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(c)Art by satisshroff, A homage to van Gogh

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Satis Shroff:Ein Freiburger Zeitgeist Dichter
Miteinander, Liebe, Frieden und Gedichte (Togetherness, Love, Peace, Gurkhas and the Poetry).

German Academic Prize Winner Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the elite Albert Ludwigs University Freiburg. The author and lecturer lives in Freiburg and writes about themes like longing, love, the agony of war, togetherness, dignity of humans, tolerance and one-world in his poems, articles and books. He says: ‘Actually, I have been writing since my college days. I noticed that nothing can beat the freedom that you get in the e-media. I really enjoy this freedom to publish whatever you have written or commented on. You can upload the text and the photo to go with it, and within a few seconds your article is in the internet.
Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing).

What’s your genre as a writer?
Besides poems, I also write fiction, non-fiction and am open to different genres. I also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes.s.
How come you’ve switched from Science to Literature?
I studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal and used to write a science column in The Rising Nepal besides my other editorial duties like interviewing newcomers to Katmandu who wanted to search for the Yeti, climb mountains, study the Himalayas and its inhabitants (geologists, anthropologists, writers, journalists). Later I came to Germany and studied Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom.
How do you describe yourself?
I like functioning as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and I see my future as a writer, poet and artist. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, I’m dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in my writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. My work in Basle and at the University of Freiburg are excellent outlets and I really enjoy teaching and writing.
Where do you lecture?
I lecture in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where I’m a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing).
How many languages do you speak?
I speak English, German, Nepali, Hindi, and a bit of Urdu, Bengali and Sindhi. I love changing from German into English and prefer the sound of the Basler and Badische dialects. If a student doesn’t understand a difficult theme, it’s great to use one’s resources and explain it in his or her tongue. My kids speak German, French, English, Italian and enjoy singing sacral songs in Latin because they all attend the Freiburger Dom Choirs in their spare time. We have a great deal of cultural exchange in the family and have had school kids from France and England who stayed with us and our kids went to their homes in neighbouring France and England and recently also Canada. It’s a lovely, open atmosphere and a Miteinander, a togetherness, that enriches our lives.
You’ve written about and translated ‘The Poetry of Nepal’ in The American Chronicle into German. What was the purpose ?
I wanted to give the poets of the Himalayas a helping hand since poets from that corner of the world haven’t made an impact, aside from Rabindra Nath Tagore, who was a Bengali Nobel Prize). There are a few writers from Nepal such as Greta Rana (UK, Nepal), Manjushree Thapa, Samrat Upadhya (USA), Kanak and Kunda Dixit, and a host of Indian writers from Aravind Adiga (The White Tiger) to Salman Rushdie.
You were cited as a poet, who writes about Nepal’s struggle for democracy and a republican status, using Nepalese metaphors?
I like writing political poetry: about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. Sandra Siegel, a poet and teacher from Germany is right when she writes thus: ‘His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ Satis Shroff not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’
I like to think of myself as a Zeitgeist poet who not only writes on different themes but primarily about the Zeitgeist, and that’s precisely what moves us daily. Here are a few poems I wrote about the war in Nepal in which the Maoists played a big role. I studied in Kathmandu and during those days a lot of the students were fascinated by Maoism and used to acquire Mao’s Red Bible and Kim Il Sung’s books. Even then you had the impression that something was cooking in the Himalayas and the result was a ten year war between the government’s armed forces and the Maoists. The war is long over, Prachanda’s Maoist army has taken over the former kingdom, King Gyanendra Shah has been ousted, the Narayanhiti Palace is now a museum, the Maoists have given up their arms, and the Maoist PM Pushpa Kamal Dahal has resigned after an eight month stint, because of a quarrel with the Army Chief Rukmangat Katawal, who has refused to enlist the Maoist fighters in the Nepalese Army. The streets of Katmandu are still burning and the young people are getting louder. Wither Nepal?


HOPE IN THE SHADOW OF THE HIMALAYAS (Satis Shroff)

Hush, an unholy alliance made the rounds,
The political parties and the Maoists are united.
They rattle their sabres no more,
Under Vishnu’s bed of serpents.

Narad brings us good news.
We don’t have to shiver together in angst.
There is hope in the Himalayas.
Hope of a separation of powers,
Hope of free elections,
Hope of fair trials before impartial tribunals,
Hope of amnesty.
We’ll do what Nepalese normally do:
Wait and drink Ilam tea,
And watch the scenario unfurl,
In the shadow of the Himalayas.

Glossary:
Narad: A heavenly messenger mentioned in the Rig-veda, he was a great Rishi, chief of the heavenly musicians who invented the lute.
Vishnu: The second God of the Hindu-triad, preserver and restorer, the supreme being from whom all things emanate.
_____________________

Not in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

Nepalis look out of their ornate windows,
In the west, east, north and south Nepal
And think:
How long will this krieg go on?
How much do we have to suffer?
How many money-lenders, businessmen, civil servants,
Policemen and gurkhas do the Maobadis want to kill
Or be killed?

How many men, women, boys and girls have to be mortally injured
Till Kal Bhairab is pacified by the Sleeping Vishnu?

How many towns and villages in the seventy five districts
Do the Maobadis want to free from capitalism?
When the missionaries close their schools,
Must the Hindus and Buddhists shut their temples and shrines?
Shall atheism be the order of the day?
Not in Nepal.
The religion is too much with us,
Within us.

*****

A THOUSAND DEATHS (Satis Shroff)

It breaks my heart, as I hear over the radio:
Nepal’s not safe for visitors.
Visitors who leave their money behind,
In the pockets of travel agencies, rug dealers,
Currency and drug dealers,
And hordes of ill-paid honest Sherpas
And Tamang and other ethnic porters.
Sweat beads trickling from their sun-burnt faces,
In the dizzy heights of the Dolpo, Annapurna ranges
And the Khumbu glaciers.
Eking out a living and facing the treacherous
Icy crevasses, snow-outs, precipices
And a thousand deaths.

No roads, no schools,
Beyond the beaten trekking paths
Live the poorer families of Nepal.
Sans drinking water,
Sans hospitals,
Where aids and children’s work prevail.

*****

Development and Destruction (Satis Shroff)

My Nepal, what has become of you?
Your features have changed with time.
The innocent face of the Kumari
Has changed to the blood-thirsty countenance
Of Kal Bhairab,
From development to destruction,
From bikas to binas.

You’re no longer the same
There’s insurrection and turmoil
Against the government and the police.
Your sons and daughters are at war,
With the Gurkhas again.

Maobadis with revolutionary flair,
With ideologies from across the Tibetan Plateau and Peru.
Ideologies that have been discredited elsewhere,
Flourish in the Himalayas.
Demanding a revolutionary-tax
From tourists and Nepalese
With brazen, bloody attacks
Fighting for their own rights
And the rights of the bewildered common man.

Well-trained government troops at the orders
Of politicians safe in Kathmandu.
Leaders who despise talks and compromises,
Flex their tongues and muscles,
And let the imported automatic salves speak their deaths.
Ill-armed guerrillas against well-armed Royal Gurkhas
In the foothills of the Himalayas.

******

Child Soldiers (Satis Shroff)

Nepali children have no chance,
But to take sides
To take to arms not knowing the reason
Against whom and why.
The child-soldier gets orders from grown-ups
And the hapless souls open fire.
Hukum is order,
The child-soldier cannot reason why.
Shedding precious human blood,
For causes they both hold high.
Ach, this massacre in the shadow of the Himalayas.

*****

Time Stands Still in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

Globalisation has changed the world fast,
In Nepal time stands still.
The blind beggar at the New Road gate sings:
Lata ko desh ma, gaddha tantheri.
In a land where the tongue-tied live,
The deaf desire to rule.
Oh my Nepal, quo vadis?

The only way to peace and harmony is
By laying aside the arms.
Can Nepal afford to be the bastion
Of a movement and a government
That rides rough-shod over the lives
And rights of fellow Nepalis?

Can’t we learn from the lessons of Afghanistan, Romania,
Poland, East Germany and Iraq?
The Maobadis will be given a chance at the polls,
Like all other democratic parties.
For the Maobadis are Bahuns and Chettris,
Be they Prachanda or Baburam Bhattrai,
Leaders who’d prefer a republican rule
To monarchy in Nepal.

*****

GUNS INSTEAD BOOKS (Satis Shroff)

My academic friends have changes sides,
From Mandalay to Congress
From Congress to the Maobadis.
The students from Dolpo and Silgadi.
Dolpo, unforgettable through Peter Mathiessen
In his quest for his inner self,
And his friend George Schaller’s search
For the snow leopard.
The students wrote Marxist verses and acquired volumes
From the embassies in Kathmandu:
Kim Il Sung’s writings, Mao’s red booklet,
Marx’s Das Kapital and Lenin’s works,
And defended socialist ideas
At His Majesty’s Central Hostel in Tahachal.
I see their earnest faces, with guns in their arms,
Instead of books,
Boisterous and ready
To fight to the end
For a cause they cherish
In their frustrated and fiery hearts.

But aren’t these sons of Nepal
Misguided and blinded,
By the seemingly victories of socialism?
Even Gorbachov pleaded for Peristroika,
And Putin admires capitalist Germany,
Its culture and commerce.
Look at the old Soviet Union,
And other East Bloc nations.
They have all swapped sides
And are EU and Nato members.


Do you have nostalgia for your former country?

Nostalgia is normal for a person who has left his country and settled down in the country of his choice. When nostalgia for the Himalayas overcomes me, I invite friends and we cook Nepalese and North Indian food, listen to traditional lyrics, talk in German, Nepali and English, discuss about books written by South Asian authors, enjoy dal, bhat, shikar, with phulkas, chapatis, parathas, achar and chutneys from our own garden. Cooking is something I’ve learned from my Mom. We used to have Nepali, North Indian, Tibetan and Chinese cusine at home. I also love the Badische cusine as well as the Italian pasta dishes and Swiss raclette. We even have a Potentilla nepalensis in our garden. Most of the time I listen to classical music composed by European composers: Bach, Brahms, Mozart piano sonatas, Beethoven’s Klaviersonaten, Hayden, Händel, Chopin’s waltzes. I appreciate Anne-Sophie Mutter and love Hilary Hahn’s interpretations of allegro molto, the Lark Ascending. I also like Glenn Gould’s interpretation on the piano. I listen to the lyrics of Shambhu Rai, Suresh Kumar’s love songs and Ram Krishna Dhakal’s gazals.
Back to nostalgia: home is where your heart is, and it is in Germany’s Black Forest. I remember going over to Bonn and handing in my Nepalese passport at the Nepalese Embassy, because if you want a German one you have to give up your former citizenship. My friend Novel Kishor Rai, was the ambassador, and together we helped to repatriate a lot of Nepalese who had come to Germany to seek asylum following the democratic movement in the nineties. The German authorities had declared Nepal to be safe for all political party members and so they were obliged to leave Germany. The Nepalese were spartanic in their ways, earned a bit of money and gladly went home.

* * *

At the German Doctor’s (Satis Shroff)

My small daughter Elena’s middle-ear is inflamed
I go to our German child-doctor.
He examines her and curses her left ear,
Which is red and causes pain,
Even after thirteen antibiotic cures.

“By the way, what do you say
About the massacre in your kingdom?”
I tell him it’s incredible,
A crown prince who killed the King and Queen,
His brother and sister and then himself,
In a fit of rage and helplessness.”

The bald, bespectacled German doctor went on,
‘My little daughter quipped today at breakfast:
‘The King must have lied when he said to his people
The automatic gun went off and shot them all.’

Strange things happen in the Kingdom of Nepal.

___________________________________________________________________

On Painting a Winter Landscape (Satis Shroff)

I’ll paint a picture in acryl,
Of a winter landscape.
Not the Alps, but the Himalayas.

The eternal snows in the mountains
Are silvery and white.
The sky is azure, like on a holiday card,
With fluffy clouds above.
It’s a winter scene,
But you don’t feel the cold.
And you don’t freeze at daytime.
Yet when it becomes dark,
We, Nepalis, feel in our marrows
The cold Himalayan wind,
Howling down the valleys and spurs.
Theirs is no central heating.
Neither gas nor electric-heating.
There are no plugs in the Himalayan huts,
Except along the well-beaten trekking trails.

There’s a tree in the landscape.
A black, naked tree
With branches like hands
In suspended animation.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

MY NIGHTMARE (Satis Shroff)

When the night is not too cold
And when my bed isn’t cold
I dream of a land far away,
A land where a king once ruled his realm.

A land where peasants are still
Without rights,
Who plough the fields
That don’t belong to them.
A land where the children have to work,
And have no time for daydreams,
Where girls cut grass
Sling heavy baskets on their backs.
Tiny feet treading up the steep path.

A land where the father cuts wood
From sunrise till sunset,
And brings home only a few rupees.
A land where the innocent children
Stretch their right hands,
And are rewarded with dollars.
A land where a woman gathers
White, red, yellow and crimson
tablets and pills,
From the altruistic world tourists
Who come her way.
Most aren’t doctors or nurses,
But they distribute the pills,
With no second thoughts
About the side-effects.

The Nepali woman possesses
An arsenal,
Of potent pharmaceuticals.
She can’t read the finely printed instructions,
In German, French, English, Czech,
Japanese, Chinese, Italian and Spanish.
What does she care?
The hieroglyphs are always there.
Black alphabets appear
Like an Asiatic buffalo to her.
‘Kala akshar,
Bhaisi barabar,’
Says the Nepali woman,
For she can neither read
Nor write.

The very thought of her
Giving the bright pills and tablets
To another ill Nepali child or mother,
Torments my soul.
How ghastly this thoughtless world
Of educated trekkers,
Who give medical alms and play
The macabre role of physicians,
In the amphitheatre of the Himalayas.

Glossary:
kala: Schwarz
akshar: Buchstaben, Schrift
bhaisi: asiatische Büffel
barabar: gleich, vergleichbar mit
___________________________________________________________________

When Mother Closes Her Eyes (Satis Shroff)

When mother closes her eyes,
She sees everything in its place
In the kingdom of Nepal.
She sees the highest building in Kathmandu,
The King’s Narayanhiti palace.
It looms higher than the dharara,
Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati,
For therein lives Vishnu,
Whom the Hindus call the unconquerable preserver.
The preserver of Nepal?
No, that was his ancestor Prithvi Narayan Shah,
A king of Gorkha.
Vishnu is the preserver of the world,
With qualities of mercy and goodness.
Vishnu is all-pervading and self existent,
Visits the Nepal’s remote districts
In a helicopter with his consort and militia.
He inaugurates building
Factories and events.
Vishnu dissolves the parliament too,
For the sake of his kingdom.
His subjects and worshippers is, of late, divided.
Have Ravana and his demons besieged his land?

When mother opens her eyes,
She sees Vishnu still slumbering on his bed of Sesha,
The serpent in the pools
Of Budanilkantha and Balaju.

Where is the Creator?
When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?
Only Bhairab’s destruction of the Himalayan world
Is to be seen.
Much blood has been shed
Between the decades and the centuries…
The noses and ears of the vanquished at Kirtipur,
The shot and mutilated at the Kot massacre,
The revolution
In front of the Narayanhiti Palace,
When Nepalis screamed and died for democracy.
And now the corpses of the Maobadis,
Civilians and Nepali security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Gurkhas are the elite troops of Britain. Do you think they’ve been given a bad deal throughout the years in the British Army?

Yes indeed, even though they have been fighting under the Union Jack since 200 years, they are still discriminated in the British society due to the MoD’s strange, colonial attitude towards these brave and smart warriors. The migrants from Britain’s former colonies (Jamaica, Karachi, Delhi, Dacca) are given UK passports and equal rights but the children of the Gurkhas are not allowed to go to English schools, study at UK universities and are obliged to return to Nepal. The older generation of Gurkhas are regarded as gerontological liabilities and pushed off to Nepal, like the former guest workers in Germany. I have the impression that the British haven’t realised that Gurkhas are humans with emotions, and have a right to a slice of so-called British life-style and equal rights. Here are two appropriate poems to describe the situation of the Gurkhas and their dependants in the craggy hills of Nepal.

Zeitgeistlyrik:

The Gurkhas Win, Labour Capitulates (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England had failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty
And affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have shown
They have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.

Did the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas long dead and forgotten,
Lingered long,
Seeking justice
At the hands of Queen Victoria
And Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies,
They died for?

How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
Added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Got a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So did Brits who played classic and pop.

When it came to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigned myopia.
She saw not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passed the ball
And proclaimed from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers came and went,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remained,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevailed.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Was the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that,’
Said the Labour under Gordon Brown.

A sentence like a guillotine.
Was the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It was like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments came
And went,
The Gurkha injustice remained.
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians.

England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed ageing problems.

‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
Is a mystery.’

Till lady Joanna Lumley, Prince Charles
And even Brown’s own Labour members,
Took the matter in their hands
And gave the Gurkha veterans the right
To stay on in the UK.
.
Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her Majesty’s Government,
Beyond the craggy Himalayas
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The smart, sturdy Gurkha makes
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.

--------------------------

Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter (Satis Shroff)

Der Gurkha mit einem gefährlichen Khukuri
Aber kein Feind in Sicht,
Arbeitet für die englische Königin,
Wird erschossen in Einsätze,
Die er nicht begreift.
Befehl ist Hukum,
Hukum ist sein Leben
Johnny Gurkha stirbt noch
Unter fremdem Himmel.

Er fragt nie warum
Die Politik ist nicht seine Stärke.
Er hat gegen alle gekämpft:
Türken, Tibeter, Italiener, und Inder
Deutsche, Japaner, Chinesen,
Vietnamesen und Argentinier.

Loyal bis ans Ende,
Er trauert keinem Verlust nach.
Der Verlust des Sohnes einer Mutter,
Von den Bergen Nepals.

Ihr Großvater starb in Birmas Dschungel
Für die glorreichen Engländer.
Ihr Mann fiel in Mesopotamien,
Sie weiß nicht gegen wen,
Keiner hat es ihr gesagt.
Ihr Bruder ist in Frankreich gefallen,
Gegen die teutonische Reichsarmee.

Sie betet Shiva von den Schneegipfeln an
Für Frieden auf Erden,
Und ihres Sohnes Wohlbefinden.
Ihr einzige Freude, ihre letzte Hoffnung,
Während sie den Terrassenacker
Auf einem schroffen Hang bestellt.
Ein Sohn, der ihr half,
Ihre Tränen zu wischen
Und den Schmerz
In ihrem mütterlichen Herz
Zu lindern.

Eine arme Mutter, die mit den Jahreszeiten lebt,
Jahr ein und Jahr aus, hinunter in die Täler schaut
Mit Sehnsucht auf ihren Soldatensohn.

Ein Gurkha ist endlich unterwegs
Man hört es über den Bergen mit einem Geschrei.
Es ist ein Offizier von seiner Brigade.
Ein Brief mit Siegel und ein Pokergesicht
„Ihren Sohn starb im Dienst“, sagt er lakonisch
„Er kämpfte für die Königin von England
Und für den Vereinigten Königreich.“

Eine Welt bricht zusammen
Und kommt zu einem Ende.
Ein Kloß im Hals der Nepali Mutter.
Nicht ein Wort kann sie herausbringen.
Weg ist ihr Sohn, ihr kostbares Juwel.
Ihr einzige Versicherung und ihr Sonnenschein.
In den unfruchtbaren, kargen Bergen,
Und mit ihm ihre Träume
Ein spartanisches Leben,
Das den Tod bringt.

Glossar:
Gurkha: Soldat aus Nepal
Khukri: krumme Dolch für Nahkampf
Hukum: Befehl/command/order(Nepali, Hindi)
Shiva: ein Gott in Hinduismus

* * *

Lyrik: A GURKHA MOTHER (Satis Shroff)
(Death of a Precious Jewel)

The gurkha with a khukri
But no enemy
Works for the Queen of England
And yet gets shot at,
In missions he doesn't comprehend.
Order is hukum,
Hukum is life
Johnny Gurkha still dies
Under foreign skies.

He never asks why
Politics isn't his style
He has fought against all and sundry:
Turks, Tibetans, Italians and Indians
Germans, Japanese, Chinese
Argentineans and Vietnamese.
Indonesians and Iraqis.

Loyal to the utmost
Never fearing a loss,

The loss of a mother's son
From the mountains of Nepal.

Her grandpa died in Burma
For the glory of the British.
Her husband in Mesopotemia
She knows not against whom
No one did tell her.
Her brother fell in France,
Against the Teutonic hordes.
She prays to Shiva of the Snows for peace
And her son's safety.
Her joy and her hope
Farming on a terraced slope.

A son who helped wipe her tears,
Ease the pain in her mother's heart.
A frugal mother who lives by the seasons,
Peers down to the valleys
Year in and year out
In expectation of her soldier son.

A smart Gurkha is underway
Heard from across the hill with a shout
'It’s an officer from his brigade.
A letter with a seal and a poker-face
"Your son died on duty," he says,
"Keeping peace for the Queen of England
And the United Kingdom."

A world crumbles down
The Nepalese mother cannot utter a word
Gone is her son,
Her precious jewel.
Her only insurance and sunshine
In the craggy hills of Nepal.
And with him her dreams
A spartan life that kills.

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]]> Tue, 23 Jun 2009 06:06:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/711399 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/703653
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 lectures on Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. and 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.

* *
Review by Satis Shroff, Germany: Getting Along in Life in Tricky Kathmandu

Bhatt, Krishna: City Women and the Ghost Writer, Olympia Publishers, London 2008, 191 pages, EUR 7,99 (ISBN 9781905513444)

Krishna Bhatt, the author, a person who was ‘educated to get a graduate degree in Biology and Chemistry,’came to Kathmandu in 1996 and has seen profound political changes. In this book he seeks to find an ‘explanation for what is happening.’ Life, it seems, to him, is tricky, while political violence has been shocking him episodically. That’s the gist of it: twenty-one short episodes that are revealed to the reader by an author, who’s trademark is honesty, clarity and simplicity---without delving too deep into the subject for the sake of straight narration. What emerges is a melange of tales about life, religion, Nepalese and Indian society packed with humour. A delightful read, a work of fiction and you can jump right into the stories anywhere you like.

Additionally, Bhatt has published ‘Humour and Last Laugh’ in October 2004, a collection of satirical articles published in newspapers in Kathmandu, which is available only in Kathmandu’s bookstores. The author emphasises that he has always written in English and adds, “Reading led me to writing.” He found his London publisher through the internet. Lol!

Did you know that people who are married wear an ‘air of sacrificial glory’ about them in Nepal? The other themes are keeping mistresses in Kathmandu, sending children abroad for education, the woes of psychotherapists in Nepal (no clients). I’ll leave it to you to find out why. Nepal is rich in glaciers and the water ought to be harnessed to produce drinking water and electricity, but in Kathmandu, as in many parts of the republic, there’s a terribly scarcity of water among the poor and wanton wastage among the Gharania---upper class dwellers of Kathmandu. The Kathmanduites fight not only against water scarcity but also a losing battle against ants and roaches. The author explains the many uses of the common condom, especially a sterilised male who uses his vasectomy for the purpose of seduction. However, his tale about the death of his father in “The Harsh Priest and Mourning” remains a poignant and excellent piece of writing, and I could feel with him. It not only describes the Hindu traditions on death and dying but also the emotions experienced by the author.

Like the Oxford educated Pico Ayer who has the ability to describe every ‘shimmy’ that he comes by when he travels, Bhatt too says that Thamel District is all ‘discotheques and massage parlours’ in the story ‘A Meeting of Cultures,’ in which the author meets two former East Germans and one of them thinks ‘people in Germany are lazy.’ Did she mean the Ossies or the Wessies? If that doesn’t get you, I’m sure the many uses of English and vernacular newspapers will certainly do. What’s even amusing is a ritual marriage ceremony of frogs to appease the rain gods. It might be mentioned that in Kathmandu Indra is the God of Rain, the God of the firmament and the personified atmosphere. In the Vedas he stands in the first Rank among the Gods. When you come to think of it, we Hindus are eternally trying to appease the Gods with our daily rituals, special pujas and homs around the sacred Agni (Ignis). Agni is one of the chief deities of the Vedas, and a great number of Sanskrit hymns are addressed to him.

Bhatt uses life and the people around him, and in the media, as his characters and his attitude towards his characters is of a reconciling nature. The characters work sometimes flat for he doesn’t develop them, but the stories he tells are about people you and I could possibly know, and seem very familiar.
Most of the stories are short and quick, good reads in this epoch of computers, laptops,DVDs, SMS, MMS, which is convenient for people with not much time at their disposal. Other themes are: writing, the muse, fellow writers (without naming names, except in the case of V.S. Naipaul), east meet west, abortion, art and pornography, colleagues and former HMG administrators. His opinions are always honest and entertaining in intent, and his tales have more narration than dialogues. Krishna Bhatt is a welcome scribe in the ranks of Kunda Dixit, Samrat Upadhya, Manjushri Thapa and is another new voice from the Himalayas who will make his presence felt in the world of fiction writing. His ‘Irreconcilable Death’ is thought-provoking, a writer who wants to change morality and fails to reconcile with death, like many writers before him. Writers may come and go, but Bhatt wants to leave his impression in his own way and time. Time will certainly tell.
I wish him well.

Review German version by:Satis Shroff
Rezension:
Grünfelder, Alice (Hrsg.), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 S., EUR 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder hat Sinologie und Germanistik studiert, lebte zwei Jahre in China und arbeitet gegenwärtig als freie Lektorin und Literaturvermittlerin in Berlin. Dieses Buch ist vergleichbar mit einem Strauss zusammengestellter Blumen aus dem Himalaya, die die Herausgeberin gepflückt hat. Es handelt von den Menschen und deren Problemen im 450 km langen Himalaya Gebirge. Das Buch orientiert sich, an englischen Übersetzungen von der Literatur aus dem Himalaya.

Nepal ist literarisch gut vertreten mit dem Anthropologen Dor Bahadur Bista, dem Bergsteiger Tenzing Norgay, die in Kathmandu lebenden Journalisten Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, dem Fremdenführer Shankar Lamichane, dem Dichter Pallav Ranjan und dem Entwicklungsspezialisten Harka Gurung. Manche Geschichten sind nicht neu für Nepal-Kenner, aber das Buch ist für Leser, die in Deutschland, Österreich, Südtirol und die Schweiz leben, bestimmt. Außer sieben Nepali Autoren gibt es Geschichten von sieben indischen, drei tibetischen, zwei chinesischen und zwei bhutanesischen Autoren.

Die Themen des Buches sind: Die Vorteile und Nachteile der Verwestlichung in Nepal, da Nepal erst 1950 für den Fremden sozusagen geöffnet wurde. Kanak Dixit erzählt dies deutlich in „Welchen Himalaya hätten Sie gern?“. In einer anderen liebenswerten Gesichte erzählt er über die Reise von einem Nepali Frosch namens Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, ein umweltbewußter Bergsteiger, erzählt über das empfindliche Erbe—die Himalaya und deren spirituelle Bedeutung. Die „Himalaya-Ballade“ von der chinesischen Autorin Ma Yuan, „Die ewigen Berge“ von dem Han-Chinesen Jin Zhiguo, und der indischer Bergsteiger H. P. S. Ahluwalia in „Höher als Everest“, schließlich Swami Pranavanadas in seinem „Pilgerreise zum Kailash und der See Manasovar“ haben alle die Berge aus verschiedenen Sichten thematisiert. Tenzing Norgay, der erste Nepali, der auf dem Gipfel von Mt. Everest mit dem Neuseeländer Edmund Hillary bestiegen war, erzählt, dass er „ein glücklicher Mensch“ sei. Der Nepali Journalist Deepak Thapa beschreibt den berühmten Sherpa Bergsteiger Ang Rita als einen sozialen Aufsteiger.

Während wir in einer Geschichte von Kunzang Choden (Auf den Spuren des Migoi) erfahren, dass die Bhutanesen, als ein buddhistisches Volk, nicht einmal einen Tier Leid zufügen können, erzählt uns Kanak Dixit von 100 000 Lhotshampas (nepalstämmige Einwohner), die von der bhutanesischen Regierung vertrieben worden sind und jetzt in Flüchtlingslagern in Jhapa leben.

James Hilton hat das Wort Shangri-La für eine Geschichte, in Umlauf gebracht die sich in Tibet abspielte. Genauso ist mit dem Ausdruck „Das Dach der Welt“ die tibetische Plateau gemeint und nicht Nepal oder Bhutan. Die bewegende Geschichte, die der Kunsthändler Shanker Lamechane erzählt, handelt von einem gelähmten Jungen. Sein Karma wird in Dialogform zwischen ein Nepali Reiseleiter und einem überschwenglichen Tourist erzählt. Das hilflose Kind bringt uns dazu, über die Freude in Alltag nachzudenken, was wir meistens nicht tun können, weil wir mit dem Alltag so beschäftigt sind. Während Harka Gurung „Fakten und Fiktionen über den Schneemensch“ zusammenstellt, schildert uns Kunzang Choden, eine Psychologin aus Bhutan, über „Yaks, Yakhirten und der Yeti“. Wir erfahren von einem alten Yakhirt namens Mimi Khandola, wie das freundliche Wesen Migoi, gennant Yeti, von einem Rudel Wildhunden erlegt wurde. In „Nicht einmal ein Leichnam zum Einäschern“ lernen wir von dem tragischen Schicksal eines Mädchens namens Pem Doikar, die von einem Migoi entführt wurde.

