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Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts

Wednesday 21 April 2010

Modern Indian Spirituality


I am quite sure ladies and gentlemen, that in this august assembly nobody would envy my position at this moment. Speaking after such a charismatic and formidable personality like Sri Sri Ravi Shankar is like coming out of the pavilion to play after Tendulkar has made a sparkling century. But in some weak moment I had committed myself.

There are certain things that I would like to make very clear at the very outset. Dont get carried away by my name Javed Akhtar. I am not revealing a secret, I am saying something that I have said many times, in writing or on TV, in publicI am an atheist, I have no religious beliefs. And obviously I dont believe in spirituality of some kind. Some kind!

Another thing. I am not standing here to criticize, analyze, or attack this gentleman who is sitting here. We have a very pleasant, civilized relation. I have always found him to be an extremely courteous person.

One is talking about an idea, an attitude, a mindset. Not any individual. I must tell you that when Rajeev opened this session, for a moment I felt that I have come to the wrong place. Because, if we are discussing the philosophy of Krishan and Gautam and Kabir, Vivekanand, then I have nothing to say. I can sit down right now. I am not here to discuss a glorious past of which I suppose every Indian is proud, and rightly so. I am here to
discuss a dubious present.

India Today has invited me and I have come here to talk of spirituality today. Lets not be confused by this word spirituality, you can find two people with the same name and they can be totally different people. Ram Charit Manas was written by Tulsidas. And the television film has been made by Ramanand Sagar. Ramayan is common but I dont think it would be very wise to club Tulsidas with Ramanand Sagar. I remember, when he had written Ramcharit Manas, he had faced a kind of a social boycott. How could he write a holy book in such a language like Avadhi? Sometimes I wonder fundamentalists of all hues and all colors, religions and communitie show how similar they are. In 1798, a gentleman called Shah Abdul Qadir, in this very city, for the first time translated Quran in Urdu, and all the ulemas of that time gave fatwa against him that how could he translate this holy book in such a heathen language.

When Tulsi wrote Ramcharit Manas and he was boycotted, I remember a chowpai that he had written.

*Dhut kaho abdhut kaho rajput kaho ki julawa kohu*
*Kohu ki beti se beta na biahab, kohu ki jaat bigaar na chahu*
*Mang ke khaibo, mehjid ma raihbo, lebe ka ek na debe ka dohu*

Ramanand Sagar, when he made his television serial, he made millions. I am not undermining him, but obviously he is much lower in the rung. I will give you another example. Perhaps it would be more direct and more appropriate. Gautam came out of a palace and went into wilderness to find the truth. But nowadays we see, the modern age gurus, come out of the wilderness and wind up in the palaces. They are moving in the opposite direction. We cant talk of them in the same breath. So let us not hide behind names which are dear and respectable for every Indian.

When I was invited to give this talk, I felt that yes, I am an atheist, try to be a rationalist in any given situation, Maybe thats why I have been called. But suddenly I have realized that there is another quality that I share with Modern Age gurus. I work in films. We have lot in common. Both of us, sell dreams, both of us create illusions, both of us create icons, but with a difference. After three hours we put a placard 'the end'. Go back to reality. They dont.

So ladies and gentlemen, let me make it very clear that I have come to talk of this spirituality that has a supermarket in the world. Arms, drugs and spirituality these are the three big businesses in the world. But in arms and drugs you really have to do something, give something. Thats the difference. Here you dont have to give anything.

In this supermarket you get instant Nirvana, Moksha by mail, a crash course in self realization, cosmic consciousness in four easy lessons. This supermarket has its chain all over the world, where the restless elite buy spiritual fast food. I am talking about this spirituality.

Plato in his dialogues has said many a wise thing, and one of them is before starting any discussion decide on the meanings of words. Let us tryto decide on the meaning of this word spirituality. Does it mean love for mankind that transcends all religion, caste, creed, race? Is that so? Then I have no problem. Except that I call it humanity. Does it mean love of plants, trees, mountains, oceans, rivers, animals? The non-human world? If that is so, again I have no problem at all. Except that I call it environmental consciousness. Does spirituality mean heartfelt regard for social institutions like marriage, parenthood, fine arts, judiciary, freedom of expression. I have no problem again sir, how can I disagree here? I call it civil responsibility. Does spirituality mean going into your own world trying to understand the meaning of your own life? Who can object on that? I call it self-introspection, self assessment. Does spirituality mean Yoga? Thanks to Patanjali, who has given us the details of Yoga, *Yam, Yatam, aasan, pranayam*We may do it under any name, but if we are doing pranayam, wonderful. I call it health-care. Physical fitness.

Now is it a matter of only semantics. If all this is spirituality, then what is the discussion. All these words that I have used are extremely respectable and totally acceptable words. There is nothing abstract or intangible about them. So why stick to this word spirituality? What is there in spirituality that has not been covered by all these words? Is there something? If that is so then what is that?

Somebody in return can ask me what is my problem with this word. I am asking to change it, leave it, drop it, make it obsolete but why so? I will tell you what is my reservation. If spirituality means all this then there is no discussion. But there is something else which makes me uneasy. In a dictionary, the meaning of spirituality is rooted in a word called spirit. When mankind didnt know whether this earth is round or flat, he had decided that human beings are actually the combination of two things. Body and spirit. Body is temporary, it dies. But the spirit is, shall I say, non-biodegradable. In your body you have a liver and heart and intestines and the brain, but since the brain is a part of the body, and mind lies within the brain, it is inferior because ultimately the brain too shall die with the body, but dont worry, you are not going to die, because you are your spirit, and the spirit has the supreme consciousness that will remain, and whatever problem you have is because you listen to your mind. Stop listening to your mind. Listen to your spirit - the supreme consciousness that knows the cosmic truth. All right. Its not surprising that in Pune there is an ashram and I used to go there. I loved the oratory. On the gate of the lecture hall there was a placard. Leave your shoes and minds here. There are other gurus who dont mind if you carry your shoes. But minds? Sorry!

Now, if you leave your mind what do you do? You need the Guru to find the next station of consciousness. That hides somewhere in the spirit. He has reached the supreme consciousness, he knows the supreme truth. But can he tell you. No sir, he cannot tell you. So can you find out on your own? No sir, you need the guru for that. You need him but he cannot guarantee that you will know the ultimate truth and what is that ultimate truth? What is the cosmic truth? Relating to cosmos? I have really not been able to understand that. The moment we step out of the solar system the first star is Alpha Centuari. It is just four light years away. How do I relate to that!! What do I do!!

So the emperor is wearing robes that only the wise can see. And the emperor is becoming bigger and bigger. And there are more and more wise people who are appreciating the robe.

I used to think that actually spirituality is the second line of defence for the religious people. When they get embarrassed about traditional religion, when it starts looking too down-market, they hide behind this smokescreen of cosmos and super consciousness. But that is not the complete truth. Because the clientele of traditional religion and spirituality is different. You take the map of the world, you start marking places which are extremely religious, within India or outside India, Asia, Latin America, Europe wherever. You will find that wherever there is lot of religion there is lack of human rights. There is repression. Anywhere. Our Marxist friends used to say that religion is the opium of poor masses, the sigh of the oppressed. I dont want to get into that discussion. But spirituality nowadays is definitely the tranquilizer of the rich.


You see that the clientele is well heeled, it is the affluent class. Alright, so the guru gets power, high self esteem, status, wealth (which is not that important), power and lot of wealth too. What does the disciple get? When I looked at them carefully I realized that there are categories and categories of these disciples. Its not a monolith. There are different kinds of followers. Different kinds of disciples. One, who is rich, successful, doing extremely well in his life, making money, gaining property. Now, since he has everything he wants absolution too. So guru tells him - whatever you are doing, is *niskaam karma *you are playing a role, this is all *Maya*, the money that you are making everyday and the property that you are acquiring, you are not emotionally involved with it. You are just playing a role. You come to me because you are in search of eternal truth. Maybe your hands are dirty, but your spirit and soul are pure. And this man, he starts feeling wonderful about himself. For seven days he is exploiting the world, and at the end of the seven days when he goes and sits at the feet of the guru, he feels I am a sensitive person





There is another category. That too comes from the affluent class. But he is not the winner like the first one. You know winning or losing that is also relative. A rickshaw-wallah if he is gambling on the pavement and wins hundred rupees will feel victorious, and if a corporate man makes only 300 million dollars, while his brother is a billionaire, he will feel like a failure. Now, what does this rich failure do? He needs a guru to tell him
who says that you have failed? You have other worlds, you have another vision, you have other sensibility that your brother doesnt have. He thinks that he is successful, wrong. The world is very cruel, you know. The world tells you honestly, no sir, you have got three out of ten. The other person has seven out of ten. Fair. They will treat you that way and they will meet you that way. There he gets compassion. There he plays another game.

Another category. And I will talk about this category not with contempt or with any sense of superiority, not any bitterness, but all the compassion available one that is a very big client of this modern day guru and todays spirituality, is the unhappy rich wife. Here is a person who put all her individuality, aspirations and dreams, and her being at the altar of marriage and in return she got an indifferent husband. Who at the most gave her a couple of children. Who is rather busy with his work, or busy with other women. This woman needs a shoulder. She knows that she is an existential failure. There is nothing to look forward to. She has a vacuous, empty, comfortable yet purposeless life. Its sad, but it is true.

Then there are other people. Who are suddenly traumatized. They lose a child. The wife dies. The husband dies. Or they lose the property, they lose their business. Something happens that shocks them and they ask why me? So who do they ask? They go to the Guru. And the guru tells him that this is Karma. But there is another world if you follow me. Where there is no pain. Where there is no death. Where there is immortality. Where there is only bliss. He tells all these unhappy souls follow me and I will take you to heaven, to paradise, where there is no pain. I am sorry sir, it is disappointing but true that there is no such paradise. Life will always have a certain quota of pain, of hurts, a possibility of defeats. But they do get some satisfaction.



Somebody may ask me if they are feeling better, if they are getting peace then what is your problem. It reminds me of a story that I have read. Its an old Indian story told by a sage, that a hungry dog finds a dry bone and tries to eat it and in the process bites its own tongue. And the tongue is bleeding and the dog feels that he is getting nourishment from the bone. I feel sad. I dont want them, these adults, to behave like this because I respect them. Drugs and alcohol are also supposed to give mental peace and serenity, but is that kind of piece or serenity desirable or advisable?


