tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33433895124425234532024-03-13T00:54:32.959+01:00WindhoverEasterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-59378236395985407612013-05-03T12:00:00.000+02:002013-05-05T21:44:05.607+02:00Diversity is divine: but division is diabolic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is a summary of articles and interviews I am reading on the new Pope. There is a sweet movement afoot in the intimate circles around the pope. It is a movement that was initiated in the early 60s when the Catholic Charismatic Renewal had its beginnings.
The impetus that the movement has received is in the appointment of the new pope, Pope Francis. Choosing to honor St Francis of Assisi by taking on his name, the new pope brings to the Vatican the spirituality of St Francis whose central passion was to be like Jesus. Pope Francis is openly supportive of the work of the Holy Spirit and the Charismatic renewal.
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<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/editorial/item/10301-diversity-is-divine-but-division-is-diabolic.html" target="_blank">Read more at www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-31576494961050167222013-04-02T12:00:00.000+02:002013-07-14T16:57:40.511+02:00The necessary violence of Easter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is something deeply violent about Easter. A necessary and creative violence. How else would you kill death? You can kill death twice: first, you kill death with death, and the second time around, you kill death for good with resurrection, which is like a mighty shot from an enormous cannon releasing unstoppable power and energy, blasting hellish forces and gravestones and any obstacles into dust and nothingness. And we must be clear what death is; it is complete separation from the eternal source of life. Death is life lived in the entrails of darkness. And Easter is the glorious burst-through of Christ's eternal life and eternal love. No wonder it was so difficult for the human mind to comprehend what Jesus was doing in the grave. His disciples could not understand how the powerful leader who raised the dead to life would allow his enemies to kill him. It was a sign of powerlessness. It was, in other words, a sign of death, and death meant only one thing, utter defeat. No wonder Peter abandoned him. <br /><br />Easter focuses on the resurrection of Christ. But it is profitable to consider what was happening in the hours and days and nights that He lay 'dead' in the sepulchre. I love the way a teacher said that Jesus was not lying passive in the grave. He descended to hell. He went as the warrior of warriors and plundered hell, and wrested back what Adam had given away to satan in the garden of Eden. It was probably not a pretty sight. Imagine Sheol's pitch darkness lit up by the Light wielded by the heavenly warrior; screams as we have never heard even in the most terrifying horror movies would have resounded in those depths and echoed back from its walls. The shrieks of an invaded kingdom. Imagine the kingdom of Sheol trembling, like a thousand earthquakes at the same time, as it realised that here finally was the one who would take back what no mortal man was capable of doing. Now satan could no longer claim that all the kingdoms of the world and their glory belonged to him. For the greatest warrior was taking back his property. This is where the New Covenant begins with the cross manifesting its greatest gifts. Hereafter, are we conquerors because of His finished work. <br /><br />There is a continuing counter violence in reaction to the violence of the resurrection. An insidious warfare on our minds to steal back what the divine warrior has given us: the peace, love, grace, healing and forgiveness and deliverance gifts of resurrected life. The beauty of Easter is that in addition to the gifts mentioned above, He also gifted us his fiery resurrection power. Easter is much more than white lilies and pink eastereggs and cuddly bunnies. It is such an immeasurably hard-won gift that we ought to do no less than guard it against theft with the assiduous devotion of the soldier. And love as He loved us with His death-defying love.<br /><br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/editorial/item/9239-the-necessary-violence-of-easter.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-82194185939843215062013-03-23T20:59:00.000+01:002013-07-14T16:46:22.118+02:00Chinua Achebe: An African arrow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZasnzgyYxxnCbaSTV3Q2nBP61omP8KkuIts4pbzMdQ2fB8QrRvUm8KMDLb5hfVv464gk07aXVrJ1pCoDGhuEJ1kNKbgP8uhyenQKR2asKoxMOTcN3GamdonWce1SaynUFDw_RcTk3bRUo/s1600/achebe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZasnzgyYxxnCbaSTV3Q2nBP61omP8KkuIts4pbzMdQ2fB8QrRvUm8KMDLb5hfVv464gk07aXVrJ1pCoDGhuEJ1kNKbgP8uhyenQKR2asKoxMOTcN3GamdonWce1SaynUFDw_RcTk3bRUo/s200/achebe.jpg" width="173" /></a> A great carrier of living history is dead. The breaking news on the morning of the 21 March was the death of Chinua Achebe in a Boston hospital, Massachusetts. If the name Chinua Achebe does not ring any bells for you, try looking him up in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinua_Achebe" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>.<br /><br />Achebe was a pioneer amongst African writers in English. He was a Nigerian novelist, poet, professor and critic. Often hailed as the “Father of modern African fiction” his first novel <i>Things fall apart</i> is the most widely read book on African literature in universities around the world. It sold more than 12 million copies and has been translated into 50 languages since it was published in 1958. He followed up his successful debut with other novels such as <i>Arrow of God</i>, <i>No longer at ease</i>, <i>A man of the people</i> and <i>Anthills of the Savannah</i>. But literary success came with a great hardship. In 1957, Achebe sent his only copy of his handwritten novel, <i>Things Fall Apart</i> to a typewriting company in London. He enclosed a fee of 22 pounds for typing it. Many months went by with no response from them. Only after his boss visited the company and upbraided them did they type it and send it back to him. Achebe then sent the novel to an agent in London but was rejected by several publishers with the excuse that “fiction from African writers had no market potential.” <br /><br />Finally it was published by Heinemann and cautious reviews said it was a book that “genuinely succeeds in presenting tribal life from within.” More reviews came in saying it was an excellent book. Thus was African literature in English born in the western world. Achebe’s book filled in the missing Afro-centric perspective on African culture that Euro-centric writers like Joseph Conrad had totally misrepresented. He became the native voice that could not be ignored because it was the voice of the insider and therefore the voice of authenticity. Like every colonised society, a great deal of anthropological writing existed on the Nigerian tribes by western anthropologists. Achebe’s novels offered the other Africa that had not been represented in these writings. He focused on the oral traditions of his native Igbo society as he created a village world with its own metaphors and its own world view. Achebe, like Raja Rao, was translating the reader’s thought patterns to that of Igbo thought patterns by insistently structuring his books after an African ethos. He used the Igbo oral tradition, incorporating folk tales, proverbs and sayings into the narrative. Importantly, Achebe used the oral tradition as a commentary on modern life and as a prophetic discourse on the growing corruption and nepotism of African political life. It is a discourse applicable to all tribal societies in transition. He showed that traditional culture could still be relevant in contemporary life as he used the lessons of orature as it became termed from then on, to teach and convey lessons for life. In Achebe's work we see the continuing relevance of the oral tradition as art and also as social reform.<br /><br />Achebe explored the confrontation of the old with the new in his own society. Born in 1930, he grew up in a colonized Nigeria where society emphasized western education and devalued tribal ways of thinking. He attended the St Philip's Central School where his teacher noted his intelligence. As a child Achebe loved to listen to the stories of his people. His interest in his cultural roots and folk-ways has carved a permanent place for them in African literature. Along with Ngugi wa Thiongo, the Kenyan novelist, Achebe worked to decolonise the literary culture of Africa, putting back value in the culture that had been suppressed by the colonial powers. The beautiful consequences of their efforts can be seen in the many courses on African writing in universities worldwide today. What Ngugi was theorizing about in his essay, <i>Decolonising the Mind</i>, Achebe put into practice in his novels and storytellings on Igbo culture. He explored the myths of colonisation and exposed the thefts of land and mind by the coloniser.<br /><br />Chinua Achebe and the African writers have been intrinsically relevant to writing in the Northeast. They placed value in the tribal story. They proved that the stories of the indigenous people were beautiful, unique and yielded meaning. Achebe infused courage in tribal writers by writing unashamedly about his culture and his village world and exposing colonial lies. He Africanised the English language peppering it with Igbo words and borrowing the structure of Igbo in the dialogues of his colourful characters. For the first time, both western and non-western readers heard the voice of the colonised and got to understand the cultural meanings of the practices that were dismissively labelled barbaric and savage by the coloniser. Thanks to Achebe the inclusion of books by native writers in the school syllabus was begun as the trend of mental decolonising reached even the Northeast of India. Research on Northeast writers is beginning to pick up in Indian universities. <br /><br />The Igbo proverbs that he uses are easily applicable in a conflict torn Northeastern context: “When two brothers fight, a stranger reaps the harvest” (<i>Arrow of God 1964:131</i>), or, “If one finger brought oil, it soiled the others” (<i>Things fall Apart 1958:114</i>). At the same time they are for all cultures, tribal or not. He brought the Igbo proverbs to life in their English selves: “Wisdom is like a goatskin bag; every man carries his own.” Achebe the writer, opened that goatskin bag of wisdom which every Igbo carries. And by doing so, he gave dignity to the stories of all tribal peoples which were repressed by centuries of colonisation.