schoutbynacht

I enkelte prosjekter innen radiologi har jeg fått et inntrykk av kulturforskjeller mellom Norge og andre land.

Nordmenn er gjennomgående lite innstilt på å jobbe med dårlige løsninger og har et veldig bevisst forhold til systemenes gode og dårlige sider. Og de sier fra! Er det annerledes i andre land?

Vi besøkte et svensk sykehus med en viss status, et universitetssykehus, som brukte et lignende system som det prosjektet jobbet med – og hadde problemer med å få akseptert. Svenskene var like klar over svakhetene, men valgte å leve med dem; de tilpasset også sin arbeidsmåte til systemet – selv om det ikke var optimalt. For nordmennene ville dette representert et steg tilbake i kvalitet – det satt langt inne å ta det steget.

Er Sverige et mer hierarkisk samfunn enn Norge? Ja. Ser vi spor av det her?

En radiolog refererte en samtale med en utenlandsk kollega, det var snakk om PACS. Hvorfor bruker dere dette systemet, som langt fra er verdensledende? Radiologen svarte: det var ikke vi som valgte, det gjorde ledelsen, og dette var det billigste.

Da er det heller ikke radiologens ansvar om arbeidet går sakte.

Radiologene er uten sammenligning de mest avanserte IT-brukerne på et sykehus. Deres eneste verktøy er PACS-et. Alt arbeid avhenger av dette verktøyet ( pluss en del spesialverktøy for bildebehandling ).

En annen gang innførte vi et PACS ved et norsk sykehus, og vi budsjetterte mange hundre timer til å utvikle automatiske hengeprotokoller. Disse effektiviserer arbeidet til radiologen og øker kvalitet og konsistens, og reduserer sjansen for feil: bildene henges opp/vises automatisk, likt for alle radiologer, og man slipper å slite seg ut for å forstå hva som er hva: først kommer forfra, så fra siden, eller først kommer pre-kontrast, så kontrast, så senfase, osv.

Eksperten som satte dette opp fløy vi inn – jeg spurte om hans erfaring fra Frankrike der PACSet var i bruk: “næ, vi satte opp en eller to enkle protokoller, så dro vi og lot radiologene finne ut av det”.

Et annet tilfelle – for ca 10 år siden – radiologiavdelingen i et flott sykehus i et høyteknologisk land. De hadde nettopp innført elektronisk RIS.
Norge var heldigitalt i 2005, dvs alle radiologiavdelinger var digitale, åtte år før dette igjen.

Norge ligger langt fremme.

I økonomier med høyt lønnsnivå lønner det seg med automatisering, og dermed utvikles automatisering og effektive systemer.

I samfunn med svake hierarkier og en egalitær kultur utvikler mennesker sin autonomi og tar ansvar for egen arbeidshverdag. De skylder ikke på ledelsen om ting går tregt “vi fikk dette møkkasystemet, men det er ikke vårt problem, det var de dumme sjefene”. Nei – man slåss for å få gode verktøy så man kan gjøre en god jobb. Yrkesstolthet.

Since I forget the procedure every year and the instruction booklet is wrong:

• Keep foot off brake
• Press start button twice. Systems are “on” but not in drive-mode.
• The yellow tyre warning light is flashing, most likely
• Search frantically for hidden button on steering column somewhere around your knees. It was the least accessible place in the car, that’s why it was chosen.
• Press minimum 3 times in quick succession. This apparently is the key. You have to be fast
• Yellow light should now flash slowly, and then do whatever, and after a while the light goes out
• done

Now wait until the next change of season and attendant change of tyres.

The “solution” reveals the poor systems integration of the Toyota. Clearly the tyre pressure monitoring system is a subsystem bought from a vendor. All Toyota does is connect one wire to the hidden button and one wire to the orange symbol on the dashboard, and who cares about the owner’s experience? (similarly, the parking sensors moan about being blocked by dirt/slush when you’re doing 90km/h )

This is one area where Tesla differs. In a Tesla, the central computer would have access to the TPMS and be able to deduce that ALL 4 sensors were not showing flat tyres, but new IDs, hence the tyres must have been changed…

The land of feast and famine

Some reflections upon reading “Pelsjegerliv” (https://lccn.loc.gov/32004499). The book was translated into English in 1993 with the title “The land of feast and famine”. ​​https://lccn.loc.gov/33027296

Helge Ingstad published the book in Norwegian in 1931, shortly after his return from a 4-year long stay in Canada’s North-East. It’s a riveting read.

