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Finally reached the summit of Doi Inthanon.
Due to a thick veil of clouds, no spectacular views to show for now, but the surrounding ' jungle trail' makes up for it with some gorgeous trees. -
A road warrior in Oz
Australia is a land of remote places; most of the country has little to no mobile network coverage. Likewise, many of these remote regions are served by little to no road network. Where there is no paved road, the driving surface may be gravel, dirt or sand. Dystopian Mad Max visions aside, it really is a country for road warriors. Naturally, we decided to hire one for a short road trip with caravanning friends, camping in southern Queensland and northern New South Wales.
Coordinates
A Gold Coast excursion
We took breakfast with a view from Elephant Rock, looking up Currumbin Beach and beyond to Burleigh Heads and the skyscrapers of Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast (📷1). Living on the rock and sunning themselves upon the steps to the lookout over Tugun Beach were Intellagama lesueurii, the Australian water dragon (📷2). Continuing south into NSW we visited the Tweed Regional Gallery and Margaret Olley Art Centre, set in the Tweed Valley in Bundjalung Country, which formed from the eroded caldera of an ancient shield volcano. Wollumbin | Mount Warning stands as the remnant volcanic plug (📷3) in the centre of what is one of the largest erosion calderas in the Southern Hemisphere. Also seen from the art gallery, Springbrook Plateau, viewed some ~23M years later, is one of the best-preserved sections of the original crater rim (📷4). Both geological features are included within the Gondwana Rainforests of Australia World Heritage Area. To follow, we took a wander around the museum, township and sampled a milkshake in a 50s-style diner in Murwillumbah.
A 4WD ute hire
We rented a Britz Warrior 4WD ute, based on a Ford Ranger double cab with automatic transmission and a 3,650kg GVM upgrade (📷1). Specs include high and low-range four-wheel drive; bullbar; snorkel; all-terrain tyres; long-range fuel tank; two spare tyres; personal locator beacon (PLB); Outback safety kit; two roof-top tents (📷2); 3m tall canopy with kitchenette (📷3); and a 270 degree “bat wing” awning with camping table and chairs (📷4). Ours also came with an infestation of baby Huntsman spiders and ants!
Monitoring and insurance
A window sticker advised us that parent company thl monitor the location, speed and safe driving of their hire vehicles. There are rules by state that stipulate where you can and cannot go e.g. no beaches whatsoever; no ferries without prior approval. Furthermore, an insurance upgrade is mandatory to avoid an 8,000 AUD bond being charged to your credit card. You can also opt for independent gap cover to reduce liability e.g. Zero Excess Rental Cover from RentalCover.
✳️ Tips and tricks
Appreciating our Britz Warrior 4WD hire
It was an interesting exercise to research and reflect on the likely rationale the rental company had for the specification of their 4WD rentals:
- Ford Ranger double cab with automatic transmission: For two travellers the back seat offers extra storage space (which we used in preference to the canopy) and a compact indoor living area in wet weather; for four it offers the requisite number of belted seats.
- High and low-range 4-wheel drive (4WD, or 4×4 if you prefer): Gear ratios affect a vehicle’s torque and speed; gears are set for normal driving speeds in high-range mode, proving extra traction without massive torque, suitable for e.g. gravel roads; in low-range mode the gearing is much lower, dramatically increasing the torque at the wheels to allow the vehicle to crawl over obstacles with maximum control, albeit slowly e.g. on steep inclines or descents.
- Bullbar: Offers structural protection from wildlife e.g. kangaroo strikes and deflect obstacles such as rocks or trees when off roading; may also serve as attachment points for accessories e.g. a winch or extra driving lights; although some people favour the “off-road aesthetic” bullbars can be dangerous for pedestrians or cyclists in an accident.
- Snorkel: By elevating the air intake a vehicle snorkel avoids engine damage that could otherwise occur if crossing deep water; it also helps keep the air filter from being overwhelmed by dust/ debris when driving off-road.
- All-terrain tyres: All-terrain tyres are suited to both on-road and off-road driving as they provide good grip in wet, muddy and uneven terrain while still providing decent traction on paved roads.
- Long-range fuel tank: 140 L provides increased range and peace of mind in unpredictable terrain, allowing for more flexibility in route choices and timings.
- Two spare tyres: With an increased risk of tyre damage in rough terrain, long distances between service centres and potential difficulty finding the right replacement tyres in the Outback, a second spare offers the flexibility to handle various scenarios/ multiple incidents.
- Personal locator beacon: PLBs are small devices for personal use in remote land-based locations (cf. Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons or EPIRBs, typically for maritime use); they are manually activated to transmit a distress signal that can be picked up by search and rescue teams or satellites, and feature long-lasting batteries.
- Outback safety kit: An air compressor, shovel and recovery boards are considered essential tools for a 4WD adventure in the Australian Outback as they help with tyre pressure management, recovery and getting your vehicle unstuck from soft surfaces (for more extreme adventures consider extras such as a tyre repair kit, recovery straps, first aid kit and additional communication devices e.g. radio or sat phone).
- Two roof-top tents: 1x Ironman and 1x Akuma, fitted with foam mattresses, LED lights and USB charge points, accessed via a ladder; their elevated position offers protection from wildlife, insects and weather, improved views/ ventilation, extra shade and they’re comparatively quick/ easy to set up and pack down—once you know how.
- Canopy: Turns the rear tray of a ute/ utility vehicle into a lockable, dust-resistant, weatherproof and flexible storage area, integrating a kitchen with slide-out bench/ cold water sink, fridge, pantry and two-burner portable gas stove; can be removable, as many Australians like to use their 4WD as both a camper and a work vehicle.
- 270 degree awning: Wraps around the side and rear of the vehicle, providing an expansive area of covered space; cooking, dining, relaxing or storing gear out of the hot sun or rain is advantageous.
- Camping table and chairs: Essential gear for cooking, eating and relaxing outside of the vehicle.
🤔 Curiosity
Our Aussie friends had very kindly organised a largely coastal itinerary in order to mitigate the tyranny of distance and avoid higher inland temperatures—as there had been in a recent protracted heatwave. We didn’t want to go too far into the wilderness as inexperienced 4WD drivers, but would welcome any opportunities to drive off the “black top” (paved road).
Queensland in the 4WD
Driving in convoy with experienced caravaners, for our first night we went inland from the Gold Coast to a pitch in the vicinity of Mount Barney. Our aim with this short hire was to gain familiarity with the 4WD’s camping form factor (such as negotiating access to/ from a rooftop tent in the small hours), rather than its off-roading abilities. Arriving later than planned, and with eyes peeled for kangaroos, we caught the evening light on Mount Lindesay as we neared our destination (📷1). Mount Barney Creek looked serene in the golden hour (📷2) and part of Mount Barney itself was visible from pitch (📷3). In the remaining daylight we figured out how to raise one of the rooftop tents and our friends lit a fire as dinner was prepared (📷4).
Were we actually camping?
We were not inside the vehicle; we were lying in a tent on top of one. A 4WD pick-up truck/ ute is not a motorhome, conventional RV nor camper van. It’s not self-contained, so living, cooking, toileting and other activities of daily life must be performed outdoors. So yes—this was “camping“. In fact, the experience was very much akin to the non-self contained car camping popular with young tourists in NZ—expect we slept atop cf. inside the vehicle. It presents similar challenges with space and environmental management.
🤔 Curiosity
Images capturing dawn in the vicinity of Mount Barney. Mount Maroon was tinged red by the first rays of sun (📷1). The shadows smartly departed from Mount Barney’s flank soon after (📷2). A heavy dew was accompanied by morning mist in the valley between us and Mount Argyle, serving to outline eucalyptus trees against the rising orb (📷3); mist also shrouded the trees lining the access road (📷4).
We enjoyed spotting wildlife on a morning walk from pitch. Cracticus nigrogularis | the pied butcherbird is a native songbird (📷1); the hooked bill tells of a carnivorous habit. Danaus petilia | the lesser wanderer butterfly is a frequent sight in Australia (📷2), as is Melanitis leda | the common evening brown—so named because it’s typically seen flying at dusk (📷3). Rhinella marina | the cane toad can grow up to 15cm, but this juvenile was hidden in grass (📷4); the invasive species was introduced to Australia in 1935 to control beetles, but they spread rapidly, poisoning native predators with their toxins and causing major ecological damage.
Here’s a sound clip from that morning walk:
Leaving camp mid-morning we again enjoyed views of prominent Mount Lindesay (📷1) before taking the Colins Gap on the B91 into NSW, then back into Queensland, arriving at Queen Mary Falls in Main Range National Park. The park is also part of the Gondwana Rainforests of Australia World Heritage Area (remnants of rainforest that once covered all of Australia). Queen Mary Falls are a 40m drop on Spring Creek, which forms the Condamine River’s upper reaches (📷2). This river in turn constitutes part of the headwaters of the Murray-Darling—one of Australia’s longest river systems—seen here from Carr’s Lookout, with The Head between Mount Superbus on the left and the foothills of Wilson’s Peak centre-frame (📷3). Riding in the Landcruiser (with permanent 4WD) we took Condamine River Road, making 14 river crossings to Killarney (📷4); the gravel 4WD-only road follows an old bullock wagon track once used to service riverside farms and for transporting logs to local mills.
Wildlife spotted around camp at Queen Mary Falls Caravan Park included Trichoglossus moluccanus | the rainbow lorikeet (📷1); Varanus varius | the lace goanna (📷2); Dacelo novaeguineae | the laughing kookaburra (📷3); and Notamacropus rufogriseus | the red-necked wallaby (📷4).
Also seen were Alisterus scapularis | the Australian king parrot (📷1); Eolophus roseicapilla | the galah, a.k.a. rose-breasted cockatoo (📷2); and Platycercus elegans | the crimson rosella (📷3). On the falls circuit walk we had several close encounters with Intellagama lesueurii | Australian water dragons (📷4).
New South Wales in the 4WD
Broom Head NSW, looking northward to Main Beach and Red Cliff (📷1); a view south from the same lookout (📷2). Beach access from pitch at Lake Arragan Beachside campground in Yuraygir National Park (📷3). Just around the corner, looking south towards Red Cliff (📷4).
Lake Arragan Beachside campground was inundated with resident Macropus giganteus | eastern grey kangaroo.
We next pitched in Richmond River Nature Reserve, South Ballina NSW. Vehicle access to the adjacent long surf beach is now disallowed, so we didn’t get the chance to experience driving in the Landcruiser on sand (we’re also conflicted about beach driving). But we did access the beach on foot (📷1&2), observing Thalasseus bergii | the great crested tern at the waters edge (📷3) and dolphin jumping for joy just offshore (📷4).
Light rain in the evening made a pleasant sound as it hit the shell of the rooftop tent:
What’s the deal with Anderson plugs?
Our Britz hire featured Anderson plugs. These are genderless heavy-duty DC electrical connectors, built to survive dirt, vibration and weather—making them ideal for use in vehicles and in other off-grid setups.
SB50 (Source: Anderson Power)They’re very common in Australia, having become the de facto 12V connector standard. Although we’ve never personally seen them in NZ, UK or European campers, they can be found—albeit with less frequency. The SB50 variant is typical, conveying a current of ~50A; they’re much safer than cigarette sockets for high current. Applications include supply of vehicle power to a trailer or to a house battery (DC-DC charging); joining solar panels to a charge controller; powering winches and recovery gear; and providing external power outlets (e.g. to a fridge or air compressor).
🤔 Curiosity
More birds were seen at Richmond River Nature Reserve, South Ballina NSW. Ocyphaps lophotes | the crested pigeon is an endemic native with an erect crest (📷1). Entomyzon cyanotis | the blue-faced honeyeater is also known as the bananabird (📷2). Another look at the gorgeous Trichoglossus moluccanus | rainbow lorikeet, a common and rather vocal parrot (📷3). Not nearly as pretty, Threskiornis molucca | the Australian white ibis is colloquially known as the “bin chook” (📷4).
General insights from our short 4WD hire
In conversation with our caravanning friends before and during this trip we picked up a number of tips/ insights that we can put to use on future Australian away missions.
Planning:
- WikiCamps Australia is a popular app for finding overnight pitches
- Do your research (e.g. fuel stops) ahead of time and with reliable connectivity.
The rig/ equipment:
- You don’t want anything too heavy, or too top-heavy for 4WD tracks
- Consider carrying a portable jump starter, either for your own use, or to help others without having to mess around with your own vehicle
- If the desire is for self-sufficiency and you want a gas-free setup, it’s now possible to find 12V water heaters
- A 48V electrical system has advantages (see here and here).
Driving:
- Drive to the conditions and to your personal abilities
- Take a break at least every two hours (“Stop, Revive, Survive”)
- When travelling in convey a UHF CB (ultra-high frequency citizen band) radio enables (public) commentary/ direction sharing; channel 18 is used by vanners/ campers
- Beware that the risk to your paintwork from bush scratches is high
- If your vehicle has non-tinted glass you’ll need sunscreen on for driving or else risk sunburn
- Fooling heavy rain “If it’s flooded forget it”
- Stay with your vehicle in the event of a breakdown, as it will be more visible from the air than you are
- Take extra care at marked Yowie crossings.
On pitch:
- Aim to arrive on pitch before shadows get long and kangaroos may leap into your path
- Don’t leave your shoes on the ground; stomp on the toes or check carefully before putting them on (the Warrior’s roof tents have shoe bags)
- Don’t park under trees; gum trees have a habit of dropping branches without provocation (and beware of drop bears).
Next time we hire a 4WD our practical learning could encompass:
- Driving on sand tracks (noting that beach driving isn’t allowed in Britz hires) and adjusting tyre pressures
- Selecting appropriate gears
- Driving on dirt roads and managing bulldust
- Tackling inclines and declines
- Making water crossings
- Towing?
✳️ Tips and tricks
While not everything went to plan (B was ill on the morning of picking up the vehicle and thus wasn’t a named driver) we had a great time with our friends and are looking forward to further adventures on our next trip to Australia.
#2026 #4WD #4x4 #australia #camping #nationalPark #nature #newSouthWales #queensland #roadTrip #travel #unesco -
The Edinburgh & Leith Atmospheric War: the thread about the fight to build an improbable and impossible railway
An initial version of this thread was written in December 2020.
In 1844, Britain was in the grip of a stock market bubble called the “railway mania”. Rival companies vied to build lines here, there and everywhere, and attracted ever increasing financial speculation. In Edinburgh, three principal schemes were converging at a central locus that would later become known as Waverley Station; the Edinburgh & Glasgow – running between those two cities – the Edinburgh, Leith & Granton – running north to a ferry terminal at Granton through the Scotland Street tunnel, with a branch to Leith – and the North British Railway – entering the city from the east and Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Railway mania reaches Edinburgh; the E&G in green, the EL&G in Yellow and the NBR in brown. Overlaid on an OS 6-inch map of the period.These railways favoured orthodox steam locomotives to provide their motive power, with occasional assistance by rope haulage for steep gradients,e.g. the Scotland Street Tunnel. However there was an exciting new technology which promised cleaner, faster and more economical railways that would be cheaper to build; the “Atmospheric Railway”.
This name does not come from them having a particularly romantic ambience, it is because they are propelled – in theory – by atmospheric pressure. In principal the scheme was simple; a slotted tube was laid between the railway tracks and every few miles there was a pumping house which exhausted the air from the pipe, creating a vacuum. A piston in the pipe was pushed along by the atmospheric pressure behind it; if you attached a train to that then you could propel it too. The trick to get it working was how to connect the train and the piston without breaking the vacuum. This required a longitudinal valve (in practice, long leather flaps) to seal the tube; a trick that nobody ever managed to pull off reliably.
The atmospheric railway system was patented in 1839 by Samuel Clegg and the Samuda brothers. They set up a demonstration of the system at Wormwood Scrubs in West London. This impressed the directors of the Dublin & Kingstown Railway in Ireland who felt it would be suitable for an extension of their line from Kingstown to Dalkey. This was a 1 3/4 mile branch and began operation on 19th August 1843. It persisted for a full 9 years until a small locomotive was brought in to do the same work. The Dalkey scheme attracted the attention of the London & Croydon Railway, who in 1844 built a short 1 1/4 mile atmospheric expansion of their mainline from London Bridge station to Bricklayers Arms. This was to try and reduce congestion on a steep section of the line with a number of stops and starts. The whole thing though was a “sad fiasco” which consumed a huge amount of capital and was terminated in 1847.
Contemporary illustration of the Saint-Germain atmospheric railway in France. Note the vacuum tube between the rails and the slot in its top, sealed (in theory) by the leather flap valves“Croydon Atmospheric Road”, from the Illustrated London News, October 11th 1845These were small schemes and most sensible railway engineers steered well clear of the obvious complexities of the system for larger scale application, but the great Isambard Kingdom Brunel was an exception. He was captivated by the promise of this modern and unconventional technology and proposed it for the 51 mile South Devon Railway, to help overcome the steep curves and gradients. The father of modern British railways, George Stephenson, denounced the idea as “a great humbug” before it even got going. Brunel’s own locomotive engineer, the eminently sensible Daniel Gooch, said he “could not understand how Mr. Brunel could be so misled. He had so much faith in his being able to improve it that he shut his eyes to the consequences of failure.” Brunel however remained convinced and the force of his reputation carried the scheme through; the South Devon opened its first atmospheric section in September 1847, at least a year later than planned. By September 1848 it was abandoned, having “rapidly disintegrated throughout its entire length“.
A surviving section of track and 15 inch vacuum tube of the South Devon atmospheric railway. CC-BY-SA 2.5 ChowellsDespite these hiccups, for a brief period from 1845-1846, the “railway mania” investment bubble was briefly joined by “atmospheric fever.” And once again, Edinburgh and Leith were in on it, with not just one but two atmospheric schemes were proposed. And not just two schemes; two in direct competition, running from the same start and end points, less than 100m apart, each backed by a considerable array of the councillors, merchants and notable figures of both the City and its port. And so commenced the brief but petulant Edinburgh and Leith Atmospheric Railway War of 1845.
The rival Edinburgh & Leith atmospheric schemes were both formed at some point in June 1845; each claimed to be the original and genuine scheme and that the other was a pretender. In one corner was the Edinburgh & Leith Atmospheric Railway (which we shall call the Atmospheric Route) and in the other was the Edinburgh & Leith Atmospheric Direct Railway (which we shall call the Direct Route.) The engineer to the former was John Miller, who designed the Almond Valley Viaduct for the Edinburgh & Glasgow Railway and also Granton Harbour. The latter had George Gunn, also a railway engineer, but one who had hitherto acted in support of another, including Miller himself.
The Atmospheric Route proposed to run a railway from a terminus in the Low Calton – with a connection to the “Waverley” stations – through the Greenside Valley, under London Road and then through the market gardens parallel to Leith Walk. It then continued around the west of Leith Links to a principal terminus near the Assembly Rooms at Constitution Street. From here, branches ran to the docks, with one possibly a small passenger terminus for the Forth ferries and the other going over (or under) the river to the wet docks. A service every ten minutes was promised.
The Direct Route originated at a station near West Register Street, with an onward connection to one or more of the “Waverley” stations. It ran underground down Leith Street, possibly with an intermediate station in the vicinity of York Place, and continued underground in a “cut and cover” tunnel a few feet below the surface to Elm Row. Here it re-surfaced to run in a semi-recessed trench down the entirety of Leith Walk, the proposal being to provide regular bridges across this road.
A drawing in the “Lighthouse” Stevenson collection showing the “Direct route” at Union Place. CC-BY NLSA drawing in the “Lighthouse” Stevenson collection showing the “Direct route” at Antigua Place. The tunnel roof was to be just 2.5 feet below the surface. CC-BY NLSWhile this proposal might seem absurd today – Leith Walk is almost end-to-end 4 storey tenements and is Scotland’s most densely populated neighbourhood by quite some margin – bear in mind that the street is all “made up ground”; it’s a former defensive feature, so easy to dig out, and that in the 1850s it was nothing like as built up as it is today. It was very lightly developed with few large or important buildings, and almost pastoral in character. It was intended to use an “inclined plane” (i.e. gravity) to provide downhill locomotion to Leith and the atmospheric principle to get back up the hill to Edinburgh. There would be two tracks but only the uphill would be powered, this would cut costs but greatly reduce operational flexibility; they did however hedge their bets and publicly did not preclude themselves from using normal steam locomotives “should they prove expedient.”
What the Leith Walk atmospheric railway of the “Direct route” might have looked like. London Illustrated News illustration of the Dalkey atmospheric railway in January 1844There two atmospheric schemes not only had each other to contend with, additional pressure placed on both by the conventional railway of the Edinburgh, Leith & Granton, – already building a line from Scotland Street to North Leith via Bonnington (yellow line on the route map below) – but were now also lodging a bill with Parliament to build an extension from Bonnington across the Water of Leith to South Leith (the pale yellow line). In November the North British Railway joined in and announced their intention to tunnel through the eastern end of the Calton Hill to get from their existing mainline at Croft-an-Righ to the top of Easter Road, down which they would run a horse-drawn tramway to a terminus in the vicinity of Queen Street (pale brown line).
Atmospheric Fever in Edinburgh; the “Atmospheric Route” in red and the “Direct Route” in cyan. The pale lines are the proposals to reach Leith by the EL&G and the NBR. Note the darker blue line of the Edinburgh & Dalkeith railway approaching Leith via Niddrie from the east. Overlaid on an OS 6-inch map of the period.The Atmospheric route got their preliminary announcement published first on October 7th 1845, a day before the Direct route. They were seeking a capitalisation of £100,000. The following day the Direct route announced they were seeking £200,000 and accused the Atmospheric route of financial impropriety by issuing considerably more shares to the public than they were actually available. The Direct route stated that they were proposing their scheme lest “the independence, usefulness and commerce of [Edinburgh & Leith] are gone forever”.
Initial invitations to purchase shares were made by both schemes in the Caledonian Mercury and Evening Courant in June 1845, but there was almost instantly a problem arose. One of the merchants listed as backing the Atmospheric Route denied any connection with it and that his name had been put against it without his knowledge. As did the stock exchange said to be dealing in the sale. As was the stock broker claimed to be acting for the railway! All three immediately took out their own personal adverts in the next days Scotsman to this effect. This pattern of disinformation and using the columns of the newspapers to fight a proxy war was one that was to continue.
Scotsman, 18th June 1845By October, both schemes were ready to issue their shares. Adverts to this effect were placed in the Edinburgh papers and also in Glasgow too (each city having its own stock exchange at this time). The Direct route was careful to point out in their advert that all other railway schemes proposed to Leith were “inutile and insufficient“. Despite the improbability of two such rival schemes, with the railway investment boom being what it was the shares of both concerns were oversubscribed. Adverts were placed in newspapers seeking to buy and surplus share and each company seemed to spread gossip that their opponent had not allocated their shares in an equitable manner. As a result, the companies had to place further adverts in the newspapers to reassure investors of the fair nature of their allocation.
A blank share certificate of the Edinburgh & Leith Atmospheric Direct RailwayAnd then the “phoney war”, hitherto conducted through the newspaper columns alone, suddenly got a lot more real. In the early hours of October 19th 1845, Sunday, a representative of the Atmospheric route pinned copies of its parliamentary notices in public on the church doors of Edinburgh & Leith (this was actually a legal requirement as a way to circulate official notices around the public – it was not until the 20th century that churches would have dedicated public notice boards for this purpose). However, when the faithful came to worship on the Sabbath later that morning, it was found that the Direct route had also been out and had replaced all the notices with their own.
Martin Luther also fixed his controversial notice to a church doorThe Atmospheric route was outraged, offering a reward of £50 if the perpetrator could be apprehended. The Direct route denied all complicity and reiterated that they were the original scheme and the opposition were “plagiarists”, out to serve not the public but only their own interests.
Reward notice offered by the Atmospheric routeThe next task for both schemes was to collect the deposit money for their shares, complete their surveys, plans and engineering proposals and prepare their bills to go before parliament for approval. While this took place, after the outrage on the Sabbath, the skirmishing returned to tit-for-tat adverts placed in the newspapers by the solicitors of each scheme. The details of this are tiresome and childish, each consistently blamed the other for forcing its hand and making it respond. On October 29th, both companies took out extensive, self-important adverts in the Scotsman in side-by-side columns in which they each reiterated the authenticity of their own schemes and attacked that of their opponent. Both besmirched each other as not acting in the interests of the travelling public and merely being moneymaking schemes for their backers. Each also claimed to be the original railway proposal and that the other was a mere copycat.
The Direct route consistently positioned itself as the “bona fide” and original scheme, thereby having the right of putting forward their bill to Parliament. It said that its rival “thereby created in the public mind a just and general dissatisfaction” and that that the criticism of their scheme had been “inveterate and persevering“. However, they were repeatedly vague about the specific details of their proposed route – beyond it just being more “direct” than the competition. The reality differed; their route was less than 50m to the west and the distance saving marginal. By choosing the route down the middle of Leith Walk – rather than the sensible parallel one of its rival through undeveloped ground – they gave themselves a far more expensive and complex construction proposition.
Neither company was prepared to back down, and both published notices proclaiming their intent to lodge a bill with Parliament. When the notices of intent were made to Parliament, the Treasurer’s Committee of the Edinburgh Town Council made it known that they would act in dissent, “inasmuch as it was proposed by these companies to take possession of the whole of the public markets beneath the North Bridge.” On November 20th, the Direct route “[had] the pleasure to inform the Shareholders” that their engineer had assured them their plans and surveys were nearing completion in order that they could be lodged with Parliament.
The sparring continued over the festive season as both companies tried to get the other to withdraw their bills. And then on January 29th 1846, in a surprise notice in the Caledonian Mercury, the Direct route threw in the towel and indicated that they agreed to give the Atmospheric route their “cordial cooperation and support”. After seven months, the war was over. Two days later it was announced that the Atmospheric route had lodged their bill with Parliament.
The surrender notice, in the Caledonian MercuryBut when the bill came to be read, the railway took the unusual action of immediately asking for more time. This was reluctantly given despite their opponents trying to use this as an excuse to have it thrown out; the Trustees of Heriot Hospital, who owned much of the land over which the railway was to run, and the competing Edinburgh, Leith & Granton having objected. The road ahead for the Atmospheric route was now clear, and with their focus back on the project and not fighting the competition, they evidently finessed their route, as the plans prepared for the bill are different from those described initially. A station has been inserted at Blenheim Place and at Duke Street, and the terminus is now at the harbour. The freight branches to the wet docks were still there, with an awkward approach over (or under) the lower drawbridge
The final route of the Edinburgh & leith Atmospheric, from Scotland’s Railway Atlas by David Spaven, from a map in the collection of the NLS.The company pressed on, but despite its triumph in the “Atmospheric war”, all was not well. Over Christmas, the Bank of England had increased interest rates. It was becoming obvious to many that the railway bubble was exeactly that, and that the investments might not be a sure fire winner, and began to get cold feet. Indeed this may have been what caused the Direct route to withdraw; was it a strategic withdrawal rather than a tactical surrender? The Atmospheric route‘s investors were evidently getting unsettled, and on April 6th, at a Meeting in the Waterloo Hotel in Edinburgh, a general meeting was called at the demand of key backers.
An 1845 newspaper cartoon warning over the dangers of “Railway Mania” financial speculationAsked to account for its progress, the committee stated that they had spent £670 in Edinburgh and £2,000 in Leith on ground for the termini, and a further £250 towards the Town Council for rights to run through the ground in their ownership. Construction costs were estimated at £160,000 and £1,000 had been set aside to cover the costs to date of the Direct route in a conciliatory gesture for their co-operation. It was noted that a deputation from the committee had been on a fact-finding visit to the Croydon Railway’s atmospheric operation and found its principal to be “most admirably adapted for the projected line.” This is interesting considering the persistent difficulties of that undertaking. The committee estimated that running costs would be 4d per mile, which was challenged by a key shareholder who countered that in Parliament the respected railway engineer Joseph Locke had stated that ordinary locomotives were costing 10d per mile and that the Croydon atmospheric was running up the incredible amount of 2/10d per mile.
The shareholders went on the record to say they were unhappy that the recent changes in the financial markets had made the scheme far less attractive and that huge additional costs (these were not specified, but one assumes they were for engineering) had made themselves known. The complainants made a motion to circulate the full details of the undertaking’s most recent reports amongst the shareholders and return at a further General Meeting on April 16th once there had been a chance to read these. The shareholders were clearly having second thoughts, time was pressing as they were due in Parliament to have their bill read as soon as May 4th, and one wonders if they were just looking for an excuse to call the whole thing off.
The General Meeting meeting was duly held, with the engineer Mr Miller and the patentee of the atmospheric principal, Mr Samuda, in attendance. on the 16th. By a majority of 462 votes to 309, it was decided to proceed with the bill – but to have one more vote to confirm this before going in front of Parliament. The naysayers, led by a Mr Berry – probably George Berry esq., chairman of the Leith Chamber of Commerce – retired to the Cafe Royal to plot their next move, and took out an advert in the Caledonian Mercury asking their sympathisers to join them. Two days later they published a letter in the Scotsman challenging the vote, on the grounds that shareholders accounting for 2/3 of the stock had not been present at the General Meeting and it was not therefore quorate. The solicitor acting for this group invited those seeking to wind the company up to sign a petition to parliament, copies of which were held in various locations around Edinburgh, Leith and Glasgow. Within 24 hours, the holders of 2,000 shares, or 40% of all the stock, had signed. The race was on to end the Atmospheric route.
A final General Meeting was due for the 18th May, just 2 weeks before they were due in Parliament, for the shareholders to finally decide the fate of the scheme.
By order of the Committee of Management. Edinburgh, April 27, 1846The meeting would never take place. On Saturday the 16th May, the “Committee of Management regre to announce to the Shareholders that the Select Committee of the House of Commons to whom the Bill for this Company referred, has found the preamble not proven“. Parliament would not read the bill. The Edinburgh & Leith Atmospheric Railway was dead. The shareholders now set about attempting to recover their investments, the management gave them 8 days to lodge their requests and set about winding up the company and liquidating their assets – the land at the Low Calton and behind the Leith Assembly Rooms that had been purchased for stations. The ground purchased for stations was quickly sold by public roup (the Scottish version of an auction).
On September 1st 1846, at a General Meeting held at the Waterloo Hotel, the company formally voted itself out of existence and agreed to return its remaining balances to the shareholders. Of the £20,000 raised by the Atmospheric route, £11,000 had been spent and little had been achieved apart from the acquisition of a few parcels of land and the creation of much bad blood amongst the merchant and political classes of Edinburgh and Leith. The subscribers at least got back 18s in the pound, or 90% of their investment. For all too many in the railway speculation boom, a failed scheme meant financial ruin. The engineer, John Miller, attempted to take legal action against the company in December 1846 for loss of dividends. I am unclear if he succeeded.
Although they promised so much, atmospheric railways were riddled with insurmountable technical and operational challenges. The problems included, but were not limited to:
- The leather flaps that were required to seal the vacuum wore out and froze as hard as wood in the winter
- The vacuum tube was constantly fouled by dirt and water, needing constant cleaning
- The pumping engines frequently failed; they were just not reliable enough to keep up the constant work required to provide the vacuum. If a steam locomotive failed, it could be uncoupled and replaced, if a large pumping engine suffered the same fate, every train on that section of line would fail
- Construction costs were far higher than promised
- Operating costs were far higher than promised, as a result of the fuel consumption of the stationary engines and the constant maintenance and replacement needs of the vacuum tube
Footnote. Little more was heard of either scheme ever again, although in 1868 when the engineer to the Atmospheric route – John Miller – was standing for parliament, he was charged in a letter to the Edinburgh Evening Courant by one James Aytoun of having acted with impropriety with regards the scheme and fundamentally having lined his own pockets at the expense of the investors. James Aytoun, esq. was an advocate who had at one time been a prominent supporter of the scheme, but who had become a dissenting voice within it and ended up losing money by his account. It was Aytoun who had seconded the formal motion winding up the company in September 1846.
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Chapter Three: The Strange Old Man
#AlteaSCigarsHouse #art #Ashwaganda #bloganuary #CozyMystery #culture #curiosity #dailyprompt #dailyprompt1908 #dailyprompt1989 #dailyprompt2153 #DaysOfYourDreams #drinks #Evernote #everyday #Facebook #facts #food #HISTORY #IFTTT #Instagram #Ireland #Irish #kitchen #LAPAGINACHEFALEFUSA #language #learning #MoiraHopes #MURDERSWITHAPASSION #MYCOCKTAILWORLD #mystery #photography #pictures #Pinterest #RECIPES #social #SPERANZA #STRANGETHINGSINTHEWORLD #taverna #TheSoundOfSmile #THESPERANZASSISTERS #TOE #travel #writing
The days in Speranza became quiet again. The sun was warm. The sky was very blue. Moira was happy. Her tea shop was safe. The village people came back to drink tea and talk. They did not talk about the bad man who died. They wanted to forget.
Ashwaganda, the big orange cat, slept in the window all day. Toe, the black cat, sat on the high shelf. He watched everyone who came in the door.
One Tuesday, the bell on the door rang. A new man walked in. He was very old. He had white hair and a long black coat. He walked with a heavy wooden stick.
Moira stood behind her counter. “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The old man looked around the shop. His eyes were small and dark. He looked at the jars of tea. He looked at the old books on the shelves. He did not look friendly.
“I am looking for something,” the old man said. His voice was slow and dry. “I am looking for a very old book.”
Moira felt her heart jump. She thought about The Days of the Dreams. The blue book was safely hidden under the counter.
“I have many old books,” Moira said in a calm voice. “What kind of book do you want?”
“A magic book,” the man said. “It has a blue cover. It has a picture of a sleeping cat on it. Do you have this book?”
Moira looked right into his dark eyes. “No. I do not have a book like that. I only sell tea and normal books.”
The old man did not look happy. He hit his wooden stick on the floor. “You are lying. I know the book is in this village. I will find it.”
He turned around and walked out of the shop. He did not say goodbye.
Moira locked the door fast. She took the blue book from under the counter. She opened it. The silver letters shined on the page.
The dark bird looks for the nest. Hide the truth. Fire is coming.
Moira read the words. Fire is coming. This was very bad. The old man wanted to hurt her and take the book.
She called her friend Altea. “Altea, it is Moira. A strange old man is in the village. He wears a black coat. Please watch him. He is dangerous.”
“I saw him,” Altea said on the phone. “He went to the old hotel. I will watch him for you.”
That night, Moira did not sleep. She sat in the dark shop. She held a heavy iron pan in her hand. The cats stayed awake with her. Toe sat by the door. Ashwaganda sat by the window.
At two o’clock in the morning, Moira heard a sound. It was a very quiet sound outside the back window. Someone was trying to open it.
Moira stood up slowly. She walked to the back room. She saw a dark shadow outside the glass.
Suddenly, the glass broke. Crash!
A hand reached inside to open the lock. Moira did not wait. She hit the hand very hard with the iron pan.
A man yelled outside. It was a loud, angry yell. Then, she heard feet running away in the dark.
Moira turned on the lights. She looked at the broken window. On the floor, there was a small drop of blood. And next to the blood, there was a strange, old coin.
Moira picked up the coin carefully. It was made of black metal. It had a picture of a bird on it. A dark bird. Just like the book said.
The next morning, the sun came up, but Moira was not happy. She looked at the broken window. She looked at the black coin.
She walked to the police station. Ispettore Salomone was drinking coffee at his desk. He looked tired.
“Moira,” he said. “Why are you here so early?”
Moira put the black coin on his desk. “Someone broke my window last night. They tried to come inside. I hit them, and they ran away. They left this.”
Salomone picked up the coin. He looked at it closely. “This is very old. It is not normal money. Who wants to break into a tea shop?”
“An old man came to my shop yesterday,” Moira said. “He wore a black coat. He asked about old books. I think it was him.”
“Altea called me about him,” Salomone said. “He is staying at the old hotel. His name is Mr. Corvo. I will go talk to him now.”
“Be careful, Ispettore,” Moira said. “He is not a good man.”
Moira walked back to her shop. She needed to clean the broken glass. When she got there, Marisa was waiting by the door. Marisa wore her clean white coat. She had a box of fresh chocolate cookies.
“Moira, I heard about the window,” Marisa said. She looked worried. “Are you okay? I brought you some sweet things.”
“Thank you, Marisa. I am fine,” Moira said. They went inside. Moira made strong black tea. They ate the chocolate cookies.
“This village is changing,” Marisa said sadly. “First the poison, now this. What do they want?”
Moira could not tell Marisa about the magic book. It was a secret. “I don’t know, Marisa. But we have to be strong.”
After Marisa left, Moira opened the blue book again. She needed help.
The silver letters grew on the yellow paper.
The dark bird hides in the dead trees. Follow the water to the cave.
Moira knew the dead trees. They were in the deep woods behind the village. There was a small river there. The trees were old and had no leaves. It was a scary place. People did not go there.
“I have to go,” Moira told her cats. “You stay here and guard the shop.”
Moira put on her heavy boots and her thick coat. She put a small flashlight in her pocket. She walked out of the village and into the woods.
The woods were very quiet. There were no birds singing. The trees were tall and dark. Moira walked next to the small river. The water moved fast over the rocks.
She walked for an hour. Her legs were tired. Then, she saw the dead trees. They looked like big, gray skeletons.
Behind the dead trees, there was a large hill made of dark stone. In the middle of the hill, there was a hole. It was a cave.
Moira turned on her flashlight. She walked slowly to the cave. It smelled like wet dirt and old leaves. She went inside.
The cave was big and cold. The light from her flashlight shined on the walls. Moira gasped. There were pictures on the walls. Old pictures painted with red and black colors. They showed people, animals, and stars.
But there was something else in the cave.
In the center of the dark room, there was a small fire. Next to the fire was a sleeping bag. And next to the sleeping bag was Mr. Corvo’s long black coat.
He was living here. The hotel room was just a trick.
Moira looked around quickly. She saw a small wooden box near the fire. She walked to it and opened it. Inside, there were more black coins. And there were maps of the village. One map had a big red circle around Moira’s tea shop.
Suddenly, Moira heard a sound behind her.
“You should not be here,” a slow, dry voice said.
Moira turned around fast. Mr. Corvo stood at the door of the cave. He held his heavy wooden stick. He looked very angry.
Moira did not move. She kept her flashlight pointed at the old man’s face.
“You broke my window,” Moira said. Her voice was strong. She was scared, but she did not show it.
“You have the book,” Mr. Corvo said. He walked slowly into the cave. “The book of the sleeping cat. My family owned that book a long time ago. It was stolen from us. I want it back.”
“The book is not yours,” Moira said. “It belongs to the tea shop now. It belongs to Speranza.”
Mr. Corvo laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. “Speranza is a village of fools. They do not know real magic. Give me the book, or I will burn your shop to the ground.”
Fire is coming. The book was right.
“You cannot have it,” Moira said. She looked around. She needed a way to escape. The old man was blocking the door.
Mr. Corvo lifted his heavy stick. “Then you will stay here forever.”
He ran at her. He was old, but he was very fast. Moira jumped to the side. The heavy stick hit the stone wall with a loud crack.
Moira ran toward the door of the cave. But Mr. Corvo grabbed her coat. He pulled her back.
Moira remembered the herbs in her pocket. She always carried small bags of strong herbs for emergencies. She had a bag of dried chili peppers and strong black pepper powder.
She reached into her pocket. She grabbed a handful of the hot powder. She threw it right into Mr. Corvo’s face.
The old man screamed. He dropped his stick. He put his hands over his eyes. The hot pepper burned his eyes and nose. He coughed and yelled.
Moira did not wait. She ran out of the cave. She ran through the dead trees. She ran next to the river. She ran as fast as she could.
She did not stop running until she saw the houses of the village. She ran straight to the police station.
She pushed the door open. She was breathing very hard.
“Salomone!” Moira yelled.
Ispettore Salomone jumped up from his desk. “Moira! What is wrong? You look terrible.”
“Mr. Corvo,” Moira said, trying to breathe. “He is not in the hotel. He is living in a cave in the deep woods. He tried to hurt me. He has a box of strange maps and coins.”
Salomone looked very serious. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Moira said. “I threw pepper in his face. He is still in the woods.”
“Stay here,” Salomone ordered. “Lock the door. I am taking my men to the woods right now.”
Salomone and three other policemen took their guns and ran to their cars. Moira sat in Salomone’s chair. She was shaking. She locked the heavy door of the police station.
She waited for two hours. The police station was very quiet. Finally, she heard cars outside.
She unlocked the door. Salomone walked in. He looked dirty and tired, but he was smiling.
“We got him,” Salomone said. “He was washing his eyes in the river. We found his cave. We found the box and the maps.”
Moira felt a huge wave of relief. “Thank you, Ispettore.”
“Why did he want to hurt you, Moira?” Salomone asked. “What did he want?”
Moira looked down. She had to lie again to protect the magic. “He was crazy, Ispettore. He thought I had some old gold hidden in my shop. He thought I was rich.”
Salomone shook his head. “Crazy people. Well, he is going to jail for a long time. You are safe now, Moira.”
Moira walked back to her shop. The sun was going down. The sky was orange and pink.
When she walked in, the cats ran to her. They purred loudly. They knew she was safe.
Moira sat in her velvet chair. She put the blue book on her lap. She touched the cracked leather.
“We won,” she whispered to the book.
The silver letters appeared one more time.
The dark bird is locked in a cage. But the wind still blows. Rest, and drink the sweet tea.
Moira smiled. She made a pot of sweet chamomile tea. She drank it slowly. The village of Speranza was quiet again. The bad people were gone.
For now, the magic book was safe. And Moira was ready for a long, peaceful sleep.
A month passed. The weather got colder. Winter was coming to the hills. The trees lost all their leaves. The wind was sharp and bit the skin.
Moira kept the fire burning in her tea shop all day. The shop was very warm. People came in just to sit by the fire and smell the hot tea.
One morning, the shop door opened fast. The cold wind blew inside. It was Anna, from the coffee shop. She looked very scared. Her face was red from the cold.
“Moira!” Anna cried. “Please, you must help me!”
Moira put down her cup. “Anna, what is wrong? Sit down.”
“It is my nephew, little Pietro,” Anna said. She was crying. “He is only seven years old. He went to play near the old stone wall two hours ago. Now we cannot find him. The police are looking, but the woods are so big. It is too cold outside for a little boy.”
Moira felt her stomach drop. A lost child in the winter was very dangerous.
“Did you look everywhere in the village?” Moira asked.
