Somalia

Present day Somalia is the union of two former colonies that gained independence a few days apart—26 June is the anniversary of the independence of British Somaliland; following hot on the heels of this, 1 July saw Italian Somaliland gain independence, uniting with British Somaliland on the same day, forming the Somali republic. Continuously inhabited for the past two and a half millennia, the region had trading links with the Greeks and Romans, saw the establishment of Islam in the 500 years from 700 to 1200, with European influence arriving in the 16th century, though it was really in the 19th century “scramble for Africa” that European-style imperialism arrived, with Somalia divided between the territorial claims of Britain, Italy and France. (Former French Somaliland didn’t form a union with Somalia, but is now the separate country Djibouti.)

With Somalia’s position on the Red Sea, across from the Yemeni port city of Aden, British interest in the region was all but guaranteed—the Red Sea being an important region for sea-connection to India. Italy didn’t have as much experience in colonialism when the scramble was on, and while they ended up with the largest claim in the country, it was the least important strategically.

Resistance to imperialism got under way in 1899, and a guerrilla war, lasting over two decades, ensued. (Somalian dervishes were fundamental in this resistance movement.)

Following World War II (in which Italy first conquered British Somaliland, then Britain in turn took back the region, and administered the whole of Somalia) military control in Somaliland began to relax—the question of the future of Somalia became was debated from 1945 onwards. While this was being debated, a commission of the Allied nations granted the area of Ogaden to Ethiopia, leading to war years later. The UN decided in 1949 that Italian trusteeship would continue for the next decade as a result of the economic benefits their presence brought to the region—aid money, Italian administration in the 1950s did see significant infrastructural development in the country.

With independence, the dormant issue of Ogaden arose, and the divide between the formerly British and Italian regions also became an issue, with language and cultural differences becoming apparent. A secession movement started in the formerly British area of Somalia, exacerbating the divide. By the late 1960s democracy was beginning to crumble and 1969 saw a coup d’état, and the Supreme Revolutionary Council take over government—who promptly prohibited the existence of political associations (other than, presumably, their own) creating a one-party state.

In 1991 the north declared its independence as Somaliland—this hasn’t to date been recognised by any foreign government. Civil war led to the presence of UN peacekeepers. The 1993 Battle of Mogadishu, in which a number of peacekeepers were killed, became the basis for Black Hawk Down. A further secession took place in 1998 in the northeast, with proclamation of the state of Puntland—not seeking full independence, this region considers itself an autonomous state. Another secession followed this with a southwestern region declaring the state of Jubaland—its status is unclear.

More recently conflict broke out in 2006, internally and with Ethiopia, and hasn’t been resolved.

On the bright side, Somalia has one of the lowest rates of AIDS/HIV in Africa.

Today’s poem is by Ismael Hurreh and comes from the Wole Soyinka-edited Poems from Black Africa.


Foreboding

Solo:
My brother you sealed on us your sighs of hypocrisy
My brother with magnetic eyes for these cactus faces on us
And for these wrinkles of contempt on the face of Somalia
We will chant you necklaces of dry bones:

Chorus:
What we are (we should have said)
Are empty voices in the dark
Emptier than our chants in crises
What we are (we should have said)
Are dangerous rats scuttling in dry paths.

Solo:
My sophisticated brother with mountains of kinsmen’s power
Our gory spears awaiting spears of other tribesmen
Arrayed with blue loincloth and white star-shaped shields
We will chant you hymns chanted to Sheikh Abdulkadir
Mourning the death of corn fields at your hands
Your hands sublimer than distant clouds
When dry mouths gape and drop dead of thirst.

Chorus:
Do you not hear these blind drums in our voices?
Do you not see us prostrating with blind hearts?
Do you not find us cold-blooded?
Do you not fear us causing plagues?

