Confined essentially to a recliner, however elegant and comfortable for most of the day and night in a room without a television, I have explored all the mobile device possibilities, including Amazon Prime, Netflix and Hulu. After the surgical procedure, I was forced to be in a rather sad rehab facility for a week... not a private room, which meant that I had more than my fill of television shows with adverts. Thank God for Netflix, Hulu and Amazon Prime as well as Daily Motion, where I can watch what I want without the intrusion of commercial messages.
What is interesting, apart from the discovery of some good dramas and comedies is the music they have brought in their wake. I do not like radio for the same reason I dislike television... the adverts drive me round the bend. Further, I don't see why any one else should dictate what noise or music invades my space and radio is all about the egos and taste of the various announcers.
So here is my list of songs I have discovered through the shows I have liked best recently:
A show called 'The Good Wife', originally on CBS but now available on Hulu (7 Seasons!) has a marvelous scene that features Jane Jensen's delightful song, 'Luv Song'.... kind of a surprising juxtaposition of action and music but very powerful and quite amusing!
Luv Song
A show called 'Betas' on Amazon Prime that seeks to rival my favourite 'Silicon Valley' features as its theme a song by Telekinesis called 'Power Lines'.
Silicon Valley recently, quite aptly featured an old song called 'Pied Piper' by Crispin St. Peters.
I will try to think of some others.
Tuesday, March 15, 2022
Hymn to an old Thob
When I was very young, society was at a stage where anything old was deprecated or otherwise considered unstylish. The new was what mattered. Danish Modern furniture had superceded the wonderful intricate old furniture in the Victorian, Art Nouveau and Art Deco styles. People stripped wallpaper from their walls, gutted their homes and replaced EVERYTHING with sleek, modern designs.
I hated it all. It never resonated with me at all. I delighted in the intricate, the ornate, the unnecessary. I did not understand what prompted or motivated the desperate search for the new, the unrooted... To me, it was History that mattered, ALWAYS.
It still does. Oddly enough, when my generation grew into adulthood, we embraced the old and people began to find beauty in the Victorian, Art Nouveau and Art Deco styles. Mucha became very popular and indeed, the Decadent and Symbolist artists enjoyed a new renaissance in the Western world.
What I loved always became almost too trendy but I could not turn my back on the styles I always had loved. I always was a little ahead of my time in fashion but there were certain constants that could not be sullied by overpopularity.
Another thing that mattered to me from my earliest childhood was symmetry in design. I did not find it dull. It satisfied something in my soul. Perhaps it gave me an illusion of security or constancy in a childhood that lacked both.
It was only when I discovered the rich heritage of the Palestinian domestic arts that I was able to learn to cast aside my need for symmetry in everything.
I always argued that crafts were as much true art as anything put on a canvas. Again, my point of view finally found favour with the masses or the art world, whomever they may be and now, jewelry, textiles and other 'crafts' ARE recognised as Art with a capital A. I always loved fine textiles in a tactile way as well as for any designs in the cloth.
When I was a young girl, I tried to make a medieval embroidered shirt for myself. It was a horrible failure, frankly. My mother found it and sent it to me a couple of years ago. I was not happy to see it. It was NOT beautiful and it really never became a viable article of clothing. To make it into one would require a tremendous amount of work and I would rather give my energy to something better.
I did return to embroidery, however, when my daughter was a little girl. My connection with Palestine originally was in the justice of the cause as well as the literature and history. I loved thobs without ever paying much attention to the symbolism and detail of the garments. I only began to comprehend the richness of THAT heritage when I obtained a couple of old thobs.
The thobs were not made of good fabric. They were very worn as well and needed some work if they were to be worn again by any one. In the process of redesigning them, I began to study the embroidery and indeed the symbolism and traditions that went into them.
The significance and symbolism that determines the general style of most traditional Palestinian thobs is extremely ancient. It may go back to the Sumerians and Babylonian civilisation. It definitely is found in the most ancient literature of the Arab world.
It is the 'breastplate' or 'qabbeh' that defines the thob and gives it power. 'Qabbeh' simply means 'cube' and is the name of one of the most powerful symbols of Islam, the black stone that fell from heaven and is cherished in the mosque in Mecca.
A breastplate in terms of armour protects the vital organ of the heart and lungs. It covers the chest. A breastplate in terms of symbolic power protects the heart and soul of an individual. Ancient breastplates often were set with gems, each of which had its own symbolism and power. The Palestinian qabbeh often has many different embroidery patterns and colours incorporated into it, each of which has its own significance and power.
At the very outset, I had to come to terms with the fact that, although the qabbeh usually was symmetrical in design and pattern, this often was NOT the case with the rest of the thob. Most thobs are made in embroidered panels. Sometimes the same patterns are repeated throughout, but in other cases, you will find very different panels on the same thob. Sometimes, the colours of the embroidery threads are constant, but often you will find a tiny little patch of embroidery in blue. The blue may not be a complete pattern or design. It may be a small part of another design, repeated nowhere on the thob.
Those first thobs of mine had not been the property of rich women. The fabric was of poor quality and synthetic in nature. It was chosen, I suspect, for its durability. It could be soiled and yet washed clean. It would dry quickly. It would not tear easily. On this rather unattractive fabric, however, was some of the most beautiful embroidery I ever had seen.
I was not the second owner of these thobs either. They had been altered to fit a woman of a different size and small bits of fabric and embroidery had been added in places to cover a tear or stain. In short, these thobs represented a limeline of sorts and I had joined the line of women whose lives were interwoven with these garments.
Although durable, they had sustained damage and they had to be altered to fit me as I evidently was taller than the former owners and the sleeves in particular were too short.
I have a couple of horsemen's coats from the steppes. They, like my thobs, consisted of a number of different textiles. One aspect of the two different garments that I noticed instantly was the use of other fabrics as a lining either to pad the gament or at the hemline.
Almost like a quilt, in a way, many different scraps of patterned fabrics had been used both on the horsemen's coats and on the thobs. There was no rhyme nor reason to the patterns. A pattern of red roses might live side by side with orange stripes and a dense pattern of abstract shapes. It was obvious that the seamstress used whatever he/she had at hand. Like makers of quilts, bags or boxes of fabric bits probably were saved for use in any project where they were needed.
I decided I would do likewise. I cut a pair of silk trousers that always had been too wide for use as new long sleeves for my thob. Other strips from the trousers were used to tie the colours and fabrics together somewhat. A narrow band was sewn into the back and other strips were sewn between the embroidered panels on the skirt. I added small triangles of silk on either shoulder and embroidered them myself, using traditional motifs that appeared on the thob.
There are a number of different types of Palestinian embroidery. It tends to differ according to district. Bethelehem embroidery is known for its couching and for stitches that are not found elsewhere for the most part. Throughout most of the Palestine, the simple cross-stitch is used to create intricate, extraordinary thobs. The satin stitch is used mainly by bedouin women to cover seams. Usually, the seam covering is multi-coloured. It was believed by the ancients that evil spirits could enter through any seams in a garment and thus, all seams were covered. Certainly the seams are the weakest links in any garment.
I was studying the myth of Dionysos recently again and came upon the ancient dithyramb of Zeus. Dionysos was sewn into the god's thigh to be reborn and the poetry is a cry: Open the seam! Open the seam!' to allow the God to be reborn.
This is all by the by, but it is one example of the seam in ancient myth. If a god can be born by opening a seam, spirits certainly could make their entrances and exits in like fashion.
I did attempt to cover my seams with the traditional multi-coloured satin stitch of the bedouin but although it is simple, it is very time-consuming and I never completed the task. A thob can stand with incomplete embroidery, however. I have seen many a thob now with panels only half-embroidered or where a square of new embroidery has been added to cover a spot where another project never had been finished.
