By Karla Fetrow

Conditioned Brutality
Police brutality… We hear about it all the time.  It has become the great expectation; if you are confronted by the police, surrender your rights because he does not recognize them.  Of all the domestic violence offenders, the police place first on the list.  According to a report on The Impact of Police-Perpetrated Domestic Violence, “The characteristics and skills developed in training to produce competent officers are those that, when used in an intimate relationship, make police officers the most dangerous abusers.

Police officers use professional skills, police equipment, and the mobility of the job to keep their partners under surveillance. They run license plates of her friends and have access to information about anyone with whom she associates. They follow in their squad cars, park their squads or unmarked cars outside the victim’s home for hours on end. They install recording devices in the victim’s home or on her telephone. They use binoculars to observe the victim’s activities from a distance. These methods serve as a constant reminder to the victim that she is always within the abuser’s reach. He comes to be seen as omniscient and omnipotent, almost god-like.”

Many carry this sense of omniscience beyond the victims of partner relationships.  They choose their victims from those who are vulnerable; people who frequent bars, teenagers hanging out in malls, those too poor to legally fight back, women without partners, minorities and people they just don’t like.  Because they are well acquainted with the courts and documentation of evidence, an abusive policeman can commit his crimes against citizens with impunity.

The two most common charges attached to the revolving door system are, “resisting arrest” and “assault on a police officer”.  The curious part of this is that in seven out of ten cases, there are no other charges involved.  In other words, if a policeman walks up and says, “let’s go, buddy,” it’s best to just comply because to question his motives is to resist arrest.  If you become belligerent, it’s an assault on an officer.  It makes no difference whether or not you struck out at him.  The abusive policeman doesn’t need a reason for accosting you.  He only needs for you to show some form of hostility or resistance and you will land in jail.

What Isn’t Talked About

It gets scarier.  There is another type of police brutality that generally stays under wraps for a very long time before it ever begins to surface; if it does.  This brutality remains so secretive only the combined efforts of the victims lend it any credibility at all.  This is the policeman who rapes.  Most women will not report her attacker.  She has already been humiliated, undressed, forced behind bars and subjected to the whims and caprice of her captors.  She has no reason to believe anyone will come to her defense.

On the day I stood before a judge to plead guilty to one account of misconduct with a controlled substance, a far more spectacular case was rocking the courtroom.  Anthony Rollins, an ex-police officer, entered a plea of “not guilty” to fourteen felony counts, most of them involving rape or assault, and to six misdemeanor charges of official misconduct.  The investigation began in April 2009, when the victims’ agency, “Standing Together Against Rape”, filed a report that Rollins had sexually assaulted a woman while on duty.  Rollins was placed on paid leave, while five other victims came forth to say they had been raped.  On July 15, 2009, Rollins was indicted, arrested and suspended without pay.

In a telephone interview later, Sgt. Derek Hsieh, president of the Anchorage police union, said fellow officers are disappointed and worried that Rollins’ indictment will affect the way they are perceived by the people they serve.

The problem is, this group mentality of standing up for their own allows police misconduct to become commonplace.  It isn’t an isolated incident.  It is a behavior that hides itself behind bars, behind the protective uniform of the badge, and only occasionally receives attention.  It is a part of the ongoing machinery diligently churning out the sociopath society.

The Subtle Sociopath

While it’s true my vacation land did not contain such blatant misuse of power, its undercurrents of false accusations, assumptions of guilt and categorizing without examining mitigating circumstances, still contribute to sociopath behavior.  A sociopath might be very pleasant on the outside, but will lie and manipulate for his own self-serving purposes.  He might not actually break the law, but will use it to serve his own ends.

While I was incarcerated, I became very fond of our house mouse, our little orderly mother who kept the pod running smoothly.  Janice had that type of soft, open face and studious expression you would expect from a teacher or a counselor.  She rarely exercised her authority, allowing the other girls the run of the television and their choice of obligatory chores, but when she did, her word was law.  You did not clam the door or stand in your room and shout.  To do so would mean the entire house would lose its privileges to the microwave and television.  She was determined this was not going to happen.

Only once did she try to exercise her authority with me.  She wanted me to attend church with the other girls on Easter morning.  I told her no.  When she asked me why not, I told her, “I take my spirituality very seriously.  In Mexico, I saw people die for their moral convictions.  They were people of God.  I am not so impressed with someone who stands at a pulpit and lectures simply because it feels good.”

“Oh,” she said, and that was the end of that, but the beginning of our friendship.  I finally asked her one day how she ended up in jail.  “I stole,” she admitted honestly, then added, “but I didn’t steal from people’s houses.  I didn’t steal from regular folk.  I stole from big chain stores.  They have the insurance to cover it.”

I laughed.  “You’re a revolutionary!”

I found it odd that she continued to remain in the hole while other long-term inmates had moved into houses with greater liberties.  I finally asked her about it.  “They hate me,” she said at first.  Finding her a very difficult person to hate, I told her maybe it was because she did her job as the house mouse so well.  “No,” she said firmly.  “They hate me.”

She paused a bit as though debating whether or not to trust me, then said, “In February, I pushed a girl into a snowbank.  I don’t know why I did it.  She was making fun of me and I got irritated.  She was carrying her property box at the time, going to one of the better houses.  She stumbled backward into the snowbank, but she wasn’t hurt, and I didn’t hit her.  Still, she told an officer about it.

Two days later, I was charged with a major infraction, a B6, which is assault on a prisoner by another prisoner.”  The following week, Janice was brought before the disciplinary board, which even the officers call the kangaroo court.  Without allowing her to give her side, they found her guilty of the assault, and gave her thirty days of segregation in the hole, suspending it for 180 days, provided she was not given another write-up.

Janice planned to appeal the write-up, but the next day, she was once again called before the board.  “I heard from three different inmates that you were having relationships with a female officer,” said Lieutenant Johnson, the board director.  “I need to know who this officer is.”

“I had no idea what she was talking about,” said Janice, “and told her so.”

The lieutenant persisted.  “Whether the allegations can be proven or not, we can still house you in the hole for the remainder of your sentence, so you might just as well make things easier on yourself.”

Again Janice told her she had no idea what the lieutenant was talking about.  After returning to her room, she filed an appeal, stating the allegations had no basis in fact.  The next day, the paperwork was returned to her with “denied” stamped on it.  In the denial, it was claimed they had a video clip and a recorded phone call as evidence that Janice had been with a female officer.  When Janice asked to see the evidence, she was denied.

Once Janice had been designated to the hole, she was denied her furlough, admission to the half-way house, or an ankle bracelet monitor so she could be released to work.  She has been refused all visitors, including her husband, and refuse to allow him to put money on her books.  They have decided not to drop the assault charge, and still have not shown evidence of her misconduct.

I don’t believe Janice was lying.  She was candid about her theft and about pushing the girl.  She was a victim of the sociopath society.

When We’ve All Gone Through the Door

The sociopath feels no guilt, no remorse, has no conscience.  Two very tragic homicides followed closely on each other this last winter.  One was a young barrister of a drive through coffee shop, the other involved a young airman on leave.  The barrister was abducted from her place of work; the video cameras proved this, while the airman’s where about’s were uncertain for several days.  In both cases, it was weeks before their bodies were found.

The fathers of the barrister and the airman recently went out to drink together.  Understandably, they were inconsolable.  Late in the evening, an employee of the bar, noticing  the barrister’s father was about to get into his truck inebriated, offered to call a cab.  The bereaved man told the employee to get away from his truck or meet his 1911, which was assumed to refer to a family of .45 caliber pistols.  The bar employee called the police stating the two men had left drunk, but that he could not stop them because he feared for his life.  This was in compliance with a law that states those serving alcohol must not allow a person to leave their premises and drive drunk unless they fear for their lives.

The police entered the premises of the barrister’s father, where they found both men.  The barrister’s father was charged with a DUI, even though he was home by then and there had been no mishaps on the highway.  He was charged with assault on an officer for refusing to take a breath test.  He was charged with misconduct with a firearm after a search of his vehicle uncovered a 1911 Ruger in his console that he had not pulled out and had not used.  His 2012 truck was impounded and he was placed under $4,000 bail, along with a $2,000 appearance bond and a $2,000 performance bond.  In a kinder era, there would have been more understanding for the grieving man, but this is the year of the letter of the law and the law is carried out without guilt, remorse or conscience.

The sociopath has a limited range of emotions.  A person in prison learns to behave pleasantly, regardless of personal feelings.  She must show no anger, no disappointment, no impatience, no tears.  She learns strict obedience to the rules no matter how unfair they might seem.  She learns not to anticipate.  You do not anticipate your phone call or a visit because they can be taken away from you.  You learn not to anticipate your release date as it can fill you with too much longing, which invites other strong emotions.  The jails have their own time schedule, separate from the courts.  Some girls were kept as many as three days after their release was ordered, while the jails went through their own system of paperwork.  During that time period, they did not dare to appear anything except pleasant and co-operative, or they could be charged with another infraction.  It was several weeks after I was released before I was able to deal with the full flood of normal emotions again.  Someone who has been incarcerated for months or years is completely overwhelmed by her initial release.

I asked myself many times what the purpose was in this revolving door justice, which rarely gave a great deal of formal time behind bars but that usually gave long months and even years of probation or parole.  Obviously, there is a high profit making mechanism involved.  Your taxes pay for the burgeoning police force, justified by the number of “necessary” arrests, and for the administration of the court system.  The inmate never gets out of jail free.  Even if she has paid no bail or bonds, she must pay for court costs, the $250 an hour public defender and filing fees.  Nearly every inmate is ordered to take anger management classes, drug counseling or both.  These also come out of the inmate’s pockets.