<br /><br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/oped/item/9054-chinua-achebe-an-african-arrow-from-an-african-god.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-63714346590763018712013-02-10T19:28:00.001+01:002013-07-14T16:39:15.871+02:00Apuo Zhavise: The inheritance of living history<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have been so fortunate to spend time with Apuo Zhavise who turns 94 this year. His clear mind and perfect memory power never fail to amaze me at every meeting. Apuo is Zhavise Vihienuo, elder brother of the late Rev Deo Vihienuo and father to Thejao Vihienuo, former Registrar of Nagaland University.<br /><br />Apuo has recently brought out a book entitled <i>A runa dze</i>, The story of my village. It is a valuable record of village settling and the rich lore of the village which he had received from several oral narrators. Although he has been a resident of Kohima for more than seventy years, Apuo's heart is in the village of Chiechama and he never misses any opportunity to visit for a few days. Apuo's house in the village sits at a central point, a warm old wooden structure where he and his wife used to welcome visitors with good food and open hearts. His wife has since then gone ahead of him.<br /><br />The house is still there, as welcoming as ever, a legacy they have passed on to the next generation. In my mind's eye I can still see the porch with the white paint peeling off the banisters, the swampy ground to the right where a blue weed was blooming in abundant clusters while a puppy chased a neighbour's young pig into a fenced garden. We were there to film the legendary stone of Chiecha village from which the village had gotten its name.<br /><br />Apuo was presently joined by three more of his clansmen, regally dressed in their black lohe and red gaonbura blanket carrying walking sticks that gladdened my heart because they looked like spears on camera. Apuo led us to the house of his ancestor Rio, with the stump of the stone sticking out of an abandoned kitchen. There he began his story with his friends looking on and making additions where they felt necessary. This was the gist of the story: <i><br /><br />Once upon a time, our ancestor and his wife dwelt here in this very spot. This was their bedroom and this was their kitchen. The man and his wife had a rooster, and a hen with her brood of young chickens. The stump of the stone that you see was a magic stone that grew every day and our ancestor's wife beat it down with a big stone. However, one night the man had a dream and the stone spoke to him saying, 'Tonight before your rooster can crow I am going to grow until I touch the sky.' The man woke up with a start.</i><br /><br /><i>He narrated his dream to his wife and when evening came, they sat around the stone and waited. To their surprise the stone began to grow and grow, and it did not stop until it was ab out to touch the sky. Suddenly a weak crowing was heard. It was not the rooster but it was one of the young chickens. At the crowing, the stone ab ruptly stopped growing and began to crack until finally it fell to the ground in many fragments. The top of the stone landed in Lazami village and the middle portion fell into the village of Gariphe. The stump of the stone can still be found in the ruins of our ancestor's house, and this is how our village came to be named. It has ever since been called, Chiechama, the village of the long stone.</i><br /><br />Apuo's storytelling went into a documentary called Stone Stories. It was late afternoon when we finished shooting and drove back home. But Apuo's story stayed with me a long time and cast a hue over the village which I had never known before. The ruins of the abandoned kitchen harkened back to times when the spiritual was at the heart of the village. I hoped to return to listen to more stories and cultural nuggets that we are always too busy to relish and gather from. Most of all there was the realisation that Apuo and his clansmen were repositories of living history. They were carrying the history of the village, and several other histories in addition. Elsewhere in other developed nations, men like Apuo would have been considered as national treasures and their knowledge and lore of the land properly documented. I hope it won't be too late for us to start such a project too. There are still a considerable number of storytellers with us from whom we can glean native wisdom as well as let them know how valuable their existence is to the community.<br /><br />From Apuo I learned the tale of another of his ancestors named Vihienuo, the great warrior whose fame had made his village impenetrable to enemy attacks for many years. It was not a tale of blood and gore, it was a tale of a noble hearted ancestor who took on the task of defending his village against enemy warriors so that his villagers could cultivate their fields free from harassment.<br /><br />This Christmas Apuo and his 'co-brother in law' Rükhier Rio hosted the village. Apuo Rükhier is Apuo Zhavise’s cousin. They were born in the same year and married two girls from their village who were sisters. This made them co-brothers-in-law, a term used only in Indian English but works to explain kinship and the exact relationship of two people. Together they feasted the village to celebrate the fact that all members of their village had become Christians in their lifetime.<br /><br />While he was working under Deputy Commissioner Pawsey, Apuo took an additional story to different parts of Nagaland where he was sent to inspect the possibility of opening schools as part of the Post War Development Scheme. He inspected very many villages in Angami, Chokri, Zeliang, Sumi, Kuki and Lotha areas. His travels took him by foot to far flung areas where there were few or no churches. With the perseverance and gentle strength that is characteristic of him, he taught the gospel of peace in all these areas. His reward was seeing these people come to Christ in the course of ten years, abandoning age old conflicts to embrace a more peaceful way of life. Spears and daos were laid down by feuding groups who then joined hands to build up the church. Not all of these stories have gone into his book, because Apuo is modest by nature and many of his adventures and achievements are not recorded. It needs the patience of a long evening to draw out these stories from him. It is at such times they are narrated and received in mutual trust.<br /><br />At one point of his adult life, Apuo served in the Assam Regiment and trained as a motorcyclist, an event hard to imagine now when I see his shock of white hair and careful steps aided by his cane. But he still carries himself like a former soldier, shoulders straightened to lend dignity to his posture. I can't ever recollect seeing Apuo looking shabby. In the early years I always found him seated in his study, neatly dressed in immaculately ironed shirt and trousers matched by shining shoes, reflecting the best qualities of the soldier.<br /><br />Apuo belongs to that species of the old world Naga, men with gracious good manners who did their part in life and felt it below their dignity to stoop to corrupt ways. After meeting him again, I felt that Nagaland should consider itself a blessed place when we still have men of his ilk with us. And learn from him. Learn how to love our fellow men and serve them unselfishly, simply so we can have a better world to live in. Learn to appreciate the inheritance of living history that he carries with him as carefully guarded treasure to share with the rest of us. In this day when we are so bereft of heroes, he is one of my heroes and I stop to let myself be inspired by his life and the principles he lives by. I perceive that like his ancestor, the warrior Vihienuo, Apuo has chosen to forget the times he has been treated ill. In our long exchanges, I cannot remember him ever naming a litany of foes.<br /><br />Apuo's hearing is perfect and his sight the envy of much younger men. The health he is enjoying in the autumn of his life is evidence of a spirit that has not harboured grievances and injustices. Long may he live reminding us of the blessing of a gracious life.<br /><br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/oped/item/7363-apuo-zhavise-the-inheritance-of-living-history.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-26178057642030902432013-02-07T13:14:00.004+01:002013-02-19T20:40:09.850+01:00Shortlisted for The Hindu Literary Prize<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"<i>The second nominee, Easterine Kire for </i>Bitter Wormwood<i>, published by Zubaan Books, has written about “a neglected part of Indian history.” “As the introduction of the book says, it is about ‘ordinary people whose lives were completely overturned by the Naga struggle’”</i>"
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<a href="http://www.thehindu.com/arts/books/five-books-shortlisted-for-the-hindu-literary-prize/article4386934.ece" target="_blank">Five books shortlisted for The Hindu Literary Prize - thehindu.com</a>
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<b><a href="http://www.thehindu.com/books/for-easterine-kire-bitter-wormwood-is-an-exercise-in-catharsis/article4401019.ece" target="_blank">Read the interview at thehindu.com</a></b>
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See also:
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<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/mirrornews/frontpage/item/7300-easterine%E2%80%99s-%E2%80%98bitter-wormwood%E2%80%99-shortlisted-for-the-hindu-lit-prize.html" target="_blank">Easterine’s ‘Bitter Wormwood’ shortlisted for The Hindu Lit Prize - easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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<a href="http://www.morungexpress.com/frontpage/91434.html" target="_blank">Five books shortlisted for The Hindu Literary Prize - morungexpress.com</a>
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Update 17/2:
<a href="http://www.thehindu.com/books/the-hindu-literary-prize-goes-to-jerry-pinto/article4425328.ece" target="_blank">The Hindu Literary Prize goes to Jerry Pinto</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-9160957385490596262013-01-18T15:21:00.000+01:002013-07-14T16:30:10.368+02:00A killer called self-pity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I knew a woman widowed from her youth. She would always stop me and recount her woes. It was a constant litany of how her in-laws had mistreated her after her husband's death, how she struggled alone to feed her children and how workmates made her job a living hell. When her name came up in conversations, I visualised a visage drawn backward by pain and self pity both real and imagined.
