On trial

Eighteen months ago, I gingerly changed lanes in heavy traffic on a rainy night. After nearly completing entry, I found an express transit bus of the Toronto Transit Commission scraping my driver's side. I remember my terror; I don't remember the impact to my front wheel well. I do remember the bus rolling a little ahead of me, on a diagonal. It's rear end was still in the left turn lane.

A reconstruction of the events revealed this: the bus travelled down the left-turn lane, presumably to avoid traffic, until another car ahead, which was using the left-turn lane as it was designed, forced the bus into the centre lane, where my car had almost completed entry.

Although the forty-foot bus still had its rear end in the left-turn lane, the police chose to view the scene according to the revisionist story from the bus driver. So much so that when I mentioned to Officer Ashley Wolosinowsky that the bus was going down the left-turn lane, she countered with sarcasm ("Oh, really?") before charging me with careless driving ("You're at fault!").

Say what?

The terror of almost losing my life to an express bus that did something it should not have done, was compounded by the horror of questionable behaviour from the police. That double-whammy caused me to suffer cognitive difficulties for well over a year. A few issues remain.

But there was a silver lining to the fiasco. In the five hours that it took the reporting police to arrive at the scene, I gained time and the mental wherewithall to realize that I had my camera equipment with me. I photographed some incrimminating evidence, not by design -- I wasn't thinking straight -- but by coincidence. Without those photographs, now well presented for the judge, I doubt that I would stand much of a chance, just with my diagram of the positioning of vehicles after impact. For it would be my word against the police diagram, which indicated that (a) the bus was never in the left-turn lane, but rather in the centre lane, and (b) I was the one driving on a diagonal towards the bus. According to the police, I was the one that hit the bus, and not the other way around. Oh, really?

The fairy tale by the bus driver, in cahoots with the police, has an expiry date in court. This assumes that no other shenanigans take place, tomorrow, on the day of my traffic trial.

The motto for the Toronto police is "to serve and protect." And for the most part, I think it is an honourable force that does just that. But I wonder: Do police get commissions from certain segments whom they protect more than others? Say, the bus driver's union, which has a vested interest in keeping their insurance rates down? Just wondering.

A perfect afternoon?

Summer ended before September 12th. But you'd never know it that Sunday afternoon. Unless you felt a difference in the light from the sun. Unless you realized that tobacco-tinged leaves signalled early autumn. Unless you suffered allergies from abundant goldenrods.

My feet stamped along a trail of packed dirt, knobby roots and river stones around Fanshawe Reservoir while my eyes feasted on the views. Open meadows of purple asters with yellow centres offered landing pads for Monarch butterflies. Undulating farmland of now-harvested crops whizzed by. As did giant anthills of crushed aggregate from a stone quarry. I entered an airy forest of white pine and maple trees. Sunlit mushrooms graced a fallen trunk, and patches of blue-gray from a lake shimmered beyond the foliage of an embankment.

One hour into my brisk walk, I reached the 6-kilometer marker. And there, I stopped. To the west, stalky remnants of a harvested crop lay curled. To the east, the river Thames snaked through bush and marsh.

It was a perfect afternoon. The country air smelled, well, wonderful. My thoughts gained a new coherence.

But the goodness I experienced shattered like the crinkled glass from the passenger window of my car, when I returned. I had parked by the side of a dead-end country road, between the back entrance to the trail and the driveway of a farmhouse whose road sign read: "No Honey, No Bees." The maroon Jaguar, ahead of me, and the old red SUV in back, provided the comfort of civility, as did the gates of the Fanshawe Golf Club, diagonally across. But it appears I was not in safe territory. Nor was the Jag whose passenger window ended in the same state as mine.

Who would have resorted to this, I wondered. I discounted the riders on their mountain bikes who had earlier whizzed by me with acknowledgement. That left two suspect groups: the younger punks on too-small bikes who passed me while extending no courtesy, or the two thirty-something men who sat between parked cars in collapsible chairs, when I first arrived to the area. So eager was I to "smell the flowers" that I failed to assess their set-up. In hindsight I wondered if these men were "fishing" with no body of water in sight, other than the ice in their cooler, set between them.

Ultimately, the responsibility was mine. I had left my purse discretely tucked in the darker recess of the floor of my front passenger seat. Had I placed the purse in the trunk, well ahead of arriving, I might have been spared the break-and-entry. Or not. For when I discussed the incident with various others, I learned that some thieves now know what button to activate so as to pop up the trunk and check for valuables.

I am knee-deep in recovery of plastic cards for banking, driving, health/organ donation, Library, and Blockbuster Video. I've claimed a brand new pair of reading glasses against the VISA credit card that offers replacement value.

Unrecoverables: a purse, a wallet, cash and coins, bus tickets, subway tokens (for Toronto), and a few months of receipts, not yet organized.

When I reported the theft to the London police, Constable Fraser mentioned that since the economy has taken a tumble, "petty thefts have skyrocketed."

Perhaps this is the new status quo, until politicians stop giving us mixed signals on the economic recovery, and markets show us more consistency than they have in recent times.

So citizen, beware! Consider using a fanny pack next time you take a simple walk over local terrain. You could save yourself a load of grief.

A Russian Angel

Angel by
Marc Chagall

Call it writer's block. Effects from an accident with an urban transport bus, late last November, have left me in a curious limbo. Stress-related anxiety and limited performance continue to plague me. Though I've improved since the first week after the accident, when I was bumping into glass doors and burning myself without feeling pain for an unusual length of time. I still freeze whenever I face general complexities, view quantitative data, or find numerous tasks on my back burner.

Until recently, I waited for a physical from my new family physician. It was tough enough to find a doctor in my new home town — a small city in southwestern Ontario. Last winter, only 10 family physicians showed up in the official Doctor Search as accepting new patients. Two of these physicians had disciplinary notes against them; seven had changed their status to "not accepting new patients" (a euphemism for "I've reached my allowable profit level") or were part of a walk-in clinic. Only one was a 'free agent': Ketan Patel.

I finally saw Dr. Patel in February. But only to renew my prescriptions. The physical, I was told, would have to wait.

The physical never took place. The clinic kept postponing them for a later time. I was getting anxious.

Not helping was a representative in accident/benefits at my auto insurance company. When I mentioned to Ms. Hetal Choksi of RBC Insurance that I had memory loss and concentration difficulties, she retorted with some vehemence: "Those are not injuries!" My anxiety levels rose as I questioned her on this so-called policy. Reluctantly, she sent a benefits package with an agressive cover letter and a deadline for completion.

The forms might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all the sense they made.

Facing another aggression from Ms. Choksi in a subsequent conversation, I asked her to escalate the call. Mr. Chris Metson was far more understanding when I explained what I had been through. He was patient on the filling out of the required forms. They kept sitting, keeping other papers company.

