At MLA, I spent a lot of time late at night in my hotel room just watching footage of the devastation in South Asia. I was initially angry that this could have happened in an era of immediate global communications, but the more I read, the more I think that preventing something this widespread would not have been easy. I was also a little concerned initially that the Indian government, in a show of misguided bravado, was turning down foreign aid (see Amit Varma), but now they've moderated that stance. And I'm impressed at what people like Amit and my friend Rajeev (who is involved with ASHA) are doing. Amit has already gone to Chennai to help; Rajeev is also going south sometime soon.
Good luck, guys. All I can do right now, I'm afraid, is send in my $50. Which I just did, to AIDIndia.
My panel. I did have a good time at MLA, managing to put things out of my mind for a few hours a day. The best part: I ran into many old friends, an astonishing number of whom seem to be on the job market right now. I also waved at many casual academic acquaintances (the people at whose badges one has to quickly glance). And I went to some great panels. My own panel, if I may say it, rocked -- excellent papers, well-delivered. As chair, I didn't have to do much, though I did throw in some contrarian-sounding, "devil's advocate" points in the discussion to keep the audience awake. (I am growing increasingly contrarian...) The panelists and I have also been chatting about doing something more with the idea the panel was about. (So if you're also not happy with the term "South Asian Literature," let me know and I can keep you in the loop on the further developments.)
Milton and Donne. I went to some panels completely outside of my field, just to see. The best was a panel on "Literature and Religious Authority" in 17th century writing, mainly John Donne and John Milton. I had trouble following the twists and turns in Milton's "anti-prelatical" texts, but I loved one of the papers on Donne, whose style reminds me of the Persian/South Asian ghazal. (It's not surprising, since Donne is a follower of Petrarch, who was himself, I believe [but could not immediately confirm] influenced by Medieval Islamic poetry.) I also had lunch with a small group of Miltonists (one of whom is a colleague at Lehigh), which was intellectually pretty high-powered.
A little gripe: It's always impressive to me that there are so many people in this profession who are so learned, and smart. I wish we spent more time and effort working on how to talk to each other.
A little snark: I also went to a couple of dreadfully boring panels. One speaker (in the middle slot), who was a very well-known, senior person, went on so long that he actually didn't leave time for the third speaker! The chair was too afraid to stop him. Very, very bad behavior.
And a response to John Strausbaugh: It's a tradition that someone in the mainstream media writes a piece trashing the MLA, in all its sequined glory. This year, the honors go to John Strausbaugh, of the New York Press. I'm not concerned to refute Strasbaugh, and I'm certainly not outraged, but I do want to point out two things: 1) all of his best quotes come from earlier Scott McLemee pieces on the same phenomenon (retread!), and 2) most MLA papers have incredibly boring titles, and are in fact, incredibly boring to all but specialists (real geeks like me).
Does anyone want to do a panel at next year's MLA on the mainstream media's obsession with MLA panel titles? Interested, McLemee?
No meetup for me. I missed the lit-blogger meet-up, as there was a panel on secularism in South Asian literature that I wanted to go to at the same time. But I gather from Chuck Tryon and GHW that six people showed up -- pretty good! There is also a little article on the meet-up already.
And now it's New Year's Eve, and I'm back in Connecticut, trying to muster up the energy to get back to work. Or have a good time at some party... Or something.
Trinkat Island: Before and After
These are satellite photos from Trinkat, an island in the Andaman chain (part of India).
Very, very bad news
A massive tsunami, triggered by an even more massive earthquake, has hit South India, Sri Lanka, and Southeast Asia. 6,600 are known to be dead already.
It's going to be hard to concentrate on literature for the next few days. If anyone hears about ways to send relief/aid to the folks affected, please email me and I will post it here. In the meanwhile, I'm hoping (praying) that it doesn't get worse.
Ok, off to the MLA.
It's going to be hard to concentrate on literature for the next few days. If anyone hears about ways to send relief/aid to the folks affected, please email me and I will post it here. In the meanwhile, I'm hoping (praying) that it doesn't get worse.
Ok, off to the MLA.
South Asian Literary Association Meeting
I'm checking out for a few days along with everyone else, but I just got a last-minute request to post the schedule for the South Asian Literary Association (a noble group with an unfortunate acronym!), which meets parallel to the MLA, generally the day before. They currently don't have a web site that I know of, so consider this the official SALA website!
Ok, got to go!
Those of you who live in the Philadelphia area or are planning to
attend the Modern Language Association Convention from December 27-30,
may be interested in the South Asian Literary Association's activities,
which are being planned in coordination with the MLA: first, our annual
conference and business meeting on December 26-27, and then our two
sessions at the MLA on December 28 and 29th respectively. At the
conference, Rajini Srikanth will be our Plenary Speaker, and Ved Mehta
will be receiving our Lifetime Achievement Award. See details below and
for more information, please contact Lavina Shankar
[lshankar@bates.edu] or Josna Rege [jrege@mtholyoke.edu].
THE FIFTH ANNUAL SOUTH ASIAN LITERARY ASSOCIATION (SALA) CONFERENCE
“TRANSNATIONALISM AND ITS DISCONTENTS”
is being held at the Holiday Inn, Historic District, in Philadelphia
from the 26 th- 27th December 2004.
