Montag, 8. Dezember 2008

कविता: सूर्य नमस्कार बनारस माँ (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़)



The Sun at Benaras (Satis Shroff)

My eyes and mind were fading
Under the rays of the scorching sun.
I was at Benaras,
Standing in the polluted
But holy river.

Half naked,
With a sacred thread,
Greeting Surya,
The child of dawn,
The great source of light
And warmth:
The Sun.

You are the nourisher,
The brilliant light-maker,
The eye of the world,
The witness of men’s deeds.
Oh, you king of the constellations,
You,
Who possesses a thousand rays.

I was mumbling a Sanskrit litany,
I’d learned from my dear Mom :
Hara, hara Gungay,
Saba paapa langay.

* * *

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

The dancing floor,
A heaven to those
Who know how to dance:
The salsa, samba, tango,
The fox and the waltz.

How many shoe soles have I danced,
How may souls have I conquered?
Here I am,
Longing for a dance,
A paraplegic dancer.

I dance now
With my eyes,
Even when I seem
To gaze in the distance.

I hear wonderful melodies
From the Spring of my life.
I dance now
In my mind.

* * *

Isolation (Satis Shroff)

She had a small soul
And little education.
She gave,
But sought
Something else in return.

She loved her husband,
Pampered him in society,
For all to see.
Did she love him,
Or his wallet?
And things money can buy.

She shielded him from his friends,
With whom he’d fought
In the trenches of Stalingrad,
Cornered together like rats,
And prayed when Stalin’s Orgel
Screamed murderously over them.

He needed love and care
After the trauma of war.
Woke up in sleep
With nightmares of the krieg.
He gave up his camarades,
For a wife who said she loved him.
They had sauerkraut and spätzle,
Watched tennis and thrillers on TV,
And had no time for others.
Lonesome pensioners,
In self-inflicted isolation.

What came was depression,
Failing sensory organs,
Sans eyes,
Sans friends.
Varicose veins,
Cerebral sclerosis,
Alzheimer and strokes.
The light went out.
Was someone out there?

* * *

The Feud (Satis Shroff)


The feud I fought
Was not whole heartedly.
I handed it to a lawyer,
Who made a hash of it,
And a judge who was subjective.

I had to pay a heavy loss.
Would it have been better,
Had I put my heart
Into the feud?

Can I forget it,
But not forgive?
Can you forgive,
But not forget?
Questions that still
Torment my soul.

* * *

Wine (Satis Shroff)

He who drinks sings,
He who drinks sinks,
You say.

He who drinks
Drops and spills
His wine,
His self,
His Ich
His life.

And when it’s spilt,
Can you still drink?
Or is it the wine
That spilt your life?

* * *

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

Why do you run after me?
You are seduced by my voice,
My style and verse.

Follow your heart,
Your own words.
Till then,
We go different ways.
We follow different paths,
Though we hear the same rhythm.
And in doing so,
We meet again.
Aufwiedersehen,
Arrividerci.

* * *
The Whiteness in the Zone of Death (Satis Shroff)

The best view of the world
Is from the top of the highest mountain,
The Abode of the Gods.

‘The best way to climb a peak
Is not to give it
A single thought.
Think of a thousand other things,’
Said the climber from abroad,
To the sherpa.

Suddenly it became stormy,
The dreaded whiteout came
With howling, biting winds,
Tons of snow everywhere.
The sahib had only a single thought.
‘Hilf mir, O Gott!’
And cried like a new born baby,
Scared of the wilderness,
Scared of the whiteness
That surrounded him.

He found the sherpa,
Who said:
‘ Here, where you stand,
Is almost the summit, Sir.
Welcome to the Abode of the Gods.’
‘The abode of what?’
‘The Gods,’ said the sherpa.

The climber turned around:
Whiteness in the death zone,
As far as he could imagine.
A step to the right,
A step behind,
And a blood-curdling scream.
Swallowed by a treacherous crevice.

The half-frozen sherpa mumbled,
‘Om mane peme hum,
Vajra guru peme siddhay hum!’
Till sunrise.
He opened his eyes,
Thanked the Gods of the Himalayas
For saving his life,
Felt sorry for the sahib,
And descended with a heavy heart.

Freitag, 14. November 2008

बुक रेविएव: थे व्हाइट तिगेर (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़)







Creative Writing Critique: Chicken of India Unite! (Satis Shroff)

Review: Aravind Adiga: The White Tiger. Atlantic Books, London, 2008. Man Booker Prize 2008. German version: ‘Der Weisse Tiger’ published by C.H. Beck, 2008.

Aravind Adiga was a correspondent for the newsmag Time and wrote articles for the Financial Times, the Independent and Sunday Times. He was born in Madras in 1974 and is a Mumbai-wallah now. The protagonist of his first novel is Balram Halwai, (I’m a helluva Mumbai-halwa fan, you know) who tells his story in the first person singular. Halwai has a fantastic charisma and shows you how you can climb the Indian mainstream ladder as a philosopher and entrepreneur. An Indian entrepreneur has to be straight and crooked, mocking and believing, sly and sincere, at the same time (sic). Balram’s prerogative is to turn bad news into good news, and the White Tiger, who’s terribly scared of lizards, slits the throat of his boss to attain his goal, and doesn’t even regret his deed.

In the subcontinent, however, Aravind Adiga’s novel has received sceptical critique. Manjula Padmanabhan wrote in ‘Outlook’ that it lacks humour, and the formidable Delhi-based Kushwant Singh 92, who used to write for the Illustrated Weekly of India and is regarded as the doyen of Indian English literature, found it good to read but endlessly depressing.

‘And what’s so depressing?’ you might ask. I found his style refreshing and creative the way he introduced himself to Wen Jiabao. At the beginning of each capital he quotes from a part of his ‘wanted’ poster. The author writes about poverty, corruption, aggression and the brutal struggle for power in the Indian society. A society in which the middle class is reaching economically for the sky, in which Adiga’s biting and scathing criticism sounds out of place, when deshi Indians are dreaming of manned flights to the moon, outer space and mountains of nuclear arsenal against China or any other neighbouring states that might try to flex muscles against Hindustan.

India is sometimes like a Bollywood film, which the poverty-stricken masses enjoy watching, to forget their daily problems for two hours. The rich Indians want to give their gastrointestinal tract a rest and so they go to the cinema between bouts of paan-spitting and farting due to lack of exercise and oily food. They all identify themselves with the protagonists for these hundred and twenty minutes and are transported into another world with location shooting in Switzerland, Schwarzwald, Grand Canyon, the Egyptian Pyramids, sizzling London, fashionable New York and romantic Paris. After twelve songs, emotions taking a roller-coaster ride, the Indians stagger out of the stuffy, sweaty cinemas and are greeted by the blazing and scorching Indian sun, slums, streets spilling with haggard, emaciated humanity, pocket-thieves, real-life goondas, cheating businessmen, money-lenders, snake-girl-destitute-charmers, thugs in white collars and the big question: what shall I and my family eat tonight? Roti, kapada, makan, that is, bread, clothes and a posh house are like a dream to most Indians dwelling in the pavements of Mumbai, or for that matter in Delhi, Bangalore, Mangalore, Mysore, Calcutta (Read Günter Grass’s Zunge Zeigen) and other Indian cities, where they burn rubbish for warmth.

The stomach groans with a sad melody in the loneliness and darkness of a metropolis like Mumbai, a city that never sleeps. As Adiga says, ‘an India of Light, and an India of Darkness in which the black, polluted river Mother Ganga flows.’

Ach, munjo Mumbai! The terrible monsoon, the jam-packed city, Koliwada, Sion, Bandra, Marine Drive, Juhu Beach. I can visualise them all, like I was there. I spent almost every winter during the holidays visiting my uncles, aunts and cousins, the jet-set Shroffs of Bombay. I’m glad that there are people like Aravind Adiga, Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy and Kiran Desai who speak for the millions of under-privileged, downtrodden people and give them a voice through literature. Aravind deserves the Man Booker Prize like no other, because the novel is extraordinary. It doesn’t have the intellectual poise of VS Naipaul or Rushdie’s masala language. It has it’s own Mumbai matter-of-fact speech, a melange of Oxford and NY. And what we get to hear when we take the crowded trains from the suburbs of this vast metropolis, with its mixture of Marathi, Gujerati, Sindhi and scores of other Indian languages is also what Balram is talking about. Adiga was bold enough to present the Other India than what film moghuls and other so-called intellectuals would have us believe.

