Month: September 2014

Banchieri Genovese – Il contadino e il diavolo

IL SECOLO XIX (del 25 Settembre 2014)

«Sono molto provato da questi quattro mesi, questo non è il momento di parlare.
La verità è che oggi non ho un posto dove andare.
Non vedo l’ora di tornare alla mia campagna
Sono solo un contadino in fondo e questo nel bene e nel male è la mia forza e la mia condanna.»

Foto Anabela Rijo

C’ era una volta un contadino molto furbo.

C’era una volta, in un paese lontano, un contadino molto furbo. Tutti in paese raccontavano delle storie su di lui, ma la più bella era quella del diavolo.
Un giorno, finito il lavoro nei campi, il contadino stava per tornare a casa, quando si accorse di una cosa strana: proprio in mezzo al suo campo, seduto sopra una monta getta di carboni ardenti, se ne stava un diavoletto.
-“Scommetto che sei seduto sopra un tesoro” disse il contadino al diavoletto
-“Certo” gli rispose questi “qui sotto ci sono tantissime monete d’oro.
-“Visto che quel tesoro è sepolto nella mia terra, è mio!” affermò il contadino
-“D’accordo, sarà tuo condizione, però, che per due anni mi darai la metà del tuo accolto.
-“Va bene”, rispose felice il contadino “ti darò la metà di tutto ciò che cresce sopra il mio terreno. Ti va bene il patto?”
Il diavolo sicuro di aver fatto un buon affare si fregò le mani felice; non sapeva, però, che il contadino aveva seminato nel suo campo CAROTE-
Passò il tempo ed arrivò il momento del raccolto, ma quando il diavoletto entrò nel campo per impossessarsi di ciò che gli spettava, trovò solo delle foglie gialle. Si rivolse al furbo contadino, che rideva sotto i baffi, e gli disse:
-“Va bene, per questa volta è andata così… ma la prossima volta sarà tuo quello che cresce sopra e mio tutto quello che cresce sotto il campo. Ti va bene?”
-“Benissimo!” rispose il vecchio sogghignando
Al momento della semina , il contadino non piantò carote ma grano. Appena le spighe furono mature le tagliò tutte in modo da non lasciare traccia del raccolto
Quando il diavoletto prese a scavare nella terra per cercare ol suo raccolto non trovò che poche radici secche. Tutto rosso dalla rabbia, scappò via e si rifugiò in un crepaccio non lontano da lì.
Il contadino non riuscì a trattenere una grassa risata e gli gridò dietro:
-“Addio, e non dimenticare che il contadino la sa più lunga del diavolo!” e se ne andò a scavare il tesoro che si era saputo guadagnare.

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E siamo tutti in attesa per l’iPhone 6

Vedi Originale : Attenti al Lupo 

Considerazioni di un uomo stanco

enough_is_enough

Il mondo esterno appare come un girotondo impazzito.

Teste mozzate. Paesi in frantumi. Presidenti impotente. Le ragazze vengono violentate come se fosse niente – in India e Sudan può sembrare come se fosse endemica. E il mondo tace.

Caos. Dobbiamo anche sapere che cosa siamo più?

Ognuno sta a gridare qualcosa; abbiamo imparato ad abbaiare meglio dei cani. E i cani vengono abbandonati come se fossero spazzatura.

Sofferenza. I bambini vengono usati come scudi umani; sta accadendo ora in Siria e non troppo tempo fa a Gaza.

Il Nord odiano il sud. Il Sud giura il Nord è una piaga. I Bianchi uccidono i neri. I Neri Murder altri Blacks -e a volte bianchi, troppo. Il novanta per cento del mondo sta morendo di fame. Gli elefanti sono quasi estinti e le tigri vengono uccisi per fare tappeti.

Sacerdoti parlano di Dio, ma girano le spalle e lasciare le piccole suore in Burundi per fare il lavoro che Cristo ha chiesto di noi: amare gli uni gli altri.

E siamo tutti in attesa per l’iPhone 6.

Alziamoci – e non solo Scozia

Vedi Originale :  An Sionnach Fionn on September 18, 2014

La grande sembra grande e fantastico a noi solo perché siamo in ginocchio.

