Nazionalism

Do please suspend swift reaction and judgement, if you can, and read, with patience, to the very end, as this is not a simple issue, although it is a vital one.  Nationalism, in its nastier forms, is by no means the only problem we face in our times, but it is a thing that divides and affects us all.

And nationalism has many guises.

Tribalism, communal conflict, ethnic cleansing, civil wars without end – all of these, along with the horrors of empires of various kinds, are realities from which we cannot easily escape.

But if we begin to probe into the roots of these pathologies, to understand their nature, and so are able to recognize how they work and take action before they overwhelm us, then perhaps there is some hope.

Our tribal instincts can perhaps be addressed and appeased, without being given primacy.

Thanks.    

Arjun
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Nazionalism
   
Speak not to me of proud Bengal – or of glorious India.
Of “nations” and the harm they've done, I need no more reminder.
Of British and of Gallic pride, of German virtues – nay!
You'll only leave me, with your talk, in even more dismay.

Of Israel and Palestine, I think I've heard enough.
Call me when you're sickened by the nationalistic stuff.
Go wave the flag of Pakistan, of Bangladesh or India.
When riots start or wars begin, I know where I will find ya.

On football fields, the children play. It's innocent enough.
But in Brazil, the teams compete. And now the play turns rough.  \1
An outlet?  Yes. But see the crowds, with men and women crazed.
It's better, yes, than boxing.  Yet I still remain amajed.

Let's leave aside the commerce that corrupts us, one and all.
Observe the metaphors we use for games of bat and ball,
With headlines screaming, “beat” and “whip” – and verbs more murderous.
How easily we let the instincts coarser conquer us...

Returning then to patriots, who surely have their place –
Remember how you felt when you were struck upon your face,
Although you did no harm to him or her who did the deed.
Unless you're sainted, then arose – your ego, yes, indeed...

And it's the same with nations – when they're wounded, then they rise.
And so, in turn, they're wounders.  This should cause us no surprise.
Identities, we have – and they are multiple, until
We're singled out for one of them – and drink, of bitters, fill.

So that's a reason, why we then attempt to reinforce
Identity that causes grief – or is erased by force.
But there are other reasons too, why egos rise from sleep.
Defense is only one of them – and none of them are deep.

Let's run away from empires and let's turn away from tribes.
Let's relish our identities, which are, as one describes,
Multiple.  A woman is a mother, sister, child,
A cook and a photographer – with none of these defiled.

So can she be Bengali, and a Muslim, by her birth,
With Hindus in her lineage, and walk upon this Earth
With a passport that was Indian, until that was exchanged
For yet another document – and still not be deranged?

And can you be a Christian and an Arab and a Jew,
From all of these descended – yet be Latin in your view,
From being born, where Spanish now is spoken, and with genes
From those who first had planted, there, tobacco, maize and beans?

You're Croat?  Ah, but here I see, your grandmother was Serb.
You're Jewish?  Oh. You're hair is light.  What's Nordic, you preserve.
You're “White”? and she is “Black”?  But look – you have the same ancestor.
If that's a question still, then look –  Obama is your answer.

In Europe, lands were cleansed, in turn, of pagans, Muslims, Jews,
Of Christian sects that waged their wars for centuries, with views
That still remain to plague the lands where cleansing still proceeds,
As nations rose that soaked the earth with blood from brutal deeds.

Now Shias battle Sunnis in a war that is exploding.
But only yesterday, they sat and chatted, sans foreboding.
So is Kashmir in India or in Pakistan – or in nothing?
If that's our reason for a war, our reason, we've forgotten.

And I could point my finger at the ones who wheel and deal,
Who profit from our madness – and our dooms, with borders, seal.
But when I see how you and I are eager for the bait,
At pointing so my finger, I will take my time and wait.

So go and wave your flag and shout your slogans till you're sore.
But do this, please, at soccer games – in battlefields, no more...
And if you're for the wars we wage – go slaughter with the braves.
But let us have our hours of peace – before we fill our graves...

Go ask the shaikhs in emirates, go ask Manhattan's bankers,
What use they have for nations – and then listen to their answers.
And if you still are drunken from the potions you've imbibed,
Consorting with these cynics is the medicine prescribed.

When foreign troops are ravaging the land where you were born,
Then you might take up arms.  But when you've helped excise that thorn,
How many more you still might find that draw the people's blood...
The foreigners have left – and yet, of tears, there's still a flood...

The China that was set upon by Western wolves is risen.
But what remains of wisdom in that land of ancient vision?
How many peoples in a land, how rich the tapestry...
Yet when reduced to just a flag, what's left is travesty...

