View allAll Photos Tagged old_age
-Integridad frente a desesperación (desde aproximadamente los 60 años hasta la muerte). Esta es la última etapa. En la delicada adultez tardía, o madurez, la tarea primordial es lograr una integridad con un mínimo de desesperanza. Primero ocurre un distanciamiento social, desde un sentimiento de inutilidad existe un sentido de inutilidad biológica, debido a que el cuerpo ya no responde como antes; junto a las enfermedades, aparecen las preocupaciones relativas a la muerte. Los amigos mueren; los familiares también y ello contribuye a la aparición de un sentimiento de desesperanza. Como respuesta a esta desesperanza, algunos mayores se empiezan a preocupar con el pasado. La integridad yoica significa llegar a los términos de tu vida, y por tanto, llegar a los términos del final de tu vida. La tendencia mal adaptativa es llamada presunción. Cuando la persona “presume” de una integridad yoica sin afrontar de hecho las dificultades de la senectud.
-Ego integrity vs. despair. This stage affects the age group of 65 and on. During this time an individual has reached the last chapter in their life and retirement is approaching or has already taken place. Many people, who have achieved what was important to them, look back on their lives and feel great accomplishment and a sense of integrity. Conversely, those who had a difficult time during middle adulthood may look back and feel a sense of despair.
On ego identity versus role confusion, ego identity enables each person to have a sense of individuality, or as Erikson would say, "Ego identity, then, in its subjective aspect, is the awareness of the fact that there is a self-sameness and continuity to the ego's synthesizing methods and a continuity of one's meaning for others" (1963). Role confusion, however, is, according to Barbara Engler in her book Personality Theories (2006), "the inability to conceive of oneself as a productive member of one's own society" (158). This inability to conceive of oneself as a productive member is a great danger; it can occur during adolescence, when looking for an occupation.
“Old age, believe me, is a good and pleasant thing. It is true you are gently shouldered off the stage, but then you are given such a comfortable front stall as spectator.”
~Confucius
Unrelated to the German motorcycle company of the same name, the Victoria company of Dennistoun, Glasgow, was to become Scotland’s biggest motorcycle manufacturer, and by the outbreak of war in 1914, had developed a wide range of machines fitted with Precision engines made by FE Baker. After the war, production continued using mainly Villiers, JAP, and Blackburne engines, until the company’s demise in 1926
The New Victoria Cycle Manufacturing Co. of Scotland was based in Craigpark (Street) .
Transmission Chain cam belt
Engine No. B.3563 Villiers 269cc T/S.
Gearbox No. J.86 Albion 2 Speed
The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er;
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,
Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Part of an ongoing (10 years) series of sel-fportraits on the theme of getting older. Shot in the studio.
TRUE GRIT
Well-known Coventry bulk aggregate haulier, Conor Bartlett, is a young man with more power under his right boot than most.
If your grandparents started a transport firm, and then your dad started another, there's a fair chance that you would have spent pretty much your entire life around trucks. That's certainly the case for 20-year-old Conor, a third generation member of the Bartlett family who grew up with the sniff of diesel in his nose and now has it coursing through his veins in bucketfuls.
"I did start young, that's for sure," says Conor. "I used to love going out on the lorries with my dad or my granddad, and I started off myself by driving shunter around the yard. School wasn't my thing, and I couldn't wait to leave and get my licence. I did that as soon as I turned 18 and started working for the family business as a driver. Had to work my way up, though – my first truck was a little four-wheel tipper, and after that, I progressed to 4-series Scanias. I've no idea what I'd do if I couldn't drive…but it would have to be something in the transport industry. Mechanic maybe…"
Two years on and Conor, at the ripe old age of 20, is still driving and now has his own Scania V8, an R 580 Topline tag-axle 44-tonne gross train weight unit, in which he spends his days hauling bulk aggregates around the local area, or shifting waste as far afield as Yorkshire and Kent. We ask if he lets anyone else drive it. "No chance," comes the reply.
And you can see why not, for Conor's V8 is something special. OK, so it doesn't actually have any bells or whistles fitted, but it does have a very snappy glare-reducing sun visor, half a dozen spotlights to brighten the way, six sparkling alloy wheels, a pair of air horns to let you know he's coming and a set of heavy-duty bull bars strong enough to halt a, er…, bull.
