Can expats be lured back? Why these Latvians are coming home.

From The Christian Science Monitor, December 2021

RĒZEKNE, LATVIA


Liene Ozolina, part of the new wave of Latvians who have moved back home, stands in front of the Freedom Monument , the symbol of Latvian independence, in Riga, Latvia, on Dec. 14, 2021

Liene Ozolina, part of the new wave of Latvians who have moved back home, stands in front of the Freedom Monument, the symbol of Latvian independence, in Riga, Latvia, on Dec. 14, 2021

Elina Zelcha thought she was doing well when she moved from Baltinava, a small village near the Latvia-Russia border, to Hamburg, Germany, in 2018. But something nagged at her.

“Returning home was a call from within, a whisper in my ear,” says the tattoo artist, describing the epiphany she had later. “‘You were born in Latvia for a reason.’” She decided to listen and head home to Latgale, Latvia’s easternmost province.

Latvia is hoping that other emigrants will follow Ms. Zelcha’s lead. The small Baltic nation has a severe population decline problem, one of the worst in Europe. The country has seen its population decrease more than 20% since 2000, to 1.9 million today: the combined result of a rapidly aging population, too few births, and international migration.

So the government is stepping up its efforts to bring them back. And whether it’s due to the pitch of remigration counselors, the promise of telecommuting from their motherland, or the simple lure of family and nostalgia, Latvian emigrants are coming back home.

“We need our people,” says Elita Gavele, the Latvian ambassador-at-large for diaspora affairs. “We want them to come back.”


The lure of home

According to the government, nearly 3,000 people have returned to Latvia over the last three years, mainly from Scandinavia, Germany, the United Kingdom, and Ireland, while 650 other families have indicated that they are planning to do the same.

The returnees are coming back for a variety of reasons, according to Ms. Gavele. “Some are coming back because they want their children to study at Latvian schools. Others are coming back to buy an apartment or upgrade their living conditions.”

“Others are returning to start a new business based on an idea they developed and wish to try out in their homeland,” she says. “And of course then there are those who miss their family.”

Sentiment is a major factor, if not the only one, propelling the latest wave of Latvian repatriates home. Such is the case for Maija Hartmane. She moved to the U.K., the most popular destination for Latvian emigrants, with her parents in 2007 at the beginning of the Great Recession, but returned in 2018.

“It was never really about moving back, per se,” says Ms. Hartmane, who now manages a guesthouse in Rāzna National Park near Rēzekne. “All my school summer holidays were spent here. My entire family lived in Latvia, and I felt that this was where I belonged.”

The young hospitality worker “always” intended to come back, she says. Besides, she adds, “I never really ‘fit’ into British culture, although I did make some very good friends there.”

Leeds, where her family settled in England, was too “big,” she says. So is the Latvian capital of Riga, for that matter. “I wanted to get back to the countryside and fresh air. So here I am.” Referring to the seclusion of Latgale and the park where she works and lives, she adds, ”This is where my soul belongs.”

Ms. Hartmane gives Astrida Lescinska, the remigration counselor for the Latgale planning region, considerable credit for helping her decide to return. A remigrant herself who had moved to the U.K. as a teenager in 2012, Ms. Lescinska now works to contact potential returnees and create a plan for them to move back to Latvia.

“One of the major challenges of my job is to tell them what Latvia is like today,” says Ms. Lescinska, who is based in Daugavpils, Latgale’s largest city. Many potential returnees are not familiar with how much Latvia has changed, or how much the economy has improved, she says.

“Most emigrants, I find, want to come home,” she says. “They just need a little push – and to know that there is someone there to assist them and to continue to make them feel at home after they do return.”

“Our regional coordinators are actively and relentlessly working in helping our citizens to move back to Latvia,” says Artūrs Toms Plešs, the minister for environmental protection and regional development, which oversees the accelerated remigration campaign. “I believe that the pandemic has played a role, too. Now that people know that they can work remotely, some see that as a productive way to return.”


“A complex decision”

Ms. Zelcha, the tattoo artist who returned to Baltinava in April of this year, works with Ms. Lescinska to encourage other potential remigrants. “I am glad that I moved away,” she says. “Moving away gave me a new understanding of my society and my village.”

“I saw the opportunities it offered, which I hadn’t seen before. Also, I received a lot of support for my hand-poke tattooing business, which is something that is very rare in our country.”

Latvia has changed, and for the better, she says, “but the biggest change for me was internal,” and the way she perceives and appreciates things she hadn’t necessarily appreciated before, like the sublime “calmness” of her village.

For all the remigrant success stories, there are those who feel that the Latvian government could do even more to ease their return.

“I think the government could also allow returnees not to pay taxes for the first year, the way that Canada and Portugal do,” says Liene Ozolina, a sociologist who returned to Latvia with her American husband and young son last year after living for 10 years in London. “I think that this would be a real way for Latvia to incentivize its citizens to return.”

“But,” she adds, “even that in itself would not be the driving force for someone to return.”

The process of re-acclimating to Latvia has not been without its bumps, says Dr. Ozolina, who now lives in Riga, where she teaches at the Latvian Academy of Culture. There have been shocks, particularly the difference between English and Latvian manners. She does not deny that she misses the former. “People are less kind and gracious in public,” she says. “That can hurt. In London, the form is that if you step on someone’s foot you automatically say ‘sorry.’ Not here, I am afraid.”

“The roughness and incivility of the Soviet days dies hard,” she adds, referring to the half-century-long Russian occupation of the Baltic nation, which ended 30 years ago. “You can still feel the trauma of that time.”

Nevertheless, she and her husband are happy with their decision to move back to Latvia. “Returning home is a complex decision with its own emotional and rational dimensions,” says Dr. Ozolina. “What matters is how it feels to be back in a place where you have your childhood friends and your relatives. These were the things which ultimately carried the most weight in my decision to return home.”

