Measles Is Back—and RFK Jr. Is Making It Worse

Kwei--Wed 

Why vaccine misinformation could bring back diseases we thought were gone for good

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A Public Health Emergency—Fueled by Lies

This is a follow-up to my previous post about measles. Across the U.S., measles cases are rising sharply—over 660 in Texas alone as of late April 2025, with two preventable child deaths. Cases are appearing nationwide, with nearly 900 confirmed, triple the count from last year. Source: Reuters, The Guardian

This isn't just a medical crisis. It's a credibility crisis because trusted science is being eroded by one of the loudest voices in the room.

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RFK Jr.’s Cod Liver Cure: A Dangerous Distraction

Robert F. Kennedy Jr., now heading HHS, has pushed unproven “cures” for measles—including cod liver oil, vitamin A, budesonide, and antibiotics. He claims they are effective remedies, despite there being zero credible evidence to support them. Source: Health.com

The only proven shield against measles? Vaccination. No shortcuts. No “natural” hacks. Just science.

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Autism Misinformation: Misguided and Harmful

RFK Jr. has also claimed autism is caused by vaccines and environmental toxins, ignoring decades of rigorous science. More troublingly, he has painted autism as a life-destroying diagnosis—offensive, outdated, and utterly wrong. Source: PBS, Axios

His stigmatizing views echo 1950s thinking, not the public health values of 2025.

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Polio, Smallpox, and the Ghosts of the Past

Think measles is the worst-case scenario? While smallpox was eradicated globally in 1980, pockets of vaccine refusal could make us vulnerable again.

Martha Lillard, age 5, was in an iron lung during the 1953 polio epidemic.

Polio, which once paralyzed thousands of children, is creeping back in under-vaccinated regions.

Martha Lillard, age 5, was in an "iron lung" during the 1953 polio epidemic.

What Was the Iron Lung?
The “iron lung” was a negative-pressure ventilator used to help patients breathe when polio paralyzed their chest muscles. Polio, also known as poliomyelitis, is caused by a virus that invades the nervous system and can destroy motor neurons in the spinal cord, resulting in muscle weakness, paralysis, or even death.

While modern ventilators have replaced the iron lung, this haunting image is a stark reminder of the devastating toll of vaccine-preventable diseases. Martha survived, but many did not. Without vigilance, polio can return.

A world without vaccines isn’t hypothetical. It’s our past. And if we’re not vigilant, it’s our future.

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Public Health Under Siege

Kennedy’s broader plan? Slash funding to the NIH and CDC, two of the most crucial institutions keeping epidemics at bay. Weakening these agencies won’t just affect the U.S.—it sends shockwaves across the global public health network.

Outbreaks don't need passports. Ebola in West Africa. Measles in Europe. A virus born thousands of miles away can be in your neighborhood by the weekend.

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This Isn’t Just Policy—It’s Personal

Parents burying their children. Doctors are losing the tools to protect patients. Autistic individuals are being mischaracterized and devalued. These aren’t policy debates. They’re personal stories of loss, betrayal, and resilience.

We have a choice. We can follow conspiracy theories down a dark tunnel of ignorance, or we can fight for truth, science, and each other.

Vaccines aren’t just about disease prevention.
They’re about protecting the people we love.

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📎 Related Posts:

• https://www.kweiquartey.com/post/vaccines-how-a-millennia-old-lifesaver-was-and-still-is-controversial

Images (Public Domain or Creative Commons):

• Smallpox on a child – CDC Public Domain
• MMR vaccine being administered – Pixabay

Lying in the bosom of a former enemy

Craig every second Tuesday.

Kia ora and gidday everyone. 

So last Friday I woke up early in London, before the dawn. Not quite early enough however to get myself into central London for the Anzac service at Hyde Park Corner - that would have been a 3am start to get there in time. Bit tough with late night work sessions, school runs, and father-duties. Maybe next year, when it will be a Saturday. 

