Witnessing the end of my family connections

My sister is a Jehovah's Witness. She got cajoled into it by her husband, who met her during a period of enlightenment when he had left the organisation. He was soon made to rejoin through the usual shunning techniques employed by members, where they take away your access to them even in an unofficial capacity, and put himself and his unsuspecting victims - I mean family - back under the Watchtower Organisation's malevolent influence. 

This all happened when I was a young boy, and I remember the day they came out to my mother. She was in floods of tears and whisked me away for consolation to my grandmother's house, where everyone present lamented the situation and realised there was little or nothing there could be done to change it. She is still a Witness (i.e. Watchtower employee) today, and the shenanigans I have seen, and the excuses I have had to put up with are enough to prove that their organisation is nothing more than an evil and manipulative publishing company, where all the "congregation" are in fact unpaid employees who are peddling their employers' wares to the easily-led, the ignorant and the lonely. Not to mention the stupid.

There is something in psychology called cognitive dissonance, where a person makes a choice and if afterwards all evidence disproves it, they will still stick by their choice and defend it most vehemently. The most embarrassing part about this is in the real world ordinary deluded people caught up in a lie that they still believe often resort to physical or verbal abuse, but Witnesses don't believe in violence, so they either disengage from the conversation or they change the subject. In other words, they're a bunch of easily-duped, easy-to-please, confused and disoriented pussy cats who are looking for an easy explanation for complicated matters like geology or biology.

There are no single-sentence explanations, which is why they require research and academic papers that can look a little tricky to read, but are not telling you an absolute lie handily packaged in neat little bundles of simple words. Read any Watchtower publication and it is so neatly expressed, so tidily packaged, that anyone of low academic ability or low self-esteem will immediately be hooked. It sums everything up so well, and all answered so satisfyingly easily.

What experiences can I bring up that I can talk about? Well - there are many, but here are some of the highlights:

1. Luring me into an engaging debate

One of the ways I have been "preached" to is by the systematic turn-taking of my sister, her husband and two daughters to engage me in conversation on a subject that I would find interesting, and then make a segue into something pseudo-religious before attempting to link that to their organisation. I can remember 6 times when this happened - two by the brother-in-law, two by my sister, and two by the daughters.

There may have been more, but I don't tend to remember all conversations of a low-to-mediocre standard. The idea of engaging in this way is to then lead into something that may make one sit up and think (if one did not do much thinking beforehand). It generally made me think, yes, but mainly "if they have answers to everything, why haven't these people done much research?"

For example, they knew I was into science, so they came up with the idea to "teach" me about why Jewish males are circumcised on the ninth day. Apparently, doctors have discovered, that day is when there is the least blood in that area of the boy's body and therefore "God" made it like that to aid in the process. This is, of course, without bothering to mention that it is practically the same for the first couple of weeks of any boy's life, not just the ninth day.

I was routinely bombarded with "interesting" anecdotes like this, in the hope one would make me shriek "of course!" and join them forthwith. Most of them made me chuckle inside as I waited eagerly for the next beauty to be paraded before me. I remained respectful, because she was still my sister, and my elder sister at that, but deep inside, I could see she had done her research on me (that I liked trivia and interesting bits of information especially on history, science and language) and was aiming her artillery at me and what she thought was my weak spot. What she didn't know was that her weapon of choice was never ever going to be adequate to penetrate my defences, which are not actually that strong, as I am always open for persuasion. I am just not the typical dopey idealist that falls for the first simplistic explanation.

2. Let's show 'em how cool and ultra-modern we are!

Then there was the time I was given a rundown on how fab their meetings are. This was supposed to tell me they were just "normal" people like everyone else. Well after listening to the kind of twee things they got up to, accompanied by the occasional chuckle at their really wild stories of singing karaoke and walking in the woods, I really felt like running in the other direction. If they weren't going for the hard sell, I may have gone along to one or two events, but this was far too badly dressed up. They apparently had a party back in the nineties when the Macarena was all the rage, but they couldn't sing that word because it was taboo to them, so they sang "Margarita" instead. Because you know, an alcoholic cocktail containing tequila and triple sec is far better to sing about than a Spanish girl's name taken from a Catholic saint, lest it enrage their "God". Wild times.

What annoys me most about these moments of acting up-to-date is their utter contradiction in other areas. So they dance to contemporary songs, albeit with the words changed. So they talk about fashion and celebrities. Big deal. I have also been told about illnesses and cures, or the latest in dietary science from the most qualified of medics and academics. But they deny climate change, they deny geological evidence of the age of our planet and they deny a host of other scientific facts. Why is one OK to believe and the other not? Shouldn't you then just deny them all? Why are dietitians and oncologists to be believed, but astronomers and biologists not? Are they all lying to us? Are 98% of all climatologists in on some sick joke? I don't think so, but try telling them that.

