Ethnic history of the Levant

 Masaman has a series of lectures on the ethnicity of the world and has been off line for awhile, but today he is back with a video on the history of the Levant.

Mainly posted for later viewing since he tends to talk fast and his videos are dense with facts.

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quite a few related videos on his site.

like this one:

Thanks for giving us some fun

 are modern films funny? Yes, sort of. But remember when watching them was fun?

Brian Sibley remembers Glynis Johns, best known as the mother in the original Mary Poppins.

But she also plays a damsel in this farce which alas is no longer on youtube. But it takes talent to say these lines without laughing:

Social contagion: The Werther effect

Another school shooter who is trans and bullied who decides not to shoot those who bullied him but innocent grandschool kids.

These school shootings come in clusters because when the press pushes one, others decide to do copy cat crimes.

is the social media to blame? There are reports of the fist trannie murderer quoting the trans day of rage to justify her murders, so maybe there is stuff being discussed in certain discussion groups that encourage people to act on their negative impulses.

The only school shooter that I know about personally was a boy from a very abusive background who was placed in the care of his grandfather. He was not going to school but getting class assignments at his home at the time. But reports said that he had been obsessed with white power/nazi hate sites on the internet (he was AmerIndian). So apparently those sites suggested killing those who he believed harmed him was okay and justified. Never mind that he projected this idea onto people who had nothing to do with his abusive parents but were those who tried to help him.

We docs know about social contagion: when press releases glamourize or justify a murder, or more commonly a suicide.

That is why the public health authorities traditionally told the press not to show suicide victims in a sympathetic light (and Catholic church would not bury them in blessed ground): to discourage people from thinking such actions were an acceptable action.

when activists point to the problem of gun violence, they rarely note that half of gun deaths are suicides, usually older white men. Substance abuse often involved. So it's not just women and children harmed by the culture of individualism, and overdoses are not the only way that substance abuse harms people.

The various anarchist and other revolutionary fads that inspired violence in the 19th century was proceeded by a suicide fad inspired by a novel:

the idea of suicide being a social contagion was first noticed after a wave of copycat suicides inspired by a popular novel: 

from Lancet: Goethe's Werther and its effects

Beyond any doubt, Goethe's Werther altered the way its readers viewed their lives; doubtless many lived or wished to live differently because of it.” And it was a literary sensation.... 

More chillingly dramatic than the extraordinary commercial success of Werther, is the fact that it was said that people in many countries were so persuaded by the novel that, if disappointed in love, they imitated Werther's manner of death. According to Goethe, “My friends…thought that they must transform poetry into reality, imitate a novel like this in real life and, in any case, shoot themselves; and what occurred at first among a few took place later among the general public…”

That there was significant imitation of Werther's suicide was never demonstrated conclusively, but we do know that various authorities were sufficiently concerned to move them to ban the book.

so who is vulnerable to such suggestions? 

“The permanent misfits can find salvation only in a complete separation from the self; and they usually find it by losing themselves in the compact collectivity of a mass movement.” ― Eric Hoffer, The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements

could Cocoliztli hit again?

  A massive population collapse in Mexico followed the Spanish invasion.

Influenza, small pox, measles, mumps, etc. were the cause and of course these diseases were known to Spanish doctors, and since most Spaniards had had these diseases as children (and survived) they were immune.

But one of the largest epidemics was unknown to both Spanish and Aztec doctors:

Cocoliztli

When half of the population died: the epidemic of hemorrhagic fevers of 1576 in Mexico Some Spanish were affected, but most lived, but most of the Indian populaion died.

More here:

Megadrought and Megadeath in 16th Century Mexico

For years the reason behind this epidemic was unknown, but recent DNA studies show it might have been a paratyphoid germ.

so did it come with the Europeans? Yet a similar outbreak of a hemorrhagic fever occured before the Europeans, 

one should note that a lot of diseases could give similar symptoms of bloody diarrhea, aka dystentary and some of them have rashes.

So was it spread via vermin, or via contaminated water? That is another question since typhoid and paratyphods usually are spread via the 4F routes: Fingers (from not washing hands and then spreading the germ to something you touch), feces (including contamination of the water supply because the outhouse/latrine is near the water supply), food (example chickens and eggs are often contaminated. Luckily cooking destroys the germs, but if the salad was washed with the contaminated water, you could get sick) and flies (insects, fleas on rats, etc.).

A reminder why the Four horsemen of the apocolypse were war, famine, disease, and anarchy.

a similar convergence of famine, war, and anarchy occured with the Philippine revolt against the Spanish and then against the Americans. American Apocolypse  is a book that describes how and why these things were linked, and happened even when the invaders didn't want it to happen and had a crude idea of public health and sanitation.

so should you worry about this disease being brought up from Central America and Mexico with all those immigrants?

 Probably not: since sanitation and antibiotics can stop it's spread. And these germs are already in the USA and cause outbreaks of food poisoning from salads, unclean hands, or improperly cooked chicken. I have also seen cases from those cute tiny pet turtles we used to give to kids.

 

Luckily, antibiotics, and fluids (sometimes IV Fluids are needed) treat the disease. And basic sanitation (including washing hands) can stop the spread.

There is a vaccine for typhoid, but the vaccines for paratyphoid (Salmonella) are available but have problems due to the many variations of the germ.

but when I read about the homeless in the USA, I worry about the poor sanitation will cause spread of disease: it has already resulted in a major Hepatitis A epidemic in San Diego.

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update: Rantz: Homeless fecal matter behind explosion of Shigella cases in Portland

CDC article:

Shigella also causes bloody diarrhea and high fever similar to paratyphoid and is spread in a similar manner, and as a doctor I have seen some cases.

and can cause epidemics such as among the soldiers in Gallapoli where 100 thousand got sick, and in Japan, in 1897, where 90 thousand got sick and 20 thousand died, and where  where Dr. Shiga was the one who discovered the germ.

and more recently:

In the second half of the twentieth century, large outbreaks of disease due to Sd1 were still being reported in Central America, with estimates of more than 500,000 cases and 20,000 deaths for the 1969–1973 epidemic, in Africa, where there were an estimated 100,000 cases and 5,000–10,000 deaths in the 1979 epidemic and in Asia.

and earlier epidemics of similar symptoms (dysentary aka bloody flux is also caused by paratyphoid. ameoba, and some viruses) were alas common and caused a lot of deaths before modern medicine. 

and ignore the claims it will get worse with global warming. The spread in Portland is due to the basic failure of the public health system to clean up the streets, and by activists who insist that defecating in the streets is a human right.

Epidemics are scary. Medicine is hard. Real experts are needed.

