Ban on landmines and cluster munitions

Just click on the link

Song of the day

Gianna Nannini-Il Profumo

Nasce l'alba su di me
mi lascia andare al tuo respiro
e mi accompagno con i ritmi tuoi
ti sento in giro ma dove sei
con tutte quelle essenze che ti dai
non so chi sei non sudi mai sei sempre
piu lontano
voglio il tuo profumo
voglio il tuo profumo
voglio il tuo profumo
dammi tutto il tuo sapore
no ti prega no non ti asciugare
se nella notte hai ancora un brivido
animale
sai di vento sai di te
sulla tua pelle addormentata
e mi accarezzo coi vestiti tuoi
ti sento addosso ma dove sei
nella mia stanza calda tu sei tu
stringimi ancora un po' di più di più
di più la mano
voglio il tuo profumo
voglio ii tuo profumo
voglio il tuo profumo
dammi tutto il tuo sapore
no ti prego non ti insaponare
se nella none hai ancora un brivido
animale
voglio il tuo profumo
voglio il tuo profumo
dammi tutto il tuo sapore
no ti prego non ti insaponare
se nella notte hai ancora un brivido
animale
voglio il tuo profumo
tutto il tuo profumo
voglio il tuo profumo
dammi il tuo profumo

Passed away

Paul Newman (1925 - 2008)

Remembering Istanbul

I am Listening to Istanbul

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed:
At first there is a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water-carriers unceasingly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Then suddenly birds fly by,
Flocks of birds, high up, with a hue and cry,
While the nets are drawn in the fishing grounds
And a woman's feet begin to dabble in the water.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
The Grand Bazaar's serene and cool,
An uproar at the hub of the Market,
Mosque yards are full of pigeons.
While hammers bang and clang at the docks
Spirng winds bear the smell of sweat;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Still giddy from the revelries of the past,
A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep.
Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
A pretty girl walks by on the sidewalk:
Four-letter words, whistles and songs, rude remarks;
Something falls out of her hand -
It is a rose, I guess.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
A bird flutters round your skirt;
On your brow, is there sweet? Or not ? I know.
Are your lips wet? Or not? I know.
A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:
I can sense it all in your heart's throbbing.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

Istanbul'u Dinliyorum

İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı
Önce hafiften bir rüzgar esiyor;
Yavaş yavaş sallanıyor
Yapraklar, ağaçlarda;
Uzaklarda, çok uzaklarda,
Sucuların hiç durmayan çıngırakları
İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.

İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Kuşlar geçiyor, derken;
Yükseklerden, sürü sürü, çığlık çığlık.
Ağlar çekiliyor dalyanlarda;
Bir kadının suya değiyor ayakları;
İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.

İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Serin serin Kapalıçarşı
Cıvıl cıvıl Mahmutpaşa
Güvercin dolu avlular
Çekiç sesleri geliyor doklardan
Güzelim bahar rüzgarında ter kokuları;
İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.

İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Başımda eski alemlerin sarhoşluğu
Loş kayıkhanelerıyle bir yalı;
Dinmiş lodosların uğultusu içinde
İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.

İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Bir yosma geciyor kaldırımdan;
Küfürler, şarkılar, türküler, laf atmalar.
Bir şey düşüyor elinden yere;
Bir gül olmalı;
İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.

İstanbul'u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Bir kuş çırpınıyor eteklerinde;
Alnın sıcak mı, değil mi, biliyorum;
Dudakların ıslak mı, değil mi, biliyorum;
Beyaz bir ay doğuyor fıstıkların arkasından
Kalbinin vuruşundan anlıyorum;
İstanbul'u dinliyorum.