How many dead from empires, how many from our “nations”?
How many more before we reach the end of human patience?
The white sahibs were bad enough, we fought to speed their exit.
The brown sahibs are in their place.  In place of Jones, a Dixit... \2

“You do not understand,” some say, “it's all about survival!”
“Survival, yes. For whom?” I ask. The answer, if you're tribal,
Is “Us.”  “But who is us?  Explain. Were you including me?”
The borders that divide us are where we have made them be...

There always is a history – though much of it is myth.
And histories have horrors – yes, no matter who you're with.
But if we learn, from history, that blood's on all our hands,
The ones who died might smile, perhaps, that someone understands...

We humans, we have troubles from our classes and our creeds.
Why add to these a “nation” – or the empire that it breeds?
Our cities and our provinces – these entities have use.
But they're for all who're born or settle there – without abuse.

The cities and the provinces, they rarely need to battle,
Until it's said, to Russians, “Out!” or to Ukrainians, “Scuttle!”
To be a citizen's a right of birth or domicile,
And horrors rise, when laws or arms, this basic right, defile.

Economics lies at root of much of what we humans do.
Resources, scarce, are battled for – and bare survival too.
Let's strip away the garbs in which this struggle is attired –
And then, perhaps, we'll have a chance, with nation-states retired...

2014 July 3rd, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York

Notes:

1. In case these verses are extant a year or more from now, the World Cup games for soccer were ongoing in Brazil as these were being written.
  
2. In standard English orthography, that surname should  perhaps be spelled, more phonetically, as “Dikshit” – with both the “d” and the “t”being, however, dental consonants – made with the tip of the tongue touching the backs of the upper front teeth, as in most Latin languages, rather than alveolar consonants – made with the tongue-tip touching the upper gum ridge, as in English.

Some might question my use of the term “phonetic” in conjunction with English spelling.  Although there are at least two well-established systems for spelling English, differing only in minor ways, it may be a
reach to call either of these a “system”, since they both fail to systematically represent even the basic phonemes of standard spoken English – on both sides of the Atlantic.
   

Enslavement

    
Enslavement
    
The human mind is clever – and the human hand as well.
There's much that they've discovered, as our books and stories tell.
But yet it is enslavement that our cleverness has brought
To most of us – who live and work, in nets and snare-traps caught.
 

a captive
image source:  http://revcom.us/a/035/black-history-month-pt1.htm

   
  

      
   

The things that once had promise, at the time  they were invented,
To free us – these have each been turned to chains, by those demented,
Who profit from enslavement and the labors of the masses
And treat us, shedding conscience, much as some treat burdened asses.

We humans, we have tamed the beasts who're used to pull and carry,
And also, we have tamed the ones, with names like Ping and Harry.
And just as oxen, donkeys, mules may labor till they die,
So also Ying and Larry might, believing in the lie.
  

illustration for the poem Khuror Ko`l (The Elder's Contraption)
from the collection of Bengali nonsense verse, Abol Tabol, by Sukumar Roy.
image source: http://avikmukherjee.blogspot.com/2009/01/sukumar-roya-legacy-lost.html

And those of us who question this – and so are termed rebellious,
We each in turn are silenced – yes, by gentler means or vicious.
And so we see that humans work, yet more and more and more,
As some grow richer from that work – and stronger even more.

And though advances past had eased the lot of workers, now
We see these each negated – as we all, to magnates, bow.
We even worship them, as once we did our “godlike” kings,
While governments are bought and sold, by those on golden wings.

Those predators, they circle now, like eagles flying high.
They swoop upon their prey and then they climb up in the sky.
With all the world within their reach, with money as their claws,
They feed on men and women – and they write, for us, our laws.

They buy the public's voices and they use these for their ends.
They mangle even children – much as eagle, rabbit rends.
So where there once was innocence, we see a child demented,
As everything is used on him, by humankind invented.

To Corrupt the Innocence, painting by Paulo Zerbato
image source:  http://www.artflakes.com/en/products/to-corrupt-the-innocence

  
Losing thus our children, corrupted in their souls,
What can humans live for, who once were cogent wholes?
We now are so fragmented, in selves and in a village,
That each is easy pickings, for those who raid and pillage.

Oh rise and be again what you can be, oh humankind!
To all compulsions be averse, to mindfulness be kind.
Oh wake and see what vice has wrought, let virtue be your king.
Of all that's evil, be aware.  Of  heart and kindness, sing!

Desist from racing on the wheel. It's time for us to slow.
The wheel's a race to nowhere, save where no one sane should go.
Let's join to break our fetters and to work for better causes.
From racing and its cruelties, desist!  Extend the pauses...

For only in the quiet times, can we begin to see
The qualities of mercy and our lost humanity.
And only through that leisure can we slow – and so regain
The sanity that we have lost, pursuing fruitless gain.

