from the Gothenburg Book Fair

September 27, 2006

by Easterine Kire Iralu

EXILE
 
(Alfred Tennyson’s poem, “The Lotus-eaters,” recounts the many adventures of Ulysses and his crew making their way home after the Trojan war. Having experienced terrible tragedy at the hands of the one-eyed Cyclops and the sorceress who changed half the crew inot pigs, they finally come to an island where young men and women offer them lotus-fruit to eat. They accept and after eating the fruit, experience extreme lethargy, yet it is a welcome rest from all the struggles and they rest temporarily.)

 
I ask this question in the night

will guilt always be

my companion in exile?

the accusing knowledge

that I chose to run away

rather than stay on and fight?

Self-knowledge can be a road of painful discoveries.

Yesterday I had believed I was true

I had believed I was brave, even,

letting out a squeak of protest

whenever one more was killed.

I tried to name them one by one

but I could not name them all

there were so many being killed

too many.

In unwilling dreams I still see

the horrid last sight of home:

my friend’s mother’s blood

and the blood of a young man she never knew

flowing together in a purple pool

refusing to congeal.

Ah, my country, my sweet homeland

it was not enough for you that I loved you

you would have me dash myself against the rocks to prove it.

 
Remember the soldier whose nerve broke

and made him run from the battlefield

madly, from tree to bombed-out-stump-of-tree

from one cracked open rock to the next

just running away to anywhere at all

anywhere he would not have to hear

the sounds of the battle

and the terrible cries of the dying

every which way he turned?

Somewhere where he could close his eyes

and not see his friend’s eyes glaze over in death

remember him?

that one in the war movies everyone loved to hate

because he wasn’t man enough to die?

In self-exile

that is what I hate about myself

that ugly runaway soldier in me.

The constant accusation

that I chose to run for safety

when the right thing

the brave thing

would have been to stay and stand and shout

“Stop, stop the killings!”

and grit-gut myself

to being shot in the back

or head, or heart

anywhere, but basically shot to death for speaking out.

That is how some men

have fought our battle back home

led by the vision

that the courage to say no

is more important than life itself.

But I

I came hither

with my pilgrim burden

soul-sick of the killing and the dying

only wanting life for me and mine

so grateful for a little peace, a little slice of life.

I am kin to the lotus-eaters

I am so weary of being tossed by sea storms,

washed up on your shores, half dead

I lie on these sands, these spreading grasses

lulled into forgetfulness

deaf to the urgent calls of wife and children

of that place I called home;

“Let me be, let me be, for a little while

I have such need of this lotus-rest

I must lie still and wait

till my strength returns to me.”

God-led to this, my lotus-land

I raise my drowsy head

I pluck at my broken harp

and am astonished to find

I can remember

what my people were

before they came to be

what they are now.

The happy songs and poems and stories

before this unhappy present.

I saw a slogan on a Tromsø bus:

“Angst is so yesterday!”

Truly, I am tired of my angst

and the angst of my homeland.

Allow me to sing a new song

Oh country of my rebirth

I must, perforce, tell of where I came from

but your singing woods and calm skies

your tranquil shores and starry nights

evoke like harmony in me.

Allow me to tell a happy tale for now:

“There was a maiden in our village, so fair, so fair

that none of the  young men felt themselves equal

to ask for her hand in marriage.

Then one day, the sky-dweller came and claimed her

for himself, so all ended well.”

Tomorrow,

Tomorrow we will talk if you still want to listen

of the man who looked his father’s killer in the eye

and said gently, “For Christ’s sake, I forgive you.”

Today, do not make me tell that tale

we can do with some respite from weeping.


Ah, my country, my sweet homeland

it was not enough for you that I loved

you would have me dash myself against the rocks to prove it.

 
One day I would like to go home again. By way of the silk route if all other routes are closed to me, tracing the snow mountain passes of my mongolian ancestors. And  hopefully finding stories buried in snow. The brutality of life at home has driven me away. Far from home, the brutalisation of my people still haunts me and makes me grieve for them and the political bloodbath that is killing everything of value in our hills. If you will listen, I would like to share our tales, both the happy ones and the unbearably sad ones because they have both gone into the making of my people.
 
