Turkey

Okay, confession time. I always forget the capital of Turkey. Which is Ankara. I think of a Turkish city, and it’s Istanbul that springs to mind. And this is partly, I guess, that Istanbul straddles Europe and Asia, as well as the fact that it’s the third largest city in the world. We all know size counts, right? And I guess I’m not the only person in the so-called “Western World” who has an ingrained Euro-centric view of things. I try to work against that—this whole project is about working against it—but it’s been part of my whole life… Today is Republic Day in Turkey. Celebration ensues.

So. Turkey. Well, there’s the Byzantine Empire, the successor to the Roman Empire: and, yes, Byzantium became Constantinople, which in turn became Istanbul. The Turks had their victory over the Byzantine Empire in 1071, and they began to abandon their nomadic ways, giving rise to the Seljuk Empire… which didn’t last long, thanks to the Mongols. But out of this the Ottoman Empire eventually emerged, and this was a huge political entity, only come apart after World War I.

After the Ottoman Empire? The republic. The Turkish War of Independence started in 1919, ending on 29 October 1923 with the declaration of the Republic. After siding with the Germans in World War I, Turkey was on the Allied side in World War II. (Turkey’s World War I showing is important to Australians, as Gallipoli is etched in national memory.)

Adjusting to its new place in the twentieth century wasn’t always easy in Turkey—the country has seen a number of military coup d’états since the start of the multi-party period.

My parents have been to Turkey twice—visiting Gallipoli both times. The first time they brought me back a small Turkish carpet. (My cat used to delight in playing with its corners… thank goodness I weaned her off that habit.) The second time they brought me back an Aladdin-style lantern.

I also want to go to Turkey. Among other things, I desperately want to go to the traditional location of Troy… Someday. I also want to go inland. I want to go—well, everywhere.

Today’s poem is by the wonderful Nâzim Hikmet—I didn’t note it down at the time, but I’m assuming it comes from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. And while you could read the small selection of his work in that wonderful anthology, why limit your reading? His Selected Poems are available in English too!


Angina Pectoris

If half my heart is here,
    half of it is in China, doctor.
It’s in the army flowing to the Yellow river.
Then, at every dawn, doctor
    at every dawn, my heart
      is riddled with bullets in Greece.

Then when our convicts get to sleep
     retreating from the ward
          my heart is in a broken down old manor in Çamlica,
       every night,
            doctor.

Then for all those ten years
all I have to offer my poor people
  is this one apple I hold, doctor,
       a red apple:
        my heart…

It’s not from arteriosclerosis, nor nicotine, nor prison,
that I have this angina pectoris,
 but because, dear doctor, because of this.

I look at night through iron bars,
despite the pressure in my chest,
my heart beats along with the farthest star. 

—Nâzim Hikmet
translated from Turkish by Ruth Christie, Richard McKane and Talât Sait Halman

Czech Republic

It was on a bus from Berlin to Prague that I discovered how much I loved travelling by bus—so long as the bus isn’t too crowded that is. This was pre-European Union-hood, so I had waited in Berlin for my visa to come through, and we’d stopped at the border so the authorities could check everyone’s paperwork. I had a window seat (with no-one next to me… good for stretching out) and I spent hours listening to music and looking out the window. I love the unpredictability of buses—they don’t rely on tracks, so they can wander through different landscapes if there happens to be a detour. The roads we travelled on the way to Prague went straight through small towns rather than bypassing them—something that I miss driving on major Australian highways. Give me a smaller highway, and all the small towns you can throw at me.

So, today is Independence Day in the Czech Republic. It celebrates their independence from Austria-Hungary in 1918—this was when the country became Czechoslovakia. Obviously that country dissolved in 1993 when Slovakia became a separate nation, but the Czech Republic still celebrates this 1918 independence. I believe—though correct me if I’m wrong—that it is still known as Czechoslavak Indepedendence Day.

Prague is like a kind of fairytale city. When I was there (and yes, I know that the country has a lot more to it than Prague) the idea that Prague had once been a real hub in Europe came home to me. Which is not to say that it is less of a hub—but that the communist period under Russia, the Czech Republic seemed to move further East in the world’s imagination—when if you look at any map of Europe, it’s in the centre. Mental, emotional geography is often different to what latitude and longitude tells us.

After World War I, when Czechoslovakia was formed, it incorporated region sof Bohemia, Moravia, Silesia, Carpathian Ruthernia and, of course, Slovakia.

The Prague Spring took place in 1968—under Alexander Dubček’s leadership, the country worked towards “socialism with a human face.” This openness and tolerance was curtailed by the Warsaw Pact invasion. Censorship replaced openness, until in November 1989 the country returned to democracy with the Velvet Revolution—before the peaceful split into two nations.

Oh, and I know Kafka wrote in German, but he lived his entire life in Bohemia. I visited the house of his birth on my trip to Prague. Some other Czech writers to follow up on ? Jaroslav Seifert, Karel Čapek, Miroslav Holub, Václav Havel, Milan Kundera… that should get you started.

And before you go look up those authors, here’s a poem by Ivana Bozdechová, taken from New European Poets.


Everyday Occurrence

Suddenly he stood at my table
without knocking
with a white rose wrapped in paper
and a question in his eyes.

The afternoon had drizzled into dusk
and the café was smoke-filled with people.
Carefully we picked our silences
until at last we know
that even together we cannot
cure the world.

So don’t be afraid of happiness
or of the smile of Prague Castle
above the weary river.

All that is left today
is the rattle of the departing streetcar
because the rose looks forward to getting home.
Do come again.
Maybe something’s beginning.

—Ivana Bozdechová
from New European Poets
translated from the Czech by Ewald Osers

Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

Saint Vincent. The Grenadines. Independence Day. Sounds like a reason for a beach party… Vincentians are celebrating their independence from the United Kingdom today, marking the anniversary of their 1979 step into nationhood. Saint Vincent is the main island of the country, and then the northern two-thirds of the Grenadines belong to the country as well. The Grenades that aren’t part of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines belong, instead (and not surprisingly), to Grenada.

When Europeans did come along, the Carib Indians prevented settlement on St Vincent until into the 18th century. Considering the outcomes on some islands, this was probably a good move on the part of the Caribs. African slaves—escaped or shipwrecked—intermarried with the Caribs, and became known as Garifuna, or Black Caribs. And then in 1719, French settlers decided they would move onto the island—and succeeded in doing so, planting coffee, tobacco, indigo, corn and sugar.

About fifty years after the French settled, there was a bit of a back-and-forth with the territory’s “ownership.” St Vincent went to Britain under the Treaty of Paris in 1763 and then, in 1779, was restored to the French. In 1783 it was once again ceded to Britain, this time under the Treaty of Versailles. And it stayed British. Until recently. (It’s still a commonwealth nation, so the official head of state is still Queen Elizabeth II…)

So, slavery ended in 1834. Hooray! I love the moment of emancipation… This led to the familiar immigration of indentured servants—mostly East Indian labourers.