My life has changed a lot since 2011, when I woke from a wee nap beside a peaceful Turkish beach (having stayed up most of the night), and saw the sun rise across a peninsula that has held deep meaning for people from my part of the world - Australia and New Zealand - for more than a century now. The above photo was my view that April 25. 

Anzac Day. Two words that carry plenty of weight, from where I come from. 

Those two words had been a part of my life since I was a Boy Scout marching in parades in the Top of the South Island of New Zealand, or learning about the Anzacs and the Gallipoli campaign at school. Later I had the privilege of writing about Anzac Day for several magazines, legal and lifestyle, including interviewing several serving New Zealand military personnel (including a Brigadier General) about Anzac Day's ongoing impact.

part of a multi-page feature I wrote on Anzac Day for WildTomato magazine in 2009

Still, visiting the Gallipoli Peninsula itself was an eye-opening experience.

A few quick thoughts on how the place shifted my perspective:

How young all the Anzacs were. I was 32 when we visited Gallipoli. As we huddled with hundreds of fellow antipodeans on a chilly night by the beach, they memorialised many dozens of individual Anzacs on big screens overnight. Only two were older than I was then. Most were teens/early 20s. Even the officers and leaders. Ditto with all the graves we'd seen and paused by on the walk in from the buses. We didn't send our men to war, we sent our boys.

How steep the Gallipoli cliffs are. As youngsters we learn Gallipoli was a British military bungle, a valiant defeat/retreat rather than stirring victory, but seeing those cliffs in person, and walking partway up after the beachside dawn service to attend the later morning services at Lone Pine then Chunuk Bair, sheesh. They're near-sheer cliff faces in many places that few would want to scale in the best of conditions let alone under heavy gunfire.

The scale of loss. More than 2,700 Kiwis and 8,700 Aussies died at Gallipoli. Thousands more terribly injured. Horrifying numbers that are even worse considering time/context. Despite being about as far away from WW1 battlegrounds you could be, NZ sent 42% of its men of military age to fight alongside UK/allies. Some perspective: NZ's Gallipoli losses - let alone the entire First World War - are the equivalent today of USA losing nearly 900,000 soldiers in one campaign, or more than 4.7 million killed in a single war.

Three countries, not two. Kiwis and Aussies learn lots about the Anzacs, the bond between our two nations, faraway outposts of former British Empire that punch far above their weight in global sport and other fields. But around 20,000 Turks died on that peninsula too, defending their country against invading armies. We may have been fighting for freedom, but so were they.

My last point above may be a bit controversial. But that was my realisation at Gallipoli. After the dawn service we chatted to Turkish soldiers, hiked steep trails to Chunuk Bair. Turkish Scouts handed out water. How many nations would warmly welcome the descendants of an invading force and commemorate the very men who killed so many of their own people? How many commanders would later, as President of their country, say words such as these:

It was a surreal, special experience visiting that tiny part of Turkey, a nation overflowing with rich history (Greek, Roman, Biblical, Ottoman Empire, and more) far beyond its (relatively) modern meaning for Aussies and Kiwis. 

So each Anzac Day now, I think of several pals from different eras and chapters of my life who've served my country and their countries in various roles, sometimes in war zones. 

 I also think about that trip to Gallipoli, more than a decade ago. 

As we commemorated the 110th anniversary on Friday, I mulled over some of the realisations I was left with, on that chilly morning on a Turkish beach more than a decade ago - and maybe the biggest one of all: despite years of thinking of Anzac Day as something for Australia & New Zealand, I'd been wrong.

For me now, it isn't about two countries, but three.

Until next time. Ka kite anō.

Whakataukī of the fortnight: 

Inspired by Zoe and her 'word of the week', I'll be ending my fortnightly posts by sharing a whakataukī (Māori proverb), a pithy and poetic thought to mull on as we go through life.

Nāu te rourou, nāku te rourou, ka ora ai te iwi

(With your food basket and my food basket the people will thrive, ie everybody has something to offer, and by working together we can all flourish.)

