Pelshval

Antropologiske betraktninger om pelshvaldrift

Author: pelshvalen (Page 28 of 42)

Magnet

20.06.2016 /

Det burde være forbudt å skrive lange bøker. Unntak kan til nøds være sivilisasjonseposer – i så fall må de være gyselig gode – men en bok med et par tre sentrale figurer …. Tror forfatter Saabye Christensen at leserne hopper over annenhver side?

De fleste av oss har jobber, mange av oss har dessuten barn, og alle har vi vel opptil flere interesser som sluker vår fritid. Så kommer altså denne forfatteren og slenger Magnet, nesten 1000 sider, i bordet! Det betyr i praksis at de færreste vil klare å komme seg gjennom en bok jeg glødende vil anbefale. Det er ikke en gang sikkert at jeg selv kommer gjennom den innen bibliotekets lånetid er omme – og for denne boka er det enda lang ventetid, derfor også strenge frister. Jeg fikk den på e-boklån tidlig i juni etter å ha stått på venteliste siden 8. desember.

Nei, jeg hopper ikke over noe som helst når det er Saabye Christensen som skriver, rett og slett fordi så mye i selve teksten hans er slående, mer enn det, glitrende. Når han er i slaget er hvert ord riktig plassert og treffende.

Dette gjelder riktignok ikke hver setning – det skulle bare mangle – og hele avsnitt kan bli trøttsame. Det tok meg for eksempel en god stund å bli innforlivet med Jokum, hovedpersonen, fordi fortelleren hverken var inni Jokum eller utenfor ham. Vinkelen var på et vis uheldig, og dermed virket Jokums (eller fortellerens?) betraktninger om Jokum krampaktig snedige.

Men så skjønte jeg til sist at Jokum faktisk er snedig, og dermed glemte jeg alt om vinkling.

I likhet med så mange av personene i Saabye Christensens forfatterskap, har Jokum det han selv vil betrakte som et lyte. Han er for lang. Dette foranlediger en del komikk i et forløp som ellers kunne ha blitt i mørkeste laget. Dessuten slipper forfatteren å vikle seg inn i psykodynamiske utlegninger for å forklare hvorfor Jokum er sårere, mer ensom og mer følsom enn de fleste av oss.

Selv om han er «mer … enn de fleste av oss», vil jeg tippe at de fleste av oss vil gjenkjenne som sin egen mye av hans sårhet og følsomhet. Forskjellen mellom «de fleste av oss» og ham er at han har det sånn bestandig; han unnslipper aldri følelsenes tyranni. Han er for eksempel inderlig takknemlig og glad for gode ord og varme og tviler samtidig på oppriktigheten av dem. Det er ubehagelig, det må enhver kunne forstå, veldig ubehagelig, og det kan kan bikke over.

Det gjør det. Det blir for mye for Jokum. Dermed får vi – med på kjøpet, så å si – en stilisert, nesten surrealistisk beskrivelse av et kort opphold på  lukket psykiatrisk avdeling. Det merkelige er at så ubehagelig som den hermetiske verdenen er, så er jeg ikke sikker på om Saabye Christensen tar entydig avstand fra den. Det jeg er sikker på er at oppholdet beskrives som like invasivt som et kirurgisk inngrep, og liv kan gå tapt. Det må finnes svært gode grunner til å utsette et menneske for noe slikt.

Det er ikke ofte jeg leser norske romaner. Jeg begynner likevel gjerne på bøker som er skrevet av Saabye Christensen, fordi jeg nyter hans lødige prosa. Livene han beskriver blir imidlertid fort for mørke og smertefulle for meg. Denne romanen var jeg likevel oppsatt på å lese ferdig, koste hva det koste ville, fordi man hadde forespeilet meg at den handlet om «kunst». Det var først midtveis at jeg forsto at den faktisk gjør det. Den handler om kunst og det gjør den helt fra begynnelsen av.

