Author: R J Adams

“The next war … may well bury Western civilization forever.” ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn June 8, 1978.

Following his death, Baha Mousa, a twenty-six year old Iraqi hotel receptionist was found to have 93 separate injuries on his body. He and a number of other men were arrested by British soldiers following a raid on a hotel in Basra. They were taken to the Darul Dhyafa military base for interrogation after weapons and “suspected” bomb-making equipment was found at the hotel.

After six months of courts martial hearings, six soldiers were acquitted of all charges. One soldier had already pleaded guilty to inhumanely treating Baha Mousa. No-one was found guilty of Baha Mousa’s death. Yet there was no doubt he died of his injuries in British custody.

According to a BBC report today:

“Col David Black, of the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment’s Regimental Council, said that British servicemen needed to operate without being “inhibited by the fear of such actions by over zealous and remote officialdom”.

While it is obvious that the prosecution’s case was ill thought-out; the evidence they presented was weak in the extreme, one salient fact that cannot be overlooked is that a man is dead. He died as a result of ninety-three separate injuries.

This was no quick shot at an escaping prisoner, or the result of a scuffle while being restrained. Ninety-three separate injuries, sufficient to kill a man, take time to inflict.

Other men taken in the raid showed evidence of being beaten, but no-one has been punished for the death of Baha Mousa.

Much has been written, both on this blog and elsewhere, criticizing American forces in Iraq for their often brutal treatment of prisoners. Colonel Black’s remark that his men should be able to operate with impunity, uninhibited by fear of lawful redress whilst interrogating prisoners, is disgraceful and totally outside the legal framework of the Geneva Conventions.

Tony Blair and his British government may not have been so openly and vocally derisory of those Conventions as the present American administration, but this “relaxation” of the British military’s code of ethics when interrogating enemy suspects is surely proof the British government has fallen squarely behind its American counterpart in the de-humanizing of enemy combatants.

There was a time, before the advent of modern weapons of mass destruction, that man took pride in the honor and glory of war. However misplaced such feelings, this Iraq war has finally laid them to rest. There is no honor or glory in the actions of Britain and America in Iraq. Civilizations are dependent on some degree of moral code, and between them George Bush and Tony Blair have sacrificed our morality for their success.

The prophecy of Solzhenitsyn is being realized.

Filed under: Fallen standards

George W Bush’s “tour’ of South America has been dogged, unsurprisingly, by demonstrations and unrest from the locals. In Guatemala today he visited a Mayan shrine. After he had left, the priests in charge of the site hastily performed purification rituals, to rid the site of “evil spirits” Bush may have left behind.

The US president’s remarks during a speech in Columbia, stating, “The US cares about the people of South America” cuts little ice, either there or in the US.

The true reason for Bush rushing south recently has more to do with China, and the rapidly developing ties between it and the Latin American nations Bush is now desperately endeavoring to foster. Those more narrow-minded members of Congress, who forever see “Reds” under every bed, and view China as the next US adversary after the Middle East, are becoming nervous of the Oriental invasion taking place in their backyard.

Unfortunately for Mister Bush, the Venezuelan lefty, Hugo Chavez, is probably doing a better job of persuading South Americans that his way is better. After all, there is a measure of truth in his statement that George W Bush is a “political corpse”, given that the US president is entering the final death throes of his incumbency, and unlike Bush – who dare not risk speaking directly to the people, and is content to only converse with national leaders – Chavez woos the populace, drawing huge crowds to his conventions.

While George W Bush claims to be the “close personal friend” of Guatemalan President Oscar Berger and Columbia’s wholly dubious Alvaro Uribe, Hugo Chavez is presenting himself as amigo to all Latin American peoples.

At least, for now.

Filed under: Chinese chequers

In central Illinois, today is the first day of Spring. Now, before you grow confused and rush to check the calendar, let me explain that I don’t mean it’s the first calendar day of Spring. It’s only Spring according to the weather outside.

You know what I mean. After months of bone-numbing cold interspersed with ice storms, blizzards – and those weirdly irritating things the weathermen call “Canadian clippers” that can cause your nose and ears to drop off in an inkling – you wake up one morning to find the sun’s warmth gently caressing your face through the glass; the needle on the outdoor thermometer, frozen for months in the ‘fifty degrees below absolute’ position has miraculously sprung up overnight to the balmy sixty degree mark, and a quick glance out the window reveals wildlife everywhere hard at it ravishing each other while simultaneously choking on mouthfuls of nest-building material.

Today is the first day of Spring in central Illinois.

