Reflections, 2010 Edition

Reflections

In Reflections the Harker Chapter of the Cum Laude Society brings to you the work of students whose teachers believe they have reached a level of excellence that merits recognition.

To John Near

The students and faculty of the Harker chapter of The Cum Laude Society dedicate this inaugural issue of Ref lections to Cum Laude member Mr. John Near, beloved and respected teacher at The Harker School from 1978 to 2009.

Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s

English Department

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Languages Department

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Science Department

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History Department

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nglish To write or even speak English is not a science but an art. Whoever writes English is involved in a struggle that never lets up even for a sentence. He is struggling against vagueness, against obscurity, against the lure of the deco‐ rative adjective, against the encroach‐ ment of Latin and Greek, and, above all, against the worn‐out phrases and dead metaphors with which the lan‐ guage is cluttered up.

‐George Orwell

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English, J. Mandell

Anna Karenina and Marriage: Levin’s Romantic Struggle in Late 19th Century Russia Jeff Mandell

High society in the Russia of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina revolves around relationships. At the endless succession of balls, operas, and dinners attended by those who do little else in life, those who are not present become the easiest subject of conversation. When talk dies down at one party, “they […] resort to that sure, never failing remedy – malicious gossip” (Tolstoy 134).

For an absent couple to be worth talking about, there must of course be some intrigue involved, either real or imagined. Naturally, the seemingly rampant illicit relationships, such as those be‐ tween Anna and Vronsky or, at the above‐mentioned party, between the hostess Betsy and Tushkevich, provide the best conversational fodder. While society shuns an adulteress, it rel‐ ishes the details of her crimes. After all, as Tolstoy famously begins this work, every happy fam‐ ily is the same; Anna’s family is much more interesting.

It is in this climate that Levin hopes to find spiritual fulfillment through marriage and family. Tolstoy, in a critique of the shallowness of the Russian elite, completely isolates him from the rest of his gender and class: no other nobleman in the novel expects or desires so much from marriage. Unfortunately for Levin, the established process of courting young ladies does not aid him in his quest. Since marriage is viewed as a social, not personal, advancement, courtship requires a demonstration more of social savvy than of commitment to developing a deeply meaningful relationship. For most couples, marriage ceases to have spiritual significance shortly after exiting the wedding ceremony. In a reflection of the real Russia of the late 1800s, all levels of the male‐dominated society in Tolstoy’s Russia regard marriage as either a business transaction or a mere social requirement. Levin’s pursuit of an ideal marriage, viewed as bizarre by many in his circle, serves to emphasize the tragic spiritual bankruptcy of his peers.

The courtship activities of both muzhiks and nobles suggest that for Russian men of all stripes, marriage has more to do with sensual union than spiritual union. Various sources de‐ scribe the behavior of young peasant men as downright lewd when elders fail to supervise.

Though community controls must have varied by region, in one area, “The village lads liked to grab the breasts of maidens on the street. In Melenki district of Vladimir, this was a recognized form of courting behavior” (Engel 700). Vronsky and his noble brethren show more courtesy than that, but for them too the process of winning a woman is mostly physical. It is during the dancing, not the dinner table conversation, when the action occurs. The well‐planned series of steps resembles mating dances of the avian world in complexity and purpose. According to Stephen Lovell of King’s College London, a contemporary author described the balls as “an en‐ tire choreography of seduction […]. By the third figure of the quadrille, all commonplaces were

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English, J. Mandell already redundant […] the fifth fanned the ‘pink flame of love’; while the sixth was ‘like the vic‐ tory celebration after a war’” (57‐58). Kitty’s plans at the ball confirm that the (hoped‐for) blos‐ soming of her relationship with Vronsky depends not on emotional developments but on the completion of a series of physical interactions. Accepting the uneventfulness of the first qua‐ drille, “She waited with fainting heart for the mazurka. She thought that during the mazurka everything would be decided” (80). The courtship, then, barely exists outside of the dances, for Kitty cannot imagine significant progress being made outside of the framework of the dances.

In stark contrast, Levin’s yearns less for the physical closeness of a dance than for the emotional closeness that lifelong companionship makes possible. After Kitty’s devastating rejection of Levin, Tolstoy summarizes Levin’s attitude towards marriage in simple terms: “His notion of marriage was therefore not like the notion of the majority of his acquaintances, for whom it was one of the many general concerns of life; for Levin it was the chief concern of life, on which all happiness depends” (95). Levin’s idealistic desire for a deep relationship distinguishes him from his friends. Though his view is simple, and perhaps shared by most of Tolstoy’s readers, the context in which it is presented increases its power. Because carnal desire overcomes any spiri‐ tual or philosophical depths in the other young people of Anna Karenina, Levin stands as a champion for traditional values. Next to the vices of Vronsky, Anna, and Stiva, his way of life appears all the more virtuous.

The view of marriage in purely physical terms dominates from the lowest levels of soci‐ ety upwards, leaving Levin nearly alone. The former serfs treated marriage as they would any other business between two families, without even trying to disguise the nature of the enter‐ prise. One common phrase used by matchmakers to start the negotiation process with the pro‐ spective bride’s family was “Don’t you have a calf for sale? I have a young bull” (Engel 698). The economic realities of peasant life required that marriage be viewed in terms of money, but by no means did it require that the truth be so open. If the Orthodox Church had instilled the peasants with a greater reverence for marriage, they would have found ways of making the transaction appear less materialistic. The rules and rituals surrounding marriage simply did not have much of a spiritual quality. Instead, the peasants primarily celebrated the change in pos‐ session of the woman, in effect emphasizing the business aspect of the marriage. According to Sydney Schultze, a professor at the University of Louisville who specializes in Russian literature and culture, the matrimonial ceremonies ended with the couple going “to bed amid much fan‐ fare.” The next day, the sheets would actually be examined for blood to verify the bride’s virgin‐ ity (Schultze 38). Since the Church’s marriage sacrament was binding regardless of the results of this check, this ritual had no real role in ensuring the successful spiritual union of the couple.

In truth, family members had a more substantial reason for affirming the virginity of the woman. Having conducted one of their lives’ largest business transactions with the bride’s fam‐ ily, they wanted to confirm that no one else had a physical claim on the body of their new pos‐ session. That the religious tradition failed to instill reverence for marriage into the uneducated peasantry does not bode well for the spirituality of the more independent‐minded upper classes.

Growing up in the country surrounded by muzhik culture did not make Levin adopt the materialistic view of marriage, but he may have absorbed their sense of possessiveness. Levin

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English, J. Mandell guards Kitty so jealously that he often puts himself in awkward situations. Though being watch‐ ful over her seems like a good idea given the presence of high‐profile examples of adultery, Levin goes too far. When Dolly confirms his suspicions that Vasenka is flirting with his wife, Levin reacts with relief: “Well, splendid, now I’m at peace. I shall throw him out” (602). The di‐ rectness of the response suggests that Levin thinks that throwing out Vasenka would constitute a normal, reasonable course of action. Dolly’s shocked reaction—“‘What, have you lost your mind?’ [she] cried in horror”—demonstrates that Levin does not understand convention as well as he thought. He takes a more extreme stance than most of the nobility, one that resembles the muzhik way of defending possessions. For example, in the middle of the nineteenth century married women who betrayed their husbands were subjected to public beatings in small towns (Schultze 38). In addition to punishing the wife, these displays would powerfully discourage married women from fraternizing with men outside of the family. Levin would not beat Kitty, but he does all he can to keep her away from other men because of the great value he places in her.

Among the nobility, men are not usually quite so protective because the women serve a different purpose than they do in muzhik life. Anna, for instance, is not needed by Karenin or later Vronsky for the labor she offers; despite the differences between her relationships with the two men, her primary social function for both is to be their ornament. (Vronsky’s guests re‐ acted with great surprise when Anna revealed that she had actually studied and understood the plans for their hospital in the country.) Vronsky, however, does nothing when Vasenka, already having been banished from the Levin household, offers his “brin de cour” to Anna. Vronsky in‐ stead takes pride that a young man covets his woman because it means that he has done well for himself. Perhaps because his society does not encourage the building of close relationships, he does not sense any threat in lighthearted flirting. Levin, on the other hand, is not receptive to Vasenka’s form of praise because he values the companionship of Kitty too much to risk los‐ ing her affection. He falsely assumes that as a single man Vasenka cannot resist the prospect of an emotional relationship with Kitty. Vronsky, upon hearing of Levin’s treatment of Vasenka, says in French of his former rival, “He is very nice and simple” (620). Vronsky condescendingly associates Levin’s actions not with a sophisticated member of the elite but with a simpler man, or, in other words, someone like an unschooled muzhik. Taking his relationship with Kitty so seriously makes Levin the subject of jokes. By refusing to let other men give his wife unwanted attention, he invites ridicule from the likes of Stiva, who goes so far as to declare Levin’s behav‐ ior the “height of ridiculousness” (604). Though Tolstoy makes light of this episode by having the characters laugh together over its memory, he also makes a legitimate criticism. All Levin does, albeit awkwardly, is defend his wife from the interests of another man. All law and reli‐ gious customs dictate that Kitty belongs to him, giving him every right to act as he does. And yet, Levin embraces monogamy too strictly in this supposedly Christian society. His possessive‐ ness is out of place in a world where husbands and wives do not normally have so deep a con‐ nection.

The feelings evoked among the onlookers during Kitty and Levin’s wedding ceremony reveal how unfulfilling most relationships depicted in Anna Karenina are. That everyone briefly comes together to recognize the spiritual value of marriage, only to cast it aside shortly thereaf‐ 5

English, J. Mandell ter, emphasizes what is missing in so many of their lives. Nostalgia overcomes many of the women. Mme Korsunsky remembers her own wedding: “how nice she looked that day, how comically in love her husband had been, and how different everything was now” (455). Dolly thinks not only of her own marriage’s downward spiral but also of Anna, who, after standing at that altar, “pure in her orange blossom and veil”, now lives with a different man. Dolly, having difficulty reconciling the happy days of the past with the present, murmurs aloud, “Terribly strange” (656). None of these women enjoy the sense of fulfillment that they expected out of marriage. Judging by these sentiments, Kitty and Levin will be an anomaly if they manage to find happiness together. Levin, an admitted unbeliever at the time, hopes to succeed in forging a satisfying relationship against the odds. The high rate of dissatisfying marriages, combined with the fact that Levin the unbeliever commits himself to the marriage sacrament with more determination than most believers, reveals the disconnect between the day‐to‐day operations of the Church and the promotion of the ideal spiritual union that Levin doggedly pursues.

Tolstoy does not directly criticize the Church, but the character of Levin reveals the fail‐ ings of organized religion in Russia. By the second half of the nineteenth century, the Orthodox Church had a monopoly on valid marriages because the state recognized its self‐granted power to oversee sacraments. The Church exercised its authority from 1836‐1860 with an impressive display of rigidity, permitting an average of only fifty‐eight divorces per year across the entire empire during the period (Freeze 733). However, what at first looks like spiritual integrity looks more like bureaucratic obstinacy after analyzing all the factors. The Church did not always have the power to enforce marriage contracts; in earlier times, it simply did not have the organiza‐ tion to prevent unhappy parties from finding ways to separate and sometimes remarry (Freeze 713). Later, when the Church had acquired that power, the desire to maintain authority likely played a large role in the denial of so many divorce applications. Nevertheless, the Church did often have a religious argument in its favor when it denied applications. When landowners tried to dissolve the marriages of serfs who formed unions against their orders, the Church usu‐ ally affirmed that the whims of men could not lawfully break God’s union of man and wife.

(Sometimes, though, the Church “discovered” that the rites had been performed incorrectly and were therefore invalid.) The Church’s refusal to compromise on its marriage doctrine was admi‐ rable in that it encouraged society to treat marriage as a serious covenant. However, the men in Anna Karenina, with the exception of Levin and Karenin, who should not count because he does not realize the value of what he has before he loses it, have somehow failed to grasp this message. The Church may enforce the rules, but it clearly does not bring the spirit of them to life. Levin, despite his difficulty in taking communion, already has that spirit.

In acting like a truly religious man might, Levin embraces an honest, loving attitude to‐ wards marriage and life that sets him apart from his peers. Levin regularly draws pleasure from various means of spiritual fulfillment. His brother, despite all of his philosophizing, cannot comprehend the joy of manual labor that Levin finds in mowing a field. But Levin gains such satisfaction from exerting his own energy on his land that even when he normally would have been too exhausted to continue, “he felt that some external force moved him” (256). The pain in his body makes the results of his labor all the more meaningful, something that the likes of Ob‐ lonsky, living off of sinecures, could never understand. Levin feels weakened when he enters 6

English, J. Mandell Oblonsky’s world because has to leave the natural pleasures of work and reward behind. Tol‐ stoy notes Levin’s disapproval when he eats at a restaurant with Stiva: “These surroundings of bronze, mirrors, gas‐lights, Tartars – it was all offensive to him. He was afraid to soil what was overflowing in his soul” (35). Long before the epiphany that concludes the novel, Levin already has a spiritual self so real that he worries about damaging it by eating an expensive lunch. As one critic puts it, Levin represents “precisely the presence of church ethics without church dogma” (Wachtel qtd. in Meyer 213). Levin does not need the Orthodox Church to live a better life than his fellow aristocrats. Living a sincere life, in which the harvest depends on how much he works the land and in which the woman he marries becomes his soul mate, sustains him.

Part of Levin’s deepened understanding at the end of the novel involves recognizing that it is not possible to live perfectly. One night, when Kitty turns away from him just before he can bring himself to inform her of his recent epiphany, he decides, “It’s a secret that’s necessary and important for me alone and inexpressible in words” (817). Failure to communicate something so important could not happen in a perfect union. But Levin is not perfect. His view of women prevents him from thinking that Kitty might understand his thoughts and relate to them. He seems to believe that women do not think about how the world works; he perhaps thinks they live on intuition (Greene 116). Tolstoy’s essential point is that despite his imperfections, Levin is a good man. He may not afford Kitty all the respect she deserves in some areas, and he may treat her with undue reverence in others, but he loves her completely. Living honestly lends Levin peace of mind unparalleled.

