tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60096873864142551312024-03-13T02:09:34.734-07:00Harold Bergsma's BlogHarold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-83562329021454510362009-01-21T16:41:00.000-08:002009-01-21T16:47:16.057-08:00Supersized Kids - Don't Do What America DoesOriginally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2009/01/11/054545.php">Desicritics</a> 1/11/09<br /><br />I watched a group of school kids being shepherded by their teachers on a cultural outing to the San Diego Zoo. There were two children who were lean and athletic. Twenty others were, shall I say, fat! Many carried bottles of Coke or bags of chips as they walked by. Supersized kids abound. We are looking at a ticking time bomb regarding future health issues in this county. This time bomb is ticking for many other countries as well that imitate the American life style. It was not always this way.<br /><br />Twenty years ago, one could travel to Chingmai, Bombay, Kandy, Pokhara or Karachi and be struck with the unique cultural identity of the inhabitants by observing their clothing, their head dress and what they ate. The streets used to be filled with vendors, small shops, and specialized market areas where only pots and pans were sold, where sweet merchants shoed the bees away from their displays of jalabees, where cloth merchants occupied small stalls filled with bolts of cloth that even a rajah would covet. The streets were filled with skinny people, muscular workers, slender women dressed in traditional costumes which did not reveal their curves. And the children ran here and there; ran, not waddled here and there. Traditional modes of transportation were available including horse drawn carriages, rickshaws, dandis, wildly decorated lorries, bikes and it seemed all the rest were walking on two feet.<br /><br />Of course I am being nostalgic for the ‘good old days’ where what was ‘cool’ was what was Nepali or Thai. Are those days gone forever? We now see replicas of downtown Chicago or New York in Karachi and Mumbai? Must we see clothing that only was worn in Los Angeles in December now in January on the backs of practically every young man wandering the streets; blue jeans, T shirts, and those god-awful visor caps worn backwards just like in El Paso, all duly emblazoned with slogans that were rejects in San Diego? What has happened to the Burmese wrap around ‘longee’, to the elegant sari, to the loose fitting pajama pants and kamiz? “Where have all the chaplis gone, long time passing?”<br /><br />In my childhood dormitory room there were twelve youngsters who slept together in the Woodstock hostel in Mussoorie. Eleven of us were skinny, always hungry, beanpoles. The twelfth was an unfortunate young man from Delhi, from a very wealthy family who sent him sweets, candies and biscuits every week. His nick-name was Motu, and he was a fat little guy who had a box under his bed with a lock on it. In it he hoarded his candy bars which he sneaked when we were all fast asleep. It was where he kept his shiny silver rupees which he used on Saturday to buy cakes from the box wallah. We coveted his stash, but, unfortunately gave him a hard time on the running track, on the basketball court or when football teams were selected; he was the last one chosen. He was there for a year and did not return. Children back then were cruel.<br /><br />On the June 23rd. Time Magazine cover there is a picture of what could be Motu’s younger American brother. The cover shouts, OUR SUPER SIZED KIDS. “It’s not just genetics and diet. An in-depth look at how our lifestyle is creating a juvenile obesity epidemic – and the scoop on how to cure it.” The American way, (you know the WAY that the rest of the world copies so slavishly), has produced a generation of people who are overweight, fat, to use the forbidden three letter word. Not just the kids, adults, particularly those from poorer families, families that don’t read books, that get food stamps to survive, families that have marginal incomes, it is among these that the problem of being overweight is most severe. But young people from families of both the rich and the poor are suffering from the same problem, obesity. It is the American way. Fast, unhealthy foods.<br /><br />I was on Newport Beach last week and did a survey of preteen kids that walked by our beach-house. Many were fat; most were eating or carrying food in their hands. Time’s report was correct; we have a real problem here! Supersized kids, super-fed kids.<br /><br />We brought a variety of things to the beach house to share with the other four families that were together, you know, potluck. We brought whole grain cereals, and fruit, strawberries and lots of mangoes and peaches. Guess what? We seemed to be the only ones who ate them. The other food, the American stuff was more delicious. Chips, dips, cheeses, breads, deserts, hot dogs, Kentucky fried chicken, you name it we had it. (Ice cream cones were only consumed when we walked along the board walk.)<br /><br />American children who are overweight are setting themselves up for a lifetime of problems, diabetes, high cholesterol, arthritis, heart problems and a host of other diseases related to adiposity. It is a national problem. Certainly, this aspect of our way of life should not be coveted, mimicked or adopted in ‘developing’ countries. Interestingly, the highest rates of obesity among adults and children are among those with high rates of poverty and even ‘hunger’. Poorer people, Mexican laborers, migrant workers, maids, are frequently people who live close to a financial margin that is, just getting by. Obesity and hunger go hand in hand in America the land of opportunity. Why? In America, prepared foods are the most easily available and very cheap. A greasy, double meat, and double cheese bacon burger fills a hungry stomach cheaply. But where is the subzi? Vegetables, if you see them are tossed salads, if you are lucky. White flour, grease, sugar makes things taste very good and these are the culprits. Where are the fibers and fruits? Most Americans love to drink. No, I don’t mean water. But with their meals a beer sounds good as does a Coke, Pepsi or Orange Juice. Small containers of sugared, fruit-flavored water are the first choice for most school children. Pure carbohydrates which give a quick lift and a fast let down. Fast foods, fast life, slow kids.<br /><br />I read a very nice study by Stephanie Schulze, a Student Participant from North High School, Iowa entitled, “Education for Poverty: Information against Hunger and Obesity in India.” I was struck by the title, the topic and the research this student did about India, half way around the world. “Hunger and obesity can coexist because of a lack of nutritious food and a lack of education about healthy lifestyles. Hunger is prevalent in many countries, including India.” Her point of view is that education will be the answer to better living, better nutrition and less obesity in India.<br /><br />The National Institute of Nutrition in Hyderabad, India, has published studies that show that the “…primary deficiencies in the diet of people in India are mainly whole grain calories, vitamins and minerals.” Stephanie’s study goes on to say that one-fifth of the population in India is undernourished (21%) in spite of the food distribution programs that exist. The kinds of foods that are frequently distributed are high calorie foods, white rice and flour, sugars, and animal fats or hydrogenated vegetable fats. Not only is there a growing obesity problem among poorer Indians but among women. Studies show that Indian women are genetically more predisposed to gain weight around the middle and their posteriors. I didn’t notice that among the Bollywood dancers. Are they a different race?<br /><br />It is not just the poor that are getting fat in India. “India is facing an obesity crisis among its newly wealthy middle class as millions of its rural poor still struggle for enough to eat. As the country becomes richer, many people are becoming fatter and, like Westerners, they are seeking medical help” (See Amelia Gentleman in Mumbia, “Observer”, Dec.4, 2005, “India’s newly rich battle with obesity.” Not only are Indians wearing blue jeans, they are getting gastric bypass operations that restricts the amount of food absorbed. Even men are …concerned about the male breast area and love handles.”<br /><br />For the wealthy, Indian foods have always been heavy and rich. (silver covered) Stews, curries, ghee cooked breads and sweets are favorites. The newly affluent are concerned, like the Westerners in an epidemic weight gain problem. Now diet pills sell like hot cakes, and cosmetic surgeons are doing a good business in Mumbai.<br /><br />But there is a vast divide between the newly affluent and the millions who struggle to feed themselves. A World Bank study said that 45 % of Indian children under five suffer from malnutrition; while a McDonald’s branch in Delhi is selling Chicken Maharajah Macs to the newly middle class. A beefless burger?<br /><br />Amelia’s article reveals that an estimated 25 million Indians have diabetes and the numbers are growing. The medical profession and medical journalists need to become assertive in their statements to those who make laws, those who teach, and those who lead. Diseases like TB, malaria and dysentery can be treated with pills. Those who become fat, particularly our children face a lifetime of problems, the hardest of which is loosing the fat and eating more healthy diets. Motu, I wonder if you are still with us.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-56277907462120203282007-08-21T09:34:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:42:29.904-08:00Relic Fervor<div>Originally published August 21st, 2007 at: <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/08/21/000845.php">http://desicritics.org/2007/08/21/000845.php</a><br />Republished by the <a href="http://www.dailynews.lk/2007/08/23/fea03.asp">Sri Lanka Daily News</a> on August 23, 2007<br />Republished by the <a href="http://southasianmedia.net/index_opinion.cfm?category=Religion&country=WORLD">South Asian Media Net </a>on August 24, 2007<br />Images courtesy of Sri Lanka Daily News<br /><br /><br />Travel with me to the Golden Temple in Amritsar, the Laxmi Narain Temple in Delhi, The Temple of the Tooth - Sri Dalada Maligawa <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZPN96HxRS8MNcnnLhxAqyTbTlCumUymMk6CFRZlyvI18QjFc2HJNsImzHEq2gEbliNC5deowQm1aAevc_qegsd-OrxhEMdgycjbbXLzR60eBC9XHZFrp6tSY6JmZOjlkHLMaUvcys3k/s1600-h/z_p07-Eleminating1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103791400657721058" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZPN96HxRS8MNcnnLhxAqyTbTlCumUymMk6CFRZlyvI18QjFc2HJNsImzHEq2gEbliNC5deowQm1aAevc_qegsd-OrxhEMdgycjbbXLzR60eBC9XHZFrp6tSY6JmZOjlkHLMaUvcys3k/s320/z_p07-Eleminating1.jpg" border="0" /></a>in Sri Lanka, the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore and <span style="font-size:78%;"></span>the Baha’i House of Worship in Delhi. Each edifice is unique and magnificent, an architectural<br />statement of the faith of its devotees. Each visit stirs the viewer in different ways; the awe of seeing thousands upon thousands kneeling before Allah in the vast courtyard of the Badshahi Mosque, the stunning, shining glory of the Golden Temple, perhaps the most beautiful in the world, the welcoming warmth of the Temple of the Tooth, the silent, amazing lotus-shaped glory of the Baha’i House of Worship in Delhi and the noisy but colorful welcome of the Laxmi Narain Temple in Delhi where all castes and faiths are welcome.<br /><br />Such visits were special because they seemed to represent for me an experience that inspires faith in the creator, where I was lifted above the actual gold, stone and mortar, to thoughts of people’s adoration of the eternal. Perhaps each edifice was meant to inspire a phenomenon of faith that transcends logic, transcends the mere physical representations, the icons and brings one to a point of adoration of the almighty, the giver of light. These temples were not for me the actual objects of adoration; rather I perceived them as gathering places where people of different faiths sought peace, calmness, joy, and a hope for an eternity, nirvana. If there was adoration, I did not perceive it was for the physical objects, or for mere men who have lived and walked, rather for what these represented, what they taught.<br /><br />Now, relics are a different matter to me. They include such items as a bone, a dried up mummy, ashes, a fingernail, hair, a robe worn by the master, a sliver of Jesus’ cross or even a footprint of a prophet. There seems to be an immense social-religious need to venerate such physical objects, primarily made of carbon. There is a current fever for obtaining ‘genuine’ relics. Selling the saints, reported by Phil Lipof, in WHDH-TV Special Report, (8/14/2007) presents a disturbing account of selling relics online. “With a click of the mouse, spirituality is up for sale!!” I wonder about that. Spirituality? E-Bay says that they try to stop the sale of blood, bones or body parts. “But there are so many items like this for sale at any given time; it would take divine intervention to catch them all.” Relics for sale to the highest bidder. Why?<br /><br />Flash! The Taxila Cross, (8/14/2007), from the book, Shadows in the Dark, by Fr. John Rooney M.H.M. (Pakistan Christian History Monograph, No.1) “There are two further pieces of evidence that might seem to suggest a St Thomas connection with Pakistan, the one epigraphical, the other social. The epigraphical evidence is an interesting cross found at Taxila now lodged in the Anglican cathedral at Lahore, where it is know as the Taxila Cross. The social evidence concerns a fakir community which is said to be connected with Thatta, Sind, and to claims that it has origins in St. Thomas.”<br /><br />Here we go again! The small cross has been taken over by the United Church there as its symbol, found in the ancient city of Sirkap some forty years ago. And you had better believe that there is controversy over this as well. All sorts of scholarly opinions are being proffered now to challenge the little cross as not being a “genuine Christian relic.” Strongest among the challengers are those who say that it is a type of cross that is more or less equilateral, thus not a Christian cross. This type of cross is similar to hosts of other such crosses which are of Buddhist origin. Oh brother, now the arguments are flying back and forth.<br /><br />But relics create responses filled with zeal. The helpful and often accurate, Wikipedia says this about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Relic#Muslim_relics" target="_blank">Muslim Relics</a>: “While various relics are preserved by different Muslim communities, the most important are those known as the Sacred Trusts, more than 600 pieces treasured in the Privy Chamber of the Topkapi Palace Museum in Istanbul. Muslims believe that these treasures include the sword and standard of Muhammad, a hair from his beard, and the staff of Moses.” I was surprised at the last statement, that The Quran has “... been recited next to these relics uninterruptedly since they were brought to the Topkapi Palace.” Such fervor!<br /><br />World Tibet Network News, (March 5, 2001) reported, “...large portions of the two massive Buddha figures in central Bamiyan province, dating back more than 1,500 years, have already been reduced to rubble, along with thousands of other statues throughout the country. It was reported that an edict had been published and, “... will be implemented Inshallah (God willing).” The article spoke of reports from Taliban officials about the destruction and the nature of the order from the Taliban Supreme Leader, Mullah Mohammad Omar who had authorized the iconoclasm. A hot storm of international protest erupted about this action of these fundamental radical Muslims.<br /><br />Sadly, I had never traveled in Afghanistan to see the Bamiyan Buddhas, which stood some fifty meters tall. These statues which had existed since the third century BC are no more. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90mAFujaJuO86qZVOBdapsPXfXSUcFMTvN7mvEOEp9t3yMy9FZ8Srw3JJx8-mwNYvkNugba6cmenqo_VJfalF9zf8fYWpTO9CIV25kLF-RxRh-Hc6AMfWBIocuAbfkJg0DEWkSaI_a5Q/s1600-h/z_p07-Eleminating2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103788905281722066" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90mAFujaJuO86qZVOBdapsPXfXSUcFMTvN7mvEOEp9t3yMy9FZ8Srw3JJx8-mwNYvkNugba6cmenqo_VJfalF9zf8fYWpTO9CIV25kLF-RxRh-Hc6AMfWBIocuAbfkJg0DEWkSaI_a5Q/s320/z_p07-Eleminating2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Smashed, destroyed in the fever of a religious zeal that I do not comprehend. Such zealous fervor to obliterate the religious expressions of others is ‘old hat’ in many parts of the world, including Christian Europe. Our guide in Cusco, Peru said that a Spanish Catholic Church there was built over the priceless ruins of ancient Inca religious ruins. They even used beautiful hand-formed, fitted stones as part of their church foundations. There are stories galore of this type; one religion obliterating the beauties and joys of another.<br /><div align="right"><br /></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Travel with me to Kandy, Sri Lanka and stand near the edge of the lake and look at the Temple of the Tooth. It was a quiet day and I stood with my wife and friends gazing at the temple. A few dozen of tourists and an equal number of those on pilgrimage had come to see the tooth were wandering around, climbing the steps into the temple. No, you can’t see the tooth; it is kept securely behind a protective wall and drapery in the reliquary. </div><br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div>It has not been brought to light since 1990 because of worries that the Tamil Tigers would try to damage or make off with it. Only its casket is now brought out during the annual festival. And what a fever of excitement there is when as many one hundred elephants dressed in finery make their way into the town as drums beat, flutes play and dancers leap about! Attendance at the Esal Perahea may number a million people from all ranks of Sri Lankan society. Tamil Hindus and many Christians take part in the celebration.<br /><br />How did the tooth get to Sri Lanka? That is a story by itself, but one version is that the tooth was removed from the Buddha when the body was on the cremation pyre and eventually made its way to Ceylon hidden in someone’s hair. But that is not what is important. A tooth is there and it has been revered by millions upon millions for centuries and now there is to be more.<br /><br />Sacred Hair Relics will be presented to the Sri Lankan on 18th July in Chittaghong, as reported by (<a href="http://narinjara.com/" target="_blank">narinjara.com</a>, 8/14/2007). “President Mahinda Rajapaksa has offered state patronage to the event and several leading Buddhist monks and Ministers are to take part at the events related to the arrival of the relic in Sri Lanka.” Of course controversy now boils up. Researchers and critics cast doubt about the authenticity of the hair relics. There are obstructive tangles, calls for better means to determine authenticity. Hair, nail clippings, shrouds?Remember Emperor Ashoka? He converted to Buddhism in the third century BC. He was a zealot. He opened seven of the original stupas and collected their relics and, according to The Asokavadana, divided these relics into 84,000 portions and distributed these in his Indian empire, vowing to erect a stupa for each portion. Now that was amazing fervor! Perhaps that number was symbolic, or a scribe added a zero or two.<br /><br />Is the reverence for relics something that transcends logic, transcends the mere physical object? Of what? Is the reverence for the prophet himself, or is the reverence much higher than that, for the creator, the eternal? Would the one crucified be pleased to see splinters of a cross venerated? What about the message? What does a little silver Taxila Cross have to do with it? Or is it the same feeling that I get when I visit the Golden Temple in Amritsar? Awe.<br /><br />I have not read the Sermon on the Mount for quite some time. Do you remember it? Blessed are the peacemakers, blessed are the merciful, blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness...Jesus’ message is important. I went back to my library and pulled a little book from the shelf that I had read years ago, The Teachings of the Compassionate Buddha, by E.A Burtt, 1982, Mentor. I was refreshing my memory about Siddartha Guatama’s teaching because I was wondering how such obsessions with relics, the emphasis on the physical, ashes, the hair, the tooth, fit in with his message of gentleness, serenity, compassion, liberation from selfish cravings for the physical.<br /><br />E. A. Burtt puts it this way in his Introduction, (page 20.) “Worst of all , perhaps, from Buddha’s standpoint, religion was straying through these and other vices away from the insistent, poignant, practical needs of men and women. It was not leading them toward true fulfillment and more dependable happiness; it was becoming mired in obstructive tradition, repetitious rite, and dead or cantankerous dogma. He conceived it as his task to break through or sweep away these obstructive tangles, to find an enduring solution to the real problems of men and to bring India and the world a saving message of light and love.” </div>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-74473861648731139082007-09-13T09:39:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:42:29.568-08:00Do Asiatic Lions Still Roar in Gir?Originally published 9/07/07 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/09/07/075805.php">Desicritics</a><br />Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.predatorconservation.com/">http://www.predatorconservation.com/</a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMM17lIcbuIFZtFhpQh_O9wU7zWQwyqQ3V-R5L0gwmVn0o308obX8l83hxuDeTnZaUfheW8IViAhuA8itBKy_1-Zq0ADjPicKTjY-p60Z8O4kOQCZxeJYVhoTpQaEaYTQtCRpR3C22S0/s1600-h/asiatic_lion3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109734374152458050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMM17lIcbuIFZtFhpQh_O9wU7zWQwyqQ3V-R5L0gwmVn0o308obX8l83hxuDeTnZaUfheW8IViAhuA8itBKy_1-Zq0ADjPicKTjY-p60Z8O4kOQCZxeJYVhoTpQaEaYTQtCRpR3C22S0/s200/asiatic_lion3.jpg" border="0" /></a>It is hard to believe we did this! We pitched a tent in an isolated area of a game reserve in lion country. I was awakened by the terrifying sound of a lion roaring. I was sure it was in the tent with us. There are few things as awe inspiring, or should I say exciting as hearing a lion roar in the wild. It is an instant adrenaline high. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.<br />Another time I was strolling along on a visit to the Lahore Zoo and stood bored and feeling sad for the scraggly, thin, lethargic 'Asiatic' lion there. He must have picked up on my intense stare and started to roar. In seconds I was surrounded by kids and their families all looking wide-eyed. I could understand how lady lions would be impressed.<br /><br />The Maldharis who live in the Gir Forest in small gatherings called, 'ness' listen to the roars of the majestic Asiatic Lion almost on a daily basis. The lions regularly eat their cattle too. Perhaps they are used to the roars. It's a jungle out there! But the Maldharis don't want to leave the Gir reserve which they consider home, a place to graze their cattle. <a href="http://www.hinduonnet.com/fline/fl2210/stories/20050520000106500.htm" target="_blank">Dionne Bunsha's article, "A kingdom too small"</a> presents an excellent review of the present, sad condition of the Asiatic Lion, the last remnant of a once large and widely distributed sub-species. Truly, their kingdom is too small, and the kings are too few, now some three hundred individuals. But it was not always this way. Once upon a time, the Asiatic lion really was the lion king.<br /><br />The Asian Lion roamed a vast territory ranging from Greece through the Middle East and part of North Africa all the way down to India. This lion has been the focus of literature, the inspiration of religious texts, the model for motifs of entire kingdoms and the inspiration of poets and religious leaders in the middle east, south east Asia and even China. I often wondered where the Chinese got the model for their strange lions, you remember, the ones that stand guarding gates; stone lions poised menacingly at leading restaurants. The male Chinese lion is represented by a stylized lion with a ball under its foot; the female lion with a lion cub under her foot. Legend has it that the female's nipples are on her feet. How in the world did Chinese artists come to depict the lion that way? The answer of course; the Indian or Asiatic lion. Buddhists regard the lion as a protector of truth, a defender against evil. But, the Chinese had no lions of their own, you say. Correct, but the Silk Road, and the advance of Buddhism carried the images from India where the real lion roamed. The King of Parthia, in 87 AD gave China a gift of lions as China had none of its own.<br /><br />In Indian art history lions are shown supporting Buddha's throne. Those lions are more realistic than the Chinese depiction of lions. On India's Republic Day the streets of the capital are filled with lion images. TheAshoka pillar, a symbol of the state of India, is surmounted by four lions with manes crouching back to back.<br /><br />The word Singh, derived from the Sanskrit simha is a name that rings out in Indian history. It rings a note of recognition in other parts of the world. In fact the word was on CNN yesterday. Bearded men with turbans were being stopped in American airports and being requested to remove their turbans. It is hard to pat down certain areas. (I wondered about the Kachk, Kara or Kirpan that are traditionally worn by many, which are made of metal?) Many variations of the name meaning lion appear. Singh! Sinhagiri, (lion of the rock) Sinh, Simha, or in Gujarati, sawaj. I knew one other name for the Asian lion as I grew up and I think it is the best one by far, babbar sher; it has a princely ring to it that Rajas liked; Bir Narsing Kunwar (Nepal 1816), and later Shumsher Jang-Bahadur Rana. Kipling put the Tiger and the Leopard in the minds of his readers, worldwide, with the names of two other cool cats, Bagheera and Sher Khan. The Persians would smile, knowing that the name originated with them, shir. But the Persians did not have a monopoly on giving the lion a name. The Greek, leon sounds familiar, as does the Roman leo. The Lion King shamelessly picked up on it all and made a killing.<br /><br />The Asiatic leo was the emotional experience of folks living around the Mediterranean and the Middle East throughout recorded history. What images are conjured up when you hear the words 'Lion of Judah' or 'Daniel in the Lions' Den' 'Richard the Lion-Hearted' or 'Bishan Bedi, lion-hearted cricketer'? How many great Indian leaders carried the name Singh?<br />It becomes an emotional journey to read of the historical distribution of the Asiatic Lion, 'last know lion killed in Tunisia in 1891' 'last known lion in Turkey killed in 1870' 'last know in Iran in 1942' last know lion in Pakistan killed near Kot Beji in Sind province in 1810' 'fifty lions were killed in the district of Delhi between1856-58'! Twenty five years later Blanford (1891) wrote that in India the lion is on the verge of extinction'. During the British Raj, the gora sahibs would engage in shikar, wonderful events hosted by local potentates with the lion in their name, the trophy in their mind. But not only did the Brits kill thousands of animal, so did many Maharajas. Mahesh Rangarajan, a well known historian of ecological change, documents amazing exploits of Indian rulers. One in particular, a certain Sadul Singh, Maharajkumar of Bikaner (1936) kept a Diary for over a quarter of a century recording all his shoots. "Nearly 50,000 head of animals and a further 46,000 game birds fell to his gun. Among these were 33 tigers... and a lone Asiatic lion." (See India's Wildlife History, Mahesh Ranagarajan, Permanent Black, p 160, Rs 250) Hapless animals would be slaughtered and the proud hunters would have their photo taken sitting behind the poor dead lion, or tiger. I have a wonderful old book, still available on Amazon.com, The Last Empire (1855-1911) by Ainslie Embre, in which there is a picture of a bored looking King Edward and a Raja posing behind a tiger. Such pictures were all the rage for those who served in India, as were carpets made of skins of animals, especially lion rugs that had a mounted skull with mouth wide open. As a child I loved to lie on the rug and reach over and put my fingers into the gaping maw and feel the teeth. Honestly.