4 – 7 – 8 Breathing Method

Dear readers,

A few years ago, I attended a training course on how to handle emotions and anxieties in stressful work situations. At the time, I was working with refugees, and while I enjoyed the role, it could be very intense.

Throughout my life, I’ve often heard about how to breathe properly, and how most humanoids struggle with it, which brings about issues related to stress. We don’t breathe deep enough, especially in pressing situations or when exercising, which leaves us out of breath or make poor decisions. Some people have told me how to breathe into the diaphragm, or through nose, or in taekwondo to take quick short breathes through the mouth, all of which I have tried but it doesn’t quite work for whatever reason. There’s also types of yoga breathing which includes holding a nostril, which often just leaves me frustrated rather than the tranquil state it’s intended for.

So, in this training I took, I was taught the 4 – 7 – 8 method – also known as the relaxing breath, which was either created or advocated by Doctor Andrew Weil. Due to pressures of work, I have found myself revisiting this technique, which really helps refocus and return to the here and now, and often helps send me off to sleep if I’m struggling to rest. It is simpler, less time-consuming and less intense than Wim Hof’s method, which I also like, but usually on Sunday afternoon. But like Hof’s method, the 4 – 7 – 8 trick can leave you in a pleasant altered state, and on a couple of occasions, it’s left me a little faint, so don’t do this if you’re handling machinery or driving etc. Also, it helps distract your mind if you suffer from bad habits or addictions. My own personal habit is nail-biting, so when I find myself triggered, this 5 minute exercise breaks my thought.

The method

It’s not hard. It includes just three steps.

1. You breathe in through your nose for 4 seconds.

2. You hold that breath for 7 seconds.

3. You then release it through your mouth by making a whooshing sound for 8 seconds.

You then repeat it four times. Just see how you feel after. To see an example, visit this YouTube video to see Dr. Weil talking about it himself.

Love in a Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez

Dear readers,

This is probably one of the most inappropriate books to read in these times, but it has been sitting on my shelf ever since I bought it while working at Books Etc in Solihull (an area just south east of Birmingham, UK, for those not in the know) between 2001 and 2003. Since then, Books Etc has gone bust, and this book has followed me to Preston (north-west of England) and to Honduras, and now I’ve finally got round to reading it. It’s become a bit dog-earred being a paperback, but I’m getting through it, after putting it off after all these years.

So why did I put it off? Well, to be honest, I am not a huge Gabriel García Márquez fan. My wife glares at me whenever I say it. I have written about this previously on my blog, as well as my thoughts on magic realism, a genre which is said to come from Colombia. I have read a few of his books but they just irritated and bored me, with his long-winding paragraphs that seemed directionless and meaningless. A prime example is One Hundred Years of Solitude, which when I publicly announced my dislike for the book on social media, many women were flabbergasted, shocked and felt my words were blasphemous, claiming “I know nothing about literature” and “I have little or no romance or imagination.” Men, on the other hand, said, “Yeah, it’s not all that.” A novel, it seems, that divides the opinion between the genders. I read an English version, and many native Spanish speakers have since told me that a lot of the poetics and flow of the book could have been lost in translation. But still to this day, I remember the overwhelming feeling when I reached the end that I didn’t give a damn about the Buendía family nor the events in the fictional Colombian town of Macondo. I felt cheated.

For this reason, I kept Love in a Time of Cholera on my shelf collecting dust; I didn’t want to trudge through another 350-page bore. But then, around May last year I picked it up in the middle of a strict COVID quarantine which had demobilized most of Honduras and unable to leave the home at weekends, and I gave Gabo one more chance to prove me wrong. Again, it’s an English version, translated by Edith Grossman. I began reading it in tiny chunks, a couple of paragraphs a week, but I kept pushing it to the back of my reading priorities (I always read three or four books at any one time) so my reading flow became a little disjointed, but I was still kind of enjoying it. Then, after reading something else for a few months, I picked up yet again around two weeks ago. And guess what? ¡Me encanta! And I’ve not even finished reading it.