Right now, I am reading/listening to the Tale of Genji (third time).

This has led me to read about that period in Japanese history, about the introduction of tea, about the varieties of Buddhism that changed from ceremonial and strict to the more popular version that lets non intellectuals to get to heaven by taking Buddha as their Lord and savior without all that complicated rituals.

but anyway, one of the side issues is disease. Lots of child birth deaths, not just in Genji but in other related writings by ladies of those days.

But what about disease?

I am just starting to do research into the healing ceremonies, but one of the issues I ran across was infectious disease

Japan, being an island, and in rural areas in valleys tended to be isolated, was what in public health calls virgin territory: where no one is immune to a disease so the result is a huge number of deaths.

This is what happened to the American Indians for example. Or to the Europeans who got Syphillis in return

So back to Japanese history: This medical article summarized that country's experiences.

there was a major smallpox epidemic

The first recorded smallpox epidemic in Japan was in the eighth century. The smallpox that started in 735 ravaged the country and killed probably about one-third of the entire population. Almost certainly this was a virgin soil epidemic. Later, twenty-eight smallpox epidemics were recorded until 1206. Among these epidemics, there was a clear trend of progressive shortening of the interval between two epidemics: until the year 1000, smallpox visited Japan with the interval of twenty-four years on average, while between 1001 and 1206 the interval became thirteen years.4 (Table 1) By the Tokugawa Period or the early modern period in Japan, smallpox was firmly settled as an endemic disease.5 Statistics from a village show that the village experienced major outbreaks of smallpox about every ten years. (Figure 1) They also show that about ninety-five per cent of the deaths from smallpox were those who were under ten-years-of-age.

I bring this up for two reasons: 

One: that a new disease into a population without immunity could kill a large percentage of the population, and 

TWO: that as time goes on, with each epidemic, fewer die, until it essentially becomes a disease of childhood

The lessons for covid? Well, thanks to the omicron varient, the milder disease took over and once that happened, the epidemic was over.

but the mishandling of covid will make people sceptical when the next bad disease hits.

Sigh.

But anyway: Yes, stop the conspiracy theories about meetings planning for future epidemics: because such epidemics do happen.

But two: remove the nincompoops who mishandled the Covid response.

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a longer version of this is posted on my medical blog.

seven deadly sins in modern psychology

 

Father Andrew Greeley once quipped that as soon as the Catholics dropped a custom, it was picked up by the Protestants.

In today's world, such things are being picked up by secular culture.

The lecture is one of a series to teach women how to idenify if they are being exploited by narcissists, and here she points out that her concept of narcissism is similar to the seven deadly sins.

It says a lot about modern culture that many of these personality traits are admired and encouraged.

Sigh.

Philippine History: A time of hunger

A short story by my granddaughter set in the time of the Philippine revolution against the Spanish then the Americans. About women trying to cope when the men were conscripted to fight, and the father of the family died. Subplot is the tension between the local customs and the Catholic religion.

Title: Hunger

Crouched in the convent’s underbelly, Gloria and Marisol sit in stifling, deafening silence. As if they were once again four, Gloria places her hand on Marisol’s chest. Marisol startles then softens, touching this intimate was not a common practice within the con nes of the thick, archaic, black stone. In the darkness, the siblings parse through the lost. In silence, they tried with slow awkward subtlety to enact habits of the unfamiliar love now long forgotten. Like playing with an old straw doll or trying on a torn up summer slip of years past. Marisol’s bosom rises and falls in rapid succession, following the deep pounding of a rapid, restless heart.

“Hinga, Marisol, hinga-” Gloria demands her sister to breathe with a voice as hard as steel, deep and guttural–the years of her voice evoking melody and music gone. The daintier, gentler, thinner, and smaller voice had hardened over time.

Marisol closes her eyes and lets her older sister guide her breathing. She doesn’t push her away, doesn’t shy away from the familiar, she leans into the hand with force. Wanting to be one with the comfort, wanting to be stilled. Attempting to push the fear away. As if Gloria could make the heaping piles of shit that lled the crevices between them go away.

For a moment Gloria hesitates and begins to pull her hand away. Unsure if she could help, unsure if she could be the sister she was. Almost instantaneously Marisol stills it in place, grabbing her wrist with a rm grip.

“Saglit lang, Ate, don’t take it away.”

Gloria complies, peering at her sister with a queer curiosity. Her sister’s wimple slips and glimpses of dark brown hair peek beneath ironed white cloth. She reaches up to secure it in place. The sisters sit in silence until Marisol loosens her grip and Gloria could feel the stilling of her heart.

Marisol sits there, like a marionette without strings, without the seemingly permanent defensive air she carried around that always accompanied her straight posture and elevated chin. Marisol sat there and looked as if she had sat for so long as a forgotten character of a long-rehearsed act. Despondent and old – with eyes that carried the knowledge of worlds beginning and ending like an endless cycle. When a war comes to an end only to start another: there isn’t really much left to say when the endlessness stings and the cyclical nature of helplessness becomes habit.

drip. drip. drip. drop. drip. drop. drip. drip. drop. drip. drip. drip.

The sounds of leaky church ceilings and the distinct musk of a windowless basement filled the empty space with alive sounds. Eyes adjusting to the darkness in their crouched corner–what was a moment of deep intimacy was now flooded with a mountain of distance.

“Does he love you?” Marisol asks steadily, pushing away Gloria’s prodding glare.

The marionette moves. Gloria picks at her longer fingernails, clean and dainty, just like William liked it.

“I suppose so.” Gloria finally says, voice dripping with a performative nonchalance, slow walls creeping back up between sister and sister.

Gloria thought of how William seemed far too gentle for war with his angel blonde hair, cherub-like light blue eyes, soft voice, and slow honey-sweet whispers. To her, he seemed to belong much better as part of the fresco on her sister’s church ceiling – untouchable, safe, and unmarred by the corruption of being a white human man. Real—and complicit to a new era of violence spilling blood onto innocent soil. A metallic bitter taste lled her mouth. Love. Love seemed to be an exotic item in a foreign market she would never be privy to. He loved her. How could one find love when they were sent to kill? To her he seemed to truly belong on the fresco of a church she didn’t worship in.

“Nakakatawa-” Marisol says, a mechanical chuckle creaking out of her mouth.

Gloria looks over at her sister, “I’m your sister and yet I’ve found myself always the last person to find out who has most recently fallen into your spell. You’d think I’d be the first to hear the chismis.” Marisol continues, feigning intimacy, feigning that she’s not hurt.

“I’m sure you’ve heard plenty, Marisol. Even with a waging war, wimple bearing nuns still know how to keep their chins high and their mouths moving especially when women with legs open to the world decide to switch positions.”

