It was a morning of gentle beauty and random kindness. The sun lent the streets a milky warmth, and my jacket relaxed around my shoulders. With a smile , I stepped on the uncrowded subway.
It swung me to Sindorim. At Exit 2, I rang my lost cellphone. It was answered by Ewha, who'd found my phone after I'd left it in a taxi.
'I'm just coming,' she spoke English well, with a bright, near American accent, ' I can see you from here.'
Ewha must have been nearing forty. But her boots bounced with a symmetric energy. With the phone, she handed me a genuine smile.
'Thank you so much. That's helped me loads. Would you like a coffee or bottle of coke?' I pointed at a snack stall.
'No that's ok. It's my pleasure. Last month I lost my phone and I couldn't get it back. It caused me so much trouble. It's my pleasure.'
'Thank you.'
'No problem,' she turned and walked , her head in line with tower blocks along the horizon.
Back in Sinchon, drums distracted me from my route home. I turned right, and saw the gathering in Lesbian Park.
Too often , Lesbian Park is a place that doesn't live up to its' name. For a start, it doesn't have any grass. Due to the Korean government's assertion that grass is expensive, Lesbian Park is a tiled pavilion. In England, it would never be called a park. But in Seoul, it's the closest thing there is.
Seemingly at least, the place is also lesbian free. Rumours circulate that it is a late night meeting point. But activities there appear in line with a culture unfamiliar to open homosexuality.
This morning, though, the park was a festival. Men crouched over board games, while women dressed in traditional hanboks gathered outside, beating drums and dancing. Then they entered and circled through the melee, their loose, exotic clothes flapping lightly in the breeze.
I entered and filmed the gathering on my phone. To them, it might have been a normal Sunday. To me, it was a step into Korea before Samsung, Christianity and cosmetic surgery changed the face of this curious land.
In an adjacent foodstore I bought cheese and porridge. The shopkeeper was watching the park through the window. For no reason, he handed me a free satsuma along with my bought goods.
Walking back under the sun, I bounced the satsuma from hand to hand, in time with the beat of the drums.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
Monday, 26 January 2009
Kissing
‘Do you wanna get a taxi?’ asked Rox as we neared the subway station. It was total laziness, but the backs of my thighs ached from the hike.
‘Yes,’ I said.
The taxi had placed itself ineptly by a lamppost. It was impossible for customers to enter. We had to knock on the window before the driver moved his vehicle into a sensible position.
‘Sinchon-yok chuseyo,’ said Rox, as we breathed and let heat massage our muscles.
‘Taxis are fucking great,’ I leant back, ‘they’re just so warm.’
The sangyapsal rested in my stomach and I put my hand on Roxanne’s leg. My mind moved back to our post-walk restaurant, the look an old man had given me as I placed a kiss on her lips.
‘Are we breaking some huge taboo?’ I’d said.
‘Yes,’ said Rox.
Korea’s position on public kissing is less clear than that of other Asian countries. In India, tonguing on a train is almost as offensive as a blowjob in a bank. And in Thailand you won’t need to tell couples to get a room; they‘ll get one before they begin.
On my first night out in Seoul, I noticed teenagers kissing against walls together, like British fourteen-year olds at bad discos. When I asked my students what old people complained about in Korea, one of the gripes was snogging in the streets.
‘They say young people are so rude, because no one used to kiss outside.’
In the taxi, not knowing how bad it was, I leant over to Rox, moved my lips towards hers, wrapped arms about her warmth.
‘Excuse me,’ piped the driver suddenly, ‘you, your partner, seeing each other?’
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Speaking English, English I don’t know, is it called, seeing each other?’
‘Yes,’ said Roxanne, ‘it’s called seeing each other, or dating.’
‘Or going out together,’ I added.
‘What is your country?’
‘England.’
‘America.’
‘What is your hometown famous for?’
‘Stonehenge,’ Roxanne prompted me.
‘Stonehenge,’ I said.
‘Stonehenge,’ the driver frowned in the rear view mirror, ‘I don’t know well. What is it?’
‘Just a bunch of stones, really,’ I said.
Conversation paused as we rose on the road over the river. Lights, pulling softly, held the horizon and the sky together.
‘Actually I don’t like kissing,’ said the driver. We bumped onto hard ground. ‘ I don’t like kissing in my taxi.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said quickly, ashamed I’d been so insensitive.
‘Why not?’ pushed Roxanne.
