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October 27, 2006

Hitchens hitches his future to the Death Star

Jerry Mazza, Online Journal Associate Editor, October 25, 2006

Ian Parker’s recent New Yorker Profile of Christopher Hitchens, “He Knew He Was Right,” aptly subtitled “How a former socialist became the Iraq war’s fiercest defender” is the fastidiously told tale of Christopher Hitchens hitching himself to the Death Star of the administration and its preemptive, unilateral, war on Iraq. May the force wake him up!

Hitchens seems to linger in the darkest recesses of neocon thinking, a far out inner space. I see the maps to World Hegemony hanging on the Dark Star’s war room walls, as in the Pentagon. Though I see Hitchens as naïf in residence, blind to his commanders headed for destruction. Their malevolent destruction of Iraq alone -- infrastructure, cities, arable land -- has delivered a death toll of 650,000 Iraqis, nearly 3,000 US soldiers, and a $378 billion tab to US taxpayers.

This includes the privatization of the war, yielding untold billions to civilian contractors, Vice President Cheney’s former company, Halliburton, its subsidiary Kellogg Brown Root, as well as CACI. In fact, the profit is pouring into their coffers like vast amounts of blood. They are wallowing in the blood money. Hussein’s decades-long rein pales by comparison, even with its ugly toll of an alleged 300,000 dead.

Then of course there is the oil, the second largest Gulf supply behind the Saudi’s, all conveniently under the thumb of the Texas Oilopoly, controlling supplies and prices, raking in profits; Exxon Mobile sailing to the largest corporate take in US history.

The question is, when Hitchens hitched himself to the Death Star, was he bored with his hard-earned left-wing success, drunk at the wheel, or seduced by the infamous Paul Wolfowitz to America’s leading den of iniquity, the Pentagon (and other dark corners). I believe it was mostly the third, perhaps a splash of the first two as well that led him to it.

Ian Parker quotes Salman Rushdie, a member of Hitchens’ salon, who said laughingly, “I met Paul Wolfowitz. And I discovered to my immense surprise, that he’s a very nice man.

”Wolfowitz,” Parker reminds us is the “neoconservative who served as the Deputy Secretary of Defense between 2001 and 2005, and who now runs the World Bank, and was a primary architect of the invasion of Iraq; he has become the emblem of Hitchens’s new political alignment. Wolfowitz respected Hitchens’s record as a writer on human rights. He called Hitchens in the fall of 2002, at the prompting of Kevin Kellems, then his special adviser, and now an adviser at the World Bank.”

Parker tells us that Kellems said after the call to Hitchens, “It felt like Cold War espionage. Contacting someone on the other side you think might want to defect.” More importantly, Hitchens accepted an “invitation to lunch at the Pentagon,” one might say to make a pact with the devil. Kellems reminds us, “We didn’t put his name on the schedule.” Well, of course, here was a real human being with a notable record of fighting, writing for human rights. Why would you want a name like that, unless to legitimatize the cabal.

In fact, if Hitchens had written nothing but The Trial of Henry Kissinger, definitively documenting Henry Kissinger as a war criminal, responsible for (among other atrocities) the organizing and order to assassinate Salvador Allende, the freely elected president of the democratic state of Chile, Hitchens would remain one of our major left heroes, fast-balling 90 mph sentences into eloquent strikeouts of the bad, the evil, and even worse. What’s more, Hitchens body of work is impressive. His second love is literature, and he can quote poetry like an Oxford don. Hitchens' degree is from Balliol College, part of the University of Oxford. Lovely learning lending a grace and depth to his writing and speaking.

Back Story to Nowhere

I remember first seeing Hitchens after 9/11 on various talk shows, including the Fox Five Terror Scare-athons. Hitchens was one of the more interesting talking heads, a bit surly, shirt open, hair long, twitching like the three-pack-a-day smoker he is, answering questions with the speed, depth and intensity of a man who perhaps felt they were too easy, insults to his formidable intelligence. You see I admire all that Hitchens can be. All the more reason to lament his loss to the Death Star.

Yet a wise Wolfowitz knew, as Parker points out, Hitchens was “a longtime observer of the cruelty of Saddam Hussein, and had spoken publicly for his removal since 1998. He supported the cause of Kurdish Independence and had been to Halabja and seen the injuries caused there by Iraqi chemical weapons.” I might add those weapons were supplied by the CIA.

