by Colin Hyde
The defense lawyers (DL) have made some recommendations re: this 13th amendment, and one in particular jumped out and spoiled the entire barrel of ideas they forwarded. My mind cannot focus on any of the other ideas because one is so bad; well, it is like a roach or konkas on, or somebody picking their nose around, the dinner table.
I read in the Reporter that the DLs are requesting judicial oversight (for extended detentions, searches, and seizures in special areas) of the SOE process. If this group sees the tack it is on, has been on, as part of the solution, they are victims of delusion. If I was a mature, cold sort, I might suspect ulterior motive. You there, nobody wants gibnat kozn around the cheese. We need oversight, yes, but not you.
Flat out, they won’t get my vote. We have an attorney general and a battery of lawyers in our employ, paid to take care of our business. I hope our political leaders don’t fall suckers for that recommendation.
It’s not just about material poverty
People who want to understand the disaster that explodes in our streets far too often, they miss the truth if they don’t grasp what certain movies and a music form called Gangsta Rap contributed to the problem. They poisoned the minds of our vulnerable youth. In the old movies, the guys who were portrayed as unsavory always got their comeuppance. In some popular new movies, the story is not about feeding noble ideas to the audience. The youth who grew into men and became ruthless, lost their respect for life because of some of these movies. And the decadent music genre, Gangsta Rap, actually did worse for our young minds.
All the while, as our culture was being eroded, cocaine was passing through our country with the help of big people in the society. The education system let us down terribly. We are victims of petty or corrupt leaders. Add to these unwholesome things the fact that many of the parents of our young people were living in the states, or weren’t making it in a Belize that had left them behind. Add to that poisonous mix brilliant defense lawyers who could and did not-so-scrupulous things. It’s easy to explain how anti-heroes became the heroes.
Everyone is on point when they say an injection of capital and other investments are needed for youth and men who are one “bad look” away from erupting into violence. But something else is deeply wrong. Our culture has been badly eroded. The SOE, sometimes we need that timeout to lean on.
To save the 13th, we, ehm, could use some tokens
I have diminished points for sophists, people who argue to win. I guess in a developed country where nobody goes to sleep hungry, where the system functions as well as anything made by man can, people can afford to sport around with serious things, or dish out pieces of truth. Today we’re talking about the 13th amendment because of the terrible violence in our country, and here we have people arguing that the system is biased because invariably the individuals caught up in the police net have black skin.
It’s been a long time since we’ve had someone from the Mestizo tribe in the seat as ComPol, and in the recent 13 years of the UDP, the minister in charge was black. It is a thing that it is our tribe, the Kriol, and a few Garinagu who have lost respect for human life. There was a time when all our youth were on a pretty even keel. Then all hell broke loose for some. Thank gudnis the poison hasn’t affected the youth of our other tribes, or we’d have to SOE the entire country. If the brake is put on the 13th amendment, the last resort SOE, it must not be for the color story.
What I didn’t see ANY of the defense lawyers calling for among their recommendations, is an insistence that the government provide better conditions for individuals who are incarcerated on suspicion. We are forcing people to take a “vacation”, for the good of the country. It is ABC that we have to provide better accommodations for them, Braa.
Ahem, I’m thinking, to help this thing work, we could use a few tokens – Chinese, Mennonite, Arabian volunteers – to join our Kriol men who are caught in the net. Do it for solidarity, do it to kick out the legs of those who want to holler “race”, to shut down a measure that’s the only thing that brings sanity to the streets when gangs rule.
At last, Wimbledon allowed dark underthings
All over, women are breaking the rules, and few are railing against them, like they do about the LGBT, who don’t understand that sex organ things are for the bedroom, or the closet. I noticed at the Wimbledon tournament this year that most of the female players had on dark things under their little miniskirts.
Brigid Kennedy, in a Sports Illustrated story, said the folk at Wimbledon insisted on all white because in days of old, sweat stains were considered uncouth, and white hid those dreadful stains. Russell Fuller of BBC said former Olympic champion Monica Puig spoke about “the ‘mental stress’ of having to wear white”, and said “she used to pray the championships did not coincide with her period.” Fuller said Heather Watson said “the issue was frequently discussed privately”, that it was “absolutely something the players talk about around Wimbledon because of the all-whites.”
Stubborn Wimbledon (I think they call some people “old fogeys”) said, to hell with discomfort; we are holding onto tradition. Mercifully, the silinis is over. Fuller said “women and girls can now wear mid- or dark-coloured undershorts, provided they are no longer than their skirt.”
No excitement here for anything called king
Whenever I see temples in Egypt, here, or anywhere, my thoughts go to the builders on the ground, not to the architects or the rich who commissioned the work. So, my enthusiasm level is at zero over the news last week about the discovery of an important king in a tomb at Caracol. Kings, I have soft feelings for the ceremonial types of today. Kings of the past were slave owners, harem owners, and warmongers who sent the children of the poor to fight their battles.
Naa, I doant get excited by no king. Maybe my dad is to blame. He never asked any of his children for adoration. I understand the importance of finding a king at Caracol, for its explanation of the past, for a better understanding of the past, and its business side; but me, I’m not going gaga. My heart is solidly with the peons, the ones who did the hard labor to convert the idea to a temple. My heart is not with the ones walking around in expensive clothing and pipes in their mouths.
I am tempted to tell you about the prophet Samuel here, about his views about kings, what he told the children of Israel would happen to them and their children if they chose a king instead of a prophet to lead them. But Samuel is responsible for the genocide in Gaza, responsible for every warmonger the Jews have produced. So, today I’ll forego Samuel and head to my corner to observe the celebrations.
Oh, I can’t go just yet. Jesus was a titular king in the earth scheme. He did not order the crusades. Nowhere is it reported in the 4 most important books of the Bible that He would have endorsed sending the children of the poor to fight the wars of the rich. Jesus walked to the gallows alone. He could have called ten thousand angels, and He could have encouraged His followers to go to battle. No sir! He, Hihn da real man; He took the walk alone.
We’ll wait to hear how many, ehm, glorious campaigns the hero at Caracol led, how many wars the peons and their sons fought while this king and his sons observed from the temple tops, while they played “chess” and things in rooms of opulence, while they drank cheecha and discussed which of the maiden daughters and sisters of the peons would make good wives at the temple.
Whoa there, I apologize for choosing peons over daam king.
Buckets of goose bumps, buckets of tears
On Saturday morning, Turner Classic Movies showed Your Cheatin’ Heart, and I bet there were buckets of goose bumps, and buckets of tears running down the faces of all who watched it, even those like me who had seen the movie before. That movie is about the great country singer, Hank Williams, and his music is as wrenching as the story of his short life. In the first days of Belmopan, the big men at ReConDev who ran the place, put benches in the market and turned it into a movie theater on weekend nights. There’s where Belmopan cried its eyes out for Hank, and during a movie titled Rosas Blancas Para Mi Hermana Negra.
Hank’s music touches the soul; he has a special place in the hearts of millions of humble people who drink rum to feed their melancholia.