Poetry for Gaza

As a writer of fiction it has always puzzled and saddened me to try and comprehend (or justify) the willful silence of American writers over the Israel/Palestine issue. American writers have shown a remarkably apathetic attitude in deciding to not engage with Palestine's initial colonization with the complicity of the British and other colonial powers of the time, systematic destruction of Palestinian lives, continued dispossession, forced exile, including Plan D, and a long list of racist and colonial practices that result in an apartheid way of life. It may be that there has been a voice here and there, but listening to the brave Tony Kushner on Democracy Now confirms my suspicion.
The recent war on Gaza's children, women and men, some of us feel, has completely exposed the American writer's unexplainable silence. Despite well-in-place damage control mechanism, the news spilled out - like a massive oil spill - except that it was not oil but blood, into the ocean of humanity. The overwhelming news (including graphic images) spill was caused by non-mainstream actors that included Jews, Muslim, Christians, Hindus, atheists, believers and what not. It put the American media and its supporters on the defensive. As a result, that also allowed a few brave voices to come together and speak against the colonial brutality. Poetry for Gaza was one such event put together by Middle East Children Alliance that brought mainly Arab and Jewish women poets together.

After the program I spoke with poet Lenore Weiss and asked her if I could use her poems in my blog as I report on the event. She kindly sent me her poems. As did a few others. The poets who read were Elmaz Abinader, Anita Barrow-Friedman, Chana Bloch, Aurora Levines Morales, Dyanna Loeb, Dina Omar, Deema Shehabi and Lenore Weiss.


Elmaz sent this one in one of her emails:
3 days ago the Israeli special forces assassinated a young man who'd been wanted and in some kind of hiding in Ramalhah. they shot him in the feet and then in the back as he was leaving Nazareth restaurant. my spot. I went by the next day to sit with the men, all of whom greet me familiar now. they watched their friend walk out and then bleed to death for 45 minutes in front of their shop. the ambulance driver was shot trying to reach him. Suheir's email, 1 June 2007

After Breakfast
what can you do but sit and survey the tracks where the ambulance
had stopped yards away from the body and see the flies gather
where the driver was struck by the bullets? the smoke in the air
lingers days old stalemate sorrow the kind that settles into your throat
can’t be unearthed even when singing the old songs that erupt
from the chest freeing the notes as hard as pebbles.

your hangout the cafe where full simmers fresh parsley and scallions
in pots on blue flames throws a shadow on a map of blood
drawn on the sidewalk where at X his feet are shot and at X he is hit
in the back and at X the ambulance arrives later and at X the driver
cannot navigate the storm of fire and fear and at X the street fills
with mourners a matter of course the words fly rocks and melodies

each body is its own island and the waters gather round splashing
against the shores pushing a million heartbeats against the silence
exhaling a thousand zaghlut pumping into the lungs everything
they have. Children are lost everywhere and their bodies form
land masses new diagrams that must be inset into our geographies
so we know where we stand.

sip tepid water slow now wait again for the beans to cool
the metal of the spoon stains your mouth leaves sulfur
on your tongue. you cannot eat here anymore and
you cannot leave.

The poem Elmaz recited, Where the Body Rests, first published in 2007, had a preminatory quality.

The poem Elmaz recited, published in 2007, had a preminatory ring to it.

Just look at these lines:

Where the Body Rests

Our skin has turned to parchment

Our skin are the scrolls upon which
this history will be written

When your skin becomes phosphorous
speckled, yellow and scorches

Each cell is a . . .

I am grateful to Lenore Weiss for emailing her poems she read at the event. Let's read them:

Reincarnated Lenny Bruce Speaks of the Jewish Problem

“… Israel calls in public speeches and schoolbooks the Arab citizens of Israel a demographic nightmare and the enemy from within. As for the Palestinian refugees living under occupation, they are defined in Israeli History schoolbooks as a 'problem to be solved’. Not long ago the Jews were a problem to be solved.”

--Dr. Nurit Peled-Elhanan, Lecturer in Language Education at Hebrew University in Jerusalem and a member of Palestinian and Israeli Bereaved Families for Peace.