The package is completed by a superb traditional red, white and blue livery, with pinstripe detailing to highlight and emphasise the smooth, sleek lines of the Scania R-series Highline cab. Inside, the interior is largely untouched except for the addition of a retro Scania-Vabis steering wheel. That together with its wood-trimmed gear lever (yep, it's got a manual box and three pedals…) gives it the look and feel of what any dyed-in-the-wool enthusiast would call 'a proper truck'!
"It certainly does turn a few heads," confirms Conor. "I've done a few shows with it – Truckfest, and I've been as far as the Truckstar Festival in Assen, Holland. But I haven't yet managed to catch the judges eye just yet…maybe that will all change now I've been in the T&D calendar!"
Conor's rig is plated at 44-tonnes gross train weight, so you could say its 580 horsepower engine is more than generous, based on the old haulage adage of 'ten horses per ton'.
"Yes, can't argue with that," agrees Conor. "It's got plenty of pulling power and is well on top of the job. And that makes for a relaxed, comfortable ride, which is important. The reason we went for a V8 is that we wanted a flagship for the fleet. Both dad and I really like this particular generation R-series, and as we hadn't bought a truck for a while so we went for it while we could. And it's great – reliable, drives beautifully and we get great backup from our local dealer, Keltruck Coventry."
A tour of the company's premises – which actually houses both family businesses; Neil Bartlett Haulage Limited, the firm started by Conor's grandparents Neil and Marie, and his dad's company J J Bartlett (Haulage) Limited – reveals that Scania and Keltruck are both well embedded into the operation's DNA. Two large and well-used Scania Vehicle Maintenance planners adorn the back wall of the office and over to the side is a Keltruck clock, whose yellowed face has obviously witnessed the passing of a good deal of time.
Pictures around the office tell the story too; from the company's first W-reg Scania 141 to the T-truck it still runs and 3- and 4-series models, Bartlett's have run them all.
"They're just great trucks," says Conor. "They tick all the boxes, simple as that. In fact, we've only just got rid of our last 4-series, that's how good they are."
The day we meet Conor, he is wearing a JJ Bartlett polo shirt which just happens to have a Scania-Vabis logo on it. "Not quite sure what the Vabis bit means," he says. So we tell him: 'It stands for Vagnsfabrik Aktiebolaget i Södertälje'. He gives us a sideways 'wish-I'd-never-asked' kind of look before we translate, explaining it means Wagon Maker Limited of Södertälje. Södertälje being the town in Sweden where Vabis started making railway rolling stock back in 1891.
We tell him it's also where Sweden's first car was made, and one of the country's first two trucks too – the other being built in Malmo by a company called Scania, with whom Vabis would merge in 1911 to form the Scania-Vabis organisation, a name which endured all the way through to 1968, a year before the first Scania V8 engine was launched.
That first V8 delivered just 350 horsepower, less than half of the most powerful models today. While it's obvious that Scania has been busily developing its King of the Road engine for the last half century, what message would Conor send to the Swedes if he had the chance to improve the V8?
"If I had to say one thing," he says after pondering the question for quite some time, "it's that mine's a bit too quiet. I'm told they've done something about it in new generation trucks, which is great news – I mean, it's a V8, so you've got to be able to hear it, haven't you?
➡️ keltruckscania.com/about-keltruck/news-centre/press-relea...
➡️ scania.com/uk/en/home/experience-scania/features/true-gri...
.... Etnea avenue, the 2018 evening of February 5, the day of the feast of the Patron Saint of Catania, St.Agatha, it happens that ....
.... via Etnea, la sera del 5 febbraio 2018, il giorno della festa della Santa Patrona di Catania, Sant'Agata, accade che ....
