It was a shocking crime even by today's standards, where people have become almost numbed by the amount of violence that they watch on TV or read in the tabloids.
On March 25th 2010, a gang numbering up to 30 boys and girls descended on Victoria Underground Station, armed with knives and other deadly weapons and took the life of a 15 year old boy. Sofyen Belamouadden, an aspiring footballer, whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time died in a violent and brutal manner.
The fact that this heinous event took place in broad daylight and at the height of the commuter rush hour, in a location a few hundred yards away from Scotland Yard tells you the total disregard that these young men and women have for authority. The belief that they could actually get away with such an awful crime without being detected is quite incredulous.
As in most of these murders in London and other inner-cities across the country, the common denominator are that the victims and perpetrators are young and black and the situation is getting worse. Over the years many initiatives and much government expenditure has been ploughed in trying to turn the tide of violence plighting the black community. But yet black-on-black crime spreads like an incurable cancer.
As this crisis deepens, black leaders have put the responsibility on teachers, blamed it on racism, unemployment and even slavery. However few if any never approach the heart of the matter. A stable nurturing family can help a black child beat all those obstacles and come out a decent and responsible member of society.
It is time (30 years too late in my opinion) for black people people to look at their parenting skills. If black families and communities do not take as their responsibility to help keep black boys from getting astray, it makes it frankly impossible for the rest of the wider society, from law enforcement agencies to business to government to help.
Too many black "baby fathers" make children as trophies and do nothing to raise them or show them decent masculinity. There are black mothers who are also violent and hopeless and do little to stop their sons (and sometimes daughters) being drawn into the pervasive black sub-culture of drugs, rap and violent crime.
The government needs to get tougher on the failing black parents of criminal children and force them to attend classes. Black children are vastly over-represented in penal institutions and foster care. Black families must bite the bullet and start taking responsibility for their children and not blame society for the truly chaotic situation that they have themselves created. It is only when black parents, along with black community leaders, black politicians and the wider black community realise this, and only then will this tragic descent into complete self-destruction be halted. The culture of non-responsibility and self-denial among Afro-Caribbean people needs to stop or else black people will become pariahs in society; feared and hated by all.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Childhood Memory
The most vivid childhood memory was when I was selected for a trial with Middlesex County Cricket Club.
Up to that stage cricket had been my life. That's all I ever wanted to be, a professional cricketer. I would often dream of striding elegantly across the perfectly cut lawn of Lord's Cricket Ground, in my creased ironed whites, bat in hand, ready to do battle with the fastest bowlers in the world. I never wore a helmet in my fantasy as those were only for cissies. The only armoury I needed was the piece of oak in my hands.
I would produce the most fantastic and flamboyant of shots to all parts of the ground. Whatever they bowled to me, whether bouncers, inswingers, outswingers, full tosses or even yorkers, each ball which hurtled in my direction would be dispatched off my bat at twice the speed to the boundary. I was treating the most gifted of bowlers with utter disdain and contempt. My dream would eventually come to a close when my score was on 94 and with the last ball before lunch I would conjure up the most outrageous of shots, a straight six out of the stadium, to reach my century. I would walk off the pitch to a standing ovation, with my bat held aloft. My walk would be slow and deliberate in order to bathe in the applause from the adoring public. It was if I had come back from a victorious battle and my cricket bat was a samueri sword with which I had conquered the enemy. Somewhat melodramatic but I was only twelve at the time and I thought all things were possible.
The night before the trial I couldn't sleep. I was full of nervous energy. I wanted to be the best cricketer there but doubts kept creeping in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as good as I thought I was. However, I quickly dismissed these unpleasant notions.
The following morning I travelled the short bus distance to the ground. I was in confident and ebullient mood. I felt I was meeting my pre-ordained destiny. I imagined folk songs would be written about me extolling my virtues on the cricket field. I envisaged portraits of myself hanging in the National Gallery, long after I was dead. Blue plaques would be liberally dotted around the country by English Heritage to indicate where I was born, where I died, what restaurants I frequented and even what public loos I used. The plaque would simply be inscribed `The great man was here'. And everybody would instantly know who it was: Noel Winston Neville Gladstone Disraeli Reggae Graffie. It sounds absurd today but again I can only put it down to my youth.
