Peter Worthington2013-05-22T12:04:47-04:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=peter-worthingtonCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Peter WorthingtonGood old fashioned elbow grease."If You Are Reading This, I Am Dead": Peter Worthington's Self-Penned Obituarytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.32751282013-05-14T17:25:14-04:002013-05-14T17:25:21-04:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/The following post originally appeared in the Toronto Sun. Mr. Worthing died Sunday evening at the age of 86.
If you are reading this, I am dead.
How's that for a lead?
Guarantees you read on, at least for a bit.
When the Sun's George Gross died suddenly in March 2008, at age 85, there were few of his contemporaries left alive to recall the old days, when he was in his prime and his world was young. I was one of the few who knew him then.
After attending his funeral I half-facetiously remarked to the Toronto Sun's deputy managing editor, Al Parker, that I had been around so long that no one was left who knew me back then, and I had better write my own obituary.
"Good idea!" said Parker with more enthusiasm than I appreciated.
I mentioned it to my wife, Yvonne, who approved.
So here it is, not exactly an obit but a reflection back on a life and a career that I had never planned, but which unfolded in a way that I've never regretted.
Journalism never entered my mind when I was younger. I suppose my father's colourful life before entering the army in the First World War affected my outlook. He had been orphaned at age 10, worked as a water boy in a Mexican silver mine and witnessed his half-brother, superintendent at the mine, killed by the Mexican bandit Pancho Villa. My dad went to sea, became a ship's engineer, was in the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, fought in Central American wars (Nicaragua, Honduras) before heading off to serve in the First World War. Passing through Montreal, he enlisted in the Black Watch as a private, and returned in 1919 as a captain with a Military Cross and Bar, and a Military Medal and Bar.
As a kid, there was no way I could match that for adventure, and in my teens dreaded anything that was mindful of a staid, inside job. I worked on construction sites during the war and at 15 ran away from home to join the merchant navy, but was rejected. At 17, my mother signed consensual papers for me to enlist in the navy -- Fleet Air Arm, as it turned out. I later got a commission and at 18 was the youngest and least competent sub-lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Navy Volunteer Reserve.
On discharge in Vancouver, I used veteran credits to attend the University of British Columbia. I hadn't finished high school in Ontario, but, by the time UBC learned that, I had passed the first year, so they let me continue. I spent more time missing classes than I did studying, and by the time the Korean War started in 1950, my only achievement was winning the university's light-heavyweight boxing title and the Golden Gloves.
I joined the army as a lieutenant and went to Korea as a platoon commander, later became battalion intelligence officer, and then went on loan to the U.S. Air Force to join a Mosquito squadron, flying in the rear seat of Harvard planes to direct air strikes onto Chinese targets. It was felt infantry officers could read maps better than pilots, and understood ground defensive positions better.
When the war ended, I had mild depression. What to do now? I still yearned for an adventurous life, but the world had changed since my father's youth.
Rumour was that the French were hiring experienced infantry officers to serve in Indochina at $1,000 a month. I applied through the French embassy in Tokyo, and got a terse "Cher Lieutenant" letter that said the rumour was false, but I could join the Foreign Legion for five years as a private. In time for Dien Bien Phu, perhaps. I returned to Canada, took parachute training, joined the Princess Pats Mobile Strike Force, then quit the army.
What to do? I returned to UBC (on veteran credits), got a Bachelor of Arts degree and applied to the Vancouver Province to be a sports writer. I was considered unqualified for that, but was hired as a news reporter at $35 a month. I spent the summer of 1954 trying to get a byline and failed, until the city editor, Tom Hazlitt, took pity and re-wrote my story with my byline.
I went east to Ottawa's Carleton College for a journalism degree, won a couple of graduation prizes and was hired by the Toronto Telegram as a reporter by the paper's acerbic city editor, Art Cole, who seemed to expect every reporter to have an excuse not to cover an assignment, and was suspicious of those who were eager to work.
Shortly after I joined the Tely, the Soviet Union invaded Hungary, and the Suez War erupted. When the United Nations Emergency Force (UNEF) was authorized to go to Gaza, I took courage in hand and asked managing editor J. Douglas MacFarlane to send me.
He refused outright, and said a rookie reporter would never be sent on such an assignment. I replied that I had recently left the army, that I knew many of the soldiers involved, could get exclusive stuff, that I'd go on my holidays, charge no expenses, arrange my own way. Everything free for the Tely.
It was an offer MacFarlane couldn't refuse. I went, and the stories worked out.
It set the pattern for my future at the Tely, and was an argument for enterprise.
Soon after my return, the U.S. Marines landed in Lebanon to prevent a coup.
As the Tely reporter who had most recently been to the Middle East, I was the automatic choice this time, since my UNEF stuff had been acceptable (and cost nothing).
In the middle of the Lebanon crisis, Baghdad erupted with King Faisal and his family being assassinated. With another reporter, I hired a taxi in Damascus and we headed east across the roadless desert to Baghdad. I was first to report from Iraq.
At the same time, British paratroopers had landed in Jordan to protect King Hussein from a coup, supposedly being planned by Egypt's Gamal Abdel Nasser.
I headed to Amman, after interviewing Brig-Gen. Abdul Karim Kassem who staged the coup in Iraq.
An hour after arriving in Amman, I went to the king's palace to apply for an interview and got mixed up with a group of German businessmen who were to meet King Hussein. I joined them, and by the time the king realized I was an interloper, it was too late and he tolerated my presence.
My success started a stampede of other journalists, who had been waiting weeks for an interview, to the palace. For me, it was a realization that for journalists, reconnaissance can be valuable, and that it's better to be lucky than good.
For the next 15 years, I covered every major war, crisis or revolution in the world. I was reluctant to take holidays for fear of missing a foreign crisis. Not in any particular order, I covered the Algerian war of independence, the Congo, Angola insurgency, Jews fleeing Morocco, the Dalai Lama's escape from Tibet, the coup in Laos, the Vietnam War, Indonesia's invasion of Dutch New Guinea, India versus Pakistan, China's invasion of India, Israel's 1967 defeat of Egypt, China shelling Taiwan, riots in Belgium, civil disturbance in France, the mutiny of the Foreign Legion in Algeria, and so on.
In the early days, when attending a crisis, my method was to start with a colour story, like getting roughed up by angry crowds, or confronting the police or the army, and gradually learning the politics of what was happening. At the end of each assignment, I liked to do a five-part series on what it all meant, ending with a prediction of what the future would bring -- which I still feel is important, as the reporter learns to analyze.
Those years were enormously stimulating and satisfying -- being at the centre of the hurricane, or most newsworthy story of the moment. I relished being in the centre of action, with adrenalin flowing, and motivated by being able to write about it the same day, and going to another adventure the next day.
All at the publisher's expense. A huge privilege.
The endless travel cost me my first marriage, since the job took precedence -- especially when I went to Moscow to open the bureau for the Toronto Telegram in the mid-1960s. Before that, the Tely wanted to open a bureau in China. The Chinese had indicated approval, and I spent a couple of months in Hong Kong waiting for a visa.
The Chinese eventually rejected me -- not, as I had feared, because I had been a soldier in the Korean War but because I showed too much enthusiasm and had co-operated with the Americans in bombing Chinese troops.
My wife, Helen, understandably didn't want an absentee husband. We divorced and she bettered herself by marrying a judge, and living happily. I later married a Tely reporter, Yvonne Crittenden, whose husband had run off with another Tely staffer (Caligula's court in those days), and we all benefitted accordingly.
When President John Kennedy was assassinated, I was one of a team of Tely reporters dispatched to Washington. I went on to Dallas for the arraignment of Lee Harvey Oswald, accused assassin of JFK.
An hour after arriving in Dallas on the redeye flight from Washington, I checked out the Dallas police station and inadvertently stumbled into the underground garage where the cops (who mistook me for an FBI agent) were ready to transport Lee Harvey Oswald to the jail. I was there when Jack Ruby emerged from the crowd and shot Oswald. I appear briefly on TV shots of the killing, but it doesn't stand out in my memory as a watershed moment.
When the Tely folded in 1971 and the Sun started, I was one of the lucky ones who had been offered a job at The Toronto Star. "You'll never like it -- you're not a Star person," said Yvonne, who had worked at The Star and been reamed out by the city editor (Bill Drylie) for using shorthand, which he called "chicken tracks." He'd tolerate no reporter "who did chicken tracks."
Instead of joining the Star, I teamed up with Doug Creighton and Don Hunt in starting the Toronto Sun, with me as executive editor and then editor-in-chief. I nursed no desire to be editor, and always felt reporting was an honourable job. To me, good reporters were more valuable than mediocre editors, and should get paid accordingly. As editor, I had strong views on what editorials should be -- one handed (no on this, that or the other hand), a strong point of view, marshal your arguments, and let others challenge them.
If, later, you change your mind, acknowledge it and inform the reader. I liked irreverence, eccentricity, controversy, cheerfulness, mischief and independent thinking. These could be found in columnists if one knew where to look.
Editorially, the Sun challenged the policies of Pierre Trudeau -- his dislike of the military, his empathy for communism, his admiration of dictators (Mao Zedong, Fidel Castro), his lust for a written constitution and so on. The Sun became a lightning rod for those uneasy about Trudeau, at a time when Trudeaumania was rampant.
Trudeau's dislike of the Sun overflowed when I was charged with violating the Official Secrets Act for revealing 16 cases of Soviet subversion of Canadians at a time when Trudeau insisted the Soviet Union was Canada's friend. After a year of preliminary hearings, the judge dismissed the case.
I had been looking forward to the trial, which I thought was winnable. Publisher Creighton quipped at the time that he was pleased the charges were dismissed "but my co-accused is going to appeal."
