A conversation with the author,Afsar Mohammed, and a brief introduction to his latest book, Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad. Click hereto read.
A conversation with Meenakshi Malhotra over The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle, edited by Meenakshi Malhotra, Krishna Menon and Rachana Johri and a brief introduction to the book. Click hereto read.
In His Unstable Shape, Rhys Hughes explores the narratives around a favourite nursery rhyme character with a pinch of pedantic(?) humour. Click here to read.
Mother & Child by Jamini Roy (1887-1972)Mother and Child by Picasso (1881-1973)
‘Victory to Man, the newborn, the ever-living.’ They kneel down, the king and the beggar, the saint and the sinner, the wise and the fool, and cry: ‘Victory to Man, the newborn, the ever-living.’
This is the month— the last of a conflict-ridden year— when we celebrate the birth of a messiah who spoke of divine love, kindness, forgiveness and values that make for a better world. The child, Jesus, has even been celebrated by Tagore in one of his rarer poems in English. While we all gather amidst our loved ones to celebrate the joy generated by the divine birth, perhaps, we will pause to shed a tear over the children who lost their lives in wars this year. Reportedly, it’s a larger number than ever before. And the wars don’t end. Nor the killing. Children who survive in war-torn zones lose their homes or families or both. For all the countries at war, refugees escape to look for refuge in lands that are often hostile to foreigners. And yet, this is the season of loving and giving, of helping one’s neighbours, of sharing goodwill, love and peace. On Christmas this year, will the wars cease? Will there be a respite from bombardments and annihilation?
We dedicate this bumper year-end issue to children around the world. We start with special tributes to love and peace with an excerpt from Tagore’s long poem, ‘The Child‘, written originally in English in 1930 and a rendition of the life of the philosopher and change-maker, Vivekananda, by none other than well-known historical fiction writer, Aruna Chakravarti. The poem has been excerpted from Indian Christmas: Essays, Memoirs, Hymns, an anthology edited by Jerry Pinto and Madhulika Liddle, a book that has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal and praised for its portrayal of the myriad colours and flavours of Christmas in India. Christ suffered for the sins of humankind and then was resurrected, goes the legend. Healing is a part of our humanness. Suffering and healing from trauma has been brought to the fore by Christopher Marks’ perspective on Veronica Eley’s The Blue Dragonfly: healing through poetry. Basudhara Roy has also written about healing in her take of Kuhu Joshi’s My Body Didn’t Come Before Me.Bhaskar Parichha has reviewed a book that talks of healing a larger issue — the crises that humanity is facing now, Permacrisis: A Plan to Fix a Fractured World, by ex-British Prime Minister Gordon Brown, Nobel Laureate Michael Spence, Mohamed El-Erian and Reid Lidow. Parichha tells us that it suggests solutions to resolve the chaos the world is facing — perhaps a book that the world leadership would do well to read. After all, the authors are of their ilk! Our book excerpts from Dr Ratna Magotra’s Whispers of the Heart – Not Just A Surgeon: An Autobiographyand Manjima Misra’s The Ocean is Her Titleare tinged with healing and growth too, though in a different sense.
The theme of the need for acceptance, love and synchronicity flows into our conversations with Afsar Mohammad, who has recently authored Remaking History: 1948 Police Action and the Muslims of Hyderabad. He shows us that Hyderabadi tehzeeb or culture ascends the narrow bounds set by caged concepts of faith and nationalism, reaffirming his premise with voices of common people through extensive interviews. In search of a better world, Meenakshi Malhotra talks to us about how feminism in its recent manifestation includes masculinities and gender studies while discussing The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle, edited by her, Krishna Menon and Rachana Johri. Here too, one sees a trend to blend academia with non-academic writers to bring focus on the commonalities of suffering and healing while transcending national boundaries to cover more of South Asia.
That like Hyderabadi tehzeeb, Bengali culture in the times of Tagore and Nazrul dwelled in commonality of lore is brought to the fore when in response to the Nobel laureate’s futuristic ‘1400 Saal’ (‘The year 1993’), his younger friend responds with a poem that bears not only the same title but acknowledges the older man as an “emperor” among versifiers. Professor Fakrul Alam has not only translated Nazrul’s response, named ‘1400Saal’ aswell, but also brought to us the voice of another modern poet, Quazi Johirul Islam. We have a self-translation of a poem by Ihlwha Choi from Korean and a short story by S Ramakrishnan in Tamil translated by T Santhanam.
