The world falls forward in the morning, these days.
No rhyme, reason, or rhythm these days.
All that is true may not be expressed, these days.
And all that is desired is expected, one of these days.
Cloudburst
The world falls forward in the morning, these days.
No rhyme, reason, or rhythm these days.
All that is true may not be expressed, these days.
And all that is desired is expected, one of these days.
I'm Dajjled by the Zournalism at the Times of India
I know, it's an easy and familiar target, but I was tickled by this slip in today's TOI Kanpur:
It's always striking when they don't even bother to check a half-remembered name. I know, no one is perfect on this score (I myself am prone to misspell the word "Telugu" quite often). But the Times of India is India's biggest English-language daily!
Is the Indian film industry ready for awards for the best among the worst performances on the lines of Hollywood's Reggie Awards?
For all of you who think that Bollywood is far too 'inspired' by Hollywood, there are still some things from the wild, wild West that clearly do not inspire the folks from India's filmi duniya.
Which is probably why the idea of an awards ceremony to acknowledge the worst performances in filmdom, on the lines of the Reggie Awards in Hollywood, hasn't found favour with the celeb brigade.
While Hollywood takes a tongue-in-cheek look at the best among the worst performances in films, actress Koena Mitra thinks the concept is "disgusting"!
It's always striking when they don't even bother to check a half-remembered name. I know, no one is perfect on this score (I myself am prone to misspell the word "Telugu" quite often). But the Times of India is India's biggest English-language daily!
Airing the Dirty Laundry: Burnt Bread and Chutney
I picked up Carmit Delman's memoir Burnt Bread and Chutney: Growing Up Between Cultures--A Memoir of an Indian Jewish Girl, on the recommendation of commentor Piaw (who has many challenging posts on her blog). Delman's mother is an Indian Jew originally from the Bene Israel community in Bombay, and her father is an Orthodox Jew of Eastern European descent from New York. Delman herself grew up mostly in New York, with some brief stints in Israel.
I'm about two-thirds through it, and I have to say that I'm not that thrilled about the book, though I am learning things here and there. It's a little too much a memoir of growing up and going to school in the U.S. while being "different," which isn't especially interesting per se. What's more interesting to me is the sense of alienation Delman's family often felt even within the American Jewish community. Sitting in the back of the synagogue, people would often ask Delman and her siblings about their background:
It's interesting (and perhaps a little sad) to see a kind of racial logic operating even within Judaism.
But the most interesting passages in Burnt Bread and Chutney are Delman's observations on her travels on her own to Israel, to spend her summer vacations working on a kibbutz. At one point, she meets a middle aged Israeli reservist smoking a cigarette while on duty in Jerusalem. He asks her where she's from, and she says, "Guess":
I hadn't heard this perjorative term ("chach-chach") before, but I googled it, and came across some rather unfortunate song lyrics in an Israeli discussion forum that confirms Delman's usage of it. I guess we could call it a bit of Israeli dirty laundry. (Everyone has some to contend with of course.)
* * *
By pleasant coincidence, this morning Ruchira has posted a long review of Nathan Katz's book Who Are the Jews of India?. Katz makes the interesting claim that the Jewish communities in India were never persecuted -- unlike their counterparts throughout Europe and the Arab World:
I'm about two-thirds through it, and I have to say that I'm not that thrilled about the book, though I am learning things here and there. It's a little too much a memoir of growing up and going to school in the U.S. while being "different," which isn't especially interesting per se. What's more interesting to me is the sense of alienation Delman's family often felt even within the American Jewish community. Sitting in the back of the synagogue, people would often ask Delman and her siblings about their background:
When we explained that we were the mixture of an Indian Jew and an Eastern European Jew, people automatically identified us by the brownness and what made us nonwhite. Their assumptions drew a distinct line between us and them. 'So,' they said, after hearing about the thousands of years of history. 'I guess generations ago, the Jews in India must have intermarried with the Hindus. That's how you have that beautiful brown color.' They even said this laughing admiringly, as though envious of our tan. But in making such a statement, they . . . were also pointing to us as the others and claiming, the skin says it all. We, Ashkenazi Jews, are the pure originals. You, Indian Jews, are mixed products.
It's interesting (and perhaps a little sad) to see a kind of racial logic operating even within Judaism.
But the most interesting passages in Burnt Bread and Chutney are Delman's observations on her travels on her own to Israel, to spend her summer vacations working on a kibbutz. At one point, she meets a middle aged Israeli reservist smoking a cigarette while on duty in Jerusalem. He asks her where she's from, and she says, "Guess":
He grinned, took a deep puff on his cigarette, thinking. 'Emm. Let's see. Ramle?' I shook my head, surprised to hear this particular city suggested. 'Well, you're Yemenite, right? So I would guess Dimona maybe.'
Now I followed his line of thought. Well-off and educated Israelis of Eastern European descent lived in the nice suburbs. But early on, the Israeli government had filled these particular cities that he was suggesting with large populations of poorer Jewish immigrants from the African and Arab nations. Clumped together, this persecuted a cycle of little money and lots of crime, with not many opportunities in work or eductation to even the score. Because I was brown, this man assumed I had come from that world. Perhaps he even hered me into the class-genus-species of the chach-chach. A chach-chach was usually seen in its natural habitat, making a living by selling sandwiches, cheap barrettes, CDs, and authentic discounted Israeli brassware in one of those neighborhoods or at the central bus station. A chach-chach spoke with guttural slang and listened to the kind of oriental music in which voices wavered and whined and shuddered themselves into a high fever. The male wore gold chains and had slick hair. The female birthed often and early. And she could usually be spotted wearing a plumage of bright lipstick.
I hadn't heard this perjorative term ("chach-chach") before, but I googled it, and came across some rather unfortunate song lyrics in an Israeli discussion forum that confirms Delman's usage of it. I guess we could call it a bit of Israeli dirty laundry. (Everyone has some to contend with of course.)
* * *
By pleasant coincidence, this morning Ruchira has posted a long review of Nathan Katz's book Who Are the Jews of India?. Katz makes the interesting claim that the Jewish communities in India were never persecuted -- unlike their counterparts throughout Europe and the Arab World:
"Indian Jews lived as all Jews should have been allowed to live: free, proud, observant, creative and prosperous, self-realized, full contributors to the host community. Then, when twentieth century conditions permitted they returned en masse to Israel, which they had always proclaimed to be their true home despite India's hospitality. The Indian chapter is one of the happiest of the Jewish Diaspora."
A Note on the Terrorist Bombing in Varanasi
As most readers probably know, a series of bombs recently went off in Varanasi (Benaras), killing 25 people and wounding at least 50 more. One of the bombs went off in a major Hindu temple complex, called Sankat Mochan. It might well have been a preventable incident: officials have acknowledged that while new security measures have been introduced at many major Mandirs around the country, Sankat Mochan was not on that list.
Two other interesting facts: the bomb in the temple was placed in a pressure cooker, which is something I've never heard of before (doesn't it seem like a dumb place to put a bomb?). Also, there a wedding video was being filmed at the temple (a wedding was in progress) when the bombs went off, which may be helpful in finding the culprits.
Two militants have been killed by police following the bombings, one in Lucknow and the other in Delhi. Police say the one in Lucknow was carrying explosives, and that he was a member of the dreaded Lashkar-e-Taiba. It's good that the police are being aggressive in pursuing the people responsible for this senseless act of terror, but I wish the police learned how to detain these guys instead of killing them, so we could actually find out what they know. Indeed, the huge cloud of confusion that often hangs over terrorism investigations in India could be reduced if police changed their tactics and introduced a version of what in America is called "due process." (But perhaps it's understandable at least in the case of the militant killed in Lucknow: you don't want to take chances with someone armed with RDX.)
Following a terrorist attack like this, there should only be three items on the agenda: 1) bring the people who did it to justice, 2) mourn the loss of life, and 3) make sure you have security in place so it hopefully never happens again. All discussions of whether Islam encourages terrorism and so on are superfluous, and the emotional reactions you see from some quarters are unproductive.
Unfortunately, that straightforward agenda is not what we have in store. The BJP instituted a Bandh (an involuntary, city-wide strike/curfew), which actually seems like it might be a good idea in terms of minimizing recriminatory violence. But Advani has announced that he's planning a national Padyatra, clearly hoping to exploit the tragedy to build up some momentum for his party. (Interestingly, ex-BJP member Uma Bharti has said -- quite reasonably -- that a Padyatra isn't necessary, because the onus of security is on the state rather than the national government.)
