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The Clock Is Ticking

2009-07-31T03:20:00.000-07:00

Almost 65 years after the end of the World War Two, statistical analysis suggests that as many as 5,000 Nazi war criminals are still alive and free, living out the rest of their days in regimes that once (or still) share similarities with Fascist, Nazi Germany. The debate steams ahead on whether the ex-war criminals should be caught and brought to justice. The fact that these crimes were committed over half a century ago, shouldn't allow the elderly men to continue living the rest of their lives in safe havens, under the sun. Should we not act swiftly in respect for those that suffered and died at the hands of Adolf Hitler’s terrifying grip on Europe?

The Nazi regime was, as history rightly measures, the most inhumane and brutal the world has ever known. Not only because of the fascist and totalitarian state that Hitler and his party created, but because of the unbelievable oppression the Jews suffered in Europe, the Ghetto’s and eventually the infamous death camps. This has not gone unrecognised by the world. We are reminded of the atrocities regularly and quite rightly so. We document the holocaust and the associated regime on television, we teach it in our school curriculum, and it will be forever acknowledged, discussed and debated within the realms of socio-political, and history based academia.

Many atrocities have maimed and scarred fast regions of the planet since WWII. From Stalinism to Rwanda, Vietnam to the US led invasion of Iraq. The truth is, however, that the holocaust is historically unique. Never before, or since, has any regime implemented an industrial infrastructure, created for the elimination of an entire ethnic group, or any other group of undesirable elements, and largely based its political ideology on this. Fascism has of course existed outside of early/mid 20^th century Germany, but not to the same extent as Hitler’s implementation of extreme racialism and careful planning that resulted in an inconceivable death toll of over six million people. That makes Nazism, as it is measured today, unique to any other far-right regime.

Questions will always arise when debating the capture and imprisonment of German SS figures. Firstly, is it ethical to spend time and money on elderly men who will be dead within a decade or should we not simply let them live out the rest of their years in constant fear of capture? Some may view this issue as acceptable; however, it wouldn’t put a huge strain on any western state police resources. In fact it wouldn’t put a dent in the British security budget. Millions have been spent ‘securing’ the UK against terrorism, and we have seen some of our oldest and simplest civil liberties compromised as a result. The money is well within the public budget, and we are able to find these men, if the resources are put into pursuing their capture.

Secondly, it is important to know exactly who needs to be tracked down, caught and tried. Of course, not everyone involved in Nazi military infrastructure should be tried for war crimes. The people in discussion here are senior military officers that had a genuine ideological commitment to the Nazi project. Men such as Adolf Eichmann, Albert Heim and Alois Brunner are some of the figures in debate, and all of which played a serious and committed role in the orchestration of the Nazis ‘final solution’. Heim’s 53-year-old son Rudiger, who lives in Germany, claims his father died of cancer as long ago as 1992. Efraim Zuroff of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, the Nazi-hunting organisation, accepted the claim with suspicion. He said: “There is no body, no corpse, no DNA and no grave”. This highlights the true extent of the cover up of trails that these men may have left, over the past 65 years.

A particular urgency is evident 65 years after the end of the war. Time is simply running out for both the Nazis and the survivors. Within a decade, it is probable that there won’t be any of the Nazi figures discussed here left in the world, they will be dead. It seems that by allowing the Nazi period to sit comfortably within the pages of history books isn’t enough. The general consensus suggests that before time runs out, a fully-fledged attempt to capture these men is indeed needed. Not only for the sake of those who died or survived the concentration camps, but also for those who rightly view Hitler’s ideology as the single biggest humanitarian tragedy the world has ever witnessed. Much has been learnt over the past 65 years, but so much more could be achieved over the next year, if the world puts its heart and mind into it.

Lambeth evolution

2009-07-31T00:55:00.000-07:00

I finish the purchase of my overpriced, ice-chilled glass of German lager and decide to take a step onto the well kept, but cramped balcony seating area. The clinking of glasses, the middle class urban accents and work-based conversations, all resonate behind me. Why did I buy this beer? I thought. I don’t even like drinking alone. Being far too early for my 7pm film viewing, I decide to relax and stop whinging to myself. The view from the balcony grandly looks over Brixton town centre. Alcoholics colonise the square in an uncompromising fashion. They move between benches, staggering and struggling to piece together the simplest of sentences. Rasta’s graze the area calmly, radiating an unmatched sense of wisdom and belonging. I must take a walk. There seems little reason for me being in this bar, and the sun is shining. I finish my £4 pint, wave goodbye to the surprisingly unfriendly bar lady, failing to get recognition for the fact I just blew a hefty sum for a student, and make for the door. I leave the Ritzy cinema and propel myself into Brixton.

I’ve got half an hour to spare, so I take a right down Coldharbour Lane. The smell of fish drifts over the rooftops of the decaying Victorian buildings, which create a wedge between the street and the market place. The narrowness of the surrounding roads and tight corners, bring about an element of mystery and wonder. Three-story red brick buildings block the days remaining sun, forcing street dwellers to seek a new patch. My struggling to get to grips with change of atmosphere and dynamics, in comparison to the Ritzy, causes me to slow down a touch. My first visit to that cinema and it feels as though I’ve lost the little that’s left of the South London in me. I whip myself back into shape and stroll confidently, further down the street.

Small businesses, like always, remain the economic focal point of this stirring pocket of Lambeth. Barbershops, pokey Caribbean cafes, record stores and taxi ranks scatter the parades, as they always have. But I notice how things have changed over the last decade and a half. Where there were once only local, necessary outlets and boarded up shop windows, there are now fashionable restaurants and hip clothes stores. A restaurant tucked neatly underneath arches at the beginning of the street, serve expensive cocktails and contemporary food dishes. I momentarily drift back to a time when those that could afford treats like that, would steer well clear of Brixton. Such nightlife would remain as far away as Clapham in the 1990’s. Times have changed and so has the way the area appears. As I walk slowly up the road, I feel the streets cohesion and purpose piece together, building-by-building.

