The morning sun was a mammy apple, big and round and yellow. On this mammy apple morning a child awoke and went out into the world. It was in the morning of life, filled with the fragrance of lemon grass and the freshness of orange blossoms. There was a green glossiness about the world like the glossy smoothness of mango leaves. Films of dew had formed on the grass and on the tiny leaves of the shy Ti Marie and the precocious jump-up-and-kiss-me that ran together on the ground. Dew dripped from the leaves and branches of the bird-cherry tree and the sugar dish bush. The aroma of coffee and homemade cocoa, brewed from freshly baked and grounded beans had not yet contaminated the scent of lemon grass that was the natural aroma of the mammy apple morning. The makers of breakfast were still cuddled in their beds, late risers on Saturday mornings.
The child skipped gingerly over the gravel and dew-drenched grass towards the gifts that waited under the big longe mango tree at the back of the house. The windblown mangoes lay where they had settled after falling and rolling, waiting for him. But the night wind was not the only bringer of gifts, for there were plums to be collected under the mango tree, big red dimpled plums, sweet-scented pink-skin pomme rose and yellow skin cashew with blushes of red, the nut intact at the bottom end, to be twisted free, put out to dry and, later, roasted. Presents from bats and owls. All went into the old straw hat, one by one, two by two. All except their gifts of galba, good only for pitching as marbles or as missiles for catapult. Read more of this article »
Colombia is a country with regions very distinct from each other, differing widely in climate, vegetation, topography, and the spoken language and dialect. Geographically, there are five main regions in Colombia: Andina (the central region), Atlantica (bordering the Caribbean Sea in the North), Pacifica (the western region bordering the Pacific Sea) and OrinoquÃŒa (the eastern region bordered by the Orinoco River on the East and by the Amazonian river on the South).
This article is about the OrinoquÃŒa region. This most eastern region of Colombia is a place with only scarce mountains, with vast plains, many rivers, and vegetation consisting mainly of small bushes. It lies at the foot of three mountain chains creating the sensation that the landscape flows out into an enormous green delta.
The population of the Orinoqu√É≈ía region is small, with the main economic activity being cattle breeding with ranches the size of 20 to 40,000 animals. Many of the inhabitants here are so-called Creoles, people who are of mixed Spanish and indigenous blood. The white people, or Blancos as they are called, in most cases own the large terrains on which the Creoles work as cowboys, driving the cattle. Read more of this article »
A Flaming Riot
The civil war in Northern Ireland between the pro-British, largely Protestant Loyalists or Unionists and the anti-British, largely Catholic Republicans has largely disappeared from international headlines. However, tensions between the factions continue to erupt, even within the controlled environment of prison life.
On the evening of Wednesday, January 14, 2004, Loyalists erected barricades within the Loyalist wing of Northern Ireland’s top security Maghaberry Prison, in protest of segregation plans. Various areas within the Bann House section of the prison were torched; windows were smashed, and prison facilities were destroyed. The following Monday, 35 prisoners involved in the disturbance were placed on ‘Rule 32′, which restricts a prisoner’s freedom of association. Authorities charged the Loyalists with offences against prison discipline.
It was the latest violence in response to Republican prisoners’ demands for segregation, in line with earlier protests such as the ‘no-wash’ protest or ‘dirty protest’ during the days of ‘The Blanketmen’ [1] (1976-81). Loyalists believe that segregation in the prison system would result in the re-granting of political status to the Republicans (RIRA/CIRA).[2] The Unionists, however, view segregation as an unnecessary weakening of the British Government’s position, and possible dilution of the Unionist’s own power both within and outside and the penal system. Read more of this article »
Posted in Northern Ireland, Op-Ed
There are four major monastic orders: The Benedictine, The Dominican, The Franciscan, and The Franciscan ‘Minori’. But hidden away in the highlands of south central Calabria, Italy, is a monastery complex not belonging to any of these Orders. It has been there for more than one thousand years, and is still virtually unknown to the outside world.
