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| Why George Bush Can't Communicate
Dr. David Dungan, teaching in my New Testament Studies class at UT Knoxville, years ago said something that has come back to me many times since; "Clear writing is a product of clear thinking."
We were trying to wade through a laborius book written in the Middle Ages by some very boring fellow named Eusebius of Caesaria, and somehow reduce his 500 pages of dry ramblings into an essay of a couple thousand words. (Man, I really miss college!) This particular history, I can't remember now whether it was the Ecclesastical or some other work of his (I should get credit for just staying awake in class, let alone remembering the guy's name), was the story of how the New Testament was put together, how and why some books were placed in the collection we have today, and others, though equally popular or inspired, were left out.
It's difficult enough just to follow such a story through all the plot twists and competing logical arguments. It's almost impossible to explain such a story to someone else, especially if you really didn't understand it yourself. Almost everyone in our class had to do some serious re-writing just to get a C.
When pundits criticize the president, this is one of their favourite themes - Mr. Bush doesn't understand the complexities of the situation. He can't really explain what's happening or why he's leading our country down a primrose path to tragedy, because he can't see the obvious. Irony, forshadowing, equivocation, doublespeak - so abundant in the Iraq War and the events leading up to it - these are concepts you study in a typical English Lit class at a good liberal arts university. Mr. Bush has never claimed to be a straight-A student - and he is adamantly not a liberal. He can't tell us what's happening for fear we'd find out he really doesn't know ('classified information' has become a euphemism for 'that would probably make me look bad').
This has become the common wisdom of the left ( does it bother you that most editorialists shorten this to 'CW'?). The president isn't smart enought to figure things out for himself, and Cheney, Rumsfeld, and the like, Cold War fantasies lurking in the deep recesses of their minds, manipulate him into taking us in the wrong direction. However, as more and more inside information becomes available lately - books by former members of staff, the publication of minutes and memos from meetings with British ministers, etc. - I'm beginning to wonder if the president isn't more sinister in his miguidance than we have previously given him credit for.
Perhaps there's another reason for the communication credibility gap;
"In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of the political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism., question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenseless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine-gunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification. Millions of peasants are robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called transfer of population or rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of unreliable elements. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, "I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so." Probably, therefore, he will say something like this:
While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be inclined to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable concomitant of transitional periods, and that the rigors which the Russian people have been called upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of concrete achievement.
The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism. A mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering up all the details. The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink. In our age there is no such thing as "keeping out of politics." All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia. When the general atmosphere is bad, language must suffer."
I'm beginning to see why Mr. Bush can't come out and tell us the truth about why he led us into the Iraq War, how we are fighting it, what's really happening behind the scenes; either a) it's impossible to defend the indefensible or b) his real arguements are simply too brutal, too Machiavellian for most of us.
Like the famous Saturday Night Live skit during the Reagan administration where Mr. Reagan plays the senile old fool to his friends and his public, morphing into a Iran-Contra mastermind when they leave the room - it's beginning to look like this president has a lot to hide.
Is he really the fool - or are we?
Whom did I quote? Some radical from the New York Times? You might be surprised by who said this - and when. Have a look at the entire essay here. I for one am surprised we aren't seeing more references to this writer. | | |
| Chinese New Year
When I was going to school at UT Knoxville, the biggest event of the year was a huge fireworks show called 'Boomsday' - the city spent millions of dollars on the display in order to draw tourists from all over the state and beyond; usually about a quarter of a million people would converge on the riverfront, beginning early in the afternoon. I worked as a waiter / bartender at a restaurant called Calhoun's, which boasted two large decks hanging out over the river, and was therefore a premier spot for viewing all the festivities.
While there were numerous other events during the day, the big event started about 9pm - a 20-minute long, choreographed to music fireworks show. Everything and everyone along the riverbanks came to a standstill when the show started, everyone mesmerized by the incredible pyromania launched from the bridges that span the Little Tennessee River.
