Saturday, January 16, 2021

UPDATED
Trump administration condemned over Lisa Montgomery execution

Administration accused of ‘unnecessary and vicious use of authoritarian power’

Lisa Montgomery was executed by lethal injection in Indiana. Photograph: Reuters

Luke Harding and agencies
Wed 13 Jan 2021 

A lawyer has accused the Trump administration of “unnecessary and vicious use of authoritarian power” after a woman on death row was executed early on Wednesday, the first federal execution of a woman in almost seven decades.

Lisa Montgomery, 52, was pronounced dead at 1.31am on Wednesday after receiving a lethal injection. She died at the federal prison complex in Terre Haute, Indiana, after the US supreme court lifted a stay of execution and rejected a request from her legal team for delay.

HER DEATH MASK SHOULD HANG ABOVE THEIR HEADS

Montgomery was the 11th prisoner to be killed by lethal injection since Donald Trump resumed federal executions last July after a 17-year hiatus. The president is an ardent supporter of capital punishment.

Kelly Henry, Montgomery’s longtime attorney, denounced the move. “The craven bloodlust of a failed administration was on full display tonight,” Henry said in a statement posted on Twitter. “Everyone who participated in the execution of Lisa Montgomery should feel shame.”

She added: “The government stopped at nothing in its zeal to kill this damaged and delusional woman. Lisa Montgomery’s execution was far from justice. We should recognise [it] for what it was: the vicious, illegal and unnecessary use of authoritarian power. We cannot let this happen again.”

It came after hours of legal wrangling before the supreme court cleared the way for the execution to go ahead. Montgomery was the first of the final three federal inmates scheduled to die before next week’s inauguration of Joe Biden as president, who is expected to discontinue federal executions.

‘A lifetime of torture’: the story of the woman Trump is rushing to execute
Read more


On Tuesday a federal judge for the District of Columbia halted the scheduled executions later this week of Corey Johnson and Dustin Higgs. Johnson, convicted of killing seven people related to his drug trafficking in Virginia, and Higgs, convicted of ordering the murders of three women in Maryland, both tested positive for Covid-19 last month.

In 2004 Montgomery killed 23-year-old Bobbie Jo Stinnett in the north-west Missouri town of Skidmore. She used a rope to strangle Stinnett, who was eight months pregnant, and then cut the baby girl from the womb with a kitchen knife. Montgomery took the child with her and attempted to pass the girl off as her own.

The girl survived. Brought up by her father, she turned 16 last month on the anniversary of her mother’s death. The New York Times quoted some of those close to her as saying that Montgomery’s death was a just conclusion to the case. The crime haunted the Missouri community for years, it added.

Montgomery was originally due to be executed last month. A judge delayed it after two of her lawyers contracted coronavirus. Her attorneys argued that she suffered from mental illness, neurological impairment and complex trauma. On Monday a federal judge in Indiana stayed her execution so the court could establish her competency.

On Tuesday, however, an appeals court panel overruled this stay, saying it could have been brought earlier. Two further courts – in the district of Columbia and the eighth circuit court – issued their own separate stays. But the US supreme court ruled on Tuesday that the execution could proceed, as it has done in all previous Trump-era executions.

Montgomery was taken from a Texas prison to the Terre Haute facility, fully shackled. She was kept in a cell in the complex. In the moments before her death a female prison guard removed Montgomery’s face mask and asked her if she had any last words. She reportedly replied “no”. “I don’t believe she has any rational comprehension of what’s going on at all,” Henry said.

Montgomery’s legal team says she was subjected to “sexual torture”, including gang rapes, as a child, permanently scarring her emotionally and exacerbating mental health issues that ran in her family.

At trial, prosecutors accused Montgomery of faking mental illness, noting that her killing of Stinnett was premeditated and included meticulous planning, including online research on how to perform a C-section.

Henry said extensive testing and brain scans supported the diagnosis of mental illness. “You can’t fake brain scans that show the brain damage,” she said.

Henry said the issue at the core of the legal arguments was not whether she knew the killing was wrong in 2004 but whether she fully grasped why she was slated to be executed now.

In his ruling on a stay, the US district judge James Patrick Hanlon in Terre Haute cited defence experts who said Montgomery suffered from depression, borderline personality disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder.

He said Montgomery also suffered around the time of the killing from an extremely rare condition called pseudocyesis, in which a woman’s false belief she is pregnant triggers hormonal and physical changes as if she were actually pregnant.

Montgomery also experienced delusions and hallucinations, believing God spoke with her through connect-the-dot puzzles, the judge said, citing expert witnesses.

“The record before the court contains ample evidence that Ms Montgomery’s current mental state is so divorced from reality that she cannot rationally understand the government’s rationale for her execution,” the judge said.



Lisa Montgomery Is The First Woman Executed By The Federal Government In Almost 70 Years

Update (January 13, 9:30 a.m.): Lisa Montgomery, 52, was executed early Wednesday morning by lethal injection at the Federal Correctional Complex in Terre Haute, Indiana. She is the first woman to be executed by the federal government since 1953. Her execution commenced after the Supreme Court denied a competency hearing that suggested Montgomery should have never been eligible for the death penalty. The federal government plans to execute two more people this week: Corey Johnson on Thursday and Dustin Higgs on Friday

.
© Provided by Refinery29 Mandatory Credit: Photo by Michael Conroy/AP/Shutterstock (10712579d) Protesters against the death penalty gather in Terre Haute, Ind., . Wesley Ira Purkey, convicted of a gruesome 1998 kidnapping and killing, is scheduled to be executed Wednesday evening at the federal prison in Terre Haute Federal Executions, Terre Haute, United States – 15 Jul 2020

Update (January 12, 4:45 p.m.): On Tuesday afternoon, the Supreme Court and the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit denied Lisa Montgomery’s execution stay. She is scheduled to die tonight, less than a day after a federal judge in Indiana granted her stay for mental health reasons.

Update (January 12, 9 a.m.): Lisa Montgomery, who was scheduled to be executed today at the United States Penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana, filed a petition against her execution. Her motion to stay has officially been granted, and the execution will not proceed. However, President Trump has three more executions scheduled for this week at Terre Haute. Many continue to plea with Attorney General Rosen to stop all remaining executions this week.

This story was originally published on December 22, 2020.

Next month, Lisa Montgomery is scheduled to be killed by the United States government. After 17 years of no federal executions, the U.S. has recently started carrying them out again — with Brandon Bernard being killed this past month. Montgomery is the only woman on federal death row, and one of only 51 women on death rows across the country. If she is killed, she will be the first woman executed by the federal government since 1953.

But, President Donald Trump has decided to go on something of a killing spree before he leaves office, and chose to move ahead with six executions in his lame-duck period, including Bernard’s. Montgomery has been sentenced to die by lethal injection on January 12, 2021 for the 2004 murder of Bobbie Jo Stinnett, a pregnant woman whom Montgomery strangled, before cutting open her stomach and kidnapping the baby within. The child survived and was found when Montgomery was arrested.

Make no mistake: Montgomery is guilty of this horrific crime. But she was also the victim of horrific crimes herself; and moreover, as the New York Times reports in a recent piece on her: “She was sentenced to death because her trial lawyers, uninformed about gender violence, didn’t seem to understand how to defend her.”

From infancy and through adolescence, Montgomery endured horrific domestic abuse from her mother and sexual assault at the hands of her stepfather in addition to other forms of abuse, including forced prostitution. Addled with trauma, Montgomery developed, the Times reports, “bipolar disorder, temporal lobe epilepsy, complex post-traumatic stress disorder (c-PTSD), dissociative disorder, psychosis, traumatic brain injury, and likely fetal alcohol syndrome.” She was also “born into a family rife with mental illness, including schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and depression.”