The book is a chronological account of Ingstad’s experience, with a short chapter containing facts and reflections on the lives of the indigenous population, which Ingstad refers to as “indians” in line with the usage of the time.

For this reader, the book provided the thrill of wilderness adventures from the comfort of a cozy chair, slowly morphing into an elegy of a land, and its way of life, that was lost in the span of a few centuries.

The book is infused with a large dose of romantic feelings for nature. When the author has a full belly of reindeer – from all corners of the animal – and has lit his pipe in front of a fire of logs, and the stars are twinkling over the tundra – then he envies no man.

The life that Ingstad describes is physically extremely demanding, and it would have been impossible without the lojal and hard-working sled dogs. Ingstad’s devotion to these animals is palpable throughout. They are an integral part of the experience. At one point the dogs probably save his life (my translation):

Certain lead (sled) dogs find the way home under all sorts of conditions. Tiger turned out to be one of them. The first time I tried Tiger I was skeptical. Driving snow and darkness came upon me on the tundra, giving me the choice of digging into the snow or taking a chance on Tiger. I chose the latter. Hour after hour we raced along. I let the dogs carry on as they wanted whilst I lay there on the bottom of the “cariole” with my mittens protecting my face from the blizzard. It was so dark that I could only glimpse the dogs nearest to the sled. But Tiger had no doubts, keeping his course and a constant speed. At one point we ran into a flock of reindeer, and the pack turned after it; but a short command was enough to set Tiger back on course. Finally with a jolt the sled came to a standstill. I looked up – and there was my camp. “That was quite a dog”, I said to Tiger and patted him. But Tiger just looked at me with a superior demeanor as if to say “o, that was nothing for a sled dog like myself”,

The description Ingstad gives of the life of the First Nation people is unflinching and free from judgement from what I can tell. They lead a hard life at the mercy of mother Nature. If she sends reindeer, there is feasting. If the reindeer stay away, there is famine and sometimes death. Ingstad portrays a patriarchical society which is based around the nuclear family. The role of the man is to provide food, the rest is up to the women. Children have to work, and work hard, from an early age.

The erotic life of the First Nation runs like a subterranean river through the narrative. Infidelity takes place, and not infrequently. The young women are attractive, but “fade quickly” with the harsh conditions. The only time Ingstad seems to judge is when he describes the callous treatment of dogs by First Nation – presumably connected to their belief that dogs are “dirty”. He also describes their lack of planning and structure – saving for a rainy day is not in their culture.

The end is quite sad, and this reader suddenly realised that Ingstad’s trip took place in a world where “modern civilization” was already present. The numbers of wild animals and First Nation people had passed through centuries of decline.  The mining interests were steadily encroaching on the virgin lands. Reading up on the history of Canada you realise that the 1920s was late in time in the history of the First Nation. Their world already belonged to the past, and what Ingstad encountered were merely remnants of a large population.

Most telling of all, Ingstad arrives in Fort Resolution by paddle steamer and four years later  leaves by seaplane.

The book contains about 20 photos which make the book even more interesting.

Skøyern (Joker) to the right.

I årbok for Alta 1986 er det en artikkel om en bok av Mona Beichmann – “Forunderlige Finnmark”. Her beskrives Altagård og dennes hage, som ble grunnlagt av Nina Erichsen, kona til major Erichsen, og dermed kjent som “Majorskan”. På 30-tallet avtjente Nordahl Grieg sin verneplikt i Alta og ble husvenn på Altagård. Han skrev et dikt om Majorskan som kun ble publisert i Aftenposten i forbindelse med Nina Erichsens bortgang etter krigen – og dermed posthumt.

I vinterdagens stride blæst
Tungt går et tog av hest bak hest
med skiferstein fra heien.
Det skriker under meien.
Tidt er hvert snekorn skuret bort
og jorden skriker, hard og sort
og trætte hesteøine ser
hvor drygt det stykket er.

