Kauala, Greece
August 7, 1984

Dear Folks,

It was circus time in Kauala, a popular vacation town along Greece's northeast shoreline. Time for the locals to set aside one night, to visit the striped Hoffman London Circus tent, and Ooooh!and Aaaah! with chapped lips at all the twirling leotards, prancing hooves, and glittering spangles.

Like most of the audience, I was to spend a good bit of time gripping my seat's edges and applauding. But then, when all that remained in the ring was sawdust, I found myself secretly wishing for still more bedazzlements. And so perhaps it shouldn't be any surprise that, when the others in the audience filed out the front of the tent, I ventured toward the back curtains to seek the fulfillment of a fantasy many of those of us with the heart of a child will always carry--that of living with a circus, if only for a short time. And as has happened so often when I seek to feed my curiosity, I found my wishes being granted through the kindness of total strangers who, like myself, find life too filled with wonderment to not be shared with others.

My newest "adoptees" were Brenda, a 53-year-old English widow with a circus career dating back forty years, and her son Mario, 23 years old and as handsome and thickly-muscled as I would learn his Swiss father had been. Through their invitation to stay with them in their little trailer, I was able, during the circus's last four days and nights, to intimately observe the behind-the-scenes life of a circus. And to even be one of its performers (even if it was only shoveling after Mario's four trained elephants).

The world I was to be a part of turned out to be every bit as rewarding as I had always imagined it would be. Indeed, I often found the most tense dramas and the best thrills to be nowhere near the Big Tent's rings, but in the private lives of the performers themselves. Take, for example, the GREAT KARAH KAUAK and his monstrous alligators and boa constrictors: In the arena the reptiles were so obedient to their German master's "hypnotic" commands. But come dinnertime? Hooooboy! Then it was a case of everyone for himself, as the reptiles' powerful jaws snapped and their bodies lunged viciously at Karah's heavily-scarred hands and forearms.

Then there were the Moroccan acrobats.

Late one night, as the rest of our group ringed the flashing dance floor of a nearby beachside discoteque to wildly cheer the acrobats on, the Moroccans gleefully demonstrated to the disco's unsuspecting patrons the right way to boogie. Oh what fun it was to watch the Greeks' faces, as the Africans somersaulted, spun, and leapt in ways that made a mockery of gravity and any John Tavoltas of the disco worlds!

However, the best insights into the daily world of the Big Top were provided by perhaps the least visible person of the entire troupe--Brenda. Petite, blonde, and an endless reservoir of energy and kindness, she had for a long time been a star herself in the English circus world--first with her husband's Wild West act and later, after his death, on her own with riding horses and trained elephants. Now, though, she was considered too old for the ring, and for the most part the adoring glare of the crowd was a thing of the past.

Although every night she was able for a few moments to don a feathered cap and a bright gown and assist Mario in the ring with the elephants, her time was mostly spent doing all the side chores--sewing costumes, selling refreshments, grooming animals--that must be done to keep the circus's costs down, so there could be some semblance of profit and paychecks. It was a schedule that kept her going full tilt from early morning until past midnight, after which she'd drop to sleep on her bed, one of the kitchen table's cushioned bench seats.

I thought her present workload too much for someone her age, and very late one night, after Mario had literally passed out from exhaustion, I let her know my thoughts. She merely smiled tiredly, rose from her bench seat, and reached for some thick photo albums on a shelf. She handed them to me and slowly turned the pages, as I studied the large photographs. Most showed an extremely cheery-looking man with huge sideburns dressed in a fancy cowboy outfit, complete with pearl-handled pistols and an extra-wide brimmed cowboy hat. Usually at his side was one of the most beautiful tan-colored stallions I'd ever seen. Maybe I'm nuts, but the horse, too, looked to be always smiling and full of enthusiasm.

The man, of course, was her husband. The horse was his lead show animal, Trigger, a horse all others had dismissed as being too dumb to be trainable.