“Everywhere,” Anna sobbed. “We looked in all the shops. We looked in the church. He is gone.”
“I will help you look,” Moira said. She put on her thickest winter coat. She put on her gloves and hat. “Stay here where it is warm, Anna. I will go.”
Moira walked out into the freezing wind. Many people from the village were outside. They were shouting Pietro’s name.
“Pietro! Pietro!”
Moira walked to the old stone wall at the edge of the village. It was near the big hills. The grass was covered in white frost. It was very cold.
She looked at the ground. It was hard to see footprints because the ground was frozen.
Moira knew she needed special help. Normal eyes could not find him fast enough.
She ran back to her shop. She locked the door. She went to the blue book.
“Please,” Moira whispered. “A little boy is lost in the cold. Tell me where he is.”
She waited. The book stayed blank for a long time. Then, very slowly, a picture started to draw itself on the paper.
It was not words this time. It was a map. Drawn in silver ink. It showed the old stone wall. Then it showed a path going up the big, steep hill. At the top of the hill, it showed a picture of a large, fallen tree. Under the tree, there was a small silver star.
Moira closed the book. She knew exactly where the big fallen tree was. It was very far up the hill. It was a hard climb.
She grabbed a thermos and filled it with hot, sweet tea. She grabbed a warm wool blanket.
She ran out of the shop and past the old stone wall. She started to climb the hill.
The wind was much stronger on the hill. It pushed against her. The cold hurt her face. Her legs burned because the hill was so steep.
“Pietro!” she yelled. The wind carried her voice away.
She climbed for forty-five minutes. She was very tired. Then, she saw it. The huge fallen tree. It was covered in dead branches.
Moira ran to the tree. “Pietro!” she called again.
She heard a very tiny sound. Like a little mouse squeaking.
She fell to her knees and looked under the big branches. Deep inside a small hole under the tree roots, she saw a piece of a blue jacket.
“Pietro!” Moira said. She crawled into the dirt and pulled the branches away.
The little boy was curled into a tight ball. His lips were blue. He was shaking very fast. He was too cold to talk. He was crying quietly.
“It is okay, Pietro. I am here,” Moira said softly.
She pulled him out of the hole. She wrapped the big wool blanket around him tightly. She opened the thermos and poured a cup of the hot, sweet tea.
“Drink this, little one,” she said. She held the cup to his lips.
Pietro drank the hot tea slowly. His shaking started to slow down. He looked at Moira with big, scared eyes.
“I got lost,” he whispered. “I chased a white rabbit. Then I didn’t know how to go home.”
“You are safe now,” Moira said. She hugged him tight to share her body heat.
She picked the boy up. He was heavy, but Moira was strong. She carried him down the steep hill. It was hard work. She had to walk very carefully so she did not fall.
When she reached the bottom of the hill, she saw Ispettore Salomone and Anna running toward her.
Anna screamed and grabbed the boy. She hugged him and kissed his cold face. “Pietro! Oh, my sweet boy!”
Salomone looked at Moira. “You found him. Where was he?”
“Up the hill, under the big fallen tree,” Moira said. She was breathing very hard. She was exhausted.
“That is a very long way,” Salomone said. “How did you know to look up there?”
Moira gave a small, tired smile. “I just had a feeling, Ispettore. A very lucky feeling.”
Anna held Moira’s hand and cried. “Thank you. Thank you. You saved his life.”
“Go home, Anna. Get him in a hot bath,” Moira said.
Moira walked slowly back to her tea shop. She was freezing and very tired.
When she got inside, she took off her coat and boots. She sat in front of the fire. Ashwaganda climbed onto her lap and purred. The warm cat felt wonderful.
She looked at the blue book on the counter. The book had helped save a life today. It was not just for fighting bad people. It was for protecting the village.
She made herself a large bowl of hot soup. She ate it quietly. The village was safe again. No one was dead. No one was lost.
The magic in Speranza was strong. And Moira was proud to be the keeper of the secrets.
A week later, a strange thing happened in the village square.
There was a very large, very old clock on the wall of the church. It was made of stone and iron. It had been there for three hundred years. It always told the perfect time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Everyone in Speranza used the church clock. They woke up by the clock. They closed their shops by the clock.
But on Thursday morning, the clock stopped.
It stopped at exactly 8:15 AM.
The village people stood in the square and looked up at the broken clock. They were confused.
“It never stops,” Altea said. She was smoking a cigar. “My grandfather said it never stopped even during the big war.”
“It is bad luck,” Marisa said. She was rubbing her arms. “A stopped clock means time is broken.”
Moira looked at the clock. The big iron hands were perfectly still. She felt a strange feeling in the air. The village felt too quiet without the tick-tock.
She went back to her shop. She opened the blue book.
When time stands still, the shadows wake up. Find the missing tooth in the big wheel.
Moira read the words. The missing tooth in the big wheel. The book was talking about the inside of the clock. A piece of the clock was missing.
She went back to the square. Ispettore Salomone was talking to the village priest, Father Tomaso.
“We need a clockmaker from the city,” Salomone said. “It will take weeks to fix.”
“Father Tomaso,” Moira said. “Can I look inside the clock room?”
The priest looked surprised. “You, Moira? You make tea. You do not fix clocks.”
“I just want to look,” Moira said nicely. “Maybe it is a simple problem.”
Father Tomaso gave her a large, heavy iron key. “Be careful. It is very dusty up there.”
Moira unlocked the small door at the bottom of the church tower. She climbed the long, dark stairs. The stairs went round and round. It was very dirty.
At the top, there was a small room. Inside the room were the giant gears and wheels of the old clock. They were made of dark metal. They were very big.
Moira looked closely at the biggest wheel. It had many metal “teeth” around the edge.
She remembered the book’s words. Find the missing tooth.
She checked every tooth on the big wheel. She walked slowly around it. Finally, she saw it. One of the metal teeth was broken off. It was gone.
But wait. It was not just broken. It looked like someone had cut it off with a saw. The metal was shiny and clean where it was cut.
Someone had broken the clock on purpose.
Moira looked around the dusty room. She saw footprints in the thick dust. Someone had been here recently.
Then, she saw something shining on the floor.
She picked it up. It was a very small, gold ring. It was a man’s ring. It had a tiny red stone in it.
Moira knew this ring. She had seen it before.
She climbed down the stairs. She gave the key back to Father Tomaso.
“You were right, Father,” Moira said. “It is a big problem. A piece of the wheel is gone.”
She walked quickly to the Cigar House. Altea was inside, reading a newspaper.
“Altea,” Moira said. “Do you remember the man who came here yesterday to buy your most expensive cigars?”
Altea nodded. “Yes. The rich man from Milan. Mr. Rossi’s brother. He said he came to pay his respects to his dead brother.”
“Did you notice his hands?” Moira asked.
Altea thought for a moment. “Yes. He wore a fancy gold ring with a red stone on his pinky finger.”
Moira put the small gold ring on the wooden counter. “Like this one?”
Altea’s eyes got wide. “Yes! Exactly like that. Where did you find it?”
“In the church tower,” Moira said. “He broke the clock.”
“Why would a rich man from the city break our clock?” Altea asked. She looked very confused.
“I don’t know yet,” Moira said. “But he wants to stop time in Speranza. He wants to cause trouble. I need to find him.”
“He said he was leaving today,” Altea said. “He is driving a big black car.”
Moira left the shop. She ran to the edge of the village. The road leading out of Speranza was empty. She was too late. The man with the black car was gone.
Why did he cut a piece of the clock?
Moira walked back to her shop slowly. Her head hurt. So many mysteries.
She opened the blue book. She placed the gold ring on the page.
The brother seeks revenge. He takes the iron tooth to open the iron gate. The old prison below the water.
Moira read the words three times. The iron gate. The old prison below the water.
There was an old story in the village. A very old legend. Hundreds of years ago, there was a small prison built under the lake near the village. It was called the Water Dungeon. People said there was a secret treasure hidden there, locked behind a giant iron gate.
The piece of the clock… the metal tooth. It was not just a piece of a clock. It was exactly the right shape to be the key for the iron gate.
Mr. Rossi’s brother did not care about the clock. He wanted the key to the treasure. He knew the old secret.
“He is not going back to the city,” Moira said to her cats. “He is going to the lake.”
Moira had to stop him. If he opened the Water Dungeon, the old magic and old bad things might come out.
She packed her bag. She put in strong rope, a heavy flashlight, and her strongest tea.
She got in her small truck. She drove toward the big lake outside the village. The sky was turning gray. It looked like snow was coming.
She drove to the edge of the water. The lake was dark and very calm. There was an old stone building near the water. It was ruined and broken. This was the entrance to the old tunnels that led under the lake.
She parked her truck. She saw tire tracks in the mud. A big car had been here. The brother was already inside.
Moira took a deep breath. She turned on her flashlight. She walked into the dark, ruined building.
Inside, there were wet stone stairs going down into the dark. It smelled like fish and old water. It was freezing cold.
Moira climbed down the stairs carefully. The walls were wet and slippery.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a long stone tunnel. She heard the sound of water dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She walked quietly down the tunnel. She heard a noise ahead. It was the sound of metal hitting metal. Clang!
She turned a corner. She saw a large, round room. At the end of the room was a massive iron gate. It was black and rusted.
Standing in front of the gate was the man in the fancy suit. He was holding the piece of the clock wheel. He was trying to push it into a large hole in the stone wall next to the gate.
“It will not work,” Moira said loudly. Her voice echoed in the stone room.
The man jumped. He dropped the metal piece. He turned around to look at her.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “How did you follow me?”
“I am the keeper of this village,” Moira said. “You cannot open that gate. The things inside must stay asleep.”
The man laughed. It sounded crazy. “You are just a stupid woman from a stupid village! There is gold behind this gate. Roman gold! My brother died trying to find the map. I found it. It is mine!”
He picked up the metal piece again. He pushed it hard into the hole.
There was a loud grinding sound. The ground started to shake. The heavy iron gate slowly began to open.
“No!” Moira yelled.
But the gate did not open to show gold.
As the gate opened, a huge wall of dark, freezing water rushed out of the tunnel behind it. The prison was completely flooded.
The man screamed as the water hit him. The force of the water knocked him down.
Moira ran back toward the stairs. The water was rising fast. It grabbed her boots. It was so cold it burned her skin.
She climbed the stairs as fast as she could. The water followed her, rising higher and higher in the tunnel.
She reached the top of the stairs and ran out of the ruined building. She fell onto the muddy grass, breathing hard.
She looked back. The dark water was spilling out of the doorway. The man did not come out. He was trapped in the cold, dark water with his broken dream of gold.
Moira sat in the mud for a long time. The snow started to fall. Little white flakes covered the dark ground.
She stood up slowly. She was wet and freezing. She got into her truck and turned the heater on high.
She drove back to Speranza. The village was quiet. The snow was falling softly on the roofs.
She went into her warm tea shop. She locked the door. She took off her wet clothes and put on a warm, dry sweater.
She sat in her chair and looked at the blue book. It was closed on the counter.
The village had secrets. Old, dangerous secrets. Men came from the city because they were greedy. They wanted money and power. They brought death.
But Speranza had Moira. And Moira had the magic, the cats, and her brave heart.
The clock in the square was broken. It did not tell time anymore. But Moira knew the real time. It was time for peace. It was time to drink tea and let the snow cover the bad memories.
She closed her eyes and listened to the purring of Ashwaganda and Toe. The tea sanctuary was safe. And tomorrow, she would make a special warm tea for the whole village. -
Chapter Three: The Strange Old Man
#AlteaSCigarsHouse #art #Ashwaganda #bloganuary #CozyMystery #culture #curiosity #dailyprompt #dailyprompt1908 #dailyprompt1989 #dailyprompt2153 #DaysOfYourDreams #drinks #Evernote #everyday #Facebook #facts #food #HISTORY #IFTTT #Instagram #Ireland #Irish #kitchen #LAPAGINACHEFALEFUSA #language #learning #MoiraHopes #MURDERSWITHAPASSION #MYCOCKTAILWORLD #mystery #photography #pictures #Pinterest #RECIPES #social #SPERANZA #STRANGETHINGSINTHEWORLD #taverna #TheSoundOfSmile #THESPERANZASSISTERS #TOE #travel #writing
The days in Speranza became quiet again. The sun was warm. The sky was very blue. Moira was happy. Her tea shop was safe. The village people came back to drink tea and talk. They did not talk about the bad man who died. They wanted to forget.
Ashwaganda, the big orange cat, slept in the window all day. Toe, the black cat, sat on the high shelf. He watched everyone who came in the door.
One Tuesday, the bell on the door rang. A new man walked in. He was very old. He had white hair and a long black coat. He walked with a heavy wooden stick.
Moira stood behind her counter. “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The old man looked around the shop. His eyes were small and dark. He looked at the jars of tea. He looked at the old books on the shelves. He did not look friendly.
“I am looking for something,” the old man said. His voice was slow and dry. “I am looking for a very old book.”
Moira felt her heart jump. She thought about The Days of the Dreams. The blue book was safely hidden under the counter.
“I have many old books,” Moira said in a calm voice. “What kind of book do you want?”
“A magic book,” the man said. “It has a blue cover. It has a picture of a sleeping cat on it. Do you have this book?”
Moira looked right into his dark eyes. “No. I do not have a book like that. I only sell tea and normal books.”
The old man did not look happy. He hit his wooden stick on the floor. “You are lying. I know the book is in this village. I will find it.”
He turned around and walked out of the shop. He did not say goodbye.
Moira locked the door fast. She took the blue book from under the counter. She opened it. The silver letters shined on the page.
The dark bird looks for the nest. Hide the truth. Fire is coming.
Moira read the words. Fire is coming. This was very bad. The old man wanted to hurt her and take the book.
She called her friend Altea. “Altea, it is Moira. A strange old man is in the village. He wears a black coat. Please watch him. He is dangerous.”
“I saw him,” Altea said on the phone. “He went to the old hotel. I will watch him for you.”
That night, Moira did not sleep. She sat in the dark shop. She held a heavy iron pan in her hand. The cats stayed awake with her. Toe sat by the door. Ashwaganda sat by the window.
At two o’clock in the morning, Moira heard a sound. It was a very quiet sound outside the back window. Someone was trying to open it.
Moira stood up slowly. She walked to the back room. She saw a dark shadow outside the glass.
Suddenly, the glass broke. Crash!
A hand reached inside to open the lock. Moira did not wait. She hit the hand very hard with the iron pan.
A man yelled outside. It was a loud, angry yell. Then, she heard feet running away in the dark.
Moira turned on the lights. She looked at the broken window. On the floor, there was a small drop of blood. And next to the blood, there was a strange, old coin.
Moira picked up the coin carefully. It was made of black metal. It had a picture of a bird on it. A dark bird. Just like the book said.
The next morning, the sun came up, but Moira was not happy. She looked at the broken window. She looked at the black coin.
She walked to the police station. Ispettore Salomone was drinking coffee at his desk. He looked tired.
“Moira,” he said. “Why are you here so early?”
Moira put the black coin on his desk. “Someone broke my window last night. They tried to come inside. I hit them, and they ran away. They left this.”
Salomone picked up the coin. He looked at it closely. “This is very old. It is not normal money. Who wants to break into a tea shop?”
“An old man came to my shop yesterday,” Moira said. “He wore a black coat. He asked about old books. I think it was him.”
“Altea called me about him,” Salomone said. “He is staying at the old hotel. His name is Mr. Corvo. I will go talk to him now.”
“Be careful, Ispettore,” Moira said. “He is not a good man.”
Moira walked back to her shop. She needed to clean the broken glass. When she got there, Marisa was waiting by the door. Marisa wore her clean white coat. She had a box of fresh chocolate cookies.
“Moira, I heard about the window,” Marisa said. She looked worried. “Are you okay? I brought you some sweet things.”
“Thank you, Marisa. I am fine,” Moira said. They went inside. Moira made strong black tea. They ate the chocolate cookies.
“This village is changing,” Marisa said sadly. “First the poison, now this. What do they want?”
Moira could not tell Marisa about the magic book. It was a secret. “I don’t know, Marisa. But we have to be strong.”
After Marisa left, Moira opened the blue book again. She needed help.
The silver letters grew on the yellow paper.
The dark bird hides in the dead trees. Follow the water to the cave.
Moira knew the dead trees. They were in the deep woods behind the village. There was a small river there. The trees were old and had no leaves. It was a scary place. People did not go there.
“I have to go,” Moira told her cats. “You stay here and guard the shop.”
Moira put on her heavy boots and her thick coat. She put a small flashlight in her pocket. She walked out of the village and into the woods.
The woods were very quiet. There were no birds singing. The trees were tall and dark. Moira walked next to the small river. The water moved fast over the rocks.
She walked for an hour. Her legs were tired. Then, she saw the dead trees. They looked like big, gray skeletons.
Behind the dead trees, there was a large hill made of dark stone. In the middle of the hill, there was a hole. It was a cave.
Moira turned on her flashlight. She walked slowly to the cave. It smelled like wet dirt and old leaves. She went inside.
The cave was big and cold. The light from her flashlight shined on the walls. Moira gasped. There were pictures on the walls. Old pictures painted with red and black colors. They showed people, animals, and stars.
But there was something else in the cave.
In the center of the dark room, there was a small fire. Next to the fire was a sleeping bag. And next to the sleeping bag was Mr. Corvo’s long black coat.
He was living here. The hotel room was just a trick.
Moira looked around quickly. She saw a small wooden box near the fire. She walked to it and opened it. Inside, there were more black coins. And there were maps of the village. One map had a big red circle around Moira’s tea shop.
Suddenly, Moira heard a sound behind her.
“You should not be here,” a slow, dry voice said.
Moira turned around fast. Mr. Corvo stood at the door of the cave. He held his heavy wooden stick. He looked very angry.
Moira did not move. She kept her flashlight pointed at the old man’s face.
“You broke my window,” Moira said. Her voice was strong. She was scared, but she did not show it.
“You have the book,” Mr. Corvo said. He walked slowly into the cave. “The book of the sleeping cat. My family owned that book a long time ago. It was stolen from us. I want it back.”
“The book is not yours,” Moira said. “It belongs to the tea shop now. It belongs to Speranza.”
Mr. Corvo laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. “Speranza is a village of fools. They do not know real magic. Give me the book, or I will burn your shop to the ground.”
Fire is coming. The book was right.
“You cannot have it,” Moira said. She looked around. She needed a way to escape. The old man was blocking the door.
Mr. Corvo lifted his heavy stick. “Then you will stay here forever.”
He ran at her. He was old, but he was very fast. Moira jumped to the side. The heavy stick hit the stone wall with a loud crack.
Moira ran toward the door of the cave. But Mr. Corvo grabbed her coat. He pulled her back.
Moira remembered the herbs in her pocket. She always carried small bags of strong herbs for emergencies. She had a bag of dried chili peppers and strong black pepper powder.
She reached into her pocket. She grabbed a handful of the hot powder. She threw it right into Mr. Corvo’s face.
The old man screamed. He dropped his stick. He put his hands over his eyes. The hot pepper burned his eyes and nose. He coughed and yelled.
Moira did not wait. She ran out of the cave. She ran through the dead trees. She ran next to the river. She ran as fast as she could.
She did not stop running until she saw the houses of the village. She ran straight to the police station.
She pushed the door open. She was breathing very hard.
“Salomone!” Moira yelled.
Ispettore Salomone jumped up from his desk. “Moira! What is wrong? You look terrible.”
“Mr. Corvo,” Moira said, trying to breathe. “He is not in the hotel. He is living in a cave in the deep woods. He tried to hurt me. He has a box of strange maps and coins.”
Salomone looked very serious. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Moira said. “I threw pepper in his face. He is still in the woods.”
“Stay here,” Salomone ordered. “Lock the door. I am taking my men to the woods right now.”
Salomone and three other policemen took their guns and ran to their cars. Moira sat in Salomone’s chair. She was shaking. She locked the heavy door of the police station.
She waited for two hours. The police station was very quiet. Finally, she heard cars outside.
She unlocked the door. Salomone walked in. He looked dirty and tired, but he was smiling.
“We got him,” Salomone said. “He was washing his eyes in the river. We found his cave. We found the box and the maps.”
Moira felt a huge wave of relief. “Thank you, Ispettore.”
“Why did he want to hurt you, Moira?” Salomone asked. “What did he want?”
Moira looked down. She had to lie again to protect the magic. “He was crazy, Ispettore. He thought I had some old gold hidden in my shop. He thought I was rich.”
Salomone shook his head. “Crazy people. Well, he is going to jail for a long time. You are safe now, Moira.”
Moira walked back to her shop. The sun was going down. The sky was orange and pink.
When she walked in, the cats ran to her. They purred loudly. They knew she was safe.
Moira sat in her velvet chair. She put the blue book on her lap. She touched the cracked leather.
“We won,” she whispered to the book.
The silver letters appeared one more time.
The dark bird is locked in a cage. But the wind still blows. Rest, and drink the sweet tea.
Moira smiled. She made a pot of sweet chamomile tea. She drank it slowly. The village of Speranza was quiet again. The bad people were gone.
For now, the magic book was safe. And Moira was ready for a long, peaceful sleep.
A month passed. The weather got colder. Winter was coming to the hills. The trees lost all their leaves. The wind was sharp and bit the skin.
Moira kept the fire burning in her tea shop all day. The shop was very warm. People came in just to sit by the fire and smell the hot tea.
One morning, the shop door opened fast. The cold wind blew inside. It was Anna, from the coffee shop. She looked very scared. Her face was red from the cold.
“Moira!” Anna cried. “Please, you must help me!”
Moira put down her cup. “Anna, what is wrong? Sit down.”
“It is my nephew, little Pietro,” Anna said. She was crying. “He is only seven years old. He went to play near the old stone wall two hours ago. Now we cannot find him. The police are looking, but the woods are so big. It is too cold outside for a little boy.”
Moira felt her stomach drop. A lost child in the winter was very dangerous.
“Did you look everywhere in the village?” Moira asked.
“Everywhere,” Anna sobbed. “We looked in all the shops. We looked in the church. He is gone.”
“I will help you look,” Moira said. She put on her thickest winter coat. She put on her gloves and hat. “Stay here where it is warm, Anna. I will go.”
Moira walked out into the freezing wind. Many people from the village were outside. They were shouting Pietro’s name.
“Pietro! Pietro!”
Moira walked to the old stone wall at the edge of the village. It was near the big hills. The grass was covered in white frost. It was very cold.
She looked at the ground. It was hard to see footprints because the ground was frozen.
Moira knew she needed special help. Normal eyes could not find him fast enough.
She ran back to her shop. She locked the door. She went to the blue book.
“Please,” Moira whispered. “A little boy is lost in the cold. Tell me where he is.”
She waited. The book stayed blank for a long time. Then, very slowly, a picture started to draw itself on the paper.
It was not words this time. It was a map. Drawn in silver ink. It showed the old stone wall. Then it showed a path going up the big, steep hill. At the top of the hill, it showed a picture of a large, fallen tree. Under the tree, there was a small silver star.
Moira closed the book. She knew exactly where the big fallen tree was. It was very far up the hill. It was a hard climb.
She grabbed a thermos and filled it with hot, sweet tea. She grabbed a warm wool blanket.
She ran out of the shop and past the old stone wall. She started to climb the hill.
The wind was much stronger on the hill. It pushed against her. The cold hurt her face. Her legs burned because the hill was so steep.
“Pietro!” she yelled. The wind carried her voice away.
She climbed for forty-five minutes. She was very tired. Then, she saw it. The huge fallen tree. It was covered in dead branches.
Moira ran to the tree. “Pietro!” she called again.
She heard a very tiny sound. Like a little mouse squeaking.
She fell to her knees and looked under the big branches. Deep inside a small hole under the tree roots, she saw a piece of a blue jacket.
“Pietro!” Moira said. She crawled into the dirt and pulled the branches away.
The little boy was curled into a tight ball. His lips were blue. He was shaking very fast. He was too cold to talk. He was crying quietly.
“It is okay, Pietro. I am here,” Moira said softly.
She pulled him out of the hole. She wrapped the big wool blanket around him tightly. She opened the thermos and poured a cup of the hot, sweet tea.
“Drink this, little one,” she said. She held the cup to his lips.
Pietro drank the hot tea slowly. His shaking started to slow down. He looked at Moira with big, scared eyes.
“I got lost,” he whispered. “I chased a white rabbit. Then I didn’t know how to go home.”
“You are safe now,” Moira said. She hugged him tight to share her body heat.
She picked the boy up. He was heavy, but Moira was strong. She carried him down the steep hill. It was hard work. She had to walk very carefully so she did not fall.
When she reached the bottom of the hill, she saw Ispettore Salomone and Anna running toward her.
Anna screamed and grabbed the boy. She hugged him and kissed his cold face. “Pietro! Oh, my sweet boy!”
Salomone looked at Moira. “You found him. Where was he?”
“Up the hill, under the big fallen tree,” Moira said. She was breathing very hard. She was exhausted.
“That is a very long way,” Salomone said. “How did you know to look up there?”
Moira gave a small, tired smile. “I just had a feeling, Ispettore. A very lucky feeling.”
Anna held Moira’s hand and cried. “Thank you. Thank you. You saved his life.”
“Go home, Anna. Get him in a hot bath,” Moira said.
Moira walked slowly back to her tea shop. She was freezing and very tired.
When she got inside, she took off her coat and boots. She sat in front of the fire. Ashwaganda climbed onto her lap and purred. The warm cat felt wonderful.
She looked at the blue book on the counter. The book had helped save a life today. It was not just for fighting bad people. It was for protecting the village.
She made herself a large bowl of hot soup. She ate it quietly. The village was safe again. No one was dead. No one was lost.
The magic in Speranza was strong. And Moira was proud to be the keeper of the secrets.
A week later, a strange thing happened in the village square.
There was a very large, very old clock on the wall of the church. It was made of stone and iron. It had been there for three hundred years. It always told the perfect time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Everyone in Speranza used the church clock. They woke up by the clock. They closed their shops by the clock.
But on Thursday morning, the clock stopped.
It stopped at exactly 8:15 AM.
The village people stood in the square and looked up at the broken clock. They were confused.
“It never stops,” Altea said. She was smoking a cigar. “My grandfather said it never stopped even during the big war.”
“It is bad luck,” Marisa said. She was rubbing her arms. “A stopped clock means time is broken.”
Moira looked at the clock. The big iron hands were perfectly still. She felt a strange feeling in the air. The village felt too quiet without the tick-tock.
She went back to her shop. She opened the blue book.
When time stands still, the shadows wake up. Find the missing tooth in the big wheel.
Moira read the words. The missing tooth in the big wheel. The book was talking about the inside of the clock. A piece of the clock was missing.
She went back to the square. Ispettore Salomone was talking to the village priest, Father Tomaso.
“We need a clockmaker from the city,” Salomone said. “It will take weeks to fix.”
“Father Tomaso,” Moira said. “Can I look inside the clock room?”
The priest looked surprised. “You, Moira? You make tea. You do not fix clocks.”
“I just want to look,” Moira said nicely. “Maybe it is a simple problem.”
Father Tomaso gave her a large, heavy iron key. “Be careful. It is very dusty up there.”
Moira unlocked the small door at the bottom of the church tower. She climbed the long, dark stairs. The stairs went round and round. It was very dirty.
At the top, there was a small room. Inside the room were the giant gears and wheels of the old clock. They were made of dark metal. They were very big.
Moira looked closely at the biggest wheel. It had many metal “teeth” around the edge.
She remembered the book’s words. Find the missing tooth.
She checked every tooth on the big wheel. She walked slowly around it. Finally, she saw it. One of the metal teeth was broken off. It was gone.
But wait. It was not just broken. It looked like someone had cut it off with a saw. The metal was shiny and clean where it was cut.
Someone had broken the clock on purpose.
Moira looked around the dusty room. She saw footprints in the thick dust. Someone had been here recently.
Then, she saw something shining on the floor.
She picked it up. It was a very small, gold ring. It was a man’s ring. It had a tiny red stone in it.
Moira knew this ring. She had seen it before.
She climbed down the stairs. She gave the key back to Father Tomaso.
“You were right, Father,” Moira said. “It is a big problem. A piece of the wheel is gone.”
She walked quickly to the Cigar House. Altea was inside, reading a newspaper.
“Altea,” Moira said. “Do you remember the man who came here yesterday to buy your most expensive cigars?”
Altea nodded. “Yes. The rich man from Milan. Mr. Rossi’s brother. He said he came to pay his respects to his dead brother.”
“Did you notice his hands?” Moira asked.
Altea thought for a moment. “Yes. He wore a fancy gold ring with a red stone on his pinky finger.”
Moira put the small gold ring on the wooden counter. “Like this one?”
Altea’s eyes got wide. “Yes! Exactly like that. Where did you find it?”
“In the church tower,” Moira said. “He broke the clock.”
“Why would a rich man from the city break our clock?” Altea asked. She looked very confused.
“I don’t know yet,” Moira said. “But he wants to stop time in Speranza. He wants to cause trouble. I need to find him.”
“He said he was leaving today,” Altea said. “He is driving a big black car.”
Moira left the shop. She ran to the edge of the village. The road leading out of Speranza was empty. She was too late. The man with the black car was gone.
Why did he cut a piece of the clock?
Moira walked back to her shop slowly. Her head hurt. So many mysteries.
She opened the blue book. She placed the gold ring on the page.
The brother seeks revenge. He takes the iron tooth to open the iron gate. The old prison below the water.
Moira read the words three times. The iron gate. The old prison below the water.
There was an old story in the village. A very old legend. Hundreds of years ago, there was a small prison built under the lake near the village. It was called the Water Dungeon. People said there was a secret treasure hidden there, locked behind a giant iron gate.
The piece of the clock… the metal tooth. It was not just a piece of a clock. It was exactly the right shape to be the key for the iron gate.
Mr. Rossi’s brother did not care about the clock. He wanted the key to the treasure. He knew the old secret.
“He is not going back to the city,” Moira said to her cats. “He is going to the lake.”
Moira had to stop him. If he opened the Water Dungeon, the old magic and old bad things might come out.
She packed her bag. She put in strong rope, a heavy flashlight, and her strongest tea.
She got in her small truck. She drove toward the big lake outside the village. The sky was turning gray. It looked like snow was coming.
She drove to the edge of the water. The lake was dark and very calm. There was an old stone building near the water. It was ruined and broken. This was the entrance to the old tunnels that led under the lake.
She parked her truck. She saw tire tracks in the mud. A big car had been here. The brother was already inside.
Moira took a deep breath. She turned on her flashlight. She walked into the dark, ruined building.
Inside, there were wet stone stairs going down into the dark. It smelled like fish and old water. It was freezing cold.
Moira climbed down the stairs carefully. The walls were wet and slippery.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a long stone tunnel. She heard the sound of water dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She walked quietly down the tunnel. She heard a noise ahead. It was the sound of metal hitting metal. Clang!
She turned a corner. She saw a large, round room. At the end of the room was a massive iron gate. It was black and rusted.
Standing in front of the gate was the man in the fancy suit. He was holding the piece of the clock wheel. He was trying to push it into a large hole in the stone wall next to the gate.
“It will not work,” Moira said loudly. Her voice echoed in the stone room.
The man jumped. He dropped the metal piece. He turned around to look at her.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “How did you follow me?”
“I am the keeper of this village,” Moira said. “You cannot open that gate. The things inside must stay asleep.”
The man laughed. It sounded crazy. “You are just a stupid woman from a stupid village! There is gold behind this gate. Roman gold! My brother died trying to find the map. I found it. It is mine!”
He picked up the metal piece again. He pushed it hard into the hole.
There was a loud grinding sound. The ground started to shake. The heavy iron gate slowly began to open.
“No!” Moira yelled.
But the gate did not open to show gold.
As the gate opened, a huge wall of dark, freezing water rushed out of the tunnel behind it. The prison was completely flooded.
The man screamed as the water hit him. The force of the water knocked him down.
Moira ran back toward the stairs. The water was rising fast. It grabbed her boots. It was so cold it burned her skin.
She climbed the stairs as fast as she could. The water followed her, rising higher and higher in the tunnel.
She reached the top of the stairs and ran out of the ruined building. She fell onto the muddy grass, breathing hard.
She looked back. The dark water was spilling out of the doorway. The man did not come out. He was trapped in the cold, dark water with his broken dream of gold.
Moira sat in the mud for a long time. The snow started to fall. Little white flakes covered the dark ground.
She stood up slowly. She was wet and freezing. She got into her truck and turned the heater on high.
She drove back to Speranza. The village was quiet. The snow was falling softly on the roofs.
She went into her warm tea shop. She locked the door. She took off her wet clothes and put on a warm, dry sweater.
She sat in her chair and looked at the blue book. It was closed on the counter.
The village had secrets. Old, dangerous secrets. Men came from the city because they were greedy. They wanted money and power. They brought death.
But Speranza had Moira. And Moira had the magic, the cats, and her brave heart.
The clock in the square was broken. It did not tell time anymore. But Moira knew the real time. It was time for peace. It was time to drink tea and let the snow cover the bad memories.
She closed her eyes and listened to the purring of Ashwaganda and Toe. The tea sanctuary was safe. And tomorrow, she would make a special warm tea for the whole village. -
Chapter Three: The Strange Old Man
#AlteaSCigarsHouse #art #Ashwaganda #bloganuary #CozyMystery #culture #curiosity #dailyprompt #dailyprompt1908 #dailyprompt1989 #dailyprompt2153 #DaysOfYourDreams #drinks #Evernote #everyday #Facebook #facts #food #HISTORY #IFTTT #Instagram #Ireland #Irish #kitchen #LAPAGINACHEFALEFUSA #language #learning #MoiraHopes #MURDERSWITHAPASSION #MYCOCKTAILWORLD #mystery #photography #pictures #Pinterest #RECIPES #social #SPERANZA #STRANGETHINGSINTHEWORLD #taverna #TheSoundOfSmile #THESPERANZASSISTERS #TOE #travel #writing
The days in Speranza became quiet again. The sun was warm. The sky was very blue. Moira was happy. Her tea shop was safe. The village people came back to drink tea and talk. They did not talk about the bad man who died. They wanted to forget.
Ashwaganda, the big orange cat, slept in the window all day. Toe, the black cat, sat on the high shelf. He watched everyone who came in the door.
One Tuesday, the bell on the door rang. A new man walked in. He was very old. He had white hair and a long black coat. He walked with a heavy wooden stick.
Moira stood behind her counter. “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The old man looked around the shop. His eyes were small and dark. He looked at the jars of tea. He looked at the old books on the shelves. He did not look friendly.
“I am looking for something,” the old man said. His voice was slow and dry. “I am looking for a very old book.”
Moira felt her heart jump. She thought about The Days of the Dreams. The blue book was safely hidden under the counter.
“I have many old books,” Moira said in a calm voice. “What kind of book do you want?”
“A magic book,” the man said. “It has a blue cover. It has a picture of a sleeping cat on it. Do you have this book?”
Moira looked right into his dark eyes. “No. I do not have a book like that. I only sell tea and normal books.”
The old man did not look happy. He hit his wooden stick on the floor. “You are lying. I know the book is in this village. I will find it.”
He turned around and walked out of the shop. He did not say goodbye.
Moira locked the door fast. She took the blue book from under the counter. She opened it. The silver letters shined on the page.
The dark bird looks for the nest. Hide the truth. Fire is coming.
Moira read the words. Fire is coming. This was very bad. The old man wanted to hurt her and take the book.
She called her friend Altea. “Altea, it is Moira. A strange old man is in the village. He wears a black coat. Please watch him. He is dangerous.”
“I saw him,” Altea said on the phone. “He went to the old hotel. I will watch him for you.”
That night, Moira did not sleep. She sat in the dark shop. She held a heavy iron pan in her hand. The cats stayed awake with her. Toe sat by the door. Ashwaganda sat by the window.
At two o’clock in the morning, Moira heard a sound. It was a very quiet sound outside the back window. Someone was trying to open it.
Moira stood up slowly. She walked to the back room. She saw a dark shadow outside the glass.
Suddenly, the glass broke. Crash!
A hand reached inside to open the lock. Moira did not wait. She hit the hand very hard with the iron pan.
A man yelled outside. It was a loud, angry yell. Then, she heard feet running away in the dark.
Moira turned on the lights. She looked at the broken window. On the floor, there was a small drop of blood. And next to the blood, there was a strange, old coin.
Moira picked up the coin carefully. It was made of black metal. It had a picture of a bird on it. A dark bird. Just like the book said.
The next morning, the sun came up, but Moira was not happy. She looked at the broken window. She looked at the black coin.
She walked to the police station. Ispettore Salomone was drinking coffee at his desk. He looked tired.
“Moira,” he said. “Why are you here so early?”
Moira put the black coin on his desk. “Someone broke my window last night. They tried to come inside. I hit them, and they ran away. They left this.”
Salomone picked up the coin. He looked at it closely. “This is very old. It is not normal money. Who wants to break into a tea shop?”
“An old man came to my shop yesterday,” Moira said. “He wore a black coat. He asked about old books. I think it was him.”
“Altea called me about him,” Salomone said. “He is staying at the old hotel. His name is Mr. Corvo. I will go talk to him now.”
“Be careful, Ispettore,” Moira said. “He is not a good man.”
Moira walked back to her shop. She needed to clean the broken glass. When she got there, Marisa was waiting by the door. Marisa wore her clean white coat. She had a box of fresh chocolate cookies.
“Moira, I heard about the window,” Marisa said. She looked worried. “Are you okay? I brought you some sweet things.”
“Thank you, Marisa. I am fine,” Moira said. They went inside. Moira made strong black tea. They ate the chocolate cookies.
“This village is changing,” Marisa said sadly. “First the poison, now this. What do they want?”
Moira could not tell Marisa about the magic book. It was a secret. “I don’t know, Marisa. But we have to be strong.”
After Marisa left, Moira opened the blue book again. She needed help.
The silver letters grew on the yellow paper.
The dark bird hides in the dead trees. Follow the water to the cave.
Moira knew the dead trees. They were in the deep woods behind the village. There was a small river there. The trees were old and had no leaves. It was a scary place. People did not go there.
“I have to go,” Moira told her cats. “You stay here and guard the shop.”
Moira put on her heavy boots and her thick coat. She put a small flashlight in her pocket. She walked out of the village and into the woods.
The woods were very quiet. There were no birds singing. The trees were tall and dark. Moira walked next to the small river. The water moved fast over the rocks.
She walked for an hour. Her legs were tired. Then, she saw the dead trees. They looked like big, gray skeletons.
Behind the dead trees, there was a large hill made of dark stone. In the middle of the hill, there was a hole. It was a cave.
Moira turned on her flashlight. She walked slowly to the cave. It smelled like wet dirt and old leaves. She went inside.
The cave was big and cold. The light from her flashlight shined on the walls. Moira gasped. There were pictures on the walls. Old pictures painted with red and black colors. They showed people, animals, and stars.
But there was something else in the cave.
In the center of the dark room, there was a small fire. Next to the fire was a sleeping bag. And next to the sleeping bag was Mr. Corvo’s long black coat.
He was living here. The hotel room was just a trick.
Moira looked around quickly. She saw a small wooden box near the fire. She walked to it and opened it. Inside, there were more black coins. And there were maps of the village. One map had a big red circle around Moira’s tea shop.
Suddenly, Moira heard a sound behind her.
“You should not be here,” a slow, dry voice said.
Moira turned around fast. Mr. Corvo stood at the door of the cave. He held his heavy wooden stick. He looked very angry.
Moira did not move. She kept her flashlight pointed at the old man’s face.
“You broke my window,” Moira said. Her voice was strong. She was scared, but she did not show it.
“You have the book,” Mr. Corvo said. He walked slowly into the cave. “The book of the sleeping cat. My family owned that book a long time ago. It was stolen from us. I want it back.”
“The book is not yours,” Moira said. “It belongs to the tea shop now. It belongs to Speranza.”
Mr. Corvo laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. “Speranza is a village of fools. They do not know real magic. Give me the book, or I will burn your shop to the ground.”
Fire is coming. The book was right.
“You cannot have it,” Moira said. She looked around. She needed a way to escape. The old man was blocking the door.
Mr. Corvo lifted his heavy stick. “Then you will stay here forever.”
He ran at her. He was old, but he was very fast. Moira jumped to the side. The heavy stick hit the stone wall with a loud crack.
Moira ran toward the door of the cave. But Mr. Corvo grabbed her coat. He pulled her back.
Moira remembered the herbs in her pocket. She always carried small bags of strong herbs for emergencies. She had a bag of dried chili peppers and strong black pepper powder.
She reached into her pocket. She grabbed a handful of the hot powder. She threw it right into Mr. Corvo’s face.
The old man screamed. He dropped his stick. He put his hands over his eyes. The hot pepper burned his eyes and nose. He coughed and yelled.
Moira did not wait. She ran out of the cave. She ran through the dead trees. She ran next to the river. She ran as fast as she could.
She did not stop running until she saw the houses of the village. She ran straight to the police station.
She pushed the door open. She was breathing very hard.
“Salomone!” Moira yelled.
Ispettore Salomone jumped up from his desk. “Moira! What is wrong? You look terrible.”
“Mr. Corvo,” Moira said, trying to breathe. “He is not in the hotel. He is living in a cave in the deep woods. He tried to hurt me. He has a box of strange maps and coins.”
Salomone looked very serious. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Moira said. “I threw pepper in his face. He is still in the woods.”
“Stay here,” Salomone ordered. “Lock the door. I am taking my men to the woods right now.”
Salomone and three other policemen took their guns and ran to their cars. Moira sat in Salomone’s chair. She was shaking. She locked the heavy door of the police station.
She waited for two hours. The police station was very quiet. Finally, she heard cars outside.
She unlocked the door. Salomone walked in. He looked dirty and tired, but he was smiling.
“We got him,” Salomone said. “He was washing his eyes in the river. We found his cave. We found the box and the maps.”
Moira felt a huge wave of relief. “Thank you, Ispettore.”
“Why did he want to hurt you, Moira?” Salomone asked. “What did he want?”
Moira looked down. She had to lie again to protect the magic. “He was crazy, Ispettore. He thought I had some old gold hidden in my shop. He thought I was rich.”
Salomone shook his head. “Crazy people. Well, he is going to jail for a long time. You are safe now, Moira.”
Moira walked back to her shop. The sun was going down. The sky was orange and pink.
When she walked in, the cats ran to her. They purred loudly. They knew she was safe.
Moira sat in her velvet chair. She put the blue book on her lap. She touched the cracked leather.
