Sunday Arvo

The upcoming election in Malaysia understandably getting a lot of coverage here. In this morning's Straits Times a report on the opposition party, headed now by Anwar Ibrahim's steadfast wife, promising to raise the minimum monthly wage to 1100 Ringgit = approx. $Aus350. A couple of days ago labour unrest and demonstrations in Batam, Indonesia, a 45 minute ferry ride from here. Batam is the chief of the Riau group of islands, a special economic zone with three hundred thousand workers employed by four thousand mainly foreign companies. The main attraction: plentiful cheap labour of course. The agitation was an effort to raise the minimum monthly wage on Batam to 1.18m rupiah = $Aus168.
         This either side of the little island fortress enclave of Singapore, where not long ago it was reported there lived the highest number of millionaires—or billionaires it might have been—per capita in the world.
         An inexhaustible cheap labour pool from the surrounding countries one of the chief of various blessings and advantages here in this protected paradise. Wage slaves is no exaggeration. More on that in the concrete shortly: Yati made the trek over from Bukit Panjang this afternoon.
         One of the features of the newspaper reporting here is the graphic coverage of crime and gore. No beg pardons and soft pedaling on these matters. Reminds one almost of the old Truth from back home years ago. Not quite "Billy—Sneddon, Opposition Leader—Died on the Job", but not leaving much to the imagination either. Direct and confronting reporting you would call it. And the Straits is a broadsheet; it would certainly not think of itself as in any way tabloid.
         Today a picture to make one wince of Little Baby Yue Yue, as the poor child has been dubbed, under the hands of a doctor's heavily engorged reddy gloves from the time of efforts to save her life. Here morning stomachs are made of strong stuff. The reddy blood all the way up to the wrists of the gloves received by newspaper readers with minimal squeamishness. No doubt the story has run at home of the little baby on the road in a small Chinese market town ignored by numerous—was it seventeen?—passersby, motorists and others, until finally an old stall-holder stopped to offer aid.
         During the course the baby had been run over a couple of times. Presumably she was crying. Everyone too busy to help, not wanting to involve themselves; etc.etc. What would also have been omitted in the newspapers back home was the unforgettable picture printed here a short while ago of the parents of the child down on their knees before the Good Samaritan, giving thanks for the act of charity.
         There had never been much hope for the child. At the time of the photograph this was clearly known. Yet still the mother and father of the infant were burying their faces in hessian sacks of what must have been rice, giving thanks. Likely on the Net the picture available, certainly Chinese sites.
         Another example of the distinctly different reportage can be seen in the case of a murder trial currently in process here. The preliminary history and then the night of wild mayhem last year in the small rented flat on the outskirts of the city has been evoked in startling detail. In a terrifyingly gruesome spree, the man concerned killed his lover and also a flat-mate and her daughter who happened to intrude. Another young female caught up in the rage was barely able to escape after she too was slashed numerous times. Shown in a large photograph in the paper was the shoulder to shoulder portrait of the lover tattooed on the back of the murderer.
         Photos of killer and victims too were prominent. Precise number of stab wounds for each victim we are now all familiar with in such reportage. In this case, what added extra weight, what really made one start, was the series of photographs of each of the kitchen utensils that were used in the killings. Three knives and a meat cleaver, each in a separate photograph at the foot of the report.
         These too were more than pictures that presented type, size and length of weapon. Each of these particular photographs had been taken by the investigators who first examined the murder scene. In each case the blades in the pictures printed in the newspaper were shown carrying the smears of blood. A clear congealed slick visible along the edge of each blade taken from the kitchen drawer and wielded that terrifying night. More than a double-take was needed.
         As part of the documentation, in the photographs these weapons were each set against a tape measure. Somehow it happened to turn out that all four implements used in the murders measured precisely the same length: thirty centimetres.
         Back home one was spared such graphic detailing. In the same way that we have been spared any kind of real sense of the mayhem in Afghanistan, Iraq, Bali and anywhere much else in the wider world.
         Finally, to complete the particulars of this love story gone terribly wrong, apparently the pair concerned had for a fair stretch shared an acquaintance and friendship, before they finally became lovers. When they met the woman had been married and only after a lag had an affair begun. Then numerous and various attempts to end it. Through the course, at one point the lovers had pledged their love in writing using their own blood.
         These documents were not in the papers only because they must have remained in mainland China, from where all concerned had traveled a short time before the dreadful denouement.
         Why the meat cleaver in addition to the three knives? someone might be wondering. No, there was no dismemberment. The man had gone for the cleaver because the second woman, the flat-mate, had tried to escape by climbing out the kitchen window. On a ledge outside the window so many storeys high the woman had clung vainly for dear life to the laundry pole.