Diese Anthologie versucht nicht die Himalaya Literatur als ganzes zu repräsentieren, aber betont bestimmte Themen, die im Alltagsleben der Bergbewohner auftauchen. Die Welt, die die Dichter und Schriftsteller aus dem Himalaya beschreiben und kreieren, ist ganz anders im Vergleich zur westlichen Literatur über die Himalaya Bewohner. Es ist wahr, dass der Trekking-Tourismus, moderne Technologie, die Entwicklungshilfeindustrie, die NGOs, Aids und Globalisation die Himalayas erreicht haben, aber die Gebiete die vom Tourismus unberührt sind, sind immer noch ursprünglich, gebunden an Traditionen, Kultur und Religion.

Auf der Frankfurter Buchmesse gibt es kaum Bücher die von Schriftstellern und Dichtern aus dem Himalaya stammen. Es sind immer die reisenden Touristen, Geologen, Geographen, Biologen, Bergsteiger und Ethnologen, die über Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh und seine Leute, Religion, Kultur und Umwelt schreiben. Die Bewohner des Himalaya sind immer Statisten im eigenen Land gewesen in den Szenarios, die im Himalaya inszeniert worden sind, und die in New York, Paris, München and Sydney veröffentlicht werden. Sie werden durch westliche Augen beschrieben.

Dennoch gab es Generationen von denkenden und schreibenden Nepalis, Inder, Bhutanesen und Tibeter, die Hunderte von Schriftstücken, Zeitschriften und Bücher geschrieben und veröffentlicht haben, in ihren eigenen Sprachen. Allein in Patans Madan Puraskar Bibliothek, die Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, beschreibt als „der Tempel der Nepali Sprache,“ gibt es 15,000 Nepali Bücher und 3500 verschiedene Zeitschriften wovon die westliche Welt noch nie gehört oder gelesen hat.

Der englische Professor Michael Hutt machte einen Anfang. Er übersetzte zeitgenössische Nepali Prosa und Gedichte in „Himalayan Voices“ und „Modern Nepali Literature“. Die erste Fremdsprache wird weiterhin Englisch bleiben, weil die East India Company dort zuerst ankam.

Dieses Buch von Alice Grünfelder erzeugt Sympathie und Verständnis für die nepali, indische, bhutanesische, tibetische, chinesische Psyche, Kultur, Religion. Es beschreibt die Lebensbedingungen und menschlichen Probleme in den dörflichen und städtischen Himalayagebieten und ist eine willkommene Ergänzung zu der langsam wachsenden Sammlung von literarische Übersetzungen aus dem Himalaya, die von den einheimischen Autoren geschrieben worden sind. Ich wünsche Frau Grünfelder Erfolg in Ihre Aufgabe als Vermittlerin zwischen den literarischen Welten von Asien und Europa.

© Review: Satis Shroff, Freiburg

English Version by: satisshroff, freiburg
Book-review:
Grünfelder, Alice (Editor), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 pages, EURO 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder has studied Sinology and German literature, lived two years in China and works in the publishing branch in Berlin. This book is comparable to a bouquet of the choicest Himalayan flowers picked by the editor and deals with the trials and tribulations of a cross-section of the people in the 450 km long Abode of the Snows--Himalayas. The book orients, as expected, on the English translations of Himalayan literature. The chances of having Nepali literature translated into foreign languages depends upon the Nepalis themselves, because foreigners mostly loath to learn Nepali. If a translation is published in English the success of the book is used as a yardstick to decide whether it is going to be profitable to bring it out in European or in other languages.

Nepal is conspicuous with contributions by the anthropologist Dor Bahadur Bista, the climber Tenzing Norgay, the Kathmandu-based journalists Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, the tourist-guide Shankar Lamichane, the poet Pallav Ranjan and the development-specialist Harka Gurung. For regular readers of Himal Asia, The Rising Nepal and GEO some of these stories are perhaps not new but this book is aimed at the German speaking readers in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. In addition to the seven Nepali authors, there are also stories by seven Indian, three Tibetan, two Chinese authors and two Bhutanese authors.

Some of the themes that have been dealt with in this collection are: the pros and cons of westernisation as told by Kanak Dixit in “Which Himalaya would you like?” and an endearing story of a journey through Nepal as a Nepali frog named Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, the ecology-conscious climber writes about the spiritual meaning of our fragile heritage—the Himalayas. “The Himalayan Ballads” by the Chinese author Ma Yuan, “The Eternal Mountains” by the Han-Chinese Jin Zhiguo, the Indian climber H. P. S. Ahluwalia in “Higher than Everest” und Swami Pranavanadas in his Pilgrim journey to Kailash and the Manasovar Lake” have presented the mountains from different perspectives. Tenzing Norgay, the first Nepali who reached the top of Mount Everest with Edmund Hillary, says that he was a happy person.

The Nepali journalist Deepak Thapa portrays the famous Sherpa climber Ang Rita as a social “Upwardly Mobile” person. Whereas in Kunzang Choden’s story (In the Tracks of the Migoi) we learn that the Bhutanese, as a Buddhist folk, are not capable of harming even a small animal, in another story Kanak Dixit tells us about the 100 000 Lhotshampas (Bhutanese citizens of Nepali origin) who were thrown out by the Bhutanese government and live in refugee-camps in Jhapa. The curio art-trader Shanker Lamichane’s “The Half Closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Setting Sun” is a poignant tale of a paralysed boy’s karma, related as a dialogue between a Nepali guide and a tourist. The helpless child makes us think in his mute way about the joys in everyday life that we don’t see and feel, because the world is too much with us. Whereas Harka Gurung has gathered facts and fiction“ and tells us about the different aspects of the Snowman, another author who is a psychologist from Bhutan, tells us about yaks, yak-keepers and the Yeti and we come to know through an old yak-keeper named Mimi Khandola, how the friendly creature called the Migoi, alias Yeti, gets chased and killed by a group of wild-dogs. In “Not Even a Corpse to Cremate” we learn about the traumatic shock and tragic fate of a girl named Pem Doikar, who was kidnapped by a Migoi.

This anthology does not profess to represent Himalayan literature as a whole, but lays emphasis on the people and myths centred around the Himalayas. For instance, the Nepali world that the poets and writers describe and create is a different one, compared to the western one. It is true that trekking-tourism, modern technology, the aid-industry, NGOs, aids and globalisation have reached Nepal, Bhutan, India, but the areas not frequented by the trekking and climbing tourists still remain rural, tradition-bound and untouched by modernity.

There are hardly any books written by writers from the Himalayas at the Frankfurter Book Fair. It's always the travelling tourist, geologist, geographer, biologist, climber and ethnologist who writes about Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh and its people, culture, religion, environment, flora and fauna. The Himalayan people have always been statists in the visit-the-Himalaya-scenarios published in New York, Paris, Munich and Sydney and they are described through western eyes.

But there have been generations of thinking and writing Nepalis, Indians, Bhutanese and Tibetans who have written and published hundreds of books and magazines in their own languages. In Patan's Madan Puraskar Library alone, which Mr. Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, describes as the "Temple of Nepali language", there are 15,000 Nepali books and 3500 different magazines and periodicals about which the western world hasn't heard or read. A start was made by Michael Hutt of the School of Oriental Studies London, in his English translation of contemporary Nepali prose and verse in Himalayan Voices and Modern Nepali Literature. It took him eight years to write his book and he took the trouble to meet most of the Nepali authors in Nepal and Darjeeling. The readers in the western world will know more about Himalayan literature as more and more original literary works are translated from Nepali, Tibetan, Hindi, Bhutanese, Lepcha, Bengali into English, German, French and other languages of the EU. The first foreign language, however, will remain English because the East India Company got there first.

This book compiled by Alice Grünfelder creates sympathy and understanding for the Nepali, Indian, Bhutanese, Tibetan, Chinese psyche, culture, religion, living conditions and human problems in the urban and rural Himalayan environment, and is a welcome addition to the slowly growing translated collection of Himalayan literature penned by writers living in the Himalayas. I wish her well in her function as a mediator between the literary worlds of Asia and Europe.

Satis Shroff, Freiburg

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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 lectures on Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. and 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.

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Review by Satis Shroff, Germany: Getting Along in Life in Tricky Kathmandu

Bhatt, Krishna: City Women and the Ghost Writer, Olympia Publishers, London 2008, 191 pages, EUR 7,99 (ISBN 9781905513444)

Krishna Bhatt, the author, a person who was ‘educated to get a graduate degree in Biology and Chemistry,’came to Kathmandu in 1996 and has seen profound political changes. In this book he seeks to find an ‘explanation for what is happening.’ Life, it seems, to him, is tricky, while political violence has been shocking him episodically. That’s the gist of it: twenty-one short episodes that are revealed to the reader by an author, who’s trademark is honesty, clarity and simplicity---without delving too deep into the subject for the sake of straight narration. What emerges is a melange of tales about life, religion, Nepalese and Indian society packed with humour. A delightful read, a work of fiction and you can jump right into the stories anywhere you like.

Additionally, Bhatt has published ‘Humour and Last Laugh’ in October 2004, a collection of satirical articles published in newspapers in Kathmandu, which is available only in Kathmandu’s bookstores. The author emphasises that he has always written in English and adds, “Reading led me to writing.” He found his London publisher through the internet. Lol!

Did you know that people who are married wear an ‘air of sacrificial glory’ about them in Nepal? The other themes are keeping mistresses in Kathmandu, sending children abroad for education, the woes of psychotherapists in Nepal (no clients). I’ll leave it to you to find out why. Nepal is rich in glaciers and the water ought to be harnessed to produce drinking water and electricity, but in Kathmandu, as in many parts of the republic, there’s a terribly scarcity of water among the poor and wanton wastage among the Gharania---upper class dwellers of Kathmandu. The Kathmanduites fight not only against water scarcity but also a losing battle against ants and roaches. The author explains the many uses of the common condom, especially a sterilised male who uses his vasectomy for the purpose of seduction. However, his tale about the death of his father in “The Harsh Priest and Mourning” remains a poignant and excellent piece of writing, and I could feel with him. It not only describes the Hindu traditions on death and dying but also the emotions experienced by the author.

Like the Oxford educated Pico Ayer who has the ability to describe every ‘shimmy’ that he comes by when he travels, Bhatt too says that Thamel District is all ‘discotheques and massage parlours’ in the story ‘A Meeting of Cultures,’ in which the author meets two former East Germans and one of them thinks ‘people in Germany are lazy.’ Did she mean the Ossies or the Wessies? If that doesn’t get you, I’m sure the many uses of English and vernacular newspapers will certainly do. What’s even amusing is a ritual marriage ceremony of frogs to appease the rain gods. It might be mentioned that in Kathmandu Indra is the God of Rain, the God of the firmament and the personified atmosphere. In the Vedas he stands in the first Rank among the Gods. When you come to think of it, we Hindus are eternally trying to appease the Gods with our daily rituals, special pujas and homs around the sacred Agni (Ignis). Agni is one of the chief deities of the Vedas, and a great number of Sanskrit hymns are addressed to him.

Bhatt uses life and the people around him, and in the media, as his characters and his attitude towards his characters is of a reconciling nature. The characters work sometimes flat for he doesn’t develop them, but the stories he tells are about people you and I could possibly know, and seem very familiar.
Most of the stories are short and quick, good reads in this epoch of computers, laptops,DVDs, SMS, MMS, which is convenient for people with not much time at their disposal. Other themes are: writing, the muse, fellow writers (without naming names, except in the case of V.S. Naipaul), east meet west, abortion, art and pornography, colleagues and former HMG administrators. His opinions are always honest and entertaining in intent, and his tales have more narration than dialogues. Krishna Bhatt is a welcome scribe in the ranks of Kunda Dixit, Samrat Upadhya, Manjushri Thapa and is another new voice from the Himalayas who will make his presence felt in the world of fiction writing. His ‘Irreconcilable Death’ is thought-provoking, a writer who wants to change morality and fails to reconcile with death, like many writers before him. Writers may come and go, but Bhatt wants to leave his impression in his own way and time. Time will certainly tell.
I wish him well.

Review German version by:Satis Shroff
Rezension:
Grünfelder, Alice (Hrsg.), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 S., EUR 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder hat Sinologie und Germanistik studiert, lebte zwei Jahre in China und arbeitet gegenwärtig als freie Lektorin und Literaturvermittlerin in Berlin. Dieses Buch ist vergleichbar mit einem Strauss zusammengestellter Blumen aus dem Himalaya, die die Herausgeberin gepflückt hat. Es handelt von den Menschen und deren Problemen im 450 km langen Himalaya Gebirge. Das Buch orientiert sich, an englischen Übersetzungen von der Literatur aus dem Himalaya.

Nepal ist literarisch gut vertreten mit dem Anthropologen Dor Bahadur Bista, dem Bergsteiger Tenzing Norgay, die in Kathmandu lebenden Journalisten Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, dem Fremdenführer Shankar Lamichane, dem Dichter Pallav Ranjan und dem Entwicklungsspezialisten Harka Gurung. Manche Geschichten sind nicht neu für Nepal-Kenner, aber das Buch ist für Leser, die in Deutschland, Österreich, Südtirol und die Schweiz leben, bestimmt. Außer sieben Nepali Autoren gibt es Geschichten von sieben indischen, drei tibetischen, zwei chinesischen und zwei bhutanesischen Autoren.

Die Themen des Buches sind: Die Vorteile und Nachteile der Verwestlichung in Nepal, da Nepal erst 1950 für den Fremden sozusagen geöffnet wurde. Kanak Dixit erzählt dies deutlich in „Welchen Himalaya hätten Sie gern?“. In einer anderen liebenswerten Gesichte erzählt er über die Reise von einem Nepali Frosch namens Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, ein umweltbewußter Bergsteiger, erzählt über das empfindliche Erbe—die Himalaya und deren spirituelle Bedeutung. Die „Himalaya-Ballade“ von der chinesischen Autorin Ma Yuan, „Die ewigen Berge“ von dem Han-Chinesen Jin Zhiguo, und der indischer Bergsteiger H. P. S. Ahluwalia in „Höher als Everest“, schließlich Swami Pranavanadas in seinem „Pilgerreise zum Kailash und der See Manasovar“ haben alle die Berge aus verschiedenen Sichten thematisiert. Tenzing Norgay, der erste Nepali, der auf dem Gipfel von Mt. Everest mit dem Neuseeländer Edmund Hillary bestiegen war, erzählt, dass er „ein glücklicher Mensch“ sei. Der Nepali Journalist Deepak Thapa beschreibt den berühmten Sherpa Bergsteiger Ang Rita als einen sozialen Aufsteiger.

Während wir in einer Geschichte von Kunzang Choden (Auf den Spuren des Migoi) erfahren, dass die Bhutanesen, als ein buddhistisches Volk, nicht einmal einen Tier Leid zufügen können, erzählt uns Kanak Dixit von 100 000 Lhotshampas (nepalstämmige Einwohner), die von der bhutanesischen Regierung vertrieben worden sind und jetzt in Flüchtlingslagern in Jhapa leben.

James Hilton hat das Wort Shangri-La für eine Geschichte, in Umlauf gebracht die sich in Tibet abspielte. Genauso ist mit dem Ausdruck „Das Dach der Welt“ die tibetische Plateau gemeint und nicht Nepal oder Bhutan. Die bewegende Geschichte, die der Kunsthändler Shanker Lamechane erzählt, handelt von einem gelähmten Jungen. Sein Karma wird in Dialogform zwischen ein Nepali Reiseleiter und einem überschwenglichen Tourist erzählt. Das hilflose Kind bringt uns dazu, über die Freude in Alltag nachzudenken, was wir meistens nicht tun können, weil wir mit dem Alltag so beschäftigt sind. Während Harka Gurung „Fakten und Fiktionen über den Schneemensch“ zusammenstellt, schildert uns Kunzang Choden, eine Psychologin aus Bhutan, über „Yaks, Yakhirten und der Yeti“. Wir erfahren von einem alten Yakhirt namens Mimi Khandola, wie das freundliche Wesen Migoi, gennant Yeti, von einem Rudel Wildhunden erlegt wurde. In „Nicht einmal ein Leichnam zum Einäschern“ lernen wir von dem tragischen Schicksal eines Mädchens namens Pem Doikar, die von einem Migoi entführt wurde.

Diese Anthologie versucht nicht die Himalaya Literatur als ganzes zu repräsentieren, aber betont bestimmte Themen, die im Alltagsleben der Bergbewohner auftauchen. Die Welt, die die Dichter und Schriftsteller aus dem Himalaya beschreiben und kreieren, ist ganz anders im Vergleich zur westlichen Literatur über die Himalaya Bewohner. Es ist wahr, dass der Trekking-Tourismus, moderne Technologie, die Entwicklungshilfeindustrie, die NGOs, Aids und Globalisation die Himalayas erreicht haben, aber die Gebiete die vom Tourismus unberührt sind, sind immer noch ursprünglich, gebunden an Traditionen, Kultur und Religion.

Auf der Frankfurter Buchmesse gibt es kaum Bücher die von Schriftstellern und Dichtern aus dem Himalaya stammen. Es sind immer die reisenden Touristen, Geologen, Geographen, Biologen, Bergsteiger und Ethnologen, die über Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh und seine Leute, Religion, Kultur und Umwelt schreiben. Die Bewohner des Himalaya sind immer Statisten im eigenen Land gewesen in den Szenarios, die im Himalaya inszeniert worden sind, und die in New York, Paris, München and Sydney veröffentlicht werden. Sie werden durch westliche Augen beschrieben.

Dennoch gab es Generationen von denkenden und schreibenden Nepalis, Inder, Bhutanesen und Tibeter, die Hunderte von Schriftstücken, Zeitschriften und Bücher geschrieben und veröffentlicht haben, in ihren eigenen Sprachen. Allein in Patans Madan Puraskar Bibliothek, die Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, beschreibt als „der Tempel der Nepali Sprache,“ gibt es 15,000 Nepali Bücher und 3500 verschiedene Zeitschriften wovon die westliche Welt noch nie gehört oder gelesen hat.

Der englische Professor Michael Hutt machte einen Anfang. Er übersetzte zeitgenössische Nepali Prosa und Gedichte in „Himalayan Voices“ und „Modern Nepali Literature“. Die erste Fremdsprache wird weiterhin Englisch bleiben, weil die East India Company dort zuerst ankam.

Dieses Buch von Alice Grünfelder erzeugt Sympathie und Verständnis für die nepali, indische, bhutanesische, tibetische, chinesische Psyche, Kultur, Religion. Es beschreibt die Lebensbedingungen und menschlichen Probleme in den dörflichen und städtischen Himalayagebieten und ist eine willkommene Ergänzung zu der langsam wachsenden Sammlung von literarische Übersetzungen aus dem Himalaya, die von den einheimischen Autoren geschrieben worden sind. Ich wünsche Frau Grünfelder Erfolg in Ihre Aufgabe als Vermittlerin zwischen den literarischen Welten von Asien und Europa.

© Review: Satis Shroff, Freiburg

English Version by: satisshroff, freiburg
Book-review:
Grünfelder, Alice (Editor), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 pages, EURO 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder has studied Sinology and German literature, lived two years in China and works in the publishing branch in Berlin. This book is comparable to a bouquet of the choicest Himalayan flowers picked by the editor and deals with the trials and tribulations of a cross-section of the people in the 450 km long Abode of the Snows--Himalayas. The book orients, as expected, on the English translations of Himalayan literature. The chances of having Nepali literature translated into foreign languages depends upon the Nepalis themselves, because foreigners mostly loath to learn Nepali. If a translation is published in English the success of the book is used as a yardstick to decide whether it is going to be profitable to bring it out in European or in other languages.

Nepal is conspicuous with contributions by the anthropologist Dor Bahadur Bista, the climber Tenzing Norgay, the Kathmandu-based journalists Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, the tourist-guide Shankar Lamichane, the poet Pallav Ranjan and the development-specialist Harka Gurung. For regular readers of Himal Asia, The Rising Nepal and GEO some of these stories are perhaps not new but this book is aimed at the German speaking readers in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. In addition to the seven Nepali authors, there are also stories by seven Indian, three Tibetan, two Chinese authors and two Bhutanese authors.

Some of the themes that have been dealt with in this collection are: the pros and cons of westernisation as told by Kanak Dixit in “Which Himalaya would you like?” and an endearing story of a journey through Nepal as a Nepali frog named Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, the ecology-conscious climber writes about the spiritual meaning of our fragile heritage—the Himalayas. “The Himalayan Ballads” by the Chinese author Ma Yuan, “The Eternal Mountains” by the Han-Chinese Jin Zhiguo, the Indian climber H. P. S. Ahluwalia in “Higher than Everest” und Swami Pranavanadas in his Pilgrim journey to Kailash and the Manasovar Lake” have presented the mountains from different perspectives. Tenzing Norgay, the first Nepali who reached the top of Mount Everest with Edmund Hillary, says that he was a happy person.

The Nepali journalist Deepak Thapa portrays the famous Sherpa climber Ang Rita as a social “Upwardly Mobile” person. Whereas in Kunzang Choden’s story (In the Tracks of the Migoi) we learn that the Bhutanese, as a Buddhist folk, are not capable of harming even a small animal, in another story Kanak Dixit tells us about the 100 000 Lhotshampas (Bhutanese citizens of Nepali origin) who were thrown out by the Bhutanese government and live in refugee-camps in Jhapa. The curio art-trader Shanker Lamichane’s “The Half Closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Setting Sun” is a poignant tale of a paralysed boy’s karma, related as a dialogue between a Nepali guide and a tourist. The helpless child makes us think in his mute way about the joys in everyday life that we don’t see and feel, because the world is too much with us. Whereas Harka Gurung has gathered facts and fiction“ and tells us about the different aspects of the Snowman, another author who is a psychologist from Bhutan, tells us about yaks, yak-keepers and the Yeti and we come to know through an old yak-keeper named Mimi Khandola, how the friendly creature called the Migoi, alias Yeti, gets chased and killed by a group of wild-dogs. In “Not Even a Corpse to Cremate” we learn about the traumatic shock and tragic fate of a girl named Pem Doikar, who was kidnapped by a Migoi.

This anthology does not profess to represent Himalayan literature as a whole, but lays emphasis on the people and myths centred around the Himalayas. For instance, the Nepali world that the poets and writers describe and create is a different one, compared to the western one. It is true that trekking-tourism, modern technology, the aid-industry, NGOs, aids and globalisation have reached Nepal, Bhutan, India, but the areas not frequented by the trekking and climbing tourists still remain rural, tradition-bound and untouched by modernity.

There are hardly any books written by writers from the Himalayas at the Frankfurter Book Fair. It's always the travelling tourist, geologist, geographer, biologist, climber and ethnologist who writes about Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh and its people, culture, religion, environment, flora and fauna. The Himalayan people have always been statists in the visit-the-Himalaya-scenarios published in New York, Paris, Munich and Sydney and they are described through western eyes.

But there have been generations of thinking and writing Nepalis, Indians, Bhutanese and Tibetans who have written and published hundreds of books and magazines in their own languages. In Patan's Madan Puraskar Library alone, which Mr. Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, describes as the "Temple of Nepali language", there are 15,000 Nepali books and 3500 different magazines and periodicals about which the western world hasn't heard or read. A start was made by Michael Hutt of the School of Oriental Studies London, in his English translation of contemporary Nepali prose and verse in Himalayan Voices and Modern Nepali Literature. It took him eight years to write his book and he took the trouble to meet most of the Nepali authors in Nepal and Darjeeling. The readers in the western world will know more about Himalayan literature as more and more original literary works are translated from Nepali, Tibetan, Hindi, Bhutanese, Lepcha, Bengali into English, German, French and other languages of the EU. The first foreign language, however, will remain English because the East India Company got there first.

This book compiled by Alice Grünfelder creates sympathy and understanding for the Nepali, Indian, Bhutanese, Tibetan, Chinese psyche, culture, religion, living conditions and human problems in the urban and rural Himalayan environment, and is a welcome addition to the slowly growing translated collection of Himalayan literature penned by writers living in the Himalayas. I wish her well in her function as a mediator between the literary worlds of Asia and Europe.

Satis Shroff, Freiburg

]]> Thu, 18 Jun 2009 04:06:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/703655 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/692715 Barack Obama: Three Yellow Roses On a Grey Day (Satis Shroff)


It was a grey, cold day and a frosty wind blew at the Buchenwald concentration camp, near Weimar. The 44th US Prisident Barack Obama, Elie Wiesel, Bertrand Herz, Angela Merkel and their selected entourage went through the gate which carried the words: Jedem das Seine.

In this concentration camp alone 56,000 people were killed by the Nazis, not to speak of Auschwitz, Amersfoort, Warsaw and elsewhere. It was at 3:15 on April 11, 2009 that Obama’s great-uncle Charlie Payne (now 84) helped to liberate the Jewish and other prisoners. Charlie was a young soldier then with the US 89th Infantary Division, and recalled often the horror of seeing corpses piled up. He was horrified by the lengths to which men go to mistreat other men.

Has the world learned anything out of it?

Nobel prize winner Elie Wiesel, 80, who was one of more than 900 children liberated from Buchenwald in April 1945, has his doubts.

President Obama rightly called the visit to Buchenwald as ‘the ultimate rebuke’ to Holocaust deniers. Iran’s present president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has gone on record as having repeatedly questioned the holocaust, and there are an increasing numer of people in Europe who are rightists, and who give their votes to such nationalistic parties. This is also true in the case of the Flemish national separists, Italian neo-faschists, Austria’s far right with headquarters in Kernten, and Netherland’s anti-EU populist Geert Wilders and, of course, in Germany and Switzerland.

After the visitors had laid three yellow roses for the dead, President Obama referred to the Nazi camps and said: ‘These sites have not lost their horror with the passage of time. More than half a century later, our grief and our outrage over what happened have not diminished.’

The politically correct attitude towards Israel of the German government under Merkel has grown out of the ashes of the holocaust. In the past, around the thirties, it was easier to be silent for the majority of the Germans, when their Jewish neighbours were being insulted, beaten, humiliated, discriminated by Hitler’s brown shirts, and later accompanied by force to the concentrations camps and eventually to the gas-chambers. Zykon B was a dreaded name in those days.

It was only after the World War II, when it became public, that many Germans realised what an infamy and act of criminality and inhumanity its armed forces and civil servants had meted out to its Jewish citizens, gypsies (Roma and Sinti), POWS from other conquered countries and their very own disabled persons, whose right to exist and live as they pleased was challenged by self-styled members of the Aryan race, who wanted to eliminate, what they called ‘worthless lives.’ Hitler wanted to create a new Aryan race with blondes and blue-eyed Germans and a start was made at Schönborn, where young virile males and females were allowed to mate for the Fatherland. Many of the children from these anonymous intercourses still live today, and would like to know who their parents were, for the offsprings were given to German families or grew up in Scandinavian countries.

We have but to read Bertold Brecht’s book ‘Furcht und Elend im Dritten Reich’ to understand that angst was the order of the day, when even fathers had to fear their own sons because the latter were active members of Hitler’s youth and boy-scout organisations. They had to show allegiance to their Führer and no one else. It was in this atmosphere, charged with fear of denunciation, that the people lived their normal lives in wartime Germany.

In the post-war period it wasn’t any better for the Germans who lived in the German Democratic Republic under Erik Honneker, where kilometres of barbed-wire, Alsatian dogs, manned by the Volks police and deadly automatic guns that fired at the touch of a hidden wire, and where the Big Brother Stasi (secret state security) was always watching its citizens. You couldn’t trust anybody in those days.

I remember when I was a medical student I met a blonde girl in the Anatomy class and she looked around furtively said in a whisper: ‘I’m from the DDR, but please don’t tell anyone about it.’ She’d fled to the west. She was safe here but her fear accompanied her like a shadow. I reassured her and we are still good friends and laugh about those times.

Even Günter Grass, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, has a tough time fighting with himself regarding his past, and he mentions it in his onion-experience book, the English version of which hit the bookstands last year. The Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie are replete with historical human tragedies of people who wanted to flee from a totalitarian state. Families were separated and the expression ‘Ossie and Wessie’ was normal for a long time, even after the Berlin Wall fell on November 11,1989. Two nations, two governments, two different ideologies but the same people. The fall of the Berlin Wall was one of the most emotional and historical greatest events in this world, not only for us Germans, but also for the former East Bloc countries. In this post-Perestroika period, the new and growing memberships in the European Union and Nato are proof enough of the desire, yes the craving, to be a part of Europe and the Upper Hemisphere, for the East Bloc countries were economically developing countries, made kaput by the communist and socialist apparatus.

