The Cruelty of the Authoritarian

 

Authoritarian regimes crave power and influence. They enjoy the perception that they are elites soaring far above the affairs of ordinary men. They enjoy pomp and circumstance, which celebrates them and puts them in the center of the stage.

 

Hitler’s followers wore sharp uniforms, marched in unison with goose steps, and energized themselves with patriotic music. Loyalty is a key aspect of authoritarian groups, and rank commands the highest respect. When our president went to court, several congressmen showed up wearing blue suits and red ties, the uniform of their commander in chief.

 

Authoritarian regimes often find a group to scapegoat and blame for all problems. Part of their strategy is to portray the group or groups as less than human and therefore not deserving of the same treatment they might extend to friends or family. They enjoy picking on vulnerable people who can’t fight back and pose little threat.

 

The current administration has exaggerated the immigration situation and portrayed immigrants as criminals ready to overrun communities. It tries to create a fear-based crisis, then heroically rushes in to solve it. By portraying refugees as criminals, the administration feels it can treat them as they deserve. Place them in cages and treat them like animals because that fits the image the administration has created. Words, like vermin, are popular with authorities because they suggest filth that needs to be eliminated.

 

Like Hitler’s Third Reich, the current administration wants to build a country of strong, white men and women, although their leader is an out-of-shape, portly man who has seen better days. Trump likes his 

Health appointee because RFK Jr. emphasizes a healthy lifestyle. He appears more interested in diet and exercise than in illness and its prevention. Hitler eliminated many mentally ill people along with other marginalized groups. The authoritarian’s idea of the perfect man or woman is the stuff of fiction and has little basis in reality.

                          High Drama in Temecula

 

 

 

The traffic was light at 5:30 this morning as I headed north on Highway 15 toward my destination, Temecula. The Pechanga tribe has built an enormous casino complex in Temecula, along with a five-star golf course that is very challenging. I played there last week but wanted to go back and improve my game. 

 

The starter grouped four of us singles together, and we teed off around 7. I parred the first hole and felt comfortable and relaxed. We were on the tee on the second hole when a Ford SUV raced through an access road and sped down the cart path. Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes. Two women got out the back door along with various water bottles that spilled on the ground. One man tried to start the car again. The engine wouldn’t turn over. He took a portable generator from the back of the auto and kept trying to get the car going. He was frantic while his companion ran and leaped over a fence. If things had been different, he might have been an excellent high school hurdler. At one point, the man said, “What are you looking at?” I felt like saying, “You have a point, sorry. Cars speed onto the golf course all the time. My bad.”

 

The four of us watched from about thirty yards away. I felt like I was in a crime show on reality TV. After a little while, I heard sirens approaching us. The man finally got out of the car and ran across a fence into a field. The two women started walking along the course.

 

 

At first, I thought the four Hispanic people were undocumented workers fleeing the border patrol. Then I wondered if they had stolen a car. It was hard to tell. My thoughts were interrupted by two security cruisers from the tribal police and two more Temecula police cars with sirens and flashing lights.

                                                        

A message flashed on our golf cart's screen, telling all golfers to leave the course because of a police incident. Since we had seen the whole event and watched the wanted individuals drive away from the golf course, we knew there was no danger and kept playing.

 

The rest of the morning went smoothly as the four of us enjoyed the course, aptly named The Journey. I checked the local newspaper for a couple of weeks and found out that the men were eventually caught and sent to jail for car theft.

 

 

 

 

 

Road Golf

 

 

Driving in Italy is like playing golf; you need to choose the right club for each driving situation. High-speed roads like the autostrada favor big, fast cars such as Mercedes, Audis, and BMWs, which help you stay competitive and avoid being pushed off the road by impatient Italians who like to travel quickly with their lights blinking and horns honking. The custom is to tailgate someone, flash your lights, and then pass when the slower vehicle pulls into the right lane. Although speed limit signs are posted, they seem to have little effect on anyone. Once, two police or Carabinieri cars pulled up behind me. I was driving at the speed limit, but they were so close I sped up. At the first opportunity, they passed me and sped down the road, despite there being no apparent emergency.