Hvordan opplever en leser prosessen til Kafka, for eksempel? Hvordan griper det vi leser inn i våre liv? Hvordan står vår opplevelse av bøkene i forhold til litteraturviternes syn? Siden Jokum er så ensom, er hans forhold til det han leser og ser umiddelbart og personlig. Han har ingen forutsetning for eller ønske om å vite hvordan trendene forventer at han skal forholde seg til det ene eller det andre. Han foretrekker å se nøye på ting heller enn å omgås mennesker, og han funderer over det han ser, over hvordan tingen en gang kan ha blitt brukt, daglig, kanskje, eller var det bare i en enkel festlig anledning? Han grubler over hvordan den kan ha vært forbundet med forventning eller forfall, og han dokumenterer ikke tankene sine, men det han har sett, ting, med et kamera. «Jeg er ingen kunstner,» sier han, «bare en samler».

Men kunstbransjen øyner en mulighet til å gjøre store penger av de ukunstlete bildene hans. Jokums «ting» løftes ut av den ensomme mannens mørkerom og får vinger. Vingene er det markedsføringen som sørger for.

Dette er altså ikke minst en bok om forholdet mellom «kunst», marked og forbruker.

Jeg tror ikke forfatteren stiller spørsmålstegn ved skjønnheten i bildene. Og jeg tror heller ikke han tar avstand fra at innpakningen av en vare kan være vel så avgjørende som selve varen. Selv om Jokum misliker det han oppfatter som juks og jåleri, ender han opp med selv å velge bildenes nydelige titler, som jo ikke har noe som helst å gjøre med hva han tenkte da han tok dem. Så det er litt juks – men jo, det er definitivt vakkert og tankevekkende. Jokum lærer seg til å lage historier med bildene sine, slik at tingene han avbilder ikke lenger forteller sin egen historie men underkastes kunstnerens ide. Er Jokum da fortsatt bare en samler? Eller er han blitt en kunstner. Og hva er kunst, spør i det minste jeg. Og hva er kunstens pris?

Er det kunstens historie, eller kanskje heller kunstens skjebne, Saabye Christensen skisserer her? I så fall legitimerer det bokas lengde.

For et eller annet sted i prosessen får vi en vond smak i munnen. Jokum får en vond smak i munnen. Prosessen, ja. Boka begynner med tanker rundt Prosessen, og Kafkas roman spøker for oss gjennom det hele. Igjen: Hvem av oss har ikke opptil flere ganger i livet utbrutt eller i det minste tenkt: Dette er jo helt Kafka.

Saabye Christensen har lagt bånd på sin ekstravagante prosa i denne boka (dessverre, etter mitt syn), men han fornekter seg ikke i glitrende og himmelropende festlige beretninger om oppløsning. Jeg som slett ikke har tid til å lese langer bøker, stjeler av nattesøvnen, kommer sent på jobben, og henger med i alle “kunstens” brå svinger i en rutsjebane jeg frykter er en tro kopi fra virkeligheten.

Jeg skriver dette nå som jeg bare har lest 78 % av boka, fordi jeg ikke er sikker på at jeg vil ha tid eller krefter til å skrive noe som helst når jeg er ferdig med den.

Dersom jeg ikke rekker å avslutte de siste 22 % i løpet av de 8 dagene jeg har igjen av lånetiden, vil jeg måtte kjøpe den. Er det derfor den er så lang, tro, for at jeg skal måtte kjøpe den? I så fall må jeg bare bøye meg og erkjenne at denne boka skal jeg gjerne finne plass til, selv etter at jeg har lest den.

Glemte jeg å nevne at dette er en kjærlighetshistorie?

The test

21.04.2016 /

I hear on the news that Edward Snowden is taking my country to court, or rather, he is asking the judiciary of my country to consider what his rights would be as a visitor to Norway.

I find the question fair and timely. Much as I keep insisting that the rule of law is, by and large, taken very seriously here, I fear that Norway’s NATO membership entails some unpleasant obligations, between friends, as it were.

