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<channel>
	<title>ICORN Guest Writers Speak Out</title>
	<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com</link>
	<description>International Cities of Refuge Guest Writers Speaking Freely, Sleeping Soundly</description>
	<pubDate>Wed, 10 Jan 2007 13:51:43 +0000</pubDate>
	<generator>http://wordpress.org/?v=1.5.1-alpha</generator>
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		<item>
		<title>Cardinal Points</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2007/01/04/from-the-book-of-poems-cardinal-points/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2007/01/04/from-the-book-of-poems-cardinal-points/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 04 Jan 2007 10:29:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Carlos Sherman</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2007/01/04/from-the-book-of-poems-cardinal-points/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	
Carlos Sherman (1934-2005) 
	Fragments from Cardinal Points.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 

Seven was their numberThose white roadwaysBetween sightless swampsAnd the dead marshes.
	So Ixchel had willed it,Goddess of the moon.
	And one after oneThe luminous sea-shells were milledOn the Carib shore,And mingled togetherWith fine sand and sweet water,So that even in those nightsOf dreadWhen Ixchel hid herselfWithin leaden stormcloudsSacbe would lightEvery [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p>
<p><img width="171" height="283" border="0" title="Carlos Sherman" style="width: 171px; height: 283px;" alt="Carlos Sherman" src="http://www.friby.no/users/0098/tmp/200309/media1396.jpg" />Carlos Sherman (1934-2005) </p>
	<p class="ingress">Fragments from <em>Cardinal Points</em>.</p>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<font> </font><br />
<div class="body">
<p><font>Seven was their number<br /></font><font>Those white roadways<br /></font><font>Between sightless swamps<br /></font><font>And the dead marshes.</p>
	<p></font><font>So Ixchel had willed it,<br /></font><font>Goddess of the moon.</p>
	<p></font><font>And one after one<br /></font><font>The luminous sea-shells were milled<br /></font><font>On the Carib shore,<br /></font><font>And mingled together<br /></font><font>With fine sand and sweet water,<br /></font><font>So that even in those nights<br /></font><font>Of dread<br /></font><font>When Ixchel hid herself<br /></font><font>Within leaden stormclouds<br /></font><font>Sacbe would light<br /></font><font>Every Indian step.</p>
	<p></font><font>Sacbe,<br /></font><font>The Road of the Maya<br /></font><font>Linking villages and souls<br /></font><font>With its inner light<br /></font><font>Bidding them walk in silence<br /></font><font>Pondering with delight<br /></font><font>The chances and changes<br /></font><font>Of this life.</font></p>
	<p><font>Seven was their number<br /></font><font>Those white roadways,<br /></font><font>And from that time<br /></font><font>Ixchel has lived in all places,<br /></font><font>The light wrote its poems,<br /></font><font>Those seven poems<br /></font><font>For the unknown Indian.</font></p>
	<p><font>&nbsp; </font></p>
</div>
]]></content:encoded>
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	</item>
		<item>
		<title>Muna Kaiser (short story)</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/11/09/muna-kaiser-short-story/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/11/09/muna-kaiser-short-story/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 09 Nov 2006 12:11:17 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Zealous Interlopers</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/11/09/muna-kaiser-short-story/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	MUNA KAISER
	by Simon Mol&nbsp;
	&nbsp;
	
	With foresight, he wouldn&rsquo;t have agreed to a meeting with him. &lsquo;Had I known&rsquo;, his mother would have said in a similar situation. Well, now he was telling himself in hindsight. How things work themselves out into often bizarre configurations&hellip;it required foresight to master tomorrow and ironically after-tomorrow calls tomorrow yesterday and [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p class="MsoTitle">MUNA KAISER</p>
	<p class="MsoTitle">by Simon Mol&nbsp;</p>
	<p align="center" class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p>
	<p class="MsoTitle"></p>
	<p align="left" class="MsoNormal">With foresight, he wouldn&rsquo;t have agreed to a meeting with him. &lsquo;Had I known&rsquo;, his mother would have said in a similar situation. Well, now he was telling himself in hindsight. How things work themselves out into often bizarre configurations&hellip;it required foresight to master tomorrow and ironically after-tomorrow calls tomorrow yesterday and views it and all that happened therein in hindsight. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The day finally came and he had to meet the old-man. Foresight and hindsight were both suspended by the suspense of the present. He left his exile home in the district of Mokotow in Warsaw&nbsp; reluctantly and made it to the bus-stop. After a short wait bus 174 came along and he hopped in. He got to the office block along Krakowsksie Przedmiescie Street, negotiated two floors via an old staircase and got into the office. Nobody was there. This gave him time to put the place in order. He rearranged papers, set the chairs straight and sat down to wait. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At exactly 11:00a.m., someone knocked at the door. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Yes, come in please.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The door opened slowly. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">A man nudging seventy walked in. He was slightly bent over, and had on a blue turtleneck sweater over sky-blue jeans. An orange-coloured bag rested in his right hand, almost playfully. It was as if he had been carrying it along for years. He observed, from the tender way the visitor toyed with the bag, that it contained most of his documents and a comb.&nbsp; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Welcome sir. I am Moza&rsquo;zo. It&rsquo;s a great pleasure on my part to meet you.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Thank you. I am Mirek Boniecki. May I sit down?&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Of course sir! Please do take a sit.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The old man sat down and stretched his legs.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Would you like tea or coffee sir?&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t worry! I had tea earlier on and I am fine&hellip;. Well.&rdquo; He paused and looked at his hands before carrying on with his statement; &ldquo;I read about your activities in the papers and I would like to help. I also know some friends who would like to be of help also.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Moza&rsquo;zo didn&rsquo;t react. He just sat there listening. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The old man went on; &ldquo;We work with dogs. We train them to look after the old, the young and invalids. Are you interested in dogs?&rdquo;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The very first thing that came to the forefront of his mind when the old man asked the question was that &lsquo;Mo&rsquo;oli also had four eyes&rsquo;. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&lt;!&#8211;[if !supportEmptyParas]&#8211;&gt;&nbsp;&lt;!&#8211;[endif]&#8211;&gt;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Yes Mo&rsquo;oli predicted many deaths, sniffed-out witches and wizards and exposed mischievous and nocturnal spirits whenever they trespassed into the land of the living. This was one of its many traits that made him dear to everyone who was close to him </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On a particular rainy day in June a few years earlier the entire family, seven of them, sat around the fireside. There was little to say. Or rather, there was much to say but none had the energy to speak. Hunger was in absolute control. In measured intervals each one of them yawned. Mo&rsquo;oli did yawn as well, lying down at his corner which strategically permitted him to enjoy the warmth oozing from the fireside.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It was getting close to twilight. The last curb of maze had been devastated by the kids whose parents watched from a distance as they scrambled over every single grain. Whenever the rain permitted they could hear similar noises of children from neighbouring homes. Yes, the rain had come after much expectation but it would take several months for the land to yield enough food to keep starvation in check. And when the rain came, it came in anger. It came in such a way that instead of being a blessing it turned out to be a curse; digging out the grains that had been planted and flushing them away in huge, unstoppable erosions. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">As they sat by the fireside, without warning Ikome&mdash;the third child of the family who was a first son&mdash;unleashed a whacking on the back of his elder sister. That was enough to start a fight which saw chairs, plates, and other utensils flying from one end of the kitchen to the other. It took several minutes before they could be separated. Ikome&rsquo;s response to the question of why he had attacked the sister was that he couldn&rsquo;t stand the rumbling of her stomach. The parents responded to his response with silence. They were aware that wherever there was hunger, anger was also not far away. However Ikome was soon to acknowledge his blunder. For of all his sisters, he had made the grievous error of targeting none other than Iya Ekolo&rsquo;kolo, better known by everyone in the village as &lsquo;Muna Kaiser&rsquo; (child of a king). It was more her beauty that won the title from the villagers, and had nothing in connection with her parents, who were virtually paupers. Iya Ekolo (Muna Kaiser) was beautiful. She was beautiful no matter how one looked at her. Irrespective one one&rsquo;s sense of aesthetics, Muna Kaiser (Iya Ekolo) was a manifestation of a Liengu (mermaid). What else to say? How else to describe her? Turn her upside down, she was beautiful. Clothe her with a beggar&rsquo;s rob and her smile would transform the rags into something of envy. It would be doing her beauty injustice to even attempt to describe her looks. Iya Ekolo&rsquo;kolo (Muna Kaiser) was beautiful, period. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The Mo&rsquo;oli family was banking on the brains and beauty of Muna Kaiser to free them from the clutches of poverty. Hopefully, she would finish her studies, get a good job and help her siblings. &lsquo;Perhaps someone from a rich home would fall in love with her&rsquo;. This was the mother&rsquo;s dream, which the father didn&rsquo;t share. He would rather that his children&mdash;the girls&mdash;got a good education and subsequently good jobs afterwards, rather than count on being rescued by their husbands. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Muna Kaiser was carefully examined by the mother to make sure that Ikome&rsquo;s attack didn&rsquo;t scar her. Though the mother didn&rsquo;t reprimand him, Ikome knew that he would have to work extra hard in order to attune for his erratic act against Muna Kaiser.&nbsp; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Calm soon returned after the fight in the kitchen. The rain too gradually petered out. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When the fight started Mo&rsquo;oli had cast a silence glance in the direction of the conflict and returned to his resting position with the calm of a bishop who had just enjoyed a godly breakfast. He slowly got up when the rain reduced, yawned and walked towards the door.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&ldquo;Hey! Mo&rsquo;oli where are you going? Come back here!&rdquo; The mother shouted. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you see it&rsquo;s still raining and wet outside? Come back here this very minute!&rdquo; Mo&rsquo;oli paid her no attention. He walked through the door and out. Nobody could muster enough strength to go after Mo&rsquo;oli to stop him venturing outside. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; About an hour later they heard people shouting outside. The commotion grew with every passing second. Even curiosity was not enough to spur any of them to investigate what the hullabaloo was all about. Finally, the noises grew louder and louder and it became clear that people were gathering outside their home. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s going on?&rdquo; their father asked. He got up stiffly and before he would get out of the door to find out what was happening, they all saw Mo&rsquo;oli walking backwards into the kitchen, dragging something along. He was followed by a crowd that was cheering and chanting &ldquo;Mo&rsquo;oli, Mo&rsquo;oli!&rdquo; The father stopped where he was standing&mdash; in the middle of the kitchen. Mo&rsquo;oli finally came into the kitchen, pulling a deer along. He dropped the trophy at his master&rsquo;s feet. The rest of the family members joined in the chanting of &lsquo;Mo&rsquo;oli! Mo&rsquo;oli!&rsquo; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;So Mo&rsquo;oli when you left us you went hunting! Oh, my poor brave child&rdquo; The mother embraced Mo&rsquo;oli. One of the girls rushed in with a towel which she used to dry Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s body. The father requested members of the crowd to help him with the animal brought in by Mo&rsquo;oli. In a short while the deer was skinned and partitioned into little portions. The Mo&rsquo;oli household kept forty-percent of the meat, while the rest was handed out to those who cheered Mo&rsquo;oli home. A member of the crowd rushed to his house and returned soon afterwards with a bunch of plantains. He dropped it in the middle of the cheering crowd and started sharing it, giving a good portion of it to the Mo&rsquo;oli household. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In a short while Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s exploits elevated him to the status of a hero in the village.&nbsp;&nbsp; However Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa saw things from an entirely opposite angle. When he got wind of the adventures of Mo&rsquo;oli, he dismissed the piece of comic with a comment, which though uttered lightly then, later transformed into a concrete act of unimaginable proportion; &ldquo;Only a creature with socialist tendencies could do something like that!&rdquo; This was a serious misfortune. Of all people, Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa was the wealthiest and most influential man in the district.&nbsp; The sole positive dimension of his remark was that it sparked debates in bars and Kwacha houses. Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa&rsquo;s ingenuity in self-defense had become a legend. Of all subjects, he studied law. Aided by craftiness, natural misfortunes, coincidence and the tendency to exploit, his word became law. To get a picture of the might of his ambitions, rumours circulated that Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa claimed that the Mount Vwako, which stood behind the village and towering some 5000m, personally belonged to his forefathers and therefore to him by right. The legend had it that his claims became so serious that the matter ended up in a court of law; Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa vs the people. He won. Chief Sami Lipapa, during the trial, the legend goes, produced binding documents supporting his claims. What was more &mdash; the documents were supposedly signed by God! This wasn&rsquo;t a hyperbole. In practical terms, Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa had absolute authority over the mountain. He personally controlled the sale of medicinal plants that grew on the mountain to foreign firms and even carved out geographical limitations on how local hunters were supposed to hunt on the mountain grounds. The legend went on to postulate that Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa was so strict with affairs related to the mountain that he knew by heart all the animals that lived there. And their numbers. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&lt;!&#8211;[if !supportEmptyParas]&#8211;&gt;&nbsp;&lt;!&#8211;[endif]&#8211;&gt;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Trust Nature with ironies. Or is it Destiny and Fate that connive in pairing people? What is that radical element in humans that spark relationships? Is there a chemical reaction somewhere along the line, beyond human control, that could lead someone to vow, &quot;Of all the women/men on this planet, I shall know no peace except I pair and spend the rest of my days with A or B&quot;? Well, such contemplations would have crossed the mind of whoever had chanced to witness the case of Prince Ngeka Lipapa, son of the dreaded Chief Lipapa, and Muna Kaiser of all. Who could have imagined for once that such a relation could come into play, and that Mo&#8217;oli would have a say in its outcome? </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&lt;!&#8211;[if !supportEmptyParas]&#8211;&gt;&nbsp;&lt;!&#8211;[endif]&#8211;&gt;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The full-moon shone with exceptional brightness on this particular night. The sky was clear and star-studded. Two gigantic and equally radiant stars&mdash;perhaps Jupiter and Venus, flanked the moon. A third star stood just below the moon. The formation of the three stars around the moon created a mystifying triangle. The moon was full and huge and appeared to be closer to earth than usual. It was as if it was planning a trip to flirt with its reflection on the surface of a huge pool of stagnant water that stood not far away from the household of the Mo&rsquo;olis. On this particular evening the mild breeze was equally stimulating. It blew with a gentleness that caressed the human body and the cluster of passions that lay beneath it. Responding to the call of the wind and the irresistible charm of the moon, the leaves played a song of their own. It was an alluring night tainted with temptations&mdash; a groovy and surreal night that unleashed the sort of vibes lovers yearn for. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Behind this background a young and ambitious dreamer stood between two trees. Their shadows shielded him from any passer-by while giving him the advantage to observe unobserved. His target was the main door leading into the house of the Mo&rsquo;olis. He was impatiently waiting to pounce on his moment of opportunity. The young man was no other than Prince Ngeka Lipapa. It was no secrete that he was under the weight of two spells; that of the night, which culminated in empowering him to venture out, and the second which was cast by an even more powerful magnate, Muna Kaiser. It had taken him several weeks to reach this height of his folly. And this came after other manoeuvres had failed him. Ngeka had been swindled by mates who coined him into believing that for the right amount they would get him Muna Kaiser. He paid. Not once. Nothing came of it. Some of the agents he hired relayed their messages to Muna Kaiser. The uncrowned princes simply laughed. Two Nganga&rsquo;s (shamans) took their shares, promising to prepare charm portions that would make Muna Kaiser run after him. The charms and amulets proofed even less impotent than his courage. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After standing at his chosen position long enough to see a soccer match start and finish, his moment arrived when Muna Kaiser came out. She was carrying a pail in her left hand, while her right hand was toying with a string of beads. Ngeka gave her a few metres. She walked passed without noticing him. Then he came out of his hiding place. Surreptitiously he came out of his position and soon caught up with Muna Kaiser.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Muna Kaiser!&nbsp; Muna Kaiser! Are you going to fetch water? I can help you.&rdquo; He mustered valour and uttered a few metres behind Muna Kaiser.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;No thank you Ngeka.&rdquo; Muna Kaiser replied without even looking behind. She recognized the speaker from his voice. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;OK no problem. But can I talk to you for a while? Please,&rdquo; said and rushed to catch up with her. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">None of them was aware of the approaching Mo&rsquo;oli. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Well I am sorry but I must rush, my mum is&hellip;&hellip;&hellip;&hellip;&rdquo; Muna Kaiser didn&rsquo;t finish her statement. Mo&rsquo;oli concluded the sentence with a pounce on Ngeka. Before either of them knew it the prince was on the ground. Backing, Mo&rsquo;oli mauled and scratched him. It was no fault of Mo&rsquo;oli. Seeing Ngeka rushing behind Muna Kaiser, it reasoned that the prince was rushing to harass princess. It took a few frightful minutes before Muna Kaiser would convince Mo&rsquo;oli to come off the prince. With a few scares on his arm the crowned prince made for home after apologies from the uncrowned princes. Since behind every crisis lurks an opportunity, the unfortunate incident was shaping itself in favour of prince Ngeka. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Please Ngeka; please accept my apologies from the bottom of my heart! Please. I am sorry for what happened. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry Muna Kaiser&hellip; it wasn&rsquo;t serious.&rdquo; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;O mother! What shall I do? What will your father do to us if he finds out?&rdquo; Muna Kaiser lamented.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry. For your sake I won&rsquo;t tell him.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Let us meet the day after tomorrow if you want.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;That should be ok. I will wait under the tree close to your house at the same time as today.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">At this they parted. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Holding his scarred hand Ngeka headed home, resolved to hide the incident from his father.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">His plan didn&rsquo;t work out. It was his sister Evweti who discovered it and reported it to his mother, who in turn alerted the dad. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Ngeka!&rdquo; Chief Lipapa yelled from the dinner table where he sat sipping palm-wine. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Yes papa.&rdquo; Ngeka answered.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Come here!&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Ngeka tiptoed to the table, holding his hand behind his back.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Show me those bloody hands of yours!&rdquo; The Chief yelled.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Ngeka hesitated. &ldquo;Do it now before I pull them out of their sockets!&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Reluctantly Ngeka brought out his hands from behind his backs.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The Chief looked at the scars on his right arm.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;My goodness! Who did this!?&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Ngeka stepped back alarmingly&hellip; the Chief was fuming anger. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Tell me now you scoundrel or I will skin the devil out of you!&rdquo; As the Chief made to get up from his seat, Ngeka spoke; &ldquo;It was Mo&rsquo;oli daddy, pleas don&rsquo;t beat me!&rdquo; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;You bet! Are you trying to say that that socialist animal did this to you? Goodness me! I swear by my crown that animal will be buried!&rdquo;<br />Ngeka&rsquo;s mother, the Queen-mother, called for medical aid. After a short-wait a nurse from the local hospital arrived. She administered to Ngeka&rsquo;s wounds and left. Soon after the nurse left, the royal family went to bed. None was ware of the plot raging in the mind of the Chief. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Early the next morning Chief Lipapa had a phone conversation with the Chief of the local police. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Can you imagine Commissioner that a creature of such a nature molested, scarred and maimed my son!&#8230; the hire to the throne!&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a horrible thing Chief.&rdquo; responded Commissioner Fai who was in good terms with Chief Lipapa.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Indeed! That creature will have to pay for it with its life!&rdquo; The Chief answered.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;What can I do about it Chief?&rdquo; Commissioner Fai asked. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Logically the matter should be taken to court! I want the creature arrested with immediate effect. It is obvious that the animal is a menace to public security physically and mentally. How prophetic I was recently! Remember I made a statement that that creature is a socialist imp when it brought a deer home? Good gracious! How can we have such a treacherous mammal in our midst&hellip; it will be an unpardonable mistake to have it roaming the streets!&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;I shall have it arrested with immediate effect Chief&hellip; don&rsquo;t worry.&rdquo; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;I know I can count on you Commissioner, please come for lunch this afternoon.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Thanks for the invitation Chief&hellip; that&rsquo;s very kind of you.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Soon after the phone conversation between the Chief and the Commissioner, a police Inspector accompanied by a Constable paid a call at the Mo&rsquo;olis. When the Police van grounded to a halt outside the residence a crowd soon gathered. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">They knocked and entered.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Where is the father of the house?&rdquo; the Inspector asked. The father of the household came out from the bedroom.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; He answered.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;We have come to arrest Mo&rsquo;oli for attacking the harmless and law-abiding crowned prince. Here is an arrest warrant.&rdquo;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The father of the house didn&rsquo;t even look at it. His attention was focused at the corner where Mo&rsquo;oli lay. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The Inspector nodded at the Constable. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The later brought out a chain, lopped it and threw it at Mo&rsquo;oli neck. The loop missed its target. In a wild frenzy Mo&rsquo;oli rose, backing ferociously. It readied itself for self-defence. In a flash of reflex action the Inspector pulled out his pistol and before anyone knew what was going on he fired a shot. The bullet pierced Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s left hind-leg. Mo&rsquo;oli went down in a pool of blood mourning and defeated. The Constable adjusted his chain and threw the loop around Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s neck again. This time he didn&rsquo;t miss. Mo&rsquo;oli was dragged from the house and propelled behind the police puck-up van. The crowed outside had tripled. The Mo&rsquo;oli family stood watching in shock and utter disbelieve.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As the police van sped-off and disappeared out of sight the entire Mo&rsquo;ol household came out mourning. The head of the family stood stoically watching the van as it disappeared. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Members of the crowd joined in the wailing. Without a word the head of the Mo&rsquo;oli household went back into the house silently. He wasn&rsquo;t a practicing Christian. Yet getting into his bedroom he ransacked through his archives and soon found what he was looking for; a dust coated St. James version of the holy bible. Wiping the dust from it he leaved through until he found the page he was looking for. It was the passage in the holy book about David when his son died. He read through silently but fervently and at the end he returned the bible to the same position where he had taken it.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; An hour later the police van returned. Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s lifeless remains was pulled out of the van and dumped at the doorsteps. The wailing intensified. Women went down on all fours, rolling in the dust. The whole episode metamorphosed into an emotional drama that reached climax when Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s lifeless remains was dumped at the doorsteps. As the whole household including neighbours wailed, the head of the Mo&rsquo;oli household returned to where he had kept the bible. Picking it up he flipped through again and reached the section on Psalms. He selected a Psalm on vengeance and read through it. He repeated the particular Psalm for the next forty-days that followed Mo&rsquo;oli&rsquo;s burial; he read the Psalm in the same way, at the same time, always. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">It was a cathartic self-narrative retold in the language of the spirit of <br />&nbsp;man; a language constructed with the immortal threads of time and fine </p>
filters of mental images. From start to finish the wordless narrative lasted&nbsp; just over three minutes. This was, in the course of their conversation,&nbsp; entrenched in a lengthy pause during which Mirek Boniecki leafed through a brochure. He had deliberately allowed the pause to extend, perceiving that his host was on a mental journey, which was important for him. He hadn&rsquo;t spent half a Century working as a psychologist for nothing. When he saw that the journey was coming to an end, he opened his bag and brought out his comb. This was done slowly, deliberately and stylistically.<strong><em /></strong><em></em><em> </em><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"><em></em><em>&lsquo;Wasn&rsquo;t I right in thinking there was a comb in that bag?&rsquo; The silent <br />question brought him fully back to the present. Soon, it dawned on him that <br />he had revealed too much of himself, to himself, even if only mentally. He <br />felt slightly uneasy, as if he had been talking allowed. In his embarrassment he rehashed a pretentious cough, not knowing how to re-ignite the conversation. Worst still, he couldn&rsquo;t even admit to himself that he was&nbsp; the unfortunate crowned prince. Nor that the dead of Mo&rsquo;oli had catalysed his journey into exile.</em></p>
	<p class="MsoNormal"><em></em><em>Sensing his unease, Mirek Boniecki cleared his throat;<br />&ldquo;Excuse me&hellip;&rdquo;</em></p>
	<p class="MsoNormal"><em></em><em>&nbsp;&ldquo;Yes, sir? Sorry I thought you were reading the brochure and didn&rsquo;t&rsquo; want to <br />interrupt you&hellip;&rdquo; He managed.<br />&nbsp;&ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t worry&hellip;.can I use your gent&rsquo;s?&rdquo;</em></p>
<em></em><em>&rdquo;Yes! yes of course sir&hellip; through the door, second door by the right.&rdquo;<strong><em /></strong><em /></em><em><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Thank you&hellip;.I won&rsquo;t be long.&rdquo; Mirek Boniecki got up slowly and went <br />searching for the toilet.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Left alone, he thought it was polite of the old-man to have left him alone for a while. He got up and took a few steps to the balcony. Getting there, he cast a look five floors below at the busy streets of Warsaw. Right across the road exactly opposite him stood the statute of Charles De Gaulle. His right hand was lifted in a military salute. It was as if De Gaulle was&nbsp; saluting him. He smile. It crossed his mind that from a geographical and geo-political position, De Gaulle was facing Africa. &lsquo;Is he waving to the continent? Was this how the sculptor wanted it to appear?&rsquo; </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">No response came to him. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Instinctively he turned right and was just in time to see bus 175 wheel right at Rondo De Gaul. Making another routine trip to the departure terminal at the Frederic Chopin International Airport from its base at Dzworzec Gdanski in Zoliborz. He wondered how many trips the bus had made during the course of the day. &lsquo;There is no particular driver assigned to any of the buses permanently,&rsquo; a retired bus conducted had once told him. He was fond of this particular bus because when his time did arrive, he didn&rsquo;t know when, the same bus would drive him to the airport. Hence its route and character were important to him. &lsquo;The bus embodies memories which will be dear to me once I have left&hellip;&rsquo; </p>
	<p class="MsoBodyText">Someone knocked at the office door. As he made to open the door hoping to readmit Mirek Boniecki, the door was pushed open. The postman walked in briskly and handed him a registered letter.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&ldquo;Thank you sir.&rdquo;<br />&ldquo;Nie ma problem.&rdquo; The postman replied and handed him a recipient&rsquo;s slip to <br />sign. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">He signed and handed it back. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">The postman took and left. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Left alone, he examined the letter, turned it around several times and hesitated. The <br />scribbles on the envelop looked very familiar. </p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">As if urged by a predetermined urgency, he ripped open the envelope. A photo fell from the envelope at his feet, facing skyward. He looked at the image and found&nbsp; himself staring right into the bright big eyes of Muna Kaiser.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&lt;!&#8211;[if !supportEmptyParas]&#8211;&gt;&nbsp;&lt;!&#8211;[endif]&#8211;&gt;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal"><strong><br /></strong></p>
	<p class="MsoNormal"><em>Warsaw, 2005.&nbsp;&nbsp; </em>Simon Mol is a playwright and writer from Cameroon. He is awaiting placement within ICORN. Visit his <a href="http://www.simonmol.com/">website</a>.</p>
</em>
</p>
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		<title>(Norwegian) Et dikt</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-et-dikt/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-et-dikt/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 19 Oct 2006 09:21:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Gilles Dossou-Gouin</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-et-dikt/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	Jeg fornektet min kultur
	 by Gilles Dossou-Gouin
	&nbsp;
	Som dahomeyaner ble jeg deportert til Amerika
	Min familie ble tilintetgjort med spyd.
	Mitt avkom spredt for alle vinder,
	Solgt som varer med de andre,
	Og samlet i arbeidskorps
	Uten kulturelle hensyn
	Og etnisk tilh&oslash;righet.
	Jeg antok mine herrers spr&aring;k
	Det var da jeg glemte &aring; snakke med forfedrene
	Slaveeiere.
	Ser dere hvor dere har f&oslash;rt meg hen fra [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p class="MsoNormal"><strong><em>Jeg fornektet min kultur</em></strong></p>
	<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> by<strong> </strong><a title="Gilles Dossou-Gouin, from Benin, is the current ICORN Guest Writer of the city of Molde. " href="http://icorn.blogsome.com/category/gilles-dossou-gouin">Gilles Dossou-Gouin</a></p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Som dahomeyaner ble jeg deportert til Amerika</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Min familie ble tilintetgjort med spyd.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Mitt avkom spredt for alle vinder,</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Solgt som varer med de andre,</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Og samlet i arbeidskorps</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Uten kulturelle hensyn</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Og etnisk tilh&oslash;righet.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Jeg antok mine herrers spr&aring;k</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Det var da jeg glemte &aring; snakke med forfedrene</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Slaveeiere.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Ser dere hvor dere har f&oslash;rt meg hen fra deres hull!</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Forandringen som gikk up&aring;aktet hen</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Drepte v&aring;re foraktede, nakne spr&aring;k.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">For den hvite var det raut</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Kommunikasjon mellom dyr</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">I tidens l&oslash;p er selv fuglers kurring mer verd.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Fordi den hvite skj&oslash;v meg med staur</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Fornektet jeg forfedrenes gamle kultur</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Med kulturelle stjernetegn.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Den hvite prentet i meg hvit kultur.