Independent Bookstore Day and Moi

Saturday–Jeff

Today, April 26, 2025, is Independent Bookstore Day, a national event celebrated annually on the last Saturday of April. It is a day for putting aside your electronics and heading off to your local bookstore for a first-hand experience with the printed word! 

Since I can’t personally accompany each of you to your favorite local bookseller, I’ve fallen back on what I consider to be the next best thing I can do on that score. To wit, offer you this sort of script of what you would have heard had you attended any of my back-and-forth-across-the-country April bookstore events for my latest book.

I love “pressing the flesh” and this script reflects much of what I tried to articulate at my live events–though what I actually said and how it was delivered, depended upon how I “read the room.” In other words, were my adlib jokes and observations flying high or falling flat.

For better or verse, here’s what you would have heard:

 

I can’t believe NOT DEAD YET is book #14 in my Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Series, and that two thirds of my books have received starred reviews from Library Journal, Publishers Weekly, and Booklist. Once upon a time, any of that seemed unimaginable to me. Today, I wonder what’s left for me to say that I haven’t said at other events. I thought to patch together bits from past presentations or simply read from my book. But you, my supporters, deserve a greater effort. So, I decided to read a story: the tale of how my life led me to this moment.

Fourteen books is not a record, but in retrospect it certainly validates the depth of a desire that lingered unrequited within me for at least a half a century. It was with me when as a child I found myself at sleep-away camp making up plays that challenged what the counsellors wanted us to perform.

And it was there with me in high school when as a freshman I thought I could make it as a writer … until a football teammate showed himself more gifted as a writer than I could ever hope to be.  That revelation led me to focus on finding another way to make a living—leading me to become a lawyer.

Serendipitously, that decision to practice law played a huge role in my emergence as a creative writer. And by that I don’t mean that my many years as a litigator taught me to be creative with the facts.  Rather, those years and experiences developed my style, my voice, taught me how to write clearly, concisely and convincingly – and to do so quickly.

The practice of law also taught me how to graciously accept and channel criticism from collaborators, adversaries, judges and clients. 

That’s a vital skill for one to develop if as a writer you wish to survive well-intended suggestions from your peers, critical analyses of your work by your editors, slings and arrows of outrageous critics and reviewers, and most importantly the not always complimentary reactions of your readers.

Having said all that, and prescinding from any discussion of how making a living as a writer compares to that of practicing law, I never imagined I’d find something that’s brought as much fun and joy to my life –aside from Barbara of course– as does the time I spend with Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis and his crew seeking to  further entertain all the wonderful friends we’ve made through the writing life.

So, here I am, more than 20 years into my writing gig, celebrating my 14^th book in a series that’s brought plaudits for my work from so many I deeply respect in the mystery writing world.  All of that truly has me feeling blessed that the dream of the young boy I once was to someday become a writer came true.

WHEW.

My having said all that might lead one to think they’re hearing a retirement speech…and with the title of #14 being NOT DEAD YET, it’s understandable how one could gain that impression. 

So, allow me to assure you that ain’t so.

Not only am I working on Kaldis #15, but I have a new book in an entirely different series coming out in February 2026. And the folks with an option on film rights to my Kaldis series say they’re close to making it all come together.

And did I mention the planned re-release of my entire backlist? 

In other words, I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. Which keeps me happily truckin’ on down a road that’s led me from the Pittsburgh of my roots to a NYC legal career, and onto an ever-evolving love affair with Greece.

On that note, I think it’s time for me to tell you something about NOT DEAD YET, a book that critics are calling my best book yet…which is always better to hear than, “Hey, Jeffrey, what’s happened to you?”

First, a brief sketch of the plotline, followed by a bit of blatant self-promotion quoting what some of the most respected reviewers of crime fiction have to say not just about NOT DEAD YET, but about my entire series. And then we’ll move on to your questions.