While Britain tried from its side to affiliate St Vincent with other Windward Islands—a unified administration being the advantage for them—they didn’t really make any headway. On the Caribbean side, the British colonies of the area tried the West Indies Federation, which lasted from 1958 until 1962. After this collapse, St Vincent became an associated state in 1969, leaving it in control of all its internal affairs. And the next step, as we know, was the 1979 declaration of independence. St Vincent and the Grenadines were apparent the last of the Windward Islands to gain independence.

Oh, there’s an active volcano (Soufrière) on St Vincent as well. There are a number of violent eruptions on record, including eruptions in 1718, 1812, 1902, 1971 and 1979. The 1902 eruption killed well over a thousand people. The most recent eruption came with enough warning that there were no casualities.

Speaking of Soufrière, that’s the subject of today’s poem, writtem by E. McG. “Shake” Keane. It comes from The Heinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry, and I found it online here.


Soufrière

The thing split Good Friday in two
and that good new morning groaned
and snapped
like breaking an old habit

Within minutes
people
who had always been leaving nowhere
began arriving nowhere
entire lives stuffed in pillow-cases
and used plastic bags
naked children suddenly transformed
into citizens

’Ologists with their guilty little instruments
were already oozing about the mountainsides
bravely
and by radio

(As a prelude to resurrection and brotherly love
you can’t beat ructions and eruptions)

Flies ran away from the scene of the crime
and crouched like Pilate
in the secret places of my hours
washing their hands

Thirty grains of sulphur
panicked off the phone
when it rang

Mysterious people ordered
other mysterious people
to go to mysterious places
‘immediately’

I wondered about the old woman
who had walked back to hell
to wash her Sunday clothes

All the grey-long day
music
credible and incredibly beautiful
came over he radio
while the mountain refreshed itself

Someone who lives
inside a microphone
kept things in order

Three children
in unspectacular rags
a single bowl of grey dust between them
tried to manure the future
round a young plum tree

The island put a white mask
over its face
coughed cool as history
and fell in love with itself

A bus traveling heavy
cramped as Calvary
thrust its panic into the side of a hovel
and then the evening’s blanket
sent like some strange gift from abroad
was rent by lightning

—E. McG. ‘Shake’ Keane
from The Heinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry

Turkmenistan

On 27 October Turkmenistan celebrates its Independence Day. Independence? From the USSR: on this day in 1991 Turkmenistan declared its independence; on 8 December independence was recognised. The capital is Ashgabat.

So, Turkmenistan is Turkic nation in Central Asia, sitting on the eastern side of the Caspian Sea. Given its position between the Middle East and the large East Asian powers, I guess it’s not surprising that the country was conquered a few times over the years—even Alexander the Great. It was in the seventh century or so that Arabs conquered the region, bringing Islam with them, also incorporating Turkmen into Middle Eastern culture.

Turkmenistan became a Soviet Socialist Republic in 1924. As part of the USSR the alphabet changed from Arabic script first to Latin, and then to the Cyrillic alphabet.

If you were reading about Central Asia a few years ago you may have come across stories about Saparmyrat Nyýazow, who served as head of state pre-independence from 1985, and until his death in 2006. Now this was a totalitarian leader—his regime was incredibly repressive. And yet, most of the stories I remember were really about things that were portrayed as over-the-top, silly, extravagant—but not really cruel. An example? Well, he renamed months after family members. He over saw the building of the tallest structure in the capital, the Neutrality Arch—and placed on top of the monument a gold-plated statue of himself that rotates 360 degrees over the course of 24 hours, and always faces the sun. On the more serious side, in 2007 Reporters Without Borders ranked Turkmenistan the thirds most restrictive country in the world when it comes to press freedoms. Add to that repression of homosexuality and the authorities monitor religious groups. And, in a measure that I’m guessing makes Johnny Depp extremely unwelcome, beards and long hair are banned. But, really, I’m sure those last few facts have passed you by, and you’re still thinking about the Neutrality Arch. Oh, it seems Nyýazow’s successor, Gurganguly Berdimuhammedow (that’s an amazing name!) is tired of thinking about the Neutrality Arch. He had to moved to a highway at the edge of Ashgabat.

And today’s Turkmen poem is by Gurbannazar Eziz. I comes from the amazing Language for a New Century.


The Eastern Poem

A green wind brushed a slender branch,
opening the mouths of the buds.
Head thrown back to the sky, a wolf howled,
as if telling his complaint to the moon.

Moonshadow fell on the river,
weaving a golden carpet across the water.
Beneath the Asian sky, a girl
recited a poem by the eastern poet.

Beneath this sky. in moonlight,
the poetry written in ancient times,
finding no place in the kings’ golden castles,
knocked on the door of the common people.

Nothing of the ancient world is old
if a nation’s people have the desire.
Old is something new that’s been forgotten.
New means the legacy of what was before.

And so if this sky remains,
if this moon continues to extend its beam,
as the early star is born each morning,
the eastern poem will cast its glow over the world.

We will pass away.
After us, there will be many others,
and then a girl, turning her face toward the sky,
will remember what was written in pursuit of eternity.

—Gurbannazar Eziz
translated from the Turkmen by Eric Welsapar and Idra Novey
from Language for a New Century

Austria

I have to admit, my first awareness of Austria came via The Sound of Music. I’m guessing this is true for many (non-Austrian) children. Many English-speaking children at least. The hills are alive… And you know what? The hills are alive with the sound of music. I mean, look at the facts: Mozart, Haydn, Schubert, Bruckner, Strauss Sr and Strauss Jr, Mahler… born in Austria. Beethoven wasn’t born there, but he spent a lot of his life there. What about the fact that we have the First Viennese School and the Second Viennese School? If you asked someone on the street to name a composer Mozart and Beethoven are likely to be the first names that pop into the layman’s mind. My point? Them there hills are doing something right to get the musical juices of the western tradition flowing… So put in some Mahler, sit back with a piece of Strudel and celebrate Austria’s national day. In 1804 the Austrian Empire was declared, in 1918 the First Austrian Republic. Most recently, this day marks Austria’s 1955 Declaration of Neutrality.

Austria’s been around in some form or another for over a thousand years. The part you’re likely to know—at least vaguely—is the Habsburgs. From 1278 until World War I, Austria’s history was really bound up with this ruling dynasty. Oh, and Austria gave France Marie Antoinette. Our mental images of the French Revolution wouldn’t be the same without her…

Oh, and World War I? Well we know that the explanation that it was all sparked by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria in Sarajevo is a little simplistic—but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. On the still darker side, Austria was the birthplace of Hitler, so the World War II also has roots in Austria.

On a completely frivolous tack, the Austrian Tyrol was the original site for the Chalet School of Eleanor Brent-Dyer’s long series of boarding school books. (Another fact that emerges about your tour guide… she is addicted to books set in boarding schools.)

For today’s poem, I have turned to the wonderful Ingeborg Bachman. Please, go find more of Bachman’s work. You’ll be glad you did…


Aria I

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
thorns illuminate the night. And the thunder
of a thousand leaves, once so quiet on the bushes,
is right at our heels.

Wherever the roses’ fire is put out,
rain washes us into the river. Oh distant night!
Yet a leaf that touched us now floats on the waves,
following us to the sea.

