Lahia, a Tale Beyond Time

[short story by Sha’Tara]

Once upon a time, well let’s just say, beyond time, there is a very pretty little world orbiting its only sun. The world is named Lahia. Much sentient life exists, better put, lives on Lahia. Some are bipeds, some quadrupeds, some are plants of various shapes and species.  There are winged fairies and dragons too, if you want to call them that. All sentient life exists in perfect harmony here and it may surprise some non-Lahians to know that nothing and no one ever dies on Lahia. It is, as are most worlds deep in the galaxy, a self-healing and self-perpetuating system. Various kinds of leadership comes and goes on Lahia, mostly for the benefit of visitors, as the Lahians themselves rely on their sense of empathy to interact impeccably with one another. The horror of violence is unknown while any conflict that may arise is resolved instantly within the mind of those touched by it.

Today, which is Everyday, Lahia is being visited by alien strangers it has never encountered. These aliens arrive in a toy spaceship as the Lahians think of it. No one has used spaceships to travel since times before the end of time and the concept only exists in Lahian collective memory.

Lahians are a very calm and self assured people, that, by the way, including all sentient life on the planet. They are also impeccable hosts to all who visit their world. They gracefully accept the presence of the noisy, smelly, ugly contraption landed in a field outside their main city. A happy delegation of various sentience is assembled to go meet and greet the visitors. As always, music and dancing accompanies the delegates who form a small contingent of some three hundred sentients.

What comes out of the toy ship are bipeds, so the bipedal Lahians come forward to greet these strange looking aliens wearing not only clothes, but what appears to be armour and helmets. Noises emanate from the aliens and it takes the Lahians by surprise: a language they do not know. Deep remembrances are called forth and the language is deciphered. Much conversation ensues, most of which leaves the Lahians quite perplexed. These aliens, it seems, have come from a planet called “Earth” and call themselves humans. In reading their simplistic thoughts it seems obvious to the Lahian humans that these creatures are misinformed: they are not human at all and there is something terribly wrong about their thinking and deportment. They are looking at some of the Lahian delegation with thoughts of killing, of food, of eating!

A message is sent to the Lahian honorary queen Ishtar, impressing upon her the urgency of the situation regarding the landed toy space ship and its occupants. They impart to her the thoughts coming from the helmeted strangers and concepts such as killing, eating; of food, which can only be related to by invoking pre-time-end galactic sentient behaviour.

Ishtar appears, naked and unadorned except for her golden sash of office. She “speaks” to the aliens and asks them to remove their helmets, uniforms, clothes and return their weapons to the toy ship. After much arguing on the part of the Earthian aliens, they finally comply. The Lahian delegates are dismayed by the terrible stench and odours of non-life coming from the now naked Earthians each time they move. With a circle formed around them they are taken to a small pond fed by a waterfall and ordered by Ishtar to bathe themselves in it. Then she asks some of the boys and girls in the delegation to join they visitors in the pond and help them wash themselves.

This done, the aliens are taken to a knoll overlooking the city and there, as explained, they will attend a council at which they will be able to explain why they are on Lahia, and what their intentions are. Ishtar realizes the aliens are “hungry” – a form of ancient body need she can still relate to – and informs the aliens that they will be fed during the council session. Indeed, while questions and answers go back and forth between various curious Lahians and the leader of the Earthian delegation, these realize that they are no longer hungry and feel exactly as if they had eaten fully of their favourite foods. The leader, captain Alexi Manon, thanks his hosts, quite uncomprehending as to how they were fed.

Ishtar, a direct descendant of a forebear who had once inhabited the world from which these aliens claim to come, uses her remembrances to probe the minds of the aliens in deeper ways than the delegation would have ever allowed itself to use. To the Lahians, what Ishtar is doing would have seemed to be grossly invasive but their queen reserves for herself many prerogatives her people would not want to use and would in any case never have use for. That is why Ishtar is the honorary queen after all. If counting by time, she is the oldest of the Lahians and probably one of the oldest Galactic Elders.

She discovers many disturbing patterns in the alien minds and decides on a course of action. She asks the Earthian spacefarers to accompany her on a walk of a park where lovely, tall, golden stalks rise and wave in a light breeze. To the Earthians they look somewhat like sunflowers but taller and of much more graceful mien. No longer either hungry or even tired, the aliens accompany the lovely, long-limbed graceful queen, having some difficulty keeping up to her steps but not wanting to look childishly ridiculous by running beside her. She knows of their slight predicament but does not slow down. They enter the meadow of “the Goldens” as the sentience residing there names itself and a strange thing happens.

