Hanns’ Blog

LIFE AS A RIVER

Hanns F Skoutajan

When speaking about river cruises one is immediately reminded of the famous Rhine/Danube cruises that have become so popular. Many of my friends have taken these excursions through Europe’s famous waterways from Holland to the Black Sea. 

There is, however, one other mighty European river lesser know but perhaps not quite as spectacular as the Rhine/Danube.  The Elbe also carries cruise ships but have hardly ever seen it adverstized. Look it up in Google for contact and itinerary. One friend of mine took the cruise upstream from Berlin to Prague and enjoyed it very much. I had the opportunity to read the brochure of the trip written by a very knowledgable historian and geographer.

The cruise ship was very much like the ships that ply the Rhine/Danube, a bit shorter but the accomodation and the food and wine were excellent she told me. I was very tempted so sign on. But the real temptation was that it traversed my old  homeland . I was born in the city of Aussig on the Elbe, now Ustai nad labem, that straddles the Elbe river close to the German border. It is now the 5th largest city of the Czech Republic.

Prague which is the southern terminus of the cruise is in itself inaccessible to large cruise ships thus the passengers are take by bus to the confluence

of the Elbe and the Moldau of which Smetana wrote in his popular tone poem the Vltava or Moldau.

After boarding, the ship takes you down river. Vinyards line the banks. In my youth their product was sneered at but over the past fifty years they have made vast improvement in their product, though probably still no match to the German, Austrian, Hungarian and French wines. I have a painting on the wall of my dining room of the Czernoseki valley and its vinyards and the beautiful river.

On the first day the ship takes you through what was once known as the Sudetenland, an area which before the war though part of Czechoslovakia was ethically German.  In 1945 at the end of the war Czechs revenged themselves on the Germans and drove 3.5 millions out of their homeland.

Litomericice is the first larger city you encounter. It is located on a hill. The cruise itinerery  gives you time to walk its cobblestone streets, visit its cathedral and shops.

Once again on board the hills you pass get appreciably higher. Soon you approach the first lock that takes the ship past a large powerstation. On the right bank is a high promontory which is adorned by the ruins of an ancient castle’  known as Schreckenstein, ( rock of fear). Its Czech name is Strekov . Unfortunately you are not given an opportunity to go to the top where there is a pleasant eating place or to see the room where Wagner wrote the scenario of his opera Tannhauser. From the pinnacle there is a beautiful view  of the river. 

Once cleared of the locks the river makes a sharp right turn past my old home town, Aussig. It has always been noted as an industrial area with coal mining and chemical works, not a healthy climate. You may see the tower of St.Mary’s Church which stands at a rakish angle, the ravages of a bomb that landed nearby. The ship will now pass under the Benes Bridge . It was here that the Massacre of Aussig took place at the end of the war when Czechs hurled German workers returning from work over the bridge and shot at them if they surfaced. 2000 were killed in this atrocity.

The river then flows on to the city of Decin.  I knew it as one of the centres of social democratic resistance in the prewar days. Many of these activists who managed to escape the Nazis came to farm in Canada. They were a tough and commited lot.

From now on the river becomes truly spectacular as it winds its way through the Saxonian Alps. These are high sandstone bluffs in places joined by dizzying walkways . By now you will have passed into Germany. It becomes a notably livelier river. You will see many side paddle wheelers some still belching black smoke. On shore you pass pleasant communities that cater to the tourist trade. 

Soon Dresden comes into view. On the left bank is the old city that was totally destroyed in the fire bombing in February 1945 shortly before the end of the war. The city has been rebuilt. The passenger will be taken to the restored Church of our Lady  the Frauenkirche, which despite its name is a Protestant church. It is a masterpiece of masonry and engineering . I have had the privilege of seeing this work from the time when they gathered the rubbles to its finality as a beautiful cathedral with a gold cross on its dome, a donation from Coventry with which the city  it is twinned .  I have relatives in this city whom I visited  from time to time and observed the rebuilding.  The passengers will also be taken to the Zwinger, the magnificent art gallery whose masterpieces the Germans managed to protect in underground bunkers. Your ship will also rest overnight in Dresden which may give you a chance to attend the famous Semper opera house.

