Although the Shekhinah has a relatively minor role to play in rabbinic Judaism, nonetheless, rabbinic literature has an 'unshakeable belief ' in the indwelling presence of God among the daily life of the people of Israel. 134 Even while Israel is unclean the Shekhinah is with them (Yoma 56b) and although evil drives her away, she watches over the sick (Shabbat 12b). When a human being is in pain the Shekhinah's head and arms ache (Sanhedrin 46a). In so far as the Shekhinah is a symbol of God's self-revelation and immanence in the everyday world, rabbinic theology is also a mystical theology.

-The Female Face of God in Auschwitz A Jewish feminist theology of the Holocaust, Melissa Raphael

St Andrew and St Patrick, Elveden, Suffolk

 

As you approach Elveden, there is Suffolk’s biggest war memorial, to those killed from the three parishes that meet at this point. It is over 30 metres high, and you used to be able to climb up the inside. Someone in the village told me that more people have been killed on the road in Elveden since the end of the War than there are names on the war memorial. I could well believe it. Until about five years ago, the busy traffic of the A11 Norwich to London road hurtled through the village past the church, slowed only to a ridiculously high 50 MPH. If something hits you at that speed, then no way on God's Earth are you going to survive. Now there's a bypass, thank goodness.

 

Many people will know St Andrew and St Patrick as another familiar landmark on the road, but as you are swept along in the stream of traffic you are unlikely to appreciate quite how extraordinary a building it is. For a start, it has two towers. And a cloister. And two naves, effectively. It has undergone three major building programmes in the space of thirty years, any one of which would have sufficed to transform it utterly.

 

If you had seen this church before the 1860s, you would have thought it nothing remarkable. A simple aisle-less, clerestory-less building, typical of, and indistinguishable from, hundreds of other East Anglian flint churches. A journey to nearby Barnham will show you what I mean.

 

The story of the transformation of Elveden church begins in the early 19th century, on the other side of the world. The leader of the Sikhs, Ranjit Singh, controlled a united Punjab that stretched from the Khyber Pass to the borders of Tibet. His capital was at Lahore, but more importantly it included the Sikh holy city of Amritsar. The wealth of this vast Kingdom made him a major power-player in early 19th century politics, and he was a particular thorn in the flesh of the British Imperial war machine. At this time, the Punjab had a great artistic and cultural flowering that was hardly matched anywhere in the world.

 

It was not to last. The British forced Ranjit Singh to the negotiating table over the disputed border with Afghanistan, and a year later, in 1839, he was dead. A power vacuum ensued, and his six year old son Duleep Singh became a pawn between rival factions. It was exactly the opportunity that the British had been waiting for, and in February 1846 they poured across the borders in their thousands. Within a month, almost half the child-Prince's Kingdom was in foreign hands. The British installed a governor, and started to harvest the fruits of their new territory's wealth.

 

Over the next three years, the British gradually extended their rule, putting down uprisings and turning local warlords. Given that the Sikh political structures were in disarray, this was achieved at considerable loss to the invaders - thousands of British soldiers were killed. They are hardly remembered today. British losses at the Crimea ten years later were much slighter, but perhaps the invention of photography in the meantime had given people at home a clearer picture of what was happening, and so the Crimea still remains in the British folk memory.

 

For much of the period of the war, Prince Duleep Singh had remained in the seclusion of his fabulous palace in Lahore. However, once the Punjab was secure, he was sent into remote internal exile.

 

The missionaries poured in. Bearing in mind the value that Sikh culture places upon education, perhaps it is no surprise that their influence came to bear on the young Prince, and he became a Christian. The extent to which this was forced upon him is lost to us today.

 

A year later, the Prince sailed for England with his mother. He was admitted to the royal court by Queen Victoria, spending time both at Windsor and, particularly, in Scotland, where he grew up. In the 1860s, the Prince and his mother were significant members of London society, but she died suddenly in 1863. He returned with her ashes to the Punjab, and there he married. His wife, Bamba Muller, was part German, part Ethiopian. As part of the British pacification of India programme, the young couple were granted the lease on a vast, derelict stately home in the depths of the Suffolk countryside. This was Elveden Hall. He would never see India again.

 

With some considerable energy, Duleep Singh set about transforming the fortunes of the moribund estate. Being particularly fond of hunting (as a six year old, he'd had two tutors - one for learning the court language, Persian, and the other for hunting to hawk) he developed the estate for game. The house was rebuilt in 1870.

 

The year before, the Prince had begun to glorify the church so that it was more in keeping with the splendour of his court. This church, dedicated to St Andrew, was what now forms the north aisle of the present church. There are many little details, but the restoration includes two major features; firstly, the remarkable roof, with its extraordinary sprung sprung wallposts set on arches suspended in the window embrasures, and, secondly, the font, which Mortlock tells us is in the Sicilian-Norman style. Supported by eight elegant columns, it is very beautiful, and the angel in particular is one of Suffolk's loveliest. You can see him in an image on the left.

 

Duleep Singh seems to have settled comfortably into the role of an English country gentleman. And then, something extraordinary happened. The Prince, steeped in the proud tradition of his homeland, decided to return to the Punjab to fulfill his destiny as the leader of the Sikh people. He got as far as Aden before the British arrested him, and sent him home. He then set about trying to recruit Russian support for a Sikh uprising, travelling secretly across Europe in the guise of an Irishman, Patrick Casey. In between these times of cloak and dagger espionage, he would return to Elveden to shoot grouse with the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII. It is a remarkable story.

 

Ultimately, his attempts to save his people from colonial oppression were doomed to failure. He died in Paris in 1893, the British seemingly unshakeable in their control of India. He was buried at Elveden churchyard in a simple grave.

 

The chancel of the 1869 church is now screened off as a chapel, accessible from the chancel of the new church, but set in it is the 1894 memorial window to Maharaja Prince Duleep Singh, the Adoration of the Magi by Kempe & Co.

 

And so, the Lion of the North had come to a humble end. His five children, several named after British royal princes, had left Elveden behind; they all died childless, one of them as recently as 1957. The estate reverted to the Crown, being bought by the brewing family, the Guinnesses.

 

Edward Cecil Guinness, first Earl Iveagh, commemorated bountifully in James Joyce's 1916 Ulysses, took the estate firmly in hand. The English agricultural depression had begun in the 1880s, and it would not be ended until the Second World War drew the greater part of English agriculture back under cultivation. It had hit the Estate hard. But Elveden was transformed, and so was the church.

 

Iveagh appointed William Caroe to build an entirely new church beside the old. It would be of such a scale that the old church of St Andrew would form the south aisle of the new church. The size may have reflected Iveagh's visions of grandeur, but it was also a practical arrangement, to accommodate the greatly enlarged staff of the estate. Attendance at church was compulsory; non-conformists were also expected to go, and the Guinnesses did not employ Catholics.

 

Between 1904 and 1906, the new structure went up. Mortlock recalls that Pevsner thought it 'Art Nouveau Gothic', which sums it up well. Lancet windows in the north side of the old church were moved across to the south side, and a wide open nave built beside it. Curiously, although this is much higher than the old and incorporates a Suffolk-style roof, Caroe resisted the temptation of a clerestory. The new church was rebenched throughout, and the woodwork is of a very high quality. The dates of the restoration can be found on bench ends up in the new chancel, and exploring all the symbolism will detain you for hours. Emblems of the nations of the British Isles also feature in the floor tiles.

 

The new church was dedicated to St Patrick, patron Saint of the Guinnesses' homeland. At this time, of course, Ireland was still a part of the United Kingdom, and despite the tensions and troubles of the previous century the Union was probably stronger at the opening of the 20th century than it had ever been. This was to change very rapidly. From the first shots fired at the General Post Office in April 1916, to complete independence in 1922, was just six years. Dublin, a firmly protestant city, in which the Iveaghs commemorated their dead at the Anglican cathedral of St Patrick, became the capital city of a staunchly Catholic nation. The Anglicans, the so-called Protestant Ascendancy, left in their thousands during the 1920s, depopulating the great houses, and leaving hundreds of Anglican parish churches completely bereft of congregations. Apart from a concentration in the wealthy suburbs of south Dublin, there are hardly any Anglicans left in the Republic today. But St Patrick's cathedral maintains its lonely witness to long years of British rule; the Iveagh transept includes the vast war memorial to WWI dead, and all the colours of the Irish regiments - it is said that 99% of the Union flags in the Republic are in the Guinness chapel of St Patrick's cathedral. Dublin, of course, is famous as the biggest city in Europe without a Catholic cathedral. It still has two Anglican ones.

 

Against this background then, we arrived at Elveden. The church is uncomfortably close to the busy road, but the sparkle of flint in the recent rain made it a thing of great beauty. The main entrance is now at the west end of the new church. The surviving 14th century tower now forms the west end of the south aisle, and we will come back to the other tower beyond it in a moment.

 

You step into a wide open space under a high, heavy roof laden with angels. There is a wide aisle off to the south; this is the former nave, and still has something of that quality. The whole space is suffused with gorgeously coloured light from excellent 19th and 20th century windows. These include one by Frank Brangwyn, at the west end of the new nave. Andrew and Patrick look down from a heavenly host on a mother and father entertaining their children and a host of woodland animals by reading them stories. It is quite the loveliest thing in the building.

 

Other windows, mostly in the south aisle, are also lovely. Hugh Easton's commemorative window for the former USAAF base at Elveden is magnificent. Either side are windows to Iveaghs - a gorgeous George killing a dragon, also by Hugh Easton, and a curious 1971 assemblage depicting images from the lives of Edward Guinness's heir and his wife, which also works rather well. The effect of all three windows together is particularly fine when seen from the new nave.

 

Turning ahead of you to the new chancel, there is the mighty alabaster reredos. It cost £1,200 in 1906, about a quarter of a million in today’s money. It reflects the woodwork, in depicting patron Saints and East Anglian monarchs, around a surprisingly simple Supper at Emmaus. This reredos, and the Brangwyn window, reminded me of the work at the Guinness’s other spiritual home, St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, which also includes a window by Frank Brangwyn commisioned by them. Everything is of the highest quality. Rarely has the cliché ‘no expense spared’ been as accurate as it is here.

