Thursday, 4 July 2019

Left Field: CHAPTER 27- Whistleblower


April 9th, 1999 – Despite that fax, Nicoletta contacted Brian and asked him to help Terri Robson set up a meeting of the Patrons with the War Child Trustees. Brian was there with Tom Stoppard; Terri Robson represented Pavarotti. Tim Spencer was there as chairman of the Board of Trustees. Brian informed the meeting that he had a letter signed by Pavarotti, Tom, Brent Hansen and himself. It expressed lack of confidence in War Child London.

It was agreed that Bill be ‘retired’, that a new Chief Executive be appointed and that all Pavarotti projects be placed under the control of non-UK War Child offices which were War Child Italy, Netherlands and Canada.

Bill and the London office ignored all this. The Trustees were already fed up with Bill’s actions and behaviour, frustrated that he would not even attend their meetings. Most of them resigned. The old Trustees were replaced with Kate Buckley and Laura Johnson-Graham.

May 9th, 1999 – A month later, Brian Eno wrote to Tim Spencer to let him know that the Patrons had been informed of the resignations of ‘nearly the entire Board’ and laid the blame on Tim’s failure ‘to appreciate the severity of the current situation and to take the necessary actions agreed upon between the Board and the Patrons at our joint meeting of 9th April.’1

Bill now began to peddle the view that the charity could dispense with its Patrons. He told The Sunday Times, ‘I would like to phase celebrities out of War Child completely and let the work the charity does speak for itself. We suddenly became fashionable with all sorts of undesirables, more interested in promoting their flagging careers than doing anything worthwhile.’2

Pavarotti had handed over millions to War Child. Brian not only helped plan the Centre, but visited Mostar on numerous occasions to give workshops. Tom Stoppard came to the opening and had helped publicise our diabetic aid project. When Bill and I were broke, he’d sent us both money. Brian and his wife, Anthea, had been responsible for three fundraising events in London which had raised hundreds of thousands of pounds for the charity.

I was exhausted and depressed. I was proud of our achievements and felt part of a great team in Mostar, but the Centre was now running on empty. I was having to sack staff and cut wages. I was now at the lowest point in my life. Anne was far away and my only support was the young people who were shaping the Centre and its future. I had a constant stream of visitors from the London office who seemed intent on trying to get me to resign. ‘You need a rest, David’, ‘You are ill’, ‘You drink too much’. One War Child visitor took advantage of my absence in Sarajevo and went through my office files to try and ‘dig the dirt’ on me.

I did my best to keep the Centre going and started chasing funding possibilities. I even went to Strasbourg to visit the European Development Fund. On this visit I passed through London for a few days and had to work from home because I had been frozen out of the War Child office. These were pre- email days and I had no fax. I had to pretend that I was still in Mostar and gave out my contact details there. I could hardly tell the EU that I was working from home as an ‘exile’ from my own NGO. Under such difficult circumstances, and working from my attic bedroom, I am proud to say that I managed to secure a grant for the PMC.

October 10th, 1999 – I resigned as Director and returned to London. I’d been told that moves were under way to remove me altogether from the charity. My administrator, Amela Saric, was appointed in my place and one of her first acts was to write to the charity’s Trustees to defend me. In her letter she offered to come to London and speak to them.3 She was wasting her time.

October 22nd, 1999 – The only communication that followed was not a reply to Amela, but a letter to me from Kate Buckley, the new Chair of Trustees and a partner at the large city lawyers, Allen and Overy. She invited me to attend a Trustee Meeting on November 1st to ‘explore your future role within the charity’.

November 1st, 1999 – At that meeting, exploration was not on the agenda. Kate announced that, in her view, I should be sacked. Meanwhile, the Trustees had advertised and recruited a new CEO, Raymond Chevalier. Bill had resigned as War Child Director, but still remained working for the charity. I had a meeting with Raymond and, afterwards, wrote him a letter expressing my frustrations.4 I needn’t have bothered since Raymond was in the post for less than two months. He wrote to the Trustees from Thailand to inform them he’d resigned.

January 30th, 2000 – A Sunday meeting with Brian and he showed me the draft of a letter he was writing which he wanted the other Patrons to sign. In it, he expressed frustration that no fundamental changes had taken place, that funding for the PMC was in danger, and that there was ‘resistance within War Child to support the Pavarotti projects and to produce answers to serious financial questions’.5

One of these questions related to the £140,000 royalties from the song ‘Miss Sarajevo’. On behalf of the artists, U2’s record company had asked for this to be sent directly to the PMC.6 The Centre never received this money.

February 10th, 2000 – Kate Buckley called a Trustee meeting, and they were presented with Brian’s letter, now co-signed by Luciano Pavarotti, Sir Tom Stoppard, David Bowie, Juliet Stevenson and Brent Hansen. There were four trustees present: Kate, Laura Johnson-Graham, John Gaydon and Anthea Eno. John and Anthea argued for respecting the wishes of the Patrons.7

As Chair, Kate Buckley said that I should be sacked, and that they had no other choice than 1) to organise a split in defence of the London office or 2) to close the charity down altogether. Three days later, Anthea resigned.8

February 23rd, 2000 – the Trustees met again and John Gaydon argued for the closure of the London office since the Trustees were unwilling to consider the terms as set out in the Patrons’ letter to them.

Once again, Kate argued for my sacking. At this point, John resigned. Kate introduced a new Trustee, Peter Collins, and these three, Kate, Laura and Peter went on to agree the termination of my contract.
Brian Eno, Luciano Pavarotti, Tom Stoppard, Juliet Stevenson, David Bowie and Brent Hansen were informed that their letter had been ignored and that I had been sacked. Their resignations followed. A few days later I received a letter from Juliet Stevenson: 
 
Well, what a terrible story this is, really. An eye-opener for me. I feel for you so much – thinking back to the early days of the charity and all that you placed at its service, and your passion and drive ... The work stands, and that is the important thing ... I do feel, incidentally, that this story should be revealed at some point, though I am aware of the potential hazards ... Best wishes, Juliet.’ 
 
I would be interested to know whether in legal/ethical terms a new Trustee, knowing nothing of the history of the charity and never having met me, was justified in voting for my redundancy. It seems to me to go against the laws of natural justice. Judges and juries without sight of, or sound from, the accused.

When I broached this in a phone call with Kate, she said that Peter Collins had abstained. I pointed out that his presence in the room allowed the meeting to be quorate and, therefore, his abstention was equivalent to a positive vote for my sacking.

February 29th, 2000 – I received my formal redundancy letter.9 Kate apologised for taking so much time to write to me, but said she had wanted to hear whether Raymond thought there was a role for me in War Child. Her opinion that I should be made redundant was strengthened, she argued curiously, by Anthea’s resignation as a Trustee and the reduced role of the Patrons. In addition, it was ‘clear’ that I had a strained relationship with the War Child office and that I should have sought ‘authority’ for taking the trip to meet with Pavarotti in New York.10

I was frustrated and angry. I had been sacked and my concerns had been ignored. I had had to leave the PMC, which was now in crisis. I had been told that I had no role in War Child by people who knew nothing about me or what I had achieved. 

To add insult to injury, I had just found out that Bill and I had been given the ‘Men of the Year Award’ by the World Awards organisation in Vienna.11 The first I knew of it was when a friend sent me a photo of a smiling Bill accepting the award in Vienna’s Yard Castle from the President of World Awards, Mikhail Gorbachev.

I rang them and asked why I’d not been invited to Vienna with Bill. They told me that the War Child office had said I was ‘unavailable’.
Dorothy Byrne of Channel 4 TV introduced me to David Hencke at the Guardian. He, together with Channel 4 News, set about a joint investigation into War Child.

January 10th, 2001 – After months of work, the Guardian’s front-page article appeared under the title, ‘Stars Quit Charity in Corruption Scandal’. The opening words, ‘Luciano Pavarotti has walked out of the high-profile overseas aid charity, War Child UK, with five other celebrity patrons after discovering that its co-founder had taken a bribe from contractors building a prestigious music centre named after him in Bosnia.’12

This was accompanied by an editorial which was critical of the Charity Commission’s role.13 That night, as the lead story on Channel 4 news, Jon Snow interviewed the new Chair of Trustees, Rosie Boycott. She broke down in tears when asked for her opinion about the problems at War Child.

She only had herself to blame. One of the Trustees who had resigned was Berry Ritchie, ex-editor of the ‘Prufrock’ column in the Sunday Times. He had phoned Rosie when he heard that she had agreed to become a Trustee and would be the new Chair. She had been dismissive of his warnings that she was about to land herself in a bed of thorns. 
 