There is also the conditioning to obedience, to compliance without question.  This too became obvious during my stay, yet it wasn’t until I read the standard terms of probation and parole, applied to all released inmates that I began to see a far more sinister reason for the revolving door.  While you are serving your probation or parole, you may not vote, take part in elections or serve on a jury.  For as long as you have a felony record, this part remains.  While you are on probation or parole, you may not own a firearm or any blade over three inches long, with the exception of kitchen knives.  You may not even own a machete for cutting down brush.  While you are on probation or parole, you may not spend more than 24 hours away from your home.  Your travel is restricted to a one hundred mile radius of your home.  You may not consort with others convicted of a felon, not even family members.  The police may come at any time to your home without a warrant and search it, or search your person at any time without cause.  If you are in the company of someone who is arrested, you will be arrested, too.  By creating a revolving door of a populace charged with felonies, every single one of our rights can be removed without ever once tampering with any aspect of the Constitutional amendments.  The United States places more people behind bars than any country in the world, and this is why.  It’s not so much that we are apathetic.  It’s that we are learning to become sociopaths, with no strong connections to each other, no normal emotional range, no self-determination as to right and wrong and complete acceptance that brutality is okay as long as exercised within the legal confines of the law.

http://www.adn.com/2009/07/16/867167/cop-pleads-not-guilty-in-sex-assaults.html

http://www.abuseofpower.info/Article_FBI.htm

By Jennifer Lawson Zepeda

I kept saying it!  That the torture the U.S. sanctioned against people held in Guantanamo Bay would come back to haunt us.  And it finally has!

Thank GOD, there are still ethical people left in this world!

“In what is the first ever conviction of its kind anywhere in the world, the former US President and seven key members of his administration were yesterday (Fri) found guilty of war crimes.”

“The trial held in Kuala Lumpur heard harrowing witness accounts from victims of torture who suffered at the hands of US soldiers and contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“They included testimony from British man Moazzam Begg, an ex-Guantanamo detainee and Iraqi woman Jameelah Abbas Hameedi who was tortured in the notorious Abu Ghraib prison.”

“At the end of the week-long hearing, the five-panel tribunal unanimously delivered guilty verdicts against Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and their key legal advisors who were all convicted as war criminals for torture and cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment.”

(Source: Bush Convicted of War Crimes)

It had to happen!  Torture is something that the U.S. has customarily taken a strong stance against; so to use it as an effective method of eliciting information?  Deplorable!

But the huge question is, What happens now?

“Full transcripts of the charges, witness statements and other relevant material will now be sent to the Chief Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court, as well as the United Nations and the Security Council.”

“The Kuala Lumpur War Crimes Commission is also asking that the names of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Gonzales, Yoo, Bybee, Addington and Haynes be entered and included in the Commission’s Register of War Criminals for public record.”

(Source: Bush Convicted of War Crimes)

Obama Where are You

That’s a start; but what about the International Criminal Tribunal demanding warrants for their arrest?  Shouldn’t that follow?

So, my next question is this…

Why isn’t President Obama putting on his big boy pants and demanding their arrest?  After all, the U.S. has been BIG on hunting down other war criminals and ensuring they were prosecuted; so, why not now?

WASHINGTON, April 26, 2012 /PRNewswire-USNewswire/ — A UN-backed tribunal Thursday convicted former Liberian president Charles Taylor of aiding and abetting war crimes and crimes against humanity – the first time a head of state has been convicted by an international court since the Nazi trials at Nuremberg. Sen. Patrick Leahy (D-Vt.) worked closely with successive prosecutors at the Special Court for Sierra Leone in making today’s breakthrough possible. Leahy, as chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee’s Subcommittee on the State Department and Foreign Operations, wrote U.S. laws to withhold aid to any government that harbored Taylor, to increase the reward for Taylor’s capture, and to provide crucial funding for the court, even when it was not requested by an earlier administration. Leahy has long led as well in seeking justice for war criminals and in securing resources to help their victims. The court found that Taylor also personally profited from his crimes, receiving “blood diamonds” during the conflicts involving Liberia and Sierra Leone. Leahy heralded the roles of former Rep. Tony Hall (D-Ohio), joined by Sen. Dick Durbin (D-Ill.) and others, who led efforts in Congress to stigmatize the role of that illicit diamond trade, which paved the way for the Kimberley Process, a joint effort by governments, industry and civil society to stem the role of diamonds in conflict zones.

(Source:  Leahy: Taylor Conviction Shows That The World Can Hunt Down War Criminals And Bring Them To Justice)

Where is Sen. Patrick Leahy on this?  Where’s the UN-backed forces, working to arrest G.W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld et al?

Why aren’t people like the self admitted torturer, ‘Hard Measures‘ author and former CIA official, Jose Rodriguez also declared as war criminals?  We’ve allowed him to profit off of his campaign of torture by publishing a book?

In the Bernie Farber’s blog, War Criminals — At Any Age — Should Be Punished, he admits that the common assumption is that war criminals evade prosecution because of many excuses.  One that remains is that many believe that given the age of the perpetrators and that the murderous brutalities occurred more than 65 years ago, we best just move on.

So, will we adopt this attitude towards our own war criminals of Bush et al?

If so, shame on us for being also the worlds biggest hypocrites!

By Jane Stillwater  http://jpstillwater.blogspot.com/2012/05/fair-trade-its-not-just-for-coffee-any.html

How many times have you walked into Starbucks, ordered a “Fair Trade” latte and felt all proud of yourself for supporting small coffee farmers in Central America?  Virtuous, even?  A lot of times, I would bet.  But exactly how many times have you also walked into a computer store or a jewelry store or a grocery store or a sporting goods store and said, “Hey, I’m looking to purchase one of those Fair Trade diamond rings,” or “I need to buy a Fair Trade MP-3 player.”  Almost never.

Heck, how many times have we even driven into our local Shell or Arco or Exxon station and ordered up ten gallons of Fair Trade gas?  Definitely never.  But guess what?  Perhaps it’s time that we did.

Fair Trade isn’t just for coffee any more.

It’s high time for consumers to follow the Fair Trade coffee example and also start forcing big-business international monopolies and cartels to instigate Fair Trade practices on a lot more than just coffee.  It’s also now time to offer Fair Trade options to all those dirt-poor miners and workers who now bring us tin, gold, tantalum, tungsten, diamonds, coal, gasoline and oil at an enormous personal cost to themselves, and who risk their very lives daily for peanuts — so that global corporatistas can turn around and gouge out higher prices from you and me, and make outrageously obscenely high profits off of someone else’s blood, sweat and tears.

Without our coffee in the morning, we’d merely have a bit more trouble waking up.  But without highly-important minerals such as the tin, gold, tantalum, tungsten, diamonds and coal that make our individual worlds work, there would be no computers, no gold tooth fillings, no traditional wedding rings, no cell phones, no durable drill bits and nothing for joggers to listen to as they run through the park.

Without our coffee, sure, we’d be grumpy.  But without our gasoline, we’d be faced with starvation — or at least faced with having to live mostly by what we can grow in our victory gardens or whatever we could haul in on wagons.  But, hey, that might not be such a bad thing after all.  Improvising in order to avoid starvation seems to be, in the long run, a far better solution than dying from carbon-dioxide poisoning and its resultant fires and floods.  But then that’s just me.

Fair Trade oil?  That would mean giving individual Iraqis, Iranians, Nigerians, Sudanese and even Californians and Texans a piece of the action — just like they now do in Alaska.  I’ve been to Iraq.  I’ve seen dirt-poor villagers with no shoes on their feet standing upon oil-rich land worth billions to anyone but them.

Fair Trade!

In Africa, where so many of our strategic minerals come from, miners can’t even imagine what Fair Trade might look like.  They might even live a few years longer maybe, or have shoes on their feet or learn how to read.  Who knows?  How about giving them the same breaks that we now give to coffee farmers?

PS:  In the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda, Uganda and Sudan, many so-called “conflict minerals” are taken out of the ground and then sold in order to buy more guns for bad guys — and so the SEC has been working on methods that will allow buyers to trace the origins of the metals they buy, thus making it harder for gun runners and human traffickers to make a profit from selling ill-gotten gains.

Nordic Sun http://www.nordicsw.com/ has recently developed a cute little hand-held mineral-assessing thingie that allows perspective buyers to trace their mineral purchases back to untainted sources.  However, no one seems to be in any big hurry to buy this cute little app.  Why mess with a sure-fire profit maximizer — buying conflict minerals with no provenance — even though such purchases lead to supporting devastating blood-wars and completely screwing over poor miners working their fingers to the bone?

All across the world, people who care about the future of our planet helped to organize a wonderful Fair Trade movement to protect coffee farmers.  Good for them!  And now it’s time for us to get together and organize a Fair Trade movement for conflict-mineral miners as well — and then also a Fair Trade movement to protect all the rest of us workers too, especially those of us here at home.  “We have nothing to lose but our chains.”

In these enlightened times, a society that creates only billionaires and match girls no longer works.

PPS:  I recently went on a virtual tour of an oil magnate’s house.  Actually, I think it was only his secondary vacation home.  Set on ten acres of valuable urban real estate, it had fifteen bedrooms, a kitchen with five (5) work stations, a spare baggage room for racks of last year’s Chanel gowns, a Rolls Royce in the driveway, a huge swimming pool, a vineyard and even a freaking TOPIARY garden.

Now compare that super-deluxe massive mansion to the homes of those poor villagers I saw in Iraq or the homes of poor miners in the DRC or even the homes of all us poor California taxpayers who get nothing back from the oil giants who are currently making off with OUR black gold. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qM1syI0UA3Y.

PPPS:  I’m trying to leave for Uganda in July so I can witness all this stuff for myself and report back regarding the corporate exploitation of miners, human trafficking and the plight of child soldiers — as well as to, hopefully, also report back on any and all progress being made toward establishing Fair Trade in Africa too.

Feel free to donate to my “Jane goes to Uganda” fund by clicking here:  https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=96QQEH6YNBA3N

****

Wanna find out more about what is really happening on the “Arab Street”?  I highly recommend a quarterly periodical entitled “Critical Muslim”.  Printed in Britain, written by leading modern Muslim thinkers and dealing with important current events, you can learn more about it and/or subscribe to it here:  http://www.musliminstitute.org/critical-muslim
**********
Please vote for me to win a scholarship to the 2012 Netroots Nation convention in Providence, Rhode Island in June.  Please vote here:  http://www.democracyforamerica.com/netroots_nation_scholarships/1444-jane-stillwater

*************************
Advertizements for myself:  In these hard times of brutal (and illegal) corporatist economics, I am doing whatever I can to make a spare dollar.  Here are some of my current alternate-economy schemes that never seem to work — but I keep hoping!