 

Up at the front, a little brass plate reminds us that Edward VII slept through a sermon here in 1908. How different it must have seemed to him from the carefree days with his old friend the Maharajah! Still, it must have been a great occasion, full of Edwardian pomp, and the glitz that only the fabulously rich can provide. Today, the church is still splendid, but the Guinesses are no longer fabulously rich, and attendance at church is no longer compulsory for estate workers; there are far fewer of them anyway. The Church of England is in decline everywhere; and, let us be honest, particularly so in this part of Suffolk, where it seems to have retreated to a state of siege. Today, the congregation of this mighty citadel is as low as half a dozen. The revolutionary disappearance of Anglican congregations in the Iveagh's homeland is now being repeated in a slow, inexorable English way.

 

You wander outside, and there are more curiosities. Set in the wall are two linked hands, presumably a relic from a broken 18th century memorial. They must have been set here when the wall was moved back in the 1950s. In the south chancel wall, the bottom of an egg-cup protrudes from among the flints. This is the trademark of the architect WD Caroe. To the east of the new chancel, Duleep Singh’s gravestone is a very simple one. It is quite different in character to the church behind it. A plaque on the east end of the church remembers the centenary of his death.

 

Continuing around the church, you come to the surprise of a long cloister, connecting the remodelled chancel door of the old church to the new bell tower. It was built in 1922 as a memorial to the wife of the first Earl Iveagh. Caroe was the architect again, and he installed eight bells, dedicated to Mary, Gabriel, Edmund, Andrew, Patrick, Christ, God the Father, and the King. The excellent guidebook recalls that his intention was for the bells to be cast to maintain the hum and tap tones of the renowned ancient Suffolk bells of Lavenham... thus the true bell music of the old type is maintained.

 

This church is magnificent, obviously enough. It has everything going for it, and is a national treasure. And yet, it has hardly any congregation. So, what is to be done?

 

If we continue to think of rural historic churches as nothing more than outstations of the Church of England, it is hard to see how some of them will survive. This church in particular has no future in its present form as a village parish church. New roles must be found, new ways to involve local people and encourage their use. One would have thought that this would be easier here than elsewhere.

 

The other provoking thought was that this building summed up almost two centuries of British imperial adventure, and that we lived in a world that still suffered from the consequences. It is worth remembering where the wealth that rebuilt St Andrew and St Patrick came from.

 

As so often in British imperial history, interference in other peoples’ problems and the imposition of short-term solutions has left massive scars and long-cast shadows. For the Punjab, as in Ireland, there are no simple solutions. Sheer proximity has, after several centuries of cruel and exploitative involvement, finally encouraged the British government to pursue a solution in Ireland that is not entirely based on self-interest. I fear that the Punjab is too far away for the British to care very much now about what they did there then.

As the darker powers in the corners of the world grew, the former strength of great kingdoms no longer seemed so unshakeable. Magic found its way back into the world, and the world trembled.

 

In case nobody noticed, I was gone for a while, but I was still following the community when I could But now I'm back, and hopefully will be able to build some more.

 

This is my entry to the CBC Epic Siege category, and is definitely one of my bigger mocs. Comments welcome!

Searching out possible shots has become an unshakeable habit for me - it drives my wife bonkers!

The casino kicked her out! How Ms. Lush reputation as an experienced and unshakeable gambler didn't reach the owners of this Vegas Casino is a mystery. Ms. Lush doesn't care though; she's got a couple million Lindens tucked in that tailored peplum top.

 

(photo taken at Vegas)

I stopped in this little corner store only once, back in the fall of 2011. It was cold and windswept weather, and Susy and I were just married, exploring the sleepy villages of Digby Neck. There was an older fellow behind the counter, and a teenage boy hanging around, talking up a trip he was making to somewhere tropical. Sounded like a good escape with winter coming on. We talked a while, bought something salty, then continued west to the islands. Places like these always stand on such unshakeable foundations of local nostalgia, solid depths of stories stretching back through generations – extending beyond living memory. Things are shuttered nowadays, For Sale sign in the window and the concrete steps out front crumbling. But even though there's no strangers to befriend in passing, I still find myself slowing up on Highway 217. Like waving to an old familiar face on the shoulder, except this one will not be waving back.

 

August 2, 2024

Little River, Nova Scotia

 

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Installation by Elizabeth Hudson

Intermedia Gallery

Centre for Contemporary Arts

Sauchiehall Street

Glasgow, Scotland

 

iPhone6

We are what we think

All that we are arises with our thoughts.

With our thoughts we make the world.

Speak or act with a pure mind

And happiness will follow you

As your shadow, unshakeable.

 

How can a troubled mind understand the way?

Your worst enemy cannot harm you

as much as your own thoughts unguarded.

 

But once mastered,

No one can help you as much,

Not even your father or your mother.

 

Buddha

 

During the Jazz Age:

 

Though little Cilla (left) had improved significantly as a result of experimental treatments in Switzerland for her physical ailments, she sometimes still felt achy and tired. Despite any discomforts, she was a happy little girl, feeling so secure as a result of her mother's improved working and living situation as a servant in Daisy Buchanan's English mansion.

 

Instead of the ramshackle and barely livable conditions she recalled before she left for treatment, Cilla now shared with her cousin Nerissa a clean, comfortable, small bedroom in the servants' quarters of the mansion and had her Mummy close by in an adjoining room. At last, the three felt safe and secure together.

 

Still, a thorny issue remained: throughout their lives, the little girls had been subjected to name calling by people who taunted their unusual looks. "Little monsters!" Occassionally, such words were hurled at them by mean children and even adults.

 

Yet, one needn't pity the girls. The pitiful ones are those so mean-spirited that they feel compelled to pick on people they think are weaker. Yet, these little girls are the stronger ones. For they, not their tormentors, not only know the unshakeable love that they share but also that their value is not determined by the petty and small-minded.

Brimming with genuine character, the new Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class is set to take the world of compact SUVs by storm. Yet it is not just the distinctive all-rounder's practical and appealingly compact body form that sets it apart from the competition. It also brings together what were previously seen as entirely contradictory attributes. The Agility Control suspension serves up a unique blend of outstanding handling dynamics, exceptional driving safety and superlative ride comfort. Meanwhile the sophisticated, variable 4MATIC all-wheel-drive system joins forces with the latest electronic control systems to deliver consummate on-road performance and superb off-road suitability. It is precisely this kind of combination that lends the Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class such immense appeal. The GLK-Class may be one of the more road-oriented Mercedes-Benz SUVs, but the "G" - alluding to the archetypal Mercedes off-roader - still has a rightful place in the model name.

 

Superlative performance comes courtesy of the powerful yet economical and eco-friendly four and six-cylinder engines. The BlueEFFICIENCY version of the GLK 220 CDI features the new entry-level four-cylinder diesel engine from Mercedes-Benz, which develops 125 kW/170 hp yet only consumes 6.9 litres of diesel per hundred kilometres. And the unshakeable foundations of the Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class are similarly impressive. The highly robust body is key to the pioneering passive-safety setup, the extremely low noise levels, the exceptional degree of interior comfort - to produce that typical Mercedes feeling of wellbeing - and the high value retention. Furthermore, exemplary appointments and attractive equipment packages make the GLK stand out from the compact-SUV masses. Plus state-of-the-art systems such as the leading-edge PRE-SAFE safety concept and the Intelligent Light System (ILS) are available in this market segment for the very first time.

 

With its poised, confident presence, the mere look of the Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class leaves one in no doubt about its intent to conquer the compact premium SUV segment. It is arguably the most sophisticated of all takes on this particular theme. And it displays echoes of the G-Class, the founding father of the Mercedes-Benz SUV family. Design chief Prof. Peter Pfeiffer takes up the story: "With the G-Class we created a style icon that has been a benchmark in SUV design for the past 30 years. Combining this bold concept with the latest Mercedes-Benz design idiom makes the GLK a vehicle of genuine character."

 

No other model in the compact-SUV segment, past or present, comes close to matching the GLK's distinctively expressive appearance. The body is beautifully proportioned (length 4528 mm, width 1840 mm, height 1689 mm), while there is a special allure in the interplay between the classic angular shape and the typical design features found in all contemporary Mercedes-Benz passenger cars. Here the unmistakable design idiom, consisting of taut lines and large, expansive surfaces, is combined with the typical body features of a practical off-road vehicle, such as short overhangs, an upright front end, slim roof pillars, a steeply raked windscreen and taut roof lines. Rather than being a stylistic end in itself, however, the body design allows the typical advantages of an off-road vehicle to be introduced to the more road-oriented compact-SUV category for the first time. Large angles of approach and departure plus good ground clearance make off-road ventures a sheer joy. The outstandingly clear layout of the body and good allround visibility, combined with the raised seating position, enhance everyday practicality and ensure relaxed driving, even in dense city traffic.

 

Superlative ride comfort, outstanding handling dynamics and excellent offroad performance

 

The AGILITY CONTROL suspension on which the Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class is founded displays a high level of flexibility and resolves a conflict of aims that particularly affects the SUV class, where chassis engineers want to create a vehicle that is both sportily agile and comfortably smooth yet one which can also cope with off-road terrain. If the focus is on sporty, active handling, the suspension and, above all, the shock absorbers need to display a certain firmness, which precludes access to the brand's typical suspension comfort and limits the off-road options. If the vehicle is set up with softer dampers to ensure suspension comfort and off-road capability, dynamic handling naturally suffers. The solution is "amplitude-dependent damping". In this system, the damping forces of the shock absorbers are configured to respond flexibly rather than lineally. In normal driving mode on moderately contoured roads or during slow off-road manoeuvres, the system responds softly, enhancing both the occupants' comfort and the vehicle's off-road capability. To ensure that this level of comfort is maintained when driving hard or performing abrupt evasive manoeuvres, in these situations the dampers deliver a harder performance, ensuring optimum handling stability. At the same time, the driver of the GLK is supported by speed-sensitive power steering, specified as standard for the V6 models, which provides the optimum level of steering assistance for the situation in hand. Parking and off-road manoeuvring are made much easier because maximum power assistance is available. At higher speeds, the assistance is reduced in favour of greater handling stability.

 

All the base models in the GLK series are fitted with 17-inch, size 235/60 R 17 light-alloy wheels. In conjunction with the exterior sports package, which is included as standard when the car first comes onto the market, or the off-road styling package, all models are shod with mixed-size tyres which, together with the AGILITY CONTROL suspension and the asymmetric power distribution between the front and rear axle, form the basis for a even better transfer of power between the wheels and the road. And the more effective this power transfer, the less frequently the electronic control systems need to intervene. The road-oriented exterior sports package features size 7.5 J x 19 light-alloy wheels with 235/50 R 19 tyres at the front and size 8.5 J x 19 wheels with 255/45 R 19 tyres at the rear. If the GLK is ordered with the off-road styling package, the front axle has size 7.5 J x 17 light-alloy wheels with 235/60 R 17 tyres, while the rear axle features size 8.0 J x 17 wheels with 255/55 R 17 tyres. All models are equipped with a TIREFIT system for repairing tyre damage. A compact spare wheel, which can be used on the front or rear axle, is available as an optional extra.

