On the assassination of Bobby Kennedy

Progress is a nice word. But change is its motivator. And change has its enemies.

Robert Kennedy in a speech to mayors in May 1964 

I was a young teenager living in southern Saskatchewan in 1968, and on 5 June the radio was on as I got ready for school. It was a Wednesday. All radio stations in Canada on this morning, including the commercial Top 40 stations, carried the same CBC newscast, The World at Eight. Apparently there was a feeling our American neighbours were slipping into anarchy and the broadcasters of the nation felt it important to tell the same story to all Canadians as they woke up.





It was an incredible time to be a teenager in Canada. In 1968 many of us were wrapped up in politics; the politics of our own country, and the politics of the world beyond: Prague Spring, the Cultural Revolution, near-revolution in Paris only the month before, and of course, the violent upheaval we witnessed every night on television news reports from the United States. We had the best of everything: a comfortable lifestyle that allowed us to rebel on weekends, and still come home for mom's cooking every night of the week. 1968 was shaping our lives, but now, yet another hero's death made everything seem ever more fragile and uncertain.

Only weeks before, on 4 April, Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee,  and America's cities had been set ablaze. The American War in Viet Nam continued to divide the nation, and an incumbent President had announced he would not seek re-election. The peace candidate, and the one I supported, being a Canadian teenager of course, was Eugene McCarthy. McCarthy had precipitated President Johnson's withdrawal by defeating him in earlier Democratic Party primaries, which opened the door for Kennedy to enter the race.


It was the California Primary that Bobby had won that night in 1968, by a slim margin over Gene McCarthy. The next big primary would be New York, and now we had two candidates claiming to be willing to end the awful war.

My life, even as a teenager, was perfectly fine. My family, though far from being rich, never wanted for much either. My country was great. Canada had just finished its year-long Centennial celebrations five months earlier and my friends and I felt we were on top of the world. Hearing the news on that day in 1968 made me wonder if the United States was indeed spinning out of control. We listened to the news throughout the day in breaks at school and later, after school, we watched the news on CBC and NBC with our parents, of all people.




As the early days of summer continued, the craziness south of the border never abated. A few months after Bobby's assassination, my family took a road trip to Montreal and one night while in an Ottawa motel we watched together as the Chicago City Police rioted during the Democratic National Convention. The convention where Bobby or Gene would have been selected as the party's candidate for president. Instead, amidst the insanity and violence of what was happening in the streets, Hubert Humphrey was chosen, and somehow we knew, as teenagers, that nothing would ever be the same again. How many of our heroes would have to be killed in order to make America safe for the likes of Richard Nixon?



I remember Bobby Kennedy's impromptu speech in Indianapolis the night Martin Luther King was assassinated, and his simple words as he told his disbelieving audience the news of King's death:

What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love, and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.

And I remember his words in a speech given in the United States Senate two years before his death. It was a promise from a member of the increasingly fading Camelot:

A revolution is coming — a revolution which will be peaceful if we are wise enough; compassionate if we care enough; successful if we are fortunate enough — But a revolution which is coming whether we will it or not. We can affect its character; we cannot alter its inevitability.

I'm still waiting.                                              

Then again, it's always been up to us.

Copyright 2015 by Jim Murray.

Ginger Indian Cuisine in Richmond

The last time my daughters took me for lunch, we went to the Smokehouse Sandwich Co. which turned out to be a great experience. For sandwiches.

This time, it was to Ginger Indian Cuisine, found in an odd location near No. 4 Road and Bridgeport in Richmond. Ginger is located in a strip mall that also includes a barbecue dealer and a private liquor store and if you judge a book by its cover, this place might not appeal. That would be a mistake.

Ginger is simple and unassuming. Its menu is simple yet ample. Service is friendly, helpful and attentive. There are the usual Indian dishes with fish, chicken, lamb and a bunch of vegetarian items too. Servings are generous, and everything tastes fresh and homemade. I am reminded of the legendary Kits' restaurant called Surat Sweet which featured the best in vegetarian Indian cuisine with an East Africa - Gujarat flair.

Appetisers, especially the papadi, reminiscent of a crunchy bhel, are wonderful. The chai is nicely done indeed in a traditional manner. Chai needs to be brewed slowly, almost to the point of boiling over; if it comes to your table quickly, it probably isn't as good as the chai served here at Ginger. I assume the lassi drinks will be first rate too.



My two daughters are regulars at Ginger, as are many of their lunch time customers. It isn't a big restaurant by any means so take-away appears to be a big part of their business.





