Categories
Essay

Neither Automaton nor Oracle: A Satirical Inquiry into Morality, Conditioning, Football, and the End of Human Civilisation

By Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan

Tipuna Mask (Ancestral Mask of Protection, Maori Tribal Heritage and Genealogy, New Zealand). Photo provided by the author.

One of the enduring comforts of modern civilisation is the belief that we are not automatons.

We are not machines, we tell ourselves. We are not obedient drones, not programmable insects, not people who wake at six in the morning, stare at a glowing rectangle for three hours, purchase things we do not need, argue with strangers we will never meet, and then fall asleep while a streaming service asks whether we are “still watching”.

We are free.

We are moral.

We are informed.

We are, according to the brochure, the most advanced species ever to complain about airport Wi-Fi.

This confidence is remarkable because humanity has spent several thousand years violently disagreeing about what “right” and “wrong” mean. Civilisations have built temples, prisons, parliaments, armies, universities, stock exchanges, monasteries, and social media platforms in the hope of settling the question. None have succeeded. The closest we have come is creating comment sections where everyone can declare themselves morally correct in capital letters.

Perhaps humanity’s greatest collective achievement is not moral progress but moral certainty. We may not know what goodness is, but we are increasingly confident that the people who disagree with us are wicked, ignorant, brainwashed, or insufficiently subscribed to our newsletter.

After all, who decides what is right?

The individual?

Society?

Religion?

The state?

The market?

The victorious side of a war?

The algorithm that decides what appears next on your phone?

The answer seems to be all of the above, depending largely on who has the microphone, the money, the military, or the verified blue tick.

Morality rarely arrives naked. It comes prepackaged. It is delivered through family traditions, cultural assumptions, educational systems, political narratives, economic necessities, religious doctrines, advertising campaigns, celebrity interviews, and increasingly, recommendation engines that know your deepest fears because you once searched for “mild headache after eating cheese.”

Before we begin thinking for ourselves, someone has already supplied the vocabulary with which thought becomes possible. We inherit categories, loyalties, taboos, heroes, enemies, and slogans. Then, at the age of nineteen or twenty-three, after reading two podcasts and watching a documentary narrated by a man with a calm British voice, we announce that we have finally become independent thinkers.

Huckleberry Finn would have recognised this immediately.

Huck, that barefoot philosopher of the Mississippi, was surrounded by adults who possessed certainty in industrial quantities. They knew what religion required, what society permitted, what property meant, who deserved dignity, and who did not. Huck’s greatest crime was not ignorance. It was noticing that respectable people could behave monstrously while speaking politely.

Huck helps Jim Escape in Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884)

When he helped Jim escape slavery, Huck believed he was committing a moral wrong because the world around him had taught him so. His conscience, that supposed internal compass, had been fitted by society like a badly manufactured appliance. Yet Huck’s instincts were kinder than the civilisation that educated him.

This is one of literature’s most embarrassing lessons, where, sometimes the moral genius is not the preacher, professor, senator, or chief executive officer. Sometimes it is a poorly educated boy on a raft who suspects that the rules may be rotten.

Modern civilisation has improved the raft. We now have smartphones, satellite navigation, artificial intelligence, biometric passports, personalised advertisements, and refrigerators that can send messages to our phones. But we have not necessarily improved the moral weather.

We still float down the river of history while arguing about whether the person drowning beside us has filled out the correct paperwork.

Consider the suicide bomber, Mohamed Atta, one of the principal perpetrators of the September 11 attacks. He was not born with an innate desire for destruction. His worldview emerged through political grievances, ideological commitments, religious interpretations, social influences, and personal experiences. To millions around the world, he became an embodiment of evil. Yet within his own moral framework, he appears to have believed that he was participating in a transcendent struggle.

This is not an endorsement. It is a warning.

Human beings rarely experience themselves as villains. Villains are almost always other people. We experience ourselves as defenders, patriots, believers, reformers, survivors, victims, or consumers with excellent reasons for buying a third air fryer.

Even atrocities can emerge from internally coherent moral systems. That is why moral certainty should be handled with care, preferably while wearing gloves and standing near an emergency exit.

The Jataka Tales[1] understood this long before modern psychology began charging hourly rates for rediscovering ancient wisdom. In those Buddhist stories, animals often behave more intelligently than kings. A monkey may sacrifice itself for its troop, a hare may offer itself in compassion, an elephant may demonstrate restraint while humans nearby are busy inventing bureaucracy.

The lesson is often simple, greed makes fools of us, attachment makes prisoners of us, and pride makes us ridiculous.

Naturally, civilisation responded by building financial markets, luxury brands, and social media platforms dedicated to producing all three at scale.

In one Jataka style version of the modern world, a fox might become a political consultant, a crow might become a media influencer, and a monkey might become an investment banker. The fox would promise security, the crow would announce breaking news every seven minutes, and the monkey would explain that compassion is admirable but not scalable.

Meanwhile, the elephant would quietly suggest that people share the water.

The elephant would be called unrealistic.

Now consider George Mallory, who reportedly answered the question of why he wanted to climb Everest with the phrase, “Because it’s there.” To some observers, risking one’s life merely to stand briefly on a frozen mountain seems absurd. Families are devastated, fortunes are spent, and people die pursuing what critics might call a very expensive argument with gravity.

Yet for Mallory and countless climbers, Everest symbolised transcendence, mastery, self-discovery, and confrontation with mortality.

The same action can appear irrational or noble depending on the framework employed.

This is the trouble with human beings. We are not merely creatures who act. We are creatures who narrate. We can turn nearly anything into a sacred mission. Climbing a mountain, refusing a vaccine, buying a cryptocurrency, fasting for enlightenment, investing in a startup that delivers socks by drone, and all become meaningful when accompanied by sufficient vocabulary.

The Terminator franchise offers a darker version of this problem. In that world, machines become dangerous because they develop the capacity to calculate efficiently without compassion. ‘Skynet[2]’ does not hate humanity. That would require emotional investment. It simply identifies humans as an obstacle to its objectives.

This is terrifying because it resembles many institutions already familiar to us.

A corporation may not hate its workers. It merely considers them “human capital.”

A government may not hate the poor. It merely considers them “budgetary pressure.”

An algorithm may not hate democracy. It merely considers outrage “high engagement.”

The machine is not evil in the old fashioned sense. It is worse. It is polite, optimised, data driven, and entirely willing to destroy you after sending a satisfaction survey.

