Educational Federal Credit Union

Name the Real World Companies, Associations, or Foundations with Impeccable Audit Reporting

How is personal data collected? There are several ways that an unauthorised person can try and collect your data. These include: •phishing •smishing •vishing •pharming. Phishing Phishing is when a person sends a legitimate looking email to a user. The email contains a link to a website that also looks legitimate. The user is encouraged to click the link and to input personal data into a form on the website. The email could also simply ask the user to reply to the email with their personal data. The user is tricked into giving their personal data to a source that they believe is legitimate. However, both the email and the linked website are from a fake unauthorised source. The personal data that is input is then collected by an unauthorised person. This person can then use this data for criminal acts, for example, to commit fraud or steal the person's identity. Intimidation has become a common feature of phishing emails, threatening the user that they must click the link and rectify a situation immediately, or there will be a further issue. The aim of a phishing attack is to steal the user's personal data. Figure 5.1: Phishing. A real-life example of phishing PayPal have been the subject of several different phishing emails. Users receive an email that looks as though it has been sent from PayPal, as it has the PayPal branding. The email normally warns of an issue such as unexpected activity on their account, or that some kind of verification of their account is required. The user is then asked to click a link to log into their account and resolve the issue. The link takes them to a webpage that looks like the PayPal login page. If the user inputs their login details into this page, they will not be taken to their account. It is often at this stage that the user may realise that the email and webpage are fake. However, they have already given the unauthorised person their PayPal login details. Figure 5.2: An example of a phishing email claiming to be from PayPal. How to recognise phishing There are several guidelines to be aware of regarding emails to avoid being subjected to phishing. These include: •Don't even open an email that is not from a sender that you recognise or a trusted source. •Legitimate companies will never ask you for your personal data using email. Be immediately suspicious of any email that requests your personal data. •Legitimate companies will normally address you by your name. Be suspicious of any email that addresses you as ‘Dear Member' or ‘Dear Customer'. •Legitimate companies will send an email that uses their domain name. If you hover your mouse over the sender's name, it will show the email address that the email is sent from. If this does not look legitimate, for example, does not contain the correct domain name, then it is probably fake. For example, if the sender's email is user@paypal1.com rather than user@paypal.com, this is from an incorrect domain name. •Legitimate companies are protective of their professional reputation and thoroughly check any communications. They will make sure that all information given is grammatically and correctly spelt. Be suspicious of any email that contains bad grammar or spelling mistakes. •A link in an email from a legitimate company will also normally contain the domain name of the company. You can sometimes hover over the link, or right click and inspect the link, to see the address of the URL that is attached. If the URL does not contain the domain name, or also contains typical errors such as spelling mistakes, then be suspicious of this. PRACTICAL ACTIVITY 5.02 Ask a friend or a member of your family if they have ever received an email that they believed was a phishing email. Ask them how they identified it was phishing. Ask them if they know all of the given guidelines for identifying phishing emails. Smishing Smishing (or SMS phishing) is a variant of phishing that uses SMS text messages to lure the user into providing their personal details. The user is sent an SMS text message that either contains a link to a website, in the same way that phishing does, or it will ask the user to call a telephone number to resolve an urgent issue. The same advice can be followed for smishing as given for phishing. The user must question at all times any links that are sent from an unknown or suspicious user. It is advisable that if a user believes the message may be legitimate, to type in the domain name for the legitimate company website into their web browser, rather than following the link in the message. Users should block any numbers that they believe are suspicious to prevent any further risk of smishing from that number. Figure 5.3: Smishing. Vishing Vishing (or voice phishing) has the same aim as phishing, to obtain a user's personal details. The user receives a telephone call that could either be an automated system or could be a real person. An automated voice could speak to the user and advise them that an issue has occurred, such as there has been suspicious activity regarding their bank account. The user may then be asked to call another number, or just to simply press a digit and be directed to another automated system. This system will ask them to provide their bank account details to resolve the issue. The bank account details have then been obtained by the unauthorised user and can be used to commit a crime against the user. The automated system could be replaced by a real person who will try to do the same thing. They will try to convince the user that there has been an issue with an account they have and to provide the log-in details or PIN for the account to verify who they are so the issue can be resolved. The precaution to take for vishing is that no company will ever call you and ask you to provide any log-in details or PIN details over the telephone. They may ask you to provide other personal information, and if you are in doubt that the person on the other end of the phone is legitimate, it is always advisable to put the phone down and call the company back on a legitimate number that you may already know or can obtain. Figure 5.4: Vishing. Pharming Pharming is when an unauthorised user installs malicious code on a person's hard drive or server. The malicious code is designed to redirect a user to a fake website when they type in the address of a legitimate one. The fake website is designed to look like the legitimate one, to trick the user and make sure they are not aware that their request has been redirected. The user will then enter their personal details into the fake website, believing it is the legitimate one, and the unauthorised person will now have their personal data. A common technique used in pharming is called domain name server (DNS) cache poisoning. This technique exploits vulnerabilities in the DNS and diverts the internet traffic intended for a legitimate server toward a fake one instead. The unauthorised user needs to find a way to install the malicious code on the computer. They often hide the malicious code in an email attachment or link. When the user opens the email attachment or clicks the link, the malicious code is downloaded also. Figure 5.5: Pharming. The aim of a pharming attack is also to steal a user's personal data. A real-life example of pharming In 2007 50 different companies all over the world were subject to a pharming attack, these included PayPal, eBay, Barclays bank and American Express. Over a three-day period, hackers managed to infect over 1000 PCs a day with a malicious pharming code. When users who had been infected visited the websites of the different companies, they were redirected to a legitimate-looking version of the site that was designed to steal their personal data. The original email, containing the malicious code, was set up to look like a shocking news story. Users were encouraged to click a link in the email to find out more information. The code was downloaded when the user clicked the link. This was quite a sophisticated attack that required legitimate looking websites to be set up for a large number of companies. It is not known how much money the hackers were able to retrieve as a result. How to prevent pharming All of the guidelines to avoid being subjected to phishing are also relevant for recognising pharming. There are also several other precautions that can be taken to check for pharming attacks. These include: •Have a firewall installed and operational. A firewall monitors incoming and outgoing traffic from your computer. It checks this traffic against set criteria and will flag and stop any traffic that does not meet the criteria. A firewall could detect and block suspicious traffic, such as a malicious code trying to enter your system. •Have an anti-virus program installed that is designed to detect malicious pharming code. You need to scan your computer on a regular basis to check for any malicious code. It is advisable to set up an automatic scan on a daily basis at a time when your computer will normally be switched on. •Be aware when using public Wi-Fi connections. A hacker could look to directly access your computer and install the malicious code if you are connected to a public Wi-Fi connection. It is often advisable to use a VPN when using public Wi-Fi. This will help shield your internet activity and personal details from a hacker, making it more difficult for them to access your computer. Smishing can also be used as a form of pharming. A user is sent a link, that when they click is designed to download malware onto their mobile device. Therefore, it is advisable to have security software installed on your mobile and also scan it regularly to detect any presence of malware.