The answer is no. Any mental peace that is not anchored in rational thoughts is nothing but self-deception. Any serenity that takes you away from truth is just an illusion a mirage. I know that there is a kind of a security in this which is like the security of a tri-cycle. If you are riding a tri-cycle you cant fall. But adults do not ride tricycles. They ride bi-cycles. They can even fall. It is a part of life.

There is one more kind. Like everybody who is the member of the golf club is not fond of golf. In the same way everybody who is seen in an ashram is not a spiritual person. A film producer who is an ardent follower of a guru, whose ashram is about two hours from Delhi once told me that you must go to my Guru. You will see the whos who of Delhi there. Let me tell you my Guruji is another Chandraswami in the making. Now this is a contact point
for networking. I have great respect for people who are spiritual, or religious, and in spite of this they are good people. And I have a reason. I believe that like every emotion or feeling, you have a limitation.
 

You can see up to a point. And you cant see further. You can hear up to a point, but beyond that you wont be able to register sounds. You can mourn up to a point and then you will get over your mourning. You will feel happy up-to a point and then you will be through with your happiness. Same way, I am sure that you have a certain capacity for nobility also. You can be as noble and no more. Now suppose if we count this capacity for nobility in the average man as ten units, now anybody who goes to pray in a mosque five times is consuming his five units, there anybody who goes to the temple or sits in the feet of the Guru, he is consuming his quota of nobility there. And in a totally non-productive manner. I dont go to pray. I dont pray. If I dont go to any guru, or mosque or temple or church, what do I do with my quota of nobility. I will have to help somebody, feed somebody, give shelter to somebody. People who use their quota in worshipping, praying, adoring religious figures and spiritual figures, in spite of that, if they are left with some nobility, hats off to them.

You may ask me, that if I have this kind of ideas about religious people, why should I show such reverence for Krishan and Kabir and Gautam? You can ask me. Ill tell you why I respect them. These were the great contributors in the human civilization. They were born in different points of time in history, in different situations. But one thing is common in them. They stood up against injustice. They fought for the downtrodden. Whether it was Ravana, or Kansha or the pharaoh or the high priests or the British Samrajya in front of Gandhi or the communal empire of Firoze Tughlaq in the times of Kabir, they stood against that.
 

And what surprises me, and confirms my worst feelings, that today, the enlightened people who know the cosmic truth, none of them stand up against the powers that be. None of them raises his voice against the ruling classes and the privileged classes. Charity, yes, when it is approved and cleared by the establishment and the powers that be. But I want to know which was that guru which took the dalits to those temples which are still closed to them. I want to know which was that guru who stood for the rights of the Adivasis against the thekedaars and contractors. I want to know which was that guru  who spoke about the victims of Gujarat and went to their relief camps. They are human beings too.

Sir, It is not enough to teach the rich how to breathe. It is the rich mans recreation. It is the hypocrites pretension. It is a mischievous deception. And you know that in the oxford dictionary, mischievous deception is a term that is used for a word, and that word is HOAX.



Speech by JAVED AKHTAR at India Today Conclave  *


 



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Monday 2 November 2009

A viewpoint on legalising drugs - What do you think?


 

It appears to be impossible to have a rational debate about drugs. David Nutt, the head of the government's advisory council on drugs, argued that alcohol and tobacco

Bruce Anderson: Let's be honest... legalise drugs and society would benefit

This is a war that cannot be won. And the suppression of David Nutt won't help  were more dangerous than some drugs which are currently illegal. That point seems so obvious as to be barely worth stating. Prof Nutt also said that it was silly to upgrade cannabis, from class C on the illegal drugs register to class B. The maximum penalty for using a class B substance is five years in prison. Does anyone believe that any judge would ever pass such a sentence for smoking marijuana? So what is the point of pretending to buttress a law that is already widely flouted with even more pains and penalties which will never be enforced?

Before taking such an absurd decision, ministers might have considered the experience of the Black Code in the early 19th century. By mandating ferocious penalties for trivial offences, it brought the law into disrepute and undermined the penal justice system, until Sir Robert Peel - no softie - replaced the savage and inspissated nonsense with a sensible criminal code. But an examination of precedents would require thought, reading and a knowledge of history. Under this government, those are class A crimes.
Instead, the Professor was sacked, which has annoyed some of his colleagues, who see no point in continuing to assist a government which has no interest in reasoned debate. This does not mean that politicians must always accept expert advice. Sir Christopher Kelly and Sir Thomas Legg should be treated with much more scepticism than they are likely to receive. A minister is perfectly entitled to say that he had received some advice from Professor so-and-so, for whom he had considerable respect - and that on this occasion, he respectfully disagreed. But there is no point in asking academics to serve on a committee if their intellects are to be subjected to a three-line whip.
 
Moreover, drugs policy is in urgent need of hard thinking. Our present arrangements are a mess. So let us start with fundamentals. Until the 1960s, our legal system was overshadowed by pre-libertarian theories of the state, which criminalised breaches of Christian morality and started from the assumption that governments were entitled to regulate the private behaviour of adults. As that has all gone over the past few decades, what theory of the state now permits governments to prohibit adults from taking drugs? There is only one intellectually respectable answer to that question: none.
 
This does not mean that those who wish to retain prohibition are bereft of arguments. Their counterblast might run along the following lines. "Intellectual respectability be damned. You are talking as if the drugs question could be resolved in an academic seminar. Go a few miles from intellectually respectable London to disintegrating London, where the wreckage of David Cameron's broken society is outward and visible, where so many forces are already at work to accelerate social breakdown - and then tell me that you would like to add to the problem by legalising drugs".
 
That is what many judges and policemen believe, based on their experience of trying to hold society together, and it is a powerful case. It is also a pragmatic one - none the worse for that - and as such, open to challenge on evidential grounds. The evidence does seem to suggest that the present policy is failing. Drugs are readily available, while drug-users mug and burgle to sustain their habit. In her forthcoming study of underclass youth, Harriet Sergeant depicts the allure of drug dealing: its corrupting effect on the de-socialised young. If no one who wants drugs has to go without them, while the illicit trade is worth hundreds of millions of pounds, it is hard to see why legalisation would make things worse.
 
There is a further point. The drug menace is not only impairing the quality of life in British cities. It is wrecking countries. Trinidad, Guyana, Jamaica: those really are broken societies. Colombia and Mexico have had dreadful difficulties. Admittedly, this arises far more from the lucrative American market than from the much smaller British one. But if we British concluded that the current war on drugs could not be won, we would be doing the world a favour.
 
This is how legalisation could work. Allow adults (photo ID necessary) to buy limited supplies of their chosen poison from licensed and regulated outlets. Ban all advertising. Tax the stuff as highly as is possible without creating a black market. Announce an amnesty for all drug crimes, in the hope that the skilled operators would take the chance to go legit.
 
Increase the penalties for illicit drug-trafficking, to include impoverishment. Anyone involved in selling drugs to children would lose all his assets, however acquired, and would not leave prison if there was any suggestion that he had some cash stashed away. Step up police operations, hoping to catch new dealers while they were still inexperienced. Employ the SAS to eliminate foreign traffickers who were trying to supply the British criminals who remained in business.
 
The aim of these measures would not be the promotion of universal hippydom: still less, to bring the decadence of the late Roman Empire to the streets of South London. The intention is to reduce drug-related crime and to make it easier to deal with the criminal underclass. There might also be a fall in drug consumption, especially among children, whose supplies would be significantly interrupted. That said, there would be a price.
 
We can surely assume that there are some young adults who might be curious about drugs, but who do not like the idea of searching out dealers in insalubrious parts of town. They are also reluctant to run the risk of being arrested. There may not be many such persons: there must be some. After legalisation, the restraints are removed. So they try the stuff, and one or two of them turn out to have addictive personalities and turn into druggies.
 
Although there are those who insist that anyone who might become a druggie already has, legalisation is bound to create some new addicts, whose lives might be wrecked. This is not a pleasant thought. Then again, the individuals concerned would be adults, unlike many of those who are destroyed under the current arrangements. Adults are entitled to make their own choices.
One hundred and fifty years ago, John Stuart Mill published On Liberty. The passage of time has not diminished its radicalism. Mill realised that the desire to interfere with others' freedoms has deep roots in the human psyche. If it is denied one outlet, it will find another. Fifty years ago, homosexuals were persecuted. Recently, some half-witted police force wanted to persecute a woman who complained about the excesses of homosexual demonstrators. The rights to free speech and free expression can never be taken for granted, especially under this government. It might seem absurd to cite drug-taking in the same context as those dignified, noble freedoms. But freedom is freedom.
 
Mill could also remind us that you do not arrive at truth by suppressing opinions, even if they are unpopular. Admittedly, this government has hardly been successful in suppressing Prof Nutt, but it is now time for the opposite approach: a Royal Commission on drugs, to review all aspects of current policy, from philosophy to policing. David Nutt should certainly be a member.



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Thursday 3 September 2009

Prada to Pravda

 Prada to Pravda
By Chan Akya

"Do we have to suffer through this transparently manipulative pseudo-reality again?" - Dr Sheldon Cooper, Big Bang Theory, Series 2. [1]

Yes Dr Cooper, apparently we do.

As we approach the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, the decline of the Soviet Union is being mirrored by a parallel decline of the United States. What passes as reality on the pages and screens of the financial media today is so far removed from ground realities as to suggest a renewed version of the Pravda economy that the Soviet Union tried to build and failed. A "then and now" comparison isn't just stark but also quite scary for anyone with common sense (that excludes today's stock market investors right away).

Then (or, a long time ago in the Soviet Union):

 
  • The Soviet Union controlled a vast array of vassal states using far-flung military bases that were all steadily declining.
  • The army was mired in Afghanistan, 10 years after the beginning of a "just" liberation that proved anything but.
  • The government owned car companies that made sub-standard products no one really wanted.
  • There were long queues for bread and vodka across the nation.
  • A deep recession was in place, caused by the decline in demand from poorer countries and falling oil prices.
  • The actions of president Mikhail Gorbachev, a political reformer, were characteristic of those of a person who wanted change to ensure his place in history.
  • The fall of the Berlin Wall fatally weakened Soviet authority across the satellites.
  • Poor distribution led to massive food waste.
  • The rouble became worthless after the pseudo-reality holding it up (namely parity with the US dollar) was exposed as a cruel hoax.