Så spændes muskel, hugges hov
mot frossen vei, i føyk og kov.

Da står der én og skuffer sne,
en nokså spinkel kar at se,
men sne blir slængt på veien,
og det blir tak for meien!
Det er majorskan, det.

Hun mildnet slitets bitre kamp
så mangen gang for rimgrå gamp,
men her er mer at gjøre!
Så hjem i klabbeføre.

Snart mildt og moderlig hun står
blandt dyrene på Altagaard.
Trygt ånder høns og ænder
i hennes gode hender.

En kylling syk? Hun bær den ind,
den lægges ømt, det stakkars skind
på sofaputens leie,
Majorskan bytter bleie.

Den kommer sig? Så får hun ut
i formiddagens storm og slut.
Hun vandrer efter skriket
inn til en barselpike.
Hun steller barnet, stråler smil
til jentens sukk og stønn og tvil.
Han er “privat”? Før er det skett,
Privat var han fra Nazareth.

Der kommer bud: Han far er død.
Majorskan går til værre nød,
ja, barselen får vike.
Nu skal hun vaske liket.

Snart er han stelt. Far fredfuldt hen!
Men trøst og kaffe er igjen.
Hun rydder kjøkkenbenken
og sætter seg hos enken.
Slik vandrer hun. Men ikke tro
hun nøies med at være god!

For hun er kongelig ved Gud,
et silkebluss, et strålebud
fra større land enn dalen.
Stolt sitter hun i salen.

Selv skjønn, alt skjønt er hennes venn!
Fort driver sommerdagen hen,
men stans og se hvor rik hun står
blandt blomstene på Altagaard.

Det bølger blåt, det gløder rødt,
det damper sol, det ånder søtt
av humlene som støier
blant asters og levkøier.
Svalt smiler erteblomsters bleke dryss
ved valmubægrets hete kyss;
langs solsikkbjergets gyldne rav
går kornblomstbølger – Middelhav!
Og blant chisanters regnbuskum
det flammer av chrysantemum ….
mot purpurfløil står bleke bluss,
begonia, konvulvulus!

Det er vår arme, arme muld
som bruser slik av blomsterguld.
Av haven her, mot viddens rand,
er skapt et større fædreland.
Ens hjerte banker gla og stolt.
Det har majorskan voldt.

———–

Nu blusser ingen blomster mer!
vi driver inn i høstens veir;
snart skriker under meien
den frosne, stride veien.

Snart kjæmpes blindt mot mørketid,
som aldri, aldrig skjænker grid, [ly, asyl]
og fattigslig gir lampen
sit bleke lys til kampen!

Det svartner til. Men se; en sol
kan også sitte i en stol! [slede]
Den suser kanske blank forbi
en beksvart vinterdag på ski!

For det er ikke himlens lys,
elektrisk lys
og tællelys [talglys]
og sånne lys som teller,
men lyset i et menskesind,
dets gyldn, varme stråleskin
er lyset som det gælder.

NORDAHL GRIEG

Ahmeds restaurant

Det er vel innlysende at selve mangelen på ting var noe som virket nytt på oss og derfor tiltrekkende, for vi kom fra et overfylt område i verden hvor men-neskene av klimatiske eller rastløshetsårsaker har funnet på maskiner til å gjøre arbeidet for seg, og disse maskinene har nå vunnet samfunnsherredømmet i en grad at menneskene nå må arbeide for dem: fremstille, selge, reparere maskinene, og konsumere deres produkter. Følgelig er vår verden fullstendig dominert av ting i alle mulige farger og utforminger. Her var det nesten ingen ting. Og de få tingene som fantes, var av samme type: Det fantes en slags lastebil, husene var overalt de samme kalkede betonghusene, maten var den samme, folk brukte de samme redskaper og klær. Og alle tingene var bleket av solen og betrukket med et lag mikroskopiske sandkorn, så deres opprinnelige farger var redusert til forskjellige nyanser av grå-gult.

Vi kom fra et sted hvor vannet drypper og renner konstant og hvor hver overflate er bebodd av en eller annen form for fuktig liv. Her er alt svidd og blåst bort. Planter og insekter har fortrukket fra de støvete gatene og kun ved kildene står noen frosne tørre daddelpalmer og henger.

