A Kurdish Turk has been accused of murduring his daughter in a so called ‘honour killing’.
Honour killing is a misnomer.
It is better named a shame killing. Or just murder.
There is no honour in killing your daughter because she was raped, or because she loves someone not acceptable to your plans.
There is nothing but shame. Ugly, stupid, shame.
There are many examples of horrific honour killings, one more below:
On October 27, Turkish press reported that 15-year-old Naile Erdas from the southeastern city of Van was killed by her family when she gave birth to a child conceived during a rape. The girl, who hid her pregnancy, reportedly begged doctors at a state hospital where she gave birth not to return her to her family, fearing that she would be killed in accordance with the local tradition demanding her family’s honor be cleansed. Doctors informed state authorities, but the prosecutor nevertheless handed the young woman over to her family, which, as Naile feared, killed her. At year’s end, Naile’s uncles and father were under arrest for making the decision to kill her, while her brother, the suspected killer, remained at large. Source: US Department of state 2006 report
It seems to me that shame and religion go hand in hand, much like the Muslim men who wander the streets of (for instance) Tanzania or Saudi Arabia, holding each other’s hands, but to whom it is forbidden to even shake hands with a woman.
In the Qu’uran, a women is plainly stated as being only half the value of a man. In law as well as in mental aptitude.
In Judaism and hence Christianity, shame is brought upon poor innocent Adam through his spare rib partner, Eve, and her beguilement by a bad, wise, snake.
Woman are basically bad and they bring shame about for men.
In Islam women are asked (in stricter regimes some would say forced) to don the Hijab and to cover themselves and their ‘ornaments’. In Wahhabist Islam (the form of Islam most prevalent, possibly due to the fact that it is the harsh form Saudi Arabia practices, promotes and exports using her vast material resources) Women must cover up, essentially because if they don’t, men can’t be held accountable for the shameful things they will do.
This topsy-turvy logic is evinced in the abhorrent way Sharia law is sometimes enacted:
Some people defend their mediaeval beliefs by saying that the old texts give them a moral structure to adhere to, but I think to anyone who cares about what is ethical, or humane, these texts are predominantly unsacred products of their barbaric times – often used to excuse terrible acts and ideas.
Honour killing is just one such terrible act.
A shameful and unacceptable practice, dishonourable in the extreme.
I was suprised upon viewing Newham Council’s website that they had chosen to promote ‘Black history month’ with an image of many notable black icons…and Gandhi.
Apparently:
‘Newham’s libraries are holding a series of free events throughout October to celebrate Black History Month.
Highlights include…an exhibition on the life of Gandhi which is touring Stratford Library, East Ham Library and The Gate, Forest Gate throughout October.’
Gandi is an interesting choice for Black History Month. Most obviously because he was not black.
But perhaps more pertinently because in his time in South Africa he appeared to be actively racist with regard to black people. He used the term ‘kaffir’ to refer to them and directed his efforts solely at the plight of the Indians there. He is quoted as saying, for instance:
“Ours is on continual struggle against a degradation sought to be inflicted upon us by the Europeans, who desire to degrade us to the level of the raw Kaffir whose occupation is hunting, and whose sole ambition is to collect a certain number of cattle to buy a wife with and, then, pass his life of indolence and nakedness.”
Of course, Gandhi was a great freedom fighter and an heroic practitioner of non-violent protest.
He also absolutely refuted any divinity attributed to him and refused to be called Mahatma. He acknowledged that he was just a man, and he was very honest about his flaws – in his autobiography he reflected that in his youth he was flawed, he beat his wife for instance.
It is other people who have attributed to him a saintliness and perfection that simply is unrealistic. He has become symbolic rather than real and as such the facts of history have been obscured.
The overtly racist caste system of the Hindu faith, where (to simplify) the blacker you are the more lowly you are (the untouchables) and the whiter you are the more divine (Brahmins) was bravely defied by Gandhi, who went on hunger strike to demand its abolition. But Gandhi’s contemporary B.R. Ambedkar points out that the truth is more complicated than this in his book ‘what congress and Ghandi have done to the untouchables’, here Gandhi is quoted as supporting the caste system in 1921, then proposing subtle changes to it, in 1925.
Others, such as Mark Linley show that Gandhi’s ideas developed over time and that he came to see the need to destroy the caste system through intermarriage.
My opinion is that Gandhi was a noble and brave man who did much good. That in his youth and life he was imperfect is no suprise and should not detract from his inspiring actions. But I think there is more value in knowing about him in his entirety rather than reducing him to a saintly charicature. He was a human being, human beings are complex, it is foolish and trite to blind yourself for the sake of simplicity or facility. History is more than just black and white.
Gandhi was a great man, who unified Muslim and Hindu India through his non-violent efforts. I think he was more great for his own acknowledgement of his flaws, which was part of his practising of Ahimsa (do no harm). That level of honesty is more brave than the clumsy beatification of well meaning ignorance.
Asa Kusa, Mornington Crescent, is my favourite Japanese restaurant in London.
Maybe it is the pokey nature of the interior layout, the shabby decor, the service which is often inattentive. Or maybe it is just the excellent, delicious, food.
Whatever it is, I like it.
Anyway, if you ever go there, I recommend the deep fried oysters and…well…everything else.
Sushi is seemingly healthy, although I’ve been told it damages your liver. (Further reading suggests that this seems to be a problem relevant specifically to South East Asia)
Boo hoo.
Sushi is great.
Except when it is DESTROYING THE WORLD like a big fishy Godzilla. Make sure your Sushi is sustainable.
