...returning to your usual programming...

At the end of last year I got suddenly overwhelmed by the sorts of things that overwhelm a girl at the end of the year. At the same time, this project fell by the wayside - something I did not intend to happen. I hate to leave projects unfinished. So, in November, a year late, I'll be picking up where I left off. Next year I hope to spend some time ironing out the problems from the original postings. Much as I would love to make this into a physical anthology, I expect this project might remain simply an electronic labour of love - though I expect I will write elsewhere about the process, and about things I have learned.

So, I apologise for a nearly year-long silence. The noise will be turned down again now for another month, but from then until the end of January we will round out the calendar and the globe, and give everyone their day in the sun.

Oman

Oman. Today is the Sultan’s Birthday, and thus Oman’s national day! Oman, yes, on the southeast coast of the Arabian peninsula. Oh, as well as the main part of Oman, there are two enclaves—Madha, and Musandam, separated from the main body of the country by Emirati territory.

Islam reached Oman during Muhammad’s lifetime, and by the mid-eighth century Omanis had developed Ibadhism, which remains the majority sect in Oman. I had to admit I don’t know much about the different branches of Islam—I read that Ibadhism is described as moderate conservatism, emphasising a mixture of austerity and peace. It’s going on my list of things I want to read more about.

Also, the Portuguese occupied Muscat for 140 years in the 16th-17th centuries. Apparently there are still remnants of their architectural style around the place. There were a few other intruders, but since the late 18th century the country has remained self-governing.

It was in 2003 that universal suffrage was granted for citizens over twenty-one. Prior to this, very Omanis could vote. The head of state is the sultan—a hereditary slot—but there is now also an elected advisory council. When the 2003 election took place, 74 percent of those registered votes, and of the 84 seats, two were filled by women. (That’s not a criticism—I think it’s a good thing that even in that first open election women were placed in positions of power.)

Yes, it’s mostly desert. Oh! I love a desert! It is, to be more specific, a gravel desert plain that covers most of central Oman. There are mountains in the north. The problem with desert countries? Water. There’s not a lot of renewable water resources, and most of this goes to agriculture. Soil salinity, beach pollution… Oh! water, water!

Today’s Omani poem is from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry. It’s by Saif al-Rahbi. Enjoy!

Steps

I walk, I feel under my feet
a sky, trembling with all its victims,
and on my head, an earth
that has stopped rotating.

I hear a thunder of steps behind me,
steps of people coming
from the past,
silent as if they are dead.
Past, retreat a while,
let me finish today’s walk.

—Saif al-Rahbi
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry
translated from the Arabic by Abdulla as-Harrasi

Morocco

Ah, Morocco. I have a number of friends who have been there. I haven’t only been to Melbourne’s Moroccan Soup Bar. (Boy, have I been there! It’s been far too long since I got to enjoy a chickpea bake… a devastating lack!) So, sitting on the other side of the Strait of Gibraltar, there it is. Happy Independence Day, Morocco!

Morocco’s been inhabited for quite a while—at least 10,000 years, apparently. And in the classical world, Morocco was pat of that Mediterranean world as trading colonies popped up—these were set up by the Phoenicians, and the Berbers were also still around. In the seventh century, the first Islamic conquest of North Africa swept into Morocco—and what has become Morocco today was a region of Berbers influenced by Arabs. Obviously that Arabic cultural influence remains.

And the rest of the world? Well, interestingly Morocco was the first country to recognise the USA’s independence, back in 1777. In December of the same year Morocco’s Sultan declared that American merchant ships enjoyed the protection of the sultanate, and not long after this the Moroccan-American Treaty of Friendship was put in place. This is America’s oldest intact friendship treaty. Who knew?

While Europeans did arrive along the coast in the fifteenth century, they didn’t make much headway inland. It wasn’t until the 19th century, though, that Europe really got in on the action—France showed its interest in Morocco as a whole back in 1830, and in the 20th century the UK recognised France’s “sphere of influence” in Morocco In 1906 there was a formalisation of European relations: France and Spain were entrusted jointly with policing the country.

Independence? Well, the country gained its independence from France on 2 March 1956, and a month later, on 7 April, Spain relinquished its protectorate too. This being the case, I’m not entirely sure why 18 November is Independence Day.

Incidentally, Western Sahara is a territory that is largely under Moroccan control—control is disputed by the Sahwari Arab Democratic Republic, a partially recognised states that claims sovereignty over the whole territory. An unfortunate outcome of the conflict regarding Western Sahara is that there have been severe human rights abuses in the region, including displacement of Sahrawi civilians, and the expulsion of Moroccan civilians from Algeria, who back the Sahrawi government.

Today’s pome is by Hassan Najmi, and comes from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry.

The exiled

To Abbas

Their palms are coffins
and their heads are hats for distant clouds.
And behind them there is time
without flowerpots
 or arms

They had left.
And leaving itself returned.
And still they did not come back. 