Despite the negative headlines and banners in the media, even the former East German cities are mobilising themselves against the Neonazis, and others who still believe in the yesteryears of so-called Aryan culture and power. Wolfgang Tiefen, SPD, Minister of Transport in
Germany was right when he said: ‘It isn’t enough if one thinks in silence. In many cities there are attempts by rightists to show their presence. To counteract this move, one has to go to the streets. Dresden has shown us how to treat the Neos.’ It must be mentioned that at the autobahn resting place Teufelstuhl (Devil’s Chair), near Jena, Neonazis brutally beat up the people who’d taken part in the big democratic demonstration, and some of them had serious injuries.

According to Obama his great-uncle Payne had had a ‘very difficult time readjusting to civilian life’ after what he saw at the camp.

The survivors of the holocaust and their children, and their children’s children still suffer from the traumatic experience in the concentration camps, and have fear of death and loss. In a clinical study carried out in 1968 in Holland with 800 Jewish patients, who’d survived the holocaust, had what is known as the KZ-syndrome, which is a combination of problems. The patients had chronic angst (fear), cognition and memory disturbances, heavy chronic depression, changes in personality and identity, emotional regression, psychosomatic problems like phobia, hallucination and showed signs of agitation. They also suffered from psychosis, restlessness, sleep disturbances, nervosity, diffuse fear of new persecution, permanent exhaustion and loss of vitality due to weight loss caused by persecution.

It is interesting to note that similar symptoms were to be seen in the case of survivors of Hiroshima, POWs and among the persecuted Afro-American and native Indian tribesmen of the USA. A study about the syndromes of Guantanamo survivors on the part of NANDA is pending.

Whereas a lot of the KZ survivors had the syndrome, there were those who were spared such traumatic experiences and syndromes in a new, safe country like the USA, Holland, Canada and Israel, even though they had a latent phase in old age, because the Jewish migrants have a close social network in which rituals and symbols play a big part. Nevertheless, all holocaust survivors have a lot of things in common: the experience of helplessness, terror, deprivation, loss of social groups (friends, family, relatives) and profession. Added to this plethora of problems is the survivor-guilt. When you’ve underdone such hardships and experiences you tend to ask yourself: Why did I survive and not the others?. You have painful pictures of death and the unfinished process of mourning for your near and dear ones who’d died in the concentration camps or were shot by a firing squad.

When a Jewish survivor of the holocaust gets a cancer tumour, it brings up memories of the holocaust because of the loss of hair due to the intake of cyclostatica during treatment, thus baldness gives you the feeling of being imprisoned again in an institute. The fear of death creeps up slowly and the hospital clothing remind you of the KZ prisoner’s striped dress. The loss of hair imparts a feeling of loss of identity. So the diagnosis cancer develops further in your mind to become a personal holocaust.

The question is: have we Germans learned from the lessons of the past? One thing we should have learned after having survived the Third Reich and World War II is never to be silent when rights of humans are being trampled, and look the other way. As long there’s democracy, there’s also the right to view one’s personal opinions in matters pertaining to politics, culture and religion. In diesem Sinne: Vive la difference!

In Luzern you can see a Pandora’s Box, the contents of which was long in the hands of a Swiss Red Cross nurse named Elsbeth Kasser, who’d worked in the concentration camp Gurs, located in Southern France. It’s a box full of 150 pictures, works of art by interned Jewish artists. The photographs and KZ artistic drawings, sketches are being exhibited at Luzern’s Historical Museum. The title is appropriate: Hinschauen---nicht wegschauen, which means, Look at it, don’t look away.

The KZ prisoners, who were transported to the Vernichtungslager by the Nazis, had pleaded to the nurse Elsbeth Kasser: ‘Swiss Sister, tell about it in your country, tell what happened here to the world.’ 1943 was long ago, but it was in 1989 that she showed the works to others. Frau Kasser died in 1992. She’d brought a little joy and support in Gurs, and was ashamed of what the Nazis had done to the people she’d begun to like: transported to the camps of elimination, never to return and see the light of the day, never to breathe like you and me, never to live with their families and friends. Uprooted brutally, undergoing suffering, maltreatment, experiencing cold, hunger, deprivation and dying miserable deaths in concentration camps, eradicated like rodents. Precious human souls, who’d lived in Barrack No. C/6.
About the Author:
Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff).
Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

]]> Tue, 09 Jun 2009 05:25:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/692715 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/692773 GORDON STILL WALKING 2009 (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)


‘I will not walk away,’
Said PM Gordon Brown.
His ministers had walked out on him.
Disgusted with his inner circle
Of soccer-fans
And other fads.

Manchester is United,
Labour isn’t.

Was he walking by a rule?
Mr. Brown ruled with two circles:
His soccer-crazy inner circle
With Ed Balls,
An outer one with grey mice.

He was walking down a lonely road,
It seemed.
When he walked in,
He walked into Blairites.

Gordon was walking into his political savings.
Could he steer Britain’s economy
Out of the big recession?
He walked his legs off,
Pleading to Labourites to stay.

It wasn’t a walk over
For Brown’s pride,
When ministers refuse to walk
Together with him,
After the debacle at the Euro polls.
He racked his brains,
Came up with a belated inquiry
Into the Iraq war,
To save his skin.

In a last bid he reshuffled
His cabinet cards:
Darling, Miliband and Balls
Held their jobs.
Gordon promoted:
Johnson, Jowell, Mandelson,
Cooper, Burham, Ham.
Eh, was it worth to promote Ainsworth?
A soap-opera supper,
Where guests prefer
To sit and walk out at will.

Gordon is certainly walking on air.
It’s become more a walk
On a razor’s edge.
If this silly Labour circus goes on
In Downing No. 10,
He is most likely to walk
On all fours.

The battle is lost,
Er steht auf verlorene Posten.
The rats have sprung overboard.
Councils like Lancashire, Derbyshire,
Stafford, Nottinghamshire
Have become Tory counties.
Labour lost 250,
Conservatives gained 217 seats.
Captain Brown remains adamant,
And runs his ship.

I’m afraid it’s not Trafalgar.
Perhaps Cap’n Bleigh?
He clutches his crutches
And mutters:
‘I will not walk away.’

Brown has a strategy:
He hopes to limp towards autumn,
Defying the wind against him.
Can he bend it like Beckham?
Captain Brown, still at the helm,
Insists: ‘I will not waver,
Or walk away.’

Britain doesn’t know:
Whether to be awed
Or amused.
And thereby hangs
A tale.

* * *

Drinking Darjeeling Tea in England 2008 (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

Beware the Ides of March
Manchester will be a milestone
In Gordon Brown’s polit-life.
Your economic ‘competence’
Has become an Achilles heel,
Your weak point.

The people’s party of New Labour
Wants to get rid of you.
These are the rumours
Heard in the trendy streets of London.

Twelve months ago Gordon Brown
Was the Messiah of Brit politics,
After Blair’s disastrous role in the Labour.
Alas, the new Messiah
Lost his face,
Within a short time.
His weakness: decision making.

England is nervous, fidgety,
For Labour fears a possible loss,
Of its 353 Under House seats.
Above the English cabinet
Looms a Damocles sword.

Will Labour watch,
Drink Darjeeling,
Till a debacle develops?
Labour is in a dilemma.
Hush, help is near.
David Miliband is going vitriolic.
A silly season indeed,
Drinking Darjeeling tea in England.

* * *
About the Author:

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg, Gemany (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

]]> Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:06:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/692773 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/683015

Ein Zeitgeist Dichter aus dem Himalaya
Miteinander, Liebe, Frieden und Gedichte (Togetherness, Love, Peace, Gurkhas and the Poetry)

Tell me something about yourself.

I teach Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. I’m a lecturer, poet and writer and have published three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). My lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. I’m a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer (London).


What else do you write on?

Besides poems, I also write fiction, non-fiction and am open to different genres. I also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes.s.
How come you’ve switched from Science to Literature?
I studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal and used to write a science column in The Rising Nepal besides my other editorial duties like interviewing newcomers to Katmandu who wanted to search for the Yeti, climb mountains, study the Himalayas and its inhabitants (geologists, anthropologists, writers, journalists). Later I came to Germany and studied Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom.
How do you describe yourself?

I like functioning as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and I see my future as a writer, poet and artist. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, I’m dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in my writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. My work in Basle and at the University of Freiburg are excellent outlets and I really enjoy teaching and writing.


Where do you lecture?

I lecture in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where I’m a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

How many languages do you speak?

I speak English, German, Nepali, Hindi, and a bit of Urdu, Bengali and Sindhi. I love changing from German into English and prefer the sound of the Basler and Badische dialects. If a student doesn’t understand a difficult theme, it’s great to use one’s resources and explain it in his or her tongue. My kids speak German, French, English, Italian and enjoy singing sacral songs in Latin because they all attend the Freiburger Dom Choirs in their spare time. We have a great deal of cultural exchange in the family and have school kids from France, England who stay with us and our kids go to their homes in neighbouring France, England and recently also Canada. It’s a lovely, open atmosphere and a Miteinander, a togetherness, that enriches our lives.

You’ve written about and translated ‘The Poetry of Nepal’ in The American Chronicle into German. What was the purpose ?

I wanted to give the poets of the Himalayas a helping hand since poets from that corner of the world haven’t made an impact, aside from Rabindra Nath Tagore, who was a Bengali Nobel Prize). There are a few writers from Nepal such as Greta Rana (UK, Nepal), Manjushree Thapa, Samrat Upadhya (USA), Kanak and Kunda Dixit, and a host of Indian writers from Aravind Adiga (The White Tiger) to Salman Rushdie.

You were cited as a poet, who writes about Nepal’s struggle for democracy and a republican status, using Nepalese metaphors?

I like writing political poetry: about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. Sandra Siegel, a poet and teacher from Germany is right when she writes thus: ‘His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. In writing ‘home,’ Satis Shroff not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’
I like to think of myself as a Zeitgeist poet who not only writes on different themes but primarily about the Zeitgeist, and that’s precisely what moves us daily. Here are a few poems I wrote about the war in Nepal in which the Maoists played a big role. I studied in Kathmandu and during those days a lot of the students were fascinated by Maoism and used to acquire Mao’s Red Bible and Kim Il Sung’s books. Even then you had the impression that something was cooking in the Himalayas and the result was a ten year war between the government’s armed forces and the Maoists. The war is long over, Prachanda’s Maoist army has taken over the former kingdom, King Gyanendra Shah has been ousted, the Narayanhiti Palace is now a museum, the Maoists have given up their arms, and the Maoist PM Pushpa Kamal Dahal has resigned after an eight month stint, because of a quarrel with the Army Chief Rukmangat Katawal, who has refused to enlist the Maoist fighters in the Nepalese Army. The streets of Katmandu are still burning and the young people are getting louder. Wither Nepal?


HOPE IN THE SHADOW OF THE HIMALAYAS (Satis Shroff)

Hush, an unholy alliance made the rounds,
The political parties and the Maoists are united.
They rattle their sabres no more,
Under Vishnu’s bed of serpents.

Narad brings us good news.
We don’t have to shiver together in angst.
There is hope in the Himalayas.
Hope of a separation of powers,
Hope of free elections,
Hope of fair trials before impartial tribunals,
Hope of amnesty.
We’ll do what Nepalese normally do:
Wait and drink Ilam tea,
And watch the scenario unfurl,
In the shadow of the Himalayas.

Glossary:
Narad: A heavenly messenger mentioned in the Rig-veda, he was a great Rishi, chief of the heavenly musicians who invented the lute.
Vishnu: The second God of the Hindu-triad, preserver and restorer, the supreme being from whom all things emanate.
_____________________

Not in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

Nepalis look out of their ornate windows,
In the west, east, north and south Nepal
And think:
How long will this krieg go on?
How much do we have to suffer?
How many money-lenders, businessmen, civil servants,
Policemen and gurkhas do the Maobadis want to kill
Or be killed?

How many men, women, boys and girls have to be mortally injured
Till Kal Bhairab is pacified by the Sleeping Vishnu?

How many towns and villages in the seventy five districts
Do the Maobadis want to free from capitalism?
When the missionaries close their schools,
Must the Hindus and Buddhists shut their temples and shrines?
Shall atheism be the order of the day?
Not in Nepal.
The religion is too much with us,
Within us.

*****

A THOUSAND DEATHS (Satis Shroff)

It breaks my heart, as I hear over the radio:
Nepal’s not safe for visitors.
Visitors who leave their money behind,
In the pockets of travel agencies, rug dealers,
Currency and drug dealers,
And hordes of ill-paid honest Sherpas
And Tamang and other ethnic porters.
Sweat beads trickling from their sun-burnt faces,
In the dizzy heights of the Dolpo, Annapurna ranges
And the Khumbu glaciers.
Eking out a living and facing the treacherous
Icy crevasses, snow-outs, precipices
And a thousand deaths.

No roads, no schools,
Beyond the beaten trekking paths
Live the poorer families of Nepal.
Sans drinking water,
Sans hospitals,
Where aids and children’s work prevail.

*****

Development and Destruction (Satis Shroff)

My Nepal, what has become of you?
Your features have changed with time.
The innocent face of the Kumari
Has changed to the blood-thirsty countenance
Of Kal Bhairab,
From development to destruction,
From bikas to binas.

You’re no longer the same
There’s insurrection and turmoil
Against the government and the police.
Your sons and daughters are at war,
With the Gurkhas again.

Maobadis with revolutionary flair,
With ideologies from across the Tibetan Plateau and Peru.
Ideologies that have been discredited elsewhere,
Flourish in the Himalayas.
Demanding a revolutionary-tax
From tourists and Nepalese
With brazen, bloody attacks
Fighting for their own rights
And the rights of the bewildered common man.

Well-trained government troops at the orders
Of politicians safe in Kathmandu.
Leaders who despise talks and compromises,
Flex their tongues and muscles,
And let the imported automatic salves speak their deaths.
Ill-armed guerrillas against well-armed Royal Gurkhas
In the foothills of the Himalayas.

******

Child Soldiers (Satis Shroff)

Nepali children have no chance,
But to take sides
To take to arms not knowing the reason
Against whom and why.
The child-soldier gets orders from grown-ups
And the hapless souls open fire.
Hukum is order,
The child-soldier cannot reason why.
Shedding precious human blood,
For causes they both hold high.
Ach, this massacre in the shadow of the Himalayas.

*****

Time Stands Still in Nepal (Satis Shroff)

Globalisation has changed the world fast,
In Nepal time stands still.
The blind beggar at the New Road gate sings:
Lata ko desh ma, gaddha tantheri.
In a land where the tongue-tied live,
The deaf desire to rule.
Oh my Nepal, quo vadis?

The only way to peace and harmony is
By laying aside the arms.
Can Nepal afford to be the bastion
Of a movement and a government
That rides rough-shod over the lives
And rights of fellow Nepalis?

Can’t we learn from the lessons of Afghanistan, Romania,
Poland, East Germany and Iraq?
The Maobadis will be given a chance at the polls,
Like all other democratic parties.
For the Maobadis are Bahuns and Chettris,
Be they Prachanda or Baburam Bhattrai,
Leaders who’d prefer a republican rule
To monarchy in Nepal.

*****

GUNS INSTEAD BOOKS (Satis Shroff)

My academic friends have changes sides,
From Mandalay to Congress
From Congress to the Maobadis.
The students from Dolpo and Silgadi.
Dolpo, unforgettable through Peter Mathiessen
In his quest for his inner self,
And his friend George Schaller’s search
For the snow leopard.
The students wrote Marxist verses and acquired volumes
From the embassies in Kathmandu:
Kim Il Sung’s writings, Mao’s red booklet,
Marx’s Das Kapital and Lenin’s works,
And defended socialist ideas
At His Majesty’s Central Hostel in Tahachal.
I see their earnest faces, with guns in their arms,
Instead of books,
Boisterous and ready
To fight to the end
For a cause they cherish
In their frustrated and fiery hearts.

But aren’t these sons of Nepal
Misguided and blinded,
By the seemingly victories of socialism?
Even Gorbachov pleaded for Peristroika,
And Putin admires capitalist Germany,
Its culture and commerce.
Look at the old Soviet Union,
And other East Bloc nations.
They have all swapped sides
And are EU and Nato members.


Do you have nostalgia for your former country?

Nostalgia is normal for a person who has left his country and settled down in the country of his choice. When nostalgia for the Himalayas overcomes me, I invite friends and we cook Nepalese and North Indian food, listen to traditional lyrics, talk in German, Nepali and English, read books written by South Asian authors, discuss about them and enjoy dal, bhat, shikar, with phulkas, chapatis, parathas, achar and chutneys from our own garden. Cooking is something I’ve learned from my Mom. We used to have Nepali, North Indian, Tibetan and Chinese cusine at home. I also love the Badische cusine as well as the Italian pasta dishes and Swiss raclette. We even have a Potentilla nepalensis in our garden. Most of the time I listen to classical music composed by European composers: Bach, Brahms, Mozart piano sonatas, Beethoven’s Klaviersonaten, Hayden, Händel, Chopin’s waltzes. I appreciate Anne-Sophie Mutter and love Hilary Hahn’s interpretations of allegro molto, the Lark Ascending. I also like Glenn Gould’s interpretation on the piano. I listen to the lyrics of Shambhu Rai, Suresh Kumar’s love songs and Ram Krishna Dhakal’s gazals. Back to nostalgia: home is where your heart is, and it is in Germany’s Black Forest. I remember going over to Bonn and handing in my Nepalese passport at the Nepalese Embassy, because if you want a German one you have to give up your former citizenship. My friend Novel Kishor Rai, was the ambassador, and together we helped to repatriate a lot of Nepalese who had come to Germany to seek asylum following the democratic movement in the nineties. The German authorities had declared Nepal to be safe for all political party members and so they were obliged to leave Germany. The Nepalese were spartanic in their ways, earned a bit of money and gladly went home.


TIMES CHANGE (Satis Shroff)

It’s raining in Kathmandu Valley,
The last showers of the summer monsoon.
Grey-haired, I sit in a taxi
In front of the city of Bhaktapur,
The town re-built by Germans.

A teenage tourist guide comes
To my window, peers at me and my wife Karin
And says, ‘Sir, wollen Sie Bhaktapur sehen?’
He speaks German, this young man, an ethnic Rai.
A Nepalese who wants to show a Nepalese
The city of Bhadgaon.

I reply politely in Nepali and thank him.
He returns to his fellow guides and says,
‘The uncle speaks super Nepali.’

* * *

At the German Doctor’s (Satis Shroff)

My small daughter Elena’s middle-ear is inflamed
I go to our German child-doctor.
He examines her and curses her left ear,
Which is red and causes pain,
Even after thirteen antibiotic cures.

“By the way, what do you say
About the massacre in your kingdom?”
I tell him it’s incredible,
A crown prince who killed the King and Queen,
His brother and sister and then himself,
In a fit of rage and helplessness.”

The bald, bespectacled  German doctor went on,
‘My little daughter quipped today at breakfast:
‘The King must have lied when he said to his people
The automatic gun went off and shot them all.’

Strange things happen in the Kingdom of Nepal.

___________________________________________________________________

On Painting a Winter Landscape (Satis Shroff)

I’ll paint a picture in acryl,
Of a winter landscape.
Not the Alps, but the Himalayas.

The eternal snows in the mountains
Are silvery and white.
The sky is azure, like on a holiday card,
With fluffy clouds above.
It’s a winter scene,
But you don’t feel the cold.
And you don’t freeze at daytime.
Yet when it becomes dark,
We, Nepalis, feel in our marrows
The cold Himalayan wind,
Howling down the valleys and spurs.
Theirs is no central heating.
Neither gas nor electric-heating.
There are no plugs in the Himalayan huts,
Except along the well-beaten trekking trails.

There’s a tree in the landscape.
A black, naked tree
With branches like hands
In suspended animation.
A black crow crows aloud
And a shaman listens to it. It’s a mute language.
The shaman understands the crow
Does the crow follow the shaman?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

MY NIGHTMARE (Satis Shroff)

When the night is not too cold
And when my bed isn’t cold
I dream of a land far away.
A land where a king rules his realm,
A land where there are still peasants without rights,
Who plough the fields that don’t belong to them.
A land where the children have to work,
And have no time for daydreams,
Where girls cut grass and sling heavy baskets on their backs.
Tiny feet treading up the steep path.
A land where the father cuts wood from sunrise till sunset,
And brings home a few rupees.
A land where the innocent children stretch their right hands,
And are rewarded with dollars.
A land where a woman gathers white, red, yellow and crimson
tablets and pills,
From the altruistic world tourists who come her way.
Most aren’t doctors or nurses,
But they distribute the pills,
With no second thoughts about the side-effects.
The Nepali woman possesses an arsenal,
Of potent pharmaceuticals.
She can’t read the finely printed instructions,
For they are in German, French, English, Czech,
Japanese, Chinese, Italian and Spanish.
What does she care, the hieroglyphs are  always there.
Black alphabets appear like an Asiatic buffalo to her.
‘Kala akshar,
Bhaisi barabar,’
Says the Nepali woman,
For she can neither read nor write.

The very thought of her
Giving the bright pills and tablets
To another ill Nepali child or mother,
Torments my soul.
How ghastly this thoughtless world
Of educated trekkers,
Who give medical alms and play
The  macabre role of  physicians,
In the amphitheatre of the Himalayas.

Glossary:
kala: Schwarz
akshar: Buchstaben, Schrift
bhaisi: asiatische Büffel
barabar: gleich, vergleichbar mit
___________________________________________________________________

When Mother Closes Her Eyes (Satis Shroff)

When mother closes her eyes,
She sees everything in its place
In the kingdom of Nepal.
She sees the highest building in Kathmandu,
The King’s Narayanhiti palace.
It looms higher than the dharara,
Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati,
For therein lives Vishnu,
Whom the Hindus call the unconquerable preserver.
The preserver of Nepal?
No, that was his ancestor Prithvi Narayan Shah,
A king of Gorkha.
Vishnu is the preserver of the world,
With qualities of mercy and goodness.
Vishnu is all-pervading and self existent,
Visits the Nepal’s remote districts
In a helicopter with his consort and militia.
He inaugurates building
Factories and events.
Vishnu dissolves the parliament too,
For the sake of his kingdom.
His subjects and worshippers is, of late, divided.
Have Ravana and his demons besieged his land?

When mother opens her eyes,
She sees Vishnu still slumbering on his bed of Sesha,
The serpent in the pools of Budanilkantha and Balaju.

Where is the Creator?
When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?
Only Bhairab’s destruction of the Himalayan world is to be seen.
Much blood has been shed between the decades and the centuries…
The noses and ears of the vanquished at Kirtipur,
The shot and mutilated at the Kot massacre,
The revolution in front of the Narayanhiti Palace,
When Nepalis screamed and died for democracy.
And now the corpses of the Maobadis, civilians and Nepali security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Gurkhas are the elite troops of Britain. Do you think they’ve been given a bad deal throughout the years in the British Army?

Yes indeed, even though they have been fighting under the Union Jack since 200 years, they are still discriminated in the British society due to the MoD’s strange, colonial attitude towards these brave and smart warriors. The migrants from Britain’s former colonies (Jamaica, Karachi, Delhi, Dacca) are given UK passports and equal rights but the children of the Gurkhas are not allowed to go to English schools, study at UK universities and are obliged to return to Nepal. The older generation of Gurkhas are regarded as gerontological liabilities and pushed off to Nepal, like the former guest workers in Germany. I have the impression that the British haven’t realised that Gurkhas are humans with emotions, and have a right to a slice of so-called British life-style and equal rights. Here are two appropriate poems to describe the situation of the Gurkhas and their dependants in the craggy hills of Nepal.

Zeitgeistlyrik:

The Gurkhas Win, Labour Capitulates (Satis Shroff)

Ayo Gurkhali!
The Gurkhas are upon you!
This was the battle-cry
That filled the British heart
With pride and admiration,
And put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you,
Among you,
In London,
Guarding the Queen at the Palace,
Doing security checks
For VIPs
And for Claudia Schiffer,
The Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas
Or as the Brits prefer:
Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner,
An adjutant of the Gurkhas
In World War I said:
‘Uncomplaining you endure
Hunger, thirst and wounds;
And at the last,
Your unwavering lines
Disappear into smoke
And wrath of battle.’

Another General Sir Francis Tuker
Spoke of the Gurkhas:
‘Selfless devotion to the British cause,
Which can be hardly matched
By any race to another
In the whole history of the world..
Why they should have
Thus treated us,
Is something of a mystery.’

9000 Gurkhas died
For the Glory of England,
23,655 were severely wounded
Or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas:
2734 decorations,
Mentions in despatches,
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal’s mothers paid dearly
For England’s glory.
And what do I hear?
The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England had failed miserably
To match the Gurkha’s loyalty
And affection
For the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have shown
They have faith
In the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness
Of the Gurkhas.

Did the souls of the perished Gurkhas
Have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas long dead and forgotten,
Lingered long,
Seeking justice
At the hands of Queen Victoria
And Queen Elizabeth II,
Warlords, or was it warladies,
They died for?

How has the loyalty and special relations
Been rewarded in England
Since the Treaty of Segauli
On March 4, 1816 ?
A treaty that gave the British
The right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind,
Her Majesty the Queen
Was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands,
Lordships and knighthoods
To those who served the crown well,
Added more feathers to England’s fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
Got a knighthood from the Queen,
For his Satanic and other verses.
So did Brits who played classic and pop.

When it came to the non-British,
Alas, Her majesty feigned myopia.
She saw not the 200 years
Of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas:
In the trenches of Europe,
The jungles of Borneo,
In far away Falklands,
Crisis-ridden Croatia
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears,
Eking out a meagre existence
In the craggy hills of Nepal
And Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high
Fighting in the killing-fields
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains,
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds,
Yusafzais and Orakzais
In the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors,
Nagas and Lushais
In the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France,
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second Word War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passed the ball
And proclaimed from Buckingham Palace:
‘The Gurkha issue
Is a matter for the ruling government.’
Thus prime ministers came and went,
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remained,
Like Chomolungma,
The Goddess Mother of the Earth,
Above the clouds in her pristine glory,
But the Gurkha issue prevailed.

‘Draw up a date
To give the Gurkhas their due,’
Was the order from 10 Downing Street.
‘OMG,
We can’t pay for the 200 years.
We’ll be ruined as a ruling party,
When we do that,’
Said the Labour under Gordon Brown.

A sentence like a guillotine.
Was the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It was like adding insult
To injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments came
And went,
The Gurkha injustice remained.
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen,
Especially politicians.

England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon,
Discarded and banned
From entering London
And its frontiers,
When he developed ageing problems.

‘Go home with your pension
But don’t come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn’t support pensioned invalids.’
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
‘Why they should have thus
Treated us,
Is a mystery.’

Till lady Joanna Lumley, Prince Charles
And even Brown’s own Labour members,
Took the matter in their hands
And gave the Gurkha veterans the right
To stay on in the UK.
.
Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her Majesty’s Government,
Beyond the craggy Himalayas
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies,
Comrades-at-arms,
Between Nepal and Britain.
The smart, sturdy Gurkha makes
A cheerful countenance,
And sings:
‘Resam piriri,’
An old trail song
Heard in the Himalayas.

--------------------------

Lyrik: A GURKHA MOTHER (Satis Shroff)
(Death of a Precious Jewel)

The gurkha with a khukri
But no enemy
Works for the Queen of England
And yet gets shot at,
In missions he doesn't comprehend.
Order is hukum,
Hukum is life
Johnny Gurkha still dies
Under foreign skies.

He never asks why
Politics isn't his style
He has fought against all and sundry:
Turks, Tibetans, Italians and Indians
Germans, Japanese, Chinese
Argentineans and Vietnamese.
Indonesians and Iraqis.

Loyal to the utmost
Never fearing a loss,

The loss of a mother's son
From the mountains of Nepal.

Her grandpa died in Burma
For the glory of the British.
Her husband in Mesopotemia
She knows not against whom
No one did tell her.
Her brother fell in France,
Against the Teutonic hordes.
She prays to Shiva of the Snows for peace
And her son's safety.
Her joy and her hope
Farming on a terraced slope.

A son who helped wipe her tears,
Ease the pain in her mother's heart.
A frugal mother who lives by the seasons,
Peers down to the valleys
Year in and year out
In expectation of her soldier son.

A smart Gurkha is underway
Heard from across the hill with a shout
'It’s an officer from his brigade.
A letter with a seal and a poker-face
"Your son died on duty," he says,
"Keeping peace for the Queen of England
And the United Kingdom."

A world crumbles down
The Nepalese mother cannot utter a word
Gone is her son,
Her precious jewel.
Her only insurance and sunshine
In the craggy hills of Nepal.
And with him her dreams
A spartan life that kills.

* * *
Have you also written some poems on the eternal theme love?

