January 20, 2010
Issues Stand Before Israel in Joining Elite Group
By ETHAN BRONNER
JERUSALEM — Israel, which has catapulted in the past two decades from a minor state-dominated economy to a market-driven technology hothouse, is in the final stages of accession to the exclusive club of advanced countries, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. But its secretive weapons trade, patent-bending drug industry and occupation of Arab lands are raising last-minute questions.
The secretary general of the O.E.C.D., Ángel Gurría, currently in Israel to discuss the issues with senior officials, said that he was confident they could be resolved and that Israel might miss the original target of May but would become a member this year. But he acknowledged that Israel, unlike other small countries in the process of accession — Chile, Slovenia and Estonia — might face objections unrelated to the technical questions still to be answered.
“We have to keep the substantive issues on the straight and narrow,” Mr. Gurría, a former Mexican finance minister, said in an interview held after meetings at the Bank of Israel. “We should not allow technical issues to be used as masks for something that is in reality a political issue.”
That political issue is Israel’s declining international reputation because of its Gaza war a year ago and its continuing construction of Jewish housing in the occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem. Professional staff employees of the O.E.C.D., which is based in Paris, say all 30 member states must approve the accession of a country, and it remained unclear if any would object. But the three technical issues all still needed to be solved.
Let those nations free of issues lead the charge of the pure.
The first involved the organization’s convention to combat bribery of foreign officials, which it considers one of its more significant accomplishments. Some years ago, bribes were tax-deductible in several European countries. Now, all of the organization’s members are required to fight bribery through domestic legislation and regulation.
The arms trade is notoriously filled with palm-greasing across the world, and Israel is a large arms trader. It has signed the antibribery convention as part of its accession process, but the way it handles the issue is causing difficulty, O.E.C.D. officials say.
The main concern is that Israel’s Defense Ministry has the power to censor the results of any investigation of bribes paid by Israeli companies to foreign officials on the grounds that the publicity could harm Israel’s national interests. The censor can ban publication and is under no obligation to tell the authorities about the investigations. The O.E.C.D. wants both practices changed.
The second concern, regarding intellectual property rights, involves the Israeli company Teva Pharmaceuticals, one of the world’s largest producers of generic drugs. Major American and Swiss companies have long accused Israel of insufficient regulation of the way Teva markets its products in the face of patent regulations in other countries.
Finally, the O.E.C.D. is unhappy with Israel’s definition of its territory in collating economic data. Israel includes activities in East Jerusalem and the Golan Heights, both of them won in the 1967 Arab-Israeli war; most of the world views those areas as occupied, but Israel considers them its own through annexation.
All three issues, Israeli Foreign Ministry officials say, are being addressed at the technical level and will be solved.
Israel’s candidacy got off to an unusual start. Mr. Gurría, the secretary general, said that four years ago Israel’s widely admired central bank governor, Stanley Fischer, began attending O.E.C.D. functions with large studies of Israel’s economy aimed at demonstrating its readiness for membership.
“It’s the only country that’s ever done that,” Mr. Gurría said. “They were actually using O.E.C.D. regulations to modify their practices so as to qualify. In May 2007 Israel was invited to join because of its good economic management focused on knowledge, technology and education. The O.E.C.D. can gain from its membership, and so can Israel.”
The O.E.C.D.’s purposes are to bring together market-oriented democracies, promote good business and economic practices, and increase employment and international trade. For Israel, membership would not only help it continue to modernize its economy but also fight efforts to delegitimize and ostracize it over its dispute with the Palestinians.
Showing posts with label South Korea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label South Korea. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Axis of evil hackers
North Korean hackers blamed for sweeping cyber attack on US networks - A series of attacks on computer networks in South Korea and the US was apparently the work of North Korean hackers, several news agencies are reporting today.
They're that good?
They're that good?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A different bull
There are no matadors in South Korean bullfighting.
