At Lurline's Behest

From the International Letters Home Archive emerges correspondence between Lurline Birchum and her mother. The fonts in this typeset version appear to have been selected with the aim of replicating the appearance of the original handwritten version. It is unclear whether the earlier handwritten version was notated by Lurline herself or put on paper by another literate townsperson at Lurline's behest. The glossary with pronounciation guide indicates that reception of the letter would have been dependent on accurate phonetic delivery of the contents. In all their brevity, the documents offer poignant insights into small-town life.

Let's be Civilized: Not allowed to show you (Pt.3)

Previously on Life Before News:

Not allowed to show you (Pt.1) – May 25, 2007

So far this much is known: Not allowed to show you (Pt.2) – June 5, 2007

From the rough graffiti displayed on January 30 to – by reassuring coincidence - an elegant anarchist cocoon: “Coming soon…” is the full text on the English-language webpage of the Library I entered on the day when the Dalai Lama and Barack Obama appeared together on front pages of newspapers everywhere. If you like that 19th-century polished wood sensation, this Library is a beautiful place, with a reading room seating 24, books locked behind well-cleaned glass, a conference room for public events and the Director’s office still sheltering a pianola (nostalgic and silent in our times; as innovative as the Library and its new collection back in the day), the only visual reminder of the space’s original purpose as a music room, where pianos and sheet music were at the disposal of any visitor who cared to drop in and play a few bars.

On a brief working trip to Barcelona, I had gone in search of a quiet place to read and write. In this city of monumental architecture, an ornate neighborhood retreat on a smaller scale would surely be just around the corner. It was: a library set in the former home of a 19th-century mustachioed left-wing anti-Catholic intellectual and anarchist, a playwright and Freemason, who instructed the trustees of his will to build what would become Barcelona’s first public library (although to this day run by a private foundation), open to all regardless of gender, age or social class and free of censorship on social, political or religious grounds. Any such symbols were banned (everywhere, including the Boardroom), as clearly spelled out in the Library’s very own rule book, a significant stipulation considering that the Library was opened in 1895, on the eve of the Montjuïc Trials, the torture of anarchists by the Spanish military and ensuing decades of bloodshed and violence - a history beyond the scope of this post, but one which is indeed still subject to review and revision as hidden documentation comes to light.

The Library staff agreed that I was free to write anything I want about what appears to be a pearl of an institution, but they issued clear instructions to the effect that - although I had followed proper procedures and obtained permission to take photographs inside through swift composition of a brief handwritten letter explaining my motivation, where I also made it clear that no commercial gain would result from using the photographs I envisioned taking of the abundance of text in view (not only on bookcovers, but inside the glass display cases [carrying paraphernalia from the world of Freemasonry which had survived previous eras of censorship under the dictator who missed the opportunity of destroying this subversive material when he ordered the Library closed rather than ransacked] and within the tiled floor under our feet and the tiled frescos overhead, the latter featuring the names of great scholars and writers in an inspired flow including a sequence which I particularly enjoyed: the moustachioed Edgar Allen Poe*, the tormented early 19th-century Boston-born writer, so popular in Europe, who laid the foundations of the modern thriller, the moustachioed and bearded Confucius*, the Chinese philosopher whose name now adorns the official Institutes of Chinese Culture which are mushrooming in hundreds of towns and universities around the world from Tehran to Texas, from Norway to New Zealand, funded by the Chinese government, a perfectly normal official cultural strategy made all the more interesting if one considers that flaunting Confucius was until relatively recently not done, and, next to him, another author whose work is recited thousands of years after its creation: the moustachioed and bearded [frankly they could all have lost the facial hair and that would have been fine by me] Valmiki*, India’s sage, poet of poets and author of the Sanskrit-language Ramayana epic almost 2500 years ago) – their instructions made it clear that I should not in any way, especially via internet, share pictures I might take, hence this quixotic ode to an urban retreat for all, a hub for scholars still reading through the collections behind glass, an ode which I conclude without identifying the research institution by name, out of what may in part be excessive deference to their desire to control the information and image flow and in part my own wish to enhance imagined scenarios where the dream-like hush of the dark wood, tile and marble interior of the Library is central, where the books have not yet been forwarded into the digital zone.

*The names of these illustrious men adorn the library interior, not their portraits.

Invigilation, Anarchy and Civilization

Laws and constitutions are subject to interpretation, that much we all understand by now. But when a Dutch lawyer confessed to me that nobody in Holland really knows exactly how many laws there are to begin with, because they’re all rumbling around in profusion on computer chips in The Hague, I wondered if this was an aspect which could at some point spawn unforeseen complications. Breaking the rules is a matter of pride in this country – so it would be nice to identify the limits - perhaps not nationwide, but certainly in Amsterdam, where violation of most recognized codes of behavior has become a code in its own right: hurtling along a crowded sidewalk on your bicycle, tossing a still-burning cigarette butt in the air. I’ve been confronted with challenges to the system, not only as a civilian on the street, but as the enforcer of exam roles, the protectress of the honest and the good. I have performed as the invigilator.