    Now (or, as things stand in the new Soviet Union):
  • America's allies are in dangerous decline - be it Turkey, Egypt or worst of all, Pakistan.
  • The military is mired in Afghanistan - almost eight years of incessant activity haven't yielded the simple result of finding Osama Bin Laden or Taliban leader Mullah Omar. (For good measure, America is also mired in another Islamic country, Iraq ... just in case the challenge of getting one's behind spanked in one country wasn't enough).
  • The American government is the proud owner of General Motors, a car company that apparently doesn't know how to make cars and, even less, profitable cars; Citibank, a bank that apparently doesn't know how to make loans and, even less, profitable loans; Fannie Mae ... okay, you get the picture.
  • The US economy is in recession, and will permanently remain in this state.
  • There are long queues for dole payments, food stamps and the like. Prescription drugs, mainly antidepressants, are the new normal for the country.
  • President Barack Obama is increasingly being seen as a politician who would do pretty much anything - ranging from limitless economic intervention to throwing Israel to the Arab wolves - to ensure his place in history.
  • Mainly thanks to the continued American fascination with burgers and other fast food - that deliver calories without the nutrients - the level of food waste in the US today exceeds the total food production of many European countries.
  • The US dollar is, well, worth less (that's two words - for now at least) with respect to its purchasing power; and is being held up by the pseudo-reality of a consumer economy.

    Creating the pseudo-reality: Ignore the important and the obvious

  • Ignoring abject reality is the key process of governance. In the Soviet Union, this was achieved through the simple medium of a complete news blackout for citizens, other than state-sponsored propaganda through various channels. In the case of the US, much the same has been achieved, but by using the opposite tactic of selective reinterpretation of news that helps cast it in much better light.

    For example, consider what is going on in Afghanistan. The Soviet Union denied to its citizens that the occupation was going badly, and indeed did not publish any figures for personnel losses. Right up to the day that Soviet troops pulled out of the country, bled dry by the insurgents who had been sponsored by the Americans, citizens of the USSR did not even know how bad the situation was.

    When the then-Afghan president Mohammad Najibullah was stripped and hanged in public by the Taliban in 1996, the news media finally should have taken cognizance of the monster that had been unleashed in the form of militants whose answer to a "higher calling" was to do some pretty awful things in their temporal existence. Instead, the American and European media extolled the "freedom fighters" while quietly praying that the chaps would turn in their unused Stinger missiles. Well, we all know how that went.

    Fast forward to now, and the steady erosion of North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) authority across Afghanistan isn't fully understood by viewers of American television, nor perhaps by the average newspaper reader. To wit, the rapid increase in the deaths of British soldiers that could well spiral into their complete withdrawal from the country at the drop of a terrorist hat (the British will only be following the course of the Spanish, who left Iraq in response to the terrorist bombing of trains in Madrid in 2004), a course of action that will soon be adopted by all other components of NATO in Afghanistan.

    Where that will leave the US, I do not know. However, the trend is quite clear and Obama's addition of a few thousand troops will prove about as significant as throwing a water balloon at a California wildfire.

    Now, most readers of this publication will already be familiar with all of this. The point to note is that the Afghan situation hasn't been seriously discussed on US networks because of fear of where the conversation will lead. The point isn't so much whether the country is Obama's Vietnam (technically speaking, it will have to be characterized as that of president George W Bush), but what the actual end game is that's being played out here.

    Does the US think that staying in the country for the next 20 years is feasible? Would Americans expect a reduction or an increase in the production of opium? Is there an ethnic allocation plan in place (think Iraq, but with real bloodthirst and guns) - because the notion of a single country is quite laughable? How are the terrorists and the Taliban to be dealt with - through education and modernization as per the NATO dream or through continued bombings as per the current plan?

    Most of all, what is the actual definition of success in Afghanistan for NATO and the US?

    For the Soviet Union, there were no real answers to the questions I pose above. It actually wouldn't really have known even if victory had passed it on the high road to Kabul a couple of times, mainly because there was no actual definition of victory. It was basically occupation for its own sake.

    You might ask why any of this is relevant to the broader issues raised at the beginning of the article. From my viewpoint, Afghanistan is an important issue because understanding the end game may well offer a vignette of the thinking on all other radical measures being planned and executed by the US government - ranging from the Keynesian economy of zombie companies and individuals to the next steps on medical services reform.

    Drugs and reality

    In the Soviet Union, there was an appropriate saying, "The government pretends to pay the workers, and workers pretend to work." The downside of that trade-off was that Russians (and other nationalities contained within the Soviet Union) did not believe in the possibility of any improvements in their life quality and behaved with the nihilism appropriate to that observation.

    This seemingly harsh statement has within it the notion of truth wrought by the idea of what separated a successful Russia from an unsuccessful one in that era: getting ahead in the ration queue, or getting to drive the plush version of the Lada. Gee, what an improvement over being a few places behind in the same queue for stale bread and spoilt meat; or driving a smaller Lada.

    No surprise then that Russians took to vodka. As a society, Russians looked at the queues as unfairness of the system towards them as individuals (because some people were able to leapfrog the system), rather than recognize that they were victims of an unsustainable economic system.

    Being unable to distinguish between secular and cyclical decline is the actual problem for developed nations today - Americans and Europeans think of equity market declines and the house-price falls of 2006-08 as the key issue, rather than as a necessary correction after years of excess. So now traditions and social mores are sacrificed at the altar of recovering wealth lost over the past two years.

    How intelligent people reconcile the obvious areas of cognitive dissonance - many people you know are not only bankrupt but also unemployed and unlikely to rebound any time soon, yet you are asked to believe that the "economy is growing again" - is a matter not so much of anthropological interest but one that determines the course of global developments.

    It's interesting to me then that pretty much no one appears bothered that the rising scourge of prescription drugs, particularly antidepressants, could well prove to be the key problem for these societies down the road; if anything, some in the media appear to believe that drugs are helping to "contain" social problems. Much like alcoholism cured Russian violence, I'm sure.

    History may choose not to repeat itself. But if it does, watch for results that aren't vastly dissimilar to the declines that we saw in the case of the Soviet Union. In the interim, the number of people who do not want to hear the truth will likely rise, as denial becomes one of the cornerstones of happiness.

    Eat a burger, drink some beer and pop some pills, dude. Then switch on the telly and have the cable news ladies tell you how good things are going to be.




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    Monday 20 July 2009

    Sordid reality behind Dubai's gilded facade


     
    July 12, 2009

     

