Benjamin Button est l’un de mes films préférés. Je lirai bientôt le livre de Fitzgerald.

J’aime l’image. Le rythme. Le personnage de Benjamin. Le jazz. Mais le temps a une place importante dans ce film. Benjamin naît vieux et rajeunit tout au long du film.

Je n’ai jamais vraiment compris l’intérêt de ce choix scénaristique. Quelque part, je me disais que le film fonctionnerait malgré tout avec un Benjamin qui vieillissait comme tout le monde.

Mais le temps. Le temps est une notion toute relative pour Benjamin. Il défile, mais en sens inverse. Sa notion du temps lui est propre et unique. D’une certaine manière le temps n’a pas d’emprise sur lui puisque sa physionomie n’est pas en accord avec son âge.

Il est un homme. Et voit le temps comme un cadeau qui lui est offert chaque jour. Lui qui pensait qu’il allait bientôt mourir alors qu’il n’avait que 5 ou 6 ans.

Benjamin n’a jamais été jeune, vieux, ado ou quoi que ce soit. Il a toujours été Benjamin. Le même, d’ailleurs il a une constance dans son caractère que j’aime beaucoup. Un calme. Un détachement. Un amour pour les gens quels qu’ils soient. Surtout pour les vieilles personnes qui lui ont partagé tant de sagesse.

Benjamin est hors du temps. Il est hors de tout schéma. Il est fidèle à lui-même, en toutes circonstances.

C’est cette force tranquille que j’admire j’ai l’impression.

Election Day

En español al final.

Today, millions of us will walk into polling places carrying more than identification and a list of names.

We will carry our fears.

Our frustrations.

Our hopes.

Our anger.

Our memories.

Our disappointments.

We will carry the things we believe have been taken from us and the things we are afraid may be taken next.

Some will vote because they want change.

Others because they fear it.

Some will vote for justice.

Some for security.

Some for their children.

Some for their wallets.

Some because they believe the country is moving in the right direction.

Others because they are convinced we have lost our way.

And for a few minutes, behind a curtain or standing before a machine, each of us will exercise one of the quiet powers entrusted to ordinary citizens.

We will choose.

But before we do, perhaps there is another question worth asking.

Not simply:

Who will receive my vote?

But:

What am I carrying with me when I cast it?

Because fear can vote.

Anger can vote.

Resentment can vote.

Revenge can vote.

So can compassion.

So can conscience.

So can hope.

So can love of neighbor.

The ballot will not tell us which one held the pen.

Only we will know.

There is nothing insignificant about elections.

Governments make decisions that affect real people.

Policies determine whether families eat, whether children are educated, whether the sick receive care, whether the accused receive justice, whether strangers are welcomed or turned away, whether soldiers are sent to war, and whether power is restrained when it becomes abusive.

These things matter.

Our votes matter.

But perhaps that is precisely why we should be careful about what politics is allowed to become inside us.

Jesus once warned His disciples:

“And take heed to yourselves, lest at any time your hearts be overcharged…”

Among the things He warned could weigh down the human heart were simply:

“the cares of this life.”

There are few things today capable of occupying the heart quite like politics.

We watch.

We argue.

We scroll.

We predict.

We fear.

We become convinced that everything depends upon what happens next.

And slowly, almost without noticing, concern becomes anxiety.

Conviction becomes contempt.

Disagreement becomes hatred.

Our neighbor becomes our enemy.

And politicians become something they were never meant to be:

saviors.

Today we will choose people to hold power.

But before we do, we should ask what has been allowed to hold power over us.

If fear has convinced us that cruelty is acceptable, we should notice.

If anger has made another person's suffering satisfying, we should notice.

If loyalty to a party has caused us to excuse behavior we would condemn immediately from the other side, we should notice.

If winning has become more important than truth, we should notice.

And if we have begun believing that everyone who votes differently from us must be stupid, evil, hateful, ignorant, or beyond redemption—

perhaps we should notice that most of all.

Because tomorrow is coming.

The signs will eventually come down.

The advertisements will stop.

The texts asking for another five dollars will disappear.

Someone will win.

Someone will lose.

Some of us will celebrate.

Some of us will grieve.

And then we will walk outside.

The person who voted differently from us will still live across the street.

They will still teach our children.

Deliver our packages.

Repair our cars.

Work beside us.

Sit beside us in church.

Stand behind us at the grocery store.

Pull over when they see us stranded beside the road.

We will still need one another.

Democracy requires us to make choices about power.

Community requires us to remember that we belong to one another afterward.

Those are not competing responsibilities.

We can vote according to conscience without surrendering compassion.

We can oppose policies without despising people.

We can demand accountability without craving humiliation.

We can speak plainly about injustice without allowing injustice to teach us hatred.

A soft heart does not require a soft spine.

And conviction does not require cruelty.

So today, vote.

Take it seriously.

Study the choices before you.

Listen carefully.

Think deeply.

Pray, if you are inclined to.

And when you stand before that voting machine, ballot in hand, remember that you are doing more than deciding who should govern.

You are also deciding what you are willing to lend your name to.

Then cast your vote.

Walk outside.

And remember:

The election will eventually end.

Your neighbor will still be your neighbor.

Your conscience will still belong to you.

And long after the votes have been counted, there will remain another choice no machine can record:

whether fear will govern us,

whether hatred will define us,

whether power will consume us,

or whether, even now,

we will choose to love one another.

Today we will choose who holds power.

But we are still responsible for what holds power over us today.

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Explore more writing from Silent Sentinel →

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© SilentSentinel, 2026. All rights reserved. Excerpts may be shared with attribution.

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Día de las Elecciones

Hoy, millones de nosotros entraremos en centros de votación llevando algo más que una identificación y una lista de nombres.

Llevaremos nuestros temores.

Nuestras frustraciones.

Nuestras esperanzas.

Nuestra ira.

Nuestros recuerdos.

Nuestras decepciones.

Llevaremos las cosas que creemos que nos han quitado y aquellas que tememos que puedan quitarnos después.

Algunos votarán porque quieren un cambio.

Otros porque le temen.

Algunos votarán por la justicia.

Otros por la seguridad.

Algunos por sus hijos.

Algunos por sus bolsillos.

Algunos porque creen que el país avanza en la dirección correcta.

Otros porque están convencidos de que hemos perdido el rumbo.