“We won,” she whispered to the book.
The silver letters appeared one more time.
The dark bird is locked in a cage. But the wind still blows. Rest, and drink the sweet tea.
Moira smiled. She made a pot of sweet chamomile tea. She drank it slowly. The village of Speranza was quiet again. The bad people were gone.
For now, the magic book was safe. And Moira was ready for a long, peaceful sleep.
A month passed. The weather got colder. Winter was coming to the hills. The trees lost all their leaves. The wind was sharp and bit the skin.
Moira kept the fire burning in her tea shop all day. The shop was very warm. People came in just to sit by the fire and smell the hot tea.
One morning, the shop door opened fast. The cold wind blew inside. It was Anna, from the coffee shop. She looked very scared. Her face was red from the cold.
“Moira!” Anna cried. “Please, you must help me!”
Moira put down her cup. “Anna, what is wrong? Sit down.”
“It is my nephew, little Pietro,” Anna said. She was crying. “He is only seven years old. He went to play near the old stone wall two hours ago. Now we cannot find him. The police are looking, but the woods are so big. It is too cold outside for a little boy.”
Moira felt her stomach drop. A lost child in the winter was very dangerous.
“Did you look everywhere in the village?” Moira asked.
“Everywhere,” Anna sobbed. “We looked in all the shops. We looked in the church. He is gone.”
“I will help you look,” Moira said. She put on her thickest winter coat. She put on her gloves and hat. “Stay here where it is warm, Anna. I will go.”
Moira walked out into the freezing wind. Many people from the village were outside. They were shouting Pietro’s name.
“Pietro! Pietro!”
Moira walked to the old stone wall at the edge of the village. It was near the big hills. The grass was covered in white frost. It was very cold.
She looked at the ground. It was hard to see footprints because the ground was frozen.
Moira knew she needed special help. Normal eyes could not find him fast enough.
She ran back to her shop. She locked the door. She went to the blue book.
“Please,” Moira whispered. “A little boy is lost in the cold. Tell me where he is.”
She waited. The book stayed blank for a long time. Then, very slowly, a picture started to draw itself on the paper.
It was not words this time. It was a map. Drawn in silver ink. It showed the old stone wall. Then it showed a path going up the big, steep hill. At the top of the hill, it showed a picture of a large, fallen tree. Under the tree, there was a small silver star.
Moira closed the book. She knew exactly where the big fallen tree was. It was very far up the hill. It was a hard climb.
She grabbed a thermos and filled it with hot, sweet tea. She grabbed a warm wool blanket.
She ran out of the shop and past the old stone wall. She started to climb the hill.
The wind was much stronger on the hill. It pushed against her. The cold hurt her face. Her legs burned because the hill was so steep.
“Pietro!” she yelled. The wind carried her voice away.
She climbed for forty-five minutes. She was very tired. Then, she saw it. The huge fallen tree. It was covered in dead branches.
Moira ran to the tree. “Pietro!” she called again.
She heard a very tiny sound. Like a little mouse squeaking.
She fell to her knees and looked under the big branches. Deep inside a small hole under the tree roots, she saw a piece of a blue jacket.
“Pietro!” Moira said. She crawled into the dirt and pulled the branches away.
The little boy was curled into a tight ball. His lips were blue. He was shaking very fast. He was too cold to talk. He was crying quietly.
“It is okay, Pietro. I am here,” Moira said softly.
She pulled him out of the hole. She wrapped the big wool blanket around him tightly. She opened the thermos and poured a cup of the hot, sweet tea.
“Drink this, little one,” she said. She held the cup to his lips.
Pietro drank the hot tea slowly. His shaking started to slow down. He looked at Moira with big, scared eyes.
“I got lost,” he whispered. “I chased a white rabbit. Then I didn’t know how to go home.”
“You are safe now,” Moira said. She hugged him tight to share her body heat.
She picked the boy up. He was heavy, but Moira was strong. She carried him down the steep hill. It was hard work. She had to walk very carefully so she did not fall.
When she reached the bottom of the hill, she saw Ispettore Salomone and Anna running toward her.
Anna screamed and grabbed the boy. She hugged him and kissed his cold face. “Pietro! Oh, my sweet boy!”
Salomone looked at Moira. “You found him. Where was he?”
“Up the hill, under the big fallen tree,” Moira said. She was breathing very hard. She was exhausted.
“That is a very long way,” Salomone said. “How did you know to look up there?”
Moira gave a small, tired smile. “I just had a feeling, Ispettore. A very lucky feeling.”
Anna held Moira’s hand and cried. “Thank you. Thank you. You saved his life.”
“Go home, Anna. Get him in a hot bath,” Moira said.
Moira walked slowly back to her tea shop. She was freezing and very tired.
When she got inside, she took off her coat and boots. She sat in front of the fire. Ashwaganda climbed onto her lap and purred. The warm cat felt wonderful.
She looked at the blue book on the counter. The book had helped save a life today. It was not just for fighting bad people. It was for protecting the village.
She made herself a large bowl of hot soup. She ate it quietly. The village was safe again. No one was dead. No one was lost.
The magic in Speranza was strong. And Moira was proud to be the keeper of the secrets.
A week later, a strange thing happened in the village square.
There was a very large, very old clock on the wall of the church. It was made of stone and iron. It had been there for three hundred years. It always told the perfect time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Everyone in Speranza used the church clock. They woke up by the clock. They closed their shops by the clock.
But on Thursday morning, the clock stopped.
It stopped at exactly 8:15 AM.
The village people stood in the square and looked up at the broken clock. They were confused.
“It never stops,” Altea said. She was smoking a cigar. “My grandfather said it never stopped even during the big war.”
“It is bad luck,” Marisa said. She was rubbing her arms. “A stopped clock means time is broken.”
Moira looked at the clock. The big iron hands were perfectly still. She felt a strange feeling in the air. The village felt too quiet without the tick-tock.
She went back to her shop. She opened the blue book.
When time stands still, the shadows wake up. Find the missing tooth in the big wheel.
Moira read the words. The missing tooth in the big wheel. The book was talking about the inside of the clock. A piece of the clock was missing.
She went back to the square. Ispettore Salomone was talking to the village priest, Father Tomaso.
“We need a clockmaker from the city,” Salomone said. “It will take weeks to fix.”
“Father Tomaso,” Moira said. “Can I look inside the clock room?”
The priest looked surprised. “You, Moira? You make tea. You do not fix clocks.”
“I just want to look,” Moira said nicely. “Maybe it is a simple problem.”
Father Tomaso gave her a large, heavy iron key. “Be careful. It is very dusty up there.”
Moira unlocked the small door at the bottom of the church tower. She climbed the long, dark stairs. The stairs went round and round. It was very dirty.
At the top, there was a small room. Inside the room were the giant gears and wheels of the old clock. They were made of dark metal. They were very big.
Moira looked closely at the biggest wheel. It had many metal “teeth” around the edge.
She remembered the book’s words. Find the missing tooth.
She checked every tooth on the big wheel. She walked slowly around it. Finally, she saw it. One of the metal teeth was broken off. It was gone.
But wait. It was not just broken. It looked like someone had cut it off with a saw. The metal was shiny and clean where it was cut.
Someone had broken the clock on purpose.
Moira looked around the dusty room. She saw footprints in the thick dust. Someone had been here recently.
Then, she saw something shining on the floor.
She picked it up. It was a very small, gold ring. It was a man’s ring. It had a tiny red stone in it.
Moira knew this ring. She had seen it before.
She climbed down the stairs. She gave the key back to Father Tomaso.
“You were right, Father,” Moira said. “It is a big problem. A piece of the wheel is gone.”
She walked quickly to the Cigar House. Altea was inside, reading a newspaper.
“Altea,” Moira said. “Do you remember the man who came here yesterday to buy your most expensive cigars?”
Altea nodded. “Yes. The rich man from Milan. Mr. Rossi’s brother. He said he came to pay his respects to his dead brother.”
“Did you notice his hands?” Moira asked.
Altea thought for a moment. “Yes. He wore a fancy gold ring with a red stone on his pinky finger.”
Moira put the small gold ring on the wooden counter. “Like this one?”
Altea’s eyes got wide. “Yes! Exactly like that. Where did you find it?”
“In the church tower,” Moira said. “He broke the clock.”
“Why would a rich man from the city break our clock?” Altea asked. She looked very confused.
“I don’t know yet,” Moira said. “But he wants to stop time in Speranza. He wants to cause trouble. I need to find him.”
“He said he was leaving today,” Altea said. “He is driving a big black car.”
Moira left the shop. She ran to the edge of the village. The road leading out of Speranza was empty. She was too late. The man with the black car was gone.
Why did he cut a piece of the clock?
Moira walked back to her shop slowly. Her head hurt. So many mysteries.
She opened the blue book. She placed the gold ring on the page.
The brother seeks revenge. He takes the iron tooth to open the iron gate. The old prison below the water.
Moira read the words three times. The iron gate. The old prison below the water.
There was an old story in the village. A very old legend. Hundreds of years ago, there was a small prison built under the lake near the village. It was called the Water Dungeon. People said there was a secret treasure hidden there, locked behind a giant iron gate.
The piece of the clock… the metal tooth. It was not just a piece of a clock. It was exactly the right shape to be the key for the iron gate.
Mr. Rossi’s brother did not care about the clock. He wanted the key to the treasure. He knew the old secret.
“He is not going back to the city,” Moira said to her cats. “He is going to the lake.”
Moira had to stop him. If he opened the Water Dungeon, the old magic and old bad things might come out.
She packed her bag. She put in strong rope, a heavy flashlight, and her strongest tea.
She got in her small truck. She drove toward the big lake outside the village. The sky was turning gray. It looked like snow was coming.
She drove to the edge of the water. The lake was dark and very calm. There was an old stone building near the water. It was ruined and broken. This was the entrance to the old tunnels that led under the lake.
She parked her truck. She saw tire tracks in the mud. A big car had been here. The brother was already inside.
Moira took a deep breath. She turned on her flashlight. She walked into the dark, ruined building.
Inside, there were wet stone stairs going down into the dark. It smelled like fish and old water. It was freezing cold.
Moira climbed down the stairs carefully. The walls were wet and slippery.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a long stone tunnel. She heard the sound of water dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She walked quietly down the tunnel. She heard a noise ahead. It was the sound of metal hitting metal. Clang!
She turned a corner. She saw a large, round room. At the end of the room was a massive iron gate. It was black and rusted.
Standing in front of the gate was the man in the fancy suit. He was holding the piece of the clock wheel. He was trying to push it into a large hole in the stone wall next to the gate.
“It will not work,” Moira said loudly. Her voice echoed in the stone room.
The man jumped. He dropped the metal piece. He turned around to look at her.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “How did you follow me?”
“I am the keeper of this village,” Moira said. “You cannot open that gate. The things inside must stay asleep.”
The man laughed. It sounded crazy. “You are just a stupid woman from a stupid village! There is gold behind this gate. Roman gold! My brother died trying to find the map. I found it. It is mine!”
He picked up the metal piece again. He pushed it hard into the hole.
There was a loud grinding sound. The ground started to shake. The heavy iron gate slowly began to open.
“No!” Moira yelled.
But the gate did not open to show gold.
As the gate opened, a huge wall of dark, freezing water rushed out of the tunnel behind it. The prison was completely flooded.
The man screamed as the water hit him. The force of the water knocked him down.
Moira ran back toward the stairs. The water was rising fast. It grabbed her boots. It was so cold it burned her skin.
She climbed the stairs as fast as she could. The water followed her, rising higher and higher in the tunnel.
She reached the top of the stairs and ran out of the ruined building. She fell onto the muddy grass, breathing hard.
She looked back. The dark water was spilling out of the doorway. The man did not come out. He was trapped in the cold, dark water with his broken dream of gold.
Moira sat in the mud for a long time. The snow started to fall. Little white flakes covered the dark ground.
She stood up slowly. She was wet and freezing. She got into her truck and turned the heater on high.
She drove back to Speranza. The village was quiet. The snow was falling softly on the roofs.
She went into her warm tea shop. She locked the door. She took off her wet clothes and put on a warm, dry sweater.
She sat in her chair and looked at the blue book. It was closed on the counter.
The village had secrets. Old, dangerous secrets. Men came from the city because they were greedy. They wanted money and power. They brought death.
But Speranza had Moira. And Moira had the magic, the cats, and her brave heart.
The clock in the square was broken. It did not tell time anymore. But Moira knew the real time. It was time for peace. It was time to drink tea and let the snow cover the bad memories.
She closed her eyes and listened to the purring of Ashwaganda and Toe. The tea sanctuary was safe. And tomorrow, she would make a special warm tea for the whole village. -
Chapter Three: The Strange Old Man
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The days in Speranza became quiet again. The sun was warm. The sky was very blue. Moira was happy. Her tea shop was safe. The village people came back to drink tea and talk. They did not talk about the bad man who died. They wanted to forget.
Ashwaganda, the big orange cat, slept in the window all day. Toe, the black cat, sat on the high shelf. He watched everyone who came in the door.
One Tuesday, the bell on the door rang. A new man walked in. He was very old. He had white hair and a long black coat. He walked with a heavy wooden stick.
Moira stood behind her counter. “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The old man looked around the shop. His eyes were small and dark. He looked at the jars of tea. He looked at the old books on the shelves. He did not look friendly.
“I am looking for something,” the old man said. His voice was slow and dry. “I am looking for a very old book.”
Moira felt her heart jump. She thought about The Days of the Dreams. The blue book was safely hidden under the counter.
“I have many old books,” Moira said in a calm voice. “What kind of book do you want?”
“A magic book,” the man said. “It has a blue cover. It has a picture of a sleeping cat on it. Do you have this book?”
Moira looked right into his dark eyes. “No. I do not have a book like that. I only sell tea and normal books.”
The old man did not look happy. He hit his wooden stick on the floor. “You are lying. I know the book is in this village. I will find it.”
He turned around and walked out of the shop. He did not say goodbye.
Moira locked the door fast. She took the blue book from under the counter. She opened it. The silver letters shined on the page.
The dark bird looks for the nest. Hide the truth. Fire is coming.
Moira read the words. Fire is coming. This was very bad. The old man wanted to hurt her and take the book.
She called her friend Altea. “Altea, it is Moira. A strange old man is in the village. He wears a black coat. Please watch him. He is dangerous.”
“I saw him,” Altea said on the phone. “He went to the old hotel. I will watch him for you.”
That night, Moira did not sleep. She sat in the dark shop. She held a heavy iron pan in her hand. The cats stayed awake with her. Toe sat by the door. Ashwaganda sat by the window.
At two o’clock in the morning, Moira heard a sound. It was a very quiet sound outside the back window. Someone was trying to open it.
Moira stood up slowly. She walked to the back room. She saw a dark shadow outside the glass.
Suddenly, the glass broke. Crash!
A hand reached inside to open the lock. Moira did not wait. She hit the hand very hard with the iron pan.
A man yelled outside. It was a loud, angry yell. Then, she heard feet running away in the dark.
Moira turned on the lights. She looked at the broken window. On the floor, there was a small drop of blood. And next to the blood, there was a strange, old coin.
Moira picked up the coin carefully. It was made of black metal. It had a picture of a bird on it. A dark bird. Just like the book said.
The next morning, the sun came up, but Moira was not happy. She looked at the broken window. She looked at the black coin.
She walked to the police station. Ispettore Salomone was drinking coffee at his desk. He looked tired.
“Moira,” he said. “Why are you here so early?”
Moira put the black coin on his desk. “Someone broke my window last night. They tried to come inside. I hit them, and they ran away. They left this.”
Salomone picked up the coin. He looked at it closely. “This is very old. It is not normal money. Who wants to break into a tea shop?”
“An old man came to my shop yesterday,” Moira said. “He wore a black coat. He asked about old books. I think it was him.”
“Altea called me about him,” Salomone said. “He is staying at the old hotel. His name is Mr. Corvo. I will go talk to him now.”
“Be careful, Ispettore,” Moira said. “He is not a good man.”
Moira walked back to her shop. She needed to clean the broken glass. When she got there, Marisa was waiting by the door. Marisa wore her clean white coat. She had a box of fresh chocolate cookies.
“Moira, I heard about the window,” Marisa said. She looked worried. “Are you okay? I brought you some sweet things.”
“Thank you, Marisa. I am fine,” Moira said. They went inside. Moira made strong black tea. They ate the chocolate cookies.
“This village is changing,” Marisa said sadly. “First the poison, now this. What do they want?”
Moira could not tell Marisa about the magic book. It was a secret. “I don’t know, Marisa. But we have to be strong.”
After Marisa left, Moira opened the blue book again. She needed help.
The silver letters grew on the yellow paper.
The dark bird hides in the dead trees. Follow the water to the cave.
Moira knew the dead trees. They were in the deep woods behind the village. There was a small river there. The trees were old and had no leaves. It was a scary place. People did not go there.
“I have to go,” Moira told her cats. “You stay here and guard the shop.”
Moira put on her heavy boots and her thick coat. She put a small flashlight in her pocket. She walked out of the village and into the woods.
The woods were very quiet. There were no birds singing. The trees were tall and dark. Moira walked next to the small river. The water moved fast over the rocks.
She walked for an hour. Her legs were tired. Then, she saw the dead trees. They looked like big, gray skeletons.
Behind the dead trees, there was a large hill made of dark stone. In the middle of the hill, there was a hole. It was a cave.
Moira turned on her flashlight. She walked slowly to the cave. It smelled like wet dirt and old leaves. She went inside.
The cave was big and cold. The light from her flashlight shined on the walls. Moira gasped. There were pictures on the walls. Old pictures painted with red and black colors. They showed people, animals, and stars.
But there was something else in the cave.
In the center of the dark room, there was a small fire. Next to the fire was a sleeping bag. And next to the sleeping bag was Mr. Corvo’s long black coat.
He was living here. The hotel room was just a trick.
Moira looked around quickly. She saw a small wooden box near the fire. She walked to it and opened it. Inside, there were more black coins. And there were maps of the village. One map had a big red circle around Moira’s tea shop.
Suddenly, Moira heard a sound behind her.
“You should not be here,” a slow, dry voice said.
Moira turned around fast. Mr. Corvo stood at the door of the cave. He held his heavy wooden stick. He looked very angry.
Moira did not move. She kept her flashlight pointed at the old man’s face.
“You broke my window,” Moira said. Her voice was strong. She was scared, but she did not show it.
“You have the book,” Mr. Corvo said. He walked slowly into the cave. “The book of the sleeping cat. My family owned that book a long time ago. It was stolen from us. I want it back.”
“The book is not yours,” Moira said. “It belongs to the tea shop now. It belongs to Speranza.”
Mr. Corvo laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. “Speranza is a village of fools. They do not know real magic. Give me the book, or I will burn your shop to the ground.”
Fire is coming. The book was right.
“You cannot have it,” Moira said. She looked around. She needed a way to escape. The old man was blocking the door.
Mr. Corvo lifted his heavy stick. “Then you will stay here forever.”
He ran at her. He was old, but he was very fast. Moira jumped to the side. The heavy stick hit the stone wall with a loud crack.
Moira ran toward the door of the cave. But Mr. Corvo grabbed her coat. He pulled her back.
Moira remembered the herbs in her pocket. She always carried small bags of strong herbs for emergencies. She had a bag of dried chili peppers and strong black pepper powder.
She reached into her pocket. She grabbed a handful of the hot powder. She threw it right into Mr. Corvo’s face.
The old man screamed. He dropped his stick. He put his hands over his eyes. The hot pepper burned his eyes and nose. He coughed and yelled.
Moira did not wait. She ran out of the cave. She ran through the dead trees. She ran next to the river. She ran as fast as she could.
She did not stop running until she saw the houses of the village. She ran straight to the police station.
She pushed the door open. She was breathing very hard.
“Salomone!” Moira yelled.
Ispettore Salomone jumped up from his desk. “Moira! What is wrong? You look terrible.”
“Mr. Corvo,” Moira said, trying to breathe. “He is not in the hotel. He is living in a cave in the deep woods. He tried to hurt me. He has a box of strange maps and coins.”
Salomone looked very serious. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Moira said. “I threw pepper in his face. He is still in the woods.”
“Stay here,” Salomone ordered. “Lock the door. I am taking my men to the woods right now.”
Salomone and three other policemen took their guns and ran to their cars. Moira sat in Salomone’s chair. She was shaking. She locked the heavy door of the police station.
She waited for two hours. The police station was very quiet. Finally, she heard cars outside.
She unlocked the door. Salomone walked in. He looked dirty and tired, but he was smiling.
“We got him,” Salomone said. “He was washing his eyes in the river. We found his cave. We found the box and the maps.”
Moira felt a huge wave of relief. “Thank you, Ispettore.”
“Why did he want to hurt you, Moira?” Salomone asked. “What did he want?”
Moira looked down. She had to lie again to protect the magic. “He was crazy, Ispettore. He thought I had some old gold hidden in my shop. He thought I was rich.”
Salomone shook his head. “Crazy people. Well, he is going to jail for a long time. You are safe now, Moira.”
Moira walked back to her shop. The sun was going down. The sky was orange and pink.
When she walked in, the cats ran to her. They purred loudly. They knew she was safe.
Moira sat in her velvet chair. She put the blue book on her lap. She touched the cracked leather.
“We won,” she whispered to the book.
The silver letters appeared one more time.
The dark bird is locked in a cage. But the wind still blows. Rest, and drink the sweet tea.
Moira smiled. She made a pot of sweet chamomile tea. She drank it slowly. The village of Speranza was quiet again. The bad people were gone.
For now, the magic book was safe. And Moira was ready for a long, peaceful sleep.
A month passed. The weather got colder. Winter was coming to the hills. The trees lost all their leaves. The wind was sharp and bit the skin.
Moira kept the fire burning in her tea shop all day. The shop was very warm. People came in just to sit by the fire and smell the hot tea.
One morning, the shop door opened fast. The cold wind blew inside. It was Anna, from the coffee shop. She looked very scared. Her face was red from the cold.
“Moira!” Anna cried. “Please, you must help me!”
Moira put down her cup. “Anna, what is wrong? Sit down.”
“It is my nephew, little Pietro,” Anna said. She was crying. “He is only seven years old. He went to play near the old stone wall two hours ago. Now we cannot find him. The police are looking, but the woods are so big. It is too cold outside for a little boy.”
Moira felt her stomach drop. A lost child in the winter was very dangerous.
“Did you look everywhere in the village?” Moira asked.
“Everywhere,” Anna sobbed. “We looked in all the shops. We looked in the church. He is gone.”
“I will help you look,” Moira said. She put on her thickest winter coat. She put on her gloves and hat. “Stay here where it is warm, Anna. I will go.”
Moira walked out into the freezing wind. Many people from the village were outside. They were shouting Pietro’s name.
“Pietro! Pietro!”
Moira walked to the old stone wall at the edge of the village. It was near the big hills. The grass was covered in white frost. It was very cold.
She looked at the ground. It was hard to see footprints because the ground was frozen.
Moira knew she needed special help. Normal eyes could not find him fast enough.
She ran back to her shop. She locked the door. She went to the blue book.
“Please,” Moira whispered. “A little boy is lost in the cold. Tell me where he is.”
She waited. The book stayed blank for a long time. Then, very slowly, a picture started to draw itself on the paper.
It was not words this time. It was a map. Drawn in silver ink. It showed the old stone wall. Then it showed a path going up the big, steep hill. At the top of the hill, it showed a picture of a large, fallen tree. Under the tree, there was a small silver star.
Moira closed the book. She knew exactly where the big fallen tree was. It was very far up the hill. It was a hard climb.
She grabbed a thermos and filled it with hot, sweet tea. She grabbed a warm wool blanket.
She ran out of the shop and past the old stone wall. She started to climb the hill.
The wind was much stronger on the hill. It pushed against her. The cold hurt her face. Her legs burned because the hill was so steep.
“Pietro!” she yelled. The wind carried her voice away.
She climbed for forty-five minutes. She was very tired. Then, she saw it. The huge fallen tree. It was covered in dead branches.
Moira ran to the tree. “Pietro!” she called again.
She heard a very tiny sound. Like a little mouse squeaking.
She fell to her knees and looked under the big branches. Deep inside a small hole under the tree roots, she saw a piece of a blue jacket.
“Pietro!” Moira said. She crawled into the dirt and pulled the branches away.
The little boy was curled into a tight ball. His lips were blue. He was shaking very fast. He was too cold to talk. He was crying quietly.
“It is okay, Pietro. I am here,” Moira said softly.
She pulled him out of the hole. She wrapped the big wool blanket around him tightly. She opened the thermos and poured a cup of the hot, sweet tea.
“Drink this, little one,” she said. She held the cup to his lips.
Pietro drank the hot tea slowly. His shaking started to slow down. He looked at Moira with big, scared eyes.
“I got lost,” he whispered. “I chased a white rabbit. Then I didn’t know how to go home.”
“You are safe now,” Moira said. She hugged him tight to share her body heat.
She picked the boy up. He was heavy, but Moira was strong. She carried him down the steep hill. It was hard work. She had to walk very carefully so she did not fall.
When she reached the bottom of the hill, she saw Ispettore Salomone and Anna running toward her.
Anna screamed and grabbed the boy. She hugged him and kissed his cold face. “Pietro! Oh, my sweet boy!”
Salomone looked at Moira. “You found him. Where was he?”
“Up the hill, under the big fallen tree,” Moira said. She was breathing very hard. She was exhausted.
“That is a very long way,” Salomone said. “How did you know to look up there?”
Moira gave a small, tired smile. “I just had a feeling, Ispettore. A very lucky feeling.”
Anna held Moira’s hand and cried. “Thank you. Thank you. You saved his life.”
“Go home, Anna. Get him in a hot bath,” Moira said.
Moira walked slowly back to her tea shop. She was freezing and very tired.
When she got inside, she took off her coat and boots. She sat in front of the fire. Ashwaganda climbed onto her lap and purred. The warm cat felt wonderful.
She looked at the blue book on the counter. The book had helped save a life today. It was not just for fighting bad people. It was for protecting the village.
She made herself a large bowl of hot soup. She ate it quietly. The village was safe again. No one was dead. No one was lost.
The magic in Speranza was strong. And Moira was proud to be the keeper of the secrets.
A week later, a strange thing happened in the village square.
There was a very large, very old clock on the wall of the church. It was made of stone and iron. It had been there for three hundred years. It always told the perfect time.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Everyone in Speranza used the church clock. They woke up by the clock. They closed their shops by the clock.
But on Thursday morning, the clock stopped.
It stopped at exactly 8:15 AM.
The village people stood in the square and looked up at the broken clock. They were confused.
“It never stops,” Altea said. She was smoking a cigar. “My grandfather said it never stopped even during the big war.”
“It is bad luck,” Marisa said. She was rubbing her arms. “A stopped clock means time is broken.”
Moira looked at the clock. The big iron hands were perfectly still. She felt a strange feeling in the air. The village felt too quiet without the tick-tock.
She went back to her shop. She opened the blue book.
When time stands still, the shadows wake up. Find the missing tooth in the big wheel.
Moira read the words. The missing tooth in the big wheel. The book was talking about the inside of the clock. A piece of the clock was missing.
She went back to the square. Ispettore Salomone was talking to the village priest, Father Tomaso.
“We need a clockmaker from the city,” Salomone said. “It will take weeks to fix.”
“Father Tomaso,” Moira said. “Can I look inside the clock room?”
The priest looked surprised. “You, Moira? You make tea. You do not fix clocks.”
“I just want to look,” Moira said nicely. “Maybe it is a simple problem.”
Father Tomaso gave her a large, heavy iron key. “Be careful. It is very dusty up there.”
Moira unlocked the small door at the bottom of the church tower. She climbed the long, dark stairs. The stairs went round and round. It was very dirty.
At the top, there was a small room. Inside the room were the giant gears and wheels of the old clock. They were made of dark metal. They were very big.
Moira looked closely at the biggest wheel. It had many metal “teeth” around the edge.
She remembered the book’s words. Find the missing tooth.
She checked every tooth on the big wheel. She walked slowly around it. Finally, she saw it. One of the metal teeth was broken off. It was gone.
But wait. It was not just broken. It looked like someone had cut it off with a saw. The metal was shiny and clean where it was cut.
Someone had broken the clock on purpose.
Moira looked around the dusty room. She saw footprints in the thick dust. Someone had been here recently.
Then, she saw something shining on the floor.
She picked it up. It was a very small, gold ring. It was a man’s ring. It had a tiny red stone in it.
Moira knew this ring. She had seen it before.
She climbed down the stairs. She gave the key back to Father Tomaso.
“You were right, Father,” Moira said. “It is a big problem. A piece of the wheel is gone.”
She walked quickly to the Cigar House. Altea was inside, reading a newspaper.
“Altea,” Moira said. “Do you remember the man who came here yesterday to buy your most expensive cigars?”
Altea nodded. “Yes. The rich man from Milan. Mr. Rossi’s brother. He said he came to pay his respects to his dead brother.”
“Did you notice his hands?” Moira asked.
Altea thought for a moment. “Yes. He wore a fancy gold ring with a red stone on his pinky finger.”
Moira put the small gold ring on the wooden counter. “Like this one?”
Altea’s eyes got wide. “Yes! Exactly like that. Where did you find it?”
“In the church tower,” Moira said. “He broke the clock.”
“Why would a rich man from the city break our clock?” Altea asked. She looked very confused.
“I don’t know yet,” Moira said. “But he wants to stop time in Speranza. He wants to cause trouble. I need to find him.”
“He said he was leaving today,” Altea said. “He is driving a big black car.”
Moira left the shop. She ran to the edge of the village. The road leading out of Speranza was empty. She was too late. The man with the black car was gone.
Why did he cut a piece of the clock?
Moira walked back to her shop slowly. Her head hurt. So many mysteries.
She opened the blue book. She placed the gold ring on the page.
The brother seeks revenge. He takes the iron tooth to open the iron gate. The old prison below the water.
Moira read the words three times. The iron gate. The old prison below the water.
There was an old story in the village. A very old legend. Hundreds of years ago, there was a small prison built under the lake near the village. It was called the Water Dungeon. People said there was a secret treasure hidden there, locked behind a giant iron gate.
The piece of the clock… the metal tooth. It was not just a piece of a clock. It was exactly the right shape to be the key for the iron gate.
Mr. Rossi’s brother did not care about the clock. He wanted the key to the treasure. He knew the old secret.
“He is not going back to the city,” Moira said to her cats. “He is going to the lake.”
Moira had to stop him. If he opened the Water Dungeon, the old magic and old bad things might come out.
She packed her bag. She put in strong rope, a heavy flashlight, and her strongest tea.
She got in her small truck. She drove toward the big lake outside the village. The sky was turning gray. It looked like snow was coming.
She drove to the edge of the water. The lake was dark and very calm. There was an old stone building near the water. It was ruined and broken. This was the entrance to the old tunnels that led under the lake.
She parked her truck. She saw tire tracks in the mud. A big car had been here. The brother was already inside.
Moira took a deep breath. She turned on her flashlight. She walked into the dark, ruined building.
Inside, there were wet stone stairs going down into the dark. It smelled like fish and old water. It was freezing cold.
Moira climbed down the stairs carefully. The walls were wet and slippery.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a long stone tunnel. She heard the sound of water dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
She walked quietly down the tunnel. She heard a noise ahead. It was the sound of metal hitting metal. Clang!
She turned a corner. She saw a large, round room. At the end of the room was a massive iron gate. It was black and rusted.
Standing in front of the gate was the man in the fancy suit. He was holding the piece of the clock wheel. He was trying to push it into a large hole in the stone wall next to the gate.
“It will not work,” Moira said loudly. Her voice echoed in the stone room.
The man jumped. He dropped the metal piece. He turned around to look at her.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “How did you follow me?”
“I am the keeper of this village,” Moira said. “You cannot open that gate. The things inside must stay asleep.”
The man laughed. It sounded crazy. “You are just a stupid woman from a stupid village! There is gold behind this gate. Roman gold! My brother died trying to find the map. I found it. It is mine!”
He picked up the metal piece again. He pushed it hard into the hole.
There was a loud grinding sound. The ground started to shake. The heavy iron gate slowly began to open.
“No!” Moira yelled.
But the gate did not open to show gold.
As the gate opened, a huge wall of dark, freezing water rushed out of the tunnel behind it. The prison was completely flooded.
The man screamed as the water hit him. The force of the water knocked him down.
Moira ran back toward the stairs. The water was rising fast. It grabbed her boots. It was so cold it burned her skin.
She climbed the stairs as fast as she could. The water followed her, rising higher and higher in the tunnel.
She reached the top of the stairs and ran out of the ruined building. She fell onto the muddy grass, breathing hard.
She looked back. The dark water was spilling out of the doorway. The man did not come out. He was trapped in the cold, dark water with his broken dream of gold.
Moira sat in the mud for a long time. The snow started to fall. Little white flakes covered the dark ground.
She stood up slowly. She was wet and freezing. She got into her truck and turned the heater on high.
She drove back to Speranza. The village was quiet. The snow was falling softly on the roofs.
She went into her warm tea shop. She locked the door. She took off her wet clothes and put on a warm, dry sweater.
She sat in her chair and looked at the blue book. It was closed on the counter.
The village had secrets. Old, dangerous secrets. Men came from the city because they were greedy. They wanted money and power. They brought death.
But Speranza had Moira. And Moira had the magic, the cats, and her brave heart.
The clock in the square was broken. It did not tell time anymore. But Moira knew the real time. It was time for peace. It was time to drink tea and let the snow cover the bad memories.
She closed her eyes and listened to the purring of Ashwaganda and Toe. The tea sanctuary was safe. And tomorrow, she would make a special warm tea for the whole village. -
When the Ballroom went to war: the thread about Portobello’s Marine Gardens wartime role as a landing craft factory
Much has been written on the enigmatic Portobello Marine Gardens pleasure park, a short-lived leisure complex which opened in 1909 only to close in 1914 when it was requisitioned by the military for wartime use, never to open again.
Postcard of Marine Gardens in 1909 showing the various buildings and entertainments, looking across the Firth of Forth to Fife. The 3,500 seat concert hall is the domed building in the middle right, the 1,000 place ballroom and roller-skating rink is the lower building on the right below it with the barrel-vaulted roof.Some of this story can be seen below in an old thread on Twitter from Portobello Library.
https://twitter.com/PortyLibrary/status/1448604902968680451?s=20&t=royrHdQcpBrv3nsFxF0MWQ
The operating company was forced into liquidation in 1916, unable to make any income and still liable for rates and taxes. After the War the city Corporation bought and cleared most of the site, but some was bought by local entertainments entrepreneur Frederick R. Graham-Yooll who refurbished and re-opened the grand ballroom (half the size of a football pitch and one of the largest in Scotland). This would become one of the most prestigious and popular in the country.
The interior of the ballroom in 1912 in its glory days. A big open space with no obstructing roof supports, as good for building bus bodies as for dancing in. Edinburgh and Scottish Collection, Edinburgh City Libraries.War intervened once again in 1939 and the venue closed its doors again when it was at the peak of its popularity, the last dances being advertised in the Edinburgh Evening News for the coming week on Friday September 1st. Once again the military moved in, troops of the Kings Own Scottish Borderers being billeted there and entertaining the locals at the adjacent football stadium, playing as the Edinburgh Borderers. The venue saw occasional use for concerts organised to entertain servicemen or public displays of military or civil defence drills at the stadium. Valuation rolls for 1940-41 show that the site was owned by the “Trustees of the late F. R. Graham-Yooll” but much of it occupied by the War Department.
Around that time (probably late 1942) the Scottish Motor Traction Company – universally known as SMT – took over the ballroom for use as a coachbuilding works. This company was a vast conglomerate that spanned Scotland and had its fingers in any number of pies. It ran a significant share of the country’s public bus services outside of the main cities and much of its long-distance coaches; it briefly ran an airline, was at the forefront of the motor trade and had its own in-house coachbuilding operations making bus and coach bodies for its fleet. In the below aerial photo of 1962 the barrel-vaulted roof of the old ballroomcan be seen surrounded by later additions. To its east is a large new works, the Marine Garage of Edinburgh Corporation Transport.
SMT‘s Marine Garden works, post-war photo of 1962. The works on the right under construction for Edinburgh Corporation Transport is the Marine Garage, now operated by Lothian Buses. © Edinburgh City Libraries, Edinburgh and Scottish Collection, Edinburgh City LibrariesZooming right in, you can even still read the ghost sign of “Marine Gardens Ballroom” on the front, 23 years on from its closure.
The peeling paint of “Marine Gardens Ballroom” can be clearly discerned on the old façade, now largely hidden away by extensions added later. © Edinburgh City Libraries, Edinburgh and Scottish Collection, Edinburgh City LibrariesAn advert in the Sales by Auction listing in the Scotsman on 6th August 1942 gives a possible date for the takeover of the ballroom:
Monday 10th August at 11… Within the yard of Messrs. Adam Currie & Sons, ltd. West Saville Terrace. Ballroom and Restaurant Furnishings, Removed from The Marine Gardens, Portobello
Everything was up for sale, from tables and chairs to couches and settees all the way through to cigarette vending machines, chip slicers, champagne glasses and a ham-slicing machine!
In addition to taking on and expanding the old ballroom, SMT extended the operation on vacant land to the west on behalf of the Admiralty – who paid for 87,200 square feet of modern factory buildings to be constructed. Here they built some sixty Bedford OWB Utility bus bodies here with no aluminium (which was a strategic material for the aircraft industry) and with austere bodywork and finishes for economy’s sake and also undertook work for Edinburgh Corporation Transport.
1944 Ordnance Survey map showing Marine Gardens. The central building is the expanded ballroom, with the newer factory to its north. To its south, the old speedway racing dirt track is noted as a “test track” where vehicles exiting the works could be given a shakedown drive. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of ScotlandBut the Admiralty wasn’t interested in buses. Why then had they gone to this expense then? The answer lies in the map and on the below photograph – if you look closely you can see that there was a slipway leading from the works, across the beach and into the Firth of Forth.
1958 aerial photo of Portobello showing Marine Gardens football and speedway stadium at the bottom, SMT’s ballroom works above it and beyond the factory constructed by them for the Admiraly. Notice the slipway extending across the shoreline in the middle of the shot. SAR031664 via Britain From AboveBuses don’t need slipways, so what was one doing here? The answer is that the Admiralty did not want SMT to build buses, they wanted them to engage in war work and were build amphibious landing craft! Marine Gardens was a purpose-built site for the production of the Landing Craft Assault – better known as the LCA.
A factory fresh LCA on a trolley for moving it through the factory of Harris Lebus Ltd. in Tottenham Hale where it was built. You can see the diagonal pattern of the teak planking, and the riveted, rectangular panels of armour plate along the sides. Imperial War Museum collection, IWM A9838The LCA was a small, mass-produced craft which took troops the final few miles from ship to shore and which was used in the invasions of Sicily, Normandy, south France, Walcheren and the Scheldt; as well as across the Far East. It was built largely from wood; a steam-bent keel of Canadian elm and mahogany frames covered in a shell of double diagonal teak planking over which some steel armour plating was bolted. This sort of construction suited small boat builders used to making wooden yachts, rowboats, fishing boats etc. but such businesses were already heavily engaged in war work. Coach-builders, who were skilled in assembly techniques and working with composite structures of steel and wood – and were more than familiar with the Ford V8 bus engines that powered the LCA – were under-employed during wartime and so were perfectly suited to taking up its production.
The wounded being helped on board a landing craft, the Raid on Vaagso, December 1941. IWM N481Such was the importance of the LCA to the war effort that the Admiralty wouldn’t allow its designer – Thornycroft – to manage production directly. Instead it organised a huge network of subcontractors; bus and coach builders, furniture & cabinet makers, joiners… Anyone who could work wood on an industrial scale. Anecdotal evidence suggests businesses around Portobello were involved in producing teak body parts, which were taken to Marine Gardens for assembly onto the hull frames. The largely complete little vessels were launched into the Forth down the slipway and towed to a shipyard for final fitting out – west along the Forth coast to Granton or Bo’ness, east to Cockenzie or across the Firth to Burntisland and St. Monans. About 2,000 LCAs were built across hundreds of assembly yards and thousands of subcontractors and although I can’t find specific production volumes for Marine Gardens but by the time of Operation Overlord in June 1944, some 60 a month were being turned out.
Once the local supply-chain was established and the workforce had been upskilled for the production of LCAs, larger craft were entrusted to Marine Gardens and a number of larger and more complex Landing Craft, Mechanised (LCM, predictably) were next built, with the first launched in November 1944 and series production entering the water in January 1945. The LCMs built at Marine Gardens were the Mark VII version, displacing 28 tons (63 tons fully loaded), 60 feet long by 16 feet wide and powered by two Packard diesel engines whose 290 horsepower could get a top speed of 11 knots. They could carry two light armoured vehicles or one larger one weighing up to 35 tons.
29th January 1945, launch of an LCM at Marine Gardens into the Forth by the Lady Provost of Edinburgh, Diana Falconer, wearing the uniform of the Women’s Royal Naval Service (WRNS or Wrens) and being presented with a bouquet of flowers by one of the female welders, Mrs Duncan. This was the second such launch from the works.The vessel shown above is the LCM Mark VII, a late-war British-built variant of an American design by the Higgins Corporation that was suited to mass production by a relatively unskilled workforce. The Evening News reported multiple launches throughout the final year of the war; one more in February (launched by Lady and Sir William Young Darling, two in March launched by local women who worked on them, one in April and one in June launched by Mrs W. McDonald of Downfield Place, a worker who had won the SMT Saving’s Group competition. Up to twenty-nine of these craft may have been built at Portobello and after the war a scale model of LCM7174 was presented by SMT to the Scottish United Services Museum for display in Edinburgh Castle.
LCM7174 at sea, this was the prototype vessel launched at Marine Gardens in November 1944. Imperial War Museum collection, A27908I haven’t yet found any further details about the work that took place at Marine Gardens during the war years – they may also have been assembling military trucks. However we can get a little more insight on Canmore Trove, which shows architects drawings for air raid shelters and emergency decontamination showers at the works (the latter being a very Heath Robinson arrangement of a bucket on a pulley with a bit of string and a pull handle!). The relative extent of the female versus male facilities gives an indication of the balance of the sexes in the wartime workforce.