****
Am trying to go to Uganda in July to report on child soldiers and human trafficking.  Wanna help me pay for my plane ticket? Donate to my PayPal account at https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=96QQEH6YNBA3N

****

Need an actor to play an older woman in your movie?  Then I’m your man!  I can portray all kinds of older women — from judges, business execs and other insane zombies to bag ladies, cancer patients, kindly grandmothers and dying patients in rest homes.  I’ve played them all.  So send me a script and let’s do this.  Hollywood, here we come!

****
Are you a plaintiffs’ attorney who is tired of writing those pesky personal injury settlement briefs all the time?  No problem!  I can write them for you.  Years of experience.  And pay me only if you win the case.

****
Need a Notary Public?   Have seal, will travel.  E-mail me at jpstillwater@yahoo.com and I’ll stamp your document, make it official and only charge $10.  Of course if you live outside of Berkeley, I may have to charge travel expenses — but am well worth it!

****

Want something good to read? Buy my book! “Bring Your Own Flak Jacket: Helpful Tips for Touring Today’s Middle East,” available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. http://www.amazon.com/Bring-Your-Own-Flak-Jacket/dp/0978615719/ref=cm_pdp_rev_itm_title_1. It’s like as if Jack Kerouac, Mark Twain and/or Janet Evanovich went to war.

I also wrote a book about going on Hajj (also included as a chapter in “Bring Your Own Flak Jacket,” but this book is cheaper — but it’s worth buying them both!)  My book on the Hajj is so outstanding that I bet even Christian fundamentalists will love it! Please buy it here:  http://www.amazon.com/Mecca-Hajj-Lessons-Islamic-School/dp/0978615700/ref=cm_rdp_product

Please sign my petition to create a Constitutional amendment to stop corporate lobbyists from buying our country: http://www.th epetitionsite .com/2/consti tutional-ame ndment-to-st op-lobbyists

By Mike

A Winning Bet……

Paddy Murphy was a hard worker at the large Bakery in Dublin. He was fond of his drink but to be honest, he never overdid it. There was probably not a single person in the whole of Ireland that had ever seen him drunk. He also liked a flutter on the horses or once in a while on the dogs, but he had his taste for gambling well and truly under control.

He looked after his family, that is, his wife Maureen and three young children. Young Paddy was now ten years old and the twin girls were now seven. He kept his family well fed, well clothed and healthy. They were a happy and united family and life was good.

On a Wednesday evening, if he had any spare cash, he would sometimes take himself down to the Dog Track at Shelbourne Park. He would have a few small bets and every now and again he would win a few pounds. He never won a lot but then again he never bet a lot either.

This particular Wednesday he and his best friend Jim were having a drink after work in the pub a few doors away from the bakery. He noticed a man whom he had seen several times at the dog track and he was known to be a heavy gambler. He was one of the rare breed who really knew what he was doing and had good inside information.

“Jim”, Paddy said to his friend “do you see your man over there. Well he’s worth a few bob and seems to get great information on the dogs. He must have something good going tonight down at the Shelbourne”. “Be Japers Paddy”, Jim replied “we could do with a nice few bob ourselves, sure the way he is dressed in that suit, he must be well off. It must have cost him a small fortune”. “Wait ‘till you see his big car outside, it’s one of them big German things, a Mercedes I think. It must have cost him all of thirty grand” Paddy sighed then took a swig from his beer. “I bet he never did a good day’s work in his life neither” Jim gave an even bigger sigh.

They both watched the man through the bar mirror for the next few minutes with envy in their eyes. After about fifteen minutes, another man came into the bar and shook hands with the one they were watching. This one looked rather untidy wearing working clothes and a soft peaked cap.

“I bet you Jim that he trains greyhounds” Paddy guessed. “You could be right Pad” Jim replied “and I bet you he has all the inside information”. “If only we could get some of that info Jim, we could make a few bob alright” Paddy replied. Both men this time sighed in unison.

The second man again shook hands with the first and handed him a piece of paper. The first man merely put the paper into his bulging wallet, drank the rest of his beer and left.

Shortly after, Paddy and Jim drank up and made their way to the door. Immediately as they stepped out onto the pavement, Jim tripped on something underfoot. “Are you alright Jim?” Paddy asked a little anxiously. “Ah sure enough Pad” Jim replied “Sure I nearly broke me fecking neck”. They looked down to see what Jim had tripped on and there it was – the bulging wallet that they had seen earlier.

(Now listen, don’t start running ahead of the story and don’t think what I think you are all thinking)…..

Both men were as honest as the day is long and not for one second did either of them think or consider keeping the wallet and its contents. They did nothing more but decided there and then to make their way to the greyhound track and try to find the owner. On the way there, Jim stopped and grabbed Paddy’s arm.

“Don’t even think it Jim or I swear to God I’ll never speak to you again” Paddy said sternly. “No, no, no Paddy” Jim quickly replied “You know me Pad, I wasn’t thinking of his money. I swear it”. “Well” asked Paddy “what were you thinking of then, you had that look in your eyes”.

“Well it’s like this Paddy” Jim spoke softly and slowly. “Now sure it wouldn’t be stealing if we just had a little peep at the note that man gave to him and see if they are the names of a dog or two – sure it wouldn’t be that wrong. Would it Paddy?” he asked.

“I suppose not” Paddy stroked his chin, “not if we put the note back where we found it and gave him his wallet and all”. “Right then Paddy me boy” Jim was at last happy, “let’s have a little look”.

Sure enough, when they opened the wallet they could see loads of money but they did not touch it. They found the note and took it out. All it said was “Rosheen’s Pet”, “Rosheen’s Double” and “Windfield Lily”. “I told you it was tips Paddy” Jim was getting all excited, “write them down and put the note back. We have the best part of half-an-hour to get up to the track”.

Paddy scribbled the names of what were obviously dog’s names on a scrap of paper and put the note back in the wallet. They began to walk rapidly toward the track.

As they entered the cheap entrance who should they see but the owner of the wallet coming out the other gate at the same time. “Hey mister” Paddy called and the man looked towards them. “We found something belonging to you outside the pub” Jim followed up. The man returned and met them inside the gates. Jim handed him the wallet saying “Every penny is there mister, we never took nothing”. The man opened the wallet and had a cursory glance at the contents. He wiped his brow and held out his hand to shake Jim’s.

“Have you any idea how much is there?” the man asked. “No idea at all mister, as I said me and me friend never touched nothing” Jim was basically telling the truth. “Well” said the man “there is nearly seven hundred pounds in that and I thought that was the last I saw of it. You two are the most descent men I have come across in a long time”. With that he took out and counted ten ten pound notes and handed them to Jim.

“For you and your friend with my eternal thanks” the man said. As they shook hands and began to walk away, he shouted after them. “Just a minute if you are staying for the races” he was now speaking softly “I have a sure thing for tonight which should come in at about four to one if you want to put the best part of that money I gave you on it”. He bent over and whispered in Jim’s ear “Windfield Lily in the third race. God bless you lads and thanks a million again”. With that he was gone.

“I don’t know whether to call him a gobshite or not Jim” Paddy said to his friend “I know he gave us a hundred pounds but he could have given us the three dogs’ names instead of just the one”. “You can call him all the gobshites you like Paddy, sure he’ll never know that we have the three, come on, and let’s look up the race card” Jim was happier than Paddy had ever seen him.

(Now sure this story could go on for ages and as the best parts have yet to come, sure I’ll skip a few bits)……..

The first thing is that Windfield Lily did win by a mile at four to one and they had ten pounds each on her. Rosheen’s Double was beaten in a photograph and as they had bet twenty pounds to win, they made nothing on that one.

However, Rosheen’s Pet romped home at six to one and again they had ten pounds each on her. They now had nearly three hundred pounds which they shared and left before the racing was over. They were not going to chance their luck any further – all their luck for the year was all wrapped up on that one night already.

They returned to the bar where they had been earlier and began drinking heavily. Not only were they drinking pints of Guinness but each time they had a large whiskey to go with it. Within a couple of hours they were both stocious drunk.

They staggered out of the pub at closing time and tried to make their way home. Jim was quite bad but Paddy was even worse. It was Jim who turned the key in the door at Paddy’s house and he literally fell into the hallway. Jim might have been drunk but he was still cute enough to get away as quickly as possible before Maureen came down the stairs. As far as Paddy was concerned, he did not have the faintest idea of where he was or what was going on.

The next day he was not working until twelve noon and he awoke at about eight o’clock with the worst hangover he ever had in his life. He looked around the room and there was no sign of Maureen. He sat up in bed and then noticed the cup of tea and two slices of toast on the bedside table. “Be japers” Paddy said aloud and got out of bed. He was wearing a fresh pair of pyjamas. “I don’t remember putting them on” he said aloud. He looked and his clothes were neatly folded on the dressing table. He stood there scratching his head in wonderment.

As he made his way out onto the landing he met his son young Paddy. The boy smiled at him and said “You were as drunk as a sack last night dad but you were lucky?” “Lucky?” replied Paddy, “where’s your ma?” “Oh she said she was running down to the shop to get you some nice rashers and sausages for your breakfast, you are well in her good books alright”. Young Paddy began laughing as he made his way downstairs.

Paddy followed and grabbed young Paddy’s arm. “What in the name of the good Lord is going on Patrick, tell me, what’s going on?” “Well it’s like this Dad” young Paddy began slowly, still with that silly grin on his face. “You fell through the door so drunk that I don’t think you knew who you were or where you were. Ma came down and tried to take your clothes off you to get you to bed. Well you know what dad?” the boy asked. “No son, just tell me?”

“Well when she opened your trousers and tried to take them off you screamed ‘Leave me alone woman, I am a happily married man with the best and most beautiful wife in the world’. I think you passed out then and I helped ma get you to bed”.