Before there was a Jewish Problem
there was a Jewish Question.
Maybe they were the same thing.

No one wanted the Jews to live in their country.

People hated them.

Why? Because they were different.

They wore yarmulkes,

striped shawls, and smelled of fish.

Fishy! Yeck!

They spoke a different language,

and lived in filthy ghettos.

After years of being squashed

until their blood coated stones

along every road leading somewhere,

but not to the pub except
for the occasional schnopps on Shabbos,
no, they didn't traipse to the beer garden
where the National Socialists,
or Nazis as they later came to be called,
decided to solve the problem.

The Jewish Problem, was not as so many had said,
religious. It was racial, which gave the Nazis
a legal basis for everything. This was so brilliant.

Jews were now excluded from six branches of industry.
Properties were de-Jewdified.

Jews were prohibited from attending concerts, films, and theaters.

Jews were prohibited from attending German schools.
Jews were prohibited from bearing firearms.

You know what’s next.
We’ve all heard about the six million
who died in the ovens, and how the world

didn't want to know about anything
until it was too late, which is about when
the Jewish Question became the Jewish Problem.

Where do you stick the Jews

who survived the Holocaust?
You out there in the audience.
Where the fuck d'you put them?

There was a search party.
Everyone looked around.
Uganda was too far from where the Jews wanted to be.

The Jews became a People for a Land

for a Land without a People.
But that was a slogan, not the reality,

because it seems

there were many people

who lived in Palestine, the Palestinians,

primitive people, said the army men,

wild beasts with schmutzy teeth.

Fast forward to today when Israelis have a problem
with people who retain keys to houses

that are now occupied by families who light candles

and invite the Shekinah of peace into their homes on Shabbos,
while during the week Israeli soldiers order Palestinian women to strip in front

of their children for security reasons, and as jailers, torture and lock up young men without decent food or clean mattresses who

run checkpoints that force old men to wait in line for hours without water.

Jewish life is filled with irony,

which some of you out there call a Jewish sense of humor,

but this is not funny.

And how can I, Lenny Bruce, who in my day

talked a lot of unfunny stuff,not cry out as a Jew,
how can I not say that justice and mercy belong to us all?

Sh’ma Yisra’el

Hear O Israel,

from a daughter

who can only read the alliterative text of Hebrew

with glasses that need a new prescription

and a mouth that gets filled with saliva

from a tongue that knows not how to deliver

two-dotted vowels—

Here O Israel

from your daughter

who was born in the same year

you were created,

after World War II had folded

its charred arms around

the only hope that was left—

Israel, the land of milk and honey—

You were the voice of my parent’s generation

who planted trees along new boulevard

sand carried ashes sewed

inside the hem of their clothing

to cry along the wadis of your limestone beds,

hugging Exodus by Leon Uris.

You gave them a bright torch

to carry every high holyday

for all their days

raising money and donating shoes—

a reason to drink tea

in a glass mug with a lump of sugar

coating their tongues with sweetness

as they stamped letters,

made phone calls,

argued with each other in the accent

of wherever they’d come from.

Israel, my heart is heavy

with the dreams of my parents,

this second generation daughter

who wanted a lasting peace

to fill the crevices

of your Wailing Wall

with a light of its own creation.

Instead, only war and massacre,

dairy farms and steel plants

laid to rubble.

Twisted iron stabbing the earth.

And the sighs of the six million

each time another official

invokes their name.

I am indebted, once again, to Chana Bloch for reading along other remarkable, courageous poets and for sending me her poem and two poems of Dahlia Ravikovitch (1936-2005).

Power

"Why can't they just get along?" says my neighbor
when he hears the numbers on the morning news.
Then he's got the answer:
"They're people, that's why."

Thus saith my neighbor
who lets his Doberman out to bark at midnight
and grumbles "Yeah, yeah"
when I call to complain.

Meanwhile, in the precincts of power,
the new Chief of Staff
who learned his trade as a fighter pilot
fends off questions from his swivel chair.

"And what did you feel," the reporters ask,
"when you dropped a bomb from an F-16?"
"I felt a slight lift of the wing," he says.
"After a second it passed."

