Category — Life

International Women’s Day always comes around in a surprise for me. I used to love celebrating it in Brisbane. Although a working day, there were often lunches and dinners organised by various organisations and, after a morning of work, you could toddle off to a series of functions with good food and flowing wine and make a very nice day of it.

In Poland, the day — which used to be celebrated in a major manner — has now slipped a bit in disuse as the society designates it a “Communist” day. In fact, it was created by the Socialist Party of America in 1909 (back in the day when the USA actually had a socialist party and an Anti-Imperial League; Mark Twain was one of the League’s more vociferous members) and, so Wikipedia tells me:

Demonstrations marking International Women’s Day in Russia proved to be the first stage of the Russian Revolution off 1917.

In Malaysia, the celebrations are low-key, if they exist at all. I’ve tried to find an article in Sunday’s The Star for you but it doesn’t appear in any online searches. For those who have the paper, it’s in Sunday’s edition, on page N17. The article is headed “Women’s Day forum receives poor response”:

An International Women’s Day 2010 forum organised by the … [Penang] … government received poor response with only 10 people attending the morning session although chairs were allocated for 100 participants.

State executive councillor, Lydia Ong, who’s been “active in non-governmental organisations (NGOs) since 2005″ goes on to say that:

“We noticed that whenever forums or talks on ‘hard issues’ are held, the turnout is poor compared too say, classes on cooking or self-grooming.” … Ong attributed this to the “very low” level of awareness among women of their rights.

Of course, as you dig deeper into the article, you find that you had to pay to attend the forum and that the poor response was for the morning, Mandarin, session. The afternoon session, in English, attracted 60 people, which isn’t bad. I still wonder about that comment of Ong’s however: do women shy away from politics and human rights, actively preferring seminars on cooking and fashion? Does anyone have a comment they’d like to make about this?

So, anyway, it’s International Women’s Day today. If you’re at all thankful to the women around you, from mother to co-worker, take a moment to be appreciative. It may be as simple as buying them a coffee or even sparing some time to give your mother or sister a phone call. It could be buying your daughter a lollipop as a treat. Whatever it is, it will be very much appreciated. And a good Day to all!

The blog post that isn’t there

Knackered STOP Back from Singers yesterday STOP Shopping trip EXCLAMATION Exhausted STOP Wrestling with contract fine print STOP Double exhausted STOP Want to scream COMMA throat raw from repressed anxiety STOP Send scotch STOP

Definitely not a child-safe post

[NOTE: Jim C Hines recently had a post on rape on his blog, so I thought -- for reasons that will become obvious as this post continues -- I'd move this one up and save Monday's scheduled post for Wednesday.]

I swear. A Lot. If you’re ever in a relaxed conversation with me, the least offensive term you’ll hear me use is “bloody” and you’ll quickly discover that my favourite word (besides “utterly”) is “fuck” and its many, many, wonderfully evocative derivatives. When referring to people, I have no compunction about referring to them as “cunts”, whether in admiration or degradation. To me, it’s just a word.

I don’t temper my swearing in front of the kids, although I have told them not to use such language themselves because they will be judged by it and they’re too young for that to happen. So, despite hearing their mother swear like a sailor from the moment they were born, neither of our children swear. It’ll come, and I’ll deal with it when it does, but we’re not there yet.

As a compulsive swearer, there are a couple of things I’ve noticed about it. For one, it’s definitely all in the rhythm. You have to be relaxed to swear well. I have been more shocked by someone say “bitch” than a friend telling me about a few cunts he ran into at a nightclub. If you haven’t internalised swearing, relaxed into it, woven it into the very cadence of your speech, it sounds more provocative and jarring than if you have.

Does the fact that I swear mean I have a small vocabulary? No. I consider my vocabulary to be decent-sized. And it isn’t a pointer to a lack of education either. Likewise, I don’t regard it as any kind of mirror to my personal moral standing. So, why do I do it?