In Palestine, as in the rest of the Arab Nation, many thobs are made by machine and machine embroidery is common. They can be quite lovely but for me, nothing takes the place of the hand-embroidery. Traditionally, in a land before television or even electricity, the women would gather after returning from the fields and finishing the cooking and serving of the evening meal to embroider. A girl might make her wedding trousseau and the project might take years.
Even now, there are cultures where fabric still is a common gift instead of manufactured clothing. I knew a number of Muslim families who would receive gifts of fabric from 'home' for the Eids. They would make their own outfits or outfits for their daughters rather than buying clothing from a shop.
I hated it all. It never resonated with me at all. I delighted in the intricate, the ornate, the unnecessary. I did not understand what prompted or motivated the desperate search for the new, the unrooted... To me, it was History that mattered, ALWAYS.
It still does. Oddly enough, when my generation grew into adulthood, we embraced the old and people began to find beauty in the Victorian, Art Nouveau and Art Deco styles. Mucha became very popular and indeed, the Decadent and Symbolist artists enjoyed a new renaissance in the Western world.
What I loved always became almost too trendy but I could not turn my back on the styles I always had loved. I always was a little ahead of my time in fashion but there were certain constants that could not be sullied by overpopularity.
Another thing that mattered to me from my earliest childhood was symmetry in design. I did not find it dull. It satisfied something in my soul. Perhaps it gave me an illusion of security or constancy in a childhood that lacked both.
It was only when I discovered the rich heritage of the Palestinian domestic arts that I was able to learn to cast aside my need for symmetry in everything.
I always argued that crafts were as much true art as anything put on a canvas. Again, my point of view finally found favour with the masses or the art world, whomever they may be and now, jewelry, textiles and other 'crafts' ARE recognised as Art with a capital A. I always loved fine textiles in a tactile way as well as for any designs in the cloth.
When I was a young girl, I tried to make a medieval embroidered shirt for myself. It was a horrible failure, frankly. My mother found it and sent it to me a couple of years ago. I was not happy to see it. It was NOT beautiful and it really never became a viable article of clothing. To make it into one would require a tremendous amount of work and I would rather give my energy to something better.
I did return to embroidery, however, when my daughter was a little girl. My connection with Palestine originally was in the justice of the cause as well as the literature and history. I loved thobs without ever paying much attention to the symbolism and detail of the garments. I only began to comprehend the richness of THAT heritage when I obtained a couple of old thobs.
The thobs were not made of good fabric. They were very worn as well and needed some work if they were to be worn again by any one. In the process of redesigning them, I began to study the embroidery and indeed the symbolism and traditions that went into them.
The significance and symbolism that determines the general style of most traditional Palestinian thobs is extremely ancient. It may go back to the Sumerians and Babylonian civilisation. It definitely is found in the most ancient literature of the Arab world.
It is the 'breastplate' or 'qabbeh' that defines the thob and gives it power. 'Qabbeh' simply means 'cube' and is the name of one of the most powerful symbols of Islam, the black stone that fell from heaven and is cherished in the mosque in Mecca.
A breastplate in terms of armour protects the vital organ of the heart and lungs. It covers the chest. A breastplate in terms of symbolic power protects the heart and soul of an individual. Ancient breastplates often were set with gems, each of which had its own symbolism and power. The Palestinian qabbeh often has many different embroidery patterns and colours incorporated into it, each of which has its own significance and power.
At the very outset, I had to come to terms with the fact that, although the qabbeh usually was symmetrical in design and pattern, this often was NOT the case with the rest of the thob. Most thobs are made in embroidered panels. Sometimes the same patterns are repeated throughout, but in other cases, you will find very different panels on the same thob. Sometimes, the colours of the embroidery threads are constant, but often you will find a tiny little patch of embroidery in blue. The blue may not be a complete pattern or design. It may be a small part of another design, repeated nowhere on the thob.
Those first thobs of mine had not been the property of rich women. The fabric was of poor quality and synthetic in nature. It was chosen, I suspect, for its durability. It could be soiled and yet washed clean. It would dry quickly. It would not tear easily. On this rather unattractive fabric, however, was some of the most beautiful embroidery I ever had seen.
I was not the second owner of these thobs either. They had been altered to fit a woman of a different size and small bits of fabric and embroidery had been added in places to cover a tear or stain. In short, these thobs represented a limeline of sorts and I had joined the line of women whose lives were interwoven with these garments.
Although durable, they had sustained damage and they had to be altered to fit me as I evidently was taller than the former owners and the sleeves in particular were too short.
I have a couple of horsemen's coats from the steppes. They, like my thobs, consisted of a number of different textiles. One aspect of the two different garments that I noticed instantly was the use of other fabrics as a lining either to pad the gament or at the hemline.
Almost like a quilt, in a way, many different scraps of patterned fabrics had been used both on the horsemen's coats and on the thobs. There was no rhyme nor reason to the patterns. A pattern of red roses might live side by side with orange stripes and a dense pattern of abstract shapes. It was obvious that the seamstress used whatever he/she had at hand. Like makers of quilts, bags or boxes of fabric bits probably were saved for use in any project where they were needed.
I decided I would do likewise. I cut a pair of silk trousers that always had been too wide for use as new long sleeves for my thob. Other strips from the trousers were used to tie the colours and fabrics together somewhat. A narrow band was sewn into the back and other strips were sewn between the embroidered panels on the skirt. I added small triangles of silk on either shoulder and embroidered them myself, using traditional motifs that appeared on the thob.
There are a number of different types of Palestinian embroidery. It tends to differ according to district. Bethelehem embroidery is known for its couching and for stitches that are not found elsewhere for the most part. Throughout most of the Palestine, the simple cross-stitch is used to create intricate, extraordinary thobs. The satin stitch is used mainly by bedouin women to cover seams. Usually, the seam covering is multi-coloured. It was believed by the ancients that evil spirits could enter through any seams in a garment and thus, all seams were covered. Certainly the seams are the weakest links in any garment.
I was studying the myth of Dionysos recently again and came upon the ancient dithyramb of Zeus. Dionysos was sewn into the god's thigh to be reborn and the poetry is a cry: Open the seam! Open the seam!' to allow the God to be reborn.
This is all by the by, but it is one example of the seam in ancient myth. If a god can be born by opening a seam, spirits certainly could make their entrances and exits in like fashion.
I did attempt to cover my seams with the traditional multi-coloured satin stitch of the bedouin but although it is simple, it is very time-consuming and I never completed the task. A thob can stand with incomplete embroidery, however. I have seen many a thob now with panels only half-embroidered or where a square of new embroidery has been added to cover a spot where another project never had been finished.
In Palestine, as in the rest of the Arab Nation, many thobs are made by machine and machine embroidery is common. They can be quite lovely but for me, nothing takes the place of the hand-embroidery. Traditionally, in a land before television or even electricity, the women would gather after returning from the fields and finishing the cooking and serving of the evening meal to embroider. A girl might make her wedding trousseau and the project might take years.
Even now, there are cultures where fabric still is a common gift instead of manufactured clothing. I knew a number of Muslim families who would receive gifts of fabric from 'home' for the Eids. They would make their own outfits or outfits for their daughters rather than buying clothing from a shop.
Boredom, Fear and Pain
Prelude to a DVT, from 2016, never published, never completed.
The operation was set for 7 June... so that day loomed large on the horizon. I wasn't quite certain how to prepare. I bought food for the cats, prepared as much as I could in advance, tried to pack a bag... but still had no idea what would happen afterwards. All sorts of breezy advertising such as 'you'll walk the day after the procedure' but I was not convinced. After all, I hadn't been able to stand without help for a year, and why should the replacement of one hip improve everything immediately?
In fact, I could not stand.
