Christmas Island - where Australia detains immigrant children

Christmas Island is marketed as an exotic holiday location, where you can watch the extraordinary red crab migration, enjoy scuba diving, nature walks, fishing and beautiful beaches. What the average tourist is not aware of is the large immigration detention centre on the island. In fact, there are five compounds on the island, one of which is primarily  used for unaccompanied minors, others house families and the more secure for adult males.

There has been recent outcry in Australia regarding the conditions that children, in particular, are held under. At the end of July 2014,the Australia Human Rights Commission reported  that nearly all the 174 children held on Christmas Island were sick, depressed, self-harming, having nightmares, bedwetting and wandering aimlessly behind barbed wire. Evidence submitted by Dr Peter Young(former medical director for mental health at IHMS) to the government enquiry ,brought shocked reactions as he described the detention environment as "inherently toxic" and "akin to torture". Medical care was inadequate with no fulltime child psychiatrist in attendance. There were few toys and no books and poor educational provision.

Immigrant mothers of infants born on Australian soil have been moved to Christmas Island, often in the middle of the night, while lengthy legal processes determine the right or otherwise of the newborn to naturalisation. A number of these young women have threatened suicide because of the intolerable conditions in which they and their babies are held. In July of this year, it is reported that 14 young women were on 24hr suicide watch and assessment of a number of them determined that they were seriously depressed. One was removed to Perth for urgent treatment , and returned to the detention centre  against the advice of mental health professionals.

It is even more shocking to hear that the greatest percentage of self-harm and suicidal behaviour was exhibited by the children in detention. There were 128 reported self-harm incidents amongst children between January 2013 and March 2014.These were children housed on Christmas Island, the mainland and Nauru Island. This was evidence provided by Professor Gillian Trigg during the day of public hearings in Melbourne on July1st this year.

Churches in Australia have come together in an unprecedented protest against the Immigration Departments policies and record in handling immigrant children. On May 19th, the largest ever Christian civil disobedience action in Australia took place, resulting in 21 arrests, including a Catholic priest and several pastors. More arrests have followed as the 'Love makes a Way' movement grows in strength.

The potential long term damage to these families and children is immense .You can show your support by following the 'Love makes a Way' movement on Facebook.

 Spare a thought for these unfortunate individuals before you book your holiday in the sun to Christmas Island. Or better still, find somewhere else for your vacation.

Where have the kidnapped Nigerian girls gone?

Imagine sitting in a crowded class room, surrounded by other girls all aged between 16 and 18, taking your final Physics examination, when a large group of men burst in and force you all  to climb into trucks while they set the school on fire. That is what happened to over 200 girls on the 14th April this year in Nigeria.  The actual number of girls taken has not been definitely confirmed, because all the school records were destroyed. The school had opened up specially to provide a venue for the examinations and the girls slept in dormitories on site because it was too far to return home.

The men who took them belonged to a group called Boko Haram ( meaning Western education is forbidden).  One of the Boko Haram leaders, in a video link, said "I will sell them in the market, by Allah, I will sell them and marry them off. Women are slaves".In March, another rural boarding school had been attacked and at least 29 men were murdered while the girls were let free and told to go home and get married.

This group of insurgents are well organised, thought to number several thousand, with many armoured vehicles, and live deep in the forest. The Nigerian intelligence agency, despite attempting to infiltrate their ranks, have singularly failed to do so and the government will not send forces in to locate the girls for fear of causing their death.

Olusegun Obesanjo, a former president of Nigeria, has spoken out against President Goodluck Jonathan, accusing him of waiting too long to report this serious situation, and saying that we may not know the whereabouts of these girls for many years. Rumours abound that there has been a mass wedding among the Boko Haram supporters suggesting that the girls have been shared among the militants.

58 girls escaped, many by jumping off moving lorries. Several ran into the bush when they were sent to fetch water and hid until nightfall, making their way back to a local village. At least 2 have been thought to have died of snake bites.