         In the cheaper HDB flats where the working class and the foreign workers cram themselves in Singapore washing machines are an expensive luxury, and dryers even more so. Virtually every day the Naples effect here adds a touch of charm to this city. (The better class of condos disallow the practise.)
         The newspaper had been read before Yati arrived in her girly pink highlights, equal parts cute and amusing. While she had been making the finishing touches in front of the mirror at home the middle boy of the three she cares for out in Bukit Panjang called his mother.
         — Mother come quick. Quick! Kaka's all in pink!
         (Kaka big sister in bahasa. To the children for whom the maids care, they are far more than servants.)
         Most of the maids go to town on their dress-up free Sundays. The transformation from the daily wear especially remarkable.
         Headband, sleeveless hoodie and sandals all in the same tone of pink. The remainder of Yati's outfit was cut-off jeans with pockets protruding on thighs, wide belt and slinky black tee. Dressed by Vamp she was this week. Yati varies the costume week to week.
         End of month there was three dollars in her pockets. At three eighty a month not much more than for phone calls back home to her son and parents, Yati joked wryly.
         Usually Yati spends about $40 weekly on phone top-ups. Last Hari Raya she sent money for her younger sister's wedding. By the time Yati returns home at the end of her contract in May next year she expects there will be a baby. More expense for Kaka. Either sixteen or eighteen Yati herself had married.
         The family with whom Yati is currently has already asked her to return for another term. Thus far she has pleaded her growing son back home. In fact she is thinking of another placement, with improved conditions and better wages.
         Last month Ma'me fell pregnant again. It made Yati very angry, she said. How would they possibly manage with a fourth? Eventually the decision was made for an abortion, Yati is very much part of the family, about the same age as Ma'me and best friends with the older sister who lives nearby.
         The dark "panda" (as she called it) bag under her right eye was there to stay now, Yati thinks. It comes from the time of Ma'me's last pregnancy, when the little baby was immediately given to her to manage. Ma'me was utterly exhausted after the birth. There was no sleep at all for the maid in that stretch. The bag won't go away. The youngest lad who was taken with the pink transformation sleeps in Yati's bed; older two in bunks in the same room. At about $AUS320 monthly.
         How to put on weight? Yati asked without jest. The other month she had paid forty dollars for some kind of concoction that was both supposed to provide nutritional supplement and also promote appetite. Nothing on the latter front. At home at table no sooner does she get a spoon into her mouth than the little one starts screaming. Then the second set off. Yati is always tired. Sleeplessness on top of lack of appetite.
         This afternoon Yati needed to get off early again in order to meet her friend Anna. Anna was free once a month and had no other friends. At City Plaza she had her eye on some kind of purchase where Yati was needed. It must be hire-purchase or a contract of some kind—wiring money home or a new phone contract perhaps. Problem being Anna is without documentation. In her case her employer insists on retaining both passport and other ID. Occasionally foreign workers run off here (another reminder of the days of slavery).
         Before foreign workers can be hired in Singapore the prospective employer needs to lodge a sizable bond, refundable when the employee has exited the country at the end of the work term. Stringent border protection always.
         Yati doesn't easily accept whispered endearments. Not difficult to understand. Honey and Sugar she corrects with something that wasn't intelligible.
         — Bitter girl?... Butter grade?...
         No. Bitter gourd.
         A regular ingredient among the vegetables at Mr. T.T., always artfully masked by Ishmail and the boys.
         — Is there any sayang there Yati dear? A little small bit?
         If there was no sayang she wouldn't be there, Yati answers.
         (A week now the Malay community has had their public karaoke erected by the entrance to the supermarket at Joo Chiat Complex, three dollars buying access to the stage for a blast of the favourite song, which is followed closely by the appreciative audience. A great deal of sayang, sayang, sayang nightly.)
         Through dinner, while the thinnest sliver of new moon hung bright in the western sky, the old Muslim Indian beggar with the walking stick did his rounds. This chap has only appeared in the last couple of weeks. There have been fair pickings evidently, because he was turning into a regular, especially weekends. The old granddad’s method was simple: being so tall he stoops a over the table with a faint shudder in his shoulders, hand out and fingers wriggling. What it was he briefly muttered can only be guessed. Something from the Koran perhaps. Quickly a coin from what looked like a Chinaman with a Malay scarfed wife. Immediately after a young lad with what must have been his mother took his time producing his wallet....
         Waiting. Waiting.  It wasn't the coins the young man was sorting. It was the notes. Not a two or five either. A red tenner, just like that. It was completely unexpected, though the old man took it very much in stride. No reaction of any kind. Not the merest flicker. No more than his due; perfectly appropriate. A fifty or hundred would have been met the same. This was much better than any profuse thanks.
         As usual the ang moh (Mandarin), the bule (Bahasa Indonesian) and also the matsellah (Bahasa Malay), receives no notice whatever on these occasions. Straight past the old Indian went. A half hour later a return round and the same thing again. (A Japanese friend reports that in Japan it was the reverse: it is only the foreigners who are approached by beggars. There is nothing to expect from the natives.)