<br /><br />Soon there were few lions left. Some attempts were made to breed the Asian Lion with the African Lion, to give it a genetic boost, so to speak. It was a bad mistake. Very soon it was discovered that the offspring developed all sorts of problems, including insanity. During one period about 200 of these Asiatic lions were sent to various zoos in different parts of the world as a program to insure the survival of the sub-species. "In the mid 1980s it was found that some Asian lions exported to the USA from the Trivandrum Zoo India, were Asian/African hybrids. Paul Joslin, former assistant director of Chicago's Brookfield Zoo had noticed that many "Asian " lions in US zoos lacked the telltale belly fold. He also noticed an increase in infant mortality which is indicative of inbreeding depression." There is a detailed description of the 'analysis of mitochondrial DNA which showed, that in fact these were hybrids. So the preservation efforts ended in having to sterilize all the breeding males. They will live out their sterile existence and their majestic once sexy roars will now be not much more than an impotent whimpers.<br /><br />At the present time in Indian zoos, there may be dozens of 'retired' lions who have not been euthanized because of India's official prohibition about killing such animals. There are two categories for euthanasia, active and passive. The passive variety allows animals. Monkeys, dogs, cats and cattle are ignored, get by, survive on their own and eventually die off, or disease decimates a population. But the sterilized and inferior retired lions are a privileged group who enjoy a decent, sterile, segregated life with ample food until their death do us part. Humans, however, can be cruel to each other, kill off each other, kill off unwanted female children, but official policy prohibits such, and hopefully attempts to establish an environment for all life which is one of respect and preservation will prevail. Hopefully there are not many rajas or vast land owners around who still enjoy the shikar and kill off large numbers of game animals.<br /><br />Now these magnificent lions are confined to a small area, the Gir Forest in Gujarat, some three hundred of them or fewer. Their future hangs in the balance; their fate rests in the hands of scientists and conservationists who seek to preserve them. It is not an easy task. The Asiatic lion in the Gir Forest now enjoys heightened world awareness. The extinction of this fine carnivore would be a world tragedy. This sub-species once roamed widely but was the victim of a number of factors that led to its being protected in a tiny area. What killed off the lions?<br /><br />1. Human population explosions, increased farming, the cutting of trees and slaughter of game species was a major factor in the rapid decline of these lions. If people and carnivores compete for the same resources, guess who wins.<br /><br />2. Trophy hunting systematically caused the demise of regional populations of lions. "Fifty lions in the Delhi area!"<br /><br />3. Superstition and ill founded belief that lion body parts have magical properties resulted in animals being collected for sale to male Chinese people who wanted increased potency and sexual stamina. Lions are sexy creatures that mate as many as thirty times a day so it figures; if you eat certain parts ... It could be called imitative magic.<br /><br />4. Climate change brings about habitat change, deforestation, desertification, lack of water supplies, all of which kills off the animals.<br /><br />5. Parasites and insect pests can kill off entire prides of lions. From time to time there is a scourge of biting flies that torment lions so intensely that they have little appetite for game.<br />6. Anthrax, rabies and other diseases can wipe out animals.<br /><br />7. Human pollution of environments with drugs, (remember the vultures) toxic wastes which pollute the water, the land and food sources kill off predators.<br /><br />8. Sub-species and cross species breeding programs can create genetic monsters, infertility and non-viable populations of lions. In-breeding weakens the gene pool.<br /><br />It is amazing with all that going against them that there are a few Asiatic lions left in the Gir. International conservation bodies and the Indian government are setting up a variety of approaches to preserve, protect and enhance the survival of this lion. It may be working; there may be hope. Lions are leaving the preserve and expanding their own territory. A few have even been reported on distant beaches far from their Gir Forest reserve. Their will to survive, to search for new territory, to establish new colonies are encouraging signs.<br /><br />There is a sparkling new book about all of this written by an expert with a name to match - The Story of Asia's Lions, by Divyabhanusinh; Marg Publications, Mumbai, 2005. If you don't make it to the Gir Forest, you can imagine the roars as you read his wonderful book. The Asiatic lion still roars and people get goose pimples.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-41678408608108263972007-09-13T09:42:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:42:29.499-08:00Lady with the Lotus - Sojourn in Sigiriya, Sri Lanka<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-nRh1Mq874GePKW4uEs1vUUYdNfJVAthYKqFNlU-I8fpIysOmwtXkx-7Am0qm95y5pqj7SjHP2q8-vhJUqmFKpsD3R2B6cT4kTU34OcPFnvi49we7ai4KQncXwVYe0KBXjRDQ9TxPGtw/s1600-h/450px-SigiriyaFrescos7.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109732067755020082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-nRh1Mq874GePKW4uEs1vUUYdNfJVAthYKqFNlU-I8fpIysOmwtXkx-7Am0qm95y5pqj7SjHP2q8-vhJUqmFKpsD3R2B6cT4kTU34OcPFnvi49we7ai4KQncXwVYe0KBXjRDQ9TxPGtw/s320/450px-SigiriyaFrescos7.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Originally published 9/10/07 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/09/10/132153.php">Desicritics</a></div>Image courtesy of Desicritics<br /><div></div><br /><div>“No flash! No Flash!” It was too late. I had already captured the Lady of the Lotus on film as well as many of her companions, all half nude and gorgeous. I thought the guide would rip the film from my camera. Instead he actually held my left elbow and moved me along the narrow rock trail of Sigiriya and lectured me. “Light destroys color. Picture is 479 AD.” He said the last as ‘Ayedeee’. I felt bad and said that I had moved the setting from flash to auto, but clouds and shade at the instant I took the picture brought the flash. Sorry. I like my color picture better than the black and white one in Ajit Mookerjee’s The Arts of India, 1966! But his is pretty good too. I actually missed the lotus in his picture the first time I saw it. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So where in the world is this place? Sigiriya, or Sinhagiri, or Sihagiri which means ‘lion of the rock’. It is in Sri Lanka. What a wonder it is. Ayers Rock in Australia is grand but this stone, this monolith is huge and appeared black when I first saw the massive rock with the sun behind it. It rises out of the green steaming jungle like a supine lion. It compares to Machu Picchu or the Masada. The latter comparisons are appropriate in that both were places of human settlement, on the rocks, as was Sigiriya.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Our party spent the night in the Sigiriya Village Hotel. The rooms were wonderful, though we did have to ask for bug spray. Buzzing mosquitoes in the room make for whining, irritable, unhappy campers. The next day our gang of four was deposited at the base of the big rock and we began our hike to the top. The first two hundred feet were relatively easy. That is where I got into trouble taking pictures of the naked women. The rest of the climb was up to us. The guide had been up those metal ladders a hundred times and we did not look like the type that would leave a big tip. He glanced up at the top, at the snaking, spiraling metal rungs and ladders that stuck to the face of the rock like clinging ivy. He smiled politely and left, shaking his head and muttering, perhaps some words like <em>pagal amni</em>.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Up, up we climbed. No big deal as long as you don’t look down. Stretches of the climb were steps carved into the rock itself which were shiny with a paten of hundreds of thousands of feet that had polished it since the 5th. Century. On top at last! At one time there was a small city at Sigiriya. There are cisterns and baths, foundations for many rooms, strolling areas, cooking areas, (slave quarters were down below, they had to commute-climb to work each day). The drop-off was something to write home about. It had claimed the lives of quite a few, we were told, including unhappy princesses and concubines left all alone, perched high above the jungle floor, their lord and masters slain in a fraternal war. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The legends of Sigiriya feature Kasyapa, who according to some was a security nut who used the rock as an impregnable palace. Our guide had mentioned that this usurper of the throne of Anuradhapura loved beautiful women. He had five hundred of them, each one more beautiful than the other. And he was really smart; he had their pictures drawn on the rock surfaces, kind of a Playboy fresco thing. Really, that is what the guide said. I think Kasyapa had read about Solomon of old who had a thousand, but had never left any pictures to prove it. Was Kasyapa an ancient historical role model for Hugh Hefner? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Solomon of old, wise old Solomon reputedly had a thousand wives, but that is just a story that emerged from the Old Testament. No pictures please. (Muslim and ancient Jewish guys didn’t like to have other men snoop around in their private zennanah or harems. Some covered up their women so only their eyes could be seen. They had strong religious inhibitions against displaying the female form.) But one of Solomon’s favorites was enshrined in history in the Song of Solomon. His words still have a pretty good ring to them. “Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor... Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins...Thy neck is a tower of ivory... How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights.” Wow!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Kasyapa left no flowery words behind, he paid artists to draw his beauties. The Lady with the Lotus is a knock-out. Let me name her Sita. When I see her there, high on the cliff above the jungle far below I say, “<em>Tell me, female of the forest, who thou be and whence thy birth. Much I fear thou art a Raksha wearing various forms on earth</em>.” (From Romesh C Dutt’s translation - Book 6, The Ramayana, Sita Lost). She holds a lotus flower that I had not noticed at first. Typical occidental reaction, the prurient first, the artistic second and the meaning behind it all, the religious connotations, last. “<em>To the oriental and especially the Buddhist, the lotus flower is sacred and its blossom is filled with meaning. For the occidental this flower contains little more than satisfying beauty</em>.” (William Ward, The Lotus Symbol: Its meaning in Buddhist Art and Philosophy, 1952, page 135.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The historical version that is least liked in Sri Lanka is <a href="http://remyc.com/sigiriya.html" target="_blank">the one put forward on Remyc.com</a>. </div><br /><div align="justify"><br />“Think Devil Tower with a health spa on top. “Rising 650 feet out of the ground, this Eighth Wonder of the World, long believed to be the fortress of a mad king, has been revealed for what it really was: a Tantric sex initiation. King Kasyapa had 500 wives. He was a 5th Century Hugh Hefner. Sigiriya was his Playboy Mansion.”</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I found it very disappointing to read in this person’s account that he had never even been there. Terrible. Playboy themes sell.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>One who did visit at a time when the pictures on the walls were fresh was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sigiriya" target="_blank">John Still who in 1907 observed</a> that; “<em>The whole face of the hill appears to have been a gigantic picture gallery...the largest picture in the world perhaps</em>. <em>The pictures covered an area, 140 meters long and 40 meters high, and there is ancient graffiti which refers to the 500 ladies in these paintings.</em>"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The story goes that later on, this glorious wall of paintings became a disturbance, a distraction. Sigirya had become a religious monastery, and the young monks kept sneaking down to take a peek and neglected their holy books and uplifting thoughts. You have it, most of the best pictures, frescos, were destroyed. That hurts philosophically. Remember the Bamiyan Buddhas that were destroyed because of religious zeal? Amazing!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The gardens at the foot of the monolith are beautifully laid out. In their hay day they must have been stunning, filled with jasmine and rat ki rani; the fair ladies must have taken excursions down from their high life to stroll and sit beside the pools and listen to the birds and watch the peacocks strut. The gardens have three aspects, Water, Cave and Boulders. The water gardens are the most sophisticated in design and water fountains work today that were designed long, long ago. A visit to them will give a grounded perspective to Sigiriya. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I took out my photograph of the Lady with the Lotus from the album yesterday. The Ektachrome colors have faded; she looks pale, washed out. There is only one way to fix it. I must visit Sri Lanka again, this time with a digital camera so I can download Sita and make her my screen saver. </div><br /><div align="center"><br />Sita’s Dream</div><br /><div align="center">The lotus seed sinks into muck </div><br /><div align="center">Sleeps, then awakens from calls of ancient past</div><br /><div align="center">Listening, it stirs, shudders open and puts forth</div><br /><div align="center">Green tender leaves seeking sun and air</div><br /><div align="center">The lotus lies deep within black ooze</div><br /><div align="center">Awakens, draws life and strength from dark decay</div><br /><div align="center">Raises a brave and jubilant head within a day</div><br /><div align="center">Lifts its gold-pink face to kiss the sky</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Adapted from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1425925189/ref=cm_rv_thx_view/104-9346038-7548703?_encoding=UTF8&v=glance&n=283155">Rhododendron Wine Factory, Memoirs of a Wanderer</a>, by Harold Bergsma, March 2006</div>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-39775055758442454702007-09-30T13:57:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:42:29.366-08:00Ammonites and Sri Salagrama Shila<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2vFlsrUJFEgnIkEq_0mES6fBNX37b0y_-j6Bex4CRJOzNVw1D2iLJCpvRqkui3UacVb-EujCxkwtZ14CgAaIRqrA3PDl3QULO-gdADZxDId1IR8qibc1SrzD9ZHjCDopVSuLD2grUF8/s1600-h/shell.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2vFlsrUJFEgnIkEq_0mES6fBNX37b0y_-j6Bex4CRJOzNVw1D2iLJCpvRqkui3UacVb-EujCxkwtZ14CgAaIRqrA3PDl3QULO-gdADZxDId1IR8qibc1SrzD9ZHjCDopVSuLD2grUF8/s200/shell.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117279532886882514" border="0" /></a><br />Originally published 9/29/07 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/09/29/043538.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br />The Ammonites were nothing but trouble for ancient Israel. Ammon, according to Genesis 19:38 was a son of Lot who had lots of descendants who were nomadic types and thus warlike and bothersome to other descendants of Abraham. They pillaged their towns and because of their worship ceremonies which required human sacrifices, were abhorred by ancient descendants of Israel. But once in a while beauty won over caution. Solomon had a gorgeous wife who was an Ammonite. (Ezekiel 25:6 and Kings 2, 23:13)<br /><br />Ammon as a term that is now commonly used by scientists and historians alike harks back to a Greek word, Ammon, derived from the ancient Egyptians who called their god Amun. Amun had curled horns like a ram on his head, thus the application to modern usages of the word in our vocabulary. In medicine there is the cornu ammonis, a region of the hippocampus in the brain which literally means “Amun’s Horns”. Shelled extinct cephalopods have spiral shells resembling a ram’s and Ammon’s horns. We call them ammonites. Even our word ammonia, a chemical is named as a derivation from Ammon.<br /><br />Alexander the Great, who visited Taxila, was once greeted as Ammon’s son because of his veneration and respect for the Egyptian deity. He had the temerity to have a coin struck with his profile on which the whorls of hair are shaped to resemble the ram’s horn. He had other godly images of himself struck as well. Some of those ancient misshapen, thick, copper coins got buried in pottery in Taxila and one of them, as well as others that bear his image, are beside my computer as I write. Ammon, the horns of the ram. But the story does not end here or in Taxila, it eventually takes us to the Kali Gandaki River of Nepal.<br /><br />Long before the great cosmic collision that killed many of earth’s terrestrial creatures, including the dinosaurs, there were creatures in the depths of the ocean that survived, that rose to the shallows to feed, great and small ammonites, the chambered nautiluses. “The long voyages of the nautilus, from the depths into the shallow each night, are thus a perfect metaphor for its evolutionary history, which comes up to our world unchanged from the depths of time.” (Megalania Dinosaur Page—Dinosaur News)<br /><br />Also on my table, next to the computer for inspiration and reference, is in my bolo-tie. It is a magnificent fossil form, cut, shaped and polished like a jewel, revealing the swirl, the ram’s horn configuration that formed some 65 to 140 million years ago. From a tiny living cephalopod-mollusk the size of a grain of basmati rice, it grew, expanded and made new rooms for itself, in the shape we all know so well, room upon room, chamber upon chamber, as it occupied progressively larger rooms which it made for itself. The Chambered Nautilus!<br /><br />This ammonite has captured the minds of many throughout history, bards, poets, and religious saints. Hear the words of Ayappa Suprabhatam: “A handsome mien, the entire world yearned, with a holy stone around his neck, and with a luster, none in the world dreamed, grew the holy babe, King of souls, oh my Lord, to you ... holy and a pleasant...” (by Narayana lyer, translated by P.R. Ramachander)<br /><br />Or hear Oliver Wendell Holmes who caught the idea of the progression of the soul in his poem “The Chambered Nautilus”. “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, as the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, shut thee room, heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!” How lovely. Transmigration, reincarnation, the imprint of growth leaving behind a jewel!<br /><br />The Skanda Purana states that, “a genuine Salagram Sila (or Shila) is directly a manifestation of the Supreme Lord Vishnu and does not require installation.” It states that, “Merely by touching a genuine Salagram Sila one becomes free from the sins of millions of births, so what to speak of worshiping Him. By puja of Salagrama Sila one gains the direct association of Lord Hari” (<a href="http://www.navarantna-museumlinfor/Stones.html" target="_blank">Vedic Sacred Stones</a>)<br /><br />***<br /><br />It was many, many, years ago, in 1949 that I climbed through the deep valley of the Kali Gandaki valley, moving slowly in the rarified air toward the Tibetan border, Jomosom and Muchtinath, an altitude of almost 12,000 feet. Often alone during the long day’s hike, I stopped to eat my chappati and canned cheese. The river ran out from Tibet on the dark stones, shiny and crystal, icy cold from the snows high above. Re-billed Choughs played on up-currents of air calling to each other as they did acrobatics above me.<br /><br />My feet rested on damp rocks, my eyes feasted on the view. I stood and dislodged a rock, not a large one but roundish and black. I bent to pick it up and was surprised at how heavy it was. It was the size of a very large mango. Its surface had been polished by the moving water for eons and was shiny and black. One edge was unusual, looking almost carved, whorls that faced each other forming a labial configuration. The imagination of a youth! I held the stone, hefted it, held it near my cheek and felt it cool and magical. What is this, I wondered? There was a large boulder near me. I took the stone and threw it with force against the boulder. It broke in two, evenly, revealing the most astonishing sight! Jewels, arranged in a spiraling whorl, as if the eternal Jeweler had arranged the smallest ‘diamond’ crystals in the center and then progressively increased their size, room by room, until the picture that emerged was that of a twisted, curling ram’s horn. I set the two halves on the boulder and looked at the ancient wonder, sparkling in the sun, now upset that I had violated this hidden wonderful microcosm of growth which had lain for some one hundred million years, unseen by mortal man. This rock was here because of the up-thrust of the mountains, the Himalayas, which were once under the deepest seas. What a migration for this rock, and what karma for me to have touched it.<br /><br />My pack was heavy, filled with skinning tools, a water canteen, a camera, film, ammunition, food and clothes for the day. The stone was heavy. To carry it one mile would be easy, eighteen, problematic, for three months, wearisome. I sighed, kissed each side goodbye, put the halves together and placed the stone back where I had found it, humming to myself. OM MANI PADME HUM.<br /><br />It is the song of Tibet, sung by many who traverse the cruel trails leading from Tibet to Tansing along the Kali Gandaki River. The devout among them moved along and murmured, counting their beads, trying to concentrate their minds. Many carry Mani Stones, on which is carved this very mantra; of compassions which vibrate, resonate and develop a corresponding feeling in the heart; as if by these vocal repetitions and sounds and by using the mind intoxicating words a new state of spiritual awareness would occur. In the brutality of their life and environment, the deprivation of adequate food, the hard earth as their bed, OM MANI PADME HUM lifted them up, up and away.<br /><br />I sat with the carriers that night and we talked about their grueling day of labor, each carrying about seventy pounds on their backs supported by head straps that cut into their foreheads. Their karma, coolies! They huddled over a hot coal on which a pea-sized greenish substance, bhang, was placed and with straws inhaled the sweet smoke and sighed, their aches and pains, their hunger assuaged for a lingering moment, even the humming now a vague memory. I told them of the stone I had found and they sat up more alert and questioned me. Where? How far back? Could I take them there to retrieve the stone? Sadly, I said that of the thousand steps I took that day, I could not return to that exact spot. They murmured, “Sri Salagrama Shila” and shook their heads sadly. They looked at me strangely now.<br /><br /><div align="left">I travel back in time to that memory of holding a sacred stone, the Salagrama Shila, a manifestation of the Supreme Lord Vishnu. Was my kiss an appropriate puja? Was my smashing the stone to reveal its hidden splendor a mystic violation? Or was the peek into the spiral arrangement of rooms of the primordial creature a portent of the rooms of my own life?<br /></div><div align="center"><br />CHAMBERED NAUTILUS<br /><br />Kaligandaki River<br />Winds, a snake, black<br />Between high rock walls<br />Primordial thrusts, upheavals<br />Erecting earth extensions high<br />Himalaya fingers proudly holding<br />Creatures born yesterday in sea chambers<br />Black time warps, frozen stone sea memories<br />Bathed for centuries, awash in earth’s salty solutions<br />Sea mummies, mysterious black stone folds, cupped secrets<br />Held silently in frozen time, millions of years unseen, unknown<br />This fossil form, just a stone picked up by wandering callow youth<br />Tossed against a boulder, cracks and unfolds its obsidian hands holding<br />Sleeping places, bejeweled rooms, crystal filled, chambers of once soft life<br />Shining mantras of yesterdays.<br /><br /><br />Self Grows Slowly<br />Tortuously formed fossil stuff<br />Tomorrows, chambered though brief years<br />Birthday parties, picnics on white sands, report cards<br />Tears, new sneakers, joy and insecurities neatly packaged<br />Accretions, unnoticed, forming, reforming, life’s lost wax molds<br />Castings, edges rough, unending parades in self or other’s lives, in, out,<br />Nudging, pushing at delicate stuff, mind tissues, will struggles, love strokes,<br />Calligraphy marks of pain and joy, diplomas, gold stars, motorcycle licenses<br />Diagnosis and life prescriptions<br /><br />Pulsating and Throbbing<br />Growths under this deep sea of stars<br />Planet creatures that crawl on dirt and sand<br />Life forms filling time and space, mere calcifications<br />Just human reefs; libraries, compact discs, Taxila ruins,<br />Sand Castle construction, aching retractions, hopeful advances<br />Cycles, shock waves of life energy, human anemones undulating<br />Old lives and shadows, petrified human forests, memories of yesterday<br />Rediscovered anew, soft memories stored in calcified chambers, limitations<br />Of our own life’s rooms<br /></div><div align="center">From : Soft Shoe in Soft Rain, Poems<br />by Harold Bergsma, Copyright 2004 </div>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-83808705700930307692008-09-03T09:56:00.000-07:002008-09-03T09:58:46.928-07:00Stingers: Sores That Hardly Heal<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><p>Originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/08/15/002945.php">Desicritics</a> 8/15/08</p><p>The pain was almost intolerable. Burning, searing fire that ran down the side of my face onto my neck made me shout and scrabble about like a mad man. I had been picking oranges from a tree in our central Nigerian compound when I disturbed a nest of wasps that had taken residence in that tree, not more than two feet above my head. Six of these warriors descended on me and began to sting, each one multiple times. Wasps do not commit suicide when they attack, they use their stingers again. Years later, in 1985 I was reading on the verandah of our Model Town home in Lahore and a bee landed on my neck. I brushed it aside, but not quick enough and got stung. It was not as painful as the wasps had been but there was one difference. It left its stinger behind, and in doing so had committed suicide, tearing out its guts as it was brushed aside. Pindi, my cook pulled the stinger out with a tweezers, warning me not to leave it in as it would create a bad sore and become infected. I had to hear the terrible stories of children in his village that had been stung and had suffered terribly because the parents did not know enough to get rid of the deadly stingers and not to leave them embedded.</p><p>I had been reading the Pakistan newspaper, <u>Dawn,</u> at the time and news about the very beginning of the defeats and withdrawals of the Soviet military forces from Afghanistan because of such effective rebel fighting, like “persistent wasps”. This withdrawal eventually culminated in 1989, supported by the many small victories of the Mujahideen in their fight against the cursed invaders, and the support given by the Americans to this effort of the guerrillas during Operation Cyclone, support by the supply of arms and weapons to the freedom fighters. Stingers! Yes, these were supplied by the CIA in the hundreds to the forces fighting the Soviets. Some sources say as many as two thousand stingers were<u>given</u> to the Mujahideen. After the withdrawal of the Russians there was a concern that the Taliban now had many of these weapons, Stingers, which, with their heat seeking devices had been lethal against Soviet helicopters and low-flying aircraft. Now American forces could become targets of these very weapons.</p><p>But, allied experts said, the battery systems which operated these weapons became useless after a few years. (But the technology to repair and put in new battery systems existed; in fact Pakistan now has its own version of the old Stinger) I love the title of the article by Ken Silverstein in the <u>State</u> Oct.2, 2001, “Stinger, Stingers, Who’s Got the Stingers?” In that article he reviews the Reagan administration’s programs to arm the Mujahideen with Stingers to battle Soviet aircraft, he says that the Taliban now possess many of these weapons as do others to whom they were sold who ‘reverse-engineered’ these and made their own. Many worried about this because Islamic fundamentalist who loathed the West, about as much as they hated the Soviets, could possibly share these wonderful high tech weapons with, and think of this, with terrorist groups.