In August, I called Dr. Patel's clinic again, asking for the overdue physical. When the clinic informed me that the doctor was no longer offering this type of service, I was beside myself. It had been over six months since I had first seen Dr. Patel — briefly, for prescription fill-outs. And it had been over nine months since the accident. I was still having cognitive difficulties.

Upon expressing my anxiety in no uncertain terms, I was transferred to a Russian angel. It's true. I didn't recognize Irina as such, for I had trouble calming down. But once she and I found common ground, she informed me of the Motor Vehicle Assessment clinic that Dr. Patel had formed the month before. Gee, why did I have to get unhinged to finally hear about this new development?

Irina asked me to come in with the accident/benefit forms that had languished among my papers. And with great patience, she helped me fill them out. She also wondered why the package from my insurer did not include OCF-12, the form produced by the Financial Services Commission of Ontario and dealing with cognitive issues. I asked her if it was common practice for other insurers to provide this. "Yes," replied.

When I mentioned the ommission of OCF-12 to Mr. Metson, he produced a spectacular slip-and-slide. Lies, too, that this was the first time he had heard about my difficulties. (Well, hello, dear! Why on earth did I have the call escalated, why did I complain to you about Ms Choksi and her comments if there was no problem?)

But the best was yet to come. When I mentioned to Metson that my doctor would be performing a motor vehicle assessment, covered by the insurer, Metson replied vehemently: "We're not paying for that!"

"They have to. By law," Dr. Patel said when I mentioned the incident.

Is it any wonder that veterans and others experience difficulties, having their stress disorders recognized seriously?
They need a Russian angel — and a doctor Patel. They also need to know their rights with, say, insurers, information kept close to the vest by the Financial Services Commission of Ontario. Who even knew they existed to protect the interests of — whom?

Do the guidelines produced by the FSCO have teeth? Or has this organization been created to protect members — financial service companies who pay the FSCO a fee?

Things to ponder.

For now, I'm in good medical hands — at last. A preliminary motor vehicle assessment by Dr. Patel showed some dysfunction. He requested a CAT scan, among other items. All the while, my Russian angel filled out more insurance forms, which continue to confuse me.

"They do that on purpose," Dr. Patel explained.

That's the compensation you get for the hefty premiums you pay the insurer on a monthly basis. Swell.

Sisyphus from my sliding-door window

Ordinarily, it's a hum-drum view. Not much breaks up the monotony of shingled rooftops in this not-so-new development of north London, Ontario. So when my neighbour popped up against darkening skies, I was marginally curious. More so, because I'd never seen him before. All of a sudden, there he was, balanced on the rung of an aluminum ladder. He had propped it up against his garden shed, next to the wooden fence between us. With his forearm resting on a checkered cloth on old shingles, he jiggled the antenna of his satellite dish. Not without some help from an unseen family member, below. In a guttural Arabic, the men communicated while my neighbour kept fiddling with his Digiwave. I didn't need a translation. For my neighbour had morphed into Sisyphus. Or so it seemed to me.

I dashed for my camera. Long lens — check — before I hurried back to capture the moment. I quietly pressed the shutter. Gotcha.

Only the image resembles the myth. For there is no connection between the condemnation of the ancient king of Corinth by the gods of the Underworld, and a man who tries to gain better reception from his satellite dish. Unless you add the condemnation from the king's neighbor, the peasant with a camera, whose view has been damned by a god-awful contraption.

The shadows protect the identity of the subject. They also reflect my dark sentiments on the dish. At least, for another five years. By then, the pyramidal cedars I planted last fall will start blocking Sisyphus' satellite from my view. And when those cedars have reached their maximum 17-foot height, by Zeus, the gods will smile. For their victim will be forced to climb Mount Olympus, or the garden shed, to move that boulder. Again and again. In the eternal pursuit of a microwave.

Mythological justice served.

Argentina's Fritzl

Nineteen years. That's how long it took the authorities in Mendoza, Argentina to fully investigate the more than 20 anonymous reports of sexual abuse, committed by Armando Lucero, 67.

The victim: his daughter. Now 35, she was violated, beginning at age 8. Tormented, sometimes at gun point, she was not deprived of her liberty, unlike Elisabeth Fritzl of Amstetten, Austria. But she was psychologically controlled, even in the clinic, where she delivered her seven offspring, now ages 2, 6, 11, 12, 16, 17 and 19. After every delivery, she was discharged as a "single mother" with her new baby whose father was "unknown."

The unemployed Lucero maintained a front as a good citizen in his community. He would even go the children's school to pick them up. While on the homefront, he would threaten to take them away. As a result of this climate of terror, his daughter would do little all day except watch television. She slept in the kitchen on a mattress, where it is thought that many of the violations took place. Today, she has the developmental age of a 12 year old, according to her older brother, now 37.

His sister is one of six children born to Lucero's concubine, now 56, a local justice official who chose to remain silent for 27 years. That silence broke on May 8, when after delicate talks by authorities, the justice official and her abused daughter testified against Lucero.

Years earlier, other family members had reported the sexual abuse to authorities. But each time, when social workers would arrive at the family home, they were met at the front door by the justice official, who said "nothing was going on," and that "everything was normal," according to the victim's older brother. It was this older brother who met with two legislators in the presence of three local journalists, two months ago. Their discussions added weight to the enquiry that was already underway. It was ordered by Family Court after a teacher heard a suspicious comment from one of the children, fathered by Lucero.

A confirmation followed. On May 27, results matched Lucero's DNA with all seven of the children he had with his daughter.

In all, Lucero fathered 22 children: eight with his wife, six with his concubine and seven with his daughter. He now awaits trial on charges of "sexual abuse with carnal access, aggravated by an undetermined number of times." He could serve up to 50 years in jail. His concubine, the justice official, could also face charges. For now, she is cooperating as a witness.

One person is not surprised by the unfolding drama: the woman who married Lucero when she was 13 years old. Fruit of that union were eight offspring in 10 years. But unlike the justice official, Lucero's wife was alert. "When the children were getting older, he began to approach them in a manner I did not like," she said. "I did not like how he touched them. Also he was too violent with me."

Back in the mid-1960s, Lucero worked in the city's Hotel Plaza, "But he left that job and gave it to me, I think so that he could stay longer with the children," she said. "Then I threw him out of the house. He left, leaving me with eight children, alone. I always had the sensation that he abused some of them but I could not prove it. I lost his trail until one of his sons, who he had with his new partner, appeared not long ago."

That son believes his father is ill and unaware of the damage he has caused — even to other daughters. Now living in Spain and Buenos Aires, they "were also abused by him, but were able to escape," said the son.

