Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Breathe
I have been negligent. Interrupted by Comcast, and a day with no connection, I have sloughed off and not produced. Spent several hours in the barn playing music with friends, fiddling to tunes that I have never heard, and fitting in notes and rhythms where they might. It is now a regular Wednesday evening thing (a bit like the blog, a self-imposition) and it will evolve. The evening has already taken on its own form and flavor, it seems quite different from the "fiddle jams" that i have been to, mixing some singing, multiple styles (Irish, Old-time, Cowboy, jazz, Beatles, blues) - It's loose, and that seems to be right. Makes for a long but satisfying day, with a full morning of work starting at 0600, a couple hours of basketball at mid-day, errands, cooking dinner...the range of stuff. Tomorrow I will be more diligent, and the writing more interesting -
Monday, October 26, 2009
October 26
I was going to continue on to Mogadischu, but I need to get the Somali dust out of my clothes. It is quite surprising how writing about those trips brings them back to life for me – hopefully for you, too.
But what is really on my mind today is dogs, or rather how to deal with three large beasts on a daily basis in a small house. I love watching them, imposing my interpretation of their thinking and decisions, appreciating their intelligence and abilities, even as I throw them out the door or berate them for yet another transgression…a loaf of bread snatched from the counter, a shoe snitched from beside the bed, a sprawl on the couch of such profound abandon that to disturb it would be shameful.
Two of them are ours – an old golden retriever, born in Bangladesh and transported back via four years in Geneva to Maine. He is fat and no longer has the speed he did as a youngster, but still can get feisty and impose on the younger set when he wants to, which is less and less. His tactics are patience and persistence, combined with singleness of purpose, and excellent senses of sight and smell. He needs them all to contend with the two year old Lab, who is at his prime: fast and sleek, smart and passionate – he could dominate, but that doesn’t seem to be foremost in his character. He just wants to retrieve, and run – over and over and over and over – there is no off button. Watching him allows me to understand what peak performance might be. And then I look over and see him, all fours in the air, totally vulnerable with Onyou, the Astro Cat (full name) curled up between him and the back of the couch like a pillow and it is hard to imagine his virile speed.
The third is my daughter and her partner’s - a young Walker Hound taller than the other two and lanky with a gate like a horse. He is sweet and gentle, but I firmly believe that at some point in his lineage, the olfactory lobe of his brain took on ascendant qualities and somehow crowded out the rest. To say that he thinks with his nose would only be partially correct. He is led around by the nose, pulled through life on a scent, overwhelmed by the perfume of life. Which would all be OK, except for the fact that a loud and repeated baying seems to be hardwired to the same part of the cerebrum, and so regular concertos in the key of random odor have become common.
This too would be fine, except we now also have four cats…but they are another story.
But what is really on my mind today is dogs, or rather how to deal with three large beasts on a daily basis in a small house. I love watching them, imposing my interpretation of their thinking and decisions, appreciating their intelligence and abilities, even as I throw them out the door or berate them for yet another transgression…a loaf of bread snatched from the counter, a shoe snitched from beside the bed, a sprawl on the couch of such profound abandon that to disturb it would be shameful.
Two of them are ours – an old golden retriever, born in Bangladesh and transported back via four years in Geneva to Maine. He is fat and no longer has the speed he did as a youngster, but still can get feisty and impose on the younger set when he wants to, which is less and less. His tactics are patience and persistence, combined with singleness of purpose, and excellent senses of sight and smell. He needs them all to contend with the two year old Lab, who is at his prime: fast and sleek, smart and passionate – he could dominate, but that doesn’t seem to be foremost in his character. He just wants to retrieve, and run – over and over and over and over – there is no off button. Watching him allows me to understand what peak performance might be. And then I look over and see him, all fours in the air, totally vulnerable with Onyou, the Astro Cat (full name) curled up between him and the back of the couch like a pillow and it is hard to imagine his virile speed.
The third is my daughter and her partner’s - a young Walker Hound taller than the other two and lanky with a gate like a horse. He is sweet and gentle, but I firmly believe that at some point in his lineage, the olfactory lobe of his brain took on ascendant qualities and somehow crowded out the rest. To say that he thinks with his nose would only be partially correct. He is led around by the nose, pulled through life on a scent, overwhelmed by the perfume of life. Which would all be OK, except for the fact that a loud and repeated baying seems to be hardwired to the same part of the cerebrum, and so regular concertos in the key of random odor have become common.