-- Chana Bloch
Tikkun (spring 2008)

Lullaby
Mama and Grandma
will sing you a song,
your shining white mothers
will sing you a song,
Mama’s shawl brushes
your bed with its wing.
Mama and Grandma
a mournful old tune
will sing in Jabalya’s cordon of gloom.
There they sat, clinging together as one:
Papa wrecked, coughing up
blood from his lung,
his son of fifteen embracing his frame
like a steel hoop girding
his father’s crushed form
—what little remained.
True loves,
sweet doves,
thus did their captors make mock of them.

Mama and Grandma
will sing you a song
so you, sweet child,
may sleep without harm.
Rachel is weeping aloud for her sons.
A lamentation. A keening of pain.
When thou art grown and become a man,
the grief of Jabalya thou shalt not forget
the torment of Shati thou shalt not forget,
Hawara and Beita,
Jelazoun, Balata,
their cry still rises night after night.

-- Dahlia Ravikovitch
trans. Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld

The Fruit of the Land
a farewell song to the good old days

You asked if we’ve got enough cannons
They laughed and said: More than enough
and we’ve got new improved anti-tank missiles
and bunker busters to penetrate
double-slab reinforced concrete
and we’ve got crates of napalm and crates of explosives,
unlimited quantities, cornucopias,
a feast for the soul, like some finely seasoned delicacy
and above all, that secret weapon,
the one we can’t talk about.
Calm down, man,
the intel officer and the C.O.
and the border police chief
who’s also a colonel in that hush-hush commando unit
are all primed for the order: Go!
and everything’s shined-up like the skin of a snake
and we’ve got chocolate wafers on every base
and grape juice and Tempo soda
and that’s why we won’t give in to terror
we will not fold in the face of violence
we’ll never fold, no matter what
‘cause our billy clubs are nice and hard.
God, who has chosen us from all the nations,
comforteth with apples
the fighting arm of the IDF
and the iron boxes and the crates of fresh explosives
and we’ve got cluster bombs too,
though of course that’s off the record.
Serve us bourekas and cake, O woman of the house,
for we were slaves in the land of Egypt
but never again,
and blot out the remembrance of Amalek
if you can track him down, and if you seek him in vain,
Blessed be the tiny match
that a soldier in some crack unit will suddenly strike
and set off the whole bloody mess.

-- Dahlia Ravikovitch
trans. Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld

In one of Chana's email note, I learned Dahlia Ravikovitch was one of the great Hebrew poets of our time -- many believe, the greatest Hebrew woman poet of all time. She was widely honored for her artistry and admired for her courage as a peace activist. Dahlia was deeply involved in the cause of Palestinian human rights. She often joined demonstrations against forced evacuations, land confiscation and the mistreatment of women and children in the West Bank. She frequently spoke out on TV and in print, condemning the messianic nationalist settlers, and she didn’t hesitate to confront Israel’s leaders directly.

Power and powerlessness is her defining subject: the devastating consequences of unequal power relations for the individual and for society. In her later work she often writes about the precarious position of women and, with increasing directness, the plight of Palestinians under the Occupation. Dahlia was frank about the reception of her political poems in Israel: “There has been a lot of protest,” she told us, “but I want to do something. I can’t stand my impotence. Because I hold an Israeli passport, I have a share in all the wrongs that are done to the Palestinians. . . I want to be able to say that I did all I could to prevent the bloodshed.”

(The above quoted poems are from a book that is coming out in April, Hovering at a Low Altitude: The Collected Poetry of Dahlia Ravikovitch, trans. Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld (W.W. Norton, 2009).)

The poetry evening ended with poet Aurora Levins Morales's voice. The darkness fell in the hall and everyone waited. The recording of her poem Wings mesmerized the audience. The recitation pierced the listener's heart.

Wings

Cuba y Puerto Rico son Cuba and Puerto Rico

de un pájaro las dos alas. are the two wings of one bird,

Reciben flores y balas receiving flowers and bullets

en el mismo corazon. into the same heart.

