Why Are You Chasing Us?
ÍŞÍNDEKÍLER CONTENTS
32 e. lane keller new york, usa What Any Mother Would Do
38 2 carol II of romania the deportation of tatars from dobrudja
3 mustafa kemal atatürk the deportation of tatars from dobrudja
3 BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER
sariy duran scythia minor Küçük kardeşime
Valery Petrovskiy
4
Photo: Alex Nasekin
fieldshop puducherry, india The Dark is Rotten (II)
42 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (IV)
44 sait atsa (atsayev) - assassinated dagestan - august 28, 2012 Photoshop - The spiritual leader of Dagestan, Sait Atsa (Sheikh Said Afandi al-Chirkavi), killed as Vladimir Putin was visiting the zone
emily dickinson Delí keşe Góñíl başta Hewes Şandan heş kalmagan Ziya
5 NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov
şamil toktargaziy (toqtargazi) Para Ey, kóylí! Yazmam artîk
6 taner murat scythia minor Kókten sesler - Temúçin (IX)
8 ute carson texas, usa Interview Nothing but Snake Oil?
14 valery petrovskiy chuvash republic, russia Interview Spade as Baton
20 john patrick hill california, usa Easter Island/Spider Rock: Value to Earth Measure
26 Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.nazar-look.com
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abay qunanbayuli Spring
28 jeff tikari haryana, india Postprandial Peg
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Aurbina Ute Carson Fieldshop John Patrick Hill E. Lane Keller Alex Nasekin Nikater Valeriy Petrovskiy Bjarte Sorensen Jeff Tikari
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the deportation of tatars from dobrudja
On September 4, Tatars are mourning THEIR DEPORTATION FROM DOBRUDJA Romania and Turkey signed the treaty of deportation on September 4, 1936 at Bucharest 2 Nazar Look
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the deportation of tatars from dobrudja
4 ewlúlde Tatarlar TOMRÎĞA SÚRGÚNÚN akîlîna akelíp ğîlaylar Súrgún antlaşmasî Rumaniye men Túrkiye arasînda 4 ewlúl 1936'da, Búkreşt'te imzalandî www.nazar-look.com
Küçük kardeşime Küçük kardeşim, ah, bin dönmen daha Dolmuyor senin bu fezalarda, Gözünnü diksen de göknün ayına, Yalancı yıldız var omuzunda. Dökme zehiri, sen de dökülürsün, Dövme evimi, sen de dövülürsün, Bozma dilimi, sen de bozulursun, Vurma arkama, sen de vurulursun. Yerinde dursan, belki kurtulursun, Ben töre olsam, sen kimin kulusun?
Sariy Duran scythia minor
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Delí keşe Delí keşe Ekewmízge, Delí keşe Fewkaláde! Ğel kereksíz Káálp limanda Pergel ólí Ólgen karta! Kúrek ğennettiy Ey, deñíz! Bo keşe yok Ğaga sensíz! (Taner Murat'nîñ terğúmesínde)
Góñíl başta Hewes Góñíl başta Hewes, Soñra íster Raátlík. Soñra ufak Ilajlardan, Ağî kandîruwğî. Soñra íster yukî, Soñra, eger Hakkem Oga şonday karar berse, Ólím músaadesí. (Taner Murat'nîñ terğúmesínde)
Şandan heş kalmagan Ziya Şandan heş kalmagan Ziya Meñgí Úyden başka. Yîldîz Ímí Ólílerge, Yîldîz, Yaşaganga.
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Para Bo dúnyada herşiy para, Başta – para, soñ baht ara. Raát íster iseñ – para Kerek para, para, para! Din úyrenmek úşún para, Onî kútmek úşún para, Dúnya bílmek úşún para, Kerek para, para, para! Ğatsañ para, kalksañ para, Tuwsañ para, ólseñ para, Saw ve kasta bolsañ – para, Kerek para, para, para! Herşiyge alettír para, Dúnyada kuwetdír para, Akrette ğennetír para, Kerek para, para, para! Turma, şalîş, kazan para! Soñ dúnyada raát ara! Onsîz derler yúzúñ kara, Kerek para, para, para! Heş bírşiy bílmez fukara, O bílír kímde bar para. Kara boga, túşún bír para Kerek para, para, para! Álemde kóptír ora-bura, Her yerde húkúm eter para, Kímden ísteseñ sora, Kerek para, para, para! Tatarîñdîr şúmdí sîra, Okîsîn bízím fukara, Úyrensín bír úmer, zira Kerek para, para, para!
Yok, efendím, bo ğaygara Vağiptír aş kóz baylarga, Demelí búgúnden soñra Başîñdan kalsîn para, para! 1910
Ey, kóylí! Ne ğîlaysîñ, ey, kóylí, Turma, şólde aşlîq şaş! Ğîlamak man íş pítmez, Balañ-şagañ kalîr aş! Ğurtumuzda kórgeníñ Elem, keder ve zillet. Wahşiylíkler eger pítse, Kurtulağaq bo millet.
Yazmam artîk Yazmam artîk, bezdím endí yazmadan. Ne yazsam da yazgan yerínde kalîr. Bonday yazî yazmadan ne fark bolîr Ózíñ úşún kîşta mezar kazmadan? Matbaa yok tap idepím dep aytsam, Tabîlsa da, okîgan bar mî ağep? Mollalardîr bo yanîklarga sebep, Kyór bolayîm, hakklarîn aşasam. Kalk ğahil kalganda, olar semírír, Kalknîñ etín, súyegín kemírír. Bír ğemaat bílse, aldanmaz kolay, Bílmese kurban bola, elbet, şonday. 1913
Wurma, Şamil, şeykke yara, Sen kalkka sofîlîk ğora, Yaramaz keptíñe, soñra Deme para, para, para!
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Nazar Look 5
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Kókten sesler - Temúçin (IX) Kesím 22 Satîlgan Bodonğar kózlerín úynúñ íşínde gezdíríp, dóngeleklep aldî. "Yeşíl kózlí sarî biyke nege kelmiy eken?" dep efkáarlandî, bo. Ka-tse, ka-tse, ózínden saklan-almay. Şoga kalgan edí, kózí, şo biykege. Kalmaz mî? Gúzellígí bír kenarga, sarî şáşlí, yeşíl kózlí kórewuyatan mî, kíşí? Kayet siyrek. Kapî aşîlîp sarî biyke kírdí, artîndan da ak sakallî bír akay. Kelíp, ayak ústí oga karşî turdular. Sarî biykeníñ kuşagînda bír bala, dórt-beş yaşînda. - Ber! - dedí ak sakkallî akay. - Mínaw kîznî saga beremen. Mínaw kîz señkí. - dep, sarî biyke kolîndakî balasîn Bodonğarga uzattî. Bodonğarga şaşîrîp kaldî. "Bo taa ne eken? Ka-tiyím men balanî? Maga bala lázîm mî?" dep tartîlîp tura edí. Úynúñ íşíndekíler suskan, herkez oga karay. Sarî biyke men ak sakallî akay "Al!" añlamînda başîn aşaga sallay bereler. - Al! Al balanî, bírşiy bolmaz. - dep ayta katînda otîrgan Bokşî Bay da, oga yawaş, tírsegí men, wurup. - Ne aytayîm? Men ózímní bek láyîk kórmem, bo balaga. - dep taa bek tartîldî Bodonğar. - Alağaksîñ, bo kîz señkí. - dedí kart. - Al! - dep sarî biyke kíşkenekíy kîzşîknî kolîna tutturawuydî. Íster-ístemez Bodonğar balanî kuşaklap tuttî. Ka-teğek ke? Alîp óptí. Kîznîñ ateşí bar eken, kasta. Betínde, moyînînda tarî gibí balaban kîzîl-kulan tamgalar aşkan. Aksakallî kart akay şîgîp kettí. Biyke de: - Ğîlîşsî, terakay ányakka! - dep Bokşî Baynîñ yerín alîp Bodonğarnîñ katîna kelíp otîrdî. "Bokadar biyaz insanlar da bola eken" dep túşúndí Bodonğar, kóz kîyîgîndan biykeníñ kollarîna karap. - Bo gúzel kîzşîk señkí mí? - dep
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soradî o, sarî biykeden. - Meñkí bolganî ne? Señkí. - dedí o. - Tabiy, meñkí de, "señkí edí mí?" dep sorayğak boldîm. - Yok, meñkí tuwul edí. Mením balam bolmay taa. "Balasî yok eken, taa. Koğasî kaysî bírsí eken?" dep Bodonğarnîñ akîlî oynaklay tura. Bala da ğatsîrap: - Ğat abiy. Ğat abiy. Yabanğî. - dep, mîrîlday-ğîlamsîray başladî. - Sus, kîzîm! Yok bírşiy. Mína, şúndí kelíp alîrlar sení. - dep, herkez balanî tînîşlatmaga karadî. - Balanî satîp alganday bírew şîksa, satarsîñ! De mí? Amma kara, sak bol! Gúzel bír kîzdîr. Tiyerí, kîymetí de oga kóre. Bírden berewuyma, uğuzga kaşîrawuyma! dep şîbîrdadî sarî biyke Bodonğarnîñ kulagîna. - Bek gúzel, añlaştîk. - dedí o da. "Demek, kasta kîznî maga bagîşlap, endí menden satîp alağak bola ekenler. Ğaba korkkan ekenmen. Bo da ádetlerínden bírsí eken" dep vaziyetní şeşíp algan soñ, Bodonğar da ózíne keldí. Katîna bír apakay algan, aksakallî kart kaytîp keldí. - Neniy, neniy! - dep kasta kîz, ekí kolîn keliyatîrgan apakayga toralap, taa bek ğîlamsîray. - Way, bo dúlber kîzşîk ta kaydan şîgawuygan? Alağaklî bolaman. Satmaysîñ mî? - dep soragan soñ, apakay, kúlúmsúriykúlúmsúriy, kîzîna karadî. - Yok, satlîk tuwul. Dúlber kîzlar satîlmaytan, dúlber enderdír. - dep kírdí Bodonğar da şo oyînga, kîznî kuşaklap. Kîz ğîlamaga başladî. Lákin kastalîknîñ awurlugundan ğígerlerí bek ótmiy. - Satîlmaytan mî? Satîlîr, satîlîr. Men beduwa ístemedím, ya. Ódermen, ğanîñnî kuwantîrman. Ne ístiysíñ, şo kîzga? - dep soradî nenesí. Bodonğar taa bek kuşaklap sîktî,
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www.tanermurat.com kîzşîknî: - Yok, tatay, bo mením kîzîm. Satkîm kelmiy. - dep. Apakay, ğebínden şîgargan bír moşagîn Bodonğarga kósteríp: - Mína, bír ğúrek moşagî beriyím. Sen maga satawuy bo kîznî! - dep tílekníñ ústúnde turdî. Ğígít razî bolmadî: - Tatam, bír moşakka onday kîz bergením ne, endí? Ne, akîlîmnî uşurtkanman mî? Hem de, tek teşíklí moşak. Kîznîñ nenesí kolîn kísesíne tîgîp, ekí moşak taa şîgardî: - Úş teşíklí moşagîm yok amma úş moşak beriyím. Úş teşíklí moşaktobîna kîzîñnî maga sat! Yakînlatmadî, bírem: - Ketsí başîmdan! Úş teşíkke satkanîm ne? Delírgenmendír, taa. Ka, bokadar dúlber kîz kaydan tabar ekensíñ sen, úş teşíkke? Kórmiy ólírsíñ! Kîznîñ nenesí kolîn kísesíne bírtaa kondîrîp, úş moşaknîñ ústúne, dórt moşak taa saldî: - Aydî, mendiy bolmay, sendiy bolsîn! Yedí teşíklí moşaktobî bolsîn. Sen de, başka yakta, onday moşaktobî tab-almazsîñ. Mína, ğúrek moşaklarî. Kara, bek eskí! Kartbabamnîñ kartbabasîndan kalma. Kaş kíşí ístep ğúrdí menden bo topnî, bermedím. Saga beriyím, kîzîñnî ber! - Kara, ayse! Eger kîzîmnî okadar merak etíp, fazla ísteklí bolsañ, tobîñnî dokîz teşíklí yap, beriyím. Dokîz teşíkten aşaga túşmem, kaberíñ bolsîn. Mal meñkí, moşak señkí. - dep kestí o wakît Bodonğar ğîlap turgan kîznîñ fiyatîn. - Paalî bolsa da kîznî ístedím. Alayîm, men bo kîznî! Mína, dokîz teşíklí moşak tobî berdím. - dedí apakay, ekí moşak taa koşîp. - Men de kîzîmnî berdím, kettí! - dep uzattî o da kîznî, ístegen tiyeríne barîp. Kîz nenesín kuşagîna kíríp tînîşlandî. Ak sakallî da, bútún moşaklarnî bír ğípten geşíríp top píşímíne ketírgen soñ, Bodonğarnîñ kókíregíne tagîp şîktî. Soñra kîznî ózí alîp, nenesínden: - Ka, túşúndúñ mí? Endíden soñ
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kîznîñ atî ne bolağak? Ne at kondîrağaksîñ? - dep soradî. - Way, mením akîlîm kaysî bírsíne ğetsín? Okadar kaárím bar, boga túşúngendír diysíñ mí? Bo meselení sen men kóríşmesem, bolmayğak. Berersíñ, taa, bír akîl. ğewapladî apakay, yawaş, ayîrî konîşîp. - Kel mínyakka! - dep aksakallî akay kapî betke tartîldî. Apakay da kettí ánaw betke, kîznîñ şáşín sîypalay beríp: - Ne at atayîm eken? Sen taa árúw bílírsíñ. Sen men tanîşmay bo íşní ózím beğer-almam. Beğeretanman mî? - dep kart man şîbîrdaşîp, ondan akîl karadî. - Ózíñ bílírsíñ, kîzîm. Ziyaret ísteseñ, Ziyaret bolîr. Tiğaret ísteseñ, Tiğaret bolîr. Kîdîruw ísteseñ, Kîdîruw bolîr. Pazarlîk ísteseñ, Pazarlîk bolîr. Órdeklí Sápír ísteseñ, Órdeklí Sápír bolîr. Satîlgan ísteseñ, Satîlgan bolîr. Kaytarîlgan ísteseñ, Kaytarîlgan bolîr. Sen bílírsíñ! - Kaysî bírsí taa bek korşalawğî, taa bek ğan berúwğí eken? - Alaysî. Sen súygeníñní say. - Men Ziyaret men Satîlgannî taa bek súydúm amma bírsín ústúne toktay almayman. Tur terakay! - dep Bodonğarnîñ katînda yeşíl kózlí sarî biykege kelíp, ondan da akîl ístedí. - Ay, taa nege sorap ğúresíñ? Ziyaret bolganî ne? Bek inğe de, aytmasî zor. Satîlgan dersíñ, taa. Satîlgan bek yakşî, kúñlegení bírem şîgar. - dep ayttî keñeşşísí. - Onday. Hakkîñ bar. Satîlgan bolsîn, atî! Atnîñ ústúne otîrgan soñ, kîznîñ nenesí kartka da bíldírdí. "Yakşî" añlamînda başîn sallap, úynúñ ortasîna şîkkan soñ, aksakallî kasta kîznî yokarga kóteríp, úş kere bírtaalap: - Bo kîzga ğañî at koñsîn! Atî Satîlgan bolsîn! - dep atîn taktî. Alaysî kuwandî. Herkez kîşkîrîşîp sekírdí. Aksakallî akay, Satîlgan man nenesí, artîndan sarî biyke de tîşarga tayîp kettíler.