Values
Never published from 2016:
Not having money is nothing compared to not having the use of your body... and then, even in my current circumstances, without the use of half of my left (good) hand, a terrible left hip, a healing right hip and a very bad back, I saw people in rehab who had a far more difficult time of it. The worst cases wree those who were homeless essentially either because they had lost their homes after their injuries or because they had no one to care for them outside of an institution.
And that brings me to the concept of loyalty and friendship... I know there is little that is more tedious or boring than illness, disability or any situation that renders a person's life small.
And that brings me to the concept of loyalty and friendship... I know there is little that is more tedious or boring than illness, disability or any situation that renders a person's life small.
'The Vikings' on the History Channel
(Photograph shows the 3 Viking Swords near Stavanger in Norway)
Confined (rather ironically, in view of the topic) to a recliner after hip surgery, I have been searching high and low for good shows to occupy my attention, especially in the wee hours of the morning when the pain often is most difficult for me... I resisted 'The Vikings' originally because it did not look terribly accurate and it is a period in history and a culture in which I actually specialised and taught at one time.
My neighbours across the road both love it, however, so I decided to give it a chance. It is highly entertaining, packed with battles and duels as well as intrigue. It is based very loosely on the old saga centred on the very colourful (and heroic) character of Ragnar Lodbrok (aka Ragnar Hairy Breeches). You can find a lot of original source material about Ragnar but this particular show appears to be based primarily on 'The Tale of Ragnar's Sons':
The Tale of Ragnar's Sons
As a child, I loved tales of heroes and their courageous deaths, their ability to defy pain and the appearance of the Grim Reaper in the most awful circumstances. I loved the tales of Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster, who bound himself to a rock after being disemboweled, stuffing his entrails back into his body, in order to remain standing, facing his enemies in combat at the moment of his death.
Here is the original account:
'Then he went dawn the road of Meadhon-Luachair, by Slieve Fuad, and his enemy, Erc, son of Cairbre, saw him in the chariot, and his sword shining red in his hand, and the light of his courage plain upon him, and his hair spread out like threads of gold that change their colour on the edge of the anvil under the smith's band, and the Crow of Battle in the air over his head.
"Cuchulain is coming at us," said Erc to the men of Ireland, "and let us be ready for him." So they made a fence of shields linked together, and Erc put a couple of the men that were strongest here and there, to let on to be fighting one another, that they might call Cuchulain to them; and he put a Druid with every couple of them, and he bid the Druid to ask Cuchulain's spears of him, for it would be hard for him to refuse a Druid. For it was in the prophecy of the children of Calatin that a king would be killed by each one of those spears in that battle.
And he bid the men of Ireland to give out shouts, and Cuchulain came against them in his chariot, doing his
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three thunder feats, and he used his spear and his sword in such a way, that their heads, and their hands, and their feet, and their bones, were scattered through the plain of Muirthemne; like the sands on the shore, like the stars in the sky, like the dew in May, like snow-flakes and hailstones, like leaves of the trees, like buttercups in a meadow, like grass under the feet of cattle on a fine summer day. It is red that plain was with the slaughter Cuchulain made when he came crashing over it.
Then he saw one of the men that was put to quarrel with the other, and the Druid called to him to come and hinder them, and Cuchulain leaped towards them. "Your spear to me," cried the Druid. "I swear by the oath of my people," said Cuchulain, "you are not so much in want of it as I am in want of it myself. The men of Ireland are upon me," he said, "and I am upon them." "I will put a bad name on you if you refuse it to me," said the Druid. "There was never a bad name put on me yet, on account of any refusal of mine," said Cuchulain, and with that he threw the spear at him, and it went through his head, and it killed the men that were on the other side of him.
Then Cuchulain drove through the host, and Lugaid, son of Curoi, got the spear. "Who is it will fall by this spear, children of Calatin?" said Lugaid. "A king will fall by it," said they. Then Lugaid threw the spear at Cuchulain's chariot, and it went through and hit the driver, Laeg, son of Riangabra, and he fell back, and his bowels came out on the cushions of the chariot "My grief!" said Laeg, "it is hard I am wounded." Then Cuchulain drew the spear out, and Laeg said his farewell to him, and Cuchulain said: "To-day I will be a fighter and a chariot-driver as well."
Then he saw the other two men that were put to quarrel with one another, and one of them called out it would be a great shame for him not to give him his help. Then Cuchulain leaped towards them. "Your spear to me, Cuchulain," said the Druid. "I swear by the oath my people swear by," said he, "you are not in such want of the spear as I am myself, for it is by my courage, and by my arms, that I have to drive out the four provinces of Ireland that are sweeping over Muirthemne to-day." "I will put a bad name upon you," said the Druid. "I am not bound to give more than one gift in the day, and I have paid what is due to my name already," said Cuchulain. Then the Druid said: "I will put a bad name on the province of Ulster, because of your refusal."
"Ulster was never dispraised yet for any refusal of mine," said Cuchulain, "or for anything I did unworthily. Though little of my life should be left to me, Ulster will not be reproached for me to-day." With that he threw his spear at him, and it went through his head, and through the heads of the nine men that were behind him, and Cuchulain went through the host as he did before.
Then Erc, son of Cairbre Niafer, took up his spear. "Who will fall by this?" he asked the children of Calatin. "A king will fall by it," they said. "I heard you say the same thing of the spear that Lugaid threw a while ago," said Erc. "That is true," said they, "and the king of the chariot-drivers of Ireland fell by it, Cuchulain's driver Laeg, son of Riangabra."
With that, Erc threw the spear, and it went through the Grey of Macha. Cuchulain drew the spear out, and they said farewell to one another. And then the Grey went away from him, with half his harness hanging from his neck, and he went into Glas-linn, the grey pool in Slieve Fuad.
Then Cuchulain drove through the host, and he saw the third couple disputing together, and he went between them as he did before. And the Druid asked his spear of him, but he refused him. "I will put a bad name on you," said the Druid. "I have paid what is due to my name to-day," said he; "my honour does not bind me to give more than one request in a day." "I will put a bad name upon Ulster because of your refusal" "I have paid what is due for the honour of Ulster," said Cuchulain. "Then I will put a bad name on your kindred," said the Druid. "The news that I have been given a bad name shall never go back to that place I am never to go back to myself; for it is little of my life that is left to me," said Cuchulain. With that he threw his spear at him, and it went through him, and through the heads of the men that were along with him.
"You do your kindness unkindly, Cuchulain," said the Druid, as he fell. Then Cuchulain drove for the last time through the host, and Lugaid took the spear, and he said: "Who will fall by this spear, children of Calatin?" "A king will fall by it," said they. "I heard you saying that a king would fall by the spear Erc threw a while ago." "That is true," they said, "and the Grey of Macha fell by it, that was the king of the horses of Ireland".
Then Lugaid threw the spear, and it went through and through Cuchulain's body, and he knew he had got his deadly wound; and his bowels came out on the cushions of the chariot, and his only horse went away from him, the Black Sainglain, with half the harness hanging from his neck, and left his master, the king of the heroes of Ireland, to die upon the plain of Muirthemne.
Then Cuchulain said: "There is great desire on me to go to that lake beyond, and to get a drink from it."
"We will give you leave to do that," they said, "if you will come back to us after."
"I will bid you come for me if I am not able to come back myself," said Cuchulain.
Then he gathered up his bowels into his body, and he went down to the lake. He drank a drink and he washed himself, and he returned back again to his death, and he called to his enemies to come and meet him.
There was a pillar-stone west of the lake, and his eye lit on it, and he went to the pillar-stone, and he tied himself to it with his breast-belt, the way he would not meet his death lying down, but would meet it standing up. Then his enemies came round about him, but they were in dread of going close to him, for they were not sure but he might be still alive.
"It is a great shame for you," said Erc, son of Cairbre, "not to strike the head off that man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father."