After the war, SMT retained the older half of the site based on the old Ballroom and operated it both as a coachbuilding works and later a general bus depot. The government-financed factory to the west was put up for disposal and in 1947 was allocated to Hayward Tyler Ltd. to build oil pumps and to Graham Enock Ltd. to manufacture milking, milk bottling and bottle washing machinery. SMT rebuilt their works around 1963, demolishing the remains of the old ballroom in the process, and were joined next door at this time by the rival Edinburgh Corporation Transport, who opened their Marine Garage on the site next door, which had been the football and speedway stadium.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/48252636@N07/5029439915/
SMT became part of the state-owned Scottish Bus Group, with its organisation restructured into area bus operating companies, trading as Eastern Scottish in these parts. Eastern was reorganised in 1985 ahead of deregulation of the industry in 1986. Marine Works was placed into an engineering subsidiary called SBG Engineering Ltd. They did work for the various SBG companies as well as contracting, including body panel and spray painting work for British Rail’s nearby Craigentinny depot. When the privatisation of the Scottish Bus Group was planned in 1989, it was decided that SBG Engineering (which also had major works in Motherwell, Kilmarnock, Kirkcaldy and Inverness) was not included, and Motherwell and Marine Gardens were unceremoniously shut down.
Remarkably, a substantial part of the wartime factory still survives (for now) as a car servicing works and salerooms. The building below is that which can be seen in the aerial photo at the head of the slipway.
Google Streetview 2025 image of the car showroom site at Marine Gardens. The grey-painted building is that seen in the aerial photo of the wartime landing craft factory.Note to readers: unfortunately in April 2026, a third-party plug-in more than exceeded its authority and broke many of the image links on this site. No images were lost but I will have to restore them page-by-page, which may take some time. In the meantime please bear with me while I go about rectifying this issue.
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Goals Check-in: April and May
April was a month for creating and growing! (Dare I say, it was for cultivating.) Bad jokes aside, I am happy with how I ended the month and am anxiously anticipating what May brings. This month, I focused the most on the additive – filling the proverbial cup, as it were.
Finding solace in lampwork
At the beginning of the month, I joined Art Club at the university art center, which lets me take advantage of the same resources and facilities that the art students use. Which means . . . I’m making beads again!
I have been going once or twice a week for the last couple of weeks. Unfortunately, they close the art center during the summer break, so I have to get as much time in the lab as possible before exam week.
I’ve found that since the lampwork process requires such concentration, patience, and (maybe most importantly) attention, it’s helping me turn off my brain. The effect this has had on my psyche is so immediate and so obvious that it makes me want to kick myself for not doing it sooner. And the beads are beautiful. Hopefully I’ll get the opportunity to do this in the fall, as well.
Burying my hands in dirt
The gardening season has officially begun, and that of course means I have killed at least two full trays of seedlings so far. The weather continues to be my enemy, with chilly temperatures giving way to warmth and then back again, on repeat, for the last couple of weeks. The last week of April, I started another two trays, and I’m hoping this time is going to stick.
How the seedlings looked as of May 1This means they won’t get planted until well into the season, but I’m not in a rush. I will pick up a few adolescent plants at the garden center to get into the ground after Mother’s Day, but I’m looking forward to the babies I’m nursing. A few are from my uncle’s garden, and a few are from plants I enjoyed in years past. Not really things I can just go to the store to buy.
At first, I was really upset that the first seedling trays didn’t make it. It’s always a disappointment, especially after the early excitement of watching the seeds germinate and break through the soil, their little green leaves tentatively reaching upward for the light. But upon reflection (and a bit of crying), I realize that I have to let that go. Sometimes things aren’t going to work out. And that’s okay. Gardening isn’t supposed to be a formulaic thing. Everyone has different circumstances, different soil, lights, temperature, combination of all those things. There are different levels of effort, different plant labels, so many variables. It’s not going to be perfect every time, or at all — but that’s where the beauty of this is. Because I can try again. I can start over and see what works, what doesn’t, what I need to remember for next year, what I don’t.
(Funny enough, this goes for most things in life.)
As a younger person, I was obsessed with doing things the right way the first time. I pretended to be okay with failure, would laugh things off, outwardly indifferent and chill. But on the inside, it felt like a Jenga tower. Something is going to give, and when it does, it’s not going to be pretty or chill. And then that thing did give — I got divorced, left nearly my whole life behind, started over. Rebuilt. And if I had to do it again, I would have the ability. I’m getting better at taking criticism. My therapist has her hands full, but it’s sincerely helping.
Looking ahead…
I have a conference in the northern part of Ohio this month, along with lots of excitement as we ramp up the summer season. I’ve got lots of appointments and plans and my best friend’s birthday celebration. Maybe some podcast recording. Definitely some writing. Mostly just trying to exist in the most comfortable way I can.
#amblogging #art #blog #flowers #garden #gardening #lampwork #LizCultivates #monthlyUpdate #plants #seeds -
#PhiladelphiaPA -🌱 #EarthDay Party & #ToySwap! 🎉
A celebration of community & sustainability!
"Join us for Rutabaga’s Earth Day Toy Swap & Celebration—a fun-filled day of community, sustainability, and play.
📅 Date: April 25th, 1pm- 4pm
📍 Location: East Falls Presbyterian Church, 3800 Vaux St.
💚 Event Cost: FREE to ALL
🎟 Toy Swap Ticket: $25 per bag (Donate in advance & get $5 off!)What to expect:
- Plant a seed with Dirt Baby Farm
- Earth Day Circle Time with Greene Towne Montessori
- Live music from the Blumbellies
- Rutabaga merch
- Tie Dying Station - Buy a shirt or Bring your own Item to Dye!
- (Mostly Native) #PlantSwap – Bring your seedlings or transplants to swap
-Rabbit #Recycling table. Bring your recyclables: #PlasticBags, #Electronics/Tech (handheld or small), #Cables, #cords, #wires, #Cork, #RubberBands, #BreadClips, and #TwistTies
- Games with East Falls Presbyterian Church
- Decorate Tree Cookies with The Miquon School
How the Toy Swap worksDonate (optional, but awesome).
- Drop off toys and goodies the week before the event at EFPC or Rutabaga Toy Library to get $5 off your bag.Show up on Saturday.
- Check in at the door, grab your ticket, and get to “shopping” the swap.Fill your bag.
- Browse toys, books, games, decor, and stocking stuffers for all ages and fill your bag to the brim.Feel good.
- You’re keeping great stuff in circulation, skipping new manufacturing and extra waste, and supporting Rutabaga’s Scholarship Fund.
How to DonateTo help us set up thoughtfully, please drop off donations ahead of time (starting 4/20) rather than bringing them the day of the swap.
You can donate toys ahead of time in two ways:
Bin outside East Falls Presbyterian Church (by the entrance) @ 3800 Vaux Street, East Falls
At Rutabaga Toy Library during our open hours, listed here
We just ask that donations are:
✨ Clean
✨ In working condition
✨ With all important piecesBasically, if it’s something you’d be happy to find at a swap, it’s perfect.
Volunteer & Get Early AccessWe’d love some helping hands to make the swap magical.
- Friday: Sorting and setting up donated toys
- Saturday: Welcoming folks, keeping tables tidy, and supporting the flow of the eventAs a thank you, volunteers get early access to shop the swap before doors open."
👉 Sign up to volunteer and FMI...
https://www.rutabagatoylibrary.com/earth-day#SolarPunkSunday #EarthDay2026 #BuildingCommunity #Recycling
-
#NativeAmerican leaders blast construction of #Florida’s ‘#AlligatorAlcatraz’ on land they call sacred
By KATE PAYNE
Updated 5:57 PM EDT, June 26, 2025TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) — "Florida Republican Gov. #RonDeSantis’ administration is racing ahead with construction of a makeshift immigration detention facility at an airstrip in the Everglades over the opposition of Native American leaders who consider the area their sacred #AncestralHomelands.
"A string of portable generators and dump trucks loaded with fill dirt streamed into the site on Thursday, according to #activist Jessica Namath, who witnessed the activity. The state is plowing ahead with building a compound of heavy-duty tents, trailers and other temporary buildings at the Miami Dade County-owned airfield located in the #BigCypressNationalPreserve, about 45 miles (72 kilometers) west of downtown Miami.
"A spokesperson for the Florida Division of Emergency Management, which is helping lead the project, did not respond to requests for comment.
"State officials have characterized the site as an ideal place to hold #migrants saying there’s 'not much' there other than pythons and alligators.
"#Indigenous leaders dispute that and are condemning the state’s plans to build what’s been dubbed 'Alligator Alcatraz' on their homelands. #NativeAmericans can trace their roots to the area back thousands of years.
"For generations, the sweeping wetlands of what is now South Florida have been home to Native peoples who today make up the #MiccosukeeTribe of Indians of Florida and the #SeminoleTribe of Florida, as well as the #SeminoleNation of Oklahoma.
" 'Rather than Miccosukee homelands being an uninhabited wasteland for alligators and pythons, as some have suggested, the Big Cypress is the Tribe’s traditional homelands. The landscape has protected the #Miccosukee and Seminole people for generations,' Miccosukee Chairman Talbert Cypress wrote in a statement on social media.
"There are 15 remaining traditional Miccosukee and #Seminole villages in Big Cypress, as well as ceremonial and burial grounds and other gathering sites, Cypress testified before Congress in 2024.
" 'We live here. Our ancestors fought and died here. They are buried here,' he said.
The Big Cypress is part of us, and we are a part of it.'"Garrett Stuart, who lives about 3 miles (4.8 kilometers) from the site, described the crystal clear waters, open prairies and lush tree islands of Big Cypress as teeming with life.
" 'Hearing the arguments of the frogs in the water, you know? And listen to the grunt of the alligator. You’re hearing the call of that osprey flying by and listening to the crows chatting,' he said. 'It’s all just incredible.'
"Critics have condemned the #detention facility and what they call the state’s apparent reliance on alligators as a security measure as a cruel spectacle, while DeSantis and other state officials have defended it as part of Florida’s muscular efforts to carry out President Donald Trump’s #ImmigrationCrackdown.
#ImmigrationRaids #ICEKidnapping #ProtectTheGlades #NoAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEDetentionCenter #ProtectTheSacred #BigCypressNationalPreserve
#StopAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEACAB #StopDetentionCentersEverywhere -
The New Giants
Luna in the woods, photo by the authorGrab a nice haircut
#compassion #evil #God #love #loveThyNeighbor #peace #poem #poet #spiritualEnlightenment #spirituality #theLord #theSoul
these rolling pins.
They know how to handle the vital in certain situations,
the ones where they meet the real world.
Do you call them cough suppressants?
It’s not about denial anything.
They lift up the world.
They love it into being.
Did you know creation is starlight?
They are on the forefront of that.
They don’t waste time.
Even sleep they use to their advantage.
They are not kingpins.
They have a guru master
guides them every day
where their inner being meets the world.
It’s inner contact crisp and clean.
It’s the inner consciousness guide,
and they soul with the world.
How big are their thoughts?
They carry Earth.
This is every day.
Civilization,
well they feel inside,
like they have evolved with man
through every Kris Kringle,
amazed we no longer live in caves
and now live in modernity.
They are the house of humankind.
They’re on the whereabouts of man.
They hold man tight,
are all over its feeling
joining God there.
They intercede for man
in the harshness of his journey.
This is wide open fire,
and they can identify with the rule and the snake,
wanting what’s best for the peoples of the Earth,
wanting freedom to be and to choose
the greatness of each individual.
They’re seeing what they need to do to change
and be the staircase of man,
the help in his endeavor
to have compassion for all
and bully no one.
This is their strange keeper,
these heroes of the thought of man.
They reach out for the growth of everybody,
even those we despise
and call evil.
This is their special operation,
but they can confront evil in the world
and make no bones about it.
They can see behind the scenes
and reveal evil in its place.
You will not find them safe here.
They expose evil.
Alright I’ll send it to yah.
You are very selfish.
I don’t know it’s been fusing.
Leave this to yourself;
get married and have kids;
do not stand up for
these divine fools;
throw them in the clink
with your fumbles with love.
I don’t know it has any power,
the system we wear in shoes
to put the name of the Lord on.
This world here will eat you alive,
but I’m game.
I give God my all.
I don’t throw him in the dirt.
Come on,
get goin’.
I’ve heard some living out here?
We go to school.
Do you call your name Mrs. Kravitz?
He put no.
Well I am about your bed.
I’m at the end of your feet.
I test the ground of your heart.
We’ll give it to yah,
a safe haven.
It goes through the community;
it goes through the communication
in honor to meet the jump rope.
I’ve really crafted it the way it is
says the community ring.
All the raccoons are pretty.
Please stay in the car
Luna.
She just had a…
There’s something over there.
There’s something else.
She knows that you’re protecting her.
Luna in this exploratory relationship
do business
as members of the community.
Can you come over here?
You’re a mountain clan.
Will you please deal our dog right?
She never leaves our side.
No fenced in in the backyard for her.
No putting her on some chain.
She is our honey child.
Let her walk among you.
She’s walkin’ to her next life human,
and you can you grasp that with a dog?
Their soul rang out
you’ll move ahead
letting me be by my masters.
Do you see the relationship?
Good.
I’m just leavin’
for my own house in the woods.
Participate
in your wholesome community.
Alright I will not roar
my own special status,
but will a poet be admitted?
And in his verse is a new society
for a better world.
Can I be a poet among you
challenging the way we do things?
This gets me in trouble,
why I’m here.
Douglas and I are searching goals here.
We’re looking for a better land.
That okay?
Days of unity,
all this is a unity project,
and we’re not just separate neighbors,
nor alone isolated individuals
in a world.
We are everything,
and everything is us.
We are part of oneness’ clan.
We cultivate that help.
We live that example
a sacrifice doin’ it,
not a free-for-all,
not a give everything away,
a balanced, measured diet of oneness
that knows our strengths and weaknesses
and our own importance to the group.
We are learning oneness as we go along,
and great that field play.
Fifteen seconds ago
forces of power moved us from our home,
the power that destroys lives.
I was writing poetry on the beach.
It angered the local kingpins.
They threw away the Constitution and got rid of me.
We fled in haste.
We are refugees.
Can you put that into your hat and smoke it?
Can you consider us with kid gloves?
Thank you kindly.
It is our effort to be kind too.
We’re in the woods,
the place we wanna be,
the place we feel asked for us,
if you can see correspondence in roadways.
This is exciting for us.
This is wonderful.
This is joy in the Lord.
Everpresent,
he is our refuge.
He is our one at hand.
We’re forgetting
how huge he is with you too.
It’s just isolated stupidities
in the greatness of the Lord.
We bask in him
and turn our trucks towards him.
Hallelujah you do too,
and we are thankful for that.
God is great.
God is wonderful.
God is our sudden being
in the fullness of time,
and all of you,
yes we see your indwelling divinity.
We see the One that you are.
We see mystery behind your eyes
that gathers all existence unto itself.
Sometimes we have to pinch ourselves to find it,
but we endeavor never to slap you forgetting it.
How does a poet ride evil then?
How does a poet point out a needed change
and not neglect his power,
her force?
With no hate,
and the whole poem will tell you what it’s about.
I’ve been here,
to the Lord’s altar,
and I heard what to say,
and meditate
on what I have written.
It doesn’t go lightly my Lord.
Have a good night.
Have a beautiful day.
Have a glorious day.
We go out.
We go down.
These weapons in our hands,
this is why
we last well with each other
if our weapons are not hurting other people.
Om to find one,
I slept in Om.
I did not just shoot somebody
with no regard to their safety.
I challenged them
to put goodness on their pathways,
to champion the thought of love,
to broker peace between us.
Can you get that right?
Not everybody will be pleased.
Some will say you’re wrong.
How do we change then,
if it’s not put before us?
What is nonviolence in speaking?
Sometimes you have to will to change.
Sometimes you have to go the distance
to give someone a mirror to look at
to honor
the gateway to peace.
Is that size up?
It’s not puttin’ anyone down
in mean speech.
It’s not striking out in anger
or blind reaction.
It wants someone to see themselves
and make change.
With some it is impossible,
but you follow the Spirit’s lead.
I’m here, I’m here
to help you remember
you have these tigers,
and you know you never change.
The impossible seem the odds.
Then the Lord comes to you a gifted angel,
holds your hand,
looks into your eyes.
The startling he is there
will wake up the most slumbering sleeper,
will knock your fucking socks off,
will make you cry in submission
to the mercy he offers you.
I am that man;
I am that woman,
complete now in the genders I wear,
hallelujah,
and uh,
birth control,
no bad comes from my hands no more.
Both dammit
sacrifice for the good of all.
How else can you describe killing a part of yourself
that was as natural to you as rain?
Herein lies the crux of the matter:
in every single part of ourselves,
in every single fiber,
speaking of the human being in all its parts,
mountains can go wrong.
You can be defeated by yourself,
murdered by your own breezeway,
killed by your cells.
Pity we have
for bodily and mental challenges.
We have none for the heart
when it goes awry.
We have none for the hands
that obey an errant heart.
We punish those people,
get rid of them,
but we fail here.
Love thy neighbor no exceptions,
and a cancer patient,
someone with down syndrome,
has the wheels of a disease
that also someone lost in behaviors we abhor
has in the house of their being.
Freewill’s at stake,
and it’s the issue here,
but not confronted with this disease
how can you hate and judge my friend?
Animal ways breed animal man,
and when you kill someone for doing wrong
or slice them with punishment’s scalpel,
you’ve carried out the wrong they’ve done.
By the witness of the crowd
and with its consent
we bury humanity here.
We tear asunder our house.
Separate the people you need to separate
if their behavior’s eminent,
but treat them as lost children,
not monsters and vile things.
Dr. George Washington Carver
was a miracle among you.
The Earth spoke to him softly
of healing need,
but he was a negro,
when that word was in fashion,
when Jim Crow ruled his land,
when he was hated and looked down upon
for being black.
What a choice God chose for this man.
He lived up to his day.
He stood tall and strong.
He heard the plants speak,
the clay and flowers around him.
He heard the inner voice,
saw visions of these things,
and we prized him for it.
Some had prejudice to overcome,
the strongest of their day.
Pardon me ma’am.
Pardon me sir.
I am of this vehicle made.
You are hearin’ my voices speak
in a miracle of love.
I am the thought of this day
to bring healing and remedy
in our moral world,
in the disease that afflicts the heart and hands.
Are you prejudice and blind?
It’s the same today
as it was yesterday
in how we perceive our fellow man.
We hate him for being this thing on earth
he didn’t choose.
The Earth made him that way,
the elements of man.
Now I bring great healing
upon the Earth
for those with eyes that see.
Inner voice led me to it
and the vision of God.
I walk with Mr. Creator like Dr. Carver,
my walk just as deep in intensity.
I differ in skin color and mode of religion,
and I work with different elements.
I am here for the morality of man.
Is that too terrible today?
Is that wrong?
Is that okay?
They’re at Conservative National Forest,
and it’s real lively here,
in a time capsule.
People go about their business here
in their own brand of music.
If Saint Francis of Assisi is their patron saint,
they abhor animals in their court,
and they’re holding court with the Timeless,
not allowing him inside.
This is grand design.
It’s rigid here and far flung,
but leeway is making a living.
Let the flowers speak!
I haven’t heard this yet,
and they’re borrowing on marked time.
Conscious group process
is a recovery.
It’s not on those lines yet,
but I do think they see it.
I just don’t know if they’ll let it in.
They make a big show of love and approval,
but it’s high speech not actions yet
when you get right down to it with one of them,
and the opposite is true the few and far between,
and be done with.
They teeter there,
and it happens to snow.
A peaceful community lines these shores.
So I’ve landed.
So I’ve come here from a long ways.
Do you know how to dance lower than you are?
This is my piece of cake here.
I just want them to know I love,
and I’m a handy man around the house.
Poetry’s a stick in the mud.
It’s not their wax paper.
It’s not their hole in the ground either.
I think those things are old peoples’ photos,
who grafted this community
from a peace on earth vigil.
Poetry is of the Spirit.
Ya’ll have fun
I was reluctant to say.
Five thousand and something,
I’ve reached a breakthrough there
in poetry.
I’m not the only one.
Thanks and cough syrup,
you’re hollerin’ in community.
Just keep the garbage squared away and you’ll be fine,
and probably don’t eat the squirrels.
Poetry will buttonhole later.
Who wants to eat?
I guess I’ll be their good cook,
but I don’t sprout my beans first.
Oh well.
Okay the finals is not typicals of the
the community here,
world community.
How do we change ourselves into an image of the indwelling Lord?
How do we be our soul on the surface of ourselves?
How do we become spiritually enlightened?
Do we know the difference
between being enlightened
and being up on ourselves?
What is the soul change,
and where is our divinity?
Is that the indwelling soul,
or the secret, hidden God overhead
the soul leads us to?
Where do we find God
as these hapless creatures on earth,
the God of the whole
that can bring us to our summit selves
and cherish our lives with us
as we are now
and be that constant companion
that we look to always?
Where is he our Lord,
and what about a mother’s might,
this sweetness and safety of her breasts,
and we are little ones there,
really, really comfortable
with she is our whole world?
Do you hear me Stephen?
Do you hear me world?
I’m game are you?
I’m sittin’ on the sofa
right here in God.
A change of nature I have made,
not enlightened,
and I am not yet my divinity,
but the soul has power
to express itself in verse
alive in God.
Even if it’s just to the woods
my voices ring,
I’ve found the Earth here,
and I treasure it in my hands.
Oh my dear brother,
sweet sister,
will you? -
Anthropologist and Author Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words
Anthropologist, Scholar, Writer, Indigenous & Multispecies Rights Advocate
Bio: Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao is an environmental anthropologist and environmental humanities scholar interested in the intersections of capitalism, ecology, Indigeneity, health, and justice in the Pacific.
Her theoretical thinking is inspired by interdisciplinary currents including Science and Technology Studies, political ecology, and Indigenous, Postcolonial, and Critical Race Studies.
Dr Chao is currently a Discovery Early Career Research Award (DECRA) Fellow and Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Sydney. Prior to her academic career, she worked for the international Indigenous rights organisation Forest Peoples Programme in the United Kingdom and Indonesia.
She has also undertaken consultancies for the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation and the United Nations Working Group on the Issue of Human Rights and Transnational Corporations. She is currently Secretary on the Executive Committee of the Australian Anthropological Society (AAS) and Co-Convenor of the Australian Food, Society, and Culture Network (AFSCN).
In 2022, Dr Chao released her much anticipated book In the Shadow of the Palms: More-Than-Human Becomings in West Papua, which examines the multispecies entanglements of oil palm plantations in West Papua, showing how Indigenous Marind communities understand and navigate the social, political, and environmental demands of palm oil. Her book won the inaugural Duke University Press Scholars of Colour First Book Award.
Dr Chao is keen to forge meaningful collaborations and conversations with Indigenous and decolonial academics, artists, and activists in Australia and beyond, and to move towards a better understanding of morethanhuman worlds.
Read the introduction Order the bookPalm Oil Detectives is honoured to interview to Dr Sophie Chao about her research into the impacts of palm oil on the daily lives of Marind people and other sentient beings in West Papua.
“I want the world to understand how #deforestation and industrial #palmoil expansion undermine #Indigenous ways of being in #WestPapua” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests #Boycott4Wildlife
“#Indigenous #Marind of #WestPapua consider plants and animals NOT as passive objects of exploitation, but as other-than-human relatives. Subjects of #interspecies #justice in their own right” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #Boycott4Wildlife
“I want to see the #palmoil industry/governments try to understand the desires of #Papuan people THEMSELVES instead of pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests
Anthropologist and author of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms’ Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words“#Governments/ #corporates must accept that some #Indigenous communities may decide to withhold consent to #palmoil projects. Their right to say NO MUST be respected” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Boycott4Wildlife
Little previous research had been done into how indigenous peoples themselves experience, interpret, and contest oil palm developments.
In particular, there is not much research done into how indigenous peoples relate to vulnerable, non-human beings such as native plants, animals, and elements, with whom many indigenous peoples entertain intimate and ancestral relations of kinship and care.
“Many people know that oil palm is devastating on tropical ecosystems and biodiversity. Much less is known about the impacts of this proliferating cash crop on the peoples who are being displaced, dispossessed, and disempowered in its wake.”
Pictured: A group of Marind women preparing sago starch that has been freshly rasped from the sago grove. Photo: Dr Sophie Chao
I wrote this book because I wanted the world to understand how deforestation and industrial oil palm expansion are undermining Indigenous ways of being in West Papua.
My book seeks to bring to life the worlds of people who live in the teeth of settler-colonial capitalism
[Pictured] Dr Sophie Chao
Living with Marind transformed how I think about what it means to be “human”
And also what it means to coexist in mutually beneficial ways with other-than-human beings.
Pictured: A Marind man rests near the banks of the Bian River after a fishing trip. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoPictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News IndonesiaThe Marind think of plants and animals as not simply passive objects of human exploitation
Instead, these other-than-human beings are considered to be agents, persons, relatives, and subjects of justice in their own right.
This was a completely different way of thinking to the anthropocentric and individualistic logic of the Westernised parts of the world where I had lived, studied, and worked.
Read the introduction Order the bookIndigenous Marind enriched my world by inviting me to think beyond nature-culture divides
Humans share the planet with a whole array of different creatures. These creatures matter in the making of more sustainable, collective futures.
“More-than-human becomings” is in the subtitle of the book because it is an invitation to think beyond the human and also beyond categories. Instead, the reader is invited to think about non-human beings and transforming worlds.
Marind are “More-than-human” because they consider themselves as beings within a lively and diverse ecology of life
This includes native plants and animals like cassowaries, birds of paradise, and sago palms, but also introduced – and sometimes dangerous – organisms like industrial oil palm.
“Becomings” was a way of getting readers to think about life beyond the static notion of “being.” To “become” is a constant transformation, unfolding differently across bodies, places, and time. Becoming, in some ways, never really ends.
The ‘good life’, according to Marind, stems from the willingness of humans to consider non-human beings as subjects of dignity and justice
This good life is best achieved by immersing oneself in the more-than-human environment. Non-human beings are considered to be participants in the making of shared worlds, and also as subjects of harm and violence.
The “good life” is deeply intergenerational for Marind. They often talked about nurturing the forest, as a way of becoming good ancestors and how they can transmit traditional ecological knowledge to future Marind generations
Time for Marind is not linear, it is spiralic
What you do now matters in terms of how you will be remembered. What you do now matters in terms of what you will be able to pass on to human and other-than-human beings to come.
There is a wisdom and responsibility that comes with this sense of time that I think is critical to heed in this age of planetary destruction.
A Marind family journeying to a sacred ceremonial site to pay respects to their ancestral spirits. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoMany of my Marind companions talk about conservation and capitalism as being “two sides of the same coin”
This is because they now find themselves excluded from both industrial oil palm plantations and from the conservation areas that are intended to off-set deforestation.
Images: Palm oil plantations and environmental destruction, Getty Images.
Pictured: Forest foods, like sago starch, are considered nourishing by Marind because they derive from revered plants and animals. Sophie Chao, Author provided. Via The Conversation Pictured: A tool for processing Sago. Papua New Guinea. Getty ImagesBoth of these activities entrench a nature-culture divide that is alien to many Marind. Both undervalue the fact that Marind have always coexisted harmoniously with their environments.
These new “conservation zones” are the very same places where Marind fish, forage, and hunt. It is where they go to visit ancestral graveyards and sacred sites. It is where they walk with their families and friends to encounter their kindred sago palms, wild boards, possums, and gaharu trees.
For Marind, conservation and capitalism violate their territorial sovereignty and access to food and resources. Both types of activity are imposed by outside actors through top-down decision-making process that they are not party to.
Human rights and environmental abuses in West Papua are made invisible in Australia, their closest neighbour, mainly for geopolitical reasons
Racism may have something to do with it – but I think geopolitical interests are a big part of the story
West Papua is incredibly rich in natural resources – from gold, copper, and coal, to timber and oil palm. Economic and political interests tend to trump human and environmental rights, in West Papua and elsewhere.
There are pockets of activism and advocacy in Australia, including by West Papuan diaspora and political exiles – but the movement hasn’t caught the public’s attention in the way other political causes have.
Accessing West Papua is difficult for non-Indonesian individuals and organisations. There is heightened militarisation of the region. This contributes to an ongoing invisibilisation of what is happening at the ground level, among Papuan people and across Papuan ecosystems.
The demilitarisation of West Papua is absolutely vital if Papuans are to feel that they have a free voice in matters affecting them and their lands – including oil palm developments
Image: Andrew Gal for Getty Images
Indigenous ways of being and thinking (although radically different from neoliberal capitalist and colonialist logics), should be central to decision-making
I would like to see the palm oil industry, together with the Indonesian government, try to understand the views, aspirations, desires, beliefs, and hopes of Papuan peoples themselves instead of entering with pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress, the good life, and wellbeing.
Government and corporate actors should engaging with Indigenous Papuans through a transparent, iterative, and trust-based process of consent-seeking, before any oil palm projects are designed or implemented.
This consent should be sought freely, well ahead of time, and only when communities have been given access to comprehensive and impartial information on the benefits and risks of oil palm developments.
Pictured: Marind man and child in Merauke by Nanang Sujana
Most importantly, government and corporate actors need to accept that some communities may, following lengthy consultations, still decide to withhold their consent to oil palm projects. This right to say NO to oil palm must imperatively be respected.
Violence as a multispecies act: Marind describe oil palm as a colonising, killing and occupying plant beings
Oil palm, they often told me, does not want to share time and space with native plants, people, and animals.
It spreads uniformly across vast swaths of land, yet grows alone in monocrop form
This plant’s introduction has been accompanied by intensified military and corporate surveillance, community harassment and intimidation and exploitative labour conditions.
To think about violence in multispecies terms, brings us to consider situations where humans are not the only culprits, and non-humans not the only victims.
Oil palm’s acts of violence invite us to think about non-human beings as drivers and perpetrators of harm – even as they themselves are also subject to human and technological manipulations and exploitation.
Pictured: Fire in a rainforest – Getty Images
Image 1: Untouched rainforest (Getty Images). Image 2: Marind community on land destroyed for the million hectare Meruake Integrated Food and Energy Estate, known as MIFEE (Nanang Sujana)Paraquat, a deadly herbicide, trickled down from rusty canisters strapped to the women’s backs, the blue-green venom seeping into their exposed skin.
Banned in many countries because of its toxic effects, no antidote exists for this lethal chemical. I thought of babies never to come. The faces of my friends, huddled in the bed of the truck, were caked in dust and watched the landscape unfurl, weeping.
Infants retched from the stench of mill effluents as we jolted down dirt roads without stopping so as to avoid attracting the attention of military men employed by the companies to guard their plantations. Bunches of oil palm fruit lay strewn along roadsides, piles of moldering blood-red and coal-black, shot through with razor-sharp thorns.
Bulldozers and chainsaws ripped through isolated patches of the remaining vegetation. Silhouetted against the bleary sun, pesticide-spraying helicopters zigzagged back and forth above us, spreading a milky veil of hazy toxins.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from the prologue of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
On August 11th 2010, a delegation of government representatives from Jakarta, led by the then minister of agriculture Ir. H Suswono launched the Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE). A $5 billion USD agribusiness scheme to promote the country’s self-sufficiency in basic foodstuffs and to make Indonesia a net food-exporting nation. Papuans from across the region were invited to the event including Marind community members from the upper Bian river. Paulus Mahuze, Marind clan leader recalls the arrival of MIFEE and how everything changed dramatically afterwards for his people.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from her book ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
“It was a hot day. There was dust (abu) everywhere, raised by the government convoys and military trucks. The dust stung our eyes and made our children cry. The government brought oil palm (sawit) company bosses with them from pusat (‘the centre,’ or Jakarta). They gave us instant noodles, pens, bottles of water. They also gave us cigarettes – the expensive kind. They talked a lot about MIFEE. MIFEE this, MIFEE that…but we didn’t understand what MIFEE was. We did not know what palm oil was because oil palm does not live in our forests. Then, the government officials and the oil palm bosses left. They never returned to the village.
They promised us money and jobs. They said MIFEE would provide us with food. I thought that they would plant yams, vegetables and fruit trees. Instead they planted oil palm. They planted oil palm everywhere they could. They turned the whole forest into oil palm. They cut down all the sago to plant oil palm. This is what happened. Since then, everything is abu-abu (‘grey’ or ‘uncertain’).~ Paulus Mahuze, marind clan leader (as told to dr sophie chao in her book: In the shadow of the palms).
Abu-abu means both “grey” and “uncertain”. For Marind, the future, hope and multispecies relations were all abu-abu and under siege
Pictured: Oil palm plantations in Merauke have contributed to unprecedented levels of deforestation, and water/soil contamination. Photo credit: Dr Sophie Chao.
The concept of abu-abu is one that many of my Marind friends would use to describe the worlds that they inhabit
Abu-abu communicates the sense of ambiguity, opacity, and strangeness that life on the palm oil frontier entails. Greyness manifests in the polluted waters of local rivers, and in the smoke-filled skies following forest burning.
Greyness also manifests in the dull and irritated skin of malnourished infants, poisoned fish, and pesticide-wielding workers
To live in a world of murk and uncertainty is violent and unsettling – but it is also a way of rejecting the possibility of any kind of radical divide between oneself and that murk. That’s why I approach abu-abu not just as a condition of suffering, but also as a stance of refusal.
What would or might come next for Marind and their other-than-human kin was unknown – and often feared.
This sense of greyness, or uncertainty is also metaphorical. For Marind the world is grey in that the future, hope, social and multispecies relations are all under siege.
Pictured: Dead fish, creative commons image, Pxfuel.
Pictured: Marind child in Merauke West Papua by Nanang SujanaAt the same time, abu-abu was a form of resistance in the way it refused fixed classifications, categories, or boundaries between things, ideas, and actions
Whether “sustainable” palm oil can be achieved in practice demands a radical rethinking of the capitalist logic – the logic of endless growth
Careless profit-making, and externally imposed “development” and “progress” rhetorics. And that is a huge task. These kinds of rhetorics are deeply entrenched. Their origins are often unquestioned. Their impacts are often silenced.
Pictured: Common supermarket brands that are RSPO members are linked to deforestation and human rights abusesPictured: Pollution run-off in an RSPO member palm oil plantation in Sumatra. Craig Jones Wildlife PhotographyReport: Environmental Investigation Agency: Sustainable palm oil is a conAt the end of the day, I think the most important thing to ask ourselves about “sustainability” is – sustainability for whom?
Who gets to have a say over what happens to lands and forests? Who gets to be involved in decision-making processes surrounding oil palm projects? Is there scope to reconsider the scale at which these projects are being developed?
These are questions that have to be crafted and considered together with the Indigenous peoples most directly and indirectly affected by agribusiness expansion.
That, for me, is the beginning of any kind of conversation around sustainability – sustainability for people, plants, animals, and for all the other beings implicated in one way or another in the palm oil nexus.
The rationale for additional Food Estates in Papua and Indonesia is scrutinised in this 2022 report
“The rationale behind Food Estates, that they are an effective way to rapidly increase national food production, does not stand up to scrutiny.
“Over the years, previous attempts to launch Food Estates have failed, with little if any extra food produced. The various iterations of the Merauke Food Estate (MIFEE) are a good example of this.
“For these reasons, it is legitimate to call into question the real motivation behind the plans. With corruption still rampant in Indonesia, there is a significant risk that Food Estates will present new opportunities for profit by those in government and their associates.”
Quote from: Pandemic Power Grabs: Who benefits from Food Estates in West Papua, a report by AwasMIFEE and TAPOL (2022).
Download reportUpcoming online events and publications
Event: Eating and Becoming Eaten More-than-human metabolisms on the West Papuan Agribusiness Frontier
https://twitter.com/SSNDeakin/status/1556487944516825089?s=20&t=6XYWl5_WwEiVBCRnuOODag
The Promise of Multispecies Justice
Edited by Dr Sophie Chao, Karin Bolender, Eben Kirksey.
What are the possibilities for multispecies justice? How do social justice struggles intersect with the lives of animals, plants, and other creatures? Leading thinkers in anthropology, geography, philosophy, speculative fiction, poetry, and contemporary art answer these questions from diverse grounded locations.
Order copyYou can find and follow me on Twitter if you wish @Sophie_MH_Chao
Pictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News Indonesia
https://twitter.com/Sophie_MH_Chao/status/1554625068906336256?s=20&t=KQOGXlMflLDymRCC19ppTw
https://twitter.com/DukePress/status/1553002952293584898?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
https://twitter.com/eben_kirksey/status/1554656376982364160?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
Images: Getty Images, Dr Sophie Chao, Nanang Sujana, Craig Jones Wildlife Photography, ABC News Indonesia.
Words: Dr Sophie Chao
Further Reading
‘In West Papua, oil palm expansion undermines the relations of indigenous Marind people to forest plants and animals’ by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
After 75 years of independence, Indigenous Peoples in Indonesia still struggling for equality by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
‘Kelapa Sawit Membunuh Sagu’: Sophie Chao Meraih Tesis Terbaik di Australia Setelah Meneliti Suku di Papua by Farid M. Ibrahim for ABC Indonesia.
In the plantations there is hunger and loneliness: The cultural dimensions of food insecurity in Papua (commentary)’ by Dr Sophie Chao for Mongabay.
The sky has no corners: My journey to a new understanding of nature, an essay by Dr Sophie Chao for Five Media.
Read and watch more stories about indigenous justice, land-grabbing and deforestation on Palm Oil Detectives
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land is Gone) by filmmaker Nanang Sujana
Image: Marind children in Merauke West Papua by Nanang Sujana
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land Has Gone) is a powerful documentary by celebrated and renowned filmmaker and photographer Nanang Sujana. His images and film tells the story of the Malind Anim tribe living in Zanegi village. They were dispossessed from their land which was given over to global palm oil corporations, in its place was Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE).
“The Forest is the father, land is the mother and rivers are blood
“That’s the spirituality of most Dayak people in Kalimantan. They understand the interdependent nature of everything in nature.”
~ Dr Setia Budhi : Dayak Ethnographer
Read Dr Budhi’s story Read ‘The Orangutan with the Golden Hair’Image: Rainforest in Sumatra by Craig Jones Wildlife Photography
The people versus Feronia: Fighting palm oil agrocolonialism in the Congo
by Palm Oil DetectivesOrganised Crime: A Top Driver of Global Deforestation
by Palm Oil Detectives by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Lobbyists Getting Caught Lying Orangutan Land Trust and Agropalma
by Palm Oil Detectives13 Reasons To Boycott Gold for Yanomami
by Palm Oil DetectivesTreespiracy: Forests are being destroyed against a background of corruption, illegality and apathy
by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Detectives is 100% self-funded
Palm Oil Detectives is completely self-funded by its creator. All hosting and website fees and investigations into brands are self-funded by the creator of this online movement. If you like what I am doing, you and would like me to help meet costs, please send Palm Oil Detectives a thanks on Ko-Fi.
Say thanks on Ko-Fi#animalExtinction #animalRights #animals #Anthropology #Boycott4wildlife #conservation #corporates #CreativesForCoolCreatures #deforestation #indigenous #IndigenousActivism #indigenousRights #interspecies #justice #landRights #landgrabbing #Malind #Marind #PalmOil #palmOilDeforestation #palmoil #PapuaNewGuinea #Papuan #PapuanLivesMatter #rainforestConservation #research #Together4Forests #WestPapua #WestPapua
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Victoria Station: the thread abut a forgotten Royal rail halt you’ve probably never heard of
This thread was originally written and published in June 2020.
This is the sort of unexpected riddle that I like. You’re out for a walk and you see an old gateway that is rather too well made for the wall it sits in and doesn’t seem to lead anywhere.
Why is this gate so wide and why does it seem to go nowhere?Why is that gate pier so substantial and so well formed for something that leads nowhere?Beyond the unimpressive wooden gate itself, there’s just a little wedge of grass and overgrowth beyond it, before it descends straight down towards the East Coast Mainline railway.
Incongruous walls and gatesSo why is this old gate here? Well, if you rake around in the books and maps you’ll find out that this isn’t just any old railway access gate, this is an old Royal railway access gate. You see, these gate piers are all that remains of Queen Victoria’s personal, private railway station for when she was visiting Edinburgh and lodging in the Palace of Holyroodhouse. We can just see the station in the below photo taken looking east from “Muschet’s Cairn” in Holyrood Park in the 1880s; to the right of the tenement there is a projection, with a distant chimney above it. This is a covered walkway and an iron archway over the gate.
“Muschat’s Cairn, entrance to Holyrood Park”. Thomas Begbie, 1887,© Edinburgh City LibrariesThrough the gateway, it was just a short royal stroll down a flight of steps to a private platform for the royal train. Here it could be met by one’s personal carriage so that one could be whisked the short distance away to the back gate of the Palace of Holyroodhouse, far from the prying eyes of the Edinburgh crowd.
OS 1849 Town plan showing “The Queen’s Station”, the platform and the gates. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of ScotlandIn 1850 The Scotsman reported that the Directors of the North British Railway were “in the course of erection” of a platform at Meadowbank for the Royal Train to stop at following its inaugural run over the Tweed on the Royal Border Bridge.
“The Queen, Prince Albert & the Royal Children departing in their Railway Carriage for Scotland”, 1850. CC-BY-NC National Galleries Scotland.The newspaper described the new station was” to be tastefully ornamented for the occasion, there is to be a stair leading up to the old public road at Meadowbank, and distant only a few yards from the gate into Holyrood Park. Her Majesty’s private carriage will here be in waiting to receive her; so that, in the course of ten minutes are the arrival of the train, the Queen and the Royal Consort will, in all likelihood, be occupying the apartments that have been fitted up for their reception in Holyrood Palace.“ Fortunately for us, the London Illustrated News sent ahead an artist who was there to capture the scene and gives us the only known image of the station. Notice the crown atop the royal carriage.
London Illustrated News, 6th September 1852For the Queen’s visit to Edinburgh in September 1852, the Scotsman went so far as to refer to the “Victoria Station at Meadowbank“. Ten horses and two royal private carriages were sent ahead from London to Edinburgh via York, arriving by the afternoon mail train for her Majesty’s personal use in travelling between Meadowbank and Holyrood. When the Queen arrived on September 1st, “The engine was beautifully decorated, having in front the words “God Save the Queen” in large gilt letters.” After the formalities were concluded with the greeting party, the Queen and Prince Albert ascended the stairs from the platform to their waiting carriages, where a guard of honour of the 7th Hussars from Piershill Barracks was waiting, their band striking up God Save the Queen.
