A tough decision

A recent chat I had with a friend about a career decision he was facing set me thinking. If I had the opportunity to work on behalf of someone who everybody knows has caused a great deal of pain and suffering, but has not yet been tried, and therefore not convicted, would I take that position?

Arguments in favor: everyone is innocent until proven guilty; even the most heinous of criminals is entitled to being treated fairly; and, careerwise, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime.

Arguments against: well, everything else. . . that, despite the fact that he has not been convicted, his crimes are well known and documented. Could I, well aware of the atrocities this person has committed, willingly ally myself with him?

As we struggled through the pros and cons of the situation, I remembered my previous post about the movie Dead Man Walking, how Sr. Helen Prejean remained firmly on the side of a convicted killer, despite everyone around her condemning her for her decision. And I thought of Jesus and the company he kept -- people who had not yet been tried or convicted, but about whose sinfulness nobody had any illusions.

But I still wasn't convinced. This person's crimes are on a much larger scale than your average criminal. And I wasn't entirely sure that my friend really believed his arguments about fairness. Intellectually, yes. In his heart, not really. What also concerned me was whether he could, if he came across the people whose lives had been ruined by this person, justify his decision to them and to himself with a clear conscience.

I told him to pray about it. His immediate response was "Ugh. Praying -- the answer is no." My response: if that's the case, I know what I would do.

But when I thought about it afterwards, I realized that I was pretty sure that my friend had not really prayed about it, but had simply assumed what the answer would have been if he had. But I'm not entirely convinced that would be the answer.

After pondering this for a few days, I'm still not sure what I would do if I was in his shoes. But after thinking about it, I do have this to say to him: go back and really pray about it. You might be surprised!

The latest in Sri Lanka

Yesterday, the Sri Lankan Army killed one of the most senior leaders of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE -- yes, a group designated as a terrorist organization by the U.S., EU and India), S.P. Thamilchelvan, in an airraid, the BBC reported.

The first reaction of those who don't know much about the situation there would be that this is a good thing. If the forces in Afghanistan kill a senior member of the Taliban, don't we celebrate that as a good thing?

But this killing is anything but good news. Thamilchelvan was not just a senior leader of the LTTE, he was also the chief negotiator, communicating with international envoys in their efforts to reach an elusive peace agreement between the Government of Sri Lanka and the Tigers. With his death, that peace agreement has now moved even further away. The GOSL is, as usual, playing on the world's paranoia about "terrorist organizations" to justify this killing, and promises that more will follow. Little do outsiders know that, as far as terrorist organizations go, the GOSL is no better, if not worse, than the LTTE. I in no way condone the means by which the Tigers go about achieving their goal of a separate Tamil homeland. I absolutely don't. But the government uses the very same means, and yet, the President, Mahinde Rajapakshe (who, incidentally, runs the country as a family business, with his relatives in key ministry posts), sits on his high horse and points his finger at his opponents. And naive outsiders buy it.

The government knows that Thamilchelvan's killing will only step up the kidnappings and brutal killings on both sides. And that is exactly what it wants -- to provoke the LTTE, so that the GOSL can then continue to feed on the world's "terrorism" paranoia, and justify its own actions as retaliation, its noble efforts to deal with terrorism . . . all while innocent civilians are stuck in the middle, their loved ones lost, their lives ruined.

For a taste (and it is only a very small taste) of what goes on Sri Lanka, click here. Most people live under the illusion that the capital "Colombo" is a safe place, but, while there is no outright fighting there, the surreptitious kidnappings and killings make it anything but.

Update

"This we know, all things are connected"*

Most people are aware of the concept of six degrees of separation -- that you can connect yourself to any person in the world through six people. . . as in you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows that person. Yup, I think that's six people.

Now, thanks to Facebook and other social networking sites, there are even fewer connections between each of us. Or I guess the connections might be the same but these sites allow us an easier way to discover them. And yet, when we do find these strange connections, it's mind-boggling!

Case in point:

Last week, someone, a complete, total, random stranger -- let's call her Hakusakana -- added me as a friend on Facebook. I saw that she knew one person on my friends list, a professor at the J-school -- Srisri (who knows the most random people, particularly South Asians, in such random ways that I've ceased to be amazed by his connections). I also gathered that she was a Sri Lankan who was in Japan. So figuring that she was not some person who was randomly adding friends, I accepted her request. A couple of days later, I got an email from her, saying, in essence, "I didn't know there were Tamils in Japan. Are you in Tokyo? Do you want to meet for coffee?"

