La Moitié du Ciel / Half the Sky

«Les femmes soutiennent la moitié du ciel» / «Women hold up half the sky» - Mao Zedong

Le Monde d’aujourd’hui contient un article de Bruno Philip intitulé «Mesdames les imams» (http://tinyurl.com/d2jm7) qui parle des Hui, l’une des communautés principales de l’islam chinois.

«Les Hui forment une minorité d'une dizaine de millions de personnes réparties dans plusieurs provinces. Surtout au Henan, où ils sont environ 900 000, au Gansu, (une région du Nord-Ouest), mais aussi dans la province que le pouvoir pékinois leur a taillée sur mesure : la "région autonome Hui" du Ningxia, au nord d'ici, où leur nombre se chiffre à 1,5 million.

Petit rappel sur l'histoire assez mal connue de l'implantation musulmane en Chine : au VII^e siècle, à la suite de l'envoi d'une première ambassade par le calife Otman, commerçants, savants et diplomates arabes ou persans vont arriver dans l'empire du Milieu en empruntant la Route de la soie ou la voie maritime jusqu'à Canton. Ils finiront par former une classe à part de hauts fonctionnaires, notamment sous la dynastie mongole des Yuan, avant que des lettrés érudits en chinois, arabe et persan, langue de la transmission du savoir, affirment résolument l'émergence culturelle et religieuse d'un islam chinois.

À partir du X^e siècle, ils vont fonder des familles, épouser des Chinoises, et leurs descendants d'aujourd'hui sont les Hui, ces musulmans chinois qui s'expriment en mandarin et dont le métissage ne permet pas de les distinguer du reste de la population. Les Hui se sont fondus dans le paysage ethnique, contrairement à d'autres musulmans de République populaire, notamment les Ouïgours de la région du Xinjiang, issus de tribus d'Asie centrale et qui s'expriment dans une langue turque.

Les Hui ne formeraient cependant qu'une communauté sunnite parmi d'autres, seulement un peu exotique par rapport à l'univers de l'islam moyen-oriental, s'ils n'avaient perpétré une tradition quasi inédite pour des musulmans : l'institution de mosquées féminines (nüsi ) et le statut d'imams pour les représentantes du beau sexe. Une tradition relativement récente puisque les premières nüsi remonteraient seulement au XIX^e siècle, durant le règne de la dynastie des Qing. Avant la révolution et la prise de pouvoir par les communistes, on en comptait très exactement 32 dans tout le pays et, selon des statistiques datant de 1997, il y en aurait 29 aujourd'hui. Érigées ou reconstruites après la douloureuse parenthèse de la révolution culturelle et le début d'une démaoïsation qui a sanctionné le retour du religieux.

La mosquée pour femmes de Zhengzhou, construite en 1912, est plus qu'un territoire du sacré, c'est aussi un lieu de vie où des dizaines de Chinoises, la plupart assez âgées, se retrouvent dans une atmosphère conviviale. Ces dames ne pratiquent cependant pas l'ostracisme anti-mâle : les hommes, qui disposent, tout à côté, de leur propre mosquée, ne sont pas interdits de séjour ici, sauf durant le moment des cinq prières quotidiennes.

Une des imams, Maryam, tient un discours assez surprenant pour l'étranger de passage, une façon assez paradoxale, singulière, de parler des femmes et de l'islam en général. D'abord, elle estime qu'en Chine "on encourage l'égalité entre les hommes et les femmes ; c'est pourquoi les musulmanes ne sont pas discriminées ici comme elles peuvent l'être ailleurs. Oui, en tant que femme, je me sens l'égale des hommes", maintient-elle.

Quand on lui demande si "cet état de fait est une conséquence du communisme, qui prône, en théorie, l'égalité entre les sexes", elle répond : "Oui, en Chine, nous pratiquons un islam avec des caractéristiques chinoises..." (Ce qui est une manière très politiquement correcte de manier le concept). Elle ajoute : "L'idéologie nationale l'emporte sur la doctrine de l'islam. Nous vivons dans un pays communiste, mais nous sommes libres de pratiquer notre religion. Personne ne force plus personne à renoncer à ses croyances. Pour nous, il est important de vivre en paix avec le système. La République populaire de Chine ne nous oblige pas à être communistes et nous laisse libres de croire en Dieu. Pas plus que le communisme chinois ne nous force de devenir esclaves de l'athéisme !"

Maryam se lance ensuite dans un autre discours, sinon plus radical, en tout cas plus en résonance avec le retour à la tradition qui agite l'islam contemporain. "C'est vrai qu'en Chine les jeunes vont de moins en moins à la mosquée ; les plus fervents sont des gens qui ont atteint la quarantaine. Mais les jeunes qui y vont comprennent mieux l'islam. Avant, on était hui parce que nos parents l'étaient. Aujourd'hui, les gens comprennent mieux ce que cela signifie sur le plan religieux." Elle en veut pour preuve l'augmentation du nombre d'étudiants qui partent à l'étranger, en terre d'islam, pour étudier les saintes écritures. "Aujourd'hui, de plus en plus de jeunes musulmans chinois, garçons et filles, vont perfectionner leurs connaissances en Arabie saoudite, en Iran, en Malaisie. Ils en reviennent avec une meilleure maîtrise des textes. J'enseigne dans une école coranique et je réalise à quel point les femmes, surtout celles revenues de l'étranger, sont choquées par les mœurs occidentales !"

Maryam est-elle en faveur de l'imposition de la charia ? La jeune femme hésite, sous l’œil vigilant du responsable local des affaires religieuses : "Nous encourageons les gens à organiser leur vie en respectant les lois islamiques. Mais ici, en Chine, nous devons obéir aussi aux lois du parti." »

Now let’s look at today’s New York Times, which has an article by Sharon LaFranière, entitled «Entrenched Epidemic: Wife-Beatings in Africa» (http://tinyurl.com/d7542).

«Women suffer from violence in every society. In few places, however, is the abuse more entrenched, and accepted, than in sub-Saharan Africa. One in three Nigerian women reported having been physically abused by a male partner, according to the latest study, conducted in 1993. The wife of the deputy governor of a northern Nigerian province told reporters last year that her husband beat her incessantly, in part because she watched television movies. One of President Olusegun Obasanjo's appointees to a national anticorruption commission was allegedly killed by her husband in 2000, two days after she asked the state police commissioner to protect her.

In Zambia, nearly half of women surveyed said a male partner had beaten them, according to a 2004 study financed by the United States - the highest percentage of nine developing nations surveyed on three continents.

In South Africa, researchers for the Medical Research Council estimated last year that a male partner kills a girlfriend or spouse every six hours - the highest mortality rate from domestic violence ever reported, they say. In Harare, Zimbabwe's capital, domestic violence accounts for more than 6 in 10 murder cases in court, a United Nations report concluded last year.

Yet most women remain silent about the abuse, women's rights organizations say. A World Health Organization study has found that while more than a third of Namibian women reported enduring physical or sexual abuse by a male partner, often resulting in injury, six in seven victims had either kept it to themselves or confided only in a friend or relative.

Help is typically not easy to find. Nigeria, Africa's largest nation with nearly 130 million people, has only two shelters for battered women, both opened in the last four years. The United States, by contrast, has about 1,200 such havens. Moreover, many women say wifely transgression justify beatings. About half of women interviewed in Zambia in 2001 and 2002 said husbands had a right to beat wives who argue with them, burn the dinner, go out without the husband's permission, neglect the children or refuse sex.

Women's rights activists say that the prevalence of abuse is emblematic of the low status of women in sub-Saharan Africa. Typically less educated, they work longer hours and transport three times as much weight as men, hauling firewood, water and sacks of corn on their heads.»

There is also this news about a group of abused women in Kenya who left their home and went to form an association to grant micro-loans to women to set up small businesses. The project was such a success that the women decided to create their own community where all the abused women can find refuge. Now that the community is getting prosperous and attracting favorable attention, the men in the village — let’s call a spade a spade: the lazy bums that used to be married to these women — are threatening to burn down their businesses unless the women turn them over to their husbands.

I am posting all this not to upset you, although I’m hoping that it will. Nor is it to incite hatred or scorn on religions or on men in general. The two newspaper articles show you that the same religion can be invoked to justify a respectful or a bullying attitude towards women. The problem therefore is not religions but their use by men to impose a social structure that would entrench their powers and their privileges over a weaker element of society. I am not a man-hating feminist. As a Buddhist, I sincerely believe that everyone on this planet has been born both male and female alternatively. And as a Buddhist, I know that the fundamental sin is ignorance. C’est pourquoi je plaide pour une éducation permanente, incessante et continue des hommes, des femmes, des enfants du monde entier pour qu’il y ait une plus grande conscientisation et un plus grand respect de la nature exceptionnelle de l’être humain, quels que soient sa race, son sexe, sa nationalité, etc… Nous sommes tous des bouddhas, tous sans exception, il suffit de nous en rendre compte pour dissiper les nuages de l’ignorance et réaliser notre véritable nature.

My family

Many kind readers asked about my sons and me.... well, at least two readers.... fine, no one asked, are you happy now? Anyway, some readers might be too shy to ask, so I am anticipating their request, and proudly present to you some pictures of our happy family.

Here I am, getting dressed for work.



My two sons, the B-Boy and the Geek.




And here’s their father. We divorced because of religious incompatibility.




So there you have it. I hope this satisfies your curiosity. If you feel envious of our family, dear reader, please don't. I can assure you that being rich and beautiful does not necessarily bring happiness.

Update: The pictures have mysteriously disappeared. Damn! I should have saved them somewhere safe.

Things that make my eyes glaze and my brain shut down

• Space programmes — Discovery has just landed in California, I've heard. Oh? Did it go anywhere? Except for the landing on the moon, the whole US space programme NASA thingie has been a blur of repetitive launchings and yawn inducing missions. I barely noticed when Cape Canaveral became Cape Kennedy, then back to Cape Canaveral again.
• Make-up trends — Did you know that make-ups have seasons? That Spring 05 is different from Spring 04 and of course different from Fall 05? Zzzzzz….
• White people under 30 and not living in a farm who can’t use chopsticks — Meanwhile, China is developing a space programme.
• People holding chopsticks the wrong way, i.e. with their fingers so close to the tips they might as well eat with their fingers, Indian style — But may be that’s another category: Things that make me cringe and bite my tongue.