The Path to Happiness

Before Sumiyatie could take a seat she excused herself for a prayer at the Muslim Converts building next door. In the back somewhere there they have a prayer room. This was the third prayer of the day—the time shortly after 5pm. There would be two more prayers back home. Twenty or twenty five minutes Sumiyatie was gone. On her return the direct questions did not seem to bother or unsettle her. Or at least Sumiyatie immediately set about answering.

         Health was the first mention—her own and her family's back in Java. Then something else in the same vein: fortune, peace or amity. Following that came money.
         — We work for money, she explained. We need money....
         There must have been a look of surprise Sumiyatie received. Nothing unusual in praying for money. No doubt Sumiyatie was perfectly right. There was no end of the wish for money.
         Fifteen years Sumiyatie has been in Singapore working as a maid. A maid is a cook, cleaner, laundrywoman and ironer, shopper, child-minder, homework supervisor, carer of the elderly, confidant, a crucial member of a household. Between $350 - 600 per month, the Singaporeans get an excellent bargain. Sumiyatie is at the upper end of the range, knowing her value in the marketplace, confident and assured in interviews no doubt and with excellent references, also no doubt.
         After fifteen years' earnings Sumiyatie has put two sisters through post-secondary education (one now a nurse and the other a seamstress). Both now settled and married with children. For her father Sumiyatie has managed to seed a brick kiln that has created a tidy little business in the kampung. In addition Sumiyatie has had a small house built for herself in the kampung not far from the house of her parents. Her future lies in providing care for them in coming years. Unlike many of the maids of her age in Singapore, Sumiyatie has never married and has no children. The paradigm of the loving spinster-sister, aunt and daughter, sacrificing herself for her family. Providing an opportunity for her sisters has meant they do not need to leave their homeland as Sumiyatie, second eldest, has done.
         In keeping with the profile of the good and true spinster, Sumiyatie had an impressive, leather bound and gilt-edged Koran in her bag, with button clasp on the cover. Dual text Arabic and Bahasa Malay. Bahassa Indonesian, which is closely related to Malay, difficult to obtain in Singapore. In her provincial town-centre on Java the same. For any terms that stump her, Sumiyatie consults an on-line dictionary. Six months is the usual turn-around for a reading cover to cover. Then Sumiyatie begins again.
         A handsome edition Sumiyatie has chosen. The Arabic is boxed in the centre of the page, the Bahasa in columns either side and below at the foot of the page. Last night a handsome bookmark was placed about one third in, somewhere near the end of the five early prophets it might have been, before the advent of Mohammed. Around five hundred pages, a heavy volume to cart. Though she has good IT skills, unlike many of the maids in Singapore, almost certainly Sumiyatie has not joined Facebook. She wears no make-up or jewelry. But then neither does she wear the conservative Muslim attire. She was not ready for the scarf, Sumiyatie had said on the first acquaintance. Nearly five months later and after all her reading, she is still not ready.
         And it needs to be said, in appearance Sumiyatie is far from the wall-flower spinster type. Last night she was in a lemon-yellow patterned long sleeved tee and dress somewhere below the knees. Neat, presentable; not prim. In the Christian tradition she is one of the bright-eyed Hollywood nuns who inevitably are rescued from the cloister by the right sort of dashing prince charming. A challenge for the rogue-ish kind of prince, to be sure.
         Sumiyatie is short, slight, alert, free with a bright, open smile. A puzzle or uncertainty makes her wrinkle her nose and twist her mouth. Dark hair pulled back in a simple arrangement. There would be no hairdressing bills for this sensible, earnest worker-eager beaver. The physical slightness likely part of the spiritual discipline. From childhood Sumiyatie has kept the Ramadan fast, its rigour carried over into all meals. Needless to say, Sumiyatie has never taken alcohol, tobacco or gambled—the strict Islamic prohibitions. Sumiyatie avoids Chinese placements because of the problem of pork, at least now when she can be choosy. To someone like Sumiyatie, even handling pork, breathing its aroma, would cause discomfort.
         Presently Sumiyatie works for an expat couple in Serangoon, where she has been eighteen months. Sir is French, a manager of a French brand of sunglasses. Ma'me a compatriot. Sir older with a child from a previous marriage; Ma'me Sumiyatie's age, one young daughter from the union.
         Eighteen months ago Ma'me neither prayed nor fasted. Now she does, under Sumiyatie's influence. Yatie eventually spoke to her, reminding her of her heritage. Shamed her a little perhaps. The young daughter of the household is now leading a Muslim life. Sir raising no objection.
         In her previous employment Yatie was with a Chinese family with three young children. Three kids make the maid's job so much harder of course. The parents were busy with working and providing. It was Yatie who provided the parenting. As is common in such situations, the bonds of affection between children and maid were almost stronger than that of the parents and children. Even now eighteen months later, the Chinese children call Yatie regularly on the phone. They talk at length and discuss their problems, including those concerning their parents, the neglect and estrangement. Yatie counsels patience, explains the pressures of work and business in busy Singapore. It is possible like her compatriot and namesake Yati out in Bukit Panjang, toward the Causeway linking the island with Malaysia, the children had slept with the maid and could not cope in the night without her. This is often the case, as it was in the parenting of old in our Western countries a number of generations past. (The second Yati out in Bukit Panjang, at thirty-one a couple of years younger than Sumiyatie, has three children under the age of eight sleeping in the same room as herself, two in bunks and the youngest in her own bed.)
         As had happened through the first meeting with Yatie nearly five months ago, Meilin chanced past again last night. Mei is on a spiritual quest herself. She had come from a luncheon earlier in the day with one of the founders of her meditation centre. A gift book had been presented by the man, something to do with maximizing happiness. The blurb on the back talked about extensive and unlimited happiness, the happiness on a level with godhead, or the creator. The book told how. The author was a New York Times bestseller.
         Sumiyatie had another book too beside the Holy Book in her bag. It had just been purchased from the bookshop at Joo Chiat Complex. This volume concerned fasting. On the cover a brightly lit desert scene, dunes and a little camel train with a couple of men afoot. An altogether different prospect. Another path.