March 31, 2009
Jinju Journal
No Red Cape, or Red Ink, in South Korean Bullrings
By CHOE SANG-HUN
JINJU, South Korea — Gangta, his neck muscles rippling, butts his head against a pine tree. Like a prizefighter, he does roadwork on a hilltop training ground, dragging in stoic plods a 450-pound tire filled with rocks.
“Since he’s an animal, I can’t teach him skills. All I can do is build up his muscles and stamina,” said Kang Myoung-chul, Gangta’s owner. “Technique is something he’s either born with or learns the hard way in the ring.”
Gangta, or Power Punch, is a 10-year-old fighting bull weighing 1,840 pounds. He is also a three-time heavyweight national champion, a star in a sport that once meant as much to South Koreans as the Kentucky Derby does to some Americans.
Unlike Spanish bullfighting, there is no matador. In South Korea, bull fights bull. Tons of muscle charge at each other, and clumps of bloody hair fly as the animals bang heads, their horns clashing like sabers.
That may sound brutal, but bulls rarely die in the ring. The fight is over when one turns tail. Some matches stretch on for hours. Others end before they start: the bulls stare each other down, and one walks away.
Popular interest in bullfighting, once regular village entertainment in South Korea, has waned in recent decades, a victim of television, the Internet and more-global spectator sports, like soccer and baseball. But in the last few years, some cities have begun promoting bullfighting as a tourist attraction and the government now hopes to reignite the old passion by legalizing ringside gambling, starting in July.
Mr. Kang, 32, is one of about 500 rancher-trainers who own the country’s 1,500 or so fighting bulls. Most bulls are chosen from cattle headed for the slaughterhouse when they reach the age of 2 and weigh nearly 1,000 pounds. Mr. Kang and other trainers travel the country in search of talent among these young bulls.
“We look for small, furry ears, eyes menacing like a snake’s, big horns and a thick neck with a long, low-slung torso,” said Mr. Kang, a former computer engineer who writes a blog on bullfighting and is one of three ringside commentators certified by the National Bullfighting Association.
A bull can grow to well over a ton and compete until he is about 15. To start him on his career, owners bind the young bull’s horns with wires to shape them into weapons.
Fighters are also distinguished from other bulls by what they eat. Their basic vegetarian diet is often supplemented with fish, live octopus and snakes. When a bout is imminent, Gangta gets herbal soups laced with ginseng, and energy drinks usually sold in pharmacies for people suffering hangovers.
On the day of a match, many are fed soju, a fiery grain liquor.
“We don’t know for sure whether a bull has been drinking,” Mr. Kang said, “until he gets exhausted and starts panting,” allowing bystanders to smell his breath.
Mr. Kang’s day begins at 6 a.m., when he serves his 13 fighting bulls the first of four hot meals a day. On this morning, Mr. Kang was busy stoking the fire under a caldron filled with bean sprouts, rice stalks, corn, yams, potatoes, pumpkin chunks and anchovies — a stark contrast to the factory feed that goes to ordinary cattle at Mr. Kang’s ranch in Jinju, about 180 miles south of Seoul.
Later in the day, Mr. Kang and Gangta climbed the hill behind the ranch for training. Gangta knew the routine, stopping to rest whenever Mr. Kang’s cellphone rang. After an hour of dragging the tire, the bull stalked Mr. Kang, demanding his reward: a full-body scratching.
Animals and owners develop a close bond. During fighting season, which runs from March to November, they travel together to the 11 cities that stage bullfights. On the road, Mr. Kang sleeps in a tent beside his bulls.
Around the amphitheater, bulls wait their turns like gladiators while their trainers sharpen their horns. Between fights, cheerleaders in miniskirts prance in the ring. Folk musicians let rip with a frenzy of drums and gongs. Children crowd snack stands, which often promote local beef.
Since the revival of bullfighting, unofficial ringside gambling has become common and some bulls have developed national followings.
