Of filibusters and other horrors
Aug 07, 2010
SAY what you like about The New Yorker magazine (and plenty has been said either way; and plenty will be in the future) it gives its writers plenty of room to swing a cat, or even plenty of rope to take their own life. But there’s plenty of meat there too.
By John Nagenda
SAY what you like about The New Yorker magazine (and plenty has been said either way; and plenty will be in the future) it gives its writers plenty of room to swing a cat, or even plenty of rope to take their own life. But there’s plenty of meat there too.
In 1965, in New York, my literary agent at Curtis Brown always promised to introduce me to its famous editor of the time, but although some editors came my way, and articles (and even, dear reader, poems) were delivered and published, The New Yorker stayed resolutely out of reach.
When Ambassador Johnny Carson (today the belatedly chief US boss for Africa) and his good wife were leaving their stint in Uganda, they left me with a boot-load of copies of the magazine.
A kind of indigestion suitably followed (and no wonder), but now I can always read much of the magazine at my leisure every week at the touch of a button and all is well with the world.
This week I read not one, but two, of its articles (total length 32 pages!) and I share here their important messages.
Some readers grumble I talk too much of foreign parts and not enough about us. It is not true, but I refer them to the title of the Column: One Man’s Week.
That means Me, Myself, and what happened accordingly; while hoping it strikes a chord with the readers.
The first article was The Empty Chamber, by George Packer, exploring relationships in the US between Democrats and Republicans, political foes, but both sent to the Senate to represent American Citizens.
In the past both sides mixed socially to better carry out their duties to the electors; this appears to be no longer the case, to the detriment of the country.
The filibuster is now more common, in which dissent is shown not by debate but by taking up inordinate time at the floor. Precious motions fail to be heard. In America, home of the free?!
The second article was on Hospice: on people dying. I know a thing or two about this, from the angle of being the one at the very edge, but equally at other times by being a watcher while dear ones approached their end. There are no rules.
Author, medical Dr Atul Gawende, explores whether those dealing with the dying ever mastered the right phrase. Indeed those forever badly blistered (and who is not?) by the passing of those held dear will always question whether their farewells struck the right bell.
It is never a question of easy answer, the doctor finds. Should you tell the truth and be damned? Or should you deal in platitudes, encouraging those who are incapable of recovering to hang on, often doubling and tripling their pain (for what?). Besides, facilities would be denied to others capable of getting better.
Your columnist was shaking through the article and at the end. But it seemed that if anything might prove useful, helping and convincing patients and their helpers towards reaching reasonably peaceful shores, it was Hospice.
The article is entitled: Letting Go; subtitle: What should medicine do when it can’t save your Life. Find both articles in The New Yorker, August 5, 2010, available on the internet.
It happens I have been intensely following a new disease in Uganda called parliamentitis. For “new†I mean the last two decades or so; but new diseases must be given time to be studied and classified before they enter the lexicon.
Here the most noticeable symptoms are when grown-up people rush like headless chickens to register themselves as candidates, mostly for Parliament, but also elsewhere.
The costs involved in running for parliament are so astronomical you wonder what the pot of honey is at the end.
If there are primaries necessary to choose persons to go forward to the nationals, a figure of eighty million Uganda shillings (approximately US$ 40,000) might be what you need to spend, with more than that again for the national elections.
Jumping Jehosophat!
How do you claw back such astounding sums? Cynics say become a Minister and be well on the way. But ministry expenditures are consistently cut right back to the bone, with any margins presumably disappearing.
Ministerial faces (in some cases five to a ministry) would surely show the bruises, but they don’t, of those Mighty as they scrambled for the spoils. It gets curiouser.
It seems many parliamentarians have never uttered a word in the House; when surely it would be to their advantage to be noticed and get advancement.
With all this up in the air, and parliamentarians’ mortgaged properties to raise election funds now being repossessed, what might become the honourable members’ mode of revenge?
Could it a la US lead to unceasing filibusters in order to bring governance to its knees? Will your columnist ever be forgiven for introducing such dangerous dynamite into our legislators’ minds?
Meantime news comes of the death of President Godfrey Binaisa. We shall return to this.