As the aliens approach the Goldens they turn they beautiful heads away and some begin to droop and wilt. Soon there is a trail of sickly Goldens through the entire meadow where the aliens are walking. Ishtar is satisfied. Her test tells her what she must do, even if it completely violates all the rules of alien life encounters since before the end of time.

“What is happening to the Goldens, my queen?” asks a Lahian delegate.

“These alien creatures are not human. They are diseased. They retain all the evils that before the end of time threatened to destroy our galaxy. They exude uncontrollable sexual lust; they are greedy, selfish, self-centred and filled with murderous thoughts. They see us and our world as an easy place to conquer, to exploit, oppress and enslave. They see us as their indentured servants and the captain has already decided that I will be his concubine.  They possess weapons which they rely upon to accomplish their mission of conquest.

“Therefore I must do what has not been done on Lahia since time ended: I must banish these aliens, send them back to their toy ship and fling them out into space to fare as they may. Then I must send a message to all sentients throughout the galaxy that a ship full of very sick Earthians is travelling through, the name and description of the vessel, and a warning to not give them landing or any kind of sanctuary. They carry a poison, a disease, that could once again corrupt our worlds, and perhaps because we were foolish enough to care for them, our own corruption may well be irremediable this time.”

“As impossible as it seems for me to say so, my queen, but should we not terminate them?”

“No! Death is the poison! They carry death within them and if we kill them, that disease will naturally enter us and our children. Time will return and we will begin to die once again. Our children will become sick and violence will arise between species. Look into your remembrances, delegate, and see for yourself what it was like once, if you dare!

Ishtar, using a power she has not needed since time ended, orders the Earthians back upon their ship. In her mind she goes inside their primitive computers and wipes out all data concerning the ship’s voyages, noting that as she had correctly surmised these primitives still use “time” and “distance” as means to measure their progress. She removes herself from the ship and sends it off, knowing it would be lost forever. It saddens her deeply to have to use such ruthlessness but she knows too well what the alternative means. Time, and therefore death, to return to Lahia, and that with a vengeance, if the aliens are given safe sanctuary anywhere.

The Endeavor-Korov, as the ship had been known at launch on Earth would travel empty space, pushed away from sentient worlds by collective mind, going on until all Earthian life aboard has died. It would crash on a bare rocky moonlet, its parts gradually scattering until no sign of its existence remains.

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Is there a Collective Unconscious and a Collective Dream?


[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara

(Introduction) From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:

Collective unconscious (German: kollektives Unbewusstes), a term coined by Carl Jung, refers to structures of the unconscious mind which are shared among beings of the same species. According to Jung, the human collective unconscious is populated by instincts and by archetypes: universal symbols such as The Great Mother, the Wise Old Man, the Shadow, the Tower, Water, the Tree of Life, and many more.

Jung considered the collective unconscious to underpin and surround the unconscious mind, distinguishing it from the personal unconscious of Freudian psychoanalysis. He argued that the collective unconscious had profound influence on the lives of individuals, who lived out its symbols and clothed them in meaning through their experiences. The psychotherapeutic practice of analytical psychology revolves around examining the patient’s relationship to the collective unconscious.

Psychiatrist and Jungian analyst Lionel Corbett argues that the contemporary terms “autonomous psyche” or “objective psyche” are more commonly used today in the practice of depth psychology rather than the traditional term of the “collective unconscious.”[1]

Critics of the collective unconscious concept have called it unscientific and fatalistic, or otherwise very difficult to test scientifically (due to the mythical aspect of the collective unconscious).[2] Proponents suggest that it is borne out by findings of psychology, neuroscience, and anthropology. [end of Wikipedia introduction]


In a recent post I wrote about an interesting dream I had involving certain “symbolic characters” currently much in the collective mind: Donald Trump as president of the USA, his press secretary, KellyAnn Conway, and the White House represented by a “Black House” in the dream.

Since, I have met one other person who had a similar dream on or about the same time I did, involving Donald Trump asking for help. 