3. The time I was accosted with a suit and a restaurant dinner

At no other time in my life did I feel quite so insulted as the day my brother-in-law thought it was a good idea to come all the way to Germany by car, with my sister and my father, to spend a couple of days being nice to me, and then dressing up in a suit and buying me dinner in order to break down my resistance before spinning me a yarn about how there were two Titanics and it was all an insurance setup, which bafflingly led into some discussion on God and stuff that I don't remember much about. I was receiving the Hard Sell, to which my reply was to look disdainfully at him and shake my head. He paid for the dinner and looked resigned to his fate, that he was never going to bring me on board. Until Stephen Hawking, David Attenborough and Brian Cox all declare the JWs to be right, I will still get my news on our planet from them and not from a bland group of gullible individuals who have never seen the inside of a lecture hall.

4. The great shunning tactic

One of the most despicable aspects of life as a Jaydub is their treatment of those that leave the congregation. They think it's all right to ignore them, reject them, forget about them, pretend they never existed. This has a traumatic effect on many, both those who are sunned and those forced to shun someone who used to be close. It is effectively a permanent exercise in mourning for those involved, but is a great way to prove loyalty from those who remain and to demand loyalty from those who leave. Basically, how it works is, a JW will only engage in conversation with outsiders when they either need something or if they think there's a hope they can persuade you to join.

If you don't join, you are seen as a lost cause and therefore a dangerous influence on people, so you are kept at arm's length. (I have received this treatment from my sister's family for quite a while now. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times she has called me since I left the UK in 2001. I have called many times more, but I do it a lot less these days.) If you leave their organisation, however, you are seen as an apostate. This means you have everything cut off - your friends and family, possibly your accommodation, and anything else they can remove from your life.

It's basically cold shouldering on an institutionalised, systematic and unchristian level. What effect does this have? It makes you miss the warmth and kindness you experienced while basking in the glow of their fellowship. As soon as you leave, it's suddenly very cold outside. Many return even if they don't believe, just not to lose the things they hold in importance; others leave never to return because freedom of mind is more important to them than imprisonment of the soul, no matter who they left behind.

5. Cherry-picking factoids

"How dare you have a degree? How could you defy your Lord by believing in scientifically proven fact?! Don't you know this is untrue?!"

I remember the Dinner of Intellectual Insult mentioned above, and my brother-in-law sighing in utter frustration and almost contempt after we told him we believed in Evolution. "Oh no, you're not Darwinists, are you?!" I mean it was said with the same vitriol as if I had just told him I had slept with his entire family.
"Well yes, I bloody well am", I replied.
To which the response was, "But you know it's called the Theory of Evolution for a reason? It's only a theory."
And then I sadly needed to mansplain what an academic theory was - in the academic world, it is based on evidence and even proof, although it is called a theory just so as not to seem too pompous or presumptuous. At least that was my abridged version.

You will find this hilarious:

The NWT translation committee is anonymous. No names have been attributed to them. Except the head translator, Frederick Franz, who studied Greek for 2 years (TWO MEASLY YEARS!!!) and was SELF-TAUGHT IN HEBREW!!!!! My own acquisition of languages over 30 years tells me that 2 years, the equivalent of 240 academic hours of study, is not enough to be able to hold down a job in the language you’ve been learning, so to translate the Bible is really quite a tall order. 

It is claimed the other three people on the translation committee were not even as far along with their own language studies as our dear Mr Franz. That is the equivalent of a bunch of students in a houseshare, newly out of the parental home, trying to rewire the electrics and fix up the plumbing with the aid of a few written instructions on the back of a cigarette packet from one of their dads!

6. Patriarchal dominance and obedience

This is one of the most manipulative points of being a Witness - having total control over your family and congregation as a man. When I confronted my brother-in-law at That Dinner about this, as to why women were not allowed to be leaders, his astonishing replies were firstly "because every month women experience their periods, which throws their hormones off-balance and makes them subject to irrational decisions," which brought on a bout of indignation followed by mirth from me and Lady Kirsten. I countered this with the fact that females were often better leaders and academically more capable than males. His riposte was one of the most ignorant I have ever come across: "What about Margaret Thatcher? She was awful." He simply forgot Pol Pot, Mugabe, Stalin, Jaruzelski, Attila the Hun, and Uncle Adolf himself.

After having regained composure, I was still unable to respond adequately due to being rendered speechless.

In any case, patriarchal dominance suits the Watchtower organisation most perfectly as it allows them pretty much to ride roughshod over anyone and everyone that stands in their way. There have been incidents where the man has joined the organisation but the rest of the family hasn't, and in order to assume control over the household, he denies money to the rest until they join him. This is an organisation not so far from being a mafia-like enterprise where leaving is virtually impossible for wives and children. I have heard of teenage daughters who have left the organisation and the rest of the family have all but cut her off, down to not buying clothes, giving her lifts to the station in the rain, or even cooking dinner for them.