The Royal Train behind the engine Albion for the journey to Scotland, 1850. CC-by-SA 4.0 Science Museum Group Collection, © The Board of Trustees of the Science MuseumOnce the royal party were officially in residence at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the Royal Standard was run up the flagpole and the gunners of Edinburgh castle fired a salute. This was however their second of the day; a signal hoisted earlier in the morning from the Nelson Memorial on the top of Calton Hill to a London steamer approaching Leith had been misinterpreted and an over-enthusiastic garrison had fired the royal salute. This created a minor panic amongst the dignitaries, railway officials and spectators of the city who suddenly feared that the Queen had arrived and nobody was there to greet her. One can only imagine the pandemonium until the railway telegraph office located the royal train outside Dunbar.
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert are shown onto a Royal carriage by George Hudson, a London Illustrated News imageFor the 1860 visit, a description is given of how the station was decorated for such visits. “The stair leading from the platform to the road was covered with an awning of white and pink calico, and the recesses on either side contained a neatly arranged assortment of flowers, evergreens and heather. The stair-case was covered with a merled carpet, with a stripe of Stuart tartan in the centre“.
As far as is known, there was only one occasion when a regular passenger train stopped here; on August 22nd 1872 a London to Edinburgh express was temporarily halted to allow some of Queen Victoria’s children to disembark. The last use of the station was for the Royal visit to Scotland in 1881. Even the Victorians realised stopping trains on the mainline into Edinburgh from London just a mile shy of the final destination for Royal purposes wasn’t the best use of the railway. The practice of also loading wagons onto the back of the royal train carrying state coaches and horses incurred further delays, as these had to be brought down the line from North Bridge Station (what would later become Waverley).
In 1882, an irate letter was written to the green ink page of the Scotsman to complain that the Town Council were now using the platform as a collection point for the “ashes and dirt” of one quarter of the city before its onwards transport by rail for disposal. The station was only “open” for 31 years – and even then it was used only once or twice a year – but those gate piers have survived 141 years longer than that. There’s a planning application out though to build on this gushet*, so catch them while you still can. (* = gushet is a Scots term for a triangular portion of land). The same stretch of wall has another (unresolved) little secret too. The ghost of a small building that I can’t quite unravel. It looks like two wall ends (green) with the back of a fireplace or window (yellow) in between.
What have we here?If there was something here, it’s missing from the 1817 and 1849 town plans, so either is older than both or came and went in between. The boundary wall pre-dates the railway and this road was widened on a number of occasions starting with the Royal Visit of George IV in 1822. No structure is marked but this could have been a gardener’s bothy removed when the road was widened.
Kirkwood’s 1817 Town plan showing the location where there was at one time a lean-too structure built into the wall. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of ScotlandNote to readers: unfortunately in April 2026, a third-party plug-in more than exceeded its authority and broke many of the image links on this site. No images were lost but I will have to restore them page-by-page, which may take some time. In the meantime please bear with me while I go about rectifying this issue.
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Author Spotlight: Paranormal Ecohorror author S.M. Mack
S.M. Mack (she/her) is a 2019 MFA recipient in popular fiction from USM Stonecoast, the 2017 first place winner of the Katherine Patterson Prize for Young Adult Writing, and a Clarion 2012 grad. Her short fiction has been published in Fireside Fiction, Vine Leaves Literary Journal’s “Best of 2015” anthology, and the Clarion class of 2012’s seven Rainbow Anthologies, among others. Her novella Death Valley Blooms is part of Neon Hemlock’s 2025 Novella Series.
AUTHOR LINKS:
Website: whatsmacksaid.com
Bluesky: @whatsmacksaid.bsky.social
Instagram: @what_smacksaidDeath Valley Blooms Links
Neon Hemlock Publishing
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
KoboREAD A SAMPLE: Amazon Look Inside Feature
PITCH FOR READERS/BOOK CLUBS:
Every decade or so, vast quantities and varieties of wildflowers bloom all at once in Death Valley. But unbeknownst to the wider world, these super blooms are powered by a woman’s life. Mar’s mother was called a decade ago, pulled underground to be used like a battery, and she herself has begun to feel Death Valley’s presence. Mar has an ace up her sleeve, though: neither she nor her brother will ever have children. Is it enough for the desert to release its grip on her family?
Death Valley Blooms is out with Neon Hemlock. Cover illustration by Rose Meyer. Cover design by dave ring.What was the seed for your novella, Death Valley Blooms, and how did this sprout into the novella published by Neon Hemlock?
My Clarion class put out seven charity anthologies to help raise money for attendee scholarships.
Clarion lasts for six weeks from June to August, so we challenged ourselves to write a story from scratch each year, focusing on a different color of the rainbow.
My Yellow Volume story started at the (erroneous) assumption that all dirt in the southern Californian deserts is yellow, or at least yellow-ish.
From there, I did some daydreaming about how the ground might interact with people; I went from “skinning your hands and knees when you fall down” to “what if the blood spilled from a minor injury isn’t enough? What if blood isn’t enough? What if the ground eats you whole? Why would it do that?”
By the end of the first draft I knew I had something special, but I also knew I’d never be able to tease out the subtleties hiding in there under our short timeline. So I set it aside for a few years, and picked it back up during grad school.
Within the novella are themes of consent and autonomy, but also the futility of people’s actions against a landscape that will outlast them. Where did these themes come from, and why explore them here?
One of my childhood refrains was “I can do it myself!” even when that was not objectively true. It insists on boundary-setting for both consent and autonomy—anyone who overrides one will inevitably override the other.
Death Valley Blooms’ main character, Mar, is very much a product of that mentality. She is determined to break her family’s curse, even though generations of women have succumbed to Death Valley’s call. She fights for her autonomy and nurtures a lifelong grudge against the curse for stealing her ability to consent. Because, of course, that’s what curses do: render those trapped under its power unable to protect their emotional, mental, and physical selves.
I also spent a lot of time thinking about climate change versus an individual’s effect on their environment. The physical world does not care how frightened or overwhelmed you and I are by wildfires, flash floods, or water scarcity. But if one small part of the world—Death Valley, in this case—reached out and demanded payment or help from an individual, how could we possibly say no? Even culpability and guilt aside, how could a single family of individuals possibly resist nature’s force? They can’t.
What to you was psychologically interesting about a family dealing with constant absences and returns?
I had a lot of undiagnosed anxiety when I began writing Death Valley Blooms, and one of the things I obsessed over was my parents’ ages. I have a good relationship with both, and for a year or more I just could not see past the knowledge that I’d outlive them, and that that was somehow the best outcome.
One of the more tragic ideas I couldn’t shake was the prospect of losing time—losing years—that could be spent in one another’s company: how much better would it be to “only” lose your mother (or sister, or aunt) for twenty years, rather than forever? Furthermore, how difficult would it be to accept and move through the resulting grief, then have those feelings and growth invalidated when the missing loved one returns? What does that do to a close-knit family when it happens over and over again?
What LGBTQIA+ rep can readers expect to find in this novella, and why is this rep important to you to include?
There’s no reason not to make characters queer in one way or another—or rather, there’s no more reason to make them queer than to make them straight. A story doesn’t hinge on the gender or sexual orientation of side characters, and even “boring,” everyday representation is a good thing.
For example, Mar’s closest friend is openly bisexual; she’s divorced from a man and dating a woman. It comes up in casual conversation a few times, but that’s all.
I identify as simply queer now, but I spent many years identifying as asexual, then as aro/ace (and so on and so forth as my perception of myself changed), while living in a near-constant state of fury and frustration at how hard it was to find ace main characters at all, let along ace main characters outside romantic subplots.
I didn’t plan for Mar’s aro/ace identity to become a strength, but it’s an important part of who she is. Part of why she’s so family-oriented is that she doesn’t care about finding a romantic partner. Her family is perfect the way it is, if only she could defy Death Valley and bring everyone together again.
The other queer rep I’d like to highlight is Mar’s aunt, Lucy, who is a trans woman. She’s got her own issues going on over the course of the story, but she doesn’t stand in the spotlight, either. I wanted to create a path for her to simply exist as a regular person dealing with a family curse and an increasingly desperate niece. (“Regular” is doing a lot of work here, I know.) But I wanted to remind readers that the environment does not give a rat’s behind about human-imposed boundaries, whether those be gender strictures or geographical boundaries.
Death Valley’s curse falls on the women of Mar and Lucy’s family, and both Mar and Lucy are women.
Death Valley is a character in the novella, much like the human characters. What was it like to develop this aspect of the novella?
As a younger writer, I participated in a workshop where one colleague had a television background, and we talked a lot about the “white room syndrome,” where a scene entirely ignores its setting. The discussion left an impression, and over time my writing evolved from dutifully including setting descriptions to centering the setting alongside the characters.
Our surroundings in real life aren’t sentient, but speculative fiction is the perfect place to look beyond that natural end place. I’ve really loved trying to get into the headspace required to embody an inhuman, unpredictable, and nearly all-powerful true-neutral character, a vast ecosystem with little to no way of communicating directly with my human characters—sometimes I think of Death Valley’s character as alien as the actual location feels when visiting. And I’m definitely going to keep doing this in future stories!
For example, I have another story I’m working on about eating disorders with a gargoyle sent to live in exile in a different California desert.
Do you have anything that you want to share with readers, anything out now, or coming soon?
I’m in the middle of a companion novella for Death Valley Blooms! It picks up slightly before the end of Death Valley Blooms and is from a different character’s point of view. I have a beautiful cover created by the incomparable Rose Mayer, who also did the original, and I’ll be releasing the companion story sometime during summer 2026. I’ll be posting updates on bsky and via my author newsletter, which readers can sign up for on my website.
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superbowl jesus ad, part 5: the triptych
Welcome to Part 5 of a series of posts focusing on the fundamentalist propaganda “He Gets Us” Superbowl ad of 2024.
I strongly recommend you read at least the first section of Part 1 before proceeding, if you have not already done so. It defines a variety of critically important terms, outlines the overarching purpose of this entire series of ads – this billion-with-a-B propaganda campaign – and the relevant religious-political beliefs of those who designed it.
If I could summarise Part 1’s first section in a paragraph, believe me – I would. I have tried, without success. That’s why I point people back to it, because to echo Dickens – without that knowledge, little of what follows will have full meaning for you.
The next three images comprise what I think of as the Intentional Racism Triptych.
On our left panel, we have slide seven. It features one of the least obviously AI manipulated or re-drawn images of the entire selection. It shows an idealised, even nostalgically-rendered oil field with a small number of scattered derricks, with no fracking equipment visible. The field itself is semi-arid to arid, with a mix of brush, tumbleweed, and other similar low scrub plants scattered about. In the distance lie tall hills, somewhere between what I’d call mountains and foothills, without snow. Above that, we have a very blue sky with a smattering of clouds.
In the middle distance sits the a car, the driver’s door open. Strangely in this context, it is a car and not a truck, a four-door sedan/saloon car out of the 1980s, evocative of an early-80s SAAB 900 but with internally inconsistent headrests. (I see you there, AI image generator. Hello!)
In the foreground, in the middle of a dirt road which looks very much like a thin-layer-of-sandy-dirt soundstage, our Saviour – the man who has already found Jesus, an older white man who is an oil field worker – washes the feet of our Sinner, a young Asian woman who is dressed mostly like a hippie in flowing patterned silks and bikini top, albeit more of a 90s hippie revival variant than the original. To her side lies a protest sign reading “CLEAN AIR NOW.”
This Saviour was brought to you by Exxon-Mobil, apparently. He’s where he’s supposed to be, doing “Real Man” work, in a “Real Man” place, bringing oil out of the ground for capitalism. The oil field is pristine, and there’s not a hint of pollution…
…which brings us to the sins of our Sinner. She’s dressed inappropriately for the location, and immodestly on top of that. She’s somewhere she shouldn’t be – and being Asian, that’s not limited to “a protestor in an oil field.” And on top of everything else: she’s a liar.
The air is visibly pristine. Her call for “CLEAN AIR NOW” is therefore a lie, a demand for something she already has – and is therefore an excuse to shut down oil production and hurt the “real man” doing the “real work” and the economy.
I know, I know, as I said, they have their own definitions of truth, and don’t care if something’s an objective lie – but that’s only for them. Definitionally, she’s not one of them, so if they can call her a liar, they will.
She might even be a Chinese communist, since – as goes without saying in their community – all environmentalists are lying communists anyway, and Chinese people are always suspect. Making her ambiguously east Asian – one might say “Chinese enough” – just adds the spice of fashionable racism to the recipe.
“Have you ever been a member of the Chinese Communist Party?”
Senator Cotton will want to know.
Now, because the most important image of a triptych is always the one in the centre, let’s skip ahead to the right image first: slide nine.
This image shows a quiet evening scene in a suburban neighbourhood built… it’s hard to say, but I’d guess as early as the late 1910s, and the early 1950s. As always, in the nostalgic and “better” past.
We see two houses, separated by a single narrow driveway, both with established greenery and lush lawns. Two mixed-gender couples are arranged in front of the right house, one on the left side of the frame, and one on the right.
The left couple is clearly Muslim. The hijab-wearing woman – our Sinner – is sitting in an old woven-ribbon-style folding lawn chair, her feet being washed, as the man stands attentively behind her.
The right couple’s man is white, intended to be sitting on some sort of gardening chair, but it’s an AI mess and doesn’t work right but that doesn’t matter. He holds a green apple with a bite taken out of it, which in this context has to be symbolic of something, but the obvious meanings don’t make a lot of sense in this context. His eyes are closed, which also seems to me like it has to mean something, but I’m honestly not getting it.
The woman – our Saviour – is just ambiguous enough to be white, or not, depending upon the viewer. The way she’s rendered, she’s got that Kinda Ethnic vibe that they like when they want not to use a white person but don’t want to make it clearly someone not white either. She’s not wearing a head covering of any kind, obviously, but could be a convert from Islam who married a white man. That would make her okay, fit to lead our Sinner out of her sin – which is, of course, being a Muslim and holding Islamic faith.
While religious conversion isn’t intrinsically racist, in this case, it obviously totally is. See everything from “Jews for Jesus” to the “Muslim Ban” that Trump is pledging to reinstate.
Finally, we move to our centre image, slide eight – by far the most overtly racist image of the set. I want to make that very clear, as I will be describing the intended racist message in explicit terms. That description of their message is fucking well not an endorsement of that message.
Read on only if you understand that last paragraph, because this one’s bad.
In this image, the thin veneer that is the top-level message of compassion, equality before god, and reconciliation has been ripped away; this particular slide is propaganda against refugees and asylum seekers from the south.
Our scene shows a bus full of people unloading passengers on a Chicago upper-middle-class white-picket-fence residential street in the very late evening. It’s essentially one of the Republican “migrant buses,” the kind DeSantis and Abbot have been using to send asylum seekers away from services to a blue state without coordination, notice, or compassion, often in the winter. This exportation of people – arguably kidnapping – serves a variety of purposes which have been discussed elsewhere. The driver is Christian – it’s not ambiguous, there’s a cross hanging above him – and unhappy.
In most of these images, the “saviour” and the “sinner” are on similar levels, physically. Often one is sitting and the other is kneeling on the ground, but there’s interaction to it, an acknowledgement of each other. They’re communicating, sometimes quite clearly. It’s part of the top-level intended message of reconciliation.
Not here, though.
I want to stress, this next sentence is how they know this will be read by their own people:
Here you have the angry dirty brown illegal Sinner carrying her anchor baby at full height, looking away, with a mixture of anger and fear, while the white Saviour woman kneels on the ground, looking down, washing the Sinner’s feet. There is no sense of communication between them; our Sinner is ungrateful and unreceptive. Our Savour, the white Christian, is looking down, tense and unhappy, at clean water turning a dark, filthy brown as it washes from the Sinner’s foot back into the basin.
Please understand – the washing water is clear and clean in every other image where it is visible, no matter how dirty the feet are; after all, it represents in part the forgiveness of Jesus, so stays forever whole.
But not here.
That difference means it’s not the dirt on her feet spoiling the water: it’s her, herself, spoiling the water – the water of God’s forgiveness.
One might even say it’s meant to show a kind of poisoning of the water, instead of the blood.
This image is out-and-out racist hate propaganda, pretending – just barely – to be merely one more variation on the theme. Our Sinner’s sin is being here at all and not white, and she is not worthy of redemption.
Even the gay man in image twelve is treated better than this, and believe me, I still have things to say about that image.
I don’t know if I have any Christian followers reading this, but… this is… serious business blasphemy, right? Top level scream-it-to-the-heavens blasphemy against the core message of Jesus. Isn’t it?
You might want to consider yelling about that.
Next. Slide.
[link] #politics #USPol #writing #fascism #HeGetsUs #superbowl #uspolitics
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The High Cost of Racism: The $16 Trillion Drain on the American Dream
Table of Contents
- Introduction: The Historical Blueprint
- The Architecture of Exclusion: The $16 Trillion Drain
- The Modern Purge: A Coordinated Regression
- Dismantling the Narratives and the Current Evidence of Exclusion
- The Consequences of Removing Gaurdrails
- The “Buy-In” Trap and the Elite Escape
- Glossary of Terms
- Bibliography
Introduction: The Historical Blueprint
My daughter graduated with a Juris Doctorate Degree from Howard University Law School this weekend. She will now begin to prepare for the Bar exam which she will take in July. While the Bar is now a standard rite of passage for every law graduate, its history reveals a deeper story of how “access” has been managed in America.
For much of the 19th and early 20th centuries, many states utilized a system known as Diploma Privilege, allowing graduates of approved law schools to be admitted to the bar automatically. The logic was that the three years of rigorous study and testing required for a Juris Doctor (JD) were a better measure of competence than a single, one-day exam. The shift toward the mandatory Bar Exam was not an accidental evolution; it was a tool of “professional protectionism.” As law schools became more diverse between the 1870s and 1920s, —as more Black Americans and immigrants began attending law schools —elite legal organizations pushed for standardized written exams to act as a secondary “gatekeeper.”
While the Bar is a settled part of the legal landscape today, it stands as a historical blueprint for a much larger, more destructive economic policy: the practice of moving the goalposts just as a new group of Americans begins to thrive.
The Architecture of Exclusion: The $16 Trillion Drain
When we discuss the current “War on Black America,” we must understand it as a policy of intentional economic shrinkage. Economists at Citigroup have calculated that racial gaps in wages, housing, and education have cost the U.S. $16 trillion over the last two decades alone. This is “Ghost GDP”—wealth that was never allowed to be created and jobs that were never filled.
The Entrepreneurship Gap ($13 Trillion)
Denying capital to Black entrepreneurs doesn’t just hurt the business owner; it stunts national growth.
- The Mechanism: When the system makes it harder for a Black business owner to secure a startup loan or venture capital, that business either never opens or remains small.
- The Cost to All: This represents a loss of roughly 6.1 million potential jobs that could have been filled by Americans of all races. Furthermore, it represents billions in lost corporate tax revenue that could have funded critical national infrastructure.
The Housing Equity Gap ($218 Billion)
Housing is the primary vehicle for American wealth accumulation, yet discriminatory lending and the historical “valuation gap”—where homes in Black neighborhoods are appraised for less than identical homes in white neighborhoods—have cost the economy hundreds of billions.
- The Mechanism: Lower home equity means Black families have less collateral to take out “seed money” for education or new business ventures.
- The Cost to All: Real estate is a massive driver of GDP. When an entire segment of the market is suppressed, the “velocity of money” slows down. Lower values lead to lower local tax bases, resulting in underfunded schools and roads for the entire municipality.
The Wage & Education Gap ($2.7 Trillion)
Discrimination in hiring and “hurdles” placed in front of higher education drain the labor market’s potential.
- The Mechanism: When a talented individual is underemployed, the economy loses the high-value output they would have produced.
- The Cost to All: Lower wages result in lower consumer spending. The “Average American” business—from grocery stores to car dealerships—suffers because a significant portion of the population has less disposable income to circulate back into the economy.
The Medical Gap ($1.2 Trillion)
Systemic bias and disinvestment in Black health outcomes generate massive inefficiencies in the national healthcare spend. A study by the W.K. Kellogg Foundation found that health inequities cost the U.S. approximately $42 billion in lost productivity and $93 billion in excess medical costs annually. Over two decades, this adds over $1.2 trillion to that $16 trillion gap.
- The Mechanism: Medical technology (like pulse oximeters) and diagnostic algorithms often default to “race-corrected” standards that delay treatment for Black patients. Additionally, the refusal to expand Medicaid in Southern states creates financial instability for regional health systems.
- The Cost to All: Health inequities cost the U.S. roughly $93 billion in excess medical costs annually. This disinvestment leads to the closure of rural hospitals, creating “healthcare deserts” that leave white and Black families alike hours away from emergency care.
The Modern “Purge”: A Coordinated Regression
Today, we are witnessing a coordinated effort to revert to an era of restricted access. These current policies are administrative hurdles designed to exclude, which will inevitably hamper the entire economy:
- Mass Removal of Black Federal Leadership: The summary dismissal of Black officials at the NTSB, NLRB, and Federal Reserve removes institutional knowledge that ensures labor safety and financial stability for every citizen.
- Abolishing DEI in Federal Contracting: This intentionally shrinks the pool of competition for government projects, leading to higher costs and lower quality for the American taxpayer.
- Gutting the Fair Housing Act: Rescinding “Disparate Impact” and AFFH rules doesn’t just promote segregation; it destabilizes the housing market and destroys property values for the middle class.
- The SAFE Act Documentation Trap: Framed as a security measure, this act creates a hurdle that ensnares millions of Americans—including married women who have changed their names and rural poor whites who lack passports.
Dismantling the Narratives: The Myth of the “Lower Class”
To gain public buy-in for these policies, a series of economic myths were perpetrated to convince the general population that Black advancement is a “zero-sum game.” History and data tell a different story.
Myth 1: “Black Neighbors Decrease Property Values”
- The Evidence: Property values didn’t drop because of Black residents; they dropped because of “Blockbusting.” Real estate agents triggered “white flight” by stoking racial fears, buying homes at a discount from panicked white sellers, then reselling them at markups to Black families.
- The Reality: Brookings Institution studies show homes in Black neighborhoods are undervalued by an average of $48,000 due to appraisal bias, not maintenance. This “stolen equity” drains the entire local tax base.
Myth 2: “The DEI Hire vs. The Qualified Candidate”
- The Evidence: A McKinsey & Company study found that companies in the top quartile for racial and ethnic diversity are 35% more likely to have financial returns above their national industry medians.
- The Reality: Diversity is about widening the search. Including Black professionals ensures you have the “best of the best” from the entire population, rather than just the best of a limited group.
Myth 3: “Black Americans Can’t Maintain Property or Positions”
- The Evidence: The $13 trillion entrepreneurship gap exists despite Black women being the fastest-growing group of entrepreneurs in the U.S.
- The Reality: Past “failures” were often legislated, such as “Contract Sales” in the 1950s where Black families could lose a home for one missed payment, or “last hired, first fired” labor policies.
The Myth of the “Level Playing Field”: Current Evidence of Exclusion
The most dangerous narrative in modern America is the belief that civil rights protections are “outdated relics” of a bygone era. This belief suggests that the playing field is now level and that active oversight is a “special favor” rather than a necessity. However, 2026 economic data reveals that when these guardrails are removed, the gap doesn’t stay closed—it immediately begins to widen, draining the national GDP.
1. The Lending & Housing Barrier (2025-2026 Data)
- The Denial Gap: According to the 2025 Small Business Credit Survey, Black-owned firms are less than half as likely as white-owned businesses with comparable credit profiles to receive full financing. Black-owned firms face a denial rate of 39%, compared to just 18% for white-owned firms.
- The Mortgage Tax: 2024-2025 HMDA data shows that Black and Latino borrowers are disproportionately steered into non-conventional, higher-cost mortgages. On average, Black borrowers pay $256 more in loan fees and higher interest rates than white borrowers with similar qualifications.
- The Appraisal Gap: A 2026 Brookings Institution report confirms that homes in Black-majority neighborhoods remain undervalued by an average of 23% ($48,000) compared to similar homes in white neighborhoods. This results in a cumulative loss of $156 billion in equity—wealth that cannot be used to start businesses or fund education.
2. The Employment & Hiring Filter
- The “Resume Tax”: 2026 workforce studies show that white candidates are still 2.1 times more likely to receive an interview callback than Black candidates with identical resumes. A massive study of 83,000 applications to Fortune 500 companies found that “black-sounding names” consistently received fewer callbacks.
- The Leadership Ceiling: While Black Americans make up 13.4% of the population, they hold only 2% of executive roles in major corporations. This isn’t a “pipeline problem”; it’s a “gatekeeping problem.”
- Workplace Discrimination: As of 2026, 41% of Black workers report experiencing racial discrimination on the job, compared to only 8% of white workers. This environment leads to higher turnover, costing U.S. businesses billions in recruitment and retraining fees every year.
3. The Documentation Trap: The SAVE Act (2026)
The current push for the SAVE Act is framed as a “neutral” security measure, but it serves as a modern version of the literacy test.
- The Impact: Data from the Brennan Center shows that more than 21 million Americans lack ready access to the specific birth certificates or passports required by the act.
- The Victims: Roughly half of all Americans do not own a passport. This hurdle disproportionately impacts young voters, voters of color, and millions of women whose current legal names do not match their birth certificates—forcing them to pay a “time and money tax” just to exercise a fundamental right.
The fact that these disparities persisted despite existing guardrails reveals two fundamental truths about the American economy: first, the “default” setting of our institutions is still calibrated for exclusion; and second, the current guardrails were only partially successful because they were frequently underfunded or bypassed.
When we remove these remaining protections, we aren’t returning to a “fair” market—we are accelerating a downward economic spiral that affects the entire nation.
1. The Acceleration of “Risk-Based” Discrimination
Without the Disparate Impact rule or Fair Housing oversight, businesses and banks often pivot to “algorithmic bias.”
- What happens: Banks and insurance companies use “proxy data” (like zip codes, education levels, or social networks) to determine risk.
- The Result: Because our neighborhoods are still historically segregated, these “neutral” algorithms automatically charge Black families more or deny them access entirely. Without guardrails, this isn’t called discrimination; it’s called “market efficiency,” yet it still drains trillions from the potential GDP.
2. The Collapse of the “Common Good”
Historically, when protections for Black Americans are removed, the public services they protect are usually the next to go.
- What happens: This is the “Drained Pool” phenomenon. If the government decides it no longer wants to ensure that a service (like high-quality public education or transit) is accessible to Black citizens, it often stops investing in that service for everyone.
- The Result: The middle class is forced to pay for private alternatives. We see this today in the shift from free public colleges to high-interest student loans. The guardrails didn’t just protect Black students; they protected the idea of education as a public right.
3. The Institutional “Brain Drain”
Removing protections like Equal Employment Oversight and the removal of Black federal leadership creates a talent vacuum.
- What happens: Positions of power are filled based on “cultural fit” or political loyalty rather than merit and experience.
- The Result: This leads to Institutional Incompetence. When the NTSB or the Federal Reserve loses its most experienced experts because they were part of a “targeted” demographic, the quality of government oversight drops for every citizen. We lose the “eyes and ears” that prevent financial crashes and infrastructure failures.
4. The Shrinking of the “National Pie”
If the guardrails were already struggling to close a $16 trillion gap, removing them entirely is like taking the brakes off a car parked on a steep hill.
- The Short-Term View: The “winners” feel a sense of psychological victory or a slight temporary increase in their “slice” of the pie.
- The Long-Term Reality: The total size of the “pie” (the GDP) shrinks. Innovation slows down because fewer people can afford to invent. Housing markets stagnate because fewer people can afford to buy. The national debt rises because the tax base is smaller.
The Final Result: A “Two-Tier” Economy
Without guardrails, America solidifies into a permanent Two-Tier Economy:
- The Elite Tier: The ultra-wealthy who can buy their own “guardrails” (private security, private schools, private health care).
- The Survival Tier: Everyone else—white, Black, and Brown—who is left to compete for the scraps of a stagnant economy, hampered by high debt, crumbling infrastructure, and a lack of legal recourse.
The guardrails weren’t a “gift” to Black America; they were the last line of defense for the American Middle Class. Removing them doesn’t make us “free”; it makes the entire nation more vulnerable to the $16 trillion drain that has already cost us two decades of progress.
How does this perspective on “guardrails as market stabilizers” fit with your article’s warning about the “Elite Escape”?
The “Buy-In” Trap and the Elite Escape
These narratives were successful because they gave the white middle class a false sense of security, suggesting their status was safe as long as a “lower class” existed beneath them. However, while white Americans were busy guarding the “gate,” the floor of the American economy was being hollowed out. The same systems that suppressed Black wages eventually suppressed white wages.
We must move past the myth that these policies only affect the “targeted” group. When you “drain the pool” to keep certain people from swimming, eventually the entire community is left standing in the dirt. The only ones who escape this drain are the ultra-wealthy, who can “buy” the access being stripped from the public.
In a hyper-competitive global economy, discrimination is a luxury we can no longer afford. Every policy that creates an unnecessary hurdle for a Howard Law grad is a policy that makes America too weak and too poor to lead. We are sacrificing the size of the national “pie” to ensure the slices are handed out to a preferred few, leaving everyone else with nothing but the crumbs of a $16 trillion loss.
The Conclusion: Why “Maintenance” Matters
Dismantling these protections isn’t “moving past racism”—it is removing the fire code from a building that is still catching fire.
If we allow these gaps to persist, we are effectively choosing a $16 trillion poorer America. We are choosing a system where talent is ignored, property is undervalued, and the “velocity of money” is intentionally throttled. The data proves that these programs aren’t about “helping Black people get ahead”; they are about ensuring that the American economy doesn’t leave $16 trillion on the table because of a bias we can no longer afford to ignore.
Glossary of Terms
- AFFH (Affirmatively Furthering Fair Housing): A legal requirement under the Fair Housing Act for HUD grantees to take meaningful actions to overcome patterns of segregation.
- Algorithmic Bias: When automated systems or data proxies (like zip codes) replicate human prejudice in lending or hiring.
- Blockbusting: A business process of U.S. real estate agents and building developers to convince white property owners to sell their houses at low prices, which they did by promoting fear in those house owners that racial minorities would soon be moving into the neighborhood.
- Contract Sales: An exploitative real estate practice where a buyer makes an installment purchase, but the seller holds the deed until the final payment is made.
- Diploma Privilege: A method for admitting law school graduates to the bar without requiring them to pass a separate bar examination.
- Disparate Impact: A legal doctrine under the Fair Housing Act that allows for challenges to practices that have a disproportionately adverse effect on minorities, even if there was no discriminatory intent.
- Drained Pool Phenomenon: The historical trend of public resources being shut down or defunded for everyone once they are forced to integrate.
- Ghost GDP: The potential economic output and wealth creation that is lost due to systemic inefficiencies, such as racial gaps in lending or employment.
- Healthcare Desert: A region where residents have little to no access to nearby healthcare facilities, often resulting from the closure of rural or safety-net hospitals.
- Medical Weathering: The theory that the cumulative effect of social and economic adversity (including racism) leads to early health deterioration and advanced biological aging.
- Velocity of Money: The rate at which money is exchanged from one transaction to another and how much a unit of currency is used in a given period.
Bibliography
- Brennan Center for Justice. (2026). The Documentation Trap: How the SAVE Act Impacts the Working Class.
- Brookings Institution. (2018). The Devaluation of Assets in Black Neighborhoods.
- Citigroup. (2020). Closing the Racial Inequality Gaps: The Economic Cost of Black Inequality in the U.S.
- Federal Reserve. (2025). Small Business Credit Survey: Minority-Owned Firm Financing Gaps.
- McKinsey & Company. (2015). Why Diversity Matters.
- Maddow, R. / MS NOW. (2026). Report on the Targeted Removal of Black Federal Leadership.
- National Academy of Medicine. (2023). The Impact of Physician Diversity on National Health Outcomes.
- New England Journal of Medicine. (2020). Hidden in Plain Sight – Reconsidering the Use of Race Correction in Clinical Algorithms.
- U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). Historical Archives on Disparate Impact and AFFH rulings.
- W.K. Kellogg Foundation. (2018). The Business Case for Racial Equity: A Strategy for Growth.
- Xen Yadah Tzu. (2026). Digital Commentary on Architectural and Policy Exclusion.
-
#NativeAmerican leaders blast construction of #Florida’s ‘#AlligatorAlcatraz’ on land they call sacred
By KATE PAYNE
Updated 5:57 PM EDT, June 26, 2025TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) — "Florida Republican Gov. #RonDeSantis’ administration is racing ahead with construction of a makeshift immigration detention facility at an airstrip in the Everglades over the opposition of Native American leaders who consider the area their sacred #AncestralHomelands.
"A string of portable generators and dump trucks loaded with fill dirt streamed into the site on Thursday, according to #activist Jessica Namath, who witnessed the activity. The state is plowing ahead with building a compound of heavy-duty tents, trailers and other temporary buildings at the Miami Dade County-owned airfield located in the #BigCypressNationalPreserve, about 45 miles (72 kilometers) west of downtown Miami.
"A spokesperson for the Florida Division of Emergency Management, which is helping lead the project, did not respond to requests for comment.
"State officials have characterized the site as an ideal place to hold #migrants saying there’s 'not much' there other than pythons and alligators.
"#Indigenous leaders dispute that and are condemning the state’s plans to build what’s been dubbed 'Alligator Alcatraz' on their homelands. #NativeAmericans can trace their roots to the area back thousands of years.
"For generations, the sweeping wetlands of what is now South Florida have been home to Native peoples who today make up the #MiccosukeeTribe of Indians of Florida and the #SeminoleTribe of Florida, as well as the #SeminoleNation of Oklahoma.
" 'Rather than Miccosukee homelands being an uninhabited wasteland for alligators and pythons, as some have suggested, the Big Cypress is the Tribe’s traditional homelands. The landscape has protected the #Miccosukee and Seminole people for generations,' Miccosukee Chairman Talbert Cypress wrote in a statement on social media.
"There are 15 remaining traditional Miccosukee and #Seminole villages in Big Cypress, as well as ceremonial and burial grounds and other gathering sites, Cypress testified before Congress in 2024.
" 'We live here. Our ancestors fought and died here. They are buried here,' he said.
The Big Cypress is part of us, and we are a part of it.'"Garrett Stuart, who lives about 3 miles (4.8 kilometers) from the site, described the crystal clear waters, open prairies and lush tree islands of Big Cypress as teeming with life.
" 'Hearing the arguments of the frogs in the water, you know? And listen to the grunt of the alligator. You’re hearing the call of that osprey flying by and listening to the crows chatting,' he said. 'It’s all just incredible.'
"Critics have condemned the #detention facility and what they call the state’s apparent reliance on alligators as a security measure as a cruel spectacle, while DeSantis and other state officials have defended it as part of Florida’s muscular efforts to carry out President Donald Trump’s #ImmigrationCrackdown.
#ImmigrationRaids #ICEKidnapping #ProtectTheGlades #NoAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEDetentionCenter #ProtectTheSacred #BigCypressNationalPreserve
#StopAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEACAB #StopDetentionCentersEverywhere -
#NativeAmerican leaders blast construction of #Florida’s ‘#AlligatorAlcatraz’ on land they call sacred
By KATE PAYNE
Updated 5:57 PM EDT, June 26, 2025TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) — "Florida Republican Gov. #RonDeSantis’ administration is racing ahead with construction of a makeshift immigration detention facility at an airstrip in the Everglades over the opposition of Native American leaders who consider the area their sacred #AncestralHomelands.
"A string of portable generators and dump trucks loaded with fill dirt streamed into the site on Thursday, according to #activist Jessica Namath, who witnessed the activity. The state is plowing ahead with building a compound of heavy-duty tents, trailers and other temporary buildings at the Miami Dade County-owned airfield located in the #BigCypressNationalPreserve, about 45 miles (72 kilometers) west of downtown Miami.
"A spokesperson for the Florida Division of Emergency Management, which is helping lead the project, did not respond to requests for comment.
"State officials have characterized the site as an ideal place to hold #migrants saying there’s 'not much' there other than pythons and alligators.
"#Indigenous leaders dispute that and are condemning the state’s plans to build what’s been dubbed 'Alligator Alcatraz' on their homelands. #NativeAmericans can trace their roots to the area back thousands of years.
"For generations, the sweeping wetlands of what is now South Florida have been home to Native peoples who today make up the #MiccosukeeTribe of Indians of Florida and the #SeminoleTribe of Florida, as well as the #SeminoleNation of Oklahoma.
" 'Rather than Miccosukee homelands being an uninhabited wasteland for alligators and pythons, as some have suggested, the Big Cypress is the Tribe’s traditional homelands. The landscape has protected the #Miccosukee and Seminole people for generations,' Miccosukee Chairman Talbert Cypress wrote in a statement on social media.
"There are 15 remaining traditional Miccosukee and #Seminole villages in Big Cypress, as well as ceremonial and burial grounds and other gathering sites, Cypress testified before Congress in 2024.
" 'We live here. Our ancestors fought and died here. They are buried here,' he said.
The Big Cypress is part of us, and we are a part of it.'"Garrett Stuart, who lives about 3 miles (4.8 kilometers) from the site, described the crystal clear waters, open prairies and lush tree islands of Big Cypress as teeming with life.
" 'Hearing the arguments of the frogs in the water, you know? And listen to the grunt of the alligator. You’re hearing the call of that osprey flying by and listening to the crows chatting,' he said. 'It’s all just incredible.'
"Critics have condemned the #detention facility and what they call the state’s apparent reliance on alligators as a security measure as a cruel spectacle, while DeSantis and other state officials have defended it as part of Florida’s muscular efforts to carry out President Donald Trump’s #ImmigrationCrackdown.
#ImmigrationRaids #ICEKidnapping #ProtectTheGlades #NoAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEDetentionCenter #ProtectTheSacred #BigCypressNationalPreserve
#StopAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEACAB #StopDetentionCentersEverywhere -
#NativeAmerican leaders blast construction of #Florida’s ‘#AlligatorAlcatraz’ on land they call sacred
By KATE PAYNE
Updated 5:57 PM EDT, June 26, 2025TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) — "Florida Republican Gov. #RonDeSantis’ administration is racing ahead with construction of a makeshift immigration detention facility at an airstrip in the Everglades over the opposition of Native American leaders who consider the area their sacred #AncestralHomelands.
"A string of portable generators and dump trucks loaded with fill dirt streamed into the site on Thursday, according to #activist Jessica Namath, who witnessed the activity. The state is plowing ahead with building a compound of heavy-duty tents, trailers and other temporary buildings at the Miami Dade County-owned airfield located in the #BigCypressNationalPreserve, about 45 miles (72 kilometers) west of downtown Miami.
"A spokesperson for the Florida Division of Emergency Management, which is helping lead the project, did not respond to requests for comment.
"State officials have characterized the site as an ideal place to hold #migrants saying there’s 'not much' there other than pythons and alligators.
"#Indigenous leaders dispute that and are condemning the state’s plans to build what’s been dubbed 'Alligator Alcatraz' on their homelands. #NativeAmericans can trace their roots to the area back thousands of years.
"For generations, the sweeping wetlands of what is now South Florida have been home to Native peoples who today make up the #MiccosukeeTribe of Indians of Florida and the #SeminoleTribe of Florida, as well as the #SeminoleNation of Oklahoma.
" 'Rather than Miccosukee homelands being an uninhabited wasteland for alligators and pythons, as some have suggested, the Big Cypress is the Tribe’s traditional homelands. The landscape has protected the #Miccosukee and Seminole people for generations,' Miccosukee Chairman Talbert Cypress wrote in a statement on social media.
"There are 15 remaining traditional Miccosukee and #Seminole villages in Big Cypress, as well as ceremonial and burial grounds and other gathering sites, Cypress testified before Congress in 2024.
" 'We live here. Our ancestors fought and died here. They are buried here,' he said.
The Big Cypress is part of us, and we are a part of it.'"Garrett Stuart, who lives about 3 miles (4.8 kilometers) from the site, described the crystal clear waters, open prairies and lush tree islands of Big Cypress as teeming with life.
" 'Hearing the arguments of the frogs in the water, you know? And listen to the grunt of the alligator. You’re hearing the call of that osprey flying by and listening to the crows chatting,' he said. 'It’s all just incredible.'
"Critics have condemned the #detention facility and what they call the state’s apparent reliance on alligators as a security measure as a cruel spectacle, while DeSantis and other state officials have defended it as part of Florida’s muscular efforts to carry out President Donald Trump’s #ImmigrationCrackdown.
#ImmigrationRaids #ICEKidnapping #ProtectTheGlades #NoAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEDetentionCenter #ProtectTheSacred #BigCypressNationalPreserve
#StopAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEACAB #StopDetentionCentersEverywhere -
#NativeAmerican leaders blast construction of #Florida’s ‘#AlligatorAlcatraz’ on land they call sacred
By KATE PAYNE
Updated 5:57 PM EDT, June 26, 2025TALLAHASSEE, Fla. (AP) — "Florida Republican Gov. #RonDeSantis’ administration is racing ahead with construction of a makeshift immigration detention facility at an airstrip in the Everglades over the opposition of Native American leaders who consider the area their sacred #AncestralHomelands.
"A string of portable generators and dump trucks loaded with fill dirt streamed into the site on Thursday, according to #activist Jessica Namath, who witnessed the activity. The state is plowing ahead with building a compound of heavy-duty tents, trailers and other temporary buildings at the Miami Dade County-owned airfield located in the #BigCypressNationalPreserve, about 45 miles (72 kilometers) west of downtown Miami.
"A spokesperson for the Florida Division of Emergency Management, which is helping lead the project, did not respond to requests for comment.
"State officials have characterized the site as an ideal place to hold #migrants saying there’s 'not much' there other than pythons and alligators.
"#Indigenous leaders dispute that and are condemning the state’s plans to build what’s been dubbed 'Alligator Alcatraz' on their homelands. #NativeAmericans can trace their roots to the area back thousands of years.
"For generations, the sweeping wetlands of what is now South Florida have been home to Native peoples who today make up the #MiccosukeeTribe of Indians of Florida and the #SeminoleTribe of Florida, as well as the #SeminoleNation of Oklahoma.
" 'Rather than Miccosukee homelands being an uninhabited wasteland for alligators and pythons, as some have suggested, the Big Cypress is the Tribe’s traditional homelands. The landscape has protected the #Miccosukee and Seminole people for generations,' Miccosukee Chairman Talbert Cypress wrote in a statement on social media.
"There are 15 remaining traditional Miccosukee and #Seminole villages in Big Cypress, as well as ceremonial and burial grounds and other gathering sites, Cypress testified before Congress in 2024.