Set largely along Greece’s southwestern Peloponnesian coastline with the Ionian Sea, the plot moves north from where Greek mythology places the entrance to Hades, to search for clues along the coastal perimeter of the historically and agriculturally rich Messinian Bay region. From there it’s on to Navarino where Greeks fought the most important sea battle of their 1821 War for Independence and today is home to Costa Navarino, one of the world’s most luxurious and celebrated golf resorts.

Against that backdrop, we have wealthy Greek businessman Dimitris Onofrio who’s known to be corrupt to the core, but police have never been able to make his crimes stick. Powerful, influential and extremely dangerous, he’s not a man to cross, and every witness prepared to come forward against him has died before they could.

So, when Onofrio’s private jet crashes in the deepest part of the Mediterranean Sea, with no apparent survivors, the police breathe a sigh of relief–quickly replaced by horror when Onofrio is found alive but catatonic on a remote Ionian beach, beside the body of his beloved wife.

Was the crash an accident… or sabotage? Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis, head of Athens’ Special Crimes Unit, knows that unless he can discover the truth before Onofrio recovers, the tycoon will be out for bloody revenge on all involved. Including Kaldis’ own beloved wife, who’s more mixed up in the accident than one would ever have suspected . . .

Out of that maelstrom emerges a host of new, well-developed characters—some villains, some heroes –– but all contributing to the rave reviews #14 has received, including a starred review from Booklist saying “Buckle up for Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis’ most complex case yet … truly ingenious. This series gets better with every book.”

Reader’s Digest: “Jeff is one of our new favorite authors.”

Bolo Books: “Jeffrey Siger’s mysteries comprise one of the most consistently strong series in our genre.”

The National Herald, America’s Greek newspaper of record: “It is always a pleasure to read and share the latest book in a beloved series.”

George Easter, publisher of the highly regarded Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine lists my series as 8^th on his list of “Top Favorite 25 Current Police Procedural Series.”

Michael Barson, long a cherished voice in the book industry calls it, “One of the top crime series of the past 15 years, no question.”

And of course, The New York Times: “Thoughtful police procedurals set in picturesque but not untroubled Greek locales.”

But of all that wondrous praise what best epitomizes my pride in what I’ve achieved as a writer, is what one of the genres most respected reviewers has to say: “Not Dead Yet is my favorite of Siger’s recent books…If you’re looking for a police procedural series with solid characters, gorgeous Greek settings, and fascinating politics, you’re in luck. You have fourteen books waiting for you.”

On that august praise, I drop the mike, thank you for your courteous attention, and open the floor for questions.

–Jeff

 

Jeff’s Events

2025

All Live Events

 

Sunday, May 4, 2:00 p.m. ET
Sparta Public Library
Author Speaking and Signing
Sparta, NJ

Thursday, May 15, 2:40 p.m.

CrimeFest Panel

Panelist, Murder is Everywhere: Evil Crimes in Foreign Climes, with Heidi Amsinck, Michael Ridpath, Ovidia Yu, and Stanley Trollip (moderator)

Mercure Bristol Grand Hotel
Bristol, UK

 

Saturday, May 17, 1:40 p.m.
CrimeFest Panel
Moderator, Not All 999: Police Procedurals Across Time and Place, with panelists Tara Collins, Mark Ellis, Solveig Palsdottir and Stanley Trollip of Michael Stanley
Mercure Bristol Grand Hotel
Bristol, UK

 

Wednesday, September 3 – Sunday, September 7
Bouchercon
Author Panels yet to be assigned
New Orleans, LA

Colonsay

Tomorrow, well today as you are reading this, I am off on a great adventure.

We are going to Colonsay. We confess that we weren’t quite sure where Colonsay was. It’s more south than you’d think, and much further out.

Two and a half hours on a ferry, and a 3 hour drive to get to the ferry. Those of you who live in big countries may scoff, but it’s a long way for us. We shall need to stop for supplies, coffee and cake, at least twice on the way, before we get chips on the ferry.