—Ingeborg Bachmann
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the German by Mark Anderson

Zambia

There’s something magical to me about the countries starting with “Z.” (Oh, and that’s “Z” pronounced Zed and not Zee. That’s important to me…) I don’t know why—it’s irrational. Or is it? The music of certain words is of central importance in my life. That’s why I post poems at the end of these explanations. Zambia. Independent from the UK on this day in 1964.

Zambia. Surrounded by the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Angola, by Tanzania and Malawi, by Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia. Capital: Lusaka.

Zambia—it’s been inhabited for thousands of years. During the Bantu expansion the Tonga people came to Zambia, followed by the Nkoya people. Then the Nsokolo people and the Ngoni people. More magical sounds. The name Zambia comes from the Zambezi river. Before that the British called it Northern Rhodesia. The British arrived in the late nineteenth-century, claiming the area as a British protectorate.

Zambia and copper. The Copperbelt lies in the northwest, and the economy has been dominated by copper mining, though recently the government has been trying to diversify.

Zambia and independence: enter the one-party state under Kenneth Kuanda. Multi-party elections arrived in 1991. In 1997, a coup d’etat. Other problems—HIV/AIDS, sadly not a surprise.

Zambia and poetry. I looked, and what I found comes from a tradition of oral poetry—from an article by J K Rennie. “Cattle, Conflict, and Court Cases: The Praise Poetry of Ila Leadership” from Research in African Literature, the Winter 1984 issue.

Shikaumbu at the Battle of Isanvu

Move over, let me through, I am the lion who kills 
     by day!
You don’t speak of Isanvu, where Kalubi built; we
     churned blood in the mud, they never retreated,
     Mulangu Nalukanko;
This, this, this is war, Moonga!

—from “Cattle, Conflict and Court Cases: The Praise Poetry of Ila Leadership,” by J K Rennie. Reseach in African Literature.

Hungary

So once upon a time there was the Austro-Hungarian Empire. These days? Well, no more empire. And today the Hungarian half of the equation is celebrating its National Day—the anniversary of the day Hungary became a republic in 1989. You know—the spread of the Velvet Revolution. I didn’t make it to Hungary when I was in Europe, but it looks like I’ll have a chance to spend a (very cold) few days there when I head back to Australia for another sunny Christmas.

The Blue Danube, Buda and Pest. My early stamp collection, and the sense of enlightenment I felt when my mother told me that the stamps marked “Magyar” were from Hungary.

I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall—and sometimes I even like to think I have a vague recollection about hearing about the end of the one-party system in then-Czechoslovakia. But I know I wasn’t aware that Hungary had had the same Post-World War II period under Communist control. (I was nine—I think I should be relatively pleased I knew about Gorbachev, about perestroika and glasnost. We watched stories about these on the wonderful “BTN” or “Behind the News,” aimed to let 9-year-olds like me know the background to world events. But Hungary? Couldn’t have told you much other than the fact I liked their stamps.) As Central and Eastern European countries began to break out from Soviet control, Hungary followed suit.

In May 1989 Hungarians began to remove the barbed wire fence that ran along the Austrian border—apparently it was the first rip in the Iron Curtain. Hey—that’s pretty important stuff right there.

Free elections returned after four decades of Communist Rule in March 1990. It hasn’t been the easiest transition—no major upheavals politically, but the transition to a free market economy has taken its toll on living standards for the majority. (I don’t know how the current crisis is playing out in this region of Europe… note to self: learn everything.)

Now, go out and eat Goulash. Play Bartók’s violin quartets. Pick up a CD of Ligeti’s music. Dig your Rubik’s cube out of the back of the cupboard. Have a glass of Pálinka. Kick back. Relax. Read a poem. Like, for instance, “The Hole,” by Imre Oravecz. I found it in New European Poets.


The Hole

The sheep with the trepanned head stood on the other side of the fence,

in the shade,
facing us,
its head hanging,
motionless,
silent,
an arm’s length away,

in its head was a huge funnel-shaped hole
which we could see down into,

the hole consisted of mildew-colored concentric rings
that narrowed to a single point,

in the point something throbbed,

the whole thing was like a bird’s-eye view of an exposed surface mine,
only the busy engines and trucks were missing
from the circular beam,

we would have liked to reach in through the pickets
and poke in it with a stick,
but we didn’t dare,

we just stood there holding our breath,
and looked at it, stupefied.

—Imre Oravecz
from New European Poets
translated from the Hungarian by Bruce Berling and Mária Kõrösy

Netherlands Antilles

Antilles Day! Let’s celebrate! Rusty on your knowledge of the Netherlands Antilles? Well, these islands are part of the Lesser Antilles and consist of the Curaçao and Bonaire island groups, as well as Sint Eustatius, Saba and Sint Maarten (the half that belongs to the Netherlands). Phew! I can tell you that, growing up in Australia, I may have heard of some of these islands—but beyond that I wouldn’t have been able to tell you much. Anyway, the islands are an autonomous part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. So, Queen Beatrix is their monarch. But, you know, there’s a governor and prime minister too. Oh—the Netherlands Antilles was meant to be dissolved as a unified political entity—giving constituent islands new, separate statuses, but that’s been postponed. It’ll still happen, but we don’t know when.

The Dutch weren’t the first outsiders to take a shine to the islands of the Netherlands Antilles. No—the Spanish came along first, discovering and becoming the initial settlers for the islands. It wasn’t until the 17th century that the Dutch West India Company conquered the islands, first using them as military outposts and trade bases: welcome to the slave trade. Well, until 1863. Goodbye to the slave trade.

Until 1954 the islands were a colonial territory. What happened in 1954? An upgrade. The islands effectively became a separate country in the Kingdom of the Netherlands. More recently Aruba, which was part of the Netherlands Antilles until 1986, became a separate country when it was granted status aparte. A few years ago the remaining segments of the Netherlands Antilles held referenda on their future ties to the Netherlands. Sint Maarten and Curaçao voted to follow in Aruba’s wake, wanting status aparte as well. Saba and Bonaire, in contrast, wanted closer ties to the Netherlands. And Sint Eustatius? Well Sint Eustatius voted to stay in the Netherlands Antilles. Not surprisingly it was the islands with the smallest populations that voted to keep things as they are or make their ties to Netherland closer, while the islands with the large populations wanted to obtain status aparte. Interestingly none of the islands had a large vote for independence—the largest was 14.2 percent for independence on Sint Maarten.

Economically there aren’t really any surprises: the Netherlands Antilles major sources of income are tourism, petroleum transhipment, oil refinement and offshore finances. Agriculture is not much of a factor—the soil’s not great, and the water supply is not exactly ample. Consumer goods come from elsewhere.

Why don’t we read a poem, class? (Gosh, I often think I should have been a primary school teacher…) The poet? Frank Martinus Arion. I found this point in a 1998 edition of Callaloo which was dedicated to literature of the Dutch Caribbean.