</p><p>In 1986, Congress had approved the deal and CIA then shipped 300 Stingers to the rebels and the next year 700 more. The Stingers were now embedded, not only among the rebel forces, but according to some sources, Pakistan stock piled the Stingers it got, and some say, sold a few to the Chinese for sums unknown, who were clever and reverse-engineered them and produced their own, and since there was a hot market for these, reverse sold these to the ones who first had them. According to Silverstein’s article these weapons now were dispersed by the rebels to Tajikistan, Chechnya and Algeria. And, he says that the Pentagon approved the sale of Stingers to at least 21 countries, mostly NATO of course, such as Israel, Egypt, Saudi Arabia and South Korea. ( I love the word mostly. The selling of American weapons by Americans is a really big business, and this does not just include little Stingers, it includes weapons of pretty ‘mass destruction’ in the form of high tech aircraft and their missile systems. You know, keep the economy going.) The Soviets stole the design and made their own SAM-14 Gremlin, a virtual copy of the Stinger. Oh my! What a hornet’s nest! </p><p>The CIA later, in its $65 million program, (It is as if they gave each Afghan citizen $2) offered $150,000 to $200,000 to the very ones they had supported by giving them these amazing weapons. This was more than production cost, but cheaper than having their planes shot down. This buy-back program resulted in the return of very few of the Stingers and the authorities were concerned that the Taliban, who later waged a bloody insurgency, had stockpiled these weapons. In fact, the coalition authorities had no idea where most of these lethal Stingers were. These were a hidden threat and are still a threat today, imbedded, festering Stingers. This was a sore spot. The buy-back flopped, by and large. If the Americans thought that Stingers were worth about Rupees 1,200,000 each, these must be pretty good things to keep around, just in case. And it is a well know fact that in bargain situations, when one party seems a bit desperate to buy something, it may be a good strategy to hold back a bit and wait and see if the buy back price will rise. Imagine getting the Stingers free and then later selling them back at highly inflated prices to the donor and making a few dealers rich in the process. Riches buys land, good land for growing poppies.</p><p>These embedded Stingers may still be around. India claimed that in a 1999 attack Muslim rebels in Kashmir used a Stinger to down a military aircraft. <br /></p><p>Kathy Gannon’s book <b><i>I is for Infidel: From the Holy War to Holy Terror: 18 Years Inside Afghanistan</i>, </b>2005, Perseus Book Group, speaks about the war in Afghanistan as being “yesterday’s war”<b>. </b>“The wider world had done the most dangerous of things. It had stuffed this tiny country with massive amounts of weapons, including the precious Stingers, turned over the countryside to the volatile discordant mix of mujahadeen factions—and then walked away.”</p><p>In 2001, following the Sept.11 attack the U.S. launched “Operation Enduring Freedom”, a military campaign to destroy the Al-Qaeda terrorist camps inside Afghanistan, the very ones with whom they had had a common cause, you know, the Afghan Mujahideen and who now said thanks for the free Stingers. The Stingers were not like those of the wasps, burning, searing, but temporary. They were like those of bees, which left imbedded, make their way deep into the flesh while pumping venom all the while and leaving a festering sore that hardly heals.</p><p>In the 2008 political campaigns new political solutions are being suggested about Afghanistan, new efforts that will need to be made to subdue the rebels in their mountain dens in Afghanistan and along the border of Pakistan and hopefully get the really bad guy, bin Laden in the process. What a holy terror our soldiers will face once again when ‘Yesterday’s War’, thanks Kathy, becomes Today’s Military Operation in which, on their turf, using our weapons, our Stingers, they, the bad guys, face off against us, defending their holy land with religious Islamic zeal, cursing oaths of vengeance. <br /></p><p>Not to worry folks. Dear Wikipedia gives us the answers, “The US inventory contains 13,400 missiles. The total cost of the program is $7,281,000,000.” Let’s see, if we divided this by the population of Afghanistan which is about 33 million people it could set up the entire population with a nest egg for small business development that would put it on its economic feet, peacefully. Imagine what that money could do to build schools for Afghani boys and girls. I forgot; inventory means that the money has already been <u>spent</u> by U.S. tax payers to engineer and manufacture these arms which now exist and are waiting for new batteries and need to be used.</p><p>That is a lot of bees to contend with, a pretty big hive. Let the Taliban be warned, our hive is bigger than yours. The pain will be intolerable, a real pain in the neck! But for whom?</p></span>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-76789146287111856292008-09-03T09:53:00.000-07:002008-09-03T09:55:39.759-07:00Genocidal Indigenous Forces: Teaching Kids War Games<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><div>Originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/08/08/032830.php">Desicritics</a> 8/8/08</div><div><br /></div>Kids love it! They get to ride in Humvees or Black Hawk Helicopters and hold weapons and shoot at the evil ones, the genocidal indigenous forces. The American soldiers and uniforms are real but the enemy they shoot at is sort of vague, but they are the genocidal forces that will kill you unless you kill them. Terrorists! <br /><br />Joseph De Avila’s article, <a href="http://online.wsj.com/public/article/SB121721198768289035-XKUYzOoHkddCrYY9JcEZnn4h4yc_20080826.html?mod=tff_main_tff_top" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(24, 13, 91); font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; ">War Games: Army Lures Civilians by Letting them Play Soldier</a> (The Wall Street Journal, July 28th, 2008) describes the new war games that the army has developed as a recruitment device. They present a new way “<i>…to relate to the public, they also present an opportunity to shape their tastes,</i>” says Col Casey Wardynski from West Point. Some $9 million have been spent to develop these war games as recruitment devices. And, they are realistic. When you shoot the bad guys they fall down dead. Try not to hit the friendlies; that’s a no, no. How exciting to shoot at the ‘genocidal indigenous forces.” <br /><br />In the Old Testament it says, “<i>Train a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it.</i>” (Prov.22.6) They knew their stuff back then, long before Christ, even if they didn’t have military psychologists to tell them how to motivate youngsters. Somehow, what you learn as a kid, particularly about modeling adult behavior, seems to have some effect on them in later years. Amazing. The US Army sure got it right. The way to get young people to enlist as soldiers is to make them feel it, put a gun in their hands and go bang, bang. That’s powerful stuff. A bit violent, perhaps, but hardly any different from what the kids watch on T V. Oh, I almost forgot, soldiers are trained to kill the enemy. <br /><br />Of course teenagers also play the Army game and if they are over seventeen, they soon get a call from recruiters with ideas about incentive packages and the like, and it seems to work. You see, the terrorists are out there, but you can’t really see them. Sure there was 911, but even Bush got it wrong, where the terrorists came from, but look, if they are ‘genocidal indigenous forces’ that are radical and insurgent, go for it. The war on terror is frustrating because the enemy doesn’t play fair, doesn’t show his head, just sneaks in and explodes a bomb or two and kills a bunch of innocent people and then later in the press, some strange group takes happy credit for it. The “genocidal indigenous group” called the faithful warriors of the almighty was responsible for the latest killings. Sound familiar? It happened in India not too long ago, bomb blasts, and revenge killings for past killing of the ‘faithful’. The old Pathan ethic, the <i>pushtunwali</i>, still is very much alive, revenge, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But the problem with bomb blasts and suicidal killing of others is that so many innocent die or are maimed.<br /><br />The US Army recruitment efforts, targeting kids and young people to enlist, is not a new idea. One of the earliest schemes to use children to foster the state’s programs occurred in 1948. The Stalinist apparatchiks established a children’s train and recruited hundreds of children to run a train with the intent of creating a cadre of enthusiastic rail workers for the state, and to “instill political obedience in youth.” By the way that same train system has been modernized and is back in service in Hungary and, yes, the kids run it. To be admitted to this training program requires high admission standards but the pay is great, and the added bonus, they get a good dose of “old style discipline.” See Daniel Michaels’ article, ‘<a href="http://online.wsj.com/public/article/SB121805974564118383-8iJ9A2RrVlGmEqXs63P_7aAZPvI_20090807.html?mod=rss_free" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(24, 13, 91); font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; ">Is this any Way to Run a Railroad, In Hungary, They Put Kids to Work.</a>” (The Wall Street Journal, Aug. 8, 2008.) <br /><br />But wait, it is not only the western world that is targeting kids with subtle messages to gain their support. Have you heard about Islamic Superheroes who battle injustice in America? The new series is called <a href="http://www.the99.org/" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(24, 13, 91); font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; ">The 99</a> and is a whole series of comic books which feature hero characters that each; personify the 99 qualities that the Koran attributes to God. Interestingly enough, the comic book series is doing well in the Islamic world after the creator of the series, Naif Al-Mutuwa guaranteed that great respect would be given to Islamic religious beliefs, which resulted in a major Islamic bank supporting his project. Imagine, “Jabbar the Powerful” or “Noora the Light” fighting the, now get this, the evil indigenous forces of evil in America. An illuminating review of this by Camille Agon, called <a href="http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1828732,00.html" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(24, 13, 91); font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; ">Islamic Superheroes Going Global</a> was reported in Time on 8/7/2008. <br /><br />Yes, bring them up in the way they should go and when they become adults they will not depart from it. Ancient wisdom is being applied in modern situations by many different groups, and the system works.<br /><br />I wonder how youth are trained and motivated to support and even become Taliban, Al Qaeda? War games in which vague figures are dressed like Americans which can be shot at in video games? Hardly, no. <i>Madrassas</i> are sometimes the answer! The difference is dramatic. In the American War Games, they shape their tastes: the youth sit in a Black Hawk Helicopter, safe and secure and kill genocidal insurgent militant forces from a distance and don’t even see the blood and guts, just hear the roar and the thunder of the explosions. How different from the youths, say from the NWFP of Pakistan, whose religious beliefs are so honed that they will put explosives on their own bodies; beautiful young men and women, and blow themselves up for the sake of the Cause. That is real commitment based on very strong faith and belief that the rewards in the next life will be great and eternal. With US Army war games, they “shape their tastes” now for active recruitment: for the faithful, religious training could lead to personal suicide shaping their eternity in the great bye and bye based on a combined set of motivators, hate for the infidel Zionists and a passionate love for Paradise.<br /><br />The beauty of the American system is that it is supported NOW, not by eternity, now, with lots of high tech killing machines and lots of computers that make striking the target an almost certainty with a feeling of anonymity as the trigger is pulled. Training, simulated killing of the enemy, the evil ones and that is sort of fun; and you even get to keep score while you are at it. Play soldier. What a strange concept. There is nothing playful about killing another human being, whoever she is. Certainly, for the suicide bomber, play does not enter the picture, nor is there anonymity involved, it is highly personal and by pulling the trigger the ‘game’ is over. It is not a game but a choice for death based on a belief in life everlasting with a knowledge that as you die you take a hundred of the enemy with you, you know the accursed American infidels who are in Afghanistan and Iraq. <i>Madrassas </i>may get a bad rap because a few of them do train youngsters to do violence for a greater cause and even teach them how to handle weapons and explosives. The US Army should get a bad rap for developing a recruitment tool that is insidiously and philosophically awful; motivating young people to become killers with a game. But, oh well, as long as it is for a good cause, you know, obliterating ‘them-thar’ genocidal indigenous forces. We all know who those guys are, right?<br /><br />We have a generation of youth whose ‘tastes have been shaped’ by violence on television, daily doses of it. Even as a pre-school youth, long before television was invented, I remember running around playing cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, a toy gun in my hand going bang-bang, you’re an Indian and you are dead. I had no idea who Indians were, nor even where the Punjab was located. Later it was water pistols and now I see they have graduated to guns that shoot blobs of dye so that you can record a ‘kill’ with colorful evidence. Yes, mea culpa. I loved guns. I was an excellent marksman and a pretty good shikar and shot many helpless critters in India, Nepal, Africa and America. Jim Corbett was my idol. Yes, my tastes were shaped, and I think the war games will be effective recruitment tools for the Army since many American youths have a taste already established. Is that called appetite? Yes I think the Islamic Superheroes comic books will be a big success and create the zeal for justice that the authors’ seek.<br /><br />My huge problem now is that I no longer believe that the world’s problems can be solved by violence and by killing each other. In Luke 3 vs.14 it says, “<i>Do violence to no man.</i>” I must have missed that verse earlier on in my youth. Strange, how selective our perception is based on age, taste, experience and belief. Consider this; “<i>Not one blow, O Madhusudan! will I strike to gain the rule of all Three Worlds; then, how much less to seize an earthly kingdom! Killing these must breed but anguish, Krishna!</i>” Out of context, assuredly, but not out of mind.<br /><br />We maintain the right to bear arms in America, and this is a deeply held liberty based on the 2nd Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Most American homes have a gun or two. I checked on this and came up with the figure of 215 million guns in homes in 1999 and that since that time about 60 million more have been added. (You see, there are many gun collectors who have many guns.) Imagine a country with 250 million guns in the hands of its citizens. Yes, I can see that the U S army has developed a recruitment winner with its new war games, especially since they have connected shooting and killing with patriotism and getting the bad guys, the evil genocidal indigenous forces that live over there somewhere and speak weird languages and scribble stuff from right to left and set the price of gas way too high. Let them play soldier. A satirical cartoon would be redundant in an atmosphere in which comic book cartoon superheroes bespeak the reality of international nuclear control, not mere guns.</span>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-85953051206162295692008-09-03T09:47:00.000-07:002008-09-03T09:52:26.105-07:00The Opium Eaters - The Roads Between<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:13px;"><p>Originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/07/16/000759.php">Desicritics</a> 7/16/08</p><p>We are the opium eaters; we are the consumers of the 6,500 tons of opium produced in Afghanistan and Pakistan with an export value, according to the United Nations, of about $3.1 billion. While we fought the war against terror and weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, against the Taliban, the war against opium growing and trafficking was neglected, went soft. A virulent opium trade has flourished in Afghanistan and Pakistan since 2004, a time when the Taliban had all but eradicated poppy growing. Now, ninety percent of the world’s opium is produced in the region of southern Afghanistan and border areas of northern Pakistan. But the world continues to have a tremendous need for opium products to be used for legitimate medical purposes. India is a producer of licit opium for the pharmaceutical market, however, the farmers are paid so little to grow approved amounts of opium that they have also learned how to subvert the system and receive ten times the amount for their crops on the illegal market. There is a shortage of raw opium for medical uses, while the illegal trafficking of opium continues. Efforts to eradicate opium in the fields as it is grown have been ineffective. Graft, bribery and corrupt political forces have protected the growers; only a tiny proportion of the entire opium 2007 crop grown was destroyed. The fields that were destroyed with weed cutters were frequently those of the poor peasant who did not have the support of a landlord or a war lord. Aerial spraying of poppy fields has been prevented by those in high authority in Afghanistan. Supply and demand, that is, the need we, a drug culture, express for opium, is what moves the trade of this narcotic, and move it does, by the hundreds of metric tons annually. <br /><br />Amazingly, America through its international clout exerts controls in many other sovereign territories it avoided many years ago. Remember The Monroe Doctrine? What is that? What we may remember is President T. Roosevelt’s statement, “<i>Speak softly and carry a big stick.</i>” Now we speak loudly, explosively, and carry huge economic sticks and massive military ones but the opium trade goes on, seemingly ignoring the international sanctions, the military presence of the United States, and in the past of England, in Afghanistan, and their tanks rumbling on paths right through the middle of the bright and beautiful fields of poppies growing in Kandahar or in Nangahar along the Baluchistan border where the greatest increases in opium production have occurred.<br /><br />De Quincey’s famous book, <i>Confessions of an English Opium Eater</i>, 1822, is a classic rendition of one who used opium and who experienced the “...extreme euphoria initially,” as well as the hellish results of addiction in the later stages, “...the darkness and nightmares.” In the late eighteen hundreds, at the time of the Monroe Doctrine which spoke of American autonomy and non-involvement in European wars, and in the early nineteen hundreds, opium was consumed widely and openly in Europe, England and the United States. It could be purchased in the local chemist shops or drug stores as we call them; women took laudanum drops in a glass of water for the ‘vapors’ or other ailments. We were a nation of opium ‘eaters’, however, in terms of actual volume, more opium is now consumed in various forms illegally in the United States than during that early period. <br /></p><blockquote>“The State Department’s bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs (INL) plays a key role in carrying out the President’s National Drug Control Strategy by leading the development and implementation of U.S. International drug control efforts. INL manages a diverse range of counter-narcotics programs in 150 countries throughout Latin America and the Caribbean, Asia, Africa and Europe. These bilateral, regional and global initiatives aim to fight the cultivation of drug crops at their source, disrupt the trafficking of drugs and precursor chemicals, and help build host-nation law enforcement capacity.”</blockquote><blockquote>(Nancy J. Powell, Acting Assistant Secretary for International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs, July 12, 2005, Washington D.C.) <br /></blockquote><p></p><p>The efforts of the US government to get a handle on the drug and opium problem, continues world-wide. Since more than ninety percent of the opium of the world is grown in Afghanistan and Pakistan, special efforts are made there to slow down opium growing, because its sale, transport and processing, provide the very ones we are fighting in our world against terror with the financial means to carry out their activities. Taliban and Al Qaeda receive some of their financial backing from such drug trafficking. Corrupt officials at every level have their hands out for bribes to allow the growth of the opium poppy, the transport of opium and processing of it, and this trade is growing.<br /><br />A blind eye. It seems there are many along the way when it comes to opium. Such blindness pays off very well. So well in fact, that the small business man has learned that huge profits can be made by becoming part of the purchase and sale of opium; much like we buy stocks, they buy shares in its purchase, transport and sale. Many of these actors are not huge investors by international standards. Sixty thousand rupees may seem a vast sum to many Pakistanis, however, $6000 may not be a huge investment in other parts of the world. But it is small investors like this who make it all happen, make the opium flow freely across international borders to Iran and on to Europe and the States. We in the western world are the eventual buyers which make it all possible. We are the consumers, the infidel opium eaters.<br /><br />I talked with a few opium growers in NWFP, the small-fry types, and asked if this was not an activity proscribed by their religion. They were surprised at my question, “Of course not, the growing, sale and dealing with opium is business, a way for a man to make a living by growing a crop.” They were amazed at my placing an immoral connotation on the activity. But when it comes to talking about foreigners in their country who are trying to manipulate them, to destroy them if they do their business, then the strong ‘moral and immoral’ words fly, shaitan, words of condemnation and frustration, oaths calling on Allah to destroy the infidel invaders. Americans, by Nancy Powell’s own words, are involved in 150 countries carrying out anti-narcotic activities; involved in an equal number of military programs, carrying out our nation’s efforts to control and fight against our enemies, terrorism and anti-democratic activity. “While undermining the narcotics industry through successful eradication and interdiction, we are also helping extend democracy and strengthen security...by building democratic institutions that provide security and justice.” (<a href="http://www.state.gov/p/inl/rls/rm/51065.htm" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(24, 13, 91); font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; ">Counter-narcotics Programs</a>, 5/23/2007)<br /><br />The small man in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Egypt or Iran looks at this monster and sees the big infidel bully that is pushing around, getting its way in the world through the power of money and the might of armed force. Hatred! Why? Hatred is focused against this force that is such a powerful agent for change; hatred is the strong emotional undercurrent to undermine it. Drugs, opium and the power of it on the international market has provided the little man, the student of truth, the Taliban, with tools to undermine our world-wide efforts of domination, albeit extending democracy. The more we buy opium, the stronger their cause. Our appetite for opium means the Taliban will prosper. Their strength is surprising. President Karzai was their target for assassination in April of 2008. He did not die, but others around him did. Puppets are hated as vehemently as the one who holds the strings. Puppets, whether they be leaders ‘nominated’ by America in Iraq, leaders who are supported in Israel, or even those wearing the green robes of aristocracy in Afghanistan are looked at in distaste; but it is really the string pullers who are the target of hatred, the demon puppet master.<br /><br />Our threats in Jan. 2008 to go after ‘them’ in Pakistan from our already compromised ‘puppet’ base in Afghanistan drew surprisingly strong words from President Musharraf during his hay day. If I may paraphrase it, “Don’t mess with your troops and anti-terrorist programs on Pakistani soil. The terrain is terribly rough out there, you won’t like it.” (Italics mine) We are not used to having ‘sovereign nations’ react like this, particularly Islamic nations who accept our foreign aid to the tune of a billion dollars of American taxpayer money in AID, a great deal of which is used for their military purposes. <br /><br />The little guys, thousands of them, support the ‘opium eaters’ through their moving opium on the back roads from Afghanistan, through Pakistan and to the markets beyond. Opium is the livelihood of thousands of farmers, thousands of merchants and truck drivers, thousands of shippers. These actors on a small stage in Pakistan say their lines in the play on drugs with halting voices, but keep the play alive.<br /><a href="http://blog.wired.com/defense/2007/09/afghan-opium-le.html" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(24, 13, 91); font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; "><img src="http://blog.wired.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/09/05/ph2006120101866.jpg" alt="" hspace="5" vspace="5" width="420" /></a><br />I have walked on small paths in the opium fields on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border and talked to the farmers. They make so little from their sales of raw opium; it is those who buy it and move it that reap the huge financial benefits. I have talked to the farmers about trying alternative crops; they smile and say, yes, yes, sahib. Stretching out in front of me were vast acres of white and red blossoms, another harvest of opium getting ready for the opium eaters. I have on my computer screen a wonderful picture of Afghani men harvesting opium, standing in their fields as British and American tanks rumble by on the dirt roads, oblivious to the harvesting activity around them, and carefully staying on the roads between the poppy fields. That picture is the metaphor for opium eaters.</p></span>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-88612557867414101732008-06-20T14:35:00.000-07:002008-06-20T14:45:41.885-07:00Bagheera, By Any Other Name: My Black PantherOriginall published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/06/19/135239.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br />Kipling’s Jungle Book was my first introduction to secret India. How I fantasized as a child about Bhalu, Sher Khan and the Black Panther, the palang or as it was called in the novel, Bagheera. When the movie first came out, I was out for ninety minutes in another secret world, trying to put my imagined version of the stories together with what I had read. Somehow, it was Bagheera the Indian leopard that caught my fancy more than all the others. It slinked and slithered, it disappeared into the jungle at night like a phantom; its grating call sent shivers down my spine.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was reading stories of Jim Corbett, the legendary man-eating tiger killer. I found it strange that at the exact time I was writing the initial draft of this article that Jason Bellows, on April 29th. 2008 was engaged in writing something just as interesting about the same topic, <a href="http://www.damninteresting.com/?p=954" target="_blank">A Large-Hearted Gentleman</a>, a wonderful account of Jim Corbett and how he killed man-eating tigers. That gentleman lived between 1874 and 1955 and his stories were even more avidly read by me than those of Kipling and by many of us who owned guns and were addicted to shikar. (the hunt)<br /><br />There is a zoo in Lahore where we went as a family to see the animals mentioned by Kipling. As a child I was saddened by it, and many decades later, as an adult I was appalled. I found the Indian Leopard cage and stared into the eyes of a creature that had been in its tiny cement and steel barred box for a decade, its fur dull, its muscles flaccid from lack of use. I stood a long time and stared into its eyes, the only part of it that seemed alive as it lay on a cement slab. I had read that if you stare into the eyes of a leopard or tiger, it will be unable to maintain your gaze and look away. I stared now waiting for it to look away. It stared at me, it too, it too having read about this phenomenon and did not look away, waiting for me to tire. I spoke. “Hello leopard. What secret thoughts are you thinking? Do you remember your home in the jungle of the Nepal terrai?” Now it looked away and yawned, showing its long yellowed canines. It rolled over and dismissed me. It had been born in the zoo and had no idea about what I was referring to. Its language skills were limited to the taunts the Lahore kids threw at it.