“In the end, it was the right decision for me.”

(PETRO) Dollars for Scholars

From Moment Magazine, September 1978

Obviously, research and teaching about the Arab world are entirely proper and even healthy endeavors for an American university. What makes the sudden and dramatic expansion in such activities worrisome is that they are so clearly an opportunistic response to the new Arab wealth rather than to the considered requirements of higher education; that the quality of the people available to guide research and teaching in a field that has so long been neglected is necessarily uneven; that the dollars which have begun to flow into these programs frequently come with strings attached. On the basis of the evidence, one is bound to ask whether it is bonafide educational centers that are being built and expanded or whether, instead, we are witnessing the development of a network of cells for propaganda activities. The answer, it turns out, is ambiguous and disturbing.

Last March, in the wake of the Israeli incursion into southern Lebanon, a Washington-based spokesman for the League of Arab States, Dr. Clovis Maksoud, issued a bitter condemnation of the Israeli action. Among other things, he charged that Israel had merely used the PLO Tel Aviv bus bombing as an excuse to implement a long-standing invasion plan. “The invasion doesn’t constitute a response to the Palestinian raid,” Maksoud said. “Instead, it points out a contingency plan by Israel to gain suzerainty over Lebanon.”

Maksoud’s broadside differed little in either tone or content from those unleashed by any of the other numerous U.S.-based Arab propagandists.

What distinguished Maksoud’s attack from the others was that it was issued on the stitionery of Washington’s most regarded institution of higher education, Georgetown University. Because of the respectability of its imprimatur, Maksoud’s statement was widely quoted in the press.

How did Maksoud put his hands on Georgetown stationery? No deception there. Maksoud was a member of the Georgetown staff, a visiting lecturer at Georgetown’s recently established and highly controversial Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. It was at the Conter that Maksoud and other members of the vociferously anti-Israel faculty gave their well-attended “press-briefing” for the Washington press corps. Nor, as we shall see, it is merely coincidence that the Georgetown Center, whose members have managed to make their voices heard on a number of other recent Middle East developments as well, receives most of its financial support from a group of both radical and moderate Arab states. (Its largest gift to date-$750,000-came from the government of Libya.)

Among those outraged by Georgetown’s blatantly one-sided “press-briefing” was Art Buchwald. “I don’t see why the PLO has to have a PR organization in the United States,” wrote Buchwald in one of a number of sharp letters he was to exchange with Georgetown officials, “when Georgetown is doing all their work for them.”

The so-called Buchwald-Maksoud affair is but one of a chain of controversies which has recently erupted on American campuses as the Arab presence in academe has increased. Much has already been written about the lucrative consulting contracts which have tempted American universities not less than they have enticed American business firms. Less attention has been paid to the developing connection between Arab states and the academic world which comes much closer to the heart of the academic enterprise. According to the State Department, cooperative programs, or linkages between Arab agencies and American universities, have increased ten-fold since 1973. At least 75 American colleges and universities - and quite possibly many more – have accepted gifts from various Arab states in order to establish new or to bolster existing departments in Middle Eastern or Arab studies – quite apart from those which have negotiated research or consulting contracts.

Obviously, research and teaching about the Arab world are entirely proper and even healthy endeavors for an American university. What makes the sudden and dramatic expansion in such activities worrisome is that they are so clearly an opportunistic response to the new Arab wealth rather than to the considered requirements of higher education; that the quality of the people available to guide research and teaching in a field that has so long been neglected is necessarily uneven; that the dollars which have begun to flow into these programs frequently come with strings attached. On the basis of the evidence, one is bound to ask whether it is bonafide educational centers that are being built and expanded or whether, instead, we are witnessing the development of a network of cells for propaganda activities. The answer, it turns out, is ambiguous and disturbing. One is bound to ask whether the Arab sponsors are committed to academic freedom, or whether it is something very different they have in mind. And even where the activities appear entirely respectable and seem to conform to the highest standards of decency. The answer, again, is ambiguous and disturbing.

Thus, for example, a tacit stipulation of most contractual arrangements with Arab states is that Jewish staff will not be employed in projects funded with Arab dollars. In July 1975, the Midwest Universities Consortium for International Activities – which consists of Indiana University, Michigan State, the Universities of Illinois, Wisconsin and Minessota – terminated its program of academic assistance at the University of Riyadh after the Saudis refused a visa to a Jewish professor. The professor, Ralph Smuckler, is dean of the international program at Michigan State, and a member of the Consortium board of directors.

The first issue of “Petro Impact,” a newsletter put out by the American Jewish Committee to help keep track of the frowing Arab penetration into American affairs, surveys the situation as follows:

“In the quest for new sources of financial support, many American colleges and universities have sought grants or research contracts from Arab sources. While these funds may be used for perfectly legitimate purposes – including study of the contemporary Arab world… they may also be used to skew university curricula, underwrite biased anti-Israel programs and support on-campus propaganda activities not consonant with the universities’ fundamental quest for truth and knowledge.”

Israeli Consul Daniel Mokabi, who keeps regular tabs on the matter more bluntly. Speaking of the Arab world’s sudden, and somewhat suspicious fondness for certain prestigious American academies of learning, Mokabi says: “It’s really quite simple. They are rying to buy these schools out.”

Is there a real possibility that the integrity of higher education in the United States is being seriously compromised? Consider the café of Georgetown. Of all the myriad institutions which have forged new links with Arab league governments, it is Georgetown which understandably causes the most concern. Not only does the prestigious Jesuit university’s rapid embrace of even the most hot-headed Arab donors seem to set a distressing moral precedent; it is also in a position to exert considerable influence upon the shaping of American foreign policy towards the Middle East, a position it has already begun to exploit.