In the comments section of my article, Katharine Otto  ( https://katharineotto.wordpress.com/ ) wrote: “Sha’Tara,  Your dream has been working on me since I wrote the above, and I do indeed believe you are functioning as a catalyst. I believe Trump is also a catalyst, in that he is rattling so many cages, but he can’t control outcomes. The outcome (or outcomes) depends on how we as Earthians deal with the changes. We do have the opportunity to uplevel individual and group experiences, maybe with a little help from our more evolved, extra-terrestrial friends, whoever or whatever they may be.

Maybe in a group-dreaming mode, we can dream up some visions of the kind of society we would like to inhabit.

Is there a collective unconscious (or objective psyche) and could this involve a kind of collective dreaming involving those free-er minds no longer bound by belief systems as promoted by organized religion or atheistic scientific materialism?  That somewhere between these antagonistic extremes exists a subtle reality preventing extremism from totally destroying a living sphere; a reality that dreamers can access and input into, thus adding to its power to dampen or control volatile conditions brought on by excessive greed and predatory lust leading to insatiable appetites for the predators; fear and uncertainty for their victims?

The “Teachers” warned me time and again not to embroil myself into the physical struggle for balance in the worlds of religion, politics and money.  They cautioned me not to “take sides” by exercising my voting “rights” as all such moves reveal a sense of powerlessness on my part and a gloating on the part of the enemy. 

Recently I compared the political processes world-wide as a game of snakes and ladders.  “They” cast the dice, we walk the line only to rise, then fall in turn.  “They” are the gamers, we the pawns.  Thus it always was, thus it always will be, until perhaps, as Katherine points out, more and more of us are drawn into the dream, expanding that gentle realm until the extremes dry out from lack of food. What is the extremist’s food? Violence.

The lesson of non-involvement through detachment is harsh and apparently pointless.  The dreamers are the conchies or conscientious objectors, not just to war, but towards all forms of violence.  All violence is always, without exception, an extreme counter life force.  All types of competitive behaviour is based in violence, like it or not.  Is voting then a from of violence? Yes it is because it’s a competition, a vicious game.  It is a religion, the  support of one’s particular “household gods” in the hope that they will bring peace, or if not, then the defeat of the enemy, whatever and whomever that enemy is – in politics, religion or finance there is always an enemy and all of it results in competitive behaviour and that always results in victimization, suppression, oppression, marginalization and often the genocide of innocent victims.

Who is the enemy of religion, politics and finance? The answer is obvious: me, if I dare become an individual who refuses to offer innocent sacrifices on the altars of oppressive and oppressing “divinities”.  Me, the self empowered who dares enter into the collective unconscious dream and therein draw off power from death-dealing structures to engender new life.  From this place I am neither heroine nor victim: I just am. 

Next Time Don’t Let Anyone Get Between Wall Street & the Pitchforks

A serious degree of frustration begins to rise reading about such events as 9/11 and the 2008 bail out rip-off but because the established media maintains such a staunch silence on both we need to remind ourselves over and over how deceitful, undemocratic and corrupt our “leaders” actually are. The following is a bit long but a good primer on why Donald Trump was chosen by the “deplorables” and “knuckle draggers” to drain the swamp. That he was lying didn’t matter, anything was better than more of the same as was guaranteed under a Clinton White House after Sanders turned coat the Democrat establishment shut him down and made him into a nice little puppet.

Wolfessblog -- Guillotine mediocrity in all its forms!

Published on Friday, September 14, 2018

Ten Years After the Crash, We’ve Learned Nothing

The great financial catastrophe of our times is still badly misunderstood, and led to grotesque consequences, including the election of Donald Trump

Traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, September 16, 2008. (Photo: Spencer Platt/Getty Images)

Traders on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, September 16, 2008. (Photo: Spencer Platt/Getty Images)

Ten years ago, on Saturday, September 13th, 2008, the world was about to end.

The New York Federal Reserve was a zoo. Imagine NASA headquarters on the day a giant asteroid careens into the atmosphere. That was the New York Fed: all hands on deck, peak human panic.

The crowd included future Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner, then-Treasury Secretary (and former Goldman Sachs CEO) Hank Paulson, the representatives of multiple regulatory offices, and the CEOs of virtually every major bank in New York, each toting armies of bean counters…

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An Unexpected and very strange Dream

[as experienced by Sha’Tara]

There are those of us who are born dreamers. No, I don’t mean wishful thinkers but people who have unusual dreams that require serious interpretation. Is the dream a revelation? Is it for me of for some other person? Is it a “generic” prophecy, and if so, how to properly “download” the message file that it may then be presented to that lucky “generic” crowd?