“There’s No Such Thing as Sound Science” by By Christie Aschwanden was a lead science writer for FiveThirtyEight. FiveThirtyEight, Science, Dec. 6, 2017 Science is being turned against itself. For decades, its twin ideals of transparency and rigor have been weaponized by those who disagree with results produced by the scientific method. Under the Trump administration, that fight has ramped up again. In a move ostensibly meant to reduce conflicts of interest, Environmental Protection Agency Administrator Scott Pruitt has removed a number of scientists from advisory panels and replaced some of them with representatives from industries that the agency regulates. Like many in the Trump administration, Pruitt has also cast doubt on the reliability of climate science. For instance, in an interview with CNBC, Pruitt said that “measuring with precision human activity on the climate is something very challenging to do.” Similarly, Trump’s pick to head NASA, an agency that oversees a large portion the nation’s climate research, has insisted that research into human influence on climate lacks certainty, and he falsely claimed that “global temperatures stopped rising 10 years ago.” Kathleen Hartnett White, Trump’s nominee to head the White House Council on Environmental Quality, said in a Senate hearing last month that she thinks we “need to have more precise explanations of the human role and the natural role” in climate change. The same entreaties crop up again and again: We need to root out conflicts. We need more precise evidence. What makes these arguments so powerful is that they sound quite similar to the points raised by proponents of a very different call for change that’s coming from within science. This other movement strives to produce more robust, reproducible findings. Despite having dissimilar goals, the two forces espouse principles that look surprisingly alike: Science needs to be transparent. Results and methods should be openly shared so that outside researchers can independently reproduce and validate them. The methods used to collect and analyze data should be rigorous and clear, and conclusions must be supported by evidence. These are the arguments underlying an “open science” reform movement that was created, in part, as a response to a “reproducibility crisis” that has struck some fields of science.1 But they’re also used as talking points by politicians who are working to make it more difficult for the EPA and other federal agencies to use science in their regulatory decision-making, under the guise of basing policy on “sound science.” Science’s virtues are being wielded against it. What distinguishes the two calls for transparency is intent: Whereas the “open science” movement aims to make science more reliable, reproducible and robust, proponents of “sound science” have historically worked to amplify uncertainty, create doubt and undermine scientific discoveries that threaten their interests. “Our criticisms are founded in a confidence in science,” said Steven Goodman, co-director of the Meta-Research Innovation Center at Stanford and a proponent of open science. “That’s a fundamental difference — we’re critiquing science to make it better. Others are critiquing it to devalue the approach itself.” Calls to base public policy on “sound science” seem unassailable if you don’t know the term’s history. The phrase was adopted by the tobacco industry in the 1990s to counteract mounting evidence linking secondhand smoke to cancer. A 1992 Environmental Protection Agency report identified secondhand smoke as a human carcinogen, and Philip Morris responded by launching an initiative to promote what it called “sound science.” In an internal memo, Philip Morris vice president of corporate affairs Ellen Merlo wrote that the program was designed to “discredit the EPA report,” “prevent states and cities, as well as businesses from passing smoking bans” and “proactively” pass legislation to help their cause. The sound science tactic exploits a fundamental feature of the scientific process: Science does not produce absolute certainty. Contrary to how it’s sometimes represented to the public, science is not a magic wand that turns everything it touches to truth. Instead, it’s a process of uncertainty reduction, much like a game of 20 Questions. Any given study can rarely answer more than one question at a time, and each study usually raises a bunch of new questions in the process of answering old ones. “Science is a process rather than an answer,” said psychologist Alison Ledgerwood of the University of California, Davis. Every answer is provisional and subject to change in the face of new evidence. It’s not entirely correct to say that “this study proves this fact,” Ledgerwood said. “We should be talking instead about how science increases or decreases our confidence in something.” The tobacco industry’s brilliant tactic was to turn this baked-in uncertainty against the scientific enterprise itself. While insisting that they merely wanted to ensure that public policy was based on sound science, tobacco companies defined the term in a way that ensured that no science could ever be sound enough. The only sound science was certain science, which is an impossible standard to achieve. “Doubt is our product,” wrote one employee of the Brown & Williamson tobacco company in a 1969 internal memo. The note went on to say that doubt “is the best means of competing with the ‘body of fact’” and “establishing a controversy.” These strategies for undermining inconvenient science were so effective that they’ve served as a sort of playbook for industry interests ever since, said Stanford University science historian Robert Proctor. The sound science push is no longer just Philip Morris sowing doubt about the links between cigarettes and cancer. It’s also a 1998 action plan by the American Petroleum Institute, Chevron and Exxon Mobil to “install uncertainty” about the link between greenhouse gas emissions and climate change. It’s industry-funded groups’ late-1990s effort to question the science the EPA was using to set fine-particle-pollution air-quality standards that the industry didn’t want. And then there was the more recent effort by Dow Chemical to insist on more scientific certainty before banning a pesticide that the EPA’s scientists had deemed risky to children. Now comes a move by the Trump administration’s EPA to repeal a 2015 rule on wetlands protection by disregarding particular studies. (To name just a few examples.) Doubt merchants aren’t pushing for knowledge, they’re practicing what Proctor has dubbed “agnogenesis” — the intentional manufacture of ignorance. This ignorance isn’t simply the absence of knowing something; it’s a lack of comprehension deliberately created by agents who don’t want you to know, Proctor said.2 In the hands of doubt-makers, transparency becomes a rhetorical move. “It’s really difficult as a scientist or policy maker to make a stand against transparency and openness, because well, who would be against it?” said Karen Levy, researcher on information science at Cornell University. But at the same time, “you can couch everything in the language of transparency and it becomes a powerful weapon.” For instance, when the EPA was preparing to set new limits on particulate pollution in the 1990s, industry groups pushed back against the research and demanded access to primary data (including records that researchers had promised participants would remain confidential) and a reanalysis of the evidence. Their calls succeeded and a new analysis was performed. The reanalysis essentially confirmed the original conclusions, but the process of conducting it delayed the implementation of regulations and cost researchers time and money. Delay is a time-tested strategy. “Gridlock is the greatest friend a global warming skeptic has,” said Marc Morano, a prominent critic of global warming research and the executive director of ClimateDepot.com, in the documentary “Merchants of Doubt” (based on the book by the same name). Morano’s site is a project of the Committee for a Constructive Tomorrow, which has received funding from the oil and gas industry. “We’re the negative force. We’re just trying to stop stuff.” Some of these ploys are getting a fresh boost from Congress. The Data Quality Act (also known as the Information Quality Act) was reportedly written by an industry lobbyist and quietly passed as part of an appropriations bill in 2000. The rule mandates that federal agencies ensure the “quality, objectivity, utility, and integrity of information” that