    Construction halted, westerners jailed for adultery - but prostitutes do well

    The Radisson hotel in Dubai
    Andrew Blair says he will pick me up from outside my sleaze-bucket of a hotel, give it 20 minutes or so, got some work to finish off. He has a job again, contracts apparently "coming out of his ears", which is good, because until recently he had earned a certain notoriety for not having a job and, more to the point, for the manner in which he went about finding a new one. He drove around Dubai, back in January this year, from the plug-ugly creek to the plug-ugly marina, in his white Porsche, with a sign in the back window saying he wanted a job; vroom vroom he went, gizza job. Scratch scratch scratch went the keys and coins along the side of his car whenever it was parked up.
    Such conspicuous flaunting of vulgar affluence seems to me entirely appropriate for this foul city — especially when combined with an admission of desperation and hopelessness, that scrawled sign and telephone number in his rear window. Fur coat and no knickers, etc. But, unaccountably, the local expats found it all a little contemptible and the journalists — none of whom possessed Ferraris — sniggered long and loud in print, out of exquisite Schadenfreude. Just look at this idiot on his uppers, was the subtext. But the ploy worked, and Andrew is once again in gainful employment as a construction project manager, and therefore can remain in this country where they deport you if you're skint, so who's laughing now? Not Andrew, as it happens. The whole episode, he says, made him think, made him change his ways. Those first two years out here in this dusty and scorched semi-reclaimed desert were enormous fun: huge tax-free income, palatial apartment — "the crème de la crème" — silent or monosyllabic servants, all that sex (a city containing 8,000 air hostesses can't be bad), the fast cars, the alcohol.
    But he's a changed man, he says; that epic, shallow, soul-destroying materialism and vulgarity now leave him cold. Being out of work for a while left him a little bruised but a better person, understanding that money and consumer durables are not everything. A changed man. Although not that changed, I notice, as the white Porsche pulls up.
    "Why did you leave Britain?" I ask him, slung well below sea level in the bucket seat as we cruise the baked streets past the filthy, crumbling apartment blocks where the Bangladeshi slave labourers live or die, 10 or 12 to a room, and then into the hideous bling of downtown Dubai, a vast architectural experiment conducted by, seemingly, Albert Speer and Victoria Beckham. One skyscraper appears to be gilded in gold leaf, another looks like the birthday cake of a spoilt five-year-old brat — and all of them trying desperately to be taller, flashier, more grotesque than the one next door.
    "Well, you know," he says, in a soft Scottish burr, "I think it was the immigration more than anything else."
    "But Andrew, you're an immigrant now?"
    He looks astonished at this, as if the notion had never occurred, then says: "Yes! Ironic, I suppose. But the difference is, I'm a wanted immigrant."
    Well, up to a point, Lord Copper. Up to a point. In truth, needed more than wanted. As one local put it: "We are fed up of westerners who come here thinking they deserve an easy meal ticket. You were nothing in the West, so you came here for the houses and cars you could never get back home, you stole through taking out excessive finance that is not justified by you [sic] salaries. Then when you cannot pay you run, this is theft born out of greed and arrogance.
    "Anyway despite all of this you still disrespect our cultural and religious values with your behaviour, dress and conduct in our malls and on our beaches and comments about us our race and our religion. You spend all your time critizising [sic] our laws, society and systems. Yet, you could never have the lifestyle you have here back in your system. You people are no longer welcome, please go and pollute somewhere else."
    That was the message posted by a disgruntled Emirati on an expat website recently, and, as a description of the British, South African, Australian and eastern-European workers now living in the United Arab Emirates (UAE), it has a certain truth about it. The Emiratis are a minority within their own country, the UAE, and an even smaller minority within Dubai, the most populous city of the UAE, where they number about 20% of the population.
    On the other hand, it seems a bit rich coming from an Emirati, the inhabitant of a country that lucked into oil money about 43 years ago and is now utterly dependent on foreign labour for its current, unsustainable prosperity — the ranks of the skilled and talented working class from Europe, who come here and run their absurd, extravagant and now faltering construction projects, and the traders and the dealers.
    The British expats I spoke to believed, without exception, that the Emiratis are utterly useless, corrupt and indolent, and, according to several, some British managers are leaving rather than abide by a new law that requires them to employ a certain percentage of Arabs on every job. They're simply not up to it, they say. As it is, the locals make up less than one-fifth of the total UAE population, the westerners roughly half that amount. The majority population in Dubai is the criminally low-paid, enchained, abused, dispossessed peasantry from south Asia.
    The Europeans work long hours, mind — you could not really call it an "easy meal ticket": 12- and 14-hour days and not much in the way of holidays. But there was, until recently, an unspoken quid pro quo: listen, you soft, decadent westerners, you can have your salary income-tax-free, providing you don't lose your job, obviously (in which case we'll deport you and you'll lose everything you own). You can have your big apartments, providing you don't default on the payments when times are hard, in which case we'll put you in prison — there ain't no bankruptcy get-out clauses here, inshallah. Owing money to people is a crime. You can swan around in your flash cars and hang out at the malls, just as if you were in Maidstone or Cottbus or Pretoria. You can dress like you were at a stag-party pub crawl in Prague, or like an infidel whore on the make, and we'll grit our teeth and smoke our hubba-bubba pipes and look the other way. You can even have that other stuff you seem to like so much, the relentless, enervating fornicating, the stuff Allah really dislikes; we will turn a blind eye to the legion upon legion of addled post-Soviet whores in your horrible Brit-style pubs, nightclubs and wine bars, the cheap babes from the 'stans. Just keep the money pouring in, please: keep building those gargantuan hotels and facilitating those loans for us.
    But this long-standing deal may be in the process of disintegrating. The credit crunch hit Dubai badly, and it is clinging to its despised but less feckless neighbour, Abu Dhabi, for a very large bail-out. Troubled state-backed firms owe British companies more than £400m. The plush apartment complexes down at the marina are half-empty, investment has collapsed and property prices with it — house prices are down by as much as 50% and are predicted to fall by another 20%. It is almost impossible to put a precise figure on the rate of the collapse, because, according to one estate agent, there is no market. Nobody is buying, nobody is renting; there is no new business. An estimated £335 billion of projects have been halted or are on hold. And it is predicted that the population could decline by 17.1% by the end of the year, so things will not be getting better too quickly.
    The depression in Dubai makes our own look like a vague afterthought, because nowhere else in the world was unregulated and unfettered capitalism and a belief in perpetually rising property prices embraced with quite so much ardour as here. And it seems, as a consequence, that since the crash the locals are in recriminatory mood: if you're going to bring us a depression, they seem to be saying, then you can clear off and, in the meantime, behave like dignified human beings rather than dragging us down into your gutter. The sex thing has been bothering them particularly.
    Mohammed is an Emirati who owns a big dive shop a hundred miles across the burning sand to the east of Dubai, at Khawr Fakkan, in the slightly more conservative province of Sharjah. Khawr Fakkan, circled by stark and beautiful mountains, is on the Gulf of Oman and there is good diving to be had, plenty of tourists. Mohammed is a divorcee and he employed young western babes and chicks to run his business, because working in a dive centre is a sort of halfway house between backpacking and the real world for a certain sort of young postgrad western chick. Roxanne Hillier worked for him: young, blonde, pretty and half South African, with an English dad called Freddie. Roxanne's in the rather bleak Khawr Fakkan prison right now, and will be for the next few months, following an unsuccessful appeal against her sentence in late June. Would you like to hear what she did to get herself there?
    It was about 2am when the old bill arrived. Mohammed had been filling up the 80 or so oxygen tanks he needed for the next morning's dive; Roxanne had returned from the last dive of the day, helped out for a bit, then, exhausted, took a nap in an anteroom. Outside, Mohammed heard a disturbance, so he went down to check it out.
    "It was local people, gathered around the door to the dive centre," he told me. "They were angry, saying, 'Who have you got in there? You've got a woman in there, haven't you?' I told them, 'No, no, the dive centre is closed.' They said to me, 'Where is the key?' Later the police arrived. I told them there was nobody there, but they took my key and opened the door and searched the place and that's when they found Roxanne." The two of them were carted off to Khawr Fakkan prison (separate cells, natch) and held on remand for a week until the case came to court. Did you have sex with Roxanne, I ask Mohammed. "No, no, no, never!" Did you kiss her? "No, of course not. It is not true. It is all a misunderstanding."
    Well, as regards the first denial, we don't have to take Mohammed's word for it, because the Sharjah judicial authorities were kind enough to check the whole business out for themselves. They stripped Roxanne Hillier bare and invaded her with swabs and scrapes; a little bit of Mohammed's DNA found inside her would have hugely increased the eventual sentence. As it was, she received a sentence of three months for the crime of being alone in the same building as a man who was not her husband. She didn't know this was the sentence, because the court proceedings were conducted in Arabic and therefore she could not put her case across, either. It was later they told her what had been decided. Mohammed got a couple of weeks on the same charge.
    I take a cab to the beach, Jumeirah beach, and spend 3 minutes watching sarcomas grow on the semi-naked expats strung out across the sand under flimsy shades, E-number-flavoured Slush Puppies to hand, their eyes closed against the vicious glare, their bodies porky and immobile. It is 46C out here, unendurable — this is the country where you should never go outside. Thirty miles or so across the water is Iran, where they are probably not stripping off for the beach. Behind the beach is a dusty freeway and a hospital for people with bad kidneys. It was this beach upon which the British woman Michelle Palmer performed an ill-advised act of fellatio upon a chap she had just met — Vince Acors, from Bromley — and ended up doing three months in the local nick as a consequence. I just hope it was a shade cooler when Michelle went to work.
    Vince did a lot of interviews bragging about the women he'd had sex with in Dubai when he got out. Reading the interviews, you feel Vince may have been the last person in the world you should ever give a blow job to on a beach. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Bromley say, or Downham.
    Then there are the adultery cases that are stacking up. Such as Marnie Pearce, 40, sentenced to six months initially (three months plus a £600 fine and deportation after appeal) for an unproven adulterous relationship with a man she insists was just a friend: she was already separated from her husband. And the case of Sally Antia, whom the police swooped on as she emerged with a male friend from a Dubai hotel in the early hours of the morning — two months in prison reduced to six weeks on appeal. You get the feeling that the Emiratis are feeling vindictive right now.
    Nor is it just sex: the Dubai authorities are getting a bit twitchy about all sorts of western behaviour when it impinges directly upon them. An Australian immigrant, Darren O'Mullane, had just finished a 14-hour shift as a nurse at a Dubai hospital and was driving home when he was badly cut up by another driver who swerved in front of him. When he finally overtook this clown, he — again, ill-advisedly, as it turned out — stuck one finger up in fury. Just one finger. Three weeks in prison, lost everything — house, car, the lot. He told me the whole process had been devastating, not least having to apologise to the idiot driver who was, as bad luck would have it, a UAE police official. "I am fed up with foreigners not respecting the rules and our culture," the puffed-up medieval official told the local Arab media later. You can tell a lot about a country from a quick look at its policemen going about their business. In Dubai they appear strutting, arrogant and faintly ludicrous, the sort of policemen you might have seen in a pre-war Third World fascist theocracy. That is not too far removed from a description of Dubai today.
    The Rattlesnake bar at the Metropolitan Hotel Dubai at 10pm, just before the Filipino dance band comes on, is the place to be; this is where the Islamic blind eye is at its most consciously, calculatedly, unseeing. The whores outnumber the punters by about two to one, and that's only the lucky whores actually inside the place. There's a phalanx of about 30 of them crowded just inside the door, just standing and watching, possessed of insufficient money to buy drinks. Another 40 or so are working the rooms, their buoyant pre-recession breasts rubbing up against some happy but bewildered surveyor from Daventry, or project manager from Glasgow, or engineer from Düsseldorf. Outside, 40 or 50 more sit at tables, or stroll arm in arm along the pathways, begging western men to take them inside. These girls are almost exclusively Russian — but not from Moscow or St Petersburg, or even Kiev. They are Russians from the de-Russified 'stans, drawn here by the lack of work for people of their ethnic origin in Almaty, Dushanbe, Tashkent, Samarkand. They are a remarkable phenomenon. I will bet that right now, in a village halfway up the Andes, or in a yurt just south of Ulan Bator, Mongolia, or somewhere down a long broad river in Sarawak, Borneo, Svetlana and Olga and Zinaida are sidling up to the local menfolk, offering them a bit of vigorous glasnost and perestroika for £30 an hour.
    Iliana, a pretty chemical blonde in her twenties from Uzbekistan, is telling me who she would deign to sleep with for money. "English, good. Scottish, better. Irish, good. German, okay. But no f***ing blacks and no f***ing Arabs." No locals? "Arabs?" she asks, outraged. "No Arabs."
    "What if they paid you 20,000 dirhams [nearly £3,500]?"
    "Oh, well, then, yes, sure," she says, laughing.
    None of the Russian girls will sleep with black people or Arabs, not even Luba from Turkmenistan, who is a little older and a little brighter and a little more circumspect. There were lots of West African girls in this bar not so long ago, but the Russkies forced them out. The refusal to have anything to do with the Emiratis is not confined to the sex workers: every taxi driver I spoke to — almost all of them Pakistani — said they would refuse to pick up an Arab. Why? "Because they are arrogant scum," one driver told me. Nobody wants anything to do with the Emiratis.
    Luba worked in a travel agency in Bishkek in Kyrgyzstan, but the money was appalling and she needed to put her son through university, so she came here. As we talk I notice her still working, trying, over my shoulder, to catch the eye of someone who might actually pay her for her time. She hates her work — most of the girls hate their work — but not Iliana. "I like f***ing men," she says cheerfully, and disappears, presumably to meet a client. Luba looks like she will not be so lucky tonight, which is a shame, because I like her, although she's quite fervently racist, as they all are. As everyone here in Dubai is, here in this lovely little melting pot, all these races gathered together, loathing one another.
    At midnight I make to leave but am stopped by Keri, who is a very attractive young lady from Almaty in Kazakhstan. She hangs onto my jacket because she has found something very attractive to admire in me, too. This is gratifying, if you're me. "So lovely, so lovely," she says, holding the thing in her hands, turning it over and over, "I haven't seen one like it."
    I blush a little and clear my throat.
    "Um, it's a Bic," I tell her.
    "Bic? What is this Bic?" she says shaking her pretty head, still stroking it.
    "A lighter. Its name is, you know, Bic. I think they're, er, French."
    "Aah," she says, kohl-heavy eyes flashing. "So you have been to France, yes?"
    "No — I mean, yes, um, I've been to France. But you can get these lighters in England too!"
    "Really?" She says, entranced.
    "Er, yes. In Sainsbury's. Or a corner shop. For about 70 pence."
    I give her the lighter and skedaddle, back to my hotel room. She is less pleased with the lighter now that she possesses it.
    My interview at the Islamic Information Center is a brief, uncomfortable experience, albeit conducted with exquisite politeness and civility (on their part, at least). This is a propaganda arm of the government, or more properly a state-run evangelistic Islamic operation aimed at westerners, situated in a lock-up shop in a frowzy sector of downtown Dubai. What happens is this:
    I sip water (they were out of beer) and ask a question like — hey, have you seen all those whores down at the Rattlesnake? Isn't that against the law? And then the five berobed interviewees talk among themselves at great length in Arabic and eventually one of them explains to me very courteously, with a shy smile and an apology, why they won't answer the question. Not their responsibility, you see. This happens seven or eight times, and eventually the interview is terminated. After many handshakes I am sent on my way with a copy of a little book about how Jesus Christ was quite a nice man but totally useless, if we're being honest. One of the men, Wael Osman, sort of agrees that the economic downturn has made relations between Emiratis and their western Gastarbeiter a little more tingly, a little more fraught, and concurred that while the government turned a blind eye to all sorts of westerner shenanigans, this was becoming harder to do of late. But when I say "agrees" and "concurred", I mean that I said this stuff and he smiled a little and in a very vague sort of way nodded his head. The man I should be speaking to was the chief of police, they said, but sadly he was away receiving a medal in Djibouti.
    I didn't really have a chance to get on to the main topic, the stuff about Dubai that really, truly offends — and indeed should offend Islamic sensibilities. I don't mean Luba and Iliana, although the traffic in Russian prostitutes is brutal and violent. I don't mean the westerners in their Porsches, or the authoritarian nature of this place and complete and utter lack of democracy, or the vile architecture and unbounded materialism, or the prosecution of women for the crime of standing near men. I don't even mean the mass rounding-up and prosecution of homosexuals, who are summarily imprisoned and — the government has suggested — may face hormone treatment in order to make them, uh, "better"; this is a Sodom where sodomy carries a 10-year stretch. All of that stuff makes Dubai a fairly foul place to be, but compared to Dubai's real crimes, they are as nothing.
    Maz, a Pakistani from Lahore, drives a taxi for a living (he won't pick up Emiratis, of course). He lives in a room in the grim suburb of Al Quoz, a room costing £700 a month that he shares with six other Pakistanis. His passport has been taken from him in case he nicks the car he is driving. He cannot get home, he hasn't the money or, indeed, the passport. Maz, though, is one of the lucky ones, very near the top of the hierarchy of Third World workers induced to come to this country by the promise of large wages — wages that are rarely forthcoming. Maz at least gets paid, even if all the money goes on rent.
    The bar staff are also near the top of this hierarchy. Mostly Roman Catholic Goans, they get looked after by the hotels and even get a chance to visit their families once a year or so. I spoke to one barman to glean a bit more detail about his living conditions, but an Emirati overseer barked something out and the man ceased talking to me. But at least the hotels provide their staff with accommodation, even if it is in dormitories.
    t is the construction workers, the labourers — the Bangladeshis, the Tamils, the Filipinos, the Somalians, the Chinese — who are the real scandal of Dubai. Hundreds of thousands of them lured again by the promise of large wages, stripped of their passports, their contracts rarely honoured — some have gone months without being paid, some have even paid just to be there. They cannot go home. They hunker down in cramped, squalid apartments in Sonapur and Al Quoz. This is Dubai as a slave state. There were serious riots recently in the Chinese quarter: the workers finally had enough of criminally low wages — 500 dirhams, or about £83 a month — and continual mistreatment. The Chinese embassy got involved. Worse still are the conditions of the south-Asian workers, the construction men and the maids, effectively imprisoned in this country, abused by their employers, scrabbling around in sometimes 50C heat to earn enough to pay the rent on their shared accommodation. The Indians rioted too last year, but were forced back to work by water cannon. In the year 2005 alone, the Indian consulate estimated that 971 of its nationals died in Dubai, from construction site accidents, heat exhaustion and — increasingly — suicide. The figure for suicides the next year alone was more than 100. The Emiratis were, to give them credit, appalled by this figure, so they asked the consulate to stop collating the statistics. In October 2007 a construction-work strike resulted in 4,000 migrant workers being flung in jail and then deported. In 2006 the campaigning charity Human Rights Watch detailed the "serious" abuses of workers' rights — the wages withheld, the high rates of injury and death with "little assurance" of medical care, the passports confiscated, the wages either criminally low or never paid. The UAE had done "little or nothing" to address the problem. You get the picture?
    Local human-rights activists, when they raise their concerns, tend to receive a visit from the secret police; some have had their rights to practise as lawyers stripped from them.
    Andrew Blair, he of the Porsche, is a project manager for construction work. He believes the condition of the labourers is appalling, unforgivable, almost beyond belief. I suggest to him that in his position, he could ensure that the contracts went out to firms that treated their workers fairly. He thinks about this for a moment. "Um, well I don't care about it that much," he says.
    He is not a bad person, Andrew, and my suggestion is probably a little naive. He is, at least, conflicted. He acknowledges the issue and can comprehend that it is an evil. But that's what you sign up to when you buy property in Dubai, or go there to work, or to stay in one of its bling hotels. You sign up to all that stuff you condone it.
    I can't tell you how much I enjoyed my taxi ride back to the airport with Tariq, the taxi driver from Peshawar (he won't pick up Emiratis); to see that towering skyscape left behind in a cloud of desert dust. Paris Hilton had just flown in to do something pointless in a mall. When that happens, you just have to get the hell out.