During this tense period, the Sun's circulation rose by some 30,000. Hitherto leftist critics evidently felt we couldn't be all bad if the RCMP were taking aim at us.
In 1982, I quit the Sun's board of directors and gave up the editorship when we voted -- with one dissenting voice (mine) -- to sell ourselves to Maclean-Hunter, thus trading our independence for financial security. I stayed at the Sun, writing a column, until my erstwhile partner, Publisher Creighton, fired me because The Star ran a front-page item quoting me on a book tour in Edmonton saying rival papers covered hard news better than the Sun.
What I had said was that the Sun ran opinion columns and had diversity, and let readers decide what they want to read, but if it's only hard news one wants, buy a rival paper. I always felt Doug had acted impetuously, and then couldn't back down. This was 1984. I went to the Financial Post as a columnist -- until Doug was quoted in The Globe and Mail in 1988 saying I'd be the first editor of the new Ottawa Sun that was due to start.
Yvonne and I were in Nova Scotia at the time. More impetuousness from Doug.
I went back to the boy scout stuff -- three times to Angola with the Jonas Savimbi's UNITA movement, fighting the Soviet-Cuban Marxist regime; attending Eritrea's war of independence from Ethiopia in 1988, and then returning in 1998 for another border war with Ethiopia.
In short, I'd argue I had a glorious, stimulating and rewarding life -- maybe not the same as my father's, but longer, and in its way, more varied.
I feel a bit as one of the characters in the great movie The Man Who Would Be King who says that he and his friend may not have amounted to much, but think of the things they've seen, and the memories they have. I feel similarly.
Looking back, it was a privilege to have stayed at the jungle hospital of Dr. Albert Schweitzer in Gabon and conferred with the great man; also interviewing and visiting the Dalai Lama, first when he escaped from Tibet in 1959, and later at his Indian retreat of Dharamsala in 1962; and interviewed the likes of Nasser, Nehru, Chiang Kai-shek, Lumumba, Jomo Kenyata, Indira Ghandi, Alan Paton, Joe Louis and such.
I treasure being with Heinrich Harrar, author of Seven Years in Tibet, in Dutch New Guinea where the stone-age Dani people had only recently been discovered. They used seashells as money and had not yet invented pottery.
It was nerve-wracking in 1967 to be mistaken for an Israeli prisoner by a Cairo mob and punched and battered until rescued by a brave Egyptian who defied the mob.
There were the lethal streets of Algiers, where daily assassinations took place, and occasionally the French army opened fire on civilians. One afternoon a bullet went through the sleeve of my jacket and I didn't know it until others pointed it out.
Prague, when Soviet tanks invaded, and the great distance runner, Emil Zatopek, ran the streets, preaching resistance to the Soviets, and then racing to the next rallying point, always a pace ahead of the Red Army.
Being jailed in Luanda and deported to Mozambique, at a time when Portuguese reprisals were underway in Angola.
There is the image of Patrice Lumumba being hustled out of the Ghanaian officers mess in Leopoldville, to save him from assassination by a raging mob. And then Lumumba giving a press conference while under house arrest -- and escaping at night to attend rallies in his name.
More memories: Ojukwu, in Biafra, with brand-new shoes and smoking State Express cigarettes, as Ben Wicks was scolded for having his hands in his pocket while in the presence of "His Excellency."
Of Albert Schweitzer whacking a leper not-so-gently on the head for not chipping faster at a huge rock from which he was making gravel.
Of Laos, boasting proportionately the most Mercedes cars in the world in a country with only 24 km of paved roads -- and a dead king being preserved in a tree trunk filled with honey for one year until burial.
Of Dr. Tom Dooley, sick with terminal cancer, wanting me to rent an aircraft for him to fly to his jungle hospital for a farewell visit.
Of meeting the Beatles in Hong Kong -- and not knowing who they were or why the city was going berserk over their presence there.
A fond memory is the RCMP searching my cluttered office for a letter by the head of RCMP security to then-prime minister Trudeau complaining against the PM's dictum that security checks of Quebecers should not include questions about separatism.
Bob Johnstone of the CBC, looking through the glass window with other TV journalists, quipped that the office was so cluttered "the RCMP may not find a letter, but they may lose a Mountie."
After checking under the coffee table, chairs, behind pictures on the wall, rifling through books for the letter, they found it a couple of hours later in the upper left hand drawer of my desk.
These, and more, are the products of a career in journalism, and are part of what made it worthwhile. And I've not even mentioned Olga, the exotic defector from the KGB in Moscow, or the rewarding aberration of running for a seat in parliament and having the distinction of losing in the greatest Tory sweep in Canada's history.
I've never been much afraid of dying -- scared, at times, yes. But I never expected to reach 80, much less 86!!
Of course, there is the Toronto Sun, which was never as good a newspaper as it could have been, but which was always a fun place to work, with good people who seemed to be forever being replaced by other good people.
The Sun was always pretty tolerant of me and, I must say, I was pretty tolerant of it from time to time. We both served each other's purpose.
My greatest regret is causing pain or sorrow for those left behind -- Yvonne, Casey, Guy and Dani and the grandkids -- all of whom made life worthwhile.
I regret, too, the nuisance for them of a funeral which they may hope will be well attended, but which I know won't be, because I tend to be a loner who treated most people decently, but who never encouraged intimacy.
My reservations are meaningless and will be ignored.
Pity I wasn't a drinker, then everyone could feel superior and forgive a weakness.
]]>There Will Never Be Another Margaret Thatchertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.30398462013-04-08T17:47:16-04:002013-04-09T09:17:17-04:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
Not only was Thatcher Britain's first female PM, but she was also Britain's only female PM, whose 11 years in office were the longest for any PM in 150 years.
What this daughter of a green grocer did, was undo and reverse socialism in Britain that started with Clement Atlee and continued through the leadership of Harold Wilson and James Callaghan.
In essence, she returned Britain to private ownership, starting with her fights with Arthur Scargill of the powerful miners union. The battle was ugly and relentless, but she won. (As an aside, a similar battle is being fought today in the U.S. against excessive benefits given to unions.)
By the time she became PM in 1979, Britain was on the ropes as a fading power, the plaything of unions which manipulated the economy. She changed all that through the strength of her character and the force of her convictions.
"The lady is not for turning," she once said, and indeed she wasn't.
BLOG CONTINUES AFTER SLIDESHOW
She said "no" to the European Union (in fact she said "no, no, no"), and when in doubt she called upon her own "conservative" beliefs and did what she thought was right -- and it usually was.
Not for nothing was she known as the "Iron Lady." As she said of herself: "I am patient -- so long as I get my way"
She took Britain into a brief war with Argentina over whether the Falkland Islands should remain British, and won. It also signalled that Britain was back as a world influence.
She formed an alliance with U.S. Presidents Ronald Reagan and the first George Bush -- for Reagan she supplied brain power to do the right thing, for Bush she loaned him courage to do what was right.
As for the Soviet Union's Mikhail Gorbachev, she famously said he was someone she could work with...and did.
Parts of Britain never forgave her for bringing the unions to heel.
Admittedly controversial, she was not defeated at the polls by the British electorate, but by the Conservative party shed led from the wilderness to power. By replacing her, the party viewed itself as being pragmatic and realistic, when actually it was being cowardly and cunning.
John Major replaced her, and faded fast.
Fortunately, Labour's Tony Blair had elements of Thatcherism in his genes. His support of Bush the Younger after 9/11, was pure Thatcher.
What was refreshing about Mrs. Thatcher was her candour and courage, witness the jibe that "Socialism works until it runs out of other people's money."
We in the West were blessed that Thatcher, Reagan and Gorbachev were in power at the same time. It meant the end of the USSR which, in itself, was a monumental step towards normality. Russia under Putin no longer lusts to rule the world.
Significantly, it is those who revere "freedom" who most miss Mrs. Thatcher. When East Europe wore Communist shackles, Margaret Thatcher was their inspiration and their hope. She gave persecuted people hope.
Sadly, there is no Margaret Thatcher on the political horizon today.
Would that there were.
Now she is gone. Dead at age 87 from a stroke, we are told.
We are unlikely to see her like again.
]]>Predator: The Killtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19237922012-10-16T11:37:09-04:002012-12-16T05:12:02-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/This is the last of a three-part series from the newly published Predator: The Life and Crimes of Serial Killer Clifford Olson, by award-winning Canadian journalist Peter Worthington. Olson died in prison a year ago, on September 30, 2011.The details of Olson's murders have never made public -- until now. [A percentage of the proceeds from the book will go to Childfind.] Read Part One here and Part Two here.
WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRAPHIC AND DISTURBING MATERIAL.
The vodka bottle was nearly empty. Olson drained it and threw the bottle from the car window. Terri's glasses were on the front seat. He picked them up and fondled them as he drove. They certainly were thick. He thought what a nuisance it would be to have to wear glasses. But Terri did look pretty good in them. Oh well. He chucked them out the window as well. In the side mirror he saw them bounce and shatter.
Arriving in Hope, B.C., he pulled up in the parking lot behind the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. It was nearly deserted. It was early afternoon, and the streets were empty. And hot. Without the car's air-conditioning, it was like an oven. He opened the back door and climbed in with the sleeping girl. He tried to wake her.
"Hey, wake up kid," he said.
She didn't stir.
He nudged her, put his hand on her hip and shook. Nothing. Bolder, he ran his hand over her breasts and down her stomach and over her rump. She still didn't move. He reached forward and unzipped her jeans, and slipped his hand inside her panties. Still no reaction.
