The Face of War

I am currently enjoying my third term at Mohawk College, enrolled in the Creative Writing program. We were asked to submit a postcard story, a story of 500 words or less. This is one of my efforts.

        

    I had come south to report on the evacuation of Tyre. The whole of the country was in upheaval, but here, in the south, entire populations were on the move, running for their lives ahead of the bombardment.

            I never reached the city, I could not; I was caught up in the tide of humanity that was pressing north. I, a piece of flotsam, could not fight against such a current, and my car was forced north alongside this baggage train of refugees. Some drove tractors, donkeys, or camels. Others, small Fiats with their dining room sets tied to the roof.

            I listened in horror to the radio, the newsman saying calmly that Israeli artillery were about to target the “terrorist supply lines” that run along the coastal highway. This very road, choked with this human flow. All of these men, women and children, seeking to flee the violence, only to find themselves in the midst of slaughter yet again.

            The shells began to drop. The concussions were loud, pulverisingly so. It was not a sound to be heard, but rather felt; your bones rattled, your ears popped. Prayers, both Christian and Muslim, filled the air, which stinks of fear.

            A blast, again felt, and not heard, rocked my small automobile. I tell the driver to slow. There is a pile of mangled wreckage up ahead, still smoking, the remains of another car, one not as lucky as mine own. I get out, and walk towards the fiery metal heap. There are human bodies within, but no screaming. Their deaths were merciful in that they were sudden and quick. I can see by the clothing that they were women. Their dresses floral, orange and bright, like the flames about them.

            Men run to the car, faces and heads wrapped in chequered kuffieh, Kalashnikovs slung across their backs. So, there are Palestinian gunmen here amongst the civilians. That realization does not excuse this bloodletting. They open the doors to the car, and try to pull the bodies free. The flesh has become a congealed mass, and the one gunman succeeds only in tearing away the arm of the driver. Another, reaching gently into the interior, picks up a small child, pulling her from her mother’s protective embrace; a gesture made futile, as the arms could not save her child from this rain of death. The fighter begins to lower the child to the roadside, when the unthinkable happens: her face sloughs off, the tortured flesh simply releasing.

            Still holding the child to his chest, the gunman, a ragged veteran of many battles by the look of him, one inured to violence, kneels, and vomits. Shouts fill the air. Some claim that this is the work of the Jews, others that it is that mad dog Haddad and his militia.

            It does not matter. Whether it is done by that hobgoblin monarch on his mountain throne, or by his shadowy vengeful allies, it is done. Hers is the face of war.   