On June 21st, Gordon Brown ( United Nations Special Envoy for Global Education and former Prime Minister of the UK) published an article in the Daily Mail which was illustrated with photographs of 185 of the missing girls. The leader of the community council in Chibok, the district from which the girls had vanished, had been painstakingly collecting information about each girl. But there has not been any real progress in finding them. Gordon Brown goes on to use the article as a platform to expand on the vast issue worldwide of young girls being forced into marriage and denied education. The 200 or so Nigerian girls we know about are but a tiny drop in the ocean against this backdrop. In Nigeria alone, ongoing raids on small local markets continue unreported to the media, with women and girls regularly being taken.

The Nigerian population are frightened to speak up, the Nigerian government is unwilling to act for fear of starting an outright civil war, and foreign agencies have limited ability to influence the situation. Despite help from the US, Canada, Britain, France and China, no progress has been made. I wonder when we will hear more about these girls. Like Olusegan  Obesanjo, I think we may have to wait a long time.

Lunch with Robert Emmet

On a recent  trip to Dublin, I bought a sandwich and headed into St Stephen's Green to enjoy a quiet lunch break in the green oasis away from the traffic of central Dublin. Strolling leisurely through the cool, shady paths, looking for an empty bench, observing the business men in smart suits, tourists with expensive cameras, students in scruffy jeans and noisy Spanish visitors, I tried to recall how it felt to be a student in this vibrant city many years ago.

Finding a bench, I sat down in front of the statue of Robert Emmet. For such a well-known Irish patriot, he looked rather inconspicuously short, with a slight frame and  pointed nose. Not a handsome man I thought.  I realised that I knew very little about him, though I suspect something must have been said during history classes. Perhaps I had not listened.

There was little information displayed by his statue, other than that it was made of bronze, a replica of one in Washington DC, by the sculptor Jerome O'Connor. He led an uprising against the British for which he was executed and the statue was erected in 1968 opposite his birthplace ( though the actual house was long since demolished).

On returning home, I was stimulated to find out more about Robert. He was born in 1778 and executed in 1803. The youngest of 18 children, his father was a prominent  Protestant physician and the family were relatively wealthy. Robert attended Trinity College and by all accounts was an extremely clever student, though his studies were cut short when he became politically active.

The Reverend Thomas Elrington ,Senior Dean of Trinity College at the time Robert was a student, described him as having' a dirty-brownish complexion; at a distance looks as if somewhat marked with small-pox; about five feet six inches high, rather thin than fat, but not of an emaciated figure; on the contrary, somewhat broad-made; walks briskly, but does not swing his arms.'

He was a talented speaker, driven by his idealism, organised an uprising against the British which was rapidly put down. He went into hiding , but was eventually caught, tried and sentenced to death. He is remembered particularly for his dramatic speech on the occasion of his sentencing. Witnesses were in tears as he offered the sacrifice of his life to his country.

He said: 'Let no man write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character; when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. I have done.'

Thank you, Robert , for keeping me company over lunch.

Duckweed

I have a small pond with a few happy fish and an itinerant population of frogs from time to time. For a couple of years, I have had duckweed growing on the surface, and find an almost sensual pleasure in gathering the bright green mini-plants into my hands to form wet clumps to add to my compost bin.

I know how it came to be in my pond. One Mother's Day, my eldest daughter gifted me a bucket of copulating frogs which had a few tiny duckweed plants in the water. I am not complaining; it was and will always be the most memorable and interesting Mother's Day gift that I have ever received, and neither the fish nor the frogs are bothered by the duckweed.

The botanical name for duckweed is Lemna Minuta, and in the right sunny conditions, the mass of plants can double in size every 2-3 days. Domestic ducks, coots, moorhens, turtles and grass carp will eat it. It is possible to buy supplies on Ebay for your pet turtles. If you live nearby, just knock on my door and you are welcome to collect your own, free of charge!

Weeding it with a rake or by hand is the best option if the growth is too profuse. Apparently, if you grow watercress, it will stifle the duckweed. I might try this. I am very fond of watercress.