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Jeg kjenner ikke lenger Afrikas kultur</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Kun deres kultur, det sier jeg oppriktig.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">De overskar min levende og sunne tradisjon</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Som bevisstgjorde br&oslash;drene mine om sin enhet.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Spr&aring;k har jeg l&aelig;rt meg i fiendskap.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Jeg er diasporaens barn av mindretallet.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">N&aring; da jeg gledesl&oslash;s har deres skole</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Krever jeg min kulturelle arv</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Men p&aring; dette kulturomr&aring;det</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">H&aring;net Tobira forbrytelsen mot menneskeheten</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Under andre himmelstr&oslash;k ville hun bli kronet med Nobelpris</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">For hos den hvite g&aring;r ordet alltid foran bildet</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Men ved hennes kraft og stridslyst</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Ville man finne denne dristige negerkvinnen med alderen,</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Skj&oslash;nt det er hennes mot som gj&oslash;r at algeriere, armenere</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Kan juble ved tanken p&aring; erindringsplikt uten innsats.</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Femti &aring;r etter fikk j&oslash;dene brorparten</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Av holocaust i mengdekrigen</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal">Hvorfor ikke de andre?</p>
	<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->&nbsp;<!--[endif]--></p>
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		<title>(Norwegian) Om Yytringsfrihet og Menneskerrettigheter</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-om-yytringsfrihet-og-menneskerrettigheter/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-om-yytringsfrihet-og-menneskerrettigheter/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 19 Oct 2006 09:18:50 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Gilles Dossou-Gouin</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-om-yytringsfrihet-og-menneskerrettigheter/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	 by Gilles Dossou-Gouin 
	Introduksjon 
	&nbsp;
	Vi har n&aring; kommet til august og Bj&oslash;rnsonfestivalen er i gang. Under &aring;rets festival m&oslash;ter vi fribyforfattere fra flere land, og jeg skal snakke om landet jeg kommer fra. Benin er et lite land som ligger i Vest-Afrika mellom Nigeria i &oslash;st og Togo i vest. Som flere land i [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p> by<strong> </strong><a title="Gilles Dossou-Gouin, from Benin, is the current ICORN Guest Writer of the city of Molde. " href="http://icorn.blogsome.com/category/gilles-dossou-gouin">Gilles Dossou-Gouin</a> </p>
	<p>Introduksjon </p>
	<p>&nbsp;</p>
	<p>Vi har n&aring; kommet til august og Bj&oslash;rnsonfestivalen er i gang. Under &aring;rets festival m&oslash;ter vi fribyforfattere fra flere land, og jeg skal snakke om landet jeg kommer fra. Benin er et lite land som ligger i Vest-Afrika mellom Nigeria i &oslash;st og Togo i vest. Som flere land i Afrika, ble Benin selvstendig i 1960. Men i 1972 tok en milit&aelig;r-sosialistisk regjering over det politiske og &oslash;konomiske livet. Det nye, brutale systemet kom som et sjokk p&aring; folket. Arbeids- og sosialdepartementet lagde nye lover. Regjeringspolitiet arresterte mange unge ledere. Med introduksjonen av Glasnost i 1989, organiserte den katolske kirken og flere utenlandske organisasjoner et stort, nasjonalt m&oslash;te. Det oppsto en stor konflikt mellom Benins myndigheter og folket. Med st&oslash;tte fra katolske biskoper talte unge intellektuelle for menneskerettighetene. Journalister forlangte ytringsfrihet, frar&oslash;vet dem i 19 &aring;r av regjeringen. </p>
	<p>Jeg skal snakke om og analysere tiden under og etter kolonialiseringen.Benin ble selvstanding i 1960, hvordan det er &aring; v&aelig;re fagforeningsmann om Arbeidsdepartementet i Benin. Og selvsagt hvordan har&nbsp; vi&nbsp; snakker om menneskerettigheter.Til slut&nbsp; v&aring;rt taller kan glemme&nbsp; ikke&nbsp; ytringsfrihet i Benin.</p>
	<p>&nbsp;</p>
	<p>1.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tiden under og etter kolonialiseringen</p>
	<p>&nbsp;</p>
	<p>Jeg&nbsp; kaller tilbake&nbsp; Dahomey vart Benin siste navn&nbsp; f&oslash;r 1975&nbsp; hvor&nbsp; Dahomey&nbsp; ble BENIN fra 3o&nbsp; november 1975. Tiden under og etter kolonialiseringen&nbsp; i Benin&nbsp; vart kongerike&nbsp; (fra&nbsp; 1727) av&nbsp; forjellig krig mot kingdomene rundt Benin. Det er usedvanlig variet sosialt fenomen og Benin finner organisert seg som kongerike&hellip;Under kolonialiseringen, det vart ikke&nbsp; geriljakrigere men milit&aelig;re metoder basert p&aring;&nbsp; beninkvinene&hellip; Benin vart delet p&aring; fem kongerigen: denne fra Porto &ndash; Novo, andre&nbsp; fra Abomey, andre&nbsp; fra Savi,&nbsp; andre fra Allada, og andra&nbsp; fra&nbsp; Maxi. N&aring;r Benin&nbsp; ble kolonisert p&aring; Portugal&nbsp; i 1582, Porto- Novo&nbsp; Kongerigen bryter mot Portugal milit&aelig;r.Men n&aring;r Frankrikke&nbsp; milit&aelig;r&nbsp; kommer&nbsp; fra Dakar i 1882, Kongen Behanzin bryter mot Frankkrike General Dodds&hellip;Under kolonialiseringen, kj&oslash;nnroller&nbsp; vart&nbsp; bestemmet&hellip;</p>
	<p>&nbsp;</p>
	<p>Den Beninske nasjonalisme&nbsp; begynte&nbsp; med&nbsp; de f&oslash;rste&nbsp; fiendtlighetene mellom franskmenn og beninere, og har aldri helt forsvunnet.</p>
	<p>Koloniperioden fra 1725 ( sytten tjuefem) til 1960 ( nitten seksti) var likevel en historisk fase&nbsp; hvor&nbsp; denne&nbsp; undertrykke nasjonalismen ikke&nbsp; kunne&nbsp; uttrykke&nbsp; seg p&aring; andre&nbsp; m&aring;ter enn ned&nbsp; oppr&oslash;r.</p>
	<p>Nye&nbsp; historiske forhold&nbsp; vil gi det status som revolusjon.</p>
	<p>Hva&nbsp; har&nbsp; vart grunnen til&nbsp; denne revolusjonen?</p>
	<p>Rystelesene fra&nbsp; den&nbsp; andre&nbsp; verdenskrig og konvekvensene av&nbsp; den&nbsp; vekte opp en sterk trang til oppr&oslash;r.</p>
	<p>Mye mer enn i f&oslash;rste verdenskrig kom Benin&nbsp; denne&nbsp; gangen i kontakt med hele&nbsp; verden, gjennom Frankrike.Tvangsinnkalling av Beninere til Frankrike for &aring; kjempe for det som de den gang kalte fedrelandet eller moderlandet mot Tyskland, var en andedning til &aring; oppdage brutaliteten til den&nbsp; hvite mannoppdage barbaren bak keiserens maske.</p>
	<p>N&aring;r noen beninere nektet kategorisk &aring; slutte&nbsp; seg til Fronten i Europe, n&oslash;lte ikke den&nbsp; hvite koloniherren med&nbsp; &aring; torturere og drepe.</p>
	<p>Mellom alle de beninere som mistet livet, var det mange helter.</p>
	<p>De beninske soldatene var aktive&nbsp; medbyggere av&nbsp; den&nbsp; afriskanske&nbsp; frigj&oslash;ring i troppene som&nbsp; franskmennene kalte &rdquo; Senegalese Skuttere&rdquo; ( Tirailleurs Senegalais ).</p>
	<p>Vi&nbsp; hadde dem som ble slutet i krigens gru og&nbsp; fikk sin grav i den&nbsp; kalde jord i nord. Men vi hadde dem&nbsp; som&nbsp; kom tilbake, mange&nbsp; lemlestet, og av&nbsp; disse var det noen&nbsp; som tok aktivt del i politisk arbeid p&aring; h&oslash;yt plan.</p>
	<p>P&aring; hele det Afrikanske kontinent kunne&nbsp; en&nbsp; notere en&nbsp; oppsving i nasjonalisme.</p>
	<p>I Benin var det sterke f&oslash;leser mot franskmenn og Frankrike.Hatet hadde utl&oslash;st en&nbsp; sort logisk bevisf&oslash;ring som angrep kolonialismen sine&nbsp; grunnvoller.</p>
	<p>Tvangsrettering av&nbsp; unge beninere, rekvisisjoner, tvangsarbeid, skatter av&nbsp; alle slag fulgte etter hverandre. De franske jordeierne n&oslash;tte ikke&nbsp; med&nbsp; &aring; massakrere disse som krevde sin rett.</p>
	<p>Situasjoner var s&aring; alvorlig i Benin like etter krigen&nbsp; at hungersn&oslash;den herstet og de&nbsp; fattigste hadde bare gamle kornsekker &aring; kle seg i.</p>
	<p>Og Frankrikke forlangte&nbsp; endra&nbsp; mer&nbsp; Krigsimmsats: koloniene&nbsp; skulle&nbsp; samle inn pengen og sende til Frankrike for &aring; bygge landet opp i gjen.</p>
	<p>Like etter den 2. verdenshrigens slutt&nbsp; var det noen intellektuelle som samlet seg for&nbsp; &aring; stifte politiske partier, slik som de hadde sett i Frankrikke.</p>
	<p>Disse partiene kunne ikke love&nbsp; et dristig sosialt program, som for eksempel kvinners&nbsp; stemmerett, sosial trygghet og&nbsp; s&aring; videre ettersom parlamentsmedlemmene eller deres fullmettiger var til stede ved debattene i&nbsp; Frankrike. P&aring; tross av at det var forbudt av kolonimaktene, s&aring; var det&nbsp; initiativ &ndash; takere som dannet ( fagforningen) grunnla&nbsp; viktige&nbsp; organisaajonen til de intellektuelle i Benin. Denne&nbsp; kategorien,&nbsp; f&oslash;lsom for&nbsp; de generelle problemene, skulle senere bli naturlige tolker og katalysatorer for de forh&aring;pninger som fantes i den beninske befolkning.</p>
	<p>Men disse to viktige bevegelsene var n&oslash;ye overv&aring;ket av de&nbsp; fransk kolonimyndughetene som ikke n&oslash;lte med &aring; bruke makt og tortur for &aring; f&aring; av&nbsp; veien&nbsp; den&nbsp; og den lederen av ulike grupper.</p>
