Sunday, November 06, 2005
"L'estatut"
La semana pasada celebramos en Catalunya el final del Ramadán. Este sábado por la mañana me he encontrado en el mercado con la esposa de Carod-Rovira. Luego me he ido al congreso. No al de los diputados, no: es un congreso sobre redes de comunicación locales y lo que me interesaba era el WiFi por si podemos instalarlo en mi barrio.
Ayer tarde un paisano comentaba que a “l’estatut” se sobran algunos “et” y algunos “ut”. En catalán se dice cuando un asunto está completo que tiene todos los “et” y “ut” del aniguo lenguaje jurídico. Sobre todo le sobra el “ut” de estatut: a él lo que le mola el “l’estat”, por Estat Català, la agrupación a la que pertenecía su padre, un notario de Tarragona que tuvo que exilarse a Francia en el 39. Ahora espera recuperar alguno de sus papeles del archivo de Salamanca.
Se me ha despegado el “teletac” del parabrisas. Lo he vuelto a pegar con pegamento instantáneo. Es ese achiperre que permite el pago telemático de los peajes en las autopistas. Aquí no puedo recorrer ni un centímetro de autovía sin pagar.
Igual todo eso: Ramadán, Carod, WiFi, Estat Català, Teletac... suena raro o lejano, pero forma parte de mi entorno diario.
Este blog se escribe en los tres idiomas en los que trabajo habitualmente. Puedo conversar en cinco y entiendo hasta ocho, pero no es un mérito: es una necesidad. En todos los sitios donde he trabajado había más de una lengua oficial. Me parece que eso es lo habitual en el mundo.
También creo que el nacionalismo se cura viajando y los provincianismos me entristecen.
Me apura el griterío sobre el estatuto de Cataluña. No lo acabo de entender. Al fin y al cabo se están siguiendo las percepciones legales para modificar una ley que, para los catalanes, se ha quedado estrecha. Y la voluntad representada por el 90% de un parlamento democráticamente elegido no se puede ignorar. Entre otras cosas porque los elegimos para que legislaran. Para eso elegimos también al parlamento español, aunque a lo mejor fuera sólo para despedir a Aznar.
Que legislen. Que parlamenten. Que “parlin” que es como se dice hablar en catalán.
Claro que hay que hablar de dinero y, naturalmente, no va a ser del dinero de los extremeños o los canarios. Tendrá que ser del dinero de los catalanes. Y para eso hay que reordenar la financiación.
Para que el año que viene volvamos a celebrar el Ramadán, porque a este país le hacen falta inmigrantes. Para que la mujer de Carod pueda seguir yendo al mercado sin escolta. Para promover las telecomunicaciones locales. Y para redimir el molesto peaje de nuestras autopistas. Para que nadie se tire de los pelos porque el notario recupere las cartas de su madre. También para dar apoyos a la lengua catalana, que la emplean más ciudadanos europeos que el danés, el sueco o el checo.
Financiación y nación suenan casi igual en castellano. En catalán no. Por eso van separadas en el estatut. Pero, al cabo, son lo mismo.
Ayer tarde un paisano comentaba que a “l’estatut” se sobran algunos “et” y algunos “ut”. En catalán se dice cuando un asunto está completo que tiene todos los “et” y “ut” del aniguo lenguaje jurídico. Sobre todo le sobra el “ut” de estatut: a él lo que le mola el “l’estat”, por Estat Català, la agrupación a la que pertenecía su padre, un notario de Tarragona que tuvo que exilarse a Francia en el 39. Ahora espera recuperar alguno de sus papeles del archivo de Salamanca.
Se me ha despegado el “teletac” del parabrisas. Lo he vuelto a pegar con pegamento instantáneo. Es ese achiperre que permite el pago telemático de los peajes en las autopistas. Aquí no puedo recorrer ni un centímetro de autovía sin pagar.
Igual todo eso: Ramadán, Carod, WiFi, Estat Català, Teletac... suena raro o lejano, pero forma parte de mi entorno diario.
Este blog se escribe en los tres idiomas en los que trabajo habitualmente. Puedo conversar en cinco y entiendo hasta ocho, pero no es un mérito: es una necesidad. En todos los sitios donde he trabajado había más de una lengua oficial. Me parece que eso es lo habitual en el mundo.
También creo que el nacionalismo se cura viajando y los provincianismos me entristecen.
Me apura el griterío sobre el estatuto de Cataluña. No lo acabo de entender. Al fin y al cabo se están siguiendo las percepciones legales para modificar una ley que, para los catalanes, se ha quedado estrecha. Y la voluntad representada por el 90% de un parlamento democráticamente elegido no se puede ignorar. Entre otras cosas porque los elegimos para que legislaran. Para eso elegimos también al parlamento español, aunque a lo mejor fuera sólo para despedir a Aznar.
Que legislen. Que parlamenten. Que “parlin” que es como se dice hablar en catalán.
Claro que hay que hablar de dinero y, naturalmente, no va a ser del dinero de los extremeños o los canarios. Tendrá que ser del dinero de los catalanes. Y para eso hay que reordenar la financiación.
Para que el año que viene volvamos a celebrar el Ramadán, porque a este país le hacen falta inmigrantes. Para que la mujer de Carod pueda seguir yendo al mercado sin escolta. Para promover las telecomunicaciones locales. Y para redimir el molesto peaje de nuestras autopistas. Para que nadie se tire de los pelos porque el notario recupere las cartas de su madre. También para dar apoyos a la lengua catalana, que la emplean más ciudadanos europeos que el danés, el sueco o el checo.
Financiación y nación suenan casi igual en castellano. En catalán no. Por eso van separadas en el estatut. Pero, al cabo, son lo mismo.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Safari to Cabañeros
Cabañeros is the newest National Park in Spain. A hunting private property, it was acquired by the Defence department to be used as a shooting range for the Air Force. Environmentalists (in Spain called “ecologists”) went ballistic and the public uproar forced the government to declare the area protected land first and later, as the natural riches became more evident, was declared National Park some ten years ago.
Cabañeros took its name from the “cabanas”, the thatched dwellings its inhabitants back a couple of hundred years ago used. Part of the Montes de Toledo mountain range, is in the Ciudad Real province, in Central Spain and is highly representative of the central Spanish high plain, the “Meseta”.
To get there I drove all the way from Catalonia through the expressway to Valencia and Madrid but, on reaching Alarcón, some 100 miles before the nation’s capital, I took a country road, actually an excellent two lane “Redia” road practically deserted, on through Los Yebenes, a very beautiful wide valley of “dehesa” land, as the large tracts of land in the Southern half of Spain are called: grazing expanses interspersed with Spanish oaks “encinas”. In some fenced areas you could see cattle and also “toros bravos”, the Spanish semi-wild bulls used in the “corridas”, the bullfights, quietly grazing away.