Labels and Brands (Auschwitz)

AUSHWITZ at Circular Road no longer trading, certainly under that name. Aushwitz no more a bar and disco. It had been a short run of a couple of weeks before the alarm was raised. For Beck's—the beer Aushwitz served—you need to go elsewhere now in Singapore. Late last month Aushwitz had opened in Chinatown in the city centre, spitting distance from the river, a stone's throw from Raffles Place and the famous old hotel. The Prince of Wales Backpacker Pub is on Circular Road; Boat Quay one back. Raffles Landing right there beside the Asian Civilization Museum.

         An error at the time of registration with the Accounting and Corporate Regulatory Authority (Acra) led to a recording of the trading name. On the signage on Circular Road, beside the Beck's logo it stood as intended: Aushwitz — no "c".

         A certain ring on an online list had attracted the bar manager, whose shaky European history could be forgiven. Chap had heard it somewhere.

         The business had aimed for a better class of commercial disco, not the usual down-market girly pub. They would never have run Viet and Thai girls from a location like that.

         No harm done and none intended.

         The Brit. Food & Bar manager saw the problem and started an on-line campaign that finally ended in de-registration.

         Difficult to strike the right kind of note; and of course nothing so important as the tag to get the punters keen.

         (No significant State library known to this writer can compete with the stock on the shelves of Singapore National in Bugis devoted to marketing, branding, the psychology of the consumer, thrill purchasing, extreme high adventure shopping and merchandising. Consequently on the streets here a paradise, shopping destination second to none.)