The monastery is called the Certosa of San Bruno. Its Cloister is inhabited by a small Order of monks known as Certosini. At present there are nineteen monks in residence. They are an Order dedicated to contemplation, solitude, and prayer. They are also unusual for one singular characteristic: they are dedicated to carrying out their mission in complete silence. For the majority of time, the Certosini spend their days in a small, spare room or cell where they read, think, and contemplate in silence. At work (in the fields, the library or the kitchen) they are absolutely silent. At Mass, matins, devotions, and meals not a word is spoken.
Sunday is the one day of the week when the monks may converse. It is their community day. But even then, the conversation is limited to the matters of the Certosa-no “small talk.” Orders for the coming weeks are issued by the Priore, Jacques Dupont, who has held the position for the last ten years. Other issues of importance to the entire community are raised and discussed. Silence then resumes. Read more of this article »
| ESTA ES MI VIDA, PARECE DECIR… Esta es mi vida, parece decir la hoja que cae desde la rama o la piedra que rueda por la ladera. Poco; ninguna fe digna de ser alabada o combatida, ninguna m√ɬ∫sica de esferas, ning√ɬ∫n cielo resuelto en llamas. Bajo los pies la futura ceniza que sobrevendr√ɬ° a la √ɬ∫ltima distracci√ɬ≥n, la pen√ɬ∫ltima blasfemia; toda luz se apagar√ɬ°, y a caballo de las olas vendr√ɬ° un pez de cobalto a morder sin piedad el sexo y los p√ɬ°rpados. La hoja siente a su modo como a su modo siente la piedra, pero √ɬ∫nicamente quien tiene manos encuentra blandura en la carne y dureza en los huesos. Es verdad: ning√ɬ∫n hombre es visible. El d√ɬ≠a ya no dura, la boca ayuna a un lado de la sal; en la aparente sanidad, abjuraci√ɬ≥n y vileza; s√ɬ≥lo abulia, demora: aceite que permanece y no hierve. | THIS IS MY LIFE, THE LEAF SEEMS… This is my life, the leaf seems to say as it falls from the branch or the stone that rolls down the hillside. Not much: no faith worth being praised or attacked, no music of the spheres, no sky bursting into flames. Under my feet the future ashes which will supervene at the final distraction, the penultimate blasphemy; all light will go out, and on the horse of the waves a cobalt fish will ride in to bite without pity the sex and the eyelids. The leaf feels in its way as in its way the stone feels, but only someone with hands finds softness in the flesh and hardness in the bones. It’s true: no man is visible. The day does not last, the mouth fasts at one side of the salt; in the apparent healthiness, abjuration and vileness; only lack of will-power, it lingers on: oil that stays there and does not boil. (Translated by Brian Cole) |
| Otros son los muertos. Flotan en el silencio del mediod√ɬ≠a, nost√ɬ°lgicos de la saciedad y la sed. Se alejan, no se alejan. Tienen ojos que no usan, manos que no acarician, por gusto o temor, la p√ɬ©trea materia verdinegra. Otros llevan l√ɬ°mparas apagadas, visten ra√ɬ≠dos capotes, esgrimen escudos rotos. Nos abrazamos y es luz, retamas hasta el horizonte, asentado presente. Entonces, es la respiraci√ɬ≥n de cada hierba apretada contra otra hierba o solitaria, lo que se manifiesta, nos alcanza y atraviesa, torna de a poco y de nuevo madera a lo que era apenas aserrines dispersos en el aire. | (Grosmont Castle: The Great Chimney) The dead are not like us. Suspended in the midday still, they miss satiety and thirst. They wane, yet stay. Their eyes are set aside, their hands do not caress, eager or fearful, the stony mossy stuff. They carry extinguished lamps, threadbare raincoats, broken shields. We hug and all lights up, broom as far as one can see, a settled present moment. We feel each grass blade’s breath pressed against another blade or by itself: it catches up to us and pierces through, then slowly turns back into wood that which was sawdust scattered in the air. (Translated by Ricardo Nirenberg) |