In writing I am always addressing two audiences, one, the audience at home, and the other, the new readership in Europe who confess that they never even knew that there was a country called Nagaland. There is such angst therein. In my lotus land, I am torn by the tempation to only write sweet stories about Norwegian trolls who turn to stone when the sun rises so that the captive princess escapes thereby, yet my heart feels its terrible duty to make visible the invisible conflict my people have been slave to. The  long story of occupation and genocide that no one has heard of. What angst it is to be real.
 
I am the ancient mariner
I have been alone, all all alone on the vast sea
and seen what no man should have seen.
Henceforth must I fix my glitt’ring eye upon you
and you, I hope, like the wedding guest, will listen.
 
 
Our grandfathers told this story. Earth and Sky were man and wife: Earth was bigger than sky so when Sky said, “Wife fold up your knees so I can cover you,” Earth folded up her knees and they became the mountains. But because Earth was so big, there were parts of her left out when Sky covered her. There were people living on those edges of the earth. They grew wrinkled in a year because there was no sky to protect them from those harsh, harsh winds.
 
I sometimes imagine that my people are those people living upon the edges of the earth, crying to be let in but dismissed by those inside as just howling wind. These are the stories I am struggling to tell, the invisible stories, of a nation denied birth, and the long struggle that is killing itself from within.
 

And then, I ask the night sky, why is it so important to be visible? Why does it have to matter so much that as much of the world as possible know that we once lived on our portion of earth and were denied voice and life? My lotus-land restores my throttled voice slowly. If you will listen, I can do the telling now.

by Easterine Kire Iralu

Speaking of Terrorism

September 26, 2006

The folowing is a speech given by Ren Powell in Milan during the PEN Italian Conference in June of 2006. It will be published along with the other speeches in the autumn of 2006.

All words have at least two definitions: the denotation and the connotation. In English humid, muggy and sultry all have similar denotations, but differing connotations. I once got into a heated debate about whether the word sultry was really the appropriate choice for a children’s picture book: as in “it was a sultry afternoon”. Perhaps it’s true that I’d read too many Hollywood magazine articles about “sultry blonds” and “sultry brunettes”. But if it’s true, I’m not alone; it’s irresponsible to ignore the historical context of a word. The meanings of individual words alter over time through use, through the contexts of their applications. Remarkably few words are neutral in tone. More significant than nuance of meaning, is nuance of feeling. Tone, feeling, color, taste—the aspect of meaning that forces us to employ metaphor and synaesthesia to communicate. I am talking about the definition that is not noted in the dictionary: the quality that makes translation so demanding, that makes it an art rather than a science. It is also the quality that makes it so easy for individuals, governments and media to misdirect the attention of their audience: a linguistic sleight of hand. Words laden with emotion are the political illusionist’s tools: they can make things appear as they are not; they can make things and people and opinions disappear.

When I grew up in the Reagan-Thatcher years, the English language media was swamped with the nouns separatists and freedom-fighters. A separatist: separatist is one of those rare words that has an almost neutral connotation. If I call a person a separatist you can’t be certain of my attitude regarding the “cause” in question. Freedom-fighter: well, there’s an emotional word. I’d not likely set myself against someone fighting for “freedom”. I hope you’ll indulge me in sharing an entirely unscientific observation, but when I type the word separatist in the Google search engine I get 3, 130, 000 hits. When I type in Freedom-fighter I get 16,800,000 hits. Freedom-fighter suited the Reagan-Thatcher agenda.

When I type in the word terrorist I get 92,600,000 hits. I don’t expect this comes as a surprise to anyone. If heads of states in every part of the world were asked to list their most prized power tools, I’m certain the word terrorist would top every single list. The label is a gun with a silencer. Not only does it silence the non-violent separatist, the dissident, the political disobedient, it silences the international community. Though there are a myriad of definitions for terrorist, the tone is identical: “criminal acts”, “violence and intimidation”, “psychological warfare”, “inciting fear” among and within civilian populations, and the use “coercion to promote political or ideological goals”. Clearly, terrorists are the Bad Guys. The term obliterates all shades of gray in a discussion. Once a head of state labels an individual or a group of people with a common ideology, the situation is polarized: you are either with us or against us. The word separatist frees the international community from taking sides, but once the label terrorist has been put on people’s heads, avoiding the word terrorist, or replacing it with another word shatters the illusion. It is looking up the magician’s sleeve and questioning his or her integrity.