Apparently, no one at Georgetown is particularly troubled by its Center for Contemporary Arab Studies’ acceptance of the $750,000 from Col. Muammar el-Quadaffi’s pro-terrorist regime.  (The money, given in May, 1977, goes to endow the Center’s Umar Al-Mukhtar Chair of Arab Culture.) Nor has there been significant opposition expressed to the appointment of the Libyan ambassador to the United Nations, Mansur R. Kikhia, as one of the eleven advisors to the Center. (The other include Issa Al Kawari, Qatar’s Minister of Information; Qais Al Zawawi, Oman’s Minister of State of Foreign Affairs, a Mobil Oil vice president, Chase Manhattan’s director of international relations for the Middle East – and J. William Fulbright, now a registered foreign agent.

Nor, one imagines, is there much embarrassment regarding the presence on the Center’s faculty of several outspoken PLO enthusiasts. That, presumably, is why the Center’s second annual report proudly notes participation of three of its faculty members in a Bagdad University Symposium on Zionism held in 1976 – and of another at a Washington conference on “Zionism and Racism.” (The Bagdad participants included Center Director Michael Hudson.)

Georgetown is hardly a backwater institution. It produces annually more U.S. Foreign Service and State Department officers than anu other school in the country. It is located virtually within whispering distance of Congress and the Washington press corps. It has a long-standing tradition of interaction with the highest officials of the American government. In short, it is an especially tempting plum, of obvious interest to Libya and the United Arab Emirates.

Center Director Hudson predictably insists that “we don’t mix politics and education.” But perusal of the Center’s report suggests the opposite. Otherwise, why does the report proudly note that “faculty members were frequently consulted on Middle Eastern developments; and members were quoted in The Wall Street Journal, The New York Tines,” etc. etc.

I testimony before Congressional committees and in background briefings for businessmen and officers, “Center members played a part in current Middle Eastern developments in Washington.”

Georgetown’s President, Reverend Timothy Healy, S.J. – who arrived on the Georgetown campus two years ago, when the Center’s existence was already a fait accompli – is reported to be increasingly uncomfortable with the lobbying activities of his Arab studies staff. But in public Father Healy continues to insist that the school’s integrity ha bot been compromised. “Don’t ignore the self-corrective capacity of a university, regardless of the source of the gift,” Healy said in a recent interview with Gene Maeroff of The New York Times. “In the fall there will be five American Jews and an Israeli (enrolled) in Arab studies, and a professor would have a hell of a time propagandizing to them.”

Five American Jews, one Israeli – and about 450 other students. One wonders whether they will be sufficient to provide the “self-correction” Father Healy implies is needed, or to counterattack the Arab largesse which is the Center’s principal source of support. After all, the tune the Arab sponsors call, and the Center pipers play, is primarily “performance giants” – short term arrangements which permit frequent review of the Center’s activities.

To be sure, Georgetown is not the only major American college or university that puts out the welcome mat to all Arab comers, regardless of the nature of their respective regimes. Nearby, the Johns Hopkins University School of Advanced International Studies also matter-of-faculty states in its prospectus that it doesn’t really care where its foreign benefactors reside – as long as they can produce legal tender.

Nevertheless, one is hard put to find administrators who are as opportunistic in this regard – and as candid – as Peter Krogh, Dean of Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service, and chairman of the executive committee of the Arab Studies Center. (It was Krogh who originally laid the groundwork for the Center and continues to be its chief dues collector.) Art Buchwald, who has made the WASPish Georgetown citadel of learning one of his favorite satirical dartboards of late, sent a barbed letter to the Georgetown Voice, the weekly student newspaper, following the announcement of the Libyan bequest. After calling the bequest “blood money”, Buchwald went on to remind his readers that Libya had “financed, trained, supported and [given] haven to terrorists and hijackers.” He then suggested that the school might next consider creating a “Brezhnev Studies program in Human Rights” or an “Idi Amin Chair in Genocide.”

Krogh, when reached for comment, was unfazed. “ I don’t know Uganda,” he told a reporter from The Washington Post, who was wondering whether the Jesuit institution would indeed accept the African dictator’s charity.

“I’ve never been to Uganda,” said Krogh. “I don’t know Idi Amin.” Suggesting, thereby, that were they to meet, Krogh might be impressed by Amin’s essential decency, and suggesting further that he does know Quadaffi – and isn’t bothered by what he knows.

So much for Georgetown, newest in the expanding galaxy of Arab studies. Over on the West Coast at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles, a somewhat different story unfolds. There, the Arab-American connection is so old as to be non-controversial. For twenty years, USC has educated the elite sons of Saudi Arabia, in addition to furnishing many of the plans and ideas which have shaped the modernization of that oil-rich sheikdom. So strong is the Saudi-USC connection, and so certain is a USC degree a guarantee of professional success for a Saudi, that scores of the young sheiks now enter USC each year. (And there’s also the fabled California lifestyle to sample along the way to success.) Cynics have called Saudi Arabia a “USC field project.”

Curiously, USC has never had much of a Middle Eastern Studies department – the Saudis, after all, are more interested in learning about American culture and society than their own. But when, during the recent nationwide boom in this area, the Saudis were happy to oblige, forking over a cool million to endow a King Faisal Chair of Islamic and Arabic Studies. In this case, however, there were explicit strings attached to the bequest: University President Dr. John Hubbard agreed to choose the chair holder in consultation with the Saudi Minister of Hugher Education.

This chummy (and potentially discriminatory) arrangement is particularly irksome to AJC’s Ira Silverman. “Whether this arrangement is inimical in itself, I don’t know,” says Silverman. “Will Saudi Arabia approve of a Jew in the chair? I don’t know. But the whole thing certainly doesn’t look like a good precedent.”

The growing population of Arab undergraduates studying in the United States, estimated at 25,000, is also of concern to Jewish campus monitors – particularly the increasingly vociferous minority of students from the hardline states. The Saudis of USC may be too busy with their studies – and their volleyball – to engage in demonstrations and pamphleteering; however, some of their more radical peers at other American campuses show no such reluctance. Arab student activists were particularly in evidence after the Israeli military action in southern Lebanon. At the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, for example, the Organization of Arab Students distributed flyers proclaiming: “Once again, the Zionists have spread their Nazi tactics upon the Arab people.”

