What Are You Prepared To Do About Terrorism?

This article was published in the original Podium magazine on Oct 26, 2001, with the tag line, "A comparison between the September 11 terrorist attacks with experiences in Ireland." A further Editor's note was also added: this article was written and submitted on Sep. 15, 2001, just days after the Sep. 11 terror attacks on New York and Washington. Due to an email foul-up resulting from our relocation to Washington, the article was not received by The Podium until late October."

by Rodney Porter

Terrorist attacks-- killing and maiming were something I grew up with in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I became numb to it after a while, especially as a reporter. The magnitude of the incident in America is incomparable. Yet spare a thought for US action before joing the band of followers.

Firstly, the US has been involved, I claim interfered, in overseas terrorism, in Northern Ireland for years, appointing the American George Mitchell as the independent negotiator. The Clinton, Bush and Reagan administrations were also happy to get involved without invitation. When a Catholic was bombed by a Protestant, or vice versa, he appealed for discussion, encouraging talks rather than retribution or retaliation.

Yet now Bush declares retaliation will be taken on the perpetrators. How many people need to be killed in a terrorist attack for action to be taken? Two or two thousand?

Secondly, when Bush declared that terrorism would not be tolerated, did he really mean countries where votes would not be affected or the US Senate would not be irritated? How many Arab-Americans sit there compared to Irish-Americans? What about the Republican and Loyalist terrorist groups who are responsible for the deaths of men, women and children?

Will Bush help annihilate all terrorists or just those that bomb America? What about other democratic, peace loving countries? Also, remember yesterday’s terrorist, today’s president – just look to South Africa.

State funded terrorism? How many fund raising trips in America does Sinn Fein go on before people wake up? Americans are not used to terrorism on their own doorstep. America is a modern ‘Roman Empire’.

My heart is heavy, my mind is numb. For others who also lost a friend or family member in the attack, my heart goes out to you. Terrorism is not new. Many people have felt the toll of the terrorist bullet and bomb before. I have heard empty rhetoric many times and seen votes; money and power get in the way.

What are you prepared to do?

When My Father Closed His Eyes

This article was published in the original Podium magazine on August 1, 2001, with the tag line, "A young man's father dies after more than two year's battle against leukemia."

by Rodney Porter

Today is August 1, 2001. It is a month since my dad died. He had acute myeloid leukemia for two years and five months. It had been diagnosed as terminal for around six weeks.




Nevin Porter


To me, the greatest tragedy is that he was only 54 years old and regarded his retirement from the Northern Ireland civil service as the light at the end of the tunnel. He never saw it. He was never free of the shackles of his job. He was robbed in one way, much like I sometimes feel I was robbed of a father.

Finally, things are falling back into a routine again and life is starting to gain a sense of normality. But it will never be the same for anyone in my family.

I feel like I’ve joined an exclusive club, membership gained only by having a dead parent. Much like when I got divorced, I developed a circle of male friends who were also separated and divorced. We could share secrets, feelings and thoughts that we knew no one else could ever understand.

What do you say to someone whose parent dies of cancer? Sorry to hear about your loss. Never say, “I know how you feel,” unless you really do, and you never will. It is unique in its ugliness.

The journey from when my father was told the cancer was terminal to his death was not unexpected. It resulted in my brother bringing forward his wedding to September. Still, too late. I was the first person my father told since I was living in Canada. I was off work and got the call at 11 a.m. on a Friday morning. After the call, I remember buying a packet of small cigars, a six-pack of beer and a pickaxe. I then dug up my garden and landscaped it. I needed the distraction and a channel for my emotions.

Questions that raged were: How long do you have? What was the point of chemotherapy or radiotherapy? Where is your god now? What will mum do? Do I move back to the UK? None of these questions were answered.

In the weeks that followed, I planned to move back to Northern Ireland temporarily for two months for August and September. Work had made some suggestions and I intended to do off-site work part-time. It seemed like a great idea at the time. Again, these plans never materialized.

Death is something no one can prepare for. No matter how much you expect it, it’s arrival will still shock you. I was house-sitting for a friend in north Toronto when my cell phone rang on Sunday, July 1. It was a nurse calling to tell me that my dad was in hospital.

“Rodney,” said the nurse, “I’m calling from the Royal Victoria Hospital. Your dad was brought in to us last night. It’s quite serious.”

“Should I come home?” was my instant response. I remember hoping the answer would be no.

“Yes, you should,” was her reply. “Would you like to speak to your mum?”