‘My wife, she never kiss me now.’ said the driver.
‘Is it rude, though?’ I asked, ‘kissing in the back of a taxi?’
‘She says that if I can make money, then she will give kiss to me.’
‘But is kissing in taxis impolite?’ I repeated.
‘I am jealous of your action.’
‘But is it rude?’
‘No, no, not rude,’ said the driver.
‘Well in that case…’ I kissed Roxanne. Both Rox and the driver laughed.
‘You are actor and actress,’ he said. I wasn’t sure why. Lights around were closer now, buildings clamouring for space.
‘Excuse me, what is your job?’
‘We both teach English,’ Rox said.
‘Ah, English teacher. I used to teach English. Now I am taxi driver. Not enough money. My wife, she tell me to make more.’
‘Ah, chogiyo,’ Roxanne leant forward, ‘ This is my stop Joe. I’ll call you later.’
‘Ok,’ I said.
‘Excuse me, your girlfriend?’ asked the driver as we pulled away.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Very beautiful.’
‘Very,’ I said. I smiled, and the lights got brighter.
‘Yes,’ I said.
The taxi had placed itself ineptly by a lamppost. It was impossible for customers to enter. We had to knock on the window before the driver moved his vehicle into a sensible position.
‘Sinchon-yok chuseyo,’ said Rox, as we breathed and let heat massage our muscles.
‘Taxis are fucking great,’ I leant back, ‘they’re just so warm.’
The sangyapsal rested in my stomach and I put my hand on Roxanne’s leg. My mind moved back to our post-walk restaurant, the look an old man had given me as I placed a kiss on her lips.
‘Are we breaking some huge taboo?’ I’d said.
‘Yes,’ said Rox.
Korea’s position on public kissing is less clear than that of other Asian countries. In India, tonguing on a train is almost as offensive as a blowjob in a bank. And in Thailand you won’t need to tell couples to get a room; they‘ll get one before they begin.
On my first night out in Seoul, I noticed teenagers kissing against walls together, like British fourteen-year olds at bad discos. When I asked my students what old people complained about in Korea, one of the gripes was snogging in the streets.
‘They say young people are so rude, because no one used to kiss outside.’
In the taxi, not knowing how bad it was, I leant over to Rox, moved my lips towards hers, wrapped arms about her warmth.
‘Excuse me,’ piped the driver suddenly, ‘you, your partner, seeing each other?’
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Speaking English, English I don’t know, is it called, seeing each other?’
‘Yes,’ said Roxanne, ‘it’s called seeing each other, or dating.’
‘Or going out together,’ I added.
‘What is your country?’
‘England.’
‘America.’
‘What is your hometown famous for?’
‘Stonehenge,’ Roxanne prompted me.
‘Stonehenge,’ I said.
‘Stonehenge,’ the driver frowned in the rear view mirror, ‘I don’t know well. What is it?’
‘Just a bunch of stones, really,’ I said.
Conversation paused as we rose on the road over the river. Lights, pulling softly, held the horizon and the sky together.
‘Actually I don’t like kissing,’ said the driver. We bumped onto hard ground. ‘ I don’t like kissing in my taxi.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said quickly, ashamed I’d been so insensitive.
‘Why not?’ pushed Roxanne.
‘My wife, she never kiss me now.’ said the driver.
‘Is it rude, though?’ I asked, ‘kissing in the back of a taxi?’
‘She says that if I can make money, then she will give kiss to me.’
‘But is kissing in taxis impolite?’ I repeated.
‘I am jealous of your action.’
‘But is it rude?’
‘No, no, not rude,’ said the driver.
‘Well in that case…’ I kissed Roxanne. Both Rox and the driver laughed.
‘You are actor and actress,’ he said. I wasn’t sure why. Lights around were closer now, buildings clamouring for space.
‘Excuse me, what is your job?’
‘We both teach English,’ Rox said.
‘Ah, English teacher. I used to teach English. Now I am taxi driver. Not enough money. My wife, she tell me to make more.’
‘Ah, chogiyo,’ Roxanne leant forward, ‘ This is my stop Joe. I’ll call you later.’
‘Ok,’ I said.
‘Excuse me, your girlfriend?’ asked the driver as we pulled away.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Very beautiful.’
‘Very,’ I said. I smiled, and the lights got brighter.
An Unplanned Protest
The shouts came into my apartment. It sounded more raucous than a normal Friday night. I wasn’t going out, but I needed some food. Maybe bimimbap if a place was open, or mandu from a local stall.
