Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A view of the world from an Irish hole

Men in suits

When I was a student I was active in the anti-Apartheid movement. Apartheid seemed to me, and still does, an evil system, where people through accidents of birth are confined to lives not of their own making and independent of their abilities or talents. What was more the black man or woman born in Apartheid-era South Africa could literally do nothing to change their lot. They could not change the colour of their skins; once born black they had to remain black.

This situation was akin to what often occurred in Northern Ireland where those baptised or brought up as Catholics were effectively second-class citizens. They could do nothing to change the situation. They could change their religion and maybe become very active members of their new congregations, but the “stain” of their original sin would not be forgotten by all, and would indeed present itself as an insurmountable barrier. Piety also the person born to mixed parents, who wished to bring up their child free of silly sectarianism and its attendant coat-trailing; they were hated by everyone.

But back to my original purpose. I opposed Apartheid because it was evil and unjust. We did not battle against apartheid so that the black population of South Africa, oppressed and exploited by an Afrikaner elite, could become oppressed and exploited by a black African elite of fraudsters and crooks. This is what the ANC has become. Its unwillingness to become anything else has been shown by the recent success of Jacob Zuma and his accolytes in ANC elections. Zuma is a crook whose acquittal on rape charges is less than convincing. Amongst his allies is Winnie Mandela, a convicted fraudster. Zuma looks likely to become the next President of South Africa. His predecessor, Thabo Mbeki, is hardly free of criticism – a man who has allowed hundreds and thousands of his countrymen and women to die of AIDS rather than provide them with effective retroviral treatment. This was not because of cost considerations but because he refused to accept a link between HIV and AIDS. His health minister, Dr Tshabalala-Msimang, advised AIDS sufferers to eat beetroot as a treatment.

In the 1980s Africa was cursed by military dictators – men in uniform who used their countries’ scant resources as personal troughs for enrichment. Military rulers are no longer in fashion. Instead it is more common for Africa’s rulers to have gained their position through “democratic” elections and for them to wear sharp western-style business suits. Yet the means by which they enrich themselves at the expense of those whom they rule is just the same. The “resource curse” has seen royalties for natural resources exploitation flow into their pockets and never out again. One can think of people like the super-rich President Omar Bongo of Gabon or Teodoro Nguema of Equatorial Guinea. These guys aren’t just rich by African standards; they can rub shoulders without fear with the likes of Soros. Even the presidents of countries with fewer natural resources have been just as greedy. Take for example the former president of Zambia, Frederick Chiluba, who was understandibly reluctant to give up power some years ago.

Africa perhaps could benefit from the Berlusconi phenomenon, where a fabously rich person enters politics, not to make himself rich but to protect his riches. About the only example that comes to mind is the president of Madagascar, Marc Ravolimanana, reputed to be a millionare prior to his election.

Not all African rulers are corrupt, and not all of them dress in suits. There is Yoweri Museveni in Uganda who has done so much to fight AIDS in his country, and who has still not totally shed his military uniform.  Then there is someone like ATT – Amadou Toumani Touré of Mali, a former military man who has not apparently enriched himself since becoming president of his landlocked nation.

Midnight Mass

Who out there, of a certain age, can forget the ritual of Midnight Mass at Christmas in Cavan town? I mean proper Midnight Mass, at Midnight, and not the pale, wimpish thing that’s replaced it at ten o’clock.

The fact that it was at midnight was important; that way patrons of Cavan town’s pubs could get a real skinful AND attend to their religious duties. Consequently the town’s cathedral was bathed in odours of drink, augmented by the smell of urine, vomit  and other aromas testifying that their producers had dropped the payload in their underpants. Some of these unsteady souls made it to seats where they lay down and went fast to sleep, their snores echoing through the basilica. Others loitered unsteadily around the entrances, occasionally collapsing into a heap beside the doors.

But this world was unknown to those at the top of the cathedral whose front rows were filled with the Golf club at Prayer along with their short-skirted, long-haired progeny who were home for the holidays from “college”. They all basked in the words of Bishop McKiernan’s hypocritical homily, which he habitually wheeled out every Christmas. Each time he nasally ennunciated another of his “do-as-I-Say, not-as-I-do” utterances Cavan Town’s insecure shitty establishment thanked God that nothing would change in their life-time and that their position at the top of the bean-heap was unassailable.

These people knew nothing of the drunken denizens of the nave or of the transept  reserved informally for the Half Acre, yet it was not unknown for these sad benighted people to break through and make their presences felt. I remember one year when Frankie-goes-to-Hollywood finished up his spiel by delivering the usual verbal coup-de-grace. “I wantoo tekk this opporchunitay toowish you all a verray Happay Christ-mas”. A voice piped up from the back “What the fuck’s that goin’ to do for a United Ireland?”

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