From the editor's desk
Two of the most inflammatory words in the field of child abuse are “cover up” – implying a conspiracy to conceal abuse of vulnerable young people, thereby allowing it to continue.
Among refugees rescued from sinking boats in the Mediterranean this year, a surprisingly high proportion have been pregnant women. Yet the overland journey from their country of origin to Libya, from which the people-smugglers’ boats embark, sometimes takes more than a year.
Two weeks ago I read in The Tablet that bishops in some parts of western Canada were instructing their clergy that they were not obliged to give “Last Rites” or say Requiem Mass for individuals who opted for “assisted dying” – recently legalised in Canada. I find this not only distressing but bizarre.
London for me, since I was a teenager, has always been an oasis. I first came to the city as a 16-year-old. My parents had met in London and married here before returning home to raise their family. My mother had always explained to me that the sectarianism of Northern Ireland in the 1970s and 1980s was not to be found in London.
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