Love Songs On a Misty Morning (Satis Shroff)

Do You Remember?
On a misty morning at Pokhara,
We sat in a dugout canoe
With our college friends.

The misty veil slowly disappeared.
Mirrored on the turquoise waters
Of the lake Phewa
Were the virgin white peaks
Crowned by Machhapuchare,
The fish-tailed one.
Placid, serene, majestic,
A moment of magic.

Do you remember?
The love songs I sang from our canoe,
Strumming on my guitar
Were meant for you.
For you alone.
Even the Himalayan birds
Stopped chirping
To eavesdrop at our wondrous melodies,
Like at a Rodighar.

Our friends sang in chorus:
Nepalese folk-songs,
Bollywood and English lyrics
On that misty morning.

Songs sung in chorus
To share our feelings
Of the beauty of Nature
And human attachments.
Breaking the tranquillity
Of the misty morning in the Lake Phewa.
A motley symphony in the morning.

The elderly Phewa-fisher smiled,
As he rowed the long canoe.
A knowing smile,
For he too had sung love lyrics
When he was young.
A frugal life in the Annapurna hills,
Trying hard to make ends meet.

He had his life behind him,
We had ours before us.
Life was cruel,
But love was everywhere.


The Symphony of the Morning (Satis Shroff)

I discern the recurring chirps and whistles
Of the birds in the vast foliage of an oak tree,
A German Eiche.

Whistles, chirps, hoots
And melodious symphony,
Like the incessant waves
Slashing on the shores of the Atlantic.

A single bird gives the tact,
A strong monotonous chirp.
The others follow suit,
Not in unison
But in harmony.

You hear so many melodies
When you eavesdrop
In the quiet comfort of your bed.
The natural symphony of the morning:
Adagio, crescendo,
It’s all there
For your fine ears.

* * *
I Saw Love (Satis Shroff)

One wintry evening I saw love.
She wore glasses
At the university dancing classes.
We danced fox-trot, cha-cha
Then came the rumba.

I looked deep into her sky blue eyes.
Eyes so blue,
Without a hint of a cloud.
Clear blue eyes,
Like the waters
Of the Maladives.

A joyous feeling overcame me.
My hormones were out of control.
My cardiac status said ‘tachycardie.’
My lungs began to over-function.
Hyperventilation.
My knees were sagging.

By Jove, I’d fallen in love.

-------------------------------------------
Thoughts About You (Satis Shroff)

When I’m alone
I think about you.
When I’m with others
I think about you.

About the way you speak
The way you walk
The way you eat
The way you ask questions
The way you answer my questions.

I think about the way you are.
Your blue eyes
Your well-formed nose
Your blonde hair
Your voice.

I think of the battles we’ve fought
Situations we’ve mastered together,
Against all and sundry.
I think of our closeness,
Are we just a team,
Or merely a nice couple?
There’s more to it.
There’s love that glows.

* * *

Have you also written a poem on poetry?

On Poetry (Satis Shroff)

An established bard motivated me,
A poet from the American mainstream.
Words of praise that soothed
And amused me.
He compared my lyrical fragments
With works of poets
Of whom I’d never heard.

A protest poem about a drunk landlady
Reminded of W. H. Auden.
A ballad about a Gurkha mother
He said: ‘the best of Auden
And E.E. Cummings in tone here.’

Namaste,
Auf wiedersehen.
Auf wiedersehen,
Namaste.
I greet the godliness in you.
We shall see again.

‘There is such a surprise and delight.
A triumphant moment (here).
A small miracle of revelation

]]> Fri, 29 May 2009 06:05:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/683015 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/680627
“Education is the best thing in the world for Nepal’s children, be they Gurkhas, Sherpas or Madeshis. And what Nepal needs most in this crucial transitional period is peace, co-operation between the different ethnic groups, a craving to mend ways, build bridges between its cultures, connect and find common goals.”Satis Shroff

Mr. Swaroop Chamling, who is a Rai and ex-Gurkha settled in UK, was gathering signatures for a Gurkha petition on www.Darjeeling Forum (google or yahoo search will do) and I found it interesting that the Gurkhas, civilians and military, were getting organised to fight for their rights at last, after years of discrimination, getting hired and fired, and living on low-pay meted out by the Ministry of Defence (MoD) in Britain. Well, the Gurkhas have won and Gordon Brown has capitulated. The irony of the matter is that members of his own Labour Party rallied around the Gurkhas and showed they had a vertebral column and a heart for the warriors from the Himalayas who have fought Britain’s battles since 200 years.

What I found amusing was the inference of a Gurkha reader on www.Gurkhas.com that it was Bahuns and Chettris all the way in Nepalese history and even today, whether in the opposition or in the ruling parties. The same sort of infighting that you see in Delhi between the Punjabis, Bengalis and other Indian ethnic groups is to be seen in Catmandu’s ministries. It’s always Newars versus Bahuns and Chettris, with the rest of the ethnic groups as onlookers. If you want to make a career in Catmandu you have to learn the local lingo, which is a language with monosyllables---Nepal Bhasa. In a federal state with equal powers allotted to the representatives of the different cantons, Catmandu would not have much to say, and would be dependent on the representatives from the other cantons, the way it should be in a democratic set-up. I admire the Swiss folk for their Volksumfragung, where the people come out in front of the town councils and vote for an issue democratically by raising their hands.

It is a fact that there are only bahuns and chettris on both sides: among the maoists and political parties in Nepal. The reason why bahuns and chettris dominate the political, economic and other landscapes in Nepal is that they have been privileged through Hinduism, its raja-praja set-up and caste-system, with its purity and pollution implications that have swept and divided the families in Nepal and the Nepalese diaspora for centuries (as in India even today), and I think that Dor Bahadur Bista has illustrated this explicitly and amply in his writings, and was cursed wrongly by critics in Catmandu and elsewhere as a 'Nestbeschmutzer.'

One can combat this discrepancy by uniting to create a new, ethnic-friendly Nepal by decree of law, and by observing the new democratic developments in Nepal as a chance to change the old, federal structures and bringing in a secular state, like our big neighbour India. India did, what Nepal is in the process of doing, by introducing Privvy Purse for the Royals fifty years ago. The king has been sacked and the Narayanhiti Palace now a museum, just like the Hanuman Dhoka palace which can be viewed by Nepalese and tourists alike, and should act as an incentive for young Nepali school-kids to preserve the democratic rights of the country, lest it fall in the wrong hands, and not let history repeat itself.

The Nepalese society finds itself in a period of transition and has yet to decide which form of government is suitable and practicable for the society. Naming the former anchals or zones as cantons alone won’t make a Switzerland out of Nepal, but the will of the people to live under a governmental form based on public opinion and votes might bring this Himalayan country closer to the wishes of its people.

I remember the first page of The Rising Nepal bore the latin words: vox populi, vox dei. That was a time when a king and reincarnation of Vishnu ruled the land. The king had to sadly realise that the voice of the people was not the voice of God. And the voice of the king was certainly not the voice of the people. It was perhaps the voice of the ghost-writer. And thereby hangs a tale.

Education is the best thing in the world for Nepal’s children, be they Gurkha, Sherpa or Madeshi. And what Nepal needs most in this crucial transitional period is peace, co-operation between the different ethnic groups, to mend ways, build bridges between its cultures, connect and find common goals.

But there’s the beginning of democracy in Nepal now, and the tribes and castes that were neglected in the past should get their rights by creating a federal form of government, like in German or in Switzerland, whereby the country has to be formed administratively as federal, local government with the power to carry out trade and commerce with neighbouring countries or states. Only then will there be a freedom of trade and commerce in all geographical and ethnic sectors.

The way it has been in the past: Kathmandu was Nepal. It was too centralised, the King lived in Kathmandu, the parliament was, and still is, in Kathmandu. Even for small things one had to have Kathmandu’s blessings. I hope the new governments will see to this matter and think of Nepal holistically, and not like in the past. I say government, because the political situation hasn’t shown much stability in the past for observers abroad.

Nevertheless, there is hope, and this torch of hope will be carried by the children and youth of Nepal. Whether we are Gurungs, Tamangs, Chettris, Bahuns, Bhujels, Kirats or Madhesis we have to unite and make Nepal a land that we can be proud of through our own endeavours. To borrow a line from JFK ‘ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.’ After all, we are a republican democracy, aren’t we?

The comity of nations would only be too willing to see a politically and economically stable Nepal and render assistance as in the past, before the war between the government troops and the maoists began.

So let us unite above the communal feelings and ideologies, and think in terms of Nepal as a nation, and not in terms of the opposite of democracy, namely anarchy. Let the children of Nepal from the plains and the hills have the same educational opportunities and work under human conditions. Let us show the world that we have a word for negotiation in our language, and that we also have the ability of carrying out a dialogue in the parliamentary sense of the word.

Peace, trust, faith, character, integrity, tolerance, dignity are qualities that cannot be attained by nurturing communal feelings and ethnic hatred. It is only through peaceful means, trust, honesty, cooperation and coordination that the long arduous task called development can be attained and the people can attain mental, physical and social wellness in the tedious march towards progress. To this end, we have to decide to change. Revolution is change, and the young men and women who were fired by their imagination during the decade long krieg have to do so in a constructive way, or else Nepal will forever remain ‘a yam between two rocks’ and a perpetual member of the least developed countries, in every sense of the word.

Change or perish should be the battle-cry of democracy loving Nepalese.
To borrow an expression from President Obama, ‘Yes we can, if we want it strong enough.’


_________

THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

When I close my eyes,
I see everything in its place
In the kingdom of Nepal.

I see the highest building in Kathmandu,
What looms higher than the Dharara,
Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati?
The former King’s Narayanhiti palace,
Built by an architect,
From across the Black Waters.
Therein lived Vishnu,
Whom many Hindus still call:
The unconquerable preserver.

The conqueror of Nepal?
No, that was his ancestor
Prithvi Narayan Shah,
The king of Gorkha.

Vishnu is the preserver of the world,
With qualities of mercy and goodness.
Vishnu is all-pervading and self-existent,
Visited Nepal’s remote districts
In a helicopter with his consort
And militia.

He inaugurated buildings
Factories and events.
Vishnu dissolved the parliament too,
For the sake of his kingdom,
As I was told to write.

His subjects and worshippers were,
Of late,
Divided.
Alas, Ravana and his demons
Have besieged his land.
The king was obliged to go,
And with him I lost my life-job
As a ghost-writer.

I cannot remember
How many articles, speeches, decrees,
Proclamations I’ve penned
In His Majesty’s Service.
Who would have thought
That I’d have to look
For another job?

Towards the end,
My boss not only lost his shirt,
But also his land,
And blamed me,
His sincere ghost-writer,
For my bad verse and prose.
He barked in a tirade:
“You are to blame for the misery
In my country.”

I, who had praised him,
Written admirable speeches,
Full of love, pathos and empathy
For his poor subjects,
Was now a mere scapegoat.

I, who had written
Soothing lines for the unruly masses,
Who were in revolt,
After centuries of feudal hierarchy,
Mismanagement,
Bad governance,
Corruption and nepotism.

I, who had sought a voice
To pacify the lynch mobs
In the streets of Catmandu,
Biratnagar, Dolpo
And Janakpur.
That was the unkindest cut of all.

The royal newspapers and the paid-press
Were blooming with news
Of development in Nepal.
But the people knew better.
They were waiting.

The dam of development
Had been broken,
A word play on ‘development.’
When the royal dam collapsed in Pokhara,
The people had a big laugh.
The king’s ill father said:
‘When I die,
My country should live.’

On still moments,
I hear the refrain:
Ma marey pani,
Mero desh,
Bachi rahos.

Nepal is now a republic
With cantons instead of zones,
We even have a fish-tailed mountain
That looks like Zermatt.
We have tourism too,
But where are the bankers,
The executives and firms?
We have an Aid Industry,
Cashing in dollars
From foreign governments
And NGOs.

Nepal exports carpets,
Human labourers
For the emirates,
Sherpas for the climbers
And Gurkhas for the Brits
And flesh for the Upper and Lower Grant Roads.

When I open my eyes,
I see Vishnu still slumbering
On his bed of Sesha,
The serpent
In the pools of Budanilkantha
And Balaju.

Prithee,
Where is the Creator?
When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?
Only Bhairab’s destruction
Of the Himalayan world is to be seen.

Much blood has been shed
Between the decades and the centuries.
The mound of noses and ears
Of the vanquished at Kirtipur,
The shot and mutilated
At the Kot massacre,
The bloody revolution in front
Of the Narayanhiti Palace,
When Nepalese screamed
And died for democracy.
And now the corpses of the Maobadis,
Civilians and Nepalese security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.
I, who wracked my cerebrum for the King,
Am sickened by the royal demeanour,
For Mr. Shah is now a mortal,
A politician to boot.

I, a royal ghost-writer,
Who once smelt the air
Of the Narayanhiti Palace,
Have nowhere to go.

I’m a writer no more.
I’m a ghost
Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

* * *

About the Author:

Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff, and 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He 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 (Lehrbeauftragter für Creative Writing, Albert Ludwigs Universität Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.



]]> Wed, 27 May 2009 08:30:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/680627 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/624407
Subtitle: Fragments of a Big Confession

It was on the evening of September 6,1780. Johann Wolfgang Goethe was writing one of his beautiful lyrical works with a pencil on the inner wall of the hunting-hut on the Kickelhahn. This particular verse was published in an anthology 35 years later.

A day before his last birthday, he went to the small hut, which was nailed together with planks, to recall the lines that he’d written in his younger days. That was in August, 27, 1831.

Today, you certainly will not find the inscription written with his hand, because the original hut was devoured by flames in the year 1870. But forty years later, the hut was rebuilt on the old foundation. In the year 1999, which was celebrated as the Goethe Year, the members of an international conference of Goethe-translators met at Goethe’s favourite hut to recite his verse in their respective languages. The translations were financially supported by the Stiftung Weimarer Classic and the Goethe Society. I’ve translated Goethe’s poem into Nepali, a language which is derived from Sanskrit and uses the Devnagari script.

The small, lovely town of Ilmenau lies on the north side of the Thuringer forest and is known for its mountain excavations, glass and porcelain industry, and is also known as Goethetown. Apropos porcelain, Meissen is the greatest place for those who want to gather exquisite works of earthenware art in porcelain, you know. He visited Ilmenau twenty-eight times. The town of Ilmenau has laid a path with the letter ‘g,’ which Goethe used to use when he signed his initial. Just a small ‘g’ for a literary giant.

We start the Goethe walk tour along the market in Ilmenau. To the left you see the imposing thre storied house. Goethe used to reside in the corner room on the first floor. He used to live and write there whenever he came to Ilmenau. Today it’s a part of the museum, which bears testimony to Goethe’s literary works and information about Ilmenau. The beautiful museum rooms, which have furniture from Goethe’s times, are used today for literary and musical events. If you’ve read Goethe’s ‘Wilhelm Meister’ then you’ve read about his description of the inns ‘Zum Adler’ and ‘To the Sun.’ Alas, these two houses were in a desolated, dilapidated state and had to be demolished in 1992.

A new one has been built with a similar façade. Let’s saunter from the marketplace through the Obertor Street to the graveyard. Near the entrance is the grave of Corona Schröters, who was a beautiful singer and actress in the court of Weimar. Corona was the first actress who played the role of Goethe’s heroine ‘Iphigenie.’

From the graveyard you can take a short-cut to the upper exit, where you come across many memorial-stones for the prominent people of Ilmenau. You cross the B4 and climb up the Sturmheide to the middle and upper Berggraben. This is a path with different elevations along the mountain massif, which were previously hill-trenches in which water used to flow from the mountains, and was channelised to Sturmheide and Roda.

You reach Manebacher Valley after a comfortable walk through a thick forest and watch the splendid valley below. After sometime, you reach Schwalbenstein, a high rock with porphyry, where you can rest in the adjacent hut called ‘Schutzhutte.’ It was in the Schwalbenstein that Goethe wrote the 4th Act of his famous ‘Iphigenie auf Taurus’ on March 19,1779 and in the following years Torquato Tasso. On a rock you can read the beginning of this 4th Act, and you are reminded of the beauty of the German language and the rhythmical power of Goethe’s prose, which has a magical effect on you and moves you to the core.
You move on to the next inn in the forest called ‘Schöffenhaus’ and descend towards Manebach, past Emmastein and the house of the Cantor, in whose garden Goethe used to do his sketches and other drawings. You cross the railway tracks and the street and climb the small bridle path across the hilly meadow, and reach Helenenruhe. A resting place for a certain Helen. You look from there in the distance towards the forested hills behind Schwalbenstein and trek over to Big Hermann Stone. The route is rather steep and most demanding. When you reach the big rock on which once perched a castle in the Middle Ages, you are rewarded by the sight of a cave. Goethe wrote about this cave: ‘It’s my favourite place, where I want to live and work.’ Perhaps it might inspire you too.

This was where Goethe worked and did his drawings. He even brought his lady von Stein when she visited him in Ilmenau. Frau von Stein was a serene, tempered lady-in-waiting who influenced Goethe, and under her friendship Goethe developed into a mature and balanced man.

After the last steep ascent you reach the 861m Klickelhahn. You can see the magnificent Thuringer Forest from here. We know through Goethe’s letter to Ms. von Stein that he fled from the town to Thuringen’s cool forested area whenever he could and wrote to her in Weimar about the beauty of the forest of Thuringen. When words couldn’t describe the opulent beauty of a place, he sent her his excellent drawings, for a picture tells more than a thousand words: he drew the cave of Hermannstein, the misty valleys of Ilmenau, Manebach and Stützerbach. As though the drawings weren’t enough, he wrote further: ‘…there are drawings and descriptions everywhere.’ Perhaps he too found ‘sermons in stones and good in everything,’ like William Shakespeare did in the forest in his ‘As You Like It.’
Goethe was moved by the picturesque idyll of it penned his poems thus:

Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,
in allen Wipfeln
spurst du kaum einen Hauch;
die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch.

Goethe was influenced by Herder’s appreciation of Shakespeare’s genius, and thereafter he’s known to have written a pseudo-Shakespearean tragedy called ‘Geschichte Gottfrieds von Berlichingen, which was ill received by Herder. The school-kids have to learn this on their way to acquiring the high-school certificate.

The hunter’s hut, where Goethe wrote his night-song on September 6, 1780 doesn’t exist anymore, but you can see a remake of the same. And like they say on all guided tours: ‘On a bright day you can see even the distant Harz.’ You descend to the hunter’s hut at Gabelbach (fork-stream). That small house you see was constructed at the order of the Duke Carl August in 1983 when he expected prominent hunting guests. In the house itself you hear lectures about Goethe’s scientific studies in the forest of Thuringen. If you’re tired you can walk to the Shepard’s meadow (Hirtenwiese). From there you can take different routes.But since we ‘re walking along Goethe’s path, we cross the street, and descend to the pretty Schorte Valley.

In Frankfurt Goethe became the leader of a group of intellectuals, which formed the inner circle of the Sturm and Drang. He wrote stormy poetry in free rhythm such as the Wanderers Sturmlied (storm-song), Prometheus, An Schwager Kronos and drafted the scenes of a Faust play, namely Urfaust.

Goethe lived to be 82 and it was in this time that the French Bastille was stormed. Read also A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Goethe was 39 then, and told his companions at Valmy: ‘This is the beginning of a new epoche of world history and you can say, you experienced it.’ In his youth he’d been fiery, energetic and impatient and later he became an oracular figure of Olympian stature. Germany’s man of letters liked acting, drawing, even directing theatres, and is universally regarded as a writer of the first rank. About his own work, Goethe said: ‘All my works are fragments of a big confession.’

His diversity in creative writing was astonishing and he had a wide range of forms: lyric, epic, ballad poetry, drama, novels, short-stories, autobiographical works. The fragments are the essence of his literary genius.

]]> Thu, 26 Mar 2009 11:42:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/624407 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/624405
Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach,
The Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *
The Colour of Your Eyes (Satis Shroff)

Blue is the colour of the mountain,
Blue is the colour of t sky,
Blue is the colour of our planet,
And blue is the colour of your eyes.

Blue,
You have so many names:
Blau, bleu, caerulus,
Neelo, niebes, mavi,
Sininen, sienie,
azzuro
azul
a-oj.


Blue is the colour
Of your balanced character:
Unshakeable and constant,
Peace-loving and distanced,
Where there’s conflict,
You shy away.

Blue is the colour
Of your responsibility,
Your astonishment
And helpfulness,
Towards your fellow beings.

Blue is the colour of flexibility,
Tender feelings and faithfulness.
Perhaps that’s why
I love you.

Blue is not alone light,
It carries a bit of darkness
With it.
The colour of your eyes
Have an unspoken effect on me.
I feel an ambivalence
When you look at me.

Ultramarine blue is deep,
The endlessness of the mind.
Your cool blue eyes are distant,
Like an open ocean.
Stimulus and silence,
Annäherung,
Vermeidung.
Sometimes,
I understand you,
At other times,
I don’t.
Am I day dreaming?

Glossary:
Blau: German
Bleu: French
Caerulus:Latin
Neelo: Nepali
Niebes:Polish
Mavi: Turkish
Sininen: Finnish
sienie:Russian
azzuro: Italian
azul: Spanish,Portugese
a-oj: Japanese
Annäherung: to draw close to
Vermeidung: shun, avoid

* * *
© 2009 satisshroff

Winter Blues (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues
* * *

Cosmic Soul (Satis Shroff)

E=mc2
Your body is a mass,
When you decease,
It becomes a mess.
Putrification.

Your soul,
Which never had a beginning
And never has an end
Lives on as energy,
Travels with the speed of light,
To be one with the cosmos,
Leaving behind families,
Friends and relatives.
People and emotional experiences
Of this small transitory world.

Was it an illusion,
This worldly maya,
With its ethereal charms?
Did you live
Or were you already dead?

Unanswered questions of humanity,
As the soul leaves your body
And heads for the vast,
Unfathomable cosmos,
Like a blitz.
To transform into energy.

What came first?
The light?
The energy?
Or the mass?

*****

LIKE PROMETHEUS AND ICARUS (Satis Shroff)

Up and up we flew exultantly
Towards the Himalayas.
Kathmandu, Bhadgaon and Lalitpur
With their palaces, pagodas, shrines,
Brick houses and hotels ,
Lush green fields in the outskirts
Of the valley,
Were becoming smaller and greener.

For a moment in my mind
I was the dragon that rides over the clouds.
I was Prometheus,
The saviour of mankind,
Who gave mortals fire.
I was Icarus,
Flying away from Crete.

As I peered at the majestic silvery Himalayas,
I felt my insignificance in the vastness
That unfurled below me.
How many climbers from the West and East,
How many Sherpas and other ethnic porters
Still lie in the crevasses
Of Himalayan glaciers?

The earth is below us,
And receives us.
I have a feeling of smallness,
Humility,
As I alight from the jet.

I’ve seen and felt
The spell of the mighty Himalayas,
And what’s beyond the clouds
In the sky.
A strong, deep, religious experience,
For I had trespassed
The Abode of Snows,
Himalaya.
The Home of the Gods.

*****

MUSIC AND MUSE (Satis Shroff)

Pillows of silk, sheets of white satin
A world of lights and colours,
Of precious spices, exotic fruits
And music.
A world of joy and merrymaking
Behind the Rana palace curtains
In Kathmandu.

I’ve learned the mystery of love
And buried my face in her lap.
Penned poems in the white heat
Of passionate moments,
Till she cried in ecstasy:
‘How wonderful.’

Glossary:
Ranas: The Ranas were former rulers of Nepal who usurped the throne of the Shahs. Nepal is a republic since 2008 headed by a Maoist Führer named Prachanda

-------------------------------------------------

WITHOUT WORDS (Satis Shroff)

We speak with each other
A wonderful feeling overcomes me
And I’m touched to the roots of my existence.
As though it’s a doubling of my existence.
It becomes a passion
To speak with each other.

Our lives are filled with togetherness:
With ourselves and our children.
I discover myself in you
And you in me.
Where one is at home
In the company of the other
And vice versa.

Where you can be the way you are,
Where I can be the way I am.
Our tolerance for each other is crucial.
There are moments when one forgets time.
We speak to each other without words.
It’s not sung,
It’s not instrumental chords.

Just our hearts understanding each other.
In tact with each other.
Our eyes speak volumes
And a nod is enough.

© 2009 satisshroff

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff





]]> Thu, 26 Mar 2009 11:41:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/624405 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/624423



Lyrik:

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach,
The Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *
The Colour of Your Eyes (Satis Shroff)

Blue is the colour of the mountain,
Blue is the colour of t sky,
Blue is the colour of our planet,
And blue is the colour of your eyes.

Blue,
You have so many names:
Blau, bleu, caerulus,
Neelo, niebes, mavi,
Sininen, sienie,
azzuro
azul
a-oj.


Blue is the colour
Of your balanced character:
Unshakeable and constant,
Peace-loving and distanced,
Where there’s conflict,
You shy away.

Blue is the colour
Of your responsibility,
Your astonishment
And helpfulness,
Towards your fellow beings.

Blue is the colour of flexibility,
Tender feelings and faithfulness.
Perhaps that’s why
I love you.

Blue is not alone light,
It carries a bit of darkness
With it.
The colour of your eyes
Have an unspoken effect on me.
I feel an ambivalence
When you look at me.

Ultramarine blue is deep,
The endlessness of the mind.
Your cool blue eyes are distant,
Like an open ocean.
Stimulus and silence,
Annäherung,
Vermeidung.
Sometimes,
I understand you,
At other times,
I don’t.
Am I day dreaming?

Glossary:
Blau: German
Bleu: French
Caerulus:Latin
Neelo: Nepali
Niebes:Polish
Mavi: Turkish
Sininen: Finnish
sienie:Russian
azzuro: Italian
azul: Spanish,Portugese
a-oj: Japanese
Annäherung: to draw close to
Vermeidung: shun, avoid

* * *
© 2009 satisshroff

Winter Blues (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues
* * *

Cosmic Soul (Satis Shroff)

E=mc2
Your body is a mass,
When you decease,
It becomes a mess.
Putrification.

Your soul,
Which never had a beginning
And never has an end
Lives on as energy,
Travels with the speed of light,
To be one with the cosmos,
Leaving behind families,
Friends and relatives.
People and emotional experiences
Of this small transitory world.

Was it an illusion,
This worldly maya,
With its ethereal charms?
Did you live
Or were you already dead?

Unanswered questions of humanity,
As the soul leaves your body
And heads for the vast,
Unfathomable cosmos,
Like a blitz.
To transform into energy.

What came first?
The light?
The energy?
Or the mass?

*****

LIKE PROMETHEUS AND ICARUS (Satis Shroff)

Up and up we flew exultantly
Towards the Himalayas.
Kathmandu, Bhadgaon and Lalitpur
With their palaces, pagodas, shrines,
Brick houses and hotels ,
Lush green fields in the outskirts
Of the valley,
Were becoming smaller and greener.

For a moment in my mind
I was the dragon that rides over the clouds.
I was Prometheus,
The saviour of mankind,
Who gave mortals fire.
I was Icarus,
Flying away from Crete.

As I peered at the majestic silvery Himalayas,
I felt my insignificance in the vastness
That unfurled below me.
How many climbers from the West and East,
How many Sherpas and other ethnic porters
Still lie in the crevasses
Of Himalayan glaciers?

The earth is below us,
And receives us.
I have a feeling of smallness,
Humility,
As I alight from the jet.

I’ve seen and felt
The spell of the mighty Himalayas,
And what’s beyond the clouds
In the sky.
A strong, deep, religious experience,
For I had trespassed
The Abode of Snows,
Himalaya.
The Home of the Gods.

*****

MUSIC AND MUSE (Satis Shroff)

Pillows of silk, sheets of white satin
A world of lights and colours,
Of precious spices, exotic fruits
And music.
A world of joy and merrymaking
Behind the Rana palace curtains
In Kathmandu.

I’ve learned the mystery of love
And buried my face in her lap.
Penned poems in the white heat
Of passionate moments,
Till she cried in ecstasy:
‘How wonderful.’

Glossary:
Ranas: The Ranas were former rulers of Nepal who usurped the throne of the Shahs. Nepal is a republic since 2008 headed by a Maoist Führer named Prachanda

-------------------------------------------------

WITHOUT WORDS (Satis Shroff)

We speak with each other
A wonderful feeling overcomes me
And I’m touched to the roots of my existence.
As though it’s a doubling of my existence.
It becomes a passion
To speak with each other.

Our lives are filled with togetherness:
With ourselves and our children.
I discover myself in you
And you in me.
Where one is at home
In the company of the other
And vice versa.

Where you can be the way you are,
Where I can be the way I am.
Our tolerance for each other is crucial.
There are moments when one forgets time.
We speak to each other without words.
It’s not sung,
It’s not instrumental chords.

Just our hearts understanding each other.
In tact with each other.
Our eyes speak volumes
And a nod is enough.

