Zeitschriftenartikel zum Thema „The Afghan Sons“

L'Autore mette in risalto come la conoscenza, la disponibilitŕ e il dialogo del conoscere sono le condizioni per capire veramente l'afgano e la sensibilitŕ afgana. E ciň č quello che manca in chi, straniero, si occupa dell'Afghanistan: diplomatico, militare, funzionario, volontario, tecnico medico, che arrivano, pensano di risolvere i problemi, per poi tornare presto in patria con un aumento di stipendio e di carriera. L'Autore richiama invece alcuni esempi di persone che entrano dentro all'animo afgano: Alberto Cairo č il piů citato per la sua opera e i suo libri che riproducono questo rapporto con la vita quotidiana e l'identitŕ afgana. Infine l'articolo riporta esperienze dirette dell'Autore, che si concentrano nell'incontro con Abdullah, il venditore di meloni, con il quale passa ore, sorbendo tč afgano, a parlare di vita quotidiana, di politica, a cominciare da Karzai.

In our examination of the representations of exile in Afghan popular culture, we focus in particular on popular poetry and song lyrics in Farsi, one of the national languages of Afghanistan. This article concentrates on the voices of exiles, their self-representation and their descriptions of life far from their homeland. We argue that, in addition to offering catharsis and expressing collective suffering, the verses are also used to urge return and, more recently, to voice complaints to and about host societies, as well as to critique the Afghan government for its failures.

The research conducted was entitled "Affixation Analysis in the DEKADE Afgan Song Album". This research was conducted using qualitative methods. The data used in the study were taken from the lyrics of the Afgan song on the album "DEKADE" which is available on sites on the internet. The problem discussed was the use of affixes to Afgan's song lyrics in DEKADE's album. The results of the research conducted show that there are many uses of affixation in the lyrics of agu Afgan. There are 112 words that contain affixations in the Afgan song lyrics on the album. Of the 112 data found with affixes, suffixes had the highest percentage of usage. There were 69 data suffixes that were found, consisting of the suffixes kan-, -nya, -an, and -i. The suffix that is mostly found is kan-, while the suffix with the smallest frequency of occurrence is the suffix -an. Like suffixes, prefixes are also found in the lyrics of the song. The prefix found in 24 data consisted of tar, ber-, di-, mem-, and se-. Meanwhile, in the confixes of the song lyrics, there are 9 data consisting of performances and occasional data.

In this reflection, Louise Pascale describes the evolution, development, and outcomes of the Afghan Children's Songbook Project, which is reintroducing children's ethnic songs to the children of Afghanistan and Afghan expats as well as to American schoolchildren. Her reflection highlights the potential for music to unify and strengthen community, thus joining people together in a common experience. She explores the suppression and resurgence of musical culture in Afghanistan and the connection of this experience to music education in schools in the United States.

AbstractThe second half of the 1990s saw the emergence of a new, distinctive type of Afghan poetry, the Taliban tarana performed in Pashto by one or more vocalists without instrumental accompaniment and characterised by the melodic modes of local folk music. Over the last fifteen years the tarana chants have gained wide distribution within Afghanistan and Pashto speaking parts of Pakistan, as well as among the Pashtun diaspora. Considering their unambiguous ideological status and their immense popularity within the country of origin they can be regarded as the signature tune of the Afghan insurgency. The present article, which focuses on the literary roots of these songs, attempts to demonstrate that their authors are following century old patterns of Pashto oral and written poetry while adopting traditional material to the needs and the milieu of contemporary Afghan society. The publication is supplemented by a transcription and English translation of five tarana chants.