July 1 is Canada Day. And it was a Sunday morning. Buying a ticket was a daunting mission. I got friends to help me, to call around and just find a ticket agent who was open. I eventually got hold of United Airlines who could fly me out on a 3 p.m. flight that day via Chicago and London. The ticket was $2,000, but the cost was immaterial.

Sometimes concerns about other things fall into perspective.

Like my father’s comment about derogatory remarks we had made about fat people. He turned to us and, with a frown, said he give anything to be overweight. Being so frail and thin was an outer sign of the toll of the cancer. When he was once charged a pensioner’s rate for a haircut, my 54-year-old father, a former giant of a man, realized he had been reduced to looking like a tired old man because of the cancer treatment. It hurt him along with the stares he felt people gave him.

After I booked my flight, just after 11:30 EST the phone rang. My brother’s weeping was all I needed to hear as he uttered the words, “Daddy’s closed his eyes.” I didn’t cry outwardly. My tears would come later. After I got home then I could cry. It struck hard at my chest, and then I felt numb as I waited for the taxi to the airport.

The next morning I waited for my brother to pick me up at the airport in Belfast. On the flight home I remembered every aspect of my dad’s life. He was a good man, but also a human being. He had faults, weaknesses, and a bad side just like the rest of us. But most of all, I remember the last time I saw him. It was in April when I last hugged him goodbye at the airport and we said that we loved each other.

I believe he knew he was dying even then and that he had an idea of how long he had. I believe he chose to hide it deliberately. He wanted things to be normal. He didn’t want anyone to pity him, or to change their lives because of him.

The week of the funeral was a blur. Shoveling the dirt into the grave symbolized the end. My dad was dead. His life was finally over. It was then that I understood what my mum meant when she said that it felt like he was still in the house when the open casket sat in the living room.

My mother loaned me his diaries, which were so private, and confidential that reading them was difficult. It was evident from reading the diaries that my father’s Christian faith had remained constant throughout his illness. He even talked about having testified when the medical students came to examine him, poking and prodding at the living disease they wished to study.

What would I give up or sacrifice to bring him back? Anything and nothing both come to mind. While I would love to have him back, I would not wish cancer on anyone. I also believe that he was ready. He knew that death imminent and he had accepted this.

Someone once said I was being brave. No, I am not. Quite the opposite. My approach is much like my father’s view of life. I am pragmatic and realistic. I do not have a brave face, I just have an honest one.

A lot of people think my attitude is one of denial. Yes, it hurts. I miss my father a lot but I know that he will never leave me nor forsake me. He was a big man in many ways and he was generous in sharing his life with us.

I used to read about the latest drug treatments. I used to talk with his doctors about cancer, its causes and how he was progressing. But I stopped because it did no good. It got to the point where acute myeloid leukemia was becoming bigger than my father.

Quite simply, I wanted to enjoy my dad while I still had him. When I called home each day we seldom mentioned the cancer. It bored him and it was not the leukemia I was interested in but the man. He had fought so hard. And now there was nothing left to fight for. So I adopted his approach. His condition was openly acknowledged with his numerous weekly trips up to the clinic at the hospital for transfusions and check-ups.

How did he actually die? How do you die of leukemia? On his death certificate the cause of death is listed as acute myeloid leukemia and haematemesis.

On the Saturday before he died my mum tells me he was disconcerted. At one time in the day he turned to her and said, “Does Rodney know that Matthew is home?” I live in Toronto; my brother, Matthew, still lives at home.

He was confused, most likely due to a brain hemorrhage.

His confusion worsened. Later, on Saturday night, he neither knew where he was nor what he was saying. Even now, one month later, it makes me close my eyes in sorrow as I think of this chain of events. He vomited blood then slipped out of the bed, banging his head on the nightstand. An ambulance was called. He threw up more blood on the way to the hospital. He died on Sunday, July 1 at 3.35 p.m. in hospital surrounded by his wife, his son and daughter.

I wish I could have been there. But what use would that have been? My last physical memory is not of a sick man with sores, fighting for his last breath. Instead, it is of a man who drove me to the airport in Belfast, hugged me, told me he loved me and waved farewell. Later I learnt he was depressed after I left and confided in my mother, “I never knew how close I was to Rodney.”

Even my last phone call was normal. We talked of my life in Toronto, my brother’s upcoming wedding and about the best way to rid a lawn of overgrown cherry trees.