Well, for one, it’s a habit. People have their own little mannerisms and twitches. Mine is that I swear. That’s just the result, however. In order to understand this more fully, you have to understand three other things, from consequence to source, from least to most important.

One is that swearers swear because the word loses meaning. I once worked with a very nice Basque by the name of Felix. He was a software engineer. And he used to swear a lot. “How the fuck do they expect us to fucking code this shit when they haven’t bedded down their fucking architecture and haven’t fucking prepared proper fucking design documents for it yet?” was along the lines of his usual objection. (That he was right, you can take as a given.) Even in casual Australia, this caused a bit of a stir. When questioned about it, mild-mannered Felix had a ready answer. “It’s not my language,” he shrugged. “‘Fuck’ doesn’t mean anything to me. Plus it’s fun to say.” And he’s right. Having also learnt some choice Chinese dialect words, I can say that calling people some pretty nasty names in another language doesn’t mean anything to me, either.

Two, when I studied martial arts, my training partners were mostly nineteen and male. Do you know how much testosterone is pumping through those young, toned veins? You can almost smell it the moment you step into the kwoon. And do you know how much disregard such young males have for the English language? But, of course, that doesn’t mean that I fell into swearing just because others were doing it. I hope you at least know that much about me, by now. It just made the environment more lax.

Three. Now this is the most important, so I left it to last. And please do think about this one. My previous Chinese boxing instructor used to hold anti-rape workshops. He did a lot of research into the topic. And what he told me was that men often use swear words to shock their victims. Women, not used to hearing such language, would freeze or hesitate when they heard foul words being shouted at them by an assailant. And in that moment of inaction, the attacker would then press his advantage through the use of physical force.(*)

One reason my instructor did nothing to curb the level of swearing in our kwoon was that he had the express purpose of inuring me to it, so I wouldn’t fall into the same trap. What can I say? It worked. A stranger can walk up to me and call me a useless fucking excuse for a diseased cunt, a motherfuckin’ abortion, spittle-flecked and straight to my face and I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Instead, I’d be watching for other things going on — any other people around? How is he standing? What is he doing? How is he moving?

Swearing is a complex topic and the knee-jerk response of saying it’s All Bad and that civilised human beings Don’t Do It is a gross over-simplification. Because of the kind of training I underwent, I know that I’m better able to stand up to verbal abuse as a precursor to violence than the average woman. Because of the kind of world we live in, this training has actually paid off. The “downside” is that I’m not offended by any swearing and, as a corollary, tend to swear a lot myself. You can’t really have one without the other and I have no regrets. Just something for you to think about the next time the moralists start up.

(*) Rape is an heinous invasion of another human being’s privacy and will. Author Jim C Hines (whose blog I read religiously but who doesn’t know me from toffee) has a page on rape at his website. If you know anyone who has suffered rape, please go here for further links and information.

or Give A Book To Your Romantic Interest Day

I’m a regular reader of Informed Comment, Juan Cole’s blog and, in a post on Monday, he suggested a variation on the Spanish George’s Day that falls on the 23rd of April each year. As Cole puts it:

There is a delightful custom in Barcelona. On April 23, St. George’s Day, men give their girlfriends or wives a rose. And the women give their male beloved a book. The gift of the book is said to have been initiated in 1926 as a commemoration of Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote.

…

Obviously the precise Catalonian custom, however quaint and colorful [sic], is pretty sexist and needs updating … I propose that whoever loves someone else romantically of any sex give the loved one both a book and a rose for George’s Day.

I think that’s a great idea. Already, I buy J books as un-birthday presents. Why not make it a bit more official by having a day dedicated to the giving of books? A kind of bibliophile Valentine? What do you think? In an ideal world, there should be occasions for the giving of both high-quality chocolate and lots and lots of books! If you like the idea, spread the word.

And don’t forget Yuri’s Night on 12 April. It all sounds far away but look! Yikes! February already!

All we have to do….