 

4MATIC: high-performance all-wheel-drive system with sophisticated control systems

 

The 4MATIC powertrain at the heart of the Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class is one of the most capable all-wheel-drive systems on the market. The driving dynamics systems ESP®, ASR and 4ETS are superbly harmonised with each other; when they go into action their quality of control is so good that top-notch longitudinal and lateral dynamism coupled with superb handling stability are ensured under all conditions, both on and off-road. Thanks to the compact, lightweight and frictionoptimised concept, with a longitudinally installed engine and block-design main transmission and transfer case, the system offers various advantages over its counterparts equipped with a transversely installed drive unit. Fuel consumption, for example, is about on a par with that of a comparable conventionally powered vehicle, while the minimal vibration and noise levels rival those of today's luxuryclass models.

 

The 45:55 percent basic distribution of the drive torque between the front and rear axle - along with the ESP®, ASR and 4ETS dynamic handling control systems - ensures effortless and predictable performance in all conditions. Optimum traction, maximum driving stability and superlative handling are assured at all times. When tuning the control systems, the engineers at the Mercedes-Benz Technology Center (MTC) made neutral self-steering behaviour a top priority. Only when the physical limits of driving are neared is there a slight oversteer tendency. All GLK models display these characteristics, even if road conditions vary widely. Whether it be dry or wet. On snow, ice or unsurfaced roads. If drivers never know whether to expect understeer or oversteer, they become unsure. This problem - a frequent occurrence in the SUV category - is solved once and for all by the Mercedes-Benz GLK-Class. The newly developed multi-disc clutch in the centre differential supports the system if the friction between the tyres and the road surface is particularly low, for example on snow or ice. A basic partial locking torque of 50 newton metres between the front and rear axle produces a significant increase in traction whilst the high level of directional stability is maintained.

 

The "G" button on the centre console makes the GLK with off-road engineering package even more assertive on rough terrain. Pressing the button activates a special driving program which varies the shift points of the 7G-TRONIC transmission, "softens" the accelerator pedal characteristics and activates the ESP® off-road function. In this mode the system is designed to operate with a higher degree of wheel slip while retaining directional stability. This control strategy improves traction off-road, particularly on low-friction surfaces such as sand, gravel or stone chippings. There is also a manual transmission mode, in which the shift paddles on the steering wheel can be used to change between the gears. A further switch activates the Downhill Speed Regulation (DSR) system, which automatically maintains a pre-programmed speed on steep downhill inclines. The off-road-specific body dimensions are equally impressive. The large ground clearance of 201 millimetres (GLK 280 4MATIC) and the short body overhangs (front 816 mm, rear 957 mm) make for favourable angles of approach and departure - 23 degrees and a maximum of 25 degrees, respectively. Meanwhile the relatively short wheelbase length of 2755 millimetres and the vehicle weight of 1830 kilograms, which is remarkably low for an SUV, allow the GLK to make good headway on even the most topographically demanding of terrain.

 

As well as a tyre pressure loss warning system, the tried-and-tested Electronic Stability Program (ESP®) for the GLK incorporates a vehicle/trailer stabilisation function, which defuses critical driving situations involving a trailer before they become dangerous by applying the individual wheel brakes as and when required. The towing capacity is 2000 kilograms.

 

Effortlessly superior: new four-cylinder diesel engine and proven V6 powerplants

 

State-of-the-art powerplants ensure an exceptionally high level of ride comfort and impressive performance right across the GLK range. Plus fuel-consumption figures are low, as is the emission count. Customers have a choice of four model variants: diesel aficionados can opt for the GLK 220 CDI BlueEFFICIENCY or GLK 320 CDI, while those with a preference for petrol can select the GLK 280 or GLK 350, both of which feature a V6 powerplant.

 

In the GLK 220 CDI BlueEFFICIENCY, the all-new diesel engine generation posts an excellent set of figures. Like the V6 unit in the GLK 320 CDI, the four-cylinder engine with a displacement of 2.2 litres and an output of 125 kW/170 hp reflects the dynamism of the GLK concept as a whole and produces impressive performance coupled with lower fuel consumption and reduced emissions. Torque is equally impressive, with some 400 newton metres available across a broad engine speed range of 1400 to 2800 rpm. Technical highlights of the exceptionally compact and smooth-running CDI powerplant with rear camshaft drive include fourth-generation common-rail direct injection with an injection pressure of 2000 bar and a two-stage turbocharger system. The state-of-the-art powerplant propels the GLK from 0 to 100 km/h in just 8.8 seconds and on to a top speed of 205 km/h. The compression-ignition engine with extremely low untreated emissions delivers exceptional environmental performance and, like all diesel engines for Mercedes passenger cars, features exhaust gas recirculation, an oxidising catalytic converter and a maintenance-free diesel particulate filter as standard. In addition, the engine developers have succeeded in reducing untreated emissions by a decisive margin. The smooth-running four-cylinder unit consumes a mere 6.9 litres of diesel per hundred kilometres, emits just 183 grams of CO2 per kilometre and already meets the requirements of the EU5 emission standard. The diesel line-up is augmented by the proven V6 powerplant in the GLK 320 CDI, which develops 165 kW/224 hp and achieves a peak torque of 540 newton metres, enabling the GLK to perform even more admirably: here the top speed is 220 km/h whilst acceleration from 0 to 100 km/h takes just 7.5 seconds. The V6 engine also features exhaust gas recirculation, an oxidising catalytic converter and a maintenance-free diesel particulate filter. Diesel consumption is a mere 7.9 litres per hundred kilometres. Plus the engine complies with the Euro 4 standard.

 

The two smooth-running V6 petrol models - the GLK 280 and the GLK 350 - develop 170 kW/231 hp and 200 KW/272 hp respectively, all of which makes for rapid performance. Yet fuel consumption is only moderate. The 3.5-litre V6 in the GLK 350 4MATIC stands out in particular, achieving figures similar to those of a sports car. It has a top speed of 230 km/h and races from 0 to 100 km/h in 6.7 seconds. Both engines also comply with the Euro 5 standard, consuming 10.2 litres and 10.4 litres per hundred kilometres respectively.

 

All of the engine variants for the GLK are matched with the 7G-TRONIC 7-speed automatic transmission as standard. But the exceptional performance and low fuel consumption are not just down to the perfect combination of the highly sophisticated engines with the 7G-TRONIC and the friction-optimised powertrain. Further key factors include the relatively low overall weight (GLK 280: 1830 kg) and the exceptional aerodynamics for a vehicle of this design (cd figure 0.35).

 

Complete safety package for maximum occupant protection

 

In combination with the front and rear deformation zones, the GLK's highstrength passenger cell provides a highly efficient foundation for the occupant protection systems. These include:

 

Adaptive, two-stage airbags for the driver and front passenger

Kneebag for the driver

Front sidebags and, as an option, sidebags for the rear seats

Windowbags across both seat rows from the A-pillar to the C-pillar

NECK-PRO crash-responsive head restraints for the driver and front passenger

Crash-optimised pedal system

3-point seat belts for all five seats

Belt tensioner and adaptive belt-force limiter for the driver and front passenger, belt tensioner and single-stage belt-force limiter for the outer rear seats

ISOFIX child seat attachments

Belt height adjuster for the driver and front passenger

Belt status indicator for the rear passengers in the instrument cluster

The optionally available PRE-SAFE anticipatory occupant protection system, made available in the compact-SUV market segment for the very first time, sees Mercedes-Benz taking safety to a new, high level in this segment. The highlight of the concept is the networking between the active and passive safety systems. PRE-SAFE uses the sensors of the dynamic handling control systems - for example, Brake Assist (BAS) and ESP - and optimises the protective functions of the passive safety components in potential accident situations. The standard-fit adaptive brake lights, which flash to warn the traffic behind when the brakes are applied abruptly, help to prevent accidents.

 

As part of our Krishna Janmashtami celebrations, a play was presented to Gurudev and the guests that re-enacted the life of Gora Kumbhar the Potter. The play demonstrates Gora Kumbhar's unshakeable devotion and love to Lord Vitthala and the mercy and Love the Lord has for His devotees.

 

bhaktimarga.org

paramahamsavishwananda.com

Throughout the ages, humans have stood in awe of mountains. The strength and sturdiness are strongly evident in their rocky crags and jutting peaks around the globe. From the beginning mountains have inspired creativity and kindled courage, as well as songs, poems, books, and compelling many to scale their peaks.

 

Mountains are venerated by many cultures, which worshipped great summits as gods and sacred beings. In their looming presence, humans have seen majestic power, steadfastness, and resolve. However, you need not live near a mountain to tap into its vast energy of commanding grandeur.

 

Imagine sitting at the mountain's base and spend a few minutes coexisting with it. When you feel tranquil, express your intention to commune with this mountain and ask to receive its energy. Project your consciousness onto the mountain's peak, look down onto the flatlands knowing the mountain stands guard.

 

You will discover you feel wonderfully immense and unshakable as you delve deeper into the meditation.

 

Taken: Morning light over Ladyfinger & Hunza Peak as viewed from Duikar View Point, Hunza Valley, Pakistan

Commentary.

 

Perched high on a wooded hill above Canterbury,

is Chilham’s Castle and estate, pub and school,

Square and Church, tearooms and Tudor houses.

This may well have been one of the last resting places

on the hundred mile pilgrimage from Winchester

to the tomb of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.

This journey was undertaken for well over a thousand years

by countless thousands of pilgrims.

It was immortalised by Geoffrey Chaucer in his

bawdy and graphic “Canterbury Tales,” although his was the shorter sixty mile journey, from the Tabard Inn, Southwark, to the Holy Shrine.

Now, this hidden gem of a village attracts hordes of modern “pilgrims,” seeking solace in the tearooms, church, pub or Square.

Some may be entertained by bouts of falconry or medieval jousting in the Castle grounds.

Others might retreat here before and/or after sampling the delights of Canterbury’s Cathedral, museums and shops.

Its “staging-post” identity seems unshakeable.