Address: 400 Arch Street, Philadelphia, PA 19106 Tel: 215-923-8660
The Conference features a challenging array of presentations that touch
on a wide range of issues: postnational geographies and linguistic and
literary re-inscriptions; negotiating dislocations and translating
cultures; exploring counterhistories and carving new radical spaces; as
well as queering the subaltern and recontextualizing Dalits. The
presentations explore the issue of revisioning gender, caste, and class
politics, in the context of Hindutva, hybrid identities, and
mushrooming call centers. The papers touch on the most recent literary
productions to emerge from South Asia, both regionally and
transnationally, including the exponential success of Bollywood in
America.
The Conference offers an opportunity to explore the many different
ways in which literary, non-literary and cinematographic texts, both
reflect and wrestle with the hegemonic and resistant narratives of
transnationalism. We hope that this Conference will shed some light on
the social, political, cultural, and economic disjunctures and
dislocations that are elided by the utopian promise of
transnationalism.
Rajini Srikanth, author of The World Next Door: South Asian American
Literature and the Idea of America, and coeditor (with Lavina Shankar)
of A Part Yet Apart; South Asians in Asian America, and Contours of the
Heart (with Sunaina Maira), is the featured speaker at the Plenary
session on 27th December from 5:15 -6:30 and will be reading a paper:
“Grandiose Ambitions and the Literature of South Asian America.”
This year's SALA Lifetime Achievement Award will be presented to well
known writer Ved Mehta, author of 24 books, including Face to
Face(1957), Portrait of India(1970), Daddyji, (1972), Mamaji(1979),
Continents of Exile: The Ledge Between the Streams (1977), Sound
Shadows of the New World(1986), Dark Harbor (2003), and The Red Letters
(2004).
Rajender Kaur (Rhode Island College) and Pennie Ticen (Virginia
Military Institute) Conference Co-Chairs
2004 SALA CONFERENCE SCHEDULE
Sunday, December 26th
4:00-5:00pm Registration
5:00-6:15 Session 1 (1APostnational/Transnational: The Blurring of
National Boundaries; 1B-Reinventing Genres, Recontext-ualizing
Historical Moments)
6:15-7:45 Dinner on your own
8:00-10:00 Hamara Mushaira
Monday, December 27th
7:30-8:00 Registration
8:00-9:15 Session 2 (2A-Poetry Across Shifting Regional and Linguistic
Contexts;
2B-Redefining Home and the World)
9:30-10:45 Session 3 (3A-Gender and Transnationalism;
3B-Exploring Counter Histories, Inscribing New Transnationalisms)
11:00-12:15 Session 4
(4A-Translating Cultures, Negotiating Dislocations; 4B-Carving New
Radical Spaces)
12:15-1:15 Lunch on Your Own
1:15-2:30 Session 5 (5A-Exploring the Limits of Translation and
Interpretation; 5B-Contemporary Refigurings: Debating Religion,
Sexuality and Gender)
2:45-4:00 Session 6 (6A-Language in a Transnational World;
6B-Recontextualizing Dalits)
4:15-5:15 Session 7: Plenary Session
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------
5:15-6:30 SALA Business Meeting/ Lifetime Achievement Award presented
to Ved Mehta
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------
6:30-7:30 Social Hour/ Cash Bar at the Holiday Inn Historic District
8:00-10:00 Conference Dinner (seating is limited)
----------------------
SALA SESSIONS, MLA 2004:
Wednesday, 29 December
436. Varieties of South Asian Feminism
12:00 noon-1:15 p.m., Tubman, Loews
Program arranged by the South Asian Literary Association Presiding:
Hena Ahmad, Truman State Univ.
1. “The Hindu Right and the Rhetoric of Feminism: The Fate of
Secularism in The Moor's Last Sigh,”
Lopamudra B. Basu, Graduate Center, City Univ. of New York
2. “Toward a New Theory of Gender? Indian Feminist Fiction, 1993-2003,”
Josna E. Rege, Five College Women's Studies Research Center, Mount
Holyoke College.
3. “South Asian Feminism and Film,” Jaspal Kaur Singh, Northern
Michigan Univ.
4. “South Asian *American* Women's Lit,” Lavina Dhingra Shankar, Bates
Coll.
Thursday, 30 December
762. Race, Caste, and Class in South Asian Literatures
1:45-3.00PM., Washington B, Loews
Presiding: Anushiya Sivanarayanan, Southern Illinois University
Edwardsville
1. “Race and Class: Reflections on Chitra Divakaruni's Short Fiction
and Poetry,” Bruce G. Johnson, Univ. of Rhode Island
2. “Gopinath Mohanty's Paraja: An Intertext on 'Tribal Problem,'” Amiya
Bhushan Sharma, Indira Gandhi Natl. Open Univ.
3. “The Unspeakable Limits of Caste: A Reading of Bhabani
Bhattacharya's So Many Hungers and He Who Rides a Tiger,” Rajender
Kaur, Ridgefield, CT
4. “The Bhil Woman's Plums: Dalit Counter-Offerings in 'Times of
Siege,'” Cynthia Ann Leenerts, George Washington Univ.
Ok, got to go!
RIP Narasimha Rao
PV Narasimha Rao has died. He was Prime Minister of India between 1991 and 1996. He presided over the liberalization of the Indian economy, the razing of the Babri Masjid, terrible riots and bombings in Bombay, and a generally not-so-great time for India.