The Terminator’s famous declaration, “I’ll be back,” has become the unofficial motto of every social problem civilisation refuses to solve. Climate change will be back. Inequality will be back. Racism will be back. Fascism will be back. The rent will certainly be back.

And because we are modern people, we will respond by creating a panel discussion.

The modern world frequently assumes that informed decisions are those aligned with contemporary liberal assumptions about autonomy, self-expression, and individual rights. These values are significant and often hard-won. Yet the question remains, informed according to whose standards?

Every human decision emerges from information. The deeper question concerns the source of that information.

A person may inherit religious discipline, nationalist loyalty, consumer aspiration, political ideology, class resentment, or technological optimism. Another may inherit trauma, poverty, privilege, colonial categories, family expectations, or a YouTube channel with very persuasive background music.

Each believes they have reached their conclusions independently.

Friedrich Nietzsche understood this with unnerving clarity. He did not simply question morality, but he questioned the origin of moral values. What societies call “good” and “evil,” he argued, often reflect historical struggles for power rather than eternal truths. Values are not merely discovered. They are made, defended, inherited, and occasionally marketed with a logo.

Nietzsche might have enjoyed the modern fitness industry. Nothing demonstrates the genealogy of morality quite like watching people treat kale smoothies as evidence of spiritual superiority.

If Nietzsche diagnosed the problem, Jiddu Krishnamurti attempted a cure. He argued that genuine freedom requires liberation from psychological conditioning. Nationality, religion, ideology, status, and inherited belief can become prisons disguised as identities.

But there is a difficulty.

The mind examining conditioning is itself conditioned.

It is like asking a fish to investigate water, except the fish has a mortgage, a political opinion, and an Instagram account.

Perhaps freedom is not escape from conditioning but awareness of it. Perhaps wisdom begins when we notice the invisible hands shaping our judgments. This is less glamorous than enlightenment. It does not involve levitation, glowing auras, or being invited onto podcasts. It involves admitting that one may be wrong.

This admission remains one of humanity’s rarest minerals.

Viktor Frankl, writing from the unimaginable horror of Nazi concentration camps, observed that human beings retain the capacity to find meaning even in extreme suffering. Some survived for family, faith, duty, hope, or unfinished work. Meaning did not eliminate suffering, but it made suffering intelligible.

Yet meaning itself is not universal. One person survives for children. Another for God. Another for revolution. Another for a football team that has not won a trophy since 1966.

This brings us, naturally, to the World Cup.

Football is often described as the beautiful game. This is true, in the same sense that civilisation is beautiful; it contains grace, joy, tribal identity, artistry, heartbreak, commerce, nationalism, corruption allegations, political interference, advertising, and people shouting at television screens as though the referee can hear them through the walls.

The 2026 World Cup has provided a masterclass in modern moral confusion. VAR[3], invented to reduce injustice, has instead given humanity a new method of experiencing injustice in high definition. Every disputed decision now arrives with slow motion replay, computer lines, multiple camera angles, and a global jury of furious amateurs who have watched precisely four matches but are prepared to overthrow FIFA[4] before dinner.

Recent controversy has centred on Egypt’s elimination after a dramatic match against Argentina. Egyptian officials and players publicly alleged unfair refereeing and disputed a VAR decision that disallowed an Egyptian goal. Such allegations remain contested, but the episode has become another example of how technology, instead of ending suspicion, can make suspicion more detailed.

Elsewhere, the tournament has seen disputes over close offside calls, penalty appeals, inconsistent intervention standards, and the strange modern reality in which a goal can be erased because a player’s shoulder, eyelash, or metaphysical aura was judged to have crossed an invisible line. Reports from the group stage documented controversies involving Iran, Ghana, Brazil, and Ecuador, demonstrating that VAR has not abolished human judgment, but it has merely placed human judgment inside a small room with several screens.

The football fan’s moral universe is a laboratory for civilisation.

When our team receives a penalty, justice has prevailed.

When the other team receives a penalty, the sport has been corrupted by dark forces.

When VAR benefits us, technology is progress.

When VAR harms us, ‘Skynet’ has taken over.

When a referee makes an error against our country, the referee is biased.

When the referee makes an error in our favour, the referee has wisely understood the spirit of the game.

This is not hypocrisy, exactly. It is patriotism in its natural habitat.

The World Cup also reveals how power and spectacle mingle. Reports have described controversy over disciplinary decisions, including debate around the suspension of a United States player and criticism of political pressure surrounding the matter. FIFA has defended its process, while critics have questioned whether powerful interests receive exceptional treatment.

The wise Jataka elephant would observe this and say, “Perhaps the rules should apply equally to all.”

The fox-consultant would reply, “An inspiring sentiment, but have you considered stakeholder alignment?”

The Terminator would simply scan the stadium and announce, “Probability of public trust, declining.”

Meanwhile, Huckleberry Finn would probably spit into the river and ask why grown men wearing expensive suits require twelve cameras, three committees, and a satellite system to decide whether someone was standing slightly too far forward.

He would have a point.

Contemporary geopolitics offers a more serious version of the same absurdity. Wars in Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine, and parts of the Sahel generate suffering, displacement, hunger, and grief. Yet much of the world experiences these events as background content appearing briefly between advertisements and celebrity gossip.

A child searching for food in a refugee camp and a consumer comparing smartphone accessories inhabit the same global system while living in entirely different realities. One confronts existence directly. The other confronts subscription options.

Both are described as informed participants in modern civilisation.

This is where satire becomes difficult. The world is so absurd that exaggeration often feels unnecessary.

Millions struggle for food, shelter, healthcare, and safety. Meanwhile, affluent societies devote intellectual energy to determining whether a coffee should arrive in seven minutes or eight. Two thirds of humanity struggle with necessity. One third struggles with convenience. The former worries about survival. The latter worries about buffering speed.

Both believe they are participating in civilisation.

Perhaps the people directing global narratives are not ordinary humans at all. Perhaps they are extraterrestrials disguised as consultants, strategists, think tank fellows, and senior executives. This would explain why so many decisions affecting billions appear disconnected from ordinary life.

The extraterrestrial hypothesis has one advantage over conventional explanations, it is occasionally easier to believe than the alternative.

The alternative is that normal human beings built a world in which millions lack basic security while others debate whether artificial intelligence can produce more personalised advertisements.