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English, B. Araki

Personal Narrative Brandon Araki When I was in eighth grade, I enjoyed observing the changing of the seasons. As summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter, drifts of fallen leaves accumulated, and I relished step‐ ping carefully from one leaf pile to the next, crunching countless small, brittle leaves under my shoes. I often gazed up at the jagged angles of the trees’ branches, which had so recently been full of rustling leaves, and I thought about how the lush, verdant summer forms of the trees seemed so much more alive than the barren, scaly poles before me.

Their new forms almost seemed permanent. But as spring approached, the trees’ buds, long small and underdeveloped, began to mature. I thought of them as the first heralds of life issued from some inner core. As spring approached they came to resemble tiny, swollen, rubes‐ cent mussels that had been shoved precariously into the trees’ bark. Soon green shoots burst from the buds, and delicate leaves and stems unfurled and grew. The new growth’s tenderness contrasted sharply with the craggy brown of the bark around it. I wondered what life force ex‐ isted in the trees that had weathered the freezing days of winter, waiting within a protective carapace of bark and wood to eventually reemerge in the spring.

As spring progressed and summer began, the once fragile and tender tendrils of growth matured into firm, fibrous branches. New shoots still emerging from the tips of the branches and from the junctions between leaves and stems were still as delicate as the first growth. How‐ ever, they did not seem as fragile, maybe because they did not contrast as sharply with the branches from which they grew, which were not yet covered in rough brown bark.

The vitality of the trees was apparent at a glance. Their leaves rustled and whispered in the wind. Their thin branches quivered and swayed. Stems emerged studded with small flowers that gave me allergies; the liquidambar trees produced a new batch of spiky round seedpods, which were still green and soft and sticky.

The area around and among the branches began to come alive itself. Birds fluttered from branch to branch, and in the denser patches they built their nests. Wasps and bees patrolled the flowers, aphids took up residence on the leaves, and squirrels found refuge in the branches.

I shuddered to think about the spiders weaving their webs in the dense foliage above. The buzzing, vibrant community of life residing in the trees’ own living construction contrasted jar‐ ringly with the dead twigs and sticks and barren spaces of the winter.

As I observed the effect of the progression of the seasons, I was deeply interested in the changes occurring around me. I came to appreciate the sturdy vitality of the trees. Their life force seemed to reside like some deep‐sea worm in the protective tube of the tree trunk. In the winter, it would retract its delicate, continuously swaying limbs and feathery filters and hide in its shell; upon the arrival of spring it would then thrust out its eager, vibrant, and colorful limbs, which contrasted so much with the drab tube from which it emerged.

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English, B. Araki

I was fascinated that the winter forms of the trees could contain such vital potential. I came to view the dead, scaly trees as massive forms of life in their own right, their trunks more like the pulsing, living legs of an elephant rather than dead, hollow poles. My observations ex‐ panded my view of nature. They taught me that even the most barren tree is throbbing with vi‐ tal potential, and that even the most lifeless, inanimate piece of matter may shelter its own pre‐ cious life force.

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English, S. Newman

Ignorance without Bliss in The Great Gatsby Sophi Newman

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, the titular character meets his demise not as a result of an impossible love but as the consequence of failing to progress as a human being past his self‐conception at the age of seventeen. James Gatz’s lack of life experience and success in creating Gatsby forge his misguided belief that one can repeat the past. However, Gatz must constantly uphold his new identity in order to fully become Gatsby, becoming so intent upon maintaining the image of his identity that he does not respond to the challenges life presents him, ignoring them in favor of pursuing Daisy. As a result, Gatsby fails to mature enough to re‐ alize that he cannot repeat the past, clinging to his failed love for Daisy and precipitating his own demise.

The identity that seventeen‐year‐old James Gatz manufactures for himself hinges on the provincial understanding of a Midwestern boy, overemphasizing style at the cost of substance.

Nick calls Gatsby “a son of god . . . just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen‐year‐old boy would be likely to invent” (99). Jay Gatsby, like Jesus, has no earthly father, existing instead as a product of faith. Gatsby is an invention, an internationally‐traveling, fabulously wealthy, and impeccably dressed gentleman pursued by a mythic reputation. Gatsby’s attributes oppose the realities of Midwestern, average James Gatz; his new identity is a spontaneous reaction against his situation, “sprang from his Platonic conception of himself” and not the result of a well thought‐out decision to change. Gatsby’s existence is rooted in the denial of James Gatz and his “shiftless and unsuccessful” origins, not on convictions, morals, or character (99).

Gatsby’s personality rests on the foundations of the force of will alone, causing a loss of perspective and with it the capacity for pragmatic judgment; his present and past attitudes re‐ main the same even as those around him change. As Gatsby leads Daisy through his house for the first time, he eagerly shows her the sumptuous shirts, leather‐bound books, and other spoils of his wealth. The objects, however, have neither innate value nor personal value based on his preferences: “he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well‐loved eyes” (92). With around thirty years of life experience, Gatsby by now ought to possess a system of values and morals by which to gauge the worth of the people and material objects around him. Gatsby initially appears to be a fully‐realized individual, but can only define himself and what is his through other people. He is not James Gatz, and he exists to love Daisy Fay. The past informs the present; he is just as much James Gatz as Jay Gatsby. Daisy Fay is a collection of his memories, for the woman who stands before him is Daisy Buchanan.

Gatsby simultaneously longs for the obliteration of his own past and a complete recreation of his past with Daisy Fay. Gatsby longs for the romantic idealism he and Daisy have shared, and, in his pain, iso‐ 10

English, S. Newman lates himself from reality in an attempt to unify past and present. His philosophy, summarized by his incredulous “[c]an’t repeat the past? . . . Why of course you can!” fosters his own igno‐ rance (111).To live ought to be and usually is to learn, but Gatsby lives through his assumed identity, thinking constantly of his past, and does not learn from the new experiences that come his way. Gatsby can, then, repeat the past, because he has not veered from it in five years; however, the people and the world around him have shifted and he does not exist in isolation.

The notion that humans are static is fundamentally flawed and thus linked with his permanent mental age of seventeen. Gatsby not only believes the past can be repeated but also believes that he can literally re‐create it, imagining that with his new wealth Daisy’s family will accept him: “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before . . . she’ll see” (99). Again, Gatsby arrogantly assumes that he has the power to revert the world to a state it has already aban‐ doned. He restricts the world to include only himself and Daisy, discounting not only everyone around them but also the change in both of them since their romance five years ago. Daisy has chosen to move on. Before, Gatsby lacked the wealth to support both his identity and his mar‐ riage into Daisy’s old money family; now, his wealth sustains an unwarranted sense of influence and power over the world he inhabits. While he is able to obtain any material object he could ever want, he will never be able to return to the intoxicating romance of his impossible love with the long‐gone Daisy Fay and the elusive, old money lifestyle she represents. Gatsby ren‐ ders himself immune to the passing of time through the myopia of obsession and denial.

Thus, his unresponsiveness to reality creates a discrepancy between his perceptions and the reality that hastens his tragic fate. Gatsby confronts Tom with the reality of Daisy and Gatsby’s affair, revealing in the process his misguided interpretation of her actions: “[s]he never loved you, do you hear? . . . She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of wait‐ ing for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!” (131).

Daisy decides to marry Tom in spite of her still extant feelings for Gatsby, not out of a feeling of despairing necessity. Their marriage was no “terrible mistake” but a consciously‐chosen at‐ tempt on Daisy’s part to move past her aborted romance with Gatsby. Furthermore, Daisy ad‐ mits that she has indeed loved Tom; while he may repulse her now, they do share tender memories of happier past times. Reality baffles Gatsby. When he leaves Daisy five years prior, he “[feels] married to her,” for their worlds, even if separated by class, are shared. By the novel’s end, Daisy has abandoned their impossible affair while Gatsby continues to wait for her, only deepening the divide between them. After Daisy runs over Myrtle, Gatsby insists that “[s]he’ll [Daisy will] be all right tomorrow” and plans to wait all night in the Buchanans’ shrubbery to “see if he [Tom] tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon” (145).Gatsby does not even acknowledge Myrtle’s death, and rather than insisting that Daisy take ownership of her mistake, he lingers outside her house and worries about her mental state. The explosive confrontation, utter disintegration, and fatal accident of the afternoon are merely “unpleasantness,” at the worst an uncomfortable situation without lasting consequences in Gatsby’s mind. However, Daisy has already realized the potential consequences of the accident, and whether she feels guilty or not, she understands that she cannot stay on Long Island. Only Daisy’s utter apathy differentiates her “carelessness” from Gatsby’s idealism, but this indiffer‐ ence allows her to abandon the past while Gatsby still waits for her, as static as ever (180).

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English, S. Newman While Nick’s depiction of Gatsby succeeds in illuminating Gatsby’s motivations, Nick fails to convincingly convey the element of tragedy he sees in Gatsby’s death. Gatsby’s epic per‐ sistence does not focus on a boon even approaching transcendence; indeed, Daisy, as the ulti‐ mate goal of all his self‐induced suffering, is the physical manifestation of un‐enchanted con‐ sumerism. Gatsby’s idealism and the Buchanan’s “carelessness” are one in the same. There is no romance in the pursuit of the shallow (180).

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English, O. Zhu

A Titan of a Subtitle Olivia Zhu

Creation stories abound in literature, stemming from ancient times to the modem. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein utilizes the lore of several authors to further her view on the origin of life as well as her thoughts on the role of the maker of humanity. Her opinions are delivered in letters writ‐ ten by the character Robert Walton, who is a traveler recording the tale of a scientist haunted by his own actions. Victor Frankenstein describes how he makes a being that repulses him even as it yearns for his attention; despite the fact that he betrays the creature, the title character feels justified in his actions against the natural order. The subtitle of the novel, A Modern Prometheus, is all the more fitting if he is the protagonist. The original Greek myth of the Titan who created and saved humans can be found in the form that inspired Shelley‐Aeschylus' play Prometheus Bound.

This ancient work illustrates how the demigod gives fire to the world in order to insure the survival of his creations yet is punished by Zeus with everlasting torture. Frankenstein and Prometheus are compared and contrasted even though the influences of the latter's story are not constrained solely to Shelley's protagonist, since there are evident correlations between the mythological figure and various other personalities in Frankenstein. The parallels between the Greek Titan and other characters mirror the similarities of their conflicts, allowing a more cogent interpretation of the mistakes made by Walton, Frankenstein, and the Creature. In linking her novel to the Pro‐ metheus myth, Shelley merges the desires and actions of these three key individuals while strengthening her overall premise that presumption is perilous; the ancient play fortifies her rationalizations on the birth and meaning of humanity.

Her emphasis on the creation of a being that is physically non‐human for the sole pur‐ pose of the maker might experiencing prestige and idolization highlights just one of her many beliefs regarding the dangers of asserting power over life. Just as Prometheus crafted the first humans from mud, Frankenstein decides to make "A new species" which "[will] bless [him] as its creator and source," dedicating himself fully "to [animating] the lifeless clay" (Shelley 32, Vol. I, Ch. III). The implications of this resemblance are twofold: the scientist's achievements are made equivalent to the Titan's even as his failings are emphasized by the disparity between them. It is true that the scientist intends for his work to benefit humankind, eradicating death and dis‐ ease, yet he also desires everlasting glory and adulation from the being he births. This is not so different from Prometheus' claim that he "took from man expectancy of death" and deserves credit for ensuring their survival, emphasizing the link between the goals of both characters (Aeschylus). In building and rousing his creation, Frankenstein achieves the godlike powers of the Titan, with a self‐importance to match. However, it is important to remember that he did not succeed in creating true humans; though the Creature is fully sentient, it is irregular in proportion and formation. Despite the fact that it was modeled on a man, the being is mon‐ strous in the eyes of the title character, who rejects it, forgoes the responsibility of assuming

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English, O. Zhu his role as the father of a new race, and chooses instead to fear that "to which [he has] so mis‐ erably given life" (Shelley 35, Vol. I, Ch. IV). In shirking his duty as a creator and expressing his intense fear and disgust of the Creature, Frankenstein becomes the exact opposite of Prome‐ theus, who ensures that his children are well fed after tricking Zeus and, "Moreover, [confers] the gift of fire" to them (Aeschylus). In defying the gods to bring a forbidden flame to the hu‐ mans, the Titan risks himself to guarantee the survival of his children instead of feeling they are a threat to the world as the Frankenstein does. Indeed, the Creature is left to fend for itself and discovers fire without any help from its maker. The dichotomy between the two creators suggests why it ultimately turns against the scientist: where Prometheus is caring and self‐sacrificing, the other man is cowardly and self‐serving. Frankenstein's failure is highlighted by the Creature's wish to have never survived, connecting with Shelley's use of John Milton's Paradise Lost; she util‐ izes his words to query "Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay / To mould me man?" to draw atten‐ tion to the needs of the creation, not the creator (Shelley 3). If the Titan Prometheus acts as a protective parent and Milton's God is questioned by his offspring, then Frankenstein is doubly damned, as he is neither a god nor a caring creator, utterly disqualifying him as meriting the glory he so desires.

The fire that brings survival also indicates the process of enlightenment, correlating to the inextinguishable pursuit of knowledge by various characters in the novel. Along with bringing humans the ability to cook food and warm themselves, Prometheus symbolically delivers intelligence with his hollow reed full of coals, claiming that the mortals "shall master many arts thereby" (Aeschylus). Indeed, Shelley's novel contains multiple instances of fire becoming an impetus or catalyst to learning, just as the flame of the Greek gods allowed ignorant humans to begin thinking. Frankenstein is inspired, fittingly, during a thunderstorm where he "[beholds] a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak... the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump" (Shelley 23, Vol. I, Ch. I). Though he begins his studies into natural philosophy as a result of discovering the power of electricity, such knowledge results in the birth of his pain and his torture. The title character is consumed by his obsessive studying, which causes isolation from family and friends as well as deteriorating physical and psychological health. While his brief period of brilliance aptly reflects the spark of lightning, Frankenstein must endure having the rest of his life blackened by his search for the secrets of life, again reinforcing the differences between him and Prometheus' humans.

They gained only the skills allowed to them by the gods and did not overstep their boundaries, a concept that is also supported by Eve's partaking of the forbidden tree of knowledge in Eden.