"I've too many happy memories with the circus to give it all up," she said softly. "Because of the circus, I had my husband and Trigger, and they showed me for so many years how happy life can be when you don't think only of yourself, but are always wanting to make others feel good."

Unlike many trainers who look upon their animals as dumb and responsive only to fear, her husband used only patience and gentleness in teaching his show's horses. As a result, Trigger showed responsiveness to her husband, whereas others had found only stubbornness in the beast. While other horse-riding performers needed whips, or loud voice commands, or even a swift kick to get their horses to heel, her husband needed but a subtle hand signal, or a whisper in the horse's ear, to make it perform.

On Trigger, her husband and the horse seemed as one. They were to become enormously popular, both in and out of the ring. He and Trigger were a perfect example of how love and patience could bring out the best in everything, she said. While he was alive, the days seemed to go so quickly and effortlessly, no matter how grueling the travel schedule and number of chores.

But then, in 1971, the dream stopped. In the middle of a Wild West performance, Trigger, as always, reared high and with nobility. Her husband's hand, however, never made it as far as his big cowboy hat. Instead, it went to his heart. Too overcome with grief, Brenda retired to her home in Southport, England, only to be coaxed back to the circus later by her son's own aspirations. She had her husband buried in his cowboy suit.

For her, life has since become one of chores, memories, and helping others live their dreams.
On the morning I was to continue on my way to Turkey, and the circus was to travel to the other side of Greece and eventually back to England, she went into Mario's bedroom and came back to my side carrying a large plastic bag. Inside the bag was something obviously big and light. She handed the bag to me. I opened it. Inside was her husband's cowboy hat. I was nearly at a loss for words.

"I can't take this...It means too much to you."

She brushed aside my words and had me try on the hat. It fit perfectly.

"I'd be proud knowing his hat went around the world with you," she said with an approving look. "For thirteen years, it's only been catching dust. How nice it'd be to think my husband is still helping others in some way."

When it came time to finally part, I was wearing the hat. After a minute or so of walking, I turned and gave Brenda and Mario my customary big final wave. Gripped in my hand was the hat. I swung it as wide, and high, and grandly as I possibly could--much in the same manner I imagined its former owner would have done.

From her trailer door, Brenda waved back...and then wiped something from her eye.

Steven

Posted by Steven Newman at 7:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Titov Veles, Yugoslavia
July 18, 1984

Dear Folks,

Nearly every Yogoslavian home, business, and public building I've been inside has had a framed photo of the deceased Marshal Tito on one of its walls. Also, it's common to find the crisply-uniformed Tito parading proudly on the windshields of buses and semi triucks.

Much to the chagrin of the present communist collective leadership which, according to a journalist I spoke with, wants to phase out Tito's influence and get the country moving forward, the spirit of the former paternalistic "president-for-life" continues to be strong, even though he has been dead for over four years. As is common in eastern Europe, changes among the common people are sure to be extremely slow and arduous.

But while all this "backwardness of the common people" (as one eastern Bloc leader recently termed their clinging to the habits and beliefs of the past) may be proving to be a headache to some, for me it has provided a wealth of wonderment: In a sense I've been able to travel back decades and dwell in a world where the horse is still a necessity, where gypsies wander from smoking and seclusive camps to dusty villages to sell handmade tin pots and firewood that is being carried on the backs of donkeys, where religion--be it of church or mosque--invokes a great sense of devotion and mysticism.

This has been especially true these past two weeks, as I've slowly made my way around the forbidden and mysterious communist police state of Albania, which protrudes from the Adriatic into Yugoslavia like some ulcerous scab and which is off-limits to all including the Yugoslavians. My journey around its mine fields and soldier-patrolled perimeter has taken me though the hearts of two of eastern Europe's poorest and most orthodox regions--the Republic of Montenegro and the Serbian Muslim Province of Kosovo.