My Son The Asparagus

My son has diagnosed himself as suffering from a mild (?) form of autism called Asperger Syndrome, by comparing his behaviour to a checklist of symptoms. I jokingly changed the name to Asparagus, but it is no joking matter. Here is a description of the symptoms from the website http://www.udel.edu/bkirby/asperger/aswhatisit.html:

«Asperger Syndrome or (Asperger's Disorder) is a neurobiological disorder named for a Viennese physician, Hans Asperger, who in 1944 published a paper which described a pattern of behaviors in several young boys who had normal intelligence and language development, but who also exhibited autistic-like behaviors and marked deficiencies in social and communication skills. In spite of the publication of his paper in the 1940's, it wasn't until 1994 that Asperger Syndrome was added to the DSM IV and only in the past few years has AS been recognized by professionals and parents.

Individuals with AS can exhibit a variety of characteristics and the disorder can range from mild to severe. Persons with AS show marked deficiencies in social skills, have difficulties with transitions or changes and prefer sameness. They often have obsessive routines and may be preoccupied with a particular subject of interest. They have a great deal of difficulty reading nonverbal cues (body language) and very often the individual with AS has difficulty determining proper body space. Often overly sensitive to sounds, tastes, smells, and sights, the person with AS may prefer soft clothing, certain foods, and be bothered by sounds or lights no one else seems to hear or see. It's important to remember that the person with AS perceives the world very differently. Therefore, many behaviours that seem odd or unusual are due to those neurological differences and not the result of intentional rudeness or bad behaviour, and most certainly not the result of "improper parenting"»

When he announced the news to me, I readily believed him, precisely because I have been worrying about his behaviour. When he was much younger, he was the cutest, sweetest child I’ve ever known, happy and bright, delighting our family with his sunny disposition and his clever jokes. As soon as he reached his teens years though, he went overnight from Dr Jekill to Mr Hyde. Our family outings would systematically degenerate into fights and quarrels, usually with him stomping away in fury. His little brother and I started tiptoeing around him, because we never knew what to say or do that would not provoke an outpouring of rage. I of course attributed all that emotional turmoil to teenagers’ hormones, but I couldn’t help being shocked by the cruelty and thoughtlessness of the comments he sometimes casually shot at people. Now I know that people with AS often have trouble showing affection or have little desire to show affection, and can be very literal and hard to communicate with in an emotional way.

On the other hand, my son is a demonstrably brilliant computer geek. This is what Wikipedia has to say about this aspect of AS : [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asperger%27s_syndrome]

«Recently, some researchers have speculated that well-known people, such as including Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton (cf. BBC News, Einstein and Newton "had autism", 30 April 2003), have or had AS, as they showed some Asperger's related tendencies, such as intense interest in one subject, and social problems…[snip].

The obvious social contributions of such individuals has led to a shift in the perception of Asperger's and autism away from the simple view of a disease needing to be cured towards a more complex view of a syndrome with advantages and disadvantages. There is a semi-jocular theory within science fiction fandom, for example, which argues that many of the distinctive traits of that subculture may be explained by the speculation that a significant portion thereof is composed of people with Asperger's. A Wired Magazine article called The Geek Syndrome suggested that Asperger's syndrome is more common in the Silicon Valley, a haven for computer scientists and mathematicians. It created an enduring myth popularized in the media and self-help books that "Geek Syndrome" equals Asperger's syndrome, and precipitated a rash of self-diagnoses. Though these conditions do share traits, there is a consensus that most geeks are arguably "variant normal" and do not exhibit autistic-spectrum behaviors. "Geeks" may exhibit an extreme professional or casual interest in computers, science, engineering and related fields, and may be introverted; however, they do not suffer from impairments per se. This does not imply that there is no overlap between "geeks" and Asperger's patients, but it should be noted that self-diagnosis is a dangerous practice, and one prone to error.»

Because he thinks that Asperger's syndrome is the source of his superior intelligence, my son is not interested in seeking treatment for his disorder. People who love him and know about his «sickness» are trying to read as much as possible about it and to educate themselves in order to better understand him and avoid being distressed by his apparent coldness or his failure to demonstrate love and empathy.

According to the Wikipedia article, "aspy" or "aspie" is an affectionate term used by some with Asperger's syndrome to describe themselves. Others prefer "Aspergian", "Asperger's Autistic" or no name at all. I call him my Asparagus.

And all that time I thought I was Cleopatra!!

In a Past Life...

You Were: A Happy Go Lucky Spice Trader. Where You Lived: Saudi Arabia. How You Died: Typhoid fever.

Who Were You In a Past Life?

Religions ...Can't live with them.. Can't burn down their temples.

Item One

Stephanie Collopy sued Portland archdiocese for child support for a child fathered by Arturo Uribe, then a seminarian and now a priest at a Portland, Ore., parish. In its answer to the lawsuit, the church maintained that the child's mother had engaged "in unprotected intercourse … when [she] should have known that could result in pregnancy", i.e. why didn't she take the pill or insist that her lover use a condom? In other words, it's all her fault . My advice to priests: Stay away from women, those trouble making bitches, and stick to your regular fare of little boys.

Item Two

Dr. Shazia Khalid, a doctor at a Pakistan Petroleum plant in the wild Pakistani region of Baluchistan, was beaten and raped one night in her own home in a guarded compound. She was warned by officials at her work and at the police station that if she reported the crime, she would be arrested for adultery or fornication - since she admits to sex outside of marriage - unless she can provide four male eyewitnesses to the rape. When she tried to contact her family, she was drugged and locked in a psychiatric hospital in Karachi. After her husband took her home, the couple was put under house arrest and the husband's grandfather tried to set up a mob to kill her, to save the family's honor. The couple was eventually allowed to leave the country, but without their son. They are now in London, trying to emigrate to Canada, so that they can send for their son.

Item Three

Mukhtaran Bibi is 28-year-old woman who was gang-raped as "punishment" meted out by a local tribal council in retaliation for her teenage brother's alleged affair with a woman from another tribe. Instead of killing herself as tradition demanded, Mukhtaran reported the rape to the police. Her story was soon picked up by the national and international media.Today, several of the rapists are on death row, and others on the tribal council face prison sentences. Under international pressure, Pakistan President Pervez Musharraf presented Mukhtaran with about $8,300 as compensation. Rather than take the money and leave her village, Mukhtaran used the funds to build two schools, one for girls and one for boys.

For this, they killed a tree - Part Deux

Actually, it's part deux and final, because it's too exhausting to keep track of stupid articles in the papers.

So today's latest news is: «Sizzling summer temperatures across the United States have sent flocks of consumers to their local ice cream parlors, driving up sales of frozen treats from sunny California to the muggy East Coast». GASP! PEOPLE EAT MORE ICE CREAM WHEN IT'S HOT!!! NO KIDDING!?

Next they'll tell us that children prefer ice cream to boiled broccoli!!

For this, they killed a tree

Faced with terrorism, the Pope has prayed for God to do something about it. Yes folks, the Pope prays! STOP THE PRESSES!

Terms of Endearment

The following article by Nguyen Ivy is published in Tieng Magazine [http://www.tiengmag.com/article58.html].

The Impact of the Lack of "You" and "I" in the Vietnamese Language

Anh, Chi, Em, Co, Chu, Cau, Di, Ong, Ba, Bac. Anyone familiar with the Vietnamese language knows that there are few polite ways of referring to a second person or oneself by simply using the words “you” and “I”, aside from the using title of said person’s relation to oneself. As an American-born Vietnamese, I often wonder why my people have not adopted those vaguely direct words, equivalent to languages around the world, when doing so would be less mind-boggling on all of us speakers. We have had our chances to adapt, but somehow resisted that change after over a thousand years of Chinese occupation, followed by the French and Americans. Within this haphazard gumball-machine-like diversity of our terms of address, why did we not abandon all of these words for a simpler equivalent of “you” and “I”? The answer is simple: our system works a thousand times better.

Before I continue any further, allow me to digress a bit to provide a bit of background for readers less familiar with the Vietnamese culture: as typical of Asian cultures, we greatly value filial piety, and the elderly are looked upon with great respect and honor. A son is expected to take care of his father once he has grown until said father dies, and that son expects to be taken care of by his son, until he dies. All are respected, but each generation earns more respect as they grow older and gain more knowledge.

To quote Van Le, the former vice dean of the University of Saigon, "In our language, it is very difficult for children to be rude or impolite". The same goes for adults of all ages. How can we, when we are constantly reminded of our rank compared to the person we face? Everyone greets one another, even in everyday conversation, by their rank. Take a typical phrase for meeting an older woman, as in example. In such case, one would say “Chao Co, Co co khoe khong?” Co, in this case, means Auntie, assuming a close relationship with that person, regardless of geniality. In English, one would merely say, “Hello, how are you?” In this case, you can mean anything-you, as in a younger kid; you, as in an equal-ranking friend; or you, an elder. Said in the wrong tone or with the wrong expression and a simple statement like the above can be interpreted in ways unintended: the Vietnamese specificity is a thousand times safer.

The custom of referring to oneself by one’s rank or in third person is similar to the alternative to “you” in the sense that these terms establish clear boundaries and rank. Take for example, words a father might use to chastise his child: “Ba khong muon con lam do,” which translates to “I, your father, do not want you, my child, to do that.” In this way we know who is ordering whom-the father is definitely in charge. Reversibly, an irate, English-speaking father will say, “I do not want you to do that,” and the vagueness creates no boundaries whosoever. Who, exactly, is the father? I? You? The sense of respect for the father is lost with such an equal playing field.