L'Autore tratta di un'area di confine, che č insieme divisione statale e unione etnica e culturale. L'area di confine considerata č quella delle Aree tribali amministrate federalmente ("Federally Administered Tribal Areas - Fata"), che appartengono al Pakistan e sono a ridosso del confine con l'Afghanistan. Vengono descritte le specificitŕ politico-giudiziarie, economiche e produttive e commerciali, ma soprattutto la continuitŕ etnica con la parte afgana dell'oltreconfine. Le Fata hanno giocato sempre un ruolo notevole, ma soprattutto dall'invasione sovietica, con una notevole fuga di afgani, e quindi con la costituzione di campi di profughi nella parte pakistana. Ma soprattutto questa area, con capoluogo Peshawar, č stata il punto di riferimento di nuovi gruppi religiosi/ integralisti islamici formati intorno alle, appoggiati da potenze come Stati Uniti, Arabia Saudita, Pakistan. Questi sono i talebani che poi sconfiggono i sovietici e in seguito assumono le connotazioni Al Qaediste e terroristiche. La dinamica dei relativi rapporti tra profughi e pashtun delle aree tribali viene svolta dall'Autore, mettendo in risalto i tentativi di spingere i tre milioni di profughi al rientro in Afghanistan. In questa logica ruolo fondamentale hanno gli Stati Uniti, il cambio politico del Pakistan, le Ong, l'Unhcr. Vengono altresě messi in risalto i caratteri organizzativi di queste tribů, con la sovrapposizione di tante(da quelle familiari a quella regionale), e i caratteri sociali della popolazione. Si conclude con un riferimento al futuro.

This article considers the stated motivations for travel in the case of three examples of travel writing about Afghanistan. Jason Elliot’s An Unexpected Light documents his travel in 1984 during the war between the Afghan Mujaheddin and the Soviets; Jonny Bealby’s For a Pagan Song, first published in 1998, takes place during the civil war between Mujaheddin and the Taleban; Rory Stewart’s The Places In Between was written about travel between 2000 and 2002, during which time Operation Enduring Freedom was launched against the Taleban. The article deploys Genette’s concept of paratexts in order to show how the acknowledgments, blurbs, and other paratextual material, when read against the grain, undermine the relationship between the writer and their stated motivations and, thus, destabilize the self-representation of each writer in the course of the narrative. The outcome of these readings is a critique of the three texts, arguing that each one works to justify their travel through a combination of self-narration and paratextual material but that none of them address the implications of their travel for the Afghan people or that the purpose of the travel is to write the text.

The Wakhi language, as represented in particular by those of its dialects that are spoken in Afghanistan and the Soviet Pamirs, has been described in more detail than any other Iranian language of the area that has virtually no written tradition. As early as the middle of the last century scholars began studying the language on the basis of mostly short or fragmentary glossaries and collections of texts and additional material became available during the thirties and fifties of the present century. During the sixties and seventies, two Leningrad Iranists, A. L. Grünberg and I. M. Steblin-Kamenskij, worked intensively on Pamirian Wakhi and the kind of Wakhi spoken in Afghan Badakhshan. Their research culminated in the publication of a rich collection of orally transmitted songs, fairy tales, proverbs, and texts of ethnographic interest, accompanied by a detailed analysis of Wakhi grammar and a comprehensive glossary. The material collected by Grünberg and Steblin-Kamenskij like that published by G. Buddruss and in some older articles by Russian scholars, conforms on the whole to what one would expect to find in an exclusively oral tradition. Apart from the usual kinds of fairy tales and songs we find also a kind of popular poetry unique to Wakhi.

This study analyzes the post-September 11 Taliban’s discourse, exploring particularly the sujet of the battle of Maiwand (July 27, 1880) in the Taliban’s tarani (pl. of tarana “chant, song”). After providing a brief history of the post-September 11 conflict in Afghanistan, the paper examines Afghanistan’s experience of colonialism in the 19th century by discussing the Anglo-Afghan wars, with a focus on the battle of Maiwand and its importance in the modern history of Afghanistan. This study takes a postcolonial and postmodernist approach to discourse analysis. Using a postmodernist approach, the author tried to understand how the Taliban saw the post-September 11, 2001 conflict, and how they legitimized their actions. This study concludes that the Taliban used Afghanistan’s past experience of colonialism in their discourse. In fact, they refer to the historical events and personalities, those led resistance against colonial powers in the 19th century, for propaganda purposes. In addition, the paper shows that the colonial past is an important factor in the success or failure of interventions and peacekeeping missions, particularly in Afghanistan.