I fell in deep snow
If you cannot save me
Then lie down beside me
Help me weep

If only you spoke Papaimentu
I would call you my lover
As for a kiss that would save ne
But you can never be black

They told me
They all begged me
If you marry a white woman
You can’t return to your black homeland

I fell in deep snow
If you cannot save me
Then lie down beside me
Help me weep

—Frank Martinus Arion
translated for the Papiamentu by Paul Vincent
from Callaloo, “Carribean Literature from Suriname, The Netherlands Antilles, Aruba, and The Netherlands: A Special Issue” (Summer, 1998)

Niue

I’m guessing Niue is place most of us don’t think about often. A small (population is under 2000) island in free association with New Zealand, closest to Tonga, Samoa and the Cook Islands. Think about it now.

While this year Constitution Day celebrations are happening on 16 and 17 October, I’m writing this to mark the anniversary of the new constitution.

Okay. So people arrived in Niue from Samoa around 900 CE. About six hundred years later more settlers came from Tonga. So far, strictly Polynesian. During this time—until the early 1700s—there wasn’t really a national government. Chiefs and heads of families controlled things. But since there was influence from both Samoa and Tonga established, kingship was introduced into the mix. The first king of Niue was Puni-mata.

Contact with the wider world? Well, this is Oceania, and so James Cook can be credited with the first European sighting of Niue. He tried to land there—three times—but the Niueans refused him. Oh, and Cook called the island “Savage Island,” the name that stuck until relatively recently when the original name Niue became known on the world stage.

Now this is Oceania, so where discoverers… discovered… it is inevitable that sometime soon after missionaries much follow. Yes, the London Missionary Society agrees with me, and some missionaries showed up in Niue in 1846. And, yes, after a few years Christianity had spread. Way to proselytise.

And where did the British empire come in? King Fata-a-iki, who reigned from 1887 to 1896, was worried about the colonising spirit of the times, and offered sovereignty to the British in 1887, judging them more benevolent than many other colonial powers. It took till 1900, but soon the island was a British protectorate—for a year. In 1901 New Zealand annexed the island. And then 1974 saw self-government.

Something you probably didn’t know? Niue is one of the world’s largest coral islands. Also—weird fact—apparently the soil in Niue is really unusual, geochemically speaking. The soil has a “surprisingly high” level of natural radioactivity—no uranium, but some other radionucleides. Now apparently this kind of distribution happens on very deep seabeds and the theory goes that a combination of extreme weathering of the coral and a short-lived submergence in the sea 120,000 years ago caused this. That’s so interesting. Oh, and there’s been no evidence of ill-effects health-wise in the local population.

Today’s poem is actually a segment of a longer work by John Pule, who is considered to be Niue’s most important writer and artist. It comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.


from The Shark that Ate the Sun

Earth. Time’s curfew desires only our attention
the landscape mirrors another reflection of
the other sorrow known on earth as life

the ocean is left behind as we walk to a dream
war is not known on earth but in the isolated
image human beings once ran naked in caves
carved out a history of a new birth
embellishing art to become blood and beauty
when mysteries poked at our brain, leaving holes,
and we dropped whatever we had in our hearts to
look at each other in amazement, and whoever possessed
the desire to live forever will never die, but we die, and suffer,
and the shock has long been forgotten
because the word death is only a gossip

and not when we carelessly describe to our
children how we love on earth, which ceases to
fascinate, and falls about our bodies like confetti

and standing naked to surmise a tranquil field
a city appeared to haunt the waterhole where
animals browse and drink. Years later
the remains of that lone figure are dug up
the position odd, the hands covered the eyes as if to
hide from some horrific vision, maybe a
revelation of what was seen is what we now live in
did the vision kill whatever his name and tribe is
staring out over the tranquil field?

the question glittered as centuries battled
in iron and the rain washed the blood away to
settle in small dark cities, which we tasted and
the smell caused a strange evolution to take
place in our emotions, and the change dressed
us in miraculous nights, the stars challenged
our answers

if they could glimpse into this present day
they would die in the presence of hate and emotion
that sleeps in every country

we contemplate distant illuminations,
yet the difficulty remains in
recognizing the true human
which is a dream the firstborn forgot and hopes
this earth will never feel

goodbye, said the captain. Goodbye, said the islander.
Next time test in your own country
perhaps New York or Paris

—John Pule
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Equatorial Guinea

Independence Day for Equatorial Guinea! And you will be surprised to learn that Equatorial Guinea is not, in fact, equatorial. It just misses, lying one degree north. The nation includes a continental region (coastal, not surprisingly) and an insular region—Bioko island is where the capital (Malabo) lies. Wow. I’m learning stuff already. Independence was achieved in 1968—independent from? Spain.

In terms of pre-European history, we don’t know a lot. It’s believed the first inhabitants were Pygmies—and there are still small populations of Pygmie peoples in the north of Rio Muni, the continental part of the country. Bantu and Fang populations migrated between the 17th and 19th century. It’s thought that the Bubi—the first inhabitants of Bioko, may have come from the Fang. From my understanding, though, none of this is absolutely certain.

In terms of Western contact, it’s said that Fernão do Pó—a Portuguese explorer—was the first European to discover Bioko island, back in 1472. He called it Formosa (for “beautiful”) and then it took on his own name before, more recently, becoming known as Bioko. Portugal colonised the island and nearby Annabón in 1474, and then in 1778 the islands were ceded to Spain.

Independence? Well, as well as pressure from Equatoguineans, Spain was also under pressure from the United Nations to grant independence. On 11 August 1968 a referendum was held, with 63 percent of the electorate in favor of the constitution that had been drafted. Before the official “Independence Day” Equatorial Guinea elected Francisco Macías Nguema as president. The next part of the story? In 1970 the country became a one-party state. In 1972 Macías took on the title President for Life. Under governmental neglect the basic infrastructure of the country—electricity, water, roads, health—fell into ruin. The economy went south, and foreigners left the country, along with skilled Equatoguinean citizens. Pretty bleak.

1975: the schools were closed. 1978: the churches were closed. Colonial names were all replaced with native names.

Then in 1979, Macías’s own nephew Obiang led a coup d’état. Macías was arrested, tried and executed. Obiang is still in power today. Elections have generally been considered fraudulent, and government corruption is still rife.

There was an alleged coup attempt in 2004, but it failed. This recent coup attempt is a weird one—it’s been called “the new Kuwait” by some. It was led by mercenaries, and most financied by British-based backers. The goal? To open the country’s mineral wealth. Among the backers? This is where is gets a little weird. Margaret Thatcher’s son, The Hon. Sir Mark Thatcher was involved. There’s also speculation that Jeffrey Archer was involved. It just seems weird.

From the weird to the poetic—today’s poem, “Delirium,” is by María Nsue Angüe. It comes from Marvin Lewis’s An introduction to the literature of Equatorial Guinea: between colonialism and dictatorship.

Delirium

In the mirror of my past
there appear ghosts enmeshed
in a dark curtain, where my present

is shattered, and my future
crumbles in nothingness.

Faces of shadows swarm
in my mirror!
Your faces sketched by hunger
carry a stamp of misery as deep
as the revolving song of my sadness
that shouts at me to the depth of my bones
that I shall die like the offended Christ
who having been born in his time
those of his era did not recognize him.

