Dimitar, my brain has selected a tune for Storm Gods, I learn it as I march along on my walking treadmill.

When I have it fixed in place I shall start on Bring To My Grave, if I had written something a tenth as good in all my life, then I would go to my funeral pyre a happy man  All the more apt today of all days when we celebrate the life of Gonzalo Lira, you captured something of that Great Rebel in your song.

You have a gift given to all too few brother.

Dimitar, that was exceptional, add music to make it a song and I will learn and sing it all the days of my life.

Sensitive nature? Do not read this, you have been warned.

Life in the Conflict zone.

The wee hours of the night, thumps on the door, men with guns outside. Army, police, right wing militia, left wing militia, robbers, death squad? They all lie, no point in asking. To phone for help is to invite the neighborhood watch into an ambush outside their safety zone, we learned the hard way on our country roads, no one will come till morning. Pass out a bribe? They will be back next week. Fight? too many, they will burn the house down as a warning to others. The women and children are in their hiding places, small mercies, the children do not wake up. “Wait, I need to shit” loud laughter, they believe me. They too know fear.

Bag over the head, a good sign, they do not intend to kill, phone wire tying hands, not good, why no cuffs? A few slaps, routine, they want treasure and guns. This place is known as an emergency refuge for women with AIDS, they leave them alone. The cost of a life in the conflict zone in the price of a bullet, no one is ever convicted.

Bouncing around in the back of a pickup, a few kicks, nothing serious, they demand ransom in an abandoned farmhouse. They find my lawyers number on the phone they stole, “she’s your lawyer, you’re fucking kidding? The hood and bindings come off. She arrives before dawn with half the agreed ransom, tells them I still owe her for last time. She has beers and fried chicken, she is still or already half drunk, brave as a lion, we are all laughing at her dark, dark tales. Home in one piece, more or less. Who they were she will not tell, they kept the stolen stuff, she cursed them until they handed back an ancient unlicenced pump action, for protection.

Later a neighbor sells a tractor for cash, later still he gets 2 in  the head for resisting, his wife opens the safe and is spared. A neighbors elderly mother visiting from Wales throws her tea in a raiders face and is killed. A neighbor is found tortured and her throat slit. From a night vigil a small child is stolen, found butchered for muti, my ex, a sangoma (healer, herbalist, witch doctor) consoles her with traditional faith. humanity at our worst and best, the rituals were beautiful. Owner of private security company gunned down. Unknown guy gunned down. Employee’s brother killed. Five men found wired together and burned alive. A friend with AIDS is found dead on the road, her man drinks drain cleaner, both suicide. An employee is shot, stoma bag  for life. And on and on and on.

Six months later the local community leader is in the next cell, unprompted, swears he had nothing to do with raids on my place. He is in for the 5 man barbecue who he claims were responsible for an earlier, far more serious raid, who knows, it could be true. He admits his community were responsible for the 5 guys. We bond over all night chats about our respective cultures until he is released without charge, warned to clean up his mess next time. One night the heavy squad come for me (security police), banging gates, rattling keys, loud voices, the other prisoners tell them to fuck off, leave me alone.  They had to wake me up, street cred, big time. They only took me to an all night shebeen (drinking den)to pay for the drinks and fried chicken, I had no cash but everyone knew I was good for it. Back in the cell block they shout and push me around a bit to protect their own street cred.

Eventually released on bail, the community leader comes to visit, I thank him for looking after the farm, pigs, sheep and chickens are gone but the place still stands, the dogs have been fed, my tools are still there. While we talk a senior detective arrives, wants one of the expensive tables I make from old railway sleepers, but can not afford . My guns have been confiscated, he arranges a raid on a shebeen and swaps table for a fancy Italian 38 and a Russian 9mm, numbers filed off, we are both happy.

Welcome to life in the conflict zone, any conflict zone. There are no bad guys, only people trying to survive. You may think people who burn others alive or butcher children must be bad guys, savages. But ask yourself what would you do? To save a community, or a loved ones life, or prosperity. We in the Empire have committed the worst of crimes against humanity, and the excuses we consoled ourselves with were always, to save a community or a loved ones life or prosperity. We still do. Either we are all good guys or all bad guys. Eight billion mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, or we are toast.