(dewamî keleğekke)
Nazar Look 7
ute carson
texas, usa
www.utecarson.com
A writer from youth, German-born Ute Carson’s first story was published in 1977. Her story “The Fall” won the Grand Prize for Prose and was published in the short story and poetry anthology, A Walk Through My Garden, Outrider Press, Chicago 2007. Her novel “Colt Tailing” was published in September 2004 and was a Finalist for the Peter Taylor Book Award Prize for the Novel. Her second novel “In Transit” was published in 2008. Her poems have appeared in Arts & Letters Magazine, The Barricade, The Texas Observer, TheWriterWithin, The Jimson Journal, Secret Attic, The Inkpot Press, The Blind Press, Timbuktu (UK), Decanto (UK), EarthLove Magazine (UK), AWEN, Atlantean Publishing (UK), Lyricalpassion Poetry, Literary Magic, FreeXpression, (AU), Shots (UK), and Dreamcatcher. Carson’s poetry was featured on the televised Spoken Word Showcase 2009, 2010 and 2011, ChannelAustin, TX. Carson’s first volume of poetry “Just A Few Feathers” was published by PlainView Press in April 2011. An Advanced Certified Clinical Hypnotist, Ute Carson resides in Austin, Texas with her husband. They have three daughters, five grandchildren, a horse and a number of cats. 8 Nazar Look
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Interview
TM: Is poetry influencing your prose?
TM: Ute, at what age did you discover the writer in you? Ute Carson: I am a novelist and a poet and I have been writing since childhood. TM: Do you have other writers in your family? Ute Carson: My paternal grandmother once wrote a play that was performed in a community theatre. Many other family members write. TM: You have lived in many places, yet chose Austin as a home base. What is it about Austin that inspires you to write? Ute Carson: We have lived in places all over the world from Glasgow, Scotland to Norway. Austin is a very diverse place with multiple cultural activities. But every place I live inspires me. TM: Who influences?
are
your
biggest
creative
Ute Carson: My relationships are my greatest influence on my writing, starting with a third grade teacher who praised and encouraged my fledgling essays. TM: Do you have preferred themes? Have you written any work that you would never consider submitting? Ute Carson: Once I have finished a piece of writing I am ready to present it to the public. I have no theme restrictions. TM: Tell us about 'Just a Few Feathers', your latest poetry collection? Ute Carson: My collection "Just a Few Feathers" is based on emotions transformed by language. TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it? Ute Carson: Sometimes I finish a piece in one sitting, sometimes I revise for weeks. TM: Is title important for your work?
Ute Carson: There is an easy flow between my prose and poetry. I work a lot with images and the imagination is a guide to both poetry and prose. TM: What is the biggest challenge you have ever had to overcome, and how would you define success? Ute Carson: Getting to be read by a wide audience has been my greatest challenge. Inner satisfaction with a finished work is my success but I still need an audience as my echo. TM: Cats or horses? Ute Carson: I am an animal lover and respect all creatures great and small. TM: What is the best place to have lunch with a writer in Austin? Ute Carson: Austin is full of lovely small luncheon places. How about meeting at "The Grove"? TM: How important do you feel it is for a writer to embrace modern technologies? Ute Carson: The Internet is a valuable resource to connect with different readerships. TM: If you had to give advice to a writer just starting out, what would it be? Ute Carson: I would advise any writer, novice or old timer to continue to read, read, read! And, read your own work out loud. Others might catch a flaw here and there! TM: What is ahead for Ute Carson? Ute Carson: I am going to continue to write. I am about hallway through my next novel and new poems are coming out each month. My hope is to find a film producer interested in my work. There will be a catalog "Story Drive" at the Frankfurter Book Fair in October where interested producers and directors can look through my work or view more of it on my website at www.utecarson.com
Ute Carson: Titles are important because they set a tone for a piece of art.
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Nazar Look 9
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Nothing but Snake Oil?
his dismay, “You are playing Russian roulette.” I admire him for his dedication. His focus is on prevention. But he often frets when a dark spot in the road is not a sinkhole but only a shadow. I stood my ground against speedy invasions. I needed to investigate the shadows.
After completing my hypnosis training, a physician friend teased, “Nothing but snake oil.” That comment came back to me recently after an oophorectomy. As a privileged 66 year-old patient, I had a superb team of doctors, excellent nursing care and was released the same day as the surgery. Following a speedy recovery, I felt it had all been a piece of cake. Modern medicine is amazing but what about the snake oil? More and more patients and health professionals are asking questions about alternative therapies.
I sprang into action and used the tools of my trade, hypnosis. I also employed Reiki healing touch methods. I balanced my chakras with my color (all matter has a unique frequency which vibrates to one of the colors in the color spectrum and mine is yellow). A crystal with its electromagnetic properties helped. So did my friend Debra, an energetic screener who put me on nutritional supplements. I uncovered some psychological reasons for my physical symptoms. I reread old mythologies. I was bent on restoring my ovaries to their original functioning. All approaches that are snake oil to most!
In 1998 Eisenberg, et al. published the results of a follow-up national survey on alternative medicine use in the United States in the journal of the American Medical Association. They concluded that “estimated expenditures for alternative medicine professional services increased 45.2% between 1990 and 1997 and were conservatively estimated at $21.2 billion in 1997, with at least $12.2 billon paid out-of-pocket. This exceeds the 1997 out-of-pocket expenditures for all US hospitalizations.”(1) Austin reported similar results that same year and the trend toward alternative medicine is still rapidly rising. (2) What’s going on? Maybe my recent experience can shed some light on this question. My physicians and I had tracked bilateral cysts on my ovaries for several years when in October 2006 we discovered that the right cyst had changed shape. My doctors recommended immediate removal of both ovaries and my uterus as “standard medical procedure,” the second most common surgery for women in this country. There are over 600,000 hysterectomies each year in the United States and one in three women will have had a hysterectomy by the age of 60. (3) I asked for a reprieve. Dr. Taylor, my gynecologist of many years, is a wiry man who speaks first with his eyes. They darkened by the moment. Furrowing his eyebrows, he voiced
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During the wait, I was not immune to anxieties and doubts. I remembered my first hospice patient, a young woman who died of ovarian cancer. Ovarian cancer is stealthy. The symptoms do not surface until the disease has spread in deadly abundance. But the greatest challenge is that of fear itself. When I went back to the doctors in early December and my ovaries had not changed for the better, the pressure mounted. Why did I ask for still more time? My own beliefs were at stake, or so I thought. I was still asking the wrong question, “Were my tools just snake oil after all?” When the next ultrasound showed no improvement, my surgery date was set for the end of February. Now I shifted from disappointment to a search for meanings. They thundered in like an avalanche. Many people, including doctors, are poor listeners when the body speaks. They have difficulty deciphering and trusting bodily symptoms with their own senses. How often can doctors still make a diagnosis from a whiff of urine? As Abraham Verghese, writer and physician notes, “I was taught to tap and thump my patients and listen for the sounds of sickness and health. But this is fast becoming a lost art.”(4) By not knowing the language of our bodies, we unnecessarily
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www.utecarson.com relinquish much control and neglect our innate powers. If you can’t see it, it’s not real. I too fell under that fallacy. Intuitively I felt that I was not afflicted with cancer. I could have been wrong. I had been wrong before. I became like the doubting Thomas who needed to touch Jesus’ wounds to believe in his resurrection. If only we could reclaim our bodies as trusted allies! Most of us no longer know how to mine the wisdom of nature either, for instance using flower essences and herbal remedies. Ongoing long-term studies of natural compounds like the one being done at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center using curcumin as a complementary therapy for pancreatic cancer and multiple myelomas are rare. (5) With my affinity for alternative healing methods, I was haunted by the question, “Why is the use of these obvious tools missing from medicine’s miraculous technologies?” A partial answer may lie in our view of the body. Modern Medicine
Medicine
versus
Ancient
Doctors often see the body as a complex machine. Medical scientists dig deeply into the minutest body parts, down to the DNA of a cell, the better to be able to remove a diseased growth or replace a faulty part with great efficiency. What this view ignores are not only the emotions and environmental influences on health but also the vital forces which breathe life into each organism. The ancients knew about that energy, be it called Chinese Chi or Hindu Prana. We sometimes call it Spirit but then place it at a distance, outside of our bodies, instead of seeing it as the moving energy, which swirls through and around us. Present-day medicine wages war on diseases, aggressively manipulating organs and cells. But there have always been other ways to heal. Vibrational medicine, for example, takes a different path. It is based on attunement, adjustment and harmony, rather than a fight with the body’s ills. Health and illness are examined from the perspective of energy fields. This healing method works by
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rebalancing disturbances of structure and energy flow within the context of multilevel interactive energy fields. Not a single cell can be disturbed without having an effect on every other cell in the body. Not Newton but Einstein! Can these two ways of thinking be linked or are they irreconcilable? Is snake oil just greasing a complicated machine? Let’s return to my operation My gynecological surgeon, Dr. Angeles has impatient hands and dexterous fingers. Her beautiful first name is Concepcion. I was taken by the symbolic connection between that name and her profession. I liked Dr. Angeles immediately. When my daughter explained to my three year-old grandson, Zachary about my operation and that Dr. Angeles was my surgeon, he said, “Tell her to do a GOOD surgery.” She would indeed perform a perfect laparoscopy while respecting my wishes to minimize the invasion as much as possible. Of course, she could not predict the outcome. She had to wait and venture inside my abdominal cavity before she could weigh the options. Ovaries are risky to biopsy. If cancerous cells spill into the bloodstream, the disease can spread. I had to trust her judgment. For me even organs that have limited function never lose their symbolic value. Since ancient times ovaries have represented creativity in its kaleidoscopic forms and the uterus symbolizes motherhood in all its beautiful ramifications. Unsure of its contents, Dr. Angeles removed my right ovary, maneuvered it into a small sack, and pulled it out through a tiny incision. The cyst on it turned out to be benign. My left ovary and uterus, which had grown into each other in a curious embrace, she left intact. Had not my creativity always been intertwined with my feminine intuition? My witty anesthetist, Dr. Whale, is cut from a special mold. He spent much time on the phone discussing my concerns and answering questions. When my surgery was over, he whisked in and out of the recovery room for two hours until he was sure I was all right. Safety is his highest priority. Dr. Whale’s surname is symbolically linked to the largest mammal in the sea. According to Ted Andrews these animals possess ancient knowledge
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www.utecarson.com of how to use breath for a variety of purposes.(6) They can conserve oxygen under water by decreasing the blood flow to areas in the body where it is non-essential. Could I withdraw from the surgery just enough to help myself survive but also recover speedily? The operating room - or OR - is an unfamiliar place to me. Since I had declined a preop sedative and asked to use self-hypnosis for relaxation, I was able to take in my surroundings. The equipment is astonishing. Inflatable warm blankets, wrap-around leg massagers and tables with blinking, clinking instruments, blinding lights and a masked staff. They looked liked they belonged to the raccoon family. When I entered the OR I was enveloped in a cocoon of love, flowing from my husband, my children, grandkids, sister Katie, friends, clients, readers. I had a well-made plan in mind but the unconscious had its own ideas. As my team assembled around the operating table, Dr. Angeles placed a reassuring hand on my arm, Dr. Taylor’s eyes flickered, “You asked me to be present. Here I am.” I blinked back a thank-you. Dr. Whale was humming, rhyming. Whales have a great sensitivity to sound, a form of sonar, echo-locator. They sing. I was not in enemy camp but among professionals who meant well, and I knew they would respect my wishes while performing their expert tasks. Grateful thoughts spread positive vibes. All anxieties evaporated and the room became crowded with healing energy. A line from Mary Baker Eddy that my friend Natalie had sent the day before flashed by, “Divine Love always has and always will meet every human need.” Just before, I started to inhale life-giving oxygen through my mask and send it to all my cells, my eyes fell on a silver cross vibrating along the indentation of the attending nurse’s throat. She was not yet gloved and an old-fashioned ring, red-gold with tiny rubies, reflected the artificial overhead lights. I felt grounded. All would be well. Dr. Whale calmly instructed the team to give me time to center myself. He assured me I would not be rushed. He would wait until I had put myself to sleep. Hushed voices hovered in the cold air. A snake-oil ritual? When the natural energy flow of the body is