Of course there are terrorists. The deaths of 14,600 civilians in 2005 were not illusions. It’s not an exaggeration to say that every day the media relate a truly horrifying incident somewhere in the world, an incident expressly designed to terrify us, to keep us up nights, to force us to beg governments, “Please, just let them have their way so this will stop.” It would be ridiculous for me to suggest that governments not protect their citizens from terrorist acts. It would be equally ridiculous to suggest that governments do so by giving in to the demands of terrorists. However, fighting fire with fire is not the solution.

When the word terrorist comes to mean a person who holds a dissenting opinion rather than a person who commits an act with the intension of inciting terror, the word itself becomes a state-sanctioned terrorist tactic. By this, I mean that the threat of being labelled a terrorist coerces the civilian population into submission, compliance and silence. Countries with effectively single-party systems can and do censor opposition by declaring any and all dissidents as terrorists or potential terrorists or terrorist sympathisers. Countries involved in intercultural conflicts can and do use the “fight against terrorism” as an excuse to suppress people with specialized education. Fear creates an anti-intellectual climate and in this climate language becomes a blunt force instrument. Polarizing Rhetoric. Slogans. The World in Black and White.

I’m here today as a representative for ICORN- the International Cities of Refuge Network. Our objective is to help threatened or persecuted writers connect with a city somewhere in the world that can offer them a safe place to live and write for a period of time. Our job isn’t to get the good guys out of the bad countries. Our job is to make the shades of gray visible again: to facilitate a more nuanced dialogue.

Today there are seven cities of refuge in Norway alone, nearly 30 internationally, and spanning 3 continents. Norway’s guest writers have come from countries as diverse as India, Zimbabwe, Iran, Benin, Yemen and Russia. Their stories are just as diverse: Islam Elsanov, a Chechen filmmaker, whose ticking alarm clock sealed to his status as a terrorist suspect; and Easterine Kire, an indigenous woman in Nagaland whose political ideology has been tied to terrorism by the Indian government, and whose non-violent principles have been interpreted as traitorous by radical separatists: she is caught between poles. As I began writing this speech our current guest writer in Stavanger told me about how Zimbabwe’s president, Mugabe, is rushing to enact anti-terrorist legislation. If this novelist, Chenjerai Hove, were to return home now and meet up with more than three other people for a nice chat, under these new laws, he’d run the risk of being labelled a terrorist. It’s a sobering realization. A frightening thought. Still, I know that won’t silence Chenjerai Hove, just as it hasn’t silenced Easterine Kire or Islam Elsanov.

The former guest writer and exiled Yemeni poet Mansur Rajih wrote about the importance of language and communication in his poem Language:

Don’t you see?
If we couldn’t enunciate
How could we sing?…
How could we call out for each other?
Talk to the children?
And how could we share our dreams
If there were no language?

The poet Robert Frost said that freedom lies in being bold. Expressing oneself, one’s beliefs, opinions and convictions is perhaps the boldest thing a person can do. Expressing oneself is the ultimate assertion of freedom. It is our right and our responsibility to take part in and to facilitate a careful and nuanced dialogue. We need to “watch our language”—not to be polite or politically correct, but to be meaningful.