Forcing the judiciary to consider his legal rights before he takes the chance of coming here, Edward Snowden has acted wisely. The judiciary is supposedly independent of the executive powers. Now its independence will be put to the test.

From a statutory perspective, the case is pretty clear pursuant to section 5 of the Extradition Act: No extradition for political offences. Political offences are primarily defined as acts targeting a state and its organisation [“samfunnsordning”], whereas prosecution for war crimes and “serious” terrorist acts are not exempt from extradition.

However, as we all know, a court can easily turn into a hockey field if the players are sufficiently insolent. And on a hockey field almost anything goes, I’ve been told. I beg pardon if I am insulting anybody.

Word of warning

21.04.2016 /

I put to you – though of course you are entitled to disagree with me – that a successful democracy is contingent on an informed and responsible electorate. Mind you, democracies being what they are, the electorate rules (though parenthetically, of course, the market also has a slight say in the matter; in most matters, actually).

An uninformed or ignorant electorate will too easily be tempted to seek drastic solutions of one kind or another. An irresponsible electorate will mainly consider what might thrill or benefit each voter here and now, regardless of the costs to future generations or even to each voter’s own future.

Ignorance is statistically closely associated with involuntary socio-economic deprivation. I repeat: involuntary. Few people are happy about deprivation, which is usually imposed on them.

Irresponsibility is a word I cannot recall having heard in vote result analyses. Irresponsibility strikes me as being the something that is not mentioned, not referred to, not measured (since, in democracies, we have the right to vote as we please without questions being raised about our moral fibre).

So that brings me back to ignorance. The ignorance of a population is often assessed on the basis of the number of inhabitants who are more or less illiterate, and thus unable to find the information they need to make informed decisisons about matters that concern them.

Now the matter of the identity of the next US president evidently concerns Mr Trump’s voter very much, and the numbers of Mr Trump’s voters are daunting, indeed. So if Mr Trump’s voters are not statistically illiterate (and we are not allowed to refer to them as irresponsible), we have no other alternative than to conclude that US education is seriously deficient.

My question then is: Is the USA a successful democracy?

Even in Israel

17.04.2016 /

I would like to stress that only 57 percent of the respondents of an Israeli survey found that it was OK to shoot and kill an incapacitated Palestinian lying on the ground. The other 43 per cent found that it was not OK at all, and that the soldier who did the killing, the executing, I should say, should be punished, even though the Palestinian in question had actually attacked him with an axe.

Moreover, it has come to my attention that there are even some Israeli soldiers who have taken the brave step of publishing, anonymously, of course, what they think of such actions in Breaking the Silence.

I also happen to know for certain that not all Israelis think it is OK to forcibly evict people from East Jerusalem, by literally dragging them out of their houses, just because they happen to belong to a different “race”. Not all Israelis think it’s OK to base political geography on 2000 year old legend, or even on vindictiveness (understandable as  rancour may be) not least since the victim, the Palestinians, had nothing to do with the injustice Jews have had to endure in Europe for centuries.

Had we all insisted on our country’s retaking the land it had at any given point of time (presumably when our country was at it’s apogee, which might not coincide with the apogee of other countries) none of us would be where we are – assuming we had been anywhere at all; we would probably all have killed each other off a long time ago.

Maybe that would have been for the best, and even pleasing to the fierce Jewish God, because then there would have been no desperate poverty, and no bands of heavily armed barbarians shattering cities and kidnapping schools of little girls, and then we wouldn’t have managed to exterminate so many other other species.

But again I repeat: Not all Israelis condone what I consider a still ongoing genocide. Certainly, all American Jews don’t either. In fact, I believe only a minority of American Jews condone Israel’s barbaric treatment of Palestinians. I think it is very important to bear this in mind, not least now when so many people (not least many Palestinians) are losing faith in the feasibility of a two-state solution.