As a consequence of the scientist's forays into equally prohibited experiments, he becomes truly isolated when his family dies and the Creature begins tormenting him. A similar situation arises with Walton, the ardent explorer. He hopes to discover a passage through the North Pole "in a country of eternal light," satiating his own curiosity and ego (Shelley 7, Vol. 1, Letter I). Like Frankenstein, he associates knowledge with illumination and is motivated by the need to achieve fame while benefiting humanity, yet Walton has not yet achieved the scientist's overwhelming obsession. Again, the difference between their motives and Prometheus' are glaring and significant. Despite the fact that all three work diligently to benefit humankind, at the sacrifice of their own health and sanity, only the Titan does so from true altruism. Frank‐ 14

English, O. Zhu enstein and Walton seek knowledge because they are curious, it is true, but also because they "[prefer] glory to every enticement" (Shelley 9, Vol. I, Letter I). The inquisitiveness of the Crea‐ ture, however, is motivated by a true desire to learn, catalyzed by its exposure to the illuminat‐ ing power of knowledge. Like the humans in the tale of Prometheus, the being discovers the dual powers of fire when it is "overcome with delight at the warmth [it experiences] from it" yet emits a "cry of pain" when it discovers that the embers are painful, leading to a questioning of the cause and effect of both the flames and its own creation (Shelley 69, Vol. II, Ch. III). The Creature is not limited to exploring these two topics, however, as it learns language and history as well, indicative of the process that the humans in Prometheus Bound experience as they slowly learn the uses of fire before developing true civilization. However, it achieves such knowledge without the aid of a Promethean creator, as Frankenstein has abandoned it; there‐ fore, its accomplishments are all the more superhuman. Unfortunately, the Creature receives no delight from the books it reads or what it discovers of society, as it realizes that it can never at‐ tain acceptance while its countenance repulses the world. It seems that Shelley indicates that ignorance truly is bliss with her novel, as Frankenstein and Walton are subsumed by their de‐ sire for knowledge while the Creature is emotionally damaged by it, just as Prometheus was punished for distributing the understanding of fire and godly gifts to humans.

Yet another similarity between the Greek myth and Frankenstein lies in the treatment of women. The passive females of both stories are indicative of the historic treatment of women in an‐ cient times and in Shelley's society, despite the fact that her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Woman to free her gender from such attitudes. Misogyny in the story of Prometheus, as documented by Edith Hamilton in Mythology, is evident in the Titan's view of Pandora. The gods send her to punish both mankind and the demigod for stealing fire, yet the protagonist blames her for her existence because "From her, the first woman, comes the race of women, who are an evil to men, with a nature to do evil" (Hamilton 74). This seeming hatred of females, especially companions, replicates itself in Frankenstein's attitude toward the opposite sex. Literary analyst Anne K. Mellor postulates that the scientist's excising of women in the "birth" of his creature is symptomatic of his desire to control and destroy the feminine aspect of nature (Mellor 274). This suggestion is supported by the fact that he reveals no passion for his bride, Elizabeth, allows Justine Moritz to die when it was his creation that was at fault, kills the female creature that he builds, and generally utilizes passive terms in his description, even calling his cousin "a favourite animal" (Shelley 20, Vol. I, Ch. I). Justine herself is reminiscent of lo, a cast‐off mistress of Zeus' who commiserates with Prometheus. Both women are used and abused by society and men, especially since the latter is persecuted by the Pantheon of gods for adultery ‐the Titan's "comfort" is only to tell her of his own suffering. Such callousness is evident in Frankenstein's absorption in his own internal torment when he becomes glad that "The inno‐ cent suffers [...] and I am consoled [....] None ever conceived of the misery that I then en‐ dured" (Shelley 57‐8, Vol. I, Ch. VII). His attitude explains why he makes the Creature in his own image, as a sort of perverse male parthenogenesis, instead of complying with the rules of nature and admitting his need for women in the creative process. Even though Prometheus created man without Pandora, it was not until she existed that humankind could continue it‐ self; Frankenstein reverts the natural order in his attempt to procreate without such a female.

15

English, O. Zhu

While Pandora brought everlasting suffering and hope to humanity, Prometheus, Frankenstein, Walton, and the Creature doom themselves to eternal torture through their own actions. In punishment for his trickery, disobedience, and insolence, the Titan is chained to a barren mountain upon Zeus' orders, where an eagle must eat out his regenerating liver everyday. Aeschylus' chorus proclaims that his

sufferings have been shameful, and [his] mind Strays at a loss: like to a bad physician Fallen sick, [he is] out of heart: nor cans't prescribe

For [his] own case the draught to make thee sound

The chorus' declamation indicates how imprisonment has affected the demigod, as he has lost his autonomy, endures daily physical pain, and is utterly vulnerable. Indeed, Prometheus' situa‐ tion exactly mirrors that of Walton and Frankenstein; both men sacrifice their health to achieve their goals. Even more compellingly, the two lose their mental stability, drive, and compas‐ sion‐they are, indeed, "out of heart." However, the former's case is merely a shadow of the scientist's problems. Even when the title character "dared shake off [his] chains [... ] the iron [eats] into [his] flesh, and [he sinks] again, trembling and hopeless, into [his] miserable self' (Shelley 111, Vol. III, Ch. II). Both Prometheus and Frankenstein are imprisoned as a result of their own deeds, though the latter exists only in the psychological prison of his mind, as he knows he is guilty of making the Creature and the killing of his family. Additional suffering is inflicted on the man because he is re‐ born after each debilitating illness and feels hopeful for a time, just as the Titan's liver is regenerat‐ ing each night. However, each new ordeal is experienced anew, "like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head" (Shelley 109, Vol. III, Ch. II). The Creature, too, endures such torment. It must recover continuously after being rejected by each new human it meets, experiencing emotional torment again and again. Each time the Creature feels that someone will accept it kindly, he is disillusioned, and his "sufferings [are] augmented [...] by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their infliction" (Shelley 96, Vol. II, Ch. VIII). Prometheus, too, feels that his punishment is inherently unfair, as he hopes only for the survival of humanity. It is interesting to note how scenery links the two works of literature even closer. The Titan is chained to a rock in the Caucasus‐‐an image perfectly paralleling Frankenstein's and the Creature's emotional imprisonment while "[passing their lives] on that barren rock" of the moun‐ tains (Shelley 117, Vol. III, Ch. III). It is clear that these characters are alone and pained in their punishments.

The most important link between Prometheus Bound and Frankenstein encapsulates all four points mentioned above, as misguided creation, ill‐obtained knowledge, unnecessary mi‐ sogyny, and eternal torture exemplify how the characters defy fate and are punished. This ulti‐ mate authority, be it Zeus in the Greek myth or God and nature in Shelley's novel, exercises complete control over the lives of Prometheus, Frankenstein, Walton, and the Creature. All four overreach themselves in their goals, exhibiting a type of hubris and arrogance in their deeds. The Titan's "haughty tongue" is ultimately what angers Zeus and later causes the pro‐ tagonist to reflect: "Fate, that brinks all things to an end, not thus / Apportioneth my lot: ten 16

English, O. Zhu thousand pangs / Must bow, ten thousand miseries afflict me" (Aeschylus). Prometheus' inor‐ dinate pride in his accomplishment and dishonesty are what angers the gods, not what he actu‐ ally achieves; his punishment fits the size of his ego and disloyalty. Thus, Frankenstein's crime of rejecting Nature and assuming the role of God merits a similar consequence. As stated above, he is "doomed to live," while "chained in an eternal hell" (Shelley 123, Vol. III, Ch. IV; 147, Vol. III, Ch. VII). Aside from his presumption that he can become the progenitor of a new species, the scientist drastically overestimates his meager abilities in his overwhelming pride.

Perhaps in an attempt to prevent such arrogance in Walton, the ice his ship is stranded in breaks only when the explorer decides to return home and temper his ambition. Frankenstein even warns his companion to "Seek happiness in tranquillity" to avoid the fate that befalls the title character, a clear indication that hubris evident in curiosity is discouraged by the author (Shelley 152, Vol. III, Ch. VII). The Creature, conversely, is overeager in his wish to be accepted by society. It, too, is frustrated in its endeavors to achieve recognition from humankind, espe‐ cially Frankenstein; finally, it must turn towards self‐immolation to be freed from this desire.

Shelley's distinct view on the responsibilities of creators, the role of women, the neces‐ sity of punishment, and a multitude of other concepts found within Frankenstein are fortified by her allusion to Prometheus Bound in the subtitle of her novel. The similarities and dispari‐ ties between the Titan and the three main characters of her book are effectively utilized to em‐ phasize her belief that any audacity when dealing with fate, God, or nature will have dire con‐ sequences. However, the various parallels between Aeschylus' play and Shelley's novel give meaning to the characters of the latter: the desire to become as divine, omnipotent, and loved as Prometheus are all evident in the actions of Walton, Frankenstein, and the Creature.

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English, A. Natarjan

Science, Religion, and Morality in Anna Karenina Anand Natarjan In ‐his novel Anna Karenina, one of the major themes Tolstoy explores is the relation‐ ship between religion, science, and morality. This topic was an important point of discussion among the Russian intelligentsia of the 19th century. The theme is developed throughout the novel in the parallel stories of Levin and Karenin. Both of these characters undergo a sort of re‐ ligious “conversion” or “renewal” – Levin as a result of his solitary contemplations on morality, Karenin under the influence of Countess Lydia Ivanovna. Tolstoy uses the contrast between Karenin’s and Levin’s conversions to support his view that any philosophy, whether it be based in science or religion, must be pernicious if it lacks a higher moral purpose.

Firstly, in order to discover Tolstoy’s views on philosophy, it is critical to understand the prevailing philosophies among the intelligentsia of 19th century Russia and how Tolstoy reacted to them. The two new philosophies that influenced Russian thought during this time period were nihilism and Darwinism. According to the Russian intellectual Alexander Herzen, “nihilism is logic without structure, it is science without dogmas, it is the unconditional sub‐ mission to experience and resigned acceptance of all consequences, whatever they may be, if they follow from observation, or are required by reason” (qtd. in Rogers 11). Nihilism first be‐ came a major phenomenon in Russia in the 1860s, as a reaction to the complex nonmaterialistic German philosophy of earlier decades. The precursor of nihilism was scientism, the belief that philosophy could only have a basis in natural science. The work of some proponents of this view, such as Ludwig Buchner, was “acceptable neither to the representatives of the natural sci‐ ences nor to those of philosophy. But on less critical minds the result was devastating” (Rogers 12). The nihilist point of view spread so widely because it was simple and easily comprehensible, unlike the philosophies that had come before. Darwinism became known in Russia after the ar‐ rival of nihilism. Darwin’s Origin of Species was translated into Russian and published in 1864.

Soon, the nihilist philosopher Dmitri Pisarev wrote a review of the work, and used the princi‐ ples of Darwinism as a justification for nihilism (Rogers). Thus, one of the chief characteristics in common between Darwinism and Nihilism is that they place a high value on science, specifi‐ cally the natural sciences.

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English, A. Natarjan

Figure 1 – Nihilism and existentialism (http://xkcd.com/167/)

By the 1870s, nihilism had become less generally acceptable in Russian society than it had been in the 1860s: “In the 1870s and 1880s, with the unfolding of the revolutionary move‐ ment, nihilism erroneously came to be identified with terrorism and assassination” (Rogers 10).

In the period when Anna Karenina was written, Tolstoy would have been considered a conser‐ vative; the work was serialized in conservative journals, and the best reviews came from conser‐ vative critics (Knowles 303). Thus, it is almost certain that he was not sympathetic towards Ni‐ hilism or Darwinism. Indeed, this statement is confirmed by the fact that Tolstoy makes Stepan Arkadyich Oblonsky, alias Stiva, the dissolute and hedonistic brother of Anna, one of the book’s sole proponents of Darwinism. As Tolstoy relates, Stiva “sometimes took pleasure in startling some simple soul by saying that if you want to pride yourself on your lineage, why stop at Rurik and renounce your first progenitor – the ape?” (7). From Tolstoy’s aversion to science‐based philosophies like Nihilism and Darwinism, the simple hypothesis may be formulated that Tol‐ stoy’s criterion for a good philosophy was that it not be rooted in science. However, as noted above, the only major character in Anna Karenina to espouse science‐based views is Stiva – none of the other main characters completely rejects religion. And it is clear from the way Tol‐ stoy depicts him that he does not approve of Stiva’s pleasure‐loving lifestyle. Yet Stiva is not the only character whose views Tolstoy condemns, and he is not the only character to encounter misfortune and unhappiness. Therefore, there must be more to Tolstoy’s criterion for a good philosophy than the role of science.

To reveal Tolstoy’s true test for a good philosophy, it is necessary to examine the two characters in Anna Karenina that undergo religious “conversions,” starting with Alexei Alexan‐ drovich Karenin. Upon his first appearance in the novel, he presents the impression of a pious man, who lives a disciplined, austere life. For example, upon hearing from his wife of a “declaration” that a young man had made to her, Karenin states that “he fully trusted her tact and would never allow either himself or her to be demeaned by jealousy” (109). The social circle to which Karenin belongs is also described as “virtuous” (127). Anna, his wife, calls him “a good man, truthful, kind and remarkable in his sphere” (112). Later on, when Anna’s affair with Vron‐ sky has been exposed, and Anna is dying of her pregnancy, Karenin forgives her and Vronsky.

Tolstoy describes his lofty emotions on that occasion: “At his wife’s bedside he had given him‐ 19

English, A. Natarjan self for the first time in his life to that feeling of tender compassion which other people’s suffer‐ ing evoked in him, and which he had previously been ashamed of as a bad weakness…He for‐ gave his wife and pitied her for her sufferings and repentance” (419‐420). And many references are made throughout the text to Karenin’s “magnanimity.” Karenin also agrees with Tolstoy in his opinion of the natural sciences, stating that “the influence of the classical writers is moral in the highest degree, whereas the teaching of the natural sciences is unfortunately combined with those harmful and false teachings that constitute the bane of our time.” This statement also shows his apparently deep concern for morality, and his distaste for science, which, as demonstrated earlier, was likely shared by Tolstoy.