Solo:
And at the onset of pain pangs of Africa’s birth
We have heard you fluting ominous tales
Behind bank doors barred to us
We have heard you counting biles and eyes

Of dead bats and mouths drivelling your praises
And soon we will see you dismantling our kidneys
In parlours for diplomats
And in conjugal parties.

—Ismael Hurreh
from Poems of Black Africa

Madagascar

Of all things it was the boardgame Risk that gave me a fascination with Madagascar—it was one of the largest islands on the board, and tucked down in that corner it seemed, like Australia, an out of the way place. (Safe for amassing armies, but, after all, not very strategic on the board… I never won many Risk games.) It is, in fact, one of the largest islands in the world—if we’re not counting Australia (apparently a lot of people don’t, instead citing it as a continent) then it only lags behind Greenland, New Guinea and Borneo. Even better, 5 perfect of the world’s animal and plant species call Madagascar home—and the vast majority of these are endemic to Madagascar. Wow!

On 26 June, 1960 Madagascar gained its independence from France. Prior to French colonisation, it is believed that Madagascar was populated sometime between 200 and 500 CE— with seafarers most likely arriving from Borneo or the southern Celebes (one of the lesser-known-by-name island groups of Indonesia.) Around the same time, Bantu groups arrived, crossing the Mozambique channel. Hot on the heels of this, Muslims set up trading posts in the 7th century.

The Portuguese named the island Sāo Lourenço—they were the first Europeans to spot it nad set up trade from the sixteenth century. In the mid-seventeenth century, France got in on the action—initially setting up ports on the islands that are now Reunion and Mauritius (formerly Bourbon and Ile-de-France), and by the late 17th century they succeeded in their goal of establishing trading posts on Madagascar.

Better than all this, though (well, not better per se, but more exciting for anyone who grew up on Robert Louis Stevenson) is the fact that pirates loved to hang out in Madagascar in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Imperialism became the order of the day in the late nineteenth century—in 1883 France invaded Madagascar and in 1890 the country became a French protectorate. (I have to admit, I always find the term “protectorate” problematic…) War continued with inhabitant until 1896—in a statistic that is a nice inversion of Europeans bringing diseases to the Americas, 20 French soldiers died fighting, and 6000 died of Malaria.

Following World War II, the independence movement really fired up—there was a (rather bloody) nationalist uprising in 1947. It took nearly a decade before the journey toward independence started to move forward peacefully—first the Malagasy Republic was proclaimed an autonomous state in 1958, a new constitution was adopted in 1959, and full independence followed in 1960.

The early days of independence saw a quick change of government (the first president only lasted two months) and the following leader resigned after fifteen years—his successor was assassinated after just six days in office. In 1975 President Ratsiraka came to power, limiting political opposition and press freedom. There’ve been few changes of government since the 1990s (including a return of Ratsiraka after the impeachment of the man who beat him in 1992). When Marc Ravalomanana took power in 2001, Ratsiraka supported cut transport routes in the country, causing political crisis. When this was over (Ratsiraka is now in exile) the new President began a number of reform projects.


Today’s poem is by Jean-Joseph Rabéarivelo, and comes from his work Presque-songes. It’s from the Penguin Book of Modern African Verse.

Cactus
(from Presque-songes)

That multitude of moulded hands
holding out flowers to the azure sky
that multitude of fingerless hands
unshaken by the wind
they say that a hidden source
wells from their untainted palms
they say that this inner source
refreshes thousands of cattle
and numberless tribes, wandering tribes
in the frontiers of the South.

Fingerless hands, springing from a source,
Moulded hands, crowning the sky.

Here, when the flanks of the City were still as green
as moonbeams glancing from the forests,
when they still left bare the hils of Iarive
crouching like bulls upthrust,
it was upon rocks too steep even for goats
that they hid, to protect their sources,
these lepers sprouting flowers.

Enter the cave from which they came
if you seek the origin of the sickness which ravages them—
origin more shrouded than the evening
and further than the dawn—
but you will know no more than I.
The blood of the earth, the sweat of the stone,
and the sperm of the wind,
which flow together in these palms
have melted their fingers
and replaced them with golden flowers.

