get them we must do what we can. For some of us that means exploiting natural resources without consequence to the eco-balance and exploiting other humans without consequence to their well-being. This has been a refrain of politics in Ireland for many years, that it is impossible to live low-income sustainable lives, that we must trade our natural resources for the jobs that will provide us with our basic needs. "A society based on grow or die as its all-pervasive imperative," argued Bookchin, "must necessarily have a devastating ecological impact." There is certainly a recognition that Irish society must change if it is to survive. But that recognition has not got past the talking stage. When a liberal green like Richard Douthwaite stated that "a sustainable world ... will be one of small communities that run their own affairs ... meeting or making their own requirements from local resources" he was lauded by fellow liberals. But when a Sinn Fein policy document stated that "community regeneration is a key process for ensuring that responses to disadvantage are community led, strategically driven and correspond directly to the actual specifics of local social need, the development process itself as well as sustainable outcomes" the issue was side-tracked by the same liberals. The publication of county development plans with sustainability at their core would indicate that the state is aware of the issues and has encouraged county councils and their development boards to seek partnerships that will improve the human environment with minimal harm to the natural world. What is missing from this plan is the ideal of self-sufficiency and the even greater ideal of community empowerment and participation, and the belief that the 21st century solution to our needs is a bioregional vision based on cooperation and mutual aid.


credit: Blsalptransit

It was the Swiss people who voted to make long holes in their mountains, and it was the Swiss people back in 1912 who voted, with the threat of war hanging over Europe, to turn their county into a self-sufficient haven. They did this by reclaiming their valleys from nature and by using the power of nature to build large dams high in the mountains along with hydro-electric installations and by encouraging everyone to grow food and participate in a cooperative system. The result is a public transportation system, buses, trams and trains, run on electricity; a land abundant with food, from wheat to vines to fruit to cattle; and a society that realised that to sustain its self-sufficiency it would have to work with rather than against nature. The theory was thought out and it was put into practice, slowly refined using an ecological model – everything that was taken out of the system was put back in. Swiss society is a society with virtually no waste. Recycling is an everyday habit and a countrywide industry. However Switzerland is not a perfect society; it has deep moral and social flaws with historical roots. The people speak four languages that are distinctive to Switzerland, they practice several strands of the same Christian religion; the urban people think that the rural people are ignorant and insular, while the rural people think the urban people are arrogant and competitive. Sounds familiar?

Compared to Irish society, however, Switzerland is an ecological paradigm with deep social roots, that are fed and watered by a system of government that is ultimately decided by the people. It is not an anarchist system but it has anarchist qualities; it is not a capitalist system but it has advanced capitalist qualities. It has the yin and the yang, and more significantly it has a balance between human and nature that is both ecological and social. Rousseau said that our needs bring us together at the same time as our passions divide us and the more we become enemies of our fellow-men (sic), the less we can do without them. Writing at a time when gender issues were firmly patriarchal, Rousseau identified the issues that now face humanity in the early 21st century – how to change society without personal harm, how, in the words of the Dublin-born, Mexico-city based academic John Holloway, to change society without talking control.

Few of us understand why we should challenge this global culture – the product of civilisation, the consequence of our greed and our selfishness – and the impact our consumer-dependent lives are having on the eco-systems we depend on for our survival. The reason for this, asserted Sandra Postel in the 1992 edition of the Worldwatch Institute's State of the World, is because most people are in a "psychological state of denial" concerning the seriousness and magnitude of the global ecological threat and the consequent effect on our lives. According to eco-psychologist Chellis Glendinning, "in western culture, we live with chronic anxiety, anger, and a sense that something essential is missing from our lives, that we exist without a soul". This is understandable. "Never before," the eco-theologian Thomas Berry lamented, "has the human community been confronted with a situation that required such a sudden and total change in life style under the threat of a comprehensive degradation of the planet." Yet Naess made the answer seem simple. "[People] must also find others who feel the same way and form circles of friends who give one another confidence and support in living in a way that the majority finds ridiculous, naive, stupid and unnecessarily simplistic. But in order to do that, one must already have enough self-confidence to follow one's intuitions – a quality very much lacking in broad sections of the populace. Many people follow the trends and advertisements and tend to become philosophical and ethical cripples."

The Grassroots Gathering is certainly not a circle of friends given the diversity and age range of the people involved but, if one journalist's reaction to it is a barometer, it definitely gives those involved "confidence and support" in promoting a way of life "that the majority finds ridiculous, naive, stupid and unnecessarily simplistic". The first Grassroots Gathering attracted 80 people in Dublin on November 24, 2001. It is now a feature in Irish radical society, with GG groups based in most towns and cities, and a regular gathering shared between Belfast, Cork, Dublin, Galway and Limerick.

Laurence Cox described the motivation behind GG:

We're working really hard to reach out to movements, which are only tangentially involved – particularly community activism, anti-racist and solidarity groups – as well as trying to get beyond 'the usual suspects' in terms of individual participants. That's not for tokenistic reasons, but because once again the way to achieve real change is to bring all those different voices and struggles together. So it's about getting beyond the natural tendency of any group of people [including us] to define 'politics' [or whatever they call it] as being the kind of thing they do, define 'activists' [or whatever] as being the kind of people they know, and so ignore and fail to communicate with other people and struggles. Basically our strength, as people who want to change very fundamental aspects of this society, lies in each other. And so we constantly have to move beyond our own comfort zones, at the same time as hoping that other movements and individuals are doing the same kind of thing themselves. Of course there are also a lot of gobshites, but the point is that these emotional responses are not the private property of a small group of activists surrounded by an uncaring mass. And that translates into the ability of many activists – not all, but many – to remain human, not to be traumatised by the pressures of the situation, to look after themselves emotionally and to support each other. And those are very important things – and the sense that things are changing, that we don't really know where we're going but the sense of possibility is becoming bigger, and the future is seeming more open. Which is absolutely wonderful, not simply to be playing a part in a script that's already written, but to be present in making our own history and feel that that's the case. It is not an easy task.

In Towards an ecological society, Bookchin wrote: "The problem they face is the need to discover the sweeping implications of the issues they raise; the achievement of a totally new, non-hierarchical society in which the domination of nature by man, of woman by man, and of society by the state is completely abolished – technologically, institutionally, culturally and in the very rationality and sensibilities of the individual." Yet, a movement forcing perpetual change is now a reality all over the world, embracing eco-social issues in a holistic manner seemingly destined to shape a brand new world. It could be argued that this change is anarchistic by its nature because it is happening without structure and form as more and more people realise they have no choice. They are empowering themselves to challenge the political and economic orders because that is all there is left to do. People are beginning to realise that their lives have a meaning that is not simply an extension of consumerist society. More people are empowering themselves to change this abstract thing called "civilisation". To be a passive viewer or an intense participant is the choice facing large sections of society. Let's put this into perspective. Prior to civilisation, 10,000 years ago, forests covered one third of the planet or 6.2 billion hectares. By 1975 forest cover had been reduced to a quarter. By 1980 it was a fifth. Now forests vanish at a rate of 17 million hectares per year (about half the size of Finland). Twenty years ago, the UN Environmental Programme (UNEP) estimated that 35% of the earth's land surface was threatened with desertification. The four principle causes, stated UNEP, are:
•1. Overgrazing of rangeland.
•2. Overcultivation of crop lands.
•3. Waterlogging and salinization of irrigated lands, and •4. Deforestation.
We are also raising the temperature of the planet with our industrial and domestic activities. In 1998 natural disasters caused more global damage than during all of the 1980s. Drought devastated 54 countries while 45 countries suffered from floods. These disasters are not the natural consequence of planetary cycles, they are, said the Worldwatch Institute, a consequence of modern society. "Higher temperatures mean that there is more energy driving the earth's climatic system. This in turn means more evaporation, more destructive storms and more flooding." Civilisation, said William Kotke, is murdering the planet. "We must create the positive, co-operative culture dedicated to life restoration and then accompany that in perpetuity, or we as a species cannot be on earth," he wrote. At the close of the 20th century Lester Brown summed it up in the 1999 edition of State of the World. "The western economic model – the fossil-fuel-based, automobile-centered, throwaway economy that so dramatically raised living standards for part of humanity during this [20th] century is in trouble. Indeed, the global economy cannot expand indefinitely if the ecosystem on which it depends continues to deteriorate."

These are gloomy predictions which those with eco-social sensibilities have been listening to for a long time. Around the world people are coming together to create cooperatives that combine capitalist economics, worker participation and fiscal realities. So far they are centered primarily on food; such as the fair trading by native workers of indigenous crops (dried organically-grown bananas, mangoes, pineapples, tea, coffee and sugar); such as the wholesale supply of organically-produced vegan and vegetarian produce; such as the retail supply of organic seeds; such as organic farms, organic retail stores and organic box suppliers. Housing co-ops supported by lending agencies that do not demand a high return of interest are helping people with bioregional visions to create small, autonomous, interactive communities determined to live self-sufficiently. Eco-villages, despite a tendency towards elitism and isolation, are lighting up like tiny beacons all over the western world. Barter schemes, local currencies and mutual aid clubs are working alongside capitalist economic methods of exchange in many communities.

What all these activities have in common is a gradual drift towards a bioregional paradigm. Kirkpatrick Sale, in his impelling book on bioregionalism, does not underestimate the personal and social obstacles. "It will take some broad and persuasive education to get people to realise that it is not the bioregional task that is irrelevant but precisely the business-as-usual politics of all the major parties of all the major industrial nations, not one of which has made ecological salvation a significant priority, not one of which is prepared to abandon or even curtail the industrial economy that is imperilling us. And it will take patience to lead people past their fear and lingering hatred of the natural world, which grows as their ignorance of it grows."

That ignorance is not unusual in people who no longer spend their lives in commune with nature or struggle to live in an environment where exploitation is their only means of survival. But, as Sale and others of his persuasion now realise, times are changing and people are beginning to realise that something is wrong with the way we live. Jean-Jacques Rousseau would approve of their thinking and particularly of their actions.


credit: Blsalptransit

This is based on an essay first published in the Irish geography magazine Chimera.