Bulls enter the ring with their names painted on their sides: “Flying Tiger,” “007,” “Komodo Dragon.” One champion named “My Country,” who lost his right horn, went on to further victories under the new name “Unicorn.”
Bull owners are allowed in the ring during bouts. Some stand back and watch. Others join their animals in the fight, stomping the ground, crouching and growling, and shouting: “Stab! Stab! Gouge the eyes out of the stupid bull!”
“You never find a man more dejected than a bull owner whose animal just lost a match,” Mr. Kang said. “Heads hanging, they and their bulls slip out to console themselves by sharing some rice wine.”
The bullfighting renaissance taps into the unusual attachment South Koreans feel toward the animal. In South Korea, an agrarian society until a few decades ago, a cow or bull was a farmer’s most prized asset. The animal pulled the plow, carried the loads on its back and was sold when the farmer needed money for his children’s education.
“In the days before television, during major holidays, whole villages followed their strongest bulls to a makeshift ring where the bulls from neighboring villages converged,” said Mr. Kang’s father, Kang Chu-sam, 64, who is president of the Jinju Bullfighting Association. “In a society where face is important, bullfighting was a serious business for rich families.”
Jeong Ho-yong, 55, a Jinju native, remembers from his childhood, “The champion bull was a hero, returning home like a victorious general, villagers dancing behind him, kids jostling to touch the bull.”
Maintaining a fighting bull still requires some means. In a national tournament, a champion is typically awarded 10 million won, or about $6,730. But most of the other finalists get only about $200 to $350 a fight — hardly enough to cover their feed.
But with the government set to allow legalized gambling in one bullring in each province — starting in the central city of Cheongdo, where a 12,000-seat bullring stands ready — Mr. Kang sees a promising future for the sport.
He dismissed concerns that the pastime’s revival might attract charges of animal abuse.
“All male herd animals fight each other for reproduction,” he said. “This is not about man conquering nature, as in Spanish bullfighting. We are simply observing nature in action.”
March 31, 2009
Jinju Journal
No Red Cape, or Red Ink, in South Korean Bullrings
By CHOE SANG-HUN
JINJU, South Korea — Gangta, his neck muscles rippling, butts his head against a pine tree. Like a prizefighter, he does roadwork on a hilltop training ground, dragging in stoic plods a 450-pound tire filled with rocks.
“Since he’s an animal, I can’t teach him skills. All I can do is build up his muscles and stamina,” said Kang Myoung-chul, Gangta’s owner. “Technique is something he’s either born with or learns the hard way in the ring.”
Gangta, or Power Punch, is a 10-year-old fighting bull weighing 1,840 pounds. He is also a three-time heavyweight national champion, a star in a sport that once meant as much to South Koreans as the Kentucky Derby does to some Americans.
Unlike Spanish bullfighting, there is no matador. In South Korea, bull fights bull. Tons of muscle charge at each other, and clumps of bloody hair fly as the animals bang heads, their horns clashing like sabers.
That may sound brutal, but bulls rarely die in the ring. The fight is over when one turns tail. Some matches stretch on for hours. Others end before they start: the bulls stare each other down, and one walks away.
Popular interest in bullfighting, once regular village entertainment in South Korea, has waned in recent decades, a victim of television, the Internet and more-global spectator sports, like soccer and baseball. But in the last few years, some cities have begun promoting bullfighting as a tourist attraction and the government now hopes to reignite the old passion by legalizing ringside gambling, starting in July.
Mr. Kang, 32, is one of about 500 rancher-trainers who own the country’s 1,500 or so fighting bulls. Most bulls are chosen from cattle headed for the slaughterhouse when they reach the age of 2 and weigh nearly 1,000 pounds. Mr. Kang and other trainers travel the country in search of talent among these young bulls.
“We look for small, furry ears, eyes menacing like a snake’s, big horns and a thick neck with a long, low-slung torso,” said Mr. Kang, a former computer engineer who writes a blog on bullfighting and is one of three ringside commentators certified by the National Bullfighting Association.