Y durante unos minutos, detrás de una cortina o frente a una máquina de votación, cada uno de nosotros ejercerá uno de los poderes silenciosos confiados a los ciudadanos comunes.

Elegiremos.

Pero antes de hacerlo, quizá haya otra pregunta que valga la pena hacernos.

No simplemente:

¿Quién recibirá mi voto?

Sino:

¿Qué llevo dentro de mí cuando lo emito?

Porque el miedo puede votar.

La ira puede votar.

El resentimiento puede votar.

La venganza puede votar.

También puede votar la compasión.

También la conciencia.

También la esperanza.

También el amor al prójimo.

La boleta no nos dirá cuál de ellos sostuvo el bolígrafo.

Solo nosotros lo sabremos.

No hay nada insignificante en unas elecciones.

Los gobiernos toman decisiones que afectan a personas reales.

Las políticas determinan si las familias tienen qué comer, si los niños reciben educación, si los enfermos reciben atención, si los acusados reciben justicia, si los extranjeros son recibidos o rechazados, si los soldados son enviados a la guerra y si el poder es limitado cuando se vuelve abusivo.

Estas cosas importan.

Nuestros votos importan.

Pero quizá sea precisamente por eso que debemos tener cuidado con aquello en lo que permitimos que la política se convierta dentro de nosotros.

Jesús advirtió una vez a sus discípulos:

«Mirad también por vosotros mismos, que vuestros corazones no se carguen…»

Entre las cosas que advirtió que podían cargar el corazón humano estaban simplemente:

«los afanes de esta vida».

Hay pocas cosas hoy capaces de ocupar el corazón como la política.

Observamos.

Discutimos.

Deslizamos la pantalla.

Hacemos predicciones.

Tememos.

Nos convencemos de que todo depende de lo que ocurra después.

Y lentamente, casi sin darnos cuenta, la preocupación se convierte en ansiedad.

La convicción se convierte en desprecio.

El desacuerdo se convierte en odio.

Nuestro prójimo se convierte en nuestro enemigo.

Y los políticos se convierten en algo que nunca debieron ser:

salvadores.

Hoy elegiremos a personas que ejercerán el poder.

Pero antes de hacerlo, debemos preguntarnos qué hemos permitido que ejerza poder sobre nosotros.

Si el miedo nos ha convencido de que la crueldad es aceptable, debemos prestarle atención.

Si la ira ha hecho que el sufrimiento de otra persona nos resulte satisfactorio, debemos prestarle atención.

Si la lealtad a un partido nos ha llevado a justificar conductas que condenaríamos inmediatamente si vinieran del otro lado, debemos prestarle atención.

Si ganar se ha vuelto más importante que la verdad, debemos prestarle atención.

Y si hemos comenzado a creer que todos los que votan de manera diferente a nosotros deben ser estúpidos, malvados, llenos de odio, ignorantes o estar más allá de toda redención—

quizá debamos prestar especial atención a eso.

Porque mañana llegará.

Los carteles finalmente desaparecerán.

Los anuncios terminarán.

Los mensajes de texto pidiendo otros cinco dólares dejarán de llegar.

Alguien ganará.

Alguien perderá.

Algunos celebraremos.

Algunos lamentaremos el resultado.

Y después saldremos.

La persona que votó de manera diferente a nosotros seguirá viviendo al otro lado de la calle.

Seguirá enseñando a nuestros hijos.

Entregando nuestros paquetes.

Reparando nuestros autos.

Trabajando a nuestro lado.

Sentándose junto a nosotros en la iglesia.

Esperando detrás de nosotros en el supermercado.

Deteniéndose para ayudarnos cuando nos vea varados al costado de la carretera.

Seguiremos necesitándonos unos a otros.

La democracia exige que tomemos decisiones sobre el poder.

La comunidad exige que recordemos que seguimos perteneciendo los unos a los otros después.

Esas responsabilidades no están en conflicto.

Podemos votar de acuerdo con nuestra conciencia sin renunciar a la compasión.

Podemos oponernos a ciertas políticas sin despreciar a las personas.

Podemos exigir rendición de cuentas sin desear la humillación.

Podemos hablar claramente sobre la injusticia sin permitir que la injusticia nos enseñe a odiar.

Un corazón sensible no requiere una columna vertebral débil.

Y tener convicciones no requiere crueldad.

Así que hoy, vota.

Tómalo en serio.

Estudia las opciones que tienes delante.

Escucha con atención.

Piensa profundamente.

Ora, si así lo deseas.

Y cuando estés frente a esa máquina de votación, con la boleta en la mano, recuerda que estás haciendo algo más que decidir quién debe gobernar.

También estás decidiendo a qué estás dispuesto a prestar tu nombre.

Entonces emite tu voto.

Sal de allí.

Y recuerda:

Las elecciones finalmente terminarán.

Tu prójimo seguirá siendo tu prójimo.

Tu conciencia seguirá perteneciéndote.

Y mucho después de que se hayan contado los votos, quedará otra elección que ninguna máquina puede registrar:

si el miedo nos gobernará,

si el odio nos definirá,

si el poder nos consumirá,

o si, incluso ahora,

elegiremos amarnos los unos a los otros.

Hoy elegiremos quién ejercerá el poder.

Pero seguimos siendo responsables de aquello a lo que permitimos ejercer poder sobre nosotros hoy.

Welkom bij het nieuws volgens en van de StaatsOmroep Smægmå, of andersom.