He was also the first Indian Prime Minister to be convicted of corruption, though the conviction was later overturned. In the messy, generally amoral world of Indian politics, it's not the worst of all possible crimes (indeed, I suspect Rajiv Gandhi was guilty of much worse). And the prosecution against him probably had more than a little to do with the fact that the Opposition, which came to power later, had a bit of a grudge against him.
See BBC obituary. Also see the Narasimha Rao page on Wikipedia (already updated!).
On the bright side, he held the country together. He was part of the freedom struggle in the 1940s. He translated novels from Telegu to Hindi. And he himself wrote a book called The Insider that I have long been curious to read.
History might forgive his failings, especially since he and then-Finance Minister Manmohan Singh started a process of change that has made a big difference in Indian life. Here's a little bit from Salon:
[link]
He was also the first Indian Prime Minister to be convicted of corruption, though the conviction was later overturned. In the messy, generally amoral world of Indian politics, it's not the worst of all possible crimes (indeed, I suspect Rajiv Gandhi was guilty of much worse). And the prosecution against him probably had more than a little to do with the fact that the Opposition, which came to power later, had a bit of a grudge against him.
See BBC obituary. Also see the Narasimha Rao page on Wikipedia (already updated!).
On the bright side, he held the country together. He was part of the freedom struggle in the 1940s. He translated novels from Telegu to Hindi. And he himself wrote a book called The Insider that I have long been curious to read.
History might forgive his failings, especially since he and then-Finance Minister Manmohan Singh started a process of change that has made a big difference in Indian life. Here's a little bit from Salon:
The two men [Rao and Manmohan Singh] wrought a financial revolution in a nation where Soviet-style economic policies had long held sway: slashing subsidies, launching the partial privatization of state-run companies and inviting in foreign investors. They also dismantled what was known as the "license raj," the vast, complex system of regulations that forced businesses to get government approval for nearly any decision -- often at the cost of enormous bribes.
In a 2004 interview with NDTV television, Rao said he had no choice but to launch the reforms.
"There was nothing more to do. You had no money, you were going to become a defaulter within two weeks," he said. "Once you become a defaulter your entire economy, your honor, your place in the comity of nations, everything goes haywire."
[link]
"I"ll take two of those": The Cloned Cat, Sukumar Ray, and Putu
Let us begin small: I'll take two of those.
In other Cat news, there is also Putu, whose world-domination schemes have finally come to light after five months, not of mere "cat-blogging," but rather the much more philosophically challenging blogging-as-cat. Putu is, I believe, a Bengali cat, but Putu's gender is a secret. Is it possible Putu is really two cats, one male, one female?
Speaking of mysterious Bengali cats, I was reading randomly in The Vintage Book of Modern Indian Literature, and I came across Sukumar Ray, a highly prolific writer of surrealist children's stories in the 1910s and 20s. He was part of the Presidency College circle of Bengali intellectuals in Calcutta, and he was the father of acclaimed film maker Satyajit Ray (who even made a film about Sukumar in 1987--I haven't seen it). Ray spent some time in England, where he studied printing technology, which enabled him to make some beautiful illustrations for his books [example]. He seems to have been a bit of a Bengali Lewis Carroll!
Today I have an excerpt for you from The Topsy-Turvy Tale (1921). In Bengali, the story is called Hajabarala or Ha-Ja-Ba-Ra-La -- six Bengali consonants arranged at random. I gather (from Amit Chaudhuri) that in Bengali the phrase is still synonymous with 'muddle' or 'jumble'. Here is an excerpt:
Yes, isn't it. Note that it's not that the cat was hiding under the handerchief. The cat became the handkerchief!
Anyway, more Sukumar Ray:
The Select Nonsense of Sukumar Ray, which you can get from Amazon.
The best biography of Sukumar Ray I've found on the web
Times of India link
Excerpts from Abol Tabol (in Bengali)
Another Sukumar page, with a helpful bio.
Poems (in English, followed by Bengali): Khichuri, Woodly Old Man, Mustache Thievery
More poems:
Three poems
The King of Bombaria
Stew Much
Lots of Bengali poems (in Bengali)
In other Cat news, there is also Putu, whose world-domination schemes have finally come to light after five months, not of mere "cat-blogging," but rather the much more philosophically challenging blogging-as-cat. Putu is, I believe, a Bengali cat, but Putu's gender is a secret. Is it possible Putu is really two cats, one male, one female?
Speaking of mysterious Bengali cats, I was reading randomly in The Vintage Book of Modern Indian Literature, and I came across Sukumar Ray, a highly prolific writer of surrealist children's stories in the 1910s and 20s. He was part of the Presidency College circle of Bengali intellectuals in Calcutta, and he was the father of acclaimed film maker Satyajit Ray (who even made a film about Sukumar in 1987--I haven't seen it). Ray spent some time in England, where he studied printing technology, which enabled him to make some beautiful illustrations for his books [example]. He seems to have been a bit of a Bengali Lewis Carroll!