Quickly he looked out the car window. The parking lot was empty. Almost frantically, he pulled down the girl's tight jeans and panties. He undid his own pants and pulled them down to his knees. Without wasting time, he sodomized her, roughly, urgently. It was over in seconds. He withdrew, looked around, and the world was silent. It was as if nothing had happened.
He pulled up his own pants, and pulled Terri's jeans back on.
She still hadn't moved and seemed in a deep sleep. He drove the car a couple of blocks to the Royal Bank, parked on the street and went inside to cash some travelers' checks. Ten minutes later he was back out. Terri was in the same position. He drove to Highway 401 and headed back towards Vancouver. Terri still hadn't moved. He began to worry. Suppose he ran into a police spot check? A drunk and drugged teenager in the back seat would be difficult to explain. Maybe he could dump her out?
Some 50 miles down the highway, he noticed a hydro sub-station off to the side. A dirt road led up into the mountains. Sure there would be a deserted cabin up the road, he turned. A short distance along he saw a clear spot of grass, surrounded by bushes. A small creek was nearby, with power transmission lines overhead.
He parked the car and took a blanket out of the trunk and placed it on the grassy spot. He put Terri's purse in the trunk. He then drove the car off the road, out of sight by a small gravel pit.
He tried to wake the girl.
"C'mon Terri, wake up," he said. "We're here, sweetheart, wake up." She moaned, but didn't move.
He pulled her from the car, draped her arm over his shoulder, and carried/dragged her the few yards to the blanket. He laid her on it, face down. She didn't move. He went back and put his watch and wallet in the trunk. He locked the car and returned to Terri Lynn.
He stood over her inert body, staring down, relishing her youth. The air was still, it was as if they were alone in the world. To him, all young people were beautiful. But this one, at this moment, was special. He reached down, rolled her over and undid her jeans. There was now an intensity to his movements. He became impatient. Quickly he stripped her, first pulling off her tight-fitting jeans by the ankles, then removing her socks and panties again. This time he took off her blouse and rolled her on her stomach and undid her brassiere. She was well developed. He rolled her on her back again. She lay there naked and unconscious. She hadn't stirred.
Then he undressed himself. Without any preliminaries, he knelt before her and spread her legs over his shoulders and raped her unconscious body. When he had finished, he began kissing her all over, feeling the softness of her, the smoothness of her skin. He felt she belonged to him, and her silence was acquiescence. Then he rolled Terri on to her stomach and proceeded to sodomize the girl again. Afterwards, he looked around, and saw that all was quiet, except for his own animal noises.
"That was a gorgeous fuck," he thought to himself, and reached in the pocket of the carpenter's apron and took out a six-inch Philip's screwdriver. Then he took the 21-ounce hammer, and looked at them both. He regarded Terri, lying face-down, spread-eagled on the blanket.
He crouched forward and put the screwdriver on the crown of her head. For a second he rested it there, looked at the screwdriver, looked at her, looked at the hammer, as if to see if anything would happen. All was serene. Then slowly, deliberately, he raised the hammer, held it poised above the screwdriver. In one motion he drove the hammer at the screwdriver which instantly and seemingly without resistance, plunged into the skull, up to the hilt.
He was surprised it went in so easily and deeply. Terri still hadn't moved. The man felt a thrill of achievement. He'd exercised his power, his control. He had nothing but good and warm feelings for the girl. He tried to pull out the screwdriver. It wouldn't come. He wriggled the handle back and forth. It was stuck. Suddenly the handle broke off, the blade imbedded in Terri's skull.
Irritated, he put his fingers on Terri's skull, and felt the tip of metal protruding. He got the claw hammer, managed to get a grip on the protruding part, and pried it back and forth until it came out. He was surprised there was so little blood. He was also surprised at how easily the deed had been done. He was even more surprised that Terri was still alive, still breathing deep, regular breaths. Her pulse felt normal.
"Terri, how are you?" he asked, nervously and a little fearfully. He was curious. "How do you feel? Can you hear me?"
There was no answer. Suddenly he was overcome with lust again. He began sodomizing the girl again, not caring whether she was dead or alive. This time she began reaching back, as if to push him off. She seemed to be reviving. He could hardly believe it. How could she be alive and apparently coming to, after six inches of steel had been driven into her skull?
This time when he withdrew from her, he got dressed. He reached down and took off her gold earrings, the gold chain she was wearing, and a ring. He considered sodomizing her again, but thought better of it. He had better get out of here before someone came.
He dragged Terri over to the shallow creek and placed her face-down in the water. He stood on her back shoulders to keep her head under the water. He slipped, and fell into the foot-deep water. Cursing, he put his foot on the back of Terri's neck, and held her head under while a stream of air came to the surface from her face. Then the bubbles stopped. He kept his foot on her neck for a few moments more, then got off. The body remained motionless.
He gathered branches and bits of wood and threw them on the body. He knew that Hydro workers would discover the body eventually, but to casual passers-by, it would be unnoticed. He wrapped Terri's clothing and the hammer and broken screwdriver in the blanket, and put them in the car. Then he checked the area to see if he'd left anything. He drove away.
At the bottom of side road he stopped and cut up Terri's shoes with his knife, and threw them away. He cut up her brassiere. As he drove he threw various items away at different spots -- the screwdriver handle to one side, the blade half a mile later on the other side. He took a side road that led to the river. There he hurled the hammer as far out into the water as he could. He cut up the rest of Terri Lynn's clothes and chucked them in the fast-moving river.
He took the contents of her purse and tossed the cosmetics in, too, then tore up her I.D. and burned it. She had seven dollars and some change. He put the money in his pocket.
He saw a big tree with an opening at the bottom, and here he put Terri's jewelry -- earrings, chain and ring. He then removed his T-shirt, washed it, and used it to wipe off the inside of the car. No fingerprints. He got a change of clothes from the trunk, including underwear shoes and socks, and put them on. The old clothes he cut up with his knife and threw into the river. First he removed the labels.
This job done, he opened a beer, took a long swig, and started the drive back to Coquitlam. On the way he felt curiously relaxed and at peace with himself. Yet he wondered. "What's wrong with me? Why am I doing this? I didn't have to kill her." It wasn't only sex. He got the sex anyway, even though it was better knowing that this was the last act of the girl's life. He liked having secret power over life and death. No doubt about that. Still, he was mildly puzzled why he did it. From the moment he first picked up Terri Lynn that morning, he knew he was going to kill her. It added excitement to sex. And he knew he would kill again.
No point worrying about it now. Perhaps he should take his wife out to dinner-- she deserved a night on the town. They both did. Cheer themselves up, get out of the rut.
These thoughts didn't last long. As he approached Coquitlam, he spotted a self-car wash, and drove in to clean the car more thoroughly. Then he went home. Before going to bed, he put the blanket in the apartment washing machine.
That night, Clifford Olson slept deeply, peacefully, without a care in the world. Terri Lynn Carson was his 10th murder victim.
]]>Predator: Introduction To A Serial Killertag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19130172012-10-16T11:11:31-04:002012-12-16T05:12:02-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/This is the first of an three-part series from the newly published Predator: The Life and Crimes of Serial Killer Clifford Olson, by award-winning Canadian journalist Peter Worthington. Olson died in prison a year ago, on September 30, 2011.The details of Olson's murders have never made public -- until now. After extensive interviews conducted over many years with Olson from a prison cell, and with exclusive access to sealed court records, Worthington has produced the first-ever account of Olson's heinous crimes -- and also of his childhood and life in and outside of prison. [A percentage of the proceeds from the book will go to Childfind.] Today Worthington explains how he got to know Olson, and the peculiar relationship that unfolded.
In the summer of 1989, broadcaster Arlene Bynon aired a documentary on Toronto radio station CHFI about the execution of serial killer Ted Bundy in the U.S. After the broadcast, she received a phone call from Canada's most infamous serial killer at the time -- Clifford Olson, who was serving 11 concurrent life sentences in Kingston Penitentiary for murdering 11 young people in 1980-81 in the lower mainland of British Columbia. Despite a government ban on him communicating with anyone in the media, Olson seemed to have easy access to a telephone.
Mostly what anyone knew about Olson (including me) was that he had been paid $100,000 by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police to lead them to the sites of 11 murders he said he had committed -- $10,000 per body, with one thrown in (as he said) as a "freebie." Until he confessed, the RCMP (and his lawyer, Bob Shantz), had no idea he'd murdered people. They knew him as a career criminal, but as a non-violent thief, burglar and-con man.
At his 1982 trial, Olson suddenly and unexpectedly pleaded guilty. As a consequence, there was no trial -- just his sentencing. He didn't testify in court, was never cross-examined, never interviewed, never gave a reason why or how he picked his victims. To this day, now that he's dead from cancer, Olson's motives and methods remain largely a mystery, open to conjecture.
At the time I was broadcasting daily comments on Arlene's CHFI talk show, and became party to frequent phone conversations when Olson phoned -- collect, of course. He soon began phoning me. Thus began extraordinary access to the mind, thinking and unexplored background of a serial killer.
At Olson's behest, many of his phone conversations were recorded -- with an eye to some day being broadcast. This was his narcissistic obsession. Often he would phone several times a day, although technically he was allowed only two "socialization" calls a month. When asked how this was possible in light of the Solicitor-General's ban on him contacting the media, Olson merely laughed. "We're getting away with murder with these calls, aren't we?" he chortled one day. "We're making jackasses out of these guys. They'll go crazy when they find out . . ."
In 1991, a Supreme Court judge in response to Olson's seemingly endless complaints and legal suits, admonished him to "stop whining" and noted that contrary to regulations, records showed he had made over 90 phone calls to lawyers in Toronto. Ironically, those "lawyers" were mostly Bynon and me.
Like many journalists, I routinely applied to visit Olson in Kingston pen, about two hours east of Toronto. Requests were usually turned down on grounds that Olson had nothing of significance to contribute, and that publicity merely fed his ego.