The new Brixton begins to visually unfold. A drizzle of the post millennium, economic boom can be noticed. Shiny fronted shops sit proudly amongst sushi bars, and a diverse range of restaurants. It adds a bittersweet, modern day twist to Brixton’s dynamic and purpose. Scores of spiky haired, duffel coated Nuevo yuppies, relocate between bar and pub, in search of kicks and remedies. Gone are the days of the riots and social uprisings. New communities have since taken a piece of Lambeth pie. Poles, Spaniards and South Americans lean against the pubs they work in, enjoying cigarette breaks, whilst exchanging banter in an array of accents and broken phrases. Suited thirty something’s, nurture their after work pint on the limited, outdoor seating area of the Prince Albert pub, whilst Brixton’s core community remain vocal and vibrant. It smells musky, but sweet. The energy is vibrant, and urgent. My thoughts are receptive to the area’s energy, and I begin to inhabit inspiration.

I can recall shopping here as a child in the early nineties, during Christmas time. There was nothing fashionable, desirable or glamorous about it; times were even harder for south London back then. But to me, at this moment in time, Brixton is the most relevant and reflective stretch of London.

Holding my attention proves difficult, for the events and actions are in constant motion. A few metres further along my journey, a clothes shop manager lugs a scrawny looking man out of his shop. Music from an outdoor speaker prevents me hearing what words are exchanged. The scrawny guy was probably begging. He seemed the type. Twenty seconds along the street and it’s all laughter. Someone in the group occupying a barbershop is the butt of a joke, and the centre of attention. I don’t know why; they are not bullying him, just easing boredom on a slow day. Piss-taking in an argumentative, yet harmonious, Jamaican fashion.

Residents, shopkeepers and visitors feel no need to be confined to the walls of the cramped shops. The outdoor world of SW9 holds all the necessary elements to hustle and mingle. Wide pavements for talk and play, and plenty of cover to protect inhabitants from the solemn, English rain. Al fresco living is a reality here, daily. Reggae and dance hall music sounds from many of the small businesses that make up the facial structure of the street. A twitching crack head asks me for change, in a manner as if to say: ‘I’m not a crack head, could you help me out just this once?’ with snot dripping from the nose of his tired and pale face. Like I’m going to give him any of my cash. I’m paying two pounds a unit in the bloody Ritzy.

Drug dealing isn’t as visibly widespread as ten years ago; the old traces of aggression do seem to have passed with the times, and austerity no longer remains a given here. Today only a handful of dealers occupy the street corners. A calm and keen nod to passers by denotes possession of herbal and chemical stock. A look and implying: ‘ I have what you need, let me help’. Business appears strong. I perch on a dusty wall to roll a cigarette. Within five minutes, a group of middle class white lads dubiously approach the dealer and bargain for a small bag of weed. The uncongenial approach of the dealer intimidates the lads, but after a little discord and a haggle or two, they close the deal happily and move on. The Lifeblood of the street continues to flow around the deal. No one is fazed nor fussed, it just happens.

I reached the end of the commercial stretch of Coldhabour Lane, where Atlantic Road and Railton Road meet. This was the focal point of the riots in 1981. I couldn’t help trying to imagine the images of the incensed community squaring up to hundreds of police officers. How the area must have changed since. I stop my imagination running wild and move on to Atlantic Road, and the surrounding side streets. There is no place in Britain or indeed Europe remotely similar. Anything and everything is offered here for a small price. Fish, drugs, toys, booze and phones. You name it, and you’ll find it. The Caribbean, Europe and Africa meet head on, causing an explosion of global, working class culture and unity. Untaxed businesses and makeshift market stools thrive; Pan African colours illuminate the otherwise dark and obscure urban jungle. Youths hold corners of the narrow streets hostage, with hooded heads and shifty expressions. Gaunt and pale heroin users hobble block to block, in search of their next fix, and fishmongers’ laugh, chat and contend with customers and passers by. The stench of yesterdays rejected food stock, adds to the obscurity of the nearby, back street smells. It’s all part of the complex genetic make up of Brixton town centre. I feel a million miles away from the Ritzy. I don’t miss it.

I reach for my battered and cheap Nokia phone, realising that only five minutes remain until the film begins. I’m saddened to see that Electric avenue market is closing; but it is well after 6pm after all. Packed up market stools stand strong against the coming wind. Rotten fruit and vegetables settle for a home in the gutter, and the breeze floats unwanted paper packaging in an upward, spiral motion. Evidence of a long, hard day of trading is strong. My shortcut through Electric Avenue brings me onto the high street.

Although this is still Brixton, the best is behind me. Buses swerve in and out of busy lanes and aggravated commuters’ shimmy in and out of each other, in a desperate bid to catch the half hourly train to the leafy suburbs. High street chains shut shop after a typical, lucrative days trading. Young, minimum wage workers exit their workplaces, looking downtrodden and frustrated, with only a bus ride to look forward to.

It’s probably time for me to think about stepping back into the cinema. My friends will probably be there by now, or close at least. I shuffle and dodge in between the after work crowds, past the packed bus stops and straight back to the corner, where the Ritzy stands proud. The same dealer is there of course, having probably pocketed a hundred pounds since I spied on him. I glimpse one last time up Coldhabour Lane, with a sense of nostalgia, wondering when my presence would grace it next. I’m sure I'll put aside some time soon, for my dear old friend.