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compromised, we can harmonize our chakras with our color, unblocking the pathways. I never have trouble stepping into a yellow circle and then allowing that color to travel through me. But this time I could not visualize any colors at all. In retrospect, I realize that circumstances prevented me from balancing myself. That’s when my unconscious helped. In hypnosis, I have often gone to a safe place in my childhood and, when I failed to see colors, I decided to take myself there again. But to my surprise, I was whisked to Abaco Island where years ago, my husband and I had spent a romantic week in a rented cabin; doors open day and night to the roaring music of the ocean. Now I found myself again on a big brass bed, listening to the murmurings of the sea when, as if through dense fog, Dr. Whale’s instructions rolled in, “Ute, Ute…,” sounded like a far-off echo. I didn’t hear what he said next, nor did I feel the chilling, then burning infusion of Propofol, which sent me into deeper regions of slumber. Awakening from surgery can be fraught with anxieties. When my husband whispered the good news, I felt like crying. I have been asked how I would have reacted if instead of a joyful recovery a struggle for survival had been my fate. The tears would have been tears of sorrow, but I hope my outlook on the future would have been the same, enabling me to activate all the dormant healing powers my body has in store. As soon as my sentences were coherent again and I was back in my room, I repeatedly asked nurses and helpers, “How do people cope?” To a person the answer was, “If they have a positive outlook, they recover better---no matter the medical condition.” Positive attitude? What kind of snake oil is that? Pain is our body’s alarm. I wanted no pain medication except what had already been given during anesthesia. I had little discomfort in my abdominal area, only a delayed shoulder ache due to escaping carbon dioxide bubbles trapped under my diaphragm. But for several days, my urethra burned like a flame from the catheterization. Easy explanation. Despite my conciliatory demeanor, I was pissed! A warm sitz-bath helped. I was voiceless after the intubation. I coughed when I tried to talk and my throat was
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www.utecarson.com sore. The enforced silence sent me inward to reflect. Two weeks later, I was still detoxing my body and my liver was working overtime to get rid of all the poisons. But I was gratefully on the mend. A New Paradigm “Nothing but good can come of this,” Debra said. That’s what I hope. High-tech medicine is here to stay and can be of great benefit when we use it wisely and sparingly. And sometimes expediency is not only desirable but necessary. My only wish is for more awareness and acceptance of other therapeutic approaches. The common goal is to ease suffering, and there is more than one way to reach it. Many doctors know about invisible forces, have seen them at work, and on occasion used them themselves. Both Dr. Whale and Dr. Taylor shared their stories. Dr. Taylor had witnessed a hypnotist helping with a difficult delivery and Dr. Whale told how he once promised a colleague to be his wife’s substitute liturgist. He chanted all through the operation, “You will heal quickly…You will not hurt…You will not bleed excessively…You will fight infection…You will be up in a chair today…You will be walking tomorrow.” The attending surgeon thought Dr. Whale had lost his mind. But the patient recovered swiftly. The ways of healing work differently for all manner of people and vary under diverse circumstances. I became a zealous advocate of natural childbirth after three very easy deliveries. I was chastened by an experience of one of my daughters who, only after hours and hours of strenuous labor and considerable pain, delivered a ten-pound boy. She was not only exhausted but nearly delirious. Maybe she should have had a Csection. Medicine has the caduceus symbol of two snakes which heal through wisdom, a knowledge that moves from past to present to future generations. Because of a very flexible spine, the snake can slither back and forth with speed and agility. In ancient ceremonies, snake poison was intentionally injected into the body through venomous bites. People who survived had
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succeeded in transmuting the poison within their bodies and were then believed to be able to convert all poisons, physical or otherwise. Snakes have been seen as symbols of rebirth because they shed their skin. When the molting starts, their eyes cloud over, giving them a trance-like stare. The eyes clear as soon as the skin is shed, enabling them to see the world with fresh eyes. I too gained a new perspective. Ten days later, I had my follow-up appointment. My old vitality was back and the three incisions were now faint lines like thin pencil marks. “You are doing fantastic. You look like you never had surgery.” Dr Taylor, ordinarily a reserved man, was exuberant. I felt like hugging everyone. But my privileged treatment, outcome and recovery will be an obligation to share and a commitment to help others heal themselves. Snake oil has more than one ingredient. Some I used for myself. There is plenty to go around. Notes: 1) Eisenberg D, Davis R, Ettner S, Appel S, Wilkrey S, Van Rompey M, Kessler R. Trends in alternative medicine use in the United States, 1990-1997; results of a follow-up national survey, JAMA, 1998; 280:1569-1575. 2) Astin, J A. Why patients use alternative medicine: results of a national study. JAMA, 1998;279:1548-1553 3) U.S. Department of Health & Human Services Office on Women’s Health. The National Women’s Health Information Center. Available at http://www.womenshealth.gov. Accessed August 13, 2007. 4) Verghese A, Bedside Manners, Texas Monthly, February 2007; 296:70. 5) Stix G, Spice Healer, Scientific American , February, 2007; 66-69. 4) Andrews T, Animal Speak, St Paul, MN, Llewellyn Publications; 1993.
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http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy
Interview TM: Valery, you are a Chuvash from the Chuvash Republic. Where is your country located? Valeriy Petrovskiy: Yes, I was born in 1957 in the Chuvash Republic, and Chuvash is my native language. You know, in vast plains of Russia many nations reside. It’s supposed that they inhabit outlying districts mostly, in Siberia or the Caucasus possibly. In fact, Tartar, Bashkir or Chuvash folks dwell in the middle of European part of Russia in their own republics. Not long ago their leaders were called presidents, and now we have a Head in my Chuvash Republic. It lies by the Volga River 600 km to the East from Moscow. Though the area is undersized if collated to Bashkir or Tartar republics, it’s quite comparable with Belgium yet smaller. TM: Tell us about your native language. Valeriy Petrovskiy: They say, it’s of the same roots as Bashkir and Tartar, and belongs to Turkic branch of the Altaic family of the languages. While the first two have much in common, Chuvash differs from them to some extent, and I don’t understand them. To my mind, Chuvash stands aside from all the modern Turkic languages: Tartar, Uzbek, Kazakh, Azerbaijan and some others because of its ancient origin. And it’s akin to dead Hunnic, Khazar and Bulghar languages. TM: Why do you write? Valeriy Petrovskiy: Nice you don’t ask what I do write about: never could explain this. Still, why? I have no
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http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy definite explanation. From one side, for me writing is better than to do business, what I tried once in early 90-ties. More than that, writing keeps me alive; I don’t know much ground to make one’s life reasonable, and art makes it so. And any story written, free me from monsters in my head, so to say. I know one thing: I take delight in writing. TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family? Valeriy Petrovskiy: A good question, I never thought about it. My family account was cut half a century ago by two events: WWII cruelties and Stalin’s repressions started even earlier, in 1930. So I can speak about my postwar folks only, I mean my Uncle Joseph. He tried his hand at painting in 1960-ties when young. I liked his work then; yet he mainly just copied well-known Russian artists. Amusing, but to the moment I turned to writing my son got the First prize for a Sci-Fi story in the region, when in his graduation class. TM: Do language?
you
create
in
your
native
Valeriy Petrovskiy: No, it happened so from the very beginning. I write in Russian mostly, and in English in case of need. Why not Chuvash? It’s a long story. Russian language dominates in the Chuvash Republic since 1960-s, when I went to school. So I finished school in a Russian class, though we had two more groups, studying Chuvash. Then education in Russian was considered a better one. I was good in History and English, so I joined an English Department at Pedagogic Institute in Cheboksary, at the same time I’ve been studying History at Chuvash State University. Alas, I had no written practice in Chuvash at both the colleges when I studied there in the middle of 1970-s. Still we have a good number of Chuvash writers of the elder generation active - Michail Yuchma first of all, and less of my age and younger. And most of the prewar cohort was oppressed by
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Stalin’s regime. I turned my hand to creative writing rather late, after many years of my journalism work. In my republic they know me better as a journalist, and they won’t consider me a Chuvash writer because I write in Russian. In Moscow they have no interest in my writing; I tried many magazines there in 2008-09 with no success. I mean, they simply don’t respond. So, I had to seek for publishers abroad, first in Russian journals in Germany, Israel and the U.S. To my surprise, some of them accepted my work in 2010, but they couldn’t release an issue because of finance problem. My last chance was to pass on to publishing in English. TM: What is an average day like for Valery Petrovskiy? Valeriy Petrovskiy: think.
It’s of no interest, I
TM: How would you describe ambiance of your workspace?
the
Valeriy Petrovskiy: Before, it was a small room in a wooden izba, with a sofa-bed, a bookstand and my writing table, where I worked on my notebook computer. I have three narrow windows there, looking to the west and north (that kept my monitor from much sun), then an icon, a clock and an electricity meter above the windows. Now the room is under reconstruction: we took away a TV set and pulled down a bulky Russian stove. Afterwards, I’ll set a pair of armchairs in to meet my friends. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Valeriy Petrovskiy: Facing the dilemma, I choose writing now. It was different earlier, I was mad about reading, and that happened to me not once. I went to join a library next day I went to school (in fact, they didn’t sign up me then, only in half a year with my group). I think I was one of the best readers there till I turned
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http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy out a teenager and had some other concern, playing football, for example. So, it was a boy’s choice: adventure, travelogue, and later scifi… I didn’t read much of fiction at college but textbooks and books prescribed for English class. Afterwards, I reverted to reading in the Army, where I devoured all the books in a small library: over and over again I had a night duty. Next time I was keen on reading when Perestroika occurred in the USSR, and much of literature forbidden before was released: Dudintsev, Rybakov… Then a journalist, we set to writing a collective novelette ourselves to have it published in the weekly. George Yanin, a gifted Chuvash journalist, suggested, “Valery, it’s enough of reading, let’s start creating…” So, in 1985 I first tried my hand at fiction, but gave up then. I had my chapters ready, but some other partners had not… It was a long way till in 2006 my flash fiction was first published in a republican tabloid Vedomosti (Gazette). TM: Is there a time of day or night when you have energy that is more creative? Valeriy Petrovskiy: I like morning better, starting writing right after a cup of hot tea. TM: Who influences?
are
your
biggest
creative
Valeriy Petrovskiy: On my bookshelf one can find books by Ernest Hemingway, Sherwood Anderson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.D. Salinger… It happened so that my style is rather laconic like one of Hemingway. And I enjoy Sherwood Anderson’s short stories greatly - “The Untold Lie”, “I Want to Know Why”, to be exact. And Salinger’s “Nine Stories” are marvelous, as well as “Franny and Zooey”. Among great Russian literature masters I prefer Lermontov and his “A Hero of Our Time”. TM: How often do you submit your work?