Alziamoci !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

JamesCOnnely

 

James Connolly, figlio di Edimburgo e Dublino, con un messaggio alla fine del 19 ° secolo per la terra dei suoi antenati che è altrettanto rilevante all’inizio del 21 ° secolo per la terra della sua nascita: “La grande sembra fantastico a noi solo perché siamo in ginocchio. Alziamoci. ”

 

Nato ad Edimburgo, Scozia, da immigrati irlandesi, lasciò la scuola per lavorare all’età di undici anni, ma ciononostante divenne una delle più importanti figure della sinistra del tempo. Raggiunse l’esercito britannico all’età di quattordici anni e fu stanziato a Dublino dove avrebbe più tardi incontrato la futura moglie. Nel 1892 era già un’importante figura della Scottish Socialist Federation, con il ruolo di segretario dal 1895; già nel 1896 aveva abbandonato l’esercito e fondato l’Irish Socialist Republican Party. Connolly fu tra i fondatori del Socialist Labour Party che si divise dalla Social Democratic Federation nel 1903.

Braccio destro di James Larkin nell’Irish Transport and General Workers Union, fondò nel 1913 l’Irish Citizen Army (ICA), un gruppo armato e ben addestrato il cui compito era quello di difendere lavoratori e scioperanti, in particolar modo dalla brutalità della Dublin Metropolitan Police. Nonostante contassero al massimo su 250 membri, il loro obiettivo divenne presto l’instaurazione di una nazione irlandese, indipendente e socialista

 

 

 

Paddy on the railroad

 No blacks, some dogs, lots of Irish:

Review of An Irish Navvy, Donall MacAhmlaigh, translated by Valentin Iremonger

Source: http://vulpeslibris.wordpress.com/2009/03/05/no-blacks-some-dogs-lots-of-irish-paddy-on-the-railroad/
IrishNavvy
 

 

In the preface to The Making of the English Working Class, E. P. Thompson apologizes to the Scots and the Welsh for limiting his book to the English, but includes Irish immigrants, devoting twelve pages of the book to `The Irish’, and noting Irish immigration throughout the book. Thompson claims that it is `arguable’ that France lost Europe when it failed to invade Britain in 1797 when Ireland was on the point of rebellion: `the invasion, when it came, was of a different order; it was the invasion of England and Scotland by the Irish poor.’

Donall MacAmhlaigh’s 1964 book, originally published in Irish as Dialann Deorai(Diary of an exile), is one of the minor classics of a later phase of this invasion. MacAmlaigh (`MacOULig’) came from County Galway, a largely Irish speaking county in the West of Ireland, moved to Kilkenny in the South East at fourteen, and later joined the First Battalion of the Irish Army, the Irish-speaking unit stationed in County Galway. After three years of the army, he emigrated to England. An Irish Navvy is his account of six years labouring in the South and midlands. He later settled in Northampton, where he died in 1989 after a lifetime writing and working the sites.

The Irish labour which came to help rebuild Britain after the war was absorbed into, and expanded, an existing culture (take a look at the Guardian’s ethnic map of London to see what I mean), mainly in the areas where the A5, the main road from Holyhead, hits North London. Even now, as you leave Camden Town tube station, you will see a sign for the Irish Centre. The workers brought their regional loyalties with them. Early in the book, MacAmhlaigh describes a fight between a Leitrim man and one Ginger Folan from the Gaelteacht (Irish speaking area) which had been transplanted into County Meath. The Meath man was nervous about the resentment borne by the natives of the county towards the Irish speakers who had been awarded land there.

At the time, MacAmhlaigh was a hospital orderly in Northampton, in the early days of the NHS. On arrival, he learns to get on with Lithuanians, Ukrainians and Italians, discovering that they also have their regional rivalries, finds ale unimpressive, it not standing up well in comparison to porter and considers `devilish stuff called spam’ little better. He is assigned his National Insurance number and a ration book, noting how `wonderfully pleasant’ the staff were, unlike their Irish equivalents.