This too would be fine, except we now also have four cats…but they are another story.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Leaving Berbera - Feb 2000
Approaching the airport in Berbera is surreal. There are tanks everywhere – Russian T-72’s or perhaps their knock-offs - a military junk yard scattered in the sand. The long Soviet built airstrip (long enough to have been designated as an alternative landing site for the Space Shuttle until the chaos 1991) was a major pawn in the Cold War game and its rusting defense mechanisms attest to the importance it once had. The airport itself looks like an old bombed out factory. There is one large room the size of half a football field with a roof intact, and in one corner there is a counter of sorts where Raghe takes care of the formalities: buying the tickets at a negotiated price (in cash, dollars), getting our boarding passes (a slip of paper with a number hand written – I am number 7), and getting our passports stamped (the stamp is a triangle within circle with “Allah Akbar” written in Arabic over “Berbera Air Port”, and “exit” between the sides if the triangle and the edge of the circle in English, Somali and Arabic, date stamped over at an odd angle, messing up the nice balance of the design.)
Near the counter there are a few crates aligned into a small shop. There seem to be two things for sale: cans of coke, and reading glasses in silver and gold tubes with a clip to hold them in a shirt pocket. They are all +3.00. The price of everything is $1. Fortunately there is are several men squatting behind charcoal braziers producing steaming coffee and tea, sweet and with condensed milk, served in plastic cups. There are five of us and we all have a hot drink and the vendor takes the going rate for then all.
The plane arrives on time almost to the minute, and pulls to a halt only a few meters from the “terminal”. There are about 20 passengers, and we all take our bags to the plane and hand them directly to the hands stretching down from the hold - not much chance of lost baggage. We don’t have more than on light bag each, but there are boxes and boxes of commercial goods being hefted aboard – business in Somalia is business, regardless of the state of the state. Berbera is directly across the Gulf of Aden, Yeman, and it seems that part of the payment for the goats and camels destined for Saudi Arabia that are Somaliland’s exports is in goods destined for the former Italian colony.
We climb aboard and take seats anywhere, but are soon asked by the co-pilot (Russian) to move to fill all the front seats, and the back half of the plane becomes additional cargo space. In a surprisingly shot time the doors are pulled shut and the four turbo props turn and catch, inside left, inside right outside left, outside right. The blades have an odd curvature, like sets of whirling scimitars, and he engines are very loud. We rumble to the runway and without the slightest hesitation accelerate to full throttle. There is a strong smell of kerosene, and the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of the wheels passing the joints in the cement is not only loud but palpable. Though the pilot seems in no hurry to be airborne, he eventually noses upwards, and we arc out over the water to bank East and South and on to Mogadischu.
Near the counter there are a few crates aligned into a small shop. There seem to be two things for sale: cans of coke, and reading glasses in silver and gold tubes with a clip to hold them in a shirt pocket. They are all +3.00. The price of everything is $1. Fortunately there is are several men squatting behind charcoal braziers producing steaming coffee and tea, sweet and with condensed milk, served in plastic cups. There are five of us and we all have a hot drink and the vendor takes the going rate for then all.
The plane arrives on time almost to the minute, and pulls to a halt only a few meters from the “terminal”. There are about 20 passengers, and we all take our bags to the plane and hand them directly to the hands stretching down from the hold - not much chance of lost baggage. We don’t have more than on light bag each, but there are boxes and boxes of commercial goods being hefted aboard – business in Somalia is business, regardless of the state of the state. Berbera is directly across the Gulf of Aden, Yeman, and it seems that part of the payment for the goats and camels destined for Saudi Arabia that are Somaliland’s exports is in goods destined for the former Italian colony.
We climb aboard and take seats anywhere, but are soon asked by the co-pilot (Russian) to move to fill all the front seats, and the back half of the plane becomes additional cargo space. In a surprisingly shot time the doors are pulled shut and the four turbo props turn and catch, inside left, inside right outside left, outside right. The blades have an odd curvature, like sets of whirling scimitars, and he engines are very loud. We rumble to the runway and without the slightest hesitation accelerate to full throttle. There is a strong smell of kerosene, and the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of the wheels passing the joints in the cement is not only loud but palpable. Though the pilot seems in no hurry to be airborne, he eventually noses upwards, and we arc out over the water to bank East and South and on to Mogadischu.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Somaliland, again – Hargeysa
I am awakened by the sound of the bucket filled with very hot water plunked down outside my door for morning ablutions. Fawsi is right on time, I assume, as he is one of the few Somalis I have met with a respect for the clock. It must be 5 a.m. or close to it, but I have no watch. We are up early to drive to Berbera to catch a Dallo flight to Mogadishu. The flight will leave at 0800, or so. There is no schedule published, but they have been flying close to on time recently, that is every other day at 0800. The old Illyushin 18 is on a good streak.