These extenuating circumstances could and should have been used by her attorneys to demonstrate that, no matter the severity of her crimes, Montgomery should not be given the death penalty. But, during her jury in her 2007 trial, her attorneys — all men — didn’t give the jury insight into this. They also, the Times says, “suggested that her… half brother Tommy Kleiner was the actual killer, despite having his own probation officer as his alibi.” Because they failed to defend her properly, Montgomery was sentenced to death. 

Recently, Montgomery’s 57-year-old half-sister Diane Mattingly opened up to ELLE about why her sister should not be executed. “Didn’t the jury understand that she is ill? It’s hard to keep track of all the times she has been let down by people she’s supposed to trust. Her mom and her dad. Her school teachers. The police. Social Services. Me. Now her government was failing her, too,” says Mattingly. “My heart goes out to the family of Bobbie Jo, of course it does, but we need to break the chain of evil actions.” 

At the root of the issue is the fact that Montgomery lived in precarious, untenable circumstances exacerbated if not caused by extreme poverty. She is not alone in this. According to the census, 34 million people in the U.S. were living in poverty in 2019. Research has shown that poverty makes people more susceptible to mental illness, and puts them more at risk of being incarcerated, among other things. According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, “Poverty may intensify the experience of mental illness. Poverty may also increase the likelihood of the onset of mental illness. At the same time, experiencing mental illness may also increase the chances of living below the poverty line.” Reflecting on Montgomery’s circumstances is not an attempt to excuse her, but to understand her, and hopefully prevent other people in similar environments from going down the same path.

Her post-trial lawyers, Kelley Henry, Amy Harwell, and Lisa Nouri, are trying to contextualize Montgomery’s actions, and have her sentence commuted. They have waged a petition claiming that Montgomery’s trial “fell far short of minimum standards of fairness” and therefore violated international law. They’ve also argued that the government itself must take accountability and bears culpability for her crime. After all, it failed to protect Montogmery from torture throughout her life. Her lawyers are now attempting to stay her execution and free her. In addition to her lawyers’ petition, thousands of supporters have written their own letters and petitions demanding this execution be stopped. 

While the death penalty should be abolished in general, and no one should be killed by the government, no matter how heinous their crime, there are many aspects of Montgomery’s case, specifically, that make it clear that, though she is responsible for her actions, she is not the only one responsible for them. By allowing people to live in poverty, letting hundreds of thousands of people experience houselessness each year, and refusing to provide vital resources to communities in need, the U.S. government essentially condemns poor people to death by default. In the same way that the government shouldn’t have the power to execute anyone, it also shouldn’t have the power to leave its people in abject poverty, making them more vulnerable to abuse and harm. 

Fighting the death penalty and attempting to abolish it is, of course, a worthwhile endeavor. But we must also hold the government culpable for the abhorrent situations that are at the root of it all. Even more vulnerable than Montgomery are the millions of Black people and people of color who have been incarcerated, and all of the Black people and people of color who are on death row, many of them also victims of poverty and systemic abuse. This is a country where simply being poor is a crime.

One of the only ways to fix this is by preventing people from living in poverty in the first place, and providing real material resources, money, and social services to those who have suffered from its effect. But while those foundational changes are being fought for on a larger scale, injustices will continue on in other ways. It might be too late to save Montgomery — her life hinges on Trump’s discretion. But it’s not too late to prevent others from suffering similar fates.

BILL BARR WITCHFINDER GENERAL
Dustin Higgs becomes 13th and final federal prisoner executed under Trump

Higgs, 48, executed on Friday in Indiana

TRUMP HUMAN SACRIFICES, LIKE THE CAPITOL RIOT DEATHS AND THOSE OF HIS COVID VICTIMS

The United States penitentiary and federal correctional complex in Terre Haute, Indiana. Trump ended a 17-year hiatus on the federal death penalty in July. Photograph: Bryan Woolston/Reuters


Associated Press in Washington
Sat 16 Jan 2021

The 13th and last execution of a federal inmate under Donald Trump’s presidency has taken place in Terre Haute, Indiana.


US executes Corey Johnson for 1992 Virginia murders
Read more


Dustin Higgs, 48, had been sentenced to death for the killings of three women in a Maryland wildlife refuge. His lawyers argued it was “arbitrary and inequitable” to execute him while Willis Haynes, the man who shot the women in 1996, was spared a death sentence.

The federal judge who presided over Higgs’s trial said he “merits little compassion”.

“He received a fair trial and was convicted and sentenced to death by a unanimous jury for a despicable crime,” US District Judge Peter Messitte wrote on 29 December.

Trump ended a 17-year hiatus on the federal death penalty in July.


Shawn Nolan, one of Higgs’s attorneys, saw a clear political agenda in the unprecedented string of federal executions. Higgs was executed a few days before Joe Biden becomes president. A spokesman for Biden has said the Democrat is against the death penalty and will work to end its use.

“In the midst of the pandemic and everything that’s going on right now in the country, it seems just insane to move forward with these executions,” Nolan said. “And particularly for Dustin, who didn’t shoot anybody. He didn’t kill anybody.”

Defense attorneys had won temporary stays of execution for Higgs and another inmate, Corey Johnson, after arguing recent Covid-19 infections put them at greater risk of unnecessary suffering during lethal injections. But higher courts overruled those decisions. Johnson was killed on Thursday night.

Higgs’s petition for clemency says he has been a model prisoner and dedicated father to a son born after his arrest. Higgs had a traumatic childhood and lost his mother to cancer when he was 10, the petition says.

“Mr Higgs’s difficult upbringing was not meaningfully presented to the jury at trial,“ his attorneys wrote.

In October 2000 a federal jury in Maryland convicted Higgs of first-degree murder and kidnapping in the killings of Tamika Black, 19; Mishann Chinn, 23; and Tanji Jackson, 21. His death sentence was the first imposed in the modern era of the federal system in Maryland, which abolished the death penalty in 2013.

Higgs was 23 on the evening of 26 January 1996 when he, Haynes and a third man, Victor Gloria, picked up the three women in Washington DC and drove them to Higgs’s apartment in Laurel, Maryland, to drink alcohol and listen to music. Before dawn an argument between Higgs and Jackson prompted her to grab a knife before Haynes persuaded her to drop it.

Gloria said Jackson made threats as she left the apartment with the other women and appeared to write down the number of Higgs’s van. The men chased the women in the van and Haynes persuaded them to get in. Higgs drove them to a secluded spot in the Patuxent national wildlife refuge, federal land in Laurel.

“Aware at that point that something was amiss, one of the women asked if they were going to have to ‘walk from here’ and Higgs responded ’something like that’,” said an appeals court ruling upholding Higgs’s death sentence.

Higgs handed his pistol to Haynes, who shot all three women, Gloria testified.

“Gloria turned to ask Higgs what he was doing, but saw Higgs holding the steering wheel and watching the shootings from the rearview mirror,” said the 2013 ruling by a three-judge panel of the 4th US circuit court of appeals.

Chinn worked with the children’s choir at a church, Jackson worked in the office at a high school and Black was a teacher’s aide at National Presbyterian school in Washington, according to the Washington Post.

Investigators found Jackson’s day planner at the scene. It contained Higgs’s nickname, “Bones”, his telephone number, his address and the tag number for his van.

The jurors who convicted Haynes failed to reach a unanimous verdict on a death sentence. A different jury convicted Higgs and returned a death sentence. Gloria pleaded guilty to being an accessory after the fact and was sentenced to seven years.


Trump administration condemned over Lisa Montgomery execution
Read more


Higgs argued his death sentence should be thrown out because jurors failed to consider it as a “mitigating factor” that Haynes was convicted of identical charges but sentenced to life. The appeals court concluded that rational jurors could find that Higgs had the dominant role in the murders even though Haynes fired the gun.

In a clemency petition Higgs’s lawyers said Gloria received a “substantial deal” in exchange for his cooperation

“Moreover,” they wrote, “significant questions remain as to whether Mr Gloria received the additional undisclosed benefit of having an unrelated state murder investigation against him dropped at the urging of federal officers to protect his credibility as the star witness. A federal death verdict should not rest on such a flimsy basis.”