Lucero, too, was able to escape. When neighbours suspected that something was not right, the Lucero family would simply move to another part of the city. Thus, Armando Lucero kept hiding his dark side. He even tried hiding on the day of his arrest, when he was handcuffed and hunched over with a jacket over his head. To a peppering of questions from the press, he answered, "Yes, yes, I repent...of course...I don't want to live any longer...forgive me, forgive me for everything."

The funny thing about psychopaths is that when they're cornered, without any other means of escape, they know. They know they've done wrong. They know they have bullied. They know they have damaged. But up to that point, they are masters of evasion.

One wonders then, how many other Josef Fritzl's and Armando Lucero's go undetected? How many others keep perpetrating abuse under the blind spot of an enabling partner?

Those questions are far too complex for Lucero's new neighbours: the inmates of the Mendoza penitentiary. During recess, when Armando Lucero was brought in and placed in solitary confinement, the prisoners furiously yelled, "Hand him over to us! Hand him over to us!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With thanks to Clarín, Urgente24, La Voz, TL9, the BBC, Telegraph and Guanabee.

Crossing the Rubicon

Even if you drive a jalopy on the digital highway, you can still embrace an aspect of new media. The journey may be nerve-wracking, but keep in mind four guidelines. One, if you can dream it, it is likely possible. Two, there's more than one way to reach your destination. Three, you may need to test some bumpy freewares before you find the one that's best for you. Four, it's going to take time to sort things out.

Take this example. You've recorded a presentation and created a digital audio file — a feat in itself. Now you want to post it to the Web. What do you do?

Blogger, for one, only accepts image and/or video files, no stand-alone audio files. How are you going to get around this barrier? Simple. You combine audio with just one image to make a video file.

But, say, that mock video file is too large for Blogger, which has its limits. Whatcha gonna do? Well, you upload the heavyweight to an external site. That site, in turn, will generate a URL, which when posted and hyperlinked on Blogger, can be accessed by viewers. Voilà!

It is a circuitous solution, to be sure. And it's only partial. For next, you have to find a hassle-free software, plus an external site to make it all happen. The road can get bumpy.

At least, that was my experience. Exasperated, I was ready to throw in the towel, when all of a sudden, I received some help from a bedroom in Scandinavia. No, no. It was not Sven with his massage oils, you naughty reader. But rather, a boy presenting a how-to on his computer. As a videocam tracked the cursor on his monitor, "spikensbror" patiently showed us how to synch an image to a sound file, then upload the results. His presentation on YouTube made it look so easy. At last, I could solve my problem! I followed spikensbror's example, not before downloading the freeware Movie Maker for my Windows XP. In the process, I jumped another hurdle in the field of new media.

Care to have an overview of that hot field? How about making money from it? Dawn Boshcoff of BOSHmedia and president of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (Toronto chapter) discusses some good stuff here and here. And who do you think put together those photo-audio files of the presentation? Yep, the former jalopy driver that's me. There's no turning back now. I dumped the old clunker. Though the Maserati is a stretch — for now.

Waay before podcasting

Audio recordings have come a long way since my first exposure to this medium. Back in 1957, my dad tried to figure out how to operate the buttons and reels of a portable apparatus the size of two breadboxes. When he had mastered the basics, my Mom called us children to gather round. Then she asked each one of us, in turn, to speak into the microphone and tell a favourite story, or sing a song we had learned. I was eight, my brother was six, and my sister was three.

It was a time of innocence in Caracas. And not. For Venezuela was under the dictatorship of General Marcos Pérez Jiménez. Unbeknownst to us and most others, that iron-fisted rule was about to crumble.

After a military coup on January 23, 1958, Pérez Jiménez fled Caracas with an estimated $250 million, or one half the national treasury. You'd think everyone would be jubilant. Not quite. Some saw in P.J. the strong arm the country needed. And in fairness, he did more for economic growth, as well as for law and order, than did all the subsequent governing bodies. That was the good side.

After the ouster, the commander of the country's navy, Wolfgang Larrazábal, took charge in an interim government. No one knew what lay ahead. Immigrants were apprehensive. They had arrived in droves when a war-ravaged Europe could only offer chaos. With well-compensated sweat, the immigrants helped build massive projects that positioned the oil-dependent nation as the most modern in Latin America. At least for a few decades.

The majority of Venezuelans saw the flight of Peréz Jiménez as a cleansing. There had been too many years of brutish undercurrents from his police force, the dreaded National Security, dubbed Gestapo. With the change in government, hope that civic freedoms, including free speech, was restored. The widespread torture of political prisoners had ended.

As the drone of military planes over valley skies died down that afternoon, my dad wanted his sentiments known. He invited his brother-in-law to come over, even though my uncle Pedro Pablo Benedetti was more interested in business than politics. After a drink to celebrate the occasion, the two men set up the recorder for that moment in history. But only my dad took the mike. That he had an audience of one was a plus.

The audio recording remains to this day. In it, my dad revs up his political oratory to a feverish pitch, when all of a sudden, you hear two little words in the backround: "Ah pué." Translated loosely that would be, "Oh, brother." You'd think my uncle's phrase would help keep things in perspective. But oh no. Henrique Hedderich Arismendi had a visceral need to vent. He'd been victimized for too long by governments known more for the rule of thugs than the rule of law. Jailed, even, for voicing a youthful opinion on democracy. It was the dawn of a new age and he wanted that known. For posterity. Even if just for an audience of one.

Play it forward — credibly

Enough with the confusion! As a cautious adopter of new technology, I have a bunch of questions. Some get answered on the Web. Other questions get the red-carpet treatment. Meaning, they get posed to tech-savvy people I know and trust. As a result, the answers are generally accurate and normally realiable.

Can you say that about answers you find on hobby forums or social marketplaces, online? I can't. That's why I stay away — for now — from the likes of Facebook and Twitter. My reasons are simple. I like the personal. I prefer not being misinformed by those with shallow knowledge. And I believe that knowing the person, or being referred to a source you can trust, ensures better information. At worst, there are checks and balances. Call me old school.

Here's a for instance. Recently, I was frustrated. After offering a photographer-friend some post-processing on a large image, I realized I was missing a key component: how to transfer that file, back and forth, online. Sending the image of 12 megabytes by email was out of the question; it was too large. And using a file transfer protocol for uploading the file was impractical. Reason being, my FTP experience is limited, my friend didn't mention her familiarity with the protocol, and my website plan provides me with only so much space.

Was there some external storage we could each access upon registering? I searched for clues on forums related to photography. Nada. The professional ones didn't address the issue; the popular ones were full of wild goose chases from wannabes, wishing to sound well-informed. Nor was Google helpful when I inputted logical key words. Perhaps I wasn't logical enough.

Something had to be out there. But what? And where? I scratched my head some more, when ... Bing! The light bulb went off. Certain I'd get, not just any old answer, but the straight goods, I emailed a friend who teaches at RMIT University in Melbourne, Australia.