Thoughts on October 7th, Slightly Delayed

Autumn is upon us here in the North. A week ago I headed South, fulfilling my duties to my brother, my friend, acting as the Best Man in his nuptials. It was an honour. I could not be happier for both him, and my new sister, Dora. I truly hope that their union will be blessed with passion and joy, as I am sure it will be.
When I returned to the North, however, great changes had occurred. The foliage was aflame with colour, a veritable symphony proclaiming the Earth’s need for rest and slumber was fast approaching. The birch glow like liquid gold, Tolkien’s Malorn Trees of Lorien indeed. When they rustle in the sun, they stir up feelings deep within you. When doused with rain, they shimmer like moonbeams lighting the soul. I could lie down under their boughs and dream of days gone by, and days yet to be born. As ever, this season of Sammhein, or all Hallows Eve, seems to transport my imagination away to distant lands. I see in the long afternoon shadows memories of the mythical, the Fey, the Wild Hunt – whatever you wish to call the spirits of the forgotten. When I breathe deeply, taking in that delightful odour of mild decay, I can almost taste the coming frost. To say I love it is an understatement to say the least. Cider sweet on my lips, cold numbing the ears and nose, and other joys abound. No other season has such power to lift the soul.
Autumn will always hold such power over me; I am both proud and afraid to say. It is ever the Season of my Return. As the world settles into sleep, I always came home. In 2003 it was October 6th, and in 2006 it was November 16th. When the shadows lengthen, it seems to me that it is time to move on, either forward or back. Standing still is truly a burden. I am getting tired of living in someone else’s basement, just as I am tired of tending someone else’s classroom. I am no longer sure that I am meant to be a teacher. It is not that I feel I am ill suited for the work, indeed, I am good at it, but rather that it bores me – I lack the passion. I know now that my passion exists elsewhere, in other things, in other places. At times I strongly suspect that I have left little pieces of my soul scattered all over the globe, and that they call to me, so that I might return and reclaim them once more. The Chimaera’s fire burned deep on that mountains dark shoulder, claiming a part of me for Olympos. Foggy tor’s and heather covered barrows stole more in Dartmoor. The blue of the Aegean captured its fair share. Oh so many places, oh so many memories, the creation of which has been my life’s great joy. It has been far too long. The road is calling….when can I answer that call?
In the meantime, the interim period between my voyages abroad, I wait, looking for signs I might follow for direction. Money, of course, is a factor, God Damn that filthy lucre! I read to pass the time, to fuel my desire. Books are vehicles to any place we might wish to go, and so I drive them as far as I can possibly go. What joy there is in finding a new locale, new horizon, within a book. There are no boundaries, no barriers. We go where we can, where the author transports us. Time and place are nothing. It was this that drew me to the great Egyptian writer, Naguib Mahfouz, and his Cairo Trilogy. What a journey I have embarked on, walking the streets of that ancient city as the nation awoke from the shackles of imperialism in the late 1910’s and early 1920’s. I know the places and the people as if they were my own. It is Naguib’s gift to the world, for certain, that we might get to know the place that inspired him to the Nobel Prize.
Of course, there is a great deal of wisdom held within the pages as well, jewels we can unearth if we have the mind to do so. “A career as a bureaucrat is slavery disguised as earning a living…I want to live as a tourist in the world. I’ll read, see, hear, and think, moving from the mountains to the plains and back again.” (Palace of Desire, 147). Amen, Husayn Shaddad, Amen indeed. The question, or course, is how to do it…yes, that is the question.
Another pearl of wisdom: “How wretched life is when it’s devoted solely to earning a living.” (Palace of Desire, 186). It may be simple arrogance on my part, a sign that I live in the privileged West, that I can afford to have such thoughts and dreams, that I might look beyond simply providing necessities, but the soul must have sustenance as well if it is to grow and thrive! How I would love to reclaim the scattered parts of my soul, to travel again and find them, and to leave new parts in their stead in other places that stir me to dream, but that may be some time away from the present. For now I must be content to wait and suck the marrow from memory. “We appeal to the sun and moon for help in escaping from time’s straight line when we wish to circle back and regain our lost memories, but nothing ever returns.” (Palace of desire, 346) Heaven forefend. Without those sweet memories I could be a wayward soul indeed.

Spring Time Reflections

There is tremendous beauty here, on the shores of Gillies Lake; a certain vibrancy to life as the world has begun to stir and wake from the long (very long) winter slumber. It can be felt in myriad ways. Unlike the south, spring does not creep in upon you here – it explodes with a sudden commanding force. One week, the snows fell, dampening spirits, and burying the world ever deeper in its chilly embrace. The next, the sun had awoken, leaving Jack Frost in the lurch, melting his crystal halls and frozen temples.
With that sudden departure of frost, ones senses also awaken, or more accurately, expand, since they never really cease. The first wave of real change can be heard, and it is truly wonderful. Stony silence gives way to a veritable symphony, diverse and rich beyond the telling. Bird song fills the air as suddenly as a thought finds voice. Loud and unceasing, it fails to annoy, but rather, it rejuvenates. Soft trills, loud caws, booming cackles, and haunting echoed sighs. How delightful, and oh, how sudden – literally one day was silent, the next filled with a joyous cacophony. Waking each day before the sun to the lonesome, drawn out wail of the loon is uplifting. And of course, the day is book-ended at twilight by that self same call, loudest it seems, when the sun at either its most or least powerful (depending on how you define such an idea). I say haunting, as no call from the Canadian wild can captivate the soul in quite the same manner – fitting that every day is born and dies to that deep and mournful sigh.
Of course, it is not just the birds that delight the auditory nerves. As the shadows lengthen here, and the sun begins to slip towards the Blessed Isles in the West, other, equally joyful creatures lift their voices high into song; amphibian vocals ring out into the growing darkness, lusty after the long, cold grip of winter. In this age of massive and crippling environmental change, it is most definitely music to hear their brave voices, Spring Peepers and other frog species being hit hard as they are by our painful hubris. In the Pit across the laneway, there would seem to be thousands of them, as night after night they give voice to their existence, and sing. I enjoy my twilit walks through the pit best, hearing them close by, with the wail of the loon off in the distance out on the steely waters of the lake. On such walks, nature will often gift me with further joyful tunes - the mewling of wolf cubs, off in the trees, close by, yet hidden from sight. I do not venture close, nature being what it is, and wolves being what they are. But I do enjoy their small cub cries lifted to join the symphony that is created. The wind whistling through the trees, and just last night, the loud booming thunder, yet further voices of the great song.
Yes, I like the birth of spring in this place. It awakens all of the senses, but it awakens the mind first of all.