Lola Rodriguez de Tió

Two wings of one bird, said the exiled poet

whose words burned too many holes of truth

through the colonial air of a different iron-toothed occupation.

Nothing divides the suffering of the conquered.

Two wings, she said, of a single bird, with one heart between them,

taking bullets and roses, soldiers and prison bars and poetry,

into one pulse of protest. One bird she insisted

as the ship pulled away from San Juan headed for Havana, 1879.

A century later we are still the wounded wing,

fluttering, dragged through the waves, another empire

plucking feathers from living flesh. White egret among the foam,

cried the poet, returning after long years in the dry solitude of Spain:

garza, garza blanca. Those ruffled reefs are infested now

with unexploded bombs. Pastures where white birds

still grace the backs of cattle, are dusted with the toxic waste

of rehearsal for invasion, that seeps into the blood of children,

so that cancer is a required course in the highschools of Vieques,

giving a whole new meaning to the term "drop out".

I was born into an occupied country. I am that wing.

What kind of Jew are you, receiving bullets and roses

as if in a Palestinian heart?

I am the Jewish great-great-grandaughter of . . .

What these poets have managed is nothing short of a miracle whether we realize this or not. If and when history of American poets and writers speaking against the Israel's occupation of Palestine is written, Poetry for Gaza and the poets involved will be seen as the literary avant garde of the 2nd Anti-apartheid movement. Influenced by a similar act of brutality that's a natural outcome of a colonial occupation, some years back I had written my short story The Barbarian and the Mule exploring an interaction between a Palestinian boy, his father and an Israeli soldier at one of the checkpoints manning bantustans, humiliating the real inhabitants of the land on everyday basis. At the time, it was an hurriedly written story and I had, in my frustration and anger, posted it to a writers' listserv, stating and hoping against hope that let this story be the springboard of encouragement for fellow writers to take the issue of occupation and apartheid. I got a few responses. Some of them were sypathetic but over all cowardly.
It is not as if this wasn't part of the discussion among literary community. Ted Soloraroff has written in 1992 in Writing Our Way Home, an anthology of Jewish fiction:
American Jewish fiction, with the exception of Philip Roth's The Counterlife, has been slow, and perhaps loath, to explore the more vexed subject that has been set by the occupation of the West Bank and Gaza: the morality that grows out of the barrel of the gun confronting the morality that grows out of two thousand years of oppression. The the subject is front adn center in Israeli fiction, it has been leading a furtive life in its American counterpart.
Things, since the last slaughter, seem to have changed dramatically. Artists, writers and poets are speaking. Less and less are scared of voicing their anger and protest. Tony Kushner has spoken up. Novelist Ben Ehrenreich has written in LA Times: Zionism is the Problem. This will not remove the guilt of complicity, but it is a welcome step. Had they spoken up many decades ago, things would've have been different.
Perhaps the American writer's conscience can still redeem itself. Let's hope so.

A Poet on the Sidewalk

Last week, I walked out of our Public Library's Main Branch and ended up locking eyes with a person squating on the sidewalk. Heavyset, caucasian, puffy-faced, his moustache covering his lips, his clothes were soiled and worn out. He had two small bags to accompany him and a ragged shawl covered his shoulders. Still looking into his smiling eyes, as I was about to pass him, he asked me if I wanted to hear a poem. Surprised, I stopped, nodded reluctantly, and sat down facing him. And before reciting the poem, he told me it was called River.

Heroes are spawned
In the rapids
By the leaping salmon
Of emergency

I was stunned by the poety that tumbled forth. His words forced me to relax. I requested that he recite it once more. He was gracious enough to honor my request. I didn't have to twist his arm and he began telling me a bit about his life. Most important, at some point in his life he decided he wanted to be a poet and since then that's what he's done, surviving by busking. I wanted to kiss his feet but I couldn't bring myself to do it. He reminded me of the wandering bhagats and sufi poets of South Asia, like Kabir and Shah Husain and countless others. I wanted to give him some money but realized I had not a penny on me. I told him so. He was calm and said that's fine. I asked him his name and he said Danny McFarland. Goodluck, Danny!