In Montenegro thick forests of pine, beech, and cool shade replaced the harsh sunlight and semi-aridness of Croatia, as did endless mountain peaks from which springs spilled water so cold it hurt to drink it. As in the Slovenia Republic, I again found myself zigzagging down dirt lanes alongside leftover snow fields and lush steep meadows of white-pedalled daisies. Bathing in brightly-bouldered rivers of liquid snow left me wondering if I would ever be warm again.

Being herders of sure-footed goats and cattle, rather than farmers like the Slovenians or the Croatians, the Montenegrins were tall, lean, and finely-featured. Still exhibiting many of the features of the dark-eyed and dark-skinned Turks who ruled over the area for over 700 years, the people were as eye-catchingly beautiful as the land.

For the first time since leaving the USA, I found homes built of wood--though hardly American-looking with their tall steep roofs, wood slab exteriors, and tiny shuttered windows. Sometimes, as I came upon the stick-fenced dirt yards of farm animals, wood piles, open wells, and women cooking over open fires, I thought of Africa or the Middle Ages. Like so many times on this worldwalk, the terrain could have been very exhausting, but the sights which greeted me were so fascinating, so different from anything I've ever known. The kilometers of sharp switchbacks and steep mountain passes passed by almost too rapidly.

In Kosovo, the society was as colorful, rugged, and jumbled as the scenery of Montenegro. Its villages, with their mosques, were as close to being like North Africa as anything I'd seen in Europe. Only instead of being a strictly Arab populace (as in Africa), the people were a swirling mixture of Turks, Albanians, Slavs, and Gypsies.

Many warned me not to walk through Kosovo--or, at the least, not to sleep in the open there. Apparently the dark-skinned Muslim men with their white skullcaps, and their shaven-headed sons and thickly-clothed subservient women, are too unusual for many Slavs. And, too, there are the Albanians, of whom it is said more live illegally outside Albania than live legally inside that nation.

More than any other region, Kosovo has been the most troublesome for the Yugoslav government. After Tito's death in January 1980, the Muslims, partly inspired by the Ayatollah Khomeini's actions in Iran, began to demand more independence from the central government. Two years of harsh police action and much interracial violence took place. Also, many Albanians feel that that part of Yugloslavia belongs to Albania.

I found none of the dangerous characters of whom I had been warned. Instead, I found mostly warmth and a deep curiosity about my homeland. However, on the surface I could understand the others' concerns about their Muslim neighbors: As in all Muslim-dominated societies I've ventured through, the living conditions in the towns were extremely poor, primitive, and dirty, and the men were unused to the idea of privacy. In almost a repeat of Africa, I had large groups of ragged boys and men crowding about and grabbing at me.

The littered and crumbling streets of every city or village in that extremely mountainous region know more hooves and bare feet than tires. And from the shadows of the dilapidated shops were the constant staring eyes. In public, good manners seemed to be nearly non-existent, and yet whenever I was brought into a home, I would inevitably find myself receiving the best of their food and attentions. While the children and the the wife quietly attended to my needs, the men and I sat in our stocking feet on low cushions around a table set with thimble-sized cups of ferociously hot Turkish coffee and plates piled with goat milk curds, cheese, and rough brown bread smeared in honey and plum butter. Over head, on the walls, would be the usual tapestries of Arab desert scenes and the holy shrines in Mecca, soaking up our laughter and excited conversations in broken English or in French.

Since I spent so little time in the cities (which seemed to be little more than the usual socialist-created slums), I found in Kosovo more enthrallment than worry or disappointment. However, there was always the hint of something askew with the people themselves: More than once groups of villagers told me of soldiers coming and taking away large numbers of their men, who were never seen again.

The notion that "country folk are a gentle folk" was as true here in southern Yugoslavia as in any other region I've walked across. For example, in the cities I watched the gypsies scrounge through garbage piles for food and for cloth with which to make clothes, and yet in the mountains they continually held their jeweled heads as high as any other man's. In the countryside there were no handouts; every man found himself, along with everyone else, making the trip to the fields to dig or harvest, or to the towns to sell his produce or wares.