Older Thoughts, Fresh on my Mind

Since my birthday on April 5th, travels, and thoughts of a dwindling youth, have been much on my mind of late. I have seen and done much, as have many people, and I worry at times that the window of opportunity to do many of the things I desire to do is diminishing as the days slip through my fingers. This may or may not be the case. I do know that many people older and wiser than myself have let dreams slip away, and yet went on to live perfectly happy lives. The thing with dreams is that they can change, I suppose, alter to fit the person, or the persons way of life at any given moment. I know that the dreams I had when I was young are no longer the dreams I have today. The great dream of travel, however, has remained rather constant in my soul for many years, damn near a decade now. With this in mind, I went back to my old journal that I kept in 2003 when I made my maiden voyage out into the great unknown.
I wrote a stirring (and rather self indulgent) little essay during my stay at the Pink Palace. It was the day after the Toga party, and I imagine (for I cannot recall with certainty) that I was nursing a slight hangover. It was written on Aug. 31st, which would have meant that the trip was starting to wind to a close, although we did not dwell on that fact. We still had over a month of living left to do. As I reread the pages, I thought of many things – the people, the places, the experiences. I swore then that it would not be a “once in a lifetime” thing, and yet, following my 2006 adventure, when I went back to the Pink Palace, and found that either it or I had altered, I realized that in point of fact it was – the experiences can not be remade, making everything that happened then unique in time for myself. I cannot redo that trip, ever again. It was an explosion of experience and youthful endeavour. I cannot remake that, as I am no longer that youth. Life has changed me, not beyond recall, but I am not the same 23 year old I was. I am now 29, and life has caught me up (which may not be the worst thing that can happen, so do not take that as a negative). I think I will relate that youthful essay to you. It has a great deal of appeal, now that I can see my “youth” receding, rather more rapidly than I would like.