I am often asked whether the War Child saga has left its scars. Of course it has, but I know there is a law applying to whistleblowers that requires a formula. It goes like this. The whistleblower discovers wrongdoing in an organisation. He/she is faced with ostracism, claims that they are ill and need to rest. If that tactic isn’t successful, they are informed they should retire and when that is not possible, sacked. The wrongdoers will then hide behind conventions and legalities to prevent information leaks. Finally, the whistleblower will achieve minor reforms, the wrongdoers will be exposed, but it will be too late. The wrong has been done, the wronged have been sacked, and the wrongdoers have quietly manoeuvred themselves back into positions of influence. 
 
I only managed to get exposure because I had powerful people behind me, the front page of a national newspaper and the lead story on Channel 4 News. 
 
Looking back, without Bill my life would have been different and not necessarily better. I could not have made the BBC Arena film and would never have started War Child. He was responsible for giving me the confidence to continue with the charity when it all seemed hopeless. I was grateful to him for making numerous journeys to Sarajevo and Mostar. He was a braver man than me.

I still remain puzzled as to what drove him. Was it altruism derailed by a moment’s lapse? I know that he wrestled with his conscience. Just before I left for Mostar in 1997, we went for a drink. With tears in his eyes, he told me he was proud of me. I never asked him why. It was a curious moment and out of character. What roles did others play in influencing his decisions? On this I have only conjecture, rumour and hearsay.

I recently watched a documentary on the relationship between German film director Werner Herzog and the actor Klaus Kinski. Kinski was subject to violent mood swings which came close at times to murderous intent. At the other extreme, he was affable, humorous, generous, even loveable.

When Herzog was making Aguirre, Wrath of God in the Peruvian jungle, Kinski exploded and threatened to walk off the set. Herzog drew a gun, telling him that it contained nine bullets. Eight for Kinski and the last one for himself. The actor stayed.

Bill was my Kinski. It used to amuse me how often he used the first person when talking with people about the setting up of War Child, even when I was present.14 As recently as a 2010 interview with Ed Vulliamy in the Observer, Bill said of the founding of War Child, ‘I wanted to come up with something that didn’t sound like your established charity.’15

Over the years, I got to feel like Trotsky, airbrushed out of the story.
As with most of us, Bill had good and bad in him in equal measure. It’s a pity that he has to take the brunt of my criticisms because there were others close to him who did not have that equal measure. I have a self-imposed D-Notice which prevents me from saying more about them.


 


NOTES

1 Brian Eno’s letter to the Trustees: ‘Dear Mr Spencer, On Friday, 7 May 1999, the Patrons of War Child were informed of the resignation of nearly the entire Board of Trustees of War Child UK. At the Trustee meeting of 5 May, Trustee Ed Morris resigned, followed by Keith Turner. We understand that Andy MacDonald also wishes to resign, but is barred legally from doing so as no trustee board can exist with only one member. These resignations effectively leave War Child UK without a functioning Board of Trustees. We believe that this incredible and utterly avoidable calamity is the direct result of your failure, as Chairman of the Board of Trustees, to appreciate the severity of the current situation and to take the necessary actions agreed upon between the Board and the Patrons at our joint meeting of 9 April. You had been informed at some time before that meeting of Nicoletta Mantovani’s letter of 7 March to Bill Leeson requesting an explanation of two extremely serious issues involving War Child UK’s management: 1) Generally, the 1996 incident concerning the construction of the Pavarotti Music Centre, in which Bill Leeson and Mike Terry allegedly were involved in financial irregularities with the Bosnian firm Hydrogradjna; and, specifically, 2) An accounting of the $500,000 disbursed to War Child UK for the Pavarotti & Friends Liberian Children’s Village, construction of which has yet to begin. At the joint 9 April meeting the Trustees and Patrons present agreed on the following measures: the immediate dissolution of War Child UK’s Management Committee; the retirement of Bill Leeson; the appointment of a new War Child UK Chief Executive; the immediate handover of the Pavarotti- funded projects to Nicoletta Mantovani, with administrative control thereof assigned to War Child Netherlands (the Pavarotti Music Centre); War Child Italy (the Pavarotti & Friends Liberian Children’s Village); and War Child USA (the Pavarotti and Friends Guatemala project). Despite this joint agreement, the only change undertaken thus far is the unexplained firing of John Carmichael, who it was agreed at the 9 April meeting would assist War Child Italy in its implementation of the Liberia project. As far as we know, no other action has been taken. As a direct result of your inaction, War Child UK is left without a functioning Board of Trustees. The faith of the Patrons in War Child UK has been finally exhausted. Because we have always taken our positions as Patrons of War Child seriously, we feel now obliged to fulfil our responsibilities by ensuring the proper resolution of the present crisis. Due to your apparent lack of a similar sense of responsibility, coupled with the disintegration of the Trustee Board, we support the reporting of the situation as it now exists to the Charity Commission on Tuesday, 11 May. This will raise the question why you, as Chair, failed to resolve the situation, and the reason for the resignations of your fellow Trustees. We would like to be able to report to the Commission that some progress, however minor or belated, has been made toward remedying War Child UK’s untenable position. While time is quite short, we recommend that the following actions be taken by the remaining Board of you and Andy MacDonald ... so that they can be notified to the Commission at the meeting of 11 May: 1) The appointment of three neutral Trustees, recommended by the Patrons, with no affiliation whatsoever to the War Child UK Management Committee, so that their impartiality vis-a-vis the management of War Child UK is guaranteed; 2) Written confirmation that the course of action decided upon at the joint Patron/Trustee meeting of 9 April has been implemented, or, at the least, initiated; on completion of 1 and 2, the resignation of yourself as Chair and Trustee. We believe that the carrying out of the above would enable the Patrons to indicate to the Commission on Tuesday that some progress has been made toward resolving War Child UK’s internal crisis, progress mitigating against the need for the Commission to intervene as it determines legally necessary. Nothing short of these three steps will begin to restore the faith of the Patrons in War Child UK, and prevent us from taking whatever steps are necessary to protect our good names. We anticipate your immediate response. Brian Eno on behalf of (most of) the Patrons.’ 
 
2 Bill Leeson, quoted in The Sunday Times, December 10th, 2000: ‘Bill Leeson, co-founder of the charity War Child which was set up in 1993 to help victims of the war in Bosnia, is trying to cut celebrities out of the loop. “I would like to phase celebrities out of War Child completely and let the work the charity does speak for itself,” he says. Leeson, more than anyone, knows the benefits that celebrity endorsement can bring: when he first wanted to raise money, “the situation was an emergency and I used celebrities mercilessly”. The result was a compilation CD, Help, which climbed high in the charts thanks to contributions from Blur, Oasis and the Manic Street Preachers. But then Leeson found the charity was becoming more famous for its celebrity endorsers than its work and he had to reassess things. “We suddenly became fashionable and all sorts of undesirables, more interested in promoting their flagging careers than doing anything worthwhile, tried and failed to jump on the bandwagon.”’ 
 
3 Letter from Amela Saric , Director of the PMC to War Child Trustees, October 9th, 1999. ‘I am writing to you for the first time as PMC Director, but I find it really necessary. Last few weeks I was in contact with David Wilson hoping that he will be one of the crucial internationals willing to help Pavarotti Centre in the future. But from that contact I realised that he is too depressed by problems with War Child and with the fact that he has to work from home and not to be welcome in the organisation he founded. The fact that he may be made redundant would be wrong and disaster for the PMC. As you all know, he was the PMC Director for the first two years and most of the successes and good reputation of PMC we have to thank him for. He found enough strength and courage to stay with Bosnians, leave very quiet and secure position in War Child and fight for the Centre in the middle of a divided city. Pavarotti Centre became the oasis of peace, place for the children and young people of Bosnia mostly thanks to his vision and hard work. The only independent centre from all kinds of politic games. He was brave enough to fight against some local politicians who wanted to destroy us, to destroy the idea that the Centre is for all people in Bosnia without regard to their names, nationality or confession. He was brave enough to give a chance to young people to have a job, responsibility and hope to find a way to become normal human beings. And this is not just my or PMC staff opinion. He has respect of local people and politicians, important people in OHR, UN, OSCE, BiH politicians. His speeches are still remembered in Mostar and BiH and he was given a lot of media attention and strongly respected in my country. Even Croatian press was nice about him. Most of the international journalists that visited us in the last few weeks asked me what is happening with him, is he still in War Child, what is his future role? He is the best ambassador for us and without him the PMC future is in doubt and we will lose our best supporter and friend. And at the end he was the only member of War Child London who cared about this project. I still believe that through good and continued work of PMC as one of the biggest projects of War Child, War Child can benefit. We are the best example of War Child success for possible donors of future War Child projects. I write this letter as Director of PMC supported by people working here. We are very willing that one of us come to London and speaks with you directly if you find it necessary.’ 
 