Then the Grey of Macha came back to defend Cuchulain as long as there was life in him, and the hero-light was shining above him. And the Grey of Macha made three attacks against them, and he killed fifty men with his teeth, and thirty with each of his hoofs. So there is a saying: "It is not sharper work than this was done by the Grey of Macha, the time of Cuchulain's death."
Then a bird came and settled on his shoulder. "It is not on that pillar birds were used to settle," said Erc.
Then Lugaid came and lifted up Cuchulain's hair from his shoulders, and struck his head off, and the men of Ireland gave three heavy shouts, and the sword fell from Cuchulain's hand, and as it fell, it struck off Lugaid's right hand, so that it fell to the ground. Then they cut off Cuchulain's hand, in satisfaction for it, and then the light faded away from about Cuchulain's head, and left it as pale as the snow of a single night. Then all the men of Ireland said that as it was Maeve had gathered the army, it would be right for her to bring away the head to Cruachan. "I will not bring it with me; it is for Lugaid that struck it off to bring it with him," said Maeve. And then Lugaid and his men went away, and they brought away Cuchulain's head and his right hand with them, and they went south, towards the Lifé river.
At that time the army of Ulster was gathering to attack its enemies, and Conall was out before them, and he met the Grey of Macha, and his share of blood dripping from him. And then he knew that Cuchulain was dead, and himself and the Grey of Macha went looking for Cuchulain's body. And when they saw his body at the pillar-stone, the Grey of Macha went and laid his head in Cuchulain's breast: "That body is a heavy care to the Grey of Macha," said Conall.
Then Conall went after the army, thinking in his own mind what way he could get satisfaction for Cuchulain's death. For it was a promise between himself and Cuchulain that whichever of them would be killed the first, the other would get satisfaction for his death.' (END Of EXCERPT)
In similar fashion, the death of Ragnar Lodbrok is one of the most heroic, having been thrown into a pit of serpents by the horrible King Aelle of Northumbria primarily for refusing to renounce his religion and convert to Christianity. According to tradition, he showed no fear and died as he lived, a follower of the All-Father Odhinn...
Which brings me back to 'The Vikings'. I will deal with other inaccuracies in the series, but first and foremost, the idea that the Old Religion was an intolerant one is erroneous for the most part. In the Poetic Edda, it actually states that Odhinn himself is known by many different names in many different lands and worshipped according to many different traditions.... The Old Religion embraced other traditions in a way that Christianity refused to do. It is the Christians who cut down all the Holy Groves of the Pagans on the Continent and the Christians who condemned those who refused to convert to torture and death. Yes, human sacrifice was part and parcel of the Old Religion but it was NOT sacrifice that was done because some one refused to convert! Indeed, such sacrifices were deemed to be an honour, not a punishment for the most part.
I have no doubt that there were many individuals like Flothi who were themselves intolerant of other paths and religions but that was something that was not encouraged, unlike the way in which early Christianity in Northern Europe went out of its way to attempt to eradicate ANY other paths or traditions.
To many of the Northern Europeans, Christ was the 'White God', a generous Lord in the manner of any Northern Lord, a Ring-Giver who sacrificed himself like Odhinn heroically for the world. The Northern European version of the Life of Christ shows as much. It is beautifully written and creates a portrait of Our Lord that may be more valid in many ways than the one promoted by the Church in Europe, who used their religion as a scourge and a way in which to gain temporal power.
The landscapes of 'The Vikings' are gorgeous and the show does depict the difficult life of the far North, eking out a living by fishing and hunting and farming poor soil. What I find a little problematic is the way in which the Vikings themselves are depicted. They look more like a contemporary motorcycle gang than anything else. I think farmers in general are conservative by nature. They do not defy tradition for the most part. The berserkers and other fighters who joined animal totem societies were different from the ordinary Viking farmer who went raiding during certain seasons, but so far, I have not seen any mention of this in the series and no distinction is made between the ordinary fighters and the berserkers. There is no view of berserker traditions either.
What I discovered during my studies of comparative mythology was a great similarity between Northern European pagan societies during the 'Viking era' and the cultures of the Plains in North America later in history. The Plains tribes, like the Northern Europeans, had very strong totem societies, as well as religious figures who devoted themselves to singular lifestyles that placed them outside the ordinary traditions. In the Plains societies, these religious figures sometimes were called 'Clowns'... they often dressed as women, even lived as women, although they were men, using gender confusion to step outside the boundaries of ordinary existence. This occurred as well in the world of the Northern European pagans but again, it is something else that is missing from 'The Vikings'. They show 'priests' in Uppsala, but they simply are bald men in robes chanting bits from the Poetic Edda and the shadowy figure of the 'seer' in the village is simply more bizarre than anything else. Is he a victim of some childhood blight or disease, a victim of leprosy or...? It is unclear.
The Northern sagas and poems are rich with allusions to religious traditions such as the pagan equivalent of baptism but I see nothing of that in 'The Vikings'. Instead, the writers have chosen to manufacture peculiar rites of their own not found in any original source.
I think that there is a determination NOT to look at historical timelines to some extent. The era in which Ragnar lived was fairly late in the history of the so-called 'Dark Ages'. Vikings had founded the kingdom of Russia and had served as mercenaries in the Holy Land and Constantinople long before he was born. The Vikings were not a primitive people unknowing of art! They had traveled far more widely than most of the Christians at this point in time and, unlike the social restrictions imposed on ordinary Christians by the priests, who guarded their knowledge of reading and writing jealously, it was ordinary men and women who ventured far afield in Northern pagan society to explore the world beyond their own lands.
Another oddity is the way that Anglo-Saxon society is defined as 'peaceful' and 'agrarian' when in fact, it had its roots in the same traditions as the Vikings of the far North. The Angles and the Saxons were invaders, much like the Viking raiders, who finally settled on England's soil and negotiated with Romano-British society to fight alongside in tribal wars.
Nor is Christianity as fully ingrained in England at this point as the series would like one to think. The famous ship burial at Sutton Hoo shows pagan traditions alongside Christian ones... although it predated the life of Ragnar by a couple of centuries, some aspects of paganism still flourished in Great Britain at this point. The Anglo-Saxon rune poem is far later than the original Germanic version... the poem obviously represented a longstanding vibrant tradition.
The real strength and power of 'The Vikings', I would contend, is not in its depiction of history or religion, but in its characters. The main characters have a depth and complexity that is seldom found in these 'action' dramas. The character of Ragnar in particular goes far beyond the sagas and original sources. He is shown as a man who above all thirsts not for blood but for knowledge, a man who is quite capable of delivering the force of a blood eagle sacrifice upon an enemy but who yet can be merciful when logic and justice demand it. He is capable of perceiving the value of another society and a foreign religion. He is a true King, in the oldest meaning of the word, a real leader whom men follow not because they are forced to do so, but because his character and his ambitions are compelling. Moreover, his love of his family and his children drives him and makes him a very sympathetic character. He takes his disabled son out to the forest to be exposed in a sacred grove, but then defers to his wife's decision to rescue the child.
Ragnar as depicted in this series may desire power but he desires it in order to further the safety and security of his people, to give them a better life. This sort of man actually is found quite often in the ancient Northern tales and sagas.
More later... two fingers of my left hand remain 'dead' and have been so since the surgical procedure when they damaged my nerves with the I.V. It still is difficult for me to type.
Before I end this portion of my post, however, I would like to share an interesting theory about one of Ragnar's famous sons, Ivar the Boneless. Although it clearly is stated in original sources that Ivar was born with some sort of deformity in that his bones 'resembled gristle' rather than proper bones, it is only recently that a man with a similar deformity has done some serious study of the matter and conclued that Ivar suffered from brittle bone disease. Here is a video that deals with this matter:
Ivar the Boneless, the Strangest Viking
Viking Burial at Repton
Personally, I am more inclined to support the theory of Ivar being a small, disabled man who chose the bow because of his disability than the unsupported theory that it is his gigantic bones that are buried at Repton! The idea that he was a giant of a man is not given in any original source, but there are quotes about him being hoisted on a shield by his men in order to be carried into battle.