Ric Lombardo answered: "I haven't had much experience with it but a very clever IT student I met at the university union this morning, where I pick up my newspaper, told me that this [Megaupload] would be ideal for you. If you go into the site and click on the FAQ area you'll find the following information ..."

It was a timely response. With intellectual honesty, Lombardo disclosed the limits of his experience. He was able to source with precision a good answer. And he went beyond the call by pointing to FAQs related to my needs. That's quality information. No pretense. No bull. Just the goods. Right in my mailbox. Try getting that from anonymous posters on the web, hiding behind their avatars.

Consider, too: In less than 48 hours, the information from an Australian in Melbourne spanned 15 time zones, covered over 10,000 miles, and hit the nail on the head. That's a remarkable transformation in the sharing of knowledge. Yet, some things never change. Without credibility from the source, information is, and will always be, useless. The opposite is a win-win-win. For the provider, for the medium, and for the recipient — multiplied when played forward.

That's worth more to me than a 1000 'friends' on Facebook. Now go ahead. Burn me on the stake for heresy.

Allied forces

Normally, dim circumstances are just that: dim. But one had a silver lining.

It happened during rush-hour traffic in north Toronto on a rainy night, last November. A public transit bus entered the centre lane from the median and stopped on a diagonal ahead of me. Not before the bus had scraped the driver's side of my car then with full impact, crashed into my front-wheel well.

Before I knew it, a revolving light swirled too-brightly in my rear-view mirror. I recognized a tow-truck and wondered what it was doing there.

Hearing a 'tap-tap' to my left, I rolled down the window as freezing raindrops slid in.

"Are you OK?" asked the bus driver in rain gear.

I told him I thought so.

"You know, I have the right of way," he added buoyantly before returning to his bus, diagonally ahead. I was puzzled.

Hearing another tap-tap, I again rolled down the window.

"Are you OK?" asked the tow-truck driver.

"I think so," I replied.

Ahead, passengers stepped off the bus. None appeared visibly injured. They were being shepherded by the bus driver to the side of the road, where another city bus had stopped to take them further on their journey.

Two hours passed. No reporting police were in sight. By then, I realized I had a companion: my camera. I normally don't travel with one over short distances. But I did that night for a light assignment the following day.

The camera was a soother. Using the dashboard as support, I began to shoot with a slow shutter speed. How ironic, I thought. The ad on the back of the bus read: "Minimize road rage." Was there a connection? I continued to click objectively as though I were documenting something interesting, as though the incident had not happened to me.

I should have been more aggressive. I should have gotten out and used multiple points of view. But my door wouldn't budge, it was cold and rainy, and I was too rattled to function normally.

Another two hours passed. I slid across to the passenger door, got out, and informed the tow truck driver that I was going to the bathroom at a Tim Horton's coffee shop across the street.

Returning to the scene of the accident, I saw the reporting police. Four and a half hours after the incident. Two young women in police uniform were speaking to the bus driver and a supervisor-come-lately from the transit company. The foursome talked a good while. I sensed my goose was cooking.

Tap-tap. Again I rolled down the rain-streaked window.

"So what happened?" asked the policewoman with an attitude as brittle as her chewed-off French manicure.

"The bus barrelled down the median before it switched lanes and hit me," I replied.

"Oh, REAL-ly?" she asked in forced disbelief.

Could she not see the obvious positioning of the vehicles? My anxiety grew. Was I being used as a scapegoat for the transit company? My suspicion gained ground. At the end of her procedure, the policewoman charged me for careless driving.

"You're at fault," she said with gusto.

Staff members of my auto insurance company were more thorough. So was their associate who came by my home to take a sworn statement. But the real angel was the tow-truck driver. Glen Witney of GW Towing had not witnessed the accident. But arriving within five minutes, he recognized the meaning behind the position of the vehicles after impact. It was a reality the policewoman chose to overlook.

"My job doesn't end with the accident," Witney informed me. True to his word, he provided testimony to the auto insurer. It bolstered the photographs and drawing I had submitted to the Claims Adjustor.

It took four months to process the claim. In the end, the insurer informed me that I was "not responsible for the incident as per the Fault Determination Rule 10.4." * My deductible was refunded.

Why didn't the policewoman know the rules of the road?

The trial for my "careless driving" is set for November 2, 2009. As partial evidence, I will enlarge the photographs of the scene, grateful again to a staunch ally: my camera. Consider keeping one in your glove compartment. It could be your only bright prospect.



* Revised Regulations of Ontario 1990, Reg. 668

Barbie's back

Barbie's 50. And she's still turning heads. Even mine as I arrived at a neighbourhood park last Sunday. Above, four Barbie kites fluttered in the clear blue sky as tweens, below, tugged the lines.

Mattel introduced its teenage fashion model at the New York Toy Fair on March 9, 1959. Ever since, Barbie has continued to "inspire several generations of girls to dream, discover and explore a world without limits — all without ever leaving home."

Has Barbie done that much for girls? I decided it was time for a straw poll and some word associations.

"Perfect body, perfect hair and perfect face," says Toronto teenager Cindy Glorioso, when she remembers what Barbie meant to her. From the age of two until she was 10, Glorioso collected 30 Barbies and 20 outfits. Most of them were given away in recent years, except for three Collector Barbies that were gifts from an aunt. Her mother, Irene, who never played with Barbie, recognizes their investment potential.

Memories of the plastic doll are mixed for 50-something Alison Rowe from Ottawa. Growing up in Caracas, Venezuela, she wanted a Barbie because two of her grade-school friends, both Americans, had the "it" girl.

"I was so excited as I opened the long, narrow box," Rowe recalls. But her heart sank when she saw the "ugly" brunette with side-glancing eyes and a bee-hive hairdo. A Barbie clone.

It got worse. Young friends were setting up their Barbies, accessories and "gobs of outfits, including a queen-like costume and a wedding dress," Rowe recalls. Whereas, she arrived for the play date with a brown paper bag from the local supermarket. It held her one Barbie and two dresses — one of which she made herself in sewing class.

“Just pitiful,” Rowe remembers. It was impossible to keep up. For one, American imports were costly. For another, her mother did not encourage her to play with a voluptuous doll. As a result, Rowe's earlier fascination hit the dust. Did Barbie care? Not at all. At the house of more adoring fans, she simply drove off in a red convertible with her boyfriend, Ken, and her BFF - Best Friend Forever – Midge.

Barbie's 50th anniversary has inspired more than just girls "to dream." The occasion marks a publicity blitz that is sure to increase sales. Shareholders could use the relief from that result. In 2008, the company lost 58 per cent of net income from a four-year high of $600 million U.S. in 2007.