Meanwhile, University of Georgia activists managed to cause an “International Student Week” to be cancelled, after objecting to the exclusion of Palestine from the activities – and at Portland State University administrator were forced by Arab protesters to remove an Israeli flag from a lobby display, because, they charged, the display constituted a gratuitous “political statement.”

To be sure, the Arab academic juggernaut has been successfully derailed on certain campuses, as Jews and non-Jews have learned of impending and morally objectionable Arab-American contracts or endowments of one sort or another. Sometimes, indeed, there has been resistance where it was least expected.

At the University of Alabama at Birmingham, for example, the announcement of a “mutually beneficial and cooperative” educational exchange program with the Tripoli-based University f Al Fateh touched off a crisis of conscience among several dozen Jewish faculty, eventually leading to organized protest. Thanks to the cooperation of Jewish community leaders – and the open-mindedness of the university president, who previously was ill-informed about the true nature of the Tripoli regime – the proposed program was aborted. (Interestingly, half of the protesting Jewish faculty had never before had any tie with the Jewish community of greater Birmingham.)

A similar firestorm recently erupted on the Quaker-affiliated campuses of Bryn Mawr, Swarthmore, and Haverford, after it was discovered that a philanthropic foundation to which Swarthmore officials had applied for a $590,000 grant for the propagation of Arab studies was actually the creature of Saudi arms dealer, Adnan Khashoggi. At the time, Khahsgoggi was the central figure in a major arms payoff scandal, and today he remains under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission. The trio’s Quaker conscience dictated against taking money from such a tainted individual, and one by one, the schools withdrew their bids: Onf the three, only Bryn Mawr has nor totally severed its tie with Khashoggi’s charity.

“This is a good case history of how we can be effective in working with colleges to limit Arab influence on campuses,” the AJC’s field report on the episode concluded, “although in view of the school’s Quaker background and Khashoggi’s cloudy reputation as an arms merchant, its happy ending is not likely to be replicated in other cases.”

One of the factors which shocked Swarthmore faculty into contacting the American Jewish Committee was an ominously-worded draft memorandum in which a Swarthmore official underlined the tactical advantages of focusing Arab largesse on the small, private college level. “The greatest leverage on influential public opinion is to be found in this area for three reasons,” the official pointed out.

First and foremost, “there is no higher percentage of successful men and women than among the graduates of colleges such as Amherst, Bowdoin, Mt. Holyoke, Swarthmore, Williams, Wellesley, Carleton, Grinnell, Reed, Oberlin, Rice, and perhaps thirty others…”

Second, he noted, the “major private universities such as Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Columbia, Pennsylvania, and Chicago… already have centers of Middle Eastern Studies but which may be suffering from inertia and obfuscated policies.” (In other words, these campuses are likely to be more resistant to Arab influence.)

Third, “programs followed by the prestigious private colleges influence and set examples particularly for state-run educational institutions. If Arab studies became established in them, then public institutions will be encouraged, at public expense, to provide similar facilities.”

“This is a program that will not produce instant results,” the memo concludes. “But with time and patient stewardship it presents great possibilities for the spread of basic understanding of Arab concerns and for the encouragement of a favorable public relations climate in this country.”

A more obvious – and whorish – sales pitch could scarcely be imagined. Happily, Swarthmore’s good sense, its faculty’s alertness, and Jewish vigilance intercepted the solicitation. How many other universities, faced with financial exigencies, will be tempted to sell themselves in equally degrading ways? With representatives of the Arab states baldly flashing their bankrolls, with universities so adept at rationalizing their own behavior and so imbued with a sense of their incorruptibility the temptation will be – is – substantial.

The problem is serious enough so that it troubles not only Jews. It troubles the more thoughtful scholars in the field as well. Thus, the prominent Middle East specialist at the University of London P.J. Vatikiotis, recently wrote, “The implication of this development for Middle Eastern studies in America cannot be, at this moment, precisely determined or foreseen. The trend, however, suggests that American universities cannot… support Middle Eastern studies in the normal way, this retaining academic control over them. In the meantime, the financing of programs and centers by foreign governments jeopardizes, to say the least, the independence of Middle Eastern studies in America.”

If there is a solution to this problem, it rests, finally, on the moral and ethical sensibility and sensitivity of the American academic community – campus by campus. “We can’t depend on the law to fight off the Arabs,” Israeli Consul Mokabi says. “In most cases, they are doing nothing illegal. Everything happens very subtly. First, money is obtained for development. Then friendly faculty are hired. And then they are replaced with even friendlier staff, and so on. We are counting on moral bulwarks, not legal ones,” says Mokabi.

But moral bulwarks may be inadequate, as recent university experience shows. Continuing vigilance by an attentive public may be a more dependable defense.

Source: (PETRO) Dollars for Scholars

C-Town Blues

From The Cornell Daily Sun (February, 2006)

In the last exciting installment of C Town Blues: Harold Rothman ’72, having been suspended/banished from Plymouth University for a period of no less than one year, spent the spring of 1970 in the bowels of the New York City Library inspecting microfilm of old/defunct journals by day, and hanging out at the Museum of Modern Night by night. He also was nearly blow up when he walks past a Weatherman bomb factory in Greenwich Village.

“He’s a real Nowhere Man…

Sitting in his nowhere land

Making all his nowhere plans

For somebody…”

                                                                        -“Nowhere Man”

                                                                        The Beatles

And so Harold Rothman ’72 spent his first months of enforced leave from Plymouth University. If he had felt like the Nowhere Man before, all those endless days and nights cooped up in his garret-like room at 405 College Avenue, nearly killing himself because he thought he was already dead the morning of his spiked birthday trip, out of the university’s sight and mind, now he felt even more so as he reported to his microfilm inspection every day at 9, on the dot, before proceeding to inspect that day’s volumes of Candy and Confectionery Journal and Police Gazette, disconsolately having lunch with himself on a bench in Bryant Park.