I get up and quickly light a candle so that I can see enough to find my way to the shower, such as it is, and then to the clothes laid out last night in anticipation of the early departure. It is amazing how complete and satisfying a shower one can have with a simple bucket of hot water and a good ladle made from a can nailed to the end of a stick. I do not dally, and in short time join my colleagues at the jeep. There will be no lemon crepes this morning, but Raghe has found some coffee and bread and that seems just right.
We head down the bumpy track from the hotel through the center of Hargeysa in the dark. There are virtually no lights save he occasional lamp of an early riser. It is cool and pleasant, with a faint sweet smell in the air from the chevrefeuille (honeysuckle) flowers that are rare but potent. We arrive at the intersection where the road to the airport takes off to the right, and to my amazement, a traffic light. Raghe tells me that they have been installed two days ago, and run off batteries that are recharged by solar power. The light turns to red and Ahmed, our driver, obediently pulls to a stop. There is no one in sight, not to mention any other vehicles. We wait, and wait, and wait…this modernism is to be respected! Finally , the light changes to green, and we move on.
The road twists and turns between rocky escarpments, with a faint glow in the East turning first pink, then rose, then orangey red. The sandy landscape picks up the colors and honors them, and the land and sky merge. After an hour or so, we turn a corner and crest a small rise and suddenly there is a whole new vision before us as the land sweeps down in a long incline from the high plateau (1500 meters) to the sea. The road too has become a quality highway, still two lanes, but now smooth and solid. This is the main route out of Berbera towards Ethiopia, a land locked country. It is in everyone’s interest that it be well maintained.
We drop down quickly, losing altitude and gaining heat with unexpected speed. From the comfortable sweater temperature of the morning in Hargeysa, we have plunge into the humid sauna of the Barbary Coast. (More tomorrow)
I get up and quickly light a candle so that I can see enough to find my way to the shower, such as it is, and then to the clothes laid out last night in anticipation of the early departure. It is amazing how complete and satisfying a shower one can have with a simple bucket of hot water and a good ladle made from a can nailed to the end of a stick. I do not dally, and in short time join my colleagues at the jeep. There will be no lemon crepes this morning, but Raghe has found some coffee and bread and that seems just right.
We head down the bumpy track from the hotel through the center of Hargeysa in the dark. There are virtually no lights save he occasional lamp of an early riser. It is cool and pleasant, with a faint sweet smell in the air from the chevrefeuille (honeysuckle) flowers that are rare but potent. We arrive at the intersection where the road to the airport takes off to the right, and to my amazement, a traffic light. Raghe tells me that they have been installed two days ago, and run off batteries that are recharged by solar power. The light turns to red and Ahmed, our driver, obediently pulls to a stop. There is no one in sight, not to mention any other vehicles. We wait, and wait, and wait…this modernism is to be respected! Finally , the light changes to green, and we move on.
The road twists and turns between rocky escarpments, with a faint glow in the East turning first pink, then rose, then orangey red. The sandy landscape picks up the colors and honors them, and the land and sky merge. After an hour or so, we turn a corner and crest a small rise and suddenly there is a whole new vision before us as the land sweeps down in a long incline from the high plateau (1500 meters) to the sea. The road too has become a quality highway, still two lanes, but now smooth and solid. This is the main route out of Berbera towards Ethiopia, a land locked country. It is in everyone’s interest that it be well maintained.
We drop down quickly, losing altitude and gaining heat with unexpected speed. From the comfortable sweater temperature of the morning in Hargeysa, we have plunge into the humid sauna of the Barbary Coast. (More tomorrow)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
October 21
This will short because it is late and I am tired. Tonight we had the first "open jam" in the barn, something I have been promising to do for some time, but only now is it happening. Basically making the space available, laying out some crackers and a great pie that Régine picked up on her way home, some basic drinks that no one drank, and saying "there will be music, Wednesday at 630". Seven folks showed up - three guitars two fiddles, a stand up base and a mandolin. It started out a bit structured and fairly quickly fell into its own natural rhythm of tunes and songs, trying to find common denominators. It was a bit chaotic, but not bad for openers. Not sure how well it will sustain itself, but will nudge it along for a few weeks to see how it goes. I had fun, and it pushed me into new musical space in a group where I could try anything and did, sometimes with more success than others. Like this new venture, let's see how it evolves...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
October 20 - 9 years ago...