—Jean-Joseph Rabéarivelo
from Penguin Book of Modern African Verse

Mozambique

The Republic of Mozambique celebrates its Independence Day on 25 June—forgetful of your African geography? It’s on the southeast coast, with Tanzania to the north, Malawi and Zambia northwest, Zimbabwe to the west and Swaziland and South Africa to the south/southwest. Interestingly, in 1996 Mozambique joined the Commonwealth, making it the only nation that had never been a part of the British Empire to do so.

The Bantu people began migrating to the area that is now Mozambique from the first century onward—they came from the west and from the north, through the Zambezi River valley, moving to the plateau and coastal regions.

Arab trading (commercial and slave) had existed along the coast for a number of centuries—since at least 947—when the Portuguese, under the leadership of Vasco de Gama, reached the coast in 1498. From the 16th century, the Portuguese set up trading posts and forts on what became the new route to the East. Though the Portuguese influence expanded, development did not—Portugal spent more of its money and time investing in the Far East and Brazil. In fact, at the outset of the 20th century much of the administration of Mozambique was in the hands of private companies (gosh! Privatisation gone mad!)

When the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique initiated a guerrilla campaign against Portguese rule, the ensuing conflict became part of what is called the Portuguese Colonial War—also being fought in Angola and Guinea-Bissau, both on the West coast of Africa. It took over ten years, but in 1975 Mozambique attained its independence from Portugal. The new nation in turn supported the liberation movements in neighbouring South Africa and Zimbabwe—the existing governments in both countries retaliated by backing a rebel movement in Mozambique that meant there was turmoil in the new nation for its first decade, leading to the death of many in the civil war, the exodus of 1.7 million refugees and the internal displacement of many, many more. The civil war ended in 1992, and by 1995 the refugees had returned to Mozambique. Many of those internally displaced also returned to their own areas within the nation.

Voter-registration and election turn-out has been high in the country, and democratic elections have been held since 1994.

Today’s poem is by the Mozambican poet José Craveiriñha, and comes from The Penguin Book of Modern African Verse.


The Seed is in Me

Dead or living
the seed is in me
in the universal whiteness of my bones

All feel
uneasiness
at the undoubted whiteness of my bones
white as the breasts of Ingrids or Marias
in Scandinavian lands
or in Polana the smart quarter
of my old native town.

All feel
uneasiness
that the mingling in my veins should be
blood from the blood of every blood
and instead of the peace ineffable of pure and simple birth
and a pure and simple death
breed a rash of complexes
from the seed of my bones.

But a night with the massaleiras heavy with green fruit
batuques swirl above the sweating stones
and the tears of rivers

All feel
uneasiness
at the white seed in me
breeding rash inflamed with malediction.

And one day
will come all the Marias of the distant nations
penitent or no
weeping
laughing
or loving to the rhythm of a song

To say to my bones
forgive us, brother.


—José Craveiriñha
from The Penguin Book of Modern African Verse

Luxembourg

On 23 June Luxembourg celebrates its national day—the Grand Duke’s Birthday. But though there have been a few Grand Dukes of Luxembourg, confusingly none of their birthdays have ever fallen on that day. That’s okay though—nations can celebrate their nationhood with whatever name they please as far as I’m concerned, and the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg is no exception. A small landlocked country between France, Germany and Belgium I feel like Luxembourg sometimes gets forgotten (though not so often as Liechtenstein might…) so let’s remedy that here. I once formulated the plan to walk across Luxembourg (about 80 kilometres I believe) but I haven’t got to it yet. One day, I’m sure… Oh, and to match nearby Switzerland, Luxembourg is trilingual, speaking French, German and Luxembourgish.