What is it that I love? There are a fair few things, but I guess the greatest factor is that it meets my expectation of what a tragic love story is supposed to be. It has weaving storylines and details about the pain and emotional longing and suspense that make you actually care for the main male character, Florentino Ariza, and his his life journey. It contains beautiful description of carnal relations and the confusion of life when love doesn’t turn out the way you want, which I think we’ve all experienced at some stage of our lives. But I don’t want to talk too much about the plot, fearing that I shall leave spoilers. There is also a quirky humor that resonates throughout the narrative, sometimes through the social norms and traditions in a conservative era of Colombia, especially the character of Fermina Daza’s father, mixed with the chaos of the plague and sex and morality. It throws a lot at you but in a less of a “magic realism” kind-of-way, and more of a traditional narrative, while being original at the same time.

As stated, I haven’t finished yet. I have read 188 of 348 pages and I have reached the character Leona Cassiani, who I don’t want to talk too much about to create spoilers, but I will say she has a strong, street-wise character, very colorful, which I see in many women in Honduras. I also feel brings much relief to Florentino, for a few pages at least anyway.

In fact, I was so inspired by the book and Leona that I went out today and bought some acrylic paints to try and give my artistic impression of the character. I don’t know why, but I just needed to create something based on this character. I think it was also that I saw an episode of Modern Family where Mitch takes up painting as a way to relax while looking for a new job (in a very loose link to a common theme in this post, that being Colombia, the show also stars Colombian actress Sofia Vergara, if that counts for anything). Painting is hobby I too have taken up during COVID, just to give me stimulus and an escapism from the stresses of work, something just for me. I began with watercolors, but I grew bored of the calm textures and, as stated above, I bought some acrylic paints to give a bit more ompf to the canvas. Yes, I realise, this is not the technical language that professional artists use, and I have the skills and abilities of a 4-year-old child. I’ve never painted with acrylics before, let alone had a class or seen any YouTube videos to get advice. So it was a liberating experience to just try with an innocent mind. However, I have drawing ability of a child below 4-years-old, so my hopes to portray Leona faded very quickly, being a black woman with beautiful, colorful clothes and styles. So, I just decided to start drawing the eyes, then a nose, then the outline of the face, but my choice of colors was poor. I wanted a lighter shade a brown to reflect the skin, but it came out more of a darker yellow. So I decided to lower my ambitions, and draw a bald head rather than paint hair. But by the end, I felt that I had painted a Minion that was on a psychedelic trip; the eyes look a little too diluted to enable it to appear in a Despicable Me movie.

My wife has said she would like it framed, which is nice, but I fear people might come to the house and see it and say, “What a beautiful painting by your child!” Suffice to say, if Gabo wasn’t already rolling in his grave after I wrote my critique of One Hundred Years of Solitude, he shall surely be now – after I turned one of his characters into a Minion!

I know that this post is a little less about Honduras. But I shall try to keep you up-to-date on my progress of Love in a Time of Cholera.

So Why the Name “Catracho”?

Dear readers,

Through all the years of living in Honduras and writing this blog, I don’t think I have ever written about where the name Catracho comes from. Hondurans call themselves and are known as Los Catrachos, but what does it mean? I should know; after all, I am married to a Catracha and it bears in the name of the blog.

I was actually reminded recently of the story by a friend and colleague from Nicaragua, as it seems the Nicaraguans actually coined the name for their dear neighbours.

The term began to be used in the mid-19th century when the Honduran General Florencio Xatruch returned to Nicaragua with his Honduran and El Salvadoran soldiers after defeating a troop of US freebooters led by William Walker, whose grave I saw in Trujillo, which has “fusilado” – meaning “shot” – famously written on the headstone. William Walker had sought to re-establish slavery and take over of Central America, although Nicaraguans, Hondurans and Salvadorans had other ideas.
As Xatruch and his comrades returned, Nicaraguans would yell Aquí vienen los xatruches – roughly translating to “Here come Xatruch’s men!” It seems, rather amusingly I must add, Nicaraguans had great problems pronouncing the Catalan name los xatruches that they altered it to los catruches, and settled on los catrachos.

Florencio Xatruch

So there we have it. Hondurans have the Nicaraguans to thank for bolstering their national pride.

Xatruch eventually died in Managua, Nicaragua, long after bringing an end to Walker’s attempted coup, although he was born and raised in San Antonio de Oriente, an old, picturesque mining town not too far from Tegucigalpa. I have never been, but it’s now on my bucket list.