Will the company generate strong sales beyond 2009? The Barbie timeline would indicate 'yes!' Mattel has proven to be a formidable marketer of its flagship product, ably responding to trends, even ahead of time. Witness Miss Astronaut Barbie in 1965 and Barbie for President in 2000.

Nationally and internationally, there are many more markets for Barbie, even though she does not always appeal to the buyers. Some mothers view the doll as a hook, creating a need to buy even more products and accessories.

"It's a bottomless pit," says Rowe. "Even if I could have afforded it, I wouldn't have indulged my daughter. I view Barbie as a meat market — giving girls the wrong impression."

No matter what your opinions are on the world-famous doll, one thing is certain: Mattel can sure think outside the long, narrow box.

No broccoli ... yet!

I confess.

Long after posting, I may tweak one phrase or another before republishing. That makes me wonder: Is there a rule in blogdom that stipulates commitment to a post once published? If so, I plead the low-readership defence. Turns out, I have an audience of ten. One of those readers is me. And I'm not complaining.

I'm also the push-button publisher of this blog called Exploro. That's kinda like saying I can do what I want. Kinda like what George H.W. Bush, the father of W., did with broccoli. Remember the foot-in-the-mouth comments from Bush Senior? I liked this one the best:

"I do not like broccoli and I haven’t liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I’m President of the United States and I’m not going to eat any more broccoli. Now look, this is the last statement I’m going to have on broccoli. There are truckloads of broccoli at this very minute descending on Washington. My family is divided. For the broccoli vote out there: Barbara loves broccoli. She has tried to make me eat it. She eats it all the time herself. So she can go out and meet the caravan of broccoli that’s coming in."

--George Herbert Walker Bush (March 22, 1990)

For bloggers who respect the rules of traditional publishing, who never change what they've posted after the fact, well! I take my hat off. But I can't commit myself to pushing that button just once. At least, not without the option of editing - after the fact.

My position could change. Forcibly.

I suspect if I ever join Facebook for viral marketing and hordes of unknown friends, this blog might become better known.

"Hey, whatcha doin', changing things on us?" might be the feedback from my new FF (Facebook Friend) in Mumbai, followed by a Greek chorus in related time zones. All the while, I would be fast asleep as other FFs around the world agreed, ganging up on me.

Shamed by the market, I'd have to tow a more traditional line. I'd have to commit to a post once published. I might even have to start eating broccoli for breakfast. Let's hope that day doesn't come anytime soon.

Vuongs v. St. Joe's

The Vuongs* have faced monumental challenges, before.

They've ploughed through mud up to their shoulders. And they've ducked the beams from search lights that scanned the dark shores of the Mekong Delta.

It was 1990. And crouched in the reeds was a dory, waiting to take the young couple to a small fishing boat, farther out. Both vessels would be overloaded. But not as badly as other boats that sunk from greater weight. Their passengers were so desperate to leave communist Vietnam, they gambled all. And they lost.

With Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon, a receding memory, the small fishing boat chugged across the South China Sea. By day two, with adrenalin still flowing in their systems, the passengers were subsisting on the small packets of dried food they had been allowed to bring. Water was forbidden; it was too heavy. Dehydration was a short-term risk for those who wanted a better future. In freedom. Under the rule of law.

During their stay in a camp for displaced persons in Indonesia, the Vuongs received sponsorship from Canada. It was a welcomed relief. They arrived in London, Ontario during a blast of winter. But no matter. They knew they would make it. They felt safe, at last. Until they experienced a crushing blow the following year. Their first-born, Danny, sustained irreparable damage while in the birth canal. It resulted from simple negligence, attributed to an attending nurse at St. Joseph's Health Care in London.

Today, Danny Vuong is 17 years old. He is utterly unable to defend himself.

Chris Beckett of Ledroit Beckett in London has represented the Vuongs during the past eight years. He was building their case for the five-week trial that began in mid-January, 2009.

Deb Berlach of Stieber Berlach in Toronto, represented St. Joseph’s Health Care, which had hired the nurse whose actions were in question.

The Superior Courtroom at London’s Court of Justice is dominated by a large coat of arms, hanging high from the wood-panelled wall, behind the Judge’s seat. On the insignia, a golden lion and a white unicorn flank a blue shield. It is circled by a belt with the words "Honi soit qui mal y pense" (evil to him who evil thinks), and a gold buckle to remind us of the royal Order of the Garter. At the base, lie the words "Dieu et mon droit" (God and my Law). The coat of arms provides one of the only sources of colour, other than the sash that cuts a red diagonal from the judge's shoulder, and his badge of gold and red. All else is a sombre sea of black gowns and white collars and tabs, hovering over tables of paper-white documents, stacked in columns.

The Honourable Justice Wolfram Tausendfreund listened intently as the wheels of justice ground over the gnarled terrain of medical detail. To bolster each side of the case, Beckett and Berlach had plucked their expert witnesses among nurses, obstetricians and pediatric specialists. Each witness underwent examination before coming in the crosshairs of the opposing litigator. Through discovery, clarity was distilled from the complexities. It was a journey of significance.

Prior to his elegant closing statement, Justice Tausendfreund mentioned to counsel that he would read the legal submissions this summer. Suspecting his decision in the fall, I hope justice prevails. For Danny’s sake.


* Of Chinese heritage, the name Vuong is pronounced Wuang, but it has used Vietnamese spelling since the elders fled communism in China for Vietnam. Little did they realize that their adopted homeland would also topple, decades later.

Organ donation redux

Organ and tissue donation needs more publicity than my blogging efforts. So imagine my surprise when I came across a related ad in, of all places, the weathernetwork.com.

It goes like this. Ontario has instituted new rules on organ and tissue donation. If you marked "Yes" to the question of whether you wish to donate your tissue or organs, your answer will be stored in the database of the Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP). And it will be forwarded, at an appropriate time, to the Trillium Gift of Life Network (TGLN), Ontario's provincial organ donation agency. If, on the other hand, you recorded "No" or "Undecided", neither of these answers will be disclosed to the TGLN.

These steps point to a greater organization in organ and tissue donation. They also remind us of how important it is to tell loved ones of our wishes. If we don't, those who advocate on our behalf can't convey the necessary information to health professionals at "the relevant time". Meaning, at or near the end of our life.

There may be no guarantee for interpreting our exact wishes at "the relevant time". We are evolving. By millimeters.

Operation Valkyrie

There's something odd about a movie critic who plays the public moralist without the tools of research. Likewise with the screenplay of Valkyrie, a movie that packs into two hours more action than attention to detail.

It's been over 63 years since the end of the Second World War on the European front. But that doesn't stop the less well read from labeling any German with a uniform as an evil Nazi. For them, Valkyrie is confusing.


