Tuesday, September 30, 2003

Greyston bakery Lin-designed building means more do-good goodies By Jim Fitzgerald YONKERS, N.Y. - The Greyston Bakery, which was founded by a Zen master, hires the homeless and makes brownies for Ben and Jerry[base ']s ice cream, cut the ribbon Friday outside a new bakery building designed by Maya Lin, architect of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The $9 million, aluminum-clad building on a once-contaminated site in southwest Yonkers is Lin[base ']s first industrial design. In a brief speech at the opening ceremony, she said the building [base "]is about food, water and light.[per thou] She used paint inside in shades of oatmeal, wheat, butter and coffee. She opened the building to light with huge skylights and sheets of clear plastic between floors. And she honored the Buddhism of Greyston founder Bernard Glassman, she said, by featuring water - in communal sinks for the bakery workers, in a still-unfinished outdoor fountain and in the views of the Hudson River from the roof. The baking machinery - including two U-shaped assembly lines, a 40-foot tunnel oven and a spiraling cooling rack - were still being tested Friday. Officials were not sure when the production will actually move from the current bakery, a cramped former lasagna factory around the corner. The move will triple the bakery[base ']s capacity and increase the number of workers, now at 60, most of whom are hired almost literally off the street. Federal, county and local officials who spoke at the ceremony praised the Greyston Foundation for its work not only at the bakery but in child care, housing and health care. Glassman said the new bakery building was [base "]the required next step so that we can create more jobs. I think it[base ']s beautiful.[per thou] Yves Couette, chief executive officer of Ben and Jerry[base ']s, the socially conscious ice cream company, said Greyston[base ']s unique structure made it [base "]a risk well worth taking[per thou] when Ben and Jerry[base ']s was looking for a brownie supplier in 1987. Greyston[base ']s expansion, he said, was [base "]near and dear to our hearts.[per thou] The ice cream company is Greyston[base ']s biggest customer, buying 2 million pounds of brownies a year. But Greyston also makes gourmet cakes sold in the best stores and restaurants in New York. The new building will include a retail outlet. After the ceremony, some Greyston delicacies were offered to the crowd of 300. After Westchester County Executive Andrew Spano excused himself, saying he was on the Atkins diet, Yonkers City Council President Vincenza Restiano said she was dieting too, but had saved her Weight Watchers [base "]points[per thou] so she could indulge in Greyston goodies. Brought to you by Peacemaker Circle International. 2:00:48 PM

Friday, September 19, 2003

Montague Farm May Host Area Peace Group Montague farm may host area peace group by Dianne Broncaccio, Recorder Staff Greenfield Recorder, Tuesday September 16, 2003 TURNERS FALLS - If all goes as planned, the Montague Farm on Ripley Road - now home to the Peacemakers Circle International - will open a conference center for workshops, retreats, training programs and performances. The nonprofit peace activism group acquired the 34-acre farm in July 2002 and is putting together funding to convert the farm's early 19th century barn into a conference center and office spaces, co-founder Bernie Glassman told Montague selectmen Monday. The center will be called "The House of One People," and it will be used for workshops, lectures, interfaith programs and other events that focus on peace initiatives and social activism. The conference center will be able to hold events for up to 100 people, although most events will be attended by between 30 to 50 people, Glassman said. A site plan review will go before other town boards as part of the permit process, Glassman said. Glassman and Eve Marko went to selectmen to see if the board would send a letter of support for the project to the United State Department of Agriculture, which may lend money for the construction through a rural development component. Glassman said the agency requires a letter from town or city officials saying that the structure will not have a negative effect on the community. Selectmen said they wanted to see the organization's nonprofit documentation, a list of its incorporators and a layout of the conference center plan. If satisfied with the provided criteria, selectmen agreed to furnish the letter by Thursday, which is the deadline for the loan application. Brought to you by Peacemaker Circle International. 2:22:23 PM