" 'We live here. Our ancestors fought and died here. They are buried here,' he said.
The Big Cypress is part of us, and we are a part of it.'"Garrett Stuart, who lives about 3 miles (4.8 kilometers) from the site, described the crystal clear waters, open prairies and lush tree islands of Big Cypress as teeming with life.
" 'Hearing the arguments of the frogs in the water, you know? And listen to the grunt of the alligator. You’re hearing the call of that osprey flying by and listening to the crows chatting,' he said. 'It’s all just incredible.'
"Critics have condemned the #detention facility and what they call the state’s apparent reliance on alligators as a security measure as a cruel spectacle, while DeSantis and other state officials have defended it as part of Florida’s muscular efforts to carry out President Donald Trump’s #ImmigrationCrackdown.
#ImmigrationRaids #ICEKidnapping #ProtectTheGlades #NoAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEDetentionCenter #ProtectTheSacred #BigCypressNationalPreserve
#StopAlligatorAlcatraz
#ICEACAB #StopDetentionCentersEverywhere -
A Feral Princess
I am supposed to not know that Rivi, Boone, and Tina are coming to pay us a visit in our house in the woods, and so when I open the front door to them after they knock and the dog barks the arrival of someone at the porch, I make sure that I am wearing my most authentic surprised face.
“That’s a bullshit look if I ever saw one,” Rivi says. “Somebody told you we were coming.”
“Shut up and hug me,” I say, wrapping her in an embrace.
“It’s still bullshit,” she says. “It was Tina, wasn’t it? Boone is too afraid of me to go behind my back.”
“I’m not copping to anything,” Tina says. She pushes Rivi out of the way and hugs me. “I’m glad to see you, Bastian. Where’s your lovely wife?”
“In a Zoom meeting in her office. She’ll pop out once that’s over.”
Boone steps into the hallway and gives me a quick man-hug. “I’m completely afraid of Rivi,” he says. “She’s gotten worse since you’ve been gone.”
Rivi elbows him in the stomach. “Shut your filthy lying mouth. I am an angel and shining beam of sunlight, so don’t make me have to cut you.”
“A delicate princess,” I say. “So say we all.”
“Damn right,” she says. “Much too much of a princess for that dirt road coming in here. What the hell is that about?”
“Don’t blame me. If I’d have officially known you were coming, I could have told you to ignore the GPS and which way to actually drive in. The GPS lies.”
Rivi throws a glare at Tina. “If you had officially known, obviously.”
“Give us a tour?” Tina says, ignoring Rivi’s look. “Or you want to wait for Hunter to get out of her meeting?”
“May as well wait. She wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to show off the stately manor. Follow me though and I’ll point out the bathroom and the living room. We don’t have to stand in the hallway like barbarians.”
“I’m a feral princess,” Rivi says, “but I wouldn’t mind sitting on something that isn’t an airline seat for a while. Or the backseat of that rental car. Your road is bumpier than the turbulence over the midwest.”
“Should have told me you were coming,” I say, leading them deeper into the house. “Could have saved you some butt bruises if I’d have known.”
Rivi growls. Feral princess, after all.
We walk through the house and settle onto the pair of sofas in the living room. Boone and Tina sit together and immediately hold hands, which is nice to see. It was a long time with them in the Before Times when they were trying so hard to just be friends, for whatever reasons people do things like that. If anything good came from the pandemic, it was that it drew them closer together instead of driving them apart.
“This is the part where I’m supposed to ask how your flight was,” I say.
“Nightmarish,” Rivi says. “Screaming babies. Filthy toilets. Monsters on the wing of the plane.”
“I didn’t see any monster,” Tina says. “No matter how many times you made me look.”
“It was a smart monster. It always waited until you went back to your book before it looked in the window at me.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to give her the window seat,” Boone says. “You know how she gets on planes.”
“I am familiar,” I say. “Last time I flew with her, I had to put three packages of Double Stuff Oreos in my carry-on so she could have something to snack on that wasn’t airplane food.”
“I didn’t want to get hungry,” Rivi says, crossing her arms.
“It was a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, Rivi. It was an hour in the air.”
“We could have crashed,” she says. “You would have been glad I had cookies if it was a choice between eating them to survive or eating you.”
“We would have crashed in Fresno, not the Andes.”
“Pays to plan ahead, Sebastian.”
“Says the queen of spontaneity,” I say, poking her in the leg with my finger.
She slaps at my hand. “Feral princess of planning. Make a note of it before I put you in the dungeon. You do have a dungeon here, don’t you? I figure all old farmhouses have them. Somewhere to keep all the inbred relatives that got a little too inbred back in the olden times.”
“We have a basement, if that counts.”
“I’ll make it work,” she says. “I’m a feral princess of improvisation.”
“See what I mean?” Boone says. “This is what we have to put up with, now that you’re gone. She’s gone up to eleven.”
“I agree,” Rivi says. “Ten was never high enough to encapsulate the totality of my hotness. Eleven might not even be able to hold it, honestly. Might have to go up to fifteen, to allow for a margin of safety.” She pauses and looks at me, her head tilted at a slight angle. “Sebastian, why are you looking at me like that? Are you having a stroke?”
“I’m not having a stroke,” I say. “I’m just happy to see you. To see all of you. I’ve missed you freaks. It feels really good to have you here.”
“Same,” Boone says.
“It’s been weird without you,” Tina says. “The dynamic has been completely thrown off.”
“I’ve had to pick up your slack,” Rivi says. “It’s a lot of work. It’s very exhausting being you when you’re not actually around.”
Tina leans in toward me and stage-whispers, “We’re about to have Rivi put in a home. She’s gone full Sunset Boulevard since you’ve been gone.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Rivi says, “but I should probably be insulted, right?”
“Possibly,” Tina says. To me, she says, “We’ll talk later, when Rivi’s asleep. Figure out your share of the expenses. She doesn’t need top care. Some gruel and a hosing down every week or so should do it.”
“You’re going in the basement dungeon, too,” Rivi says. “Boone is the only one not on my feral princess list.”
“I always knew I was the favorite,” Boone says.
“Only until you do something stupid,” Rivi says. “Shouldn’t take very long, really.”
“You’re talking about the man I love,” Tina interrupts.
“Thank you,” Boone says.
“He’ll be in the dungeon in about an hour,” Tina continues.
If there are words that can convey just how pleased I am to be seeing these people in my home, I don’t know what they are. The smile on my face hasn’t gone away since they walked in.
“He’s having another stroke,” Rivi says, looking at me. “Fetch my feral doctor. He’ll have to bring the leeches. Unless you have some in the fridge, Sebastian? You do live in the woods, after all.”
“It’s good to see you guys,” I say. “Like, really good.”
“You say that now,” Rivi says. “Wait until the leeches are done sucking and see what you think.” She leans in close to my face and puckers her lips, making a wet ssssssstttthp sound.
Some things never change.
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Anthropologist and Author Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words
Anthropologist, Scholar, Writer, Indigenous & Multispecies Rights Advocate
Bio: Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao is an environmental anthropologist and environmental humanities scholar interested in the intersections of capitalism, ecology, Indigeneity, health, and justice in the Pacific.
Her theoretical thinking is inspired by interdisciplinary currents including Science and Technology Studies, political ecology, and Indigenous, Postcolonial, and Critical Race Studies.
Dr Chao is currently a Discovery Early Career Research Award (DECRA) Fellow and Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Sydney. Prior to her academic career, she worked for the international Indigenous rights organisation Forest Peoples Programme in the United Kingdom and Indonesia.
She has also undertaken consultancies for the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation and the United Nations Working Group on the Issue of Human Rights and Transnational Corporations. She is currently Secretary on the Executive Committee of the Australian Anthropological Society (AAS) and Co-Convenor of the Australian Food, Society, and Culture Network (AFSCN).
In 2022, Dr Chao released her much anticipated book In the Shadow of the Palms: More-Than-Human Becomings in West Papua, which examines the multispecies entanglements of oil palm plantations in West Papua, showing how Indigenous Marind communities understand and navigate the social, political, and environmental demands of palm oil. Her book won the inaugural Duke University Press Scholars of Colour First Book Award.
Dr Chao is keen to forge meaningful collaborations and conversations with Indigenous and decolonial academics, artists, and activists in Australia and beyond, and to move towards a better understanding of morethanhuman worlds.
Read the introduction Order the bookPalm Oil Detectives is honoured to interview to Dr Sophie Chao about her research into the impacts of palm oil on the daily lives of Marind people and other sentient beings in West Papua.
“I want the world to understand how #deforestation and industrial #palmoil expansion undermine #Indigenous ways of being in #WestPapua” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests #Boycott4Wildlife
“#Indigenous #Marind of #WestPapua consider plants and animals NOT as passive objects of exploitation, but as other-than-human relatives. Subjects of #interspecies #justice in their own right” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #Boycott4Wildlife
“I want to see the #palmoil industry/governments try to understand the desires of #Papuan people THEMSELVES instead of pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests
Anthropologist and author of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms’ Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words“#Governments/ #corporates must accept that some #Indigenous communities may decide to withhold consent to #palmoil projects. Their right to say NO MUST be respected” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Boycott4Wildlife
Little previous research had been done into how indigenous peoples themselves experience, interpret, and contest oil palm developments.
In particular, there is not much research done into how indigenous peoples relate to vulnerable, non-human beings such as native plants, animals, and elements, with whom many indigenous peoples entertain intimate and ancestral relations of kinship and care.
“Many people know that oil palm is devastating on tropical ecosystems and biodiversity. Much less is known about the impacts of this proliferating cash crop on the peoples who are being displaced, dispossessed, and disempowered in its wake.”
Pictured: A group of Marind women preparing sago starch that has been freshly rasped from the sago grove. Photo: Dr Sophie Chao
I wrote this book because I wanted the world to understand how deforestation and industrial oil palm expansion are undermining Indigenous ways of being in West Papua.
My book seeks to bring to life the worlds of people who live in the teeth of settler-colonial capitalism
[Pictured] Dr Sophie Chao
Living with Marind transformed how I think about what it means to be “human”
And also what it means to coexist in mutually beneficial ways with other-than-human beings.
Pictured: A Marind man rests near the banks of the Bian River after a fishing trip. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoPictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News IndonesiaThe Marind think of plants and animals as not simply passive objects of human exploitation
Instead, these other-than-human beings are considered to be agents, persons, relatives, and subjects of justice in their own right.
This was a completely different way of thinking to the anthropocentric and individualistic logic of the Westernised parts of the world where I had lived, studied, and worked.
Read the introduction Order the bookIndigenous Marind enriched my world by inviting me to think beyond nature-culture divides
Humans share the planet with a whole array of different creatures. These creatures matter in the making of more sustainable, collective futures.
“More-than-human becomings” is in the subtitle of the book because it is an invitation to think beyond the human and also beyond categories. Instead, the reader is invited to think about non-human beings and transforming worlds.
Marind are “More-than-human” because they consider themselves as beings within a lively and diverse ecology of life
This includes native plants and animals like cassowaries, birds of paradise, and sago palms, but also introduced – and sometimes dangerous – organisms like industrial oil palm.
“Becomings” was a way of getting readers to think about life beyond the static notion of “being.” To “become” is a constant transformation, unfolding differently across bodies, places, and time. Becoming, in some ways, never really ends.
The ‘good life’, according to Marind, stems from the willingness of humans to consider non-human beings as subjects of dignity and justice
This good life is best achieved by immersing oneself in the more-than-human environment. Non-human beings are considered to be participants in the making of shared worlds, and also as subjects of harm and violence.
The “good life” is deeply intergenerational for Marind. They often talked about nurturing the forest, as a way of becoming good ancestors and how they can transmit traditional ecological knowledge to future Marind generations
Time for Marind is not linear, it is spiralic
What you do now matters in terms of how you will be remembered. What you do now matters in terms of what you will be able to pass on to human and other-than-human beings to come.
There is a wisdom and responsibility that comes with this sense of time that I think is critical to heed in this age of planetary destruction.
A Marind family journeying to a sacred ceremonial site to pay respects to their ancestral spirits. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoMany of my Marind companions talk about conservation and capitalism as being “two sides of the same coin”
This is because they now find themselves excluded from both industrial oil palm plantations and from the conservation areas that are intended to off-set deforestation.
Images: Palm oil plantations and environmental destruction, Getty Images.
Pictured: Forest foods, like sago starch, are considered nourishing by Marind because they derive from revered plants and animals. Sophie Chao, Author provided. Via The Conversation Pictured: A tool for processing Sago. Papua New Guinea. Getty ImagesBoth of these activities entrench a nature-culture divide that is alien to many Marind. Both undervalue the fact that Marind have always coexisted harmoniously with their environments.
These new “conservation zones” are the very same places where Marind fish, forage, and hunt. It is where they go to visit ancestral graveyards and sacred sites. It is where they walk with their families and friends to encounter their kindred sago palms, wild boards, possums, and gaharu trees.
For Marind, conservation and capitalism violate their territorial sovereignty and access to food and resources. Both types of activity are imposed by outside actors through top-down decision-making process that they are not party to.
Human rights and environmental abuses in West Papua are made invisible in Australia, their closest neighbour, mainly for geopolitical reasons
Racism may have something to do with it – but I think geopolitical interests are a big part of the story
West Papua is incredibly rich in natural resources – from gold, copper, and coal, to timber and oil palm. Economic and political interests tend to trump human and environmental rights, in West Papua and elsewhere.
There are pockets of activism and advocacy in Australia, including by West Papuan diaspora and political exiles – but the movement hasn’t caught the public’s attention in the way other political causes have.
Accessing West Papua is difficult for non-Indonesian individuals and organisations. There is heightened militarisation of the region. This contributes to an ongoing invisibilisation of what is happening at the ground level, among Papuan people and across Papuan ecosystems.
The demilitarisation of West Papua is absolutely vital if Papuans are to feel that they have a free voice in matters affecting them and their lands – including oil palm developments
Image: Andrew Gal for Getty Images
Indigenous ways of being and thinking (although radically different from neoliberal capitalist and colonialist logics), should be central to decision-making
I would like to see the palm oil industry, together with the Indonesian government, try to understand the views, aspirations, desires, beliefs, and hopes of Papuan peoples themselves instead of entering with pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress, the good life, and wellbeing.
Government and corporate actors should engaging with Indigenous Papuans through a transparent, iterative, and trust-based process of consent-seeking, before any oil palm projects are designed or implemented.
This consent should be sought freely, well ahead of time, and only when communities have been given access to comprehensive and impartial information on the benefits and risks of oil palm developments.
Pictured: Marind man and child in Merauke by Nanang Sujana
Most importantly, government and corporate actors need to accept that some communities may, following lengthy consultations, still decide to withhold their consent to oil palm projects. This right to say NO to oil palm must imperatively be respected.
Violence as a multispecies act: Marind describe oil palm as a colonising, killing and occupying plant beings
Oil palm, they often told me, does not want to share time and space with native plants, people, and animals.
It spreads uniformly across vast swaths of land, yet grows alone in monocrop form
This plant’s introduction has been accompanied by intensified military and corporate surveillance, community harassment and intimidation and exploitative labour conditions.
To think about violence in multispecies terms, brings us to consider situations where humans are not the only culprits, and non-humans not the only victims.
Oil palm’s acts of violence invite us to think about non-human beings as drivers and perpetrators of harm – even as they themselves are also subject to human and technological manipulations and exploitation.
Pictured: Fire in a rainforest – Getty Images
Image 1: Untouched rainforest (Getty Images). Image 2: Marind community on land destroyed for the million hectare Meruake Integrated Food and Energy Estate, known as MIFEE (Nanang Sujana)Paraquat, a deadly herbicide, trickled down from rusty canisters strapped to the women’s backs, the blue-green venom seeping into their exposed skin.
Banned in many countries because of its toxic effects, no antidote exists for this lethal chemical. I thought of babies never to come. The faces of my friends, huddled in the bed of the truck, were caked in dust and watched the landscape unfurl, weeping.
Infants retched from the stench of mill effluents as we jolted down dirt roads without stopping so as to avoid attracting the attention of military men employed by the companies to guard their plantations. Bunches of oil palm fruit lay strewn along roadsides, piles of moldering blood-red and coal-black, shot through with razor-sharp thorns.
Bulldozers and chainsaws ripped through isolated patches of the remaining vegetation. Silhouetted against the bleary sun, pesticide-spraying helicopters zigzagged back and forth above us, spreading a milky veil of hazy toxins.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from the prologue of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
On August 11th 2010, a delegation of government representatives from Jakarta, led by the then minister of agriculture Ir. H Suswono launched the Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE). A $5 billion USD agribusiness scheme to promote the country’s self-sufficiency in basic foodstuffs and to make Indonesia a net food-exporting nation. Papuans from across the region were invited to the event including Marind community members from the upper Bian river. Paulus Mahuze, Marind clan leader recalls the arrival of MIFEE and how everything changed dramatically afterwards for his people.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from her book ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
“It was a hot day. There was dust (abu) everywhere, raised by the government convoys and military trucks. The dust stung our eyes and made our children cry. The government brought oil palm (sawit) company bosses with them from pusat (‘the centre,’ or Jakarta). They gave us instant noodles, pens, bottles of water. They also gave us cigarettes – the expensive kind. They talked a lot about MIFEE. MIFEE this, MIFEE that…but we didn’t understand what MIFEE was. We did not know what palm oil was because oil palm does not live in our forests. Then, the government officials and the oil palm bosses left. They never returned to the village.
They promised us money and jobs. They said MIFEE would provide us with food. I thought that they would plant yams, vegetables and fruit trees. Instead they planted oil palm. They planted oil palm everywhere they could. They turned the whole forest into oil palm. They cut down all the sago to plant oil palm. This is what happened. Since then, everything is abu-abu (‘grey’ or ‘uncertain’).~ Paulus Mahuze, marind clan leader (as told to dr sophie chao in her book: In the shadow of the palms).
Abu-abu means both “grey” and “uncertain”. For Marind, the future, hope and multispecies relations were all abu-abu and under siege
Pictured: Oil palm plantations in Merauke have contributed to unprecedented levels of deforestation, and water/soil contamination. Photo credit: Dr Sophie Chao.
The concept of abu-abu is one that many of my Marind friends would use to describe the worlds that they inhabit
Abu-abu communicates the sense of ambiguity, opacity, and strangeness that life on the palm oil frontier entails. Greyness manifests in the polluted waters of local rivers, and in the smoke-filled skies following forest burning.
Greyness also manifests in the dull and irritated skin of malnourished infants, poisoned fish, and pesticide-wielding workers
To live in a world of murk and uncertainty is violent and unsettling – but it is also a way of rejecting the possibility of any kind of radical divide between oneself and that murk. That’s why I approach abu-abu not just as a condition of suffering, but also as a stance of refusal.
What would or might come next for Marind and their other-than-human kin was unknown – and often feared.
This sense of greyness, or uncertainty is also metaphorical. For Marind the world is grey in that the future, hope, social and multispecies relations are all under siege.
Pictured: Dead fish, creative commons image, Pxfuel.
Pictured: Marind child in Merauke West Papua by Nanang SujanaAt the same time, abu-abu was a form of resistance in the way it refused fixed classifications, categories, or boundaries between things, ideas, and actions
Whether “sustainable” palm oil can be achieved in practice demands a radical rethinking of the capitalist logic – the logic of endless growth
Careless profit-making, and externally imposed “development” and “progress” rhetorics. And that is a huge task. These kinds of rhetorics are deeply entrenched. Their origins are often unquestioned. Their impacts are often silenced.
Pictured: Common supermarket brands that are RSPO members are linked to deforestation and human rights abusesPictured: Pollution run-off in an RSPO member palm oil plantation in Sumatra. Craig Jones Wildlife PhotographyReport: Environmental Investigation Agency: Sustainable palm oil is a conAt the end of the day, I think the most important thing to ask ourselves about “sustainability” is – sustainability for whom?
Who gets to have a say over what happens to lands and forests? Who gets to be involved in decision-making processes surrounding oil palm projects? Is there scope to reconsider the scale at which these projects are being developed?
These are questions that have to be crafted and considered together with the Indigenous peoples most directly and indirectly affected by agribusiness expansion.
That, for me, is the beginning of any kind of conversation around sustainability – sustainability for people, plants, animals, and for all the other beings implicated in one way or another in the palm oil nexus.
The rationale for additional Food Estates in Papua and Indonesia is scrutinised in this 2022 report
“The rationale behind Food Estates, that they are an effective way to rapidly increase national food production, does not stand up to scrutiny.
“Over the years, previous attempts to launch Food Estates have failed, with little if any extra food produced. The various iterations of the Merauke Food Estate (MIFEE) are a good example of this.
“For these reasons, it is legitimate to call into question the real motivation behind the plans. With corruption still rampant in Indonesia, there is a significant risk that Food Estates will present new opportunities for profit by those in government and their associates.”
Quote from: Pandemic Power Grabs: Who benefits from Food Estates in West Papua, a report by AwasMIFEE and TAPOL (2022).
Download reportUpcoming online events and publications
Event: Eating and Becoming Eaten More-than-human metabolisms on the West Papuan Agribusiness Frontier
https://twitter.com/SSNDeakin/status/1556487944516825089?s=20&t=6XYWl5_WwEiVBCRnuOODag
The Promise of Multispecies Justice
Edited by Dr Sophie Chao, Karin Bolender, Eben Kirksey.
What are the possibilities for multispecies justice? How do social justice struggles intersect with the lives of animals, plants, and other creatures? Leading thinkers in anthropology, geography, philosophy, speculative fiction, poetry, and contemporary art answer these questions from diverse grounded locations.
Order copyYou can find and follow me on Twitter if you wish @Sophie_MH_Chao
Pictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News Indonesia
https://twitter.com/Sophie_MH_Chao/status/1554625068906336256?s=20&t=KQOGXlMflLDymRCC19ppTw
https://twitter.com/DukePress/status/1553002952293584898?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
https://twitter.com/eben_kirksey/status/1554656376982364160?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
Images: Getty Images, Dr Sophie Chao, Nanang Sujana, Craig Jones Wildlife Photography, ABC News Indonesia.
Words: Dr Sophie Chao
Further Reading
‘In West Papua, oil palm expansion undermines the relations of indigenous Marind people to forest plants and animals’ by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
After 75 years of independence, Indigenous Peoples in Indonesia still struggling for equality by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
‘Kelapa Sawit Membunuh Sagu’: Sophie Chao Meraih Tesis Terbaik di Australia Setelah Meneliti Suku di Papua by Farid M. Ibrahim for ABC Indonesia.
In the plantations there is hunger and loneliness: The cultural dimensions of food insecurity in Papua (commentary)’ by Dr Sophie Chao for Mongabay.
The sky has no corners: My journey to a new understanding of nature, an essay by Dr Sophie Chao for Five Media.
Read and watch more stories about indigenous justice, land-grabbing and deforestation on Palm Oil Detectives
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land is Gone) by filmmaker Nanang Sujana
Image: Marind children in Merauke West Papua by Nanang Sujana
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land Has Gone) is a powerful documentary by celebrated and renowned filmmaker and photographer Nanang Sujana. His images and film tells the story of the Malind Anim tribe living in Zanegi village. They were dispossessed from their land which was given over to global palm oil corporations, in its place was Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE).
“The Forest is the father, land is the mother and rivers are blood
“That’s the spirituality of most Dayak people in Kalimantan. They understand the interdependent nature of everything in nature.”
~ Dr Setia Budhi : Dayak Ethnographer
Read Dr Budhi’s story Read ‘The Orangutan with the Golden Hair’Image: Rainforest in Sumatra by Craig Jones Wildlife Photography
The people versus Feronia: Fighting palm oil agrocolonialism in the Congo
by Palm Oil DetectivesOrganised Crime: A Top Driver of Global Deforestation
by Palm Oil Detectives by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Lobbyists Getting Caught Lying Orangutan Land Trust and Agropalma
by Palm Oil Detectives13 Reasons To Boycott Gold for Yanomami
by Palm Oil DetectivesTreespiracy: Forests are being destroyed against a background of corruption, illegality and apathy
by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Detectives is 100% self-funded
Palm Oil Detectives is completely self-funded by its creator. All hosting and website fees and investigations into brands are self-funded by the creator of this online movement. If you like what I am doing, you and would like me to help meet costs, please send Palm Oil Detectives a thanks on Ko-Fi.
Say thanks on Ko-Fi#animalExtinction #animalRights #animals #Anthropology #Boycott4wildlife #conservation #corporates #CreativesForCoolCreatures #deforestation #indigenous #IndigenousActivism #indigenousRights #interspecies #justice #landRights #landgrabbing #Malind #Marind #PalmOil #palmOilDeforestation #palmoil #PapuaNewGuinea #Papuan #PapuanLivesMatter #rainforestConservation #research #Together4Forests #WestPapua #WestPapua
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Anthropologist and Author Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words
Anthropologist, Scholar, Writer, Indigenous & Multispecies Rights Advocate
Bio: Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao is an environmental anthropologist and environmental humanities scholar interested in the intersections of capitalism, ecology, Indigeneity, health, and justice in the Pacific.
Her theoretical thinking is inspired by interdisciplinary currents including Science and Technology Studies, political ecology, and Indigenous, Postcolonial, and Critical Race Studies.
Dr Chao is currently a Discovery Early Career Research Award (DECRA) Fellow and Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Sydney. Prior to her academic career, she worked for the international Indigenous rights organisation Forest Peoples Programme in the United Kingdom and Indonesia.
She has also undertaken consultancies for the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation and the United Nations Working Group on the Issue of Human Rights and Transnational Corporations. She is currently Secretary on the Executive Committee of the Australian Anthropological Society (AAS) and Co-Convenor of the Australian Food, Society, and Culture Network (AFSCN).
In 2022, Dr Chao released her much anticipated book In the Shadow of the Palms: More-Than-Human Becomings in West Papua, which examines the multispecies entanglements of oil palm plantations in West Papua, showing how Indigenous Marind communities understand and navigate the social, political, and environmental demands of palm oil. Her book won the inaugural Duke University Press Scholars of Colour First Book Award.
Dr Chao is keen to forge meaningful collaborations and conversations with Indigenous and decolonial academics, artists, and activists in Australia and beyond, and to move towards a better understanding of morethanhuman worlds.
Read the introduction Order the bookPalm Oil Detectives is honoured to interview to Dr Sophie Chao about her research into the impacts of palm oil on the daily lives of Marind people and other sentient beings in West Papua.
“I want the world to understand how #deforestation and industrial #palmoil expansion undermine #Indigenous ways of being in #WestPapua” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests #Boycott4Wildlife
“#Indigenous #Marind of #WestPapua consider plants and animals NOT as passive objects of exploitation, but as other-than-human relatives. Subjects of #interspecies #justice in their own right” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #Boycott4Wildlife
“I want to see the #palmoil industry/governments try to understand the desires of #Papuan people THEMSELVES instead of pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests
Anthropologist and author of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms’ Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words“#Governments/ #corporates must accept that some #Indigenous communities may decide to withhold consent to #palmoil projects. Their right to say NO MUST be respected” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Boycott4Wildlife
Little previous research had been done into how indigenous peoples themselves experience, interpret, and contest oil palm developments.
In particular, there is not much research done into how indigenous peoples relate to vulnerable, non-human beings such as native plants, animals, and elements, with whom many indigenous peoples entertain intimate and ancestral relations of kinship and care.
“Many people know that oil palm is devastating on tropical ecosystems and biodiversity. Much less is known about the impacts of this proliferating cash crop on the peoples who are being displaced, dispossessed, and disempowered in its wake.”
Pictured: A group of Marind women preparing sago starch that has been freshly rasped from the sago grove. Photo: Dr Sophie Chao
I wrote this book because I wanted the world to understand how deforestation and industrial oil palm expansion are undermining Indigenous ways of being in West Papua.
My book seeks to bring to life the worlds of people who live in the teeth of settler-colonial capitalism
[Pictured] Dr Sophie Chao
Living with Marind transformed how I think about what it means to be “human”
And also what it means to coexist in mutually beneficial ways with other-than-human beings.
Pictured: A Marind man rests near the banks of the Bian River after a fishing trip. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoPictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News IndonesiaThe Marind think of plants and animals as not simply passive objects of human exploitation
Instead, these other-than-human beings are considered to be agents, persons, relatives, and subjects of justice in their own right.
This was a completely different way of thinking to the anthropocentric and individualistic logic of the Westernised parts of the world where I had lived, studied, and worked.
Read the introduction Order the bookIndigenous Marind enriched my world by inviting me to think beyond nature-culture divides
Humans share the planet with a whole array of different creatures. These creatures matter in the making of more sustainable, collective futures.
“More-than-human becomings” is in the subtitle of the book because it is an invitation to think beyond the human and also beyond categories. Instead, the reader is invited to think about non-human beings and transforming worlds.
Marind are “More-than-human” because they consider themselves as beings within a lively and diverse ecology of life
This includes native plants and animals like cassowaries, birds of paradise, and sago palms, but also introduced – and sometimes dangerous – organisms like industrial oil palm.
“Becomings” was a way of getting readers to think about life beyond the static notion of “being.” To “become” is a constant transformation, unfolding differently across bodies, places, and time. Becoming, in some ways, never really ends.
The ‘good life’, according to Marind, stems from the willingness of humans to consider non-human beings as subjects of dignity and justice
This good life is best achieved by immersing oneself in the more-than-human environment. Non-human beings are considered to be participants in the making of shared worlds, and also as subjects of harm and violence.
The “good life” is deeply intergenerational for Marind. They often talked about nurturing the forest, as a way of becoming good ancestors and how they can transmit traditional ecological knowledge to future Marind generations
Time for Marind is not linear, it is spiralic
What you do now matters in terms of how you will be remembered. What you do now matters in terms of what you will be able to pass on to human and other-than-human beings to come.
There is a wisdom and responsibility that comes with this sense of time that I think is critical to heed in this age of planetary destruction.
A Marind family journeying to a sacred ceremonial site to pay respects to their ancestral spirits. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoMany of my Marind companions talk about conservation and capitalism as being “two sides of the same coin”
This is because they now find themselves excluded from both industrial oil palm plantations and from the conservation areas that are intended to off-set deforestation.
Images: Palm oil plantations and environmental destruction, Getty Images.
Pictured: Forest foods, like sago starch, are considered nourishing by Marind because they derive from revered plants and animals. Sophie Chao, Author provided. Via The Conversation Pictured: A tool for processing Sago. Papua New Guinea. Getty ImagesBoth of these activities entrench a nature-culture divide that is alien to many Marind. Both undervalue the fact that Marind have always coexisted harmoniously with their environments.
These new “conservation zones” are the very same places where Marind fish, forage, and hunt. It is where they go to visit ancestral graveyards and sacred sites. It is where they walk with their families and friends to encounter their kindred sago palms, wild boards, possums, and gaharu trees.
For Marind, conservation and capitalism violate their territorial sovereignty and access to food and resources. Both types of activity are imposed by outside actors through top-down decision-making process that they are not party to.
Human rights and environmental abuses in West Papua are made invisible in Australia, their closest neighbour, mainly for geopolitical reasons
Racism may have something to do with it – but I think geopolitical interests are a big part of the story
West Papua is incredibly rich in natural resources – from gold, copper, and coal, to timber and oil palm. Economic and political interests tend to trump human and environmental rights, in West Papua and elsewhere.
There are pockets of activism and advocacy in Australia, including by West Papuan diaspora and political exiles – but the movement hasn’t caught the public’s attention in the way other political causes have.
Accessing West Papua is difficult for non-Indonesian individuals and organisations. There is heightened militarisation of the region. This contributes to an ongoing invisibilisation of what is happening at the ground level, among Papuan people and across Papuan ecosystems.
The demilitarisation of West Papua is absolutely vital if Papuans are to feel that they have a free voice in matters affecting them and their lands – including oil palm developments
Image: Andrew Gal for Getty Images
Indigenous ways of being and thinking (although radically different from neoliberal capitalist and colonialist logics), should be central to decision-making
I would like to see the palm oil industry, together with the Indonesian government, try to understand the views, aspirations, desires, beliefs, and hopes of Papuan peoples themselves instead of entering with pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress, the good life, and wellbeing.
Government and corporate actors should engaging with Indigenous Papuans through a transparent, iterative, and trust-based process of consent-seeking, before any oil palm projects are designed or implemented.
This consent should be sought freely, well ahead of time, and only when communities have been given access to comprehensive and impartial information on the benefits and risks of oil palm developments.
Pictured: Marind man and child in Merauke by Nanang Sujana
Most importantly, government and corporate actors need to accept that some communities may, following lengthy consultations, still decide to withhold their consent to oil palm projects. This right to say NO to oil palm must imperatively be respected.
Violence as a multispecies act: Marind describe oil palm as a colonising, killing and occupying plant beings
Oil palm, they often told me, does not want to share time and space with native plants, people, and animals.
It spreads uniformly across vast swaths of land, yet grows alone in monocrop form
This plant’s introduction has been accompanied by intensified military and corporate surveillance, community harassment and intimidation and exploitative labour conditions.
To think about violence in multispecies terms, brings us to consider situations where humans are not the only culprits, and non-humans not the only victims.
Oil palm’s acts of violence invite us to think about non-human beings as drivers and perpetrators of harm – even as they themselves are also subject to human and technological manipulations and exploitation.
Pictured: Fire in a rainforest – Getty Images
Image 1: Untouched rainforest (Getty Images). Image 2: Marind community on land destroyed for the million hectare Meruake Integrated Food and Energy Estate, known as MIFEE (Nanang Sujana)Paraquat, a deadly herbicide, trickled down from rusty canisters strapped to the women’s backs, the blue-green venom seeping into their exposed skin.
Banned in many countries because of its toxic effects, no antidote exists for this lethal chemical. I thought of babies never to come. The faces of my friends, huddled in the bed of the truck, were caked in dust and watched the landscape unfurl, weeping.
Infants retched from the stench of mill effluents as we jolted down dirt roads without stopping so as to avoid attracting the attention of military men employed by the companies to guard their plantations. Bunches of oil palm fruit lay strewn along roadsides, piles of moldering blood-red and coal-black, shot through with razor-sharp thorns.
Bulldozers and chainsaws ripped through isolated patches of the remaining vegetation. Silhouetted against the bleary sun, pesticide-spraying helicopters zigzagged back and forth above us, spreading a milky veil of hazy toxins.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from the prologue of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
On August 11th 2010, a delegation of government representatives from Jakarta, led by the then minister of agriculture Ir. H Suswono launched the Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE). A $5 billion USD agribusiness scheme to promote the country’s self-sufficiency in basic foodstuffs and to make Indonesia a net food-exporting nation. Papuans from across the region were invited to the event including Marind community members from the upper Bian river. Paulus Mahuze, Marind clan leader recalls the arrival of MIFEE and how everything changed dramatically afterwards for his people.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from her book ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
“It was a hot day. There was dust (abu) everywhere, raised by the government convoys and military trucks. The dust stung our eyes and made our children cry. The government brought oil palm (sawit) company bosses with them from pusat (‘the centre,’ or Jakarta). They gave us instant noodles, pens, bottles of water. They also gave us cigarettes – the expensive kind. They talked a lot about MIFEE. MIFEE this, MIFEE that…but we didn’t understand what MIFEE was. We did not know what palm oil was because oil palm does not live in our forests. Then, the government officials and the oil palm bosses left. They never returned to the village.
They promised us money and jobs. They said MIFEE would provide us with food. I thought that they would plant yams, vegetables and fruit trees. Instead they planted oil palm. They planted oil palm everywhere they could. They turned the whole forest into oil palm. They cut down all the sago to plant oil palm. This is what happened. Since then, everything is abu-abu (‘grey’ or ‘uncertain’).~ Paulus Mahuze, marind clan leader (as told to dr sophie chao in her book: In the shadow of the palms).
Abu-abu means both “grey” and “uncertain”. For Marind, the future, hope and multispecies relations were all abu-abu and under siege
Pictured: Oil palm plantations in Merauke have contributed to unprecedented levels of deforestation, and water/soil contamination. Photo credit: Dr Sophie Chao.
The concept of abu-abu is one that many of my Marind friends would use to describe the worlds that they inhabit
Abu-abu communicates the sense of ambiguity, opacity, and strangeness that life on the palm oil frontier entails. Greyness manifests in the polluted waters of local rivers, and in the smoke-filled skies following forest burning.
Greyness also manifests in the dull and irritated skin of malnourished infants, poisoned fish, and pesticide-wielding workers
To live in a world of murk and uncertainty is violent and unsettling – but it is also a way of rejecting the possibility of any kind of radical divide between oneself and that murk. That’s why I approach abu-abu not just as a condition of suffering, but also as a stance of refusal.
What would or might come next for Marind and their other-than-human kin was unknown – and often feared.
This sense of greyness, or uncertainty is also metaphorical. For Marind the world is grey in that the future, hope, social and multispecies relations are all under siege.
Pictured: Dead fish, creative commons image, Pxfuel.
Pictured: Marind child in Merauke West Papua by Nanang SujanaAt the same time, abu-abu was a form of resistance in the way it refused fixed classifications, categories, or boundaries between things, ideas, and actions
Whether “sustainable” palm oil can be achieved in practice demands a radical rethinking of the capitalist logic – the logic of endless growth
Careless profit-making, and externally imposed “development” and “progress” rhetorics. And that is a huge task. These kinds of rhetorics are deeply entrenched. Their origins are often unquestioned. Their impacts are often silenced.
Pictured: Common supermarket brands that are RSPO members are linked to deforestation and human rights abusesPictured: Pollution run-off in an RSPO member palm oil plantation in Sumatra. Craig Jones Wildlife PhotographyReport: Environmental Investigation Agency: Sustainable palm oil is a conAt the end of the day, I think the most important thing to ask ourselves about “sustainability” is – sustainability for whom?
Who gets to have a say over what happens to lands and forests? Who gets to be involved in decision-making processes surrounding oil palm projects? Is there scope to reconsider the scale at which these projects are being developed?
These are questions that have to be crafted and considered together with the Indigenous peoples most directly and indirectly affected by agribusiness expansion.
That, for me, is the beginning of any kind of conversation around sustainability – sustainability for people, plants, animals, and for all the other beings implicated in one way or another in the palm oil nexus.
The rationale for additional Food Estates in Papua and Indonesia is scrutinised in this 2022 report
“The rationale behind Food Estates, that they are an effective way to rapidly increase national food production, does not stand up to scrutiny.
“Over the years, previous attempts to launch Food Estates have failed, with little if any extra food produced. The various iterations of the Merauke Food Estate (MIFEE) are a good example of this.
“For these reasons, it is legitimate to call into question the real motivation behind the plans. With corruption still rampant in Indonesia, there is a significant risk that Food Estates will present new opportunities for profit by those in government and their associates.”
Quote from: Pandemic Power Grabs: Who benefits from Food Estates in West Papua, a report by AwasMIFEE and TAPOL (2022).
Download reportUpcoming online events and publications
Event: Eating and Becoming Eaten More-than-human metabolisms on the West Papuan Agribusiness Frontier
https://twitter.com/SSNDeakin/status/1556487944516825089?s=20&t=6XYWl5_WwEiVBCRnuOODag
The Promise of Multispecies Justice
Edited by Dr Sophie Chao, Karin Bolender, Eben Kirksey.
What are the possibilities for multispecies justice? How do social justice struggles intersect with the lives of animals, plants, and other creatures? Leading thinkers in anthropology, geography, philosophy, speculative fiction, poetry, and contemporary art answer these questions from diverse grounded locations.
Order copyYou can find and follow me on Twitter if you wish @Sophie_MH_Chao
Pictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News Indonesia
https://twitter.com/Sophie_MH_Chao/status/1554625068906336256?s=20&t=KQOGXlMflLDymRCC19ppTw
https://twitter.com/DukePress/status/1553002952293584898?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
https://twitter.com/eben_kirksey/status/1554656376982364160?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
Images: Getty Images, Dr Sophie Chao, Nanang Sujana, Craig Jones Wildlife Photography, ABC News Indonesia.
Words: Dr Sophie Chao
Further Reading
‘In West Papua, oil palm expansion undermines the relations of indigenous Marind people to forest plants and animals’ by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
After 75 years of independence, Indigenous Peoples in Indonesia still struggling for equality by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
‘Kelapa Sawit Membunuh Sagu’: Sophie Chao Meraih Tesis Terbaik di Australia Setelah Meneliti Suku di Papua by Farid M. Ibrahim for ABC Indonesia.
In the plantations there is hunger and loneliness: The cultural dimensions of food insecurity in Papua (commentary)’ by Dr Sophie Chao for Mongabay.
The sky has no corners: My journey to a new understanding of nature, an essay by Dr Sophie Chao for Five Media.
Read and watch more stories about indigenous justice, land-grabbing and deforestation on Palm Oil Detectives
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land is Gone) by filmmaker Nanang Sujana
Image: Marind children in Merauke West Papua by Nanang Sujana
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land Has Gone) is a powerful documentary by celebrated and renowned filmmaker and photographer Nanang Sujana. His images and film tells the story of the Malind Anim tribe living in Zanegi village. They were dispossessed from their land which was given over to global palm oil corporations, in its place was Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE).
“The Forest is the father, land is the mother and rivers are blood
“That’s the spirituality of most Dayak people in Kalimantan. They understand the interdependent nature of everything in nature.”
~ Dr Setia Budhi : Dayak Ethnographer
Read Dr Budhi’s story Read ‘The Orangutan with the Golden Hair’Image: Rainforest in Sumatra by Craig Jones Wildlife Photography
The people versus Feronia: Fighting palm oil agrocolonialism in the Congo
by Palm Oil DetectivesOrganised Crime: A Top Driver of Global Deforestation
by Palm Oil Detectives by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Lobbyists Getting Caught Lying Orangutan Land Trust and Agropalma
by Palm Oil Detectives13 Reasons To Boycott Gold for Yanomami
by Palm Oil DetectivesTreespiracy: Forests are being destroyed against a background of corruption, illegality and apathy
by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Detectives is 100% self-funded
Palm Oil Detectives is completely self-funded by its creator. All hosting and website fees and investigations into brands are self-funded by the creator of this online movement. If you like what I am doing, you and would like me to help meet costs, please send Palm Oil Detectives a thanks on Ko-Fi.