SELECTED FURTHER READING:
Allen, R. and Jones, T. Guests of the Nation, Earthscan, London, 1990
Allen, R. No Global, Pluto, London/Dublin, 2004
Allen, R. Rendezvous with Rousseau, (forthcoming)
Allen, R and Dowling, É. Ireland Unbound, (forthcoming)
Anon. Switzerland 2003-04, Kümmerly+Frey, Berne, 2003 (annual)
Berry, T. The Great Work, Bell Tower, 1999
Bookchin, M. Post-Scarcity Anarchism, Black Rose Books, Toronto, 1971
Bookchin, M. toward an ecological society, Black Rose Books, Toronto, 1980
Bookchin, M. The Ecology of Freedom, Black Rose Books, Toronto, (1982), 1991
Bookchin, M. Social ecology versus Deep Ecology, Socialist Review, London, 18(3): 9-29, 1988
Bookchin, M. (with Dave Foreman), Defending the Earth, Black Rose Books, Toronto, 1991
Bookchin, M. The Philosophy of Social Ecology, Black Rose Books, Toronto, 1996
Booth, S. Into the 1990’s with Green Anarchist, Green Anarchist Books, Oxford, 1996
Borgmann, A. The nature of reality and the reality of nature, in Soule, M. and Lease, G. (eds) Reinventing Nature? Island Press, Washington, D.C., 1995
Bradford, G. How Deep is Deep Ecology? Times Change Press, California, 1989
Brown, L, Saving the Planet, Worldwatch/Norton, New York, 1992
Brown, L. State of the World 1999, Norton, New York, 1999
Capra, F. The Turning Point, Simon and Schuster, New York, 1982
Commoner, B. The Closing Circle, Bantam, New York, 1971
Davis, J. (ed) The Earth First! Reader, Peregrine Smith, Salt Lake City, 1991
Day, D. The Eco Wars, Harrap, London, 1989
Devall, W. Deep Ecology: Living as if Nature Mattered, Peregrine Smith, Salt Lake City, 1985
Ehrenfeld, D. The Arrogance of Humanism, Oxford University Press, 1978
Evans, D. A History of Nature Conservation, Routledge, London, 1992
Foreman, D. Confessions of an Eco-Warrior, Harmony, New York, 1991
Foreman, D. and Haywood, B. Ecodefense, Abzug Press, Chico, (1987), 1993
Glendinning, C. My Name is Chellis and I'm in Recovery from Western Civilisation, Shambhala, Boston, 1994
Holloway, J. Change the World without taking Power, Pluto, London, 2002
Kitschelt, H. New social movements in West Germany and the United States, in Zeitlin, M. (ed) Political Power and Social Theory, JAI Press, Greenwich, 1985
Kotke, W. The Final Empire, Arrow Point Press, Portland, 1993
Kovel, J. The Enemy of Nature, Zed, London 2002
Kroptkin, P. The Conquest of Bread, Black Rose Books (1907), 1990
Kroptkin, P. Evolution and Environment, Black Rose Books (1912), 1995
Kroptkin, P. Fields, Factories and Workshops, Black Rose Books (1913), 1994
Kroptkin, P. Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution, Black Rose Books (1914), 1989
Marsh, G. P. Man and Nature, The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge (1864), 1965
Martell, L. Ecology and Society, Polity, London, 1994
Mumford, L. The Future of Technics and Civilisation, Freedom Press, London, 1986
Naess, A. Ecology, Community and Lifestyle, Cambridge University Press, London, 1989
Pepper, D. Eco-Socialism, Routledge, London, 1993
Pepper, D. Modern Environmentalism, Routledge, London, 1996
Roszak, T. Where the Wasteland Ends, Anchor Books, New York, 1972
Rousseau, J-J. A Discourse on a subject proposed by the Academy of Dijon: What is the Origin of Inequality among men, and is it authorised by natural law in The Social Contract and the Discourses, Everyman's Library/Knopf, New York, (1913, 1973), 1993
Rowell, A. Green Backlash, Routledge, London, 1996
Sale, K. Dwellers in the Land: The Bioregional Vision, University of Georgia, Athens, (1991), 2000
Scarce, R. Eco-Warriors, Noble, Chicago, 1990
Sessions, G. (ed) Deep Ecology for the 21st Century, Shambhala, Boston, 1995 Shepard, P. Nature and Madness, University of Georgia, Athens, (1982), 1998
Shepard, P. The Only World We've Got, Sierra Club, San Francisco, 1996
Taylor, B. Ecological Resistance Movements, State University of New York Press, 1995
Wall, D. Green History, Routledge, London, 1994
Wall, D. Earth First! and the Anti Roads Movement, Routledge, London, 1999
Zerzan, J. (ed) Against Civilisation, Uncivilised Books, PO Box 11331, Eugene, Oregon, 97440, 1999
Zerzan, J. Running on Emptiness, Feral House, Los Angeles, 2002
Zimmerman, M. Contesting the Earth’s Future, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1993

Thursday, July 15, 2004

VEGAN TALES: The Apple of Sodom

This is the first of a series of A-Z entries that will make up the book The Lazy Vegan


alberginia/al-babinjan
/aubergine/brinjal
/eggplant/melanzane
/melitzane


Solanum melongena: An Asian delicacy thought to be native to modern Burma, the aubergine upset the sensibilities of western physicians when it reached Europe in the middle ages and until the late 19th century was still being grown as an ornamental plant. A member of the Solanaceae family (pepper, potato, tomato), these ignorant doctors claimed it caused fevers and fits. Carl Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist, named it Solanum insanum because of its reputation and then changed his mind and gave the vegetable its modern name - Solanum melongena.

Brought into the eastern Mediterranean region by the Arab caravans that travelled to and from the Far East, the aubergine with its distinct fried oyster flavour became popular among the Moors of northern Africa. When they invaded Spain in the 12th century they introduced its seeds to the slightly colder climate. It thrived in the porous well-drained soil and was soon grown all over western Europe but doctors were convinced it was poisonous, calling it 'the mad apple' and 'the apple of sodom'.

The wiser people of the Middle East knew it for what it was - 'poor man's meat' or 'poor man's cavier' - and today the aubergine is a popular favourite in southern Italy, southern Spain, south-eastern France, Turkey, Greece and the Middle Eastern countries, where it is still known by the name the Catalans called it - berengenas - 'apples of love' because it was thought to be a love potion. It's not.

All the way from the European lands through the Middle East by way of Israel, Lebanon, Palestine, Syria, the Maghreb of north Africa and into Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Kurdistan, Pakistan, India, China and Japan - where it is among the most popular national dishes - the aubergine has been adapted into national cuisine.

Known for thousands of years in Asia by its various native names, the Arabs called it al-babinjan, the Spanish alberginia and later berengenas, the French and British aubergine, the Italians melanzane, the Greeks melitzane while it is popularly known as brinjal in south-east Asia. Because it was shaped like a goose egg it became popularly known in English speaking countries, particularly north America, as eggplant.

Modern nutritionists know the aubergine as an essential vegetable that lowers cholesterol, aids the digestive system, combating constipation. It stimulates the liver and intestine and generally helps the body deal with internal problems. Despite being 90 percent water for every 100 grams and low in protein (just one gram), the aubergine is rich in calcium, iron, niacin, phosphorus, potassium plus vitamins PP, A, B1 and B2.
And like all popular vegetables (though in fact it is a fruit) the aubergine has its own story, which emanates from the East, probably India, where the British first encountered its nutritional and medicinal properties.

A long time ago, perhaps around the time of the one thousand and one nights, a young girl known as a good cook was selected by an Imam for marriage. As a dowry the priest asked her father for 12 large jars of virgin olive oil. Returning from her wedding, the girl cut up many brinjal and left them to soak in the olive oil her father had put aside for her dowry, but after 11 days the brinjal had soaked up all the oil. When the Imam saw this he fainted. This is why many restaurants serve brinjal fried in oil and call it 'Imam Bayildi' - in English 'the priest fainted'.

Once on a mid-day train from Foggia to Napoli in Italy my lunch was young spinach leaves, baked aubergine in breadcrumbs and spices, mozzarella, sundried tomatoes, fresh tomatoes, pumpkin seeds, olive oil and chilli sauce. All these were acquired in a supermercato in Foggia but the delight was the baked aubergine. I suspect the recipe was simple. Thick slices of aubergine were baked in the oven covered with a layer of olive oil and breadcrumbs sprinkled with ground paprika or chilli.

Because of its popularity aubergine recipes number in the thousands. Most people are familiar with aubergine in moussaka and in ratatouille, and while these are fine vegan dishes they only hint at the richness of the aubergine platter. The aubergine can be boiled, baked, cooked in oil, steamed and roasted, and added to other vegetables (and dare I say it meats) in various combinations.

Here is our modest contribution but before you cook the aubergine take a look at the Belladona plant, the queen of the Deadly Nightshade family, and look at their similarity. Now you'll know why European doctors were suspicious.

Aubergine and potato bake

Deep baking tray or oven proof dish
Olive oil
Two large aubergines, cut along their length into half inch thick slices, salt and leave for an hour, rinse salt away and dry. Or a dozen small aubergines (of the Asian variety), cut into thick slices.
Four large waxy potatoes, cut into quarter inch slices.
Two large onions, cut into thin slices.
Two tins of plum tomatoes.
Ground paprika

Layer the potatoes in the tray on a film of olive oil, place the onions on top and finally the aubergines. Add several spoonfuls of olive oil until the aubergines are soaked. Sprinkle the paprika over the aubergines, as little or as much as you like. Bake for 30 minutes on a moderate heat, and then add the tomatoes and cook until the potatoes are done. Serve with couscous.


So now I suppose you'll want to know how to grow them yourself? Couldn't be easier. If you are in a cold climate start the seeds indoors or in a greenhouse or polytunnel, setting outside after all danger of frost has gone. The seeds should be planted two months before the usual date for the end of the frost. In hot climates they can be set out as soon as the soil warms.

Aubergines need at least five months of hot weather with day temperatures no lower than 80 degrees, and night no lower than 70 degrees. In colder climates when the aubergine seedlings are planted out it is wise to keep them under cloches until the weather reaches a constant high temperature.

Aubergine seeds should be soaked before they are planted, in rich porous soil that drains well and has a ph of 6 to 7. A mulch should be added to the soil around the plants. This will help retain moisture and make it available to the plant and help suppress unwanted vegetation.

Aubergines come in several eggshapes and numerous colours. The large elongated eggshaped glossy deep purple aubergine is the most common and it might surprise some people to learn that the fruit also comes in black, green, yellow and white. And that the aubergine prized by chefs and those natives in the know is the small purple variety set by growers in India.

Like its family the aubergine needs constant feeding. Liquid compost and seaweed will help its initial growth. Once the fruits emerge regularly feed with liquid compost.

Author: English physician with a deadly imagination

TOXIC TALES: Nowhere

Mary Brackwell lived in a company village on the northern side of a valley near the border between two countries. She was the mother of seven children. She should have been the mother of 16 but something happened to the other nine. Until the day she went to her own grave no one was able to tell her why so many of her children had died.

The company was a subsidiary of a large American corporation. For most of the time the village, on the middle slopes of a reclining valley, stank. The villagers, because most of them were economically and socially dependent on the company, put up with the smell.

The company made products from raw chemicals and insisted that the smell was harmless. The villagers told themselves that the company would not lie to them, so most of the time they chose to believe what they were told.

Except when a mother, like Mary Brackwell, had another miscarriage or a stillborn child. Mary lived at the top of the village, on the higher slope amidst the rising smog that was emitted from the stacks and vents of the chemical factory. Everynow and then Mary would notice various colored specks on her washing and on her husband's car. Her newly washed clothes stank of chemicals. Her husband got fed up washing his car. Mary never complained when she had to wash the family's clothes again.

No one thought to complain to the company that their emissions were a domestic inconvenience for the neighbours, especially those closest to the factory.