Next morning it is off down river past the city of Meissen famous for its china. Indeed the day previously there may have been an excursion to the china works if so desired.

I suppose that the Elbe tours cannot compete with the Rhine/Danube cruises who offer spectacular views of castles and mountains all the way.

The Elbe terrain now flattens out. There are some places of interest such as the bridge at Torgau where Russian and American soldiers managed to crawl over its ruins to join hands.

Luther City Wittenberg also is located on the banks and the itinerary gives you opportunity to visit the Schlosskirche , or palace church, where Luther nailed his 95 Thesis . I recall sitting in the town church where Luther often preached his reformation gospel : By grace you are saved. As I looked at the damp stained walls I recalled that his voice probably echoed off these very walls 500 years ago.

There are other places such as Magdeburg that you will visit. The Elbe does not go to Berlin but is connected by a series of canals. The tour ends in this capital of Europe but the river flows on to Hamburg and thence merges with the North Sea. Smetana’s tone poem ends with a rousing finale.

His composition is about the course of a mighty river. It could be the Moldau/Elbe, the Rhine/Danube, or even the St.Lawrence though its ambience is definitely Czech.  However, it is also a parable of life from a tiny brook to a might waterway, from childhood to old age. I think of it often as I contemplate my life. More than anything  it is my wish to have my ashes scattered in a river that would sweep them out into the sea where they would mingle with all of life, and be at peace. 

Spirit Quest, September 2015   

NO MERE PAIN IN THE BUTT

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Sciatica” is a pain in the butt, one with which I have some familiarity. The pain

originates at the “sciatic notch” which is located near the hip joint of the human

anatomy. From there it fans down the leg all the way to the foot and makes life

miserable along the way.

The condition does not seem to be relegated to age nor is there any known

reason for it. It is treated more or less successfully by physiotherapy, chiropractic

and acupuncture. Mostly the pain is suppressed by medications such as tylenol

and other similar medications that suppress the pain with the hope that the

source will go away on its own, sometimes, unfortunately, to return.

This pain in the butt has some political affinity especially in times of

electioneering when the citizenry is badgered endlessly for funds and votes. The

party with the most funds, it is believed, has the best chance of winning most

votes, we are told.

But hopefully democracy is not dependent on the purchase of votes, that voters

are more intelligent than to be swayed by a plethora of lawn signs and attack ads

on the media. Surely leadership debates as we have recently witnessed the first

one, when party leaders must clarify their policies and give account of

themselves to the voting public is pivotal to the democratic system. Let us not

succumb to cheap electioneering. There are many serious issues at stake,

issues that have to do with our way of life and our relationship to the world.

I grew up in a very political family. My father, as well as my mother, to a lesser

extent, campaigned hard against fascism and for that reason we had to flee the

country when the Nazi party with the help of Chamberlain of Britain, Mussolini of

Italy and Daladier of France won against democracy. Much of the German

population of Czechoslovakia in the fall of 1938 welcomed Hitler’s forces into my

homeland. My family and others like us had to flee but were welcomed to Britain

and Sweden.

I have no sympathy for fascism. The term is mostly associated with prewar

Germany, Italy, Spain and Portugal but in fact has its supporters in our time, in

right wing dictatorships as it was in Chile a few decades ago.

Bertram Gross has written a most interesting and revealing book with the

intriguing title Friendly Fascism. It was related to the Reagan era in the United

States and Margaret Thatcher in Britain. Fascism is a nasty term and no one in

our time aspires to that designation. Fascism is a dirty word but according to

Gross there is a friendly form of it. He exposes and warns Americans about this

creeping ideology, now more than just creeping , that is influencing the

population and can best be seen in the Tea Party movement. As the American

election campaign heats up a year ahead of time the candidates such as Donald

Trump with seemingly unlimited funds stand out as an example of modern day

friendly fascism and not even so friendly at that.

