Speaking of the Agenda, I was asked to contribute one of the reflections. Here it is:
MINES THAT DEVOUR MOUNTAINS
An award-winning mining documentary film, Pascua Lama: a Quest for El Dorado was released recently in Montreal. On the cover of the DVD is a photo of the mine combined with a background image of downtown Toronto. The image is appropriate. Toronto’s stock exchange registers 60% of mining companies in the world. The reason is simple: Toronto places no conditions on how mining companies operate. Moreover, it supports those companies politically and financially even when they contaminate the environment and violate human rights.
Thursday 24 September 2009
Thursday 3 September 2009
The Day It Rained
I have been working on a manuscript for a novel now for a couple of years. The novel is about life in Chimbote, a city on the northern coast of Peru -- where I lived for a few years in the 1980s. One of the really hard parts of writing is cutting out the unessential parts. Here is one of the pieces that had to go. It is nevertheless a good story I think.
Flor shivered at the sight of the man seated with the small white coffin at the back of the bus. Daniel had died only two weeks earlier, and the image of the small white coffin revived painful memories. He was only 14 when he died. Towards the end, he was so weakened that he couldn’t do more than sit up for short periods. Yet, he was such a special child, quiet, caring. He demanded nothing and appreciated everything. Flor had done her best to care for him, but she was alone; his father had disappeared years ago. She had done everything possible to keep him comfortable and to encourage him to eat, though he had difficulty keeping anything down. Some women from the city had offered to help her. They belonged to some organization or other that was supposed to look after women who were raising families alone. At least they had been able to get some medicine for Daniel. The day before his death she had sent word for the priest to come to bring him communion. Daniel had never been baptized, and she didn’t go to church herself. Well, she hardly had time for that. Anyway, he came, and they talked. Daniel had no idea what communion was, but when the priest asked him, he nodded and said that yes, he would like that. The priest promised to return the next morning. When Flor had thanked him, the priest paused for a moment before asking if she realized that the boy was dying. She folded her arms across her chest, bowed slightly as if she were examining the floor and, in a soft voice said, yes, she realized that.
“Have you talked with him about it,” he said. “He is aware he is dying, you know, but he doesn’t want to upset you. I think that if you were to talk to him about his death, it would help him. This may be your last chance to have a real heart-to heart chat with him.”
Flor shivered at the sight of the man seated with the small white coffin at the back of the bus. Daniel had died only two weeks earlier, and the image of the small white coffin revived painful memories. He was only 14 when he died. Towards the end, he was so weakened that he couldn’t do more than sit up for short periods. Yet, he was such a special child, quiet, caring. He demanded nothing and appreciated everything. Flor had done her best to care for him, but she was alone; his father had disappeared years ago. She had done everything possible to keep him comfortable and to encourage him to eat, though he had difficulty keeping anything down. Some women from the city had offered to help her. They belonged to some organization or other that was supposed to look after women who were raising families alone. At least they had been able to get some medicine for Daniel. The day before his death she had sent word for the priest to come to bring him communion. Daniel had never been baptized, and she didn’t go to church herself. Well, she hardly had time for that. Anyway, he came, and they talked. Daniel had no idea what communion was, but when the priest asked him, he nodded and said that yes, he would like that. The priest promised to return the next morning. When Flor had thanked him, the priest paused for a moment before asking if she realized that the boy was dying. She folded her arms across her chest, bowed slightly as if she were examining the floor and, in a soft voice said, yes, she realized that.
“Have you talked with him about it,” he said. “He is aware he is dying, you know, but he doesn’t want to upset you. I think that if you were to talk to him about his death, it would help him. This may be your last chance to have a real heart-to heart chat with him.”
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