As an enormous smile came upon Paddy’s face, young Paddy asked “Tell me dad, were you really drunk or just pretending to be for ma’s sake?”…………………

By Bill the Butcher

One day early in the summer vacations, Mirabelle’s parents took her to the Borderland, where the worlds of Here and There mixed and merged. She’d been promised this trip as a reward if she did well in her examinations, and she’d done so well that they hadn’t been able to wriggle out of it, though they’d tried. Oh, how they had tried.

“Why do you want to go there?” Mummy had asked. “It’s going to be hot and crowded, and there’s nothing you can’t see on the TV right here. Why don’t we just go to the hills like we do every year?”

“I might not be able to get time off from the office,” Papa had added. “I can’t let your mother and you go alone all that way. It wouldn’t be safe, with all the pickpockets and criminals. It’s better that your mom and you go to the hills.”

But Mirabelle had no wish to go to the hills. “You promised,” she’d said, and to her horror had felt her eyes brimming over with tears and her lips starting to tremble. It was something only little girls did, and she was almost twelve and not so little any longer.

“Don’t begin blubbering,” Papa had snapped. “We can’t always have everything we want. Tine you realised that.”

But in the end they’d given in.

So now they were walking through the gate that separated the world of Here from the Borderland. No cars or any other machines were allowed through that gate, of course, not even cameras or cell-phones.

“It’s just a tourist trap,” Mirabelle’s Papa grumbled, as they waited impatiently behind a fat foreign lady who was arguing with the guards, in an almost incomprehensible accent, that she had to be allowed to take at least one camera through. “And it’s an overpriced tourist trap at that. Just look at these entry prices – it’s a disgrace.”

“And we have to walk everywhere too,” Mama sighed, wiping her face. “In this heat. It’s not right.”

Mirabelle didn’t want to listen to either the fat lady’s yammering or her parents’ grumbling, so she took the opportunity to look up at the gate and the wall instead. She’d seen them both on TV, of course, but they looked different in reality, higher and more imposing, the top of the grey wall lined with instruments, boxes with shiny round lenses and spiky antennae growing out of them.

“What are those?” she asked, pointing up at the boxes. “Papa? What are those things on the wall?”

Papa looked up at the boxes impatiently. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “Security cameras, maybe, keeping an eye on everyone. How does it matter?”

Mummy squeezed Mirabelle’s hand sympathetically. They both knew when Papa was in one of his moods. “We’ll buy a guide book,” she said, pointing at the stall outside the gate. “It’s sure to have a lot of information.”

Papa began grumbling about the cost of the guide book, so Mirabelle looked at the gate instead. It was in the shape of an arch, very high, and decorated with all kinds of carvings, of unknown creatures with the faces of frogs and the bodies of feathered snakes, and the like; and strange scenes, such as mountains hanging upside down and water flowing uphill. The carvings were done very intricately, so that the animals seemed alive, and the water in motion.

The foreign lady, having lost her argument, had deposited her cameras at the counter and stalked through the gate, and Papa was at the counter taking a long time paying for the tickets and trying to bargain for a discount. Mirabelle watched the people in the line behind her, many of whom were foreigners from all parts of the world.

“My teacher says,” she told Mummy, “that we should all be proud that the Borderland’s situated in this country, and not in America or Europe or somewhere like that.”

“Um,” Mummy replied. “Why should it be something to be proud of? It’s not as though we had something to do with its being here. Did your teacher say anything about that?”

Mirabelle thought for a moment. “All these people have to come here to see the Borderland, haven’t they?” she argued.

“And if it were elsewhere, they’d have gone there instead,” Mummy replied. “It’s not as though we had anything to do with it. So why should we be proud?”

Before Mirabelle could find a reply to that, Papa came over with the tickets. “It’s even more expensive than I thought,” he grumbled. “Even the half-day tour is twice as much as I expected.”

“Half-day tour?” Mirabelle repeated, stricken.

“Of course, the half-day tour,” Papa snapped. “Do you think we can afford one of the longer jaunts? As it is, even this one costs more than I thought it could possibly could.”

“I heard the half-day tour’s very good,” Mummy said quickly. “They show all the most interesting things.” She flipped through the guide book. “Yes, they show the Portal to There, the Goblin Grounds, the Lake of Rainbow Fire, and…”

“What about the Wind Dragons?” Mirabelle asked. “Do they show the Wind Dragons?”

“The Wind Dragons?” Mummy flipped through the table of contents. “Well, they’re listed as an optional. We can see them or the Rain of Stars.”

“I want to see the Wind Dragons,” Mirabelle declared firmly. “That’s what I want to see the most in the Borderland.”

“Are you sure?” Mummy asked doubtfully. “We’d have to climb right up the cliffs, in the heat. And they aren’t really anything much to see at all. Now, the Rain of Stars looks so pretty.”

“I want to see the Wind Dragons,” Mirabelle repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “I’m not interested in the Rain of Stars.”

“But –“ Mummy began to argue. “But they can’t even really be seen.”

“I don’t care,” Mirabelle said. “I want to see them, and I want to listen to their songs. There’s nothing else here I’d rather see.”

“They sing?” Mummy asked. “Really?”

“Yes,” Mirabelle replied angrily. “I’ve read all about it. They fly around the cliffs, and they sing so beautifully.”

“Oh, let the child have her way,” Papa said irritably. “She’ll just start whining otherwise. Let’s get this thing over with so we can go home.”

They walked through the gate after passing through security. Of course, they’d known not to bring cameras, but they were still searched. The uniformed lady even made Mummy take off her sandals and checked the heels.

“We’ve found people trying to smuggle spy cameras in their shoes,” she apologised, handing the footwear back. “You can’t believe what people will try.”

“What happens if someone does take a camera through?” Mirabelle asked curiously. “Why don’t they allow it?”

The guard lady smiled. “The scientists say all kinds of bad things can happen, imbalances of energy and so on,” she replied. “They don’t allow anything mechanical at all.”

“That woman doesn’t know a thing she’s talking about,” Mummy said once they were out of security and walking through the gate. “They don’t allow cameras only because the government wants to make money out of selling the pictures.”

“But my teacher says,” Mirabelle began, and then didn’t say anything more, because they’d gone through the gate and were in the Borderland.

Even though she’d heard what it was like, Mirabelle was taken by surprise at the difference from the world of Here. The air was still as hot and dry, but there was a strange smell to it, faintly acrid, and it tasted of cinnamon. The sky was a deeper blue, and things seemed to look sharper and clearer, because there was no dust in the air.

And all around was the strange landscape of the Borderland, the hillocks which looked like human faces, the tiny castles which grew out of the rock, the weirdly twisted trees and giant reddish mushrooms. Mirabelle looked around at it all, gawking, and wished she could run off to explore.

“It feels like the place is full of magic,” Mummy said wonderingly. “You know, it’s the sort of atmosphere in which you’d expect ogres and wizards and fairies.”

“The half-day tour line’s over there,” Papa said, pointing to a small group of people standing beside a small stone bridge. “Come on.”

So Mummy and Mirabelle followed him over the little bridge, and for the next few hours a uniformed guide escorted them around. He had a high-pitched voice like a squeak, and his English was so terrible that Mirabelle had to fight down an urge to giggle whenever he said anything. But even though it was only a half-day tour, the things they saw were so strange and wonderful that they filled her mind with wonder.

At the Goblin Grounds, they looked through a falling sheet of water at the goblins – brown and leathery, with small heads and long needle teeth, which stared back at them with beady little black eyes. They stood on a platform of rock high over the  Lake of Rainbow Fire and stared through the round tunnel of the Portal to There, looking out at that strange and enigmatic world, with its clear blue light and sand as white as silver. The time passed so quickly that Mirabelle was amazed when the guide announced that the tour was almost over.

“Optionals only now left,” he said. “Wind Dragon group? Any Wind Dragon?”

“Yes,” Mirabelle said loudly, before either of her parents could speak. “We’re going to the Wind Dragons.”

The guide grinned with stained teeth and pointed. “To the right.”

Mirabelle’s Mummy sighed with exasperation.

*********************

To get to where the Wind Dragons flew, they had to climb up to the top of the Cliffs of Storms, which thrust up into the clear blue sky like serrated teeth. There was a winding path going up, covered with thick green grass like a carpet, and it wasn’t really difficult at all to climb. Still, Mummy sighed when she saw it, and Papa refused to go up at all.

“I’ll just wait here,” he said, sitting on a flat rock. “You go on up and enjoy yourselves.”

A different guide led them up the path, a short young woman with a broad face and a sprinkling of moles on her cheeks. There were about fifteen people in their group, and the way to the top was empty. Only one group was allowed on the Cliffs of Storms at any one time.

“Are they really so stormy?” someone asked the guide. “Is that why they call them the Cliffs of Storms?”

“It can get windy up there,” the girl replied. “But it’s just a name, really.”

“Are the dragons dangerous?” someone else asked.

“Not at all, sir. They’re made of wind and light, and can’t hurt you.” She glanced at them over her shoulder. “Please be silent when we’re up there,” she added. “The Wind Dragons don’t like noise, and besides only if there’s no other sound can one hear them singing.”

“They actually sing?” Mummy asked. “That’s really true?”

“Yes,” the guide said. “But nobody knows why.”

Nobody said anything further all the way to the top of the path, where there was a broad platform of stone with flat-topped boulders like benches to sit on. Before them was the cliff edge, beyond which there was only the endless blue distance of the World of There, from whence the dragons flew.

“Where are the dragons?” Mummy asked the guide, after they had been waiting several minutes. “It doesn’t look like we’ll see any.”

“Please be patient,” the girl replied. “They’ll come. This is one of their favourite places.”

But for a long time nothing happened.

“I’m sorry,” the guide said at last, rising to her feet. “It must be one of the days when they don’t appear. We’ll have to go down soon. Our time is almost up and the next tour party will be –“

It was Mirabelle who first saw the dragon at that moment, even before the guide put a finger to her lips and pointed. It was more a glitter in the air, a sparkle like rainbow dust, twisting and twining just past the cliff edge, as though a long tail was lashing back and forth. She caught a glimpse of writhing antennae, and spiky horns, and what might have been beating wings. And for a moment she was sure she saw two great lambent eyes, and they were looking straight at her.