It was sundown when I reached Retuerto del Bullaque, a small village North of Cabañeros and one of the gates to the park. I settled down in a “hostal”, had a light supper (soup and fried eggs) and went to bed early, being a Saturday, just to catch a few blinks at the Barça football game on the TV.
Up at six, I hit the road at 6.30 luckily to stumble with one of the park rangers 4 wheel drive passing through. I followed it for a few miles to what I was thinking was going to be the park’s gate. Suddenly it turned left without signalling and entered a short dirt track to stop at a chain fence. I followed suit and as the guy was unlocking the chain I asked him if that was the park’s entry.
Well it was and it wasn’t. As I was about to find out, the visits to the park are limited to 96 persons a day, and the visits are only allowed with a guide and by previous reservation. This peculiar number was actually 100: 96 visitors and 4 guides, half in the morning and half in the afternoon, in four 4WD vehicles each through one of the park entries.
Fortunately they had room for me, so I left my car and hopped in the 4WD. This was a large semi-truck contraption, a German made Mercedes Unimog, with large windows, that held ten passengers and a driver. It took off immediately and drove haltingly through a narrow and bumpy dirt track. Still pitch dark, the vehicle lights showed ghostly threads of fog between the trees.
The ranger guide, a rather talkative fellow, went on explaining the trees and bushes, and the aromas of the bushes and bush flowers: rosemary, “jara” (“rockrose”), honeysuckle, lavender, and so on.
Some half hour later the vehicle stopped and turned the lights off in the middle of what look like a rather ample expanse. We were in “La Raña” and we were going to participate in one special event: the “berrea” of the deer. The annual bellowing contest between male deer in the range.
As the first lights began to clear the night’s shadows and one could hardly distinguish dark dots that were not bushes or rocks but living things, then and there began the concert of “berridos”, bellowing away the deer’s love song. Fantastic!
Roe deer, fallow deer by the dozens. And then as the daylight allowed, you could see families of wild boar, a couple of foxes and a whole bunch of different birds, the black vulture with its 10 ft. wingspan the most spectacular.
Later on we went to a cliff to get to see imperial eagles, one of the few remaining families in Southern Europe.
Well, that was some safari!.
In the afternoon I took a walk through the “El boquerón del Estena”, a narrow canyon along the Estena river on the promise I could see some otters swimming but by midday wild animals tend to keep themselves out of sight. A nice walk though.
The next day I went to the Cuenca mountains to visit “La ciudad encantada”, that very popular and peculiar wind eroded landscape and crossed the “Montes Universales” to visit the Cuervo river source, also a spectacular neck of the woods, on to Albarracín and, some 400 km later, back home. But that’ll be some other day story.
Cabañeros took its name from the “cabanas”, the thatched dwellings its inhabitants back a couple of hundred years ago used. Part of the Montes de Toledo mountain range, is in the Ciudad Real province, in Central Spain and is highly representative of the central Spanish high plain, the “Meseta”.
To get there I drove all the way from Catalonia through the expressway to Valencia and Madrid but, on reaching Alarcón, some 100 miles before the nation’s capital, I took a country road, actually an excellent two lane “Redia” road practically deserted, on through Los Yebenes, a very beautiful wide valley of “dehesa” land, as the large tracts of land in the Southern half of Spain are called: grazing expanses interspersed with Spanish oaks “encinas”. In some fenced areas you could see cattle and also “toros bravos”, the Spanish semi-wild bulls used in the “corridas”, the bullfights, quietly grazing away.
It was sundown when I reached Retuerto del Bullaque, a small village North of Cabañeros and one of the gates to the park. I settled down in a “hostal”, had a light supper (soup and fried eggs) and went to bed early, being a Saturday, just to catch a few blinks at the Barça football game on the TV.
Up at six, I hit the road at 6.30 luckily to stumble with one of the park rangers 4 wheel drive passing through. I followed it for a few miles to what I was thinking was going to be the park’s gate. Suddenly it turned left without signalling and entered a short dirt track to stop at a chain fence. I followed suit and as the guy was unlocking the chain I asked him if that was the park’s entry.
Well it was and it wasn’t. As I was about to find out, the visits to the park are limited to 96 persons a day, and the visits are only allowed with a guide and by previous reservation. This peculiar number was actually 100: 96 visitors and 4 guides, half in the morning and half in the afternoon, in four 4WD vehicles each through one of the park entries.
Fortunately they had room for me, so I left my car and hopped in the 4WD. This was a large semi-truck contraption, a German made Mercedes Unimog, with large windows, that held ten passengers and a driver. It took off immediately and drove haltingly through a narrow and bumpy dirt track. Still pitch dark, the vehicle lights showed ghostly threads of fog between the trees.
The ranger guide, a rather talkative fellow, went on explaining the trees and bushes, and the aromas of the bushes and bush flowers: rosemary, “jara” (“rockrose”), honeysuckle, lavender, and so on.
Some half hour later the vehicle stopped and turned the lights off in the middle of what look like a rather ample expanse. We were in “La Raña” and we were going to participate in one special event: the “berrea” of the deer. The annual bellowing contest between male deer in the range.
As the first lights began to clear the night’s shadows and one could hardly distinguish dark dots that were not bushes or rocks but living things, then and there began the concert of “berridos”, bellowing away the deer’s love song. Fantastic!
Roe deer, fallow deer by the dozens. And then as the daylight allowed, you could see families of wild boar, a couple of foxes and a whole bunch of different birds, the black vulture with its 10 ft. wingspan the most spectacular.
Later on we went to a cliff to get to see imperial eagles, one of the few remaining families in Southern Europe.
Well, that was some safari!.
In the afternoon I took a walk through the “El boquerón del Estena”, a narrow canyon along the Estena river on the promise I could see some otters swimming but by midday wild animals tend to keep themselves out of sight. A nice walk though.
The next day I went to the Cuenca mountains to visit “La ciudad encantada”, that very popular and peculiar wind eroded landscape and crossed the “Montes Universales” to visit the Cuervo river source, also a spectacular neck of the woods, on to Albarracín and, some 400 km later, back home. But that’ll be some other day story.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
COMENÇAMENT DE CURS MULTICOLOR
Enguany encara es notarà més la varietat ètnica dels alumnes a les escoles. Del fenomen immigratori dels darrers anys, l’increment ha estat progressiu. Uns seran nens arribats de l’estranger, des de fora de les muralles Shengen, i un bon grapat nascuts aquí, de pares immigrants.
L’any 2004, el darrer del que tenim xifres, els fills de pares immigrants nascuts a Catalunya arriben al 16%. Així doncs ja sabem els que començaran escola al 2007. A tots els efectes, benvinguts siguin.
La qüestió però, te algunes peculiaritats. No tots els nenes aniran a escola, tot i que, al nostre context legal, és obligatori. I no es repartiran entre totes les escoles, si no que es concentraran en unes, mentre que d’altres a penes en tindran.