I assumed from her email that she was an ethnic Tamil, but found out later that she was Singhalese. In any case, I figured, "Why not?" and we decided on a time and place. We met up and she told me that she was visiting Japan for a couple of months. I asked her how she knew Srisri and she told me that someone had put her in touch with him a few months ago when she was in Europe. First semi-random connection established (semi-random, because I guess I actually met her through him, although her connection to him was pretty random in itself).

As we talked, I mentioned that I'd lived in Minnesota. "Oh, you lived in Minnesota! Do you know these two girls. . .?" she started. Even before she finished her sentence, I knew whom she was talking about. I'd met Mindh and Deep (the former a Singhalese painter, the latter a Tamil dancer) through some acquaintances who were alums of my college. The two run an organization that hosts performances by artists in diaspora, and I had wondered, because of Hakusakana's interest in art and in Sri Lanka (her profile made both pretty clear) if she somehow did know them -- the Sri Lankan art world is tiny indeed. So while amazed at the second random connection, I was not entirely surprised by it.

As we chatted about her experiences, I remembered that she had contacted someone else on my list of Facebook friends. I knew him, Yip, also Sri Lankan Tamil, because he went to my high school (in India) several years before I did, and my parents knew his. But I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how she would know him.

"Oh," she said. "My husband went to school with him." Then she stopped and looked at me. "Wait! You went to school with Yip. That means you went to school with my husband!"

We stared at each other in shock. How does a random stranger turn out to be the wife of someone you went to school with, albeit a few years older? She seemed a bit worried at first about this, uncertain about whether I actually knew him, and if so, how well I did, and if so, if we'd been on good terms. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure that I didn't know him personally but that I would recognize his name. At first she wouldn't tell me his name, and, though I was dying to know, I didn't push her. After a while though, she relented. And I found that I actually did recall his and his brother's names and even vaguely remembered what they looked like. (When I got home later, I called Nev and asked him if he remembered them. After thinking for a bit, he said "Oh yeah yeah yeah! His brother was a goalie on the soccer team!")

As I returned home, I pondered the past few hours. I was struck by Hakusakana's pretty crazy experiences over the past few years but also by the strange ways in which we were connected. How do you meet a person whose path would normally never cross yours (different backgrounds, grown up and living in different parts of the world) with the only obvious thing in common being tenous ties, on both sides, to one little island on the other side of the world. . . and then find several people whom we both knew in so many weird ways?

I guess the world is not as lonely a place as it sometimes seems!

*a quote attributed to Chief Seattle, patriarchof the Suquamish Indians.

Where's the Harry Potter magic?

After witnessing the frenzy that was the release of the final Harry Potter book, I figured I should find out for myself what the big deal was. So I finally went and got Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone -- yes, yes, I confess I am just now reading the first one. The Harry Potter phenomenon too has managed to completely pass me by . . . I do indeed live under a rock.

I'm almost at the end of it and I must say. . . I DON'T GET IT! I don't see what the hype is all about! I've read The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings several times and loved both (I even confess to shedding a few tears while reading the latter) . And I've been known to read random children's books well into (and past) my teens, just for kicks. So you would think that I'd be well on my way to heading up the Tokyo Harry Potter Fan Club.

But sadly, the most I can say for Harry Potter is. . . meh. The descriptions are vivid, the plot has held my attention and it has an element of suspense. I concede that it's above average. But I can't for the life of me see what makes it the worldwide phenomenon it has become. I've looked and looked, hoping the magic (heh heh) would emerge with each turn of the page, but haven't had any joy so far. And I am convinced there must be far better books lurking in obscurity in the world of children's literature that are more worthy of the attention this series has garnered.

I will probably continue to read the rest of the books in the series, because I still hope to find the magic ingredient (heh heh heh) . . . and because I'm obsessive compulsive like that. But I don't know. . .

I am well aware that this is tantamount to sacrilege in the Harry Potter world and that I am liable to be stoned to death by die-hard fans. But I am willing to brave the consequences and confess -- my name is Ini and I can't get into Harry Potter.