Orhan Veli Kanik (Translated by Murat Nemet Nejat)



I am back from Istanbul now for about ten days. It was a pretty hard thing taking that plane on early Saturday morning, a bit like ripping myself in half, like leaving most important pieces of me behind.
What is it with this country that it almost creeps under my skin? Why do I feel so enchanted and at times almost bewildered by it? What is it that my middle class, educated snobby mind finds there that Europe will never be able to offer? Going to Istanbul felt like coming home, the mixed smell of sea water, roasted lamb, tobacco, garbage, seasoned fruit and vegetables,
narghile, fish, spices and exhaust fumes welcomed me like the perfume used by my grandma, inhaled 100,000 times, comfortable and familiar, much more of a childhood memory than of new exotic experience.
I came to study Turkish, as I love that language deeply, as I love the country’s music. The sound of Istanbul – its mixture of voices, noises, cars, instruments, rhythms, its shouting and its whispering, the latest pop songs played by the record stores in Istiklal Caddesi and next to it two youngsters with a squalid guitar, but great voices, singing one of their own songs – I can still play it in my head.
I would love to go back, to feel that whole again. Maybe one day I will.

More impressions of Istanbul

aynur dogan - keca kurdan

Istanbul impressions

Working like crazy

I worked like crazy these last couple of weeks, straight through weekends and many evenings. From tomorrow the situation seems to improve (as does the weather). In order to celebrate the upcoming sunshine and the idea of hours spent in the sun doing nothing let's listen to the The Go! Team and 'Milk Crisis'. Th song is pure fun, and that's what I need right now!

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008)

Sex with the ex/city

Amsterdam and I that’s a little bit like a bad breakup, a rather hopeless one, one that needs distance, a real distance for at least a year or two… and then, when you start thinking that you were finally over this past and very important love, the one that you wanted to last for ever, you run into each other on the street. It feels much less awkward than you thought it would. The hard feelings are gone; and there is still a lot of good from the past that you just had forgotten about or at least tried hard to forget. So, you end up having coffee over a cigarette or two, the coffee turns into some beers, almost without recognizing it you are flirting with each other, remembering more and more of the good stuff that you once had going, and before you know it, you end up in bed with each other.
For the past two weeks I’ve kind of been in that place with Amsterdam, and it felt, still feels good, at times divine. Of course, then again, there are moments when I remember why I left. Only now I know what I am missing, and my love’s faults considering his plenty of good sides feel excusable, something I could learn to live with. You can’t have it all, can you? However, you can have what feels closest to perfect that you've ever known... hmm... lots of thinking to do in the next weeks...

Song of the day

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Road Trippin'

Back in town!

Thirst for adventure

Although I am fairly sick today (ever since yesterday evening I am in the merciless hands of Montezuma himself, and my physical condition is somewhere between knackered and exhausted), I can't help the fact that I am sitting in my sunny apartment and the whole world outside seems to be calling me.


It might be the time of year, the good weather and all the hormonal effects it has on my body, the high amounts of dopamine, the abundance of vitamin D… but I am longing to leave N. if possible for good and immediately. I know I am not to be trusted. In wintertime I turn into the world's most phlegmatic couch potato ever, books, chocolates and dreaming of far away countries and people will normally do it. However now, in early summer, how can you be alive and not wanting to travel? Like tracking through Chile, from Santiago all the way down to Tierra del Fuego? Or hiking in Scotland? Or visiting the cradle of civilization in Turkey, the walls of Troy or Mersin or Mount Nemrut?

On the other hand, I’ve done this before, leaving for good and quite spontaneously… I moved to other countries, I quitted jobs, packed my backpack and for months I just had to obey the road. And at this very moment I just feel up for a new adventure. I recently had a long conversation with someone who’s always playing save, and just listening to it almost killed me. This is a plea for takings risks, selling your house, packing your bags and figuring out what other beautiful spots and opportunities are out there.

I love this song!

Naci En Alamo

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Help! Köhler's up for a second round!

How is it possible? One term was way than enough to show us that he is not able to fill the shoes he put on so happily. The really sad thing though is that my fellow citizens (70%!!!) actually like that less than mediocre cartoon president. Mathias Richling does not even have to invent anything, copying is more than enough!

Casualties

I wanted to post an entry when the casualties of American soldiers in Iraq passed 4,000. I missed out on that date, somewhere, probably in late March that number was reached.
On casualties.org you’ll find a complete overview of the killed, the captured and the wounded, selectable by week, month or year.
Today’s count is on 4,079 killed U.S. soldiers and on 29,978 wounded.
The number of Iraqi civilian casualties has not even been counted until January 2005. Since then more than 42,000 people have been killed. How many wounded that means is almost unimaginable.