The Wind Dragon saw her, Mirabelle knew. It was looking at her as a single, special human being. It was watching her.

“Listen!” someone whispered softly.

As though from infinite distances came the dragon’s song, notes warbling up and down the scale, building up into rhythm after complex rhythm. Another dragon joined in from somewhere unseen, a deeper note, the two voices merging and building, until it was impossible to tell which was which.

Entranced, they listened, the music resonating through the rock and their bodies, making the very air vibrate in sympathy. And the air glittered and turned on itself with the movement of great wings, as all around them, the dragons flew.

And then, suddenly, the air ceased to move and glitter. Like a door shutting, silence fell.

It was over.

Nobody said anything all the way down. Three was nothing to say.

“Well?” Papa demanded when Mummy and Mirabelle had rejoined him. “Had a good time chasing around after invisible flying lizards?”

Neither Mummy nor Mirabelle replied.

**********************

That night Mirabelle had a dream. In the dream she was standing on the platform on the Cliffs of Storms, alone. The sky was clear and blue, but there was no sun, and she could feel no heat.

All around her were the dragons, close enough to touch, and she could feel the beating of their wings. They circled her, they sang to her, and as she listened to them she began to understand.

“Come with us,” they said. “Come with us to the world of There, where no human has ever been. Come with us to the land of wonder.”

“Why me?” she asked. “Why did you choose me?”

“Because you are the one we’ve waited for,” the dragons sang. “You’re the one who is in perfect tune with us, the one who can understand us, the one who dreams and wonders. Come with us.”

“How?” Mirabelle asked. “How do I come with you?”

“Nothing simpler,” the dragons sang. “Step off the ground, and let yourself fly. Fly with us. But if you fly with us, you can’t come back again.”

“Yes,” Mirabelle said, and she tried to step off the ground, but she could not. Her feet held her tight.

“Come with us,” the dragons sang, their wings carrying them away. “Fly with us.”

“Wait,” Mirabelle called out desperately. “Wait for me.” But they didn’t wait.

And then she woke up.

She never told anyone the dream, but she never forgot it.

************************

Years passed, and turned into decades; and Mirabelle grew up and went to college, and became a successful career woman. But nobody ever got close to her, really close; and those who called themselves her friends came to feel that she was not really happy, or could ever be.

One day, when the chill of winter was in the air, Mirabelle looked at herself in the mirror of a hotel room, and saw that her hair was streaked with grey. She looked at herself and thought of her world, of business deals and money flows, and thought how sterile and futile it was. And then once again she remembered the wind dragons, and the song they had sung to her.

So it was that she caught a plane and flew across the world, back to the country of her birth. The Borderlands were still there, but the tourist trade had long since dried up, victim to civil unrest and economic collapse, to war and global warming, and the security guards and guides were long gone.

So it was that there was nobody to object when Mirabelle walked up the grassy path to the top of the Cliffs of Storms, alone, and sat waiting for the Wind Dragons.

They came, twisting and writhing, their wings beating rainbow glitter, and they sang to her.

“Come with us,” they said. “Let go of the ground, and fly with us. We’ve been waiting so long for you. But if you fly with us, you can’t come back again.”

“I’m coming,” Mirabelle said. “Wait for me.”

And it was absurdly easy then, to let go of the ground and fly with the wind dragons, through the vast blue distances, to the world of There, where wonders never ceased. It was a small price to pay, not to be able to come back again.

Nobody ever saw Mirabelle again.

But if one goes up to the Cliffs of Storms, there’s a new voice on the wind, a new note in the dragons’ song.

It is the voice of Mirabelle, singing.

By: Grainne Rhuad

By now most of the world is familiar with the picture taken during the May 7^th Russian protests.  The stark contrast of innocence facing down riot police has touched the world.  At the same time the rest of the world is slowly coming to terms with the fact that democracy is a lie and doesn’t work, Russians are protesting hoping to make a change within their system.

On May 7^th as Vladamir Putin was sworn into office, he was not met with the types crowds he had in the past.  In their stead, there were hundreds of protesters outside being corralled by thousands of police.  Putin has been at the helm of Russia since 2000, first as President and Now as Prime Minister.  With this election, he will likely remain there until 2018 with the option to run again.

It is this long-term rule that people in Russia are tired of.

The demonstrators, separated into several groups, were met by helmeted riot police. A total of 120 were detained, including opposition leader Boris Nemtsov.

The day before, protests had turned violent when some demonstrators tried to march toward the Kremlin and riot police beat back the crowds with batons and detained more than 400 people.

While Putin has dismissed the Moscow protesters as ungrateful, pampered urbanites and agents of the West, others are taking them more seriously. “The government must understand that the split in society is getting wider, and the anger over unfair elections and the lack of normal dialogue is growing. In this situation, radicalism is inevitable,” Zyuganov said. “Any attempts to shut people’s mouths with the help of a police baton are senseless and extremely dangerous.” (Source: http://www.foxnews.com/world/2012/05/07/putin-sworn-in-as-russia-president-after-day-protests/#ixzz1uPDRz700)

This dismissiveness that characterizes Putin is most likely going to be his downfall.  Putin won nearly 64% of the vote. Opposition leaders have denounced the result as “illegitimate”.  It was in response to this supposed discrepancy, that the protests were formed.  Their anger has been fuelled by widespread reports of fraud, including evidence of ballot-stuffing and “carousel voting”, when voters are employed to cast their votes several times at various polling sites.

While OSCE states in their report: “The conditions for the campaign were clearly skewed in favour of one candidate. Also, overly restrictive candidate registration requirements limited genuine competition.” The rest of the report outlines a pretty straight forward election.

Certainly, most countries cannot hope to be any better, it has become an accepted fact that media will pick sides and money will out in such elections.

There is no denying that Putin in the last few years has moved away from the progressive policies of the 1990’s.  He has been more restrictive in response to protest and criticism, both within his country and internationally.  Even recently allowing the statement that Russia will launch pre-emptive strikes if NATO and the U.S.  continues its plans to implement the European Shield.

However, many Russians still believe Putin to be good for Russia, siting his unwillingness to support or excuse the U.S. her meddling in foreign affairs as well as the business he has lately brought to Russia.  Namely huge oil contracts with ExxonMobil for research and development in the Arctic Oil Fields.

But like so many political maneuvers, there is the cost of this deal.  Some believe Mikhail Khodorkovsky is paying that cost.  Khodorkovsky, once head of oil giant Yukos and Russia’s richest man, is now in jail for tax evasion, clearing the way for other oil deals to be made. Putin has also been accused of abusing his hold on energy, allegedly punishing fellow ex-Soviet states like Ukraine with price hikes when they leant towards the West.

It may be Russia’s improved economy that is allowing for protest where before it was impossible.  The cities of Russia are full of work.  With companies and corporations in need of qualified workers at a higher rate than seen in maybe 50 years, as well as supportive services, more people are comfortable.

Comfortable people have more time to think, intellectualize, discuss and ultimately protest.  As it is the city dwellers who are showing up for protests analysts feel it is their increased economic stability that makes them feel they should have more of a say in government.

Perhaps this makes Putin’s “Spoiled” statement make a little more sense.  After all it has been under his leadership that Russia has seen stability and growth.

Political analyst Masha Lipman points out however, “The turning point was the “trading places” trick in that occurred in late September. That was when Medvedev declared he would not run and that Putin would run instead. For his part, Putin said, if elected, he would make Medvedev his prime minister. Medvedev added that they had made this decision several years earlier. It was this contempt of the people that triggered change: the mood became a movement. Elections suddenly mattered: lots of young Muscovites volunteered as election observers and gained first-hand experience with blatant fraud. They changed their electoral behavior and voted for anyone to ensure that the United Russia (the party of Putin’s loyalists) would lose support and seats in the Russian parliament. This activism evolved into mass protests after the December 4 election. It was broadly seen as fraudulent, especially in Moscow where the rigging was especially blatant and the constituency was already more critical of Putin.”

Are protests likely to do any good in a system where one man effectively has control of the government?  The people seem to think so. The opposition leader and member of the Solidarity movement political council, Boris Nemtsov seems to think so stating in an interview, “Russia’s future depends entirely on the level of protest, not Putin. Protests cannot constantly grow. They are not a linear process. The current protests do not amount to a revolution that would lead to explosive changes but the revival of civil activities and development of civil society. This is why there are always ups and downs. Indeed, now the protests are weakening, but this does not mean that they have exhausted themselves.” (Source: http://valdaiclub.com/politics/41601.html )

When asked if he thinks “The screws will be tightened.” (on the protestors) Nemtsov answers, “This depends only on us. If we sit in a kitchen, Lukashization is inevitable. If we take the initiative and protest, things will change. We are witnessing a decline of the Putin regime with all its convulsions, idiotic escapades and provocations. Clearly, it does not have the energy and strength to oppose the nation. But if the people sit quiet, the government will be able to tighten the screws with ease and Putin will turn into a 100% Lukashenko clone. He is 50/50 now.”

In agreement is Alexei Navalny, a crusading anti-corruption blogger and new-wave folk hero. He says: “A revolution is inevitable, and that it won’t be something plotted out ahead of time. It will start with an incident — an arrest, maybe, or a protest — and then snowball unexpectedly and unrelentingly. It will happen,” he told Esquire, “just because most people understand that this system is wrong.”

By: Jennifer Lawson-Zepeda

You hear it all of the time. “We ARE the ninety-nine percent!” At least in Los Angeles you do. It’s written all over billboards, scrawled on walls, depicted on stickers stuck to lamp posts. It’s everywhere! But has anyone figured out exactly who qualifies as the 99%?

Define 99%

Most people who back the Occupy Movement seem to have a grasp of who the 99% are and what that means; but in case some are confused, let’s go over this.

99% of the Occupy Movement gets it. They know we are all in this together and as a movement they are, for the most part, a very peaceful movement.

The rock behind this movement lies in the stories of people. The stories of struggling as 1% of society uses policy to enrich themselves, avoid paying their fair share of taxes, dictate civil and human rights, and practices corrupt banking and business practices to bilk the rest of us.

Its stories like:

“I am 20K in debt and am paying out of pocket for my current tuition while I start paying back loans with two part time jobs.”