Colonsay, from the Norse for “Columba’s isle”, is a gem of the Hebrides. Like most of the islands, its beauty is totally unspoiled, the scenery is incredible, the beaches are amazing- all golden sand and azure blue sea.

And no doubt huge winds with constant rain coming at you horizontally. I say that with no proof as I’ve never been there, but I’ve been fooled before.

I’m taking my woolly scarf.

The island is eight miles by three miles and it sits south of Mull and just west of Jura. That’s nearly the title of a geographically confusing film- Krakatoa, west of Jura. Anyway, the highest point of the island is 450 feet. The main centre of cohabitation is Scalasaig

The island has a population of 120 residents. 120 residents and they have a very successful book festival!

The weather on the mainland today has been sunny but cold. The forecast for tomorrow and the weekend is not good. I might take 2 scarves.

I think this is the view from the hotel. I will check it out for you and report back.

I hope to take pictures of the golden beaches and the dramatic cliffs. The highlight is a place called Kiloran Bay, the place of the sweeping sands and azure water.

The wildlife, birdlife in particular, is pretty spectacular; corncrakes and golden eagles are also on my list to photograph.

The machair of the island (a machair is a fertile low-lying grassy plain found on part of the northwestern coastlines of Ireland and Scotland, particularly the Outer Hebrides.) is sandy grassland with many colourful wildflowers in the summer. And I am led to believe that seal are easy to photograph as they lie on the sand, posing.

Colonsay even has its own wee island that is only accessible at low tide - Oronsay. As we are there for 2 days, and we have the car, we should be able to access it. The remains of a 14^th century priory are situated on the island.

The book festival is held in the village hall, and it attracts international writers like Alexander McCall Smith, James Robertson, Liz Lochhead and some bloke called Ian Rankin. The events are all in  the small intimate venue, so let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to go if given the chance!

As the wee blurb says ‘The Colonsay Book Festival is more than just a literary event—it's a celebration of community, creativity, and the timeless joy of storytelling.’

Me? I’ll going exploring, looking for the lighthouse- which should be easy to see. Even with both my scarves on.

This is the west coast, with Colonsay sitting out there, minding its own business.

More next week!

 

Spotted hyenas - our favorite predator

 Michael - Alt Thursdays

Most people dismiss hyenas as scavengers and even call them cowardly. Certainly they scavenge. They are willing to eat anything that is, or once was, flesh and bone. Especially bone. Their jaws can crunch them to powder, and their stomachs can digest and dissolve the calcium in strong acids. It's easy to recognize their feces as they appear white or grey from all that calcium.

However, the spotted hyena is primarily a predator. On their own they will hunt small animals or young ones - basically anything they can catch. But once they team up they'll go for much larger prey.

All the better to eat you with!

I’ve spent a night in the Kalahari with a hyena researcher following a group of seven of them. They seem to tirelessly cover the veld just loping along until one catches a scent, and then they suddenly all turn and race off in the same direction. During that night they had a go at an eland — that proved too much for them, chased a lioness up an acacia tree and circled the base with their tails up like dogs around a treed cat, and eventually pulled down a wildebeest.

Taking on a Gemsbok at night

And a lioness

In Botswana, Stan and I witnessed a much larger pack pull down a wildebeest and completely consume it over a period of a few hours. Everything is eaten except the horns and hooves. Watching that was what sparked the idea of destroying a body that way for the perfect murder, and eventually led to our first novel, A Carrion Death. When our third book, Death of the Mantis, won the Barry Award for best paperback original mystery of the year, we publicly thanked the hyenas for their encouragement.

Spotted hyenas have a very complex social structure. The females are larger and almost always form the leaders of the pack or clan. It's a competitive world, with access to kills and mating opportunities depending not only on the ability to dominate others in the clan but also on forming alliances. Leadership is usually based on the strongest alliance. 

The females build dens - often co-opted burrows - and look after the young. The males don't help and neither do other females. No "one for all and all for one" here. Their hunting, however, is cooperative and shows a lot of aggression. No cowards here either. However, the social bonds are important. Hyenas like to spend time resting together and communicating with each other in various ways. 

