Monday, April 29, 2013
Sunday, October 4, 2009
You know you have this problem if...
You cringe and cover up when your partner sees you naked.
Compliments make you nervous and defensive.
Thinking about his positive attributes makes you wonder what he's doing with you.
Why is it a problem?
When we are ashamed of our bodies, we "withdraw sexually" and have trouble "being playful and free," says relationship expert Dr. Alice Pisciotto. Many people resort to substances to deal with their insecurities (for example, drinking in order to have sex), which can ruin a sense of closeness.
How to fix it:
The first step is awareness: realizing, for example, that when he says, "you look beautiful in that dress" and you hear, "go to the gym," it's not because he's being sarcastic, but because you feel ashamed of your body. The second step is to learn to talk about it in an open, honest way. Explain your insecurities to him, why you think you have them, and how they make you feel. Then, pledge to yourself to throw the symptoms of insecurity out the window. Once you stop calling yourself fat, for example, you may stop feeling so fat.
2. BAD TIMING
You know you have this problem if...
Why is it a problem?
"This really drives guys crazy," says Pisciotto. Everyone knows that communication is important to a good relationship, but knowing when and where to communicate can be just as important. Bringing up a problem at an inappropriate time or place will almost never solve it, and will become a problem in its own right. And he'll be reluctant to bring you along to his cousin's wedding if he's worried you'll be shooting him dirty looks all night.
How to fix it:
If you want to talk about a problem, give some forewarning, says Pisciotto. "X is really bothering me. Can we talk about it tonight?" Have a safe, private place where you can talk without feeling uncomfortable. And if you really want to resolve the issues, make sure you are talking in person and never by text message or e-mail.
You know you have this problem if...
Your partner complains you're always blowing up at him — whether he forgot to pick up the dry-cleaning or threw out the manuscript for the novel you've secretly been working on.
Why is it a problem?
You may be using these explosions as a substitute for intimacy, says Pisciotto. "If you say, 'I love you,' who knows how he's going to react?" You may get a grunt, you may get a kiss, you may get some bad news. "But if you scream at him, you know he's going to scream back." Excessive anger may be a sign that you're insecure about his feelings for you. Snapping at him allows you to control his behavior because his response — anger — is predictable. But if he feels like he's always about to step on a land mine, you may be doing the very opposite: driving him away.
How to fix it:
"This is really an issue of self-awareness," says Pisciotto. The next time you feel mad at him, ask yourself if your anger is proportionate to the offense. If not, think about why you feel so furious: Are you mad about something else that you haven't talked about sufficiently? Does his anger reassure you of his feelings (i.e., "if he's screaming at the top of his lungs, he must be passionate about me")? Are you insecure about his feelings because of something he has done, or because of something unrelated that happened to you in the past? Instead of blowing up at him, try to calmly and insightfully tell him why you are feeling so enraged. Use "I" sentences instead of "you" sentences: "I felt angry when you didn't call, because it made me feel like you don't care about me," rather than, "You didn't call me! You don't care about me!"
4. KEEPING SCORE
You know you have this problem if...
You're keeping a tally of the gives and the takes.
You say things like, "Yes, we hung out with my friends tonight but I hung out with his friends for the last five days."
Why is it a problem?
"Keeping score is usually a sign you don't feel understood, that you don't feel heard," explains Pisciotto. You feel that your partner doesn't realize or appreciate the contributions and sacrifices you make for the relationship. "This becomes the 'yes, but' of the relationship," says Dr. Pisciotto. "Yes, you took me out to dinner tonight, but I paid the last six nights. Yes, you initiated sex tonight, but I always initiate. Yes, you care about me, but I care about you more."
How to fix it:
When you catch yourself thinking or saying, "Yes, but..." step back and ask yourself why. Is this an isolated incident: Are you really the one who always does the dishes, and you just want him to help out more with household chores? Or is it part of a bigger problem: Do you feel like you always make more sacrifices for the relationship, and the dishes are just one example of many? Keeping score provides you with ammo to win the argument "Who's the better partner." It's childish behavior that you should do your best to minimize. Be hypervigilant when your thoughts slip into the "Yes, but..." pattern. Remind yourself that although you may give more in this particular area — you always pay for dinner out — he may give more in another, like always buying the groceries.
5. LETTING THE PAST DICTATE THE PRESENT
You know you have this problem if...
