For this page, I had hoped to do some interviews with people I find interesting, but since I don’t have time to do interviews at the moment, I thought I’d do something a little more in line with the movie that inspired the page’s name. Have you seen it? “The lives of others”? (“Leben der Anderen, Das”?) I enjoyed it, and for better or worse, I recognized myself in the character of the secret police officer, Hauptmann Gerd Wiesler, who had a habit of listening in on other people’s lives. This is not to say I work for any secret police. Just that by nature I am a listener, and even more, a watcher. Having confessed this, I will begin.

8 February 2008

Three members of Medecins Sans Frontiers staff members were killed in Somalia last week. A Kenyan surgeon and father of five called Victor Okumu. A twenty-seven year-old French logistician called Damien Lehalle. A twenty-eight year-old Somali driver and father of three (with a fourth on the way) called Mohamed Abdi Ali. Read about them here.

9 January 2008

There I was, walking home after dropping off the hobbit at day care, happily thinking about how I was going to make the most of the next two hours, when I reached a roundabout. A green volvo sedan had just reached the roundabout and was stopped. A van was approaching it from behind. Sensibly, seeing that the volvo had yet to go, the van driver slowed and gave me a friendly wave, indicating I could pass between him and the volvo. That was nice, I thought, and I gave him a smile as I crossed. Then the trouble started.

(Before going further, I should probably reveal that I fit in in England. Physically, that is. I have pale skin. I am medium height. I do not wear a head scarf, traditional clothes of any kind, or a beard. The guys in the volvo on the other hand, were different. The were orthodox Jews and their volvo had stalled.)

“For f****s sake!” shouted the van driver, leaning on his horn. As I turned around, I saw the driver of the volvo trying to start his engine. Meanwhile, the van driver was revving his. He pulled right up alongside the volvo, closer than was necessary, and shouted again. My heart fluttered in the way it does when it anticipates any public display of aggression and I wondered what to do. The volvo driver raised his hands in frustration and I felt for him. (I’ve been there. Of course I have. What driver hasn’t been there?) He tried and tried again but the engine wouldn’t respond. Then the driver of the van honked again, yelled again, and revved his engine once more before driving off.

As I watched the volvo driver raise his hands again in frustration, I sent him my best wishes for a quick response from his engine, not to mention a little unexpected peace in his afternoon. Then I turned and started off again toward home, feeling a little blue. I was wondering, If the guy in the volvo had looked a little more British, would the guy in the van have been so rude? And if the guy in the volvo had looked a little more like me?

Ho, hum.