Balram’s is a strong political voice and mirrors the Indian society which wants to present Bharat in superlatives: superpower, affluent society and mainstream culture, whereas in reality there’s tremendous darkness in the society of the subcontinent. Even though Adiga has lived a life of affluence, studied at Columbia and Oxford universities, he has raised his voice in his book against the nepotism, corruption, in-fighting between communal groups, between the rich and the super-rich, a dynamic process in which the poor, dalits, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s Children of God (untouchables), ‘scheduled’ castes and tribes have no outlet, and are to this day mere pawns at the hands of the rich in Hindustan, as India was called before the Brits came to colonise the sub-continent. Balram, Adiga’s protagonist, shows how to assert oneself in the Indian society, come what may. I hope this book won’t create monsters without character, integrity, ethos, and soulless humans, devoid of values and norms. From what sources are the characters drawn? The story is in the form of a letter written by the protagonist to the Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao and is drawn from India’s history as told by a school drop-out, chauffeur, entrepreneur, a self-made man with all his charms and flaws, a man who knows his own India, and who presents his views frankly and candidly, sometimes much like P.G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster. The author's attitude toward his characters is comical and satirical when it comes to realities of life for India’s poverty stricken underdogs, whether in the form of a rickshaw puller, tea-shop boy or the driver of a rich Indian businessman. His characters are alive and kicking, and it is a delight to go with Balram in this thrilling ride through India’s history, Bangalore, Old and New Delhi, Mumbai and its denizens. The major theme is how to get along in a sprawling country like India, and the author reveals his murderous plan brilliantly through a series of police descriptions of a man named Balram Halwai. The theme is a beaten path, traditional and familiar, for this is not the first book on Mumbai and Indian society. Other stalwarts like Kuldip Singh, Salman Rushdie, Amitabh Ghosh, VS Naipaul, Anita and Kiran Desai and a host of writers from the Raj have walked along this path, each penning their respective Zeitgeist. In this case, the theme is social, entertaining, escapist in nature, and the reader is like a voyeur in the scenarios created by Balaram. The climax is when the Chinese leader actually comes to Bangalore. So much for Hindi-Chini Bhai-Bhai. Unlike Kiran Desai (The Inheritance of Loss) Adiga says, “Based on my experience, Indian girls are the best. (Well second best. I tell you, Mr Jiaobao, it’s one of the most thrilling sights you can have as a man in Bangalore, to see the eyes of a pair of Nepali girls flashing out at you from the dark hood of an autorickshaw (sic). As to the intellectual qualities of the writing, I loved the simplicity and clarity that Adiga has chosen for his novel. He intersperses his text with a lot of dialogue with his characters and increases the readability score, and is dripping with satire and humour, even while describing an earnest emotional matter like the cremation of Balram’s mother, whereby the humour is entirely British---with Indian undertones. The setting is cleverly constructed. In order to have pace and action in the story Adiga sends Balram to the streets of Bangalore as a chauffeur, and suddenly you’re in the middle of a conversation and narration where a wily driver Balram tunes in. He’s learning, ever learning from the smart guys in the back seat, and in the end he’s the smartest guy in Bangalore, evoking an atmosphere of struggle for survival in the jungles of concrete in India. Indeed, blazingly savage, this book. A good buy this autumn.


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is a poet and writer based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

Mittwoch, 12. November 2008

थे स्विस बुक प्रिज़े २००८ सतीस shroff



Books and Blondes (c) satisshroff 2008


BOOK BASLE TURNS BOOK 08 (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)


Books galore at Basle 08. An author named Wolfang Bortlik went even so far as to say,
“books have now ( after the fixed price went down) the same character as commodities like socks and toothpaste.” Thereby implying that touching a book is like touching any other ware. It’s not a sacral but a profane object of delight. Which reminds me of the publisher who started reading a manuscript, then went to change his clothes and came out wearing a dark suit and a bow-tie to show reverence towards the would-be author. The book was a classic. ‘Education,’ said Dr. John G. Hibben, a one-time President of Princeton University,‘is the ability to meet life’s situations.’ He could have added the word ‘aqequately.’

‘What’s the difference between BookBasle and Book 08?’ you might ask. BookBasle is a thing of the past and was more or less a well-organised Fair. But Book 08 has new ambients, and for the first time Switzerland has created a Swiss Book Award for established and aspiring writers of this ravishingly beautiful Alpine Republic. I went to Morschach in Central Switzerland during the Summer holidays and thought I was already in Heaven, you know. Alone in 2007, 110 organisers and 152 participating publishing houses (small and big) were interested in Book 08. Now it’s over 400 publisher-stalls and rather international. ‘International’ in the Swiss context means, of course, publishers from big German and Austrian cities like: Munich, Frankfurt upon Main (not Frankfurt upon Oder), Berlin and Vienna. Lübbe is a good name, for instance, with Dan Brown’s ‘Sacrilege’ and others. If you prefer listening rather than talking or reading, there are author forums where the authors read from their latest books.

Now the question: who’s gonna read at Basle 08? I find Friday 14,2008 rather interesting not only because Cornelia Schinzzilarz, Adam Davies, Slavenka Draklic and György Dragoman will be reading and answering questions, but also this year’s Man Booker Prize recipient Aravind Adiga with ‘The White Tiger’ (German title ‘Der Weisse Tiger’ published by C.H. Beck, 2008. Aravind works as a correspondent for the newsmag Time and The Financial Times. He was born in 1974 and the protagonist of his first novel is Balram Halwai, (I love halwa from Mumbai, you know) who tells his story in the first person singular. Halwa has a fantastic charisma and shows you how you can climb the Indian mainstream ladder as a philosopher and entrepreneur---and ends as a murderer. You’ve probably read ‘Goodbye Lenin,’ dear reader. This time it’s ‘Goodbye Lemon,’ a touching novel with dark humour about memories, mourning and forgiveness written by Adam Davies.

In this fast-living, egoistic consumer society, relationships tend to be fragile. It’s often touch and go. A series of wrong words and the partner looks for and finds another. The Swiss journalist Karin-Dietl-Wichmann knows what she’s talking writing about in her ‘Lass dich endlich scheiden,’ (published by Heyne 2008) which means ‘File a divorce for Heaven’s Sake.’ She was married thrice and knows how to go about it and admonishes women, without batting an eye-lid, to evaluate their marriages and shows that there’s no reason to uphold a partnership where there’s no fundament.

‘Leben Spenden’ published by Zsolnay, 2008, which means ‘Donate Life’ is a book by one of the most well-known Croatian authors: Slavenka Drakulic. She had to go to the USA in September 2004 to get a kidney-transplantation. It wasn’t her first, you know.

‘Der weisse König’ which means ‘The White King’ is György Dragoman’s second novel. The first one was ‘The Book of Destruction’ with the German title ‘Das Buch der Zerstörung’ which received a literary prize. The current book is being translated at the moment into fifteen languages. Dragoman was born in 1973 in the Seven-Hills of Romania (Siebenbürgen) and lives since 1988 in Budapest. His books have been published by Suhrkamp, a German publishing house.

At last year’s BuchBasel Fair you could find strange books like: Das Kifferlexikon, a compact encyclopedia on Cannabis sativa (hash) and others books like ‘Das Joint Drehbuch’ with a pun on the verb ‘drehen’ and even a cooking book with the title ‘Das Rauschkochbuch.’ Thomas Kessler, an author from Basle, has even written a book with the title ‘Hanf in der Schweiz.’ At the moment Kessler is responsible for the Integration of Migrants at the Canton-Basle City. Another interesting character at the past BookBasel was Tom Kummer, a journalist, who’d written interviews with Hollywood stars. The problem was he’d met them only in his mind. Herr Kummer had an explanation: he said he was representing Borderline-Journalism in which reality is consciously mixed with fantasy. His incredible book? ‘Blow Up: The Story of My Life’. I personally think he made a hash of the genres. I’ve heard about borderline medical cases during my medical and social science studies, but this really beats it. A wonderful example for students of Creative Writing classes how not to create and stir fiction with non-fiction. If you do, then please declare your ingredient as fiction and you’re on the safe side.

Can a book, film or PC game have the same negative effect on small readers? There have been discussions about the Grimm Brothers and their Fairy Tales which are said to be ‘too brutal at times.’ I had a talk with a bespectacled, elderly Freiburger European ethnologist, Frau Schaufelberger, who lectures on the subject and she said, “No, I think that it’s good to have bad or scary tales also, otherwise we’ll be giving a wrong picture about real life to the children.” Compared to what the kiddies watch in TV and DVDs, the Grimm and other Fairy Tales around the world are tame, not-so-scary and have educational values for they uphold values and norms of the concerned societies and their cultures.

So who’s going to win the Swiss Book Prize 2008? There are five favourites. Lukas Bärfuss, Rolf Lappert, Adolf Muschg, Peter Stamm and Anja Jardine. It’s evident that the Swiss ladies are underrepresented in the alpine literary world. The Swiss Book Prize involves a matter of 50,000 Swiss Franks (the German Book Prize offers 25,000 Euros) and the four losers will go home with 2,500 Swiss Franks in their pockets, which is indeed a great discrepancy compared to the first prize. Well loser can’t be choosers, oder? But one thing is sure: all five authors will cash in on publicity, honour, privilege and special presentations at other diverse Book Fairs.

Anja Jardine, is a newcomer and her book carries the title ‘Als der Mond vom Himmel fiel’ which in English means ‘When the Moon fell from the Sky’ published by Klein & Aber, Zürich.). Lukas Bärfuss has written an explosive political book on Ruanda ‘Hundert Tage’ published by Wallstein, Göttingen. Author Adolf Muschg is already prominent and is known for his minimal writings that have maximum effect. His book has the title ‘Kinderhochzeit,’ a love story and a portrait of a family based in the Upper Rhine, published by Suhrkamp, Frankfurt. Peter Stamm is billed as a typical Swiss author with his normal tales about everyday life and his book ‘Wir fliegen’ has been published by S. Fischer, Frankfurt. Rolf Lappert has penned a major novel based in Ireland among other places, and he combines great story-telling with experimental makings. His book ‘Nach Hause schwimmen’ has been published by Carl Hanser, Munich. Lappert was nominated for the German Book Prize but didn’t make it. He’s 50 and lives in Ireland. Perhaps he’ll swim home to win the Swiss Prize. I wish him luck. This year’s German Book Prize winner is Uwe Tellkamp, a sympathetic fellow who also lives in Freiburg, like Yours Truly, and will also read from his prize-winning book ‘Der Turm’ which means ‘The Tower.’