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

'Cell-using teens heading for early senility' 'Cell-using teens heading for early senility' September 15 2003 London - Cellphones and new wireless technology could cause a "whole generation" of today's teenagers to go senile in the prime of their lives, new research suggests. The study - which warns specifically against "the intense use of mobile phones by youngsters" - comes as research on the phones' effects on health is being scaled down due to industry pressure. It is likely to galvanise concern about the almost universal exposure to microwaves in Western countries by revealing a new way in which they may seriously damage health. Leif Salford, the professor who headed the research at Sweden's prestigious Lund University, says: "The voluntary exposure of the brain to microwaves from hand-held mobile phones" is "the largest human biological experiment ever". People may "drown in a sea of microwaves" And he is concerned that, as new wireless technology spreads, people may "drown in a sea of microwaves". The study - financed by the Swedish Council for Work Life Research, and published by the American government's National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences - breaks new ground in looking at how low levels of microwaves cause proteins to leak across the blood-brain barrier. Previous concerns about cellphones have concentrated on the possibility that the devices may heat the brain, or cause cancer. But the heating is thought to be too minor to have an effect and hundreds of cancer studies have been inconclusive. As a result, the United States' cellphone industry has succeeded in cutting research into the phones' health effects, and the World Health Organisation is unlikely to continue its studies. Mays Swicord, a scientific adviser to Motorola, told New Scientist magazine that governments and industry should "stop wasting money" by looking for health damage. But Salford and his team have spent 15 years investigating a different threat. Their previous studies proved radiation could open the blood-brain barrier, allowing a protein called albumin to pass into the brain. Their latest work goes a step further, by showing the process is linked to serious brain damage. Salford said the long-term effects were not proven, and that it was possible that the neurons would repair themselves in time. But, he said, neurons that would normally not become "senile" until people reached their 60s may now do so when they were in their 30s. He says he deliberately refrained from publicising his work to avoid alarm, and acknowledges that cellphones can save lives. 5:02:05 PM

Monday, September 15, 2003

House of One People Campus Monday, September 15th, 2003 Today in history: The over-developed world is hearing the voice of the underdevloped world after the leaders of underdeveloped nations this weekend walked out of the World Trade Organization meetings in Cancun, Mexico. The disparity in their position was perhaps as stark as the disparity between the lifestyles of the guests at Cancun's posh tourist resorts and the "life" style of the Cancun people routinely excluded from, and punished because of, these resorts. The trade ministers who walked out of the WTO talks sent a poignant message to the businessmen and women of the elite institutions of money: enough is enough. Hunger, poverty, disease, pollution, discrimination are the by-products that the WTO has served on the world's underdeveloped nations, and the WTO ministers stood their ground in pursuit of equitable, instead of predatory, subsidies on international trade. Outside the meetings, tens of thousands of protesters celebrated. Circa some 40 years ago, four young black women were killed by the Ku Klux Klan, somewhere in the south of the United States. The world has learned that the government of Israel has proclaimed its interest in assassinating Yassar Arafat, the Head of State of the Palestinian Authority. A coup has taken place in Gunea Bissau, a tiny West African nation -- pillaged by the west for its raw materials -- that is in perpetual media whiteout. The Mugabe government in Zimbabwe over the weekend promulgated yet another executive military decree instituting further censorship and restrictions against the free press in Zimbabwe. Contrary to the opinion of uninformed political analysts and activists whom have taken to the airwaves and pages of newspapers duly criticizing Zimbabwe President Robert Mugabe, there is no interest in the Mugabe government in a true redistribution of land -- said to be the cause behind the recent press closures. Those people who attribute a conspiratorial bias to the western press for attacking Mugabe are correct in their assertions that the capitalist system does not want a redistribution of land -- the multinational agribusiness and elite white farmers being the greatest land usurpers -- but incorrect in their assertions that the Mugabe government, and Mugabe himself, is being punished for supporting the people. Land seizures by the Mugabe government have taken place under hostile conditions, but the land is redistributed to cronies of Mugabe and his party. The people have seen a lot of violence, and it is indelibly etched in their memory. Indeed, since coming to power in 1979 (de facto), the Mugabe government has perpetuated genocide on the Ndebele people. May all beings be happy. Brought to you by Peacemaker Circle International. 2:42:22 PM