Hargeysa, Somaliland – 12 July, 2000 – I guess it’s natural to have a preconceived image of places whose names you have heard only in certain circumstances, and more often than not the reality bears little resemblance. Hargeysa is a mix: the dusty, gullied tracks that pass for streets and the rounded huts made of grainsack patchwork mixed with UNHCR blue tarps surrounded by thorn bush fencing are right out of the dream. But the new housing, well stocked shops, and pleasant temperature don’t fit. Nor do the smiles of the people and the general atmosphere of emerging well being. It is poor, and the bombed out buildings remain, but it is neither miserable nor squalid. If it were not for the ubiquitous plastic bags that blow and catch everywhere, it would almost be clean. Efforts to plant trees and flowers are numerous, though they have a tough future in the face of the wind which is constant, and the mouths of the goats who are everywhere.
Hargeysa sits at 1200 meters on either side of a river which exists only for a few hours at a time when it rains, and is otherwise dry wash. It is in the Oogo zone, a cooler highland which rises from the Guban or “burnt” area of the coast, about 2 hours south of Berbera. While it’s about 40° on the coast today, here it has been in the mid to high 20’s and quite pleasant with the breeze. There’s been an occasional sprinkle, but not enough to run the river.
Interpeace has a project going here, which has taken the form of a local NGO – The Somaliland Center for Peace and Development – which is responsible for implementing participatory action research in Somaliland (There is no Somalia - since 1991 Somaliland has been an independent country though not formally recognized. I did spot a huge Taiwanese flag flying over their “embassy”, and when I enquired my colleagues told me that there was apparently a mutual recognition treaty that was signed, which cost the Taiwanese five million dollars, but it was quickly unraveled once the check had been cashed and spent, and had not been renewed. Somaliland receives no international aid and has done what it has in term9s of rebuilding from the ashes virtually on its own.
In its first phase of research, the SCPD (staffed by Somalilanders from all parts of the country and representing different clans and political points of view) spent five months traveling around the country and engaging people at all levels of society and produced a ”Self-portrait of Somaliland”, an attempt to identify the key issues facing the people of the country. They then held a national conference to present the study, and to identify the key areas for further research and action. They chose four, and have now formed working groups around each, assigned a researcher to each, and are holding research workshops throughout the country in each area. The workshops invite people of all kinds to participate in the discussion, and the results will take the form of research reports which will be both fed back to all the participants, and shared with the Government, NGOs the international community etc. Sounds pretty academic – but they are also video taping it all, and using the video to cross-fertilize different area working groups and workshops, as well as to share with newcomers like me the reality of what they are doing. It is impressive. There is energy, and focus, and active engagement in these workshops that is amazing. And the organization and running of the workshops is well done and professional – under conditions that are extreme – everything has to be provided, and these are in places with no paved roads and no electricity. A tree may be the shade for a workshop, or an abandoned hospital. Exciting stuff, and an intro to Interpeace reality that is wonderful for me to have right off, even if it seemed awfully quick to be jumping into the fray (I started, officially on 1 July, and left Geneva on the 8th, and still have no contract…)
Somalilanders love to talk, and the mafresh, or afternoon qaat chewing session, is an integral part of the way things get accomplished here. It is also a major social issue/problem. Qaat is a plant brought in from Ethiopia which is chewed to produce a mild narcotic effect, supposedly like a combo of caffeine and a mild high. Groups of men get together in the afternoon for a “chew” which can last for hours and usually does. A bit like the hammam or the sauna, but very male, though women can participate on some occasions (several of my working afternoons have been “chats” where we sit in a “chatroom”, cushions all around the walls, tea, coke and water for each person, along with a bundle of Qaat for those who chew). It is very non-hierarchical, and where you can hear real discussion with no external patina – I wish I spoke Somali.