—María Nsue Angüe

Spain

I almost went to Spain five years ago—but then my friend Felicity and I opted to go for Corsica instead. And while I have no complaints (Corsica was beautiful) I am a little sad I didn’t make it to Spain. Still, someday I hope to take the pilgrims walk to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. Someday. In the mean time, today is Spain’s Dia de la Hispanidad.

So, back during the days of the Roman Empire, the Mediterranean coast of Hispania was under Roman control, with other parts of the country displaying various degrees of Roman influence. Apparently agriculture was big business, as Spain acted as a granary for the Romans, as well as exporting gold, wool, olive oil and wine. Hey! I never knew Seneca was born in Hispania! I also didn’t know that the name “Andalusia” tells the history of the area’s separartion from Rome. When the Vandals established a kingdom, it was named “Vandalusia”—later transformed to Andalusia.

Fast forward a few centuries, and there’s the Muslim conquest of sections of the Iberian peninsula. The capital of the caliphate—Córdoba—was the important in the Europe of the day. Important? The superlatives largest, richest and most sophisticated have been applied. And let’s not forget that without Arabic scholars—including those present in Spain at this period—Greek learning would have been revived much more slowly.

Of course, Muslim rule didn’t last either, and over centuries it broke up leading eventually to the Spanish Empire. Which of course came to include large swathes of South and Central America, Mexico and sections of what is now the United States along with plenty of islands. Of course, within Europe Spain faced plenty of challenges from Barbary pirates (pirates!) to new threats of Islamic invasion.

So, Spain has had plenty to do. The twentieth century was no difference—following the establishment of the Second Spanish Republic came the Spanish Civil War from 1936 to 1939. The Nationalist forces—under General Franco—emerged the stronger side. Who was on their side? Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. Sometimes the Spanish Civil War is called the first battle of the Second World War. Franco came out of the Civil War as dictator. He died in 1975. At a Davis Cup match in Australia a few years ago the officials committed a major faux pas, playing the Spanish national anthem from the Franco years, and not the current anthem. Not surprisingly, the players were very upset. Oh, and Spanish tennis players? All kinds of amazing.

More recently, we think of the bombs that exploded in commuter trains in 2004: initially Basque separatists were suspected, but last year it was concluded that the perpetrators were from a local Islamist militant group.

And when we talk about the Spanish language, we’re referring to Castilian, which is the only language with an official status through the whole country. Other major languages are Basque, Catalan and Galician—and there are plenty of other languages spoke.

The arts? Well, Don Quixote is one of the greatest works of literature ever written. Velázquez’s paintings are amazing, as are El Greco’s. And, yes, we know Picasso was one of the most influential artists of the twentieth century. Still, for me the greatest Spanish artist will always be Goya. There’s cinema—including the greats Luis Buñuel and Pedro Almadóvar. And then there’s flamenco. I took flamenco lessons for a year. I want to go back to them. Time, money. The eternal inhibitors.

For a poem I have chosen a piece by Lorca. I love Lorca. This is actually the opening poem to his early volume Poem of the Deep Song. The book is a wonder.

Little Ballad of the Three Rivers

             To Salvador Quintero

The river Guadalquivir
winds through orange and olive trees.
The two rivers of Granada
descend from the snow to the wheat.

Ay, love
that went away and never returned!

The river Guadalquivir
has whiskers of garnet.
The two rivers of Granada,
one weeping and the other blood.

Ay, love
that went away through the air!

For ships with sail
Sevilla has a route;
in the waters of Granada
only righs row about.

Ay, love
that went away and never returned!

Guadalquivir, a tall tower
and wind in the orange groves.
Darro and Genil, dead little 
towers rising from the lakes.

Ay, love
that went away through the air!

One could say that the water carries
a will-o’-the-wisp filled with cries!

Ay, love
that went away and never returned!

Carry orange blossom, carry olivers,
Andalusia, down to your seas.

Ay, love
that went away through the air!

—Federico García Lorca
translated from the Spanish by Carlos Bauer
from Poem of the Deep Song

Fiji

When I was about 6 I got my first passport: my family was thinking of taking an overseas holiday. I was thrilled. Even then I was, apparently dreaming of the sheer number of fascinating places in the world. I admit that my first thought was Europe (hey, as Australians we had a heavily British influence… especially since I grew up watching the ABC, with all its BBC programming)—but the plan was a trip to Fiji. Unfortunately it never happened, and I still haven’t been to Fiji. Though I plan to make it to that corner of the world sometime. So let’s celebrate Fiji Day, and keep your fingers crossed that someday I will realise this first-proposed international sojourn. (My parents went a few years ago and brought me back some Fijian black peppercorns. I’m a pepper-fan.)

From archaeological evidence, it looks like there have been people in Fiji for around 3000 years, though it took until 1643 for Europeans to show up. The intrepid voyager in this case? Abel Tasman, while he was looking for the Great Southern Continent. It took until the 19th century for outsiders to settle in the islands, starting in 1822, and Fiji became a British colony in 1874. (Incidentally, one of my most vivid memories of a lecture from my undergraduate Arts degree was from Robin Grove’s closely reading of a passage of George Eliot’s Middlemarch—part of the passage mentioned “Feejee.” Middlemarch was published serially in the few years before Fiji was officially made a colony, and published in a single volume the same year. Middlemarch was set during the early 1830s.)

After nearly 100 years as a British colony, Fiji gained independence in 1970. Unfortunately after 17 years things democratic rule was tripped up by a pair of military coups. And of course that wasn’t the last coup—the new millennium brought a new coup. Ouch. That was followed up most recently with the coup of 2006, which really occurred after the pressure continued to build after the 2000 coup, and 2005-2006 political crisis. Fiji has been suspended from the Commonwealth of Nations a few times—after the 2006 coup the nation was suspended again, and it remains in suspension. Following the coup, human rights groups such received reports of human rights abuses such as arbitrary detention and torture of critics of the coup into the early months of 2007. Meanwhile it’s reported today that the interim leader, Commodore Frank Bainimarama, seems to be determined to resist any return to democratic rule.

Today’s poem, “Ballet for a Sea-bird,” is by Satendra Nandan, and comes from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980.


Ballet for a Sea-bird

in the blue lightning-lashed sea
the black wave-thrashed rock
entangle, entwine and mock
perhaps some common destiny!

the dark waters rise to fall:
the rock resists, bits crumble;
the waves hiss, boil over, tumble
above it all, a lost bird’s call!

from the green sea it rose—
an extension of the sea foam?
to rest its breast on a craggy home—
the immensity of death still so close!

it wobbles, flutters, loses its hold:
cries, crashed into the marbled ocean
an act larger than its last emotion:
the sleepless sea rocks it in its fold!

but in the cracks of the rock, moss
had seen the bird search for an answer
with the myriad movements of a dancer
touched by another life’s tenderness!

the waves swirl to reach evermore
the infinity of a blind, birdless sky;
only in my heart, the tiny gull’s cry
sings as I scuttle from shore to shore!