2014 July 2nd, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Digha (1957-nagad)

    
This (below) is a prose-poem in Bangla (Bengali).  An English translation follows below the Bangla verses.
  
A brief explanation of the (phonetic) Roman transcription used here can be found at:

Bharot Xadhin 

http://thedailypoet.blogspot.com/2014/02/bharot-xadhin-indias-freedom.html
   
Digha used to be, in the 1950's, a small coastal town or fishing village in the southwestern Medinipur (Midnapore) district of Bengal, when it began to find favor, among the Bengali Babus of Calcutta, as a sea-side resort.  My paternal grandfather hailed from a small village in that district.  The more popular places, at the time, for those seeking the beaches, were further south, along the coast of Orissa (now Od'isha), with Puri and Gopalpur being common destinations.
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Digha (1957-nagad)
  

Digha beach, Medinipur, W. Bengal -- fishermen with net 
 image source: http://www.goibibo.com/travel-guide/east-midnapore/places-to-visit/digha-beach-in-west-bengal/1334/

   
Mone po`re chot'o be`lar ko`tha,
go`romer chut'ir xuru –
t'hakurda, t'hakurmar xo`nge
t'rene base core, dokkhine bhro`mon...

Dupurer khat'a rode, po~uchulam Dighae.
Jinix-po`ttor nie, he~t'e he~t'e, elam
chot'o e`k barite, jekhane thakbo kichudin...

Bikele, amra chot'ora agrohe gelam
xomudro-xo`ndhane...

Xal-bone, bali-d'haka po`th.
Tai die hat'lam, edik-odik dekhe.
Boichilo, xito`l jolo haoa.
D'al-pata gaichilo gan...
Dure, xomudrer gobhir go`rjon...

Kromoxe barlo xei aoaj.
Chot'o buke, jaglo bho`e.
Hat dhore, t'ipi-t'ipi coli...

Xal-boner xexe, xada balir d'hipi.
Kothao-kothao, bono ghax,
balir theke u~ki mere ut'he,
dulche bataxe.

D'hipir opor core, ho`tat dekhlam, xamne
je`no e`k birat' lo`mba de-al...

Po`re bujhlam, xet'a
axole xomudro-digon`nto-akax.

Bixxo`e, cokh bo`r'o-bo`r'o kore,
cup hoe dekhlam amra to`khon
je drixxo dekhini ko`khono age –
bixal Bo`ngopoxagor...

Tar tire, bhangche d'heu...
Xamne, ublono xada phe`na...
Dure, xari-xari d'heuer rekha
coleche dur digo`nte.

Bho`e-bho`e egulam amra.
Paer nice bheja bali,
xamuker t'ukro...
Chott'o ka~kra chut'che bege –
d'ube ge`lo, mone holo, phe`nar nice...

Nil akaxer nice, xomudrer d'aker paxe,
darie roilam to`khon.  D'heuer opor
d'ana mele urchilo pakhi...
Xomudrer tibro haoa
boichilo, kapor-camra cepe...

Go`romer chut'ir xurute,
Kolkatar bhir-dho~a-dhulo-mo`ela theke,
xei bixal xomudrer tire exe,
pou~chulam je`no, ei groho chere,
kono-e`k xo`rgo-jo`gote...

30-e Jun, 2014
Bruklin, No`bo Io`rk
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Digha (around 1957)

Digha beach, Medinipur, W. Bengal -- fishermen with net  
image source: http://www.goibibo.com/travel-guide/east-midnapore/places-to-visit/digha-beach-in-west-bengal/1334/

 
I remember childhood days –
at the start of the summer holidays –
traveling south, by train and bus,
with my grandad and grandma
on my father's side...

We reached Digha around noon, with the sun beating down.
Carrying our things, we walked till we reached
a small cottage, where we'd be staying for awhile...

Later, in the afternoon, we small ones
went looking, eagerly, for the sea...

We walked through the pine-woods –
along a sandy path, glancing all around.
A sea-breeze was blowing through the woods,
strumming on the branches and leaves, setting them to song.
In the distance, we heard the deep growling of the sea...

That ominous sound grew as we walked.
We felt afraid.
Holding hands, we tip-toed along...

At the end of the pine-woods – a dune of white sand.
Here and there, wild grasses,
peeking up from the sands,
dancing in the breeze...

Climbing up on the dune, we saw, of a sudden,
what appeared to be a great, long wall...

Later, we came to realize that this
was the sea, the horizon and the sky.

With eyes wide with amajement,
we silently looked out upon
what we had never seen before –
the vastness of the Bay of Bengal...

On its shore, the waves were breaking.
Near to us, the roiling white foam – 
In the rear, line upon line of waves,
reaching to the distant horizon...