J and I have wonderful breakfast conversations. In fact, we yearn for compatible days off just so we can spend our time yakking over several mugs of tea and coffee. We’ll spend the time before our first meal of the day quickly scouring the ‘tubes for juicy gossip just so we can try to top each other with the most audacious political happenings of the past 24 hours. And they happen far more frequently than you would believe. For my American readers, the two US stand-outs from recent times are Obama’s “war is peace” Nobel peace prize speech (I swear it should be framed. Alternatively, we could put it on infinite loop playback right next to George Orwell’s grave and power an entire town from the energy generated by that poor corpse spinning in his grave. Nyuk nyuk.) and Jimmy Carter’s morally bankrupt repudiation of international justice in his apology to Israel. (I could never figure out why everyone thought he is such a great man; after all, when all’s said and done, he’s nothing more than a politician. Oh well.)

But back to the matter at hand, stalwart reader. How aggressive are humans actually? That was a recent topic. Are we animals that will make war at the drop of a hat, or is there something else involved? How many conflicts have begun, or got a great boost, from a provocation?

Now, neither J nor I are historians by trade, so we don’t presume to have the definitive list, but what we dredged up from memory was still rather interesting.

Vietnam. The Gulf of Tonkin incident that announced the entry of the USA into the Vietnam War was a lie. The unprovoked torpedo attacks from the North Vietnamese that sparked American retaliation not only never occurred, but the US destroyer Maddox was playing silly buggers in order to provoke things in the first place.

Poland. On 31 August 1939, German SS soldiers set up an attack on one of their own radio stations at the Polish-German border and the Germans broadcast a message, in Polish, urging Poles to kill the Germans who resided in the Silesian region.

Modern Poland. In the 1980s, the government carried out covert actions that were ostensibly anti-Communist (fires, infrastructure vandalism) in order to provoke the Soviet Union into invading and quelling the rising Solidarity movement. Thankfully, this one failed.

Iraq. The US gave the green light to Saddam Hussein to invade Kuwait, then used the invasion as the premise to start the first Gulf War.

Malaysia. There is now a book out that says that the infamous May 1969 race riots were actually engineered with the full cooperation of the incumbent government in order to further its own ends.

Indonesia. A different use of provocation, but still…. Military man (and wartime collaborator) Suharto turned a botched coup attempt by an opposing military faction into anti-communist propaganda, initiating a massacre that took the lives of more than half a million communists, sympathisers and (I’m sure) people who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Israel. David Ben-Gurion had a reputation for giving the go-ahead for numerous provocations carried out by Israeli intelligence services throughout Europe against Jews, in order to convince them that Europe was completely anti-Semitic and that the best bet for their future was the new state of Israel.

China. The Marco Polo incident can be seen as deliberate Japanese provocation that essentially began World War Two in Asia in earnest (after some smouldering since the Japanese invasion of Manchuria in 1931). China was to Japan as Poland was to Germany … its liebensraum.

Germany. Hitler. Jews. ’nuff said.

Iran. The Straits of Hormuz incident (2008) was, especially if you view the videos, deliberate provocation on the part of the United States, and not the first either. Here’s an article from Asia Times that explains the significance of “international waters”, “Iranian inspections”, and so on within the context of the Straits.

There are plenty more examples of both blatant provocation and use of covert action by a government (it doesn’t matter which one, black or white, communist or capitalist, they’re all the same) either against its own citizens or against another country’s citizens in order to further its own ends. In fact, there are so many other examples that you have to wonder if we would have even had the amount of carnage humanity has sustained throughout history if it wasn’t for one small group of people at that time (and they weren’t solely men, so don’t fall into that trap) using spin to advance their aims … and to hell with their fellow human beings.

On the one hand, it makes me feel a bit optimistic because it tells me that, left to our own devices, people have a tendency to just generally want to get along with each other. On the other, it depresses the hell out of me because it also tells me how easily we can be manipulated by people we trust to do what’s best for us.

I’m pooped.

Work has been intense and I’ve been meaning to turn Fridays into more or less steady recipe days. I have enough recipes — stalwart reader, believe me, I have enough recipes! — but what I don’t have are nice photos to go with said recipes.