Did he miss Plymouth? “No way,” he muttered to himself one afternoon as he was reviewing the film of a 1954 volume or Rubber Dealer for mistakes. How could one miss an institution that, while taking its good time to deliberate his fate – not to mention allowing him to fall between the cracks to begin w I t h – h a d allowed him to take classes for a full month before declaring him persona non grata and spitting him out. How could one miss an institution like that? “No way – I don’t miss Plymouth” Rothman hissed aloud, as he sat there thinking, his head concealed by the microfilm viewer, in between volumes, in a strange, hazy, sprocketed ontological-cum-literary zone of his own between the pit of Rothman’s fears and the summit of his knowledge, as Rod Serling might have said. Or something like that.

“Fuck Plymouth,” he said, before inspecting a page of twenty two year old rubber-related news (“NEW IDEAS ON FIGHTING RUBBER PLANTATION FIRES..”). On another day, at another time, Rothman would have seen the humor of a magazine entitled Rubber Dealer But today, it was just work, breaking rock.

No, he didn’t Plymouth, the institution, but, he had to admit, he missed the place. He missed Camp Plymouth. He missed the gorges. He missed the unbelievable way the sun set over East Hill. He missed the squirrels on the Arts Quad – even some of the professors. Not many, but some, some.

Rothman stopped reeling. “I have to go back,” he decided. “Have to.”

There was only one problem, of course. Rothman had been banished, effectively kicked off campus, told to stay away. As in away. If he wanted to come back at all. As Steve Freak, in his amphetamine throes, had kept saying at Rothman’s suspension party, over and over, in his endearingly demented way “Personanongratapersonanongratapersonanongratapersonanongrata…”

Yeah, he had to admit, he missed Steve Freak, too. He even missed his crummy C TOWN room. He missed watching the sunrise from the top bench of Schoelkopf Stadium, tripping or not.

So he decided to go back. Just for a weekend. Slink into town and out. Just do it, as Jerry Rubin would advise: Yippie!

“Yeah, I’m going back,” he said to himself. And so the next weekend Harold Rothman took the bus back to Plymouth.

Talk about timing, man! That upcoming weekend, it so happened, was “Amerika Is Hard To Escape Weekend,” after the poem of the same name by Father Peter Rattigan, the celebrated Plymouth campus advisor-cum-poet-cum-antiwar activist who had failed to surrender to The Authorities after his conviction for pouring blood on draft records and was now at large. Rattigan’s legion of campus devotees had planned a whole weekend of festivities in his honor, culminating in a mass concert-cum-demonstration-cum-be-in at Binton Hall featuring Phil Ochs and the Bread and Puppet Theatre, amongst others. And, it was rumored, at some point, an appearance by Plymouth’s Most Wanted Priest himself.

“Yeah, it’s going to be far out,” his former roommate David Hollow promised Rothman between tokes over the phone. “Come on up, man. You can crash here. We’ll keep it mum.”

So Rothman took the bus back up to Plymouth and had the obligatory smoke-filled reunion with his C Town buddies and he regaled them with tales of his Dostoeivskian existence on the microfilm chain gang. And he looked at his old room, where he had had that death trip back on his birthday. Still looked pretty crummy. But, yes, it was good to be back.

And so Saturday night, of course, the whole gang – Guido, Steve, Dlovid, Jeff and the rest of Rocks ‘N Bottles, the name of the informal 405 house band – rumbled over to Binton Hall to hear Phil Ochs and Dave Dellinger and to see the Bread and Puppet Theater, with their tripped-out, life-sized costumes, parading around.

And then, suddenly, in the midst of the Bread and Puppet performance, the lights went on and there was the fugitive priest on the stage, flanked by the puppet people, flashing the peace sign, daring the special agents in the crowd of 15,000 to arrest him. And Rothman couldn’t help but smile at his timing. After all, he was a fugitive of sorts, too.

Then the lights went out again, and you could see the a dozen or so small fires flickering, as student resistors, swept up in the moment, decided to provoke the G men by burning their draft cards.

When the lights went back on, Rattigan had vanished. The next morning, at dawn, Rothman did, too.

Source: C-Town Blues

Pittsburgh is Art!

From Blue Wings Magazine (May, 2014)

F. Scott Fitzgerald, the famed American writer and author of The Great Gatsby, once wrote that there are no second acts in American lives. All I can say is that he didn’t know Pittsburgh.

Perhaps no major American city has undergone as a rapid change as this storied western Pennsylvania metropolis located at the confluence of the Allegheny, Ohio and Monongahela Rivers. Once known as “Smoky City”, because of its omnipresent iron ballast, Pittsburgh has undergone a remarkable transformation since the 1980s, morphing from an industrial city best known for its football and hockey team, the Steelers and Penguins, to one with a distinctive, edgy cultural identity.

Of course, Pittsburgh still has its football team. For Pittsburghers, or “Yinzers”, as they are sometimes affectionately called after the local accent, Pittsburgh is and always will be Steeler City. As the volcanic cheer emanating from any of the city’s sports arenas and bars when the six time-NFL champion Steelers or its sister teams, the Pirates and the Penguins, are playing will confirm – or the passing conversation at Pamela’s, the city’s fabled dinner chain – Pittsburgh may well be America’s most sports-mad city.

But Steeler City is also mad now about something else: culture. Or, as the new slogan of the city’s largest arts organization, the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust, goes, “Pittsburgh Is Art.”