Two days have passed without any sign of recriminatory violence (other than the deaths of suspected militants at the hands of police). To me that says there isn't going to be any spontaneous upwelling of anger directed against Muslims, either in Varanasi or elsewhere. If there is going to be violence, it is going to be the kind that is ignited, fanned, and directed by BJP-VHP politicians. Ordinary people are ready to go about their business, trusting that the government will get to the bottom of this (indeed, large crowds are already returning to Sankat Mochan).
Two other interesting facts: the bomb in the temple was placed in a pressure cooker, which is something I've never heard of before (doesn't it seem like a dumb place to put a bomb?). Also, there a wedding video was being filmed at the temple (a wedding was in progress) when the bombs went off, which may be helpful in finding the culprits.
Two militants have been killed by police following the bombings, one in Lucknow and the other in Delhi. Police say the one in Lucknow was carrying explosives, and that he was a member of the dreaded Lashkar-e-Taiba. It's good that the police are being aggressive in pursuing the people responsible for this senseless act of terror, but I wish the police learned how to detain these guys instead of killing them, so we could actually find out what they know. Indeed, the huge cloud of confusion that often hangs over terrorism investigations in India could be reduced if police changed their tactics and introduced a version of what in America is called "due process." (But perhaps it's understandable at least in the case of the militant killed in Lucknow: you don't want to take chances with someone armed with RDX.)
Following a terrorist attack like this, there should only be three items on the agenda: 1) bring the people who did it to justice, 2) mourn the loss of life, and 3) make sure you have security in place so it hopefully never happens again. All discussions of whether Islam encourages terrorism and so on are superfluous, and the emotional reactions you see from some quarters are unproductive.
Unfortunately, that straightforward agenda is not what we have in store. The BJP instituted a Bandh (an involuntary, city-wide strike/curfew), which actually seems like it might be a good idea in terms of minimizing recriminatory violence. But Advani has announced that he's planning a national Padyatra, clearly hoping to exploit the tragedy to build up some momentum for his party. (Interestingly, ex-BJP member Uma Bharti has said -- quite reasonably -- that a Padyatra isn't necessary, because the onus of security is on the state rather than the national government.)
Two days have passed without any sign of recriminatory violence (other than the deaths of suspected militants at the hands of police). To me that says there isn't going to be any spontaneous upwelling of anger directed against Muslims, either in Varanasi or elsewhere. If there is going to be violence, it is going to be the kind that is ignited, fanned, and directed by BJP-VHP politicians. Ordinary people are ready to go about their business, trusting that the government will get to the bottom of this (indeed, large crowds are already returning to Sankat Mochan).
Ali Farka Touré
Ali Farka Touré died this past weekend, at the (approximate) age of 67.
It is dangerous to make any big pronouncement about Touré's music, especially since I have only two albums, Talking Timbuktu and Radio Mali. Suffice it to say that along with Amadou and Mariam, my Malian blues CDs have gotten a lot of play in my house. Touré sings in Malian languages like Peul (or Fula) and Tamasheck, which I obviously don't understand. But there is something quietly powerful about the his guitar playing and the sound of the vocals nonetheless. It's a sound that is warm and real -- the best word for it might be "soul-restoring."
As with Nigerian Fela Kuti, in crafting his sound Touré took his local musical traditions and instruments (like the Njarka, a one-stringed violin) and melded them with an emerging musical form from African American music -- in this case, the guitar blues of people like John Lee Hooker. (For his part, Fela Kuti adapted James Brown and Afro-American funk. It's an interesting circle of influence, as musicologists have widely recognized that the blues itself likely derives from west African and Arabic musical styles. So these west African musicians were re-appropriating a style of music that their own ancestors had effectively invented, but which had turned into something quite different through the mediating effects of the Middle Passage and the U.S. popular culture machine.
The Malian scholar Manthia Diawara, who teaches African film at NYU, writes about some of these interesting cross-Atlantic cultural currents in an article here. For Diawara, the borrowing and experimentalism of musicians like Touré and Sali Keita is all a product of the energy and optimism of the 1960s -- youth style in Bamako.
Like Pakistani Qawwali singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Ali Farka Touré's popularity in the west was jump-started through the efforts of a western producer (in this case, Ry Cooder), who added an additional degree of fusion and a high-gloss production quality in the CDs he did with Touré. These are the CDs that first got distributed in large numbers on major labels in the U.S., and they are, admittedly, the CDs that found their way into my collection some years ago.
I would highly recommend a 25 minute session with Ali Farka Touré that you can listen to via streaming audio at Afropop Worldwide. Bonnie Raitt is the host, but most of the session is just music. Give it a try; you can put it on in the background and do other stuff.
And here is the most detailed biography of Ali Farka Touré I could find on the internet.
It is dangerous to make any big pronouncement about Touré's music, especially since I have only two albums, Talking Timbuktu and Radio Mali. Suffice it to say that along with Amadou and Mariam, my Malian blues CDs have gotten a lot of play in my house. Touré sings in Malian languages like Peul (or Fula) and Tamasheck, which I obviously don't understand. But there is something quietly powerful about the his guitar playing and the sound of the vocals nonetheless. It's a sound that is warm and real -- the best word for it might be "soul-restoring."
As with Nigerian Fela Kuti, in crafting his sound Touré took his local musical traditions and instruments (like the Njarka, a one-stringed violin) and melded them with an emerging musical form from African American music -- in this case, the guitar blues of people like John Lee Hooker. (For his part, Fela Kuti adapted James Brown and Afro-American funk. It's an interesting circle of influence, as musicologists have widely recognized that the blues itself likely derives from west African and Arabic musical styles. So these west African musicians were re-appropriating a style of music that their own ancestors had effectively invented, but which had turned into something quite different through the mediating effects of the Middle Passage and the U.S. popular culture machine.
The Malian scholar Manthia Diawara, who teaches African film at NYU, writes about some of these interesting cross-Atlantic cultural currents in an article here. For Diawara, the borrowing and experimentalism of musicians like Touré and Sali Keita is all a product of the energy and optimism of the 1960s -- youth style in Bamako.
Like Pakistani Qawwali singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Ali Farka Touré's popularity in the west was jump-started through the efforts of a western producer (in this case, Ry Cooder), who added an additional degree of fusion and a high-gloss production quality in the CDs he did with Touré. These are the CDs that first got distributed in large numbers on major labels in the U.S., and they are, admittedly, the CDs that found their way into my collection some years ago.
I would highly recommend a 25 minute session with Ali Farka Touré that you can listen to via streaming audio at Afropop Worldwide. Bonnie Raitt is the host, but most of the session is just music. Give it a try; you can put it on in the background and do other stuff.
And here is the most detailed biography of Ali Farka Touré I could find on the internet.
Norman Corwin, Poet Journalist
I was intrigued by the Oscar for short documentary, A Note of Triumph: The Golden Age of Norman Corwin (IMDB). So I looked up Corwin, and was impressed by the beauty of the fragments of his writing that are floating around on the internet.
The documentary that won the Oscar looks back at the legendary piece Corwin did celebrating V-E Day, called "On a Note of Triumph." Here is a bit from the end of Corwin's original piece, a "prayer":
What does the style remind you of? I get equal parts Abraham Lincoln and Walt Whitman. I'm not saying I absolutely love the writing, but rather that I'm surprised and impressed that this type of lyricism was once acceptable in mainstream journalism. Perhaps it works best when reserved for extraordinary circumstances: it would have been thrilling to hear it on the radio at the end of World War II.
Another breakthrough piece by Corwin is "They Fly Through The Air With The Greatest of Ease" (1939), about the Italian bombardment of Spain during the Civil War. Here's a snip from an audio excerpt on Corwin's own homepage (see a partial transcription here):
And here's a second snippet I found from the same story, which follows up on the idea of the "theorem," only after the planes have crashed:
To my ear, these snippets sound less like Whitman and more like Carl Sandburg.
* * * * *
More Corwin links:
--A satisfying 12 minute audio interview with Corwin on NPR's "Lost and Found Sound."
--An in-depth text interview at Crazy Dog Audio Theatre.
--Norman Corwin's web site. Corwin sells tapes and transcripts (including e-books!) of his stuff. You can hear excerpts from some of his pieces; I would particularly recommend "They Fly Through The Air..."
--A piece in the L.A. Times that ties Corwin to Edward R. Murrow, who was also 'revived' this year in George Clooney's gripping Good Night, and Good Luck.
--A timeline of the "Golden Age of Radio, 1936-1950." TV killed the radio stars... including Murrow himself.
--"Good Can Be As Communicable As Evil, a piece by Corwin, for NPR.