Er is oorlog, er is ziekte, er zijn ongelukken, onderzoeken, rapporten over het klimaat, er wordt handel gedreven, heel veel handel gedreven, er zijn wedstrijden, er is buiten en daar is ons weer, er staan rijen wagens op snelwegen en in parkeerstellages, de lichten branden, de lichten gaan uit, we slapen er nog een nachtje over, kortom alles is zoals het altijd is, er is bijna geen nieuw nieuws meer de moeite van het presenteren waard daarom, niet alleen hierom, hebben wij besloten als gehele Smægmåånse Omroep Stichting om een jaartje over te slaan, we nemen samen een sabbatical opdat we hopelijk na een jaar weer fris en volledig opgeladen herbeginnen aan de uizendingen over hier eerder genoemde onderwerpen, berichten waarvoor wij blijkbaar zijn opgericht of in ieder geval heel vaak naar buiten brengen via de ons beschikbare media, u kent ze inmiddels maar al te goed, de radio, televisie en het wereldse lokale en internationale internet.
We hebben er geen zin meer in om u iedere keer dezelfde berichten te vertellen over de wederwaardigheden van leiders hier en daar en hun eeuwige competitie en concurrentie beginselen, we gaan met zijn allen minstens een jaar in een grot in de woestijn zitten pim pam petten, ezeltje prik spelen, vingerverfen en contempleren over heden, verleden en toekomst van een omroep voor de hele Staat Smægmå, en misschien komen we tot de conclusie dat we nooit meer berichten omroepen voor u in naam van ons geweldig vaderland of dat we het helemaal anders doen of gewoon op oude voeten en zolen verder gaan. U zult de tussenstand der oorlogen, het algemeen ziekte verloop, de persoonlijke ongelukken met grotere gevolgen en de lengte als ook de locatie van stilstaand en langzaam rijdende u op de snelweg elders moeten volgen, de krant, op een weblog, een podcast of zo maar voorlopig gaan wij u niet tegemoet komen met voortgangsrapporten over alles wat erg is, dood gaat, elkaar kapot schiet en dergelijke. Wij wensen u veel media genot zonder ons en dergelijke, met vriendelijke groet van het hele team van SOS, namens de voorzitter, missie leider van SOS,

Hannibal Lectœr

Discover the lively spirit of Craic, an overlooked gem compared to today's busy social media scene

An Irish pub, full of tales and laughter, is the best place for me to tell you about the vibrant essence of Craic – a gem often overlooked in today's whirlwind of social media and technology. Amidst the hustle of Twitter, Facebook's frenzy, or even LinkedIn where you might stumble upon this very story, about a different type of social media.

Once a beacon of swift information, Twitter transformed post-Elon Musk's acquisition, into a place of abrasiveness. It's a stark reminder of the dangers when digital realms lose ethical moorings and human decency. But there is an alternative.

Amidst this chaos, the finest form of social interaction is Craic. Hold on, it's not about indulging in vices. Craic encapsulates those moments when folks gather around a braai, a dinner table, or share a drink – be it beer, wine, tea, or coffee – engrossed in conversation. Originating from Ireland, it's bolstered with a good ol' bottle of whisky (or whiskey), sparking debates and immersive engagements.

Craic delves deeper; it's not just a chat, it's an immersive exploration. It ponders over the origins of things we often overlook in our fast-paced world. Modern marvels like phones, computers, or nuclear energy have ancestral roots we scarcely acknowledge. Even the sophistication of ancient civilizations, languages, and number systems often eludes our recognition. Imagine the Craic around the fire when the Pyramids were first raised!

When discussions arise, technologists often turn to smartphones for instant answers – but these sources aren't always definitive, failing when batteries die or signals vanish. Here's where the age-old debate of whisky versus Google comes in – and trust me, whisky triumphs!

Now, let me whisk you away to a little gem called Durty Nelly's, nestled alongside the Raite River near Bunratty Castle in Ireland. Picture it – a pub steeped in history. Durty Nelly's, adorned with a sign that piques curiosity, beckons with tales of its elusive namesake. Was Durty Nelly a woman you couldn't look in the eyes? Wink-wink! The pub's ambiance is woven with the cooing of pigeons, entwined with lively conversations, true Craic in its element.

Step inside. As dusk blankets the area and the River Shannon's mist drifts in, the warm glow of a peat fire illuminates the space. A piano tunes up, joined often by the beat of a Bodhran. And after a few pints of Guinness, the crowd erupts in drunken yet harmonious singing – a scene akin to Billy Mack crooning “Christmas is All Around,” only merrier.

A ritual unfolds as a Guinness is poured and left to settle for 125.27 seconds (an art in itself!). Observing the bubbles cascading in the glass becomes a mesmerizing prelude to that first creamy sip. The nuances of enjoying a Guinness, it's akin to mastering an art form or delving into physics. The bubbles flow downwards.

Amidst the sawdust-strewn floors, camaraderie reigns. Even if an American tourist stumbles in, a vividly green spectacle, laughter fills the air – reminiscent of Kermit the Frog. Here, conversations gravitate towards joyous tales; Craic is about laughter, not tears. And if someone trips, there's always a hand to steady them. Glasses clink multiple times, resonating with the chorus of “Sláinte” – the Irish cheer for good health.

Exiting into the night, stumbling towards waiting taxis, the confusion of climbing into the wrong one often adds to the laughter, a perfect ending to a night of merry-making.

Adjacent to Bunratty Castle, Durty Nelly's adds a medieval touch. Imagine reveling in a medieval banquet, serenaded by mesmerizing music, and sipping on Mead, a honey-based elixir that fuels the fervor of Craic.

Allow me to share a slice of Craic, my maiden voyage to Ireland for Liz and Noel's wedding. It involved a mad dash from Shannon to Cork to fetch Noel's suit, a spontaneous stop at Blarney Castle to kiss the Blarney stone, and a quirky encounter in a traffic jam between a Guinness truck and a tractor loaded with hay.

The unpredictable Irish roads, dotted with charming pubs, often beguiled travelers into impromptu stops. A pint led to another, and soon, dusk descended, urging us to hasten back to Shannon – albeit tardy for the wedding dinner. This resulted in a trust erosion of Noel and myself and we were designated a chaperone.

The chaperone was Liz’s brother Brian. Tasks unfolded, adventures ensued, and even a last-minute errand to fetch wedding rings turned into a detour to Durty Nelly's at the insistence of Brian. I’ll not forget the scene as we arrived back, Brian’s mom standing in the kitchen, greeting us with “Wipe that smirk off your face, Brain McGee.” Despite this tardiness and slight mishap, the spirit of Craic prevailed.

So, in the realm of social media giants, remember, there's no app for Craic. No, sorry WhatsApp, this is a journey through tales, laughter, and the vibrant essence of human connection – something no digital platform can replicate.