You blame your current boyfriend for problems you had in your last relationship: Your ex had an affair with his personal trainer, so you tell your new boyfriend you like the "chubby look" to keep him out of the gym.
Why is it a problem?
It's a basic truth of psychology that "we often repeat problems in order to solve them," says Pisciotto. For example, when you're suspicious that your new boyfriend is going to cheat on you, like your ex did, your subconscious is trying to come to terms with the old problem. The effect will hardly be productive: You're likely to create some new issues with your current boyfriend without solving the issues from your past.
How to fix it:
Take a moment to ask yourself: Are there any issues or arguments you had with a former boyfriend that still bother you? If so, write them down and be on the lookout. The next time you're angry with your current boyfriend for something similar, ask yourself whether or not he deserves it. If not, Pisciotto recommends telling him about your ex and asking him about his. But be clear that you're talking about your old flame solely for the purpose of improving your current relationship. Your new guy doesn't want to hear about how your ex just got a promotion, what a great cook he was, or how amazing he was in bed.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Renowned musician Raphael Kipchamba arap Tapotuk who was given a hero's send-off at his Nyatembe village in Bomet district, was a household name in not only Kenya, but also the neighbouring countries.
He will be remembered especially for his songs which were occasionally harsh commentaries on culture, politics, the environment and the economy.
In his close to 1,000 songs, he sang about HIV and the disease it causes - Aids - as well as the floundering constitution review.
"Not even the children were left out; silence was not golden, nor talking silver," one of the songs runs.
Kipchamba's music soothes, provokes and deliberately charms the listener, and his wheedling voice endeared him to many.
Humour is abundant in his works, and he effortlessly wove it into his songs as he poked fun at the man nature.
Always clean-shaven and smartly dressed, he was not the typical village musician. And although a celebrated Kalenjin singer until his death last week, his music traversed the ethnic boundaries.
He was not vainglorious nor the self-seeking type across the street. And although he was not honoured in any meaningful way, this did little to dampen his spirits - most probably because he sang not for money, but to entertain and educate.
Music was an art and a medium by which he put his messages across in an articulate way. "I was not driven by commercial interests and I did not pursue payments for most of my popular songs recorded in the earlier days," the musician once said.
Kipchamba's last public show was at Kericho's Mid-West Hotel during a function in which local Marathon Centre performed well in the Standard Chartered road race, one of the greatest road in the world.
He was a conservative and religious man and strictly observed the Kalenjin customs and traditional beliefs.
The musician was selfless man who sacrificed a lot for the community, and believed in passing on knowledge and wisdom to the young. For instance, he once reportedly converted one of his houses into a classroom in which he taught the youth to play the guitar and other musical instruments.
Born in Bomet district in 1937, Kipchamba dropped out of school early for lack of fees and started singing at the tender age of 10.
His teacher at Segemik primary school, Linus Sitienei, discovered his music talent in 1950. "I owe much of my success to Mr Sitienei," he once told journalists in an interview.
At school, Kipchamba was a bright pupil and active athlete, but his parents could not afford the Sh105 yearly fee required by the Catholic-sponsored Kaplong intermediate school, now Kaplong boys secondary, in Bureti district.
Breaking up with his first music partnership after four years in 1959 was not a setback. He played the traditional guitar, or chemonges, but and picked up the modern one later in a career that spanned half a century.
His band, Koilng'et, comprised Oriango arap Chepkwony, Francis Langat, Moris Mainek and Sekeri Tallam, and their first recording happened in Kisumu. They then moved to Kericho to start recording with Chandarana Music Stores.
Kipchamba can be said to be the father figure of music in the Kalenjin land as he was a genius in the composition of high-quality, undiluted and inspirational songs.
Among his best are Kibiritit, Teret tab Kogo, Kimulogong, Mukeni and Mokori. But most probably due to low earnings at the earlier stages, Kipchamba did not at any one time live the life of a celebrity.
Former President Daniel arap Moi once described him as "a real and authentic singer" and recognised his role in the unification of cultures of all the Rift Valley communities.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Women have changed. That is a fact. They have evolved over time, and the modern woman is identifiable by some characteristics such as financial independence, successful career and ideological liberty.
But they are not the only ones who have evolved. Men too have changed. Today’s man is especially an enigma to the woman and many women are left scratching their heads, no longer sure of the role they play in men’s lives. Some of the baffling trends of modern men, to which women will have to adapt, are:
He cares much about his appearance
He looks perfectly put together, with his hair closely cut or meticulously combed and knows how to match his clothes.
