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

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

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

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

Botswana

I love the word Botswana. I know that’s neither here nor there, but, well, I do. When the country was still a British protectorate, it was known as Bechuanaland—and there’s nothing wrong with that. Except—Botswana has, in my own mind, more romance. It’s the sound of it. It only became Botswana following independence (30 September, 1966) and we’re here to celebrate nationhood, right? Happy Botswana day! I assume you remember that Botswana sits between South Africa, Namibia, Zambia and Zimbabwe.

Bantu peoples arrived in Botswana sometime between 200 and 500 CE. I haven’t found a lot about the history at this stage—in fact (I wish I had time to check up multiple sources for every entry…) what I really know starts at the 19th century, and the Tswana people of Botswana came into conflict with the Ndebele tribes arriving from the Kalahari Desert—add to that a new batch of settlers, the Boers from Transvaal. Batswana leaders appealed for help, and, in 1885, became a protectorate of Britain. It remained separate when the Union of South Africa came about in 1910, though there were provisions for later incorporation into South Africa. This obviously never occurred, and when apartheid led to South Africa’s withdrawal from the Commonwealth, it became clear that Botswana was going to stay separate.

After Britain accepted proposals for Botswana’s self-government in 1964, the capital was moved from Mafikeng to the new city of Gaborone the following year. 1965 saw a new constitution and general elections, before the move to full independence in 1966. Oh—I haven’t found any coups in my reading (correct me if I’m wrong) though leadership has only passed through a few hands since independence, with the current president the son of the first president, and the presidency twice pasting to vice presidents. So, while it’s a multi-party democracy, the country has been dominated by the Botswana Democratic Party. I find that interesting. Economically the country is doing pretty well—not much foreign debt, and the country has gone from being one of the poorest countries in the world to a middle-income country.

It’s not all rosy. AIDS is a big problem here as elsewhere in Africa—in fact, Botswana has the second highest HIV infection rate in the world. Swaziland beats it.

Wildlife? Yes. We have lions, cheetahs, leopards, hyenas, wild dogs…

Today’s poem from Botswana is by Barolong Seboni. I found it online here. It's published in The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry.

memory

life is but memories unborn

the world revolves
like a cranium
on the neck of time
we remember; we forget
then we die
hoping to become eternal
memories yet unborn.

between the begetting
and the forgetting,
in memory lies life.

— Barolong Seboni

Mali

So it’s 22 September at the landlocked nation of Mali is celebrating its national day—and, yes, it is the anniversary of their 1960 independence from France. Don’t get it mixed up with Malawi—they’re in very different regions. Mali is in Western Africa, and the country goes right into the Sahara—the area that is now Mali was once part of three West African empires in control of trans-Saharan trade—the Ghana Empire, the Songhai Empire and, of course, the Mali Empire. (The trade was in gold, salt and other precious stuff… for anyone who doubts the preciousness of salt, there’s an excellent fairy tale about a daughter giving her father, the king, salt… while he doesn’t appreciate it at first, of course he at last realises the true worth of the stuff—and his daughter. It’s a Lear/Cordelia type of story.) After Europeans started establishing sea routes, the trans-Saharan trade routes sort of fell by the wayside.

And then Mali was one of the countries that ended up under French control during the Scramble for Africa—it used to be known as French Sudan. Just prior to independence, Mali and Senegal got together to become the Mali Federation in 1959. The Mali Federation gained independence from France on 20 June in 1960, but then Senegal withdrew—and of course Senegal is now an independent nation—and on 22 September Mali got to celebrate independence all over again, as—well, Mali.

So the first president—Modibo Keïta—was keen on the one-party state, socialist in its leanings. Eight years later, following economic decline (something I imagine no-one wants to think about today…) there was a military coup. Bloodless, though. That’s something. The new regime, with Moussa Traoré in control, tried to turn things around. They were hindered by a long, harsh drought—from 1968 until 1974—student agitation, as well as three attempted coups. But its not like the government—a military regime after all—was dreadfully put upon. Until the late 1980s, dissenters were repressed.

1991 saw another coup, and then in 1992 the first democratic, multi-party elections were held in the country. The two presidents that have served since then—Konaré and Touré have seen the country become one of the more stable countries in Africa.

Today’s Malian poem is by Siriman Cissoko—he actually lived in Senegal, but was born in Mali.


O Earth, from Ressac de nous-mêmes

I have laid them
my dead
in the gentleness of your loved breasts
there where the waterfalls wash the feet
of the cliffs
Keep them
o earth
keep in the folds of your clay
keep the bones of my brothers.

Often in the evening
I shall go and weep for them there
at the hour when the heart
draws arpeggios
across the koras
of dream.

And if one day the wind of liberty
came breathing after me
on your mountains and dunes
your rivers and plains
o earth
let it cradle
and rock
my brothers
heroes whose flesh was torn
and who are dead that liberty might live.