	<p>Man kan ikke&nbsp; overvurdere&nbsp; rollen&nbsp; til&nbsp; disse&nbsp; fagforeningene n&aring;r det gjelder oppsvinget av nasjonalismen i Benin.</p>
	<p>All analyse av kolonifenomenet n&aring;r det gjaldt r&aring;dende &oslash;konomi f&oslash;rte motstandsgruppene&nbsp; til &aring; ikke n&oslash;ye seg med&nbsp; overfladiske krav ang&aring;ende arbeidsforhold, men &aring; sette fingeren p&aring; det som&nbsp; var roten til alle vanskelighetene, nemlig selve kolonisystemet.</p>
	<p>Det m&oslash;ttes beninerne&nbsp;&nbsp; med&nbsp; forfattere&nbsp; fra Antillene og Madagaskar i&nbsp; en spirituell karavane p&aring; marsj&nbsp; mot det lovede land &ndash; som ikke&nbsp; var noe&nbsp; annet enn forsvaret av deres&nbsp; eget fedreland.</p>
	<p>Dessuten, eller som Negritude &ndash; bevegelsen vokste i omfang grep de intellectuelle anledningen til&nbsp; &aring; kjempe i mot okkupantene som var ingen&nbsp; andre&nbsp; enn Frankrike.</p>
	<p>Disse intellektuelle har bidratt til &aring; vekke bevisstheten i&nbsp; europiske milj&oslash; om den&nbsp; afrikanske&nbsp; situasjonen.</p>
	<p>Inntil da&nbsp; hadde de ikke halt noe kjemskap til forholdene.</p>
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		<title>(Norwegian) Tale i anledning minnesamling</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-tale-i-anledning-minnesamling/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-tale-i-anledning-minnesamling/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 19 Oct 2006 09:15:59 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Gilles Dossou-Gouin</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/10/19/norwegian-tale-i-anledning-minnesamling/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	 by Gilles Dossou-Gouin 
	Kj&aelig;re Venner,
	&nbsp;
	Jeg er spesielt glad for at kvinner som er kommet fra  forskjellige land er til stede her  ved denne  minnesamlingen.  Kj&aelig;re s&oslash;stre fra hele verden &ndash; fortell deres meds&oslash;stre om forfatternes  store glede over &aring; se  dere  engasjert  i tiltak for  [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p> by<strong> </strong><a title="Gilles Dossou-Gouin, from Benin, is the current ICORN Guest Writer of the city of Molde. " href="http://icorn.blogsome.com/category/gilles-dossou-gouin">Gilles Dossou-Gouin</a> </p>
	<p>Kj&aelig;re Venner,</p>
	<p>&nbsp;</p>
	<p>Jeg er spesielt glad for at kvinner som er kommet fra  forskjellige land er til stede her  ved denne  minnesamlingen.  Kj&aelig;re s&oslash;stre fra hele verden &ndash; fortell deres meds&oslash;stre om forfatternes  store glede over &aring; se  dere  engasjert  i tiltak for  &aring; fremme  fred  og utvikling i fattige land. Her i parken p&aring; Romsdalsmuseet har denne  samlingen  en spesielt betydning . Det er  sekstien &aring;r siden  Nagazaki ble  bombet . Jeg st&aring;r sammen  med dere  og med de millioner  av  kvinner som  minnes den fryktelige  hendelsen. Og jeg oppmuntrer deres &oslash;nske om &aring; gi en ny impuls  til freds &ndash; aksjonen for &aring; st&oslash;tte retten, som barn, menn og kvinner har til &aring; leve og vokse i verdighet. </p>
	<p>&nbsp;</p>
	<p>Jeg st&oslash;tter dere  ogs&aring; i arbeidet for kvinners frigj&oslash;ring. I &aring;renes  l&oslash;p har Soroptimist &ndash; klubbene blitt implantert i alle verdensdeler. Kontinuiteten og utbredelsen av  dette arbeidet hviler p&aring; en  utholdende  tro til tusenvis  av kvinner som har v&aelig;rt flinke og fornuttige l&aelig;rere.De har hatt tillit til den sjener&oslash;sitet og tilgjengelighet som  fins  hos lokale  kvinner, og  har engasjert disse i Soropotimist &ndash; bevegelsen.  Og hvordan kan vi la v&aelig;re &aring; f&aring; tram  i lyset  disse  som har visst &aring; vie hele sin storhet som kvinner til den filantropiske  &aring;nd ? Men jeg vil ogs&aring; forsikre dere  om &ndash; dere som  er  ansvarlig for Soroptimistene &ndash; at denne  koperasjonen av kvinner er uerstattelig for  v&aring;r verden. For n&aring;r det gjelder ulykken til s&aring;  mange  barn, kvinner og menn, s&aring; er  man fristet til &aring;  sp&oslash;rre seg selv :  </p>
	<p>Vil de  m&oslash;te  kj&aelig;rligheten her p&aring; v&aring;r jord ?  </p>
	<p>Den enorme  n&oslash;d og fortvilelse tvinger oss til &aring; sl&aring; alarm.</p>
	<p>Hvor er kj&aelig;rligheten til  de  mennene  som  blir  nektet retten til &aring; leve?  </p>
	<p>Til  de barna som er drept eller lemlestet?  </p>
	<p>Til   de  kvinnene som  man fengsler  eller utnytter kommersielt?   </p>
	<p>I g&aring;r var det Hiroshima  og Nagazaki, I dag , Libanon, Palestina er  de disse  nye  kriger  har kastet ut p&aring;  veien til  eksil.De som  en  har gitt v&aring;pen i hendene. </p>
	<p>Hvor  er  kj&aelig;rlighten  til dem  som  har f&aring;tt familien  splittet og  &oslash;delagt? </p>
	<p>Hvilket h&aring;p er det for   de unge  som  er  sperret inne  i materialisme og  fratatt oppv&aring;kning og innvielse til et  moralsk og religi&oslash;st liv. </p>
	<p>Foran  de  tusenvis  av s&aring;r  som  en  h&oslash;rer om  her og der, hvem arbeider  for &aring; helbrede  dem? Et  navn synes  &aring; passe : SOROPTIMIST.</p>
	<p>Overfor dramaene til Hiroshima og Nagazaki, -  i g&aring;r og i dag, - har dere virkelig inkludert fredens  dimensjon i deres  menneskelighet. Uten &aring; lege all urettferdighet, har dere  i  hvertfall ikke tillatt den &aring; bli verre, og dere  har gitt utviklingen  de sjansene den  har bruk for, p&aring; tross av  de begrensede mulighetene dere har. Det  holder ikke  med  taler, det  m&aring; gj&oslash;res  konkrete handlinger. I stillheten til kirkeg&aring;rdene rister dere apatien til den lokale og internasjonale  opinion. </p>
	<p>Mennene tenker ikke  p&aring; fred  n&aring;r krigen er innen rikkevidde. Kampene  langt borte, s&aelig;rlig n&aring;r de varer lenge, stiller de seg likegyldige til. Men dere, - tragediene til Hiroshima og Nagazaki f&aring;r dere  til  &aring; bevisstgj&oslash;re mennene, - til &aring;  kalle fram den  sosiale- fantasi og til  &aring; holde oppe fredbevegelsen. Det  gjelder nemlig ikke  bare  &aring; oppn&aring; v&aring;penhvile, men ogs&aring; en fred  mellom menneskenes hjerte. I trofasthet til budskapet om fred vil deres  forkunnelse kalle p&aring;  de  voksne  som styrer  folk  og land. Den  vil p&aring; peke  storheten og de hellige ved  et  menneskerliv.  Til   de frustrerte  gir  dere  vann.  Til   de  ul&aelig;rde  gir  dere  b&oslash;ker. Til de  husl&oslash;se  &oslash;dsler  dere  med  omsorg. Dere  gir  oppl&aelig;ring  til kvinner  og  gir  melk  og vann til barna . </p>
	<p>Kj&aelig;re s&oslash;stre, Ved  denne minne markering for det grusomme som  hendte  den  sjette   august 1945 ( nitten  f&oslash;rti fem ) , gir  jeg  mine  varmeste oppmuntringer til presidenter, ledere og inspiratorer i Soroptimist&ndash;bevegelsen  verden over.  I visshet om  at  arbeidet  deres er verdsatt : rop p&aring; alle  kvinner  og be  dem  om  &aring; samarbeide i b&oslash;nn og offer for det filantropiske arbeidet til  Soroptimistbevegelsen verden  over.  </p>
	<p>Jeg behov dere et &oslash;nske spesielt  kj&oslash;rt, det at oppv&aring;kning  av kvinner til deres rolle som aktive vitner om  barnhjertighet blir  en  gnist til  et  kall om &aring; vie  seg  til enda st&oslash;rre tjenester for &aring; redde menneskeheten ,kvinnerrettehen, barnrettehen i  Midt&oslash;sten.   </p>
	<p>Gilles DOSSOU &ndash; GOUIN Molde Fribyforfatter  </p>
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		<title>from the Gothenburg Book Fair</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/27/from-the-gothenburg-book-fair/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/27/from-the-gothenburg-book-fair/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 27 Sep 2006 11:16:10 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Easterine Kire Iralu</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/27/from-the-gothenburg-book-fair/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	by Easterine Kire Iralu

EXILE&nbsp;(Alfred Tennyson&rsquo;s poem, &ldquo;The Lotus-eaters,&rdquo; 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 [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p><font><strong><em><u>by Easterine Kire Iralu</u></em></strong></font></p>
<font>
<p><font><strong>EXILE<br />&nbsp;<br /></strong><em>(Alfred Tennyson&rsquo;s poem, &ldquo;The Lotus-eaters,&rdquo; 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.)</em></font><span><br /></span><font>&nbsp;<br />I ask this question in the night</font></p>
	<p><font>will guilt always be</font></p>
	<p><font>my companion in exile?</font></p>
	<p><font>the accusing knowledge</font></p>
	<p><font>that I chose to run away</font></p>
	<p><font>rather than stay on and fight?</font></p>
	<p><font>Self-knowledge can be a road of painful discoveries.</font></p>
	<p><font>Yesterday I had believed I was true</font></p>
	<p><font>I had believed I was brave, even,</font></p>
	<p><font>letting out a squeak of protest</font></p>
	<p><font>whenever one more was killed.</font></p>
	<p><font>I tried to name them one by one</font></p>
	<p><font>but I could not name them all</font></p>
	<p><font>there were so many being killed</font></p>
	<p><font>too many.</font></p>
	<p><font>In unwilling dreams I still see</font></p>
	<p><font>the horrid last sight of home:</font></p>
	<p><font>my friend&rsquo;s mother&rsquo;s blood</font></p>
	<p><font>and the blood of a young man she never knew</font></p>
	<p><font>flowing together in a purple pool</font></p>
	<p><font>refusing to congeal.</font></p>
	<p><font>Ah, my country, my sweet homeland</font></p>