It goes by the name of “populism”, convincing voters that government is the

problem , that the smaller the government the better. Friendly Fascism is usually

against labour, public ownership of health and education and for a strong military,

lower taxes for the rich and corporations, bigger prisons and harsher punishment.

It thrives on fear of terrorism . The book is worth reading again in our time.

A few days ago Canadians mourned the death of Flora MacDonald , minister of

external affairs in the short lived Joe Clarke government. She was by no means a

fascist. She was a Progressive Conservative. The term “progressive” was

dropped by the Harper government. But “Red Tories” as they came to be known

were a truly Canadian form of conservatism. You need not be a fascist to be

conservative.

Her’s were times when parliamentarians of decidedly different ideology and

agenda were nevertheless allowed to communicate with one another in

constructive and even a friendly manner. Now it is sciatica from butt to heel, all

the way.

In the electioneering that is now in progress, in the longest and most expensive

campaign ever, it behooves Canadian voters to look carefully into the policies of

the political parties and to discover “friendly fascism” for what it really is. It is only

too easy to be swayed by promises of freedom, security and wealth.

After October 19 friendly fascism may not be merely a pain in the butt but a full

blown terminal disease of democracy for which there is little effective remedy. I

believe that what we do on that ominous day 10 weeks from now is the most

important decision Canadians will ever make.

Spirit Quest , August 2015

HANNS’ BLOG

THE END OF THE WORLD?

Hanns F Skoutajan

Approaching Canada Day I heard a CBC announcer inviting former immigrants to give him their first impression of this land. I did not rise to the challenge but thought about it. Now I use this blog to register my thoughts.

So what were the impressions on a ten year old new arrival after my parents and I tromped down the gangplank at Halifax’ Pier 21 in the spring of 1939?

We were of course met by stern faced immigration officials who checked over our credential but also by smiling hatted ladies who thrust religious tracts into our already overburdened hands. Obviously Canada was a religious land which meant either Catholic of Protestant. Jews were less welcome and others unknown and aboriginal spirituality disparaged or even forbidden.  

Beyond that first encounter with our land of settlement the impressions were questionable if not negative. Having left Britain in springtime splendour with green grass and leafy trees, there was little sign of that season on this new shore. From the coach windows of our train while still free from soot we saw only ice clogged lakes and rivers. “Dismal” is the word that comes to mind. 

A day later our train crossed the mighty St.Lawrence which floated huge slabs of ice at remarkable speed downstream toward the ocean. Montreal, then Canada’s largest city, brought some reassurance. The streets were busy. There were even streetcars which for me having come from Prague, was a sign of civilization. There were large buildings such as the mighty Sun Life Building on Dominion Square, the dark reddish stone facade of Windsor Station and of course Notre Dame Cathedral. It seemed very reassuringly European.

All that changed as we left La Belle Province and headed west across northern Ontario. It seemed that our train was endlessly rounding the same lakes and mighty rocks with scrubby trees, an unimaginable wilderness lay beyond. One of our fellow passengers, a lady prone to hysterical exaggerations moaned repeatedly that we were coming to the end of the world. Some of us tended to believe her. 

Winnipeg was large and spread out. I was impressed by the mighty Union Station and the legislative building, but much of the rest was still in the grip of Old Man Winter.

All this changed as we approached the prairies. The railway embankment resembled a narrow isthmus that led across endless seas left by melting snow. Occasionally we glimpsed sod huts with rakish stove pipes that surprisingly emitted smoke as a sign of human habitation. There were of course those strange grain elevators that marked the presence of some hamlet by the transcontinental rail line. 

We saw little of Saskatoon except its attractive train station made of stone. The platform was crowded by people many of them questioning our sanity in coming to this land still in the grip of the depression. How were we to make a living here, the question came to mind.