Le dimissioni anticipate di Kai Eide, il capo della missione Onu in Afghanistan, il fallimento del processo elettorale per l'elezione del presidente - vessato da frodi e brogli manifesti - ma soprattutto la decisione di Barack Obama di inviare nuovi soldati sembrano dire, sul futuro dell'Afghanistan, una sola cosa: nonostante le speranze di una svolta che sapesse coniugare la presenza dei soldati della Nato a un cambio di strategia che tenesse in maggior conto le esigenze e le necessitŕ della popolazione, il conflitto nel paese asiatico sembra rimanere prigioniero della sola opzione militare. La decisione di Obama di inviare trentamila marine, seguita dalla promessa della Nato di cercarne in Europa altri diecimila (tra cui mille italiani) non solo non č stata accompagnata da una riflessione sulla necessitŕ di un maggior impegno civile in Afghanistan nella ricostruzione e per soddisfare le necessitŕ primarie, ma sembra significare che la Comunitŕ internazionale non č in grado di formulare alternative alla sola azione militare. Se non un generico appello per una miglior qualitŕ del governo nazionale di Kabul. Gli ultimi mesi sono significativi da questo punto di vista e vale la pena di ripercorrerli. Cercheremo anche di indicare qualche possibile suggerimento che, in primo luogo, dovrebbe coinvolgere un cambio di strategia del nostro Paese.

L'Asia centrale post-sovietica, da sempre considerata terra di comunicazione tra Oriente e Occidente nel giugno 2010 č stata la protagonista di un ennesimo scontro considerato etnico. La zona centro-asiatica toccata da questo evento č la valle del Fergana, fertile regione divisa politicamente tra Uzbekistan, Tagikistan e Kirghizistan e da sempre ambita posta in gioco tra le rivalitŕ di potere territoriali della regione. Dopo una breve rassegna di quelle che sono state le opinioni degli esperti riguardanti questi fatti, l'Autore presenta la sua interpretazione esaminando il percorso storico-politico e territoriale di questa importante regione centro-asiatica. Il lavoro analizza le problematiche economiche, politiche e sociali, come per esempio il traffico della droga afgana legato proprio ad Osh, la cittŕ kirghiza protagonista degli avvenimenti, problematiche che sono state celate, soprattutto a livello mediatico, facendo apparire l'avvenimento come un vero e proprioa sfondo etnico.

SummaryThe prevalence of consanguinity in eight provinces of Afghanistan has recently been reported by Saify & Saadat (2012). The present cross-sectional study was done in order to illustrate the prevalence and types of consanguineous marriages among other populations of Afghanistan. Data on types of marriages were collected using a simple questionnaire. The total number of couples in this study was 5200 from the following provinces: Farah, Ghazni, Herat, Hilmand, Kabul, Kandahar, Logar, Parwan and Wardak. Consanguineous marriages were classified by the degree of relationship between couples: double first cousins, first cousins, first cousins once removed, second cousins and beyond second cousins. The coefficient of inbreeding (F) was calculated for each couple and the mean coefficient of inbreeding (α) estimated for each population. The α in the country was 0.0226, ranging from 0.0203 in Farah province to 0.0246 in Herat province. There were significant differences between provinces for frequencies of different types of marriages (p<0.001). First cousin marriages (21.7%) were the most common type of consanguineous marriages, followed by second cousins (16.0%), first cousins once removed (14.0%), beyond second cousins (6.9%) and double first cousins (1.6%). There was significant difference between ethnic groups for the types of marriages (p<0.001). Tajiks (Soni) and Sadats showed the lowest (α=0.0215) and highest (α=0.0242) levels of consanguinity among ethnic groups in Afghanistan, respectively. The present study shows that the Afghani populations, the same as other Islamic populations, have high levels of consanguinity.