The part of the country they lived in was a tourist trap. Beyond the hill that the factory stood out on lay the sweep of a majestic valley, flood plain and meandering river. Some said the large mound on the valley floor beside the river housed the remains of a medieval castle. Others said knightly ghosts guarded the people of the land and safeguarded their future.

Such romanticism did not go down well in the public houses and drinking clubs of the company village. Lives had to be lived and money had to be earned to feed the families who depended on the company for their livelihoods.

So Mary Brackwell never complained when she lost another child - until one day a stranger from the valley came asking questions. She told the stranger, a young woman whose family had lived at the edge of the valley for many generations, the story of her lost children.

All the mothers had miscarriages, Mary told the young woman. It was common, she said, in the village to lose a few. After the second one, she said, I asked the doctor if he could do something to stop them. He said anything could have caused the miscarriage. It was better to place her trust in God and pray that her next child would survive. Times are hard, he told her. Mary often thought the doctor had missed his calling.

Over the years as her surviving children grew, the pattern continued. Mary would have a normal child, then a miscarriage, then another normal child. Until one year she lost two children in a row. The first miscarried after a few weeks, the second was stillborn - the first of several. It would not be the last.

Mary questioned her doctor, who was also the company doctor, if he knew what had caused the miscarriage and then the arrival of a stillborn child in so short a time. He said he couldn't comment without sending Mary to the hospital for tests. She said, can't you do tests on the fetuses? He said she would have to endure three miscarriages before a post mortem could be done to determine the toxic causes. He said he was sorry.

Mary had never heard the word 'toxic' before. Why, she asked, would they want to do toxic tests? To determine if a toxic factor caused the stillborn, he replied. Mary didn't think about it again until her next pregnancy, which appeared to be going well. Eight months along she feared a premature birth.

She told her story to the young woman. The child was stillborn, Mary told her. It had been dead for days, she said, and I had been carrying it dead in me. It was terrible, she said.

Jack, my husband, told me the doctor got him to wrap up the poor little thing. Jack told me it was tiny and deformed. He spared me the details, Mary said.

The doctor, Mary said, told Jack to wrap it up in a newspaper. Jack told me he asked the doctor why he wanted him to do that. Go over there, the doctor said pointing to the fireplace, and burn it, Jack told Mary. And Mary told the young woman. It was the first time she had told the story to a stranger, to anyone. My husband Jack, Mary said, never talked about it. It affected him, she said.

Mary never did ask the doctor why the stillborn child was not given to the hospital to make tests. Why, Mary said. He knew I knew, Mary told her. That doctor knew and everything that has happened in this village involving mothers and dead children goes back to the factory. We all knew, we pretended we didn't know. We're not stupid here you know. They think we are stupid, well we're not, Mary said, tears forming in her eyes, her head bowed, fists clenched.

Monday, July 05, 2004

CULTURE TALES: Visions of Árainn

The Aran Islands look barren because they are. To the geologist they are limestone outcrops floating a few miles off Galway Bay. To the native islanders they are the product of generations of back-breaking toil, breaking stones, building walls, bringing seaweed and sand to the rocky fields. To the visitor, a quarter of a million each year, the islands are a window looking in at the past. It has always been so.

A century has passed since John Millington Synge decamped to the Arans on the sagacious advice of John Bulter Yeats. The Dublin-born son of an Anglo-Irish family went to these western isles to find the primitive in himself, which Yeats believed would inspire him. What he found was a community unchanged by the fin de siécle modernity of the Victorian Age, a community self-sufficient in all their daily needs except fuel because no bogs or trees grew on the islands. This was the islanders only dependence on the mainland. In return for turf they bartered the foodstuffs they produced on the islands. Today, with few exceptions, all foodstuffs are imported, leaving the islanders with a dependency on the mainland Synge would probably find strange.

But the Arans are different places to the native and the blow-in. What most visitors look for when they land on the shores of Árainn (or Inis Mór), Inis Meáin or Inis Oírr is an idyllic vision of a time, as recent as fifty years ago, when the islands were dotted with thatched cottages, crews of three men carried the traditional rowing boat, the curragh, on their shoulders to the sea, while the women tended their small holding. This was the culture Synge celebrated in his plays, particularly The Playboy of the Western World, and in his 1907 book on the islands.

Now with some exceptions, the natives have embraced modernity to free themselves from subsistence farming and fishing. They have traded the hard toil of the past for the difficulties of participating in a high cash-flow economy. They have no time for romantic visions of the past.

The Aran islands are a microcosm of modern Ireland. The Irish do not grow and produce their own food locally, everything is geared towards intensive industrial farming and export. Now farming is being threatened by a state policy that favours attracting foreign direct investment (particularly from corporates producing pharmaceuticals and electronic components, which are enticed with subventions and fiscal incentives) and by EU legislation (particularly the directive on nitrates, which has not been implemented by the state because of pressure from the Department of Agriculture who fear that cattle stocking yields will be detrimentally affected).

The traditional support from children, family members and the community - the meitheal (mutual aid) - in agricultural activity has been eroded in modern Ireland. The co-ops that serve as local government in each of the three islands should ideally be a modern system to support the production of food for the island people and its visitors. The reality is different.

People who have tried to set up self-sufficient and organic systems on the Arans had to do it on their own. Some are natives born on Árainn - the big island, Inis Meáin - the middle island or Inis Oírr - the south island. Some are blow-ins, who settled on the islands from other parts of Ireland or from abroad. Here is one story.




Árainn
Arriving at Kilronan Pier through a thick mist on the Aran Flyer from Ros an Mhíl in Connemara, Árainn was like nothing I had been prepared for. The island of my imagination clashed with the island of my reality. As it was October the tourists had gone, leaving behind a community about to settle down for winter. I accepted a seat in one of the small buses that ferry tourists to their destinations in the hotels, hostels and bed and breakfasts that characterise Kilronan and its hinterland. The bus driver wasted no time speeding around the horseshoe-shaped pier, turning up past the American Bar and out of the village. I had little time to take in the surroundings, the drystone walls and the crumbling 19th century houses, when the driver announced my stop, telling me to take the sloping road that forked away from the main road. "That's Mainistir," he said.

I had been invited to Árainn by Dara Molloy, a former priest living with his partner Tess Harper a lifestyle others would find idealistic. Dara had given me directions to their home - a few miles from the village on the rise towards Kilmurvy. He told me it was thatched so I knew it would stand out. The islanders of Árainn share their Connemara neighbours' love of the modern bungalow. As I walked down the road I passed several bungalows. The road turned sharply and I passed more bungalows and then a row of old empty houses. None were thatched. Then I saw it, dirt gold streaming over a large two-storeyed square house. Dara's dwelling couldn't be different. Sitting on the hill sloping towards the mainland, the house, polytunnel, sheds and gardens epitomise the low impact, self-sustainable environment they sought when they built the house meitheal-style a few years before. Ducks and geese run around the place. Seaweed decomposes in the sandy soil. An old working tractor sits at the gate.

I settled in easily. I took to the kitchen which dominated the two storey house, cooking whatever food there was to be found. This was a mix of bulk food (flour, muesli, grains plus jars and tins of various foodstuffs from peanut butter to molasses) and organic food (stored potatoes, onions and whatever was still growing in the gardens). There's something very gratifying about cooking and eating food you've picked out of the garden moments before, especially salads, leaves and roots. Most nights before dusk I went collecting herbs to make tisanes.

Dara and Tess have a prayer hut at the bottom of the garden overlooking the mainland. I used it to meditate and chill out. Sometimes when I was in the garden I used it to escape from the sudden showers that occasionally lash the island. On most days you can see the shape of the Connemara mountains and the outlines of the bleak landscape and the growing Galway conurbation. Other days the mainland is shrouded with low-lying clouds and a drizzle that drifts relentlessly across the land. When the rain clears, the clouds part, revealing a patchwork of blues.

The primitive in me likes the weather when it is like this. Stormy but clear, no rain. There's more energy about. The rain dissipates the energy of the storm and then the cycle begins again. On a clear day you can see the Mayo, Galway and Clare coastlines, Achill island to the north, Connemara's Twelve Bens mountain range to the east and the cliffs of Moher and the Burren in Clare to the south. This gives the impression that the islands are closer to the mainland than people imagine. Islands always seem closer than they appear and it is only when you've rowed over to them or even travelled in a powerful boat that you realise they are much further away, over turbulent seas. The 40 minutes on the Aran Flyer boat can be a bumpy ride even on a calm day.

It's coming up to Samhain, the celtic harvest festival, a time when the earth has given up her fruits, the turning of the season, the seasonal journey from light to dark - a time to celebrate. On the mainland this celtic festival is celebrated by the few who know why, on the Arans it is celebrated by everyone in some form or other. To celebrate people dress up in clothes they hope no one will recognise them in. The tradition says that those who dress up are not allowed to talk. People are also allowed to go into each other's houses and make themselves at home. Usually the adults go to the pubs while the younger children go to the houses and the older children hang out. The idea is that there are two worlds, the outer world and the inner world. If you dress up you become part of the outer world and escape the other world. This is the kind of lived spirituality that attracts people to celtic ways. It also invigorates those with celtic sensibilities - like Tess Harper.

When she set out on the spiritual journey that would bring her closer to the natural world it brought her in contact with her anam cara, her soul friend, her kindred. When she left Maynooth college where she had successfully completed a degree in Theology, English and Philosophy she headed for Árainn, knowing only that her instincts were taking her there. "My aims, as I look back on it, were threefold: to be as independent (of systems as I see it now) as I possibly could. To live close to the land and in the heart of nature. To live a spiritually based life," she said, remembering her teenage longing to belong to a world that celebrated nature. The moment she knew she belonged to this natural world has remained with her.

"I'm sitting at the back of the classroom in the Holy Faith Convent School, Glasnevin, Dublin. There are twenty-eight students in three rows. I look out of the window to where I can see the tops of the old trees. I long to be outside. What is going on in the class does not interest me in the least. It has been five years of this, a survival course, an endurance test - to say nothing of primary school. I am sixteen years of age. Thankfully, a teacher of another class has intellectually adopted me. I find my soul finally nourished by Camus, Sartre and Dostoevsky. These books I read under the desk while the class goes on. This does nothing for my french, maths and latin, but they were sorry causes anyway."

In five years of secondary school education Tess went through the motions, valuing only poetry, prose and drama. The rest meant nothing to her. She when completed her exams, cramming to pass them, she realised she had learned nothing at all. "Later, at least, in Maynooth College, I felt I was directing my own course," she said. "I simply missed lectures that did not stimulate me and devoured the rest. My time was my own to do what engaged me."
"Yet as I had once looked longingly at the tops of the trees from the schoolroom window, by third year in college I would be gazing longingly at the road west - to Galway, and more specifically, to Aran. For that was where I was headed. With an instinctive certainty at the age of 19 that baffled simply everyone, I packed up as soon as I had an honours degree and went to metamorphose my head full of ideas into earthen compost from which something could grow."