A bull can grow to well over a ton and compete until he is about 15. To start him on his career, owners bind the young bull’s horns with wires to shape them into weapons.
Fighters are also distinguished from other bulls by what they eat. Their basic vegetarian diet is often supplemented with fish, live octopus and snakes. When a bout is imminent, Gangta gets herbal soups laced with ginseng, and energy drinks usually sold in pharmacies for people suffering hangovers.
On the day of a match, many are fed soju, a fiery grain liquor.
“We don’t know for sure whether a bull has been drinking,” Mr. Kang said, “until he gets exhausted and starts panting,” allowing bystanders to smell his breath.
Mr. Kang’s day begins at 6 a.m., when he serves his 13 fighting bulls the first of four hot meals a day. On this morning, Mr. Kang was busy stoking the fire under a caldron filled with bean sprouts, rice stalks, corn, yams, potatoes, pumpkin chunks and anchovies — a stark contrast to the factory feed that goes to ordinary cattle at Mr. Kang’s ranch in Jinju, about 180 miles south of Seoul.
Later in the day, Mr. Kang and Gangta climbed the hill behind the ranch for training. Gangta knew the routine, stopping to rest whenever Mr. Kang’s cellphone rang. After an hour of dragging the tire, the bull stalked Mr. Kang, demanding his reward: a full-body scratching.
Animals and owners develop a close bond. During fighting season, which runs from March to November, they travel together to the 11 cities that stage bullfights. On the road, Mr. Kang sleeps in a tent beside his bulls.
Around the amphitheater, bulls wait their turns like gladiators while their trainers sharpen their horns. Between fights, cheerleaders in miniskirts prance in the ring. Folk musicians let rip with a frenzy of drums and gongs. Children crowd snack stands, which often promote local beef.
Since the revival of bullfighting, unofficial ringside gambling has become common and some bulls have developed national followings.
Bulls enter the ring with their names painted on their sides: “Flying Tiger,” “007,” “Komodo Dragon.” One champion named “My Country,” who lost his right horn, went on to further victories under the new name “Unicorn.”
Bull owners are allowed in the ring during bouts. Some stand back and watch. Others join their animals in the fight, stomping the ground, crouching and growling, and shouting: “Stab! Stab! Gouge the eyes out of the stupid bull!”
“You never find a man more dejected than a bull owner whose animal just lost a match,” Mr. Kang said. “Heads hanging, they and their bulls slip out to console themselves by sharing some rice wine.”
The bullfighting renaissance taps into the unusual attachment South Koreans feel toward the animal. In South Korea, an agrarian society until a few decades ago, a cow or bull was a farmer’s most prized asset. The animal pulled the plow, carried the loads on its back and was sold when the farmer needed money for his children’s education.
“In the days before television, during major holidays, whole villages followed their strongest bulls to a makeshift ring where the bulls from neighboring villages converged,” said Mr. Kang’s father, Kang Chu-sam, 64, who is president of the Jinju Bullfighting Association. “In a society where face is important, bullfighting was a serious business for rich families.”
Jeong Ho-yong, 55, a Jinju native, remembers from his childhood, “The champion bull was a hero, returning home like a victorious general, villagers dancing behind him, kids jostling to touch the bull.”
Maintaining a fighting bull still requires some means. In a national tournament, a champion is typically awarded 10 million won, or about $6,730. But most of the other finalists get only about $200 to $350 a fight — hardly enough to cover their feed.
But with the government set to allow legalized gambling in one bullring in each province — starting in the central city of Cheongdo, where a 12,000-seat bullring stands ready — Mr. Kang sees a promising future for the sport.
He dismissed concerns that the pastime’s revival might attract charges of animal abuse.
“All male herd animals fight each other for reproduction,” he said. “This is not about man conquering nature, as in Spanish bullfighting. We are simply observing nature in action.”
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