Gatene var tomme, bortsett fra markedet, som ble etablert hver morgen og forsvant hver ettermiddag. Magre menn satt enkeltvis på sine tepper foran kurver: gryn, grønnsaker, diverse tingeltangel som de ikke gjorde noe forsøk på å selge. Kurvene ble trukket på vogner, av mennene selv. Det ble ikke sagt mye. Mennene satt langs en vei uten trafikk, i en rekke på hver side. Det var som om de sørget. Det var som om de sørget over en samfunnsordning som tvang dem til å tilbringe det meste av tilværelsen i selskap med an-dre menn. Men det ville nok være en grov tilsnikelse å tillegge dem slike tanker. De var kanskje ikke engang sørgmodige, kanskje var det bare begivenhetsløsheten i denne byen som hadde trengt helt inn i alle deres bevegelser og tanker, så de satt stivnede som fugleskremsler på markedet og så foran seg i støvet.

Den økonomiske betydningen av vareutvekslingen som fant sted her kan ikke ha vært annet enn mini-mal, funksjonen av handelen må ha vært rent ernæ-ringsmessig: Du får noen egg, til gjengjeld får jeg ap-pelsiner. Til å formalisere byttet vandret noen klissete sedler fra en lærpung til en annen. Men det gjorde ingen rikere eller fattigere.

Kaféer uten skilt, det var så stor byen var.
Et skilt var en overdrivelse og en overflødighet, bereg-net på fremmede som ikke fantes. Ahmeds restaurant hadde et skilt. Og vi leste det og gikk inn.

Etter at hans eldste søster var blitt gift og flyttet til nabobyen var han ansvarlig for sin mor, bestemor, tante og to yngre søstre, og restauranten som han had-de overtatt da faren døde, var det som skulle gi dem penger til å leve og samtidig holde farens minne i live. Ahmed burde ha nok å se til.

Hver morgen gikk Ahmed et par hundre meter til restauranten hvor han møtte sin ansatte, S., som vas-ket gulvet. Selv satte han vann over til te. Når S. var ferdig med gulvet, drakk de te, og utpå formiddagen sendte han den ansatte til markedet. Når S. kom tilbake med egg og mynteblader, drakk de mer te mens de holdt øye med gaten utenfor. Et par ganger i løpet av dagen gikk Ahmed ut i kjøkkenet hvor han rullet ut et lite teppe, la seg på knærne og bad. Den ansatte bad ikke. Han hentet egg hos mennene på markedet, rørte sammen egg og serverte dem for menn, som når det var helt ille, var de samme som han hadde kjøpt eggene av, og i mellom disse handlingene ventet han på det rette øyeblikk til å ta sitt eget liv.

Ikke fordi han var særlig kresen eller hadde planlagt et særlig drama. Tvert imot, det var likegyldig om det var
i morgen eller om et år. Det avgjørende var at det kom til å skje. Jeg har aldri før møtt et menneske som gikk og planla en slik begivenhet. Jeg ble straks redd for ham og unngikk hans selskap etter at han hadde fortalt det. At han fortalte det kan like gjerne være uttrykk for likegyldighet som en bønn om medfølelse eller hjelp. Eller det var kanskje bare hva han hadde å fortelle. Nå, hva har du for planer? Tja, jeg tenker vel i grunnen på å begå selvmord. Jaså, gjør du det, det var da voldsomt. Men hvis du ikke har annet å ta deg til.

Han var for øvrig på det rene med at det ikke ville være noen heltedød og at han ville havne i helvete for det. Ahmed var også klar over at det kunne bli en kortvarig ansettelse og var innstilt på å finne en avløser. Som betingelse for å beholde ham som arbeidskraft til det siste hadde Ahmed satt at selvmordet ikke skulle skje i restauranten eller på et offentlig sted hvor han selv eller andre ville kunne lide overlast.

Kanskje hadde S. innsett det som Ahmed var for oppslukt av sin oppgave til å fatte, men som hans far hadde fattet: at hans liv uansett ville forsvinne, i små biter ville det tørke opp og drysse av ham på vei mellom Ahmeds restaurant og markedet, mellom kjøkkenet og restaurantens bord, mens han bar på egg og omeletter, inntil han var borte.