La coherència, cohesió, estabilitat de la nostra societat, del nostre país, passa per una presa de consciència de les realitats. Els nous ciutadans s’han d’integrar. Això es bo per a tothom. I la integració comença des del primer moment, al nàixer, i continua amb la incorporació a la societat que, per als nens, és començar a anar a escola.
Integrar es posar tots els mitjans per a evitar la marginació, l’exclusió o la separació dels membres de la societat. Els que han vingut, els que han nascut aquí, no marxaran. Estan aquí per a quedar-se. I no podem cometre l’error d’ignorar-los.
Els infants han d’anar a escola. Però alguns col•lectius, podríem dir “ètnies” o cultures, això no ho tenen clar. Alguns àrabs, alguns xinesos, algunes gitanos, no creuen que els seus fills hagin d’anar a escola. Alguns musulmans retiren les seves noies del sistema educatiu tan bon punt arriben a la pubertat. Amb tot el degut respecte a la diversitat, ara per ara i aquí, el millor passaport per al futur dels joves, dels menors, es l’escolarització. I és també el seu dret.
Així s’ha d’explicar als pares, i tots plegats estem obligats a vigilar-ho i, si s’escau, denunciar-ho.
Algunes escoles dificulten l’admissió d’alumnes que pertanyen a minories o son estrangers de naixement o origen. Les escoles privades poden fer el que vulguin, però si son subvencionades i, per tant, publiques estan obligades a admetre la seva quota d’immigrants.
Així s’ha d’explicar als pares dels altres, i tots plegats també estem obligats a vigilar-ho i, si s’escau, denunciar-ho.
Per que tots plegats no ens podem permetre el luxe ni la desgracia de generar “ghettos” ni nuclis d’exclusió. Ni que els infants, els menors, perdin les seves oportunitats d’integrar-se, conviure i desenvolupar-se lliures a la nostra societat.
Al cap i a la fi, l’única qüestió es tenir ben clar que som, que vol dir “nosaltres”. Som i serem, si som tots.
L’any 2004, el darrer del que tenim xifres, els fills de pares immigrants nascuts a Catalunya arriben al 16%. Així doncs ja sabem els que començaran escola al 2007. A tots els efectes, benvinguts siguin.
La qüestió però, te algunes peculiaritats. No tots els nenes aniran a escola, tot i que, al nostre context legal, és obligatori. I no es repartiran entre totes les escoles, si no que es concentraran en unes, mentre que d’altres a penes en tindran.
La coherència, cohesió, estabilitat de la nostra societat, del nostre país, passa per una presa de consciència de les realitats. Els nous ciutadans s’han d’integrar. Això es bo per a tothom. I la integració comença des del primer moment, al nàixer, i continua amb la incorporació a la societat que, per als nens, és començar a anar a escola.
Integrar es posar tots els mitjans per a evitar la marginació, l’exclusió o la separació dels membres de la societat. Els que han vingut, els que han nascut aquí, no marxaran. Estan aquí per a quedar-se. I no podem cometre l’error d’ignorar-los.
Els infants han d’anar a escola. Però alguns col•lectius, podríem dir “ètnies” o cultures, això no ho tenen clar. Alguns àrabs, alguns xinesos, algunes gitanos, no creuen que els seus fills hagin d’anar a escola. Alguns musulmans retiren les seves noies del sistema educatiu tan bon punt arriben a la pubertat. Amb tot el degut respecte a la diversitat, ara per ara i aquí, el millor passaport per al futur dels joves, dels menors, es l’escolarització. I és també el seu dret.
Així s’ha d’explicar als pares, i tots plegats estem obligats a vigilar-ho i, si s’escau, denunciar-ho.
Algunes escoles dificulten l’admissió d’alumnes que pertanyen a minories o son estrangers de naixement o origen. Les escoles privades poden fer el que vulguin, però si son subvencionades i, per tant, publiques estan obligades a admetre la seva quota d’immigrants.
Així s’ha d’explicar als pares dels altres, i tots plegats també estem obligats a vigilar-ho i, si s’escau, denunciar-ho.
Per que tots plegats no ens podem permetre el luxe ni la desgracia de generar “ghettos” ni nuclis d’exclusió. Ni que els infants, els menors, perdin les seves oportunitats d’integrar-se, conviure i desenvolupar-se lliures a la nostra societat.
Al cap i a la fi, l’única qüestió es tenir ben clar que som, que vol dir “nosaltres”. Som i serem, si som tots.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Death by the Mississippi
My last entry hoped for a prompt and effective aid reaching the victims of the hurricane Katrina. Very unfortunately that was not to be.
From this side of the Atlantic we have been watching in disbelief the unfolding of a tragedy that only the well informed could foresee: how bad a hurricane can be, the orographical situation of the Gulf coast and that of New Orleans specifically, the social situation of the population in Southern Louisiana and Mississippi states and least of all, the striking difference between the United States enormous might and resources and their ability to provide effective aid to the victims of a major natural disaster.
My, and I would dare say, most people culture of naturals disasters comes from the disaster movies. Most movies deal with the rescue that follows the disaster and the heroics around it. Thus it seems incredible that now it took more than 5 days to get help to the refugees in New Orleans Superdome and a whole week to restore some sort of law and order.
That New Orleans is below sea level is well known. It is even mentioned in touristic brochures. That the levees would or not hold in case of a water surge must be a consideration continuously present when building levees.
The song by Don McLean about the demise of Buddy Holly “The day the music died…” talked about a levee that was dry.
So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Dry to rhyme with “die” and “rye”
The first time I heard it, new to the South, I had to ask what a levee was. I have not been across any levee ever since, until last Sunday when I watched on the satellite TV a diagram depicting a cut of New Orleans and the differences in levels of lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi river with the ground level of the city.
So the flood was predictable.
The Census Bureau said that 12.7% of Americans were living below the poverty threshold in 2004. The three states with the highest poverty rates were Mississippi, New Mexico and Louisiana.
That poverty includes lack of all kinds of resources, and thus that of transport, could easily bring to the conclusion that even though an order of evacuation was in effect, a good whole lot of people would stay behind. And that most would be poor and handicapped. With a large number of people, poor, abandoned to their fate in an empty city, looting, violence and lawlessness were also foreseeable. It’s all right to get people out of harm’s way but law enforcers should stay put, shouldn’t they? Someone has to mind the shop.
As for why it took so long to get rescue efforts underway is a question meriting a federal investigation. Fingers may point to a variety of directions but mine points straight to GW Bush and his pathetic appearances in the media more than three days after the magnitude of the catastrophe was quite obvious.
I would not take issue with the comments of Rev. Jesse Jackson and some members of the Black Democratic Caucus as to whether race was o was not a matter in this terrible mess. Misery has many faces. Sometimes that of comments. But this time around won’t be Weapons of Mass Destruction to blame, nor could anyone justify the invasion of Cuba on the grounds that two million Cubans were blowing in the wind at the tail of Katrina which wouldn’t be any more preposterous.