4 Letter to Raymond Chevalier, December 19th, 1999: ‘I don’t know how bad the financial side is at War Child, but I am pretty certain that they have been dipping into PMC monies (the underspend and the “Miss Sarajevo” income). The PMC will grind to a halt in February without at least the underspend being sent down ... I realise how delicate the situation is for you, but the fact is that, as a founder of War Child, I am unable to work from the London office because of the susceptibilities of others who should be the ones in exile and not me. It is deeply frustrating and depressing and prevents me from getting on with my work. People are beginning to ask me why, when I am in London, I communicate all the time from a home address. I should be writing on War Child letterheads to MEPs and the Directorate General X at the EU to get monies to the PMC which are owed. I should be setting up meetings at DFID for future funding, reapplying to the UK Lottery and so on. I cannot do this and it is an absurd situation.’ 
 
5 Brian Eno’s draft letter, January 30th, 2000: ‘Dear Trustees of War Child UK, As you know, for the past year we, as the patrons of War Child, have been waiting to hear that the troubles that blighted the charity were behind us. We made some suggestions concerning the London office and we were glad to hear that a new CEO had been found. We have now been informed that Raymond Chevalier, hired as Chief Executive by the Trustees in November to, we presume, implement reforms and seek answers, has suddenly resigned. We have now also heard that funding for the Pavarotti Music Centre in Mostar is uncertain, and that a crisis at the PMC looms. It appears that there is a resistance within War Child UK to support the Pavarotti projects and to produce answers to serious financial questions. As our professional reputations are linked to War Child, and because we still believe in the vision of War Child as it once was and can be again, we believe it imperative that the following be implemented immediately: We propose the immediate appointment of an interim Chief Executive Officer, to work with the remaining co-founder of War Child, David Wilson, toward the restructuring of War Child UK. Because the current state of crisis does not provide adequate time to go through the process of applications and headhunting, we propose the appointment of a previous candidate for the CEO position, as interim CEO. This appointment should be for six months, reviewable by the Trustees at the end of that period in consultation with the Patrons. During that time, the Trustees may wish to conduct another application process, which may include consideration of the interim appointee. We urge that the Trustees provide the interim appointee with a narrow and focused remit: namely, to retain a completely independent professional auditor, whose role it will be (with facilitation from David Wilson) to examine every aspect of War Child UK’s finances and make a complete report to the Trustees and Patrons as soon as possible. During this examination, we believe the interim appointee should carefully administer and control incoming and outgoing funds, with weekly reports to the Trustees on all financial and programme activities. All existing programmes and employees should be closely scrutinised for financial – and results – effectiveness, and no additional initiatives or appointments should be made during this interim period without the full agreement of the Trustees, in consultation with the Patrons. During this time, David Wilson should work with the interim appointee to resolve the funding and morale crisis at the PMC. This person should also work with the Patrons, Trustees, and other relevant War Child offices to ameliorate this crisis and work toward short- and long-term support for all of the Pavarotti projects. We, the undersigned patrons, wish to maintain our status as War Child patrons, but feel unable to do so unless the above urgent actions are taken ... We await your earliest response.’ 
 
6 Letter to War Child from James White, Finance Director, Universal Records, August 19th, 1999: ‘I am pleased to be able to present War Child two cheques, the first for £133,259, representing the balance of monies due for worldwide royalties due on the “Miss Sarajevo” single and the same song on the Passengers album. The second for £7,961 (after deduction of Gift Aid) for the profits on the UK single release. This represents accounting up to 31/12/98. Future accounting will be dealt with directly by our royalties department; Andy Harwood is the contact. Recently I spoke with the representatives of the artists involved and was asked to convey their wish that these monies be passed directly to the Pavarotti Music Centre in Mostar. Please don’t hesitate to call if you require further information.’ 
 
7 Note on War Child Trustees: Twelve Trustees resigned as a direct result of the crisis in War Child: (as of Feb 2001) Sylvester McCoy (actor); Tim Spencer (lawyer) first resignation; Khawar Qureshi QC, Chair (barrister); Berry Ritchie (journalist); Liz Huhne (Justice of the Peace); Ed Morris (charity adviser); Keith Turner (accountant); Tim Spencer, Chair (lawyer) second resignation; Andy Macdonald (record producer); Anthea Norman-Taylor (music publisher); John Gaydon (music promoter); Kate Buckley (lawyer). 
 
8 Anthea Norman-Taylor’s letter of resignation from Trustees, February 13th, 2000: ‘Dear All, After our meeting on Thursday, Kate summarised the situation to me again by saying the choices are to either split it up or wind it up. I have thought long and hard about this as I am sure we all have. I would like to reiterate what I have been trying to say for a year, which is not either of the above options. The Patrons and the music business were attracted to War Child because of its aim to think long-term about children in war zones, not to just deliver aid, as so many charities do already. The concept of the Pavarotti Music Centre epitomised that aim ... to provide a ‘safe haven’ from ethnic conflicts through the medium of music making. An ancillary part of this is music therapy. Although it cost a lot to build and run, the building was actually given (not sold) by the city authorities because they were convinced this was a valuable addition to the town and might help it heal the divide. I know I need not say more about the Centre because I know you all support its existence. But Pavarotti, Nicoletta and the many people in the music business who helped this happen are now being told by War Child that that project was an aberration, that in fact all War Child wants to do is send money to existing ‘in the field’ NGOs to provide immediate aid with food, clothing, medicine etc. You must be able to understand that this is deeply upsetting to Pavarotti (and the other Patrons) when so much time and thought and money has gone into researching other long-term projects to help children of war zones in other parts of the world. And as you know, he was also justifiably very concerned about the lack of financial controls over his other projects when being handled by War Child London. It is clear that the London office was/is being run by a management team who do not want to work with Pavarotti’s projects. I am astounded that Kate listens to the London office’s “expertise” on the subject, rather than the people who have actually been there and been involved (i.e. Nicoletta Mantovani, Johnny Carmichael, Tom Ehr and David Wilson). But that seems to be where we are. It is a difference of vision, I guess. The London office, with Kate’s support, are saying they want to go their own way. They suggest Pavarotti and those who think differently to them split off, basically that there be a divorce. My preference would be not to split and not to fold, but to have all the offices working together. But this just cannot happen with people who are against the Pavarotti projects running the London office. Kate seems to believe that our priority is to make David Wilson redundant. That would certainly make the London office happy. But this would not help the situation in that the other offices (certainly Italy, USA and Canada) cannot work with the London office because it is staffed by people antagonistic to their aims. As you know, I was in favour of David going back into the London office, but not as CEO. I had imagined a situation where we could have a London office being run by a new CEO and David working for a new body, War Child International say, which took care of long-term projects involved in healing through cultural exchange etc., i.e. to co-ordinate with the Pavarotti projects and hopefully a whole lot of new ones. David has many ideas on this front; he is a creative and hard-working person. I had thought then maybe we should wind it up ... that it was a total impasse. However, I know there are lots of ghastly implications and that lawyers and accountants would descend like vultures (sorry Kate), quite apart from the press. I cannot vote to wind it up, but neither can I vote to split it up. I cannot justify to myself or to the supporters I have brought in from the music business that War Child London would be a charity worth supporting. Their little projects from safe-play areas to diabetic medicine or food deliveries are being handled already by other charities. I would rather money went directly to GOAL, for example, to help the Sudanese situation. I cannot explain why the money has to first go to a London office where ridiculous overheads are maintained and deducted, then on to another charity. I find it especially galling that the public are then misled by press stories implying War Child are directly involved in creative projects for children of war. Furthermore, I see the staff are saying they have not had their pay rises. I have no alternative but to tender my resignation herewith and to inform the Patrons that I am doing so, giving my reasons as above. In any event the Patrons who signed the letter to the Trustees of February 10 will step down as Patrons since their views have been ignored. No doubt the London office will be delighted by both these moves and no doubt Bill Leeson and Bob Close, who are in close contact with the London staff, will feel vindicated. This is what they wanted all along. I am sorry to leave you all with such a situation, but as you know, I have put a tremendous amount of time and energy into War Child. However, I can no longer justify that devotion. With best wishes, Anthea Norman-Taylor.’ 
 
