I wanted to change the name of my blog from Some Damn Fine Picture Stories to Some Damn Fine People Stories, but onfortunately I couldn’t just rename the existing one. Therefor I’m closing this one down and ask all my followers to subscribe to the new one at Some Damn Fine People Stories

It’s worth the trouble. In my new blog you’ll find two new posts: One is an interview with a 39 year old lady that was diagnosed with breast cancer last January, the other one is the story of a dad who lost his son to a drunk driver.

This is a well known photograph in my family. The young man is my uncle Lambert and the adult man at his right is his dad, my grandfather. Lambert’s cousin Gust shot this picture in the penultimate year of the second world war, according to the sign on the bike’s pedal that says ‘war bike 1944 ’.

This peculiar bike is made of an original gentleman’s bike, of which the fork, the seat stay as well as the chain stay are altered, in order to make the tires taken from a scooter fit.

Granddad originally is a tailor, but during the war he works in a paper mill removing buttons from old cloth rags. But since all bicycles are being confiscated by German soldiers and there are no means of public transportation to get to the paper mill my uncle Lambert creates this bizarre looking bike. He figures no German will confiscate it, afraid of making a fool of himself riding it, and as it turns out he’s right.
Both my uncle and granddad must have considered this little triumph worth of being captured in a photograph. Secretly, of course, in the back yard, without being seen by the German occupiers. They seem proud. The son of his bike, the father of his son.

My granddad passed away long before I was born, but my uncle died only a couple of years ago. Shortly before his death I paid him a visit in the hospital. Last time I had seen him I was about five or six years old. For seve- ral years I stayed with him and my ant during summer holiday. They lived on the fourth floor of an apartment building and they had a little black French poodle that spend much time chasing its own tail. My aunt was crazy about that dog.

I remember my uncle was always in a good mood and very cheerful when he got home from work, walking through the front door with his dirty work boots in one hand, his old lunchbox in the other, and a boyish smile on his face. And even after a day’s work he was never too tired to play with me before I had to go to bed.
My ant was rather strict. She liked me, but wasn’t able to show affection. Maybe because she didn’t want to feel too much for a borrowed child, I don’t know.
My mom told me my uncle – her brother – and my aunt didn’t socialize much and kept to themselves. Some family members didn’t mind because of his sarcastic and unpleasant sense of humor.

In the hospital I just said ‘hi’ to my aunt and uncle and challenged them to say my name. After all these years my aunt didn’t remember, but my uncle – after a short hesitation – did and he smiled that same boyish smile he smiled years before.
At his funeral a niece told me he and my aunt had had two children. The first was stillborn, the second lived just a couple of weeks after it was born.

Some relatives spoke at the funeral. I wish I too would have had the guts. I wish I told everybody about the work boots, the lunchbox and him and me playing before bed time. And maybe I even would have said I felt my uncle would have made a great dad.
To sort of make up for not speaking up I told a newspaper reporter some time later about the war bike. The reporter subsequently paid a visit to my aunt for an interview and after the story was published in the paper she wrote me a short thank you note.

In that same year I was runner up in an online photo contest in the category ‘from the attic ‘ with this picture. I couldn’t beat a pre-war photograph of an elegant young girl standing next to a Christmas tree not wearing any clothes. What was I thinking?

On a beautiful sunny Sunday morning I visited the only American military cemetery in the Ne- therlands, in the small town of Margraten. The cemetery was covered with fresh fallen snow and nobody was there beside me and some bold young rabbits.

One of the many US soldiers buried there under a white cross of Italian marble is Robert G. Cole. He was born at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, to Colonel Clarence F. Cole, an army doctor, and Clara H. Cole on April 19, 1915. In 1935 he was accepted to West Point and four years later he graduated and married Allie Mae Wilson.
On June 6, 1944, the time of his unit’s first combat jump in the French Normandy at D-day, when the liberation of Europe from the Germans commenced, Cole was a lieutenant colonel in the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment.

For his cool fearlessness, personal bravery, and outstanding leadership displayed during his actions on June 11, while forcing the last four bridges on the road to Carentan, Lt. Col. Robert G. Cole was recommended the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was the first member of an airborne unit to receive the honor, but he did not live to receive the medal. On September 18, 1944, twenty-nine years old, he was killed in Holland by a German sniper. His mother accepted his posthumous award on the parade ground, where her son had played as a child, at Fort Sam Houston. Also present were Cole’s wife and their two-year- old son Bruce.