	<p><font>it was not enough for you that I loved you</font></p>
	<p><font>you would have me dash myself against the rocks to prove it. </font></p>
	<p><font>&nbsp;<br />Remember the soldier whose nerve broke</font></p>
	<p><font>and made him run from the battlefield</font></p>
	<p><font>madly, from tree to bombed-out-stump-of-tree</font></p>
	<p><font>from one cracked open rock to the next</font></p>
	<p><font>just running away to anywhere at all</font></p>
	<p><font>anywhere he would not have to hear</font></p>
	<p><font>the sounds of the battle</font></p>
	<p><font>and the terrible cries of the dying </font></p>
	<p><font>every which way he turned?</font></p>
	<p><font>Somewhere where he could close his eyes</font></p>
	<p><font>and not see his friend&rsquo;s eyes glaze over in death</font></p>
	<p><font>remember him?</font></p>
	<p><font>that one in the war movies everyone loved to hate</font></p>
	<p><font>because he wasn&rsquo;t man enough to die?</font></p>
	<p><font>In self-exile</font></p>
	<p><font>that is what I hate about myself</font></p>
	<p><font>that ugly runaway soldier in me.</font></p>
	<p><font>The constant accusation </font></p>
	<p><font>that I chose to run for safety</font></p>
	<p><font>when the right thing</font></p>
	<p><font>the brave thing</font></p>
	<p><font>would have been to stay and stand and shout</font></p>
	<p><font>&ldquo;Stop, stop the killings!&rdquo;</font></p>
	<p><font>and grit-gut myself</font></p>
	<p><font>to being shot in the back</font></p>
	<p><font>or head, or heart</font></p>
	<p><font>anywhere, but basically shot to death for speaking out.</font></p>
	<p><font>That is how some men</font></p>
	<p><font>have fought our battle back home</font></p>
	<p><font>led by the vision</font></p>
	<p><font>that the courage to say no</font></p>
	<p><font>is more important than life itself.</font></p>
	<p><font>But I</font></p>
	<p><font>I came hither</font></p>
	<p><font>with my pilgrim burden</font></p>
	<p><font>soul-sick of the killing and the dying</font></p>
	<p><font>only wanting life for me and mine</font></p>
	<p><font>so grateful for a little peace, a little slice of life.</font></p>
	<p><font>I am kin to the lotus-eaters</font></p>
	<p><font>I am so weary of being tossed by sea storms,</font></p>
	<p><font>washed up on your shores, half dead</font></p>
	<p><font>I lie on these sands, these spreading grasses</font></p>
	<p><font>lulled into forgetfulness</font></p>
	<p><font>deaf to the urgent calls of wife and children</font></p>
	<p><font>of that place I called home;</font></p>
	<p><font>&ldquo;Let me be, let me be, for a little while</font></p>
	<p><font>I have such need of this lotus-rest</font></p>
	<p><font>I must lie still and wait</font></p>
	<p><font>till my strength returns to me.&rdquo;</font></p>
	<p><font>God-led to this, my lotus-land</font></p>
	<p><font>I raise my drowsy head </font></p>
	<p><font>I pluck at my broken harp</font></p>
	<p><font>and am astonished to find</font></p>
	<p><font>I can remember</font></p>
	<p><font>what my people were</font></p>
	<p><font>before they came to be</font></p>
	<p><font>what they are now.</font></p>
	<p><font>The happy songs and poems and stories</font></p>
	<p><font>before this unhappy present.</font></p>
	<p><font>I saw a slogan on a Troms&oslash; bus:</font></p>
	<p><font>&ldquo;Angst is so yesterday!&rdquo;</font></p>
	<p><font>Truly, I am tired of my angst</font></p>
	<p><font>and the angst of my homeland.</font></p>
	<p><font>Allow me to sing a new song</font></p>
	<p><font>Oh country of my rebirth</font></p>
	<p><font>I must, perforce, tell of where I came from</font></p>
	<p><font>but your singing woods and calm skies</font></p>
	<p><font>your tranquil shores and starry nights</font></p>
	<p><font>evoke like harmony in me.</font></p>
	<p><font>Allow me to tell a happy tale for now:</font></p>
	<p><font>&ldquo;There was a maiden in our village, so fair, so fair</font></p>
	<p><font>that none of the &nbsp;young men felt themselves equal </font></p>
	<p><font>to ask for her hand in marriage.</font></p>
	<p><font>Then one day, the sky-dweller came and claimed her</font></p>
	<p><font>for himself, so all ended well.&rdquo;</font></p>
	<p><font>Tomorrow,</font></p>
	<p><font>Tomorrow we will talk if you still want to listen</font></p>
	<p><font>of the man who looked his father&rsquo;s killer in the eye</font></p>
	<p><font>and said gently, &ldquo;For Christ&rsquo;s sake, I forgive you.&rdquo;</font></p>
	<p><font>Today, do not make me tell that tale</font></p>
	<p><font>we can do with some respite from weeping.</font></p>
	<p><a name="DDE_LINK1"><br /><font>Ah, my country, my sweet homeland</font></a></p>
	<p><font>it was not enough for you that I loved</font></p>
	<p><font>you would have me dash myself against the rocks to prove it. </font></p>
	<p><font>&nbsp;<br />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&nbsp; 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. <br />&nbsp;<br />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&nbsp; long story of occupation and genocide that no one has heard of. What angst it is to be real.<br />&nbsp;<br />I am the ancient mariner<br />I have been alone, all all alone on the vast sea<br />and seen what no man should have seen.<br />Henceforth must I fix my glitt&rsquo;ring eye upon you<br />and you, I hope, like the wedding guest, will listen.<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />Our grandfathers told this story. Earth and Sky were man and wife: Earth was bigger than sky so when Sky said, &ldquo;Wife fold up your knees so I can cover you,&rdquo; 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.<br />&nbsp;<br />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. <br />&nbsp; </font></p>
	<p><font>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. </font></p>
	<p><font /></p>
	<p><font>by Easterine Kire Iralu</font></p>
</font>
</p>
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		<title>Speaking of Terrorism</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/speaking-of-terrorism/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/speaking-of-terrorism/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 26 Sep 2006 16:00:59 +0000</pubDate>
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	<category>Zealous Interlopers</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/speaking-of-terrorism/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	The folowing is a speech&nbsp;given by Ren Powell&nbsp;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 [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p><em>The folowing is a speech&nbsp;given by Ren Powell&nbsp;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.<br /></em><font></p>
	<p></font>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&rsquo;s picture book: as in &ldquo;it was a sultry afternoon&rdquo;. Perhaps it&rsquo;s true that I&rsquo;d read too many Hollywood magazine articles about &ldquo;sultry blonds&rdquo; and &ldquo;sultry brunettes&rdquo;. But if it&rsquo;s true, I&rsquo;m not alone; it&rsquo;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&mdash;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&rsquo;s tools: they can make things appear as they are not; they can make things and people and opinions disappear.</p>
	<p>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&rsquo;t be certain of my attitude regarding the &ldquo;cause&rdquo; in question. Freedom-fighter: well, there&rsquo;s an emotional word. I&rsquo;d not likely set myself against someone fighting for &ldquo;freedom&rdquo;. I hope you&rsquo;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.</p>
	<p>When I type in the word terrorist I get 92,600,000 hits. I don&rsquo;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&rsquo;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: &ldquo;criminal acts&rdquo;, &ldquo;violence and intimidation&rdquo;, &ldquo;psychological warfare&rdquo;, &ldquo;inciting fear&rdquo; among and within civilian populations, and the use &ldquo;coercion to promote political or ideological goals&rdquo;. 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&rsquo;s heads, avoiding the word terrorist, or replacing it with another word shatters the illusion. It is looking up the magician&rsquo;s sleeve and questioning his or her integrity.</p>
	<p>Of course there are terrorists. The deaths of 14,600 civilians in 2005 were not illusions. It&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Please, just let them have their way so this will stop.&rdquo; 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.</p>
	<p>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 &ldquo;fight against terrorism&rdquo; 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.</p>
	<p>I&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.</p>
	<p>Today there are seven cities of refuge in Norway alone, nearly 30 internationally, and spanning 3 continents. Norway&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;d run the risk of being labelled a terrorist. It&rsquo;s a sobering realization. A frightening thought. Still, I know that won&rsquo;t silence Chenjerai Hove, just as it hasn&rsquo;t silenced Easterine Kire or Islam Elsanov.</p>
	<p>The former guest writer and exiled Yemeni poet Mansur Rajih wrote about the importance of language and communication in his poem Language:</p>
	<p><em>Don&rsquo;t you see?<br />If we couldn&rsquo;t enunciate<br />How could we sing?&hellip;<br />How could we call out for each other?<br />Talk to the children?<br />And how could we share our dreams<br />If there were no language?</em></p>