Patriarchal dominance is different to that in the established churches in that the Catholic Church denies women the right to be priests out of symbolism, and takes away women's rights to choose a termination or contraception out of dogmatic ideology (which is also wrong), but the Watchtower has rules for women that beggar belief, like wearing headscarves when carrying out gender-based stereotypical tasks in the absence of a male to do them, or denying them decision rights in the household (they are only to be consulted).

Yes, all religions were once like this, but many have gone with the times. The Watchtower is still way behind the rest.

7. Keeping the flock ignorant

A truly abominable tactic of the Watchtower is to frown upon those who go to university, on the grounds that they will become corrupted and partake in some form of sinfulness of the secular world. In other words, they might better themselves, realise what a bunch of jerks they all had been until they woke up, and never to return to the fold. Nor would I if I had been finally enlightened in the real truth.

Mentioning the truth, that's the codeword those people use to describe their organisation. They say "are you in the truth?" meaning "are you a Witness?" without realising the irony behind that. This article has not really done more than touched on their beliefs yet, because there is so much other stuff going on away from that, but the fact of the matter remains: the less academically gifted, the better. Why? Because critical thinking is easier to manipulate if you start from scratch. It's a bit like tank drivers in the British Army - they choose 17-year-olds to drive them because they haven't yet learned to drive an ordinary car, and can be trained only for tank-driving operations. And so the Witnesses prey on those who left school at 16 or 18, because they do not have the superior academic tools necessary to make fools out of Witnesses.

One of the most hilarious moments when I was growing up, was when my sister claimed that a JW could quote the Bible better than anyone else, giving the example of an outing to a book and stationery shop: she said a JW boy was listening to a conversation between two non-practising members of the general public and their argument over Bible teaching. apparently the boy stepped in and guided them to the correct passage. She then said all JW children are better at quoting the Bible than everyone else. Well then... that should be handy at the next G20...

I was sent a Watchtower brochure back in 2013 by another family member of mine who was flirting with joining (he has sadly since joined). It was basically some guff about "were we created and put here?" In other words, what is the evidence for Noah's flood and that we have only been on Earth for 6000 years? Lady Kirsten and I read some paragraphs in this very colourful, clearly-explained and well-illustrated booklet, having spontaneous bouts of hysterical laughter as we read out loud some of the passages contained in it. I won't elaborate, because I don't want to waste my time, and giving detail will add credence to their barmy beliefs, but what I can say is that I wrote a 54-page reply on MS Word in size 11 Calibri font as to why that piece of "literature" (his word, not mine!) was utter nonsense. I don't know if he read it, but I never heard from him on this subject again.

He was "captured" in typical JW style - a close family member had just died, and in his vulnerable state, he was starting to ask questions as to where we came from and what we were doing here. My brother-in-law was there just in time to answer him, which brings me to...

8. (Not) being there in times of need

One of the tactics employed by JWs, which fits neatly into their strategy of only speaking to people who are, or could eventually be Witnesses, is their uncanny knack of being in the right place at the right time, and then somehow hoping you'll agree that they have some dominance over you through your debt to them. This can range from simply picking you up from the airport/station when you are rushing back to see a dying family member, to taking you to the doctor. There are even larger cases of altruism I have heard of and been subject to, for which I thank them, but this does not mean I want to join them and I would hope they would expect the same in return from me, although not as a Jehovah's Witness, but as a member of the human race. Only doing favours for, or being charitable to those in their organisation or who are potential new recruits, does not correspond very favourably with the teachings of their Lord and Saviour.

9. Pity me and my people

Another super ruse to make people more sympathetic to them is to play the hard-done-by card. They tell you people vilify them, that they mock them and reject them time after time. You start feeling sorry for them. You start gaining a modicum of empathy and before you know it, you're in a conversation about how good they all are and how they are so badly misunderstood. Well quite. It's not that they are misunderstood, it is that people understand them all too well. Don't be fooled by this.

On this matter, the one thing I have noticed is that they all speak in the same zombified tone. There is not much intonation in their voices - someone said to me this is because once you're in, you have the high waves of happiness dragged out of you although you don't feel sad about it. People are just in a state of emotional mediocrity.

10. Salvation and the End Times

This is their calling card. They believe that God has chosen exactly 144,000 people to join Him in His Kingdom at the Apocalypse. They reject Catholic doctrine as being immersed in symbolism and Paganism (fair enough, it is) and so they don't believe in Christmas, the Trinity or sainthood. So far, so good. So why, then, in the list of all the members they consider will be saved, are they all Witnesses, and why are nearly all of them men? Surely having such a list of people considered worthy to enter Heaven is akin to the Catholic custom of canonisation or sainthood, anathema to their own doctrine. Surely, they should believe what it says in the Bible: that only the Maker can decide who enters the Kingdom of Heaven.