Death of a Poet

It is hard to recall when I first saw the name Mahmoud Darwish. It could be that the great Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz had translated one of his poems from Arabic and is included in Faiz's nusxa hai wafa. It is equally possible that when I accidentally laid my hands, in late 80s, on a special issue of a literary magazine called East (I could be misremembering the title) which was dedicated to Faiz, Mahmoud, Nazim Hikmat, Neruda and two others. From that point on I was always on the lookout for his works either in second hand bookstores, San Fracisco State's J. Paul Leonard library or San Francisco Public Library's Main Branch. Now when I look back I realize that my own education regarding dispossession of the Palestinian people began, in parts, due to Darwish. Other figures, such as Said, and friends, like Anthony Costa, will enter the picture later. While browsing Monthly Review's online version for an article I wanted to forward to a friend, I also chanced upon the following: A poet of exile par excellence, Darwish died in exile. The village of his birth in western Galilee, al-Birwa (whose Arabic name is said to have been first recorded in Persian poet and traveler Nasser Khosro's Safarnameh had been demolished, in whose place Moshav Ahihud was built in 1950. His most famous poem Identity Card was published in 1964.

It was a shocking revelation to me to hear an Israeli peacenik many years ago speaking into the tiny loudspeaker held in his hand to a small crowd on a windy day at the Civic Center's UN Plaza, by the Main Library and Bart Station, the revelation that Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1982 was designed to crush PLO precisely because PLO had been reaching out, through diplomatic channels, for a peace deal. Many years later, then, Norman Finkelstein would take on Ben-Ami, Israeli ex-Foreign Minister, on Amy Goodman's Democracy Now and had this to say: Come 1981, as pressure builds on Israel to reach a diplomatic settlement in the Israel-Palestine conflict, they decide to invade Lebanon in order to crush the P.L.O., because the P.L.O. was on record supporting a two-state settlement. As Dr. Ben-Ami's colleague, Avner Yaniv, put it in a very excellent book, Dilemmas of Security, he said, “The main problem for Israel was,” and now I'm quoting him, "the P.L.O.'s peace offensive. They wanted a two-state settlement. Israel did not.” And so Israel decides to crush the P.L.O. in Lebanon. It successfully did so.
The P.L.O. goes into exile.

Norman Finkelstein's name now suddenly reminded me (due to University of California Press, Berkeley, connetion) of a wonderful book they had published in 1995, a translation of Mahmoud Darwish's Memory For Forgetfulness. My fingers grew restless, eyes agitated, flipping through pages, trying to find where the poet of exile mentions another poet of exile. Here: Patience, intellectuals! For the question of life and death which is now supreme, the question of a will committing all its weapons to the battlefield, the question of an existence taking its divine and material shape - these are more important than ethical questions about the role of poetry and the poet. And it is fitting that we should honor the awe which these hours unfold, the hours of the transfer of human existence from one shore to another and from one state of being to another. It is fitting also that traditional poetry should know how to hold its humble silence in the presence of this newborn. And if it becomes necessary for intellectuals to turn into snipers, then let them snipe at their old concepts, their old questions, and their old ethics. We are not now to describe, as much as we are to be described. We're being born totally, or else dying totally. <>Yet our great friend from Pakistan, Fayiz Ahmad Fayiz, is busy with another question: "Where are the artists?"
"Which artists, Fayiz?" I ask. "The artists of Beirut." "What do you want from them?" "To draw this war on the walls of the city." "What's come over you?" I exclaim. "Don't you see the walls crumbling?"

Simone Bitton's 1997 documentary film Mahmoud Darwich: As the Land Is the Language traces some of the paths of Darwish's exile.