Every place on earth and every moment in time has its own definition of heroism. And the answer to the question whether somebody is a hero or not lies not rarely in the eye of the beholder.
It will no doubt be hard on the siblings of the US soldiers that lost their lives under the command of Lt. Col. Cole on June 11 1944 to consider him a hero. But many of the people that survived the German concentration camps will most likely consider everybody contributing to ending the war an hour, a minute or even a second sooner a hero.

I wonder what exactly is it that makes our society so hero-needy? Is it the ambition to excel, to be better, to go faster, to think smarter? Is it because we have confidence issues? Is it because people want to be assured that in troubled times someone will stand up and fight and defeat all evil, or fix whatever it is that went wrong or got broken? Is it because we need somebody to look up to? Somebody to adore, somebody to worship, somebody to envy. Because competition is part of the human genes?
Heroism is a human invention, that’s for sure. There are no heroes amongst lions, bears, birds, ants, flies, flowers, trees or germs. It’s just us, people, that need heroes. We’re a hero-needy species.

The next question is: Are heroes creatable? I mean, sex sells and so does heroism and we all know that when there’s a buck to be made (or power to be gained) we make it happen. Now true heroes are not created nor planned. Still there are people that like to think they can create a hero. Not just the army but also the media are convinced they can make people think somebody’s a hero. And if you ask me Can we create heroes? I think the answer is quite simple: Yes, we can. It won’t be the real thing of course, but yes, we can force people to think somebody’s a hero, even if he’s actually not.

Now if you think this is scary, realize that when people are able to make heroes, they are also able to brake them. I mean, if the Democrats sort of succeeded to heroize president Obama, the Republicans surely can (try to) deheroize the man. Like it or not, but this world can be made as well as unmade.

So much for present-day heroism. Want some back ground information about the cemetery in the picture?
Well, originally almost 22,000 soldiers were buried in Margraten. The responsibility for preparing the cemetery fell to Capt. Joseph Shomon and his 611th Quartermaster Graves Registration Company. The actual digging started November 1944, the coldest winter in years, and was done by the 3136th Quartermaster Service Company, exclusively black soldiers. I guess they didn’t have an Oprah disapproving on national tv in these days.

In 1949 over 11,000 of the buried US servicemen were repatriated. Many families believed it more appropriate for their deceased loved one to stay with comrades near the battlefields where they died. Today the cemetery is the final resting place for 8,302 Americans.
At the first Memorial Day service, in 1945, every grave was “adopted” by a local resident. Many of the graves are still adopted by the same families today, passed down from one generation to the next. Many of this Dutch families have corresponded with the families of their adopted soldiers and have hosted the American families as they came to visit the grave of their loved one.

It’s a quiet and peaceful place. I like being there. It makes you feel humble for a while. And even though you’re surrounded by so many graves of soldiers killed in action, it’s almost impossible to imagine the horrible events leading to this result.

I guess we’re not as superior a species as we like to think we are.

This is Riek and her husband Toon on their wedding day in 1953. Twelve years before, in 1941, Riek is just 21 and enters a convent.

As a little girl she promised to God in a prayer to do so if He would save her baby sister from dying of a life threate- ning disease. The doctor already gave up on the sick girl, but Riek refused to accept this. Some years before she lost a younger brother to meningitis and the image of the little boy in a coffin in his Sunday clothes is an image burned in her mind for ever.
Riek’s baby sister recovers and though Riek tells no one about her promise, she does not forget about it. Years later – having lost her first love in a motor cycle accident – she decides to honor the given promise after a fierce inner battle. Eleven boys wave her goodbye at the train station when she leaves. One of them shouts ‘See you soon, Riek! ’

The very strict, serious and sober order life does not make her happy in the years that follow. She wants more out of life than just prayer, labor and keeping to herself. And as it turns out Mother Superior feels little compassion for the lively young girl. When it eventually is decided it is better for Riek to return home, she is very relieved. But at the same time she fears what her dad will say. After all, many consider leaving a convent a disgrace in these days. But her dad picks her up and at home she is warmly welcomed.

Soon after returning home Riek starts working as a postpartum nurse. Sometime later she meets Toon, a widower with two children. After years of being ill his wife recently passed away because of a heart attack.
At firs there is just affection, but it soon becomes more. Meanwhile Riek’s dad passes away.

Seven months after Toon’s wife’s death Riek and Toon get married. Nobody blames Toon for remarrying so soon. ‘I know how much you did for my girl,’ his former mother-in-law tells him. ‘Now go find a good mother for the children and a sweet wife for yourself.’
Shortly before the wedding Riek’s mother dies and because of that she wears a black two piece suit when Toon walks her down the aisle.