If you believe in that kind of thing, anyhow...

11. Wacky ideas need clever methods to introduce them

Their teachings and beliefs are so different from other Christian organisations that many of their doctrines are so unpalatable that they only make new members aware of them after certain hurdles have been crossed. It is a case of acceptance - if the new recruit does not seem ready to embrace a new idea or rule, it is not mentioned to them until they are mentally prepared. 

If a religious organisation feels it needs to open up its views and teachings slowly, so as not to alarm new members, and if it needs to go out looking for new members because not a lot of people go to it of their own accord, and if there are potentially only 19 million members worldwide (the population of North Korea is 6 million bigger), then there must be something very worrying, very wrong and very creepy about it. Surely, if it were the panacea of the world’s ills, the doors of Kingdom Halls would be being thumped on by wannabe recruits day and night. But they're not. And they’re not, because like double glazing salesmen and dodgy cold callers, who use similar techniques to sell their product, most people know a bad deal when they see one.

12. Sheeple will believe anything and do anything for you

How does a Witness stay a member of the congregation despite all the evidence against them? By being told that everyone else is evil. Simple. Scientists carry out inhumane experiments, teachers may give lessons on inappropriate subjects (like astronomy and geology) and the secular people in general, with their Instagram and Game of Thrones, are all immoral. The easiest people to con into believing and subscribing to their nefarious activities are those who see the glass half-empty. They can be told the world is becoming immoral and its people are all evil. The truth of the matter is the world has always been that way. 

J.K. Rowling sums it up best when she says: "It is perfectly possible to live a very moral life without a belief in God, and I think it's perfectly possible to live a life peppered with ill-doing and believe in God." This was what my late mother used to say, although in different words to Ms Rowling, and it is what I believe too. There is no religion that can claim a monopoly on goodness and anyone who believes they are the chosen people or the only show in town with righteousness on their side needs to get a dose of reality. 

So if a whole group of people are told not to believe anything they see or read that does not come from a Watchtower-accredited source, due to it being evil, how are they supposed to believe anything at all from the real world? So they are cut off from things that affect us all. How convenient. Apparently, the BBC's Lyse Doucet and Jeremy Vine are tools of the devil... yes, I always had my suspicions about them, reporting from war zones without ever getting blown up themselves... makes sense now...

Furthermore, if you are told not to trust anyone from outside of the organisation, because they may be evil, you can feed your flock all kinds of bogus information. You can then interpret the Bible in your own way to suit your needs. Why on Earth would you ban your congregation from life-saving blood transfusions? I'll tell you why - because if you are the prize idiot who does refuse a  blood transfusion, you will be considered a hero for dying for the cause and you will be held up as proof of faith. If you don't and you accept, you will be rejected by the people you have been close to for however long you have been a member. Some would rather die a hero than live as an outcast, I can imagine.

There are other things they use to test their flock (or unpaid employees) and their loyalty. They are expected to knock on strangers' doors on a regular basis to recruit new members. This is where the boundaries of reality really get blurred - are they employees working for the company, or are they faithful servants of their deity? You see, the Watchtower company does a lot of publishing of books, brochures and pamphlets. It all costs money, and the upkeep of their upstate New York HQ must cost a pretty packet (the old one in Brooklyn was recently bought by Jared Kushner, of all people). So what better way to earn oodles of money than sell your merchandise to a captive audience? And while they're at it, get them to go out and find more recruits for you... all this for free, and they'll even pay you a tithe (10% of their earnings) to keep you going. How sweet.

In other words...

You have to be either an alpha male-type who is in it just for the power, or you enjoy being the submissive one in a very one-sided relationship, or you have to be one exclamation mark short of a psychopath for joining them in the first place.

I have hardly touched their core beliefs, which can lead to a fiery after-life of pain and misery, but I have so little respect for their idea that their Creator will punish everyone who ever lived except 144,000, that I will gladly take the chance at the end to be proven wrong - but I don't think I will, quite frankly.

Any God that makes up such harsh and inhuman rules leading to brutal retribution if disobeyed sounds more like Erdoğan, or Orbán, even Trump; some narcissistic, vengeful and paranoid Creator who is so mentally and emotionally insecure without the unconditional love and worship from his underlings that he wants to chuck them all in the fires of Hell. Except for the 144,000 on the list. And this, despite preaching a message of love. I think there's a disconnect somewhere...

So I have kind of said goodbye to my family. I still stay in contact with other non-Witnesses, but my siblings have unfortunately made their bed, so they can lie in it. I have not stepped in the family home since my mother died in 2007 - I want to remember it the way it was. I hope one day they wake up and see they have wasted their lives, but I don't think they will.