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Qi Bo's photos on Flickr Hive Mind
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Fear of the unknown, the fear of losing own physical or mental health, or worse, having already lost it, possible problems with work (if a work has it), old age advancing, awareness of the existence of a Higher Being, are just some of the reasons that push people to search for a contact with the Divine, with the supernatural, leading them to plead for help, but this is not enough to completely explain the close link fact of absolute devotion and enormous affection that the people of Catania (province) have towards their young martyr Agatha; an entire city partecipate in these days to ceremony and procession, one can not help but ask this question, what binds in such a profound and peculiar citizens to their Patron Saint Agata? Maybe I was lucky enough to capture photographically what is a partial response (see my photos of the 2016 feast): a child at a very early age is brought to the window from her mother while passing the float of St. Agatha, so it's easy to understand... the devotion and attachment to the Martyr starts very young , transmitted by their parents as a treasure to be preserved and grow throughout their lives, which leads you in the days of the feast to a great collective.
This is a short-long report I did this year 2018, in the city of Catania (Sicily) in occasion of the feast of her patron saint Agatha, which took place on the 3, 4 and 5 February (this dates commemorates the martyrdom of the young Saint), and on 17 August too (this date celebrates the return to Catania of her remains, after these had been transferred to Constantinople by the Byzantine general Maniaces as war booty, and there remained for 86 years), when the Sicilian city is dressed up to feast, with a scent of orange blossom and mandarins, and its citizens show that they possess an extraordinary love and bond with the young martyr saint Agatha.
The religious sicilian feast of Saint Agatha is the most important feast of Catania, its inhabitants from five centuries, during the three days of the feast in honor of her "Santuzza" (young Saint), create a unique setting, with celebrations and rituals impressive, which means that this event is regarded as the third religious festival in the world (some say the second ...) after the "Semana Santa" in Seville and the "Corpus Christi" in Cuzco, Peru. Unlike other religious holidays, more sober, to Sant'Agata highlights a vocation exuberant typical of the south Italy, who loves to combine the sacred with the profane.
The cult of the young Santa dates back to the third century, when the teenager Agatha was martyred for refusing the roman proconsul Quintiziano. One year after the death of the young Agatha, on 5 February of the year 252, his virginal veil was carried in procession, and it is said it was able to save Catania from destruction due to a devastating eruption of Mount Etna.
The festivities begin with the procession of Candlemas (this year were in greater number, perhaps 14 instead of the 11 years of the other years); the "Candlemas" are giant Baroque wooden "candlesticks" paintings in gold, each representing an ancient guild (butchers, fishmongers, grocers, greengrocers, etc.), which are brought by eight devotees; the "cannalore" (candlemas) anticipate the arrival of the "float" of Saint Agatha during the procession. Devotees, men and women, wearing a traditional garment similar to a white bag, cinched at the waist by a black rope, gloves and a white handkerchief, and a black velvet cap, and it seems that such clothing evoke nightgown with the qule the Catanese, awakened with a start by the touch of the bells of the Cathedral, welcomed the naval port, in 1126, the relics of the Holy which fell from Constantinople. On float, consisting of a silver chariot sixteenth of thirty tons, which is driven by a double and long line of devotees with the robust and long ropes, takes place the bust of Saint Agatha, completely covered with precious stones and jewels. On February 4, the parade celebrates the so-called "external path" that touches some places of martyrdom in the city of Catania; the next day, the 5 instead the procession along the "aristocrat path", which runs along the main street, Via Etnea, the parlor of Catania. On this day the devotees carry on their shoulders the long candles of varying thickness, there are some not very big, others are fairly heavy, but some skim exceptional weights.
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La paura dell’ignoto, il timore di perdere la salute fisica o psichica, o peggio, averla già persa, possibili problemi col lavoro (per chi un lavora l’ha) o peggio non averlo dovendo così “inventarsi” la giornata, la vecchiaia che avanza, la consapevolezza dell’esistenza di un Essere Superiore, sono solo alcuni dei motivi che spingono gli uomini a cercare un contatto col Divino, col Sovrannaturale, portandoli ad invocare il Suo aiuto, ma tutto ciò non basta assolutamente a spiegare lo stretto legame fatto di assoluta devozione ed enorme attaccamento che gli abitanti di Catania (e provincia) hanno nei confronti della loro “Santuzza” la giovanissima martire Agata; nel vedere partecipare quella che sembra essere una città intera a questi giorni di rito e processione, non ci si può non porre questa domanda, cosa lega in maniera così profonda e peculiare i cittadini Catanesi alla loro Santa Patrona Agata? Forse ho avuto la fortuna di cogliere fotograficamente (vedi le mie foto della festa del 2016) quella che è una risposta parziale e certamente non unica alla domanda: un bimbo in tenerissima età viene portato alla finestra dalla sua mamma mentre passa la vara di S.Agata, ecco… la devozione e l’attaccamento alla giovanissima Martire inizia da piccolissimi, trasmessa dai propri genitori (e non solo…) come un tesoro da custodire e coltivare per tutta la vita, che porta che nei giorni della festa ad un fantastico rito collettivo al quale nessun Catanese sembra non possa o non voglia rinunciare.