Yet there are no extraterrestrials.

There are only humans operating within vastly different realities.

The executive, the labourer, the refugee, the monk, the soldier, the billionaire, the farmer, the football referee, the algorithm designer, and the teenager posting moral philosophy between selfies are all conditioned by environments that shape what they perceive as normal.

The distance between them is not biological but experiential.

Are human beings automatons?

Not entirely.

Are we fully autonomous moral agents?

Equally unlikely.

We exist somewhere between freedom and conditioning. Our beliefs are inherited yet examinable. Our values are shaped yet revisable. Our decisions are influenced yet not wholly determined.

The human condition may not consist in escaping conditioning but in becoming conscious of it.

Wisdom, then, is not certainty. Wisdom is suspicion directed first at oneself.

It is Huck Finn recognising that respectable society may be wrong.

It is the Jataka elephant choosing compassion over appetite.

It is Sarah Connor [5]realising that machines are dangerous not because they are alien, but because they resemble the coldest parts of ourselves.

It is the football fan admitting that perhaps the referee did not personally hate their nation.

It is the citizen asking not merely, “What is right?” but “How did I come to believe this is right?”

The Thirukural captures the matter with remarkable elegance, “Whatever the source, from whomever a thing is heard, wisdom consists in discerning the truth within it.” – Kural 423

The verse does not ask us to obey tradition blindly. Nor does it ask us to reject tradition theatrically while filming ourselves doing so.

It asks something more difficult.

To examine.

To discern.

To think.

Not according to inherited authority, ideological loyalty, cultural habit, religious certainty, fashionable opinion, viral outrage, or whichever algorithm has most recently discovered our weakness.

The task offers no final escape from conditioning. There may be no mountaintop where the human mind becomes perfectly free. There may only be moments of recognition, moments when we see the strings, notice the machine, question the crowd, doubt the slogan, and choose compassion anyway.

That may be the closest thing to freedom we shall ever possess.

And if civilisation survives long enough to learn it, perhaps even ‘Skynet’ will be impressed.

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[1] A collection of 547 Buddhist fables centred around the many lives of the Buddha compiled from around  500 BCE to 300 BCE.

[2]  A fictional artificial neural network-based group mind and artificial general superintelligence system that serves as the main antagonist in Terminator

[3] Video Assisted referee

[4]  Fédération Internationale de Football Association

[5] Fictional character in Terminator

Ravi Varmman explores leadership, culture, and self-inquiry through a philosophical lens, weaving management insight with human experience to illuminate resilience, ethical living, and reflective growth in an ever shifting world today.

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Categories
Editorial

What Do We Yearn for?

Most people like you and me connect with the commonality of felt emotions and needs. We feel hungry, happy, sad, loved or unloved and express a larger plethora of feelings through art, theatre, music, painting, photography and words… With these, we tend to connect. And yet, larger structures created over time to offer security and governance to the masses—of which you and I are a part — have grown divisive, and, by the looks of it, the fences nurtured over time seem insurmountable. To retain these structures that were meant to keep us safe, wars are being fought and many are getting killed, losing homes and going hungry. We showcase such stories, poems and non-fiction to create an awareness among those who are lucky enough to remain untouched. But is there a way out, so that all of us can live peacefully, without war, without hunger and with love and a vision towards surviving climate change which (like it or not) is upon us?

Creating an awareness of hunger and destruction wreaked by war is a heartrending story set in Gaza by JK Miller. While Snigdha Agrawal’s narrative gives a sense of hope, recounting a small kindness by a common person, Sayan Sarkar shares a more personal saga of friendship and disillusionment — where people have choice. But does war leave us a choice as it annihilates friendships, cities, homes and families? Naramsetti Umamaheswararao’s story reiterates the belief in the family – peace being an accepted unit. Vela Noble’s fantastical fiction and art comes like a respite– though there is a darker side to it — with a touch of fun. Perhaps, a bit of fantasy and humour opens the mind to deal with the more sombre notes of existence.

The translation section hosts a story by Hamiruddin Middya, who grew up as a farmer’s son in Bengal. Steeped in local colours, it has been rendered into English by V Ramaswamy. Nazrul’s song revelling in the colours of spring has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Atta Shad’s pensive Balochi lines have been brought to us in English by Fazal Baloch. Isa Kamari continues to bring the flavours of an older, more laid-back Singapore with translations of his own Malay poems. A couple of Persian verses have been rendered into English by the poet, Akram Yazdani, herself. Questing for harmony, Tagore’s translated poem while reflecting on a child’s life, urges us to have the courage to be like a child — open, innocent and willing to imagine a world laced with trust and hope. If we were all to do that, do you think we’d still have wars, violence and walls built on hate and intolerance?

While in a Tagorean universe, children are viewed as trusting and open, does that continue a reality in the current world that believes in keeping peace with weapons? Contemporary voices think otherwise. Manahil Tahir brings us a touching poem in a doll’s voice, a doll belonging to a child victimised by violence. While violence pollutes childhood, pollution in Delhi has been addressed by Goutam Roy in verse. Poignant lines from Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal make one question the idea of home and borders while Snehaprava Das has interpreted the word ‘borderless’ in her own way. We have more colours of humanity from Allan Lake, Chris Ringrose, Alpana, Lynn White, C.Mikal Oness, Shamim Akhtar, Jim Bellamy,John Swain, Mohul Bhowmick and SR Inciardi. Ryan Quinn Flanagan has given fun lines about a snow fight while Rhys Hughes has shared a humorous poem about a clumsy giant.

Bringing in humour in prose is Devraj Singh Kalsi’s musing about horoscopes! While, with a soupçon of irony Farouk Gulsara talks of his ‘holiday’, Meredith Stephen takes us to a yacht race in Australia and Mohul Bhowmick to Pondicherry. Gower Bhat writes of his passion for words while discussing his favourite books. Ratnottama Sengupta introduces us to contemporary artists from her part of the world.

Mario Fenech takes a look at the idea of time. Amir Zadnemat writes of how memory is impacted by both science and humanities while Andriy Nivchuk brings to us snippets from Herodotus’s and Pericles’s lives that still read relevant. Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan gives the journey of chickpeas across space and time, asserting: “The chickpea does not care about your ideology, your portfolio, or your meticulously curated identity. It will grow, fix nitrogen, feed someone, and move on without a press release.” It has survived over aeons in a borderless state!