	<p>The poet Robert Frost said that freedom lies in being bold. Expressing oneself, one&rsquo;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 &ldquo;watch our language&rdquo;&mdash;not to be polite or politically correct, but to be meaningful.</p>
	<p>by Ren Powell, BABEL contributing editor <br /><a title="Sidestepping Real" href="http://www.sidesteppingreal.blogspot.com/"><img style="width: 98px; height: 66px" height="66" alt="Sidestepping Real" src="http://home.online.no/~renka/artimages/butterfly.gif" width="98" border="0" /></a>
</p>
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		<title>Bush, Nahum and Saddam between the Axis of Evil and the Bones of Contention</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/bush-nahum-and-saddam-between-the-axis-of-evil-and-the-bones-of-contention/</link>
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		<pubDate>Tue, 26 Sep 2006 13:20:20 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Salah At-Tarjuman</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/bush-nahum-and-saddam-between-the-axis-of-evil-and-the-bones-of-contention/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	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 [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p><font color="#000066"><em><u>by Salah At-Tarjuman</u></em></font></p>
	<p><strong>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. <br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; 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&rsquo;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 <em>liberation</em> doesn&rsquo;t incorporate the destruction of the social and psychological structure of the people to be <em>liberated </em>! 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.<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; Americans were on the wrong track too when they were led to believing that Iraqis were all dissatisfied with Saddam or against him. Saddam&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s army is defeated, <em>not Saddam&rsquo;s regime</em> 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s Old Guards to dissolve the <u>I</u>raqi <u>A</u>rmed <u>F</u>orces (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:<br />&nbsp;<br /><em>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. </em>which has a striking similarity to the nakedness of the Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghreib &ndash; 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!<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; 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 &ndash;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.<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; 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. <br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; 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?<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; 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!<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp; 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. &nbsp;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. <br />&nbsp;<br /></strong></p>
	<p><strong>&nbsp; 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.</strong></p>
	<p><strong>by Salah At-Tarjuman</strong></p>
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		<title>On Borders and Hospitality</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/on-borders-and-hospitality/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/on-borders-and-hospitality/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 26 Sep 2006 13:10:11 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>Chenjerai Hove</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/26/on-borders-and-hospitality/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	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: &#8216;hospitality, knows no borders.&#8217; All I know is that millions of innocent people have been killed or [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p><font color="#000066"><em><u>by Chenjerai Hove</u></em></font></p>
<font>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: &#8216;hospitality, knows no borders.&#8217; 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.</p>
	<p>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!</p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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. <br /></font><br /><font></font><font>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. <br /></font><br /><font></font><font>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,&nbsp; &#8216;words cause itches on the private parts of the republic.&#8217;</p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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?</p>
	<p>But then I know, from experience, that in the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, the word became flesh.<br />&nbsp;<br />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.</p>
	<p>Then I thought, have words, poems, lyrics, become cannabis? As the policemen drove away, friends could only warn: &#8216;You have asked for it again? You and your poetry are in trouble.&#8217;</p>
	<p>In places where governments manufacture silence alongside bullets, words and those who produce them are a serious threat to national security.&nbsp; As Uruguayan writer, Eduardo Galeano once said: &#8216;internal exile is always harder and more futile than any exile outside.&#8217;</p>
	<p>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. <br /></font><br /><font></font><font>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.</p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>A writer denied the right to celebrate the moon, love, flowers, hatred and doubt&nbsp; 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&nbsp; origin we don&#8217;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.</p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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&nbsp; 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: &nbsp; &#8216;why are you locking yourself out?&#8217; as one Zimbabwean asked the officer before he was declared &#8216;insane&#8217; and released.</p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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 &#8216;crusades&#8217; 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. <br /></font><font></font><font></font><font>
<p><font></font><font>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&nbsp; without Christ, Moslems without Mohammed, as far as can see.</p>
	<p>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 &#8216;hospitality&#8217; 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.</p>
	<p>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. </p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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: &#8216;Where do you come from?&#8217; 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.</p>
	<p>Pain. No extra ears to pour this pain into, to share the &#8216;one hundred years of solitude&#8217;, as Gabriel Garcia Marquez called it.&nbsp; You are sure that you are a candidate for the nearest mental hospital. You fear everything, even yourself. </p>
	<p>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.</p>
	<p>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 &#8216;an unpatriotic coward,&#8217;&nbsp; &#8216;a traitor&#8217;,&nbsp;&nbsp; &#8216;a sell-out.&#8217;&nbsp; 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.</p>
	<p>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 &#8216;hospitality&#8217;, they are bundled back on the next plane, destination &#8216;home&#8217;, bitter home where there are still other borders waiting to welcome them harshly.</p>
	<p>By Chenjerai Hove</font></p>
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		<title>International City of Refuge Network</title>
		<link>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/25/welcome/</link>
		<comments>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/25/welcome/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 25 Sep 2006 16:56:05 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Administrator</dc:creator>
		
	<category>(A Note from the ICORN Administration)</category>
		<guid>http://icorn.blogsome.com/2006/09/25/welcome/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[	&quot;For the first time in years, I can sleep soundly through the night.&quot; Sherman Carlos, Kristiansand City of Refuge&#8217;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&nbsp;the principle of Freedom of Expression is&nbsp;put into absolute action. 
	We [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[	<p>&quot;<em>For the first time in years, I can sleep soundly through the night.&quot;</em> <br />Sherman Carlos, Kristiansand City of Refuge&#8217;s Guest Writer 2003-2005. </p>
	<p>International City of Refuge Network Writers, <br />Sleeping Soundly. . . Speaking Freely</p>
	<p>While the webzine (<a href="http://www.icorn.org/">www.icorn.org</a>) is edited and moderated, here on the blog&nbsp;the principle of Freedom of Expression is&nbsp;put into absolute action. </p>
	<p>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!</p>
	<p><font color="#0066ff">(The opinions expressed on this blog do not necessarily reflect&nbsp;those of the ICORN Administration, editors, nor our benefactors.)</font></p>
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