It doesn't have to be this way but this is the way it is

Recently I was provided with the opportunity of revisiting the ways in which the written word can aggravate and highlight irreversible frictions. Content tends of course to antagonize in any number of ways, but I’m talking about something else. The mere involvement of the written word raises hackles in some quarters. If the written word is perceived as being light-years away from the spoken word, printed or even hand-written matter can become the focus of mistrust, even when offered in the spirit of clarity. Wherever the written word carries weight, the language will be seen to have much in common with local spoken language. “Where” in this case refers to individuals, not geographical locations, political entities or religious hierarchies.

Raised in a Christian setting of text memorization, with my duties clearly spelled out, I was trained to have a Protestant perception of music, but certainly not dance, as part of the worship ritual. I was therefore intrigued when introduced to the Bharata Natyam devotional dance tradition from southern India, where the core tales of Hindu faith are acted out by highly trained dancers and musicians. I took a class to learn something about their story-telling. I took notes. Nowadays, of course, the dance is no longer confined to the temple.

The recent opportunity referred to above came when I was learning new things from a person who does not choose to write things down, and this person expressed a derisive view when I began taking notes on the subject of our conversation.

You don’t need to write it down.
Ah, but I do. It just happens. And then I remember more easily.

This person was not alone. The prevailing culture in that setting was one of attaching little value to the quality of the written word, so that any effort to do otherwise was provocative. Since then, I have reverted to writing things down when people are not looking. This tactic, borne of the desire to avoid conflict which would interfere with my enjoyment of the experience in its written variant, fuels the writing with a secretive tone missing from the original reason for writing down the information. The secretive tone adds a sense of urgency to the note-taking process, and the sense of urgency leads me to write down more and more detail in ever-increasing quantity. I have developed new ways of expanding the file without attracting attention and arousing suspicion. I will remember. Everything.

RTS Can Mean Different Things

Censorship of books in the USA works in fascinating ways. It’s grassroots - no official 'Office of Censor' decree in use here. Citizens can approach libraries and schools and challenge specific titles. If the challenge is successful, the work in question could be either restricted or banned. "Banned Books Week" was recently celebrated throughout the land - in support of freedom of speech, not censorship. Events happened thanks to librarians, teachers, journalists, authors and book-sellers, who want pages to turn across the land, not disappear from shelves. The list of endangered books, with details on who challenges what and where, is a story in itself: http://www.ala.org/ala/issuesadvocacy/banned/index.cfm

While reading from my computer screen, I glanced over at the black seal of the Egyptian censor, in protective custody on my office shelves since 2001, when I produced a radio program on censorship in Egypt and subsequently sent CD copies to all of the speakers. One of them was the Director of a human rights organization in Cairo, another an outspoken government critic. Their copies never arrived. Instead the censor apprehended my envelope, opened it and read the personal thank-you notes. The censor then - with or without listening to the CD, I'll never know - put the CD back into the envelopes, secured the envelopes with the censor's wax seal, wrapped them together meticulously with white string, and marked them as 'RTS' - return to sender (me). Somewhere along the way the paper envelopes had become shredded and torn, and a transparent plastic bag had become the protective carrier for what remained of the contents.

The censored parcel arrived back on my desk in the period following 9/11 and the start of the War in Afghanistan. Although of course this was the most appropriate end to a discussion of censorship that I could imagine, I remember that my heart was pounding as I examined the evidence, linked to grim circumstances elsewhere. In Egypt itself, the government had been clamping down on the whole spectrum of opposition, from right to left, for some time. Progressive Islamic scholars had been forced into exile for their modern ideas; secular scholars were punished for critical thoughts and fundamentalists had been driven out of the country and into radical training camps in the mountains of Central Asia. On the streets of Cairo, once the publishing center of the Arab world, conservative students burned piles of 'anti-Islamic' books. At the same time, the Library of Alexandria, the largest in the ancient world, was under re-construction. This contradiction had drawn me to Egypt in the first place.

In those troubled times, I was not surprised to receive the package. Various explanations of its journey came to mind:

The careful return was an overt show of power, a manifestation of government skill in blocking communications between its critics and the outside world;

A lone renegade employee in the Censor's office had salvaged the CD's from stacks doomed to destruction and smuggled them back into the 'outgoing mail' pile so that we would know what was going on in his/her country;
My handwriting was illegible on the stained envelopes, and the careful return was an act of great courtesy by a postal services worker;
The title 'Censor' did not actually appear, in so many words, on the envelopes and seals. I had imagined this into being while listening to the interpretation offered by a trusted Arabic-speaker of my acquaintance, who unfortunately was no longer available for consultations when I turned my gaze to an 11th-century text of a Customs Official in Alexandria, part of the cover design on plastic bank statement files distributed for customer use. Now I remember: the Bank blocked my use of that image.

Please see the post from May 25, 2007:

http://lifebeforenews.blogspot.com/2007/05/not-allowed-to-show-you.html

Both intended recipients of the CD are overseas at the moment; perhaps I should resend.