    where the money comes from
    GDP in 2007: £23 billion
    Trading: 31%
    Construction/ Real estate: 22.6%
    Financial Services: 11%
    Oil/Petrol/Gas: 5.8%
    Dubai's foreign debt is well over 100% of its GDP
    Annual incomes
    Project manager, Construction: £57,576
    Project manager, IT: £38,438
    IT manager: £33,891
    Construction worker: ± £993
    Politics and human rights
    1 No suffrage
    2 Political parties illegal
    3 Freedom of association and expression curtailed
    The UAE refuses to sign the following treaties:
    4 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights
    5 International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights
    6 Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of Their Families
    7 Convention against Torture
    Crime and punishment
    8 Death penalty by firing squad for several offences
    9 Death penalty by stoning for adultery
    The people
    Population (Inc Migrants)
    Male 75.5%
    Female 24.5%



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    Tuesday 30 June 2009

    Yes, addicts need help. But all you casual cocaine users want locking up

     

     

    I know people who drink fair-trade tea and coffee, shop locally and snort drugs at parties. They are disgusting hypocrite

     

    George Monbiot

    guardian.co.uk, Monday 29 June 2009 20.00 BST 

     

    It looked like the first drop of rain in the desert of drugs policy. Last week Antonio Maria Costa, the executive director of the UN office on drugs and crime, said what millions of liberal-minded people have been waiting to hear. "Law enforcement should shift its focus from drug users to drug traffickers … people who take drugs need medical help, not criminal retribution." Drug production should remain illegal, possession and use should be decriminalised. Guardian readers toasted him with bumpers of peppermint tea, and, perhaps, a celebratory spliff. I didn't.

     
    I believe that informed adults should be allowed to inflict whatever suffering they wish – on themselves. But we are not entitled to harm other people. I know people who drink fair-trade tea and coffee, shop locally and take cocaine at parties. They are revolting hypocrites.
     
    Every year cocaine causes some 20,000 deaths in Colombia and displaces several hundred thousand people  from their homes. Children are blown up by landmines; indigenous people are enslaved; villagers are tortured and killed; rainforests are razed. You'd cause less human suffering if instead of discreetly retiring to the toilet at a media drinks party, you went into the street and mugged someone. But the counter-cultural association appears to insulate people from ethical questions. If commissioning murder, torture, slavery, civil war, corruption and deforestation is not a crime, what is?
     
    I am talking about elective drug use, not addiction. I cannot find comparative figures for the United Kingdom, but in the United States casual users of cocaine outnumber addicts by about 12 to one. I agree that addicts should be helped, not prosecuted. I would like to see a revival of the British programme that was killed by a tabloid witch-hunt in 1971: until then all heroin addicts were entitled to clean, legal supplies administered by doctors. Cocaine addicts should be offered residential detox. But, at the risk of alienating most of the readership of this newspaper, I maintain that while cocaine remains illegal, casual users should remain subject to criminal law. Decriminalisation of the products of crime expands the market for this criminal trade.
     
    We have a choice of two consistent policies. The first is to sustain global prohibition, while helping addicts and prosecuting casual users. This means that the drugs trade will remain the preserve of criminal gangs. It will keep spreading crime and instability around the world, and ensure that narcotics are still cut with contaminants. As Nick Davies argued during his investigation of drugs policy for the Guardian, major seizures raise the price of drugs. Demand among addicts is inelastic, so higher prices mean that they must find more money to buy them. The more drugs the police capture and destroy, the more robberies and muggings addicts will commit.
    The other possible policy is to legalise and regulate the global trade. This would undercut the criminal networks and guarantee unadulterated supplies to consumers. There might even be a market for certified fair-trade cocaine.
     