The hotel is clean, with good simple food and service; no hot water, but no mosquitoes, a trade-off I will take as malaria is prevalent here. Morning pancakes (more of a rolled crêpe with syrup poured over) are delicious, with just a touch of lemon added to the batter. Tea is served regularly – milky and sweet. Women all wear bright clothes, heads covered. Alcohol is illegal, but present in homes. There is no sense of insecurity, but you don’t wander around alone at night either (three weeks ago a German development aid worker was shot dead on the street, and a week ago the head of the presidential Guard was gunned down inside the presidential residence.) Driving is on the right, but so is the steering wheel (virtually all the vehicles are second-hand imports from Dubai) – very odd for me having just re-adjusted to European standards after two years in Dhaka.
Hargeysa sits at 1200 meters on either side of a river which exists only for a few hours at a time when it rains, and is otherwise dry wash. It is in the Oogo zone, a cooler highland which rises from the Guban or “burnt” area of the coast, about 2 hours south of Berbera. While it’s about 40° on the coast today, here it has been in the mid to high 20’s and quite pleasant with the breeze. There’s been an occasional sprinkle, but not enough to run the river.
Interpeace has a project going here, which has taken the form of a local NGO – The Somaliland Center for Peace and Development – which is responsible for implementing participatory action research in Somaliland (There is no Somalia - since 1991 Somaliland has been an independent country though not formally recognized. I did spot a huge Taiwanese flag flying over their “embassy”, and when I enquired my colleagues told me that there was apparently a mutual recognition treaty that was signed, which cost the Taiwanese five million dollars, but it was quickly unraveled once the check had been cashed and spent, and had not been renewed. Somaliland receives no international aid and has done what it has in term9s of rebuilding from the ashes virtually on its own.
In its first phase of research, the SCPD (staffed by Somalilanders from all parts of the country and representing different clans and political points of view) spent five months traveling around the country and engaging people at all levels of society and produced a ”Self-portrait of Somaliland”, an attempt to identify the key issues facing the people of the country. They then held a national conference to present the study, and to identify the key areas for further research and action. They chose four, and have now formed working groups around each, assigned a researcher to each, and are holding research workshops throughout the country in each area. The workshops invite people of all kinds to participate in the discussion, and the results will take the form of research reports which will be both fed back to all the participants, and shared with the Government, NGOs the international community etc. Sounds pretty academic – but they are also video taping it all, and using the video to cross-fertilize different area working groups and workshops, as well as to share with newcomers like me the reality of what they are doing. It is impressive. There is energy, and focus, and active engagement in these workshops that is amazing. And the organization and running of the workshops is well done and professional – under conditions that are extreme – everything has to be provided, and these are in places with no paved roads and no electricity. A tree may be the shade for a workshop, or an abandoned hospital. Exciting stuff, and an intro to Interpeace reality that is wonderful for me to have right off, even if it seemed awfully quick to be jumping into the fray (I started, officially on 1 July, and left Geneva on the 8th, and still have no contract…)
Somalilanders love to talk, and the mafresh, or afternoon qaat chewing session, is an integral part of the way things get accomplished here. It is also a major social issue/problem. Qaat is a plant brought in from Ethiopia which is chewed to produce a mild narcotic effect, supposedly like a combo of caffeine and a mild high. Groups of men get together in the afternoon for a “chew” which can last for hours and usually does. A bit like the hammam or the sauna, but very male, though women can participate on some occasions (several of my working afternoons have been “chats” where we sit in a “chatroom”, cushions all around the walls, tea, coke and water for each person, along with a bundle of Qaat for those who chew). It is very non-hierarchical, and where you can hear real discussion with no external patina – I wish I spoke Somali.
The hotel is clean, with good simple food and service; no hot water, but no mosquitoes, a trade-off I will take as malaria is prevalent here. Morning pancakes (more of a rolled crêpe with syrup poured over) are delicious, with just a touch of lemon added to the batter. Tea is served regularly – milky and sweet. Women all wear bright clothes, heads covered. Alcohol is illegal, but present in homes. There is no sense of insecurity, but you don’t wander around alone at night either (three weeks ago a German development aid worker was shot dead on the street, and a week ago the head of the presidential Guard was gunned down inside the presidential residence.) Driving is on the right, but so is the steering wheel (virtually all the vehicles are second-hand imports from Dubai) – very odd for me having just re-adjusted to European standards after two years in Dhaka.