they disseminate, though it does little to define what these terms mean. The law also provides a mechanism for citizens and groups to challenge information that they deem inaccurate, including science that they disagree with. “It was passed in this very quiet way with no explicit debate about it — that should tell you a lot about the real goals,” Levy said. But what’s most telling about the Data Quality Act is how it’s been used, Levy said. A 2004 Washington Post analysis found that in the 20 months following its implementation, the act was repeatedly used by industry groups to push back against proposed regulations and bog down the decision-making process. Instead of deploying transparency as a fundamental principle that applies to all science, these interests have used transparency as a weapon to attack very particular findings that they would like to eradicate. Now Congress is considering another way to legislate how science is used. The Honest Act, a bill sponsored by Rep. Lamar Smith of Texas,3 is another example of what Levy calls a “Trojan horse” law that uses the language of transparency as a cover to achieve other political goals. Smith’s legislation would severely limit the kind of evidence the EPA could use for decision-making. Only studies whose raw data and computer codes were publicly available would be allowed for consideration. That might sound perfectly reasonable, and in many cases it is, Goodman said. But sometimes there are good reasons why researchers can’t conform to these rules, like when the data contains confidential or sensitive medical information.4 Critics, which include more than a dozen scientific organizations, argue that, in practice, the rules would prevent many studies from being considered in EPA reviews.5 It might seem like an easy task to sort good science from bad, but in reality it’s not so simple. “There’s a misplaced idea that we can definitively distinguish the good from the not-good science, but it’s all a matter of degree,” said Brian Nosek, executive director of the Center for Open Science. “There is no perfect study.” Requiring regulators to wait until they have (nonexistent) perfect evidence is essentially “a way of saying, ‘We don’t want to use evidence for our decision-making,’” Nosek said. Most scientific controversies aren’t about science at all, and once the sides are drawn, more data is unlikely to bring opponents into agreement. Michael Carolan, who researches the sociology of technology and scientific knowledge at Colorado State University, wrote in a 2008 paper about why objective knowledge is not enough to resolve environmental controversies. “While these controversies may appear on the surface to rest on disputed questions of fact, beneath often reside differing positions of value; values that can give shape to differing understandings of what ‘the facts’ are.” What’s needed in these cases isn’t more or better science, but mechanisms to bring those hidden values to the forefront of the discussion so that they can be debated transparently. “As long as we continue down this unabashedly naive road about what science is, and what it is capable of doing, we will continue to fail to reach any sort of meaningful consensus on these matters,” Carolan writes. The dispute over tobacco was never about the science of cigarettes’ link to cancer. It was about whether companies have the right to sell dangerous products and, if so, what obligations they have to the consumers who purchased them. Similarly, the debate over climate change isn’t about whether our planet is heating, but about how much responsibility each country and person bears for stopping it. While researching her book “Merchants of Doubt,” science historian Naomi Oreskes found that some of the same people who were defending the tobacco industry as scientific experts were also receiving industry money to deny the role of human activity in global warming. What these issues had in common, she realized, was that they all involved the need for government action. “None of this is about the science. All of this is a political debate about the role of government,” she said in the documentary. These controversies are really about values, not scientific facts, and acknowledging that would allow us to have more truthful and productive debates. What would that look like in practice? Instead of cherry-picking evidence to support a particular view (and insisting that the science points to a desired action), the various sides could lay out the values they are using to assess the evidence. For instance, in Europe, many decisions are guided by the precautionary principle — a system that values caution in the face of uncertainty and says that when the risks are unclear, it should be up to industries to show that their products and processes are not harmful, rather than requiring the government to prove that they are harmful before they can be regulated. By contrast, U.S. agencies tend to wait for strong evidence of harm before issuing regulations. Both approaches have critics, but the difference between them comes down to priorities: Is it better to exercise caution at the risk of burdening companies and perhaps the economy, or is it more important to avoid potential economic downsides even if it means that sometimes a harmful product or industrial process goes unregulated? In other words, under what circumstances do we agree to act on a risk? How certain do we need to be that the risk is real, and how many people would need to be at risk, and how costly is it to reduce that risk? Those are moral questions, not scientific ones, and openly discussing and identifying these kinds of judgment calls would lead to a more honest debate. Science matters, and we need to do it as rigorously as possible. But science can’t tell us how risky is too risky to allow products like cigarettes or potentially harmful pesticides to be sold — those are value judgements that only humans can make.

The following days are a jumble of gunfire, digging, gobbled food, soldiers running in and out of the forest in small groups, distant explosions, stray shells, bandaged heads and unexpected lulls. On the very first day, before dawn, I am ordered into one of the newly dug trenches. I huddle there, squeezing my magic buttons and singing songs to the dog. When the fighting stops, the dog disappears, but a new companion takes his place. A strange little soldier crawls along the trench toward me. ‘Private Sasha!’ he cries. ‘I’ve been looking for you all day long!’ He’s old, like a grandfather, a dedushka. He has a black patch over one eye, a tape measure around his neck and a row of pins threaded into his sleeve. Hanging from his belt is the most enormous pair of scissors I have ever seen and I wonder if he uses them as a weapon. He doesn’t tell me his name, so in my head he becomes Dedushka. Dedushka squats, cups his hand to his ear, peers over the top of the trench and smiles. ‘It’s safe to be upright . . . for now.’ He helps me to my feet, dusts me off and commands me to stand as tall and straight as I can. Then he measures me. Everything from head to toe – even my toes! He writes numbers in a little notebook, strings his tape measure back around his neck, salutes and hurries away. It’s all very strange, and I wonder if Dedushka has been bumped on the head during the battle and is now a little bit muddled. I should have given him a hug before he left. I chase after him but stop when I’m hit by a shovelful of flying dirt. Sleepy Bear is digging a cave! ‘Are you going to hibernate?’ I ask. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘No, although that would be wonderful! I could do with a lo-o-o-ong sleep.’ He sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn’t open them again and I realise that he has gone to sleep. Standing up! I shake his arm, and he opens his eyes and keeps talking. ‘No, I’m not hibernating. I’m digging a little nook where I can sleep and eat. I’ll hang up my raincape as a door that can open and close so it feels just like a real home . . . except for the lice . . . and the bad smells . . . and the bombs that make the walls shake and crumble.’ He points further along the trench to where other soldiers are digging. ‘We’re all making little houses in the ground.’ ‘Like rabbits and moles,’ I say. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘Yes! And soldiers who need to hide from German bullets and bombs.’ He stops digging to roll a cigarette. ‘Should I be making a house?’ I ask. ‘I want to hide from German bullets and bombs, too.’ Sleepy Bear flops to the ground, lights his cigarette, closes his eyes and takes a deep puff. I wait for him to answer, but, instead, he begins to snore! I poke him in the side. He snorts and he murmurs, ‘I think someone has already built you a house, Sasha. Keep going along this beautiful village street and you are sure to find it.’ He falls asleep once more. I kiss his dusty cheek and whisper, ‘Thank you, Sleepy Bear.’ A little way along, I see Cook in a cloud of smoke. He has lit a fire, right here in the middle of the trench, and is stirring a cauldron full of kasha. He squats as he stirs. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Cooking supper, of course!’ he cries. ‘But why are you doing it here?’ Cook points his spoon at the ground above the trenches. ‘Because if I do it up there, my pot will be filled with holes from German bullets and all of the kasha will leak out onto the ground. It’s bad enough that our supplies can’t get through German lines and there’s nothing to cook but buckwheat for kasha. But if we lost the kasha, too . . .’ ‘Hungry soldiers,’ I say. Cook nods. ‘And grumpy!’ ‘Like Boris!’ I gasp. ‘Even worse,’ warns Cook. I picture the kasha pot full of bullet holes. And then I realise that if the kasha pot were full of holes, then Cook would be, too. I wrap my arms around Cook’s neck and say, ‘I think this is a very good place for cooking our supper.’ I kiss his smoky cheek and run along. At the end of the trench, I find the biggest hole of all. It’s wide and deep and as busy as a beehive in a blossom tree. Above, a group of soldiers is rolling logs into place for a roof, while below, typewriters rattle and pencils scratch and papers flutter and voices crackle out of five different radios. Their words tangle together to tell a strange wartime fairy tale about German guns and a loving father called Stalin and a Red Army regiment that is lost in the deep, dark forest and a wicked beast called Hitler and a delivery of vegetables that was hit by a bomb and blown into a million tiny pieces too small even to make soup. In the middle of it all, wrestling with a rumpled map, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, is Major Scruff. ‘Major Scruff!’ I run and jump into his arms. ‘Is this our new home?’ ‘Yes, Sasha. I suppose it is.’ ‘Is it safe from German bullets and bombs?’ I ask. He stares at me. ‘Were you scared in the trenches today, Sasha?’ ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I had magic buttons and a dog and some songs to sing. Were you scared in the forest, Major Scruff?’ ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Poor Major Scruff!’ I press my hand against his cheek. The dark, rough stubble is grubby with grit and his eyelids are taking a long time to open after every blink. ‘You need a shave and a nap!’ I scold. He chuckles. ‘I am too tired to shave and too busy to nap.’ I scrunch my nose while I consider his problem. ‘I know!’ I cry. ‘You nap and I will shave your whiskers. That will be two jobs tumbled into one!’ And so that’s what we do. Major Scruff slumps into a chair and snoozes while I lather his face with soapy water and shave his whiskers. The soap suds travel from his face, up into his hair and down the front of his uniform, and I have to shave his jaw and chin three times because I keep missing bits, but I finally get it all done. I am just wiping his cheeks dry when the dog appears. He licks my hand, then stretches up and licks soap suds from Major Scruff’s ear. Major Scruff wakes with a start. He feels his newly shaved face and cries, ‘Wonderful, Sasha! I feel smooth, clean, rested and ready for action.’ He ruffles my hair. ‘We must do this again tomorrow. Although next time, you might wake me with a gentle shake of the shoulder instead of licking my ear.’

“On this night, we share a roof protecting us from fleets of inequity. Our unification promises a better tomorrow. Those larger than myself, sitting on their marble thrones, sipping blood from cups composed of human skin and singing songs of so-called virtue, grow weaker each moment. Their caravans are revolting. There is hope yet. There is progress! Though tonight may mark a countdown, it is still a celebration. Look at all we have done, not just for Trials but for Palatium Infra as a whole. In four years, when I’m no longer Sovereignty, the Spoiled Purity and his people will continue to strive. So drink! Smoke! Crush up those exotic plants and snort them! We will not falter, weaken, or wane. Our influence is expanding, and somebody new opens their eyes every day. Even the Silbys of Aculeus have reached alarming potentials despite their embittered minds. So long as you relish in tonight, dance, and pray to your “dead” Gods, our revolution shall rise beyond the bounds of class, and when I’m only a commoner, we shall rise again beyond our brainwashed adversaries! Cheers, my people. Cheers!” Followers raised their cups. Some clinked theirs together. Others stood still and screamed breathlessly in agreement. I smiled with courtesy, then stepped off my platform. My voice still rang across the cellar. Speeches before were grander. Those displays were supposed to be emptying, and yet this one left me bloated, swollen tight. I watched as they popped the corks of their bottles and chanted in the name of Purity. Maybe the quality of my words wasn’t what mattered to them anyway, so long as I screamed loud enough. There’s no merit in attacking your people, a voice corrected me. “That’s right,” I said aloud. “Knox, my-my Sovereign!” squealed a nearby devotee, jittering as he stuffed his face with catered pastries. He was one I’d never seen before or had failed to remember. “Look what I’ve found! It’s wine, and not the shoddy Infran kind, either. Earth-made with good fruit! I don’t know how anyone managed to get their hands on this. Maybe some space travel mischief.” He giggled and held up a small glass bottle. “How neat.” “I want you to have it, Sir.” I nodded my head. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Backing off into the midst of rowdy disciples, I clutched the bottle. What a waste of grapes. It could have been jam instead. Earthly food had a superior taste, ripe with delicate intricacies and nostalgia, but Palatium Infra had mastered the art of alcohol. Why waste your time with a drunkenness so sad and sickening? The booze of trash. Not many more followers approached me. The barren peroration must have upset them. My hands itched to submerge into my suit pockets, and my legs stood suddenly numb, wobbling. Four more years until I’m nothing. But tonight, you are nothing. “Shut up,” I told myself. Tightly packed together in the corner of the dwelling sat the Sibyls. A mound of writhing fabric and tones of skin made up their unified silhouette. I snapped the strap of the nearest gown, balancing on my hands and knees, waving the bottle before them. In their almost rodent nature, narrow noses prodded my way. Their dresses wrinkled and fell to their ankles. Knees dropped, and eyes widened. Many grumbled at me like hungry she-beasts. Those newer ones with faded curtains for hair, sunken eyes, and dirtied nails looked, hid their face, then sobbed. I imagined them in a pack together, fighting wildly against the Spoiled Purity in their rat decorum–biting down with square teeth laced with rabies. “I’ve got you all something,” I said. “Go back off to your pedestal and yap some more. We don’t want it.” A woman rose from the pile and spat. “You don’t even know what it is yet. It's Earth hooch, or more likely a near-flawless replica. I figured you girls would also like a chance to enjoy yourselves tonight.” “Your playmates have been harassing us since the moment you hung the banners and opened the cellar door.” The youngest, with a striking cyan mop upon her head, uncoiled from the mass. What was she now? 20, 21? We celebrated a birthday recently, I thought as she spun around me. “I remember something about a promise. Multiple promises, actually. Are you trying to bribe us into just shutting up and taking it? Because if another sticky, 40-year-old, Earth-born virgin gropes my shoulder, I’m going to have an aneurysm!” the girl continued. “Why not an Infran follower? Do you like it when they touch you?” I returned her accusing tone. “I’m sorry, sweet prophets, that you feel I’ve neglected my duties. I’ll keep a better eye out. Remember, you can always just holler if somebody is bothering you. And Anwen, friend, if I’ve ever tried to bribe you with anything, it was certainly the hair dye. I mean, look at you! Such handsomeness!” I exclaimed. The other Siblys