On the day in 2001 when the judge sentenced Higgs to death, Black’s mother, Joyce Gaston, said it brought her little solace, the Post reported. “It’s not going to ever be right in my mind,” Gaston said, “That was my daughter. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with it.”
HUMAN SACRIFICE BY THE TRUMP CULT
Tallying the Trump DOJ's final body count

Last year was, in so many ways, a deadly one. After a nearly two-decade hiatus, the machinery of the federal death penalty groaned back to life in July. As the Covid-19 pandemic hit its summer peak, overwhelming hospitals and killing hundreds every day, the federal government executed Daniel Lewis Lee. Then Wesley Purkey. Then Dustin Honken. Lezmond Mitchell. Keith Nelson. William LeCroy. Christopher Vialva. Orlando Hall. Brandon Bernard. Alfred Bourgeois. Lisa Montgomery. Thursday night, Corey Johnson was executed after the Supreme Court denied his motion for a stay. Dustin Higgs was scheduled to be executed Friday — what would have been Martin Luther King Jr.’s 92nd birthday (he ultimately died early Saturday morning.)
© Provided by NBC News

The Supreme Court of the United States has ruled that for the death penalty to be considered constitutional, it cannot be cruel and unusual, and it cannot be arbitrarily applied. In 2002, the court ruled that executing people with intellectual disabilities was unconstitutional. Yet these protections, as history bears out, exist in name only. When we look at who the government chooses to execute, it isn’t playing by the rules.

And yet, despite the headline-grabbing bloodlust of the Trump administration, 2020 followed the pattern set in place over the last decade. Even with the federal killing spree, both executions and new death sentences fell to historic lows. A Gallup poll found that public support for the death penalty is at a near half-century low, with opposition at its highest level since the 1960s.

Like the criminal legal system writ large, the death penalty is fueled by racism. By classism. By ableism. Executions are cloaked in secrecy. When the Trump administration resumed killing by lethal injection last July, it represented the culmination of a clandestine, three-year effort to manufacture and test the lethal-injection drugs in total secrecy. In its rush to kill, the administration executed Daniel Lee in the middle of the night, after he spent four hours strapped to the gurney. The administration executed Wesley Purkey while he still had an appeal pending, without notifying his legal team.


Alfred Bourgeois and Brandon Bernard: Two Black inmates put to death under Trump administration

In an attempt to make the process even more opaque than it already was, Trump administration officials have hired private executioners and paid them in cash.


But years of attempted reforms have shown us that the solution is not more transparency. The solution is not better lawyers or more relaxed timelines. The solution is painfully, achingly clear: President-elect Joe Biden must abolish the federal death penalty, once and for all.

A common thread runs through the lives of the people the government chooses to kill. The people we execute in this country — while many have done great harm — are also among the most vulnerable. All but one person executed last year had evidence of one or more of the following: serious mental illness; brain injury, developmental brain damage or an IQ in the intellectually disabled range; chronic serious childhood trauma, neglect and/or abuse. Three were teenagers at the time of their offenses. With Higgs’ death, more than half of the people executed by the Trump administration have been people of color.

Thursday night, Corey Johnson was killed by lethal injection. Johnson faced endless hurdles in his efforts to try to present evidence proving he is a person with an intellectual disability who cannot, constitutionally, be executed. Like so many others on death row, Johnson’s childhood was reportedly rife with neglect and abuse, both physical and psychological. According to his attorneys, he lived in 12 different homes before he was 13 years old, at which point he was sent to a residential facility for children with intellectual and emotional disabilities. He struggled to learn tasks like tying his shoes. His execution — like any execution — was a travesty.

Lisa Montgomery was executed in the early hours of Wednesday morning, despite suffering from brain damage from her mother’s drinking during pregnancy, multiple head injuries and the neurobiological impact of the severe torture that she experienced over her lifetime. As a young teenager, Montgomery’s lawyers say she endured unimaginable trauma at the hands of her stepfather, who frequently slammed her head into a concrete floor while raping her. Scientific imaging shows that her brain was both structurally and functionally damaged. Her execution — like any execution — was a travesty.

As organizer and attorney Talila Lewis reminded us in the Medium publication Level,“Disabled/neurodivergent people comprise just 26% of the united states population — but represent up to half of the people killed by police, over 50% of the incarcerated adult prison population, up to 85% of the incarcerated youth population, and a significant number of those incarcerated in medicalized carceral spaces.”

The death penalty is no exception.

Indeed, as long as the death penalty remains in existence, it will continue to serve as a funhouse mirror, distorting and warping our understanding of justice and mercy and of the narratives we like to tell ourselves about who we are as a country. Life without the possibility of parole — or death by incarceration — is also a travesty, yet the mere continued existence of the death penalty makes that cruelty seem like grace.

History has proven, time and again, that there is simply no way to fairly and justly administer death — the very premise of “fairly” administering state death is ludicrous. Nothing short of the full commutation of every person who remains on federal death row will prevent future bloodshed, and that is what Biden can — and must — do.

Footprints of crocodile-like prehistoric reptile found in Italian Alps

Fossilised track dates back to period immediately following mass extinction 252m years ago

The reptile was hypothetically similar to a four-metre long crocodile. 
Photograph: Trento Science Museum (MUSE).

Angela Giuffrida in Rome
Fri 15 Jan 2021 THE GUARDIAN

Footprints believed to have belonged to a crocodile-like prehistoric reptile have been found in the Italian Alps in an extraordinary discovery that scientists say proves there were survivors of a mass extinction 252m years ago.

The well-preserved fossilised track, made up of about 10 footprints, was found at an altitude of 2,200-metres in Altopiano della Gardetta, in the province of Cuneo in the western Alps.

The traces of front and rear claws, about 30cm in length, date back to about 250m years ago, after the area was rendered inhospitable by the mass extinction at the end of Permian geological period.

A team of palaeontologists and geologists at the Trento Science Museum (Muse), Zurich University’s Palaeontology Museum and the universities of Turin, Rome La Sapienza and Genoa were behind the discovery. Their study was published in Peer J, the biological, medical and environmental sciences journal.

From the size of the prints and distance between each one, the scientists concluded that they probably belonged to a reptile similar to a crocodile, at least 4 metre long, that had been walking along an ancient coastline near a river delta.

The first footprints were found in rocks in the area in 2008, with the scientists continuing their exploration over the following years until they had the complete set of prints needed to identify the animal.
Prints in the rocks in the Altopiano della Gardetta in the Italian western Alps. 
Photograph: Trento Science Museum (MUSE).

“The fossil footprints were found in a kind of very wet sediment in which they could be preserved,” said Massimo Bernardi, a palaeontologist at Muse.

“You wouldn’t be surprised to find a trackway in the history of life, even if it is deep into the past. What is exceptional is the period in which the crocodile was walking in this place, because it was right after the mother of all mass extinctions.”

The extinction was provoked by a sudden rise in temperature, similar to what is happening to the planet today. It was previously believed that the area, which was in the equatorial belt, had become so inhospitable that the animals that survived must have migrated to other latitudes.

“A 4-metre large reptile gives proof that the whole ecosystem in one way or another was surviving because it couldn’t survive alone,” added Bernardi. “It wasn’t just walking around in the desert – it needed prey, and this prey needed plants, etc.”

Scientists can also use the variables to understand what the effects of the current climate crisis may be, Bernardi said.

“We are in a time of rapid climate change – of global warming, the aridisation of the equatorial belt and so on. And the fact we get surprised after finding evidence that someone survived, I think underlines how dramatic the impact of climate change is.”