—Siriman Cissoko

Armenia

So, we come to landlocked Armenia, which on 21 September celebrates its 1991 independence from the USSR. Of course, Armenians have a lot of formation and independence dates—from the tradition formation date of 11 August, 2492 BCE to the 28 May, 1918 establishment of the Democratic Republic of Armenia. There are other milestones in between—the 190 CE formation of the Kingdom of Armenia. The 301 CE establishment of the Armenian Apostolic Church. Are you getting the sense that we’re in a region with a long history? And yet, if people know one thing about Armenia it will probably be about the genocide—often termed the first genocide of the twentieth century—and the resulting diaspora. And you may remember Mt Ararat, the resting place, supposedly, of Noah’s Ark. Historically this was part of Armenia—but now it’s located in Turkey. Still, the mountain is part of the Armenian national emblem.

Armenia was the first country in the world to take on Christianity as the official state religion. These days over 93 percent of Armenian Christians belong to the Armenian Apostolic Church. But there are many religions practiced—not surprising given that there have been so many other cultures breezing through. (Not really breezing… invasion is usually a bit more, well, violent than that.

Of course, with its position between the continents of Europe and Asia, Armenia was subjected to invasions by all kinds of people—for instance, the Greeks, the Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Mongols, Turks, Russians…

The genocide? It occurred during and just after World War I. Massacres, forced marches, deportations—often leading to the death of the deportees. This was a systematic destruction of the Armenian population of the Ottoman Empire, though Turkey—the successor to the Ottoman Empire—doesn’t accept the term genocide as an accurate depiction of the event. We don’t know how many people died—though even Turkey admits that it was hundred of thousands, while Armenia states it was one and a half million. While around 3 million Armenians live in Armenia, the Armenian diaspora population is estimated to be 8 million.

Following the Russian gain of eastern Armenia during World War I, the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 got in the way. Eastern Armenia, Georgia and Azerbaijan tried to get together on a Trancaucasian Democratic Federative Republic, but that didn’t last. Afterwards Eastern Armenia became the Republic of Armenia. It didn’t last. Turkish nationalist forces invaded, and this resulted in the Turkish-Armenian war—just before this ended in the Treaty of Alexandropol, the Soviets invaded. The republic collapsed, and suddenly Armenia was part of an SSR.

And then, with 1991’s break up of the Soviet Union, Armenia became the first non-Baltic state to secede. While there have been questions about the fairness of previous Armenia elections—the country has been categorised as a “Semi-consolidated Authorarian Regime” by Freedom House’s recent report—this year’s election were deemed to be largely democratic by international observers.

Today’s poem is by Gevorg Emin, and it comes from Language for a New Century. (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: this volume is amazing. I really recommend it to anyone interested in poetry—it’ll expand your view of what’s going on in world poetry.)


Small

Yes, we are small
the smallest pebble
in a field of stones.
But have you felt the hurtle
of pebbles pitched
from a mountaintop?

Small,
as the smallest mountain stream
storing rapids, currents,
unknown to wide and lazy valley rivers.

Small,
like the bullet in the bore
of the rifle;
small as the corn waiting to sprout.

Small
as the pinch of salt
that seasons the table.

Small, yes,
you have compressed us, world,
into a diamond.

Small,
you have dispersed us,
scattered us like stars.
We are everywhere in your vision.

Small,
but our borders stretch
from Piuragan telescopes to the moon,
from Lousavan back to Urartu.

Small as the grain of marvelous Uranium which
cannot be broken down, put out or consumed.


—Gevorg Emin
translated from Armenian by Diana Der-Hovanessian
from Language for a New Century

Tajikistan

It’s that middle part of the map that people forget. You have some idea of Russian culture, and perhaps some idea of Irani, Pakistani... maybe even Afghani. But you look at the former SSRs and realise, you don’t really know much about them—you don’t, for instance, know much about the 7 million or so Tajik people of Tajikistan, and that the Tajik language is a modern variety of Persian. But this is a area that has a long history—it’s been inhabited continuously for around 6000 years. In 875 CE the Samanid Empire was established here. More recently, as the USSR broke up, Tajikistan declared its independence on 9 September 1991.

As well as Persian history, there’s Scythian history, contact with the Han Dynasty of China in the second century BCE, the introduction of Islam by Arabic people in the seventh century CE, the presence of the Mongols, and to jump back a little, perhaps most fascinating of all to me, even a small community of Jews who were displaced from the Middle East after the Babylonian capitivity found their way to the Tajik region around 600 BCE. Now that’s a diverse history.

And then there was Russia—the Russian Empire spread to Central Asia in the 19th century, and when Imperial Russia came to an end, the Central Asian basmachi, local guerrillas, failed to gain independence from the Bolsheviks. Unfortunately this led to the destruction of mosques and villages, and the persecution of Muslims, Jews and Christians. Many Bukharian Jews emigrated during the Soviet era, and a lot settled in the United States (particularly New York City), re-establishing their communities in a new country.

Independence hasn’t been smooth sailing—first, the country fell straight into civil war, with factions based on clan loyalties. There have been allegations of ethnic cleansing. A ceasefire was reached in 1997, with elections held peacefully in 1999—but while these elections were peaceful, the opposition also claims they were unfair. The most recent election was boycotted by many opposition parties. These days Russian, American, Indian and French troops are stationed in the country, while borders Afghanistan.

Something extra nice about the country? Poetry is a really important part of their culture. I am always heartened to hear that a place values its poets. And yes, I have a poem for you, by Bozor Sobir. Once again it comes from Language for a New Century.