From these descriptions, it would appear that Karenin is an ideal character—virtuous, kind, and forgiving, with whom the reader ought to sympathize. Yet this is not the case. As the plot of the novel progresses, Karenin becomes harder and harder to like. The chief change that occurs in Karenin’s life is his “conversion” to the views of Countess Lydia Ivanovna. She is first described as a member of the societal circle of “virtuous” people of which Karenin is also a member. She is deeply religious and mystical, which is evident from her very first conversation with Anna, when she talks about nothing but the Church and its enemies. After Anna leaves Karenin, he asks Lydia to manage his affairs, and he soon grows dependent on her to make all of his decisions for him. However, Lydia does not take “magnanimous” Christian actions with regard to Anna. She forbids Anna from visiting her son Seryozha, and when Anna begs Karenin for a divorce, Lydia decides to put the question to a French clairvoyant, who is in fact just a fraud who only tells Lydia what she wants to hear. Although ostensibly these actions are moti‐ vated by Anna’s sinfulness, they are likely grounded in spite; now that she has power over Karenin, Lydia Ivanovna does not want to share it with Anna. Furthermore, Karenin’s own reac‐ tion to Anna and Stiva’s calls for a divorce is very revealing. When Stiva asks him to practice the Christian principle of “giving a caftan when your shirt was taken,” he essentially responds that he had already made an offer of divorce to Anna and that, since she had rejected that offer, any further misfortunes were entirely her own fault. We see that Karenin has, as a result of his reli‐ gious conversion to the views of Lydia Ivanovna, become vengeful, petty, and un‐Christian.

What accounts for this surprising change? How did such a moral and virtuous person sink so low? Some light can be shed on this question by examining the true motivation for Karenin’s actions. The language that Tolstoy uses suggests that Karenin is not actually moti‐ vated by any inner moral convictions, but is rather driven by an obsessive zeal to conform to the societal norm of how a virtuous person should act. For example, when Karenin is bantering with Anna the day she returns from Moscow, he says “‘You wouldn’t believe how awkward’ (he emphasized the word awkward) ‘it is to dine alone’” (110). The chief consideration for Karenin is not his loneliness as a result of not dining with Anna, but his embarrassment before others in having to dine alone. When Anna has begun her liaison with Vronsky, Karenin does not be‐ come truly jealous, but he insists that “there are certain laws of propriety against which one cannot trespass with impunity. I did not notice it this evening, but judging by the impression made upon the company, everyone noticed that you behaved and bore yourself not quite as one might wish” (146). From Karenin’s perspective, Anna’s conduct is reprehensible not so much because she has committed an inherently immoral action but because others perceive her ac‐ 20

English, A. Natarjan tions as improper. Yet again, when he receives Anna’s note that she is dying, he thinks to him‐ self: “If it’s true that in the moment of suffering and near death she sincerely repents and I, tak‐ ing for deception, refuse to come? It would not only be cruel – and everybody would condemn me – but it would be stupid on my part” (410). He appears to be judging the cruelty of an action solely based on whether others would condemn him for it, not on whether it is inherently wrong. This perspective explains Karenin’s later actions. Towards the end of the novel, he knows his reputation has plummeted, and his career has been ruined, because of Anna’s infidel‐ ity. Thus he has nothing to lose socially, so he finds it easier to give in to revenge and spite, which can be seen in his petty refusal to grant Anna a divorce, even though he knows she will be much happier that way. His conduct demonstrates that despite his outward façade of moral‐ ity, he does not have a strong, independent moral sense.

Karenin provides an example of the pernicious effects of a philosophy that is based in religion but lacks true morality. In contrast, Konstantin Dmitrich Levin represents the benefi‐ cial effects of a philosophy that is based in morality. Practically all critics have interpreted Levin as the literary personification or incarnation of Tolstoy and his ideal aristocrat. For example, Richard Pevear states that “Levin is [Tolstoy’s] most complete self‐portrait” (xiii). Just like Karenin, he appears at first glance to be a virtuous person who leads a disciplined life. For ex‐ ample, in a discussion with Stiva, Levin claims that he cannot understand infidelity, “just as I don’t understand how I could pass by a bakery, as full as I am now, and steal a sweet roll” (40).

However, there are remarkable differences between Levin and Karenin. Firstly, Levin is reso‐ lutely anti‐social, and spends most of his days alone on his farm. In contrast, Karenin’s work in government inherently depends on his societal connections. Secondly, Levin is not as self‐ confident as Karenin. In fact, upon his very first appearance he is described as “bashful,” “cross,” and “uneasy” (17). This lack of confidence is, in fact, unique among all the characters in the novel. It manifests itself throughout his courtship of Kitty, during which he constantly refers to himself as morally lower than her. For example, Tolstoy describes Levin’s thoughts on propos‐ ing to Kitty thus: “it seemed to him that Kitty was so perfect in all respects, a being so far above everything earthly, while he was such a base earthly being, that it was even unthinkable for oth‐ ers or for Kitty herself to acknowledge him as worthy of her” (22). Finally, Levin is, at least ini‐ tially, not very pious. This is very different from Karenin, who prides himself on his Christian kindness. The reader’s first impression of Levin is thus that he is moral and disciplined, but not as strong a character as Karenin. In his atheism, Levin also seems to stray towards Nihilism and Scientism, philosophies which Tolstoy did not approve of.

From this, one might expect that Karenin’s eventual fate will be more fortunate than that of Levin. Yet while Karenin’s life is wrecked, Levin leads the closest thing to a perfect life that is possible under the circumstances. He marries Kitty, with whom he has long been pas‐ sionately in love, and he has a son with her, whom he also comes to love. However, just as im‐ portant in contributing to his happiness is his religious “conversion.” This conversion is stimu‐ lated by his discomfort at being an unbeliever. He first faces this when he is about to be mar‐ ried to Kitty and has to attend confession. The priest makes him feel guilty that his unbelief might lead his future children into the path of sin and temptation. However, Levin’s doubts about his own unbelief lie dormant until after his son is born. The death of his brother Nikolai 21

English, A. Natarjan as well as the miraculous event of his son’s birth causes him to rethink his own purpose in life.

At first, Levin reads the works of “Plato, and Spinoza, Kant, Schelling, Hegel and Schopenhauer – the philosophers who gave a non‐materialistic explanation for life” (787). But he finds these works artificial and contrived, and believes that their reasoning “collapses like a house of cards” (788). Levin also attempts to understand the answers that science gives to the questions of existence. However, he finds the scientific answers deeply unsatisfying. Contemplating the description astronomy gives of the night sky, he muses: “Don’t I know that it is infinite space and not a round vault? But no matter how I squint and strain my sight, I cannot help seeing it as round and limited, and despite my knowledge of infinite space, I am undoubtedly right when I see a firm blue vault, more right than when I strain to see beyond it” (800). Levin comes to re‐ alize that only the views promulgated by Christianity offer him satisfaction, and he embraces those views, thus achieving happiness.

This religious conversion is strikingly different from that of Karenin. Levin pays no heed to the works of mystics. In fact, he rejects every philosophy he comes across in books, finding them all flawed or contrived in some way. For example, he likens Schopenhauer to “warmthless muslin clothing,” and describes as the theologian Khomiakov’s writings as an “edifice” which “fell to dust just as the philosophical edifices had done” (788). "He only comes to his conclu‐ sions as a result of personal reflection on life and reality, not through reading the tracts of oth‐ ers. Secondly, while Karenin’s sense of morality is derived from his religion (which is in turn derived from society), Levin’s religion is derived from his morality, which is completely inde‐ pendent from the approval of others. One example of how little Levin cares for his appearance in society is his treatment of Vasenka Veslovsky, a friend of Stiva who comes to stay with him.

Veslovsky “pays court” to Kitty, acting according to custom but annoying both Kitty and Levin.

Instead of simply accepting Veslovsky’s behavior because it is socially proper, Levin acts on his own sense of morals, and throws Veslovsky out of his house. The independence of Levin’s moral sense from social pressures makes it stronger and more natural than Karenin’s, as can be seen through both characters’ deeds. Karenin’s “magnanimous” actions towards Anna are few, and he is very self‐conscious about his magnanimity. In contrast, Levin’s magnanimous actions – taking in Dolly and her children and supporting them when they are in monetary distress, are almost instinctual. It would be inconceivable for him to act otherwise, because his inherent moral sense is so strong.

This analysis of Levin and Karenin reveals the true nature of Tolstoy’s criterion for a good philosophy, and also highlights some interesting parallels between Levin and Tolstoy. As has been pointed out by nearly every commentator on Anna Karenina, Levin represents Tolstoy, and that Levin’s philosophy is Tolstoy’s own. The two are alike in almost every aspect; for exam‐ ple, like Levin, Tolstoy was resolutely anti‐social, and opposed all political and social institu‐ tions of all kinds (Lavrin, Tolstoy and Gandhi, 137). And like Levin, Tolstoy’s philosophy comes not “out of [his] brains, but out of [his] suffering” (Lavrin, Tolstoy and Nietzsche 69). Finally, an interesting parallel can be drawn between Tolstoy’s views on philosophy and his views on art.

In his essay “What Is Art,” Tolstoy defines real art as something which evokes emotions in the mind of the viewer. He says: “If a man is infected by the author's condition of soul, if he feels this emotion and this union with others, then the object which has effected this is art” (133).

22

English, A. Natarjan Tolstoy’s views about religion and philosophy are similar. Through the stories of Levin and Karenin, he shows that the only proper philosophy is one that has a strong moral foundation – one that “infects the soul” with a sense of morality. This insight is the same point at which Levin hints in his description of the astronomers studying the night sky. Although it is known that the sky is an infinite space, this view cannot provide a proper basis for a philosophy, be‐ cause it does not “infect the soul” with any feeling, whereas the view that the sky is a blue vault is more acceptable because it feels more correct. (To use the phrasing of Stephen Colbert, we could say Tolstoy values “truthiness” over factual truth!) This idea of the importance of emo‐ tions over reason is the key to Tolstoy’s view of the relationship between philosophy, religion, science, and morality. For Tolstoy, the basic moral principles of life cannot be justified by rea‐ son, yet it is essential to live by them in order to obtain true happiness.

23

anguages

Language is the blood of the soul into which thoughts run and out of which they grow.

‐Oliver Wendell Holmes

25

Languages, C. Ma

El arrecife coral Christina Ma

La medusa late en el corriente, Su gelatina iridiscente brillando.

La anémona se sujeta al coral, Tentáculos de carmesí y bermellón.

El cangrejo ermitaño anda, Su concha escalando en un punto.

Peces pequeñísimos nadan, Moviéndose como flechas de plata.

Varios colores de arco iris, Destellando en las aguas despejadas.

Bordean el arrecife nutritivo, Convergiendo, creciendo, prosperando.

Son criaturas hermosas y diversas, Unidos por el mar que da toda la vida.

Christina Ma, Grade 12, won first prize last Spring in the 2009 San Jose University Poetry Com‐ petition, an annual contest for high school students.

27

Languages, A. Zhou

Lo histórico y lo personal Andrew Zhou

En su poema “Balada de los dos abuelos,” Nicolás Guillén, poeta de sangre español y afri‐ cano, invoca este patrimonio dual para analizar ambos la relación histórica entre las dos razas y la conexión personal que tiene a su vida. Guillén dedica las primeras estrofas de su poema a una comparación de la historia de los españoles y los africanos; haciendo hincapié en la subyuga‐ ción que sufrieron los africanos, él muestra la inherente injusticia que caracterizó las relaciones entre sus dos linajes. Sin embargo, pronuncia en las estrofas finales la igualdad de la relación entre sus abuelos, mostrando que su propia existencia como individual de sangre mestizo con‐ tradice las tendencias históricas de desigualdad. Aunque reconoce claramente la esclavitud, el sufrimiento, y las otras injusticias grandes que sus ancestros negros sufrieron debido a sus an‐ cestros blancos, Guillén presenta su propia existencia como fuerte afirmación de la igualdad de las dos razas, imaginando una reunión de sus dos abuelos en que los dos están en niveles igua‐ les.

Describiendo sus dos abuelos como “sombras que sólo yo veo,” Guillén contrasta los dos en sus primeras estrofas, relacionando esta diferencia a la historia de injusticia que comparten las dos razas. El uso de las palabras “negro” y “blanco” para describir sus abuelos es una antítesis fuerte que acentúa el contraste entre los dos; esta antítesis aparece no sólo en los colores de piel sino en las descripciones de los abuelos. Mientras el abuelo negro tiene “lanza con punta de hueso, tambor de cuero y madera,” el abuelo blanco tiene “gorguera en el cuello ancho, gris ar‐ madura guerrera,” demostrando claramente las diferencies históricas entre las dos culturas, una con lanza primitiva y otra con gorguera culta. La repetición de las frases “Me muero! (Dice mi abuelo negro)” y “Me canso! (Dice mi abuelo blanco)” y la descripción de un África explotada, con “costas de cuello virgen engañadas de abalorios” sirven para amplificar este contraste, mos‐ trando el impacto detrimental que los españoles y otros caucasianos, con sus “galeón[es] ar‐ diendo en oro,” tenían en los africanos. Además, la anáfora presente en la cuarta estrofa de “¡Qué de barcos, qué de barcos! ¡Qué de negros, qué de negros! ¡Que largo fulgor de cañas! ¡Qué látigo el del negrero!” enfatiza la crueldad inhumana y extensión vasta de la esclavitud, mos‐ trando otra vez la injusticia profunda de la historia de las razas. La estructura también desarro‐ lla este mensaje de contraste; aunque, en este poema, predomina el verso octosílabo, hay algu‐ nas excepciones, incluyendo “mi abuelo negro,” mi abuelo blanco,” “¡Me muero!,” y “¡Me canso!”

Estas excepciones subrayan el tema de las primeras estrofas, la desigualdad, destacando la dife‐ rencia entre los africanos muriéndose del sufrimiento y los caucasianos cansándose físicamente debido a sus acciones de matar y subyugar a los africanos.

