Re: Mother of Exiles

["labehotierre" <labehotierre@wanadoo.fr>]

Gazing towards the west, the sunset on fire, my thoughts turn towards the
time that John
Sinclair Quarterman has written so eloquently of, "The Clearances" .
Reflections turn to the
words of Dale Hinchey, Donna May-Crete  and Jean Stokes introducing thoughts
and ideas of
trauma down the generations. Ideas new to me.  We had earlier on this list
spoken about
ethnic cleansing of the horrors of genocide and the rape of a country and
people.  My
Government and the American government practices and enforces this genocide
today against
the 21 million people of Iraq killing half a million of their children since
the Gulf War while the
fool we have for Prime Minster declares “We have no quarrel with the Iraqi
people” while
hiding behind a UN Security Council resolution that would be instantly
defeated if it ever
reached the General Assembly.  Will the Iraqi people suffer the traumas of
our forebears? John
wrote of voluntary exile from Scotland in the need to eat. When encourages
to rise against the
evil dictator Saddam we abandoned the Iraqi people, even supplying air cover
for Saddam’s
helicopters and army to decimate their warriors.  Sinclairs have always been
in the vanguard,
protecting and marinating the rights of the common and not so uncommon man.
Niven has
written of William of Roslyn defence of many unpopular people.  He has show
us where our
history sleeps, of the Knights Templer, driven from France by a King who
owed them money,
and their true treasure lies in the vaults of Roslyn protected still by
Sinclairs.

On this day 28 October 1886 The Statue of Liberty, a gift of the people of
France to the
people of America was dedicated.  The poem on written by Emma Lazarus speak
volumes of
our duties, of our privilege to bear the name Sinclair.

The New Colossus
            Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
        With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
        Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
            A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
           Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
             Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
        Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
         The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
       "Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
       With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
         Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
           The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
         Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
            I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


Sinclair


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