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Did I ever see her smile or laugh at a joke? I really can't recall. I'm sure she did, I mean one can't go through life without ever laughing even against one's will, can one? Sooner or later one has to laugh at some Naga joke or other. As the years went on, people began to studiously avoid the company of this woman. They went out of their way to get out of her way. Can one put it like that? I mean that if they saw her coming one way, they went another way. And it wasn't funny. She grew lonelier and lonelier until she shrivelled up and died. Not in the natural. But she died spiritually. The last I heard of her she had become inundated in debts and lost the few friends she had made along the way.
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Self-pity is a killer. It is an ongoing quarrel with the world. It operates as an addiction. If you are addicted to self-pity, you will find occasion every day to feed your addiction. People will cut you off on the highway, shopkeepers and salesmen will be rude to you and restaurants will serve you last. It is not hard to predict. If you expect others to treat you badly they will pick up those vibes and behave accordingly. When all his misfortunes came upon him, Job declared, “What I feared has come to pass.” If you expect to receive favour, you will get what you hope for but if you expect abusive treatment, the same will come to you.
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There are some self-pitying beings who see an offence in every action, word or deed of others. Such an attitude is even worse than that of the first lot. No matter what you do or say they will be offended. So you can never get away without hurting their feelings.
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Self-pity is rooted in extreme self absorption. It is constantly putting self interest first that creates the perfect environment for self-pity. There is only one antidote for self pity. That is turning one's attention from oneself to something or someone else. Becoming God-absorbed instead of continuing to be self-absorbed puts God at the centre of our focus, and not ourselves. We become finer beings and are able to lift ourselves above the crass pettiness that sometimes is a part of life on earth. Hopefully becoming God-absorbed would help us realise that life is not really about us but about something much bigger than us.
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Originally published at
<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/editorial/item/6350-a-killer-called-self-pity.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>.
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-86971369436637883972012-12-29T16:53:00.000+01:002013-07-14T19:45:40.139+02:00Support for Nepali community in Nagaland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Are we failing our Nepali brothers and sisters?</h2>
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The bed was too big for her. Lying in her hospital bed at Oking, the four year old looked smaller and frightened. She shied away from my touch. There was fear in her eyes as we stood around her bed. So this was the little girl who had been raped by a labourer who hailed from Jharkhand. My heart lurched within me and I fought back tears. Her father sat by her side. Her mother came in with her other child on her back. The family looked listless and without hope.<br /><br />I have never felt so helpless before. I'm sure I was not the only one feeling like that in the room. The others were members of NorthEast Region Services Nepali Association (NERSNS) and Dimapur Gorkha Union (DGU) and Gorkha Public Panchayat (GPP), all men. The doctors said she would be discharged the next day but that she would need to be under observation for one month. She had not completely healed from her injuries and it was obvious that she had been deeply affected psychologically.<br /><br />What are words when they cannot heal and comfort? Our words sounded like empty sounds, and I stood silently at her bed. The little girl and her parents were from the Nepali community. Her father had been working as a labourer at Senapati where he had taken his whole family. The rapist Raju Sorin, came from Jharkhand, and had worked alongside her father. On the pretext of taking her to see the Christmas carolers, he raped her in an empty shed.<br /><br />This rape of an innocent child which happened in our neighbouring state, and was brought to our state for treatment, and was featured widely in our newspapers, has not received any condemnation from the Government of Nagaland and Manipur although the media had splashed it on the front page. In fact, the news was hard to miss on the 28th December when most readers were eagerly awaiting their morning newspaper after the Christmas holidays. The DGU had immediately sent information to NGOs and to the government. It followed on the heels of the death of the gang rape victim in Delhi. While the condolences for the Delhi rape victim were quickly forthcoming, there was silence on the Nepali child's case in the days following the report in the newspapers. A Facebook support group garnered one hundred and forty-one names in the space of one night. The supporters were both Naga and non Naga. This article is not written to accuse the government, rather to appeal to it to show that it cares for all its citizens, irrespective of religion or nationality.<br /><br />The lack of support for the Nepali community is a blot on Nagaland. This is a community that has lived with us for longer than any of us can remember. In the years before the war, their forefathers peacefully existed in Kohima and other towns, contributing to the Naga agrinomy with their milk and vegetable production. They were an accepted part of the Naga community. They fought our wars with us, ousting the Japanese invaders with their Gorkha fighting skills and protecting this land thus. For many of them, the word home evokes Nagaland and not Nepal. Why then has there been no outcry from the social bodies against the atrocities committed on the Nepali womenfolk in the Naga Hills?<br /><br />The post morten report on the brutally murdered Meena Rai is still not forthcoming. The Nepali community is waiting for justice. Why is this report taking so long? Mother of two Meena Rai was raped by a Bangladeshi national and horribly mutilated. The rape and murder happened two months ago on the 2nd of November 2012.Where is the post morten report? Why has it not been prepared till now? Her children and her community are still waiting for the report.<br /><br />All that the members of the Nepali community are asking from the government is justice and protection. And from the Naga public, meaning churches, tribal groups, and individuals who care, support and voices that can join their lone cry for justice. The leaders expressly told me that they are not asking for money but emotional support.<br /><br />The culprits in both cases have been apprehended and are in judicial custody. But for a people who have been greatly wronged, the long wait for a verdict is a violence against justice to the victims' families.<br /><br />The same rape laws that are put in effect in Delhi should apply in Nagaland and the Northeast. It should not matter that the victim is a Naga or not. To anyone who opposes violence against women the differentiation should be seen as a continuing violence against the female sex.<br /><br />If we fail to make our land safe for women and children of any caste or religion, how can we ever hope to make it safe for any citizen? The longer we dally in giving justice to the wronged, the more we encourage by our actions those crimes to continue. This is what happened in Delhi. Rapists were not punished harshly. As a result they continued to violate women without any fear of reprisal until it culminated in the indescribable murder of the medical student.<br /><br />This is an appeal that goes out to all Nagas especially to those who have the authority to make a change. Please care about the worth of the sojourner in your land. They are no longer just sojourners now. They are peaceful inhabitants who are one of us. Our Christianity is to be lived in these situations, by showing love and support for the suffering within your borders, not by remaining deaf and blind to evil around us, and certainly not by allowing love to grow cold by failing to respond to situations that challenge the Christ in you. If you are not a believer, you are still a human being and this is a challenge to your humanity. Come forth, join hands, fight evil. That is the sign that you are a human being. Your tears are important, come and shed them. Come and pray and cry and work so that no girl child will suffer this fate again and that no woman will ever have to go through what Meena Rai did.<br /><br />
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Originally published at www.easternmirrornagaland.com
<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/mirrornews/frontpage/item/5613-are-we-failing-our-nepali-brothers-and-sisters.html" target="_blank" title="Are we failing our Nepali brothers and sisters?">here</a>
and
<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/mirrornews/frontpage/item/5514-support-for-nepali-community-in-nagaland.html" target="_blank" title="Support for Nepali community in Nagaland">here</a>.