Today I have an excerpt for you from The Topsy-Turvy Tale (1921). In Bengali, the story is called Hajabarala or Ha-Ja-Ba-Ra-La -- six Bengali consonants arranged at random. I gather (from Amit Chaudhuri) that in Bengali the phrase is still synonymous with 'muddle' or 'jumble'. Here is an excerpt:
It was terribly hot. I lay in the shade of a tree, feeling quite limp. I had put down my handkerchief on the grass: I reached out for it to fan myself when suddenly it called out, 'Miaow!'
Here was a pretty puzzle. I looked and found that it wasn't a handkerchief any longer. It had become a plump ginger cat with bushy whiskers, staring at me in the boldest way.
'Bother' I said. 'My handkerchief's turned into a cat.'
'What's bothering you?' answered the Cat. 'Now you have an egg, and then suddenly it turns into a fine quacky duck. It's happening all the time.'
I thought for awhile and said, 'But what should I call you now? You aren't really a cat, you're a handkerchief.'
'Please yourself,' he replied. 'You can call me a cat, or a handkerchief, or even a semi-colon.'
'Why a semi-colon?' I replied.
'Can't you tell?' said the Cat, winking and sniggering in a most irritating manner. I felt rather embarrassed, for apparently I should have known all about the semi-colon.
'Ah!' I said quickly. 'Now I see your point.'
'Of course you do,' said the Cat, pleased. 'S for semi-colon, p for handkerchief, c for cat -- and that's the way to spell "Spectacles!" Simple, isn't it?'
Yes, isn't it. Note that it's not that the cat was hiding under the handerchief. The cat became the handkerchief!
Anyway, more Sukumar Ray:
The Select Nonsense of Sukumar Ray, which you can get from Amazon.
The best biography of Sukumar Ray I've found on the web
Times of India link
Excerpts from Abol Tabol (in Bengali)
Another Sukumar page, with a helpful bio.
Poems (in English, followed by Bengali): Khichuri, Woodly Old Man, Mustache Thievery
More poems:
Three poems
The King of Bombaria
Stew Much
Lots of Bengali poems (in Bengali)
Tell it to the Tehelka: Communalism and Corruption in Gujurat
In 2002, we were talking about Gujurat as a ghastly communal massacre, the worst in 20 years. 3000-5000 dead, 100,000 homeless, and an irreparable scar right through Gandhi's home state...
It still is that. But now the trial phase -- or what the miserable idealists of the world still vainly call "the demand for justice" -- is threatening to turn into a complete farce.
Zaheera Sheikh had initially gone to a police station and precisely identified 21 people who she said participated in a massacre of 14 people at a place called Best Bakery. This made her a key witness for the prosecution of communal atrocities in the only "fast-tracked" trial dealing with the Gujurat violence (the rest of the cases, presumably, will be handled in the usual "slow-track," lesiurely/incompetent manner of the Indian courts). But she turned hostile at the key moment in the trial in 2003, leading to the acquittal of the Best Bakery 21. Afterwards, her mother came out and said they had been threatened to change their testimony.
It looked like like yet another case of "thousands dead, but no saw anything."
But then a retrial was ordered, and under full police protection, Zaheera testified against the 21 accused in court. But then recently, and almost unbelievably, she changed her mind again! Guess she didn't see anything after all.
Wrong, of course. Today, the news-magazine Tehelka held a press conference, where it showed footage of a conversation with an MLA (Member of Legislative Assembly) named Madhu Srivastav -- of the BJP. Srivastav is quoted on the video saying he and his brother paid Zaheera Sheikh 1,800,000 Rupees ($40,000 USD) to change her testimony. Initially, it seemed they were talking about her most recent volte-face. But a report in Indian Express quotes Srivastava (who has now seen the tape) saying that the bribe was given to her last year. It wasn't a threat, but a bribe, that tainted Zaheera's original testimony.
Solace for my BJP-supporting readers: it's pretty clear this is not just another 'bad Hindu, good Muslim' expose. No matter how you slice it, Zaheera Sheikh and her family come off as profoundly corrupt in this case. They should probably be jailed alongside the Best Bakery 21.
Srivastav, Sheikh, and the BJP deny the charges. Hilariously, NDA President George Fernandes has also chimed in his denunciations and denials. Oh well, guess he's not a fan of Tehelka: the last time they were playing with video cameras, they caught several NDA/BJP officials taking bribes to influence a fictional arms deal. It was a scandal that cost Fernandes his job (though he later got it back).
It looks bad for Srivastav and the Gujurat BJP party apparatus. Well sort of. Though it seems highly likely that these allegations are true, I'm not quite so confident that they are actually provable. Even if provable, is anything likely to happen to them anytime soon? The footage, I gather isn't quite as good this time around -- no hard evidence. It will only work if the police do their job, and find the stacks of Rupees in question.
Moreover, why is the Best Bakery case the centerpiece of the movement for justice for the victims of the Gujrat violence? What about all the other people who were killed and raped, and whose businesses and homes were destroyed? I gather some other trials have been in the works; perhaps it is time to 'fast track' them as well, so we're not still discussing this trial 10 years from now.
It still is that. But now the trial phase -- or what the miserable idealists of the world still vainly call "the demand for justice" -- is threatening to turn into a complete farce.