<br /><br />The road from the Woodstock Hostie, as the senior boys’ hostel was called, to the chukkar near the top of the hill in Mussoorie, was a fair hike of about half an hour. The short cuts through the jungle were narrow paths that wound around the hillside. These were often used by the charcoal carriers and other paharis, our name for the hill people who lived in secluded villages on this part of the Himalayan foothills. These were the paths I took on my thrice weekly excursions to visit at the house of my girlfriend and future wife, who, it seemed, lived as far away from my hostie as was possible and still be part of our ex-patriot community. The trip there was in the daylight which was for me a naturalist’s paradise. Along the trails in the rainy season, the leeches, feeling the vibration of my footsteps would stand up like tiny antennae and wave about waiting for a foot to land nearby onto which they could cling. On the bushes there were always insects; rhinoceros beetles, stags with their fearsome pinschers and June Bugs with iridescent green backs. As I walked I would collect one or another of these and move along. These paths were a favorite place for lungurs, the agile and often aggressive hairy monkeys that swung on their long arms and stared down at me from the branches of trees covered with hanging moss. If I was very lucky I might see Chikor Partridge scurry away or a slinking Kaleej Pheasant.<br /><br />The trip back, usually at night when it was pitch dark was another world experience. My flashlight picked up the shiny eyes of many creatures as I strode along, or often loping on the downward slopes. Usually the batteries in my torch were fairly new, or at least sufficiently charged to produce an orange glow. I used the torch sparingly because it cost money to buy batteries. I walked along briskly in the semi-darkness, the waxing moon giving some light to make out the road. Something moved in the path in front of me and I stopped in my tracks, my heart pounding. The light of my torch reflected back from two eyes of a leopard standing in the path facing me. Behind it, down on the edge of the kud was something black. I stood stock still and I held the light steady for what seemed to me like an eternity. It turned its head away from the glare, then once again stared at me and made a coughing, snarling noise like a saw cutting into hard timber. My hand shook, my knees felt like putty and I had a hard time holding my bowels. It was not fear, rather terror that came over me, alone on a jungle trail with a leopard twenty feet away, at night, with no gun. I blinked my eyes and when I looked again it was gone. I shone the light around and there was no reflection, no sound, only a slight odor of feline urine.<br /><br />I did not go forward. I backed up slowly for fifty feet and then walked uphill for half a mile and took a major dirt road that led to the Teri road, a rather long way to get home, but hopefully safer than a path where leopards roamed. I was almost home. I could see the light of the boarding halls below me and I relaxed. At that moment a pack of jackals, not more than twenty feet from me near the road began to howl. Somehow this gave speed to my feet as I raced the rest of the way back. This has been a secret until now and one I have kept for many, many decades. Imagine, admitting to my girlfriend about my terror. Imagine telling about a girl friend. Imagine how surprised the leopard was too, who was at the time with his dark-haired girlfriend.<br /><br />The wife of one of the British officers was walking her small dog on the chukkar not far from where I had met my leopard and stared into its eyes. She told her story rather properly and matter-of-factly. “I was walking the dog and a leopard came out of the bushes at the side of the road and in one motion, snatched Bonnie, holding her by the neck and pulled her away from me into the bushes. Neither the dog nor the leopard made a sound. One moment it was there, the next it was gone!” When asked if she had been terrified she replied, “No, not at all. I was furious that it just took Bonnie like that in broad daylight. I did not have time to be frightened. It was a horribly beautiful animal, I must say, black as coal.”<br /><br />Two other dogs were taken near homes in the area that year. The men in many households now oiled up their guns, bought new batteries for their torches and vowed that if they saw the culprit that they would shoot the bugger on site. That only lasted until the rainy season, because guns rusted easily if they got soaking wet, and who in their right mind would wander about in a pouring rain anyway? The leopards moved down toward Dehra Dun where the rain was not so severe and there were ample numbers of village dogs to eat.<br /><br />I have waited until now to insert a snippet of Jim Corbett’s tale. “He continued briskly along the sand, hoping to make it to the hilltop before the tigress finished her buffalo feast. As he squeezed past a large boulder which blocked most of the riverbed, something in his peripheral vision gave him pause: something orange and black, with predator’s eyes, poised behind the boulder ready to pounce. He… set the rifle butt against his hip, and managed to fire a singe shot. For a moment the tiger was unaffected, and stayed coiled on the verge of springing out. Then her muscles slacked and her head came down to rest on her forepaws. The bullet had entered the back of her neck, and plunged through to her heart. … the Chowgrath Tigress was indeed dead.” The tiger is more charismatic than the slinking leopard, and almost always takes the headlines, except in this case. I find Corbett’s prose a bit too dramatic. “Poised, ready to pounce.” Come on.<br /><br />Charismatic mega-vertebrates such as the elephant, the Sumatran rhino, gaur and tigers have captured the attention of animal lovers in India. Leopards somehow have not had good press agents. They are seldom mentioned except when a goat, cow or dog is killed and then once again the men pick up their guns and make vows of vengeance. But the Indian Leopard is seldom seen now. Rapid human population expansion has forced the leopard to move away into more remote jungle areas. The Indian leopard may still number in the tens of thousands, however, with a human population of a billion and growing, the leopard may endure in its last stronghold in the Himalayas. The leopard, as opposed to the more fearsome and grand tiger, will, I believe continue to remain in its secret places for quiet some time. Children may see the leopard in a zoo, glance at its spotted fur, or if lucky into its eyes for a moment and then pass on to see the elephants or the Bengal Tiger with its sagging stomach.<br /><br />Leopard fixation is incurable. It is caught at an early age when a young child is highly vulnerable to the environmental and psychological influences of the mysterious jungles of India. I speak from experience. Long before I met the leopard on the pathway I used to put my hand into its mouth. What? Yes. You see my father, a surgeon, had acquired a leopard skin with a mounted head, claws and all, in a moment of a rajah’s generosity. I think it was not really a rajah, rather a Wali, a ruler in Swat whose wife he had treated most circumspectly, examining her through a sheet with a hole in it with the husband in attendance. He prescribed, she took the medicine, got better and the Wali was most grateful. He had a leopard skin with the head mounted, glass eyes, and its mouth wide open. He gave it to my father, who had, without thinking, admired it. The skin was a lovely thing to look at. That leopard skin got a special spot in our living room. My mother did not like it, but we children did. When we did prayers, puja, or namaz, depending on our choice that day, on the carpet, I would stretch out my hand and stroke its head and put my hand in its gaping mouth and feel its long teeth. Incurable. It was my favorite place to read, to lie back with my head against the leopard’s stuffed head, stretched out on the soft spotted fur.<br /><br />While I attended boarding school I heard many a tale about leopards. One was about a black leopard, or as it was then called, a black panther. These were the most feared and stories about them were very special. They are very hard to see at night as they slink about. One tale that was told in the dormitory as we lay in the dark on our beds was interesting that I feel I can now share.<br /><br />The Black Panther had made its kill the night before. The goat was not totally consumed so the great white hunter, the intrepid sahib bahadur, decided to sit up for it in a natural machan, which was no more than a comfortable spot on a tree branch with the trunk against his back. He got his three-cell flash light ready, mounted on the side of the shot gun with adhesive tape. The first hour went by and nothing materialized, but, he later admitted, that he became rather apprehensive and a bit fearful sitting there alone. The full moon came out and bathed the area in a silvery light so wonderful he could see for hundreds of feet down the trail leading to the place where the dead goat was tied to a low tree. He was nodding and almost falling asleep when he saw a motion far, far down the path. His adrenaline kicked in and his heart beat wildly. There, about one hundred feet down the road, heading directly toward him was the Black Panther. It walked slowly, almost languorsly, its long tail held high, moving from side to side as it came down the road. The hunter slowly raised his gun, getting ready to fire when the black monster came within thirty yards. His mouth was dry and he fought back the urge to shoot, wanting the kala baghera to be close enough for an easy kill. He was almost ready to fire when it meowed and rolled in the dirt directly in front of him. He was so startled that he fired and crushed, dalit, obliterated, the black house cat only a few feet in front of him, literally blowing it away with the full force of the LG cartridge from his twelve bore shot gun. (USA: OO Buck twelve gauge) Oh, there were many other stories told about leopards, but none of them about the black panther.<br /><br />The tiger is endangered in India, only a few thousand now remain in reserves. The leopard, however, is doing very well in its extensive range along the entire length of the Himalayas as well as in a variety of riverine, jungle locations. It is sometimes, but seldom observed in India’s wildlife reserves in Kanha, Kaziranga, Periya, Ranthambore and Sariska. It is highly adaptable, nocturnal and diurnal and usually moves away when disturbed as it is a secretive animal. It is a loner except during its mating season. Unlike the tiger, it seldom takes down huge herbivores like the sambar, nil guy or gaur, rather, preys on the spotted deer, kakar, monkeys, peafowl and a variety of smaller mammals. It is the ultimate stealth hunter, relying on its skill to approach its prey so closely that a more prolonged high speed chase is usually not needed, which is the case with the Cheetah. Interestingly, the leopard has a traditional Indian name from which the name Cheetah may have been derived, mistakenly. The leopard was called by another name, chita, in ‘ancient’ times, not the chita of suttee; that is quite another story.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-27755564469110492392008-06-20T14:28:00.000-07:002008-06-20T14:35:47.080-07:00Pakistani and Indian Madrasas - A Fine Balance?Originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/06/14/091546.php">Desicritics</a><br />Have the political environments of madrasas in two different countries affected their programs and curricula? Has the development of madrasas in India, under a secular constitution since Partition, created religious education programs which have a different emphasis and intent from those across the border in Pakistan where these have developed under an Islamic state?<br /><br />Recent news reports from Pakistan about madrasas appear to center on whether these schools are supporting Islamic militancy and training young people to become involved with the Taliban. News reports from India about madrasas hint at another concern, how to remain viable institutions whose primary mission is to provide religious training to support the growth of Islam as a word religion within a secular political/social environment which allows for and protects any expression of religious belief for its citizens.<br /><br />My first personal experience as an adult with Islamic religious schools began in 1984 in Sukkur, Pakistan. During the early morning hours, after the first call to prayer, my colleague, a professional sociologist working with the Department of Agriculture, were invited to an Islamic school for young boys. The school was not far from the Indus River near the famous Mir Ma’Sum Sha Minaret Minaret.<br /><br />I will call the teacher Alhaji Mohammed. He sat on a mat in the shade under a mango tree. Twenty children sat in front of him on the hard-packed ground. Alhaji Mohammed held a long narrow cane in his right hand and appeared to be half asleep. The boys were reciting, pointing to the Arabic words written out on their chalk boards, Surah 4, vs. 74. Let those who fight in the way of Allah… sell the life of this world for the other. Whoso fighteth in the way of Allah, be he slain or be he victorious, on him We shall bestow a vast reward. (Translation into English by Mohammed M. Picthall, 1953, Karachi.)<br /><br />All the voices chanted in unison, pointing to the words with their index fingers, their bodies swaying backwards and forwards. One child, a skinny little lad, began to fall asleep and his finger sagged in front of his slate, his eye lids drooped. The long slender cane held in Alhaji’s hand snaked forward and tapped the hand smartly. The boy awakened, and now crying, pointed to the Arabic words. The children next to him raised their voices and sang out the words more vigorously, reinvigorated by the tears. In the background the second call to prayer of the day sounded from the short minaret.<br /><br />Alhaji Mohammed rose to his feet and with much flourish, adjusted his loose flowing robe, set his embroidered Quetta style hat on his head and walked across the street, followed by the children. At the mosque they all began the ritual washings, hands, feet, face and ears. The teacher set the example and the boys all followed suit. He took a handful of water and slurped it into his mouth, swished the water around, turned and spat onto the soil behind him. The boys rinsed their mouths and spat.<br /><br />After namaz the group dispersed. I asked Alhaji to tell me about the lesson the boys were learning. “What is the meaning of the Surah the boys were learning today?” I asked in Urdu.<br /><br />He turned to face me abruptly, (his orange colored beard signaling that he had made the haj to Mecca) and frowning, repeated the Surah in Arabic. Then feeling satisfied, he said, “That’s it.”<br /><br />I persisted. “Tell me in Urdu what the meaning is so I can understand what the boys were repeating and memorizing.”<br /><br />“It only has real meaning in Arabic, the language of Allah. To say the holy words of the Prophet, peace be unto Him, in another language, removes the meaning from the Surah. The boys learn the Arabic. After some years of learning, they feel and understand and believe the meaning when their Arabic improves.”<br /><br />“Do they get classes in the Arabic language as well, so the meaning of the Arabic words they are reading makes sense to them?”<br /><br />“Yes. At the end of the day when it is cool, I teach them some Arabic. I will teach them the word fight today. Then tomorrow when we once again repeat the Surah they will understand the meaning. First the holy words in Arabic, not in Urdu, then later the meaning.” He now smiled and I got the feeling that I was being dismissed.<br /><br />Growing up in northern India near the North West Frontier Province, was my first introduction to Islamic schools, most of which were connected to mosques. Entering such places required that we take off our sandals. The stone floors against our bare feet was pleasant as we walked about, led proudly by the Imam. The stone steps leading up to the top of the high minaret of the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore were cool against our bare feet. From the top we could see the huge open area where thousands came to pray. In one shaded corner a group of boys and their teacher were having a lesson from the Koran. Their high voices carried up to us as they repeated a surah, over and over again, learning by rote the verse of that day, in Arabic.<br /><br />I had not heard the word madrasas until after September 11, 2001. Then the frequency of its usage made it a household word and a concern for those involved in formulating U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East and Southeast Asia. Madrasas came into focus when it became known that several Al Qaeda members and Taliban leaders had developed their rather radical political views at madrasas in Pakistan. Words such as Islamic extremism, militancy and terrorism and Taliban were frequently used in conjunction with madrasas. I learned that Taliban meant student in Arabic. Then we heard that one such school in Pakistan near the Afghan border had been bombed by American forces, and there were pictures of Pakistanis holding up signs in protest against George Bush and America. (A fictional account of such a bombing appeared in my novel One Way to Pakistan) That madrasa was located in the Bajaur tribal region. Reports in the USA indicated that 80 militants were killed in the 2006 air strike. The reaction in Pakistan to this military violation of their territory was immediate and strong. Anti-American feelings ran high. They also ran high yesterday when it was reported that Pakistani people were killed in a raid on the Afghanistan border with Pakistan. Such incidents feed the fervor against one who is called the Great Satan.<br /><br />In Pakistan, most madrasas offer free education to their students. Thus, many poor families are eager to send their sons to such schools, which in large measure, are supported by alms-giving, known in Arabic as zakat. In some instances, little is provided to the students, who are told to go and beg to help support themselves through the gifts of others who consider giving alms to such children a good deed.<br /><br />A small number of madrasas are for girls, although I have never personally seen one. I recently read Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson which commented about Islamic religious schools, madrasas, and their financial support from foreign sources. The approach taken by Mortenson through his efforts to develop 55 schools in Pakistan, primarily for girls, was a means to fight extremism and terrorism. I found the first part of his book inspiring. To educate young women gives them a window on the world through literacy, writing and dealing with numbers, it provides them with improved means for keeping healthy and rearing children and this is a most positive effort toward promoting peace, one school, one girl at a time.<br /><br />In Pakistan there are over 12,000 madrasas. (See the CRS Report for Congress,”Islamic Religious Schools, Madrasas: Background” by Christopher Blanchard, Jan.23, 2008)<br /><br />“In an economy that is marked by extreme poverty and underdevelopment, costs associated with Pakistan’s cash-strapped public education system have led some Pakistanis to turn to madrasas for free education, room and board.”<br /><br />This report states that some madrasas have been used as incubators for violent extremism. Some foreign students were enrolled in Pakistani madrasas. In 2006 there was a report that Pakistani authorities would deport 700 of the remaining foreign students unless they got permission from their own governments to remain in Pakistan with appropriate visas. Many of the 12,000 madrasas in Pakistan teach only Islamic studies. In September of 2007, according to the CRS report mentioned, “…many Pakistani madrasas have taught extremist doctrine in support of terrorism.” The curriculum, if it is only Islamic in nature, does not provide students with contemporary knowledge about the world outside Pakistan, about its neighboring state India from which Pakistan emerged after partition or other nearby non-Islamic countries. One teacher in such a school said, “The aim of our religion is to reach god.” The CRS report quoted Samuel Haq who said, “We only impart religious education here. The students later take up arms on their own.”<br /><br />Though it is matter of conjecture of what is actually taught by religious teachers in Pakistani madrasas, since none of us will sit and hear what the teachers teach, their own statements are that these schools impart religious information only. This is of sufficient concern to many in the world at large. A curriculum which teaches that there is only one right way and this is based on religious belief, which by its nature is exclusive of other ways of thought, of other belief systems, exclusive of others who live out their lives in the greater modern world, this fundamental religious stance can produce graduates whose world and life view is conservative and focused on intolerance. Reportedly, some Pakistani madrasas teach subjects other than religion. Some teach computers and local languages, however, their mainstay is religious training. Some madrasas in other countries are seeking government approval for awarding bachelor and master’s degrees in Islamic religious studies, or as one stated, Islamic Religious Science.<br /><br />If the truth can only be learned in Arabic from religious documents such as the Koran and the madrasas’ curricula rejects secular information based on scientific enquiry and holds it to be suspect or dangerous, it is logical that such students will form highly conservative social understandings, including negative consideration and respect for other religions or ideas such as the emancipation of women. Militancy, extremism, crusades and/or jihad frequently emerge from rigid belief systems.<br /><br />In Pakistan, twelve thousand madrasas are teaching youngsters in schools which have funding from other Islamic states, including Iran. As hundreds of young men leave these schools each year, they merge into society at large and seek work and life causes with religious zeal and philosophical underpinnings that, from this writer’s point of view, bodes ill for their participation in the development and support for a liberal, secular and democratic society. Madrasas are proliferating in many Muslim states, including Bangladesh and Afghanistan, and nearby neighbor, India, but there are differences, both in curricula and emphasis.<br /><br />There has been a long debate about madrasas in India going as far back as 1947. The volume of literature about this is large and experts from within the madrasas system, as well as social critics about the system, have and are continuing to speak out about the need for reform of the madrasas’ curriculum. Such dialogue, which emerges out of Indian religious diversity, is healthy and keeps alive the issues. Dialogue, forces conservative elements to constantly review their programs and their teaching approaches in order to bring these more in line with modern secular-political needs which are in support of freedom of religion as expressed in the Indian Constitution. Madrasas enjoy this freedom to express their religious beliefs and teach these in Indian madrasas.<br /><br />R. Upadhyay’s article published in Feb. 2003 presents an interesting review which leans toward reform and change, "Madrasa Education in India"<br />Is it to sustain medieval attitude among Muslims? “A recent circular of Government of India to keep watch on the anti-national activities of madrasas raised many eyebrows in the country. But if we look back to the historical developments of madrasas in India this Islamic system of education has all along been playing a prominent role in keeping the movement of Muslim separatism alive in this country. The British also suspected them. Contrary to it the Post-colonial India for reason best known gave special constitutional privilege for the autonomy of madrasas. But the manner in which the madrasas promote medieval attitude among the Indian Muslims at the cost of secular education needs to be checked. In fact, orthodoxy, religious conservatism and obsession to medieval identity remained the main focus of Madrasa education in India.<br /><br />Muzaffar Alam’s article, Modernization of Madrasas in India, The Hindu , April 23, 2002 reviews how various changes are being made to bring madrasas up to modern standards, yet still remaining true to their basic principles of training youth in the fundamentals of their faith. This same debate is well presented in the book Bastions of Believers: Madrasas and Islamic Education in India by Yogender Sikand, New Delhi, Penguin 2005. The book utilizes a historical research perspective to describe the growth of this institution and summarizes what the stated intents of madrasas have been.<br /><br />The debate centers on the words modern and liberal vs. medieval and radically conservative. One writer speaks of new trends in madrasas as being efforts to teach the youth Islamic ‘science’, which made me smile, thinking of the Christian Science Church movement in the United States which is a distinct form of religious fundamentalism with an approach that is far from what is globally considered to be scientific. (However, to be fair, the Latin, scio, from which our word science came, simply means, knowledge in the fullest sense of the word.) But still, the terms science and religion seem to grate when put side by side in this context. Some writers debate whether Islam and democracy are compatible with each other. One thing is certain, the madrasa movement is growing and moving south through India to Sri Lanka and Indonesia. It is a grass roots movement supported and fed by funds from Iran, Saudi Arabia and local donations.<br /><br />How many young men and women are being taught in Indian madrasas? That seems to be a hard question to answer. Many such schools are not registered and what is taught in them is not monitored nor approved by government, thus counting them or defining what they are is a difficult task. One source suggests that there are 1.5 million children and young adults in Indian madrasas. Another source says there are between 25,000 and 40,000 madrasas scattered across India. (Consider that in Pakistan there may be only 12,000 of them.) I found the blog by Yoginder Sikand, “<a href="http://madrasareforms.blogspot.com/2008/05/islam-and-democracy-lessons-from-indian.html" target="_blank">Islam and Democracy: Lessons from the Indian Muslim</a>” interesting. He debates whether or not Islam and democracy are compatible with each other. Sikand presents Ali Naswi’s point of view this way.<br /><br />In contrast to Muslim liberals, and echoing the views of the Islamists, he insisted on the need for an Islamic order in order to implement the laws of God. However, he stood apart from most Islamists by arguing that the Islamic political order could come about in India only in some remotely distant future. Rather than directly struggling for it at the present, he believed that the Muslims of the country should accept the secular and democratic Indian state as it was and focus their energies in trying to build what he saw as a truly Islamic society, on the basis of which alone could an ideal Islamic political order come into being.<br /><br />Madrasas in Pakistan emerged from within an Islamic religious state are not a mirror image of those in India. There is a point of view that many of these madrasas are hotbeds for the training of radical religious elements and this is expressed almost daily in Pakistan newspapers. Many of the Indian madrasas have expanded their curriculum to include a wider number of what could possibly be termed secular subjects, however, all are taught with the intent of understanding and giving meaning to the teachings of Islam. What could be called the ‘core curriculum’ is the Holy Koran. Hopefully, madrasas in India will be influenced by the various religions around them, by the secular political nature of India and by the great philosophical and religious tolerance that embodies Hinduism.