From a perspective of one caught in the middle, is using “you” and “I” any different? Extremely, in the way that these two words level the playing field. I have heard again and again that American-born children are more sassy then Vietnamese children, and this answer shows why. When talking to my parents in English, these terms break down the formal barriers, and I can express more intimate thoughts without having to be interrupted with the reminder that they are my parents. The same goes with my teachers: the use of “ you” and “I” seems to make the teachers give us students more respect, and we give them less. Still, I always find myself a bit more sassy when using “you” and “I” with my elders. This sense of equality promotes the freedom of choice. We children are not compelled to listen to our elders, and are free to make our own decision.

Contrarily, the power of these terms to establish these boundaries is why there is such strong filial piety in the Vietnamese. After all, every time one talks with one’s family, one is reminded of the relationship, whether that relationship is with cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings, parents, or grandparents. Once the thought of leaving to make his own way in this world enters someone’s head, they are immediately reminded of the duty to their parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and younger siblings, simply by the way he addresses them. They are his family— he should not, and will not leave them. With that thought in mind, one can be sure of being cared for once we can no longer care for ourselves, as long as we do our duty when we can. That is why there are nearly no nursing homes and social security plans for the old in Vietnam-they will be cared for without question.

Although I had earlier stated that we Vietnamese chose not to use “you” and “I”, saying that we are unable to use those words would be truer. The Vietnamese social structure relies on the strength of different rank and reverence, and will likely crumble with the equality of reverence that “you” and “I” brings. We are an interdependent people, caring for the old and cared for by the young. If one were to assert the right to make our own decisions, the entire structure will crumble-the old must rely on social security and nursing homes, while the young do as they please. Sounds familiar? While we can go on living with that change in social structure like the Vietnamese Americans have been able to, I doubt any person will be as audacious enough to actually use those terms.

Similarly, the use of rank and titles to address others in the English language will face the same difficulties as the hypothesized introduction of “you” and “I” into the Vietnamese language. We Americans are too firm on individuality and equality to prostrate our egos in the face of superiors. In addition, I doubt any of us are willing to deal with the hassle of so many titles.

So, are these two cultures meant to mix? While some aspects of our culture are easily adaptable and changed, others like our language remain firmly individual. Like the two separate hemispheres each culture originated in, we can only meet at some points-the rest are on opposite ends of the world. Though change is always welcome, there is no gaining new ideas without losing the old, and in the interest of preserving our culture, maybe East and West are meant stay in their own hemispheres.

A two-faced world

(translated by Nguyen Thanh Truc)

it can not compress those long miserable nights
it can not undo all the mistakes
it can not copy the fun events
this world is filled with sorrow
(the naked letter)

it can not paste the pictures into our heart
it can not refresh an old love
it can not backup a beautiful afternoon
(this world is silent - as a quiet library)
the tiny neon light cannot outshine a harvest moon

it can not preview the future
it can not debug a good bye
it can not delete our precious memories
this world seems strange
(the naked letter)

UPDATE: I was finally able to track down the original poem, in Vietnamese, by Song Vinh. Here goes:

Thế giới binary

đâu có thể nào compress những đêm dài
đâu có thể nào undo những lầm lỡ
đâu có thể nào copy những cuộc vui
thế giới quanh đây ngậm ngùi
(những lá thư không phong bì)

đâu có thể nào paste hình ảnh vào tim nhau
đâu có thể nào new một tình yêu đã cũ
đâu có thể nào back up một buổi chiều
(hai đứa bên nhau thư viện vắng)
thế giới quanh đây trầm lặng
chỉ ánh đèn le lói giữa trời quen

đâu có thể nào preview một tương lai
đâu có thể nào debug một lời từ giã
đâu có thể nào delete kỷ niệm đôi ta
thế giới quanh đây xa lạ
(những lá thư không cần tem)

SongVinh

Universalité et banalisation de la souffrance

Franchement, je m’en fous des victimes du récent acte de terrorisme à Londres. Oh, bien sûr, si j’étais en face des blessés, des corps mutilés, des parents éplorés, bien sûr, cela me toucherait. Je ressentirais la même horreur qui a saisi le monde devant le spectacle des ravages de l’attentat du 11 septembre. Mais autrement…

Je lis sur l’Internet les témoignages de compassion et d’admiration pour les victimes londoniennes et les condamnations des auteurs de l’attentat. De nouveaux blogs ont été créés pour commémorer ce drame, certains blogs existants ont affiché des graphiques, des logos, des articles spécialement dédiés au courage des victimes. Moi, je suis incapable d’éprouver autre chose qu’une vague et fugace pitié, qui commence d’ailleurs à évoluer vers une certaine lassitude : oui, ok, ça va, on le sait que les Londoniens sont braves, rappel des bombardements durant la deuxième guerre mondiale, we are not afraid, bla bla bla…

Tiens, faisons un petit sondage : combien de Britanniques ressentent encore quelque chose pour les victimes du tsunami d’il y a quelques mois? Combien d’Américains sont déchirés par le sort des Irakiens tués ou blessés dans le dernier attentat?

Je ne dis pas donnant-donnant. Je n’octroie pas ma compassion en échange de la pitié de quelqu’un d’autre. Ce que je veux dire, c’est que la souffrance est fatigante à la longue, surtout la souffrance d’autrui. Si un de mes enfants était tué, que ce soit dans un accident ou un attentat ou à la suite d’une maladie, je ne crois pas que je lui survivrai longtemps. Mais les enfants des autres? Les parents, les conjoints, les amis des autres? Êtes-vous inconsolables sur le sort des Soudanais à Dafour? Pleurez-vous pour les victimes de viol au Congo? Les camps de réfugiés en Afrique, les massacres ethniques dans les Balkans, la torture en Iraq et en Syrie, l’oppression des femmes dans les villages d’Afghanistan, la prostitution des enfants en Asie du Sud-Est, l’abattage des enfants de rue au Brésil, etc…Tout cela vous coupe-t-il l’appétit? Ou est-ce que, comme moi, vous venez de commencer votre nième régime pour pouvoir rentrer dans votre maillot de bain avant la fin de l’été?

The need for simple human-to-human relationships is becoming increasingly urgent…. Today the world is smaller and more interdependent. One nation’s problems can no longer be solved by themselves completely. Thus, without a sense of universal responsibility, our very survival becomes threatened. Basically, universal responsibility is feeling for other people’s suffering just as we feel our own, It is the realization that even our enemy is entirely motivated by the quest for happiness. We must recognize that all beings want the same thing that we want. This is the way to achieve a true understanding, unfettered by artificial consideration.
HH The Dalai Lama

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Fantasia 2005! Hurrah!!

Fantasia 2005 starts tomorrow. Their official website: http://www.fantasiafest.com/en/index.php

I'll see you there.

Downfall of an ex-Beauty Queen

How can I say this without sounding vain and arrogant…

I used to be very beautiful when I was young. Not just pretty or cute, cause most young people are good-looking by the simple virtue of their youth. No, I was drop-dead gorgeous, the type of beauty that makes people walk into lampposts. Two real I-swear-to-God anecdotes to prove my claim. Geneva 1970s : I was working as a tour guide when I was accosted by a man claiming to be the Vice-president of the Miss World Competition Secretariat in England (he gave me his business card as proof). He asked me to write to him for the official entry forms so that I could get the necessary sponsors and become a contestant. Montreal 1980s : I was being followed on the street by a persistent admirer, so I found a policeman and complained to him : «Officer, this man is following me and pestering me!». The cop answered : «Can’t say I blame him!». He shooed the other guy away, then turned to me and asked for my phone number.

Now that I have established my claim as a beauty queen, let’s get to the real point of this post: looks do matter. Because of the way I was raised (very strictly), I was never really aware of my good looks nor did I know how to take advantage of them. I grew up thinking that people are naturally kind and helpful, traffic agents are normally forgiving and bus drivers always, always stop their bus and wait if they see you running from afar. It is well known however that good looking and/or tall people get promoted more often and are considered as more honest and trustworthy in polls. I've learned recently that parents tend to favour their better looking children over the homely ones. Yes, looks do matter and I was Queen of the world.

That world started crumbling as soon as I reached menopause. I inflated like a blimp and started losing my hair. Men no longer stare with open mouth when I walk in a room and customs agents are now demanding that I open my suitcases instead of waving me by with a smile like before. And I still get startled when I suddenly catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror because I don't recognize my reflection.

Last weekend I hit rock bottom. I went to a beauty salon to have my hair done. As he was washing my hair, the shampoo boy was chatting with another apprentice working at the sink next to us. Since he wasn't paying attention, he splashed my face with water. Without even turning off the water, he mumbled some apologies, grabbed a towel and started wiping away my makeup. Normally, it takes a lot to make me angry. Years of being «ugly» after my days of glory have cut me down a few notches and made me more tolerant and forgiving. But this time, I howled such a string of curses that the salon went suddenly silent and the owner came running to apologize and liberate me from the oaf. When I finally left the salon, my hair was dried and coiffed, but half of my face had no makeup and the other half was all smudged up. In other words, I must be the only woman in the world that leaves a beauty salon uglier and scarier-looking than when she first went in.

Don't hate me cause I'm not beautiful!

Les perles du bac

Repris d'un article d'Éric Fottorino paru dans Le Monde d'aujourd'hui:

Pour le plaisir, sans cruauté aucune, sourire aux lèvres, on s'est offert une petite tranche de rigolade avec les perles du bac, qui s'enfilent joyeusement sur la Toile. Millésimées 2004 (en attendant le cru en cours), elles donnent une idée de ce que peuvent découvrir les examinateurs...

L'histoire est manifestement un grand champ de créativité pour les candidats. Parmi les affirmations détonantes, nous avons relevé que "Napoléon III était le neveu de son grand-père" , que les pères de la révolution russe se nommaient "Lénine et Stalone" . Que, "privé de frites, Parmentier inventa la pomme de terre"...

Si l'on remonte vraiment dans le temps, on peut encore apprendre que "les empereurs romains organisaient des combats de radiateurs" (des combats très chauds, on suppose). Clovis mourut "à la fin de sa vie" et Charlemagne "se fit châtrer en l'an 800" .