Tone is the way the author expresses an attitude toward the subject. Tone often poses a challenge for translators. The present study is comparative as it explored two Arabic translations of the same Afghan Women's Poetry (Landay). The first translation was done by Jamil Salah in 2002 from the French collection Le suicide et le chant, and the second by Abdallah Abushmaes in 2018 from the English Songs of Love and War: Afghan Women's Poetry. The study aimed at identifying the strategies employed by the two translators to convey the tone expressed in Landay poems, and determining their effectiveness in transferring it into Arabic. The study shows that the two translators adopted different strategies at the word and structure levels which in some cases overlooked the significance of tone, while in other cases they seemed to recreate a similar tone.

[Editors’ note: this lyric essay was presented as the keynote address at Edith Cowan University’s CREATEC symposium on the theme Catastrophe and Creativity in November 2012, and represents excerpts from the author’s publication Threading Light: Explorations in Loss and Poetry. Regina, SK: Hagios Press, 2011. Reproduced with the author’s permission].Essay and verse and anecdote are the ways I have chosen to apprentice myself to loss, grief, faith, memory, and the stories we use to tie and untie them. Cat’s cradle, Celtic lines, bends and hitches are familiar: however, when I write about loss, I find there are knots I cannot tie or release, challenging both my imagination and my craft. Over the last decade, I have been learning that writing poetry is also the art of tying together light and dark, grief and joy, of grasping and releasing. Language is a hinge that connects us with the flesh of our experience; it is also residue, the ash of memory and imagination. (Threading Light 7) ———Greek katastrophé overturning, sudden turn, from kata down + strophe ‘turning” from strephein to turn.Loss and catastrophe catapult us into the liminal, into a threshold space. We walk between land we have known and the open sea. ———Mnemosyne, the mother of the nine Muses, the personification of memory, makes anthropologists of us all. When Hermes picked up the lyre, it was to her—to Remembrance —that he sang the first song. Without remembrance, oral or written, we have no place to begin. Stone, amulet, photograph, charm bracelet, cufflink, fish story, house, facial expression, tape recorder, verse, or the same old traveling salesman joke—we have places and means to try to store memories. Memories ground us, even as we know they are fleeting and flawed constructions that slip through our consciousness; ghosts of ghosts. One cold winter, I stayed in a guest room in my mother’s apartment complex for three days. Because she had lost her sight, I sat at the table in her overheated and stuffy kitchen with the frozen slider window and tried to describe photographs as she tried to recall names and events. I emptied out the dusty closet she’d ignored since my father left, and we talked about knitting patterns, the cost of her mother’s milk glass bowl, the old clothes she could only know by rubbing the fabric through her fingers. I climbed on a chair to reach a serving dish she wanted me to have, and we laughed hysterically when I read aloud the handwritten note inside: save for Annette, in a script not hers. It’s okay, she said; I want all this gone. To all you kids. Take everything you can. When I pop off, I don’t want any belongings. Our family had moved frequently, and my belongings always fit in a single box; as a student, in the back of a car or inside a backpack. Now, in her ninth decade, my mother wanted to return to the simplicity she, too, recalled from her days on a small farm outside a small town. On her deathbed, she insisted on having her head shaved, and frequently the nursing staff came into the room to find she had stripped off her johnny shirt and her covers. The philosopher Simone Weil said that all we possess in the world is the power to say “I” (Gravity 119).Memory is a cracked bowl, and it fills endlessly as it empties. Memory is what we create out of what we have at hand—other people’s accounts, objects, flawed stories of our own creation, second-hand tales handed down like an old watch. Annie Dillard says as a life’s work, she’d remember everything–everything against loss, and go through life like a plankton net. I