Our journey was not yet complete. We had not yet reached the end of the world but obviously it was coming closer. The train came to a halt just outside the hamlet of St. Walburg now renowned for its chuckwagon racers. Several wooden planks led across a water filled ditch to a field where a number of railway cabooses were set up to serve as our temporary residences while shacks beyond the end of the world were being readied for our arrival. 

That was the first week for this young immigrant, my friends and parents. We often wondered whether those religious tracts we were given at the beginning of our journey were to give us hope when often there was little else to lift our spirits. 

I am happy to report that first impressions while impressionable are not the final word. The Canada that we encountered in the spring of 1939 has changed in many ways, indeed, in many cases is almost unrecognizable. There are still those seasons of ice and snow. There are huge stretches of what seem to be an empty land dotted by thousands of lakes and rivers and not much else. 

But there are other seasons when our country takes on a different hue. Those lakes and rivers become home to urban seasonal refugees. Our cities and towns have grown. We have come to love Ottawa where we have lived for the past decade and a half. It is a beautiful mixture of urban splendour and nature, the merging of three rivers with the Gatineau Hills as a backdrop. It is a place for many people where two languages are spoken and many others heard. 

First impressions can be both positive and negative. Arriving can be a thrilling event or rather depressing occasion as it was in our case. Many people from all over the world have followed us in the post war years. All of us immigrant/settlers have worked to make this a better place that we are now pleased to call “our home and native land.” 

Spirit Quest July 2015        

  

Hanns’ Blog

THE SOUNDS OF LOVE

Hanns F Skoutajan

There was a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat as I watched the movers edge our piano away from the wall where it had been resting for the past fourteen years. Then covered with a heavy protective cloth it was wheeled down the hall to the elevator on the first leg of its journey. It was a short trip, only across the city to Westboro where our eight year old granddaughter Sophia awaited its arrival with eager anticipation. When visiting us she always  gravitated to the instrument, touching the keys and giving signs of a desire to learn to play.  Thus when enlarging their house last year they made sure that there was a place for the piano. Now that it has arrived and in place it looks very much at home in its new abode.

This instrument has had a long journey beginning in 1927 in the Heintzman factory in Toronto. We acquired it in 1962 when we were living in Kingston. Marlene had a great desire to continue her piano studies.

It was the second instrument we looked at. After exposing the works inside the case to the consternation of the salesman she discovered a crack in the sound board, so out it went. A few days later a replacement arrived, an upright grand costing us an extra $100. An upright grand has a larger sound board and thus produces a richer sound. She loved it instantly.

The piano has travelled to numerous venues where we lived and I ministered including Toronto and Owen Sound. It was often quite hair raising to see movers trying to leverage it into these new homes.

Both Marlene and I had studied piano, she more intensely than I . Both our children took piano lessons . Karla diverted to clarinet and Stephen percussion.

My introduction to the instrument began in Czechoslovakia  when I was six year old with an amazing blind teacher. I always wondered how he could tell I was using the wrong fingering although he could not see my hands. 

My lessons were interrupted in the fall of 1938 when our family was forced to flee the German invasion of our homeland leaving behind all our possessions except what we could carry in a couple of suitcases and backpacks. No piano.

Only until six years later and one ocean away, in a wartime village called Batawa near Toronto did mother decide to buy a piano. She loved music and was an excellent sight reader. Her ability was soon discovered and she  was invited to play for the Sunday School and later the church services. 

Church music was quite unfamiliar to her so she played the hymns in three quarter time which made for lively singing. The congregation loved it. Our services were held in the recreation hall lounge room and was undoubtedly the most comfortable venue for worship I have ever experienced. Early Sunday we went to the hall to arrange the couches and easy chairs and  always brought along our ferns to decorate the place. Mother’s favourite introductory music was Handel’s Largo which made for a wonderful atmosphere for worship.