by Ren Powell, BABEL contributing editor
Sidestepping Real

Bush, Nahum and Saddam between the Axis of Evil and the Bones of Contention

by Salah At-Tarjuman

It is all too evident that figures and the timing of agendas are as important in politics as they are in economics and everyday life activities. In Iraq, figures and the timing of agendas tell us a lot about the persistence of violence and the increasingly aggravating situation that amounts to bringing the country to the brink of an open civil war. Figures on money, oil, allocations and appointments tell of a growing but latent social dissatisfaction that would at any moment trigger strife that would push Iraq into primitivism and darkness and may as well send the whole region into chaos. It is only on the surface that this dissatisfaction is a cause of violence. But it is a rule of thumb that dissatisfaction has its roots going deeper in the social economic, ethnic, ethical and historical grassroots of Iraqi society as is the case with all societies in a given time of their history. We see a government provided with all means of force but persistently failing to impose its will, practice veritable power, or at least, protect itself from attacks. Then, a question imposes itself: Was Saddam much more powerful than both the existing government and the few tens of thousand USA soldiers stationed in Iraq? The answer, it seems, lurks in figures and agendas relating to the USA lack of insight and its policy making howlers in Iraq.
 
  One of the gravest mistakes committed by America besides the invasion itself is the timing of its operation which, some observer says it could have been ripe enough ten years earlier. Another is America’s misconceptions of Iraqi society, psychology and world-view. One may ask if America would finally come to (liberate) Iraq in 2003, why, then, did it impose blockade on Iraqi people that went on for more than ten years? For liberation doesn’t incorporate the destruction of the social and psychological structure of the people to be liberated ! Only the poor, the oppressed and the intellectuals suffered from the blockade while ironically Saddam was persistent in showing the world that he was not blockaded building sumptuous palaces and celebrating birth days with pyramids of cakes in open parties, meanwhile only war-mongers, smuggles and thieves thrived in Iraq.
 
  Americans were on the wrong track too when they were led to believing that Iraqis were all dissatisfied with Saddam or against him. Saddam’s parental policy and party vigilance have created a vast social and economic class including special army and security units which enjoyed undreamt of privileges, pay and luxury. The moment Americans entered Iraq, they embarked on bossing, killing and arresting (suspect) Iraqis, watching them out, hunting them down and buffing them away under the threat of guns` muzzles, almost after the British manner when Britain occupied India more than two and a half centuries ago. To send Iraq’s army and other military and security configurations home amounts to declaring a civil war in Iraq. Moreover, Iraqis have been always proud of their flag and army and are themselves militant in mentality, perspective and temperament. To declare that Iraq’s army is defeated, not Saddam’s regime is a downright ego-humbling experience for a people born worriers and boost of seven successive military civilizations which for centuries had mastered the whole Near East including Israel. Even the most law-abiding officer, soldier or partisan started to seek an alternative way for living which he couldn’t find. And the USA knows from the outset that there were many rich Arab and non-Arab neighbours even non-Arab Iraqis who cannot relish a would-be democratic, multi-ethnic and powerful Iraq. Iraqis would rather prefer the West including the USA, of course, not to finance Turkish water projects on Euphrates and Tigris since Turkey stands on a sweet water pool and has many rivers other than Euphrates and Tigris. Iraqis see their land reduced, their water resources depleted, even their very cultural and economic wealth seeping out of their homeland and hands. How could they, then, not resort to violence! If not against the Americans, against their own people. Bremer was either ignorant or indirectly dictated by Israel’s Old Guards to dissolve the Iraqi Armed Forces (which even I, partly Western in education, cannot write but in Capital Initials).Then, came Abu Ghreib scandal which any relational thinking would inescapably link with Israel too: Reading the Old Testament, we encounter a strange almost valid correlation between the curse of Nahum against Nineveh (Iraq in classical times), and Abu Ghreib tortures. The text runs as follows:
 
This is why I am against you, says the Great Lord. I will lift your skirt over your face. I will show the countries your nakedness. I will through garbage at you, etc. which has a striking similarity to the nakedness of the Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghreib – a straight-forward ego-humbling experience and a cultural insult undeservedly inflicted on a proud and dignified nation upon orders of Zionist circles. Yahweh is blind. He is only a figure-head desert God compared to Assur-Naserpal Pulu and Shalamanser the Third who brought Jehu to his knees kissing the feet of Assyrian might. By what miracle America wants Iraqis to forget and forgive while they are neither humanized to behave as humans nor respected to behave as Gods!
 