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<br />
<b>Background:</b>
A four-year-old Nepali girl was raped by a 24-year-old youth at Tongpanj Village, under Senapati district Manipur, on Christmas night.
<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/mirrornews/frontpage/item/5431-four-year-old-girl-raped-by-jcb-driver.html" target="_blank">Read more about it here</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-35785052258363380962012-12-28T10:42:00.000+01:002013-07-14T17:03:11.674+02:00The wood apple tree<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On a warm summer day in 2010, I was reading out a poem about blue lions and gypsy kings and freedom rainbows to a gathering of 300 people. Afterwards a young man walked up to me. He had unruly brown hair and a stylish black jacket. And he had tears in his eyes. "That poem...that's my poem!" he burst out, his tears uninhibitedly running down his cheeks. "I sat and listened to every word.<br />
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How did you know we have blue lions in our culture? You spoke of gypsy kings and rainbows and freedom. I am a gypsy and I am looking for my freedom rainbow!"<br />
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I don't remember his name and I may never recollect his face again. But I shall always remember his tears. Tears of gratefulness. It may be too much to call it tears of joy. We smiled at each other in a room full of strangers. And then we parted without saying anything more but with the mutual feeling of having connected, however brief. I have seen a similar sort of connection happening between two of my oral narrators some years ago. They were explaining a folk poem to me when they stopped at a verse and picked it apart completely, both of them rushing in with their own version of the meaning of the poem. They were in agreement on what the poem meant but the archaic language of folk poetry had so many layers to it that they were immersed in peeling off the layers and making sure that I could understand it all. But in that process, how they savoured uncovering the essential meanings of those words and tracing their etymological roots! Ah the magnetic magic of words.<br />
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Sometimes they would have different versions of the same poem and that would put me into a quandary as to which version to use officially. In the end I solved that dilemma by having version one and version two of the one poem. Though they gave me different interpretations, the conclusions of the poem always converged into one idea. That is the beauty of words, the beauty of poetry and of story. The coming together of thought and dream and wisdom. And every poem has a story to it. In the olden days, every folk tale was a poem and therefore the term poem-story could most aptly describe it. And all those stories perhaps came from a mother tree way back in time. Think of that. Imagine a wood apple tree in the middle of a winter forest in our hills. The yellow and red of ripened fruits covering the tree and weighing its branches down. A wood apple tree abundantly fruiting in season. The villagers say that the wood apple bears fruit only every second year. Picture that tree as a mother tree of stories, birthing our stories, bringing them to fruition so anyone who wants may come and pluck them from the tree. Picture all the wood apple trees in the forest as mother trees. And all the wood apples as stories. Billions of trillions of stories.<br />
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I believe in the unity of stories. A Sami singer once said she knew all my stories and for every story that I could tell, she had one that could match mine. And she did. She had a bear story for my bear story, and she had more stone stories than I could recall. The same thing happened with a Berber woman who throat-sang her stories to my stories. Story is the nicest of connectors. Story has been there from the beginning of time and every human being can find shared elements in Story. Like a strand running through all human lives. Like the wood apple tree from which every generation plucks and eats. Without that connection we wither, we slowly become lesser.<br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/editorial/item/5449-the-wood-apple-tree.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-39311426320431410732012-12-23T15:46:00.002+01:002013-07-14T17:02:49.197+02:00My Kohima<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mornings over Kohima town begin shrouded in mist. Most mornings I am awake at 5.00 am and awed by the sight of the mist veiling the houses and hills, giving my beloved town an aura of peace and serenity. I know that the mist as a literary metaphor is over used in our day. I am nigglingly aware of that, yet I need to use it again to convey an image that is familiar to all of us.<br />
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Every morning in the past week, as I stood facing southward, I have seen dark hill silhouettes before me with pinpoints of light on its slopes. In moments the scene would be overtaken by a murky morning light that made some of the house-lights disappear. In their place, smoke would begin to ascend from early morning fires. <br />
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While it was still dark, I saw a sliver of moon and wondered if that was the last glimpse for some time to come. I made a mental note to check when the lady in the sky would grace us with her return. Hopefully it would coincide with the Christmas week. The dark township reminded me of a phrase from a favorite poem, “Nocturne” written by my guru in the English language, Nini Lungalang. She spoke of her “dream-drenched” child deep in sleep as she drew the curtains of night. I too have seen my Kohima before early dawn, fast asleep and dream-drenched. And I sent a prayer out over its roofs and crowing roosters, the oft repeated prayer on the lips of all who love her as I do. Peace, God's peace over my hometown. Dreams of God's love over her sleeping denizens.<br />
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This is the town that Senti Toy calls home and sings of from faraway New York. This is the young-old township that will touch my heart like no other can. There are many others for whom Kohima is not this present sprawling semiurban, hardened cityscape which makes outsiders wonder what we see in her.<br />
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I miss you Kohima of my youth and childhood.<br />
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One Sunday afternoon in 1973 we borrowed a friend's father's car and pooled in our meager resources to buy five litres of petrol. I gave up my worldly savings which amounted to two rupees and fifty paise, and the neighbour boys and my older siblings chipped in each with five rupees until we reached the grand sum of twenty five rupees. That was enough to buy five litres of petrol.<br />
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We drove some distance out of town and parked near a dried river bed and ate some katta biscuits and shared a bottle of banana juice which was slightly fermented. Our outing didn't last long enough because one of the boys suddenly got stung by a bee and his left eye swelled to alarming proportions. So we hurried back into the car and headed toward Kohima. Near the BSF camp, the car sputtered to a standstill. The seventeen year old driver opened the hood and examined every car part he was familiar with. He then tried to start the car. After a few tries, he checked the fuel tank. His face crumpled. We were out of petrol. Five litres didn't really go very far. What would we do now? All of us discussed the matter desperately. The urgency of needing to get medical aid for our stung friend almost overrode the unenviable prospect of a long walk home. But a passing jeep owner recognised our borrowed car, stopped and gave us enough petrol to get home. Thus, all ended well and we were very grateful to our rescuer. It became a wonderful memory of what one could do to have fun if you were young teens and had time on your hands. Simply going for a drive could be so glorious because you were in the company of friends and allowed out for an outing.<br />
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The good old days in Kohima were truly good. I feel so privileged to have had the childhood and youth that I have had here. In later days, my friends and I have fondly recollected that Sunday escapade. We don't live in the past: we are grateful that we had a good place to grow up in. I wish I could recapture a bit of that old Kohima spirit and pass it on to today's generation so they could understand why people of my generation feel as we do about this little town. It is in many ways, our private Bethlehem. At Christmas, I pictured the baby Jesus born under a Kohima sky and waking up to church bells ringing as families scurried to church in their Sunday best. I grew up thinking the message of peace on earth, goodwill toward men was heralded to cowherds out in a khuti (cowshed) in a Naga field. And our Lord's Bethlehem was surely ablaze with red poinsettia at every turn in the road at his birth, else why call it Christmas flower?<br />