Do I have to mention that I use the word “lucky” tongue in cheek? How many dreamers have had their dreaming career cut short when they kept saying things the lucky recipients did not want to hear, or which their leaders took exception to?

Water under the bridge and all that… but here’s a dream for you that should, perhaps, leave you scratching your head, as it did me, and continues to “do me”.

That was last night. I was having what must have been a peaceful sleep and the evening before was quite uneventful although I did try to watch a movie called “Captain Fantastic” which I could not finish. So what happened?

The dream. First, the scene: a steep hillside and it is quite dark though it is full daytime. I’m walking past a large black building on my left, climbing uphill, searching for some kind of path although the territory is not totally strange to me. Coming up behind me huffing and asking me to wait is…

You won’t believe this: none other than Donald Trump. To say that I’m shocked (in the dream) is an understatement. I don’t know what to say as he approaches. He puts his right hand on my shoulder and says, “Thanks for waiting, thanks a lot. Look, I know this will seem crazy but I want you to listen to me very, very carefully. First, I need you. I’ll explain why but let me just say that I know all about you, and your feelings towards me in particular, and all politicians. Also that you are no fan of America as an ideal. OK? Now please let me talk. I don’t have much time.”

“I’ve had a revelation (the word he used was different but it’s the best I can come up with) and I’m in terrible shock. All my life I’ve been a taker. I still can’t believe I’m saying this but it’s true. Now I’m in a position to reverse this. I want to be a giver, both in my politics and my personal life. I don’t know where that will leave me but I feel I have no choice in this. I repeat, I need you to help me because you understand what such a shift means.” He turns and motions to an individual I cannot see. “My assistant wants to speak to you. I’ll wait.”

A woman appears and approaches me. Is it KellyAnn Conway? It could be, looks like her but she does not introduce herself. She takes my arm and leads me into a dark brush-filled area, stops and looks straight in my eyes. She says words to the effect: “The president is in shock and I’m at a loss on how to handle this situation. We, I, have come to you because we, I, know I can trust you. If I can convince you to help us through this transition, I know you are essentially incorruptible and that you will do it, not for us and not for the opposition but for the people. This is all about people, not politicians, not elites, not anybody special. I, I mean we, no, the President (the way she said it makes me capitalize the title here) wants to turn everything around. He says he knows he has to, but has no idea how to proceed. Who would believe him? Who would trust him? I feel like I’m assistant to the Grinch who stole Christmas and is awakened on Christmas day by all the little Who singing happily as if nothing was missing. The President want to return Christmas to the people. He needs you understanding and your help. Will you help us? Long ago you wanted a chance like this but now that you no longer care we know you are trustworthy.”

I would have liked to be involved in more of this dream but I think the shock of it actually woke me up. I lay wide awake for a long time, forcing myself to remember the details in the dream and what they might mean. I got the symbolism of the “Black House” as how I would see the White House because of the corruption it houses. Also the entire sense of a very dark day is how I perceive the global situation we are in. The brushy area represents the political mess. Beyond that, having Donald Trump and KellyAnn Conway asking me for help even though, yes, I know what such a revelation as he explained having experienced, does entail, is a bit more than much. But then, what’s self empowerment for in the end?

Was my mind playing a really sick game, or is there something going on, even if in some altered reality? Is compassion challenging me to “love my enemy” in this scenario? What sort of personal power was I being offered?

Who is the message for? All bets are off but I’ll accept opinions!

Report to Galactic Headquarters

(a short sci-fi story… from Sha’Tara)

For: Leon Battera, Receiver

From: Apia-Di Loro III, Observation ship, OmaTe

Date: Cycle 286-87-1902 per Pleiadian Time Accounting.

Begin:

I have discovered an ancient world sparsely populated by intelligent sentience. Per my orders, I am orbiting this world on six different parameters taking soundings and recordings.

The sentience speaks as-yet unrecorded languages and I have instructed my translator to begin working on it. However, due to the vast confusion of spoken languages, this may take some time.

The world has much water on it but much appears to be non-potable and what should be potable appears to carry unusual amounts of radiation and trace pollutants inimical to the local flora and fauna. Samplings of air quality also reveal high levels of radiation and an unnatural dearth of oxygen.

I have run my findings through my analyzer. This world will require personal investigation as it is obvious it experienced a terrible catastrophe as recently as five to ten thousand years ago. As per my orders I must ascertain whether this unnatural catastrophe was caused by an invasion, or by the locals themselves although at first scan, these people have no technology, certainly nothing capable of such devastation indicated by my scans.