A Goslitski family centenary of immigration

This week is the anniversary of a momentous occasion, although it will go almost unnoticed. And that is probably the most fitting way to spend it. On 22nd December 1915, my grandfather planted his tree in the British orchard, paving the way for the fledgling Goslitski family to thrive. It is the beginning of a very successful immigration story.

Above is the registration certificate of my grandfather, Eugene Alexander Goslitski, a Russian national of Polish descent, who came on his own looking for a better life. I have done some research into his background and reasons for leaving, and there is not much to go on, but we should look at the facts: Poland had not existed since 1795, and its lands had been divided up by Prussia, Russia and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. My grandfather was a Russian simply because of where he was born. Poles in Russia were treated as outsiders and were not full citizens. Many of them were deported to Siberian camps for katorga, that is exile and hard labour in underpopulated areas where nobody else was available. Several people with my family name were registered in those camps, although it is still not easy to identify their connection to us.

Whoever they were, my family name is quite unique and if you have that name you can only be from that family. The internet has become a sort of calling card for me. Many times, when I don't have a business card on me, I just tell people to Google me, because I'm so easy to find. This is both a blessing and a burden. For that reason, anyone with our name mast be related to us. We are like Grimaldi, Habsburg or Rothschild, although much less illustrious. I say this because our family name is aristocratic and my grandfather spoke about it now and again. He would often tell his daughters that back in the home land they were princesses. This was an elaboration - countesses would have been closer to the mark, despite their stark diminution under occupation, where all Polish aristocrats underwent screening for Russian ancestry, and those without were removed from their titles. 

It is quite likely that my grandfather left because he had no life, no opportunities and very little to keep him there. He joined the Merchant Navy and sailed around the world before settling in London, where he arrived in the middle of the First World War. This was quite remarkable, because with the war in full operation, every man was needed on the battlefield or on the sea. But come he did, and he died in the Brook Hospital in Greenwich on 22nd November 1960. 

During his life, he was a marine engineer, and he worked on the other side of the River Thames from his home in Bermondsey, less than a three-iron shot from Tower Bridge and the City of London. For that reason, he made a great deal of effort for the cause during the Second World War, and was involved in the D-Day landings. My father told me he left for several weeks around that time and when he returned he was covered from head to toe in soot. He had been jumping from ship to ship maintaining and repairing the boats to get them to the other side. He slept for a very long time when he returned home.

He is one of many who were never granted full British citizenship, mainly, probably, due to that one word: "Russian". Britain and Russia were never the best of friends once the Tsar fell, despite being the first country in the world to officially recognise the Soviet Union. But without bilateral treaties, even with countries in the direct neighbourhood, every foreigner had to fulfil a certain duty to remain in the UK. My grandfather had to leave the country for 24 hours every year, and reapply for entry upon return. He didn't go to another country - he took the opportunity to go into the Thames Estuary on one of his friends' boats and get slammed for a couple of days.

And here is the main point: my grandfather, along with hundreds of thousands of deracinated people, have found new homes in their destination countries. The vast majority of immigrants and their children have contributed to society in ways that are often under-appreciated by people. Lots of them have become famous names (Sigmund Freud, Sir Alec Issigonis, Zaha Hadid, Anish Kapoor), and some have even risen to lead their country (Nicolas Sarkozy, Benjamin Disraeli). Immigration is good for any country - being a popular destination for immigrants is the best endorsement any country can have. It is a sign that newcomers can fit in, that the local population there is not bothered by change and people are considered people, no matter their origins. My grandfather, a larger-than-life character, was known locally as the Duke of Bermondsey. He made the most of his adopted country, and said it was the greatest nation on Earth. Immodestly, I cannot disagree with him. 

My grandfather left his home to seek new climes. He was an international man in a local setting. He had bigger ambitions for himself and he set off to better himself. If he had stayed there in Poland, he would have experienced two World Wars, numerous invasions and would have been witness to the horrors of the Holocaust and the next Soviet occupation, leading to the People's Republic of Poland. Instead, he took the chance to find a place he and his future family could thrive.

Immigrants have one thing in common: their entrepreneurial spirit. They know how to get on in life wherever they go. They will never be the same again once they do, because once you leave, you can go back, but you can never go back home. You are seen as a foreigner in both places. But in general, there is no reason why being a foreigner should make you a stranger. And the fact of the matter remains, the children of those immigrants will most surely never be seen as foreigners. In a country like the United Kingdom, we don't really talk about foreigners, only when referring to those who have still stubbornly kept up their stereotypical façades. It is very wrong to say that people should speak the local language at home or adopt every local custom. That is too much to ask, and is totally unfair. They should keep their own home fires burning - I do. I mean the ones that refuse to do any integration at all. The ones that have little or no desire to accept local customs, who never take part in local events, who do not learn the language and who keep unswervingly to their own traditions. 