Parker notes that “he [Hitchens] was friendly with dissident Iraqis in exile, including Ahmed Chalabi.” Chalabi was convicted and sentenced in absentia for bank fraud by a Jordanian military tribunal. He faces 17 years in prison, should he again enter Jordan. Parker’s adds to Chalabi’s resume, “now a member of the Iraqi National Congress, which aggressively promoted the notion, now widely discounted, that Saddam was poised to become a nuclear power.”

“ . . . Widely discounted, that Saddam was poised to become a nuclear power” is New Yorker politesse for absolutely untrue and unfounded. Bogus. Lies.

Unfortunately, after 9/11 and the defeat of the Taliban, Parker notes that “he [Hitchens] had thrown himself into the debate over Iraq, making speeches and writing for Slate. Brandishing the nineteen-thirties slogan ‘Fascism Means War,’ he argued that Saddam was something more than a tyrant.” Yes, he was. He was a vicious dictator that George Herbert Walker had installed and then helped to attack Iran, giving him the necessary arms and money, while feeding same to Iran. Leaving a million casualties and another million displaced.

Returning to Parker, “Though he [Hussein] did not have nuclear weapons, he aspired to have them . . ." Would that be like Israel who has had two to three hundred bombs since the ‘60s? Or like Pakistan, Libya or India, who have managed to get the plans or the real thing since? “His [Hussein’s] regime was on the verge of implosion . . ." Well, yes, they were broke after an eight-year war with Iran. Yet Hitchens claims “And better that it should implode under supervision, with the West providing armed resistance to the imminent Iraqi and Kurdish revolutions.” The West had just finished sponsoring both sides in the war. Their true ends were achieved. Revolutions, my Socialist friend, were not in their best interest. Control was.

Parker writes, “Hitchens told me, ‘The number of us who would have criticized Bush if he hadn’t removed Saddam -- that’s the smallest minority I’ve ever been a member of.'” Well, time has certainly proved him abysmally wrong. Hitchens not only reveals a total forgetfulness of US involvement in all that had transpired. He also seems ready to join the Coalition of the Very Willing and forget that the CIA previously sponsored Osama and his Mujahideen in 1979 to ’89 to fight the Russians in Afghanistan. And from this group al Qaeda was born, a CIA armed and trained black ops “terror” entity. Is that what happens when you hang around Fox Five studios too long? Is it amnesia, arrogance, alcohol, too many smokes?

The balance of Parker’s sad tale on the mating of Hitchens and Wolfowitz is that the latter felt those of a like mind should be on “closer terms.” Hitchens responds that he had been trying to signal Wolfowitz in his writing and Wolfowitz said, “I wondered.” Egads, all we need now is a score by Alfred E. Newman with syrupy violins and a romantic theme lifted from somewhere. They talked about this and talked about that, “Rwanda, Bosnia, the history of genocide, the cost of inaction.” And what about the genocide Iraq was to become? Also, had Hitchens ever considered why Bush Sr. did not eliminate Saddam when he had the opportunity at the end of Gulf War One? Could it have been that destabilization of the region which would affect the flow of oil? Oil, I repeat, oil, the bread and butter of Texas/America’s industry.

“Finishing Each Other’s Sentences”

Kellems describes the duo of Hitchens and Wolfowitz as “two giant minds unleashed in the room. They were finishing each other’s sentences.” According to Hitchens, “Wolfowitz is a bleeding heart. There are not many Republicans, or Democrats, who lie awake at night worrying about what’s happening to the Palestinians, but he does.” Oh Jesus. And did he worry about what the Likud government was doing to the Palestinians: a little more genocide, finally burying them under a Warsaw Ghetto-like wall.

Hitchens we are told had been “a decades-long agitator for the Palestinian cause; he co-edited a book on the subject with Edward, Said, the late Palestinian-American scholar,” with whom he parted company abruptly before Said’s death. What’s more, Hitchens says, “Wolfowitz wants America’s human-rights ethic to be straight and consistent as far as possible and if there’s an anomaly he’s aware of it.” Was the anomaly that Palestine had been partitioned in 1948 to create Israel, a Zionist militarist state? If so, how do we account for the fact that Hitchens rails against religion co-opting political agendas? Or had lunch and too much wine at the Pentagon and holding political hands with Wolfowitz entirely blurred his sense of history?