Do not remember the leukemia. Nor the pain. Or the sheer misery it caused both my father and my family. Rather, remember the man who was quite simply my dad.



Rodney Porter is an accomplished medical journalist and the Editor of The Ontario Fire Service Messenger. His personal website can be found at www.rodneyporter.com

A Question of Voice?

This article was published in the original Podium magazine on Feb 27, 2000, with the tag line, "Who speaks for whom? A discussion of diaspora and cultural identity."

by Loreli C. Buenaventura

The other day as I grabbed a jar of curry paste from the fridge to add to chickpeas heating on the stove, I was met by a look of puzzlement on my roommate's face. She, an international student from Delhi, explained to me that she does not buy packaged curry in India, be it paste, spice or powder. What I refer to as curry is her equivalent of cooking with cumin, turmeric, ginger, garlic and onions. As she is speaking, I stare at her in amazement, my mind wandering to how the developing world is represented in the West. The next day, as I watch my roommate swirl cumin seeds in hot oil with a soft brush of her long handled spoon, and as the aroma meets my nose, I realize how her curry cooking cannot be captured in a Western jar of curry paste. So much is lost in the "translation" and I can sense a gulf between her and I because of this experience.

In one of my Sociology classes the following week, a parallel occurrence takes place. Our class is studying the conceptualization of nationhood and the spread of nationalism. Though I find interesting how print capitalism coincided with the rise of nationalism and imagined communities, an element in the discussion prevents me from being fully engaged. From my perspective, the classroom and textual discourse cannot grasp the passion behind why people die for their country, especially in the developing world. As in my realization the week before of how curry cannot be represented fully in the Western world, our discussion on nationalism cannot be communicated with full integrity. The courage and resilience of thousands of people who fought against colonialism in the name of freedom seem lost in this academic discourse, as is the impact of brutal violence inflicted on the colonized by colonizers. I am under the impression that we are studying what Filipino nationalist scholar Renato Constantino calls "history without tears." As the discussion on imperalism and colonized societies continues, I find another element missing - the complex heterogeneity of experience that exists among the colonized, especially based on gender and sexuality. What happens to these voices when they are not represented in text?

In Writing Diaspora (1993), Rey Chow distinguishes the discourses of the colonizer from the colonized, relegating the act of "speaking" to a well-defined structure and history of domination. According to Chow, there is a chasm between the two discourses because of the "essential intranslatability" from one to the other. In other words, the colonized cannot be represented fully in imperialist discourse because of what is lost in the translation. In Thinking Through (1995), Himani Bannerji broadens this discussion when she speaks of the difficulties with regard to centring "Third World" voices in Western cultural production - when such voices are present, they are usually out of step with the rest of the expressive enterprises.

Bannerji's words resonate with me as I recall my sense of frustration when sitting through studies of nationalism in a Western classroom. I first learned about nationalism through the performing arts. For ten years, I studied under my late uncle, a political activist in the Philippines who formed a popular theatre group when he immigrated to Winnipeg. His signature piece, Walang Takbuhan (No Running Away) comprised a cast of twelve who enacted the real lives of activists with whom he worked alongside in solidarity. In assuming these roles, we knew each of their names and their history of resistance. My uncle impressed upon us the seriousness of who and what we represented. And what I learned about nationalism through song, dance, storytelling, improvisation and movement could never be grasped in talks taking place within graduate studies seminars. I understand now that Western academic texts can never capture what is communicated through a clenched fist, the circular composition and dispersion of bodies on stage or the slight rise in my grandmother's voice when speaking of surviving Japanese occupation in the Philippines.

As we traveled across Canadian and US cities to perform Walang Takbuhan, I sensed the pain my uncle experienced each night in watching pastiches of his life performed on stage. This was not a study of history without tears. Instead, we learned about Philippine history through a lot of tears - a lot of anger, frustration, pride and joy, too. And through it all, I learned not to be detached from this history of revolution passed on to me from previous generations.

As these thoughts run through my mind, I am more and more waging a struggle in the classroom. In discussing nationalism in a Western academic context, I feel forced to compartmentalize my intellect from my feelings. I want so much to approach the subject matter more holistically, to be a full-embodied being in the classroom, to be present, to be visible… But in this moment I sense a divide that separates me from everyone else in the room because the information I want to share about nationalism cannot be translated entirely to Western academic and imperialist discourse. I can only communicate such knowledge through a forceful kick in the air, a pirouette in lightly lit space and the outstretch of a hand. I realize then that the question is no longer who can speak. Instead I ask, who can hear and who will listen?