© 2009 satisshroff

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff

]]> Thu, 26 Mar 2009 11:03:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/624423 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/612647 WOOD-SHOOTING ON THE MAIER HILL, KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Where should the slice of wood go?
The slice should go to Karin-Claudia!
If it doesn’t fly,
Then it’s not true.

The Hill Spirits of Schauinsland staged the traditional slice-of-wood shooting on top of the Maier Hill in Kappel, below the place where the ores were washed previously. This big fire was to be seen from as far as the Big Valley street so that visitors could find their way to the hill.

Wood-shooting or as we Germans call it ‘Scheibenschlagen’ is an old pagan ritual to banish winter, which was later integrated into the Christian days of fasting called ‘fasnet.’ The date of this tradition goes back to the old calendar of fasting in which the people indulged in, even on Sundays, which is normally regarded as ‘the day of resting’ or Ruhetag. In Freiburg and the surrounding areas, the wood-shooting is carried out after Ash Wednesday. The ritual took place in Tuniberg-Orten and St. Georgen last week already and Kappel celebrated it a bit later. The Schauinsland Berggeister have good relations with their fellow knaves from the Dreisam Valley such as: the Firey Salamander from Ebnet, the Forest Spirits of Stegen (Waldgeister).

In Eschbach, for instance, only young men aged 18 to 26 years are allowed to take part in the wood-shooting. Their duties among others are: to uphold the old traditions, gather Christmas trees, cut wood, find a Schiebe girl for the Schiebe-dance later in the evening, cut the wood in shape (10 x 10 cm) and to alternatively work as bar-keepers. The straw witch placed at the tip of the stake is burned to symbolically drive away the winter. When the pyre of gathered wood really starts burning, its orange and red flames licking the sky, the boys begin to pray when the village bells ring. They go around in circles thrice, wearing their hats like punters at Oxford, with long white smocks.

Hitting a glowing piece of glowing wood cut in the form of a 10 cm square, is a traditional custom in the Black Forest. This takes place at the end of the Fasnet time, which is incidentally, the beginning of the period of fasting, and takes place normally on the first Sunday. You wait till it becomes dark and a fire is made at an elevation above the hamlet you’re living in.

For young men it’s fun and pride to take part in the wood-shooting ceremony. The flattened pieces of wood have a hole in the middle and are raised on four sides, so that they can fly like a small frisbee into the nocturnal sky like a wee meteorite. The route of the wooden plate depends on the strength and skill of the person hitting it. In Kappel there was only one woman who was allowed to take part in the ritual. She was a heavily built blonde lady and shot the wood with all her might. Either it must have flown to outer space or it never left the ground. The crowd gathered in the cold, starry night are young and old, and often jeer at the participants when their shots are flops sometimes. This is supposed to bring them bad luck and is inauspicious.

The wooden plates are made of birch, beech, alder or elm-wood. Each person shoots at least 20 such pieces, which are burnt at the end of a swinging stick in a separate, smaller fire till they glow. The slabs of wood are placed on a ramp and with a swing, away it goes into the starry, wintry night. Behind us, above the hillock with its rows of pine trees looking like sentinels, was the silvery moon appearing behind the grey clouds. Each slab of wood is dedicated to a friend, wife, lover, a couple, even firms and chefs, and people who have been engaged or have married since the last ‘Funken’ or spark Sunday.

If he piece of glowing wood flies far and wide, this is regarded as a good omen. The fireball can attain a distance of 120 to 150 metres. Unlike the Scheibenschlagen in the Black Forest, in Allgäu (Bavaria) they differentiate between Ehrenscheiben for friends and people higher up in the social ladder, and a curse-wood (Schimpfenscheiben) in which certain people who have done something bad or forbidden in the hamlet or have not been brought to court yet, are lampooned. In the early days, if a glowing piece of wood reached a house roof, window, or even the hay in a stall, it was not retrieved and held as auspicious, according to the old folk’s belief: ‘A burning slab of wood doesn’t cause a fire.’

Clemens Fruttiker, a thick-set guy, with greying hair at the sides like George Clooney, who is in charge of Kappel’s Fire Brigade says: ‘We’re ready for any fire and always on standby when there’s a wood-shooting ceremony in the area.’ He sure knows what he’s talking about because he’s my neighbour and a big reassurance to us all.

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Wenn soll d’ schiebe go?
D’ Schieba soll der (Name) go!
Fliegt’s nit,
So gilt’s nit.

© 2009 satisshroff

Glossary:
Go oder gehen: to go
Schiebe, Scheiben: wooden slices or slabs, 10 x 10 cm
Schiebetanz: dance after the wood-shooting ceremony
Schlagen: hit, shoot
Ehren: do someone the honour,
Funken: spark
Schimpfen: curse, rail upon someone
Schauensländer Berggeister: Hill spirits of the Schauinsland
Fliegt’s nit: doesn’t fly
So gilt’s nit: It doesn’t count, it’s not true
Funken: emit sparks




]]> Wed, 11 Mar 2009 13:12:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/612647 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/612903



WOOD-SHOOTING ON THE MAIER HILL, KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Where should the slice of wood go?
The slice should go to Karin-Claudia!
If it doesn’t fly,
Then it’s not true.

The Hill Spirits of Schauinsland staged the traditional slice-of-wood shooting on top of the Maier Hill in Kappel, below the place where the ores were washed previously. This big fire was to be seen from as far as the Big Valley street so that visitors could find their way to the hill.

Wood-shooting or as we Germans call it ‘Scheibenschlagen’ is an old pagan ritual to banish winter, which was later integrated into the Christian days of fasting called ‘fasnet.’ The date of this tradition goes back to the old calendar of fasting in which the people indulged in, even on Sundays, which is normally regarded as ‘the day of resting’ or Ruhetag. In Freiburg and the surrounding areas, the wood-shooting is carried out after Ash Wednesday. The ritual took place in Tuniberg-Orten and St. Georgen last week already and Kappel celebrated it a bit later. The Schauinsland Berggeister have good relations with their fellow knaves from the Dreisam Valley such as: the Firey Salamander from Ebnet, the Forest Spirits of Stegen (Waldgeister).

In Eschbach, for instance, only young men aged 18 to 26 years are allowed to take part in the wood-shooting. Their duties among others are: to uphold the old traditions, gather Christmas trees, cut wood, find a Schiebe girl for the Schiebe-dance later in the evening, cut the wood in shape (10 x 10 cm) and to alternatively work as bar-keepers. The straw witch placed at the tip of the stake is burned to symbolically drive away the winter. When the pyre of gathered wood really starts burning, its orange and red flames licking the sky, the boys begin to pray when the village bells ring. They go around in circles thrice, wearing their hats like punters at Oxford, with long white smocks.

Hitting a glowing piece of glowing wood cut in the form of a 10 cm square, is a traditional custom in the Black Forest. This takes place at the end of the Fasnet time, which is incidentally, the beginning of the period of fasting, and takes place normally on the first Sunday. You wait till it becomes dark and a fire is made at an elevation above the hamlet you’re living in.

For young men it’s fun and pride to take part in the wood-shooting ceremony. The flattened pieces of wood have a hole in the middle and are raised on four sides, so that they can fly like a small frisbee into the nocturnal sky like a wee meteorite. The route of the wooden plate depends on the strength and skill of the person hitting it. In Kappel there was only one woman who was allowed to take part in the ritual. She was a heavily built blonde lady and shot the wood with all her might. Either it must have flown to outer space or it never left the ground. The crowd gathered in the cold, starry night are young and old, and often jeer at the participants when their shots are flops sometimes. This is supposed to bring them bad luck and is inauspicious.

The wooden plates are made of birch, beech, alder or elm-wood. Each person shoots at least 20 such pieces, which are burnt at the end of a swinging stick in a separate, smaller fire till they glow. The slabs of wood are placed on a ramp and with a swing, away it goes into the starry, wintry night. Behind us, above the hillock with its rows of pine trees looking like sentinels, was the silvery moon appearing behind the grey clouds. Each slab of wood is dedicated to a friend, wife, lover, a couple, even firms and chefs, and people who have been engaged or have married since the last ‘Funken’ or spark Sunday.

If he piece of glowing wood flies far and wide, this is regarded as a good omen. The fireball can attain a distance of 120 to 150 metres. Unlike the Scheibenschlagen in the Black Forest, in Allgäu (Bavaria) they differentiate between Ehrenscheiben for friends and people higher up in the social ladder, and a curse-wood (Schimpfenscheiben) in which certain people who have done something bad or forbidden in the hamlet or have not been brought to court yet, are lampooned. In the early days, if a glowing piece of wood reached a house roof, window, or even the hay in a stall, it was not retrieved and held as auspicious, according to the old folk’s belief: ‘A burning slab of wood doesn’t cause a fire.’

Clemens Fruttiker, a thick-set guy, with greying hair at the sides like George Clooney, who is in charge of Kappel’s Fire Brigade says: ‘We’re ready for any fire and always on standby when there’s a wood-shooting ceremony in the area.’ He sure knows what he’s talking about because he’s my neighbour and a big reassurance to us all.

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Wenn soll d’ schiebe go?
D’ Schieba soll der (Name) go!
Fliegt’s nit,
So gilt’s nit.

© 2009 satisshroff

Glossary:
Go oder gehen: to go
Schiebe, Scheiben: wooden slices or slabs, 10 x 10 cm
Schiebetanz: dance after the wood-shooting ceremony
Schlagen: hit, shoot
Ehren: do someone the honour,
Funken: spark
Schimpfen: curse, rail upon someone
Schauensländer Berggeister: Hill spirits of the Schauinsland
Fliegt’s nit: doesn’t fly
So gilt’s nit: It doesn’t count, it’s not true
Funken: emit sparks]]> Wed, 11 Mar 2009 12:03:00 EDT http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/612903 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/605839
It was fasnet-time (fasching, carnival) in the alpine countries of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. The streets were full of wild men and women, witches, devils, knaves, masked figures galore. And on March 2, 2009 there was, of course, the famous Swiss Morgenstraich in Basle, an unforgettable experience, after the German merry-making was long over and the witches had shed feigned tears, burned effigies symbolising the banishment of winter.

The Swiss friends across the border were looking forward to the Fasnacht, which they call in Schweizerdeutsch ‘drey scheenste Dääg,’ the three most beautiful days of the year. Swiss bankers had to face the music this time during the Fasnacht celebrations from March 2 till March 4, 2009. The financial crisis was the major object of ridicule according to the Fasnacht-Committee, which has received 42 applications for the Morgen Straich procession in Basle. They were represented 21 times by different Fasnet groups, and the Dutch were known for their good behaviour and financial generosity, even in Basle’s red-light establishments. The TV show a Swiss ‘farmer searches for a wife’ (Bauern sucht Frau), the Botellon`-drinking-orgies and the Basler dialect issue in its Kindergardens were other favourite themes. The tendency is to speak standard German from the Kindergarden onwards till the university studies.

Even Bollywood was a big theme this time, in which the blonde Swiss female figures wrapped themselves in saris, and were led by a gigantic figure who looked like an actress from Mumbai. I talked with some Swiss ladies of the clique and they were simply delighted to be a part of the tamasha or spectacle, and the Swiss were lampooning about ‘Bollymania,’ in a 60-line poem: Hollywood, Bollywood, dog-eyes, women in trance through Hindu elegance, Bollywood is love and pain, Swiss and Indian cows, the Swiss Heidi doing the belly-dance to get rid of her fat by means of Ayurveda, Karli, Werni, Paul and Andi wearing diapers like Gandhi, Mumbai Buddha and yoga, Mandala and Tandoori Masala, Indie-fever, Miss Schwyz (Rekha Dutta), ‘exootisch and erootisch! And in the end a compliment:

S’länggt, bim draime gligglig z’syy,
Drey Dääg, dangg Bollymanie!!’

I met and American student named Diana once, who wanted to get rid of her heavy US-accent and threw the accent symbolically into the Dreisam river, which I found hilarious. Perhaps the Swiss should also follow suit and throw their Schwyzer accent into the Rhine, symbolically, of course. The cliques distribute long pieces of colour paper with caustic comments, at most times verses dripped in vitriol. Here’s one such rhyming poem about standard German in Basle:

“Fir uns isch es glaar
und mir stehen der fir y
z’Basel a mim Ryy
uf Hochdytsch darf nit sy.“

I love the Swiss accent and the dialect, and it would be a shame to get rid of it. The people of Alsace (Elsass) in France, which is a German speaking enclave, promotes Alsatian-Deutsch. I can’t imagine my friend Jean-Paul who comes from the Vosges, speaking only French. Alsatian is also such a charming dialect.

On the other side of the Rhine, my countrymen say nasty things about the Schwyzer accent. They even go so far as to call it a disease of the throat. I find it rather charming to hear German being spoken with a Swiss accent. Vive la difference, nicht wahr?

According to the Fasnacht-Committee, last year there were 485 groups, and this year there were 29 less, which means at least 12,000 active Fasnacht participants walked along the lanes of Basle, lampooning about Switzerland’s world of banks and other items.

At 3:30am people started pouring into the city of Basle: mostly from abroad, Alsace, Germany and Italy. Exactly at 4am the lights went out in Basle’s inner town buildings. An uncanny silence shrouded the city, and thousands of spectators listened and looked around, holding hands lest they didn’t lose themselves among the sea of humanity around them. Suddenly, 200 lanterns began to shine and masked figures made their appearance, elegantly distributing colourful leaflets with the sujet or motto of the respective cliques, which were actually lyrics lampooning Swiss politicians, Sarkosy, Brown Merkel included, their speeches in the past year, promises, collateral decisions that have backfired, scandals or whatever. Cortege´with cliques, Guggen musicians, Chaisen and wagons and horse-driven coaches. The wonderful and colourful costumes and sujets (printed mottos), Gugge songs, glowing lanterns, drums and shrill piccolo flutes. For your patients, you are rewarded with oranges, chocolates, sweets, roses and mimosa by the people behind the Fastnacht masks. The Basler Fastnacht developed gradually to its present unique form. In 1900 there were Trachten groups wearing traditional Swiss clothing and utensils of daily use according to one’s profession, brass bands and even a Carneval Prince. The Gugge musicians turned up at the beginning of the 20th century.

You are advised to take a break at 4:50 after the magical music session of the Morgenstraich. Have a traditional Mehlsuppe (flour soup for 7,50 Franks) or a piece of Ziibelewaaie to strengthen yourself.

A loveable Basler Fastnachts pair at the Kohlenberg were Frau Breesmeli and Herr Luschtmolch: she with a pointed nose and a long flowing beige dress, and he with an orange wig, black hat and teeth like a well-kept horse. In Liestal, 330 Chienbäse or wooden wagons with piles of wood, arranged like towers, were pulled around in the Old Town. This tradition dates back to 1902. I asked a young Swiss onlooker about her opinion and she said, “I like it.” She found ‘lässig and toll.’

Engadin has its own 2000 year old tradition when it comes to banishing winter. The 1st of March is celebrated as
the Chalandamarz every year. Schoolkids go about with heavy bells through the hamlet to drive winter away. In the early days Chalandamarz marked the beginning of the year and was celebrated to banish the evil spirits. I thought the Schwarzwäldertorte was the non plus ultra of cakes, till I tried the Engadiner torte. If you haven’t tried it, you must do it sometime. It’s delicious.

I love the sound of the shrill piccollo flutes and drums of the Swiss cliques. When you come to think of it, you’re one of the 10,000 fasnacht revellers. There are witch costume balls everywhere in the evenings, where you eat salted pork, drink schnaps, but hopefully not, one too much for the road, even though fun is the order of the day.

Whereas the Breisgauer members of the Narrenzunft celebrated their 75th jubilee on February 1, 2009, in Switzerland’s small Klinen Valley the ‘Wild Maa’ reached land at 11am on January 20, 2009 and was greeted with firecrackers. On the bank of the Rhine were the bird Gryff and the ‘Leu’ were waiting to greet the ‘Wild Maa,’ surrounded by hundreds spectators who’d come to see the spectacle. The three symbolic Swiss fasnet figures danced all the way to Small Basle for the big-shots of Basle. The highlight was the dance in the middle of the bridge across the Rhines near Käpplijoch, and a thunderous crowd, accompanied by blue coated drummers, wearing white wigs and quaint hats like the Tin Drummer.

In the middle of Thun, a town in Switzerland, the Merlinger group ‘Grönbachgusler,’ costumed as blood-suckers with vampire-like canines jutting out of the corners of their mouths, black and white striped clothes and big drums were to be admired. This was the day of the ghouls.

In Evolene (Switzerland), you could see the Strawmen in outsized clothes that are actually gunny-bags stuffed with straw, each with a broom in the hand, protruding, exopthalmic eyes and dangerous looking fangs. These figures went around the narrow lanes of Evolene after the Sunday mass was over, according to the annual Fasnacht tradition of the Canton Wallis. The masks were indeed awesome, as they went about cleaning the snow in Wallis. In Allschwil, they even had a Herrenfasnacht, a gentlemen’s celebration. Sunday was the day when the Cliques and Guggen went about with their flutes, drums and gugge-music along the streets of Aesch, Therwil, Oberwil and Laufen. This year the Allschwiller celebrated the 60th anniversary and poured into the streets in merriment, despite the rain.

It has been a long, snowy, icy, rainy winter this time, and all want to see the sun again. Spring can’t be far behind, but first we’ll have to banish winter in grand style, you know, the European way.

On February 24, 2009 the lovely town of Breisach upon the Rhine invited all fasnet-friends to celebrate the Brysacher Fasnet the whole day. And on Ash Wednesday, when everything was over, the people of Freiburg washed their wallets at 10am in the clear, cold water of the Freiburger Bächele, a sort of canal that runs through this Schwarzwald town, as it is thought to be auspicious, and will bring one happiness and financial benefits in the course of the year. What a pleasant thought, now that the WEF is over, isn’t it?

©satisshroff 2009
N.B. If you want to know more about the Swissfasnacht and want to visit the celebrations next year, do look up: www.fasnachts-comite.ch
www.fasnacht-liestal.ch

About the Author:
Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwigs University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.



]]> Wed, 04 Mar 2009 06:18:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/605839 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/605861







European Ethnology: The Three Most Beautiful Days of the Year in Switzerland (Satis Shroff)

It was fasnet-time (fasching, carnival) in the alpine countries of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. The streets were full of wild men and women, witches, devils, knaves, masked figures galore. And on March 2, 2009 there was, of course, the famous Swiss Morgenstraich in Basle, an unforgettable experience, after the German merry-making was long over and the witches had shed feigned tears, burned effigies symbolising the banishment of winter.

The Swiss friends across the border were looking forward to the Fasnacht, which they call in Schweizerdeutsch ‘drey scheenste Dääg,’ the three most beautiful days of the year. Swiss bankers had to face the music this time during the Fasnacht celebrations from March 2 till March 4, 2009. The financial crisis was the major object of ridicule according to the Fasnacht-Committee, which has received 42 applications for the Morgen Straich procession in Basle. They were represented 21 times by different Fasnet groups, and the Dutch were known for their good behaviour and financial generosity, even in Basle’s red-light establishments. The TV show a Swiss ‘farmer searches for a wife’ (Bauern sucht Frau), the Botellon`-drinking-orgies and the Basler dialect issue in its Kindergardens were other favourite themes. The tendency is to speak standard German from the Kindergarden onwards till the university studies.

Even Bollywood was a big theme this time, in which the blonde Swiss female figures wrapped themselves in saris, and were led by a gigantic figure who looked like an actress from Mumbai. I talked with some Swiss ladies of the clique and they were simply delighted to be a part of the tamasha or spectacle, and the Swiss were lampooning about ‘Bollymania,’ in a 60-line poem: Hollywood, Bollywood, dog-eyes, women in trance through Hindu elegance, Bollywood is love and pain, Swiss and Indian cows, the Swiss Heidi doing the belly-dance to get rid of her fat by means of Ayurveda, Karli, Werni, Paul and Andi wearing diapers like Gandhi, Mumbai Buddha and yoga, Mandala and Tandoori Masala, Indie-fever, Miss Schwyz (Rekha Dutta), ‘exootisch and erootisch! And in the end a compliment:

S’länggt, bim draime gligglig z’syy,
Drey Dääg, dangg Bollymanie!!’

I met and American student named Diana once, who wanted to get rid of her heavy US-accent and threw the accent symbolically into the Dreisam river, which I found hilarious. Perhaps the Swiss should also follow suit and throw their Schwyzer accent into the Rhine, symbolically, of course. The cliques distribute long pieces of colour paper with caustic comments, at most times verses dripped in vitriol. Here’s one such rhyming poem about standard German in Basle:

“Fir uns isch es glaar
und mir stehen der fir y
z’Basel a mim Ryy
uf Hochdytsch darf nit sy.“

I love the Swiss accent and the dialect, and it would be a shame to get rid of it. The people of Alsace (Elsass) in France, which is a German speaking enclave, promotes Alsatian-Deutsch. I can’t imagine my friend Jean-Paul who comes from the Vosges, speaking only French. Alsatian is also such a charming dialect.

On the other side of the Rhine, my countrymen say nasty things about the Schwyzer accent. They even go so far as to call it a disease of the throat. I find it rather charming to hear German being spoken with a Swiss accent. Vive la difference, nicht wahr?

According to the Fasnacht-Committee, last year there were 485 groups, and this year there were 29 less, which means at least 12,000 active Fasnacht participants walked along the lanes of Basle, lampooning about Switzerland’s world of banks and other items.

At 3:30am people started pouring into the city of Basle: mostly from abroad, Alsace, Germany and Italy. Exactly at 4am the lights went out in Basle’s inner town buildings. An uncanny silence shrouded the city, and thousands of spectators listened and looked around, holding hands lest they didn’t lose themselves among the sea of humanity around them. Suddenly, 200 lanterns began to shine and masked figures made their appearance, elegantly distributing colourful leaflets with the sujet or motto of the respective cliques, which were actually lyrics lampooning Swiss politicians, Sarkosy, Brown Merkel included, their speeches in the past year, promises, collateral decisions that have backfired, scandals or whatever. Cortege´with cliques, Guggen musicians, Chaisen and wagons and horse-driven coaches. The wonderful and colourful costumes and sujets (printed mottos), Gugge songs, glowing lanterns, drums and shrill piccolo flutes. For your patients, you are rewarded with oranges, chocolates, sweets, roses and mimosa by the people behind the Fastnacht masks. The Basler Fastnacht developed gradually to its present unique form. In 1900 there were Trachten groups wearing traditional Swiss clothing and utensils of daily use according to one’s profession, brass bands and even a Carneval Prince. The Gugge musicians turned up at the beginning of the 20th century.

You are advised to take a break at 4:50 after the magical music session of the Morgenstraich. Have a traditional Mehlsuppe (flour soup for 7,50 Franks) or a piece of Ziibelewaaie to strengthen yourself.

A loveable Basler Fastnachts pair at the Kohlenberg were Frau Breesmeli and Herr Luschtmolch: she with a pointed nose and a long flowing beige dress, and he with an orange wig, black hat and teeth like a well-kept horse. In Liestal, 330 Chienbäse or wooden wagons with piles of wood, arranged like towers, were pulled around in the Old Town. This tradition dates back to 1902. I asked a young Swiss onlooker about her opinion and she said, “I like it.” She found ‘lässig and toll.’

Engadin has its own 2000 year old tradition when it comes to banishing winter. The 1st of March is celebrated as
the Chalandamarz every year. Schoolkids go about with heavy bells through the hamlet to drive winter away. In the early days Chalandamarz marked the beginning of the year and was celebrated to banish the evil spirits. I thought the Schwarzwäldertorte was the non plus ultra of cakes, till I tried the Engadiner torte. If you haven’t tried it, you must do it sometime. It’s delicious.

I love the sound of the shrill piccollo flutes and drums of the Swiss cliques. When you come to think of it, you’re one of the 10,000 fasnacht revellers. There are witch costume balls everywhere in the evenings, where you eat salted pork, drink schnaps, but hopefully not, one too much for the road, even though fun is the order of the day.

Whereas the Breisgauer members of the Narrenzunft celebrated their 75th jubilee on February 1, 2009, in Switzerland’s small Klinen Valley the ‘Wild Maa’ reached land at 11am on January 20, 2009 and was greeted with firecrackers. On the bank of the Rhine were the bird Gryff and the ‘Leu’ were waiting to greet the ‘Wild Maa,’ surrounded by hundreds spectators who’d come to see the spectacle. The three symbolic Swiss fasnet figures danced all the way to Small Basle for the big-shots of Basle. The highlight was the dance in the middle of the bridge across the Rhines near Käpplijoch, and a thunderous crowd, accompanied by blue coated drummers, wearing white wigs and quaint hats like the Tin Drummer.

In the middle of Thun, a town in Switzerland, the Merlinger group ‘Grönbachgusler,’ costumed as blood-suckers with vampire-like canines jutting out of the corners of their mouths, black and white striped clothes and big drums were to be admired. This was the day of the ghouls.

In Evolene (Switzerland), you could see the Strawmen in outsized clothes that are actually gunny-bags stuffed with straw, each with a broom in the hand, protruding, exopthalmic eyes and dangerous looking fangs. These figures went around the narrow lanes of Evolene after the Sunday mass was over, according to the annual Fasnacht tradition of the Canton Wallis. The masks were indeed awesome, as they went about cleaning the snow in Wallis. In Allschwil, they even had a Herrenfasnacht, a gentlemen’s celebration. Sunday was the day when the Cliques and Guggen went about with their flutes, drums and gugge-music along the streets of Aesch, Therwil, Oberwil and Laufen. This year the Allschwiller celebrated the 60th anniversary and poured into the streets in merriment, despite the rain.

It has been a long, snowy, icy, rainy winter this time, and all want to see the sun again. Spring can’t be far behind, but first we’ll have to banish winter in grand style, you know, the European way.

On February 24, 2009 the lovely town of Breisach upon the Rhine invited all fasnet-friends to celebrate the Brysacher Fasnet the whole day. And on Ash Wednesday, when everything was over, the people of Freiburg washed their wallets at 10am in the clear, cold water of the Freiburger Bächele, a sort of canal that runs through this Schwarzwald town, as it is thought to be auspicious, and will bring one happiness and financial benefits in the course of the year. What a pleasant thought, now that the WEF is over, isn’t it?

©satisshroff 2009
N.B. If you want to know more about the Swissfasnacht and want to visit the celebrations next year, do look up: www.fasnachts-comite.ch
www.fasnacht-liestal.ch

About the Author:
Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwigs University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.]]> Wed, 04 Mar 2009 06:03:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/605861 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/594469 (Ceux de Gurs, Sketch on a newspaper by Max Lingner, Historical Museum, Luzern)
Commentary:
Holocaust and KZ Syndrome, Lest We Forget (Satis Shroff)

The German pope has indeed damaged the pontificate and the church, even though it was Cardinal Hoyos who’d ignored what sort of people the four members of the Pius-Brotherhood were. The four had been excommunicated in 1988. These bishops, especially Bishop Williamson, have emphatically stated that the misery and pain of the Jews and the holocaust was just fantasy, and that the Nazis hadn’t used Zyklon B to gas anyone.

My respect goes to Cardinal Lehmann who, at least, spoke of a ‘catastrophe for the survivors of the Holocaust’ and went so far as to demand an apology from the highest instance. Freiburg’s Cardinal Zollitsch took two whole weeks to react, but came up an invitation for the Central Council of Jews, to talk about the matter which is a step in the right direction. Normally, the Vatican is something of a master in presenting its own multimedia profile. This time there was a hitch. The Vatican didn’t even think it was relevant to inform the bishops of France and Switzerland about the Pius-Brotherhood quartet, which was banned by Pope Johannes Paul II.

Be that as it may, I found Chancellor Angela Merkel reacted swiftly and showed statemanship and political correctness, when she talked with the German pope about the holocaust lies spread by Bishop Williamson, and the contorted version of the bible interpreted by the late Marcel Lafebvre (1905-1991), who made the Jews responsible for the murder of Jesus. The Pius-Brotherhood founded in 1970 has 500 priests and 600,000 followers.

The politically correct attitude towards Israel of the German government under Merkel has grown out of the ashes of the holocaust. In the past, around the thirties, it was easier to be silent for the majority of the Germans, when their Jewish neighbours were being insulted, beaten, humiliated, discriminated by Hitler’s brown shirts, and later accompanied by force to the concentrations camps and eventually to the gas-chambers. Zykon B was a dreaded name in those days.

It was only after the World War II, when it became public, that many Germans realised what an infamy and act of criminality and inhumanity its armed forces and civil servants had meted out to its Jewish citizens, gypsies (Roma and Sinti), POWS from other conquered countries and their very own disabled persons, whose right to exist and live as they pleased was challenged by self-styled members of the Aryan race, who wanted to eliminate, what they called ‘worthless lives.’ Hitler wanted to create a new Aryan race with blondes and blue-eyed Germans and a start was made at Schönborn, where young virile males and females were allowed to mate for the Fatherland. Many of the children from these anonymous intercourses still live today, and would like to know who their parents were, for the offsprings were given to German families or grew up in Scandinavian countries.