The documentary that won the Oscar looks back at the legendary piece Corwin did celebrating V-E Day, called "On a Note of Triumph." Here is a bit from the end of Corwin's original piece, a "prayer":
Lord God of test-tube and blueprint
Who jointed molecules of dust and shook them till their name was Adam,
Who taught worms and stars how they could live together,
Appear now among the parliaments of conquerors and give instruction to their schemes:
Measure out new liberties so none shall suffer for his father's color or the credo of his choice:
Post proofs that brotherhood is not so wild a dream as those who profit by postponing it pretend:
Sit at the treaty table and convoy the hopes of the little peoples through expected straits,
And press into the final seal a sign that peace will come for longer than posterities can see ahead,
That man unto his fellow man shall be a friend forever. (longer excerpt here)
What does the style remind you of? I get equal parts Abraham Lincoln and Walt Whitman. I'm not saying I absolutely love the writing, but rather that I'm surprised and impressed that this type of lyricism was once acceptable in mainstream journalism. Perhaps it works best when reserved for extraordinary circumstances: it would have been thrilling to hear it on the radio at the end of World War II.
Another breakthrough piece by Corwin is "They Fly Through The Air With The Greatest of Ease" (1939), about the Italian bombardment of Spain during the Civil War. Here's a snip from an audio excerpt on Corwin's own homepage (see a partial transcription here):
Here, where last year stood the windrows of the hay
Is now an aviary of such birds
As God had never dreamed of when he made the sky.
Look close, and you will see one now.
They are wheeling it out of the hangar.
Carefully.
Oh, do be careful, gentlemen.
It is so dumbly delicate:
Its fabrics and its metals, its gears, its cylinders, its details,
The million dervishes ready to whirl in its motors,
The guns fore and aft,
The sights, the fins, the fuselage,
The bomb racks and the bombs.
Do not jar them; do not jar them, please.
Be gentle, gentlemen.
This bomber is an instrument of much precision,
a mathematical miracle
As cold and clean and noble as a theorem.
See here: Have you no eye for beauty?
Mark how its nose, be-chromed and tilting toward the heavens
Reflects the morning sun and sniffs the lucent air.
And here's a second snippet I found from the same story, which follows up on the idea of the "theorem," only after the planes have crashed:
That's all.
That's all the fighting they will care to do.
They have a treaty with the earth
That never will be broken.
They are unbeautiful in death
Their bodies scattered and bestrewn
Amid the shattered theorem.
There is a little oil and blood
Slow draining in the ground.
The metal is still hot, but it will cool.
You need not bother picking up the parts.
The sun has reached meridian.
The day is warm.
There's not a ripple in the air. (link)
To my ear, these snippets sound less like Whitman and more like Carl Sandburg.
* * * * *
More Corwin links:
--A satisfying 12 minute audio interview with Corwin on NPR's "Lost and Found Sound."
--An in-depth text interview at Crazy Dog Audio Theatre.
--Norman Corwin's web site. Corwin sells tapes and transcripts (including e-books!) of his stuff. You can hear excerpts from some of his pieces; I would particularly recommend "They Fly Through The Air..."
--A piece in the L.A. Times that ties Corwin to Edward R. Murrow, who was also 'revived' this year in George Clooney's gripping Good Night, and Good Luck.
--A timeline of the "Golden Age of Radio, 1936-1950." TV killed the radio stars... including Murrow himself.
--"Good Can Be As Communicable As Evil, a piece by Corwin, for NPR.
Spring Break Links: Blog, Blog, Blah
--We all need a little break from email. I tend to have small classes -- and I only teach a 2/2 load -- but I still can't quite keep up with all the student emails I get.
--Online colleges are going to find it easier to get aid packages from the U.S. government. I'm not surprised these enterprises are succeeding, but I haven't heard anything yet to suggest that a person could get a serious education through them. What's more interesting is the large number of traditional colleges and universities (including my own) that are branching out into online education. The ability to do online courses through established schools might challenge the way we think about admissions and the structure of post-secondary education. What if small universities and liberal arts colleges decide to band large numbers of online courses together, and form conglomerate entities? Could students be "admitted" merely for the purpose of taking a particular online course, or studying with a particular professor?
--William Safire on "Blargon". Blogging, as all you blogerati undoubtedly already know, generates tons of medium-specific jargon, though much of it is borrowed from terms in journalism ("the jump," the "sidebar," "above the fold"). Many blog-words try and incorporate the word "blog" in some way to indicate their context: "blogorrhea." In some ways, it reminds me of the once-trendy musical genre called Ska, which generated hundreds of bands that incorporated the word "ska" in some way into their names. Here I'm thinking of the legendary Jamaican band called The Skatalites, but also lesser known "third wave" ska bands like "Ska Humbug," "The Skadillacs," "Skaface," "The Skaflaws," "Skali Baba and the Forty Ounce Horns," "Skankin Pickle," "Skarab," "Skarotum," "Skatland Yard," and so on. (Just so you know where I'm getting that list from, it's this FAQ)
--Are blogs taking over the world? No, they aren't. And I'm sick of reading about people who write for Gawker media -- an enterprise which has, I think, passed its peak. Now that she's quit Wonkette Ana Maria Cox is pretty much famous for being the venue that launched Washingtonienne.
--A Catholic high school has forbidden its students from blogging and online social networking, mainly to protect them from sexual predators. High school, it seems, is like being in China (or Pakistan).
--Online colleges are going to find it easier to get aid packages from the U.S. government. I'm not surprised these enterprises are succeeding, but I haven't heard anything yet to suggest that a person could get a serious education through them. What's more interesting is the large number of traditional colleges and universities (including my own) that are branching out into online education. The ability to do online courses through established schools might challenge the way we think about admissions and the structure of post-secondary education. What if small universities and liberal arts colleges decide to band large numbers of online courses together, and form conglomerate entities? Could students be "admitted" merely for the purpose of taking a particular online course, or studying with a particular professor?
--William Safire on "Blargon". Blogging, as all you blogerati undoubtedly already know, generates tons of medium-specific jargon, though much of it is borrowed from terms in journalism ("the jump," the "sidebar," "above the fold"). Many blog-words try and incorporate the word "blog" in some way to indicate their context: "blogorrhea." In some ways, it reminds me of the once-trendy musical genre called Ska, which generated hundreds of bands that incorporated the word "ska" in some way into their names. Here I'm thinking of the legendary Jamaican band called The Skatalites, but also lesser known "third wave" ska bands like "Ska Humbug," "The Skadillacs," "Skaface," "The Skaflaws," "Skali Baba and the Forty Ounce Horns," "Skankin Pickle," "Skarab," "Skarotum," "Skatland Yard," and so on. (Just so you know where I'm getting that list from, it's this FAQ)
--Are blogs taking over the world? No, they aren't. And I'm sick of reading about people who write for Gawker media -- an enterprise which has, I think, passed its peak. Now that she's quit Wonkette Ana Maria Cox is pretty much famous for being the venue that launched Washingtonienne.
--A Catholic high school has forbidden its students from blogging and online social networking, mainly to protect them from sexual predators. High school, it seems, is like being in China (or Pakistan).
Sarah Macdonald's Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure
I recently taught Sarah Macdonald's irreverent travel narrative, Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure in my Travel Writers class. Though I'd been worried about how it would go over, Macdonald's book really seemed to click with my students. Her hip style and irreverence actually woke up some students who had, up to this point, seemed somewhat bored by our discussions of travel, colonialism, and the Indian diaspora.
Though I believe my students learned some things from the book overall, Macdonald does hit some off notes. For instance, take Macdonald's discussion of the eponymous cow, which follows a description of Indian traffic rules:
Most of what she says here (especially about India's street cows being unhealthy) is true, but the smug tone bothers me; how is it different from the old type of colonial travel narrative (i.e., Katherine Mayo) that aims to ridicule the "natives"?
Macdonald gets much more interesting and informative as she moves from being a passively observing traveler making wisecracks to an active participant in India's spiritual marketplace. She samples large-scale events like the the Maha Kumbh Mela in Allahabad, the Our Lady of Health Basilica at Velangani in Tamil Nadu, the Golden Temple in Amritsar, the Sai Baba Ashram near Bangalore, Mata Amritanandamayi's (aka, the Hugging Amma) Ashram in Kerala, and the Tibetan Buddhist center in Dharamsala. She also explores smaller, more marginal traditions, including Vipassana Buddhist meditation (where you don't talk to anyone at all for ten days), the Parsis of Malabar Hill (who come off as very pompous and somewhat delusional), and the now-fading Bene Israel Jewish community. Though she doesn't at any point visit India's major mosques, she does have a chapter on her experience in Muslim-dominated Kashmir.