There were moments when they did not sit so tensely. When touch was a habit, when laughter was an immediate response, when they stumbled and bubbled over space so frequently drunk with bliss. Quiet mornings shrouded with evening dew and farm cold. When they awoke before the rooster did and walked in heavy slumber through the silent kitchen to get breakfast ready. At times they would cut fruit for each other, an incredibly

intimate gesture. There was so much chatter between them but also sweet, knowing silence and with that kind, comical shared looks that held a treasure trove of inside jokes just for them.

Almost as if she was paying homage to these moments Marisol hesitates before she asks, “What does it feel like, Ate?”

“Alin, Marisol?” Gloria asks.

“To lie with a man.” Marisol blushes at her own question, susmariosep, she thinks to herself–praying in her own way about things she wonders about having entered the convent a few years shy of marriage.

Gloria stills and peers at her marionette sister with a curious gaze, “It has been different each time-” Gloria begins carefully, she chooses to settle her gaze on the steady pool of stale monsoon rains in the corner of the room.

“With Gabriel it was… rushed. Frenzied. Like we were always running out of time or at the cusp of being caught.” Gloria starts with a boy that Marisol knows to be the only one she’s loved.

“We were both young and unsure, your rst is always a stumble. We stumbled over each other as much as we could with the time we were given.” Marisol knew she was referring to a time before Gabriel, a boy, became Gabriel, a man, a guerilla fighter, a massacred body on the streets after an initial attempt to ambush a group of Castillan soldiers.

“It is always different with a man who knows you a little too well. A boy who has given you his hand after you’ve scraped your knee. A boy who has taken a cold cup of water from you after chopping bamboo stalks only to nd you are no longer a girl. You, of course, have always known the man trapped inside the casing of a boy. Mama taught us that well.”

Gloria shakes her head and shifts her gaze to another drip, drip, drop leaking spot in the dark old cavern. “Then, of course, was Don Julio.” Gloria’s eyes harden.

“Some men are not gentle, Marisol, that is a blessing you will have the grace not to know sitting entrapped among these stone walls with your prayers, statues, and rosary beads.” Marisol breath hitches, feeling a chill that shakes her limp body.

“Why him?” Marisol asks gently, perceiving there to be more to a story she heard only in whispers of gossip in the marketplace as she scurried along with the other nuns.

“We were going to lose the land.” Gloria said simply, “There were mouths to feed.”

“I thought leaving might-” Marisol stopped herself, “I thought you would take the convent’s help-”

Gloria stops her, “The nuns are kind to Anito’s who no longer cling to their ancestors and pagan tradition. It would have never worked. There are more willing hungry stomachs who are more eager to cling to chants recited to pale statues for a morsel of bread than me.”

Marisol quiets down and an understanding descends upon both sisters.

“I found William on a walk through the market.” Gloria says, an olive branch.

Marisol keeps herself from commenting further on how she’s heard this story before—recounted in words less kind. Happening upon men was not something Gloria does, happening upon men is something she intends.

“He lies with me as if he does not know me.” She says simply, “He is gentle but also rushed. He has awe in his eyes but also a sort of distance I am always unsure of. I am unsure he will ever lie with me. You know… Beyond what he thinks of us and what we represent.”

“Then why, Gloria?” Marisol asks

“Because he is gentle and it is important for us to know if the war is truly ending or not.” Gloria states.

“So did you see this coming?”

“No… and I don’t think he knew we could be bought so easily… or at all.”

drip. drip. drip. drop. drip. drop. drip. drip. drop. drip. drip. drip.

“Iyong lumang bahay, Gloria. The old house… how is it?” Marisol begins after a sizeable silence.

“The upkeep is hard, Marisol, but it is still as lovely as it was if not for all the quiet.”

“You always loved the quiet though,” Marisol says with a soft smile, looking out into the darkness, lost in the memory of long ago.

Creeping out of her room a little late to the breakfast making that occurred in their house each morning, she nds her sister looking out into the beautiful foggy landscape they were met with each morning – rice stalks reaching up to touch the sky, fog descending to give each grain a kiss. The sun was a distant, bright light hidden behind morning clouds that shaded them gently to ease a lovely awakening. Each morning, the rooster would call out to her in shrill sounds, urging her to help her sister. She awoke this morning with a start, annoyed by the rooster’s persistence. She stumbles out of her room and when she happens upon the kitchen, the serene look on her sister’s face melts any negative feelings. She stands there for a little bit, in awe of the beauty of a small daily moment, wondering why she had never noticed the gentle contours of her sister’s face, the way a natural smile graced her lips at every moment even when it was at rest.

“Marisol, come wash some rice please. The barako is ready and the eggplant stalks have been fried.” Is all her sister said that day to invite her to her quiet and lovely.

“The quiet is different when it is a glaring reminder of loss. The quiet is only nice when there is the loud to come and interrupt it.” Gloria interrupts Marisol’s journey back in time.

“Are you implying that I’m loud, Gloria?” Marisol responds in a chuckle.

“No, of course not, sister. Just terribly noisy, especially in the mornings when you whine endlessly about having to wake up at dawn. Mama used to have to lecture you for wearing your saya inside out.”

The sisters share a laugh. They indulge in the moment as if it hadn’t been stolen from them by death, by hunger, by war, by the powers that be that decide when one gets to live a life or not. The sisters both knew that those quiet mornings did not end when Marisol left for the convent, the quiet stopped and got replaced with the roaring hunger that came with being unable to tend the land after their Tatay died. His heart stopped beating in midafternoon out in the elds, they had found him hours later with a jug of water and halted laughter. Their mother had wailed for days, Marisol sobbed with her, Gloria ran to fetch the village healer. It had all been too late. For months they worried over their mother, Marisol refused to leave her side, Gloria couldn’t bear the sight and fixated on writing their Tatay’s brother. She knew the land could not give without nurture, the land could not produce food without offerings of hard labor. Their Tatay’s brother who lived up in the Ifugao mountains received their correspondence too late. The village beyond the old and the incredibly young was robbed of its young men as one by one they disappeared into the province of Nueva Ecija to join guerilla armies ready for revolution and independence. Besides, Gloria had already stumbled into Don Julio in the streets when the revolution had made things hard for the village women to help. Stumbled was a strong word for one that found the grain pot emptier and emptier each morning.

 Stumbled was a strong word for one who had already taken it upon herself to attempt to hire extra hands in an attempt to plant for the next crop only to be met with disapproving glances from groups of old elitist principled men that wondered why an unmarried girl was found roaming the streets propositioning young boys. Stumbled was a strong word for one who had already prepared meals with no protein nor avor. The mornings held no quiet. The rooster no longer called to Marisol but the aching hunger and growing sorrow kept them all wide awake just as well.