Vårnatt på stølen

10.04.2016 /

Som artsnavnet mitt nok tilsier, trives jeg best i sjø. Men sjøen er ikke hva den var. Den er full av plastikk og tungmetaller, og langs den norske kysten, som før var så idyllisk, hviner hurtiggående privatbåter som mygger til sent på kveld. Så jeg har trukket opp en av de store elvene og funnet meg et krypinn på en hylle i en bratt kleiv.

Her føler jeg meg i kontakt med historien, fordi menneskeheten, som jo styrer verden på godt og ondt, til alle tider har foretrukket å bo, ikke bare langs sjøen, men også langs de store elvene. Nå for tiden vil de riktignok aller helst bo i byer, hvor det er litt lettere for dem å være samfunnsnyttige forbrukere og trendfølgere, og hvor de regelmessig kan bytte kjøkkeninnredning, garderobe, hårfarge, tenner og pupper.

Men de som enda bor langs elvene gjør det antakelig fordi de faktisk liker seg der. Husene her likner i alle fall litt på husene man bodde i for 100 år siden; sosialdemokratiske boliger, med dekorative karmer, blomsterbed og kanskje geviret etter en elg over døren. Jeg finner til og med kuer i dette landskapet. Dem ser jeg ellers bare på Nasjonalgaleriet, i malerier fra tidlig på 1900-tallet. Jeg antar de sågar melkes av mennesker, ikke av roboter.

Hit til hyllen i klippen kommer jeg når jeg er sliten. Det var jeg nå. På stien til den vesle plassen hilste jeg blåveisen velkommen i år som i fjor. Lukta som slo mot meg når jeg låste opp, var bare kald, ikke den gode lukta jeg visste ville være her etter at jeg hadde bebodd plassen noen timer – lukta av kaffe, vedovn og våt ull. Så det første jeg gjorde, som alltid, var å tenne fyr i ovnen med frøsne fingre. Og gleden når ilden fatter, er like stor hver gang.

Når jeg kommer hit, lever jeg som om hver dag var min siste. Dagene mine er ikke enda talte, så vidt jeg vet, men det er grenser for hvor lenge selv pelshvaler kan leve. Gikta har allerede kloa i meg, og den vil bare ta mer og mer av meg for hvert år. Hvor lenge vil jeg klare å klatre opp kleiva mens jeg lytter etter svartspetten? Hvor lenge vil jeg få lov til å tørke av meg på beina på trammen her oppe og kjenne lukta slå mot meg fra vedovnen? Hvor lenge vil jeg få lov til å ligge på sofaen med kikkert og følge med redehullene i bjørka og ospen?

Da jeg var her sist tok jeg en stor beslutning: De dystre grantrærne på tomta – så praktfulle de enn måtte være – måtte ned. Alle sammen. Jeg betaler for å få dem slaktet mens jeg enda har en lønn jeg kan avse litt av, tenkte jeg.

Trærne ble sagd ned og kappet opp i 40 cm lange kubber. Alt for lange kubber. Jeg sa så eplekjekt til ham som tok ned trærne at det holdt med 40 cm, og det er sant at ovnen min tar 40 cm, men å kløyve 40 cm… Alle vet at kubber ikke skal være lenger enn 30 cm.

En kollega foreslo å kjøpe vedkløyvemaskin. Andre kolleger sa jeg heller burde leie en.
Maskinene som var til salgs for under NOK 3000 var ikke store nok til kubbene mine. Uansett: For det jeg betaler for en slik maskin, kjøpt eller leid, kan jeg kjøpe ved for mange år.

Jeg ble helt besatt av problemstillingen, leste alt jeg fant på nettet om vedkløyving, vedkløyvemaskiner og økser og fant til slutt ut at jeg måtte ha en øks produsert av Fiskars. Det var to som var aktuelle, Fiskars kløyvøks, og Fiskars sleggeøks. Ingen kunne fortelle meg definitivt hvilken var den beste. Men det var ikke tvil i min sjel om at det var en Fiskars-øks jeg trengte.