Eventually, MacAmhlaigh leaves the hospital to take up navvying with Mike Ned, a Curran from Cornomona. They mount the wagon of the contractor and go to Towcester in search of a start. The work is got and our men set to breaking the ground with picks. Things go as well as could be expected until the ganger puts them on the mixer (`Come all you pincher laddies and you long distance men//Don’t ever work for Wimpey, for McAlpine or John Laing.//For they’ll chain you to the mixer and they’ll set you shovelling sand,//And they’ll say good on you Paddy, with your passport in your hand.’). Tricked into carrying the bags of cement, MacAmhlaigh cannot straighten his back the next morning, but fortunately finds himself digging a hole for the day for his three shillings an hour plus bonus.

The book is a collection of stories of work sought and found in hotels, in fields, and on building sites for railways and a US Air Force base at Brize Norton, where our man is sorry to learn that the Texan with whom he has a chat behind a hangar `knows nothing at all about Cowboys or Red Indians’. The work, hard as it is, is still better than staying in Ireland (for comparison, an Irish labourer digging a Tube line in the fifties could make about as much in a night as he would make in a week in Ireland) and MacAmhlaigh and many of his compatriots stay in their huts on remote sites, saving money for a return to Ireland which most of them never make.

Much of the money ends up on the outside walls of the pubs and dancehalls in provincial towns or in the Irish areas of London, Kilburn and Camden, where the youth of whole villages have been transplanted and Irish is as widely spoken as English. The world is that of Patrick Hamilton seen through the bleary gaze of Brendan Behan. Men lodge with, and labour under, gangers by the name of the Bruiser Joyce or Horse Face Toole, sending money home to a small town or a village in rural Ireland. The only Dubliners in the book are those MacAmhlaigh meets on his way through Dublin ferry port: the Irish world in London is a rural one, dependent, like many emigrant communities, on the remittances of migrants. For the children of farms or small towns, London is as far away as Dublin, for practical purposes, and the chances of well-paid work are better. The life, in so far as people can manage it, is small-town life. They attend Mass on a Sunday (even if it means rising early to make work in the railway tunnel), and make a point of fasting on Good Friday. Pleasure is a few pints in the evening and, for MacAmhlaigh, the library: Goodbye, Mr Chips is a favorite.

MacAmhlaigh has an acute eye for detail: compressors in a railway tunnel near Rugby are `as big as ass-carts back home’; when a Teddy Boy singer pours a bottle of milk (yes, milk, not only Ireland has changed in the last fifty years) over his own head, he remembers a woman nearby saying `’e ain’t half being sent’ and records the contempt of his compatriot for the latchico on stage. He finds the English well-dressed compared to the people `back home’; they are tall `and you’d never think from them that they hadn’t had enough to eat for years’, but he will never agree with their view that the drink is an excuse for darts and cribbage where the Irish know `that the drink and the conversation’ were the point.

The worlds MacAmhlaigh describes are long gone for the Irish: even the youngest people he worked with are old now and the Ryanair flight to Knock resembles the Holyhead cattle boat only in its consideration for the comfort of passengers. Where emigrants, Irish or Polish, can now fly home for a weekend, they would once have spent years in England without knowing their younger siblings. The world of the start and the ganger is now the world of the Portugese agricultural labourer, the Chinese cocklepicker and the Filipino nurse. The Irish will soon be back to join them. The signs no longer say `No blacks, no dogs, no Irish’, but they might as well in some places.

  • MacAmhlaigh, Donall, An Irish navvy, 978-1-903464-36-6

Irishmen For The Battle Line

Liberty – Used and Abused

“If someone were to tell me now that the Germans were coming in over our back wall, I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them. They could come!”

 

Those who are inspired by that love of freedom dominant in the Irish race, and which is threatened by Germany’s lust of power,

should enrol themselves now in the Tyneside Irish Battalion, and preserve for themselves and their children that glorious liberty so dear to the heart of every Irishman

 

The greatest fighting men of our time are Irishmen

Kitchener, French, Smith-Dorrien, and Roberts.
These men appeal to all Irishmen on Tyneside to join the Tyneside Irish Battalion which is now being formed.
Recruitment advertisement aimed at “North Country Irishmen”

The Newcastle Daily Chronicle, Friday, October 30, 1914

Tyneside Irish

 

During World War I (or the Great War) (1914–1918), Ireland was part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, which entered the war in August 1914 as one of the Entente Powers, along with France and the Russian Empire, when due to the effects of chain ganging, it was obliged to declare war on the Central Powers, consisting of the German Empire, the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, the Ottoman Empire, and the Kingdom of Bulgaria.