Say thanks on Ko-Fi#animalExtinction #animalRights #animals #Anthropology #Boycott4wildlife #conservation #corporates #CreativesForCoolCreatures #deforestation #indigenous #IndigenousActivism #indigenousRights #interspecies #justice #landRights #landgrabbing #Malind #Marind #PalmOil #palmOilDeforestation #palmoil #PapuaNewGuinea #Papuan #PapuanLivesMatter #rainforestConservation #research #Together4Forests #WestPapua #WestPapua
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Anthropologist and Author Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words
Anthropologist, Scholar, Writer, Indigenous & Multispecies Rights Advocate
Bio: Dr Sophie Chao
Dr Sophie Chao is an environmental anthropologist and environmental humanities scholar interested in the intersections of capitalism, ecology, Indigeneity, health, and justice in the Pacific.
Her theoretical thinking is inspired by interdisciplinary currents including Science and Technology Studies, political ecology, and Indigenous, Postcolonial, and Critical Race Studies.
Dr Chao is currently a Discovery Early Career Research Award (DECRA) Fellow and Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Sydney. Prior to her academic career, she worked for the international Indigenous rights organisation Forest Peoples Programme in the United Kingdom and Indonesia.
She has also undertaken consultancies for the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation and the United Nations Working Group on the Issue of Human Rights and Transnational Corporations. She is currently Secretary on the Executive Committee of the Australian Anthropological Society (AAS) and Co-Convenor of the Australian Food, Society, and Culture Network (AFSCN).
In 2022, Dr Chao released her much anticipated book In the Shadow of the Palms: More-Than-Human Becomings in West Papua, which examines the multispecies entanglements of oil palm plantations in West Papua, showing how Indigenous Marind communities understand and navigate the social, political, and environmental demands of palm oil. Her book won the inaugural Duke University Press Scholars of Colour First Book Award.
Dr Chao is keen to forge meaningful collaborations and conversations with Indigenous and decolonial academics, artists, and activists in Australia and beyond, and to move towards a better understanding of morethanhuman worlds.
Read the introduction Order the bookPalm Oil Detectives is honoured to interview to Dr Sophie Chao about her research into the impacts of palm oil on the daily lives of Marind people and other sentient beings in West Papua.
“I want the world to understand how #deforestation and industrial #palmoil expansion undermine #Indigenous ways of being in #WestPapua” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests #Boycott4Wildlife
“#Indigenous #Marind of #WestPapua consider plants and animals NOT as passive objects of exploitation, but as other-than-human relatives. Subjects of #interspecies #justice in their own right” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #Boycott4Wildlife
“I want to see the #palmoil industry/governments try to understand the desires of #Papuan people THEMSELVES instead of pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Together4Forests
Anthropologist and author of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms’ Dr Sophie Chao: In Her Own Words“#Governments/ #corporates must accept that some #Indigenous communities may decide to withhold consent to #palmoil projects. Their right to say NO MUST be respected” ~ Dr Sophie Chao #PapuanLivesMatter #Boycott4Wildlife
Little previous research had been done into how indigenous peoples themselves experience, interpret, and contest oil palm developments.
In particular, there is not much research done into how indigenous peoples relate to vulnerable, non-human beings such as native plants, animals, and elements, with whom many indigenous peoples entertain intimate and ancestral relations of kinship and care.
“Many people know that oil palm is devastating on tropical ecosystems and biodiversity. Much less is known about the impacts of this proliferating cash crop on the peoples who are being displaced, dispossessed, and disempowered in its wake.”
Pictured: A group of Marind women preparing sago starch that has been freshly rasped from the sago grove. Photo: Dr Sophie Chao
I wrote this book because I wanted the world to understand how deforestation and industrial oil palm expansion are undermining Indigenous ways of being in West Papua.
My book seeks to bring to life the worlds of people who live in the teeth of settler-colonial capitalism
[Pictured] Dr Sophie Chao
Living with Marind transformed how I think about what it means to be “human”
And also what it means to coexist in mutually beneficial ways with other-than-human beings.
Pictured: A Marind man rests near the banks of the Bian River after a fishing trip. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoPictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News IndonesiaThe Marind think of plants and animals as not simply passive objects of human exploitation
Instead, these other-than-human beings are considered to be agents, persons, relatives, and subjects of justice in their own right.
This was a completely different way of thinking to the anthropocentric and individualistic logic of the Westernised parts of the world where I had lived, studied, and worked.
Read the introduction Order the bookIndigenous Marind enriched my world by inviting me to think beyond nature-culture divides
Humans share the planet with a whole array of different creatures. These creatures matter in the making of more sustainable, collective futures.
“More-than-human becomings” is in the subtitle of the book because it is an invitation to think beyond the human and also beyond categories. Instead, the reader is invited to think about non-human beings and transforming worlds.
Marind are “More-than-human” because they consider themselves as beings within a lively and diverse ecology of life
This includes native plants and animals like cassowaries, birds of paradise, and sago palms, but also introduced – and sometimes dangerous – organisms like industrial oil palm.
“Becomings” was a way of getting readers to think about life beyond the static notion of “being.” To “become” is a constant transformation, unfolding differently across bodies, places, and time. Becoming, in some ways, never really ends.
The ‘good life’, according to Marind, stems from the willingness of humans to consider non-human beings as subjects of dignity and justice
This good life is best achieved by immersing oneself in the more-than-human environment. Non-human beings are considered to be participants in the making of shared worlds, and also as subjects of harm and violence.
The “good life” is deeply intergenerational for Marind. They often talked about nurturing the forest, as a way of becoming good ancestors and how they can transmit traditional ecological knowledge to future Marind generations
Time for Marind is not linear, it is spiralic
What you do now matters in terms of how you will be remembered. What you do now matters in terms of what you will be able to pass on to human and other-than-human beings to come.
There is a wisdom and responsibility that comes with this sense of time that I think is critical to heed in this age of planetary destruction.
A Marind family journeying to a sacred ceremonial site to pay respects to their ancestral spirits. Photo: Dr Sophie ChaoMany of my Marind companions talk about conservation and capitalism as being “two sides of the same coin”
This is because they now find themselves excluded from both industrial oil palm plantations and from the conservation areas that are intended to off-set deforestation.
Images: Palm oil plantations and environmental destruction, Getty Images.
Pictured: Forest foods, like sago starch, are considered nourishing by Marind because they derive from revered plants and animals. Sophie Chao, Author provided. Via The Conversation Pictured: A tool for processing Sago. Papua New Guinea. Getty ImagesBoth of these activities entrench a nature-culture divide that is alien to many Marind. Both undervalue the fact that Marind have always coexisted harmoniously with their environments.
These new “conservation zones” are the very same places where Marind fish, forage, and hunt. It is where they go to visit ancestral graveyards and sacred sites. It is where they walk with their families and friends to encounter their kindred sago palms, wild boards, possums, and gaharu trees.
For Marind, conservation and capitalism violate their territorial sovereignty and access to food and resources. Both types of activity are imposed by outside actors through top-down decision-making process that they are not party to.
Human rights and environmental abuses in West Papua are made invisible in Australia, their closest neighbour, mainly for geopolitical reasons
Racism may have something to do with it – but I think geopolitical interests are a big part of the story
West Papua is incredibly rich in natural resources – from gold, copper, and coal, to timber and oil palm. Economic and political interests tend to trump human and environmental rights, in West Papua and elsewhere.
There are pockets of activism and advocacy in Australia, including by West Papuan diaspora and political exiles – but the movement hasn’t caught the public’s attention in the way other political causes have.
Accessing West Papua is difficult for non-Indonesian individuals and organisations. There is heightened militarisation of the region. This contributes to an ongoing invisibilisation of what is happening at the ground level, among Papuan people and across Papuan ecosystems.
The demilitarisation of West Papua is absolutely vital if Papuans are to feel that they have a free voice in matters affecting them and their lands – including oil palm developments
Image: Andrew Gal for Getty Images
Indigenous ways of being and thinking (although radically different from neoliberal capitalist and colonialist logics), should be central to decision-making
I would like to see the palm oil industry, together with the Indonesian government, try to understand the views, aspirations, desires, beliefs, and hopes of Papuan peoples themselves instead of entering with pre-conceived notions of what counts as progress, the good life, and wellbeing.
Government and corporate actors should engaging with Indigenous Papuans through a transparent, iterative, and trust-based process of consent-seeking, before any oil palm projects are designed or implemented.
This consent should be sought freely, well ahead of time, and only when communities have been given access to comprehensive and impartial information on the benefits and risks of oil palm developments.
Pictured: Marind man and child in Merauke by Nanang Sujana
Most importantly, government and corporate actors need to accept that some communities may, following lengthy consultations, still decide to withhold their consent to oil palm projects. This right to say NO to oil palm must imperatively be respected.
Violence as a multispecies act: Marind describe oil palm as a colonising, killing and occupying plant beings
Oil palm, they often told me, does not want to share time and space with native plants, people, and animals.
It spreads uniformly across vast swaths of land, yet grows alone in monocrop form
This plant’s introduction has been accompanied by intensified military and corporate surveillance, community harassment and intimidation and exploitative labour conditions.
To think about violence in multispecies terms, brings us to consider situations where humans are not the only culprits, and non-humans not the only victims.
Oil palm’s acts of violence invite us to think about non-human beings as drivers and perpetrators of harm – even as they themselves are also subject to human and technological manipulations and exploitation.
Pictured: Fire in a rainforest – Getty Images
Image 1: Untouched rainforest (Getty Images). Image 2: Marind community on land destroyed for the million hectare Meruake Integrated Food and Energy Estate, known as MIFEE (Nanang Sujana)Paraquat, a deadly herbicide, trickled down from rusty canisters strapped to the women’s backs, the blue-green venom seeping into their exposed skin.
Banned in many countries because of its toxic effects, no antidote exists for this lethal chemical. I thought of babies never to come. The faces of my friends, huddled in the bed of the truck, were caked in dust and watched the landscape unfurl, weeping.
Infants retched from the stench of mill effluents as we jolted down dirt roads without stopping so as to avoid attracting the attention of military men employed by the companies to guard their plantations. Bunches of oil palm fruit lay strewn along roadsides, piles of moldering blood-red and coal-black, shot through with razor-sharp thorns.
Bulldozers and chainsaws ripped through isolated patches of the remaining vegetation. Silhouetted against the bleary sun, pesticide-spraying helicopters zigzagged back and forth above us, spreading a milky veil of hazy toxins.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from the prologue of ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
On August 11th 2010, a delegation of government representatives from Jakarta, led by the then minister of agriculture Ir. H Suswono launched the Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE). A $5 billion USD agribusiness scheme to promote the country’s self-sufficiency in basic foodstuffs and to make Indonesia a net food-exporting nation. Papuans from across the region were invited to the event including Marind community members from the upper Bian river. Paulus Mahuze, Marind clan leader recalls the arrival of MIFEE and how everything changed dramatically afterwards for his people.
~ Dr Sophie Chao, excerpt from her book ‘In the Shadow of the Palms.’
“It was a hot day. There was dust (abu) everywhere, raised by the government convoys and military trucks. The dust stung our eyes and made our children cry. The government brought oil palm (sawit) company bosses with them from pusat (‘the centre,’ or Jakarta). They gave us instant noodles, pens, bottles of water. They also gave us cigarettes – the expensive kind. They talked a lot about MIFEE. MIFEE this, MIFEE that…but we didn’t understand what MIFEE was. We did not know what palm oil was because oil palm does not live in our forests. Then, the government officials and the oil palm bosses left. They never returned to the village.
They promised us money and jobs. They said MIFEE would provide us with food. I thought that they would plant yams, vegetables and fruit trees. Instead they planted oil palm. They planted oil palm everywhere they could. They turned the whole forest into oil palm. They cut down all the sago to plant oil palm. This is what happened. Since then, everything is abu-abu (‘grey’ or ‘uncertain’).~ Paulus Mahuze, marind clan leader (as told to dr sophie chao in her book: In the shadow of the palms).
Abu-abu means both “grey” and “uncertain”. For Marind, the future, hope and multispecies relations were all abu-abu and under siege
Pictured: Oil palm plantations in Merauke have contributed to unprecedented levels of deforestation, and water/soil contamination. Photo credit: Dr Sophie Chao.
The concept of abu-abu is one that many of my Marind friends would use to describe the worlds that they inhabit
Abu-abu communicates the sense of ambiguity, opacity, and strangeness that life on the palm oil frontier entails. Greyness manifests in the polluted waters of local rivers, and in the smoke-filled skies following forest burning.
Greyness also manifests in the dull and irritated skin of malnourished infants, poisoned fish, and pesticide-wielding workers
To live in a world of murk and uncertainty is violent and unsettling – but it is also a way of rejecting the possibility of any kind of radical divide between oneself and that murk. That’s why I approach abu-abu not just as a condition of suffering, but also as a stance of refusal.
What would or might come next for Marind and their other-than-human kin was unknown – and often feared.
This sense of greyness, or uncertainty is also metaphorical. For Marind the world is grey in that the future, hope, social and multispecies relations are all under siege.
Pictured: Dead fish, creative commons image, Pxfuel.
Pictured: Marind child in Merauke West Papua by Nanang SujanaAt the same time, abu-abu was a form of resistance in the way it refused fixed classifications, categories, or boundaries between things, ideas, and actions
Whether “sustainable” palm oil can be achieved in practice demands a radical rethinking of the capitalist logic – the logic of endless growth
Careless profit-making, and externally imposed “development” and “progress” rhetorics. And that is a huge task. These kinds of rhetorics are deeply entrenched. Their origins are often unquestioned. Their impacts are often silenced.
Pictured: Common supermarket brands that are RSPO members are linked to deforestation and human rights abusesPictured: Pollution run-off in an RSPO member palm oil plantation in Sumatra. Craig Jones Wildlife PhotographyReport: Environmental Investigation Agency: Sustainable palm oil is a conAt the end of the day, I think the most important thing to ask ourselves about “sustainability” is – sustainability for whom?
Who gets to have a say over what happens to lands and forests? Who gets to be involved in decision-making processes surrounding oil palm projects? Is there scope to reconsider the scale at which these projects are being developed?
These are questions that have to be crafted and considered together with the Indigenous peoples most directly and indirectly affected by agribusiness expansion.
That, for me, is the beginning of any kind of conversation around sustainability – sustainability for people, plants, animals, and for all the other beings implicated in one way or another in the palm oil nexus.
The rationale for additional Food Estates in Papua and Indonesia is scrutinised in this 2022 report
“The rationale behind Food Estates, that they are an effective way to rapidly increase national food production, does not stand up to scrutiny.
“Over the years, previous attempts to launch Food Estates have failed, with little if any extra food produced. The various iterations of the Merauke Food Estate (MIFEE) are a good example of this.
“For these reasons, it is legitimate to call into question the real motivation behind the plans. With corruption still rampant in Indonesia, there is a significant risk that Food Estates will present new opportunities for profit by those in government and their associates.”
Quote from: Pandemic Power Grabs: Who benefits from Food Estates in West Papua, a report by AwasMIFEE and TAPOL (2022).
Download reportUpcoming online events and publications
Event: Eating and Becoming Eaten More-than-human metabolisms on the West Papuan Agribusiness Frontier
https://twitter.com/SSNDeakin/status/1556487944516825089?s=20&t=6XYWl5_WwEiVBCRnuOODag
The Promise of Multispecies Justice
Edited by Dr Sophie Chao, Karin Bolender, Eben Kirksey.
What are the possibilities for multispecies justice? How do social justice struggles intersect with the lives of animals, plants, and other creatures? Leading thinkers in anthropology, geography, philosophy, speculative fiction, poetry, and contemporary art answer these questions from diverse grounded locations.
Order copyYou can find and follow me on Twitter if you wish @Sophie_MH_Chao
Pictured: Dr Sophie Chao researched the life of the Marind-Anim tribe in Merauke for three years. Her doctoral dissertation on the impact of oil palm plantations on the lives of the tribe won the 2019 best thesis award in Australia in the field of Asian Studies. Photo: ABC News Indonesia
https://twitter.com/Sophie_MH_Chao/status/1554625068906336256?s=20&t=KQOGXlMflLDymRCC19ppTw
https://twitter.com/DukePress/status/1553002952293584898?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
https://twitter.com/eben_kirksey/status/1554656376982364160?s=20&t=8y_Ry_oAL7Ef8cdQv5KBQA
Images: Getty Images, Dr Sophie Chao, Nanang Sujana, Craig Jones Wildlife Photography, ABC News Indonesia.
Words: Dr Sophie Chao
Further Reading
‘In West Papua, oil palm expansion undermines the relations of indigenous Marind people to forest plants and animals’ by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
After 75 years of independence, Indigenous Peoples in Indonesia still struggling for equality by Dr Sophie Chao for The Conversation.
‘Kelapa Sawit Membunuh Sagu’: Sophie Chao Meraih Tesis Terbaik di Australia Setelah Meneliti Suku di Papua by Farid M. Ibrahim for ABC Indonesia.
In the plantations there is hunger and loneliness: The cultural dimensions of food insecurity in Papua (commentary)’ by Dr Sophie Chao for Mongabay.
The sky has no corners: My journey to a new understanding of nature, an essay by Dr Sophie Chao for Five Media.
Read and watch more stories about indigenous justice, land-grabbing and deforestation on Palm Oil Detectives
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land is Gone) by filmmaker Nanang Sujana
Image: Marind children in Merauke West Papua by Nanang Sujana
Mama Malind su Hilang (Our Land Has Gone) is a powerful documentary by celebrated and renowned filmmaker and photographer Nanang Sujana. His images and film tells the story of the Malind Anim tribe living in Zanegi village. They were dispossessed from their land which was given over to global palm oil corporations, in its place was Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate (MIFEE).
“The Forest is the father, land is the mother and rivers are blood
“That’s the spirituality of most Dayak people in Kalimantan. They understand the interdependent nature of everything in nature.”
~ Dr Setia Budhi : Dayak Ethnographer
Read Dr Budhi’s story Read ‘The Orangutan with the Golden Hair’Image: Rainforest in Sumatra by Craig Jones Wildlife Photography
The people versus Feronia: Fighting palm oil agrocolonialism in the Congo
by Palm Oil DetectivesOrganised Crime: A Top Driver of Global Deforestation
by Palm Oil Detectives by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Lobbyists Getting Caught Lying Orangutan Land Trust and Agropalma
by Palm Oil Detectives13 Reasons To Boycott Gold for Yanomami
by Palm Oil DetectivesTreespiracy: Forests are being destroyed against a background of corruption, illegality and apathy
by Palm Oil DetectivesPalm Oil Detectives is 100% self-funded
Palm Oil Detectives is completely self-funded by its creator. All hosting and website fees and investigations into brands are self-funded by the creator of this online movement. If you like what I am doing, you and would like me to help meet costs, please send Palm Oil Detectives a thanks on Ko-Fi.
Say thanks on Ko-Fi#animalExtinction #animalRights #animals #Anthropology #Boycott4wildlife #conservation #corporates #CreativesForCoolCreatures #deforestation #indigenous #IndigenousActivism #indigenousRights #interspecies #justice #landRights #landgrabbing #Malind #Marind #PalmOil #palmOilDeforestation #palmoil #PapuaNewGuinea #Papuan #PapuanLivesMatter #rainforestConservation #research #Together4Forests #WestPapua #WestPapua
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Latest Writings (and some shares)
The Questions
Again, the moon comes up in the night
Again, the stars
They stir up in me some questions
Without letting me know
Where the answers might be
Nor is the sky helpful
Soon it will be dawn
And the most useless guy to ask
When it comes to such questions
Will be there, giving life to us
But not the kind of life we are seeking.
“Embrace yourself fully before you embrace anyone else or not.”
“How helpless we are to take care of even our loved ones when karma comes hard at them.”
“I know I know. But then I start getting doubts.”
“Woh female ka mere paas sirf email hai.”
“One of the advantages of being a theist is that one can leave the bloody work of revolutions to God, trusting he will bring them about in his own inimitable ways, and rest comfortably in one’s drawing room, reading The Motorcycle Diaries.”
“The cause of suffering is not desire but the gap, irrespective of whether the gap is real or imaginary, between expectation and reality. The funny thing is that in actual reality there are no gaps. So, the gap is always between expectation and imagined reality. Because expectation sets in ONLY when you falsely imagine a gap between that which you are or where you are and that which you want or where you want to be. All in all, it is such a ludicrous situation that I cannot fathom why creation exists at all? Just to annoy us to no end with no good purpose served thereby? And yet we suffer not just alone but along with the rest if mankind.”
“Life is the ultimate physician. It will not leave you alone until you are cured of the malady called ignorance.”
No Loneliness
I am never alone
Never ever alone
I who love words
And bask always
In their company.
“The only bitterness I have is toward myself that I made so many mistakes in life. And yet in the midst of that bitterness, there is an inner peace.”
The Poetic Soul
Yedo teliyani baadha
Yedo teerani daaham
Yedo vedinche tapana
Yedo leni santhrupti
Yedo satyam grahincalekapothunna anay avedana
Yedo prapanchani uddarinche korika
Ila vivarinchutu pothay inka ennenno cheppochu
“Our ontology is not exhausted by our biology and psychology.”–DSR
People Are Too Awake
Where’s a soporific when one needs one
Be it the company of Plato or Nisargadatta
That dullens the pain of this dreary day
Where the sun beats down mercilessly
Though the trees seem to love him
And those with solar rooftops
Me, I prefer the moon and the stars
When stern duty is not calling me
To prove myself worthy to a cause
Life seems all too superfluous
Though none with me agrees
They’re too busy living to think or feel.
The Wild Goose Chase of Self-improvement
Self-help books to motivational speakers to life coaches abound. From Dale Carnegie to Napoleon Hill to Tony Robbins to Jordan Peterson to the Stoics.
This malady afflicts even the spiritually inclined, who keep polishing the mirror of their mind so that they may better see the reflection of the Truth in it.
This, in my opinion, is a largely mistaken enterprise, and if we foolishly undertake it, that will be nothing short of a Sisyphean burden.
Why?
Because the mind or our personality is the shadow of our real original nature, and we are too busy either trying to sharpen the shadow so that we understand the contours of “ourselves” better or getting aghast every time the shadow falls on the gutter.
This world can contain only our shadow.
Nay, this whole world is our own shadow.
Forget the shadow.
Rest blissful in your own original nature, O Sat-Chit-Ananda.
“The winds of heaven mix for ever”
Whatever heavens there be or not
Methinks it for sure is here with me
As I sit idly and let the hours pass by
So that the night’s wait is not long
Should the day decide to tarry a bit
And in this idleness, I find now here
Those who wait for retirement to find.
Neither the sound of a car passing by
Nor an emotion seeking attention
Disturbs me in my idyllic idleness
Everything seems just right, in place
Cars passing by and the needy emotions.
My Silly Heart
I keep thinking
Many years down the line
When the moon is full
And the stars are shining bright
And she in her balcony
Amidst flowers in bloom
She will remember me
And for a fleeting moment
She will wonder
If she made a mistake.
“Cha, this world is full of women. God is a big teaser.”
“Sometimes I think there is something to Islam and its theory of burqas. That way, when I meet her on the road again, I will not recognize her and no old wounds will be reopened.”
“I have started to laugh now. Enlightenment is just round the corner. Summa iru is too easy, far too easy. Everytime, I venture into the territory of thoughts and feelings, her memory will come on strong and with it loads of pain, so in no time I will be convinced summa iru is so much better. Yaaaay.”
“By the time you discover love is truth and truth is love, it may be too late, dear.”
“Blame your mother. She made you addicted to love.”
Summa Iru
Do not ask why
There may be a reason
In her mind
There may be a reason
In your mind
But the world goes on
Not as per our reasons
But as per God’s will.
Besides, dear Sam,
This very looking for reasons
Is what keeps alive
Both the mind and heart
And who can be at peace
Whose mind and heart are at play.
Nevertheless
One thinks about her
And perhaps she thinks about me
Giving scope
For some more mischief in this world.
“Roxette sang ‘It must have been love’. I sing ‘It must have been desire’. The world drama gets underway due to confusion over the blurring of the two.”
Pablo Neruda, Nah I Will Not Write Any Sad Lines Anymore
Neruda, Neruda, Neruda
How you suffered, you poor thing
And wrote many a sad line
If you were alive, I would come
To sit beside you and share in your sorrow
But in the end, I would point out
Irrespective of whether you would get it or not
That if you had known love
You would have crossed the sea of sorrow
And of course you would protest, saying
It is precisely because of that
You were now suffering
Then I would gently say
Why you went in search of love
When there was no hatred in you?
“God has to run the life histories of both the murdered and the murderer down to the minutest and last detail so that they meet at the appointed hour.”
Reinterpreting the Vedic Ashvamedha (horse sacrifice)
The Brihadaranyaka Upanishad begins (1.1.1) by reinterpreting the Vedic Ashvamedha (horse sacrifice) not as a physical ritual, but as a meditation where the cosmos itself is viewed as a sacrificial horse. It symbolizes the identification of the individual with the universal, using the horse’s body to represent time, space, and the elements.
Symbolism of the Sacrificial Horse (1.1.1):
• Head: The Dawn
• Eye: The Sun
• Vital Force: The Air
• Mouth: Fire (Vaisvanara)
• Body/Time: The Year
• Back/Belly: Heaven and Sky
• Hoof/Footing: Earth
• Veins/Bones/Flesh: Rivers/Stars/Clouds
Key Philosophical Aspects:
• Meditation over Ritual: The Upanishad converts a physical act into a meditation, aiming to transform every object into the Universal Subject.
• The Cause of Duality: The horse sacrifice represents the desire for material prosperity, which arises from the ignorance of our non-dual nature with Brahman.
• Creation as Desire: The text explains that in the beginning, there was only “Death” or “Hunger” (a creative desire), which manifested as the universe.
• Identity with the Divine: The one who understands this symbolic sacrifice (as in 1.2.7) conquers further death, meaning they realize their true identity with the absolute, and death cannot overcome them.
The text implies that the material world and its rituals (the sacrifice) are transient. The true goal is to understand that the sacrificer, the sacrifice, and the deity are ultimately one (the Absolute).
On Friendship by Francis Bacon
“A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and discharge of the fullness and swellings of the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause and induce. We know diseases of stoppings and suffocations are the most dangerous in the body, and it is not much otherwise in the mind: you may take sarza to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flowers of sulphur for the lungs, castoreum for the brain; but no receipt openeth the heart but a true friend, to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of civil shrift or confession.”
Full essay here:
https://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/baconf/friends.htm
“In the wickedness of another might lie a lot of good for us, though our puny brains cannot understand that often.”
“A friend puts us to sleep. The enemy awakens us.”
“A Ramana Maharshi does not need a Nisargadatta Maharaj as a friend. But you and I, we need each other for many things in life.”
Shunyam, Shunyam, Sarvam Shunyam
This void at the core
That infects all existence
Including mine
Which mocks all
Who think deep enough
And feel long enough
Cannot be filled
And so, we are screwed
If the void is real.
“If I could, I would. Both personally and otherwise. But I just do not know how.”
“Stop reading. Silence is speaking.”
“The word is meant for the ear. But somehow my heart keeps eavesdropping.”
The Merry-Go-Round
An ache
The never goes away
In all our lives
I wonder how they smile
Despite this
I wonder how they cry
Despite this
This merry-go-round
Who gets on, who gets off
Unconcerned
Is the merry-go-round.
Revisiting the Past
These words
That promise much
Much understanding
Both for me and her
She who read my letter
Many decades back
And thought she understood me
Little did she understand
I did not understand myself.
“Silence also seems to be of different kinds.”
“I find it strange when people say God resides in our hearts because space itself resides in God.”
“That which moves the rivers and earth, moves me also.”
The Sad Part about Marriage as a Legal Institution
That marriage exists as a legal institution is a sad commentary on human nature.
Look at it this way.
If there is love, where is the need for legal guarantees.
Now, I know some will think I am being naive because practically speaking, even if love does not change, the needs may change and people cannot live together any longer. Again, no problem, part on good terms.
Now, in both the above scenarios, the property or financial or livelihood issues can and will be taken care of easily enough because both parties are decent.
The problem comes I think when people fall out of love and it leads to acrimony.
But, even in such a case, it will be far easier to separate than if the couple were legally wedded because then it will lead to a long and messy divorce if it is not mutual.
But, what about property, or financial or livelihood issues in this scenario if the couple are not legally wedded.
I do not think just for that thing one should erect a legal institution called marriage and complicate matters for everyone concerned because one can find a creative solution to these issues.
Plus, think of the vast burden that would be reduced for those less well-to-do parents who incur huge debt to perform the wedding ceremony.
Can love ever be legalized?
“Funnily, people are more bothered about whether someone is walking-the-talk rather than about what the talk is. If you understand the full implications of what I am saying here, you would have understood a lot.”
“We should learn to look at all people as different kinds of trees, without superimposing on them some ‘I’ or personality, or a so-called ‘ghost in the machine’ as Gilbert Ryle would characterize it. Then we can see the thoughts, feelings, words, actions as the different fruits on the people-trees, exposed to and responding to the changing weather patterns. After we all are part of nature, sprung from the earth and into which we will dissolve.”
“Psychiatrists are unaware that Advaita is the correct antipsychotic.”
“My mind wants to cease existing. My heart wants to experience the rainbows.”
“Stop and smell the roses”
“Stop and smell the roses” is an idiom advising to slow down, relax, and appreciate life’s beauty, rather than rushing through it. It emphasizes mindfulness, gratitude, and finding joy in small, daily moments instead of solely chasing goals or worrying about work.
Meaning and Key Takeaways:
• Slow Down: It is a gentle reminder to take a break from a frantic, busy schedule.
• Appreciate the Moment: It encourages being present and noticing the pleasant things around you.
• Enjoy the Process: It serves as a reminder to find happiness during the journey, not just at the destination.
• Self-Care: The phrase suggests that resting and recharging prevents burnout.
Origins:
While the exact origin is unclear, the phrase is often associated with professional golfer Walter Hagen (who encouraged golfers to “stop and smell the roses” between shots) and was famously featured in the 1974 song “Stop and Smell the Roses ” by Mac Davis.
How to Practice It:
• Be Mindful: Focus your attention on your immediate surroundings.
• Practice Gratitude: Count your blessings every day.
• Reduce Stress: Actively avoid letting work-related worries dominate your life.
The Malaise
There’s a malaise deep down
In all our minds and hearts
That neither knowledge can cleanse
Nor can our all too human love
Yet we keep searching for those two
This tussle between the outer and inner
Will be our undoing one day
And when we collapse in despair
Where neither our karma can kill us
Nor our knowledge and love save us
We might at last learn to laugh heartily
Seeing how comic the condition is
Of all us humans on this earth
And at long last might start to think
We can last the night even now
Because our laughter might allow us
To bear whatever pains be our lot
Till the light might dawn at dawn.
“There is nothing wrong with you. That is what is wrong with you.”
“Svadharma, too, is ultimately Svadrama, in that it is playing out the role of a dream character who is part of this cosmic drama — and as a poet said, ‘Theirs not to reason why / Theirs but to do and die’.”
The Disconnect Between Me and the World
The world is interested in the economy, society, politics, history, religion, and sports.
I am interested in political philosophy, psychology, philosophy, poetry, literature, arts, and spirituality.
Hence the disconnect.
Hearing a Different Drummer
“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”
This famous quote by Henry David Thoreau (from his 1854 book Walden) encourages individual nonconformity, self-reliance, and following one’s own path rather than societal expectations.
Key Aspects of Thoreau’s “Different Drummer” Philosophy:
• Individualism & Nonconformity: The quote advocates for being true to oneself and ignoring peer pressure or conventional standards.
• Context in Walden: It is found in the “Conclusion” chapter of Walden, where Thoreau explains his decision to leave the woods and encourages others to pursue their own unique, unconventional lives.
• Self-Reliance: It emphasizes listening to one’s internal convictions (“the music which he hears”) over the opinions of others.
• Interpretation: The “different drummer” is interpreted as an inner voice, passion, or calling that differs from the mainstream “beat” of society.
The phrase is widely used today to encourage being unique, original, and independent.
“Be materialistic if you want to be, but be so in a light, cool, bindaas, zany, nonchalant, innocent, devil-may-care attitude sense, but not in a heavy, in-your-face, flaunty, gawdy, flashy, show-offish, status-seeking, richer-than-thou way.”
“Forget Buddha. Tell me what is your suffering?”
The Five Senses
Every eye judges me
Well, not every eye.
Every ear misunderstands me
Well, not every ear.
Every tongue defames me
Well, not every tongue.
Every nose smells me out
Well, not every nose.
Every hand avoids the touch
Well, not every hand.
Pablo Neruda, Today I Indeed Will Write Even Sadder Lines Than You
You knew what you wanted
And it was her, whoever she was;
I, too, have wanted many a she
Whether each of those she’s
Wanted me or not, and at the end
After having forsaken love for truth
I find I have neither truth nor love
What I have are just these
These words, these lines
In which again people see in them
Not truth or love but merely mistakes.
“Very few get me. Most get to me.”
“I wonder how many are lucky to find what they look for. I wonder how many are lucky to not find what they look for.”
“What would the great DiMaggio do?”
In Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago asks “what would the great DiMaggio do?” to find the strength to endure immense physical pain and isolation, using the baseball legend as a model of resilience. DiMaggio represents playing through injury—specifically bone spurs—symbolizing fighting through suffering to achieve excellence and survival.
What “The Great DiMaggio” Symbolizes to Santiago:
• Perseverance Over Pain: Santiago’s hands are cut and cramped, yet he tells himself, “I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing… They say his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand”.
• Mental Toughness: Even when facing impossible odds (sharks eating his catch), Santiago draws inspiration from DiMaggio’s “painful condition” (bone spurs) yet still playing, reminding himself to remain a “champion” in his own field of fishing.
• Excellence and Duty: For Santiago, DiMaggio is a, “model of strength and commitment,” a hero who does his job with excellence regardless of circumstances.
In summary, DiMaggio represents the unwavering commitment to duty and the endurance of pain, prompting Santiago to say, “I think the great DiMaggio would be proud of me today”.
“Johns Hopkins, a businessman in Baltimore, funded the JH School of Medicine for those weak in body and the JH University for those strong in mind, as he himself put it. But, for me the least preferred spot on earth is a hospital, be it as a patient or as a doctor, and the most preferred spot is a university, be it as a student or as a professor.”
“The differences between castes, such as they may be, are not so much due to differences in ability as much as due to differences in what they love.”
“A poet’s job is not to tell the truth but to make you fall in love with the truth.”
from Robert Frost’s poem “Two Tramps in Mud Time” (https://allpoetry.com/Two-Tramps-In-Mud-Time)
The last stanza reads:
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.
Key Aspects of the Quote:
Meaning: Frost argues against separating love (avocation) from necessity (vocation/work).
Philosophy: He believes true fulfillment comes only when passion and work are united.
Context: The poem contrasts the speaker’s pleasurable, yet necessary, labor of splitting wood with the serious, paid labor needed by the tramps, ultimately aiming to align his love for the task with the necessity of doing it.
The phrase emphasizes holistic living—combining what you love with what you must do.
The Prologue to Bertrand Russell’s Autobiography
What I Have Lived For
Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a great ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.
I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy – ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness–that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what–at last–I have found.
With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.
Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate this evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.
This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.
Hopkins’ most famous dropout
Gertrude Stein’s brief tenure as a student at the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine is often treated as mere literary trivia, but her four years in Baltimore helped set the stage for an unconventional, extraordinary life.
https://hub.jhu.edu/magazine/2026/spring/gertrude-stein-at-jhu/
Pablo Neruda, I, Too, Write the Saddest Lines Tonight, But…
Yes, Neruda,
I, too, am writing them now
You pined for your love
Without taking a name
Well, all that is fine and good
But you never wrote
In that poem of yours
What love was
Is it merely pining
Like you would have us conclude
And if pining were it
Isn’t everyone pining
For someone or something
In what way your pining was different
That you needed to write about it?
Aren’t you also fooling us
In some way
That such pining has some merit.
Did you spend your life pining away
I hope not.
But tonight I write
About a different kind of pining
One where one’s pining
Is not one’s own pining
But one’s pining
About the pining of others.
The difficulty is not that it is difficult. The difficulty is that we are interested in things other than what he is talking about in the book or at least not sufficiently interested in those matters because our focus is on ourselves as body-mind and consequentially on this world with which we need to interact to serve the purposes of our body-mind…and by that I do not mean only our base or gross desires but also this “thirst” to gain more and more knowledge of this world, be it through natural sciences but also about our own selves in the form of our feelings, emotions, the societies we have built, the “history” that we think we have been through, the future that seems to lie ahead of us, etc., because we are psychophysical organisms or we think we are that, but as Ramana Maharshi pointed out, “Knowledge of duality is ignorance” because duality is unreal and so knowledge of unreality can only be ignorance…understanding this we should live our lives as best as we can doing our svadharma because there is a gap been intellectual understanding and the realization, and it is in that gap our lives will have to be led in such a manner that the gap closes or more correctly we will realize one day that the gap also was merely an imaginary gap…
No Jana, No Dukhi
Which ganja-smoking bloke in which Himalayan cave came up with this prayer or moral ideal (if you ask me, it is nonsense) of “Sarve jana sukhino bhavantu” I do not know, but I do know that he must have been a ganja smoker.
I mean under which possible metaphysical, religious, philosophical. political, social, psychological Weltanschauung can such a state of affairs be brought or has it ever been brought about or has anyone ever put forward a theory or model that can bring it about?
So, as long as jana exist, there will be both sukhis and dukhis, if only sometimes for the simple reason that I will be become a dukhi if I see someone else more sukhi than me.
The only way there will be no dukhi is if there are no jana.
And, if you think about it, strangely enough, spirituality is taking you to that space where you become sukhi by realizing there is no sarve jana but ONLY YOU.
“The source of suffering is NOT what is MISSING from your life, including enlightenment, but what you DO NOT WANT to be MISSING from your life, including enlightenment. Understanding this IS enlightenment.”
“Gender discrimination, caste discrimination, class discrimination, racial discrimination, and ideological discrimination, etc., are all symptoms of one and only one disease.”
“Narayana Murthy thinks he is wise because he has learned the art of ignoring his subconscious mind, which is why he said that thing about the 72 hours. Now, when Sudha Murty got to know that Murthy is going around claiming he is wise, she suppressed her smirk and putting her tongue in her cheek, she wrote for Times of India a column titled, “Yes, he is wise”. This episode is very instructive for us lesser mortals on many things…from the intelligence level of the bourgeois capitalists and their wives, the dynamics of marriage in India, the status of women in Indian society, the standards of journalism in India, the level of public discourse in India, how impotent Arnab Goswami is in certain matters, the awful stupidity that the Infosys employees had to put up with over the years, etc. — too many to enumerate, but I think you get the picture. Nevertheless, as a true desh bhakt I cannot but point out gleefully that Narayana Murthy is now retired, and I do not think Sudha Murty can do much damage as the Chairman of Infosys Foundation. Jai Hind.”
“Fathers are our enemies. Based on their vast experience of married life, they never have a heartfelt conversation with us about what a lot of trouble a woman is, and we end up committing the same mistake they did.”
“You are mistaken. Women do not use reason. They will either cry or slap you.”
Questions to Ask Yourself to Know if You Have Nailed the Concept of Non-doership
1. Am i spontaneous in my reactions?
2. Have I stopped overthinking?
3. Do I worry less than usual?
4. Do i feel less anxious?
5. Am i less afraid?
6. I feel less fearful of the future?
7. I regret the past less?
8. I smile more often?
9. I love others more these days?
10. Others irritate me less?
11. I live these days by the philosophy of Carpe Diem (Seize the Day)?
12. I am happier these days?
If your answers are no to any one of the above such questions, then, dear non-doer who is thinking you are the doer, you have some more work to do.
But then if you ask me if I am not the doer then why are you asking me to do anything, then I will have to say that it will cost you a lot if I have to teach you that—maybe you will need to forgo your vacations for next 5 years to afford my fees.
“The noise is the loudest when she is silent.”
Urgently Hiring: Translator Needed — from English to Silence
The ideal candidate has a master’s degree in Silence — PhD is desirable but not a requirement.
He/she will have a youthful of experience, though we strongly discourage women from applying since our past experience tells us that they find the job too demanding.
Hours of work: The noisy part of the day.
Husbands are strongly encouraged to apply since they know the art of listening better than most.
Salary Expectation: Send us a selfie rather than a voice note.
Location: The World.
Hiring Company: Maya, a conglomerate of all the companies.
Apply @ [email protected]
“Definition of God: That supreme power which can convert in a jiffy emptiness into pain.”
“Does anyone have God’s email ID? I want to write him an email with subject ‘Are you mad?'”
“Definition of a Woman: The magical alchemical potion that converts mard into dard.”
“Emotions are perhaps the counterpart in the heart of the thoughts in the mind, both of which are responses to the desires that our being harbours beneath the mind and heart.”
Seize the day | Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara
“Seize the day my friend” is an iconic dialogue from the 2011 film Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, delivered by Laila (Katrina Kaif) to Arjun (Hrithik Roshan). The scene highlights the importance of living in the present, enjoying life’s small joys, and not waiting for the future to live, encapsulated by Laila’s line: “Pehle is din ko puri tarah jiyo, phir 40 ke bare me sochna”.
Key Context & Related Lines:
The Context: Laila tells this to Arjun when he says he will retire after 40, questioning him on how he knows he will even live that long.
Related Dialogue: “Insaan ko dibbe mein sirf tab hona chahiye jab woh mar chuka ho” (A person should remain in a box only once he is dead).
Significance: The phrase summarizes the film’s theme (YOLO – You Only Live Once), prompting a shift from work-centric stress to experiencing life.
This philosophy, heavily influenced by Laila’s character, encourages Arjun to overcome his fear of missing out on money and instead focus on finding happiness in the moment.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvOF0qn_r_0
The Four Yogas
As Sankaracharya pointed out, action is NOT opposed to ignorance, only “knowledge” counters ignorance.
And, the problem is ONLY ignorance, ignorance that you are the bound entity called body-mind.
Hence, any amount of karma will not bestow moksha.
So, the only yoga that works ultimately is Jnana Yoga — sravana-manana-nididhyasana.
Rest of the yogas – karma, bhakti and meditation – are merely preparatory or purify and concentrate the mind so that one can then understand Jnana Yoga more easily.
So, how can one tell if other yogas still need to be practiced? They may be needed ONLY if you find that you are not getting “intellectually” what Jnana Yoga is trying to teach.
Nevertheless, one could still deploy all the yogas in one’s daily life.
But, paradoxically, only one who knows Jnana Yoga correctly can practice the other yogas better.