While presiding over distance-learners as their invigilator, I was often in one hall with dozens of individuals from various Dutch Provinces, Britain, Spain, Portugal, Nigeria, Cameroon, Thailand China, Pakistan, Russia, Poland and the Czech Republic. Most exam candidates were prompt, if not early, settled at their assigned desk in a state of concentration. Usually a small knot of desks in the middle would be empty until 5 minutes before the exam began. Suddenly the door would burst open and a noisy group of adult males – accountants doing the compulsory refresher course – would rush in to find their numbered seats, come to register at the front desk without the required papers, inquire whether it’s really necessary to sit at the numbered seats, smirk and roll their eyes at the reply, ask us to look up their seat numbers, slouch back to their seats, transfer plastic-sealed snacks and water bottles (allowed) from their bags (not allowed) to the desktop, etc. On one occasion, a young woman presented an expired (not allowed) passport as her photo ID, and returned triumphantly when the exam was over to show me the registration papers which stipulate that a photo ID is indeed required – but the word valid didn’t appear anywhere in the text.

Most of the candidates were impressive: young adults holding down full time jobs while they studied, preparing for promotions or for assignments overseas. The hours of quiet had great appeal, linked by a few sounds only: papers sliding on desks, the clicking of pens and soft tapping on calculators, the rare sniffle or sneeze.

Occasionally there was someone like the au-pair from New Zealand, sitting for ‘Chinese Literature and Society’. She finished early and as no other candidates were present that day, we talked. As a believer she had joined a Christian Church and had learned Dutch from reading the Bible. I told her about learning Dutch from reading newspapers when I first came to Amsterdam. When I started speaking the language, I sounded like a walking front-page article – full of a syntax which is effective in print, but less than convincing when applied in conversation. She told me yes, her Dutch did echo Scripture, but that she didn’t mind, and neither did most of her partners in conversation as they were members of the Congregation, too, where by the way she planned to linger for the foreseeable future. There was little to go back to, what with the Maori’s being coddled by the government and the foreigners getting all the breaks. I was sure she would fit in somewhere in NL, perhaps with the political party whose leader is now on trial for inciting hatred and discrimination. The nanny was uncertain about whether her visa would be extended and had decided to get a head-start on Chinese civilization in case she gets sent home – at least the Chinese are coming down and creating jobs, not just claiming them.

Distinctive Breeds

[please see video below text]

A departure board of the old, clattering kind: few lights, great sound – hanging in the Gare du Nord, the train station where passengers heading north bid Paris farewell. People arriving from the north must weave their way towards the street through the crowds, staring upwards at the display until their train’s track number spins into view or recording short videos until the jostling is too much to bear.

A daughter of train-commute culture, I participate in the rail dynamic in general and the Amsterdam-Paris transfer in particular with profound pleasure and some fluency – most of the time. Things got off to a bad start on one occasion, but good fortune was eventually restored, by a number of people, I should add.

The taxi which brought me to the Gare that day pulled up to the main entrance with some speed. I was on the late side and had imagined gathering my bags and setting out swiftly towards the train in an unbroken flow of motion, but this strategy involved backing out of the cab, effectively blocking from my view a small raised yellow barrier next to the taxi lane. The painted mound tripped me and I crashed bags and all, breaking the fall with my left arm.

I still wanted to catch that train, but as I shuffled off, a Porter rushed over and explained that MANY complaints had been filed about the treacherous yellow dividers. They were meant to protect pedestrians on the other side but ended up felling incoming taxi passengers. This eloquent young man of West African origin convinced me that I should at least go to the hospital next door and have my arm checked. He would escort me there after accompanying me to the ticket office to report the accident and secure passage on a later train.

I went along with the plan, and once I was seated under the neon lights of the Emergency Room waiting area, the Porter and I waved goodbye. A handsome medical team from Colombia, Algeria and Senegal x-rayed and bandaged my arm with great alacrity and good cheer - while coping with several regular 'patients' running amok in the hallways in white robes, dashing in and out of the examination rooms; harmless, it was explained, people in need of tea and attention and a place to go more than any medical treatment - and I was sent back to the Gare, supplied with a ticket for first-class and ushered onto the train with apologies and small bows. A man seated across the aisle had witnessed the fuss. He jumped up with a twinkle in his eye to help me store my luggage. A conversation began. It wasn't long before I understood that I was in the company of an International Cat Show Judge, the author of articles and books on distinctive feline breeds. In the hush of our comfortable compartment, I heard stories about the nitty-gritty of Cat Show politics as our train moved north.

I remember the jovial Cat Judge and the concerned Porter whenever I pass through the Gare du Nord. Usually I pause to get a feel of the motionless crowd and read the departure board, even though the track number for Amsterdam doesn't seem to vary. The public announcements have been updated to include an English-language health warning about flu symptoms, an audio nod, I believe, to the warm-hearted medical staff next door.

Annual Report

Would the author of this communication please contact me asap?

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.