Occurring in the midsts of Ireland’s Revolutionary period, the Irish people’s experience of the war was complex and its memory divisive. At the outbreak of the war, most Irish people, regardless of political affiliation, supported the war in much the same way as their British counterparts,[1] and both nationalist and unionist leaders initially backed the British war effort. Their followers, both Catholic and Protestant, served extensively in the British forces, many in three specially raised divisions with others in the Imperial and United States armies, John T. Prout being an example of an Irishman serving in the latter. Over 200,000 Irishmen fought in the war, in several theatres and either 30,000,or, if one includes those who died serving in armies other than Britain’s, 49,400 died. A group of combatant Irish republicans took the opportunity of the war to Proclaim Ireland a Republic and to defend it in an armed rebellion against British rule, in Dublin 1916, a rebellion which Germany attempted to help. In addition, Britain’s intention to impose conscription in Ireland in 1918 provoked widespread resistance and as a result remained unimplemented.

Finally, with the end of the Great War, Sinn Féin won the Irish general election of 1918, this was followed by the Irish Declaration of Independence and immediately following that, the Irish War of Independence (1919–1922) which ended with terms that led to the Irish Civil War (1922–1923) with Ireland partitioned and much of it leaving the United Kingdom as the Irish Free State.

The remarks attributed to National Volunteer and poet, Francis Ledwidge, who was to die in preparation of the Third battle of Ypres in 1917, perhaps best exemplifies the changing Irish nationalist sentiment towards, enlisting, the War, and to the Germans and British.

“I joined the British Army because she stood between Ireland and an enemy of civilisation and I would not have her say that she defended us while we did nothing but pass resolutions”.

After the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising were executed during his military leave, he said:

“If someone were to tell me now that the Germans were coming in over our back wall, I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them. They could come!”

 

 

Paisley the Saint? Remember him as he was, not as we want him to be.

A lot of weeds remain – Reap what you sow

Vixens With Convictions!

“If my mammy was alive, she’d be dancing in the streets.” So said a woman who grew up in Republican West Belfast to me earlier today on hearing the news that the Reverend Ian Paisley had died. “It’s very sad”, said Carol from the Shankill when I asked for her views earlier. Such views are simplistic on the passing of Ian Snr, but they encompass the broad spectrum of thinking when it comes to the life – and the death of the giant old grandfather of Unionism.

And that would be grand. Everyone has their own thoughts and opinions when a controversial figure dies. Except, some of the more surprising tributes came from quarters today, from people whom, shall we say, had more than one axe to grind for the Roaring Reverend.

Not least from Sinn Féin, where Martin Mc Guinness declared that he had lost “a friend”. Forgive us…

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E la storia continua

Nothing has changed

The beat goes on

IAN PAISLEY 1926-2014

Ian Paisley + + in + un + Ulster + Dice + n + raduno + in + Ballymoney + 1986 +

Vi è una tradizione irlandese che se non hai niente di buono da dire dei morti, allora non dire nulla. Questo è ciò che viene in mente in relazione al passaggio di auto-dichiarata reverendo Ian Paisley, probabilmente il capo più iconico di sindacalismo britannico in Irlanda nella seconda metà del ventesimo secolo. Se Edward Carson era il politico che ha segnato la partizione di questa isola nazione e il ritiro della colonia britannica al suo nord-est ridotta allora Ian Paisley è il politico che ha annunciato nei giorni finali di quella divisione territoriale e delle Pale settentrionale stessa. Alcuni di buono è venuto della sua carriera dopo, però inavvertitamente, e ha pagato il prezzo per che tra partito e congregazione. Così Lascerò trovo quello che ho scritto dei primi anni di Paisley ricordando che stiamo vivendo negli ultimi tempi di otto secoli vecchia sovranità della Gran Bretagna oltre il nostro paese.