November 11 2011, The Straits Times, p. B6 Home.

The Rooster

More than five months now a little curious mystery early mornings here outside the hotel window. An odd puzzle that has taken the whole of the time to solve. The impulse to investigate earlier had not been very strong. It had been quite enough merely to enjoy what was offered, without enquiring further.

On that side of the hotel the windows look out onto the neighbouring six storey car-park. Over time the corner of the car-park caught in the window by the bed-head had backdropped much vacant gazing. Beyond stood an open, grassy field fenced off no doubt for future development. Early morning someone fed doves in the middle of the field, or else the birds had chosen the place in lieu of anything better. From the room the birds were never audible; seeing them there always brought a surprise. 

Only the upper half of the car-park was visible from the pillow, the corner aligning almost perfectly with the inner side of the sash: concrete in beige, a couple of narrow lines of colour on stanchions and ledges, and in the top corner a rusting iron grate that drained the sky. A kind of looming relic mausoleum of a civilisation remote in time.

Adjacent to the car-park stood a large supermarket which traded until eleven. Deliveries usually between four and four thirty dead of night. The thundering truck first. Raising of the tailgate. A carting trolley was needed. The jockey's target for his load stood beside the car-park entry at the end of a long, unevenly cobbled path.

The second sleep stint varied in length. Some mornings on awakening light edged the curtains; others two-way radio directions for the house maids in the corridor. The warbler's time had been established as a few minutes after seven—cloudy mornings and the fog of sleep made the time difficult to judge.

The regular early morning tune always seemed to pass from left to right, going up the slight rise around the back of the car-park. A bright new morning, greeted by an Indian labourer marching off to start of shift. The young Indian lads had been caught numerous times carrying little tunes along the roadway. Happy-go-lucky it used to be called back home, more than forty years ago. Here the simple joy of song was still common. Swinging legs and head held high, the young Indian is always completely oblivious of passersby. Fields under cultivation, trees, a wide sky, the rich humus of the earth—in the songs they sing the Indian labourers here are far from the bitumen where they walk and all its hurtling traffic. (One hastens to add, there were no head-phones or ear pieces involved here. These foot-sloggers were lightened by the music they themselves make. Filled full of song, it was always apparent when one came upon them how enormous a distance the young men might cover in this fashion.)

There was never any need to look out the window to know the same was the case for this early morning rooster. The song was clearly all his own. Twelve hour shifts six or even seven days a week had failed to crush this soul. With his earnings the Indian was feeding and clothing his parents, wife and children back home and in a few short years the new house would rise up. 

The pleasure of the swelling lyric, its hopefulness and joy, rose and rose again, brimmed and flowed.

Of course there was never such a highly developed explanation formed for this young early morning rooster-chorister outside the window. The song itself carried sufficient information. Putting a face to the tune was unimportant. Even being woken could only be momentarily resented. A feathered rooster would have been welcome; it had been so long. This substitute provided fair exchange.

As it turned out, Indian was not far wrong. The Burmese cadences are not dissimilar to those of their neighbours. The rich, swelling rhythm rose high and clear into the early morning. Even with the windows always closed tight every night the song's uplift easily filled the canyon between the two buildings.

On the morning when the discovery was made the bed-side clock showed a few minutes past seven.

End of a ten-twelve hour work-shift. Seven days a week, one or two days free monthly, the usual in Singapore for the cheap foreign labour.

Once the shift was done the young bridegroom at Reception here could repair to the staff quarters where his new wife waited.

The young couple had been married in April. It must have been a small affair here among a little group of friends. The work contract and financial considerations could not allow a return to celebrate the event with family in Myanmar. The groom was from a kampung a few hours out of Yangon. He had been in Singapore three years and picked up enough English to be able to man the hotel desk overnight, shuffle the paperwork and handle the telephone. Something around $500 per month for the two and a half thousand hours.

Mabel from the day-shift had told of the concern of the groom's mother at the photograph that had been sent back home. Poor woman was shocked to see her new daughter-in-law appear in disturbing Western dress. Where was the longyi, topped by the jacket and Suu Kyi hair for crown?...

Poor old dear!

Nightly the new bride came out of the staff quarters balancing dishes, plates and cutlery. Through the open door of the quarters the rice-cooker visible on a ledge. They made-do without proper kitchen, a half dozen of the staff together, living and sleeping. Improvised curtains perhaps for privacy.