The true story behind the viral TikTok sea shanty hit

Rediscovered song, which has a ‘cheerful energy’, was likely written by a teenage sailor or shore whaler in New Zealand in the 1830s

Sea shanty TikTok has gone viral because young people in Covid lockdown are in a similar situation to 19th century whalers,
 says John Archer
Photograph: Bildagentur-online/Universal Images Group via Getty Images

Elle Hunt in Whangārei
Fri 15 Jan 2021 06.29 GMT

Even from “the back of nowhere, far from any city” – not to mention the sea – John Archer caught wind of the sea shanty revival before anyone else.

From his home in landlocked Ōhakune, Archer had noticed a sharp uptick in visitors to the New Zealand Folk Song website he set up in 1998. One 19th-century seafaring epic was of particular interest: Soon May The Wellerman Come.

Views of Archer’s highly-detailed, lovingly-compiled entry for the shanty unexpectedly spiked in late September, with most coming from the US. “I thought, ‘that’s strange’,” says Archer, a former schoolteacher who first set up NZ Folk Song as a teaching resource. “I knew nothing about TikTok.”

From “no visits at all” for most of last year, Archer’s Wellerman writeup has now drawn nearly 10,000 views in seven days, driven by the sudden resurgence of sea shanties on TikTok – widely reported on this week with a tone of faint surprise.


Not just for drunken sailors: how sea shanties took over TikTok
Read more


Nathan Evans, a 26-year-old postman and aspiring musician from outside Glasgow, is credited with having started the “ShantyTok” trend with his rousing rendition of Wellerman, posted in late December.

In the US and UK, Wellerman’s surprise popularity is being held up as evidence of the mental toll of months-long lockdown – but the shanty itself originates from the Antipodes, and tells of a pivotal point in Australia and New Zealand’s history.

A “Wellerman” was an employee of the Sydney-based Weller Brothers’ shipping company, which from 1833 was the major supplier of provisions – such as the “sugar and tea and rum” of the shanty’s refrain – to whaling stations on New Zealand shores.



The whalers’ wistful eye on a future date “when the tonguin’ is done/We’ll take our leave and go” refers to the practice of stripping blubber from beached whales.

The brothers Joseph Brooks, George and Edward Weller emigrated from Folkestone, Kent, to Sydney in 1823 and within 10 years had established themselves as the region’s preeminent merchant traders.

At the time, whaling was a prime export industry of New South Wales while, in New Zealand, the Wellers’ whaling station base at Ōtākou on the Otago Peninsula was the first enduring European settlement of what is now Dunedin city. (Their ship, the Lucy Ann, also went on to be crewed by one Herman Melville.)

But by 1841 the Wellers’ business had collapsed. As Ronald Jones writes in Te Ara national encyclopaedia, that period of seafaring industry “slipped unobtrusively out of the pages of New Zealand history” – preserved only through song.



Wellerman’s six verses tell the epic tale of a ship, the Billy of Tea, and its crew’s battle – “for 40 days, or even more” – to land a defiant whale. With the struggle ongoing at the shanty’s end, “the Wellerman makes his regular call, to encourage the Captain, crew and all”.

Archer suggests that it is the shanty’s “cheerful energy and hopeful outlook” – in contrast to other more “dreary” whaling songs – that has led to Wellerman’s rediscovery on social media.

“My guess is that the Covid lockdowns have put millions of young [people] into a similar situation that young whalers were in 200 years ago: confined for the foreseeable future, often far from home, running out of necessities, always in risk of sudden death, and spending long hours with no communal activities to cheer them up.”

Its embrace by TikTok is an unexpected 21st-century twist in a folkloric tradition that can be traced through New Zealand’s past.

Neil Colquhoun – a New Zealand folk music pioneer, who died in 2014 – first documented Wellerman in 1966, from a man then in his 80s who said he had been taught it by his uncle. Researching that link led Archer to shanties published in The Bulletin paper in Sydney in 1904.

His Google “guesswork” suggests Wellerman’s composer was a teenage sailor or shore whaler around New Zealand in the late 1830s, who penned the ditty on settling in Australia then passed it down within his family around the turn of the century.

From there, the shanty is believed to have spread around the world by its inclusion in Colquhoun’s book Songs of a Young Country, published in England in 1972. “I was singing it with others in folk clubs 40 years ago,” says Archer.

And now Wellerman is being circulated further by Spotify by way of its new “sea shanty season” playlist, celebrating “centuries-old songs gone viral”. That recording, by Bristol group The Longest Johns, is showing 8.5m recent plays.

The rising tide of ShantyTok has reached New Zealand shores, too. The Wellington Sea Shanty Society recorded Soon May The Wellerman Come on their 2013 album, Now That’s What I Call Sea Shanties Vol 1, and again in 2018. It is now receiving 30,000 streams a day on Spotify.

Guitarist and vocalist Lake Davineer says it has long been a floor-filler – second only to Drunken Sailor – at their shows. “Before all this happened, it was still the big banger that ended our set… It’s just a great tune.”

But, Davineer adds, their Wellerman is “more of a party version” than the traditional styles favoured by TikTok. “We do a big psychedelic intro.”

The Wellerman by Croche Dedans and the Wellington Sea Shanty Society



A CANADIAN MODERN SEA SHANTY

RIP
Sylvain Sylvain, showboating guitarist of New York Dolls, dies aged 69


Billy Idol among those to pay tribute to ‘all-time great’ whose flamboyance paved the way for New York’s punk rock scene

Punk pioneer … Sylvain Sylvain in 2015. Photograph: Bobby Bank/WireImage


Ben Beaumont-Thomas
@ben_bt
Fri 15 Jan 2021 THEGUARDIAN

Sylvain Sylvain, the guitarist who blended punk aggression with glam rock peacocking as part of the band New York Dolls, has died of cancer aged 69.

The news was announced on his Facebook page, with a statement saying that he had the disease for two and a half years. “While we grieve his loss, we know that he is finally at peace and out of pain,” it adds. “Please crank up his music, light a candle, say a prayer and let’s send this beautiful doll on his way.”

Sylvain was born in Cairo in 1951, emigrating with his family to France and then New York state. After moving to New York City, he ran a clothing company and formed the group Actress, who – after adding frontman David Johansen – became the New York Dolls in 1971.

New York Dolls, with Sylvain second from right. Photograph: RB/Red

Although they only released two albums in the 1970s, neither of which were crossover successes, the New York Dolls had a huge influence on the city’s music. By linking the nihilist cool of the Velvet Underground to the androgynous showmanship of the glam rock set and a pop sensibility with cult hits like Personality Crisis, they presaged the punk that would flourish later that decade.

Sylvain described his style in a 2018 interview: “You took your life in your hands just getting to the gig … One time I had this knitted pink women’s suit. It was nice. I turned the skirt into gaucho pants. I wore them with my boots. I put on the makeup. I’m going to make my $15. I’ll never forget all the catcalls.”

Amid chaotic gigs and hedonistic behaviour, the New York Dolls’ lineup shifted, with Sylvain and Johansen the only two constants until the band’s eventual breakup in 1977. Sylvain started a new band, the Criminals, with ex-New York Dolls member Tony Machine and later fitfully released solo albums during the 80s and 90s. He later formed the band the Batusis and also toured with Glen Matlock of the Sex Pistols for the “Sex Doll” tour in 2013.

In 2004, three of the original New York Dolls members including Sylvain reformed at the request of Morrissey, who was curating that year’s Meltdown music festival in London. They ended up releasing three further albums, and undertook the 2011 Glam-a-Geddon tour alongside Mötley Crüe and Poison. Sylvain published a memoir, There’s No Bones in Ice Cream, in 2018.

Sylvain Sylvain and David Johansen performing in 2010. 
Photograph: Barney Britton/Redferns

The musician and writer Lenny Kaye paid lengthy tribute alongside the announcement of Sylvain’s death, saying: “His role in the band was as linchpin, keeping the revolving satellites of his bandmates in precision … The New York Dolls heralded the future, made it easy to dance to.”

Other tributes came from Billy Idol and from Waterboys songwriter Mike Scott, who called him an “all-time great rock and roller”.