 

The story above highlights one of the paradoxes of Italian life. The population speeds along in cars only to stop for a leisurely espresso or a relaxed lunch. Even in busy Rome, it’s hard to get a waiter to bring the check because the norm is to enjoy the food and company. So why do they rush on the roads? I don’t know, but it might be related to the lack of upward mobility and personal control that people feel they have in Italy. Maybe the roads serve as a place where the people can feel in charge. Sociologists could give a better answer to this than I can.

 

 

Back road, country driving ideally requires a different type of car. Just as in golf, on a narrow fairway, a player wouldn’t use a driver. Instead, a shorter, more efficient club like a six-iron would be chosen. In Italy, this translates into various choices, from Alfa Romeos to Fiats to Renaults. Speed isn’t as critical on tight mountain roads as the ability to corner, make sharp turns, and downshift. Italians seem to love this style of driving. Big trucks especially enjoy driving as if they were Ferrari or Maserati sports cars. It can be frightening to have one of these trucks slip behind you and honk for you to pass the slow car ahead. This wouldn’t be an issue on a straight road, but these truck drivers want you to pass on curves that hide blind corners! 

 

 

In the United States, people tend to drive in an orderly manner. One car waits its turn while another moves through an intersection. The next car goes, and then the next. Such is not the case in Italy. It is up to the car at an intersection to make a move. More often than not, drivers poke their cars into intersections, forcing other cars to stop. It’s the same with walking. If you wait for the cars to stop and let you pass at a crosswalk where there is no light, you may need to be packing lunch and supper! Pedestrians walk out into traffic and make the cars stop. It takes a leap of faith.

 

 

Sometimes you have to drive in Italy. If you're heading to the countryside, public transportation can often be awkward. I try to stick to back, country roads whenever I can. When cars speed up behind me, I usually pull over to let the locals pass. I bring good road maps from the states and ask the hotel staff to help me find the routes. 

 

If you decide to play road golf in   beautiful Italy, there is no sense in saying, “Fore!” The Italians will only laugh, downshift, and speed by as they drift into the next corner!

 

 

 

The Golf Club of California in Fallbrook, CA, has a challenging layout. It's a target golf course with precise shots needed on most holes. For example, in the first part, 5, you must hit your second shot to left center. If you don't, you'll be blocked by large trees as you try to hit shot three. The green is elevated, and your ball can easily roll off. It's a difficult hole.

 

One of the par three holes has a sand trap in the middle of the green. Sometimes, the flag is placed in the right-hand corner, meaning you have little room to work with. If you land left of the sand trap, you must putt around it or perhaps chip over it. If you try to go for the pin, your ball can easily roll off the green. Another par three hole requires a carry-over water to the green. Miss and you have a lost ball.

 

And so, it goes with the course. Is it fun? Definitely. From the senior tees, the holes are not long; if you're precise, you have a good chance of getting a reasonable score. The most challenging hole is, I believe, hole 13 or 14. You must drive down the middle of the fairway. Long hitters can then hit their second shot through a lengthy opening in trees to reach the green. Most of us can't do that, so we lay up. However, your layup must be precise, or you'll have to try to hit over tall trees. A bogey on this hole is like a par for most golfers.

 

The course is semi-private, and it typically is in good shape. The Golf Club of California employees are friendly, welcoming, and helpful. Play early and beat the crowds.

The Green Green Grass of Home

 

I walked into the bar and stopped in my tracks! The band played a song that immediately ran around in my head and settled there. What was that great song?

 

The year was 1966, and I was on a ski trip to Kitzbuel, Austria. The song was The Green, Green Grass of Home, a country song made famous by Tom Jones, Porter Waggoner, and others. I tried to talk with the lead singer between songs, but he was from Hungry and spoke no English. Eventually, we left the bar, but the music stayed with me till this day. I thought of it this morning when I heard a version by Joan Baez on YouTube.

 

This catchy song tells the story of a man who dreams of his home in the country, but when he wakes up, he realizes he is in prison awaiting execution. It is a classic country song with a beautiful melody. Listen to it and see what you think!

 

 

The Journey at Pechanga

 

Over the years, I have played many golf courses in San Diego County. The Journey in Temecula is the most spectacular. This tribal course is well-maintained, long, and difficult. Most golfers should play up a tee, as several holes require a lengthy carry.