There is evidence of very large cities having once existed, now nothing but ruins. There are no roads. The people, it seems, live in small villages of huts made from mud and grasses; in some places, from twigs or bones.  I have noted smoke rising from the mouth of caves also.

What happened here? My mind is burning with questions. I am leaving my AI in command and taking my lander down to the planet.

Apia-Di Loro: AI, have I taken all necessary precautions and availed myself of proper protection?

AI: All is optimum. Ready for launch.

I am landed in a hidden depression on a broad plain covered in coarse grass. First analysis: radiation poisoning but dwindling. There is a village of sorts some ways from my hidden lander. I am making for it. It is difficult to separate the bipedal humanoid sentients from many other sentients so proceeding with care.

Of important note: I come upon an inscription of sorts on a plaque. The plaque material appears to be some metal alloy and is very old. I set the translator to transcribe what can be seen of the inscription and while it is doing so I wander around, careful to retain my cloaking. I hear an animal bleat and over a small rise comes a young woman leading a dozen animals which my portable unit refers to as “goats”.

Another animal follows the young woman, or girl rather. The animal circles the “goats” and keeps them walking in a specific direction. It is called a “dog”. The woman/girl is known as a shepherdess according to my portable translator. Meaning: she has charge of the animals and the “dog” animal helps her.

I’m in need of some verbal communication to talk to her so I return to my translator by the ancient plaque. This is what the translator shows me:

My name is Do-ald Trum-. I am the Presid–t of the mightiest nat— on e-rth. I have the p-wer to –nihil-te any nation or allian–s of na–on- that chall-nge my -ill. My fing-r is -lways -n th- butt-n. Be afraid, be v-ry -fr-id. -istory wil- r-memb– me as t– gre–est, mos- power-ul man who ever lived- – am mak-ng Amer-c- gr–t agai-

It was enough to formulate a rudimentary understanding of the language. The computer had no problem filling in the missing letters. Accompanied by the translator I return to the shepherdess and her animals. Before I uncloak myself I study her. She is very thin to the point of emaciation and her hair is sparse and dull. Her limbs are obviously deformed, a mutation from the radiation. Her right leg is shorter than the other and that foot has no toes. Her left arm terminates with a few knobs that were meant to be fingers, approximately where the elbow should be. Her clothing is inadequate, little more than patched rags. I feel a great pang of empathetic sadness knowing this would be the case for most of her people.

I try to imagine hundreds of millions of such mutants surviving in the most primitive and terrible of conditions, prone to disease and sudden temperature changes, always hungry, and the worst of it: not knowing why they are thus being “punished”. 

Having some verbal communication ability via the translator, I uncloak myself slowly and pretend I’d been walking towards her, a stranger crossing the prairie. Upon seeing me, she stands abruptly and raises her stick. The dog gives a half-dozen perfunctory warning barks. Fortunately my female form takes some of her fear of me away and she waits, though ready to run. I signal I am unarmed and try a greeting through the translator. She remains mute, obviously uncomprehending. I try other words and I see that she is listening intently but not understanding.

Finally, I point to the plaque and ask who this Donald Trump is, or was. She looks at the plaque as if she never noticed it before and shrugs and shakes her head to indicate she doesn’t know. I realize then that her language has nothing to do with what is on the plaque and in any case she cannot read. I conclude then that these are survivor remnants of some terrible war, for war it had to be as I can easily infer from the contents of the plaque. These people have no history and what language they possess has only immediate survival value.

The girl is still standing, rigid and uncertain, ready to bolt. To help her relax I slowly turn away to disappear in the tall grasses. Ironically the dog creature circles me and coming to the plaque, relieves itself upon it. I think it a very fitting gesture even if the creature does not realize the symbolism of its act.

My dear Leon, I will give you a much more thorough report when I return to the OmaTe. Meanwhile, I need not tell you this is a terrible heart-breaker of a world. Let me know as soon as you can if I should remain in orbit here and if it is necessary for me to make other landings. More importantly advise me, please, on what Galactic Planetary Health Consortium plans to do about this discovery; if it will intervene on behalf of these people. They desperately need our help Leon.

More details to follow soon. I remain, your Apia-Di.

