Religion, Rooster Cogburn and a lack of grit

In searching for progress we are sometimes nudged gradually, painfully in certain directions.  For me one of the earliest turning points occurred during my confirmation classes at my local Church of Ireland.  The clergyman when alone with a dozen 13 year olds, instead of preparing us spiritually, engaged in a bit of indoctrination instead.  He lectured us on the disgusting betrayal marriage to Catholics would entail.  He then proceeded to spout a narrow minded evangelistic agenda that even I, a fairly naïve 13 year old girl from the high on the Sperrin mountains, could not tolerate. 

His predecessor the reverent Wills had been a mild elderly man, with metal circular glasses, who lectured in his sermons with soft pleas for humanity and understanding of one’s neighbours.  My father had queried this gentle little man, during a visit to our home, to be more demanding in his sermons.  He asked him,

“Why don’t you tell them to not just love their neighbours, but tell them to love their Catholic neighbours in particular.  Don’t you think that’s what Christ meant?”

The tiny man had carefully wiped his glasses in his lap and said apologetically,

“Now, Mr Stringer, I have to be careful not to offend the congregation, you know yourself what people are like in these parts.”

Rev Wills raised his narrow shoulders in sympathy but continued,

“Sure, if I did anything like that, I’d be preaching to an empty church and what purpose would that serve?”

Having just watched John Wayne in True Grit, I listened to this conversation with disappointment and could not help thinking what the nice Reverent Wills lacked was grit.  I’d have preferred if he had mounted the pulpit, a bible in each hand, and blasted the church goers left right and centre (like Rooster Cogburn), whatever their particular prejudices.  

Unfortunately, his successor lacked the essential goodness of Rev Wills and his gentleness.  His sermons were full of hell and grinding of teeth for all sinners.  His children classes were sufficiently traumatic with their burning pits and devils with horns that I’m sure he kept psychologists/counsellors and psychiatrists in business for decades later.  I had been dragged, by my father, to Sunday School classes and services for years and had complained bitterly.  It was the confirmation classes perversely that really confirmed my suspicions that this man was not good.   So clearly did I articulate my abhorrence for the content of these confirmation classes my father accepted my decision never to enter church premises ever again.  I viewed this new clergyman with the distain I had previously reserved for villains in a Dicken’s novel.   It was hardly fair but adolescents are many things but not forgiving. 

When, I was obliged to attend weddings or funerals I did so out of politeness and respect.  However, I listened to the sermon like a literary critic finding satisfaction when he spouted something that I disagreed with.  When the clergyman asked the congregation to kneel or bow their heads in prayer, I refused to do either.  Instead, he and I would often find ourselves eyeballing each other across the bowed heads of the devout.  I cultivated an accusing stare while he had a bewildered look.  I was confident my stare told him exactly what I thought of him.  Hardly fair, I am sure he had more good qualities than I.  To my adolescent mind he had fallen short of St Francis’s standard and did not deserve my respect or ear.  Ah, the black and white clarity of youth.  There are not even greys, just right and wrong.  The good guys and the bad ones.  In a divided community between Catholic and Protestant I found myself examining both with forensic intensity.  There was so much this autopsy unearthed I felt like a coroner disengaged from both sides.  It was a blessing that my father read so widely as through him I had an appreciation of the Bible and knowledge of Buddhism, Judaism, Islam and Hinduism.  In our family, reading was an obsession, whether it was the Quran, the recently translated  Dead Sea Scrolls  or the writings of Zoroaster.   It has long shocked me how terrified people are to truly investigate.  To search for the truth.  To set aside petty prejudices and really look.  This independent investigation was a constant call to arms.  Truth becomes obscured by ignorance and gradually disclosed by rational effort.  It leds to an appreciated of the essential truths that all the main religions share.  It helps elucidate the qualities that are needed in society if we are to improve our civilisation.  There have been enough rises and falls of civilisations to chart the symptoms of deterioration.  Even without a historical perspective an examination of present day society would suffice to tell us we are on a downward curve. 