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Valeriy Petrovskiy: Every day, in fact: I have some flash fiction pieces ready beforehand and can submit one at any moment. I find a call to submit at “Every Writer’s Resource” or another site for writers and then do it. First I tried almost every publication I met there, but lately I did my best to follow editors’ instructions. While I had simultaneous submissions, some problem occurred: two magazines at once wanted my story in America. A small publication was first to accept the piece, and I had to turn down a high ranking journal’s request. The nonfiction work “One Who’s Won” is still marked as Accepted on their site. Their nonfiction editor shared me a piece of good advice, “In order to get published in a high ranking magazine one should be patient enough…”, or something like this. Well, I wasn’t patient enough and it happened twice or thrice, that I had to say “no” when a piece was just accepted elsewhere. TM: Fiction or nonfiction? Valeriy Petrovskiy: The best fiction is nonfiction. I don’t know the right answer: any word uttered is a lie. As for me, anything written is ever fiction because it’s told from one’s point of view, an author’s or protagonist’s. The same event told by somebody else would sound differently, though the case had a place. My every work considers an event that once took place, even though it was my dream. A dream is fiction or nonfiction, what do you think? So, the bit of fiction in my nonfiction differs… TM: How does living in the Chuvash Republic come into play with your work published in English? Valeriy Petrovskiy: I can’t tell what’s more unreal with me: living in a country side or publishing overseas. Both seem to me fantastic now: at times I don’t go out for a few days, and at times I have several pieces per month
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http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy published as far as Romania, America or Australia. Still I feel quite comfy staying in a distant country village, where gas for heating and Internet to communicate are provided, and my native folk surrounds me. I can add that a highway is right behind my garden to get to Cheboksary in an hour, and I enjoy people speaking Chuvash in a bus. Sure, I’m not happy they don’t know my work. Something alike occurred to great Chuvash poet Gennady Aigy: he was known all over the world, nominated for Nobel Prize in literature and never published in Chuvash language. I mean it was ever a problem to translate his avant-garde poetry from Russian. TM: What is the biggest obstacle you have ever had to overcome? Valeriy Petrovskiy: This reminds me of a questionnaire for applicants. Do you mean any occasion in my living? I was happy enough to live an active social life and to stay out of mischief. Still my life story was not even and polished: while opposing Komsomol and Party leaders as Editor-in-Chief of the republican youth’s weekly, in the end of 1980-s I was dismissed. As a result, for many years in the Chuvash Republic they had no newspaper for youngsters in Russian. In fact I prefer to get round difficulties. Last year they didn’t admit me in Moscow to the Gorky Literary Institute, English Department, and the same month I had eight stories published in America. TM: What is the worst job you have ever had? Valeriy Petrovskiy: After school I started as a lab assistant at a chemistry
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http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy laboratory. I stayed there alone in my nook all day long, and I liked it. But at any moment a supervisor could come in with a rush order and it kept me tense constantly: my working time depended on them, not me, and I hated it. TM: What is your favorite dish from the Chuvash cuisine? Valeriy Petrovskiy: Do I have one, I wonder? When they conscripted me into Army in 1982, we had civil clothing on till we got into the barracks. It was late at night; we had leftovers they had given us at home for the journey. We did our best to take it all before going to sleep: the next two years we had to chew soldiers’ kasha. Then a fellow treated me to a national dish Shart’an, a kind of blood pudding or a big rounded servelat. I liked it immensely then! It was home-made, and it’s difficult to find it nowadays. TM: When you are not writing, where would we most likely find you? Valeriy Petrovskiy: I have no other hobby but writing, not hunting or fishing, to relax I like Russian baths (banja). Here they keep a private banja at any household, it’s a small cabin parted in two - a hot house and a changing room. I have a banja as well, and I spend two hours there every weekend enjoying myself. TM: What is your current project? Valeriy Petrovskiy: Sure you mean something gorgeous me to fulfill next, a novel or a short story collection, but my venture is a small one, just a chapbook in the U.S.A. Meanwhile, I’m happy that GDS, an outstanding magazine in Australia, just accepted my short story “Sharm-al-Sheikh” for their annual issue #33. Last time I was lucky to have my piece “Cloudberries” published there among 37 works chosen from about 3,000 submissions. I know this from their editorial…
changed much lately. Is there a gap between a writer and blogger anymore? A blogger is writing in Internet, sharing there his ideas, and what about a writer published in magazines? You know, publications are often online. So, is there mush difference: a blogger speaks straight to his audience, and a writer’s work is published online after an editor accepts it? As for the success, yes, I have many works published overseas since I started submitting in January 2011 - in America, Canada, Australia, the U.K., India… And I did it thank to Internet, staying afar in a remote Chuvash village. TM: What is the best advice you can give to a writer just starting out? Valeriy Petrovskiy: You better don’t! If earnestly, a young man just starting writing knows better than me what he is after. He handles Inet better, he knows his audience rather well - they are all his company, and the lingo they speak is at his disposal. So I’m not inclined to giving any advice, if only, “Just try it…” TM: What question would you have liked for me to ask and what is the answer? Valeriy Petrovskiy: What do you write generally about? -
I don’t know…
TM: Do you think that the internet is crucial to the success of writers today? Valeriy Petrovskiy:
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The role of writers
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http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy
Spade as Baton From my town to a burial ground one can go by two ways: the first is supposed to walk by and the other… They bring the departed this way, by the road where one can drive a car along. And a path with the steep slope is to walk only, while old men wouldn’t take it. In general, old folks rarely would go to the cemetery, I saw little of them there, and they didn’t like the place. I made my way to the burial ground by the path; it ran from the town’s upper end down to a brook. The pathway was sloping steeply, still one could get to the cemetery in five minutes, or it could be last most ten minutes in the dark. To get to the burial ground I had to climb a hill to the left, it was upside there. As kids we had run this way down to the brook many a time. The cemetery didn’t quite belong to my town; we shared it with a neighboring village, they buried there too. On the contrary, the burial ground could be initially theirs, nobody knows. Half the names of the buried were right the same, maybe relatives - from the town and a village nearby. They all were my fellow-countrymen in any case. So I was going to see my friends there at the cemetery. I keep a picture with all my guys from the same street, side by side in it. Lately we used to meet more often at the cemetery, burying an old man as a rule. We interred them with no fuss, in an ordinary way: my mates leaped down a grave with their spades one after another - to dig. We were used to go bury-digging with an own spade. One was not to pass it from hand to hand, it’s not a baton. If one had to pass a spade, he would lay it down, never drive it into the ground, and so let the other to pick it up, so it was. Otherwise, folks would die one after another dragged off by a diseased. It couldn’t be denied, all the guys knew that. So while two of us were digging a grave, the others waited around smoking.
been waiting for me at the burial ground. In the dark no strangers attended it, and my pals were local residents. Gosh, it was a moonlit night, and the moon looked like an armful of last year’s straw. The fellows would sit there having a respite as if in the shade of a hayrick in summer. A deadly light was being casted by the moon from far above. Then Alex would sit there with his back upright as if a Guard officer, he had a regal bearing. I don’t know what position he held in the Army, but I know he served his time. Then a boy I hadn’t been present at his send-off where old folks gathered together, some parents and adults. When I grew up, he was already back and we went around with him, a jolly crowd from the same street. And Mike would lie nearby; I don’t know what it’s called when one stretches oneself out with his elbows resting against the ground. He wouldn’t be comfortable but stood it: I call him single-minded. He’d lie facing Alex, not quite looking him in the face. They walked in line in life, worked at the same weaving mill where so many girls around. Why had they disagreed once? Mike moved out soon after and sold his house. The fact grieved him much, and he never appeared in the street again. So Mike stretched himself out, and Alex would sit opposite with his leg bent under him. And Pete would stand beside them as if going to run somewhere. Where could be he hurrying at night I wonder? Pete was ever ready to come to the aid: to dig potatoes or to chop firewood, or even to dig a grave. Not everyone would go to a burial to assist while Pete was ever good-natured and reliable. He didn’t agree with quarrels, that’s why he was standing there between Alex and Mike, just to make sure. But the guys wouldn’t fall out. All the three of them were dead long ago. They died one after another; maybe one has driven a spade into the ground, who were I to ask then?
That night three of my friends could have
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john patrick hill
california, usa
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Biography: A tumultuous life. One in need of a bit of history. At two, stood on train tracks while a locomotive ran past. At three, witnessed either, (as NASA reports) a United States spy satellite coming down from Earth orbit of Soviet Russia, or (as I feel) a meteor. Also witnessed by the Sightings and Encounter person from Stockton at www.ufosoveramerica.com. Had things very rough growing up, but always an artist, always creative and spiritual. Began studying medicine wheels at 14. Studied arts in grade school, high school and junior college and worked both studio and art history courses at Cal State Dominguez Hills, Carson, California. Assisted professor Miguel Dominguez with Mexican artists exhibit, and with university gallery. Began my own works. 1990. Lived in Gaylord Hotel, Koreatown. Across street from Ambassador where Robert Kennedy was shot. Was pummeled by Rodney King Riots. Moved to Torrance to wed. Assisted by mi Tia with two shows in San Francisco. Literally walked up to the unmarked East Los Streetscaper Studios when they were still down in the old arts district of Los Angeles, and started working right after. Had a few pieces with Self Help Graphics, and was introduced to Denis Lugo of the Latino Museum of History, Art, and Culture on 1st and Main, downtown LA. Exhibited once and befriended Ms. Lugo. Also was slowly poisoning myself with lead from Windsor Newton oil paints. Later tested with 95% toxicity on scale of 100. Knocked career out and my personal life as well.
debt. Got smacked by the criminal home loan industry, lost my family again. Came back to Inland Empire and began working shows. Got involved in community programs. Had a piece with the famous Sea Shepherd Society Art Auction and got involved with Maryam Seyhoun of the Seyhoun Gallery. Maryam asked me the day I showed with her if I knew how to create jewelry. Had worked on one piece before, but not disciplined in the jewelry arts. Three years later, came back to her after completing stone works and she still had an interest. Got into jewelry classes at Long Beach City College and Maryam said she would give me a show. Before this, after coming back from Colorado, had begun research on a paint project. Wanted to show Peace from ancient times, and because of my exwife’s family connection to West Mexico I based my work from there. Learnt of many cultural tie-ins to ancient West Mexicans: Japanese involved, Polynesian, Ecuador obvious. Everything began to expand from there. Contacted many researchers, including Richard Townsend of Chicago Art Institute, Ian Hudson with Gavin Menzies of 1491, Robin Heath who works on Earth measurement from Stonehenge, and others. With discoveries and experience from other researchers, found great North/South line between Easter Island and Spider Rock in AZ. Then Great Circle including Easter Island, Galapagos Islands, Cape Wrath of Scotland and Ashoka Pillar of India, back to Easter Island – appeared. That has blown up into evidence for global movement of ancient cultures and my paint exhibit is now becoming a multimedia exhibit of miniature oil paintings, stone sculptures, and jewelry.
Worked from Barstow, CA for a time. Eventually got healing and arrived in Apple Valley.
Working with base at Seyhoun Gallery have expanded into Mexico with time at El Colegio de Michoacan. A trip to Mexico for research on this project, this May and June, has provided the fuel for this fire. Wild Fire!
Began working metal sculptures gardens. Went door to door.
