Monday, August 07, 2006

Pick a side, any side, we all drink oil!

"It beggars belief!", the man on the TV said, as he pulled a bag of half-drowned kittens from a drain, into which we presume a psychopath threw them - of course, it couldn't be one of us! Well yes, it is a sad thing; not as sad, though, as the man in Hertfordshire (or Bedfordshire, or Hampshire - I wouldn't like to malign a shire if I could help it) who shot greyhounds in the head when their racing lives were over. 10,000 in his field, apparently, and when he ran out of space he started again at the other end, where the bodies were decomposed; waste not, want not.

They - the half-drowned kittens, not the greyhounds - lived on in an animal sanctuary (all but one, who died) and were adopted by good kind people who gave them loving homes. Once or twice one kitten or other was ill, because we saw them on "Animal Hospital" with Rolf Harris, and every person (except the psychopaths of course) were happy when the kittens pulled through.

I also watched a programme about a woman in Lebanon who'd had to leave her two sons behind. In the dazzle and haze and panic of war, somehow she and her sons were seperated, and she had their papers; it's a sad thing, to be dragged away in a boat from the children of your breasts, to scream and to weep for them and to draw slowly away. No-one looked after them, and there was no follow-up ; it beggars belief.

On the same News Bulletin, I saw an Israeli woman weeping and scratching her face. She hadn't loat a son, or a grandson; she was weeping for Israel, for the good young Jewish boys who are forced to fight. She reminded me of every mother and grandmother; any woman who has lost a child too breakingly, achingly soon to the careless world.

It beggars belief, I say, that so many of us women (and here I raise my glass, drink a little) give up our most-beloved children to die in stupid, man-made wars; nothing, no creed, no principle, no border-girdled fantasy of fatherland, or motherland, no songs, no anthems, no priests and no churches, no hymns or dim qabbalistic mutterings, can ever persuade me to send my child to war!

So I said, and so I believed, and believe still. Like all proud women, though, be they queens or queans, I forgot one small proviso. I will never send my child to war; why should I trouble so, when war can come or send for her?

holojojo

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