Coat wrapped about me, I headed out. Hearing the shouts coming from my right , I forgot about food and ducked through an alleyway.
People were running, banners in hand. Police, like heavy armoured beetles, formed solid blocks along the road. Even in the January chill, the air had a heated energy.
Police were behind and in front, light catching on riots shields as they stood. People were walking and so was I . Slogans were shouted in Korean, someone was carrying a broom. I had no idea what was going on.
‘So what do you think of all this?’ a woman said to me. She had a strong face and a determined walk. If she was from England, she’d have lived in a squat in Brighton.
‘I don’t know what it’s about,’ I said.
‘You know the fires in Yongsan?’ she asked.
‘Yes, where the people died.’
‘Yes. This is about that. Also , people are tired of Lee Myong Bak.’
‘What do you think of Lee Myong Bak?’
Her voice became corrosive.
‘I hate Lee Myong Bak and this government. They care only about the rich people, they don’t care about the poor.’
I couldn’t see how that set them apart from most other leaders in this world, and wanted to see if there was more substance to the hatred. We were walking between lines of riot police.
I was about to ask more when I saw a teacher from my school, a Korean-American called Sherwood.
‘Sherwood,’ I called.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked.
‘Just came out to see this craziness.’
‘You just finished teaching?’
‘Yeah.’
Sherwood wasn’t exactly pro- protest. He told me the protest was illegal because it was blocking off streets and infringing people’s rights to lead normal lives.
‘But people should be allowed to protest,’ I said.
‘Yes, but…’
Then he told me he wasn’t going to take any crap if anyone attacked him. I asked him why he thought someone might attack him.
‘They kicked the shit out of me at the American beef protests.’
‘What, really, why?’
‘I took photos. I think they thought I might be recording their faces and showing them to the police. They threw me to the floor. At least fifty people were going past, taking a swing at me.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I’m nervous to take pictures now.’
The protestors stopped outside Hongik University, blocking off the crossroads with their presence. Me and Sherwood climbed onto a mini platform and watched. Sherwood filmed a video on his camera.
‘No flash,’ he explained.
After a minute I decided to explore the melee before going home. I walked through the crowd and filmed protestors on my phone. The police were increasing their numbers, building an impenetrable wall, and people were staying still, shouting.
Food was what I had come out for. I walked over to a pie stall I’d been to before, asked the owner what he thought.
‘People always protest, you know,’ he said.
‘Do you like Lee Myong Bak?’
He shrugged.
‘…but, what does this achieve?'
I was watching the proceedings carefully.
‘Hey, if things start, to happen, you walk, this way. Other night, fighting, people falling, getting hurt.’
‘Thanks.’
Nothing was happening fast, the tension building like a slow game of chess. The next day , I was going snowboarding. I paid for my pie and walked home through straight-faced riot police. I wondered about their lives, their personalities, what was behind the uniform of their stares.
Coat wrapped about me, I headed out. Hearing the shouts coming from my right , I forgot about food and ducked through an alleyway.
People were running, banners in hand. Police, like heavy armoured beetles, formed solid blocks along the road. Even in the January chill, the air had a heated energy.
Police were behind and in front, light catching on riots shields as they stood. People were walking and so was I . Slogans were shouted in Korean, someone was carrying a broom. I had no idea what was going on.
‘So what do you think of all this?’ a woman said to me. She had a strong face and a determined walk. If she was from England, she’d have lived in a squat in Brighton.
‘I don’t know what it’s about,’ I said.
‘You know the fires in Yongsan?’ she asked.
‘Yes, where the people died.’
‘Yes. This is about that. Also , people are tired of Lee Myong Bak.’
‘What do you think of Lee Myong Bak?’
Her voice became corrosive.
‘I hate Lee Myong Bak and this government. They care only about the rich people, they don’t care about the poor.’
I couldn’t see how that set them apart from most other leaders in this world, and wanted to see if there was more substance to the hatred. We were walking between lines of riot police.
I was about to ask more when I saw a teacher from my school, a Korean-American called Sherwood.
‘Sherwood,’ I called.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked.
‘Just came out to see this craziness.’
‘You just finished teaching?’
‘Yeah.’
Sherwood wasn’t exactly pro- protest. He told me the protest was illegal because it was blocking off streets and infringing people’s rights to lead normal lives.
‘But people should be allowed to protest,’ I said.