Zaheera Sheikh had initially gone to a police station and precisely identified 21 people who she said participated in a massacre of 14 people at a place called Best Bakery. This made her a key witness for the prosecution of communal atrocities in the only "fast-tracked" trial dealing with the Gujurat violence (the rest of the cases, presumably, will be handled in the usual "slow-track," lesiurely/incompetent manner of the Indian courts). But she turned hostile at the key moment in the trial in 2003, leading to the acquittal of the Best Bakery 21. Afterwards, her mother came out and said they had been threatened to change their testimony.
It looked like like yet another case of "thousands dead, but no saw anything."
But then a retrial was ordered, and under full police protection, Zaheera testified against the 21 accused in court. But then recently, and almost unbelievably, she changed her mind again! Guess she didn't see anything after all.
Wrong, of course. Today, the news-magazine Tehelka held a press conference, where it showed footage of a conversation with an MLA (Member of Legislative Assembly) named Madhu Srivastav -- of the BJP. Srivastav is quoted on the video saying he and his brother paid Zaheera Sheikh 1,800,000 Rupees ($40,000 USD) to change her testimony. Initially, it seemed they were talking about her most recent volte-face. But a report in Indian Express quotes Srivastava (who has now seen the tape) saying that the bribe was given to her last year. It wasn't a threat, but a bribe, that tainted Zaheera's original testimony.
Solace for my BJP-supporting readers: it's pretty clear this is not just another 'bad Hindu, good Muslim' expose. No matter how you slice it, Zaheera Sheikh and her family come off as profoundly corrupt in this case. They should probably be jailed alongside the Best Bakery 21.
Srivastav, Sheikh, and the BJP deny the charges. Hilariously, NDA President George Fernandes has also chimed in his denunciations and denials. Oh well, guess he's not a fan of Tehelka: the last time they were playing with video cameras, they caught several NDA/BJP officials taking bribes to influence a fictional arms deal. It was a scandal that cost Fernandes his job (though he later got it back).
It looks bad for Srivastav and the Gujurat BJP party apparatus. Well sort of. Though it seems highly likely that these allegations are true, I'm not quite so confident that they are actually provable. Even if provable, is anything likely to happen to them anytime soon? The footage, I gather isn't quite as good this time around -- no hard evidence. It will only work if the police do their job, and find the stacks of Rupees in question.
Moreover, why is the Best Bakery case the centerpiece of the movement for justice for the victims of the Gujrat violence? What about all the other people who were killed and raped, and whose businesses and homes were destroyed? I gather some other trials have been in the works; perhaps it is time to 'fast track' them as well, so we're not still discussing this trial 10 years from now.
The real hybrids (the scientific kind, that is)
Did you hear the one about the lonely whale, wandering the oceans for the past 12 years, singing its unique song at 52 Hz?
Mark Liberman at Language Log (which I've been reading quite a bit lately) has an informative summary of a precedent for the lonely whale -- scientists presume it's a hybrid -- the hybrid songs of hybrid Gibbons. Did you know that of the Hominids, only Gibbons and human beings have pair bonding and singing?
Mark Liberman at Language Log (which I've been reading quite a bit lately) has an informative summary of a precedent for the lonely whale -- scientists presume it's a hybrid -- the hybrid songs of hybrid Gibbons. Did you know that of the Hominids, only Gibbons and human beings have pair bonding and singing?
Bobby Friction and Nihal
While we're still mourning the mess in Birmingham, not all the Brit-Asian news is bad. For instance, there's Bobby Friction and Nihal, kicking it in Prime Time every week on BBC1. Bobby Friction is kind of preppy/slick. Nihal used to be geeky/cool (goatee and glasses), but now he has gone straight up Snoop Dogg gangsta.
You can listen to their show here. This week they were live in Mumbai/Bombay.
[Via Desiblog]
You can listen to their show here. This week they were live in Mumbai/Bombay.
[Via Desiblog]
Bollywood for Dummies
A new site at UC Berkeley, with downloadable MP3s (from movies like Dil Se, DDLJ, KKKG, Taal, as well as some old movies). There is also a nice little Hindi glossary. To all my non-desi friends: Have a dekho! (And see if you can figure out what that means)
Of course, the content of this site pales in comparison to big Hindi MP3 sites. I'm linking strictly in the interest of being Bollywood's Cultural Ambassador to the Blogosphere.
[Via Boing Boing]
Of course, the content of this site pales in comparison to big Hindi MP3 sites. I'm linking strictly in the interest of being Bollywood's Cultural Ambassador to the Blogosphere.
[Via Boing Boing]
The Student and the Priest: An Allegory
[Unable to precisely express my frustration at recent events in England, as well as the discussions that have followed in the press and on the Internet, I decided to write try my hand at a short story. It's inspired by the recent events, but it isn't necessarily about those events... It is a work in progress. I would welcome any comments or feedback by email.]
The Student and the Priest: An Allegory
“I want you to start speaking our language,” she said.
“But I don't know our language,” I said. “I only know this language.”
“Which language?”
“The one we're speaking right now.”
“But how can you not know the other language? How can you be who you are and not know it?”
“They don't speak it here.”
It was too early in the morning to be arguing this with her. I went back to my cereal, and then left breakfast early to go to University. On the way I saw signs pasted to telephone poles, and I saw protesters with posters shouting in the main square. There was a controversy over an Artist who had made a Statement.
On the way to class, I ran into Priest. Everyone calls him Priest -– he wants to be a Priest -– but really he isn't one. He had been rejected by the old Priests because of his voice. We talked before class.