Then one day in early 1991, an excited Olson phoned to say that a visit with him in prison had been approved. During that summer I regularly visited Olson (average once a week), armed with a tape recorder, and was subjected to his memories and views on practically everything while he consumed a succession of Coca-Colas from a soft drink dispenser. In face-to-face meetings, he was banal, obsequious, unthreatening.
Arlene and I interested a U.S. publisher in a book, but my manuscript disappointed the publisher who wanted a Ted Bundy-like chase, with police gradually closing in on the killer.
That wasn't possible with Olson. Police had no idea there was a serial killer loose in B.C.'s Fraser Valley in 1981-82 until Olson told them. To me, that made Olson's story more unusual -- more frightening, in that an unknown and unidentifiable murderer was rampant.
Over the intervening years Olson kept phoning me. When a handcuff key was found hidden in his rectum at Kingston and his escape plans were thwarted, he was transferred to the federal penitentiary at Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. His phone calls diminished. Then when he was transferred to Ste-Anne-Des-Plaines prison in Quebec, the phone calls increased -- sometimes to four or five a day. No longer were they collect calls -- he, or the Correctional Services of Canada - apparently paid for them.
Over the years public interest in profiling serial killers increased, and TV programs like "CSI" and "Criminal Minds" made people realize the importance of studying and investigating the thinking of heinous murderers, to find a common thread to their behaviour -- which we now know exists.
But Olson was convicted without a trial--he pleaded guilty. Thus there was no public access to the 11 murders, detailed in 50-page documents he wrote describing how he killed and raped each victim. He wanted the writing embargoed until his one-year-old son reached to age of 21 "so he would better understand his father."
As time went on, Bob Shantz asked me to review the manuscript which, nearly 30 years after Olson's crimes, tells the still-unknown story of a serial killer who haunted Canada's conscience. Olson died from colon cancer Sept. 30, 2011.
]]>Predator: The Killer Lures His Preytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19130022012-10-16T11:05:07-04:002012-12-16T05:12:02-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/This is the second of an three-part series from the newly published Predator: The Life and Crimes of Serial Killer Clifford Olson, by award-winning Canadian journalist Peter Worthington. Olson died in prison a year ago, on September 30, 2011.The details of Olson's murders have never made public -- until now. [A percentage of the proceeds from the book will go to Childfind.] Read Part One here. Today, Olson persuades a teen to come along for the ride.
It was already sweltering and the sun was streaming through her window when Terri Lynn Carson awoke. Another day like the previous one and undoubtedly like the next one in this, the hottest summer in recent memory in lower British Columbia.
The slender blonde 15-year-old got up quickly. This was the day she was sure she'd get the job she'd been hoping for. Fin 'n' Feathers pet shop, in nearby Guildford, had advertised for someone to do odd jobs and tend the animals. She felt this was ideal for her. The pay was modest, but she'd be looking after animals, finding them good homes. She loved animals. The interview was this morning.
Terri Lynn wriggled into her Big Blues jeans, her Nikes and a short-sleeved blouse. She combed her long, shiny hair and cleaned her glasses. It was around eight o'clock, and she was ready for the day-- to catch the bus to Guildford and, if she got the job, to start immediately. Or when she was wanted. It never occurred to her that she wouldn't get it. The youngest of four children, Terri Lynn knew her divorced mother was short of cash. Everyone had to contribute something. Welfare checks went only so far. It would be different when she finished high school and became a computer programmer-- then perhaps there wouldn't be so much tension between her and her mother, who was inclined to worry and nag. Like all mothers. They were so nervous.
As she left Mayfair Village apartments in the sprawling dormitory community of Surrey, Terri Lynn felt the humidity and heat hit her like a physical blow. She crossed Grosvenor Road Elementary School's grounds to the bus stop. She was in plenty of time, and could already imagine cuddling rabbits, playing with puppies, and being responsible for the variety of animals at the pet shop. She hoped there was air conditioning.
The lower B.C. mainland, sheltered by the mountains and caressed by the sea, has more than its share of drugs, street people, the lost, the lonely, the obsessed, the driven, the bizarre -- all types who tend to gravitate there. In such an environment, crime tends to be above the national average as far as murder, rape, break and entry, drug and alcohol offenses are concerned.
In this sweltering summer of 1981, all the characteristics of the province were intensified. As if word had spread, youths from the continent drifted West. The number of young people sleeping on beaches and prowling suburban malls rose. Runaways and drifters abounded. Authorities looked forward to the fall and cool weather reducing the numbers of summer nuisances.
None of this consciously registered on Terri, a native of B.C. This was normal, this was home. She didn't even notice the mountains in the distance as she waited for the bus that sunny July 27th morning. She thought of the new clothes she would need when school started, barely five weeks off. If she could earn her own money, she wouldn't have to get it from her hard-pressed mother. In fact, maybe she should drop out of school. It was boring, and if she could get a steady job, she could build up a nest egg, and return to school later. Terri Lynn was ambitious and determined to get ahead. These and other conflicting emotions seethed within her. If only her mother understood her better. Life wasn't easy when you were 15 and beginning to attract attention of males beyond her schoolmates.
Terri knew that she was good-looking and that boys were interested in her -- and she in them. It was another issue that caused tension with her mother. It was so unnecessary, thought Terri, who knew more of the facts of life than her mother realized. Terri Lynn was a modern young woman who felt the equal of anyone and believed she could take care of herself. She was a social creature, liked to party, and yearned for adventure. She wouldn't always live in Surrey, she thought. There was a whole world out there waiting to be experienced. But for the moment, the job at the pet store was her biggest concern.
At first she didn't notice the car that pulled up beside her. The man driving was smiling-- a nice smile. He had dark, wavy hair and eyes that danced. He was wearing neat, sporty clothes and the car was clean.
"Where are you headed?" he asked out the passenger window.
Terri Lynn appraised him. He was older, an adult; not one of the mall creeps, those smart alecky kids who hung around the video center and made suggestive cracks.
"I'm waiting for the bus," she said. "I'm going to Guildford."
"Hey, that's where I'm going! Hop in, I'll give you a lift."
Terri hesitated. How often had her mother warned her about hitchhiking? And every kid knew of the dangers of talking to strangers. Terri Lynn wasn't exactly naive. But this person seemed so easygoing and friendly. A nice man. He looked like someone's father, or even older brother.
"I'm not sure," she said.
"Look, you're smart to be careful-- can't be too careful these days. But it's hot out and if you want a ride to the Guildford mall, I'll drop you off. Why you going there anyway? Shopping?"
"No, I've got a job interview."
"What kind of job?"
"In a pet store."
"Hey, that's neat. Hop in and I'll drive you over."
"Well . . ."
"Look, it's up to you-- you decide. It's on my way."
"Okay. Thanks a lot."
She got in and noticed that there was a brochure on the seat warning kids about being picked up by strange men. She felt better.
"So," he said, "what's this job?"
"There was this ad at the unemployment office for the pet shop-- I've got an appointment for 11 o'clock."
"Great, what's it pay?"
"It starts at the minimum wage and I get more as I learn what to do."
"Minimum wage isn't much-- $3.50 an hour."
"Yes, but it's a start."
"I never knew there was a pet store in the mall. I built six of the stores there."
"You did? It just opened recently. Are you going shopping?"
"No. I'm off to the unemployment office to see if I can get a couple of girls for work."
"What kind of work?"
"I own two construction companies. I need girls to wash windows and shampoo rugs before people move in."
"Where's the work?"
"I just finished Surrey village."
"I know them-- just across from the Surrey Inn. You built them?"
"Sure did. What's your name anyway?."
"Terri. Terri Lynn Carson."
"That's a nice name. Glad to meet you, Terri."
"How many people do you have working for you?"
"I've got 135 men and 17 women."
"That's a lot of people."
"Yes, it's a pretty big outfit. You want a cold beer, Terri?"
Terri paused. Should she or shouldn't she? Heck, why not. It was really hot out, and this man didn't make you feel like a dumb teenager.
"Don't mind if I do," she said.
He gestured to the back seat. Terri reached back for a couple of bottles. They drove along in silence for a few moments. The highway was clear of cars. Both were quiet, both deep in thought.
"What do you pay the girls?" Terri asked suddenly.
"They get $10 an hour."
"How come so much?"
"Because it's a union job."
"I wish I could get $10 an hour."
"Maybe you can. How old are you?"
"I'll be 16 in October."
"So you're 15 now. Hmmm. Look, if you want I'll give you a job at $10 an hour."
"You will?"
"Yes, and what's more you'll go on the payroll as of now."
"What would I have to do?"
"Well, to start, I'll put you to work at the Surrey Village, cleaning and shampooing rugs."
"And I'd get $10 an hour for this?"
"Yes, and you can start today."
"You really mean this? What about my interview at Guildford?"
"Forget it. Do you want to make $10 an hour or a minimum wage of $3.50?"
"Is it steady work? All year 'round."
"Yes"
"I have a girlfriend that's looking for work."
"How old is she?"
"Same as me."
"Bring her along. Reach in the back and open the briefcase. There are some business cards. Take a couple."
He studied the girl as she leaned back to open the briefcase. He couldn't recall seeing a tighter pair of jeans.
"They're sure flashy," she said, studying the cards in assorted colors -- green, red, white, in 3D fluorescent. "When could my girlfriend start?"
"Tomorrow."
"I'll phone her tonight."
"Can you type, Terri?"
"A little bit."
"That's great. Maybe you can work in the office later."
"Where are you going now?"
"To Hope. The bank there. I've got to pick up some legal documents. You can come. You've already made $30."
"When will we be back?"