A finger needed to be freed from the clutch of dishes for the elevator button. Jolting slow old hydraulic lift. Hold steady! 

Around 8pm down behind the desk in their swivel chairs, the glowing, blowing young groom gets high-piled fork after high-piled fork delivered across to him by his tubby young wife. Open wide! There you are dear. Glowing and widening together the pair over the five months. To see the like one needed to travel.

(Image Stephen Black)

Ibrahim and Ishmail

Fifty or sixty lambs waiting within the muddy pen that had been improvised against the front fence of the Madrassa. They had arrived late last week, the Qantas flights resumed just in time. The sheep had come from Adelaide; the cheaper goats Perth. Soon after nine an expectant crowd had gathered. Near the side fence a plastic bucket of knives; plastic sheeting spread on the opposite side. The arrangement was clear. Hoses, large plastic bags and boxes, more knives on tables. Above what looked like a pit near the bucket a couple of rails had been laid—in fact it was a drain. The blood would not be collected; that was another kind of practice in northern climates. Two thirds of the meat was usually reserved for the poor, of whom as yet there was no sign. The slaughter was due to begin after the second prayer.
         There was no announcement, no officialdom, no muezzin call. The burly young chap who had waited within the pen with the animals made the first move, taking down a lamb by the rear legs. Once the animal was on its side a helper grabbed the fore. It took a little while to unbar the improvised side fencing. Three or four lambs were soon waiting in line, held down and quiet.
         The slaughtermen were older hands, unremarkable in the common dress. From an almost vertical position the long blade came down, a short and what seemed neat slit following the plunge. Almost like a hot knife in butter. The blade was very sharp. After a number of animals had been done a chap with a whetstone resharpened it. Behind, the twitching of the animal's tail lagged a little after the knife. It was only almost an hour later and a score of beasts that the twitching on the pallets before the butchers was noticed. That was a shock. It was possible the second slaughterman was responsible for that. Somehow he seemed less accomplished.
         The blood from the knife was wiped on the sheep each time, one side of the blade after the other. It was an integral part of the proceeding. Each time the slaughterman did the same, the second man like the one before him. The remaining blood was washed from the blade by cupping water from another bucket. Between times the rails were hosed. The ground throughout the forecourt of the Madrassa was muddy from the rain of past days. Adding further water would only have made the job more difficult.
         A group of men beside the drain raised prayers as the knife came down on each animal, singing a short, plaintive couple of verses that included the acknowledgement of God's greatness: — Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
         The voices were thin and minor key the same as the rest of the scene from one end of the forecourt to the other. It was very much a Brueghel canvas. A young woman stood with a sheet of paper in front of the chorus as if supervising. She had not been present from the beginning; the choir itself might not have been present initially. Different young men helped inside the pen and young boys of ten given a turn too, their laughing and high spirits allowed. After a number of animals had been skinned on the other side a chap produced an electric saw and proceeded to dismember with that. Three or four animals were hung at a time. On a table near the fence on the side of the butchering a man cleaned animal heads. Everyone knew their task without any kind of order or system apparent. This was a practised communal event far from industrial slaughter.
         After something like a score of animals had been done, the first slaughterman was relieved. The second around the same age, somewhere in his early sixties, wore a black songkok. Once or twice his blade came down a second time after what must have been an imperfect cut of the jugular. At one point there was a clear spout of blood that shot well outside the drain. Possibly the impression of lesser surety was mistaken.
         The relieving of duty was unexpected. Was it the bending that had tired the first slaughterman so quickly? His role was confined to the knife only. The rails were sometimes hosed by him, sometimes by a bystander. So efficiently had the man worked the assumption had been that he might do the entire pen. When he was relieved more than half the animals remained. Somehow the second slaughterman broke the earlier smooth rhythm.
         In the contemporary Christian tradition, it is the lamb of the manger that is remembered, if at all. For Jesus the shepherd there is the lamb—for the gentle meekness that has erased his radicalism too. Abraham and Isaac have been long forgotten. In pockets of the U.S. it might be different.
         A significant number of applicants here were disappointed in not winning a place in the Saudi quota 

for the haj. Some who can't attend pay for an animal to be slaughtered in Mecca on their behalf. Prices of livestock have risen this year because of weather factors. The Straits Times reported $443 per head of Australian sheep and $395 goat—transport included.

                         Published by The Antigonish Review #187