THE UNKNOWN CITIZEN

by W. H. Auden


(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

I'M GETTING OLD

    I'm getting old. I feel it coming on. Not just in my body which is slowly breaking down and deteriorating. But I also feel it inside. I'm getting old. I feel it coming on.

    I'm getting old. I feel it coming on. Not just in my mind with loss of memory and forgetting of names. But I also feel it in my spirit. I'm getting old. I feel it coming on.

    I'm getting old. I feel it coming on. Not just in my reminiscing or longing for the good old days. But I feel it in my loss of hope. I'm getting old. I feel it coming on.

    I'm getting old. I feel it coming on. Not just in my lack of patience or love or desire for goodness. But I feel it in my heart. I'm getting old. I feel it coming on.

    I'm getting old. I feel it coming on. Not just in the graying of hair and obesity of weight. But I feel it in my being. I'm getting old. I feel it coming on.

    At what point in time do hope and despair and energy and fatigue blend and become one? At what point in time does compromising and being stagnant and cold become the standard of normalcy? At what point in time does promise become loss of opportunity? Faith becomes disillusionment. Trust becomes wariness.

I'm getting old. I feel it coming on.

FIRING RANGE

My experience with firearms is really limited. When I was a kid my neighbours had BB guns and let me shoot them off from time to time. Our targets were mainly street lights, snakes and a new house that was built in the middle of our sandlot baseball field.

I remember my friend Carl aiming at a bird flying by and pulling the trigger and actually hitting the poor thing in mid-air. It fell like a stone to the ground dead. We looked at each other so surprised that the robin was dead. Then his old aunt, Edna, from across the street started yelling and screaming that we were murderers and should be ashamed of ourselves. We responded by running away as fast as we could!

A couple of years ago I had a problem with my computer's motherboard. I phoned up a friend of mine, Richard, who was a programmer and knew how to work on computers as well to make an appointment for him to look at it.

He took my computer apart, showed me how it had been poorly designed and why my motherboard had fried. He then said for me to come along with him for a car ride.

We went downtown and parked in a seedy little alley that runs adjacent to our main street. We got out of his vehicle and walked through a door and then went down a flight or two of stairs. It was dark and damp. I had never been told of this subterranean area that was right below our downtown district.

We then entered through a set of heavy doors, possibly of steel, and walked into a firing range. Richard opened up the case he was carrying and pulled out a gun. He explained that it was a German luger from World War Two. He loaded it, described how it worked, and let me take aim at some targets at the far end of the gallery.

I was not a very good shot. But I also felt sick inside. If this was a real German Luger I wondered if it had seen any action. How many Nazis or German people had used this gun to blow out the brains of precious Jewish citizens?

I knew that Richard could sense how uncomfortable I was shooting a gun. He didn't press me to take another round when the gun was emptied. We left shortly after and he never asked me back there again. I am not disappointed.

TINY RIPPLE OF HOPE

When I was a youngster my heroes were athletes such as Mickey Mantle or Johnny Bower. As a Christian my ultimate hero would of course be Jesus. Another hero of mine is Robert Kennedy, the younger brother of the assassinated John F. Kennedy.

A couple of years ago I filled in as an interim pastor at an Evangelical Covenant Church in Buffalo, NY. I have listened to my sermons online but the one that I felt was my best effort dealt briefly with the life of RFK.

For the next little while I am going to have a bit to say about RFK but I am going to start off with a quote from what is regarded as his most famous speech. It was delivered in Capetown, South Africa in 1966.

It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.

This has been an immense week of spiritual stress and emotional fatigue. This quote has set me back on course.

THOUGHTS WHILE GOING THROUGH A VERY DEPRESSING DAY

I think it is about time America forgot about saving the rest of the world and took care of their own. I read an article in Atlantic Monthly about the economy and how one segment of society in particular is in dire straits. This is the inner city ghetto. Unemployment is at an all-time high in the black communities and people are earning their living in the underground economy. When that low-life Sirhan Sirhan snuffed out the life of Robert Kennedy he also snuffed out any hope of America waging war against poverty. Can you imagine how powerful the American society could have been if the trillions of dollars spent on wars in Vietnam, Cambodia, Iraq and Afghanistan had been kept within their borders? Greedy insurance companies wouldn't have corrupted the health care system. Inner city schools would enjoy the same benefits as white suburban schools. Crime would be greatly diminished because when people have productive jobs they have no need to turn to crime. When the people have hope would they still turn to dope?