 

The signature hole is the sixth, where you shoot from an elevated tee over the brush to the fairway. Think elevated times three! Then, you must hit downhill to a hidden green. The good news is that your ball will get a lot of roll. But be careful because a good shot might be too long and thus gone forever. 

 

Many of the holes on the course present obstacles in terms of water, trees, ravines, and arroyos. The greens are large and fast and often surrounded by different hazards. If you are not accurate, you may not be a happy golfer.

 

The journey has a five-star range with manicured grass and free practice balls. The short-game facility is also excellent, with traps and two greens. The rounds are very well organized and run. It is an excellent golf experience. The after-play café is terrific.

 

Is the Journey expensive? You can probably guess that it is. In the past, I have usually tried to play there once a year. 

From Kandahar to the Western World 

The Story of Ahmed Amir

Part 1

Maria Belli looked stunned. When Marco Dotti looked to see what she was viewing, he saw a dark-skinned, strikingly handsome man. Ahmed Amir wore a well-fitting blue pinstriped suit, with a white shirt, paisley tie, and intelligent-looking oxford shoes from Churchill of London. His hair was jet black and neatly combed. Perhaps most striking was Amir’s smile and unmistakable charisma. Belli turned to Dotti and said, who is that man?

 

The Village of Farid was 100 kilometers from Kandahar, north of the Pakistan border. It was a poor community made of farmers and sheepherders. A stronghold of the Taliban, Farid was not an easy place to live. Ahmed Amir was born there.

 

Ahmed’s family were humble animal tenders, but they were proud people who hated the Russian and American soldiers who had invaded their country for so many years. Ahmed’s father had helped the Taliban in their relentless search to find and destroy the enemy. 

 

Ahmed was a child of promise in a land of no opportunity. He was intelligent, clever, inventive, and cunning. Faster than all the boys in his village, Ahmed could run like the wind and easily mastered riding local horses. When he was eight years old, the local Taliban leader Fatah Nader recruited him. Ahmed learned to shoot automatic weapons, throw grenades, and scout ahead of advancing troops to find the Americans. His father wanted him to give up his activities with the Taliban, but that was like asking a man in the desert not to drink.

 

A conference such as this one was highly unusual. When Ahmed was 12, the regional Taliban leader, Ali Zafar, met with Ahmed and village chieftain Nader. When Ahmed was summoned to the meeting, he thought he had done something wrong, and his usual composure faltered.

 

“ I want you to listen carefully, my son. I am giving you the chance of a lifetime, but it will call for extraordinary resourcefulness on your part. He explained that the Taliban had begun to think long-term and wanted to groom future leaders. Ahmed would attend the best schools in England after a year of intense tutoring in London. He would go on to a university and learn the ways of the Western world. At the right time, Taliban leaders would assign relevant missions, though they were years away.

 

Twenty boys from different parts of Afganistan had been chosen for the program. Due to his intelligence, confidence, and charisma, Ahmed had been at the top of the list. What Zafar didn’t tell Ahmed was that some of these missions might be terrorist operations. But he figured there would be time later to discuss that.

 

Next, the Chief and Ahmed met with the boy’s parents. It wasn’t like they had a choice in the matter, though it was presented as if they did. He couldn’t articulate it, but Ahmed had sensed that there was nothing for him in his village except boredom and poverty. When the parents asked when their son had to leave, the Taliban Chief said, “ In three days.”

 

After a teary farewell in which much of the village lined the streets and said goodbye to the young Afghan, Ahmed, accompanied by a Taliban elder, began the long journey to Karachi, Pakistan, known as “The Dangerous City.”

 

The journey to Karachi was 473 miles along the  Asian Highway. The elder drove a Toyota Corolla with Ahmed in the back and a Taliban soldier in front for protection. The border crossing into Pakistan went smoothly, helped by forged documents and bribes. It was night when the group reached Karachi, where a safe house was waiting.

 

Ahmed had cried when he left his parents, but now the excitement of a big city and all it offered had pulled the young Afghan in a different direction. Though the Taliban elder had told Ahmed to stay put, when the rest of the people in the safe house slept, he wandered out to the street to explore the neighborhood. Ahmed’s wandering was an error on his part.