Don Julio was a haciendero’s son. She thought herself lucky that the son had taken a liking to her and not the father. She didn’t know that he had a wrath in him that rivaled his senior. But he could talk to his father’s men, he could get them to work on her father’s land with the promise of payment post harvest. She paid in advance in other ways that made her stomach turn but after the deals had been made she returned home with the same softness that came with content mornings. This softness was robbed just as soon as it was acquired when she arrived to find that her sister had made plans of her own. Marisol had left quietly, with burning hunger in the pit of her belly and with a distinct awareness of her sister’s sacrifices. She thought, no more–no more late night visits to the hacienda’s dark corners. She thought that converting to Christianity, dedicating herself to a life full of rosary beads and meager filling meals with protein and some flavor would be a small sacrifice that would rectify the ways in which her sister had to whore herself out to the slithering snake of a man that often creeped around the streets in wild, ravenous pursuit. 

In the end, neither sacrifice did them well. Gloria continued to meet Don Julio until the end of the harvest, until the payments had been given and the farm hands had promised return for the next planting.

 Marisol had already been inducted as a marionette for Spanish catholic tradition and the certainty of a full belly and the promise of her family’s ease in sharing the limited food they had pushed her into the quiet life within the convent. 

The sisters assumed lives as shells of function, moving through performances of humanity and a semblance of sanity. Silence descended upon the sisters like a sinister fog and the quiet mornings ceased to house a loving contentment. Until their mother died.

drip. drip. drip. drop. drip. drop. drip. drip. drop. drip. drip. drip.

“You left Marisol… I-” Gloria took a deep shuddering breath, “You didn’t leave so much as a letter.”

“Ate, you wouldn’t have let me.”

Gloria scoffs, “Of course not! I was doing something about it–I was saving papa’s land! You could have waited a little longer-”

“And what? Watch you come home with bruises you covered up with heavy shawls in the middle of a boiling summer? Did you want me to keep watching you silently as you gave us more and more food than your own? Did you want me to continue watching as the light left your eyes? I’m not stupid, Ate!”

“You were stupid enough to leave without so much as a conversation or the courtesy of a goodbye!”

“You wouldn’t have let me go to the convent.”

“You do not make sacrifices for this family. You are young. That is not your place.” Gloria hu s.

“And it’s yours? Ate, please see reason. You would have starved yourself dry filling my plate.”

“That was my choice to make, Marisol. Leaving me behind with mama… I did what I did to make sure we could stay together.”

“You let him take you to dingy corners - you-you let him take your dignity, ravage you senseless in the dark like a breeding pig in the night! Papa would not have wanted this for you!” Marisol hu ed breathlessly, frustration seeping into every word.

“Papa was gone, Sol. Stop being a child, I may not have chosen a pious road like you had but I chose one that could buy us time. It wasn’t going to be for forever-”

“And yet here you are. Another man to ll the plate, huh? What does he bring to the table, Ate?”

“That’s not fair. You left me-” Gloria broke into an earth-shattering sob, “You left me alone with mama. You don’t understand– When you left she wasn’t even surprised. She just

sat beside the window and watched the street. She stopped speaking. She ate and slept and lived only to watch out that stupid window.”

Gloria closed in on herself, hugged her knees to her chest and rocked herself as sobs wracked her body—pleading for release. A release she had not allowed herself beyond the night of the Bogwa. Marisol’s silent tears morphed into loud and angry ones. The sisters found themselves entangled in a tight embrace that made them look like one shuddering, mourning, wailing entity. They stayed in that embrace even after the sobs softened and the tears stopped.

drip. drip. drip. drop. drip. drop. drip. drip. drop. drip. drip. drip.

“Ang tahimik, Marisol. The house was so quiet, so peaceful – almost as if the house itself was saying goodbye to Mama that day. The monsoon rains had stopped for a moment and I woke up on that old rattan chair with beautiful sunlight streaming in through the capiz shell windows. I folded the windows back and let the breeze welcome the smell of sunshine and fresh morning air. Ang ganda, Marisol. The birds were singing that day. I walked to the kitchen in a daze, I hadn’t even thought to check on her… She looked like she was nally getting a peaceful moment of rest. I made breakfast not knowing she was already gone. I took my time in the kitchen, spent a whole hour tediously making the rst full meal we’ve had in a while. Don Julio had chickens sent to our house the day before and I took one for Arroz Caldo, to warm mama up early in the morning. I chopped the ginger, I seasoned the rice porridge, I made sure the chicken was tender… And she wouldn’t respond to my calls–” Gloria could feel the ringing in her ear the same way she did when her own head pounded from her own wails that morning. After Manang Nena had come all that was left inside her was silence and when Marisol came that’s all there was between them. Gloria stepped out of the room to give Marisol her own privacy as she wailed for their mother, as she did when she was a child and Mama was out in the fields.

Silent, stubborn tears leaked from Gloria’s eyes as she felt the sensations of that day like her body remembered it as a treasured memory. The dread, the insurmountable loneliness mounted her that day as though it would never leave. She had felt possessed, inconsolable until Marisol had come and everything that was left hanging out for the world to see had clammed back up—if only to serve the higher purpose of being the stronger one. Marisol left after the funeral. The funeral seethed in its silence, it was bitter and sorrowful. Those who came to pay respects were of the Anito and Marisol kept her distance, they inquired of the Bogwa in hushed tones so as not to o end the nun in the room. Don Julio had come brie y to remind Gloria that now that she was orphaned and abandoned, a place by his side at the hacienda was most reasonable – she denied his o er politely with bile rising at the back of her

throat and indignant tears ghting to stay behind hateful eyes. Though he wasn’t one to take no for an answer, the room full of Anito women – all healers and rumored witches – was enough to have him scurrying o with a distinct feeling of a curse creeping its way into the caverns of his life. Beyond this unpleasant encounter, the funeral fulfilled its purpose. It was never meant to have been a moment of healing, but a moment of manifest pain within the community. Healing would come later, hopefully through the Bogwa.

“I’m sorry I left you. I didn’t realize what I was leaving you with.”

Gloria wiped her tears and looked away from Marisol, “It’s okay, Marisol. You came back when I most needed you to.”