“Are you going to the protest?” he asked me.
“What are they protesting?” I said.
“They're protesting the Statement made by the Artist. It was offensive.”
“But what did the Artist say?”
“She said we're intolerant.”
“Isn't it possible she's right?”
“It doesn't matter whether it's true, it's offensive. And we have a right to Protest her right to make Statements. It's Multiculturalism; it's the Law. She can't use that kind of language.”
Class started when the Professor started to talk. He was a kindly gentleman; he always wore sweaters, jeans, and running shoes. He said there would be a discussion of the Controversy in class today instead of the usual discussion. He started to speak passionately of the Controversy, of the need for tolerance for dissenting opinions. He talked about the Community, and the other Communities. He said he thought this Community was good, it was smart, and it knew how to adapt. It was the other Community that was full of ignorance and intolerance. He hoped this wasn't the beginning of a slide. He talked about liberalism, and freedom of speech, and how those people don't seem to know about these things: “They need to be taught the language of liberty.”
What did this mean? Class was over before discussion of this point could begin. We got up. No one said anything. The Professor mumbled some apology about time, and looked down at his notebook.
In the hallway, Priest said he was going to the protest. I told him I would tag along. I wanted to see.
The Protest was in the center of town, in the place where cars can't go. It was at night a desolate place, flooded garbage and men driving electric garbage-collecting mini-cars collecting up the debris. But in the daytime thousands of people walked there, people in business suits, with lots of money. When we reached we saw the senior priest standing with a megaphone. He was talking about multiculturalism, about racism, about the “politics of representation in an era of multinational capitalism.” He was using the kind of language they use in the University.
“There he is,” Priest said. “The man who rejected me.”
“Yes, what a damn hypocrite,” I said.
“He's not a hypocrite. I have great respect for him – in fact, he was right to reject me, after what I said at the Temple.” Priest was deeply ashamed of his failure at the Temple, even though by all accounts what happened wasn't his fault. And what he said now he didn't mean. His hands were shaking, and there was something a little scary in his voice. He still hated the Old Priest.
“Don't talk bollocks,” I said. But Priest was transfixed by the huge crowd in the Square, and by the thundering voice of the Old Priest.
“We don't want censorship, we want responsibility!” He shouted. The crowd cheered. “We are sick of the racist establishment's irresponsibility! This is a racist play by a racist Artist!”
“Wait a minute,” I whispered. “Did he say 'racism'? How could the Artist be racist?”
“What do you mean?” said Priest.
“The Artist can't be a racist because she is... one of us.”
“How can you say that? After what she said? After the language she used?”
The old Priest was yelling at the top of his lungs.
“The Artist has committed blasphemy! It the police won't arrest the Artist, then we will!” The crowd roared. The old Priest raised his arm high in the air. “We are the people! We are the majority! We reject the language that is used against us!”
Just then there was a beeping noise, and the pillars around the square began to drop down into the pavement, the way they do when the garbage mini-cars come through. But today there were police mini-cars, dozens of them, and as the old Priest spoke they slowly entered the square, lined up in a circle around us, and then stopped. The cars had dark reflective glass for windows, so all you could see when you looked at them was yourself. And dozens of police emerged from a gigantic police bus two blocks away, with clubs in hand and dark sunglasses.
Old Priest did not seem to have noticed the cops. He had even started speaking the other language, the one that was illegal. This drove some members in the crowd to a consenting fury. Others were a little confused; they, like me, didn't know the other language. Three helmeted policemen approached the place where Old Priest was standing.
“Don't let them stop us!” He said. “Don't let them suppress our right to free speech!” The crowd, shocked at what was happening, surged and went for the police. But then the police mini-cars started to move in, packing the crowd in a tight circle. The windows of the mini-cars opened, and arms bearing clubs emerged. Some people began to panic. Others brought out cameras to film what was happening. But the police were able to isolate Old Priest, and get him into handcuffs. His megaphone fell to the ground. The crowd, blocked off and frustrated, began to throw things at the police. The police began to club protesters, handcuff them, and drag them to the large police van on the main street.
I was watching what was happening to Old Priest, so I didn't see when Priest left my side. But then I spotted him across the square. He had managed to get to where Old Priest had been standing. He was holding the megaphone. His eyes were closed. He was standing by himself, muttering something into the megaphone. At first he was inaudible. But then his voice began to rise, and I thought I heard him say:
“You won't allow me to say this! I'm not allowed to say this! I'm not allowed to say this!”
The members of the crowd who heard him thought he was speaking against the Old Priest, and some of them turned away from the cops and towards him. The police thought he speaking against the Law, and a car with open windows started to move towards him from the other side.
I myself wasn't quite sure what he meant, or if he had even said what I thought he'd said. Before I could hear it again, something from the crowd flew through the air and hit him on the side of his head. And my friend Priest fell, and was overtaken by the shouts, fists, and clubs, of the warring parties in the square.
The next time I saw Priest was in Prison. I had dropped out of the University, tired of listening to Professors lecture me on the meaning of my liberty. I was no longer interested in being a Student. Priest had, I noticed, shaved his head -- or perhaps it had been shaved for him? For a moment we sat staring at each other through the glass. Neither of us knew what to say; it seemed we had lost our language. But then he spoke: he said he could no longer think of being a priest after hearing Old Priest in the Square, using that language. He said he thought it was shameful, it was violent, it was against everything he believed. I told him he sounded like the Artist. He said no, "I'm not an artist, I'm not anything."