My work is just starting.
and
stone
for
Also working up on plans for public art. Work very scattered. Moved to Colorado to pay down
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John Patrick Hill Metis Earth Medicine Artist
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Easter Island/Spider Rock: Value to Earth Measure In 2008, or close to, I was looking to reunite with my ex-wife, Alma Hill. Alma’s family is from Colima, Mexico and I thought about creating an art project about her ancient ancestors. I had grown up reading a Native American book series that stated the South Pacific people had crossed the great Ocean Pacific and grown here in the Americas, bringing with them their teachings. So, I naturally also thought to look at the people who may have traded and traveled into the West Mexican area. My early research was upon the South Pacific people, Polynesians, Maori, Indonesians and others. In one book, I read some of these peole carried a bundle with a stick through the middle which represented their God and Goddess duality. The teachings from the book series above, also spoke of the Creatress and Creator as existing together. So, right off, I was getting good connections. I also saw some of their sailing vessels and began looking at where they may have set down upon the Americas. During my days at CSU Dominguez Hills studying art history, I learnt a bit of the West Mexican pottery tradition and remembered plainly the Chinesco style of works, with their eye slits. I also looked at Peruvian pottery. Later, on a trip to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Alma and our girls and I were able to see firsthand their large collection of pottery pieces. It was very illuminating. So, as I continued my research Japanese and Chinese possibilities of arrival in the Americas was something I looked to. I also had my own ideas about India and SouthEast Asia. Alma has a face that looks very much like the large stone faces from the deep jungles of Cambodia, and her sister looks much like Mongol people. At this time, my thoughts were that Columbus was not looking
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for India herself by going West, but for the actual Indian colony in the Americas that were being reported to be rich in wood, gold, silver and other commodities. Low on funds, I could not purchase the many books and magazines available, so I was looking to the limited resources from my local library. In the Apple Valley Branch, where I live, were old videos by Graham Hancock. Graham and his wife were doing very similar work and they had compiled a great deal of information by that time. Of great interests to me was the thought that Giza, Angkor Wat, and Easter Island were part of a measure that laid out the numbers to the Earth’s polar and equatorial circumference. Back then, Google Earth was fairly new and I began using it to see the relationship between these three locations. Though I couldn’t get them to lay on a single line, I was very interested in the idea of ancient peoples traveling the Earth to make measures. This only suggested to me that the people began by traveling and discovering at first, and then began to cooperate in order to grow in knowledge. This meant that after seeing the whole Earth was filled with a whole cornucopia of different peoples, and ways, every nation began to cooperate in learning and exploring what could be done together. This means we knew of each other in very, very ancient times. While there with Google Earth, and Easter Island, and since my area of discovery was West Mexico and North America, I decided to see how Easter Island might relate to the north. I placed the cursor directly over the island and sent the screen rolling north. Over ocean, finally cutting close to Baja California, I could see very little of interest. I kept going far north, nearly to Canada, and then I came back down. Then, quite as if guided, I looked at Arizona and found Spider Rock. It was on a direct line with Easter Island. Exactly dead on with the North/South line from Easter Island. I was so excited. Was this a new discovery? I hadn’t heard about it before from any of the research I had seen. I sent an email to Graham Hancock, and a couple of other researchers, but nothing ever came back. I was so very excited and this
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fact began to grow silently inside me. If Graham’s work was real, then this connection between Easter Island and North America was certainly very important, but I could not pinpoint anything then. I let it lay as foundation to my work. That was 2008/09 and I continued to search and discover. Sometime later, while watching a TV program on extraterrestrials, there appeared Mr. Giorgio A. Tsoukalos who said that the Ashoka Pillar of India was directly opposite the Earth from Easter Island. He was most interested in the fact that the metal of the pillar, though iron, did not rust in the rain. And he was suggesting it came from astral technology. But, for me, the fact that Easter Island was referenced to a site in India was the most important. Again, to Google Earth. I took Easter Island and the Pillar in India and attempted to make a line between the two, and as the computer program will automatically put up the shortest distanced line, I was surprised that the line would not go almost directly east from India to Easter Island, but more toward the South Pole and then up to the Island. It was puzzling, but I could see it was the shortest route. Again, I put this information into the stone work of my research.
Mr. Townsend and have kept up a very light but informed conversation with him. Richard suggested I travel to Mexico before doing any painting in order to understand and appreciate the layout and reality of the landscape and connections in this land of volcanos. And I began to do that, plan a trip to Mexico. Still low on funds, it took a student loan before I could fathom a trip. I tried to accept a grant from the Pollock/Krasner Foundation, but at that time, I was wanting to drive from California down to Jalisco and there was and still is a great deal of violence along my route. And specifically, the State Department said the gangs were looking for Americans in SUV’s as targets. I spent well over a month in total fear. One where I felt as if my soul were being ripped from my body. At the last minute, I wrote the Foundation and told them I did not want the grant. Horrible. Dr. Steven Greer of the Disclosure Project speaks of a similar fear in one of his works. Photo: Aurbina
And I kept on discovering. Gavin Menzies work came available to me and I read about the Chinese traveling the Earth in the 1400’s with good interest. To me, this all related to ancient routes already known of and traveled by many. Gavin’s work gave flesh to the reality. I was also able to contact Betty Meggers before her recent death. Ms. Meggers had shown that the Ecuadorans and the West Mexicans, while in contact with each other, had also been in contact with the ancient Jomon people of Japan. This through findings of ceramics found in Ecuador that copied distinct styles from the island nation to the West. And, I came into contact, early on, with Phil Weigand of the Guachimonton Project of Jalisco, Mexico. Richard Townsend had written a book on the work going on about the West Mexican people and in it, there was an illustration that I wanted information about. I was able to get to Phil by way of Chris Beekman, then of Colorado State. Phil let me know about Richard and I was able to reach
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This last spring 2012, I did take a student loan and was ready to travel to Mexico in May. Just around that time, I was looking over the internet and found a You Tube video of ancient Earth Measure. In it, Robin Heath was showing how Stonehenge may have related to this work, and I purchased his book, The Lost Science of Measuring the Earth. It was here that my discovery about the Easter Island/Spider Rock North/South line finally connected to the larger scene of Earth Measure. Robin was working to show how Stonehenge was laid out specifically to show how the Earth was equal to so many feet and he had found that the unit of measure in the stone circle was the same as had been used to build the Giza pyramid. So, there was talk of a global knowledge, though Robin did not suggest any specific peoples or nations involved in working the measuring program. It was more intoned that ratios and probabilities created the near exact solving of the riddle of the Earth’s size. But, there was mention and importance made of a triangle that involved a survey of the
British Isles by the Romans when they had control of the lands. It was spoken of by Caesar Augustus, and so was called Caesar’s Triangle. It bounded Britain and parts of Scotland in a triangle and was used to draw survey lines over the island countryside. Robin had worked up a rectangle incorporating the triangle and its upper straight edge crossed at the top of the Brit Isle, just down from upper Scotland. A straight line. Robin made much talk of this and other triangles which were used to gather measure. The stones in Stonehenge he showed came from a certain quarry and when that line was connected to an island just south of the quarry, and back to Stonehenge, one found the ratio of measure that made the Earth measure conclusion enacted. The ratio was 5,12,13. The short side of the triangle was a 5 unit, the longest side 13, and the straight back of the triangle was a 12 unit. In this sequence, Robin also added a fourth line, which he placed within the short 5 unit line. It broke this unit into 5 equal units and at the 3 point, he drew a line to the 12/13 point which created another distinct unit of measure important to the whole
Photo: Bjarte Sorensen
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scheme. Very excitedly, I thought to apply this triangle to the North/South line of Easter Island/Spider Rock. And all sorts of information popped out. 1. When the straight back 12 unit line of the triangle is applied to the Easter Island/Spider Rock North/South line, the Galapagos Islands is crossed by the 13 unit long line of the triangle.
Photo: Nikater
2. The 3 unit to 12/13 point line crossed very
nearly over Ixtlan del Rio, a large settlement area in West Mexico which contains an unusual round temple structure. 3. When one took the Ashoka Pillar line that connects to Easter Island and continues that out, it not only draws directly over the Galapagos , but it rolls directly over the top line of Robin’s rectangle which encloses Caesar’s Triangle, and then continues on back to the Ashoka Pillar. This line is a perfect continuous circle that goes about the entire Earth, taking in all four points. 4. To me, this offers that Darwin and other scientists may have already known of the Galapagos, and it may also point to the reason why Easter Island has the large stone figures. To make the very distant island, easily seen and notable for all as to its global measure importance. Spider Rock in Arizona may also have had such physical notes to its importance. I immediately sought out Robin, but he was in the middle of moving and it took about a month to reach him by email. I told Robin all I have written here, and he did write back once stating his move and that he often received many emails. So, I cannot know if my information on Easter Island/Spider Rock is new to the professional community or not. But my work continues and more and more, this work is proving valuable and exciting and many ways and falls unto many old arguments and fallacies. It will take time before this information becomes any position amongst the main stream of academia, but it is a truth I feel full and confident of. John Patrick Hill Metis Earth Artist
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July 19, 2012
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Spring Spring came and melted the snow and ice. The earth was covered in soft velvet. Freed from winter's hibernation and heartache all that lives dings with its heart to warmth and light. The birds fly in and spring entered the blossoming garden, and the youths made a racket like fledglings. The old men rose again as from the grave and are honestly happy to meet again their friends. The families hurry to their kinsmen in the nearby aul: embraces, exclamations—a happy commotion. Young laughter is carried on the air in triumph. The people have shaken off the winter worries. Sharp cries come from the she-camels and the lambs bleat in the yard. Butterflies and birds flutter in the ravines. Powerful streams burble, wind and flow under the fixed gaze of trees and flowers. Swans and geese glide decorously past the banks. The children rush about searching for birds' nests. You gallop on your winged horse. The hawk soars up, its plumage flashing, you strap the prey to your saddle— and the girls playfully block your way. The young girls' costumes are wonderful. The snowdrops flower and delight the soul. The sparrows in the sky and the nightingales in the ravines sing their songs The cuckoo and thrush echo them from the mountains. The trading folk come with new goods. The peasants get down to reaping. Everyone is rewarded for their long work and sweat. The flocks multiply with the new young. What a wonderful world the Creator has given us! He magnanimously and generously gave us his light. When mother-earth fed us from her breast, our Father in heaven thoughtfully inclined over us.
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Your soul trusts in the mercy of Allah, who has breathed life with spring into the earth. The cattle have grown fat in the steppe, abundance descends, and man's spirits soar, he comes to from the time of losses. Everything, except for the black rocks, is warm and pulses with life. Everyone is so generous that the skinflints are angry. You follow the rebirth of the world with rapture— the soul finds its stronghold in the Creator. Old women and men go out in the sun, the children are uproarious. The herds bask in the sun, glossy and well-fed. The trill and chirruping of songbirds flows. The calls of the geese and swans come from the river. The sunset has faded. The moon and stars triumph. How could the beams of the stars not pierce the darkness. But in anticipation of the return of the sun they pale and lose their sparkle. The sun now, like a bridegroom back from its travels, arranges its bond with the bride-earth. The stars and moon turn pale as they see how light-bearing and immortal is this bond. The warm wind brings the news to the moon and stars that the wedding is nigh—the feast is open to all, that the earth has thrown off its snow-white covering and beams with a happy smile. The earth has waited all winter for its beloved sun, and united with it and slaked its passion: This is the result of that everlasting passion: all is in blossom, radiant as the fire-bird. No one dares to stare straight at the sun, but they love it and are warmed by its soulful heat. And I myself saw the sun going into its gold and purple tent in the evening.
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jeff tikari
haryana, india
http://www.jeffspage.com
Jeff Tikari worked on tea plantations in northern India for twenty years and on coffee and tea plantations in Papua New Guinea for fifteen years. He now lives on the outskirts of Delhi where he runs a Homeopathic clinic and from where he does all his writing. His first book on spiritualism and philosophy: "The Future Intelligence" was published in the year 2000. He has had short articles & stories published in magazines around India, the USA, Canada, Australia, and in the UK. He has self published a book, "Masala Tales & Random Thoughts". Jeff has also written the following books: The Future Intelligence - Spiritual Assessment; Aroma of Orange Pekoe – his memoirs and humorous snippets from Tea; The Honey Gatherer – fictional novel; Laugh Like a Dog – fictional novel; Travails of Innocence – Fiction To Sweeten Boredom – short stories; Episodes of Ecstasy – short stories. All the above books can be viewed & sampled at: http://stores.lulu.com/jtikari or : http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Jeff+Tikari or www.jeffspage.com or www.downloadbookonline.net
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Postprandial Peg A story based on the life of tea planters in the verdant SubHimalayan region of West Bengal (India) circa 1960
Ajit and Pratap were young Assistant Managers working on neighboring tea plantations of north-eastern India. Each worked on a thousand acre ‘Garden’ (as planters referred to the plantations), which were owned by British overseas companies. The young men were lean and athletic and scraped the 5 feet 11 inches bar in stockinged feet. They were lightly muscled and wore their hair, in what was considered the ‘in-look’: shoulder length and loose. Both were popular in the community and exhibited a simple sense of fun and humour. Being bachelors left them with not much to do at the close of day. Their options for the evening were limited: they could drive to the nearest suburban town and watch an outdated Indian movie (and in consequence get bitten raw by bugs – not an appealing prospect), or visit other bachelors and down some pegs of their favourite libation. Their cherished scenario was to be invited to drinks and dinner by young married couples. The evenings were then pleasant, the food delightful, and the atmosphere homely and cheerful. However, those invitations were sadly like the proverbial blue moon. Weekends were fine, for one usually took part in sports at the Planters Club, got slurring drunk at the bar, danced like leering wolves, and flirted outrageously with the wives of ‘senior’ planters who enjoyed the young company. The evenings after work on weekdays were like being marooned on a lonely island. From the options available to bachelors, Ajit and Pratap chose to add company to the 'lonely island' by
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visiting each other every second day. The evenings were then pleasurable. Ajit had a radiogram: a sleek highly polished wooden cabinet with a Philips record player – this made a compelling reason to meet at his bungalow. Pratap drove across in the Company jeep in the graying dusk with his bottle of Red Knight Indian whisky; they would drink discuss and argue until dinnertime. Dinner was unerringly ‘western fare’: steaming soup followed by a meat roast, buttered mashed potatoes, and thick brown sauce to top it all. The meal ended usually with a not too firm caramel custard for desert. A bottle of sherry would then be fished out of the glass fronted cabinet to end the evening with their usual postprandial peg and cigars from South India. Their treasured Dry Sack sherry was, however, dwindling alarmingly and caused much concern to the two; for it was imported, expensive, and of infrequent availability. Purloining of their Indian whiskey, in comparison, would tantamount to a minor irritation. One of these days, they said to each other, they would have to address this issue. Saturdays were movie nights at the Planters Club where one saw an outdated English film (black & white usually) and afterwards gathered at the bar to discuss and argue on any subject at hand. Later, much later, in the wee hours, when only a drunk could understand the drooling slur of another drunk, they left, staggering to their jeeps or Ambassador cars and drunkenly lurched away. Sundays were recuperating and nursing-hangover mornings. Aspirins and eggnog concoctions were consumed to salve a throbbing head. By lunchtime, there was a gathering at the club to down that hair-of-the-dog peg, usually pink gins or beer. The vigorous types sweated it out on the tennis court or the golf course and quaffed bottles of beer afterwards. But soon one felt the weekend slip away and it was back home to face the grind at the crack of dawn the next morning.