Return to a Different Kind of Reality

Dear readers,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, especially in a truly open sphere. Of course, emails and editing for work for my job at Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos International, where I am the Communications Manager. I love my job, especially reading and editing the stories of children and adolescents who have come through extremely complex and at-risk situations to arrive at one of our nine homes in Latin America and the Caribbean. Of course, living in Honduras for over 10 years, the same age of this blog, and as you can see from the name of this blog, I am a little more connected to the land of Catrachos.

I don’t call myself an adopted Catracho. I can assure you, Hondurans would raise their eyebrows if I suggest such a thing. I sometimes joke that I am from Santa Barbara on the account of my white skin; apparently this department of the country is known for its “cheles”. As a cheeky joke, I would tell taxi drivers in Tegucigalpa that I am from Santa Barbara when I was haggling fares. Looking like an “innocent gringo” encourages drivers to bump up the cost, and who can blame them. They would look at me confused or just laugh, noting my blond hair, blue eyes and dodgy accent and say “pura paja” – a big, fat lie. Friends and family still joke about it though, often calling me “el primo de Santa Barbara”.

My job has made me fall in love with Latin America again, as these days my job needs me to be aware of different political events, climate crises and social issues across the region. Suffice to say, I don’t love Latin America because of the aforementioned issues/flaws, but more for my curiosity and forever winding journey to comprehend the people and life here, and all the colours, spices and tastes that come with it. I especially love the inconsistencies of the culture, being so open and liberal, but often so conservative and traditional as well; being so macho and valiant, yet so sweet and sensitive. Maybe you can see this every corner of the world, but I feel it more intensely in Latin America.

For the past year, like everyone else I have isolated myself the best I can to help stop this spread of COVID-19. I know people who have lost family members and friends and colleagues, and many more who have lost their jobs, and it pains me to see people suffering. It’s a destructive anguish, almost like survivor’s guilt, that crushes my spirit. And I feel so helpless to support others, while health workers continue to risk their lives as the vaccines slowly roll out. My job is remote work, so even before the quarantine gripped hold of Honduras, I was quite accustomed to meeting people virtually, and despite being relatively friendly, my introverted self adapted fairly well to the situation. The main thing I have missed is feeling less connected to nature, and the inability to travel to other countries for work and leisure. But I can easily sacrifice this to ensure the safety of others.

However, today, it hit me. I had to go to the NPH Honduras home, some 36 km outside Tegucigalpa, a beautiful ranch full of pine trees and wildlife, but more than anything, a united community of children and dedicated staff. Because of my heavy workload and the need to social distance, I couldn’t socialize with colleagues as much as I would have liked. But still, working with staff who are also good friends felt so wonderful and novel, yet so emotional at the same time. After communicating with them virtually for the past year, I enjoyed being close and chatting with them, while also realizing how this virus has taken a year out of our lives, being away from people you care about. The children more or less recognised me. A year is a long time for them; that can’t be understated. They were sweet and asked me how I was, although I could tell the lack of touch and embrace was difficult for them. It was difficult for me too. I know people have lost so much more, but it still left me moved. It has been a long year.

What is strange is that I was almost boasting proudly about how well I was coping to the lockdowns to my wife just a night or so before. I had kind of convinced myself that I was invincible, that the quarantine hadn’t impacted me too much. But I suppose in an altered state or deeper conscious kind of way, I am pleased that today smashed that ego to pieces, and I am vulnerable to emotion just like everyone else. And proud to admit it too.

Nonetheless, I want to end this post on a positive note. Even though I first came aware of NPH 10 years ago while working with Casa Alianza, my first real venture into the NPH family began three years ago, almost to the day, when I worked in the projects department. I remember that one of the girls, who at the time was about 10 or 11, enjoyed practicing English with me. She was learning about positions and directions in class, so I played a little game to help her remember which I used to play at school when I was young and involves holding your hand out for your friend to gently pat/slap it.

So there we were, this animated young girl and I, sitting on a low wall outside her home.

“Give me five.”

Pat.

“On the side.”

Pat.

“Up above.”

Pat.

“Down below.”

Move hand out the way so she misses.

“Sorry, you’re too slow.”

Cue bursts of laughter.