<br /><br />With the growth of dynamic and expansive secular democracy in many parts of the world there appears to be a concomitant growth of more dynamic and radical religious teaching opposing the ‘heretical secularism’ and its perceived dangers. The ‘Great Satan’, America and its war with Afghanistan and Iraq have polarized religious attitudes and have created responses of hatred for the ‘enemy of Islam’. Madrasas are one of the few places that young people can be taught to uphold and struggle, make a jihad against secularism. Though the word jihad has a few meanings, one is certainly to stand up and fight in a cause for the truth as perceived by Islamists. Ali Naswi’s point of view is to wait, and this differs from many in Pakistan. I can still hear Alhaji Mohammed’s voice. Whoso fighteth in the way of Allah, be he slain or be he victorious, on him shall We bestow a vast reward.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-80940854146776042722008-05-28T11:25:00.000-07:002008-05-28T11:28:16.364-07:00Marriage, Loving StyleOriginally published 5/27/08 on<a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/05/27/114342.php"> Desicritics</a><br />I found out yesterday that a good friend of mine, with whom I sing in the Unitarian Universalist Choir, had a mixed marriage. “My wife is Jewish” he said. I frowned, not having put two and two together. Later when I spoke to her she told me that among Jews, to marry a gentile was generally prohibited and that for women particularly, it was important to marry within the Jewish community.<br /><br />Interracial marriages are looked down upon by many world-wide communities yet today; they are looked down upon or ‘prohibited’ because of religious beliefs, because of caste, economic reasons or social pressure. Even in the good ole’ USA such prejudices still exist. The United States Supreme Court’s 1967 decision struck down anti-miscegenation laws: the law changed previous prohibitions. Even so, it took Alabama’s Supreme Court until the year 2000 to finally change its anti-miscegenation laws. Imagine this, until eight years ago; it was a felony to marry a person of a different race! We are talking here about race, not caste, not difference in religious beliefs. But these are often intertwined, as in the case with my friend, who has a ‘Jewish’ wife, which implies both religion and ethnicity. Is there some parallel to the caste system?<br /><br />We celebrated the anniversary of the 1967 Loving Day two weeks ago by having lunch with our friends. We raised our glasses and toasted Mildred Loving. Who in the world is she? Mildred Loving was the black woman who got this all started here in America. She was a black woman who lived in Virginia and fell in love with a white man and married him. One night, according to a New York Times News Service Report, quoted by The San Diego Union-Tribune, May 11, 2008,<br /><br />“Mrs. Loving and her husband, Richard, were in bed in their modest house in Central Point the morning of July11, 1958, five weeks after their wedding, when the county sheriff and two deputies, acting on an anonymous tip, burst into their bed-room and shined flashlights in their eyes. A threatening voice demanded, ‘Who is this woman you’re sleeping with?’ Mrs. Loving answered, ‘I’m his wife.’”<br /><br />The marriage certificate was produced but the sheriff responded that a certificate from Washington D.C. was not valid under Virginia law between people of different races; an inter-racial marriage performed outside of Virginia was not valid. The couple later pleaded guilty to having violated a Virginia law called the “Racial Integrity Act.” Their one-year prison sentence would be suspended, they were told, if they left the state and did not come back to Virginia, together, for 25 years!<br /><br />Marriage, Loving style, had been hit hard. The man who sentenced them, a certain Judge Leon Bazile, said something like, if God had meant for blacks, coloreds and whites to mix it up, he would not have placed them on different continents in the first place. He told them that as long as they lived they would be known as felons. Good gracious!<br /><br />In 1963 Mrs. Loving decided to act; she could no longer stand being ostracized. The civil-rights movement was in full swing and according to some reports she wrote to Attorney General Robert R. Kennedy for help. She was referred to the ACLU, the American Civil Liberties Union, and the rest is history. Eventually their having pleaded guilty to the Virginia anti-miscegenation law was set aside, struck down. The Supreme Court’s 1967 decision struck down anti-miscegenation laws, but Southern states were slow to change their constitutions. It took Alabama until the year 2000 to change. Now all children born to cross-race marriages have inheritance rights and their heirs can receive death benefits. Men and women equally. Imagine that.<br />All of the above hits very close to home. As a teenage lad living in Ludhiana, in the Punjab of India, I played tennis with one of the medical students in the Women’s Medical College. Between serves and doubles matches, my sister being my partner, I met and talked to a young Christian Indian woman who was in her first year of medical school. Let us call her Lavina. We spoke in Urdu of many things, piar, mohabbat, ishq; perhaps sweet things like laddus and gulab jamuns. She laughed at my jokes in English. We continued to play tennis, eventually playing singles. (See my novel, Lalla and Lavina, Stories of Indian Women, Authorhouse Press) It was very evident that my father was upset with me when representatives of her family came to discuss marriage arrangements. Upset is a mild word. He was furious, asking, “What have you done?” No marriage was arranged. I did speak in Urdu to her father and apologized for having played tennis and for talking with her alone. I was forbidden to play tennis. I never saw her again. Writing that still causes me pain.<br /><br />My father had frequently talked to me about what he called ‘The American Creed.’ But thinking about my father’s strong negative attitude toward the possibility of his son being involved, and heaven forbid, marrying an Indian woman, still hurts deeply. The famous author, Gunnar Myrdal (1944) who wrote, “An American Dilemma” presents a scholarly treatise on this very subject.<br /><br />At the center of Myrdal's work in An American Dilemma was his postulate that political and social interaction in the United States is shaped by an "American Creed.” This creed emphasizes the ideals of liberty, equality, justice, and fair treatment of all people. Myrdal claims that it is the "American Creed" that keeps the diverse melting pot of the United States together. It is the common belief in this creed that enable all people — white, black, rich, poor, male, female, and foreign immigrants alike — with a common cause and are thus able to co-exist as one nation. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/An_American_Dilemma:_The_Negro_Problem_and_Modern_Democracy" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>. Co-exist yes, but marry?<br /><br />I am very aware of the thousands of marriages between Indian women and British men during the period of the British Raj. I am aware of the history of Anglo-Indians in India. I had many good friends and teachers who were Anglo-Indians and have broken bread with them in their homes. And yes, I am very aware of the meaning of raising children who are of mixed blood in a culture that labels this miscegenation and isolates them. How else can I say it? If you visit my web site you will see a picture of me with my loving wife of 33 years, Dr. Lily Chu, an ethnic Chinese, and our wonderful, ‘mixed blood’ son.<br /><br />We are about to embark on a historic period in American history as we prepare to select candidates for both the Republican and Democratic Parties. Barack Obama, if he is elected, would become a world leader, a key figure in current global history, and imagine, he is a man of ‘mixed blood’, his mother a white, and his father a black from Africa. We have come a long way since 1967! The road has not been easy. Marriage, Loving style, will seldom occur elsewhere, globally. Social value systems, caste, cultural styles, legal systems will prohibit it. But I am very glad that Mrs. Mildred Loving wrote to Robert F. Kennedy and started a whole new cultural era, one that is exciting to live and love in. A toast to Mildred Loving!Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-27612027689316208992008-05-28T11:23:00.000-07:002008-05-28T11:25:04.144-07:00Patang Fever - For the Love Of KitesOriginally published 5/15/08 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/05/15/095552.php">Desicritics</a><br />Two annas! I clutched the strangely shaped squared cupro-nickel coin in my hand as I stared at the display. Noab Din our cook held my other hand and pointed first at one, then another marvel, each a different color of paper, each slightly different depending on the whims of the kite makers.<br />I glanced up when I heard the rattling snarl of paper being buffeted by the breeze. Above my head, four kites flew; their strings invisible to me. It seemed that each had a life of its own swooping and descending with dizzying speed only to magically turn and climb into the sky again. Then one kite, a large green one, no longer flew but fell with swooping, sickening arches and caught by the wind was carried away. Under it a horde of children ran, shouting and pushing each other, eager to be the one to catch the falling treasure. I watched as the kite neared the earth, only to be snared by electric lines. Now it hung sadly out of the reach of the children beneath it. Instead of trying to retrieve it they picked up stones and pebbles and threw them at the paper, shouting each time a stone tore the green gauze.<br /><br />"I will take the red and white one." I pointed at a medium-sized beauty. "I will need a spool and lots of line covered with ground glass." I looked confident."Watch out. Wait until you learn to fly well before you try the glass covered line. You can easily cut your fingers, and then I will be in trouble with mem-sahib."<br /><br />Childhood memories make us what we are.<br /><br />What greater joy is there than to stand on the roof of your house and hold a line tied to a soaring kite above you? Basant! What joy. The breeze was good on this January day and it took my kite joyfully aloft. I let out the string too quickly and the kite twirled and sagged, then plummeted toward the earth. As soon as I stopped the reel from spinning the kite again reared upward. It was an early lesson; one can't rush joy and love. Now I let out the string more slowly, hoping to get my kite higher than all my neighbors.<br /><br />Patrus, my friend stood next to me giving instructions. "Not so high. Others will not like it and cut you down."<br /><br />Hardly had he spoken when a white, small kite moved toward mine and crossed my string and in a flash my kite was floundering in the sky.<br /><br />"Bo kata! Patang kat gayi!" The children screamed and began their chase after my descending shame.<br /><br />I stood dejectedly holding limp string and a spool almost empty. I began to wind up the string, feeling violated, cheated of my glory. "I will buy another and get glass on my string. I will come back and cut that white one down!" There were tears in my eyes.<br /><br />Basant! Spring in the Punjab. Kite glory in Lahore and kite madness in Taxila.<br /><br />Maryam Arif's comments in Pakistan Paindabad, (March 26, 2007) "Kat Gayi, Kat Gayi, Patang Kat Gayi" were wonderful to read. I can see her standing on a Lahore rooftop in the evening, holding a kite string and reveling in the joy of being shoulder to shoulder with the male members of her household experiencing the fun of the Basant festival. She asks, "Who owns this festival?" Good question. Perhaps before Partition such a question would never be asked, because Lahore, the city of delights was in and of India. But what about now?<br /><br />Where did all this high flying madness begin? Who has the ownership rights? Is this a purely Punjabi exercise? Did India fly kites before 1947? Why are conservative Islamists in Pakistan opposed to the fun of kite flying to celebrate the coming of spring?<br /><br />It was not madness that began it. There was a General Han Hsin in the Han Dynasty in China who, according to written records, flew a kite in 200 B.C. They had lots of bamboo, string and of course, fine silk cloth that was light and strong. Written records show that this Chinese cultural phenomenon was adopted by others over a period of time and kite flying, particularly in the spring was a custom that migrated to Japan, Korea, Burma and eventually to India.<br /><br />India really picked up on it and incorporated kite flying during Basant into their Hindu religious festivals. Basant was a time to honor deities, wear yellow clothing, eat yellow colored candies and fly kites that would soar high, lift spirits, give even the common poor man a chance to celebrate and have sky fun for a few paisa. Any kind of tamasha was a mechanism to forget for a brief time the drudgery, boredom and pain of living in poverty. Fun! How else could it be put?<br />"Fun is wrong!" Can you hear the mullahs shouting in Lahore about banning Basant, banning the flying of kites which leads one away from the important and serious considerations of service to Allah, leading Muslims away to the new-found secular freedoms of pagan and Hindu origin, leading young women to hold a string on a kite in Lahore and laugh and shout for joy?<br /><br />There is a lovely expression we used to use in Michigan. "Oh, go fly a kite!" When a person became too heavy, too dogmatic and would not listen to reason, we would say it. Very interesting! The very act of flying a kite moves one into a new realm, away from the seriousness of one's own arguments and philosophy to feel the tug on the string, hear the rattle of paper as the wind buffets the surface of the kite. There is another use of the expression of kite flying. "Come fly a kite with me!" This was written on a greeting card that lovers could send to each other. The image is beautiful, uplifting and wonderfully sensual, two kites flying side by side, each responding to the winds of love, uncontrollable invisible currents that move their colorful displays.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-31817150923454194832008-05-28T11:18:00.000-07:002008-05-28T11:22:55.967-07:00Sixteen Flies on a RopePriginally published 5/14/08 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/05/14/022332.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br /><br /><br />The white canvas tent was stained the color of mud and clay on its bottom. Touches of greasy hands had left their marks on the fabric which in turn had become magnets for dust. A capricious Nepali child, with charcoal in hand, had drawn two pictures at the back of the tent, perhaps of the owners of it, as the men depicted were too tall and all had strange hats on their heads. But the tent, when pitched under a tall Deodar Cedar looked inviting and spoke of restfulness, an escape from weary muscles, aching joints, a place into which one crawled for quietness, sleep, a place that smelled of often used sleeping bags and socks, almost stiff from use, stuffed into the bottoms that waited for the next hot springs to be washed and pounded a grey-clean.<br /><br /><br /><br />The tent’s ropes were anchored to stakes pounded into the soil, three on each side, one in the front and one in the back. During the day, the front rope was untied and hung loose, making entry to the tent easier, or if perchance a small tree grew nearby, it could be tied up high enough so that the occupants did not need to bend down to enter. This rope was a light brown color, not from dye but from the stains of a hundred hand-holds, hands that had just finished eating the leg of a Monal Pheasant, hands that minutes earlier had held the blood stained skinning blades now lying on the small folding table with bird specimens in various stages of being skinned and stuffed, hands that had held ink pens that leaked onto fingers that wrote the day’s diary, ‘Jumuson-Nepal, September, 1949.’<br /><br /><br /><br />These ropes, still wet from the light rain during the night, now sagged from the weight of their wetness, but when the sun shone bright and brilliantly, would once again shrink and resume their tightness.<br /><br /><br /><br />It was on this rope, tied to a small tree, that visitors arrived daily. When the men had left for a daily hike or hunting expedition to the lake near Pokhara, sparrows landed on the rope, a mother sparrow and a fledgling baby bird nearly the size of its mother, which sat and begged with a wide open yellow mouth to be fed; then waited for her return. Sitting fat bellied on the rope it defecated a white sticky dung ball which stuck to the cord. A small green caterpillar hanging from a gossamer thread swayed back and forth in the breeze until its perigee from some distant branch, brought it to the rope where it rested momentarily, then arched its green slender body and began the long, inching journey the length of the rope all the way to the tent, where it hesitated, then dropped again on a silken thread to be carried away by the breeze to another juicier landing place. The lizard, not more than two inches long, crawled out onto the tent rope and did two little push ups, then sat motionless waiting for flies.<br /><br /><br /><br />In spite of the open front flaps of the tent the temperature inside the tent became hot and humid and all the odors and aromas on bags, clothing and old boots filled the tent with fetid air. I looked up from my sleeping bag, now half out of the tent, resting on the ground in the shade, and studied the rope above my head. Sixteen flies were now the owners of the fiber highway, and from where I lay in the partial shade they looked like dark knots until one or another flew off, or until without foreplay or warning two mated for a frenzied moment and then remained in a coital bind that held them together until the female flew off, carrying her conjugal partner on her back to land on the tent flap some six feet away. Sixteen! I counted them again and now noted that all sat horizontally on the rope, all facing away from the tent. Some compulsion moved them to wash their ‘hands’ and then stroke their eyes and heads with their front feet as if ridding them of some unseen taint. All were common house flies except for one which was larger, a brilliant shiny blue-green. When this green bot rose in flight, its wings hummed and sang a tune known well to all who use the great out-of-doors as their toilet; all who remember with amazement that these ‘shit flies’, invisible, until fecal deposits graced the floor of the jungle, arrived in aggressive numbers, intent on some ghoulish quest. Fifteen; and one preening green blue-bot fly.<br /><br /><br /><br />A shadow of a flying vulture passed across the rope and in an instant the flies were gone, leaving the rope alone and lonely, but not for long. The breeze caught the opening of the tent and the sides billowed, pulling the rope taught each time air blew into the tent. The roof canvas now flapped and snapped and dust swirled near the entrance, filling my eyes and blowing sand into my sleeping bag so that I was forced to turn away with eyes tightly closed. Then as abruptly as the wind arrived, it left and there was a still, an almost breathless waiting until the next current found its way to my campsite. A bright red dragonfly, the largest I had ever seen, landed on the tent rope, less than three feet from my eyes. I watched it sitting motionlessly, noticed that its head was in constant motion, its compound eyes staring, first one way, then another, watching for flies. The sun reflected from its wings, yet shone through the diaphanous lace throwing a glow onto the rope beneath it as if igniting the fibers in pink splendor. I blinked and the creature was gone, for an instant, to return with a green fly in its mouth, held with two tiny legs as it consumed its prey. A vulture circled high and the pink dragon was gone with a flip of its wings.<br /><br /><br /><br />The tent-rope now looked black against the white snows of Annapurna behind it. The black line sliced the massif in two, as if a willful child had drawn a dark crayon across the picture in a travel book. Annapurna! From where I lay it stretched for some thirty miles and soared into the azure sky with its six major peaks, its summit reaching 26,538 feet, the tenth highest mountain in the world. ( Annapurna, in Sanskrit, Goddess of the Harvests; in Hinduism a symbol of fertility and a manifestation, an avatar of Durga.) The late afternoon sun shone against the snow-covered surface, now a slight orange- saffron tint. High, near its summit, strong winds blew a snow plume, like the plumed crest of a snowy egret which wavered and swirled in the late sunset.<br /><br /><br /><br />I could hear their voices now. “Kaseru. How has the Barkat Zaman* sahib done today? Did you feed him?” Dr. Carl Taylor, the expedition’s physician, strolled into the clearing and headed toward the tent. “Harold. How’s it going, old man?” He reached down to feel my forehead and withdrew his hand, his face slightly frowning. “Did you take the medications I set out for you?”<br /><br /><br /><br />“Yes,” I replied. “There were sixteen of them on the rope. The blue one got eaten. The baby shit on the line.” The words came tumbling out all at once.<br /><br /><br /><br />Later I could hear the other members of the Nepal Ornithological Expedition talking as they ate their meal that Kaseru had prepared.<br /><br /><br /><br />“No. It is really a mystery. Fever’s still at 104 degrees. Dangerously high. Until we get down to the plains, to Butwal or later in Ludhiana and have blood work done, I can only guess. Hemorrhagic fever, perhaps carried by the rats in the place we stayed in Jumosum, or typhus, or some strange parasitic disease.” Doctor Carl sipped the hot coffee in his mug. “Poor chap, hallucinating again. Rectal bleeding. All he could say this evening was, ‘Today about sixteen of them on a rope and the green one was eaten.’ Poor chap.”<br /><br /><br /><br />“Well,” said Dr. Robert Fleming, the expedition leader, “we may just have to have him carried out on a litter; Pokhara to Tansing, then on to Butwal. That is going to be some feat, carrying him over the Himalayas in a litter.”Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-30061212315643771482008-05-28T11:14:00.000-07:002008-05-28T11:18:53.510-07:00Lip Service: The Smile TrainOriginally published 5/2/08 in <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/05/02/004027.php">Desicritics</a><br />I have only watched the reconstruction surgery for a cleft palate and cleft lip twice, and it remains in my memory as if these occurred just yesterday. During my first time to watch I stood quietly, in awe, with some trepidation, observing my father do reconstructive surgery in the hospital in Taxila, India. I was 7 years old. The year was 1939. My father, Dr. Stuart Bergsma, a surgeon, performed the operation on a lad, about my own age, whose teeth appeared between incomplete upper lips. The surgeon's knife, as it parted the flesh was almost more than I could bear to watch. In an hour or less, the boy's lips were pulled together with sutures and his swollen flesh looked to me like a grotesque Halloween mask. I tried not to look away. He came to see my father two months later and brought some marigold flowers and said thank you. His lips were united, his smile, a mile wide, one of toothsome happiness!<br /><br />It was a clear day in the Himalayas. White clouds scudded across the sky. The Kali Gandak Valley of Nepal was a marvel to behold, the river water, from where I stood, looked like a silver band of mercury pouring down between black rocks. I stood next to a rock wall as another surgeon prepared to operate. This was the second time I saw this same operation. I was older, and this time I assisted with the operation in a limited way, having scrubbed, by handing the instruments to the doctor as required. The surgeon was Dr. Carl Taylor, a medical missionary of the Presbyterian Church. The operating table; a rough rock wall, suited the purpose well because of its height. A mat had been placed on it and the patient was lying on his back looking up. Villagers crowded nearby to see this amazing event. There was much talking and singing, but when the doctor picked up the scalpel to make the first incision the crown became silent. The town was called Tatopani, a small Himalayan village between Tansing and the border of Nepal near Tibet.<br /><br />In order to receive the services of Dr. Taylor, the youth, about my own age of eighteen, had hiked with us for six days, as Dr. Taylor and other members of the National Geographic Ornithological Expedition hunted for rare birds. On Sunday, our day of rest, Dr. Taylor performed surgery and held a day-clinic for others who had hiked along behind us.<br />It is hard to imagine what such an operation does to the life of those who were handicapped with such a noticeable birth defect, what it did for their future employment, education and even prospects of marriage. Many birth defects are fairly well hidden, particularly those which are the result of our genes, height, a tendency to get diabetes, obesity, heart problems and tone deafness. With such problems we face the world, literally. Our face sees other faces and immediate responses are made on the basis of what we observe. Blonde hair, dark skin, long nose, high cheek bones, big ears, baldness, all telegraph messages. A cleft lip, on the other hand, telegraphs messages from the viewer, of abhorrence, sorrow, distaste, even among some viewers, that of the hand of providence, to others of the process of re-birth; the afflicted person bears the stamp of the pain or shame of another life lived less gloriously before.<br /><br />This is where <a href="http://www.smiletrain.org/" target="_blank">The Smile Train</a>, India, comes in. In their latest 2008 bulletin on the web this is what they wrote.<br /><br />"Every year, 35,000 children in India are born with clefts - a gap in the upper lip and/or palate. Though completely treatable, less than half get the treatment they desperately need - only because they are too poor.Without corrective surgery, these children are condemned to a lifetime of isolation and suffering. Taunted and tormented for their disfigurement, they cannot attend school, hold a regular job or get married. Many are even abandoned or killed at birth.<br />The irony is that a cleft can be completely corrected with a simple surgical procedure that could take as little as 45 minutes and cost as little as Rs. 8,000.That's where The Smile Train comes in. We are the world's largest cleft lip and palate charity. Our overriding goal is make safe and quality treatment of cleft lip and palate accessible to the millions who cannot afford it.<br />Since 2000, The Smile Train has sponsored over 110,000 safe, quality surgeries across India, totally free of cost."<br /><br />Think about that, over one hundred thousand children have undergone surgery for cleft lips and palate, free. Compared to the billion people who live in India this may sound like a small number, but in reality it is a huge service to humanity, to the lives of youngsters who would be doomed to a life of torment. Children with such birth defects come from very rich families, very famous families, very, very poor families, all kinds of families. Nature is no respecter of persons. But the Smile Train does not do lip service to this problem; it reaches out with its service in a way that is inspiring. I am sure all of us have dropped a few coins into the hands of some beggars, trying not to see their misery and bent bodies, looking away in pity, or is it abhorrence, as the coin drops. But few of us have done what these Indian surgeons have done to bring life's blessings to so many.<br /><br />The Smile Train Partner of the Month is a man who for 42 years has helped children who had no place else to turn. A man who could be described as selfless and his name is Doctor Hirji Adenwalla from Kerala, India. For 42 years this surgeon has salvaged lives and has performed 7000 surgeries to help children with cleft lip and cleft palate. He performed these surgeries, this lip service, himself, free of charge. His record of service is truly remarkable. At a recent press conference for Smile Train he said, "The lessons that we learn from human misery are to love...To never forget and to never, never, look away."<br /><br />Line up all the smiles that are the result of this man's surgery and truly, there is a Smile Train a mile long.