  The way the Americans deal with Iraqis and particularly the arrest of women indicates another significant aspect of American ignorance of Iraqi mentality. Adding fuel to fire, the USA has created power vacuum in Iraq. For what few tens of thousands of service men and women can do to stabilize such nation down-trodden, mauled about and dissatisfied in such a vast hide –and-hit, hit-and-run country? The number of the USA forces in active service in Iraq approximately equals the number of arch criminals released by Saddam two months before his downfall some of whom had immediately grown beards , turned into pious Muslims and joined the so-called resistance adding experience and a habit of blood-cold killing to the newly recruited Mujahideen. In fact, the cast of mind of an Iraqi man harbours a composite reversoir of character alternatives. He embraces both negative and positive tendencies, and the adoption of either depends largely on the situation and activation. So, a die-hard Baathist, communist or a criminal can easily turn into a pious Muslim or a violent assassinator and vice versa depending on reward and punishment expectations, contingencies and incentives if not on sheer need.
 
  Before the entry of Americans into Iraq, ethnic and sectarian divisions were fast asleep, and the killing of innocent people jammed in between various fighting factions which were concomitant with Iraq-Iran war, triple folded. Take, for instance, the Kurds: during Saddam reign the Kurds enjoyed more rights and freedoms than their peers in Turkey or Syria who were not even allowed dress their own native garments. However, American policy towards Iraqi Kurds runs counter to its policy towards the Turkish Kurds. Its policy in this respect made everyone believe in the so-called USA double standard behavior which persisted all the way through other regions in the Middle East particularly the way it handles the Israeli-Palestinian conflict while it policies towards Iraqi Kurds and their cousins across the borders is in a white and black contrast, providing the former with security and food through Provide Comfort Programme whereas supporting Turkish troops suppress the former, not because the PKK are still communists but rather because the USA historical attitude towards a secular Turkey dictates such a double-standard policy. Kurds generally were much more inclined to disobedience and revolt in Iraq than their counterparts in the neighbouring countries, and while the rest of Iraqis were suffering from the blockade imposed by superpowers on Iraq , the Kurds were in an almost a welfare state saving money and power. Some of them went so far as participating in the looting of weapons, equipment and wealth from Mosul, Kirkuk and other places at the night of the fall of Saddam under the coverage of the American-led coalition forces which brazenly allowed the looting of the Iraqi museum in the open daylight. This and other acts would, of course, create distrust in the Sunni Arabs of the north who never relish a Kurdish control of important offices in the present Iraqi government. Separatist tendencies began to mushroom and Iraq is threatened by disintegration and collapse. All this has taken place under the American umbrella. It was not the case during Saddam`s reign. And it seems logical that in a country made of various ethnicities like old Yugoslavia, the best system of government is a central dictatorship, which many prefer to chaos. So one is led to ask if anything has gone wrong between the outlook, the objectives and the real practices regarding this land-slide intervention in Iraq. A question that must call American people to reflect on and their policy-makers to digest and find solutions to.
 
  Now, America is paying a heavy price for the powers it has unleashed in Iraq. Soldiers on both sides are being killed. The current government of Iraq has tacitly or maybe unconsciously increased not decreased the causes of violence. It is axiomatic that in order to extinguish a fire, it would be more reasonable to remove the causes that have set it out. Again, figures talk in this connection. Most top offices in the State are given out to either Kurds or Shiites. Some lack the qualifications for the offices they hold. This, more or less, like the sectarian cleansing in Kirkuk, powerfully reminds us of Saddam`s nepotism and partisan policies of appointment to high offices. What is the difference then?
 
  Now, America has been almost four years in Iraq. But the government, the country and the state including the Americans themselves are still using the same infrastructure, administrative system and organization Saddam has built in Iraq. Neither electricity nor the general living standard has significantly improved. There was no fuel crises, no assassinations of authors, academics and talented people, there was security and people used to enjoy their spring, summer and even fall and winter staying out at night. Now, fear reigns supreme all over Iraq. Borders are still out of control and the government lacks competent security forces and most importantly intelligence. America does not let them much freedom or rather authority. The irony becomes flagrant when it comes to the needless proposal of changing the Iraqi flag which is the perceived and generally accepted symbol of sovereignty. If local flags are to be flown in different parts of Iraq, America would have done nothing for the unification of a mutilated nation. Rather Chauvinism will replace Chauvinism, disintegration will replace integration and heterogeneity will replace homogeneity. In other words, hatred will replace oppression. America would have done nothing then!
 