A Touch of Home

[a short story –  by Sha’Tara

“Beautiful day, huh?” The slim brunette in the sleeveless black pantsuit doesn’t even look at Steven as she pours the coffee into the ornate, obviously home-made mug and hands it to him, taking his “toonie”[*] and two quarters for payment. He waves the change and walks to the window, to the only small table left unoccupied. He sips the hot dark roast and scans through his paper.

As many experts at reading the once bulky commercial dailies will tell you, there’s a certain art to this, one I’ve never bothered learning. You don’t actually read news or stories. You go through it page by page taking mental notes of relevant items to get into later. You skip the fashion, cars and trucks, and entertainment or sports sections if these are not your thing. Later, during your next break or back at home, you attack the pieces you hope will hold your interest long enough to provide a “shift” or a time of forgetting.

“Mind if I sit here?” A tall man in a grey suit points at the only seat left in the entire Java Hut coffee house.

“Not at all.” Steven points to the empty rattan chair. “I don’t own the place although at the prices they charge here I should have shares in it by now.”

The tall man sits down, puts his paper cup down. “If you don’t like these prices why don’t you go to Tim Horton’s down the street?”

“And do line-ups? I value my time. Beside I like to be able to taste coffee, not just hot water and sugar.”

“Ah, the very reason I frequent this establishment. Interesting mug you have there. Your own, obviously?”

“You’re either a lawyer or an investigator, sir!”

The grey suit laughs. “I do a bit of both actually; lawyering and sleuthing that is. I have a traffic case at 11:00 today as a matter of fact. Can’t really discuss it, you understand. But that mug is fascinating. It has a story: I can almost hear it speak.”

“A touch of home, sir, uh, ah?”

“Sorry. Al. My name is Albert Delisle, attorney at law and at large.” He laughs again and extends a strong tanned hand, impeccably manicured. Steven extends his and the handshake is firm, almost too eager; the grip of a professional golfer.

Steven continues, “I’ve had this mug for twelve years now as of yesterday. My daughter Katherine made it in a pottery class she was taking as an extra-curricular activity in her last year of school…” Steven stops talking and holds the fading white odd-shaped mug with both hands, hands of a man old before his time. Tears begin to flow from his eyes and the lawyer touches his arm.

“Sorry to stir up painful memories my friend, uh… no, don’t tell me your name. You must be Steven Baillie.”

Steven appears shaken and startled by the mention of his name from someone he’s never met. “That’s right. That’s my name. How did you know…?”

The lawyer stops him. “Sorry to startle you as well as upset you. If you tell me the story of this mug I’ll explain how I know your name.”

“Ah, yes. Twelve years ago my wife Jean went to pick up our daughter Susan at school to take her shopping for a grad dress. On their way home after shopping a drunk driver ploughed into the mini van. His vehicle, an old Ford 4×4 was totaled but he was thrown clear and didn’t get a scratch. My wife, they said, died on impact. Susan lived for one month of pure agony afterwards but the burns were too deep… The only thing that survived from the wreck and the inferno of the mini van was this mug. She was bringing it home for me after cleaning out her locker.”

“I’m so terribly sorry sir,” says the lawyer. “The driver of the other vehicle, his name was Gerry Felton?”

“Yes. That was his name. But how can you know this, or remember these details after such a long time?”

“Research. The man I’m defending today is that same driver. He’s charged with running over an old woman crossing the street in the dark, killing her instantly. He was driving while under the influence of alcohol and a mixture of prescription drugs. These details are in your paper.”

“I know. That’s an article I’ve been reading every day for twelve years.”

[Note: a “toonie” is a Canadian $2 coin]

Burn your Nikes? No, Boycott Nike

This timely article speaks loudly and clearly for itself.  I received it compliments of CounterPunch at  https://www.counterpunch.org/2018/09/07/burn-your-nikes-how-about-boycott-them-instead/

My introduction:  Since there are no WordPress buttons on Counter Punch, I contacted the writer for permission to cut and paste his article here, in my blog. He replied with an enthusiastic “yes.”

I’ve always known about Nike, and I make no apologies when I say that anyone, including the sudden American “black” hero Kaepernick, who endorses Nike is also endorsing Nike’s slaver conditions in all of their sweat shops; their criminal anti-human rights stance.  Nike is a vile capitalist exploiter and predator, make no mistake and make no mistake that Kaepernick is fully aware of this – no one can be that ignorant when they take huge piles of money from their handlers.  The money Kaepernick is receiving is slave labour money and I find that deceptive and his “take the knee” performance now a hypocritical travesty of protest that turns out very remunerative and convenient for himself.