The Bogwa was a sacred tradition passed down from the Ifugao peoples in the mountains. It was an Anito tradition sacred to families who held ancestry in the hidden crevices of high places. It was three days long and often the tribal elders, the gong beaters, and the mumbakis preceded over the ceremony along with the immediate family. This was a community event, but in the outskirts of Manila the Spanish Catholic priests forbid any pagan rituals that they felt were sacrilegious and demonic in the eyes of god. A three day feast over pigs and cattle, where one exhumes and cleans the bones of loved ones definitely met this criteria. So Gloria decided to do this alone, the Bogwa would be done in secret with just her and her Uncle who had just arrived from the mountains just in time for the ceremony to take place. This was what needed to be done to honor her father and to bring peace to her mother.

Gloria didn’t think Marisol would come. She didn’t believe Marisol would participate in something that not only terrified her as a child but was now also forbidden to her even more than it was to the rest of them.

The Spanish priest that accompanied Marisol to the funeral had done his best to do what he could to usher in a Catholic mourning that was not welcome in the home he was entering. Marisol had indulged his desires and had comforted him as he stood paralyzed by the immense feeling of grief that hung heavily in the room. He would later on mutter something about curses and hell as he marched back to the kalesa that awaited him. Marisol followed him. A year later, just as Gloria had decided that this would be the week to do the Bogwa, Marisol came with a bag in hand that held enough clothes to stay for the three nights of the ceremony. Neither sister attempted to combat the silence, they knew what needed to be done.

When the sun had set and the knives had been sharpened, an old man and two women descended upon the burial site in twilight. The site was close to their home as it was traditionally meant in the mountains. Armed with knives and a shovel, they began to dig. After the wooden co n was retrieved, their Uncle began to perform baki as the two sisters

worked at the bones, separating remaining esh from bone. No words were spoken before they started to sing the hudhud–it was a loud song. It was the kind of wailing grief that made you forget your time and place, they remained in this delirious state throughout. Methodically, as if peeling fruit, the sisters cleaned the bones as the ceremony called for. Hours and hours later, sore from scouring decomposing matter on bone they took the bones back to their home, carrying it carefully in a new gamong, woven with colors that held colors of their father’s tribe. The ceremony was stilted, practiced awkwardly by those who were told only by word how it worked. Their Uncle played the role of every elder man, every mumbaki, every gong beater, and every community member. They didn’t have a lubuk, a burial cave that made this easier to practice. In the days that followed they slaughtered cattle and poultry to honor their dead. The practice was devoid of celebration and community. The three drowned in rice wine and performed the hudhud relentlessly. The days passed by in a blur of chants, quiet tears, hudhud wails, excessive eating, and ancestral offering. Hidden by midnight twilight on katlu, the final day of the Bagwa, an old man and two women returned the bones to the grave. In a rush, the old man runs with only his Wanoh, exposing ropey muscle and strong bone. He runs from the grave with cogon grass that has touched the burial cloth in his hand up the hill and back to the colonial home. The sisters follow quietly behind him, singing the hudhud as a loud wail to signify the end of the ceremony.

 Marisol slipped out at dawn, early enough that the old man and the other woman were still locked in heavy sleep from sore bones that tirelessly worked through the Bagwa. The ceremony brought little peace to the home, as the knowledge that it hadn’t been done as it ought to have been completely plagued the minds of those who had sat through it.

drip. drip. drip. drop. drip. drop. drip. drip. drop. drip. drip. drip.

When Gloria found Marisol walking frantically past the silent Manileño streets, squinting under the unforgiving afternoon sun, she was just as frantic. Instead of passing her as she would–chin up, gaze averted, chest puffed–Marisol stops her, grasping her arms desperately. She could feel the tight grip of sweaty palms clenching tightly, she could hear the leaking desperation, she could smell the nervous afternoon sweat masked by thick black and white cloaks un t for the Filipino heat. Her sister was delirious. Whispering mama’s necklace over and over again like a chanted prayer. It was her outright refusal to indulge the request, the deep concern for an oncoming heatstroke, and her need to ee the streets that brought them both to retreat into the cold solace of the church’s underbelly.

“Why do you need Mama’s necklace, Marisol? Why now?” Gloria prods.

“I’m leaving–I should be leaving soon.” Marisol begins, “Padre Juan Andres is the last of the priests in Manila that are leaving–” Marisol coughs, “before the American soldiers lock the city up indefinitely.”

“I’ve been asked to serve his parish in Seville.”

“How pious.” Gloria swallows the stinging blow of being left behind yet again.

“And Mama’s necklace, made from coconut bone carved and blessed by Manang Lisenya during the last whispers of revolution as a defensive symbol against war—most importantly, an Anito heirloom, belongs on your Catholic neck? Why exactly?” Gloria seethes, crazed with a steely seething voice.

The marionette stills. “Ano, Marisol? Ano? What could you possibly say, what could your gull produce at this point to take this last piece of truth away from me?”

“Does your cross not protect you enough? Don’t you pray through each rosary bead with enough earnestness? What is there to expect of the ancestors?”

The cold seeps in as the warmth of the sun trapped in sweaty skin leaves like a thief in the night, the musky, heavy, and stale takes its place like a dew filled fog leaving them slick with dread.

“Ate… Mananatili ka dito. You will stay on Manileño streets and feel the crisp dew the Pacific brings in the morning. You will eat the tangy, savory marinated chicken and siesta in the afternoons—belly warm and heavy with rice planted just beyond the city bounds. You will taste the ripe fruit from mama and papa’s mango tree, partake in bitter, sour cheeks of green mango with bagoong in the o seasons. You will ebb and ow with the land–even as we go like whores in the night, from the bed of one white man to the other, and yet you will feel the hope the motherland will give you. You have worn this coconut bone as if it gives you more proof than you already have. Ate, give me this. It is all I will have left of hope.”

With that, the leaky ceiling continues to drip, drip, drop. With that, the sisters sit in silent admission to their fate, to a lost hope now accepted, now resigned to. With that, the marionette fastens her strings, pins her whimple, and sits straight — chin held down. With that, the steely, guttural, and deep retreats from whence it came to make way for dainty fingernails dirtied by invisible underbelly lingerings and soft spoken words.

The two sisters scurry out of the cold, leaking solace–leaving the drip, drip, drop behind them as time regurgitates them from the underbelly of a Spanish fortress. Bigger things stopped them on the street that day - not just Marisol’s frantic pursuit for their mother’s necklace but now more evidently—fate. Silence ensued after their departure, the ceiling kept dripping, and a musky, heavy, stale began to descend like fog over Manila. American soldiers built their own places of worship, prayed their own protestant prayers in indignant ignorance of Mother Mary. The remaining milled the streets with a death led acceptance echoing in their eyes, muttering incoherent phrases in English as opposed to Spanish, as opposed to Tagalog, as guerrilla ghters cried along the borders of a failed revolution. The heroic elite that left the keys to the city and nation up for grabs on a table near the foyer, continued to drink themselves dry in the whoring pursuit of white, delicious prosperity. And the Anito still met at midnight, resting under ancestral trees, staring into candle lit mirrors to see their destiny. A ship in the distance sails with the last of the Spanish and a select few Filipino nuns, ancestral necklace folded into a high collar.

drip. drip. drip. drop. drip. drop. drip. drip. drop. drip. drip. Drip.

conspiracy theory of the week

 

a bit over the top like all conspiracy theories. 