Questa è un breve e lungo report, da me realizzato nel febbraio di quest’anno 2018, nella città di Catania (Sicilia) in occasione della festa della sua giovane santa patrona Agata, che ha avuto luogo come ogni anno il 3, il 4 ed il 5 di febbraio (questa data commemora il martirio della Santa giovinetta), festa che viene ripetuta anche il 17 agosto (questa data rievoca il ritorno a Catania delle sue spoglie, dopo che queste erano state trasferite a Costantinopoli da parte del generale bizantino Maniace come bottino di guerra, spoglie che ivi rimasero per 86 anni); per questa occasione la città siciliana è vestita a festa con profumi di fiori d'arancio e mandarini, coi suoi cittadini che mostrano di possedere uno straordinario amore e legame con la giovane martire Agata.
Gli abitanti di Catania, oramai da cinque secoli, nei tre giorni della festa in onore della "Santuzza", danno vita ad una scenografia unica, con celebrazioni e riti imponenti, che fanno si che questo evento sia considerato come la terza festa religiosa al mondo (qualcuno dice la seconda ...) dopo la "Semana Santa" di Siviglia ed il "Corpus Domini" a Cuzco, in Perù. A differenza di altre feste religiose, più sobrie, quella di Sant'Agata mette in luce una vocazione esuberante tipica del meridione, che ama unire il sacro col profano.
Il culto della giovane Santa risale al terzo secolo, quando l'adolescente Agata fu martirizzata per aver rifiutato il proconsole romano Quintiziano. Un anno dopo la morte della giovane Agata, avvenuta il 5 febbraio dell'anno 252, il suo velo virginale venne portato in processione, e si narra esso riuscì a salvare Catania dalla sua distruzione a causa di una devastante eruzione del vulcano Etna.
I festeggiamenti iniziano con il corteo delle "candelore", queste sono dei giganteschi e pesanti "candelabri" in legno, in stile barocco, dipinti in oro, ognuna rappresentante una antica corporazione (macellai, pescivendoli, pizzicagnoli, fruttivendoli, ecc.), che vengono portati da otto devoti, le quali "cannalore" durante la processione anticipano l'arrivo della "vara" di Sant'Agata. I devoti, sia donne che uomini, indossano un tipico indumento simile ad un sacco bianco, stretto in vita da una cordicella nera, guanti ed un fazzoletto bianchi, ed infine una papalina di velluto nero, sembra che tale abbigliamento rievochi la camicia da notte con la quale i Catanesi, svegliatisi di soprassalto dal tocco improvviso delle campane del Duomo, accolsero al porto navale, nel 1126, le reliquie della Santa che rientravano da Costantinopoli. Sulla vara, costituita da un carro argentato cinquecentesco di trenta quintali, trainata da una doppia e lunghissima fila di devoti tramite delle robuste e lunghe funi, prende posto il busto di Sant'Agata, completamente ricoperto di pietre preziose e gioielli. Il 4 febbraio, il corteo compie il cosiddetto "giro esterno" che tocca alcuni luoghi del martirio nella città catanese; il giorno dopo, il 5, il corteo percorre il "giro aristocratico", che percorre la strada principale, la via Etnea, salotto buono di Catania. In questo giorno i devoti portano in spalla dei lunghi ceri di vario spessore, ce ne sono alcuni non molto grossi, altri sono discretamente pesanti, ma alcuni sfiorano pesi eccezionali.