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Memories make a place what it is. Vivid memories of a childhood place where growing up was safe and in its own way, innocent. Now all that is left is to try and recapture it in words and stories because the black and white photographs of that era are not very good at representing how beautiful this town used to be. Still, I rejoice when I wake early enough while my hometown sleeps. I bless you uninhibitedly and love you for what you once were. Perhaps if I get enough people to bless you, my dear Kohima, you will be restored again, not just to what you were, but to a place truly worth loving.<br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/oped/item/5317-my-kohima.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-9679629221429502762012-12-03T17:00:00.000+01:002013-07-14T17:01:14.904+02:00Please write in English when you are writing in English<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The bane of the English language in our times has been youth and the language of the SMS. I was horrified to get an email from a student who wanted information on certain rituals for her PhD work. No it was not the ritual she was enquiring about that horrified me, but the way she wrote her email in SMS lingo made my entrails squirm in repulsion.<br />
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It was incredible that a student could conceive of writing a letter of an academic nature and use abbreviated English to pose her questions. I know for a fact that my old English teacher would refuse to answer her question. And she would never leave the case at that either. My old English teacher was a stickler for grammatical correctness. She would definitely have considered that email blasphemous and highly detrimental for young children with their impressionable minds. She would have taken it upon herself to protect future generations by personally executing the offender and burying her in an anonymous mass grave.<br />
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Luckily for the PhD student, I am more mercifully inclined. I answered her mail and made it a point to spell each word out in full and not use their abbreviated forms. I hoped I was setting an example which she would catch on (I mean if she was a PhD student, then surely she would have the required intelligence to do as I did, wouldn't she?). No such luck. She replied me after a month with a curt note similar to the following monstrosity:<br />
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<i><span style="color: blue;">Thnx xo muj, opin 2 hv a gd tym n opin u r fyn thea.</span></i></div>
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Yea sure, I'm also opin you will learn to write in English as your research progresses. I didn't press send after I typed that. I deleted it and wrote something more polite. But I wish I had had the guts to tell her to pull up her socks and blooming get her k's and h's together. It looked like she had migrated from the nearest suburb in a great hurry and left them behind her. Each time I open my email I breathe a sigh of relief and send up thanks if I don't see her name in my inbox.<br />
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But surely life cannot go on like this. I mean there must be some way of penalising students and members of the public who torture others with short message service emails and messages. I want to know if educational institutions are accepting answer scripts written in SMS. I wonder if nightmares have come true for many teachers as they find assignments submitted like this: <br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>AlXNDR d Grt Nvded Ndya N muj of Urop. Hi ws opin 2 hv a gd tym thea. <br />Bt hs kapten dyd n mani of hs hrses dyd on d way so hi cud nt achiv wat hi wntd. <br />In oder wrds hi cud nt hv a gud tym thea.</i></span></div>
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I truthfully want to resuscitate/resurrect my old English teacher and more of her ilk. I am thoroughly convinced that the English language has to be taught with an iron hand again. And it is not just grammatical abuse; the grammatical failings are the tell tale signs of something much darker in our society. It is a whole way of life and shows how slip shod we have become in our habits. We put in the minimum of effort and if we find short cuts, we use them unashamedly.<br />
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Language is a reflection of society. The highest periods in any society have also been the times when its language was at its most prolific. Greece in the 5th century. Elizabethan England and Marlow, Spencer and Shakespeare though the bard was a latecomer. Our oral narratives had some of the most beautiful metaphors but their time is past. We have ingested too much of the written word now to find any room for orature. And we sit by our computers and mobile phones and type out sms trash? Does that mean we are spiralling toward the end of our civilisation? <br />
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It is probably linguistically deductable that we are very close to Armageddon now. Our communication abilities show every indication of that. Two letters of the alphabet or even one have come to represent whole words. I infer from that that if we start seeing SMSes sent as punctuation marks, that is definitely our cue to evacuate planet earth or risk total decimation.<br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/editorial/item/4314-please-write-in-english-when-you-are-writing-in-english.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-45399696689484284122012-12-02T18:31:00.000+01:002013-07-14T16:09:42.984+02:00Easterine Kire’s new books hit the stands<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘Jazzpoetry & other poems’ and ‘Dinkypu’ released</span></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMdLsPRhD5KcGIWLUO1RzKKCFa3H7szQHQleSZuE2E0ZnDh7FkUiGKANCbkjrWy2i4pC_pj4QpPVuWYFZvq6iSjzZyih1xLn1WBs6AvZ1b19MWIjtrmwwhGRQfg2M6por0vxs3VekoY1a/s1600/Easterine+Kire%E2%80%99s+new+books+hit+the+stands.2012.12.02.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMdLsPRhD5KcGIWLUO1RzKKCFa3H7szQHQleSZuE2E0ZnDh7FkUiGKANCbkjrWy2i4pC_pj4QpPVuWYFZvq6iSjzZyih1xLn1WBs6AvZ1b19MWIjtrmwwhGRQfg2M6por0vxs3VekoY1a/s320/Easterine+Kire%E2%80%99s+new+books+hit+the+stands.2012.12.02.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MLA & Advisor, MTF, Dr Nicky Kire seen here with author <br /> and poet Easterine Kire during the release of the latter’s books. <br />(EM IMAGES)</td></tr>
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<b>KOHIMA, DEC 1:</b> Jazzpoetry and other poems, an eclectic collection of poetry and a delightful children book, Dinkypu, written by celebrated Naga author & poet, Easterine Kire were released by MLA & Advisor, Music Task Force, Dr Nicky Kire today at Kisama Bamboo Pavilion in the writer’s stall, housing several book titles she has produced over the years.<br /><br />“Jazzpoetry and other poems” is already out in German and is a collection of her poems in two sections, jazzpoetry and the rest of the poems written over the last ten years. The jazz poems are from a concert by the band Jazzpoesi consisting of saxophonist Ola Rokkones, drummer Jon Eirik Boska and poet Easterine Kire.<br /><br />Speaking to Eastern Mirror, the renowned author said it is a new form of art they are trying for the first time in the Norwegian and European countries and have, so far, performed in Vienna, Oslo and Sweden respectively. She also disclosed that few schools in Nagaland have also expressed interest and, in this regard, expressed hope that they would be able to perform in the State next year.<br /><br />The other book, Dinkypu, is her second children’s book in the Barkweaver series and has been illustrated by English artist Rebecca Sands and coloured by Kevilezou Z. Kevichusa. Ideal for children aged between 5 and 10 with beautiful illustrations, Dinkypu is set in Northern Norway. The interesting aspect of the book is that it includes Dinkypu’s Song with lyrics by Easterine Kire and Music by James Angel.<br /><br />Easterine’s poetry has been translated into German, Norwegian, Croatian and Uzbek, wherein some of the poems have also appeared in the European Constitution in verse. The first poem of her newly released book, ‘Trumpet in Tunnel’, is used in the preamble of the European Constitution.<br /><br />Jazzpoetry and other poems is priced at Rs 120, while Dinkypu costs Rs 250. Both the books are published by Barkweaver Publications in collaboration with Ura Academy.<br /></div>
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/mirrornews/frontpage/item/4366-easterine-kire%E2%80%99s-new-books-hit-the-stands.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>. See also the <a href="http://windhoverlive.blogspot.no/p/books.html#Y2012-3" target="_blank">books section</a>.</div>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-17588871567514255392012-11-20T12:00:00.000+01:002013-07-14T17:01:47.456+02:00November Remembered<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>On my way back from church this morning<br />I saw cherry trees blossoming by the wayside<br />their small pink faces opened out to the cold<br />I pointed them out to you<br />and when I turned back<br />you had cherry blossoms in your hair.</i><br />
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A week ago, I saw a photograph someone had taken of a cherry tree in bloom. Instantly I conjured up for myself the brilliant blue of our November skies over the pale brown of newly harvested fields. In some places the bright yellow sunflower would be blooming fiercely like a Van Gogh painting come alive. I've never thought of it before but November must be the prettiest month in our hills. There is the blue vanda that flowers in this month and even shabby roadside houses are transformed by the blue clusters tied to young trees in the outside yard. I love to describe the month of November to newcomers and strangers. They have no equivalent to our colours and flowers. European cities are cold and bare in November. The trees that were ochre, yellow and russet two months ago are leafless now. A dark rain has left the streets puddled and dangerous for pedestrians. The sun has long gone and become a distant memory that will be recalled only in the new year. Nature has closed shop and is going into hibernation.<br />