| √ǬøCU√ɬÅL ES LA MEDIDA, LA TABLA… √ǬøCu√ɬ°l es la medida, la tabla, el esbozo? En la sombra, el instinto; en la luz, la herrumbre que migra de cuerda en cuerda. Creo, no creo: se peina en la penumbra, despu√ɬ©s del deseo y su conclusi√ɬ≥n; brevedad, infinito: el agua es confusa, baja espesa hacia un centro inm√ɬ≥vil, la belleza se hace y se deshace mientras esp√ɬ≠o lo que queda del mundo a trav√ɬ©s de su √ɬ∫ltima voz, √ɬ°spera y profunda. √ǬøCu√ɬ°l es la c√ɬ°bala, la melod√ɬ≠a, el arco ahora que todo se apaga y en lo que cae, rueda y se trastorna: pronto nadie, pasado, periferia? | WHAT IS THE MEASURE, THE TABLE… What is the measure, the table, the outline? In the shadow, instinct; in the light, rust that migrates from cable to cable. I think, I don’t think: it combs its hair in the shadow, after desire and its conclusion; brevity, infinity: the water is confused, it falls thickly towards a still centre, beauty is made and unmade while I spy what remains of the world through your last voice, harsh and deep. What is the cabal, the melody, the bow now that everything dies away and in what falls, rolls and overturns: soon no-one, past, periphery? (Translated by Brian Cole) |
| Copyright (c) Carlos Barbarito 2001; trans. copyright (c) Brian Cole 2001. | |
Act One:
[A Court in a European capital, presided by a judge listening attentively to the prosecutor reading the charges against the defendant, Karim Fawaz.]
Prosecutor: Your Honor, the defendant, Mr Karim Fawaz, is a repeat offender who has admitted in writing to breaking the Emergency Public Law 1278, Sections 1 through 7, and 1282, Section 1 through 9.
The Judge (turning to Fawaz): You again, Mr Fawaz? Didn’t you learn a lesson from your last punishment? How long did you serve the last time?
Fawaz (stands): Four and a half months, your honor.
The Judge (shaking his head): You’re an intelligent man, why don’t you respect the law even if you disagree with it?
Fawaz: I obey a higher law your honor, the law of conscience. Nothing that collides with that law has priority even if it has the entire justice system behind it.
The Judge (to the prosecutor): Proceed. Read more of this article »
Describing myself, I am the thin slim 100,000 rupiah note that was printed years ago in a government workshop. The day I was born, I was transferred to a bank with a bunch of my friends who were one-by-one leaving for the free world.
Having a picture of Sukarno and Hatta on my body, I thought I would be treated with more respect than my other low value friends. I was always proud of my paper quality which was so superior to them and ranking the highest among them gave me a feeling that I would be treated more carefully and with more respect by my owners. But fate had her own plans.
The day came close when I was stripped out from my bunch and was handed over to my first owner who carefully kept me in his wallet. I had no idea of what would be the outside world,but I was ready to face destiny. And from then on, I am being exchanged from one wallet to another enjoying their sometimes stinking, sometimes good leather all the time.
Describing my till today life experiences, I would mention that I enjoy the best hospitality when I am in the pockets of poor people who take care of me like I am their newborn kid. Even though they hide me in clothes and cupboards for a long time, they exchange me only when they are in a really urgent need to get something in exchange for me, and most of the time it’s school fees, or I would enter into a warung(small shop selling household items),or land in one of the stinking wet traditional vegetable markets. Read more of this article »
My grandmother sang the Lavalas song when Mr. Jean-Bertrand Aristide became Haiti’s first democratically elected president on December of 1990. It was a song of hope, of faith, of love, of redemption. It was similar to a praise song that was known to many Protestant churchgoers in Haiti and in the U.S., except for the fact that the lyrics were slightly modified. The name Seny√É‚Äπ (meaning The Lord) was replaced with Titid (short for Aristide), and “Tonight we are healed” was changed to “At last we are rescued.” This is a translated version of the song:
Oh Titid, Oh Titid,
It was you we were looking for
At last we are rescued!