Rachel Donadio writes in New York Times Book Review (pg 27) about a reprint - by Ibis - of a controversial novel Khirbet Khizeh (1949) by S. Yizhar about displacement of Palestinians. The author was born in 1916 and served as an intelligence officer in 1948 war. Ms Donado writes, "[T]he book tells of the violent evacuation of a Palestinian village by a Jewish unit in the 1948 war of independence. " No one knows how to wait like soldiers, Yizhar writer, There is the ruthlessly long waiting, the nervous anxious waiting . . . the tedious waiting, that consumes and burns everything." Ms Donado adds: When the order comes, the unit begins shelling. The villagers flee. The narrator speaks, "This is what exile looked like . . . I have never been in diaspora. I had never known what it was like, but people had spoken to me, told me, taught me, and repeatedly recited to me, from every direction . . . exile . . . What, in fact, had we perpatrated her today?"
Noted Israeli writer A. B. Yehoshua called the novel, "a little bit naive, simple . . ." and, according to Ms. Donaldo, Mr. Yehoshua thinks "Other Israeli writers have treated 'the Palestinian problem' with far more sophistication."
That reminds me of what Toni Morrison once wrote: Silences from and about the subject was the order of the day. Some of the silences were broken, and some were maintained by authors who lived with and within the policing strategies. What I am interested in are the strategies for breaking it.
(from Playing in the Dark)
Author Yehoshua add, "From 1948 onward, Israel hasn't been 'taking innocent citizens' and trying to do harm to them . . . It's a war between two peoples about the land . . . [Palestinians] don't want us for their own reasons, and we have to be there because we don't have another place. This is the tragedy." He elaborates, "Even if the Israeli settlements in the occupied territories are 'evil,' we cannot say that the other side doesn't want to push us to the sea."
This level of intellectual dishonesty from a major author is appalling. Mr. Yehoshua not only justifies occupation, colonialism and apartheid but also obfuscates criticism of such practices. What took place in Palestine was not out of the ordinary during colonialism emanating out of racist Europe, it was normal practice to displace colonized people. The displacement of Masaai people of Kenya, 1904, by the British, forcing them off their rich land to make way for British settlements is a similar story of dispossession. The displacement was not always physical, it involved knowledge of literature and history as well. Finally, TLS in its August 15, 2008, issue exhibits a racist way of honoring Mahmoud Darwish by quoting from an old review of poems (1974): Poets cannot live by sympatyhy alone, and it well that Darwish has the technical expertise to achieve effects that do not depend on biographical information . . ." If he is a major poet, extremely popular, worthy of translation, then, why wouldn't he have technical expertise? Would TLS employ such snobish language about a poet expressing similar feelings about Holocaust? Shame on TLS!

Of poets and painters and filmmakers: a short entry

While browsing a new book on Rothko, I learned that Antonioni the filmmaker, while in New York presenting his L'eclisse, paid a visit to the painter. Rothko brought out his art one piece at a time and was full of anxiety due to Antonioni's silence for an hour or two, when the latter finally spoke through an interpreter saying that they both had the same subject matter: nothingness. Another version has it that the filmmaker said, "Your paintings are like my films. They are about nothing . . . with precision." Antonioni's Il Deserto Rosso was made after his meeting with Rothko and is considered a departure from Anotonioni's singature style of filmmaking. Then later today I happen to read a William Logan's review of Selected Poems by Frank O'Hara in New York Times Book Review and couldn't help admiring a photograph of Artists at the Cedar Tavern, 1959, with the following caption, "We often wrote poems while listening to the painters argue," Frank O'Hara recalled.

Ulysses' Gaze: a dialogue between color and history

On a certain level I am still trying to understand the film, its wider implications: its use of long shots (reviews suggest 60 shots for entire film), a mix/switch of languages in the same conversation as if Keitel's character understands different Balkan languages, contours of Balkan history, metaphor of undeveloped film roles, use of cold colors (the most interesting aspect) pitched against human tragedy, use of water, rain, snow and fog, the use of an American character/well-known actor and so on. I'll write as I get more time. Be patient.
A question pops up in mind: Why does the backward journey start with Greece? Is it because Greece (victim of European snobbery) always has to prop up its claim to "the cradle of western civilization"? Cineaste, the film periodical, carried several excellent articles in various issues. Dina Iordanova, in Summer2007, Vol. 32, Issue 3, points out: " . . . all important films from the region ultimately deal with historical memory." More importantly, the new Balkan cinema is also deconstructing the grand narrative of national purity that gripped these states as they acquired their new political indentities. Should the viewer question the choice of a male voyeur in Ulysses' Gaze? a nagging question lingers.
I accidently discovered that Ulysses' Gaze is connected to Angelopoulos' previous film, Weeping Meadows, in that the character Harvey Keitel plays as someone who has returned even if as a tourist, and it is this return that links the story to Alexis' character who in Weeping Meadows departs for America leaving Eleni behind "to bear the brunt of Greek war, political repression and civil war." But Ulysses' Gaze was made in 1995 and Weeping Meadows in 2004.