Jeg fikk dra og se på dem, og jeg gjenkjente dem fra bilder straks jeg kom inn døren i butikken. Et smil spredte seg fra den ene til den andre delen av min hjerne, et stort smil av saliggjørelse. Hadde det stått noen mellom meg og de to øksene, ville jeg rett og slett ha spradet rett over vedkommende. Med skjelvende hånd grep jeg sleggeøksa, løftet den av kroken, viftet litt med den og ble fylt av skuffelse. Det var derfor med en viss skepsis jeg tok tak i den andre.

Ah! Hvordan vil jeg noen sinne kunne beskrive mitt første møte med Fiskars kløyvøks! Igjen kjente jeg smilet – merkelig fenomen dette med smil – bre seg gjennom hele kroppen min som en sprekk i tykk is.

Siden gikk det hele 6 nesten uutholdelige dager før jeg fikk satt meg selv og min nyinnkjøpte øks på prøve. Seks hyperaktive dager da jeg arbeidet som en gal på jobb og klarte å bli ferdig med en storoppgave tidsnok til å kunne be meg fri på fredag.

Den første kubben kostet meg en time. En hel time! Det kunne ha tatt motet av enhver. Men noe av det jeg nylig har skjønt, er at pelshvaler får selvinnsikt når de eldes. Så sliten jeg var etter en time, gikk jeg derfor likevel løs på kubbe nr. 2. Den tok 5 minutter. Da tok jeg pause (selvinnsikten igjen). Jeg hentet hunden, som jeg hadde måttet stenge inne, og vi gikk en times tur, opp dyretråkket til toppen av knausen. Der oppe er det 180 graders utsikt, blåner i sør, blåner i øst og blåner i nord, men først og fremst den store elva, elva på sitt største, i all sin majestetiske, rolige bredde før den deler seg.

Jeg hadde på meg regntøy av den typen man tar på barnehagebarn, og la meg ned i den bløte våte lyngen for å høre på fugler. Jeg hørte riktignok ingen fugler fordi hunden insisterte på å ligge på det varme, tørre håret mitt og knaske pinner.

Men hvile var det! Da vi kom tilbake,stengte jeg hunden inne igjen og kløyvde på strak arm og på en time 10 kubber, 40 cm lange, 23-28 cm i diameter. Jeg har aldri prøvd stimulerende rusmidler (amfetamin, kokain, osv.) men jeg nekter å tro de kunne ha gitt tilnærmelsesvis samme rusen.

Dagen etter kløyvde jeg 10 til, blant dem de 2 største (32 cm diameter). Det jeg kløyvde på to dager tilsvarte kanskje et årsforbruk for meg.

Jeg gleder meg allerede til neste gang jeg holder min kjære Fiskarsøks i hånden. (Ja, dette er skamløs reklame, men jeg sverger at Fiskars ikke vet noe om den.) Nytelsen ligger blant annet i å vite at du kontrollerer hvor slaget skal treffe slik at du hemningsløst kan legge all kraften din i det. Å svinge en øks fra bak på ryggen og ned på kubben… nei, det har jeg aldri turt før. Dette gjør jeg et par-tre ganger til øksa sitter akkurat der jeg vil. Når jeg virkelig får klaff, ser jeg det oppstår en sprekk foran øksa. Så slår jeg etter med slegga på øksehodet og lytter. I opptil ett minutt etter sleggeslaget knirker det i kubben, idet sprekken sprer seg bortover og nedover. Herlig lyd, altså! Som å stå alene på isen en mørk natt og høre drønnet og se, plutselig, at den tykke isen under deg sprekker. Det er like skummelt hver gang, selv om du har opplevd det mange ganger før. Nå har jeg brukt is-metaforen to ganger på to sider. Da er det på tide å avslutte.

Og skulle du lure på hvor det ble av vårnatten på stølen som tittelen lovet, så var det bare lokketoner til andre pelshvaler.