Our short stories travel with migrant lore by Farouk Gulsara to Malaysia, from UK to Thailand with Paul Mirabile while chasing an errant son into the mysterious reaches of wilderness, with Neeman Sobhan to Rome, UK and Bangladesh, reflecting on the Birangonas (rape victims) of the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation war, an issue that has been taken up in Malhotra’s book too. Sobhan’s story is set against the backdrop of a war which was fought against linguistic hegemony and from which we see victims heal. Sohana Manzoor this time has not only given us fabulous artwork but also a fantasy hovering between light and dark, life and death — an imaginative fiction that makes a compelling read and questions the concept of paradise, a construct that perhaps needs to be found on Earth, rather than after death.
The unusual paradigms of life and choices made by all of us is brought into play in an interesting non-fiction by Nitya Amlean, a young Sri Lankan who lives in UK. We travel to Kyoto with Suzanne Kamata, to Beijing with Keith Lyons, to Wayanad with Mohul Bhowmick and to Langkawi with Ravi Shankar. Wendy Jones Nakanishi argues in favour of borders with benevolent leadership. Tongue-in-cheek humour is exuded by Devraj Singh Kalsi as he writes of his attempts at using visiting cards as it is by Rhys Hughes in his exploration of the truth about the origins of the creature called Humpty Dumpty of nursery rhyme fame.
Poetry again has humour from Hughes. A migrant himself, Jee Leong Koh, brings in migrant stories from Singaporeans in US. We have poems of myriad colours from Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Patricia Walsh, John Grey, Kumar Bhatt, Ron Pickett, Prithvijeet Sinha, Sutputra Radheye, George Freek and many more. Papia Sengupta ends her poem with lines that look for laughter among children and a ‘life without borders’ drawn by human constructs in contrast to Jones Nakanishi’s need for walls with sound leadership. The conversation and dialogues continue as we look for a way forward, perhaps with Gordon Brown’s visionary book or with Tagore’s world view of lighting the inner flame in each human. We can hope that a way will be found. Is it that tough to influence the world using words? We can wish — may there be no need for any more Greta Thunbergs to rise in protest for a world fragmented and destroyed by greed and lack of vision. We hope for peace and love that will create a better world for our children.
As usual, we have more content than mentioned here. All our pieces can be accessed on the contents’ page. Do pause by and take a look. This bumper issue would not have been possible without the contribution of all the writers and our fabulous team from Borderless. Huge thanks to them all and to our wonderful readers who continue to encourage us with their comments and input.
Here’s wishing you all wonderful new adventures in the New Year that will be born as this month ends!
How can anybody comprehend one of the largest and most ancient cities in the world? With its origins dating back three millennia, Beijing has been China’s capital for over 1,200 years. Keith Lyons tries to get to the heart of China’s megacity in just three days.
Photo provided by Keith Lyons
Day Two*
As the strong sun beat down on my pale jet-lagged wintered skin, I tried to guess the temperature of the warm Beijing air enveloping me. Over 30 degrees Celsius, my mind computed. Over 30 was possibly outside my body’s operating range. It was certainly outside my comfort zone.
I concluded that it was unseasonably hot and humid for early autumn, drawing on my vast experience of being in Beijing for just over 24 hours. A bead of sweat formed under my right armpit and started to trickle slowly down my side, the perspiration a futile attempt to cool down. My daypack stuck resolutely to a sweat imprint patch it had made on the back of my freshly laundered shirt. I’d just finished my second can of complimentary hotel soda water, and already the back of my throat felt as dry as the trampled brown grass that lay unloved between the uneven paving stone pavement and the stain-weathered concrete housing estate sweltering in the September mid-morning.