Travel is the last true refuge for the young. In it we find all that society denies us, the rush of hedonism (real and unabated, not some glitchy sales pitch), the joys of vagabondage, an appreciation for the person you truly are behind the mask. We are prophets, expounding joy and release, living life on the very edge of a razor. The saddest thing a traveler can ever realize is that at some time their sojourn shall end, and the absolute, unconquerable joy of the vagabond’s whimsy, is, somehow, conquered. It is a melancholy thought – why must this be so, why this need to return, to don the mask, to quench the joyous spirits that consume the traveller?
We must, at some point, abandon our worship of the lusty eyed Devils of lust and desire, passion and sin, to become what? What is a school teacher to the vagabond? A slave, driven from this final refuge by the retreat of his youth!
I desire nothing more than a pack on my back, and a compass in hand; the world, in all its infinite glory, spread out before me. A truly melancholy air fills me, knowing that this shall end. Yes, travels will continue, but vagabondage, wondrous vagabondage, with its uncertainty, doubts, confidences, joys, and loves shall not. It feels at times that I have but these five three months, months spent in this refuge of youth, to truly live my life; I have spent twenty three years, and will spend another forty confined to this prison we have made out of life – I desire to fly free in this world, to face the dangers and taste the joys like wine.
Why will this glorious sense of wonder and my tramp-like existence have to end? I am now more of a man, in all aspects that word entails, now than I was – I left my home a boy, and will return a man (and yet, oddly, still a youth somehow). The change occurred, where, I know not, but it did, somewhere between Cayuga and the infinity that lies beyond.
I understand why so many of my companions did not come – courage. It requires courage of spirit, of soul, or self, to be a vagabond, to break away from the self-imposed shackles, and seek out that lonely refuge that is travel. Of course, the fool can travel easily, for the fool does not feel the chains, nor does he see the refuge; he merely sees, but does not experience, and that is a mighty difference. The fool cannot be claimed by the Red Eyed Devils of passion; he is too much a fool to see them and their claim on Mankind’s spirit. The fool is no wayfarer, for he sees not what he is escaping from, and therefore, there is no escape.
I hold my head high and I can see the cage descend, waiting in this final refuge for the Fall. I can also see those Devils of spirit, so welcome to me, like familiar friends. Yet, they shall flee, and remain in the refuge, while I shall not.
Why?
Does my courage fail me? I had it, and a vagabond I became, if only for so short a while. My grandfather had it, but he too ended his exile. I know, in the very pit of my being, that I will always long for that lonely road that the vagabond lives, living life in a constant state of goodbyes, only to be broken by a short flash of hellos (which in turn, become another stream of goodbyes).
It is a strength to live in such a way, a testament to character. My companions lack it, this courage. I have it – I must not lose it, never to be a slave driven by society’s whip! That is a promise I have made to myself. I shall worship those Devils of sin, as well, not allowing myself to bow down to some other false god, be that god Hindu or Christian. My Gods exist within men, and do not pass judgement. Another promise, to keep my faith in my lack of faith.
Thank you, eternal Corfu, for bringing my mind to these thoughts. Fight the retreat of youth! The body ages, but the spirit does not – that is a myth. Live life! That is a creed, not a catch phrase. Live within the refuge, and laugh at the fools and cowards who do not, watching you with envy as they see you free of chains; or do not laugh, but rather, pity them, for them life is oft times bitter.
I exist outside, looking in, free. Please let this always be so.
Enough rambling; I have cleansed my mind of bitter thoughts. To Vagabondage, the eternal flame of life! We are here to escape that which we know to be unavoidable.
- Corfu, Agios Gordios, August 31st, 2003

As I stated at the beginning, rather self indulgent, and yet held within that diatribe, there is a nugget of gold. Life lived without travel truly is devoid of joy for me, and yet I do not feel that the cage is so awful either. Rather, there would seem to be a middle ground that should satisfy. I am not sure why I would share these old thoughts with the world, but I wanted to – for the sake of the writing I suppose.
To cherished memory, may she never grow dim, as we do.

Nothing Like a Weekend Away to Refresh Oneself

There is nothing quite like the Canadian wilderness to rejuvenate the soul. These last few weeks, I have been feeling quite out of sorts; the long dragging winter here in Cobalt lowering my spirits. Depression, rather light and not at all a genuine cause for concern had reared it ugly head none the less, and I was missing both friends and family badly, feeling as though I were trapped in a rut, as sometimes happens when I have not been on the move much.
Of course, the “urge to go” has been strong lately, as it always in when winter begins to loosen its iron grip. When the birds start to fly, I wish to join them apparently. Travel at this time was not an option, however, and I was not responding well to this sense of stasis. I needed to recharge my batteries in the worst way. Luckily, that is exactly what long weekends are made for, and none is better than Easter, thanks to the Ludkin family tradition of backpacking during this time. The tradition had staggered, and was in danger of dying out itself these past few years. Just like Jesus, however, the tradition was resurrected, and few friends and I made the jaunt to Algonquin Provincial Park.
Algonquin is a strange beast – it is absolutely glorious, and nature just explodes in your face, radiant and harsh, unforgiving and compromising. It is a gateway for many, many Canadians from the south, as well as people from around the world, to get out and experience the “North”, which is a good thing. It is great that so many people want to get out and experience this wilderness. Conversely however, its own popularity has served to kill it in a sense. During high season, along the hwy 60 corridor, the park literally swarms with tourists, which turns this rugged wilderness into a sort of extension of civilization. Even during Easter, which in Algonquin was still very cool (indeed, even seasoned backcountry campers like ourselves were hit hard by the cold at night, which plummeted from about 5 degrees during the day to -20 at night), the park was busy. All the campgrounds were closed except for Mew Lake, and the backcountry hiking trails were closed due to flooding and washout. Not to be dissuaded, we booked ourselves into Mew Lake. We drove in and the camp was busy, crawling with tourists, not exactly what we had in mind. So we set up, and then went on a walk about the camp, and lo! Found a section of the camp that was sealed off due to snow and fallen trees, but as we had 4 wheel drive vehicles, we wasted no time in relocating, as this newly discovered corner of the camp was isolated, without a soul within half a kilometre. - much more ideal.
Having found a satisfactory camp, we then set out daily on hikes, using the day hiking trails which dot the highway: Track and Tower, Bat Lake, and Hemlock Bluff. Not exactly what we used to do for the Easter trek, but a nice little getaway all the same and we were able to avoid the growing crowds, which offered a nice escape. I feel refreshed now, and at ease, able to continue on here for another spell of time, possibly enough to get me through to the summer. It was great to see my brother and a few of my friends, and share some real quality time. A few beers around the fire, stories of yesteryears, laughs, and some genuinely stunning vistas; just what the soul needs to preserve itself over time. I look forward to the next weekend excursion. The weather here seems to be turning at last. If spring is on the way, exploration is the call of the day.