But as we were taught in Psychiatry class: if a person says the Mafia is after them check first if the mafia is after them: sometimes these theories are true. Or partly true.

He notes correctly that covid was predicted so maybe it was planned.

Not really: A lot of the diseases out there are a possible danger. (and remember: A lot of their predictions never came true, such as monkeypox or bird flu becoming  major epidemics). 

And many really scary epidemics that actually happened never got into the western MSM headlines ( the more recent Ebola epidemics in Central Africa, which were also stopped by vaccines come to mind).'

Lots of books out there about the threats of new (or old) diseases causing epidemics.

There was even a minor outbreak of yellow fever awhile back in Angola that spread to the nearby Congo and a few cases were diagnosed in China was stopped by vaccines and routine mosquito control. At the same time a minor epidemic in Brazil happened and the problem was they almost ran out of vaccines... that also was stopped by routine mosquito killing and vaccine. 

Yellow fever could easily have been spread to the USA, where there are similar mosquitoes (no, not from global warming: Philly had an epidemic in 1790s)...

This danger got few headlines in the USA...

Yet Zika, a much less serious infection, spread by the same mosquito, was trumpeted by the MSM. Why? to pressure Brazil and other South American countries to legalize abortion on demand.

So relying on the MSM for epidemics is flawed, and often has more to do with political agendas than with reality.

As for those meetings on possible epidemics: these are for planning so that weak points in response are identified and plans to cope are developed. Think Logistics.

Holding war games is a common way for the military to identify weaknesses and develop plans on how to respond. Todays NYTimes article notes that Israel's invasion trying to stop Hamas rockets and catch terrorists did not have such plans and discusses the problems the troops faced (and of course the danger to the innocent caught up in what is called the fog of war).

 Similarly, emergency drills, often regional ones, train EMTs and hospitals how to respond to emergencies.

We had one such disaster drill that posited a tornado hit the town. a very real danger in some areas of the USA. That doesn't mean some evil globalist agenda used HAARP to produce tornadoes or that our disaster drill caused a tornado.

 One backstory of the `1989 Sioux city airplane crash was that the post crash emergency response went so well because they had had such a regional emergency drill shortly prior to the crash, so the ambulances and hospitals had a coordinated response that probably saved many of the injured.

Ironically, conspiracy theorists point to the war gaming of anticipated epidemics as if this planning a threat, when actually these meetings are planning a response to a well known possible threat,

The dirty little secret: There are threats out there. The trick is to guess which ones will come true. So you make plans for all sorts of threats, so the logistical planning in in place when the caca hits the fan.

one of the first war games of epidemics was done before 911, and was based on a theoretical release of small pox in a truck stop in Oklahoma.

So after 911, our public health clinic was sent instructions on how to respond to a  smallpox release, and how to isolate patients and do ring vaccinations. 

Since I had worked in Africa, I was the doctor assigned to read this in case something happened, and I was impressed: It was similar to how we doctors in Africa were instructed on how to respond to a nearby cholera epidemic: stuff like to use schools for isolating patients outside of hospitals, how to do ring vaccinations to stop the spread etc.

But of course smallpox was never released (only a strain of ordinary anthrax, which was supposed to have been released by a crazy doctor who had access to the germ, but did not have access to equipment to weaponize the spores to make them lethal, but never mind. Comey needed to close the case. But that's another story for another rant)...

similarly, bird flu was war gamed in 2016 but luckily for the world that virus, although humans have caught it from infected birds, has not yet evolved to human to human spread.

Covid is similar to SARS and MERS, but has a lower mortality. You control it by screening, isolation, and ordinary protective equipment. No problem...yet it spread widely. Why? Because it was covered up for at least two months, letting it spread to Europe and parts of the USA before a rogue Chinese doctor left a message on a public discussion board that there was a dangerous viral pneumonia out there that was killing people in Wuhan.

There are a lot of scientific arguments that it was accidentally released and the release was covered up not just by China but by the WHO.

well, China lies to save face. 

But why the WHO pretended it was not spread person to person for weeks after this was known is a major scandal.

And why did the press condemn Trump for pointing out it was coming from China as racism.

But the plans to respond to a SARS like epidemic were already there: And the plans became more important than the reality. 

Trump, by letting the governors decide the response, did provide some flexibility in the response, but the idea that the plan was science and could not be criticized became the rule in the MSM, and most states and medical organizations went along with the plan.

Why? Because rules  science.

One result was to forbid doctors to prescribe certain drugs that might have helped, and an almost total blackout when some public health doctors pointed out the overwhelming bad effects of shutting down society.

The idea that rules were more important than reality can be seen in the nursing home deaths.

Nursing homes didn't allow visits, fine, but out of date Medicare rules said patients released from hospitals were mandated to get readmitted into their nursing homes.

That is the reason that both New York and Pennsylvania let infectious covid patients back into their nursing homes, causing many deaths.

Cuomo eventually got blamed for the 9000 New York deaths, but for some reason the Pennsylvania public health doctor who allowed infectious patients back into nursing homes was rewarded with a high government position, probably not for his botched response to covid but because he is trans and trans cannot be criticized you bigot.

So yes, the ministry of truth stuff that this video is discussing has a lot of truth in it...a bit overdone of course, but that is what happens when you distort the truth and censor the story: truth erupts with a vengeance. 

that is why the lack of coverage about the WHO saying they want to control what countries do because health, is really scary, because theoretically it means that a UN linked organization that lied about the source of covid, lied for awhile about the human to human infectivity of the virus, and botched the Covid response will be in charge of the world.

their treaty overrides all other laws in every country, but hey, don't discuss this, or you will be called an evil racist right wing MAGA extremist.

https://i.kym-cdn.com/entries/icons/facebook/000/036/277/meemaw.jpg

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update:

the frustrations of fake news

 Was the George Floyd story manipulated?

..restraints of people fighting you is dangerous for both the patient and the caregiver/cop, (those who never worked with violent people naively don't realize this).

and of course, with a criminal, it could be a ploy to escape.

but pressure on the lateral neck does not impede the airway. and saying you can't breathe doesn't mean you can't breathe.