Her path had been mapped out by others. She would become a teacher. She had different ideas. On Árainn she got to express her creativity, doing a variety of jobs - retreat work, workshops, lectures, knitting coloured jumpers, designing greeting cards, editing and layout computer work, writing," - whatever she could put her hand to.
When she arrived on Árainn in 1985 the real learning began. She learned organic gardening. On the Aran Islands that means collecting seaweed to manure the shallow soil. It means companion planting and rotation. She learned animal husbandry - how to keep ducks, chickens, goats, geese and sheep. She co-founded The Aisling Magazine which she co-edits with Dara Molloy. She learned to build a stone house. She learned carpentry. For Tess these were the real learning years - "of hands-on living, of learning many skills and experiencing the intricate inter-relationships between many many things". Her celtic soul was honed in the furnace of life. This was the lived spirituality.

"The theology I studied in Maynooth has long since gone into a compost bin and the soil that has replaced it is refreshing and fecund. There is an inherent spirituality in all I've done on Aran, in all the tilling, sowing, reaping, the chasing of sheep, the loving of goats, the building. It is a spirituality that makes a nonsense of all the dogma and doctrines I had learned. It makes a nonsense of religion.

She didn't know when she left Maynooth what she was letting herself in for. This was no hippy dream. There was, she said, "no set course, no pre-written map, no 'Guide to Wholesome Living'. It is there for the creating and it is far from simple". In 14 years on Árainn she constantly challenged herself, asking questions, demanding answers mostly of herself. She consigned the concepts and practices of "development" and "progress" to the "intellectual compost heap". She wondered how to get the balance right "when so much in our western society is chronically out of balance". She questioned the role of technology in the natural world. She juxtaposed the conflicting ideas of sustainability and economics. The answer, she realised, was always the same - every decision we make has to be a personal one. "What nappies to put on the baby? What mode of transport to use? What meat to eat or not eat? What fuel to use? The list goes on and on. Each choice requires a thought-out decision. At this point in my life I do not believe in a definitive right and wrong answer to these choices. The situation, environmentally, socially, economically, is far too extreme for simplistic black and white solutions, yet I do feel the integrity of the choices we make, the quality of the thought we put in and the harmonising of our choices with our inner self - these are the things that can count and that may make a difference in the world.

"I have made my home in Aran. When I first decided to come here, a college lecturer predicted that I would not last the first winter. Yet Aran is home for me in ways that Dublin never was. Much as I love Dublin, especially its people and their wit, Aran provides a landscape that knows my name, that eases my spirit and captures my soul. I belong here - not necessarily to the people, for blood does run thicker than water and I'll always be a Dub and a "blow in", but I belong to this place, these fields whisper to me and their song makes me smile."

Unlike the seafarers who stumbled upon the Arans or the celtic priests who were called there by their deity or the writers who searched for the primitive or the academics who sought an inner truth, Tess Harper made a conscious decision to create a life for herself on Árainn. She came to stay. Tess survived the first winter because she found other kindreds who had been drawn there for similar reasons. One such kindred was Dara Molloy, a priest from Dublin who had begun to question the role of modern religion in Irish life.

He arrived on Árainn in January 1985 with no particular plan: "I wanted space to allow my life to evolve without being manipulated by various institutions and needs defined by other people." He brought with him some spare clothes, books, a typewriter and a stencilling machine hoping that he could do some writing and some publishing, and keep in touch with people. He rented a house for £15 a week, and for the next ten years this was his home. He had been inspired by the celtic monks, like Colmcille and Enda (or Eanna), who had come to the Arans millennia before. "I wanted to live in that tradition and for me that meant living in close relationship with the earth and being aware of the relationship in general with everybody and every thing and to work at that relationship so that it was right and wasn't abusive or disrespectful and so that I found my right place - like when you floated me where did I float rather than tying me down and trying to regulate me and control me - trying to find my own place in the world. Part of my way of life was to offer hospitality to other people who were searching and wanted to become free. I was only in the house for two months on my own. After that I always had people living with me. Over the years there have been thousands living with me I'd say. I never count them but all the time there are people coming."

Gradually Dara and Tess began to build a life "outside of the social structures that keep people in their place". This included being able to grow their own food and domesticate their own animals. Not long after they had settled, they had a system in place which was beginning to fulfil their needs. After five years they were becoming self-sufficient. "Our emphasis has gone into providing food for ourselves so that we don't have to go to the shop and we've really worked hard on that. We grow anything that will grow - we have potatoes and vegetables all the year round. We have our own honey, our own milk, our own eggs and our own meat as well - sheep and goats which we kill but we don't breed them to kill them. We don't eat meat every day or anything like it - possibly once a week," said Dara.

The animals play an important role in their system. As well as providing animal manure for the compost used on the land they become an integral part of what is a functioning ecosystem, particularly the food chain. For example, the ducks eat the slugs which feed on the vegetables. And the humans, being at the top of the food chain, eat the animals but as Dara stressed they do not breed the animals for slaughter, for meat. "If you have animals they breed and you can't feed them all, so you have to kill some or give them away. It's on that principle that we kill them. It's not for producing our food specifically. We only kill what we can't keep and we only eat what we kill so if we don't kill it we don't eat it. We don't have animals for our food. We don't have them for meat. We have them for eggs and milk and for wool."

When they built their own house on some land on the eastern slopes of the island, a few miles from Kilronan, in Mainistir they transferred the system. "We have very small pieces of land," said Tess. "In one garden we use a crop rotation method, brassicas, root crop, and others including lettuces, beans, aubergines etc. We sow a small field of potatoes every year and our polytunnel keeps us in tomatoes all summer."

Their garden now provides cabbages, kale, onions, carrots, leeks, beans, peas, potatoes, cauliflower, broccoli, spinach among others and sage, fennell, mint and lemon balm for herbs. The polytunnel allows them to bring on seeds in trays and to have winter greens and tomatoes in summer. Ducks, chickens and goats, geese, dogs and a cat wander around the place. "We grow enough vegetables to keep us going all year round," she said.

The Aran Islands are not easily defined despite the efforts of many gifted writers. The atavism that drew Synge to the Arans a century ago in search of the primitive might have been selfish but it was no greater than the impulse that attracted Colmcille and Enda and no lesser than the lure that brought the many academics like Tim Robinson who have studied the islands and its people. Aran has featured in the myths of our imaginations for millennia, and even today people still talk of another Aran, an island in the mist, an island few have seen - the mythical island of Hy Brasil.

Early maps placed it out in the Atlantic, later maps south of the Arans off the coast of Clare. Known in Irish as Árainn Bheag or Little Aran and in English as O'Brasil from its Norse and Irish roots, hy the Norse name for island, breasail (or Brazil) the Irish name for reddish substances, this island features strongly in Irish folklore. Roderic O'Flaherty wrote about it in his 1684 book A Chorographical Description of West or H-lar Connaught: "Whether it be reall and firm land, kept hidden by special ordinance of God, as the terrestiall paradise, or else some illusion of airy clouds appearing on the surface of the sea, or the craft of evill spirits, is more than our judgements can sound out."
It's likely that those who heard about and sought Hy Brasil were looking for the Aran islands. You can imagine what these islands must have looked like hundreds if not thousands of years ago. So near yet so far. Sea travellers from the Iberian peninsula and from the Mediterranean countries frequently travelled to Ireland's western shores. If you look at a globe of the Earth you can see how they would have ended up on the Arans first or even passed these islands in a storm.

What you cannot see from a map are the reasons why these islands, particular the largest island Inis Mór or Árainn attracted druids, hermits, monks, priests, poets, writers, dreamers and utopians. To see that you must go there. The Aran Islands have a magical quality about them. Everyone who has been there has a story and for most that story is fantastical because people see in the Aran islands what they want to see. Tim Robinson was so moved by Árainn that he wrote its history, concluding with an apology. "Whether it be the terrestial paradise, an airy illusion of clouds on the sea, or the work of delusive spirits, I have brought back a book as proof that I was there." Aran attracts romantics, dreamers, artists and writers because it is a place of the imagination, just as Hy Brasil was. You see what you want to see when you travel to these islands and sometimes you see a little more if, like Dara Molloy and Tess Harper, you decide to make your utopian visions come true. They have done this by marrying their romantic idealism to the pragmatic realism of the natives, utilising the living memory of the islanders, their knowledge of the land, the ancient skills, traditions and stories, without which no-one could survive on Aran as Synge so tragically observed one hundred years ago.

FURTHER READING/INFO:

PRINT:
JM Synge, The Aran Islands
JM Synge, The Playboy of the Western World
L O'Flaherty, Thy Neighbour's Wife
L O'Flaherty, The Black Soul,
L O'Flaherty, Spring Sowing
L O'Flaherty, Skerret
T Robinson, Stones of Aran: Pilgrimage
T Robsinon, Stones of Aran: Labyrinth
D Molloy, Legends in the Landscape