En sciences naturelles, il est intéressant d'apprendre que, "pour faire des œufs, la poule doit être fermentée par un coq" . Encore mieux : "les escargots sont tous des homosexuels" et "les calmars géants saisissent leurs proies entre leurs gigantesques testicules" , tandis que "l'artichaut est constitué de feuilles et de poils touffus plantés dans son derrière" .

On est aussi très heureux, et édifié, de savoir que, "pour mieux conserver la glace, il faut la geler" , et que 1 kilo de mercure "pèse pratiquement 1 tonne". Au rayon des mœurs étrangères, précisons qu'autrefois "les Chinois n'avaient pas d'ordinateurs car ils comptaient avec leurs boules".

Dans le concert des "têtes", il en est qui dépassent la moyenne avec ces assertions logiques : "Le cerveau des femmes s'appelle la cervelle" ; "le cerveau a deux hémisphères, l'un pour surveiller l'autre" ; "le cerveau a des capacités tellement étonnantes qu'aujourd'hui pratiquement tout le monde en a un".

Ouf ! On allait presque en douter, surtout en lisant cette bourde, qui vaut 20/20 : "La datation au carbone 14 permet de savoir si quelqu'un est mort à la guerre." Et cette dernière : "La terre rote sur elle-même." Là, il y a un hic !

America the Beautiful

A colleague at work, having read my blog, accused me of being anti-american. I glibly replied: «Aren't we all?», but I felt bad afterwards for acting as if her opinion were not worthy of a more intelligent answer.

So, anonymous colleague [Let's call her Lisa S., or better yet, L. Simpson], here's - belatedly - your more intelligent answer.

During the 60s, I was living in what used to be called Saigon. My family was relatively well off, so we supported the government in power and the US occupation of Vietnam. My grandpa especially was a fervent admirer of Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. My classmates and I were too young and too stupid at the time to understand politics or care about it, but we used to ogle those handsome GIs that were milling about in Saigon and we listened to US music every afternoon (and yes, to that Good Morning Vietnam guy). So you could say that whatever bitterness I have against the United States, I did not develop until much later on.

I'm not going to list all the sins and the stupidities of the present American administration, they are well documented on the Internet and in the foreign (i.e. non-American) press. Since the Vietnam War, I've learned to accept that every country acts to protect what it considers to be its best interests and that non-whites can be mass murdered by whites without any hope for redress or justice, at least during my lifetime. I also used to believe that somehow, the United States are special and that, being the only superpower left, they can afford to actually walk their talk. For if you are the strongest, richest, most influential country in the whole frigging world, shouldn't you also be the freest, most generous, most tolerant country? The centre of the universe, where people from every where else would want to congregate to bask in your wisdom and your glory? HAH! Big frigging HAH!

And that's why I am anti-american. Just as I think that women can be as stupid as men, but stupidity is forgivable in women because most of them are kept uneducated and ignorant, while men have all the chances and opportunities to become enlightened and yet they remain just as stupid.

Michael Jackson

Bien sûr qu'il est coupable.

Bien sûr qu'il est pédéraste et pédophile, c'est évident: 99% de ses photos publicitaires le montrent en compagnie de jeunes garçons. La famille de proxénètes qui l'a traîné en justice n'a pas obtenu satisfaction mais ses autres victimes ont été richement dédommagées et se tiendront coi. Bien sûr qu'il y a une justice différente pour les riches et les puissants. O.J. Simpson l'a bien démontré.

Bien sûr que l'avenir sera difficile pour sa dernière victime, qui aura non seulement à survivre le cirque médiatique, mais aussi à faire face à ses camarades d'école et surtout à ses parents qui l'ont vendu à tous les niveaux et sur tous les plans. Il y aura sans doute un film, et sûrement un livre-confession de la mère éplorée, à temps pour les fêtes.

Et pourtant, malgré tout, je suis contente que le jury ait pris la décision qu'il a prise, car un séjour en prison l'aurait complètement détruit, physiquement et mentalement. Tant de talent gaspillé...

Cake or Death? - Part Deux

Last week, I had to leave town for a few days (no, the CIA wasn’t on to me, nor was the RCMP…yet). I took the train on the way out and the plane on the way back. Let’s compare the experiences.

Train
I arrived at the train station 10 minutes before departure time, waited 10 minutes in line and boarded quickly by showing my pre-bought ticket (first class). Found my seat without any problem and started reading the plentiful papers and magazines that were thoughtfully displayed right at the entrance of my wagon. The train departed on time and two minutes later, somebody was pushing a cart along the aisle offering us (free) refreshments: wine, beer, juice, munchies, etc, along with a menu. On her way back, she took our orders. Fifteen minutes later, dinner was served: green beans and asparagus salad, grilled salmon served on a bed of couscous with roasted vegetables, three kinds of cheese, then a fruit mousse for dessert. Wine flowed freely during the meal, followed by brandy or Porto. On arrival, I quickly left the train and easily found my way to the taxi station where a cab took me to my hotel door in five minutes.

Plane
I had to leave for the airport two hours in advance of my flight: one hour to get to the airport (because my departure time coincided with the rush hour downtown) and one hour for security checks. My bag went through the x-ray machine, but I also had to show my boarding pass and an ID, take off my jacket (two passengers had to remove their shoes) and go through a metal detection gateway before walking for kilometres looking for the departure gate. There was some delay, so we had to wait for another half hour, sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs where a nervous passenger shook the whole row with his twitching legs. We eventually boarded, but not before showing our pass and our ID one more time. My seat? First row, right next to the emergency exit, of course, which meant: 1) no window, 2) no access to my handbag during the flight because there was no seat in front of me under which to place the bloody handbag so it had to be put away in the bin above the seats, 3) I was in charge of opening the door in case of a plane crash and 4) the bathrooms are way in the back, but I would have to climb over two other passengers’ laps anyway to go pee. There were no meal or any such nonsense, although we were offered coffee or soft drinks. After the plane landed, there were some curses or something that prevented the doors from being opened right away so we had to stand in the aisle for ten minutes with the air circulation turned off (but not the elevator music). Then, once we got into the terminal, we had to – again – wander aimlessly for kilometres, going up and down elevators, before reaching the luggage carrousels. More wait, then off to the taxi stations where I had to haggle the rate with the taxi driver. And finally, after half an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic, home sweet home.

The Frustrations of a Desynchronized Life

Here’s my theory on how life works: every creature on Earth (and probably in the Universe, but let’s start with Earth) lives in its own personal bubble of time-space continuum. Each bubble co-exists with all the others and most of the bubbles of the same species are bungled together like bunches of frog eggs. But once in a while a bubble would get so desynchronized with the rest that the creature inhabiting it actually feels like they have been kidnapped by aliens during their sleep and dropped in the wrong time period.

You can guess where I’m going. My bubble is so desynchronized [(All together) How desynchronized is it?] I sometimes feel like an alien myself, trying to blend in with the Earthlings so as to not attract any attention, while being barely able to conceal my impatience with the people around me. For instance: I have a home phone (landline) for my Internet connection and because my banker said that I would look like a shady character without a regular telephone number. But I am using my cell phone as my main phone and whenever someone asks for my phone number, I look suspiciously like a shady character going «Um...uhh.. let me look at my PDA». Each time I give someone my home number, I also give them my cell phone number and tell them repeatedly: «Please put the cell phone number as the main number, don’t bother calling my home number, I will not pick up the phone, remember, don’t call me at that number». It’s no use, they keep calling the home number, get a message that my voice mail box is full and get all pissed off. I even have some close friends saying: Well, I didn’t call your cell phone, cause I didn’t want it to cost you money.

Other instances of unsynchronized lives are my tastes in music or my use of the computer. For some reason, all the people I know that are my age have stopped listening to any type of music after the eighties. They’ve heard vaguely of Eminem, and they don’t know about techno, house or trance or any such nonsense. Computerwise, they barely know how to open Outlook to read their emails so don’t ask them to open any attachments. I have a friend I’ve been trying to teach how to forward jokes she received without forcing her correspondent to open twenty attachments before reaching the joke, but she still doesn’t understand, so now I just delete any email of hers that contains jokes. All in all, my friends’ knowledge of computer technology is hard to distinguish from my 82-year-old mother’s knowledge.

On the other hand, I must look like a retarded old coot to my children and their friends because I don’t know Nas or The Game and when I instant-message my children, I type much too slowly for them and I can’t read their stupid abbreviations, except the ubiquitous LOL, ROTFLMAO and IMHO. I don’t feel bad or embarrassed about that because that’s how it should be, considering the age difference. But why am I so many light years ahead of my peers?

Family Affairs

My son, the athlete

Last Monday, I was having supper with some friends. We were sipping our lattes when my cell phone rang: my youngest son Forty had a fall while practicing some acrobatic moves and dislocated his pinkie. He was being taken to the Hôtel Dieu Hospital and I should go meet him there.

I spare you the details of the ordeal. I arrived at the hospital at 10 something and we did not get home until 3 in the morning, 95% of the time were spent waiting. They reset his finger and put it in a brace but we would have to return tomorrow morning for an appointment at 8:30. So the next day, we were back at 8:15. In the parking lot, the attendant asked me how long I was going to be and I naively said: Oh, about an hour or two. He didn’t burst out laughing, bless his heart, but just looked at me funny and said: Gimme a deposit of 12$ just in case. This time, we did not get out until 3 in the afternoon. Forty’s finger is now in a cast and, guess what, we have to come back on Friday at 9:30 to remove the cast, so I figure I will have to clear my agenda until 4 or 5 PM that day.

My mother, the tragedienne

I was reading blogs on the web when suddenly my mother appeared on my side. I have taken back the key to my apartment which I gave her in a moment of weakness, so I was not expecting her arrival, but she has taken advantage of today being cleaning day and the cleaning lady leaving the front door open because she has to clean both our apartments.

My mother, all solemn and tragic, said: «I’m here to beg you to stop being angry at me.»