We have but to read Bertold Brecht’s book ‘Furcht und Elend im Dritten Reich’ to understand that angst was the order of the day, when even fathers had to fear their own sons because the latter were active members of Hitler’s youth and boy-scout organisations. They had to show allegiance to their Führer and no one else. It was in this atmosphere, charged with fear of denunciation, that the people lived their normal lives in wartime Germany.

In the post-war period it wasn’t any better for the Germans who lived in the German Democratic Republic under Erik Honneker, where kilometres of barbed-wire, Alsatian dogs, manned by the Volks police and deadly automatic guns that fired at the touch of a hidden wire, and where the Big Brother Stasi (secret state security) was always watching its citizens. You couldn’t trust anybody in those days. I remember when I was a medical student I met a blonde girl in the Anatomy class and she looked around furtively said in a whisper: ‘I’m from the DDR, but please don’t tell anyone about it.’ She’d fled to the west. She was safe here but her fear accompanied her like a shadow. I reassured her and we are still good friends and laugh about those times. Even Günter Grass, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, has a tough time fighting with himself regarding his past, and he mentions it in his onion-experience book, the English version of which hit the bookstands last year. The Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie are replete with historical human tragedies of people who wanted to flee from a totalitarian state. Families were separated and the expression ‘Ossie and Wessie’ was normal for a long time, even after the Berlin Wall fell on November 11,1989. Two nations, two governments, two different ideologies but the same people. The fall of the Berlin Wall was one of the most emotional and historical greatest events in this world, not only for us Germans, but also for the former East Bloc countries. In this post-Perestroika period, the new and growing memberships in the European Union and Nato are proof enough of the desire, yes the craving, to be a part of Europe and the Upper Hemisphere, for the East Bloc countries were economically developing countries, made kaput by the communist and socialist apparatus.

Despite the negative headlines and banners in the media, even the former East German cities are mobilising themselves against the Neonazis, and others who still believe in the yesteryears of so-called Aryan culture and power. Wolfgang Tiefen, SPD, Minister of Transport in
Germany was right when he said: ‘It isn’t enough if one thinks in silence. In many cities there are attempts by rightists to show their presence. To counteract this move, one has to go to the streets. Dresden has shown us how to treat the Neos.’ It must be mentioned that at the autobahn resting place Teufelstuhl (Devil’s Chair), near Jena, Neonazis brutally beat up the people who’d taken part in the big demonstration, and some of them had serious injuries.

Apropos injuries, the survivors of the holocaust and their children, and their children’s children still suffer from the traumatic experience in the concentration camps, and have fear of death and loss. In a clinical study carried out in 1968 in Holland with 800 Jewish patients, who’d survived the holocaust, had what is known as the KZ-syndrome, which is a combination of problems. The patients had chronic angst (fear), cognition and memory disturbances, heavy chronic depression, changes in personality and identity, emotional regression, psychosomatic problems like phobia, hallucination and showed signs of agitation. They also suffered from psychosis, restlessness, sleep disturbances, nervosity, diffuse fear of new persecution, permanent exhaustion and loss of vitality due to weight loss caused by persecution.

It is interesting to note that similar symptoms were to be seen in the case of survivors of Hiroshima, POWs and among the persecuted Afro-American and native Indian tribesmen of the USA. A study about the syndromes of Guantanamo survivors on the part of NANDA is pending.

Whereas a lot of the KZ survivors had the syndrome, there were those who were spared such traumatic experiences and syndromes in a new, safe country like the USA, Holland, Canada and Israel, even though they had a latent phase in old age, because the Jewish migrants have a close social network in which rituals and symbols play a big part. Nevertheless, all holocaust survivors have a lot of things in common: the experience of helplessness, terror, deprivation, loss of social groups (friends, family, relatives) and profession. Added to this plethora of problems is the survivor-guilt. When you’ve underdone such hardships and experiences you tend to ask yourself: Why did I survive and not the others?. You have painful pictures of death and the unfinished process of mourning for your near and dear ones who’d died in the concentration camps or were shot by a firing squad.

When a Jewish survivor of the holocaust gets a cancer tumour, it brings up memories of the holocaust because of the loss of hair due to the intake of cyclostatica during treatment, thus baldiness gives you the feeling of being imprisoned again in an institute. The fear of death creeps up slowly and the hospital clothing remind you of the KZ prisoner’s striped dress. The loss of hair imparts a feeling of loss of identity. So the diagnosis cancer develops further in your mind to become a personal holocaust.

The question is: have we Germans learned from the lessons of the past? One thing we should have learned after having survived the Third Reich and World War II is never to be silent when the rights of humans are being trampled, and look the other way. As long there’s democracy, there’s also the right to view one’s personal opinions in matters pertaining to politics, culture and religion. In diesem Sinne: Vive la difference!

In Luzern you can see a Pandora’s Box, the contents of which was long in the hands of a Swiss Red Cross nurse named Elsbeth Kasser, who’d worked in the concentration camp Gurs, located in Southern France. It’s a box full of 150 pictures, works of art by interned Jewish artists. The photographs and KZ artistic drawings, sketches are being exhibited at Luzern’s Historical Museum. The title is appropriate: Hinschauen---nicht wegschauen, which means, Look at it, don’t look away.

The KZ prisoners, who were transported to the Vernichtungslager by the Nazis, had pleaded to the nurse Elsbeth Kasser: ‘Swiss Sister, tell about it in your country, tell what happened here to the world.’ 1943 was long ago, but it was in 1989 that she showed the works to others. Frau Kasser died in 1992. She’d brought a little joy and support in Gurs and was ashamed of what the Nazis had done to the people she’d begun to like: transported to the camps of elimination, never to return and see the light of the day, never to breathe like you and me, never to live with their families and friends. Uprooted brutally, undergoing suffering, maltreatment, experiencing cold, hunger, deprivation and dying miserable deaths in concentration camps, eradicated like rodents. Precious human souls, who’d lived in Barrack No. C/6.



]]> Wed, 18 Feb 2009 06:26:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/594469 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/595721


(Ceux de Gurs, Sketch on a newspaper by Max Lingner, Historical Museum, Luzern)
Commentary:
Holocaust and KZ Syndrome, Lest We Forget (Satis Shroff)

The German pope has indeed damaged the pontificate and the church, even though it was Cardinal Hoyos who’d ignored what sort of people the four members of the Pius-Brotherhood were. The four had been excommunicated in 1988. These bishops, especially Bishop Williamson, have emphatically stated that the misery and pain of the Jews and the holocaust was just fantasy, and that the Nazis hadn’t used Zyklon B to gas anyone.

My respect goes to Cardinal Lehmann who, at least, spoke of a ‘catastrophe for the survivors of the Holocaust’ and went so far as to demand an apology from the highest instance. Freiburg’s Cardinal Zollitsch took two whole weeks to react, but came up an invitation for the Central Council of Jews, to talk about the matter which is a step in the right direction. Normally, the Vatican is something of a master in presenting its own multimedia profile. This time there was a hitch. The Vatican didn’t even think it was relevant to inform the bishops of France and Switzerland about the Pius-Brotherhood quartet, which was banned by Pope Johannes Paul II.

Be that as it may, I found Chancellor Angela Merkel reacted swiftly and showed statemanship and political correctness, when she talked with the German pope about the holocaust lies spread by Bishop Williamson, and the contorted version of the bible interpreted by the late Marcel Lafebvre (1905-1991), who made the Jews responsible for the murder of Jesus. The Pius-Brotherhood founded in 1970 has 500 priests and 600,000 followers.

The politically correct attitude towards Israel of the German government under Merkel has grown out of the ashes of the holocaust. In the past, around the thirties, it was easier to be silent for the majority of the Germans, when their Jewish neighbours were being insulted, beaten, humiliated, discriminated by Hitler’s brown shirts, and later accompanied by force to the concentrations camps and eventually to the gas-chambers. Zykon B was a dreaded name in those days.

It was only after the World War II, when it became public, that many Germans realised what an infamy and act of criminality and inhumanity its armed forces and civil servants had meted out to its Jewish citizens, gypsies (Roma and Sinti), POWS from other conquered countries and their very own disabled persons, whose right to exist and live as they pleased was challenged by self-styled members of the Aryan race, who wanted to eliminate, what they called ‘worthless lives.’ Hitler wanted to create a new Aryan race with blondes and blue-eyed Germans and a start was made at Schönborn, where young virile males and females were allowed to mate for the Fatherland. Many of the children from these anonymous intercourses still live today, and would like to know who their parents were, for the offsprings were given to German families or grew up in Scandinavian countries.

We have but to read Bertold Brecht’s book ‘Furcht und Elend im Dritten Reich’ to understand that angst was the order of the day, when even fathers had to fear their own sons because the latter were active members of Hitler’s youth and boy-scout organisations. They had to show allegiance to their Führer and no one else. It was in this atmosphere, charged with fear of denunciation, that the people lived their normal lives in wartime Germany.

In the post-war period it wasn’t any better for the Germans who lived in the German Democratic Republic under Erik Honneker, where kilometres of barbed-wire, Alsatian dogs, manned by the Volks police and deadly automatic guns that fired at the touch of a hidden wire, and where the Big Brother Stasi (secret state security) was always watching its citizens. You couldn’t trust anybody in those days. I remember when I was a medical student I met a blonde girl in the Anatomy class and she looked around furtively said in a whisper: ‘I’m from the DDR, but please don’t tell anyone about it.’ She’d fled to the west. She was safe here but her fear accompanied her like a shadow. I reassured her and we are still good friends and laugh about those times. Even Günter Grass, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, has a tough time fighting with himself regarding his past, and he mentions it in his onion-experience book, the English version of which hit the bookstands last year. The Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie are replete with historical human tragedies of people who wanted to flee from a totalitarian state. Families were separated and the expression ‘Ossie and Wessie’ was normal for a long time, even after the Berlin Wall fell on November 11,1989. Two nations, two governments, two different ideologies but the same people. The fall of the Berlin Wall was one of the most emotional and historical greatest events in this world, not only for us Germans, but also for the former East Bloc countries. In this post-Perestroika period, the new and growing memberships in the European Union and Nato are proof enough of the desire, yes the craving, to be a part of Europe and the Upper Hemisphere, for the East Bloc countries were economically developing countries, made kaput by the communist and socialist apparatus.

Despite the negative headlines and banners in the media, even the former East German cities are mobilising themselves against the Neonazis, and others who still believe in the yesteryears of so-called Aryan culture and power. Wolfgang Tiefen, SPD, Minister of Transport in
Germany was right when he said: ‘It isn’t enough if one thinks in silence. In many cities there are attempts by rightists to show their presence. To counteract this move, one has to go to the streets. Dresden has shown us how to treat the Neos.’ It must be mentioned that at the autobahn resting place Teufelstuhl (Devil’s Chair), near Jena, Neonazis brutally beat up the people who’d taken part in the big demonstration, and some of them had serious injuries.

Apropos injuries, the survivors of the holocaust and their children, and their children’s children still suffer from the traumatic experience in the concentration camps, and have fear of death and loss. In a clinical study carried out in 1968 in Holland with 800 Jewish patients, who’d survived the holocaust, had what is known as the KZ-syndrome, which is a combination of problems. The patients had chronic angst (fear), cognition and memory disturbances, heavy chronic depression, changes in personality and identity, emotional regression, psychosomatic problems like phobia, hallucination and showed signs of agitation. They also suffered from psychosis, restlessness, sleep disturbances, nervosity, diffuse fear of new persecution, permanent exhaustion and loss of vitality due to weight loss caused by persecution.

It is interesting to note that similar symptoms were to be seen in the case of survivors of Hiroshima, POWs and among the persecuted Afro-American and native Indian tribesmen of the USA. A study about the syndromes of Guantanamo survivors on the part of NANDA is pending.

Whereas a lot of the KZ survivors had the syndrome, there were those who were spared such traumatic experiences and syndromes in a new, safe country like the USA, Holland, Canada and Israel, even though they had a latent phase in old age, because the Jewish migrants have a close social network in which rituals and symbols play a big part. Nevertheless, all holocaust survivors have a lot of things in common: the experience of helplessness, terror, deprivation, loss of social groups (friends, family, relatives) and profession. Added to this plethora of problems is the survivor-guilt. When you’ve underdone such hardships and experiences you tend to ask yourself: Why did I survive and not the others?. You have painful pictures of death and the unfinished process of mourning for your near and dear ones who’d died in the concentration camps or were shot by a firing squad.

When a Jewish survivor of the holocaust gets a cancer tumour, it brings up memories of the holocaust because of the loss of hair due to the intake of cyclostatica during treatment, thus baldiness gives you the feeling of being imprisoned again in an institute. The fear of death creeps up slowly and the hospital clothing remind you of the KZ prisoner’s striped dress. The loss of hair imparts a feeling of loss of identity. So the diagnosis cancer develops further in your mind to become a personal holocaust.

The question is: have we Germans learned from the lessons of the past? One thing we should have learned after having survived the Third Reich and World War II is never to be silent when the rights of humans are being trampled, and look the other way. As long there’s democracy, there’s also the right to view one’s personal opinions in matters pertaining to politics, culture and religion. In diesem Sinne: Vive la difference!

In Luzern you can see a Pandora’s Box, the contents of which was long in the hands of a Swiss Red Cross nurse named Elsbeth Kasser, who’d worked in the concentration camp Gurs, located in Southern France. It’s a box full of 150 pictures, works of art by interned Jewish artists. The photographs and KZ artistic drawings, sketches are being exhibited at Luzern’s Historical Museum. The title is appropriate: Hinschauen---nicht wegschauen, which means, Look at it, don’t look away.

The KZ prisoners, who were transported to the Vernichtungslager by the Nazis, had pleaded to the nurse Elsbeth Kasser: ‘Swiss Sister, tell about it in your country, tell what happened here to the world.’ 1943 was long ago, but it was in 1989 that she showed the works to others. Frau Kasser died in 1992. She’d brought a little joy and support in Gurs and was ashamed of what the Nazis had done to the people she’d begun to like: transported to the camps of elimination, never to return and see the light of the day, never to breathe like you and me, never to live with their families and friends. Uprooted brutally, undergoing suffering, maltreatment, experiencing cold, hunger, deprivation and dying miserable deaths in concentration camps, eradicated like rodents. Precious human souls, who’d lived in Barrack No. C/6.]]> Wed, 18 Feb 2009 06:02:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/595721 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/586535


The Fifth Season in the Alps and the Black Forest (Satis Shroff)

The night of the torches began at Freiburg’s Swabian Gate (Schwabentor), and 13000 witches, knaves and other ghoulish figures marched to the Allemanic town’s cathedral located in the centre. Right below the olde historical Kaufhaus was a stage with 500 witches in motley clothes and ugly noses, warts and all, who performed their wild and frantic dances. The cacophony caused by the percussion and brass of the Guggen music rose in crescendo, as they staged their monster-concert.

40,000 visitors came to the 75th celebration of the Breisgauer Narrenzunft (BNZ) and 100 clubs (Zünfte) took part in the fasnet merry-making. The BNZ was established in 1934, yes the fateful year in Germany when the Nazizeitgeist raised its ugly head. Among the Narren (knaves) that the Nazis didn’t like was a Jewish Freiburger named Hans Pollock, a physician by profession and very active in the fasnet committee. Today, we would say that he was systematically mobbed and bossed from his working place, and was deported to Dachau. Luckily enough Hans fell ill and was sent back to Freiburg, where he died in 1939. There’s a small metal plate with his name in the cobbled street called Güntertalstrasse.

An ethnologist named Bertold Hamel published a thesis with the title ‘Helau and Heil Hitler.’ In 1984 there was an exhibition at the Albert Ludwig’s university library organised in part by the art historian Peter Kalchthaler. It was he who mentioned that the celebrations had their origin in the Christian faith, and that during the Third Reich the brown shirts turned an age-old belief and tradition into a folk tradition.

But things have changed for the better now. Even a Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Jew can become a member of the many traditional zünfte and cliques, and take part in the historical and traditional jovial events. I’m looking forward to the Rose Monday parade in which more than 5200 masked figures will be taking part.

From the ‘dirty’ Thursday till Ash Wednesday, the Black Forest and the Upper Rhein areas are under the command of witches and knaves after the town councils are stormed by them and freed, for the fifth season has already begun. The witches also come to the schools and kindergardens and ‘free’ the kids from their teachers and lessons, and make them have fun with music, bags of sweets, colourful streamers and sacks of confetti which are thrown on their blonde, brunette and black heads, amid laughter and screams. A wonderful time of the year, you are inclined to say, where people are ordered to have fun, drink a lot of beer, wine, schnaps to drive off the cold, long, depressing winter. I bumped into an amiable German from Pforzheim named Rudi, who raised his krug of beer and said: ‘Prost! My body needs it!’

Well it’s fasnet-time (fasching, carnival) in the alpine countries of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. The streets are full of wild men and women, witches, devils, knaves, masked figures galore in Durlach (Karlsruhe), Baden Baden-Oos, Offenburg, Gengenbach with its ‘Schalk wach uff’ cry, Hausach with its witches with hearts, the march at Haslach, the red devils on Dirty Thursday at Triberg. And Villingen, which is known for its motto: fasnet-meets-carnival.

In Donaueschingen, Hansel and Gretel are woken up from their Schwarzwälder beds by means of a fanfare at 6am on February 19, 2009. There’s a children’s procession at 2pm and the singing of fasnet songs. At 7pm you see people going around with long white sleeping-gowns and white caps with a pom-pom hanging at the end. You can see thousands of people taking to the cobbled streets: there’s music of all manners, costumes and stork wagons in which the wicked witches of Elzach entice beautiful girls from the streets, dump them in their rickety wagons, throw tons of confetti on them and finally set them free with a ‘narri, narrow!’ farewell greeting. The Schuttig procession is known for the cracks of the long whips on the streets, but if you tease and laugh at him, the Schuttig might clobber you with a swine’s bladder. It’s good for a laugh anyway because humour is useful.

And on March 2, 2009 there’s, of course, the famous Swiss Morgenstraich in Basle, an unforgettable experience after the German merry-making is long over and the witches have shed feigned tears, burnt effigies symbolising the banishment of winter.

Exactly at 4am the lights go out in Basle’s inner town buildings. An uncanny silence shrouds the city, and thousands of spectators listen and look around, holding hands lest they don’t lose themselves among the sea of humanity around them. Suddenly, 200 lanterns begin to shine and make their appearance with masked figures elegantly distributing colourful leaflets with the sujet or motto of the respective cliques, which are actually lyrics lampooning Swiss politicians, Sarkosy, Brown Merkel included, their speeches, promises, collateral decisions that have backfired, scandals or whatever. I love the sound of the shrill piccollo flutes and drums of the Swiss cliques. When you come to think of it, you’re one of the 10,000 fasnacht revellers. There are witch costume balls everywhere in the evenings, where you eat salted pork, drink schnaps, but hopefully not one too much for the road, for fun is the order of the day.

Whereas the Breisgauer members of the Narrenzunft celebrated their 75th jubilee on February 1, 2009, in Switzerland’s small Klinen Valley the ‘Wild Maa’ reached land at 11am on January 20, 2009 and was greeted with firecrackers. On the bank of the Rhine were the bird Gryff and the ‘Leu’ waiting to greet the ‘Wild Maa,’ surrounded by hundreds spectators who’d come to see the spectacle. The three symbolic Swiss fasnet figures danced all the way to Small Basle for the big-shots of Basle. The highlight was the dance in the middle of the bridge across the Rhines near Käpplijoch, and a thunderous crowd, accompanied by blue coated drummers, wearing white wigs and quaint hats like the Tin Drummer.

In the middle of Thun, a town in Switzerland, the Merlinger group ‘Grönbachgusler,’ costumed as blood-suckers with vampire-like canines jutting out of the corners of their mouths, black and white striped clothes and big drums were to be admired. This was the day of the ghouls.

On February 24, 2009 the town of Breisach invites all fasnet-friends to this lovely town upon the Rhine, where the Brysacher Fasnet will be celebrated the whole day. And on Ash Wednesday, when everything’s over, the people of Freiburg wash their wallets at 10am in the clear, cold water of the Freiburger Bächele, a sort of canal that runs through this Schwarzwald town, as it is thought to be auspicious and will bring one happiness and financial benefits in the course of the year. What a pleasant thought, now that the WEF is over, isn’t it?

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.]]> Sat, 07 Feb 2009 12:02:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/586535 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/586537
The night of the torches began at Freiburg’s Swabian Gate (Schwabentor), and 13000 witches, knaves and other ghoulish figures marched to the Allemanic town’s cathedral located in the centre. Right below the olde historical Kaufhaus was a stage with 500 witches in motley clothes and ugly noses, warts and all, who performed their wild and frantic dances. The cacophony caused by the percussion and brass of the Guggen music rose in crescendo, as they staged their monster-concert.

40,000 visitors came to the 75th celebration of the Breisgauer Narrenzunft (BNZ) and 100 clubs (Zünfte) took part in the fasnet merry-making. The BNZ was established in 1934, yes the fateful year in Germany when the Nazizeitgeist raised its ugly head. Among the Narren (knaves) that the Nazis didn’t like was a Jewish Freiburger named Hans Pollock, a physician by profession and very active in the fasnet committee. Today, we would say that he was systematically mobbed and bossed from his working place, and was deported to Dachau. Luckily enough Hans fell ill and was sent back to Freiburg, where he died in 1939. There’s a small metal plate with his name in the cobbled street called Güntertalstrasse.

An ethnologist named Bertold Hamel published a thesis with the title ‘Helau and Heil Hitler.’ In 1984 there was an exhibition at the Albert Ludwig’s university library organised in part by the art historian Peter Kalchthaler. It was he who mentioned that the celebrations had their origin in the Christian faith, and that during the Third Reich the brown shirts turned an age-old belief and tradition into a folk tradition.

But things have changed for the better now. Even a Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Jew can become a member of the many traditional zünfte and cliques, and take part in the historical and traditional jovial events. I’m looking forward to the Rose Monday parade in which more than 5200 masked figures will be taking part.

From the ‘dirty’ Thursday till Ash Wednesday, the Black Forest and the Upper Rhein areas are under the command of witches and knaves after the town councils are stormed by them and freed, for the fifth season has already begun. The witches also come to the schools and kindergardens and ‘free’ the kids from their teachers and lessons, and make them have fun with music, bags of sweets, colourful streamers and sacks of confetti which are thrown on their blonde, brunette and black heads, amid laughter and screams. A wonderful time of the year, you are inclined to say, where people are ordered to have fun, drink a lot of beer, wine, schnaps to drive off the cold, long, depressing winter. I bumped into an amiable German from Pforzheim named Rudi, who raised his krug of beer and said: ‘Prost! My body needs it!’

Well it’s fasnet-time (fasching, carnival) in the alpine countries of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. The streets are full of wild men and women, witches, devils, knaves, masked figures galore in Durlach (Karlsruhe), Baden Baden-Oos, Offenburg, Gengenbach with its ‘Schalk wach uff’ cry, Hausach with its witches with hearts, the march at Haslach, the red devils on Dirty Thursday at Triberg. And Villingen, which is known for its motto: fasnet-meets-carnival.

In Donaueschingen, Hansel and Gretel are woken up from their Schwarzwälder beds by means of a fanfare at 6am on February 19, 2009. There’s a children’s procession at 2pm and the singing of fasnet songs. At 7pm you see people going around with long white sleeping-gowns and white caps with a pom-pom hanging at the end. You can see thousands of people taking to the cobbled streets: there’s music of all manners, costumes and stork wagons in which the wicked witches of Elzach entice beautiful girls from the streets, dump them in their rickety wagons, throw tons of confetti on them and finally set them free with a ‘narri, narrow!’ farewell greeting. The Schuttig procession is known for the cracks of the long whips on the streets, but if you tease and laugh at him, the Schuttig might clobber you with a swine’s bladder. It’s good for a laugh anyway because humour is useful.

And on March 2, 2009 there’s, of course, the famous Swiss Morgenstraich in Basle, an unforgettable experience after the German merry-making is long over and the witches have shed feigned tears, burnt effigies symbolising the banishment of winter.

Exactly at 4am the lights go out in Basle’s inner town buildings. An uncanny silence shrouds the city, and thousands of spectators listen and look around, holding hands lest they don’t lose themselves among the sea of humanity around them. Suddenly, 200 lanterns begin to shine and make their appearance with masked figures elegantly distributing colourful leaflets with the sujet or motto of the respective cliques, which are actually lyrics lampooning Swiss politicians, Sarkosy, Brown Merkel included, their speeches, promises, collateral decisions that have backfired, scandals or whatever. I love the sound of the shrill piccollo flutes and drums of the Swiss cliques. When you come to think of it, you’re one of the 10,000 fasnacht revellers. There are witch costume balls everywhere in the evenings, where you eat salted pork, drink schnaps, but hopefully not one too much for the road, for fun is the order of the day.

Whereas the Breisgauer members of the Narrenzunft celebrated their 75th jubilee on February 1, 2009, in Switzerland’s small Klinen Valley the ‘Wild Maa’ reached land at 11am on January 20, 2009 and was greeted with firecrackers. On the bank of the Rhine were the bird Gryff and the ‘Leu’ waiting to greet the ‘Wild Maa,’ surrounded by hundreds spectators who’d come to see the spectacle. The three symbolic Swiss fasnet figures danced all the way to Small Basle for the big-shots of Basle. The highlight was the dance in the middle of the bridge across the Rhines near Käpplijoch, and a thunderous crowd, accompanied by blue coated drummers, wearing white wigs and quaint hats like the Tin Drummer.

In the middle of Thun, a town in Switzerland, the Merlinger group ‘Grönbachgusler,’ costumed as blood-suckers with vampire-like canines jutting out of the corners of their mouths, black and white striped clothes and big drums were to be admired. This was the day of the ghouls.

On February 24, 2009 the town of Breisach invites all fasnet-friends to this lovely town upon the Rhine, where the Brysacher Fasnet will be celebrated the whole day. And on Ash Wednesday, when everything’s over, the people of Freiburg wash their wallets at 10am in the clear, cold water of the Freiburger Bächele, a sort of canal that runs through this Schwarzwald town, as it is thought to be auspicious and will bring one happiness and financial benefits in the course of the year. What a pleasant thought, now that the WEF is over, isn’t it?

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.]]> Sat, 07 Feb 2009 12:02:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/586537 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/581975 Gedichte Nepals

Wenn man an die Gedichte Nepals des 20. Jahrhunderts denkt, fallen einem Dichter wie: Lekhnath Paudyal, Bhanu Bhakta Acharya, Balkrishna Sama und Lakshmiprasad Devkota in den Sinn. Nepals vielfältige und anspruchsvolle Literatur ist reich an Gedichten, da fast jeder Schriftsteller auch Gedichte schreibt. Das Gedicht hat immer eine besondere Rolle gespielt, weil es als Mittel benutzt wurde, um sozialkritische und politische Fragen in einer Gesellschaft zu postulieren, in der Regierungen Medien zensierten. Zensusfreie Literatur gibt es in Nepal erst seit November 1990 mit der Umwandlung der absoluten Monarchie in eine konstitutionelle Hindu-Monarchie mit demokratischen Grundprinzipien.
Die Zeit wird uns zeigen, ob in Nepal eine tatsächliche Meinungsfreiheit unter der Maoisten geben wird, da Nepal eine republikanische Staat geworden ist.
Die nepalesische Literatur beschreibt auch die Situation in anderen Himalayastaaten. Die Hochburg der Nepali Literatur findet man in Kathmandu aber auch in Darjeeling, Kurseong, Kalimpong, Assam, Nagaland und Gangtok (Sikkim). Hier gibt es literarische Gesellschaften und jährliche Auszeichnungen für Nepali Schriftsteller und Dichter. Die bekanntesten Preise sind: Royal Nepal Akademie Preis, Tribhuvan Puraskar, Madan Puraskar, Sajha Preis, Nepali Literatur Gesellschaft Preis (Darjeeling), Nepali Akademie Preis (West Bengalen) und Nationale Literatur Akademie Preis (Delhi). Budathoki’s Best Nepalese On-line Writer Preis (International Nepali Literature Society, USA). / Satis Shroff, American Chronicle 14.11.
Satis Shroff has also written political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His anthology of poems has been published by www.Lulu.com:'Katmandu, Katmandu.'
His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe, and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. He carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.
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 (travelogue), 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.
Boloji.com: Satis Shroff was Poet of the Week on February 18,2007 and again on June 22, 2008.
Poetry Hearings, Berlin Mitte
In Berlin gibt es ein englischsprachiges Lyrikfestival, die Poetry Hearings, von manchen mit einer Spur Übertreibung "das beste Lyrikfestival der Welt" genannt haben. Denn in der Stadt leben mehr englischsprachige Dichter als jemals zuvor. Vielleicht ist es zu früh, Berlin das Paris der Nullerjahre zu nennen, sagt der Veranstalter Alistair Noon. Aber die Stadt zieht Dichter, Künstler und Musiker an, ebenso aber ein Publikum für sie. Jetzt findet es wieder statt, Freitag 16. bin Sonntag 18.11. Außer in Berlin lebenden Autoren kommen inzwischen auch Dichter aus Europa und Übersee. Expatica
Poetry Hearings stellt Lyriker englischer Sprache vor, besonders solche aus Kontinentaleuropa. Quer zu allen Einteilungen versammelt das Festival Autoren, die in verschiedenen Traditionen stehen: Mainstream, Experimentelle, Formale, Freilaufende ("free-ranging"), Performance- und Prosagedichte. Lesenswerte, gute Arbeiten gibt es in allen diesen Formen; das Festival will ihnen ein Forum bieten.