(Repeat)
This song, though few in words, is a depiction of what President Aristide represented to the masses, mainly those without a voice. My grandmother sang the song so much that one day I told her that if she weren’t careful, she would shout out “O Titid” in church, mistaking his name for The Lord’s. Though I didn’t share her optimism, I sometimes prayed that Haiti would be healed somehow. Someday. Read more of this article »
(A Sierre Leonean hangout near the nation’s capital)
Red Apple is not just another grocery store – it’s a way of life for Africans in the Washington Metropolitan area. It’s situated at Langley Crossing shopping center in Maryland, a heavily immigrants populated area. Red Apple is owned by Asians – Chinese immigrants with a mostly minority work force from third world nations of North, Central and South America and Africa. This is a place where Africans, especially Sierra Leoneans, come to shop, hangout and gossip. Here, one can give and take updates on past, present and future events. One can hardly see inside the store from outside because its dirty windows are papered with posters and flyers of announcements of past and future events. Many, in fact, are several years old. Inside, shoppers, mostly Africans, crisscross its busy aisles, to buy oggiri[1] and kaenda[2], to buy maggi[3] and peppe.[4]
The checkout clerks at the cash registers are all Chinese. Immigrants from Africa, the Caribbean and South America make up the rest of the store’s work force – mostly stock clerks and meat cutters. Tall poles are welded onto the store carts to prevent shoppers from taking, riding and abandoning them in the parking lot of a huge apartment complex, a block down the road, nicknamed Little Freetown but known officially as New Hampshire Towers. Its rear balconies are lined with rusted railings caused by years of residents hanging their laundry out to dry. In response, the complex’s management sent a strongly worded letter to its mostly Sierra Leonean residents banning this practice, and continues to send reminders, especially to the “jos cam”[5] residents. In and around the lobbies and parking lots of Little Freetown, the tones and inflections of Krio[6] abound.
Claudia Johnson, a long time resident of Little Freetown, stood by the door of the south tower looking for Rugi, her friend who lives in the north tower. Rugi is slender in shape, but when dressed in a burgundy mini skirt she is fond of, her waist and belly look like half a portion of red apple. It was a hot summer day, and Claudia watched her walk on the sun-lit sidewalk across the towers. Claudia was dressed in a locket-and-lapa, an African outfit that is made of a gara[7] cotton blouse and a wrap-around. She is slightly heavy with over-sized buttocks and she thinks African apparel fits her better. Claudia and Rugi used to be dark in complexion, but are much lighter now having bleached their skin. Traces of their former complexion could only be seen on their knuckles, which are resistant to bleaching. Rugi pushed open the door and beckoned Claudia outside. Read more of this article »
Scimitar moon, trembling the strings inside the piano. Scimitar against a vermilion sky, in Arabic, hilal. Curtains furled open like gardenias. Wind-flower, marguerite, friend of the night.
Friend of the night. No happiness so wide despair cannot cross. ‘If I see a red bird in my country will I know the color of a bird in another?’ Like the stream washing over the rock, not the rock. From the soul of her people she makes wine. Who leans out so far from the window?
Scimitar moon, a woman’s laughter untouched behind shutters, a stone house with red tile roof. The house moults from within, muffled strings inside a piano. Lanterns of fishing boats beading the sea. Lighthouse. Lighthouse. Lighthouse. From behind a scrim of cloud thin beams filter through a copse of oak. A vermilion sky, a memory.
Friend of the night. April’s anemone. Souvenir, sovenance, in Arabic, al-atlal. A rusted iron key, oaken door, the invisible white hand drawing the shutters in a stone house with red tiles. Who leans out so far from the window? Warm barricades. ‘If I see a red bird in my country can I know the color of a bird in another?’ There is no happiness too wide for despair. From their sweat she makes bread and jasmine. Read more of this article »