A pesar de la fuerte condenación de la injusticia histórica de las relaciones entre las dos razas, las estrofas finales desarrollan un tema opuesta: la igualdad. Guillén muestra que su pro‐ pia vida como persona de sangre español y africano destruye la idea de la desigualdad. Procla‐ mando las palabras claves “Yo los junto,” Guillén une las dos culturas, imaginando una reunión 28

Languages. A. Zhou de sus dos abuelos en que “los dos se abrazan” y son “del mismo tamaño.” Ya no hay antítesis— los abuelos no contrastan sino asemejan ahora; son completamente iguales. En la estrofa final, la anáfora fuerte de “los dos,” incluyendo una repetición del verso completo “los dos del mismo tamaño,” expresa la idea general de la similitud entre sus dos abuelos, contrastando directa‐ mente el tema de la desigualdad desarrollado en las primeras estrofas. Además, una gradación concluye el poema; aunque los abuelos inicialmente “gritan, sueñan, lloran, cantan,” esta lista se reduce hasta que los abuelos simplemente “¡Cantan!,” mostrando que ya hay amistad y paz entre los dos en lugar del antagonismo del pasado. Aquí, el asíndeton presente en la gradación acelera el ritmo del poema, mostrando el progreso rápido al estado de felicidad que concluye el poema. La estructura del poema también contribuye al tema de la estrofa final; aunque prevale‐ ce el rima asonante en versos pares, no hay una estructura muy fija para las estrofas, sugiriendo la liberación de los africanos de las cadenas de esclavitud.

Guillén, poeta con una mezcla de cultura española y africana, observa la relación entre las dos razas y las implicaciones históricas y personales que tiene su sangre mestiza. Empieza con un análisis del legado brutal de esclavitud sufrido por los africanos, demostrando la situa‐ ción lamentable de sus ancestros de un lado de la familia. No obstante, afirma que, para él, quien herede diferentes culturas de ambos sus abuelos, hay un equilibrio entre los dos, un esta‐ do de igualdad entre las razas que forman partes iguales de su cuerpo y alma. Por eso, Guillén asevera fuertemente que, a pesar de la historia de injusticia entre los españoles y los africanos, para él no hay esta desigualdad sino una relación balanceada en su propia vida.

29

Languages, R. Li

百聞は一見にしかず ルオズ・リー The following speech written by Roslyn (Ruozi) Li won second place on November 1, 2009 at the 36th Annual Japanese Speech contest sponsored by The Japanese American Association of Northern California and the Consulate General of Japan in San Francisco. 私は今年の四月にジャパン・ボウルと言う大会でゆうしょうしたから、夏休みに日本 に連れて行ってもらいました。その時まで日本に行った事がなかったし、これがジャパン・ ボウルのなかまや先生とすごす最後の時間だったから、今回の旅行をとても楽しみにしてい ました。そして、日本に行った時、本物は本や写真で見る物とぜんぜん違うと言う大切な事 を習いました。 日本ではあいちけんのてんのう祭りに行きました。ジャパンボウルの勉強でお祭りの 日にたくさんの人が伝統的な服を着る事や日本に色々なお祭りがある事を習いましたが、行 く前に、これ以外には日本のお祭りの事はぜんぜん知りませんでした。だから、てんのう祭 りがとても特別な経験になるだろうとは思いましたが、そんなにきたいしていませんでし た。それに、お祭りの日に大雨がふって、私は雨が大きらいだったから、気分が悪くなって しまいました。でも、お祭りに行ったら、たくさんの人がいて、皆すごくうれしそうだった から、私もだんだんうれしくなりました。お祭りの始めから、すばらしいたいこのパフォー マンスやたくさんのきれいな物が見られて、全部ゆめの中の事みたいで、私はとても感動し ました。そして、さっきまでの悪い気分が全部きえたみたいでした。私たちはあいちけんで 世話をしてくれた人たちを一日しか知りませんでしたが、いっしょにたいこのパフォーマン スや花火を見ていた時、急になかまになったみたいでした。私はこのゆめの中にいるみたい な気持ちや、皆がいっしょにすばらしいお祭りを作っていて、そのお祭りの一部になった気 持ちが本物のお祭りに行ったから、よく分かりました。だから、今の私は大雨がふっても、 ニコニコしながら、お祭りに行きたいです。 広島に行った事も特に忘れられない経験でした。じつは、行く前に、私は広島に行っ ても、あまり新しい事は習えないと思っていました。でも、けんちょうの人の話を聞いた り、へいわきねん館で広島のれきしについて読んだりして、私は間違っていたと分かりまし た。広島で、げんばくについて新しい事を習って、広島についてそれ以外の色々な事も初め て習いました。それに、前はれきしにあまり興味がありませんでしたが、広島に行ってか ら、もっとれきしを勉強したくなりました。そして、日本にはまだたくさんのおもしろい所 や物があるかもしれないと考えた時、もっともっと日本について習いたくなりました。 日本 に行ったおかげで、私は初めて「百聞は一見にしかず」の意味がよく分かって来ました。 私は五年日本語を勉強していますが、日本語がだんだんむずかしくなった時、自分が 本当に勉強したいかどうか分からない時がふえました。でも、今回日本に行って、日本でし か習えない事がたくさん習えたり、習った事を自分の目で見たりしたから、日本語が心から 好きで習いたいと分かりました。そして、日本語の勉強をもっとがんばりたくなりました。 それは、私がいつか日本にもどった時、自分の国に帰ったように感じたいからです。 30

cience

Science is built up of facts, as a house is built of stones; but an accumulation of facts is no more a science than a heap of stones is a house.

‐Henri Poincaré

31

Science, O. Zhu

The Universe in Physics and Metaphysics: Equally Mysterious Olivia Zhu Understanding “The Universe” has been an integral impetus to human development in the history of our world and continues to be a key motivation in the development of new tech‐ nologies, ideas, and philosophies regarding the origins of all that civilization now knows. Past interpretations of the extent and nature of the cosmos have been proven erroneous with the emergence of fresher, flashier, and better‐fortified theories. In ancient times, as is the case now, knowledge of the universe was limited to what was observable and then extrapolated to give a broader explanation, resulting in various models that expanded in literal size and visualized scope. The range of these different interpretations of the universe extends from the notion of a flat earth at the center of a celestial, deistically controlled creation to the explosion of mass and energy explained by the Big Bang Theory to the vague concept of “everything.” However, the true definition of the universe is as of yet unknown and thus unapproachable; what is not un‐ derstood cannot be defined. Below lies the argument that humankind cannot comprehend the extent of the universe proper; thus, “The Universe” is a human construction and ideal defined only as a placeholder, warming the seat until a proper explanation of what the universe is can assume the throne.

With all this talk of what the universe is, perhaps beginning with what the universe is not would be a better approach. Clearly, it is not the rather inclusive and gorgeous entity sug‐ gested by Donald Trump’s pageant, but neither is it everything that existed from the beginning of all time. This is the belief of the proponents of the finite universe theory, which suggests that the cosmos as we know it is restricted and has a distinct shape—in fact, it appears to resemble a soccer ball. A co‐author of the study regarding this increasingly popular model, Jeffrey Weeks, used WMAP data to analyze the origins of the Big Bang and make the analogy that the universe must be finite since a “bathtub cannot support waves longer than the length of the tub itself.”

Janna Levin, another researcher of finite universes, makes the analogy that a leopard cannot have spots larger than its body; yet this explanation begs the question of, if the universe is a spot, what is the leopard? What is the tub? Empirics has corroborated the Big Bang Theory to the point where it is generally supported and uncontested, yet this model implies a “bang” from some point, an “external world… at the origin of the universe” from whence all that is known emerged. Therein lies the rub. What lies beyond the finite cosmos also lies beyond the grasp of human reason; modern science has neither detected nor explained it, yet something aside from the universe must exist.

If the boundaries and the “beyonds” of the universe are not understood, neither are its contents, at least not fully. The epistemological limitations to understanding the universe are staggering. The conflicting theories, some of which can be supported to a certain degree, indi‐ 33

Science, O. Zhu cate that there is not a complete and accepted model for the universe at this moment. Further‐ more, if a mere model cannot be agreed upon, neither can the true definition of the universe.

Ranging from the esoteric to the eccentric, theories of the multiverse or the Big Bang all appear to conflict in some manner. Even the widely accepted definition of the universe as “everything” or as infinite is incongruous with the aforementioned finite universe. Typically, models can be preferred over others as a result of better empirics and unflawed theoretical arguments that correlate with the results of experiments. Additionally, science makes the key assumption that natural laws are obeyed throughout the universe, rendering data collected about the more outré aspects of the cosmos supposedly accurate. This is not a guarantee. The United States government fails to collect accurate environmental data here on Earth; the ability of this entity and others comes into greater question when determining aspects of the unknown regions of the universe. Entire regions of the Earth have not yet been explored—it is difficult to determine the contents and coalescing of a universe infinitely bigger than our planet.

These arguments may seem ontological and not fact‐based, yet they do indeed refer to what “The Universe” is. Georg Hegel, a contemporary of Immanuel Kant, had the rather confus‐ ing tendency of capitalizing words to alter their meaning. For example, Absolute meant God, Science was mind (and not Mind), and Universal indicated thought and language. In truth, The Universe is not equivalent to the universe; it is a mere representation that recognizes the limits of human exploration and comprehension. Ontologically, The Universe exists as a mental con‐ struct, while the universe is non‐existent in our world because it is indefinable. Beyond this somewhat abstract and non‐scientific definition heavily based in metaphysics lays the even more irrational realm of philosophy. Yet what is more fitting to describe the irrational aspects of the universe? The above two paragraphs discuss the irregularities and discrepancies in what is known about the universe—a more salient point is that very little is known about it, and what little information is available indicates a scope greater than that of human imagination.

Kant’s solipsism is, perhaps, the best manner in which to approach the definition of “The Universe.” Essentially, he discussed the fact that nothing can be known which is not first ex‐ perienced and constantly experienced. A simple example might be that the contents of a room from which an individual has just exited no longer exists once they are removed from his or her experience. With regards to the universe, Kant suggests that “human beings are capable of viewing only the appearance and not things as they are in themselves,” lending credence to the concept that “The Universe” is a facsimile of the universe, and never the twain shall meet.

Perhaps it seems like cheating to ignore providing a definition for the universe proper.

However, it is utterly beyond the human capability to do so at this moment in time. While ap‐ proaches like the finite universe theory, string theory, and the Big Bang theory do appear to be cogent explanations for the interactions within and nature of the universe, the simple fact is that a true definition is unreachable. Instead, these words have been engineered to provide a working definition of “The Universe.” It is a thought construct designed to mitigate a fear of the unknown that pervades the human psyche, yet it is a useful substitute for the universe, which cannot be understood. The typical modernized individual might imagine “The Universe” as a starry expanse of galaxies stretching out forever, expanding with time, originating with the Big Bang, and perhaps containing little green men. While the universe may contain these things, much of it is mystery. We have yet to determine if, in fact, it does.

34

Science, D. Kim

Optimizing Accuracy and Precision in Experimentation: Atwood’s Machine Daniel Kim Abstract

Whatever the nature of the study, reasonable assumptions allow scientists to quickly arrive at answers that approximate reality. Despite the convenience and expedience of this approach, however, there are – quite predictably – some limitations: Under particular conditions, assump‐ tions start yielding answers that are neither accurate nor precise. Since quantifying these con‐ straints has proven to be quite challenging, an Atwood’s Machine was optimized for experimen‐ tal error. Low values of ΔM and high values of ∑M were found to maximize accuracy and preci‐ sion. The present study proposes a generalized method to identify the optimal ranges for any scientific instrument.

For the full text version, please visit http://web.harker.org/cls/annualpub.html

35

Science, I. Madan

The Causes and Effects of Pediatric Sleep Disorders: A Topical Review Isaac Madan

Parents can often be found rocking their infants to sleep or instructing their children that it is past bedtime. While children may often resist this guidance, parents are correct in em‐ phasizing the importance of sleep. Poor sleeping habits or sleep deprivation in children can af‐ fect growth and development. But is a natural childhood resistance the only hindrance to a good night’s rest? The answer is no; sleep disorders are common among children of all ages and range from sudden infant death to bed‐wetting to cardiovascular distress. A multitude of sleep disorders can affect children from birth to age eighteen, exhibiting a broad range of effects varying from daytime drowsiness to even death.

Sleep disorders do not typically affect infants from birth to three months of age. How‐ ever, conditions such as colic often lead to disruptions in their sleep. Newborns typically sleep simply when they are tired. Their circadian rhythms are not significantly developed to associate daytime with wakefulness and night with sleeping. Newborns typically sleep for three‐fourths of the day in small blocks ranging from twenty minutes to four hours. Babies do not usually sleep for more than four hours at a time because they become hungry and require multiple feedings, which may often occur during the night.

Colic is a condition that describes babies that scream and cry without an identifiable medical reason. These outbursts occur during short episodes, typically before sleep in the late afternoon or early evening. They often inhibit a child’s ability to fall asleep. Although colic af‐ fects as many as one out of five children, its causes are not conclusively known. There is no treatment for the condition. The responsibility simply falls on the caregivers to console the baby such that she or he is able to fall asleep.

More obvious in root cause is a newborn’s inability to sleep due to food allergies, such as allergy from a cow’s milk. Although the severity of symptoms varies, the condition is most likely to go unnoticed in babies that are not severely affected and are found to be irritable.

Luckily, this allergy can be determined via a genetic test or by correlating the baby’s condition with feeding times. Changing the milk formula for the baby to one that lacks cow’s milk can solve the problem.

The most serious medical condition that may affect infants during sleep during their first year is Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). The precise cause of SIDS is not conclu‐ sively agreed upon, yet its correlation with sleep is evident. Babies that die of SIDS are usually found sleeping on their stomachs or beneath bed sheets. Autopsies often reveal microscale bruises on the child’s cardiovascular tissue. It is currently believed that SIDS is caused by im‐ proper airflow and hampered breathing. Infants within their first year of life are unable to evoke a nervous response such as crying or agitation that would be characteristic of restricted breathing because their nervous systems are not appropriately developed. Because of this, ba‐ 36

Science, I. Madan bies typically die silently or without any obvious pain. SIDS can also be caused when a baby is feeling hot in high temperature conditions. Moreover, SIDS has been seen to occur when par‐ ents sleep with their infants and accidently roll on top of them. Smoking near an infant will also inhibit his or her ability to breathe, and may result in SIDS. While SIDS cannot conclusively be defined as a sleep disorder because its causes are not all known, it is known to affect children when they are sleeping.