prefer the image of the bowl—its capacity to feed us, the humility it suggests, its enduring shape, its rich symbolism. Its hope. To write is to fashion a bowl, perhaps, but we know, finally, the bowl cannot hold everything. (Threading Light 78–80) ———Man is the sire of sorrow, sang Joni Mitchell. Like joy, sorrow begins at birth: we are born into both. The desert fathers believed—in fact, many of certain faiths continue to believe—that penthos is mourning for lost salvation. Penthus was the last god to be given his assignment from Zeus: he was to be responsible for grieving and loss. Eros, the son of Aphrodite, was the god of love and desire. The two can be seen in concert with one another, each mirroring the other’s extreme, each demanding of us the farthest reach of our being. Nietzsche, through Zarathustra, phrased it another way: “Did you ever say Yes to one joy? O my friends, then you have also said Yes to all Woe as well. All things are chained, entwined together, all things are in love.” (Threading Light 92) ———We are that brief crack of light, that cradle rocking. We can aspire to a heaven, or a state of forgiveness; we can ask for redemption and hope for freedom from suffering for ourselves and our loved ones; we may create children or works of art in the vague hope that we will leave something behind when we go. But regardless, we know that there is a wall or a dark curtain or a void against which we direct or redirect our lives. We hide from it, we embrace it; we taunt it; we flout it. We write macabre jokes, we play hide and seek, we walk with bated breath, scream in movies, or howl in the wilderness. We despair when we learn of premature or sudden death; we are reminded daily—an avalanche, an aneurysm, a shocking diagnosis, a child’s bicycle in the intersection—that our illusions of control, that youthful sense of invincibility we have clung to, our last-ditch religious conversions, our versions of Pascal’s bargain, nothing stops the carriage from stopping for us.We are fortunate if our awareness calls forth our humanity. We learn, as Aristotle reminded us, about our capacity for fear and pity. Seeing others as vulnerable in their pain or weakness, we see our own frailties. As I read the poetry of Donne or Rumi, or verse created by the translator of Holocaust stories, Lois Olena, or the work of poet Sharon Olds as she recounts the daily horror of her youth, I can become open to pity, or—to use the more contemporary word—compassion. The philosopher Martha Nussbaum argues that works of art are not only a primary means for an individual to express her humanity through catharsis, as Aristotle claimed, but, because of the attunement to others and to the world that creation invites, the process can sow the seeds of social justice. Art grounds our grief in form; it connects us to one another and to the world. And the more we acquaint ourselves with works of art—in music, painting, theatre, literature—the more we open ourselves to complex and nuanced understandings of our human capacities for grief. Why else do we turn to a stirring poem when we are mourning? Why else do we sing? When my parents died, I came home from the library with stacks of poetry and memoirs about loss. How does your story dovetail with mine? I wanted to know. How large is this room—this country—of grief and how might I see it, feel the texture on its walls, the ice of its waters? I was in a foreign land, knew so little of its language, and wanted to be present and raw and vulnerable in its climate and geography. Writing and reading were my way not to squander my hours of pain. While it was difficult to live inside that country, it was more difficult not to. In learning to know graveyards as places of comfort and perspective, Mnemosyne’s territory with her markers of memory guarded by crow, leaf, and human footfall, with storehouses of vast and deep tapestries of stories whispered, sung, or silent, I am cultivating the practice of walking on common ground. Our losses are really our winter-enduring foliage, Rilke writes. They are place and settlement, foundation and soil, and home. (Threading Light 86–88) ———The loseability of our small and larger worlds allows us to see their gifts, their preciousness.Loseability allows us to pay attention. ———“A faith-based life, a Trappistine nun said to me, aims for transformation of the soul through compunction—not only a state