I looked down the wide 4-lane road I’d just walked along in the hope of spotting – like a mirage shimmering in the distance – a bus to rescue me from this situation. But all I could see was another batch of oncoming shiny new electric SUVs, unmarked white delivery vans, and angry-faced FAW trucks overloaded with gravel. The noise of their tyres on the asphalt increased to a roar and then faded away, as if to serve to remind me I was going nowhere fast. The buzz of cicadas hidden in a willow tree on the opposite side of the road taunted my already addled brain. Not only was I hot and flustered, but I was also completely lost. So much for my exceptional navigational skills, my Beijing map pre-loaded on my iPhone, and my ability to read a few Chinese characters.
I had set off early that morning with my detailed trip notes, a plan including the day’s itinerary and lists of vital bus numbers, and the intention of getting into the heart and soul of China’s capital: Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City. I was so chirpy that I whistled to myself the catchy song from the 2008 Beijing Olympics ‘Bei jing huan ying ni’ (Beijing welcomes you). However, instead of catching a couple of buses the 15km from outside the 4th Ring Road into the downtown, I had mistakenly taken a bus that deposited me on the outskirts of Beijing. To make matters worse, rather than cross the road and hop on a bus going back to where I started, I decided to walk around the corner in the hope of getting a bus that would somehow bring me closer to the Forbidden City.
Not wanting this wrong turn to ruin my day’s plans, I decided first to address the essentials in life: shelter and food. The only shade I could find lay behind the bus shelter, so I leant in close to escape the sun’s harsh rays, every so often checking the road for any signs of salvation. I rummaged around my daypack to locate my emergency stash of muesli bars, and ate one, oblivious to the wrapper information which I understood to mean I’d just consumed 2 teaspoons of refined sugar. Today was not going to be my day to give up sugar.
The insulin spike also fuelled my optimism. As if I had manifested it into being, I saw a bus in the distance coming this way. Not caring about the sun or the heat, I strode out across the pavement to be sure to alert the driver to my desire to get on his bus. But as I waited on the curb, I noticed that the bus didn’t switch lanes to execute a passenger pick up or drop off. No, instead, the bus just kept going, onto the roundabout that joined a busy ring road half a kilometre away. I retreated to the shade again.
The same process repeated itself. Another Beijing bus approaching. Another exit, the shade to stand by the roadside by the broken yellow lines. Another speeding past. It was like Groundhog Day, or The Truman Show. I started to wonder if I was invisible, or just trapped in some time warp. Is this how it ends, I pondered.
With no one around, and no one to ask, I figured eventually a bus might stop. I had read in a travel guide that there were 30,000 buses in Beijing, plying over 1,600 bus lines and routes. And, after all, it was a bus stop. And on the other side of the road, the red, green, yellow city buses were stopping.
A rather podgy man in his 30s appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to wait for a bus on the opposite side. I was about to go over to ask if he could help me, but then he crossed over to try to catch another bus heading along the road on my side. The bus zoomed past. Shading his phone from the sun’s glare, he peered into the device. I realised, that just like me, he was equally lost, like another soul you meet in a labyrinth limbo dream.
With the morning slipping away, and me getting more and more frustrated at being stuck, I resign myself to the day being a complete write-off. I lower my aspirations to just find my way back to my hotel before dark. So, when the next bus neared, I was less invested in it being my rescue. And, you guessed right, that bus slowed down and stopped, and two relieved passengers got on, grateful just for being transported away from there.
I stayed on that bus as it sped around roundabouts, raced on ring roads, stopped at major intersections and turned onto more crowded streets. Even though I still clutched my lucky list of bus numbers, 1-999, I was less inclined to get off it when I saw one of the route buses I was seeking. Given that there was always the chance I take the right bus line (1-140) the wrong way, I figured it was best to locate a subway station, and then make my way to the centre in a more exact way.
When I did finally spy a subway station and get off the bus, I realised that I’d travelled from the north-east of the city to the south-west in a clockwise direction, albeit in a very random fashion. When I started hours before I was 15km from the centre. Now, after quite a lot of travel and much travail, I had reduced the road distance to the centre to a mere 14km. But at least I was somewhere. Even if from a nearby China Telecom store I heard blaring from the speakers that overplayed tune, ‘Take me to your heart, take me to your soul . . . It’s easy, take me to your heart.’