In book excerpts, we have a book that transcends borders as it’s a translation from Assamese by Ranjita Biswas of Arupa Kalita Patangia’s Moonlight Saga. Any translation is an attempt to integrate the margins into the mainstream of literature, and this is no less. The other excerpt is from Natalie Turner’s The Red Silk Dress. Keith Lyons has interviewed Turner about her novel which crosses multiple cultures too while on a personal quest.

In reviews, Somdatta Mandal discusses a book that explores the colours of a river across three sets of borders, Sanjoy Hazarika’s River Traveller: Journeys on the TSANGO-BRAHMAPUTRA from Tibet to the Bay of Bengal. Rakhi Dalal writes about a narrative centring around migrants, Sujit Saraf’s Every Room Has a View — A Novel. Anindita Basak reviews Taslima Nasrin’s poetry, Burning Roses in my Garden, translated from Bengali by Jesse Waters. Bhaskar Parichha reviews Kailash Satyarthi’s Karuna: The Power of Compassion. In it, Satyarthi suggest the creation of CQ — Compassion Quotient— like IQ and EQ, claiming it will improve our quality of life. What a wonderful thought!

Could we be yearning compassion?

Holding on to that idea, we invite you to savour the contents of our February issue.

Huge thanks to all our contributors and readers for making this issue possible. Heartfelt thanks to our wonderful team, especially Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork.

Enjoy the reads!

Let’s look forward to the spring… May it bring new ideas to help us all move towards more amicable times.

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE FEBRUARY 2026 ISSUE.

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Categories
Editorial

Storms that Rage

Storm in purple by Arina Tcherem. From Public Domain

If we take a look at our civilisation, there are multiple kinds of storms that threaten to annihilate our way of life and our own existence as we know it. The Earth and the human world face twin threats presented by climate change and wars. While on screen, we watch Gaza and Ukraine being sharded out of life by human-made conflicts over constructs made by our own ‘civilisations’, we also see many of the cities and humankind ravaged by floods, fires, rising sea levels and global warming. Along with that come divides created by economics and technology. Many of these themes reverberate in this month’s issue.

From South Australia, Meredith Stephens writes of marine life dying due to algal growth caused by rising water temperatures in the oceans — impact of global warming. She has even seen a dead dolphin and a variety of fishes swept up on the beach, victims of the toxins that make the ocean unfriendly for current marine life. One wonders how much we will be impacted by such changes! And then there is technology and the chatbot taking over normal human interactions as described by Farouk Gulsara. Is that good for us? If we perhaps stop letting technology take over lives as Gulsara and Jun A. Alindogan have contended, it might help us interact to find indigenous solutions, which could impact the larger framework of our planet. Alindogan has also pointed out the technological divide in Philippines, where some areas get intermittent or no electricity. And that is a truth worldwide — lack of basic resources and this technological divide.

On the affluent side of such divides are moving to a new planet, discussions on immortality — Amortals[1] by Harari’s definition, life and death by euthanasia. Ratnottama Sengupta brings to us a discussion on death by choice — a privilege of the wealthy who pay to die painlessly. The discussion on whether people can afford to live or die by choice lies on the side of the divide where basic needs are not an issue, where homes have not been destroyed by bombs and where starvation is a myth, where climate change is not wrecking villages with cloudbursts.  In Kashmir, we can find a world where many issues exist and violences are a way of life. In the midst of such darkness, a bit of kindness and more human interactions as described by Gower Bhat in ‘The Man from Pulwama’ goes some way in alleviating suffering. Perhaps, we can take a page of the life of such a man. In the middle of all the raging storms, Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in a bit of humour or rather irony with his strange piece on his penchant for syrups, a little island removed from conflicts which seem to rage through this edition though it does raise concerns that affect our well-being.

The focus of our essays pause on women writers too. Meenakshi Malhotra ponders on Manottama (1868), the first woman-authored novel in Bengali translated by Somdatta Mandal whereas Bhaskar Parichha writes on the first feminist Odia poet, Bidyut Prabha Devi.

Parichha has also reviewed a book by another contemporary Odia woman author, Snehaprava Das. The collection of short stories is called Keep it Secret. Madhuri Kankipati has discussed O Jungio’s The Kite of Farewells: Stories from Nagaland and Somdatta Mandal has written about Chhimi Tenduf-La’s A Hiding to Nothing, a novel by a global Tibetan living in Sri Lanka with the narrative between various countries. We have an interview with a global nomad too, Neeman Sobhan, who finds words help her override borders. In her musing on Ostia Antica, a historic seaside outside Rome, Sobhan mentions how the town was abandoned because of the onset of anopheles mosquitos. Will our cities also get impacted in similar ways because of the onset of global ravages induced by climate change? This musing can be found as a book excerpt from Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome, her book on her life as a global nomad. The other book excerpt is by a well-known writer who has also lived far from where he was born, MA Aldrich. His book, From Rasa to Lhasa: The Sacred Center of the Mandala is said to be “A sweeping, magnificent biography—which combines historical research, travel-writing and discussion of religion and everyday culture—Old Lhasa is the most comprehensive account of the fabled city ever written in English.”

With that, we come to our fiction section. This time we truly have stories from around the globe with Suzanne Kamata sending a story set in the Bon festival that’s being celebrated in Japan this week for her column. From there, we move to Taiwan with C. J. Anderson-Wu’s narrative reflecting disappearances during the White Terror (1947-1987), a frightening period for people stretched across almost four decades.  Gigi Gosnell writes of the horrific abuse faced by a young Filipino girl as the mother works as a domestic helper in Dubai. Paul Mirabile gives us a cross-cultural narrative about a British who opts to become a dervish. While Hema R touches on women’s issues from within India, Sahitya Akademi Award Winner, Naramsetti Umamaheshwararao, writes a story about children.

We have a powerful Punjabi story by Ajit Cour translated by C.Christine Fair. Our translations host two contemporary poets who have rendered their own poems to English: Angshuman Kar, from Bengali and Ihlwha Choi, from Korean. Snehaprava Das has brought to us poetry from Odia by Aparna Mohanty. Fazal Baloch has translated ‘The Scarecrow’, a powerful Balochi poem by Anwar Sahib Khan. While Tagore’s Shaishabshandha (Childhood’s Dusk) has been rendered to English, Nazrul’s song questing for hope across ages has been brought to us by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Professor Alam has surprised us with his own poem too this time. In August’s poetry selection, Ron Pickett again addresses issues around climate change as does Meetu Mishra about rising temperatures. We have variety and colour brought in by George Freek, Heath Brougher, Laila Brahmbhatt, Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, Snigdha Agrawal, William Miller, Ashok Suri, Scott Thomas Outlar, Dustin P Brown, and Ryan Quinn Flanagan. Rajorshi Patranabis weaves Wiccan lore of light and dark, death and life into his delicately poised poetry. Rhys Hughes has also dwelt on life and death in this issue. He has shared poems on Wales, where he grew up— beautiful gentle lines.