Chemicals are too toxic for the gardener to use, though there is a product which consists of bacteria( which alter the proportion of nutrients in the water) that is available to purchase. I am not sure that my fish would be in favour of this remedy. Since the duckweed acts as a haven for small water creatures, and control is impossible, I would recommend living with it and learning to appreciate this amazing little plant.

There is an International Lemna Association which is exploring commercial uses for duckweed, including using it in animal feeds, sewage treatment, and to remove toxins from water. There are even videos on the internet to show you how to grow it. Guys! It is not that difficult! All you need is a small pond and some sunshine!

I love to see the frogs poking their faces out of the mass of green weed, looking at me sideways, wearing duckweed on their heads like a tarnished crown. Thank you, Louisa, for that gift!

 

Comments on births in Dublin, Ireland, in 1946

I retrieved a number of items from my parent's house relating to my father's training as a doctor in the 1940's. One of the items was his official record of attendance at births in the Rotunda Hospital, Dublin, dated 1946, which he would have completed as part of his required training before taking his examinations in Obstetrics.

There are 18 cases documented. The information given includes the age of the women, number of previous pregnancies and the occupation of the baby's father. The ages ranged from 22 to 43.The majority of the fathers were described as labourers, reflecting the social background of the catchment area for the Rotunda Hospital at that time. Other occupations noted were taxi drivers, a flour miller, a railway employee and a plumber. Only two out of the 18 had no occupation recorded , and one was recorded as unemployed. It was assumed that the woman would not have an occupation.

Multiple pregnancies were common. One woman aged 39 years was delivering her eleventh child, and half of the women had more than 5 children.

I was particularly interested to see that the birth weights of the babies were healthy. All were recorded as between 6lbs 11 oz. and 8 lbs in weight, with only two weighing below 7lbs.

As in the UK, rationing of butter, margarine, bread, flour and fuel for cooking was still enforced in 1946, and not lifted until 1949. A National Nutrition Survey in Ireland took place between 1946-1948 and interestingly found that most of the population were adequately fed, even in the cities, due to the strong influence of dairy farming. There was also a public health system in place for mothers during the 1940's ensuring free maternity care for all. These facts may explain, to some extent, the healthy birth weights.

 

Books,books and more books

 

One of the many uses for books

We have too many books.

It seemed quite a large house until we started to run an Internet bookshop.With over 2000 books for sale and a greater number of personal books, something needs to be done.

A listener on the radio yesterday asked how much weight was safe to put on the floor of an upstairs room, as he had a huge number of books.The answer from a building surveyor was that it was safe to have the equivalent of a large rugby player on each square metre, but if the books were around the perimeter of the room, it should not be a problem. So from a health and safety point of view we need not worry as all our bookcases are situated around the perimeter of rooms.

 A female listener was more interested in where she could acquire the large rugby players to test the theory! 

 

By reducing the price of some of the books on sale, we may be able to move some stock, but it is the
proliferation of personal books that is the greatest problem. 

 

So I have devised a scoring scheme to put a numerical value on the merit of each book. In order for each book to be retained, it must score at least 3 points from the following list, with paperbacks requiring 4 points.

 

How to determine the personal value of a book in a few simple steps

First take the book in your hand and examine it for defects. This process will also stimulate your memory. You may get a flash of recognition relating to the time that you acquired the book. This can usefully be put to bear when you come to score the book.

Next, use the following scoring system giving each book one point for every statement that applies, subtracting one point if it is a paperback, and subtracting another point if it is significantly damaged. 