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-42197267337786782192008-03-02T14:55:00.000-08:002008-03-02T15:00:31.809-08:00Drag Queens - Political Bellwethers of Pakistan?Originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/02/29/111700.php">Desicritics</a> on Feb. 29th 2008<br /><br />Almost twenty years ago while traveling through Swat Valley, I stopped in a bazaar and two women approached me, tall women with heavy make up. They stood in front of me and asked where I was from in broken English. I replied in Urdu which set them off with high squeals and sexy wiggles. A crowd gathered. There is always a crowd when there is a tamasha. What a show this was, an American dressed in shalwar kameez, wearing a Pashtun hat, speaking Urdu, driving a Japanese car, talking to two six feet tall ‘women’ who were flirting like crazy and reaching out to feel blonde hair.<br /><br />“Do you take female hormones,” I asked. It was a fair question because they had asked me if I thought they were beautiful as they puffed out their bosoms. I nodded and rolled my eyes. Wah! The crowd laughed.<br /><br />“Yes. Yes. I do, but my friend Sheila here does not. She has not been a nar, male since he was castrated as a child. She is a eunuch.” I looked at Sheila and my gaze embarrassed her; she turned away shyly, but then returned my gaze and lifted her eyebrows in a question mark. The crowd of children echoed the word eunuch, hirja.<br /><br />“Do you sing and perform?” I asked.<br /><br />“Yes. Yes almost every night. We have even performed in the famous Nishtar Hall in Peshawar when we were younger. We were very famous!”<br /><br />In the Northwest Frontier Province where I spent my childhood, I had seen many, many men dressed as women, in drag as we say in the States. But not really in drag. My parents always looked away and did not answer our questions about tall women in drag. Cross dressing implied ‘functional’ men dressed as women. I was informed later by my father that most of the men who dressed like women, were eunuchs, and if not, were effeminate, and often homosexual. He was comfortable about this reminding me of the ‘eunuch of Ethiopia’ who was forced to carry Jesus’ cross.<br /><br />Already my readers are squirming. Drag, eunuch, homosexual, effeminate, cross dressing… these are only mentioned in whispers by the men in parties or away from the family. Such are not discussed within family, within ear-shot of wives and children, particularly the word homosexual; that term had a special taboo, it was unthinkable. But in Pakistan, since its inception in 1947 and in the NWFP where I grew up, many men had a penchant for young boys, and beautiful men as they had throughout history. Check your history books about the Emperors of ancient India, who their favorite entertainers were. Oh, heaven forbid another term, pedophilia in India!<br /><div align="left"><br /><em>“In a society that strictly segregates women and men, these transgender musicians perform for male audiences—at weddings and other social occasions, swinging their hips in suggestive gyrations.”</em> Dancers Cheer Islamist Defeat in Pakistan Vote, by Yaroslav Trofimov, The Wall Street Journal, Feb. 26. 2008. </div><div align="left"><br />This article suggests that the new election results in the NWFP of Pakistan are harbingers of change for cross-dressers and entertainers who had in recent years been prohibited, that a new era of more liberal thought and attitude toward dancers will now become a reality because the people in Swat have voted against Islamic militants who banned music, bombed and burned stores that sold video tapes, prohibited suggestive signs advertising with sexual overtones, and worst of all prohibiting the sale of those suggestive very evil Indian Bollywood movies and videos in which young women dance with faces exposed and hips and breasts moving suggestively. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">The Wall Street Journal article suggests that there may be a return to ‘normalcy’ so that the featured entertainer, Adel, will be able once again to perform in Peshawar’s Nishtar Hall; a great step forward toward normalization of social activity.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Does the irony of all this leap out at you as it does for me? Normalization of social activity? So what is normal? Concealing women within society to the point that the normal urge for heterosexual interaction must be satisfied with men acting as women singing in falsetto voices and wiggling their hips and breasts to satisfy the prurient needs of a sexually repressed society? Even more, the ‘dancers cheer’ is a bellwether of political-social change. What an irony.</div><div align="left"><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bellwether" target="_blank">A bellwether</a> is any entity in a given arena that serves to create or influence trends or to presage future happenings. The term is derived from the Middle English bellewether and refers to the practice of placing a bell around the neck of a castrated ram (a wether) in order that this animal might lead its flock of sheep. </div><div align="left"><br />Now the bells are around the ankles of Pakistani eunuch ‘cross dressers’; castrated rams that lead the flock of sheep toward political change. What a beautiful image. But in the same newspaper the headline shouts, PAKISTAN LULL IS SHATTERED, and reports that insurgents are receiving renewed attention in the assassination of Lt. General Mushtaq Baig, an eye surgeon who headed the Army Medical Corps. Insurgents; such a convenient term for cowards who hide behind religious convention and dogma to exert control, even to the extent of assassination and heaven forbid, the closing down of YouTube and repression of cross-dressing dancers. </div><div align="left"><br />Dancing bellwethers! Long may they gyrate and presage future happenings, leading out the sheep in the repressed frontier along the Afghanistan border.</div>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-60088637308327318412008-03-02T14:45:00.000-08:002008-03-02T14:55:12.316-08:00Mother Teresa's PrayerOriginally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/02/04/120339.php">Desicritics</a> on Feb. 4, 2008<br /><br />Puja, worship, invocation, prayer, namaz, dua, salvat, bhajan, meditation, praise, astute; the words are not synonymous. Each person involved in such acts brings with him or her personal understanding, personal cultural experience and personal interpretation of the reason for such acts. Each mind and heart experiences worship differently through the interactions stemming from experience and existence, dare I use the word, existentially. Each worshipper has a cognitive set, emotional baggage, cultural learning. Even the artifacts which surround the one performing namaz are totally different. How utterly different is the Badshahi Mosque from the Indian temple mandira, such as the Gopuram of South India! The motive for the prayers may vary as well. Some pray for a special blessing, some for forgiveness, some for physical health, and some even for wealth. A few pray to praise, repeating over and over how wonderful and powerful God is; are they hoping He will hear their praises and recognize their obeisance for… Others mutilate, flagellate themselves hoping that will show their devotion and thus garner something from Allah.<br /><br />For one, with eyes open staring at a lingam, the statue, the bringing of flowers, the pouring of oil, the bowing and chanting may represent hope, a wish that a power greater than self will look with favor and grant the supplicant’s mundane yet heartfelt desire; to bear a child, to overcome an illness, to feed a family. To another who kneels in the cathedral with eyes closed to shut out earthly and physical surroundings, prayer may be a means to commune with God almighty on a one-to-one basis, to request forgiveness for sins, to give thanks to a personal God who attends, listens to; such a one prays for answers, gives praise, extols, and murmurs in the ear of the Almighty, hallelujah. Among hundreds gathered together in Lahore to perform namaz, to prostate themselves and intone holy words is to carry out the meaning of islam, subjugation of self before the one god, Allah and commune with other faithful and extol the attributes of the Almighty, the Merciful. Others in Ludhiana may sit together and sing, hum, play drums and musical instruments and make a joyful noise to khuda and feel the fervor of worship in bhajan, become invigorated with the eternal rhythms.<br /><br />Mother Teresa’s personal letters published after her death reveal yet another meaning of prayer and worship. She expressed joy in 1931 when she took her first vows as a nun and wrote to a friend, “If you could know how happy I am, as Jesus’ little bride.” Those words evoke strong physical meaning, as does the act of prostration on the floor, arms and legs akimbo in the act of complete spiritual surrender to the bridegroom, Jesus, or walking into the church wearing bridal clothing. Some nuns wear a wedding ring.<br /><br />Teresa perceives a dialogue with the almighty.<br /><br />JESUS) Wilt thou refuse to do this for me?...You have become my Spouse for my love—you have come to India for Me. The thirst you had for souls brought you so far—Are you afraid to take one more step for Your Spouse—for me—for souls? Is your generosity grown cold? Am I second to you? <br /><br />Teresa) Jesus, my own Jesus—I am only Thine—I am so stupid—I do not know what to say but do with me whatever you wish…” Time, September 3, 2007, page 39As a teacher in Calcutta with the Loreto Sisters on the way to Darjeeling she reported that Christ again spoke personally to her to work with people in the slums of the Calcutta with the poor, the sick the dying. “Come be my light.” <br /><br />She embarks on her mission after 1948 but soon thereafter she experiences abandonment. “Lord, God, who am I that You should forsake me? The Child of your love—and now become as the most hated one—the one—You have thrown away as unwanted—unloved. I call, I cling I want—and there is no One to answer—no One on whom I can cling--.”<br /><br />Teresa’s faith takes on a desperation stemming from unbelief, disbelief, emptiness because her prayers rebounded back to her. She felt totally cut off from God. She doubted the existence of her Lord. Yet she continued to do her work, continued to serve the needy, continued to hold her rosary and move the beads through her fingers.<br /><br />Now, in retrospect the armchair religious analysts make their interpretations, those who find divine purpose in the fact ‘that Teresa’s spiritual spigot went dry’; that she may have experienced abandonment by God by imposing it on herself; that she may have had a huge amount of cognitive dissonance, or that through all her struggles with faith that she “reveals herself as holier than anyone knew.”<br /><br />She fought against pride in her entire life of service, fought against her own unbelief and perception of darkness and emptiness when she tried to pray, when she sought One to cling to. But she did her work; her ‘prayer’ was her service, her giving, not vast sums to build a cathedral or support a religious cause, but in her poverty, her penury she gives what she has, herself, to the service of the untouchables. Her salvat, her mukt was her consistent fight against self pride. She perceived an absence of God, yet found salvation in service and dedicating herself to her work to the end through giving.<br /><br />Teresa had asked that her private letters and notes be kept secret after her death. They were not, nor were her requests carried out, the church over-ruled. Why? “Her Agony” in the Religion section of Time, written by David van Biema got lots of attention. It put her picture on the cover of this world class magazine to be read by tens of millions. It exposed her belief or lack of it, her secrets. Why? Her secret letters became tabloid stuff. (Who wants to read about quiet belief, joy, and peace?) What sells is trauma, agony, voyeuristic peeking into another’s struggle, and agony with faith. What could have been the church’s motivation to release her secret letters? They must answer.<br /><br />Teresa’s life itself was a dua, a prayer, a dedication to her fellow men, to alleviate the suffering around her, to extend a helping, healing hand to those who suffered. She had no money to give to charity, she gave herself. Whatever her inner spiritual, philosophical struggle was, it was hers and should have remained hers, as words spoken by a ‘sinner’ in the confessional should remain hidden. Though she received Nobel accolades for peace on earth, her greatest achievement resides in the lives of those she touched; it is a prayer through giving. We are not known for what we receive, what we get, what we obtain. We are really only what we have given. It is not her agony that should be celebrated or remembered, rather her gifts to humanity, her love for others. She was a little light burning in a tiny clay dish.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-36593538644120216072008-03-02T14:41:00.000-08:002008-03-02T14:45:51.256-08:00An Oath of Vengeance: Blood Demands BloodOriginally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2008/01/31/000835.php">Desicritics </a>on Jan 31, 2008<br /><br /><em>“Life for a life, eye for an eye, nose for a nose, ear for an ear, tooth for a tooth, and wounds equal for equal. But whoso forgoeth it (in the way of charity) it shall be expiation for him.” Koran, Surah 5, vs.45</em><br /><br />To live under the first part of this declaration, to believe it and to enact it in one’s life places the individual in a position which leaves little room for forgiveness, little consideration for peaceful negotiation and instills the need to keep score. Certainly the idea of “turning the other cheek” as taught by Jesus can not be considered. However, Jesus was a Jew and the teachings of the Old Testament were almost identical to those taught in Surah 5. The idea of an eye for and eye persists yet today in the minds of those who negotiate settlements never solved by Arafat, never solved by present day Israeli leaders. The life for a life belief, and I say belief, not philosophy, makes for self justification and the drawing of hard lines in the sand.<br /><br />On an individual scale, those who live and breathe this belief, carry their jambiya sheathed, ready for use against any who violate or step across that line. I remember traveling in Yemen Arab Republic and talking to men who carried their curved dagger at the waist, would never consider walking the street without it, they would feel undressed. So, I asked, when have you used your dagger? Why? Different men responded in different ways. One told me that if the dagger was drawn from the sheath to pay another back in kind, one who blasphemed, it must draw blood. Another said that if another’s dagger drew blood, then he would make an oath of vengeance and the aggressor would surely have his blood drawn.<br /><br />I lived in Northern Nigeria for twelve years. Almost daily I heard the Hausa words, ‘make an oath’, yi rantsuwa. Men, thus protected by the aura of such belief go about relaxed in their passive aggressive stance, knowing that others around them think the same way. I also lived in Pakistan for a number of years and listened to iman se, saugand which was spoken so frequently that it lost its sting.<br /><br />I was amazed when George Bush used the words crusade when speaking of the actions which would be taken against the Islamic terrorists after 911. Those too were similar words, ‘eye for an eye’ words. Those words drew a line in the sand. George said America would never rest until we got him, Bin Laden that is. They got Saddam but the misplaced vengeance continues in Iraq. The bad press Bush got about using the word crusade changed his language but not his actions. His immediate response was a telling one.<br /><br />Not long ago Bin Laden said, “Stop spilling our blood so we can stop spilling your blood.” Diane Christian said in her article, <a href="http://desicritics.org/buffaloreport.com/2004/040418.christian.blood.html">Blood Spilling</a>, “Osama bin Laden released a taped message offering to stop his jihad against European nations if they will stop ‘onslaughts against Muslims and interference in their affairs as part of the big American conspiracy against the Islamic world.’ It’s a noteworthy vengeance text, with a new peace-making twist. Bin Laden first claims his war is not terrorism but righteous revenge for brutality against his people and sacred places. He rejects the label of terrorist and returns it: By describing us and our actions as terrorism, you are necessarily describing yourself and your action…Our actions are reactions to your actions that destroy and kill our people in Afghanistan, Iraq and Palestine.”<br /><br />One religious cause against another; Israel and Palestine, or the United States against fundamental radical Islamists wherever they are, in Pakistan, Iraq or Palestine. But how is the common man on the street in Baluchistan or Kabul going to view the common man on the street in Chicago or Dallas? Will all Americans be thought of as aggressors against Islam? How is the average American getting on the sub-way in New York or the next plane to Seattle going to differentiate between those who are Muslim believers, peaceful believers who do not carry oaths of vengeance as part of their costume? Truly we are in a disturbing era in world history. War is being waged against unseen ‘enemies’, particularly those considered to be the ‘most dangerous kind’, those who carry their jambiya sheathed but ready to draw blood, or carrying hidden bombs strapped to their waists; and they can not be recognized on a Bombay railway station.<br /><br />Our family first left India in 1944, boarding a freighter in Bombay and making our way south all the way to Australia and then on to Los Angeles. During the War! By 1947 we had settled into an American home but each of us carried our ‘Indian’ selves with us. As a school child I learned quickly not to constantly provide answers about India, not to talk about India too much; even though the teachers’ smiles were patient with these new strangers. Now I carry with me my ‘desi’ self, carry it quietly and have for many decades. Does one ever lose the sense of what home meant? The point I am making is that each individual carries with him, her or his social-ethnic and emotional costume. But then Partition came!<br /><br />Our Indian homes had been in Taxila, Ludhiana and Sialkot. Partition came and as a child, I heard with disbelief the reports of horror and carnage at the new international border, brothers killing brothers and making solemn oaths of vengeance against those who slaughtered their loved ones. But how could the Indian child differentiate between the man getting on the Bombay train or the Lahore PIA flight to Quetta? There were a million wounds, much blood and memories which span generations. Even using the word Partition makes the listeners’ faces in Lahore or Lucknow, harden.<br /><br />The reaction over the years that followed 911 or 1947 are similar; hardening of the categories, solidifying the rationale for the barriers, giving credence to the arms build up and the need for nuclear weapons, justification for preemptive actions, except now the jambiya that are carried are no longer personal but national and the oaths are based on strange alliances and threats. “Leaders perform their bizarre public ballets making friendship over hatred and common terrorist enemy, ignoring their serious disagreements over the Iraq invasion.” (See Diane Christian’s new book, Blood Sacrifice, available from Amazon.com, Feb. 2008).<br /><br />Righteous violence and vengeance is the mask that is worn, like the phantom of the opera, it both hides and reveals the wearer; it makes the identity of the wearer grotesque. Look at the faces of shop keepers in Murree, Pakistan, when the Kashmir problem is mentioned. Mouths turn down and harden, eyes become fierce as India’s guilt is considered. The Vale of Kashmir considered to be a ‘heaven on earth’ has become the basis for hatred, revenge and oaths of vengeance keep flying back and forth.<br /><br />I do not mean to preach, but why have the lessons of peaceful living been forgotten? Why are the noble ideals of ‘turn the other cheek’ forgotten; why is the teaching of serenity, peace and enlightenment of Siddhartha Gautama forgotten? Where is the belief of acceptance of all religions of Hinduism, promotion of non violence, the welcoming of all faiths, where has it gone? Where are these noble ideas and ideals? I think they are with us. But there is a second part to the verse. “But whoso forgoeth it (in the way of charity) it shall be expiation for him.” Vs.45b.<br /><br />Is there charity? Is there hope? Vivekananda: May he who is the Brahman of the Hindu, the Ahura Mazda of Zoroastrians, the Buddha of the Buddhists, the Jehovah of Jew, the Father in Heaven of Christians give strength to you to carry out your noble ideas. J.H. Barrows, In the World’s Parliament of Religions, (Ed.), Vol. II. Chicago, 1893, p.98Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-24072024280307961872007-12-30T22:21:00.000-08:002007-12-30T22:24:05.275-08:00Benazir's One Way To PakistanOriginally published December 28, 2007 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/12/28/155321.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br />Benazir seemed to have a premonition. “<i>When I first got elected they said, ‘A woman has usurped a man’s place, she should be killed. She should be assassinated, she has committed heresy.</i>” Heresy! Ah, such a convenient fall-back for the accusations made by self-righteous cowards. How does anyone counter the shouts of heresy from the fundamentalists, the radical Islamists who control through ‘irrefutable dogma’? Yes, she had a strong premonition, and according to many, also a strong sense of predestination concerning her life and death.<br /><br />“<i>If you believe in something, go for it, but know that when you go for it there is a price to be paid. Be ready to pay the price and you can contribute to the welfare of society and society will acknowledge you and respect you for it.</i>”<br /><br />Her return to Pakistan, her one way return from exile was performed with the knowledge of the grave danger she faced. Already the Taliban had called for her execution, yet in the face of danger she returned, made her way back. She had a strong belief that she could contribute to the welfare of Pakistani society. In her past record there were achievements of note; she worked hard for the welfare of women, the common women in Pakistani society, trying to improve their health, their family life through learning about reproductive choices. “I have always done my best to allow women to succeed.” But overshadowing all her efforts to create positive social change there hung the cloud of that terrible word, corruption, the arrest of her husband Asif Zardari and his long imprisonment and her own exile. Yet she returned and made her way back to Pakistan.<br /><br />She was a highly privileged person from any point of view. Imagine, being able to gain entry to Harvard at the age of sixteen! Imagine her home life, vast estates, huge houses, multitudes of servants; truly a person who came from a lineage of ‘feudal lords’, who as they moved about the country from village to village were met by common folk who sank to their knees and lowered their heads to the feet of Bhutto’s family members. Yet, in spite of this she had a deep love for her people, her country, and from what she often stated publicly, a belief that she could make a difference politically and socially.<br /><br />Her one way return to Pakistan was shadowed. “I put my life in danger and came here because I felt this country is in danger.” How true that statement was. She was a person with close ties to the United States, a person with a fine secular education, a person with an international life style, a modern woman in many ways, yet one who kept to her beliefs, her religion and faith to the very end.<br /><br />“<i>In the end, Bhutto’s secular credentials in a Muslim dominated Pakistan and her close ties to the U.S. could have been her downfall. Al-Qaeda and Taliban hated her close ties to Americans and her support for the war on terrorism.</i>” (NPR.org, Dec.27, 2007)<br /><br />Don’t be afraid, she had said. I just re-read <a target="_blank" href="http://www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/bhu0int-1">the text of her interview</a> with the Academy of Achievement, Oct.27th. 2000. It was a worthwhile exercise for me. Her words spoke her own eulogy eloquently.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-11222930839366467212007-11-07T11:54:00.000-08:002007-11-09T13:06:25.867-08:00India's Monkey BusinessOriginally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/11/02/002638.php">Desicritics</a> on 11/2/07<br /><br />When animals are endangered we take immediate notice. But recently I had to smile a bit, perhaps wryly, that those endangered were not mammals such as Asiatic Lions, vultures or River Dolphins but human beings. “Man Dies, Attacked by Monkeys in Delhi” “Tourist’s Spectacles Stolen by Monkey” “Monkey Business in Indian Airport” “Monkey Man with Iron Claws.” On and on, reports of huge numbers of monkeys in Delhi, perhaps more than twenty thousand, on the rampage. Stealing, snatching, entering dwellings, acting so aggressively that in spite of a reverence for the monkeys, people were picking up sticks and stones, even swords to drive them off, ward off the pests. Even tourists were endangered! My goodness, please not that! Such monkey business gets the attention of journalists, it makes interesting press. We read and shake our heads and smile and think, oh well, yes there is a problem but what can we do anyway?<br /><br />I read also that a high Indian official had banned the export and sale of monkeys to the United States because the treatment they received had violated the agreements for how monkeys were to be handled. Some reports stated that twenty thousand Indian monkeys a year had been shipped for medical research purposes, such as the development of Polio vaccine. Now exportation was to stop. No more monkeys to be sold, at high cost, to the States.<br /><br />What is the solution to this overpopulation problem of monkeys? Avenues for addressing the problem have been suggested by researchers but are then quickly dismissed. No killing of monkeys because of religious beliefs, Hanuman, and respect for monkeys in India! Removing and taking so many monkeys to remote areas was impossible and too costly and involved risks to humans and monkeys alike. Introduce larger Langurs which would chase them away; no, this only multiplies the problem. Birth control measures for monkeys would be difficult to administer and involve risks, moreover, would be costly and the drug’s effectiveness wears off unless consistent measures are applied. Sterilization of large populations of monkeys seemed difficult because of the lack of appropriate technologies to administer to so many animals safely, such as in tablet form. Injections require capture, sedation and risks to handlers. Status quo; no killing, no way to prevent monkey births, no way to sterilize and no way to sell them to an eager market. (It will take five years before the breeding facilities in the States will be able to supply the annual demand for monkeys for research and medical development.) Sounds grim.<br /><br />Perhaps there is hope, however; in drugs which could be inserted into food and given to monkeys that could sterilize them. So far there does not appear to be any such drug available. Implants and injections are used widely for sterilization, but orally administered drugs have not been developed and used as far as I can ascertain. Could it be developed and administered safely and not cause a social problem? So many aspects of our environment are controlled, actively and passively by new inventions. Why not invent a safe sterilization agent to help solve the monkey problem? Actions need to be taken because there are possible serious health issues involved in the monkey and human interaction equation. In such cases science could inform politics.<br /><br />The latest National Geographic Magazine, October 2007 has an excellent article by <a target="_blank" href="http://magma.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/2007-10/infectious-animals/quammen-text.html">David Quammen, “Deadly Contact”</a>, discussing zoonosis. Briefly, zoonosis means, “animal disease” and in this article it refers to such diseases in animals which jump to humans, “when pathogens leap”. Ebola Virus, SARS, HIV and even Monkey Pox are horrific diseases that ‘leap’ from animal populations to human beings with terrible consequences. Quammen makes the point that it takes certain viruses to leap across species barriers and they evolve quickly and are...”unaffected by antibiotics, they can be elusive, they can be versatile and they can inflict extremely high rates of mortality, and they are fiendishly simple.” He points out that close contact ... “between two species represents opportunity for a pathogen to expand its horizon and possibilities.” Pathogens take risks for the “big payoff”. Pathogens do not literally jump from one species to another; they are transported, carried by animals to people who contact animals in intimate ways. (I can hear the rattle of the small hand-held drum on the top of a stick announcing dholna that the monkey wallah is going to put on a show. Or is it the man with the dancing bear?) Intimate contact, prolonged intimate contact between animal species enhances the opportunity for viral transfer.