Han var altså forberedt på å dø, i den forstand at han var uten vilje til å leve og uten nysgjerrighet overfor hva hans 24, 25, 26 osv. år kunne komme til å inne-holde av merkelige og spennende begivenheter. Det kunne kanskje få en til å tro at han var rolig og fattet den dagen, 8 år senere, hvor han fremdeles var i live, fordi han ennå ikke hadde funnet redskapet, stedet og anledningen til å få en definitiv slutt på sitt ansettelsesforhold i denne verden, da landsbyen fikk besøk av ”maskerte menn med sabler” som trakk ham ut av sengen og ut på veien, hvor han sammen med andre menn fikk halsen skåret over.

Men hans søster og mor, som sov i det samme huset som ham, kunne fortelle at det var han ikke. Han hadde vært minst like redselslagen som de øvrige drepte, og hadde kjempet vilt imot da de førte ham ut av huset.

Ahmed overlevde angrepet og var blant dem som begravde de myrdede. Han var lettet. Det hadde gått mange år, og hver dag hadde han tenkt – er det i dag? Det var mange dager han hadde tenkt det. Jeg svarer aldri på postkortene Ahmed sender meg hver jul. Jeg er redd for å forstyrre begivenhetsløsheten i denne lille byen. Er redd det kan få voldsomme og uventede følger.

I don’t have the time to write a complete review or resumé of this book.

Let me just write a few quotes, and link to a presentation with some tidbits from the book.

The main thrust of the book can be summarized thus:

• Attempts at measuring man (humans) is nothing new, but it’s pretty useless
• In the past it has mainly been used to show the superiority of white men over all other humans on the planet, and thus been used to justify everything from slavery to regressive social policies (The Bell Curve)
• Humans are more similar than different, and differences withing groups are generally larger than differences between groups
• You can’t really define groups in any meaningful way, so you might as well not bother
• The modern IQ measure is fairly useless, and says nothing about groups (caucasians, asians, etc)
• Racism is bad

Now for the link: https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1N_ZQYZOXTYWpDFhuAYIZdwT-ChMNAKh2pPMxwmidZ_0/edit#slide=id.p

And a quote by Charles Darwin:

“If the misery of our poor be casued not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin.”

“Those who look tenderly at the slave owner and with a cold heart at the slave, never seem to put themselves into the position of the latter; what a cheerless prospect, with not even a hope of change! Picture to yourself the chance, ever hanging over you, of your wife and your little children – those objects which nature urges even the slave to call his own – being torn from you and sold like beasts to the first bidder! And these deeds are done and palliated by men, who profess to love their neighbours as themselves, who believe in God, and pray that his Will be done on earth! It makes one’s blood boil, yet heart tremble, to think that we Englishmen and our American descendants, with their boastful cry of liberty, have been and are so guilty”

Here is the result of about two weeks’ worth of work.

The year is 1982 in the autumn and all the kids will spend two weeks working somewhere – school is out, it’s called “arbeidsuke”. We are supposed to gain experience from working somewhere. I have discussed working at the local COOP in Tromsø in the audio/video department. This is where they sell the Technics rack that I crave.

Then at the last moment there is a change. Maybe it was the Italian guy called Alessandro who had joined my class, and who had found a place at the Nordlysobservatoriet. He reeked of garlic most of the time, and I think he had curly hair, and he certainly struggled with Norwegian. Suddenly I found myself at the Nordlysobservatoriet in the electronics lab. 3 or 4 guys worked there, and electronics was my great passion, see Til minne om Stein Torp.

As I recall, already on day one I was allowed to play with creating a digital circuit on a Vero board (the one you see above). The integrated circuit was a four-bit counter, and I made it reset itself when it reached a certain value – 10, for instance. With a carry to a second counter it was beginning to look like a clock. Now it would count to 59, and when it hit 60 it would reset itself. This is achieved by using a few AND-gates to detect the number 60 and use the output to reset the counter. So, the value 60 is present at the outputs for a very short time. Not the most elegant solution, but it works.