On April 9, 2003, after the initial “shock and awe” days, when the destruction of Iraq began with a boom, Hitchens wrote, “So it runs out that all the slogans of the anti-war movement were right after all. And their demands were just. ‘No War on Iraq,’ they said -- and there wasn’t a war on Iraq. Indeed, there was barely a ‘war’ at all. ‘No Blood for Oil,’ they cried, and the oil wealth of Iraq has been duly rescued [?] from the attempted sabotage with scarcely a drop spilled.” And why did Mr. Hitchens think that had happened, by accident or with the skilled assistance of James Baker and a cadre of Texas oilmen behind him? Rescued? Kidnapped might be a better word.

Parker reports, “In July 2003,” he [Hitchens] and a few other reporters flew to Baghdad with Wolfowitz.” Ah, Kissinger was right about one thing: Power is the most potent aphrodisiac. Now Hitchens is in love. He says to Fox News, “It’s quite extraordinary to see the way that American soldiers are welcomed.” Welcomed, eh? Is that what the “insurgency” was? A welcoming party?

Coming back home Hitchens says, “To see the work that they’re doing and not just rolling up these filthy networks of Baathists and jihadists, but building schools, opening soccer stadiums, helping people connect to the Internet, there is a really intelligent political program as well as a very tough military one.” He’d bought the bullshit hook, line and sinker. The seduction, the reduction of a brilliant journalist’s critical intelligence to ashes, was complete. His “filthy jihadists” were the original creation of the CIA and Jimmy Carter’s former NSC chief, Zbigniew Brzezinski. ZB invoked for the first time the term “jihad,” a religious war against what he cited as the “atheistic Russians” to stoke the Muslim fighters.

“And three years later,” Parker reports, “Hitchens is still on Fox News talking about the Iraq war. He has not flinched from his position that the [illegal] invasion was necessary, nor declined any serious invitation to defend that position publicly, even as the violence in Iraq has increased, and American opinion has turned against the intervention and the President who launched [it].” I assume these are free appearances, made as a journalist, with no conflict of interest.

And of course, Hitchens still brings “his rhetorical mettle” with him. Great.

Unfortunately, having hitched himself to the Death Star, now the Starship Galactica, coming from another channel, with critics at the cannons, is firing back non-stop. Though ironically, my mission is not to blow the man apart but, like Humpty Dumpty, to put him back together again, if possible. Something happened. He sounds like an MKULTRA victim, brainwashed, on autopilot, slurring, mouthing the script. Could it be the booze and the cigarettes?

In a recent interview on NPR’s All Things Considered, Gay Raz, the interviewer, noted Hitchens was already drinking scotch when he arrived. In the four-hour interview, he went through four double scotches, three merlots and 16 cigarettes. Hitchens claims it helps him think. I believe his dependencies totally interfere with a clear thought process. In fact, somebody should get this guy into a 12-Step program quick. I saw him in two short scenes from an Applause Channel documentary on F. Scott Fitzgerald. He looked like he’d put on 50 pounds (around his waist). The long hair was now a botched short haircut. It was strange. As the ad campaign for the “Negro” College Fund used to say, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”

What Went Wrong With Christopher Hitchens?

Does the fascination with booze and tobacco come from boredom with the quotidian as he perceives it? Or, having reached a level of great success as a human rights fighter, did he need a new mountain to climb? Or was it the simple allure of all that power and money, being the ultimate insider, perhaps bumping into Bob Woodward in some Pentagon hallway, in the gray marble maze, in the throbbing intestine and belly of the beast? Or is he a Faust for our time, a new play for Broadway? Or does he want to cross the line from his middle class beginnings, his father a British Navy commander, and his mother from a poor Jewish family? Does he want to cross over to the elite corners of the world he skirted at Oxford? Or to the world he was invited into for a private meeting with Tony Blair? In short, what went wrong with Christopher Hitchens?

He hasn’t touched 9/11 with a stick, especially given the enormous body of evidence that would indicate a conspiracy. He hasn’t bothered to say he doesn’t agree. Instead we get this White House press release from him, “We know we’re at war today and so do they and they will pay and pay and for it (their nihilistic Islamism) [his phrase]. They will rue the day when they decided to challenge civilization and democracy and attempt to replace it with theocracy and barbarism.” Barbarism? Has he heard of depleted uranium, its effect on our troops as well as millions of Iraqis?”