“I am a 28 year old female with debt that had to give up her apartment + pet because I have no money and I owe over $30,000.”

“Married mother of 3. Lost my job in 2009. My family lost our health insurance, our savings, our home, and our good credit. After 16 months, I found a job — with a 90 mile commute and a 25 percent pay cut. After gas, tolls, daycare, and the cost of health insurance, I was paying so my kids had access to health care.”

I am young. I am educated and hard working. I am not able to pay my bills. I am afraid of what the future holds.”

“I am a 19 year old student with 18 credit hours and 2 part time jobs. I am over 4000 dollars in debt but my paychecks are just enough to get me to school and back. next year my plan was to attend a 4 year college and get my bfa, but now I am afraid that without a co-signer I will have no shot at a loan and even if I can get a loan I am afraid that I will leave college with no future and a crippling debt.”

“I went to graduate school believing that there might be some financial security afforded by a higher degree, and that with that security I could finally buy my mom her own house and take care of her. Instead, I have wasted six years of my life.”

“I am a 27 year old with a bachelor degree. I ran out of my student loans while trying to find a job. I am ‘living’ with my mother again to get back on my feet. So far, the best I can do is a part time retail job paying $8 an hour. I am hearing impaired with cochlear implant. My cochlear implant warranty expired. I do not have the money to renew it. How can I work at my new minimum wage job when my implant is broken? I need it to HEAR.”

(Source: Who are the 99 percent?

So, does this include workers in all jobs? For instance, are the police officers of this nation part of the 99% too?


Police Brutality

Let’s examine police behavior. It’s a shame that so many officers in cities like Los Angeles condone illegal violent and excessive force against citizens. Because this creates a feeling of disgust among the very people they need to back them up when they are attempting to defend these people during crowd control.

But in many cities, police forces have well-earned reputations for using their authority inappropriately.

I know this for a fact, because of my dealings with the Long Beach Police Department and one of its officers who used excessive force on me in 2009.

No matter how many bruises I had; or, how many photos they took while investigating the attack on me by one of their “finest;” in the end the LBPD investigated themselves and determined that beating the crap out of a 55-year old woman trying to get on the ground after being ordered to do so, was justifiable. Even though a camera showed I complied with the officer’s command, the police officer created a story, a lie, a bunch of b.s. that he had reason to leave bruises up and down my arms and legs, breaking my finger and toenails by leaping on me and sending me crashing to the pavement. Even though at 55 I was not so nimble, I was trying my best to get on the ground in my not-so-limber way.

And in spite of the fact that they dropped the charges against me when they realized how ridiculous they were and that they had arrested a member of the neighborhood watch committee — a woman who had no arrest record in a lifetime of over fifty years, and who had film evidence that the cop was lying, they still found the abusive jerk innocent for abusing me.

During my incident, I had a female jailer named Hernandez at the Long Beach Jail tell me should would “fuck me up if I didn’t shut up” when I asked a simple question. Yeah…SHE was a real class act, like so many there. I was threatened many times during that weekend I was held. Why? Because I was pressing excessive force charges against an officer. I was even told I’d “never make my way to court,” by some of the most gutless minority jailers there, who used their authority and the power of many against one to try to intimidate me.

Certainly, the case of Perry Grays, who was brutalized by Long Beach police on Super Bowl Sunday 2011, duplicates a bit of what I went through. I wasn’t tased; but the elements of this case and mine are similar. In the following interview, Mr. Grays tells a familiar story to many arrested needlessly in places like Long Beach:

“Can I get your badge number,” and he says, “No, I’m not giving you anything,” and I said, “Isn’t it illegal to deny me your badge number?” and he says, “I’m not giving you anything.”
So then his partner asked, “What is your name?” and I said, “Sir, I didn’t come down here to give you my name, I came down here to get your partner’s badge number and he’s being unprofessional.” So he asks my friend what’s his name and my friend says, “Sir I don’t even live here”. So the officer who hit my window with the flashlight pulls out his taser and I said, “Okay, are you going to tase me?” He says, “Are you going to give me a reason to?” I said, “No, I didn’t say that, you’re putting words in my mouth” and he says, “Well you’re putting words in my mouth”.

I know the following paragraph is identical! I was arrested for resisting arrest and being drunk in public, no matter that I was behind a gate in my own yard and had barely taken a sip of a Mojito while barbecuing with friends, when the incident happened. Fortunately, a camera recorded the entire event and proved my point. But this man’s experience mirrors mine in many ways:

And they charged me with threatening a police officer, resisting arrest, and having a loud party. They released me after two days. I guess the charges were dropped because after their investigation they couldn’t prove any of those things, so they let me go.

So I understand very well that there are cops out there who should be held accountable for using excessive force. I’ve heard the stories of inmates in Los Angeles County Jail being told to, “turn and face the wall and don’t look, or they would get some too” as a team of jailers beat the crap out of some guy arrested for something like fighting a police officer.

Mayday Incident

But what I’m asking is, do police qualify as the 99% too? If so, then how do we include them in the 99%? And if so, how does this happen?

Los Angeles police arrested a man they say hit a female officer on the head with a snare drum during May Day protests.

He walked behind the policewoman on a skirmish line and out of the blue, struck her in the back of the head with a drum, nearly knocking off her helmet. She was treated for a minor concussion.

Police say 6’1″ 280 pound Brian Mendoza of Los Angeles was arrested Wednesday on suspicion of assault on a peace officer who stood about 5’1″ and weighed about 100 pounds. He remains jailed Thursday without bail.

(Source: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2012/05/03/state/n105547D24.DTL#ixzz1tzrHwHzD)

Look, I don’t believe in all of the rash of security officers that have been hired by Homeland Security to protect us against ourselves:

• I don’t believe the hype about warnings of terrorist      plots happening potentially in every government building.
• I certainly don’t believe in the new laws stating that      saying something intimidating now amounts to a terrorist threat.
• I think this country has gone WAYYYY overboard on the      police state.

And if anyone has a reason to hate police, then, it would be me after dealing with the corruption of San Diego’s Homeland Security agents at the border and in Correction Corporation of America’s Immigration Detention Center in Otay and the Long Beach Police Department. I saw firsthand how unscrupulous people can be during my dealings with them.

But part of me also wonders if in placing this, me-against-them attitude against police simply maintaining crowd control at an event like the Mayday demonstrations isn’t taking this 99% thing to an extreme.

Why do we need to brutalize a person who is simply doing their job? Are we claiming after the L.A. riots 20 years ago that we don’t need police? If so, I disagree. And as a person who was a victim of police brutality, I’ll also be the first to admit that I believe there are good police officers out there. They are family men and women and they work hard. To me, they deserve respect, just like any other hard working employee.

After all, don’t these people worry about their mortgages too? Don’t police officers have kids struggling to attend school? What financial stories can they tell that might classify them as part of the 99% too?

And realizing this, why do we allow protesters to assault the police when they aren’t doing anything but maintaining crowd control.

I will be the first to admit that I have a hard time stomaching police when they overstep their boundaries. Simply, I think it takes a great deal more strength to be a cop who respects their community, than a spineless wimp who abuses it.

And I won’t lie and say that when I hear stories (like yesterday) of ICE agents being murdered by anyone, including their own sons, that I have much compassion. I don’t.

Simply, after knowing how corrupt they are and how so many of them treat others, I can’t affect a caring attitude about something horrible happening to them.

• I know what pain and human rights violations they      inflict on others.
• I know that Homeland Security refuses to hold them      accountable.
• I have no respect for them for that reason.
• And until we demand that Homeland Security investigate      these abuses, I will continue to feel that way.

But with all of that said, I still view them as part of the 99%. Not the part I want to associate with; but part of the problems we all suffer. And because of that, as much as I hate them, I don’t feel they should be needlessly assaulted during protests. I would hope others would agree.

By: Karla Fetrow

On the Inside Looking Out

Highland is the Hilton of Alaskan correctional facilities.  Of this I have no doubt.  The grounds are wide, the buildings scattered with pleasant, inter-connecting walk-ways.  Beside the pleasant cafeteria, it has a modest library with admittedly very few classics, and a despairingly small sci-fi collection for an avid science fiction reader, but it does have nearly every paperback best-seller a mainstream reader likes to collect.  The newspaper section was abominable.  Most of the newspapers were at least two weeks old and often had articles cut away from the selection, and magazines were apparently out of the question.

It has a wonderful music room.  This, I suspect, was due to the enormous efforts of a woman named Natalie Brooks, who spent the last thirty years of her life voluntarily giving music lessons to the inmates.  There is a wooden placard with her photo commemorating her selfless devotion, and whenever I’d pass it I’d kiss two fingers and touch it, as though paying homage to a shrine.  Natalie had been my music teacher when I was growing up and I can’t think of a kinder, gentler soul.  Her influence could still be felt in this minimum security prison.

It has an uninteresting gym.  The only equipment in it was a sagging net for volleyball; no basketball hoops, no tumbling mats, no rubber balls, rings, balance beam or wooden horse for gymnastics.  There were nearly always two long tables where you could buy hot coffee if you had money on the books, and an assortment of colored paper and drawings you could put together to make cards.  Since the rules were, you could not stand in one spot to talk while in the gym, the girls mainly walked around it in circles if they wanted to converse with a friend from one of the other houses.

It has an incredible crafts room, with looms, bolts of cloth, sewing machines, beads, buttons, thread, quilting frames.  Some of the Native work that came out of it was absolutely gorgeous, but I couldn’t help but wonder if the crafts woman received the price her work deserved.  These crafts women were long-term residents, slipped in and out quietly, so I never learned the mysterious ticket for being part of their crowd.

It has greenhouses with wonderful plants inside, flower beds nestled comfortably in long, wooden boxes, pleasant gazebos, and even playground equipment for the visiting children of long term inmates.

It has dogs of all shapes and sizes.  Inmates took care of these dogs, running or walking them through the yards on leashes, teaching them to heel, to sit, to come, to socialize with other dogs and be polite to strangers.  When the dogs were trained, having completed their sentences, they were put up for adoption to the outside world.