One of these days. . .

Ok, so my work building is set up in a funny way. To get to the third floor, where I work, I have to take the elevator to the sixth floor, and then plonk down the escalators and stairs to the third floor. So my routine is to go to the kitchen on the sixth floor, get cereal and coffee, and walk down to my desk. And at least twice a week, I trip on the stairs. I haven't quite figured out what factors play into this. . .if it's the funky red lighting, or the narrow stairs (which don't accomodate my abnormally large feet too well), or the dizzyingly gigantic black-and-white flower and ferns painted on the landing wall, or just plain old clumsiness (which I possess plenty of).

So far, my reflexes--which I'm quite proud of actually--have done well, and I manage to catch myself just in time before I go flying. But I'm sure that ONE OF THESE DAYS, as I hobble down the stairs half-asleep--holding my boiling hot cup of coffee in one hand, my bowl of milk in the other, my purse with everything including the kitchen sink slung over my shoulder, and another bag with my gym clothes looped over my arm--my reflexes will fail. And I and my coffee and milk and overloaded bags will go tumbling down like Jack and Jill rolled into one.

And wouldn't you know it, that will be the day the tall, dark and handsome guy in video editing, whom I have the tiniest crush on, will just happen to get in at the same time as me. 'Coz the humiliation just wouldn't be complete if it happened any other way, would it?

Guilty!

I am overcome by guilt when I don't blog. . . as if my blog is a living, breathing entity and I'm neglecting it and depriving it of love and attention by not writing something from time to time, and the nice people from blog services will come and take it away from me. And the guilt follows me around and gnaws at me, so much so that I have to sit down and write any entry about it.

But, unlike my usual complaint that I can't think of anything to write about, I do have an entry all written up in my head this time--about the ever-increasing likelihood that I will trip over my own feet and fall down the stairs at work every morning. (Ever-increasing=multiplying exponentially with each passing day.) I just haven't gotten around to actually typing it. And I am oh-so-tired now. . . and if I don't go to bed (even though it is only 10:06 p.m.), then tomorrow WILL be the day I fall head-first down the stairs. . . and it's a Friday and I have a busy weekend, and I'm planning on wearing my nice white trousers, so we don't want that. But it's on its way . . . both the fall and the entry. . . Trust me!

PS: Who bore witness to "MC Rove" displaying his hidden. . .ahem. . ."talent" for rapping and dancing today? Good thing he doesn't do that for a living. . . yet.

London, the greatest city in the world!

So says The Times. Ok, so it's a British paper. Still. . . I couldn't resist posting this article that sings the praises of my beloved London! When I tell people that I prefer London to New York by a long shot, I often get the oh-you-poor-thing-you-really-aren't-all-there-are-you?-look. And often, I can't really even pinpoint why. It's crowded and noisy and dirty and the Tube is tiny and unairconditioned, and everything grinds to a halt when there's half an inch of snow on the ground, and it's grey and rainy. . . but there's just something about it that reached out and grabbed me the first time I visited the place--and I've been in love ever since. I usually get attached to places because of the people there. . . but if everyone I know and love in London left, I'd still want to live there (even though I'd be very sad and miss them all). It's weird. . . and it's unexplainable. . .but perhaps this article helps a bit.

I've left out some of the parts about why the city's also attracting more business (the biz journo in me resisted, but this is no business blog, so I fought it!). To see the whole thing, click here.

London calling
It’s cool, classy, cosmopolitan — and it should secede from the UK. Business Editor James Harding on why London is the new capital of the world.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine bought a one bedroom flat in Chalcot Square in Primrose Hill, London NW1. He paid £480,000 — just less than one million dollars. As I was living in the States at the time and flabbergasted by the price, he explained: “Chalcot Square is the best place in Primrose Hill, which is the nicest part of London, which is the coolest city on earth.” Location, location, location. “This is the best property on the planet.”

In fact, he was a few miles off. The most prized piece of real estate on God’s green earth has a view of the Serpentine rather than of Joan Bakewell’s living room. The Candy brothers, two upmarket property developers, have started selling flats at Number One Hyde Park for £4,200 a square foot. That means £84 million — $164 million — for a nice, roomy apartment.