The other thing I have to say is about a society that buys into the whole fashion industry.  I like to walk barefoot as I know it to be a very healthy way to go which a lifetime has taught me.  However society has a way to shame you, or force you, to wear shoes and few stop to wonder why? Simple to understand when you read this article.  Shoes are very big money and if more people went barefoot and more people cared about keeping their environment clean and safe for bare feet, some of those money piles would dwindle, would they not, even if only in losses of incremental sales.  Greedy corporations like Nike are astute manipulators of psychology and always creating auras of acceptance for their products.  Parts of society are harnessed to produce useless garments and parts of society are cajoled, conned, pushed and forced into wearing compliance.

No shirt, no shoes, no service.

Quote: “The United States alone bought nearly seven pairs of shoes a person in 2016. What a ridiculous society we live in! We buy our way into extinction, keeping our fellow humans in slavery through the process.”
Burn Your Nikes?

Nick Pemberton says don’t burn your Nikes, boycott them instead.

Burn Your Nikes? How About Boycott Them Instead

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“You have to stand proudly for the National Anthem or you shouldn’t be playing. You shouldn’t be there. Maybe you shouldn’t be in the country”

— Donald Trump

“Believe in something, even if it means sacrificing everything. #JustDoIt”

— Colin Kaepernick

“A man who stands for nothing will fall for anything.

— Malcolm X

Nike’s catchphrase “Just Do It” was inspired by murderer Gary Gilmore’s famous last words. Nike has been a bloodbath ever since. In the 1990s, there was real pressure on Nike to change their nightmarish working conditions. Those were the days when we cared about slavery.  Nike cleaned up its image and not much else. Since then they have been peddling apparel without consequence, save a few brave protestors.

Nike appeared to have changed its course to some degree, but recent findings tell a different story. in 2016 Nike denied the Worker Rights Consortium access to 690 supplier factories says labornotes.org. The 2018 documentary Behind The Swoosh details the sickening conditions. Piled together in cement boxes infested with rats, surrounded by sewers, workers tried to survive on 1.25$ a day. Jim Keady, former coach of St. John’s soccer, says he lost 25 pounds working in Indonesia on Nike’s wages.

Workers end up working overtime to compensate, never seeing their children. These children soon go into sweatshops at a young age themselves. The full cycle hits in Behind The Swoosh when we see the piles of Nike shoes brought from overseas and dumped for burning. The toxins burned in these shoes give the children cancer.

Resistance (I hesitate to even use that word anymore) to Nike is handled by the mafia bosses, according to the documentary. When Keady and Leslie Kretzu tried to get near a Nike factory they were surrounded by security. They then were followed by factory security, who were highly linked to the local mafia. Keady and Kretzu met with a local organizer Dita Sari who was put in prison and tortured for her union organizing.

There is no way to describe Nike’s working conditions other than modern day slavery.Workers work all day, breaking their backs and numbing their fingers. Some figures estimates that 250 million children under 15 work in sweatshops today. If one tries to organize, they are silenced with force. One has to wonder what is greater, the hunger or the hopelessness?

In the age of climate change, water evaporates and heat is extreme. Workers in sweatshops can work for 100 hours a week. Sometimes one can’t sleep for days. This never makes the news. Meanwhile Americans buy and buy. Materialism is the undiagnosed disease that uproots our souls and replaces them with possessions. Achieving material gains and rising in social status eclipses any capacity for empathy we have for the unseen.

Nike is not alone. The clothing, shoes and retail industry is amongst the most brutal in the world. They primarily target poor girls to do their bidding. Workers face tremendous amounts of abuse and wage theft and have little power to stop it. These industries are amongst the most environmentally heinous as well. From animal skin to fossil fuel to coal to waste to dangerous chemicals, the shoe industry wreaks havoc.  The United States alone bought nearly seven pairs of shoes a person in 2016. What a ridiculous society we live in! We buy our way into extinction, keeping our fellow humans in slavery through the process.

Like war, slavery has become so normalized it is barely a story anymore. We (this author sadly included) are most likely to think of slavery when it intersects when one of our rich and famous household names in the endless petty culture wars that postures as American politics. Colin Kaepernick may be my second favorite spokesperson for Nike (after the greatest athlete of all time, Serena Williams). Yet one has to be disappointed in Kaepernick’s latest ad campaign for Nike.