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http://www.jeffspage.com The planting community looks forward to the onset of ‘cold weather’. The climate then is pleasant, work is at a minimum, and club activities at their peak. All picking of tea leaves is over and the factories are dismantled for the yearly overhaul. This is the festive season: a season of parties, fêtes and club sport championships (tennis, golf and some indoor games). It is a season when planters travel far and wide to other districts to join in the revelries offered in those clubs. A club-hosted dinner is part of the function. Each club also has its yearly do replete with a live string band from Darjeeling or Simla to enliven the occasion. Ajit and Pratap awaited this season of festivities like parched amphibians do to the onset of the monsoons. Teenage daughters of planters: fresh faced, fun loving, and chaperoned by their proud parents would be back on cold-weather vacations from school and college vitalizing club
evenings. Bachelor planters would have ‘fling’ affairs with the pretty young things; affairs that would last the length of the college vocation. The mood change of the friends over the ‘cold weather’ was discernible. Their banter was easier, lighter, but drinking heavier. Their prized bottle of sherry too appeared to take on a joviality of its own, for it emptied itself faster and quicker. This concerned the two friends for the sherry, other than being imported was difficult to come by. Time had come to question the bungalow night watchman as to how the level of their favourite tipple was dwindling so alarmingly? He scratched his head then his crotch and straightfacedly claimed to be a teetotaler. The house bearer too looked shiftily around, and claimed ignorance though admitting that when he did have an occasional drink, it was always haria / lau pani – the local home plantation brewed hooch. The young executives were not happy with the excuses they were being offered and so, over the following weeks, hatched a plan to expose the culprit. They conspired to almost finish the sherry that night and fill it up to the half way mark with their own urine. They rubbed their hands in glee in anticipation, for this would surely expose the secret toper. When next they met they eagerly checked the adulterated bottle of sherry: the level had gone down by a good large peg and a half. The friends were stunned. Let’s not say anything yet, they decided; let us see what happens tomorrow. The following night the bottle was a further large peg down. “Impossible!” said Ajit. “Do you mean some idiot can’t tell the difference between Old Sack Sherry and our piss?” This called for a thorough investigation. The servants were summoned to the sitting room. They stood in a scraggly line – all six of them, some in Company Uniform and others in shorts, all were apprehensive and fidgety. This was a serious matter – to be summoned together like this augured a grave situation. They looked at
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http://www.jeffspage.com each other…there was some talk of the sahibs’ whisky missing. They glanced suspiciously at the house bearer – he was known to drink every day after work. Ajit questioned them repeatedly as to how his cherished sherry was dwindling, but received no answers or admissions. “Come on,” bellowed Ajit. “Own up or the lot of you will be sacked from bungalow work and relegated to field work.” The servants were shaken and nonplussed; they shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other suspiciously. The young kitchen help (gangly and skinny) quaveringly piped up in a small voice, “Sahib, I… I have seen the cook opening the drink cabinet. Perhaps he should be questioned.” The cook waddled in; fat, greasy with the Hindu holy mark smeared on his forehead. But like the others, he claimed he did not drink. “I’m a holy man, Sir, it is forbidden to me.” “Who then has been drinking our sherry?” Ajit flashed the bottle for all to see, “we haven’t had a drink from this bottle in the last two nights and yet it is short by two or three large pegs?” He glared at them fiercely to hide a chuckle that was rising in his throat; for whoever admitted to this dastardly felony would soon be throwing up on the lawn outside when he learned he had been drinking their bosses urine. The gathered employees looked goggleeyed at the offending bottle. “But, Sir,” stammered the cook looking, bewildered. “I… I mean that is the sherry drink, Sir, a peg of which I put in your honors’ soup every night!”
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e. lane keller
new york, usa
www.elanekeller.com E. Lane Keller has been studying the break-up of Yugoslavia since the day she watched CNN's Christiane Amanpour stand over a mass grave and attribute the violence to Serbs. Her work has appeared print, on stage, and on screen.
Release date: October 2012 32 Nazar Look
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Gustav Excerpt from Covenant of Poppies
After dark days of nothingness, Gustav Beric opened his eyes and detected that he was lying in a pool of his own urine. He checked his limbs one by one then took in the rusted bars that lined his cage. In the dim hallway beyond, he made out a man sitting at a metal desk before a half-empty bottle of rakia. Gustav knew the man was Serb because his simian forehead was topped by a grey beret emblazoned with the redstar call-to-arms. From somewhere not so distant a wrenching cry arose and Gustav felt the tug of fear. How many days had he been in this cistern now? With schoolteacherly precision, he blocked out the sounds with a protracted examination of the rubble in his cell. Bricks, paste, grout, mortar‌adobe, granite, flint‌flintlock. Together they made-The shrieks crescendoed. The unmistakable sound of human agony. With his bare hands Gustav scraped the bits into piles, creating piles of rubble and decay-- like Prishtina, like his life. Prishtina's degeneration was obvious. Twenty years prior this jail and the buildings around it were built by a team of engineers who were ordered to turn Kosovo's capital into a world-class city. They'd nearly succeeded. This show of engineering force was in response to the riots, costly riots in terms of people for 1968, when demonstrations where erupting like plains fires. Gustav was fourteen then, on his way to becoming a man, or so he'd thought. It had taken his best friend, Avne, to tell him differently. The demonstrations came hard for Albanians, for first they had to abandon the centuries-long feuds which set them upon each other. To rise against their tyrant, Kosovo's ShqiptarÍts had to overcome their tendency to be a rabid, clan-fighting backwater. This was according the newly-arrived mujahedeen, who, with their Middle Eastern accents, had come to help them organize. Waving the emblem borrowed from sister Albania of two-headed black eagles upon red flags, Kosovar Albanians managed to sail forth in a singular moment of unity. They called for ties among Kosovo brothers and with Albania. As for the Serbs who had passed them over for so many years, they had no such
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allegiance. Albanians called for the republic that was promised and denied, then bullied way from them. The clans, traditional enemies for centuries, lived in mountain zadrugas carved high in hillsides that were inaccessible to all except the sure-footed. These craggy homesteads were inhabited by extended families of Capejevs, Kadares, Rrugas and Haxhias, who, for generations, had sworn to shoot each other on sight. The original slight arose over some dispute involving goats, the details of which lay long forgotten. On the day before the demonstrations, when old and young mountain residents came down from the hillside empty-handed, Gustav was struck dumb. He'd never see any clan member without his fourhanded shotgun. But the mujahedeen suggested that the mountain people had to come this way. As proof of their good intent they offered the Albanians sheep as a reward, knowing that clan members prized that animal above all else. Together, the Islamic soldiers promised, they would unite against the common enemy, the police and mock courts and self-interest in Belgrade. Albanian Kosovars would stamp the misery from their lives and lay claim to their own government, schools, and courts. The feuds of the past that divided their people only provided Serbs further opportunity to subjugate them, the mujahedeen maintained. Fourteen-year-old Gustav looked forward to the revolt ever since his neighbor, Avne, brought the matter to his attention. "Not one Albanian policeman, Gustav, when we make up nearly one-quarter of the population of Kosovo!" "Not one Albanian in Belgrade. Not one individual to speak for us." "No other jobs than summoning sheep or melting rubber! What does that do to our brains?" Avne worked in the local tire factory along with other men from town. Gustav planned to work there himself one day, until Avne told him that better awaited him if he bided his time. Though only a year or two older, Gustav listened to Avne, and did everything he said. It was a clear night long past midnight the first time he sneaked out. As he approached the tire factory with Avne, they were met by other workers. "Did you hear about Remzi's son?" "One leg sawed off and no anesthesia." "When will you learn, Ismail, we Siptars are not worth spit to them?"