All he wanted to be was what he already was, namely, a person whose tongue was broken, by the weight of what he was forbidden to say.
The Student and the Priest: An Allegory
“I want you to start speaking our language,” she said.
“But I don't know our language,” I said. “I only know this language.”
“Which language?”
“The one we're speaking right now.”
“But how can you not know the other language? How can you be who you are and not know it?”
“They don't speak it here.”
It was too early in the morning to be arguing this with her. I went back to my cereal, and then left breakfast early to go to University. On the way I saw signs pasted to telephone poles, and I saw protesters with posters shouting in the main square. There was a controversy over an Artist who had made a Statement.
On the way to class, I ran into Priest. Everyone calls him Priest -– he wants to be a Priest -– but really he isn't one. He had been rejected by the old Priests because of his voice. We talked before class.
“Are you going to the protest?” he asked me.
“What are they protesting?” I said.
“They're protesting the Statement made by the Artist. It was offensive.”
“But what did the Artist say?”
“She said we're intolerant.”
“Isn't it possible she's right?”
“It doesn't matter whether it's true, it's offensive. And we have a right to Protest her right to make Statements. It's Multiculturalism; it's the Law. She can't use that kind of language.”
Class started when the Professor started to talk. He was a kindly gentleman; he always wore sweaters, jeans, and running shoes. He said there would be a discussion of the Controversy in class today instead of the usual discussion. He started to speak passionately of the Controversy, of the need for tolerance for dissenting opinions. He talked about the Community, and the other Communities. He said he thought this Community was good, it was smart, and it knew how to adapt. It was the other Community that was full of ignorance and intolerance. He hoped this wasn't the beginning of a slide. He talked about liberalism, and freedom of speech, and how those people don't seem to know about these things: “They need to be taught the language of liberty.”
What did this mean? Class was over before discussion of this point could begin. We got up. No one said anything. The Professor mumbled some apology about time, and looked down at his notebook.
In the hallway, Priest said he was going to the protest. I told him I would tag along. I wanted to see.
The Protest was in the center of town, in the place where cars can't go. It was at night a desolate place, flooded garbage and men driving electric garbage-collecting mini-cars collecting up the debris. But in the daytime thousands of people walked there, people in business suits, with lots of money. When we reached we saw the senior priest standing with a megaphone. He was talking about multiculturalism, about racism, about the “politics of representation in an era of multinational capitalism.” He was using the kind of language they use in the University.
“There he is,” Priest said. “The man who rejected me.”
“Yes, what a damn hypocrite,” I said.
“He's not a hypocrite. I have great respect for him – in fact, he was right to reject me, after what I said at the Temple.” Priest was deeply ashamed of his failure at the Temple, even though by all accounts what happened wasn't his fault. And what he said now he didn't mean. His hands were shaking, and there was something a little scary in his voice. He still hated the Old Priest.
“Don't talk bollocks,” I said. But Priest was transfixed by the huge crowd in the Square, and by the thundering voice of the Old Priest.
“We don't want censorship, we want responsibility!” He shouted. The crowd cheered. “We are sick of the racist establishment's irresponsibility! This is a racist play by a racist Artist!”
“Wait a minute,” I whispered. “Did he say 'racism'? How could the Artist be racist?”
“What do you mean?” said Priest.
“The Artist can't be a racist because she is... one of us.”
“How can you say that? After what she said? After the language she used?”
The old Priest was yelling at the top of his lungs.
“The Artist has committed blasphemy! It the police won't arrest the Artist, then we will!” The crowd roared. The old Priest raised his arm high in the air. “We are the people! We are the majority! We reject the language that is used against us!”
Just then there was a beeping noise, and the pillars around the square began to drop down into the pavement, the way they do when the garbage mini-cars come through. But today there were police mini-cars, dozens of them, and as the old Priest spoke they slowly entered the square, lined up in a circle around us, and then stopped. The cars had dark reflective glass for windows, so all you could see when you looked at them was yourself. And dozens of police emerged from a gigantic police bus two blocks away, with clubs in hand and dark sunglasses.
Old Priest did not seem to have noticed the cops. He had even started speaking the other language, the one that was illegal. This drove some members in the crowd to a consenting fury. Others were a little confused; they, like me, didn't know the other language. Three helmeted policemen approached the place where Old Priest was standing.
“Don't let them stop us!” He said. “Don't let them suppress our right to free speech!” The crowd, shocked at what was happening, surged and went for the police. But then the police mini-cars started to move in, packing the crowd in a tight circle. The windows of the mini-cars opened, and arms bearing clubs emerged. Some people began to panic. Others brought out cameras to film what was happening. But the police were able to isolate Old Priest, and get him into handcuffs. His megaphone fell to the ground. The crowd, blocked off and frustrated, began to throw things at the police. The police began to club protesters, handcuff them, and drag them to the large police van on the main street.
I was watching what was happening to Old Priest, so I didn't see when Priest left my side. But then I spotted him across the square. He had managed to get to where Old Priest had been standing. He was holding the megaphone. His eyes were closed. He was standing by himself, muttering something into the megaphone. At first he was inaudible. But then his voice began to rise, and I thought I heard him say:
“You won't allow me to say this! I'm not allowed to say this! I'm not allowed to say this!”