Nothing he said or did in his 90 years was because of spite or cruelty. Of how many Leaders can this be said? He was a peaceful and kindly man.
Rest in peace, Friend of Many.
SAY what you like about The New Yorker magazine (and plenty has been said either way; and plenty will be in the future) it gives its writers plenty of room to swing a cat, or even plenty of rope to take their own life. But there’s plenty of meat there too.
In 1965, in New York, my literary agent at Curtis Brown always promised to introduce me to its famous editor of the time, but although some editors came my way, and articles (and even, dear reader, poems) were delivered and published, The New Yorker stayed resolutely out of reach.
When Ambassador Johnny Carson (today the belatedly chief US boss for Africa) and his good wife were leaving their stint in Uganda, they left me with a boot-load of copies of the magazine.
A kind of indigestion suitably followed (and no wonder), but now I can always read much of the magazine at my leisure every week at the touch of a button and all is well with the world.
This week I read not one, but two, of its articles (total length 32 pages!) and I share here their important messages.
Some readers grumble I talk too much of foreign parts and not enough about us. It is not true, but I refer them to the title of the Column: One Man’s Week.
That means Me, Myself, and what happened accordingly; while hoping it strikes a chord with the readers.
The first article was The Empty Chamber, by George Packer, exploring relationships in the US between Democrats and Republicans, political foes, but both sent to the Senate to represent American Citizens.
In the past both sides mixed socially to better carry out their duties to the electors; this appears to be no longer the case, to the detriment of the country.
The filibuster is now more common, in which dissent is shown not by debate but by taking up inordinate time at the floor. Precious motions fail to be heard. In America, home of the free?!
The second article was on Hospice: on people dying. I know a thing or two about this, from the angle of being the one at the very edge, but equally at other times by being a watcher while dear ones approached their end. There are no rules.
Author, medical Dr Atul Gawende, explores whether those dealing with the dying ever mastered the right phrase. Indeed those forever badly blistered (and who is not?) by the passing of those held dear will always question whether their farewells struck the right bell.
It is never a question of easy answer, the doctor finds. Should you tell the truth and be damned? Or should you deal in platitudes, encouraging those who are incapable of recovering to hang on, often doubling and tripling their pain (for what?). Besides, facilities would be denied to others capable of getting better.
Your columnist was shaking through the article and at the end. But it seemed that if anything might prove useful, helping and convincing patients and their helpers towards reaching reasonably peaceful shores, it was Hospice.
The article is entitled: Letting Go; subtitle: What should medicine do when it can’t save your Life. Find both articles in The New Yorker, August 5, 2010, available on the internet.
It happens I have been intensely following a new disease in Uganda called parliamentitis. For “new†I mean the last two decades or so; but new diseases must be given time to be studied and classified before they enter the lexicon.
Here the most noticeable symptoms are when grown-up people rush like headless chickens to register themselves as candidates, mostly for Parliament, but also elsewhere.
The costs involved in running for parliament are so astronomical you wonder what the pot of honey is at the end.
If there are primaries necessary to choose persons to go forward to the nationals, a figure of eighty million Uganda shillings (approximately US$ 40,000) might be what you need to spend, with more than that again for the national elections.
Jumping Jehosophat!
How do you claw back such astounding sums? Cynics say become a Minister and be well on the way. But ministry expenditures are consistently cut right back to the bone, with any margins presumably disappearing.
Ministerial faces (in some cases five to a ministry) would surely show the bruises, but they don’t, of those Mighty as they scrambled for the spoils. It gets curiouser.
It seems many parliamentarians have never uttered a word in the House; when surely it would be to their advantage to be noticed and get advancement.
With all this up in the air, and parliamentarians’ mortgaged properties to raise election funds now being repossessed, what might become the honourable members’ mode of revenge?
Could it a la US lead to unceasing filibusters in order to bring governance to its knees? Will your columnist ever be forgiven for introducing such dangerous dynamite into our legislators’ minds?
Meantime news comes of the death of President Godfrey Binaisa. We shall return to this.
Nothing he said or did in his 90 years was because of spite or cruelty. Of how many Leaders can this be said? He was a peaceful and kindly man.
Rest in peace, Friend of Many.