The first true sleep disorder to affect children is childhood behavioral insomnia, which may begin at the age of six months. After the first six months of life, infants are expected to have developed a sense of their surroundings and their circadian rhythms such that they can associate various actions and rituals with sleep, and can often sleep throughout the whole night. For example, when parents gently rock their child to help onset sleep, the child may be‐ gin to depend on this ritual as a precursor for slumber. Thus, if the child inadvertently awakens in the middle of the night, he or she may be unable to go back to sleep without being rocked.

The disorder is largely caused by parental actions, and it can be prevented by parents who choose to use sleep rituals as a method for making their baby sleepy but discontinue the rituals before the baby actually falls asleep. If a parent performs the sleep‐time ritual each time the child awakens during the night, the child will only become more dependent on a parent’s in‐ volvement to fall asleep, and the disorder will escalate. Similarly, feeding a baby in the middle of the night if it wakes up can lead to overfeeding, which the baby may begin to depend on in order to go back to sleep. Thus, in addition to avoiding a sleep ritual, it is similarly important that a sleep schedule is developed such that the baby falls asleep at roughly the same time each night. This will avoid the baby’s awakening during the night. Childhood behavioral insomnia can have a severe affect on a baby’s independent ability to fall asleep.

Rhythmic movement disorders may also affect a child’s ability to sleep from six months to two or four years of age. Yet these types of disorders do not actually appear to inhibit sleep, but rather occur in the early stages of sleep and seem to develop into a habit for the child. Ba‐ bies with the disorder are often found resting on their hands and knees while rocking back and forth. A later stage of the disorder includes head banging in which a baby will bang his or her head onto the mattress or bedding without suffering physical pain. The third instance of this disorder occurs when babies roll their heads back and forth. These processes are believed to align a baby’s balance system and are repeated typically out of habit. Because rhythmic move‐ ment disorders may induce sleep rather than interrupt it, they typically require no medical at‐ tention.

Many toddlers experience parasomnias such as night terrors and sleep walking which affect their ability to sleep calmly through the night. These conditions occur in children at two or three years of age. It is believed to result from the fact that by this age, a child’s brain has de‐ veloped the capacity to dream and recall events. As children are exposed to external events, such as television shows, they develop a sense of fear. Fear is often compounded by life events such as stress, violence, or death.

Night terrors are unique in that they occur during deep sleep, rather than during Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep. REM sleep is the period of sleep in which dreams occur, and can typically be remembered by the person who is asleep. Night terrors, as such, cannot be recalled by the person experiencing them and are characterized by screams of terror, during which the 37

Science, I. Madan person is still asleep and sits upright in bed. Although parents may be frightened by this activ‐ ity, children themselves have no recollection of night terrors because they occur during periods of deep sleep, only last a matter of minutes, and usually end with the child returning to a state of calm sleep. By age six, night terrors are uncommon and typically require medical consulta‐ tion if they persist. Except if they persist, night terrors do not affect children significantly be‐ cause they do not lead to loss of sleep, and do not typically signal emotional or physical dis‐ tress.

Sleepwalking is similar to night terrors in that it is also a parasomnia in which the child is only partly awake and cannot recollect his or her actions. Sleepwalking can occur during any period of childhood after learning to walk, yet typically only indicates emotional distress after age six. It is important that parents ensure that a child is safe during episodes of sleepwalking, because injury is possible, yet it is also vital that the child is not awakened to avoid disorienting him or herself. It is best for parents to avoid conversing about episodes of sleepwalking since this may lower the child’s self‐confidence. Instead, they should help diminish the daily stress that the child may be experiencing.

Nightmares, unlike night terrors, are more significant in affecting a child’s sleep and emotional state. Nightmares occur when children are dreaming during the REM stage of sleep.

Children often perceive themselves or elements and people in their life during nightmares.

These commonplace pieces of reality are often intermingled with unreal or imaginative ele‐ ments typically derived from television shows, movies, books, or other experiences when awake. Children who experience nightmares may be affected emotionally or psychologically by these events and can remember their nightmares the morning after. Nightmares may be a sign of emotional distress, especially if upsetting events have recently occurred in a child’s life. It is best for a parent to be available to console the child in the event of a nightmare. Nightmares can often result in the awakening of a child. Nightmares are also significantly different from night terrors in that they occur mostly during pre‐adolescence, during the ages of eight to eleven years. They can persist throughout these years.

Sleep enuresis is the process of bed‐wetting. It is a common disorder among children under six years of age. Bed‐wetting past the age of six, which affects less than twenty percent of children, may require medical attention, while wetting before that age is considered common.

Two types of sleep enuresis exist: primary and secondary. Primary enuresis describes a condi‐ tion in which a child continually wets the bed multiple times per week without ever remaining dry for a continuous period of three to six months. Secondary enuresis is a relapse of bed‐ wetting after a child has not wet the bed for a period of three to six months.

Primary sleep enuresis is typically attributed to genetic or developmental causes. Chil‐ dren who consistently wet the bed are likely to have not fully developed control of muscles in the bladder, which regulate the release of urine. Furthermore, the antidiuretic hormone (ADH) is known for regulating and minimizing the production of urine during the night. ADH typi‐ cally increases at night to decrease urine production levels, but it has been found that this does not always occur in children with primary sleep enuresis. A synthetic drug, called desmo‐ pressin, has been developed to compensate for lower levels of ADH. In 2001, a study at the Uni‐ versity of Pennsylvania School of Medicine revealed that oral desmopressin was a viable drug and is now currently on the market in the form of pills. Genetic studies at Danish Centre for 38

Science, I. Madan Genome Research in 1995 revealed that primary bed‐wetting also has a genetic basis by identi‐ fying the chromosomal locus at which the primary sleep enuresis gene is found.

Secondary sleep enuresis is typically the result of stress. A change in a child’s life such as the birth of a sibling or the death of a relative can result in bed‐wetting. Both primary and sec‐ ondary bed‐wetting can cause daytime stress for a child. For example, a child may be embar‐ rassed to attend social events such as sleepovers, delay their bedtime, or choose not to sleep at all to avoid bed‐wetting. Parents, who often expect their child to be too old for bedwetting, may see enuresis as a reason for which the child must be punished. This only exacerbates the prob‐ lem. In order to reduce the incidence of bed‐wetting, especially secondary stress‐induced sleep enuresis, it is important for parents to console the child and correct the problem via positive reinforcement.

A European study in 2002 revealed the importance of seeking medical attention for sleep enuresis in pre‐adolescent cases. The study demonstrated that 40% of enuretic adolescents had not sought medical attention and only 20% had a positive response to given drugs. As such, better drugs may be required to treat all adolescent cases when desmopressin is not effective.

By treating the problem sooner, it is less likely that an adolescent will suffer from the disorder throughout the rest of his or her life.

While only one or two percent of adolescents experience enuresis by age 15, sleep phase disorders are much more common among older teenagers. Adolescents begin to rely on sur‐ rounding factors to dictate the time at which they will sleep each night. Social events, home‐ work, sports, and other such activities often take precedence over sleep, resulting in adoles‐ cents sleeping late and awakening early. Circadian rhythms, dictated by the hypothalamus in the brain, are responsible for regulating the sleep‐wake cycle. Often times, adolescents begin to sleep later and later, disrupting their circadian rhythms, yet must still awaken at the same time each day, as would occur during a school week. As such, the teen receives progressively less sleep, and develops a disorder known as delayed phase disorder. This will affect the teen’s en‐ thusiasm, personality, coordination, academic performance, and overall interest in life. An ado‐ lescent can mitigate the effects of the disorder as he or she begins to progressively return to a normal sleep‐wake schedule.

Sleep apnea also has significant effects among children and adolescents. It can also affect infants. Sleep apnea is a disorder in which individuals experience pauses in their breathing while sleeping. Sleep apnea puts strain on the heart and lungs as they perform their functions because heart rate fluctuates with each event of breathlessness. Two types of sleep apnea exist: obstructive and central. Obstructive sleep apnea (OSA) describes a condition in which the walls in the airway collapse and restrict airflow during periods of slumber. Central sleep apnea (CSA) occurs when the brain is too slow in regulating the intake of oxygen, resulting in alternating bouts of breathlessness and rapid breathing. In children, obstructive sleep apnea may also stem from the growth of lymphoid tissue, which includes the tonsils and adenoids. Lymphoid tissue growth is the most common contributor to the disorder among children, yet removing these tissues via surgery is only effective in 70% of cases. Obstructive sleep apnea, meanwhile, must be treated or recognized as early as possible, because it can have degenerative effects on the cardiovascular system as well as the brain. Apnea contributes to reduced blood flow to the brain and will result in poor academic performance as well as daytime sleepiness. A parent can 39

Science, I. Madan often notice sleep apnea if a child begins snoring at night. Snoring is considered abnormal among children and is therefore a clear indication of a breathing disorder. Similarly, behavioral changes will affect children as they may become sluggish, easily irritated, or inattentive. A re‐ cent study conducted at the University of Texas in Dallas, published in the second half of 2009 revealed that both obstructive and central sleep apnea can result in secondary sleep enuresis. If surgery to remove lymphoid tissue is not feasible as a treatment, obstructive sleep apnea can also be resolved via continuous positive airway pressure (CPAP) therapy, which is regulated by trained medical professionals.

Infants are actually expected to experience apneas during their sleep because their respi‐ ratory reflexes and regulation system are still in the developmental process. Sleep apnea in in‐ fants may result in sudden infant death syndrome because apnea reduces airflow to an infant’s cardiovascular system, which is the characteristic cause of SIDS. Breathing is typically fully regulated by the time an infant is six months old. If apnea persists, however, treatment such as CPAP is commonly used. Sleep apnea in infants is known to slow or diminish development or result in death in the case of SIDS.

Infants experience few true sleep disorders, seeing that their bodily systems and cir‐ cadian rhythms are still developing. They do not experience parasomnias, yet their sleep may be affected by colic. Persistent sleep apnea may result in hindered development or SIDS. Tod‐ dlers and young children may experience rhythmic movement disorders, parasomnias, such as night terrors and sleepwalking, and nightmares. Bed‐wetting is common among children under six 6 years of age. Older children and adolescents may frequently experience disruptions to their circadian rhythms and sleep cycles as a result of social pressures. This can result in day‐ time sleepiness and poor academic, athletic, and behavioral performance. Sleep apnea is a dis‐ order affecting infants, children, and adolescents alike. In summary, at minimum, sleep disor‐ ders among children from ages zero to eighteen result in the lack of sufficient sleep. They may also affect their behavior. In extreme cases, they may impact survival.

40

Science, J. Chin

Identification of Autoantigens in Psoriatic Arthritis Jeanette Chin Abstract

Psoriatic arthritis (PsA) is an autoimmune condition characterized by chronic inflammation of the skin and joints. Despite recent advances regarding our understanding of rheumatoid arthri‐ tis (RA), the etiology and autoantigens involved in PsA remain elusive. Identification of autoan‐ tigens may lead to novel diagnostics and a better understanding of the pathogenesis of PsA. We utilized protein microarrays containing over 8000 human proteins to identify candidate autoantigens for multiple autoimmune diseases including PsA, RA, and other disease controls.

Statistical analysis of array results demonstrated high reactivity of PsA samples to pyruvate de‐ hydrogenase (PD), especially in contrast to RA patient samples. PD is highly conserved throughout different species, including bacteria. Our underlying hypothesis is that PsA patients develop reactivity against this molecule through molecular mimicry after being infected or colonized by certain bacterial species. To further investigate the autoreactivity against this pro‐ tein, we performed enzyme‐linked immunosorbent assays (ELISAs) testing for autoantibodies against PD in samples derived from patients with PsA, RA, and healthy controls. We optimized these assays by testing and selecting optimal coating conditions, sera dilutions, and blocking reagents. We observed increased autoantibody reactivity against PD in sera derived from pa‐ tients with PsA as compared to those with RA. Further immunoblotting experiments to validate our microarray and ELISA findings and future studies examining whether autoimmunity against this molecule exacerbates autoimmune arthritis in mice could provide evidence that the targeting of PD might contribute to the pathogenesis of PsA.

For the full text version, please visit http://web.harker.org/cls/annualpub.html

41

istory

History, like a vast river, propels logs, vegetation, rafts, and debris; it is full of live and dead things, some destined for resurrection; it mingles many waters and holds in solution invisible substances stolen from distant soils.

‐Jacques Barzun

43

History, A. Fishman

The Influence of the American Promise on Utopian Communities in Regards to Their Founding and Tenets Ariel Fishman

During the first half of the 19th century, America witnessed an outburst of utopian com‐ munities, most notably New Harmony, Oneida, and Brook Farm. These communes were a di‐ rect result of free labor capitalism and its shortcomings as well as an indirect result of the no‐ tion of the American promise, which guaranteed equality and opportunity for wealth to those who worked hard; they rejected traditional institutions such as the family and adopted social‐ ism not as a way to oppose this promise but to fulfill it, and even though mainstream society viewed their actions as inherently un‐American, they were actually embracing the original promise.

Why did this era experience such a growth in utopian communes?

The first half of the 1800s witnessed a rapid proliferation of utopian societies due mainly to the dominance of the free labor ideal, which, although it promised success in exchange for hard work, left the vast majority with no land and minimal wealth. Despite assurances from men such as Abraham Lincoln, who was one of the few who was able to work his way from humble beginnings to power and prosperity, the free labor ideal resulted in only forty men be‐ coming millionaires by 1860, while almost half of adult white males had no wealth and close to two‐thirds of the same group had no land. The widening gap between the promises of America and the reality of it resulted in feelings of frustration, as “the laws [of economics] looked invio‐ lable, and yet the state of society for which they were held responsible was intolerable.” Robert Owen, founder of the community at New Harmony, recognized both the “civil warfare between individuals who are engaged in the same profession . . . [created by] commercial competition” and the fact that “the present system of the world [could] not be supported without private property and inequality of conditions.” According to Owen, then, there was no way for peace‐ ful cooperation to exist in America during the early 1800s because everyone wanted property and money but only a limited number could possess them, so the inequality naturally led to competition. This society which prized the free labor ideal and capitalism above all else but led to overwhelming numbers stuck in poverty caused some not only to notice the adverse effects of the current economic system but also to come to the conclusion that “the whole system must change,” that “if this [was] capitalism . . . [they wanted] anything else.” Hence, the communes of the 1840s and 1850s “gr[e]w out of the society to which they [were] a response:” they were founded as critiques of the flaws of the dominant economic theories of the time. Free labor capitalism directly resulted in the rise of utopian socialism because without the former, the lat‐ 45

History, A. Fishman ter would have no reason to exist.