My song of the day

Iron and Wine: Boy With A Coin

Crossing The Bridge – The Sound of Istanbul

I've got little work today; I am just making arrangements for June, when I might be in Amsterdam freelancing...
So I am taking the opportunity to post yet another entry: Last night I finally watched Crossing The Bridge – The Sound of Istanbul by Fatih Akın. It came out in 2005 while I still lived in the Netherlands, so I missed out on it. It was broadcasted last night close to midnight, as always with any remotely interesting program one has to cut down on sleep to watch something worthwhile in this country or get oneself a DVD recorder. Since I do not own such sophisticated technology I had to compromise on my beauty sleep.

Well, to put it in a nutshell, I loved the movie. I’ve always had a week spot for Turkish music, but to see the wide range of Music coming out of Istanbul was amazing. I liked the guys from Siyasiyabend a lot and the Kurdish singer Aynur.
But what I liked best was most definitely Brenna MacCrimmon and Baba Zula. Enjoy!

A call upon anger

Source: Hamburger Stiftung für politisch Verfolgte

What I am about to say is not going to be very popular, but this morning while reading the paper I felt such a chagrin that I think it's time to write about it, it’s time to vent my displeasure!
I am sick and tired of seeing the ever smiling face of the Dalai Lama on every bloody third page of the newspapers, featured on boulevard television shows, flying from one conference to the next continent. What has the guy to offer other than truisms I can find in every c-range self-help book? All he talks is a mixture of esoteric inner peace blabla, the call upon tolerance and the let go of one's anger…
Thanks to this nice old man, the Tibet conflict is kind of en vogue at the moment. The smiling Dalai Lama with all of his slogans is utmost mediagenic, unfortunately trouble spots as Darfur, Chechnia, Afghanistan and Zimbabwe have no-one like him to be the popular face of their conflicts and problems, their starving and dying. The poor in our own society, the left behinds and the children living below the poverty level in our own Republic have no-one to speak up for them. So while we discuss the political freedom of Tibet on a daily basis, no-one talks about the people still dying every day in Darfur, the landmines in Chechnia, still killing and crippling many. Starving people and amputated war invalids make bad guests on late night shows. So we engage in the telegenic conflict that comes in the smiling and giggling form of the Dalai Lama. Who has not signed the avaaz.org’s petition yet?
It’s not only that I would love to see the focus shift from Tibet to Dafur or Afghanistan. What really upsets me is the smiling approach of that man.
I do not want the inner peace of anybody to grow any further, what I want is anger, lots of it. What we need when we look at today's world is anger and not smiling; we neither need inner peace, nor misguided tolerance. But anger, healthy loads of anger and range! It’s anger that changes the planet, not smiling. If I had to pick a counter-icon, one at least as mediagenic as the old Asian, I would choose Che Guevara who believed in battle and whose engagement for sure was fed by lots and lots of it. And by doing this I am not saying that the example of Cuba is what I am aiming for.
Ingrid Hoogervoorst says about her excellent novel ‘Woede’ (Anger): “[…] I am striking a blow for anger as a an engine, as metaphor for staying disputatious and not resigning oneself helplessly, but to put one’s foot down instead of bursting into tears.”
One cannot smile the problems of the world away, we’ll have to fight, and without anger as a motivation I do not think we’ll gonna make it.

Franco Battiato - Voglio vederti danzare

Questa canzone, la vorrei dedicare all'idea del Sud, a tutti i miei amici in Italia che mi mancano tantissimo, a giornate passate in autostrada coi finestrini aperti e la radio accesa andando verso il mare, ad un’estate infinita, ed a notti passate al falò, all’amore che è sempre più dolce e più dolorosa oltre alle Alpi.

Damien Rice - 9 crimes

Max Manfredi - Tabarca (Live)

Childhood Magic

I've been to a bookstore today with my sister and a pregnant friend of mine. Together, we went through the storybooks from our childhood. My sister and I were back then both completely crazy for Janosch and Tomi Ungerer, but while holding in our hands a copy of Where the Wild Things Are we agreed that no one can even get close to Maurice Sendak. He’s the greatest children’s book illustrator of all times, and he will always be a magical part of my childhood.