What I remember, though, is the excitement of going to work every morning with the anticipation of working on my circuit. Piece by piece I added more counters to make a 24-hour clock. I then added a LED-driver integrated circuit which decodes BCD to a standard LED display, and wired it all together. The white ICs on the left contain 7 resistors used to drive the LED. Now I needed a clock pulse, and this comes from a crystal and a counter or two – the result is a 1 HZ signal. It took trial and error to stabilize the crystal, and if I remember correctly a small capacitor in parallel did the trick, probably shorting a higher harmonic to force the crystal to oscillate at its main frequency, the one stamped on the outside. I used a digital analyzer to inspect all the waveforms. Probably Hewlett Packard.

The final steps where a voltage regulator, a transformer, a bridge rectifier, a smoothing capacitor… the regulator IC was a quite expensive one.
The people in the mechanics lab helped me make a metal chassis, and the whole setup was finished before my two weeks were up. I added two push-to-make switches for setting the time.

One day I could not work on the circuit – we drove to the telescope station deep inside Troms, at Skibotn (see this link). That was quite interesting, but I don’ remember much!

The clock still runs all this years later, but I don’t use it anymore.

My late sister once said – “think about the number of really good steaks you eat during your lifetime. They can probably be counted on two hands”.

“So when you’ve eaten a steak you can ask yourself: was this a really really good steak?”

“Yes, it was. Unfortunately”

From “A land with a people”, Monthly Review Press, 2021.

Tzvia Thier

“I was born in Romania during the Second World War. When I was six. in the wake of the Holocaust, my family immigrated to Israel. There, I grew up in Tel Aviv, spent years in a kibbutz, and was part of a “socialist Zionist” youth movement called HaShomer HaTzair. While serving in the army, I volunteered to teach in the Negev, mainly immigrants from North Africa. I continued as a teacher and a principal until I moved to the United States, where I taught at a Jewish day school and created curricula for Jewish and Zionist organisations. In 1995, I moved back to Israel and lived in Jerusalem. I was a liberal Zionist and felt strongly connected to Israel. I believed that Israel should withdraw from the Occupied Territories and blamed the settlements and the settlers for the occupation. I was against wars, racism and discrimination, and felt that I had good values. I did not know that I lived behind an invisible wall. I did not know how much I did not know.”

..

(as a child) We had bible studies three to five hours a week in the second through twelfth grades. The Bible was used as a historical document that gave us, the Jewish people, the right to live in the promised land. In other words, a secular society was using a great collection of ancient writings, putting God in the position of real estate agent.

We learned how the Holocaust survivors came to rebuild their lives in Israel. The fact that the Europeans had commited these horrible crimes, yet the indigenous in Palestine were the ones paying for them, did not cross my mind. Arabs were described as primitive cowards who took off their shoes and ran away. Or they were described as cruel people, hosting you nicely, but when you turn to leave, stabbing you in the back. We were told only the Zionist narrative, as expressed in Israeli literature, poetry, songs history and ceremonies. That is, only the Askhenazi Israeli narrative. The expulsion of some 750.000 Palestinians, and over four hundred villages that were razed to the ground and replaced by Jewish towns, villages and kibbutzim, or by JNF forests and parks, were not part of the story. I learned that, in the struggle over Palestine, my enemies were Arabs and the British, I belonged to a particular society, and I knew who I was. It was my identity.

…

Through most of my life, I did not have any contact with Palestinians, not one friend, acquaintance, or neighbor. The Palestinians were on the dark side of the moon. I never went to Arab towns, definitely not to the West Bank or Gaza (before the blockade). Sometimes, while driving to the north, I would stop at one of the Arab restaurants located along the roads to eat some good Arabic food. I lived in Jerusale, the “united Jerusalem”, where 40 percent are Palestinians (residents, not citizens). I never went to Occupied East Jerusalem. I saw Palestinians cleaning the streets, planting flowers to beautify my city, working on building construction, carrying products in the supermarkets, and washing dishes in the restaurants, but I really did not see them.

..