9 My redundancy letter, February 29th, 2000: ‘Dear David, I am writing following recent discussions amongst the Trustees. The Trustees have considered your report of November 1999. We apologise that it has taken some time to respond to this. The Trustees wished to have the view of Raymond, as Chief Executive at the time, on this report. That is why you received no immediate response to it from the Trustees. Raymond reported at a meeting of the Trustees in January and said that he did not believe that the report identified any sustainable role for you and that the charity could not justify creating roles given its present financial condition. That view is shared by the current Trustees and, moreover since the date of your report, it seems that the Patrons will have a reduced role in the light of Anthea’s resignation as Trustee, Brian’s resignation as a Patron and Anthea’s indication that many of the other Patrons will also resign. Moreover it is clear that relations between you and the staff in the office are strained. In the circumstances, and in the light of the present financial uncertainty of War Child, the Trustees have decided that they cannot identify any post to offer you at the present time and have accordingly concluded that it is not appropriate to continue to employ you. I am writing therefore to give you notice of termination of your employment by reason of redundancy. You are entitled to a week’s notice for every year that you have worked. I believe that you have worked seven full years and on that basis give you notice that your contract will end on 19 April, 2000. You are also entitled to a redundancy payment. This is calculated at £345 for each year of service. The Trustees do not require you to work during your notice period. Accordingly, I enclose a cheque for £5,470.42, being your pay during your notice period and your redundancy payment. There is an outstanding issue in relation to your claim to expenses. The Trustees have considered these and given the uncertainty of your position since September have exceptionally decided to pay the majority of these expenses even though many of them were unauthorised. The Trustees are not prepared to sanction the trip to the United States. Authority for expenditure of this size should have been sought before it was incurred. Accordingly I enclose a cheque for £621.73 in relation to these expenses. With regard to property and papers belonging to the charity we should be grateful if you could return these to the offices of War Child. If you have any information in relation to the Music Centre or otherwise that you believe should be known to the charity, please forward this to the office as well. Yours sincerely, Kate Buckley, Chair of Trustees.’ 
 
10. I prepared a letter in reply to Kate which I never sent. In it, I wanted to ask why value was given to Raymond’s opinion when he had been in post for such a short time and seemed to have fled to Thailand. I wanted to remind her that the Patrons and most of the Trustees had resigned in support of me and that the new Trustees had never met me. That it could not be the case that relationships between myself and the War Child office staff had been ‘strained’ since 1997 when I’d been in Mostar; most of them had never met me. That the argument that my trip to meet Pavarotti in New York should have been sanctioned was ridiculous. Was I supposed to have contacted Bill and asked for his permission to take a flight to report on his misdoings? I wrote a report to the Charity Commission, but they, and the War Child lawyers, refused to read it or see me. Their grounds were that they could only deal with the Trustees and that I was no longer employed by War Child and therefore had no official position. Catch 22. 
 
11 http://wikepedia.qwika.com/de2en/World_Award

12 Guardian articles on War Child: ‘Stars Quit Charity in Corruption Scandal’, David Hencke, January 10th, 2010. ‘It Seemed Close to Deceitful that Our Money Hadn’t Gone Where It Ought to’, Interview with Brian Eno, January 10th, 2010. ‘Charity Returns £41,000’, David Hencke, Guardian, January 17th, 2001. 
 
13 ‘The Commission Has Been Too Slow to Act’, Guardian editorial, January 10th, 2001. ‘War Child UK, the charity set up to help victims of the Bosnian war, is in serious trouble. Luciano Pavarotti and five other celebrity patrons have walked out of the high-profile overseas aid charity. Eleven trustees have resigned. A joint investigation by the Guardian and Channel 4 News shows that Bill Leeson, one of its co-founders, and Mike Terry, a consultant, took a bribe from contractors building a Bosnian music therapy centre, named after the Italian tenor. Though it was later repaid by the charity, the two men are still involved with the charity. There is also grave concern about high administrative expenses, poor accounting, inadequate management structures. A spokesman for Mr Pavarotti said yesterday that he did not want to be associated with anything corrupt. He had asked about a Liberian children’s project, but had had to wait for a year before he could get the accounts to discover that administration had absorbed much of the expenditure. As a result, he personally directed that all future money from him for former War Child UK projects in Yugoslavia, Liberia and Guatemala should be funded by different charities, following which, when the Kosovo crisis broke, a $1m donation was sent to the United Nations refugee agency. Nigel Osborne, professor of music at Edinburgh University and former Director of Music for the centre, described the bribe as “a catastrophic betrayal”. It was the revelation of the bribe that prompted the patrons to act. They called for the retirement of Mr Leeson, the dissolution of the management committee, and the transfer of the Pavarotti project out of War Child UK’s control. But nothing happened, leading to an exodus of patrons and trustees. It was a sad development in a charity that won the support of a new generation of pop stars. Many of the biggest names helped raise money for it in the mid 1990s. Other patrons included Sir Tom Stoppard, the playwright, and Juliet Stevenson, the actor. What lessons can be learned? The Trustees clearly behaved responsibly. Thwarted by the charity’s management, they wrote to the Charity Commissioners in June 1998 about the lack of reports to Trustees and the refusal to arrange suitable meetings. They also complained of the “financial impropriety”. Two further letters were sent the same year complaining about the lack of financial information, the reluctance of Mr Leeson to cooperate, and the need for a full-time paid trustee to fill in the gaps in their knowledge and to examine whether Mr Leeson could be dismissed. The Chairman of the Trustees called in an independent auditor and independent solicitors. Yet they were still unable to budge the charity’s management. Hence the decision of 11 Trustees to resign. The Charity Commission is conducting a financial audit but has moved much too slowly. It is 30 months since it was alerted to serious problems in the charity and yet it has still not produced a report or made public any recommendations. The Commission’s procedures are notorious for being ponderous and antiquated. John Stoker, the Chief Charity Commissioner, is planning to upgrade its monitoring role, helped by a two-year 40% boost to its funding that begins in April 2002. But with a current £20m budget and a staff of 500, it should already be able to move more quickly to deal with a serious complaint. Quite separate from its regulatory role, the Commission needs to review the advice it gives trustees. War Child Trustees wanted to dismiss their unsatisfactory managers but failed. With better advice, they should have been able to get their way.’ 
 
14 Bill Leeson: ‘Do-Gooders Need Not Apply’. Cheryl Dahle, May 31st, 1999 and published in June 1999 issue of Fast Company Magazine. ‘Bill Leeson, the outspoken co-founder of one of Great Britain’s most high-profile charities, believes that you can do good works without being a do-gooder. “I am a deal maker. I make deals to get my story out.” Bill Leeson doesn’t have much patience for do- gooders. Ask him to talk about most nonprofits – outfits bound by tradition and filled with self-importance – and the hot-headed Brit finds it hard to contain himself. “I hate the idea of charities as holier- than-thou organizations that set themselves apart from the world, as if they are the chosen ones that will fix things,” Leeson complains.
We are the do-gooders that will sort out all of these problems. You just give us the money. That’s a bloody crock.” Think of War Child, the organization that Leeson co-founded six years ago to aid children in strife-torn regions, as the anti-charity charity. It has delivered nearly 8 million pounds ($13 million) worth of aid and services to young people in the former Yugoslavia and in Africa – but it has a staff of just 15, and it operates on a lean 4% overhead. Its more ambitious projects (a music-therapy center for children in Mostar, Bosnia, completed in 1997; a soon-to-be-completed children’s-education center in Liberia) are decidedly unorthodox. And no matter how obscure the countries that it’s working in may be, War Child maintains a glamorous image in its home country, where it hosts “eat-ins” at chic restaurants and puts on concerts featuring Luciano Pavarotti, U2, Spice Girls, and Oasis. In short, Leeson has created a new breed of nonprofit – one that combines sympathy with savvy, noble ideals with self-interest, and good works with smart business. Leeson, now 55, got his first close-up view of war in 1993, when he traveled to Croatia to film a documentary on artists. His experience there changed his life – not just because of the violence that he saw, but because of the effect that the violence had on young survivors. Walking through the streets of Zagreb, he saw children’s drawings hanging in shop windows. “They were just what you’d expect of children’s artwork – stick figures drawn with brightly coloured crayons,” he says. “Except that they were pictures of guns and corpses. It was all stuff that these kids had seen with their own eyes. It was horrifying. I found it terribly difficult to go back to my normal job again.” So he didn’t. Soon after returning to London, Leeson organized a fund-raiser. Friends encouraged him to take personal control of how the money that he raised would be spent – instead of donating it to a charity whose overhead (according to War Child) would take as much as 12% off the top. Ten days later, War Child was born. From the start, Leeson recognized that his competition was not other charities – it was indifference and ignorance: “When people watch TV, they see a ten minute news program with half a dozen wars, each reduced to a 30-second sound bite. People get desensitised, and they flip the channel.” One of the organization’s first efforts was to sponsor a mobile bakery in Mostar. Instead of delivering rations to thousands of people for just a day, War Child supplied fresh bread to one village for several months. Donors who suffered from compassion fatigue suddenly heard stories about their dollars buying warm bread for families. War Child has also helped reforge the link between rock music and good works – a relationship that had become decidedly unhip to teenagers, who saw earlier efforts (such as the We Are the World: U.S.A. for Africa recording) as cheesy. “We had a generation of young people in the UK who felt that charity had nothing to do with them,” Leeson says. “We wanted to show them that charity could be cool.” War Child was able to persuade some of the UK’s hottest bands to write songs for an album. The CD, titled Help and produced by Brian Eno, raised £1.5 million ($2.4 million). Leeson also understands the power of the media. Starting with his first fundraiser, a concert in London’s Royal Festival Hall, he has always drawn impressive coverage. Part of War Child’s media success has been the result of connections: it helps to have friends who control the cameras. Plus, as the fighting in the Balkans has received more and more exposure, the plight of people in Bosnia and Croatia has gained in “popularity.” But neither of those reasons explains how War Child has managed to get such sustained coverage while so many other non-profits toil in obscurity. Leeson explains it this way: “I am a deal maker. I make deals to get my story out.” He’s not talking about bribes; he’s talking about working with the media to generate compelling footage and dramatic stories – a form of collaboration that is deemed taboo by many traditional charities. “The media world and the aid world have completely different agendas, but few nonprofits bother to try to understand what the media agenda is about.” source: http://www. fastcompany.com/37241/do-gooders-need-not-apply 
 