‘Yes, but…’
Then he told me he wasn’t going to take any crap if anyone attacked him. I asked him why he thought someone might attack him.
‘They kicked the shit out of me at the American beef protests.’
‘What, really, why?’
‘I took photos. I think they thought I might be recording their faces and showing them to the police. They threw me to the floor. At least fifty people were going past, taking a swing at me.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I’m nervous to take pictures now.’
The protestors stopped outside Hongik University, blocking off the crossroads with their presence. Me and Sherwood climbed onto a mini platform and watched. Sherwood filmed a video on his camera.
‘No flash,’ he explained.
After a minute I decided to explore the melee before going home. I walked through the crowd and filmed protestors on my phone. The police were increasing their numbers, building an impenetrable wall, and people were staying still, shouting.
Food was what I had come out for. I walked over to a pie stall I’d been to before, asked the owner what he thought.
‘People always protest, you know,’ he said.
‘Do you like Lee Myong Bak?’
He shrugged.
‘…but, what does this achieve?'
I was watching the proceedings carefully.
‘Hey, if things start, to happen, you walk, this way. Other night, fighting, people falling, getting hurt.’
‘Thanks.’
Nothing was happening fast, the tension building like a slow game of chess. The next day , I was going snowboarding. I paid for my pie and walked home through straight-faced riot police. I wondered about their lives, their personalities, what was behind the uniform of their stares.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Monday, 5 January 2009
Restaurant at the End of the Road
I hadn't been there during my first seven months in Korea, put off by the 'Couple Seat' signs and shielding red curtains.
Roxanne suggested going in. My normal restaurant was closed, and cold closed in around the warmth of our breath. We passed under hanging lanterns, and pressed the buttons on the automatic door.
A board offered instructions in Korean and English, but we were still confused. There was a machine we had to buy meal tickets from. We looked at it until a Korean man came in, and memorised the options he chose.
Tickets in hand, we peered at the anonymous curtains. I looked around one and saw a kind of mini alleyway, with people eating soup on sectioned-off stools.
'I can't see any couple seats,' I said.
We went into another alley and sat either side of a small wood divider. A man sat alone at the end of the row. There were curtains in front of our booths. I pressed a call button and a waiter opened my curtain, explaining I needed to fill out an order slip.
I didn't know what I was ordering, only that I could choose between standard and spicy, and that I had the option of extra calcium.
'Are you going for extra calcium?' laughed Rox.
'Nah, I had a glass of milk this morning. '
Roxanne's soup came with a pile of white powder floating in the centre, whereas mine didn't.
'Is that Calcium?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said, mixing it in.
'You should have tried it by itself. '
The waiter pulled the curtains back down and we ate with the divider for company. I was grateful for its' protection when noodles dangled embarrassingly from my mouth.
After eating I took the divider down. We talked happily, and I wondered what more tastes of the strange I could find in the normalcy that had become Seoul.
Roxanne suggested going in. My normal restaurant was closed, and cold closed in around the warmth of our breath. We passed under hanging lanterns, and pressed the buttons on the automatic door.
A board offered instructions in Korean and English, but we were still confused. There was a machine we had to buy meal tickets from. We looked at it until a Korean man came in, and memorised the options he chose.
Tickets in hand, we peered at the anonymous curtains. I looked around one and saw a kind of mini alleyway, with people eating soup on sectioned-off stools.
'I can't see any couple seats,' I said.
We went into another alley and sat either side of a small wood divider. A man sat alone at the end of the row. There were curtains in front of our booths. I pressed a call button and a waiter opened my curtain, explaining I needed to fill out an order slip.
I didn't know what I was ordering, only that I could choose between standard and spicy, and that I had the option of extra calcium.
'Are you going for extra calcium?' laughed Rox.
'Nah, I had a glass of milk this morning. '
Roxanne's soup came with a pile of white powder floating in the centre, whereas mine didn't.
'Is that Calcium?' I asked.
'Yes,' she said, mixing it in.
'You should have tried it by itself. '
The waiter pulled the curtains back down and we ate with the divider for company. I was grateful for its' protection when noodles dangled embarrassingly from my mouth.
After eating I took the divider down. We talked happily, and I wondered what more tastes of the strange I could find in the normalcy that had become Seoul.
Saturday, 22 November 2008
Warmth in the Cold
Last night, lights delighted above bars. Sinchon's streets were filled with Seoulites escaping from their worlds; men hit a fairground style punchbag, a girl wailed into her phone. I pulled my shoulders in, felt the enclosure of my coat.