STEEL CITY’S ARTISTIC LEGACY

In point of fact, Pittsburgh has produced its fair share of talented visual artists over the years. Mary Cassatt, the great, late 19th-century America Impressionist and colleague of Degas, hailed from Pittsburgh. So did John Kane, the uber-talented Scottish-born so-called “naïve painter” whose bucolic cityscapes of Pittsburgh during the late 19th and early 20th centuries provide a window on what life in Iron City was like when its furnaces were going full blast.

Then, of course, there is Pittsburgh’s most famous native artistic son, Andy Warhol, whose idiosyncratic vision and legacy are memorialized in the Andy Warhol Museum. Established in 1993, six years after the Pop Artist’s untimely death, the seven-floor museum, the country’s largest dedicated to a single artist, features a mammoth collection of Warhol’s works. These include various iterations of the artist’s trademark Campbell’s Soup can and Brillo paintings, and enough Silver Elvis’s to make you dizzy, as well as thousands of Warhol’s photographs and films from his old Factory days. Be on the lookout for the errant, white-haired Andy impersonators wandering the halls with studied blank face.

The museum also features an impressive assemblage of Warhol memorabilia from the artist’s Pittsburgh days. If you want to know what grade Andy got in drawing at Schenley High School, which he attended during the Second World War, before studying commercial art at what was then the Carnegie Institute of Technology, look no further. And don’t forget to stop by the Silver Cloud room, where visitors can bat away silver pillows to their heart’s content. Afterwards head back downtown across the Monongahela River via – you guessed it – the Andy Warhol Bridge, while taking in the city’s iconic, crystalline-studded skyline.

CARNEGIE GLORY

All of the aforementioned artist’s works, along with those of many of the great American and European masters, are also on display at the monumental Carnegie Museum of Art. A room devoted to European and American art of the 1820-1860 period is particularly exquisite: note how the paintings are displayed in a manner that recalls the exhibitions and domestic interiors of the 19th century, closely grouped and hung in multiple rows along the walls. This is also the place to see how Lincoln’s America (including pre-industrial winsome Three Men Fishing (1832) and Russell Smith’s arresting Pittsburgh Fifty Years from the Salt Works on Saw Mill Run (1884).

While you are roaming the Carnegie, don’t forget to check out the sprawling Hall of Sculpture, with its striking Greek and Roman reproductions, including a scaled-down Parthenon. Afterwards, skip down the museum’s fabled multi-chromatic Magic Stairway and grab a club sandwich at the superb cafeteria beneath a giant Warholesque diptych of the museum’s namesake and chief benefactor, Andrew Carnegie.

It was Carnegie, the philanthropic-inclined steel magnate who was once America’s richest man, who inaugurated the triennial Carnegie International, ‘the oldest North American exhibition of contemporary world art, in 1896 “to find the masters of tomorrow.” Over the years the triennial has exhibited the works of such varied then-or-soon-to-be masters as Winslow Homer, Auguste Rodin, Willem de Kooning and Jackson Pollock, as well as Pittsburgh’s own John Kane, who was officially, and belatedly, discovered by the art cognoscenti at the 1926 Carnegie International at age 67.

GALLERY CRAWLS

The nest Carnegie International is scheduled for 2016, but you need not wait that long in order to discover the next wave of masters. Just check out some of the cornucopia of private galleries which has recently sprouted up across Pittsburgh. Or, if you’d like to absorb and/or imbibe your new found art with a flying jury, join in with one of Pittsburgh’s wildly popular “gallery crawls.’’

First there is the Cultural District gallery crawl, which takes place every three months and takes in the fast-growing number of exhibition spaces in the downtown area. “We started ten years ago with just four or five galleries or alternative spaces,” says Murray Horne, curator of visual arts at Wood Street Galleries and one of the “godfathers” of the nova-like Pittsburgh art scene. Since then the crawl, which also features an artist market, live bands, and food trucks bearing the local delicacy, kielbasa and other culinary delights, has morphed into a giddy, district-wide conga line that encompasses over a dozen spaces and regularly draws a crowd in the hundreds.

“It’s amazing how it’s grown,” says Horne. A sculptor and native New Zealander, Horne has been a curator at the influential Wood Street Galleries since 1996 when Pittsburgh was still shaking iron filings out of its hair. “Of course the free beer helps.”

Then there is the more free form Unblurred Gallery Crawl, which takes place the first Friday of every month and boogies down and around the mushrooming Penn Avenue Arts Corridor in the Garfield and East Liberty districts of Pittsburgh’s rapidly gentrifying East End. Here you can witness and participate in everything from spoken word to modern dance and green technology workshop, while savouring the diverse homemade wares on display at Most Wanted Fine Art, the Irma Freeman Center for Imagination, and other kindred cutting-edge spaces.

LAWRENCEVILLE HIP

“The Pittsburgh arts scene has grown substantially since I first arrived here,” avers Lindsay Merrill, a realist painter who lives in Lawrenceville, the cozy-buzzy “inner suburb” of the city that has been called “the Williamsburgh of Pittsburgh.”

“There are a lot of different styles of art in Pittsburgh from experimental to store front project to the multitude of plastic and media arts,” says Merrill, who specializes in aviation scenes. She is fond of painting over a steaming Finca El Puente, one of the high quality coffees on offer at Espresso Mano on Butler Avenue, Lawrenceville’s main drag. “What unites all of us is a do-it-yourself mentality and an enthusiasm for sustainability and the potential of underused or vacant building spaces.”

“Pittsburgh Is a great place to be an artist and work and live,” says her partner, Paul Rouphail. “There’s room, to grow here.” Rouphail is a self-described urban archaeologist who specializes in limning city landscapes, and whose brooding landscapes have caused more than one observer to compare him to a young Edward Hopper, with an edge. “It’s also exciting to be part of the city’s renaissance” he says.

Both Merrill and Rouphail attended Carnegie Mellon University, the same school where their famed predecessor, Andy Warhol, first learned to wield a brush. The difference is that they, like a growing number of their peers, elected to stay in Pittsburgh, rather than to move to other cities in search of putatively greener pastures.