Why? Because London is, indeed, the coolest city on earth. The capital of the world. New York, like Paris, has become a mini-break destination, a playground for grown-ups who enjoy the same standard tourist menu: a walk around Central Park; a shopping trip in SoHo; an entertaining, if unsurprising, show on Broadway; and a very large steak.

The world loves a long weekend in New York but, these days, prefers to make its home in London. New York has the nostalgia, London the future. New York defines the metropolitan, London the cosmopolitan.

And the reason for this is that foreigners in New York are, always, just that. The city treats even its long-term residents from abroad as visitors, welcomed on to the cocktail circuit, perhaps even to a share of a house in the Hamptons, but never to the power-broking tables at the Four Seasons. “New York is always American,” says Bill Roedy, the American who has spent the past 15 years in the UK running MTV world-wide. “Like Paris is French, Moscow is Russian, New York is American.”

London, on the other hand, is passport-blind. It does not have the luxury of being the de facto capital of a continental economy. So, it is international: it treats its visitors as citizens, as players.

Consider Chelsea Football Club, owned by a Russian, managed by a Portuguese and made great by a striker from the Ivory Coast. The Yankees may sign up a third baseman from the Dominican Republic or a pitcher from Japan, but the management is born in Brooklyn.

The men who run two of Britain’s largest mobile phone operators — Vodafone and Orange — are US-educated Indians. The world’s biggest mining companies, run by an American woman and two Australian men, have their headquarters in London.

In January, Nicolas Sarkozy, the French presidential candidate, came to London to chase the votes of young advertising executives and derivatives traders who had quit Paris. Last week, the head of the Democratic National Committee’s fundraising efforts came to the British capital, too, eager to tap up American expats willing to contribute to the 2008 campaign.

The mandarins of New York are currently gripped by a bout of Woody Allen-style neurosis, fretting that the city’s stature as the capital of world capitalism is being sapped by London. Last year, Mayor Mike Bloomberg and the New York senator Chuck Schumer commissioned McKinsey, the management consultants, to examine why international financial business was drifting away from Manhattan. And it suggests that their paranoia is justified.

* * * * *

Deep inside the Bank of England there is a room where the directors meet around a huge, oval mahogany table. The Courtroom is, frankly, a vulgar neoclassical eyesore — but despite the pretentious opulence and faux history of the place, one thing is authentic: the weathervane.

High on the western wall of the room, this clock-face tells which way the wind is blowing. Historically, an east wind would bring the merchant ships up the Thames and, with them, a surge in business. A west wind would prompt the merchants to set sail and the bankers to rein in credit.

The point is that London has long been sensitive to the trade winds. More than that, it has been adept at exploiting changes in the tide and the climate for its own commercial gain. And in recent years it has swollen thanks to this openness to foreign merchants, who have sailed in because they are fed up with the pernickety, litigious culture in the US, or because the City is a short hop from their homes in Moscow and Bombay, or simply because they like the safety on the streets, the serenity in the parks, the quality of schools for their children and the choice of restaurants.

British cuisine, once a contradiction in terms, has become such a hot ticket that you need to book nearly a month in advance to eat a plate of offal at St John on the weekend.

London has qualities: geography, history, culture and, more than that, a grudging embrace of all comers. Within a short walk from Trellik Tower in West London you can find a coffee, a cheese sandwich and a custard pie from Lisbon that make you feel as though you are in a provincial Portuguese cafe; you can eat a plate of steamed dumplings from the Royal China that would satisfy a discerning Shanghainese; a steaming, home-cooked nabemono at Inaho that could come from the Ginza; not to mention a great Indian at Malabar, a fine Lebanese at Fairuz and all that groovy Asian fusion stuff at E&O in Notting Hill.

A weekend in London is like a world’s greatest hits of city living: an English breakfast at Tom’s on Westbourne Grove, a morning spent browsing vintage Americana on Portobello Road, an afternoon watching the best French footballers at Arsenal, Chekhov at the Royal Court or Puccini at the English National Opera, Irish oysters at Sheekey’s for dinner, then out clubbing with the Russians at Annabel’s or the royals at Boujis (I’m making this up now). The next morning, a Spanish string quartet at the Wigmore Hall, a proper Sunday lunch, then a sleepy stroll past the Renoirs at the National Gallery.