—Satendra Nandan
from Nuanua: Pacific Writing in English Since 1980

Cuba

Cuban cigars. Cuban heels. I admit, I’m a fan of the latter. (I’ve only smoked two cigars in my life—I don’t think either of them was Cuban, though I wasn’t really paying attention. I bought the one recommended by the cigar-guy in Melbourne. Cuban heels, however, are wonderful.) And I guess I don’t really need to say “Castro” or “Bay of Pigs” or “Cuban Missile Crisis,” do I?

Hey, I never really knew that Cuba consisted of a several islands! I shouldn’t be surprised, I know. Oh, and 10 October, Cuban Independence Day, celebrates Cuba’s declaration of independence from Spain on 10 October, 1868. The republic was declared on 20 May, 1902 and of course there was that whole Cuban revolution in 1959.

Yes, being back in the Caribbean means we’re back in the territory of Christopher Columbus. While he was roving around on his first voyage of discovery he sighted Cuba and claimed it for Spain—I’m guessing he did at that stage inform the Taíno and Ciboney people who called the island home (descended from migrants from South America—and possible Central and North America—after a series of migrations centuries before—and perhaps thousands of years prior to Columbus’s explorations.)

So, we’re in colonial Spanish territory. And, since this is the Caribbean, there were also pirates. (You remember how much I love it when pirates show up, right? It feels like it’s been a long time without pirates.)

It took a while for Cuba to gain its independence after the declaration—and it also took quite a long time for Cuba to abolish slavery. The latter happened in 1886, under pressure from the US, though it didn’t mark a huge improvement in conditions for the African-descended minority. Oh, and actual independence? That arrived, formally, in 1902.

Hey! Cuba smuggled sugar to Britain via Sweden during World War I. That’s so cool. They also supplied sugar during World War II, and upped the ante by providing manganese as well.

And Castro? Well, we know that as a result of the Cuban Missile Crisis there’s been a trade embargo in place since the 1960s. My understanding is that President Kennedy obtained a large supply of Cuban cigars, and then put the embargo in place.

Most recently, obviously, there’s been the Castro to Castro transfer of power, and Raúl took over from his brother Fidel.

The government has been accused of human rights abuses, ranging from arbitrary imprisonment and unfair trials to torture and extra-judicial executions. According to Human Rights Watch the number of political prisoners in Cuba may be vastly understated—and prisoners are held in jails with substandard, unhealthy conditions. With tourism a big industry in Cuba, I’m guessing most visitors don’t engage in this side of Cuban society. That’s natural—there are human rights problems all over the world (Australia is no exception)—and there are a lot of wonderful cultural things to experience, by all reports—especially the music and dancing. But it’s good to keep in mind things that can be improved.

And a Cuban poem? I’ve chosen “A Story” by Reinaldo Arenas. This piece appeared in the Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984 and was translated by Anthony Kerrigan and Jeanne Cook.


A Story

Already 35 years old, with his stomach empty,
and his dozen books only in manuscript because
given their bias
they would never be published by the State,
Roberto Fernández decided to commit suicide.
          Then the Devil appeared.
          Naturally he appeared in uniform, numberless
decorations glittering along the length of his chest.
          Man and Devil chatted for several hours.
          Fernández altered all his manuscripts. He added, subtracted,
obliterated, emended, eliminated everything which might,
by the present generation, which is zealously building the Future.”
          His works were published at once in the de luxe collection
Unidimensional Belle-Lettres. He was awarded, ipso facto, 
by express order of the Devil, the grand prize “Aurora Medal,”
and he was allotted—a great privilege—a spacious house.
          A few days later he died “unexpectedly.”
          His exequies ere in the nature of an apotheosis. Honor guards
were posted at civil and military ceremonies.
The Devil himself, who presided, climaxed
the funeral eulogies with a moving oration which was carried
around the progressive world. 
          His body was cremated, along with his manuscripts—those
he had carefully corrected as well as all his originals.
          Without a doubt, the Devil is a reliable guard.

—Reinaldo Arenas
translated by Anthony Kerrigan and Jeanne Cook
from Anthology of Contemporary Latin American Literature 1960-1984

Uganda

On 9 October, 1962 Uganda gained its independence from the UK. So—Ugandan Independence Day. I admit that when I think of Uganda I can’t help but think of Idi Amin. We’ll get to that. So Uganda is landlocked, in East Africa—not to far from the centre of the continent really. Its neighbours are Kenya, Sudan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda and Tanzania. Just looking at that list you can see another history of turmoil. Oh, and while the country is landlocked there are a lot of large lakes. So. No shortage of water.

The first known inhabitants came to the region between 2000 and 1500 years ago. These were Bantu peoples, bringing in ironworking skill—and new social structures. Still, it wasn’t until the 14th or 15th century, with the Empire of Kitara, that these ideas translated into a more formal societal and political structure. I guess that means before that these structures were on a smaller scale, less formal.

Being part of the African interior, Uganda came into contact with the outside world—both Arabic and European—later than the coastal regions of Africa. In the 1830s Arab traders were the first to move inland, from their posts along the Indian Ocean coastline. Thirty yeas later British explorers ventured into the region, as they were searching for the source of the Nile. Of course, once the explorers had arrived, missionaries had to follow. That’s just the way it goes, apparently. What comes next? The desire to profit. So Uganda came under the charter of the British East Africa Company in 1888, leading to its political emergence as a British protectorate in 1894. It took another twenty years for the final shape of the protectorate to emerge—more territories were integrated—and this is what became modern-day Uganda.

So independence led to a long period of coups and military rule. And, yes, the most famous instance of the latter was Idi Amin’s rule from 1971 until 1979. His rule ushered in human rights abuses, political repression, extrajudicial killings and ethnic persecution—including the expulsion of Asians (in particular entrepreneurial Indians) from the country. Estimates on the number killed during his rule vary—they range from 100,000 to half a million.

When Idi Amin was overthrown, there was still a period of instability—it took until the 1986 deposition of General Tito Okello and the establishment of Yoweri Museveni ‘s rule for the situation to stabilise. It took a further decade for elections to occur: Museveni was voted back in—international and domestic observers stated that the vote was valid, though the opposition candidates rejected the results. He has won two subsequent terms, though the 2006 elections were cause for concern—the Supreme Court of Uganda, though voting to uphold the election results, noted that the process had involved intimidation, violence, voter disenfranchisement and other irregularities. So, while he has been praised in the west, it appears that the system isn’t perfect. (An understatement?) Museveni’s tenure has also been subject to allegations of corruption and embezzlement of public funds. Also, torture is reported as a widespread practice among security organizations. Rights for refugees and immigrants has been an issue too—apparently there have been forcible deportations and violence directed against refugees.

Today’s poem is by Taban Lo Liyong. He was born in Northern Uganda, studied in the United States, and taught in Nairobi. The poem is “Song from the Congolese.” I admit, I like this melting pot. I'm afraid I'm going to have to check up on where I found it initially and update later.

Song from the Congolese

When I was young mother told me to shut up
     or else the ten-eyed giant would hear me.
When I was young mother told me to finish my food
     or else daddy would spank me dead.
When I was young sister told me to steal
     or else I would not get my meal.
When I was young mother told me to bathe
     or else the akula would catch me at night.
When I was young I was told to be home at night
     or else abiba would eat my liver.
When I was young teachers told me to pray at night
     or else Satan would be by my side.