While Nike workers make a dollar a day, Kaepernick is raking in millions for his endorsement deal.  Kaepernick has exposed police violence at home but the war on the working class remains invisible. As soon as supporting the man became trendy, the slaveholder Nike touted him as inspirational. The brand became taking a stand (or a knee). But who will take a stand against the liberal slavery industrial complex?

It is possible to have a left critique of Black Lives Matter, a movement Kaepernick is often linked with. Bruce Dixon writes it better than I can here.  I’ll just say it is hard to imagine Malcolm X appearing in a Nike ad. Malcolm X would surely link police violence at home with slave labor and imperialist violence abroad. Above all, Malcolm was a curious and open-minded internationalist. In the age of Trump an uncompromising working class figure like Malcolm has never been more necessary. A giant like Malcolm reminds us that there was a time when souls mattered more than soles.

The liberal resistance was once again blind to real world politics in the age of Trump-like sensationalism. How many fools pledged their support for this organization that has more buried more harassments than #MeToo has even brought to light? How many suckers concerned about Barack Obama’s legacy turned away from brown children who are starving, enslaved and infested with cancer? How many people complaining about ignorant climate deniers went ahead and endorsed an environmental disgrace? The outpouring of support for Nike was just as sick as the John McCain procession just a week earlier. Could no one see through the liberal propaganda that offered trendy symbolism with one hand and slave labor on the other?

Heroes are hard to come by in the age of Trump, and one can see why people are tempted to tip their caps to Kap. The paranoia that the ex-NFL star inspires in Mr. Trump and his rabid supporters is impressive. They hilariously began burning their Nikes after Kaepernick appeared in a commercial for Nike. Note that Nike’s slave labor and environmental destruction did not move these people an inch.

Now what exactly will these Trump supporters be thinking of Nike? Are they just another globalist institution pedaling transgenderism, science and vaccines for all? Is Nike on the wrong side of the Qanon wars? Perhaps they were upset by the fact that Nike’s sweatshops contained more female workers than male workers, surely believing that the abuse by their bosses was consensual, their courage to stand up to them a witch hunt, and the lack of male workers a serious plot in the campaign to castrate all men vis-a-vis the lasers on Hillary’s pantsuit? Or perhaps it was the multiculturalism poured into each shoe by this equal opportunity employer who mysteriously ran most of its shady business out of black and brown countries? Why do they make you take off your shoes at airport security anyways? Is it because the shoes are Muslim?

Where does one start with the layers of contradiction? The anger against products made in China only comes when a “veteran-killing terrorist”a.k.a. an educated black man is endorsed by Nike. Does burning the Nike shoe, made in China, constitute less of a crime than burning an American flag, made in China? How about burning a MAGA hat, made in China? What kind of snob are you if you don’t give a hoot about child slavery and only become concerned with “elitism” after your least favorite football player appears in a commercial? Who burns their 120$ shoes as a protest against elitism anyways? Across the world, burning these shoes isn’t cool, it’s cancer inducing.

Those looking to explain away Trumpism through a backlash against globalism, elitism, liberalism, etc. may be on to something. But when Trump targets globalism he targets diversity, not slave labor. When Trump targets elitism he targets education and free thinking, not the 1%. When Trump targets liberalism, he is not taking on the Democrats from the left, he is challenging the notion of a pluralistic multiethnic society with women as equal citizens.

Perhaps once and for all Trumpism can be exposed for what is truly is. A movement whose only depth is the return of the white male ethos and whose only breadth is a coalition amongst the most angry, privileged and reactionary characters in today’s grim political landscape.

Trump and his fans once again whine about something legitimate, but for all the wrong reasons. They stumble upon the reality of the world only when it touches their fragile egos. They remain too ignorant and self-absorbed to know about anything else. Then again we all allow and endorse slavery from companies like Nike everyday, no matter who is in power.

For a moment let us dwell on the fact that a real, devastating, and hopeless pain is upon our sisters and brothers in sweatshops across the world. Are we this numb to the world’s most cruel condition of slave labor? The left may want to blame this all on capitalism, the liberals may want to blame this all on fascism and the Trumpettes may want to blame this all on liberalism. Above all we should agree that slavery in all forms is a cruel and unnecessary condition and that stopping it is urgent. So the next time one buys their shoes, just avoid a sweatshop. It’s not that hard. Here are some options to start. Many more options are available online or locally.

Boycott Nike. Just Do It.

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