Letters

I opened your letters
And I have them up to the air,
That they might become spring clouds,
That letters of memories
Might weep over the hills,
That they might weep springs and rivers.
That the letters might weep over us.

Last night I told a story
Of you to the wild wind.
In memory of you I recited from memory
A verse to the streams,
That the water might bear it away
And tell it to the rivers,
That the wind might bear it away
And sing it to the plains.

Last night under the rain
I walked road by road in my thoughts.
Your tresses strand by strand
In my thoughts I walked, braiding strands.
The kisses that had not been planted on your lips
—Along, all along the road,
Along the edge, the edge of the stream—
I walked, planting them in the ground.
So that, ever following in my footsteps
—Along, all along the road,
On the edge, the edge of the stream—
Kisses might grow like daisies,
Kisses might grow like wild mint.

Last night it rained and rained.
The water was too much for the river to hold.
Last night my loneliness
Was too much for me alone to hold….

Last night the April rain
Washed the footprints from the ground.
The wound in my heart grew worse,
Because it washed away the imprint of your foot.
Last night I wandered the streets in vain,
Like a hunter who has lost the trail I searched….

Last night the world was all water,
The sky was refreshed,
The ground was refreshed,
But I, with your name on my lips,
All alone like the parched land
I burned up under the rain.

—Bozor Sobir
translated from the Tajik by Judith M. Wilks
from Language for a New Century

Andorra

I love these tiny slivers of countries—especially in Europe I tend to wonder how they survived. When I was searching around for a text for today I stumbled across an early twentieth century travel text (it had “tramping” in the title!) that talked about how mountainous the region around Andorra is, and how that explains its continued separation. Isolated until the world became this small place—and now tourism and tax haven status make it prosper. And today they Andorran people celebrate their national day—Our Lady of Meritxell Day—this day has been a national celebration since 1730. Wondering about Our Lady of Meritxell? It’s a Roman Catholic Andorran statue of an apparition of the Virgin Mary. Whoa, that’s a mouthful if you say it while you type it. Our Lady of Meritxell is the patron saint of Andorra—unfortunately the original statue was destroyed when the chapel that housed it burned on September 8 and 9 in 1972. Still, on this day many Andorrans make a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Virgin of Meritxell.

I love these little legends. The story of Our Lady of Meritxell goes that in the late 1100s a wild rose was found in bloom, out of season (January… in the mountains I suppose there should have been snow on the ground) and at the base of it the statue was found. It was taken to the Canillo church, but the next day it was found back under the wild rose. The statue got taken this time to the church of Encamp—but again it came back to the wild rose. The villagers then decided to build a chapel on that spot, and I imagine it is the holiest spot in Andorra. I say this because there is an almost identical story in Costa Rica, about the Black Virgin—there wasn’t a rose, but the same story of the disappearing/reappearing in the original place statue is told there, and the same types of stories crop up in other cultures. Given the importance of this patron saint to such a small country, it’s not surprising that Meritxell is a common name for Andorran women. Another story about Our Lady of Meritxell is that she was an abused princess—one of those wicked stepmothers who tried to kill her. Her new husband led a rebellion against her father and wicked stepmother, and the two became well loved.

Oh, and the Virgin of Meritxell takes care of her people well—Andorrans currently have the highest life expectancy in the world.

The Andorran people, as tradition has it, helped Charlemagne fighting the Moors—he granted them a charter, and then the territory passed hands a few times before a paréage (a new word for me—it was a feudal treaty recognising joint sovereignty in Medieval France. Feel educated? Good) was signed in 1278. This determined the principality’s territory. Official the principality is established as having two co-princes—the head of the French state and the Bishop of Urgell. So, yes, Nicolas Sarkozy is not just the French president and husband of Carla Bruni—he is also co-prince of Andorra, along with Joan Enric Vives Sicília. Oh, and the government is headed by the Prime Minister Albert Pintat Santolária

Something interesting? During World War I Andorra declared war on Germany, though it didn’t do any actual fighting. The Versaille Peace Treaty didn’t include Andorra, so officially it was in a state of belligerency until 1957. The principality was neutral in World War II, and became part of a smuggling route from Vichy France to Spain. Smugglers! They’re as good as pirates!

I found the names of quite a few Andorran poets, but had trouble finding poems that had been translated. I also found out that the poet Philip Levine wrote a poem called “Andorra”, but instead of offering that I’m posting an Andorran children’s song in the Catalan (the language spoken in the country) and in English translation. I found it online here.

Cradle Dance

I el nen es petit
tot mig adormit
sa mare s'el mire.

No el deixa mai sol
i a dins del bressol
ditxos en suspire.

El nen ja n'es gran,
la mare plorant,
l'en diu cada dia.

No en vaiguis de nit
i surt del brogit
treballa, estudia.

Veient-lo perdut,
i tot desmaiat
perque no bas vingut
aqui al meu costat.

Li en bese la cara,
li en bese la front,
petons d'una mare,
la mes gran del mon.

*

The small child
Is half asleep
His mother watches him.

She never leaves him alone
And inside the cradle
Joyful he sighs.

The child has grown,
The mother, crying,
Every day tells him:

Never walk alone
And keep far from trouble,
Work hard, study hard.

Seeing him lost
And fainting:
Why didn't you come
To me, by my side?