Yippee

04.04.2016 /

I knew, of course, that this is done, and I knew, roughly, how; how some of the rich and powerful, as opposed to most of us, manage to pay little or no taxes. (Hear for instance BBC’s “file on 4”, “Dirty Money UK” of 11 October 2015).

The problem is that more often than not, these people (some of the rich and powerful) are able to avoid paying taxes without breaking the law. Hence the fine verbal distinction between tax evasion, which is a criminal act, and tax avoidance, which is not.

They find loopholes. And the loopholes don’t get closed because the greedy bastards (excuse my French) have contacts in important places (or bribed flunkies in various countries’ civil services, including  – I have no doubt –  our own) and because the tax avoidance schemes are so complex that even the most adamant prosecutors can’t crack them (cf. my post “Speaking of Crime” a while back).

If an honest prosecutor can’t unravel these cases, how is the general public supposed to? So, to my grief, the general public in each country has until now, at least, been mute about the monumental siphoning off of what should have been tax money. While the lower and middle classes pay for the upkeep of their countries – and the penal sanctions for not doing so are very harsh, indeed – some (I really must insist on this some) of the filthy rich do not. No penal sanctions, no public outcry, no nothing.

Mind you, not only tax money! Once you have obtained a secret little series of PO Box companies in distant lands (or more probably, on islands) to which you can divert the proceeds of your business – and why on earth should you bother to do that, unless the purpose is to cheat your compatriots – you can very easily embark on a criminal career in a big way, all the while apearing devout and well-meaning back home.

But now… Oooo, what an exquisite moment I have just enjoyed! In the wake of the monumental release of the “Panama Papers“, I have been watching an Icelandic Prime Minister trying to explain that he was absolutely innocent of cheating the taxman – and besides, he did not know anything about it – and making such a blessed fool of himself that finally his long-suffering countrymen have been vindicated a little bit:

First Iceland was raped by the country’s bankers, bankers’ friends, and bankers’ government flunkies, and the country more or less collapsed in 2008. (The crooked bankers had victims abroad as well, as many Britons will bitterly remember.)  Iceland had to accept gigantic loans to pay for the running of the country, a debt that its citizens are paying dearly, to this day. Most of the funds that had been siphoned off by the crooked bankers and their friends have not been recovered. They had been sucked into a great black hole. They had been vamoosed.

Next, Iceland was bamboozled by a political party which had in effect nurtured the crooked coterie that brought the country to its knees. In the run-up to the last election, that party (the so-called Progressive Party) lied so outrageously and effectively to the voters that it actually regained the power it had lost after the collapse. (Democracy definitely has its weaknesses!)

The Progressive Party’s leader has now been undressed and humiliated. For the record I express the futile hope that he and his like stay away from Icelandic politics for ever.

More importantly, in a global perspective, the Panama papers are documentation of what we knew but couldn’t prove:  A very considerable part of the planet’s wealth is unaccounted for, stashed away in secret places, vamoosed into black holes.

The Panamanian law firm, Mossack Fonseca  is merely one of many that provide similar services to greedy people.

There is no end to easily accessible statistical material illustating how an infinitessimal proportion of the world’s rich owns and earns far more than the vast majority of the rest of all of us humans added together. I will not bore you with such figures, though they are truly quite stark.

Consider, though, that an unknown but undoubtedly enormous proportion of the world’s wealth is not visible to economists, social scientists, financial researchers, etc, and is not subject to tax. An unknown but undoubtedly enormous proportion of the world’s wealth has vanished down a black hole, has been vamoosed.

Can the planet feed all its inhabitants? If not, why?

Narrative

28.03.2016 /

A word to look out for these days is narrative. Although it might be defined differently in dictionaries, the word narrative has come to mean: an analysis or explanations – in short, a storyline – from a party with whom you tend to disagree on most but not all points. In other words you will not use a frankly derogatory term to dismiss the analysis or explanation in question, but you are subtly letting people know you don’t think much of it.

More importantly, you will find that a narrative, as the term is used today, will tend to be a little tricky to refute.