Both Sides Now: Muoslak Muo?

Should this be your first encounter with the person of Oum Kalsoum (that's her at the mic in the above picture), you may want to look her up, and for that purpose you have numerous options, including : Umm Kulthum, Om Kalthoum, Oum Kalthum, Omm Kolsoum, Umm Kolthoum, Um Kalthoom) (Arabic: أم كلثوم ). Egypt’s most celebrated singer crossed the river in 1975 at the age of approximately seventy-five, give or take a few years, interrupting the workings of government in Cairo during three days of national mourning.

Certain elements are not what they first appear to be in the person of Oum Kalsoum. That’s how she got started: her father, an Imam at the mosque in their small village, dressed his pre-adolescent daughter as a boy so that she could mingle freely and practice with males instructed in religious song. Dad thought she was better than her brothers, and the deception paid off: she went on to become the greatest female vocalist of her time in the Arab World.

Amsterdam’s Royal Tropical Institute used to stage a monthly open-mic talent night. On one such evening, I watched a gifted Oum Kalsoum impersonator whip a crowd of men of Middle-Eastern origin into a clapping, cheering frenzy. The applause trickled off to a confused, out-of-sync splatter as the audience gradually realized that the impersonator was a man. After a few tense moments, the singer struck another great note, and the audience, either convinced by the talent or just determined to prolong this good night out, rose up to the occasion and began to sing along and sway in rhythm again.

With this idea in mind (the idea that initially comes to mind is ‘opposites which attract’ as a relative concept, subject to amendment as circumstances change), I was charmed by the image of Oum Kalsoum lyrics floating in two languages across a screen in illustration of her improvisational virtuosity and unparalleled ability to sustain notes. The original Arabic lyrics move from right to left, the English lyrics from left to right (okay, backwards, but the impressive timing is the same).

The screen occupied a small rectangle of space in an exhibition in a European capital devoted to Oum Kalsoum. As reflected above, the display/audiovisual array was complex: photographs, recordings, film and print documentation, clothing items, current fashion from the Middle East inspired by her look and, touchingly, even the vintage microphone and radios that carried her sound live to millions back in the day – it was all there. And all off-limits for photographers. Somehow this clandestine still from the video for musicologists reached my files. She was, by the way, born as Fatima Ibrahim al-Sayed al-Betagui. What happened after that is the stuff of musical magic, cultural cooperation and rivalry, intrigues, geopolitics and global wars, all on a large but also small, intimate scale.

A Dish Towel in the Sun

My parents were married on September 10, 1938, after a whirlwind courtship in and around Toronto, Canada (Mom) and New Haven, Connecticut, USA (Dad). Her mother was critical of daughter Mary swanning off with an uncivilized Yank; the family of Alfred was disdainful towards the import bride with no previous exposure to New England protocol.

But Mary was swept off her feet by the bold young lawyer and punster who appeared out of nowhere as the Best Man at a wedding where she was the Maid of Honor. Alfred fell for the sparkling Toronto lass, an avid reader and lover of jazz, eager to escape her mother’s sharp scrutiny with emigration to the south.

Family friends from the early years of their marriage would later recall how Mary was a gracious hostess who would rather curl up with a book than clean the house, while Alfred drew praise for his gardens and succulent meaty treats prepared on outdoor stone grills built with his bare hands.

Mary’s Scots-Canadian temperament did not always blend well with the formalities enjoyed by her in-laws. She missed her Uncle George, a shy Ontario farmer who still spoke with a brogue which she never tired of imitating. Her mother inadvertently encouraged her to hone her natural beauty by asserting that she had none; Uncle George offered her blissful hours rumbling along on the back of his horse-drawn wagon carrying fresh peas to market.

Alfred would also show off the odd pumpkin or tomato that appeared in the green zone, but his love lay with flowers. You’d think this might have given more pleasure to his father, a professor of Forestry and planner of urban woodlands. Bare-chested in the summer, protected by layers of flannel and wool in the winter, Al hacked his way through thicket and bush with an enormous machete.

The parents catch up with me from time to time: on a restaurant sign mimicking Dad’s handwriting; on a common dish towel with tips for Scots pronunciation. Their anniversary falls in late summer, on September 10, a fortuitous day in some ways for many of us.

1001 Nights: Sports in Afghanistan

(Vacation Spirit 3rd and Final; Please see previous two posts for Vacation spirit 1 & 2)

Biomechanical analysis provides a breakdown of the race among the fastest men on earth. Click on the top photo for a closer look at the details. All related media coverage and commentary combine to make this a very lucrative 9.58 seconds, the time required by Usain Bolt to cover 100 meters at the 12th IAAF World Championships in Athletics in Berlin. Unfathomable grace and power are demonstrated by some runners. Bolt leads that particular pack at this time.

I should know. I watch as many qualifying heats as I can. Train-crouch-starter gun-speed, over and over again; useful for triggering and focussing my thoughts, especially while ironing clothes. Ironing is very satisfying as well, and I have a special bond with the activity, but that’s a different story.