She kisses his face,
She kisses his forehead,
Kisses from a mother
The greatest in the world.

Macedonia

I feel like the Republic of Macedonia is Balkan state that gets forgotten a little—but there it is, on the Balkan peninsula, surrounded by Serbia, Albania, Kosovo, Greece and Bulgaria. I always knew that it was next to Greece, but until the last year or so (what with some seriously intense map-studying since I put a world map next to my bed) I couldn’t have reliably named the other countries it bordered. The capital is Skopje—which I have to admit I couldn’t have told you yesterday. This despite the fact that it is an ancient region, and we’ve all heard about the victories of that famous Macedonian, Alexander the Great. (It’s important to note that there is a greater Macedonian region, and that there is a region of Greece also known as Macedonia. This has, in fact, slowed down the process of the two countries reaching an agreement as to what name Greece will recognise the Republic of Macedonia under. Philip II, Alexander’s father, founded the city of Heraclea Lyncestis in 336 BCE, near what is the modern Macedonian city of Bitola. The official name of the country is still under dispute—the UN refers to it as “the former Yugoslav republic of Macedonia.”) So now it’s Independence Day, celebrating the day Macedonia declared its separation from Yugoslavia in 1991—independence was officially recognised fifteen years ago, in 1993.

Obviously Alexander the Great’s period of, well, greatness, was quite a while ago. The region was under Byzantine control for a while, and when that started to fall apart the Slavic tribes moved in, while some pre-Slavic inhabitants moved to fortified cities in Greece, or hid out in the mountains. The First Bulgarian Empire (did you know about Bulgarian empires? Or that there was more than one?) covered the area that is modern-day Macedonia by around 850 CE.

Then there were the Ottomans. And yes, they parked a good long while—movements to create an autonomous Macedonia began in the late 19th century. In the years just prior to World War I there were the two Balkan wars of 1912 and 1913—the Ottoman Empire dissolved around now, and the territories were carved up. What is now Macedonia was known as Southern Serbia, and when the Kingdom of Yugoslavia came into being, Macedonia was integrated into that.

During the Yugoslav wars in the 1990s, Macedonia managed to remain at peace, making a few minor changes to its border to resolve problems. Then the Kosovo war came along, and Macedonia was flooded with ethnic Albanian refugees—this had a destablising effect. These days things are much better.

And as we’re getting to that stage where I start to talk about poetry, I should mentioned the internation poetry festival known as the Struga Poetry Evenings—it seems everyone who’s anyone has been there since it started in 1962. Brodsky, Neruda, Montale, Heaney, Hughes, Senghor… and the list goes on and on.

Today’s poem is by Zoran Ančevski and comes from New European Poets.


What’s Slouching

What’s slouching like stagnant air
through these Balkan corridors?
Eroded erudites,
plague-ridden radicals,
communists, nationalists,
bloodthirsty ecologists
with milk teeth,
descending form the national parks
with conserved views,
reserved
for outbursts of tribal passion,
Freudian complexes of minimal difference,
for random reservists
and condoms of all different colors too.

Whatever is slouching
will never teach Bethlehem or Jerusalem
nor Mecca or Medina
but hurrying and scurrying
down different European corridors
in red crescent or red cross ambulances
will enter a wilderness of mirrors,

in Versailles,
where terrible tailors
cut out new corridors
and a well-turned verse
is reversed to a stammer.

—Zoran Ančevski
from New European Poets
translated from the Macedonian by Graham W Reid, Peggy Reid and the author

Swaziland

Ah Swaziland—mostly surrounded by South Africa, but also bordering Mozambique. Today we’re celebrating Swaziland’s Independence Day—locally known as Somhlolo Day. Independence from the United Kingdom arrived on this day in 1968. Unfortunately, not long after this—in 1973—a State of Emergency was declared, and while the government claims it has been lifted, political movements are still suppressed.

It’s an ancient country—by which I meant that there are artefacts indicating human presences for tens of thousands of years, with prehistoric rock paintings dating from around 25,000 BCE, but also evidence of very early human existence in the region—as in well over 100,000 years. More recently, this is another country that experienced a large influx of Bantu peoples—when the Ngwane people couldn’t match growing Zulu strength they moved north into what is now Swaziland, establishing what became the Swazi nation.

The British first became involved in the 19th century after Mswati II requested help from the British authorities in South Africa—trying to stem the tide of Zulu raids into Swaziland. after Mswati’s death the people made agreements with Britain and South African, and then the South African Republic established colonial rule over the country, over the objections of Swazi royalty. South Africa withdrew with the onset of the Boer War, but only a few years later the British came along and proclaimed their rule, separating Swaziland from the Transvaal Colony in 1906.

Sixty years later the United Kingdom were open to discussion on a new Swazi constitution, resulting in independence two years later. In 1973 King Sobhuza repealed the new constitution, dissolved parliament, outlawed political activity and trade unions. In 1979 a new parliament was brought about. With a new monarch, new disputes cropped up, and in 1984 the prime minister was replaced, before the Queen Regent was herself replaced. This struggle between pro-democracy voices and the monarchy has continued in the ensuing decades.

With this restriction of political activity, it’s not surprising then that Swaziland is 138th in the world in terms of the Press Freedom Index.