WEB:
THE AISLING
JM SYNGE

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

TALL TALES: The night a quarter moon fell on a ten cent Wicklow town

The approaching dusk was like an insensitive question. Like most of the insensitive questions I had been asked that day I had no smart answers. It was always the way that you thought of the sarcastic answers much later. As the blackness enveloped the Wicklow mountains the white smoke I had seen early had been filtered into the lower atmosphere where a quarter moon was rising. I could see the fire now on the southwestern slope of the lake. I sniffed the air and tried to detect whether it was furze or wood that was being burned.
"What do you think?" I asked the man who had brought me here.
Michael Pearce O'Dwyer leaned into the soft breeze that moved through the valley. "Well Mr Gasiewicz it's a tradition here."
"Who owns these lands?"
"Coillte," he replied.
"That's the forestry board, isn't it? I'm surprised you say that," I said. "I thought all of this," waving my right arm as I would paint a line of horizon on a canvas, "was private land. What's the forestry board doing with it?"
"That's what we're all on about."
I watched the fire get brighter. "What is that, please tell me again?"
"The forestry people have been buying poor land to plant sitka spruce, a conifer from your part of the world. It grows well, it grows quickly in our climate for some reason and then ... "
I interrupted him. "What are you saying, exactly?"
"No one would willingly sell their land to that shower. It's a sign of the times."
"Are you saying all this is deliberate?"
"Aye, course it is," he said indignantly. "Is that not obvious to you?"
The fire began to spread.
"Surely it's obvious," he said again. "It's money for land fit only for sheep and they've done enough damage. The thing is this stuff is bad for our native ecosystems. The pine needles acidify the soil. When the rain comes the acid soil is washed into streams and rivers and eventually into lakes where many native species, brown trout in particular, cannot tolerate the increased acidity. Conifer plantations are selfish, you know this. This is your speciality. They allow very little symbiotic life. There is no flora and fauna in conifer plantations. You know this don't you, being a botanist. Your people are saying that all this will lead to the long term decline of native biodiversity."
I didn't think it was obvious and I said this to him. O'Dwyer was not ignorant, I could see that. I would have, as they say here in this country, to be on my toes. He knew his subject, and knew it well. After a moment's silence I turned to him. "Are we going to stand here all night? The fire's not our business."
What was obvious to me, if not the politics of the land, was my immediate cause of concern – the fire. Someone, probably the forestry board, was regenerating growth by scorching the heather, O'Dwyer said. However, it seemed to my ignorant eye that the fire was out of control. O'Dwyer said it was fine. My mind had been racing, because O'Dwyer had been telling me stories about his namesake – the United Irishman Michael Dwyer – and his mountain men.
He knew I was concerned about the Wicklow environment and had brought me up here, thinking to involve me in his campaign against the proposed tourist center and the forestry board's fir planting programme. He said they would never get to build it. After what I had just heard from him I believed his threat.
"No one who carries the name of Dwyer will allow harm to come to this part of Wicklow," he said to me on the way here. As he put it, while he was ruminating on his romantic nationalism, "I'll not allow no state-body to damage the garden of Ireland".
Didn't I know it was the garden of Ireland? I said I knew.
"I know you know Mr Gasiewicz," he continued, contradicting himself. "That's why you should know Michael Dwyer's story. He's an inspiration to us all, even after all this time. The man's a legend around here. He'll never be forgotten."
"Do you know a place?" I said, for I was getting thirsty – and cold.
"I do," he said, walking towards my car. "We'll go to the Glen of Imaal bar in Seskin. You've never been there I take it?"
"No I haven't."
"There's a session tonight I think."
"What are we waiting for, let's go."
It was a Tuesday night and the pub had yet to fill up. I tried the Guinness, a drink I was starting to acquire a taste for. O'Dwyer sat over a straight Jameson whiskey. He settled himself and said, "Are you going back to Dublin tonight?" I told him that was my expectation. "Why don't you stay with me and in the morning I can show you the Dwyer-McAllister cottage in Derrynamuck. I can ... "
I interrupted him. "What's special about the cottage, you never mentioned it earlier when you were talking about Dwyer's deeds?"
"Ah now Mr Gasiewicz, sure I've told you only the broad details. There's more to the man than I told you. He held out in these harsh mountains for over five years and that was some feat I can tell you. There are people who will tell you he had the power of the Tuatha dé Danaan, that he could change into small animals and slink away from the crown forces."
"Who are the Tuatha dé Danaan?" I had a little difficulty with the pronunciation.
"They were one of the oldest celtic tribes, easily 5,000 years old, 3,000 years before Christ. Tuatha means tribe, Danaan is the word for Danu or Diana. She was a revered goddess of the northern celts. It is said that when the Milesians came and fought and defeated them, an agreement was reached that allowed the Tuatha dé Danaan to go and live underground in the shape of animals and birds. It's where you Yanks get the notion of little people and leprechauns from."
"Where does the cottage fit into this story?"
"Now that was Dwyer's greatest escape of all the many. On the night of February 14 in the year of 1799, a good few months after the first rebellion ended, Dwyer along with some of his mountain men found themselves surrounded by Scottish Highlanders in the pay of the English crown at the cottage in Derrynamuck there on the road to Donard. Dwyer managed to escape the English manys-a-time over the following four years, until he gave himself up to the treachery of the English in December 1803. Nothing compared to the escape that February night."
O'Dwyer paused to take a drink of his whiskey. I had almost finished my Guinness, and was looking forward to the next one. There was a young man behind the bar. He saw me lift my pint glass. "Yes same again," I heard myself say. O'Dwyer was continuing with his story.
"It can get very cold in these mountains when the year turns. January, February and March can be bitter when the snow comes in great drifts. We're told that night was bitterly cold with snow and ice on the ground. With Sam McAllister, Patrick Costello and John Savage left to shoot it out with the Scottish, Dwyer got away into the Kaedeen mountain."
There was movement at the back of the pub. A man with a six-string guitar accompanied by a fiddle player, a flute player and a percussionist was starting to sing. The barman brought our drinks to the table but I didn't catch the balladeer's name after I had asked. Sean something. He was good. We sat and listened as the balladeer and his small band struck up a good sound. "It'll get livelier," O'Dwyer said.
The balladeer sung a song called Rising of the Moon that O'Dwyer explained was a new version of an old tune about the United Irishmen. O'Dwyer started to gently intone the words of the original song. And come tell me Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so ... for the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon. The difference between this old song and the new one was stark. It's the truth that guides us onward at the rising of the moon ... stand and be counted at the rising of the moon.
These last lines stayed in my head for some time yet I was intrigued by the words O'Dwyer had sung to me. I said to him, "Would the pub crooner play the United Irishmen version if I asked him?"
"I'm sure he would," O'Dwyer said. "Slip him a note or talk to him when he takes his break, but don't let him be hearing you call him a crooner, he wouldn't like that now."
Sure enough, as O'Dwyer said, Sean the balladeer was happy to sing the older version of the song. I was fascinated by it.
And come tell me Sean O'Farrell, where the gathering is to be ...
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me ...
One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune ...
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon ...
At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon ... with your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon ...
Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night ...
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed morning light ...
Murmurs rang along the valley to the banshees lonely croon ...
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon ...
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon ... And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon ...
All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen ...
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green ...
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune ...
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon ...
"It's all about freedom," I said, not sure if I was asking a question or making a statement. "Both songs are about freedom, the old one is parochial, the other is universal or global perhaps, and nearly 200 years link these human struggles. I'm impressed, I really am. You certainly have a very rich culture in this country." I realised I had been talking loudly and faster than I normally do. The pub had become crowded. We could no longer see the band but the sound was still clear and I was enjoying myself. O'Dwyer was in his raptures telling me the story of Michael Dwyer and the United Irishmen.
"The man's a legend around here," O'Dwyer told me again. "I couldn't say enough good about him. He was a Glensman who knew his people and they knew him, aye, he was brave, he was courageous and he fought the bloody British in the Glen of Imaal. Why, they even built a road through the mountains to try and catch him, and they never did. He gave up in the end to the treachery of the Brits."
I was absolutely intrigued by O'Dwyer's story of his namesake and excited by the uplifting music I was hearing. I also noticed that as the drink took hold his language changed; he was using the more common modern derogative "Brits" to describe the English. The pub was over-crowded and I strained to hear what O'Dwyer was saying. "Can you speak louder? I can't hear you," I said to him. He grunted and took a long draft of his whiskey. "Was Dwyer from these parts?"
"He was born not far from here in 1772, the first son of a poor tenant farmer. You see in those days the land was owned by rich landowners from across the water, and when it suited them they evicted their tenants, who had no rights, no rights at all. In 1797 when the young Michael Dwyer was about 25 he joined the United Irishmen here in west Wicklow. Dwyer would have had a great love for this place, the culture and the history, the lifestyle of the celts, the Uí Mail tribe who lived here, and the way of life even if it was hard, so his conscience would allow no other out-come. He had to fight for his land, for his people, for his freedom."
The music had stopped. O'Dwyer asked me if I wanted another pint of Guinness. I was so intoxicated by the music and the stories I didn't want to leave. I nodded my head as O'Dwyer got up and forced his way through the crowd to the bar. He came back after a long time away. I was feeling drowsy.
"Sorry," he said as he sat down, handing me another pint. "I got talking to a fella I haven't seen for a while at the bar."
I said it was okay and drank some Guinness.
"So where was I?" he asked.
"Dwyer has joined the United Irishmen to fight the British," I said.
"You're right now, I did that. Well, Michael Dwyer would have been keen to fight. Then in 1798 at the height of it all there was a massacre in Dunlavin, where one of his cousins, I think it was, was among those executed by the Brits. This would have been a point of no return. The Brits had been harassing the people of the Glen of Imaal and the surrounding areas for too long. It was time to put a stop to it. And Michael Dwyer was just the man to do it, and send the Brits back home to their island in boxes."
"You make it sound an easy task for him," I said, wondering if I had said the right thing.
"Oh it was far from easy. There were informers about the place and yeomanry and soldiers everywhere. The United Irishmen had their work cut out. There were many losses. Dwyer was a cute young buck, and fit and strong. He was a powerful man. He knew the lay of the land, so he snuck away when the Scots and the Welsh were looking for United Irishmen during the time of the Dunlavin massacre and the battle at Stratford-on-Slaney in May of that year. He knew his time would come to fight back.
"And it did. With so many of his comrades murdered or slain, he made his way down into Wexford and joined with the United Irishmen down in Gorey where a combined force of United Irishmen from Wicklow and Wexford were readying themselves for the battle of Arklow. Dwyer joined up with other men from Wicklow in the Ballymanus division and for the next month, the month of June, Dwyer fought at Arklow, Vinegar Hill, Hacketstown and Ballyellis."
While O'Dwyer was relating this story I realised that Sean the balladeer was actually singing about Michael Dwyer.
There is Captain Dwyer from Imail, a stout true-hearted member, that bloody twenty fourth of May he can very well remember ...
Then the cavalry, like birds of prey, exulting in their tyranny, and many a bleeding victim lay along the streets of Stratford ...
This hero brave oft did declare that he'd have full satisfaction, as soon as he could well prepare to join in warlike action ...
But soon the boys, they did him join, and Hacketstown surrounded, with pike and gun they made them run, their schemes were soon confounded ...
O'Dwyer must have realised I was no longer listening to him, and had turned to talk to a woman sitting next to him. I noticed my Guinness was nearly empty. "Do you want another drink?" I asked him.
"Aye, why not, it's great craic tonight."
As I made my way to the bar, the balladeer was in fine voice.
There is a curse o'er Baltinglass, and likewise o'er Dunlavin, for spilling innocent blood thereon, which is for vengeance calling ...
Those vicious hearts that took delight in deeds of bloody both day and night, but our heroes brave gave them a fright, that their wits have them forsaken ...
Now to conclude and make an end, let us fill up our glasses, and drink to every daring man, while time and season passes ...
And steady in themselves, prepare the green cockage once more to wear, drive tyrant villains to despair, and that's our only glory.
Fill our glasses I certainly would and, after waiting for some time to be served, I drank to the men of 1798. O'Dwyer eagerly accepted the glass and I lustily drank my Guinness. It felt like I had been transported back in time, to a heroic age. Meanwhile O'Dwyer was telling me what Michael Dwyer did next.
"The rebellion in Wexford at least had failed. Dwyer and the men of the Ballymanus division marched north back into the Wicklow mountains, where they knew they would be safe. Some of the men decided to go to Meath by way of Kildare led by General Holt in what with much hindsight was seen as a mistake. Dwyer meanwhile stayed in Glenmalure with a small force of men, guarding the wounded, and the defence of the valley and the Glen of Imaal. Word eventually reached them that General Holt was back in Wicklow with a depleted force of about a thousand men. Dwyer rejoined with Holt and for several months the Wicklow men held out but winter was approaching and the French who had been expected to support the rebellion didn't make it. Holt decided to surrender, disbanding the rebel army in the Wicklow mountains – all except the intrepid Michael Dwyer and his band of loyal men."
"Why? Why did he not give up if the cause was lost?"
"Ah now for Michael Dwyer the cause wasn't lost. You see Dwyer hadn't forgotten what had happened in Dunlavin. And he didn't see himself as a rebel. He saw himself as an Irish celtic soldier. The events of 1798 to him had not been a rebellion, they had been war, a civil-war if you like, not unlike the war in your country at the same time."
"I'm sure the authorities didn't see it like that."
"Oh you're right there, there's no doubt about that. They saw Dwyer and his men as outlaws, and Dwyer and his men made sure they stayed that way – outside the law, for he was never caught, no matter how hard the Brits tried, the man from the Glen of Imaal was much more elusive than any Scarlet Pimpernel or any Robin Hood, d'you see?"
I said I did. O'Dwyer continued.
"Michael Dwyer was on home territory. He knew this land like the back of his hand. The people of the Glen gave him shelter. Even when some choose to betray him he disguised himself or hid and got away. There was only one time when they nearly got him, at the cottage in Derrynamuck."
On cue, Sean the balladeer was starting to sing the Ballad of Michael Dwyer.
At length brave Michael Dwyer and his undaunted men were scented o'er the mountains and tracked into the glen ...
The stealthy soldiers followed, with ready blade and ball, and swore to trap that outlaw that night in wild Emall ...
They prowled around the valley, and towards the dawn of day discovered where the faithful and fearless heroes lay ...
Around the little cottage they formed in a ring, and called out, 'Michael Dwyer! Surrender to the King!'
This answered Michael Dwyer, 'Into this house we came unasked by those who owned it, they cannot be to blame. Then let those guiltless people, unquestioned, pass you through, and when they've passed in safety, I'll tell you what we'll do' ...
'Twas done, 'And now,' says Dywer, 'your work you may begin. You are a hundred outside, we're only four within. We've heard your haughty summons, and this is our reply, We're true United Irishmen, we'll fight until we die' ...
Then burst the war's red lightning, then poured the leaden rain, the hills around re-echoed the thunder-peal again ...
The soldiers falling around him brave Dwyer sees with pride, but, ah, one gallant comrade is wounded by his side ...
Yet there are three remaining, good battle still to do, their hands are strong and steady, their aim is quick and true ...
But hark, that furious shouting the savage soldiers raise, the house is fired around them, the roof is in a blaze ...
And brighter every moment the lurid flame arose, and louder swelled the laughter and cheering of their foes ...
Then spake the brave McAllister, the weak and wounded man, 'You can escape, my comrades, and this shall be your plan ...
'Place in my hands a musket, then lie apon the floor, I'll stand before the soldiers, and open wide the door ...
'They'll pour into my bosom the fire of their array, then, while their guns are empty, dash through them and away ...'
He stood before the foemen, revealed amidst the flame, from our their levelled pieces the wished-for volley came ...
Up sprang the three survivors for whom the hero died, but only Michael Dwyer burst through the ranks outside ...
He baffled his pursuers, who followed like the wind, he swam the river Slaney, and them left far behind, but many a scarlet soldier he promised soon would fall, for those, his gallant comrades, who died in wild Emall.