Bluefin tuna is particularly eco-unfriendly, and swanky Sushi chain Nobu is being boycotted by fish and Earth lovers alike because of its bluefin desecrating menu.
Ideas to make the world a better place, part one in an irregular series.
Terrorists aim to create a climate of fear and insecurity, this is their modus operandi. But the way they do so is, frankly, not on. There tends to be a lot of death and malice involved.
So, why not channel this negative energy into some more positive form?
They could get jobs at the London dungeon – or we could all chip in and create a new attraction ‘the terror experience’, and the Taliban, the Saudi terror cells behind 911 and the real IRA (amongst others, we would have to have an equality policy that did not discriminate against types of terrorist) could all, in a controlled and fun way, frighten us with their hi-jinks. Popping balloons in the dark and taking us ‘hostage’, or blowing up buses and what not in a Universal studios sort of a way.
Then at the end they could hand out leaflets with money saving vouchers for the gift shop and a short description of what their beef is.
I am sat in a cafe watching the spiral galaxy of milk cool into being in the black night coffee before me.
I imagine a ballerina in a music box, sparkling, swirling; a segue into a memory faded in the sun and rain.
When it has settled, the liquid in the cup takes on a donkeyish colour, dun and homely.
I taste bittersweetness with a silent tongue.
And I take my time.
I am passing time.
Time.
How much do you get?
Fewer than a 1000 months.
I am wasting time.
The UCKG is the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God.
You know what, they probably do some good. They pop up in poor communities and offer salvation to some of those most in need.
So what if they require you to give 10 per cent of your income to them as a ‘tithe’?
“Tithes are central to the UCKG’s doctrines. It is expected that each member give 10 per cent of his total pre-tax income to the church. This means 10 per cent of all income: not just salary, but child benefit, pension, student grants, loans, interest, everything. Even people on the dole are expected to give up 10 per cent”
Okay, so you are poor and can ill afford to give some ropey organisation your money, but look at all the great things that happen when you do:
Bank errors are sorted, promotions obtained, jobs offered – all by the miracle of God!
So what if it is run by a Brazilian Tycoon, Edir Macedo, who was briefly jailed for fraud.
So what if the murderers of Victoria Climbie attended the Church and pastors there claimed she was ‘possessed’:
“The eight-year-old attended the UCKG with her aunt on several occasions.
One pastor from the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God (UCKG), in north London, said the eight-year old was “possessed” and ran down the aisle during a service, screaming: “Prayer doesn’t help”. Carl Manning told the Old Bailey that Kouao had coached ‘Anna’ (Victoria was her given name, but her killers called her Anna) to make the run.
Another pastor, Alvero Lima, admitted he thought the child was “possessed” and offered to drive the Devil out at one of the UCKG’s weekly Friday “deliverance” services, at which the church offers strong prayer to “destroy witchcraft, devil possession, bad luck, bad dreams and spiritual problems”.”
Source: BBC, Independent
So what. I’m sure they do some good.
Mr Topper is a chain of London hairdressers. They offer cheap haircuts. What’s wrong with that? Nothing! It’s a good thing. I am all for it, especially in today’s Credit Crunched Broken Britain of hoodies and alcopops.
The only thing I take issue with is their logo, which irritates me more than is proportional.
They have chosen as their emblem a Frog.
Frogs don’t have hair!
Not only that, not only does the Frog not have any hair.
But he’s wearing a hat!
What sort of message does that send?
Why have they chosen as their ambassador a hairless frog who wears a hat?
I need to take a relaxing walk.
The title of this piece is by Ernest Hemingway, he came up with it in response to the challenge of writing the shortest short story he could.
Walking past a junk shop today I came up with a challenge of my own; I would look in the window and write a short story based on the object/s I saw. They would be my inspiration, whatever they were.
So, here goes…
Henry lent against the battered old piano and bolted down a sting of whisky from his hip flask. He looked furtively about as he snuck it back into his inside pocket and then he called out to her.
‘you need any help in there?’
She leaned back from the stove so she could see him through the kitchen doorway, a grin on her face, her hair tied back out of her eyes.
‘no thanks, you make yourself comfy – play us a tune!’
She leaned back into the steam and he looked down at the piano with spite.
He found the hip flask back in his hands, the bite of alcohol in his throat, familiar, unkind.
Then he was surveying his great hands. A pianist’s hands, spanned out like the wings of a proud bird.
His mother had taken him to a doctor when he was a boy, and paid, in convincing amounts of cash, for the flesh between his fingers to be cut.
She wanted him to become a great classical pianist, and she was convinced that his hands could be honed for just this purpose. He would play Rachmaninov’s third in the Albert Hall, she would weep.
When his hands had healed, and the dividing wedges removed, he had been guided to a piano, and his parents had looked on expectantly.
And he, seven, had rested his hands down on the cool keys and with the deliberate poise of the maestro, had launched into a vulgar jazz version of Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata, played at five times its tempo so that it was no longer a sombre reflective piece, but a whirl of sad notes blurring into an almost flamenco like urgency.
When he had finished, his face red with the effort and fury, blood trickling from the scars between his fingers. He had turned and bowed stiffly. In his mind he had vowed then and there that he would never play classical music again.
And never again would he. Nor would he inherit anything of his parents’ estate.
So now he played piano in a Soho jazz dive, a place where he wouldn’t be fired for drinking. The place where he had met her.
She was a dancer. At least that is what she wanted to call what she did. A fine woman, slowly reducing. Like a master crafted wardrobe left out in the rain, year after year, warping, cracking, losing its lustre.
He could see her legs and back through the doorway, her silver shoes cradling her pretty little feet.
Wow, look at this face.