Sylvain Sylvain was the visionary eye of the New York Dolls' storm

The guitarist who never lost his defiant streak brought solidity and swashbuckling style to one of the 70s’ wildest bands

Punk pioneer … Sylvain Sylvain in 1977. Photograph: Ebet Roberts/Redferns

Alexis Petridis
Fri 15 Jan 2021 

There is a story that Sylvain Sylvain liked to tell about his arrival in New York City. He was Sylvain Mizrahi then, a seven-year-old Syrian Jew whose family had fled Egypt for the US during the Suez crisis. “I was probably one of the last immigrants to sail into New York harbour to be greeted by the Statue of Liberty,” he recalled. “I would be standing there in my fucking brown shoes and people would say, ‘You speak English?’ I’d say no. They’d say, ‘Fuck you.’ The first words I learned when I got off the boat were ‘fuck you.’”

On one level, it’s a grim story about racism. On another, it’s tempting to suggest that Sylvain Sylvain made exceptionally good use of this newfound information: few bands in the early 70s said “fuck you” quite as loudly and repeatedly as the New York Dolls, the quintet Sylvain Sylvain joined in 1971. They were two words that seemed to inform everything about them: their appearance, their sound, their attitude – “belligerent, hostile and defiantly loud”, as a local news report from 1973 suggested; they “don’t give a shit,” as David Bowie more succinctly put it – plus the button-pushing and the personal habits that kept them teetering on the verge of collapse and ultimately led to their downfall. Punk rock would almost definitely have happened without them: its confluence of influences that took in the Stooges, the garage rock and British mod bands of the mid-60s and – if you believe Dee Dee Ramone’s account of his listening habits – the Wombles and Bay City Rollers. But it might have been markedly different.

The interplay between singer David Johansen and guitarist Johnny Thunders might have provided the New York Dolls’ visual focus, but Sylvain Sylvain always seemed like the centre of the band. It was him that came up with their name, after a toy repair shop called The New York Doll Hospital, located across the street from the clothes store where he and the band’s original drummer Billy Murcia worked. He came from a family of tailors, bolstering the band’s unique approach to clothing, which bore the influence of New York’s glitter-bedecked queer fringe drama group the Theatre of the Ridiculous and which Johansson described as “very ecological”: their penchant for reappropriating female garments was “just about taking old clothes and wearing them again”.
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His rhythm guitar playing was the one rock-solid thing about their sound, which otherwise had a wilfully sloppy, flailing quality that was thrillingly at odds not just with mainstream early-70s rock but also their glam rock peers. It bore little resemblance to the virtuosic guitar playing of Bowie’s foil Mick Ronson, or the taut precision of Chinn and Chapman or Mike Leander’s productions, which was part of their appeal: one of the ways the Dolls presaged punk was that aspiring musicians saw them and thought their limited musical proficiency was no barrier to achieving something similar. And it was Sylvain – relatively abstemious by the band’s standards – who appeared to take on the job of keeping the show on the road.

It proved a thankless task: the New York Dolls had an unerring ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. They quickly provoked a vast amount of press interest – less than six months after their first gig, Melody Maker was calling them “the best rock’n’roll band in the world” – which led to an invitation to come to England and support Rod Stewart, unthinkable for an unsigned artist. But during the trip, Murcia died after overdosing on downers. It was left to Sylvain to call his mother.

The band’s shows at Manhattan’s Mercer Arts Centre garnered a huge following, but they proved unable to capture the excitement of their gigs on their eponymous 1973 debut album or its follow-up, Too Much Too Soon. Producers were incapable of dealing with their shambolic sound. They were booked for a prestigious week-long residency at LA’s Whisky a Go-Go, but the night before they were due to leave, the girlfriend of bassist Arthur Kane attempted to cut his thumb off with a knife while he slept. Sylvain was the first person he called from the hospital.

Another trip to England resulted in a high-profile TV appearance on The Old Grey Whistle Test, where their performance so horrified host Bob Harris that he felt obliged to disassociate himself from them onscreen. “Mock rock,” he sneered, an example of the divisive reaction they provoked, which saw the Eagles slagging them off on stage and Mick Jagger disparaging them in interviews.

As the heroin use of Thunders and drummer Jerry Nolan threatened to tear the band apart, they drafted in Malcolm McLaren as their manager. But his tenure was a disaster: not even their fans were ready for McLaren’s brand of situationist-inspired provocation, which had the New York Dolls playing in front of a hammer and sickle flag and Johansen performing while clutching Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. By the end there was only Sylvain and Johansen left of the original lineup. McLaren suggested Sylvain join a band he was assembling in London called the Sex Pistols, but the job never materialised.

But the very existence of the Sex Pistols highlighted the impact of the New York Dolls. Johnny Rotten might have written the snippy New York to scorn the suggestion that British punk owed them any debt – borrowing lyrics from the Dolls’ anthems Pills and Looking for a Kiss to underline his point – but it smacked of protesting too much. Pistols guitarist Steve Jones later said that “Johnny Thunders’ guitar was what I really dug” and when Mick Jones was recruiting musicians for his pre-Clash band London SS, the ad stated “New York Dolls style” was “essential”.
Sylvain Sylvain in the foreground, playing with New York Dolls in 2008. Photograph: REX/Shutterstock

Over the years, you could detect their DNA not just in punk but in Kiss’s makeup-caked theatrics (“We broke down the walls for them,” Sylvain noted) and in umpteen hair metal bands, their look a glossier 80s update of the Dolls’.

After their demise, Sylvain occasionally reunited with fellow former members – he played on Johansen’s solo albums and appeared onstage with Thunders – and pursued a solo career: his eponymous 1979 album is an overlooked gem of tight, 50s-influenced power pop. Eventually the band reunited, at least partly at the behest of obsessive Dolls fan Morrissey. Thunders and Nolan were long dead, but a 2004 comeback show at the Royal Festival Hall was rapturously received, before the bad luck struck again: a month after the gig, Kane died of leukemia.

Sylvain and Johansson persevered, and the trio of New York Dolls albums they made between 2006 and 2011 were far better than anyone might have expected, a more mature, lean and disciplined take on the band’s sound. None were big sellers, which if nothing else seemed in keeping with the New York Dolls’ legacy, one in which importance was never matched by commercial success.

It was something Sylvain remained philosophical about to the end, albeit with a hint of “fuck you” thrown in. “Selling out arenas for me is called success in the music business,” he noted a couple of years ago. “We had success with the people. We had success with the artists. We had success with the downtrodden. We had success with the weird. That success lives for ever, because they’re the ones that are creating everything.”



Marianne Faithfull: 'I was in a dark place. Presumably it was death

After battling Covid-19 for three weeks in hospital, Faithfull went on to finish her 21st solo album – and possibly her last. 



She reflects on how she might never sing again, her hatred of being a 60s muse and why she still believes in miracles

by Alexis Petridis THE GUARDIAN 
Fri 15 Jan 2021 

Marianne Faithfull is on the phone from her home in Putney, south-west London. She sounds exactly like you would expect: as husky as her singing on every album she has made for the past 40 years and, as the daughter of a baroness, very posh. Her vocabulary is unmistakably that of someone who came of age in the 1960s: exasperation is expressed in sentences that begin: “Oh, man…”; things that vex her are “a drag”. But before we begin, she offers a pre-emptive apology. Her memory, she says, isn’t what it was. “It’s wild, the things I forget,” she says. “Short-term. I remember the distant past very well. It’s recent things I can’t remember. And that’s ghastly. Awful. You wouldn’t believe how awful it is.”

The memory loss is a result of Covid-19. She was in something of a purple patch in her career when the virus struck last April, midway through recording her 21st solo album She Walks in Beauty, and with a biopic based on her 1994 autobiography in the works (“It could be really good,” she says of the latter, “but it doesn’t require my artistic input – I lived the life, that’s enough”). She doesn’t remember anything about falling ill, or being rushed to intensive care: “All I know is that I was in a very dark place – presumably, it was death.”