The McAllister-Dwyer cottage (picture credit: © Wendy Lucas)

"He got away by escaping the cottage when the soldiers were re-loading," I said. "That wasn't very clever of them, loading and firing at the same time. Where did Dwyer go?"
"He went into the mountain."
"It was very cold you said."
"Sure it was fierce cold. Remember he knew these mountains ..."
"... they never caught him," I said. "That's strange. The soldiers must have been very stupid."
"It isn't so strange when you realise how well he knew the mountains and the glen. He wasn't in hiding, this is important, he was fighting a guerrilla war. His defiance gave the people hope. His band hit hard and fast before the Brits could react. Yes I can tell you he feared betrayal, he feared informers but he never allowed the Brits to put him on a spot, except that once. Yes he was in danger when he was in the towns and in houses. For most of the time he was out in the open or hiding in that cave of his, St Kevin's Cave, where it is said the soldiers once came to find him on good information. When they got there Dwyer and his men were gone. It's said they changed into small birds and flew away."
I laughed at that one. "Where is Dwyer now, I mean what happened to him?"
"It's said his ghost wanders these hills and mountains and glens and valleys."
"It was a serious question."
"He gave himself up in December 1803 after being promised by some fella called Hume that he had his men would be transported to America. Instead they put him in Kilmainham Jail in Dublin and sent him to Botany Bay, where he died in poverty, I'm told. There's a big monument over his grave, I heard, in Sydney or some big town like that."
"Would I be correct in thinking that you prefer the legend, the ghost ... of Michael Dwyer."
"Sure the man never left here. This is his home."
I noticed that O'Dwyer was slurring his words.
When we eventually left the public house it took me a moment to find my bearings. All was black, until I allowed my eyes to adjust to the surroundings, and I struggled to find where I had parked the car. I thought I should move it closer to a wall. Then the notion passed. O'Dwyer had called a friend to pick us up from the pub and take us to his home somewhere in the mountains. I wasn't sober enough to drive back down to Dublin. I didn't know the roads. It was better to stay with O'Dwyer, I decided. As I waited for the two men I gradually began to pick out tiny lights in the darkness. It was a cloudy night. I couldn't see any stars, but this had more to do with the quarter moon that was as bright as any quarter moon I had ever seen.
"Where do you live?" I asked O'Dwyer as we settled into his friend's car.
"Ah a wee place at the foot of Lugnaquilla, you wouldn't know it." He quickly changed the subject. "Tell me Mr Gasiewicz do you think now that you can help us? With all the talent you have at your disposal a man like you would be very useful to us, every useful indeed. What do you think now?"
"I think Mr O'Dwyer I would like to sleep on it, if that does not inconvenience you. I will need an early call in the morning. My first lecture at Trinity is in the mid-morning. Perhaps we could look at that cottage some other day?"
I was feeling very sleepy and I had been struggling to stay awake. We had driven into that darkness and I had no idea where I was. I had made up my mind. I didn't see how I could help O'Dwyer and his campaign. Yes he was correct with his analysis about the sitka spruce, that I had to agree with. Thinking about it, I could not see how this programme could be stopped. Or the interpretative centre. Progress is hard to halt. Culture and heritage have never meant much to those with power and money. Few people really care about identity and place, confusing it with nostalgia. Identity and place have no importance in the modern world. They have no real meaning, emotionally or socially. Unlike other languages there isn't a word in English to describe an atavistic attachment to a native place, where a person is born and formed by its beliefs and culture. The German language conveys the meaning better than English with the word heimat, which means local or native place and, at the same time, identity with that native place. Now I had to find a way to let O'Dwyer down gently. I wasn't the man he expected, I was sorry to admit, especially after all his hospitality and this fine evening's entertainment. These people had a sense of their native place, a sense of identity that I could not begin to understand, and if they could not prevail over their own authorities what chance would I, a stranger, a foreigner, have? I could see the quarter moon almost falling into the small town we were fast approaching.
We drove through the town before I had a chance to look at it and turned into a narrow road. The words of one of the songs the balladeer had sung came into my head – about a ten cent town. The politics here were much the same as small town politics back in America. But the ballads and the stories they told here, about Dwyer and his mountain men were the stuff of myth and legend, of place and identity, and sadly of romantic nostalgia. I felt sadness for them, and I felt sorry for myself.

TRAIN TALES: Europe's Best Train Rides - Introduction



Berner Simplon Lötschberg
express coming out of the
Simplon tunnel at Iselle in Italy

(picture credit: Swiss Federal Railways)

AT ONE minute past seven, three evenings a week, a Grand Express left the Gare de l'Est in Paris - its destination the far eastern edge of Europe, where west meets east in a glorious expression of culture. In the days before air travel when sea routes were long and arduous, the fast way to reach Constantinople and witness the magnificent glory of the Palace of Topkapi, the Kapalicarsi (Grand Bazaar) and the Bosphorus was by express train, for those who take delight in the romantic era of trains, the most luxurious train the world has ever known.

This was the Orient Express, a train made up with Pullman and Wagons-Lits wagons, run by the exclusive Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et des Grand Express Européens, staffed by supreme artisans headed by the Chef du train, a diplomat who probably spoke six languages. The accommodation and the cuisine matched any high class hotel, and befitting the class of passenger all passports and luggage were examined on the train.

Michael Barsley imagined what the passengers in premier class were like. "The top Orient Express traveller is either a snob, a spy or what is known as a lady companion." He exaggerates a little, but when he wrote these words in the 1960s the romantic era of the Orient Express was a cultural icon in the emerging postmodernist world of nostalga and fiction.

In its heyday the Orient Express was a truely glamourous train. It carried the rich and famous, royalty and statesmen, but it was also the favoured train of travellers, couriers, diplomats, businessmen and spies. We know this because novelists Maurice Dekobra, Graham Greene, Eric Ambler, Agatha Christie, and Ian Fleming featured the Orient Express in fictions that would immortalise the train on the silver screen in film noirs and technicolour.

Ambler, Greene and Fleming, in particular, portrayed the reality of actual life on the train because they did not confine their characters to the cabins and restaurant wagons. Their protagonists are also found in the corridors and compartments of the day-wagons, which contained the less well-off who were prepared to endure three days and nights without a bed to rest in. In their novels the reader knows they are on a steam train travelling across frontiers inhabited by shadowy characters. You can feel the sudden jerks, smell the lubricating oil, inhale the coal smoke and see the passing landscape.

Greene's Stamboul Train, published in 1932, describes a scene that is not uncommon on European night trains today. "He was passing the non-sleeping compartments in the second class; men, with their waistcoats off, sprawled along seats, blue about the chin; women with hair in dusty nets, like the string bags on the racks, tucked their skirts tightly around them and fell in odd shapes over the seats, large breasts and small thighs, small breasts and large thighs hopelessly confused."

Stamboul Train is the most evocative of all the fictions that feature the Orient Express. The book is all train is how Michael Barsley put it, "but unlike Agatha Christie's expert, detailed setting for a Poirot problem, Stamboul Train is there merely to be enjoyed, with shudders enroute. The creatures of [Greene's] imagination on the Stamboul Train are not mere ciphers or caricatures".

Trains permeated Ambler's fiction, much of it set in the Balkans and eastern Europe in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s, because it was the favoured method of travel for business people, even if it was troublesome. "The train reached the frontier in the early hours of the morning and he was awakened by the attendant for his papers. Mr Peters was still reading. His papers had already been examined by the Greek and Bulgarian officials in the corridor outside and Latimer did not have an opportunity of ascertaining the nationality of the citizen of the world. A Bulgarian customs official put his head in the compartment, frowned at their suitcases and then withdrew. Soon the train moved on over the frontier."