This shot was also done on a tripod as the staircase was pitch black.
Went out to try my luck at some more gritty interior shots. This peticular old farm house(owned by a friend of ours) required much higher iso as most of the windows have been boarded up with plywood. Im usually not comfortable at such higher isos but it somewhat gets lost in the grit.
Outside pic before some of the windows were boarded up.
www.flickr.com/photos/78994628@N02/13805419925/in/set-721...
"They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them."
Folkloric-
- No known folkloric use in the Philippines.
- In Brazil, curanderos or traditional healers put zinnia leaves (Z. elegans) on top of a patient's head to cure madness. Also used as ingredients in ritual baths of Brazilian healing ceremonies. (3)
source : stuart xchange
Daily Tai Chi practice on Perth’s South Inch (park). Note the continued use of coats and gloves in May…
My counterpoint to Tennessee Williams' Sweet Bird of Youth.
Mobile sculpture in a neighbor's front yard. Riehen CH
DSC_0002 - Version 2
In my set: Dan's Other Metal
(Dan Daniels)
Das 1286 erbaute Heiligen-Geist-Hospital am Koberg in Lübeck ist eine der ältesten bestehenden Sozialeinrichtungen der Welt und eines der bedeutendsten Bauwerke der Stadt. Es steht in der Tradition der Heilig-Geist-Spitäler nach dem Vorbild von Santo Spirito in Sassia in Rom. Betreut wurden die Spitäler von den Brüdern vom Orden des Heiligen Geistes. Während der Reformationszeit wurde das Hospital in ein „weltliches“ Altenheim umgewandelt, welches bis heute erhalten blieb. Ursprünglich standen die Betten der Hospitalbewohner in der Halle. Im 18. Jahrhundert dienten der erste und zweite Stock als Hospital. 1820 wurden vier Quadratmeter große, hölzerne Kammern gebaut, getrennt nach Geschlechtern. Die Abteilungen sind nach oben offen. Bis 1970 waren die Kammern bewohnt. Für die Bewohner wurde stattdessen ein modernes Altenheim auf dem weitläufigen Grundstück gebaut. Das Heiligen-Geist-Hospital ist eine von der Stadt Lübeck treuhänderisch verwaltete Stiftung des öffentlichen Rechts. Quelle: Wikipedia, gekürzt
The Holy Spirit Hospital in Lübeck, founded in 1286, is one of the oldest existing social care institutions of the world and one of the most important buildings of the city. It derives from the example von Santo Spirito in Sassia, in rome. These hospitals were administered by the friars of the Order of the Holy Spirit. In the course of the Reformation the hospital was transformed into a secular old people's home that is still existing. Initially the beds of the inmates stood in the big hall, in the 18th century even in two storeys. In 1820 were built wooden chambers 4 square metres in size, open at the top and separated according to the genders. People lived in the chambers until 1970. To meet modern needs, a new old age home was built on the large premises. The Holy Spirit Hospital is a public foundation administered by the city of Lübeck.
After the war of 1812, soldiers were able to purchase land in the Town of Wilson for $1.25/acre. John Poth was one of those settlers building this house after logging the land to start a farm. freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~sheboygan/news... Many generations continued to farm the family homestead, a few ventured into other careers, well drillers, butchers...opening a very successful meat market in the city of Sheboygan.
Around 1930 the Poths acquired another parcel of land in the town of Wilson where they built a modest retirement home for themselves and passed the family farm on to younger generations. They lived there until about 1990 when they succumbed to old age. That’s when I purchased the same house and continue to live in it today.
I’ve always felt a connection with this family, learning more and more about them over the years both good and bad. They were very well known throughout town and the city. I often find reminders of them in and around my house thru lost possessions and their workmanship/craftsmanship. I found it very weird that the homestead property was lined with pine trees and also had several chestnut and apple trees just like my property.
As far as the old homestead, the city of Sheboygan now owns the house and the land, leasing the land to a neighboring farmer. I’m guessing they acquired it thru money owed possibly from advanced age healthcare provided by a city facility. The city limits were miles from town years ago but are only a few properties away today and eventually the old homestead will become part of the city and another sub-division.