It very soon dawned on me that the cream of the country's young cricketers was here sharing the same ambitions and dreams as myself. I felt I was an excellent player but compared to my contemporaries at the trial I was a Scunthorpe to their Man United. I was out of my league. A sickening feeling came over me which began in the pit of my stomach as if someone had kicked me in the testicals and they had permanently lodged in my throat. It was that defining moment that I brutally realised that my world had fallen around me and that however hard I tried I would never become a top-flight professional cricketer.
For several weeks I was inconsolable. My parents tried in vain to cheer me up, insisting that this was not the end, I could try other clubs. But I knew in my heart that the same result would occur. I had to face the fact that I was simply not good enough.
Since that inauspicious day in my life, over 25 years ago, I have never actually picked up a cricket bat in anger. I reckoned that if I could not play at the very top I would not want to participate at all. I occasionally watch the odd test match on television and I still sometimes dream that I am batting for England and scoring a century at Lord's. But now I know it is only a dream, never to be fulfilled, a mere childhood memory.
Up to that stage cricket had been my life. That's all I ever wanted to be, a professional cricketer. I would often dream of striding elegantly across the perfectly cut lawn of Lord's Cricket Ground, in my creased ironed whites, bat in hand, ready to do battle with the fastest bowlers in the world. I never wore a helmet in my fantasy as those were only for cissies. The only armoury I needed was the piece of oak in my hands.
I would produce the most fantastic and flamboyant of shots to all parts of the ground. Whatever they bowled to me, whether bouncers, inswingers, outswingers, full tosses or even yorkers, each ball which hurtled in my direction would be dispatched off my bat at twice the speed to the boundary. I was treating the most gifted of bowlers with utter disdain and contempt. My dream would eventually come to a close when my score was on 94 and with the last ball before lunch I would conjure up the most outrageous of shots, a straight six out of the stadium, to reach my century. I would walk off the pitch to a standing ovation, with my bat held aloft. My walk would be slow and deliberate in order to bathe in the applause from the adoring public. It was if I had come back from a victorious battle and my cricket bat was a samueri sword with which I had conquered the enemy. Somewhat melodramatic but I was only twelve at the time and I thought all things were possible.
The night before the trial I couldn't sleep. I was full of nervous energy. I wanted to be the best cricketer there but doubts kept creeping in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as good as I thought I was. However, I quickly dismissed these unpleasant notions.
The following morning I travelled the short bus distance to the ground. I was in confident and ebullient mood. I felt I was meeting my pre-ordained destiny. I imagined folk songs would be written about me extolling my virtues on the cricket field. I envisaged portraits of myself hanging in the National Gallery, long after I was dead. Blue plaques would be liberally dotted around the country by English Heritage to indicate where I was born, where I died, what restaurants I frequented and even what public loos I used. The plaque would simply be inscribed `The great man was here'. And everybody would instantly know who it was: Noel Winston Neville Gladstone Disraeli Reggae Graffie. It sounds absurd today but again I can only put it down to my youth.
It very soon dawned on me that the cream of the country's young cricketers was here sharing the same ambitions and dreams as myself. I felt I was an excellent player but compared to my contemporaries at the trial I was a Scunthorpe to their Man United. I was out of my league. A sickening feeling came over me which began in the pit of my stomach as if someone had kicked me in the testicals and they had permanently lodged in my throat. It was that defining moment that I brutally realised that my world had fallen around me and that however hard I tried I would never become a top-flight professional cricketer.
For several weeks I was inconsolable. My parents tried in vain to cheer me up, insisting that this was not the end, I could try other clubs. But I knew in my heart that the same result would occur. I had to face the fact that I was simply not good enough.
Since that inauspicious day in my life, over 25 years ago, I have never actually picked up a cricket bat in anger. I reckoned that if I could not play at the very top I would not want to participate at all. I occasionally watch the odd test match on television and I still sometimes dream that I am batting for England and scoring a century at Lord's. But now I know it is only a dream, never to be fulfilled, a mere childhood memory.
FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY - AN EXHIBITION COMMEMORATING MUHAMMAD ALI'S FIGHT WITH GEORGE FORMAN
As a long admirer of Muhammad Ali I had mixed feelings about this exhibition. I wondered whether it would do justice to one of my heroes.