After fifty years I am no longer an adolescent and colours have entered my palate.  There are forces of disintegration all around and people’s lives are caught up in this old world order. That is being rolled up.  Look into any institution and you cannot fail to find the corruption just beneath the surface.  Even the most well-intentioned bodies are hounded to a standstill by persistent selfish agendas.  But, I am no longer hopeless or in despair.  There are worse days ahead I’m sure.  Human society will weather storms we cannot even guess at now.  The intensity of such catastrophes will serve to decrease the strange lethargy we are all afflicted with.  Perhaps, anything that serves to allow us to come forth from the sheath of self will transform not just us but society.   The degree to which we engage in building that noble society the happier and more positive our mind-set.  Fighting the forces of darkness is like trying to dam a flood.  Constructing our personal defences, uniting with others who share a vision for a better future is empowering.  Change is coming, we can choose to endure it or embrace the transformation it entails.  It had ever been so. 

In the second century the early Christians were the victims of persecution. Polycarp, the venerable bishop of Smyrna was arrested and imprisoned. While under guard he prayed so fervently and powerfully the guards regretted that they had been involved in his capture.  Later, called upon to recant his faith he refused. "Eighty and six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong", Polycarp goes on to say, “Bring forth what thou wilt."  This elderly gentle bishop in his nineties was burnt at the stake.  Talk about true grit!

I firmly believe we are designed to be noble.  To be better, than we can even possibly imagine.  In reaching that goal a new and better civilisation becomes inevitable.

Slaves Revolt - Malta

Picture shows underwater statues in memory of slaves lost at sea near Grenada slaves thrown overboard

In 1749 there was a famous slave revolt that took place in Malta.  In the history of Malta it is betrayed as a terrible conspiracy where slaves were planning to slaughter the local inhabitants.  The slaves are portrayed as a violent murderers willing to slaughter their masters to gain freedom.   Here is a typical account of the event.

“A plot of the most dangerous character, and one that threatened the direst disaster to the Christian inhabitants of the island, was, however, discovered on the 6th June 1749. At the head of this conspiracy was the Pascha Mustafa, Governor of Rhodes, then a prisoner of war in Malta. This dignitary, while on his way to Rhodes, had been captured by the Christian slaves who manned his galley. The mutineers, after having murdered their officers and become masters of the vessel, made for Malta, where they arrived on the 2nd February 1748. 

The Pascha, instead of being looked upon as an ordinary prisoner of war, was treated by the Order with every mark of respect. From the moment of his arrival Mustafa devised the detestable plot of massacring the whole Christian population of Malta with the assistance of the Turkish slaves in the island, who at the time numbered about 1,500, and then annexing Malta to the Ottoman Empire. Continual promises of support from Constantinople emboldened the conspirators, and the 29th June, the festival of St. Peter and St. Paul was selected as the date on which their atrocious designs were to be carried out. As on that day the city would be practically deserted the majority of the inhabitants being away at the festivities at Notabile. Had it not been for an accidental quarrel that led to the betrayal of the plot, a wholesale massacre would have most undoubtedly ensued. 

The quarrel originated in a tavern where two of the conspirators had gone to endeavour to enlist as a confederate a young Maltese soldier of Pinto's bodyguard. Enraged by his continual refusals to join their ranks, they attempted to stab him. He would have been torn to pieces had it not been for the timely interference of the innkeeper, who, on learning the motive of the quarrel, lost no time in revealing this dangerous plot to the Grand Master himself. Several of the conspirators were at once seized and subjected to torture, under the extreme agonies of which a complete confession was extorted and some sixty of the ringleaders were put to death. The honest innkeeper, Cohen, was handsomely rewarded, and the faithful young soldier, Cassar, for his unflinching devotedness to his colours, was promoted from the ranks and given the command of Pinto's bodyguard, known as the " Guardia Urbana." On the anniversary of the discovery of the plot, the Knights of Malta regularly held a thanksgiving service in the church of St. John in commemoration of this providential escape from massacre."