Has he taken a look at Afghanistan lately and the surge in opium production, yielding a bonanza to the CIA and every junkie on earth? Does he know about the Evangelical Christians, that Jesus-loving fundamentalist plurality that helped put Bush in the White House and how they would dominate our political agenda? Has he heard about the rape of Habeas Corpus? Does he lament the lost of constitutional rights to the USAPATRIOT Act? Does he have any knowledge of how the West exploited the Middle East, particularly from WW II on, to gain total control over its oil? This man has come to speak from a dark hole in space, from the heart of the Death Star itself.

For in the News Room of the Dark Star sailing in the outer, outer space of its rhetoric, he sits, no Howard Beale, but a silver-throated, English-accented pitchman for perdition, drowned in substance, kidnapped by the right. Somebody bring him home. Put a cap on the sauce. Get him clear. Get him a hobby. Gardening, for instance, a British gift. Put his hands in the soil to feel its richness, life growing in spite of all odds. Even a Dark Star excreting its uranium-enriched poison into the earth, water and atmosphere. Wake up, Chris,, before it’s too late. Or is it already?

Jerry Mazza is a freelance writer living in New York. Reach him at gvmaz@verizon.net.

Copyright © 1998-2006 Online Journal

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October 22, 2006

Lindalee Tracey, a friend of Bhopal, dies at 49

SANDRA MARTIN, THE GLOBE AND MAIL, TORONTO, OCTOBER 20, 2006

Lindalee Tracey grew up poor in Ottawa and turned to stripping as a teenager. After becoming the central subject of Not a Love Story: a Film about Pornography, she began directing her own documentaries. In 2004, her film Bhopal, A Search for Justice, a scathing indictment of the Bhopal disaster, was aired on CBS

A child of poverty, Lindalee Tracey ran away from home as a young teenager, made a living as a stripper and exotic dancer in Montreal and forged an award-winning international career as a writer and documentary filmmaker.

Multi-talented and driven, almost as though she had a presentiment that her time would be short, she had an uncanny ability to document her own life in print and in film. As a journalist, she had an innate talent to connect with people on a visceral level, a quality that made her work controversial and unforgettable.

When her young son, Liam, started asking questions about his dead grandfather, Ms. Tracey decided to make a documentary about the father who had abandoned her as a baby. Abby, I hardly Knew Ya (1995) was a cinematic journey that took her through flop houses and long-term care facilities, as she sought out her father's drinking buddies, and ended up in the cemetery beside his grave. Although she had intended to mouth conventional bromides about absent fathers while the cameras rolled, she found invective pouring out of her mouth in torrents of rage. Another filmmaker would have yelled cut, composed herself and started again. That might have been professional, but it wouldn't have been authentic. And authentic, was what Lindalee Tracey was all about as a filmmaker, a writer and a person.

“She wanted people to read her work and to react to it. She had an incredible sense of adventure and a very clear idea in her own mind of right and wrong and what she should do to change things,” says Lynn Cunningham, the magazine and book editor whom Ms. Tracey credited with having “demanded the truth, however much I winced” as a writer.

“She has a great, raunchy, Rabelaisian sense of humour,” says broadcaster Shelagh Rogers, host of Sounds Like Canada on CBC Radio. “And her laugh goes on about two minutes longer than mine. And she is a vault. I have told her things I have told no one else. And those things have gone nowhere. She is everything you could want in a girlfriend. And her eyes are so beautiful. You just know you are loved by looking into her eyes.”

Those eyes — were variously described as sparkling, alive and a mirror into her personality, which was mischievous, determined, difficult and passionate. She was theatrical, a trait that she used to advantage as a burlesque dancer, and irrepressibly interested in other people, especially the poor and disadvantaged. She would walk down the street and see a panhandler. Instead of passing by with her eyes averted or dropping a loonie from on high into a plastic cup, she would sit down on the curb and have a conversation and then, as likely as not, she would invite her new friend to join her for a meal at the nearest eatery.

Of Irish and Quebecois ancestry, Lindalee Tracey was the elder of two children of Abby Tracey, an alcoholic who was in and out of jail, and Yolande Tremblay, a government clerk. Her father took off when she was a few months old, reappeared briefly and left again before her brother Paul was born a year later.