Unlike the jury decisions of the Man Booker Prize in UK, the Swiss Jury has a Swiss yardstick called quality. The prize will be announced on November 15,2008 at the Book 08 in Basle.

The five critic in the jury are: Martin Ebel from the Tages-Anzeiger, Sandra Leis from Der Bund, Manfred Papst from the excellent NZZ am Sonntag, Hans Probst from Radio DRSZ and the free-lance critic Martin Zingg. Switzerland is small and everyone knows the other, and whether the literary prize will be renowned or not will naturally depend on the reputation of the jury and its sense and idea of excellence, curiosity and independence in decision-making and choosing a winner. Swiss TV will carry out the entire spectacle, of course, because it has to be a big event. To borrow a line from P. B. Shelley: if November comes, can the Christmas book-business be far behind?

Grüezi! Hope to see you there.

* * * *


About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is a poet and writer based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) who also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

Freitag, 17. Oktober 2008

फ्रांकफुर्टर बुच्मेस्से: पार्ल्स फ्रॉम थे बोस्पोरुस (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)

Frankfurter Book Fair:
Pearls from the Bosporus (Satis Shroff)


What happens when a TV moderator organises a show and prizes are awarded to Veronica Ferres 43 (best actress), Misel Maticevic 38 (best actor), ‘Contergan’ (best film) and the best show ‘Germany sucht den Superstar?’ An award show is in itself a comedy and slapstick affair but Thomas Gottschalk made a mistake this time. You can’t award stars and starlets, pruducers and directors in the same way you that you award a literary heavy-weight like Marcel Reich-Ranicki 88, the Literary Pope of the German speaking world. The octogenarian refused the prize for his well-known ‘Das Literarische Quartett.’ Reich-Ranicki went on record as saying: “I’ve seen so much stupidity this evening and I don’t believe that I belong to them,” thereby distancing himself from the jolly superficial crowd at the TV show. Gottschalk couldn’t believe his ears but was his old self, as usual, imitating Reich-Ranicki and trying hard not to lose his face, and making attempts to repair the damage to his show. Serious German literature and frivolous entertainment are indeed strange bedfellows.

I’m off to the Frankfurter Book Fair (October 15-19,2008) and this year’s host country is Turkey, which is an excellent choice because Turkey lies between the Orient and the Occident, and there are some pearls of contemporary literature from this nation on the Bosporus. The Turkish poets and writers will be introducing 200 new works and translations to demonstrate the fascinating and colourful spectrum of a culture which lies between Europe and Asia. Some 350 Turkish writers and poets are expected to turn up at the Main metropolis.

Since Islam has been in the world’s headlines since a long time, Turkey has a special role to play as a modern Islamic country, and literature from the Bosorus has received a great deal of attention, especially in the German speaking world: Germany, Austria, Switzerland and South Tyrole. A lot of German publishing houses have Turkish literature in their programs and catalogues. Kiepenheuer & Witsch have published Feridun Zaimoglu and Emine Sevgi, dtv (German pocket book) has brought out Osman Engin’s books, the Swiss Unionsverlag has printed Yesar Kemal and Esmahan Aykol (crime fiction).

Europe has so many migrants from Turkey and the Germans want to understand the mentality of the Turks and wish to present a enuine picture of life in Turkey today. To this end, Germany’s Robert Bosch Stiftung and a few Turkologists from Freiburg (Erika Glassen and Jens Peter laut) and the Swiss Unionsverlag have cooperated and created a ‘Turkish Library’ comrising 20 volumes of not yet translated writings and lyrics from the past century to our times. What a treasure for readers around the world.

The fact that two Turkish authors were awarded the German Peace Prize, Yasar Kemal (1997) and Orhan amuk (2005) gave Turkish literature the necessary boost that it needed. And when the latter received the coveted Nobel Prize for Literature a year later, it was the most wonderful thing for writers and poets from the Bosporus.

Orhan Pamuk has brought out a new novel with the title : The Museum of Innocence. The German edition bears the title ‘Das Museum der Unschuld’ published by Hauser (500 pages). Pamuk tells us the story of his protagonist Kemal, who falls in love but is engaged with someone else. Since he cannot forget his first love, he steals everyday objects from her house. And these stolen objects are the exponates of his museum. The novel is timed in the seventies in the town on the Bosporus. Even though the people look very westernised and extroverted, the nevel reveals that the Turks still hang on very much to their old traditions and beliefs, especially when it comes to behavioural patterns between the sexes. At the same time, the novel documents a plethora of objects of daily use from the surroundings of the unhappy beloved and it is his way of symbolically setting up a Taj Mahal of Innocence. We know from history that when Mumtaz, the favourite wife of Shah Jehan died, he built for her a memorial of white marmor, which is a symbol and a metaphor for eternal love.

Turkish literature has come of age due to its provincial character and the fact that it is different in comparison to German literature, and now it belongs to the world stage. Pamuk’s favourite Turkish author is Tanpinar who died in 1960 and he was the author’s hero. Tanpinar was at home with literary authors like Proust and Gide, as well as the Ottoman culture. Pamuk wrote about him in his ‘Istanbul’ book. Ahmet H. Tanpinar’s ‘Das Uhrenstellinstitut’ was also published by Hanser (432 pages, 24,90 euros). Whenever Ohran Pamuk had private or political problems, he just wrote on his cherished work: The Museum of Innocence, which gave him solace and protection. Perhaps that’s the reason it’s 600 pages thick. Surely a good buy for the reader seeking the same quantum of solace and protection from the political and psychic turmoil of our daily lives. Asked about Istanbul’s poetic places, he mentions: Bosporus, Taksim Place, Beyoglu and the Golden Horn.

Another man-of-letters from Turkey is Yasar Kemal, who was born in 1923 in a south Anatolian hamlet. His father was a rich landlord who turned poor later. Small Yasar was impressed by the poems, epics of the wandering minstrels and folk-singers of his country. After school he worked as a shepherd, drove a tractor, worked as a cobbler and then tried his hand as a street-writer to make both ends meet. And that was the beginning of a great career as a writer. His novel ‘Mehmed, my Falcon’ (1955) made him the most-read writer of Turkey. He lives and works in Istanbul.

Montag, 1. September 2008

लुद्मिल्ला Tüटिंग "मेरो हिरदै नेपाली chha (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)


The author and Ludmilla Tüting in Freiburg

Memoir:

Ludmilla Tüting: “My Heart Is Nepali” (Satis Shroff)
Ludmilla Tüting is a robust, well-read, emancipated, bespectacled Teutonic woman who makes no secret of the fact that she lives in a Berlin Hinterhof (backyard) in Kreuzberg (West Berlin) and yearns to see a horizon, especially with pagoda-silhouettes in the distance. It almost sounds as though Berlin is a city with the lost horizon.

She oscillates between Kathmandu and Berlin, and is very much active in the field of ‘sanfte’(soft)-tourism, which means tourism with insight. She spent her 50th Birthday on 27th of May 1996 with her Nepalese friends in the monastery of Thangpoche. She is concerned about the negative aspects of tourism and write the information-service ‘Tourism Watch’. To potential tourists in the German-speaking world, she’s a Nepal-specialist, who cares about Nepal’s cultural and natural heritage, as is evident through her travel books.

I met her at the Volkerkunde Museum in Freiburg, the metropolis of the south-west Black Forest, and the occasion was one of a series of talks held under the aegis of ‘Contemporary Painting from Nepal’ to promote cultural and religious development in Nepal.

Ludmilla Tüting talked about ‘Fascinating Nepal, the Sunny and Shady Sides’ and belted out slides and information and described Nepal as a wonderful country. And the other theme was: ‘Tourism with Insight isn’t in Demand: the Ecological Damage through Tourism in Nepal’ which was more or less what the interested Nepal-fan will find in ‘Bikas-Binas’, a thought-provoking book on Nepal’s ecological aspects, especially environmental pollution in the Himalayas, published by Ms.Tüting and my college-friend Kunda Dixit, a reputed Nepali journalist, who is the executive director of International Press Service since decades and also the chief editor and publisher of The Nepali Times.

Ms. Tüting’s talk, delivered with what the Germans are wont to call the Berlin-lip (Berlinerschnauze) has a pedagogic and practical value, and she tried not only to show what a tourist from abroad does wrong in Nepal, but also suggested how a tourist should behave and dress in Nepal. All in all, it sounded like the German book of etiquette called ‘Knigge’ for potential travellers to Nepal.

In the past there have been a good many transparency slide-shows and talks under the aegis of the Badische Zeitung, the Freiburger University and the Volkshochschule with jet-set gurus, rimpoches, meditations, experts on ‘boksas and boksis’, shamanism, Tibetan lamaism, tai-chi, taoism, yen-oriented-zen and what-have-yous. It is a fact that every Hans-Rudi-and-Fritz who’s been to Nepal or the Himalayas struts around as an expert on matters pertai­ning to the Home of the Snows.