And a final bit of Craic, before we end. On a follow up trip to Ireland we were in a greasy spoon after a Guinness infused visit to Durty Nelly’s. While waiting for the food I plonked myself next to an Irishman. Could not understand a word he said, and then he fell asleep. When the food was ready, I helped him up to a taxi. All I succeeded in doing was moering his head into the car door post. My friends were horrified. Did I not know who I had just assaulted? It was the southern leader of the Provisional IRA. I did not end up with concrete boots, but some good craic to tell people around the Chiminea.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Scattering the virtual ashes

My wife used to say that often she would read about what I was thinking via something I had posted online instead of a personal conversation. Some things are easier to write about than to speak about. Something else my wife used to say is that I never took enough pictures of her and the children. I probably enjoy writing more than I do talking. That’s just me.

I have neglected writing when I changed jobs. My new boss never did encourage me to write and was very disparaging about journalists and Grandmasters on MyBroadband. MyBroadband (access it here) is the biggest technology site in South Africa and there should have been a better relationship with them!. I should not have paused. After all my name is on the board at Grey for Journalism. So I have started again and across multiple media!

On 17th August 2011 my wife passed away. Her wish was to be scattered to the four corners of the Earth. That is a difficult place to find on a map, so we selected three places in the Pilansberg and a koppie at the Norscot Koppies reserve. I also started writing a book, called the Second Corner of the Earth, which was a nod to her wish. Its a work in progress.

However, her facebook account remains as an electronic tombstone. I realized that when we go, all of that is going to remain is not our scattered ashes but our electronic presence. I started posting pictures of our sons and me online on a regular basis. Somehow it makes me feel that she can see them and smile down at us. I hope there are enough pictures for her to see! In addition, our house had been hit a few times by lightning. The hard disks were toast, which included our photos. The only ones that survived were the online ones. An example, is her favourite wedding picture (see above) which would have been gone had it not been posted online.

Social media has become toxic and can be debilitating. But if you see it as a scrapbook of life and scattered electronic tombstones, its context is different. Its memories, good and some even excruciatingly embarrassing. In reality, I’m writing it for myself and it provides enjoyment and purpose. If you just lurk on social media in a mindless scroll of other people’s content you brain slowly dies and becomes part of the Borg collective. And nothing screams Borg more than Tiktok that has assimilated a generation of mindless humans. If you create content and write yourself, then great, you mind will not shrink. You can even use some AI as a helper, its fine. The robots are not going to take over the world.

The Real Threat Isn’t AI — It’s Forgetting First Principles

Many moons ago, I had a burden. I had been letting go the emotional ashes that the presence of her worldly possessions had created. The last thing I let go were her shoes. I was present when she went and the shoes were on a chair in the room outside under my jacket. During the past year, no-one had asked me what happened in those moments and what were her last words. I logged onto facebook and posted it on her electronic tombstone, her facebook account. It was the same release as when the shoes left, a burden I did not have to carry myself. BTW: the words were: “I don't know.”

My dad is Hanoverian and my mom is from the clan Elliot. How my oupa John's family ended up in Oudtshoorn from the Scottish border is something on which I still need to do some detective work? Regardless, I am sure the genes are responsible for the appreciation of a good Scotch.

I never owned a kilt and Argyle jacket. Kathleen (Kath) who was also Scottish would often suggest I go and buy one. It was one of those things that I would say yes and never get around to doing. The woman I loved died while I was standing next to her on a paramedic's stretcher. I crouched down with my hands over my head listening to the sounds of attempted resuscitation and defibrillation. When that happens you stare in the abyss of insanity.

Turning away from the abyss is not a single motion. It consists of a large number of small things. One of those was keeping the promise of getting that Scottish dress outfit. I went to Chris Mullender who imported the tartan from Scotland and a few months later it was ready.

Now on all smart occasions, I step out in the tartan of the clan Elliot.

PS: Babe, I hope you are still reading... (hope you have found this and know what I'm thinking!)

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

How to live to a ripe old age & enjoy it

Learn about the world as it will spark growth & creativity. I do that by researching & learning more about my heroes. My heroes are people with physical impairments that succeed.

Trigger deeper thinking & help keep your mind flexible. I do that by projecting myself as various historic figures in the history of humankind with which I have an affinity. I also write the first thing in the morning about awesome things.

Always be awesome. Find & discover things around you that will have you in awe. I do that, as an example, by visiting the British Museum when I’m in London & viewing the Elgin marbles & Tutankhamen’s Sarcophagus. I also find new secret places to watch birds.

Do a different thing each day. I do this by finding something new to do or & try each day. Reading, doing, eating, or alternative activities (like having a massage).

Crash & Burn. When creating its best to start using & showing what you have. I do this by failing fast as this will allow me to implement improvements quickly. I might be old but I do more new things than those that are younger.

Force your brain to work in both directions. Attempt to create as much content as what you consume. Freddie Mercury was a great entertainer, but he would not have done that from the audience.

~Roald Bartholomew

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Andabatae, the blindfolded gladiators of ancient Rome

Maties

I went to university at Stellenbosch more commonly known as Maties. My brother was my mentor and helped me achieve a BSc in Computer Science and Mathematics. It was at University where I first encountered IBM-compatible PCs namely Olivetti M24s and CW16s. I initially wanted to complete a commerce degree, but computers were what fascinated me and that was the direction I took.

The late eighties in South Africa was a strange period with South African involved in a bush war in Southern Africa. Many of my contemporaries were involved in battles such as the one at Cuito Cuanavale. All white males were conscripted. If you went to University, the call up papers were delayed.

The system of Apartheid was on its last legs and we had some strange contradictions and stories. The biggest pop star we had no-one knew about named Rodriquez. We had songs about that time, like Weeping. Then there was the Groot Krokodil.

Jood

My dad had a friend he had acquainted at the many cocktail parties hosted by his in-laws, the Elliots, named Kobus Jordan. He was given the nickname of Jood and matriculated from Grey in the same year as Alan Paton started the Liberal Party. Paton wrote the novel, Cry the Beloved Country which is a classic South African work and one of the books I read early on in my life. Jood was the one who secured my place to attend Grey College. Jood was ‘n verligte which was a more liberal body of Afrikaans politicians as opposed to the verkramptes, who were more conservative. Jood famously wrote the Rubicon speech for PW Botha, who then tore it up and rejected the reconciliation proposed with black South Africans in its contents. He instead delivered his own version that went down internationally like a lead balloon.