In the outside world, obituaries were prepared. It wasn’t just ghoulish journalists who assumed Faithfull’s luck – which in the past had seen her through heroin addiction, bulimia, suicide bids, homelessness, breast cancer, hepatitis C and, in 2014, a broken hip that became infected after surgery – had finally run out. She was, by her own admission, very much Covid-19’s target market: 73 years old, with a raft of underlying health conditions, including emphysema, the result of decades of smoking. “Oh man,” she sighs today. “I wish I’d never picked up a cigarette in my life.”

“She wasn’t actually meant to make it through,” says her musical collaborator, Warren Ellis, best known as Nick Cave’s chief foil in the Bad Seeds. “That she survived it – it’s insane.” Her situation seemed so grim that Ellis received a concerned text about her welfare from her long-term friend and producer Hal Willner, himself ill with Covid: Willner died of the virus the day after it was sent. Her management put out a statement saying she was responding well to treatment, but Faithfull says that in hospital, the doctors took a less optimistic approach. Once recovered, she read her medical notes and found the phrase “palliative care only”.

'A muse? That’s a terrible job’ … Faithfull in 1967. Photograph: Marc Sharratt/REX/Shutterstock

Yet she did recover, albeit with lasting effects. “Three things: the memory, fatigue and my lungs are still not OK – I have to have oxygen and all that stuff. The side-effects are so strange. Some people come back from it but they can’t walk or speak. Awful.”

Incredibly, she quickly returned to work, completing She Walks in Beauty, which perhaps says something about her passion for the album coming out in April, an unexpected project even given her eclectic latter-day solo discography, which has involved reinterpreting Kurt Weill’s 1933 ballet chanté The Seven Deadly Sins, collaborating with Blur and Pulp, and covering everyone from Duke Ellington to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. On She Walks in Beauty, Faithfull reads the work of the Romantic poets – Keats’ To Autumn, and Ode to a Nightingale; Shelley’s Ozymandias; Wordsworth’s Prelude – to backings provided by Ellis, with contributions from Brian Eno and Nick Cave.

She was first drawn to the poems at school. “Well, it’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” she chuckles. “I was a clever girl, a pretty girl, and I thought they were all about me.” She wanted to record them “for a long time, but I could never think of how, and what record company would ever want to put it out; who would even want to hear it. Even I thought about it commercially, and that’s never been my way. I just couldn’t imagine it. But then finally, really because of Warren and my manager François, I saw that I could do it now and – this is terrible – but it’s perfect for what we’re all going through. It’s the most perfect thing for this moment in our lives. We recorded it in lockdown, and I thought so as I was doing it. I found it very comforting and very kind of beautiful. Now when I read them, I see eternity – they’re like a river or a mountain, they’re beautiful and comforting. I have,” she adds with a throaty chuckle, “realised they’re not about me.”

Her last album, 2018’s Negative Capability, was another collaboration with Ellis and an extraordinary meditation on ageing, loneliness and loss, not least that of Anita Pallenberg, her old friend and fellow former Rolling Stones paramour, who died in 2017. It featured a re-recording of her Mick Jagger and Keith Richards-penned debut single As Tears Go By that, Ellis says, reduced everyone else in the studio to tears. The album understandably received rapturous reviews, which led Faithfull to claim that Britain “finally understood who I am and what I’m trying to do, which I’ve been waiting for all my life”.

I really annoyed people, somehow. I wasn’t a conventional artist and they couldn’t handle it, didn’t want it to be true


“I really annoyed people, I think, somehow,” she says now, referring to much of her career. “Maybe just everything about me was annoying at the time. You know, I wasn’t a conventional artist, ever, and also, it was kind of clear that it wasn’t an affectation and it just annoyed people, I think. They couldn’t handle it, they just didn’t want it to be true.”

She had sung around folk clubs in Reading as a teenager but says she had no desire to be a pop singer. “Oh man, I was really happy. I was going to go to Cambridge or Oxford and study English literature, philosophy and comparative religion. I remember when I said that to people at the time, they were appalled! But I didn’t do that, did I? Look what I actually did! I fulfilled all their wildest fantasies.”
Leaving court with Mick Jagger after the couple were charged for cannabis possession, 1969.
Photograph: Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images

Her career in academia came to an end the night she went to a party thrown by the Rolling Stones in the company of her soon-to-be first husband, John Dunbar. She was spotted by the Stones’ manager, Andrew Loog Oldham, who dismissed her as “an angel with big tits” yet thought he could mould her into a star. “It was a terrible idea,” she says today. “It took me a long time to get over the resentment I had towards Andrew Loog Oldham, and [Oldham’s business partner] Tony Calder and even Mick and Keith. You know, I loved Mick and Keith, and Charlie, and Ronnie actually, but … it took me years before I accepted it, that this was me, that I was meant to do this, it was my destiny, my fate.”

She had reason to feel resentful. Indeed, if you want to while away some of your lockdown hours boggling at the sexism of the 60s music industry, Faithfull’s story is a good place to start. She was, as she later put it, treated “as somebody who not only can’t even sing, but doesn’t really write or anything, just something you can make into something. I was just cheesecake, really, terribly depressing.” Oldham seems to have seen her primarily as a means of living out his fantasies of becoming a British Phil Spector with a stable of stars to match. Faithfull would be a repository for any surplus material Jagger and Richards might write, and a light entertainer: a pretty, posh girl whose niche would be essaying folk songs for a Saturday night variety show audience.

At their worst, the results were catastrophic, but occasionally, something of Faithfull shone through, a wintry melancholy that powered her 1965 singles This Little Bird and Go Away From My World, where her vocal injected rather too much sadness and yearning into theoretically lightweight songs. “Yes, tristesse,” she says. “It’s part of me! I don’t know where it came from. Maybe it’s my star sign, although I don’t particularly believe in all of that. It’s just my character.”

But her singing career ground to a halt in 1967. She spent the rest of the decade famous – and after the drug bust at Richards’ country estate, Redlands, infamous – for being Jagger’s girlfriend or, at best, a muse, the woman who gave him a copy of Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, planting the seed for Sympathy for the Devil; the inspiration behind Wild Horses, Dear Doctor and You Can’t Always Get What You Want. “A muse? That’s a shit thing to be,” she snorts. “It’s a terrible job. You don’t get any male muses, do you? Can you think of one? No.”

SHE WAS A BAD GURL, A FEMME FATALE FER SHURE BUT NEVER A MUSE

In The Girl on a Motorcycle, 1968.
Photograph: Allstar/ARES PRODUCTION

Her record label withdrew her gritty 1969 single Something Better, horrified by its B-side Sister Morphine, a depiction of addiction so bleak it was evidently written by someone who knew of what they spoke. When the Rolling Stones recorded it, they removed her name from the writing credits, ostensibly because they knew any money she made from it would be spent on drugs (they eventually reinstated her name in the 1990s). She broke up with Jagger and slid further into addiction. She lost custody of Nicholas, her son by John Dunbar; she says her decision to move back to London from Paris a couple of years ago was driven by a desire to be nearer her son and grandchildren, “because I deserted him for all that time, I was terribly unhappy about him being taken away from me, but it’s time to forgive and get over it and be here for him and my lovely grandchildren”.