Some bother to do a bit of background research and some don’t, and the result is a series of howlers. Like the bloke who’d written a thesis on traditions in Nepal and held a slide-show at the University’s eye-clinic auditorium maximum. The pictures of the Nepalese countryside were, as usual, breathtaking. Pokhara, Kathmandu, Jomsom, the Khumbu area and then a slide of Bhimsen’s pillar was shown and our expert quipped, ‘that’s the only mosque in Nepal.’

Or the time a Swabian expedition physician from Stuttgart held a vortrag (talk) at the university’s audi-max (auditorium maximum). A colour-slide of a big group of Nepalese porters flashed across the screen. The porters were shown watching the alpine expedition members eating their sumptuous supper, with every imaginable European dish and the comment was: ‘The Nepalese are used to eating once a day, so they just looked at us while we ate’ (sic). A decent German sitting near me named Dr. Petersen, who was a professor of microbiology, remarked, “Solche Geschmacklosigkeit!” (lack of taste or finesse), but it didn’t seem to disturb our Swabian Himalayan hero. Most Nepalese eat two big meals: at lunch and dinnertime, with quite a few snacks thrown in-between. And when you visit a Nepalese household you’re offered hot tea and snacks too, depending upon the wealth and status of the family.

Every time I heard such unkind, thoughtless remarks I’d groan and my blood pressure would shoot up and my ECG registered tachycardie and I’d probably developed ulcers. Oh, my mucosa. The remedy would be to avoid such stressors in the form of slide-shows, but I couldn’t. I had to tell myself: simmer down, old boy, the scenery is beautiful. And it is. If it weren’t for the ravishing beauty of rural Nepal and Kathmandu Valley’s artistic and cultural treasures...You just had to use ear-plugs (Oxopax) and relish the vistas of Nepal’s splendour: its uniqueness, its smiling people always with what the British call, a stiff upper lip, and what the Germans call ‘sich nie runter kriegen lassen,’ despite the decade old war between the government troops and the Maoists in the past.

Another time a European couple came to my apartment with a thick album full of photo­graphs of images of Gods and Godesses and the ‘experts’ wanted me to identify what, and where, they’d photographed in Nepal, for it was to be published as a pictorial book on the temples of Nepal. Some experts, I thought. The pair looked like the junkies in the Freak Street in the early seventies. Like the legendary Nepalese, one helped where one could, though I had to shake my head after they left.

Ludmilla has been going to Nepal since 1974. However, when you remind her of her ‘globe-trotter’ image in those days, she likes to forget it all, because she’d apparently made some mistakes and has learned from the mistakes of the past. And now ecology seems to be her passion. She wishes to ‘sensitise’ the potential tourists through her slide-shows, TV appearances and bring attention to the Nepalese rules of etiquette so as to feel at home in Nepal, despite the cultural shock and change.

‘Tourists are terrorists’ flashes across the screen, and Ludmilla explains that she’d photo­graphed a graffiti on the Berlin Wall in Kreuzberg. Every time a tourist visits another country, they get a culture shock: the language barrier, the question of mentality, alien customs, and as a result they return to their countries loaded with a lot of prejudices. Then she shows a bus-load of tourists pottering about the Hanuman Dhoka Palace. She says that some of the tourists were angry at her when she photographed them. The tourists seem to reserve the right to photograph every country and its people as something normal, without bo­thering to ask them for permission. “Wir haben schon bezahlt!“ is their line of argument. Doesn’t it smell of cultural imperialism, after the motto: I’ve paid in dollars, marks, francs and yen for the trip, so you natives have to oblige and pose for me. The point is the tourists have paid their travel agencies back in Frankfurt, Munich, Stuttgart or Kathmandu, and not the persons and objects they’re photographing. The payment allows one to land in a country, but how one behaves in a foreign country is another matter.

‘Today it’s possible to go around the world in 18 days’ she says, ‘and everywhere you have people perpetually in a big hurry. She talks about globe-trotters who travel around the on their own, and write books with secret insider tips on how to get the maximum out of a land with the minimum of your money. A poor porter with a mountain of load comprising cooking-utensils appears and that brings Ludmilla to talk about a certain expedition leader’s successful climb to the summit of a Himalayan peak, ‘we’d didn’t have any losses. Only a porter died’. Then she reminds the listeners that the porters don’t have any health-insurance or accident-insurance or pension in the German sense.

‘Funeral-pyres at Pashupatinath are an eternal theme for tourists’, says Ludmilla with a groan, and she describes tourists with camcorders at the ghats. ‘You wouldn’t want a foreign visitor to take the burial ceremony of your near and dear ones, would you?’ asks Ludmilla.

It was interesting to know that there’s a makeshift video-hut at Tatopani along the Jomsom trail for the benefit of the local Nepalese, the trekking-tourists and their porters. ‘I saw ‘Gandhi’ on this trek’ she said, thereby meaning Sir Attenborough’s film. You might even get to see the newest Hollywood and Bollywood films up there. Pico Iyer’s ‘Video Night in Kathmandu’ might still be interesting-reading for the Nepalophile, for he has ‘the knack of recording every shimmy’. A poster advertising ‘Thrilling Animal Sacrifices at Dakshinkali’ apparently from ‘Bikas-Binas’ (development-destruction) made one wonder about the so-called ‘sizzling, romantic, thrilling, action-packed’ box-office cocktails produced in Bollywood’s celluloid, DVD factories.

‘If you want to meet people and get to know them, you have to travel slowly’ says Ludmilla Tüting. Then she talks about the wonders of the polaroid camera at the Nepalese customs office. Men are ruled by toys. She says, ‘If you take a snapshot of a customs officer and hand him the photograph, you’ll pass the barrier with no difficulty.’ I’m sure the Maoist guards will still be amused with this method like the former praharis (policemen).

Does tourism mean foreign exchange for Nepal? Apparently not, according to her, with imported food from Australia, lighting from Holland, whisky from Scotland, air-conditio­ning from Canada. She shows Pokhara in 1974. Corrugated iron-sheets are being transported on the backs of porters along the Jomsom trail for the construction of small mountain restaurants.

A Gurung woman in her traditional dress, frying tasty circular sel-rotis in her tea-shop in the open-air, appears and good old Ludmilla advises the audience about the advantages of acquiring immunity or fortifying it through gamma-globulin and the advantages of tetanus-shots prior to a trip to the Himalayas.

After the show I went with Ludmilla to a Freiburger tavern named Zum Störchen for a drink and a chat. Toni Hagen, a geologist-turned development-worker from Lenzerheide, who held a double Ph.D. and was billed to talk about the development of Nepal from 1950 to 1987 and the role of developmental-cooperation, also accompanied us. Toni Hagen was a celebrity in Nepal due to his geological pioneer work and publication. Alas, Hagen passed away sometime back after starring in an autobiographical film. Ingrid Kreide, who was in a hurry to return to Cologne, held a lecture on the history of Thanka-painters and the freedom of art in the Himalayan Kingdom of Nepal, and expressed her deep concern regarding the theft of Nepalese temple and ritual objects.

Ludmilla is a name to be reckoned with as a globetrotter, journalist, Nepal-expert in the German speaking world, and she criticises the alternative travel-scene. And she still fights for the rights of the underdogs in South Asia. She was for the Chipko-movement in India and decried the deforestation, ecological damage, fought for human rights of the Tibetans and Nepalese alike, wrote about development and destruction of so-called Third World countries. She once told Edith Kresta, the travel editor of the Tageszeitung (TAZ, Berlin): “My heart is Nepali, the rest is German.” Her base-camp in Catmandu is Hotel Vajra run by Sabine Lehmann, a hotel with a theatre flair, and she’s working on a novel on climbing this time. She wants to emulate the characters of James Hilton’s novel The Lost Horizon, wherein people get very old and are not bothered with gerontological problems. She wants to live at least 108 years in this planet. One can only admire and wish her well in her endeavours and pedagogical critique.


WHEN THE SOUL LEAVES (Satis Shroff)

Like Shakespeare said, 'All the world's a stage'
And we've played many different roles in our lives
In various places and scenarios.
As we grow old and ripe, our knowledge of the world grows.
We hold what we cannot see, smell, taste and touch in our memories.
We only have to walk down memory lane
To find the countless faces, places, sights and sounds that we have stored,
To be recalled and retrieved through association
In conversations with others
Or when we contemplate alone.

Why should elderly people be scared of social terror and ageing?
Ageing is a biological phenomenon.
We should be glad that we have lived useful lives,
Filled with good experiences.
The wonderful children that we have created,
The very gems of our genes,
Each so individual in their personalities.
The house we lived in and filled
With love, laughter, songs and music.
The parents and grand-parents, friends and relatives
We have had the time to share with.
But we should be able to assert our exit from this earthly existence
In the manner that we desire,
And not leave it in the hands
Of an intensive life-extension unit.


Let us dwell on common experiences and encounters
We can take with us,
When the soul leaves the body
And races towards space
With the speed of light
And becomes unified
With the ever expanding,
Timeless cosmos.

About the Author: Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelgue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Freitag, 18. Juli 2008

Montag, 23. Juni 2008

आदिएऊ, नेपालको शाह द्य्नास्टी (सतीश श्रोफ्फ़, फ्रेइबुर्ग)



Commentary:

ADIEU ROYAL FAMILY IN NEPAL (Satis Shroff)


König Birendra fragte mich: "Gefällt es Ihnen hier?"

