by Terry Morgan
“Civil war over land and jobs and……”
"So, is civil war not culling? Is ethnic fighting, sectarian violence and brutal execution of fellow human beings not culling? Was not the plundering of water supplies by multinational corporations the equivalent of a death sentence for people whose lives depended on it?
“Why did they ignore forecasts of impending disaster for subsistence farmers if their water sources were destroyed? Was it because the multinationals took preference?
“Was it the official position of the United Nations and the Catholic Church and others to ignore the unfortunate poor until it could be said the tragedy was really due to climate change? That these unfortunate people were in the wrong place at the wrong time?
“Wy would the UN’s head of African Affairs not admit that the UN had, for years, been under intense pressure from rich countries who claimed their presence offered jobs to poor Africans and so needed the UN’s moral support to expand? Why not admit that what these huge, foreign and very often state-subsidised companies really wanted was profit and to meet the insatiable demands of their own people?
“Whose rights should have had preference, Carl? The local people’s rights to continue their lives as they had for a thousand years or the rights of multinationals to dig and consume so much water in the space of just a few years? Who were the ones carrying out the genocide and the culling, Carl?”
Carl seemed unmoved. “Yes, uncle, but to do nothing was also said to be like culling innocent people.”
The Professor nodded. “And why did they start using emotive words like culling? Was it, perhaps, my accusation of corruption and mismanagement amongst global leaders going back generations that annoyed them? Was it my opinion that those who had wined and dined and posed for smiling photographs for so long had been utterly negligent in addressing the single most important matter affecting the billions they were supposed to be representing? Was it my reminder of warnings going back twenty years that to sit and do nothing would eventually cause a humanitarian disaster on a scale that could see millions if not billions of humans wiped out? Was it their intention all along, I asked, to do nothing and wait for disasters like this to happen?”
"You made them very upset, uncle.”
“I made them angry, Carl.”
“Was it right what you said about water supplies?”
“I merely repeated was what was already known. That freshwater supply was fixed by nature and had become insufficient to meet demand. They had the statistics but still they allowed the tragedy to happen.”
“You advised not giving aid.”
“Not exactly. I said that in a world that already took out more than it put in, it was like throwing a few small stones back into a massive hole we’d already dug. I said that their so-called humanitarian aid was not a permanent solution but, as usual, just a temporary fix to neutralise the guilt. Aid, I said, was only useful if it led to self-sufficiency but that, however much was given, it would never be enough. Look at what’s happened here, Carl. Dependence on state aid only creates yet more dependence. It rarely leads to long term self-sustainability.”
“Everyone objected to what you said.”
“Not true, Carl. Many agreed but kept quiet. But that’s another weakness of humans that animals do not have – the fear of being ostracized.
“Nevertheless,” he went on, “Help would still have been given whatever the rights and wrongs. Human kindness, you see, is driven by yet another human fear – the fear that unless you help others in difficulties, they might not help you in future. Do unto others as you would have done unto you is how they excuse it. Now isn’t that another perverse sentiment coming from people who are increasingly unwilling to take care of their own elderly parents but prefer to dump them into care homes?”
The Professor suddenly stopped as if another thought had crossed his mind. He frowned, stared at Carl and shook his head sadly.
“Old people,” he said almost despairingly. “Our parents. Are humans not the most hypocritical of animals? We claim to be so caring and averse to human suffering yet, when it comes to our ageing parents who have become an inconvenience, we abandon them to live out their remaining time in conditions we would never wish for ourselves.”
Carl watched him turn away for a moment as if hiding private feelings, but it didn’t last long. He turned, wrapped an arm around Carl’s shoulder again and pulled him down to sit beside him on the wet grass.
“My legs are tired,” he said as if to change the subject. “I, too, am getting old. I’m not as fit as I was and always walk too slowly to delay going back to that dismal room. And walking in circles with the same view is not good for anyone. I am like an animal pacing up and down inside its cage. Might I go crazy? You see, I still have a need to go somewhere, to achieve something.” He smiled at Carl. “But I’m pleased you’ve gone out of your way to see your old uncle, Carl. I’m touched."
“Yes, but…...” Carl stopped. Then he looked away.
“But what? Never be afraid to speak your mind, Carl."
"It was what you then did that made you a criminal in the eyes of the law, uncle."
“Go on,” he encouraged.
Carl hesitated once more. "The reason you are in prison, uncle. You stepped over the line. You moved from being a scientist to an extremist.”
“Many who are brave enough to speak honestly of what is in their minds have been called extremist, Carl. To call someone an extremist is supposed to be offensive but it is often an attempt by others to shut down debate on uncomfortable subjects. Even after their death, history will still describe them as extremist even though much of what they forecast has come true.”
Carl stood up. “Someone once said you had no place in modern society, uncle.”