In both Montenegro and Kosovo, most persons were too poor to make each morning's journey except by horseback or horse-pulled wagon. But from the almost haughty posture of their work-chiseled figures you'd have thought they were in Cadillacs.

Steven

Posted by Steven Newman at 1:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Titograd, Yugoslavia
July 7, 1984

Dear Folks,

One of the longest continuing debates in discussions on international politics is whether this nation of 24 million is communist or not. To listen to its leaders and media, one would say that it is, or at least a sort of fervent socialism. Yet, to listen to the men and women on the streets, the government is no such thing. Indeed, the average Yugoslavian can't seem to come to any firm consensus as to what their form of government is--other than it's not worth their breath to ever praise it.

"Communism is brute!" spat one old Slovenian farmer, while sharing with me the customary large white tin cup of homemade wine. "We are not the damned Russians. We are socialist...I think."

"Socialism? Hah! Only on the front page of the newspaper each morning," scoffed a village merchant. His wife, who, like her husband, had worked most of her adult life outside of the country, nodded firmly.

When I'd met the merchant and his wife, it had been late in the evening. After a long hard day of working in their store, they had been on their way to till their small farm plots, to work in them until it was too dark. It was something they had to do, they'd told me, if they expected to eat and still have enough money left for a decent standard of life.

"In Yugoslavia the people work only to pay taxes, social security, and hopefully have enough left over to get drunk," the merchant had joked with a touch of seriousness.

Their combined take-home wages each month totaled around $400. That actually wasn't bad, compared to the lawyer who told me his state-controlled wage was $200 a month. Or, how about the 53-year-old doctor who revealed to me that his yearly salary was $5,000?

"It's a mafioso which controls everything," a senior construction engineer said sadly, as we walked back to his small inner-city apartment after a cold swim in the Adriatic Sea near the city of Split. "The best of everything goes to a few families that run each of the region's governments. What is left--which is very little in such a poor country--goes first to their friends, and then to the people."

An example of the above, he said, was in the availability of apartments. Those who knew the right people could get one within a couple years; Others, such as himself, had to bide their time on lengthy waiting lists. In his case he'd had his firm search for a place for himself and his wife and three daughters. After 10 years he finally got one, and he had little choice but to take it, even though it was in a neighborhood that resembled something from the Bronx.

The facts are that Yugoslavia's Communist Party has been the dominant political party since the 1940s. However, its control over the diverse nationalities of the Yugoslavian Federation has never been allowed to become as stoic as that found in Russia.

Here there are a few state or collective farms, but for the most part agriculture is done mostly by small private holdings. Individuals may own businesses but can't employ more than five persons. While most businesses are managed by councils elected by the workers, those same workers have been known to go on strike. And, too, the country's borders are open to the citizens; They can come and go as they please.

"After all," observed one Yugoslavian waiting on spare boat parts being smuggled in from Italy, "encouraging the people to work abroad eliminates what would certainly be much unemployment here."

So, is this nation communist or not? Perhaps the best way to tell is to let its leaders speak for themselves. Following are quotes taken from a tape recording I secretly made from a three-hour-long interrogation I underwent as a result of talking to two army privates in Benovac, in central Croatia. In my opinion, my interrogators' message and political slant are too clear. The words are those of the young military translator who particpated in the interrogation of me. He would tell me in English what the other army officers were saying to me, as they questioned me on the army base I was taken to in an unmarked car.

"Why are you walking in this area? No tourists come through here. You cannot walk in this party of the country--there are things you are not to see. You must tell us the names and addresses of everyone you have spoken to since you entered Yugoslavia..."