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www.elanekeller.com "They pretend to govern us! Look at Kekezi and Valdete, found dead in their cells. It is beyond comprehension." "You see," Avne explained. "They resent the cost of trying us in court. If Belgrade spent its profits here in Kosovo, they wouldn't have any left for their fat government pensions." Gustav, perched atop a stack of tires, asked, "Those men were guilty though, weren't they?" The smell of burning tar was all around them though the factory had been shut for hours. The men shot him angry looks. "The little whelp has been brainwashed." "The boy is young," Avne snapped. He explained to Gustav, "Valdete they say, choked on his vomit in his jail cell, Kekezi, who knows? No details are provided us. "But didn't they get caught stealing? I don't understand." "Little Gustav, you will make a good fighter if we ever turn you into a man. How can you speak of stealing dinars when infidels steal our souls? At home, our fathers preach the word of Allah. Believers do not protest, they say. Believers accept their fate despite consequence. But not according to the mujahedeen." Others made sounds of agreement at this. "They say that our people are being killed and we can't stand by and do nothing." "Valdete was a Believer. I saw him at the mosque. Agim was too." "Good little Gustav. Believe in Allah and His books, but don't be a coward. Believe His true messengers, and the Day of Judgment will come. As long as we help it come." Avne's beliefs were stringent but Gustav accepted them. If Believers could refuse what the Serbs handed them, then things might indeed change. This meant the mujahedeen were not the dangerous fanatics his father had claimed. "Remember little Gustav," Avne said. "Heretics will lead you straight down the path into hell. To want to study in a real university and not upon dirt floors is not fanatical. How better to learn of how our people came to be than in your own schools?" Gustav learned that in return for their allegiance during World War II, the dictator Tito promised Kosovo Albanians their own state. After the Partisan victory at war's end, Marshall Tito took back his promise. Kosovo remained as part of Serbia, pushed into an economic free-fall that left them reeling
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ever since. No one bothered about Albanians. No one cared about Kosovo. After all, the Serbs were taking care of them. Meanwhile it was the Serbs who retained the highest positions, had the best homes, and who held all the power, while the Kosovar Albanians had nothing. "We have been in these hills long before anyone made up Yugoslavia," Avne said. "We were here before the Byzantines. Before the Turk." "We were not always Muslim, Avne. Is that why the Serbs hate us?" "We are Albanian first, Muslims second. Yet Islam is no mock religion for us." "The Koran says--" "Tell me where the Koran says to stop trying, Gustav." Avne paused to pull something from his waistband. Slender brown hands opened a tiny book written in Persian. Avne took one of Gustav's hands and placed it over the page. "I will quote for you." His eyes closed, and his voice grew melodic as he recited the ancient words. "Herein truly is a sign for him who feareth the punishment of the latter day. That shall be a day unto which mankind shall be gathered together; that shall be a day witnessed by all creatures..." Avne looked up. "Stand together, Gustav, or let them burn acid into your soul." Three days later, Gustav stood next to Avne on Prishtina's main boulevard. Like everyone else, they held no weapons. Looking around, Gustav saw there were more people in the streets than he'd ever seen in his life. He recognized several faces from the factory, and some from the mountains. Then the guards, who wore the insignia of the National Army, did an amazing thing. They shot over the crowd. Gustav saw Avne and others smile. Allah had supported their actions. The troops continued volleying bullets over their heads, clearly preferring to shoot into the crowd. Amidst a ring of cheers, Gustav proudly helped hoist the two-headed eagle while others ripped down the gold-edged red star. It was the most exalting feeling he'd ever known, equaled only by the birth of his first child, Anja, a few years later. As a result of the demonstrations, Kosovar Albanians received the right to vote and the promise they would receive a model capital city. This would be a new Prishtina, with Albanian courts, new government buildings, arts halls, museums, police training facilities,
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www.elanekeller.com and four times as many jobs. It would have its own university with Albanian professors. Albanian representatives from Kosovo Province would have equal vote with their brothers in the Federal Presidency. They would cast votes to determine Kosovo's welfare alongside Serbs. It was a magnificent day when Tito's vigorous Corps of Engineers arrived. Lining streets from end to end, Kosovars waved their flags with two-headed eagles. As the old Turkish stalls and cobbled streets were ripped up the people screamed with delight. A glass and concrete Prishtina soon arose like a shining phoenix from crumbling squares and mosques, displaying the best in socialist munificence. It was through no fault of theirs that Serbs began migrating from the province afterwards. The Albanians gladly took over the offices the Serbs vacated. Albanians soon grew to be the majority, and for that they were ecstatic. Gustav didn't see Avne after the demonstrations, nor as the new city was being built. Eventually, he gave up the idea of the tire factory and accepted the university as his destiny. He feasted on the knowledge handed to him, loving especially those subjects providing insights into the world in which he lived. In six years Gustav attained the rank of Professor of Government Studies at Prishtina University and began schooling boys in modern politics. His trust in Allah grew, as did his faith in the acquisition of knowledge. Thanks to Avne. But soon there came a devastating blow for Kosovo Albanians. In 1980, when Gustav was twentysix and by then had three young daughters, Tito died. Demonstrations and black eagles had long been replaced in his thoughts with teaching his students and keeping a peaceful home. In the absence of a true leader, Belgrade became like quicksilver as politicians from the six republics shifted allegiances. The tiny province of Kosovo was edged out. "Allah help us," Gustav cried as funds for medical care and education disappeared. When it was reported that power-mongers at the top were diverting funds from Kosovo, the students at the university grew furious. They did not like the conditions they were made to study in, which were miserable compared to those at Belgrade university. Gustav's youngest daughter at the time, Rajna, contracted tuberculosis, and soon all three children were ill. He and Yasminka sat up at night after night,
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listening to their daughters cough. A year after Tito's funeral, Gustav was instructed by the Albanian doctor to expect Beha’s death. Two weeks later he was told to expect Anja's. Gustav walked around muttering, "Allah forgive me; it is the will of Allah." Any financial stability Prishtina enjoyed before Tito's death quickly dried up. Opportunities for graduates disappeared. But students were hungry for more. There was no Tito to listen to them as they took to the streets. This time, the soldiers answered with tanks, grenades and machine guns. "To guard against terrorists," explained a minister from Belgrade, as federal troops were called in. The 1981 protests were neither graceful nor triumphant. Reserve soldiers were sent to Kosovo by the truckload and opened fire on Prishtina’s inhabitants. The morning that Anja woke up with a smile Gustav knew she would survive. Beha and Rajna were also fortunate. But not the hundreds of demonstrating civilians, who were mowed down in streets like so many ants. Kosovo's Albanian population, now at ninety percent, was castigated by the Serbian press, and held responsible for alleged rapes of Serbian women, beatings, arsons and even the torture of Serb schoolchildren. Albanians were arrested and jailed without trial. Pictures of exiled refugees, circa 1941, were distributed to remind citizens what it meant to be Serb. Yet the pictures could have been of anyone: Serb, Croat, or natives from Fiji Island. Then came reports that Kosovo's Orthodox monasteries, the symbol of the consecrated Serbian State, were being destroyed by the out-of-control Albanians. Each accusation prompted a new reign of terror. The sliver of sun illuminating his cell captured Gustav's attention, and he used the dusty bits of mortar to cleanse himself. He missed his wife and his girls back home. In particular, he missed Anja, whose laughter and sharp mind made his heart sing. His oldest daughter was smarter by far than her sisters and more intelligent than any boy. He guessed that if anyone could survive among the Serbs, she could. He remembered her protests about learning Serbian. By age ten she'd mastered reading and writing in English. She understood that Latin was a necessary evil.
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www.elanekeller.com But Serbian? She was much more astute than he was at her age. So he filled her with hope that one day all Yugoslavia's people would be united. Eventually she spoke Serbian like a pro. He'd listened to Yasminka's argument about Anja's would-be suitor, the vile Isuf Zoran with his ten acres of land, with an intensity of hate. Marriage was in Anja's best interests. Why did Gustav resist the idea so? "That hog farmer for my Anja?" he cried. "You must remember we have five daughters, Gustav. Zoran will provide for us well." No income from the university. The farmlands long sold off. . . in the end, he reluctantly agreed. Now, he blamed the loss of his beloved daughter on Yasminka, and believed himself damned because of it. The clang of iron announced the guard's arrival. The behemoth grunted and set down a bowl of something faintly edible. In the guard's opinion, the sunken Albanian in faded white geleshe had committed no unpardonable sin. The Siptars, he observed, simply needed training. To be human did not always come naturally. They did not deserve, as his comrades maintained, to be skinned and roasted on spits. But to speak out about this was dangerous. He tended his prisoners, and kept quiet. The sun drooped further and Gustav fixed his concentration on one of the cell's tottering bricks. In the years following the riots, Prishtina's new buildings began to falter. The construction materials were discovered to be of shoddy quality and the marvelous architects were exposed as corrupt. They'd worked so quickly because they laced three bricks with two instead of four and slapped them together with watered-down mortar. Ultimately, the effort was exposed as Tito's ludicrously cheap fix to placate the whiny Albanians. Gustav's thoughts turned darker. By 1990 he had increasing worries. His friends were fired from the university. Serbian doctors, then the only ones in practice, refused to treat Albanian children. Grocers refused to sell them goods. Because he remained at the university after his associates were let go, Gustav would be left without prospects when it closed. Travel to Greece and Italy was impossible without money or relatives in residence there. Albanians were being turned away from the borders of Macedonia and Montenegro, and Albania
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was as impoverished as they were. "Come to us," Saddam Hussein openly cried to the Kosovar Muslims. The mujahedeen agreed. "We will protect you." They supplied guns and ammunition and stoked the fires of radical nationalism. How many years since Gustav had seen Avne then? Avne, his one true friend, the only one he could turn to. After reneging on his promise at the end of the war, Tito had played a balancing act with Prishtina. He pretended to give the Albanians what they needed while pairing their rotten economy with processing plants that belched out thick clouds of black smoke, while sending profits back to Belgrade. Tito balanced Albanian bitterness with his guess that young people, given a few services like a meager education, wouldn't notice the pain in their belly, a pain which grew worse with each passing year. What Gustav decided in the years following the '81 riots, was that Prishtina was as far from being a new world city as he was from being the man he thought he was at fourteen. Standing apart like the pristine hills abutting Kosovo Polje, people had separated and no longer had will to fight. Students, who knew what happened in the past, didn't want to protest. Gustav was no different. He just wanted to live with his family in peace. When he was young, Gustav lacked the acumen to understand what would happen once Prishtina fell into disrepair. Like the bad mortar, Albanians lost their adhesion after Tito's deception came to light. As Prishtina's buildings rotted, the mountain people returned to their homes and the streets were quartered again according to the old feuds. Utopia became indistinguishable from the dust surrounding it. In fairness, Tito played a balancing act with the Serbs as well. He told them that Kosovo was by rights theirs, then took it away, saying that Albanians were equal to the Serbs. How the Serbs in Belgrade must have felt when the first scrawny Albanian delegates, dressed in dirty white caps and baggy pants, put down their goatskin bags and perched beside them! What humiliation for them it must have been. Tito's ministers reiterated that Yugoslavia's Albanians had the same rights as Serbs. But how do you tell this to a people, who, after the atrocity of World War II, were treated in the worst way possible? He suspected that when the Serbs went back to their discussions seething over this new disgrace, they vowed to one day push the Siptars back where they
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www.elanekeller.com belonged. Who could blame them if this were true? For like the Albanians, Tito used the Serbs, knowing that Kosovo was the Serbs' Holy Land, cradling, as it did, the remains of Prince Lazar and the thousands of heroes slain over the course of many disastrous wars. Tito knew the Serbs would never relinquish Kosovo, and likewise that Albanians would never leave the place they called home, even at the cost of subservience, jail, and death. This was the real reason Gustav decided to send his oldest daughter into the lion's mouth, even at the cost of punishment before Allah. To remain in Prishtina was to fall into decay and death. That was why, with her pitch-perfect accent and stunning beauty he sent her to hide among the blasphemers. There was another reason. Once, in pretend sympathy with the overwrought Serbs, Tito's ministers exhumed the bones of their Prince Lazar from their resting place at Kosovo Polje and moved them near Belgrade. Now, Serbia's president, Slobodan Milosevic had unearthed these remains and was parading them around Serbia with the cry, "Kosovo is yours! Don't let it be taken from you again!" Kosovo's Albanian leader, Ibrahim Rugosa, preached peaceful resistance. But this did not prevent the radical movement from supplying supplies and guerrillas funded by friends from the outside. They called these soldiers KLA, for Kosovo Liberation Army. A war was brewing, and everyone knew it. A few months previously when the mujahedeen came to him, Gustav had listened to what they wanted. As they lead him into the mountains, Gustav knew they had it twisted around. Tito had considered Serbs, not the Albanians, the cancer in his hills, the toovocal, too-maligned group standing in the way of his visionary Yugoslavia. Knowing they had been through a holocaust, Tito was afraid of the fury Serbs had right to, and sought to create something less potent for them to be outraged over. He tossed the Serbs a diversion in the form of Albanians. The mujahedeen brought him to a compound high in the craggy hills, and from there led Gustav inside an estate's magnificent recesses. He was left in a meeting room, where he faced the leader of the KLA across a gleaming desk. Avne Abazi was not the man he remembered. With slicked-back hair and imported suit, Avne's opulent home was overrun by KLA soldiers who treated him like an emperor. As he closed the small book written in Persian, Avne's diamond pinky ring flashed brightly at Gustav. "Welcome back," Avne said.
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In the end, Gustav agreed to all Avne's requests. In return for Gustav's help Avne promised Anja's safekeeping, giving his personal assurance that she would arrive in Belgrade without harm, and that she would be carefully watched over. Avne promised to see to Anja's friend Sunny, as well. Heavy steps sounded in the prison hallway. A key turned in a lock and Gustav clambered to his feet, his heart skittering. The door clanged shut next door. As the prisoner was removed, Gustav exhaled in relief and thanked Allah for his mercy. No one ever did anything like Tito did to the Serbs and got away with it. He couldn't let Anja pay for it. He, Gustav Beric, had looked kindly on them. The Serbs were as misused as his own people. By Allah, he sought to be humble in spirit, temperate and just, as the Koran directed. He had no stomach for hypocrites who sought to spread brotherly love among Muslims while seeking enmity with the Serbs. He joined the KLA out of desperation. Now, students who once sat in his classroom and listened to his discourses on politics were disappearing, and it was his fault. The day he sent Anja to Belgrade, there was a public display in Prishtina's center. Ten of the "rebels," heads hooded, hands bound, boney legs wired together, were pushed into the square. "Enemies to the Federation," screamed the jailers. "From the university," whispered one of the onlookers. Gustav watched as the row of prisoners was brought to the far end of the square. Two of the rebels were women. Beyond them stood a squad of federal soldiers in their red-starred caps, Kalashnikovs poised. The prisoners were pushed to the ground, then their bodies convulsed as fire rang out. In his cell, Gustav dropped to his knees and pressed his hands to his ears. But the shrieks continued. The truth was that he'd sold out the students in exchange for Anja's protection. Because ten of the prisoners executed in the square that day were pupils he had personally nurtured, young idealists whose lives he'd squandered by convincing them to pick up a gun for the KLA. Gustav fell to the ground praying as above, the sliver of daylight disappeared.
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The Dark is Rotten (II) The Youngster: (intolerably) Knocks at the door! (Listening) It is midnight. The clock tells. That beast begot me. (Beating the shirt sleeves, and checking up the trousers) I was in my sanctified clothes of the acolyte at the alter. My feelings were in the ramparts of my wisdom. Insane wisdom. Stringent in the skinny hands. The warm bosom milked cold insane wisdom. Am I to be a priest for the holy altar? (Knocks at the door.) Waning lights of the midnight. Knocks. Knocks. Piercing. Reddish eyes on swinging shoulders. Paunch belly on uneven steps. Fragrance of feminine sweat Bruised, fuddled, worn out passion. The dead, tired hours of late night. I hate…I hate myself…self hate… (Pause) The knotted wisdom of insanity.(Chuckles) In the heat of the summer I sweat. I am alone in the heat. Lonely being. (Compassionately) In the dark corner, the spider waits. The long legs to all eight directions. Dirty spider in gorgeous colours. Greedy on her trapping web, pasty, trapping insects. In the sinister light. Hungry for the prey. No body saw in the in the pale light, silhouetted against the wall. Her bosoms heaved and chuckled. Singing serenade. Locked in her limbs. Her lusty mouth bites.