My fears were unfounded. The exhibt is a series of powerful and intimate photographic portraits of a man regarded as the greatest athlete of any era.
The photographs on display were taken by David King when he was the art editor for the Sunday Times. King's 25 black and white pictures document Ali as he prepares for his showdown with George Forman for the world heavy weight boxing title.
The contest took place in Kinshasa, Zaire, in October 1974. It was hailed as the `Rumble in the Jungle'.
The first portrait you view as you enter the tiny gallery, is one revealing Ali's broad and muscled back being rubbed by a gnarled old hand. The raven colored hand is caught on film by the photographer with a slight blur movement on the boxer's brown skin. This contrasts vividly with the pitch-black background.
Another picture shows Ali in the boxing ring displaying his magnificent physique and presence. He shadow boxes, while spectators look on in awe and admiration. He dances around the ring in the same way as Rudolf Nureyev would dance on stage; with beauty, finesse and elegance.
A huge photograph sees Ali in boxing headgear staring straight at the camera and almost in a sense beyond it. The picture seems to elicit the message that somehow Ali was on a mission and no one would deprive him of his eventual goal, least of all his boxing rival George Forman. The picture had almost a mythical and spiritual quality to it.
As you walk down the stairs of the gallery there is a stunning picture on the landing. It is Ali pounding on a punch bag. It shows in sharp and brillant detail the copious amounts of sweat coursing out of what seems to be every pore of the boxer's gargantuan body.
In one portrait King puts half of Ali's face in silhouette, which enchances the remaining half of Ali's beautiful facial features. The years of boxing and Parkinson Disease at that stage, had not yet dealt a cruel blow to him.
The highlight of the exhibition is a series of marvellous head portraits, each displaying contrasting facial expressions of the boxer. Ranging from intensity to serenity.
These portraits which concludes the exhibition, aptly sum up Ali as a multi-faceted and complex person. There is no doubt that his persona transcended boxing.
Ali was a role model, icon, protester, leader and sportsman all rolled into one. David King has done a magnificent job in encapsulating this in his exhibition.
"Float Like A Butterfly" is at Proud Galleries in the Strand, London. The cost of entrance is free but donations are welcomed.
My fears were unfounded. The exhibt is a series of powerful and intimate photographic portraits of a man regarded as the greatest athlete of any era.
The photographs on display were taken by David King when he was the art editor for the Sunday Times. King's 25 black and white pictures document Ali as he prepares for his showdown with George Forman for the world heavy weight boxing title.
The contest took place in Kinshasa, Zaire, in October 1974. It was hailed as the `Rumble in the Jungle'.
The first portrait you view as you enter the tiny gallery, is one revealing Ali's broad and muscled back being rubbed by a gnarled old hand. The raven colored hand is caught on film by the photographer with a slight blur movement on the boxer's brown skin. This contrasts vividly with the pitch-black background.
Another picture shows Ali in the boxing ring displaying his magnificent physique and presence. He shadow boxes, while spectators look on in awe and admiration. He dances around the ring in the same way as Rudolf Nureyev would dance on stage; with beauty, finesse and elegance.
A huge photograph sees Ali in boxing headgear staring straight at the camera and almost in a sense beyond it. The picture seems to elicit the message that somehow Ali was on a mission and no one would deprive him of his eventual goal, least of all his boxing rival George Forman. The picture had almost a mythical and spiritual quality to it.
As you walk down the stairs of the gallery there is a stunning picture on the landing. It is Ali pounding on a punch bag. It shows in sharp and brillant detail the copious amounts of sweat coursing out of what seems to be every pore of the boxer's gargantuan body.
In one portrait King puts half of Ali's face in silhouette, which enchances the remaining half of Ali's beautiful facial features. The years of boxing and Parkinson Disease at that stage, had not yet dealt a cruel blow to him.
The highlight of the exhibition is a series of marvellous head portraits, each displaying contrasting facial expressions of the boxer. Ranging from intensity to serenity.
These portraits which concludes the exhibition, aptly sum up Ali as a multi-faceted and complex person. There is no doubt that his persona transcended boxing.
Ali was a role model, icon, protester, leader and sportsman all rolled into one. David King has done a magnificent job in encapsulating this in his exhibition.
"Float Like A Butterfly" is at Proud Galleries in the Strand, London. The cost of entrance is free but donations are welcomed.