Timidly, we walked towards the sea.
Below our feet – the wet sand,
pieces of sea-shells...
a tiny crab, racing along,
that seemed to drown beneath advancing foam...

We stood there on that beach,
beneath the sky, beside the calling sea,
as sea-birds spread their wings above the waves
and the strong sea-breeze blew against our clothes and skin.

At the start of the summer vacation,
escaping from the city's crowds, smoke, dust and filth,
arriving at the pristine shores of this vast sea,
it seemed that we had left our planet and
had reached a paradise.
   
2014, June 30th
Brooklyn, New York    
     

Summer's Here

    
Summer's Here
  
The summer's here. The sky is bright and blue.
A sea-breeze blows through Brooklyn's sun-washed streets.
It sets the leaves a-shimmer.  Treetops wave,
And light and shade do dappled, dancing steps...

I stand beside a tree and watch that dance
In the leaves above and the shadow-play below.
The cooling breezes waft my sweat away 
And I rejoice that summer's here again.

******

A cup of coffee, from the corner store...
I’m greeted by a former student – worst
Among the ones I've had of late.  He shouts
To others, "Look, our Dr. Faggot's here!"

I quietly buy the coffee, quickly leave.
I hear, behind me, laughs and murmurs.  "Bye,"
One calls out, “Dr. F!”  I smile, because
It’s summer and I’m free – till summer ends.

2014  June 29th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The End of June

   
The End of June
  
The summers here are altered states of mind.
The schools are closed, except for those who dare
Attending, teaching summer school. It's rough.
For those like me, ten months are long enough!

The questions rise, on which I now reflect:
Could I, without these summers, have survived?
How many summers past?  How few are left?
And what of those, of summer's balms bereft?

The end of June is near.  The summer's breath
Has greened the streets.  The trees are feathered full,
As prairies wave from squares that pavement guards,
And little jungles sprout from sunlit yards.

I walk the streets, awash with streaming light.
The whitewashed walls and brick are bright from sun.
I see, in window-glass – the summer sky...
I think – a few more days – and then, July...

In steamy days to come, we might regret
The passing of the spring and even pine
For winter – but the kids and teachers know
That if she'd hear, they'd say, to summer, “Slow!”

The summer passes swiftly, like the year.
It's only been a day since schools have closed.
We savor summer's sweets, we taste the sun.
But even so, we dread the ten-month run.

2014 June 28th, Sat.
(last two stanzas added 29th, Sun.)
Brooklyn, New York
  

The Theft of the Commons

      
The Theft of the Commons
 
We have a duty, in the public sphere,
To do what's right – the common good of all.
And it's our duty to defend this space
From those who seek to "own" it for their ends.

If "ownership" is what they seek, we say,
"What's public still is 'owned' by all of us.
It can't be sold or bought.  It's like the air,
The sun and all that we and others share."

And yet there's value in what's shared – from work
That citizens have done, from taxes paid
And from the value that we put on things
We hold as dear, as heirs with legacies.

So when the public tills are used as troughs
From which the lazy or the clever feed,
It's only right that some should raise a cry
And to such thieves, the public's trust deny.

But equally, when magnates seek to grow
Yet richer from the government's largesse,
Procured by tools the affluent can wield,
To such as these, should we, our treasures, yield?

What once was shared by all, the common space,
Is now partitioned, walled – and we are told
By hired guards that we have no access
Or only what is doled and limited.

What public labor built is cheaply bought.
It's sold and rented out as "property".
And so, across the world, the billionaires
Grow richer yet, with workers turned to serfs. 

Our years of work, the toils of those before
Are stolen, used to profit only some.
If foreign troops arrived to conquer, would
We then defend, what we have given up?

The light, the air, the water and the land
Are shared by all of life. Our sustenance
Is drawn from these. Who dares to "own" them or
Despoil, by thoughtless plunder, sanctity?

The burglar and the con-man are condemned,
And those who try to rob the banks are chased.
But who will rise and point towards the ones
Who steal our labor and our heritage?

2014 June 27th, Fri.
Brooklyn
   

Words

     
Words
  
The Buddhists say that neither praise nor scorn
Should lift or sink the ships that we are on.
But just as sailors yearn for sailing winds
And fear the lulls and storms, we're tossed by words.

But when we think – that what we were before
Those words, we still remain – no less, no more,
We then can take the measure of the words
And use them or discard them, centered, strong.

******
 
But sticks and stones may break our bones –
And hard it is to heal them.
As sorrows such afflict our lives,
Should words and thoughts be burdens?

Yet words may wound and thoughts may plague
If these become possessions.
We breathe and watch our thoughts and so
We shed our dark obsessions.

2014 June 22nd Sun
(last stanza added 23rd Mon)
Brooklyn, New York