    Costa's new report begins by rejecting this option. If it did otherwise, he would no longer be executive director of the UN office on drugs and crime. The report argues that "any reduction in the cost of drug control … will be offset by much higher expenditure on public health (due to the surge of drug consumption)". It admits that tobacco and alcohol kill more people than illegal drugs, but claims that this is only because fewer illegal drugs are consumed. Strangely however, it fails to supply any evidence to support the claim that narcotics are dangerous. Nor does it distinguish between the effects of drugs themselves and the effects of the adulteration and disease caused by their prohibition.
     
    Why not? Perhaps because the evidence would torpedo the rest of the report. A couple of weeks ago, Ben Goldacre drew attention to the largest study on cocaine ever undertaken, completed by the World Health Organisation in 1995. I've just read it, and this is what it says. "Health problems from the use of legal substances, particularly alcohol and tobacco, are greater than health problems from cocaine use. Few experts describe cocaine as invariably harmful to health. Cocaine-related problems are widely perceived to be more common and more severe for intensive, high-dosage users and very rare and much less severe for occasional, low-dosage users … occasional cocaine use does not typically lead to severe or even minor physical or social problems." This study was suppressed by the WHO after threats of an economic embargo by the Clinton government. Drugs policy in most nations is a matter of religion, not science.
     
    The same goes for heroin. The biggest study of opiate use ever conducted (at Philadelphia general hospital) found that addicts suffered no physical harm, even though some of them had been taking heroin for 20 years. The devastating health effects of heroin use are caused by adulterants and the lifestyles of people forced to live outside the law. Like cocaine, heroin is addictive; but unlike cocaine, the only consequence of its addiction appears to be … addiction. 
     
    Costa's half-measure, in other words, gives us the worst of both worlds: more murder, more destruction, more muggings, more adulteration. Another way of putting it is this: you will, if Costa's proposal is adopted, be permitted without fear of prosecution to inject yourself with heroin cut with drain cleaner and brick dust, sold illegally and soaked in blood; but not with clean and legal supplies.

     
    His report does raise one good argument, however. At present the trade in class A drugs is concentrated in the rich nations. If it were legalised, we could cope. The use of drugs is likely to rise, but governments could use the extra taxes to help people tackle addiction. But because the wholesale price would collapse with legalisation, these drugs would for the first time become widely available in poorer nations, which are easier for companies to exploit (as tobacco and alcohol firms have found) and which are less able to regulate, raise taxes or pick up the pieces. The widespread use of cocaine or heroin in the poor world could cause serious social problems: I've seen, for example, how a weaker drug – khat – seems to dominate life in Somali-speaking regions of Africa. "The universal ban on illicit drugs," the UN argues, "provides a great deal of protection to developing countries".
     
    So Costa's office has produced a study comparing the global costs of prohibition with the global costs of legalisation, allowing us to see whether the current policy (murder, corruption, war, adulteration) causes less misery than the alternative (widespread addiction in poorer nations)? The hell it has. Even to raise the possibility of such research would be to invite the testerics in Congress to shut off the UN's funding. The drug charity Transform has addressed this question, but only for the UK, where the results are clear-cut: prohibition is the worse option. As far as I can discover, no one has attempted a global study. Until that happens, Costa's opinions on this issue are worth as much as mine or anyone else's: nothing at all.
     


     


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    Monday 8 June 2009

    Bowling At The Death

    Cricket's stars are a ruthless lot, many have crashed and burned at its hallowed pitch

    ROHIT MAHAJAN, SMRUTI KOPPIKAR, SUGATA SRINIVASARAJU, CHANDER SUTA DOGRA, DOLA MITRA, AMBA BATRA BAKSHI
    The game that begets a few stars is also father to thousands of disaffected, depressed men
    Cases of suicide


    Rambabu Pal: A prolific batsman from UP, he couldn't make use of the few chances he got in first-class cricket. Committed suicide at 34 in 2007.


    Manish Mishra: Was acutely depressed after he failed to make the Uttar Pradesh Ranji Trophy team, committed suicide at 24 in 2007.


    Subhash Dixit: One-time captain of India U-17, his career stalled before the Ranji level. Committed suicide at 22 in 2007.

    Jhuma Sarkar: A regular in Bengal Under-19 women's team, failed to progress. Committed suicide at 23 in 2007.

    ***

    The Enveloping Blues
    Mohan Chaturvedi, 38: Was told he'd be touring Pakistan in 1989, but was left out. A wicketkeeper, he went into depression, says he was saved by his faith in God.
    Obaid Kamal, 36: One of the best fast bowlers to never play for India. Was frustrated, says he was saved from suicide because of the Islamic injunction against it.
    Suhail Sharma, 27: The all-rounder played for Delhi in Ranji Trophy, but struggled to find a job and was depressed for four years.
    Dilraj Atwal, 21: The fast bowler was injured after being invited to bowl in the Delhi Ranji Trophy camp last year. Used to cry himself to sleep.
    Feroze Ghayas, 36: One of the fastest bowlers who never played for India. Was depressed for some time, says he hurts even now.
    Sumit Kundu, 21: Was Haryana Under-17 captain one year, on the sidelines the next. Went into a depression, gave up cricket forever.
    Saikat Ganguly, 17: Was named the best junior cricketer of Bengal in 2006; was dropped at the trial stage even before the first tournament. Still in a slump.
    Vinayak Samant, 36: For this lower middle-class boy who played for Mumbai and Assam, the India call never came. Went through lows.
    ***

    Message In A...
    Maninder Singh, 43: Hailed as a very special talent, played for India at age 17. Couldn't handle stardom, lost his rhythm, his career unravelled...and he took to drinking.
    Sadanand Viswanath, 46: In 1985, he was a superstar in the making. Then he was dropped, took to drink and, lost his way, and lost everything.
    Vijay Dahiya, 36: Still wonders why he was dropped from the Indian team, took to drinking and clubbing. Lost his way.
    Reasons
    Little room at the top
    Only a select few can play first-class cricket, about 400 in India. Number of aspirants runs into lakhs.
    Limited career options
    Being onfield for hours a day, years on end, leaves little time to acquire other vocational skills. So no fallback options.
    Arbitrariness of selection
    Selection can be arbitrary at any level, and are often very biased. Players can’t come to terms with this.
    Early success
    Too much too early can distract you. Beginning of the end?
    Injuries
    Can end a career at any age, at any time.
    ***

    Solutions
    Keep expectations in check
    Cricket must be a passion, not the career option.
    Counselling
    From very early, players must have access to sports psychologists who can guide them.
    Fair selection
    Save players from trauma, ensure that the selection process is absolutely fair.
    Sports medicine
    Still a developing science in the country, many careers are destroyed due to the lack of it.
    More other jobs
    The BCCI, with all its money, could assist players above U-17 to develop vocational skills, as is done in England.
    (Outlook accessed many others who narrated their experience of confronting the dark side of cricket—but they didn’t want to be named.)

    ***

    "The others become drunkards, slip into depression or just fade away into inconsequential careers, where they remain unhappy forever" —Yograj Singh, Cricket Coach

    "Cricket can never be a career prospect. Disappointment is guaranteed. Success is not. Once that is established, depression cannot defeat you."—Arun Lal, Former Test cricketer

    "You get selected 10 times and then you are dropped for no obvious reason. You see yourself as a failure. Even at the first-class level, it’s a gloomy life." —Aakash Chopra, Ex-India opener

    ***


    Vijay Dahiya, 36, India
    Last played for India in 2001, he couldn’t fathom why he was axed. "When you realise you won’t be chosen, the sacrifices you made earlier seem futile," he says. Started visiting nightclubs and drinking. No more bitter, he says all he has today is because of cricket.

    In the alleys of old Lucknow, where the affluent share a wall with the indigent, there’s a three-storeys-high dwelling which houses 22 people of one extended family. In a second-floor room which betrays the lower middle-class background of its owners, Manish Mishra grins back at you, his eyes glinting. But it’s only a photograph, and Mishra’s siblings don’t smile, because he hanged himself here two years ago. In life, he overdosed on a passion for cricket. In death—apparently triggered by a tiff with his estranged wife over the phone—he embodies what is very often the fruit of that passion: the lingering frustration of failing in the game and a deep regret for having spent so much time at the nets that it left him with little else in the end. Not even time to escape with some other minimal skills that could help him pitch his tent in some other field.

    "He used to say he wished had worked so hard in some other field... for he'd have found a good job..."

    Mishra joined the Agra cricket hostel for coaching at the age of nine. He worked hard at his game, ultimately playing for Uttar Pradesh in the junior teams. Early morning, he’d walk to the field, often in borrowed trousers. That’s approximately where his cricketing career got stuck, and he ended up with a fourth-class job in the Railways, a whole world away from his dream of wearing the Indian colours. "He used to say he wished he had worked so hard in some other field...," his cousins say.It didn’t stop there. Bad luck dogged him, his mother died, there was marital discord. Then, without warning, came the night when he dragged the bed across to block his door and hanged himself from the fan.

    Mishra didn’t die just because of cricket. No doubt, he took the extreme step because of circumstances at home also. But his frustration at the abject failure in his chosen field, at real or perceived injustices done to his talent, his anger at the venality of system, it all played a part till one day he snapped. In our cricket fields, this anger and frustration is shared by tens of thousands of boys and men who’ve played cricket. The game that begets a few dazzling stars also fathers thousands of disaffected, depressed men.

    There are too many guileless, potential ‘cricket victims’ out there for us to ignore it any more. Raw, underage and prone to being felled by the game’s vicissitudes. Lots of cricketers and coaches Outlook spoke to testified to the fact that depression is a major malaise. Some confessed to suicidal thoughts. The list of 15 cricketers who admitted to suffering the ‘cricket blues’ isn’t exhaustive—they are just a few who agreed to go public with their stories, in the hope that the Indian cricket establishment would be prompted to help the young cope with the dark side of the sunny sport.

