It’s Only Going to Get Worse

September 9, 2025 / aggiemurch

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

“The next time you do this lady, you’re going downtown.” He was big, beefy and, even from behind his counter desk, threatening, as he leaned forward into my space. Was it my space? The flight back to San Francisco had been full and fraught. Wearing my very nice Irish tweed suit (How I wish I could fit into it now) and my pearls, was usually enough to let me sail through customs and immigration when returning to the United States. Since 2000, I had been commuting back and forth to England taking care of my mother as best I could as Congestive Heart Failure quietly worked its way, taking its toll, through her body. She never complained about the distresses and frustrations and even fear it caused her through the three plus years of her illness. But this was 2003, two years after 9/11 and the ante had been upped. I was shaken as he slapped my green card and English passport down on the counter and passed them back to me. I hurried away from this glowering man in his booth before he had beckoned the next person standing in line forward for his scrutiny.

Soon after, I was safely back on the farm a close neighbor stopped by. I was still so shaken I told him, I was telling everyone, what had happened. And he replied,

“Bill’s sister works in Washington. Would you like me to ask him to ask her what is going on?”

“Yes please,” I replied. He left shortly and it was only two hours later that he phoned me back. The advice from Washington was:

“Have her do her paperwork now. It is only going to get worse”. I heeded her advice reluctantly and over the next two years finished the required paperwork and took my tests, before finally stepping into the Hall of Justice in San Fransisco to stand and swear. It was a sobering moment, not only for me and hundreds of others, but watching those young people in military uniforms finally reaping the rewards of their service.

NAS SIGONELLA (July 20, 2010) – Candidates for American citizenship representing eight countries, raise their right hand and recite the Oath of Allegiance during a citizenship ceremony held here July 20. Eleven candidates participated in the ceremony to become U.S. Citizens. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 1st Class Erica R. Gardner/RELEASED).

Our daughter Beatrice took her work break to meet me and, over a sort of celebratory lunch, helped me fill in my voter registration papers. Now I could vote, and, as importantly, protest the death penalty outside of prisons without fear of deportation. I can count myself among the lucky ones, and privileged to be so. 22 years later ‘it’ has indeed proved to be so much worse than we could ever have imagined and those not so lucky, not so privileged, are living in fear while some are paying a terrible price with the regime in power as they make their bids for a better life and freedom for their families.

We have to dig deep into the news to follow the paths of the American government’s lawlessness, and when we do it is sickening beyond belief. We don’t really know where to turn. The world is boiling over with the gastric disturbances of climate change amid the constant eruptions of war and destruction.

A not so small incident happened this week as Ursula Von der Leyen’s plane to Bulgaria was left circling for an hour while the satellite navigation system system was jammed. “Nothing to do with us,’ said the Kremlin spokesperson, Dmitry Peskov, “Your information is incorrect.” While Mark Rutte, Nato’s secretary general, said they are working night and day to make sure this does’t happen again, I’m not putting money on their being successful.

And so the wars’ effects spread, across continents, each one oozing out to the other, Europe, The Middle East, and beyond. When the American President isn’t pouting that he has not been invited to China, he is busy plotting what he is going to do with Gaza when it finally becomes available. But what is it? Gaza, The West Bank, Palestine? Well that rather depends who you are talking with. President Macron calls it all Palestine, other European leaders are set to agree while BiBi Netanyahu calls it Gaza and The West Bank trying to keep Palestine even more separate.The American President calls it Beach Site property.

Israel continues to bomb Gaza, targeting hospitals and journalists.

The Committee to protect journalists says that to date at least 189 journalists and media workers have been killed in Gaza in the most deadly conflict for journalists ever recorded. As we watch the nightly news, the lead anchor for that evening repeats, “Israel does not allow foreign media to film in Gaza and so this footage comes from, dot, dot, dot. “ Whoever can record it” Bolex cameras have given way to smart phones and the footage is shared across the world aired by which ever country chooses to show it.

Dusk on the street – Auntie (The BBC) is tucked safely behind the church

On Tuesday we found ourselves at the entrance to the BBC headquarters in London. It has been twenty years since I first popped in to watch an interview. Yellow-jacketed security personnell man the paths winding between the barriers which go up and down and are moved around as rumours cross the courtyards to other waiting press and protesters who are always present. We have an appointment and are let in, then directed to more security. It’s a tight ship or a giant warhorse depending on your focus for the day. Eventually wearing our guest passes – clearly visible please – we pass through more guarded glass doors and look down on the huge buzzing news room below. Though brightly lit, it is somewhat spooky, the below aspect of it, as if a design relic of old wartime bunkers. Now instead of long tables with maps there are rows of computer hubs catching news from around the world, some of it coming from those phones that are held up in Gaza, in Kiev, in Afghanistan, but rarely the Sudan or even Haiti. No photographs are allowed here either and the security remains visible as we make our way through the warren of lifts and corridors and messy drink alcoves that look like they belong on a train until we reach a recording suite. There is enough gear to make a community-radio head swoon except that I understand that though they have the equipment, the personnel and money, community radio has a greater freedom.

Two guests, one host, one producer, one engeneer. Be still my lustful heart.

It’s a straight forward forty-five minutes of book talk for Walter, another guest and the host before heading to the bar for drinks. Fully back from the Covid year, the space is loud, raucous and liquid and the cider is not bad. The men and women crews gathered here are grateful to do the good work that they can.

Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping stand together

I watch the evening news with a slightly different take, looking for what is chosen and what is not. Russia keeps on bombing Ukraine. There are no talks of peace in any of these war zones. A new world order gathers for a military parade in Beijing as Xi Jinping hosts China’s largest-ever military parade, with Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-un, standing and almost smiling in a show of defiance to the West. The American President and other Western and European leaders were not in attendance.

Though notably absent from our newscasts for the last few days, the American president immediately posted a petulant response, an embarrassment to even some of his supporters. As speculation abounds a diagnosis of Chronic Venous Insufficiency has been given. Similar in presentation and outcome as varicose veins, he may find them as useful today as a little bone spur was 60 years ago.

This has been A. Letter From A. Broad. written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

As always supported by https://www.murchstudio.com

August in LA

August 23, 2025August 23, 2025 / aggiemurch / 3 Comments

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

August is a hard month for California. The sun sears down on the land that slides out from underneath the mountain ranges towards the sea. Only the water cascading down from the mountains and channeled into the fertile fields below brings relief and wealth, and the sense that all is as it should be. But looking closely, cracks are beginning to emerge. The eruptions of wealth, from early settler gold diggers in the Northern Hills, to the tech innovators in Silicon Valley playing their chips, surge and wane while those other essential and lucrative industries of agriculture and cinematic art are holding on, even as they feel the the claws of federal predators stretch and contract, preparing to strike at this strength and wealth while waiting until other, bigger fish for the moment, are fried.

The plane from London touches down at LA International. Not sure what to expect we are amazed at the ease of facing a camera before the gates are opened into the United States. Collecting our bags, we too are collected by our driver. We are exhausted but Bruno, an Angeleno, born and bred, with his own faded dreams has a lot to tell us and we listen as best we can. Depending on the time of day and day of the week each driver has their preferred route. Today we are driven to Beverly Hills on Sepulveda Avenue. The Avenue is large, even by old Los Angeles standards, dusty, dry and worn, laid down before the freeways had been dug out and around snaking through this city ever hungry for more traffic with seven lanes each way, at times barely able to contain the flow of cars.