To wit, it is one of the preferred terms used about references to the Russians’ stand on the war in Syria. The thing is, we (i.e. NATO countries, the EU) need the Russians in Syria, so we can’t tell them to piss off, but we don’t quite agree with them. Why don’t we “quite agree” with them? Well, it’s all a bit awkward: After all, it is true, is it not, that when we (see definition above) did it our way, we made terrible messes of Afghanistan, Iraq and Libya? Also: We are increasingly resorting to surveillance of the general public at a level that we associate with the former Soviet Union and the present Russia.

You won’t hear any reference to “the US narrative”, except perhaps in Russia. I put it to you that the US narrative is: “the Russians are supporting Assad in order to gain hegemony in the Middle East.” Mind you, I am in no doubt that the Russians are attempting to gain or maintain hegemony here and for that matter there. But are not the US Americans also doing their damnedest to do so too? Why else are we all (see definition of “we” above ) such great buddies with, say, Saudi Arabia, where they publicly flog dissidents, not to put too fine a point on the Saudis’ human rights record?

The US narrative may be subtle since it isn’t strictly speaking incorrect, but it is misleading and beside the point.

Had Assad’s so-called “moderate” detractors somehow miraculously won the Syrian civil war, Syria would most certainly not have become a democracy. Assad’s “moderate” detractors may have been moderate, but their opposition was basically only anti-Assad (understandably, to be sure). Theirs was not a coordinated movement to create a “democracy”. Had it been so, they would not have demanded such sacrifices from the Syrian people.

You don’t create democracies through civil wars, at least not in our day and age, when there is no limit to foreign intervention, arms deals and transnational financial cynicism. There is absolutely no denying the Russian narrative as far as this point is concerned.

I wish our own “narrative” were a little more credible.

Crime

27.02.2016 /

A source of income for some, a means of revenge for others – for me and countless TV watchers, crime is just entertainment.

Actually, I don’t watch all that much TV, not even crime, for various reasons, one of them being that what happens on the screen all seems a bit irrelevant. Not that I’m not in favour of a little bit of escapism! I guess my escapism just takes other forms than, for instance, gory on-screen murders.

Sometimes, however, I do actually enjoy even a gory on-screen murder, and over the past week I have been watching the first five episodes (of 10) of an Icelandic film for TV titled Trapped / Innesperret (signed Baltasar Kormákur).

Anybody who has ever been to any of the tiny, remote towns that still dot isolated areas of the western world must have wondered: How do they manage? What makes them tick? Why do people stay? Are they in any way like us? And what if a murder were to happen here just when a blizzard was blocking all communication with the rest of the world?

On the coast of Iceland, blizzards happen all the time, and yes, they do from time to time block all communication with the rest of the world. That’s what the film is about. It tells a realistic story not only of a gory murder, but of a town you can actually see on the map, a town that has survived, survives and will continue to survive against all odds, despite isolation from glitzy honey pots. Although the location Seydisfjördur is real, the characters portrayed are fictional, but they are sure to exist somewhere, because they are the kind of people that are likely to live in any town.

Like any small place, it looses some people, who move to the big world. But all in all, the grandeur and courage of the film’s Seydisfjördur and its people is magnificent. Somehow, the film helps me understand why people I admire actually choose to live in such places, even to move there.

Speaking of crime

27.02.2016 /

Why murder? Why the inevitable corpse in all crime films? After all, the basic plot is almost always that Protagonist A is missing or found killed and that Protagonist B (police officer, accused innocent by-stander, or close relative/friend) sets out to discover what happened, in a life or death race with Protagonist C (perpetrator).

Why do we keep watching these things? What is there to be learnt from glimpsing, for the umpteenth time, a killer’s warped mind? Occasionally, the victim’s mind is as warped as that of the killer. So?

Each murder is a personal tragedy for the victim, of course, and for the murderer, and for anybody who deeply cared for either of them. Say a dozen people, maybe two.