    Former Test player Arun Lal, who runs the Bournvita Cricket Academy in Calcutta, admits that "depression exists in a big way in cricket". Coach Yograj Singh, who played one Test for India, admits a plain professional truth: only a handful among the hundreds of hopefuls have it in them to make it big in cricket. "The others become drunkards, slip into depression or just fade away into inconsequential careers, where they remain unhappy forever."


    Saikat Ganguly, 17, Bengal
    Jrs Named the best junior cricketer of Bengal in 2006, he was dropped at the trial stage before the first tournament. Slipped into depression, still avoids visitors. Flips through his scrapbook filled with clippings reporting his rise and fall in cricket. Advises his cousin to not play cricket.

    The really disturbing thing is, the opposite of a life of glory is often not just a life of misery—some simply terminate. The gloom that descended upon Subhash Dixit’s house in Kanpur two years ago will probably never dissipate. In 2007, the family lost Subhash, the family’s beloved as also its main hope for he was at one time the junior India cricket captain. He was then 22, when cricketing dreams often start to die and a search for livelihood begins. But Subhash lacked the skills of the usual job-seeker. Aunt Sushma, her voice trembling, says he just couldn’t find a job. "He used to say he would have been selected for the Ranji team if we had the money or the contacts," she told Outlook. "Earlier, he used to pledge that he’d ‘do something in life’. Now I just wish he’d come back somehow."

    In 2007, the family lost Subhash Dixit, their lone hope, for he was at one time the India Jrs cricket captain.

    But Subhash isn’t coming back. He jumped to his death after leaving home, ostensibly to practise at the Green Park grounds in the city.

    Obaid Kamal, who played for UP and Punjab and now coaches in Lucknow, says "people don’t know how frustrating it is to become a cricketer. (I found life in the jaws of death)." A swing bowler, Kamal was a regular feature in the Duleep Trophy teams of the 1990s. "Even when I got the most wickets, I did not get a call.When (Javagal) Srinath was injured in New Zealand in 1994, everyone said I should be sent to replace him. A spinner was sent instead!" he recalls. He declares he’s now put it all behind him, yet there were moments of despair when Kamal contemplated suicide; he says his mother’s words when he was a child—that suicide is "haraam, a sin that won’t be forgiven"—is what saved him.


    Mohan Chaturvedi, 38, Delhi
    Hailed as India’s best keeper, he went into depression after he was not chosen for the ‘89 Pak tour. Seen in Delhi’s Connaught Place with his pads and keeping glove on; he’d keep awake at night, crying. Says he’ll never let his son take up cricket.

    Faith saved Mohan Chaturvedi too, who teetered on the edge for a while. Chaturvedi, a Delhi wicketkeeper, had been measured for the team gear before the 1989 tour of Pakistan. But he was not picked up; for an 18-year-old it was shattering. Always the standby, he gave up the game at 24. Depression ensued. "I withdrew from the world, I confined myself to my room," Chaturvedi, who’s now with the Income Tax department, says. "I stopped watching cricket, I hated the game, I had no hope." What saved him was his faith in god. Chaturvedi says, "God gave me the power to come out of depression. I used to go to the holy shrines every year, and that saved me."

    It's emotionally sapping to play a game where luck has such a crucial role. The strain breaks cricketers.

    Cricketers seem more vulnerable to depression than other sportspersons because the game, as writer David Frith (see column) puts it, "is unique in its propensity to take over a man’s psyche". In recent times, there have been many reports of high-profile cases of depression, including England’s Marcus Trescothick, Australia’s Shaun Tait and New Zealand’s Lou Vincent. For it’s emotionally sapping to play a game where luck has such a crucial role. The strain can break cricketers. Take the case of fast bowler Firoze Ghayas, who took 13 wickets on his first-class debut. Yet he struggled to become a regular for even Delhi, forget playing for India. "For a player with skill and ambition, sitting on the bench is like being in jail," he says now. "It still hurts, this pain will never go away. Why did it happen? Eventually, to make peace with yourself, one comes to the conclusion that it’s fate. Even if you are good and have performed well, if you don’t have luck or someone backing you, it all adds to nothing." Some, unlike Ghayas, are never reconciled.


    Feroze Ghayas, 36, Delhi
    Javagal Srinath once told him, "You’ve got raw pace, man!" Dennis Lillee thought he was a hot prospect. But he never played for India. His frustration in the mid-1990s bordered on depression. A coach now, he hopes to protect his wards from what he went through.

    Cricket is also unique among team sports because of the clout the captain or the coach enjoys. In football, basketball or rugby, a player’s talent can’t be hidden, despite any level of scheming. "If the captain doesn’t like you, he can restrict you to a short bowling spell, or ask you to bowl when the batsmen are completely set, or to bowl only against the wind," says a former Delhi junior player. And heard of this? A Delhi cricket official whose son is a left-arm spinner managed to get all his counterparts dropped from the junior teams. The reason: so that there’s no competition for his son when he’s old enough to play first-class cricket. Then there are the debilitating injuries that nip the careers of hundreds of hopefuls.

    All this, naturally, begets cynicism and frustration—always a close ally to depression.Many give up the game to brood indoors, cursing their fate or the system. Like Sumit Kundu, 21, for whom cricket was life for 10 long years. He was captain of the Haryana under-17 team, but in 2007, when he was preparing for the state’s under-19 team, he was told he was not good enough. Kundu slipped into depression. "I stopped going out with friends, used to cry for hours," he says. Kundu was wise enough to relinquish his dream early, providing him time to prepare for an MBA course. "I’ll never go back to cricket again. It’s too painful," he says.


    Suhail Sharma, 26, Delhi
    Couldn’t cement his place in the Ranji team. Went through torrid times for two years. "I feared I’d have to give up cricket and work crazy shifts like some of my friends, who start work at 4 am to oversee newspaper distribution, with no time for cricket," he says. A job with ONGC helped.

    Outlook cited a few of these cases to Nimesh G. Desai, head of the Institute of Human Behaviour and Allied Sciences in Delhi. He confirms that the symptoms do indicate depression, but adds that no study has been done to gauge the incidence of depression among cricketers specifically. He also explained why the impact of failure in cricket is more severe than in other fields of human endeavour: "In cricket, as also in the movie industry, the stakes are very high, expectations are high, and there’s a high degree of emotional and physical investment. At stake is a high degree of social adulation, or retribution for that matter."

    "In cricket, the stakes are very high as are expectations. There's a high degree of emotional, physical investment."

    Often, budding cricketers chase their dreams till the very end, unable to read the writing on the wall. Some, like Vinayak Samant, 36, have managed to survive the trauma. From a lower middle-class family from the Mumbai suburb of Virar, this gritty wicketkeeper-batsman had had his share of lows—but never slipped into the darkness of depression. It’s only now, after 20 years of hoping, that he’s reconciled to his shattered dream of playing for India. Former India opener Aakash Chopra, who’s no stranger to disappointment, told Outlook, "Young players have big dreams, sometimes you are not good enough, other times you realise you need more than just performance on the field. You get selected 10 times and are then suddenly dropped for no obvious reason. You see yourself as a failure. Players, even at the first-class level, live gloomy lives, away from the glamour and money associated with cricket."


    Sadanand Viswanath, 46, India
    A rising superstar in early 1985, dropped from the team the same year. His father committed suicide; mother died soon after. He went "over the limit" with alcohol. A qualified umpire now, he says "too much expectation at a young age leads to disaster. Better to have delayed gratification".

    In a sense, the Indian Premier League (IPL) is a welcome development for the forgotten, poor men of Indian cricket, for it has opened up new avenues for them. "It’s a boon," agrees Chopra. "First-class level players have worked very, very hard to reach where they are. Now more of them can make a better living from the game."

    To succeed at the top, youngsters need endless passion, ambition and absolute confidence. For doubt is fatal.

    But most are doomed to suffer in the shadows. Maninder Singh, a prodigy who faded away, says it would help if the coaches were honest with the parents."The coach’s conscience has to be clean and pure," he told Outlook. "They must be honest with a player, ask him to focus on studies if he has little talent or no future in the game." Adds Arun Lal, "Disappointment is guaranteed. Success is not. Once that is established, depression cannot defeat you. Cricket can never be a career prospect. It should be a passion and if it happens to become a career one day, great! But don’t count on it."

    For the young players, the algebra for success is baffling: to succeed at the top, they need endless passion, ambition and absolute confidence. For doubt is fatal. This must be accompanied by maturity, for disappointments must and will buffet them at every step. It’s a very rare blend that succeeds, most don’t have it in them. All the more reason why parents must prepare their children for heartbreak...and a career in other fields.

    Thursday 2 April 2009

    THE MORAL MAZE

    Girish Menon

    In the film Gandhi, after gunning down many non violent protesters at Jallianwalla Baugh General Dyer insisted that he was willing to offer first aid to any victim who would approach him. That was a case of selective morality and a similar argument can be made to explain our society’s treatment of the alcohol industry. In my view alcohol is no different from cocaine in its deleterious effects on society and hence its treatment should not be different from drugs.

    There has always been an utilitarian argument for alcohol in that it provides jobs and more importantly government revenues. Also, the argument goes, prohibition will result in a black market. However, I do not see such an argument being upheld when it comes to consumption of heroin.

    The other argument in favour of alcohol is the other old chestnut ‘consumer choice’ i.e. we should allow the consumer to decide how much alcohol he should consume instead of the nanny state taking that decision for him. This argument is a case of double standards since consumers do not have a similar choice with drugs. More importantly, the consumer choice argument is based on the assumption that a consumer is a rational actor who will only take decisions that maximizes his welfare. By consuming alcohol regularly if a person is found to be jeopardising his own future, can we call such a consumer a rational actor?

    Thus in my view governments run on alcohol, politicians need it in great measure to do what they do and also the tax revenues generated are highly addictive too. The alcohol industry employs folks who look like us and are probably people like us. I would hence invite you to imagine what would be our reaction if the same alcohol industry was based in Afghanistan or Colombia. Would we treat such exports just as well?

    Friday 20 March 2009

    The Pleasure Principle

      
    SAN FRANCISCO

    EVEN in a culture in which sex toys are a booming business and Oprah Winfrey discusses living your best life in the bedroom, a coed live-in commune dedicated to the female orgasm hovers at the extremes.