• This is a book that I have read, and it was so good that I want to keep it forever.
• This is a book that I have read and intend to read  again.
• This is a book that I started to read, and fully intend to finish.
• This is a book that was given to me by a very special person and I will keep it forever.
• This is a book that I read in my childhood and has very special memories for me.
• This is a book that I have been told I really should read sometime.
• This is a book that could be useful for research when I decide to write that novel which I have not started yet.
• This is a classic piece of literature which every educated person should have read.
• This is a book about a craft that I always wanted to try.
• This is a travel book about a place that I intend to visit sometime.
• This is a travel book about a place I have visited and has great sentimental value.
• This is a book that belonged to my father/mother/other significant relative and has great sentimental value.
• This is a book that I read to my children when they were little and has great sentimental value.
• This is a book that is so beautifully produced and illustrated that I must keep it.
• This is a book of poetry, and I know I should read more poetry.
• This is a book which I would like to keep in my holiday home that I have not yet purchased.
• This is a book about a foreign language that I intend to learn one day.

  

I hope you found my system simple to use and effective. Unfortunately, the number of books that I found to have satisfied the criteria for donation to a charity bookshop could be counted on one hand. I think I need to refine the scoring system further. Perhaps I should add in another coding system for the colour of the covers.

World Books 1949, excerpt from a Broadsheet.

In the 1940s and 1950s, World Books ran a book club which was exceedingly popular.The books were beautifully presented hardbacks in different colours and featured well known authors. The topics were varied from crime, adventure, travel and historical novels. I show a selection of them in the photograph above.
They were generally published monthly, though it is apparent that during the Second World War, when materials were rationed, only ten books a year were printed.
With each publication there was a broadsheet which often featured interviews with authors and letters from subscribers.


I would like to share with you a letter which was printed in the August 1949 Broadsheet.

"I was most perturbed to note that my subscription had lapsed. Nothing would upset me more than not receiving your monthly publication. Hastily I got on the radio to the local Post-master and a runner is now bringing up the necessary postal orders for another year's subscription.

"Your monthly news sheet is always a source of interest and more especially the letters from members. I cannot imagine a more perfect Book Club, for the variety is the very essence of the enjoyment it affords. Everyone here appreciates your books, which originally loaned out, have now persuaded five of our European population of ten to become members. People who write disparagingly should try living on the East coast of Borneo in an isolated spot with mail varying around twice a month. Your books are our major source of relaxation.

"My only fears are that the postal orders may not arrive in time to connect the boat out.

Yours appreciatively"
W.B.,Lahad Datu,
North Borneo.

Lahad Datu is now part of Sabah, Malaysia.

We can be thankful that on the whole, the purchase of books is a much more simple task for most of us!

There is no poverty in the garden

There is no poverty in the garden,

flamboyant colours

and lush green gloat in their perfection.

Regimented daffodils,

schoolgirls in uniform,

struggle to stand still as they wait

for the Queen to drive sedately by.

 

There is no modesty in the garden,

pink tulips with frills

in silky lingerie laze in the bedding,

seductive scents of jasmine,

sparkling raindrop jewels,

soaring songs of blackbirds

steal the senses.

Tight buds of apple blossom

wait to open wide and stun with beauty

when the sun warms the earth.

 

Leave your problems by the gate,

even though the glare of colour

taunts your dull grey coat.

You are welcome here

to let the sun light your face.



                         

                             

                

                       

The deep deep wood

 

 

 

 

He left the bar as it closed, staggering a little and carrying a wine bottle that he had picked up from a table by the door. He took a few swigs from the bottle and headed off towards the village. The night was clear and cold with a bright moon casting peculiar shadows along the road. He climbed over the style and stumbled along the muddy path; a short cut through the woods to his cosy cottage nestled on the side of the hill.

He felt guilty now. A few drinks with friends had turned into an entire evening with the lads. There was football on the wide screen and the whole room was filled with enthusiastic fans. He found it impossible to get up and leave as he should have done, knowing his gentle new bride, Jenny, was alone at home, expecting him to arrive back for dinner. He had tried to phone her but the signal was bad. He texted a message saying ' sorry, got tied up with the lads and football and will be late'.