of regret and remorse for our inadequacies before God, but also living inside a deeper sorrow, a yearning for a union with the divine. Compunction, according to a Christian encyclopaedia, is constructive only if it leads to repentance, reconciliation, and sanctification. Would you consider this work you are doing, the Trappistine wrote, to be a spiritual journey?Initially, I ducked her question; it was a good one. Like Neruda, I don’t know where the poetry comes from, a winter or a river. But like many poets, I feel the inadequacy of language to translate pain and beauty, the yearning for an embodied understanding of phenomena that is assensitive and soul-jolting as the contacts of eye-to-eye and skin-to-skin. While I do not worship a god, I do long for an impossible union with the world—a way to acknowledge the gift that is my life. Resonance: a search for the divine in the everyday. And more so. Writing is a full-bodied, sensory, immersive activity that asks me to give myself over to phenomena, that calls forth deep joy and deep sorrow sometimes so profound that I am gutted by my inadequacy. I am pierced, dumbstruck. Lyric language is the crayon I use, and poetry is my secular compunction...Poets—indeed, all writers—are often humbled by what we cannot do, pierced as we are by—what? I suggest mystery, impossibility, wonder, reverence, grief, desire, joy, our simple gratitude and despair. I speak of the soul and seven people rise from their chairs and leave the room, writes Mary Oliver (4). Eros and penthos working in concert. We have to sign on for the whole package, and that’s what both empties us out, and fills us up. The practice of poetry is our inadequate means of seeking the gift of tears. We cultivate awe, wonder, the exquisite pain of seeing and knowing deeply the abundant and the fleeting in our lives. Yes, it is a spiritual path. It has to do with the soul, and the sacred—our venerating the world given to us. Whether we are inside a belief system that has or does not have a god makes no difference. Seven others lean forward to listen. (Threading Light 98–100)———The capacity to give one’s attention to a sufferer is a rare thing; it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle. – Simone Weil (169)I can look at the lines and shades on the page clipped to the easel, deer tracks in the snow, or flecks of light on a summer sidewalk. Or at the moon as it moves from new to full. Or I can read the poetry of Paul Celan.Celan’s poem “Tenebrae” takes its title from high Christian services in which lighting, usually from candles, is gradually extinguished so that by the end of the service, the church is in total darkness. Considering Celan’s—Antschel’s—history as a Romanian Jew whose parents were killed in the Nazi death camps, and his subsequent years tortured by the agony of his grief, we are not surprised to learn he chose German, his mother’s language, to create his poetry: it might have been his act of defiance, his way of using shadow and light against the other. The poet’s deep grief, his profound awareness of loss, looks unflinchingly at the past, at the piles of bodies. The language has become a prism, reflecting penetrating shafts of shadow: in the shine of blood, the darkest of the dark. Enlinked, enlaced, and enamoured. We don’t always have names for the shades of sorrows and joys we live inside, but we know that each defines and depends upon the other. Inside the core shadow of grief we recognise our shared mortality, and only in that recognition—we are not alone—can hope be engendered. In the exquisite pure spot of light we associate with love and joy, we may be temporarily blinded, but if we look beyond, and we draw on what we know, we feel the presence of the shadows that have intensified what appears to us as light. Light and dark—even in what we may think are their purest state—are transitory pauses in the shape of being. Decades ago my well-meaning mother, a nurse, gave me pills to dull the pain of losing my fiancé who had shot himself; now, years later, knowing so many deaths, and more imminent, I would choose the bittersweet tenderness of being fully inside grief—awake, raw, open—feeling its walls, its every rough surface, its every degree of light and dark. It is love/loss, light/dark, a fusion that brings me home to the world. (Threading Light 100–101) ———Loss can trigger and inspire creativity, not only at the individual