Fresh ingredients prepared with care and attention to detail makes for a wonderful experience. You need to know where you are going in order to find Ginger, and it is well worth it!






Photos by Jeem. Copyright 2015 by Jim Murray.

 

Bonne fête des mères

We have just returned from a month in Paris. While there we celebrated Mother's Day, or at least the Canadian version in early May. In France, Mother's Day, or the  fête des mères falls on the last Sunday in May. That being today. We should celebrate this day again don't you think? Isn't it a great idea to celebrate mothers, and women, more than just once a year?

The flowers are from Van Dusen Garden in Vancouver. The goslings and ducklings are from the Bois de Boulogne in Paris.

Bonne fête des mères!

Photos by Jeem. Copyright 2015 by Jim Murray.

Rhododendrons at Van Dusen Garden

We came back from Paris just in time to see the laburnum and rhododendrons at Van Dusen Gardens. From the crowded streets of Paris to the tree-lined streets of Vancouver was an adjustment. There is something wonderful about a city that celebrates trees, on nearly every street, the way Vancouver does. It's that luxury, and abundance, of nature we in Vancouver might take for granted in our quest to become someone's vision of a world class city.
























And on our first full day back we visited Van Dusen. The blooms and blossoms, the colours and the fragrance were amazing.

Photos by Jeem. Copyright 2015 by Jim Murray.

Robert Fisk on Tony Blair

I follow the rants and writings of Robert Fisk. Fisk is a multiple award-winning Middle East correspondent, based in Beirut and he writes for the wonderful British paper, The Independent. Mr Fisk calls it as he sees it and he sees more than most. He is informed, thoughtful, objective and opinionated. The truth matters to Robert Fisk, as it should to all of us.

His latest commentary appeared in The Independent today, 28 May 2015, and features the a man I've been calling a war criminal for years: Tony Blair. Fisk's piece is called: Blundering Tony Blair quits as Middle East peace envoy – only Israel will miss him:


 Tony Blair’s time as Middle East envoy representing the US, Russia, the UN and the EU has finally come to an end. Eight years after he took up the role, Blair tendered his resignation and left one question: how come a war criminal ever became a "peace envoy" in the first place?

The people of the Middle East – and much of the world – have been asking this question ever since Blair was appointed the Quartet’s man in Jerusalem, solemnly and hopelessly tasked to bring “peace” between Israelis and Palestinians. Was his new mission supposed to wash the blood from his hands after the catastrophe of the Bush-Blair invasion of Iraq and the hundreds of thousands of innocents who died as a result?

For Arabs – and for Britons who lost their loved ones in his shambolic war in Iraq – Blair’s appointment was an insult. The man who never said he was sorry for his political disaster simply turned up in Jerusalem four years later and, with a team which spent millions in accommodation and air fares, managed to accomplish absolutely nothing in the near-decade that followed.

Blair appeared indifferent to the massive suffering of the Palestinians – he was clearly impotent in preventing it – and spent much of his time away from the tragedy of the Middle East, advising the great and the good and a clutch of Muslim dictators, and telling the world – to Israel’s satisfaction – of the dangers represented by Iran.

The more prescient he thought he was, the more irrelevant he became in the eyes of the region he was sent to protect. A Blair supporter once defended him on Channel 4 by recalling how he had travelled to the Middle East almost 100 times – without realising the essential irony: that Blair abandoned the region almost 100 times for more rewarding destinations.

Blair was supposed to produce more than the easy panaceas that slipped from his lips, the most outrageous of which was his contention that resolving the Israeli-Palestinian conflict could be easier than ending the Northern Ireland crisis. But the Palestinians have much more in common with the Irish Catholics cleansed from their lands by the Protestant planters of the 17th century than with the pitiful historical battle in the province, whose resolution proved to be Blair’s only lasting accomplishment.

If only he had resigned more than two years ago, after Palestinian leaders had themselves characterised his job as "useless, useless, useless."   Israel, of course, would never have described him as this. Stoutly condemning the campaign for Israel’s "delegitimisation," Blair talked about this as a form of bias which was "an affront to humanity" – a choice of words he never used about the massive civilian casualties inflicted by Israel on the Palestinians of Gaza.

The Arabs will now wait to see if the Quartet will repeat its folly by appointing an even more unsuitable candidate – a truly difficult task – although many in the region think the whole panjandrum must be abandoned. Eight years ago, there just might have been the slimmest chance of bringing a Palestinian state into being. Today there is none.

And doesn't that say it all? Good riddance Tony Blair.