His nails are regularly manicured, in a salon to make it worse. It is there that he gets his pedicures and facial treatment as well.
His presentable image goes further; his house is tastefully furnished and always clean, while the sofas, curtains and carpet are not just thrown together. This man, clearly, does not need a woman to arrange his crib or his wardrobe.
He has one or more baby mamas’
It does not matter what you do, all he just wants to do is have fun. He can date you for two years and not once mention marriage.
Even the idea of you moving in with him is repugnant, and he will often do everything in his power not to discuss commitment at that level, citing his need for freedom and personal space.
Today’s men don’t need to marry in order to have children — and so there is not enough incentive for him to sign on the dotted line.
This is exacerbated by the possibility of him having been in other long-term relationships or even marriage. So all he wants from his girlfriend is sex and companionship. Ladies, silence your maternal instincts.
Further, be ready to deal with incessant calls from his baby’s mother and to cancel many a date because he is taking his children out.
He has loyal house help
He treats her like his mother, she means the world him and he will not tolerate any talking back when it comes to her. She can do what no wife can ever do — she will cook him whatever dish he asks for, keeps his house clean and washes and press his clothes and not once does she nag him or complain about how much work she has done.
She works round his schedule, and when he is tired of her, he can easily replace her. So she comes at a cheaper cost and with peace of mind.
His time with the boys is sacred
His time is meticulously planned; you cannot just pop in and surprise him. If you want to come over you must call in advance and let him decide whether or not to admit you.
Most of the time, he is with his ‘boyz’. You always meet him on his terms— he calls when he needs you and when he doesn’t call, he claims to be busy.
He jealously guards his time with his male friends like his life depended on it. In his hierarchy of important things, you probably come last — after his children, buddies, baby mama and house help.
His commitment is half-hearted
According to him, his life is perfect, he has money, a good job, friends to keep him busy, children to carry on his legacy, someone to take care of him — who is not his wife or mother.
When entering a relationship he is only after what all the above do not give him. So he gives of himself half-heartedly and stringing his woman along because he has no need for a wife. His life is complete without a wife
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
In 2002, a new government came into power in Kenya with a mandate to clean up government and recruited Githongo as its anti-corruption czar. His office was in the State House, the Kenyan equivalent of the White House, and he reported frequently and directly to the president. And then he ended up in exile.
Author Michela Wrong tells Githongo's story in her new book, It's Our Turn to Eat: The Story of a Kenyan Whistle-Blower.
Wrong tells NPR's Steve Inskeep that the name of the book comes from the "rotating series of ethnic elites who have the opportunity to run Kenya as an opportunity to benefit themselves, and it's an attitude that has obviously destroyed the economy."
When Githongo started at the State House, he and President Mwai Kibaki got along very well, and he "gave the president 66 separate briefings … I mean this was constant access," Wrong says.
In 2004, Githongo started hearing reports of corruption, in particular "a series of dodgy contracts being signed off by people in key ministries … which in the end was nearly a billion dollars," Wrong says.
A worried Githongo turned to his colleagues to figure out what to do about contracts with shadow companies that were little more than addresses. That's when he realized that they were the same colleagues who signed off on the bogus deals.
The particular challenge of Kenya is that whatever government is in charge, its ethnic group has control. So the new leaders abandoned their pledges for reform and clean government, instead embracing the idea that "now it's our turn to eat."
Githongo started taping phone calls and let Wrong listen to those tapes. She heard death threats, other government officials who "very sneakily just suggest to John in an apparently friendly way that if he carries on doing what he's going to do, then he will end up dead."
There's also a lot of laughter.
"I think everyone's very embarrassed by these conversations," Wrong says, and that's why they're laughing. They know they said they'd take on corruption, and now they were enveloped in it.
The longer Githongo investigated his colleagues, the more he was reminded that he was in the same tribe as those in control in the government — and that they needed to stick together. His colleagues justified stealing the money because it would go into the next campaign fund. "Stop messing with your own tribe ... you owe it to us," Wrong says Githongo was told.
President Kibaki would tell the people of Kenya that corruption was a problem, and that his administration was investigating it. But that frustrated Githongo, Wrong says, because he had presented the president with the evidence he'd collected.
Githongo eventually fled his country because he "realized there was a big cobweb, and at the heart of it sat the president," Wrong says.
Today, Githongo has returned to Kenya to do aid work.