Finding a poem from Swaziland proved a challenge—again it’s a matter of translation. While English is an official language, SiSwati is dominant. The piece below is actually a fragment of a poem on a warrior king. I believe it is from an oral tradition—I found it online here.


Fragment on warrior king:
They are calling you, they are giving you a message/
King of the inner circle!
They are not calling you for nothing,
They are calling you to a war of nations, stabbing and killing.

San Marino

You remember San Marino, right? That tiny enclave in Italy’s Apennine mountains? And it’s not just San Marino—it’s the Most Serene Republic of San Marino. I’m sure being a Most Serene Republic must be lovely. 3 September is Foundation Day in this neck of the woods. Foundation Day? San Marino says it’s the oldest constitutional republic in the world, as its Foundation Day celebrates the beginnings of the republic in 301. The founder? Marinus of Rab, a Christian stonemason fleeing persecution in Rimini. Oh, and the constitution—from 1600—is the oldest written constitution still in effect. Impressive stuff.

With its out-of-the-way location—not to mention a history of poverty—the country has pretty well succeeded in remaining independence (a few interruptions, yes)—and its independence was recognised by the papacy in 1631. And as an independent republic, San Marino housed refugees in the 19th century—people in danger of persecution because they supported Italian unification found a safe haven here as the unification process moved forward. When unification took place, Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Italian national hero, respected San Marino’s wish to remain separate from the newly unified country that surrounded the enclave. Also impressive? Napoleon III refused to take the country because he declared it “a model republic.”

And did you know that Abraham Lincoln was an honorary citizen of San Marino? He was evidently pleased by it, writing that “government founded on republican principles is capable of being so administered as to be secure and enduring.” And so it has been.

I’m so interested to learn that San Marino has multiple heads of state and frequent elections—this comes from customs of the Roman Republic. Another interesting fact? The Sammarinese army still has a Crossbow Corps. (These days, of course, it’s ceremonial and consists of 80 volunteers.) And from the sublime to the ridiculous—San Marino entered Eurovision for the first time this year.

I’d just like to say, too, that while San Marino declared war on Austro-Hungary in World War I, it remained neutral in World War II—being a tiny country surrounded entirely by Italy it was the best it could do.

How tiny? These days the population is around 30,000. The current Captains Regent are Federico Pedini Amati and Rosa Zafferani. The patron saint is St. Agatha, who is also the patron saint of: Sicily, bellfounders, breast cancer (she had her breasts cut off as one of the tortures endured for her faith) bakers, fire, jewellers, martyrs, natural disasters, nurses, rape victims, single laywomen, sterility, torture victims and wetnurses.

I had trouble tracking down a Sammarinese poem—I’m certain that there are poems, but I’m guessing they are not easily accessible based on a reasonably exhaustive search over the past few months. Something I did find online here that interested me was an excerpt from a 1769 travel guide. I thought you might enjoy it.

excerpt from a 1769 travel guide

The road from La Catolica to Pezaro skirts the territories of this small republic, concerning the government of which we referred ourselves to the description given of it by Mr. Addison, who went in person to get a thorough knowledge of it. This little state was on the point of losing its liberty, by cardinal Alberoni's enterprise against it, during his legation in Romania (* about 1750). The management and execution of this project would do honour to the cardinal's bravery, had it been against a people, whom a slender regard to the Roman purple would not have restrained from offering at a defence. The cardinal's red vestment, and a Te deum, in which he was seized with a panic, gave a sanction to this enterprize: Benedict XIV, disowned it, yet he kept the original charters of this republic, the cardinal having purloined them; and they were lodged in the Vatican Archivio.

I knew at Rome a petty Curial, or limb of the law, born at San Marino, who had sacrificed his small fortune purely to recover the most essential of those charters, which accordingly he had got safely conveyed back among the records of his country. I likewise frequently saw at Rome, among the Minims of la Trinita di monte, another member of the same republic, the very counter-part of Rabelais's Parnurgus, a complete master of the Latin and Greek, and even of the vulgar Greek; well versed in geometry, chymistry, and especially botany; he had travelled over the greatest part of Asia, even as far as the kingdom of Thibet, always footing it, and without equipage or so much as money. He lived at Rome from hand to mouth, placing all happiness in liberty and chearfulness, which he looked upon as incompatible with dependance. The first time I saw him was in the laboratory of la Trinita di monte , where, with all the vehemence of pulpit elocution, he was holding forth, facing the apothecary of the convent, who, according to the constitution of those places, was one of the society, on miracles and conversions, the marvellous of which increasing in a climax, at length set the pious brother a weeping and sobbing most cordially. In the opinion of this odd creature, the world afforded nothing comparable to ancient Rome, except his dear republic of St. Marino: it was indeed the only thing he could speak of with any seriousness. He proposed, after a few more perambulations, to go and end his days in his Ithaca, and devote his abilities and discoveries in promoting its happiness.

Tibet

It was heartening to see the number of protests surrounding this year’s Olympic torch race, as many people used this as a way of protesting China’s treatment of Tibet. I always like to see get involved in political causes - especially human rights issues. I feel that it gets talked about so much that in a lot of the Western world people do still think of it as a separate country—but we know that’s not true in practice, and the Dalai Lama has been in exile for decades. Though it is not a holiday in Tibet—obviously that is not allowed—the Tibetan exile community observe 2 September as Tibetan Democracy Day. There’s so much debate about Tibet that matters like size and population can’t be settled.