Monday, October 19, 2009
October 16
When we decided to leave Geneva and move back to Maine in 2004, part of the reasoning was to be part of the return to sanity that we were certain would accompany regime change in Washington. We were four years early, but have never regretted the move. Another part of the thinking was to bring to local involvement some of the things we have been working on at the international level for years, either through teaching or through working in international organizations. How to contribute to making the world a better place starting up close and personal, rather than big picture and “out there”, was the question. The peacebuilding work of Interpeace is guided by five principles, which I think can be applied fairly well to town politics:
1. Local ownership - Local ownership begins by ensuring that priorities are determined locally. It is crucial that spaces and processes exist where consensus-building and dialogue can take place. If local people and groups participate in defining the problem, they can be engaged to take ownership also of the solutions.
2. Include all parties in the process
By ensuring the involvement of all relevant groups in society in the dialogue and priority setting process, actors from each social group are instilled with a sense of responsibility for the rebuilding and reconciliation process.
3. The heart of the challenge is building trust
Trust cannot be imposed, imported or bought. It emerges slowly and is built through collective engagement on issues small and large, and through consistent daily commitment.
4. It’s a long-term commitment
Support of local efforts must be patient, adaptable and consistent. There are no short-cuts or quick-fixes.
5. It’s as much about "how" things are done as well as about "what" is done
How the process is managed and how the engagement of all sides is carried out, will determine in large part the success of the initiative.
So what I am really trying to do is to apply these principles to being a Selectperson, a citizen of Bowdoinham, of Maine. It carried over at a national level in the Obama campaign and still has me getting regularly upset at the way issues national or international are being played, but the real heart of the matter is here – It’s the little issues – the tax abatement that sets a precedent; the decisions on how taxes will be budgeted and spent; how the roads will be fixed, the garbage collected and disposed of; how kids will be educated; how this little patch of earth in town will be cared for and stewarded for the next generation and the next. It’s quite a challenge. There is much to learn and it is not a perfect system, this thing we call democracy, and yet we taut its benefits so confidently and look down on societies that can’t make it work well right from the start as somehow inferior, or less intelligent or some how less worthy.
Democracy, government by the consent of the governed, by peers chosen from amongst us, and tough decisions going back to direct referendums voted by an informed and caring public …Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so? It’s on this last point that we are falling seriously behind, and may be putting the whole ship at risk. The responsibility of the media to educate and inform is seriously deficient. The only way for the populace to be truly well informed is to demand to be, to seek out truth and perspective, and to embrace diverse opinion. We all should do that every day and not be satisfied or throw up our hands in defeat.
1. Local ownership - Local ownership begins by ensuring that priorities are determined locally. It is crucial that spaces and processes exist where consensus-building and dialogue can take place. If local people and groups participate in defining the problem, they can be engaged to take ownership also of the solutions.
2. Include all parties in the process
By ensuring the involvement of all relevant groups in society in the dialogue and priority setting process, actors from each social group are instilled with a sense of responsibility for the rebuilding and reconciliation process.
3. The heart of the challenge is building trust
Trust cannot be imposed, imported or bought. It emerges slowly and is built through collective engagement on issues small and large, and through consistent daily commitment.
4. It’s a long-term commitment
Support of local efforts must be patient, adaptable and consistent. There are no short-cuts or quick-fixes.
5. It’s as much about "how" things are done as well as about "what" is done
How the process is managed and how the engagement of all sides is carried out, will determine in large part the success of the initiative.
So what I am really trying to do is to apply these principles to being a Selectperson, a citizen of Bowdoinham, of Maine. It carried over at a national level in the Obama campaign and still has me getting regularly upset at the way issues national or international are being played, but the real heart of the matter is here – It’s the little issues – the tax abatement that sets a precedent; the decisions on how taxes will be budgeted and spent; how the roads will be fixed, the garbage collected and disposed of; how kids will be educated; how this little patch of earth in town will be cared for and stewarded for the next generation and the next. It’s quite a challenge. There is much to learn and it is not a perfect system, this thing we call democracy, and yet we taut its benefits so confidently and look down on societies that can’t make it work well right from the start as somehow inferior, or less intelligent or some how less worthy.
Democracy, government by the consent of the governed, by peers chosen from amongst us, and tough decisions going back to direct referendums voted by an informed and caring public …Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so? It’s on this last point that we are falling seriously behind, and may be putting the whole ship at risk. The responsibility of the media to educate and inform is seriously deficient. The only way for the populace to be truly well informed is to demand to be, to seek out truth and perspective, and to embrace diverse opinion. We all should do that every day and not be satisfied or throw up our hands in defeat.
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