A few years after the infamous Rubicon speech, I graduated with a BSc. South Africa had just signed off on the independence of South West Africa, which would become Namibia. At the graduation ceremony, the Data Processing division of the South African Railways had setup a table. I walked off the stage with my degree and into the foyer as one of the first graduates as my surname was Bartels and students were being called alphabetically. A James Flowers greeted me and asked me if I had a job. I replied in the negative and he asked me how well I had done. I aced Computer Science I proudly told him. He gave me an airplane ticket and hotel accommodation to visit Johannesburg for a job interview. I went for the interview and scored a job as a programmer on IBM mainframes. There was the little matter of me completing my conscription which I was released to do at 50% of my salary. When I returned to work after the Navy, it was around the time of the battle of Shell House and we were leopard crawling around the Transnet buildings with bullets flying around. The country was on tenterhooks because of the upcoming elections.

Word wakker

I reported at Saldanha for basic training in the South African Navy. I drove there in my Toyota 1.6GL and along the way encountered a Rinkhals at the Vredenburg crossroads. It attacked one of the tires of my car. I arrived at the base and one of the first requirements was to complete a medical. I had Microphthalmia which effectively meant I was visually impaired in my left eye. I was going to be send home, but I wanted to experience the same things that all my mates were having in the Defence Force. I passed the medical by pretending I had no problem with my left eye. The eye test required a person to look at an eye chart with your right eye and your left eye. I just repeated what I saw with my right eye covering my hand with my left hand after switching to my left eye and right hand.

By the time the Navy discovered I was blind in one eye, it is really obvious, I had passed range training and it was three months in. Luckily, there was a Commander Smith on the search for Computer Science graduates to look after the Navy’s computers, and there I was dispatched to Naval base Simonstown.

Every morning during training at Saldanha Bay, the base would parade at 8 am and the national flag would be raised on the rigging. I recall those parades and being piped awake with a wise ass saying “word wakker, word wakker, die dag word al hoe kaker...” The rigging on which the national flag was hoisted was painted white and one day I was in a group assigned to repaint it. One conscript was halfway up the rigging, when he dropped the paint tin. There was a huge splotch of paint at the bottom of the main mast of the rigging. We all looked at this and contemplated the opfok that was going to be due to us by the base Gunnery Instructor (GI) as punishment. I then decided to paint the splotch into a nice square at the bottom of the mast. No-one subsequently noticed and we escaped being dished out some of the legendary punishment by the GI.

Six months later, I was back at Saldanha Bay, in the role of the Navy's computer geek. As I walked past the rigging at the parade ground, I saw the new set of conscripts repainting the structure. And there they were, applying a fresh coat of paint on the square at the bottom of the rigging.

An example of this behaviour in an IT context is network engineers who force manual settings when automation is available. An example is network port settings which some guys insist on hard coding. Eish!

Computer geek

Andabatae are gladiators from ancient Rome that fought blindfolded. It was also the name of a computer programme I wrote while I was in the Navy. It was written in assembler to be used on a PC and interacted with a Braille computer known as the David. The telephone exchange operator of the Naval base was blind, he suffered from retinitis pigmentosa and we became friends. As conscripted servicemen we were not an enthusiastic bunch. We would disappear most afternoons to spend time at the Brass Bell pub. Our officers would phone the exchange to enquire where we were and our friend would cover for us by stating we were on the way to the harbour, or had just been to the stores, and send them on a wild goose chase. At the end of the day we would buy him beers.

The Andabatae computer programme provided voice and screen navigation on a text-based DOS system. It was used often with word processing software or with programmes such as DBASEIII. Also included was a file transfer utility to transmit files between the PC and the David computer.

The Romans have always fascinated me and in a previous life I'm sure that I would have been one of those gladiators.

While I was growing up, I very soon realized I was different because I had sight in only one eye. I was the youngest child in the family as was given the nick name of BB. I never realized what my real name was until my first day of primary school. But being blind in one eye I was constantly having to prove my normality to my friends by being extra boisterous. This involved being involved in all adventures and misdemeanours suggested or lead by my brother.

At the age of six my parents went on holiday to view the flowers of the Namaqualand. We went to stay with the Joostens for a few days. Egged on by my brother we were involved in a fruit fight with the cousins. This was great fun and we pelted each other using guavas that grew in the farmyard. That evening at the supper table, after prayer everyone was asked to repent their misdemeanours. I listen in shock as the cousins spilled the beans on our fruit fight to their parents. My brother leaned over to me and told me I was not to say a word about our involvement. When it came to my turn at the end of the table, I stood up and said I was not going to say a word as we were Amastelek. Mastelek was the Zulu name given to my father by the Nkosi of the Gumedes and meant the strong one!

My dad was very fluent in Zulu and could even distinguish regional dialects. The Zulus are at the best of times a boisterous and occasional aggressive group. The Zulu nature is about strength in the here and now. There is nothing like hearsay or deductive reasoning about the past. My dad would tell me that Zulus would only admit to a misdeed when accosted red handed. Else it did not happen, and this was the assimilated culture with which my dad lived. It accounts for what is happening in the current machinations around cronyism and corruption as the Stalingrad defense.

Railways

While I was working for the Railways, they became known as Transnet. After two years at the state-owned enterprise you could join the pension. While everyone who joined at the same time as I received a letter confirming their pension membership, I received a letter rejecting my membership as I was disabled. The discriminatory laws of apartheid South Africa meant exclusion from state pensions for disabled people. I resigned and walked out.

A few years ago, I went to the Donald Gordon Institute which is attached to the Wits Medical School for DNA testing. The researchers were pretty sure that they could identify something in the testing that was an abnormality. The blood tests were taken and send to the Netherlands. There were no known matches for any eye or kidney abnormalities. In most physical abnormalities with eyes, there is also a corresponding kidney abnormality. My Microphthalmia is like the Sardine Run on the east coast of South Africa. The reason for its existence is not known.

Badar

There is a great internal conflict about the term and grouping of being disabled. It is an undesirable term as the word itself means to be incapable, not able or lack the ability to perform tasks. It does not describe the actual physical or mental impairment as that would to be too much effort. It bundles everyone into a condescending grouping of those that are different. Groupings are created with criteria that matches a particular goal, most often political. Neither I nor anyone else who has physical impairments is not able. I am able, just like Douglas Badar, the Battle of Britain fighter pilot. Disabled is a bigoted term and should be removed from common use. Its is the same apartheid thinking that partitioned people into white and non-white. Able and Disabled.