She grew up above a diner in the west end of Ottawa. “There were no trees, no parks, just the incessant rattle and dark belching of warehouses, factories and rag plants,” she wrote in her first book, On the Edge: A Journey into the Heart of Canada (1993), which was nominated for the Gordon Montador award.

“I remember a sweet unknowing before awareness and shame. The cheesy clumps of Kraft dinner and Ketchup in the roof of my mouth. The gummy front-yard tar melting to my shoes in summer. The slow creaking of springs as my mother unfolded her hide-a-bed in the living room each safe night.”

Her father was “a deadbeat, a man I didn't know” while her mother “lived for years without her own room, without new clothes, with constant worry that lined her face early. She was poor so her children wouldn't be.”

Ms. Tracey went to D. Roy Kennedy elementary and Woodruff High School in Ottawa. She was a sickly child, and suffered from rheumatic fever in the days before universal health care. Although she was always proud of her mother's frugality and strength, Ms. Tracey was a rebellious teenager who ran away from home when she was 15. She rode the rails until she was picked up in Kamloops, B.C., and sent home. In 1973, she quit school and moved to Montreal where she began appearing in clubs as a stripper and an exotic dancer. She was 16.

“I just loved stripping; those were grown-up girls with real boobs, and I wanted to do that, too! It was the express lane into adulthood,” she explained to Marc Glassman in an interview in the fall, 2006, issue of POV magazine. “We paraded our imperfections. We enjoyed them ... The people who came to the clubs were often sorrowful folk; and we talked to them.”

She wrote a book, Growing up Naked: My Years in Bump and Grind (1997), about her life as a peeler, working at a club called Eden under the stage name Fonda Peters. She was a runner up in the Miss Nude Canada contest and was billed as Canada's Top Young Show Exotic on a tour of the United States, before going back to Montreal in 1967 to work in an upscale club called SexOHrama and eventually organizing an annual fundraising striporama for the Montreal Children's Hospital called Tits for Tots. “Certainly the mid-seventies was the last good time to be a stripper,” she wrote in her memoir, “just before television swallowed our imagination, before the corporate agenda made us homogeneous and hard-core pornography spread its numbing venom.”

At first, she was a willing participant in a film titled Not a Love Story: a Film about Pornography made in 1981 by Bonnie Sherr Klein and Dorothy Henaut for Studio D, the women's unit of the National Film Board. When she saw the finished film, she felt betrayed and exploited. “I'm reduced to porn queen, me, the softest thing in the film, the stripper who doesn't spread, immortalized as a cheap cliché and the ‘articulate' voice of all the live sex girls,” she wrote in Growing up Naked.

The publicity from Not A Love Story, which was variously banned and lauded, helped her to find on-air work on a Montreal television show. “I wasn't supposed to do anything but wear tight clothes, but I brought on people like [Henry] Morgentaler,” she said in POV magazine. She began writing stories and columns for print, including articles about street people, notably a piece about homeless women — largely unexplored territory in the early 1980s — and worked in radio, hosting and co-producing Montreal Tonight on CJAD.

Ms. Tracey “went down the road” to Toronto to work for As It Happens and Sunday Morning in the mid 1980s. “She was very street wise, incredibly brash and an amazing thinker — very curious and very smart — and she could connect with almost anybody. I could send her into the most improbable places and she would find a way to get them to open up and bring back great tape,” said Norm Bolen, then the executive producer of Sunday Morning and now an executive vice-president at Alliance Atlantis. “She genuinely cared about what made other people tick and she had no respect for conventional definitions.” Ms. Tracey was also a “fabulous writer” who could fix other producer's script problems. “She was a real word master.” At the same time, she had no deference for authority or experience, which could irritate her colleagues even as they were “dazzled” by her talent.

She met her husband, filmmaker Peter Raymont, in a documentary workshop at the old CBC radio building on Jarvis Street in 1986. “She was very bright and a quick study and she came from a different world,” Mr. Raymont said. They connected romantically at a staff party at Mr. Bolen's house. Like Ms. Tracey, he was born in Ottawa but on the “other side of the tracks.” His father, a colonel in the Canadian army who was awarded the MBE for his war service, was a senior staff officer and historian for Department of National Defence. Together, they shared a deep commitment to social justice, human rights and making the world a better place, but her approach, at least initially, was much more hands-on.