One of the houses even had a pool table.  None of these activities were allowed for people who were going to be there a few weeks, or even a few months.  You had to work your way up to them, and that work took at least a year.  If they only allowed Internet use, I felt I would have been ambitious enough to stay.

I found out quickly enough the pod I was in was considered “the hole”.  The only girls who stayed there were either those waiting to get out on bail, were not expected to be kept long, or who were regimented back as punishment.

The rules were strictest in the first house.  We had “count” four times a day at set hours.  We had to be in our house by then and answer roll call.  We were restricted in where we could go.  We could not visit the other houses, we had limited access to the yard, and could not watch the Saturday night movies on the big screen.  We were locked in our houses by 5:30 in the evening until 6:30 in the morning.  The other houses didn’t lock up until 9:30 p.m., and had much more freedom to roam.

When a girl got busted back to the hole, she did everything she could to be pleasant and entertaining so she could work her way out again.  Laughter was free, and laughter was abundant.  One girl who had been busted back delighted in telling us how she got there.  She said she had gotten tired of being strip searched.  When the guard asked her to spread her cheeks and cough, she farted.  Hiking one leg up on a chair, she grabbed her butt with both hands and demonstrated.  Fortunately, even the guards found her escapade humorous and in a few short days, her advanced house privileges were reinstated.

The guards were liberal with their own jokes.  After one of the girls asked if she could borrow some white-out, he came back a few hours later and told her it was time for her to scrape the white-out off her page as she had only borrowed it.

One charmed me the first day he appeared.  With his bushy eyebrows and twinkling eyes, he looked just like a leprechaun.  He opened the door to our house, stuck his head inside and asked, “got pot?”

After he left, the veteran girls whispered to me, “don’t let him fool you.  We call him the cutter.”

“Why do you call him the cutter?”  I asked.

“Because his handcuffs are especially sharp.  If he uses them on you, your wrists will turn all black and blue.”

Now I was scared, and shrank away from him when he came in for count.  Finally one of the girls said, “McCarthy, show Karla your handcuffs.”  They had been especially made, alright.  The edges were the smooth and wide.  The clips were limited so they could not squeeze down on tiny, delicate wrists.  The “cutter” had taken the extra step to make sure he had the most humane handcuffs around.

However, this is not to say vacationland was completely perfect.  Contact with the outside world was practically impossible.  Although we were allowed two fifteen minute phone calls a day, we often spent the first ten minutes trying to connect, with the operator telling us each time, “I’m sorry.  All the lines are busy,” so that often times, the call only lasted five minutes.  Nor could the person answering on the other line switch the phone to the person you wanted to talk with.  If you were dialing your sister and her boyfriend answered, then handed it to the person you wanted to speak with, you were immediately cut off, with the operator announcing, “I’m sorry.  We do not accept third party calls.”

In order to receive visitors, the inmate had to fill out a request form to gain approval.  The request form wanted you to not only state the name of the person, but the street address, social security number, state identification and relationship to you.  The visitor had a two hour wait for a fifteen minute visit.

Over half the girls who came in sported new bruises around the wrists and forearms.  Some were bruised on the neck, upper arms, ribs and legs.  Some were bandaged and told they had sprains, but were never x-rayed to see if there was a break.

It’s the general opinion that if you’re in prison, you’ll receive free medical and dental care.  This isn’t completely true.  If you have two or three hundred dollars in your books, you can buy a new set of teeth or use it for commissary items.  The commissary offers a wide variety of products; refreshments, chips, cookies, microwave popcorn, coffee, cosmetics, stationary and pens, all at Walmart prices.  If you don’t have money on the books, the only way you’ll get these privileges is to work for thirty-five cents an hour.

If you’re in the hole, you can get a job mopping floors, doing laundry or working in the kitchen, but you don’t get one of the cushy jobs like dog training or working in the green houses the girls in the other houses are offered.  Still, when a job comes open, the girls line up like shopping day at the mall for it?  Is it to get their teeth fixed?  For commissary privileges?  No.  It’s for a four hour nightly pop of meds.

The meds are apparently so good, there are professional jail hoppers who come in and out on a regular basis for a thee day crash on meds.  They are called blue jackets because they always get busted for misdemeanors. Crazy Kelley was one of them. I had known Crazy Kelley for quite a few years, but I had not known she was a jail hopper, only as someone who routinely got into trouble.  The first time I saw her on the inside, she was in a separate house, but part of the same pod.  When I asked her what she was doing there, she told me she had gone to her ex-boyfriend’s house and burned some clothes she had given him.  He called the police and they busted her for destruction of property.

Her stay lasted three days, then she was out.  About a week later, she was not only back, she was sharing my room.  This was a little discomforting because Crazy Kelley was…well, crazy.  The first thing she did was demand her phone call, which disconcerted the house mouse.  The house mouse is the one who oversee’s and keeps order in the house; sort of the mama.  The house mouse was very unhappy because Kelley’s demand meant someone else would lose their phone call for the evening.  She finally sacrificed her own, but was very unhappy about it.  “The bitch,” she said, throwing herself in a chair.  “She can have her damned phone call, but I’m not doing her anymore favors”.

I sat next to her.  “I know that girl,” I told her.  “We call her Crazy Kelley for a reason.”

Her eyes lit up.  “Hey girls, did you hear that?  She’s Crazy Kelley and she’s called that for a reason.”

I was mortified.  I was afraid of what they would say when Kelley returned.  Sure enough, as soon as Kelley walked through the door, the house mouse exclaimed, “Hey Kelley, do you know what Karla said about you?”  She looked at me a moment while I cringed.  “She says she loves you!”

“Well, I love her too,” said Kelley complacently.  She had just made her phone call and had gotten her meds and went to her room to pop them.

I did love her enough to be concerned about her.  When they had brought her in this time, one of her hands was swollen and so bruised, it was turning black.  “What happened,” I asked.  “You just got out.”  She gave me an incoherent story; something to do with having called an ambulance because she was suffering a heart attack.  Instead of the ambulance coming, the police had showed up and stepped on her hand.

“I think you have two broken fingers.  When you get out, I want you to have them photographed and file a complaint against the police.”

“Uh huh,” she said, yawned, and went to sleep.  Three days later, she bailed out, although it’s doubtful she made her complaint.  As she was leaving, we all shouted, “remember, this isn’t a hotel!”  She nodded and waved cheerfully.

To Be Contd.

By: Bill Purkayastha

You’ll find them on the streets of just about every Indian town: dusty signboards, the paint beginning to flake off the battered aluminum sheets, proclaiming So-and-So English Coaching Class or English Academy, where one can learn “good spoken English for your bright career.”

But isn’t this redundant? Wasn’t the Indian subcontinent a British colony for close to two hundred years, whether that was under the East India Company or the Crown? Since the modern Indian educational system is a creation of the British, shouldn’t English be already taught everyone in schools as a matter of course? Then why should institutes like these coaching classes exist?

An old government-sponsored TV ad from the mid-1980s provides part of the answer.

It shows, as I remember, a black-and-white cartoon cafe in a foreign city; two “Indian” men are sitting talking to each other in English. A very Chinese-looking waiter (slant-eyes shown as lines) comes up and asks, in English, “Excuse me, don’t you have a language of your own?” The Indians say “Of course we do; our language is Hindi.” “Then,” says the waiter, “why are you talking in my language?”

This ludicrous bit of idiocy is so perfectly representative of the way the moronic Indian bureaucratic mind works, that it’s stuck in my brain for well over two decades now. It was meant, of course, to “promote” Hindi and the use of Hindi as the “national” language. Hindi, a language which is the mother-tongue of rather less than half of all Indians, a language which in many cases is more foreign than English to many Indians (especially in the East and South). Obviously, not only was this use-Hindi drive not going to succeed, it meant that parts of the country which weren’t Hindi-speaking would simply decide Hindi was going to be foisted on them by force and try and protect themselves by promoting their own local languages instead.

Usually, the way this language chauvinism worked was by banishing English, the language of the foreign rulers, from the curriculum of government-run schools and colleges, and force said schools and colleges to teach in the local language. The products of this education system, of course, found themselves all at sea when asked to compete for jobs or try and get a technical education. And some states tried to “compensate” by introducing a measure of English, somewhere around halfway through the average child’s school career. This English was taught on the side if at all (the teachers themselves not knowing much about the subject) and in at least one case, in West Bengal state, something bizarre called “functional English” was taught. This “functional” English basically mean that grammar, spelling, sentence construction and all the rest didn’t matter. All that mattered was somehow getting one’s message across – in whatever mangled form, so long as it was marginally comprehensible – and these people failed miserably even at that.

Meanwhile the politicians inveighed against English from public podia, and quietly sent their own progeny to the best private English-language schools, because they knew perfectly well that English was the key to prosperity. The private school industry flourished too, with little schools springing up in suburbs all competing to provide education in English, and making money hand over fist from the Great Indian Muddle Class. I remember seeing one such school which went by the same name as my old school, St Edmund’s, in a Lucknow suburb. It consisted of one single-storey suburban home and perhaps four rooms turned to classrooms – and all were packed.

Meanwhile, the average Indian parent was frustrated and helpless. He or she knew perfectly well that without English, the kids had no future. But private schools were far beyond his or her financial means, and the government schools taught no English that was worth the name. There was therefore a new market demand for English teaching outside the formal education system. Now, if we know one thing, it’s that when there’s a demand, there’s always someone to fulfill that demand. And of course Indians are known throughout the world for their opportunism; there’s even a saying that Indians can’t score goals in hockey because if given a corner they’ll build a shop on it.

And so it began; high up on the upper floors of tottering buildings, or along urine-tainted dank corridors behind tailor’s shops, sprung up the “English coaching institutes”. Many of them came with fancy names: Britannia English Coaching, Advent English Tutorials, and the like. None of them made any claim to either official recognition or certification, but they didn’t need it, because the demand to learn English was so great that they were making money hand over fist anyway. It’s absolutely certain that many of them were owned by the very same politicians who blocked English from the formal education system, because they were making so much money this way.

