Seoul: The methods of torture employed in the headquarters of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency or the rival National Security Command may be among the most varied, if not original, in Asia. There is, for instance, what is known as “putting a man on an airplane”—tying the victim by his hands and feet, dangling him by a rope from a propeller-like blade attached to the ceiling, and setting the contraption to spinning wildly. Then there is the “Genghis Khan treatment”—the trick of placing the accused over a fire or stove until he screams out his confession. “Or sometimes they lock the man in a glass room, with the floor, ceilings, and walls made of glass, and turn on bright electric lights from all sides,” says a young informant. “The man goes crazy from the light.”

On June 9, 1968, the New York Times Magazine published an article by Dr. Michael Halberstam that raised and examined the question, “Are You Guilty of Murdering Martin Luther King?” The question was addressed to all white Americans, and it presupposed a concept of collective or corporate white guilt. It was prompted by a. particular event, but its application was not limited to that event. As the question itself implied and Halberstam's argument made clear, the question applied to problems of white guilt and white racism as collective phenomena in the whole history of black-white relationships.

The question was not unique at that time, for collective guilt had emerged as a fairly common aspect of social protest.

The structure of the Roman Catholic Church is undergoing a fundamental metamorphosis. As in every living organism, such growth is, of course, accompanied by internal difficulty. Peculiar to the Roman Church, however, is that its current experience was occasioned by an Ecumenical Council called to reenforce its internal integrity and prepare it for union with the other Christian churches.

In the decade since Vatican Council II (1962-65) the monolithic image of the Catholic Church has suffered severe damage. In trying to update the Church's awareness of its obligations to the contemporary world the Council revealed painful divergences in doctrinal and disciplinary understanding within the institution that considers itself the parent body of Christianity.

Some very old, almost forgotten memories are suddenly flickering across the European scene these days—the Crusades, the Balkans, August, 1914, Islam, Haile Selassie, Persia, the Holy Land, Suez, Ireland, Scotland, Portugal, the islands off Aden in the Red Sea. There are even reports of Chinese submarines stationed in Albania. Albania! This was the heroic little country of early World War II. From Albania in 1799 a young Mehemed-Ali came to Egypt with the Ottoman Sultan's army to try to stop Bonaparte's invasion. Then, having learned something from this experience, Mehemed proceeded with his son Ibrahim to establish the first purely Arab power against Turkey.

My comments are based on the assumption that there is a global food crisis and that it will be with us for some time. In discussing it here my scope is quite limited. I wish to focus on the unique relationship which the United States has to the global problem and the consequent special responsibility which the Christian community in the United States has for the problem.

The presentation will involve three steps: first, an analysis of the factual dimensions of the food crisis and the basic moral issues it poses; second, a description of why and how the United States bears a unique responsibility for the food question; third, a proposal regarding the potential of the Church in the United States to address the question of global and domestic hunger.

This is a population conference, and therefore we must talk about population and not about reforming the worldl” That sentiment was expressed repeatedly in one form or another at Bucharest last August during the United Nations World Population Conference. It was a cry of anger, an expression of dismay, an admission of defeat. It was also, unfortunately, an acknowledgment that many people failed to recognize the very changed character of discussions and decisions about “population.”

The U.N, Conference was the result of over two years of careful planning. As the first political meeting to address the issue of population at the international level, the Conference had generated considerable attention in governmental, nongovernmental, and academic circles. More than four thousand persons came to Bucharest as members of official delegations, as observers, as delegates to the nongovernmental Population Tribune held simultaneously with the Conference, and as journalists. All came to talk about “population,”

When I first grew up and had to have a job, I was defined as a sociologist because that is the degree I got—Political Sociology from the University of London. But since I had done research in Ghana (and hence studied black people), it was commonly felt that I must be something of an anthropologist. For a long time, when I was asked the question you asked, I would tell students that sociologists study white people arid that that was the only useful distinction— the most parsimonious distinction—one could make between sociology and anthropology. I have since come to think that the distinction is more serious, chiefly because anthropologists still retain a lingering interest in human beings, while sociologists have become, in a certain sense, condemned to being concerned with systems.

Wilfred Owen, one of the poetic voices stilled by World War I, chose as his subject “war and the pity of war,” finding his poetry in the pity. It can be argued that even then the pity had gone out of war. It is certain that the events of subsequent wars—large and small, local as well as worldwide—have been so pitiless in character and conduct that little or no “poetry” remains.

We are three-quarters through a century of unprecedented violence, with the grim prospect of even greater evils tying ahead. In his Twentieth Century Book of the Dead Gil Eliot offers what he considers a reasonable estimate of 100,000,000 “man-made” deaths since 1900. That figure alone is enough to give us pause. But it is not merely the number of deaths that should concern us here, but who is killed and the manner in which the victims are killed. In World War I, of the ten million or so victims, 90 per cent were soldiers. The carnage of World War II was so great and so indiscriminate that an equally simple estimate is almost impossible to contrive.