At the time, I thought it was breathtaking - I grew up in small Ohio and Indiana towns, and none of the lame 4th of July shows from Greensburg to Akron came even close in comparision. Even the national fireworks display in DC didn't really top it, except for the fact of the impressive national monuments in the backdrop, instead of just Baptist Hospital and JFG coffee, across the river.
I really thought it was something else - until my first Chinese New Year in China.
I've lived in China for 3 years now, but had never been in-country for the new year; obviously that's holiday time for teachers, so trips to the States or down to Thailand to see my brother kept me abroad. This year, however, I'd visited the folks at Christmas and my brother is back in Virginia as well, so I found myself in Dalian for the festivities.
Even if you've been to Boomsday or something comparable, it's going to be hard for me to paint an accurate picture for you -- short of having combat experience, you've probably never experienced so much firepower.
First of all, forget about sprinklers and firecrackers -- weeks before the new year, every street corner is crowded with fireworks vendors, jam-packed with those 'dangerous' Class A varieties you'd have to have a license to buy at home. And they're so cheap it's almost ludicrous - I used to spend $50 to $100 back at home to put on a little 4th of July show of my own; but even then only impressed my little sisters. Here, even the poorest factory worker or farmer can get in on the show - and they do. ($100 dollars in China would probably buy enough C4 to make enough space for that new olympic-sized pool you wanted).
Next, even a grand display at home probably has 30 or 40 people handling the fireworks; imagine increasing that to - oh, say a couple of million. That's right - Dalian has a population of over 6 million people - even if only 10% got involved, over half a million people would be lighting up the night sky. A Chinese person firing up a bit for the new year is as common as an American watching Dick Clark.
Finally, unlike say Henley St. Bridge in Knoxville or the Washington Monument in DC, there is no 'center' to the show in a Chinese city - every street corner, park, parking lot, construction site, building top, etc. is a launch site.
It starts just before the sun goes down, around 5pm, but not with an odd one or two -- multiply the biggest show you've ever seen by at least 1000 in intensity. Although the sun is down, the streets are as bright as noonday. You can't talk to the person standing right next to you if you're outside. Rockets, explosions, what sounds like artillery shelling the hillsides, roman candles -- it's absolutely mind-boggling.
And it doesn't last for 20 minutes - it lasts for 8 hours! Standing on the rooftop, there's nothing but 360 degrees of explosions, far as the eye can see. Thousand of rooftops in every direction lit up by what must be millions of explosions. So much smoke is in the air that it seems the building below us must be on fire. An hour before midnight, it somehow becomes even more intense, so that we're yelling at the top of our lungs at each other. Charles, a Vietnam War vet, admits it's all a bit unnerving for him - flashbacks from a frightening time. This is how the TET offensive started, he yells.
We take to the street. Every car equipped with an alarm is sqwaking excitedly, red and amber lights flashing rhythmically. Smoke is as thick as fog on the ground, yet crowds of people are still laughing and firing away. The burnt red paper detritus of so many shells fills the street - every street - ankle deep, like autumn leaves lying in a country lane. Armies of street sweepers and dump trucks will spend the following week cleaning up.
You really just have to see it to believe it. 4th of July barbeques will never feel quite the same. | | |
| Another reason to feel guilty!
Ah! Another 90 days with no posts! No time to fill you in on the details now, but just a quick post to let you know I'm still alive and in China. Started Chinese lessons this week at Dalian University of Foreign Languages (DUFL or DaWai locally). 4 hours a day, 5 days a week, 18 weeks. Might be able to do a bit more than order noodles when the course is finished! | | |
| (Some of you wanted to see more photos of Cloud Ridge Caves, so I uploaded about 60 pics at http://asia.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/dahenson2/my_photos. They're taken directly off of my digital camera, unedited, so some of the files might be fairly large. Feel free to print any you like, but if you post them elsewhere on the 'net, please credit this blog. If you make any money from them (unlikely), I'll expect you to give half of the proceeds to one of my favourite charities.)