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Back in high school, I could not grasp the concept of animals going into hibernation during the winter months. To think of bears and smaller animals sleeping through the winter sounded like something that a Disney movie had made up. I'm a believer now. Hibernation, the state of inactivity in animals and metabolic depression makes absolute sense in the context of light deprived peripheral territories such as the north of Europe. Predictably life slows down and, strange though it might sound, the dark months bring people closer together as they find they have more time to sit around family dinners or simply spend time with friends. In Vienna several Christmas markets sprout up as early as mid-November. The markets sell food, hand-made goods and Christmas goods. Big areas are decorated with lights and fairy tale themes. In the darkness, the lit up markets and recreated landscapes from Hans and Gretel are every child's dream come true.<br />
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Beautiful but very far from our blue-skied month. I close my eyes and think of Novembers past; how the sky would get so blue that it hurt your eyes to look at it, and the cherry trees that made pink blobs upon the forest cover. Many years ago, we climbed Japfü in the month of November, starting our walk after midnight. It was a moonlit night and the leafless trees near the summit appeared ghostly in the light of the moon. At the rest house the dew fell from the roof to the ground in great drops. And in the early morning we reached journey's end and Kohima lay below us like a jewel, tin roofs glinting in the sunshine. It had been worth every bruise in our aching backs. <br />
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I don't expect to climb Japfü again in this life. I share my memory of November in my beloved land because nostalgia has swept over me at the sight of that photograph of a cherry tree in bloom. But Japfü beckons younger hearts and legs and backs. Don't disappoint her. Do the journey in November: your memories will tell you did the right thing.<br />
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Originally published at <a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/editorial/item/3914-november-remembered.html" target="_blank">www.easternmirrornagaland.com</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-83955580519491672632012-11-12T18:00:00.000+01:002013-02-20T18:02:11.840+01:00The narratives silenced by war: the Barkweaver project of peoplestories and folktales<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Of the many narratives silenced by war, the folk tales of the Nagas suffered a long
period of being silenced. This was because folk tales require certain settings in order
to be told. The Naga war with India, after military operations began in 1956,
destroyed the settings for oral narratives. One may not think that something as
simplistic as a folk tale would need to be approached with ritual and ceremony
in order that its narration might take place. But it does. The folk tale belongs to
eras of relative peace in the village community..."
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<a href="http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/The-North-East-Blog/3291/the-narratives-silenced-by-war-the-barkweaver-project-of-peoplestories-and-folktales/64058.html" target="_blank">Read more at "The North East Blog"</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-61133163839037926012012-10-08T14:33:00.000+02:002012-10-08T17:14:24.110+02:00We want Per!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He reminded me of a hobo, the same hungry look, piercing eyes and four-day-old stubble. Such a jagged quality to him. I thought to myself, oh my, Tom Waits' voice probably looks like that. Sort of smoked, dragged in sand and hung out to dry in an unkind northerly wind. True to form, he shouted out raggedly, "Shut yer mouth!" to the trumpeter introducing the band, <i>Rik og Berømt</i> (Rich and Famous), to the eager audience. It was a rough joke of the type that the band was used to.<br />
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I sat expectantly on the edge of my chair: this promised to be more than just another concert of jazz music. The band got underway and they played two songs before Per, the Tom Waits of the evening, got on stage. To my surprise he swung into a romantic number and caught me completely off-guard. Oh he tried to look the part, he had donned a suit like the rest of the band, but he still managed to look unkempt. Wonderful! If I closed my eyes, I could picture a young Frank Sinatra hitting those notes as Per serenaded his audience effortlessly. In the middle of love song, he sprang offstage, sidled up to a blonde and sang close to her ear while still holding the mike.<br />
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I however, was a trifle disappointed with his smooth voiced renditions. At the end of the second set, voices went up, "We want Per, We want Per!" and Per came back with gusto to sing a repertoire of songs that were more suited to him. In the middle of another song, he jumped offstage, and sat amongst his cronies, sipped from a glass of beer and then sprang back onstage and continued singing. It was so nonchalant it totally changed my way of looking at concerts. Why shouldn't a singer do just that? Why shouldn't he embrace the audience as Per had just done and make them feel he was also one of them? The rest of it went marvellously well.<br />
<br />
The concert came to a close an hour past midnight. The night was no longer young. The ships on the harbour outside were unmoving and autumn rain had left the city streets puddled and gravelly. And a salt wind blew into my face as I walked home. It was just what I needed to end the night with.</div>
Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-57491785434578484792012-07-16T15:52:00.000+02:002012-07-16T15:53:23.443+02:00Dreams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Listening to a very interesting talk on dreams by Mark Virkler. He says that we spend one third of our lives asleep and that stuff happens to us in dreams, communication is going on while we dream. I want to find out more about this.<br />
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The Angamis always say, 'Listen to your dreams,' when they need to take an important decision in their lives, be it marriage, a new business enterprise or travels. Why should that stop being relevant to us in this day and age?</div>
</div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-13746647539840493602012-07-15T15:10:00.000+02:002012-07-15T15:10:55.728+02:00Abandon ship!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I got to chapter 14 of a new novel I was writing when it began to feel all wrong. It wasn't writer's block, it was something much more serious. The story was weighing my spirit down so surely that I began to think, perhaps I should not continue. The more I thought of that, the more the heaviness lifted from me.<br />
<br />
I believe that books have souls, oh not in the same way as humans have, but there is definitely something of the soul of a book that passes into the souls of readers and I certainly wouldn't want to give my readers the weighted experience that I had before I abandoned it. I have begun two other new story/books after that and there is no going back to the old one.<br />
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If a book does not offer faith, hope and love or one of these three, it probably should not be written. That's just me speaking. </div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-53416930981987736602012-06-02T10:00:00.000+02:002012-06-02T10:00:31.185+02:00A Terrible Matriarchy revised<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Very good learning experience this. I am revising A Terrible Matriarchy for the second edition. Nagaland University has it on its syllabus for English Major students as a compulsory paper. Yay! I am editing grammatical mistakes and happy to get an opportunity to revise and edit again. I do subscribe to the school that believes in revision. It is a synonym for improvement and why should anyone have anything against that. That last sentence is not a question.:P. </div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-14666272916742466412012-05-21T15:33:00.000+02:002013-07-14T15:58:32.412+02:00Cultural theft vs. the gift of other eyes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some years ago a plainsman came to the village of Khonoma in Nagaland. He made the acquaintance of an old woman who was a healer and a herbalist. Badgering her for many days and offering her a sum of money that was very large for a simple village dweller he made her part with the secrets of her herbal knowledge.<br />