“How could I forget? I’m perfectly comfortable being told I have no place in modern society. Is modern society so perfect? In fact, I remember replying to that Christian bishop that she might like to consider whether she herself had a place in a modern, civilised society. Surely, I said, it is a sign of an advanced civilization to anticipate human disaster before it happens and act accordingly. To sit on your hands, watch tragedy unfold and do nothing surely goes against everything your God ever taught you about humanity."
“Did she reply?”
“Of course not.”
"And someone else said you had no place in a compassionate society, uncle."
"Which was a view somewhat closer to the truth,” the Professor agreed, “But it still lacked understanding of my meaning. I agreed I had no place in a society that saw hardship as something that should be eliminated at whatever the cost. Do you remember what I said earlier about hardship?”
Carl nodded.
“Whereas I call it hardship, others call it suffering. Whereas I regard hardship as essential, perfectly normal and natural, others want to remove it entirely, thus denying humans their right to become better people by dealing with that hardship. It is not a popular philosophy but I have never sought popularity.”
Carl nodded thoughtfully.
“But I still don’t like to see people suffering, Carl. The suffering from old age is an example but then, death is part of life."
He paused before changing the topic. “What’s your real question, Carl? The one you’re edging towards but stop short of asking. Why not spit it out now or I’ll die of old age waiting.”
Carl sniffed. “It’s hard to talk about.”
“No, it isn’t. You’re just like the rest, Carl. Nervous of addressing sensitive matters. I think I know what’s coming so speak out.”
“It might upset you, uncle.”
The Professor sighed. “We’ve been here before, Carl. We decided that getting angry can deal with upsets. If you’re upset then get angry with me. If I get upset, I’ll get angry with you.” He stood up, walked to the fence and looked over. Carl then joined him, sniffing, opening his mouth as if to say something then shutting it again.<
br />
The Professor looked at his watch. “We have just mentioned death, Carl and time here, as everywhere, is running out.”
Carl sniffed again and the Professor gave up waiting for the question he knew was coming. He tried forcing it through a question of his own. “Do you, too, think I am unfit person to live in a modern society or a compassionate society, Carl? Am I an evil extremist? What is your opinion?”
Still there was no answer.
“Was I such an evil being with no compassion for my fellow humans that I needed to be incarcerated in Forest Hills Open Prison?”
Carl frowned as if hurt by such self-deprecating words but he still said nothing. The Professor shook his head.
"What a dilemma,” he said looking up at the ever-darkening sky. “The human weakness of not wanting to upset someone with words. Can I help you, Carl? I promise not to get upset because I’m sure I know what you want to discuss.”
He looked straight into Carl’s eyes. “Do you think that what I did that caused such outrage increased someone's suffering? Or did I step in to stop them suffering?"
He continued to stare at Carl, challenging him to respond. Carl first looked away and then looked back. Tears had formed once again and he frowned, screwing his face into a look of sorrow and pity, though whether it was self-pity or sorrow for finally being forced to ask the question the Professor couldn’t decide.
"You are quite clearly referring to the death of my mother, your great grandmother. Yes?" he said.
Carl’s face relaxed a little. “Yes.”
"At last,” the Professor said with a mocked sigh of relief. “Shall we walk again? The final stretch?”
He didn’t wait for a reply but walked away. Carl followed and then came alongside. “I assume you know the bare facts otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Might an explanation of the personal circumstances help you?” he asked Carl.
“Yes.”
“In that case let me start by describing your great grandmother, Doctor Helen Mary Richardson,” he began “How can I condense the full life of one great woman into just a few sentences?”
He thought for a moment as Carl strolled beside him, waiting, sniffing and wiping his face.
“A tall, elegant woman in her prime. A distinguished doctor, a consultant gynaecologist who became the Senior Vice President of the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. A leading campaigner for women’s rights with particularly strong opinions on population control that, I have to admit, greatly influenced my own work. She was ninety years old when she died. Did you know that?”
Carl nodded.
“Have you ever seen her photo?”
“No.”
The Professor fished inside his back pocket and withdrew a slim wallet. “Here,” he said.
Carl held the black and white photo in its small, clear plastic envelope. He nodded, stared at it and then handed it back. The Professor took it, looked at it probably for the thousandth time and slipped it back into his wallet.
“She had become something of an expert on discrimination and opportunities for women but it was the slow progress in patriarchal societies like Bangladesh and Pakistan that particularly concerned her. Population growth was dragging both countries down and women were quite obviously the solution to ensuring child numbers were at affordable levels. She began travelling, promoting family planning especially in Africa and Central Asia. Bangladesh, with over 160 million people at the time had the highest population density and some of the worst poverty in the world. Your grandmother wrote and spoke a great deal about poverty and its relationship to childbirth. ‘Choose a smaller family,’ she would say. ‘Live within your means and reduce the pressure on resources. Protect the natural world to ensure there is enough of everything for everyone.’
“She would illustrate the problem by asking what would happen if each family had just half a child more. ‘Would that help reduce the population?’ she’d ask. And of course, they all thought it would help. The truth, of course, was the opposite. World population would not be the expected 11.2 billion by 2100 but closer to 16.5 billion.