Even more surprising is that hierarchy usually depends on inheritance. The matriarch's cubs will generally supply the new matriarch when she dies. Presumably, the matriarch favours her cubs and so raises their status in the clan. If a male leads, he will be one of her cubs too. Males tend to hang out with their adult daughters, and the daughters tend to be more accepting of them.

In modern times, it's unusual for hyenas to attack humans, but they are certainly partial to human corpses. Some cultures even put out the bodies of the dead for hyenas to dispose of, sometimes even dressing them with blood or fat to try to lure hyenas. The hyenas are happy to co-operate in general, but may reject the odd human body, apparently a very bad and embarrassing omen.

Surprisingly, spotted hyenas have a reputation for making good pets. They socialize easily with people, but they are not easy to house train and have a strong scent which they use to mark their territories. Not ideal. 

There is even a city where spotted hyenas have become welcome nightly visitors. Although they are totally wild—in the sense that they live outside in the surrounding bush and come and go exactly as they please, they come through the city to clean up, accept offerings, be admired by tourists, and socialize with their favorite people—the ones who feed them (who are designated by the city).

The ancient city wall of Harar

Shewaber gate

The city of Harar itself is interesting. Situated in eastern Ethiopia near Somalia and the horn of Africa, it was established as a walled city in 1551 and is one of the earliest Muslim centers of importance, supposedly fourth after Mecca. Now about a quarter of a million people live in the city and surrounds. And beyond that, the hyenas live.

'Hyena man' with a friend

Don't try this at home...

Sharing is caring.

_______________________________________________

Michael and Stanley will be at CRIMEFEST in Bristol from the 15^th to the 18^th of May. We’d love to see you at one or more of the panels we’ll be on.

THURSDAY 14:40 – 15:30

Murder is Everywhere: Evil Crimes in Foreign Climes

Heidi Amsinck, Michael Ridpath, Jeffrey Siger, Ovidia Yu

Participating Moderator: Michael Stanley (Stan Trollip)

 

THURSDAY 15:50 – 16:40

Dark Pasts and Dark Presents: Secrets and Lies

Samantha Lee Howe, M.A. Hunter, Alison Joseph, Michael Stanley (Michael Sears)

Participating Moderator: Caro Ramsay

 

FRIDAY 14:50 – 15:40

One of A Kind: Atypical Characters

Paul Durston, Christina Koning, Tom Mead, Bridget Walsh

Participating Moderator: Michael Stanley (Michael Sears)

 

SATURDAY 13:40 – 14:30

Not All 999: Police Procedurals Across Time and Place

Tana Collins, Mark Ellis, Sólveig Pálsdóttir, Michael Stanley (Stan Trollip)

Participating Moderator: Jeffrey Siger

3 Eves and An Apple: Old Friends in a New World

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

'What are those?'

'Those orange fruits? I don't recognise the plant.'

'Smell familiar?'

[sniffs] 'No… can't smell anything--'

'Some kind of fruit. Wonder if they're sweet.'

'Take a picture and do Google search.'

'Okay, I got it – oh and it's poisonous. Very poisonous. Don't touch it!'

'You're the one who touched it first!'

'How poisonous? Touch and feel itchy poisonous or touch and die poisonous?'

'Doesn't say-- but there aren't any bodies around so--'

'Maybe the poison leads to laryngospasm and an agonising death within twenty-four hours so none of the victims managed to tell anyone about the orange fruit they touched...'

No, we’re not murderers, just old school friends who hadn't met up in years, and I’m the only mystery writer. But getting together with J and C made me realise how long ago my curiosity and love of exploring the world both widely and minutely got stirred up.

We were six years old when we first met. This year, we’re turning sixty-four and it's C's first visit to Singapore in twenty years! (If she keeps to this schedule we’ll be in our 80’s by the time we meet again!)

We were about 12 years in this photograph, which feels several lifetimes away. I wonder where everyone else in this photo is!