When Mr. Raymont travelled to Nicaragua to make The World is Watching in 1987, Ms. Tracey went with him. They were married in Ottawa in 1989 and their son Liam Tracey-Raymont was born the following year. “We had a very good relationship,” said Mr. Raymont. “It was often tempestuous and sparky, but you don't want to marry yourself. It is really good to get together with people from different worlds and you complement and help each other.”

She joined him as a partner in White Pine Pictures, an independent film, video and television production company in 1993. Its credits include Shake Hands With the Devil: The Journey of Romeo Dallaire and A Scattering of Seeds: The Creation of Canada, for which Ms. Tracey also wrote the book.

An unregenerate multi-tasker, Ms. Tracey, who had been writing poetry since her days as a stripper in Montreal, was also writing magazine articles, mainly for Lynn Cunningham then a senior editor at Toronto Life while she was working on films with Mr. Raymont. “She was cold-calling editors and I picked up the phone,” Ms. Cunningham remembers. “She was an amazing bundle of energy and charm and outrageous wit.” Her story proposals were “the Lindalee trademark” of a writer who scorned celebrity and felt passionately about the forgotten and marginalized people in society.

One of her pieces for Toronto Life was The Uncounted Canadians about the thousands of illegal migrants who work in our fields and kitchens, hotels and restaurants. It won a couple of journalism awards and went into production this week as a pilot for a television series. Her approach, working at a story from the inside — from the perspective of a participant, rather than from the viewpoint of a detached “objective” observer — is the signature of Ms. Tracey's work as a journalist in print and on film. “Being, moral, being decent, being honourable” whether “you are in front or behind the camera,” were lessons, Ms. Tracey said that she had derived from her experience with Not a Love Story.

Broadcaster Shelagh Rogers recognized Ms. Tracey as “a force” when she interviewed her in 1993 and was immediately attracted to her energy and fearlessness as a storyteller. She was never afraid of being a do-gooder or too-small “l” liberal in her views or of venting her outrage about the many people “who didn't have a voice and who weren't reflected in the national media.” Ms. Rogers says she loved Ms. Tracey's compassion, her “personal power” and her ability to take charge and to inspire change in people.

Although she was a very active partner in White Pine Pictures, Ms. Tracey formed Magnolia Movies, as a “boutique production company” in 2003, partly because she wanted her own identity and partly because she wanted to make films that either didn't fit the profile of White Pine or wanted to come at similar subjects from a different slant. Her first film for Magnolia was An Anatomy of Burlesque, which Globe television critic John Doyle deemed “smart and entertaining” and a “cheerfully informative jaunt through the history of burlesque funny business.” In 2004, her film Bhopal: The Search for Justice, a scathing indictment of what happened after the disaster at the Union Carbide plant in Bhopal, India, on Dec. 2, 1984, aired on CBC.

About five years ago, Ms. Tracey was diagnosed with HER-2 Neu positive breast cancer, a very aggressive form of breast cancer. She was 44. After a mastectomy and chemotherapy, “it looked as though it had disappeared” for about two years, Mr. Raymont said. “Then it came back in the same part of her body and it was in her bones, her lungs and her liver.” She sought out an alternative cure in Tijuana, Mexico, in the late fall of 2004 and returned looking devastated. Desperately ill with metastatic cancer, she was eligible to receive Herceptin, on the health system, as a last-hope treatment.

“It gave her another nine months, or a year, of life,” her husband said of what seemed a remarkable recovery. During that time, she continued her frenetic work schedule, and found time to lobby Ontario Health Minister George Smitherman to make Herceptin available as well to non-metastatic Her-2 breast-cancer patients.

In January of 2006, the cancer invaded her brain. Late in September, her family took her to the palliative care unit at Princess Margaret Hospital, expecting she would last two or three days. In the end, she defied death for almost a month, as she had always confounded authority — grabbing as much life as she could and asking, on one occasion, for her loved ones to sing Gordon Lightfoot songs around her bed. Lindalee Tracey was born in Ottawa on May 14, 1957. She died of metastasized breast cancer in Toronto yesterday. She was 49. She is survived by her husband Peter Raymont, their son Liam, her mother Yollande, her brother, Paul, and her extended family.

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