Luxembourg has a long history—going back to 963 with the acquisition of Luxembourg Castle, then known as Lucilinburhuc, by Siegfried, Count of Ardennes. With the news that the recorded history of any country starts with a man named Siegfried, I am perhaps unreasonably happy! Anyway, a town developed around the fort, which in turn became the centre of a small state.

In 1437, with the lack of a male heir causing a crisis in the question of succession, Luxembourg was sold to Philip the Good of Burgundy. I’m thinking Philip the Good got a good deal. Following this, Luxembourg’s fortress continued to enlarge, and had a number of different occupants—Bourbons, Habsburgs, Hohenzollerns (from Germany, Prussia and Romania, if, like me, you didn’t already know about the Hohenzollerns) and the French. When Napoleon was defeated, Luxembourg was a matter of dispute between Prussia and the Netherlands. It seems Luxembourg had it both ways—they became a Grand Duchy with a personal union with the Netherlands, and also became a member of the German Confederation. With the Treaty of Paris they were independent of France.

When the Belgian Revolution occurred (1830-1839, again for those of you not already in the know) Luxembourg lost about half of its territory to that nation. In 1839, the first Treaty of London affirmed Luxembourg’s independence; 28 years later this was reaffirmed by the Second Treaty of London.

Despite these affirmations of independence, the King of the Netherlands was still the head of the state until 1890. When William III of the Netherlands died, Luxembourg passed to Adolph of Nassau-Weilburg.

Luxembourg, by the way, it one of the founding member-nations of what is now the European Union. Oh, and they have a very small army—around 800 people.

Today’s poem comes from New European Poets, and was written by Jean Portante. It was translated by Pierre Joris, himself a very interesting (and highly recommended) poet. It’s from a longer work—“The Desert.”

from The Desert

    The Desert counted its wrinkles;
        the eagle and the falcon immediately spread the news.
         —Edmond Jabès

it is due to the general indifference of
the grains of sand
that the desert came about
but also because the sand
knew how to remain gregarious

—

to know that all the grains of sand
of all the deserts sleep in me
does not reassure me
like them every night
I get under way
searching for a dry dream
a dream which in order to defend us
would brace the meanders of humidity

—

I went to station myself
on the line separating one desert from the other
to watch the grains of sand
getting married in secret
before crossing the border

—

when I said I had the desert in me
I was thinking less of the dryness
than of the incessant swarming of the sand
and caught in the swirl
I stopped weeping
even though I had been weeping for joy

—

each desert hides a secret
each secret hides and injustice
nobody knows who slipped it in there
but it makes everybody rejoice secretly

—

I’ve read somewhere or did I dream it
that the desert was the scar a sea left
oh what anguish to think
that one day the wound could open again

—

in my childhood my youth my life for short
I have known many a gathering of sand
the words I have spoken or written
rest there temporarily
a wind comes up and worries them

—

I envy the anonymity of the desert’s sand grains
they come and go they say hello good night
they love & know how to recognize each other

because there where one ends the other begins
in the desert the eternal return
is a question of life and death


—Jean Portante
translated from the French by Pierre Joris
from New European Poets

Greenland

I heard recently that, once again, the movement for independence is afoot in Greenland; in the mean time, while they remain a province of Denmark, they are at least self-governing and on 21 June the celebrate their national day—Ullortuneq Day. And, as is often noted, while Iceland is really very green, Greenland is incredibly icy, with not a lot of green to be found.

Though the population is small (just over 55,000 these days) Greenland has been inhabited since prehistoric times, and, more recently, was colonized by the Norse in 984—the native Inuit population remained, and seems to have existed peacefully alongside the Norse. When Norway converted to Christianity, Greenland received a bishop and in 1261 Greenland officially became part of the Kingdom of Norway.

But then, a few centuries later, the Norwegian settlements vanished. Remains suggest malnourishment was a contributing factor. It wasn’t until 1721 that Norway—now the Kingdom of Denmark-Norway—reasserted its claim to the island. When the Treaty of Kiel broke up the union of Denmark and Norway, Denmark claimed overseas possessions, including Greenland. In 1931, Norway occupied and laid claim to parts of East Greenland, but when in 1933, the matter went before the Permanent Court of International Justice, Norway lost out.