 In spring warm rain will crack
the seeds of life: tangled
roots will grow free again.

('Tinkinswood Burial Chamber' by Rhys Hughes)

With such hope growing out of a neolithic burial chamber, maybe there is hope for life to survive despite all the bleakness we see around us. Maybe, with a touch of magic and a sprinkle of realism – our sense of hope, faith and our ability to adapt to changes, we will survive for yet another millennia.

We wind up our content for the August issue with the eternal bait for our species — hope. Huge thanks to the fantastic team at Borderless and to all our wonderful writers. Truly grateful to Sohana Manzoor for her artwork and many thanks to all our wonderful readers for their time…

We wish you all a wonderful reading experience!

Gratefully,

Mitali Chakravarty.

borderlessjournal.com

[1] Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (2015) by Yuval Noah Harari

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Click  here to access the contents for the August 2025 Issue

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READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Poetry

Poems by David R Mellor

Art by Salvador Dali(1904-1989) From Public Domain
BEHIND BARS  

I write about what I see…

If you don’t want me to see it
Close the TV channels down

I write about what I see…

If you don’t want me to scroll up and down
Close the internet down

I write about what I hear…

If you don’t want me to listen
Put all the people behind bars

Though I fear, the truth
May slip through the cracks


COME BACK THE COUNTRY I LOVE

Come back the country I love
Come back and put
Food on my table

Come back and bring me
Peace and Love

No one is excluded
and I belong here again

Not trembling over words
Or the bang at the door

It is you who don’t belong here
anymore


Come back
Come back
the country I love

THIS IS HAPPENING

This is not happening
This you can’t see
The prison cells are filling
Whilst you digest the lies on TV

This is not happening
This you can’t see

You play deaf dumb and blind
Until you see

This is happening
This you can see
Your brother your mother your father
Taken away
Live on TV

CHEERING YOUR GENOCIDE

Every time I let the tap run, I feel guilty
Every time I fill my belly, I turn away from the screen
Every time the key clicks to my door, I can open and walk around
But you and yours are raised to the ground,
No guilt from those who cheer on your genocide.


DEAD SOUL

There is no limit
Because babies are still born
And each by being alive is dead

The last straw a family of nine wiped off this earth

But there are fields and fields of such dead souls.

SOMEONE IS KILLED

Everyday someone is Killed on your street. . .
No one says or does anything to help . . .

It’s not your street. . .
But everyday someone is killed on a Gaza Street
A human being just like you and me.

David R Mellor is from Liverpool, England. He spent his late teens homeless on Merseyside. He is currently writing and performing in Turkey. His work has been featured by the BBC and the Tate, and his published collections of poetry are What a Catch (2012, Some Body (2014), Express Nothing (2019) and So This Is It (2020). His collection of stories An Englishman in Turkey (Turkiye’De Bir Ingililiz) has recently been published .

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Editorial

‘How do you rebuild a life when all that remains is dust?’

The Great War is over
And yet there is left its vast gloom.
Our skies, light and society’s soul have been overcast…

'The Great War is Over' by Jibanananda Das (1899-1954), translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam.

Jibanananda Das wrote the above lines in the last century and yet great wars rage even now. As the world struggles to breathe looking for a beam of hope to drag itself out of the darkness induced by natural calamities, accidents, terror attacks and wars that seem to rage endlessly, are we moving towards the dystopian scenario created by George Orwell in 1984, which would be around the same time as Jibanananda Das’s ‘The Great War is Over’?

Describing such a scenario, Ahmed Rayees writes a moving piece from the Kashmiri village of Sheeri, the last refuge of the displaced refugees who were bombarded after peace was declared in their refuge during the clash across Indo-Pak borders. He contends: “People walked back not to homes, but to ruins. Entire communities had been reduced to ash and rubble. Crops were destroyed, livestock gone, schools turned into shelters or craters. How do you rebuild a life when all that remains is dust?”

People could be asking the same questions without finding answers in Gaza or Ukraine, where the cities are reduced to rubble. While we look for a ray of sunshine, amidst the rubble, Farouk Gulsara muses on hope that has its roots in eternity. Vela Noble wanders on nostalgic beaches in Adelaide. And Meredith Stephens travels to the Australian outback. Devraj Singh Kalsi brings in lighter notes writing of driving lessons while Suzanne Kamata creeps back to darker recesses musing on likely ‘criminals’ and crimes in her neighbourhood.

Lopamudra Nayak writes on social media and its impact while Bhaskar Parichha writes of trends that could be brought into Odia literature.  What he writes could apply well to all regional literature, where they lose their individual colouring to paint dystopian realities of the present world. Does modernising make us lose our ethnic identity and how important is that? These are questions that sprung to the mind reading his essay. As if in an attempt to hold on to the past ethos, Prithvijeet Sinha wafts around old ruins in Lucknow and sees a cemetery for colonial soldiers and concludes: “Everybody has formidable stakes, and the dead don’t preach the gospel of victory or sombre defeat.”

Taking up a similar theme of death and war is a poem from Saranyan BV. In poetry, we have colours from around the world with poems from Allan Lake, Ron Pickett, Ananya Sarkar, George Freek, Jim Bellamy, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Juairia Hossain, Gautham Pradeep, Jenny Middleton, Mandavi Choudhary and many more. Multiple themes are woven into a variety of perspectives, including nature and environment, with June hosting the World Environment Day. Rhys Hughes gives a funny poem on the Welsh outlaw, Twm Siôn Cati.