Before I could take the subway train, there was a cursory security check with my daybag put on an X-ray conveyor belt, a security gate to walk through, and a bored officer barely out of high school waving his handheld detector wand over me like he was bestowing a lazy blessing rather than seeking out concealed weapons. A row of ticket machines was my next challenge. Even with the option of English, my money was repeated spat out, and then the monitor said unless you have a Chinese ID card go to the help desk to buy your ticket. There was no one staffing the office, but the most alert of the security kids told me to wait, and the clerk duly returned, changed the window sign, confirmed my destination on the electronic route map, took my money, and issued the ticket.
I went up to the ticket gate and eventually worked out which scanner I had to use for my printed ticket. Locals were negotiating the subway with much more ease. Some whipped out mobile phones to use apps, WeChat or e-cards. Others placed their hands on an electronic palm reader, and there was a poster on the wall which seem to suggest that soon, facial recognition could provide express entry and exit to frequent (and trusted) commuters.
When I finally emerged at Tiananmen West Station, I joined a throng of people also intent on venturing into the great square. We marched along the wide barricaded footpath to a security station, me still humming to myself ‘It’s easy, take me to your heart’. As we reached the gate, and I saw a sign in Chinese with a translated version in English, I realised today was not my day. You needed a ticket to enter the square and its attractions. What’s more, the ticket had to be purchased at least a day in advance. There’s a limit of 80,000 tickets available each day. I retraced my steps back to the subway station, but then decided while I was in the neighbourhood, I might as well look around. And even if I couldn’t get into Tiananmen Square itself, or the Forbidden City, National Museum, Zhongshan Park or the quirky Chairman Mao Memorial Hall, I could at least check out the sights that were accessible.
First, there was the Great Hall of the People, built in the imposing Soviet neoclassical style, and then its opposite, the shiny egg-like National Centre for Performing Arts. Further along, there was the anomaly of a church, still in use, which I later learnt was the Methodist Zhushikou church. And in a modern Japanese hotel, featuring bamboo, recycled bricks and lounge walls lined with shelves of books. The hotel has been designed to reflect ‘an anti-gorgeous, anti-cheap concept’ says the website. Rooms are US$110-500 a night.
Tianamen SquareNational Centre for Performing ArtsPhotos provided by Keith Lyons
At the south entrance to Tiananmen Square, I tried again to slip through a gap in the barricades with some other ticketless visitors, but we were turned back by a guard. At the official entrance, I saw a woman was China’s southwest holding her baby sobbing after she too was refused entry.
Photos provided by Keith Lyons
Having abandoned my pursuit of getting anywhere near the Gate of Heavenly Peace, I took heart from the incursions by others around the periphery of Tiananmen square. The several Starbucks dotted around, including one guarding the entry to Qianmen, the foreboding gate in the Imperial City’s wall, and equally impressive, the first KFC in China which opened in 1987, with over 2,200 buckets of chicken sold from the red and white striped building sporting the Colonel’s smiling face within the first 24 hours. Queues stretched into Tiananmen Square. Mao had died 11 years earlier. He would have turned in his grave . . . however, he’s not buried, but embalmed and on display in a glass case not too far from the smell of Kentucky fast food’s 11 secret herbs and spices, and the burnt, nutty scent of Seattle coffee. A photo I’d taken by the southern entrance, on closer inspection after I’d departed China, included the mausoleum housing Mao Zedong.
Turning my back on Tiananmen, I wandered along the 850m of Qianmen Street, a pedestrian ‘shopping’ street newly restored in the architectural style of old Peking. The Dashilan area has been a place of commerce for nearly six centuries, with medicine, shoes, silk, tea and hats China-famous, but I reckon, most of the buildings date back to 2007, with many away from the main thoroughfare appearing to be under construction.
Photo provided by Keith Lyons
Content with small pleasures and moments, I enjoyed finding a stream running through a neighborhood, with flower gardens, pagodas, and a couple of women taking photos dressed in traditional clothing. I bookmarked it on my map. A reference point was ‘Defeng East Alley No.65 toilet’. I saw an old woman taking a dog and a ginger cat for a walk and was delighted when the cat came up to me, and I chatted with the woman. “Yes, every day the cat goes for a walk with me. The cat and the dog get on. The cat probably thinks it is a dog.”