However, if you examine the life of slaves in the world at that time there were many changes happening.  In the Caribbean on the island of Saint John in 1733 there was an uprising of the slaves to try and obtain freedom.  In South Carolina in 1739 there was also a slave revolt.  In 1747 Africans rose up on the Rhode Island ship (Captain Beers) which was off the Cape Coast in Ghana.  It is important to remember that off the millions transported to America in slavery, over a period of 300 years almost 40% died on that journey.  Many fortunes were made, it was seen as a strictly economic endeavour with the human beings simply a product to be sold.  Many aristocratic estates all over the world, many of our rich today gained fortunes on the back of slavery.  

But the tide on slavery was beginning to turn and many people were speaking out against this trade.  Legislation was soon to be in place that would gradually make it illegal in various parts of the world.  It is unfortunate that long after the African American slavery route was halted, African European slavery continued.  So, it is important to understand what conditions were like for slaves in Malta at that time.  The seaborne crusade demanded a largely unarmed and coerced labour force. The Knights of St John needed captives. They needed them as oarsmen in the galleys and labourers in the docks. Whether they were prisoners of war, victims of shipwreck or persons kidnapped, they were a vital resource.  There were simply not enough crew or convicts to man the ships that the knights needed without slaves.  Ottoman cities remained multi religious while most of western Christendom was purged of its Jews and Muslims. After the Reformation it was also purged of even if its Christian dissenters.  While Catholic merchants and consuls who lived in Istanbul Alexandra or Tripoli could practice their faith and find a small community of practising Catholics, supported by Rome, there were no such parallel infrastructures for Moslems in Christendom.  In fact between 1609 and the late 19th century no free community of Muslims, including those converted to Christianity, resided within Western Europe.  The Knights of St John Malta would target all non-Catholics, Orthodox Christians, Muslims and Jews alike and enslave them. They would seize the cargo of Jews, even those with permits and passports, and send them to the slave market in Valletta.  Within the Mediterranean, the numbers of east and sub Sahara African inhabitants sold into bondage outnumbered the numbers of either Western Christians or Mediterranean Muslims.  As long as galley fleets were used for transport slavery persisted. It was only when wind powered vessels came into being that the need for slaves on board was reduced somewhat.

Being condemned to the galleys was a dreadful form of punishment for even the convicts. What was supposed to be a short-term at sea, for them, could become a death sentence. Many men would maim themselves rather than face the ordeal. After a few weeks of confinement on ships the stench of human sweat and excrement was overwhelming. The oarsman who were chained to the benches could not change their clothing or even move to relieve themselves. For weeks they might have only brief sleep periods. Many slaves died on these ships; the plague of 1720 carried off one fifth of France’s rowing force. A small amount of galley slaves survived for decades some remaining at the oars into their 60s and 70s. They were not permitted to marry .  Given its role as one of the chief traffickers of non-Catholic slaves within the Mediterranean, Maltese cities held more than 1000 Muslims in slavery at the end of the 18th century.  In battle or if the boat foundered the slaves chained to the benches, not the captain, would go down with the ship.  At the end of the sailing season Muslims slaves would be pressed into the construction of public works such as bridges and walls in the Maltese cities of Valetta and Senglea. In the mid 18 century, 639 of the 782 men at the oars were enslaved Muslims.  Muslim slaves in Malta complained that unlike the practices in Istanbul or North African ports they were not allowed to eat or drink their purchases of food inside shops or taverns were forced to eat outside on the street.  Their heads were shaved except for a distinctive pigtail, they wore a roughly woven woollen cape with a hood. Converted slaves and Muslims alike carried a 1 to 2 pound lock around the ankle.   