Fleming, like Ambler and Greene, knew his trains and knew that every traveller on the grand expresses came to loath the arrival at frontier stations and yearn for the train to get moving again. "The guard at the back of the train looked at his watch and held out his flag. There was a jerk and a diminishing crescendo of explosive puffs from the engine and the front section of the Orient Express began to move. The section that would be taking the northern route through the Iron Curtain - through Dragoman on the Bulgarian frontier, only fifty miles away - was left beside the dusty platform. Bond pulled down the window and took a last look back at the Turkish frontier ... He watched the dead, dusty platform, with its chickens and the small black figure of the guard, until the long train took the points and jerked harshly on to the single main line. He looked away across the ugly, parched countryside towards the golden guinea sun climbing out of the Turkish plain. It was going to be a beautiful day."

Fleming, in his role as a writer of spy thrillers, also knew the allure of the Orient Express for his readers. In his 1957 novel From Russia with Love Fleming has his Irish-born, Russian-killer Captain Nash explain to James Bond why his death on the train will be the story of the century. "Old man, the story has got everything. Orient Express. Beautiful Russian spy murdered in Simplon tunnel. Filthy pictures. Secret cipher machine. Handsome British spy with career runied murders her and commits suicide. Sex, spies, luxury train."

Nash didn't get to do any killing on the train, and the only murder on the Orient Express that is immortalised in fiction came from the pen of Agatha Christie when her eponymous hero Hercule Poirot finds himself with a problem on board the train to Istanbul.

But it was love not death that gave the Orient Express an attraction few other trains have been able to match. This is because of Maurice Dekobra's The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars, a novel published in 1925 when train travel, especially at night, conjured in the imagination romantic liasions. Lady Diana Wynham, Dekobra's Scottish aristocratic heroine, makes no bones about it. "... I have a ticket for Constantinople. But I may step off at Vienna or Budapest. That depends absolutely on chance or on the colour of the eyes of my neighbour in the compartment. I have reserved rooms at the Imperial, on the Ring, and at the Hungaria, on the quay at Budapest. But I am just as likely to sleep in some horrible hotel in Josephstadt or in a palace on the hillside ... I'm giving myself exactly six weeks to discover the imbecile who will cater to my whims and ripen in my safe deposit some golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides ..."

Forty years after it had been inaugurated a train only one man truely believed in had a reputation that has never been sullied in the public eye. But then the Orient Express was special from day one and destined it seemed for a greatness far beyond the simple expediency of rail travel.

The first transnational Express d'Orient left Paris on October 4, 1883. It was 200 feet in length. A locomotive pulled two baggage cars carrying mail for the countries the train was to travel through, a dining wagon and two sleeping wagons (the men in one and the women in the other). It travelled at a leisurely 50 miles per hour via Strasbourg, Munich, Vienna, Budapest, Subotica and Bucharest to the Black Sea port of Varna, where 40 exclusively selected travellers boarded a steamer for Constantinople. It was a journey of 1800 miles and took 96 hours. The continguent were led by George Nagelmackers, the founder of the Compaigne Internationale des Wagon-Lits et Grand Express. They included bureaucrats, politicians, railway officals, bankers, journalists, Wagons-Lits directors, an author and a few assorted people who had managed to acquire tickets. Among the journalistic continguent was Henri Stefan Opper de Blowitz of The Times, who reported that Nagelmackers was "bent on revolutionizing Continental travelling by introducing a comfort and facility hitherto unknown, and has had to struggle for ten years not only against internal difficulties and the conflicting interests of railway companies, but against the indifference of the very portion of the public which is destined to profit from the result".

Nagelmackers' Orient Express was indeed the reward for ten years of struggle with ten railway companies and their governments. Although Opper de Blowitz's book of the journey, Une Course à Constantinople, was regarded as "magnificient" and "exaggerated", Edmund About also wrote a book, De Pontoise à Stamboul, about his experience on this historic journey. Opper de Blowitz's and About's chronicles glamourised this new train. Nagelmacker had the success he desperately desired and a whole new concept for rail travel, across national borders, was gaining favour with the public. Within six years, by way of Belgrade, Nis and Sofia, a line was opened directly to Turkey.

Then an event, which would give the Orient Express the panoramic glamour it had been missing because of its route through central Europe, occurred. In 1906 the world's longest railway tunnel, the Simplon, between Brig in Switzerland and the outskirts of Domodossola in Italy was opened. A train, running from Paris to Milan, was inaugurated, eventually connecting Venice and Trieste to the route through France, into the Swiss Alps past Lake Geneva, the Rhone Valley, the Italian Alps, Lake Maggiore, the Po Valley and the Adriatic coast. Following the Treaty of Versailles in 1919 the Orient Express got a new route, from Paris to Istanbul, via Dijon, Vallorbe, Lausanne, Brig, the Simplon tunnel, Domodossola, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Ljubljana, Zagreb, Belgrade, Nis and Sofia.

It also got a new image. The Simplon Orient Express became a sleeper-only fast train, reducing the journey time by almost half to 56 hours to Istanbul and 59 hours to Athens. Other routes to the Orient, via Germany and Austria and Switzerland and Romania, would be inaugurated, during the 1930s, but the end of this fabulous train was near. In 1962, after a forty year history, the Simplon Orient Express run by the Wagons-Lits company was shut down - ended by the politics of rail travel and the simple fact that the rich and famous, the traveller and tourist, the courier and businessman now went by fast, scheduled airline.

In the 1960s the demand for high-speed, non-stop expresses was replaced by the demand for slow, local trains serving every station. Glamorous rail travel, the kind provided by Wagons-Lits, was a luxury rail companies could no longer afford, and if anyone was going to provide cuisine, high or low, it would be them. The famous Wagons-Lits restaurant cars were abandoned. Wagons-Lits would now be associated with bed-linen. The golden era of rail travel, the age of steam trains, Pullman cars, Wagons-Lits sleeper wagons and upholstered compartments was over. The Orient Express had come to the end of the line. If you want to experience the Orient Express you need to read the fiction and watch the films. That's the perceived wisdom these days. The reality is different, as realities have a tendancy to be. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

It is still possible to travel the old Orient Express routes all the way from Berlin, London, Paris or Madrid to Sofia, Istanbul or Athens by transnational express trains, but only the adventurer, the romantic and the young should contemplate the full route from Paris or Munich to Istanbul, because, beyond the Alps, it is a mad journey to be endured rather than enjoyed.

Nothing much has changed since the mid-20th century when the grand European expresses lost their passengers to the airlines while fussy customs officials, long halts at frontier stations and lack of food, made trains like the Orient Express a pain in the arse. Experienced rail travellers now bring their own food because there is none available once the trains reach the Balkans and eastern Europe. Experienced travellers also make sure they know the regulations regarding passports and visas. Anyone without a passport or a valid visa will find themselves off the train. Anyone wanting to travel to and from Istanbul by train in the 21st century should expect the unexpected.

Paris, as it was in 1883, is still the starting point for Istanbul. Once trains ran through central Europe via Germany, Austria, Hungary and Romania to the Bosphorous or they ran via Switzerland, Italy, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. The journey took three nights and almost four full days. Today, perhaps surprisingly, the journey time is the same, despite the choice of routes and services east now available. Even the fast southern route from Paris via Vallorbe, Brig, Milan, Venice and Belgrade is a three day journey.


Swiss train seen in Frutigen in the Berner oberland
(picture credit: Swiss Federal Railways)

Rail travellers in a hurry should take this route. It starts in the Gare du Lyon, ideally on an early afternoon TGV, repleat with dinning wagon, along the old Dijon-Vallorbe-Lausanne route, arrives in Lausanne at quarter to seven (making the journey time nine hours from Waterloo, four from Paris). If you are young, can cope with sleep deprivation and desperate to get to Istanbul, it is possible to wait in Lausanne for the 22.06 Simplon Express to Venice, take a quick glimpse at the Grand Canal, sip an espresso in the station cafe, change to the 08.14 Drava express, get to Belgrade at midnight, stay the night and leave at 07.00 the following morning on the Balkan Express, which arrives on the western shore of the Bosphorous, if you are lucky, as dawn breaks. Or, if you are feeling rich, there is an 'Orient Express' complete with Pullmans and Wagons-Lits restaurant wagons, from Paris at 17.49 arriving in Vienna the following morning just before nine. At 19.35 there is a train to Belgrade, which connects with the Balkan Express for the 26 hour journey to Istanbul. Whatever way you go the journey takes three nights.

When I did the route recently with a friend, we took the original route out. The journey through Germany and Austria was uneventful. Then we boarded the 07.10 from Budapest to Bucharest and entered a world of corruption, skulduggery and smuggling. The fun began at the frontier towns of Bekecsaba and Lokoshaza. Windows were pulled down and the goods were loaded. People poured into the wagons, carrying the world and everything else on their shoulders. Customs and police and Romanian train clerks got on. Our passports were checked, our tickets were inspected. We had taken the advice of Deutsche Bahn, who sold us most of our tickets, to buy Global Inter-rail Passes and upgrade with supplements, seat reservations and berths. But there was a problem with the passes, we were told. Your problem, we told the train clerks; our passes are valid. They went away but they kept coming back. We pretended to be poor. We should have travelled premier class because only the impoverished travel standard in eastern Europe, but then if we had gone classy I wouldn't be telling you these stories. Premier class is boring, standard class is, well, eventful. We realised that a scam was being operated. None of the people laden down with goods offered any tickets to the train clerks. Not long before we reached Bucharest, with the train running more than an hour late, a smart, well-dressed middle-aged man got on, summonsed the train clerks and held a conference with them, notebook and pencil in hand. At Bucharest we were told the goods were for the Christmas markets.

Our night train to Istanbul, the 14.05 Bosphor Express, carried wagons and sleepers that had not been serviced since they were built in the 1950s. I flooded our cabin because I failed to spot a leak in the basin plumbing and then the heating went off. "Frig," our Romanian neighbours in the next cabin said. They were used to it.

At the frontier with Bulgaria a discussion began with the wagon chef and a man in a smart suit about our passes.
"If they are not valid it's your problem not mine," I told them. I brought out my Cook's European timetable to prove that our Global Rail Passes were valid in Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey.

Something told me the man in the suit wanted me to cross his palm. A youth came up while we were staring out the window - a preoccupation with rail travellers at frontier stations - offering bottles of alcohol, soft drinks, and snacks. I bought a bottle of vodka from him. I knew we would need it later.

Sometime after one o'clock the train reached Svilengrad on the border and for the next three hours the train was halted, shunted, wagons from the Balkan Express added, started, shunted again and halted again while our cabin door was repeatedly thumped by a succession of customs and police.

We were told to buy Turkish visas at the border. We didn't know that meant being instructed to leave the train, go to a draughty shed to buy a visa, take it to another draughty shed to have it stamped before being allowed back on where our passports were checked for the new visa stamps.

In the morning as the train cruised along the shore of the Bosphorus, the man in the suit came back. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. 'You want hotel in Istanbul?' he asked. 'We're fine,' I said. He smiled, shook my hand and walked away.

After five nights in Istanbul we boarded the 08.30 train out of Sirkeci station. This is a local service to Pehlivankóv, where the line divides - one track turning north-east towards Svilengrad (and the west), the other turning south-west towards the Turkish frontier station of Uzunkóprú and Pythion across the border.