The house has been sealed up tight for over 20 years now, never entered or kept up. I’ve always been very interested in this house.
It must have been magnificent when this door was first raised. You can almost feel every one of the people who banged on these doors or turned the lock and walked in.
Minnesota. There is a reason for her seriousness. Life was not easy for her. This is a far cry from the cabinet photos showing her as a confident, hopeful and happy young woman.
Whilst other species in the wood were sprouting new growth the beech trees still had some leaves, brown and curled, attached to the branches.
Me, Larry and Louise.
Negotiating a broken light socket fitting, jutting out into the hallway, and an overturned plastic chair blocking what looked an otherwise disused stairwell, we made our way up to the hostel on the first floor.
Osama had driven us to the hostel through the wet evening streets of Nablus in his beaten up Peugeot, all the while frantically gesticulating, trying to impress on us the severity of the situation in this city, perhaps seeing us as his or Nablus’s only chance to share a Palestinian perspective with some internationals. With one eye on the road and one arm on the back of the passenger seat, turning to talk to us in the back seat, Osama told us of the closures, the curfews, the checkpoints and the difficulty of moving about freely. Between narrowly avoiding oncoming cars as he occasionally veered into the opposite lane he told us of the nightly Israeli military incursions, the rocket attacks on the refugee camps, the shootings and assassinations, the house demolitions, the funerals and the loss of innocent lives. But for all we were told perhaps the most upsetting thing for me was to see this desperate attempt to squeeze as much information as possible into what was no more than a 10 minute car journey. Most, if not all, Palestinians have shocking stories to tell, and are more than willing to share their opinions about the occupation and the hardship it has created, but nowhere as much as Nablus have I felt that this to be a need and certainly never one so desperate. Osama questioned us, “What life is this? Where is my dignity? Where is my dignity? And what of my son? What life is there for him?” We had no answers. All we could do was sit solemnly and nod, the windscreen wipers jolting back and forth as we continued through the wet streets. My mind wandering, I remembered that very morning when we had come through Hawara checkpoint, just to the south of the city. As we passed through wire mesh walkways, not unlike the pens used for livestock herding before a final despatching at the abattoir, and crossed a wasteland to where Nablus bound minibus taxis waited in muddy pot-holed car park, I watched an old lady, perhaps of grandmother age, tiptoe through sloppy mud to a wheel spinning taxi, its back end sliding out down the slippery dirt mounds. The old lady hitched her traditional style black embroidered dress, at the same time trying to pass her plastic bagged wares to a fellow passenger, finally being dragged aboard before the mud sprayed taxi bounced and skidded off across the wasteland rank. I thought of my own grandmother in a similar scenario, humbled by the relative immobility of old age and humiliated by a blind oppressive system that continues to punish the innocent in ways that are slowly becoming an excepted norm. While the Palestinians continue to put up with life as it is, to see it anew with an outsiders perspective is shocking. It simply isn’t right. Osama’s question came back to me then as it always will whenever the immense disparity between freedom and oppression makes itself even subtly apparent. Where is the dignity? What life is this?
The hostel’s reception desk, tucked away in a dingy corner of a strip lit room, was dead apart from where between nicotine yellowed walls the proprietor sat, stooped over a cigarette and a game of cards with another of the guests. A television set flickered and chattered away, ignored in the corner, and from an ashtray on the card table a column of Brownian smoke rose from the lodger’s unstubbed butt. Creaking out of his low chair, and shuffling across the room he took a key from the wall behind the desk and beckoned us to follow him. The better of the two rooms we were shown had what looked to be a relatively new a bullet-hole in the window. Broken reflected light from the florescent on the rear wall accentuated the fissures emanating from the crude hole, and a dent in the opposite wall betrayed the bullets trajectory. “Don’t worry.” Osama told us, “It’s just a stray bullet, probably from children throwing stones at soldiers from the roof.” With that and a recommendation that we didn’t go out, just to be on the safe side, Osama left us. Deciding on a supermarket purchased bread and hommous dinner and an early night, we took Osama’s advice.
