The Selfish Altruist
The author argues that ‘we are groping for a global culture to match our global economy, global science and global technology’ and, to further this goal, aid work urgently needs to re-focus on ‘the person in need’. In eight closely argued chapters we are taken on a tour of humanity’s tragedies and crises. We see how, in Kosovo, aid agencies were sucked into a compromised relationship with NATO and how, in Afghanistan, their refusal to deal with the Taliban led to much avoidable suffering. In case after case, from Mozambique to Bosnia, Azerbaijan to Sudan, Vaux shows how aid can become a tool of Western self-interest.
This is a serious and heartfelt challenge to the whole basis of developmental aid from the standpoint of a concerned insider. If it sparks a wide-ranging discussion of the present failings and future priorities of humanitarian intervention then Tony Vaux will, I believe, feel that he has achieved his aim.
Maree Giles’s publishers describe her first novel Invisible Thread as ‘semi-autobiographical’ and ‘based on a true story’ – neither of which is necessarily a recommendation, as such phrases are often used to deflect criticism or excuse poor writing. Happily, with this moving and emotionally involving début, no such pre-emptive hype is necessary.
It is 1970 and 14-year-old Ellen Russell decides to move in with her older boyfriend, the druggy surfer Robbie. Her weak and unstable mother is unable to cope and the Australian state, fighting a rearguard action against hippiedom and free love, declares Ellen guilty of being ‘neglected and exposed to moral danger’. She is sentenced to nine months at the Gunyah Training School for Girls, aptly described by its inmates as hell on earth.
At Gunyah, even when it is discovered that Ellen is pregnant, there is no respite from the harsh and punitive regime administered by the sadistic nuns and warders. When her baby Alicia is born she is immediately removed and Ellen is coerced and duped into signing adoption papers.
On her release, she embarks on a personal crusade to regain her daughter and, aided by an alcoholic gynaecologist turned backstreet abortionist, she discovers the shocking truth about the secret state-sanctioned trade in babies.
This is a gritty and unflinching book with a strong narrative pull and a well-drawn and likeable central character. Ellen’s struggle to transcend her troubled upbringing and disastrous surroundings is told with honesty, integrity and the authentic tang of firsthand experience.
The Limits of Capitalism
It’s easy to see the cracks in capitalism. They are everywhere you look and increasing at an alarming rate. Dierckxsens analyzes the internal contradictions of neoliberalism – capitalism’s dominant ideology of ‘more market, less government’. Leaving aside the WTO, IMF and World Bank, the author focuses instead on the role of speculative capital which, ultimately, these organizations serve. The exponential rise of speculative capital is a bubble waiting to burst, triggering worldwide economic collapse. When that collapse comes, faith in neoliberalism will collapse with it and provide a historic opportunity to provide radical ways forward. Dierckxsens proposes market-based solutions, but with the need to make profits subordinated to principles of vitality and a citizen-based Common Good. Speculative capital would be tackled with the Tobin Tax, the elimination of tax havens, and by replacing pension funds with other forms of retirement protection. These are not new ideas but ones which are gaining increasing currency and respectability.
Dierckxsens’ original contribution to the debate lies in his suggestion to control the rate of depreciation – both of the means of production and of end products. This, he predicts, would counter the culture of built-in obsolescence and the waste involved in selling people things they don’t really need. It would also reorientate economic priorities around use-value and providing for the real needs of those currently excluded by the market.
Timely food for thought, if not presented in the most reader-friendly way.
This Sentence is True
Envy those who only remember Sheila Chandra as the star of Monsoon, the airy Indo-pop Eighties group that had too many ideas to make it big in the commercial world. Envy them only because, in the intervening 20 years, Chandra has gone on, as a solo artist, to make some of the most beguiling albums known to humankind. This Sentence is True (The Previous Sentence is False) is the singer and composer’s tenth studio album and, despite the heft of its title, one to be returned to time and again.
So what makes this so good? A blend of economy and excitement. Its seven tracks are all lean preparations in which Chandra and the Ganges Orchestra – that is, her box of studio tricks – take the phase-shifting techniques of minimalism and blend them with the drones of sampled sitars and her singular vocalizing. There’s an undoubted shimmer-factor as gentle waves of sound are slowly built into rich tapestries of oscillating harmonics. And yet This Sentence is, as a listening experience, a far from passive activity. On pieces such as ‘Is’ – with its rapid, staccato syllables – and ‘True’, Chandra’s multi-tracking results in an oscillating mass of sound, where the intensity has a resolute focus. ‘True’, with its text of a Latin Sanctus, in particular, benefits from this approach. Chandra’s slow accretion of sonic texture in the service of a vibrating whole is no less than an epiphany.
A Better Destiny
When Rizwan and Muazzam Mujahid Ali Khan released Sacrifice to Love, their début major label album, some two years ago, much was made of the fact that the two brothers were nephews of the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Nothing much wrong with that: after all, the family were steeped in the tradition of Sufism’s qawwali, a song-based music which exists only to praise God. Yet if there were any lingering suspicion that the two brothers needed to invoke the name of Uncle Nusrat in order to gain credence, then A Better Destiny is the album that reiterates the brothers’ claim to qawwali’s crown.