Riek and Toon have two more children, a boy and a girl. Right after the girl is born Riek suggests to name her after her husband’s deceased wife. It’s the first time she sees Toon cry.

In the fall of 1965 they are planning their 12.5 years wedding anniversary. When he comes home from work on a Saturday afternoon – he’s a teacher at an Elementary school – he’s outraged. He’s so disappointed about the knowledge level of the children in his new class he wants to quit his job. Because Riek heard him say to some- one the other day he felt so tired lately she realizes he’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown and she decides she will have him see a doctor on Monday.

Still, they have a pleasant night out playing cards with some friends. There is also a retired police man who used to work with sex offenders and he tells some quit funny stories about that. The next morning Riek and Toon are still laughing about it. When the tailor comes by to show some fabric samples for Toon’s new suit Toon tells him some anecdotes. Then suddenly, as if hit by lightning, Toon reaches for his throat with a face expression of intense pain. One side of his face turns pale and while looking at Riek with wide open eyes, he dies there and then, 58 years old.

The first year after Toon’s death is horrible for Riek. One day she meets a woman who has lost her husband as well as a child. She asks her what was more horrifying.
‘Losing your husband,’ the woman says, ‘breaks your heart. Losing your child tears it apart.’

In the spring of 2007 I interview Riek. She never remarried, all her children have left home years ago and when she tells me her life story she seems a strong, lively old woman, with a good sense of humor. Four years later, in 2011, life has become hard for her and she passes away at the age of 91.

Two women buying lingerie on a sunny Sunday morning at the market alongside the bank of the Meuse river in the Belgian city of Liège. Probably a mother and daughter.

The way the daughter is dressed it seems she can afford lingerie ten times the price and quality offered at the market. And she would gladly pay for whatever her mom wants to buy in a proper lingerie shop down town, but her mom simply doesn’t want her to.

The daughter looks confident and self assured, but at the same time impatient and a bit embarrassed. She has worked hard to become an independent woman with a successful career, being able to leave behind the place she grew up, not having to buy her lingerie in public.

Her mom doesn’t mind the total lack of discretion and the little money she can afford to spend on underwear. She’s proud of what her daughter has achieved and feels she did well raising her girl the way she did. She doesn’t mind they both live in different worlds now, not too much anyway. As long as her daughter is inde- pendent like herself. That’s what she set out to do many years ago. And she knows she succeeded.

Where the younger woman’s dad slash older lady’s husband comes in this story I don’t quit see from where I’m standing. If he ever played a part in the lives of both it surely doesn’t seem to have been an important one. But I could be wrong.

This young man’s name is Karwan and he’s a Kurd. In 1995 he and his dad came to live in the Netherlands.

Karwan’s dad had been to Europe before. Back in the sixties he and two friends had been allowed to go to East- Germany to get an two year education there. After this was finished, the two friends fled to West-Germany where they were given politi- cal asylum. Karwan’s dad returned to his family in North Iraq.

In the eighties one of the friends visited Karwan’s father trying once again to convince him to leave Iraq. Again he decided to stay in the country where he was born and raised, in spite of the oppression.

In 1990 Iraqi troops invaded Kuwait and as we all know this led to the Gulf War. The Kurds resisted Sadam Husein and expected the dictator to be kicked out of office soon. When this did not happen they had to flee out of fear for Sadam’s no doubt brutal and cruel revenge. This time Karwan’s dad did have no choice but to leave his country with his wife and son. On their way to Iran Karwan’s mother passed away.

At a price of 7,000 US dollars each Karwan and his dad where smuggled to Europe in 1995. They now both live in the Netherlands and Karwan works in a juvenile correctional and treatment facility. His co-workers have come to know him as a modest, unpretentious and very likable guy. There’s always a smile on his face. The only time I heard him swear was when he referred to Sadam Husein as ‘that motherfucker ‘.

But although they are Dutch citizens now, Karwan and his dad remain Kurds. And that’s why November 5 2006 was a remarkable day to them, because on that day an Iraqi judge in Bagdad sentenced Sadam Husein to death by hanging. They saw the conviction live on Al Jazeera, the Arabic-language news network.
The next day Karwan proudly wore a little flag of Kurdistan on his uniform to work. His boss granted him permission for one day.

There was a time when people in my country didn’t need to be interested in Muslims coming to work and live in the Netherlands. And the Muslims didn’t need to be interested in Dutch people because we all co-existed just fine.
This all changed because of 9-11. Since then everybody is supposed to have an opinion about Muslims and the tolerance my great little country was known for all over the world went down the drain just like that.