Grieved, well done.

Dimitar, that was exceptional, thank you. Is it your work?

Emersonreturn, like everywhere else we have a revolving door between big Pharma and the regulators who are supposed to protect the public. I was prescribed opioids for arthritis and was addicted for years with no idea that the doctors were poisoning me, in fairness the doctors believed big Pharma who said that opioids were not addictive. Thank you for sharing your fathers ordeal, and the pain you must have felt, I will remember him if my own resolve to go under my own steam at a time and place of my choosing should falter.

You have previously shared some of your own life story and that of your late husband, what an interesting life it is.  I received the positive vibes sent by you and the Global South family with gratitude and send my own humble efforts in return. We may as yet be few in number but a love of humanity is the glue that binds us, who knows where it may lead.

The Lioness

Within the family my mother was always known as “The Lioness” Born in 1936, one of 11 children of Irish immigrant laborer and washerwoman, 2 died in the Clydebank Blitz, she, her mother and 2 brothers were found stumbling from the wreckage of their slum housing carrying their dead infant twins

At 18 she married my father, a 24 year old bricklayer, I was the 2nd child born in my mothers bed in a cold water “single end” which was slum accommodation, one room, one fireplace, one light, one power outlet and one cold water tap .The communal toilets were outside on a bucket system (emptied every night). Yet by the time I was 14 she had given birth to 5 more children, bought a large home in a good suburb and started a driving school that was a gold mine for the next 30 years until she retired and one of my brothers runs it to this day.In retirement she and my father bought a home in a friendly coastal town and traveled the globe to visit grandchildren and other far flung members of our extended clan.

My violent nature and disregard for authority had me living among the other outcasts from the age of 15. After 30 years in Africa during which I had no contact with my family I moved to a croft on a bleak though beautiful Scottish Island, there is a stream with many small waterfalls and pools 10 paces from the front door of this old stone cottage. A supermarket chain delivers groceries to the village hall 5 miles away once a month, free public transport means no need for a car, life is good.

Alzheimer’s.

My youngest brother (a bricklayer)has acted as a carer for my parents since my mother first showed symptoms of this disease, recently he asked for my help moving them from their coastal town to a home in his neighborhood. My mother would take daily panic attacks where she would have to get home to avert some disaster or other, even surrounded by her treasures and mementos she would not recognize “home” and walk or take public transport until she and my father were hopelessly lost and must be rescued. The trouble is that no memories of these events formed and within an hour or a day they would go out and do the same thing again and again while claiming never to have been lost in their entire lives. I was to be Judas and stay with them for a few weeks then move the to the new house and refuse to take the back to the old one. It was better that they resented me than the son they relied on for their daily care.

One day my mother escaped on her own and I finally tracked her down to a large shopping mall nearby, where I tried to persuade her to return home. She cried out to strangers for help as this strange man (me) was trying to hurt her, my wife says I look exactly like the older Charlie Manson, what were people to think? What would I think  under similar circumstances?

A woman called  Pamela Smith had just come from a hair salon and was running into the mall without a coat because she was going to buy one for a job interview she had the next day and the light rain was spoiling her hair. But she stopped, understood what was happening and walked my mother all the way back home while promising to protect her from me.For the first time in my life I cried like a baby in public, from utter helplessness to shedding tears at the kindness of a stranger who rescued me, I weep even now at the memory.

My father and brother are two of the best men I have ever known, but their lives and that of my brothers wife are slowly being destroyed by my mothers behavior, even in insanity she still has a powerful personality and will lash out with her walking stick when she can not have her way. Yet to put her in a care facility would be worse for my father. All their good options are gone and the least worst option is where we are now. My bleak island home is surrounded with moorland, if she got lost here she might never be found.

The moral of the story is this, leave a living will, explain your wishes in writing for when you no longer can, my mother would never have wanted this. Remember the kindness of strangers, try to be a kind stranger.

Thank you for giving me a voice Amarynth.

Amarynth, he must have been a special man to have won you as a mate.

If it helps to share with your Global South family this part of of your life journey, please do.

Nothing we can say will help.

But we can listen.

And share our sisters pain.