began to encircle her, uttering compliments or even announcements of their envy. Anwen disappeared in a wink with flushed cheeks back into the mound. “I’ll just leave this here.” Smiling, I set down the bottle. ** “141, 143. . .” I counted each step as I trekked the staircase. There was no doubt I lost track somewhere. The ledges kept spawning under my feet, infinitely multiplying until I wasn’t moving at all–swallowing me up in a whirlpool of stone. My tie still hung around my neck, and my blazer remained tied around my hips as a skirt. Streaks of red dribbled off from the cavity in my chest. It was a gorgeous marking, sensual to my fingertips as I traced its edges. Purity, oh, Purity. Purity and his wings of burnt skin. Purity and his many faces. Purity the spoiled. Purity the mutilated. The Silbys did not bother waiting for me. On bare feet, they stormed up the stairs to their room. A trail of red, though in paint unlike mine, streamed after them. None looked remotely near me as they squeaked and gossiped intangibly. I saved them, those Infran broads, enlightened them. As much as they liked to deny it, spit at me, and bask in the thought of their victimhood, in this home, they stood empowered. You’ve done well, my thoughts affirmed, though in the manner of an insincere commentator rather than a hype man. Teeth grace in tile violin goes laundry paper when. It dissolved into an intruding drivel. I rubbed my head and sniveled. “Do you need help, Knox?” called a Silby. Fattened by my coddling, her shadow fell upon me from the doorway steps ahead. I attempted counting again. There must’ve been at least another hundred between me and her. “I’m hallucinating some,” I said, breathing deeply to suppress a burp as I struggled to recall her name. Two syllables. Typically Latin, though sometimes English. Drops of slobber leaked from my mouth. “I’m hallucinating some, Tybal. Do you like your name, Tybal? I would have named you something better. Ty-Tyballinia. No, we’d have to eliminate the ‘ball’ aspect. It sounds too crude.” “One foot in front of the other,” she said. So I walked. Mess greeted me at the doorway. Dirtied culinary obscured the dark wooden countertops, and the sink lay running. I approached the kitchen table, sat, and set my face down upon its cool wooden surface. Assaulting my nose was the smell of neglected flowers, like soil mixed with the kind of sweet cough medicine that would have left me gagging as a child. Open windows whispered songs of the twilight hour through the vessels of busy trolleys and shooting guns. My mouth strained to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach to regurgitate except the petals of Stulto’s bloom, which came out effortlessly in little sputters. Teetering, I stood up and brushed disgorged plant parts off the tabletop. “Love,” I said as I slogged up yet another staircase. “Are you awake?” She said she’d wait. Somebody’s gotten her. No, she always misses movie night. That sleepyhead, I assured myself. There was a stirring amidst the manor’s cloak of dusk. Portraits of myself, my wife, and my daughter turned to face me as the hallway lights flickered, escaping their quartz frames to penetrate my ears with nonsense. The taxidermied heads of Infran creatures bared their teeth. I stopped to stare at my favorite, an adabactor with daunting spiked tusks poking out from its forehead. Its nose remained black and sharp, and its eyes wide with malice. “Where is my Spes, Adaba-boy? Is she sleepy?” There’s someone in the house. The sounds of the stirring rose along with my blood pressure. Footsteps orbited around me, drawing near and far and then near again, little dancers in the dark. The carpet immersed me in its mass of purples and blues, leaving my skin stained indigo and my vision abstracted. I toiled to reach the master bedroom across the aisle as it stretched out to me with bright lights and celestial howling, like a dove struggling in a pool of oil. Never again with Stulto’s bloom. Never again on what was already a bad night. My hand brushed the doorknob, and the high abruptly faded into only a persistent hum-buzz twirling around my brain. The portraits returned to their typical depression–Spes posing with her ax, Ari’s school photo, and myself in the cap I wore when addressing the military with the Verbis emblem embroidered in its center. All lifeless shots. Who were they for when they captured not the subject’s essence but only some fragment of their identity? They used to feel personal, not advertisements of some supposed characters. Servants, babysitters, and likewise civilian guests, I reminded myself, mustn’t forget whose home they’re in. Yet my body moved independently, taking Ari’s from its hook and laying it backward against the wall to hide her distant grin and tamed posture. It was time for new pictures. Sweet ones, real ones; time was ticking. I approached my own when the stirring began again. Groans and squeals erupted from the vents as if someone had set a pen of pigs loose in my crawlspace. No, not the crawlspace, my bedroom door. I turned the ruby knob. Underneath a blanket wrestled my two squealing piglets, their skins melting together beneath the layer of duvet. Fishnet leggings and manicured nails outstretched and scraped at the sheet beneath them. One raised its head, a salmon-colored man with sweat running down his forehead. Through the crack in the door, we met eyes, his Infran Dr. Sesuss nose flaring its narrow nostrils. No mark of the Spoiled Purity existed carved onto his naked body. My chest felt tight. I stepped back. I was suffocating. Spes emerged from the linens, her hair flowing down her back and her dark skin glistening in front of the bedroom window. She giggled and held the man, the blanket falling and revealing inches of her body I had not seen in months. “Darling,” whispered the rosy-faced man, “look.” He was unfathomably ugly and grotesquely young, with beady, lifeless pupils that dilated when he faced me. The excess flesh on his face sagged while he bit down on his thin lips. My wife faced me, gasped, and strained to cover herself. Suddenly, I was a stranger. A small child who had walked into his parents having sex. I unfurled the door completely. “Get out of my house,” I said. The man stayed in place. “Get out of my house,” I repeated. “Knox,” Spes began. Tears ran down her round cheeks. “Shut up!” I turned to the man, picking up a marble trophy from on top of my dresser. “Get out of my house! I’ll kill you!” “Knox!” Spes sobbed. “God damn it! I hate you! You barely look at me. Every day, there’s less passion. God, God, God, I don’t want to fuck a dead man!” she screamed, “You get out! Get! Get!” My hands wrapped tighter around the statue. That pig of a man was attached to her at the side, his face equipped with a scowl that challenged mine. He thought I was weak; frail like a decaying dementia-ridden senior. I imagined his skull bashed in, his scowl gone, and the feist and confidence in his face beaten into numbness. A new portrait was in order of such brutality, him as a splintered slab of wood, rashed and beaten, a carcass licking my boot. The churning in my brain had come back. Every wall shook. Clock faces came to life and rang in alarm. Indescribable noises caressed my eardrum before breaking into sorrowful weeps. Was it my own? I stared at Spes in motionless frenzy, clenched my teeth, and screamed like a siren. Passionless. What a lie! An excuse, more like. One that erased all my ventures, reducing me to a nobody. But I was not a nobody. I thought of my sect, my campaigns, my endurance through the political brutality of my empty hive-mind world–even my collection of literature, maps, and artifacts. I thought of daring nights alone with Spes when we were young, ravaging each other, two sardonic eggheads suddenly overcome with desire. The veins in my neck throbbed as I gasped for air. It was all I had. I threw the figurine at the man’s head. Eye shut, I heard the thud. A million singing voices of victory flooded out of the cracks in the floorboard. Proving myself a man to the woman I loved in a display of fervent violence was passion. I strained my ears for his cries, though I did not look yet. There had to be a pause, a moment of relief, where I stood tall as a skyscraper and seemingly fought to stay contained in front of my wife and her wounded, quivering paramour. Frantic footsteps rushed off the bed and past my side. I turned and grappled against myself to seize my wife’s shoulder. “Spes!” My eyelids lifted. Escaping was the man with that same numb expression in