Later, back in the smoke-filled reception room I sat with Samer, a construction worker from Hebron, in the south of the West Bank. Over the game of cards he continued to play with the proprietor, communicating in broken Arabic and English I learnt that he had no choice but to stay in the hostel during the week due to the difficulty in travel between Hebron and Nablus. Hebron would be just an hours drive away, unhindered, but with at least three main Israeli military checkpoints, and the further possibility of “flying checkpoints”, a system of permanent structures manned only on what seems a random basis, travel has become extremely difficult with no guarantee of reaching work on time, if at all. This, coupled to the rise in oil prices and the longer tortuous routes Palestinians are forced to take around any Israeli territory, including the illegal West Bank settlements, has become a serious issue for travel between all of the West Bank’s major cities and regions. This inefficiency of flow through the West Bank, these restrictive measures upon money, trade and people, has to be looked upon as a very shrewd move by Israel that has a very predictable outcome; a slow death for the Palestinian economy and a gradual chipping away at any chance of a viable Palestinian state. Looked at in terms of Nature, impeding blood circulation between body organs is a sure fire way of killing any organism.
At least the closures and checkpoints benefit hostels. The dribs and drabs of tourists though Nablus are certainly too few to keep the hostel industry afloat. In the centre of the city the tourist information centre is now used as mission control for Nablus’s street cleaning operations. We dropped in just to share the fact of our tourist status only to be met with apparent confusion and asked if we wanted the Turkish Bath, Nablus’s biggest attraction. When we again tried to make ourselves understood, we were just met with a shaking head, a smile, and asked if we wanted tea.
Just a short walk through the bustling new city reveals obvious signs of ongoing violence. Bullet dents in shops’ steel shutters, shattered, bullet pierced windows in some of the high rise buildings, bill board sized posters of young and proud Kalashnikov toting “militants”, the latest to be killed or assassinated by the Israeli military; one even of a father with his arm around the shoulder of, presumably, his son, not older than 12 years old and bearing an AK47 machine gun. In the old city, these “martyr” bill posters can be found on every free wall and shop shutter, the older sunlight faded faces progressively covered with those of new victims. I can’t help but feel that these serious posters lend further an underlying oppressive air to the everyday comings and goings of an otherwise culturally peaceful society. While I understand the natural principle of action and reaction, these young militants must understand that their activity can only ever at best be a gesture of resistance, never the real thing.
Due to its geographical location in the mountainous north of the West Bank, Nablus was at one time a stronghold of the West Bank Palestinian resistance whose militants posed a real problem to Israeli troops during the second Intifada. Now, however, the grinding occupation, closure, siege, and continuing violence has seen this resistance all but crushed, and large parts of the city’s infrastructure damaged with little hope of near future repair. The destruction that Israel has caused the city, both infrastructurally and socially, in retaliation for the actions of relatively few Palestinian militants really amounts to a collective punishment of the city’s population, a population that still live in fear of nightly Israeli military incursions, and even, as a visiting friend experienced last year, sonic boundary breaking Israeli fighter jets flying just hundreds of feet above Nablus city rooftops. I hate to think of the effect these deafening sonic booms have upon the developing inner ear of any young child. Beyond 10 o’clock in the evening the city’s streets are abandoned to Israeli soldiers and whoever they manage to taunt into a showdown. In the narrow alleyways of the old city, Israeli soldiers have been known, locals say, to shout out to anyone in range, “Mujahideen. Show yourselves and fight.” Any rise, usually from stone throwing youths, will be met with live ammunition and more often than not new statistics to add to the ever growing discrepancy between Israeli and Palestinian casualties. The fight, slowly but surely, is becoming a one sided campaign that not only represents continued harassment of the local Palestinian population and provokes disenfranchised youths into bloody confrontations; this fight is even further polarising the impressionable minds of teenage Israeli soldiers, youths that grow up believing popular right wing media and what life in the military instils – hatred for a perceived enemy.