In each case, Macdonald tries to make her encounter with a given religious tradition personal -- that is, she considers whether the religion she encounters is something she can connect with, and whether it's something she would want in her life in an ongoing way. She shows a willingness not only to try different things, but to actively immerse herself in various religious practices and belief-systems. It's hard to know how seriously to take it: she dabbles in not just one or two but ten different religious traditions in the course of two years, but Macdonald does structure her book as a kind of personal spiritual journey -- where each of the major religious traditions she encounters gives her something to take home.
Despite the personal element, Macdonald's book remains somewhat ethnographic: there are substantial paragraphs explaining how Jainism works, the basic principles of Zoroastrianism, and so on. And actually, what might be the most interesting ethnographic work she does isn't about Indian religion per se so much as the culture of foreign travelers who go to India for "spiritual tourism." The chapter on the large numbers of young Israelis in the mountains is especially interesting. I noticed this myself when I was in Leh (Ladakh) two years ago: everywhere you go, you see signs for restaurants serving "Israeli" cuisine. There are special Israeli-only hostels, not to mention ubiquitous young people speaking Hebrew. The Israeli kids go to India to party (cheap drugs, no parents), to experiment with things like Tibetan Buddhism, and more than anything else to get a break after their mandatory military service. Some explore alternative/mystical forms of Jewish spirituality (Macdonald goes to a Seder that resembles a rave), while others stay fairly close to conservative and orthodox Judiam. In this vein, Macdonald has a particularly surreal conversation with a Lubavitcher Rabbi (!) who runs a synagogue in Dharamkhot.
Also good is Macdonald's take on the American Sikhs who have a small school in Amritsar (for American Sikh children). There she participates in a Kundalini class, and has a conversation with a teacher named Guru Singh:
No really, tell us what you really think!
In general, I would recommend Macdonald's book despite its occasional off notes. While Holy Cow is unlikely to tell you anything you don't already know (that is, if you know India well), it might be a good present for a curious colleague or friend (or their kids).
Though I believe my students learned some things from the book overall, Macdonald does hit some off notes. For instance, take Macdonald's discussion of the eponymous cow, which follows a description of Indian traffic rules:
I've always thought it hilarious that Indian people chose the most boring, domesticated, compliant and stupid animal on earth to adore, but already I'm seeing cows in a whole different light. These animals clearly know they rule and the like to mess with our heads. The humpbacked bovines step off median strips just as cars are approaching, they stare down drivers daring them to charge, they turn their noses up at passing elephants and camels, and hold huddles at the busiest intersections where they seem to chat away like the bulls of Gary Larson cartoons. It's clear they are enjoying themselves.
But for animals powerful enough to stop traffic and holy enough that they'll never become steak, cows are treated dreadfully. Scrany and sickly, they survive by grazing on garbage that's dumped in plastic bags. The bags collect in their stomachs and strangulate their innards, killing the cows slowly and painfully. Jonathan has already done a story about the urban cowboys of New Delhi who lasso the animals and take them to volunteer vets for operations. Unfortunately the cows are privately owned and once they are restored to health they must be released to eat more plastic.
Most of what she says here (especially about India's street cows being unhealthy) is true, but the smug tone bothers me; how is it different from the old type of colonial travel narrative (i.e., Katherine Mayo) that aims to ridicule the "natives"?
Macdonald gets much more interesting and informative as she moves from being a passively observing traveler making wisecracks to an active participant in India's spiritual marketplace. She samples large-scale events like the the Maha Kumbh Mela in Allahabad, the Our Lady of Health Basilica at Velangani in Tamil Nadu, the Golden Temple in Amritsar, the Sai Baba Ashram near Bangalore, Mata Amritanandamayi's (aka, the Hugging Amma) Ashram in Kerala, and the Tibetan Buddhist center in Dharamsala. She also explores smaller, more marginal traditions, including Vipassana Buddhist meditation (where you don't talk to anyone at all for ten days), the Parsis of Malabar Hill (who come off as very pompous and somewhat delusional), and the now-fading Bene Israel Jewish community. Though she doesn't at any point visit India's major mosques, she does have a chapter on her experience in Muslim-dominated Kashmir.
In each case, Macdonald tries to make her encounter with a given religious tradition personal -- that is, she considers whether the religion she encounters is something she can connect with, and whether it's something she would want in her life in an ongoing way. She shows a willingness not only to try different things, but to actively immerse herself in various religious practices and belief-systems. It's hard to know how seriously to take it: she dabbles in not just one or two but ten different religious traditions in the course of two years, but Macdonald does structure her book as a kind of personal spiritual journey -- where each of the major religious traditions she encounters gives her something to take home.
Despite the personal element, Macdonald's book remains somewhat ethnographic: there are substantial paragraphs explaining how Jainism works, the basic principles of Zoroastrianism, and so on. And actually, what might be the most interesting ethnographic work she does isn't about Indian religion per se so much as the culture of foreign travelers who go to India for "spiritual tourism." The chapter on the large numbers of young Israelis in the mountains is especially interesting. I noticed this myself when I was in Leh (Ladakh) two years ago: everywhere you go, you see signs for restaurants serving "Israeli" cuisine. There are special Israeli-only hostels, not to mention ubiquitous young people speaking Hebrew. The Israeli kids go to India to party (cheap drugs, no parents), to experiment with things like Tibetan Buddhism, and more than anything else to get a break after their mandatory military service. Some explore alternative/mystical forms of Jewish spirituality (Macdonald goes to a Seder that resembles a rave), while others stay fairly close to conservative and orthodox Judiam. In this vein, Macdonald has a particularly surreal conversation with a Lubavitcher Rabbi (!) who runs a synagogue in Dharamkhot.
Also good is Macdonald's take on the American Sikhs who have a small school in Amritsar (for American Sikh children). There she participates in a Kundalini class, and has a conversation with a teacher named Guru Singh:
For a time my cynicism is suspended and I'm in on the group high. The singalong of self-love has created a New Age ring of confidence in the room. Guru Singh oozes happiness in himself, his faith and his music. He gives me a CD of songs he's made with Seal, called Game of Chants, and shows me references by Jane Fonda and Pierce Brosnan. I tell him Courtney Love said sat nam at the MTV awards and showed me some Kundalini Yoga moves when I interviewed her at Triple J [an Australian television variety show], but I can't resist adding that she then put her cigarette out in my coffee. . . . The song and panting stuff may be kind of fun but I'm skeptical of this form of yoga; mainly because the first Sikh guru was critical of the practice and believed service to others was a better way to God. This new version of Sikhism seems to be a synthesis of age-old knowledge and modern self-loving Americanism--its saccharine self-absorbed smugness is a bit much for me.
No really, tell us what you really think!
In general, I would recommend Macdonald's book despite its occasional off notes. While Holy Cow is unlikely to tell you anything you don't already know (that is, if you know India well), it might be a good present for a curious colleague or friend (or their kids).
My Semi-Serious Oscar Picks (and a film about Indian Jews in Israel)
In the interest of not being too serious, let's talk Oscar.
Did you notice that all five films begin with letters at or before the letter 'M'? I've sometimes felt that films with letters closer to the beginning of the alphabet do slightly better, because they sit closer to the top of movie listings and such. Interestingly, every Best Picture Winner since the year 2000 has also started at or before 'M': Million Dollar Baby, Gladiator, A Beautiful Mind, Lord of the Rings. (In the 1990s, the ratio of A-M and N-Z is 1 to 1)
I'm not really sure who's going to win -- I haven't seen Crash or Munich. But I saw the other three, and I can't see the award going to Good Night, and Good Luck, because it's such a small film (Oscar likes big and sweepy). And Capote is too cold and amoral (Oscar likes a moral, and Capote questions about the viability of the death penalty is arguable). Because I read so many mixed reviews of Crash, my money's on Munich or Brokeback Mountain. While most people are predicting Brokeback Mountain because of all the hype this spring, it's always dangerous to bet against Stephen Spielberg...
It's possible that Best Picture will go to Brokeback Mountain, while the Best Director award will go to Spielberg and Munich.
On Documentaries, I did recently watch Murderball (the film about quadroplegic rugby players), which is a long-shot against March of the Penguins, but a damn good documentary nonetheless. I'm also trying to figure out how Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man wasn't nominated; that is a really brilliant and philosophically challenging film.
I have a gut feeling that Capote will win Best Adapted Screenplay, because it's a movie about a writer on the verge of greatness, and films about writers writing tend to ring the "well-written" bell, if you see what I mean. Capote should also win for Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in the Best Actor. (Best Actress is harder to read, isn't it? Reese Witherspoon was good in Walk the Line, but it was a pretty conventional role. Hard to compare her to more radical roles like Judi Dench in Mrs. Henderson Presents or Felicity Huffman in Transamerica)
I haven't seen any of the Foreign Films this year, though I would encourage the committee in India who chooses which films to select to send to the Academy for pre-nomination to look carefully at the films on this list. Note that none of them look anything like Paheli! I get the feeling that the government committee is a bit cut off from the rest of the world. Something like 15 Park Avenue might have had more of a chance; mostly the official Indian submissions tend to be pretty ridiculous choices.