She made me play this game with her for over a year, getting her friends and caregivers involved, and it spread like a wildfire among the girls, laughing hysterically as I moved my hand out the way.

You may have guessed it, but I saw this young lady today at lunch, three years older, smiling, happy, full of energy and again she wanted to play, yet this time she wanted to be the one that moved her hand out the way.

And she remembered every word. But before we parted and elbow bumped, she said, “Siempre te recuerdo, Nico.” – I always remember you, Nico.

And that made it all worth it.

Midnight Poem

Dear readers,

It’s been a while since I have written for fun. I’ve missed it. Work has engulfed me. I’m enjoying it, working for NPH. I’ve been lucky up to now with COVID-19. I don’t know anyone who has passed away from it. But I know people who have lost their jobs or businesses. Like for everyone, it’s pained me to see it. To see people suffering, even more so with the floods in the north caused by Eta.

I pray from time-to-time. It’s like a meditation, speaking to the being from above. I suppose this poem is going to be something of a meditation.

Here it goes.

Midnight Poem

The cool breezes, levering off the tired airs into the dark holes that the night brings.
They envelope our pains and frustrations and joys and muses, lodging them into our memories.
The birds roost and the snores whisper the dreams that creep from our imaginations.
Broken hearts shed tears on damp pillows, missing nights when those damp pillows muffled delights delivered by lovers.
Others think of suicide, others of new beginnings, while the stressed knock back and forth in dark corners.
The lanterns are the moon and stars; the galaxies enlighten our paths;
The shadows shouldn’t evoke fears, only bravery ready for tomorrow’s unknowns.
So enjoy the white noise and calm airs of a quiet midnight, and let yesterday go.

COVID-19 Lock-down Life

It’s a strange time throughout the entire world. You’ve heard it all before. I don’t want my first two sentences make you think that I care not for the severity of the situation, especially for those who have lost loved ones and employment. But you, like me, are probably a bit weary of being at home so much.

I’m beginning to detest Netflix. My job is remote, which I have held since July last year, so I am well-accustomed to working from home. However, being in front of a computer screen all day and then shifting a few metres to the TV isn’t great for my flexibility and mentality. I’m reading four books at once. I’m doing a reiki course. I’m trying to plant the seeds of fruit and vegetables I eat. I’m learning to play the guitar. I (sometimes) do yoga. I keep in contact with family and friends. Nothing out the norm, I think. But I feel exhausted by the news, monitoring both UK and Honduras, while Trump likes to stick the US in my news agenda, as he does with everyone else’s, especially when suggesting to his compariots that they inject disinfectant.

Lockdown seems to be easing in many countries in Europe, as well as the US. Honduras seems to be getting tighter with restrictions. I daresay, the country was pretty quick with implementing restrictions and, on the most part, people have respected those rules, probably more so than the UK. The authorities and nation no doubt knew that implementing and obeying such restrictions was necessary as the health system was already very weak.

While initially agreeing with these restrictions, especially as there was no nonsense or wishwashiness as with the British government, there were concerns about how much of the population would survive. You see, as with a few countries in Latin America, the day we can leave our house and visit the shops and banks etc depends on the last digit of your ID card number. To begin with, it was two numbers per day. My day was Friday in the week. Then it changed to one number a day, meaning we can leave the house pretty much every nine working days (no one is designated is designated to leave at weekends). My new day is Thursday. Magic Thursday. Liberal Thursday, or in Spanish, libre jueves.

For me, it’s okay. I have nice wage. I’m extremely lucky. One of the fortunate ones. I can shop at the supermarkets and pharmacies. I can stock up for a couple of weeks. Supermarkets aren’t cheap for me, mind. Approximately 65% of the country live in poverty, much of which have informal jobs, selling in the street or agricultural work which is not forbidden in lockdown. They live on a day-to-day basis, with no economic resources to stock up for a week or two. The military have closed the markets, and supermarkets such as La Colonia is out the question. Of course, they can get stuff from the pulperia convenience stores, but the government is doing little to support the most desperate, and it forces people to break curfew and often work illegally and risk being caught and detained for the day. There has been looting in some parts of the country, as well as road blocks with people demanding a 20 Lempira fee to pass.