While the precipitating event that led to an outburst of utopian communes was the free labor ideal’s failure to live up to its promise of providing wealth for those who worked for it, the indirect cause was America’s promise of equality and success; when people realized none of this was possible in 1840s America, they started to turn elsewhere for the fulfillment of this promise.

Owen came to America from Scotland to found New Harmony for a reason: the former “had known political liberty for fifty years” and celebrated independence of both body and thought.

The nation itself was a sort of utopian community, founded as an attempt to be free from the tyranny of the British, so it was only natural that he reasoned Americans would be most recep‐ tive to a socialist utopian commune. The young state also prized “virtue, justice, [and] knowl‐ edge,” but as Owen pointed out, these things could not exist in a society that also contains pri‐ vate property and inequality, which were becoming increasingly rampant as the 1800s contin‐ ued. The reality of free labor was the direct cause for the creation of several utopian communi‐ ties, but the contradiction inherent in the American promise and the American reality that was the underlying motivation; if citizens had no such guarantee of equality and success, they would not be as likely to rebel. Because American citizens did have this guarantee, though, when they observed its failure, many sought fulfillment outside of mainstream society. Those who founded and joined utopian communes “pointed with devastating truth to the miserable unhappiness of the world in which [they] lived” by rejecting the promises of said world and ex‐ posing their emptiness. Although free labor’s failures led to the growth of utopian communi‐ ties, their seed had been planted years before when the colonies declared independence and the need to fulfill the American promise of equality and prosperity entered the national psyche.

What were common themes among tenets of different societies?

Because the purpose of utopian communes was to drastically change the established or‐ der, one of the most frequently recurring tenets was the destruction of traditional familial roles, opting instead for celibacy or free love as a way to reach their ultimate goal of equality and prosperity. A Shaker hymn portrays the emphasis on the community over family: “ Of all the relations that I ever see/My old fleshly kindred are furthest from me/ . . . /My gospel relations are dearer to me/Than all the flesh kindred that I ever see.” The fellow members are described as “good and . . . pretty,” standing in sharp contrast with biological relatives, portrayed as “bad and . . . ugly. The Shakers and several other communes attempted to undo the traditional insti‐ tution of the family as a way to increase the sense of community: by renouncing the bonds that existed before becoming a member, each individual would feel more connected to the group as a whole. These ties to the outside world were seen as “competing loyalties which must be erased” in order for the community to be successful. The two main directions various founders took were complete celibacy and regulated free love‐‐regulated so no two would become more attached to one another than the group‐‐but both were undertaken with the same goal: dis‐ couraging intimate relationships with a small number of people. Although communes that em‐ ployed such “highly unusual beliefs . . . [were] neither particularly long‐lived nor short‐lived,” these were the ones that attracted the most attention; since their main goal was to challenge the dominance of free labor capitalism and not to last forever, the most successful communes were the ones that abolished the institution of the family. This abolition does not relate di‐ rectly to fulfilling the American promise, but it was a crucial step in said fulfillment: it was 46

History, A. Fishman mandatory to end any and all ties to the larger society in order to avoid the dominance of capi‐ talist ideals within their community. There is nothing inherently American about marriage or children, and utopian communities rejecting the institution did not do it to destroy the family; rather, they renounced it so that they could focus their attention exclusively on making their community a perfect one.

Most other tenets of utopian communities attempted to directly fulfill the American promise for their members by guaranteeing equality and economic gain to those who work for it; unlike the free labor ideal, these tenets emphasized cooperation over competition so that all could prosper. Equality had always been one of the most central pillars of American ideals, but with private property came “distinctions [of wealth, education, and power], . . . [and] without equality of condition, there [could] be no permanent virtue or stability.” Hence, the fact that most communes embraced socialism is not an indication of their opposition to American ideals but an attempt to live up to one of the most essential. Founders and members alike recognized that private property and equality could not exist at the same time, and, unlike America, chose equality. As a way of eliminating imbalances in regards to personal power, Brook Farm de‐ clared that “no directors or other officers shall be deemed to possess any rank superior to the other members of the Association, nor shall they receive any extra remuneration for their offi‐ cial services.” This not only further demonstrates the emphasis on cooperation but also an em‐ bodiment of the true spirit of democracy: the government can truly function by the people be‐ cause the people are not distinguished in any way from the political leaders. To ensure not only economic equality but economic success, Brook Farm provided “employment for all its members as shall be adapted to their capacities, habits, and tastes;” by eliminating the need to find a job, the community was able to “substitute a system of brotherly cooperation for one of selfish competition.” This style of employment was common across several communes in order to fulfill the promise of prosperity in return for honest work which capitalism failed to deliver.

The socialism present in many utopian communities guaranteed not only the economic equal‐ ity and prosperity that America did not but also the eradication of political inequalities, thereby upholding the very core of the American promise.

What was the public response to the outburst of utopian communities?

Members of mainstream American society tried to paint utopian communes as un‐ American largely because they felt threatened by socialism and were so married to capitalism that they lost sight of the intent behind it. When the estate of Brook Farm was sold after a fire occurred and the community began to dissolve, the New York Daily Times referred to its mem‐ bers as “excellent men, who had been gifted by nature with all sense but common sense . . . [and] were all a little cracked in the upper story.” The fact that this description was included in the article on the front page instead of in an editorial suggests that one of the reasons Brook Farm and other communes could not exist was because of the backlash that was both show‐ cased and fueled by mainstream press. The author of the article described the community itself as “at war with the whole principle of family responsibilities, support, and ties of relations,” showing how “disturbing [he felt the] threat [was] to the established order of things.” Various aspects of the community were alarming, most notably socialism, as he writes the members “were so weak as to suppose that any branch of French Socialism could flourish in New Eng‐ land,” and gender equality, as the article only references the male members of the community 47

History, A. Fishman despite the fact women had equal standing in Brook Farm and many other communes. With regards to familial structures, because of the perceived War on Family, monogamous utopian communities lasted longer in a state of growth and in absolute terms than those practicing celi‐ bacy or free love. These communities were much more acceptable to the American public as, even though they rejected capitalism, they encouraged marriage and children and celebrated biological kin and were therefore much less of a radical deviation from all social norms. The journalist and the scholar alike, though, missed the point of Owen’s New Harmony, of Noye’s Oneida, of Fourier’s phalanxes: they were not meant to be viewed in terms of threat levels, lon‐ gevity, or popular appeal but rather the American promise. They were founded to demonstrate the gap between what their country guaranteed and what it [delivered], to show that capitalism was not necessarily the best way‐‐certainly not the only way‐‐for a society to function. The goals of the communes were identical to the goals of America, but the population was too terri‐ fied by the threat of change to realize that it was only the means that differed.

Viewing utopian ideas as threats, as the public did, or measuring their success in terms of longevity, as the scholar did, instead of a social critique on the flaws of the free labor ideal and capitalism in general would be to miss the purpose of utopian communities. They demon‐ strated the disparity between the promises and the realities of America in the 1800s by attempt‐ ing to make the promise a reality, which was only possible through drastic renunciations of tra‐ ditional American institutions. Fueled by fundamentally American ideals, utopian communi‐ ties may be one of the most misunderstood of all institutions: they did not attack America, they actively pursued a more perfect one.

48

History, A. Mody

A Second Rise of the Taliban: An Assessment of United States Policy in Afghanistan Arjun Mody

“We’ll know success when we see it,” stated Richard Holbrooke, U.S. Special Envoy to Afghanistan and Pakistan at a press conference in late 2009. The statement, simple yet telling, embodies all that has plagued the American presence in Afghanistan. That the statement was made by one of the foremost experts on American policy in Afghanistan, after eight tumultuous years of occupation, is even more ominous and troubling. The vague and shifting nature of American goals in Afghanistan, from originally weakening al‐Qaeda to full‐blown nation‐ building to counter‐insurgency has ultimately destroyed the cohesiveness of the American mis‐ sion while alienating the public. Now, The U.S. is witnessing the somber results of this “second Vietnam”: a resurgent Taliban, a deteriorating government, and escalating violence. The Tali‐ ban’s recent resurgence in rural, tribal areas of Afghanistan occurred as a result of the invasion of Iraq in 2003, a misunderstanding of the complexity of nation‐building by the United States, the opium trade, and a corrupt central government; to prevent the Taliban from gaining control over Kabul and creating a safe haven for al‐Qaeda, the U.S. should pursue a strategy of counter‐ narcotics and foster a strategic partnership with Pakistan rather than simply raising troop lev‐ els.

The Taliban’s Emergence as a Political Force

The Taliban emerged as a direct response to the violent and oppressive mujahedeen, “freedom fighters” turned warlords who ruled the country after the Soviet withdrawal. Founded in 1994 by Mullah Mohammed Omar, a mysterious international figure wanted by the FBI, the Taliban represented a new religious movement in which their primary goal was to “cleanse soci‐ ety” rather than gain power. Their very name signifies their religious roots; Taliban is derived from the root word talib meaning student, as in student of Islam. In the summer of 1994, a pe‐ riod when Afghanistan found itself plagued by a crippled economy, by then heavily dependent on the poppy trade, and widespread lawlessness, the Taliban emerged in the southern province of Kandahar. When Omar heard the news of how two mujahedeen had raped teenage girls from a local village, he organized a band of 30 talibs armed with a few rifles, taking over a military base and killing the commander guilty of the crime. Out of these humble origins of religious devoutness grew an organization that would fundamentally shape the politics of the 21st cen‐ tury, precipitating a head‐on collision between the West and the Middle East.

Ahmed Rashid, celebrated Pakistani journalist, states in his novel Taliban that in just a few months, “Omar had emerged as a Robin Hood figure, helping the poor against rapacious 49

History, A. Mody commanders…he asked for no reward or credit from those he helped, only demanding that they follow him to set up a just Islamic system.” The rapidity with which the Taliban consolidated power astounded many. By establishing order in Kandahar, a previously lawless, violent, and divided region, the Taliban were able to gain the support of many Afghans. Moreover, Pakistan, whose anarchic western region would later serve as a safe haven for the Taliban and al‐Qaeda leadership during America’s War on Terror, provided funding, arms, and personnel to aid the Taliban’s early campaign. By September of 2006, the Taliban, controlling the strategic areas of Herat, Nanagarhar, and Kandahar, launched a major military offensive on the capital, and Ka‐ bul swiftly fell.

Afghans would soon realize that Omar’s “just Islamic system” would be the strictest in‐ terpretation of Sharia Islamic law the world had ever seen, as the Taliban quickly established one of the most coercive and severe governments of the modern era. Women were reduced to second‐class citizens, while all forms of entertainment, from music to TV to kite‐flying were banned. Scenes in which women were beaten for not being covered from head to toe became commonplace and accepted as the norm. As Ahmed Rashid recalls during a grisly scene he wit‐ nessed, football was reintroduced to the country only to provide a public space where public executions were witnessed by thousands of Afghans. It was in this climate of fear, tyranny, in‐ justice, and bigotry that organizations like al Qaeda flourished and set into motion events that would come to define the early 21st century.

Operation Enduring Freedom and “Pashtunistan”

“Nation‐building is not our key strategic goal,” ex‐Under Secretary of Defense Douglas Feith of the Bush Administration told Donald Rumsfeld before the commencement of Opera‐ tion Enduring Freedom. Prior to the American invasion, there were two camps divided on the question of overall American strategy in Afghanistan. The State Department, headed by Colin Powell and James Dobbins, favored a more extensive peacekeeping effort, while the Depart‐ ment of Defense, headed by Rumsfeld and supported by Vice President Cheney, favored a more limited involvement by the U.S. military. Ultimately, the “light footprint” policy adopted in the invasion was successful initially in rooting out the Taliban, but the American leadership set themselves up for a rude awakening; the U.S. refused to learn from Afghanistan’s long history of defying control by an external actor. Seth Jones, political scientist of the RAND institute, writes in his aptly named book In the Graveyard of Empires, “U.S. policymakers had to relearn that building a government in a fractured, xenophobic country is almost infinitely more chal‐ lenging than overthrowing one.”

From the standpoint of defeating the Taliban, the United States mission was an effective one, yet this initial success proved to be merely a façade. James Dobbins, State Department offi‐ cial of the Clinton Administration and special envoy to Afghanistan for the Bush Administra‐ tion, argues in his book After the Taliban that the decision to invade Iraq doomed the American mission in Afghanistan for multiple reasons. The pretense of swift victory in Afghanistan em‐ boldened the American leadership to invade Iraq, when in reality the same problems that plagued Afghanistan prior to Operation Enduring Freedom would soon resurface. Moreover, the United States did not enjoy the same level of internal as well as international cooperation and cohesion in Iraq as they did in Afghanistan. By 2002, before Karzai’s presidency had even begun, President Bush’s objectives had already shifted from Afghanistan to Iraq. Dobbins la‐ 50

History, A. Mody ments, “While al Qaeda and the Taliban licked their wounds across the border in Pakistan, no serious effort was made to extend Kabul’s authority to the provinces that had been the tradi‐ tional Taliban strongholds.” By the time aid arrived and peacekeeping missions began within places such as Kandahar, the Taliban were already beginning to regain influence. The fact that the United States and Afghan national army controlled Kabul meant close to nothing, when the vast mountainous and rural regions of Afghanistan, where al Qaeda flourished pre‐September 11, continued to be ruled by corrupt warlords.