 

OBAMA, LBJ AND THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER

The thought has crossed my mind that as the American lead Coalition continues in the futile efforts to reform Afghanistan that President Obama is becoming another LBJ. You know LBJ? He was the President who is always thought of synonymously with the war in Vietnam. I am afraid that the short-lived Obama Administration will leave behind a legacy of digging ourselves deeper and deeper into an unwinnable situation.

When I think of trying to win a war in Afghanistan one always thinks of previous efforts by the British and the Russians. Neither was successful. It is totally illogical to think that we can do any better than our predecessors in the Afghan nation. I will have more on this in the weeks and months and years ahead.

Kipling, well noted for The Jungle Book, wrote the following poem about the young British soldier. The final stanza is most relevant for today.

The Young British Soldier

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
         Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
         Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
         Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
         Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
         So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
         A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
         Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
         An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
         Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
         An' it crumples the young British soldier.
         Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
         An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
         Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
         That it's beer for the young British soldier.
         Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
         Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
         'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
         An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
         Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
         And march to your front like a soldier.
         Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
         An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
         Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
         For noise never startles the soldier.
         Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
         And wait for supports like a soldier.
         Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
         An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
         Go, go, go like a soldier,
         Go, go, go like a soldier,
         Go, go, go like a soldier,
         So-oldier of the Queen!

MUBAR IN AFGHANISTAN

The temptation is pretty strong to replace the sanitized MUBAR (Messed Up Beyond All Recognition) with the down and dirty FUBAR. If you don’t know what FUBAR is then you are a better person than me, and I won’t explain it to you.
What brings me to this place is the senseless slaughter of the medical workers in Afghanistan – 6 Americans, one German, one British and 2 Afghan translators. The driver, an Afghan, was allowed free because he begged for his life and quoted the Quran. There are strong suspicions that the driver was in on this spree.
There was nothing to be achieved by killing these people. They were solely there for humanitarian purposes. These doctors understood the law of the land and although they may have been Christian they were in compliance of the laws forbidding witnessing for Jesus.
So it was purely murder out of demonic hatred with the purpose of robbery.
MUBAR.
These killers are inhuman. To massacre unarmed and innocent people, people who loved the Afghan people and were bringing relief for sight problems, for no motive other than hatred and thievery tells me a few things.
There is no winning with these people. The British tried, the French tried, the Soviets tried, and they all were humbly defeated.
What makes us think the American-lead coalition will be any different?
My God, can’t President Obama see that he is going to wind up in the history books as another LBJ if he doesn’t pull out soon?
This is the present day Vietnam, and there is no hope for victory.
Even if you drive out the Taliban this is a male-dominated society that has always treated women with great indignity.
Education has never reformed a culture, no matter how much we wish it could.
John Dempsey, who works in Kabul for the U.S. Institute of Peace, says Christian groups will have to consider their position.
He said: "I don't think they necessarily need to withdraw but I certainly think after what's happened earlier this year, and of course today's attack, they have to reassess what it means to be a Christian organisation in a country where they often are the ones singled out and targeted, and there may be measures they could take to improve their security for themselves.
"So I think there is still room for Christian organisations to operate in many parts of the country, but they'll have to be careful in terms of selecting where those might be." (BBC News)
So if we pull out does it mean that all the innocents and soldiers have died in vain? Maybe. But not necessarily so. If it takes the death of these workers, or the death of native Afghans blown to bits by errant coalition missiles, or even the death of professional soldiers to bring us to the realization that there must be alternative ways to deal with the Afghan problem, then so be it.
However, if we continue on the course we are set up currently then there is no hope.
And my friends, this is truly FUBAR.