15 Ed Vulliamy, ‘War Child and The Bosnian War 15 Years On’, The Observer, Sunday, July 4th, 2010



Wednesday, 3 July 2019

Left Field: CHAPTER 28 - Tie a Knot



When I left Mostar, I was concerned that the Centre and its work was in trouble, starved of funds and neglected by the charity which had set it up. 
 
Although I had resigned as Director of the PMC and been sacked from War Child, I was not yet ready to abandon the project. Ringing in my ears were the words of the director of a street children’s project in Soweto, telling me that he never gave up hope. ‘When you get to the end of a rope,’ he said, ‘tie a knot and hold on.’ 

In addition to Anne, my knots were Eugene Skeef, Jane Glitre and Hiroshi Kato. I had found out during my visit to South Africa in 1996 that Eugene was widely respected amongst political and cultural activists. When he arrived in Mostar, he quickly replicated this reputation in Bosnia-Herzegovina. 

Eugene came to London in 1980 as a political refugee from South Africa. Since that time, he’d been working at the Oval House Music School as composer, instrument maker and workshop leader. He brought these skills with him to the PMC where he was central to my dream of an international network of music centres that would seek to bring reconciliation to divided communities.

Like me, Eugene retained his connections with Mostar after he left Bosnia. He returned there with his Umoya organisation which he set up in 2003. Working with Oha, they started a production of Udu clay drums. Eugene hoped to have production stretching from Nigeria, where they originate, to Bosnia.

Today, Eugene is part of an international peace-building initiative called Quartet of Peace. He recently composed ‘Uxolo’, specially commissioned for two violins, viola and cello. The title means forgiveness in Zulu and honours South Africa’s four Nobel laureates: Nelson Mandela, Dr Albert Luthuli, F. W. de Klerk and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. 

 When we were both working in Mostar, I introduced Eugene to Jane Glitre whom I had got to know after her visits to Sarajevo in the war. She had made a number of journeys into besieged Sarajevo with a group of women who called themselves Through Heart to Peace. On one trip she walked over Mount Igman, through Serbian lines, helping to pull one of Frederick Franck’s steel sculptures called ‘Unkillable Human’. Today, it stands at the opening to the tunnel through which people escaped the city or arrived, as Jane did, in acts of solidarity.1

Jane had helped out at the opening of the PMC and was going to be an active collaborator of mine. From 1996 until its closure eleven years later, she ran the Spitz, a music venue at the heart of London’s Old Spitalfields Market which hosted concerts featuring the best in cutting-edge music. It also had a gallery. I had brought artist Dragan Andjelic from Sarajevo there in 1999 to exhibit his ‘Angels’ series of paintings.2 

She and Eugene organised an extraordinary gig there in 2003 featuring Oha and Atilla Aksoj from the PMC, performing with the multi-instrumentalist Tunde Jegede and musicians from Ghana, Jamaica and Nigeria. Eugene then took Oha and Atilla to the Purcell Music School where they ran workshops for their students and for primary school children. 

After returning to London from Mostar, I worked as a volunteer at the Spitz and helped Jane organise jazz evenings when she moved to Kings Place.

The Spitz was killed off by another betrayal. One of the most remarkable live-music venues in London replaced by yet another expensive restaurant to fill the bellies of those ever- hungry City bankers. 
 
An early supporter of War Child and its work was the Japanese musician and entrepreneur Hiroshi Kato. When I first met him, Hiroshi was running the European office of the audio speaker company Fujitsu Ten. He had been living in London for over 30 years. He said that he’d arrived in the UK as a Japanese hippy, taking the trail from east to west and that he’d passed western hippies in Afghanistan as they went the other way.

After I’d been sacked from War Child, Hiroshi offered me a job with Fujitsu Ten. While I was working for him, we set up a new charity, Future Trust, to try and continue the work I’d been doing at War Child and at the PMC.

Hiroshi managed to get Japanese funding for ‘In. Site’, a concert we organised at the Centre in October 2000. Performers included Brian Eno, Horace Andy of Massive Attack, Nigel Clarke from Dodgy and artists from Japan, the USA, India and numerous performers from across ex-Yugoslavia.

Now a trustee of Future Trust, Jane was there to help, along with Hideto Watanabe from Hiroshi’s London office and Johnny Carmichael who’d been helping run War Child in Italy. The gig was broadcast on Bosnian TV and webcast in Japan. Not only was this an extraordinary event, but it raised enough money to help re-equip the Centre’s studio.

Brian Eno said of the concert:
It worked seamlessly. It was really wonderful – everybody had a great time and it must be the beginning of a new era for the Centre ... This is exactly the kind of thing the Centre was set up for – I felt that this was a new bridge built in Mostar, probably more important than any of the other bridges being made there.’

The following year, in August 2001, and now working with Matt Black of Coldcut, Hiroshi and I organised the ‘CanDU PirateTV’ tour with gigs in Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia. At its heart was an interactive, multimedia circus incorporating the audio and visual talents of Ninja Tune, the pioneers who created and influenced a new generation of DJs. They had developed one of the first programmes to allow the manipulation of visual images as if they were musical instruments.

Arriving in town a day or two before each public performance, the visitors worked with young people who were then invited to take part in the gigs. The workshops were filmed and appeared within hours on six stage screens and ‘timed’ to the music. Meanwhile, Coldcut’s and Ninja Tune’s ‘Solid Steel’ show was syndicated to radio stations en route.

Oha was recruited as the tour manager and dealt with the complex movement of over 20 musicians and crew members across much of the Balkans, working from one mobile phone.

The PMC never collapsed. It just took to the road for a while and, thanks to Oha and his team, today it has returned home.



NOTES

Tie a Knot1 Frederick Francj: ‘After I saw a human in Hiroshima, burned into a concrete wall, a human shadow the moment the Bomb struck, I was haunted by it. Returned home I took a steel plate, and with a blowtorch cut out the contour of this volatilised fellow human. When the outline was complete the human form dropped out, leaving a gaping hole surrounded by frames of steel. I placed both components so that, through the empty negative, the human image can be seen rising, like a phoenix from its ashes.’ http://www. dayspringchurchmd.org/resources/43



Tuesday, 2 July 2019

Left Field: CHAPTER 29 - Neighbours



I have chosen to go to places where my life has been threatened, from bars in Brazil to besieged Sarajevo. But the closest I came to dying was no choice of mine, but back at home in suburban north London.
In August 2014 the President of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, Sir Simon Wessely, told the Guardian that two-thirds of psychiatric patients don’t endure poor treatment – they get no treatment at all. ‘Imagine it was cancer,’ he remarked, adding that mental health provision in the UK was ‘dangerously close to collapse’.

Anne and I live on the top floor of an Edwardian house. Across the street is a flat occupied by a woman I will call ‘Sam’. She is in her mid-forties and has a long history of mental illness. She seems to have been in and out of prison more than in and out of hospital. At least twice a month, there are two, sometimes three, police cars outside her home and usually an ambulance.

Twice, armed police from the Specialist Firearms Unit have turned up. On the first occasion, I was walking home from the shops and saw an officer hiding behind a bush near her flat. He put a finger to his mouth to warn me not to give away his presence. Did he want me to hide behind a bush too?

On the second occasion, I was watching armed cops from my window. Sam turned the corner and walked up to her front door. The police did nothing. After she’d entered the house and closed the door, they rushed it, screaming. She was manhandled into the street.
Sometimes she’s taken away in an ambulance and sometimes in a police car, but every time she’s back home that night or the next day. Perhaps poor Sam is used for exercise. ‘What have we got on tonight, lads?’ Silence. ‘Let’s go to Sam’s.’
Madness, yes. But whose?
  