"Three o'clock."
"I should phone and tell them at the pet shop."
"Forget them. You're on my payroll now. Reach back and get us a couple more beers. Tonight we'll go out to dinner and celebrate your new job. I'll meet your mom and dad so they'll know who you're working for."
"That sounds great, but my dad doesn't live with us."
"Your mother then."
They drove towards Hope, a couple of hours away. Terri figured she'd be earning $80 a day, $400 a week, $1,600 month. Her mother would be knocked out. She couldn't imagine earning so much money. She opened a couple more beers, drinking as they drove.
Terri kept stealing glances at the man. Not only generous, he was kind of cute. She'd never met anyone quite like him. Not condescending or bossy, and he didn't come on strong at her. He even boasted about his wife and small son.
"My mom won't believe I'm making this sort of money."
"She will when she sees it. What about your boyfriend?"
"I'm not with anybody right now."
"You're not? A pretty girl like you, with a great body and no boyfriend? I can't believe that!"
"Well, I have a boyfriend but we aren't together right now."
"It's a good thing I'm not your boyfriend, or I'd not let you out of my sight."
"I'll bet!"
"No kidding."
"How old are you anyway?"
"Guess."
"I'd say about 30."
"No, I'm 41."
"You don't look it."
"I don't feel it either."
"At the job -- how do I get paid?"
"By check, every couple of weeks. If you need cash, I'll advance you a couple of hundred dollars."
"You'd loan me money?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Gee. You sure are a great guy. I like you."
"Thanks. How's the beer holding up? What do you like in the hard stuff?"
"Vodka."
"Yeah, Smirnoff's best. We'll get some."
The traffic on the highway was light, the sun was bright, both of them were feeling mellow and comfortable. Terri couldn't stop talking about her new job. Maybe she could soon afford a car. And she might move into her own apartment, away from her mother. Independence and freedom beckoned.
"I'll be able to get you an apartment in one of my buildings, if you like," the man said, encouraging and enjoying her modest dreams.
"What do they rent for?"
"Between $400 and $500 for a one-bedroom."
"That's kind of a lot."
"Yes, but you let me know and I can get it for you for $100."
"Do you mean that?"
"Sure. Don't forget, you're working for a guy who builds these places."
"You really are one pretty nice guy!"
"I should say so. Look what you've already got -- a job, you're being taken to supper, you're going to make $80 cash today, and you're drinking my beer. And what have I got in return?"
"You got me to work for you."
Both laughed. He asked her about her glasses, which were quite thick. He asked why she didn't wear contacts. She said they were too expensive. He said he knew an optometrist, and that he'd advance her the money to get some.
"Anyway," he added. "Glasses really suit you. You look good in them."
"Yes, well I'm blind without them. Can't see a thing."
They pulled up for gas. The man asked where the nearest liquor store was. He was told the shopping mall at Mission. He drove there, and while he went in to buy vodka, Terri went into a variety store for orange juice and chips and a carton of cigarettes that she wanted. They continued driving towards Hope, with Terri mixing vodka and orange juice.
"I'd better not have any more. I'm getting drunk," she said.
"Look in the glove compartment. I've got some wake-up pills. They'll counter the alcohol, so you'll be sober for supper tonight."
"We'll, if you say so . . ."
"I say so, and I'm the boss."
"Okay...boss." They both laughed.
"What will your wife say, you taking me to dinner?"
"Nothing, Terri. I forgot to tell you -- she's coming too."
"I'll have to change and clean up first."
"No, what you're wearing is fine. You can have a bath at our place."
"Well, if you're sure it's okay . . ."
"I'm sure."
As they approached Hope, Terri was still feeling drunk. She said she didn't think the anti-drunk pills were working.
"Take three more," the man said. "And while you're at it, give me three too. I've got to stay sober."
"What do they do again?"
"They counteract the alcohol. Here, give me three." He put the three in his mouth.
"Well, so long as you're sure." Terri washed down three pills with a gulp of vodka and orange juice.
When she wasn't looking the man spat the three pills into his hand and put them in his pocket.
"How long do they take to work?" she asked.
"About 30 minutes."
"I'm really drunk. Can we stop a minute? I've got to go to the bathroom."
They pulled down a side road. Terri stumbled out, unzipped her jeans and urinated. She had difficulty getting her pants up again.The man helped her do up the zipper. She crawled into the back seat to sleep. "Wake me up when we get to Hope," she said.
"Yeah, you have a little rest."
Terri didn't answer. She had passed out.
Tomorrow: The Kill.
]]>This Registered Charity Has Secrets on the Bookstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19123712012-09-25T12:41:00-04:002012-11-25T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
According to the Toronto Star which has been looking into the situation, the OSPCA says its $20-million annual budget (from government and donors) isn't enough. As a registered charity, whatever the organization gets will never be enough.
One of the many aggravating things about the OSPCA, is its view that the salaries it pays should be kept secret from the public. Another is that the names of donors are also kept secret. How can this be?
Tory MPP Frank Klees has it right when he points out that the books of a registered charity should be open. He wonders "what's there to hide?" by keeping salaries secret. The OSPCA was caught misleading the public and being less than honest when a while back it justified killing all the animals in its care that had ringworm. When it had to reverse its initial claim that ringworm was a fatal affliction, it acknowledged that not all the animals had yet been killed, and it halted the process.
The OSPCA is notorious for raiding places it accuses of mistreating animals. In at least one case it was sued, and eventually settled out of court for $40,000 -- donor money paid out because of its own misconduct and malice.
In other cases, I've heard of some people who've had their animal confiscated have been told they can get the animal back -- ransomed, it you like -- if they pay several thousand dollars. Evidence is plentiful that its inspectors can be inadequately trained and often behave like Gestapo when they investigate and seize. That's one of the grievous sore points about the OSPCA -- a charitable institution should not have policing powers that in cases can exceed the powers of the police.
Surely policing should come under the authority of the Attorney General, where there is greater control and more rigorous standards of investigation and prosecution. Kate MacDonald, CEO of the OSPCA says more investigators are needed (100 instead of the present 80), and more money provided for administrative costs and legal fees.
Right now there are cases where the OSPCA has been called on an emergency basis for an animal in trouble -- and nothing happens. This is a fairly common refrain. The OSPCA tends to circle the wagons when criticized.
A few years ago, when the new OSPCA Act was being debated in the Legislature, the OSPCA'S policy was to keep its bylaws secret from the public, which prompted the NDP's Peter Kormos to storm: "Let the public see the bylaws... Lord Jesus... public funds means public accountability."
Kormos' plea resonates with you and me, but not with the OSPCA and McGuinty government which often seems blind and deaf to concerns about animals.
If the McGuinty government had the sort of integrity voters expect of it, it would try to clear the air about the OSPCA by authorizing and independent investigation and assessment -- to go with various other reports that have been critical of that group's policies and actions.
The OSPCA should encourage such an inquiry -- its reputation needs burnishing.]]>Dr. Norman Bethune: China's Hero, Canada's Traitortag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19093472012-09-24T12:30:58-04:002012-11-24T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/article in the Toronto Star quotes Treasury Board President Tony Clement: "When Chinese schoolchildren are taught about the value of helping humanity, the story they are told is the Norman Bethune story."
There are a couple of aspects of this quote that are worth examining. Dr. Norman Bethune was born in 1890 in Gravenhurst, Ont., which is a part of the Parry Sound-Muskoka riding represented by MP Clement. Bethune lived the first three years of his life in Gravenhurst, but has become something of a cottage industry for the town when it was realized the Chinese had elevated him to icon status.
He's become a tourist attraction for Chinese visitors. The house where he was born has been declared a Heritage site, and when she was Governor-General, Adrienne Clarkson unveiled a statue of him. Gravenhurst tourist bumpf advertises: "Home of a hero!"
The Chinese donated a statue to Bethune in Montreal (where he lived for eight years), and China itself is loaded with statues to him, ever since Mao Zedong wrote a tribute to him, and designated him as an official hero of Communism. As in his life, controversy clings to Bethune in death.
Crusty, nasty-tempered, impatient, and a heavy drinker though he was (or became), as a medical doctor he was ahead of his time and genuinely saw "socialized" medicine as the way to go. After serving briefly as a stretcher-bearer in WWI, he completed his medical degree at the University of Toronto, and then joined the Royal Navy as a surgeon-lieutenant.
In 1935 he joined the Communist Party and in 1936 went to the Spanish civil war where he developed battlefield blood transfusions that cut down deaths caused by loss of blood. Bethune's real fame occurred after he went to China to serve as a doctor for Mao Zedong's guerrilla army. He nicked his finger during an operation and subsequently died of blood poisoning, leaving a death-bed message for Tim Buck, who headed Canada's communist party.
Virtually unknown in Canada, and certainly unheralded, Bethune was magnified and glorified by Mao and Chinese communists who declared him a national hero. In the mid-1960s, the Canadian government suddenly realized that Bethune's name was useful in selling wheat to China -- the first billion-dollar contract signed at that time. While Bethune is a genuine hero to Chinese and other communists, his links to Canada are only that he was born and educated here.
Tony Clement's view of Bethune's story impressing Chinese children of the "value of helping humanity" is something of a stretch, since everything China does is based on helping themselves. What the Chinese regime has done for humanity is obscure. Self-interest is the motivation of the present Chinese regime, be it selling body parts of people executed for crimes, or even the body parts of dissidents (as claimed by the Falun Gong meditationists). Or selling unwanted girl babies to foreigners willing to pay, or kidnapping and imprisoning expatriots from neighboring countries.
This is hardly "helping humanity."