Military historian Stephen Tanner coins the term “Pashtunistan” to describe the Afghanistan‐ Pakistan border in his book Afghanistan: A Military History from Alexander the Great to the War Against the Taliban. He argues that this mountainous region, away from the influence of their Kabul or Islamabad, is the reason that eradicating the Taliban and al Qaeda has, to date, proven nearly impossible for the technologically superior United States and NATO coalition.

While 15 million Pashtuns, the ethnic majority that makes up the Taliban, live in Afghanistan, over 28 million live in Pakistan. Consequently, the Taliban has emphasized Pashtun national‐ ism in order to draw support from Pakistan, especially the resources of ISI, their intelligence agency. It was with this renewed strength that the Taliban reemerged in 2006 as a force to be reckoned with. The situation steadily deteriorated, with violence reaching new highs in 2007 and 2008, until General Stanley McChrystal declared that the Taliban had “gained the upper hand” in the middle of August of 2009.

The Drug Trade

Ultimately, the new Taliban are political gangsters—warlords and drug lords who use a climate of violence and fear to maintain their commanding sphere of influence in tribal areas of Afghanistan. Gretchen Peters, long‐time reporter on Afghanistan, writes in her book Seeds of Terror, “Eight years after 9/11, the single greatest failure in the war on terror is not that Osama bin Laden continues to elude capture, or that the Taliban has staged a comeback…, it’s the spectacular incapacity of western law enforcement to disrupt the flow of money that is keeping their networks afloat.” Today, Afghanistan supplies ninety percent of the world’s opium, and opium exports make up fifty percent of the country’s GNP. These astounding numbers under‐ score the fact that while the Taliban and local drug lords make a hefty profit from poppy culti‐ vation, thousands of Afghan farmers depend on the crop for their livelihood. While the new Taliban still recognize Mullah Omar as their leader and share many ethnic similarities as the political organization of the 1990s, much has changed. Less interested in spreading their inter‐ pretation of Sharia law, the new Taliban, Peters explains, is instead a “larger umbrella move‐ ment…and includes fighters loyal to regional warlords and troublemakers who engage in every‐ thing from local terrorism and smuggling to…defacing ancient Buddha statues in northwest Pakistan.” According to Fareed Zakaria, U.S. commanders in the area are feeling this change as well, now fewer than thirty percent of the Taliban use the “global jihadist ideology” as their pri‐ mary motivation; the majority are more interested in making money or opposing Karzai’s gov‐ ernment. While the Taliban in this sense does not pose a direct threat to United States security, the environment they create is conducive to organizations like al‐Qaeda that represent a greater risk.

The corruption in Kabul played an integral role in establishing the drug trade in Af‐ ghanistan. Ironically, this benefited the very soldiers who were fighting so desperately to evade 51

History, A. Mody control by any central authority. Many problems can be traced back to corrupt appointments made by Afghani President Hamid Karzai to government posts. Decisions made in 2002 and 2003, such as installing warlords completely independent from the influence of Kabul as the leaders of provinces, many of whom cultivated drugs, established the kind of economy that would allow the Taliban to thrive once they returned three years later. By 2003, the Taliban in Pakistan, receiving contraband from Afghanistan, gained $100 million in tax revenue while al Qaeda processed enough heroin every two months to sell for $50 million. By simply controlling trade routes between Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Taliban were making a highly lucrative cut on the drug trade by way of a tax. Ultimately, this heroin and opium were being sold to Euro‐ pean countries like Italy and Germany, countries that now oppose counter‐narcotics efforts by the U.S.‐NATO coalition. Abdul Rasoolzai, head of eastern Afghanistan’s counter‐narcotics de‐ partment, explained that for the Taliban “using drugs themselves might be…forbidden, but sell‐ ing it to the enemy was considered an act of war.”

Once the Taliban returned to Afghanistan, they were able to play a much more active role in the drug trade. The Taliban employed a kind of “good cop, bad cop” routine, threatening to kill farmers who did not cultivate poppy, yet providing protection and security to those who did. They launched massive irrigation projects in the desert, trying to create more arable farm‐ land. Using intimidation and the salaam system, a modern form of sharecropping, the Taliban were able to wield considerable influence over common Afghan farmers. Paying farmers in ad‐ vance for their crops, yet at prices lower than market prices, the Taliban provide farmers with money throughout the winter, yet the growers always find themselves in debt in the spring, perpetuating a vicious cycle of economic exploitation.

Government officials usually either turned a blind eye towards obvious drug trafficking, were ineffective at preventing it, or actively participated. And this corruption extended from local officials through the highest ranks of Karzai’s administration. A 2006 UN report impli‐ cated Ahmed Wali Karzai, President Karzai’s brother, in an elaborate scheme of kickbacks. As Ahmed Wali also enjoyed the ability to make political appointments, he charged exorbitant sums of money, sometimes up to “$40,000 a month” for police positions. Sadly, police officials in many cases use the same mechanism, selling their own districts to the Taliban, while using the excuse of being overrun by the Taliban when reporting to Kabul. Along the border, Peters claims that it’s difficult to distinguish between the “evil government officials” and Taliban at all; the former group takes the bribes while the latter moves the drugs.

The United States, despite having actionable intelligence about the extent of the drug trade and its profit for the Taliban, has done little in the way of counter‐narcotics. U.S. com‐ manders shied away from more initiatives, especially once the military needed to commit troops in Iraq. The number of Afghan civilians who depended on poppy for their income fur‐ ther complicated matters. Widespread spraying was discounted for this reason, as well as the upward pressure it would put on poppy prices, which would only further increase revenue for the Taliban. Additionally, no cohesive framework for counter‐narcotics existed between the coalition nations, and the varying levels of commitment further fragmented the effort. Efforts such as Britain’s crop substitution program all failed; with no way to effectively access rural ar‐ eas such as Helmand Province, aid money did little to stop the drug trade. In a telling anecdote that summarizes the unpreparedness of Afghan officials, Peters describes the Kandahar coun‐ 52

History, A. Mody ternarcotics police chief, whose “force comprised himself and a rusty motorcycle. ‘I have made a request for a police force,’” he said.

The Obama Era and Strategies for the Future While President Obama and General Stanley McChrystal both insist that a troop surge is neces‐ sary to quell the recent rise in violence, several other actions must be taken to effectively ham‐ string and curb the influence of the Taliban. McChrystal emphasizes more troops as crucial to controlling the situation on the ground as part of a counterinsurgency effort. However, McChrystal has his share of dissenters, skeptics who are wary of simply sending 30,000 more troops into Afghanistan without a significant change in strategy. One such dissenter is Vice President Biden, who advocates a strategy known as counterterrorism combined with more diplomatic efforts towards warlords and the Taliban. Most importantly, the United States needs to understand that gaining “control of all 35,000 Afghan villages” is a goal that “has eluded most Afghan governments for the last 200 years.” It cannot be the standard by which the U.S. meas‐ ures its success, notes Fareed Zakaria, editor of Newsweek International. Instead, the United States should focus on limiting the Taliban’s influence and training the Afghan army in prepa‐ ration for the American withdrawal while increasing aid to and interaction with Pakistan and countering the drug trade. Afghanistan is one of the poorest countries in the world, ranking in the bottom ten countries in the world in per capita GDP at 800 dollars per person. This coupled with a literacy rate less than thirty percent, deep ethnic tensions between the Pashtuns, Tajiks, and Hazaras, a severe lack of basic infrastructure, and the drug trade, demonstrates the pro‐ found structural changes needed for significant progress to occur. The United States needs to limit its own objectives to transferring power to the Afghans and curbing the worst abuses of power by the Taliban.

Counter‐narcotics must be a focal point of any future American strategy toward Afghani‐ stan. The drug trade fuels violence, cripples the economy, and funds both the Taliban and al‐ Qaeda. Peters suggests a blend of counterinsurgency with counternarcotics, while focusing on the criminals rather than the farmers. Allowing for greater coordination between the military and law enforcement agencies, such as the Drug Enforcement Administration, would enhance the effectiveness of counter‐narcotics missions. Additionally, adding the most influential king‐ pins to lists such as the Security Council’s list of Taliban members would empower interna‐ tional organizations to “seize their assets…and facilitate their extradition. Training the Afghan army and police forces to lead effective counter‐narcotics operations is likely one of the most important measures the U.S. can take to ensure stability post‐withdrawal. Finally, to assist farmers, the United States should lead an effort to subsidize some legal alternative to poppy, or a “farm support network.”

A second crucial component of U.S. policy must be more direct and consistent engage‐ ment with Pakistan, which now serves as the safe haven for al‐Qaeda. Intelligence suggests that bin Laden is most likely in Pakistan, as well as the majority of the surviving al‐Qaeda leadership as well as a significant number of Taliban. The United States witnessed how intertwined the is‐ sues of Afghanistan and Pakistan are when their initial “success” did not defeat the Taliban but merely drove them into Pakistan. Yet despite this, “we spend $30 in Afghanistan for every dollar in Pakistan,” writes Zakaria. Unfortunately, interacting with Pakistan is difficult for several rea‐ sons. Pakistan is one of the most “anti‐American” countries in the world, especially due to the 53

History, A. Mody closeness between New Delhi and Washington. Moreover, Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal serves as a constant reminder of the high stakes involved, as well as the potential cost of any misstep. Paki‐ stan’s foreign policy is motivated by questions of security more than anything else. Afghanistan has recently become a sort of battleground, which Pakistan and India use to pursue their secu‐ rity interests. As such, in order to foster a more strategic partnership with Pakistan, the U.S. must focus on Indo‐Pak relations. By continuing the peace dialogue between these two coun‐ tries, the United States can begin to build trust and confidence with the Pakistani people. Fi‐ nally, the United States needs to make clear that Pakistan, and especially ISI, their intelligence agency, cannot continue supporting militant groups in their border regions while maintaining a U.S. alliance. By increasing the $1 billion in military aid we send Pakistan annually but condi‐ tioning it on governance in their border regions and apprehending rather militant groups, the U.S. would begin to pressure Islamabad into taking concrete action.

Yet ultimately the guiding principle for continued U.S. involvement in Afghanistan should be to “think small.” Rather than continuing massive aid programs or working solely with Kabul, the United States should focus on bottom‐up approaches. Peters notes, “The situation along the border is now so complex and messy that it is hard to imagine one blanket peace process that would bring concord to the entire Afghan theater.” Moreover, Karzai has proven, with the wide‐ spread corruption in the recent election and his administration’s ties to the drug trade, that he is a weak ally who does not want to seriously confront the issues that plague Afghanistan. The U.S. should focus instead on weakening the Taliban’s stronghold in rural provinces like Kanda‐ har and providing an alternative way of life for the Afghans who live there. Whatever solutions are employed, the United States must not lose sight of its ultimate objective, or they run the risk of repeating their mistakes, as well as the mistakes of numerous empires before them.

54

Credits COVER PHOTOGRAPH:

Hester, Darren. Cracked Glass. Rockbox. Web. 7 Mar. 2010. <www.rockbox.org/wiki/WpsIpod5g>.

“CUM LAUDE” AND DEPARTMENT TITLE LETTER PHOTOGRAPHS:

Harker Journalism Staff In Department Order: Karen Wang, Michelle Lo, Iris Xia, Jun Hee Lee

Left to Right for Last Two Pages: Michelle Lo, Jun Hee Lee, Naomi So, Lorraine Kim, Naomi So, Mahum Jamal, Dawn Queen, Kevin Lin

INSIDE BACK COVER ARTWORK:

Clockwise from Upper Left Julian Stahl, AP Studio Art student 2009, mixed media, Concentration Portfolio Stephanie Guo, AP Studio Art student 2009, digital photograph, Breadth Portfolio Elizabeth Liu, AP Studio Art Student 2009, Concentration Portfolio, oil on canvas (2) Stephanie Guo, AP Studio Art student 2009, digital photograph, Breadth Portfolio

ENGLISH DEPARTMENT:

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by Jeff Mandell

Engel, Barbara Alpern. “Peasant Morality and Pre‐Marital Relations in Late 19th Century Russia.”

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Credits Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina. Trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. 2000. New York: Penguin, 2000. Print.

Works Cited in “A Titan of a Subtitle”

by Olivia Zhu

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Works Cited in “Science, Religion, and Morality in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina”

by Anand Natarajan

Knowles, A. V. “Russian Views of Anna Karenina, 1875‐1878.” Slavic and East European Journal 22.3 (1978): 301‐12. JSTOR. Web. 10 Jan. 2009.

Lavrin, Janko. “Tolstoy and Gandhi.” Russian Review 19.2 (1960): 132‐9. JSTOR. Web. 10 Jan. 2009. ‐ ‐ ‐. “Tolstoy and Nietzsche.” Slavonic Review 4.10 (1925): 67‐82. JSTOR. Web. 10 Jan. 2009.

Monroe, Randall. Nihilism. XKCD. Web. 12 Mar. 2009. <http://xkcd.com/167/>.

Rogers, James Allen. “Darwinism, Scientism, and Nihilism.” Russian Review 19.1 (1960): 10‐23. JSTOR. Web. 10 Jan. 2009.

Tolstoi, L. N. What Is Art? Trans. Aylmer Maude. New York: Cromwell, 1899. Google Book Search.

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SCIENCE DEPARTMENT:

Works Cited and Consulted in “The Universe in Physics and Metaphysics: Equally Mysterious” by Olivia Zhu

Burns, Stuart A. “The Metaphysical Challenge of Solipsism.” Evolutionary Pragmatism: A Discourse on a Modern Philosophy for the 21st Century. Sympatico Personal Webspace, 27 Mar. 2008.

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Brandon Araki Victor Chen Jeanette Chin James Feng Alex Han Kelsey Hilbrich Sonya Huang Vishesh Jain Carissa Jansen

Rachel Luo Anjali Menon Arjun Mody Adam Perelman Rashmi Sharma Margaret Woods Kevin Zhang Andrew Zhou

Mr. Samuel Keller Ms. Donna Gilbert Dr. Eric Nelson Mr. John Hawley Mr. John Heyes.

DESIGN TEAM

Brandon Araki Victor Chen Jeanette Chin James Feng Sonya Huang Vishesh Jain Anjali Menon Rashmi Sharma Kevin Zhang Andrew Zhou