Living on the ground floor of our building was an ex-teacher, Roger Sutherland. He was a member of the Scratch Orchestra and a co-founder of Morphogenesis1. He also wrote the book New Perspectives in Music. He was an eccentric avant-garde composer, but we got on well enough – most of the time. He lived a quiet life and insisted that everyone else did too. He’d complain about the slightest noise, even going so far as to telephone the next-door neighbour when she put her pots and pans away.

The strangest example of his insistence on quiet was on December 31st, 1999. Just before midnight, Anne started to beat her Native American drum to welcome in the Millennium. Almost immediately the phone rang.

Stop that noise,’ Roger shouted. ‘I’m trying to sleep!’

I told him my mother had died that day, that it was minutes from New Year and that he should get a life. I then turned the receiver toward the window as the whole of London exploded with fireworks.
Fast forward to four years later. February 5th, 2004, the night of a full moon, the time of month when police, midwives and hospitals acknowledge to be their busiest. I had gone to bed and Anne stayed up to watch Six Feet Under.2 At midnight, she called up the stairs. ‘David, I can smell gas.’ She was right.

We called the emergency services and then Roger to warn him. Shocked and dazed, we stood at the top of the stairs, watching as firemen entered the building and police questioned him in the corridor below. We were astonished to hear that, after trying to take his own life and endangering ours, he was offered a choice as to what he wanted: the police cells or the Whittington Hospital. Not surprisingly, he chose the hospital.

As the officers escorted him out, he reached to turn on the hall light. A fireman shouted, ‘Don’t touch that switch. The place will blow!’

I woke up in the early hours to hear the front door opening, but went back to sleep. Just after 6am, Anne woke me shouting, ‘Smoke!’

Coughing, we ran downstairs where the smoke was so thick we couldn’t see the bright blue numbers on the oven’s digital clock. Anne rang 999 for the second time in six hours as I staggered through the blackness to the street.

Two firemen carried Roger out, naked and smoke blackened. Later we discovered that he had set fire to his foam rubber mattress which gave off cyanide fumes as it burned. For half an hour, I watched as they tried to revive him.

In hospital, he was put on life support. His daughter was told he was brain-dead and made the difficult decision to turn off the machines.
His estranged wife told us later that, in the previous month, she’d made over 50 calls to Roger’s GP, desperately trying to get help for him. That the day before his death, he had turned on all the gas rings, trying to kill himself. Something she’d neglected to tell us at the time.

As compassionate as we felt toward Roger and his mental health problems, the reality was that, within the space of six hours, he twice came close to killing us. Our ‘pots and pans’ neighbours told us that the fire chief told them that the level of gas had been so high that, with one spark, not only our house would have blown up, but also the houses on either side.

Channel 4 TV came to interview us and our MP, Jeremy Corbyn, instigated an investigation as to why Roger had been allowed home in the middle of the night. At the Coroner’s hearing, the hospital apologised that they didn’t have sufficient resources to section him that night. The police claimed to have come round to us soon after Roger had escaped from A&E to warn us that he was back in the building. They testified that we hadn’t answered the doorbell. The police had our telephone number, but their communication’s systems didn’t seem to have advanced much beyond the days of Dixon of Dock Green.

The Coroner ruled that Roger’s death was due to ‘unknown causes’. It couldn’t be ruled as a suicide as Roger’s finger marks were found on the wall beside his front door.

I came closer to death in my own home than I did in Sarajevo when I had to run across Sniper’s Alley. The moral of this story? Your life can be threatened by wars abroad and by health and welfare cuts at home.




NOTES

1 Morphogenesis was an experimental music group specialising in improvised music and unconventional instruments. Set up in 1985, Roger Sutherland was, with Mike Cosgrave, one of the founding members. Stewart Lee shared a flat with Mike and here is what he wrote about them. “Morphogenesis moved out of the gloom to take their places: a half a dozen or so shady individuals who looked like they should have been manning a Baader-Meinhof Group terrorist cell, or else researching the growth of unusual moulds in an underground room somewhere. What followed was not music or entertainment as I understood it, but an undulating, formless wash of drones, clicks and bubbles, that resisted all formal development and didn’t even allow any room for a solo on those carefully arranged elastic bands. There sat Mike, a man who could pick up any tune instantly and play it back to you note perfect, reduced to dropping matches onto his frets in absurd concentration, while a man stood behind him making irritating squeaking noises by rubbing a partially deflated pink balloon And when the balloon promptly burst in his hands, he reacted only with a smug expression which suggested the object’s implosion was not actually a mistake, but part of a far greater artistic whole which I would never be able to understand. After 45 minutes or so the sounds mercifully subsided, and I hurried downstairs to get a drink, barely able to suppress my laughter at the most pretentious and pointless display I had ever witnessed.”

2 Despite having gastric flu, Anne forced herself to stay up on the night of February 4th, 2004 because she couldn’t bear to miss Six Feet Under. Had she not done so, she would not have smelled the gas. In the early morning she woke up uncharacteristically early because of abdominal pain. It was only her stomach flu that prevented us being overcome by smoke and fumes.




Monday, 1 July 2019

Left Field: CHAPTER 30 - A Place to Go When You Sleep



There is no longer any life pulsing under his skin; it has been forced out already to the very edges of his body, and death is working its way through him, moving outwards from the centre. It is already in his eyes ... it’s still him, but it isn’t really him anymore; his image has faded, become blurred, like a photographic plate that has had too many copies made from it. Even his voice sounds like ashes.’

Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

My father doesn’t recognise me when I visit. Sometimes he stares at me, trying to work out who I am and what is going on. A week before his 101st birthday I arrive and he looks at me, his face a question mark.

I bend over to kiss his head and ask, ‘How are you?’

Maturing nicely,’ he says. ‘Your artefact can go on the front door. When will it be finished?’

What artefact?’

I need you to deal with the third man and the others.’ He looks at me. ‘I don’t know what I’m talking about, nor do you. We’ve encouraged toe rags to conceal things. They are people of doom, but the good will make more effort.’

He skewers me with an intense stare. ‘What is it that holds society together? This hub of ours is not a congealed mass. It’s a pact which we may not like and may want to change. But it is what it is. I’d like you to get all this into a hundred pages. You will do it well. I’ll give you every encouragement.’ He pulls the sheet higher and frowns. ‘You’ll need a good director. He or she will emerge. So far you’ve said sensible things. We don’t need prototypes.’

He is quiet for a long time. ‘I’m boring you. I needn’t mention any names. You know them. They don’t need a title.’

A nurse puts her head around the door and asks cheerfully, ‘How are you, Ian?’

His hearing and eyesight is poor. He strains to see who she is.

She disappears and another nurse enters with a mug. ‘Hello, Dr Ian. A cup of tea?’

Puzzled, he shakes his head in my direction as she puts it on his tray. She leaves the room and he says, ‘Now you see them, now you don’t. I’m glad I’m at the arse end of life. My family have had enough of me and so have I.’ I bend over to kiss him goodbye. ‘What day is it?’

Sunday.’

Good, one more out of the way. The Good Lord is waiting for them. But they don’t know if he’s there, or if he’s where he’s supposed to be.’

My visits to my father remind me that my early years have impressed themselves onto my life. Those Belsen photos in my father’s desk are still there. They might have been thrown away, but they are there in my mind. Even the childhood house in Bromley which has long since been torn down.

I have a recurring dream which has repeated itself for decades. They all take place in that house on Westmoreland Road. The people and events are from the present or not so distant past. I may dream about Anne, about Ben and Jonny, Renata’s parents, the house on Krk, about Mostar and Sarajevo, but it is all taking place in, or around, that house. Stranger still, whatever the subject of the dream, my parents are always there.

I have no idea what Freud would have made of this, but it reminds me of those cartoon films where a small house sits alone on top of a small planet. The planet is the house and the house is the planet.

I think the house is my filing system, the place which no longer exists, but where I go to try to make sense of my life. Where I try and make sense of everything. Where I pick up the pieces and reassemble them, give them new meaning, or fail to give them meaning at all.

My father can no longer make sense of his life, although I cannot be sure of that because he may still have a place to go to when he sleeps. But he is no longer in control of his life. I sit beside him and wonder if I am, or ever was, in control of mine.

Watching him at the end of his life has made me want to make sense of my own before I, too, become a prisoner of old age. There are so many things I want to ask my father, but there will be no further questions for him; he is already leaving us.

I arrive to see him staring at the window. ‘Let go aft,’ he says.

I haven’t heard that nautical order from him since we sailed together in his dinghy.

Who are you talking to, Dad?’

Without looking away from the window he answers, ‘Paul and Nancy. You know them.’

I don’t.