Entering The Four Seasons Hotel, the bright lights of the chandeliers beam down on the vast urns of gladioli denying the suffering outside. The following night we leave for the Apple Pan – open from 11 to 11 – on West Pico Boulevard, serving the same menu since 1947. It’s interesting to see Uber drivers from different cities, how they adapt to their city, get a job a gig and somehow make it all work – for a while. For we are all aware, both passengers and drivers how precarious is the American world today. We have paid homage to The Apple Pan since the 1960s, growing older along with Manny on the left wing, and Gordi on the right, of the big horseshoe-shaped counter that surrounds the deep friers and fronts the cavernous kitchen behind. Manny and Gordi began as young counter-boys about the time we first motorcycled into Los Angeles in 1965. They have both retired, but we continue to come, showing our children this tradition whenever we are in Los Angles together. Three kinds of burgers and four sandwiches make up the main menu with a generous helping of french fries. Flipping the menu over to deserts, only the Fresh Apple and Pecan pies are not cream pies – the rest are cholesterol heaven. You want Ice Cream? That will be double Dutch Vanilla.

Entering The Apple Pan is like entering a cave. For awhile, the beat and heat of the outside world is left behind. Even if your truck-driving is more limousine laden than diesel loaded, this is trucker heaven. We come to decompress, to speak and be spoken to kindly, it is almost holy. In years gone by West Pico was bright with shining mall lights, the intersection humming with life but now the outside street is dark and bare. Swaths of real estate have been shuttered, the lights turned off, only the blinking of a few cars and hissing busses pass by. It has taken me two days to find the right word for this Los Angles – it is – desolate. America does not seem so great again.

Julius Tennon, Viola Davis, Walter Murch

The week ahead holds a busy schedule. Along with Viola Davis, Walter received an Honorary Doctorate from the American Film Institute. Each of them, a power-house within their spheres, spoke passionately from within their disciplines and I wonder what the graduates made of them both.

For a morning, because it is a graduation with new beginnings for young artists, there is hope and relief in the air. And laughter as when we stop in at the post-event brunch and the faculty head of editorial asked me,

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

and laughter

“You’re famous in Hollywood. You must have the patience of a saint.”

And there is more laughter.

We connect with the friends that we can. There are friends too sick to visit, there are friends who have put their homes back together after the Palasades fires, and friends who are only just beginning. These are the precious moments.

And then the work. ‘Suddenly Something Clicked’ is clicking along. The buzz around its publication is moving quickly through the Los Angles Post Production community and at the same time ‘Harvesting History’ is having its own quieter moment.

Randal Kleiser and WSM are listening – along with a standing room only audience.

Randal Kleiser led us both through our books at Chevalier’s Book Store in Larchmont before Lawrence Weschler puppeteered Murch at The Hammer Museum and the following night Murch just carried on determined to expose as many minds as possible – in another packed house at the Pasadena College of Art and Design – to his exploration of the Golden Ratio of the human face and its relation to cinema. He’s almost come up with an answer, but an absolute answer that might hold truth in logic would perhaps disperse the magic. And what is the magic of these days for these film makers? Maybe the fact that someone is thinking about and able to articulate what they hardly know goes on in their own minds. “Oh that is what I am doing, that is what is happening.” There is hope and validation and even a good dose of courage to be gained by listening.

We are lacking the stamina that is needed for such a full adventure and were felled with summer colds that descended like thick fog and hovered on the brink of bronchitis. Walter was downed early, checked out and prescribed a broad antibiotic by the brisk 60 year young hotel house doctor. I fall at the end, somehow packing and flying until we reach the safety of our London cottage. I wail that I want Doctor Joe, with his gentle chuckling care and beloved Mo with her Chicken soup.

The saving grace of illness is that it was two nights before we are able to manage the world news, Gazas rubble and carnage taking third billing to the immigration rows and the slow bizarre meeting of The American President with Vladimir Putin in Alaska followed by the European Leaders ‘Coalition of the Willing’ in Washington DC. There is the news, and the the body language, and maybe some fake AI unfurling as this madness of the about turns of this play out in unreal time. Sifting through the lies and the truths, the temptings and concessions, the breath-holding is reminiscent of a mother feeding a toddler with a buzzing airplane spoonful of spinach maybe to be spat out in a rage or grasped and swallowed looking for the prize of peace.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad written and read for you by Muriel Murch

As always supported by murchstudio.com

Harvesting History

March 1, 2025March 3, 2025 / aggiemurch / 3 Comments

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

The sun was shining as I finished refreshing the chicken house. Blue, the rooster, led his ladies milling around, happy as they checked out the new straw and shavings. And then, out of the silent sky came the roar and rumble. Looking up, I saw nothing, but heard and felt it deep in my body. I know that sound, it was a fighter jet, flying low overhead and I thought – the war has begun.

Breakfast in the safety of the Hen house

The news media bombards us and, like the chickens scratching in the orchard, we are half-primed for the pounce of a predator coming from the surrounding underbrush. For the moment, the chickens are safe from a resident bobcat on the hill as I will not let them into the orchard, but we may not be so lucky.

With each item of news about the shenanigans happening in the Happy House in Washington DC, everything we treasure about the Constitution is under attack and it takes more strength than I have not to be afraid of, and for, America. We can hardly glance at Gaza, the Sudan, and the world. But Europe, though teetering on waves of militant bravado has woken up. Germany has just elected a Conservative government – but the seemingly strong right-wing factor is licking its electoral wounds. Even Nigel Farage has toned down his bombastic spittle. A beloved friend in England who was beginning her new life in Scotland now thinks that her old home in the Australian Outback looks safer.

Thinking back into European and American History of less that a hundred years ago is like turning the pages on an old photo album. History, behaviour, and human nature mixes and re-emerges as a sea thrusting the waves of an ocean storm circling us again.

I’m thinking of young Vladimir Putin as a keen and dedicated KGB officer, committed to keeping all the surrounding principalities herded into the USSR and then, under Putin’s watch, for it all to be upset by Mikhail Gorbachev giving back Ukraine and breaking up the Union of Russia so tightly bound by Stalin. An attempted coup – here is that word again – led to the dissolution of the Communist party in Russia and the USSR four months later. Heady and searing times for a young, ambitious KGB officer. At the same time another ambitious yet nervous young New York business want-to-be was struggling with paternal authority issues. Slipping into real estate with a million dollars, and the advice, “you’ve got to be a killer”, from his father Fred, he began. Among his successes were failures, both moral and financial but he kept playing the part until he became the business man he wanted to be. But this smiling blustering crook took more than one serious tumble and that was captured and understood by an equally ruthless and ambitious, but more serious President across the continent of enemies. While Putin’s early bruising was from Gorbachev, and remembered for the rest of his life, the US President’s crushing bruising came later, in 2011 when an African-American president, Barak Obama, returned his fire at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner – these personal insults were never forgotten and maybe this was the night that redemption and revenge became the main drive of Donald Trump to rule the universe he knew.