The slowest men and women on earth are not competing in Berlin, but very slow racers do enter the heats. They hail from small places like Palau and Vanuatu, and from big places like Afghanistan. One male Afghan has competed at the Championships, and there is a young Afghan woman on the track. Her name is Robina Muqimyar.

Afghan women are on my mind. A few days ago, the Afghan government we (we know who we are) support voted in favour of a law which states that Shia women who refuse any sexual demands by their husbands can be deprived of food by their spouse. Fathers and grandfathers have exclusive guardianship of children, and a woman may not work outside of the home without her husband’s permission. A slightly different draft version of this law, basically approving rape within marriage, was taken back to the drawing boards under international pressure. Now, in the interests of stability (appeasing conservatives who are willing to participate in the political process), the new and improved version has been voted in. In areas of Afghanistan under Taliban control, girls’ schools have been shut down again and music stores bombed, but this new law promoting starvation applies to Shia women nationwide.

So when Robina appeared in the qualifying heats for the women’s 100m at the World Championships, I watched. She was off-screen for most of the 14+ seconds of her race, but I did catch a glimpse of her full-length pants and t-shirt with (short) sleeves. We know that she is 23 years old, an Afghan Olympian (already in 2004, but sort of by chance in 2008, when another runner sought political asylum in Norway weeks before the competition began). Run, Robina, run.

It’s true, look!
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/aug/14/afghanistan-womens-rights-rape

Is/was on a Roll: English as Accessory Pt. 2

The July 23 LifeBeforeNews post was offered in the spirit of vacation. Vacation is still the dominant mode in Amsterdam, but meanwhile entries are piling up fast for ‘English as Accessory Pt.2’ (Please see ‘English as Accessory’ May 2, 2009) as the holiday season wears on. Please bear with me: your vocabulary list of Dutch words may be longer than you think, because they're English. And consider this: it turns out that third person singular present and simple past forms for the verb ‘to be’ (is/was) are identical in Dutch and English. You could be onto something.

Not so very long ago:

I was rearranging suitcase contents around midnight. The late cancellation of my flight out of a small regional airport in the USA (We apologize for the inconvenience. Please see our ticket desk for overnight vouchers) had resulted in my transfer to this nearby hotel, built on an awkward rectangular plot of land surrounded by new highways and access roads to industrial zones. Early morning would see me transferred back to the airfield – no need to unpack. I had been happy with the vending machine delivery of root beer (No meals are prepared here. Please visit our Food Lounge next to the elevators on the third floor), my childhood soft drink of choice. Cool sips, TV news in the background, as I puttered.

A voice in the news report caught my attention. The woman was speaking English, easily and fluidly, with a Dutch accent. I didn’t believe much of what she was saying (defending her son, who was a suspect in connection with a young woman’s disappearance on a Caribbean island), but hearing her made me homesick for my hood in the Netherlands. I had been away for several months. Her tones in English were/are part of the daily setting in my second homeland. Not only when English is spoken, but also when English is inserted into Dutch. (as I mentioned, Please see LBN post of May 2, 2009: “English as Accessory”)

Please find below a list of words, compounds and phrases from the English language, shown in context in above images; all common usage (in certain circles) in spoken and written Dutch:

Time heals everything
Claim (cultuur = culture)

Thrill
T-shirt
Service
Privacy
Killer
keukenDesign (keuken = kitchen)
Finest hour
Diehard
Corporate

The May 2 post included:

splendid isolation

for Kids
Outlet
Copyright or wrong

In focus
Update
Never a dull moment
Next
Something rotten

Now back to my vacation.

Good Call

Unbeknownst to me, there was a place named Badcall in the area I was headed for in northwest Scotland. I hadn’t been able to resist the cheap flight between Amsterdam and Aberdeen, where I rented a car, knocking off the outer left mirror when passing through the first stone-walled village in my path. I spent a few nights in Kinlochbervie (see marker ‘A’) in a Bed & Breakfast by the sea; the door to my bedroom was too warped to close.

I walked to the end of the road at Balchrick, where a Post Office appeared as a faded wooden shack. Inside, the Post Mistress was waiting in the dark behind a barred window at the counter. She, the counter and the bars pretty much filled up the shack and quite possibly held it together. She called me ‘Dearie’ and casually sold me stamps for an envelope of photographs I was sending to Colombia. The envelope was still in my bag in Balchrick because officials at the airport Post Office in Holland had refused to send the chunky personal parcel ‘for security reasons.’

From a hilltop phone booth on this coastline I called my mother in North America. Near the empty white beach of Oldshoremore I met the fierce gaze of an elderly shepherd as he held open a gate for me when our paths crossed on high pastureland bordering the sea. He pointed across the valley, where sheep in motion traced tidal patterns on the slopes as they ran, leaping ahead of a swift, supple dog, whose name, as I deduced from the ferocious commentary emanating from a white-haired man swinging a crook in the direction of the canine, was Angus.