Ich war so überwältigt von der neue, einmalige Situation, daß ich gar nicht wußte, ob ich in Nepali oder in Englisch reden sollte. Ich neigte mich ein bißchen und machte eine Namaste. Eine Namaste bedeutet eigentlich "Ich begrüße das göttliche in Dir", denn in Hinduismus glaubt man, daß in jeder Mensch etwas göttliches beiwohnt. Aber vor mir stand ein König der meine Schule besucht hatte, in Eton und Havard gewesen war, und für 23 Millionen Nepalis als die Reinkarnation der Hindu-Gottheit Vishnu verkörperte.

Ich antwortete: "Ich bin vor einigen Jahren gekommen und mir gefällt es sehr hier, weil ich in der Schwarzwald mit eine Schwarzwald Mädel lebe und es ist genau so schön wie in Nepal. Mit fehlen bloß die Himalayagipfeln."

Ich erzählte auf Englisch, daß ich mit Prinz Dhirendra in St. Josephs zur Schule gegangen war.

"Oh, St. Joseph's? War Pater Stanford noch in der Schule?"

"Jawohl, Your Majesty, und Pater Burns und Mr. Bannerjee." Mr. Bannerjee war ein indische Rektor mit Fulbright (USA) Erfahrung und die anderen waren Jesuitenpriester, die eine Eliteschule leiteten.

Seine Majestät lachte herzlich und fragte: "Kahile pharkaney? Wann kehren sie zurück?"

Ich war verlegen und sagte: "Das weiß ich nicht." Ich habe damals nicht gewußt, daß ich eine Zähringerin heiraten wurde und vier bezaubernde Kinder haben wurde. Nun bin ich in Freiburg geblieben und schreibe nach und über Nepal und mache Nepal-Watch durch das Internet, denn ich interessiere mich immer noch sehr für die gesellschaftspolitische und wirtschaftliche Entwicklung Nepals, und vor allem Nepals literarische Szene. Demnächst bringe ich ein Buch über die Lyrik und Kurzgeschichten Nepals bei Horlemann Verlag (Bad Unken) heraus, weil ich gute Beziehungen in der literarische Szene Kathmandus habe. Ja, man kann mich als ein Dozent mit eine literarische Flair für Englisch, Nepali und Deutsche Literatur nennen.

Starb mit König Birendra auch die Hoffnung?

Die Nachricht, daß es ein Blutbad gegeben hat im Narayanhiti-Palast von Kathmandu und daß der Krönprinz Dipendra seine Eltern König Birendra und Königin Aishwarya und andere Familien Mitgliedern, war ein Schock für mich. Ich konnte es nicht fassen.

Daß es Dissidenten in Nepal gibt und daß die maoistische Guerillaorganisationen sehr militant und aktiv sind im westlichen Teil Nepals war mir schon bekannt. Aber daß der Kronprinz sein Vater König Birendra Bir Bikram Shahdev 55 und seine Mutter Aishwarya Laxmi Devi Shah geboren Rana (51), Bruder Niranjan (22) und Schwester Shruti (24), ein Schwager sowie eine Cousine des Königs, erschossen hat war unglaublich. Dies in einem Land, wo Buddha geboren war (Lumbini) und wo Frieden und friedliche Koexistenz, sowohl in Nepals Außen- und Innenpolitik groß geschrieben ist.

Was bedeutete König Birendra für Nepal?

Birendra Bir Bikram Shahdev, wie der König von Nepal genannt wurde, hatte seine Schuljahren in St. Josephs (Darjeeling) verbracht und danach ging er nach Eton College (England) und war auch ein Jahr in Havard als Gasthörer. Von den 23 Millionen Einwohnern Nepals sind 90 Prozent Hindus und der König von Nepal wurde, seitdem der Gurkha König Prithvi Narayan Shah das Kathmandutal mit List erobert hatte im Jahr 1768 als der Reinkarnation von Vishnu, der Hauptgott in Hinduismus, verehrt. Nepal ist das einzige Land mit Hinduismus als Staatsreligion.

In Nepals chaotische, unsichere politische Landschaft, wo es ständige Regierungswechsel gibt, hat man gesehen, daß die Regierung von Nepal unter Girija Prasad Koirala (Kongresspartei) der maoistischen Rebellion im Westen des Landes nicht Herr werden kann. Seine Idee, als Sozialdemokrat, die Maoisten mit einer 15 000 Mann Eliteeinheit zu bekämpfen, ist ein Schritt in der falsche Richtung. Probleme wie Armut, Mißwirtschaft, Korruption und Vetterwirtschaft kann man nicht, wie es in der Vergangenheit ohne Erfolg gemacht war, mit Gewalt und Macht gelöst werden.

Meine Erinnerungen an König Birendra und Königin Aishwarya?

Ich habe gute Erinnerungen an den König und Königin. Ich bin von der Nepali Botschafter Singa Pratap Malla in Bonn zu einem Empfang für den König und Königin von Nepal in La Redoute eingeladen worden. Ich habe ein Blumenstrauß an der Freiburger Kaiser-Joseph-Straße besorgt und als ich aufgeregt zu der Verkäuferin sagte, daß die Blumen für eine Königin seien, hat sie geschmunzelt und fragte: "Ach, wirklich?"

Ich habe ihr erklärt, daß sie tatsächlich für die Königin von Nepal waren, die zu einem Staatsbesuch nach Deutschland gekommen war mit dem König von Nepal. In Bonn waren die Straßen mit Deutsche und Nepali Fahnen geschmückt. Ich habe eine Taxi genommen am Bahnhof und der Taxifahrer, ein Bonner mit Humor erklärte mir, daß es ihm Spaß machen wurde, die weiße Mäuse vor den VIP Autos zu sehen.

In La Redoute waren schon Journalisten and der Tür, und ich ging hinein und begegnete eine ganze Menge Nepali Damen und Herren. Die Damen trugen bunte, elegante Saris und die Männer in Anzüge. Woher kamen all diese Landsleute?" fragte ich mich damals. Ich hatte die Nepali Botschaftsangestellte und ein paar Studenten und natürlich der Bundespräsident Richard von Weizsäcker und seine Frau Marianne, Deutsche Diplomaten und andere Gäste erwartet. Ich fragte ein Mann in Nepali, der smart gekleidet war und aussah, wie ein Rai- Stammesangehörige. Meine Vermutung war richtig. Es war ein Rai und er erklärte, daß er und die anderen Nepalis alle Britische Gurkhas von der Rheinarmee und deren Frauen waren. Ah, Britisch Gurkhas die in den Falklands auch eingesetzt worden waren gegen den Argentenier.

Plötzlich kam ein Deutsche Polizeioffizier, begrüßte mich freundlich und stand neben mir. Es stellte sich heraus, daß er der Polizeikommissar war und sagte zu mir, daß er häufig bei solche Empfänge dabei war. Er zeigte mir ein bekannter Bonnerfotograf, der nie ein Blitzgerät benutzte. Sein Geheimnis? Er nahm nur Filme mit Höhe ASA oder DIN Werte. Der Oberkommissar zeigte mir eine Interessante alte Dame, die einen sympathischen Eindruck machte. Von ihrem Aussehen, konnte sie eine Adelige sein mit einem 'von Titel' und von der Kleidung her ein bisschen altmodisch aber passend zu ihrem alter, denn sie sah mindestens über 60 aus.

"Ist sie ein VIPs Frau?" fragte ich.

"Nein, nein, Sie werden staunen. Sie ist nur eine einfache Rentnerin, aber sie ist bei jedem Empfang in verschiedene Botschaften dabei," sagte der Oberkommissar. Später erfuhr ich, in eine Fernsehsendung, daß King Birendra sie sogar mit "Frau Baronin" begrüßt hatte, als die Büffet geöffnet wurde."

Mein Herz pochte als die königliche Paar endlich hineinkamen. König Birendra sah wohlauf aus und die Königin Aishwarya trug weiße Handschuhe, ihre schwarz-blau glänzende Haare gesteckt/versteckt in einem Netz, und sie trug eine blaue Bluse und ebenfalls blaue Chiffon Sari. Sie war eine Erscheinung und ich habe ihr die Blumen überreicht. Sie sagte eine leise, schüchterne: "Dhanyabad, thank you" und danach gab sie meine Freiburger Blumen an den Aide-du-Corps, ein gewisser Captain Khatri Chettri. Unter den Nepali Journalisten die mit der königliche Entourage gekommen waren auch Gauri KC, die immer Freitags meine Kommentare in Radio Nepal gelesen hatte und Shyam KC, der für die Reportagen in Kathmandu zuständig war. Er arbeitet jetzt für die Kathmandu Post. Chiran Samsher war auch dabei, der königliche Palastsekretär.

Nachdem die Büffet eröffnet war, gingen wir alle zu einem großen Saal. Es gab sogar echte französische Champagne, serviert von wunderschöne Fräuleins. Eine Deutsche Korrespondentin hat einmal über Nepal geschrieben: "Entwicklung und Fortschritt sind Fremdworte in diesem hoffnungslos rückständigen Land, das nach wie vor zu den ärmsten der Welt gehört." Aber solche Wörter waren fehl am Platz an diesem Abend.