Now that I am old the giant comes and visits me:
     I can see his red ten eyes and bloody teeth;
Now that I am old I can feel the hand of father
     when with rage he beats me as if I was a foe;
Now that I am old I still remember sister 
      when hunger comes and gnaws my entrails;
Now that I am old I know the Black Maria for sure
     as the truck to take me for cutting up;
Now that I am old I know the eagle overhead is for sure
     that bird which eats my life while I am alive;
Now that I am old I go to pray
     in order to get some quiet.

—Taban Lo Liyong

Croatia

Croatia has a lot of dates. Founded in the 7th century. Became a medieval duchy on 4 March ,853. Was recognised by the Pope on 21 May in 879. Elevated from Duchy to Kingdom in 925. United with Hungary in 1102. Became part of the Habsburg Empire on 1 January, 1527. Gained independence from the Austria-Hungary on 29 October, 1918. Joined Yugoslavia on 1 December 1918. Declared its independence on 25 June, 1991. And on 8 October each year Croatia celebrates Dan Nezavisnosti, or Independence Day.

Leading up to 8 October in 1991 were the speech made by President Tuđman on 5 October, calling on the population to defend Croatia against what he termed the “Greater-Serbian imperialism.” On 7 October there was an explosion in the main government building in Zagreb—though Croatia’s leaders survived this event. The following day Croatia cut all ties with then-Yugoslavia. This didn’t stop the war—in particular, Vukovar fell to the Serbs after a siege lasting three months. This resulted in the Vukovar massacre (not the only massacre during the period by any means), when 264 people were killed by Serb militias, who were aided by the Yugoslav People’s Army. The victims were mostly Croats, but the community was a mixed Croat-Serb community, and there were victims on both sides—the only positive outcome here is that this event contributed to the move toward a resolution of the war. It took till 1992 for the ceasefire to hold. Still, it didn’t all end there—there was intermittent conflict in 1993 and it took till 1995 for the war to end—after most eruptions of violence. At the end of it all, tens of thousands of Croats had been expelled from their homes by force, with nearly 12,000 killed and 1348 still missing. 118,000 Croats were expelling from Serb-held parts of Bosnia, most of whom continue to live in Croatia. On the flip-side, around 200,000 Serbs fled from Croatia at the end of the way, and only a small fraction of these have returned to Croatia.

Now Croatia is starting to get a reputation as a tourist spot—especially those beaches on the Adriatic. (I’m yet to set foot on them, but have high hopes that moment will come soon.) There are thousands of islands that belong to Croatia too—including the beguilingly vowel-less Krk.

I have a short poem for you today by Anka Zagar. I found it online here.

Vermeer

she has come in from all sides
into the water that makes you from all sides
alone wanting to remember
how she had come in,
that girl that would like to
put pearls on her neck

—Anka Zagar
Translated from the Croation by Sibila Petlevski

Macau

On 7 October Macau, a special administrative region of the People’s Republic of China, celebrates Chong Yeong, or Ancestors’ Day. Macau? It was the first Europeans colony in China—the Portuguese arrived in the 16th century, administering the region until 20 December 1999, when it was handed back to China. This means it also outlasted the other special administrative region of Hong Kong. Macau itself (which is very close to Hong Kong) consists of the Macau peninsula and the islands Taipa and Coloane.

While there were people living the region a long time before the Portuguese arrived, apparently Macau didn’t develop into a major settlement until the Europeans hit the shore. I imagine it must have been laidback when it was mostly fishermen—no casinos back then. (Tourism is big—can you say “Gambling Mecca?”)

After the establishment of the People’s Republic of China, relations between the Portuguese and the Chinese got a bit complicated—the government in Beijing declared the Sino-Portuguese Treaty of Amity and Commerce invalid, deeming it an “unequal treaty.” When the government first declared this in 1949, there wasn’t a lot of movement on the question. Things started to change after riots broke out in 1966, during the Cultural Revolution. The Portuguese government apologised, and this saw the beginning of de facto control by the Chinese. While there was a treaty signed in 1987 making Macau a special administrative region of China, it took another 12 years for China to resume sovereignty.

Rather than a poem, what I actually have something a little different: a segment of Jules Verne’s book The Great Navigators of the Eighteenth Century, which contains an account of La Perouse, the French explorer, arriving at Macau during his voyage around the world. The full text is available online here.

After taking the position of the Bashees, without stopping, La Perouse sighted the coast of China, and next day cast anchor in the roadstead of Macao.

Here La Perouse met with a small French cutter, commanded by M. de Richery, midshipman, whose business it was to cruise about the eastern coast, and protect French trade.

The town of Macao is so well known that it is needless for us to give La Perouse's description of it. The constant outrages and humiliations to which Europeans were daily subjected under the most despotic and cowardly government in the world, aroused the indignation of the French captain, and made him heartily wish that an international expedition might put a stop to so intolerable a state of things.

The furs which had been collected upon the American coasts were sold at Macao for ten thousand piastres. The sum produced should have been divided among the crews, and the head of the Swedish company undertook to ship it at Mauritius; but the unfortunate sailors themselves were never to receive the money.

Leaving Macao on the 5th of February, the vessels directed their course to Manilla, and, after sighting the shoals of Pratas, Bulinao, Manseloq, and Marivelle, wrongly placed upon D'Après' maps, they were forced to put into the port of Marivelle, to wait for better winds and more favourable currents.

—Jules Verne, The Great Navigators of the Eighteenth Century

Lesotho

When I was in primary school and my brother was just starting high school, he came home with an assignment—I don’t know what class it was for (Geography?)—to write a project of Lesotho. (His best friend was given Swaziland: I think everyone in the class had a different African nation.) So it feels like I’ve always known where Lesotho is, that it’s an enclave surrounded entirely by South Africa, and when naming as many African nations as possible, it’s one I would never leave out. But I’m realising today that, despite this awareness, I don’t know much about Lesotho. For instance: something as basic as the capital. (It’s Maseru.) Since today is Lesotho’s Independence Day (celebrating their 1966 independence from the United Kingdom) it’s time for me to do a little reading. Hey! Lesotho is the only country that is entirely above 1000 metres above sea level. Wow. Snowy in the wintertime.

During the Bantu migration south, Bantu peoples arrived in the region that is now Lesotho—they spoke a dialect that is known as seSotho, and the name Basotho was their name for themselves.

When Lesotho first became a single polity is was known as Basutoland—this happened in 1818, when Moshoeshoe consolidated Basotho groups and, from 1823, became their king. During the 19th century, under Moshoeshoe I, the Basotho found a series of wars with Boers settling in land traditionally used by the Basotho. As a result of this warfare, Lesotho lost quite a bit of land—still referred to as the “Lost Territory.”

Eventually Moshoeshoe asked the British for help, leading to the country being placed under British protection in 1868. After Moshoeshoe’s death, the protectorate of Basutoland was annexed to Cape Colony—but Cape Town couldn’t control the territory, and so the reins went back to Britain.