So I think I’ll leave my more political posts for the beginning of the week, take a rest and wish all of you a good weekend. Go do something different! I’ll catch you Monday.

Turning the house upside down

If you follow Maria Zannini’s blog, you’d know that she has two Rottweilers, Tank and Iko. And even though I’m a little so-so about Rotties, I have to admit that Iko is a fine-looking young man. Another friend of mine, I just found out this week, has a Bichon, that white fluffy iconic breed that makes me think of mop-heads and cleaning floors whenever I see one.

Sausage is … well, not like either of those. She’s manic and cute in a truly ugly way. Think I’m joking? Cop this:

I took the photo at Christmas and it’s one of my favourites but you can’t tell me she doesn’t look like she’s just walked off the set of The Spiderwick Chronicles?

With that big nose of hers, she manages to poke herself into every situation, often getting scratches from Fluff and Squeak as a result. Does that faze her? Not a bit. Give her ten minutes and she’s back to wagging her tail and barking in front of a disdainful feline, just daring one to give her a good ole chase. Whether it’s a cat chasing Sausage or Sausage chasing a cat makes no difference to her; the game’s the thing.

Watching her interact with us, the cats, the fish(*) and other people, I can’t believe how bull terriers got the terrible reputation they did. Oh, they’re physically strong dogs, as well as being headstrong, but they’re so forgiving that you just wish they’d be a tad more cynical and live up to their “so ugly it’s cute” appearance, especially around two feline heavyweights. Here she is on one of the living room chairs, making herself comfortable:

There are a lot of dog breeds out there that are much better looking than Sausage. They’re more obedient, they’re cuter, they’re smarter, they “talk” more, and they don’t have manic half-hours. But the truth of the matter is, bull terriers have wormed their way into my affections and for me — and, increasing I think, for the rest of the family — there will never be another dog breed that usurps that place in our hearts.

(*) Please don’t make the mistake of feeling sorry for our koi, captive in our courtyard pool, tantalisingly close to snoozing cats and a curious dog. It didn’t take long for the fish to figure out our four-legged pet vulnerabilities. They splash. It happens every time either Fluff, Squeak or Sausage annoy them in some way by getting too close or trying to bob for fish food during feeding time. They’ll dive, flexing their tail at the same time, sending a fountain of water towards the miscreant. It’s 100% effective. Anyone who keeps fish will tell you they are far from the brainless, purely instinct-driven animals we were taught about in school. They recognise people, can come when called and, as I’ve just related, are smart enough to take care of themselves, thank you very much. Still doesn’t stop me from enjoying a nice meal of grilled fish though. I just hurry the supermarket bag past the big sliding doors into the kitchen so our own finned friends can’t see what I’m doing.

“You throw like a girl!”

A couple of weekends ago, a friend from school was dropped off by his parents to spend some time visiting with The Wast. Let’s call the friend Jerry. Jerry is a nice boy, the second in a family of three children (two boys, one girl). His parents are well-to-do professionals, from what I gather. In other words, his parents should know better.

The school our kids attend is a private one, mostly because all the lessons (except for Malay) are in English. As much as we wanted to, putting our kids into one of the state schools, where the language of instruction is Malay, would have been a disaster. As a result, the school caters for professionals, for the richer parents; that is, for those who see a future for their children outside Malaysia and are prepared to pay for it. In other words, the school should know better.

A day after Jerry’s visit, The Wast mentioned at the dinner table that, “Jerry says that girls can’t fight.”

“Pardon?” I blinked.

The Wast grinned. “Yeah, he says that girls are useless at boxing and fighting and that kind of stuff.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Little Dinosaur, who’s built like a brick outhouse, declared. “What about Hit-Girl(*)? And look at mama.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Look at me. Do you think I can’t fight?”

“No. But that’s just what they say at school.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“I tell them that my mother taught martial arts, but they don’t believe me.”

A couple of days later, The Wast shared what he learnt in Moral Education.