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Hugged around over the back on her back. The smouch hurts. I could not escape. I hated. (Pause) Like the Bonelia Lay clung, my love. (Pause) In the halls of Karnack In the temples of Nebuchadnezzar, My appetite grew. (Turning, looking back) Who is pulling me? You pull me back, Old man? Oh it is the breeze of the hot night. (Delighted mood) My Isis! My Venus.! (His sound grows) My queen of Jezebel! My goddess of Ishtar! The goddesses of appetite and lust1 (Compassionately) In the dim light of the chandeliers! You were gorgeous through the transparent veils. (Challenging voice) I will strike you down with my silver. I will. (Hysteric laughter. The lights out. A sharp pool of light at the back) (A cabaret dancer in her bikini is seen in her dancing posture, voluptuous, before the idol of the Babylonian god. Her long and transparent Egyptian vestment flowing at her back. Adorned with rich and glittering jewellery, perfumed, her face expresses a concupiscent attraction. She is a Kedshot, a harlot votary, one of the devoted fleshpots of the Babylonian gods. The scene fades.) Oldman: The basic feelings. Power elementary. Emerging from the deep rooted archetypes. Calm and tell me everything. And feel consoled. The Youngster: (shrinking unto himself) There the bells ring. The bells. They watch me from the towers. (Sounds of church bells. Pause.)
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See ! How beautiful! Remember! Do you ? My Rose. (Knocks at the door) The midnight rogue knocks.(feelings of intolerance and hatred on his face.) I want to escape. I want peace. (Sounds of the suppressed wail of a woman , rough scolding of the drunkard, of blows and beats) I hate my ears! I hate my eyes. I want to escape. I want peace. Painted eyes. Skinny hands. (Self pitying) Cold bony hands. Like the iron bars of this door Rusty bars. Eagles of law! I am hiding. Hiding in my den. (Sarcastically) In the womb of this den. With the snakes. You had Cyclops’ eyes?
I am no Magdalenian painter. I am the God of my Gods! I don’t wait for your justice! All the people have sinned! They teach you to kill and sin. The prophets of the old have not restrained them. Like Bathsheba and King David ! King Solomon with a thousand! I want to escape to the purgatory. Oh God! Ask her to drop some water on my tongue. I am in the fire. The fire damp grows! I did your daughter no wrong! (Looking out timidly and in a low warning
He stands up, starts walking irresistibly, from corner to corner of the stage, hands tied together behind. He walks looking keenly every side, watching the whole of the scene. He stops at the front of the stage, looks out as if through the iron bars of the Jail cell. He has no remorse expressed on his face, and does not even care for the old man sitting afar. He starts chuckling like in a tired voice. A few moments. The Youngster: (Confessing tone) The bog of my whole being. My being was a sin? My being was to be thrown apart? (Unto himself) I shut close in the dens of my feelings. In the night I ride on my colt. In my days I ride on my mule. The pudgy old finger is at my nose! (He comes back and takes his seat. In a self confident challenging voice) I know my God! I know my rights ! I create my God in my imaginations!
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sound, yet satirically) Sh Shhhhhhhhh ! the Cyclops’ eyes! She sees! She sees my den. Her eyes are fiery. I’ll hide. (He seeks a hiding place) Like the desert of Sahara The deserts of my life. I, my mother’s child is to die. The gallows are ready. The judgment is pronounced! (Light falls on the scene. The youngster turns into a passionate turn of feelings.) My Violet ! My filly! (Pause) You leech, you sucked my blood and life out! (changed voice) Beside the gargoyle. Alone. The water giggled. The dying moon in her black blanket. Is death the only success of life? Leech. Leech of the dirty pools. Pools of cold brackish water and cold blooded fish. (Chuckles. To some one in his imagination) I come swimming across the waters of the Hellespont ! Oh! What shall I do ? Did you say you love me? Oh ! Come…Come!
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I will not fail this night. I will hold you in my limbs! I will suck your body hot. (Voice changed) Girdles locked. Fire and damp. Flames licked the body. Loins burnt. The end of consummation. Sighs of exhausts. On the dewy grass bed. Stench, torn, tired, cold. (The lights go out.) (A sharp pool of lights falls at the back. A gargoyle appears, situated in a corner of the park. The girl is found lying languished in torn attire at the feet of it. The young man shrieks at the sight, his head lowers, and silence. The scene fades and the light.) Old man: Every mind is provoked, at things unusually done. The conscious subdues it. The unconscious stores it. Committing a sin hurting others, understanding and repenting is relative to the conscious. The Youngster: (Pause, to himself) Shhhh… Love. (starts walking up and down, bowed, arms tied together at the back.) When shall success come? Only when I die? The smoke suffocates me. Fuming dark corners under the dirty thatch. Thuds. Waves of suppressed cry. Within the four walls. Groping, a toad, saw my world, my wisdom. Sleepless hours of the midnight. Unpleasant tunes of the life. When is my escape? My chains are rusted. Mithras my god of light, where are you? (Pause) The cold bars before me. Colder than the frost of winter. Rusting iron bars. Cold blood flows in my veins. (Suddenly in a flash of reminiscences)
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On the river bank. Near the bushes. The darkness whispered to me her love. Her soaked clothes pasted to her flesh. My wet brains full of pressure. (In a frenzied mood.) She told me ‘I am afraid.’ And suffocated in the pressure of my limbs. ‘Wretch’ she murmured. ‘My love’ A cold dew. I pity. I am tired. (Chuckles) I hate. (Again in a pathetic, tired, confessing tone of reminiscences) Those days are dead. I am dead. A dead ape. My garden of sweets! My Violet, Rose. Dalia, my flowers. All putrid. The smell of death pervades. Along the banks of the river of Hades I run. (Grave silence) Brushing past the bark of trees in the woods. (Sounds of rustling winds) The Cyclops’ eye is on me, the big watchful eye. (Pointing to some distance) The cruel eye along the aiming arrow. The bow is stretched. The justice is blind to humaneness. (The lights go out. Only a pool of light. A scene of thick woods. A rude tribal hunter half naked in his gaudy tribal vestments appears, with an arrow stretched on his bow. The youngster is seen with a frightened gesture, submissive and bowed headed. The scene fades.) (Again dim light.) The alter is ready. The fire is lit, smoking. (Tick- tick beat rises, increasing in swiftness and sound.) (Stammering) I am in your trap. Oh God Lord! I breathe the fire damp. I drink the poison of my heart. And I die as the king of my land.
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(Grave silence .Both sit looking at each other. The young man’s face goes down. Again lights go out. Moments …tick-tick goes down…A laughter starts as if from a distance…It grows as the tick-tick is slowly getting immersed in the growing sound. It grows hysterical.) In the back ground the silhouette of the gallows appear. The Youngster: Oh my dear life! My dear ones come into me ! (His laughter grows hysterically and goes unending. All other sounds die.) *** GLOSSARY 1. Solutrean Priest: History remembers the Solutreans as the primitive tribe, who used to give burnt offerings and kill their own folk to please their gods. 2. Croesus. The master of legendary wealth was the King of Lydia. 3. Ka. Ancient Egyptian civilization had the concept of soul, first in the history of man 4. The Spider. The male spider is often killed, or mortally wounded during mating by the black widow. 5. Bonelia. This marine inhabitant carries its male on her two horns. Its structure is also notable. 6. Karnak. This famous temple from the pages of ancient Egyptian civilization characterizes the crude pristine religious beliefs of those antique times. 7. Nebuchadnezzar: (Nebuchaddressar) The famous Babylonian King .The Babylonian civilization is notable not only for its other aspects, but also for the goddesses like Ishtar, etc., who were attended by harlot votaries. A silver coin pressed against their bosom was the sign of invitation for the visitors during festival times. 8. Jezbel the queen of King Ahab of Israel even proclaimed to be a goddesses, herself a flesh pot. 9. Eagles of Law. Eagle was symbolic of the roman throne. 10. Cyclops: The single eyed character (giant) from the Greek legends. 11. Colt and mule: Symbols of vigour and passiveness. 12. Magdalenian: Pre-historic tribe, famous for their painting skills. 13. Leech. This fresh water being and lives sucking blood. 14. Mithras. The Persian civilization worshipped him.
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (IV) I put up my pilgrim's staff at the Jägerhorn, (hunter's horn,) the largest, most convenient, and, I may add, magnificent-looking hotel in Hungary, whose gigantic porter in his rich livery, cocked hat, and golden-headed cane, as he promenaded beneath the lofty portal, appeared a fit appendage to such an establishment. The general appointments of the house were also in keeping with its exterior ; among these we may reckon a serenade the live-long day by an excellent band of music, and the traveler who has once dined upon the well-cooked viands of the Parisian cuisinier, will not fail to revisit the Jägerhorn. However, in consequence of arriving during the season of the races and the great spring fair, the apartments bore a high premium; and, in truth, it was almost as difficult to obtain a quartier among the highborn magnats, as to procure a ticket from the highbred patronesses of Almack's. I was fortunate in meeting at Pest with several friends, particularly the Count Etienne Szechenyi, the distinguished patrician to whose patriotic exertions Hungary is so deeply indebted. The traveler has to thank his unwearied perseverance for the facility of steam navigation on the Danube, and his country owes to him a variety of institutions, all tending to promote her regeneration. Agriculture, the arts, sciences, and industry, are encouraged by judiciously-bestowed premiums; this has had the effect, not only of bringing forward native talent, but promoting the culture of the native productions of the soil,—the wines, flax, hemp, grain, tobacco, wool, tallow, &c., whose excellence has been hitherto nearly unknown, are now beginning to be appreciated by the commercial world, according to their real value. The national museum, founded in 1802, owes its origin to the patriotic exertions and munificent donations of another member of this public spirited family, the Count Francis Szechenyi; and whether we regard the splendour of the building, the rich collection of antiquities, medals,
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and armour, the rare specimens of minerals, or the numerous and well-selected library, with its interesting manuscripts, we shall not find this institution surpassed by any other of a similar nature in the Austrian empire, more especially as it is richly endowed with funds, which are applied to the purchase of such objects as are curious in nature, or interesting in art. In order to give you some idea of the improvements in this town and the habits of the people, it is only necessary to say that, little more than half a century ago. Pest was composed in great part of mere huts, surrounded by high walls and stagnant moats, without lamps, pavement, or any other of the comforts of civilized life ; for then the noble and the wealthy spent their time and riches, basking in the sunny smiles of court favour at Vienna. Whereas, we now see on the banks of the Danube a range of buildings, which would be admired for the beauty of their architecture even in the meridian of London, or Paris. On the spot where a marsh once shed around its pestilential exhalations, we behold a noble piazza, adorned, among other striking edifices, by the palaces of the rich magnats, Urmenyi, Festetics, &c. The high wall and fortifications have been also razed to the ground, and the space converted into a wide and well-kept road, which separates the town from its extensive faubourgs. In addition to these improvements, there is the richly endowed university with its beautiful hall, the town-house, the military hospital, the artillery barracks, several noble churches, the palaces of the nobility, and the new theatre with its redout-saal and coffee-house ; all distinguished in, a greater or less degree for their architecture. Pest and Buda are also liberally furnished with hospitals and benevolent institutions; among many others there is the orphan-house, the citizen's hospital, and similar establishments for the Wallachians, Greeks, and Jews; besides charitable institutions, formed by a society of ladies, for the education of blind children, and the
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maintenance of blind adults. The chain of hills that encircle Buda, and add so materially to the beauty of the landscape, are not only celebrated for the excellent quality of the wines they produce, but for the mineral baths, which here have their source, affording agreeable resorts to those who are seeking amusement, and holding out the promise of relief to others who are searching after health. Thus you may easily imagine that
Buda and Pest, with a united population of upwards of a hundred and five thousand, the former the seat of government, the latter the great mart of commerce, possessing all the advantages of good society and a fine climate, form altogether a delightful residence. With respect to the antiquity of these towns, there are various contradictory accounts; the most generally believed is, that Buda was founded by a colony of Romans, who gave it the name of Acquineum; subsequently it became the seat of Attila and Arpad, and then bore the name of Etelvar till the year 1351, when it received the Hungarian name Buda-var. On perusing the historical records of the country, I find it very narrowly escaped the fate of all those that had the misfortune to fall beneath the sway of the Osmanlis, the capital, Buda, having continued in their hands from 1541 to 1686. (to be continued)
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Photoshop - The spiritual leader of Dagestan, Sait Atsa (Sheikh Said Afandi alChirkavi) and six of his followers, killed as Vladimir Putin was visiting the zone
sait atsa
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dagestan - august 28, 2012
- assassinated
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Why Are You Killing Us?
Qul Sharif Mosque in Kazan