Unlike much religious music, the sheer exuberance of Rizwan-Muazzam is immediately striking. It’s almost as if the singers (augmented by six others, a tabla- and a harmonium-player) have their own relationship with the infinite. The contemplative spaces that one finds in, say, Western liturgical music, exist here in the way phrases are vocalized and adorned, urged on to faster tempi in their ecstasy. Such a format is apparent from the off. ‘Ay Sarwey Naz Neney Mun’ (Holy Friend) announces itself with a frenetic flurry of tabla and a few vigorous handclaps before the brothers’ voices lead and shape the song. That the first voice begins with almost a sigh is an exquisite touch.
But it’s also possible to detect traces of a playful humour on A Better Destiny. As virtuoso musicians, the brothers have an interesting range of global experience. This year already they’ve collaborated with dance act Temple of Sound on People’s Colony No 1 (also on Real World) and jammed with David Bowie, Patti Smith and Philip Glass on stage in New York. Is that really a boogie-woogie line creeping into ‘Petey-Petey’ (While I was Drinking)? It is entirely possible.
The Gleaners and I
This invigorating new film by legendary French new wave film-maker Agnes Varda is an idiosyncratic personal essay that also provides a fresh perspective on French social history. Varda travels through the countryside with her camera exploring the current state of ‘gleaning’, a remnant of pre-capitalist economic relations still provided for in the French penal code. According to medieval common land practices, the produce left in the fields and on the vines and trees after the harvest were fair game for anyone who wanted to do the backbreaking work of collecting them.
Today, even with the ubiquitous trucks hustling produce around the country, Varda finds that practices of gleaning persist. But she doesn’t romanticize the rural gleaners, who can be seen in famous 19th-century pastoral paintings. Varda also returns to the city to observe modern-day gleaning. She finds the practice alive and well in an industrial society that wastes almost as much as it consumes. Indeed, for many of the gleaners Varda speaks with, collecting and reusing the wasted food, furniture, appliances and piles of nameless junk that stuff our landfill sites, is a question of ethics.
Alex Burmaster looks at photographers who died in action.
Vietnam provided a marker for photojournalism that will live through the ages. This photographic legacy came at a price that is brought home stunningly in the book and exhibition Requiem: By the Photo-graphers Who Died in Vietnam and Indochina. Every photograph in the book was taken by a photographer who was killed, or went missing, during the Indochina and Vietnam conflicts between the 1950s and 1975.
Vietnam provided a unique set of conditions and opportunities that enabled photojournalism to explore new ground that may never be travelled again. Requiem highlights the staggering intimacy that the photographers were afforded by the brutal conflict.
Photojournalists took advantage of the confusion in the battlefields and the loose nature of the conflict. There were no rules, no pools, they were able to go wherever they wanted, do their own thing and simply join in. They got right up close. Many simply documented what was happening, regardless of which side it suited the most.
This new-found freedom of mobility in the battlefield would be short-lived. In future American conflicts such as Grenada, Panama and the Gulf, photojournalists would face many restrictions. The endless media exposure of the Gulf War provided myriad clips of the Baghdad night sky illuminated by the Patriot-Scud fireworks display but little insight as to what was actually happening on the ground.
The photojournalists of Vietnam stumbled into an extraordinary loophole. This was an accidental liberalization of the old restrictions of war reportage. Soldiers themselves facilitated this unbridled opportunity. For the South Vietnamese it showed the world cared about what was happening to them in their own country. American soldiers wanted people back home to know of the horrors they were experiencing. As soon as the military and the Government saw the consequences they resolved to close the loophole.
Before the Vietnam photographers trained their lenses, the US public back home had little idea of what was going on in Southeast Asia. As the photos of uniformed Americans in situations of violence and suffering were published, the word ‘Vietnam’ became indistinguishable from war. Photo reportages that appeared in Life, Time and Newsweek shocked the nation. Requiem includes many of these photos.
The common fate of those whose work appears in the book shows us that the role of messenger carried a huge price. Requiem’s tribute becomes all the more resonant knowing that many of the images were the last the photographers ever took. Some shots come from the roll of film still in the cameras when they died.
None highlight this poignancy more than Henri Huet’s tender photo of a US chaplain administering the last rites to photographer Dickey Chappelle. A dying female photographer in the context of Vietnam shows that the war wasn’t just a male preserve, forcing us to reappraise the Vietnams given to us by Stone, Coppola and Kubrick. Chappelle was not the only female correspondent in the conflict. Women such as Le Thi Nang and Ngoc Huong covered the war from the North Vietnamese perspective, while too many other tragic photographs remind us of the thousands of women and children caught up in the futile war.
For whatever reason, we are unlikely ever to see photos from this intimate perspective again. This is, perhaps, Requiem’s most significant legacy.
Requiem: By the Photographers Who Died in Vietnam and Indochina by Horst Faas and Tim Page is published by Jonathan Cape (ISBN 0 224 05058 3). Requiem is on show at Proud Camden Moss, 10 Greenland St, London NW1.