As he got deeper into the woods, the canopy of the trees blocked out the moonlight and it was difficult to follow the narrow path. He could hear the distant sound of traffic on the dual carriageway across the valley. He knew the route well in daylight and could just make out the familiar shape of the large oak tree by the stream.  He tripped over a stone and the wine bottle flew out of his hand to land some distance away with a clunk. He picked himself up, stuffed his cold hands into his pockets and carried on, humming to himself.

He began to feel much colder and his breath made tiny icy clouds. He shivered and looking around, disconcerted to find a thick billowing fog moving quickly towards him. The sounds of far off traffic could no longer be heard, and there was an ominous silence like a weight pressing down upon him. Normally a very confident person, he experienced a twinge of anxiety as he realised that he was now lost. He could make out his feet by using his mobile phone as a torch, but the light penetrated no further than a yard or so around him, so he turned it off to save the battery. He thought the best option was to find a sheltered spot under a tree, pull his warm coat around him and sit it out until the dawn light.

He struggled deeper into the dense wood until he felt soft moss under his feet. He sat down with his back to a wide tree trunk, pulled his collar up, trying to peer through the gloom and swirling mist. The false bravado of the alcohol now gone, he became aware for the first time in his life of fear. A soft whooshing noise passed him several times. Was it an owl perhaps? He considered calling for help but realistically knew that would be pointless. No-one would hear him. Faint lights seemed to flicker around him then disappear. He thought he was probably imagining them, but the more intently he tried to focus on them, the more uncertain he became.

He closed his eyes for awhile and dozed fitfully. Something touched his cheek and he woke with a terrified start. He could see nothing at first. He stood up and saw a glimmering light before his eyes, shifting and rotating, moving forward then coming back to him as if beckoning him to follow. As he tentatively took a few steps, the light drew him further and further into the depths of the woodland.

An opening appeared between the thorny bushes, a tunnel leading into a welcoming  light filled space. He bent his head to avoid the low branches and felt the path slope down. When he straightened up, he found himself in a warm cavern beneath the roots of the trees. Tangled roots twisted above his head with lanterns dangling from them.

 At the far end of the room was a table and chairs and seated on one of the chairs was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She was tall and slim with pale skin which shone with a pearly sheen. Her hair hung in golden tresses to her shoulders and her green eyes sparkled like emeralds. She motioned to him to sit beside her, talking in a language that he did not understand with music in her voice. She smiled and began to feed him titbits of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. There were tiny fruit filled pies wrapped in beech leaves, sumptuous wild mushrooms in creamy sauce and goblets filled with a golden liquid that coated the mouth with honey. As he ate these wondrous foods, all memory of his past life left him and he became enthralled by the seductive wood nymph.

Jenny awoke as the grey dawn tried to push its way past the curtains. She turned over in bed and found the sheets next to her cold. He had not come home. Instinctively she knew that something terrible had happened and called the police. A huge search party was organized, with tracker dogs and volunteers from the village. They searched all day and into the night. Deep in the woods, an empty wine bottle was found and on testing, traces of his DNA were noted on the rim. No other clues ever came to light about the mysterious disappearance of the young man who strayed too far into the woods.

Riding a bicycle

     I believe I was either ten or eleven years old and had never owned a bicycle. Living on a busy main road, it certainly would not have been safe to learn to cycle outside my childhood home, and I had to make do as a child with a scooter or pedal car in the garden.

     For reasons that I am unclear of, I went to stay for a couple of weeks in the summer with my cousin, Diane, who lived in Northern Ireland. She was eleven months older than me and more like a sister than a cousin as we were 'double cousins', her mother being my mother's sister and her father being my father's brother. She was the eldest of a family of five.

     It was a glorious summer and she and I and her two younger siblings played outside every day. The house, a bungalow, was situated on a very quiet crescent, well away from busy roads with no through traffic. We congregated in the garage, playing music on a portable radio. One day, Diane had acquired some bottles of Coca-Cola. I tasted it for the very first time and detested it, but sipped it slowly, pretending I liked it. To this day, I cannot drink Coca-Cola.