With this knowledge, it is not hard to see that many desired freedom. If they could arrange for relatives, back home, to provide a ransom then there was a hope freedom could be purchased.  However, for many poor slaves this was not an option. It is important to note that slavery was common place at this time across the world and practised by most nations.  With the advantage of hindsight we can observe the whole machinery of enslavement through horrified eyes.  The loss of lives was heavy, the mistreatment and torture of human beings intolerable.  Perhaps, it is a salutary lesson of the past that all it took was a different religion/sect or race to enable us to feel righteous and noble in enslaving them.  

There are perhaps parallels in today’s world where we will allow people to starve to death, drown in our seas, fester in refuge camps and still manage to feel disengaged from their suffering.  The slave trade was ultimately economically driven, so too we must ensure that economic considerations are not driving nations into despair,destitution and a new modern form of slavery.

Worth a read - puts the topic in perspective today

A Persistent Evil: The Global Problem of Slavery, a report published by the Harvard International Review in 2002, Richard Re suggested: "Conservative estimates indicate that at least 27 million people, in places as diverse as Nigeria, Indonesia, and Brazil, live in conditions of forced bondage"

May your pain be short and your pleasure long!

I have always been bad with pain.  The tiniest cut, from an early age, brought forth howls of despair. Usually, this would be followed by requests for bandages, the bigger the better.  At times my mother was placing bandages on wounds that were so small she could not even see them.  As I grew older, I became aware that I had a remarkably low pain threshold.  Watching other children in school fall and bleed only to get up and run off amazed me.  As I progressed through adolescence my mother would remark, “What on earth are you going do when you have to give birth?”  It was one of those questions that an adolescence feels a parent asks just to manipulate you.  Akin, to her other favourite, “You must learn to cook and clean now because one day you will have your own house!”  To this I always smugly replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll always have servants!”  This must have been particularly abrasive to my sweet mother who carried trays of breakfast to all of us in bed every morning, while Don Williams filled the house with his songs.  I only have to hear one of his songs to find myself hungering for tea and toast on a tray.

Being a coward about pain I asked everyone about what giving birth was really like.  One said it was the most amazing experience of her life.  Another babbled on about this small baby and how beautiful it was.  A third said ominously that one soon forgets the pain.  My mother said, in her day, you were expected to give birth in silence, a slight whimpering was tolerated but not for long.  You were expected to approach birthing in a ladylike way.  She looked at me with a forlorn expression before repeating, “I really don’t know how you will ever get through it!”  When I was pregnant people became much more honest.  One friend told me it was like having a knife plunged into your innards and twisted.  This was altogether too frighteningly honest I felt.

True to form, I was racing to hospital with every little twinge convinced the birth was imminent.  Surely, such excruciating squeezes meant the baby was on their way.   Medical staff said, in ominous tones, I would know it when the real contractions began.  Then, when the murderous contractions actually kicked in I understood exactly what they meant.  I distinctly remember not being ladylike about the whole business.  When asked about pain relief, I retorted “give me everything you’ve got and if that doesn’t work get a big club and knock me out”. At one point, I remember clearly instructing the medical staff to cut off my head and haul the baby out that way.   

My sister-in-law had an even more painful birth but within a matter of hours was saying she would be happy to have another baby soon.  It was as if her memory had selectively eradicated all the pain and suffering.  Today when reading a book, it suddenly all made sense.  It is by Daniel Kahneman, a Nobel Prize winner, entitled Thinking Fast and Slow.  It helps you understand why we make the choices we do in life.  In one section they carry out an experiment on a group of subjects.  The experiment was simple; each person would have their hand immersed in cold water 14 degrees for 60 seconds and at the end would be given a warm towel.  The second experiment lasted 90 seconds, the first 60 seconds was identical to the first and then for the last 30 seconds warm water would be bringing the temperature up by one degree.  The third experiment subjects were told would be a repeat of either the short or long experiment.  They were allowed to choose which.  A surprising 80% chose the 90 second immersion.  Despite this being obviously longer that the first.  What was going on?  According to Kahneman,

“The subjects who preferred the long episode were not masochists and did not deliberately choose to expose themselves to the worst experience; they simple made a mistake.  They chose to repeat the episode of which they had the less aversive memory.  Their decision was governed by a simple rule of intuitive choice: pick the option you like the most, or dislike the least.”