Marianne’s genuinely awesome, a one-off. She hasn’t slipped into a nostalgia act – she shoots straight from the hip  Warren Ellis

Friends occasionally tried to help, but it wasn’t until 1979 that she recovered enough to make the astonishing Broken English, an album on which Faithfull suddenly appeared to spring back to life, fangs bared. Its songs were about addiction, terrorism and infidelity – the closing Why D’Ya Do It was so explicit in its description of an affair that workers at EMI walked out, refusing to press the album – or depicted Faithfull as the ghost at the feast of 60s nostalgia. “I made a decision to really, completely give my heart to the whole thing, and that’s what happened. I was quite smart enough to realise that I had a lot to learn. You know, I didn’t go to Oxford, but I went to Olympic Studios and watched the Rolling Stones record, and I watched the Beatles record as well. I watched the best people working and how they worked and, because of Mick, I guess, I watched people writing, too – a brilliant artist at the top of his game. I watched how he wrote and I learned a lot, and I will always be grateful.”
With Warren Ellis. Photograph: Rosie Matheson

It began the second act of Faithfull’s recording career, in which she has displayed both an admirable artistic restlessness – “Well, what have I got to lose?” she laughs when I suggest she seems to have got musically bolder with age – and a marked ability to attract a rather hipper class of collaborator than you suspect most of her 60s peers could muster. As well as Pulp, Blur and Nick Cave and sundry Bad Seeds, she has worked with Beck, PJ Harvey, Anna Calvi, the Clash’s Mick Jones, Lou Reed, Cat Power and Anohni. “I know,” she says. “I’m very lucky. I don’t know what it is, but it is there, and they are hipper, cooler and even more attractive.”

“She’s real,” suggests Warren Ellis. “She’s genuinely awesome, and she’s like a one-off. Everything you think she is, she is. She’s kind of unique in that she’s remained relevant; she hasn’t sort of slipped into some kind of nostalgia act. She’s very witty, she’s intelligent and she’s extraordinary, too, because she’s lived a life – she was like a trailblazer for so many people without even knowing it. There’s no kind of mould for her career. And whatever she tells you, it’s true: she shoots straight from the hip.”

Ellis says that She Walks in Beauty is the album Faithfull has “wanted to make all her life”. There’s a chance that it might also be her last: the after-effects of Covid on her lungs mean she is currently unable to sing. “And I may not be able to sing ever again,” she says. “Maybe that’s over. I would be incredibly upset if that was the case, but, on the other hand, I am 74. I don’t feel cursed and I don’t feel invincible. I just feel fucking human. But what I do believe in, which gives me hope, I do believe in miracles. You know, the doctor, this really nice National Health doctor, she came to see me and she told me that she didn’t think my lungs would ever recover. And where I finally ended up is: OK, maybe they won’t, but maybe, by a miracle, they will. I don’t know why I believe in miracles. I just do. Maybe I have to, the journey I’ve been on, the things that I’ve put myself through, that I’ve got through so far and I’m OK. Does that sound really corny?”

No, I say, I don’t think it sounds corny. It sounds hopeful. “Yes,” she says. “We must be hopeful – it’s really important. And I am, yes. I’m bloody still here.”

No power, no water, no hope: inside Europe’s largest shanty town

Freezing weather from Storm Filomena, and Spain’s third wave of Covid, compound dire situation in settlement outside Madrid


Young people warm their hands at the Cañada Real settlement in Spain. 
Photograph: Pablo Garcia/The Guardian


by Sam Jones in Madrid
Fri 15 Jan 2021 THE GUARDIAN

Despite the daily trials her family has to endure – a pandemic, three months with no electricity and now days without running water since Storm Filomena froze the pipes and left Madrid under a lingering duvet of snow – Sara Benayad has not forgotten the importance of hospitality.

She would welcome the powers-that-be to join her in the novel ritual into which the absence of water has forced her. Every night before bed, Benayad fills saucepans and buckets with snow that must be melted on the gas stove the next morning so there is water for washing and for the dishes.

“I’d really like anyone who’s responsible for this to come and spend the night with us,” she says. “We’d be honoured to have them. They can sleep in my house and suffer and live what we’re living. Maybe then they’d do something.”

Filomena has brought Madrid’s heaviest snows in 50 years, claimed four lives, torn the limbs off tens of thousands of trees and managed the rare feat of leaving the capital in a state of icy, suspended animation.

But no part of Spain has been hit quite as mercilessly as the Cañada Real, the shanty town 12km from the centre of Madrid that is home to Benayad and 8,500 other people, most of them of Moroccan or Roma descent.

 
Aisha prefers to be in the snow than indoors because it is less cold when she is constantly on the move playing with the children. 
Photograph: Pablo Garcia/The Guardian

Since the beginning of October, the 4,500 people who live in Sectors 5 and 6 of Europe’s largest informal settlement have been without power. The electricity provider, Naturgy, says it has never cut off the supply to the Cañada Real and blames the outages on huge surges in the two sectors that mean the network is forced to shut down for safety reasons.

It says there are only four registered users in the two sectors – despite there being some 1,500 houses in the area – adding that it has continued to provide electricity “despite the serious economic damages” caused by people illegally tapping the supply.

The regional government of Madrid says the surges are due to marijuana plantations in the shanty town that have been hooked up to the supply and are drawing so much power that the system trips time and time again.

The people of Sectors 5 and 6 dispute the claims but say they are beside the point. The lack of electricity, they say, is putting their lives – and the lives of 1,800 children in the area – in grave danger. If the situation was desperate before, Filomena has brought the Cañada Real to the brink.

“We’ve had lots of difficult times here,” says Beatriz Aragón, a doctor who has worked in the town since 2007. “We’ve had loads of fires and floods but they happened and then they stopped. And we’ve had winter power cuts before. But we’ve never seen anything like this.”

The death of a 74-year-old man who lived in Sector 6 has led to a legal complaint against the authorities, while Aragón says between 40 and 50 people have suffered from carbon monoxide poisoning because of the butane heaters used by those who can afford them.

“We’re seeing children with chilblains because their hands have been destroyed by the cold, and respiratory infections,” says the doctor.

“But the most worrying thing is how all this will play out with the third wave of Covid. One family told me yesterday they had no way to keep warm so they all shared a bed with their daughter, who’s got a fever. ‘If we don’t do that, we’ll freeze,’ they said. Having this in the middle of a pandemic is just a perfect storm.”

Aragón and her colleagues have been advising mothers and babies who can stay with relatives elsewhere to leave the Cañada Real until the temperature begins to rise. “It’s not what you want to do during a pandemic, but you’ve got to choose between what’s bad and what would be worse.”

Aura Morales, who works for the socio-educational Barró Association, is equally blunt in her assessment of the damage that is being done to the town’s younger residents. “Everything gets worse if you don’t have electricity,” she says. “Some of the kids are doing their homework inside cold cars so they can see what they’re doing.”

Other children use their parents’ mobiles to try to keep up with their lessons while schools in the region remain closed because of the snow. The phones serve a dual purpose: once lessons have been downloaded, the built-in torches are used so children can see what they’re writing after the sun goes down.

Loubna El Azmani, a community worker who lives with her family in Sector 6, says the people of the town are doing everything they can to explain their desperate circumstances to the outside world.

“We’ve demonstrated and written letters and reported the situation to the authorities,” she says. “Everybody knows what’s going on here but nobody wants to react. But they need to before there’s an ever greater tragedy here.”

Towards the end of December, a group of UN special rapporteurs called on the Spanish government to ensure that the power was restored immediately, warning: “The lack of electricity not only violates these children’s right to adequate housing, it is having a very serious effect on their rights to health, food, water, sanitation and education.”

A nurse and a doctor walk through La Cañada Real after visiting a child suffering hypothermia in one of the houses. 
Photograph: Pablo Garcia/The Guardian

The problem, however, is that responsibility for the Cañada Real is shared between three local town halls (including Madrid city hall), the government of the Madrid region, and the central government’s delegate to the region.

Between the drip-drip of the slowly thawing ice, locals swear they can just make out the sound of the buck being passed once again.

Almost four years after a deal was signed to rehouse hundreds of families, 130 have been rehomed by the regional government and Madrid city hall.

It is, as a spokesman for the regional government points out, a gradual process. “The idea is to spread families out across the region so that you don’t end up with more ghettos,” he says. “It’s very complicated – it’s not like buying cars and sticking them in a garage; it’s about finding homes for people.”

In the meantime, the city and regional governments have been offering residents emergency shelter and butane canisters to see them through Filomena and its aftermath. According to Madrid city hall, of the 17 families identified as being especially vulnerable, only two took up the offer of moving to a shelter.