Still, a Spanish TV crew showed how three consecutive police cars with white officers refused to evacuate two black persons that were walking by them on one of the highways overpasses. Then another police car came by with black officers that carried them away. So there.
When I see water I think of Navy. Seeing the flurry of helicopters flying around over New Orleans downtown skyline I cannot but to wonder that shouldn’t be easier to get there by boat? The LC’s that landed in Omaha beach at Normandy or Guadalcanal are not around anymore?. Flood waters are shallow alright, but there should be plenty of low draught vessels or dinghies to navigate a flooded city.
The same with the levee breaches they try to plug up with helicopters carrying sand and cement blocks. Wouldn’t it be easier to pull a couple of large loaded barges and scuttle them right there? With all due respect for the Army Corps of Engineers… isn’t there a Navy one?
Let’s hope that this nightmare will pass and that restoration of cities, towns and peoples’ lives will get underway effectively, and the dead can get not only rest but recognition.
Sunday, 04 September 2005
From this side of the Atlantic we have been watching in disbelief the unfolding of a tragedy that only the well informed could foresee: how bad a hurricane can be, the orographical situation of the Gulf coast and that of New Orleans specifically, the social situation of the population in Southern Louisiana and Mississippi states and least of all, the striking difference between the United States enormous might and resources and their ability to provide effective aid to the victims of a major natural disaster.
My, and I would dare say, most people culture of naturals disasters comes from the disaster movies. Most movies deal with the rescue that follows the disaster and the heroics around it. Thus it seems incredible that now it took more than 5 days to get help to the refugees in New Orleans Superdome and a whole week to restore some sort of law and order.
That New Orleans is below sea level is well known. It is even mentioned in touristic brochures. That the levees would or not hold in case of a water surge must be a consideration continuously present when building levees.
The song by Don McLean about the demise of Buddy Holly “The day the music died…” talked about a levee that was dry.
So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."
Dry to rhyme with “die” and “rye”
The first time I heard it, new to the South, I had to ask what a levee was. I have not been across any levee ever since, until last Sunday when I watched on the satellite TV a diagram depicting a cut of New Orleans and the differences in levels of lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi river with the ground level of the city.
So the flood was predictable.
The Census Bureau said that 12.7% of Americans were living below the poverty threshold in 2004. The three states with the highest poverty rates were Mississippi, New Mexico and Louisiana.
That poverty includes lack of all kinds of resources, and thus that of transport, could easily bring to the conclusion that even though an order of evacuation was in effect, a good whole lot of people would stay behind. And that most would be poor and handicapped. With a large number of people, poor, abandoned to their fate in an empty city, looting, violence and lawlessness were also foreseeable. It’s all right to get people out of harm’s way but law enforcers should stay put, shouldn’t they? Someone has to mind the shop.
As for why it took so long to get rescue efforts underway is a question meriting a federal investigation. Fingers may point to a variety of directions but mine points straight to GW Bush and his pathetic appearances in the media more than three days after the magnitude of the catastrophe was quite obvious.
I would not take issue with the comments of Rev. Jesse Jackson and some members of the Black Democratic Caucus as to whether race was o was not a matter in this terrible mess. Misery has many faces. Sometimes that of comments. But this time around won’t be Weapons of Mass Destruction to blame, nor could anyone justify the invasion of Cuba on the grounds that two million Cubans were blowing in the wind at the tail of Katrina which wouldn’t be any more preposterous.
Still, a Spanish TV crew showed how three consecutive police cars with white officers refused to evacuate two black persons that were walking by them on one of the highways overpasses. Then another police car came by with black officers that carried them away. So there.
When I see water I think of Navy. Seeing the flurry of helicopters flying around over New Orleans downtown skyline I cannot but to wonder that shouldn’t be easier to get there by boat? The LC’s that landed in Omaha beach at Normandy or Guadalcanal are not around anymore?. Flood waters are shallow alright, but there should be plenty of low draught vessels or dinghies to navigate a flooded city.
The same with the levee breaches they try to plug up with helicopters carrying sand and cement blocks. Wouldn’t it be easier to pull a couple of large loaded barges and scuttle them right there? With all due respect for the Army Corps of Engineers… isn’t there a Navy one?
Let’s hope that this nightmare will pass and that restoration of cities, towns and peoples’ lives will get underway effectively, and the dead can get not only rest but recognition.
Sunday, 04 September 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Katrina
Somewhere along the line the National Hurricane Service should stop using Russian names for hurricanes... Last year Ivan, and now Katrina seem to have created quite a disaster.
This year is full of natural disasters, from tsunamis to hurricanes. If you click Katrina on Google right out it comes an almost forgotten rock'n roll band "Katrina and the waves".... Katrina and the tsunami....
Pity the victims and let's hope aid is forthcoming and effective. Although it looks like we are all going to be victims of rising oil prices...
August, 30/2005
This year is full of natural disasters, from tsunamis to hurricanes. If you click Katrina on Google right out it comes an almost forgotten rock'n roll band "Katrina and the waves".... Katrina and the tsunami....
Pity the victims and let's hope aid is forthcoming and effective. Although it looks like we are all going to be victims of rising oil prices...
August, 30/2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
MAL DE MUCHOS: EPIDEMIA
A finales del verano de 1966, con mi flamante título de licenciado en el bolsillo, me hice cargo de una substitución por vacaciones en un consultorio del Seguro. El consultorio ocupaba un pequeño edificio destartalado entre dos enormes e innominadas naves industriales en la Avenida Icaria. Por entonces el Poble Nou de Barcelona, que ahora ocupa la Villa Olímpica, era un suburbio industrial polvoriento y dejado de la mano de Dios y de la de los concejales de urbanismo.
Al consultorio se accedía por una estrecha escalera que ocupaban los pacientes que hacían cola, que acababa en una puerta detrás de la cual se abría una única dependencia con una mesa y un par de sillas y una camilla por todo mobiliario. En una de las paredes mugrientas campeaba un letrero que decía “LA TENSIÓN SE TOMA LOS MIÉRCOLES”.
Al cabo de haber atendido unos cuantos pacientes, se presenta un amable anciano con aspecto de haber trabajado mucho y cobrado poco en su vida quien, tras saludar y con un mal contenido disimulo, depositó una moneda de un duro en un extremo de la mesa.
Yo miré la moneda, miré al anciano, miré a la enfermera que me auxiliaba. Volví a mirar a la moneda, al anciano y de nuevo a la enfermera que con un gesto rápido me indicó: “Cójala”. Y acercándose al abuelo anunció con voz clara y fuerte: “Venga que le voy a tomar la tensión”. Cuando terminó su lío de arremangar brazos, esfingomanómentro, fonendoscopio y palmaditas y el abuelo se había despedido y encaminaba la puerta, me dice en voz queda: “Es que hoy no es miércoles!”.