It’s worrying, and saddening. It could be worse next week if they close off the Francisco Morazan state, where I am based, due to the growing number of COVID-19 cases. We wait to hear the news – la cadena – the official announcement from the government. It’s bizarre for a foreigner here, like something from North Korea, where all the channels and radio stations have their programmes interrupted. There’s usually a fella named Francis Contreras, with big scary eyes, tells us the number of cases across the country, as well as a snippet of official advice – more clear and concise than anything Boris Johnson or Donald Trump can muster – and he’s become something of a household name, and for some, a bit of a sex symbol (it’s those piercing eyes – see the image below). Sometimes someone from the military speaks, sometimes President Juan Orlando Hernandez himself. Nonetheless, we await today’s news and what will be the situation next week.

Francis Contreras – Honduran COVID sex God

I don’t want to be all doom and gloom though. I try to laugh at my own silly irony plight of COVID-19 lockdown. One of which is the fact that I live in a truly beautiful country, with majestic mountains, lush forests and breathtaking beaches, but now I just feel excited to go to a supermarket. It’s pathetic, but I have never been so grateful for the selection. I have recently found a Honduran version of Shreddies. Sad though it is, I have spent the best part of decade hoping for find this cereal. It may have always been there. Maybe the zen spirits have opened my eyes a little wider and I embracing all the little things in life. It’s a happy moment nonetheless. Although I can’t wait until the end of COVID-19 and I can return to shopping in the markets. I rather spend my money on food where the everyday man profits – they need it more – rather than another supermarket chain.

Honduran version of Shreddies – happy moments

I wish everyone reading this that they are well, as well as their families. I am concluding this blog post with the below image. The photo is of Uyuca, the highest point in the state. I tried to climb it almost 10 years ago with Daniel Padgett when I spent a my first few months of my time in Honduras in the town Tatumbla, a village to the East of Tegucigalpa. We almost reached the top but mites and mosquitoes sucked the blood and will out of me. We also didn’t go up a set path – silly of us really. But I loved it; a memorable adventure. I promise myself that I will climb it though. It was a resolution at the start of the year with Vicente, our dog. I hope it is still possible.

(Although this time I shall taking a set path!)

Honduras Behind the Colors (An Artist’s Journey) Volume One by Guillermo Yuscarán – Review

Dear readers,

This is my first blog entry of 2020. My last post was more than six months ago. I’m writing this in a different world to the one when I last wrote. I turned 40 for one. And I struggled to accept it. Yet that challenge is nada to the one the world has right now with COVID-19, then the pending recession…

I will share my thoughts about coronavirus another time. I don’t know what I can add that you don’t already know. Maybe a comparison between UK and Honduras and how the two countries have reacted? Do you really want to know? I’m already feeling burnt out by the news flashes of the constantly increasing death toll, new lock down measures and lack of preparedness of some government, amongst other worries. Rather pathetic of me really. Those who should be burnt out are the medics and nurses on the front line and other emergency services. But I know some of you reading this probably feel the same.

While in lock-down, I’ve been reading the book Honduras Behind the Colors (An Artist’s Journey) Volume One by Guillermo Yuscarán. I’m not the fastest reader, something I really dislike about myself as there are several hundred books waiting on a collapsing few book shelves.
This is the third or fourth book I’ve read of his. Coming to think of it, since arriving in Honduras almost a decade ago, I don’t think there’s another author I’ve read more during that time. I’ve a few of his prints in postcard format framed around my house too, pink and blue exotic birds, which I picked up in Santa Lucia where I believe he resides and also has a library named after him which I’ve visited frequently.
I’ve written about him before. His real name is William Lewis. I guess I’m a fan. It’s nice reading the thoughts of a fellow foreigner who is immersed in the country and culture I feel part of. He’s like a friend, strangely. He notices similar things about the country as myself and admires the sense of humour and character of the people. I’ve never had the chance to meet him as of yet. I’d like to think we’d get on quite well. I also recommend Hondurans to read his books, especially those who want to improve their English and are curious about what foreigners feel about your culture.

The last book I read by Guillermo was “Beyond Honduras“, a small anthology of tales from northern Honduras which my father described “a lot of fucking and fighting” having read the book a few days before me. Yes, there are some stories featuring sexual reproduction and scrimmaging, but I also enjoyed reading about Tela and other coastal towns I’ve visited, especially as I read that book when visiting Trujillo.