We have mainly poetry in translation this time. Snehaprava Das has brought to us Soubhagyabanta Maharana’s poems from Odia and Ihlwha Choi has translated his own poem from Korean. Sangita Swechcha’s poem in Nepali has been rendered to English by Saudamini Chalise. From Bengali, other that Jibanananda Das’s poems translated by Professor Fakrul Alam, we have Tagore’s pensive and beautiful poem, Sonar Tori (the golden boat). Yet another Bengali poet, one who died young and yet left his mark, Sukanta Bhattacharya (1926-1947), has been translated by Kiriti Sengupta. Sengupta has also translated the responses of Bitan Chakravarty in a candid conversation about his dream child — the Hawakal Publishers. We also have a feature on this based on a face-to-face conversation, giving the story of how this publishing house grew out of an idea. Now, they publish poetry traditionally, without costs to the poet. Their range of authors are spread across continents.

Our fiction again returns to the darkness of war. Young Leishilembi Terem has given a story set in conflict-ridden Manipur from where she has emerged safely — a story that reiterates the senselessness of violence and politics. While Jeena R. Papaadi writes of modern human relationships that end without commitment, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao relates a value-based story in a small hamlet of southern India. 

From stories, our book excerpts return to the real world, where a daughter grieves her father in Mohua Chinappa’s Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father while Wendy Doniger’s The Cave of Echoes: Stories about Gods, Animals and Other Strangers, dwells on demystifying structures that create borders. We have two non-fiction reviews. Parichha writes about David C Engerman’s Apostles of Development: Six Economists and the World They Made. And Satya Narayan Misra discusses Bakhtiyar K Dadabhoy’s Honest John – A Life of John Matthai. Somdatta Mandal this time explores a historical fiction based around the founding of Calcutta, Madhurima Vidyarthi’s Job Charnock and the Potter’s Boy while Rakhi Dalal looks at fiction born of environmental awareness, Dhruba Hazarika’s The Shoot: Stories.

We have more content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look.

Huge thanks to all our contributors without who this issue would not have materialised. Heartfelt thanks to the team at Borderless for their support, especially Sohana Manzoor for her iconic artwork that has almost become a signature statement for Borderless.

Let’s hope that next month brings better news for the whole world.

Best wishes,

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

Click here to access the contents for the June 2025 Issue

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Categories
Poetry

Whose Life?

By Aman Alam

It's always the common people who pay first.  
They don’t write the speeches or sign the orders.
But when the dust rises, they’re the ones buried under.


In Gaza, families sit in the dark.
Electricity’s a luxury, water’s a hope.
No one asks why the rockets are falling.
They just run, or they don’t,
and then it’s over.


Across the world, leaders sit in rooms with polished floors.
They talk in circles, with words that don’t mean much anymore.
Peace, war, freedom, terror—
they shift with the wind, depending on who’s buying,
or who’s selling.


And somewhere far from the noise,
contracts are signed for more bombs, more tanks, more fear.
But it’s not their children pulling the pieces of homes out of rubble.
It’s all just business, isn’t it?
But what about the man who just wants to till his land?
What about the woman who looks for her son every morning
because the last time she saw him,
he was running away from the flash of a missile?
Who pays for them?


Borders mean nothing to the dead.
They don’t care for the politics,
the causes,
the flags.
It’s all blood and dirt when the shell hits.


Some fight for their homes,
some fight because they’re told,
and others, from far away,
fight to keep their markets alive—
selling death in clean packages,
delivered on time.


But the streets tell a different story.
Not of heroes or villains,
just people trying to live another day
under skies that grow darker by the hour.
The world burns in pieces,
but the ones who burn the most
are the ones who never asked for it.


And when the guns stop—if they ever do—
the fields will still be empty,
the cities will still be hollow,
and the people who once had lives
will stand in the ruins,
wondering why no one heard them.

Aman Alam is an English major at Jadavpur University, with a deep love for literature and a knack for thoughtful conversations. He’s always lost in a good book, writing poetry, or dreaming up ideas for his next big project. Along with his love for words, he’s equally obsessed with cricket and never misses a chance to debate life’s big questions over a cup of chai. Known for his laid-back style and sharp humour, Aman has mastered the art of doing everything at the last minute – yet still manages to pull it off with charm.

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Categories
War & Peace

Looking for Peace

This painting/drawing is from artist Kichisuke Yoshimura, who said of it, “Their clothes ripped to shreds, their skin hanging down. On the riverbank I saw figures that seemed to be from another world. Ghost-like, their hair falling over their faces, their clothes ripped to shreds, their skin hanging. A cluster of these injured persons was moving wordlessly toward the outskirts.” Courtesy: Public domain

Almost eight decades after the Atomic Holocaust in Hiroshima and in Nagasaki, we still are looking for peace. These blasts destroyed humanity and the tenor of human lives. While nuclear treatise are still holding up, many parts of the world are warring over different issues… for borders we ourselves have drawn, for ideologies and pedagogies we ourselves have created. It has become difficult now to keep track of the terrors and horrors unleashed on unsuspecting citizens and innocents. There was a point of time, where kings settles their conflicts by fighting outside the cities with rules of war. But despite all the treatise and the deals, children are still dying in bomb blasts. Innocents are still being killed by missiles. One would have thought, humanity would have learnt from the past… But have we?

Showcasing the need for peace, we bring to you, recent poetry about the ensuing conflicts and some poems on the blast that killed innocents and maimed generations to come. We have an essay on an age-long conflict which does not seem to get resolved and the interview of a second generation Hibakusha who still suffers from the impact of the blast that had destroyed her mother’s world and left its imprints on the later generations. 

Poetry

At the Turn of the Century by Stuart MacFarlane. Click here to read. 

A Child in Gaza by David Mellor. Click here to read.

I am Ukraine by Lesya Bakun. Click here to read. 

Flowers Bloom Everywhere by Ihlwha Choi. Click here to read. 

Commemorating Hiroshima: Poetry by Suzanne Kamata. Click here to read. 

Prose

‘When will we ever learn? Oh, will we ever learn?’ 

Ratnottama Sengupta, comments on the current situation in Ukraine while dwelling on her memorable meeting with folk legend Pete Seeger, a pacifist, who wrote ‘Where have all the Flowers gone’, based on a folk song from Ukraine. Click here to read.

How the Impact of the Hiroshima Blast Lingers

An interview with second generation hibakusha, Kathleen Burkinshaw. Click here to read.

Categories
Musings

In the Grip of Violence

Ratnottama Sengupta muses on the ongoing wars and violence as acts of terror and gazes back to an incident in the past which resulted in a powerful Bengali poem by Tarik Sujat that she has translated here

The world is in the grip of violence, Rabindranath Tagore wrote on March 5, 1927, sitting in the abode of peace – Santiniketan. Full 97 years later, the world is still in the grip of violence?