As I said, being popular with immigrants is a good thing for any country, as it means the conditions are right. In the current crisis sweeping Europe, it is no wonder that so many of those refugees want to go to countries known for their tolerant attitudes to newcomers. If I were one of them right now, there are countries in Europe I would really not want to settle in. I wish some of the cynics would stop peddling the "benefits" myth. Of course I'd want good conditions for my family if I were an immigrant or refugee. Why would I say to my family, "lets go to Poldakia or Molvenia because if we can avoid being beaten by the police and rejected by the authorities, we stand a chance of getting our own room above an abattoir"? I would not. I would want to go to a country that made me feel welcome. The fact they provide me with food, money and shelter is another sign that they want me not to have to struggle with poverty upon my arrival. How horrible would it be if people arriving from war-torn countries were made to fend for themselves from day one? It would say more about us than about them, that's for sure.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of spending some time with some of the younger Syrian refugees in Saarburg at an art session at the cultural centre. They were making clay winter- or Christmas-themed figurines. I really liked their imagination. Below are some of their works. All of them, despite their torturous recent experiences, had made it to a place of safety and were adapting quite well to local life. Some were already speaking reasonable German. They all seemed well-adjusted and acted very maturely. I have a deep respect for anyone who undergoes such a harrowing journey to look for calm in their lives. Some of them will one day go back to rebuild their country, but many will stay, and having met some of them, I can safely say they will be a credit to their new society. My grandfather's life was not half as bad as theirs was back in Syria, which is why to deny them the chance of a new life and happiness is to betray everything my grandfather ever did.

Here's to another hundred years of migration!

A final goodbye to my dear mum

Sorry I haven't written much for quite a while until this week. I am afraid my dear mother passed away at the beginning of the month. She had been suffering for quite a while so it came as a relief when we knew she was finally at peace. However nothing can prepare you for the time it happens. It's a strange sensation and makes you feel lonelier than you would normally be. The one thing I can be glad about is that we had a strong relationship before she faded away.

I have received several requests for the eulogy I wrote to read at her funeral. For quickness and ease I thought I would publish a large part of it here rather than post copies off. My mum was such a robust woman but she had a chocolate heart and I wanted those who attended her final journey to hear of my pride at being her son:

There’s a difference between a mother and a mum.
A mother is someone who makes you look tidy and scrapes the food off your face before school. But a mum makes sure that when you come back, the house is heated, the dinner is on and the greeting is cheerful and sincere.

There’s a difference between an aunt and an auntie.
An aunt will stop to have a chat with you on the street when you haven’t met for a while. An auntie will drive you home safely afterwards and wait for one of your parents to arrive.

There’s a difference between a grandmother and a nan.
A grandmother looks after you while your parents are still at work. A nan feeds you, provides you with toys and games, and clears up when you’ve gone. Day after day, for several years.

There’s a difference between a friend and a mate.
A friend will lend you money. A mate won’t cash the cheque when you return it.

And my mum was all of these and more. She loved to have company. From embarrassing us by striking up a conversation with diners at a restaurant on another table close by, to keeping the pools collector occupied on the front step, to peering out of the front window at the slightest noise to see if someone was coming to visit, she was in her element when she was with people, whether one person or a crowd.

She had the most cunning advice too, if you listened carefully enough. The greatest piece of advice anyone ever gave to me was when looking for employment, never start at the bottom and await promotion, but start at the top and work down until someone takes you. I took this to heart too, and although I spent over a year out of work, it ended with my dream job and I wouldn’t be there without her.

I think my mum would have made a great diplomat. The perpetual big occasion dinners inevitably brought out the worst in us, and the arguments over a certain vegetable are legendary. And although there would be enough potatoes to feed a platoon, goodness knows how the oven coped, we never failed to squabble. But mum found a solution – she gave me a smaller plate but piled up all my potatoes under the other veg. That negated any complaints from others. So sorry to my brother John, but I truly did have more potatoes on my plate than you!

But underlying all this was a vulnerability that only surfaced in private moments. She was in great pain a lot of the time with her back or her legs. She cursed her pain but she never complained or sought sympathy. She also felt quite alone, especially in her later years as her neighbours slowly moved away and those that remained or moved in barely trod upon the driveway. Company was the only thing which drove her aches and pains away – they were the remedy, but unfortunately company didn’t always visit her. And nobody filled the space her own mother vacated.

There is a difference between a task and a duty.
A task is clearing up the mess left behind. A duty is clearing up the mess left behind a dying brother-in-law. For nearly a decade. A task is bringing home the coal to put on the fire. A duty is where you do it when you’re not yet ten years old.