Its charm is undeniable.

  

St Andrew and St Patrick, Elveden, Suffolk

 

As you approach Elveden, there is Suffolk’s biggest war memorial, to those killed from the three parishes that meet at this point. It is over 30 metres high, and you used to be able to climb up the inside. Someone in the village told me that more people have been killed on the road in Elveden since the end of the War than there are names on the war memorial. I could well believe it. Until about five years ago, the busy traffic of the A11 Norwich to London road hurtled through the village past the church, slowed only to a ridiculously high 50 MPH. If something hits you at that speed, then no way on God's Earth are you going to survive. Now there's a bypass, thank goodness.

 

Many people will know St Andrew and St Patrick as another familiar landmark on the road, but as you are swept along in the stream of traffic you are unlikely to appreciate quite how extraordinary a building it is. For a start, it has two towers. And a cloister. And two naves, effectively. It has undergone three major building programmes in the space of thirty years, any one of which would have sufficed to transform it utterly.

 

If you had seen this church before the 1860s, you would have thought it nothing remarkable. A simple aisle-less, clerestory-less building, typical of, and indistinguishable from, hundreds of other East Anglian flint churches. A journey to nearby Barnham will show you what I mean.

 

The story of the transformation of Elveden church begins in the early 19th century, on the other side of the world. The leader of the Sikhs, Ranjit Singh, controlled a united Punjab that stretched from the Khyber Pass to the borders of Tibet. His capital was at Lahore, but more importantly it included the Sikh holy city of Amritsar. The wealth of this vast Kingdom made him a major power-player in early 19th century politics, and he was a particular thorn in the flesh of the British Imperial war machine. At this time, the Punjab had a great artistic and cultural flowering that was hardly matched anywhere in the world.

 

It was not to last. The British forced Ranjit Singh to the negotiating table over the disputed border with Afghanistan, and a year later, in 1839, he was dead. A power vacuum ensued, and his six year old son Duleep Singh became a pawn between rival factions. It was exactly the opportunity that the British had been waiting for, and in February 1846 they poured across the borders in their thousands. Within a month, almost half the child-Prince's Kingdom was in foreign hands. The British installed a governor, and started to harvest the fruits of their new territory's wealth.

 

Over the next three years, the British gradually extended their rule, putting down uprisings and turning local warlords. Given that the Sikh political structures were in disarray, this was achieved at considerable loss to the invaders - thousands of British soldiers were killed. They are hardly remembered today. British losses at the Crimea ten years later were much slighter, but perhaps the invention of photography in the meantime had given people at home a clearer picture of what was happening, and so the Crimea still remains in the British folk memory.

 

For much of the period of the war, Prince Duleep Singh had remained in the seclusion of his fabulous palace in Lahore. However, once the Punjab was secure, he was sent into remote internal exile.

 

The missionaries poured in. Bearing in mind the value that Sikh culture places upon education, perhaps it is no surprise that their influence came to bear on the young Prince, and he became a Christian. The extent to which this was forced upon him is lost to us today.

 

A year later, the Prince sailed for England with his mother. He was admitted to the royal court by Queen Victoria, spending time both at Windsor and, particularly, in Scotland, where he grew up. In the 1860s, the Prince and his mother were significant members of London society, but she died suddenly in 1863. He returned with her ashes to the Punjab, and there he married. His wife, Bamba Muller, was part German, part Ethiopian. As part of the British pacification of India programme, the young couple were granted the lease on a vast, derelict stately home in the depths of the Suffolk countryside. This was Elveden Hall. He would never see India again.

 

With some considerable energy, Duleep Singh set about transforming the fortunes of the moribund estate. Being particularly fond of hunting (as a six year old, he'd had two tutors - one for learning the court language, Persian, and the other for hunting to hawk) he developed the estate for game. The house was rebuilt in 1870.

 

The year before, the Prince had begun to glorify the church so that it was more in keeping with the splendour of his court. This church, dedicated to St Andrew, was what now forms the north aisle of the present church. There are many little details, but the restoration includes two major features; firstly, the remarkable roof, with its extraordinary sprung sprung wallposts set on arches suspended in the window embrasures, and, secondly, the font, which Mortlock tells us is in the Sicilian-Norman style. Supported by eight elegant columns, it is very beautiful, and the angel in particular is one of Suffolk's loveliest. You can see him in an image on the left.

 

Duleep Singh seems to have settled comfortably into the role of an English country gentleman. And then, something extraordinary happened. The Prince, steeped in the proud tradition of his homeland, decided to return to the Punjab to fulfill his destiny as the leader of the Sikh people. He got as far as Aden before the British arrested him, and sent him home. He then set about trying to recruit Russian support for a Sikh uprising, travelling secretly across Europe in the guise of an Irishman, Patrick Casey. In between these times of cloak and dagger espionage, he would return to Elveden to shoot grouse with the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII. It is a remarkable story.

 

Ultimately, his attempts to save his people from colonial oppression were doomed to failure. He died in Paris in 1893, the British seemingly unshakeable in their control of India. He was buried at Elveden churchyard in a simple grave.

 

The chancel of the 1869 church is now screened off as a chapel, accessible from the chancel of the new church, but set in it is the 1894 memorial window to Maharaja Prince Duleep Singh, the Adoration of the Magi by Kempe & Co.

 

And so, the Lion of the North had come to a humble end. His five children, several named after British royal princes, had left Elveden behind; they all died childless, one of them as recently as 1957. The estate reverted to the Crown, being bought by the brewing family, the Guinnesses.

 

Edward Cecil Guinness, first Earl Iveagh, commemorated bountifully in James Joyce's 1916 Ulysses, took the estate firmly in hand. The English agricultural depression had begun in the 1880s, and it would not be ended until the Second World War drew the greater part of English agriculture back under cultivation. It had hit the Estate hard. But Elveden was transformed, and so was the church.

 

Iveagh appointed William Caroe to build an entirely new church beside the old. It would be of such a scale that the old church of St Andrew would form the south aisle of the new church. The size may have reflected Iveagh's visions of grandeur, but it was also a practical arrangement, to accommodate the greatly enlarged staff of the estate. Attendance at church was compulsory; non-conformists were also expected to go, and the Guinnesses did not employ Catholics.

 

Between 1904 and 1906, the new structure went up. Mortlock recalls that Pevsner thought it 'Art Nouveau Gothic', which sums it up well. Lancet windows in the north side of the old church were moved across to the south side, and a wide open nave built beside it. Curiously, although this is much higher than the old and incorporates a Suffolk-style roof, Caroe resisted the temptation of a clerestory. The new church was rebenched throughout, and the woodwork is of a very high quality. The dates of the restoration can be found on bench ends up in the new chancel, and exploring all the symbolism will detain you for hours. Emblems of the nations of the British Isles also feature in the floor tiles.

 

The new church was dedicated to St Patrick, patron Saint of the Guinnesses' homeland. At this time, of course, Ireland was still a part of the United Kingdom, and despite the tensions and troubles of the previous century the Union was probably stronger at the opening of the 20th century than it had ever been. This was to change very rapidly. From the first shots fired at the General Post Office in April 1916, to complete independence in 1922, was just six years. Dublin, a firmly protestant city, in which the Iveaghs commemorated their dead at the Anglican cathedral of St Patrick, became the capital city of a staunchly Catholic nation. The Anglicans, the so-called Protestant Ascendancy, left in their thousands during the 1920s, depopulating the great houses, and leaving hundreds of Anglican parish churches completely bereft of congregations. Apart from a concentration in the wealthy suburbs of south Dublin, there are hardly any Anglicans left in the Republic today. But St Patrick's cathedral maintains its lonely witness to long years of British rule; the Iveagh transept includes the vast war memorial to WWI dead, and all the colours of the Irish regiments - it is said that 99% of the Union flags in the Republic are in the Guinness chapel of St Patrick's cathedral. Dublin, of course, is famous as the biggest city in Europe without a Catholic cathedral. It still has two Anglican ones.

 

Against this background then, we arrived at Elveden. The church is uncomfortably close to the busy road, but the sparkle of flint in the recent rain made it a thing of great beauty. The main entrance is now at the west end of the new church. The surviving 14th century tower now forms the west end of the south aisle, and we will come back to the other tower beyond it in a moment.

 

You step into a wide open space under a high, heavy roof laden with angels. There is a wide aisle off to the south; this is the former nave, and still has something of that quality. The whole space is suffused with gorgeously coloured light from excellent 19th and 20th century windows. These include one by Frank Brangwyn, at the west end of the new nave. Andrew and Patrick look down from a heavenly host on a mother and father entertaining their children and a host of woodland animals by reading them stories. It is quite the loveliest thing in the building.

 

Other windows, mostly in the south aisle, are also lovely. Hugh Easton's commemorative window for the former USAAF base at Elveden is magnificent. Either side are windows to Iveaghs - a gorgeous George killing a dragon, also by Hugh Easton, and a curious 1971 assemblage depicting images from the lives of Edward Guinness's heir and his wife, which also works rather well. The effect of all three windows together is particularly fine when seen from the new nave.

 

Turning ahead of you to the new chancel, there is the mighty alabaster reredos. It cost £1,200 in 1906, about a quarter of a million in today’s money. It reflects the woodwork, in depicting patron Saints and East Anglian monarchs, around a surprisingly simple Supper at Emmaus. This reredos, and the Brangwyn window, reminded me of the work at the Guinness’s other spiritual home, St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, which also includes a window by Frank Brangwyn commisioned by them. Everything is of the highest quality. Rarely has the cliché ‘no expense spared’ been as accurate as it is here.

 

Up at the front, a little brass plate reminds us that Edward VII slept through a sermon here in 1908. How different it must have seemed to him from the carefree days with his old friend the Maharajah! Still, it must have been a great occasion, full of Edwardian pomp, and the glitz that only the fabulously rich can provide. Today, the church is still splendid, but the Guinesses are no longer fabulously rich, and attendance at church is no longer compulsory for estate workers; there are far fewer of them anyway. The Church of England is in decline everywhere; and, let us be honest, particularly so in this part of Suffolk, where it seems to have retreated to a state of siege. Today, the congregation of this mighty citadel is as low as half a dozen. The revolutionary disappearance of Anglican congregations in the Iveagh's homeland is now being repeated in a slow, inexorable English way.