Marlene began her study of piano in PEI  and travelled by steam train to her teacher in Summerside, then later at Mount Allison University and finally at the Toronto Conservatory of Music when we lived there.

It seems now that an era has passed and hopefully another has begun, one in which small fingers will find their way over the keyboard . We feel that among other things she is musically gifted. 

My tears quickly dried and the lump was swallowed as we contemplated the arrival of this beautiful instrument in its new home.

We were deeply saddened when the mover told us that he moves quite a few pianos but often not to someone’s home but a dumpster. There often is little room for a large instrument and electronic keyboards have improved in sound quality , even touch sensitivity. A piano like many other musical instruments is not an inanimate object to decorate a home but possess life.

I admit that this is a bit of a love story. The wall where the piano stood is bare and tells of the absence of sound. On its last night with us Marlene sat down to play some of her favourite pieces , and yes brought tears to my eyes. She plans to visit our son’s home with her portfolio of music. Also a piano teacher has been found for Sophia only a few doors from their home.

Nothing will give us more joy than hearing Sophia find the keys to make familiar and beautiful sounds.

For us this love story, like our own has lasted  a lifetime and undoubtedly will follow us, as love does, beyond our own lives. We have been richly blessed and hope that the piano will bless others to come.

Spirit Quest, June 2015      

        

HANNS’ BLOG

TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION

Hanns F Skoutajan

A few weeks after settling on our farm (1939), an abandoned homestead on very marginal land in northern Saskatchewan, I was exploring my new environment. I noticed several children emerging from the woods. They were dark in colour with black hair and carried a sack and a spade. 

“Ah, Gypsies.” I thought. Having come from central Europe I was well acquainted with these people who travelled in horse drawn caravans and from time to time set up camp in a field near the edge of town.  

The children I encountered at the edge of our woods were not Gypsies but Indians. They were a bit shy. However, they showed me the contents of the sack they were carrying. In it were small roots which they were digging up. Seneca roots, they called them and showed me how to harvest them. They told me that they would be sold for a few cents at the general store. The roots are to be ground up to make an herbal remedy.

The fate of the Roma, their proper name, and the Indians of North America had some similarities. They were outcasts. In Europe they were ostracized. Hitler tried to exterminate them as he did the Jews. In Canada efforts were made to assimilate them and eradicate their culture, to turn them into apples, red on the outside but white within. 

It was only later that I learned that the children of Canada’s natives were taken from their homes and families to what was known as residential or industrial schools. The police came to the native communities and rounded up children and took them far from their homes.

At first I thought that residential schools weren’t a bad idea in order to teach English or French, to read, write and do basic arithmetic, to learn useful trades in order to make a living rather than trying to exist off hunting and fishing. It would introduce them to a better life style. Only much later did I learn that these residential schools run by churches were anything other than benign but were part of the government’s policy of assimilation, (ethic cleansing?).

At school they were forbidden to speak their native language or practice native customs. They were garbed in ‘white’ clothes and were harshly punished by people who one would think would be compassionate teachers, priests, nuns, and protestant clergy. Some in desperation tried to escape and many perished on the way. It has been said that the ratio of survival of Indian children at residential schools was similar to that of allied soldiers in the war.  

“Cultural genocide” is what it has been called.  They have succeeded in becoming stronger and insisted that they were Canada’s First People. They were, after all, here when the white man arrived. They welcomed them, helped them to know this new world and survive in the harsh climate of this land. They traded goods such as furs. But the white man proved to have a voracious appetite for land and all that it is able to produce, including oil in our time. 

White officials made treaties which were more often broken. Their land was taken away and they were relegated to “reserves” which continued to shrink in size. They were forced to live on very marginal land under poor conditions. Their rights to fish, for instance, were infringed upon, something I observed first hand while living in the Georgian Bay area. 

Lets face it, the white man has not been ‘nice’ to the indigenous people he encountered. His corporations aided and abetted by governments and their military, have exploited not only people but the environment.  Religion rather than preaching a gospel of love has often been used to pacify the natives, it is sad to admit.