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Israel & Palestine Israel's Contact With Next Generation of Palestinians by Gideon Levy Ha'aretz - Sunday, Aug. 10, 2003 TEL AVIV - Israel's contact with the next generation of Palestinians - those who grew up under the occupation - and its attempts to achieve peace with them, will be far more problematic than with the generation that preceded it. This is something we need to be aware of and take into account. No past generation grew up in conditions as severe as those that afflicted the members of the current generation in the territories. Indeed, there is no place in the Western world where children live in comparable conditions. A year ago, a report by USAID, the U.S. Agency for International Development, found that about a quarter of the children in the territories suffer from malnutrition, either prolonged or passing. A United Nations agency found at the time that 62 percent of the Palestinians did not have sufficient access to food. Since then, the situation has only been aggravated. A similar state of affairs exists in the health system, in which all medical treatment, including vaccinations and first aid, is a complicated, and at times impossible, bureaucratic process. One need only participate in one of the events held by Physicians for Human Rights to see the health conditions in which children are growing up in Israel's backyard. It is not only food and physical health that these children lack. From Jenin to Rafah, hundreds of thousands of children are suffering from psychological traumas whose impact is difficult to gauge. These are children who, in the past three years, have been exposed to death in truly frightening dosages, to destruction, shooting, tanks in the streets, soldiers invading their homes in the middle of the night, arrests, beatings and multiple forms of humiliation. Some of them lost their friends, in some cases before their eyes: 230 Palestinian children under the age of 15 and another 208 aged 15-18 have been killed since September 2000. Many others have been rendered paralyzed or disabled, and their friends have been exposed to horrors. One doesn't have to be a psychologist to understand that children who live with deep anxiety for such a lengthy period will suffer mental problems. And, of course, hardly any of them are getting professional assistance. These children are growing up with deprivations that are hard for an Israeli parent or child to imagine. They have never seen a beach, have never been in an air-conditioned room, have never splashed around in a swimming pool, have never been on a bus, have never gone on a trip anywhere - they can only dream of being on a train or a plane. Some of them were unable to leave their homes for months on end, or leave their villages for years. Day and night in the same village, without a community center, without a sports field, without books, toys or games. They have never been to an amusement park, they have no idea what a computer is, they have never been to a movie theater, seen a play, visited a museum, attended a concert or taken part in extracurricular activities. For months they couldn't even get to school. Their cultural and social world was formed by the conditions of their lives under the closures and sieges imposed by Israel. Some of them have never seen their grandparents, even though they live in a nearby town; others have never seen their imprisoned brothers or fathers (in some cases, both parents are in Israeli detention) since visits to prisons became impossible. Many children, too, have been arrested and given severe punishments without any consideration for their age, and have been jailed together with adults. However, it is not only the living conditions of the Palestinian children that should be causing Israelis sleepless nights. Because in addition to their distress, for most of which Israel is responsible, this is a generation that "did not know Joseph." Their fathers worked in Israel, in some cases from a very early age, working its fields, building its houses, cleaning its streets or doing commerce with Israel. From childhood they were exposed to Israelis, becoming familiar with both their ugly and their good sides and even learning their language. Consequently, the attitude of that generation toward Israel is more complex: the great majority of that generation still believes in peace and some of it aspires to emulate Israel in certain spheres. In contrast, the children of the present generation are totally cut off from us. Their only exposure to Israel is through two figures: the soldier who bursts violently into their home in the dead of night, smashes a hole in their living room wall and humiliates their parents; or the settler, who has plundered their land and sometimes also abuses them. This is a generation that has never heard of nonviolent, unarmed Israelis. The only Israelis today's Palestinian children - tomorrow's generation of adults - have seen are those who imprison them in their homes, shoot them, beat them and humiliate them. They don't need the incitement doses in day camps or Palestinian television to mold their worldview. All they have to do is look around at what is happening close to home. When they come of age they will carry these memories with them. They will not be able to forget the spectacles of horror they were exposed to, or those they hold responsible for them. Thus before our eyes a generation is growing that is not only hungry, psychologically traumatized, unhealthy and without proper education - but is also thirsty for revenge and consumed by hatred. This is a message that should be of deep concern, not only to the parents of these wretched children, but to us all. Copyright 2003 Ha'aretz. All rights reserved. Brought to you by Peacemaker Circle International. 9:31:29 AM