— [startled] WTF? Please go away.
— I don’t have much longer to live, you know. Please don’t stay mad at me.
— You’ve been saying this for the past five years. Would you please leave me alone!
— So, are you still mad at me or not?
— Mom, I don’t have time for your childish games. It doesn’t matter whether I’m mad at you or not, I don’t want to be with you. So if you’re trying to get me to say that I will spend more time with you, I’m telling you right now that I won’t and I will continue avoiding you as much as I can. I don’t want you to spy on me or to check on me or to keep calling me for no reason. I used to care, now I don’t anymore, so just go away.
— But you know that I worry that something bad happened to you if I don’t see your car in the parking.
— Again, it’s your problem, Mom. I keep telling you to get medical help for your condition, but you keep refusing to see a psychologist, so I will not bear the consequences of your craziness anymore.
— What if I promise you that I won’t do these crazy stuff again.
— You’ve been saying this for years now, and every month or so, you go nuts and pull your crazy stunts again. Look, we’ve been having the same conversation over and over again. Enough with your drama queen act and your tragic scenes take two. Just go back to your apartment and leave me in peace.

I’m marking down this date, to see how long it will take her this time before she has another attack.

Mingling with the Jet Set

This evening I was invited to a private concert given by an award-winning, genuine world famous pianist at his own home. My friend Fongue was the one who got me the invite, so I had to agree to pick him up and take him home. The concert was to be followed by a buffet reception and we were all supposed to bring some food, pot luck style. Fongue, who has been to many more fancy cocktail parties than me, decided that we would go to our usual Vietnamese food caterer and pick up some food to bring to the concert and while we’re there, we’ll have something to eat because the concert doesn’t start until 8 PM and we don’t want our growling stomachs to attract glares and snarly comments. So that’s what we did. I was wearing my new coral necklace and feeling pretty good. Of course, I bought too much food, because I didn’t want to look cheap.

There were about a hundred people at the maestro’s house: lots of Vietnamese, most of them his students, some Chinese, some Japanese, some Caucasians, a lot of them Russians. We went straight to the kitchen to put down our potluck food and meet the master’s mother, a lovely and gracious 87 year old little lady. Guests were milling around, waiting in line to pay respect to her and the master’s students were busy setting up chairs in the living room for the concert. The master himself was nowhere to be seen. Fongue was busy networking, shaking hands with the men and kissing and hugging the women: he’s probably the only person there (beside the master) who knows everybody. I was busy admiring the master’s superb bougainvillea, with its massive heads of magenta flowers cascading down a trellis.

By 8PM, everybody was seated and one of the students went to fetch the master, who was resting in another room. Standing ovation when he arrived, tan and smiling. The concert was a wonderful treat. The master decided to play exclusively Chopin pieces. His Fantaisie Op. 49 almost brought tears to my eyes. But during some of the pieces, I thought I heard some accompanying trumpets, although I couldn’t find the source of those sounds and nobody else seemed to notice them. The audience being composed of adoring fans, each piece was followed with thundering applauses and the master graciously gave an encore.

Then we were directed to the reception room where the buffet was set. Guests who brought food went to the kitchen and proceeded to prepare and serve their respective dishes. I brought a salt-steamed chicken with sticky rice and a chicken feet salad. Fongue brought a shrimp and pork salad and something else. There were also fried noodles, egg rolls, lots of sushi, tabouleh salad, cold cuts, etc.. For dessert, three cakes, a giant fruit salad, some Japanese strawberry thingies, etc..

After I brought my chicken and chicken feet salad to the buffet table, I went to the kitchen with my plate, and ate leaning against the stove, because the crowd was just too overwhelming. Because of Fongue's stupid idea, I was too full to eat anything more than a few egg rolls. Soon I was joined in the kitchen by a few people I know and we talked pleasantly about the concert. That’s when I found out that the trumpets I thought I was hearing were actually some guy snoring loudly during the concert.

I also got to talk to the master’s mother who just got back from Vietnam. The master eventually came to join our group and promised to do more private concerts after he gets back from his tours abroad. And we’re all invited!

P.S. I’ve got compliments for my coral necklace! And a Japanese potter/painter whose work I admire said that the minute she looked at me, she knew I was an artist, because my clothes and my jewellery were so creative! And I took pictures of the bougainvillea before we left! What a perfect evening!

Viet Nam Viet Nam

Fidèle à mes habitudes de procrastination, je n’ai pas pu terminer mon article à temps pour le 30e anniversaire de la chute de Saigon et de la fin de la guerre du Vietnam. Je me suis donc retrouvée avec le dilemme suivant : prendre mon temps pour pondre un article génial et le publier avec des mois de retard, ou vous présenter tout de go mes pensées disloquées style coq-à-l’âne. Deux secondes d’hésitation, et voici le résultat de mes élucubrations.

La communauté vietnamienne en Amérique du Nord est frappante par sa similitude avec la communauté cubaine à Miami, en Floride. Toutes deux sont composées de membres de l’élite bourgeoise (additionnés, dans le cas des Vietnamiens, des rescapés de l’armée sud-vietnamienne), férocement anti-communistes, qui traînent encore la nostalgie des privilèges de leur classe sociale et rêvent de reprendre les rênes du pouvoir. Tous ces anciens ministres, professeurs, directeurs, ingénieurs, etc..se sont retrouvés dans un nouveau milieu où leur rang social, leurs études supérieures et leur richesse matérielle ou culturelle accumulés au cours d’une vie antérieure n’ont plus aucune valeur et où leur origine ethnique les condamne d’office à une infériorité implicite parmi la population d’accueil.

Mon père, qui possédait des plantations d’hévéas au Vietnam et était millionnaire, n’avait pas pu trouver d’autre emploi que celui de placeur dans un cinéma de Montréal. Il n’était pas le seul dans cette situation. La plupart des hommes de son âge n’avaient pas la formation requise pour occuper des postes de cadres, ni l’énergie nécessaire pour faire des travaux manuels et se retrouvaient donc seuls et oisifs à la maison. Par contre, leurs femmes, plus débrouillardes de par leur condition de femmes, plus adaptables à leur nouvel environnement, découvraient pour la première fois un monde de libertés auxquelles elles n’avaient jamais goûté et se lançaient sur le marché du travail avec d’autant plus de fougue qu’elles reconnaissaient le levier de libéralisation que leur donnait leur nouvelle autonomie économique. La famille traditionnelle est éclatée: le patriarche, déjà humilié quotidiennement dans ses contacts sociaux et professionnels, n’est plus respecté à la maison par sa femme qui souvent gagne un salaire plus élevé mais qui doit toujours assumer la totalité, sinon l'essentiel, des tâches ménagères, ni par ses enfants qui se rendent compte rapidement que leurs parents dépendent d’eux comme interprètes des arcanes de la société occidentale. C’est ainsi que se créent ces traumatismes psychologiques et ces chocs culturels et générationnels, sources de souffrances non exprimées et d’insatisfaction chronique qui sont le lot des familles de réfugiés vietnamiens. La culture asiatique ne reconnaît pas cette branche de la médecine qu’est la psychologie, et encore moins la psychiatrie. Les blessures du cœur restent non dites et non traitées et les cas de déséquilibre mental les plus visibles sont sources de honte et d’embarras.

C’est pour cela que les vieux dinosaures de la communauté vietnamienne, tout comme ceux de la diaspora cubaine de Miami, résistent par tous les moyens à l’intrusion d’une réalité implacable et inévitable. Ils savent au fonds d’eux-mêmes que leur jour de gloire ne reviendra plus jamais. Ils auront beau protester, boycotter et blackbouler, ils vont à contre-courant de la marche inéluctable de l’histoire. Leur haine du régime en place les rend aveugles et sourds à tout progrès ou développement favorable au Vietnam et leur patriotisme intéressé les place paradoxalement du côté des envahisseurs et des tortionnaires du peuple vietnamien, dans la file avec les Français et les Chinois d’antan. Ils vont en groupe manifester devant le Parlement canadien à Ottawa ou protester contre l’arrivée à Montréal de tel ou tel artiste du Vietnam.

Conversation typique avec ma mère, qui fait partie de ce groupe de réactionnaires :

- Pourquoi protestes-tu contre le concert de X?
- Parce que c’est un communiste!
- Mais ce n’est qu’un artiste. Qu’est-ce que tu lui reproches vraiment?
- Il représente le régime Vietcong, ces-sanguinaires-qui-oppriment-le-peuple-en-empêchant-toute-liberté-d’expression!
- Et en quoi est-ce différent de ce que fait ton groupe?
- Tu es partie avant la venue des communistes, tu ne sais pas de quoi ils sont capables.
- Oui mais, en quoi défends-tu la liberté en empêchant X de donner son concert?

Ces parangons de liberté étendent leur mainmise sur la diaspora vietnamienne, dans tous les domaines : les commerçants et les artistes soupçonnés d’être favorables au régime communiste sont boycottés, les citoyens suspects sont ostracisés (voire décapités, dans un cas célèbre, durant les années 70) et les journaux et revues communautaires sont remplis de propagande et de mésinformation.

Et pourtant, les émigrés vietnamiens retournent au pays par milliers. Ils préparent leurs voyages en cachette pour ne pas être accusés d'aider l’économie d’un régime haï, mais tout le monde le sait, puisque tout le monde le fait: les Vietnamiens ne peuvent vivre loin de leur terre natale. Certains retraités y retournent chaque année pour échapper aux rigueurs de l’hiver, bon nombre d'octogénaires achetant avec leurs précieuses devises étrangères l'illusion d'une virilité et d'un prestige longtemps déniés auprès de jeunes femmes en quête de dollars ou d’une voie de sortie. D’autres expatriés, plus jeunes, sont attirés comme des phalènes par un marché avide d’investissements et des politiques économiques permissives. Le Gouvernement vietnamien accueille à bras ouverts ces fils prodigues dont le retour renverse l’exode des cerveaux de l’avant-guerre, mais comme dans tout pays du tiers monde où les lois les plus libérales sont adoptées sans être pour autant appliquées, ces nouveaux entrepreneurs n’ont aucune protection effective et nombreux sont ceux qui, navigant sans boussole sur les eaux troubles de la corruption bureaucratique vietnamienne, se retrouvent détroussés, sans recours, pour n’avoir su choisir les bons pirates à soudoyer.