At one point a part of the team interrogating me tried to take my log book from me. In it (unbeknownst to them) are the names and addresses of everyone I've befriended while walking. A shouting match quickly ensued, and I grabbed the book and refused to hand it over. I saw no reason to have them questioning (and frightening) innocent people who had done nothing but help me. Also, one of the Yugoslavians llisted in the book was a former pilot for the CIA during the Vietnam War. When we'd met, he was in Yugoslavia to visit his sick mother, and I'd accompanied him to his mother's home on Pag Island in the Adriatic Sea just off Yugoslavia's coast. He had let me know the Yugloslavian officials knew his background as a CIA employee. Rightly or wrongly, I was worried that my interrogators would be quite upset to learn I'd been staying with an American spy agency employee in a remote part of the country that was within eyesight of where the country's political prisoners were kept (on Bear Island).

In a move that has continued to mystify me, the interrogating officers gave up on trying to take the log book from me and never brought it up again. Towards the end of the interrogation, I was told I was going to be released and taken to a hotel in town. I was instructed firmly to stay at the hotel until someone came the next morning to pick me up and bring me back to the base for more questioning.

At one point, as one of his superiors was writing something into a notebook, the young translator leaned to me and, in a near whisper, warned me, "In Yugoslavia, everyone is a policeman."

His words struck me as something I might have read in Alexander Solzhenitsen's Gulag Archipelago. I asked him to repeat what he'd said, certain I had misheard him.

"In Yugoslavia we are all policemen," he said. "You can not talk about anything you want with everyone you meet. It will be best for you to remember that--believe me."

I believed him...and all the more so, as I snuck out of the hotel before dawn and walked further into this nation.

Steven

Posted by Steven Newman at 8:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sibenik, Yugoslavia
June 18, 1984

Dear Folks,

I continue to be astounded at the great differences in lifestyle existing between the European societies, even though their borders are as compacted as those of our states. Italy and Yugoslavia provide a perfect example.

Italy was money and frivolousness, oftentimes carried to their most absurd levels. Venice, the "crown jewel" of my walk in that nation, was perhaps an excellent microcosim of that country's character: There I found a breathtakingly beautiful city of culture and history and, too, a conglomeration of religious architecture so splendidly huge and richly adorned that no modern-day government could afford to recreate such a fairytale setting.

Yet, at the same time, Venice was as much a carnival, a "historic Disneyland," as it was the sophisticated former kingdom it likes to portray itself as. Side by side with its ecstasy and the Peggy Gugenheim museum's art pieces were what seemed to be innumerable vendors of just about anything plastic or sweet imaginable--from MADE IN JAPAN gondola lamps to what is undoubtedly the most scrumptious ice cream this side of the real heaven.

As in most of Italy, the number of visitors (mostly German and American) this time of the year seemed to make the Italians an "endangered species." During the four days I explored Venice's maelstrom of big-headed dieties, clanging church bells, flapping pigeons, delighted laughter, and clicking cameras, I honestly believe I met more twangy-voiced Texans and Okies than I'd ever met at any one time in San Antonio or Oklahoma City.

But, if its basics one wished to explore, then perhaps the "Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia" would be more appropriate. It is a nation that is "officially" not a nation but, instead, six nations: Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Macedonians, Montenegrins, and Moslems. (Although eight percent of the populace is of that faith, in this case Moslem does not have anything to do with the religion.)

Largely because of the disagreements created as a result of combining so many "independent" states, the general poverty of what is mostly a rural lifestyle, and a long history of invasions by its more powerful neighbors, the Slavs have remained about as basic and simple in make-up as the Italians have advanced financially and technologically. With the typical Yugoslav rural family, for instance, a major home improvement project might be a fresh coat of paint on a pair of old, wooden window shutters. In Italy it would have been something more along the lines of new brass-ringed storm windows and aluminum shutters for every door and window.

On a broader scale, the number of semi trucks has dwindled to a negligible level. Rather than (as many do in Italy) rushing about to replace dwindling stocks of potato chips and panty hose, the trucks in Yugoslavia groan along weighted down by fuel, firewood, cement, and chemicals.