* * * *
Now to be just a little more serious.
In a couple of weeks, I'm going to be on a panel at Lehigh talking about a recent Israeli film called Turn Left at the End of the World (also see IMDB).
The film is about the interaction between Indian and Moroccan immigrants to Israel in the 1960s. Beginning as early as 1949, Indian Jews were invited to 'return' to Israel, and the immigrants placed by the Israeli government in rural settlements, often based on where they came from in India. Jews from the Bene Israel community in Bombay tended to end up in a desert town called Beersheva (where they struggled), while Cochin Jews tended to go to more agriculturally-friendly places in other parts of the country (where they prospered). There are now about 60,000 Bene Israel Indians in Beersheva, with less than 5000 remaining in Bombay.
I got to watch a preview copy of Turn Left at the End of the World last night, and it is actually a lot of fun; it stars a well-known Indian actor named Parmeet Sethi, as well as some actual Indian Israelis (Liraz Charchi, pictured above, is particularly impressive as Sarah Talkar). Judging from some articles I've been reading, the film's portrayal of the integration of the Bene Israel Jews in Beersheva in the later 1960s is probably a little too upbeat. In real life, the Indian Jewish communities tended to remain somewhat segregated from the mainstream of Israeli society, and the Bene Israel community in particular had to struggle to get official recognition as proper Jews. But that's a quibble; if you see this film playing anywhere, definitely go see it.
Does anyone have any recommendations for further reading on Indian Jews, either in India or Israel?
(Oh, and what are your Oscar picks and why?)
Best Picture: Brokeback Mountain
Capote
Crash
Good Night, and Good Luck
Munich
Did you notice that all five films begin with letters at or before the letter 'M'? I've sometimes felt that films with letters closer to the beginning of the alphabet do slightly better, because they sit closer to the top of movie listings and such. Interestingly, every Best Picture Winner since the year 2000 has also started at or before 'M': Million Dollar Baby, Gladiator, A Beautiful Mind, Lord of the Rings. (In the 1990s, the ratio of A-M and N-Z is 1 to 1)
I'm not really sure who's going to win -- I haven't seen Crash or Munich. But I saw the other three, and I can't see the award going to Good Night, and Good Luck, because it's such a small film (Oscar likes big and sweepy). And Capote is too cold and amoral (Oscar likes a moral, and Capote questions about the viability of the death penalty is arguable). Because I read so many mixed reviews of Crash, my money's on Munich or Brokeback Mountain. While most people are predicting Brokeback Mountain because of all the hype this spring, it's always dangerous to bet against Stephen Spielberg...
It's possible that Best Picture will go to Brokeback Mountain, while the Best Director award will go to Spielberg and Munich.
On Documentaries, I did recently watch Murderball (the film about quadroplegic rugby players), which is a long-shot against March of the Penguins, but a damn good documentary nonetheless. I'm also trying to figure out how Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man wasn't nominated; that is a really brilliant and philosophically challenging film.
I have a gut feeling that Capote will win Best Adapted Screenplay, because it's a movie about a writer on the verge of greatness, and films about writers writing tend to ring the "well-written" bell, if you see what I mean. Capote should also win for Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in the Best Actor. (Best Actress is harder to read, isn't it? Reese Witherspoon was good in Walk the Line, but it was a pretty conventional role. Hard to compare her to more radical roles like Judi Dench in Mrs. Henderson Presents or Felicity Huffman in Transamerica)
I haven't seen any of the Foreign Films this year, though I would encourage the committee in India who chooses which films to select to send to the Academy for pre-nomination to look carefully at the films on this list. Note that none of them look anything like Paheli! I get the feeling that the government committee is a bit cut off from the rest of the world. Something like 15 Park Avenue might have had more of a chance; mostly the official Indian submissions tend to be pretty ridiculous choices.
* * * *
Now to be just a little more serious.
In a couple of weeks, I'm going to be on a panel at Lehigh talking about a recent Israeli film called Turn Left at the End of the World (also see IMDB).
The film is about the interaction between Indian and Moroccan immigrants to Israel in the 1960s. Beginning as early as 1949, Indian Jews were invited to 'return' to Israel, and the immigrants placed by the Israeli government in rural settlements, often based on where they came from in India. Jews from the Bene Israel community in Bombay tended to end up in a desert town called Beersheva (where they struggled), while Cochin Jews tended to go to more agriculturally-friendly places in other parts of the country (where they prospered). There are now about 60,000 Bene Israel Indians in Beersheva, with less than 5000 remaining in Bombay.
I got to watch a preview copy of Turn Left at the End of the World last night, and it is actually a lot of fun; it stars a well-known Indian actor named Parmeet Sethi, as well as some actual Indian Israelis (Liraz Charchi, pictured above, is particularly impressive as Sarah Talkar). Judging from some articles I've been reading, the film's portrayal of the integration of the Bene Israel Jews in Beersheva in the later 1960s is probably a little too upbeat. In real life, the Indian Jewish communities tended to remain somewhat segregated from the mainstream of Israeli society, and the Bene Israel community in particular had to struggle to get official recognition as proper Jews. But that's a quibble; if you see this film playing anywhere, definitely go see it.
Does anyone have any recommendations for further reading on Indian Jews, either in India or Israel?
(Oh, and what are your Oscar picks and why?)
Dubya In India (and the "Fresh Prince" in Bombay)
President Bush just landed in India. Here are some links that stand out to me regarding the visit and the proposed nuclear deal:
1. A poll published in Outlook India shows that Bush's approval rating in India is higher than it is here in the U.S. (So maybe one shouldn't take the 100,000 protestors from Muslim groups and the Left in Delhi as the definitive voice of India.)
2. Bernard Gwertzman of the Council on Foreign Relations, does a Q&A in the New York Times on the nuclear deal, explaining some of the details of the proposed deal, and why there's been difficulty ironing out the kinks.
3. Fred Kaplan, writing in Slate, suggests that the nuclear deal the U.S. is negotiating with India isn't legal under the NPT, which the U.S. has signed even if India hasn't. Moreover, quite a number of folks are likely to be bothered by a possible deal, and a number of UN organizations are going to step in to try and block it after signing:
So even if the deal is signed (which is by no means guaranteed), it may not stick. Can it really be that the administration is unaware of the complications? What could their motivations for signing this be if it's unlikely that anyone will start shipping nuclear fuel to India anytime soon?
4. Arundhati Roy singles out Bush's planned visit to Rajghat (the Gandhi memorial park) as something that will cause millions of Indians to "wince." I don't know; I think most Indians are perfectly comfortable with unlikely appropriations of Gandhi's image and legacy (just as civil rights activists in the U.S. have gotten used to Republicans wantonly quoting MLK).
Other than that, Roy's best zinger on Bush's travel plans is about his choice of venue:
Not much of a bite there.
5. Forget Bush-Manmohan and the Nuclear Deal! Will Smith is in Bombay, making prognostications about the merger of Bollywood and Hollywood.
1. A poll published in Outlook India shows that Bush's approval rating in India is higher than it is here in the U.S. (So maybe one shouldn't take the 100,000 protestors from Muslim groups and the Left in Delhi as the definitive voice of India.)
2. Bernard Gwertzman of the Council on Foreign Relations, does a Q&A in the New York Times on the nuclear deal, explaining some of the details of the proposed deal, and why there's been difficulty ironing out the kinks.
3. Fred Kaplan, writing in Slate, suggests that the nuclear deal the U.S. is negotiating with India isn't legal under the NPT, which the U.S. has signed even if India hasn't. Moreover, quite a number of folks are likely to be bothered by a possible deal, and a number of UN organizations are going to step in to try and block it after signing:
First, the United States has no authority to grant such an exemption on its own. The NPT is a treaty signed by 187 nations; it is enforced by the International Atomic Energy Agency; and it is, in effect, administered by the five nations that the treaty recognizes as nuclear powers (the United States, Russia, China, Britain, and France). This point is not a legal nicety. If the United States can cut a separate deal with India, what is to prevent China or Russia from doing the same with Pakistan or Iran? If India demands special treatment on the grounds that it's a stable democracy, what is to keep Japan, Brazil, or Germany from picking up on the precedent?
Second, the India deal would violate not just international agreements but also several U.S. laws regulating the export of nuclear materials.