Acababa yo de descubrir el copago por atención sanitaria.
El copago es una fantasía que en realidad representa “re-pago”. La asistencia la pagamos entre todos. Con el copago obligamos a los que están enfermos a pagarla otra vez, encima.
No creo yo que el euro por visita vaya a superar en cutrez la aventura del duro y la tensión arterial, ni que vaya a resolver ni la financiación ni disuadir el uso multitudinario de los servicios asistenciales.
La salud no es gratis. Cuesta mucho dinero. La sanidad, la asistencia sanitaria buena, es cara. Como la carne en el mercado: la hay más barata, pero ya no es tan buena.
La revista “The Economist” dedicaba hace unos meses un extenso reportaje a la salud de las naciones, especial y naturalmente desde el prisma de la economía de la salud. Con unos titulares sugestivos como “Lección de anatomía”, “Enfermedades de desgaste”, “Tratamiento de los síntomas” o “Nuevas medicinas” se repasaban las dificultades que tienen los diferentes estados del mundo occidental y los diferentes sistemas sanitarios para afrontar los crecientes costos de la asistencia sanitaria. El reportaje en realidad resumia el informe de la OCDE del mes de mayo 2004 “Hacia unos sistemas sanitarios de alto rendimiento”. Que en muchos países se compruebe que la cosa no marcha no es un consuelo: es una epidemia
Una visión economicista de la salud o, si se quiere, de la asistencia sanitaria siempre será parcial y desenfocada. Aplicar la doctrina del mercado a la salud es un mal negocio. Entre otras cosas porque hacer de la salud un negocio es un mal rollo.
De lo que se trata es conseguir un mejor rendimiento, en términos de salud, del sistema sanitario. Si sólo miramos a reducir consumos o gastos, probablemente reduciremos también el producto final que es la salud de la gente. Para mejorar el rendimiento lo más probable es que haya que invertir más en salud, en asistencia sanitaria. Y por cierto, en España estamos a la cola de los 17 países de OCDE en inversión sanitaria. Tan mal que por detrás no nos queda ni Portugal.
Probablemente nuestro sistema ya ha cumplido su ciclo y necesita una reconducción profunda. Eso que los modernillos llaman “reengineering”, reconstrucción. No sólo es el modelo lo que falla con todas sus artificiosidades de niveles primarios, secundarios y terciarios asistenciales, fueras y dentros, propios y ajenos, privados y públicos, oficiales y alternativos, sino el sistema, sus principios, su idea y su financiación.
Si no saben como hacerlo que nos lo pregunten a los que lo hemos estudiado.
Al consultorio se accedía por una estrecha escalera que ocupaban los pacientes que hacían cola, que acababa en una puerta detrás de la cual se abría una única dependencia con una mesa y un par de sillas y una camilla por todo mobiliario. En una de las paredes mugrientas campeaba un letrero que decía “LA TENSIÓN SE TOMA LOS MIÉRCOLES”.
Al cabo de haber atendido unos cuantos pacientes, se presenta un amable anciano con aspecto de haber trabajado mucho y cobrado poco en su vida quien, tras saludar y con un mal contenido disimulo, depositó una moneda de un duro en un extremo de la mesa.
Yo miré la moneda, miré al anciano, miré a la enfermera que me auxiliaba. Volví a mirar a la moneda, al anciano y de nuevo a la enfermera que con un gesto rápido me indicó: “Cójala”. Y acercándose al abuelo anunció con voz clara y fuerte: “Venga que le voy a tomar la tensión”. Cuando terminó su lío de arremangar brazos, esfingomanómentro, fonendoscopio y palmaditas y el abuelo se había despedido y encaminaba la puerta, me dice en voz queda: “Es que hoy no es miércoles!”.
Acababa yo de descubrir el copago por atención sanitaria.
El copago es una fantasía que en realidad representa “re-pago”. La asistencia la pagamos entre todos. Con el copago obligamos a los que están enfermos a pagarla otra vez, encima.
No creo yo que el euro por visita vaya a superar en cutrez la aventura del duro y la tensión arterial, ni que vaya a resolver ni la financiación ni disuadir el uso multitudinario de los servicios asistenciales.
La salud no es gratis. Cuesta mucho dinero. La sanidad, la asistencia sanitaria buena, es cara. Como la carne en el mercado: la hay más barata, pero ya no es tan buena.
La revista “The Economist” dedicaba hace unos meses un extenso reportaje a la salud de las naciones, especial y naturalmente desde el prisma de la economía de la salud. Con unos titulares sugestivos como “Lección de anatomía”, “Enfermedades de desgaste”, “Tratamiento de los síntomas” o “Nuevas medicinas” se repasaban las dificultades que tienen los diferentes estados del mundo occidental y los diferentes sistemas sanitarios para afrontar los crecientes costos de la asistencia sanitaria. El reportaje en realidad resumia el informe de la OCDE del mes de mayo 2004 “Hacia unos sistemas sanitarios de alto rendimiento”. Que en muchos países se compruebe que la cosa no marcha no es un consuelo: es una epidemia
Una visión economicista de la salud o, si se quiere, de la asistencia sanitaria siempre será parcial y desenfocada. Aplicar la doctrina del mercado a la salud es un mal negocio. Entre otras cosas porque hacer de la salud un negocio es un mal rollo.
De lo que se trata es conseguir un mejor rendimiento, en términos de salud, del sistema sanitario. Si sólo miramos a reducir consumos o gastos, probablemente reduciremos también el producto final que es la salud de la gente. Para mejorar el rendimiento lo más probable es que haya que invertir más en salud, en asistencia sanitaria. Y por cierto, en España estamos a la cola de los 17 países de OCDE en inversión sanitaria. Tan mal que por detrás no nos queda ni Portugal.
Probablemente nuestro sistema ya ha cumplido su ciclo y necesita una reconducción profunda. Eso que los modernillos llaman “reengineering”, reconstrucción. No sólo es el modelo lo que falla con todas sus artificiosidades de niveles primarios, secundarios y terciarios asistenciales, fueras y dentros, propios y ajenos, privados y públicos, oficiales y alternativos, sino el sistema, sus principios, su idea y su financiación.
Si no saben como hacerlo que nos lo pregunten a los que lo hemos estudiado.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Death in Afghanistan
It’s all over the news. A helicopter of the Spanish Army went down near Herat and with it seventeen Spanish soldiers. They were recently arrived to the outpost, belonging to the 29th Airborne Regiment based in Pontevedra, in Galicia, that is Northwestern Spain.