The Urge for Going

"One of the gladdest moments in human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the slavery of Home, man feels once more happy." -Sir Richard Francis Burton

How true that statement made by the intrepid explorer rings in my ears. There really is nothing more exhilirating than embarking on a voyage to distant, unseen lands. The mind races, the heart pounds, all else is forgotten as the trip takes precedence. Truly a wonderful sensation, and one that I miss greatly.
It has been 10 years since I graduated from Cayuga Secondary School (as of Feb. 6th, infact). A decade. Unfathomable. Another 7 years since my first tour of duty in an academic institution. Dear god how the time has flown, like a raging torrent impossible to slow. One must simply go with the stream and hope that perils can be staved away and avoided, it would seem. And these days I can almost feel that passage of time, hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, admonishing me for not making the most of what I have been given.
My friend and trail mate Brad called me the other day, just to say "hi", and to ask if I were feeling it as well. "Feeling what?" I lamely asked. "The travel bug." Ah, yes, that urge for going. You see, ever since my maiden voyage in 2003, Brad and I experience the same longing to be abroad at about the same time of year. Late winter into early spring, or longer given the mood I am in. It is a gripping sensation, demanding my attention like few other emotions can. I burn with the desire to be elsewhere, hate the feeling of stasis that inevitably accompanies day to day living. It is not that I dislike my life, or that I am sorry in any way for decisions I have made, it is just simply that I feel the need to be going. There is so much left for me to see. I sit and concoct plans, ideas for future quests - I just hope that I can actually enact the plans, and not let them die forgotten in the cupboards of my mind.
Guy Gavriel Kay explains the sensation perfectly, this impossible to describe-and-yet-ever-present feeling that sits in my breast, in his poem Night Drive: Elegy.
"Driving through Winnipeg this autumn
twilight, a sensationhas lodged
somewhere behind my breastbone
(impossible to be more precise).
It is at once a lightness and a weight,
press of memory and a feeling"
The sad reality is, however, is that I have begun to be trapped in cages of my own creation - student debt being the largest of those worries, worries which become fetters and shackles that hold you to the mundane. Time to braek free, to follow my gut, and embrace the urge to go, as I have in the past.
10 years out of highschool, 7 since Guelph University, 6 since my first European adventure, 3 since the second, and 1 since Lakehead. It seems like the proper time to seriously plan the next giant leap of faith, to fare out without fail...."for the end of the trip is not the end of the dream" I once wrote, in 2002. And that sentiment remains true to this day. It is time to dream again.

