‘It is essential we look after the land,’ you told them. ‘Our numbers are grown so great; we must manage the resources we have.’
They did not listen. ‘So much of our food must be imported,’ they said. ‘Our farmers must grow more. What if Greece should go to war?’
You tried to make them understand. You told them how in 5000BC the first settlers were wise, selecting only fertile areas; how time passed and through forgetfulness and necessity, the communities expanded onto the fragile slopes.
‘Look around,’ you said. ‘Like the skeleton of a sick man, the hills of Attica are stripped bare. All of Greece is like this. The trees are gone and the soil washes away. We must manage the land as Xenphon taught us.’
Solon, the great reformer, understood, passing laws to ban hillside ploughing. But when Peisistratus came to power he reversed the order, bringing more and more land into use.
It gave you no pleasure to have your predictions come true, to see productivity decline and Greece’s power wane. The Peloponnesian War marked the end of a great era, but the land continued to suffer. Now it is estimated nearly a third of the country is just one step from becoming desert.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Monday, 19 October 2009
The collapse of the Gambier trade triangle
‘The traders have come!’ You prepared the feast, impatient for news.
They unloaded their sea-canoes: cutting stones from Pitcairn Island and oyster-shell fishhooks from Mangareva Island. Sometimes they brought women, and delicate marriage negotiations would unfold.
They came to Henderson Island for your abundant food, and your luxury goods: turtles and precious, royal-red feathers. This trading had linked the three habitable islands of Southeast Polynesia for centuries, each supplying the others with vital resources.
Like always, the men scoffed at how little workable land you had, how you could survive with no fresh water, but then they saw the feast and fell silent.
Eating greedily, they said, ‘There are too many of us on Mangareva. The soils have grown poor. Some are so hungry they threaten to eat their neighbours. The trees have all been felled; this is our very last canoe.’
It was 1450, the year for you to marry, but the seas stayed empty. Henderson had no tall trees to make canoes and Pitcairn was too far by raft. Your people lived on, struggling to hunt and fish without cutters from Pitcairn or fishhooks from Mangareva; beginning a century of toil until death took your very last one.
They unloaded their sea-canoes: cutting stones from Pitcairn Island and oyster-shell fishhooks from Mangareva Island. Sometimes they brought women, and delicate marriage negotiations would unfold.
They came to Henderson Island for your abundant food, and your luxury goods: turtles and precious, royal-red feathers. This trading had linked the three habitable islands of Southeast Polynesia for centuries, each supplying the others with vital resources.
Like always, the men scoffed at how little workable land you had, how you could survive with no fresh water, but then they saw the feast and fell silent.
Eating greedily, they said, ‘There are too many of us on Mangareva. The soils have grown poor. Some are so hungry they threaten to eat their neighbours. The trees have all been felled; this is our very last canoe.’
It was 1450, the year for you to marry, but the seas stayed empty. Henderson had no tall trees to make canoes and Pitcairn was too far by raft. Your people lived on, struggling to hunt and fish without cutters from Pitcairn or fishhooks from Mangareva; beginning a century of toil until death took your very last one.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Pitcairn Island
You heard of a small island named after a fifteen-year-old sailor, logged then lost in the Pacific. It was just what you needed. The British would be coming after the ship. It would be the gallows for all of you; mutineers faced no reprieve. It took four months to find Pitcairn, 350 km from its position in your charts.
You burned The Bounty and tried to settle, but fights broke out; unending cycles of murder and revenge over women and land, until there was just you, John Adams, with ten Tahitian women and their mutineers’ children.
You found God and the British pardoned you. As your numbers rose the island’s soils diminished. You petitioned for help. In 1829 a ship took you to Tahiti but their ways were different and the children lacked immunity. Ten died and you sailed for home.
By 1856 your numbers had risen to 194, and again you asked for help. You were offered Norfolk Island, larger and uninhabited, off the coast of Australia. Most managed to settle; this time only 43 came back.
Again the population rose. By the 1930s it reached 223. Then the war came and changed everything. Today many of the young leave, looking for an easier life.
You burned The Bounty and tried to settle, but fights broke out; unending cycles of murder and revenge over women and land, until there was just you, John Adams, with ten Tahitian women and their mutineers’ children.