Sunday, 2 August 2009
One Mans Escape from Repression
John Moyana a Zimbabwean refugee was forced to leave his country simply because of his involvement with the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC). A political party in opposition to President Mugabe's ruling Zanu-PF party. The 39-year-old tells his harrowing story of how he was tortured, imprisoned and threatened with death, before escaping to Britain.
“It was in late September of 2007 when I joined the MDC. I attended one rally and occasionally handed out leaflets at church meetings. I was not a high profile figure within the party.
“About three weeks after joining, my wife and I were in bed one night when we heard the sound of people knocking on our door. We thought they were thieves. But we realised who they were when they broke into our house. They were wearing the colours of the ruling Zanu-PF party. The seven men were armed with guns, machetes and batons.
“They dragged both of us from our bed and started kicking and punching us in front of our nine-year-old son. Our neighbours could hear our screams but none of them came to our aid.
“My wife was beaten so severely around the head with a butt of a gun that she lost consciousness. She was dragged into the bathroom and had water sprayed over her to revive her.
“The gang interrogated me about the MDC party. They wanted me to give them names and addresses of activists. During the interrogation I was beaten so hard around the face that I could hardly see.
“The men accused me of spreading anti-government propaganda and being opposed to the current regime. They said that if I did not co-operate they would rape and mutilate my wife before killing me.
“I pleaded to them that I knew nothing of MDC activities and that all I did for the party was to distribute leaflets. They continued to beat us till the early hours of the morning. Before they left, they burnt all our clothes and ransacked our house.
“Although I sustained many injuries, it was the humiliation that was more terrible. To be unable to protect my wife, and to have my son, who was screaming and crying throughout the ordeal, see his father forced to crawl like a baby and be urinated on by Mugabe's thugs was shameful for me. But I could do nothing.
“My wife and I spent several days in the hospital recovering from our injuries. We decided to send our son to my parent’s house for his safety.
“But when I reported the incident to the local police they arrested and detained me for 38 days. During my detention I was again tortured. I would be regularly hung upside down by my feet and beaten with a pipe. At times during my captivity, I was forced to crawl into a blood stained metal coffin that was used to transport the dead to the mortuary. That was horrific.
“On my release, I was threatened by the police that what happened to me was just a warning, and if I still remained a member of the MDC they would kill me.
“It was too dangerous for me to stay in Zimbabwe any longer. I decided to escape to Johannesburg, South Africa. Unfortunately, my wife was too unwell to risk the trip as she was still receiving treatment for her injuries. She went into hiding with our son and my parents.
“When I arrived in Johannesburg, through a friend, I contacted a group of Nigerians, who were able to arrange a false passport for me and an airline ticket to the UK. The passport and the ticket cost me most of what I had.
“I was instructed that before landing in Britain to get rid of my passport and any other documents. The passport was only used to enable me to board the plane.
“When the plane landed I went to the immigration office and told them that I had lost my passport and that I was seeking asylum from Zimbabwe. I realise that I had entered Britain illegally, but I felt I had no choice, as I believed that my life was in danger if I had stayed.
“I was sent to a detention centre for two weeks. From there I was transferred to a hotel for asylum seekers in Hounslow, west London, while my asylum status was being processed.
“My asylum claim had been initially refused, but on appeal I was granted refugee status in May 2009.
“I have been very fortunate, particularly now that my wife has been able to join me from Zimbabwe. She took the same route as I did to come to Britain in November last year. She has applied for asylum status and now is waiting for her application to be hopefully approved.
“If my wife is granted asylum we would want to bring our son to England, so we can all be together as a family again.
“I would love one day to return to Zimbabwe. It is very difficult to leave your country, where you are born, where your parents still live. But it is Mugabe's regime that has made me leave the country that I love just because I belonged to an opposition party. I pray that the monsters leading the regime will be brought to account soon.
“Since arriving in Britain I have met many exiles who have told me about there own mistreatment at the hands of the Zimbabwean authorities. They also talk about their family and close friends being raped, tortured and murdered by the army, police and gangs of thugs associated with the Zanu-PF party.
“Hearing these stories, I feel very lucky that I was able to flee. Unfortunately, many cannot in my country.”