The couple’s funky home base of Lawrenceville may remind one of Soho in Manhattan before it turned into a luxury goods mall, with a touch of San Francisco’s North Beach thrown in. Where else can you find an art gallery that boasts its own message parlour? That would be Zombo Gallery, with its Divine Touch Therapeutic Center, the demented offspring of local art dealer-turned-DJ Michael “Zombo” Devine. Or a bowling alley with a Rock and Bowl event in which local bands perform on the bowling lanes? That would be Lawrenceville’s famed Arsenal Lanes.

While in the neighbourhood, try the Challah French toast at the warm picaresque Coca Café, the neighbourhood’s best-known brunch spot. (The avocado omelette also comes recommended). As the day winds down, check out the tequila selection and Tex-Mex ambience at the Round Corner Cantina, a bar across the way which is popular with the artist crowd, as well as the increasing number of savvy cultural tourists who have found their way to this newly-minted arts mecca.

“Yes, I guess you could say that we are putting down roots hare,” says Rouphail, as the buzz from the packed outdoor patio rises to a veritable hum.

Black outs and beach patrols: Fire Island during World War II

From FIRE ISLAND NEWS (July, 1987)

Geraldine Stretch of Ocean Beach was on the beach when she heard.

Her friend and neighbor, Elizabeth Peters, was enroute from Baltimore to New York. Like virtually every American over the age of five on that infamous day, Fire Islanders were angered – and galvanized – by the news of the surprise Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor that pitched the United States into World War II. They suspected, too, that the confrontation would change their lives, and their world.

They didn’t think, however, that it would change the entire character of their island community – as indeed it would. World War I had come and gone without bringing drastic change or danger; why, most Islanders felt, as their sons dutifully shipped out to fight this newest, distant conflict, would this one be much different? The Kaiser’s men hadn’t invaded – although a German submarine had managed to sink a Navy cruiser off Point O’ Woods in 1918 – why should Adolf Hitler, or Hirohito, be any more dangerous? With the devastation of the hurricane of 1938, still vivid in their minds, most Islanders remained more concerned about the natural furies than those of man. After all, this was Fire Island. Who cared about Fire Island?

“The narrow strip of sand known as Fire Island is anything but a military objective, J. Wright Taursig president of the Point O’ Woods Association members in March, 1942. “Foreign troops would have to come thousands of miles to reach its shores… There are many other places in the Metropolitan [sic] area which would be more accessible and important for incidental raiders.”

To be sure, by this time air raid alarms had become routine, as well as other civil defense measures. Nevertheless, Taursig insisted, “Insurance companies are floating odds of 99 ½ to 1 against air raid damage of any kind. We have been advised that no blackout are anticipated in this area.”

Nevertheless, blackouts did come to the Fire Island are that spring. And, as the news of the grievous American reverses in the Pacific began to sink in, Fire Islanders realized that they were in for a different, and perhaps much longer war.

And, just as the first wartime summer season was getting under way something happened that really gave everyone jitters.

On the evening of June 8, 1942 a young Coast Guardsman by the name of John Cullen was on foot patrol on the beach near Amagansett, Long Island, when he thought he heared the sound of a diesel engine off in the surf. Shortly afterwards, his probing flashlight outlined the forms of four men. Upon questioning, the four claimed that theywere fishermen; however they weren’t dressed like any fishermen that Cullen had ever seen.

In fact, the four were trained German saboteurs; the engine Cullen had heard belonged to the U-boat that had just given them a lift from Wilhelmshaven.

The leader of the four, who newspaper later identified as one George Dasch, pressed $300 into Cullens’ hand (at least what he said was $300; it turned out that he had short-changed Cullen by $30) and made Cullen look him in the eye and swear that he would forget having seen the night stalkers. Fortunately, Cullen did nothing of the kind. As soon as the clandestine landing party had left, the sailor raised the hue and cry, and, with the aid of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the fishy commandos were found and captured before they had a chance to set off their explosive gear. So was another, equally hapless group which the Germans had simultaneously put ashore in Florida.

The Nazi landing at Amagansett, a mere thirty five miles away from the eastern tip of Fire Island, proved to be true keynote of the 42’ season. Rumors, echoing the alarms of 1917, proliferated. Vigilance increased to the point of paranoia: someone was sure that he had seen another group of Germans, signalling out to sea with powerful flashlights; and one skittish lady, that she had espied an alien periscope – in eight feet of water. Old guns were taken out of closets; binoculars were dusted off. Heads turned when an airplane engine was heard at night; you never knew, maybe Hitler had perfected that New York bomber he had been screaming about.

Blackout rules, once laughed at, were now taken seriously. Grimfaced civil defense volunteers, led by air raid warden George Stretch, made their way around the island during the tense drills, telling residents to “Cut that light” and “Pull that shade down!,” until the two short welcome blasts of the all clear signal rang out. “When in doubt,” the motto of the day became, “put it out!”

Beach curfews, once honored more in the breach than in the observance, were also rigidly adhered to – especially now that the Coast Guard had instructions to shoot on sight.

By day, the skywriters still plied their languorous trade in the summer skies, coughing out their slow-motion pitches for Burma Shave and Coca-Cola.

But now they were followed by Army fighter pilots, - would-be Flying Tigers – diving, passing, and shooting at imaginary Zeros and Focke-Wulffs.

At night, dud bombs washed up on the beach, along with the detritus of torpedoed Liberty ships.

One day, sands of Ocean Beach were littered with five gallon cans of cashew nuts. Another time, it was onions. In its own way, war had come to Fire Island.

An item in The New Yorker’s notes and Comments section of July Fourth, 1942, aptly caught the post-Amagansett mood. “The tides that travel from Portugal still roll in a hundred yards from the porch of our shorefront cottage, “wrote the magazine’s anonymous correspondent, “but they aren’t the innocent tides of yesterday. Nobody knows what the waves may bring in, or what may lie further out, in the dark-blue water where the bottom falls away.”