Bethune was not in China to help humanity, but to help Mao's communist army. It was not sick people he tended, but wounded communist soldiers. Around 1970, China seemed to realize that their deification of Bethune had commercial and psychological value in dealing with Canada. Every time a Canadian political or trade delegation visited China, they got the homage to Bethune treatment. Even Canadian tourists were subjected to it.
Canadians became conditioned to the idea that by publicly revering Bethune, it gave them an advantage with the Chinese -- while the Chinese felt similarly the other way around. I recall meeting with Michel Gauvin in Beijing -- Canada's ambassador to China at the time. I knew Gauvin (since deceased) when he was ambassador to Lebanon and Greece, and also when he was a member of the International Control Commission (ICC) in Vietnam, reporting on cease fire violations.
Gauvin was a superb diplomat, and an outspoken one. No nicely-nicely pussyfooting for him. He was direct, blunt, honest and trusted. At time of our meeting in Beijing, 1982, Gauvin recalled his first official banquet
as Canada's ambassador, where China's foreign minister proposed a toast to Norman Bethune.
After the dinner Gauvin discreetly buttonholed the foreign Minister. "I would appreciate it," he said, "if for the duration of my time in China as Canada's ambassador, there be no more toasts in my presence to Dr. Bethune. I feel I must tell you that I do not consider Dr. Bethune a Canadian patriot, but hostile to the values of my country."
Gauvin said the foreign minister stared at him for a moment, then broke into a big grin of understanding. "It was the last time the Chinese mentioned Dr. Bethune's name in my presence," recalled Gauvin. All of which indicates that the Chinese knew perfectly well what they were doing when they brought up Dr. Bethune's name in dealings with Canadians.
The same can probably be said of Gravenhurst's relatively recent fixation on Norman Bethune -- it's good for business, he's a tourist attraction to be exploited. This time by capitalism. The irony is that were Bethune alive, he'd be outraged and horrified at how he is manipulated -- by communists to get deals with capitalists, and by capitalists to be favoured by communists.]]>The Most Vivid Account of Fighting the Talibantag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19000812012-09-22T00:30:20-04:002012-11-21T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/The Taliban Don't Wave -- is his justification for what happened in Afghanistan in 2008.
Although Semrau is the first Canadian soldier ever to be court martialed for allegedly killing a wounded enemy on the battlefield, his 291-page book devotes barely a page to the incident that led to his court marital and dismissal from the army.
It's an astonishing book. More than any account I've seen, it tells vividly and graphically what it's like to be an infantry soldier in Afghanistan, working with the Afghanistan National Army (ANA), trying to bring them up to speed to protect their own country against the Taliban.
Semrau led an Operational Mentor and Liaison Team (OMLT). Usually an officer, warrant officer and two or three other ranks work with an ANA detachment of 40 to 150 men, with the job of training them by advising, recommending, suggesting rather than giving direct orders. Diplomacy is essential, not to cause their Afghan counterparts to lose face.
Difficult and invariably frustrating.
Semrau paints vibrant, realistic picture that is far different from movies, news reports, or even imagination. Some ANA were gung-ho fighters, others wanted no part of fighting. All ANA officers were temperamental -- some ferociously brave and foolhardy, some reluctant to leave their base. All of them, in the heat of battle, were likely to suddenly decide it was time for lunch and to return to their base.
Canadian mentors had to curb impatience and exasperation. To put it mildly. Small wonder that "stress" of command and insecurity could be debilitating.
The Taliban were often innovative. Semrau tells of one occasion where the Taliban planted an IED (improvised explosive device) in a haystack and sent kids out to play on the haystack, hoping to lure the Canadian-guided OMLT to rescue the kids and be ambushed.
Canadian snipers often spotted Taliban planting IEDs, but the Canadian major in command would not allow them to shoot the enemy for fear they were farmers, and there'd be hell to pay. Instead, ANA OMLT troops would be sent to cordon the area -- and the Taliban would escape. In Semrau's experience, the snipers never were wrong, but the major was adamant. He wanted no trouble. Risk averse.
This style changed when the major was replaced.
Some Canadian officers had no idea what it was like on patrol, and never went outside the wire. Their "war" was more sedate than the OMLT function.
Arguably, Semrau's finest moment was when an American Apache helicopter thought his ANA squad were Taliban, and prepared to shoot them up. Instead of telling the men to take cover, Semrau frantically urged them all to stand up and wave at the Apache. The pilot realized that "the Taliban don't wave," and veered off. Semrau's quick judgment saved the Alliance from another "friendly fire" catastrophe. Hence the title of his book.
Semrau has never acknowledged in print or interview that he shot a mortally wounded Taliban fighter. It happened in an operation where other Canadian soldiers were engaged. According to witnesses, the Taliban fighter had apparently been bit by fire from an Apache helicopter and had a hole in his midsection the size of a dinner plate, his legs also were smashed. To one ANA witness, he was "98% dead. ANA troops were kicking and spitting on him, and when Semrau's OMLT group moved on to support others under fire, a couple of shots dispatched the Taliban.
The question begs, how did this incident reach the chain of command? Why didn't it vanish in the fog of battle? Who broke silence?
Semrau doesn't speculate, but likely an ANA officer who routinely avoided contact with the enemy and resented Semrau's determination, filed a complaint. Instead of ignoring it, as should have happened, higher command ordered Semrau's arrest. He was charged with second-degree murder, attempted murder, negligence of duty, and disgraceful conduct.
A lot of people who've been to war felt it a travesty that Semrau was charged. One of these is Maj. Gen. Lew MacKenzie, arguably Canada's most experienced "field" commander, who wrote a persuasive forward to Semrau's book.
From his record in the field, Semrau was a competent, compassionate officer, ever concerned for the welfare of those under him and those he was tasked to protect.
A concern about his court martial was that the judge, the prosecutor, the jury (panel), the defence lawyer and the accused, all worked for the same employer. All were paid by the government seeking to convict Semrau.
I felt Semrau should have gotten a civilian lawyer (Eddie Greenspan came to mind). Semrau said no, he'd stick with a JAG (Judge Advocate General) lawyer. I urged he get retired officers who'd led patrols in war, to testify in his defense that instant decisions have to be made when you're in Indian country, without any source to consult.
At a luncheon at the Royal Canadian Military Institute I spoke to General Hillier, when he was Chief of Defense Staff, about Semrau's upcoming trial. Hillier seemed to think that all would go well. I had doubts.
I solicited members of the Military Institute who had led fighting or probing patrols in WWI, Korea, Vietnam, the Balkans, who were prepared to testify on Semrau's behalf. I volunteered to testify, having led fighting patrols in the Korean war, where unexpected decisions were predictable.
As witness to this latter reality, one could mention that the U.S. Navy SEALs who killed Osama bin Laden had practiced their raid a hundred times, yet on the night of the attack a helicopter was damaged and the SEALs had to improvise. That's the story of every patrol, and it is the story of Semrau's patrols -- and the "mercy killed" Taliban.
As it turned out, Semrau and his lawyers (in whom he still has faith) decided he wouldn't testify, or offer a defence for his actions, or call witnesses, or even try to explain to the panel, the unique job of mentoring Afghan soldiers in enemy territory.
The panel or jury that would decide Semrau's fate consisted of a navy commodore, an army major and captain with no field or patrol experience, and two air force majors.
If Semrau and his lawyers weren't prepared to defend him, or to convince the panel that leading a fighting patrol of ANA soldiers was unlike anything they could imagine, then who can fault the panel for not understanding?
Semrau became upset with me when I quoted from an email he sent that if asked he'd gladly serve again in Afghanistan. The Sun claimed he was speaking out (which he wasn't) and used it in a headline which upset me -- but annoyed Semrau more. The moral being, I guess, don't send emails to journalists.
When Semrau was found not guilty of murder, not guilty of attempted murder, not guilty of negligence -- how on earth could he be found guilty of disgraceful conduct?
In every situation his conduct was the very antithesis of disgraceful.
Anyway, it's all academic now.
Semrau was reduced in rank to 2nd lieutenant (so what?) and dismissed from the army, but not dismissed with disgrace. His erstwhile comrades and commanding officers are on record as supporting him and having wanted him back.
Semrau now is in international security consulting work, and should do well. But his story is one that should never have happened. Apart from his own disappointment, the biggest loser is the Canadian army. They lost a good soldier, and a better officer.
The one virtue of his ordeal is a book that may well be the best one, so far, that tells the story of our soldiers in Afghanistan whose work was mostly "outside the wire."]]>Hey Nexen, What's the Chinese Word for "Treason"?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19035442012-09-21T11:05:36-04:002012-11-21T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
At present he is best known for investigative work with human rights lawyer David Matas, into China's appalling record of harvesting human organs from convicts and Falun Gong dissidents for sale to foreigners. Their book, Bloody Harvest, is a powerful indictment of the practice and is taken seriously in the UN and around the world
So Kilgour is no fan of Beijing's policies or methods.
Right now he's upset -- justifiably so -- at the China's bid to buy Nexen, Inc., Canada's sixth largest oil company, for $15 billion. The sale would reap a tidy profit for Nexen share holders, who overwhelmingly have voted to accept the offer.
The prospective buyer is the China National Offshore Oil Corp (CNOOC), which means the Beijing government. Kilgour notes that it is now up to Prime Minister Stephen Harper to decide whether the sale represents a "net benefit" to Canada, and doesn't undermine of threaten "national security," as defined by the Investment Canada Act.
According to Kilgour: "Harper should block the proposed takeover and make it clear that any state-owned enterprise, regardless of national origin, will be limited to a minority share-holding in any Canadian business."
It's pretty hard to argue with that.
As Kilgour says: "Beijing would not for a moment allow a foreign company or government to buy control of one of its natural resource companies."