I was rewatching Twin Peaks recently, and had forgotten Agent Cooper’s speech about how the plight of the Tibetan people moves him. In a way, it’s so out of left field (compared with, say, Scorsese’s Kundun) that, at that point when everyone wanted to know who killed Laura Palmer, I hope it made people think about that little area of the world that didn’t seem to be as much in the public eye in 1990 as it is now.

After the outside world had come to Tibet (bringing with them, for instance, the first potatoes in the country) in the 1850s Tibet shut its borders to outsiders. The British sent in people in disguise to secretly map the area, and there are stories of various people disguising themselves as pilgrims.

In 1913 the country officially issued a proclamation of its independence. It was 37 years later that China invaded Tibet, leading to the Dalai Lama’s departure in 1959.

One of the things that interests me is that while the Dalai Lama named Gedhum Choekyi Nyima as the 11th Panchen Lama, the People’s Republic of China named a different child—Gyancain Norbu. Tibetans in exile refer to him as the Panchen Zuma, or fake Panchen Lama. I suppose I find it strange that the PRC would name someone at all.

Pico Iyer has written a number of essays on Tibet. He is wonderful.

Today’s poem comes from Language for a New Century and is by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa.


One more say

Think on this when prayers fall like thick paint on dry asphalt.

Think on this when the face is fading.

Think on this and be decisive in your motions. The breathing. The
utterance.

No Eastern star leading conch shells and a rainbow at dusk. Those
who must believe, so.

Who dares to question the accuracy of a direction when the journey
was not theirs.

The moment of birth. Before the father extended his arm toward
the mother.

Here is a location. Here it is scattering like mustard seeds.

—Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
from Language for a New Century

Uzbekistan

When I was young I had a crush on one of my oldest brother’s friends—a lovely guy who unaccountably became… well… an accountant. Not long after starting his working life he got an offer to work in one of the overseas offices for the company employing him. The next thing I knew he had moved to Tashkent in Uzbekistan. So now that I’m thinking about the 1 September celebration of Uzbeki independence, celebrating the 1991 declaration of independence from the then-USSR, I can’t help but think of my brother’s friend too. Oh, and because I like those odd facts, and I don’t see any pirates in the history (not surprisingly, since its one of only two doubly landlocked countries in the world) I thought you might like to know that Uzbekistan is the world’s second largest exporter of cotton. It’s also the only Central Asian country to border all the other Central Asian countries.

I expect you know that Alexander the Great conquered the area. What you may not know is that he married Roxana, daughter of a Bactrian chieftain—and Bactria is a region of greater Iran that covers some Uzbeki territory too. And Tamerlane—the man who overpowered the Mongols—was from the region. Not surprisingly he’s an Uzbeki national hero.

These days there are some concerns over human rights—and by some concern, I mean that human rights groups report widespread violation of human rights.

Another red flag is the environment—the Aral Sea, for instance, which is adjacent to Uzbekistan. While it was once the fourth largest inland sea, the resource has been misused for decades, and is now a fraction of what it once way—and there’s high salinity too. Where does your cotton come from?

While you’re thinking about that question, here’s a poem for you. “The Corpse of a Sufi” is by Eshqabil Shukur. Thanks, as so often, to New European Poets.


The Corpse of a Sufi

In a dark cave lives a snake,
A black wind nestles there,
The corpse of a Sufi lies flaming,
It has been thus for five hundred years.

The corpse of the Sufi each day
Speaks one piece of wisdom… the snake writes it
down in a book.
The truth lies five hundred years beyond.
Five hundred years hence tarries a lie.

Every day on the ceiling of the cave a spider
Easily weaves a shroud for the corpse.
The snake lies protecting the treasure,
Every day the wind tears up the shroud.

—Eshqabil Shukur
translated from Uzbek by William M. Dirks
from Language for a New Century

Slovakia

I’m still really sad that I didn’t quite get to Slovakia when I went to Europe for the first (and so far only) time. I made it to the Czech Republic and met a wonderful girl in Poland who had made her way into Poland on foot, after a mixture of hiking and hitchhiking—she was on her way from Slovakia. And now that it’s Slovakia’s Constitution Day, I’m thinking about it again and wishing I could have made it… Some day I will.

I had no idea that around 500 years before the common era Celts settled in what is now Slovakia—they stayed for a long time, before the Slavic tribes started arriving about a thousand years later. Hungarians later annexed the territory, and the region became integrated into the Kingdom of Hungary. Well and good, but of course the Mongols were coming, and their invasion, combined with the famine that followed, resulted in huge population losses.

Another thing I didn’t know? Bratislava—which was known as Pressburg—was the capital of Hungary until 1848 when the capital moved to Budapest. The region didn’t have a good time under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and so in 1918 it combined with Bohemia and Moravia to form Czechslovakia. I think I still hear people so Czechoslovakia as often as I hear the Czech Republic and Slovakia. In 1968 Soviet tanks arrived—obviously what is known as Prague Spring took place in, well, Prague, but as part of the same country at the time, Slovakia certainly felt the effect of Soviet occupation.

And of course when communism ended during the 1989 Velvet Revolution, Slovakia became a separate nation.