Both the men and the women Slavs are as rugged, long-limbed, and strongly-built as the mountains that tower over their communal farms of potatoes, corn, wheat, and, of course, grapes. Their daily lives are hard, physical, tedious, and with few luxuries such as leisure time. Every day at sunrise, the villagers (of which Yugoslavia is mostly comprised) go, many in horse-drawn wagons, to the fields to stay bent over for much of the day. For most, I have observed, a long-handled sickle and hoe are their primary work tools, and the same horse that brings them to and from the fields must also pull a plow for the good part of the day. The machinery I do see is never more advanced than small tractors. More often they are hand-pushed gasoline engine-powered tillers.

All times I am around such people, hardly a day passes that I'm not invited to join in a hot meal around the kitchen table. The diet of the average family is simple: often potatoes, pork, watered-down wine, and a coarse bread with nothing to spread on it. As for the houses, those are often bare concrete blocks, and the yards are virtually zoos of goats, fowl, sheep, and peacocks.

Persons my age are an uncommon sight, as most have sought to escape such a life by living in the cities or staying longer than necessary in the schools. Each tiny village I pass through is heavily populated with black-garbed elders, still as strong as ever and with craggy faces that leave me wondering if they are closer to 110 years in age than to 80.

Yugoslavia is my second socialist-run country. If I thought its quality of life might be different than in Algeria, because of its European heritage, I now know better. As in Algeria, the grocery stores are pathetically barren. The choice of brands and foods is virtually a bad joke, and as for fresh produce--forget it. Many rural stores (what few there are) have less than half their shelf space stocked. Apparently army rations are a big seller, if their availability in the stores is any indication. I purchased a tinned army meal to see what Yugoslavia's soldiers march on. The contents left me wondering if maybe the poor fellow didn't do more crawling than highstepping. What I found inside was a strip of lard, one inch thick and five inches long, packed in very bitter sauerkraut.

As for such places as nightclubs, cinemas, and libraries, those are found only in the largest cities and towns. They are of such poor quality and in such run-down conditions that the fact that anyone attends them attests to what a human will endure when seeking entertainment. The music in what are supposedly nightclubs for the young is an odd mixture of Frank Sinatra, old Motown, Bavarian polka, and pre-Woodstock acid rock.

Even more perplexing (if that is possible) are the films. As in Algeria, they are usually shown in old gymnasiums with male audiences--which is probably why the local film censor can get away with approving what are mostly grade-B American sex films.

But most disturbing of all has to be the reappearance of the ever-suspicious authorities. Once again I find that walking alone, away from the tourist routes, and talking to the citizens are viewed by those in uniform as something of a criminal act. For the third time in a socialist society (versus never in the non-socialist societies), I have been forced to undergo a humiliating and tiring interrogation for doing something I thought was perfectly innocent.

The incident took place two days ago, in the state of Croatia, in the town of Benkovac. This time my questioners were not the police but the military. What had started as a friendly chat and an exchange of gifts between me and two new army privates was to end in my being made to get into an unmarked car, in which I was taken onto an army base and later made to endure a three-hour-long interrogation. In the end, the interrogation erupted into a shouting match, when I refused to give the names and addresses of every Yugoslavian I'd met since entering the country on June 9.

In my next letter I'll explain why my revealing the names and addresses of those I'd met could have turned the whole ugly affair into a nightmare and even a potential expulsion from the country.

Steven

Posted by Steven Newman at 3:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Trieste, Italy
June 7, 1984

Dear Folks,

Since this letter will be reaching you around the Fourth of July, I would like to share with you a story from the worldwalk that concerns others' struggles for freedom. In this special story, which still haunts me even now as I'm reflecting on the very pleasant walk I had through Italy, I want you to mentally journey back to Africa with me. I want you to meet someone very young: a 14-year-old Polish boy named Luc. I met him in Boudouaou, Algeria, last February, and he reminded me how lucky I am to have a free nation like America as my birthplace. Luc,as you will see, knew all too well what it is like to live in a society where the people are controlled by an outside power.