Chapter 1: The Big Man
It was an amazing thing, for one moment in a hundred years, to all feel the same way. And to feel that it was good. — Kenyan writer Binyavanga Wainana
A brown clod of earth, trailing tufts of grass like a green scalp, suddenly soared through the air and landed on the stage, thrown by someone high on the surrounding slopes. Then another one sailed overhead, this time falling short and hitting the journalists packed against the podium. Then came some sticks, a hail of small stones. The first rows of the crowd hunched their shoulders and hoped it would get no worse: there were plenty of kids up there from Kibera slum, the sprawl of rusty shacks that stretched like an itchy brown sore across the modern city landscape, and they had a nasty habit of using their own excrement as missiles. The mood in the open-air stadium in Uhuru Park on 30 December 2002, a year and a half before that strange meeting in the finance ministry, was on the brink of turning ugly.Mostly male, mostly young, the audience was getting bored with waiting.
For much of the morning the mood had been cheerful. The thousands of Kenyans who had begun streaming into the amphitheatre at 7 a.m. for the presidential inauguration – the first change of leadership via the ballot box since independence – had every reason to pat themselves on the back.With the simplest of acts, they had pulled off what felt like a miracle. They had queued patiently for hours in the sun, cast their ballots and in the process turned their backs on the retiring Daniel arap Moi, twenty-four years at the helm, the president credited with reducing East Africa's most prosperous economy to 'nchi ya kitu kidogo': 'land of the "little something"', homeland of the bribe. Campaigning on an issue that infuriated the public – the corruption souring every aspect of their lives – the opposition had united under the banner of the National Rainbow Coalition (NARC) and stomped to victory. It had told the electorate it was 'unbwogable' – uncrushable – and this had proved no idle boast, for it had broken the ruling KANU party's thirty-nine-year grip on power. It seemed as though Kenya's political parties had finally matured, realising that so long as they allowed tribal differences to dominate, with each ethnic group mustering behind its own presidential candidate, Moi would win. In contrast with so many of his African counterparts, the loser – Moi's handpicked protégé Uhuru Kenyatta, son of the nation's founding father – had gracefully accepted the results.
In the slum estates the night before,many had braced themselves for a military takeover, reasoning that Moi's security services would surely not meekly accept the people's verdict. They had been proved wrong, and the fact that power was about to change hands peacefully in an African nation, rather than at the barrel of a gun, was hailed by the Western press as a tribute to both the rule of law and a politically mature public's self-control. The partying had gone on into the early hours, with Tusker beer washing down roasted chicken. When it became clear which way the vote was going, residents had rounded up all the local cockerels and slaughtered the 'jogoo', hated symbol of the once-proud KANU, which Moi had promised would rule the country for a hundred years. This morning they were turning up to bear living witness to their own historic handiwork. Up on the dais, an array of African presidents and generals in gold brocade and ribbons sat fanning themselves. Next to them sweltered the diplomats, ham-pink under their panamas. Kenyan VIPs, finding no seats available, sat uncomplaining on the floor, their wives' glossy wraps trailing in the dust.As the timetable slipped by two, then three, four, five hours, the amphitheatre steadily filled. An incongruous aroma of Sunday lunch wafted through the air as thousands of feet crushed the wild garlic growing on the slopes. Nearby trees sagged under the weight of street boys seeking a bird's eye view. An urchin on the rooftop of the podium wiggled his ragged arse to the music from the military band, which, like all the armed forces present, was beginning to lose its nerve. They had rehearsed exhaustively for this event, but had never anticipated these kind of numbers: 300,000? 500,000? Who could count that sea of brown heads? At the start, police horses had plunged and reared as the General Service Unit (GSU), Kenya's dreaded paramilitary elite, attempted to clear the area in front of the dais. They had pushed the crowd back, only for policemen posted on the fringes to push it forward. But as the throng grew, and grew, and grew, the men from the GSU dismounted and quietly joined the onlookers, aware that the best they could hope for now was avoiding a stampede.
Gathered at the front, we journalists had long ago lost our carefully chosen perches and jealously cherished camera angles, swallowed up by the crowd pressing hard at our backs. Pinned against my neighbours, I could feel small hands, fleeting as lizards, fluttering lightly through my pockets in search of money, mobile, wallet. With a heave, I scrambled onto a creaking table where a dozen sweaty photographers and reporters teetered, bitching fretfully at one another – 'Don't move!' 'Hey, head down, you're blocking my shot!' 'Stop pushing!' – a touch of hysteria – 'STOP PUSHING!' The ceremony was now running six hours late. Rather than whipping up the audience, newly elected MPs were appealing for calm from the stage.