Datong to Pingyao
Exhausted after the day at the caves, so I sleep late, check out around noon. Train doesn't leave until 2:30, and the station is right across the street, so no rush. Find some of those wonderful steamed buns called baozi -- you can usually find them from breakfast thru lunchtime, sort of a poor man's dim sum. Much tastier - and cheaper - than the ones I had near the station. An hour at a 'net cafe, and it's time to catch the train.
I'm headed to Taiyuan, the capital of Shanxi province, where I'll have to spend the night before heading to Pingyao the next morning. Trip is about 6 hours long and costs only 4 bucks -- so I'm worried what it will look like. It arrives 20 minutes late and looks pretty worn, but it's not filled to capacity so I get a bench to myself - comfortable enough.
We head directly south, through the valley the Mongols would have passed through centuries before, and mountain ranges are visible to both the east and west of us (Shanxi means 'western mountains' - only about 30% of the province is flat). Most of the hills near the tracks seemed to be composed of loess, that chalky yellow soil so susceptible to wind erosion that great clouds of the stuff often diminish visibility in cities as far away as Tokyo and Seoul. It doesn't help that virtually every square inch of every hill is farmed - terraced fields have been carved out of the landscape, hundreds if not thousands of years old. A few trees here and there cling to patches of ground too vertical for cultivation.
Decidedly ugly are the industrial villages we pass through every half hour or so. These consist of gigantic smoke-belching factories, so huge they take up every square foot of available flatland. Miserable-looking 6-story tenements creep up the hills around the factories, their broad backs covered in soot. Mountains of coal, ten times a man's height, fill the common areas - everything in sight is some shade of black or grey, including the black clouds hanging overhead, connected by hundreds of sooty chimneys to the houses below. Depressing.
Night begins to fall, and a huge, rusty-coloured full moon rises in the east, making the villages we pass look like something out of a Tim Burton film. Finally, city lights appear - Taiyuan. I find a hotel near the station since I want to get to Pingyao early tomorrow, so I don't get to see much of the city. But it looks much more cosmopolitan than Datong - several new-looking hotels to choose from, and McDonald's golden arches glowing in the distance - a welcome sight after days and days of Chinese food.
This McDonald's shares a phenomenon I've experienced a number of times in China -- and for the life of me I can't figure out what's going on. On more than one occasion - different restaurants/shops, different cities - Kenny G's 'Forever in Love' plays on an endless loop! Not a Kenny G album, or a series of Muzak-like songs -- but one bloody song, looped over and over and over.
I've often heard that fast-food restaurants in the States choose music that subliminally encourage people to eat and move on, not linger. Perhaps they're on to something with this Kenny G tune. | | |
| On the Road - Cloud Ridge Caves
Hotel is comfy, but noisy, and as is the case for most 'hospitality' businesses in China, it seems to be run for the convenience of the staff. Yesterday, I looked around for the samovar - usually piping hot water for tea somewhere in every Chinese hotel. When I couldn't find it, I asked the matron - there's one posted on every floor of the hotel; her job is to lock and unlock your room and make sure you don't bring any 'extra guests' into your room - unless, of course, it's one of the hotel sponsored prostitutes. These girls just happen to know which rooms are occupied by single men, and call or drop by to offer 'massage' around 8 or 9 o'clock.
But I digress. The matron responded with 'jintian mei you' - no hot water today. When might I expect some hot water? She just shrugged her shoulders. This morning, 6am, someone banging and banging on the door until I got up to answer it. Matron motioned for the hot water thermos, and though I was irritated by the early morning disruption of my sleep, I looked forward to having hot water for coffee. Of course, the thermos was never returned.
