Mango Sorbet

May’s mature sun warms
webs blown by a southern breeze;
mango sorbets melt

Death in Gaza

Just watched Death in Gaza on Channel 4 and as I expected it would leave me – I’m depressed and seething with rage at the injustice perpertrated against the innocent whoever they are.

Tragic was the situation of two very young lads, Ahmed and Mohammed, who are as enthusiastic about the prospect of becoming martyrs as young lads here might be about becoming England footballers. The obvious difference being that they’re only ever likely to win a single blood soaked cap for Palestine United. It was especially chilling to see that hooded members of Al-Aqsa Brigade quite happily use young Ahmed as a willing look out for them while they play their deadly game of cat and mouse with the IDF. When asked how they feel about putting such a young boy into such obvious danger one of the hooded militiamen says that there are thousands of young lads who can take his place in the event of Ahmed’s martyrdom. (I don’t doubt it)

Particularly tragic was the story of a Palestinian girl, Najla, who had already lost 8 members of her family when she was first interviewed. During this film by Saira Shah and James Miller she loses another cousin, a 16 year old boy. At this boy’s funeral, his sister is admonished for crying; to have a martyr in the family is considered a great honour for a family in today’s Gaza.

Then the final act in this tragedy – James Miller (the cameraman and co-producer of this documentary) is shot dead by an Israeli soldier, (despite his waving a white flag and being accompanied by Saira Shah shouting loudly and clearly that they were British Journalists). Both Ahmed and Mohammed decide to become cameramen when they grow up. (I hope they get the chance… to do both)

The programme ended with a voice speaking over the closing credits informing us that as a result of the recent Israeli Army bulldozing of Rafah – Najla, Ahmed and Mohammed have all been left homeless.

[UPDATE 14/04/05 -- IDF gets away with murder (what a surprise!)]

[UPDATE 21/04/05 -- Huh!?]

The Prodigal Son Returns (but probably wishes he

As mentioned by Rezwan, Britain recently sent a new High Commissioner to Bangladesh and it warmed this son of a son of Sylhet’s heart to know that Anwar Choudhury was the first British Bangla envoy to the old country. The Sylheti boy done good.

So what do the fucked up fish murdering and turtle torturing tali-qaeda-fascists do? … They try to blow him up!

The result – those psychotic sociopaths will burn forever in a hell of their own making and Anwar Choudhury will most likely end up with a knighthood.

So arise!, Sir Anwar of Sylhet.

Here’s one I did earlier…

First off – apologies to any of you who doesn’t have a fast internet connection and even if you do have DSL or Broadband and a fairly recent version of Internet Explorer with a Windows Media Player plug-in – I still apologise!

So, Welcome to BongoVision… (psst! press play button)

If it aint broke…

I tried to upgrade the software for the site (for no real reason) but completely screwed it up so in desperation I sent a message to the ISP to restore it to the working condition it was happily in prior to my meddling with it. This was at about 6pm and office hours ended at 5pm so I wasn’t expecting anything to happen until tommorrow but I got an email almost straight away telling me that they’d done it!

So I unreservedly thank my hosts Titan Internet and highly recommend them to anyone who needs an ISP in the future.

Another War Another Image.

Well, you didn’t think I was going to go on for too much longer without making some mention of those images from that ‘just war’ did you? Well, I wasn’t going too especially after a hard day’s shooting of “Attack of the Killer Brain” (I’ll tell you about it some other time) but I changed my mind as I was relaxing in front of Newsnight (Oh yes! mine is a life of relentless excitement).

Kirsty was giving Christopher Hitchens rather an easy ride (is it just me or is Mr Hitchins looking increasingly like a piece of steaming turd?) and allowing some US political non-entities to express their outrage at the ‘abhorrent behaviour’ of those ‘aberrant soldiers’ with their distinctly American un-American activities. Still, it wasn’t really enough to get me to put fingertips to keyboard and tap anything that isn’t being tapped out already by the outraged masses of blogistan.

Kirsty Wark had even managed to get an interview with Rummy’s neo-chum Richard Pearle who was clearly out to defend the evil old bastard and that had me teetering on the edge of my laptop but I relented. I thought – fuck it – everybody and their mother now knows the score and that’s that. Until, that is, the next viagra-fuelled half-wit occupant of the Whitehouse decides to go off to find fruit for his hanging tree while all the good ol’ boys and their gals lap it up with an extra side-order of fries and a world teaching slug of the real thing.

But then cultured Kirsty made a passing reference to Goya’s images of the Peninsular War as a comparision and well, I had to find out what she was going on about. I did …

Dubai

I stopped over in Dubai once on the way back from Bangladesh. It was a long stopover so they put us up at a hotel which had a very impressive view of a lot of sand.

I decided to take a look around so caught a bus to the main shopping complex. It was during the middle of the Dubai shopping Festival which appears to be second only to Ramadan in it’s importance to the subjects of this busy little emirate. Everything is duty free here but frankly that didn’t seem to make any real dent to the prices of most goods. I suppose if you’re from a country in which there are heavy import duties then it might.

The only thing that did seem to be quite a bit cheaper than in the UK was jewellery – more specifically gold. All the gold shops were apparantly manned by Indians or Pakistanis and I think the source and style of the jewellery was South Asian. I wasn’t in the market for any gold shopping but a fellow passenger of mine was. He was a Bangladeshi but lived and worked in Switzerland; in a restaurant.

As often happens when a bengali spots another one in the midst of a sea of non-bengalis, they make a beeline for the other. This Swiss-bengy was no different (how did he know? is it some sort of bangla radar? – badar!?) he latched on to me. Since I was going to the shopping complex to do a spot of sight-seeing and perhaps to get a watch for myself I didn’t see any harm in having some company. He spoke English well which is just as well as I don’t have much Bengali. He told me that he was going to get some jewellery for his wife and we walked about the air-conditioned palace of merchants popping into gold shop after gold shop. I was fascinated by his ability to talk gold – the haggling over settings and prices that ensued was several divisions above anything I’d ever witnessed. In one shop we spent over an hour while this guy and the shop manager talked about the finer points of the workmanship the relative merits of various matching accessories and the price per kilo of gold. It was a real lesson and I was, I have to admit, slightly in awe of this master of the haggle. I think the shop manager was too because at the end of the process, after a deal had been struck and money had been exchanged for goods, he shook the haggle-masters hand in the manner that two title contenders might after a gruelling but sportsmanlike boxing match.

We left the gold shop and then it was my turn to bargain – I went into a watch shop, spent two minutes looking at the watches, saw one I liked asked them how much it was, gave them the money and then left the place after about ten minutes.

I concluded that I was rubbish at shopping.