Canadians in a Sun News-Abacus Data poll seem to endorse Kilgour's views, with 69 per cent saying the government should not approve the CNOOC take-over of Calgary-based Nexen, and eight per cent favouring the sale.
Doubtless, China needs energy sources. But it seems folly for a country like Canada to sell and loose control of a resource that is increasingly going to be needed in the future, and which will always have willing customers elsewhere.
Kilgour takes it a step further: "The conduct of Chinese state-owned enterprises globally is outrageous." He says when the China National Petroleum Corp bought into Sudan's oil fields in 1996, Beijing immediately supported Sudan's Omar al-Bashir, for whom the International Criminal Court (ICC) at the Hague issued an arrest warrant in 2009 for war crimes and crimes against humanity.
Beijing has provided arms to Sudan, and is complicit in atrocities committed in South Sudan and Darfur, and provided diplomatic cover for the Bashir regime at the UN.
Chinese resource companies are accused of underbidding local firms in Africa, and not hiring local workers. "In Zambia, Chinese mining companies banned union activity," says Kilgour, "and in two instances were charged with attempted murder after opening fire on local employees protesting work conditions."
State-owned corporations in China are above the law when it comes to safety, environmental and employment considerations, and Kilgour fears "they will demonstrate no more respect for the rule of law in Canada than they do in China -- and will act always as agents of the party-state that controls them."
Anyone familiar with China knows all this -- as does Prime Minister Harper.
He also knows China is buying up all the resources it can around the world -- not for world domination so much as to satisfy its own population and growing needs.
Kilgour and others point out that the government has an obligation to prevent control of its resources being in the hands or another country.
Cooperate, sure, if it is in Canada's interests, but to cede control to a regime like China's is not only folly, but verges on treason.]]>We're Talking About Escobar Because It's Easy, Not Importanttag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19000712012-09-20T10:25:53-04:002012-11-20T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
During research for his famous Parkinsons' Law, he noted that boards of directors for big companies (or governments) would routinely rubber stamp commitments of millions of dollars for various projects -- then bog down for a half-hour of back-and-forth discussion over whether of office coffee should (in those days) cost ten or fifteen cents.
The moral being, that office coffee was simple, easily understood, and something about which everyone had an opinion, while other decisions were complex and difficult.
The fuss over Escobar's eye black bearing the words "Tu ere maricon," which translates into "You are a faggot," is mindful of Parkinson's dictum -- easy to understand and convenient for getting mindlessly indignant about, as if this was an unforgivable outrage to human dignity.
Everyone seems to be reacting with mild hysteria.
In a column, the Sun's Steve Buffery ("Beezer") won't even spell out "faggot," but camouflages it with the euphemism "fa---t," putting it in the same unmentionable category as the "N-word," which can never be mentioned in polite company.
Even our beloved Bob Elliott (he of the Baseball Hall of Fame) chides Escobar, albeit more in sorrow than anger. Disappointed, perhaps, by Yunel's lack of education.
Well, sensitivity training will cure that.
Back to the Parkinson's Law analogy: we see similar hysteria over Kate Middleton (Duchess of Cambridge) being surreptitiously photographed topless -- something that doesn't take much intellect to understand, and everyone has an opinion.
In the Sun, the brave Tarek Fatah's column berates "the sheer madness that unfolds every time Muslims sensibilities are offended," as in the lousy movie about Mohamed that none of the rioters around the world has ever seen. That attitude prevails about Escobar's goof.
According the radio (AM 590), Blue Jays general manager Alex Anthopoulos considered suspending Escobar for a year, trading him, or giving him his outright release instead of a three-game suspension and a $90,000 fine to go the a gay/lesbian group.
If so, that's ridiculous. If you ask me, undergoing sensitivity training is punishment enough.
No argument that Escobar shouldn't have done what he did, but it was thoughtless and meaningless -- locker room stuff, not considered judgment. Ever hear what's said in management meetings of any business, including the Sun? Wow!
How about the military, or any sports team? Individuals can suggest pals have incestuous relations with their mother, and it not be taken personally.
Frankly, that seems more denigrating than "maricon."
Escobar has apologized profusely. Doubtless he had no idea the hullabaloo his antic would cause. Likely he no more intended to hurt feelings than someone does when he calls a colleague a name that questions whether his parents were married. Or inappropriate intimacy with his mother.
In this mini-tsunami over Escobar, sports writers, editorialists and commentators are piling on, as if their fabricated indignation proves their innocence in ever-indulging in something similar. Again, words without meaning or intent to injure.
Escobar remains a valuable Blue Jay, a fielder better than most, a player who has caused management no trouble, and someone who did a silly thing for which he is being penalized and reviled to a degree that makes no sense.
And if you ask me (no one is), the unnecessary fuss is liable to result in a backlash against the very people Escobar's critics seek to defend. Wait and see.]]>Ontario Politics Needs a Little Less Liberal Arrogancetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18965342012-09-19T12:50:03-04:002012-11-19T05:12:02-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
Liberals won, largely because the Conservatives under Tim Hudak blew it. Hudak has smartened up since then, and with the help of the NDP's Andrea Horwath (something of a dynamo) could force McGuinty into retirement. Horwath has brought her party close to popular parity with the Conservatives.
One poll, commissioned by something called Broadview Strategy Group, has Conservatives at 36 per cent, the NDP at 35 per cent, and the Liberals sinking at 22 per cent. Another poll has Tories seven points ahead of the NDP which, in turn, is a couple of points ahead of the Liberals.
An election now will rid the province of Liberal arrogance for a while, and that's a positive, even if it means putting the NDP in power for a while. (But not too long). If the poll numbers are correct, it would probably mean a minority Conservative government, since the Tories are less scattered through the province and are solid in certain areas.
No one is nuts about Hudak's leadership, but he's a good person and with the horrid example of McGuinty Liberals in charge, would probably be more sensible and responsive to the needs of the province. Of course, if Conservatives were to win, the NDP would be the opposition and would stimulate the economy and liven up the political scene. What the province needs more than anything, is a rest from the damn Liberals.
Speculation is that if an election looms, McGuinty might resign rather than be defeated. That's doubtful. McGuinty's not a quitter and has defied the odds in the past, and won. Go down fighting, if that's in the cards, but don't quit. If McGuinty is destined to lose, let him be carried off on his shield. If he were to depart the political scene, speculation as to his replacement as leader includes the likes of Municipal Affairs Minister Kathleen Wynne and Finance Minister Dwight Duncan. Even George Smitherman is mentioned. (Ugh!)
Nothing much to inspire.
Since Tim Hudak isn't scary as leader, Horwath and the NDP may think this is their moment to strike. If so, maybe they are right. If they delay, their moment may well pass. And if Hudak becomes premier, he may well perform better than anyone expects, simply because expectations are not high. That's a great asset for a political contender -- witness Ronald Reagan in 1980.
Hudak might take encouragement by checking how McGuinty was viewed when he was Opposition leader in1996: No charisma, ineffective, uncomfortable with media questions, not up to the job, poor debater, deer caught in the headlights, and so on.
Today he's one of Canada's most successful premiers. Hudak and Horwath have been endorsed as leaders in reviews by their respective parties by a 3-1 margin. McGuinty's leadership will be "reviewed" by Liberals on September 28. He should be handily endorsed after nine years of being premier and some 22 years in the Legislature.
On thing certain, the teachers union would be lobbying for Horwath -- which is a damn good reason to vote Conservative if an election is called.]]>Topless Kate Doesn't Fit the Fairy Taletag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18933742012-09-18T10:40:29-04:002012-11-18T05:12:02-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/Toronto Telegram in 1956, the guy who ran the newsroom was J. Douglas MacFarlane -- to this day I'm not sure what his title was, but indisputably he was the boss, and one of the enduring newspaper legends of his day.
One of the first things I learned as a Tely reporter -- subsequently reinforced when I was sent on assignments overseas -- was that JDM had a standing reward for anyone who could obtain a photograph of the late Princess Margaret in a bikini, when she was vacationing in Cannes, or wherever it was she holidayed.
I forget what the prize was, but it was a lot on money that was never collected.
How times have changed!
Now we have the fuss over Kate, Duchess of Cambridge and wife of Prince William -- son of heir-apparent to the British Throne, Prince Charles -- being photographed topless. Buckingham Palace is not amused and is suing a French and Italian magazine for "gross breach of privacy" by running pages of these photos.
Rather than quell coverage, it could be argued that the legal suit exacerbates it.
What is it about these female Royals that they can't keep their tops on?
Princess Diana was photographed topless on a yacht; Sarah, Duchess of York has been snapped topless and sucking a toe; Prince Edward's wife, Sophie (Duchess of Wessex) has been immortalized topless. And now Kate.
Diana was more outgoing than the reserved Kate, and rather spicy rumours revolved around her broken marriage to Prince Charles before her untimely death.
Diana topless wasn't much of a deal, as she was something of a loose cannon.
Kate is different. She and Prince William are a fairy tale couple.
Buckingham Palace (i.e. the Queen) is in a bit of a tizzy, especially after Prince Harry's romp while nude at one of those questionable parties in a Las Vegas hotel room.
Harry was quickly dispatched to Afghanistan as punishment (reward?) for his indiscretion. Kate is different. She's something as an innocent in the topless photos, and is unlikely to be exiled to Afghanistan, although if the Palace has any say that's where they'd like to send the creepy, sneaky photographer(s).
Every reasonable person deplores Kate's privacy being violated this way -- even as there's a scramble on the internet for a glimpse of the Royal breast.
While one sympathizes with Kate's, William's and the Queen's embarrassment (one can't be sure Prince Philip is similarly upset), the question begs: Should the woman who is destined to someday sit on the British Throne beside her husband, the King, really be galavanting topless during a European vacation?