(Sheikh Jarrah, 2009): And.. I was afraid. My daugther, Daphna, insisted on going there. I joined her. I had to protect her. Together, we found Sheikh Jarrah. This was the first time in my life – at the age of 65, after living in Israel for 59 years – that I had a conversation with Palestinians! I realized that it was not my daughter who needed protection, but the Palestinians. My journey had begun. Sheikh Jarrah was my doorway to end the fear. I joined the weekly protests on Friday afternoons, where I met Palestinians and Jewish-Israeli activists. It was then that I started my inquiry. I wanted to see, I wanted to know. My first tour was with the left advocacy group Ir Amim, to East Jerusalem. I was shocked. It is a third-world city. In this “united Jerusalem”, the Palestinian neigborhoods don´t look like the Jerusalem in which I lived. We were driving on narrow, bumpy, unpaved roads with no sidewalks. The schools we saw were very poor and inadequately staffed and resourced. There were no playgrounds, and the piled-up garbage was rarely collected.

(the author also joins Machsom Watch, a group that monitors soldiers and police at checkpoints – “the Palestinians are .. processed like a herd of animals” – and visits Hebron: “I felt anger, shame, sadness and pain”.)

It has been hard work to examine my own mind. Many questions leave me wondering how I could have not thought about them before. My solid identity was shaken and then broken. I have been an eyewitness to the systematic oppression, humiliation, racism, cruelty, and hatred by “my people” toward the “others”. And what you finally see, you can no longer unsee.”

Photos by Asus Zenfone 8.

It was lovely to be there. As so often before. The particular smell of the Metro was filtered out by the face masks, and I missed it. Echoes of Covid 19, together with the need to book museums up front. Though in fact it wasn’t an absolute requirement.

We stayed in an airBnB – actually LivinParis, would’ve been cheaper – in Rue de l’Echiquier, close to Porte St Denis and the Bonne Nouvelle Metro. Up a crumbling staircase with wires hanging out, and inside it was brand new and very comfy for 9 people. The rest of the house inhabitated by ordinary residents.

And the weather was magnifique, and the people of Paris were friendly! Maybe tourist fatigue hadn’t set in yet. I talked to a cop, shopkeepers, security guards, taxi-drivers, waiters, Metro-staff and museum staff in my decent French, and everyone was friendly, patient and forthcoming.

We did the sights, and they delivered. I missed Notre Dame. Sitting in that cathedral it’s easy to feel humble. We will be back.

@Louvre the Victory from Samotrace always talks to me.

Mona Lisa is more of a study in sociology than a study in art; how do humans behave in front of a famous piece of art? The description of the painting, how it came about, that it´ s unfinished, was more interesting! And so was reading about the impressionists at Musée d´Orsay and seeing the contrast with what was then comme il faut – huge paintings of past heroics. Did the impressionists use the camera?

I hadn’t noticed “Camille sur son lit de mort” by Claude Monet before. Look it up on the 5th floor at the M’O. Haunting.

Sacre Coeur. I sat there a rainy December evening many years ago with a Parisian girl who was mourning the recent loss of her grandmother. The aisles were sparsely filled with people past their first youth voicelessly mouthing their prayers. Very different to rushing in and out with the tourist crowds on a sunny October day.

Catacombs. La tour Eiffel. Walking along the Seine, and the hop-on-hop-off bus. Awful coffee. Lovely pain au chocolat and more awful coffee. Great falafel in Le Marais. Mediocre Boeuf Bourgignon in Le Marais – but great wine, again from Burgundy (“Bourgignon”).

I did a short pilgrimage to Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. Talked to a French couple in their early 70-ies and strolled around the small, unusual park. Visitez-le!

The monuments, the avenues, or should I say Boulevards. The stolen art. This is the capital of an Empire, built by Napoleon III and Eugène Haussmann. Napoleon also oversaw a major colonial expansion – Vietnam, Cambodia, and islands in the pacific. How much of Paris´ splendour was financed by this?

Around the corner from our flat, Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis. Streetside cafés, cigarette smoke, beer and beggars. The one who accosts me hardly speaks any French, but great English. He’s from India. The next day in a neat, clean well-stocked small supermarket the lady at the counter hardly speaks any French, but some English. She’s from Colombo, Sri Lanka. “Paris no belle ville”. She longs for Colombo.

I suppose that’s how it’s supposed to be. The ugly and the beautiful side by side. But you got to hand it to the French – when it comes to taking care of the patrimoine culturel, they are up there with the best.

“Paris vaut bien une messe” still rings true.