The Angry Exile: A man after my own heart.

The Hangman

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.
The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.
And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.
And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead --
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."
And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief
And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman's cloak.
The next day's sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.
And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.
And we cried, "Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."
He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new."
Then one cried "Murder!" and one cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"
And he laid his hand on that one's arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman's cloak.
That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;
Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.
The third he took -- we had all heard tell --
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
"What," said the Hangman "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"
And we cried out, "Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam."
The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
"And what concern," he gave us back.
"Have you for the doomed -- the doomed and Black?"
The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said. "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."
And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.
The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name --
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, "There is no one left at all
For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.
He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.
And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap --
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.
"You tricked me. Hangman!," I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men...
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said. "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true --
The scaffold was raised for none but you.
For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"
"Dead," I whispered. And amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the foreigner, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."
Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried "Stop!" for me in the empty square.

Maurice Ogden

Monday 23 March 2009

A man after my own heart.

Deva Kumarasiri is someone I have a lot of time for - a guy who migrates to another country for a shot at a better life and adapts to his new home rather than expects it to adapt to him. I can quite understand because it's the same attitude I've taken. Admittedly the wrench is so much smaller for me since I've moved to somewhere that shares a fair amount of culture, history and language with the country of my birth, but if I'd moved to Italy (or wherever) I'd have taken the time to learn Italian (or whatever). Mr Kumarasiri feels that people moving to the UK from non-English speaking parts of the world should at least take the time to learn enough of the language to buy stamps, which he should know being both a migrant himself and a Postmaster.

Sri Lankan-born Deva Kumarasiri said he turned away five people from his Nottingham post office for "wasting time and holding up the queue" by not speaking English.
He introduced the rule last week because he believes all immigrants in Britain should learn the language and take pride in their new homeland.

Oh dear. You just know what's going to happen, don't you?

But Mr Kumarasiri said he was "forced out" of Sneinton Boulevard post office on Saturday, after a backlash in the community.
The 40-year-old father of two, from Carlton, Nottingham, said most people had come out in support of his stance, but a "small minority" launched a petition against him.
From now on he will be based at a different post office in Nottingham, but hopes to move back to his former branch in the future.
"I was forced out by a small minority of people who don't want to integrate into society," Mr Kumarasiri said.

If you're thinking that he's only been moved because he's not white enough to be a real racist and fired outright, he has apparently moved at his own request. But fuck, was what he said so unreasonable? Christ, when in Rome you do as the fucking Romans do. It's more convenient and it's just plain courteous. And then there's the liberty issue - why the fuck should a business be forced to put up with a few customers who hold up and inconvenience all the others? If my local Post Office started developing queues out the door and round the block because the only English the customer at the front has learned is G'day, and he's saying that wrong, then I'd simply go to a different Post Office. If it happened more than a few times I'd stop going altogether. Time is money, and that's as true for the business it self as it is for the people queueing for service.

But some people in multicultural Britain (Oz too for that matter) don't see it like that. "We must welcome all with open arms" they say. Well, yes, we certainly should. But that doesn't mean we have to adapt to everyone who comes. We can adapt to nobody that comes and still welcome the arrival of anyone who wants to live here rather than where they came from. The two are not mutually exclusive, and I think Mr Kumarasiri shows how it's possible. I expect his reasonable attitude to integrating with the country he chose to make his home will win a lot of support among native Brits. After all he is arguably more British than I am, born British and lived there for three and half decades. My Britishness is a fact of birth, but while I'm still very fond of the UK my loyalty to it should be measured by where I've made my home. In the same way Mr Kumarasiri chose the UK as his home - I was only born there. Who is more British?

I'd quite like to meet Deva Kumarasiri and compare experiences of choosing a new country to be a part of. And I wonder if he's better at God Save The Queen than I am at Advance Australia Fair. My old country could probably do with migrants just like him, but if he doesn't get the sort of support he deserves there I'd suggest he tries my new country. The Aussies wouldn't know whether to call him a pom or not but I think he'd be popular.

H/T Ambush Predator.