  Bananas and Pepsi colas are scattered everywhere in the Iraqi streets but there is also blood, fear and discontent. It is strange indeed to come all the way through the Atlantic Ocean with half-baked strategies and ideas of the Middle East for countries and nations are not what they look in the research papers presented by Bernard Lewis or by maps elegantly detailed and completed by National Geography. It is rather keeping to an ethical and proper line of action: What America has done to its supporters and heroes such as Sadat, Dhia`i-Haq Shah Iran and Saddam has not equally and deservedly done to the corrupt gulf Emirs, Saudi Arabia and other tycoons hot on weapons and porno industries, experts in the selling and buying of human flesh and dignity.  No wonder then that Islam would theoretically as well as practically look a better alternative for a better life for many young people trying a new form of salvation from the poisonous consumer culture preaching something while practicing another. No one would replace light by darkness unless this sort of darkness is coming out of a black midnight sun like that of Paul Eloir or Derrida. People usually compare and some remember the contradictions between open declarations and political statements on the one hand and actual acts on the other. And in comparing politics nowadays, one is strongly reminded by the God-father or Big-brother movie when the strong is always right, correct and obeyed, no matter the howlers and errors he makes.
 

  Syria and Iran form the historical, cultural and ecological grid with Iraq. Shifting a brick in the wall will not in all probabilities affect the whole block. Rather the two states are strongly and violently alarmed and are rigorously doing their very best to crumble American efforts in Iraq. And this might be the last nail in the coffin of the USA policy of expediency and unreason in the whole Middle East.

by Salah At-Tarjuman

On Borders and Hospitality

by Chenjerai Hove

As a writer, I have come to know that writers have the misfortune of being invited to speak on things about which they know absolutely nothing. What do I know about this magic string of words: ‘hospitality, knows no borders.’ All I know is that millions of innocent people have been killed or died fighting to preserve those things called borders, frontiers, boundaries, some kind of barriers against your friends or enemies, even if they are only potential enemies.

Imagine a world without borders. Automatically millions of people will lose their jobs. I am talking of passport officers, immigration officers, soldiers, military factories would close, gun traders would probably have to go home. Fence makers would have nothing to fence in or out. Builders of high, defensive walls, they will be unemployed. Makers of the technology of borders, all those would have to retire to be retrained for some other useful trade. What a wonderful world!

The ICORN project, is in its infancy, but with the benefit of previous experience gained through successes and failtures of other similar efforts elsewhere, demands that we reflect on goals, risks and possibilities.

Words are always a search for possibilities, they are fluid and they break like eggs, as my friend and poet Niyi Osundare says. For, ICORN seeks to give comfort to victims of words. Who said words are fragile? They are indeed fragile, but it has come to the notice of the world that the owners of words, the creators of these dots on paper, are more vulnerable than the word itself.

Was it Greek philosopher, Plato, who poetically said poets should be banned from the republic? As far as I can see, the republic usually demands quantifiable things, bridges, roads, tall buildings, an abundance of police and security officers. The republic seems to hate words, images, metaphors. Hence the creators of words and images find themselves as vulnerable as their creations. The republic is afraid of images to which it does not exercise control.

Control, that is the word, the power to give meaning to things, events, shapes and sizes of things, the power to name reality. Under dictatorial and suppressive regimes,  ‘words cause itches on the private parts of the republic.’

Words name the nakedness of the emperor as it is, its beauty and its ugliness. Writers, and indeed all artists, search for new ways of naming the angels and their devils. But yousee, the angels and devils of the republic happen to own the institutions of giving or depriving others of freedom in all its manifestations - freedom to create words, freedom to share them, freedom to move across borders (real or imagined), freedom to name the sound of the waves.

Sometimes I think that we, as writers, wordcrafters, are persecuted by mistake. How can the whole republic be so afraid of a mere mortal who does not even own a house, who owns only a mind and heart that he or she listens to? How can the republic think it will collapse if words are allowed to mushroom in the hearts and minds of the citizens?