<br /><br />Many deadly viruses have been involved in Zoonosis in Africa where very intimate contacts were made with monkeys and apes. Very intimate simian contact! People ate them. Bush meat is one means many Africans have to get animal protein. The monkey or ape meat is not always thoroughly cooked; the meat is handled with no regard for hygiene. Live animals, particularly baby animals, are kept when their mothers are slaughtered, especially apes and monkeys.<br /><br />I was surprised by one thing that was emphasized in Quammen’s article. Bats! Bats can carry deadly diseases such as the Hendra virus. Certain bats carry and die of rabies but can pass this deadly disease to other animals such as cows, dogs or directly to people. Hendra, the newly discovered viral disease is deadly. Bats, fruit bats, chimgadar, hang around in colonies and leave droppings of feces and urinate on grasses and leaves. Other animals such as cattle, birds and monkeys ingest feces and become infected. People eat the infected animals, or get into close touching contact with them and become infected. Many people eat with their hands, and many do not thoroughly wash before eating after handling dead animals. Africa has had tremendous problems with the spread of deadly disease through human contact with animals, particularly monkeys and apes.<br /><br />Monkeys are a really big problem in India and their close and frequent contact with people creates a situation that may be optimal for zoonosis, that is, if a given virus is present at the right time that allows pathogens to make that crucial leap. The problem, monkeys, is multiplying rapidly without control; good sources of food are available, human food, often provided by kind ‘faithful’ people. <i>Bandar log</i> are becoming more aggressive and their fear of humans has diminished so they encroach intimately.<br /><br />It is not just the nuisance factor of having too many monkeys around too many human beings. It is a matter of public health and safety. Solutions to the monkey problem can be found through scientific means. It is a matter of using reasoned care for precious human populations by India’s leaders, informed by researchers and public health workers. This is a problem that will only get worse. Monkey business is serious business.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-58121159707040720642007-11-07T12:11:00.000-08:002007-11-07T12:18:38.336-08:00Book Review: One Way to Pakistan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/142597421X?tag=pageturners0c&link_code=as3&creativeASIN=142597421X&creative=373489&camp=211189"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 203px;" src="http://images.amazon.com/images/P/142597421X.01._SX140_SCLZZZZZZZ_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />A very nice book review by <a href="http://www.swingingpuss.com/">Deepti Lamba</a> originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/10/30/134437.php">Desicritics</a> on 10/30/07<br /><br /><p>Although the central theme of the book <i>One Way To Pakistan</i> is about the expatriate experience and the existence of sex slavery in Pakistan, but the demons of Islamic zealotries and political fascism that plague and paralyze the characters' lives in the post 9/11 scenario have been woven into the story quite well. The lack of freedom suffered by both men and women is brought to the forefront by the author, whether they are rich or poor; each fears the long arm of the law and suffers under its brutal tactics that begins with the ominous ‘First Information Report for police files for not following the law’.<br /><br />To some, the Pakistani way of life may seem fraught with insecurity and religious intolerance, but in Harold’s book, while depicting such conditions he also shows that though a culture may be capable of following certain barbaric practices yet the spirit of human kindness continues to kindle in the hearts of those who are seemingly unimportant.<br /><br />The characters in his book are complex people - some in position of power are predatory, some are social climbers and others just leading lives of petty crime like evading taxes, stealing electricity or tucking away a sex slave in a remote ancestral home. In the complex scenario, seething with repressed sexual tension entwined with religious prohibitions, Harold explores the concept of innocence, whether of the expatriate women like Gretchen or Celia who believe in basic human goodness in men and land up getting roughed up and mauled, or of the sex slaves like Ankh or Leila, sold into slavery or abducted, who continue to be more humane in their simple lives and try to survive even in the worst of situations and also of young unemployed men like Dost who teeter at the brink of cynicism and hopelessness.<br /><br />In some ways this story could just as well have been set in India. While the urban centers are progressive and secular, the underbelly of our country is equally horrific where the rights of the vulnerable are easily trampled upon and rarely reported. Women and children frequently go missing from rural areas and are rarely reported. The recent report of the gang rape of a Dalit woman and the apathy of the political machinery shamed us into acknowledging the discrepancies within our own social fabric and the stigma the violated victim suffers from.<br /><br />While the book’s storyline is dark, by virtue of being an excellent writer Harold transports us easily from the US expat mansions to the remote villages of the NWFP. Through his words we are able to feel the vastness of a land still untamed, and also the wild spirit of the tribes who refuse to submit to Pakistani rule and their war against USA.<br /><br />Though the terrorism angle is brought in towards the end of the book, it does have relevance in the plot and is believable. The anger against the U.S. amongst the Pakistani people is palpable and the risks that the American women take, despite repeated warnings lands them in trouble time and time again. The question of assimilation itself does not arise when these people are basically visiting only for a short duration and it seems naïve to think that their one small victory makes any difference in the grand scheme of things.</p> In the end the book is about the insurmountable human spirit that endures despite all that life throws its way.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-52927532217159644402007-11-07T11:52:00.000-08:002007-11-07T12:09:53.336-08:00Indian Railways - Whose Legacy?Originally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/10/30/004034.php">Desicritics</a> on 10/30/07<br /><br /><p><i>“The Indian railways traverse through the length and width of the country; the routes cover a total length of 63,140 km (39,462 miles). It is one of the largest and busiest rail networks in the world, transporting just over six billion passengers and almost 750 million tonnes of freight annually. Indian Railway is the world's largest commercial or utility employer, with more than 1.6 million employees. The entire railway reservation system was streamlined with computerisation in 1995.”</i><br />Indian Railways Network, WorldJute.com.<br /><br /><i>"What an amazing system, one of the world’s greatest! Six billion passengers is a lot of people to transport. Indian railways provide jobs to more than a million and a half employees! How in the world did it get so big, so important to the social, economic and cultural life of India?"<br /></i>(See: <i>Exploring Indian Railway</i>, OUP India, New Edition, 1996, by Bill Aitken.)<br /><br />Here are a few statements to consider.<br /><br />India’s trains are a shining legacy of the British Raj, a track record of which they can be proud. The railway system unified India as little else did, sparking economic development and social sharing. The system of rails that ran from Calcutta to the Khyber Pass provided employment, training and a way of life for thousands upon thousands of Indians. The development of a railway system necessitated the construction of thousands of miles of steel tracks which sparked industrial development, galvanized the iron and steel producing industry. Trains became social levelers which broke down caste as millions shared crowded quarters. Trains facilitated the movement of vast numbers of Muslims who moved to Pakistan and millions of Hindus who moved to India.<br /><br />Without the railway system the present economic boom in India would never have taken place. The British Raj left behind an efficient and smoothly operating infrastructure, India Railway, second to none in the world! </p> <p>Sound familiar?<br /><br />True? It depends on who writes the history.</p><blockquote> <p>“<i>It is peculiar that so many educated Indians fondly remember the Raj. The British Empire ruled India for more than 200 years; British rule drained India of natural resources, induced famines by interfering with agricultural production and the distribution of foodstuffs, dismantled previously competitive Indian industries (e.g. shipbuilding, steel production), and acerbated poverty. The British parliament never considered conferring citizenship to Indian...</i>” <a target="_blank" href="http://vsequeira.blogspot.com/2005/05/indian-nostalgia-for-raj-whats-going.html">Indian nostalgia for the Raj; What’s going on?</a>,</p></blockquote> <p>To the vast majority of Indians who travel on the trains such statements may mean little. To Indians who remember an India before partition, the statements may spark fire. To the steel developers, such as at Tata, the track record of the development of the railway system is a history of struggle against the policies of the Raj which supported English steel mills, English manufacturing plants, to the detriment of economic development within India. Indian cotton was shipped out to be processed into cloth in England to bring back to sell to Indians who could have produced their own textiles. As far as being a social leveler, travelers developed their own systems of segregation. Do you remember?<br /><br />“<i>Hindu Pani!</i>” How often I heard the cry as a kid at the railway stations. I remember there was a third class, a second class, an inter-class and first class reserved compartments. I remember that only select folk were welcomed in the train stations’ catering tea-rest rooms. Being a gora sahib was all it took to be served there. When the British left India, the train system had been sorely neglected and it took the new Indian government some time to get it running well.<br /><br />Wait, let’s give credit where credit is due; what was started by the British was a legacy, an enduring infrastructure that facilitated future development. I was traveling in Baluchistan by car some years ago and came across a beautifully constructed railway bridge. On it was the year of its construction, 1932. That bridge is still functioning very well, thank you, as are thousands in India that were designed by British engineers and constructed in the early years of the development of the railway system. Yet it was Indians that took it over who made it what it is today.<br /><br />Trains played a huge role in the development of the United States. There are some parallels to the development of the Indian railways to that system.<br /><br />Do you remember the legendary American golden spike that was pounded into the ties at Promotional Point, when the two railway lines met, one coming from the east, the other from the west. At that time, the old saying, ‘go west, young man, go west!’ took on new meaning. No longer did a lad with a gun slung across his shoulder, have to hike two thousand miles, fight Indians, and critters to get to the WEST. Now, for the price of a train ticket people could move, and move rather quickly for the time. The date was May 10th. 1896.<br /><br />The transcontinental railroad unified America. It surely was an impetus in the great western movement; in the eventual development of California, Oregon and Washington. It enhanced the ‘gold rush’; it served the North in the Civil War. The railway became a social mixer; people of all walks of life used it for trade, for bilking others, for carpet baggers and snake-oil salesmen who used the train to find their markets. It made the slaughter of the American Bison a reality, since meat, skins and eventually bones could be shipped to the east by rail. Traditional folk, called Indians were strongly affected by the rail which brought droves of white men with guns into their territories, and eventually led to their being placed on reservations. “<i>The only good Indian is a dead Indian</i>.” Remember Custer’s last stand? It is true that the railway provided employment for thousands to build the track system. Remember the role the Chinese ‘slaves’ had in laying tracks? They slaved for pennies a day and died by the hundreds and then, imagine, government policies cut off Chinese immigration in the Exclusion Act and made interracial marriages illegal. The rails carried mail, bullion, building materials and fancy dresses and booze. Goods were shipped all the way from Paris to ‘Californ-eye-aye’. It is the stuff that old Western movies are made of.<br /><br />Thousands of miles of steel tracks had to be made for this American transcontinental railway line. The eastern steel mills roared; millions of dollars were made by tycoons who invested in steel mills, and they did not have to pay capital gains taxes. Yes, the railway was a significant factor in development of all types and opened communications from east to west. </p> <p>I have traveled across the United States on trains and I give them a B- for impact and A for effort. Yes, today the trains still operate, many with government subsidies. Amtrak’s stock is owned by the Federal Government and employs some 19,000 people. (Compare this to how many work for the railways in India.) But Henry Ford certainly changed American’s ideas of how to get around. Cheap cars, Model A and Model T Fords became affordable and people loved having their own way of getting from point A to B. The vast majority of cars that fill America’s highways have no passengers, only the driver. Roads, roads, ‘grand trunk’ roads were developed from north to south, east to west and began to eclipse the impact of the railroads. ‘A chicken in every pot’ and later a car for every home were the slogans. Extensive roads brought the development of huge trucks called semis (sem eyes) which currently carry the vast majority of goods within the country.<br /><br />In 1896 a gold spike was driven in America, celebrating the construction of a railway line across the country.<br /><br />What was happening in India at that time?</p><blockquote> <p>“<a target="_blank" href="http://www.indiarail.info/content/view/17/58">After the first passenger train run between thane and bori bander</a>, almost six years later, on March 3, 1859, the first Railway Line in North India was laid between Allahabad and Kanpur. This was followed, in 1889, by the Delhi-Amballa-Kalka line. Both Bombay and Calcutta were competing for the first train run in British India. One of the major reason behind the introduction of the Railways in India help movement of freight, particularly cotton, from the interiors Gujarat and Maharashtra to the coastal cities like Bombay. In the early 1850s British cotton and textile industry was booming and it was decided to tap the Indian cotton market. Bombay had a stronger cotton market and advantage of neigbouring cotton producing states and won the race for the first train. The services in Calcutta began the following year.”(Spelling recorded as written) </p></blockquote> <p>India beat the Americans at the railroad game, or was it the British in India? I was amazed at the speed of the development of rail lines in India. (Howrah Station for Hoogly, August 15th, 1885.); a small beginning of only 24 miles, but by 1880, an Indian railway system had developed which had a route of 9000 miles! What a lot of track to lay, what brutal labouring conditions! And you think the Chinese coolies in America had it bad.<br /><br /><i>“The Railways became the pride of British India, but their construction aroused fears that contributed to the great rebellion, or mutiny of 1857-8.”</i> (Illustration no.11) in <i>The Lion and the Tiger, The Rise and Fall of the British Raj</i>, Denis Judd, Oxford University Press, 2004.<br /><br />Judd’s book <i>The Lion and the Tiger</i> is a good read, including the animal imagery. Yet Judd mentions the trains only in passing in his book, seems to avoid dealing with them and the controversies which surrounded them in India’s struggle for nationhood. I think that the railway system was a real Tiger, the Sher Khan of India. ‘Sher Khan’ is a reality, and could well be the name for the vast Indian rail system that has developed since the British left; all 39,462 miles of it! (Excluding Pakistan)<br /><br />He does say, “<i>Trainloads of waylaid and murdered refugees steamed into their final destinations, the flies swarming over the corpses and the stench of death hanging over the carriages like a miasma.</i>” Page 188.<br /><br />The trains got bad press in 1947!<br /><br />Trains are very much an Indian institution. Billions of people use them. I can not imagine an India without trains. People of all ‘castes’, of all walks of life, of all social groups, move around in India on trains. Roads, such as the Grand Trunk Road may move millions, but the common man in India does not own a car and relies on trains, the grand trains, broad gage and narrow gauge, that service the sub-continent so very well.<br /><br />In recent years, communications along the railways occur in local vernacular; signs are posted in English, Marathi, even the Devanagari script. (Rajendra Allekar, <a target="_blank" href="http://www.irfca.org/articles/lang.html">Vernacular Languages in Indian Railways</a>). Schedules are computerized; trains have entered the digital age and few are steaming about it.<br /><br />The old Indian trains with their grand steam engines foster nostalgia, memories of sounds and sights that remain with me for a lifetime. Hissing steam engines, clouds of black smoke filled with coal cinders that got in one’s eyes, clothing and food; toilets that gave one a view of the filthy ‘tracks of time’ clacking below, bistar bunds rolled out in the luggage racks, Hardwar monkeys during the great Kumbha Mela festival that swarm over the loaded carriages and steal passengers’ food, wails of the train whistle in the night answered by jackals, and buying aloo cholay, oranges and sugar cane from vendors through the passenger windows at a train station. Water any one? <i>“Hindu Pani” “Chai, garam chai!” “Thande ande”</i></p> TRAIN TRACK TREASURES<br /><br />Wails of passing Lucknow train<br />Cries of jackal, answer in yipping tunes<br />Black night, black, life sounds far, far<br />Away, away, sleeping children awake, listen<br />Stir on squeaky charpai, tomorrow, tomorrow<br />Six copper coins on the table near the bed<br />King George Two Annas, tomorrow’s treasure!<br /><br />Shiny-topped tracks run hot, silvery, away-away<br />Listening ears against the metal, glistening eyes<br />Sea shell sounds, messages of distant motion<br />Rumbles of a metal surf, clacking waves of steel<br />Railgaree telegraphs, rumbling, excitement moving near<br />Excited smiles and nods; its coming, watch out, hurry!<br />Six coins placed, set carefully on the tracks<br /><br />Hissing, chuffing, rumbling, puffing, hooting<br />Get away, away! Black and charging it comes<br />Annas neatly laid two feet apart; stand back!<br />Engineer waves and people hanging from doors<br />Shouting, wind blows dhotis, black smoke billows<br />Steam escapes in short pants, a track star.<br />Pistons push, push, huge iron wheels rumble<br />Coins flatten, flatten, flatten small chappaties!<br /><br />Tracks, all shiny with birthday cake medallions<br />Six copper discs shine, sparkle brightly in the sun<br />Children shriek, pick up their track treasures<br />One by one, compare, laugh, rub surfaces<br />Smooth against their cheeks, stroking cool flat discs<br />Busy little fingertips explore, thumbs flip coppers<br />Spinning up, catch the sun, no heads, no tails.<br /><br />Wails of the Lucknow train cry in the distance.<br /><i>Harold Bergsma, San Diego, 2007</i>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-35838020741148824502007-11-07T11:56:00.000-08:002007-11-07T12:08:33.099-08:00San Diego Fires, Chinese Smog and Desi Dung PattiesOriginally published on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/11/07/105129.php">Desicritics</a> on 11/7/07<br /><br /><p>Finally! We are breathing more easily. I look out across San Diego Bay and the sky is clear for the first time in two weeks. Only a week ago I looked at the setting sun and saw an angry grey sky and an orange-red orb. The news on T V had little else on it, fires, thousand of square miles of wild fires which ravaged San Diego County, burning more than a thousand homes and causing a billion dollars in property damage.<br /><br />There were satellite pictures of the smoke plumes that drifted out across the Pacific Ocean, driven by what we call Santa Anna winds which come from the east. These winds drove the fires and made the job of putting them out very difficult. The plumes looked like grey-white smears. Carbon emissions of the worst kind! It is hard to imagine how many thousands of tons of carbon were represented in those smoke plumes and what that did to the atmosphere. This was another contributor to global warming, and yes, an inconvenient truth.<br /><br />The grey yellow smog that used to blanket the Los Angeles area has been reduced in the last ten years, but a vast amount of carbon fuel consumed by vehicles in California; vehicles are daily throwing tons of carbon into the air, our atmosphere. The simple fact is that the hundreds of millions of vehicles operating in the United States on a daily basis is a major factor in atmospheric pollution that continues to plague the earth. America continues to contribute a huge share of global atmospheric carbon. From time to time I glance at Visible Earth for NASA images to see what the earth looks like. What amazing images these are, smog and smoke plumes show up dramatically in various localities on our planet.<br /><br />Almost one month ago, there were computer enhanced models of smoke which were spooky. Grey-brown in nature, they moved from west to east across Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh across the Himalayas into Tibet and onwards. Curious I checked and saw other such satellite pictures made last year and the year before. I read about the ‘smog’ that is rising from across the sub-continent constantly. China is upset because her own terrible pollution problem is aggravated by the grey-brown plumes moving in from the east. Kiran Nagarkar describes this phenomenon from Bombay in a report dated 11/06/07, <i>“From Bombay with Smog.</i>” He writes, <i>“Bombay is already considered the world’s most polluted city. In ten years, it will become the most populated one.” </i><br /><br />Justin Huggler writes in 2005 in <i>“<a target="_blank" href="http://news.independent.co.uk/world/asia/article296888.ece">India Smog Hides Deeper Fear</a>”</i> that India is the fifth-largest producer of carbon emissions in the world releasing 50 million tons into the atmosphere a year, more than any European country. He explains that the main factor is the demand for power generation, for large cities like Bombay and Delhi. The big problem, he says, is that most of India’s power stations are still coal-fired, and the domestically mined coal is of poor quality, leading to carbon emissions. So, the need for electricity is the reason such vast amounts of coal are burned daily. But there are other areas of pollution that are unique to India.<br /><br />Imagine five hundred million common folk who can not afford natural gas or kerosene, all cooking their breakfast and dinner. I can imagine.<br /><br />As a child I squatted next to <i>chulas</i> and blew on dung fires with a pipe to heat the water for tea, the griddle to make chappati. Six of us, all kids, living in Taxila would follow the cattle to the fields, and I can remember the feeling of warm dung I picked up for my friends to take to their homes. I remember plastering the dung patties on sun facing walls to dry. My mom would ask me what I did while I ‘played with the Indian kids’ and my reply was always, having fun. I would always return home dirty, to her chagrin. My dad, a doctor, worked in the hospital operating on hundreds of people, removing their cataracts. That hospital had a large godaam which stored coal for fires and heaters. The dust from that coal was fair game for anyone to take away. My friends picked up small particles and swept up black dust to take home to add to the fresh cow dung. Round bricks were made from this mixture with finger holes poked in them to burn evenly. In America kids play with mud from time to time. I played making black dung bricks.<br /><br />Imagine how difficult it is for poor folk to cook their food. Fortunately many of them have cattle; for milk, ghee, curds and yogurt, and the by-product, dung. The cow is really a boon to India, holy cow, it feeds people and then even helps do the cooking besides. Recently I read that there are perhaps four hundred million of them in India. Oh, oh, natural gas. All of this adds onto the picture I see on Visible Earth, images of Indian plumes of pollution that cover the land in a thick cloud, drifting eastward toward China.<br /></p> <p><i>“The clouds consist of ash, acidic chemicals and carbon, which come from the burning of fossil fuels and wildfire. One of the most intensely polluted and most studied brown clouds, which hangs over the Indian Ocean, has recently been found to consist largely of the smoke from dried manure used for cooking.</i>" (C.Venkataram et al. Science 307, 1454-1456:2005). Obviously such visible brown clouds drifting eastward become smoking international political issues.<br /><br />So what do the Chinese burn? Coal. A report about this warns, <i>“<a target="_blank" href="http://www.terradaily.com/reports/Beijingers_Told_To_Stay_Indoors_As_Smog_Hangs_Over_North_China_999.html">Beijingers Told to Stay Indoors As Smog Hangs Over North China</a></i>”. Lots and lots of dirty coal is being burned, 6000 coal-fire heating furnaces and up to two million home coal burners in Beijing send the toxic mess up into the atmosphere; Olympic games here we come! The rural peasants also burn twigs, grasses, branches, leaves, anything that will burn, including cow dung. Entire forests have been denuded. The resultant? China has one of the worst air environments in the world. In the larger cities the skies were always grey; when I was there a few months ago and I was amazed that I seldom saw ‘blue skies smiling at me’. After a few days one gets used to it, except for the cough and sneezing and tight feeling in the chest.<br /><br />Above the Amazon basin a smoke plume billows. Slash and burn. Slash and burn the rain forests to make room for farmers who need fields to plant crops. Millions of them. What do you say to a guy that wants a hectare or two to feed his family? Rain forests are natural air purifiers and they are going, going, --- The rain forests are the earth’s natural purifiers and they are rapidly being cut down by people in need. The issue is people need fuel, farms and food. People and more people with needs! From my perspective the greatest area of environmental pollution is the hot population growth, unchecked population growth that is straining the earth’s capabilities.<br /><br />The San Diego fires threw up a lot of smoke. Top ‘world’ politicians throw up smoke screens or ignore the warnings in favor of continued economic development. Air pollution is certainly a factor in global warming that many wish to ignore. Making money, keeping the economy going is the cry. Even if the problem were taken seriously right now, we as global inhabitants are leaving behind us a legacy which will change the nature of life for our children.<br /><br />The answer to the need for cheap and clean energy production may well be in the realm of nuclear and fuel technology for India’s “civilian program...” Nuclear Friends in Need, Yale Global Outline, July 12, 2007. No easy solutions. Few Indians living in the millions of small villages use electric stoves to cook food, nor will they in the future. God, what a lot of problems there are! Nero fiddled while Rome burns. We are global fiddlers too. I look back to my simple, carefree childhood with feelings of warm pleasure; a hot cow-dung patty in my hand. Fuel for thought.</p>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-90284100503066587282007-09-25T08:36:00.000-07:002007-09-25T08:38:50.646-07:00Memories of Chinars - Kashmiri TreasuresOriginally published 9/17/07 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/09/17/003637.