Passed away

Robert Rauschenberg (October 22nd, 1925 - May 12th, 2008)

Cappadocia

Friday night I got back from a one week vacation to Cappadocia, Turkey. It might be the hot sticky weather, the summer-like sounds outside of my window, but disquietness is taking hold of my body and mind, I am struggling to get back from being on the move to the endless hours of sitting in front of my PC. The inertia of my work is driving me mad these days...
It figures that I am dealing with it as with almost everything else, by writing.

It was my first bus trip with only elderly Germans. On my last long travel (a two months trip trough NZ) I was almost always the oldest among British gap year students. This time I was the youngest traveler…

When being forced to deal more or less 24/7 with my fellow citizens, I live through moments in which I'd love to return my passport and ask whatever embassy crosses my pass first for refuge and a new citizenship. But during the week, I also got fond of many of my fellow passengers. In order to give you an idea of the group I am dividing it into 5 different categories:

I) The old married couples (who came in two different “shapes”):
a) The silent ones;
b) The continuously asking (stupid) questions ones.
II) The middle aged couples (who in our bus came in three categories)
a) The ones who are still enjoying live and each other;
b) The silent ones…
c) And the tracking socks wearing, sport sandaled, non-smoking, macrobiotic, politically correct and self studying sort of type.
III) The gay couples
IV) The greedy complainers
V) The single travelers (most of the times I belong to this group, this time I accompanied my mum).

On Saturday morning, our guide, Aydın, jumped dynamically onto the bus, and led us into Perge, the capital of the then Pamphylia region on the southwestern Mediterranean coast. As normal in this kind of teacher-student-alike relationships, you have a large group with little or no knowledge on a matter and one single person who knows the subject inside out. In our case it figured rather quickly that Aydın knew everything and we, the rest, the stupid tourists knew embarrassingly little to nothing, and were not even able to ask slightly intelligent questions. During the week it became more and more clear that our guide's enormous knowledge was wasted on us. "I hope you've heard at least of the Hittites?!" He resembled the pearls thrown before swines.
I think on the second day, while driving via Konya to Cappadocia Aydın was still in shock about our overall ignorance and was struggling to make up his mind whether to give up on us completely or play the teacher/entertainer offering intellectual light-caloric-food for the rest of the trip. We came to learn during our week together that he is much more used to hardcore religious, hence very prepared travelers or professionals as university professors, archeologists etc. Of course the hodge podge of our group, mainly traveling on the invitation of the “Arbeiter-Samariter-Bund” had no chance of living up to the intellectual example of our predecessors. On top of it, it was cold and in the early afternoon it started to rain. As with most Mediterraneans the rain did not seem to improve his spirit. I always wondered about this phenomenon. In a country where sunshine is guaranteed on at least 320 days a year, and where water is of the utmost importance, a couple of rain drops still seem to be able to ruin one's day... But I am getting off track. During the week Aydın's emphasis shifted clearly from teaching to entertaining, and our relationship grew slowly towards mutual acceptance…



On Sunday evening we arrived at the city of Ürgüp. Since it was still bucketing down, it needed the sunrise of the next day to surprise us with an astonishingly beautiful view from our hotel window. The soft hills, formed basically of trass and basalt rocks, lay in the early morning light. I had woken up shortly to the muezzin’s fajr call around 4:20, picturing the first early believers leaving their beds to perform Wudu, and then to pray, still stiffly legged, the first Salah of the day, and had fallen back asleep.
I always felt that the Wudu, the ritual washing, helps to leave the night behind you, and during the day it marks clearly a pause in your daily errands, it helps to calm the mind and get ready for prayer. Since the Islamic Salah is not a free prayer, but a strictly structured ritual of words and movements that are performed simultaneously, it is a spiritual exercise helping to unit both body and soul for at least a short time.
The day started gloriously, the sun had decided to spoil us with the abundance of its presence, and after breakfast we hit the road to see one highlight after the other: Pigeon Valley, Uçhisar, Göreme, where early Christians carved houses and churches into the soft rocks. Many of the churches were from the inside still covered in paintings dating back to the 2nd century, which survived the Iconoclasm of the Byzantine period in which many religions paintings and icons were destroyed. I am not the greatest lover of religious art, although some visits to the Uffizi Gallery made me understood not only its importance but also its beauty, but what I’ve seen in Göreme was definitely breathtakingly beautiful. I am not going to give you a bad description that will fall short in doing it any justice. Go and see for yourself.