We are strongly influenced by the peak and the end.  That feeling of warming water was such a relief after the pain of the cold it managed to over-ride our rational brain.  Obviously, endings when dramatic/traumatic enough reach parts of our brain that have little to do with rational fact but are emotionally powerful.  Our intuition has lead us to make a mistake.  So too, the pain of giving birth when followed by the joy of a baby is simply edited out.

I used to find when teaching a class you could give a truly awful 40-minute lesson, boring, stilted with little content and follow it with a five-minute exciting game to end.  The classes would invariably close with kids laughing delightedly and a feeling that the lesson had been brilliant.  They had been fooled by the end.  It had dominated their experience and effectively wiped out the previous dire 40 minutes.  This influence also indicates why coping with dementia or a pain filled death etc. creates such an overriding despair in relatives.  A whole lifetime is forgotten and the agony of the last months or years over rides everything.  It almost manages to wipe out every joyous memory of a loved one. 

Our intuition is a powerful tool but also a flawed one, on occasion.  Or, as Kahneman puts it,

“It seems an inconsistency is built into the design of our minds.” 

Our memory has evolved to register the most intense moment (pain or pleasure the peak) and the feelings at the end of the episode.  This neglect of the duration will not serve our desire for pain to be short and pleasure to last.  In other words our instinctive preferences may be seriously flawed.  He ends with this warning.

“This is a bad case of duration neglect.  You are giving the good and the bad part of your experience equal weight, although the good part lasted ten times as long as the other.”

My wish for you - May your pain be ever short and your pleasure exceedingly long!

Libraries - the oldest and the most beautiful

I have always loved libraries.  There is something wonderful about them.  Our house was always filled with books and I can remember picking up books and pretending to read them from a young age.  So today I explored the National Library of Malta in Valletta.  It was built to house the books and valuables of the Order of St John including items belonging to  knights who had died in 1766.  A decree in 1555 had decreed that the property of the knights should be preserved.  You can visit this by handing in a passport or ID at the desk, in exchange you will be given a visitors badge.  It is worth doing as the library has an atmosphere like a scene out of Indiana Jones.  This is an old image of the library.

Here is how it looks more recently.  Unfortunately, since this recent photo was taken they have removed the lovely trees which used to be in front of the building and which were filled with hundreds of birds.

Inside the building used to look like this.

Here is how it looks today.

It does have a lovely atmosphere and is well worth a visit.  I have several libraries that I love and have included them below.  Starting one of the oldest, the National Library of Czech Republic, built in 1366.

The National Library of Austria comes a close second dating from 1368.

Another favourite is the Marciana National Library of Italy which was built in 1468.

The National Library of France is exceptional, built in 1480.

Another library I personally love, though not so old as those above, is Trinity Library in Dublin.

Mind you, if we really wanted to look at the oldest existing library we'd probably have to put St Catherine's Monastery in Egypt up there ahead of all of them.  Built in 565 AD this has been a running library since its establishment.  Only open to monks and invited scholars this gem of a library was constructed, it is claimed, on the site where Moses saw the burning bush.  The monastery library preserves the second largest collection of early codices and manuscripts in the world, outnumbered only by the Vatican Library. It contains Greek, Arabic, Armenian, Coptic, Hebrew, Georgian, and Aramaic texts.  It also contains the oldest icons in the world.  Much of its treasures avoided destruction due to the monastery’s remote position in the Sinai desert.  However, it was also protected throughout the centuries by popes, sultans, queens and kings. Napoleon and even Muhammad provided documents of protection for St Catherine's which are themselves still in existence in this unique library.  Which only goes to show, that while it can take only one fool to burn down a priceless library, it takes over a millennium of careful, constant, protection to preserve such a gem.