The members of the crowd who heard him thought he was speaking against the Old Priest, and some of them turned away from the cops and towards him. The police thought he speaking against the Law, and a car with open windows started to move towards him from the other side.
I myself wasn't quite sure what he meant, or if he had even said what I thought he'd said. Before I could hear it again, something from the crowd flew through the air and hit him on the side of his head. And my friend Priest fell, and was overtaken by the shouts, fists, and clubs, of the warring parties in the square.
The next time I saw Priest was in Prison. I had dropped out of the University, tired of listening to Professors lecture me on the meaning of my liberty. I was no longer interested in being a Student. Priest had, I noticed, shaved his head -- or perhaps it had been shaved for him? For a moment we sat staring at each other through the glass. Neither of us knew what to say; it seemed we had lost our language. But then he spoke: he said he could no longer think of being a priest after hearing Old Priest in the Square, using that language. He said he thought it was shameful, it was violent, it was against everything he believed. I told him he sounded like the Artist. He said no, "I'm not an artist, I'm not anything."
All he wanted to be was what he already was, namely, a person whose tongue was broken, by the weight of what he was forbidden to say.
Thugs Win the Day: Birmingham
The play Behzti (see previous posts) has been cancelled. Hopefully this is the last time I'll have to post on this. (I should be so lucky)
Even if we grant that this play was offensive, the harm it might have done is nothing compared to the harm that has been done by the Sikh leadership, and by the thuggish protesters who have vandalized the Birmingham Repertory Theatre, forcing the play to be shut down.
Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti's vision of "dishonour" has proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I hope she and her family are well-protected, and manage to stay safe until this ugliness subsides.
[Sigh]
Even if we grant that this play was offensive, the harm it might have done is nothing compared to the harm that has been done by the Sikh leadership, and by the thuggish protesters who have vandalized the Birmingham Repertory Theatre, forcing the play to be shut down.
Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti's vision of "dishonour" has proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I hope she and her family are well-protected, and manage to stay safe until this ugliness subsides.
[Sigh]
Behzti: The Plot Thickens (more links, and insider updates)
My Sikh friend in Birmingham sent me another missive, updating me on what's happening there regarding the protests at the Birmingham Rep. Needless to say, I support everything he's saying:
It sounds like things will get worse before they get better. A couple of other links:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2-1409626,00.html.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/west_midlands/4109255.stm
I am in Birmingham and have been talking to people who were at the protests on Saturday and I can tell you that the Khalistanis in Britain have scented blood and are not going to step down. They have been inciting people in Gurdwaras and on websites and Punjabi radio stations to come to Birmingham from all four corners of Britain to "protest" outside the theatre. It is the raising of a lynch mob, people are talking about thousands being there, and I can tell you, they have got it in their minds that this is their own personal struggle against the enemies of Sikhism, that they are facing down Aurengzeb, and making the last stand to protect the dharma and the Sikh roop. Having spoken to many of the youth who attended the protest a sense of exhiliration came through that they have the eyes of the world on them, and I asked them specific points about what they would be prepared to do.
People said repeatedly that they would not mind if Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti was killed or at least hospitalised because of this, and when I asked them that if they play was not stopped, would you be prepared to burn the theatre down to the ground and they said yes.
This has been headline national news on every television and radio station in Britain. Needless to say, it has made Sikhs look like fascists and taliban like in their outlook, a disastrous result for a community that has been previously thought of as hardworking, industrious and creative.
This is a good editorial on the whole thing:
http://www.asiansinmedia.org/news/article.php/theatre/746
Taking a historical view:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk_news/story/0,3604,1377244,00.html
Just a word about the theatre in question. The Birmingham Repertory has an excellent reputation and is the main cultural centre for the city of Birmingham. There is an immense symbolism in the assault against it. It is not only looked as an assault on this particular play but an attack on a venerable and excellent institution that is a key component in the civic pride of the city. The violence that took place has cast Sikhs in the light of cultural vandals. Unfair, I know, but reflective of what we look like now. We basically lost the high moral ground. The Sikh community leaders speak with a forked tongue. Out of one side of their mouth they are saying they condemn the violence, out of the other they have been preaching hellfire and stoking the flames.
Basically, this whole episode has been, and is being, an absolute disaster for the Sikh community in Britain, making us appear to be a people of taliban sensibilities and attackers and vandals.
So far this morning neither the Sikh leadership nor the theare have compromised and the play is going ahead tonight. I know for a fact that there are going to be an even larger crowd there. They have been stoked up around the country for days by Khalistani activists and I really fear that the violence is going to escalate out of control. I fear for the safety of the theatre, the playwright, and the reputation of Sikhs in Britain, which will not be able to survive a repetition of Saturday night. I am saddedned beyond description by this, and frightened by the smiles on the faces of the young Sikhs I talked to about this, who seemed oblivious to the consequences of their actions and see this as a fulfilment of their personal and collective faith.
I pray that I am wrong. But I am anticipating further trouble. I will keep you updated.
It sounds like things will get worse before they get better. A couple of other links:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2-1409626,00.html.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/west_midlands/4109255.stm
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