I finished my day in Beijing’s heart by heading up to the highest point of the central city, with a 10-minute hike up Jingshan Park north of Tiananmen Square for panoramic views of the Forbidden City. The views were expansive, though the visibility wasn’t great due to the air pollution and haze. What was I supposed to be looking at, I wondered. The red walled buildings of the Forbidden City, or the immense void beyond, of Tiananmen Square. So close to the symbolic centre of the Chinese universe, I peered at the scene before me. The dull tones contrasted with the display panel with its brilliant blue skies and landmark buildings. I was thirsty and hungry. The 6pm sun was making for the exit door. It was time to make my way back home to my hotel.
The Forbidden City. Photo provided by Keith Lyons
On my way down, gratitude came through in the last song of my day in my head, “Oh, it’s such a perfect day. I’m glad I spent it with you. Oh, such a perfect day. You just keep me hanging on. You just keep me hanging on.”
Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
How can anybody comprehend one of the largest and most ancient cities in the world? Keith Lyons goes up high, underground, underwater and down some dead-end alleyways as he tries to understand in just three days what took 3,000 years of history to create.
Day One*
My fascination with China started at an early age. I remember as a child leaving through the Time-Life World Library series volume for China (1965); its photographs grainy black and white, and tinted colour, only serving to increase the mystique about the nation then isolated behind the Bamboo Curtain at the height of Mao’s Cultural Revolution. Back then, to be able to stand on the Great Wall of China, or to see the vastness Tiananmen Square seemed as probable as going on a school trip to the Moon.
I was in my late 20s when I first visited the Middle Kingdom, and through a series of events, choices, and decisions, later found myself living and working in the ethnic borderlands of southwest China for more than a dozen years from the mid-2000s. During that time in-country, as well as before and after during my various travels throughout China, how many times do you think I visited the capital, Beijing? Half-a-dozen times? Or at least 10 times? Sorry. I have to confess, even though I ‘knew’ Beijing through books and documentaries — and creating travel itineraries for tour groups — I never once visited in person the Chinese capital.
Yes, that’s right. I crafted detailed, tailor-made itineraries for first-time visitors to Beijing, to give them an insider’s experience of the capital, without getting within a thousand kilometres of the great city. My excuses include:
1 – China is vast, and almost the same size as Europe;
2 – It would take 3 days by train from my courtyard house in Yunnan’s Lijiang to the Forbidden City, and I wasn’t up for such a long journey
3 – To be honest, I wasn’t as enthralled about Beijing after hearing mixed reports from other travellers, so I decided I could live (and/or die) without casting my eyes upon the sights and wonders of Beijing.
A small window of opportunity opened to me recently when the stars aligned between jobs and other responsibilities. I had turned down the invitation to speak at a national tourism conference about the future of China’s tourism development post-pandemic, but I got to visit China for the first time since 2019, making an extended stopover in the capital. A visa-exemption initiative recently re-instated to encourage tourism without the need for pre-approved visas meant I could theoretically apply for a 144-hour transit stamp.
So, I touched down at Beijing’s Capital International Airport (IATA code PEK) early one morning after an overnight flight from the southern hemisphere. This being my first time without a pre-approved (and expensive) visa I was a little nervous, and my fears were not allayed when no one was staffing the 144-hour visa desk. Was this the first great wall I had to overcome? I got sent from one immigration queue to another, a couple of times having to go against the flow of newly-arriving passengers and slip upstream through security. When eventually an official arrived to process the paperwork and issue the transit stamp, I had to show all my flight and accommodation bookings; not an easy task when you can’t connect to the airport wi-fi.
I was sweating, not just because of the late summer heat, but also because I had booked a bus tour to the Great Wall that was leaving at 8 a.m. from central Beijing, a train and subway ride away. “Dear Sir, our assembly point is at Exit C of Dengshikou Subway Station on Line 5,” read my instructions. “You can see the guide wearing a blue vest. Please arrived at the assembly point 10 minutes early.”