In other words, an American president who sought to make this deal would, or should, detect a myriad of political actors that might protest or block it—mainly the U.N. Security Council, the Nuclear Suppliers' Group, and the U.S. Congress. Not just as a legal principle but also as a practical consideration, these actors must be notified, cajoled, mollified, or otherwise bargained with if the deal has a chance of coming to life.
The amazing thing is, President Bush just went ahead and made the pledge, without so much as the pretense of consultation—as if all these actors, with their prerogatives over treaties and laws (to say nothing of their concerns for very real dilemmas), didn't exist.
So even if the deal is signed (which is by no means guaranteed), it may not stick. Can it really be that the administration is unaware of the complications? What could their motivations for signing this be if it's unlikely that anyone will start shipping nuclear fuel to India anytime soon?
4. Arundhati Roy singles out Bush's planned visit to Rajghat (the Gandhi memorial park) as something that will cause millions of Indians to "wince." I don't know; I think most Indians are perfectly comfortable with unlikely appropriations of Gandhi's image and legacy (just as civil rights activists in the U.S. have gotten used to Republicans wantonly quoting MLK).
Other than that, Roy's best zinger on Bush's travel plans is about his choice of venue:
Ironic isn't it, that the only safe public space for a man who has recently been so enthusiastic about India's modernity, should be a crumbling medieval fort?
Not much of a bite there.
5. Forget Bush-Manmohan and the Nuclear Deal! Will Smith is in Bombay, making prognostications about the merger of Bollywood and Hollywood.
Octavia Butler, RIP
Octavia Butler died last weekend, possibly of a stroke -- though the immediate cause of death was a head wound caused by a bad fall. I'm not the best qualified to write a full appreciation of this amazing and prolific writer -- I've only read Bloodchild and Kindred. Still, I did find a quote from her that I'd like to share, from an article in MELUS. In an interview, someone asked her, "What good is science fiction to black people?" Her response was as follows:
What good is any form of literature to Black people? What good is science fiction's thinking about the present, the future, and the past? What good is its tendency to warn or to consider alternative ways of thinking and doing? What good is its examination of the possible effects of science and technology, or social organization and political direction? At its best, science fiction stimulates imagination and creativity. It gets reader and writer off the beaten track, off the narrow, narrow footpath of what "everyone" is saying, doing, thinking--whoever "everyone" happens to be this year. And what good is all this to Black people? ("Positive Obsession" 134-35)
In these rhetorical questions is a statement of her broad-minded mission. Octavia Butler was as ecumenical and progressive as they come, as far as the politics one finds embedded in her works. But she never used her writing to make narrow kinds of political arguments -- at least, not in the sense of the obvious rhetoric of race, gender, and sexuality that dominates our cultural debates. She either approached it eccentrically (time travel, blood lineage, and slavery in Kindred), or looked ahead a thousand years, to consider parasite/host (alien/human) eroticism. Her writing challenged and provoked all kinds of people, including those who weren't concerned about all the barriers she broke as a black woman sci-fi writer in a field dominated by heterosexual white men.
Incidentally, Octavia Butler is one of the rare sci-fi/speculative ficiton writers whose work really captivates readers who are themselves scientists. Here, for instance, is a biologist's response to the Xenogenesis trilogy.
Multnomah Falls
Multnomah Falls is part of a chain of waterfalls that people go to see near Portland, in the Columbia River Gorge. In the winter, ice builds up near the base of the waterfalls; a couple of weeks ago the mound had grown really huge at this particular spot.
I've posted a high-resolution version of this photo at Flickr.
Portland: City of Books
Somehow I managed to time my trip to Portland to coincide with two consecutive sunny days in February. I’m having a great time so far, thanks to my wonderful hosts from the English Department, University Studies, and the library. At the talk I was happy to run into ‘SeaJay’ from Another Subcontinent, as well as Jeffrey St. Clair, one of the editors of Counterpunch. Thus far I’ve mainly been at the university -– though today I get to go off and do a little sightseeing before heading back east tomorrow.
Last night, I gave my lecture on The Kite Runner and other narratives of Afghanistan in front of about 80 people at the Portland State University library. It seemed to go off pretty well. Unlike some recent talks I’ve done in a crunch, here I was really able to focus on my subject in the days leading up to the talk, and do some quality mulling. (Quality mulling is crucial.)
At the beginning I spent a little time introducing some of the other books about Afghanistan I think people should consider reading –- actually showing Powerpoint slides with pictures of the book covers and descriptions.
The term I worked with in the talk itself was ‘cultural translation’ -– how these writers make Afghanistan ‘real’ to their readers. I used some of the material from my earlier blog post, including the reference to the Shahnamah, and some of the hostile reviews of the novel. I also raised questions of my own about the twin dangers of nostalgic exoticism (‘masala’) and extreme negativity (the obsession with the burqa) that one sees in some of the recent books about Afghanistan. Here I singled out Saira Shah’s The Storyteller’s Daughter as an example of a book that gets excessive in both directions. (You can still read an excerpt from the book here.) In fact, for whatever flaws it may have, The Kite Runner manages to avoid that trap.
I also (probably predictably) alluded to Indian expatriate literature, which I think has a lot in common with these narratives of expatriates returning to Afghanistan since the fall of the Taliban. I brought up Salman Rushdie’s metaphor of the ‘broken mirror’ of the expatriate writer:
To some extent, all of these writers are writing about loss and the hope of recovery (this is especially pronounced in Nelofer Pezira and Hosseini). But they are also benefiting from that same broken mirror (or perhaps prism): the expatriate gains perspective even as she loses a direct window on the texture of everyday life.
I didn’t say this in the talk, but I’ve been struck by the deep connection between the Indian subcontinent and Afghanistan in all of these readings. A number of people who fled Afghanistan in the civil wars went to Pakistan, but quite a number (including Said Hyder Akbar’s family) went to India. And the connection is deep in the Afghan psyche, as this poem by Ahmed Shah Durrani suggests:
Ok, off to do some sightseeing, and maybe stop by Powell's. If it stays sunny, there might even be some pictures!
Last night, I gave my lecture on The Kite Runner and other narratives of Afghanistan in front of about 80 people at the Portland State University library. It seemed to go off pretty well. Unlike some recent talks I’ve done in a crunch, here I was really able to focus on my subject in the days leading up to the talk, and do some quality mulling. (Quality mulling is crucial.)
At the beginning I spent a little time introducing some of the other books about Afghanistan I think people should consider reading –- actually showing Powerpoint slides with pictures of the book covers and descriptions.
The term I worked with in the talk itself was ‘cultural translation’ -– how these writers make Afghanistan ‘real’ to their readers. I used some of the material from my earlier blog post, including the reference to the Shahnamah, and some of the hostile reviews of the novel. I also raised questions of my own about the twin dangers of nostalgic exoticism (‘masala’) and extreme negativity (the obsession with the burqa) that one sees in some of the recent books about Afghanistan. Here I singled out Saira Shah’s The Storyteller’s Daughter as an example of a book that gets excessive in both directions. (You can still read an excerpt from the book here.) In fact, for whatever flaws it may have, The Kite Runner manages to avoid that trap.
I also (probably predictably) alluded to Indian expatriate literature, which I think has a lot in common with these narratives of expatriates returning to Afghanistan since the fall of the Taliban. I brought up Salman Rushdie’s metaphor of the ‘broken mirror’ of the expatriate writer:
It may be that when the Indian writer who writes from outside India tries to reflect that world, he is obliged to deal in broken mirrors, some of whose fragments have been irretrievably lost. (Imaginary Homelands)
To some extent, all of these writers are writing about loss and the hope of recovery (this is especially pronounced in Nelofer Pezira and Hosseini). But they are also benefiting from that same broken mirror (or perhaps prism): the expatriate gains perspective even as she loses a direct window on the texture of everyday life.
I didn’t say this in the talk, but I’ve been struck by the deep connection between the Indian subcontinent and Afghanistan in all of these readings. A number of people who fled Afghanistan in the civil wars went to Pakistan, but quite a number (including Said Hyder Akbar’s family) went to India. And the connection is deep in the Afghan psyche, as this poem by Ahmed Shah Durrani suggests:
By blood we are immersed in love of you.
The youth lose their heads for your sake.
I come to you and my heart finds rest.
Away from you, grief clings to my heart like a snake.
I forget the throne of Delhi
When I remember the mountaintops of my Pashtun land.
If I must choose between the world and you,
I shall not hesitate to claim your barren deserts as my own.
--Ahmed Shah Durrani
Ok, off to do some sightseeing, and maybe stop by Powell's. If it stays sunny, there might even be some pictures!