Our original plan was to walk around Chinatown looking at Yip Yew Chong’s murals--

but being Singaporean, we started with food at the Maxwell Food Centre—

And a sudden thunderstorm persuaded us to stay put and talk. Which was by far the best thing we could have done, I think.

It's funny how we remember the same spaces and people but perspectives just slightly off. And that applied to how we remembered each other too— and the strangeness of 'seeing' yourself through someone else's eyes both and, at your own memory anchors, seeing your childhood self through adult eyes. It made me realise how much my old school memories are filtered through the lens of who I was back then.

They might not appreciate this, but at times it felt like we were old dogs, encountering old litter mates and thrilling to the awakening of long forgotten and even longer beloved scent markers.

It was the perfect time to meet too, in the luminal space between Easter Sunday and the Ascension, with the reminder that we’re all still works in progress.

Another thing that’s making me feel simultaneously younger (relatively) and older (responsibilities) is my father-in-law moved in with us last week.
It's a joy to have him. He’s a cheerful 90 year old who loves challenging our neighbours to guess his age, then laughing proudly when they get it wrong and “announcing “Ninety years old! And I still climb stairs without a stick!”

But it just made it even more special to have some irresponsible girl time.

And, maybe, discover a new source of poison in Eve's Apple, the unusual orange fruits that caught our attention.

The flowers are more familiar:

Eve's Apple or Forbidden Fruit (Tabernaemontana dichotoma), has poisonous latex, fruit and seeds. It’s part of the dogbane family, which includes one of my favourite trees, the frangipani. You can see how similar their leaves are.

I’m guessing the names come from colonialists linking the beautiful but toxic fruit to the biblical Eve. It’s a reminder that we three Singapore born girls only met and became friends thanks to the mission school mechanism set up by the colonialists, and we’re probably seeing each other—and the rest of the world—through its filters!

Tenzing Norgay: Conqueror of Everest

Annamaria on Easter Monday 

I am pretty sure that sometime ago, I posted a blog about Easter Monday.  I had intended to find it and update it today.  But they I got distracted with preparing my family's tradition Easter foods, and I was already in an Uber car heading to my brother's house in New Jersey, when I realized I had not done my MIE duty. We were entering the Lincoln Tunnel, and all I had only my phone to work with.

When I first got into the car, I had asked Tec, the driver a question, and his answer had been, "Not good English.  I come from Nepal."  No problem.

Okay, so in the car I had about 40 minutes to pull up that old post.  But when I asked my phone to search for "Easter Monday," after a number of Jeff's marvelous blog's about Easter Sunday in Greece, the only thing of mine it came up with was the one you see below, from April 2014. I kept trying to search, but I never could find what I thought I was looking for.

Then it dawned on me: the man driving the car was Nepalese, like the man you see below.  In fact, there was a strong resemblance between the two.

Even in my peripatetic life, I had never before met a Nepalese man in person.  Regular MIE readers have read how much I love it when coincidences occur in my life.  Here's one:  The reblog* that the fates have asked me to give you today.

*Thank you, Caro, for introducing me to this very useful word in your blog the past Friday!

When I was in elementary school, the news circled the globe:  Edmund Hillary was the first man to climb Mount Everest.   Hillary was feted world wide, made headlines in all the newspapers, later was knighted by the Queen.  Climbing with the ultra famous Hillary, was a man whose name did not become well-known until years later.  In the reports at the time of the ascent, Tenzing Norgay Sherpa’s name was misspelled, if not completely misreported.  He was never mentioned in the headlines, and usually only acknowledged as a “guide” or a “porter.”

At some point during my high school years, when the subject of Everest came up, it occurred to me to ask about that porter whose name the newspapers couldn’t get straight.   My youthful heart became enraged that Tenzing Norgay received so little recognition when it seemed so obvious that Sir Edmund—brave and determined though he was—would never have made it to the top alone.  Tenzing was essential to the success of the expedition.  After I learned about him, I made it a sanctimonious point to remind anyone who spoke of Hillary that Sir Edmund did not travel solo.  I am sure my listeners though me obnoxious.