I'd like to help these poor souls with a reality check. The Wehrmacht, or German armed forces, and the SS were two separate organizations with different philosophies and separate aims. The soldiers in the Wehrmacht were like any, in any army, anywhere. They were sworn to follow orders through an established chain of command, headed by Hitler in 1934 upon the death of Paul von Hindenburg. The SS, on the other hand, were a much newer organization. They were not officially part of the Wehrmacht, but rather, recruited to enforce Hitler's police state -- by whatever thuggish means. Both uniforms were different, the Wehrmacht's being free of the intimidating symbols preferred by the SS.

The lines of duty in both organizations intersected periodically during the War. And likely, there were Hitlerian zealots in the Wehrmacht, as there might have been the odd SS officer with a crisis of conscience. But generally, the perception - from my readings and from my 92 year old neighbour, once a lieutenant in the Polish army - was that the Wehrmacht did not inspire the fear and horror that did the SS. In fact, near the end of the War, the SS "exercised dominance over the Army to eliminate perceived threats to Hitler's power."

This attempt to clarify will not make a difference for the movie critic from Foxnews. Poor Roger Friedman so wants to see evil in all officers of the German army that he wonders if Bryan Singer's Valkyrie is the start of films based on Nazi apologia.


Film critic Manohla Dargis from the New York Times seems puzzled that "there are no discernibly nasty Nazis in 'Valkyrie'." For her, count Claus von Stauffenberg was an enigma of history. And she concludes that the conspirators against Hitler failed because, in the words of an earlier journalist, William L. Shirer, they were "terribly late." Evidently, neither Mr Shirer nor Ms Dargis is aware that there were multiple attempts on Hitler's life. In fact, had Ms Dargis dug a little further (a simple google on dissent + Third Reich would have done it), she would have found more scholarly research. In Popular Opinion and Political Dissent in the Third Reich, historian Ian Kershaw makes clear that there was nothing belated about the German reaction against Hitler. From 1938, 15 known attempts were carried out against the Führer's life. All failed.


Perhaps the film review that most coincided with my opinion was that of Kirk Honeycutt in the Hollywood Reporter. I, too, found the film too hurried for one of historical significance. As a result, viewers of Valkyrie have a slick tale that makes for exciting watching, but not for thoughful digestion.


Accompanying these observations are photos I took in April, 2008 when I visited the bombed ruins of Hitler's miltary headquarters in Poland. Wolfsschanze, also known as Wolf's Lair, or Wilczy Szaniec in Polish, lies deep in the Mazurian forests. It's about half an hour's bus ride east of the large town of Kętrzyn, or what used to be called Rastenburg when the region was part of East Prussia.


View Larger Map

It was here, on a hot July 20, 1944, that Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg detonated a bomb intended for Adolf Hitler. When it went off, von Stauffenberg fled to the nearby airstrip; the waiting airplane took him to Berlin. He was convinced that he had killed Hitler. But such was not the case. Inadvertently, the leg of an oak table came between the bomb and the Führer, merely disoriented him for awhile. As a result, almost ten more months would pass until the German Reich capitulated. And millions more civilians would be sacrificed, among them, Jews and non-Jews alike.


But getting back to the movie... I loved director Bryan Singer's use of film from the era that provided subdued tones. The palette was intriguing in this day and age of more saturated colours. What puzzled me was the choice of Tom Cruise in the lead. What were they thinking? Since when does body language that screams G.I. Joe evoke the spirit of an überaristocratic colonel from a bygone era?

Post datum

On the heels of my collision with a bus from the Toronto Transit Commission, comes the news that a bus driver broadsided an SUV, killing its driver.

Evidently, I was luckier than that SUV driver. I also wondered who was to blame for the accident. How fast was the TTC bus traveling? Are the police and bus company using drivers of smaller vehicles as a scapegoat? What is the safety record of the TTC - exactly?

My doubts have their reasons.

For one, barely any detail on the SUV driver surfaced in the press. For another, I found it surprising that a police sergeant would construct - for public consumption - an a priori possibility of error on the part of the SUV driver.

A spokesman for the TTC sent condolences to the victim's family and friends, before he said: "The TTC is one of safest transit systems in the world." He added, "With 1,700 buses on the streets every day, from time to time there are collisions... usually very minor, but not in this case."

I thought back to my collision with the TTC last month. Back to the arrival of a representative from the bus company to the scene of the accident. The rep parked in front of the bus until the police arrived. And when the police did arrive, they spoke first to both the bus driver and his company's representative. I, alone, was the more expendable party, reflecting a little-known dictum, "ageism and sexism are alive and well on the road."

Was that the reason the police entered the data from the transport company in second position on the accident report, saving my subsequent data for the first position, even before I gave my testimony? The first position indicates at fault, for insurance and other purposes. Never mind the euphemisms.

So I wondered, was the SUV driver, too, more expendable? It would seem that way. Counselling services were provided to the bus driver. But there was no mention of any offering to the family of the deceased.

Right of way?

It was a cold and rainy night. After medical appointments in Toronto, I headed north. But not before I went down my old avenue, where I lived for 12 years before moving away this past August.

Turning onto Yonge Street, I found the remnants of rush hour. With my left blinker on, I gingerly changed lanes. From first to second. The visibility was so poor, I even rolled down the window to check my blind spot, besides using rear and side-view mirrors. I went from second to third or centre lane. And with each move, I saw no obstruction. Nearly completing total entry into the centre lane ... BAM! I got sideswiped by a public transport bus coming in from the left-turn lane. It scraped across my driver's door, knocked off my side mirror, blew out my front tire, crunched the rim, and strongly dented the area above the wheel well.

I didn't know the extent of the damages. I blanked out the worst of them. That's why I was surprised to see, moments later, revolving lights in my rear view mirror. They hurt my eyes. And when I realized they were from a tow truck, parked behind me, I wondered, why do I need a tow truck. Its driver knocked at my window. I rolled it down as the man asked, "Are you all right?"

"I think so," I replied.

Then the bus driver in rain gear came up to my window. All I could think of was to say, "You were driving awfully fast." He replied: "I have the right of way."

I was puzzled as he walked away, back to his bus.

About an hour or so later, a very decent policeman knocked on my window to tell me that there had been many accidents that night, that it might take longer for the reporting police to arrive. He helped the bus driver shepherd the passengers off the bus. They walked across the street, where another bus took them to their destination.

A white TTC car arrived and parked in front of the bus. A short female in what appeared to be a uniform raincoat got out. She and the bus driver began talking. I wondered if she was there to bolster the bus driver's morale. Or defence.

About five hours had passed. I remembered I had my camera. And though I was too shaken to aggressively document, I took it out to capture the views from my front windshield, using the dashboard as a tripod. The exercise calmed me.

I tried to get out, but the driver's door was blocked from the force of impact. So I squeezing over the cup holders between the bucket seats, and opened the door on the passenger's side. Once out, I surveyed the scene of the accident, noticing that the bus still had a good chunk of its back end in the median lane. The bus driver had stopped on a diagonal in front of me, almost as though he were cutting me off.