Portland, Afghanistan, and Said Akbar Hyder
I'm off later this week to Portland, to talk about The Kite Runner and the recent batch of "going home to Afghanistan" books. The link for the talk is here, in case anyone is in town and wants to come check it out. (If so, do email me offline)
In addition to The Kite Runner (which I blogged about last summer), I also read some other interesting books for this talk. I had earlier read The Storyteller's Daughter and The Bookseller of Kabul; this weekend I plowed through Syed Akbar Hyder's Come Back to Afghanistan and Nelofer Pezira's A Bed of Red Flowers.
I really enjoyed both of the latter books, especially Come Back to Afghanistan, which Hyder wrote after his sophomore year in community college, in Concord, CA (he has since transferred to Yale). Hyder's family is closely connected to the Hamid Karzai government and has played a part in the reconstruction of the country following the fall of the Taliban. Though Hyder was born in India (where his family had fled) in 1985, and had never been to Afghanistan before the summer of 2002, he benefits from fluency in Pashto and Farsi. And there's little time wasted getting to know the country; his family's connections give him a sense of history (myriad connections to the Mujahideen's resistance to the Soviets), as well as direct access to the key events associated with the difficult reconstruction of Afghanistan. Hyder has a lot of interesting things to say about why it's been so difficult for the new government to establish centralized authority, the serious funding problems that beset the country, and the failures of the U.S. military.
One of the issues that comes up is of course the prisoner abuse scandal, which affects Hyder in a very personal way when he meets a civilian CIA contractor named Dave Pessaro. Pessaro investigates an acquaintance of Hyder's named Abdul Wali in the Kunar province, who then dies during "questioning." (You can read the Washington Post's coverage of the indictment of Pessaro here.) Here are two thoughtful paragraphs from Hyder on why he actually isn't as concerned about the prisoner abuse scandal(s) as are many liberals in the U.S.:
I'm not sure what Hyder might say in response to the most recent batch of torture/abuse pictures that have come out, though I imagine the logic here would hold: a lot worse has happened, and even continues to happen (witness the dozens of Iraqi civilians killed by insurgents in Iraq every week). Still, the violence exemplified in the new batch of photos is jarring (and I'm not just referring to the Salon photos; other photos are available on the internet that are even more disturbing).
But back to Hyder -- not half bad for something written by an undergraduate! (Though he did have considerable help from Susan Barton, whose co-authored.)
In addition to The Kite Runner (which I blogged about last summer), I also read some other interesting books for this talk. I had earlier read The Storyteller's Daughter and The Bookseller of Kabul; this weekend I plowed through Syed Akbar Hyder's Come Back to Afghanistan and Nelofer Pezira's A Bed of Red Flowers.
I really enjoyed both of the latter books, especially Come Back to Afghanistan, which Hyder wrote after his sophomore year in community college, in Concord, CA (he has since transferred to Yale). Hyder's family is closely connected to the Hamid Karzai government and has played a part in the reconstruction of the country following the fall of the Taliban. Though Hyder was born in India (where his family had fled) in 1985, and had never been to Afghanistan before the summer of 2002, he benefits from fluency in Pashto and Farsi. And there's little time wasted getting to know the country; his family's connections give him a sense of history (myriad connections to the Mujahideen's resistance to the Soviets), as well as direct access to the key events associated with the difficult reconstruction of Afghanistan. Hyder has a lot of interesting things to say about why it's been so difficult for the new government to establish centralized authority, the serious funding problems that beset the country, and the failures of the U.S. military.
One of the issues that comes up is of course the prisoner abuse scandal, which affects Hyder in a very personal way when he meets a civilian CIA contractor named Dave Pessaro. Pessaro investigates an acquaintance of Hyder's named Abdul Wali in the Kunar province, who then dies during "questioning." (You can read the Washington Post's coverage of the indictment of Pessaro here.) Here are two thoughtful paragraphs from Hyder on why he actually isn't as concerned about the prisoner abuse scandal(s) as are many liberals in the U.S.:
But the prisoner abuse scandal is primarily an American obsession. In the days following Dave's arrest, not a single person sits down to discuss the situation with my father--unless you count Yossef, who, upon hearing the news, comes upstairs and says, "Hey, they announced the Abdul Wali thing." (It's not that nobody cares; it's just a hardening that accompanies the fact that thousands of Afghans died in prisons during teh Communist and Soviet eras.) I wind up working on a piece for the New York Times Magazine about my experience in the interrogation room, and I have mixed feelings about the assignment. Of all the stories I could pick to tell about Afghanistan right now, I'm not sure if this one would even make the top ten.
As horrible as Abdul Wali's story is -- and as deeply as it's affected me-- a single prisoner's death is hardly the worst of what's going on here this summer. Presidential elections, for instance, are scheduled for the fall, but the registration effort is faltering. The UN's elections workers have already pulled out of the province once and have threatened to do so again if affected by even a single act of violence. In Kunar, where landmines are not hard to come by, the dictate gives a single individual the power to disrupt the upcoming vote. Elsewhere in the country three governors have been forced to flee their posts in recent months. My father now sleeps with a Kalashnikov beside his bed so that he can shoot from the window if the compound comes under attack.
I'm not sure what Hyder might say in response to the most recent batch of torture/abuse pictures that have come out, though I imagine the logic here would hold: a lot worse has happened, and even continues to happen (witness the dozens of Iraqi civilians killed by insurgents in Iraq every week). Still, the violence exemplified in the new batch of photos is jarring (and I'm not just referring to the Salon photos; other photos are available on the internet that are even more disturbing).
But back to Hyder -- not half bad for something written by an undergraduate! (Though he did have considerable help from Susan Barton, whose co-authored.)
Auden and China
My post on Auden last week generated some challenging comments on the Valve, which provked me to look a little more closely at the poems Auden wrote after his trip to China.
These were originally included in the book Journey to a War, which was according to biographers mostly authored by Auden's traveling companion, the writer Christopher Isherwood. The book was published in 1939; their travels were commissioned by the publisher. The late 1930s was in general busy with travel for Auden, setting the stage for his final emigration from England (to New York) at the beginning of World War II. In addition to Spain, he also visited Iceland during this period, and passed through New York on his way back from China. Incidentally, though this was clearly an important period for him personally and as a writer, Auden apparently didn't love the traveling all that much. Auden's recent biographer, John Fuller, has the following quote from Auden's diary from the trip:
I think this is a great metaphor for a certain kind of traveler's despair. One could even extend it further: perhaps it's not just the voyage, but the traveler him or herself that is the "illness." One gets over the nausea of dislocation when motion finally stops.
On to the sonnets, which are, as a group, rather tough going. The strongest individual poems in terms of unity of theme and coherence are the first and last, and neither of the two are directly about China. Indeed, it seems quite possible to read them as more about Auden himself than about the place he had visited. Take Sonnet I:
The slightly clueless character at the center of this poem recurs in the first ten or so sonnets. He begins as above -- a person who is always slightly off as regards his politics or his "station" in life. I read these lines as autobiographical and for the most part self-deprecating, though there is a glint of Auden's pride in the gentle phrasing of the last line: "And envied his few friends, and chose his love." As the sonnets progress, he grows older, becoming depressed and less lovable (Sonnet V: "unwanted/ Grown seedy, paunchy, pouchy, disappointed,/ He took to drink to screw his nerves to muder"), before finally achieving a kind of regeneration with a seemingly symbolic boy-figure (Sonnets IX).
The China context, hinted at in Sonnet X, only really comes to the fore in Sonnet XI, with also seems to come closest to a kind of Orientalism. In the vein of many other Auden poems responding to War from the late 1930s, Sonnet XI is a strong injunction to joy and love against the gathering darkness of militarization. Here are the final lines of that sonnet:
The last two lines clearly refer to China (on "Eighteen Provinces," see Wikipedia, and skip down to "The Term in Chinese"; "Hundred Families" refers, I believe to a medieval Chinese text called The Surnames of a Hundred Families). But theme of venerable Chinese tradition and "the quick new West" is fleeting; I don't see it recur in the other poems, most of which focus more on the ambivalence of the British presence in China. See, for instance, the opening lines of Sonnet XVI:
Who exactly Auden is referring to when he says "our"? The most obvious first reading is the English nation, but subsequent lines in the poem raise the possibility that he means specifically the overseas British, such as he encountered in the British colony of Hong Kong. And it might even be more specific (or more intimate) than that, as the "we" becomes "they" as the poem develops. "They," whose vision of the world has been rendered obsolete:
"Freedom's back" is another phrase to puzzle over. A postcolonial reading might focus on the frontal aggression of the stare with which the Englishman is met. But freedom (presumably of the native) is something he can't quite access: it turns its back to him. (There is also, I would speculate, a possible gay subtext here: disapproval might also be a reference to the attitude towards homosexuality he encountered -- and I'll leave "freedom's back" to the reader's imagination.)