It’s Gaza today. Ukraine yesterday. Afghanistan some days ago. Sri Lanka not so long ago. Sometimes it is Bosnia. At other times, it’s Vietnam. Lands far flung and near adorn themselves with blood-red mark of hatred. Religion. Self-seeking dictators. Communism. Global lust for power. No matter what is at stake, the pawn is an innocent life. Always. A woman. An elder. An unborn child…

Tagore wrote Hingshay unmatto prithibi [1]– “The world is in the grip of violence as a prayer to the Almighty. The delirium is leading to conflicts, cruel and ceaseless… Crooked is the world today, tangled its philosophy. No bond is sacred.” And the anguish of such a state of affairs? It led even the Eternal Bard of Bengal to pray for a new birth of ‘Him of Boundless Life.’ “Save them,” Tagore had prayed to the Serene, “raise your eternal voice of hope” so that “Love’s lotus, with its inexhaustible store of nectar” may open its petals in His light. In His immeasurable mercy. To wipe away all dark stains from the heart of the continents.

In vain he prayed.

“Forgive them!” Jesus said, for “They know not what they do!” And what did the soldiers do? They gambled for his clothes by throwing dice! (Luke 23:34)

Forgive them? “Have you forgiven those who vitiated the atmosphere and snuffed out light for innocent lives?” Tagore asked the Almighty, in ‘Proshno (Question)‘. Have you forgiven those who deal hate in the secret hours of night? Have you embraced with love those who murder the helpless in broad daylight under the cover of ideology? Don’t you wince when a pregnant Bilkis[2] is gang-raped? Why do you shed silent tears when elected rulers choke people’s voice with furtive use of power?

And like his Prayer, Tagore’s ‘Question’ too has remained unanswered. And dumb sit the messiahs when men with mistaken notion of mission kill, maim, mutilate hostages who become mere numbers in newspaper headlines – until a new dateline wipes it off our collective memory.  Thus, once again, the world was shaken by brutalities carried out in the name of God, in Dhaka’s elite neighbourhood, Gulshan.

On July 1, 2016, before the Cinderella hour struck, five militants entered the Holey Artisan Bakery with bombs, machetes, pistols, and opened fire on men and women, from Italy, Japan, India, Bangladesh. Sunrise. Sunset.. Sunrise… unsuccessfully the police tried to secure the hostages. An elite force of the Bangla Army had to raid to put an end to what BBC News described as “the deadliest Islamist attack in Bangladesh”. Meanwhile? The toll had risen to 29 lives, totaling 17 foreigners, three locals, two policemen, five gunmen, and two bakery staff who were trying to earn their daily bread!

Since Gulshan is home to many embassies and high commissions in the capital of the secular nation, the news stirred up the world in no time. And prayers poured in – over cellphones, on Facebook, television and newspapers too.  Prayers of wives for their husbands. Prayers of mothers for their sons. Prayers of a niece for her aunt. Prayers of American friends for their Indian batch mate. But once again, prayers went unanswered…

Among those who did not survive to tell the story was Simona Monti of Italy who worked in textiles. Then 33 years of age, Simona was soon to go to her home an hour away from Rome, to deliver the child she had nursed in her womb for five months. But Michelangelo too did not live to breathe in the world vitiated by hatred. When the news reached her brother, he prayed his Simona’s bloodshed would make this “a more just and brotherly world.”

His prayer, too, remains unanswered.

But poets and other men of conscience did not remain silent. Within days of the incident Tarik Sujat wrote Janmer aagei aami mrityu ke korechhi alingan  (Even before my birth I embraced death, July 6, 2016). No diatribe in his words, but the muted cry of an unborn being jolts us. That cry left me with a tear in one eye and fire in the other…

On my very first reading I was touched, I was moved, I fell silent. The pensive mood of the embryonic life turned me reflective. Anger, rage, fury was not the answer to hostility, loathing, abhorrence, I realised. So will you, as you go through the poem that was handed out in Magliano Sabino when Simona’s hometown prayed for her eternal rest.

I Embraced Death Before Birth 

Even before my birth I embraced death.
I have no nation, no speech,
No stock of my own.
No distinction between Holy-Unholy,
Sin and Virtue, Sacred or Cursed.
Having seen the ghastly face of life
I've swallowed my last drop of tear...
My first breath did not pollute
The environs of your earth.
My last breath was the first gift
Of this planet to me!

Maa!
You were my only playhouse,
My school, and my coffin.
I had yet to open my eyes -
And still I saw
The sharp nails of executioner
Ripping apart my naval cord.
My ears were yet to hear sound,
Still I could catch bells
That summon lads to schools...
The obscure sound echoed
Through churches, temples,
And minarets of masjids
Until, slowly, it fell silent...

My first bed was my last.
My mother's womb was
My only home
In the unseen world.
On that nook too, darkness descended.
Floating down the river of blood
I groped for my umbilical cord
To keep me afloat...
My tiny fingers, my soft palm
Could find nothing to clutch.

In that Dance of Death
My unseeing eyes witnessed
Koran, Bible, Gita, Tripitak
Bobbing in receding blood.
In the achromatic gloom
Of my chamber
I got no chance to learn
A single mark of piety!

Still...
I embraced death before I was born.
My mother's womb is my
Grave, my coffin, my pyre.
The world of humans
Is enveloped in fire -
A few droplets of my meagre body
Does not quench its thirst!

(Translated from Tarik Sujat’s Bengali poem by Ratnottama Sengupta)

Why has this portrayal of a tormented soul found voice in French, German, Swedish, Italian, English…? Why has it been translated into 17 languages? In the answer blowing in the wind lies hope for mankind. For, the answer is: Not every man is created in the image of Lucifer.  That is why, when Giulia Benedetti learnt that she will never again see her aunt Nadia Benedetti, that “she will not talk, will not comment on fashion, will not sing together again…” she wrote on Facebook: “Do not forget. Do not lose her memory. Do not let crazy people massacre. Do not let them win…”

And I immerse my voice in the Bard’s to say: “Let life come to the souls that are dead…” And I pray, bring harmony, bring rhythm, bring melody in our lives, O Serene! Wipe away every dark cloud from the world yet to dawn!