Furthermore, those who contend that a disabled or mutilated man could not be king are confusing Celtic traditions with Norse ones. Odhinn himself had only one eye and Tyr only one hand, both of them having undergone deliberate acts of sacrifice in order to save the world... It is only the Celts, an entirely different culture and people who forbade a disabled or mutilated man from becoming King.
The Three Swords of Stavanger (QM2 Journal)
Excerpt from Queen Mary 2 Journal: Stavanger, Norway
There is a certain point in an illness, when it is particularly severe, where reality retreats and one feels almost as though one were under the influence of an hallucinogenic drug. Strange thoughts intrude and bizarre fancies become a part of the fabric of plans half-conceived for the day. For example, I thought that the Chinese had put into execution a new economic programme to make clothes with seams that would fall to pieces within hours. The logic for this was impeccable in my fevered state.
I experienced three days of this during the period when we were en route to Norway and indeed in Stavanger. One day, I neither was able to eat nor drink because of a sore throat that was excruciatingly painful. Every swallow was torture.
Yesterday, however, I returned to formal dining for the first time. In the afternoon, I had a most magical experience on the balcony of our stateroom.
It was the first sunny day we had experienced for a start. Winds had created whitecaps, extraordinarily beautiful. The sunlight shimmered on the water and the spume thrown up was caught by the light in such a way that small rainbows appeared in more than one place on the surface of the sea, almost as though part of a tapestry pattern.
At first I thought that the specks of brilliant white light that hovered, dived and flew up from the waters somehow were a trick or illusion created by the winds, much like the whitecaps. I then realised that they were living creatures, hundreds of tiny white birds who soared, dove and then flew up from the waves again and again. I never have seen anything like it. We were somewhere in the channel that divides Norway from Denmark but no land was in sight and yet hundreds of tiny birds were frolicing in the air and water.
I tried to capture even one in a photograph but was not successful. They were too tiny and moved far too rapidly. In my photographs, they became nothing more than brilliant specks of light.
Part of the magic of this encounter was the way that the white feathers actually reflected the sunlight, making them flash and shimmer with light. It was a veritable symphony of light, comprised of delicate rainbows and the flash of sunlight both on the waters and on the wings of the tiny birds.
That had to have been one of the most magical experiences I have had on the high seas. As far as the land and ports are concerned, with respect to this particular voyage, one of the highlights was the 'Three Swords in Mountain'
Outside Stavanger, there is a remarkable sculpture or monument in the form of three gigantic swords thrust into a rocky finger of land near a bay. It is a sort of public park now, I believe. Beautiful white swans float in the little bay to the right of the small hillock where the monument was created.
It is the scene of an ancient battle, although the actual battle took place in the water and not on the land at all. Most of the fallen sank below the waves from the weight of their armour and weapons. I will research it more when I have better access to the internet. Even the Cunard programme on Stavanger gave absolutely no facts about the monument, but at least alerted me to its existence. I think I never would have forgiven myself had I not made a pilgrimage to the 'Sverd i fjell'.
It is very frustrating to be without funds, mobility, good health or time and in Stavanger, I was painfully conscious of all these restrictions. There is a local 'hop on, hop off' coach in Stavanger for visitors and locals, but it does not make a stop at the Swords in the Mountain. One had to go via taxi. As the monument is not in the city, it was a fair drive and unfortunately, the taxi driver was Turkish and knew very little English and very little about the history of Norway.
My sole souvenir from Norway is a chip of flint stone from the hillock where the 'Sverd i fjell' are located. Had I sufficient funds, I would have purchased one of the gorgeous cardigans from 'Dale of Norway', something I always wanted but knew in my heart was out of my reach economically. I did visit the Dale of Norway shop in Stavanger and saw the cardigan of my dreams. Even have a photograph of it and did wear it for a brief moment. Sometimes, miracles are possible. I do have the email address of the shop.
There is a certain point in an illness, when it is particularly severe, where reality retreats and one feels almost as though one were under the influence of an hallucinogenic drug. Strange thoughts intrude and bizarre fancies become a part of the fabric of plans half-conceived for the day. For example, I thought that the Chinese had put into execution a new economic programme to make clothes with seams that would fall to pieces within hours. The logic for this was impeccable in my fevered state.
I experienced three days of this during the period when we were en route to Norway and indeed in Stavanger. One day, I neither was able to eat nor drink because of a sore throat that was excruciatingly painful. Every swallow was torture.
Yesterday, however, I returned to formal dining for the first time. In the afternoon, I had a most magical experience on the balcony of our stateroom.
It was the first sunny day we had experienced for a start. Winds had created whitecaps, extraordinarily beautiful. The sunlight shimmered on the water and the spume thrown up was caught by the light in such a way that small rainbows appeared in more than one place on the surface of the sea, almost as though part of a tapestry pattern.
At first I thought that the specks of brilliant white light that hovered, dived and flew up from the waters somehow were a trick or illusion created by the winds, much like the whitecaps. I then realised that they were living creatures, hundreds of tiny white birds who soared, dove and then flew up from the waves again and again. I never have seen anything like it. We were somewhere in the channel that divides Norway from Denmark but no land was in sight and yet hundreds of tiny birds were frolicing in the air and water.
I tried to capture even one in a photograph but was not successful. They were too tiny and moved far too rapidly. In my photographs, they became nothing more than brilliant specks of light.
Part of the magic of this encounter was the way that the white feathers actually reflected the sunlight, making them flash and shimmer with light. It was a veritable symphony of light, comprised of delicate rainbows and the flash of sunlight both on the waters and on the wings of the tiny birds.
That had to have been one of the most magical experiences I have had on the high seas. As far as the land and ports are concerned, with respect to this particular voyage, one of the highlights was the 'Three Swords in Mountain'
Outside Stavanger, there is a remarkable sculpture or monument in the form of three gigantic swords thrust into a rocky finger of land near a bay. It is a sort of public park now, I believe. Beautiful white swans float in the little bay to the right of the small hillock where the monument was created.
It is the scene of an ancient battle, although the actual battle took place in the water and not on the land at all. Most of the fallen sank below the waves from the weight of their armour and weapons. I will research it more when I have better access to the internet. Even the Cunard programme on Stavanger gave absolutely no facts about the monument, but at least alerted me to its existence. I think I never would have forgiven myself had I not made a pilgrimage to the 'Sverd i fjell'.
It is very frustrating to be without funds, mobility, good health or time and in Stavanger, I was painfully conscious of all these restrictions. There is a local 'hop on, hop off' coach in Stavanger for visitors and locals, but it does not make a stop at the Swords in the Mountain. One had to go via taxi. As the monument is not in the city, it was a fair drive and unfortunately, the taxi driver was Turkish and knew very little English and very little about the history of Norway.
My sole souvenir from Norway is a chip of flint stone from the hillock where the 'Sverd i fjell' are located. Had I sufficient funds, I would have purchased one of the gorgeous cardigans from 'Dale of Norway', something I always wanted but knew in my heart was out of my reach economically. I did visit the Dale of Norway shop in Stavanger and saw the cardigan of my dreams. Even have a photograph of it and did wear it for a brief moment. Sometimes, miracles are possible. I do have the email address of the shop.
Reality of Pain
Never published, written in 2016
No one can judge another person's pain or decide what amount of pain can be endured. I read about Palestinian women who, after having a limb torn off by a bomb during the Invasion, kept walking, searching for a lost child, actually refusing any medical attention. Here I am, with all my limbs, albeit only 30% of the original bone, and I am finding the pain completely unendurable.