Having a Chinese bank card, a map preloaded onto my phone, and some decent residual Mandarin skills, along with no reservations about queue-jumping as payback for being delayed, I found an ATM, and headed to the exit of the massive airport. There were only a few seconds to admire the impressive roof arching over Terminal 3, designed by Sir Norman Foster for the 2008 Beijing Olympics as I marched across the marble floors towards the Capital Airport Express. It was just after 7 a.m. but already I could see how Beijing Capital Airport is — or was — the second busiest airport in the world.
Transferring from the airport line train downtown to the metro, the time on my phone was counting down towards the departure time. I worried that if I missed my bus, my whole trip would be ruined; and that such an inauspicious start to my Beijing exploration would cause a chain reaction of delays, missed opportunities and regret. Maybe I’d never make it to the Wall. Then I thought: take it easy, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. I studied the Chinese characters for Dengshikou, recognising the first Sinogram as meaning light or lantern.
Arriving at the subway station, I quickened my pace up the stairs and escalators to emerge into sunlight at Exit C. It was 7:59. Fortunately, a blue-vested person was standing in the middle of the carpark. “Do I have time to grab something to eat or drink?” I asked the ZANbus guide in my slightly rusty Mandarin. “No. We’re leaving right now,” she said, ushering me onto the bus.
“But we have bottles of water on sale onboard.”
My online booked tour, a bare basics budget-friendly US$25 including admission ticket, offered three advantages: visiting a less-visited section of the Great Wall a mere 70km from Beijing, arriving before the ‘other tourists’, and being a strictly ‘no shopping’ experience (many tours visit several stores where guides and drivers make huge commissions). As the only non-Chinese person on the coach, the guide (who was supposed to speak some English) gave me a special briefing (in Mandarin), explaining the options for going up and coming down from the Mutianyu section of the wall, as we sped out of the metropolis heading towards the green rolling hills in the hazy distance.
As we passed orchards, with growers selling freshly-picked fruits and nuts, I secretly wished we could stop for some shopping, not just to support the locals, but to ease my rumbling empty stomach. A nearby passenger, a man in his 20s visiting from a central province, whom I later dubbed ‘Running Man’, live-streamed the succession of farmer’s markets we zoomed past, in between video-chatting to his girlfriend. “There’s apples, pears, apricots, plums, grapes, persimmon, walnuts and huge peaches,” I heard him say. Since the bus driver didn’t once slow down, I justified to myself that, even though probably quite delicious, that produce would probably be exorbitantly over-priced for day-tripping Great Wallers like myself.
By 9.30am I was striding along an arcade of mainly unopened shops past the visitor centre, stopping to buy more water, and some snacks. “How about an ice cream?”one vendor asked me after I looked into his glass-top freezer. “Later, OK?” A cafe offered a latte coffee, but the US$8.25 price tag reminded me that China gives too much status to the beverage, which is sometimes just instant coffee and creamer. A Chinese family, long-resident in the UK, gave me a fuller rundown on the logistics for sightseeing, where to meet the guide for the trip back to Beijing (the waiting hall just near Burger King), and most importantly, when the bus driver would be leaving (4pm sharp). “Also, if you tell them you are with this bus company, there’s a discount at Subway,” the teenage son chimed in as we boarded an electric vehicle for a short ride to the base station for the ascent of the crestline high above us. Looking along the line of the hills, I could just make out the crenellated up-and-down patterns of the walls, stretching off into the far distance.
Now you’ve probably heard it many times, but let’s dispel the myth: the Great Wall of China is not visible from space. It is not visible from the Moon. It isn’t even visible to the naked eye from the low-orbit International Space Station. The popular myth goes back centuries, and more recently has been part of the propaganda of modern China to state that the wall was the only human-made structure that could be seen from space. The myth was challenged when Apollo 12 lunar module pilot Alan Bean said, “The only thing you can see from the Moon is a beautiful sphere, mostly white, some blue and patches of yellow, and every once in a while, some green vegetation. . . No man-made object is visible at this scale.”
Some artificial structures such as cities, highways and dams are visible from space, but the Great Wall is only visible from low Earth orbit with magnification or high-powered camera lenses. This was confirmed by China’s own first astronaut who went around planet Earth 14 times in 2003 on Shenzhou 5. “The Earth looked very beautiful from space, but I did not see our Great Wall.”