Some of the people who attended these places were quite surprising: not just the usual students taking English lessons on the side, but businessmen, salespeople, and even housewives. These housewives were a special category, because you must understand that especially in North India housewives have no independent identities of their own. They are expected to be virtual appendages of their men and have no personalities left, so one might wonder why they might be learning English of all things. The truth is utterly typical. They were attending class so that they could go home later and pass on what they learned to their hubbies, who were too busy or too embarrassed to come and take lessons themselves.

As for the quality of the English taught in these institutions, I love to remember a little episode from my Lucknow days. A friend of mine introduced me to a guy – I don’t remember his name now, but let’s call him Atul Verma – who had been attending one of these places for a month, and was very proud of his new English speaking ability. My friend urged him to introduce himself in English. This person turned slightly greyish around the lips, looked around furtively and mumbled “Myself Atul Verma.” And that was all the “English” either of us was able to get out of him.

Then there was erstwhile cricketer Kapil Dev, on TV in the late eighties, promoting another English teaching institute: “It’s-a really a good-a way to learn English.” It was the stuff of pure satire.

This isn’t really too surprising when you look at the teachers in these places, most of whom can hardly string together a coherent English sentence themselves, and who have their jobs only because they’re willing to work cheaper than anyone else. The owners of the coaching classes figure that since the pupils know no English at all anyway, they can’t criticize the quality of the teaching. All of which would be pretty damned hilarious if it weren’t so tragic, especially when you remember that the progeny of those coaching class owners certainly speak English with an artificial Americo-European accent and probably spend half the year on the other side of the planet.

Very recently, though, there’s some sign that the people are finally waking up. In India’s most populous state, Uttar Pradesh, the current government has finally decided to begin teaching English from the first grade onwards, as has the government in West Bengal. In both places, the same governments had been fanatically anti-English once but had to acknowledge the realities of people’s resentment about the “lost generations” of the non-English-speaking unemployable.

Of course, these states now have another problem, which is that there are not enough competent English-teachers to teach in the schools. That’s what you get when you throw away the English that you have without giving a thought for what’s to come.

Of course, once they recognize the problem, some kind of solution will finally be found. After all, in a world where, as I read recently, even North Korea has abandoned Russian for English as the foreign language it teaches in its schools, the allegedly hated colonial lingo has never quite been so important.

Myself being sure of this!

By: Mike

Last Easter weekend was the ninety-sixth anniversary of the Uprising in Dublin that without doubt paved the way for the formation of the Irish Republic. Although there are still die-hard so-called republicans in the form of dissidents in the remaining Six Counties of Ulster, I have no doubt whatsoever that within the next ten years or so, the entire country will be totally reunited. I will be happy in a sense, yet sad that it will have taken over four hundred years to achieve it and the loss of the hundreds of thousands of lives it has cost in the process. I am, and have always been, totally against violence to achieve such a status and believe that the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 made it possible by peaceful means.

The visit of HM Queen Elizabeth Second to Ireland in May last year made everything possible. It was in fact, her earlier namesake, Elizabeth First who basically started all the bitterness and bloodshed that has plagued the island for centuries.

I will try to relate the history of ‘The Troubles’ that has continued almost unabated throughout that time…

When Elizabeth First assumed the throne in November 1558 on the death of her father Henry the Eight, she was Queen of England and all Ireland. At her instigation, the English controlled Irish Parliament in Dublin passed an Act of Supremacy confirming the Queen as head of the Irish Church. This was a Protestant denomination whilst the majority of Irish were Catholics. The act required all holders of offices of state or church to swear allegiance to her.

The English had tried several times to fully extend their jurisdiction outside Dublin but had failed several times. They had built a ‘Pale’ from north of Dublin, west into the midlands and south towards county Wicklow. Within this area the English dominated all aspects of life with the majority of inhabitants loyal to the Crown. Outside, Irish life as in the past continued under the control of various chieftains. Elizabeth ordered that her authority be fully extended to cover all Ireland.

Her attempts were to initiate The Nine Year’s War…

Two of the highest ranking Irishmen of the time were Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone and chief of the O’Neill clan and Hugh (Red Hugh) O’Donnell, Earl of Tyrconnel (now Donegal). They were fiercely Irish and maintained the Gaelic way of life, its laws, language and customs within their territories. The title of ‘Earl’ had been granted by the Crown to the head of the clan O’Neill and was held by Hugh’s grandfather. After a bloody battle with a relative he secured the title in 1595. The title was not the important factor in the clan. The title ‘The O’Neill’, the Irish version for leadership was what he wanted.

In 1587, at the age of fifteen, O’Donnell was arrested in an attempt to break the allegiance between the O’Neill and O’Donnell clans. He was imprisoned in Dublin Castle. He escaped briefly in 1591 but was recaptured within days. In January 1592 with the help of O’Neill he again escaped accompanied by his brother Art O’Neill. It is the only successful escape from the Castle during its long history.

They made their way across the Dublin and Wicklow mountains in the freezing snow and rain. Art died with another escapee suffering from frostbite and exposure. After receiving hospitality and medical aid from an ally they returned to their home counties in Ulster.

They organized the Irish chieftains and began a long running campaign against the English armies. Between 1600 and 1601 the English had eighteen thousand soldiers in Ireland. This was one of the largest armies ever mustered by the English at that time and it was putting a strain on the English Treasury.

O’Donnell had clan connections with Scotland and through his contacts; he enlisted Scottish mercenaries known as Redshanks. O’Neill on the other hand, as an Earl was entitled to hold a small army. By rotating the members of it he had literally thousands of trained men at his disposal. He purchased muskets and pikes from Scotland and England and enlisted the promise of help from Philip Second of Spain. This was an allegiance of Catholics against the threat of Elizabeth’s Protestantism. As a result, the army of O’Neill came to eight thousand men.

The Irish were very adept at skirmishes against the English army. Whilst they floundered in the bogs, the lightly armed Irish attacked them from all sides. The Irish were also familiar with their surroundings and weather conditions. The English were not and a great many died. In order for the English army to enter Ulster – the O’Neill stronghold – it was necessary for them to pass through mountains which the Irish were able to guard and prevent any movement by the English.

As a result of their static existence on many occasions the English suffered from cholera and dysentery. Again the army was dissipated.

In 1599, Robert Devereaux, 2nd Earl of Essex arrived in Ireland with an army of 17,000 men. He decided to enforce English rule on the southern provinces of Leinster and Munster – leaving the territories of O’Neill and O’Donnell until later. When later he made his way towards Ulster he met with disaster when thousands of his troops were killed. Others who took refuge in garrisons quickly contacted typhoid and dysentery and more died.

Essex signed a treaty with O’Neill which was not agreed by Elizabeth and in order to brief her, and the fact that he expected to be recalled, he returned to London. He was charged with acting without the Queens permission and was executed.

Meanwhile back in Ireland, the Irish were inflicting innumerable casualties on the English Army. However, an English army under George Carew in 1600 killed 1,200 Irish and took the surrender of over 10,000 more.

In Ulster, the province had been entered by the English army at Derry. They had employed a ‘new’ tactic whereby the countryside was laid bare by burning all crops and killing the inhabitants. They believed that without help or food the Irish would be forced to surrender.

In 1601 news was received by O’Neill in Ulster that the long awaited help from Spain had arrived with 4,000 troops. However it could not have landed any further away than it did. It arrived in Kinsale, County Cork where they were immediately prevented from moving north by the English. O’Neill gathered his armies and the long march south began. They expected to trap the English between themselves and the Spanish.

Against advice, O’Neill ordered an attack on the English but as they formed up, the English in fact attacked O’Neill’s army with a cavalry charge. The Irish were routed whilst the Spanish surrendered. The remnants of the Irish army began the long march back to Ulster. They were totally defeated in all areas of the south.

O’Donnell left for Spain and pleaded with Philip for another invasion. However, in 1602 he died there. It was believed that he was poisoned by an English agent. His brother took over leadership of the clan O’Donnell but he and O’Neill were now reduced to random guerrilla tactics. The scorched earth policy and the killing of local inhabitants by the English were having a disastrous effect on the Irish army.

O’Donnell surrendered with good terms 1602 and was allowed to keep his lands under the direction of the Crown. O’Neill held on a little longer until on 30th March 1603 he too surrendered on good terms. Elizabeth had died the week previous on 24th March.

James First became King of England and the two Irish leaders were on good terms with him. He granted them full pardons and the return of all their land and property. The proviso was in each case that they abandon all titles, disband their private armies and swear loyalty only to the Crown of England. A similar amnesty was granted to all rebels throughout Ireland.

It may seem generous of the English but in fact it was purely a commercial transaction. They were almost bankrupt with the English unwilling to provide any more funds for a continued war.

The death toll of the Irish has now been revised to an almost certain 100,000 with at least 30,000 English soldiers dead in Ireland. Most of them died from disease.

A form of peace prevailed until in 1607, both chieftains – O’Neill and O’Donnell – gathered their clans and families together and exiled themselves to Europe. They hoped that they would one day return and reclaim not only their own lands but the entire island of Ireland.

This was known as ‘The Flight of the Earls’ or by the Irish, ‘The Wild Geese’. Many of those who left Ireland became famous in Continental armies reaching the highest ranks. Since then, Irishmen have throughout the centuries left to join foreign armies all over the world. I suppose really that it could even refer to my own family with my father having served in the Royal Air Force, followed there by my eldest brother, another in the British Army and my good self to the London Police.

In 1608 O’Neill’s and O’Donnell’s lands were confiscated by the English. The land was offered to Scottish, English and Welsh people thereby beginning the Plantation of Ulster.

So there you have it: Ulster (Northern Ireland) from being one of the most Gaelic, Catholic Provinces of Ireland is now the opposite. It is the six counties of the eight in Ulster that remain in the United Kingdom that have caused all the trouble over the years. Men, women and children have died on both sides of the divide for the ‘cause’ – one side to remain in the UK whilst the other for a united Ireland.

The strangest thing of all is that there are no border posts now on account of the European Union. The only way I knew that I had left the Republic and entered Northern Ireland was when I saw that the telephone boxes had changed colour from Green to Red. The truth is that you can spend Sterling on either side of the ‘border’, or Euros, or dollars, or …You see – money talks…