Nach eine Weile, wurde die Stimmung besser und lockerer, wie es bei Empfänge ist, und während Königin Aishwarya sich ruhte nach der anstrengenden Bonner Tagesprogramm, mischte sich König Birendra unter das Volk bzw. die Gäste. Er begrüßte jeden und als er lächelnd auf mich zukam, wußte ich nicht ob ich ein Bild knipsen sollte oder Seiner Majestät begrüßen sollte. Ich kannte seiner dritter Bruder Prinz Dhirendra, da wir beide in der gleiche St. Josephsschule in Darjeeling unsere Abitur gemacht hatten. Prinz Dhirendra verlor seinen adeligen Titel, weil eine ausländerin heiratete und lebte in London in Exil. Bei der Schießerei wurde auch er verletzt.


Manchmal denke ich, ein bißchen Phenomenologie, die Fähigkeit die Sichtweise von beiden Seiten zu sehen, und Familientherapie hätte sowohl die englische als auch die Nepali Königshäuser nicht geschadet. Auf jedenfall wäre es nicht zu solche Gewaltakten nicht gekommen. Aber die uralte hinduistische Strukturen in den Köpfen von Eltern in der Nepali Gesellschaft macht es unmöglich die Sachlage mit eine andere Sichtweise zu betrachten.

In Nepal wollte der Index-Person Prinz Dipendra eine Frau heiraten, die er liebte. Seine Herzensdame hieß Devyani Rana (29), eine Rana-adelige mit indisches Blut aber seine Mutter Königin Aishwarya, die immer als herrisch und stur galt, lehnte die Heiratspläne ab. Es gab keine entgegenkommen und die Konflikt zwischen Prinz Dipendra und seine Mutter bzw. Eltern eskalierte so sehr, daß er nur die Waffe als eine Endlösung sah. Da wurde die humanistische Erziehung von Nepals Budanilkantha Schule und Englands Eton und USAs Havard über den Haufen geworfen, weil solche Gedanken in Nepals Palastwände, Gesellschaft und Machtstruktur fremd waren. In der Narayanhiti-Palast herrschten die Ansichten von Königin Aishwarya, die alles andere als humanistisch war in ihre Denkweise. Sie war für die altmodische hinduistische Machterhalt in der Palast und im Königreich.

Prinz Dipendra lebte in eine zwiespaltige, ambivalente Welt. Wenn er, wie sein Vater Birendra, gekrönt worden wäre, dann wäre er wieder von den meisten Nepali Landleute nicht nur als ein konstitutionelle Monarch, sondern auch als eine Reinkarnation von dem Hindugott Vishnu verehrt.

In Nepal ist es nun so, daß die Eltern bestimmen wollen, wer mit wem heiratet. Ich erinnere mich, daß nur wenige Nepali Schul- und Uni-Freunde von mir eine Liebesheirat durchgesetzt haben. Die meisten Menschen in heiratsfähigenalter lassen sich einheiraten, weil es alte, vedische Tradition in Nepal ist, daß man den Eltern ehrt und folgt.

Die Verwundbarkeit: Mit seiner Kurzschlußhandlung hat Prinz Dipendra nicht nur seine Eltern ausgelöscht, sondern auch ein reinkarnierter Hindugott. Generationen von Nepali Kinder werden sich die Fragen stellen: "Ist denn Vishnu doch verwundbar, genauso wie die lebende Göttin Kumari, die sich abdanken muss, sobald sie ihre Menstruationsblutungen bekommt oder durch eine Verletzung verblutet. Denn eine Göttin darf nicht bluten. Der König von Nepal hat auch geblutet als er von seinem Sohn erschossen wurde.

Raktakunda" bedeutet ein Blutlaken, wurde von dem Nepali journalist Krishna Bhattarai geschrieben, der den Pseudonym 'Abiral' trägt, was 'fortschreitend' bedeutet. Ein Schachspiel namens 'Baghchal' (Tigertaktik) wurde im Himalaya von der damaligen chinesischen Regierung gestartet, wobei China die Autonome Region von Tibet annektierte, denn nach chinesische Meinung waren die Himalayastaaten Sikkim, Bhutan, Ladakh die Phalanx von China. Chinas territorial Wahn ging so weit, dass 1962 ein Krieg im Himalaya mit India angezettelt wurde.

Nachdem Indien seine Unabhängigkeit von der britischen Raj errungen hatte, fnng an Indien seine Territorium zu konsolidieren, denn einige Teile waren noch in kolonial Hände z.B. Goa ein ehemalige portugesische Kolonie und Pondicherry (Frankreich) und der Nizam von Hyderabad ein dickköpfiger Herrscher, der von den indischen Union nicht verschlückt werden wollte. 1962 war eine bittere und traumatische Erlebnis für Indien, was dazu führte, dass Indien anfing Gebirgskampdivisionen für die indischen Armee zu trainieren und die alte vernachlässigte Strassen die zu den strategischen Punkten in Ladakh, Sikkims Nathu La, Bomdilla und anderswo im Himalaya führten fahrtaugnich zu machen.

Indien lies seiner Nachbarstaaten (Sikkim, Bhutan, Nepal) im norden seine heranwachsende militärische Stärke immer wieder spüren. Indien wollte Stalilität im Norden des Subkontinents und die exil Nepalis von Sikkim machten es einfach für die indische Regierung, da in einem demokratischen Wahl in Sikkim waren die Nepalis in überzahl, und die Ursprunglichen Einwohner Sikkims, die Lepchas, waren in der Minderheit. Obwohl der Chogyal von Sikkim mit eine US Amerikanerin verheiratet war, konnte dies die US Lobby nicht mobilisieren, weder in der diplomatischen, noch auf der politischen Front. Bhutan müsste seine Außenverteidigung an Delhi übertragen und die Befreiung von Ost Pakistan, den heutigen Bangladesh (Das Land der Bengalis) von den West Pakistanischen Militärs bereitete Nepals König Mahendra viele Sorgen, da er befürchtete, dass Nepal von Indien verschluckt werden konnte. Laut Krishna Bhattrai dies war der Grund, warum König Mahendra sein leben nahm.

Als ich noch Student war in in Katmandus Tri Chandra College, spielten sie häufig das nepalesisches Lied: “Ma marey pani mero desh bachhi rahos” was 'auch wenn ich sterbe, soll mein weiter Leben' bedeutet. Es wäre ein Jammer, wenn das Land Nepal auch sterben würde, nach dem Tod von dem selbsternannte Gottkönig, dessen Sah-Dynastie Nepal 239 Jahre lang regierte---bis ein Maoist namens Prachanda und seine Maobadi-krieger das Land eroberte, wie einst König Prithvi Narayan Shah und seine Blutrunstigen Gurkhas ins Katmandutal siegreich einmarschierten, nachdem Kirtipur gefallen war.

Im Roman erwähnt ein Palastbeamter, dass er ein Mann weglaufen gesehen hatte von der Bankettsaal von Narayanhitipalast. Der Verdacht ist, dass der Mann, der der Schwieger Sohn ist von Prinz Dhirendra (mein Schulkamarad), der auch während der Massaker getötet worden war, wüßte mehr über den Attentat.

Das Buch erzählt auch, dass König Mahendra's Tod direkt in zusammenhang steht mit der Streit zwischen ihm und die indische Premier Indira Gandhi. Mahendra Shah hatte Nepals gewählte Primierminister von seinem Amt entlassen, die politische Parteien verboten politisch Tätig zu werden und führte eine repressive, hinduistischen Regierungsystem genannt Panchayat, die von den Royalisten geführt wurde. India war dagegen und setzte Köig Mahendra unter Druck und verlangte von ihm es wieder rückgängig zu machen.

Dieser Massaker kam den Kommunisten Nepals, vor allem die militanten Maobadi Gruppierung nicht ungelegen. Sie wussten es, die Situation auszunutzen.

Als herkünftiger Nepali kann ich nur hoffen, daß die Ruhe wieder einkehren wird. Der neue König von Nepal Gyanendra Bir Bikram Shahadev kenne ich als ein Mann seitdem ich als Journalist bei The Rising Nepal gearbeitet habe. Seine erste Statement, nämlich dass das automatische Gewehr von allein losgegangen wäre, sprach nicht von Weisheit. Die Nachricht ging durch die ganze Welt. Es mag sein, dass es eine königliche Notlüge war. Er gilt als jemand, der ein Herz für Nepals Flora und Fauna gezeigt hat und er engagierte sich für die Ideen des World Wildlife Fund, indem er National Parks einrichten lies. Er war und ist der Vorsitzender von der King Mahendra Trust for Nature Conservation mit Sitz in Kathmandu. Dass er auch Diplomatie und die Fähigkeit besaß, ein armes, problembeladenes Land wie Nepal als sein konstitutionelles Monarch führen konnte war fragwürdig, da die Maoisten waren de facto die eigentliche militärische Herrscher Nepals. Er galt als konservativ im hinduistischen Sinne, sanft aber unbeliebt, aner seine Sanftheit was leider nur vorübergehend.

In Nepali Dokumentarefilme ist er häufig gesehen worden bei der Eröffnungsfeiern von Schulen, Krankenhäusern und National Parks. Er hat die Chance, die Rolle des Gottkönigs anders zu gestalten und Nepal auf dem Weg zum Fortschritt zu führen verspielt. Er war kein Staatsman, sondern nur in Geschäfte interessiert und konnte mit den Maobadis und andere kommunistische Oppositionellen mit Dialog und konstruktive Argumentationen, Zugeständnisse und Kompromisse nicht besänftigen, denn Kommunismus und Monarchie waren und sind nicht kompatibel.