The Basotho opposed transfer to the Union of South Africa: I don’t know how things would have proceeded if it weren’t for apartheid, but the policy of apartheid effectively halted the annexation process. 1959 saw a new constitution, 1965 general legislative elections. And then: independence.

Unfortunately Lesotho experienced the all-too-common problem of political turmoil when independence arrived. Post-independence elections meant nothing when the ruling party saw it might lose: the results were thrown out, parliament dissolved, and a national state of emergency declared.

In 1986—by Military Council decree—executive power was transferred to the king (Moshoeshoe II)—who was stripped of his power in 1990 and exiled. A new constitution in 1993 saw the King given only ceremonial powers.

And things have continued to be rocky: multiparty elections returned in 1998—and in August 1998 a violent protest occurred outside the royal palace. South African and Boswanan troops, at the request of the government, entered the country (on what, it turns out, was my 19th birthday) to help prevent a military coup. Recent elections have been judged to be free and fair. Hopefully some stability will help things along.

Things seem to be improving a little—but there have been serious human rights abuses reported too, such as torture of detainees, lengthy pre-trial detention, child labour, and discrimination.

It took me some serious investigation to find a text for you—not a lot has been translated. Still, I found David Bellin Coplan’s book In the Time of Cannibals, which cites the songs of migrants from Lesotho who go to work in the mines and cities of South Africa. The following example of these migrant’s “word music” is by Majara Majara. I found it online here.


It contains nothing, this singing:
I say I know how to make this rope,
And I know how to finish it.
I say to you, long-time poets,
The days are two you [Coplan] visited me;
This is the last day:
You will respect me, the honorable one, trule.
I am not an apprentice but a doctor—
I am the horned one;
I’m not longer an owlet but a great horned owl.
What am I saying to you, my parents?
I’m the horned one who stays in the trees

—Majara Majara
from David Bellin Coplan’s In the Time of Cannibals

Iraq

Today is Iraq’s National Day—the anniversary of Iraqi independence from the United Kingdom in 1932. Now, I don’t want to write about the current situation: we hear about it day after day. And yet, it would seem strange to try and write about the twentieth century in Iraq without getting into the more recent conflict. What I do want to write about is the early history of what is now Iraq. I feel like it’s easy to forget the Sumerians, Akkadians, Assyrians and Babylonians when thinking of Iraq, as instead we hear about the Surge.

The Epic of Gilgamesh comes out of this early milieu—what I didn’t know is that Gilgamesh, on the Sumerian king list (which I didn’t know existed prior to… well, right now), as the son of Lugalbanda and the fifth king of Uruk. Incidentally, there are a few different theories as to where the name “Iraq” comes from, and one links the name to the city of Uruk. So: this is the region that brought us one of the earliest known works of literature.

It’s also the site of Babylon—which emerged in what is now southern Iraq during the lifetime of Hammurabi around the 17th century BCE. Babylon? Yes, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon once stood near present-day Al Hillad. But there is a question, still, as to whether the Hanging Gardens were real, and not just a poetic creation. Babylonian chronicles don’t document them—a Chaldean priest described them, and then Greek historians Strabo and Diodorus elaborate. Nebuchadnezzar is he one who is said to have constructed the gardens, and I like to think of them as real. (But then, I also like to think of poetic creations as real. I’m not a Babylonian scholar, nor could I pretend to be.) Oh, and don’t forget the Tower of Babel. Because the tower wasn’t built to the glory of god, I speak English and not the original language of Adam—or so the story goes.

And, of course, it’s the site of the Babylonian captivity—the name given to the exile of the Jews from the Kingdom of Judah, also under Nebuchadnezzar—after the Persian rule Cyrus the Great overthrew the Babylonia, the Jews were able to return to Israel.

This is all woefully inadequate—but when you open the newspaper to read about the current situation, think about this ancient world from time to time.

In the mean time, today’s poem is by Iraqi poet Nazik al-Mala’ika, and it comes from Language for a New Century.

Insignificant Woman

When she closed her eyes
No face faded, no lips quivered.
Doors heard no retelling of her death.
No curtain was lifted to air the room of grief.
No eyes followed her coffin
To the end of the road.
Only a memory of a lifeless form
           passing in some lane.

The word echoed in alleyways,
Hushed sounds, finding no shelter,
Settled in secluded den.
A moon mourned
In silence.

Night, unconcerned, gave way to morning.
Daylight crept in with the milk cart
           and a call to fasting.
A meager cat mewing
Amidst the shrill of vendor’s cries.
Boys squabbling
           throwing stones.
Muddy waters spilling
           along the gutters
As the wind carried foul smells
To rooftops.
Oblivion.

—Nazik al-Mala’ika
translated from Arabic by Kamal Boullata
from Language for a New Century

Germany

Ah, Germany. Today is Germany Unity Day—I expect most people remember the days of East Germany and West Germany? The Berlin Wall? Ja? Today we’re celebrating the reunification of Germany in 1990. I was pretty young when the Berlin wall came down (though there are still segments standing—I was in Berlin a few years ago, and stayed on the East Side, near the section known as the “East Side Gallery”). I have the types of strange memories that come from witnessing something half a world away that you know, as a child, is momentous—but you don’t fully understand. I remember the concert mounted in Berlin. I watched it on television with my brothers. Cyndi Lauper performed a song, and at one moment she was lying on the stage, prompting my brother to ask “Who says you can’t sing lying down?” I realise this seems a little frivolous—and I really do not want to downplay the significance of the event. What I want to say is that, as a 10 year old even I sat down to watch the events unfolding. That Berlin is a city of visible scars, and those scars are important to remember.

Germany of course also brings visions of the World Wars—especially from the Holocaust, or the Shoah—or, in the words of Paul Celan, “that which happened”. World War II is another scar. The country where the Reformation began; that had its own Romanticism in Goethe, Schiller, Novalis and others; that gave us the music of Bach; that gave us Albrecht Dürer—well, it also brought us a vision of what humans are capable of inflicting on other humans. Following the separation of East and West, there was also the East German Stasi. The puzzle women are still piecing together documents that reveal the fates of many East German people in the years of separation.

The truth is, there are places I feel contain so many big ideas—wonderful and awful—that I can’t comprehend them. I know that sometimes people talk about a reluctance for Germans to discuss their recent history—though this is changing, with the younger generation wanting to confront it. I just know that it was hard not to be aware of the history of the German twentieth-century as I walked around Berlin.

I have chosen a poem by the poet Peter Huchel for today. It comes from the anthology Twentieth-Century German Poetry.


Roads

Choked sunset glow
Of crashing time.
Roads. Roads.
Intersections of flight.
Cart tracks across the ploughed field
That with the eyes
Of killed horses
Saw the sky in flames.

Nights with lungs full of smoke,
With the hard breath of the fleeing
When shots
Struck the dusk.
Out of a broken gate
Ash and wind came without a sound,
A fire
That sullenly chewed the darkness.

Corpses,
Flung over the rail tracks,
Their stifled cry
Like a stone on the palate.
A black
Humming cloth of flies
Closed their wounds.


—Peter Huchel
translated from the German by Michael Hamburger
from Twentieth-Century German Poetry