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In a separate incident, a female research scholar from a state in eastern India gleaned a lot of information on Naga women. This took place in the nineties. The focus of her study was the physical and mental problems that Naga women endure in the midst of a political conflict. The scholar sent out questionnaires to several educated people in Nagaland without revealing her intentions. She then used that information to promote herself as an expert on Naga women and was invited to international seminars where she represented the case of women in conflict situations with special reference to the women of Nagaland. By virtue of the knowledge she received from the questionnaires, she made herself an authority on Naga women.<br />
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In yet another case, a woman from Vancouver has been regularly traveling to Nagaland to bring back Naga artefacts to sell at a huge Vancouver fair each year. Museums in Europe pay high prices for Naga artefacts sold by non-Naga traders. Cultural theft of Naga lore, that is the treasure of native wisdom, and theft of Naga crafts is happening at many levels.<br />
<br />
Cultural theft is a big issue that has not been addressed yet in Nagaland because people are not aware that theft is taking place. Even today, Nagas readily part with their handicrafts and information on their culture because they do not realise that it is being traded for money in an economically global world or for intellectual rewards in the academic world. <br />
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It was saddening to see that a writer from another Indian state was used by the department of Art and Culture to write a volume of Naga folktales. The said volume was published by a Delhi-based publishing company funded by the government of Nagaland. I consider that as cultural theft aided by our own government. It is ludicrous to think that a writer from North India could do a better job of writing down the folk tales of the Nagas than the Nagas themselves.<br />
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It is equally preposterous to conclude that a non-Naga scholar could represent Naga women and advocate their pain better than Naga women scholars. These are thefts going on without checks. The whole question of cultural theft came to me when I was invited to an exhibition on the Nagas entitled, Jewels and Ashes. It is being held from January to June 2012 in Vienna's Museum for Volkekunde. It is a remarkable collection of Naga jewellery, and material objects of the Nagas by Austrian anthropologist Christoph von Furer Haimendorf. The anthropological collection was done in the late 1930s as well as after the Second World War. Haimendorf was well known to the native population and he paid handsomely for the items he was buying from the villagers. At the exhibition, Haimendorf's collection was supplemented by other museum collections in recent years.<br />
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Could the items in the exhibition be considered items of cultural theft? I asked myself. The answer was no. The original collectors had taken immense care to set up an archive for the Naga collection. In the intervening period, the cultural objects have been given legitimacy and new status and identity in Europe. The caretaking of these items by the museum made spiritual repossession possible by its former owners. Added to that, they have increased in value by being imbued with the gift of other eyes. Viewed by other eyes and deemed valuable and artistic by other eyes, they have received new life and become more than just cultural objects.<br />
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I observed that the museum's attitude to the objects was completely different from the previously mentioned cases of theft: for the museum, the exhibits are culture-carrying artefacts which should be displayed properly so they can point back to the culture they came from. It elicited deep appreciation in their Naga owners and reinforced the desire to protect the cultural treasures that they still have. It also eliminated the sense of shame that frequently plagues cultures that have been colonised in the past. There are several things that the Vienna exhibition achieves. The foremost is giving visibility to a remote mountain region as Nagaland was referred to at the 2008 basel exhibition. The interest taken in Naga culture by European audiences is becoming contagious. It greatly helps Nagas to try and understand their own cultures and look with new eyes upon their culture. It is an action that participates in a significant way in putting back value into that which was devalued by colonisation.<br />
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Cultural theft in the Naga case, has all been about people taking our knowledge and the opportunities that go with it. Beginning with the Naga exhibition at Museum der Kultur in basel, that is being turned around to some degree. The basel and Zurich exhibitions of 2008 gave great visibility to the Nagas. And now, the Austrian media has featured the 2012 Vienna exhibition prominently, with carefully balanced interviews and good reporting. It prioritised the opinions of the owners of the cultural objects and the knowledge that goes with them.<br />
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On the items in the museum, some are objects of art carefully wrought by hand. To me it means that people had the time to sit and create things with their hands, that there were long periods of peace where they could exercise the expression of their creative talents. This is such important information because it disproves the stereotypical image of the Naga as the incessantly feuding, bloodthirsty, barbaric head hunter, primarily preoccupied with battlesport. The objects in the museum which have come from a region which is stereotyped even among the Nagas themselves (as the last region of headhunting and barbarism), actually show great artistry and craftsmanship. I love that the exhibition opens up these other levels of Nagahood. It challenges the onlooker to look at the Nagas beyond the confines of stereotypes. There is more to them than the headhunting. There is more to them than a long drawn out political conflict. There is more to them than the festivals that draw in tourists once a year.<br />
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This challenging of stereotypes is another point that distinguishes the exhibition from cultural theft. In the cases of cultural theft, the thief perpetuates the stereotypical ways of looking at Naga culture. It allows room only for the thief's representation and makes no room for the voice of its authentic owners. Fifteen years ago, I was acquainted with a group in Meghalaya who were intending to patent both their botanical wealth and their folklore. Nagaland has no such strategy yet, but the threat of theft is more than real. Closing our cultural borders to outsiders is a strategy that will seem strange to us. But there are few alternatives for protecting our knowledge from those who are using it unscrupulously. In a manner of speaking, they are stealing from our children because they are staking claim to knowledge that legally belongs to our children.<br />
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Cultural theft is a generational crime. It is not much different from stealing a priceless heirloom that has been in the family for generations. But it is worse than that because it is actually stealing from the future and creating confusion about ownership. It is an insidious crime because it uses the assistance of government machinery to legitimise it. In the name of research, non-Naga scholars are continuing to commit cultural theft. Naga culture needs all the protection it can get so that the next generation is not doomed to having their culture dictated to them by an 'expert' from another state.<br />
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<br />
Originally published at
<a href="http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/The-North-East-Blog/3291/barkweaving-cultural-theft-in-nagaland-vs-the-gift-of-other-eyes/63516.html" target="_blank">The North-East Blog</a> and
<a href="http://www.easternmirrornagaland.com/views/oped/item/4747-cultural-theft-vs-the-gift-of-other-eyes.html" target="_blank">Eastern Mirror Nagaland</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-79047582545055260512012-05-05T18:06:00.002+02:002012-09-19T17:13:21.465+02:00Bitter Wormwood in Hindustan Times<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yes, Bitter Wormwood got a <a href="http://www.hindustantimes.com/Books/Chunk-HT-UI-BooksSectionPage-Reviews/Review-Bitter-Wormwood/Article1-899263.aspx" target="_blank">review in the <i>Hindustan Times</i></a>, but the reviewer sadly defines the Naga struggle for independence as <i>insurrection</i>. Readers, we shouldn't just rejoice when Bitter Wormwood gets some space in the national dailies.<br />
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There was on the whole, negative and incorrect information given between the lines. For instance, there is a general statement that implies the entire Naga population supported the Indian National Army and the Japanese during World War two. But the reviewer doesn't seem to know that if not for Naga help given to the British forces, the Japanese invasion of India would never have been thwarted. True, there was a very small group of Nagas with the INA, but the majority of the Naga population in the villages and beleaguered hamlet of Kohima helped the British government oust the Japanese from the Naga hills, and prevented them from reaching their real target: INDIA. When you get the opportunity, read the writing behind the big memorial at the war cemetery, behind, not in front of the memorial.<br />