 

You wander outside, and there are more curiosities. Set in the wall are two linked hands, presumably a relic from a broken 18th century memorial. They must have been set here when the wall was moved back in the 1950s. In the south chancel wall, the bottom of an egg-cup protrudes from among the flints. This is the trademark of the architect WD Caroe. To the east of the new chancel, Duleep Singh’s gravestone is a very simple one. It is quite different in character to the church behind it. A plaque on the east end of the church remembers the centenary of his death.

 

Continuing around the church, you come to the surprise of a long cloister, connecting the remodelled chancel door of the old church to the new bell tower. It was built in 1922 as a memorial to the wife of the first Earl Iveagh. Caroe was the architect again, and he installed eight bells, dedicated to Mary, Gabriel, Edmund, Andrew, Patrick, Christ, God the Father, and the King. The excellent guidebook recalls that his intention was for the bells to be cast to maintain the hum and tap tones of the renowned ancient Suffolk bells of Lavenham... thus the true bell music of the old type is maintained.

 

This church is magnificent, obviously enough. It has everything going for it, and is a national treasure. And yet, it has hardly any congregation. So, what is to be done?

 

If we continue to think of rural historic churches as nothing more than outstations of the Church of England, it is hard to see how some of them will survive. This church in particular has no future in its present form as a village parish church. New roles must be found, new ways to involve local people and encourage their use. One would have thought that this would be easier here than elsewhere.

 

The other provoking thought was that this building summed up almost two centuries of British imperial adventure, and that we lived in a world that still suffered from the consequences. It is worth remembering where the wealth that rebuilt St Andrew and St Patrick came from.

 

As so often in British imperial history, interference in other peoples’ problems and the imposition of short-term solutions has left massive scars and long-cast shadows. For the Punjab, as in Ireland, there are no simple solutions. Sheer proximity has, after several centuries of cruel and exploitative involvement, finally encouraged the British government to pursue a solution in Ireland that is not entirely based on self-interest. I fear that the Punjab is too far away for the British to care very much now about what they did there then.

St Andrew and St Patrick, Elveden, Suffolk

 

As you approach Elveden, there is Suffolk’s biggest war memorial, to those killed from the three parishes that meet at this point. It is over 30 metres high, and you used to be able to climb up the inside. Someone in the village told me that more people have been killed on the road in Elveden since the end of the War than there are names on the war memorial. I could well believe it. Until about five years ago, the busy traffic of the A11 Norwich to London road hurtled through the village past the church, slowed only to a ridiculously high 50 MPH. If something hits you at that speed, then no way on God's Earth are you going to survive. Now there's a bypass, thank goodness.

 

Many people will know St Andrew and St Patrick as another familiar landmark on the road, but as you are swept along in the stream of traffic you are unlikely to appreciate quite how extraordinary a building it is. For a start, it has two towers. And a cloister. And two naves, effectively. It has undergone three major building programmes in the space of thirty years, any one of which would have sufficed to transform it utterly.

 

If you had seen this church before the 1860s, you would have thought it nothing remarkable. A simple aisle-less, clerestory-less building, typical of, and indistinguishable from, hundreds of other East Anglian flint churches. A journey to nearby Barnham will show you what I mean.

 

The story of the transformation of Elveden church begins in the early 19th century, on the other side of the world. The leader of the Sikhs, Ranjit Singh, controlled a united Punjab that stretched from the Khyber Pass to the borders of Tibet. His capital was at Lahore, but more importantly it included the Sikh holy city of Amritsar. The wealth of this vast Kingdom made him a major power-player in early 19th century politics, and he was a particular thorn in the flesh of the British Imperial war machine. At this time, the Punjab had a great artistic and cultural flowering that was hardly matched anywhere in the world.

 

It was not to last. The British forced Ranjit Singh to the negotiating table over the disputed border with Afghanistan, and a year later, in 1839, he was dead. A power vacuum ensued, and his six year old son Duleep Singh became a pawn between rival factions. It was exactly the opportunity that the British had been waiting for, and in February 1846 they poured across the borders in their thousands. Within a month, almost half the child-Prince's Kingdom was in foreign hands. The British installed a governor, and started to harvest the fruits of their new territory's wealth.

 

Over the next three years, the British gradually extended their rule, putting down uprisings and turning local warlords. Given that the Sikh political structures were in disarray, this was achieved at considerable loss to the invaders - thousands of British soldiers were killed. They are hardly remembered today. British losses at the Crimea ten years later were much slighter, but perhaps the invention of photography in the meantime had given people at home a clearer picture of what was happening, and so the Crimea still remains in the British folk memory.

 

For much of the period of the war, Prince Duleep Singh had remained in the seclusion of his fabulous palace in Lahore. However, once the Punjab was secure, he was sent into remote internal exile.

 

The missionaries poured in. Bearing in mind the value that Sikh culture places upon education, perhaps it is no surprise that their influence came to bear on the young Prince, and he became a Christian. The extent to which this was forced upon him is lost to us today.

 

A year later, the Prince sailed for England with his mother. He was admitted to the royal court by Queen Victoria, spending time both at Windsor and, particularly, in Scotland, where he grew up. In the 1860s, the Prince and his mother were significant members of London society, but she died suddenly in 1863. He returned with her ashes to the Punjab, and there he married. His wife, Bamba Muller, was part German, part Ethiopian. As part of the British pacification of India programme, the young couple were granted the lease on a vast, derelict stately home in the depths of the Suffolk countryside. This was Elveden Hall. He would never see India again.

 

With some considerable energy, Duleep Singh set about transforming the fortunes of the moribund estate. Being particularly fond of hunting (as a six year old, he'd had two tutors - one for learning the court language, Persian, and the other for hunting to hawk) he developed the estate for game. The house was rebuilt in 1870.

 

The year before, the Prince had begun to glorify the church so that it was more in keeping with the splendour of his court. This church, dedicated to St Andrew, was what now forms the north aisle of the present church. There are many little details, but the restoration includes two major features; firstly, the remarkable roof, with its extraordinary sprung sprung wallposts set on arches suspended in the window embrasures, and, secondly, the font, which Mortlock tells us is in the Sicilian-Norman style. Supported by eight elegant columns, it is very beautiful, and the angel in particular is one of Suffolk's loveliest. You can see him in an image on the left.

 

Duleep Singh seems to have settled comfortably into the role of an English country gentleman. And then, something extraordinary happened. The Prince, steeped in the proud tradition of his homeland, decided to return to the Punjab to fulfill his destiny as the leader of the Sikh people. He got as far as Aden before the British arrested him, and sent him home. He then set about trying to recruit Russian support for a Sikh uprising, travelling secretly across Europe in the guise of an Irishman, Patrick Casey. In between these times of cloak and dagger espionage, he would return to Elveden to shoot grouse with the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VII. It is a remarkable story.

 

Ultimately, his attempts to save his people from colonial oppression were doomed to failure. He died in Paris in 1893, the British seemingly unshakeable in their control of India. He was buried at Elveden churchyard in a simple grave.

 

The chancel of the 1869 church is now screened off as a chapel, accessible from the chancel of the new church, but set in it is the 1894 memorial window to Maharaja Prince Duleep Singh, the Adoration of the Magi by Kempe & Co.

 

And so, the Lion of the North had come to a humble end. His five children, several named after British royal princes, had left Elveden behind; they all died childless, one of them as recently as 1957. The estate reverted to the Crown, being bought by the brewing family, the Guinnesses.

 

Edward Cecil Guinness, first Earl Iveagh, commemorated bountifully in James Joyce's 1916 Ulysses, took the estate firmly in hand. The English agricultural depression had begun in the 1880s, and it would not be ended until the Second World War drew the greater part of English agriculture back under cultivation. It had hit the Estate hard. But Elveden was transformed, and so was the church.

 

Iveagh appointed William Caroe to build an entirely new church beside the old. It would be of such a scale that the old church of St Andrew would form the south aisle of the new church. The size may have reflected Iveagh's visions of grandeur, but it was also a practical arrangement, to accommodate the greatly enlarged staff of the estate. Attendance at church was compulsory; non-conformists were also expected to go, and the Guinnesses did not employ Catholics.

 

Between 1904 and 1906, the new structure went up. Mortlock recalls that Pevsner thought it 'Art Nouveau Gothic', which sums it up well. Lancet windows in the north side of the old church were moved across to the south side, and a wide open nave built beside it. Curiously, although this is much higher than the old and incorporates a Suffolk-style roof, Caroe resisted the temptation of a clerestory. The new church was rebenched throughout, and the woodwork is of a very high quality. The dates of the restoration can be found on bench ends up in the new chancel, and exploring all the symbolism will detain you for hours. Emblems of the nations of the British Isles also feature in the floor tiles.

 

The new church was dedicated to St Patrick, patron Saint of the Guinnesses' homeland. At this time, of course, Ireland was still a part of the United Kingdom, and despite the tensions and troubles of the previous century the Union was probably stronger at the opening of the 20th century than it had ever been. This was to change very rapidly. From the first shots fired at the General Post Office in April 1916, to complete independence in 1922, was just six years. Dublin, a firmly protestant city, in which the Iveaghs commemorated their dead at the Anglican cathedral of St Patrick, became the capital city of a staunchly Catholic nation. The Anglicans, the so-called Protestant Ascendancy, left in their thousands during the 1920s, depopulating the great houses, and leaving hundreds of Anglican parish churches completely bereft of congregations. Apart from a concentration in the wealthy suburbs of south Dublin, there are hardly any Anglicans left in the Republic today. But St Patrick's cathedral maintains its lonely witness to long years of British rule; the Iveagh transept includes the vast war memorial to WWI dead, and all the colours of the Irish regiments - it is said that 99% of the Union flags in the Republic are in the Guinness chapel of St Patrick's cathedral. Dublin, of course, is famous as the biggest city in Europe without a Catholic cathedral. It still has two Anglican ones.

 

Against this background then, we arrived at Elveden. The church is uncomfortably close to the busy road, but the sparkle of flint in the recent rain made it a thing of great beauty. The main entrance is now at the west end of the new church. The surviving 14th century tower now forms the west end of the south aisle, and we will come back to the other tower beyond it in a moment.

 

You step into a wide open space under a high, heavy roof laden with angels. There is a wide aisle off to the south; this is the former nave, and still has something of that quality. The whole space is suffused with gorgeously coloured light from excellent 19th and 20th century windows. These include one by Frank Brangwyn, at the west end of the new nave. Andrew and Patrick look down from a heavenly host on a mother and father entertaining their children and a host of woodland animals by reading them stories. It is quite the loveliest thing in the building.