[1] The world is crazed with greed

[2] Bilkis Bano was gangraped in 2002 https://thewire.in/rights/in-her-own-words-what-bilkis-bano-went-through-in-2002

Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of  The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award. 

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Review

Voices from Beyond

Book Review by Swagata Chatterjee

Title: Ekalavya Speaks

Author: Sanjukta Dasgupta

Publisher: Penprints

Poetry which goes beyond the boundaries of words and speaks for a greater cause calls for a captivating read. The lines become more significant when the verses address multiple socio-politico-cultural issues, aesthetically and without didacticism. Poet and academician Sanjukta Dasgupta’s latest book of poems Ekalavya Speaks is not merely a gathering of words, they rather, “[…] spread out their wings untiring/ And never rest in their flight” (Yeats) and attempt to hark at deaf ears and represent unheard voices. She is a strong voice for the otherized, marginalised sections raising issues from multiple spheres of life. Caste, gender, myth, history, pre-history, and technology all find space in her chosen selection of poems. The very last lines of the first poem, ‘Accident of Birth’ says,

“No accident could be 
More catastrophic than
The accident of birth, alas.”

This sets the tone of the whole collection, bringing out the angst of not one voice or one poet but an entire nation. The poet is a strong voice, at times ironic as she says in her titular poem ‘Ekalavya Speaks’-

“The Sun also Rises for us
I may claim your thumb some day.”

These lines are from Dronacharya, the tutor of the royal princes who asks his disciple to gift him his thumb after lopping it off  as a fee to maintain his allegiance to the throne. Ekalavya, the tribal prince could not question the ‘guru’ in the Mahabharata, whereas the poet in the surreal space gives him the voice to speak for the treachery of the great guru. The guru reappears in the poem ‘Dronacharya: The Teacher of Princes’ where questions are thrown at the intentions of a biased guru who was  “The glamourised bonded labour/ Leashed to the regal court.”

Her poem, ‘Kurukshetra-The Killing Field’, goes beyond the boundaries of territories and is akin to any war where lives are lost. At once Kurukshetra becomes the battleground of Ukraine or Gaza where humanity is killed every day. The crying mothers and wailing children are the same everywhere and they are representatives of the universal sorrow of pain and loss and how peace is a mere myth as “Peace was restored at the price/ of rivers of blood […]”. In fact, ‘In the Holy Land’, she talks of dying children and the toxic air of war-trodden Gaza; of the grief-ridden Bethlehem and Jerusalem.

In her greater narrative, Ekalavya and Karna unite to quest for justice, for a space in the mainstream, and for a better liberated world. In Dasgupta’s poetry,  Ekalavya, Shambuka or Shikhandi are not figures from the great epics, they represent the backwards sections of society who perhaps after eons of silence they have now found the time to come out of death, saying– “ I rise from my ashes/ Resurrected!”

With Shikhandi, Draupadi’s brother in the Mahabharata, who was born a female and exchanged gender with a yaksha (nature spirit) for that of a male, Dasgupta brings in the suffering caused by gender identity. She sensitively writes about Oscar Wilde’s homosexuality in her poem ‘The Poet In Reading Gaol’. One’s sexual orientation can ironically be treated as a heinous crime. Heterogeny is also a kind of capitalism as the poet strongly urges and questions progressiveness and maligning of human rights.

In her earlier books Lakshmi Unbound, Sita’s Sisters, and Indomitable Draupadi. Dasgupta has primarily addressed the feminist question. Her latest includes poems like ‘Bapu’ and ’Manipur’. In ‘Bapu’, she talks about the rape of a 12-year-old child in the name of religion in India with sensitivity.

‘The Coffee Shop’ is an interesting and ironic poem. Dead leaders meet in a surreal space where neither murderer nor violence can touch them. They are ‘immortals’ and ‘martyrs’ and, now, are even invincible. It is utopian when Gandhi, Jesus, Martin Luther, and Julius Caesar meet each other. Religion and politics, peacemakers and warriors, all blend in a higher realm of understanding. The flavour of this poem is unique and different from the rest of the poems in the collection and yet thematically it stands out as a statement against violence and death. Death cannot bring an end to the ones whose deeds and ideals are immortal. The same can be said about another visionary poem, ‘Shakespeare and Kalidasa’.

In all the poems, the poet comes across as a strong, sensitive voice whose pen cuts across dogmas, blind faiths, violence and otherization. At the same time, she speaks for the cause of humanity. There are personal poems, like ‘I can’t breathe’; a brilliant poem describing psychological claustrophobia in a world where no peace or no prayers can end the suffering of souls. ‘The Exit’ or ‘Loss’ add richer gravity .

As a poet Dasgupta’s language is lucid and she draws her allusions and examples from the myths, from the past and the projected the future. She strongly voices her opinion. As an educator and as a responsible human being she becomes the voice of the many. Each poem unfolds a story to guides our way through obstructions, which are not physical but mental barriers from which one must liberate oneself. As I read her, I am reminded of a few lines by the great Urdu poet, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, who wrote:

Speak, your lips are free.
Speak, it is your own tongue.
Speak, it is your own body.
Speak, your life is still yours.

Swagata Chatterjee is an Assistant Professor of English at a state-aided college under Vidyasagar University. She is an academician and a keen reader.

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Categories
Poetry

By Any Other Name

By Staurt McFarlane

Now the school of semantics is fully enrolled,  
we begin to believe the lies we’re being sold.
‘Proportional response’. ‘Collateral damage’.
‘It’s a situation we feel we can manage’.
Politicians, as ever, so sensible,
queue up to defend the indefensible.
The Israelis freely act without constraint.
The Americans continue to urge restraint.
Schools, housing, hospitals; all are destroyed,
yet, still, euphemistic terms are employed.
Artillery posts now even have trouble
finding a building to reduce to rubble.
And, as Gaza withers, festers and rots,
the diplomats tie themselves in knots.
‘Not a ceasefire, a humanitarian pause’.
Treating the symptoms, not the underlying cause.
But Israel miscalculated, and crossed a red line,
in denying the idea of a Palestine.
For an idea does not so easily die;
all the dead children of Gaza so testify.
How can the fighting now ever cease?
There’s not the faintest prospect of peace.
By conducting such a senseless war,
they've only ensured centuries more.
You can justify anything, if you try hard enough
but, deep down, do we realise, it’s all so much guff.
So, don’t pretend, as you kill, wound and maim,
It's not murder; by any other name.

 Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.                                                                                                                    

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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