Now these two men are playing on the world stage, ruthless killers and unrepentant deal makers. It is not a good combination for democracy. Ukraine’s President Zelenskyy may be bold, clever, quick and right but crushing him and regaining Ukraine to Mother Russia remains an objective, with the candy cane of minerals and wheat for the taking. We who are older and watching what is playing out see a repeat cycle on the world stage and know that deep down all of this dog-fighting is personal. There are other young European leaders taking up the helm for Zelenskyy and Ukraine. Emmanuel Macron flies to Washington DC, sits at the right hand of the Emperor and gently laughs, humors and says ‘Ah but no no, it was like this’. The Emperor laps it up, enjoying the adulation of the younger man but will probably pay no heed to his words. Next will come the British Prime Minister, Chief Prosecutor for the Labour Party, Sir Keir Starmer, as devoid of humor and charm as Macron is full of it. He will play another hand, appearing to be ‘taking the President seriously’ while – maybe – we can never be sure with Sir Keir – again trying to guide the US president away from his deal making with Russia.

Zelenskyy, Macron, and Starmer are young men, hard working and dedicated to Democracy and a Free Europe but they may not be strong enough to turn the US President away from the skull crushing grasp of the Russian bear Vladimir Putin.

We watch the world stage from our rural corner of California, while looking at the effects of the games played by the boys in the Oval Office. What affects us close to home? What are the things we care about? Hard working families in fear of being torn apart, rangers from the National Parks fired, books banned from Libraries and Schools.

We are older and need to tidy up our lives. We are not cleaning out the cupboards and barn stalls as we should be, instead have been writing of our work, our lives and worlds together and apart. There are family stories to repeat, cinematic history and community evolution to record. And for some lucky reason both Walter and I are managing in our own ways to remember, to write and to share our lives. Walter’s new book ‘Suddenly Something Clicked’ from Faber & Faber will be on bookstore shelves and Amazon in the UK in May and the US in July. My ‘Harvesting History while Farming the Flats’ will be scrolling out in a digital format for your Kindle in March, followed with a print version a week later. And even an Audio – as soon as I can get to it. Here is a little glimpse in the prologue of our life stories as they moved separately through the decades of our existence together.

After my husband delivered a lecture to a group of Danish Film makers and students Philip calls out, “The last question please,” and a young man stands up.

“Mr. Murch, with your work schedule and the traveling, how do you manage a home life?” then he sits down. Suddenly there is a deeper quiet in the room. Philip nods and raises his eyebrows, which always look striking with his large, round, smooth bald head. He nods as if to say, “yes this is a good question” and looks over at Walter. Walter pauses, not rushing, as he can, to answer with overflowing ideas. Then he responded.

“Truth be told I don’t. I am often on a project for a year, maybe longer, sometimes eighteen months, even two years – and in that time I may not know where I will be six weeks ahead. You will have to ask Aggie that question.” He smiles and looks up briefly before Philip calls out, “Lunch. We will reconvene in an hour.”

‘Harvesting History while Farming the Flats’ is my answer.

Available March 7 2025
as an ebook ISBN 9781960573544
Print ISBN 9781960573698
www.sibyllinepress.com

This has been A Letter From A. Broad, written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

As always supported by https://www.murchstudio.com

Remembering the First Time

August 10, 2024 / aggiemurch / 1 Comment

Remembering the First Time

Written and produced for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

It was 1948 and I was 5 years old when, with my mother and Brett, my nanny, I stood on the side of The Devil’s Punch Bowl. As each horse came to the crest of the gully, they paused, taking in the drop, collecting three strides down, before a leap over the solid tree-trunk above the deep ditch then galloping up the other side and away onto the rest of the course. As a big grey horse thundered past, my mother and Brett let out a cheer for the Swedish rider. Brett was from Sweden and this was the first Olympics after the Second World War. The equestrian events at the 1948 London Olympic Games were all held close to home at the Tweseldown Racecourse by Aldershot – a military town and at a very early age we were taught, “Never talk to the soldiers”. The American team won the eventing, the Swedish team placed second, with Mexico taking the Bronze medal. The changes in the political geography of countries can often be seen at the Olympics. In those days Mexico and Argentina sent successful equestrian teams all over the world. I never got over the thrill of seeming that grey horse leap into and over the Devils Punch Bowl.

I was hooked and it would be less than ten years before Taffy and I were galloping through those same forests and over any obstacle I found in the secret freedoms that lay on those moorlands.

We remember those first times, and now as this year’s Olympics play out in Paris we watch the athletes perform, many for the first time for their country.

Sir Keir is a serious man and treating his new premiership with appropriate gravitas, and while the Labour Government was seriously going about getting settled in, they too felt they could breathe gently and watch our athletes in Paris giving their very British best. But if he had hoped for a longer honeymoon period it was soon cut short as we watched the riots break out in a fire storm over the killing of three little girl children finishing a dance class in Southport. An unnamed seventeen year old boy – incorrectly rumored at first to be a Muslim refugee – is being held in custody. Rumours – spreading as fast as the wildfires of Canada and California, have sparked violence in cities across the country. Far-Right nationalists fuelled by the disinformation from social media, are following a pattern discernible in North America, Israel and Hungary, among other eruptions around the world. Gray headed grannies holding signs for ‘Nans not Nazis’ are in danger of being knocked to the ground by the boys in thier street that they may have helped raise.

Far right rioters attack asylum seeker hotels in Tamworth. Photo for Al Jazeera

From Southport in the north to Aldershot in the south, towns up and down the country that hold deep pockets of poverty and unemployment are fuelled with anger and rioting in an all-too-familiar manner. Sir Keir Starmer is facing his first time as Prime Minister with this storm battle and our country’s worst elements. Nigel Farage barely makes an effort to keep a neutral face while he sits in Parliament and no one can believe that he is not chalking one up for the far-right team. The Police have been given ‘extra powers’, more prosecuting lawyers have been called in, though from where and where to it is hard to tell. ‘The rioters will feel the full force of the law,’ promises Sir Keir, but some of us wonder if those said rioters will care, and what the law stands for – for them and for us all. It just took one incident – no matter that misinformation was spread – lines are drawn across the streets of neighbors, with those leaving flowers for the children and their families, and those rioting for an England they never knew, each side is screaming to be heard.

Certainly other government leaders are not concerned about the internal laws of their own country or the international laws that loosely hold the global community together. The recent swap of Political prisoners, brokered by Germany, Norway, Slovenia, Poland, North America, and Russia that took place in Turkey was the largest game of checkers since the Cold War. 16 Russian dissidents, Germans and US prisoners were returned for 8 Russian undercover spies and agents. But there are still hundreds of political prisoners left behind in Russian prisons, and who knows how many Russian prisoners are also still in European and American jails. When the talks first started, Navalny’s name was among those put forward for release, ‘Sure, no problem,’ said Putin in the Russian political way. During the months that the final arrangements fell into place and the talks continued the ‘Sure no problem’ line was repeated, but Navalny died in prison on February 16th. Bait and switch. Check mate. Putin never intended for Navalny to go free.

It was 1992 when at KPFA Pacifica, I was handed ‘Time and Tide’ a new book by Edna O’Brien who was coming to California for an extensive book tour. This was to be my first book interview. As I picked up the book and turned it in my hand, the portrait of a sensual and defiant Edna stared out at me from the back cover. Edna was a woman who – if she took to your husband at a dinner party might – or might not – return him for breakfast. This I knew to be true. ‘Time and Tide’ was not an easy book, even if you were a follower of Edna’s writing. But I understood Nell, her heroine, even as I cringed at all the troubles that beset her through the pages.