Feel journalistic? Slovakia has a great spot at number 3 on the Reporters Without Borders press freedom index.

Perhaps you merely feel poetic. Well, today’s poem is “Skin is a Wrapping of Bones” by Ivan Kolenič. It comes, once more, from New European Poets.


Skin is a Wrapping of Bones

Every day one verse.
Every morning one powerless lampoon
from sadness and icy grass, oxygen
in the roots of summer—how they sprout
from your bitten tongue. You keep
it red, well-hidden and perfectly
protected behind sharp teeth
which recollect blood. So what
I say is, “Skin is a wrapping for bones,
for veins, for the army of hurt…”
(you can do nothing about it) even if
you shelter your silky remembrance
in a glass jar of preserves.
So, not one stupidity—in the ashtray
my hair smolders, in the dark
someone horribly strange comes close to me.
Here endeth the blues—should I say more?

—Ivan Kolenič
from New European Poets
translated from the Slovak by Stefania Allen and James Sutherland-Smith

Moldova

Last year I actually got to celebrate Moldova’s Independence Day: I was newly arrived in Washington DC for the start of my Masters at Georgetown, and among the incoming international students I met while we were living on campus (we spent a week frantically searching for housing) was Inga—from Moldova. In fact, of the “Kennedy Orphans,” as I named our group when we all had to leave the Kennedy Hall dorms, Inga is probably the one I became closest to, though I don’t see much of her these days—different programs, and Inga has her husband and son living here too. Last year at this time, though, her family hadn’t arrived yet, and we held a housewarming-plus-Moldavan-Independence-Day party. We looked up the Transnistrian newspaper (Transnistria is a breakaway state from Moldova on the Ukrainian border; you don’t hear much about it, but you probably should—it’s believed a lot of ex-Soviet arms disappear on the black market through Transnistria. Reportedly visiting the region is like visiting a museum/theme park of the Cold War-era Soviet Union. The region is not recognised as an independent country by any other country; officially it’s an autonomous territory—capital is Tiraspol) at the party, and read an article about Moldova Independence from the Transnistrian side: the Transnistrian news site derided Moldova’s Independence Celebration, since Moldova refused to recognise Transnistria’s independence. There’s also an autonomous region in the south known as Gagauzia.

People don’t know a lot about Moldova—in fact, when I talk with people about Europe, a lot of them wouldn’t even have been able to name Moldova as a country (capital? Chişinău). I find that sad. I mean, historically the country is a crossroads: on a route between Asia and Europe it saw plenty of invasions, which I’m sure did not please the local Dacian and Sarmatian populations. Among the well-known attackers? The Huns, the Magyars, the Kievan Rus’, the Mongols. Prior to that, as it’s above Romanian, it’s also just past the end of the Roman Empire. The part of the world just beyond Ovid’s exile.

So the region was once known as Moldavia. As such, I really don’t know how the Moldovan population feel about the infamous “Moldavian Massacre” episode of Dynasty. Even more so, I don’t know how they feel about the plot where Alexis considered marrying the King, and therefore becoming the Queen of Moldavia. (I haven’t seen these episodes—yet—but I do hear that she said she was keeping the crown jewels. Oh, Alexis.)

Another interesting fact? It wasn’t the first country to re-elect a communist government after the end of the USSR (Bulgaria has that honour), but it did, indeed, elect the Party of Communists in Moldova within a decade. I’m fine with it. I just think it’s interesting. The country is a parliamentary representative democratic republic. Also, the official language is Moldovan—which is identical to Romanian.

Today’s poem is by Alexandru Vakulovski, and (once again) comes from New European Poets. Good stuff.


Amputated Homeland

in this town everyone is
unhappy on this earth
there is quiet before an
explosion yes my love I’m leaving
I am leaving across the earth
of my homeland
there everyone lives out the pleasure
of not knowing
the pleasure of losing
of not being run over by
a car of raising
unhappy children of
eating and not barfing
(sorry, vomiting) not once
I am leaving my love
my homeland is where
I am
love love love
you made me happy
you made me forget everything
I will never forget that
not once
I’m leaving

—Alexandru Vakulovski
from New European Poets
translated from the Romanian by Sean Cotter

Afghanistan

When I was a child we used to play this game “Around the World” in school. Taking it in turns we’d go around in a circle. To kick things off, someone would say a place name—country, state or city. From there, the next person had to name a place that started with the last letter of the previous place. If you repeated one or didn’t find a place in time (only a few seconds) you were out. I was a bit of a champion at this game. Anyway, “A” could pose a problem. Why? Because there were so many places beginning with “A” that ended with “A.” The game would inevitably find itself in a Alberta—Alaska—America—Alabama—Australia—Austria cycle. Then I would bring out “Afghanistan.” This was the mid-eighties, so the National Geographic photo (you know, the photo) was new, and there was a different war going on there, with the Soviet invasion. The name fascinated me—I thought it was—still think it is—a beautiful word. And on 19 August Afghanistan celebrates Independence Day—marking its 1919 independence from the United Kingdom.

Obviously the country has a long history before its 1919 independence—and prior to its position as part of the British empire. Excavation indicates that the region has been inhabited for at least 50,000 years—and they started farming early. Placed between so many Indo-European civilisations is it any surprise that there’s been so much activity there?