Es bleibt ein schwieriger Job, ein Land wie Nepal zu regieren, da die pro China Maobadis und die pro Indien Congress Partei befinden sich in einem Clinch und kämpfen um die Macht in Schatten des Himalaya Staates.

Donnerstag, 19. Juni 2008

थौसंद येअर्स ऑफ़ Zäह्रिंगें (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़, फ्रेइबुर्ग)



रूठ हुक्क एंड क्लौडिया हेर्जेर जेरंगेंन माँ।




1000 Years of Zähringen (Satis Shroff)


The ruins of Zähringen’s castle lies on a hillock overlooking the Vale of Dreisam. And the hamlet of Zähringen is a part of Freiburg. Zähringen is 1000 years old, reason enough to celebrate a festival with the inauguration of the Zähringer fountain, which is a tall monolith with a scarlet heart on the top, a work of art. Like all such celebrations, the 1000 years of Zähringen began with a mass at the St.Blasius church, followed by a cultural program with the cooperation of the Zähringer towns.
Zähringen’s history which dates back to a document entitled ‘castrum Zaringen,’ was founded in 1128 at the end of the 11th century, on the fundament of a once Allemanic building. The event was the heir, who came had Swabian blood in his veins, Berthold II, who received the town from the Count of Rheinfelden. Bertold II is seen as the founder of Zähringen, and in the year 1100 he was bestowed the title of ‘dux de Zaringen.’ A dux or duke is called ‘Herzog’ in German and thus the Zahringer. Became nobility in the German Empire, although the nobility lasted only a short while---till the death of Bertold V. The castle of Zähringen became their main residence and had been raised to the rank of a Reichsburg (Empire Castle).
At the beginning of the 12th century, the dukes changed their main residence to Freiburg and left the old castle in the care of the Vögten.
The year 1278 brought the first destruction of Zähringen castle at the hands of the Freiburger. The old castle was renovated from 1281 onwards. In 1327 Zähringen became the property of the Freiburger Patrizier Snewlin-Bernlapp. (Today there’s Bernlapp apothecary and a street carrying his name in downtown Zähringen, right near the tram station).
The castle was besieged and destroyed again during the Peasants’ War (Bauernkrieg) in the year 1525. The Thirty Year War brought a complete destruction of the castle. The castle ruin changed hands from the Abbot of St. Peter, and finally became the property of Baden in 1805.
Today, the castle ruin of Zähringen dates back to the late 13th century and the castle wall ring and the fundaments of the olde castle are still intact. The castle ruin has become an attraction for visitors who like nordic walking and hiking, school-kids and senior generations, although it doesn’t have the same allure as the ruins of Staufen, Schiltach, the ruins of Rötteln, Schloss Ortenberg at Ortenau or Hornberg-upon- Neckar.
Ach, Zähringen (Satis Shroff)
Zähringen lies to the north of Freiburg,
A castle ruin, which is a tourist attraction.
In the early days they used to dig for silver ores below the castle.
The ores that were dug were brought to the 'Poche',
Where they separated the silver from the ore
By melting them at high temperatures in the charcoal-kilns.

At the moment it smells of smoked-fish.
The adjacent barn has been rented to a German,
Who wears his spectacles on the tip of his nose,
He lisps and tells stories of the old times in Zähringen.
He smokes trout from the Black Forest thrice a year.
I think he sells them, otherwise he wouldn't smoke so many fishes.
He always hands me a freshly smoked trout
Wrapped on a piece of German newspaper.
I thank him and hand him a bottle of Weissherbst from our cellar.

When I sit and read a book on the terrace,
Frau Keller greets me with a friendly 'Hallochen!' from the street.
She has short, silvery hair and has a warm smile across her face.
She's an ethnic German from Romania.
I like her soft-spoken East Bloc accent.
Her friendliness is disarming even though she has a lot of pain.

In the afternoon I hear soft piano melodies,
When my son Julian does his music exercises.
The tones of the piano mingle with bird-cries,
And suddenly one hears the loud noise of a lorry,
Transporting either furniture or building materials,
Up and down the Pochgasse.
A lot of expensive villas are cropping up.

The Zähringer, as people living in Zähringen are wont to be called,
Are an active folk when it comes to organising things.
Every autumn there's a Hock around the St. Blasius church,
A get together, with Blasmusik, children's cries of joy,
The smell of waffel, noodle soup, roasted pork, sausages,
Fried potatoes and pizza lies in the air.

The ancestors of the people in Zähringer were charcoal-burners,
Who lived behind the castle.
One day the coal-burner discovered melted silver under his oven.
In those days there used to live a king, who'd fled to Kaisersstuhl.
He lived with his family in poverty.
The coal-burner went and gave the silver he'd found to the king.
The king was so impressed that he gave his daughter
In marriage to the coal-burner,
As well as the land surrounding Freiburg.
The king named him the Herzog von Zähringen.
The Zähringer duke founded Freiburg and other castles.

There's a tunnel at the end of the Pochgasse.
The cars drive below and the ICE and Swiss trains above.
Young and elderly Germans come by and ask only one question:
„Wo, bitte, geht’s zum Zähringerburg?“
Where's the road to the Zähringen castle-ruins?

The castle was built in 1091 by Herzog Bertold V.
It was destroyed by war and fire.
What has remained is an 18 meter high tower,
With a commanding view of Freiburg.

Glossary:
Gasse: small lane
Köhler: charcoal-burner
Köhlerei: charcoal works
Weissherbst: a German wine
Burg: castle
Meiler: charcoal-kiln
Blaskapelle: brass-band
spanferkel: porkling
Herzog: Duke of Zähringen
Meanwhile, as they say ins stories, the charcoal-burner became so powerful that he turned into a tyrant. One day the charcoal-burner or Kohler as we say in German, commanded his cook to fry a boy and serve it for dinner. The cook complied fearing for his own life. When the duke saw what the cook had done at his command, he repented the barbarious act and promised to mend his ways by building two monasteries---St.Peter and St. Ruprecht in the Black Forest.
However, it must be mentioned that there are different versions to the castle of Zähringen. In the verses of Schuzler 1846 (page 353-355), the Kohler finds gold instead of silver, and it’s not a king with whom he bargains but the emperor, who comes personally clothed as a monk and seeks refuge at the charcoal-burner’s home, who in turn offers the emperor his gold as a sign of loyalty. The emperor accepts the gold and gives him his own daughter’s hand to show his thankfulness, and also gives him the acres of Breisgau as his dukedom.

Freitag, 13. Juni 2008



Christa Drigalla: Helping the Nepalese to Help Themselves (Satis Shroff)