I was born South African and hell no, I am not a disabled South African. I was excluded out of the old South Africa, and I feel excluded out of the new one as well. Much like other groups who have been stereotyped.

Basic Training & Dunbar’s Revenge

Basic training in the Navy was a crucible, a chaotic blend of discipline, exhaustion, and the kind of camaraderie that only forms under pressure. I was 22, a bit older than most of the fresh-faced recruits around me, which gave me just enough confidence to weather the storm. The guy next to me in the barracks, though, was a kid named Dunbar—18, wiry, and full of nervous energy. I’ll never forget the first time I saw him, at the medical bay for our inoculations. Most of us gritted our teeth and took the jabs, but Dunbar? He had a full-blown phobia of needles. When the medic approached with the syringe, his eyes went wide as saucers. He flat-out refused. It took three burly seamen to pin him down, and the second that needle came near, he was thrashing and screaming like a wild animal, throwing punches that didn’t land but sure made a scene. It was chaos, and I couldn’t help but feel for the kid. That was Dunbar—always a little too raw, a little too real.

The Able Seamen (ABs) and Leading Seamen (LSs) smelled blood in the water with Dunbar. They hounded him relentlessly, barking orders, piling on extra duties, and mocking his every misstep. Me? I was less fazed. I’d learned early on that a hard stare and a calm demeanor could keep the worst of them at bay. Dunbar, though, was an easy target, always fidgeting or mouthing off at the wrong moment. I took it upon myself to look out for him, deflecting attention when I could. We’d often pull late-night guard duty together, posted along the perimeter fence in the cold, sharing quiet moments between the monotony. Those shifts were when I got to know him—his quick wit, his stubborn streak, and his burning desire to get even.

Dunbar wasn’t one to let things slide. He hatched a plan one night, his eyes glinting with mischief. The ABs’ dormitory was his target, and his weapon of choice? A fire extinguisher. The idea was to sneak in while they were at the mess, let off the extinguisher, and slip out, leaving chaos in our wake. I agreed to help, mostly to keep him from doing something even dumber. But Dunbar, true to form, couldn’t wait. Instead of sneaking in, he punched out a window, slung the extinguisher through the shattered glass, and let it rip. Foam sprayed everywhere—beds, lockers, the works. Then he bolted, laughing like a maniac as we sprinted back to our barracks. It was an almighty mess, and we both knew there’d be hell to pay.

The next morning at parade, the ABs were livid, stalking up and down the ranks, scanning for guilty faces. Nobody fessed up, of course. Dunbar stood there with his signature grin, practically daring them to figure it out. Then the Gunnery Instructor (GI) rolled in, face like thunder. He called the ABs to attention, demanding to know why their dorm looked like a snowstorm hit it. No answers, just sheepish looks. So, he marched them up and down the parade ground for two solid hours, barking orders while we stood at ease, watching. Dunbar’s grin never faded, but I knew we’d poked the bear. Those ABs were going to be insufferable for the rest of training, and they didn’t disappoint—extra drills, sharper tongues, the works.

We made it through basic training, bruised but unbroken. After “klaar uit,” when we finally passed out of training, I lost track of Dunbar. He vanished into the Navy’s vast machinery, off to some ship or shore posting. I never saw him again, but I’ll always remember that wild kid with the needle phobia and the knack for stirring up trouble. Wherever he is, I bet he’s still grinning.

Sunette, Tea, & a Missed Chance

The Navy base hummed with its usual rhythm—boots on pavement, the distant clatter of machinery, and the sharp bark of orders echoing across the parade ground. My days often revolved around the personnel office, not because I had endless paperwork, but because of Sunette. She worked there, always in crisp white dresses that seemed to glow against the drab military backdrop. Her name alone—Sunette—felt like a burst of sunlight. I was smitten, and I’d find any excuse to visit her, usually under the guise of fixing her computer. My infatuation ran so deep that I poured my heart into coding a Navy personnel management system for her, which I grandly named Gladiator. It was my awkward attempt at winning her over, a digital monument to my crush.

One day, as I crossed the parade ground toward the personnel office, my mind probably lost in thoughts of Sunette, I ran straight into a Chief Petty Officer. He was a barrel of a man, all starch and authority, and he zeroed in on me like a hawk. “Hoekom is jou hare so woes, moes troep?” he bellowed, his Afrikaans cutting through the morning air. My hair, I’ll admit, was a bit wild—windswept and untouched by a comb. “Dit is omdat ek dit nie gesny het nie,” I replied, trying to keep it light. Bad move. His face turned crimson, veins bulging like they might pop. “Wie is jou bevelvoerder?” he demanded. I gave him Commander Smith’s name, and he stormed off, vowing to call my CO and ordering me to the base barber.

Instead of heading to the barber, I made a beeline for Commander Smith’s office. I knocked, and his calm “Come in” was a relief. He was behind his desk, papers neatly stacked, and offered me tea like it was the most natural thing in the world. I’m a tea man—better than coffee any day—and I think he liked that about me. We were tea buddies in a world of instant coffee drinkers. I accepted, and as I sipped, I mentioned I had something to tell him, though I hadn’t quite figured out what. Before I could say more, the old white rotary phone on his desk screeched to life. Those ancient post office phones were loud enough to wake the dead, and I could hear the Chief’s raging voice on the other end, still fuming about my hair.

Commander Smith listened for about a minute, his face unreadable. Then he cut in, cool as you like: “Chief, this is not how it works. You do not phone me or talk to me. You go to your commanding officer of equivalent rank to me and have him speak to me.” He slammed the phone down, and that was that. He turned to me, raising an eyebrow. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked. I shrugged. “Nothing,” I said, and he nodded, unfazed. “Excellent work on that Navy personnel system,” he added, almost as an afterthought. I left his office feeling like I’d dodged a bullet.

Sunette, though—she was the real story. I never mustered the courage to ask her out. The day before my final uitklaar, she invited me to visit her at her flat in Vishoek. I went, heart pounding, and she showed me her budgies, their cheerful chirps filling her small, sunny space. There was a spark, a static in the air, but some awkwardness—mine, probably—kept me from making a move. I was already half-focused on my new job in Johannesburg, my mind racing toward the future. I left, promising myself I’d stay in touch, but I never did.

Dammit. What a missed opportunity.