Genghis Khan did some damage there—1219 saw the Mongols run amok in Afghanistan, and their rule was extended after the invasion of Timur Lang, or, as the Western World better knows him (through people like Christopher Marlowe) Tamerlane. The first “Afghan State” came about in the 18th century.

And then there were the Europeans. After the Anglo-Afghan wars (there were three—did you know that? 1839-42; 1878-80 and 1919) most of Afghanistan’s territory came under British control. The Brits had a lot of influence but when King Amanullah Khan took the throne in 1919 Afghanistan regained independence. Good job.

1973 saw the move (via a coup—a bloodless one) to a Republic and some years of internal conflict—until the Soviets moved in. Then the blood really started to flow, with somewhere between half a million and two million Afghani civilians killed before the withdrawal of the Soviets in 1989.

Then came the Taliban, followed by the invasion by US troops. I won’t go into all the al-Qaeda stuff. But you remember the Taliban’s destruction of the Buddhas of Bamiyan, right? I remember when the story was published in the newspaper—I tore it out, and stuck it in my diary, something to mourn over periodically.

More recently, the film Kandahar had some amazing images in it. The unforgettable? The sight of prosthetic limbs being dropped over the country, floating to the ground with their parachutes. It’s a wonderful film—you should see it.

Today’s poem is called, appropriately, “The Silenced.” We don’t hear a lot of Afghani voices. This is written by Nadia Anjuman, and comes from Language for a New Century.


The Silenced

I have no desire for talking, my tongue is tied up.
Now that I am abhorred by my time, do I sing or not?
What could I say about honey, when my mouth is as bitter as poison.
Alas! The group of tyrants has muffled my mouth.
This corner of imprisonment, grief, failure and regrets—
I was born for nothing that my mouth should stay sealed.
I know O! my heart, It is springtime and the time for joy.
What could I, a bound bird, do without flight.
Although, I have been silent for long, I have not forgotten to sing,
Because my songs whispered in the solitude of my heart.
Oh, I will love the day when I break out of this cage,
Escape this solitary exile and sing wildly.
I am not that weak willow twisted by every breeze.
I am an Afghan girl and known to the whole world.

—Nadia Anjuman
translated from the Dari by Abdul Salam Shayek
from Language for a New Century

Liechtenstein

Another new thing I learned from this project: there is such a thing as a “doubly landlocked country”—though there are only two of them in the world. Liechtenstein is, however, one of those two. (The other is Uzbekistan… we’re not there yet.) 15 August is Liechtenstein’s National Day. So just what is a doubly landlocked country? It’s a country entirely surrounded by landlocked countries: to get to the sea you have to cross at least two borders. Also, it’s the only (solely) German speaking nation (official language, obviously) not to share a border with Germany. (Most actually speak a dialect know as Alemannic, which differs substantially from standard German.) Forgotten the capital? I’ll forgive you—it’s a tiny, tiny country. (The answer is Vaduz.)

I have a confession to make. I recently discovered that the television series Dynasty is available to watch online—well, the first two seasons. So when I read about the “Liechtenstein dynasty” I have to admit my mind does stray towards the Carringtons. Is that an unforgivable offence? You have come to expect these moments of lowbrow from me, haven’t you?

The Liechtenstein dynasty comes from the Castle Liechtenstein, which is in Lower Austria. (It being in Liechtenstein would be too obvious.) The family held the castke from 1140 until the thirteenth century—and then apparently from 1807 onwards. It all gets a little confusing. (Hey, that’s what dynasties are all about, right?)

To fastforward a little, Liechtenstein joined the German Confederation, which came about in 1815, and continued to advance its society. The product of its first factory? Ceramics. The year its first cotton-weaving mill was founded? 1861. How about bridges? A lovely pair were built over the Rhine in 1868. Once you have bridges, you clearly need a railway line, so one was constructed across Liechtenstein in 1872. It must have been interesting to watch all this taking place, given how small the nation is.

It was only after World War I that the country really began to function independently. Before the end of that war Liechtenstein was closely associated with Austria; following World War I it moved closely to its other neighbour, Switzerland. And though I’ve read that there was a Nazi sympathy movement in the lead up to World War II, Liechenstein again followed Switzerland’s lead and remained neutral—in fact, a lot of treasures were brought to Liechtenstein for safekeeping.

After the war years the Liechtenstein dynasty reportedly had a spot of financial both—selling family treasures, including the da Vinci portrait “Ginevra de’ Benci” in 1967. These days, though, the Prince of Liechtenstein is the world’s sixth richest leader. Hans-Adam II was born in 1945 and (sorry ladies) is already taken. His country enjoys a high standard of living these days too.

An odd fact about Liechtenstein? The majority of the world’s dentures are made there. Visit a tax haven, come back with false teeth. Now there’s a catch phrase.

A poem? In the end I’ve chosen a poem from a Croatian poet—Vlado Franjevic—who now lives in Liechtenstein. The other poet I found was born in Liechtenstein but lives in Austria—and her poem was too unwieldy for this little space. I found this morsel online here.


By the Small Window

by the small window

one detects still another smaller

and by this

a quite tiny

with a gold-flacky framework

who knows who is behind there

—Vlado Franjevic