      There were several bicycles in the garage.  Each day I would take one out to the road and attempt to ride it, wobbling precariously. I was a bit embarrassed at not knowing how to cycle, and did not let my aunt and uncle know what I was trying to do, but they had probably glanced out the window and seen the red faced determined girl in shorts , T-shirt and hand knitted cardigan, struggling again and again to balance on the bicycle.

      We would attach old playing cards to the spokes of the wheels, secured by wooden clothes pegs. No need for a bell to announce our presence as the wheels made a pleasantly addictive whirring noise, alerting pedestrians, as we cycled by on the pavement.

     One memorable morning, I climbed on the bicycle and began to pedal. A slight wobble as I sat on the saddle, and then away I went, passing all the neat gardens, up the gentle slope, and then with the wind in my hair, freewheeled down the other side of the hill to arrive back at the house with a big grin on my face. It was almost as if I had added another dimension to my life; a skill to add to the milestones achieved during childhood. The next challenge was to learn to swim, and I did not achieve that until I was more than twenty years old!

Smugglers Cave

My passion from the time that I left school was for caving. My classmate Jim and I met up almost every weekend to pursue this hobby. We did not spend our earnings in the pub like most of the lads at that time, but on ropes and gear for caving.

The thrill of finding a new cave system and knowing that no one had ever stepped foot there before was akin to an addiction. On the weekends when the weather was too inclement, we would pour over old maps, eagerly planning the next trip.

We heard an old folk tale about a smugglers cave in Devon, where kegs of whiskey and other contraband used to be stored, but the exact location was no longer known. This was a challenge which we embraced gladly. We read old newspapers dating from the early 1800s and examined ancient maps. We identified a cove where smugglers boats had been known to land and knew that this would be our starting point.

We chose a Bank holiday weekend for our search to allow us extra time, packing our tents, provisions and gear well in advance in order to make an early start. The weather was glorious, cloudless skies, bright sunshine and a hint of a sea breeze. Arriving at the location we set up camp and commenced searching among the craggy rocks above the secluded cove.

Our first find was of a sink hole, far too small to enter, but on dropping a stone down, we heard the splash of water far, far below. There was definitely a cave system underlying the sloping cliff surface. Then I heard Jim call excitedly from 100 yards or so to my right. He had found the entrance to a cave, narrow but passable.

We geared up with our ropes and head lamps and I went first, squeezing my way through the opening. I had to crawl on my hands and knees for some distance until the passageway began to open up. The ground underfoot was dry and sloped quite steeply as it widened out eventually into a large cavern.

We stood together and marvelled at the large space. Several chinks of light played on the floor of the otherwise dark cavern. There was an ink black small pool in the centre, but the perimeter was dry and there were natural rock ledges on one side which would have been perfect for storage of wooden boxes or kegs. The roof and walls were solid and there was no evidence of any recent rock fall.

We continued to stand, playing our headlamps around the walls and roof until we both intuitively moved to the perimeter, examining the rock and looking for clues as to the possibility that this was the smugglers cave. Jim walked around the dark pool and began to explore an additional small chamber. I thought I saw something glinting in a pile of stones and went over to investigate it more closely.

I put my hand down and picked up a silver coin, dated 1850. As I turned it over in my hand, I suddenly felt as if there was a presence beside me and turned to see a shadowy figure in the gloom; a tall, wiry man in a rough leather coat, with his long lanky hair tied in a ponytail. He seemed to look at me before very quickly disappearing from view. Instinctively I did not shout for Jim as this seemed to be a private,personal experience which I did not want to share. There was an overpowering aroma of wet tweed mixed with sweat which lingered for a minute or so.

I put the coin in a pocket, determined not to show it to anyone. As we clambered out into the sunshine again, I wondered if I had imagined the figure in the cave, but the coin was very real. To this day Jim is unaware of my find. Sometimes I pick up the coin again and turn it over slowly in my hand, and can still smell that intriguing, unpleasant aroma briefly.

 

CPJan2014