Edna O’Brien at that time. Photo from The New Yorker

Edna arrived at the radio station in a fuss. Her plane has been delayed and her luggage was lost. She was as tiny and Irish as I was tall and English but quickly I saw that we were both nervous. Edna upset at the loss of her luggage and the fact that her silver pendant had rubbed a stain on her white jumper. I was terrified of her intellect and sexuality. But as we sat down, locked together in the recording booth, and began to talk, she relaxed, answering my questions with eagerness and generosity and the conversation began to roam as she remarked “Well, Ulysses is difficult isn’t it?” Then we slipped into film as both of us had been knocked sideways with ‘Raise the Red Lantern.’ by Zhang Yimou. It was clear we shared a mutual concern for the plight of young women and that, as well as my thorough preparation, softened Edna and she recommend me for the publishers next author, Susan Sontag. Now Edna has died at the age of 93 after a long illness and I wonder what was the illness that took her away from this world at the beginning of this late summer time. Edna was my first Author Interview and I will never forget her.

Apart from the riots and the Olympics there are the perennial editorial concerns about the decline of wildlife and insects. Our little terrace is less than 150 square feet and is now full of summertime beauty. We get excited when we see the honey, bumble and mason bees, and then a cabbage white butterfly, an orange tiger moth, and a blue dragonfly also come by. Their first arrivals let us know we are doing the right thing on our tiny patch of heaven.

This has been a Letter from A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch, and supported by murchstudio.com

A correction from the audio to the text. In the audio I say Stockport when it should be Southport.

Behind Closed Doors

July 15, 2024July 18, 2024 / aggiemurch

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

The Piazza Santissima Annunziata is almost empty with only a few tourists bearing the late afternoon summer heat while seeking refuge in the churches and museums. Idanna drives straight into the empty Piazza and parks the car. We get out and look around. In the center sits The Grand Duke Ferdinand (from 1608) astride his horse. The horse is facing the little telescope alleyway that leads directly to the Duomo, but the Duke’s eyes, if you look carefully, seem to glance up to two windows, three stories high, on a red building. The shutters remain open so that through the centuries he can look to, and be seen by, his mistress behind them. His arm is raised in salutation to the Pope of the day, or to her – it is left to the onlooker to imagine. On another side is the hospital of the Innocents, an orphanage and museum still run by the nuns from the Sisters di Maria. A small grilled window sits facing the square where – at night time – a mother could – between 1660 and 1875 – raise the grill and lay her new-born babe on the rota where friars, on their night-time shift, sat waiting for a delivery, not as midwives for a wanted child, but as caretakers receiving the fruits of enslaved and then abandoned love. These are the buildings and stories we take in as we make our way to the side door of the Church of Santissima Annunziata, for our friends, Idanna Pucci and Terence Ward have something to show us.

“It is a surprise,” says Idanna after we had stopped at the Palazzo Pucci to pick up the ancient key that would have weighted heavy on the twisted cord belt of a monk’s cassock. Again, her face lights with that impossible grin she has when holding a happy secret. The door is thickly double paneled, over eight meters tall, and the strong wood is sun-cracked. Terry takes the key from his pocket and places it in the single lock.

In the bright late afternoon sunlight the key is reluctant to turn and it takes several wiggles before it catches and the door is opened. We enter the tall cool space of this chapel dedicated to St. Sebastian and now lovingly restored by Giannozzo and Idanna Pucci with the help of World Wide Friends of Florence.

WSM and Terence Ward look up to St. Sebastian.

Terry gathers the three red velvet chairs placed in the chancel for musicians together and we gather around as Idanna tells the story. Her lilting voice takes us back to 1082 when a little house of prayer was dedicated to St. Sebastian, then leads us down the path of history through the Middle Ages, the building of this church of the most Holy Annunciation and this chapel, to the paintings commissioned, sold (by one of the unscrupulous relatives) and now lovingly replicated through the guiding hand of her brother Giannozzo. Her voice sings with the joy of the story, coming to when the chapel was reopened and rededicated in May of this year. Idanna is grinning with the happiness of sharing their gift to the city with us. They then lead us around the three major paintings of Saint Sebastian hanging above the alter sanctuary while underneath there are sculpted reliefs of Pucci ancestors, the good and the maybe not so good. Finally we look up at the breathtaking cupola. As we lingered in the beautiful sanctuary a guide from the main church brought in two more visitors to see this sidebar of history. Taking our leave, we walk over the moveable stones that cover the crypt holding Puccis and maybe even a Medici or two. “Have you been down there?” I ask Terry, and he firmly shakes his head. “I have looked. It is a jumble of bones all tossed about, from the flood’. In 1966 the Arno river flooded and swamped Florence ravaging much of the art and bibliotic heritage of the city. The Pucci crypt would be one among many holding places of the dead to be tumbled into confusion and dust. Leaving, Terry turns the key once more in the lock. Walking to the car in the still almost-empty Piazza, I silently said goodbye to the orphanage museum, the Convent of the Sorelle di Maria and the old Duke with his arm raised in salutation.

The Hospital of the Innocents – Orphanage and Museum – Photo by WSM

With our time in Italy we missed the final run up to the UK general election and returned only in time to watch Ukrainian Prime Minister General Zelensky meet his Hungarian counter part, Victor Orbán. Orban, who for six months more is head of the European Union, then went on to chat with his pal Vladimir Putin.

The countries that make up the EU cried ‘Foul, He is not speaking for us,’ but Orbán merely shrugged, figuratively speaking, saying he was just going to listen and hear what each side has to say. He may be dreaming to broker a peace deal – always a good thing to have noted – but his hand is more eager to grasp Putins’ than Zelensky’s. As each Eastern European leader swims across the tides of history pulling and pushing the boundaries of their country it is within our memory to recall Hungarian refugees arriving in England while fleeing their own county’s oppression.

As July 4th – the UK polling day ended – TV screens lit up like a game show as presenters pointed out which constituencies were turning from blue to red with touches of amber for the Liberal Democrats and green for – well – the Green party. But it is the red of a Labour takeover of the country that has prevailed. As Dishy Rishi drove off to hand his resignation to the King, the movers were quickly packing up the Sunaks’ plates and cutlery, curtains and bed linens to take out of the back door. An hour – or is it two – later, steady Sir Keir Starmer was off to Buck House, asking the King’s permission to form another government. The handover has to be quick so the country is not left to its own devices. The moving vans are as quick in and out which is rather lovely, for #10 Downing Street is just an old run-down city house in constant need of repair. The inconvenience of any refurbishments only heightens the impermanence of the position, as power comes and goes and hopefully, while you have it, you can do more than change the curtains.