I went up to the tow truck driver and asked what he thought. He confirmed my view, which gave me some relief that I was not at fault.

Another two hours went by. I crossed Yonge Street to go to the bathroom at a Tim Horton's coffee shop. By the time I returned, the reporting police had finally arrived - about five hours after the accident. A female cop was talking to the bus driver and the woman in a TTC uniform. Something told me I was being set up as a scapegoat.

My suspicions gained ground. The young female cop asked me briefly what happened as she handled my documents with remnants of a French manicure on half-bitten nails. When I mentioned that the bus barrelled down the median lane, she retorted, "Oh, really?" I was stunned by her attitude.

She returned to the cruiser. I approached its driver's window as she was writing my data in D1. Meaning, the first position for drivers on the police accident report.

That choice by the police is critical. For whomever is placed in first position on the accident report, will see a rise in their insurance premium. So much for the euphemism of "No fault".

How do I know this? I used to deal with regulatory issues surrounding financial institutions, among them, the Insurance Bureau of Canada. They're the overseers for property and casualty companies. And it was through Alex Kennedy, then the legal assessor at the IBC, that I came across this little-known nugget.

Most times, the position of drivers on an accident report, as designated by the police, is legitimate and according to the rules of the road. But sometimes the choice is questionable. Take the following case.

Around 1995, I was involved in a hit-and-run accident. A large truck was barreling down the median lane to avoid rush-hour traffic on a Friday afternoon. The driver didn't see me stationed in the median, patiently waiting for a good moment to enter the traffic stream. He hit me - hard - totalling the front of the car. Then sped away. I was stunned. Fortunately it was just after 5 p.m. on a summer day. As a result, angels were more visible. Three came up to my car window to offer me their business card. Each had jotted down the number of the licence plate of the truck that had taken off after impact. There are good people out there.

When the police officer arrived, he invited me into his car while he wrote up the accident report. Asking me for information, I produced it, along with the number of the license plate, as given to me by three witnesses. What happened next stunned me again. The officer was putting me in D1.

Angrily, I asked him why he was putting me in first position on the accident report. I also reminded him of the three witnesses who had given me the licence plate number of the truck driver who had sped off. The officer was annoyed. But I wouldn't budge. He called uncle; put me in the second position on the accident report.

As a result, my premiums were unaffected. The fault was with the independent truck driver.

Months later, the issue was settled in court. In the hallway, that same police officer came up to me, and told me: "Drive more carefully, next time."

Whoa. Did I cause him to lose a commission, perhaps? Inquiring minds would love to know.

But I digress. Getting back to the accident the night of November 24th, it seemed as though the officer who wrote up the report disregarded the positioning of bus to my impacted car. So I wondered: what was behind her decision to place me in first position? And why did she tell me, brutally: "You're at fault; you're in D1. Now, drive more carefully, next time"?

There was no time for answers — then — as the tow truck hoisted my car.


I can only hope the insurance company is fair in assessing fault. They have the photographic images, and they have the contact particulars for the tow truck driver — my only witness. In the meantime, I'm trying to get over the mental muddle I've been in.

Should problems persist, however, I'll consider legal assistance. It's unfortunate that one cannot rely on the police to properly interpret certain rights. After all, there are cops out there that protect the rights of some more than others.

In the meantime, I can only offer a simple moral: Don't drive without a camera in the glove compartment of your car. It might be your only witness. If you don't die first.

Then came winter

Summer had just begun. And with it, the realization that it was time. Time to walk the thought. Time to wrap up my 25 years in Toronto. For the next three months, I scouted for a new home. And on the brink of fall, I moved to the other London. The one between Toronto and Detroit. It was a decision I did not regret. Much.

About one eighth of the size of where I used to live, "Forest City" offers all the urban amenities. Yet its pace reflects the agricultural region that surrounds it. For that reason, some folks say London is nothing more than a town stuck in a cornfield. If so, bring on the corn, I say.

I welcome the peace of mind. And I welcome the more limited congestion and crime. That's why I easily picked up the slower rhythm, alternating between the grasshopper and the ant. Enjoying my new home, I also prepared it for winter. Except my timing was off. By the third week in November, a snow storm hit. Again. Dat dawned gwasshoppew.

"After all, we're in the snow belt," my neighbour explained. He was being kind. Kinder still when we struck up a quid pro quo. He would snowblow my driveway if I supplied the gas for the machine, and any repairs that might arise. An unbeatable win-win. And a lucky break. Somehow, I never considered winter as a major factor when I moved to London.

Now snowbound, I look for compensations, for I won't return to Toronto's milder winters. Not for me, the volume of brown slush clogging city drains after a light snowstorm. Not for me, its aggressive drivers and traffic wearing thin a monk's patience. Let me have gobs of the white stuff, instead. And with it, I'll take the change in scenery. Serene. And accessible. If you have a snowblower.

The snow belt has a peculiar charm. It rewards the prepared. But like all charms, there's an expiry date. Meaning, by February, Mexico may appeal a whole lot more. Until then, I'm looking for my skis — the ones for cross-country. Doing a winter sport is supposed to make the season more bearable. Vamos a ver. We'll see.

Fighting God

The road of life can be long. But not for everyone. Nor for a young member of my family.

Caracas-born Pierre Paul Pacannins B. died on September 29th at Children's Hospital in Boston. In his twelve and a half years, he fought the Great Battle. Over and over again. Enduring eleven heart surgeries from the age of seven months, Pierre displayed more bravery than do most adults in their lifetime. His resilience, I'm sure, came from the love and support from his family. They did everything possible to find him the best tools to help him along the way. Contributing, too, were the many friends he made in and out of school.

So wanting to keep his oar in the Sea of Life, Pierre followed doctor's orders to a ' T '. Measuring daily output? No problem. Eliminating salt? Fine. Restoring it in minute quantities? That, too. The only complaint his grandmother Anita Chapellín de Benedetti ever heard from him was while the family waited for a new heart.

Inspired by hope, Pierre drew a picture. In it, he compared his wished-for new heart with the old one. "Not worth a damn," he said, referring to the latter. His grandmother sanitized the comment.

Time was running short. The Sword of Damocles hung over the transplant list. When a heart finally became available, Pierre was one of two candidates. But in the end, the other boy - an American - received the much needed organ, instead.

Pierre died waiting. God won.

Heart transplants are complex surgeries. Including rejection issues, they can be problematic in adults. Multiply those risks in younger patients for an idea of the courage they and their families face. More so in a world where organs are so scarce.

It doesn't need to be this way. Organ and tissue donation, as well as their administrative programs, need improvement. The world over. But change has to start from the bottom up. That means you are the key agent. You can help.