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.
I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist black noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its early arias.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat:
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

SUMMER DELIGHTS IN THE SCHWARZWALD (Satis Shroff)

I sat in the garden
With Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure
On my lap,
And saw a small butterfly
With dark spots on its frail wings,
Violet patterns on its tail.
It was Aglais utricae
Flattering lightly
Between the marigolds
And chrysanthemums.

The Potentilla nepalensis
Was growing well
Under the shade of the rhododendrons.
The great pumpkin was spreading
Its leafy tentacles everywhere.
The tomatoes were fighting for light
Hiding beneath its gigantic green leaves.

A Papilio machaon with its swallow-tail
Came from nowehere.
The laughter of the children,
As they swung in the garden’s two swings
Were a delight to one’s soul.

Little Florentin’s fear of the bees,
Natasha’s morbid fear of spiders,
Elena’s garden gymnastics
And Julian’s delight in discovering
New insects, snails and snakes.

Holding hands
We strolled in our garden.
You watered the flowers and trees,
I removed long, brown snails,
A hobby-gardener of Nepalese descent,
In a lovely white house
With character in Freiburg-Kappel,
An Allemanic stronghold.

Once the subject of dispute
Between Austria and France,
Now a sleepy residential area
Of Freiburg im Breisgau.

* * *

EAST BLOC KID GOES WEST (Satis Shroff)

A pair of heavy scissors fly
In a dark Hauptschule classroom,
Thrown by an Aussiedler school-kid,
Near Freiburg’s Japanese Garden.

The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
You can be maimed for life,
Like Scarface,
If the sharp ends
Bury in your eyes,
Or mine.

Let there be light.
Vitaly, a boy from the former east Bloc
Comes to the West,
In search of ancestors and heritage.
What he gets is rejection but freedom.
Freedom to do as he pleases,
With pleasant negative sanctions.
‘Even in jail they have TV,’
He says with a laugh.

He grows up in a ghetto,
And his anger burns.
Anger at his ageing parents,
Who forced him to come to the West,
But who are themselves
Lost in this new world
Of democratic, liberal values,
Luxurious and electronic consumer delights,
Where everyone cares for himself
Or herself,
Where the old structures of the society
They clung to in the East Bloc days
Don’t exist anymore.

A brave new world,
A Schlaraffenland,
Where economy and commerce flourishes,
Where the individual’s view is important,
To himself,
To herself
And to others.

The East Bloc boy learns
To assert himself in the West,
Not with solid arguments and rhetoric
But with his two fists.
He fancies cars and their contents,
Breaks open the windows,
Takes all he wants.
Brushes with the police
At an early age.

English, Latin and French at school,
Irritate him,
He prefers to play the clown:
To dance on the table,
Make suggestive moves with his groin,
High on designer drugs,
High all the time.
Opens the classroom door,
Sees a girl from the seventh grade,
And yells at her:
‘Screw you after school.’

His behaviour brings laughter
But he turns off the girls he admires.
He grins and insults his peers.
Rejected by youngsters,
Admonished by grown-ups.
He watches the society.

Chic clothes, streamlined cars, plastic money,
But he forgets that there’s personal performance
Behind these worldly riches.
‘The rich German drives his BMW
With his head in the air.
What does he care?
What does he care?’
Thinks Vitaly.

A pair of scissors fly
In a dark classroom.
His pent-up emotions,
Let loose in a German Hauptschool,
Near the Japanese Garden.

His classmate from Croatia
Throws chairs at the another.
‘Aus Spass’ he says.
Just for fun.
He shouts at the Putzfrau,
Who cleans the classrooms:
‘Sie Geistesgestörte!’
You mad woman.
‚My French-cap is XXX’ he sings
And jerks his pelvis at her.

Is the school-system to blame?
Are western culture, tradition
Social, liberal values and norms to blame?
Are his parents
Who speak a conserved Deutsch to blame?
Is his Russian mother-tongue
And his great Russian soul to blame?

Nobody answers his questions,
Nobody cares,
Out in the West.
“Verdammt, I want to be heard!”
Screams Vitaly.
The people shake their heads,
Mutters, ‘Ein Spinner!’
And walk away.

A pair of sharp, long scissors
Fly in a dark classroom.
The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
----------------------------------------------

THE SEA SWELLS (Satis Shroff)

The sea shells on the sea shore
Suddenly the sea swells.
Ring the church and temple bells.
All is not well.
The sea has gone back.

Brown-burnt Tarzans and Janes
From different continents,
Wonder what’s going on.
A man from Sweden
Is immersed in his thriller under the palms.
A mother and daughter from Germany
Frolic on the white sunny beach.

Even the sea-gulls stop and listen
To the foreboding silence.

The sea swells,
Comes back
And brings an apocalyptic destruction:
Sweeping humans, huts and hotels,
Boats, billboards and debris.
Cries for help are stifled by the roaring waves.

The sea goes back.
Leaving behind lost souls,
Caught in suspended animation.
I close my eyes.
Everything dies.

Tsunami. Tsunami.
Om Shanti. Om shanti.
-----------------

DELETING LIVES IN THE CYBERWORLD (Satis Shroff)

The young man and his double-clicks
In a cyberworld
Of bits and bytes,
Full of elves, tough turtles, dementors,
Warriors, monsters, evil beings,
Who destroy hamlets, towns,
Civilisations,
At the command of a few clicks.

An unreal world
Where the fantasy stories
Are pre-programmed.
The elimination of farmers, slaves,
Knaves and enemy warriors,
But a click away.

You are the creator,
The maker and destroyer,
You are Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma.
Thumbs up or down,
Death to you,
Delete.
Yawn!
You’re short of amphetamines.
It’s a long way
To the apothecary.
More clicks,
More tiredness,
You’re falling asleep.
Drowsy bits and bytes,
You haven’t taken a bite.
Your inner man is growling,
But you have no time,
For bodily needs.
You’re hooked
To your bits and bytes.
Oh, it bites.
--------------------------------------
Groggy in the Afternoon (Satis Shroff)

Groggy from the Cyberworld at home,
Fritz goes to school.
He’s tired of school,
And is restless.
Retalin doesn’t seem to work today.
The lessons are irrelevant,
He sees not the classmates.
He sees the goblins, ghouls,
Zombies, Power Rangers,
Sword-fighting Ninjas ,
Scores of other figures
With terrifying grimaces.
Fritz also makes a grimace.
He is now a monster in his thoughts,
Has to strike the others
With his laser-sword.

The enemy surrounds him,
Laser-blades flash like lightning.
A gash and Fritz falls on the floor.
He’s wounded,
But rotates his prostrate torso
With his fast working legs,
Lashes out with his sword.
He’s almost killed them all.
He’s a hero who never gives up.

Suddenly he hears his teacher
Frau Hess’s voice:
’Fritz, steh auf!’
He becomes calm,
Gets up.
Gone are the warriors, Power Rangers,
And super heroes and mighty enemies.
Fritz recognises his classmates,
Hans, Joachim, Cassandra, Brunhild,
As they shake their heads.

Was it a dream?
Oh je! Frau Hess will certainly call Mom.
And tell it all.
‘Scheiss ADS!’ mutters Kevin.

Glossary:
ADS: Allgemeine Deficiency Syndrome


The Japanese Garden (Satis Shroff)

Nine Hauptschule kids in their teens,
Sit on benches in the Japanese Garden,
Near the placid, turquoise lake.

The homework is done sloppily.
Who cares?
The boys are bursting with hormones,
As they tease the only blonde from Siberia.

A fat guy named Heino likes the blonde,
But she doesn’t fancy him.
Annäherung, Vermeidung:
A conflict develops.

The teacher tells him in no uncertain terms:
“Lass Sie bitte in Ruhe!”
But Heino with the MP3 doesn’t care
And carries on:
Grasping her breasts,
Caressing her groin.
She puts up a fight to no avail.

Heino is stronger, impertinent,
And full of street rhetoric.
Meanwhile, the other teenies
Are climbing, kicking the Japanese pavilion,
Spitting, cursing shouting
At all and sundry in German.

The grey-haired gardener-in-charge comes,
Tells the boys to behave
And goes.
Boredom in the afternoon.
The boys don’t want to play soccer,
Handball or basketball.
Sitting around, criticising, irritating each other,
Is cool.

Creative workshops: music, songs,
Essays, own movies?
Nothing interests them.
Killing time together,
Cursing at each other,
Getting a kick provoking passersby,
This is the Hauptschule
In Germany today.

The clever kids go to the Gymnasium,
After the fourth class.
The trouble-makers,
Aggressive alpha-wolves
And clowns remain in the Hauptschule.
An ironical name for a school,
For Haupt means the ‘main’
Comprising the lower class of the society:
Kids of foreigners, ethnic Germans from the East Bloc,
Who hope to make it somehow,
As apprentices for hair salons, car repair garages,
Kebab shops, Italian restaurants, Balkan kitchens,
Roofers and masons.

The Japanese Garden, a present from Matsuyama
To the people of Freiburg,
With truncated shrubs and rounded trees.
A waterfall and quiet niches,
A place for contemplation and solitude.

For the Hauptschule kids,
A place to get together,
Be loud, grunt, fight with fists, shove, scratch,
Slap, spit, kick everywhere,
And play the gangsta.
“At night they throw empty alcohol bottles
Where ever they like,” says an elderly lady
From the neighbourhood.
Wonder how the kids are in Matsuyama?

* * *

WENN EIN KIND.../WHEN A CHILD... (Anon)

Wenn ein Kind kritisiert wird,
lernt es zu verurteilen.

Wenn ein Kind angefeindet wird,
lernt es zu kämpfen.

Wenn ein Kind verspottet wird,
lernt es schüchtern zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind beschämt wird,
lernt es sich schuldig zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind verstanden und toleriert wird,
lernt es geduldig zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind ermutigt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu vertrauen.

Wenn ein Kind gelobt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu schätzen.

Wenn ein Kind gerecht behandelt wird,
lernt es sich gerecht zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind geborgen lebt,
lernt es zu vertrauen.

Wenn ein Kind anerkannt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu mögen.

Wenn ein Kind in Freundschaft angenommen wird,
lernt es in der Welt Liebe zu finden.

(Text über dem Eingang einer tibetischen Schule)
On Her Majesty’s Lyrical Service:

Poet Laureate (Satis Shroff)

Wanted:
A person who writes in lyrical form,
Composes verses for occasions,
Good stanzas in favour of kings and queens,
Princes and Princesses,
For the price of 5000 Sterling pounds
And, of course, 650 bottles
Of Sherry,
To inspire the poet.
And the title of Poet Laureate.

A court poet is a smith of verses,
Not a bass-guitarist
Of the royal band
Based in Buckingham.
Beginners need not apply.
Candidates should be
A professor of English Literature.

The last Poet Laureate penned
Verses in praise of Edward
And his beautiful Sophie,
A hundred years of the Queen Mother
And the latter’s sad demise.
The Queen’s diamond wedding anniversary,
A rap-rhyme for rosy-cheeked Prince William,
When he turned twenty-one.
Yeah! ‘Better stand back
Here’s a age attack.’
He even congratulated Charles and Camilla
On their belated marriage.
The Prince was overwhelmed
When he heard Motion’s
‘Spring Wedding.’
But all verses weren’t,
As we say in Germany:
Friede, Freude, Eierkuchen.
Motion’s ‘Cost of Life’ on Paddington,
‘Causa belli’ emphasised
Elections, money, empire,
Oil and Dad.
Themes and lyrics that bother us,
Day in and day out.
The rulers and battles won are expected
To be praised to Heaven,
Like Master Henry,
Ben Jonson et al have done

In 1668 John Dryden was sacked
Not for his bad verses,
But for changing his confession.
Sir Walter Raleigh and William Morris
Didn’t relinquish their freedom
And said politely: No thank you, Ma’am.
And with it a keg of wine
From the Canary Isles,
That could have been theirs.

Free literary productivity and court-poetry
Are strange bedfellows indeed.
In these times of gender-studies,l
Women’s quotes and emancipation,
It wouldn’t be far-fetched
If Carol Ann Duffy,
A Scottish poetess,
Became the next Poetess Laureate.
What a lass!
She’s openly gay,
Didn’t you say?
Has fire anyway.

What a thankless job:
A royal lyrical whisperer,
Striving for public relations
In poetry prize panels,
In the name of poetry.
A thankless job:
Take it
Or leave it.

* * *

Poet Laureate Shortlist

Carol Ann Duffy
Ian McMillan
Geoffrey Hill
Rowan Williams
Tony Harrison
John Betjeman
Simon Armitage
Michael Rosen
Stephen Frey
Lynne Trusse
Don Paterson

(Ed.: You are free to add some more of your own prospective poet laureate candidates).

The Lure of the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)

Once upon a time,
Near the town of Kashgar,
I, a blue-eyed stranger in local clothes was captured
By the sturdy riders of Vali Khan.
On August 26, 1857
I, Adolph Schlagintweit,
a German traveller, an adventurer,
Was beheaded as a spy without a trial.

I was a German who set out on the footsteps
Of the illustrious Alexander von Humboldt.
With my two brothers Hermann and Robert,
From Southhampton on September 20,1854
To see India, the Himalayas and Higher Asia.
Sans invitation, I must admit.

A Persian traveller, a Muslim with a heart
Found my headless body.
He brought my remains all the way to India,
And handed it to a British colonial officer.

It was a fatal fascination,
But had I the chance,
I’d do it again.

******

What others have said about the author:
'Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German form mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix. Nepal is a jewel on the Earth’s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.' Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007.
Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).
‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).
'The manner in which Satis Shroff writes takes the reader right along with him. Extremely vivid and just enough and the irony of the music. Beautiful prosaic thought and astounding writing.

'Your muscles flex, the nerves flatter, the heart gallops,
As you feel how puny you are,
Among all those incessant and powerful waves.'

“Satis Shroff's writing is refined – pure undistilled.” (Susan Marie, www.Gather.com)


“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.

Author Bio:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

]]> Mon, 02 Feb 2009 05:14:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/581975 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/577547 Film-review: Tom Cruise, Dankeschön for Valkyrie (Operation Walküre) (Satis Shroff)

‘Operation Walküre’ was Hitler’s own Emergency Plan which was used by Colonel Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg to put an end to the Fuehrer, take over his Nazi regime and remove the Third Reich’s military and political administrators and replace them with his own men. Stauffenberg and his men risked their own lives, and those of their own families, for the fate of millions of people.

Tom Cruise shone in his role, although some German critics have described the film as being rather ‘plakativ’ and trivial. Nevertheless, Cruise’s film is successful in comparison to George Wilhelm Pabst’s ‘Es geschah am 20. Juli’ and Falk Harnack’s ‘The 20th of July.’ Both films were released at the same time in 1955. A German critic found it irritating that ‘Walküre’ (Valkyrie) is all about the ‘pathetic hero-worship of Stauffenberg.’

Well, why not a hero-worship, even though it’s through the courtesy of a Tom Cruise, when the old war heroes are slowing disappearing with Alzheimer, Parkinson’s and other diseases in gerontological homes, and many in their own four walls. I’m awfully glad and proud that our children are taught about the holocaust in their schools (Abitur classes), that there are memorials, museums and that school-kids have to write essays about Anne Frank, Schindler’s List, the Third Reich and that school classes and students go to see where, and how it happened in the concentration camps in Germany, Poland, France and elsewhere: lest we forget.

Germany does have quite a few resistance heroes, and if more people had the desire to show civil courage like Stauffenberg, Sophie Scholl and a host of others, then such atrocities like World War II, Auschwitz and other concentration- camp genocides would not have happened. I think that the Germans, as a folk, have learned their lessons well.

Actually, the idea to undermine the Hitler regime with the help of Hitler’s own Walküre plans through the implementation of the Auxillary Army to mow down revolts, was General Olbricht’s brain-child. In ‘Operation Walküre,’ however, it is shown as Stauffenberg’s geistesblitz to assassinate Hitler and to put the blame on the SS and Nazi big shots, and to use the ‘Walküre’ plans to make the Nazis surrender their weapons.

According to Norse mythology, Walküren were those who decided who ought to die in the battlefield. In Germanic mythology, the messengers of the highest God Wodan (Odin), ride over the killing-fields and give the slain eternal life by means of a kiss and take them to Asgard, whereby Asen is the mightiest dynasty of Gods with Odin (Wodan) at the top, seconded by Thor (Donar), Baldr, Zyr (Zin) and Frigg (also known as Frija , Frea). Odin was the sovereign God, whom the Germanic dynasties of England and Scandinavia, originally regarded as their divine founder. These Gods are perhaps a reflection of the tripartite division of the Indo-European society into: priest, warrior and cultivator.

Recently, at Thomas Gottschalk’s ‘Wetten, dass’ TV show, Mittermeier, a popular tongue-in-cheek cabaretist said as a joke that instead of Hitler, Tom Cruise would have done well to have laid the leader of the Scientology church cold, which caused a big laugh. Mittermeier’s parody of Obama and Merkel brought the house down with more laughter. In Germany’s first channel ARD Oliver Pocher, a comedian moderated a show (Schmidt Pcher) dressed as Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg, complete with an eye-patch, and the blurb: “You can see better with the First (Channel). The chairman of the ARD Herr Volker Stich wasn’t amused and said, ‘Herr Pocher isn’t do the ARD any good.’ If this fun-making goes on in in good olde Germany, then a lot of Stauffenbergs-in-uniform will be appearing during the Carnival (Fasnet) next month.

Be that as it may, I found Tom Cruise’s film-timing, and his performance as Staufenberg superb, and the film didn’t possess the clichès that critics expected from Hollywood about the role of the Germans at all. It’s a breath-taking film which releases your adrenalin constantly as you identify yourself with the protagonist, when he sets out to achieve his goal of eliminating the Führer: coute que coute, no matter what, after General Henning gives his rather belated signal in the film, and Operation Walküre begins rolling.

You know how it is going to end, due to your pre-knowledge in prior critical scenes, but Stauffenberg doesn’t, and it’s gripping to hear him mutter that he’d personally seen the explosion. Although a cat is accredited with seven lives, Hitler survived fifteen attempts on his life. By the time the news reaches Stauffenberg that the Führer has survived the murder attempt, you know it’s only a matter of time when the Gestapo gets him.

Who was Claus Stauffenberg really? He was a noble German, a count, who lived in the Castle of Jettingen, which lies in the vicinity of Günzburg. He was born in November 15, 1907 and shot by the Nazi execution squad in Berlin on July 20, 1944. Stauffenberg was an officer and resistance fighter. He did his military duty in Poland and France. Between 1940-43 he worked in the organisation department of the General Staff of the Army. He belonged to the German elite, was conservative, but was also open to new social changes, and was initially impressed by Hitler’s success. He developed a growing skepsis regarding the national socialist politics of conquest, critic on the military, Hitler’s mistakes and his disgust regarding the terror meted out to the people of the conquered countries culminated in his decision to be ready for the revolt in 1942.

Claus Stauffenberg was severely wounded in April 1943 in North Africa. He was promoted to the rank of Stabschef in the Reichsarmy department and became the force behind the diverging resistance groups. Since July 1, 1944 he had access to Hitler’s HQ as an Oberst. He personally carried out the plan to blow up the Führer on July 20, 1944 and flew to Berlin because he was a key figure in carrying out and coordinating the technical plans of the operation to take over the state.

Tom Cruise has done justice to his role as Stauffenberg and deserves a big ‘Dankeschön’ for brining this film to the world. Even though there are still old and neo-nazis who raise their voices now and then in Germany even today, we believe in the norms and values of democracy: freedom of opinion, cultures, togetherness (Miteinander) and vive la difference. Yes we can, as you can see. Come to Germany and see it for yourself.

Stauffenberg’s last words in the film are: ‘Long live holy Germany! Es lebe das heilige Deutschland!’ before he is riddled by a firing squad on the night of July 20, 1944. The attempt to assassinate backfired but for many Germans it was a sign, a symbol for another Germany which has lasted even to this day. The men and women of July 20, 1944 were instrumental in shaping the goals (Leitbild) of the present-day Bundeswehr, which is battling against the Talibans in Afghanistan, keeping-off pirates in Somalia and elsewhere, is a Nato member and works closely with the USA and other nations, not to speak of its many development projects in many poor countries.

If you’d like to visit the Military Archive located at the Wiesentalstrasse 10 in Freiburg, just give them a call: 0761-47817-801 and ask for Herr Michael Steidel. Tom Cruise’s crew were at the Archive two weeks long to do their research on German SS and Gestapo uniforms, documents and other historical paraphernalia. At the Military Archiv you’ll find five halls and 55km of files dating back from 1867 till today.

On January 27,2009 like in many other European cities, we Freiburger remember the ‘Persecution Children and Youth from 1933 till 1945’ as the day of liberation of the prisoners from the concentration camp in Ausschwitz in 1945, and we discuss about the families that were separated from the German mainstream in those days, persecuted and exterminated by the National Socialists (Nazis). Their only crime was that they were: Jews, Sintis, Romas, Jehova’s witnesses or disabled human beings, who were regarded as lesser beings in comparison to the so-called master Germanic race. The youth will have a chance to speak to witnesses and survivors of the holocaust who still live in Freiburg or have been invited to speak about their sad, moving, traumatic experiences. In the German language we call them Zeitzeugen.
]]> Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:01:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/577547 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/582017

Film-review: Tom Cruise, Dankeschön for Valkyrie (Operation Walküre) (Satis Shroff)

‘Operation Walküre’ was Hitler’s own Emergency Plan which was used by Colonel Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg to put an end to the Fuehrer, take over his Nazi regime and remove the Third Reich’s military and political administrators and replace them with his own men. Stauffenberg and his men risked their own lives, and those of their own families, for the fate of millions of people.

Tom Cruise shone in his role, although some German critics have described the film as being rather ‘plakativ’ and trivial. Nevertheless, Cruise’s film is successful in comparison to George Wilhelm Pabst’s ‘Es geschah am 20. Juli’ and Falk Harnack’s ‘The 20th of July.’ Both films were released at the same time in 1955. A German critic found it irritating that ‘Walküre’ (Valkyrie) is all about the ‘pathetic hero-worship of Stauffenberg.’

Well, why not a hero-worship, even though it’s through the courtesy of a Tom Cruise, when the old war heroes are slowing disappearing with Alzheimer, Parkinson’s and other diseases in gerontological homes, and many in their own four walls. I’m awfully glad and proud that our children are taught about the holocaust in their schools (Abitur classes), that there are memorials, museums and that school-kids have to write essays about Anne Frank, Schindler’s List, the Third Reich and that school classes and students go to see where, and how it happened in the concentration camps in Germany, Poland, France and elsewhere: lest we forget.

Germany does have quite a few resistance heroes, and if more people had the desire to show civil courage like Stauffenberg, Sophie Scholl and a host of others, then such atrocities like World War II, Auschwitz and other concentration- camp genocides would not have happened. I think that the Germans, as a folk, have learned their lessons well.

Actually, the idea to undermine the Hitler regime with the help of Hitler’s own Walküre plans through the implementation of the Auxillary Army to mow down revolts, was General Olbricht’s brain-child. In ‘Operation Walküre,’ however, it is shown as Stauffenberg’s geistesblitz to assassinate Hitler and to put the blame on the SS and Nazi big shots, and to use the ‘Walküre’ plans to make the Nazis surrender their weapons.

According to Norse mythology, Walküren were those who decided who ought to die in the battlefield. In Germanic mythology, the messengers of the highest God Wodan (Odin), ride over the killing-fields and give the slain eternal life by means of a kiss and take them to Asgard, whereby Asen is the mightiest dynasty of Gods with Odin (Wodan) at the top, seconded by Thor (Donar), Baldr, Zyr (Zin) and Frigg (also known as Frija , Frea). Odin was the sovereign God, whom the Germanic dynasties of England and Scandinavia, originally regarded as their divine founder. These Gods are perhaps a reflection of the tripartite division of the Indo-European society into: priest, warrior and cultivator.

Recently, at Thomas Gottschalk’s ‘Wetten, dass’ TV show, Mittermeier, a popular tongue-in-cheek cabaretist said as a joke that instead of Hitler, Tom Cruise would have done well to have laid the leader of the Scientology church cold, which caused a big laugh. Mittermeier’s parody of Obama and Merkel brought the house down with more laughter. In Germany’s first channel ARD Oliver Pocher, a comedian moderated a show (Schmidt Pcher) dressed as Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg, complete with an eye-patch, and the blurb: “You can see better with the First (Channel). The chairman of the ARD Herr Volker Stich wasn’t amused and said, ‘Herr Pocher isn’t do the ARD any good.’ If this fun-making goes on in in good olde Germany, then a lot of Stauffenbergs-in-uniform will be appearing during the Carnival (Fasnet) next month.

Be that as it may, I found Tom Cruise’s film-timing, and his performance as Staufenberg superb, and the film didn’t possess the clichès that critics expected from Hollywood about the role of the Germans at all. It’s a breath-taking film which releases your adrenalin constantly as you identify yourself with the protagonist, when he sets out to achieve his goal of eliminating the Führer: coute que coute, no matter what, after General Henning gives his rather belated signal in the film, and Operation Walküre begins rolling.

You know how it is going to end, due to your pre-knowledge in prior critical scenes, but Stauffenberg doesn’t, and it’s gripping to hear him mutter that he’d personally seen the explosion. Although a cat is accredited with seven lives, Hitler survived fifteen attempts on his life. By the time the news reaches Stauffenberg that the Führer has survived the murder attempt, you know it’s only a matter of time when the Gestapo gets him.

Who was Claus Stauffenberg really? He was a noble German, a count, who lived in the Castle of Jettingen, which lies in the vicinity of Günzburg. He was born in November 15, 1907 and shot by the Nazi execution squad in Berlin on July 20, 1944. Stauffenberg was an officer and resistance fighter. He did his military duty in Poland and France. Between 1940-43 he worked in the organisation department of the General Staff of the Army. He belonged to the German elite, was conservative, but was also open to new social changes, and was initially impressed by Hitler’s success. He developed a growing skepsis regarding the national socialist politics of conquest, critic on the military, Hitler’s mistakes and his disgust regarding the terror meted out to the people of the conquered countries culminated in his decision to be ready for the revolt in 1942.

Claus Stauffenberg was severely wounded in April 1943 in North Africa. He was promoted to the rank of Stabschef in the Reichsarmy department and became the force behind the diverging resistance groups. Since July 1, 1944 he had access to Hitler’s HQ as an Oberst. He personally carried out the plan to blow up the Führer on July 20, 1944 and flew to Berlin because he was a key figure in carrying out and coordinating the technical plans of the operation to take over the state.

Tom Cruise has done justice to his role as Stauffenberg and deserves a big ‘Dankeschön’ for brining this film to the world. Even though there are still old and neo-nazis who raise their voices now and then in Germany even today, we believe in the norms and values of democracy: freedom of opinion, cultures, togetherness (Miteinander) and vive la difference. Yes we can, as you can see. Come to Germany and see it for yourself.

Stauffenberg’s last words in the film are: ‘Long live holy Germany! Es lebe das heilige Deutschland!’ before he is riddled by a firing squad on the night of July 20, 1944. The attempt to assassinate backfired but for many Germans it was a sign, a symbol for another Germany which has lasted even to this day. The men and women of July 20, 1944 were instrumental in shaping the goals (Leitbild) of the present-day Bundeswehr, which is battling against the Talibans in Afghanistan, keeping-off pirates in Somalia and elsewhere, is a Nato member and works closely with the USA and other nations, not to speak of its many development projects in many poor countries.

If you’d like to visit the Military Archive located at the Wiesentalstrasse 10 in Freiburg, just give them a call: 0761-47817-801 and ask for Herr Michael Steidel. Tom Cruise’s crew were at the Archive two weeks long to do their research on German SS and Gestapo uniforms, documents and other historical paraphernalia. At the Military Archiv you’ll find five halls and 55km of files dating back from 1867 till today.