Loreli C. Buenaventura is the Arts Editor of Pagitica magazine.

My Father Has Leukaemia

This article was published in the original Podium magazine on September 6, 1999, with the tag line, "The touching story of a son's discovery of his father's terminal illness."

by Rodney Porter

When I laid eyes upon my father lying motionless on his hospital bed, his face covered in red sores, bruised eyes and lips swollen with coldsores, I burst into tears. Sobbing on my mother's shoulder, all she said was: "I guess it's a shock to see your dad like this."

To be honest, it was a bigger shock than when my mother had first telephoned me in London to tell me my father had been admitted to the Ulster Hospital, diagnosed with leukaemia.

Four weeks prior, on a Monday morning my father had gone to see his GP about a red rash on his ankles and lower neck. By the end of the day he was in a hospital bed. He was transferred a couple of days later to the Royal Victoria Hospital and by Friday he started chemotherapy to kill the cancerous cells in his blood. It was on this day that I first visited him.

My father was sitting up and talking quite amiably, although he seemed to still be coming to grips with the news of his leukaemia. Also, the effects of the chemotherapy were starting with the onset of nausea.

When I first heard that my father had leukaemia I was gobsmacked. Here was a man in his early fifties who did not drink alcohol, never smoked, watched his diet and exercised regularly. In fact, when the GP attempted to contact him, it was through my mother who had to call him at the YMCA's gym in Belfast. It certainly did not seem fair.

What I knew about leukaemia then could have been written on the back of a postage stamp. I searched the internet for information and printed off some brochures from the London based organisation, the Leukaemia Research Fund. Nothing seemed to make much sense, except that his condition was serious. But one thing that stood out, was that I could not find the word 'cure' anywhere. It turned out that this is the one word that the doctors are reluctant to use with leukaemia. Only around one in every thousand adults will at some time develop a form of leukaemia and very little is known about it. The Royal Victoria Hospital deals with about 10 cases a year and the City Hospital sees only two or three. Childhood leukaemia has a higher incidence.

Put simply, leukaemia is a malignant disorder of white blood cells, a cancer of the blood which can kill - in my father's case, in a matter of weeks unless treated.

His diagnosis of acute myleoid leukaemia sounded terrible. It is one of the most common types alongside chronic leukaemia. The terms acute and chronic refer not to the severity but to the speed of the onset of the disease. Acute is swift and needs urgent medical attention, whereas chronic is slow and may never be detected.

I got to a point where reading the piles of literature and talking to the doctors and nurses no longer helped. I stopped caring about leukaemia or previous victims of the disease. All I cared about was my dad and whether or not be would live.

It became so frustrating not to know his prognosis. Would he live for the next five years, or would he even see the new millenium? There was no simple answer because no-one honestly knew.

The chemotherapy consisted of drug trials - variations of different drugs to see which worked best. However, it wasn't this treatment that resulted in his poor physical state. Sure, it made him feel sick and knocked him for six but it was an infection after his first 10 day course of treatment that really put his life on the line. With no natural immunity, he was given anti-biotics. So many various liquids - blood, white blood cells, nutrients, chemotherapy and anti-biotics - were being fed into his body that a Hickman Line was surgically inserted into his chest.

As a result of the infection, my father found it a great effort to do anything, never mind talk. What he did manage to say was: "It just takes so much effort to do anything." He lay silently in his hospital bed, his face jaundiced, bruised and battered as tubes pumped fluids into him. It felt so alien to look at this man who was my father.

The infection has left him weak but things are starting to improve slowly. But with the results of a bone marrow biopsy due soon and around four more courses of chemotherapy to come, he is not out of the woods yet.

Like many illnesses, it has affected my whole family with my mother having to bear the brunt of the burden. The first few days were traumatic but now everyone seems to be coping a little bit better with new routines and a constant bedside presence.

I have had to accept that things must be taken on a day to day basis. One haemotologist I spoke to explained it with more clarity: don't blow the family fortune on one big final party, but at the same time don't leave anything unsaid or undone.

My father has a tremendous physical strength and a formidible spirit and is also a devout Christian. I believe he is fighting the disease with all his might. Of course, I want my dad to live and to enjoy a good quality of life. I want him to retire and pester my mother. I also want him to become a grandfather. But most of all I want to see an end to his pain and desperation.

Rodney Porter is an accomplished medical journalist and the new Marketing Editor of Mediconsult.Com