Born in 1937, her earliest memories would likely have been the disturbing sights and terrifying sounds of the Second World War. From a very young age, she was brought up by her grandmother in a family where her mother and aunt were more like sisters. Surrounded by this strong matriarchal circle, she received strong lessons in responsibility and obligation.
Living in wartime and post-war Britain was arduous enough for an adult, but for a child it must have been daunting, grim and unimaginably harsh. So for my mum any hope of a normal childhood was cancelled. Happier times occurred later in life and sisterhood with her mother confirmed when she and my dad got together. A mother and daughter marrying two brothers. It’s a complicated story and I’ll tell you after if you’ve got a spare hour.
With such a youth, duty was instinct.

Once again, there’s a difference between a mother and a mum.
A mother reads you a story. But a mum teaches you to read the story for yourself. And a mum gets you the right material to suit your interests. And a mum harvests and nurtures those interests and seeks advice from teachers. And a mum sends you to the right school. And a mum goes mad when you say you’re not going to college, you’re going to get a job in McDonald’s. And a mum packs you off to university with a cupboardful of food. And a mum tells you to go out into the wilderness and do your own thing even if she’ll be lonelier without you. And a mum will call you once a week to see how you’re doing. And a mum will get you out of hole after hole, time and time again.

And through all this, a mum gets taken for granted. Is criticised for silly meaningless things. Is nagged at when she’s forgotten something. Is brushed off with a post-teenage grunt or even ignored when all she wants is a chat. Takes every trivial complaint on the chin until she’s so frustrated and annoyed that she finally gets her coat and goes out for a drive. Looking back now I wish she had stuck up for herself more and set us more often in our place. But that was mum. She tried to prove herself through what she did rather than through what she could ever have said. She owned the motto that "actions speak louder than words".

And finally, a mum is someone who deserves our most heartfelt, sincerest, if well and truly belated, thanks for all she did for us without so much as a prompt for thanks. An empty dinner plate, a smile, a sigh of relief, were all the thanks she required.

May she rest in deserved peace.

How life changes...

Did you know I used to cut grass to earn some extra pocket money? Not when I was a teenager, but after university, even after my first full-time job at a pharmeceutical research company. I was unemployed for over a year and fed up with sitting at home. It was not for the want of trying either. I sent 40 application letters and received two reject letters. The rest couldn't be bothered. I realise now I had taken the wrong course of action: in our Brave New World we have to rely on ourselves, not on the grace of others. When I finally did get a break, I really enjoyed my job, working on a multilingual helpdesk where I met some of my most long-standing friends.

Relying on myself became a principle I have tried so hard to enforce in my everyday life, but it is often difficult to avoid the help of friends and colleagues. Upon moving up the ladder to the City, where I worked in a foreign bank, I realised I was not going in the right direction. I was hired as a multilingual internet banking interface (or something like that) but I spoke only English at work and when I actually did my multilingual interface role, it was for only five minutes of the day, and even then the client insisted on trying out his/her English. So I contacted the human resources department, told them I was unhappy with my position and I wanted a transfer, and went on holiday. Upon my return, the papers were ready to sign. An effective way to conjure up your own dismissal.

I had by then learned from my awful mistakes the first time round and had saved up a little nestegg, which I used to get something more fitting. Speaking several languages and only speaking your own in your job can be a mighty cold shower when you spent years learning them. I found myself in Prague over New Year 2001, listening to a jazz band and drinking glühwein in the Old Town Square, when my phone rang. It was the head of unit for an official European organisation involved in the control of air traffic, seeking a multilingual contact point for central and eastern Europe. The wages were astronomical, almost unrealistic, and the working hours so unlike anything forced upon you in workaholic London.

I accepted there and then on the phone in Prague, oh and by the way, could I start in 11 days? Naturally! And that's how I ended up in Belgium. I ended up in Leuven, not Brussels, through an old university friend from the Netherlands, who had settled here with his Spanish wife. In 1999 I had taken an EU Institutions exam in Brussels and had followed them back to Leuven for dinner after the gruelling 6-hour tests. I really liked the place from first view and vowed to live here in the future if I ever got a job which permitted me to do so. The European organisation was on the Leuven-Brussels railway line, and without hesitation I arrived, on a rainy 14th January 2001 at the hotel opposite the station while I sorted out an apartment.

It doesn't end there... This was 2001, the year of The Event in the aircraft industry and so when the panic set in, changes were made and excuses were found to shove the newcomers out onto the streets. I had a lot of adjusting to do: going from earning in 4 days what most earned in a month to not earning anything at all meant I needed to move out of my marble-floored, two-bathroomed semi-penthouse with balcony overlooking the historic centre into a clumsy duplex two-roomed shoebox on a thoroughfare opposite the prison, next to a hotel, a hospital, a bordello, and round the corner from a school. Needless to say I was kept awake by the delivery vans, buses, patients, schoolkids, police escorts, ambulances and visitors to the ladies of the night (whom I never saw, of course).