You found God and the British pardoned you. As your numbers rose the island’s soils diminished. You petitioned for help. In 1829 a ship took you to Tahiti but their ways were different and the children lacked immunity. Ten died and you sailed for home.
By 1856 your numbers had risen to 194, and again you asked for help. You were offered Norfolk Island, larger and uninhabited, off the coast of Australia. Most managed to settle; this time only 43 came back.
Again the population rose. By the 1930s it reached 223. Then the war came and changed everything. Today many of the young leave, looking for an easier life.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Holodomor
It was time to industrialise, to enter the world market. You made a five-year plan. Russia would expand its farming so it could feed its rapidly-growing cities. You would trade the rest of the grain on the world market to get the industrial tools and equipment you needed to build a modern nation.
You needed more grain. You sent 25,000 of your best men to every locality, each with secret police, to convince the people to join the cause. Collective farms were the only way forward, the only way to support the state. But the people were stubborn, wanted to keep hold of their own land, had to be ‘persuaded’ to agree.
The 1931 harvest was poor. You took 42% of Ukraine’s grain, irritated when local officials said there’d be no seeds for planting. When people spoke of starvation you called them unpatriotic. Ukrainian farmers tried to hide grain from your collectors, and furious, you took everything: every bit of grain, every bit of food, killing anyone who resisted. You would crush Ukrainian insurrection, create loyalty by force. Your vision for Russia would not founder.
You sent some grain in that terrible winter, but not enough. 14.5 million people died, about half were executed or sent to gulags; the famine claimed the rest.
You needed more grain. You sent 25,000 of your best men to every locality, each with secret police, to convince the people to join the cause. Collective farms were the only way forward, the only way to support the state. But the people were stubborn, wanted to keep hold of their own land, had to be ‘persuaded’ to agree.
The 1931 harvest was poor. You took 42% of Ukraine’s grain, irritated when local officials said there’d be no seeds for planting. When people spoke of starvation you called them unpatriotic. Ukrainian farmers tried to hide grain from your collectors, and furious, you took everything: every bit of grain, every bit of food, killing anyone who resisted. You would crush Ukrainian insurrection, create loyalty by force. Your vision for Russia would not founder.
You sent some grain in that terrible winter, but not enough. 14.5 million people died, about half were executed or sent to gulags; the famine claimed the rest.
Monday, 5 October 2009
Rwanda
You were proud of your growing numbers. Times were good. You drained marshes and cut down trees to make more land to farm. But then productivity began to fall. And then a drought began. It was hard to survive on so little land with a growing family.
‘It will get worse when they are ready to marry,’ your neighbours said. ‘Look at us; we do not have enough land to share out, our children stay at home and complain.’ Father and child, neighbour and friend, doctor and patient; everyone had reason to moan.
The day President Habyarimana was assassinated, Hutu radio screamed: ‘Kill the Tutsi cockroaches!’
You heard of terrible things; of travelling bands of men with machetes, of people settling scores. ‘Go to Marumbi Technical School,’ your neighbours said, ‘There you will be safe.’
Grateful, you and your family joined the 65,000 already hiding. The trap was set. They barricaded the school and began savage rounds of butchery and rape. You watched your family die; fell yourself when the bullet hit. But when they left, you managed to run to the woods.
The Rwandan genocide killed 800,000 in just six weeks. Some people say ‘You need war to bring the numbers down so there’s enough land’. Others say, ‘Never again’. Neither brings you peace.
‘It will get worse when they are ready to marry,’ your neighbours said. ‘Look at us; we do not have enough land to share out, our children stay at home and complain.’ Father and child, neighbour and friend, doctor and patient; everyone had reason to moan.
The day President Habyarimana was assassinated, Hutu radio screamed: ‘Kill the Tutsi cockroaches!’
You heard of terrible things; of travelling bands of men with machetes, of people settling scores. ‘Go to Marumbi Technical School,’ your neighbours said, ‘There you will be safe.’
Grateful, you and your family joined the 65,000 already hiding. The trap was set. They barricaded the school and began savage rounds of butchery and rape. You watched your family die; fell yourself when the bullet hit. But when they left, you managed to run to the woods.
The Rwandan genocide killed 800,000 in just six weeks. Some people say ‘You need war to bring the numbers down so there’s enough land’. Others say, ‘Never again’. Neither brings you peace.
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