No question, all this takes money. A lot of it. Much more than most Londoners have. But the capital’s claim to global leadership is not, sadly, because it is an example of equality. In terms of equal opportunities and the income gap, London has nothing to crow about. It has an alarmingly high level of unemployment — 8 per cent — and the wealth gap is wide and widening.

It’s hard to say which personality, New Yorker or Londoner, is preferable — the ballsy versus the stoic, the gruff versus the curmudgeonly, the sharp-tongued versus the quick-witted. But the real difference between the two is this: New Yorkers come from the five boroughs; Londoners from the five continents. They are Poles, Pakistanis, Brazilians, Americans, Nigerians and more. There are, it is said, 300 languages spoken in London.

London is absurdly expensive. New Yorkers point out that the cost of living in their city is nearly half what it is here. Yet Charles Alexander, who is in charge of the UK operations of General Electric, America’s biggest company, says of his American colleagues in London: “They don’t want to leave.” They like the life, the schools, the style of the city.

* * * * *

In September 2002, Paul Auster wrote in The New York Times about his city’s relationship with the rest of the country: “Alone among American cities, New York is more than just a place or an agglomeration of people. It is also an idea.” New York is the de facto capital of America and still a beacon to people around the world. But London has become an idea, too, and not as a refuge for huddled masses but as the most desirable address for global elites. For them, the argument between New York and London is done. They are just left quibbling over the preferred postcode: NW1 or SW1, Regent’s Park or Hyde Park.

Remembering. . .

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? I have training all this week at work, and have been struggling to find ways to keep myself gainfully occupied during the longish lunchtimes, as I usually don't take more than a 10-minute break--and, while I have many little things to do, can't do them while I'm at work. So today, on my longer-than-usual lunch break, I decided to take a walk (yes, in all the snow and slush, I decided I needed a jaunt). As I sauntered (waded) along, I found myself passing the library and decided to go in.

I fished around on the shelves for some quick, mindless reading, and soon found myself browing through books by an author whom I had not read, but who I knew wrote novels that fell into that category. I picked up the first book and turned to the synopsis. And I realized the story was familiar. Not just in a remote, vague kind of way either. I clearly remembered reading the book about 15 years ago. I remembered the plot, the main characters, and as I skimmed through the summary, realized that a vivid picture was forming in my mind of the story's very dramatic and surprising ending--even though the synopsis didn't even hint at it.

It was very strange. When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously, my taste switching frenziedly between suspense paperbacks and hardbound classics. By the time I got to the third book, I'd already forgotten many of the details in the first one. So it was bizarre that I remembered so much about one of the random novels I zipped through during one of my reading marathons. My explanation is this-- the book is very VERY loosely based on Biblical events and prophesies (some would say blasphemously so), so maybe the fact that it is connected to something that is so much a part of my life is what made me remember it?

The thing though, is that there are certain books, events, even dreams, that I. . .we. . . remember clearly, for no apparent reason, while we forget other, seemingly more important details. Why is it that our minds latch on to certain memories, while carelessly, even eagerly, releasing others?

Journalism at its worst?

In my humble opinion, the coverage of the story about Lisa Nowak-- the NASA astronaut who was arrested for allegedly attempting to kidnap and kill a female air force captain who she perceived as a rival for the love of a male NASA astronaut--is journalism at its worst. I finally learned late yesterday how to change the channel of my TV at work (which was set to CNN by my predecessor) and endured no less than 25 separate repetitions of the story throughout the day.

I understand the lure of the words "love triangle" for most human beings, but the level of coverage this story has gotten is nothing short of overkill. One very unhappy, confused, disturbed woman attempted to do something which I'm sure she'll spend the rest of her life regretting. Or perhaps not. But as I watched the story being repeated every half hour on what is supposed to be a serious news channel, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. There are floods in Indonesia, wars in Africa, a House panel inquiry into misuse of Iraq reconstruction funds, and new talks with North Korea about its nuclear program. And the biggest story of the past two days was a female astronaut who flew off the handle.

It is a big story, I don't disagree. But the biggest? Surely not! Or am I missing something?

Merry Whatever

Not that I'm on a soapbox or anything. . .


Source: Comics.com