This book also contains “fucking and fighting“, if you’re into that, and please don’t get the wrong idea of the author or Hondurans, but as you can guess from the title, this is more autobiographical, charting Guillermo’s early beginnings in California and moments in Mexico, but more so, his early days in Honduras during the 1970s, working in the American School and living in Reparto in Tegucigalpa. The capital city was a different city then. Obviously less developed, but maybe with less problems with street gangs or narcos, not that this summarises Tegucigalpa as a whole; it does have its charms, but the Tegus that Guillermo writes about feels like a gentler version to the one I live in today.

He tells stories well and keeps you hooked with a matey-tone. He has charm, which echoes throughout all his stories. His biography is no different. I liked the adventures with his crazy companion Toño and reading of his wife Susan’s frustrations of certain living conditions. I could relate to both, as I have met a few Toños in my time in Honduras, and obviously feeling frustrated from time to time when acclimatizing to the culture.

I enjoyed getting to know the writer as one does in a biography. He is honest, as one should be, but I was somewhat surprised by the writer’s behaviour, which made him seem a little egocentric at times. While I comprehend his love of travel and pursuit of creating art, I found it peculiar how he left his wife to raise his child, showing only touches of remorse only later in the book. Some may salute such devolution to art that they would choose to miss seeing their children grow up. Sure, I’m simplifying it somewhat, but I couldn’t help but feel a little saddened by it. Nonetheless, I admired his honesty, and this really balances him, showing flaws as well as talent, the many complexities that shape a human.

There was a lot written about his dreams and how they inspired his work. I thought it was interesting the first couple of times. Then, frankly, I was a bit bored by them. I don’t know about you, but I care little for someone else’s dreams and visions.. They’re absurd. I get it. My own dreams are too. I don’t feel the need to tell people about them. I might sketch them or craft them into a story…but that’s it. This is the only thing I dislike about the book, which brings me to my rating.

I like books I remember. They stick with you, imprinting themselves on your emotions and mind. This is one of them. A special book. It’s just my last point, about the dreams, which means I can’t give it 5. Still, I hope when COVID-19 passes (hopefully soon), I can buy volume 2, if it exists.

I rate this book: 4/5

Magic realism: yay or nay?

Dear readers,

I have a weekly habit of reading the weekly column, The Books that Made Me in The Guardian newspaper. I usually read it on Saturday mornings. It’s a moment of peace: a respite from the constant thread of articles about Brexit or Trump or climate change which seems to have grabbed the world by the cojones and taking it in turns in swinging everyone’s minds above it’s head, while dividing everyone at the same time.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not apathetic to the above issues. However, this column reminds me that the world doesn’t have to be so damn topsy-turvy all the time, and somewhere amongst the streets of chaos, there is a corner of peace. And these articles are that corner for me.

The article invites writers to talk about the books that made them, inspired them, they find over- or under-rated and what they’re reading at that moment. There have been a few authors that have grabbed my attention of late, such as Zadie Smith, Malcolm Gladwell, Ali Smith, Valeria Luiselli and Kevin Barry, amongst others. It gives people like myself an idea of what books accomplished writers reach out for and what makes them tick. If you’re anything like me, you’d love it.

Just this morning, I read the Books that Made Me by the Australian, Clive James. As a kid, I used to love staying up to watch his comedy programmes. To my embarrassment, I didn’t know much of his literature career, which I will investigate in due course.

I enjoyed his article and I took note of the literature that triggers him. However, the most poignant point, as suggested by the title, is that genre that tends to divide people (and there I was moaning about divided societies earlier in the post): magic realism. This is what he wrote:

The most overrated books almost all emerged simultaneously from a single genre: magic realism. I can’t stand it. I always found ordinary realism quite magic enough.

As someone who suffered through A Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, as well as Allende, I wholly sympathise with James’s opinion, especially his reason, that ordinary realism is magic enough. All you have to do is open a newspaper to embrace the absurdities of life, especially in the UK and Honduras. We live, in a way, in an absurd age, so I don’t need to read a 400 page book which take absurdities to a whole new level.