One reads about people who pass out from pain... In 'Gone with the Wind', when Scarlett and Rhett take Melanie and her baby on the road from Atlanta and Scarlett asks about Melanie, she is told that she passed out from the pain.
I only have been experiencing this recently myself. I actually have moments when the pain beomes so severe that I lose consciousness briefly. It is terrifying. I don't want this reality. It is beyond my control completely... not a question of whether or not to take medication at this point even, but whether it is safe for me to stand, to walk across the floor even with a walker. In the middle of the night, I sit on the edge of my bed and the tears flow silently down my cheeks. As Theoden asked in the 'Two Towers', 'How did it come to this?'
I know there are plenty of individuals whose situations are far worse than mine. There are people who are dying... but then, is dying worse than THIS life? For many, many years, since becoming disabled in fact, I have perceived death as a release, as the promise of Peace at the end of a long struggle. I do not want to die, but I don't want a life that is no life either.
So, three weeks to go before the first operation, if I only can survive it. Each day when I take care of my cats, I promise them that I will not surrender to despair, that I will come through to the other side of this dark tunnel. They need me and for that, I take those excruciatingly painful steps down the stair every day, although I admit my patience when Cupid attempts to eat yet another plastic bag is not what it once was.
There are those who think of my Cats as an ordeal I shouldn't suffer, as something that makes my life more difficult now, but in fact, I don't know how I would survive this without them. It is their love and their need for me that keeps me going, day by day, that makes me determined not to surrender. The loneliness of my current existence would be unendurable with them. I have no social life at this point and no affection apart from theirs. I never expected this sort of life, never expected a situation this alienated from human affection.
I have discovered that many people are afraid of disability and of pain. They retreat from it for whatever reason. It is not even that it is boring or tedious, which it is. It terrifies them, so they avert their gaze and choose to ignore it. Love is not always positive. I have learned that people can love you and that can make them crueler than they would be if they felt indifference or dislike. Love can be the most positive influence in a person's life but the wrong kind of love can be utterly destructive.
One reads about people who pass out from pain... In 'Gone with the Wind', when Scarlett and Rhett take Melanie and her baby on the road from Atlanta and Scarlett asks about Melanie, she is told that she passed out from the pain.
I only have been experiencing this recently myself. I actually have moments when the pain beomes so severe that I lose consciousness briefly. It is terrifying. I don't want this reality. It is beyond my control completely... not a question of whether or not to take medication at this point even, but whether it is safe for me to stand, to walk across the floor even with a walker. In the middle of the night, I sit on the edge of my bed and the tears flow silently down my cheeks. As Theoden asked in the 'Two Towers', 'How did it come to this?'
I know there are plenty of individuals whose situations are far worse than mine. There are people who are dying... but then, is dying worse than THIS life? For many, many years, since becoming disabled in fact, I have perceived death as a release, as the promise of Peace at the end of a long struggle. I do not want to die, but I don't want a life that is no life either.
So, three weeks to go before the first operation, if I only can survive it. Each day when I take care of my cats, I promise them that I will not surrender to despair, that I will come through to the other side of this dark tunnel. They need me and for that, I take those excruciatingly painful steps down the stair every day, although I admit my patience when Cupid attempts to eat yet another plastic bag is not what it once was.
There are those who think of my Cats as an ordeal I shouldn't suffer, as something that makes my life more difficult now, but in fact, I don't know how I would survive this without them. It is their love and their need for me that keeps me going, day by day, that makes me determined not to surrender. The loneliness of my current existence would be unendurable with them. I have no social life at this point and no affection apart from theirs. I never expected this sort of life, never expected a situation this alienated from human affection.
I have discovered that many people are afraid of disability and of pain. They retreat from it for whatever reason. It is not even that it is boring or tedious, which it is. It terrifies them, so they avert their gaze and choose to ignore it. Love is not always positive. I have learned that people can love you and that can make them crueler than they would be if they felt indifference or dislike. Love can be the most positive influence in a person's life but the wrong kind of love can be utterly destructive.
Samrat Upadhyay and the Obsession with Sons
Recently, in the midst of my very real isolation and lack of mobility, a door from my past suddenly beckoned and, having kept it firmly latched for years, I was able to enter and find renewed interest in a period from my childhood that had caused me so much agony and pain that I never had been able to think about it without suffering.
It was the period I spent in Nepal that I could not revisit but now, with renewed interest, I am finding a veritable treasure trove of memories and new experiences. One of these is my interest in items from Nepal, mostly of a semi-religious nature that are unique to that culture. It has been a source of great joy and a thrill to rediscover the Madhal Drum, the Kurawa waterpot, Lord Shiva's Trisul (beloved of sadhus) and the Sukunda lamp, inter alia.
The language of the past, which I had forgotten returns little by little. It never was pure Nepali but an odd mixture of Newari (Nepal Bhasa) and Nepali, given the fact that I lived mainly among Newars. The alphabet returns slowly, very slowly but more readily, certain words become familiar to me once more.
With this interest came a desire to read novels, not only about Nepal but about India as well. After all, Nepal and Northern India in particular, share many cultural traditions. I read all the books I could find by Qurratulain Hyder and from there, Neel Mukherjee's novels. Both are extraordinary scholars as well as fine writers. It shames me actually as a Northern European with a somewhat classical background to find that, if I compare my knowledge and learning with theirs, I will be found lacking... for apart from their extensive knowledge of European history, literature and civilisations, they have a magnificent knowledge of Indian, Arab and Persian literature, history and culture where mine is poor, even if better than many Europeans.
dhyay.
Actually, it was my daughter Freya who handed me her copy of 'Fireflies in the Mist', a book that was required reading at her University. She said, 'Here, Mum, I think you will appreciate this more than any one.' It sat on my bed for awhile, but one day I picked it up and did not put it down again until I had finished it. From there, I went on to read her 'River of Fire'. In a conversation with some friends who visit Nepal regularly, I happened to recommend her and was asked in return if I had read 'The Lives of Others' by Mukherjee. I was familiar with his reputation but had not read anything by him, so that was my next project.
From there, I became curious about contemporary Nepalese fiction and read 'The City Son' by Samrat Upadhyay. I now am reading his 'Buddha's Orphans'.
First of all, as a writer his work is in a completely different style and genre from Qurratulain Hyder and Neel Mukherjee. The latter both act as historians, literary repositories of their own culture and religion. Although Hyder was a Muslim, all of the religious traditions of India and later, Pakistan, formed an important part of her work. Both Mukherjee and Hyder address politics as a fundamental influence in all walks of life and every class.
They both tend to be fearless as well in delving into the human psyche, whether within the family unit, the village, universities or among the ruling class. Mukherjee is more graphic in some of his writing but Hyder does not shrink from the less admirable motivations and acts both of men and women.
It was Samrat Upadhyay, however, whom I wished to discuss here. He is one of the best known Nepalese writers internationally and indeed teaches creative writing at the Univeristy of Indiana in the States. Does he deserve the extraordinary praise I have seen in some reviews that compare him to James Joyce on one hand and the Russian masters on the other?
Personally, I would not go quite that far although he is a fine writer in a very different way from the two other novelists I mentioned. His style is simple and direct. There are a few literary allusions, mainly to Western literature, but his works are not steeped in references like the others. It is his characters, primarily, that give his books the incredible power they possess. They are unforgettable. I do find there appears to be a sort of leitmotif operating through his work in the form of the young boy who becomes the focus of obsession between more than one 'mother' figure. I shall have to read another novel by him before I can judge if his motifs permeate everything he writes, but in both 'The City Son' and 'Buddha's Orphans' there is a woman whose descent into madness is caused by the loss of a man. In the one, she is widowed and in the other, her husband is recovered by his first wife, making her an outsider. In the one, the child is an orphan and in the other, the child of the second wife who becomes mad, leaving him to the obsession of the first wife. In both cases, however, he is a 'beautiful boy' who becomes the focus of an intense power struggle between two women. The loser inevitably is almost destroyed by the loss of the child.