which I had imagined him. “You’re insane,” he said. I swiveled back towards the bed. With her curly locks flowing over her breasts and her limbs bent at her sides, Spes sat limp pressed against the headboard, her forehead bludgeoned and the statue resting on her stomach. Lips pursed and sweet, my Renaissance beauty reclined there in the guise of a squashed bug. But she was not dead. The desk ornament I flung was only the size of my shoe. Spes, that dramatist, may have been slightly hurt but was far from dead. She only wanted me to think she was to observe me at my most distraught, like a leech feeding on misery. “Get up.” Staggering toward the bed, I said. “You wanted passion? I showed you passion. ‘Shoved it right into your head. Of course, we both know who that gesture was meant for. . .” I fumbled to find my wit. Cold skin met my hands as I stroked her face, unable to resist checking her pulse, even though she was not dead. “I love you, Spes,” I said. Rain pelted against a nearby window. “Spes, please. Please.” No vibration answered my plea. I lifted my hand, sitting next to her now. Tears did not come. There was not any blood on the trophy, but when I picked it up, it felt to be now only a cruel instrument. It depicted a younger me in white marble, with my glasses and collared shirt being the only things painted. Both were in pink. It was a favorable color. I scrambled from the bed to vomit pure digestive bile on the rug. My stomach heaved. I ran my nails along every piece of myself I saw, a dog chasing my tail. As I slammed myself against walls and convulsed, my own heart grew ever louder in my chest. “Dad? I heard–” Ari’s slippered feet hammered across the floor. “Mom? Mom?” I kept my eyes on the storm. Silence fell. “She-She isn’t—your—.” Gasps interrupted every syllable she spoke. “You’re a murderer. Bad. Like they said,” she breathed, “ You beat her!” The words became mush, alphabet soup. Ari ran back down the hall. “My-My mom is dead. . . .Yes. . . Manor of the Trials Sovereignty. . .Ari Sorkin. . . I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me,” she said, presumably over the phone. It was all too fast. I crawled onto the windowsill, opened the glass, and let myself plummet into the alley below. Gusts of wind howled. The lack of motion or sensation informed me I had passed and again lived. Another Palatium Infra, another strange planet in which the celestial endowed rotting men with the opportunity to inhabit. Was this it? Was it all just an impossible limbo of galactic traveling? My surroundings were overwhelmingly gray, an abyss of clouds. Perhaps I had now met the real coming world, and my family and old friends lived here, ready to rush to my sides, lift me up, and jump for joy. Spes would be there. She would be enraged, but at least she’d be there. You are a bad man. You are a bad man. My eyelashes fluttered. There was a tugging sensation in my leg. The fog was wavering along with my ascendance. “No,” I yearned, trying to grip the clouds and stick them in place. “Stay with me.” But the peace was fleeting. I felt the cement under me and the moist garments clinging to my figure. My leg burned. Carefully, I craned my neck, only to observe the promenade as my surroundings. The most underwhelming of filth and danger, individually Infran. Forever my coming world. What a fool I was, having forgotten my blessing. Those idiot Gods could not tell the difference between assassination and self-infliction; a faulty insurance plan. The urge to cry at last set over me, and so I sat and wailed hot salvia into my palm, shielding my mouth to muffle the noise. Thunder echoed my hushed howling. Raindrops turned to pebbles. Under the ambiance of the stormy night, I could have sworn I heard troops stomping, guns cocking, and the chanting of my name. They had all been waiting for this. Billboards came to life, and I could only sit and spectate as the scenery flashed red. I inhaled fear and sobriety through runny nostrils. “Trials Sovereign Vsevolod “Knox” Sorkin is currently at large for the suspected homicide of Spes Sorkin, breaking the first term of the Sovereignty Charter. We now instruct you to report any sightings of the Earth-born, caucasian, roughly 195 centimeters tall, brown-haired, and brown-eyed man to your local Guard post. One can identify the suspected convict specifically by an occult tattoo of Purity’s Coronet on his lower back. No attempted execution or elongated punishment will take place until our Guards conduct an autopsy proving his guilt, per Life’s 1238 commandment. We cannot be sure when or if the Gods will revoke his blessing. Remember, when Gods frown upon strife, opt for a peaceful life. We permit all grieving festivities until Cagidus 4th. Good year!” towering buildings sang out in broadcast, repeating that same convoluted message quicker the instant it ended. Sometimes, the announcer spoke in Latin for the Infran children, other times in Chinese, Hindi, or Spanish to cater to those of irrelevant tongues. You aren’t a bad man. You are a stupid boy. Puddles sloshed. Somebody was approaching. I didn’t dare waste any remaining energy avoiding the Guards and their prodding blades. How did that phrase go? You dug your grave. Now lie in it. And so I embraced the cement. “Knox?” said the Guard. No, her tone was too sincere, and no authority would proceed in such a manner. There wasn’t confirmation on whether or not I was armed, and it wasn’t as if she could shoot me first. She was a partygoer, having just left from the cellar’s backdoor. I shooed her away with my hand. She hovered, and I discerned her shadow hesitating over my body. A man could not rot in peace. “Come on, get up! They’re after you!” Hands reached around my torso, struggling to handle my weight as they urged me onto my feet. That leg, the burning one, my right, trembled and bent unnaturally upon impact with the ground. The partygoer slung my arm over her shoulder, balancing me. My eyes caught a glimpse of a cyan mop. “Anwen?” I rasped, “hu-who let you out?” Keys jangled in her hands–my keys. “I escaped,” she said casually, coercing me to walk beside her. “Quicken your pace. I just heard somebody on your front porch. ‘You see that compost bin down the alley? We’re gonna burrow right down into the depth of that. If they open it and uncover us, I’ll be on top, and I can hide you and act like I’m just a homeless amica trying to take a nap.” With a tightening grip, she led me like livestock to the stinking crate. “I don’t understand, Anwen,” I said. “They’re going to torture and kill you, stupid. You know they’ve been wanting to, and you just handed the opportunity to them!” “I understand that.” It was becoming increasingly challenging to hide the fragility emerging in my voice. “You said you were escaping. Why stop and help your captor?” “What else could I do? Leave you there?” Attempts to shove my wounded body inside its mass of discarded fruits and vegetables began. She yanked down upon my head and submerged me in the fertilizer sea. The evidence grows indisputable, I thought as I stared at the abruptly humane Infran girl, diving in after me, that I belong here. “Damn me to hell! I’ve killed her! My love is dead!” an uncontrollable cry leaped from my mouth. “Shut up! Soon you’ll be, too, if you don’t quiet down.” The actual noise of the Guards darted past us: disorientated marching, guns clanking against each other, cluttered belts rattling, the Latin squawking. One paused to open the bin’s lid, though only rummaged through the surface layer of peat before carrying on. “What are they talking about? I struggle with my Latin,” I whispered. “The search, mainly.” Aggression remained firey in Anwen’s clenched jaw. Though she sat on top of me, there was a monumental distance between our rain-soaked forms. I curled up into a ball, ducked my head between my knees, and dreamt of Spes, ignoring the stench of spoiled food rising from every crevice of my dwelling. The next coming world was due to adopt me again as I forced sleep. I prayed for a canyon of fluffy haze, where I waltzed with pale memories but found nothing but the petrifying stillness of my mind. Killed and ran. Violent as a Guard just to prove a point and watch it backfire. Why would any heaven want to welcome me? I clung to the picture of Spes in my head like it was the last ember of an extinguished flame. “Did you mean to kill her?” Anwen interrogated. “Someone like you would immutably believe yes.” “And who is someone like me? You can’t even treat me like a person for a moment, can you?” grating drama decorated her