Bad News...

The winds were blowing at a rate not seen in over fifty years, or so the weatherman said. Neither of us had bothered to check the forecast that morning, both wearing flimsy springtime jackets which were of no protection, but it didn’t matter anyway – loss masks the senses, and allows for a type of self annihilation. The spray off the Bosphorus blowing across the tea garden shooting directly for us was the least of our worries. Our bones soaked up the damp cold. Couples and old men ran to the warmth of their cars, while we sat paralysed by the news we had received just hours earlier, the wincing cold was nothing compared to how we both felt. The tea helped somewhat towards us both not getting pneumonia. Sitting in silence, staring at the steam evaporating from the small bevelled tea glass, we couldn’t even speak, for speaking would drown the reality that our best friend was not coming back, ever. Locked in a moment not wanting to move forward we both sat there remembering the times that had gone before. The silence was deafening. A balmy summer day, was the last day we had all been together, laughing about how ridiculous life is. Life had moved on, a kind of manufactured reality, a new environment had surrounded all of us, and everything was fine, but we knew somehow that this day would come, the day when we would see each otehr again to address the fears of what had gone before. We knew why, but had managed to store it in the deepest parts of our consciousness. The months rolled by, until one morning, one spring morning we had received the news that our friend would not return from his last asisgnment. There it was, the final arrival of bad news, and all we could do was sit there for hours, just sipping hot tea, being pelted by the salty spray from the Bosphorus, hoping it would wake us up, from the numbness of the loss we both felt.

Barking Sparrows 2006

Journalism has many purposes, this is one of them...

It's not the publishing. It's not the finished product pretty and complete. It's asking questions – lots of them, and being impartial. It's curiosity and listening to the everyday story that lives in the streets of every town, and then gathering the information like a spy, but further reporting it to the people who matter. The people who need to know.

Tonight I stood in a bar with the Deputy Secretary of a Human Rights Society, who had called me as word had got around that I was interested in the story of innocent people who had been victims to torture. My phone rang, it was the family of the victim of torture I had met four days previous. He wanted to say goodbye and to invite me to dinner in the village.

I passed the phone to my drinking partner. They spoke for a few minutes. The phone was passed back to me. He thanked me again. I hung up. I had made a connection between a man who was desparate for advice, and someone who could help. The outcome of the series of events that I have been party to on my trip to Bahrain is as follows:

A family who had been so scared and lost over where to go will now receive medical help from the society. And another case of torture will be registered that will add to the campaign against the government to offer some real kind of reconciliation. These families, and there are many, are lost over how to deal with the stigma and fear of coming forward and seeking real help.

A doctor will go to the village and visit the victim. The case will be assesed. The government will not publish all cases, and this is another step towards these cases being aired. Hopefully the society will be able to aid with medicince through the volentary medical teams they have working on their programmes.

The Human Rights friend, said that he may now even put an advertisement in the newspaper callinng for all torture victims to come forward and get the help that they didn't know existed, and with a dilay newspaper now running a daily campaign on the subject,which started this month, it is finally being aired, and the government can not ignore it anymore.

The fact that these victims can now get help – recent development since 2001 – means that a mood is changing. The main problem is the stigma attached to seeking psychiatric help. Trauma is sometimes harder to see than the physical disability. Another case to add to the campaign and a person who will at long last get some recognition and the medicare he needs.

This the real joy in reporting, is reporting the stories to the people who matter.

Violation of Freedoms

A man so badly beaten by prison guards that he was permanently damaged at the age of 36 years old. His passport reads born in 1956, but he looks like it should say '36. Taken from his house one night twenty years ago, he was held in prison for two years with no charge. Only that he had helped raise money to buy food for his brother and other people he knew, who were being held as political prisoners. He is so scarred from the beatings, he never recovered, bed ridden for twenty years, not able to work, deterioration has set it.



A room 2 metres x 2 metres with six inmates was his residence for two years. Taken daily for beatings, he was given a piece of meat a few times a week – cut to 1inch in diametre. Shower time was five minutes once a week. Made to stand for 24 hours sometimes with no food, or often thrown old chicken bones. Torture and humilation wore him down eventually. He is home now and his family surround him.

Once he was a model of good citizenship. Working in the national oil and gas company, but was held hostage for the good he did in his community. He is sick, and no body cares. No apology was issued. His colleagues forgot about him all too quickly. He has had no visitors beyond his family since his release. Yet, he still believes that helping the needy was worth it. He would do it again if he had a choice. He wants to get healthy. That's all he wants. He is afterall only 50 years old.



The political environment is shifting, a reason this family invited a stranger into their house to tell his story. The spies are gone now, and although it remains both faceless and nameless for fear that the the horror may return. It lurks on the horizon, but not in the village streets anymore.

Asura Holiday Bahrain...

Even locals told us not to go, fear is ignorance. we went, we explored challenging the idea that two Westerners would not be welcome at a Muslim holiday, in a souq filled with 10,000 Arab men and women. It was moving and interestingly calm. Passionate, agressive and coordinated. The sounds were the most impressionable part of the long evening. It was difficult to take photos, while being sensitive to the events that were unfolding infront of us.... This is a small snapshot of what we saw.








Zeynep, 9 years old, two brothers a sweet smile.



The women...



The men...



The chains...


Yes, Islam is political; Yes Islam is passionate; Yes islam is violent at times...
I think we have to separate the politics from the faith, but how?
Islam does feel like it is under attack, the perpetrator of 911 is winning. The cartoons?
Sensitivity and an understanding of what this means to a diversity of cultures has been overlooked.
Is "Freedom of Speech" the new religion?
The West – another generalistion, that has many qualities which are sometimes overlooked.
We live in a world of generalisations, when will we stop and consider that people need people.
Separate the politics from the people, and start listening.
Understand the subtleties in what people say, and what their reference point is – and listen.
Somewhere in the Bahraini desert...