Sir Keir Starmer has not been idle. The smell of Pledge furniture polish was barely cleared from the cabinet room before he gathered his new team around the oval table and gave them each their work orders for the weekend. There was not an old Etonian among them and there would be no potting shed moments. For some, their bags were already packed to fly out, meet and greet, and start work. The weekend saw Keir begin his trip around the British Isles meeting the other UK government leaders. While with the First Minister of Scotland, Sir John Prescott, the chants from protest marchers could be heard through the ministerial walls before Sir Keir was whisked away past the waving Pro-Palestinian flags to meet the First Ministers of Wales and Northern Ireland. On Monday, he arrived in Washington DC, attending the two day Nato conference, filling his movable dance card with more meetings of world leaders, some who are uncertain about their political future. As Sir Keir enters the stage, others are exiting, stage left or right or hovering in the center holding an unenviable heavy portfolio. While Zelensky can be assured of continued support from the UK, the State of Israel, Gaza and the Palestinians remains out of balance. The elections in France have handed Macron a mixed plate but there is relief that, for the moment, the Far Right parties of Farage in England and La Pen in France, though now more visible than ever, have been contained – but only just.

When thirteen of us gathered together at a Palestinian restaurant on the Marylebone Road, for a Coup 53 reunion and an early celebration of Walter’s 81st Birthday, I looked around the table counting our birth-countries: Sweden, The Caribbean, Finland, Iran, North America, Ireland, and England, and am grateful to break bread in a place of such multiplicity.

By the closed door of the ladies, I stood with a tall, young, beautiful Palestinian woman just back from the day’s march. “How was it?” “Really good, we were over 100,000 strong.” Smiling together we know that however dissimilar we appear our women’s hearts beat in one accord.

And always supported by Beatrice @ murchstudio.com

Fading Flags

April 27, 2024 / aggiemurch / 2 Comments

Written and produced by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side.

Driving out along the lagoon, over the mountain, and down the twisting road through the Redwoods into another town, the large Ukrainian flags are faded and torn but still fluttering under the trees.

They look weary like the soldiers themselves must be. That war, between Russia and Ukraine, is into its second year and is now being jostled out of the headlines and overtaken by the three way shootout that is occurring between Gaza, Israel and Palestine. The weariness that is shown by the torn Ukrainian flags is but a reflection of the faces of both the Ukrainian and Russian soldiers. Satellite pictures of Russian graveyards show their expansion and a rough estimate is over 50,000 Russian and 31,000 Ukrainian troops killed from this war so far. Mothers do not like to hear such numbers and know that their sons are among the fallen.

Daily, more young, untrained Russian boys and old men are sent into battle to wear down the Ukrainian military. In 2022 the Russian Wagner leader Yevgeny Prigozhin began recruiting prisoners for his private army – until that all went pear shaped and ‘angry words were spoken’. Shortly after that Prigozhin was killed in a plane crash. But – to no one’s surprise – the Russian defense minister has continued with the same policy, containing the stipulation that enlisted prisoners must fight until they die or the war is over – whichever comes first. Prison recruits remain crucial to the success of the Meat Grinder… The modern term for Cannon Fodder.

Nobody really knows how many Russian and Ukrainian solders or civilians are dying. But all Russians steeped in their history know, from Tolstoy’s War and Peace to Maylis De Kerangal’s Eastbound, war in Russia is carried genetically through ancestral bloodlines. For the Ukraine it is not a lot different – maybe the war dead figures are more honest – it is hard to tell. President Zelensky is anxious and impatient calling for the military aid package just passed by the US Congress over the weekend to be delivered now – not in six months time.

Back in London, though there are no more welcome signs for refugees from any country, this war is still on the page. The prancing dance that is happening with Putin, the West, China and the East is keeping at least some journalists on their toes.

London welcomes me back into a land of brown people and I am grateful. There is kindness all around me. I push my trolly-load of luggage towards the parked taxi driver at the airport, who, when we reach the cottage, brings my suitcases inside and lifts them onto the spare bed.

But our UK Government remains as tight, shortsighted and corrupt as ever. Another Tory minister resigns here, mud is slung at Angela Rayner the labour Deputy Prime Minister there, and, goodness me, Peter Murrell, the husband of the last Scottish First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, is under arrest again. Released of course – the only polite thing to do – and to be investigated further – in due course. Well maybe. This is beyond sad, another betrayal as most people whatever they felt about an independent Scotland admired and even liked Nicola Sturgeon as she brought Scotland through the Covid crisis. Lifting its head slightly out from underneath these stained seats of government we find other unbelievable act of fly swatting.

Through The European Commission president, Ursula von der Leyen, the EU have proposed free moment for young European Union citizens and Britons across the borders, allowing young people from the EU to stay in the UK to work or study for reciprocal periods of time. As Ursula said, this would have been where there could be “closer collaboration. The topic of youth mobility is in both our interests, because the more we have youth mobility being on both sides of the Channel, the more we increase the probability we will be on good terms because the next generation knows each other very well.” But Rishi doesn’t seem to want to get to know anyone outside of his home-county set and has rejected that, the government saying that ‘Brexit had ended free movement and it had no desire to reopen that conversation, even with strict conditions on length of stay.’ God help this country.

As I began to write, the question of shipping undocumented immigrants to Rwanda was being batted back and forth across the aisles of Parliament for maybe the fourth time. There is no doubt that if the bill passes, those held in ‘safe housing’ will disappear into the urban ghettos of this country. Some will die, many will be extorted, while only a very few will reunite with their families or move on to make some kind of a life for themselves. Sunak will merely have transported the jungles of Calais to the cities of Liverpool and London. After a night of back and forth from the green seats of the Commons to the tattered red ones of the Lords the bill was passed – at the cost of 1.8 Million pounds per person – before it was time for an early morning cup of tea. It goes to the King on Tuesday evening and goodness knows how he is going to keep his mouth shut and sign it.

It is hard to think about this as I sit on the sofa at dusk watching the evening light soften and glow, as if to say, ‘That was an ok day wasn’t it? The plants in my pots on my small terrace garden must have bloomed for our guests: volunteer Bluebells coming out of home-made compost, yellow Cowslips raised and bowed down. The geraniums and fuchsias are not quite ready to come out of hibernation while the unpruned rose buds are reaching for any weak spring sunshine. The pigeons and squirrels scurry around though the bird feeder needs replenishing and rehanging before the smaller birds will return. But it is dusk and Lucy the fox is back. Her coat is full and healthy while her udder glistens from the recent suckling of her kits. She too has sensed the movement behind the glass, the lights flickering on and off, and has come to check my egg supply. I go to the fridge and get one for her. Sliding open the terrace door I place it just inside the cottage. Tentatively, checking my smell and my seat on the sofa, she steps froward and takes the egg in her mouth, turns and neatly hops off between my pots to trot along the wall and disappear.

Lucy comes for her first egg of the evening Photo by WSM.

She returns ten minutes later for a second egg. How many kits does she have this year? A famous Italian designer has a trophy home just across the wall and with his garden unused for the winter months this could be where Lucy and her family live. The park – with its tall grasses and hedgerows – is just across the road and the canal with its river-rat filled verges is only a quarter of a mile away. Can Lucy and her family live peacefully in that garden or will they too be evicted out of their found safety to wander to find a new place to call home.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. Written and Read for you by Muriel Murch.

And always overseen by – beatrice @ murchstudio.com

An Inquiry

November 12, 2023 / aggiemurch / 3 Comments

Written and produced for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side.

‘Yes Minister’ first aired on The BBC television in 1980 until it ended in 1988, possibly due to the fact that it was becoming harder to distinguish the comedy series from the nightly newscasts that followed. Among the many quotes attributed to the Cabinet Secretary Sir Humphrey is “Minister there is going to be an Inquiry” to which the reply from The Prime Minister Jim Hacker is “Oh good, then nothing will happen.” Well yes and here we are again –

Baroness Hallett promises the inquiry would be ‘thorough and fair’. Photo from Piranha Photography.