On January 27,2009 like in many other European cities, we Freiburger remember the ‘Persecution Children and Youth from 1933 till 1945’ as the day of liberation of the prisoners from the concentration camp in Ausschwitz in 1945, and we discuss about the families that were separated from the German mainstream in those days, persecuted and exterminated by the National Socialists (Nazis). Their only crime was that they were: Jews, Sintis, Romas, Jehova’s witnesses or disabled human beings, who were regarded as lesser beings in comparison to the so-called master Germanic race. The youth will have a chance to speak to witnesses and survivors of the holocaust who still live in Freiburg or have been invited to speak about their sad, moving, traumatic experiences. In the German language we call them Zeitzeugen.]]> Tue, 27 Jan 2009 03:01:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/582017 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/572125
AUTUMN LEAVES IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Autumn leaves dancing in the sky,
Gleaming as the sunlight
Caresses them.

Out in the distance,
The blue Schwarzwald,
With its melange
Of conifer and decidious trees,
Bursting out in autumnal rhapsody.

Guarded by the tall pine trees,
Like sentinels,
Overlooking an amphitheatre.

Its spurs and hidden valleys,

Inhabited by Allemanic denizens,
So long as time can tell.

To the south
The four languidly moving white blades
Of modern windmills,
With their blinking lights
Overlooking Rosskopf.

And far to the East,
The fairy-tale towns
Of Buchenbach and St. Peter.

Is this not Heaven on Earth?
The lush green grass in the meadows,
Has long been cut,
The hay already stacked in the barn.
I gather Löwenzahn for our rabbits,
Tasty salad for humans,
A delight for hares and rabbits.

Frau Frutiker greets me warmly,
Offers Schwarzwälder specialities.
She plays the flute,
Her husband Clemens
The trumpet
At the Buchenbacher Musikverein.

Autumn in Kappel,
A personification
Of serenity and tranquillity.

* * *

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.

I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its aries early.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat.
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff)

On a hill in Kappel
You feel free and elated.
The stream that bubbles below,
Like an incessant lyric,
A monk’s chant in a monastery.

The cherry tree hangs
With bloom on its sagging boughs.
Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour,
In this Black Forest idyll.

The blue Schwarzwald range,
Makes poetry out of the dying sun
Around the house,
Like an arena in the Himalayas.
The tulips in bright colours are everywhere,
The lovely lilies are swaying,
So are the gladiolas.

As I walk along a mountain stream,
I smell hyacinths.
The marigolds are in full blossom,
And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me,
For marigolds and Tagetes grow
When it’s Dasain and Tihar,
Festival time,
Far in the Himalayas.
From the Himalayas to the Black Forest,
What a long journey.

The evening wind whispers gently
From the Vale of Hell,
Der Höllentäler,
As we fondly call it.
The birds are coming home to roost.

I discern the attentuated tone
Of my little daughter Elena
Playing on her violin.
My feet take me home
With tardy steps.
I feel at peace
With myself

* * *
FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

I sit on my chaiselonge,
Serving Darjeeling to my friends,
Strengthened with masala,
And Sahne.
There’s Murat from Turkey,
Rosella from Italy,
Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg.

Rosella has brought North Italian flair
And cakes that I relish,
From Milano.
Pannetone with Mascapone,
Champagne and Tiramisu.
A kiss to the right,
A kiss to the left,
Settles down and says:
‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satis?’
Hubby Samuel has expanded
His aerospace factory.

My friend Murat,
The personification of Miteinander,
Hands me a new novel,
With his signature,
Written despite the protests
Of his family,
Keeping late hours,
To finish his Opus magnum,
A story about the Allevite folk.

A pleasure and honour,
But I’m afraid,
I can’t read it:
It’s Turkish to me.

Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady,
Glows like the sun,
An infectious smile
Over her tanned face.
And tells of her adventures in Italy,
Latin-lover inbegriffen,
And of her Sudanese seduction.
An elderly lady,
A friend with style
And aesthetic intelligence.

Ain’t it wonderful
To have dear friends?
Home abroad,
Abroad home.
Shanti!
Shanti!
Peace which passeth understanding.

Glossary:
Chaiselonge: long French sofa
Inbegriffen: included
Miteinander: together, togetherness
Shanti: peace
Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms
Bahn: train
Mumbai: Bombay
Bueb: small male child
Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari
Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany

*****

BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff)

Music has left its cultural confines.
You hear the strings of a sitar
Mingling with big band sounds.
Percussions from Africa
Accompanying ragas from Nepal.

A never-ending performance of musicians
From all over the world.
Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach,
Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn.
A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums
At the Zeltmusik festival.

Tabla and tanpura
Involved in a musical dialogue,
With trumpet and saxaphone,
Argentinian tango and Carribian salsa,
Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly
With classical Bharta Natyam dancers,
Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied
By a Tibetan monastery orchestra,
Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes
And masked drummers.

As I walk past the Café Bueb, the Metzgerei,
The St. Blasius church bells begin to chime.
I see Annette’s tiny garden with red, yellow and white tulips,
‘Hallochen!’ she says with a broad, blonde smile,
Her slender cat stretches itself,
Emits a miao and goes by.
I walk on and admire Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree,
Her pensioned husband nods back at me.
And in the distance,
A view of the Black Forest,
With whispering wind-rotors,
And the trees in the vicinity,
Full of birds
Coming home to roost.

* * *
WINTER BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *
Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Whereever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *
About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:
„Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich).

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).

‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).

“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.





]]> Mon, 19 Jan 2009 04:37:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/572125 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/582019



Schwarzwaldlyrik (Satis Shroff, Freiburg):


AUTUMN LEAVES IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Autumn leaves dancing in the sky,
Gleaming as the sunlight
Caresses them.

Out in the distance,
The blue Schwarzwald,
With its melange
Of conifer and decidious trees,
Bursting out in autumnal rhapsody.

Guarded by the tall pine trees,
Like sentinels,
Overlooking an amphitheatre.

Its spurs and hidden valleys,

Inhabited by Allemanic denizens,
So long as time can tell.

To the south
The four languidly moving white blades
Of modern windmills,
With their blinking lights
Overlooking Rosskopf.

And far to the East,
The fairy-tale towns
Of Buchenbach and St. Peter.

Is this not Heaven on Earth?
The lush green grass in the meadows,
Has long been cut,
The hay already stacked in the barn.
I gather Löwenzahn for our rabbits,
Tasty salad for humans,
A delight for hares and rabbits.

Frau Frutiker greets me warmly,
Offers Schwarzwälder specialities.
She plays the flute,
Her husband Clemens
The trumpet
At the Buchenbacher Musikverein.

Autumn in Kappel,
A personification
Of serenity and tranquillity.

* * *


CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.

I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its aries early.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat.
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff)

On a hill in Kappel
You feel free and elated.
The stream that bubbles below,
Like an incessant lyric,
A monk’s chant in a monastery.

The cherry tree hangs
With bloom on its sagging boughs.
Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour,
In this Black Forest idyll.

The blue Schwarzwald range,
Makes poetry out of the dying sun
Around the house,
Like an arena in the Himalayas.
The tulips in bright colours are everywhere,
The lovely lilies are swaying,
So are the gladiolas.

As I walk along a mountain stream,
I smell hyacinths.
The marigolds are in full blossom,
And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me,
For marigolds and Tagetes grow
When it’s Dasain and Tihar,
Festival time,
Far in the Himalayas.
From the Himalayas to the Black Forest,
What a long journey.

The evening wind whispers gently
From the Vale of Hell,
Der Höllentäler,
As we fondly call it.
The birds are coming home to roost.

I discern the attentuated tone
Of my little daughter Elena
Playing on her violin.
My feet take me home
With tardy steps.
I feel at peace
With myself

* * *
FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

I sit on my chaiselonge,
Serving Darjeeling to my friends,
Strengthened with masala,
And Sahne.
There’s Murat from Turkey,
Rosella from Italy,
Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg.

Rosella has brought North Italian flair
And cakes that I relish,
From Milano.
Pannetone with Mascapone,
Champagne and Tiramisu.
A kiss to the right,
A kiss to the left,
Settles down and says:
‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satis?’
Hubby Samuel has expanded
His aerospace factory.

My friend Murat,
The personification of Miteinander,
Hands me a new novel,
With his signature,
Written despite the protests
Of his family,
Keeping late hours,
To finish his Opus magnum,
A story about the Allevite folk.

A pleasure and honour,
But I’m afraid,
I can’t read it:
It’s Turkish to me.

Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady,
Glows like the sun,
An infectious smile
Over her tanned face.
And tells of her adventures in Italy,
Latin-lover inbegriffen,
And of her Sudanese seduction.
An elderly lady,
A friend with style
And aesthetic intelligence.

Ain’t it wonderful
To have dear friends?
Home abroad,
Abroad home.
Shanti!
Shanti!
Peace which passeth understanding.

Glossary:
Chaiselonge: long French sofa
Inbegriffen: included
Miteinander: together, togetherness
Shanti: peace
Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms
Bahn: train
Mumbai: Bombay
Bueb: small male child
Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari
Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany

*****

BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff)

Music has left its cultural confines.
You hear the strings of a sitar
Mingling with big band sounds.
Percussions from Africa
Accompanying ragas from Nepal.

A never-ending performance of musicians
From all over the world.
Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach,
Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn.
A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums
At the Zeltmusik festival.

Tabla and tanpura
Involved in a musical dialogue,
With trumpet and saxaphone,
Argentinian tango and Carribian salsa,
Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly
With classical Bharta Natyam dancers,
Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied
By a Tibetan monastery orchestra,
Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes
And masked drummers.

As I walk past the Café Bueb, the Metzgerei,
The St. Blasius church bells begin to chime.
I see Annette’s tiny garden with red, yellow and white tulips,
‘Hallochen!’ she says with a broad, blonde smile,
Her slender cat stretches itself,
Emits a miao and goes by.
I walk on and admire Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree,
Her pensioned husband nods back at me.
And in the distance,
A view of the Black Forest,
With whispering wind-rotors,
And the trees in the vicinity,
Full of birds
Coming home to roost.

* * *

WINTER BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *
Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Whereever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *
About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and 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 where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:
„Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich).

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).

‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).

“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.





]]> Mon, 19 Jan 2009 04:01:00 EST http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/582019 48.0 7.8548.07.85 http://satisshroff.tigblog.org/post/557381 A minstrel's wanderings and experiences in the Himalayan republic of Nepal


Gainey: A Minstrel’s Songs of Love and Sorrow (Satis Shroff)

Once upon a time,
my grandpa said:
“In Nepal even a child
Can walk the countryside alone.”
It’s just not true,
Not for a Nepalese,
Born with a sarangi in his hand.

I’m a musician,
One of the lower caste
In the Hindu hierarchy.
I bring delight to my listeners,
Hope to touch the hearts
Of my spectators.

I sing about love,
Hate and evil,
Kings and Queens,
Princes and Princesses,
The poor and the rich,
And the fight for existence,
In the craggy foothills
And the towering heights
Of the Himalayas.

The Abode of the Snows,
Where Buddhist and Hindu
Gods and Goddesses reside,
And look over mankind
And his folly.

I was born in Tanhau,
A nondescript hamlet in Nepal,
Were it not for Bhanu Bhakta Acharya
Who was born here,
The poet who translated the Ramayana,
From high-flown Sanskrit into simple Nepali
For all to read.

I remember the first day
My father handed me a sarangi.
He taught me how to hold and swing the bow.
I was delighted with the first squeaks it made,
As I moved the bow on the taught horsetail strings.
It was as though my small sarangi
Was talking with me.
I was so happy,
I and my sarangi,
My sarangi and me.
Tears of joy ran down my cheeks.
I was so thankful.
I touched my Papa’s feet,
As is the custom in the Himalayas.
I could embrace the whole world.

My father taught me the tones,
And the songs to go with them,
For we gaineys are minstrels
Who wander from place to place,
Like gypsies,
Like butterflies in Spring.
We are a restless folk
To be seen everywhere,
Where people dwell,
For we live from their charity
And our trade.

The voice of the gainey,
The sad melody of the sarangi.
A boon to those who love the lyrics,
A nuisance to those who hate it.

Many a time, we’ve been kicked and beaten
By young people who prefer canned music,
From their ghetto-blasters.
Outlandish melodies,
Electronic beats you can’t catch up with.
Spinning on their heads,
Hip-hopping like robots,
Not humans.
It’s the techno, ecstasy generation

Where have all the old melodies gone?
The Nepalese folksongs of yore?
The song of the Gainey?
“This is globanisation,” they told me.
The grey-eyed visitors from abroad,
‘Quirays’ as we call them in Nepal.
Or ‘gora-sahibs’ in Hindustan.

The quirays took countless pictures of me,
With their cameras,
Gave handsome tips.
A grey-haired didi with spectacles,
And teeth in like a horse’s mouth,
Even gave me a polaroid-picture
Of me,
With my sarangi,
My mountain violin.

Sometimes I look my fading picture
And wonder how fast time flows.
My smile is disappearing,
Grey hair at the sides,
The beginning of baldness.
I’ve lost a lot of my molars,
At the hands of the Barbier
From Muzzafapur in the Indian plains,
He gave me clove oil
To ease my pain,
As he pulled out my fouled teeth,
In an open-air salon
Right near the Tribhuvan Highway.

I still have my voice
And my sarangi,
And love to sing my repertoire,
Even though many people
Sneer and jeer at me,
And prefer Bollywood texts
From my larynx.

To please their whims,
I learned even Bollywood songs,
Aginst my will,
Eavesdropping behind cinema curtains,
To please the tourists
And my country’s modern youth,
I even learned some English songs.
Oh money, dear money.
I’ve become a cultural prostitute.
I’ve done my Zunft, my trade,
An injustice,
But I did it to survive.
I had to integrate myself
And to assimilate
In my changing society.
Time has not stood still
Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

One day when I was much younger,
I was resting under a Pipal tree
When I saw one beautiful tourist girl.
I looked and smiled at her.
She caressed her hair,
And smiled back.
For me it was love at first sight.

All the while gazing at her
I took out my small sarangi,
With bells on my fiddle bow
And played a sad Nepali melody
Composed by Ambar Gurung,
Which I’d learned in my wanderings
From Ilam to Darjeeling.

I am the Sky
You are the Soil,
Even though we yearn
A thousand times,
We cannot be together.

I was sentimental that moment.
Had tears in my eyes
When I finished my song.’
The blonde woman sauntered up to me,
And said in a smooth voice,
‘Thank you for the lovely song.
Can you tell me what it means?’

I felt a lump on my throat
And couldn’t speak
For a while.
Then, with a sigh, I said,
‘We have this caste system in Nepal.

When I first saw you,
I imagined you were a fair bahun girl.
We aren’t allowed to fall in love
With bahunis.
It is a forbidden love,
A love that can never come true.
I love you
But I can’t have you.’

‘But you haven’t even tried,’
Said the blonde girl coyly.
‘I like your golden hair,
Your blue eyes.
It’s like watching the sky.’

‘Oh, thank you,
Danyabad.
She asked: ‘But why do you say:
‘We cannot be together?’
‘We are together now,’ I replied,
‘But the society does not like
Us gaineys from the lower caste.
The bahuns, chettris castes are above us.
They look down upon us.’

‘Why do they do that?’
Asked the blonde girl.
I spat out:
‘Because they are high-born.
We, kamis, damais and sarkis,
Are dalits.
We are the downtrodden,
The underdogs of this society
In the foothills of the Himalayas.’

‘Who made you what you are?’ she asked.
I told her: ‘The Hindu society is formed this way:
Once upon a time there was a bahun,
And from him came the Varnas.
The Vernas are a division of society
Into four parts.
Brahma created the bahuns
From his mouth.
The chettris who are warriers
Came from his shoulder,
The traders from his thigh
And the servants
From the sole of his feet.’

‘What about the poor dalits?’
Quipped the blonde foreigner.
‘The dalits fell deeper in the Hindu society,
And were not regarded as full members
Of the human race.
We had to do the errands and menial jobs
That were forbidden for the higher castes.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.
‘Like disposing dead animals,
Making leather by skinning hides
Of dead animals,
Cleaning toilets and latrines,
Clearing the sewage canals of the rich,
High born Hindus.
I am not allowed to touch a bahun,
Even with my shadow, you know.’
‘What a mean, ugly system,’ she commented,
And shook her head.

‘May I touch you?’ she asked impulsively.
She was daring and wanted to see how I’d react.
‘You may,’ I replied.
She touched my hand,
Then my cheeks with her two hands.
I found it pleasant and a great honour.
I joined my hands and said sincerely,
‘Dhanyabad.’
I, a dalit, a no-name, a no-human,
Had been touched by a young, beautiful woman,
A quiray tourist,
From across the Black Waters:
Kalapani.

A wave of happiness and joy
Swept over me.
A miracle had happened.
Like a princess kissing a toad,
In fairy tales I’d heard.
Perhaps Gandhi was right:
I was a Child of God,
A Harijan,
And this fair lady an apsara.

She, in her European mind,
Thought she’d brought human rights
At least to the gainey,
This wonderful wandering minstrel,
With his quaint fiddle
Called sarangi,
His jet black hair
And infectious smile.
She said in her melodious voice,
‘In my country all people are free and equal,
Have the same rights and dignity.
All humans have common sense,
A conscience,
And we ought to meet each other
As brothers and sisters.

I tucked my sarangi in my armpit,
Clapped my hands and said:
‘That’s nice.
Noble thoughts.
It works for you here, perhaps.
But it won’t work for me,’
Feeling a sense of remorse and nausea
Sweep over me.

* * *


THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

When I close my eyes,
I see everything in its place
In the kingdom of Nepal.

I see the highest building in Kathmandu,
What looms higher than the Dharara,
Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati?
The former King’s Narayanhiti palace,
Built by an architect,
From across the Black Waters.
Therein lived Vishnu,
Whom many Hindus still call:
The unconquerable preserver.

The conqueror of Nepal?
No, that was his ancestor
Prithvi Narayan Shah,
A king of Gorkha.

Vishnu is the preserver of the world,
With qualities of mercy and goodness.
Vishnu is all-pervading and self-existent,
Visited Nepal’s remote districts
In a helicopter with his consort
And militia.

He inaugurated buildings
Factories and events.
Vishnu dissolved the parliament too,
For the sake of his kingdom,
As I was told to write.

His subjects and worshippers were,
Of late,
Divided.
Alas, Ravana and his demons
Have besieged his land.
The king was obliged to go,
And with him I lost my life-job
As a ghost-writer.

I cannot remember
How many articles, speeches, decrees,
Proclamations I’ve penned
In His Majesty’s Service.
Who would have thought
That I’d have to look
For another job?

Towards the end,
My boss not only lost his shirt,
But also his land,
And blamed me,
His sincere ghost-writer,
For my bad verse and prose.
He barked in a tirade:
“You are to blame for the misery
In my country.”

I, who had praised him,
Written admirable speeches,
Full of love, pathos and empathy
For his poor subjects,
Was now a mere scapegoat.

I, who had written
Soothing lines for the unruly masses,
Who were in revolt,
After centuries of feudal hierarchy,
Mismanagement,
Bad governance,
Corruption and nepotism.

I, who had sought a voice
To pacify the lynch mobs
In the streets of Catmandu,
Biratnagar, Dolpo
And Janakpur.
That was the unkindest cut of all.

The royal newspapers and the paid-press
Were blooming with news
Of development in Nepal.
But the people knew better.
They were waiting.

The dam of development
Had been broken,
A word play on ‘development.’
When the royal dam collapsed in Pokhara,
The people had a big laugh.
The king’s dying father said:
‘When I die,
My country should live.’
On still moments,
I hear the refrain:
Ma marey pani,
Mero desh,
Bachi rahos.

Nepal is now a republic
With cantons instead of zones,
We even have a fish-tailed mountain
That looks like Zermatt.
We have tourism too,
But where are the bankers,
The executives and firms?
We have an Aid Industry,
Cashing in dollars
From foreign governments
And NGOs.

Nepal exports carpets,
Human labourers
For the emirates,
Sherpas for the climbers
And Gurkhas for the Brits
And flesh for the Upper and Lower Grant Roads.

When I open my eyes,
I see Vishnu still slumbering
On his bed of Sesha,
The serpent
In the pools of Budanilkantha
And Balaju.

Prithee,
Where is the Creator?
When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?
Only Bhairab’s destruction
Of the Himalayan world is to be seen.

Much blood has been shed
Between the decades and the centuries.
The mound of noses and ears
Of the vanquished at Kirtipur,
The shot and mutilated
At the Kot massacre,
The revolution in front of the Narayanhiti Palace,
When Nepalese screamed
And died for democracy.
And now the corpses of the Maobadis,
Civilians and Nepalese security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.
I, who wracked my cerebrum for the King,
Am sickened by the royal demeanour,
For Mr. Shah is now a mortal,
A politician to boot.

I, a royal ghost-writer,
Who once smelt the air
Of the Narayanhiti Palace,
Have nowhere to go.

I’m a writer no more.
I’m a ghost
Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

· * *


On Her Majesty’s Lyrical Service:

Poet Laureate (Satis Shroff)

Wanted:
A person who writes in lyrical form,
Composes verses for occasions,
Good stanzas in favour of kings and queens,
Princes and Princesses,
For the price of 5000 Sterling pounds
And, of course, 650 bottles
Of Sherry,
To inspire the poet.
And the title of Poet Laureate.

A court poet is a smith of verses,
Not a bass-guitarist
Of the royal band
Based in Buckingham.
Beginners need not apply.
Candidates should be
A professor of English Literature.

The last Poet Laureate penned
Verses in praise of Edward
And his beautiful Sophie,
A hundred years of the Queen Mother
And the latter’s sad demise.
The Queen’s diamond wedding anniversary,
A rap-rhyme for rosy-cheeked Prince William,
When he turned twenty-one.
Yeah! ‘Better stand back
Here’s a age attack.’
He even congratulated Charles and Camilla
On their belated marriage.
The Prince was overwhelmed
When he heard Motion’s
‘Spring Wedding.’
But all verses weren’t,
As we say in Germany:
Friede, Freude, Eierkuchen.
Motion’s ‘Cost of Life’ on Paddington,
‘Causa belli’ emphasised
Elections, money, empire,
Oil and Dad.
Themes and lyrics that bother us,
Day in and day out.
The rulers and battles won are expected
To be praised to Heaven,
Like Master Henry,
Ben Jonson et al have done

In 1668 John Dryden was sacked
Not for his bad verses,
But for changing his confession.
Sir Walter Raleigh and William Morris
Didn’t relinquish their freedom
And said politely: No thank you, Ma’am.
And with it a keg of wine
From the Canary Isles,
That could have been theirs.

Free literary productivity and court-poetry
Are strange bedfellows indeed.
In these times of gender-studies,l
Women’s quotes and emancipation,
It wouldn’t be far-fetched
If Carol Ann Duffy,
A Scottish poetess,
Became the next Poetess Laureate.
What a lass!
She’s openly gay,
Didn’t you say?
Has fire anyway.

What a thankless job:
A royal lyrical whisperer,
Striving for public relations
In poetry prize panels,
In the name of poetry.
A thankless job:
Take it
Or leave it.

* * *

Poet Laureate Shortlist

Carol Ann Duffy
Ian McMillan
Geoffrey Hill
Rowan Williams
Tony Harrison
John Betjeman
Simon Armitage
Michael Rosen
Stephen Frey
Lynne Trusse
Don Paterson

(Ed.: You are free to add some more of your own prospective poet laureate candidates).

The Chance to Change (Satis Shroff)

“Education is the best thing in the world for Nepal’s children, be they Gurkhas, Sherpas or Madeshis. And what Nepal needs most in this crucial transitional period is peace, co-operation between the different ethnic groups, a craving to mend ways, build bridges between its cultures, connect and find common goals.”Satis Shroff

Mr. Swaroop Chamling, who is a Rai and ex-Gurkha settled in UK, is gathering signatures for a Gurkha petition on www.Darjeeling Forum (google or yahoo search will do) and I find it interesting that the Gurkhas, civilians and military, are getting organised to fight for their rights at last, after years of discrimination, hiring and firing, and low-pay on the part of the Ministry of Defence (MoD) in Britain. What I found interesting was the inference of a Gurkha reader on www.Gurkhas.com that it was Bahuns and Chettris all the way in Nepalese history and even today, whether in the opposition or in the ruling parties. The same sort of infighting that you see in Delhi between the Punjabis, Bengalis and other Indian ethnic groups is to be seen in Catmandu’s ministries. It’s always Newars versus Bahuns and Chettris, with the rest of the ethnic groups as onlookers. If you want to make a career in Catmandu you have to learn the local lingo, which is a language with monosyllables---Nepal Bhasa.

It is a fact that there are only bahuns and chettris on both sides: among the maoists and political parties in Nepal. The reason why bahuns and chettris dominate the political, economic and other landscapes in Nepal is that they have been privileged through Hinduism, its raja-praja set-up and caste-system, with its purity and pollution implications that have swept and divided the families in Nepal and the Nepalese diaspora for centuries (as in India even today), and I think that Dor Bahadur Bista has illustrated this amply in his writings, and was cursed wrongly by critics in Catmandu and elsewhere as a 'Nestbeschmutzer.'

One can combat this discrepancy by uniting to create a new, ethnic-friendly Nepal by decree of law, and by observing the new democratic developments in Nepal as a chance to change the old, federal structures and bringing in a secular state, like our big neighbour India. India did, what Nepal is in the process of doing, by introducing Privvy Purse for the Royals fifty years ago. The king has been sacked and the Narayanhiti Palace now a museum, just like the Hanuman Dhoka palace which can be viewed by Nepalese and tourists alike, and should act as an incentive for young Nepali school-kids to preserve the democratic rights of the country, lest it fall in the wrong hands, and not let history repeat itself.

The Nepalese society finds itself in a period of transition and has yet to decide which form of government is suitable and practicable for the society. Naming the former anchals or zones as cantons alone won’t make a Switzerland out of Nepal, but the will of the people to live under a governmental form based on public opinion and votes might bring this Himalayan country closer to the wishes of its people.

I remember the first page of The Rising Nepal bore the latin words: vox populi, vox dei. That was a time when a king and reincarnation of Vishnu ruled the land. The king had to sadly realise that the voice of the people was not the voice of God. And the voice of the king was certainly not the voice of the people. It was perhaps the voice of the ghost-writer. And thereby hangs a tale.

Education is the best thing in the world for Nepal’s children, be they Gurkha, Sherpa or Madeshi. And what Nepal needs most in this crucial transitional period is peace, co-operation between the different ethnic groups, to mend ways, build bridges between its cultures, connect and find common goals.

But there’s the beginning of democracy in Nepal now, and the tribes and castes that were neglected in the past should get their rights by creating a federal form of government, like in German or in Switzerland, whereby the country has to be formed administratively as federal, local government with the power to carry out trade and commerce with neighbouring countries or states. Only then will there be a freedom of trade and commerce in all geographical and ethnic sectors.

The way it has been in the past: Kathmandu was Nepal. It was too centralised, the King lived in Kathmandu, the parliament was, and still is, in Kathmandu. Even for small things one had to have Kathmandu’s blessings. I hope the new governments will see to this matter and think of Nepal holistically, and not like in the past. I say government, because the political situation hasn’t shown much stability in the past for observers abroad.

Nevertheless, there is hope, and this torch of hope will be carried by the children and youth of Nepal. Whether we are Gurungs, Tamangs, Chettris, Bahuns, Bhujels, Kirats or Madhesis we have to unite and make Nepal a land that we can be proud of through our own endeavours. To borrow a line from JFK ‘ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.’ After all, we are a republican democracy, aren’t we?

The comity of nations would only be too willing to see a politically and economically stable Nepal and render assistance as in the past, before the war between the government troops and the maoists began.

So let us unite above the communal feelings and ideologies, and think in terms of Nepal as a nation, and not in terms of the opposite of democracy, namely anarchy. Let the children of Nepal from the plains and the hills have the same educational opportunities and work under human conditions. Let us show the world that we have a word for negotiation in our language, and that we also have the ability of carrying out a dialogue in the parliamentary sense of the word.

Peace, trust, faith, character, integrity, tolerance, dignity are qualities that cannot be attained by nurturing communal feelings and ethnic hatred. It is only through peaceful means, trust, honesty, cooperation and coordination that the long arduous task called development can be attained and the people can attain mental, physical and social wellness in the tedious march towards progress. To this end, we have to decide to change. Revolution is change, and the young men and women who were fired by their imagination during the decade long krieg have to do so in a constructive way, or else Nepal will forever remain ‘a yam between two rocks’ and a perpetual member of the least developed countries, in every sense of the word.

Change or perish should be the battle-cry of democracy loving Nepalese.
Yes we can, if we want it strong enough.

About the Author:

Satis Shroff teaches Creative Writing at the University of Freiburg, and 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, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He 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 (Lehrbeauftragter für Creative Writing, Albert Ludwigs Universität Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:
“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.
Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).
‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).
'Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German form mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix. Nepal is a jewel on the Earth’s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.' Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007.
“Beautiful prosaic thought and astounding writing. Satis Shroff's writing is refined – pure undistilled.” (Susan Marie, www.Gather.com











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