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br /><p>What brings back precious memories to you? Smells, sights, sounds, kinesthetic sensations? The fragrance of Scheherazade perfume on an elevator? The glint of sunshine on jet black hair? The sound of a tinkling laugh that turns your head? The hard mace-like seeds of the Chinar crunching underfoot? The name Suffering Moses?</p> <p>Yesterday I walked along the Embarcadero, the waterfront of San Diego Bay. It was a grand day, as usual, a light breeze wafted in from the waters, sea gulls cried and twice I was accosted by ‘Rickshaw <i>wallah</i>s’ who asked with Latvian accents if I wanted a ride. I walked under an arbor of Sycamore trees and kicked aside the mace-like seeds on the sidewalk. I sat on a bench for a moment and looked up at the grey trunks, the rough shedding bark, the leaves, almost hand-like in shape, clapping in the breeze from the bay. I was brought back to Bagh-i Naseem near Dal Lake in Kashmir. </p> <p>Almost every year our family would travel from Taxila by car to Kashmir, the trunk crammed with so many possessions that the lid would not close and had to be tied down with rope, the car-top carrier stacked high with a large folded tent and sacks of food stuffs. Our destination was the Vale of Kashmir! We were in store for swimming in Dal Lake, buying flowers from the boat vendors in their <i>shikaras</i> that sold practically everything. Best of all, we would pitch our tent in ‘Naseem Bagh’ under a massive Chinar, first clearing the ball-like spiked seeds and grey bark away so the ground was smooth. Across from our tent was a Chinar that was massive. It was so old that part of the inside had decayed; fire had burned out some of the soft wood making a secret cave we could crawl into. Magic! There were two baby crows inside it which squawked and brought adult crows swooping over our heads.</p> <p>“<i>Thank Emperor Akbar</i>,” my father said. Dad knew everything. Doctor Sahib, even on vacation had a book in his hands, this time it was <u>Shalimar</u><u> Gardens</u><u>.</u> We sat around a camping table and our cook Noab Din served us <i>chapattis, </i>a huge bowl of whipped cream from the milk of buffaloes, and Mixed Fruit jam. What a breakfast. My father talked, sort of lectured, as we filled the flat breads with cream and jam and ate until we were stuffed. “<i>Shah Jehan laid out the gardens of Chashma Shahi, so named because of a mountain spring in that place that provides water to it.” </i>We all smiled. “<i>Tomorrow. But first a boat ride on Dal Lake in a shikara.</i>” </p> <p>What brings back precious memories to you? The sound of jackals calling across the valley? The sound of your mother humming as she works in the kitchen? For me it is the sound of a crackling camp fire on a dark cool night. We pile dry Chinar leaves on the flames and watch it flare up, leaving sparkler trails in the sky? The biting smell of smoke from burning leaves as the winds shifts toward us makes us run to the other side, rubbing our eyes.</p> <p>On the small table next to me, one of four beautifully hand-crafted nesting tables sits my tea cup. The grain of the wood looks like a relief map, dark swirls and streaks, the surface as smooth as the day it was made in the furniture shop of Suffering Moses in Srinagar in 1939. Chinar wood!</p> <p>I can still smell the smoke of the burning leaves of the campfire, still hear my dad’s lectures about this tree, this Kashmiri treasure. “There are stories about how the tree got its name in the first place. Jahangir traveled to Kashmir from Delhi, or maybe it was Lahore, all the way to Srinagar. In the autumn the leaves of the Booune tree turned red, just like maples in Michigan do. Well the emperor saw the red leaves in the distance and cried out, ‘Chin-nar’. That means blazing color. So the tree got its name.” My dad loved stories like this. But now I find that he had his facts all wrong, that is if you believe modern writers. The Persian name for the tree is Cinar or Chinar, and the Moghals knew this of course. If mature trees already existed when the Moghals ruled, how did they get there? </p> <p>M.S. Wadoo writes in the <i>Kashmir Observer</i> a fine article entitled Booune. In it he mentions my father’s point of view. The Booune was introduced by Akbar in about 1586. “It is a historical fact that Akbar planted about 1200 plants of Booune near the sacred shrine of Hazratbal...” After that time the tree was called Cinar. Wadoo tell about the wonderful idea that Jehangir had; he was a truly shady character. He introduced the idea of planting Chinar trees on all four sides of a park (<i>char chinar</i>) which would grow to huge heights and thus provide shade to the stroller, the families who sit out on the grass and have picnics, the lovers, heaven forbid, who would stroll in the dark shade, perhaps even sneak into the hollow trunk of a huge tree for communication. It was a good idea because no matter how the ‘sun its course doth run’, there would be areas of shade making the park a pleasant place, and Jehangir loved pleasant faces and places.(Anarkali) And what was more pleasant than the shade of the trees in a garden filled with marigolds? So my father was correct. Thanks to the foresight of emperors the plane tree, the lovely Chinar is a feature in Kashmir that grows with its roots in history, but that is not the whole story. Pran Nath Wanchoo, writes, <i>Chinar Tree, “Bouin” of Kashmir, Symbol of Goddess Bhawani, </i>in Vitasta: A Kashmir Sabha, Kolkata Publication, 202, “The origin of the tree in Kashmir is by inference of the recorded evidence in literature deduced to be very ancient.” </p> <p>Some of the existing trees in Kashmir are so huge that they predate the Moguls by some three hundred years. Akbar in his memoirs, yes, emperors had wonderful foresight and wrote things down, or had them written down by scribes, (Akbar Nama) that “34 guards took shelter in a hollow tree trunk of a Booune tree”, when it started raining. That is a large tree! Other evidence of massive trees which would predate the Moguls exists in Kashmir. So how and when did these trees get introduced into Kashmir?</p> <p>First, it is very hard to plant the seeds of the tree and to get the seedlings to do well Kashmir climate. Second, many of the trees that exist were taken from live shoots that spring up from the roots. Such root stock, kept moist can be transported long distances and planted in far away sites. So who was the clever one who introduced this tree? </p> <p>Now I really like Wadoo’s argument that it was probably because of the influence of Buddhism into this area during the period of Ashoka, the ruler of Magada (271-231 BC). The foundations for a city were laid by Ashoka called Puranadhisthena sponsoring 5000 monks so that it could become a center of learning. Huge shade trees were the missing feature, such as the Bodhi, so of course the Booune (his spelling) was introduced and planted as a tree that was large, would live long and would ‘replace’ the holy Bodhi. I will not go into the intricate horticultural steps necessary to grow seedlings which have a low germination rate, or how to prepare viable shoots for transportation, leave that part alone. Trees were probably introduced by Ashoka, perhaps as early as the first century before Christ. Not only that, the tree became a sacred tree, often adorned and respected. Remember, knowledge of the origin of the tree is by ‘inference.’</p> <p>This all gets us back to Taxila. Why Taxila? Because of the early introduction of Buddhism to that part of the world, including what we now call Afghanistan. Remember the Bamiyan Buddhas and their destruction by the Taliban? When those massive statues were being carved in the stone face of the cliff, the Bouin (modern spelling) was already growing in Kashmir. Where did these seeds or saplings come from? Remember the Silk Road, the trade routes that went all the way from Asia Minor to China? People are funny, they like to plant exotic trees in far countries that remind them of home. Perhaps such saplings had high trade value, much like the Tulip bulbs in Holland and Europe that in the early years of introduction were worth their weight in gold! Traders carried them.</p> <p>Of course my Dad was correct. Akbar did plant thousands of the trees, but remnants of much older trees have been found which would predate Akbar by centuries. So, my humble theory is that if it were not for Buddhism there would be no Bouin or Chinar in Kashmir. </p> <p>Trees were in fashion back in Ashoka’s time. He was a <i>darakht wallah, </i>a tree dude<i>. </i>I think history records that he sent Bodhi saplings to the king of what was later called Ceylon or even later, Sri Lanka, when <i>the</i> religion was in its early stages there, and these were planted near the Temple of the Tooth. So of course, logically, he could have brought in the wonderful Chinar trees to the region that grow well in that climate, to Kashmir as a substitute for the Bodhi. Remember, he was a relic man as well and distributed these all over India. In my sojourns on the sub-continent, from the Peshawar to Sri Lanka, I have walked in his shadow, kicked seeds of Chinar, looked at the hand shaped leaves and have felt the influence of the sages around me in trees. </p> <p>Science wins! Pran Nath Wanchoo, of New Delhi, the retired Dy. Director of Agriculture /Horticulture and author of “<i>Horticulture in the Himalayas</i>”, in his “Chinar Tree, Bouin of Kashmir-Symbol of Goddess Bhawani”, previously mentioned, makes a strong claim that a Chinar tree which had a girth of 31.85 meters at the ground level was found on the premises of a mosque. It was said that the tree was planted by Hazrat Syed Qasim Sahib in 1374 AD and that people considered it holy. Vitasta.org/2002/1.8. So there you have it. Or do you? Ashoka? Akbar? Hazrat Syed Qasim sahib? Symbol of Goddess Bhawani? We may never know for sure, but the Chinar has been in Kashmir as a near holy tree, from the first century until now. I have recently read that the grove of Chinar in Naseem Bagh where I played as a youth is dying out, that the leaves are turning brown, that many trees are already dead. Nature has its cycles and its reasons. Visit Kashmir and revel in the Char Chinar plantations in Shalimar Gardens, walk in the shade of history. Our sojourn in life is much like that of boats passing on Dal Lake in the sunset.</p><blockquote> <p><b>Beauty Spots-<i>Til</i></b></p> <p>Sunset caught mists rising from Dal Lake</p> <p>Gold orange, nimbus Benarsi scarves</p> <p>Fluttered on the shiny skin of water</p> <p>Glass smooth, unwrinkled peach tone</p> <p>Reflected back smiles of day’s messenger</p> <p>Sinking slowly on the soft and yielding grey</p> <p>Cushions; yawning, bidding sleep to come</p> <p> </p> <p>Sunset caught the two Shikaras, drifting</p> <p>Slowly through a fog of orange</p> <p>Collision courses set, quietly they</p> <p>Came and met, passed each other by</p> <p>Wrinkling taught, lake skin in golden </p> <p>Folds, touching deep clams and muscles</p> <p>Which shudder and shimmer into waves</p> <p> </p> <p>Sunset caught the crane, flying low</p> <p>Wing tips touching black water skin</p> <p>Raising gold beauty spots, <i>til</i> in pairs</p> <p>Across the breast; sighing now</p> <p>For sleep and quiet rest, the lady</p> <p>Of the lake gently closes her dark eyes </p> <p>Wisps of mist rise from Anarkali’s cheeks.</p></blockquote> <p>Adapted from <u><i>Lalla and Lavina, Stories about Indian Women</i>, </u>Harold Bergsma, Authorhouse, 10/13/05<b> </b></p> <p>My tea cup rests on a small end table. The top is twenty four inches across. It is made of Chinar, hand carved in the shop of Suffering Moses in Srinagar over seventy years ago. That hunk of wood has not warped or cracked and has the original shine applied by polishers long before my birth. My dad liked old things. What a huge tree that must have come from; an unblemished piece of wood from a Chinar that was made from an ancient, huge, dried, seasoned log. I think my dad knew his history pretty well when he bought the table because all the artifacts in our home have a special story to tell. At night they tell each other stories of India and whisper of Bhawani.</p>Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-32868959974628354432007-09-04T10:23:00.000-07:002007-09-04T12:13:15.943-07:00Grand Trunk Road - New Corridor of AsiaOriginally published Sept. 4, 2007 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/09/04/035041.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br />Road traffic may bottleneck at the Wagah border, but bilateral trade is booming between the two countries. The Economic Times (indiatimes.com) reported encouraging news on 10 Apr. that the bi-lateral trade has "...swelled from $235.74 million in 2001-02 to more than $1 billion last fiscal year." This increase in trading between the countries bodes well for improved means of moving goods. Many goods which come into Pakistan by land must be transshipped at the border. I was told that it took passenger buses about one and a half hours to get across the border. But infrastructures are improving. Electronic communication has greatly enhanced the trade across the borders and businessmen can more easily buy and sell using computer orders.<br />Though economic protectionism exists, both countries are trying to remove barriers to improve trade. India and Pakistan have opened banks in each other's territories. All this bodes well for the establishment of an international land corridor.<br /><br />There are visionaries around who see not only the India-Pakistan links but an APIBM CORRIDER! (Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Myanmar)<br />Imagine being able to zoom along such a corridor as a tourist, researcher, as a trader or transporter of goods on roads that form a corridor all the way from Afghanistan through Pakistan, to India, the hub, to Bangladesh and Myanmar, a new silk road in Asia! Imagine the boon this would be to landlocked countries that border India, particularly Nepal that could tie into the linked roads.<br /><br />RIS Policy Brief No. 30, March 2007 for the SAARC Summit held in Delhi on April 3-4 outlines a visionary look at ground transportation networks, that is, overland travel routes which if developed would make India the hub for commerce and trade in Asia. One item mentioned is "Strengthening Infrastructures at Borders." Reading the list of things needed to be done makes one wonder if all this is possible, however, there were similar thoughts years ago in a non-unified Europe and look what happened there. The Grand Trunk road is a reality, a somewhat uneven continuum that covers a distance of over 2,500 km. Imagine if it were easy for Indians and Pakistanis to cross their international border, what it could mean to families that have been torn apart for decades. Imagine how the information from an APIBM corridor would change the perceptions of the youth, in all of the countries.<br /><br />Pakistan, looking into its future, has done its own smaller version of the road. They have developed the New Grand Trunk Road, also called the National Highway 5. I have traveled on many parts of it and there are some sections that are very fine. It begins in Karachi in the Sindh province, moves north to Thatta, Hyderabad, Moro, Multan, Sahiwal, Lahore, Gujaranwala, Gujrat, Jhelum and Rawlpindi. Then it turns east and crosses the Indus River and moves into the NWFP where it goes through Nowshera and Peshawar before reaching the town of Torkham crossing into Afghanistan. Regional cultural exchanges are occurring. People are mixing it up; Sindh, Punjab, NWFP; Baluchistan residents are meeting each other in Peshawar and Lahore. Afghani people are now a significant part of Pakistan's cultural experience through population movement of vast numbers of refugees coming from across northern borders, yes, some on the old Grand Trunk Road.<br /><br />I looked up the record on the current SAFTA '2006 Agreement'. I was amazed at the number of "Sensitive" trade items Pakistan and India list. It is hard to imagine the bureaucracy that will be needed to enforce such trade exchanges. These are mere economic trade barriers. There may be detours, diversions of a socio-religious-cum-political nature which will hamper the establishment of a corridor; however, improved bi-lateral trade, people making lots of money may move the political policy makers of both countries toward more liberal trade policies. Money squawks.<br /><br />The historical Grand Trunk Road could once again function as a corridor for commerce, trade and cultural exchange. It could be a mechanism to link Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and Myanmar in a new Silk Road of Asia, not moving silk but cultural ideas. The SAFTA mentioned above could become the impetus for such a development. In the good old days of the Silk Road trade was confined by and large to movement of material across land. Now with global communications and air and sea transportation, land traffic may very well not be the major means of enhancing trade, however, six lane highways that tie southeast Asia together could create a vibrant Asian community, much like what has occurred between the European countries. But creating a corridor will be a complicated process.<br /><br />India and Pakistan celebrated their 60th birthday last week! Congrats. Jim Hoagland of the Washington Post wrote an article, "A tale of two South Asian Nations" which appeared in the San Diego Union Tribune this morning, August 20th. 2007. "New Delhi had the air of the capital of an emerging world power looking ahead into a promising if complicated future. Pakistan marked the same occasion by sinking deeper into the past. The corrupt backroom dealing between military rulers and politicians that has produced a cycle of disasters for the Pakistani nation resumed-- aided by the hidden hand of U.S. diplomacy working to pressure President Pervez Musharraf's dwindling power in Islamabad." Bring back Benazir? This does not look good for Grand Road construction or repairs. It does not look very hopeful for open negotiations to create a functional land corridor.<br /><br />Tragic as it may seem, the Grand Trunk Road Wagah international border displays may well be a thing of the near future. Posturing, high kicking, fierce appearance, Inshallah, will do the trick for now. But let's dream of a corridor.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6009687386414255131.post-48531246588529524632007-09-04T12:06:00.000-07:002007-09-04T12:12:39.626-07:00The Grand Old Trunk Road, Part IOriginally published Sept. 3, 2007 on <a href="http://desicritics.org/2007/09/03/020307.php">Desicritics</a><br /><br />It was not a goose step! The Pakistani border guard high-kicked his leg above his head some six feet and six inches above the ground. Across from him his counterparts made their aggressive moves, staying of course on the Indian side of the border of Wagah. Their uniforms were spectacular, and their head gear, looking like papier-mâché cocks combs added at least six inches to their height, making them look seven feet tall. I stood and watched the aggressive ceremony, a fierce, glaring, challenging, change of the guard ceremony. Just like the beginning of a cock-fight. On the India side a crowd had gathered to watch the tamasha. Wah, said a little boy as he gazed up at the very tall men putting on their display. Wow!<br /><br /><strong>Way Back Then</strong><br /><br />The Grand Trunk Road I knew as a child when living in a unified India ran past our home in Taxila, and then south to Amritsar. The road was often rough, full of potholes, road-bumps galore in villages to slow traffic, and narrow. Later in the late 1980s I traveled north from Lahore to Peshawar and the road was similar. I am sure that now the pot holes must be filled and the road has been broadened to multiple lanes and shoulders reinforced. I am sure the traffic has increased ten fold, filled with gaily decorated buses and air conditioned coaches that can whiz one to Sukkur or Peshawar. I am sure that ox carts with lanterns hanging at the back, moving slowly at night, are also things of the past, or slow moving tractors pulling trailers piled high with sugar cane.<br /><br />In my youth I crossed this area many times in my dad’s 1937 Ford. In our Taxila days we took the Grand Trunk Road down to Lahore and on to Amritsar to see the Golden Temple. Later in my teens we reversed the trip since we were living in Ludhiana and made our way as far as Amritsar and that was as far as we could go. There was a road block of huge proportions at the Pakistani border. Now as an adult, looking at the Wagah crossing I saw a strange phenomenon. I looked into India this time and thought about the tough time travelers would have on busses or in private cars getting across the border. The scene of the guards seemed to be a parody of the relationships between the countries, particularly on the Pakistan side. I felt it was staged hostility, challenge, a display of one-up-man-ship.<br /><br />In Pakistan, I have traveled on the Grand Trunk Road all the way to Peshawar a number of times and have stood and looked across at the Khyber Pass and saw quite another border scene, traffic, lots of traffic seemed to be moving back and forth. In the local bazaars you could buy practically anything. When I traveled in the NWFP into rural areas to meet farmers who had been growing poppies and who now were trying to make it with alternative crops, (1985) I looked at the vast mountainous countryside, at the dark valleys with hints of green and small roads and trails. The border was porous and the tribal people moved back and forth with ease across the international boundary, the invisible line. My Pakistani counterpart from the Ministry of Agriculture pointed and said, “See. That is the line that separates us from Afghanistan.” Where?<br /><br />The Durand Line, what is that? It is the line that demarked Afghanistan from the British Indian Empire, a line agreed upon with Amir Abdur Rehman Khan on Nov. 12, 1893, that has been disputed, discussed and cussed ever since. But the Pushtuns who lived on, around and across that magical border have always felt that the land is theirs, and they rule it as they deemed appropriate by their own laws and with their own leadership. They move back and forth with ease across the hills and valleys. It is a porous tribal border.<br /><br />Those words, back and forth with ease, stuck with me. The Grand Trunk Road I knew as a child when living in a unified India ran past our home in Taxila. What a fantastic thing the old Grand Trunk Road was, India’s oldest highway, and certainly its most historic one. We traveled it with ‘ease’, dodging buffalo and bullock carts, people crowding on the road, camels, donkeys, and of course traffic that came at us which was bigger than we were, pushing us off onto the shoulder. But it was with relative ease that one could move and enjoy the cultural-religious nature of Mother India, its temples and statues, Hindu, Jain, Sikh, Muslim and Buddhist. What a fantastic, colorful mélange; no other road has carried such a baggage of history, which includes the magnificent Mogul cities. I would encourage you to look at Raghubir Singh’s book, The Grand Trunk Road: A Passage Through India to take a beautiful photographic tour of the road of roads. This corridor moves goods, people and of course ideas. In much the same way as ‘all roads lead to Rome’, the Grand Trunk led into the heart of the sub-continent from its most southern tip all the way to ... Wagah.<br /><br /><strong>And Now</strong><br /><br />The narrow funnel that is at the Wagah border is extremely effective in holding back land travel. It restricts movement, traffic, goods, people and liberating ideas, though somehow there is hope, even in Pakistan; popular Indian songs, raunchy movies, and DVDs slip through and trade is increasing between the two countries. But the grand trunk road is truncated effectively at the Pakistan border. The greater the stress about Kashmir, the more the Pakistani sabers rattle, the tighter the funnel gets and the higher the guards at the border kick up their heels and look really fierce and the longer it takes for one to get through immigration and customs, even if all the right papers and visas are in hand! On the other hand, to the south, the road of roads is celebrated.<br /><br />In 2003 the Indian department of tourism and culture and a tire company, Birla Tyres, came together to celebrate the Indian part of the road. “<a href="http://www.domain-com/economy/roads/20030101_celebration" target="_blank">It is said that since the Aryan invasion</a> of the subcontinent, 3,500 years ago, the road served as a corridor for movement of travelers, goods, armies ...”. Now that is a persistent road! The magnificent cities of Mogul and British India were highlights! The road was an open and effective land corridor connecting travelers to the wonders of India. It used to be that this corridor ran all the way to Afghanistan, through the amazing city of Lahore and on to historic Peshawar. But international border crossings have prevented what used to be a land corridor for cultural exchange on which people moved with ease. To the north the road led to cultural wonders now seen by very few from India. How many younger Indians have visited Lahore? How many Pakistani’s have visited India and seen its wonders? Few. The lack of a communication corridor has reinforced cultural biases.<br /><br />In Lahore I was talking to a young Pakistani man about the Taj Mahal. He looked troubled. “The builder of the Taj Mahal was a Muslim. The great mogul treasures such as the Shalimar Gardens were made by Muslims, Pakistanis.” I reminded him of the partition and a unified India and that Muslim history on the sub-continent existed before 1947. I reminded him that Lahore, as cities go is ancient. Written histories go back as far as 1206. Europe at that time was, ah....sort of primitive. Genghis Khan and his hordes were on the move. But India was a thriving civilization. Qautb-ud-din Aybak was crowned Sultan of Lahore in 1206. The Silk Road was established, bringing trade items into India from China. In more modern history, Akbar the Great was emperor in the period from 1584-1598. Fantastic buildings were constructed in Lahore. Gardens with fountains were delighting the women of his harem in Kashmir and in the Punjab. Two hundred years later, 1776, a declaration of independence was made in America. Lahore was thriving. The Taj Mahal had been standing already for almost two hundred years in Agra.<br /><br />Sipping garamchai we spoke now of our life in Lahore, the miserable hot season, the humidity and his visit to the Ravi early in the morning. I had written a poem that day, and of course had carried the draft in my pocket. We sat in a small tea house and drank tea. “Would you like to hear a poem I wrote about Lahore?” He smiled and nodded, not knowing what to expect. I cleared my throat.<br /><br />CITY ON THE RAVI<br />Ravi city , fathered by many<br />Iron Fort, Ram Chandra named<br />Loh-Awar, a fortress by the river<br />Shabuddin Ghuri a despot’s abode<br />Fragrant gardens of Kamran Mirza<br />Zannana of Akbar, keep of Nur Jahan<br />Tomb of Anarkali, pomegranate blossom<br />A burial place of jealousy and regal shame<br />Aurangzeb the righteous, builder of mosques<br />Moghul splendor, Badshahi Mosque grandeur<br />Sikh and Guru strongholds, Mogul desecraters<br />Pakka British Raj, white bungalows and botanicals<br />Minar-e-Pakistan, Zia al Huq, land of the pure, wars<br />Capital of Islamization, border disputes, atomic rockets<br />Ten million dung fires, stifling heat, five calls to prayer<br />A Trunk Road sarai, life corridor; Khans and slaves alike<br />Oh glorious Lahore, City on the Ravi, fathered by so<br />many<br /><br /><em>Muj ko samaj nahin ahta</em>. “I do not understand,” he said. “What is meaning of ‘fathered’?”<br /><br />To the north there are wonders! In Kipling’s time the movement along the road led to Lahore. His story, <em>The Gate of a Hundred Sorrows</em>, was prescient of the horrors of the Partition’s woes and sorrows. Anthony Weller’s work, Salon Wanderlust, Days and Nights on the <em>Grand Trunk Road,</em> speaks of current Lahore and a different view perceived by Lahore citizens of their decaying Mogul treasures. “A Pakistani mother who wants to frighten a misbehaving child will still let him know that So-and-so Singh will come and get him unless he straightens out.” The Salon Wanderlust goes on to say that when you’ve been into your fifth great mosque or palace or tomb in a morning and find that the Sikhs had stripped it bare of the semiprecious décor two centuries ago, then used it as a “...dump, storehouse or whorehouse, it does something to how you might have enjoyed Amritsar.” I begin to see how the Wagah border guards on both sides got the expression on their faces. The nightmare of partition still rankles.Harold Bergsmahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132515517267612575noreply@blogger.com0