Last week, when sixteen of Norgay’s brother Sherpa mountaineers died in an avalanche, all that rage against injustice came back and inspired me to write this remembrance of a man who eventually received recognition, but never the flood of adulation that was heaped on the white man who was his partner in that great adventure.

On the 29^th of May 1953, Edmund Hillary, a New Zealand adventurer and Tenzing Norgay, a Nepalese Sherpa mountaineer, together reached the summit of the tallest mountain on earth.    Neither one of them ever revealed which of the two actually put the first boot on the peak.   Hillary got most of the credit.  But we can’t blame him for hogging the limelight.  He honored Tenzing and cited his enormous contribution.  Hillary had very good reason to do so, as you will soon learn.  The western world at large, however, looked upon the triumph over Everest as the accomplishment of man of Northern European descent.  Hillary was their hero.  They pictured his shorter, browner fellow traveler as not much more than a servant.

Let’s focus on that “porter” for a few minutes.

Tenzing Norgay was a Nepalese Sherpa born and brought up in the northeastern town of Tengboche, Khumbu.  His actually birthdate went unrecorded, but he knew he was born in the Tibetan Calendar’s Year of the Rabbit, which would have been 1914.  He also knew he was born in late May—so he took the date of May 29^th—the day he and Hillary reached the summit—as his birthday.  He was the 11^th of 13 children and one of few to survive.

His first opportunity to attempt Everest came in 1935.  Chosen for his attractive smile, he joined an expedition led by an Englishman, Eric Shipton.  During the 1930’s, he went up the mountain’s northern, Tibetan face with three ensuing British teams.  None succeeded.

During World War II, Tenzing worked in India as a batman for a Major Chapman.  There, his wife died and he eventually returned to Darjeeling with his two little daughters, escaping during the 1947 Indian partition by donning one of the Major’s old uniforms and crossing the continent by train without a ticket.

Once back in the mountains, he joined another unsuccessful attempt with a Canadian and another Sherpa.  A strong storm stopped them at 22,000 feet (6700 meters).  Tenzing continued to hone his mountaineering skills, with many achievements, including a daring rescue of a fellow member of a Swiss expedition and the first successful ascent of the Kedarnath peak in the western Himalayas.

In 1952, on another Swiss attempt, he and another climber reached 28,200 (8600 meters) on the south face of Everest.

Early the following year, he met Edmund Hillary on an expedition led by John Hunt.  Hillary nearly fell into a crevasse, but the quick-thinking Tenzing saved him by securing the rope to his ice ax.  After that Tenzing became Hillary’s partner of choice.

On the 28^th of May, Hunt directed Hillary and Norgay to try for the summit.   They made it up to 27,900 feet that day, spent the night in a tent, and went for the top the next morning.  Carrying 30 pounds of gear on their backs, wedging themselves up between the rock wall and the ice, their final step was to go straight up for 40 feet.   At 11:30 AM, they reached the peak of the highest place on earth: 29,028 feet (8848 meters).

Afterwards, while Tenzing was greeted with adulation in India and Nepal, the West’s honors went largely to Hillary.  He and also Hunt, who didn’t even make it to the top, were knighted by the Queen.  Tenzing Norgay had to settle for the George Medal.

He went on to become the first Director of Field Training at the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute.

Eventually Tenzing Norgay’s name even made a few appearances in popular culture: a mention in a song in Mel Brooks’ The Producers is one of a couple of instances.  If you have not known it before, I ask you to remember it now.

Just yesterday morning, National Geographic published an article about Sherpa mountaineers, called “The Invisible Men of Everest.  You can find it here:

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/special-features/2014/04/140426-sherpa-culture-everest-disaster/

The magazine must have been working on that piece long before last week’s tragedy, when the sixteen Sherpas died en masse and brought attention to their work, their courage, and their plight.