Tuesday, September 9, 2003

DIARY OF A PEOPLE UNDER SEIGE Diary of an ISM activist living in Rafah Sent by Victoria Buch, Jerusalem, Israel August 21, 2003 And outside, they are shouting again, men's voices fighting to stay afloat like it was an ocean they were drowing in. Down the street in Al Awda Square, Hamas has been demonstrating since 8 pm between Christmas lights in bright colors and loudspeakers. Further down, the shooting from the tower dominiates the night, louder than angry men, louder than demonstrators. Earlier tonight, an ambulance's urgent wail, I holding my breath praying. Death is so close now you can smell it. Already it has come like a rainstorm beginning in Hebron, like the time I watched rain come towards me from across a lake and ran toward the forest and my feet were not faster than the rain. In the West Bank, tanks close in, six dead in a day. In Gaza, five missiles from an F16 assassinate Ismael Abu Shanab, a non-militant spokesperson for Hamas; kill his two bodyguards, and injure 20 bystanders, 5 seriously. F16s paint the sky everyday, blue and white like clouds. But so far in Rafah, a military tower is shooting in the air, bullets have remained abstract in their threat, have not collided today with flesh, but still I see death everywhere, in the faces of my friends and of strangers in the streets. Shouting upstairs as the images paint TV. 8-29-03 In my haste to leave the internet cafe, I forgot to mention in my last letter that just as we were leaving the hospital, one seventeen-year-old was dying in the ICU from the injuries he had received by the missile in Jabaliya Camp the day before, and crowds of people were flowing into the waiting room like rivers, falling all over each other and you could hear the sounds of hearts breaking. And last night back in Rafah slept so well I didn't hear the two five minute bouts of gunfire near us or the two tank shells that landed near us, but woke up anyway with my whole face clenched and my head pounding which is how I wake up everyday for no reason I can discern, woke up to hommos and foul and shakshuka, bread warmed directly on the burner, don't mess around here, Al-Jazeera playing war scenes in India and Iraq and Palestine; Al-Jazeera covering the blackout in London, CNN covering talking american heads going on and on in that disinterested stance thateven seeps through the overdub. Abu Ahmed's voice, shrill and disgruntled (existing for itself only) voice, demanding we find our way outside to where the air is softer, under the fig tree; to where Sally's eleven-year-old legs all wrapped up in green bellbottoms are climbing the wall to find the freshest figs, deep purple like red grapes, insides full of erotic pink fibers disolving like sugar. Sally bickering tirelessly with her father over figs. Can I tell you about this family? Can I tell you that I managed to sleep through high caliber gunfire and tank shells but wake up promptly at 7am every morning when the members of the family start hollering at each other about breakfast, and that they only cool down after they've eaten and after they've had tea and settled down to watch TV and clim fig trees and sit around all day together chatting and poking fun at each other. Abu Ahmed hollers all day I think just to holler and not because he's deaf in one ear. 9-1-03 On Saturday we went to Khan Younis to visit the shaheed tent of Hamdi Kallakh, who had been assassinated decapitated two days earlier by an Apache missile at the age of 35. We were led to the house where women were crowded together on cushions, filling two small rooms. We walked in, murmering condolences in stilted Arabic, not knowing what to say. We asked about his mother, but she was unconscious from grief and from fasting, she hadn't eaten since her son was killed. So we walked on; The 20-something widow he had left behind was sitting in the far corner and lifted her niqab to greet us, revealing a soft face with large cheekbones. Everyone seemed a bit confused about what we were doing there. We sat down in a corner where people made room for us, between aging women, eyes wide and bottomless, coffeebrown skin in delicate folds like the pages of old books. They wore looks of disbelief and soft white cotton scarves wrapped loosely around their faces, folding into soft hills over their full, fat bellies, and below that, heavy black jilbabs down to their bare callussed old women feet. We were served traditional coffee and dried dates, the bitterness of a person't passing followed by the sweetness of Allah's patience. A younger woman with a round face and thin lips began to translate. She wanted to know what we had to say about the helicopters that had killed her cousin and why Bush was sending tanks to their borders and their cities. Bush and Shgaron is one word here. More than a few times I've heard people say America to mean Israel without thinking. The old women pitching in their frustrations with the rest. Us agreeing with them, us angry out loud with them. At some point they heard our anger and it brought us toether into the room. The young widow sat silently through all of this, lips smiling faintly, removed from the whole weight