But then I know, from experience, that in the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, the word became flesh.
 
Before I left my cruel, beloved country in 2001, four heavily armed police officers came to arrest me. I mean heavily armed, to come to arrest a single writer. The crime was that I was a drug dealer, shipping cannabis across the border to Botswana although I had never been to that border in my life. When I successfully explained myself out of the imminent arrest, I asked the senior officer why they would bring guns to arrest a mere writer. His answer was that there was the possibility of me running away.

Then I thought, have words, poems, lyrics, become cannabis? As the policemen drove away, friends could only warn: ‘You have asked for it again? You and your poetry are in trouble.’

In places where governments manufacture silence alongside bullets, words and those who produce them are a serious threat to national security.  As Uruguayan writer, Eduardo Galeano once said: ‘internal exile is always harder and more futile than any exile outside.’

Before we left home, we were already in exile, banished to prison, to borders of silence, to a forced amnesia, to a life of total insecurity. The midnight knock on our doors always exhausted us with fear. In my case, I decided to work throughout most nights until sunrise, to avoid the nightmares.

Reality is elusive, like a dream. It needs to be named. Those who have the capacity to search for new names for this elusive dream called reality, are, indeed, in danger. For, after they take away our reality, they also want to take away our dreams, our visions in their total complexity.

I believe writers and other artists have the task, the duty to celebrate human joy, sadness, human folly, and the ugliness and beauty of our social and cultural aspirations. We try to celebrate the lies and truths which we tell ourselves. In other words, we fight for the right to be wrong but free.

A writer denied the right to celebrate the moon, love, flowers, hatred and doubt  is like a bird denied to sing to the arrival of the flowers of spring. Such a bird dies a slow and painful death. The death of memory is the death of creativity. That is why this new organisation is a life- saving mechanism. We are dealing with lives, with the word as a living invention whose  origin we don’t even know. Human beings became human because of their capacity to name things, to name themselves, thus locate themselves in the universe. To locate ourselves thus means we create what I would dare to call a cosmovision, a vision of the harmony and disharmony of being where we are, of being human beings walking on two feet, not four.

It is only recently, not more than a hundred years ago, if I remember, that the Church of Rome allowed the ordinary people to read the Bible on their own. The high priests did not want to lose control of the word. The republic does not want to lose control of the word. The republic is, in our troubled times, the new High Church, with the power to create prisons and cuffs, the power to decide who goes inside those prisons and who remains outside of them.

We know that corrupt bank managers, police officers and politicians go to jail whimpering for their freedom. The writer too goes to jail, but words have taught the writer what the others have not learnt. Words are an instrument of defiance and celebration. The corrupt  businessman cries because he has been deprived of the facility to spend his money on some god-forsaken island, in bikinis and swimsuits. The corrupt policeman cries because he knows how bad it is to be inside the prison. But the writer sometimes defiantly asks the prison office locking his cell:   ‘why are you locking yourself out?’ as one Zimbabwean asked the officer before he was declared ‘insane’ and released.

We live in a dangerous world, especially for those who do not succumb to the things which society has been drugged into believing are normal. Excessive wealth, excessive poverty living alongside each other like sister and brother in a hate relationship. We live in a world where there are so many borders that we have been taught no to see.

A young German student studying my works asked me in a questionnaire if Africa was going to achieve the same level of grand respect for human rights as Europe. I had to politely say to him: human rights abuses are only so subtly hidden in your country that you are being told not to see them, and the tragedy is that you believe your country is a perfect example.

Indeed, we have so many borders. The most dangerous ones are those we are not taught to see. Racism, economic disparities, hatred in our history books, power for the haves and ghettoes for those who produce after the hardest labour for our world. Religous fanatism disguised as civilisation, the new ‘crusades’ of trying to convert everyone to this or that religion as if there could ever be found a society without its own religion. For goodness sake, if I have been worshipping my god through a rock or a tree or a mosque or a cathedral, and it worked in more ways than one for thousands of years, please be polite enough to respect me and leave me alone with my gods.

