The Doha Blues
I haven't been posting in PPrune for some time. I have seen all the QR posts slipping down the list and I guess that this is simply because no one has anything else to comment about the present situation, so I hope that you will allow a few notes that border the personal and the intimate. It is not my intention to place a stick in this bag of Bull Manure and start stirring, now that things have finally calmed down. I am writing this almost as a posthumous observation, an attempt to rescue a few conclusions in the wake of all the events of the previous months. I must confess that, lately, I have a serious case of the Doha Blues.
I have heard that when convicts go to jail they go through several phases, almost like a grieving person. When they hear the bars of the cage slam behind their backs and they finally realize that freedom is gone, they crawl into a corner of the small cell and start crying. They want to deny to themselves that this loss of freedom has taken place. This doesn't last, as the realities of the prison would not allow them to live in that miserable state for too long. This is when anger takes over. The convicted felon will then be furious at the world or he may become angry with himself for letting this happen. It is obvious that the realities of the prison would not allow this to last for too long either. Essentially, the prisoner might shout, protest, become violent but after some time, as no one hears his pleads, he slowly slips into his new reality. He accepts that he is trapped and walks the line like everyone else, a slave to the system. Jail has managed to make him numb and depressed. He has finally got the Jailhouse Blues.
These last two months I have been observing all our colleagues walking the line. And in this remark I include people that are on either side of the armoured door of the flight deck. I have managed to capture the look on their faces, and I can read both tiredness and resignation. They have come to realize that life will be like this, that reality will not change, that the system is too big and too oppressive to fight against it. Many examples have been made to remind them of that. The warning is clear: "if you try to dream of a better life for you or your peers, you will pay for this with your own". And, as winter sets in, I cannot feel but awe about the timing of this Warning Letter. It is almost as if it had been planned, predetermined in a machiavellian way. But please, don't let me get conspiratorial, I am sure that I am just imagining all this
. Let me just leave you with some words written by the descendants of other slaves. These blues were born while cotton was being softly plucked from endless white fields. In the words of Bessie Smith and Clarence Williams:
The Jailhouse Blues
Lord, this house is goin' to get raided, yes, sir!
Thirty days in jail with my back turned to the wall, turned to the wall,
Thirty days in jail with my back turned to the wall;
Look here, Mr. Jail-keeper, put another gal in my stall.
I don't mind bein' in jail, but I got to stay there so long, so long,
I don't mind bein' in jail, but I got to stay there so long, so long,
When every friend I have is done shook hands and gone.
You better stop your man from tickling me under my chin, under my chin,
You better stop your man from tickling me under my chin,
'Cause if he keeps on tickling, I'm sure gonna take him on in.
Good morning, blues, blues, how do you do? how do you do?
Good morning, blues, blues, how do you do?
Say, I just come here to have a few words with you.
Cheers, and Blue Side Up!!!