Le Vietnam a un bel avenir devant lui, malgré tout. Malgré les tonnes de bombes non explosées qui sont demeurées enfouies dans son sol, malgré la dioxine qui perdure encore dans les eaux, dans le vent, dans les arbres et dans le sang des hommes et des animaux, malgré l’incompétence, la corruption et l’incurie des vieux vétérans de l'armée de l'Oncle Ho qui s’agrippent encore farouchement à leur mandat du ciel, malgré un régime politique désuet qui freine le développement national pour des principes socialisants devenus sans objet, mais dont on ne peut se débarrasser, comme un morceau de papier toilette resté collé à la semelle du pays.

De temps en temps, je pense à mon pays d'origine, mais de moins en moins souvent. Je pense à ce petit pays de rien du tout qui s’est attiré les foudres d’une super-puissance située à l’autre bout de la terre et qui a reçu, en punition d’une faute inexistante qu’il a fallu inventer de toutes pièces, des milliers et des milliers de tonnes de bombes et de matières pathogènes. Je pense à ces millions de vies anonymes, victimes arbitraires de massacre, de torture, de prison, d'exécution sommaire, parfois sous les yeux des membres de leurs familles. Je pense à cette avalanche de souffrances inexplicables déversées depuis des centaines d’années sur ce peuple. Je pense à tous ces crimes commis avant, pendant et après le départ des derniers soldats étrangers sur une longue liste d'envahisseurs, crimes qui resteront à jamais impunis. J’y pense et je me dis : What the fuck? Comment ça marche déjà, ce bidule de karma?

I miss Ask Jeeves

When Ask Jeeves used to be a free community-based search engine, my son and I loved to go to their site to answer questions, each in our specialized field, computers for him, languages for me. I used to stay up late at night to try and answer the questions or read other people's answers. I ended up knowing all the regulars and having my favorites; it was like belonging to a very erudite, encyclopedic-minded family. Then Ask Jeeves kicked us out, to become a publicly traded company on the Nasdaq Index and we all went through a painful period of cold turkey withdrawal.

So this evening, when my son directed me to a similar website called Wondir, after so many years of doing without, I was full of hopes. Alas! The new site is a dud! Repetitive, dull questions from mostly incredibly, eye-rollingly stupid people, half of which seem to be pregnant and the other half looking for answers to their homework questions.

I'll give them a month or two to clean up their act. But the search continues. The quest is still on.

Gutter minds everywhere

Pictures of President Bush holding hands with Prince Abdullah are circulating everywhere on the web (Goddamn it! I can't post any pictures!), raising widespread snickers and sarcastic comments.

It's a sad thing, really, because nothing could be more pure and innocent. I'm talking about the handholding of course, not the mercantile relationship between the Bush family and the Saudi kingdom.

In the Middle East, as well as in Asia, it is perfectly normal and common to see men walking hand in hand with other men or women holding hands with other women. When I was a little girl in Vietnam, during the war, a frequent sight would be a couple of RVNA soldiers on leave, walking hand in hand on the street. Soldiers with guns and grenades hanging from their belts, holding hands, for crissake!!! It didn't raise any eyebrows, then. On the other hand (pun barely noticed), if it were a woman and a man holding hands in public, the disapproving scowls or the contemptuous smirks from the crowd would be enough to shame the couple into hiding.

It was only later on, when I went to Europe to study, that I realized that the Western culture considers such mark of affection between two people of the same sex as exclusively sexual. Consider these two contradictory paradigms. In the West, touching is ok between a man and a woman, but depraved between two men or two women. In the Orient, touching is sinful between a man and a woman, and perfectly normal between men and between women. Which culture is right?

This is what I suggest: how about taking our minds out of the gutter, or rather, how about taking love, sexual or otherwise, out of the gutter, and accepting any consensual demonstration of affection as normal or even desirable, 'cause, really, what's more heartwarming to you: two people hugging or a fistfight?

My beef with movie and food critics

I haven’t set foot in a movie theatre for years. And I love movies. But I either watch them on my DVD reader or as PPV. I can’t stand the long lines at the ticket booth, the vibrating loudspeakers, the endless commercials, the sticky floors and the talking spectators. It’s as if the movie industry has decided that my age group is no longer relevant, so now movie theatres and moviemakers are only catering to the young, dumb, male demographic. If we are to believe today’s film repertoires, the only problems facing the world are: how to get laid, how to shoot up people and/or blow up stuff and how to get laid. The music videos show the same single-mindedness: tits and asses and blingblings.

And speaking of movies, I’m really fed up with white people critiquing non-white films, especially Oriental films. Now, being a reasonable person, I don’t think that one’s race should interfere with one’s judgement, but when it comes to film critiquing, it seems like a white critic only has two attitudes: paternalistic backhanded compliments («It’s not bad,… for a Chinese film») or paternalistic extravagant compliments («Superb scenery, an unforgettable story infused with deep poetry and profound wisdom»). As a Vietnamese individual, I can tell you that all Vietnamese films have shitty dialogues and barely acceptable actors. It’s nobody’s fault: the country has only been at peace for the past 30 years and actors have traditionally been considered by society as scum, the equivalent of gypsies and prostitutes. It will take some time for the industry to gain experience and enough prestige to build a local pool of writers, directors and actors worthy of international esteem. But because of the prevalent political correctness and the physical beauty of the land, Vietnamese films have been riding on a wave of sympathy at various film festivals to collect numerous prizes and awards. My theory is that these awards are given to foreign films because the white judges are dazzled by the exotic scenery and the strange clothes and interior decorations. In the case of Vietnamese films, the stories are practically non existent, the action usually switches between slow and very slow and the dialogues are artificial and woodenly read. BUT the landscapes are gorgeous.

The same incompetence is displayed by food critics, although the situation is not as bad as in the film critique field. I once read a critic (I think he was Indian, Ashok something) complain how bland a Vietnamese dish was, adding in the last paragraph: «At the end of our meal, the waiter asked us why we didn’t use the dip sauce provided». And God knows how many food critics have been comparing the Vietnamese «pho» noodle-soup to bouillabaisse, oblivious to, or more likely ignorant of the fact that, as a country, Vietnam predates France by thousands of years. Apparently, these people get a salary, on top of having a corporate credit card to pay for their meals. So I’m just gonna say it and deal with any flaming afterwards: Food critics, economists and meteorologists are the three professions where you can say just about any nonsense you want and still keep your job.

Wanted: a child whisperer

You must have read, like me, the story of this five year old girl in Florida who was arrested and cuffed by the police for throwing temper tantrums in class. Having read this brief report, you must have thought, like me, that the school’s call to the police was overkill and that the police handcuffing an unruly five year old is a tad excessive. Why not taser her while they’re at it?

Well, the whole incident was videotaped and you can watch it here: http://www.sptimesphotos.com/video/office.html

According to the tape, this was not the first incident where the police had to be called. I don’t know her medical situation, but she probably has some kind of attention-deficit or hyperactivity problems that should be looked at. My ex has a daughter who displays the same behaviour, although in her case it was compounded by a complete laissez-faire policy from the father. My point (and I’ve already made it in a previous post (http://samsarashmamsara.blogspot.com/2005/02/to-spank-or-not-to-spank.html) is that sometimes, you have to physically snap a child out of an emotional turmoil manifested in a temper tantrum, by force if necessary. In the case of the girl in the video, the handcuffing was a good move, and seemed to be the only trick that broke down her hostility and defiance. Maybe it’s my Asian side, but I don’t think it’s normal to let a five year old child wreck up a place, because the adults are afraid to be forceful and take charge of the situation.

This is how I speak, apparently

Your Linguistic Profile:

60% General American English

30% Yankee

10% Dixie

0% Midwestern

0% Upper Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Sir Spamalot

Lately, my email system at work has been infested with a tsunami of spams, mostly selling cheap softwares and the usual male enhancing devices. We are supposed to be protected by a filter. The filter works: it keeps rejecting emails that I forward to myself at work, mainly newspapers articles or lists of internet links. Then I noticed the trick used by spammers to overcome the filter barrier: in the subject field, those bastards put messages full of spelling mistakes, but which are easily understandable. In fact they are applying the method described in an email that has been circulating the web for some times now: the human brain is trained to recognize a word by its first and last letters and it will unredstnad hte atcaul menanig evne if hte wrod is msipseleld. So by intentionnally mispelling their messages, the spammers are fooling the filter and giving our security system the finger.

And speaking of mispelled words, I love these mistakes recently found in various spots: «my boyfiend» and «Allerte aux alergies» [This last one is a poster at a Metro grocery store. Somebody must have told them: Hey guys, there's a spelling mistake on your poster, it's spelled with two «l» and not just one. So they corrected it. True story (I have a picture of the poster).]

And, cause I'm in a good mood, here are some country music song titles: «If I Can't Be Number One In Your Life, Then Number Two On You», «I Still Miss You Baby, But My Aim's Gettin' Better» and «You're The Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly».

Fun with Google

Go to Google and type «insignifiant», then click «Search». You will be brought to Quebec Prime Minister Jean Charest's official webpage.

Back to Google. This time type: «moron». Illico Presto! You are at President Moron's website!

I could do this all afternoon, but the boss is lurking in the hallway.

May be you should skip this post

A few rants on various topics. I expect some disagreement. [Actually no, I’d be surprised if anybody reads my blog]

The myth of the brave and noble soldier

Let me explain first that, although I am a pacifist and abhor all wars, I am not always non violent, at least in thought. Being of a rather impetuous nature, I sometimes have fantasies of pounding somebody’s face in with a hammer or inflicting some other truly painful punishment to people I don’t like. But it’s just a harmless way of releasing my frustrations and normally it takes a lot to make me angry.

I have to confess however that I don’t hold soldiers in very high esteem, ranking them on the same level as, say butchers or baby seal clubbers, all bad karma inducing professions that are nevertheless considered necessary. That is why I don’t buy into that «brave and noble soldier» myth that’s permeating all the blogs I’ve read. All blogs, from all sides of the political rainbow in the US, would say something like: I approve/disapprove of the Iraqi war, but I support our brave soldiers. Why does the simple act of enrolling in the army automatically makes a person brave and noble? Recruiting officers may try to tart up a soldier’s horrible job description by appealing to his patriotism and to the noble mission of protecting his loved ones from the nation’s evil enemies. But in the end, he is still being paid to go out and kill other human beings.