The End
**
To interview John I got in contact initially with the Refugee Council. They put me onto the Refugee Arrivals Project (RAP). This is a voluntary organisation, which provides humanitarian assistance to newly arrived asylum seekers. RAP gave me permission to interview John.
“It was in late September of 2007 when I joined the MDC. I attended one rally and occasionally handed out leaflets at church meetings. I was not a high profile figure within the party.
“About three weeks after joining, my wife and I were in bed one night when we heard the sound of people knocking on our door. We thought they were thieves. But we realised who they were when they broke into our house. They were wearing the colours of the ruling Zanu-PF party. The seven men were armed with guns, machetes and batons.
“They dragged both of us from our bed and started kicking and punching us in front of our nine-year-old son. Our neighbours could hear our screams but none of them came to our aid.
“My wife was beaten so severely around the head with a butt of a gun that she lost consciousness. She was dragged into the bathroom and had water sprayed over her to revive her.
“The gang interrogated me about the MDC party. They wanted me to give them names and addresses of activists. During the interrogation I was beaten so hard around the face that I could hardly see.
“The men accused me of spreading anti-government propaganda and being opposed to the current regime. They said that if I did not co-operate they would rape and mutilate my wife before killing me.
“I pleaded to them that I knew nothing of MDC activities and that all I did for the party was to distribute leaflets. They continued to beat us till the early hours of the morning. Before they left, they burnt all our clothes and ransacked our house.
“Although I sustained many injuries, it was the humiliation that was more terrible. To be unable to protect my wife, and to have my son, who was screaming and crying throughout the ordeal, see his father forced to crawl like a baby and be urinated on by Mugabe's thugs was shameful for me. But I could do nothing.
“My wife and I spent several days in the hospital recovering from our injuries. We decided to send our son to my parent’s house for his safety.
“But when I reported the incident to the local police they arrested and detained me for 38 days. During my detention I was again tortured. I would be regularly hung upside down by my feet and beaten with a pipe. At times during my captivity, I was forced to crawl into a blood stained metal coffin that was used to transport the dead to the mortuary. That was horrific.
“On my release, I was threatened by the police that what happened to me was just a warning, and if I still remained a member of the MDC they would kill me.
“It was too dangerous for me to stay in Zimbabwe any longer. I decided to escape to Johannesburg, South Africa. Unfortunately, my wife was too unwell to risk the trip as she was still receiving treatment for her injuries. She went into hiding with our son and my parents.
“When I arrived in Johannesburg, through a friend, I contacted a group of Nigerians, who were able to arrange a false passport for me and an airline ticket to the UK. The passport and the ticket cost me most of what I had.
“I was instructed that before landing in Britain to get rid of my passport and any other documents. The passport was only used to enable me to board the plane.
“When the plane landed I went to the immigration office and told them that I had lost my passport and that I was seeking asylum from Zimbabwe. I realise that I had entered Britain illegally, but I felt I had no choice, as I believed that my life was in danger if I had stayed.
“I was sent to a detention centre for two weeks. From there I was transferred to a hotel for asylum seekers in Hounslow, west London, while my asylum status was being processed.
“My asylum claim had been initially refused, but on appeal I was granted refugee status in May 2009.
“I have been very fortunate, particularly now that my wife has been able to join me from Zimbabwe. She took the same route as I did to come to Britain in November last year. She has applied for asylum status and now is waiting for her application to be hopefully approved.
“If my wife is granted asylum we would want to bring our son to England, so we can all be together as a family again.
“I would love one day to return to Zimbabwe. It is very difficult to leave your country, where you are born, where your parents still live. But it is Mugabe's regime that has made me leave the country that I love just because I belonged to an opposition party. I pray that the monsters leading the regime will be brought to account soon.
“Since arriving in Britain I have met many exiles who have told me about there own mistreatment at the hands of the Zimbabwean authorities. They also talk about their family and close friends being raped, tortured and murdered by the army, police and gangs of thugs associated with the Zanu-PF party.
“Hearing these stories, I feel very lucky that I was able to flee. Unfortunately, many cannot in my country.”
The End
**
To interview John I got in contact initially with the Refugee Council. They put me onto the Refugee Arrivals Project (RAP). This is a voluntary organisation, which provides humanitarian assistance to newly arrived asylum seekers. RAP gave me permission to interview John.
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