The danger of fentanyl overdose is that when you pass out, your tongue falls back and you can't breathe. So to stop this you either have to open the mouth, pull the chin forward and insert an airway, (something very hard to do with a combative patient)... the alternative is to put the person on their side to keep the airway open and it also makes it easier to clear the vomitus from the mouth.

this is called the recovery position.

..Now I know this and indeed any medically trained person who has worked with combative overdoses knows this....did anyone write about this when the story happened? You have to remember that I live in the Philippines so don't have all those cable news channels discussing such things so it makes me wonder.

......

the UK Economist: asks if the NYTimes lost their way.

every one of his (Trump's)  political lies became more powerful because journalists had forfeited what had always been most valuable about their work: their credibility as arbiters of truth and brokers of ideas, which for more than a century, despite all of journalism’s flaws and failures, had been a bulwark of how Americans govern themselves.

The average Yank who saw Trumpieboy on his tv shows knows he bullshits a lot, so you don't take him seriously when he exaggerates. Indeed, if you read his books, he teaches this as a negotiating tactic in business.

But one does expect the MSM to be a bit more truthful...

It is sort of like when I read AlJezeerah on Gaza, I know they are based in (Iran friendly) Qatar and will be biased and not question the narrative, so I take what they reports are true but not the whole truth. They truthfully report the Hamas press releases, and have articles by reporters who admit they are in Gaza to report on the bad Israelis. In other words, one side of the story, and maybe from Hamas liars (500 killed in a hospital that was bombed? whoops. Make that half a dozen in the parking lot killed when a nearby missile misfired). 

Indeed, a lot of the lies about Gaza are by folks crying genocide: based on Hamas press release. Without verification.

Attention: Wars are nasty and a lot of innocent people are killed in the crossfire. But when one side aims to keep weapons in civilian areas, stop civilians from fleeing, and to use civilian dead as propaganda, maybe they aren't the good guys they are pretending to be.

And I have nothing but contempt by those crying genocide... probably half of the dead are soldiers, and  ten thousand dead from a population of two million is not genocide...

Ah but the anti semites in the US are ignoring the real genocides in the area in Syria, Lebanon, against the Kurds by Turkey, not to mention the Rohingye and Uighars.sigh.

attacking normal people doesn't bode well for the Democrats, but only John Fetterman (!) dares to warn them. 

Me, I remember 1968... and that is how you got Nixon.

------------

I won't go into all the censorship on covid, where real experts were censored and even lost their jobs for not going along with the narrative.

Sigh.

I did read the book Work Racism.

The problem? I was working class and indeed there is racism out there. But the Archie Bunker racists tended to work with other races and cultures, and much of their crude language was not echoed in their deeds.

But for the upper class white elite, it is good that someone points out the errors in this mindset.

But when doctors lose patience with poor people who are destroying their lives with bad behavior, you can see how this could be twisted into a racism meme, even though the druggies etc. in many areas are white. It is economic bias.

That is why I understand where my patients come from, but I will not be silenced when the PC pretend not shutting down mass demonstrations in the midst of a Covid epidemic, or nowadays not shutting down gay raves spreading monkeypox because of political correctness, or the failure to point out the severe side effects of hormones and GNRH antagonists on both the body and emotions is quite severe and might be part of the reason for the high suicide rate in the children who are trans (or maybe claiming to be trans because doing so gets you a lot of emotional support and positive feedback). 

Sigh

never mind.

Deceit from Pope Francis minions? Say it isn't so

synodality? 

I saw this type of manipulation in medical school, where we had encounter groups supposed to let us communicate but actually a way to try to persuade us to agree with the leader's agenda.

Apparently Francis is doing the same thing, but what was pointed out by the radical trads in the past and a lot of us who are not radical trads but cynics are now being discussed openly.

and if this report is true, a lot of those attending the meetings are not falling for the pretend agenda. Why do I say pretend? Because the decisions are already made, and the latest blessing of sin might have been released because those attending these meeting just weren't playing along.

Why should this be important news? Even if one does not believe the idea of God being the guy behind the scenes but only on a secular level, it means controlling the church's institutions: Hospitals, universities, schools etc.

it also has geopolitical implications: the pushing of liberation theology got a lot of MSM praise in the 1970s when missionaries were pushing uprisings by communists and shipping weapons to theses groups (a friend told me about this). But in reality, the locals who disliked the oligarchy running the government were being bullied by these groups, and one way they spoke with their feet was that they became good protestants.

in Latin America, this huge increase in Protestantism is influencing elections, and as Francis continues to dismantle the Catholic church from a religion into a social network for left wing groups, you will see this trend continuing.

One article the other day noted that Israel is now getting backed by some countries in South America because Protestant theology is sympathetic to Israel.

Peace in our time... oh never mind

Al J reports:

Egypt has presented what is described as an ambitious plan to end the war in Gaza with a ceasefire.

The proposal, which was presented to Israel, Hamas, the United States and European governments on Monday would see Israel fully withdraw from the Gaza Strip, all captives held by Hamas, and many Palestinian prisoners, freed, and a united technocratic Palestinian government installed in the enclave.

never mind. They already turned it down.

Not the usual Christmas movies

 I like Christmas movies but you know, all those G rated Hallmark Christmas romances seem to be clueless. Doesn't anyone in Hallmark land (or barbie land) go to church? It is all about decorations and happy romances between attractive people who never get their manicured nails dirty.

But there are a few stories out there that seem to remember the meaning of Christmas .

Here is one Anime one with various themes that would be considered PC today except that it is Japanese and made years ago:

.....

Based on the old movie Three Godfathers

......

I read somewhere that LesMis was written because some objected to the evil priest in the Hunchback of Notre Dame: so the author knowing that most priests were good, decided to write a good priest into his plot: and that it is actually based on a bishop in one of the poorer areas of France.

if my fondness for such films seems to go against my screeds against the gay relationship blessing, it is because I suspect Fernandez actions are not about charity but about pushing the gender agenda that certain affluent Europeans have been behind for the last 30 years...i.e. a stealth way to destroy the idea of sin, and along the way will destroy the family (divorce, abortion, euthanasia) and the sacredness of the Mass and the Eucharist (downgrading it from Christ's body and blood to merely a symbol for anyone to take).

So in the midst of a scandal which threatens to break up the Catholic church, why have hope?

Christmas is about hope: About renewal, about family. and how God renews our life, and about the hope in times of despair, and the renewal of life that every child brings into the world.