 

Other windows, mostly in the south aisle, are also lovely. Hugh Easton's commemorative window for the former USAAF base at Elveden is magnificent. Either side are windows to Iveaghs - a gorgeous George killing a dragon, also by Hugh Easton, and a curious 1971 assemblage depicting images from the lives of Edward Guinness's heir and his wife, which also works rather well. The effect of all three windows together is particularly fine when seen from the new nave.

 

Turning ahead of you to the new chancel, there is the mighty alabaster reredos. It cost £1,200 in 1906, about a quarter of a million in today’s money. It reflects the woodwork, in depicting patron Saints and East Anglian monarchs, around a surprisingly simple Supper at Emmaus. This reredos, and the Brangwyn window, reminded me of the work at the Guinness’s other spiritual home, St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, which also includes a window by Frank Brangwyn commisioned by them. Everything is of the highest quality. Rarely has the cliché ‘no expense spared’ been as accurate as it is here.

 

Up at the front, a little brass plate reminds us that Edward VII slept through a sermon here in 1908. How different it must have seemed to him from the carefree days with his old friend the Maharajah! Still, it must have been a great occasion, full of Edwardian pomp, and the glitz that only the fabulously rich can provide. Today, the church is still splendid, but the Guinesses are no longer fabulously rich, and attendance at church is no longer compulsory for estate workers; there are far fewer of them anyway. The Church of England is in decline everywhere; and, let us be honest, particularly so in this part of Suffolk, where it seems to have retreated to a state of siege. Today, the congregation of this mighty citadel is as low as half a dozen. The revolutionary disappearance of Anglican congregations in the Iveagh's homeland is now being repeated in a slow, inexorable English way.

 

You wander outside, and there are more curiosities. Set in the wall are two linked hands, presumably a relic from a broken 18th century memorial. They must have been set here when the wall was moved back in the 1950s. In the south chancel wall, the bottom of an egg-cup protrudes from among the flints. This is the trademark of the architect WD Caroe. To the east of the new chancel, Duleep Singh’s gravestone is a very simple one. It is quite different in character to the church behind it. A plaque on the east end of the church remembers the centenary of his death.

 

Continuing around the church, you come to the surprise of a long cloister, connecting the remodelled chancel door of the old church to the new bell tower. It was built in 1922 as a memorial to the wife of the first Earl Iveagh. Caroe was the architect again, and he installed eight bells, dedicated to Mary, Gabriel, Edmund, Andrew, Patrick, Christ, God the Father, and the King. The excellent guidebook recalls that his intention was for the bells to be cast to maintain the hum and tap tones of the renowned ancient Suffolk bells of Lavenham... thus the true bell music of the old type is maintained.

 

This church is magnificent, obviously enough. It has everything going for it, and is a national treasure. And yet, it has hardly any congregation. So, what is to be done?

 

If we continue to think of rural historic churches as nothing more than outstations of the Church of England, it is hard to see how some of them will survive. This church in particular has no future in its present form as a village parish church. New roles must be found, new ways to involve local people and encourage their use. One would have thought that this would be easier here than elsewhere.

 

The other provoking thought was that this building summed up almost two centuries of British imperial adventure, and that we lived in a world that still suffered from the consequences. It is worth remembering where the wealth that rebuilt St Andrew and St Patrick came from.

 

As so often in British imperial history, interference in other peoples’ problems and the imposition of short-term solutions has left massive scars and long-cast shadows. For the Punjab, as in Ireland, there are no simple solutions. Sheer proximity has, after several centuries of cruel and exploitative involvement, finally encouraged the British government to pursue a solution in Ireland that is not entirely based on self-interest. I fear that the Punjab is too far away for the British to care very much now about what they did there then.

As part of our Krishna Janmashtami celebrations, a play was presented to Gurudev and the guests that re-enacted the life of Gora Kumbhar the Potter. The play demonstrates Gora Kumbhar's unshakeable devotion and love to Lord Vitthala and the mercy and Love the Lord has for His devotees.

 

bhaktimarga.org

paramahamsavishwananda.com

As part of our Krishna Janmashtami celebrations, a play was presented to Gurudev and the guests that re-enacted the life of Gora Kumbhar the Potter. The play demonstrates Gora Kumbhar's unshakeable devotion and love to Lord Vitthala and the mercy and Love the Lord has for His devotees.

 

bhaktimarga.org

paramahamsavishwananda.com

Statue of Sturt, Department of Lands building, Bridge St, Sydney.

 

Each facade has 12 niches whose sculpted occupants include explorers and legislators who made a major contribution to the opening up and settlement of the nation. Although 48 men were nominated by the architect, Barnet, as being suitable subjects, most were rejected as being 'hunters or excursionists'. Only 23 statues were commissioned, the last being added in 1901 leaving 25 niches unfilled (Devine, 2011). In Nov 2010- a new statue of colonial surveyor James Meehan (1774-1826) was created and placed in an empty niche on cnr. Loftus/Bent Streets.

 

Sturt, Charles (1795–1869)

 

by H. J. Gibbney

 

This article was published in Australian Dictionary of Biography, Volume 2, (MUP), 1967

 

Charles Sturt (1795-1869), explorer, soldier and public servant, was born on 28 April 1795 in India, eldest of eight sons and one of thirteen children of Thomas Lenox Napier Sturt, a judge in Bengal under the East India Co. Although his Sturt and Napier ancestors were both Dorsetshire families of some standing, his father had reached India too late to share in the golden harvest reaped by many early officials and his life is described by Sturt's biographer as '45 years of clouded fortunes'.

 

Charles was sent at 5 to relations in England and at 15 entered Harrow. His father's economic difficulties prevented his entry to Cambridge and in 1813 he procured, through the intercession of his aunt with the Prince Regent, a commission as ensign in the 39th Regiment. He served in the Pyrenees late in the Peninsular war, fought against the Americans in Canada and returned to Europe a few days after Waterloo. He spent the next three years with the army of occupation in France and in 1818 was sent with his regiment to Ireland on garrison duties. On 7 April 1823 he was gazetted lieutenant and promoted captain on 15 December 1825. In December 1826 after a brief sojourn in England he embarked with a detachment of his regiment in the Mariner in charge of convicts for New South Wales and arrived at Sydney on 23 May 1827. In Sydney the two main subjects of discussion among intelligent people were politics and the mysteries of Australian geography. The savagely personal nature of local politics did not attract Sturt but the great unknown did. John Oxley and Allan Cunningham had charted a series of rivers, their courses directed towards the centre of the continent; the inference was that an inland sea lay beyond the horizon. Sturt and others longed for the honour of discovering it.

 

Soon after his arrival Sturt was appointed military secretary to the governor and major of brigade to the garrison. With these offices he could have taken an active part in politics, but preferred to interest himself in exploration and by November 1827 was able to write to his cousin, Isaac Wood, that the governor had agreed to his leading an expedition into the interior. Because (Sir) Ralph Darling had few officers on whom he felt that he could rely, he did not formally authorize the expedition for nearly twelve months. Meanwhile Sturt had, perhaps naively, discussed the proposal with the newly-appointed surveyor-general, (Sir) Thomas Mitchell, who felt that he had been slighted, and argued with some justice that Sturt, who had no qualifications, was being pushed by influence into a task which offered the prospect of honour, and which was his ex officio. Darling rejected this contention out of hand and Sturt acquired a lifelong enemy in Mitchell.

 

On 4 November 1828 Sturt received approval to proceed with his proposal to trace the course of the Macquarie River. Prudently he selected as his assistant the native-born Hamilton Hume, who had already shared leadership of a major expedition to the south coast. With three soldiers and eight convicts Sturt left Sydney on 10 November. Hume joined them at Bathurst and, after collecting equipment from the government station at Wellington Valley, they moved on 7 December to what became virtually the base camp at Mount Harris. On 22 December the expedition started down the Macquarie through country blasted by drought and searing heat. Having unsuccessfully tried to use a light boat, on 31 December Sturt and Hume began independent reconnaissances in which Hume established the limits of the Macquarie marshes and Sturt examined the country across the Bogan River. They then proceeded north along the Bogan and on 2 February came suddenly on 'a noble river' flowing to the west; Sturt named it the Darling. Unhappily its waters were undrinkable at that point because of salt springs. They followed the Darling downstream until 9 February, then returned to Mount Harris and from there traced the Castlereagh northward until it too joined the Darling. They then returned to Wellington Valley down the eastern side of the Macquarie marshes, having sketched in the main outlines of the northern river system and discovered the previously unknown Darling River. The expedition, however, had discovered no extensive good country. Although Sturt was ill on his return to Sydney he was scrupulous in recommending the convicts in his party for such indulgences as the colonial government could grant. Darling granted some remissions of sentence and in his dispatches commended Sturt's patience and zeal.

 

The Darling River had offered a new challenge and Sturt soon sought permission to lead another expedition to trace the Darling to its assumed outlet in the inland sea. However, it was decided instead that he should investigate the Lachlan-Murrumbidgee river system discovered by Oxley and proceed to the Darling only if the Murrumbidgee proved impassable.

 

On 3 November 1829 the second expedition left Sydney. In Sturt's party were George Macleay, son of the colonial secretary, Harris, Hopkinson, Fraser and Clayton, who had all been in his first expedition, and several soldiers and convicts. They moved through country which was partly settled until 28 November when they left Warby's station near Gundagai which was then the limit of settlement and set off into the unknown country. After many crossings of the Murrumbidgee to find suitable tracks for the drays they moved down the north bank of the river and on Christmas Day arrived at its junction with the Lachlan. There difficult marshes raised the question whether they should follow the governor's instructions or go to the Darling. Since the Murrumbidgee was still fairly clear Sturt decided to use the whale-boat which he had brought with him and to build a small skiff from local timber. On 7 January 1830 he set out with seven men in the two boats on the Murrumbidgee.

 

Apart from the complete loss of the skiff soon after embarkation the journey was uneventful until 14 January when the rapid current of the Murrumbidgee carried them to a 'broad and noble river' which Sturt later named in honour of Sir George Murray, secretary of state for the colonies. Further down the Murray they had two threatening encounters with Aboriginals, and on 23 January came to a new large stream flowing in from the north. After rowing up it for a few miles Sturt was convinced that it was the Darling and returned to the Murray. An uneventful voyage brought them on 9 February to Lake Alexandrina whence they walked over the sandhills to the southern coast. They reached the channel where the lake entered the sea but were dismayed to find it impracticable for shipping. Depressed by failing to find either an effective inland waterway or the ship which Darling had promised to send from Sydney, Sturt now faced the appalling prospect of rowing more than 900 miles (1448 km) against a strong current with his weary men and certain food shortage. They began the return journey on 12 February and on 23 March arrived at the Murrumbidgee depot only to find it deserted by the base party which had been left there. The starving crew struggled on until 11 April when Sturt abandoned the boat and sent two men to seek the relief party which he believed to be near. A week later the two men returned with supplies and the revived expedition reached Sydney safely on 25 May.