For most of my sixty years on this planet, today was when it all began again. To a young foal, born in the depths of winter and struggling to survive, the first touch of spring sunshine breathes life and energy; it’s warmth, the touch of a magic wand casting out winter weakness and replacing it with the verve of life itself.

On me, however, for the last four years, that magic wand has cast only the spell of depression and heartache.

In the gentler, milder climate of my native home, the first Spring day is a herald of bounteous growth and balmy summers, eventually to be followed by the glorious tints and mellow fruitfulness of autumn. Nine wonderful months of a yearly cycle that saw me seldom settled indoors before eleven in the evening, on all but those most inclement of warm, rainy days so necessary to the freshness and unique greenery of my homeland.

Five years ago I moved to central Illinois to be with the woman I loved. It was mid-September, still hot and humid, but with the promise of cooler, Fall weather on the way. It snowed on Christmas Eve and presented me with my first white Christmas since childhood. Through the ongoing bitter cold of those early months of 2003 I looked out on the “yard” of our new home, planning and planting in my mind’s eye the garden that would blossom into loveliness over the coming summer. By that ‘first day of Spring’, half our kitchen floor was awash with seed trays sprouting infant annuals and perennials to grace the borders, once dug out and suitably fertilized.

That task kept me occupied most of the Spring, along with re-staining the deck and laying new irrigation hoses. By May, the garden was prepared and planted with new shrubs and perennials, interspersed with young annual plants to flower and fill out the sparse areas till more permanent residents became established.

It was a blow when the first violent storm smashed everything to the ground. Sad but not daunted, for I knew Mother Nature requires no convalescence and would quickly repair the damage, the mess was cleared; broken young boughs mended. Before long, it was as if the storm had never been.

The next one did even more damage, and it became obvious some plants could never survive this oft-repeated onslaught. The dead were mourned, and replaced with perhaps less glamorous but more robust specimens.

In the weeks following that “first Spring day” I was spent lots of time outdoors. The work of creating a new garden from scratch was arduous, yet enjoyable, but by the middle of May I was beginning to notice the heat. Used to the cool mountain air of Wales, continually swept by fresh breezes from the sea, I began to discover the languid heat and oppressive humidity of my new home far from the ocean, somewhat overbearing. The time I could spend outdoors became less and less. After a couple of occasions when I was forced to take to my bed after spending too long in the sun, it soon became obvious that the work entailed in maintaining my garden was impossible to achieve. By mid-June, I was only able to work in the early morning and late evening, and often only for a short while. The air was always heavy and oppressive. My lungs refused to adapt and it was hard to breathe. Tasks that would normally prove no chore became wearisome. Meanwhile the weeds grew faster than it was possible for me to clear them in the short time I could spend outside.

Then, the mosquitoes arrived.

Welsh mosquitoes are relatively benign creatures. An occasional bite only lasts a day or two and is no more than a minor irritation. Illinois mosquitoes are something else. Within days my body became a mass of itching, suppurating sores, so painful I would be unable to sleep. Those born in this country, while not immune to the bite, are at least protected to some degree by lifelong exposure. For the Illinois mosquito, British blood is the elixir of life, and they sought me in their droves. A Mosquito Magnet worked well. According to the manufacturer, one inch of dead mosquitoes in the net was the equivalent of 10,000 bodies. If so, our device – nicknamed “Arnold” after the Exterminator – was responsible for 40,000 of the brutes in the first three weeks.

It made no impression on the numbers seeking out my blood vessels. While Arnold hissed quietly away in the garden, I was forced to sweat in the not-very-balmy air-conditioned, eighty-degree house, and watch the pernicious weeds strangling my beloved plants, unable to lift a finger to prevent it.

By late August, the bowling greens that my lawns had been stood two feet high; the annuals – and most of the perennials – long since given in to the native species that engulfed them, and any more than two or three minutes outdoors meant serious consequences for this writer.

Eventually, in late September the heat gave way to the milder air of Fall, and I was once again able to venture outside. Lawns were cut, an attempt was made to clear the weeds from borders, and Arnold was packed away for the winter.

Fall is a beautiful season in central Illinois. Tree colors are superb, and the air is fresh and pleasant – on the days that ADM pollution, or the stench from the sewage works a mile away, is blowing in the opposite direction. But a few brief weeks can never recoup the loss of nine months, when extreme weather forces this outdoorsman to remain inprisoned.

Four years on, the garden has reverted to a “yard”. The kitchen floor has remained bereft of seed trays since those first Spring days of 2003; days replete with empty promise.

And so today, the first day of Spring 2007, holds no joy; no verve for life; no herald of glorious growth and balmy summers. For this one Illinois habitant, at least, it may just as well remain winter.

Filed under: Home sweet home