For instance, what is karma yoga ultimately? As Ramana Maharshi pointed out, “kartrutva-bhava rahita karma is karma yoga”, that is, action done without the sense of doership is karma yoga. But only through Jnana Yoga you come to know you are not the doer.
When it comes to Bhakti Yoga, unless you know what is God, you will fall in love with the wrong bloke, and only Jnana Yoga teaches you what exactly God is — see the two verse I will share below from Upadesa Saram of Ramana Maharshi.
And, unless one has understood from Jnana Yoga that there is no distance between you and the Truth (Tat Tvam Asi), then you will be “trying” to (at least subconsciously) some place or state called moksha, and that sets up a restlessness to get there and that disturbs the peace and stillness in meditation because any “desire” be it even “desire” for moksha generates thoughts…remember the chain — ignorance—desires–thoughts—speech and other bodily actions…
from Upadesa Saram
Verse 5
Ether, fire, air, water, earth,
Sun, moon and living beings
Worship of these,
Regarded all as forms of His,
Is perfect worship of the Lord.
Verse 8
Than contemplation with Duality,
the “He is me” (Non-dual) type
of contemplation without Duality,
is considered by Sruti to be more purifying or holy.
Verse 5 and 8, which are part of Bhakti Yoga section In Upadesa Saram, can be done only if one understands why what they are saying is true, and only Jnana Yoga lets you know why they are true.
“Although I am not caught in the rat race, I seem to be caught in some other race, though I know not what race.”
“The ego stays alive as long as you do not fall in love either with a woman or with the idea of liberation or with both.”
Purushulandu punya purushulu veraya ani Vemana rasaadu.
But, I feel he missed a trick by not adding another line to his uppu kappurambu poem:
Kaani, purushulandu ye purushulu veru kaadayya
Maybe he understood that truth, though I cannot be sure, but somehow, he failed to point that out.
Thereby I feel he did a great disservice because now Brahmins are going around deluded, thinking memu Dalitula nunchi veraya.
“That there are no words to name somethings is perhaps a good thing.”
Life Is a Meaningless Farce???
“I had a day to go and I went with it. There was no plan. There was an outline, one which I could follow, floating, gently. There was no goal, no prey to be caught. I was not a circling raptor, a vulture, a shark, a big cat poised to spring. I was not on my guard. This was something else. I was on a journey. On my way home, I thought. I was traveling on an open ticket, with no itinerary. I journeyed through the minutiae of the streets in a universe replete with minor incidents, a host of objects and occurrences and sensations all crowded together in my memory.”
Gosh, to hit upon that! I just couldn’t believe how much these passages expressed this way of living that had something to do with experiencing time — this term “being present” — but it took no effort. How amazing it was! It was a beautiful way to live in the world. And I knew it would go away, too. I have to try to remember it. I have to try to live this way. The degree of freshness to the world around me and the amazement and the beauty of it was something I got to be in!
Read full interview with Bob Odenkirk here:
A friend shared:
“The world will trouble you so long as any part of you belongs to the world.
It is only if you belong entirely to the DIVINE that you can become free”
Sri Aurobindo 🪷
I replied:
So, how do you plan to “belong entirely to the DIVINE”?
Now, I am not asking that in any skeptical way.
My opinion is that to “belong entirely to the DIVINE” one has to basically be silent.
I am not sure how being “silent” can be pulled off by people who are still working.
At the same time, I am not sure how even people like me who work only 1 hr/day can also pull off being silent.
I think one has to really be wanting liberation desperately that one will go after it almost single-mindedly — I will give a few quotes of Nisargadatta below, which sort of speak to this, but before that let me share my own insights into this.
I basically realized that it is not that difficult to keep just the body alive. And, what is this world and all its feverish activity but the various ways to keep the mind and heart not only alive but also somehow happy and joyous. So, I sort of said at one point, “Just keep the body alive, and forget the mind and heart.” In my case, where I am hardly working and even that work, I do from home, and I am single and I almost never visit anyone nor anyone visits me that much, I perhaps could somehow pull it off. But, here, too, a person like J. Krishnamurti will create some doubt in your mind because he keeps saying, “to be is to be related”, and moreover Nididhyasana is best done in the midst of all the relationships in this world and while “living” in the world.
But I find myself somehow pulled into online interactions, though these days since I have deleted almost all my social media accounts, only WhatsApp keeps me engaged, and the occasional phone call.
So, it is a bit unclear how to spend one’s day. Hence, I have decided that perhaps Maharshi’s advice to spend 1-2 hrs a day in meditation and spend the rest of the day anyway might be the middle path I am looking for because in that case, I can follow my svadharma, though not in the field work involving livelihood but other “work” whereby I pursue literature, arts and philosophy, which not only satisfy my svadharma of the intellectual life but also would contribute directly or indirectly to purifying the obstacles (which you, too, are somehow focused on with you turn to Abhidharma), and in the process somewhere down the road maybe a more radical inward turn could take place.
Maybe we can also use the advice given by WB Yeats in his poem “Down By the Salley Gardens”, though that advice was given in the context of romantic love between two humans, but I do not see why the same advice cannot be followed when it comes to the relation between our individual soul and the divine because love, even of the romantic kind is to “belong entirely to one’s beloved”, and all that Aurobindo seems to be saying is let your beloved be the DIVINE, so love has to be there but in what proportion one loves the various objects one’s love could vary.
She bid me take love easy,
as the leaves grow on the tree;
She bid me take life easy,
as the grass grows on the weirs;
from I Am That: Dialogues of Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
Once you have seen that you are dreaming, you shall wake up. But you do not see, because you want the dream to continue. A day will come when you will long for the ending of the dream, with all your heart and mind, and be willing to pay any price; the price will be dispassion and detachment, the loss of interest in the dream itself.
The desire to find the self will be surely fulfilled, provided you want nothing else. But you must be honest with yourself and really want nothing else. If in the meantime you want many other things and are engaged in their pursuit, your main purpose may be delayed until you grow wiser and cease being torn between contradictory urges. Go within, without swerving, without ever looking outward.
Try to be, only to be. The all-important word is ‘try’. Allot enough time daily for sitting quietly and trying, just trying, to go beyond the personality, with its addictions and obsessions. Don’t ask how, it cannot be explained. You just keep on trying until you succeed. If you persevere, there can be no failure. What matters supremely is sincerity, earnestness; you must really have had surfeit of being the person you are, now see the urgent need of being free of this unnecessary self-identification with a bundle of memories and habits. This steady resistance against the unnecessary is the secret of success.
“When love comes calling, be prepared to lose everything. Because to hold on to love, you have to let go of your hold on everything else.”
“I have been kicked around since I was born by words.”
“Love is a pleasure that conceals the pain.”
“Love’s only task is to make you aware how far you are from it.”
“Something strange is going on in this world of love. Our parents loved us. Our siblings loved us. Our teachers loved us. Our friends loved us. Our colleagues loved us. Sometimes the boss loved us. Sometimes the wife loved us. Our children loved us. Even the janitor loved us. At the end of it all, we are still searching. Wanting perfect love? But, did the others, the parents, the siblings, the teachers, the friends, the colleagues, the boss, the wife, the children, the janitor get that perfect love from us? Are we here on earth only to leave one other forever dissatisfied?’-
What’s This Reaching Out?
What’s this reaching out
That is happening all the time
In all climes, reaching out for what
To possess a smile, to set free a pain
To win the Nobel or become Noble
To bring about World Peace
To dress the neighbour’s wound
Most often we do not know
What wounds a neighbour has.
The Ignorance
Sometimes I wonder
If I have in me
That which love wants.
And I also wonder
If love has
That which I want.
“What gives philosophers sleepless nights is emotion because try as they might they just cannot account for it in their neat overarching theories.”
“When it comes to us humans, probably there is something like optimal distance even in love, but when it comes to God, one has to go all the way, otherwise one can never reach him.”
“When you can love the girl in mini-skirt who has a cute smile but do not exclude the guy in the unemployment line from the ambit of your love, then consider that you are beginning to understand life.”
“Every generation talks of love in its own way, writes songs in its own way, makes movies in its own way, writes novels in its own way, writes poetry in its own way, creates art and music in its own way, and yet every generation keeps missing the mark by and large. O, the pity of it, it makes me cry.”
Being Gen Z
My Brahmin friend
Yes, I gotta mention his caste
Since Gen Z, too,
Has not forgotten caste,
Thinks I am not as cool as Gen Z
I know he has read history
He has read DD Kosambi
And keeps mentioning
Some Brahmin king Pushyamitra
I am surprised then
He has not heard of Romeo and Juliet
O lover of Che Guevara
And to an extent Marx
Know that love is as old as the hills
Nay older than the hills
If some Greek philosopher
Is to be believed, who said
Eros and Eris are the two forces
That give rise to this world
So, don’t give me this Gen Z bullshit.
“Keeping Quiet”
Now, people will start wondering why is the guy who is saying “Just keep quiet” is not keeping quiet.
Without confusing all you people by saying things like, “It depends on what you mean by ‘quiet'”, let me put things more simply.
You cannot get to quietude by “trying” to be quiet, because that very attempt and trying is the unquietude.
Instead, just keep saying, writing and doing things that will allow you to get to quietude.
Because after all, one will soon get tired of shouting and fall silent.
Maybe that is why the Bhagavad Gita says, “Action is better than inaction.”
So, keep shouting instead of keeping quiet when the urge to shout is there inside.
“The world is the fashion parade of Brahman.”
Quote of the day by Christina Rossetti:
‘Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun’ ;
lessons on productivity from British poet –
The Economic Times https://share.google/sTSRqKdlMyTJnJh2C
Why Should We Imagine Sisyphus Happy?
Explaining Camus’ Famous Quote | TheCollector
https://share.google/ZcxfGM9HXVIqDjvpt
From The Ballad of East and West by Rudyard Kipling — https://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poem/poems_eastwest.htm
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!
Kipling’s justly famous ‘Ballad of East and West’, in which an English officer and an Afghan horse-thief Kamal discover friendship by respecting one another’s courage and chivalry. The ballad tells how, when Kamal the border thief steals a prize bay mare, the Colonel’s son (not named) follows them into enemy territory.
When his own horse collapses from exhaustion the Colonel’s son, having lost a pistol to Kamal and being threatened with the prospect of making a meal for the jackals and crows, ‘lightly’ responds by promising vengeance:
…Do good to bird and beast’
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast’ .
His jesting defiance wins the tribute: ‘May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath’ from Kamal, and the Colonel’s son responds in kind:
Take up the mare and keep her – by God she has carried a man.
Kamal instead gives back the mare with the ‘lifter’s dower’ of his own jewelled accoutrements, and when the Colonel’s son in return offers him the gift of his remaining pistol Kamal, not to be outdone in generosity, whistles up his ’only son’ to be the companion and fellow-soldier of the Englishman. The two young men return to ‘Fort Bukloh’ and: ‘the boy who last night was ‘a Border-thief’ is now ‘a man of the Guides.’
One Way of Looking at Some Things
“To love truth and see the truth in love — these are the only two worthwhile goals in life.”
“Love is in the air but the problem is we have stopped breathing.”
“No two pairs of eyes can see the same world.”
“All worlds are relative to the one who sees.”
“To know and yet not know is the anguish.”
“The very need for love is the lie, and yet we cannot seem to go beyond the need for love.”
“God keeps appearing in our life as the sunrise, the smile, the love, and sometimes as the sunset, the smirk, the separation, and we keep thinking they are just sunrises, smiles, loves, sunsets, smirks, and separations.”
“Sometimes he who knows too much, understands very little.”
“Knowledge keeps adding to the doubt.”
“All fear prevents the flowering.”
“Everybody fears everyone in this world. Hence so many contracts, including the wedding vows.”
“When love itself needs to be reaffirmed from time to time, what fulfillment can we expect in this world.”
“Aristotle said ‘Man is a social animal’. But as long as we remain a social animal, the animal in us also will live on.”
“He who is afraid of hatred cannot understand what love is.”
The Dream Analogy and Castes
Remember the dream analogy.
The waking world is also a dream.
The dream characters of Brahmins and Reddys are NOT real…they are just dream characters.
Only the dreamer is real.
And the dreamer can dream up even 10 castes, why only 4 castes.
“Is one ever NOT in love? Only the object(s) of one’s love keeps changing. Find out what you love truly and deeply.”
“In the depths, and at the very foundations, of every body of knowledge, every romantic love, every one-night stand, every relationship, every extra-marital affair, every mode of thinking, every emotion, every sadness, every failure, every success, every joy, every betrayal, every criticism, every praise, every blame, every shame, every envy, every guilt, every remorse, every destruction, every hate, every deceit, every judgement, every forgiving, every kindness, every sympathy, every empathy, every compassion, every doubt, Truth and Love await to receive you with open arms.”
Apollonian and Dionysian Dichotomoy
Apollonian and Dionysian are philosophical concepts from Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy (1872) representing the duality between order/reason (Apollo) and chaos/emotion (Dionysus). Apollonian represents structure, logic, and individualism, while Dionysian represents ecstasy, intoxication, and unity. Nietzsche argued that great art arises from the synthesis of these opposing forces.
Key Aspects of the Apollonian and Dionysian Dichotomy:
Apollonian (Order and Form): Associated with Apollo, the god of light, music, and reason. It embodies principles of moderation, clarity, beauty, and individuality. It relates to structured arts like sculpture and epic poetry, creating a “beautiful illusion” that makes existence bearable.
Dionysian (Chaos and Unity): Associated with Dionysus, the god of wine, ritual, and madness. It embodies irrationality, intense emotion, unbridled passion, and the dissolution of the individual into a collective, chaotic whole. It relates to art forms like music, which break down individual barriers.
Nietzsche’s Perspective: Nietzsche believed Greek culture reached its peak by balancing these two forces, notably in Athenian tragedy, which combined structured dialogue (Apollonian) with musical chorus (Dionysian). He argued that a, overemphasis on the Apollonian (rationality) since Socrates led to the decline of art and cultural vitality, calling for a return to a healthy tension between the two.
Application: These terms are used to analyze art, psychology, and personality, describing a person’s tendency toward control (Apollonian) or passion and spontaneity (Dionysian).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGQzyb5fgrQ
“No Brahmin could have taught the Bhagavad Gita.”
Why
Because the Brahmin (and by this I do not mean merely Brahmin by birth but in the sense in which Krishna himself describes in Gita that one’s caste is determined by one’s guna and karma, and not by birth, which point even Buddhism talks about in a whole chapter in Dhammapada as to who is a Brahmana) is one characterized by Sattva Guna, which in turn is characterized by Happiness and knowledge.
The field of karma and action is the domain of Rajas.
Hence, the Brahmin will struggle to understand the metaphysics of action, which only a Kshatriya like Krishna could fathom. The Brahmin, with his knowledge, might be able to invent better bows and arrows, and the art of archery, etc. The Brahmin might even be able to say why Kurukshetra is necessary, etc., given his political understanding. But he will be struggling to connect action and duty and karma drama happening in the physical world to the metaphysical world of soul and moksha.
That is why Vedas make a sharp distinction between action (Karma Kanda of yajnas, sacrifices, etc.) and knowledge (Jnana Kanda of Upanishads), the two clear demarcations in Vedas, the so-called apara vidya and para vidya, which has led to the Varnashrama Dharma.
Krishna comes and blurs the distinction between apara vidya and para vidya, saying that both can take you to moksha.
Karma Yoga road also takes you to the same destination as the road of Jnana Yoga, is what Krishna pointed out.
The Brahmin is dwelling in the world of knowledge and wisdom, and the kshatriya like Krishna is dwelling in the thick of action or you could say applied knowledge. So, only Krishna is in the best position to understand the mysteries of action and karma.
In the modern world, these Brahmins would be people like professors, researchers, consultants, etc.
“It is not the path that is important but the traveller. Because every path takes you to the truth, but the traveller may like to take rest, or fear the hardships on the path, or want to switch paths, etc.”
“Ultimately, our love for others helps us much more than it helps others.”
“Marx says it’s the bourgeois. Maharshi says it’s you.”
The Secret Few Know
You can try
But you ain’t gonna succeed
Better give up
Why, you ask
Surely, you can fail
Only when you try to succeed.
“Only when you are at ease to be sitting with even a murderer and allowing him to tell his side of the story can you be said to be enlightened to a large extent.”
“Among all the castes it is the Brahmin who is the coward. Why? He lives in constant fear that even the shadow of the Dalit will eclipse the light of knowledge in his being.”
“Always assign at least a tiny corner to doubt in the impressive edifice of your knowledge and wisdom.”
“Hell is your underemployed and unmarried friend with access to WhatsApp.”
“Ghar waapsi karna chahta hoon. Lekin kitna bi sonchoo ya dhoondoon pata hi nahi lag raa ghar ka pataa.”
“Gandhi is supposed to have said, ‘My life is my message.’ I, not being so profound, can only say, ‘My life is my joke’.”
“One kind of bad karma, there are many kinds mind you, is when people start laughing more at you than at your jokes.”
“It is so sad that till now I have recognized instantly every friend I have met no matter how long it was since we last met.”
“In friendship there is a giving without any expectation and a receiving without any obligation.”
‘Sometimes freedom throws itself around your arms as unrequited love.’
‘She was wearing the rose in her hair, and I was brushing off the snow from my jacket.’
“The longing for the home is the cause for all the strife in this world. To feel at home anywhere and everywhere is freedom.”
“When you set aside the mind and heart, you reach that state of aloneness that is also oneness in which there can be no loneliness.”
“This is the mistake we keep making that we seek the truth with our mind and love with our heart, without realizing that only when we set aside the mind and heart will we find the truth and love that we seek.”
Sambhavami Yuge Yuge: Thoughts While Reading Some Diaries
Sometimes a boy from Argentina
Is the antidote
If you ask “For what?”
Then you are part of the problem.
“Every day the sun arrives and with it some smiles, and those make us dance and dance till our feet ache.”
#faith #Family #Life #Love #Poem #Poetry #Quotations #Quotes #Truth #Writing -
The Children of the Silent Door
I. Ma’alot, 1974
#AnabaptistReflection #catastrophe #childrenOfWar #collectiveTrauma #deafness #Displacement #doors #Exile #grief #historicalFiction #intergenerationalTrauma #IsraelPalestine #IsraeliHistory #keys #literaryFiction #MaAlot #Massacre #memory #Mourning #muteness #Nakba #Nonviolence #PalestinianHistory #peace #Peacebuilding #PoliticalFiction #propheticImagination #Reconciliation #Refugees #silence #symbolicFiction #Trauma #Violence #warAndChildren
Yishai did not hear the knock.
He saw his father hear it.
That was how sound came to him: not as sound, but as changes in faces. His father’s head lifted. His mother stopped with one hand on the chair. Miriam looked toward the door. Eliahu froze in the middle of the room, one bare foot raised, as if the floor itself had spoken.
The door became the center of the world.
Yishai sat in a square of morning light, holding the wooden block he had been turning over and over in his hands. The block was smooth on one side and rough on another. He liked this. The world was made of differences he could feel.
His mother’s dress moved past him.
Blue cloth. Warm smell. Bread. Soap. Her.
She was heavy with the child inside her, one hand often resting on the roundness beneath her dress. Yishai liked to press his cheek there. Sometimes he felt movement. A secret tide. A little swimmer in the dark.
His father opened the door.
There were men outside.
Their mouths moved.
Yishai watched mouths the way other children watched birds. Mouths opened. Mouths closed. Mouths made shapes. Sometimes faces smiled afterward. Sometimes faces tightened. Sometimes hands reached for him. Sometimes doors opened.
The men’s mouths moved in the doorway.
His father’s shoulders lowered.
Perhaps the words were safe words.
Police. Searching. Terrorists.
Grown-up words. Door-opening words. Words with uniforms hidden inside them.
Then the men entered.
The room broke without sound.
One arm rose.
Light flashed.
His father folded.
Yishai blinked.
His mother’s mouth opened wider than he had ever seen it open. No sound came. No sound ever came. But her eyes changed so suddenly that Yishai knew something had entered the house that was older than language.
Eliahu fell.
Miriam disappeared behind the table.
A cup rolled across the floor, turning its white mouth over and over in the light.
His mother moved toward him, toward Miriam, toward the child inside her, toward everything at once.
Then she stopped.
Her body jerked.
Her hand brushed Yishai’s shoulder.
Then she was on the floor beside him.
He crawled to her because she was his country. He crawled to her because every road he knew led to her hands.
But her hands did not rise.
Around him the silent house filled with thunder he would never hear.
II. Galilee, 1948
Samira did not hear the shouting.
She saw the village hear it.
That was how danger came: first into the eyes of others. Her grandmother’s hand tightened around the bread. Her brother turned toward the road. Her mother lifted the baby from the mat so quickly that the baby’s head fell back like a flower on a broken stem.
Outside, people were running.
Samira stood in the doorway and watched dust rise at the edge of the village.
Dust meant goats. Dust meant carts. Dust meant boys playing chase. Dust meant weddings sometimes, when many feet came dancing up the road.
But this dust was different.
It came with mouths opened wide.
Men pointed. Women gathered children. Someone dropped a basket of figs, and the figs rolled into the dirt, splitting their purple skins.
Samira did not know the word catastrophe.
She knew her mother’s hands.
Her mother’s hands tied cloth. Her mother’s hands pushed bread into a sack. Her mother’s hands pressed Samira’s shoulders and turned her away from the doorway.
Go.
That was what the hands said.
Not in a word. In force. In trembling. In the way fingers became birds against her back.
Samira looked for her doll, the one made from rags and two black beads. It lay beside the sleeping mat. She bent to get it, but her mother pulled her upright.
No.
The doll remained on the floor, face turned toward the ceiling, as if waiting for the roof to explain.
Outside, her father stood with other men. Their mouths moved quickly. Their hands argued in the air.
Samira watched them and thought: adults are always making weather with their mouths.
Then came the flash from the road.
Not sound.
Light.
A white tear in the morning.
A man near the well fell backward. The bucket rope slid through his hand. Water spilled into the dust and vanished.
Her mother seized her.
The baby was tied to her mother’s chest. Her brother carried the sack. Her grandmother held the key.
The key was large and black and old. It had opened the same door for many years. Samira had watched it turn in the lock every morning and every evening. The key was a little iron animal. It belonged to the house the way bones belonged to the body.
Her grandmother held it even as they left.
The village moved toward the fields.
Samira turned once.
Her house was still there.
The fig tree was still there.
The doorway was still open.
Her doll was still inside.
She wanted to go back and close the door.
But her mother’s hand kept pushing.
Go.
Behind them, mouths opened. Arms waved. Dust rose. Light flashed.
The world was ending in a language Samira could not hear.
III. Ma’alot
Yishai learned the world from what remained.
A chair on its side.
A cup near the table.
A darkening place on the floor.
His mother’s sleeve beneath his cheek.
He did not know that the men had gone on. He did not know that they had entered a school. He did not know that other children, older children, children who could hear every command and cry and burst of gunfire, were now gathered beneath the same terrible sky.
He knew only the house.
And the house had become strange.
Before, everything in it had a place. The table stood. The chairs stood. The door closed and opened. His father came and went through it. His mother moved from room to room like the soul of the house itself. Eliahu ran. Miriam reached. The child inside his mother pushed against the hidden wall of her body.
Now everything was misplaced.
His father lay where fathers did not lie.
Eliahu lay where brothers did not sleep.
Miriam was small behind the table, her eyes enormous, her body twisted around pain.
His mother lay beside him, and no matter how he pressed his face into her, no matter how his fingers pulled at her sleeve, she did not gather him back into the world.
Yishai touched her hand.
It was still his mother’s hand. It had not forgotten its shape. It had not become someone else’s hand. But something had left it.
He placed his small palm in hers.
Nothing closed around him.
Outside, people were running.
He could see them through the open door, crossing and recrossing the slice of morning that had once been ordinary. Their mouths were open. Their arms were lifted. A woman’s scarf flashed red. A man bent low and vanished from view. Another man appeared with something dark in his hands.
Yishai did not understand urgency.
He understood absence.
His mother’s hand did not answer.
That was the first language of the massacre.
Not blood.
Not smoke.
Not the mouths of men.
The unanswered hand.
He sat beside her until another pair of hands came.
They were not his mother’s hands. They were rougher, hurried, trembling. They lifted him from the floor. He twisted back toward her. He reached.
The hands held him tighter.
A face leaned close to his. A stranger’s face. Wet eyes. A mouth opening and closing.
Yishai looked past the mouth.
He wanted the floor.
He wanted the sleeve.
He wanted the hand that had known him before the world broke.
But he was carried out through the silent door.
Behind him, the house remained open.
Behind him, the dead kept their places.
Behind him, thunder continued without sound.
IV. Galilee
Samira learned exile from the soles of her feet.
At first she thought they would return before nightfall.
Her grandmother had taken the key, after all.
The key meant return. The key meant the door still belonged to them. The key meant the house was waiting, offended perhaps, but waiting. Samira imagined her doll lying beside the mat, patient and solemn, guarding the room until she came back.
They walked through fields she knew and then through fields she did not know. The familiar stones ended. The familiar trees ended. Even the dust seemed different once they passed beyond the place where the village could still be seen.
Her mother kept turning back.
Each time she turned, Samira turned too.
At first, the village was a whole thing: roofs, trees, walls, the shape of home.
Then it became pieces.
Then it became a pale unevenness in the distance.
Then it became smoke.
Samira did not hear the cries behind them. She did not hear the arguing of men or the prayers of women. She did not hear the names shouted into the fields as families searched for those who had scattered.
But she saw the mouths.
All day, mouths opened around her.
Mouths asking.
Mouths accusing.
Mouths begging God.
Mouths forming names.
Mouths forming curses.
Mouths forming promises that no road could keep.
Her grandmother’s mouth moved most of all. Sometimes she touched the key hanging from her neck. Sometimes she lifted it and kissed it. Sometimes she held it in her fist so tightly that the iron left a mark in her palm.
Samira watched the mark darken.
She wondered whether the house could feel the key missing.
Toward evening, they stopped among other families beneath a line of trees. Children slept against bundles. Old men stared at nothing. Someone shared water. Someone else spread a cloth on the ground and placed bread upon it as carefully as if the earth had become a table.
Samira’s mother sat and pulled her close.
The baby slept against her mother’s chest.
Her brother looked older than he had that morning.
Her grandmother stared in the direction from which they had come.
Samira wanted to ask when they would return. But her own mouth had never been useful for asking. Her hands could ask small questions. Her eyes could ask the large ones.
She touched her grandmother’s key.
Her grandmother looked at her.
For a long time, neither moved.
Then the old woman took Samira’s hand and closed it around the key.
The iron was warm from her body.
Her grandmother pointed behind them.
Home.
Then she pointed ahead.
Go.
Samira shook her head.
The old woman’s eyes filled, but no tears fell. She touched Samira’s mouth. Then her own ear. Then the road.
There were things Samira could not hear.
There were things no one wanted to hear.
That night, under trees that did not belong to them, Samira dreamed of her doll rising from the mat and closing the door by herself.
V. The Boy Who Survived
Years later, Yishai remembered in pieces.
Not as a story. Never as a story.
Others made stories.
They knew dates. They knew names. They knew the number of the dead. They knew the names of the groups, the demands, the failures, the rescue attempt, the arguments that followed, the speeches, the ceremonies, the photographs, the memorials, the anniversaries.
They knew what to call it.
Massacre.
Terror.
Tragedy.
National wound.
They had words enough to build walls.
Yishai had images.
A cup rolling.
His father’s knees bending strangely.
His mother’s hand open.
Miriam’s eyes behind the table.
The doorway widened by men who had entered through a lie.
The flash.
Always the flash.
Not the report.
Not the crack.
Not the thunder.
Only the light.
People sometimes spoke about silence as if it were peaceful. They had never been inside his silence. His silence was crowded. It was full of faces turned toward sounds he could not hear. Full of mouths moving too late. Full of bodies struck down by things that arrived without warning.
As he grew, people looked at him with pity and tenderness and sometimes with a strange reverence, as though survival had made him a kind of holy object.
The unhurt child.
The deaf child.
The child spared.
But he did not feel spared.
He felt carried.
Carried out of the house.
Carried through years.
Carried by hands that were not the hands he wanted.
At memorials, he saw flags.
At memorials, he saw soldiers.
At memorials, he saw officials stand before microphones. Their mouths opened and closed. Translators shaped some of the words for him. Interpreters moved their hands. There were always words.
Security.
Memory.
Justice.
Never again.
Enemy.
Homeland.
Sacrifice.
He watched these words pass from mouth to hand to page, and he wondered how many words a people could speak before it heard the child on the floor.
Sometimes he looked at the faces around him and saw that they were listening only to their own dead.
He understood this.
He too listened only to his own dead.
But he wondered whether this was how the world remained broken: each people holding its murdered children like a shell against the ear, hearing only the sea of its own grief.
VI. The Girl Who Carried the Key
Years later, Samira remembered in textures.
The wool of the bundle against her cheek.
The iron key in her palm.
The dry skin of her grandmother’s fingers.
The cracked earth beneath her feet.
The first night under trees that did not know her name.
Others made histories.
They knew maps. They knew armies. They knew resolutions, borders, expulsions, battles, villages emptied, villages destroyed, villages renamed, villages remembered only by those who carried their names in the mouth like seeds.
They knew what to call it.
Nakba.
Catastrophe.
Dispossession.
Return.
Exile.
Homeland.
Loss.
They had words enough to keep wounds alive.
Samira had images.
Figs split in the dust.
A bucket rope sliding through a dead man’s hand.
Her mother pushing her forward.
Her doll left staring at the ceiling.
Her grandmother carrying the key.
The house becoming smaller behind them until it became smoke.
She grew in rooms that were not home. Then in tents. Then in crowded places where everyone had a village folded inside them. Some villages were spoken of daily, as if they were only just beyond the hill. Some villages became chants. Some became lullabies. Some became arguments. Some became photographs of elders holding keys.
The key remained.
When her grandmother died, the key passed to Samira’s mother.
When her mother died, it passed to Samira.
By then, the key opened nothing.
That was what people said.
But they were wrong.
It opened grief.
It opened memory.
It opened the room where a rag doll still waited beside a sleeping mat, because the child who had left it there had never quite grown old enough to abandon it.
At gatherings, men spoke loudly. Women spoke fiercely. Young people spoke with fire. Translators moved their hands for Samira, but she often looked away. She knew the words already.
Occupation.
Resistance.
Martyr.
Right.
Return.
Enemy.
Justice.
She did not reject them. Some were true. Some were necessary. Some were the last shelter left to a people whose houses had been taken.
But she wondered how often true words became stones.
She wondered how often stones became walls.
She wondered how often walls became graves.
Sometimes she looked at the faces around her and saw that they were listening only to their own dead.
She understood this.
She too listened only to her own dead.
But she wondered whether this was how the world remained broken: each people holding its stolen house like a shell against the ear, hearing only the sea of its own grief.
VII. The Language of the Wounded
Yishai learned signs.
Samira learned signs.
Their hands became voices.
But neither could sign to the other.
Not because their hands were incapable.
Not because their grief had no grammar.
But because history had placed them on opposite shores of the same silence.
Between them stood fathers and mothers, fighters and soldiers, refugees and mourners, graves and keys, schools and villages, doors opened by deception and doors locked against return.
Between them stood the dead.
And the dead were not neutral.
No dead child is neutral.
Each side lifted its own children before the world and said:
Look.
Each side turned away when the other lifted theirs.
Look at what was done to us.
No, look at what was done to us.
Listen to our dead.
No, listen to ours.
And so the land filled with mouths.
Mouths in parliaments.
Mouths in refugee camps.
Mouths in military briefings.
Mouths in classrooms.
Mouths in mourning tents.
Mouths in ceremonies.
Mouths on television.
Mouths at checkpoints.
Mouths at graves.
Mouths saying peace.
Mouths saying security.
Mouths saying resistance.
Mouths saying terror.
Mouths saying never again.
Mouths saying return.
Mouths saying this land is ours.
Mouths saying this land was ours.
Mouths saying God.
Mouths saying blood.
Mouths saying history.
Mouths saying enough.
But the mouths did not become ears.
And the ears did not become mercy.
Yishai grew older.
Samira grew older.
They did not meet.
He did not see the key she kept wrapped in cloth.
She did not see the empty space where his mother’s hand should have closed around his.
He did not know the name of her village.
She did not know the name of his brother.
He did not know about the doll.
She did not know about the cup.
They remained strangers.
Not enemies exactly.
Something sadder.
Unheard witnesses in a world addicted to speech.
VIII. The House Without Thunder
In the end, there was no meeting.
No conference room.
No reconciliation circle.
No table where the two old survivors sat across from each other and drew doors with trembling hands.
No translator leaning in.
No miraculous recognition.
No exchanged key.
No shared photograph.
No softening music.
No final embrace to make the reader feel forgiven.
There was only the land.
The land held everything.
The house in Ma’alot.
The emptied village in Galilee.
The school.
The road.
The door.
The key.
The cup.
The doll.
The mother’s hand.
The child who could not hear the knock.
The child who could not hear the shouting.
The children who heard everything and died anyway.
The adults who heard everything and understood nothing.
Silence did not mean absence.
Silence was full.
Full of unborn children.
Full of unreturned refugees.
Full of murdered families.
Full of frightened soldiers.
Full of boys taught to become weapons.
Full of girls taught to become memory.
Full of prayers spoken toward the same heaven.
Full of graves facing the same sun.
And over all of it, the mouths continued.
The mouths accused.
The mouths defended.
The mouths mourned.
The mouths justified.
The mouths promised peace while sharpening knives.
The mouths said dialogue.
The mouths said useless.
The mouths said listen.
The mouths said never.
The mouths said child.
The mouths said enemy.
The mouths said ours.
The mouths said theirs.
But somewhere beneath the speeches, beneath the slogans, beneath the ceremonies of grief and the machinery of revenge, two children remained seated in the first rooms of catastrophe.
Yishai on the floor beside his mother.
Samira on the road with the key in her hand.
Neither heard the gunfire.
Neither heard the orders.
Neither heard the great words by which adults made the world burn.
They saw only what the words did.
Perhaps they were called deaf because they could not hear the violence.
Perhaps they were called mute because they could not answer it.
But the land knew better.
The land had listened to everyone.
The land had heard every speech, every oath, every anthem, every command, every prayer, every curse, every justification.
And after all that hearing, the land asked its final question without a sound:
Who, then, is deaf?
Who, then, is mute?
The children?
Or the peoples who, wounded past bearing, taught themselves not to hear?
The children?
Or the nations who, terrified of each other’s grief, chose not to speak except through walls, raids, rockets, checkpoints, funerals, flags?
The children?
Or the two sides standing forever at the silent door, each knocking, each refusing to open, each unable to hear the child crying on the other side?
No answer came.
Only the cup, turning once more in the light.
Only the key, warm in a closed hand.
Only the door.
Only the silence. -
#PhiladelphiaPA -🌱 #EarthDay Party & #ToySwap! 🎉
A celebration of community & sustainability!
"Join us for Rutabaga’s Earth Day Toy Swap & Celebration—a fun-filled day of community, sustainability, and play.
📅 Date: April 25th, 1pm- 4pm
📍 Location: East Falls Presbyterian Church, 3800 Vaux St.
💚 Event Cost: FREE to ALL
🎟 Toy Swap Ticket: $25 per bag (Donate in advance & get $5 off!)What to expect:
- Plant a seed with Dirt Baby Farm
- Earth Day Circle Time with Greene Towne Montessori
- Live music from the Blumbellies
- Rutabaga merch
- Tie Dying Station - Buy a shirt or Bring your own Item to Dye!
- (Mostly Native) #PlantSwap – Bring your seedlings or transplants to swap
-Rabbit #Recycling table. Bring your recyclables: #PlasticBags, #Electronics/Tech (handheld or small), #Cables, #cords, #wires, #Cork, #RubberBands, #BreadClips, and #TwistTies
- Games with East Falls Presbyterian Church
- Decorate Tree Cookies with The Miquon School
How the Toy Swap worksDonate (optional, but awesome).
- Drop off toys and goodies the week before the event at EFPC or Rutabaga Toy Library to get $5 off your bag.Show up on Saturday.
- Check in at the door, grab your ticket, and get to “shopping” the swap.Fill your bag.
- Browse toys, books, games, decor, and stocking stuffers for all ages and fill your bag to the brim.Feel good.
- You’re keeping great stuff in circulation, skipping new manufacturing and extra waste, and supporting Rutabaga’s Scholarship Fund.
How to DonateTo help us set up thoughtfully, please drop off donations ahead of time (starting 4/20) rather than bringing them the day of the swap.
You can donate toys ahead of time in two ways:
Bin outside East Falls Presbyterian Church (by the entrance) @ 3800 Vaux Street, East Falls
At Rutabaga Toy Library during our open hours, listed here
We just ask that donations are:
✨ Clean
✨ In working condition
✨ With all important piecesBasically, if it’s something you’d be happy to find at a swap, it’s perfect.
Volunteer & Get Early AccessWe’d love some helping hands to make the swap magical.
- Friday: Sorting and setting up donated toys
- Saturday: Welcoming folks, keeping tables tidy, and supporting the flow of the eventAs a thank you, volunteers get early access to shop the swap before doors open."
👉 Sign up to volunteer and FMI...
https://www.rutabagatoylibrary.com/earth-day#SolarPunkSunday #EarthDay2026 #BuildingCommunity #Recycling
-
#PhiladelphiaPA -🌱 #EarthDay Party & #ToySwap! 🎉
A celebration of community & sustainability!
"Join us for Rutabaga’s Earth Day Toy Swap & Celebration—a fun-filled day of community, sustainability, and play.
📅 Date: April 25th, 1pm- 4pm
📍 Location: East Falls Presbyterian Church, 3800 Vaux St.
💚 Event Cost: FREE to ALL
🎟 Toy Swap Ticket: $25 per bag (Donate in advance & get $5 off!)What to expect:
- Plant a seed with Dirt Baby Farm
- Earth Day Circle Time with Greene Towne Montessori
- Live music from the Blumbellies
- Rutabaga merch
- Tie Dying Station - Buy a shirt or Bring your own Item to Dye!
- (Mostly Native) #PlantSwap – Bring your seedlings or transplants to swap
-Rabbit #Recycling table. Bring your recyclables: #PlasticBags, #Electronics/Tech (handheld or small), #Cables, #cords, #wires, #Cork, #RubberBands, #BreadClips, and #TwistTies
- Games with East Falls Presbyterian Church
- Decorate Tree Cookies with The Miquon School
How the Toy Swap worksDonate (optional, but awesome).
- Drop off toys and goodies the week before the event at EFPC or Rutabaga Toy Library to get $5 off your bag.Show up on Saturday.
- Check in at the door, grab your ticket, and get to “shopping” the swap.Fill your bag.
- Browse toys, books, games, decor, and stocking stuffers for all ages and fill your bag to the brim.Feel good.
- You’re keeping great stuff in circulation, skipping new manufacturing and extra waste, and supporting Rutabaga’s Scholarship Fund.
How to DonateTo help us set up thoughtfully, please drop off donations ahead of time (starting 4/20) rather than bringing them the day of the swap.
You can donate toys ahead of time in two ways:
Bin outside East Falls Presbyterian Church (by the entrance) @ 3800 Vaux Street, East Falls
At Rutabaga Toy Library during our open hours, listed here
We just ask that donations are:
✨ Clean
✨ In working condition
✨ With all important piecesBasically, if it’s something you’d be happy to find at a swap, it’s perfect.
Volunteer & Get Early AccessWe’d love some helping hands to make the swap magical.
- Friday: Sorting and setting up donated toys
- Saturday: Welcoming folks, keeping tables tidy, and supporting the flow of the eventAs a thank you, volunteers get early access to shop the swap before doors open."
👉 Sign up to volunteer and FMI...
https://www.rutabagatoylibrary.com/earth-day#SolarPunkSunday #EarthDay2026 #BuildingCommunity #Recycling
-
#PhiladelphiaPA -🌱 #EarthDay Party & #ToySwap! 🎉
A celebration of community & sustainability!
"Join us for Rutabaga’s Earth Day Toy Swap & Celebration—a fun-filled day of community, sustainability, and play.
📅 Date: April 25th, 1pm- 4pm
📍 Location: East Falls Presbyterian Church, 3800 Vaux St.
💚 Event Cost: FREE to ALL
🎟 Toy Swap Ticket: $25 per bag (Donate in advance & get $5 off!)What to expect:
- Plant a seed with Dirt Baby Farm
- Earth Day Circle Time with Greene Towne Montessori
- Live music from the Blumbellies
- Rutabaga merch
- Tie Dying Station - Buy a shirt or Bring your own Item to Dye!
- (Mostly Native) #PlantSwap – Bring your seedlings or transplants to swap
-Rabbit #Recycling table. Bring your recyclables: #PlasticBags, #Electronics/Tech (handheld or small), #Cables, #cords, #wires, #Cork, #RubberBands, #BreadClips, and #TwistTies
- Games with East Falls Presbyterian Church
- Decorate Tree Cookies with The Miquon School
How the Toy Swap worksDonate (optional, but awesome).
- Drop off toys and goodies the week before the event at EFPC or Rutabaga Toy Library to get $5 off your bag.Show up on Saturday.
- Check in at the door, grab your ticket, and get to “shopping” the swap.Fill your bag.
- Browse toys, books, games, decor, and stocking stuffers for all ages and fill your bag to the brim.Feel good.
- You’re keeping great stuff in circulation, skipping new manufacturing and extra waste, and supporting Rutabaga’s Scholarship Fund.
How to DonateTo help us set up thoughtfully, please drop off donations ahead of time (starting 4/20) rather than bringing them the day of the swap.
You can donate toys ahead of time in two ways:
Bin outside East Falls Presbyterian Church (by the entrance) @ 3800 Vaux Street, East Falls
At Rutabaga Toy Library during our open hours, listed here
We just ask that donations are:
✨ Clean
✨ In working condition
✨ With all important piecesBasically, if it’s something you’d be happy to find at a swap, it’s perfect.
Volunteer & Get Early AccessWe’d love some helping hands to make the swap magical.
- Friday: Sorting and setting up donated toys
- Saturday: Welcoming folks, keeping tables tidy, and supporting the flow of the eventAs a thank you, volunteers get early access to shop the swap before doors open."
👉 Sign up to volunteer and FMI...
https://www.rutabagatoylibrary.com/earth-day#SolarPunkSunday #EarthDay2026 #BuildingCommunity #Recycling