The plots are very compelling, of course, and the theme is a potent one, but what motivates his return to it? Is it some kind of wishful thinking, some desire as a man, once a boy, to be loved to that extent, if you can consider obsession love? In a land where there are so many orphans who are utterly unwanted, is it some kind of political statement? I think somehow it is something deep in the author's own psyche that gives him some kind of satisfaction to explore. In 'The City Son' the relationship is scandalous, even wicked by the srtandards of most cultures, even his own and it ultimately works to destroy more than one life. The first wife, originally a victim, becomes a force of destruction. Is she evil? Well, that is a matter of opinion but certainly her acts become evil in their far-reaching dimensions.
'Buddha's Orphans' is a very different novel from 'City Son', however, in that it is a poignant love story as well as a dramatic record of the political climate in Nepal in the period after Mahendra's rule.
I personally particularly enjoy Upadhyay's work because it brings back memories of my childhood. Even while enjoying his descriptions of Nepal and his use of Nepali in dialogue, both are a source of two of my greatest criticisms of his books.
First of all, I believe that, although he caters primarily to an English-speaking audience, he cheats that audience by frequent use of Nepali dialogue without any translation. I do not know if he is motivated by some odd political or social agenda that asserts through this, 'Although my nation is one of the smallest in the world, why shouldn't you be familiar with MY language?' It is counterproductive, however. Why should there not be at least a glossary at the end of his books giving translations of the Nepali words and phrases? How can a reader LEARN anything or enjoy dialogues he/she cannot understand?
Second of all, his books would benefit greatly from a map or two. He describes the various areas of Kathmandu in wonderful detail but again, readers who never visited Nepal would enjoy the books much more if they could look at a little map showing where the temples and schools and other interesting landmarks are located.
There is a characteristic that all three of the novelists I have mentioned share and that is a fearless and extraordinary willingness to explore the dark areas of the human soul, whether sexual, religious, political or cultural. I seldom have encountered anything quite like it in Western literature. Oh yes, Western writers are keen to shock and use sex as a tool to gain readers but it seldom is anything profound or unforgettably disturbing.
Of course, sex was recognised and accepted as one of the great powers in life in India and Nepal when it was being stuffed into wardrobes and hidden at any cost in Europe and the States. The worship of the Lingam and the graphic nature of temple drawings, even if one were not Hindu oneself, had to play a role in every individual's upbringing to some extent. Even Muslim writers like Hyder do not have the peculiar crippling disability that Western writers must labour often to overcome in this respect. Yes, we write now freely about Sado-Masochism and the taboo subjects but we do so almost in an artificial fashion.
Hyder is not like the other two in the style in which she addresses the topic. She is from a different generation and is not graphic in the way she deals with human relationships, whether physical, emotional or spiritual. She is far more a 'reader's writer' than the other two as well. You have to have patience and determination to plumb the depths of her works but the effort is entirely rewarding. Her books truly are national treasures. What nation? Well, that could be a source of confusion as well and I think this is one of the themes of her works, how India suffered through the Partition that divided families and a nation. Mukherjee deals with the Partition a little as well but not to the same extent, although his books are very political.
What I see, though, in all three writers, is an essential emotional honesty and integrity that is willing to lay bare the soul for the edification of others as well as themselves. All three are very powerful writers and one does not emerge from their books unscathed.
It was the period I spent in Nepal that I could not revisit but now, with renewed interest, I am finding a veritable treasure trove of memories and new experiences. One of these is my interest in items from Nepal, mostly of a semi-religious nature that are unique to that culture. It has been a source of great joy and a thrill to rediscover the Madhal Drum, the Kurawa waterpot, Lord Shiva's Trisul (beloved of sadhus) and the Sukunda lamp, inter alia.
The language of the past, which I had forgotten returns little by little. It never was pure Nepali but an odd mixture of Newari (Nepal Bhasa) and Nepali, given the fact that I lived mainly among Newars. The alphabet returns slowly, very slowly but more readily, certain words become familiar to me once more.
With this interest came a desire to read novels, not only about Nepal but about India as well. After all, Nepal and Northern India in particular, share many cultural traditions. I read all the books I could find by Qurratulain Hyder and from there, Neel Mukherjee's novels. Both are extraordinary scholars as well as fine writers. It shames me actually as a Northern European with a somewhat classical background to find that, if I compare my knowledge and learning with theirs, I will be found lacking... for apart from their extensive knowledge of European history, literature and civilisations, they have a magnificent knowledge of Indian, Arab and Persian literature, history and culture where mine is poor, even if better than many Europeans.
dhyay.
Actually, it was my daughter Freya who handed me her copy of 'Fireflies in the Mist', a book that was required reading at her University. She said, 'Here, Mum, I think you will appreciate this more than any one.' It sat on my bed for awhile, but one day I picked it up and did not put it down again until I had finished it. From there, I went on to read her 'River of Fire'. In a conversation with some friends who visit Nepal regularly, I happened to recommend her and was asked in return if I had read 'The Lives of Others' by Mukherjee. I was familiar with his reputation but had not read anything by him, so that was my next project.
From there, I became curious about contemporary Nepalese fiction and read 'The City Son' by Samrat Upadhyay. I now am reading his 'Buddha's Orphans'.
First of all, as a writer his work is in a completely different style and genre from Qurratulain Hyder and Neel Mukherjee. The latter both act as historians, literary repositories of their own culture and religion. Although Hyder was a Muslim, all of the religious traditions of India and later, Pakistan, formed an important part of her work. Both Mukherjee and Hyder address politics as a fundamental influence in all walks of life and every class.
They both tend to be fearless as well in delving into the human psyche, whether within the family unit, the village, universities or among the ruling class. Mukherjee is more graphic in some of his writing but Hyder does not shrink from the less admirable motivations and acts both of men and women.
It was Samrat Upadhyay, however, whom I wished to discuss here. He is one of the best known Nepalese writers internationally and indeed teaches creative writing at the Univeristy of Indiana in the States. Does he deserve the extraordinary praise I have seen in some reviews that compare him to James Joyce on one hand and the Russian masters on the other?
Personally, I would not go quite that far although he is a fine writer in a very different way from the two other novelists I mentioned. His style is simple and direct. There are a few literary allusions, mainly to Western literature, but his works are not steeped in references like the others. It is his characters, primarily, that give his books the incredible power they possess. They are unforgettable. I do find there appears to be a sort of leitmotif operating through his work in the form of the young boy who becomes the focus of obsession between more than one 'mother' figure. I shall have to read another novel by him before I can judge if his motifs permeate everything he writes, but in both 'The City Son' and 'Buddha's Orphans' there is a woman whose descent into madness is caused by the loss of a man. In the one, she is widowed and in the other, her husband is recovered by his first wife, making her an outsider. In the one, the child is an orphan and in the other, the child of the second wife who becomes mad, leaving him to the obsession of the first wife. In both cases, however, he is a 'beautiful boy' who becomes the focus of an intense power struggle between two women. The loser inevitably is almost destroyed by the loss of the child.
The plots are very compelling, of course, and the theme is a potent one, but what motivates his return to it? Is it some kind of wishful thinking, some desire as a man, once a boy, to be loved to that extent, if you can consider obsession love? In a land where there are so many orphans who are utterly unwanted, is it some kind of political statement? I think somehow it is something deep in the author's own psyche that gives him some kind of satisfaction to explore. In 'The City Son' the relationship is scandalous, even wicked by the srtandards of most cultures, even his own and it ultimately works to destroy more than one life. The first wife, originally a victim, becomes a force of destruction. Is she evil? Well, that is a matter of opinion but certainly her acts become evil in their far-reaching dimensions.