“… The people on the beach and in the shorefront cottages watch the sea, too, watch a black log, drifting in with the tide, watch the run of the horizon, where this year no boats pass. The Fire Island lightship is gone from her moorings and the lighthouse is dark; there are no lights in the village after the sun sets, only rows of blind houses and life hushed and invisible inside…”

“Already in fact it is almost as if nobody on the island remembered any other existence. Obliging women call a neighbor’s attention to a chink of light visible in the same tone in which they would have told her that her slip was showing…”

“Sandwiches, cakes, and cigarettes and soft drinks are brought nightly by summer residents. Hostesses are present as dancing partners. Civilians may give funds but may not cross the threshold unless connected with the entertainment…”

-        Article from 1943 “New York Herald Tribune” describing Ocean Beach Service Club.

Fortunately, the invasion jitters of 1942 proved unfounded, “As far as is known,” writes Madeleine Johnson, in her book, Fire Island 1960-1950s, all that the beach patrols found on Fire Island were “small boys who delighted in lurking on the beach and scrambling up the dunes to safety when they heard a patrol approaching.”

Nevertheless the Amagansett scare, as well as the natural progress of the war and attendant mobilization measures, had brought a considerable number of servicemen to the Bay Shore and Fire Island area. In addition to the enlarged complements of men at the Coast Guard stations at Point O’ Woods and Kismet, the Army saw fit to send a platoon of infantry to Point O’ Woods, as well as an Army Crash Boat Unit – complete with six P.T. boats equipped as marine ambulances – to Bay Shore.

And men had to be entertained.

Elizabeth Peters and Isabella Adler, were two of the Ocean Beach residents who cheerfully pitched in, riding shotgun with the guardsmen and soldiers in their jeeps as they chrned throughout the sands.

“Sure, there were fraternization,” says Betty Peters, who taught at the Island’s Woodhull School during the school year while her husband Walter was off somewhere in Europe with the Army combat engineers. “But,” Mrs. Peters is quick to add, “there was no hanky-panky.”

“They were young, they were far from home, they were lonely. We were happy to help out. Gosh,” she says, her eyes moistening at the memory, “some of them were only babies.”

Isabella Adler fondly recalls placing orders for winter supplies with the Coast Guard, in those days of restricted travel, a service that was particularly appreciated during the winter. “We were good to them,” she says, “and they were good to us.”

Frank Flynn, who returned to Fire Island in 1943, after spending the first two years of the war in the Army – and who witnessed the island-based servicemen’ antics as manager of Maguire’s isn’t quite as sympathetic. “You got to admit it,” he says today. “It was pretty easy duty. Anyone who was assigned to Fire Island was darn lucky.

As one might suspect, there was little love lost between the Army and the Coast Guard. Aggravating the usual interservice rivalry Frank recalls, were the marked differences between the two services’ accommodations. While the Guard was comfortably ensconced in modern quarters, the Army was camped out in tents. Inevitably, this led to resentment – and bar fights.

Then there were the usual intraservice fights - including at least one shooting. “One lieutenant got into a violent quarrel with a Army cook,” Frank recollects. “Apparently they had been at each other’s throats for some time. Anyway, before you know, the lieutenant takes out his pistol and fires two shots into the ceiling.” Eventually the MPs [military police] came and broke it up.”

Apparently, they were the only shots ever fired in anger on the island.

At any rate, there was much relief when the Army, having apparently determined that its men could be put to better use elsewhere, ordered the pugilistic Point O’ Woods detachment to decamp and return to the mainland in 1943.

One soldier – and local son – who Fire Islanders were sorry to see go, however, was General C. Marshall. Marshall, the Army chief of staff, maintained a summer home at 588 Bayberry Breeze, Ocean Beach, during the 1940s and mid-1940s. Islanders were cheered by the sight of the Army seaplane which brought the country’s highest-ranking general to their shores for the weekend at the beginning of the war.

Apparently, Marshall was quite approachable. “He was just a regular guy. We’d see him on the beach, says Robert Stretch, who would later service with the Coast Guard in the Pacific, and “we’d say hi, and he’d say hi. Of course, no one bothered him about the war.”

But in 1943, as Marshall and other war planners began to focus on the upcoming invasion of Europe, the general’s visits to the island abruptly stopped. He was just too busy – even for Fire Island.

“So here is a war job and a vital one that every woman in America can do. If every housewife saved only four ounces of fat a week our war industries would have enough to make nearly two million pounds of high explosives… “Our Sea, Sand, and Sunshine are not going to be rationed licensed or stamped.”

-        Excerpts from Point O’ Woods Association community newsletters. 1944

Interestingly, the aspect of the war which probably had the greatest long-term impact on the island seems to have been gasoline rationing. With long automotive trips temporarily verboten, people living in the metropolitan area now looked for a closer place to home to vacation. Fire Island, they discovered, was only a short hop by train away – followed by shorter hops by bus and ferry.

“We didn’t have enough gas to get to Cape Cod,” recalls Nancy Marsh, a longtime resident of Point O’ Woods, “so we came here.” So did hundreds of other families. Many would later stay one.

In addition to the “ration refugees” the island also found itself playing host to a growing number of real-albeit very wealthy European refugees, particularly Frenchmen, who made the island their new Riviera.

The result was something of a development boom, particularly in Ocean Beach, as well as a breakdown in the psychological barrier separating Fire Island from the Rest of the World.

“Before the war he always used to stress the word ‘escape’ in our advertising,” recalls Frank Flynn. “ ‘Escape to Fire Island.’  And it was really a place to totally escape to”. It was primitive. The reason [New York theater critic] Woolcott Bibbs liked to come here in the thirties, for example, was because he couldn’t be reached, And he couldn’t – except by telegram […].

Source: Black outs and beach patrols: Fire Island ...