of the room and the agitated women, nursing her 4-month-old child, the youngest of seven. Someone brought in shaheed posters for us to examine. About the M16 he was holding, they said his wife had pleaded with him to leave it so the army wouldn't kill him and leave her and their children behind to pick up the pieces; but now that he's been murdered by that army she's proud and says she'll give that gun to his oldest son. But outside it's the first day of school and you wouldn't notice the grief. The streets explode with children in bright new uniforms, pinstripes and fresh blue polo shirts and shiny white mendeels are lining the streets in row formation. The entire youth population of Rafah in mass exodus in the eleven-AM sun. 9-2-03 And as students rush through the steets from their second day of school, we drive past them to the pale white of the shaheed tent of Ayya Mahmood, shot deat three mornings ago at the age of eight. What can be said about that. White plastic chairs hold men in long lines under the shade of the tent. Above, a mural hangs from the wall, a tree bleeds as it cradles the Haram al-Sharif (Dome of the Rock) in its branches. We follow Ayya's uncle up a pathway of stairs and through the narrow maze of refugee camp streets, through rusting doors. We sit with the mother and some men from the family who have gathered. Her retelling of the story is calm, unemotional until she breaks into shaking, silent sobs at the end. "She was eight years old and she would have started her school year the next day. She was so smart, so sweet, y'achti, look at her" (the photos passed around, Ayya looking bright and determined in a red sweater her hair high in pigtails) "It was Yom il-Jumaa (Friday) and she had been fasting all morning with me. I gave her some money and told her to go buy something to eat, she was only eight and there was no reason for her to fast. She went on bicycle. She bought wafers, chips, and a popcycle and rode back. A tank was shooting from the Neve Dekalim settlement which borders their neighborhood. It shot her through the heart, she fell from her bicycle, we found her covered in blood, all the snacks she had just bought to break her fast, covered in blood, her hands still holding onto them." Her uncle pitches in. "I didn't recognize her when I saw her in the hospital. I said, 'This isn't Ayya. Ayya is b'khair (in good health).' She was covered in blood and I couldn't tell it was her. Her mother was there and she told me it's Ayya. I couldn't believe it." More pictures are passed around of Ayya four months ago against a garden backdrop taken in a local studio. Ayya's new backpack. Ayya's new school uniform, unworn and fresh, pinstripes too blue, sleeves too empty of little girl arms. "She wanted a guava that morning but we didn't have any guava. We said we'd buy her some the next morning, but she was killed." Six other children were injured in this shooting including one girl who lost her legs. No adults were in the area at the time, it was just tanks against kids. Ayya's sister Safa sits down next to me. "I want you to tell this to the world." She tells me how smart Ayya was, and good, how she prayed five times a day and fasted on Ramadan, and sometimes Safa would take her to the mosque. She was good in English and in every subject (her last report card is brought to where we are sitting, an average of 91%, high enough to receive state subsidies to go to engineering school, but Ayya wanted to be a doctor). Safa helping her study all the time, Safa telling her bedtime stories, Safa teaching her to read Qur'an. When there was shooting at night coming from the settlement Ayya would run to Safa's bed and Safa would protect her from her fear. "I was," says Safa, "her closest sister." I think her mother and her cousin, sitting together on my other side, are trying to make sure she doesn't lose connection to religion, pointedly declaring "La ilaha il allah," there is no god but God; Safa stares back at them blankly. "Mohammed rasul Allah," Mohammed is God's messenger. Safa ignores turns her head to face another direction. She looks at me. "Do you believe in God? You say you believe in God? Where was God three days ago?" Different family members take turns sobbing and comforting each other, don't cry, don't cry, believe in Allah. It's the third day of the wake and we eat maglouba, rice spiced with cardamom and roasted garlic and a spice they called asfar, yellow, in Arabic, and meat on top, traditional dish at weddings and funerals. Safa doesn't want to eat but she does. We leave in many prolonged farewells, planning to meet again soon. I follow her uncle, down the narrow pathway to join up with the men from our group, imagining the life of eight year old girls and fresh guavas. 