Listen, you two. I’m not always wise, but on this occasion I am. Let’s get going.’ He turns his head towards me. ‘I am very fond of them, but they are obstinate.’

Where are you?’ I ask.

At sea and we must keep moving. If we don’t, we’ll be becalmed.’ He raises his voice. ‘You two would do well to listen to me. If you don’t, I’ll leave you here and sail on my own.’

Then he laughs, as though sharing a joke with his shipmates. He turns back to me. ‘Thanks for coming, but next time bring soap, rough towels, fresh water and lots of food.’

Why?’

Don’t ask silly questions. I’m in the Atlantic.’ He pauses. ‘No, maybe it’s the North Sea, but I need supplies.’

I bend down to kiss his head. He smiles and shrugs his skeletal shoulders. I think he knows which sea he is crossing.

My father died on October 15th, 2013, aged 101 and 5 months.1 One month later, my sisters and I scattered his ashes with those of my mother. Not on the Gower, but at the mill on the river Stour at Sturminster Newton, near Shaftesbury. 


NOTES
1 The Times, October 24th, 2013: ‘As editor of The Lancet from 1965 to 1976, Ian Douglas-Wilson joined a long series of radical editors which went all the way back to Thomas Wakley who worked with the social reformer William Cobbett in the 1820s. Douglas-Wilson’s predecessor, Sir Theodore Fox, was a pacifist ambulance driver in the First World War, and The Lancet’s current editor, Richard Horton, has not hesitated to speak out against government “reforms” to the NHS and the last government’s war policies. After taking part in the D-Day landings, Douglas-Wilson found himself treating shell-shocked troops. He committed his experiences to paper, and his article on what was to become known as post-traumatic stress disorder was published in the British Medical Journal. He was one of the first Allied medics to enter Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Later, he would tell his family that he felt guilty because the first British troops to arrive fed the famished prisoners high-calorie rations and many died because they were unused to food. He kept photos from Belsen in the bottom drawer of his desk. His study doubled as his children’s nursery, and they used to open his desk and look in horror at the skeletal bodies of inmates. After the war he was interviewed for a job at the BMJ, but was advised by its then editor, Hugh Clegg (Nick Clegg’s grandfather), that he was too radical for their publication and that he should apply for a job at The Lancet. He stayed there for 30 years, the last 11 as editor. Douglas-Wilson was a modest man. When interviewed on BBC, he would insist they didn’t mention his name but refer to him as “Lancet editor”. This modesty didn’t restrict his outspokenness. When Lord Moran, president of the Royal College of Physicians and physician to Winston Churchill, published the former Prime Minister’s personal health details, he felt the lash of Douglas-Wilson’s tongue. He was a vociferous opponent of routine peer review, believing that it cowed original research. Under his editorship, potential contributors received a quick response which gave them time to search out alternative publications if articles were refused. Douglas-Wilson was an early advocate of receiving osteopathy into the medical “family” and after his retirement was delighted when acupuncture was accepted into the NHS. In 1964 Douglas-Wilson travelled across Africa and came back to write Health Prospects in Africa. This was one of the first post-colonial observations into illness and healthcare provision on that continent. His radical approach to medical journalism was reflected in his personal life. Returning from Germany in 1945, he and his wife Betty invited German PoWs to spend Christmas with them and their children. The Douglas-Wilsons sent money to refugees and, in 1956, offered a home to two students who had fled from Budapest during the Hungarian Revolution. There were always interesting people visiting the Douglas-Wilson home in Bromley, Kent. His Danish friend, Karl Henrick Køster, arrived each Christmas, looking a bit like Santa with his two-metre frame and Viking beard. This was the man who had helped Jews escape to Sweden and who, after his death, was the subject of the Disney film Miracle at Midnight. Douglas-Wilson’s closest friend was Thomas Dormandy, a chemical pathologist and leader writer for The Lancet. Dormandy covered a range of topics from medical ethics to Chekhov and the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. Dormandy was himself a painter and author. Until his death, he would regularly turn up at Douglas-Wilson’s care home to read him instalments of his latest book. Douglas-Wilson’s wife Betty died on Millennium Eve, aged 91, and he spent the next 13 years on his own until he had to enter a care home. His sense of humour lasted to the end. In the final months of his life, he suffered from dementia and his son remembers a ramble on one visit which involved setting sail across the North Sea. Douglas-Wilson concluded with, “I don’t know what I am talking about, nor do you.” As an editor, he was a stickler for proper use of language. Here he followed George Orwell, all of whose works were on his bookshelf. “Good writing is like a window pane,” wrote Orwell, and Douglas-Wilson followed his advice. He treasured examples of deficient punctuation, such as “Let’s eat granny”, or unintended ambiguity such as the Daily Express headline at the time of the El Alamein campaign in 1942: “British Push Bottles Up Germans”. Orwell wasn’t on his shelves just for the clarity of his prose. Douglas-Wilson liked him for his no- nonsense honesty. “Do remember,” wrote Orwell, “that dishonesty and cowardice always have to be paid for.” Douglas-Wilson lived by these words, honest to his family and friends and never afraid to stand up for the sick, the displaced and difficult causes. He was an early supporter of CND and took his teenage son on one of the first Aldermaston marches. Unloved by a cold mother, Douglas-Wilson had difficulty releasing his emotions. At home, he spent all his time at his desk, poring over next week’s editorial and covering the floor with rolls of copy text, children banished to their bedrooms or the garden. He retired early to nurse his sick wife and his capacity to love and be loved increased. With a growing family, he ended his long life giving and receiving empathy and compassion. When his son cleared his desk after his death, the Belsen photos were no longer there. Nor was the family tree that a cousin had meticulously prepared, suggesting that Douglas-Wilson wanted to walk through life unencumbered with his own history. He leaves two daughters and a son. (Dr Ian Douglas-Wilson, physician and editor of The Lancet, 1964–76, was born on May 12, 1912. He died on October 15, 2013, aged 101).’
 






 

Left Field: CHAPTER 31 - Greengrocer, Vet & Judge



A year later, I had my own dangerous sea to cross. A few days before the end of November 2014, I started behaving strangely. I took a bath and when I’d finished, I annoyed myself by dropping the towel into the tub instead of onto the floor. Later, I pissed on the closed toilet seat. I went to the shops, came home with nothing and couldn’t open the front door. I was using the wrong key. I stared at my computer. I had forgotten how to type.

On Sunday, November 30th, Anne and I went to the Victoria and Albert Museum with our friend Sebastian Balfour to see ‘Disobedient Objects’. This was an exhibition of radical items from street demonstrations across the world. Hanging from the ceiling was a battered pan lid that had helped bring down the Argentine government in noisy rough-musik demonstrations. There was a slingshot made from the tongue of a shoe that a Palestinian had used against Israeli tanks and homemade shields made to look like book covers that had been carried by protesters in Rome. Students campaigning against austerity cuts in education had confronted the riot squad with Boccaccio’s The Decameron, Dante’s the Divine Comedy and George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. The police would be seen to be attacking literature.

It was surreal and my already-muddled head started to spin. I couldn’t read the text that accompanied the photos and displayed objects. With a splitting headache, I had to sit down. Was I finally being driven mad by radical politics?

We went to the café and Sebastian bought us tea. After eating the scones, I shocked the two of them by pouring my tea, not into my cup, but into the tiny strawberry jam jar. While we were there, Sebastian’s wife, Grinne, rang him, and when he told her how I was behaving, she insisted I go to A&E immediately.

On my way to the Whittington Hospital in north London, I tried to exit the Underground using my mobile phone instead of swiping my travel card. Even I realised something was seriously wrong.

In triage they were sufficiently alarmed to give me a CT scan. It wasn’t political subversion that was scrambling my brain; it was a subdural haematoma, a slow veinous bleed in the head. There are two types, acute and chronic. The most serious is caused by trauma when an accident causes rapid bleeding to fill the area between the outer layer of the brain – the meninges – and the brain itself. This happened to Michael Schumacher and Natasha Richardson. Mine was the less serious chronic subdural haematoma.

You don’t have to be a racing driver, skier or cyclist to get subdural haematomas. They can occur after a minor head injury, especially among the elderly, when small veins between the surface of the brain and its outer covering stretch and tear. Blood then collects below the dura, a tough tissue that encloses the brain. This creates a competition between blood and brain and when blood wins, the brain is moved off-centre. In severe cases, the lower part of the brain can become affected which is a dangerous situation because the brain stem is where respiration is controlled. 

If an operation is required for either type of haematoma, blood has to be drained to alleviate pressure on the brain. Douglas Katz, Assistant Professor of Neurology at Boston School of Medicine, has said ‘[a] person may appear fine initially because the mass of blood in the head is expanding and there isn’t too much pressure on the brain yet.’ He refers to this as ‘Talk and Die’ syndrome. Others call it ‘Walk and Die’. I was doing both at the time I was advised to get to A&E.

