Mijn vader werd 90: Een leven vol stedebouwkunde 19.2.07 [NL]

(Jan D. Riethof (*1917), 20 januari 2007)

Ik ga steeds meer op hem lijken.
Dat kun je op het fotootje in de kop van deze blog goed zien.

Jan Dirk Riethof werd geboren in Schiedam op 20 januari 1917 als derde zoon van Jan Riethof en Elisabeth den Uyl (inderdaad, familie van -). Zijn vader was gepensioneerd ex-KNIL-militair die zich moest behelpen met fragiele baantjes als portier en museumbewaker.
Hij groeide op in Utrecht onder armelijke omstandigheden.
Via de Mulo, wist hij toch HBS-B af te maken, maar kon wegens geldgebrek niet naar Delft om daar bouwkunde te studeren. Het werd de MTS.
Wat ook nogal tegen de familietraditie inging: Hij werd lid van de Arbeiders Jeugd Centrale (AJC, zie Wikipedia), de sociaal-democratische jeugdorganisatie, opgericht door Koos Vorrink e.a. naar het voorbeeld van de Duitse Wandervögel.
Daar leerde hij mijn moeder kennen en daaruit heeft hij ook zijn hele leven inspiratie geput voor zijn politieke en culturele standpunten.

Stadsontwikkeling in Amsterdam
In het verlengde van dergelijke ideeën over natuur, optimisme, gemeenschap en respect voor anderen, lag het 'Nieuwe Bouwen', de stroming in de architectuur en de stedebouw (urbanisme) die met kracht elke nostalgie verwierp en stadsplanning plus woningbouw wilde ontwikkelen vanuit strikt rationele gezichtspunten, zoals: orientatie van woongebouwen op de bezonning, functiescheiding tussen wonen, werken, recreatie en verkeer.
Brandpunt van deze stroming in Nederland was de sector Stadsontwikkeling van de Amsterdamse gemeentedienst der Publieke Werken.Voordat mijn vader daar als tekenaar aan de slag ging, had de gemeente al een bijzonder volledig Algemeen Uitbreidingsplan ontwikkeld, geheel volgens de principes van het 'Charter van Athene' en op wetenschappelijke leest geschoeid: de afdeling 'Survey' produceerde aan de lopende band statistieken en daarop gebaseerde berekeningen, die de grondslag vormden van het ruimtelijk beslag en de stedebouwkundige ordening. Anders dan meestal bij dergelijke plannen het geval is, is dit AUP tot diep in de zestiger jaren vrijwel naar de letter uitgevoerd. Ondanks de schokken van de Tweede Wereldoorlog en de woningnood erna. Je kunt zelfs het bouwen in de zeventiger jaren in de Bijlmermeer, niet voorzien in het AUP, zien als een extrapolatie van de AUP-beginselen, zij het tot in het absurde doorgevoerd.

Dichtbij de 'groten' van het Nieuwe Bouwen (mej. Mulder, Ir. C. van Eesteren, enz.) ontwikkelde mijn vader zich tot hoofd van een onderzoekafdeling binnen de survey van Stadsontwikkeling. Er werd verkeer geteld, er werden vierkante meters ruimtebehoeften aan sportterreinen uitgerekend - ik heb het een beetje meegemaakts, als ik als middelbare scholier vakantiebaantjes vervulde op "zijn" afdeling.

Weigering van de vertrutting in de stedebouw...
Een grote schok in zijn werkzame leven, betekende de terugkeer naar een ouderwetse en meer intuïtieve vorm van bouwen en stadsplanning rond het midden van de zeventiger jaren in Amsterdam. Functionele patronen werden verstoord door 'inbreiding', nieuwe woonbuurten werden ontworpen als replica's van oude Ijsselmeerstadjes, korte-termijnbeslissingen vervingen de zorgvuldige meerjarenplanning. Stadsontwikkeling werd feitelijk opgeheven, onderzoeksfuncties gingen naar een bestuursdienst, die bij de (politieke) dag leefde en ondergeschikt was aan wisselende modes en bestuurlijke persoonlijkheden.

Toen hij 62 jaar was, hield hij er plotseling mee op: Vervroegde pensionering was toen nog een goede optie. Dat was 28 jaar geleden - een mensenleeftijd. Van zijn plannen om te publiceren over de geschiedenis van Stadsontwikkeling kwam weinig terecht. Er waren veel andere zorgen. Langzamerhand werd het gepensioneerde leven gevuld met de activiteiten in een hechte groep van oud-AJCers, in het begin vooral uit Utrecht. Het waren mensen van de generatie van mijn ouders, of iets ouder. De meesten van hen zijn nu overleden.