 

Although an interim dispatch carried by Macleay in advance of the main party had been published in the Sydney Gazette Darling did not report to England on the expedition until February 1831. Meanwhile Sturt, after a short illness, had been sent to Norfolk Island as commandant of the garrison. There he took part in the rescue of the occupants of a wrecked boat and, though active in quelling a convict mutiny, had nevertheless earned the respect even of the mutineers for his generally humane outlook. In July he was relieved by F. C. Crotty, captain in the 39th Regiment.

 

Sturt's return to Sydney was delayed by illness until October; already there had been proposals to send him to New Zealand as Resident or on another journey to the Darling, but his health was so bad that he was immediately granted leave to go to England. On the voyage his eyesight, which had been failing, broke down completely leaving him totally blind. While undergoing crude but moderately successful treatment for his condition he published an account of his two journeys and after many petitions to the Colonial Office was promised a grant of 5000 acres (2024 ha) in New South Wales on condition that he sold his commission and renounced all other rights arising from his military service. On 20 September 1834 he married Charlotte Greene, the daughter of an old family friend.

 

Sturt sailed with his wife and arrived at Sydney in mid-1835. With intentions of settling down to country life he located his grant at Ginninderra (near Canberra) in June and in August bought 1950 acres (789 ha) at Mittagong, where he lived for two years. In this time he was appointed a justice of the peace, became a passive member of the governing body of the Australian Museum, was recommended unsuccessfully for appointment to the Legislative Council, and christened his first child Napier George. Early in 1837 he bought 1000 acres (405 ha) at Varroville between Liverpool and Campbelltown, where he soon established another home.

 

In 1838 financial difficulties forced him to sell his Mittagong property and induced him to join in a venture for overlanding cattle to South Australia. Although in the process he was able to add something to knowledge of the Murray River, the journey almost ended in disaster. Breeding cows in the herd delayed the party and it ran short of supplies and had to be rescued by his friend, Edward John Eyre. The venture was also a financial failure. Sturt was greeted in Adelaide by flattering attention which brought balm to his pride injured by recent failures. Incautiously he became associated with an attempted land transaction which some colonists thought was questionable. On 30 October he returned to Sydney to learn of the birth of his second son, Charles.

 

In Adelaide he had been invited to join the South Australian public service and on 8 November 1838 was formally offered the position of surveyor-general. Despite his lack of technical qualifications and some doubts about Governor George Gawler's power to make the appointment, he accepted, sold his property in New South Wales and sailed with his family for Adelaide on 27 February 1839. In spite of sickness and continuing financial worries all seemed to go well. The first shattering blow came in September when Lieutenant Edward Frome arrived from London with a commission as surveyor-general. Gawler, in a loyal attempt to help Sturt, appointed him assistant commissioner of lands, though at a reduced salary. In November he and his wife joined Gawler in what was intended to be a short excursion up the Murray valley. On his expedition a young man lost his life and the governor was placed in serious danger. Although Sturt was not responsible the tragedy affected him deeply.

 

In 1841 Sturt was offered the resident management of the South Australian Co., but refused. Soon afterwards he committed what was probably the most serious error of judgment in his life: when news arrived that Captain George Grey was to replace Gawler as governor, Sturt wrote to the Colonial Office complaining of Grey's youth and offering himself as an alternative candidate for vice-regal office. Grey, who could not tolerate opposition, never forgave him this clumsy affront.

 

From that time Sturt's affairs worsened. Grey confirmed his provisional appointment as assistant commissioner, but later refused him the office of colonial secretary on the grounds that his sight was too poor. The Colonial Office then decided to abolish the assistant commissionership, leaving Sturt with the inferior post of registrar-general at a much lower salary. To a man of Sturt's temperament the situation was now intolerable. He was at loggerheads with the governor, deeply in debt, inadequately paid, and could see no hope of improving his prospects. He petitioned the Colonial Office for financial compensation or transfer to another colony. When refused, he decided that the only course left to him was to establish by some bold stroke a claim on the government for special consideration. His best chance of doing this was in exploration and, since he still believed in the existence of an inland sea, he prepared a grandiose plan for exploring and surveying, within two years, the entire unknown interior of the continent, and in 1843 forwarded it to the Colonial Office through his old friend, Sir Ralph Darling. While waiting for a reply he and Grey had a series of minor clashes which culminated in Sturt's censure by the Executive Council for an incautious letter. In May 1844 the secretary of state rejected Sturt's original plan but approved a more limited proposal to penetrate the centre of the continent in an attempt to establish the existence of a mountain range near latitude 28°S.

 

On 10 August 1844 Sturt left Adelaide with 15 men, 6 drays, a boat and 200 sheep. In eight days the party reached Moorundie and then followed the Murray River to its junction with the Darling, and up the Darling to the vicinity of Lake Cawndilla, where they camped for two months making several scouting expeditions into and beyond the Barrier Range. In December the party was short of water and some of the men showed signs of scurvy but they moved further north into the Grey Range. There they made a camp on permanent water fortunately found at Depot Glen on Preservation Creek. By that time summer heat had dried up all other water within reach and from 27 January 1845 to 16 July they were literally trapped in inhospitable country; men and equipment suffered terribly from the heat and Sturt's second-in-command, James Poole, died of scurvy.

 

In July they were released by heavy rain. Sturt moved his party in a north-westerly direction to Fort Grey, whence he made a series of reconnoitring expeditions culminating in a 450-mile (724 km) journey towards the centre of the continent. Repulsed by the sand dunes of the Simpson desert he at last reluctantly abandoned the idea of an inland sea.

 

Sturt and his party returned exhausted to Fort Grey and after another trip to the Cooper's Creek area from 9 October to 17 November they found the waterhole was rapidly drying. Return to the River Murray became imperative but nevertheless Sturt proposed that the main party should go home, while he and John McDouall Stuart made a do-or-die trip towards the centre. The surgeon, J. H. Browne, resisted so strongly that these heroics were dropped and the whole party went off together. At this point Sturt then succumbed to a serious attack of scurvy and Browne took command through the most difficult part of the journey. By using Aboriginal foods Sturt had almost recovered when the expedition reached Moorundie on 15 January. He arrived at Adelaide on 19 January 1846 ahead of his party, which followed a few days later.

 

In his absence Grey had been replaced by Major Robe and Sturt had been appointed colonial treasurer. His position was now more comfortable and early in 1847 he applied for leave. He left for England on 8 May and arrived in London just too late to receive personally the gold medal of the Royal Geographical Society, but was able to complete a published account of the expedition. On his return to Adelaide in August 1849 he was soon appointed colonial secretary but unfortunately his sight began to fail and at the end of 1851 he retired on a pension of £600.

 

Sturt had often expressed his love for Australia and his determination never to return to England, but the need to secure the future of his children forced him to change his mind and he left Australia on 19 March 1853. He spent his last years peacefully at Cheltenham, being widely respected and continually consulted about Australian affairs, particularly the preparations for the North Australian expedition of 1854. He applied unsuccessfully for the governorship of Victoria in 1855 and of Queensland in 1858. In 1869 at the instigation of his friends he sought a knighthood, but died on 16 June before the formalities were completed. Later the Queen permitted his widow to use the title Lady Sturt. He was pursued to the end by financial difficulties and it was said that had his old friend George Macleay not come forward, there would not have been enough in his estate for a decent burial.

 

Although Sturt probably entered his career as an explorer through influence, his selection was justified by results. He was a careful and accurate observer and an intelligent interpreter of what he saw, and it was unfortunate that much of his work revealed nothing but desolation. He prided himself with some justice on his impeccable treatment of the Aboriginals, and earned the respect and liking of his men by his courtesy and care for their well-being. Indeed his capacity for arousing and retaining affection was remarkable; it made him an ideal family man but a failure in public life. Without toughness and egocentricity to balance his poor judgment and business capacity he had little chance of success in colonial politics. In this sphere he might well be described as a born loser. He remained throughout his life an English Tory gentleman with an unshakeable faith in God. Despite his passionate interest in Australia, his inability to appreciate the attitudes of the colonial community was shown by his proposal in 1858 for a colony of Asiatic convicts in the north. He will always be remembered, however, as the first to chart the Murray River.

  

From:

adb.anu.edu.au/biography/sturt-charles-2712

As the darker powers in the corners of the world grew, the former strength of great kingdoms no longer seemed so unshakeable. Magic found its way back into the world, and the world trembled.

 

In case nobody noticed, I was gone for a while, but I was still following the community when I could. But now I'm back, and hopefully will be able to build some more.

 

This is my entry to the CBC Epic Siege category, and is definitely one of my bigger mocs. Comments welcome!

Remarks by Ambassador Susan E. Rice, U.S. Permanent Representative to the United Nations, At B'nai Torah Congregation, Boca Raton, FL, May 10, 2012.

AS PREPARED

 

Thank you all so much. Good evening.

 

It’s great to be here with you all. You know, I spend most of my time in New York at the United Nations, and I can definitely hear some New York accents out there. But I’ve already noticed at least one key difference about Boca Raton. At the UN, Asia is a region. In Boca, it’s a kosher restaurant.

 

Rabbi Steinhardt, thank you so much for that warm introduction and for all you do to provide wisdom and strength to this community. I’ve been very impressed with how seriously B’nai Torah takes the U.S.-Israel special relationship, including, I’m told, having more than 100 congregants join you for a series of intensive study sessions.

 

I’m also grateful to the partners who’ve joined B’nai Torah in sponsoring tonight’s event: the Anti-Defamation League, the American Jewish Committee, and the JCRC of South Palm Beach County. You are valued partners in our common work to support the unshakeable U.S.-Israel bond, human rights for all, and tikkun olam.