Surely there's some protocol that would dictate more modesty, if not discretion?
As far as nudity goes these days, the photos of Kate are pretty mild. Not necessarily "tasteful" as the publisher of the Italian magazine Chi is quoted as saying, or "newsworthy" as the French magazine Choser thinks, or even justifiable as the Irish Times claims because the English Duchess is not their Duchess.
Most people couldn't care less, even though they may think the future Queen should keep her top on. I find myself wondering what Doug MacFarlane would say? Kate sure makes Princess Margaret in a Bikini seem tame.
But that was then, this is now, and no one ever came close to collecting the reward money for a Bikini photo of Margaret.
Were he alive, I suspect JDM would have changed with the times, and been as disapproving as any at the future Queen parading topless.]]>Blame Religion -- Not a Movie -- For Libyan Attacktag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18807712012-09-13T10:59:16-04:002012-11-13T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
"The United States deplores any intentional effort to denigrate the religious beliefs of others," she said.
Whether or not the American-made $5 million, two-hour movie, Innocence of Muslims, by Sam Bacile, who claimed to be an Israeli Jew but who is actually a Coptic Christian, was an "intentional effort to denigrate" Islam, the mob attacks in Benghazi and in neighbouring Egypt had that effect.
The actions of a rabid mob makes the majority of Muslims look bad.
American ambassador Chris Stevens -- a career diplomat rather than a political appointee -- and three embassy staff were killed in Benghazi, and is one of those things that make one wonder at well-intentioned policies that too often backfire.
America did all it could outside of actually invading, to help Libyans overthrow the nasty regime of Muhammar Gadhafi. And this is the thanks they get!
The U.S. also abandoned its longtime Egyptian ally, Hosni Mubarak, when the celebrated "Arab Spring" rebellions erupted across the Middle East in the name (but not the practice) of "democracy." Yet mobs in Cairo assaulted the U.S. Embassy.
No American was killed in the Egyptian onslaught that included desecrating the U.S. flag, but it gives pause to those who are optimistic about the Middle East and keep insisting that Islam is a religion of "peace."
Now there are outbursts in Yemen.
The 13-minute trailer of the controversial Innocence of Muslims film that provoked the violence, was rough on the Prophet Mohammed -- but so what? That's a hazard of freedom, democracy and tolerance.
Most of us deplore what artists (to pick on them) sometimes do with Christian symbols -- crucifixes immersed in urine displayed as "art," a Philippine "artist" creating a collage that includes Jesus with a wooden phallus glued to his head, a University of Oregon student newspaper showing Jesus kissing another man, both displaying erections. And so on.
Any mockery of the Prophet -- including the 2005 Danish cartoons that provoked riots around the world -- are tame compared to liberties taken with Christian symbols.
And yet Hillary seems to blame this low-budget movie for barbarism in Benghazi and Cairo -- a movie that is clearly more political than religious.
As for the depiction of Mohammed (praise be to him), anyone who examines his life finds abundant material for questioning. Check Google "myths of mohammed" for details.
An alleged al-Qaida group known as Ansar al-Sharia -- Sunni Muslims -- is believed to have instigated the mob attack in Benghazi, but left the scene once violence started. There are now concerns that mob violence may spread to Afghanistan.
One who seems supportive of the controversial movie is Florida pastor Terry Jones whose publicized plan to burn the Koran in 2010 resulted in riots in those parts of the world that routinely indulge in riots.
Few in America approve of Pastor Jones, but he's another hazard of a democratic society. Those who might blame him for the over-reaction on Muslim mobs, miss the point. He might be a nuisance, but he's not a menace.
What is it about the Islamic faith that invokes intolerance and violence? Peaceful religion indeed! Only, it seems, if you ignore its excesses or subscribe to its ideology.
That's neither freedom nor democracy. Violence tends to substantiate movie-maker Bacile's view that Islam is a "cancer" or, at least, facilitates cancerous behaviour.
CORRECTION: A previous version of this blog falsely stated that Sam Bacile was an Israeli Jew, when he is in fact a Coptic Christian. ]]>Iran Doesn't Want Our Diplomacy Anywaytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18801522012-09-13T07:50:51-04:002012-11-13T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/cutting diplomatic relations with Iran is why now?
Can it be that Canada (i.e. the Harper government) thinks patience is running out for that bellicose regime, and that Israel is close to taking it upon itself to attack Iran's nuclear facilities?
Canada pulling its 10 diplomatic staff from its embassy in Tehran is cautionary. Countries rarely do that unless they think something drastic may be about to happen.
Certainly Israel will not remain indefinitely passive while its Western allies dither and urge restraint. The U.S. is unlikely to do anything with its election is in full swing, but there's no guarantee Israel won't act -- if it feels its survival necessitates direct action.
Foreign Minister John Baird accurately calls Iran "the most significant threat to global peace and security," but that assessment was as accurate a decade ago as it is now.
Iran and North Korea are the world's two leading rogue regimes. But Iran is more dangerous.
North Korea has an impressive record of playing the U.S. like a fiddle -- making nuclear threats, testing missiles that could reach the west coast, goading South Korea into nervous agitation, all of which tend to persuade the U.S. to provide food aid, which is diverted to the military.
Still, there's something almost comical about North Korea's xenophobic posturing. It has little in the way of manufacturing resources, cannot feed itself, is so mindlessly adoring of itself that it's like a comic book.
The only war its huge army has fought since 1953 is against its own people, rooting out those who fail to genuflect sufficiently before the statue of Kim Il-sung.
Kim's grandson (Kim Jong-un) is now in charge, and is showing signs of sanity and normality that make optimists wonder if he's trying to re-join the modern world.
So forget North Korea as a realistic threat, and focus on Iran -- which Prime Minister Harper seems to be doing. The more the world aligns against the mad mullahs of Iran, the greater the chances that changes may come within that country, as they have throughout the Middle East in the past couple of years.
Of course, Iranian diplomats and spokesmen rant at Canada. If evidence is needed that we are doing the right thing, the reaction of Iranians in charge tends to verify it.
If further evidence is need, look no further than the NDP's Paul Dewar whom the Toronto Star quotes as calling Canada's act irresponsible and bizarre.
The Star itself, editorially, thinks we erred by not keeping a diplomatic channel open with Tehran. Why, one wonders? When has Iran ever responded sensibly to a Canadian gesture? Three Canadians are on death row in Iran, and Canada's efforts on their behalf have been fruitless.
Iran brutally murdered Iranian born Canadian photographer Zahra Kazemi in 2003, and scoffed at Canada's protests at the time. What good has diplomacy achieved?
Canada could have suspended relations then, but it was a Liberal government in charge that evidently wanted to "keep diplomatic channels open," thereby pleasing the folk who write (and read?) Star editorials, but achieving zilch.
Anyway, Canada has made its choice. We stand against what Iran is doing -- not because we are Israel's ally, but because Iran is a rogue regime that must be opposed for the sake of world security and decency -- without the necessity of another war.]]>In Canada, Serve Intruders Tea Before Defending Yourselftag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18540412012-09-05T09:55:04-04:002012-11-05T05:12:01-05:00Peter Worthingtonhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/peter-worthington/
And yet it's the law. Even the new Citizen's Arrest and Defence Act (dubbed the "Lucky Moose" bill) which supposedly expands the legal powers of a citizen making an arrest -- as David Chen did when his Lucky Moose Mart in the Kensington area of Toronto was victimized by a thief that he took down by force -- is inadequate.
In Chen's case, he was initially charged with kidnapping and assault when he tackled a thief and called the police. In the charges against Chen, the thief (whose sentence had been served) gave evidence against him. Judicial insanity.
Eventually Chen was cleared and is now, justifiably, something of a folk-hero.
Now we have another case of a guy (Moses Mahilal, 26), bringing his girlfriend to her home at 3 a.m. and finding a guy in the process of robbing the place where she lived with her mother.
Mahilal, who probably knows nothing about the Lucky Moose bill, grabbed knife from the kitchen and raced upstairs where he caught the guy, hiding and loaded with stolen property. Mahilal didn't waste any time in attacking and stabbing him.
The thief, Kino Johnson, 33, ran away with Mahilal after him. Johnson landed in hospital, and at his trial was sentenced to 20 months in jail and two years probation.
His record includes convictions for assault, robbery and theft, so clearly he's a potentially dangerous guy. I doubt there's a reasonable citizen in this country who doesn't identify with Moses Mahilal's reaction, and feels that anyone burglarizing a home takes his chances, and no tears wept if he's caught and manhandled.
Oh, Johnson is quoted in the Toronto Star saying that with a knife wound in his chest he could've died.
At his trial, Johnson expressed gratitude to God (I'll bet!), and that he wanted to be a good person and turn his life around.
Baloney, some will say.
He should have thought of that before breaking into the house after midnight.
Frankly, I doubt the courts (or prison system) have seen the last of this guy.
What's outrageous is that Mahilal, the guy who thwarted the burglar, has been charged with aggravated assault. Yes, that he used excessive physical force rather than ask (or listen to) explanations from the burglar as to how he'd lost his way or was sleep walking , or something.
Undoubtedly Mahilal was angry at the invasion, but also he was brave. He didn't know if the guy was armed-- and if he was armed it'd likely be a gun. Mahilal was in attack mode, defending his girlfriend and her mother. As his lawyer has pointed out, in other circumstances the Mahilal would be regarded as a hero and get a medal.
Let's hope there's some sanity when his case comes up.
It should have been dismissed, but due process doesn't work that way.
Lecture him, if the court thinks that is appropriate, but also commend him for his actions. Many of us hope we would act similarly if faced with such an unnerving situation, but fortunately most of us will never know.]]>