...

here everyone who can will return to their homes to celebrate Christmas with their families. The roads near Manila are full of traffic, and people are crowding the rail and bus terminals to get home. And not just from the cities to their rural villages:

PhilInquirer headline:

Near 60,000 daily arrivals in PH as holidays approach

some are tourists but most are Philipinos who are OFW working overseas on temporary visas, or who have immigrated overseas to find jobs and live in their new country: Many support their families here but try, like my husband Lolo, to return yearly to keep up family ties.

,,,,

and remember; as you give, so shall you receive:

but remember: there are always second chances in life.

Family News: covid, chicken pox, and parties

We grow organic brown rice Kuya and Joy are busy getting last minute rice deliveries to Manila. This includes brown rice in gift packages both for folks to buy, and as gifts to the business owners. They are also buying gift baskets (with groceries) for the employees and farmers who work with us.

Ruby is back from going to her cousin's graduation in Korea, and will stay here for school break: She is teaching in Manila, but since the salary is low, is seeking an overseas job, preferably in Asia so she can visit home frequently. 

She came down with a bad case of the flu, mainly sore throat and diarrhea, and low fever. It lasted five days, but she is now over it and luckily none of the rest of us got sick. Flu or covid? Who knows. Nobody is testing unless they are sick enough to go to the hospital.

Both illnesses are going around, and today's count shows 440 cases of covid in the Philippines, but no deaths. However, a news article notes that population screening shows that there is a lot of covid going around.

December 22 2023 DOH reported 557 new Covid-19 cases, 0 deaths, 318 recoveries 5569 active cases. 18.1% 7-day positivity rate. 235 cases in NCR. Projecting 500-600 new cases on 12.23.23 #COVID19 @dzbb @ali_sotto @AthenaImperial_ @wengsalvacion @DrTonyLeachon @DZAR1026 pic.twitter.com/jUQ9Rk1Y8k

— Dr. Guido David (@iamguidodavid) December 23, 2023

In other news: Lots of parties at the local Plaza every night...we live one block away, and so the local trash in the street is worse now, since people coming home from the plaza are dropping uneaten food and dirty paper etc in the street on the way to their cars which are parked all over the side streets near our house... So there have been more rats than usual.

So when my oldest dog Gigi got sick, we took her to the vet who diagnosed leptospirosis. Sigh. She did get shots for this, but I didn't keep the dogs shots up to date after covid hit. The vet had our other dogs put on antibiotics just in case, and they seem okay but Gigi has died, and we buried her in the front garden.

Sigh.

The dogs have recently been killing one or two rats a week, which is bad news since we store our rice here.

we will have to put out poison again. But the danger is if the local feral cats or dogs could accidentally get poisoned...In the meanwhile, traps will have to do.

In other pet news, our white dog Baby had six puppies last month, and this time they all lived, maybe because this time she bred with the neighbor's dog instead of the dogs in our compound, who are related to her. When the puppies open their eyes and start wandering around, they will get moved out to the living room, and I'll try to put up a photo. 

This time she had the puppies in the side room closet, next to Joy's room and when Ruby came to stay, she bit Ruby who got too close to her puppies. 

We don't have any weapons for safety, but everyone has dogs for protection.

We have six dogs at present located in different parts of the property, which contains several apartments, guest rooms, storage room, a business center and a meeting room.

The dogs are medium sized (we no longer have George the Killer Labrador) but when three or four of them come in a rush and bark at you, they do frighten visitors.

I take them with me when I answer the door, for protection.

In other news: There is a chicken pox epidemic in town. The secretary's son has it and I warned her that her preschool child will probably come down with it by Christmas, which of course means no parties for them. The maid's teenage son has it too.

Lots of traffic going by the house, and in the evening lots of cars parked here for those going to the Plaza for partying.

transhumanism

 mainly posted so I can listen to them in my leisure

,

taken in small amounts, this is good.

But of course, it is all about the rich elite. 

Somehow I can't see our farmers, who barely can make a living let alone ten cents a day to pay for their blood pressure medicine, suddenly being given brain transplants to live forever.

But never mind.

as St. Paul said so long ago, “God is not the author of confusion but of peace.”

the Pope is busy blasting everyone who dares to question his latest double talk which is obviously deliberate move to push confusion over sexual sin

quote of the day:

Characterizing fidelity to Catholic belief and practice as “fearfully sticking to rules”—the words belong to PBS, but the intent is clearly the pope’s—is irresponsible and false. The faithful deserve better than such treatment.

It’s also worth noting that heading down “unexplored paths and new roads” can easily lead into the desert rather than Bethlehem. Over the past decade ambiguity on certain matters of Catholic doctrine and practice has become a pattern for the current pontificate.

That is Archbishop Chaput. I am familiar with Archbishop Chaput long before he was sent to Philadelphia to clean up the pedophile mess there. He never got to be a Cardinal because he was too Catholic for this Pope. But never mind: He does have the intellectual ability to discuss what is going on, and why this blessing of "irregular unions" (not the blessing of individuals in such unions) is causing so much confusion.

I am familiar with the good bishop because I worked with the IHS: He is a card carrying Potawatomie, and often gave talks to Native American Catholic groups.

He is also media savvy: Once when the NYTimes misquoted him in an interview to discredit him for backing those evil Republicans, he notified them that he had taped the interview and insisted they correct the story.

It is ironic that the usual suspects of the rich but mainly empty European churches, love the Pope's ambiguity and of course are interpreting this as gay marriage lite...

but the Eastern Catholics and African bishops are saying no.

and one does not have to be a conspiracy theorist to suspect that many American bishops will pretend nothing is happening here...but one does wonder why the Bishop's conference released a notice that the bishops approved of doing this so fast that one suspects that no one in that office bothered to ask the bishops their opinion. But never mind: the press will pretend that this is the consensus of all the Catholic bishops in the USA and ignore those who say wait a second I wasn't asked if this was my opinion.

Yes America has good bishops: but what will happen in areas run by the clueless bishops?

Will good priests could be punished for saying no because their bishop won't back their decision? Or in today's world, will they be sued for damages if they refuse to give such a blessing.

Sigh.

it is interesting that Archbishop Chaput ends his essay, not with a screed against being gay, or even pointing out the sexual agenda that denies biology, but pointing out that the Vatican is busy pushing ideas that make lay people confused while ignoring the broader intellectual trend that is about to be released that is destroying humanity:

The most urgent challenge that Christians face in today’s world is anthropological: who and what a human being is; whether we have some higher purpose that warrants our special dignity as a species; whether we’re anything more than unusually smart animals who can invent and reinvent ourselves.

italics mine.

Such ideas require deep philosophical analysis, and bishops who are willing and able to teach this....but instead, as the good bishop points out:

And yet our focus for 2024 is a synod on synodality.

ah yes. 

Must spread confusion... must spread confusion... 

Sigh.