“Boys should be well-groomed and have short hair,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why should you have short hair? Does having long hair mean you somehow lose your testicles?”

“No.” (With a giggle.)

“Does having long hair mean you lose all your intelligence?”

“No.”

“Does having long hair mean you don’t know how to speak or interact with people?”

“No.”

“Does having long hair interfere with your homework?”

“No.”

“So why is it bad having long hair?”

“Besides the fact you’ll faint from heat exhaustion in this climate,” J added, ever the voice of reason.

The Wast thought about it. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

What I like about having my children educated in south-east Asia is the emphasis on foundations in language and maths, the discipline (except the corporal punishment bits) and the rigour. What I thoroughly dislike about having my children educated in south-east Asia is the utter narrow-mindedness masquerading as high principle. Mind you, I still prefer Asia to, say, Australia. At least here, I can help counter the unthinking idiocy with some well-chosen pieces of logic and history. In Australia, how do I console a daughter who’s been called a black monkey bitch and told to go back to the trees where she belongs?

Still, you’d think there has to be some middle ground. Some damned tolerance. The school principal came out with a doozie recently, saying that boys shouldn’t do ballet because, if they do, they’ll turn into homosexuals. Oh good grief. The amount of ignorance flying around is astounding. And the belief in witchcraft here is still strong (one example is the “black magic” that Indonesians seem to have some fast-track channel into, that will deflect bullets and knife blows from their bare bodies. Say it with me this time … oh good grief.)

All I can do is help the kids focus on the academic fundamentals and, through wider education, show — as well as tell — them that women are the equal to men. That gays and lesbians have just as much right to civil liberties as anyone else (which is a problem in itself in a country where you have equal and more equal citizens, if you get my drift), that cross-dressers aren’t automatically gay, that ascribing to witchcraft doesn’t make you impervious to injury or a slam-dunk to win the lottery, that being envious of a family doesn’t mean their newborn baby will be “cursed” thus causing mental illness … the list goes on and on. And, as I think I may have mentioned in a previous post, these sorts of inane beliefs are not the purview of the uneducated. They come from the mouths of doctors, teachers, IT professionals and accountants. In fact, I’ve found it easier to talk around someone who’s only had primary school education compared to a University graduate. It’s an interesting insight into the impermeability of mindsets.

I’ll come back to gender equity again, in another post. In the meantime, I’m putting my old trophies and medals out on display, just in case someone asks ….

(*) You can see who’s already excited about the upcoming release of Kick-Ass the Movie, can’t you? Damn you, SF Signal! Damn you and your embedded trailers!

See that little blank space there?

Okay Darwin, we seem to have a problem. You see, I check my ClustrMaps visitor map every now and then and, in all the years I’ve been blogging (okay, three), I’ve noticed something. Nobody has ever tuned into my blog from Darwin, Australia.

What’s the matter, Darwin? Feeling a little sad that I set a story in Brisbane? That I mention Melbourne from time to time? Or is the tropical heat and all those crocodiles getting to you? Even Perth, the most remote capital city in the world (and a fine little city on the banks of the Swan it is too), manages to make some kind of showing. Even the churchie nutcases from Adelaide occasionally tune in. But not you. I even have readers in frickin’ China, but not from you. Venezuela makes a showing, but not you. Can you sense the pattern here?

No, I’m not angry. I wouldn’t want you to think that. But I am disappointed. And I think I’ll just let you have a little time on your own to ruminate on what you haven‘t done and, when you think you have things straight in your head, maybe we can sit down again and have another chat, m’kay?

For the rest of you (or one), I have a new post up at Novel Spaces. You can have a white holiday season one degree north of the Equator. Go read and find out how.

PONDERING: Maybe they don’t have internet access in Darwin?

At least that’s what the security guard shouted out at 4am on Christmas eve as he was doing the rounds on his scooter. This was followed by a heartfelt “Yeeeee-hah!”.

I can understand it’s boring being a guard at an ulu estate such as the one we’re living in, so let me do my bit by extending his wishes to all of you. Catch you Monday!