Christa Drigalla is an amiable German lady, a hospital managers who worked at the Diakonie hospital in Freiburg (South-west Germany), where she did Nursing Management. Sometime back, this author had the opportunity of going for a walk to the Emperor’s Chair (Kaiserstuhl), a volcanic wine-growing area in the vicinity of Freiburg, with Christa.
‘I’d love to trek to the Rara lake. I saw colour transparencies of Rara shown by a Freiburger professor in St. Georgen and was so fascinated’, said Christa. She has been to Annapurna, Chitwan and Langtang. ‘Springtime in the Himalayas is wonderful’, she said as she drank her Nepal tea and mentioned names like Kanchan Gompa, Laurebina-pass and Sundari and about 17 to 18 degrees centigrade temperatures in the month of November. But she said she liked to brave it all and wouldn’t miss trekking a bit.
At the beginning Christa worked as a nurse at the Shanti Seva Griha, a leprosy clinic run by the Dortmunderin Marianne Grosspietsch, which is located in Pashupati, near the river. She helps where she can, and is uncomplicated. The small 12-bed clinic, an outdoor Ambulanz (In German Ambulanz is not a car to transport injured patients, but a ward to cater to the needs of the outdoor patients. An ambulance in the English sense of the word is called a Rettungswagen). Shanti Seva also runs a school for the children of the leprosy patients. There’s a coffee-shop, a tailoring-service and a branch in Budanilkantha, which is open twice a week. The outdoor ward has over 2,300 registered patients.
The poor, ill, blind, lame and lepers come from the miserable, smoggy streets of Katmandu and the temple complex of Pashupatinath, Nepal’s biggest and holiest gold-roofed hinduistic temple. The sickly beggars are never too tired to beg for alms from pious people (Hindus from Nepal and India), who are allowed to worship in the sancrum sanctorum of the Shiva-temple.
The other curious visitors who are obliged to remain in the periphery of Pashupatinath are the camera-toting foreign tourists. Whether it’s coy and ashamed bathing Nepalese women in wet, sticky saris, burning Hindu corpses and the mourning relatives of the deceased, hungry lepers or agile Rhesus temple-monkeys, the dauntless tourists photograph everything for their transparency, video and DVD-shows back home. The Shanti Seva Griha takes care additionally of the white-haired, wrinkled widows, women and children from the neighbourhood. And the treatment is free. The Griha also has a rehabilitation-centre near the Royal Golf Club Nepal. It has a tailoring workshop where stigmatised Nepali lepers work in peace. Lepers are still heavily stigmatised in Nepal, like the people with plague in the Middle Ages in Europe. Today, it’s possible to cure the disease by using an antibiotic cocktail.
Christa said that she put up at a small lodge near the Clinic, and lived sometimes with Nepalese friends near the Ring-road. There’s a German nurse named Irma who hails from Achern and she has additionally a leading role at the Nursing Campus (Patan). Christa comes from a hamlet named Albringhausen, with a population of 229 in Lower Saxony, a flat state at an elevation of 14metres above sea-level.
‘It’s all farms, corn-fields, meadows and windmills. More and more farmers are giving up their farms and the farms are in poor conditions due to the bad EU agricultural politics. It’s East Friesian country with fishers, crabs, cows.’ She has a brother and a sister out there in Lower Saxony but she lives the mountains. If she’s not trekking in the Himalayas then she’s invariably wandering up and down the Swiss Alps or in the Black Forest Mountains.
‘I have it in my genes, this Wanderlust,’ she says almost apologetically. Christa Drigalla has been running the Interplast Germany’s hospital in Nepal for a long time. Interplast is a US- German undertaking which carries out plastic surgery on leprosy patients, which is extremely useful for the poor Nepali patients, who are ostracised and shunned by the Nepali society.
She talks at length about the corruption scandals in Kathmandu. ‘Everybody is pumping money into Nepal but where is it vanishing? The number of beggars in Katmandu, and Nepal in general, seem to multiplying. I don’t see any structure in Nepal. There are so many NGO projects, and there’s hardly any monitoring done.’ All the NGOs ought to be coordinated by the new government’s Social Ministry. Every big foreign country has, in addition to its official development volunteer programme, a bevy of NGO projects. Even local NGOs are cropping up like mushrooms after a monsoon shower. And all international organisations want to help the fifth poorest country in the world to get up on its feet.”
Where are the priorities? For instance, most of the foreign projects have programmes in the educational sector, but they don’t dare to intervene and help develop new, attractive vocational curricula. They just open or support existing schools, and let the Nepalis carry on with their own anachronistic teaching methods and curricula. Only the rich have access to modern education. What are Nepal boys and girls to do after they have done their School Leaving Certificate? Who is going to finance higher education? There are just not enough vocational outlets.
There’s no question about the need for NGOs but where does the money disappear? Isn’t it literally helping others to help themselves through the aid-industry? The money and effort just doesn’t seem to trickle down to the grassroots. Quo vadis development aid?
Christa Drigalla says, ‘‘A deep orthodox faith in religion is not good for these modern times. For now. It’s better to try and improve one’s present life(style) than to expect that it will be better in one’s next life. I often hear paralysing fatalistic opinions like ‘ke garnu? jindagi jestai chha (What shall I do? Life is like that). Or ‘ke garnu? upai chaina! (What shall I do? There’s no way). Modern educated Nepalis tend to say ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way’. Perhaps that is the value of education.’.
‘Practical steps are useful in pepping oneself up. When I was at Shanti Griha we constructed a shower for the staff and patients. She longs to see the friendly faces of Prabha the social worker, Hari the sanitater, Krishna the physiotherapist, Dr. Singh the team-physician and Marianne.
‘I’ve been expanding the plastic surgery hospital project run by Interplast at Salambutar, near Sankhu,’ says Christa Drigalla. This new hospital was opened officially in November 1997 and was dubbed Sushma Koirala Memorial Hospital (SKMH) after the daughter of the former Nepalese Prime Minister who burnt to death in her sari. The international medical team of the SKMH is busy with operative corrections of patients who have scars from burns, deformities from birth, or have lost a part of their hands or feet through leprosy-infection. This medical area has been the connecting link with the Shanti-Griha-Project with its leprosy patients. Besides rendering concrete medical help to these Nepalese patients, the aim of the ‘Interplast’ organisation in the whole world is to teach local surgeons special operation-techniques, and to give their know-how to them so that they can operate independently at a later stage. Other members of the medical-staff like nurses, sanitaters, physiotherapists also receive special training and instructions to take optimal care of the post-operative patients. The Interplast-run hospital is, after a period of initial financial and intellectual help, to be overtaken by the Nepalese counterparts.
Christa has been working for more than a decade in Nepal and has survived the revolution of the eighties, the nineties and now the Maoist take over at the recent polls.
‘I’m sure that this ‘help to self-help’ (Hilfe zur Selbsthilfe) is the most effective solution towards improving the situation of the patients in Nepal,’ says Christa Drigalla. She has always had an inner desire for a long time to get to know Nepal not only as a tourist, but to live here and to experience the entire seasonal changes of Nature, with winter and sommer, the dry period and monsoon, to get to know and understand the people better and to do more trekking’. And that’s exactly what she has been doing all these years and has even built a wonderful house in scenic Nagarkot from where she can peer at the Himalayas..
One can only admire her courage, endeavour and the ability to assert herself and I’d like to wish her well. She is what we call in German eine gute Seele, a good soul, and is the personification of togetherness, Miteinander.

ओह, हेल्वेटिया, यू'रे ग्रेट एवें इन देफेअत (सतिस श्रोफ्फ़)

Public Viewing ज़ेइत्गेइस्त्: (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)
The scene is at the Joggeli ,
A stadium in Basel, Switzerland.
The Czechs think the Germans are going to be behind them.
Karel Brückner wears a black muffler on this humid afternoon.
The Swiss Nati enters the arena.
Yodel songs, Alp horns, an elegant Miss Swiss saunters by,
Samba music reminiscent of Guggemusik at Fasnet,
Swiss fans with red and white flags,
Effigies of Swiss cows, blondes wearing hats,
Caps and motley headgear,
Blonde farmers on stilts, soccer ball skirts and milk-cans,
Amid cow bells and the cries of the spectators.
Mountain pixels: Jungfrau, Mönch and Eiger,
Skiing figures of a Ski nation,
Barock costumes, dancing figures
In black n’ white,
The waltz and techno music.
Magic cube effects on the soccer field.
Symbols for Swiss watch industry,
Flags galore.
A coy Amanda Amman,
Miss Switzerland in scarlet silk.
“She’s half Swiss and half Czech” quips someone.
The Swiss are celebrating a big soccer festival.
The entire stadium becomes a soul,
Unified as 100,000 fans shout in defiance
Through their larynx and lungs.
From Ortenau to Schaffhausen,
The fans are streaming in,
Controlled by Swiss, German
And French security men and women,
Armed with guns, sticks, Alsatian dogs,
And Luftwaffe aircraft doing sorties in the sky,
The fear of Al Kaida is everywhere.
42000 in the St. Jakob’s arena,
35 000 in the Fan Zone,
Another 20 000 in the inns, taverns
Public viewing places in Basle.
Discussions center on
The four-man defence chain,
Tactics, strategies of trainers,
Performances in the Bundes and other leagues.
A big chance for Switzerland.
438 green balloons reach for the sky.
Fireworks,
Standing ovation from the spectators,
The Swiss hold hands
To the national hymn
Standing ovation for a knie injured captain,
Alexander Frei the surest Swiss striker,
Is in tears against the Czechs.
0:2 says the gigantic stadium neon chart,
Against the Turks.
Köbi Kuhn the dignified thoughtful Swiss man’s
Euro dream disappears.
The best Euro host takes its bow.
You can still read the disappointment on our faces.
Ach, Helvetia you’re great even in defeat.

अच, हेल्वेटिया यू'रे ग्रेट एवें इन देफेअत (सतिस श्रोफ्फ़)



Public Viewing Zeitgeist (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)


The scene is at the Joggeli ,
A stadium in Basel, Switzerland.
The Czechs think the Germans are going to be behind them.
Karel Brückner wears a black muffler on this humid afternoon.
The Swiss Nati enters the arena.
Yodel songs, Alp horns, an elegant Miss Swiss saunters by,
Samba music reminiscent of Guggemusik at Fasnet,
Swiss fans with red and white flags,
Effigies of Swiss cows, blondes wearing hats,
Caps and motley headgear,
Blonde farmers on stilts, soccer ball skirts and milk-cans,
Amid cow bells and the cries of the spectators.
Mountain pixels: Jungfrau, Mönch and Eiger,
Skiing figures of a Ski nation,
Barock costumes, dancing figures
In black n’ white,
The waltz and techno music.
Magic cube effects on the soccer field.
Symbols for Swiss watch industry,
Flags galore.
A coy Amanda Amman,
Miss Switzerland in scarlet silk.
“She’s half Swiss and half Czech” quips someone.
The Swiss are celebrating a big soccer festival.
The entire stadium becomes a soul,
Unified as 100,000 fans shout in defiance
Through their larynx and lungs.
From Ortenau to Schaffhausen,
The fans are streaming in,
Controlled by Swiss, German
And French security men and women,
Armed with guns, sticks, Alsatian dogs,
And Luftwaffe aircraft doing sorties in the sky,
The fear of Al Kaida is everywhere.
42000 in the St. Jakob’s arena,
35 000 in the Fan Zone,
Another 20 000 in the inns, taverns
Public viewing places in Basle.
Discussions center on
The four-man defence chain,
Tactics, strategies of trainers,
Performances in the Bundes and other leagues.
A big chance for Switzerland.
438 green balloons reach for the sky.
Fireworks,
Standing ovation from the spectators,
The Swiss hold hands
To the national hymn
Standing ovation for a knie injured captain,
Alexander Frei the surest Swiss striker,
Is in tears against the Czechs.
0:2 says the gigantic stadium neon chart,
Against the Turks.
Köbi Kuhn the dignified thoughtful Swiss man’s
Euro dream disappears.
The best Euro host takes its bow.
You can still read the disappointment on our faces.
Ach, Helvetia you’re great even in defeat.