At Pehlivankóv the electric engine was replaced by a diesel shunting engine. When it stopped a few minutes up the line we had the feeling it had broken down. We looked out. There was a man in a boiler suit with spanner in hand attending the engine.

At Uzunkóprú our wagon was connected to a load of freight wagons and I bought some more vodka, this time from a man in a hut. Eventually we crossed the Meric/Evros river to Pythion, waving at the solemn Turkish soldiers and the cheerful Greek soldiers as we passed their barracks on each side of the river.

The Athens train arrived punctually. We disembarked at Alexandropolis, stayed the night, got the early train to Thessaloniki the following day and took the night train to Sofia, where, a day later, we waited for the snow-shrouded, three hours late, Balkan Express to Belgrade.

Belgrade is a big old terminus and ours was the last train in. It was shut and staffed only by three policemen who kindly bought a phone card so they could phone the friend who was supposed to meet us. We had no dinars and there were no ATMs we could use our western cards in. So the police obliged us.

We stayed for three days before moving on to Zagreb Ljubljana and Trieste. The journey from Ljubljana to Trieste is one of the most spectacular in Europe, but it is dwarfed by the splendour of the journey along the northern Adriatic coast to Venice, across the Po Valley to Milan, up past Lake Maggiore to Domodossola, through the Simplon, along the Rhone Valley to the Chateau de Chillon on Lake Geneva, and into the Jura. It is a delight for the eyes and not one to be squandered in a comfortable Wagons-Lits linen bed.

There are many reasons for taking the train to and from Istanbul. One is arriving in Istanbul, the other is travelling along a railway line that dissects Switzerland and its towering mountain ranges, carrying trains from all points of the compass. If you wish to travel by train across Europe from the west and the north into the south and east you must travel through the Alps and, for most travellers, that means going into Switzerland.

It is possible, for example, to leave Nice, in the south of France, on the Riviera Dei Fiori, with its panoramic wagon, just before nine every morning and travel along the French Riviera, into the Ligurian hills, past the Italian and Swiss lakes, through the Gotthard tunnel, arriving at Basel in the north-west of Switzerland beside the German and French borders 12 hours later.

Then from Basel it is possible, after a few hours nap, to board the 06.17 Cisalpino train bound for Milan via the Berner Oberland in the cheese-making heart of western Switzerland, alongside Lake Thun towards the Lotschberg tunnel and a 3,500 feet gradual descent into the Rhone Valley and the frontier town of Brig, where the Simplon tunnel cuts a route through the high Alps to Domodossola, beside Lake Maggiore, and finally the industrial north of Italy, arriving three hours later in time for a second breakfast.

The sleepy traveller might wish to stay in bed a little longer and instead board the 8.19 Transalpin, which weaves it way east towards the border with Austria, taking in the magnificence of the Zurich lakes, the Vorarlberg and Tyrol mountain ranges, and the Inn river en route to the Austrian capital, arriving just before seven in the evening.

The Gotthard, Lotschberg and Simplon tunnels are not the only way through the Alps, for those who wish to go from the west to the east. It is also possible to leave the Gare du Lyon in Paris on a TGV destined for the south-east and from St Gervase board the Mont Blanc Express, a distinctive red train that winds its way to Chamonix, below Mont Blanc, and up along the Trient Valley into Le Châtelard, Les Marécottes and Salvan, timeless Swiss mountain villages that reveal hidden delights, and down to Martigny in the Valais canton, alongside the Geneva line, that leads south into Italy and the east of Europe or north towards France and the north of Europe.

It would be modern to say that the era of Grand Express Européens is over. It would be more accurate tio say that rail travel has never been more exciting or more luxurious. Today it is simply expressed in an era of fast, luxurious trains that race from city to city at speeds over 200 kilometers an hour. The nostalgics, especially those living in north America and Britain where the train has been relegated into the doldrums by car culture, believe the days of the Grand Express Européens died with the steam age; continental Europeans know this is not true. Today trains proudly displaying the names of mountains (Monte Rosa from Milan to Geneva Airport and vv); the names of artists (Rembrandt from Amsterdam to Chur and vv); the names of engineers (Gustave Eiffel from Paris to Frankfurt and vv); the names of seas (Freccia Adriatica from Torino to Lecce); the names of scientists (Galilei from Florence to Paris); the names of ships (Lusitania hotel Madrid to Lisbon and vv); the names of writers (Hans Christian Andersen from Munich to Copenhaven and vv); the names of countries (Hungaria from Berlin to Budapest and vv); and the names of musicians (Mozart from Paris to Vienna and vv). Europe's culture is etched on the train engines that carry its populace across the continent at every hour of every day throughout the year.

Rail travel remains an activity that transcends the post-modern view of the world, simply because it is the most comfortable way to travel, on small short trains, or large long trains, on old trains and on new trains, on trains that break down and on trains that travel at high speeds. There is a romanticism about trains that capture the imagination and appeal to people because trains, particularly the electric sets, are seen as environmentally friendly and plug into the ideal of sustainable public transport.

This is the introduction to a series of logs of anecdotes, comments, observations, history and philosophy on the European rail routes of the modern era and the luxurious trains that celebrate the era of the Grand Express Européens with modern versions for people who like to keep their feet on terra firma. I'm calling it 'Europe's Best Train Rides'. Enjoy, and if you need a ticket let me know, I know a man who knows a man, if you know what I mean. Strictly legit! None of this cloak and dagger stuff here. If you want that you better read Amber and the lads.

An earlier version of part of this story appeared in The Guardian (London) April 12, 2003
To the Banks of the Bosphorus
Rail company and travel information urls will appear with each train ride log

POLITICAL TALES: Shannon - Warport

Irish air and sea ports have long been used as stop-overs for the US military, who, during the 1970s and 1980s, tolerated anti-nuke campaigners demanding to know if nuclear weapons were present with a 'refuse to confirm or deny' reponse, until the first Gulf War when people in the western counties of Clare, Galway and Mayo began to report large numbers of jet fighters screaming overhead. Throughout the 1990s the protests increased, primarily at Shannon airport in county Clare, reaching fever pitch when protesters attacked and damaged US military hardware. In response the Irish state threw up a steel cordon around Shannon after the protesters established a peace camp just outside the airport, and prepared for the visit of George W. Bush, the US President, for a US-EU summit meeting at nearby Dromoland Castle on June 25/26, 2004.




Picture the scene. Rolling fields of green, complacent fields of gold, sheep and cattle in their slumbers, the Shannon estuary on the horizon. Peaceful postcard Ireland. Not today.

Today, Friday June 25, 2004, neutral Ireland is showing off its military might: 4,000 cops, many in black riot gear; 2,000 soldiers; tanks, armoured carriers, trucks - a mile of military hardware stretched along the road from Limerick city in the mid-west of Ireland to Shannon.

Warport!

Because US President George W. Bush is coming to town and even though it doesn't appear that way, the majority of Irish people do not like it.

Thousands - their ideologies expressed on their faces and displayed on their slogans - are expected to gather at the peace camp just outside Shannon airport for a protest against the US President's arrival, gathering at the airport gates. You can't go any further. These are not your usual gates. These have been replaced by a temporary ten foot high wall of steel erected around the perimeter of the airport. Shannon never used to be like this. They even built Guantanamo Bay-style cages to house those who would take their protests too far or get too close enough to Bush's own small army of 700 "security advisors".

It was difficult to get to the protests at the airport and even harder to get to Dromoland Castle in county Clare, a good stretch of the legs from Shannon town and airport, where, on the Saturday morning, Bush would warm the hands of European Union dignitaries and give the usual spiel to an apologetic, unquestioning media.

Derry Chambers drove up from Cork with some of his family on the Friday to gather footage for his rolling documentary on the Shannon protests, started two years ago when the first mass anti-war demonstrations and actions began to worry the Irish state. "We left Cork at two expecting a long drive," said Derry. "We got to Shannon town at half three. That's one and a half hours for a drive that can take two or more hours. The road was empty."

The march to the airport was scheduled to start at seven, so Derry and family sat on a grassy knoll and waited. "When we headed up we were stopped a mile from the airport by the fence."

Dromoland Castle, hidden from the main road by a woodland, also got its own wall, a camouflage green fence, but no one except the invited and they came in flash cars was allowed within four miles of it.

Some people tried to drive around to find a way through but they couldn't get any closer to the castle. They were met by two lines of riot cops, one line or rank and file cops, armoured cars, dogs, the whole machine - on the northern Clarecastle approach and on the southern Bunratty side and on many of smaller roads. The Limerick to Ennis road was closed from mid-day Friday until Bush left, late Saturday afternoon.

Derry tried a different route. He asked a young cop if they could drive up a slip road. "I haven't got a clue," the cop said. "I just got a call in Leitrim this morning, was told to get on a bus and here I am. I don't know where I am. You know where you are. I haven't got a fucking clue."

The media announced that the protesters amounted to no more than 1,000, a figure that was hotly disputed. "It was difficult to get to the protests," said Derry. "There's no understanding of how difficult it was with all the intimidation. The build-up was intimidating. The newspapers carried a photo of a mile long procession of military hardware on the road to the airport. To get to the protest at Dromoland you had to walk five miles. That was on the Bunratty side, where there were about 1200 people."

The protest from the Clarecastle side, about 1200 people, were also halted by a wall of cops and armoured cars. "Bush was supposed to leave at two thirty and didn't get away until after four so we delayed him for a while," said Derry, who returned to Cork with more footage for his documentary - Cead Mile Mailleacht: A Hundred Thousand Curses (released later this year), of cops in riot gear facing down mothers with babies and children, of colourful peaceful protesters holding banners and waving placards - you can guess the slogans 'No Red Carpet For Killer Bush' and so on, of protesters having their tents searched by cops looking for something. They found some black balloons, which they burst. What they were to be used for, only those who brought them can tell you. There's not much you can do with a load of balloons, except make a peaceful symbolic gesture. At the end of it all, three people were arrested. They were in a boat out on the Shannon, which was being patrolled by the Irish navy. The fact that one is a retired Irish soldier who led UN peacekeeping missions and is well known as a peace campaigner should give you an idea of his motivation.

The cost of Ireland's largest ever military operation? Media sources say €3 million ($3.6m). This seems unlikely. With a week long operation and an average weekly wage of €600 ($729) plus accommodation for 6,000 cops and army, €3m doesn't add up. Whatever the financial cost, the people of Clare are glad to see the back of Bush, but the protests against Shannon warport will continue, and the debate about Ireland's neutrality and the price the Irish state and people have to pay for the largess of the US empire and the union with Europe has reached fever pitch.

When those who are concerned with these political matters think about it they will discover there is a pay-off to be a friend and not an enemy of the US empire. Only 82 years after breaking the chains that held Ireland to the British empire, those with a keen eye for these things note the irony that the northern six countries are still ruled by Britain while the southern 26 counties are clearly a puppet and conduit for the US empire. This is not about nationalism, it is about imperialism.

See also:

Shannon Pictures

BLUEGREENEARTH