(You would not mind if I turn to GI slang. Would you?. This way whenever the ECHELON watchdog hits this blog would have not much trouble translating…)
Tough shit for our guys. Still one wonders: what the hell were they doing in that god-forsaken piece of real state in the middle of nowhere. Sure, they are NATO forces in some ill conceived mission to defend fucking democracy no-one cares for in a land good only for goats, rag-heads and fucking terrorists, whichever is the order of preference.
Mind you, they were all volunteers. The Spanish army is now a full professional outfit, the draft way gone and forgotten. The armed services provide shitty jobs and poor pay, but there are plenty hogheads that wanna be a hero. A warrior life in the barracks is a bore, but warfare is a deadly shit anyone in his right mind should stay away from.
The brass and the “politicos” are now head over heels to justify the death toll.
Hypothesis 1: a fucking accident. Shit happens. Of all the casualties of he Spanish armed forces in foreign missions, 3 out of 4 have been accidents, traffic or airplane. The largest figure the 62 dead in a plane crash over Turkey back in 2003, on their way back home from Afghanistan in a Ukrainian operated Russian derelict aircraft. The old bureaucratic shit pushing to save on rentals.
Choppers go down. It’s the fucking gravity, you know: the only law to be respected. This taxi was a French built Cougar HT-21 UC, a school bus-size sleek thing with two turbo engines, that weights 10 tons and hauls 24 guys around up to 180 mph. Surely good to fly over la Cote d’Azur but that may doubtfully navigate the sandy Afghan air. Once sand gets into the propellers gear, the grinder clogs up and down you go.
Hypothesis 2: enemy action. This is a war zone, no shit. All households store an RPG-7 grenade rocket launcher, right over the mantle piece, don’t they? This is fucking Indian country, with warlords armed to their teeth and thousands of mother-fuckers ready to do you in just for kicks. They’ve been at war for some thirty years and collected military surplus from the Russians and CIA supplied American goodies like the FIM-02 Stinger surface-air rocket missiles.
You don’t need a helluva lot of training to shoot down a chopper. The RPG’s do it well. These are Russian invented and now cheaply manufactured anywhere contraptions meant to give good firepower to small units, platoon size. They come with up to seven different warheads, depending the use you’re gonna give’m. The most common one, the so called “offensive”, has a contact fuse, but also blows itself after flying half a mile (800 meters). When a chopper just flies overhead, you just have to shoot the thing in the general direction the chopper is flying. The rocket initially overtakes the chopper but after some 500 yards it starts slowing down and, by the time the chopper gets close to, it goes “boom!”. You may be a lousy shot, but if the pilot is not keen and watches for the fireworks he’ll do it for you.
Choppers are vulnerable things. The Cougar has some armor, but a few bits of shrapnel hitting the tail propeller may be enough to bring the thing down to mamma earth.
Either hypotheses won’t matter much to the poor 17 souls that got their bones splattered in the sands of Afghanis-fucking-tan.
It’s the history of the empires. To keep some outposts just in case the barbarians are coming, being those the Parts, Attila the Hun, the Tartars of the Golden Horde, the Zulu, the dervishes in Khartoum, the Sioux in Little Big Horn or the Red Army tank divisions over the Elbe. But is it there anyone that still believes we are going to find Bin Laden there?. Shadow boxing. For all I know he could just as well be in Marbella, basking by a pool, or in a cozy bungalow in Bermuda, or in the Watergate Apartments. Or admitted in the Mayo Clinic under any other name to care for his alleged renal failure.
In the meantime the soldiers will stand fast and watch for our fucking security… That’s the soldiers feat. I wonder if the Galician bag-pipers will play "Amazing grace" for them.
(You would not mind if I turn to GI slang. Would you?. This way whenever the ECHELON watchdog hits this blog would have not much trouble translating…)
Tough shit for our guys. Still one wonders: what the hell were they doing in that god-forsaken piece of real state in the middle of nowhere. Sure, they are NATO forces in some ill conceived mission to defend fucking democracy no-one cares for in a land good only for goats, rag-heads and fucking terrorists, whichever is the order of preference.
Mind you, they were all volunteers. The Spanish army is now a full professional outfit, the draft way gone and forgotten. The armed services provide shitty jobs and poor pay, but there are plenty hogheads that wanna be a hero. A warrior life in the barracks is a bore, but warfare is a deadly shit anyone in his right mind should stay away from.
The brass and the “politicos” are now head over heels to justify the death toll.
Hypothesis 1: a fucking accident. Shit happens. Of all the casualties of he Spanish armed forces in foreign missions, 3 out of 4 have been accidents, traffic or airplane. The largest figure the 62 dead in a plane crash over Turkey back in 2003, on their way back home from Afghanistan in a Ukrainian operated Russian derelict aircraft. The old bureaucratic shit pushing to save on rentals.
Choppers go down. It’s the fucking gravity, you know: the only law to be respected. This taxi was a French built Cougar HT-21 UC, a school bus-size sleek thing with two turbo engines, that weights 10 tons and hauls 24 guys around up to 180 mph. Surely good to fly over la Cote d’Azur but that may doubtfully navigate the sandy Afghan air. Once sand gets into the propellers gear, the grinder clogs up and down you go.
Hypothesis 2: enemy action. This is a war zone, no shit. All households store an RPG-7 grenade rocket launcher, right over the mantle piece, don’t they? This is fucking Indian country, with warlords armed to their teeth and thousands of mother-fuckers ready to do you in just for kicks. They’ve been at war for some thirty years and collected military surplus from the Russians and CIA supplied American goodies like the FIM-02 Stinger surface-air rocket missiles.
You don’t need a helluva lot of training to shoot down a chopper. The RPG’s do it well. These are Russian invented and now cheaply manufactured anywhere contraptions meant to give good firepower to small units, platoon size. They come with up to seven different warheads, depending the use you’re gonna give’m. The most common one, the so called “offensive”, has a contact fuse, but also blows itself after flying half a mile (800 meters). When a chopper just flies overhead, you just have to shoot the thing in the general direction the chopper is flying. The rocket initially overtakes the chopper but after some 500 yards it starts slowing down and, by the time the chopper gets close to, it goes “boom!”. You may be a lousy shot, but if the pilot is not keen and watches for the fireworks he’ll do it for you.
Choppers are vulnerable things. The Cougar has some armor, but a few bits of shrapnel hitting the tail propeller may be enough to bring the thing down to mamma earth.
Either hypotheses won’t matter much to the poor 17 souls that got their bones splattered in the sands of Afghanis-fucking-tan.
It’s the history of the empires. To keep some outposts just in case the barbarians are coming, being those the Parts, Attila the Hun, the Tartars of the Golden Horde, the Zulu, the dervishes in Khartoum, the Sioux in Little Big Horn or the Red Army tank divisions over the Elbe. But is it there anyone that still believes we are going to find Bin Laden there?. Shadow boxing. For all I know he could just as well be in Marbella, basking by a pool, or in a cozy bungalow in Bermuda, or in the Watergate Apartments. Or admitted in the Mayo Clinic under any other name to care for his alleged renal failure.