I know that I risk offending many people in Latin America, which many believe is one of the key cornerstones to this genre. My wife is one of them, and it is of silent agreement that I am not allowed to speak bad of Gabo (aka Gabriel García Márquez) in the abode (nor Ricky Martin or God for that matter). However, my question for those who are fans of the genre is:

What is it you actually like about the genre?

I might be missing something, but I just don’t understand the fascination. For those who also aren’t fans, feel free to chip in on this debate.

Yay or nay?

Death of Robert Mugabe

Dear readers,

A decade ago I was working for the British Refugee Council in Birmingham in the UK. I think about my time there quite a bit, still today. I don’t think any job I have had since has quite had the impact on my thinking and growth as a person. Before then, I had always been open to different cultures, enjoying in the presence of foreigners and strangers: learning about the stories of people from different places. It always inspired me to learn from such people, about perseverance, sacrificing everything for your ideas, beliefs and even your race, to escape persecution, to leave everything behind, and how difficult it can be. It also inspired me to tell their stories from time to time, while also erase the false assumptions that asylum seekers are “benefit spongers” or “have it easy”, as many in the right wing press claim.

It simply isn’t true. The hardships led many refugees to mental health issues and sometimes suicide. In short, the UKBA were not a soft touch. Not in my experience anyway.

I worked a lot with Section 4 clients. These were refugees who’d had their asylum cases refused: in other words, failed asylum seekers. Many of these people came from Kurdistan, especially from Iraq, who’d seen many horrors at the hands of Saddam Hussein.

Another large group of people originated from Zimbabwe, the majority of whom were political dissidents against Robert Mugabe’s regime. I remember them telling me just how ruthless he was, quashing freedom to protest, whether it be on the street or in the press, with such deadly force.

I would read the biographies of such people, who once fought the white ruling minority to bring freedom to the black man which was then Rhodesia, but then rule his country with an iron fist. But I distinctly remember one volunteer telling me some of the torture and execution practices his regime carried out, and one line stands out,”His soldiers has put political dissidents in tanks of acid. Not even their ghosts scream.”

Powerful, don’t you think?

I read that he died of late. 95 years of age. He’s led an interesting life, depending on which history book you read. I read that the prime ministers and presidents of neighbouring countries lamented his death, although I wonder how much of this lamentation was shared by those he persecuted?

This isn’t a “good riddance” post. I simply write this for my own nostalgia, working with such great people, who taught me so much, especially about how to be grateful.

The Question Book: What Makes You Tick? – book review

Dear readers,

I will use this rare update to review the following book:

The Question Book (What Makes You Tick?) by Mikael Krogerus and Roman Tschäppeler

This is simply one of the most useful books I have ever read. It does exactly as it says on the cover, asking thought provoking questions about who you are and your views on life, politics, religion, career, relationships, sex, past, present, future, emotions, death, birth, hopes, regrets…do I need to continue? You will explore yourself and know yourself and like yourself more, or on the other hand it could send you into an existential crisis. For me, it’s the former.

It functions in a similar way to a journal, I suppose, full of insightful prompts that will question who you are, a space to drop your ego or front and be honest with yourself. It’s like a stoic cleansing. And now I’ve finished the book, I feel I may have withdrawal symptoms of a sort.

Some questions will frustrate and others seem monotonous … but my gosh I’ve learned. The best thing about the book is that I found it purely by chance, but then again, I suppose we all find books through this method. It came into my life when I kind of needed it, and I can’t think of a book that has transformed me into a stronger person quite like this. I’m sure there are very similar books out there. But I recommend this, especially if you need to listen to yourself, especially if you can’t afford a psychologist to do it for you. I suppose it’s interactive in that you find answers to your own problems and issues, whereas a psychologist might suggest methods. And as I have learned in the past few months, chasing happiness doesn’t really get you anywhere. You often invertedly find it through solving problems and accepting certain things about yourself, which in a way lies in stoic/Buddhist principles.

It’s not the best written book ever, but I judge books on their importance to me personally and what I take from them. Therefore, like I say above, it’s one of the most useful books I have read, and certainly one of most dynamic self-help books (if you can call it that) I have come across. I feel I have self-helped myself.

Five stars well rewarded.

To conclude, and I take advice from other reviews of this book, keep it (and your answers) in a safe place and show no one. It’s yours and yours only, so you can help write your own book, and re-read to yourself at leisure.