Jack London said it better than me [duh!]:

«Young men, the lowest aim in your life is to become a soldier. The good soldier never tries to distinguish right from wrong. He never thinks; never reasons; he only obeys. If he is ordered to fire on his fellow citizens, on his friends, on his neighbours, on his relatives, he obeys without hesitation. If he is ordered to fire down a crowded street when the poor are clamouring for bread, he obeys and see the grey hairs of age stained with red and the life tide gushing from the breasts of women, feeling neither remorse nor sympathy. If he is ordered off as a firing squad to execute a hero or benefactor, he fires without hesitation, though he knows the bullet will pierce the noblest heart that ever beat in human breast.

A good soldier is a blind, heartless, soulless, murderous machine. He is not a man. His is not a brute, for brutes kill only in self-defense. All that is human in him, all that is divine in him, all that constitutes the man has been sworn away when he took the enlistment roll. His mind, his conscience, aye, his very soul, are in the keeping of his officer. No man can fall lower than a soldier—it is a depth beneath which we cannot go.»

You’ll go to hell where you will burn for all eternity

When Ask Jeeves used to be free, I used to go on religious forums and have long, impassionate arguments with Christian and Islamic members. I was not being provocative, I just wanted to understand how faith works, and why modern, well educated and well-read people could still believe in an anthropomorphic God, a father figure that literally forces mankind to worship him or else risk his wrath. What kind of god would be so insecure as to need to be worshipped? God created the whole universe, supposedly, but the devotion of the inhabitants of one tiny planet among zillions of others is that important to his ego? Why would he care? What is the purpose of a life whose goal is simply to go to heaven? Why did God bother creating humans at all or if he created them, why not plunk them in heaven right away, instead of making them jump through numerous hoops in order to eventually land in some kind of Disneyland, to live another tedious life, but this time with 72 virgins or with angels and harps, for all eternity. Of course, I never got any satisfactory answers to my questions. Eventually, I always ended being threatened with the burning fires of hell. Again, I had questions about that. If I’m dead and only my soul survives in the afterlife, why would I care about physical pain? I could be tortured forever, I wouldn’t feel a thing without a body with nerves, now would I? And if it’s damnation for all eternity, the worst fate in hell (or in heaven for that matter) would probably be boredom. And speaking of eternity, what kind of loving father would stay angry with his children forever and ever until the end of time?

Tous pourris

Vous êtes choqués par le scandale des commandites au Canada? Vous êtes bien naïfs! Une réaction plus réaliste à mon avis serait de grommeler un peu, de hausser les épaules et de retourner ensuite à vos activités habituelles en espérant qu’il fera beau ce week-end pour enfin pouvoir prendre votre café sur le balcon.

Bien sûr que c’est dégoûtant! Mais est-ce vraiment si surprenant? Répétons-le une fois de plus, pour éliminer tout doute possible: les politichiens sont tous des pourris, tous sans exception, à tous les niveaux!! Ceux qui sont dans le mauvais parti politique du moment iront se cacher, tandis que les autres iront faire leur petit numéro d’indignation («Je suis choqué, outré vous dis-je!») devant la télévision, en attendant la prochaine fois où ce sera à leur tour de se cacher et aux autres de crier au scandale.

Aux prochaines élections, vous aurez le choix entre voter pour votre parti habituel ou pour le parti adverse. Comprenez bien cependant que, quel que soit le parti qui sera élu, les politichiens continueront de se remplir les poches, les membres de leur famille et les petits copains continueront d’être nommés à des sinécures bien rémunérées et les représentants municipaux continueront de faire des voyages d’étude à Venise, à Hongkong ou à Tahiti avec leurs conjoints et/ou amants/maîtresses, à vos frais. Plus ça change…

Calorifère? comme disait Lénine. Pas grand chose. Il y a longtemps que les élus «gouvernent» tout seuls et font leurs magouilles entre eux, sans être vraiment inquiétés par la populace bovine qui les a mis au pouvoir. Si M. Martin était remplacé par, disons M. Harper, au poste de Premier Ministre du Canada, il n’y aurait aucune différence sensible, sinon que le Canada deviendrait une succursale des États-Unis. C’est pourquoi je dis bravo à tous ceux qui trichent dans leurs déclarations d’impôt ou qui payent cash sous la table. C’est illégal, malhonnête et injuste pour les autres contribuables, je vous entends tonitruer. Ben, évidemment! Mais expliquez-moi en quoi il serait normal, honnête et juste qu’un citoyen confie une bonne partie de son argent à des gens qui vont l’utiliser pour construire un jardin à Shanghai, par exemple, alors que les rues de Montréal sont trouées comme du gruyère. En quoi un effectif accru et des bureaux plus luxueux à la délégation québécoise à Paris apporteraient-ils plus de bonheur au peuple?

TOUS. POURRIS.

TOUS.

Wisdom comes with age?

Two separate events made me realize how much my thinking has changed over the years.

The first one was my recent purchase of a necklace made of coral branches. When I was young[er], I was very keen on protecting the environment, saving the whales, teaching my children about the evil of littering, etc. [When my older son was about three or four years old, he scolded a man for littering in a shopping mall and shamed him into picking up the candy wrapper he casually dropped on the ground, to the thunderous applause of the crowd who witnessed the event. For a long time, we talked about this with great pride in our family reunions.] I wouldn't eat tuna fish (because of the dolphins) or wear a fur coat or coral jewelry. Then last week, I saw this wonderful necklace made of small coral branches. The artist-jeweller, who's a very good friend of mine, explained to me how he bought a whole bunch of coral branches in the 70s, which he is using only now in his work and how it's impossible to find them anywhere today. It struck me right then and there that this coral, had it not been bought up and saved by my friend, would have disappeared a long time ago, killed by trawling fishing boats and pollution. It's the same paradox as the one presented by those antique Egyptian, Chinese, Cambodian, etc. statues or columns that were stolen by European invaders and brought back to European cities where they can still be admired and studied to this day, whereas had they been left in their respective countries of origin, they would have been destroyed by local thieves and vandals or left unprotected from the ravages of time or the political vagaries of the moment. I bought the coral necklace.

The second event happened today, during my lunch hour. I was strolling in the mini-mall next to my office where there was an exhibition-sale of butterflies and rare insects, all neatly mounted,labelled and framed. Their colours and their shapes were just gorgeous, but as I went from frame to frame, I had this uneasy and creepy feeling. I used to collect butterflies and bugs when I was a little girl and I am still irresistibly attracted to these shiny colourful wings. But now, for some reason, I look at them not from the collector's point of view, but from the collectee's perspective. I felt the same revulsion as if I were in an alien museum looking at a collection of stuffed physically perfect human beings. I didn't buy any butterfly.

Chronique d'une mort annoncée - Suite et fin

After I wrote the previous post, I stumbled upon this excellent article by Dr Matthew Fox (http://www.opednews.com/foxmatthew_040405_pope.htm), which I am reproducing below:

Some Reflections on the Recent Papacy of JPII
by Matthew Fox, Ph.D.
www.OpEdNews.com

While the media responds profusely to the telegenic pope who has just passed, and while he accomplished some good things such as taking a stand against the Iraq war and against capital punishment and against the idolatry of consumerism, I really do believe that history will not be kind to this papacy. This pope and his self-appointed German mafia headed by Cardinal Ratzinger will have to face the judgement of history (and very likely God also) over issues that include but are not limited to the following:

A pre-occupation with morality as sexual issues even when this morality is deeply flawed. I include the following examples:

--The forbidding of one billion Catholics world wide to practice birth control even while the human population explodes at the seams.
--The forbidding of the use of condoms even in a time when AIDS is killing individuals and whole populations the world over.
--The head-long pursuit of Augustine's theology of sexuality (all sex must be legitimized by having children)
--Ugly attacks in the pope's name against homosexuals and the complete ignoring of what science and professional psychological associations have learned about homosexuality (for example, that it is a natural phenomenon for 8-10% of any given human population as well as over 460 non-human species).

Other attacks include documents against yoga (yes!); against Buddhism (calling it "atheism"); against Thich Naht Hahn (calling him the "anti-Christ") [Note: The proper spelling is Thich Nhat Hanh]; against feminist philosophers; against women (girls cannot serve at the altar; nor can women be priests); against theologians in general. Priests are forbidden to use the pronoun "she" for God at the altar.

A prolonged effort to render fascism fashionable. This includes the rushing into canonization of the card-carrying fascist priest who founded the Opus Dei movement even though this man actually praised Adolf Hitler and also denounced women and has been accused of sexual abuse of six young men who are alive today.

The taking of Opus Dei under the hand of the papacy granting it legitimacy and power within and without the Catholic structure.

The conscious destruction and systemic dismantling of the Liberation Theology movement and the very vital base communities it spawned in Latin America in particular--a move which has opened up Latin America to an onslaught of Pentecostal and right wing religious huckstering. The demise of the Catholic Church in Latin America is now well underway--Pentecostals are sweeping away the population--now that this papacy (with the encouragement and support of the CIA) has destroyed liberation theology and replaced it with opus dei bishops and cardinals.

The effort to eliminate theology and replace it with ideology by spreading fear among theologians. The expulsion from the priesthood of three prominent theologians on three continents in the 1990's sent fear into the ranks of theological thinkers since. Those 3 theologians are Leonardo Boff from Latin America; Father Eugene Dreuermann from Germany; and myself in North America.

The sorry appointment of ideological Yes Men as bishops and cardinals and with it the scandalous pedophile priest situation where the scandal is less about individual priest's crimes than about the cover-up of these crimes by churchmen who, lacking either moral integrity or intellectual smarts, moved these criminals from parish to parish and from diocese to diocese. (One legal commentator points to a Vatican document on dealing with pedophile priests as "an international conspiracy to obstruct justice.") Three close bishop friends of this pope in Europe were themselves forced to resign for sexual misconduct.