In the meantime the soldiers will stand fast and watch for our fucking security… That’s the soldiers feat. I wonder if the Galician bag-pipers will play "Amazing grace" for them.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
On blogs, web pages, forums, E-mail, Internet discussion lists and other ways to communicate.
I’ve been using e-mail and Internet lists for some ten years and had published a web page way back in 1995, and thoroughly enjoyed their uses and advantages, learning, knowing new people and refreshing old friendships.
Somewhere along the line I felt I should save all that correspondence. At least to avoid repeating myself or, occasionally to remember some ideas. There is a long tradition of epistolary literature, meant for just one reader, that could be of use, interest o plain curiosity to some other people.
From my point of view, the only value would be as a testimony of communication. But with the added bonus of the glory of friendship.
Bringing one’s views to a discussion list, when a discussion is going on, adds new view points and may liven it. But posting texts that all subscribers receive may be an imposition not necessarily welcome. Good for technical and professional intercourses.
Chats are too time consuming to me and I somewhat resent the undercover intimacy some of the chats (and the chatters) exhibit.
As I said before, personal web pages , unless the contents serve a professional purpose, tend to be a bit narcissistic exercises.
Blogs are good records. In Spanish are called “bitácoras”, a nautical term referring to the logs kept by ships’ commanders. The actual term should be “cuaderno de bitácora”, as cuaderno is a book to write on, to keep a log. The bitácora used to be a box or little closet close to the steering wheel or rod where the compass was kept. Eventually in the “bitácora” sailors kept other sailing instruments like the sextant and then, the “cuaderno de bitácora”, the log book of the trip. In Catalan language it may be written “bitàcola”, with an “l” and the accent open, although “bitàcora” is also correct.
Anyway there you have my blog, http://xallue.blogspot.com, and you are welcome to visit it.
X
Somewhere along the line I felt I should save all that correspondence. At least to avoid repeating myself or, occasionally to remember some ideas. There is a long tradition of epistolary literature, meant for just one reader, that could be of use, interest o plain curiosity to some other people.
From my point of view, the only value would be as a testimony of communication. But with the added bonus of the glory of friendship.
Bringing one’s views to a discussion list, when a discussion is going on, adds new view points and may liven it. But posting texts that all subscribers receive may be an imposition not necessarily welcome. Good for technical and professional intercourses.
Chats are too time consuming to me and I somewhat resent the undercover intimacy some of the chats (and the chatters) exhibit.
As I said before, personal web pages , unless the contents serve a professional purpose, tend to be a bit narcissistic exercises.
Blogs are good records. In Spanish are called “bitácoras”, a nautical term referring to the logs kept by ships’ commanders. The actual term should be “cuaderno de bitácora”, as cuaderno is a book to write on, to keep a log. The bitácora used to be a box or little closet close to the steering wheel or rod where the compass was kept. Eventually in the “bitácora” sailors kept other sailing instruments like the sextant and then, the “cuaderno de bitácora”, the log book of the trip. In Catalan language it may be written “bitàcola”, with an “l” and the accent open, although “bitàcora” is also correct.
Anyway there you have my blog, http://xallue.blogspot.com, and you are welcome to visit it.
X
Monday, August 15, 2005
La triste història de LC
Quan va arribar a les nostres mans tenia només que 9 dies de vida. La seva mare estava sola i tenia antecedents de dificultats en l’àmbit de la salut mental.
Havíem rebut un avis del servei d’emergències als vols de les 2 de la tarda avisant-nos de que havien rebut una trucada d’una dona que deia que “...no podia més.”, “...que tenia una criatura petita i que no podia amb ella...”.
Vam demanar al servei d’emergències que ens la portés. En arribar a l’hospital era evident que la dona no estava be, amb un quadre delirant, confusa i, també, espantada. Amb la història anterior be podia tractar-se d’un quadre associat a la depressió post-part en una persona amb antecedents de trastorns de la personalitat. L’infant, que no havia rebut aliment en sis hores per que la mare no li donava el pit, estava però bastant be. La mare ara volia marxar de l’hospital sense deixar clar on volia anar i que volia fer.
Com que era evident que la mare necessitava tractament i control i l’infant aliment i custòdia vam endegar els procediments normals de notificació a les autoritats i contenció.
Els membres de la seguretat de l’hospital es van personar a Urgències i, de moment, van controlar la situació.
Vaig trucar personalment per telèfon als Mossos d’Esquadra. Vaig explicar la situació tres cops, a tres persones diferents amb les que m’anaven passant. Finalment fart de tanta inoperància i passats més de 5 minuts vaig demanar pel caporal a crits. En van dir que esperés i seguidament em van penjar el telèfon. Premi per les forces de l’ordre catalanes.
Immediatament vaig trucar al 091, vaig explicar la situació una vegada i en menys de tres minuts una dotació de la Policia Nacional es va presentar al centre i van assumir el control des de fora de la situació. Professionals, seriosos, diligents i sensibles.
D’acord amb ells vaig trucar al Jutjat de Guàrdia. Faltaven 8 minuts per les 17.00 h i al telèfon del Jutjat de Guàrdia no contestava ningú. Els policies em van informar que aquella hora no hi havia ningú, per que marxaven a dinar...(sic!) Un minut després de les cinc vaig obtenir resposta. Un funcionari, en explicar-li la història em va dir que allò no pertocava al jutjat. Però insistint vaig aconseguir que es posés el secretari, que també se’n va treure les puces de sobre. Finalment, a la meva insistència es va posar al telèfon el magistrat.
El magistrat em va informar que si tenia un problema de custòdia que havia de trucar a la Fiscalia de menors, que “... ell no es preocupava només que en cas de que hi hagués un delicte.” En explicar que es requeria una ordre judicial per a l’ingrés de la dona que no volia anar en lloc ni volia separar-se del seu infant i que, per tant, existia una situació de desemparament de l’infant i un possible delicte d’abandonament, em va dir que truqués a la policia o al fiscal o a qui sigui ...Tot i que li vaig dir que tenia a la policia davant, es va desentendre del tema, dient que la policia ja sabia que havia de fer.
Una mica tip de sentir-me enviat de Pilats a Herodes o de Anàs a Caifàs, que no tinc ben clares les adscripcions, vaig concloure la conversa, tot anunciat que enviaria un “parte judicial” per fax, cosa que vaig fer tot d’una.
Ja cap a les 17.30 h. vam aconseguir que vingués a l’hospital el psiquiatre de guàrdia que va avaluar a la dona i es va mostrar d’acord amb les nostres apreciacions diagnostiques.
Sembla ser que, entremig, el fax i les trucades van fer algun efecte i finalment van presentar-se a l’hospital Mossos, fiscals, i que se jo qui més i es van prendre les decisions finals:
La mare al manicomi, l’infant a l’orfenat
Decisions pròpies del segle passat... vull dir del segle XIX.