Just a couple of beers inside me, I'd left the bar early. It was four am. Food stalls lined the stretch of road that led to my apartment. They were tented like bungalows of warmth, steam escaping from vertical openings that marked the four corners.
Entering, the change was in something more than just temperature. Ambrosial, heat swirled from the soup, the oil and dakbogi. Friends huddled on plastic chairs , and the owner, face lined, showed his slanted teeth in a carefree smile.
'Ne, Annyong Haseyo,' he said as his wife entered through the far corner.
'Annyong Haseyo. Food mix chom chuseyo,' I blurted, 'One, hana, duguae chuseyo. Mix dakbogi, sa chuseyo, incheon obec won, kamsa hamnida.'
This ridiculous smattering of English and Korean had no right to be described as language of any sort. Yet it produced a complement, even if it was one I couldn't understand.
'Hangulmal chota , chota,' said the woman sitting on my left.
'What?' I said.
'Good. You Korean, very good,' she said. Her hair was scraped back harshly, but her face was friendly.
'Well...ok,' I replied, sitting down.
There followed what was probably my first conversation in Korean, and this after six months in the country. When I say a conversation, I mean they spoke and I nodded, but it was the first time I'd spoken to Koreans without them either switching to English or walking off.
This might have been because they were drunk. Substituting the traditional soup , the owner produced a bottle of beer and offered me a cup.
'Serviss-er,' he said, meaning free. I nodded gratefully and clinked cups with the owners and the woman next to me. I forgot my cup was cardboard, and when I raised it to my lips the rim was dented from the enthusiastic cheers.
Just a couple of beers inside me, I'd left the bar early. It was four am. Food stalls lined the stretch of road that led to my apartment. They were tented like bungalows of warmth, steam escaping from vertical openings that marked the four corners.
Entering, the change was in something more than just temperature. Ambrosial, heat swirled from the soup, the oil and dakbogi. Friends huddled on plastic chairs , and the owner, face lined, showed his slanted teeth in a carefree smile.
'Ne, Annyong Haseyo,' he said as his wife entered through the far corner.
'Annyong Haseyo. Food mix chom chuseyo,' I blurted, 'One, hana, duguae chuseyo. Mix dakbogi, sa chuseyo, incheon obec won, kamsa hamnida.'
This ridiculous smattering of English and Korean had no right to be described as language of any sort. Yet it produced a complement, even if it was one I couldn't understand.
'Hangulmal chota , chota,' said the woman sitting on my left.
'What?' I said.
'Good. You Korean, very good,' she said. Her hair was scraped back harshly, but her face was friendly.
'Well...ok,' I replied, sitting down.
There followed what was probably my first conversation in Korean, and this after six months in the country. When I say a conversation, I mean they spoke and I nodded, but it was the first time I'd spoken to Koreans without them either switching to English or walking off.
This might have been because they were drunk. Substituting the traditional soup , the owner produced a bottle of beer and offered me a cup.
'Serviss-er,' he said, meaning free. I nodded gratefully and clinked cups with the owners and the woman next to me. I forgot my cup was cardboard, and when I raised it to my lips the rim was dented from the enthusiastic cheers.
'What's your name?' I asked the other customer in Korean. She responded with the name of a ubiquitous Korean dish.
'Kimchi??' I asked.
'Aniyo. No. Mrs. Kim Hee Jae.'
'Mrs. Kimchi,' I nodded, 'Mr. Kimbap,' I said, pointing at myself and adopting the name of seaweed rice roll. This produced more of a laugh than expected, with the owner happily ladling soup and the other customers smiling.
The feeling was better than the conversation, atmosphere more important than the limited words which passed over the guidebook foods. It was one of those moments when I remembered I was in Korea. The routine of work was forgotten and I could have been travelling, moving between experiences, peering into other worlds. The owner filled my cup.
Half an hour later, I tried to pay , but was met with an insistent barrier of 'Serviss-er, Serviss-er.' In such situations, I've never been one to protest too hard. I said goodbye, and left clumsily through the slit of an exit.
Out in the cold, I could hear their convivial laughs. I held my head down and hunched my shoulders as I walked. Air stung my ears, but I was warm inside.