A Kenyan reporter next to me rolled the whites of her eyes skywards, gracefully fainted and was passed out over people's heads in the crucifix position, like a fan at a rock concert. I wondered how long it would be before I followed her. People were keeling over left, right and centre, ambulance crews plunging bravely into the throng to remove the wilting bodies.
Finally, amid cheeky cries of 'Speed up! Speed up!', accompanied by 'fast-forward' gestures from the crowd, the ceremony started. An aide walked on bearing a gold-embroidered leather pouffe. This, it turned out, was the Presidential Pouffe, there to prop up the plastered leg of winner Mwai Kibaki, who had survived the years in opposition only to be nearly killed in a campaign car crash. Next came Kibaki himself, his wheelchair carried by eight straining men. The ramp they laboured up had been the topic of a debate which exposed the establishment's nervousness. Frightened of being implicated, at even the most pragmatic level, in this near-inconceivable changing of the guard, jittery officials from the ministry of public works had refused to build the cement slope required, forcing an exasperated army commander to contract the work out to a private firm.
Kibaki was followed by the outgoing Moi, ornate ivory baton clutched in one hand, trademark rosebud in the lapel of a slate-grey suit, face expressionless. Later, it was said the generals had gone to Moi when it became clear which way the election was going and offered to stage a coup. In his prime, his hold on the nation had been so tight, cynics had quipped, 'L'état, c'est Moi'. But the Old Man had waved the generals wearily away, aware such times were past, Kenya was no longer destined to follow such clichéd African lines.
Eyes yellow and unreadable, Moi took his salute and delivered his last presidential speech without a hint of bitterness, hailing the rival by his side as 'a man of integrity'. This former schoolteacher's presidency had been an exercise in formalism, and he was determined to fulfill this last, painful role impeccably. But the mob showed no mercy – those watching the ends of Africa's dinosaur leaders never do. What fun, after a quarter-century of respectful forelock-tugging, to be able to let rip. 'Bye bye,' they jeered. 'Go away.' Others sang: 'Everything is possible without Moi,' a pastiche of the 'Everything is possible with faith' gospel sung in church. In the crowd, someone brandished a sign: 'KIBAKI IS OUR MOSES'.
Then it was Kibaki's turn. It was a moment for magnanimity – peaceful handovers, as everyone present that day knew, should never be taken for granted in Africa. And the seventy-one-year-old former finance minister, an upper-class sophisticate known for the amount of time he spent on the golf course, his lazy geniality, was not built in the vengeful, rabble-rousing mould. So the concentrated anger of his speech had those sitting behind Kibaki blinking in surprise. It offered a sudden glimpse of something raw and keen: a fury that had silently brewed under the suave façade during years of belittlement. Never deigning to mention the man sitting by his side, his former boss, Kibaki dismissed Moi's legacy as worthless. 'I am inheriting a country that has been badly ravaged by years of misrule and ineptitude,' he told the crowd. He warned future members of his government and public officers that he would respect no 'sacred cows' in his drive to eliminate sleaze. 'The era of "anything goes" is gone forever. Government will no longer be run on the whims of individuals.' Then he pronounced the soundbite that would haunt his time in office, destined to be constantly replayed on Kenyan television and radio, acquiring a different meaning every time. 'Corruption,' he said, 'will now cease to be a way of life in Kenya.' Whenever I hear it today, I notice a tiny detail that passed me by as I stood in that sweaty scrum, smeared notebook in hand, mentally drafting the day's article: Kibaki, always a laboured speaker, slightly fumbles the word 'cease'.
Lisped, it comes out sounding very much like 'thief '. The speeches over, the various presidents headed for their motorcades as the security services heaved sighs of relief. The inauguration had been an organisational débâcle, but tragedy had somehow been skirted, as was the Kenyan way. For Moi, one last indignity was reserved. When his limousine drew away, snubbing a long-delayed State House lunch in favour of the helicopter that would whisk him away from the hostile capital and to his upcountry farm, it was stoned by the crowd.