Es possible que la dona rebi el seu tractament, però l’infant haurà perdut la seva oportunitat de continuar rebent alletament matern. I tot això per que l’atenció a la salut mental a les nostres contrades continua amb uns paràmetres antics, disfuncionals i lamentables.
Si l’hospital comptés amb un àrea d’hospitalització de contenció, mare i infant haguessin pogut seguir en contacte, igual que si la mare hagués tingut un problema mèdic qualsevol: uns punts infectats, una insuficiència renal postpart, un traumatisme qualsevol... però com que el seu problema és de la esfera mental es llençada a les tenebres exteriors...
Anys d’esforços de promoció de l’alletament matern, Hospital Amic del Nens certificat per la OMS/UNICEF, perduts per no ser capaços de normalitzar l’atenció psiquiàtrica com a tot Europa.
La medicació antidepressiva no contraindica l’alletament i, fins i tot, mantenir el contacte mare-infant es considera convenient i desitjable per la mare amb dificultats.
Si començat el segle XXI no reordenem els nostres recursos per donar resposta als problemes de salut sencers, corporals i mentals i, també, socials continuarem sent un país enrederit. Rics però tercermundistes.
Xavier Allué
Havíem rebut un avis del servei d’emergències als vols de les 2 de la tarda avisant-nos de que havien rebut una trucada d’una dona que deia que “...no podia més.”, “...que tenia una criatura petita i que no podia amb ella...”.
Vam demanar al servei d’emergències que ens la portés. En arribar a l’hospital era evident que la dona no estava be, amb un quadre delirant, confusa i, també, espantada. Amb la història anterior be podia tractar-se d’un quadre associat a la depressió post-part en una persona amb antecedents de trastorns de la personalitat. L’infant, que no havia rebut aliment en sis hores per que la mare no li donava el pit, estava però bastant be. La mare ara volia marxar de l’hospital sense deixar clar on volia anar i que volia fer.
Com que era evident que la mare necessitava tractament i control i l’infant aliment i custòdia vam endegar els procediments normals de notificació a les autoritats i contenció.
Els membres de la seguretat de l’hospital es van personar a Urgències i, de moment, van controlar la situació.
Vaig trucar personalment per telèfon als Mossos d’Esquadra. Vaig explicar la situació tres cops, a tres persones diferents amb les que m’anaven passant. Finalment fart de tanta inoperància i passats més de 5 minuts vaig demanar pel caporal a crits. En van dir que esperés i seguidament em van penjar el telèfon. Premi per les forces de l’ordre catalanes.
Immediatament vaig trucar al 091, vaig explicar la situació una vegada i en menys de tres minuts una dotació de la Policia Nacional es va presentar al centre i van assumir el control des de fora de la situació. Professionals, seriosos, diligents i sensibles.
D’acord amb ells vaig trucar al Jutjat de Guàrdia. Faltaven 8 minuts per les 17.00 h i al telèfon del Jutjat de Guàrdia no contestava ningú. Els policies em van informar que aquella hora no hi havia ningú, per que marxaven a dinar...(sic!) Un minut després de les cinc vaig obtenir resposta. Un funcionari, en explicar-li la història em va dir que allò no pertocava al jutjat. Però insistint vaig aconseguir que es posés el secretari, que també se’n va treure les puces de sobre. Finalment, a la meva insistència es va posar al telèfon el magistrat.
El magistrat em va informar que si tenia un problema de custòdia que havia de trucar a la Fiscalia de menors, que “... ell no es preocupava només que en cas de que hi hagués un delicte.” En explicar que es requeria una ordre judicial per a l’ingrés de la dona que no volia anar en lloc ni volia separar-se del seu infant i que, per tant, existia una situació de desemparament de l’infant i un possible delicte d’abandonament, em va dir que truqués a la policia o al fiscal o a qui sigui ...Tot i que li vaig dir que tenia a la policia davant, es va desentendre del tema, dient que la policia ja sabia que havia de fer.
Una mica tip de sentir-me enviat de Pilats a Herodes o de Anàs a Caifàs, que no tinc ben clares les adscripcions, vaig concloure la conversa, tot anunciat que enviaria un “parte judicial” per fax, cosa que vaig fer tot d’una.
Ja cap a les 17.30 h. vam aconseguir que vingués a l’hospital el psiquiatre de guàrdia que va avaluar a la dona i es va mostrar d’acord amb les nostres apreciacions diagnostiques.
Sembla ser que, entremig, el fax i les trucades van fer algun efecte i finalment van presentar-se a l’hospital Mossos, fiscals, i que se jo qui més i es van prendre les decisions finals:
La mare al manicomi, l’infant a l’orfenat
Decisions pròpies del segle passat... vull dir del segle XIX.
Es possible que la dona rebi el seu tractament, però l’infant haurà perdut la seva oportunitat de continuar rebent alletament matern. I tot això per que l’atenció a la salut mental a les nostres contrades continua amb uns paràmetres antics, disfuncionals i lamentables.
Si l’hospital comptés amb un àrea d’hospitalització de contenció, mare i infant haguessin pogut seguir en contacte, igual que si la mare hagués tingut un problema mèdic qualsevol: uns punts infectats, una insuficiència renal postpart, un traumatisme qualsevol... però com que el seu problema és de la esfera mental es llençada a les tenebres exteriors...
Anys d’esforços de promoció de l’alletament matern, Hospital Amic del Nens certificat per la OMS/UNICEF, perduts per no ser capaços de normalitzar l’atenció psiquiàtrica com a tot Europa.
La medicació antidepressiva no contraindica l’alletament i, fins i tot, mantenir el contacte mare-infant es considera convenient i desitjable per la mare amb dificultats.
Si començat el segle XXI no reordenem els nostres recursos per donar resposta als problemes de salut sencers, corporals i mentals i, també, socials continuarem sent un país enrederit. Rics però tercermundistes.
Xavier Allué
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Presentación
Esta bitácora empieza a funcionar justo 10 años después de que hiciese mi primera página web. Mi “paginilla” (URL: http://www.tinet.org/~xallue) ha permanecido “en obras” desde el primer día y sin modificación. Ni siquiera la incluí un contador de visitas, de manera que nunca supe si alguien la había visitado. Las páginas web personales suelen tener un cierto aire de narcisismo mal reprimido... ya veremos lo que da de si esta bitácora.
Esta bitácora, blog, o bitàcora (nótese el acento abierto) estará escrita indistintament en español, English o català, y por tanto está dedicada a españoles que hablen catalán, English speaking Catalans, americans o anglesos que parlin català, y las combinaciones derivadas, aunque se admiten comentarios en cualquier idioma... ya veremos si los traducimos o, simplemente no será necesario.
Por cierto, la hora es GMT +1
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