 

Being here in shul calls to mind one of my favorite psalms: Hinei ma’tov u’ma-nayim, shevet achim gam yachad —“how good it is and how pleasant when we sit together in brotherhood.” I shared that verse a few weeks ago with a roomful of rabbis at the AIPAC Policy Conference, and they got up and started singing, despite my dubious pronunciation. I love that psalm because it strikes so many chords: how good it is when citizens of different backgrounds come together in common purpose; how deeply we yearn for the day when the children of Isaac and the children of Ishmael can at last find peace; how much stronger we are when we join together than when we let ourselves be split apart. It’s a theme of great power and great hope.

 

But it doesn’t always reflect the imperfect world in which we live.

 

In our imperfect world, we still face leaders who deny their people’s basic rights, who deny the Holocaust, and who deny the right of their neighbors to exist.

 

So in our imperfect world, the United States is committed to preventing Iran from developing a nuclear weapon.

 

That’s why, under President Obama’s leadership, the UN Security Council imposed the toughest sanctions ever against Iran. Those sanctions target the elite Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, ban ballistic missile launches, provide for rigorous inspection of suspect cargo, prohibit the sale of many heavy weapons to Iran, and severely constrain financial transactions with Iran. These new measures intensify our own crippling sanctions against the regime and convince key partners in Europe and elsewhere to crank up theirs as well. This pressure has isolated Iran, unified the world in holding Iran accountable, and brought Iran back to the negotiating table, as intended. These sanctions will not be lifted until Iran has met its nuclear obligations.

 

In our imperfect world, President Obama, also remains determined to accelerate the day when we see the end of the Assad regime that has so brutalized the Syrian people. The United States wants the UN mission there to succeed, but the onus remains firmly on Assad to stop the violence. Unless and until he does, the pressure on him will mount.

 

And in our imperfect world, President Obama remains determined not to rest until a secure, Jewish and democratic State of Israel lives side by side with a viable Palestinian state established through direct negotiations—two states for two peoples, living in peace and security.

 

This evening, though, I’d like to focus on another persistent challenge we face: ensuring that Israel gets fair and equal treatment at the United Nations, with all the rights and responsibilities of any UN member state.

 

And this subject brings to mind an old story about one of my distinguished predecessors, Adlai Stevenson.

 

The year was 1961. The Israeli Ambassador to the United Nations and a diplomat from Ireland were sitting next to each other in the UN General Assembly, watching Ambassador Stevenson defend the Kennedy Administration’s actions at the Bay of Pigs. Explaining the Bay of Pigs to the General Assembly wasn’t a fun assignment, and Stevenson was having a rough time. He squinted over his glasses and started in on a particularly overwritten section about why Castro’s sins had justified the operation. Stevenson declared, “I have already told you about Castro’s crimes against man. But now let me tell you about Castro’s crimes against God.”

 

Then, Stevenson peered down at his notes and stammered a bit: “Castro has—Castro has circumcised the freedoms of the Catholics of Cuba.” And at that, the Israeli diplomat looked over at his Irish friend and said, “I always knew that, somehow, we would be blamed for this.”

 

Now, all countries come in for knocks every now and then at the United Nations, including our own. Nobody is above fair criticism. But what Israel faces is something very different. It’s relentless. It’s obsessive. It’s ugly. It’s bad for the United Nations. It’s bad for peace. And President Obama is determined to stop it.

 

So we fight. Ladies and gentlemen, not a day goes by—not one—when my colleagues and I don’t work hard to defend Israel’s security and legitimacy at the United Nations.

 

· When the Palestinians sought UN membership, we stood firm on principle and rallied others to ensure no further obstacles were placed in the path to peace. President Obama went before the UN General Assembly and said, and I quote, “Peace will not come through statements and resolutions at the United Nations.”

 

· When the Palestinians pushed a Security Council resolution on settlements—a final-status issue that can only be resolved through direct negotiations between the parties—President Obama decided the United States would veto it.

 

· When major events were held in 2009 and 2011 to follow up on the notorious Durban conference, which featured such ugly displays of intolerance and anti-Semitism, we twice refused to participate.

 

· When the deeply flawed Goldstone Report was released, we insisted on Israel’s right to defend itself and maintained that Israel’s democratic institutions could credibly investigate any possible abuses.

 

· When Israel was isolated in the aftermath of the flotilla incident, we supported her.

 

· When a resolution before the International Atomic Energy Agency singled out Israel’s nuclear program for rebuke, we rallied our partners and defeated it. And when the same resolution was considered a year later, its sponsors saw another defeat coming and withdrew their own proposal.

 

· Despite the meaningful progress we have made at the Human Rights Council, when it turns session after session to Agenda Item Seven on Israel, the Council’s only standing agenda item on any single country in the world, we fight to eliminate this glaring case of structural bias.

 

· When pre-cooked, unfair, anti-Israel resolutions come up by the dozen at the Human Rights Council, the General Assembly, UNESCO, and elsewhere, we consistently oppose them, and we press others to do the same, as we did recently when the Palestinians proposed another unnecessary and wasteful Fact Finding Mission.

 

· Last October, when the Syrian regime’s ambassador, speaking at the Security Council, had the gall—the chutzpah—to accuse the United States and Israel of being parties to genocide, I led our delegation in walking out.

 

· And when an American working for the UN as a Special Rapporteur on Palestinian human rights indulged in anti-Semitic web postings and endorsed vile conspiracy theories about 9/11, I called for him to resign.

 

This is our record. These are our principles. That is President Obama’s commitment.

 

But we do far more than just play defense. We have also racked up important wins that help Israel take its rightful place among its fellow nations.

 

· The United States has helped dramatically expand Israel’s participation in the important group of Western countries known by the crazy UN acronym JUSCANZ, in New York and Geneva—and that helps Israel participate more fully in the UN system.

 

· When terrorists recently struck at Israeli diplomatic personnel in India and Georgia, we led the Security Council in unanimously condemning the attacks “in the strongest terms.” It was the first Security Council statement supporting Israel against terrorism in seven years.

 

· In January 2010, with U.S. support, Israel became Chair of the Kimberley Process—the important initiative to stem the spread of conflict diamonds. Israel will join the board of UNICEF this year. And Israel recently won its first-ever seat on the executive board of the UN Development Program, which Israel’s Deputy UN Ambassador called “a milestone.”

 

Now we’ve still got work to do to ensure that Israel has all the rights and responsibilities of every other UN member state—no more, no less. And we won’t let up.

 

But there’s an important distinction to understand. Israel gets singled out at the UN, not by the UN. When Israel gets marginalized and maligned, it’s not usually because of the UN Secretariat or the international public servants who work for agencies such as UNICEF, UNESCO or the IAEA. It’s usually because of decisions by individual member states. As one of my predecessors, the late Richard Holbrooke, liked to say, “Blaming the United Nations when things go wrong is like blaming Madison Square Garden when the Knicks play badly.”

 

Ladies and gentlemen, I know you’re profoundly frustrated by the treatment Israel all too often endures at the UN. The President and I are too. But we hope we never let that justified frustration blind us to the very real good the UN does. It imposes crippling sanctions on Iran and North Korea. It took action to protect thousands of Libyan civilians from slaughter by Muammar Qaddafi. It provides relief to victims of genocide in Darfur and of famine in Somalia. It acts as an essential watchdog for abuses worldwide, such as through the Special Rapporteur for Iran. It’s not in our interest to throw out the baby with the bathwater. But it is very much in our interest to have the UN keep the peace in conflict zones at a fraction of the cost of sending U.S. troops to do the job, to save the lives of starving children, and to support fragile democracies from Tunisia to South Sudan.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, we will continue to be guided by our principles. We will always reject the notion that Zionism is racism. President Obama has insisted that the United States be clear: the treatment Israel receives across the UN system is unacceptable. Efforts to chip away at Israel’s legitimacy have been met with the unflinching opposition of the United States. And they always will be.

 

That’s why our Israeli friends are glad we’re at the UN. They’re glad we’re there to stand with them for fair treatment, to fight double standards, and uphold our shared values. They’re glad we’ve got their back. I am glad they have ours. And Israel knows how much the United States does to help—in forum after forum, in fight after fight.

 

Our ongoing fight for Israel at the United Nations is just one part of a much larger mandate from President Obama. His guidance to us all has been crystal clear: to strengthen and deepen America’s special relationship with Israel—a relationship rooted in common interests and common values.

 

That’s why we’ve increased cooperation between our militaries to unprecedented levels. That’s why, even in tough fiscal times, we’ve increased foreign military financing to record levels. That’s why, on top of the record funding we secured in Fiscal Year 2011, we provided additional support for the Iron Dome anti-rocket system—which has already been used to defend innocent Israelis who live near the Gaza frontier.

 

The stakes could not be higher. I’ve seen it personally. In 2008, I joined President Obama—then Senator Obama—on his second visit to Israel. I followed behind him as he studied each wall at Yad Vashem. I watched from afar as he slipped a personal prayer into the stones of the Kotel. And I touched the charred remnants of the rockets that the terrorists of Hamas continue to fire at the brave citizens of Sderot.

 

I will also never forget my first visit to Israel, when I was just 14. I went with my younger brother and my late father, who was then on the Board of Directors of Trans World Airlines. We had the extraordinary experience of flying on one of the very first flights from Tel Aviv to Cairo, just around the time of Camp David. We went to Yad Vashem, walked the lanes of the Old City, climbed Masada, floated in the Dead Sea, and picked fruit at a kibbutz. I learned by heart the words of the Sh’ma. And since that first wonderful visit, my admiration for Israel has grown ever stronger.

 

Let me close with one last powerful memory from that same time. I grew up in Washington, DC, and my mother still lives across the street from the Egyptian Embassy. So I got to see Anwar al-Sadat bound out of his motorcade and wave just after he had signed the Camp David Accords. As a kid, I think I was more impressed by the heavily armed Secret Service agents occupying our roof. But as an adult, I am most impressed by the central lesson of Sadat’s actions: that human conflict and human suffering can be ended by human courage.

 

Hinei ma’tov uma-nayim—how good it is when we come together. How important it is for us to stand together for peace, security, and dignity for Israelis, Palestinians, and all the people of the Middle East. How crucial it is that we shun the voices of division and despair, and that we reaffirm the deep and bipartisan foundation of the special relationship between the United States and Israel.

 

We’ve come far. But we’ve got far more to do. And in that work, let there be no doubt. America remains deeply and permanently committed to the peace and security of the State of Israel. That commitment starts with President Obama, and it is shared by us all. It spans generations. It spans political parties. It is not negotiable. And it never will be.

 

Thank you so much.

 

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PRN: 2012/117