level but at the public level, whether we are marching in Idle No More demonstrations, re-building a shelter, or re-building a life. We use art to weep, to howl, to reach for something that matters, something that means. And sometimes it may mean that all we learn from it is that nothing lasts. And then, what? What do we do then? ———The wisdom of Epictetus, the Stoic, can offer solace, but I know it will take time to catch up with him. Nothing can be taken from us, he claims, because there is nothing to lose: what we lose—lover, friend, hope, father, dream, keys, faith, mother—has merely been returned to where it (or they) came from. We live in samsara, Zen masters remind us, inside a cycle of suffering that results from a belief in the permanence of self and of others. Our perception of reality is narrow; we must broaden it to include all phenomena, to recognise the interdependence of lives, the planet, and beyond, into galaxies. A lot for a mortal to get her head around. And yet, as so many poets have wondered, is that not where imagination is born—in the struggle and practice of listening, attending, and putting ourselves inside the now that all phenomena share? Can I imagine the rush of air under the loon that passes over my house toward the ocean every morning at dawn? The hot dust under the cracked feet of that child on the outskirts of Darwin? The gut-hauling terror of an Afghan woman whose family’s blood is being spilled? Thich Nhat Hanh says that we are only alive when we live the sufferings and the joys of others. He writes: Having seen the reality of interdependence and entered deeply into its reality, nothing can oppress you any longer. You are liberated. Sit in the lotus position, observe your breath, and ask one who has died for others. (66)Our breath is a delicate thread, and it contains multitudes. I hear an echo, yes. The practice of poetry—my own spiritual and philosophical practice, my own sackcloth and candle—has allowed me a glimpse not only into the lives of others, sentient or not, here, afar, or long dead, but it has deepened and broadened my capacity for breath. Attention to breath grounds me and forces me to attend, pulls me into my body as flesh. When I see my flesh as part of the earth, as part of all flesh, as Morris Berman claims, I come to see myself as part of something larger. (Threading Light 134–135) ———We think of loss as a dark time, and yet it opens us, deepens us.Close attention to loss—our own and others’—cultivates compassion.As artists we’re already predisposed to look and listen closely. We taste things, we touch things, we smell them. We lie on the ground like Mary Oliver looking at that grasshopper. We fill our ears with music that not everyone slows down to hear. We fall in love with ideas, with people, with places, with beauty, with tragedy, and I think we desire some kind of fusion, a deeper connection than everyday allows us. We want to BE that grasshopper, enter that devastation, to honour it. We long, I think, to be present.When we are present, even in catastrophe, we are fully alive. It seems counter-intuitive, but the more fully we engage with our losses—the harder we look, the more we soften into compassion—the more we cultivate resilience. ———Resilience consists of three features—persistence, adaptability transformability—each interacting from local to global scales. – Carl FolkeResilent people and resilient systems find meaning and purpose in loss. We set aside our own egos and we try to learn to listen and to see, to open up. Resilience is fundamentally an act of optimism. This is not the same, however, as being naïve. Optimism is the difference between “why me?” and “why not me?” Optimism is present when we are learning to think larger than ourselves. Resilience asks us to keep moving. Sometimes with loss there is a moment or two—or a month, a year, who knows?