    The founder of the One Taste Urban Retreat Center, Nicole Daedone, sees herself as leading "the slow-sex movement," one that places a near-exclusive emphasis on women's pleasure — in which love, romance and even flirtation are not required.
    "In our culture, admitting our bodies matter is almost an admission of failure," said Ms. Daedone, 41, who can quote the poet Mary Oliver and speak wryly on the intricacies of women's anatomy with equal aplomb. "I don't think women will really experience freedom until they own their sexuality."

    A core of 38 men and women — their average age the late 20s — live full time in the retreat center, a shabby-chic loft building in the South of Market district. They prepare meals together, practice yoga and mindfulness meditation and lead workshops in communication for outside groups as large as 60.

    But the heart of the group's activity, listed cryptically on its Web site's calendar as "morning practice," is closed to all but the residents.

    At 7 a.m. each day, as the rest of America is eating Cheerios or trying to face gridlock without hyperventilating, about a dozen women, naked from the waist down, lie with eyes closed in a velvet-curtained room, while clothed men huddle over them, stroking them in a ritual known as orgasmic meditation — "OMing," for short. The couples, who may or may not be romantically involved, call one another "research partners."

    A commune dedicated to men and women publicly creating "the orgasm that exists between them," in the words of one resident, may sound like the ultimate California satire. But the Bay Area has a lively and venerable history of seekers constructing lives around sexual adventure.

    San Francisco is proud of its libertine heritage, as Sean Penn recently demonstrated in "Milk." The search for personal transformation, including through sex, led to the oceanside hot tubs at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, cradle of the human potential movement, and in the 1960s, communes flourished in the city, many espousing free love.

    One Taste is but the latest stop on this sexual underground, weaving together strands of radical individual freedom, Eastern spirituality and feminism.

    "The notion of a San Francisco sex commune focused on female orgasm is part of a long and rich history of women being public and empowered about their sexuality," said Elizabeth A. Armstrong, an associate professor of sociology at Indiana University, who has studied San Francisco's sexual subcultures.

    As with many a commune before it, the leader of One Taste, Ms. Daedone, is a polarizing personality, whom admirers venerate as a sex diva, although some former members say she has cultlike powers over her followers. They say she sometimes strongly suggested who should pair off with whom romantically.

    "There was always a pushing of peoples' boundaries," said Judy Silber, who lived at One Taste for three and a half years and left last fall. "We all knew it was a hardcore place, and we came to play hard."

    The group has drawn scant attention during its four and a half years — perhaps because it is just the sort of community San Franciscans expect in their backyard — although there was a brief sensation when The San Francisco Chronicle wrote about the group's naked (nonsexual) yoga classes. Many voyeuristic non-yogis showed up. Now the yoga is fully clothed.

    Those drawn to One Taste are an eclectic lot. Some are in life transitions, among them a baby-faced 50-year-old Silicon Valley engineer, a recently divorced man, who said that the practice of manually fixing his attention on a tiny spot of a woman's body improves his concentration at work.

    Most residents are young questers, seeking to fill an inner void and become empowered through Ms. Daedone's blend of female-centric spirituality and sexuality. One, Beth Crittenden, 33, grew up in conservative Virginia tobacco country, a place, she said, where the fundamentals of the female anatomy were never discussed and masturbation was unmentionable. "I'd never done anything even in the dead of night," she said.

    She stumbled onto the center's Folsom Street building, with its comfy overstuffed sofas, and enrolled in a women's self-pleasure course because her relationships with men, as she put it, "kept running into a cement wall."

    She resisted offers to pursue further courses (for a fee), deleting the center's incessant e-mail messages. But on the cusp of her 29th birthday, she tentatively returned. "I was scared to open up my life that much, but I was more scared not to," she said.
    Now an instructor herself, Ms. Crittenden talks about "the lingering velocity of my desire and my hesitation to give into it."
    Another member, Racheli Cherwitz, 28, had spent years grappling with anorexia and alcoholism, she said. In search of identity, she moved to Israel and became an Orthodox Jew.

    Discovering One Taste, she said, has improved her self-image and given her "deep physical access to the woman I am and the woman I want to be."

    Ms. Cherwitz commutes to New York and offers private sensuality coaching at a satellite outpost operated by One Taste on Grand
    Street. Many of her clients, she said, are married Orthodox Jewish couples from Brooklyn.

    In the One Taste world, a weirdly clinical pact is made between the women and men. There is no eye contact during orgasmic meditation. The idea, similar to Buddhist Tantric sex, is to extend the sensory peak — and publicly share it — before "going over," as residents, who tend toward group-speak, call climaxing.

    Although men are not touched by the women and do not climax, they say they experience a sense of energy and satiation. Both the strokers and strokees insist that all this OMing is really about the "hydration" of the self, the human connection, not sex.
    Reese Jones, a venture capitalist-slash-geek-slash Ms. Daedone's boyfriend, likens orgasmic meditation to massage.

    "It's a procedure to nourish the limbic system, like yoga or Pilates, with no other strings attached," he said. "When you go to a massage therapist," he added, "you don't take the masseuse to dinner afterward."

    MS. DAEDONE'S inspiration and mentor as a sex guru was Ray Vetterlein, who achieved fame of sorts in sex circles by claiming to lengthen the average female orgasm to 20 minutes.

    Mr. Vetterlein, now in his 80s, was inspired by Lafayette Morehouse, a controversial 40-year-old community still in existence in suburban Lafayette, Calif., that has been conducting public demonstrations of a woman in orgasm since 1976.
    Morehouse's founder, Victor Baranco, was a former appliance salesman who called his philosophy "responsible hedonism." By some accounts, Mr. Baranco, who died in 2002, used coercive techniques of mind control.

    "It was a huge ego-crushing machine, as any valid monastic tradition is," said a man who lived at Morehouse for 20 years and did not want to be identified.

    Ms. Daedone's early career was hardly alternative: she studied semantics at San Francisco State University and then donned her pearls to help found an art gallery. But at 27, her world came crashing down when she learned that her father, from whom she was largely estranged, was dying of cancer in prison, after being convicted of molesting two young girls.

    "Everything in my reality just collapsed," she said. "My body turned to stone and crumbled."

    Her father had not behaved inappropriately toward her, Ms. Daedone said; on the contrary, he was a distant figure.
    "There had been a way I felt close to him in this felt way, and then all of the sudden he would shut down," she said. "I later came to understand that he was trying to protect me from himself, from his pathology."

    Her pathway back to life was initially Buddhism, which she pursued with a vengeance, intending to live in a Zen community. But at a party in 1998, she met a Buddhist who had a practice in what he called "contemplative sexuality."

    He invited her to lie down unclothed, set a timer and, while stroking her, proceeded to narrate in tender detail the beauty he saw, the colors that went from coral, to deep rose, to pearlescent pink. "I just broke open, and the feeling was pure and clean," Ms. Daedone said. "In a strange way, I think at that moment I decided to live."

    Since opening One Taste, she has allowed it to go through numerous permutations; to her chagrin, it initially attracted misfits who "liked to get sloppy and grope each other," she said.

    She concedes that she has made mistakes — among them the naked yoga class — but she has been savvy about packaging her product. She changed the term "deliberate orgasm," as it is called by other practitioners, to the more marketable "orgasmic meditation."

    Much of the community's tone revolves around Ms. Daedone, a woman of considerable charm, although detractors regard her as a master manipulator.

    "Nicole groks people," said Marci Boyd, 57, the group's oldest resident, borrowing a phrase from Robert A. Heinlein's "Stranger in a Strange Land" that connotes understanding someone so totally that the observer becomes one with the observed.
    Elana Auerbach, an original resident, who left the group with Bill Press, who is now her husband, said the upshot of Ms. Daedone's ability to become exactly the person an individual yearns for is that "they take on Nicole, exude Nicoleness."
    "You stop trusting yourself and start trusting Nicole," she said.

    Until recently, residents lived in tight quarters, sacrificing privacy for the group, two to a bed, 12 beds to a room, each bed separated by a curtain. Now they have private rooms in a building adjacent to the meditation center (both are somewhat providentially on Folsom Street, home of the world's largest annual leather, bondage and fetish fair).

    Ms. Auerbach said that she and Mr. Press eventually decided they wanted a life that was "heart-focused rather than genital-focused." Now parents of a baby boy, they view their experience as a cautionary tale.

    "Nicole promulgates a message and everyone else reflects that," Mr. Press said.

    Ms. Daedone insists she does not invite or like the all-powerful image. "There's a high potential for this to be a cult," she said.
    She recently moved out of the communal living quarters, in part to fight this tendency. "Whenever I was in the space, everybody treated me like a guru," she said. "I'd wake up and people would come sit on my bed."

    Now she lives with Mr. Jones, her boyfriend, a braniac who sold a computer software company he founded, Netopia, to Motorola for $208 million, and makes financial resources available to One Taste, including helping to buy a retreat in Stinson Beach, Calif.
    Ms. Daedone wants One Taste to be mainstream, and to that end the center presents lectures by rabbis and Tibetan monks, along with public classes and workshops in "mindful sexuality."

    But a One Taste Peoria seems hard to imagine. At a weekend workshop at the center recently, attended by scores of men and women interested in learning orgasmic meditation, Ms. Daedone outlined her philosophy.

    "In our culture," she said, while beatifically seated on a cushion, "women have been conditioned to have closed sexuality and open feelings, and men to have open sexuality and closed feelings. There's this whole area of resistance and shame."

    Soon the aspiring OM-ers, including a couple from Marin County hoping to rekindle their marriage, gathered on the floor kindergarten-style around a massage table. Justine Dawson, a wholesome-looking 34-year-old community resident, took off her robe and hopped up. Another resident, Andy Roy, 28, began his task, his concentration so exquisite that he broke into a sweat.

    Attendees were instructed to call out their feelings, and many did, describing the turn-on they, too, were feeling.
    When it was over, Ms. Dawson emanated radiance worthy of a Caravaggio, a youthful innocence. In another context, it might have been a profound and romantic moment between two lovers. Instead, a different image came to mind: the post-coital interview by Howard Cosell, holding a microphone, in Woody Allen's "Bananas."

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