Monday, 20 October 2008
Big Brother Back Home
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article4882622.ece
I was born in 1984, a year which was also the title of George Orwell's dystopian classic. In the year of my birth, Britain was a long way from the society that novel predicted. Those who feared it might come true could breathe relief as they considered the imperfect, but basically free, place that was their home.
So far, I have been undecided about the planned introduction of ID cards. I felt that those who thought they signalled the start of a Big Brother style dictatorship were overreacting. I have an Alien Resident Card in South Korea. I don't feel oppressed by having to carry it around, though I do worry I'll lose it when I'm pissed. It's an encumbrance, but it's not fascism.
This week, though, when searching for a discussion article for class, I came across a Times report that definitely signals a step too far. I already knew that the ID card scheme would involve storing everybody's data on a National Information Register, I already knew that the government had been trying to increase periods for detention without trial, I was already aware that Parliament kept on proposing laws that undercut liberty, usually under the guise of 'anti-terrorism measures.'
But the new proposals make the above look like drops in the water. The government plan to place a 'live tap' on every electronic communication device in Britain. This will mean that phone calls , emails and Internet histories will all become available to the authorities without them needing special permission.
What the hell is happening? How would the British public have reacted ten years ago if the Government announced they would tap every phone call in the country? Have we become so blinded by this threat of terrorism that we are prepared to allow the government to do anything at all to stop it?
The death of 52 people on July 7th, 2005 was a tragedy. The death of innocent people in the prime of their lives is always a tragedy. But the people who were blown up on that day in London died free, with their basic human rights and liberties protected by the law of Britain, a country which prides itself on free speech, and basic privacy and liberty for all it's citizens.
Even if the new measures will stop terrorism, and I doubt that they will (after all, terrorists will still be able to plot by spoken word, and from abroad) I would rather face the tiny risk to my life terrorist attacks pose than give up my basic liberties. Even if the current government doesn't use it's new powers in a negative way, such overreaching rights pave the path for an unjust government to abuse its' position.
Allowing the government to watch our every move is not the way to a safer society. I feel less threatened on the streets of India, Cambodia or Korea than I do after dark in the UK, a country with more CCTV than any other in the world. Britain won't change drastically overnight , but if we shrug our shoulders at every new method of tracking our actions, how long before the notion of privacy becomes a memory?
I was born in 1984, a year which was also the title of George Orwell's dystopian classic. In the year of my birth, Britain was a long way from the society that novel predicted. Those who feared it might come true could breathe relief as they considered the imperfect, but basically free, place that was their home.
So far, I have been undecided about the planned introduction of ID cards. I felt that those who thought they signalled the start of a Big Brother style dictatorship were overreacting. I have an Alien Resident Card in South Korea. I don't feel oppressed by having to carry it around, though I do worry I'll lose it when I'm pissed. It's an encumbrance, but it's not fascism.
This week, though, when searching for a discussion article for class, I came across a Times report that definitely signals a step too far. I already knew that the ID card scheme would involve storing everybody's data on a National Information Register, I already knew that the government had been trying to increase periods for detention without trial, I was already aware that Parliament kept on proposing laws that undercut liberty, usually under the guise of 'anti-terrorism measures.'
But the new proposals make the above look like drops in the water. The government plan to place a 'live tap' on every electronic communication device in Britain. This will mean that phone calls , emails and Internet histories will all become available to the authorities without them needing special permission.
What the hell is happening? How would the British public have reacted ten years ago if the Government announced they would tap every phone call in the country? Have we become so blinded by this threat of terrorism that we are prepared to allow the government to do anything at all to stop it?
The death of 52 people on July 7th, 2005 was a tragedy. The death of innocent people in the prime of their lives is always a tragedy. But the people who were blown up on that day in London died free, with their basic human rights and liberties protected by the law of Britain, a country which prides itself on free speech, and basic privacy and liberty for all it's citizens.
Even if the new measures will stop terrorism, and I doubt that they will (after all, terrorists will still be able to plot by spoken word, and from abroad) I would rather face the tiny risk to my life terrorist attacks pose than give up my basic liberties. Even if the current government doesn't use it's new powers in a negative way, such overreaching rights pave the path for an unjust government to abuse its' position.
Allowing the government to watch our every move is not the way to a safer society. I feel less threatened on the streets of India, Cambodia or Korea than I do after dark in the UK, a country with more CCTV than any other in the world. Britain won't change drastically overnight , but if we shrug our shoulders at every new method of tracking our actions, how long before the notion of privacy becomes a memory?
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