words. “You know my opinions. I have not seen much of your or your breed’s faces besides that of cruelty and ignorance.” I retorted. “I just saved you! Does that make me cruel and ignorant?” “It makes you an idiot, which is another word for somebody ignorant.” “And why am I an idiot?” She asked. “Because you helping me does no good. Thank you anyhow. Now, do yourself a favor and scram.” As she bent her leg in anticipation, preparing to strike me on the forehead, I sensed an invisible withdrawal widening the gap between us. “You never answered my question,” Anwen took me by the end of my tattered tie suddenly and started her game of shepherd and sheep over again, pulling me back up to the crate’s exit. It appeared as a shining light at the end of a maze of rubbish and mold. “No. Of course not. Spes was my everything,” I sniffled. “I knew it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hit us, let alone murder your wife. The girls and I always figured you were sensitive.” My heart rate quickened. Today was one of humbling and misery–one to pray a hail spike would fall from the sky as sharp as a needle, pierce into my eyelid, and lobotomize me. I wished I could have merely died or hit my head hard enough not to have to deal with it all. No, I wished I was Anwen with her snarky, careless glow and lack of depth in her eyes. As we emerged from the compost bin together, I fantasized about strangling her until her face turned purple, her weakening spirit no longer categorizing me as “sensitive”, but the thought could only remind me of wielding that trophy and the microscopic traces of my wife’s tender skin tainting it, which turned my guts inside out. “That’s why I think you could use a little help,” Anwen said, “It seems like you can’t walk, either. Your leg is all twisted up.” She undid one of her trim pigtails and handed me the band. “Take off your tie and put up your hair. ‘Will make you less recognizable. Then swallow your pride and stick with me.”

Element Definition Example from Text Theme Main message or lesson Be yourself; self-acceptance Tone Author’s attitude toward the subject Encouraging, humorous Diction Word choice Weird, perfect, brave Denotation Literal meaning of a word Weird = unusual Connotation Emotional meaning of a word Weird = negative or unique Allusion Reference to another literary or cultural work Harry Potter, The Last Battle Genre Type of writing Letter Writer Author Letter writer to her teen self Title Name of the text Just Be Yourself Dear Teen Me, Psst! Hey! You in the corner of the library with your nose stuck in a book. Yes, you. Don’t recognize me without that awful perm, do you? (Remind me again why you thought that was a good idea?) Anyway, I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you for a minute, but we need to talk. Don’t worry about the “no talking in the library” rule. I’m sure we’ll be fine. Librarians aren’t as bad as they seem. Judging from the hair and braces I’d have to guess you’re in your junior year. Yes? Thought so. I’d forgotten how many lonely lunch hours you spent in the school library. You have some friends in the cafeteria that you could sit with, but you don’t feel like you really fit in, do you? That’s why you joined every school club you could. I just counted and you’re in eighteen, not to mention the numerous after-school activities you’re involved in. I mean honestly, you joined the ROTC.1 You don’t even like ROTC! And I won’t even bother bringing up that time you tried ballet. I’m still having nightmares about the fifth position! Let me ask you, how’s it all working out? Not very well, am I right? By spending so much time trying to find yourself, you’re slowly losing yourself. We don’t all have one single rock-star talent, and honestly, I think those of us who don’t are the lucky ones. Life isn’t about finding the one thing you’re good at and never doing anything else; it’s about exploring yourself and finding out who you really are on your own terms and in your own way. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to do that. Oh, don’t be so down in the dumps about it. You’ll eventually find something you’re good at, I promise. It’s a long, winding road to get there, but you’ll find it. Being able to spend all day doing what you love (or one of the things that you love) is the most amazing feeling in the world. And no, I won’t tell you what it is, so don’t even ask me. Just remember to always be yourself, because there’s nobody else who can do it for you. I think E. E. Cummings put it best when he said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” Looks like the bell is about to ring so I’ll leave you to your book. What are you reading, anyway? Oh, The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis. I should have guessed. You should give those Harry Potter books a try. I saw you roll your eyes! I know they seem like just another fad, but trust me, they’re better than you think. They’ve got a real future! finding out who you really are on your own terms and in your own way. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to do that. Oh, don’t be so down in the dumps about it. You’ll eventually find something you’re good at, I promise. It’s a long, winding road to get there, but you’ll find it. Being able to spend all day doing what you love (or one of the things that you love) is the most amazing feeling in the world. And no, I won’t tell you what it is, so don’t even ask me. Just remember to always be yourself, because there’s nobody else who can do it for you. I think E. E. Cummings put it best when he said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” Looks like the bell is about to ring so I’ll leave you to your book. What are you reading, anyway? Oh, The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis. I should have guessed. You should give those Harry Potter books a try. I saw you roll your eyes! I know they seem like just another fad, but trust me, they’re better than you think. They’ve got a real future! i need you to tell me how can i start this text and i need you to add these essential questions: What are some milestones on the path to gr owing up?, What makes an experience memorable? What makes it life changing? and then Denotation, Connotation, Allusions, Diction, Tone, Genre, Writer, Title, Theme in a table and i need u to add definitions for each one and extract examples from the text

When it was his turn to speak, Adam Malik, Presidium Minister for Political Affairs and Minister for Foreign Affairs of Indonesia, recalled that about a year before, in Bangkok, at the conclusion of the peace talks between Indonesia and Malaysia, he had explored the idea of an organization such as ASEAN with his Malaysian and Thai counterparts. One of the “angry young men” in his country’s struggle for independence two decades earlier, Adam Malik was then 50 years old and one of a Presidium of five led by then General Soeharto that was steering Indonesia from the verge of economic and political chaos. He was the Presidium’s point man in Indonesia’s efforts to mend fences with its neighbors in the wake of an unfortunate policy of confrontation. During the past year, he said, the Ministers had all worked together toward the realization of the ASEAN idea, “making haste slowly, in order to build a new association for regional cooperation.” Adam Malik went on to describe Indonesia’s vision of a Southeast Asia developing into “a region which can stand on its own feet, strong enough to defend itself against any negative influence from outside the region.” Such a vision, he stressed, was not wishful thinking, if the countries of the region effectively cooperated with each other, considering their combined natural resources and manpower. He referred to differences of outlook among the member countries, but those differences, he said, would be overcome through a maximum of goodwill and understanding, faith and realism. Hard work, patience and perseverance, he added, would also be necessary. The countries of Southeast Asia should also be willing to take responsibility for whatever happens to them, according to Tun Abdul Razak, the Deputy Prime Minister of Malaysia, who spoke next. In his speech, he conjured a vision of an ASEAN that would include all the countries of Southeast Asia. Tun Abdul Razak was then concurrently his country’s Minister of Defence and Minister of National Development. It was a time when national survival was the overriding thrust of Malaysia’s relations with other nations and so as Minister of Defence, he was in charge of his country’s