Last week saw the beginning of “Britain’s Public Inquiry” to understand the Conservative Government’s responses and handling of the Covid pandemic. But for the life of me, I can’t find out who is in charge of “Britiain’s Public Inquiry” and what – after the facts have hopefully been gathered – will happen? Will lessons have been learnt? Will those deemed responsible be held responsible? Will there be any retribution? Will anyone be called before a court of law or those pages of documents produced be filed away rather than read. Last week when Dominic Cummings gave his testimony he asked that the inquiry also focus on the broader failures of the system. Reading – for I can’t listen to them talking – it is clear that as blame is shuffled about like pearls under walnuts, the prize goes to the then Prime Minister Boris Johnson. Dominic Cummings likened working with Boris Johnson to driving a shopping cart with a wonky wheel.

It is not without irony that the inquiry is taking place at Whitehall just across the river from the Covid Memorial Wall that was created and painted in 2021by people who had lost loved ones, or worked in the NHS, coming together with the good guidance of the group ‘Led By Donkeys’. Over 240,000 painted hearts cover more than a third of a mile alongside the Thames River outside of St. Thomas’s Hospital. During this time the public were afraid and looked in vain for leaders in the government where all the common sense had been bred and educated out of almost anyone in Westminster not yet of pensionable age. It was like putting drones in charge of the beehive to collect pollen and care for their queen, when all they could think about was kingship and sexual obsession.

From left: Rabbi Daniel Epstein, the archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, and Imam Kareem Farai visiting the wall in April. Photograph: Chris J Ratcliffe For Covid-19 Bereaved Families For Justice/Getty Images

People are booking their theater seats. We follow the inquiry like a serialized Charles Dickens story in the magazines of the day. Up to testify next are the past Prime Minister Boris Johnson, his hovering henchman Matt Hancock, and the holder of the chair at the moment, Rishi Sunak. But it is the failings of one particular individual, Boris Johnson, who was ultimately responsible for directing the government, which will continue to be scrutinized in the months ahead. Johnson’s successor-but-one as prime minister, Rishi Sunak — who was U.K. Chancellor during the pandemic — also has questions to answer. All three men — Johnson, Sunak, and Hancock — are to appear before the inquiry in the same week at the end of November.

Sunak has thrown his dead cat into the ring – by hosting an international AI conference on safety issues that was held at Bletchley Park. The conference produced some back-patting for, and from, the UK, US, and European leaders who attended while getting a nod of approval from the United Nations. Elon Musk arrived to give a speech and chat with Rishi at Downing Street. Both men in their uniforms, Elon remains rumpled and a little unshaved while Rishi rolls up his pristine white shirt sleeves possibly looking for his next job opportunity after this gig is over. So will anything happen from this inquiry apart from “Lessons have been learnt”? The Infected Blood Inquiry – the Stephen Lawrence Inquiry – and the Greenfield Tower Inquiry – have each chipped away at this UK government, but not a lot has changed. Could this inquiry be the one showing that Britain’s democracy has really gone up in flames? I’m writing on Guy Fawkes night – our night of fireworks – celebrating the failure of the 1605 attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament. We may be holding our breath and will it happen this time? I cannot watch the inquiries – it is too painful – so instead I read.

in an interview, the American thinking and writer, James Baldwin, said “You must realize that if I am starving you are in danger”. And in this simple truth, buried deeply, lies some of the reasons the wars are being fought all around us. Johnathan Freelander writes eloquently and with great heart in this weekend’s Guardian Newspaper, that no side of the Israeli, Gaza, and Jordan triangle conflict are searching for a peaceful conclusion – at this time. In Pulse “Stories from the Heart of Medicine,” I read a translated account from Hadar Sadeh, an Israeli youth psychiatrist working at a Medical Center, about twenty-five miles from the Gaza Strip. Then I open an email from our Palestinian friend and filmmaker, Annemarie Jacir. Each woman weeps at the death of children and physical destruction that they see around them. Each letter could have been written the other.

And see how the war in Ukraine gets roughly pushed to one side even as we know it continues? Old statesmen take planes from one capital city for talks then board another, exchanging their suit jackets for a flack vest as they land in a war zone to encourage young men to face death bravely for their country. Ukrainian President Zelensky rightly worries that this other war is distracting from support to his war – defending Ukraine from Russia’s invasion. How much can we carry in our hearts? And tucked away even further is the news that Russia’s President Putin’s arch-opponent Alexei Navalny’s three lawyers have been detailed. They are facing trial for participating in the so-called extremist group, Navalny’s Anti-Corruption Foundation. If they end up in jail then all contact to the outside world will be lost for Navalny. Each of these eruptions is bleeding like an aspirin-fed wound and all the pressure that is applied will not staunch or stop it any time soon.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

Below the Fold

June 16, 2023 / aggiemurch / 2 Comments

Written and Produced for you by Muriel Murch with WSM by my side

It came on Saturday – effectively immediately – Boris Johnson resigned from his parliamentary seat of Uxbridge and South Ruislip, a Greater London constituency inside of the M25 motorway for those who need to know. It was on the front page of the Financial Times Weekend Supplement but – below the fold. Michael Heseltine, the former deputy Prime Minister under Margaret Thatcher (keep your friends close but your enemies even closer) described the move as “a brilliant coup de théâtre – and – it is … totally unprincipled and dishonest.” It is worth remembering that in 2019 just before Johnson became Prime Minister, Max Hastings, Johnson’s former editor at the Daily Telegraph, reportedly said: “There is room for debate about whether he is a scoundrel or a mere rogue, but not much about his moral bankruptcy, rooted in a contempt for truth.”

While his counterpart in America – across the increasingly bigger pond – struts out on stage once more – our home-blown blond – who has handed Kelly Jo Dodge, his hairdresser, an MBE, has had enough for the moment. In a dance of betrayal about not getting popped upstairs to the Ermine chamber of which I have quite lost the plot, two further Conservative MPs have also resigned their seats: Nadine Dorries from Mid Bedfordshire, and Nigel Adams from North Yorkshire. So geographically, the Conservative holes to be plugged are fairly evenly spread in England’s ‘green and pleasant land.’

UK Prime Minister Rishi Sunak and US President Jo Biden had a nice chat

When Rishi Sunak arrived back from his spin around Washington with Uncle Jo Biden, the political and geothermal heat had risen. Politically he now has three seats to fill in by-elections. Luckily the arrest on Sunday of the past First Minister of Scotland, Nicola Sturgeon – pulled in for questioning on financial misconduct by the Scottish National Party – proved a timely diversion. Whether one is in favour of Scottish independence or not – and though I can see their point I’m rather fond of Scotland – Sturgeon proved herself a first-class politician, even as she saw her party’s cause chipped away beyond her grasp. Looking back at Scotland’s history, Sturgeon joins Gordon Brown and the late John Smith as ministers that carried some visible moral backbone.

During the week that was, Prince Harry’s got himself in a right pickle – showing up a day late and leaving a day early for his court case against the Mail newspaper – not making the judge a happy fellow – and though Prince Harry has a point about journalists seeking him out for fodder, he is out of his minor royal depth as to how to fix it. He has returned to California and journalists are all busy taking a good bite of the political backside of the British Parliament. And for that, we can be grateful.