9-4-03 For the longest time, I avoided the half of Abu Ahmed's house that faces the border, two bedrooms and a bathroom, during the night, remembering the first night I'd ever slept here, when Abu Ahmed explained to me that I couldn't sleep in the bedroom by the border - despite the massive softness of the Western-style bed there (such a luxury next to the simplicity of the thin floor mattresses typical of this culture) - because of the tank that parked there at night, often shooting near or into the house. Months later, on a night when several of us were sleeping here, he put us in that same room to sleep. I was confused and asked him if it wasn't dangerous as he had said before or if anything had changed. Between a prolonged bout of laughter and ranting punctuated with exclamations of "Inty fahemti ghalat" (you understood wrong), he explained that it was fine for me to sleep there, "as long as when you hear gunfire, you don't get scared and sit up in bed. If you sit up you might get shot." He demonstrated several times how I should react to gunfire in the night, how not to sit up, and then to add weight to his explanation, motioned to the bulletholes in the wall barely above head level. It was dark tonight when we got to Abu Ahmed's house, which made me kind of nervous about the tank I knew was parked next to the house. Abu Ahmed was leaning out of the doorframe staring into the night. We sat for long minutes on long benches made of old wooden slabs and cinderblocks (covered with colorful decades-old woven carpets) and white plastic Israeli chars wholse feet sunk into the soft sand, drinking tea (Abu Ahmed is a tea fiend, he says every time he serves us tea that he would dring the whole potfull himself if it wasn't for us.) Abu Fat'hi is over this evening. Between a full face of hair, full cheeks, large muild, and general demeanor of joviality, he reminds me of my old social studies teacher Mr. Granagan, or a Palestinian verson of Santa Claus. He invites us to see his family, and this night we accept to amble down the road to the Fat'hi area - I'm not talking about one house but three, built one on top of another, to accomodate Abu and Om Fat'hi, their two sons, and their 35 grandchildren. On the wall of every flat there is a picture of their third son, who was shot dead on his way to school at the age of sixteen. That was in the year of 1994, in the midst of the hopeful beginning of the Oslo era. We're in Fat'hi's flat. Fat'hi, who is just like his father except his demeanor lacks the wight of age and body build; his wife and all the women and girls in the famiy gather around us, the children demanding pictures. We intend to stay five minutes and stay for two hours, enthralled. People full of end-of-the-day banter, chewing on the latest news. In the middle of this rumbling scene, one of the men of the family walked in. He was coming from Tes es Sultan, and with news. The army had just announced over loudspeaker its intention to demolish two large new apartment buildings on the border that faces the Rafiah Yam settlement from the new refugee camp still being built by the UN to accomodate those who had lost homes earlier in the Intifada. Already five tanks had incurred into the area and occupied the new well (rebuilt after the army demolished it this February), preceded by gunfire in the early evening that had already landed one man in the hospital after he was shot in the leg by a high-caliber bullet. Remembering too clearly the sleepless terror of living through past incursions makes it harder to sleep easily here tonight where a night broken by tank fire seems peaceful compared to what we know is happening 2 km away, grappling with my own powerlessness to do any thing and my anxiety that one of the areas where we sleep will be next. We leave despite please of all the children to stay. Especially Rowan, four-year-old beauty, too wise for her age, touching my arm gently, "naami hayna al-yom," sleep here tonight. We walk out into the night, searching the landscape for military patrole vehicles. Inching rather uncertainly along the fifty meters of path between Abu Fat'hi and Abu Ahmed's homes. And sure enough, a jeep fires into the night and drives across and away towards Brazil camp and sens us running back towards Abu Fat'hi's. Abu Fat'hi himself now walks nonchalantly down the path to Abu Ahmed's, yelling back at us to come now while there's no military on this side of the border. I hold my breath until I reach Abu Ahmed's door, five and a half months into life here and still I am not used to this. Suzan is the only one still awake when we get back, mulling over her last night with her family; tomorrow she's getting married at 27 and that is its own rambling story of weeks spent in the souk, sudden infatuation, and the anticipatory shyness of marriage through the formalized channell of traditional Islamic marriage rituals in a culture of gender division. Every, and I mean every part of her body is freshly waxed in preparation for tomorrow night. She is daydreaming, her eyes rest somewhere between the frankness of the bedroom air and the future she is escaping too. Her head droops slowly into the pillow, and I follow suit. I fall asleep to the sound of the machine guns of tanks as they rumble back and forth on border control, clearing the way with bursts of gunfire. It doesn't stop. My mind wanders to Tes es Sultan. Brought to you by Peacemaker Circle International. 10:29:10 AM

Friday, September 5, 2003

all things pass All things pass, so too will i. 5:38:59 PM

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