Several of the more China-themed sonnets invoke war and tragedy, but only Sonnet XII specifically alludes to genocide: "For we have seen a myriad faces/ Ecstatic from one lie/ And maps can really point to places/ Where life is evil now./ Nanking. Dachau." Note Auden's invocation of the "lie" of political orthodoxies, as contrasted to the truths of modern war represented by "Nanking" and "Dachau."
Ultimately, I don't find a coherent argument to Auden's Sonnets from China. The sympathy for the Chinese victims of the Sino-Japanese War is real, but hardly central thematically. A general tone of mourning and loss of place prevails, but it's hard to say whether that loss is Auden's personal alienation from English life, or a more generalized expression of political dislocation (linked to both British colonialism and its imminent entry into a new world War). Quite possibly, it's both, mingled together ambiguously.
Auden ends the sequence with a move towards Edwardian Liberalism and E.M. Forster: "Yes, we are Lucy, Turton, Philip: we/ Wish international evil, are delighted/ To join the jolly ranks of the benighted/ Where resason is denied and love ignored." (Incidentally, John Fuller, in his 2000 biography of Auden, argues that Auden probably meant "intentional," not "international" evil -- following a line in Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread -- and that this may have been an error of the compositor.) Against loveless spite is an ethos of human decency, personal intimacy, and friendship. If that is Auden's point, one wonders about the real value to us of these sonnets today; perhaps he said it better elsewhere?
Further reading: One scholar who has been working quite a bit on Auden's China sonnets is Stuart Christie, of Hong Kong Baptist University. He has an essay called "Orienteering," which is available here (PDF). I find it helpful. A more recent essay appeared in the October 2005 issue of PMLA (for those who have university subscriptions). I think the earlier essay is the better of the two.
(And a note about online access: I've only quoted bits and pieces of the sonnets here -- trying not to trample too much on 'Fair Use'. For those who don't have access to a volume of Auden, I believe all of the sonnets can be accessed through Google's cache.)
These were originally included in the book Journey to a War, which was according to biographers mostly authored by Auden's traveling companion, the writer Christopher Isherwood. The book was published in 1939; their travels were commissioned by the publisher. The late 1930s was in general busy with travel for Auden, setting the stage for his final emigration from England (to New York) at the beginning of World War II. In addition to Spain, he also visited Iceland during this period, and passed through New York on his way back from China. Incidentally, though this was clearly an important period for him personally and as a writer, Auden apparently didn't love the traveling all that much. Auden's recent biographer, John Fuller, has the following quote from Auden's diary from the trip:
This voyage is our illness: as the long days pass, we grow peevish, apathetic, sullen; we no longer expect, or even wish to recover. Only at moments, when a dolphin leaps or the big real birds from sunken Africa veer round our squat white funnels, we sigh and wince, our bodies gripped by the exquisitely painful pangs of hope. Maybe, after all, we are going to get well.
I think this is a great metaphor for a certain kind of traveler's despair. One could even extend it further: perhaps it's not just the voyage, but the traveler him or herself that is the "illness." One gets over the nausea of dislocation when motion finally stops.
On to the sonnets, which are, as a group, rather tough going. The strongest individual poems in terms of unity of theme and coherence are the first and last, and neither of the two are directly about China. Indeed, it seems quite possible to read them as more about Auden himself than about the place he had visited. Take Sonnet I:
So from the years their gifts were showered: each
Grabbed at the one it needed to survive;
Bee took the politics that suit a hive,
Trout finned as trout, peach moulded into peach,
And were successful at their first endeavour.
The hour of birth their only time in college,
They were content with their precocious knowledge,
To know their station and be right for ever.
Till, finally, there came a childish creature
On whom the years could model any feature,
Fake, as chance fell, as leopard or a dove,
Who by the gentlest wind was rudely shaken,
Who looked for truth but always was mistaken,
And envied his few friends, and chose his love.
The slightly clueless character at the center of this poem recurs in the first ten or so sonnets. He begins as above -- a person who is always slightly off as regards his politics or his "station" in life. I read these lines as autobiographical and for the most part self-deprecating, though there is a glint of Auden's pride in the gentle phrasing of the last line: "And envied his few friends, and chose his love." As the sonnets progress, he grows older, becoming depressed and less lovable (Sonnet V: "unwanted/ Grown seedy, paunchy, pouchy, disappointed,/ He took to drink to screw his nerves to muder"), before finally achieving a kind of regeneration with a seemingly symbolic boy-figure (Sonnets IX).
The China context, hinted at in Sonnet X, only really comes to the fore in Sonnet XI, with also seems to come closest to a kind of Orientalism. In the vein of many other Auden poems responding to War from the late 1930s, Sonnet XI is a strong injunction to joy and love against the gathering darkness of militarization. Here are the final lines of that sonnet:
History opposes its grief to our buoyant song,
To our hope its warning. One star has warmed to birth
One puzzled species that has yet to prove its worth:
The quick new West is false, and prodigious but wrong
The flower-like Hundred Families who for so long
In the Eighteen Provinces have modified the earth.
The last two lines clearly refer to China (on "Eighteen Provinces," see Wikipedia, and skip down to "The Term in Chinese"; "Hundred Families" refers, I believe to a medieval Chinese text called The Surnames of a Hundred Families). But theme of venerable Chinese tradition and "the quick new West" is fleeting; I don't see it recur in the other poems, most of which focus more on the ambivalence of the British presence in China. See, for instance, the opening lines of Sonnet XVI:
Our global story is not yet completed,
Crime, daring, commerce, chatter will go on,
But, as narrators find their memory gone,
Homeless, disterred, these know themselves defeated.
Who exactly Auden is referring to when he says "our"? The most obvious first reading is the English nation, but subsequent lines in the poem raise the possibility that he means specifically the overseas British, such as he encountered in the British colony of Hong Kong. And it might even be more specific (or more intimate) than that, as the "we" becomes "they" as the poem develops. "They," whose vision of the world has been rendered obsolete:
their doom to bear
Love for some far fobidden country, see
A native disapprove them with a stare
And Freedom's back in every door and tree.
"Freedom's back" is another phrase to puzzle over. A postcolonial reading might focus on the frontal aggression of the stare with which the Englishman is met. But freedom (presumably of the native) is something he can't quite access: it turns its back to him. (There is also, I would speculate, a possible gay subtext here: disapproval might also be a reference to the attitude towards homosexuality he encountered -- and I'll leave "freedom's back" to the reader's imagination.)
Several of the more China-themed sonnets invoke war and tragedy, but only Sonnet XII specifically alludes to genocide: "For we have seen a myriad faces/ Ecstatic from one lie/ And maps can really point to places/ Where life is evil now./ Nanking. Dachau." Note Auden's invocation of the "lie" of political orthodoxies, as contrasted to the truths of modern war represented by "Nanking" and "Dachau."
Ultimately, I don't find a coherent argument to Auden's Sonnets from China. The sympathy for the Chinese victims of the Sino-Japanese War is real, but hardly central thematically. A general tone of mourning and loss of place prevails, but it's hard to say whether that loss is Auden's personal alienation from English life, or a more generalized expression of political dislocation (linked to both British colonialism and its imminent entry into a new world War). Quite possibly, it's both, mingled together ambiguously.
Auden ends the sequence with a move towards Edwardian Liberalism and E.M. Forster: "Yes, we are Lucy, Turton, Philip: we/ Wish international evil, are delighted/ To join the jolly ranks of the benighted/ Where resason is denied and love ignored." (Incidentally, John Fuller, in his 2000 biography of Auden, argues that Auden probably meant "intentional," not "international" evil -- following a line in Forster's Where Angels Fear to Tread -- and that this may have been an error of the compositor.) Against loveless spite is an ethos of human decency, personal intimacy, and friendship. If that is Auden's point, one wonders about the real value to us of these sonnets today; perhaps he said it better elsewhere?
Further reading: One scholar who has been working quite a bit on Auden's China sonnets is Stuart Christie, of Hong Kong Baptist University. He has an essay called "Orienteering," which is available here (PDF). I find it helpful. A more recent essay appeared in the October 2005 issue of PMLA (for those who have university subscriptions). I think the earlier essay is the better of the two.
(And a note about online access: I've only quoted bits and pieces of the sonnets here -- trying not to trample too much on 'Fair Use'. For those who don't have access to a volume of Auden, I believe all of the sonnets can be accessed through Google's cache.)
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