Eternal Flame

One evening stands out vividly from my days in the Navy, a time when the salty air of the Cape mixed with the raw energy of youth and a touch of rebellion. It was at the Brass Belle in Kalk Bay, a cozy spot tucked along the rugged coastline, where I first heard “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles. The song drifted through the dim, smoke-hazed room like a siren’s call, its haunting melody cutting through the chatter and clink of glasses. Outside, the waves crashed against the rocks with a fury that mirrored the restlessness in our souls—rough seas that night, pounding the shore as if protesting our fleeting shore leave. The Brass Belle was our favorite haunt, right next to a tidal pool that shimmered under the moonlight, and atop the bar counter sat that iconic brass statue of a lovely lass, forever poised in elegant allure, watching over us like a guardian of good times.

In the Navy we had WAFs and they were my eternal flames, especially Sunette in her white dress.

Across the road loomed the Parrot, a rowdier joint that always seemed to beckon with promises of mischief. The Navy brass had a habit of banning us from certain clubs when things got out of hand—fights, pranks, or just too much revelry—and the Parrot was often at the top of that list. I remember one chaotic afternoon when I witnessed the Military Police storm in to clear out the place. They barreled through the doors, barking orders and herding us ratings out like wayward sheep. The resentment boiled over; from that day on, the MPs were persona non grata among the sailors, symbols of the iron fist that clipped our wings just when we needed to soar.

That animosity spilled over in unexpected ways. One lazy afternoon at the mess in Simon’s Town, an MP pulled up on his gleaming motorbike, parking it right out front as if he owned the place. He strode inside with that typical swagger, leaving his ride unattended. Seizing the moment, one of our lads climbed onto the short wall surrounding the stoep and, without a word, relieved himself right onto the bike. Before long, a few more joined in, turning it into a impromptu act of defiance. You should have seen the MP’s face when he returned—priceless, a mix of shock, fury, and disbelief as he stared at his sodden machine. In that instant, amid the laughter echoing from the shadows, we felt a fleeting victory, a reminder that even under the weight of discipline, the spirit of the sea—and a bit of cheeky rebellion—couldn’t be fully tamed. Those were the days that forged bonds stronger than any anchor chain, memories etched like barnacles on the hull of my life.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

I've always been skeptical of “Big Data”, not just because of the hype but some intuitive concerns that using more data would solve problems better. I could never put my finger on it, but over the years got confirmation a few times, e.g. when building or validating models and checking that using just one percent of the data would work just as well for model building. Actually, better, since reducing training time from half a day to minutes enables you to actually try out ideas.

So with joy I discovered a 2018 paper by Xiao-Li Meng: Statistical paradises and paradoxes in big data (I): Law of large populations, big data paradox, and the 2016 US presidential election that adds a statistical underpinning to the fact more data is not necessarily better. Now I can't say I've understood the paper in detail, but it is well written and I have a bunch of important takeaways I want to share!

If you poll voters before an election, or take a sample of your population for which you have manual labels, the central question is how well you represent the full population. In statistical terms, you are asking about the difference between sample average and population average. Deciding the sampling or selection process is the R-mechanism. It might be a random sample, but especially in “Big Data” it might be self-reported or recorded data.

The key insight is that the difference between sample and population average is a sum of three errors: Data quantity + Problem Difficulty + Data Quality.

The data quantity error is very familiar. It encapsulates the idea that with increasing sample, the difference between sample and population average shrinks. The problem difficulty is related to the variability of responses. The crucial and often neglected error though is the data quality, which is investigated in this paper. Data quality is measured by the so-called data defect correlation as the correlation between the selection mechanism R and the response variable. This means that the chance of a record being selected depends on the response itself. It is related to what is known as a “design effect”. If we sample at random, the data defect correlation will be zero. However, in a “Big Data” setting where we recorded, say, 80% of the population, it can become a dominant error as it grows with the square root of N, given a population of size N. The impact becomes apparent when translating the error into effective sample size. The effective sample size is inversely proportional to the square of the data defect correlation. The paper shows that even with an “extremely modest” data defect correlation of 0.05, the effective sample size of half the US population (e.g. the registered voters in the USA) becomes ... 400! The paper has an extensive example on why polling failed to predict Trump's win in 2016 that I won't discuss here, but that is enlightening to read.

And so Meng poses the Big Data Paradox:

The bigger the data, the surer we fool ourselves.

And as much as that was true in the Big Data hype ten years ago, with Internet-sized training sets for LLMs it has becomes extinction-level foolishness!

devant son pas hésitant elles s'écartent doucement

entre les doigts d'une enfant tant de fleurs restent à offrir qu'elle n'ose en cueillir aucune

elles s'inclinent doucement devant sa grâce dansante

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Photo “Zoe Lilley-Verou in a field of flowers” by @kizu@pixey.org censed under CC BY-NC-ND

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photo Allan Cummings @acsync@vivaldi.net

Mahy, Margaret. The Tin Can Band and Other Poems. Illustrated by Honey de Lacey. London: Jonathan Cape, 1989, 7.

“İşte dikkat çekmek istediğimiz ilk nokta: Tamamen insana özgü olanın dışında komedi yoktur. Bir manzara güzel, latif, muhteşem, değersiz yahut çirkin olabilir; ama asla gülünç olmayacaktır. Örneğin bir hayvana güleriz çünkü onda bir insan davranışı ya da ifadesi görmüşüzdür. Bir şapkaya güleriz gülmesine ama bizi güldüren bir keçe yahut hasır parçası değil, insanların ona verdiği şekil, şapkanın kalıbını aldığı insan hevesidir.” – Bergson, Gülme- Komiğin Anlamı Üzerine Bir Deneme

The Wayans family built a comedy empire (and made Jim Carrey a star) with In Living Color in the early 90’s. Now, at last, we can peek behind the curtain into the workings of this seminal show to witness the birth of brilliant comedy, as this transcript of an early pitch meeting shows.

Keenen Ivory Wayans: Okay, people, what have you got?

David Alan Grier: Get this—Damon and I are film critics. Like Siskel and Ebert?

KIW: I’m with you so far…

DAG:Only…gay!

KIW: Wait. That’s the joke? The film critics are gay?

DAG: Yeah, that’s the joke.

KIW: I LOVE it! Run with it! *laughs* Gay men—in the entertainment industry! Who ever heard of such a thing! Y’all are killing me! Jim, what do you got?