The beauty of the churches is reflected by the powerful, sometimes extremely rough and then again softly shaped bizarre landscape. One understands why this earth has always been the theatre for religious movements and powerful centers of faith. Your own utterly unimportance is hammered into your very soul every second of the day. I remembered that, while traveling though Ireland many years ago, I understood almost upon the first look at the country where the Irish folk music is fed by. It’s the landscape. Impossible not to open your mouth and to sing on such a gloriously green, sea surrounded island. In Cappadocia you understand that the gorgeousness of landscape triggers religious feelings. Bowing in front of your creator feels much more natural in such a place than in our fast, always moving, constructed mega-cities. In one valley though it felt for a moment as if the old guy above had a certain sense for humor by putting dozens of phallus shaped objects into the ground. The Turks call this spot Cigar valley, but ever since certain exercises were performed in the Oval Office some years ago it is also referred to as Clinton Valley as Aydın happily informed us. But I am loosing track again.
The next day hold the first of in total three visits to small local enterprises. When you are on a trip that is (more or less well-hidden) sponsored by the Turkish government, you should not be too surprised if some of the money that was invested into your accommodation and transport is supposed to be re-invested into the domestic economy. Fortunately, at least some of my fellow travelers did not belong to the academic proletariat and emptied their pockets.
In the afternoon we went to the underground city of Özkonak. Complete cities of up to eight layers of stories have been carved already thousands of years ago into the soft earth. Settlers of this region were prepared to retreat from the dangerous surface that was haunted by foreign armies or depredators to a safer existence underground. We spent slightly 20 minutes down there and I was tremendously relieved when I saw the light of day again. The suffering of this life beneath the surface is almost unimaginable.

While Aydın became a beloved entertainer of our uneducated group, giving us sometimes hilarious insides into Turkish life and introducing us to Turkish humor in many ways, I had a second, cabaret-like commentary coming from the row behind me by a Bavarian couple. They belonged to group IV and were in almost every regard narrow minded gadflies… They insisted on visiting the theatre at Aspendos that was part of their completely free of charge holiday. Husband: “We’re not letting them get off with this 35 Euros each, it’s written on the program, and I am prepared to insist on it.” At the night of the spectacle it bucketed down at Aspendos, whether this was the interference of Saint Peter or of our guide will unfortunately remain a mystery…

Time flew by, and Thursday came quicker than hoped for. As always while being in Turkey, it’s hard to go back home, since I love the taste, the smell, the light, the rhythm of the country and its people. In every regard I needed more time, a week trip feels like unfinished business, you just got started to get hold on things and then you're already called to other duties. However, flight schedules are merciless, and on Friday afternoon, I flew back home.
The weather helped to get over the first shock of being home again, and there is always Music, çay and sweet memories.

Angry young men and political dilemmas…

Today, on my way back home from a business trip to Maastricht, I read two quite mentionable articles on “De Groene Amsterdammer”. It was hot and sticky in the train, tired, yawning people in summer cloths and feet in flip flops were surrounding me, the rhythmic shaking of the vehicle almost put me to sleep, but the texts turned out to be so interesting that I kept on reading…
The first article dealt with Gunnar Heinsohn’s book “Söhne und Weltmacht”. Heinsohn, who runs a research department on genocide at the University of Bremen, claims to have found the reason for the astonishingly high number of reckless young men willing to be involved in terrorist attacks. In his point of view it is neither poverty nor religion that triggers the enormous amount of hate but something, on the first look, much more innocent: demography!
Countries full of young male trouble makers, are normally dealing with a youth bulge, meaning that at least 20% of the society is between 15 and 29 years old. All, but the first born sons, are rubbed of any legacy and struggling to find a job and a position within society. They are not by definition poorly fed or uneducated but rather frustrated by the lack of possibilities society is providing them with. Religion is merely used as a morally exactable justification for murder, a working disguise for their violent actions.