At the beginning of this month, there was an event on the other side of town. Cadogan Hall looks like an old church and is tucked away just off Sloane Square. It is where the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra calls home. Two high-profile journalists for The Guardian Newspaper, Marina Hyde and Jonathan Freedland, would be in conversation to celebrate Hyde’s book launch of ‘What Just Happened!?’ Walter had bought the book and tickets. He was determined to see them in person and to ask his question. The book is a big one – and sits prominently on our table. It is easy to dip in and out of with its short article-sized chapters.

Book Cover for What Just Happened by Marina Hyde

Marina Hyde now holds the lead position as “a thinking man’s crumpet”, an English expression first used in the 1960s to describe Joan Bakewell when she appeared on the BBC2 late-night discussion programs. There have been other crumpets of course, smart as well as beautiful actresses, news and semi-smart presenters, the chef, and author Nigella Lawson, Nicola Sturgeon could even be considered as such. The oldest crumpet of the moment is Kirsty Wark with – thank goodness – her own quirky style and smart mind – she still holds our attention as the senior co-hostess of Newsnight. But for now, Marina Hyde takes the pretty position with her political journalism and she definitely has my husband’s attention. He is not alone and on entering the bar to the hall we see many more left-leaning types – mostly of a certain age. There are young men out on a date, “Would you like to come and hear Marina Hyde – I’ve got tickets?” But I’m not sure Marina is really the come-on that they hope she will be. She could be just too intimidating. Us oldies look at her and remember – we too have been a bit of crumpet in our day and now just smile, seeing husbands getting frisky. The conversation on stage was good – Marina seemed a bit nervous which was comforting and when it ended Jonathan opened up to questions from the audience along with some on his iPad. My husband’s hand popped up and down until he was called and could ask his Brexit question. “ With the referendum being so important why was it not a super majority vote?” There was applause for the question but sadly no real new answer. Walter has met his third Russian as in “When three Russians tell you you are drunk you might want to lie down.” The sickening truth is that the then Prime Minister, David Cameron, was so confident of winning he saw no reason to make the vote more than a simple majority. His arrogance began the spin that has taken this country into a downward spiral of decay.

The war in Ukraine goes on, and both the Ukrainians and Russians know and are admitting this is not going to end easily. God is apparently on both sides. We see Putin holding up his latest Icon in gold, while Volodymyr Zelinskiy posts videos of captured Ukrainian soldiers being swapped home. Nope, this is not going well – God may be just too busy with wars all over the world along with global warming and the terrible mess we are creating on our planet.

This evening I pass a young Asian man and an older English lady trying to move a crippled gentleman down the last steps of his house and into a wheelchair on the street. It is dusk. I don’t know where they are going but they look a bit unbalanced – the man’s feet are caught up and twisted together. I stop, put down my basket and rest my thigh against the wheelchair. From behind I lean over the man and say “This old nurse is going to put her arms under yours and bring you back into the chair” and lift him safely into his seat. Our heads are close and a sweet smile breaks over his uncleaned teeth. He turns closer to me. ‘Thank you” he says and our eyes smile a secret together. I pick up my basket and don’t look back as I walk on home.

While I write, a small storm flicked a little lightning and a thunderclap, caressing us with the sweet smell of summer rain across our deck. It was not enough to soak the potted plants – only for the leaves to cup and drink.

At the age of 86 the past Prime Minister of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi has died. His life set out the playboy playbook that so many politicians read. It will take more than a little light rain to wash away the pages of his legacy found amidst the dry crevasses of corruption and decay in Westminster today.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch.

February Cold

February 27, 2023 / aggiemurch / 3 Comments

Recorded by WSM knit together by MAM

When in August 2021 western Military forces withdrew from Afghanistan, a plane-load of dogs was evacuated from the country leaving even less room for those Afghani families who had helped the allied troops during the war. Today in the UK an estimated 9,000 Afghans are still living in temporary accommodation in hotels along the Bayswater Road. Some settling occurred. Jobs were found, low-paying and under the table for sure; children went to school and learned English along with math as they began to make a new life. Now the British government plans to move these families to Yorkshire. It won’t even be the same English.

Rumor has it – via The Daily Mail – that Boris Johnson has made over five million quid since leaving office as Prime Minister, not a bad haul for a bumbling bear. And with that – (offers accepted at over four million) – his offer has been accepted on a manor house – with a moat. But the moat only runs around three sides of the house so it won’t do a lot of good when the people finally come for him. He may think he is safe in Oxfordshire, but outside of the university Quad, there are country folk who know what he has done.

As Polly Toynbee writes in The Guardian, the true legacy of Boris Johnson is that dishonesty is standard, the Commons has lost sight of the truth. The former leader’s disregard for truthfulness emboldens others happy to follow his example, knowing the system rarely holds them to account.

Nicola Sturgeon is stepping down as First Minister of Scotland. This is a big blow for the independence movement she has championed for her entire political career. Nicola, recognized in the western world, like Angela, by her first name, is a deeply respected politician. Her daily briefings through the Covid pandemic were a relief to everyone in the British Isles. When mistakes were made by her politicians, the retribution was swift. Nicola’s level of honesty was never equaled in the English government and only highlighted the ‘let the bodies pile up’ leadership south of the border. Though there may be plenty of young politicians coming up through the Scottish ranks, the question of Scotland’s independence remains in deadlock. Nicola insisted that her decision to step down was anchored in what she felt was “Right for the country, for my party, and the independence cause I have devoted my life to.”

Nicola Sturgeon Photograph: Xinhua/Rex/Shutterstock

Russian President Vladimir Putin thought he had Alexei Navalny ‘done and dusted’ when last year Navalny was sentenced to 20 plus years in jail. For a few months, Putin could allow himself a grin and a chuckle thinking of all the lost years of family and political life that Navalny would endure. If Navalny did survive the sentence, Putin could hope that he would emerge a husk – a broken man. But this month that grin turned tight-lipped. The documentary film Navalny was nominated for both a British BAFTA and the American Oscar Awards. And on Sunday it won the British BAFTA for the best documentary film.

Navalny won the BAFTA for best documentary in Feb 2023.

However, the Bulgarian investigative journalist Christo Grozev, who features in the film Navalny was, along with his family, banned from attending the ceremony in London due to a public security risk. In the film, Grozev and his fellow journalists tracking the poisoning of Navalny clearly show the Russian States’ involvement. Pushing the blame hockey puck around the stadium, the British Metropolitan police force said that while it could not comment on the safety of an individual or advice given to them, it was “absolutely concerned” with the “hostile intentions of foreign states” on UK soil. And they have a point. The finger of accusation points straight northeast to Russia with the successful poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko and the botched attempt on Sergei Scribal and his daughter Yulia that killed a British woman, Dawn Sturgess, in error. All this, mind you, when the aforementioned past Prime Minister Boris Johnson gave a cozy seat to the Russian newspaper mogul (owning among other things the Evening Standard) Lord Lebedev, in 2020. A heavy sum supporting the Conservative party was added to their coffers. I can’t get the image out of my mind of a snake charmer playing his flute as his pet cobra rises in the woven basket of his hiding.