Oud worden in een zich verhardende samenleving
Een zwakker wordende gezondheid, vereenzaming, verlies van functies slaan nu toe. Toegang tot een plek in één van de bejaarden- en verzorgingshuizen in Amsterdam, die mijn vader zelf zo zorgvuldig had helpen plannen, is er helaas niet van gekomen. Met hulp van mijn drie broers en hun gezinnen, die verspreid in Nederland wonen, en -sinds kort- met die van de wijkverpleging (Zie: e-urban Journal: Niederlände: Maffia in der häuslichen Krankenpflege, 12.2.07 [DE]), wordt een stukje leven in stand gehouden.

Het is bijna een hele eeuw, die u met een onhandig gebaar groet.
Uiterlijk lijk ik op hem. Maar ik knok ervoor, om anders oud te (kunnen) worden.

(Crossposted from: De Lage Landen - Mijn vader werd 90 jaar.)

A dedicated Detective, a deflated Balloon and an empty Box 6.2.07

So Eeyore went to London, on January 23rd. Detective C., in spite of his Scottish name and his London phonetic twist, turned out to have at least three out of four ancestors from supposedly British-Indian origin. A nice man, a busybody, who took exceptional good care of his witnesses, me and Ion, the head of the Hotel Security, where the theft had occurred. We needed that, for conditions within the Westminster Magistrates Court on Horseferry Road were not exactly hospitable. Searched thoroughly at the entrance, we landed in a crowded waiting room, where lawyers conferred with their, often loudly mouthed, customers. Every fifteen minutes, Detective C. arrived, trying to keep our hopes for a soon liberation from this purgatory alive. Having travelled since five o'clock in the morning, I started to look for a coffee vending machine, a facility that is present in even the most sordid of continental waiting rooms, prisons included. But the only machine I found, was an automat to pay fines into. A Turkish young man, at a small distance from us, started shouting in Turkish to his mother, next to him, a 50 year old female lawyer, who accompanied them, struggled to provide a civilised English translation of what he said, to the representatives of the personnel that had come to restore order.

Ion, my companion, is recognisable from a far distance as a member of the ever growing guild of security guards. Heavily built, broad shoulders, black suit, hair cut short. We do not have much in common. Conversation that could have shortened the time, is hard to keep somewhat flowing.

Intermezzo: I could tell you a similar story about British Justice as I did about the Police. Every year, some ten to fifteen percent of their budget is cut off. And new tasks are adding to the existing ones. The Times of London, on this same 23rd of January, reports a rare public protest from the Judges syndicate against this situation. Response of Home Office Minister Reid: "We are busy to invest into a customisation and digitalisation of the paperwork. That justifies a considerable reduction of personnel." 

Imagine, you are a British judge: Your wig would fly to the ceiling! If I could do something about it, I would immediately designate the English Courts as a 41st Respect Zone, where Ministers are no more allowed to show that they are improperly brought up.

The defense of our culprit has asked the judge for a Spanish translator, who is, of course, late in arriving. The trial is rescheduled for the afternoon. We are dismissed for two hours, with order to stay near the Court. The only way to do so, is going to the Starbucks coffee paradise on Horseferry Road, where we sit among the same public as in the Court's waiting room. Not astonishing: It is the only accessible refuge in the neighbourhood. Only, and that is worth a thought,  their behaviour is much more civilised here.

The Verdict - Click for a full version. Then, after two hours to the minute, Detective C. calls me on the indispensable mobile phone, meets us at the entrance of the Court house, apologising politely, saying that both of us are no more needed as witnesses and that the Judge probably will dismiss the case, as the accused has only facilitated the actual theft of the case, standing near to that person, on the lookout.

Eeyore (Bourriquet), contributed by Merenwen [click to see the flower!]Eeyore got another half-empty box. But Detective C.'s charm, even in this dramatic moment of collapse, remains irresistible. I decide to prefer the half-empty box to the wholly empty one, I always expected.

And I begin to understand, why my British correspondent did not understand this deployment of serviceability. Detective C. must be, like my former Surinamian-Indian colleague and longtime buddy Budh Khargi at the Dutch Ministry of the Interior, one of those rare unbeatable, undisturbable go-getters, who, keeping strictly to the rules, with an  - at first sight- naive, autistic perseverance, keep doing their work, mobilising one or more of the almost forgotten and generally despised complementary services, that exist in every bureaucracy, fruits of a whim of a since long forgotten former Director, like the Victim & Witness Care Unit.