After checking out of the hotel, brunching on steamed buns filled with pork, and buying a late ticket to my next destination, I wondered whether it would be worth my while to head out to the caves; too often, something billed as a major tourist attraction turns out to be a major tourist disappointment. I waffled back and forth so long that the minibus 'tours' that head out from the train station had already departed - meaning I'd have to sort of the public transport to get there. City bus to the western edge of the city was no problem, but the bus station that was supposed to be there turned out to be a major demolition zone - broken-down old buses competing for right-of-way with dozers and dumptrucks, passengers and filthy old guys with pickaxe in hand weaving in and out between all this - sheer pandemonium.
Half an hour of trying to sort things out, then finally found a bus heading the right direction. It's a bus only in the dictionary sense of the word - it has wheels, a driver, seats inside - but might be 40 years old. The seats were so grimy even the dirtiest locals wipe them off best they can before sitting down. A quarter of the windows were missing, and those remaining rattled noisily, held in only by duct tape. But what do you expect for 20 cents?
As the bus roars into motion, an ancient woman behind me munches an apple in such disgusting fashion that the noise of her mastication exceeds that of the muffler-less diesel engine and the rattling windows. I have a moment or two of relief when she's finally finished, until she starts belching. She manages to rip one off about every 20-30 seconds for the next five minutes. I'm not sure if I could kill someone with my bare hands, but a broad smile spreads across my face when I imagine throwing her off the bus. Thankfully, it's her stop, but I continue thinking about it and smiling for some time.
We pass some of the most polluted villages I've ever laid eyes on, huge belching smokestacks in their centers, mountains of coal piled up higher than the housetops. Bare granite-like mountains start to appear on the horizon, but they do little to improve the depressing aura. Occassionally the earthen remains of an ancient watchtower is visible just off the highway, jutting high above the mostly one-story hamlets.
I had asked the driver to let me know which stop was mine, but I needn't have bothered. Maybe a mile before we're there, we ascend to the top of a plateau, and Cloud Ridge becomes visible from the highway - and even at first sight, it's stunning. These caves were chosen over 1500 years ago as a holy place of worship for Buddhist monks and artisans. The interiors have been hollowed out and thousand of images carved into the rock - columns, arches, Buddhas, Matreiyas, and hosts of other images, both religious and historical.
The place has a real 'Indiana Jones' feel to it; I'm here off-season so there are only a handful of other tourist around, giving the grounds a lonely, exotic feel. Some of the caves look like temples at the entrance, with myriad carvings inside. Some of the older ones are non-descript on the outside, and you have to climb around a bit inside before you find the inner-sanctum, which dramatically and cleverly lit by hidden light shafts.
I wonder just how 'Chinese' this marvel is - the artisans that created this masterpiece came from west of here, from oases on the Silk Road or perhaps even from India. They are later than the Mogao caves in Dunhuang, and are probably inspired by them. And the political rulers who sponsored their creation were from the Norther Wei kingdom - a distinctively non-Chinese people who adopted Chinese customs only later after expansion eastward. And, unlike in Thailand or Sri Lanka, Buddhism plays no role whatsoever in the everyday life of modern Chinese people - there seems to be no connection at all between the serenity and devotion of these caves with today's China.
Nevertheless, they are stunning, and I'd have kicked myself repeatedly had I missed them. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so I'll stop writing and share a few.
 I had to go inside Cave 3 about 40 meters, duck through a narrow opening, and wander around a bit to come upon this sight -- really took my breath away.
 Caves 5 and 6 are by far the most impressive inside -- photos don't really demonstrate how awe-inspiring these interiors are, in both size and artistry.
This one really looks like something out of an Indiana Jones movie -- can't go inside but  some of the carvings just behind these stone pillars are the most colourful and elaborate examples.
 This is either the best preserved stone carving on site - or the most completely renovated. The larger figure on the left is around 15 meters high!
I took probably 60 photos while I was here -- really blown away. If you want to see more, let me know.
On the way to Pingyao next, which is supposed to be a completely extant medieval Han Chinese city - 8 hours away by train. Overnight in Taiyuan on the way. Hope to have some good pics - and even better stories in a couple days. | | |
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