During the World War II German occupation of Denmark Greenland became self-governing as a result of a 1925 law that allowed governors to take control when extreme circumstances arose. When the relationship with Denmark resumed, the movement toward permanent self-rule began to gain ground and home rule was finally instituted in 1979.

Over 80 percent of the country is covered by the Greenland ice sheet. Apparently the weight of this ice has depressed the central land area into a basin shape that lies over 300 metres below sea level. a quarter of the world’s surface ice is found in Greenland. Interesting, the extreme north of Greenland is not covered by the ice sheet because the air there is too dry to produce snow.

Culturally, Greenland shares a lot of traits with Inuit traditions—not surprising since they also share the same ancestry. Hunting is an important part of life—now that it is common for at least one family to be in salaried employment (to pay for the electricity that is now common) it is common for a woman of the family to take a job, while men hunt full-time. Unfortunately this means that many Thule women are losing their knowledge of many traditional cultural skills.

Looking for a poem from Greenland, I found what I take to be a traditional piece (correct me if I’m wrong)—“Song to Spring”—online here. Translated by Tom Lowenstein, it comes from his book Eskimo poems from Canada and Greenland..


Song to Spring

Aja-ha aja-ha
I was out in my kayak
making toward land.
Aja-ha aja-ha
I came to a snow-drift
that had just begun to melt.
Aja-hai-ja aja-hai-ja
And I knew that it was spring:
we’d lived through winter!
Aha-hai-ja aja-hai-ja
And I was frightened
I would be too weak,
too weak
to take in all that beauty!
Aja-hai-ja
Aja-jai-ja
Aja-ha


Translated from the Greenlandic by Tom Lowenstein

Iceland

Recently I was reading about icefish, and I’m surprised my mind didn’t stray to Iceland. Of course, the icefish I was reading about were from the Antarctic region, so my mind was down south, but still… Iceland has always been a magical idea to me—increasingly so when I read about its geological wonders and the Icelandic sagas. On 17 June Iceland celebrates its National Day—the anniversary on which, in 1944, they Iceland became a republic.

It’s amazing to think that Iceland has been settled since 874—it seems like one of those outposts (not as isolated as St Helena or other southern islands, but still…) But even as a seeming outpost, when the volcano Laki erupted in 1783-1784, not only did the eruption cause a famine that killed a quarter of the Icelandic population, but dust clouds and haze appeared over most of Europe and spread as far as sections of Asia and Africa for months after the eruption.

In the 13th century, Iceland came to be under Norwegian sovereignty; in the late 14th century, possession of Iceland passed to the Denmark-Norway union. In contrast to their current status, during the middle ages Iceland became one of the poorest countries in Europe. When the black death arrived in Iceland, it killed about half the population. Later, in the 18th century, a smallpox epidemic killed a third of the population, before Laki wreaked havoc all over again.

Cheerily, when Denmark decided to impose Lutheranism on Iceland, the last Catholic bishop of Iceland was beheaded. Not surprisingly, the Icelandic population subsequently became Lutheran, and this is still the dominant religion. And when the Denmark-Norway union broke up after the Napoleonic Wars, Iceland remained a Danish dependency. Following this, an independence movement arose—led by Jón Sigurðsson—which led, incrementally, to Iceland’s independence. In 1874, Iceland was granted home rule; this was expanded in 1904. In 1918, Denmark recognized Iceland as fully sovereign, under the Danish king. This agreement expired in 1943, and in 1944 Icelanders voted on whether to remain in union with Denmark, or to become a republic. The republic won out—with an emphatic 97 percent of the vote—and the republic was formally inaugurated on 17 June, 1944.