As I climbed down off the table, my bag momentarily became wedged in the mêlée, and hands reached out from the crowd. Remembering the little fingers at work earlier in the morning, I rounded my shoulders and gave my bag an aggressive yank. 'Oh, no, no,madam,' sorrowed a man, knowing exactly what was in my mind. 'Those days are over now in Kenya, this is a new country.' They were reaching out not to mug me but to help me, a member of the international press who had played a tiny part in Kenya's moment of glory by mere dint of witnessing it. 'You will see, this will be our best ever government,' chimed in a smiling student, sweat-soaked T-shirt plastered to his body, and I felt a spasm of shame.
In the days that followed I would often feel ashamed, for my professional cynicism was out of step with the times. There was a tangible feeling of excitement in the air, a conviction that with this election, Kenyans had brought about a virtually bloodless political, social and psychological rebirth, saving themselves from ruin in the nick of time.Many of those who had represented the country's frustrated conscience – human rights campaigners, lawyers and civic leaders who had risked detention, police beatings and harassment in their bid to drag the country into the twenty-first century – were now in charge. Mass happiness blended with communal relief to forge a sense of national purpose.With this collective elation went an impatience with the old ways of doing things. Newspapers recounted with glee how irate passengers were refusing to allow matatu touts to hand over the usual kitu kidogo – that ubiquitous 'little something' – to the fat-bellied police manning the roadblocks, lecturing officers that a new era had dawned. There were reports of angry wananchi – ordinary folk – storming an upcountry police station to demand refunds of bribes paid over the years. In ministries, at City Hall, at the airport, only the very foolish still asked for the customary backhander. Backs were straightened, desks cleared in nervous anticipation of an incoming deputy minister or mayor out to show the TV cameras that he would have no truck with sloth and incompetence. Large signs – 'This is a corruption-free zone', 'No bribes', 'You have a right to free service' – went up in government offices, along with corruption complaints boxes, which swiftly filled up with letters venting grievances that had festered through the decades.
The social contract taken for granted in so many Western countries, barely discernible in Kenya, suddenly began to make itself felt. 'Damn it all,' a Kenyan writer returning from self-imposed exile told me, with the air of a man making a possibly foolhardy concession, 'I'm even thinking of paying tax!' And just in case anyone was in danger of forgetting the past, the NARC government threw open the basements of Nyayo House, an ugly beige high-rise on the corner of Uhuru Highway, in whose dank cells opponents of the Moi regime had been beaten, reduced to drinking their own urine and killed. When Gallup conducted a poll, it found that Kenyans were the most optimistic people in the world, with 77 per cent saying they had high hopes for the future. Reserved and inhibited, Kenyans are sometimes dubbed 'the Englishmen of Africa' because of their refusal to live up to the stereotype of boisterous, carefree Africans. After decades languishing in the grey fug of the Moi regime, they could barely stop smiling.
Copyright © 2009 Michela Wrong. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Personally, as a scientist, I have always wondered whether there is any truth in this. With my concern,I have since found out that there are many cases of autism in western countries, especially those countries where mothers do not breast feed their children.
So, may be they are right, that there is no connection between vaccine and autism, but may be there is a connection without breast feeding the children. A vaccine is meant to introduce the virus into the body in small quantities so that the antigen (virus) will prompt the body of a child to produce antibodies to fight the antigen,in the process, the body, through its defense mechanism, stores this information for future reaction to the virus of the same nature.
For a long time breast feeding has been something that every woman did, children that are breast fed in their early age, are initially introduced to some form of antigens, from the mothers milk that somehow toughened up the babies body. With this advantage of early exposure to other forms of antigen, the babies' body is strong enough to handle the concentration of vaccine that is usually administered.
The doses that continue to be used are the same as those that were initially used for children that were breast fed, these days, breast milk is a thing of the past, so the children of today, have no exposure to any kind of antigen that would train their immune system to be on alert, therefore they are weak compared to those that are breast fed. Due to this, when the dose is administer, it is basically an over dose for the child and the results are brain damage that lead to autism.
I think a study to compare children who are breast fed against those that are not, yet both receive the vaccination will shock these judges, because I belief that this is where the truth is.
My advice, vaccinate the children, but if you cannot breast feed your child, pump the milk and give the child what is rightfully his/her. Breast milk is important for the child, you might be risking your child life to autism by denying the child what is rightfully his/her, breast milk. I belief that the risk for autism from vaccination is only possible if a child is not given breast milk. For those public health professional out there, do this study, you might save the children of this planet.
This forum is open for discussion.