— Hassan Najmi
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry
translated from the Arabic by Khaled Mattawa

The West Bank and Gaza

The West Bank. Gaza. No, it’s not a country—that’s part of the point, right? Both are claimed as part of the Palestinian territories, but their political status has been the subject of constant back-and-forth. Nonetheless, today marks the anniversary of the day 1988 when the Palestine National Council declared the independent state of Palestine—and it’s a holiday in Gaza and the West Bank. 15 November. While an official status has yes to be decided, let’s mark it.

These days the administration of the territories is split—Hamas controls Gaza, and the Palestinian National Authority is still administering the West Bank. This of course complicates this situation further, as neither recognizes the authority of the other. In the mean time, there’s also the question of whether or not Israel can annex sections of the territories.

Know the Green Line? That’s the generally accepted boundary between the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, and the State of Israel. Where does it come from? From the 1949 Armistice Agreements, which ended the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. At that time they were specifically labelled armistice lines and not international borders.

Oh—and the flag? In 1967 Israel banned the Palestinian flag. Since 1993 the ban has been relaxed, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.

And human history? I feel like I can’t even go there! Remembering is so long.

Instead I’m going to get straight to the poem. By Waleed Khazendar. “A needle and angels.”


A needle and angels

Not only this evening
but usually, about this time, the trees slacken:
when we come closer to the waves
and the lights are lost in darkness
and the sun becomes a red island at the end of the sea.

It is not only when you reach a hand to me
and adjust—at about this time—my collar,
that I remember I am distracted and distant
and that I still keep the lights on
afraid of my grandmother’s ghoul,
but also when I stray in your hands
as you line demons on my pillow
and mend my buttons
with thread and needle and angels.

—Waleed Khazendar
from A Crack in the Wall: New Arab Poetry (2001)
translated by Khaled Mattawa

Saint-Martin and Sint Maarten

Once more—for the final time—we are in a holding pattern on 11 November.


11 November is Saint Martin’s day: it’s the feast day of Martin of Tours, and is the day that the French territory of Saint-Martin and the Dutch Sint Maarten—that share the island of Saint Martin in the Caribbean—jointly share. Happy Saint Martin’s Day!

So the island is, as mentioned, divided between the French and the Dutch. The Dutch side has a larger population (50,000) than the French (35,000). Population density is pretty intense—especially when you add in the fact that about 1 million people visit the island a year.

So, Columbus actually claimed the island first. And yes, it was Columbus that named it Isla de San Martin. In 1624 the French started to cultivate tobacco in the French Quarter, while a few years later, in 1631, the Dutch started to collect salt. In the years from 1633 to 1647 the Spanish began to build a military fort, but then destroyed it and left the island. The French and Dutch zones were first settled on in 1648.

Then there was a bit of a period of jumping around—the French occupy it all. The Dutch occupy it all. Occasionally the British take a turn. And then from 1816, the French and Dutch zones resumed.

The Dutch officially adopted the spelling “Sint Maarten” in 1936, and more recently Sint Maarten signed an agreement with the Netherlands on status aparte. On the French side of the equation, in 2007 Saint-Martin became a separate overseas collectivity.

Oh—and the division of the island? Apparently there are stories about it, including a popular story that involves a race deciding the matter. As in, each community chose a representative, and they had to walk across the island from different points. (They weren’t allowed to run.) Where they met, a line was drawn across the island, connecting their starting point with their meeting point. Okay, that sounds crazy. But I love it. Apparently the French side is larger because the French guy moved faster than the Dutch. There’s also a claim that the French guy drank wine before and the Dutch guy drank beer… and the “restorative qualities” of the wine let the Frenchman walk faster. Yeah. I don’t think so either.

I found today’s poem online here. It’s by Lasana M Sekou. Enjoy!

worker island

i did not see lantau island
the buddha brilliant regime in sun
lighting the way where tourists stray
to shake sticks at their future
for a fated read of each of the same other difference
but cynthia say,
            there is a fishing village beyond the fray
            where  older heads pear out bamboo windows
                        children ride bicycles too
the sea and the scene is this
what we all see to be seen
as pierced longing and longing
eternally at each other’s side
  
and we are always with people …

—Lasana M. Sekou

Angola

So, it’s still 11 November, if you don’t mind…

Which means it’s also Angola’s Independence Day. You remember Angola? On the Southwest coast of Africa, just north of Namibia, also bordering the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Zambia. Angola had a relatively long colonial period—the Portuguese claimed it as a colony in the 16th century, and it didn’t gain its independence until 1975. While its people are some of the poorest on the African continent, the country is a large producer of petroleum and diamonds—the second largest in Africa. A lot of money has disappeared. Having trouble getting an idea of the size of the place? It’s about twice as big as Texas.

Angola is another region where the Bantu spread. Prior to the arrival of the Bantu people, the region was inhabited by Khoisan hunter-gatherers. Still, some Khoisan remain, even to the present day.

And the Portuguese? In 1483 they established relations with the region, and Angola was a link for trade between Europe and Asia. The explorer Paulo Dias de Novais founded the capital Luanda in 1575—and so it goes. Angola was also a serious participant in the slave trade.