And, with the Icelandic sagas, of course Iceland has a place in the literary canon. (Incidentally, when Pico Iyer writes about Iceland he tells us that the best seat on an Icelandair flight will be in Saga Class.) More recently, Halldór Laxness won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955.

Today’s poem is by Kristín Ómarsdótter, and comes from New European Poets.


Closed Bridal Night

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin.

In a grave lies a bride
with gifts in
her lap.

Ribbons in pale colors and white
tissue paper.

Visiting cards.

Dressed

in a crocheted dress,
lace stockings, shoes
and gloves.

Serpentine locks.

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin.

A face of salt
and sensitive
dusty eyes.

A veil cushioned the bottom of that coffin,

Many messages from bottles
were written there.



—Kristín Ómarsdótter
translated from the Icelandic by Bernard Scudder
from New European Poets

The Falkland Islands

The Falkland Islands are, famously, a self-governing British territory 300 miles from the coast of Argentina, consisting of two main islands—imaginatively named East Falkland and West Falkland. Oh, and 776 smaller islands, including the cheerily named Barren Island, Carcass Island and Bleaker Island. The islands are self-governing, Since 1833 Argentina has claimed sovereignty over them, and I suppose most people (with the possible exception of the very young) know about the 1982 invasion of the islands by Argentina, prompting the two-month (undeclared) Falklands War. Falkland Islanders are full British citizens, but are also eligible for Argentine citizenship, though the islanders reject Argentina’s claim to sovereignty. On 14 June they celebrate Liberation Day, in recognition of the 1982 withdrawal of Argentine troops from the islands. The islands are also known by the Spanish name of Islas Malvinas, though with the continuing debate over sovereignty use of the Spanish name is considered by many to be offensive.

While in the early 16th century there were many sightings recorded of what “may have been” the Falkland Islands, it was the 1541 indication of the “Sanson” islands on a Map, which corresponds with the location of the Falklands, that can be supposed to be their discovery, I suppose. However, it’s the 1600 sighting by Sebald de Weert (a Dutch name if ever I heard one) that is accredited as the first sighting. France, Britain, Spain and Argentina have all claimed possession, and at different times established (and abandoned) settlements on the islands. Prior to the 1982 to-do there was a Falklands Crisis in 1770, which nearly caused a war between the Franco-Spanish Alliance and ye olde Britannica. When Argentina attained independence in 1816, they inherited, so to speak, the Spanish claim to the islands. Britain returned to the Falklands in 1833, following the destruction of the Argentine settlement, and has remain ever since, in spite of continued Argentine dispute over the territory.

Oh, and penguins. There are penguin colonies in the islands. Also, beautiful black-necked swans that I think beat Australia’s wholly black swans hands down. As well, as is proper in a British territory, Scouts and Girl Guides.

Looking around for a poem by a Falkland Islander, I found the following poem by Gus Hales online here. Reportedly he read this poem on Rememberance Sunday at the Cathedral in Stanley last year.


Deep in my Mind where Nobody Goes


Every year on Remembrance Sunday
I sit in the corner of the British Legion Bar,
Dressed in blazer, shirt, Regimental tie
And polished shoes, with my head held high.

But deep in my mind, where nobody goes,
I see a wooden cross where the wind of victory lies.
“Three Cheers for Victory,” I hear the politician say.
But you never asked me about my victory.
And, if they did, I would have explained it this way:

It isn’t your flags or emblems of war,
Or the marching of troops past the Palace’s door.
It isn’t Mrs. Thatcher on the balcony high,
Reaffirming her pledge to serve or die.
But it’s the look and the pain on a teenager’s face
As he dies for his country, In a far off place.

It’s the guns and the shells and the Phosphorus grenades
And the wounded and the dead in freshly cut graves
Or the grieving wife or the fatherless child
Whose young, tender life will be forever defiled.

Or the iconic soldier with a shattered mind
Who takes the suicide option for some peace to find.
Well, that’s my victory but no one knows
For its deep in my mind where nobody goes.


—Gus Hales