At the time Luc "Skywalker" and I met, his parents (both professors of mechanical engineering at an Algerian university) and he were staying with a Polish priest in whose home I was also a guest. The boy and I shared the same bedroom, and late one evening I couldn't help thinking that Luc was the brightest lad his age I'd ever met. In addition to speaking six languages, he could discuss just about any subject with the utmost comfort. To my further delight, he even picked an entire album's worth of tunes--from the Beatles to bluegrass--for me on a banjo.

I told him that with such intelligence, his future should be extremely promising. However, rather than being pleased with my comment, he grew silent and looked sad as he set his banjo down onto his bed. In the weak glow of the ceiling light bulb, his face looked as if it had aged 20 years. His eyes ceased to sparkle, and his voice grew deeper with much seriousness and thought.

"In America, I believe what you say would be true. There I could do what I wanted. You have much work and, for me, I could pick many professions. Or--" He glanced fondly at the banjo. "--if I wanted to only be a musician in a little band all my life, I could do that, too.

"In Poland, though, I do not think I have any future."

His voice went from resignation to bitterness, the sort of bitternesss that had been burning inside him for a long time. "We are a very poor country, and we have no way to escape our poverty. The Russians have too many soldiers watching us for the Polish people to try to be free."

He stood and paced the room nervously.

"Everywhere in Poland. everyone you meet on the streets will tell you how much they hate the Russians. How can we ever grow, when we must do only what they want us to do? They keep us poor, so we can't fight them and be rid of them. They have too many soldiers. They are too strong. We have nothing to fight with. The Polish people can only hope that someday they will have to go away, or someone stronger will defeat them."

He suddenly plopped down beside me. "Did you read about the American cosmonaut who was able to leave the Columbia a few days ago, without any rope attached to the Columbia?"

I hadn't. I asked him if he meant the astronaut had been using some sort of manually controlled propulsion unit.

"Yes!" he replied. "I was so happy to read that. Do you know what that means?"

"It means that repairing satellites and building stations in space itself is now possible," I answered.

He nodded approvingly. "That means the Russians will be very nervous. Now they will feel they have to do the same as the Americans. It will be necessary for them to take more money from the military to spend on their space program.

"Every time the Polish people hear about the Americans doing such things, we are so happy, for we think maybe the Russians will have to spend so much money that they will not be able to keep so many soldiers watching over us."

He said no more about the Russians. However, he had left no doubt about the frustrations the situation in Poland was causing his people.

"We could be proud, if we could only live like you do," was all he added.

Luc is one of the many examples I've found on my journey of how detrimental it is when a nation is controlled by another. In those nations where outside colonial powers had ruled the inhabitants for a long time (as was the case in the recent past in Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia), I found societies that had not been allowed to grow at the rate they should have. Life in those countries was decades behind ours, in terms of technology and the standard of living, even though the people are as intelligent and energetic as those of the progessive nations.

The temptation to exploit another nation's energies and resources has, in every case, proven too irresistable to the ruling country and its men of power.

Although America is increasingly being viewed abroad as a kind of imperialistic nation--particularly after Grenada and Beruit--there still remains a sense of awe at our nation's rapid growth, and at the freedoms allowed its citizenry. Take, for example, the nearly one hundred names and addresses I came away with from northwest Africa. They are nearly all young men who hoped that I would correspond with them, so that they could use that as a device to convince their government to let them visit the USA (where they hoped to work and live).

Unquestionably the USA is still viewed as a land of opportunity and as a role model by a large proportion of the world's peoples. Our nation's founders were very wise indeed to have struggled early on for our freedoms. They realized, as I'm now learning, that true growth, prosperity, and happiness are not fully possible when others hold the strings of freedom.

When I saw firsthand how the French purposefully kept the North Africans poor and dependent, and how the Russians are now doing likewise to the Polish people, I have no doubt the same would have occurred in America, had not a small and vastly under-equipped, but highly heroic, group of colonists taken their destinies into their own hands.

We should be thankful that they did so when they did, while it was still possible. Now, especially in the case of the Polish, their dreams of freedom may have to remain just that--dreams.

Steven

Posted by Steven Newman at 2:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)