In 2004 the Dutch politician Geert Wilders formed a new political party that was named the Party for Freedom (PVV), but in fact it’s an anti-Muslim party exploiting the fear of terrorism practiced by radical Muslims.
In the parliamentary elections of 2010 Wilder’s party received 15% of the votes, resulting in 24 seats (of 150) and became third party in size. It did not become part of the coalition of parties that form the government, but since the other two parties together don’t have an absolute majority in parliament, they need the parliamentary support of the PVV. Thus a political party based on intolerance and hatred has major influence on national policy decisions in the Netherlands. In fact the people that voted for Wilders have morally legalized intolerance and hatred.

The Right of Free Speech is an important and very valuable right. As is democracy. Democracy is a beautiful and at the same time horrible form of government. The majority of voters gets what it wants, no matter how right or wrong they are.

In 2010 my elderly father-in-law was still alive and asked my wife and me to vote for him, as he was immo- bile. Of course we agreed, not realizing right away we put ourselves in a difficult spot by doing that since he wanted to give his vote to Wilders of which he was a big fan, which we very strongly objected to.
Fortunately, the old man couldn’t find his ballot in time. Still, if he had, my wife was very clear about not wanting to give her father’s vote to Wilders. And consequently she would have been morally wrong, by being intolerant to an intolerant. That would make her as wrong as he was.

I love to photograph people that are member of a group at moments the individual stands out from the collective. Judging from their uniforms there is no reason to assume this three girls are not equal group members. Still I sense a shadow of an informal social hierarchy here.

The girl on the right is helping at doing something the girl in the middle obviously can’t do by herself and the girl on the left sort of supervises the doing of the girl on the right. So this makes the girl on the right number three in the hierarchy, the girl on the left number two and the girl in the middle the queen of the beehive in this particular scene.

Of course, if you ask them about it they would immediately deny everything, tell you they haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about and say you’re crazy. That would be a normal response, since informal social hierarchies are rarely subject to discussion. They sort of grow on people, since it’s a more or less self chosen kind of inequality they don’t feel uncomfortable about. A natural way of putting things in place. Resulting in a hierarchy based on abilities, not on disabilities.

Am I making any sense here, or just a fool out of myself? Oh, what the heck. Hardly any people are reading this blog anyway.

‘I knew you would come ‘ is what the little sign on the weather beaten bench in the woods says in Dutch. Now I don’t know this Annie or why she put up the sign, but it’s obvious the message is meant for someone dear to her and she was sure he would turn up one day and read it.

Let’s suppose his name is Joe and he and Annie were secret lovers that met there regularly. Maybe he was married. Maybe in the end he decided not to leave his wife and children afraid of how the family and the people might feel about that. Maybe Annie accepted his decision out of love for him, and knowing one day he would regret it she put up the sign to let him know she’d be there for him to return to.

Or maybe this Joe was really a Jane and what she and Annie felt for each other scarred Jane so much she ran off to marry a man she lived to regret. As Annie knew she would.

On car drives to distant locations John and Mary hardly talk. They just don’t feel like it. Outside the car they talk to each other, it’s not like their marriage is consumed in silence. Just not in the car.

To Johns mother-in-law this is incomprehen- sible. Not talking is a severe punishment to her. She talks and talks and talks and therefore she (thinks she) is. She believes in small talk, she’s the queen of blah-blah and the proximity of any human being urges her to profess her faith.
John understands why. All his retired father-in-law does all day is watching tv, reading the paper, eat and sleep. And apart from that he has bad hearing and is a gifted non talker. His wife has no choice but to seek and audience elsewhere. At home the silence is just too loud.

On the road with her in the back of the car John hears without listening. But he knows exactly when and how to respond. Responses like ‘I see ‘, ‘Of course ‘ and ‘You’re absolutely right ‘ have proven to work quiet well. He knows asking questions is terribly wrong and should be avoided at all costs.
Mary pretends not to hear because of the noise of the car engine, but when she has to respond she asks her mom to repeat the last sentence. As if she heard the rest.

Three weeks ago she got fed up with her mom during a car drive. She told John to pull over, ordered her mom to get out of the car and then they just drove on. But tomorrow is her mom’s birthday and so she had John pick her up. The trip back was hard for him since his mother-in-law had not spoken to anyone since they left her beside the highway. Mary’s dad was glad to see his wife again, since he needed some clean underwear badly.