I started to panic when I was down to my last 300 euro and the rent needed paying, so I went back to what I know best - language training. I love it. There's nothing nicer than giving people who are interested the benefit of your knowledge. It all began as a sort of cottage industry: in Belgium, due to the high number of people requiring language skills, most trainers are independent, not employees. Language training is also VAT-free, unlike translation, which while more profitable, is also a damn sight more boring. Relying on myself seemed surely the right way to go after being let down by so many others. I got my break through Marc Smekens, a jolly, charismatic and hard-working self-made Christian rock singer with his own language training company. Originally giving lessons for his outfit, I gradually picked up my own speed until I ended up on the 22nd floor of the second highest tower in Brussels, that of Belgacom, Belgium's monopolistic telecommunications company.

I didn't think it would all explode in my face, until the day I was accused of something which in fact my students had requested. I showed them my photographic website - one of them was going to Slovakia and wanted to see some photos of the place. But because there are photos of models on another section of my website, the potential catastrophe of them catching a glimpse of a scantily clad young lady whilst working drove the training department to pull the plug on me. So I decided to rely on myself once more and get my own clients. Having built up a nice little empire, master of my own domain, I spotted a call for trainers at the European Institutions, only requirement, a degree in languages. There was to be a seminar on the procedures and structures of the Institutions which I found to be quite daunting but within two months I was propelled into the European Commission's training department. I remained there for two and a half years before diversifying to the European Parliament and the Commission's interpretation centre.

I meet people from every country in the EU, who do all kinds of tasks from political advisers to European budget regulators, from MEPs to ushers, from conference interpreters to extra-governmental trainees from outside the EU. I give them all kinds of training from giving presentations and speeches to negotiating in English, from dealing with high-level correspondence to simple grammar courses. No day is ever the same. No semester is ever the same. I have been blessed (so far) with a happy and interesting course in life, which I hope will remain for as long as the contract is renewed.

Raymond Goslitski's first bloguette

Hello, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Raymond Goslitski and I used to live in Leuven, Belgium. I moved to Wiltingen in Germany in April 2008 to enjoy a more rural way of life. From my name you will deduce that I am not of Belgian or German origin, and you will be right, for I was obviously born in Kent, UK. And my name is as British as the Royal Navy. Actually, it's Polish-Russian, but mainly Polish with a French spelling.

It all started with the aristocratic lines of a Szlachta (aristocratic) dynasty in Poland in a small village near Płock in the centre of the country. My ancestors were originally from that village which even now only accommodates 24 people and a few domestic animals, therefore people with my surname are pretty rare. Even rarer, considering the spelling was changed from the original.

This occurred at the beginning of the 20th century when my grandfather, the young Eugene Alexander Goslitski, left Batumi, Georgia, where his father was apparently working with the Rothschilds, although no record of him is located there, and headed for France. He received his education there and almost became a Catholic priest, but fortunately he liked women too much, or I would never have been born. His guardians, an uncle and an aunt, whose names I think I now know, were not very nice to him and he decided to go to sea.

He trained as an engineer and joined the merchant navy where his chances took him to Montréal and from there to London. He met his future wife, Florence Maud Petterson, and produced eight children, one of which was my father.

The reason for the change in spelling in the name is quite simple, and as a linguist, I am in the perfect position to tell you this, having a degree in this area, but I won't because I would prefer to tell you once I have all the family documented and the history is clear.

My family history is still a little cloudy, but one of the leading ancestors was known for contributing to the compilation of the Polish Commonwealth Constitution almost two centuries after his death. He wrote a forward-thinking paper and many of his words are visible in other constitutions today, including the US.

I am still tracking the complete story of what happened between 1607 and 1900, but I am sure I will get there in the end. I am reading up on the family line, and although all the material is in Polish, I, along with some of Europe's finest translators, will piece together the respective information. I do not intend to reveal too many details about things until I am sure of the facts, because I want to make sure they are totally correct. Furthermore, an artist never reveals the painting until it is complete. I also don't believe in giving out information for free, especially if I am doing the legwork. I have enough family in the UK who, if they were really interested, could pop along to the National Archives and check it out for themselves. But from Germany it gets expensive. I have already been once in March 2009 to the National Archives, despite asking others to go there. Still, if you want a job done, better do it yourself. So much for teamwork. And even if the person I asked to go went, I haven't heard back. So much for trust.

I am planning a trip to Poland in summer, and eventually Marseille and Montréal. More nearer the time.

What do I do? I am a language trainer and linguistic adviser for international institutions, formerly in Brussels, now in Luxembourg, and my passion is language. I hope to go into more detail about this in future blogs. I also enjoy photography, and although this is only a hobby, I enact my fantasies through photography on a frequent basis. My photo-website is http://www.goslitski.net/.

I don't talk much about the rest of my private life because there are some things I like to save for myself, but I hope to add my own contribution to the ever-crowded space on the Internet and who knows? Someone might actually read this stuff!