Beware the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

I have warned against the new messiah in the White House, which has been a difficult task. He is well protected by a brilliant PR staff, and a public that is desperate to believe in heroes and miracles after 8 years of military debacle. We, and by we I mean the people of the West, need to be on our guard against a Wolf in Sheep’s clothing in this case. The face of the presidency has altered, but has policy? Lets us look into the issue of Afghanistan.
The Obama regime has promised that it will withdraw from Iraq. But it is not withdrawing from the “war on terror”. Oh yes, the War will continue, business (in every sense of the word) as usual for the Corpocratic regime in Washington. Troops removed from the Iraqi theatre will be reinserted into the Afghan conflict, doubling the American commitment to the region. The US force will not be under NATO command, but rather self directed, alongside the NATO effort. Operation Enduring Freedom, enough to make you sick.
Not only will there now be 60,000 troops deployed by America in the region, but, according to Robert Gates, the Secretary of Defence (the man who was secretary of defence for the late Bush administration as well), the American troops are planning on “de-emphasizing nation building efforts”. As such, more troops will be on the ground, but less effort will be made to help construct the Afghan nation. Rather, the troops will be focussed more on “a combat role”; again, according to Mr. Gates. Shame on you, Mr. Obama. What was the famous Bush-ism? “Fool me once, shame on me…Fool me twice, well…you won’t fool me again.” And so I sit here, isolated in my criticism, refusing to be misled, and I question the motives and the integrity of this new Chief of Chiefs, this messiah of the “people”, who will “change our world for the better.” While he postures and pontificates safe at home in the industrial world, carnage will reign in the cities and pasture lands of this poor and enfeebled land. Innocents will bleed, and bleed mightily. And we are to believe he is different than other presidents? If so, HOW?
On a side note, it is interesting that Obama quits Iraq. Or maybe not. Think on this: there are more mercenaries employed in Iraq than there are regular US combat troops, employed by the oil companies (who of course created the need to rid the world of Saddam). As such, the oil, our primary objective, is quite safe, well guarded. The shattered remains of cities are quagmires of carnage. We can leave them to destroy themselves, so long as hired guns protect the oil. Fuck the citizenry. We have seen this before, when rioters looted hospitals and museums, free to pillage what they liked, while the soldiery protected the fields of Black Gold…
Another note of interest is the US request that NATO troops now target poppy producers in Afghanistan, as there is suddenly a “nexus between opium sales and Taliban funding.” How intriguing. I need not remind the brilliant minds in the NATO coalition that under Mullah Omar, the famed, and feared leader of the Taliban (now deceased, as is his 10 year old son who shared the car with him) opium production in Afghanistan was down 97%. Indeed, it was illegal to grow poppies and to produce the narcotic. In the territory held by the Northern Alliance, opium trading was booming – accounting for almost all of the 3% missed by the Taliban. Now, after toppling the Taliban, the narcotic trade is again booming, but I for one remain sceptical that it funds Taliban operations. I find it a much more likely hypothesis that the dogs of the Northern Alliance (and other tribal groups led by warlords) are simply biting the Imperial Hands that fed them. NATO has been slow to hand over regional power, and if they do, they tend to try and give it to the government of Karzai, NOT the war lords. And so they fight against us, to claim the power they clearly thought was their due. Make no mistake; these men were not good men. The Northern Alliance was responsible for massacring hundreds in the streets of Kabul in the late 1990’s, as they fought against other groups of ruthless strongmen. But, after the Taliban won that struggle, the Enemy of my Enemy is my Friend was the thinking that prevailed in Washington, Ottawa, and other capitals. We would make deals with devils to further our own objectives (not a new phenomenon – look at Saddam, circa 1983, making nice with Donny Rumsfeld on camera).
BUT we will NEVER admit to the error, admit that we would deal with monsters – we fight them, we do not nurture them. And so, we create the myth of a nexus between a booming drug trade and the Taliban. We also spew lies that we are at war with the Taliban in Afghanistan; in fact we are at war with any warlord who wants us gone, wants to increase his own personal power and political agenda, warlords who, 6 years ago, we gave money and guns to. They sell drugs to fund their war now. We call them Taliban to hide our error; and We, the West, are so obtuse and wilfully ignorant and racist, that we unthinkingly agree to the claim without thinking just once that other groups, other factions, are present and hostile in Afghanistan as well. Any Turban wearing hostile is a member of the Taliban to our media, which is untrue. If we would only think, we would see that.