New Middle Ages?

While reading an older SF Chronicle (June 18, 2008) for work related matter, I read the following letter to the editor, Welcome to the Middle Ages: Editor - Your
article on the declining numbers of people able to retire ("Comfortable retirement a
fading dream for many," June 16) is consistent with other indicators such as war,
famine and plague that we are entering into a New Middle Ages.
As the American empire crumbles, the barbarians hordes establish their fiefdoms.
The common man becomes a lifetime serf to the corporate aristocracy that uses its
wealth to fund misguided crusades.
Media, in the role of the Church, offer solace through illusion, while heretics are
burned in the headlines.
Most fascinating of all is what form will the coming Renaissance take? Steve Abney -
San Francisco

The other piece of news that continues to disturb me since I first read this bit on the day of the issue was published. The heading read: Inaction in boy's beating called justified: Experts say witnesses are understandably scared and confused (June 18, 2008)

Something is weirdly wrong with our society. I will share my reflection as I find time to sit down in front of my computer.
Came home and saw this on CommonDreams via The Toronto Star: Haunted by Iraq War. (Read the full story here http://www.thestar.com/News/World/article/456877 )
It is a story of one Private Dwyer celebrated as a hero for saving an enemy's child. At home a father kills his two years old by kicking and punching him over hundred time by a roadside and people driving by stop and watch in horror. No one intervenes for the fear he might hurt them. Wonderful! They say they had nothing to stop him with. How about getting in your car and crushing him? I wonder what role media has played in creating such a society that we have come to embrace? For one thing, they justified and continue to sanction a cruel, inhuman war and turned it into a video game as opposed feeling horrified. The sensitized the war by showing images of (not carnage our soldier committed on a foreign people) but by displaying images of humanitarian gestures by the US soldiers, some of whom are now dying by sniffing aerosol spray cleaner. The media has truly turned us into a passive spectator of murders. Media, instead of going after the Neocons who devised the war and exposing their criminal side, turned us into weightless dumbells. Steve is right on when he calls them the new Church.

Something that caught me eye

There is an excellent review by Yvette Biro on Tsai Ming-liang and Jia Zhang-Ke's films in the Summer 2008 issue of Film Quarterly. What really impressed me in Biro's Tender is the Regard: I Don't Want to Sleep Alone and Still Life is the following:

'Tsai rightly states that he is not simply an observer. He touches the depth of sensation, fleeting desires, and instincts but he never does so from a position that is too close to his subjects. Instead he stands back in order, with his exquisite precision, to pay attention to specific details. The lightless, sombre images are nevertheless rich, saturated, despite their repetitive, minimalist components. Although the camera always remain distant, it is clear that man adn environment are indivisible, identical living vegetation. We have time not only to see, but also to live through the micro-life revealed thanks to the patience of the penetrating, immobile camera composition. The bleak, dreary, and narrow walls, the miserably small windows, or the blatantly barren concrete jungle of the city are the unhomely home of people, where human action is restricted to the most trivial, physical activity.

Tsai understands the language of the body, the naked mother tongue of daily existence best. The normal, simple life functions of our being, the everyday rituals: eating and urinating and washing, teeth-brushing and masturbating - devouring and relieving oneself, the "cries and whispers" of hurried sexual intercourse. This is the common, natural timetable of daily life: waiting silently, then feeding, "downloading" . . . and starting again; doing what has to be done, whatever the body requires, for as long as it is possible, before it is necessary to move again. The solitude of heavy dreams cannot be soothed even with a pillow . . . '

Folks, this is sheer poetry! We must salute such sensitive readings of pieces of art.