Begin by informing yourself on transplants. Check out some myths or statistics surrounding organ and tissue donation.

Find out what registration procedures are available in your area. You might google how to be an organ donor in your region. Or, call your ministry or department of health to find out about guidelines.

Next, talk about the subject with your family members and community groups. If more people start discussing this unaccustomed subject, more humanitarian gestures will follow. And medical science will benefit, while offering those in need a second chance.

Think it won't matter? Mouse over some grateful recipients to get an idea of the good you can do. Inspired? Now walk the thought. Follow through. Register.

Here's how I did it in my region — Ontario, Canada.

Knowing that every 3 days, one inhabitant from my province dies waiting for an organ transplant, I thought I'd improve the odds. I signed a Gift of Life donor card. This form is a longer version of the one that accompanies a new or renewed driver's licence.

I checked the box indicating my consent to donate any needed organs or tissue. Because even if one of my organs isn't "worth a damn," surely there must be a cornea, maybe a piece of liver that'll help someone in need. They sure won't do me any good, where I'm going. Eventually.

Signing the card with a friend who witnessed, I tucked it in my wallet with my driver's licence. I also sent the tear-off duplicate to my sister.

But then I wondered, what if I don't have the card on me as I lay unconscious, approaching the end of my life, say, as a result of an accident?

I found a better way. I registered directly with my ministry of health. If you are over 16 years old and a resident of Ontario, here's how you can, too.

Click on the registration form. Complete it. Print it. Sign it. And know that your consent as an organ donor is voluntary, that it may be changed or withdrawn at any time.

You're almost there. Now email your next of kin to inform that person of your decision, and to ask if he or she would also sign, as required, the form you will send by mail.

My sister signed and mailed the form to the Ministry of Health in the pre-addressed, stamped envelope I provided. She's good that way. And she knows I'm willing to return the favour.

A few weeks later, I heard from the Ministry of Health. They informed me that they had assigned to my health records the word "Donor" and a code that reflected my choices. The plan worked! They also sent me stickers to apply to my old health card. If I had a newer card - one with a snazzy photo, I would have received a reissue, instead.

I felt better already. I had built a bridge for the one waiting on the brink of the other side. You can, too.

If you live outside Ontario, I challenge you to find out what you have to do in your area to register as an organ donor. And I challenge you some more to take the next step. To register. To walk the talk.

Hundreds whose lives dangle by the thinnest thread depend on your actions. They will thank you. As will medical science.

And Pierre.

Posting tribulations

Ric Lombardo of a long-ago Caracas, now of Melbourne, Australia, warned me earlier this year: "Once you start a blog, you must keep it up."

"Yeah, I know," I answered, flush with excitement over my embrace of this media. I was certain I could meet the challenge. After all, didn't I have some related experience? But editing a trade quarterly for a commercial taskmaster (Touche Ross) is not the same as documenting my experiences on a blog. I wondered: Would anyone be remotely interested in my personal views?

Choosing to avoid the thoughts of zero public acclaim, I decided this blog would best reflect my development as a photographer and a writer. It would be, by and large, a private and sporadic matter.

I know this decision will disappoint the legions of my fans. To them, I would say: I'm sorry.

You were right, Ric. But oh! What I would have missed had I stuck to a blogging timetable. This year has seen positive changes with satisfying payoffs. May they be greener in future.

Poland - Part 3: What Would the Victims Want?

Millions of victims from Nazi atrocities during the Second World War are still unacknowledged in Holocaust literature. Sure, there is documentation on the subject. But it is limited and to this day, the approximate numbers of non-Jewish victims, and their stories, continue to be skirted by the media at large.

I thought of those millions who met a grisly end during the Second World War, only to be forgotten by millions more. And I wondered, "What would these forgotten have wanted?" In fact, what would all eleven million victims want today?

Would they want us to represent their voices on a segregated basis, that is, by religion, culture, race, nationality, politics, or sex?

Or would they ask us to consider them collectively through no affiliation?

Would they want us to give prominence to some orientations, but give vague or general billing to others?

Or would they ask us that we honestly account for all affiliations by number - even if approximate - when broaching the Holocaust?

These are questions that I wondered about upon my return to Toronto. Remarkably a few days later, I came across some answers.

Lise and Maurice Spagat live down the street from me. They are an exemplary couple who have been married to one another for years, and have raised a family. They are also survivors of Nazi concentration camps in Poland.

I met Lise and Maurice last June, briefly enjoying their company while I photographed an event. And I remember mentioning to Lise that I would have to go to Poland. It was absurd not to after I had written four chapters of a story, set in that country during 1942.

Eleven months later, and after my first visit to Poland, I walked down my street and chanced upon Maurice. I informed him of what I'd seen during my travels and how disturbed I was by the Nazi concentration camps.

"Some, like the leader of Iran, don't believe that the camps existed, that the atrocities ever happened," he said.

"Then they should go there," I replied.

Asking me for more details, Maurice mentioned that Lise had been interned in Stutthof. Then he unbuttoned his shirt cuff, rolled it up, and turned his wrist to show the inside of his forearm. There, was a numbered tattoo; he had been in Auschwitz.

I told Maurice that I was troubled by my experiences at Auschwitz, not only because of the worst and most systematic cruelty I have ever seen represented. But also because of the religious conflicts I sensed in evidence today. "We have learned nothing," I added before asking him, "As a survivor, if you were chosen to speak on behalf of all those who did not make it, what do you think the victims of Nazi concentration camps would want, today?"

"The truth," he replied, adding, "And to know why it took so long for the West - Britain and the United States - to do something."

Maurice is still resentful of Poles, mentioning that they did nothing. And I pointed out that that is not altogether true; that there were many Poles who risked their lives at a time when the population was threatened with death for helping. I'd like to ask Maurice for his personal experiences in this regard. I'd also like to lend him a book I picked up on a similar topic.

London Has Been Informed: Reports by Auschwitz Escapees, edited by Henryk Swiebocki, Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum (2002) mentions with proof the information relayed by the Polish Underground to the Polish Government-in-Exile in London. That information, in turn, was reported to the Governments of the Allied and Neutral Powers as early as May 1941. Unfortunately, early reports on the atrocities committed against Poles were not taken seriously. And subsequent reports on the exclusionary horrors being perpetrated on Jews were also treated in a cavalier manner by the West. That is, until 1943. Even then, it would take another year or so to finally dismantle the Nazi grip on the camps.

But back to the present...Maurice wants to see my photo essay, and while I prepare, I wonder whether my images can accurately convey all that I saw and all that I felt.

I also wonder if there is hope through dialogue. Dialogue to establish more intellectual honesty on all counts. Dialogue to gain more respect and accountability for all differences.

In the meantime, I welcome getting together again with the Spagats. I would also like to continue connecting with the many who extended their kindness to me during my visit to their countries.