There was a brief interruption of the Portuguese presence with the Dutch occupation of Luanda from 1641 to 1648, but things went back to normal. It took a few more centuries before exploration of the interior really got under way, and then the borders were fixed in 1885. Actual administration of the interior didn’t started until the twentieth century—and a quarter of a century before Angola gained its independence, it was designated as an overseas province of Portugal, known as Portuguese West Africa.

And then came the Angolan War of Independence. Following on the heels of this was the Angolan Civil War—which was a real Cold War conflict. With the Eastern Block backing one group (MPLA) and the United States backing another (FNLA) the conflict raged along. The Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuściński writes about this—I seriously recommend his work.) Though the civil war ended in 2002, the country is still living in the aftermath. Most of the internally displaced have returned home, but the situation remains desperate for most of the population.

Today’s poem from Angola is by Jofre Rocha. I believe I found it in the Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry, but I didn’t notes it down when I found the poem. Apologies!

Poem of Return

When I return from the land of exile and silence,
do not bring me flowers.

Bring me rather all the dews,
tears of dawns which witnessed dramas.
Bring me the immense hunger for love
and the plaint of tumid sexes in star-studded night.
Bring me the long night of sleeplessness
with mothers mourning, their arms bereft of sons.

When I return from the land of exile and silence,
no, do not bring me flowers…

Bring me only, just this
the last wish of heroes fallen at day-break
with a wingless stone in hand
and a thread of anger snaking from their eyes.

—Jofre Rocha

Poland

So, first things first. I have been running around like crazy for the past few days, and we now need to pretend that, actually, it’s still Tuesday, still 11 November. Got it? Great, now that that’s covered: happy Independence Day, Poland! This is actually the day on which the formation of Poland was redeclared in 1918—you know, Armistice Day, or, as we Australians think of it, Remembrance Day.

I’ve been in love with Poland for a while—on my one trip to Europe I visited Krakow—and stayed longer than I had thought I would. I still haven’t had a chance to go back, and travel all over. But Krakow is a magical place for me. I read all the books of Ryszard Kapuściński that were then available in English in a week. I lay on the grass outside Wawel castle. I walked all over the city, and around Kazimierz. I fell seriously in love with the Polish poets—especially Zbigniew Herbert and Czesław Miłosz. I looked at art and visited the pharmacology museum and ate the most divine caramel apple. It was like a drug. I also met Ania, a beautiful Polish girl who was my age. It was one of those moments when I recognized myself, in a different context. I’m not always great at asking questions, but I asked Ania a lot. She was a child under communism, and remembered the feeling of hope associated with Solidarity more than the events. When she started high school it was the first year that students could choose to learn English instead of Russian. Everyone chose English. The way she spoke about it, it seemed like there was this real feeling of breaking out.

And people in the west think of Poland as being an Eastern European country. It’s really a Central European place. The Eastern Bloc has really changed our idea of geography. Sometimes its good to go back and stare at the map. Though, yes, it is on the Eastern edge of the European Union as it stands today.

Like other places sandwiched between Germany and Russia, Poland’s been through a lot. And, too, it was the site of the most famous Nazi death camp—Auschwitz Birkenau. It’s startling to visit the Jewish districts of towns that, before World War II, had Jewish populations in the hundreds of thousands—and now claim fewer than a thousand Jewish citizens. They are different places, and their former states are irrecoverable at the same time as they are inescapable.

For me, Poland is all bound up in Ania—she’s one of the people I am most grateful for having met. Having lived at the end of the aftermath of World War II, and the beginning of the post-Communist era, she was still so aware of everything that had changed, had taken it in from her family.

I can’t wait to go back to Poland. To sit alongside the Vistula again.

In the mean time, I continue to read the poets. Like Herbert. His Collected Poems is available now in English. Read him. Please.

Elegy of Fortinbras

for C. M.

Now that we’re alone we can talk prince man to man
though you lie on the stairs and see no more than a dead ant
nothing but black sun with broken rays
I could never think of your hands without smiling
and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests
they are as defenseless as before The end is exactly this
The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart
and the knight’s feet in soft slippers

You will have a soldier’s funeral without having been a soldier
the only ritual I am acquainted with a little
There will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts
      drums drums I know nothing exquisite
those will be my maneuvers before I start to rule
one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit

Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life
you believed in crystal notions not in human clay
always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras
wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit
you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe

Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to
and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me
you chose the easier part an elegant thrust
but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching
with a cold apple in one’s hand on a narrow chair
with a view of the ant-hill and the clock’s dial

Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project
and a decree on prostitutes and beggars
I must also elaborate a better system of prisons
since as you justly said Denmark is a prison
I go to my affairs This night is born
a star named Hamlet We shall never meet
what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy

It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on
      archipelagos
and that water these words what can they do what can they do
      prince

—Zbigniew Herbert
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the Polish by Czesław Miłosz