A week ago thousands of aboriginals and white people walked through the streets of Gatineau and Ottawa to signify the end of the work of the  Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It had exposed a shameful record of Canada’s treatment of our First Nations. A verbal apology as had been offered by our prime minister in 2008 it is not nearly enough. He has stubbornly resisted setting up a national inquiry. Much has to be done in the area of housing, education and health care and the criminal justice system. What is demanded is not words or charity but justice.

It was not my intention to compare the Roma and Indians but to point out a similar fate. The fate of the Roma is still grim whether in Hungary, Rumania, the Czech Republic or even in Canada. Many who have immigrated to this country have found themselves ostracized, some have been deported to countries that had been unfriendly to them. It seems to me that the dynamic of xenophobia and just plain avarice  is very much alive even here in Canada.

The truth has been heard in thousands of submission that constitutes the report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It is imperative that the report and its findings be taken seriously whatever the costs.  People of whatever language and culture need to be reconciled to live in peace and harmony together. 

Spirit Quest , June 2015  

LIFTING THE CURTAIN

Hanns F. Skoutajan

A kiss is but a kiss ..... or is it?

As a child I often attended performances in our beautiful baroque opera house.  I  occasionally observed two actors exchange a kiss on stage. I was surprised and curious. I asked my mother whether this kiss was for real and she reassured me that it was pretend, that their lips really didn’t touch. Indeed I noticed that the act was somewhat hidden inasmuch as they had their backs to the audience or were otherwise obscured. I was relieved.

How times have changed! Today every dramatic performance on stage or screen has its requisite number of kisses and much, much more or so it seems. Sex scenes over the years have become more explicit, realistic, even real. What once was denounced as porn is now safe from the censors clippers.

All this has come to my mind over the controversy raging about sex education in the class rooms of our public schools. Rob Ford, former mayor of Toronto, is against it.

My own sex education began, where else, but on the pioneer farm that we inhabited when we first came to Canada. One day our one and only sow and therefore a prize possession began to act strangely. Our neighbour assured us that this was normal and nothing to worry about. Our pig was in heat. He suggested that we load her in our wagon and take her to a certain farm not far away where there was a boar that serviced animals such as ours.

The boar didn’t seem very interested. Was she not his type although our sow showed clear signs that she was attracted, indeed she seemed to dance circles around him.  

Our host suggested we leave them alone and come for a coffee . In about an hour or so we returned her to the wagon and proceeded home hoping that something would come of this outing.  Indeed our sow now seemed less energetic and in a few weeks time manifested signs of pregnancy. We were elated. Mother took this opportunity to explain to me the facts of life particularly procreation. 

I soon discovered that this wasn’t privileged information but all farm children were very much on board in the matter of sex at first hand, true and false, I guess. Indeed it was a subject much discussed by  boys in their private enclaves. Did girls talk about it also?

One day the girl across the aisle from me in my grade nine class had a manuscript that she was secretly passing around confiscated by the teacher. I managed to get a glimpse of the title : What Happened Up In Mable’s Room by the author of A Night With Nancy, obviously a popular writer. Inasmuch as it did not self immolate the teacher did it for her. But I had my answer.

Sex education was left to a film which was circulated in the communities. Boys and girls were of course divided for the viewing of Fathers and Sons and Mothers and Daughters. Attendance was not compulsory but it was a full house. There was no question period or discussion following and no teacher would touch the subject with a ten foot pole. 

While this was a  commendable attempt to bring light on a dark matter I later discovered that the film was full of inaccuracies and current biases eg masturbation was unequivocally denounced as downright unhealthy, “dirty” was the word. Of course homosexuality was never mentioned.

The purchase of contraceptives seemed like a clandestine operation. Books on sexual health were not on the public library shelf but under the counter guarded over by a suspicious spinster librarian - at least in the library that I frequented. 