I was told that when a bed became available, I would be moved to one of two specialist hospitals for neurosurgery: Royal London or National Hospital for Neurology, Queen Square.

Over the next three days I became even more confused. Alarmed at my deterioration, Anne kept asking the Whittington when I was to be transferred, but Gráinne managed to discover the names and numbers of the bed managers at both hospitals and pestered them to take me as soon as possible. I later found out that Dorothy Byrne too had been actively pressing my case.

On December 3rd I was admitted to Queen Square and told I would be having an operation the next morning to drain two massive blood lakes on the left side of my brain. This was cancelled four times because of emergency cases. Anne refused to leave my bedside, afraid that if she did, I would be taken to theatre and she wouldn’t be able to accompany me. Afraid that it might be the last time she saw me, she spent the whole day slumped over my bed rail.

I was operated on late that evening. When I woke up in the ward, I was speaking and functioning normally, but with the additional fashion accessory of a square, flat plastic bag. It was attached by tubing to one of the holes drilled into my head to drain post-op saline solution and any remaining blood.

But recovery, like life, is not always straightforward. Twenty-four hours after the operation, I had an unexpected relapse. I was unable to remember my name or date of birth. I dreaded the nurses who came constantly to take my blood pressure. Their first question was always, ‘Where are you?’ I would try and work out my answer as I saw them approaching.

I couldn’t sleep and lay awake trying to work out what was going on. A cup of tea would be nice, except achieving it was difficult. I would walk towards the night desk, practising the words I needed. ‘Please, can I have a cup of tea?’ By the time

I reached the nurses’ station, I couldn’t get the words out, but they got used to me. As I stood there in silence, the duty nurse would smile, ‘Go back to bed and I’ll bring you some.’

I was now so confused I had no idea how to clean my teeth or use my mobile. When I went to the toilet, I couldn’t remember if it was wipe, shit, stand or sit, wipe, shit. It was all very scary.

I could only say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to questions. Words on a page no longer made sense. I had lost the ability to speak in sentences or to read. A speech therapist came to my bedside with word exercises. At first, I was unable to read single- syllable words like ‘book’ and ‘cold’. ‘Peanut butter’ was an impossibility.

I was given a sheet with pictures and the words underneath so patients who couldn’t speak could point at an image to indicate what they needed to communicate. On the first row in the first box was a figure holding his head. The text underneath said, ‘I’m in pain.’ I struggled to decipher ‘pain’. Stumbling over the tangle of letters, I finally managed to pronounce ‘pain’ phonetically. When the therapist asked me to read the next box with four figures holding hands that said ‘I want my family’, I repeated, ‘Pain’.

My Brazilian guitar teacher, Deicola Neves, brought his guitar and played bossa nova to the ward. He left the instrument with me but, when I tried to play, I couldn’t remember a single chord.

Anne knew more about my condition than I did. When she signed the consent form, just before my operation, they told her the procedure carried risks – seizures, infection, the possibility that I would not improve. Being left in a vegetative state, even death. Later she told me that, while I was in the operating theatre, she went to the hospital chapel and lit four candles for me: one from her and three on behalf of my sons and grandson. She then returned to the ward, staring at the empty space where my bed had been. She says she hoped for the best, but was preparing herself for the worst.

I don’t recall being frightened from the moment I arrived at the Whittington to the moment I left Queen Square three weeks later. I wasn’t even fearful when they took me to the operating theatre. I remember thinking, They’re just taking me for a check-up downstairs. Anne has a different opinion and tells me that, as they wheeled me away, I had the eyes of a frantic bronco.

At time of death it is said that the body releases chemicals that ease the mind from feelings of panic and fear. Perhaps this also happens when your skull is about to be opened. My consultant told me that patients facing brain surgery somehow manage to hold themselves together to be able to get through it. She added that patients who worry the least take longer to recover because the mind which fights off fear at the most critical of moments only delays the trauma, but cannot avoid it altogether.

Four days after the operation and with no improvement, my consultant stood at the foot of my bed. She was unhappy with my progress because my ability to speak and read had deteriorated so rapidly. I was told I might have to have a second, more invasive operation, and that this would involve substantial risk. Anne asked what was involved. She explained that a window of bone would have to be cut out of my skull so the brain could be scraped. This procedure would remove the old, dried blood from previous bleeds in the hope that my ability to read and speak would be restored. There was, she said, no guarantee of success. Anne asked for the time frame before a decision was made.

The consultant answered, ‘Two days’.

As soon as she left my bedside, I indicated to Anne to hand me the sheet the speech therapist had given me that morning. I had been able to read one word, pain. Miraculously, I slowly read out to Anne all the captions under all the pictures.

I have no explanation for this, except that a possible, more dangerous operation unlocked something in my mind. Without any other intervention, I began to speak and read. Within two hours, I was talking reasonably, and four days later I was home.

In my ward of six patients there was a greengrocer, a judge, a follower of Hari Krishna, a white Zimbabwean and an employee of Coca-Cola. I became friends with all of them, except the judge. The greengrocer lived by the principle of the Sufi, Abu Sa’id, who said, ‘Whatever you have in your hand – give it. Whatever is to be your fate – face it.’ He had faced two operations to remove a tumour on his pituitary gland. Four days after his discharge, he came to visit the ward and to give each of us a sack of tangerines.

The Hari Krishna kept offering me his vegan food. We agreed that, in the New Year, all things being well, we would walk together on Hampstead Heath.

Only the white African was a puzzle. In his 70s, he had served in the Rhodesian army and had then been a welder and businessman. He was nostalgic for lost ‘Empire’. But he spoke a number of African languages, was adored by the nurses – many of them African – and was always sympathetically curious about their lives. He shared with me my dislike of the judge.

The Coca-Cola man was the only one in the ward with no bandages. When Anne worked up the courage to ask him why, he said he’d had a tumour behind his eye successfully removed through his nose. He told her this when he brought her a Costa coffee after seeing her looking distressed before my operation. He’d noticed that she hadn’t left my bedside once. I warmed to him when he told me that he travelled the world for the company, but always refused to go to Israel. Then added that, although he drank ‘American champagne’, he knew it was a poison.

The judge treated the nurses as if they were on trial. Each day we were given a long menu (the food was excellent) and asked to choose our lunch and dinner. Once, when they brought the judge pasta, he complained he’d asked for spaghetti. They brought him the menu to show him that spaghetti was not on offer. ‘Well, I ordered it,’ he said. I wanted to tell him a neurological hospital is not the Ritz.

His wife rang one day and a nurse relayed the message to tell the judge she’d called. The nurse then asked him to tell his wife not to be so miserable because ‘Life is short’.

In a neighbouring ward there was Bill, an old soldier, officer class, who kept trying to escape. He would shuffle into our ward and be obnoxious to the nurses who had to follow him around to prevent him from falling or straying too far. He would physically and verbally abuse them, not caring that he was often taking several of them away from their duties.

Just after my op, when I was able to speak, he passed my bed with three black nurses and muttered that he was about to be cannibalised. I got out of bed, prepared to hit him. One of the nurses warned me off and said they weren’t allowed to touch him so I told him, ‘Get the fuck out of here and stop insulting the staff.’

The greengrocer told me that Bill was suffering after his operation. Maybe, but he had clearly been an unpleasant man pre-op. Scarce NHS resources were being used to guard him.

The nurses and cleaners came from Zimbabwe, Nigeria, Uganda, India, the Philippines, Poland, Lithuania, Northern Ireland, England, Columbia, Spain, Portugal. The surgeons were from Italy, China, Ireland, the Philippines and north London. The surgeon who saved my life was from Nigeria. All of them were incredibly skilled, friendly and supportive.

Friends sent me flowers, fruit and cards and I received daily phone calls from my son in Barcelona. Lapsed Catholics lit candles, an Iraqi atheist friend who was in Tunisia made a Friday visit to the mosque to pray for me. Anne’s sister-in-law in New Mexico invited 400 US Reiki practitioners to send me, a complete stranger, distant healing.

When I was well enough to leave the ward, Anne took me to the chapel where she’d spent an hour each day between the morning and afternoon visiting hours. On entering I saw a notice saying that ‘This chapel is for all faiths’. It should be changed to ‘... all faiths and none’.

On a table near a bank of candles, there is a visitors’ book. 226

In that book of hope and despair one inscription read ‘Thanks to all gods and goddesses and the NHS.’ Another was, ‘Mum was always heading for heaven. But please, God, not yet’.

I wrote my own message. In place of the gratitudes to God, Jesus and Allah, mine said ‘Let us thank the NHS’. I have no idea where I am heading but, wherever it is, my departure has been delayed. I am not lost at sea yet.