A writer has to contend with the reality that there are too many Christians without Christ, too many Moslems without Prophet Mohammed. Otherwise how can we understand a powerful Christian leader who authorises the bombing and torture of hundreds of innocent people. And every Sunday he attends church. How else can we understand a religious leader who authorises his followers to go around beheading anyone they do not agree with. Christians  without Christ, Moslems without Mohammed, as far as can see.

As writers and artists, most of us have to try hard to sharpen our vision and use it to fight those religious distortions and absurdities. The risks are real, so we seek ‘hospitality’ in other lands, far away from the lands which are part of our psychological, geo-emotional, linguistic and historical selves. We become nomads, living more in other countries than in our own, learning to pronounce languages which we have never dreamt we would learn.

The most painful part of exile is the sudden realisation that you may not come back, the sudden removal of the possibility to return to those voices, sounds, smells and movements with which you entered the world of meaning. As the plane takes off, you look at the trees through the window, the tarmac, the little hills where you learnt to shoot the little birds with catapults, the little houses where your mother could be sitting, yearning for your return. You see them all, you hear even the sound of the wind, you hear the rippling sounds of the little stream where you swam and bathed. Then you know that you are not likely to come back for a long time.

Then you sit in a foreign land, you know only the way to the office and a few side streets. You start to learn the new names of people and things. You become a child again, learning basic things like what food to buy without being sure whether it will cause you sleepless nights or give you satisfaction. You make so many mistakes. You even buy some powder thinking it is salt when it is some obnoxious substance usually used for the laundry machine.

Yes, you are a stranger in these parts. Everything plays tricks on you. The sun rises in the wrong place. The rivers flow in the wrong direction. The most important question you rehearse to answer becomes: ‘Where do you come from?’ as if you are an intruder in all places, at all times. And when you answer that you come from Stavanger, Norway, the faces around shrink with disgust. Then you withdraw into yourself, the borders have been erected. Nightmares every night. You are alone in a crowd, without a country.

Pain. No extra ears to pour this pain into, to share the ‘one hundred years of solitude’, as Gabriel Garcia Marquez called it.  You are sure that you are a candidate for the nearest mental hospital. You fear everything, even yourself.

It is the pain of longing to be where you should be, to be home. The pain of unfulfilled desire to return, to walk among the people who will call you by name at every street corner.

And when you call home, your family might not even feel free to talk to you. You discover that the whole previous week, the government newspapers, the only ones in existence, had hysterically dedicated several pages to denouncing you as ‘an unpatriotic coward,’  ‘a traitor’,   ‘a sell-out.’  All the language of slander is poured on you as if you were such a powerful person that if you had remained in the country, you would have taken over state house. Even your own friends, journalists and writers, suddenly discover that it makes them more popular to denounce you. They might even get a small reward from state house, chairman of some commission whose function is yet to be invented.

Writers in our parts of the world are vulnerable, so our vulnerability demands the removal of borders so the weak can escape and learn to be strong again, to smile, to laugh, to walk. In fact, it is true that we are the lucky ones, leaving home on a plane, flying away. There are those who cross crocodile-infested rivers to escape. No one knows about them. They do not even dream of a passport. There are over three million such Zimbabweans in South Africa. There are those who drown daily in the seas trying to escape on some broken-down boat. And when they reach the place of unlimited ‘hospitality’, they are bundled back on the next plane, destination ‘home’, bitter home where there are still other borders waiting to welcome them harshly.

By Chenjerai Hove

International City of Refuge Network

September 25, 2006

"For the first time in years, I can sleep soundly through the night."
Sherman Carlos, Kristiansand City of Refuge’s Guest Writer 2003-2005.

International City of Refuge Network Writers,
Sleeping Soundly. . . Speaking Freely

While the webzine (www.icorn.org) is edited and moderated, here on the blog the principle of Freedom of Expression is put into absolute action.

We ask all of our guest writers to blogsome during their residencies. For more information about the International Cities of Refuge Network, see our website. For for information from voices once oppressed, speaking for themselves and for others unable to speak. . . welcome to the blog!

(The opinions expressed on this blog do not necessarily reflect those of the ICORN Administration, editors, nor our benefactors.)

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