Only in the early part of the 20th century did writers such as D H Lawrence venture to publish such scorchers as  Sons and Lovers and the much celebrated and denounced Lady Chatterly’s Lover which contained some never before descriptions of explicit love scenes. My high school teacher denounced both and challenged me to find a better place for reading material than the garbage dump. 

Film, particularly television, proved to be an ideal media to deal with sexuality,  love and violence which sometimes seems indistinguishable. 

Our young folk some as early as 8 years of age are well acquainted with sex and often by personal experience. It is therefore very important that it be dealt with in the class room in an open and truly educational format. There are, of course, groups of parents who for religious, moral or personal reasons are against such courses in the school to the point of threatening to do home schooling. 

Procreation is one of the most powerful forces in the human psyche and thus needs to be brought out of the darkness of myth and misunderstanding. Where better than in an institution dedicated to education of the whole person.

Spirit Quest, May 23, 2015

HANNS’ BLOG

HAVE A HEART!

Hanns F Skoutajan

“A man’s heart can be judged by how he treats animals.” So wrote

Immanuel Kant (1724 - 1804) who is probably better known and less well

understood for his Categorical Imperative. His magnum opus, A Crtique of

Pure Reason is a major stumbling block for most students of philosophy.

The above statement is a pleasant break from his deep philosophical

writings. Nevertheless what he says about man’s relationship to the animal

world raises difficult moral questions for us humans.

The animal kingdom is under severe stress. In a recent study by Dr. Mark

Urban of the University of Connecticut, he points out that earth is on a

course to lose biodiversity, virtually by degrees - literally - as climate

change exacts an inexorable toll on the species around the globe.

The warming of the planet, primarily because of fossil fuel emissions is

having a powerful negative impact on the growing number of plants and

animals. One in six species will ultimately be at risk of extinction within the

foreseeable future.

We may love our pets, especially the canine species. Now that the warm

weather has come my coffee shop has once again moved onto the patio. It

is interesting to watch the patrons arrive with dogs of every size and

description, all pure bred of course. The animals are tethered while their

master/ mistress goes inside to fetch their steaming cuppa. Occasionally

they share a snack with their pet to their delight. The dogs hardly take their

eyes off the door, and occasionally give a bark when there is too a long

delay in their return. They are audibly elated when their “friends” return.

The relationship between man and beast is often visibly intimate.

However our pets, particularly dogs, are only a small fraction of the animal

kingdom, many of whom do not enjoy the warm relationship described

above.

Think of the polar bear, a fearsome animal even on the streets of Churchill

in northern Manitoba, which is threatened . The disappearing ice cover on

the Bay makes the hunting for seals, their chief source of sustenance,

precarious. Man’s incursion into the wilderness to mine, forest and farm

has seriously interfered with the herding and breeding terrain of moose and

elk. Whales and dolphins are very much at risk. Fish and birds find water

contaminated. Huge numbers of them have died. In Africa elephant herds

are diminishing at the hands of ivory poachers. And so are many other

creatures of the jungles, to say nothing of the fate of the honey bee and the

monarch butterfly.

Seen from that perspective one cannot help but wonder about Kant’s

statement that how we deal with animals reveals the human heart. Are we

a hard hearted lot who put their own wealth and comfort ahead of the

environment and their population?

It is not so long ago that nature thrived, even in my own lifetime. But in

recent decades man’s appetite has become voracious for the world’s

resources. Our incursion into nature has reached exponential proportions.

Kant who lived his whole life in the city of Koenigsberg in East Prussia,

could hardly comprehend the world of today. He would be appalled at what

is revealed about the human heart by way of our treatment of the animal

world.

His Categorical Imperative bears some resemblance to the Golden Rule:

“Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” Can we include a

deep concern for our fellow creatures as inhabitants of the globe? Have we

the heart to think globally, indeed, to see ourselves as part of the animal

kingdom? Have we the heart to share all of creation?

Spirit Quest, May 1, 2015