Heinsohn stresses that the connection between too many young men and violence is not only true if we're looking at the world's recent trouble spots, but also when we're considering our own history. Between 1900 and 1915 the Italians and the Germans had a bout six children per family. To loose one or two sons in a war did not put the family in an unbearably difficult situation.
Or, completely turning the argument around: If Europe is such a peaceful and stabile place at the moment, this is not due to its excellent political structures but to the fact that demographically it's a dying continent. Only sons do not run to arms.
Heinsohn claims that for this reason the EU should stop supporting the ever growing families of Palestine with hug amounts of money: Only sons to not bomb themselves to paradise.
I am not saying that I agree with Heinsohn, but his theory is worth thinking about.

The second article tells us the story of a recent, obviously nerve-racking dilemma the extreme political right wing is dealing with: Whom to hate more? The Jews or the Muslims? Honestly, a conflict I had never given any thought about before. But once you start to think about it, a rather fundamental and almost insolvable question...
In times like these, with many fanatic Muslim suicide bombers (the real and the countless invented ones by our Ministry for Internal Affairs) who feed themselves with and base their theoretical background on the Quran, more and more veiled women on the streets of Western cities and the feeling that lately more and more mosques are built while churches are dying everywhere in Western Europe, the extreme right has to decide who is probably a bigger threat to a clean Aryan society. The all-time foe, the Jew, or the other fast rising enemy in the East (for once not China…)? Since I never wished to live in a pure Aryan society, I find myself in the comfortable position not having to find a solution to the problem.
Well, this is the situation as it presents itself at the moment:
Since one group is not willing to let go on traditions, hence Israel and the Jews remaining the first goal of hate, an "unholy" pragmatism is calling for changes within the fundamental structures lately. Or simply put: the old trick, my enemy's foe is my friend, seems to work. So it seems to happen rather often recently that extreme right wing forces support Muslim fundamentalists’ Anti-Israel demonstrations.
The other group is willing to let go a little bit on Anti-Semitism. They claim that the Jews merely want to steal one’s money, while the Muslims want to take over world power and install the Shariah.
So far both groups seem to be unable to find a solution. Almost smilingly I was wondering if we are about to bear witness of a schism within the extreme political right? Will it be a group of pro-Muslims Anti-Semites and one of merely Muslim haters willing to work together with the Mossad out of pragmatically reasons? Honestly, I'd prefer to see them fighting among each other than killing others…
But at the end of the day this is just another anecdote proving that not religion, but fundamentalism and all its horrific stupid excesses are the biggest problem of the 21st century.

P.S.: On the train from Venlo back to Neuss a young guy behind me was telling his friend about the humongous amount of prostitutes in the Baltic resp. Eastern European countries. “Believe me, they’re all hookers over there”. Unfortunately the wind coming through the open windows hindered me from hearing whether he was judging this or dreaming of spending his next vacation over there.

Double standards

Yes, I’ve been absent for quite a while, but my business left me very little spare time these last months.
And there would have been so many things to write about. What about Siemens for example, or Nokia or the Deutsche Post? I noticed with quite astonishment the public bashing of Mr. Zumwinkel. An outcry went through our society because he brought a couple of millions to a tax-free deposit in Lichtenstein. I am not saying that I am favoring his deeds, but I would have loved to see an even stronger public outcry about the behavior of our banks. What are a couple of millions against 5 billions?
And let's be honest, isn't it a public sport to cheat on taxes, not only of the upper 10,000 of this country, but basically of everybody? What about all the people cheating on their insurance companies in case of a burglary or when one’s car is involved in an accident? How many of us employ cheap (black) Polish workers when the garden’s hedges need trimming or when smaller and even bigger works need to be done in or around the house?
I just wondered a lot about these double-standards that we are maintaining so willingly, nurturing our self-righteousness when we come together in bars and cafés. For once we feel so much better than the guys in charge who run off with the money we feel we've earned.
We strongly think that our politicians should finally do something about global warming, but are still convinced that we have the right to fly to far distant countries twice a year or just go on a weekend-shopping-trip to New York. And people as Michael Schumacher (who saved his wealth from the greedy hands of the German tax office and is stashing it away in Switzerland and who has been active for many years in probably the most polluting sport ever) is a public hero, while Mr. Zumwinkel (who in all fairness did quite a job for the Deutsche Post) is put publicly in the pillory.
We want change, we want better politicians, but we would fail our own standards if measured against them.