I cannot help to fall in love with people like Detective C. They show, that a better world is not impossible. And if some of his rare qualities really stem from Indian culture, let us humbly integrate them.

I returned to Brussels with a flower in my -empty- box.

This is the third and last part of an article that originally was posted on February 5, 2007 in Huib's Urblog at e-urban ThinkTank. Updated on March 20, 2007 for huibslog.

What Eeyore learnt about London Police and Magistrates 6.2.07

So, before telling you how Eeyore went to London to see justice done in Westminster Magistrates Court on Horseferry Road, I will entertain you with what I learnt from a closer look into British (London) Police practice from an urban redevelopment viewpoint.

Like Stalin used to say: "To be concise and short, comrades, it is an awful MESS." Whole lots of police tasks in the public sphere have been farmed to private, profit-oriented, businesses, like the parking management and the perception of parking fines. Permanently, 6 to 11 % of the force is on longtime sickness leave, while another average 6% is present, but on 'restricted duties', recovering from sickness (the Daily Mail, 5 February 2007, cited from The Guardian's Ros Taylor's daily 'Wrap'):

"The biggest bill is faced by the Metropolitan Police, which has 1,744 officers on restricted duties - 5.7 per cent of the total force strength."

Being on restricted duty, means, that one is confined to paperwork and telephone answering, doing often the same things as civil employees who are paid much less. Of course, the Mail, conservative, decries what it sees as a "waste" of public money, implicitly accusing the officers in question of parasitizing, and inviting its readers to say so (Which they do obediently: 41 indignant comments published, so far).

Living under such working conditions, with the new constraints of terrorism prevention coming on top, MUST produce such an epidemic of sick leaves. And the Mail's denunciation will absolutely not help to lessen the stress under which those people have to do their work. The wicked ways of many representatives of the the British press are evident in the following 'citation' of Ian Blair, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, well known in the world as the man who kept us informed about the murderous terrorist attacks on London public transport last year (The daily Mail):

"Met Commissioner Sir Ian Blair said it was an issue that must be tackled. He warned that, in some cases, police are receiving a full salary for as little as one hour's work each day."

Imagine: You are a police officer, suffering from a burnout, but having decided to do whatever possible, to overcome it quickly
and go to work on a 'sunrise' scheme, proposed by your employer, just to do what you can to help out your colleagues and be able to rejoin them at the shortest term. And then, you feel abandoned by your own commissioner in chief, who is presented as someone who denounces you as a parasite! I am sure, Ian Blair's remarks have been distorted by the Daily Mail, and I am also sure that most police officers, knowing their press, will not believe a word of what the paper says. But to the general public, who have (unjustly) no 6 months' 100% paid sick leave- and 'restricted-duty' reinserting schemes, the damage has been done.

Meanwhile, it rains reorganisation schemes: New absolute priorities every month. Yesterday, it was neighbourhood patrolling, establishing relations of confidence by small teams with a given urban area, be accessible night and day - here is our telephone number. Today it is a new priority: "Respect Zones", which means: integration into a local task force, singling out families with 'anti-social behaviour' in 40 areas in England. (Guardian, January 23, 2007).

Tony Blair himself announced it in his inimitable reverend's style:

" I think it's to do with drugs and the drugs culture and, it's a difficult thing to say, but there are a small number of very dysfunctional families where the kids are not properly brought up."

The local Councils, made powerless by Thatcher policies, and not much re-empowered by New Labour since, have to bear the brunt of this new, potentially divisive, 'crackdown'. They make, if I understand the Guardian report from several targeted neighbourhoods well, the best of it, engaging, like in Bolton, Greater Manchester, an experimented Charity to work with the new government money. And, which is still more significant, in my eyes, stating:

"The respect agenda is not just about tackling unacceptable or anti-social behaviour, but is about taking this further and reaching more people and communities," said Cliff Morris, Labour leader of the Bolton Council. "It aims to create a modern culture of respect by working on the underlying causes of bad behaviour [...]" [My bolds, HR]

I read this as an implicit critic of the spasmodic government initiatives, which neglect the necessity of a broad, holistic and sustained approach over more than 2 or 3 years to the community and it's environment. For, what is the sense of forcibly 'rehabilitate' families, if, at the end of the project, there is no job, no caring community, only street- and pub-life for the rehabs?