'Buddha's Orphans' is a very different novel from 'City Son', however, in that it is a poignant love story as well as a dramatic record of the political climate in Nepal in the period after Mahendra's rule.
I personally particularly enjoy Upadhyay's work because it brings back memories of my childhood. Even while enjoying his descriptions of Nepal and his use of Nepali in dialogue, both are a source of two of my greatest criticisms of his books.
First of all, I believe that, although he caters primarily to an English-speaking audience, he cheats that audience by frequent use of Nepali dialogue without any translation. I do not know if he is motivated by some odd political or social agenda that asserts through this, 'Although my nation is one of the smallest in the world, why shouldn't you be familiar with MY language?' It is counterproductive, however. Why should there not be at least a glossary at the end of his books giving translations of the Nepali words and phrases? How can a reader LEARN anything or enjoy dialogues he/she cannot understand?
Second of all, his books would benefit greatly from a map or two. He describes the various areas of Kathmandu in wonderful detail but again, readers who never visited Nepal would enjoy the books much more if they could look at a little map showing where the temples and schools and other interesting landmarks are located.
There is a characteristic that all three of the novelists I have mentioned share and that is a fearless and extraordinary willingness to explore the dark areas of the human soul, whether sexual, religious, political or cultural. I seldom have encountered anything quite like it in Western literature. Oh yes, Western writers are keen to shock and use sex as a tool to gain readers but it seldom is anything profound or unforgettably disturbing.
Of course, sex was recognised and accepted as one of the great powers in life in India and Nepal when it was being stuffed into wardrobes and hidden at any cost in Europe and the States. The worship of the Lingam and the graphic nature of temple drawings, even if one were not Hindu oneself, had to play a role in every individual's upbringing to some extent. Even Muslim writers like Hyder do not have the peculiar crippling disability that Western writers must labour often to overcome in this respect. Yes, we write now freely about Sado-Masochism and the taboo subjects but we do so almost in an artificial fashion.
Hyder is not like the other two in the style in which she addresses the topic. She is from a different generation and is not graphic in the way she deals with human relationships, whether physical, emotional or spiritual. She is far more a 'reader's writer' than the other two as well. You have to have patience and determination to plumb the depths of her works but the effort is entirely rewarding. Her books truly are national treasures. What nation? Well, that could be a source of confusion as well and I think this is one of the themes of her works, how India suffered through the Partition that divided families and a nation. Mukherjee deals with the Partition a little as well but not to the same extent, although his books are very political.
What I see, though, in all three writers, is an essential emotional honesty and integrity that is willing to lay bare the soul for the edification of others as well as themselves. All three are very powerful writers and one does not emerge from their books unscathed.
Saturday, March 12, 2022
Cybercrime and Immorality
With Russia in the news now again, vilified in the conflict with the Ukraine, I personally feel compassion for both sides, but have some firsthand knowledge of the eqse with which Russian experts can infiltrate and commit fraud and identity theft. There are plenty of Ukrainians with similar skills, of course. I simply happen to have suffered personally.
I could tell you a tale that would make your hair stand on end about greed, money laundering, cybercrime, and basically common theft and blackmail.
I will write this as fiction, even though it is fact. I will not name names, even though I could. I want to be left in peace.
As we begin with the tale that rivals anything Dickens could have concocted:
'The relationship between Willy Greenfrond and Viktoria Uberfarmer was based on mutual contempt, a common thirst for wealth, and a sense of elitism that simply threw the Ten Commandments out of the window where any crime they committed was concerned.
Among documented crimes they had committed, together or separately were theft, blackmail, fraud, and at the top of this whitewashed pyramid of accomplishments, murder.
Viktoria actually had a sister who was her elder, but she had been rewriting history for decades to portray herself as an only child born of the barren union of her mother and her stepfather. Somehow she hoped to be able to create a canvas locally that completely ignored the real family, wherein her father and mother had two children and one granddaughter from each. In an interview for a local paper, she spoke of three generations that consisted only of her stepfather and mother, herself, and her polyamorous daughter. Other family members read the article, but the other dqughter and granddaughter really were unfazed. It was par for the course from the mouth of an egocentric sociopath.
The day the worlds of Viktoria and Albie collided was auspicious for both of them. He, a Jewish man from New York who had gained nothing after the death of his local wife, was trawling a Catholic Grief Group for a rich widow, and obtained a two for one deal.
Viktoria acquired a flunkie, a man who lied to her initially about his status and assets, but ultimately proved more useful and pliable as a penniless scoundrel.
The family reacted like a flock of silly geese. 'Viktoria is in love!' they cried. 'Finally there is some one to take her off our hands!'
They had grown weary over the years of Viktoria's manipulations. She would order up a driver in the form of an aunt or uncle as though they were her personal unpaid Uber fleet. She would ask to be taken to the supermarket where she would complete a huge shopping and then, when she reached the cashier, with mock surprise claim she had forgotten her handbag. Her aunt would be forced to pay for the lot and then chaffeur V. back home.
As the story goes, Auntie finally lost patience and insisted Viktoria go home to fetch her money to pay for the goods herself.
The entire family must carry some of the responsibility for creating two generations of monsters. They pandered to these two manipulative women endlessly. Indeed, one of the reasons Viktoria refused to speak to her sister for about a decade was because she refused an outrageous demand.
Viktoria essentially summoned her sister and her family to meet them at an aeroport for half an hour rather like a meeting with an inferior on a royal tour. The fact rhat other family members had agreed to these brief uncomfortable and highly inconvenient meetings had calcified Viktoria's sense that this was normal procedure. It would be a three hour drive each way. Her sister said plainly that the plan was absurd. She suggested a real visit instead, either at her home or in the City.
That was the last she ever heard from Viktoria until their mother threatened to cut her out of the inheritance unless she made peace with her sister.
More of this later. Most of the scullduggery belongs to the era after the death of the mother.
I consider the world of finance to be a marshland of immorality. Not too long ago, I tried to help a family member find 'a man with good hair' on a dating app. As I had no experience with dating apps myself, I was fascinated with the concept of simply swiping left or right to accept or condemn to oblivion. It made me feel like I was a Roman who had the power to deliver thumbs up or down. It quickly became a little tiresome.
One of the more educational moments was when almost immediately, I was accosted by a man who was rather handsome, purported to be an Irish Catholic, and had some measure of personal charm. Rather quickly, I discovered he was trawling for elderly women of means to persuade them to invest through him in cryptocurrency.
He was a babe in the woods though compared to my childhood sweetheart who systematically lied, stole, and comprehensively hacked all of my accounts shortly after my mum died.
After seeing the Irish bloke had three entirely different profiles on social media, and absurdly claimed to own a private jet, small yacht and vacation home in Hawaii, as he lamently occasionally the fact that all he wanted in life was a home of his own, I completely closed all avenues of communication. I never introduced him to the actual object of his desires. I was kinder to him than she would have been. Absurdly I had wished to protect her a little from the sexual and financial predators, when in fact she can speak quite plainly and effectively.
So back to Russian grift. What a tale that is! I should have understood from the start that a man who alternately insults and then romances you has no feelings whatsoever for you or is emotionally stunted. Either situation does not promote happiness.
I was weak emotionally as I had just endured both cancer, my mother's death and great treachery and cruelty at the hands of some members of my family and their agents.
I since have discovered that many people suffer the most grievous losses and hurt at the hands of their own siblings, but wishful thinking dominated my soul at that point in time.
Looking back, I feel my childhood 'friend' probably was one of her agents as well, even though she always declared she had nothing but contempt for him. If he really had cared about me even as a friend, he eould have contacted me sooner and not looked to profit for it.
'Business as usual' he called all of the deceit, hacking, stealing, as well as attempts to create false details for the purpose of blackmail. I was set up to look like a less than competent woman. My mistake was that I always am too polite to tell some one he or she is a liar.
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