Earlier in the day I had visited Al Lod Charitable Society in Nablus’s Asker refugee camp. Asker camp along with the infamous “Balata”, are among the most frequently targeted areas on the Israeli military’s agenda, and where any trouble can rapidly escalate. These camps are the usual sites of stone, Molotov cocktail, and gunfire exchange between angry yet apathetic Palestinian youths in disbelief of their ability to affect social change through peaceful means, and young indoctrinated Israeli soldiers. It was, in fact, the riot in Balata camp following the funeral of a youth killed by an Israeli sniper in 2000, that is partly attributed to the sparking of the second Intifada. I had been sent to photograph some of the donations and projects funded by Muslim Aid UK, an NGO that channels money, food, and education to Al Lod and similar organisations. I sat with Jamal in his office at the Al Lod centre while, over a cup of tea, he showed me some of the centre’s work: charitable donations of meat and money during the Eid festival; computer and Internet facilities for the surrounding camp neighbourhoods; educational and school materials for local children; even a “Charitable Cheese Project”, distributing 400 tons of cheese to camp residents. Besides charitable donations the centre is also involved in art workshop programs that help children deal with internalised emotional issues. Jamal showed me a collection of some of the art produced. One workshop was based around each child producing two drawings; one of a world in which the children would like to live, and one with life as it is in the camp. Flicking through the pages I was met time and time again with the same, or similar images; the idealism of young minds, rainbowed pastures and sunny hillsides, large rabbits eating carrots from a child’s outstretched hand, kite flying and park scenes – nothing materialistic, simple desires. Contrasting these images to the scenes of perceived camp life, green men chain-sawing trees, tanks demolishing homes, barbed wire, walls, rocket launchers, and war planes, a faceless brutality, it is austerely apparent that the occupation is forging young minds warped to the extremity. As I played with local children, called in off the streets to model for a impromptu photo shoot, some of whom had probably produced the drawings I had seen, I realised that these are the Palestinians in need of real help. These are the children whose only contact with Israelis is with armed soldiers sent to demolish a neighbour’s house, or arrest and drag away a youth in the middle of the night. These are the children amongst which real seeds of anger are being sown. All the while Israel is busy tackling its own perceived “security threat”, it is in the process of creating another perhaps more real future threat. If this brutal contact between Palestinian youths and Israeli soldiers, this inequality, is propagated much further into the future, Israel will only respond with ever more extreme measures; measures that will not only further escalate violence, but measures that will portray the State of Israel’s already tainted human rights track record as beyond all international acceptance. This further alienation of an already insecure state is not only dangerous; it is far from being in the global community’s interests. Without concerted effort and political pressure, Israel is itself in danger of becoming a “rogue” state.
That night, as I lay in bed, I could hear the distant bangs and echoes of stun grenades and bullet split air reverberate up and down streets and alleyways. Jeeps passed by outside, given away by the whirring of off-road tyres on tarmac, and their familiar throaty engine tone. I could not help but think that, in the morning, after sleep has come to us all, maybe, just maybe in those awakening moments, before the reality of the world we live in comes flooding back, before all the complex interactions that have formed the evolution of our social structures, there is a moment when all is well, when peace seems the only possible way, and every sole is equal. If only we could hold on to this innocence and let it permeate into our day.
They Shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
To keep the heart unwrinkled, to be hopeful, kindly, cheerful, reverent that is to triumph over old age.
The time of HSTs on top link ECML services is nearly over, with all examples set to be gone by the December 2019 timetable change. Seeing two next to each other in King's Cross will soon be a memory...
LNER no's 43309 (P6) & 43208 (P5) await their next duties; for 43309 (with 43239 leading) this would be 1D21, the 1603 fast HST to Leeds, while for 43208 (led by 43290) its next duty would be 1W24, the 1400 HST to Aberdeen.
This photo was taken in the gardens at the Calgary Zoo on 21 September 2015. The ENMAX Conservatory butterfly house display was coming to an end and the beautiful tropical plants were beginning to fade, so I really wanted to get over there while I could. This Poppy was really on its last legs and I usually don't see Poppies quite at this stage. There was just something about it that I liked.
It was a good visit and I was happy as can be to finally get a decent photo of the glorious Himalayan Monal (a type of pheasant), and a few Water Lily shots.
Today, 25 November 2015, the sun is shining, but it's -12C (windchill -17C). Brrr ..... It snowed a bit last night.