Jim Carrey: I play a fire marshal…with severe burns!

KIW: You want people to laugh at a burn victim.

JC: Yeah!

KIW: Well, I’m laughing already! Who’s next?

Jamie Foxx: Okay, so I’m gonna play a woman, right?

KIW: But wait a minute, Jamie! You’re a man!

JF: I know! But the woman is really ugly!

KIW: *laughs, wipes tears from eyes* oh, that’s good stuff. That’s real good stuff!

JC: Oh, boss, I’ve got another one!

KIW: Keep ‘em coming! This shit is GOLD!

JC: Okay, I play a fitness instructor, BUT..she’s a woman…AND she’s ugly!

KIW: Oh, you literally cannot go to that well too many times. It’s just a brilliant concept to hang a sketch on!

Damon Wayans: Alright, get this. I’m gonna play a superhero…who is handicapped! So like…how can he be a superhero, right? And I’ll do like a cerebral palsy voice!

KIW: That’s fucked up, D. You can’t make fun of disabled people like that.

DW: Oh, I—

KIW: I’m just playing! I love it! Go write it!

Stichting Kor Relatie

Goedemiddag daar ben ik weer dokter Kor, u heeft vast net iets gezien en gehoord en weet, het is tijd om te zoeken naar mijn stichting, Kor_relatie, u heeft behoefte aan relatievering via Kor. Nou mooi, ik regel al jaren het een en het ander zodra er iets meer aan de hand is dan een ring, muis of een vaatdoek. Ik weet dat u dan op zoek zal gaan naar de Stichting, er op vertrouwend dat u daar, hier, een luisterend oor zult vinden, ook al ben ik me bewust van dat u eigenlijk zocht naar iemand anders werkzaam voor een andere stichting, doch ik ben spontaan in het grote gat, zeg maar gerust de diepe kloof, gesprongen tussen de c en de k, Ik heb mijn naam en achternaam mee dus niemand kon me stoppen om u ook te begeleiden naar een hoopvollere toekomst met een totaal verwerkt verleden, wat zij zeggen te kunnen kan ik ook beweren, maar dan net iets anders. Mijn hulp is geboden door u overhaaste beslissing en het volle vertrouwen in Google, DuckDuckGo, Startpage en de rest maar hier is Kor Relatie, en ik heb meer hits, dus ik ben de beste. Bewezen door u eigen handleiding en de ware impulsen van de zoekmachine, sponsorkrachten.

Goed en wel, ik heb mijn eigen belteam voor u stem klaar zitten ergens in Azië, alles wat u zegt wordt live vertaald door een AI tolk programma en alles wat mijn team van experts van alles wat en soms wat meer zeggen ook weer. U zult langzaam maar zeker meningvol kunnen communiceren dankzij de impulsen van techniek en inventief werken. Het zou heel misschien kunnen dat u alleen een hele poos spreekt met een robot maar wel een hele slimme en empathisch geprogrammeerd, eentje die u aan de lijn houdt tot er een echt persoon terugkomt van de hele korte toiletbreak die de door mij betaalde managers hun toestaan, onder begeleiding van een meerdere, ingeklokt, allemaal omdat ik u zo graag wil helpen met alle ineens weer opgekomen problemen. Dit nummer kost u niet meer dan de gesprekskosten, geen extra onkosten voor ongemakkelijke stiltes en ademteugen door u of ons levendige personeel.

Wij kunnen, mocht dat nodig zijn, u ook doorschakelen naar onze tweede nog wijzere, zeer professionele belteam in de ruimte naast de andere van belteam 1 en de AI tolk robot, alwaar extreem uitmuntende experts in diep geworteld ongeluk en dergelijke pech u met woord als daad bijstaan. Zij weten op een zeker moment na ongeveer vijf minuten meteen wie u eigenlijk had moeten bellen en beter ook kunt bellen zodra wij klaar zijn met het bezorgen van ons complete pakket telefonische zorgverlening. Kor Relatie Experts voldoen aan de ISO norm voor belteam experts en we hebben al vijf jaar achtereen de Benny, meest prestigieuse prijs voor telefoon optredens, gewonnen, dus u weet dat wij onze hulp net zo serieus nemen als die andere met ons wedijverende stichting, een welke gebruik maakt van een merknaam terwijl ik, hier, met naam en toenaam hulp bied, me niet verberg achter deskundigheid of spreek over jarenlange ervaring.

Over ervaring in en over alles kunnen wij inmiddels als beste spreken, We hebben iedereen geholpen die hulp kon krijgen door met ons te spreken of door onze site te bezoeken en zo in contact te komen met onze zeer geneeskrachtige games. Dokter Cookie, Mens Erger Je Niet Online, Jack de Hacker en onze nieuwste net ontwikkelde game Ganzenmoederbord. ER geneest zo hier en daar altijd ergens wel iets bij onze Stichting Kor Relatie, de eerste Stichting met Winst Oogmerk, zekerheid voor kwaliteit. Ik dank u met alle liefde en eerbeid voor u gebrekkige vaardigheden met betrekking tot het intikken van toetsen, zelfs al liggen op het toetsenbordje de letters k en c mijlenver uiteen, dus het kan alleen maar meer dan toeval zijn dat u hier uit komt voor de oplossing van u probleem. Kijk gerust dieper in onze spiegel des oordeels en kies bewust van u zelfbeeld voor Kor Relatie, speel nu Ganzenmoederbord en win vijf extra Kor Relatie zorgpunten.

“Yaşam akıp gidiyor; gerçek, o... Asıl oyun, o, doğru yanlış, akıp giden uygun.” —Vedat Türkali, Yeşilçam Dedikleri Türkiye

Emil Nolde, Flower Garden-Kneeling Woman with Hat, NGA

“Why do our lot never admit failure? Never. It might be better for us if we did. And it’s not only love and men. Why can’t we say something like this -we are people, because of accident of how were situated in history, who were so powerfully part- but only in our imaginations, and that’s the point-of the great dream, that now we have to admit that the great dreams has faded and the truth is something else-that we’ll never be any use. After all, Molly, it’s not much loss is it, a few people, a few people of a certain type, saying that they’ve had it, they’re finished. Why not? It’s almost arrogant not be able to.” —Doris Lessing, Golden Notebook