foreign affairs. He stressed that the countries of the region should recognize that unless they assumed their common responsibility to shape their own destiny and to prevent external intervention and interference, Southeast Asia would remain fraught with danger and tension. And unless they took decisive and collective action to prevent the eruption of intra-regional conflicts, the nations of Southeast Asia would remain susceptible to manipulation, one against another. “We the nations and peoples of Southeast Asia,” Tun Abdul Razak said, “must get together and form by ourselves a new perspective and a new framework for our region. It is important that individually and jointly we should create a deep awareness that we cannot survive for long as independent but isolated peoples unless we also think and act together and unless we prove by deeds that we belong to a family of Southeast Asian nations bound together by ties of friendship and goodwill and imbued with our own ideals and aspirations and determined to shape our own destiny”. He added that, “with the establishment of ASEAN, we have taken a firm and a bold step on that road”. For his part, S. Rajaratnam, a former Minister of Culture of multi-cultural Singapore who, at that time, served as its first Foreign Minister, noted that two decades of nationalist fervor had not fulfilled the expectations of the people of Southeast Asia for better living standards. If ASEAN would succeed, he said, then its members would have to marry national thinking with regional thinking. “We must now think at two levels,” Rajaratnam said. “We must think not only of our national interests but posit them against regional interests: that is a new way of thinking about our problems. And these are two different things and sometimes they can conflict. Secondly, we must also accept the fact, if we are really serious about it, that regional existence means painful adjustments to those practices and thinking in our respective countries. We must make these painful and difficult adjustments. If we are not going to do that, then regionalism remains a utopia.” S. Rajaratnam expressed the fear, however, that ASEAN would be misunderstood. “We are not against anything”, he said, “not against anybody”. And here he used a term that would have an ominous ring even today: balkanization. In Southeast Asia, as in Europe and any part of the world, he said, outside powers had a vested interest in the balkanization of the region. “We want to ensure,” he said, “a stable Southeast Asia, not a balkanized Southeast Asia. And those countries who are interested, genuinely interested, in the stability of Southeast Asia, the prosperity of Southeast Asia, and better economic and social conditions, will welcome small countries getting together to pool their collective resources and their collective wisdom to contribute to the peace of the world.” The goal of ASEAN, then, is to create, not to destroy. This, the Foreign Minister of Thailand, Thanat Khoman, stressed when it was his turn to speak. At a time when the Vietnam conflict was raging and American forces seemed forever entrenched in Indochina, he had foreseen their eventual withdrawal from the area and had accordingly applied himself to adjusting Thailand’s foreign policy to a reality that would only become apparent more than half a decade later. He must have had that in mind when, on that occasion, he said that the countries of Southeast Asia had no choice but to adjust to the exigencies of the time, to move toward closer cooperation and even integration. Elaborating on ASEAN objectives, he spoke of “building a new society that will be responsive to the needs of our time and efficiently equipped to bring about, for the enjoyment and the material as well as spiritual advancement of our peoples, conditions of stability and progress. Particularly what millions of men and women in our part of the world want is to erase the old and obsolete concept of domination and subjection of the past and replace it with the new spirit of give and take, of equality and partnership. More than anything else, they want to be master of their own house and to enjoy the inherent right to decide their own destiny …” While the nations of Southeast Asia prevent attempts to deprive them of their freedom and sovereignty, he said, they must first free themselves from the material impediments of ignorance, disease and hunger. Each of these nations cannot accomplish that alone, but by joining together and cooperating with those who have the same aspirations, these objectives become easier to attain. Then Thanat Khoman concluded: “What we have decided today is only a small beginning of what we hope will be a long and continuous sequence of accomplishments of which we ourselves, those who will join us later and the generations to come, can be proud. Let it be for Southeast Asia, a potentially rich region, rich in history, in spiritual as well as material resources and indeed for the whole ancient continent of Asia, the light of happiness and well-being that will shine over the uncounted millions of our struggling peoples.” The Foreign Minister of Thailand closed the inaugural session of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations by presenting each of his colleagues with a memento. Inscribed on the memento presented to the Foreign Minister of Indonesia, was the citation, “In recognition of services rendered by His Excellency Adam Malik to the ASEAN organization, the name of which was suggested by him.” And that was how ASEAN was conceived, given a name, and born. It had been barely 14 months since Thanat Khoman brought up the ASEAN idea in his conversations with his Malaysian and Indonesian colleagues. In about three more weeks, Indonesia would fully restore diplomatic relations with Malaysia, and soon after that with Singapore. That was by no means the end to intra-ASEAN disputes, for soon the Philippines and Malaysia would have a falling out on the issue of sovereignty over Sabah. Many disputes between ASEAN countries persist to this day. But all Member Countries are deeply committed to resolving their differences through peaceful means and in the spirit of mutual accommodation. Every dispute would have its proper season but it would not be allowed to get in the way of the task at hand. And at that time, the essential task was to lay the framework of regional dialogue and cooperation. The two-page Bangkok Declaration not only contains the rationale for the establishment of ASEAN and its specific objectives. It represents the organization’s modus operandi of building on small steps, voluntary, and informal arrangements towards more binding and institutionalized agreements. All the founding member states and the newer members have stood fast to the spirit of the Bangkok Declaration. Over the years, ASEAN has progressively entered into several formal and legally-binding instruments, such as the 1976 Treaty of Amity and Cooperation in Southeast Asia and the 1995 Treaty on the Southeast Asia Nuclear Weapon-Free Zone. Against the backdrop of conflict in the then Indochina, the Founding Fathers had the foresight of building a community of and for all Southeast Asian states. Thus the Bangkok Declaration promulgated that “the Association is open for participation to all States in the Southeast Asian region subscribing to the aforementioned aims, principles and purposes.” ASEAN’s inclusive outlook has paved the way for community-building not only in Southeast Asia, but also in the broader Asia Pacific region where several other inter-governmental organizations now co-exist. The original ASEAN logo presented five brown sheaves of rice stalks, one for each founding member. Beneath the sheaves is the legend “ASEAN” in blue. These are set on a field of yellow encircled by a blue border. Brown stands for strength and stability, yellow for prosperity and blue for the spirit of cordiality in which ASEAN affairs are conducted. When ASEAN celebrated its 30th Anniversary in 1997, the sheaves on the logo had increased to ten – representing all ten countries of Southeast Asia and reflecting the colors of the flags of all of them. In a very real sense, ASEAN and Southeast Asia would then be one and the same, just as the Founding Fathers had envisioned. This article is based on the first chapter of ASEAN at 30, a publication of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations in commemoration of its 30th Anniversary on 8 August 1997, written by Jamil Maidan Flores and Jun Abad.

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