Imagine again: You are a police officer. On Monday, you get a training as a terrorism combatant and (I hope) learn to avoid killing innocent Brazilian immigrants; on Tuesday, somebody comes over to teach community patrolling; on Wednesday, the CrimeStopper Consultant celebrates his evangelium of New York "zero-tolerance"; on Thursday, the Respect Zones commissioner announces a reorganisation of the neighbourhood patrolling; and on Friday another somebody from Justice tells you, that there are no laws to support either community patrolling, nor Respect Zones, so that you have ultimately no means to impose the things the other ones said that are your targets. That leaves the day of Saturday to do your work. And,  was it by chance?, it was on a Saturday morning, that Detective C. managed to get hold of a member of the criminal gang who stole my bag.

Let there be no misunderstanding: My reconstruction of a metropolitan police officer's week is NOT based on any interview of an actual policeman, but only and alone on my personal 'long way' through government bureaucracies. I even fear, that actually, it is even worse. To me, even to me, the surrealisms, created by bureaucracy, are always above imagination. It is a new kind of creative, but utterly counterproductive, art. Heavily subsidised too. - Take note, dear friends at the Daily Mail!

This is the second part of an article, posted on February 5, 2007 in Huib's Urblog at e-urban ThinkTank website. Updated for huibslog om March 20, 2007. 

Eeyore visits London CrimeStoppers 5.2.07

Do you remember my surprise at the London (Metropolitan) Police's diligent handling of the theft of my property, in December?

- For once not giving in to my cynicism, born from a series of sad experiences with bureaucracies in general, and with bureaucracies of law and order in particular, I opted for a sunny view. Couldn't it be a real start of a humanistic revolution, fruit of Blairite moralism and inspiring accomplishments of London Mayor Livingstone? I gave it a full chance to be true. (Remember, it was Christmas).

Source: Daily Mail 2007.02.06Since the first one, I had several international telephonic conversations with Hotel CrimeStopper, Detective C., with his light cockney accent. And an enthusiastic officer of the Victim and Witness Care Unit, Officer F., came also on the telephone, urging me to accept the hospitality of the Westminster Borough Law authorities and come over to witness at the trial of the culprit. Hotel, and travel Brussels-London on the house.

Meanwhile, a Southwest England reader of 'Huibs UrbLog' put a hair in the ever more heating soup of my enthusiasm, writing:

"I must say I am astonished at the amount of resources that the police are putting into your case (into your case!), compared with the daily debate about whether they have enough resources to catch terrorists and murderers. Our own social systems are as mysterious as the stars."
[The "stars" refer to the e-urban city-stars in its website banner, HR]

Suddenly, all my traditional and darkest suspicions came into life: They were about to lure me into a TRAP! On arriving at Waterloo International, they would take me into an interrogation room and subject me to a "Zaanstad" treatment*). That is why they are so eager to have me on British soil!

But then, I heard again the already familiar Cockney voice of Detective C. on the phone, and I departed from my paranoia. "They are just common officers, I reassured myself, trying to get a condemnation of a felon. Surely, it seems that it doesn't happen all too often. That is why they are so excited... Do not let them down, brooding continental coward!"

I imagined a lone, weathered detective in the Conelly style, braving his superiors, persecuting the evil ones out of conviction, not out of eagerness to rise in the CrimeStopper's hired consultant's statistics. I would not let them down, my new friends C. and F., a couple of lone revengers in the midst of an uninterested mass of routinists and ostriches!

So, I did two things:

1. Taking a closer look at the UK debate about police efficiency and the issues coming up about that, and
   
2. Go to London on trial day, to see for myself, how things were going to work out.
   

I stuck to my decision, even when, at the last moment the prosecutors' office decided that my presence in person as a witness, was not necessary at this moment, so that the promised free trip turned into an empty box.

There he was, the so cared-for Victim and Witness, with a deflated balloon in an empty box.

Eeyore's birthday!

*) The "Zaanstad" method of interrogation was, in Holland, until it was forbidden, a 'robust' set of techniques to destabilise the interrogated person, until he or she was ready to confess anything suggested by the interrogators. It produced, when it was applied in the right setting (in an optimally bare police room, duration minimum 5 hours without interruption nor refreshments, absence of lawyer or other support for the client), delirious self-accusations, which led to a series of misjudgments and long imprisonments of innocent people, that are slowly being undone at this moment by a special independent commission of academic jurists.

 This post is the first of three ones, drawn from an article that originally appeared in Huib's UrbLog at e-urban ThinkTank website on February 5, 2007. It was updated for publication in huibslog on March 20, 2007.