But the Met Office truth remains that “the situation that journalists face around the world, and the fact that some journalists face the hostile intentions of foreign states whilst in the UK, is a reality. Which begs the next question, How will the American academy respond to the nomination of #Navalny? Navalny knows this film is his cross on Calvary and that he may be the one who does not make it down from the Hill. Havel made it through – Mandela made it through – will Navalny?

Found lying on the streets of Bucharest 1999 by Walter Slater Murch and Dei Reynolds. Looked to be used by someone homeless as a cardboard mat. Brought home to remains as relevant as ever.

In the early days following the news of the earthquake in Turkey and Syria, a friend of a friend wrote letters, and – as we spread the news of this tragedy – we share them. Tuna Şare wrote to Lucia Jacobs who wrote to A. Broad. Here is a part of Tuna’s letter and I have updated the numbers ….

“I am deeply shaken, still in Oxford but will go to Turkey in two days to join the rescue and help operations.

You may have heard about the earthquakes in Turkey and Syria. Two earthquakes (7.8 and 7.6 in magnitude) affected 10 cities in Turkey. The area affected is the size of the entire United Kingdom. Earthquakes caused an unprecedented energy discharge equivalent to 130 atomic bombs, and the earth’s crust moved by 3 meters, damaging roads, bridges, and airports.

The recent estimates of the people under the rubble (and dead by now) are around 47,000, and millions are left homeless in bitter winter conditions. The scale of destruction is apocalyptic. Our beloved city of Antioch, for example, is literally all gone along with its cultural heritage. Many archaeologists and academics, students have died and lost their families. Homes too.

Best Wishes”
Tuna

Mother is very angry. She has tried to hide it, burping and farting, holding her wind in as best she can until she exploded. Two weeks after this initial emesis she has vomited again. The latest death count is up to 47,000 and still rising. How can one care for the fusses of politicians and small scrappy wars where the planet is so attacked by the creatures who feed off of her.

As we hear the news I think about those still buried – alive – and waiting for help that may or may not still come.

There is a line -a scene – at the end of the film The English Patient where Katharine is mortally injured and alone in the cave. Almasy has gone to get help and left her with a flashlight, a pencil, and paper.

Katharine is writing. The FLASHLIGHT is faint. She shivers.

“…the fire is gone now, and I’m horribly cold.
I really ought to drag myself outside
but then there would be the sun …
I think of those still living, trapped, crushed,
buried in the rubble of our making
The light has gone out …
and we watch it flicker and fade.”
KATHARINE (O/S) – The English Patient

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. Written and Read for you by Muriel Murch

A Dereliction of Duty

August 19, 2021 / aggiemurch

Recorded and knit together by WSM

“On an extraordinary scale”, said Major Gen Charlie Herbert, who served three tours in Afghanistan between 2007-2018. “It is almost impossible to believe that the Prime Minister departed on holiday on Saturday; he should hang his head in shame.”

Again – I might add, as we continue shaking our heads at the inconceivable conceit of this government while trying to wrap our minds around the suffering, fear and deaths that are taking place in Afganistan this week.

It came quickly, to those who have been diverted from the Middle East by relief at getting through the Tokyo Olympics with some honour, and then the helpless sadness at the latest earthquake destruction in Haiti with the number of dead reaching 1500 and Storm Grace closing in on the country. I think back on the young firemen from California who flew in to help in the last earthquake and pray another wave are willing to take on that relay baton.

Throughout the summer the BBC gives trial runs to hopeful new young newscasters. So on Sunday night a lovely young woman smiles her way through the news from Afganistan before going live to Kabul. But Secunder Kermani, the BBC’s Afganistan correspondent was not there. In his place is a clearly nervous, Malik Mudassir who has a hard time staying focused on the camera. Afganistan is the third most dangerous country for news reporters. The BBC reporter Ahmad Shah, was killed in the province of Khosa, earlier this year on a day which left nearly 40 people dead.

This evacuation remains a withdrawal of shambolic proportions that is ever changing as I write. There is no captain of the ship. No brave president Ashraf Ghani staying until the last. Ghani is gone. The Kabul airport seems to have been allocated an international zone and over 60 countries are operating from makeshift desks and computers at that site. The UK’s ambassador to Afghanistan, Sir Laurie Bristow, is there helping to process visa applications for over 4,000 British nationals and eligible Afghans. Dominic Raab’s office said the evacuation efforts will continue for “as long as we are able to do so and as long as it is safe to do so”. Cordoned off by the US troops this area of the airport is – for the moment – a safe haven for some. There are literally thousands of citizens from countries around the world, each that held a little presence, for their own ‘special interests’ in Afganistan, now clamoring to reach the airport and a plane. Like players on a monopoly board, they are now all ready to sell their stock for a flight out of the country. Except for the Russian and Chinese embassies. They are staying in town for informal chats with the Taliban leaders as they form a new government. Russian’s Presidential envoy to Afganistan, Zamir Kabulov, said that Moscow would decide on recognizing the new Taliban government based “on the conduct of the new authorities.” Vladimir must be chuckling at the debortle that his ‘Lets make a deal’ orange puppet offered last May. Like a patient fisherman he can just keep warm, sitting on the banks of this river of history, watching his line bob and duck under the rippled water that is Afganistan today. History, repeating again, from the Coup of 1953 in Iran through to this moment. With Joe Biden’s stance, can or will America and western countries keep their sticky fingers out of other peoples pies? It is doubtful.

But it is possible that when Boris Johnson said, “There is no military solution to the ‘problems’ in Afganistan’ he may have been saying – finally – a long-overdue truth, in all senses of the word. In August, when the country ‘shuts up shop’ and goes on holiday, there is usually a flurry of silly activity to find the Prime Minister on his or her holiday and, in the best English journalistic way, make a mockery of their chosen hideaway. But this year all was strangely quiet. And now we know why. Both the Prime Minister and the foreign secretary, Dominic Raab, popped off for their summer holidays at the same time on Saturday. Johnson to Somerset, and Raab was in Cyprus until Sunday, hours before the fall of Kabul. Neither had showed up for work for over a week. Boris Johnson’s departure on Saturday, despite public warnings the Taliban would be in Kabul within hours, has been soundly criticized as a “dereliction of duty” by former senior military and security figures and may well cost him those deep conservative votes and pockets he counts on.

Defense Secretary Ben Wallace, who served in the Scots Guards, appeared to choke up as he spoke of his regret that “some people won’t get back”.

The Taliban spokesman Suhail Shaheen called into the BBC, live on air “There will be no revenge on the people of Afghanistan. We are awaiting a peaceful transfer of power. We assure the people of Afghanistan, particularly in the city of Kabul, that their properties, their lives are safe – there will be no revenge on anyone. We are the servants of the people and of this country.”

Spokesman Suhail Shakeen. Photo from the Daily Express

On the Sunday night news screen, a middle-aged Afganistan woman, a teacher – of girls – spoke with bewilderment at her new reality, “I thought I was doing good, teaching.” On a phone from an empty room she looks about thoughtfully, now unsure what will become of her. And neither are we as posters and billboards depicting women in places of influence are blacked out throughout the cities of Afganistan.

This has been A letter from A. Broad

Written and read for you by Muriel Murch

First Aired on Swimming Upstream KWMR.org

Web support by murchstudio.com