On the other hand, financial crimes, whether or not they have been deemed such in court, can harm, more or less dramatically, all the tax payers in an affected country. In an article 24 January 2016 “We all want Apple to pay more tax”, the Telegraph writes:

About a month ago the bankers Goldman Sachs published a list of the biggest and richest firms in the world. The top three, in order, were Apple, Google and Microsoft – and Facebook and Amazon were also in the top 10. All these tech companies make staggering sums from an avid British population. We love this stuff. We can’t get enough of it. We buy tens of billions of pounds’ worth of American hardware, software and services – and yet these companies pay quite derisory sums in tax to the UK Exchequer: derisory, that is, when you consider how much dosh they are earning from us all.”

The article goes on to defend the practice of tax avoidance schemes. It is true that technically, the Gargantuan tax avoidance schemes hatched out by influential transnational corporations are not necessarily violations of law, but they certainly would be if the average voter/tax payer had a say in the matter. But we voters don’t see and cannot understand the intricate technicalities involved.

Worse, we lack the technical insight to see our own countries’ dirty financial linen. Speaking of Iceland again: The entire country went bust, mostly as a result of the book cooking and irresponsible investments of a few financial crooks who would probably never have been exposed had it not been for the domino effect in the wake of the Lehman Brothers.

In my country, most of us hardly even noticed when the great big multinational Transocean was let off the hook a couple of weeks ago: The public prosecutor who had been pursuing Transocean for years on charges of criminal tax evasion was forced to apologise (!) to Transocean. A rather touching local article describes Norwegian legislators’ reaction as shocked and dismayed after a lecture about multinationals’ tax avoidance machinations. There’s a bad world out there, so bad that most of us think it’s just fiction.

Afterall, how can you fathom, if you run a little shop and pay your weight in gold to the taxman, that Transocean or Google or Apple can cheat and lie as much as they like as long as they have a battery of top ranking tax lawyers on their payrolls. Who can grasp there is so much iniquity in a civilised country?

Whose informed opinion weighs the most, Google’s or the voter’s? By whom is the voter’s opinion informed? Why do we prefer a film about a murder to a film about the effects of multinationals’ crooked machinations? Why don’t we even know about multinationals’ crooked machinations in spite of people’s loosing their jobs and/or homes because of them?

Whose acts, then, are the more sinister, the murderer’s or the multinationals’ crooked machinations? So lets have lots of  crime films about multinationals’ crooked machinations. We might learn something we really  need to know.

The Mujica effect

19.02.2016 /

The former Uruguayan President Mujica has long since left office, but his legacy will live forever, I hope.

In Tanzania a new president has gained so much popularity after his first 100 days in office, that he now enjoys more than 90% support.

What do the two have in common? They slash expenses on pomp and ostentation. For all I know, President Magufuli may never even have heard of Pepe Mujica. Maybe we are approaching a watershed. Maybe the world has grown tired of junk food and tinsel.

Alas, I doubt it. I fear only the Tanzanians have understood, for some inexplicable reason, that national resources are better spent on health and education than on public or private exorbitance.

Among President Magufuli’s first decisions after taking office was to ban the purchase of first and business class tickets for foreign travel by ministers and officials… he slashed the budget allocated for an inauguration dinner by 90 per cent, diverting the money thus saved to healthcare… banned holding official meetings and workshops in hotels (they must now be held in government buildings) …. ordered a review of all privatisation contracts … starting by repossessing five estates… increased the number of businesses that pay taxes …

If things get much worse here in Europe, I might consider applying for Tanzanian citizenship.

Mind you, I would love to own a chateau on the Loire, a trim Colin Archer boat and a private beach cum comfortable cottage in Sardinia. If I had them, I would live simply and modestly, sorting recyclable rubbish according to source material, bicycling to town rather than driving, etc. I would travel by train, if at all possible, rather than by plane. I might even forego having a car.

But I belong to the long-suffering middle class. No chateau, no Colin Archer, no private beach. I, we, have every reason to compensate as best we can, poor things.

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