—where we, as humans, believe that we are standing still, we’re stuck, we’re in stasis. But we aren’t. Everything is always moving and everything is always in relation. What we mistake for stasis in a system is the system taking stock, transforming, doing things underneath the surface, preparing to rebuild, create, recreate. Leonard Cohen reminded us there’s a crack in everything, and that’s how the light gets in. But what we often don’t realize is that it’s we—the human race, our own possibilities, our own creativity—who are that light. We are resilient when we have agency, support, community we can draw on. When we have hope. ———FortuneFeet to carry you past acres of grapevines, awnings that opento a hall of paperbarks. A dog to circle you, look behind, point ahead. A hip that bends, allows you to slidebetween wire and wooden bars of the fence. A twinge rides with that hip, and sometimes the remnant of a fall bloomsin your right foot. Hands to grip a stick for climbing, to rest your weight when you turn to look below. On your left hand,a story: others see it as a scar. On the other, a newer tale; a bone-white lump. Below, mist disappears; a nichein the world opens to its long green history. Hills furrow into their dark harbours. Horses, snatches of inhale and whiffle.Mutterings of men, a cow’s long bellow, soft thud of feet along the hill. You turn at the sound.The dog swallows a cry. Stays; shakes until the noise recedes. After a time, she walks on three legs,tests the paw of the fourth in the dust. You may never know how she was wounded. She remembers your bodyby scent, voice, perhaps the taste of contraband food at the door of the house. Story of human and dog, you begin—but the wordyour fingers make is god. What last year was her silken newborn fur is now sunbleached, basket dry. Feet, hips, hands, paws, lapwings,mockingbirds, quickening, longing: how eucalypts reach to give shade, and tiny tight grapes cling to vines that align on a slope as smoothlyas the moon follows you, as intention always leans toward good. To know bones of the earth are as true as a point of light: tendernesswhere you bend and press can whisper grace, sorrow’s last line, into all that might have been,so much that is. (Threading Light 115–116) Acknowledgments The author would like to thank Dr. Lekkie Hopkins and Dr. John Ryan for the opportunity to speak (via video) to the 2012 CREATEC Symposium Catastrophe and Creativity, to Dr. Hopkins for her eloquent and memorable paper in response to my work on creativity and research, and to Dr. Ryan for his support. The presentation was recorded and edited by Paul Poirier at Mount Saint Vincent University in Halifax, Nova Scotia. My thanks go to Edith Cowan and Mount Saint Vincent Universities. ReferencesBerman, Morris. Coming to Our Senses. New York: Bantam, 1990.Dillard, Annie. For the Time Being. New York: Vintage Books, 2000.Felstiner, John. Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2001.Folke, Carl. "On Resilience." Seed Magazine. 13 Dec. 2010. 22 Mar. 2013 ‹http://seedmagazine.com/content/article/on_resilience›.Franck, Frederick. Zen Seeing, Zen Drawing. New York: Bantam Books, 1993.Hanh, Thich Nhat. The Miracle of Mindfulness. Boston: Beacon Press, 1976.Hausherr, Irenee. Penthos: The Doctrine of Compunction in the Christian East. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1982.Neilsen Glenn, Lorri. Threading Light: Explorations in Loss and Poetry. Regina, SK: Hagios Press, 2011. Nietzsche, Frederick. Thus Spake Zarathustra. New York: Penguin, 1978. Nussbaum, Martha. Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Oliver, Mary. “The Word.” What Do We Know. Boston: DaCapo Press, 2002.Rilke, Rainer Maria. Duino Elegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus. (Tenth Elegy). Ed. Stephen Mitchell. New York: Random House/Vintage Editions, 2009.Weil, Simone. The Need for Roots. London: Taylor & Francis, 2005 (1952).Weil, Simone. Gravity and Grace. London: Routledge, 2004.Further ReadingChodron, Pema. Practicing Peace in Times of War. Boston: Shambhala, 2006.Cleary, Thomas (trans.) The Essential Tao: An Initiation into the Heart of Taoism through Tao de Ching and the Teachings of Chuang Tzu. Edison, NJ: Castle Books, 1993.Dalai Lama (H H the 14th) and Venerable Chan Master Sheng-yen. Meeting of Minds: A Dialogue on Tibetan and Chinese Buddhism. New York: Dharma Drum Publications, 1999. Hirshfield, Jane. "Language Wakes Up in the Morning: A Meander toward Writing." Alaska Quarterly Review. 21.1 (2003).Hirshfield, Jane. Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry. New York: HarperCollins, 1997. Lao Tzu. Tao Te Ching. Trans. Arthur Waley. Chatham: Wordsworth Editions, 1997. Neilsen, Lorri. "Lyric Inquiry." Handbook of the Arts in Qualitative Research. Eds. J. Gary Knowles and Ardra Cole. Thousand Oaks: Sage, 2008. 88–98. Ross, Maggie. The Fire and the Furnace: The Way of Tears and Fire. York: Paulist Press, 1987.