Some residents say they have turned down the offer because they are afraid of mixing with others during the Covid pandemic, and are puzzled as to why temporary accommodation is being proffered when all they want is their electricity back.
Children building a snowman. Photograph: Pablo Garcia/The Guardian

As the wait goes on, the children of the Cañada Real do what children do in the snow. The younger ones build snowmen, throw snowballs and slide down the frozen embankments on rubbish sacks. The older ones toss sheets of cardboard on to makeshift bonfires for a few seconds of flaring warmth or dash about, aware that they will be warmer rushing around outside than they would be indoors.

The town’s older residents are finding it far harder to cope with the lack of power, both literal and figurative.

“Morale has gone through the floor,” says Benayad, who gave up her job in a recycling business a month ago so she could look after her family. “This is a national disgrace – and it’s happening in a developed country in Europe in 2021.”

If the authorities are serious about getting people out of the Cañada Real, she adds, they need to offer clear solutions.

“The way things are going, the only people they’ll manage to get out of here are the dead ones.”

Additional reporting by Pablo García Sacristán

EXCERPT LONG READ


100 days of warning:
 inside the Boogaloo killings of US security personnel 

Extremism experts warned that the anti-government movement was planning attacks online. Why didn’t Facebook act?


A surveillance photo provided by the FBI shows a van with the passenger side door open as someone fires at a security kiosk at the Ronald V Dellums Federal Building in Oakland, California. Photograph: AP





by Lois Beckett in Los Angeles
THE GUARDIAN
Fri 15 Jan 2021 

One hundred days before Dave Patrick Underwood was murdered on 29 May, a group of analysts who monitor online extremism concluded that an attack like the one that killed him was coming.

An anti-government movement intent on killing law enforcement officers had been growing rapidly on social media, the analysts at the Network Contagion Research Institute warned.



Building on the work of other analysts, the researchers had identified Facebook groups where thousands of members obsessed over the idea of an imminent American civil war called “the Boogaloo”, displaying photographs of rifles and combat equipment, sharing advice for making weapons and posting memes about killing police and federal officials. The Facebook groups were particularly dangerous, the researchers concluded, because they were helping to build local connections between nascent domestic extremists. The movement appeared to be successfully recruiting members of the US military.

Facebook responded to findings that it was “studying trends” around the use of the word “Boogaloo” on its platforms, and that it would remove any content that violated its rules against inciting hatred or violence. Over the next few months, a spokesperson said, it would remove 800 individual Boogaloo-related posts that violated its policies. But it did not ban the Boogaloo movement from its platform, or take the majority of the Boogaloo groups down.  
 
A group tied to the Boogaloo Bois holds a rally at the Michigan state capitol in Lansing, 
on 17 October 2020. Photograph: Jeff Kowalsky/AFP/Getty Images

Two months later, another report warned of the Boogaloo movement’s “explicit threats of violence to government authorities”. There were now at least 125 Boogaloo groups on Facebook, the Tech Transparency Project said. The groups had added tens of thousands of members in the last 30 days alone, as coronavirus lockdown measures made some Americans furious about what they perceived as government “tyranny”. More than half of these Facebook groups had been created since February.

This time, Facebook said it had removed some groups and pages that used Boogaloo-related terms for violating Facebook policies. But none of the Facebook groups explicitly mentioned in the Tech Transparency report had been taken down, HuffPost reported, even though the online rhetoric was already translating into action: earlier in April, Texas police arrested Aaron Swenson, a man who had reportedly “liked” more than a dozen Boogaloo-related pages, and who police said had been livestreaming himself on Facebook as he drove around looking for a cop to execute.

‘Show them the real targets’


It was just after 7am on 28 May, and Steven Carrillo, a US air force sergeant, was already awake, posting on Facebook about a “great opportunity” to attack federal agents, according to federal prosecutors.

Carrillo, 32, was an active duty member of the air force, assigned to Travis air force base in California. Two years before, he had taken part in an intensive training session to become part of an elite air force security unit, the Phoenix Ravens, who were prepared to protect aircraft from attacks in volatile situations

But three days after George Floyd was killed in Minneapolis, as protests against police violence spread across the country, prosecutors allege, Carrillo was preparing to put his military training to use not in protecting fellow service members, but in staging attacks against government officers.

 
Steven Carrillo. Photograph: AP

“It’s our coast now this needs to be nationwide. It’s a great opportunity to target the specialty soup bois. Keep that energy going,” Carrillo allegedly wrote on Facebook, sharing a link to a video of a crowd attacking California highway patrol officers, with two flame emojis.

The “specialty soup bois”, according to the complaint, was a phrase Boogaloo groups used to refer to federal law enforcement agents who work for agencies such as the ATF and the FBI – agencies with names that are an “alphabet soup” of acronyms. Less than 20 minutes later, another Facebook user responded. “Let’s boogie,” Robert Alvin Justus, a 30-year-old from Millbrae, California, wrote, according to prosecutors.

The next morning, prosecutors allege, Carrillo posted more calls to action on Facebook. He was interested in the unfolding protests against killings of civilians by police, but he did not consider himself one of the protesters.

“Go to the riots and support our own cause. Show them the real targets,” Carrillo allegedly wrote. “Use their anger to fuel our fire. Think outside the box. We have mobs of angry people to use to our advantage.”

That night, 29 May, prosecutors allege, Justus met Carrillo at a Bay Area metro station, with the plan of driving together to an anti-police violence protest in Oakland.

The two men parked across from a guard post outside the federal courthouse downtown. Just two blocks away, thousands of protesters were marching and chanting on the street that led to Oakland’s police headquarters in a furious demonstration that would last until late in the night. But the guard outpost itself was modest, a nondescript structure next to a driveway in a neighborhood full of office buildings. Surveillance footage would later show Justus emerging from the van for a smoke break, then going back inside, prosecutors say

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Someone fires at a security kiosk at the Ronald V Dellums Federal Building in Oakland. Steven Carrillo allegedly shot and killed Dave Patrick Underwood in the incident. 
Photograph: AP

Dave Patrick Underwood was working as one of the security officers at the federal courthouse that night, as a contractor for the Department of Homeland Security. Underwood, 53, had grown up in the Bay Area. He was a former star high school athlete, with a corny sense of humor and a sharp sense of style. As an adult, he had moved in with his ageing parents to care for them. His older sister would later describe how Underwood had been with their mother as she was dying, and when she fell to the ground, he picked her up, and carried her to her bed, because he knew that was where she had wanted to die.

“Patrick was a good man, who only wanted to help others and keep his community safe,” his sister, Angela Underwood Jacobs, said later.

Just before 9.45pm, according to federal prosecutors, as the white van pulled away from the guard post, its side door opened, and Carrillo opened fire on the security officers outside the courthouse. Underwood, shot multiple times, was killed. Another officer was seriously injured.

Carrillo, Justus would allegedly tell investigators, had been thrilled by the shooting. “Did you see how they fucking fell?” Justus allegedly recalled him saying.
Calls for action

The targeted attack on two federal officers in the middle of a protest against police violence sparked nationwide headlines. Underwood, who was black, was mourned. His death was also seized on as a political talking point: a black law enforcement officer had apparently become the victim of nationwide protests against law enforcement killings of black civilians.

As politicians talked about Underwood’s murder and debated what it said about the Black Lives Matter movement, Justus went home, prosecutors allege. But Carrillo’s killing spree, prosecutors allege, was not finished. And he remained in contact with at least one other “Boogaloo boi”, sending him money and boasting about what he had already accomplished.

Across the country, prosecutors allege, Boogaloo boys were plotting how to use the George Floyd protests to sow chaos, and posting on Facebook encouraging each other to take action.


 
Mourners view the body of Dave Patrick Underwood 
after a memorial service on 19 June 2020, in Pinole, California. 
Photograph: Ben Margot/AP

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