“’But what would happen if families had half a child less?’ she’d then ask and the answer, of course, was that it would not grow but drop to 7.3 billion by 2100. Your grandmother was full of statistics like that – mostly given to her by me, I have to admit.
“Did I already tell you that it took humanity 200,000 years to reach one billion but only another 200 years to reach seven billion?”
Carl nodded sadly and spoke for the first time for a while. “The numbers went up, uncle, but the quality of life went down.”
“It depends how you measure quality, of course,” he replied. “There are few who would want to return to times when age expectancy was around thirty-five years. On the other hand, some people achieved an awful lot before dying young. Vincent van Gogh was thirty-seven, Mozart was thirty-five. John Keats the poet died at only twenty-five.”
He paused and gave half a smile. “Thankfully, scientists last a lot longer. But there’s a need to measure contentment and fulfilment as you know, Carl.”
Knowing where all this was heading, he took another deep breath.
“So, your grandmother,” he said. “While I talked about the environmental impact of population growth and its unsustainability, your grandmother talked about quality of life and poverty. But she was getting older and I was, by then, a politician and finding myself in all sorts of problems for being outspoken. I was dropped from lists of speakers at conferences and conventions. I became the subject of newspaper articles, some suggesting I should be listened to, most saying the opposite – that I was a hard, uncompromising individual with no heart and, being childless, had no comprehension of the emotional need for children.”
He paused as another thought struck him and Carl jumped in. “Didn’t you want children, uncle?”
“No.”
It was the first time they’d come close to mentioning the Professor’s wife. Catherine had been a biochemist. They’d known each other since student days but married late, in their early thirties. She’d died of a brain tumour two years later. Sam McIlroy had already learned, a long time ago, never to mention the Professor’s family.
He continued where he’d left off.
“It was a hard time during which I lost my Parliamentary seat,” he said. “I managed to retain my status as a scientific adviser to the Government but it was a precarious position. I reverted to writing and accepting offers to speak to some of the more enlightened groups but I became more and more impatient with so little action being taken and all the time I was leaving an even wider trail of controversy in my wake.”
He suddenly stopped walking. It had already become just a slow stroll and the administration block was getting closer with every step.
“Let’s sit again, Carl, or we’ll arrive back too soon and the friendly but inquisitive Sam McIlroy will want to know whether my left knee is feeling better and whether you watched his favourite soap last night.”
The ground was wet but a crumbling concrete bench stood beside the pathway. He pointed to it. “Avoid the jagged, rusty reinforcements, Carl. It’s budget cuts.”
So, they sat for a while, the Professor leaning back, staring up at the grey, overcast sky.
“Yes. Your grandmother,” he said again as if it was a painful subject. “As my reputation rose but mostly fell, she was becoming less and less mobile. I would visit her at her Norfolk cottage overlooking the North Sea. Even after thirty years, she still missed my father, your grandfather, Bill. He had also been a doctor, an orthopaedic surgeon, and as she grew older, she would talk about him more and more, show me old photographs and tell me stories about their young days. She’d talk about people and families she’d met in Bangladesh and Karachi. She was still in touch with one young Bangladeshi woman who had risen from the slums in Dhaka to become a paediatrician. Taslima would write long letters and my mother would read them to me
. In her replies she was always trying to persuade Taslima to go into politics but in the end my mother admitted to me: “Taslima is too good for politics,” she said.
“She gradually lost weight. She was quite visibly sad and lonely and became less talkative. She felt she had contributed as much as she could during her life but at eighty-nine, she could do little more than just sit. She had lost most of her sight. She could smell the sea and the flowers that I brought her. She could hear the seagulls if they were close but she could not see them. Reading was something she loved to do but she could no longer read. Instead, she listened to audio tapes but, for her, it was not like turning the pages of a book and reading it for herself. Someone came every day to help her but she refused to move from the cottage.” He paused and sighed.
“We had talked for many years about the problems of old age, about population growth and about the increasingly common practice of abandoning old but bright and intelligent people who had contributed to society to either fend for themselves or, worse, to live together in conditions that, as younger people, they would have found abhorrent."
He paused for another breath. Carl watched him and frowned, uncomfortably.
"Then, on her ninetieth birthday, she told me, quite clearly, that she had had enough. That it was time to go. To face the inevitable. She was ready, she said. She wanted her death to come when she was fully aware. She did not want to drag it out until she was beyond the point of comprehension and had become what she described as a ‘useless old burden’. She was now, to use your word Carl, suffering.”
He paused yet again as Carl stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes and a deepening frown across his forehead.
“She had, long ago, stopped going to an old people’s free lunch run by the local community because, as she told me, ‘It makes me sad. They are all lonely and abandoned and those that still have their wits about them will talk openly if encouraged to. They see no point in living, Harold. We oldies are being kept alive even if we don’t want to be. But for what, Harold? Why?’ She always called me Harold.