Even more curious, is the elevation of one key American churchman, Cardinal Law, head of the Boston archdiocese where the U.S. pedophile scandal first went public, to a plum parish assignment in Rome this past year.

The rigid sticking to celibacy as a requisite for being a priest (as well as the requisite of having exclusively male genitals) means fewer and fewer Catholics have access to the sacraments and fewer and fewer persons are drawn to study for the priesthood. The attendance at Mass on Sundays in San Francisco alone has plummeted 70% during this pope's reign.

As a result of his policies the demise of the number of practicing Catholics in the Northern countries including Ireland and United States continues unabated. In a few years 2/3 of parishes in Germany will have no pastors and no Eucharistic celebration. Already, 1400 priests in Germany are from outside the country and the number of new priests ordained there has dropped from 366 in 1990 to 161 today. The average priest world wide is over 60 years of age.

The obstruction of Ecumenism and Interfaith to the point that most Protestant bodies have, in the words of a key player in Canada, "given up a long time ago" on the Catholic Church supporting ecumenism.

The raising of the papacy to a 'cult of personality' aided and abetted by the fawning media.

Speaking of the fawning media, this papacy granted a "man of conscience" award to Rupert Murdoch (who, the year after he got the award, divorced his wife of many years to marry a young woman).

The Holy Spirit is far smarter and forward looking than any papacy and thus this destruction of Catholicism's past may well be the Spirit's way of creating a flatter playing field for Deep Ecumenism and Interfaith in the future. Meanwhile, though, many good Catholics are deeply hurt and alienated from their church--there are a lot more recovering than practicing Catholics out there--and little leadership appears on the horizon since this pope's appointments and policies have stifled so much talent and blockaded so much potential for intelligent faith.

When I think of this pope I think of a hard-working priest who came to see me a year ago from southern California. He cried as he told me how ALL of the budget for the ministry to the poor was being cut to pay for a big new cathedral and for priestly misconduct. He himself was close to leaving the priesthood. I think of another priest who came to me three years ago and who was the person who actually ran his entire diocese on behalf of his bishop. He was at his wit's end with the hypocrisy and lies emanating from Rome--he knew many secrets. Rather than leave and rather than play the game, he quit his position and diocese and found a ministerial position in another diocese thousands of miles away.

Now that this pope has passed, let readers reflect on the seriousness of these matters. And pray for this pope. I for one would hate to have to face my Creator with a track record like this one.

Matthew Fox, PhD
Theologian and president emeritus of the University of Creation Spirituality, Oakland, California

Chronique d'une mort annoncée

Pour quelqu’un qui comme moi dévore quotidiennement 10 à 20 journaux (online, œuf corse), sans parler d’une bonne cinquantaine de blogs, les récoltes ces jours-ci sont particulièrement maigres. Les informations sont consacrées exclusivement à la mort du Pape et je commence à en avoir assez du même pâté au menu.

Je n’ai rien contre ce Pape qui, de son vivant, n’a suscité en moi qu’un agacement diffus et dont la mort me laisse indifférente. Les photos des foules éplorées sont toujours émouvantes, bien sûr, mais bon, il fallait bien qu’il meure un jour, ce brave homme, il avait plus de 80 ans! Je ne suis pas non plus particulièrement impressionnée par les avalanches de louanges et d’hommages que le monde lui rend. Ses succès (ouverture à d’autres religions [mais non au bouddhisme sur lequel il a dit plein d’âneries, mais bon, c’est le Pape, qu’est-ce qu’il peut vouloir connaître du bouddhisme?], condamnation de la guerre d’Iraq), jetés sur la balance avec ses décisions plus douteuses (protection des prêtres pédophiles, position antique sur la sexualité, les femmes et les homosexuels), donnent un bilan plutôt médiocre. Bref, pour moi, Jean-Paul II était juste un pape qui faisait son boulot de pape.

Ce qui a éveillé en moi un soupçon d’intérêt, c’est la grande probabilité qu’il acquière bientôt le statut de saint. Il me semble que la qualité de saint devrait être plutôt difficile à obtenir, non? En quoi Jean-Paul II était-il plus qualifié que d’autres? Je constate non sans amusement que les personnes qui occupent les positions les plus élevées dans certaines classes ou catégories sociales bénéficient souvent d’une indulgence qui est refusée à la plupart d’entre nous. On loue par exemple Jean-Paul II pour son multilinguisme. N’est-ce pas la moindre des choses pour un pontife? D’ailleurs, ce pape-ci et ceux qui l’ont précédé, n’ont jamais démontré ce talent que par quelques courtes phrases lues urbi et orbi (souvent péniblement et avec un accent épouvantable) dans 36 langues à partir d’un page dactylographiée. Pas très convaincant, à mon avis. De même, Ms Condi Rice n’a pas prononcé une seule phrase en russe pendant son séjour récent en République de Russie, malgré sa soi-disant parfaite maîtrise de cette langue. Quand au Président Bush, censé être bilingue (anglais et espagnol), ses discours initiaux en espagnol a tellement fait sourire les gens qu’ils ont été rapidement éliminés (les discours en espagnol, pas les gens souriants). J’ai aussi lu quelque part que le Prince William (ou je ne plus quel membre de la famille royale britannique) savait piloter un hélicoptère. Ma réaction: Big deal, il a tout le temps et tout l’argent du monde pour prendre des cours de pilotage! Bref, ces gens là reçoivent l’admiration des foules pour avoir fait preuve de la moindre qualité ou d’une compétence minimale dans les domaines les plus insignifiants. Le fait est que les gens ont besoin d’aduler quelqu’un, que l’idole choisie le mérite ou non. Si ce n’est pas le Pape, ce sera la Princesse Diana, dont la mort avait également provoqué l'hystérie générale. Si ce n’est le Président Bush, ce sera Britney Spears. Même Charles Manson a son fan club.

Jean-Paul II deviendra donc un saint et les fidèles qui lui adresseront leurs prières verront leurs vœux exaucés, ce qui prouvera qu’il est un vrai saint et non pas le simple porteur du titre de Saint Père. Sinon, s’il n’y a pas de miracle, ce sera parce que les priants manquent de foi, ou parce Dieu en a décidé autrement, ou quelque chose. Ce qui compte, c’est que la masse humaine dispose de ses idoles.

Vous trouvez que je manque de respect pour le Pape? Vous avez parfaitement raison. Mon irrespect n’est cependant pas dirigé contre Jean-Paul II en particulier, mais plutôt contre tous les prêtres en général qui font partie de cette structure hiérarchisée para-militaire caractéristique de toutes les religions organisées. Cet irrespect vise également les fidèles de toutes les religions qui acceptent que des vierges et des célibataires vivant en vase clos dans des communautés subventionnées leur disent comment régler leurs problèmes maritaux et familiaux, comment gérer leur comportement sexuel et leur liberté de reproduction, et pour quel parti politique il faut voter. Jean-Paul II était-il un bon pape et un saint? Je n’en sais rien et je m’en fous. Les catholiques, tout comme les Américains, ont et auront les dirigeants qu’ils méritent. Meet the new Boss, same as the old Boss.

April Fools Blogs

Every other bloggers are directing their readers to their favourite April Fools blogs, so I would like to invite you to visit a blog normally called «The best page in the universe», disguised today as «Terryangel's Xanga Site»: http://maddox.xmission.com/.

It's the most hilarious thing, almost as funny as Kim Jong Il's fake diary: http://www.livejournal.com/users/kim_jong_il__/

P.S. I'll post a very serious essay on women and men and their fucked up relationships soon.

Journée internationale de la Femme

J'avais commencé à rédiger un texte pour la Journée internationale de la Femme, pour réparer un peu mon silence profond depuis le dernier article sur ce foutu blog. Mais comme d'habitude, mes intentions sont restées...velléités.

Je vais donc simplement vous parler de la célébration de la Journée internationale de la Femme à l'endroit où je travaille. Deux semaines plus tôt, un email a été envoyé à tous les employés pour les inviter à une cérémonie prévue pour le 8 mars, qui sera suivie d'une petite collation. Tous les grands patrons seront là, pour honorer les femmes et les remercier de leurs contributions. Durant la semaine qui a suivi, deux autres messages plus insistants ont été envoyés aux employés pour leur rappeler de se présenter ponctuellement à la cérémonie et leur demander de revêtir à l'occasion leurs costumes nationaux [je travaille dans une organisation internationale].

Bien entendu, je n'ai pas assisté à la petite cérémonie. Pourquoi? Je vais vous dire pourquoi.

Quand on invite quelqu'un à un événement quelconque, on lui demande de bien vouloir venir. On n'insiste pas lourdement et on ne le lui rappelle pas constamment, sinon ce n'est plus une invitation, mais un ordre. D'autant plus que l'invitation était accompagnée d'instructions précises: il fallait être présents avant telle heure dans la salle réservée à cette occasion, afin d'accueillir dignement les grands patrons lorsqu'ils arriveront en grande pompe. Quant aux costumes nationaux, faut-il rappeler que nous sommes en hiver au Canada, qu'il y avait dix centimètres de neige sur le sol ce jour là, qu'il faisait moins 15 sans le vent, que la majorité écrasante des employés occupent des postes subalternes qui les obligent à se rendre au travail en bus ou en métro. Les cadres supérieurs et les diplomates présents à la cérémonie sont des hommes qui disposent de voitures, de chauffeurs et de limousines, alors la neige et le froid ne les dérangent pas du tout. Donc, il aurait fallu que nous, on patauge jusqu'au bureau dans nos costumes nationaux, saris, sarongs, aodai, chadors et autres, pour faire une jolie toile de fond de costumes exotiques pour la photo officielle de la distribution annuelle d'un oeillet par femme? [L'année dernière c'était un oeillet, je ne sais pas pour cette année, puisque je n'y suis pas allée]. I-i-i-i don't think so.

Update:Apparemment des personnes sont venues en costume national. J'aurais bien voulu afficher quelques photos, mais j'ai déjà du mal à faire des paragraphes...