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So read carefully guys!<br />
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There is also unfortunately, a hint of the typically dismissive attitude so common in big city journalists towards the Naga case or towards the Northeast, in this review. I think good reviewers are the ones who do not commence to read a book with already formed opinions about the content.<br />
<br /></div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-67743395667750044792012-02-28T21:13:00.000+01:002012-02-28T21:13:31.410+01:00Masks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Every culture uses masks. I guess it is necessary to social survival. We couldn't possibly face each other again if we had seen each other without our masks, could we? If we allow others to see our secret fears, we would feel vulnerable and opened out and susceptible to attack. Wouldn't we or would we?<br />
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There is actually freedom in unmasking oneself. It is a feeling that overwhelms with the great sense of being liberated from the thought that there is no need to hide anything anymore..this is a thought I want to develop more later in a book or a short essay.</div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-4187238832561183172012-01-19T12:39:00.002+01:002012-01-19T12:51:45.659+01:00Let’s hear it for the postal services<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Nagaland post office is in line for a big kudos. Overseas readers report that parcels sent before Christmas reached them safe and sound before New Year’s and just after the New Year. That is very good progress indeed. A far cry from the days when sending a parcel from India was a matter of uncertain and unintended adventure. Misadventure is the more appropriate term because packages went missing and never reached their appointed destinations. Important documents and also packages of a personal nature containing loving gifts would go missing and never be heard of again. Honestly there was a time when sending a parcel was not very different from dropping it into a big black hole. If the postal gods favored you, it would be delivered. If not, ask not where it went or forever hold your peace.<br />
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Parcels sent from Nagaland were dispatched to assigned Indian cities such as Calcutta designed to deal with the troublesome north east. I presume there were a team of trained hardcore professionals with looks on their countenances as unrelenting as a registered seal. (You know the sort: their first cousins used to man Immigrations and customs at Calcutta airport). I imagine they sniffed at every parcel from the North east, performing this duty personally instead of assigning the sniffer dogs to it. Perhaps they were sending out anti national elements in all these badly wrapped, marking cloth covered packages from the northeastern states. For whatever reason there be, only one in a million parcels from Nagaland ever found its way to the target. <br />
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But now, ladies and gentlemen, glory halleluia, reports are trickling in from the front line of parcels that have made it to the addresses they were posted to! Those brave little parcel-soldiers running past intermittent gunfire and mortar shelling and perhaps guided missiles whilst whizzing their way over Afghanistan or Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan! Cheer them on, come on give them a loud hurrah when you see them coming through! That’s Turkey that they have crossed now. Well done fellows, it’s not long now, not much longer until you are on the safe shores of Mother Europe. Come on, one last heave and we are home!<br />
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The applause of the cheering crowds for the parcel soldiers is stupendous. It almost sounds like it would bring down the house. The chairman stands and holds up his hand for silence.<br />
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“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in congratulating the postal services for this amazing feat of successful parcel delivery! Hip hip hurrah!”
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<br />
The curtain comes down slowly even as the applause continues unabated. Fade out.</div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-89522047307254148882011-11-25T22:36:00.001+01:002011-11-25T22:38:57.054+01:00Airport, airportI think I have been overdoing the traveling this month. Either that or too frequent travels with too little breaks in between. The pilot on the Scandinavian flight seemed oddly familiar the sixth time round and I knew all the articles by heart in the in flight magazine. At least tomorrow is the last flight for a long long time even if its a long haul to Vienna and then to Delhi. I am tired of the in flight food and the unimaginative food at the kiosks in the airport.
Austrian airways have wonderful menus and Austrian bread is white and sweet and just up my alley. Plus, they keep serving you food every hour or so, small meals which leave you just that little bit hungry for the next snack. Hehe.Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-86477283268389521322011-01-27T08:00:00.000+01:002013-02-15T21:34:16.645+01:00Governor’s award for excellence in art, literature<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
State governor Nikhil Kumar on the occasion of Republic Day felicitated five personalities
of the state for their distinctive excellence in the fields of art, music and literature.
The five recipients of the Governor’s Award are Velasuzo Shijoh, Yanger Toshi Pongen,
Senti Toy, Margaret Shishak and Easterine Kire.
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<br />
Lauding the recipients, Nikhil Kumar said they had each promoted their roots and culture
through their own proficiency. He also acknowledged the selection committee headed by
chief secretary Lalthara for selecting the right people. While pointing out that India
was on the move to becoming an economic super power, the governor asserted that Nagaland
would not be left behind in the process but will keep pace with others and move forward
with excellence. Chief minister Neiphiu Rio said Nagas have been recognized worldwide in
the field of art, music and literature, and urged the recipients to be role models for
the younger generation.
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He said “Let this governor’s medals, award be a message for talent to grow’.
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The governor gave away mementoes along with shawls and cash award of `25000 each and
certificates to Yangertoshi Pongen (Art), Velasuzo Shijoh (Art), Margaret Shishak
(Music), Senti Toy (Music), Easterine Kire (Literature). The governor also felicitated
Divine Connection on winning MTV Kurkure Desi Beats Rock On. A cash award of `10,000 was presented to them.
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<br />
Earlier, commissioner and secretary, Tourism, Art and Culture gave a brief introduction
on the governor’s award. The programme was attended by MLAs, officials from state government,
army and other organizations.
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<br />
<a href="http://www.nagalandpost.com/ShowStory.aspx?npoststoryiden=UzEwMzY3MDU%3D-qZcLLnAifWg%3D" target="_blank">Governor’s award for excellence in art, literature - Nagaland Post</a>
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Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-52741806744921237052010-06-10T21:37:00.000+02:002011-11-24T21:37:55.862+01:00Frankfurt on my mind<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Germany was wonderful. Frankfurt and the book launch with several
readings at universities and a school. The school children had even
translated three of my short stories and when they read back to me one
of my stories in German, it was pretty amazing. Uni of Dusseldorf and
the Translation Studies students were next. A two hour train ride past
the Rhine valley, very green and beautiful and castles in the far
horizon. I met my translator Mayela for the first time. Beautiful
grey-eyed Mayela and I read alternately. Eun San and Monica, Stephanie,
Sigrid Roering, Antje Brake - suddenly these were no longer names on
emails and I could put faces to the names. Very nice ones too. City tour
on thursday with Sigrid including a tour of Goethe’s house. The Roman
square and cafes that sell tall glasses of amber wine. Croissants for
breakfast and morello cherries on the street corner. Yes, I have
Frankfurt on my mind.</div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3343389512442523453.post-13573025268342780312010-05-08T21:37:00.000+02:002011-11-24T21:37:27.409+01:00Listening<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
The trouble with oral cultures and oral societies of which I am part of,
is that we are taught to speak and do not learn sufficiently to listen
because we place so much value on the spoken word..so each man comes
with his goatskin bag of wisdom and doesn’t have enough space to take
from the other’s goat skin bag of wisdom..certainly our goat-skinbags
and tobacco pouches are too small to hold God’s wisdom ….is that why we
never care to take time out to listen to God? There is always time to
listen…listening can happen any time…listening helps you grow..not
listening makes you run in the wrong direction and then make mistakes.</div>Easterine Kirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10715795609716967184noreply@blogger.com