Photographs provided by Keith Lyons
To get personal and up-close with the Great Wall, other passengers decided to get a chairlift up and traipse further along between watchtowers and then take a toboggan (“speed slide”) down for 5 minutes of excitement. Rather than hike up (crazy in the heat), I opted to take the same cable car up and down (less than US$20 return).
Within minutes we could look down on the graceful, curved line of each section of the wall as it gently arched from one watchtower to the next. Wow! As the cable car reached its terminus near watchtower 14, the extent of the Great Wall to the north was revealed, fading to the horizon as vegetation and battlement became indistinguishable.
The Mutianyu section extends some 5.4km, and though work began in the 6th century, much of it was rebuilt or renovated in the 15th and 16th centuries. In the 1980s about 2.3 km of that section was restored, so over the last three decades, more and more people have been able to visit the less crowded and commercialised alternative to the more famous, most-restored, scenically magnificent Badaling section.
At Mutianyu, constructed of granite blocks, the wall has been made pedestrian-friendly and smooth, though there were steps, some steep in parts as they climb to the series of watchtowers. My fellow passenger Running Man darted around taking selfies and videos, as if he had only 24-hours left to live. Couples set off to the best spots to take photos, while a group of three university students set their sights on the highest watchtower, No.20, which could take one or two hours return depending on speed, stops and stamina. The path climbs from the low of watchtower 17, with the steepest leg between 19 and 20.
Being something of a mountain goat myself, you might expect me to join them purposefully climbing towards the much-talked-about ’20’, but this goat was tired, jet-lagged, and hungry. Instead, I wandered along to the next abutments and decided to just sit in the shade admiring the view. This is just what I had envisioned, I wrote in my journal. And it was. Just like in the photos. Actually, I had expected the Great Wall might be more crowded with jostling visitors, but less than half those getting off the cable car ventured beyond watchtower 16 — and it wasn’t a weekend or holiday.
At watchtower 17, it was so quiet and still that I could hear cicadas in the pine and chestnut trees flanking the wall. A pair of sparrows darted around, a plane flew overhead, and I watched the slow progress of a centipede across the path from the inner parapet to the invader-facing crenelation, a distance of four or five metres. Surely, the centipede hadn’t climbed all the way up the seven or eight metres of the Wall’s walls, five times the height of an adult? During its construction, which went until the mid-1600s, parts of the wall were made with bricks, held together by a durable glutinous rice mortar — arsenic was used to prevent insects from eroding away the wall.
An old man, who has been sitting nearby in the shade while his adult son and grandchildren went on further, finishes drinking from a plastic water bottle and discards it over the side. I feel like saying something, but stop myself, realising that some attitudes and behaviours are slow to change. He probably thinks the Great Wall was visible from space, I confide to myself.
The Wall’s modest width, no bigger than a road, was probably why it couldn’t be easily spotted from above. However, it did provide a fast means of travel and transportation for troops. Officially, the Great Wall was some 21,198 km long – that’s equivalent to half the equator – but up to a third of the structure has disappeared over time. It’s not just one continuous wall either, with sidewalls, parallel walls, enclosing walls, and even sections where there are no walls, just high mountain ridges, rivers, ditches or moats as the barriers. The Wall can lay claim to being the longest man-made structure as well as the largest building construction project ever undertaken. On a blank page I start a rough sketch of the section in front of me, trying to get my head around how this is just a tiny fraction of the longer, greater wall.
As well as being for border defence, the Great Wall also served to transmit messages, using watchtowers and beacon towers. From the next watchtower, the grandson of the bottle-litter-man waves but failing to catch the attention of the old man, he runs back along the wall path yelling, “Yéye – Granddad! Did you see me waving to you at the next castle?”
There is a certain irony about this extensive bulwark constructed across northern China and southern Mongolia up to two millennia ago to keep out invaders which now every day is climbed over by tourists from Mongolia, Russia, Eurasia and beyond. This is supposed to keep us out. But here we are, on the top of the wall and fortifications, having invaded, not from beyond, but from the downtown of the capital of the nation. So much for the upright projections, resembling teeth bared at the enemies.
Other travel experts and expats living in Beijing tell me if I visited Mutianyu a month later, I would see the surrounding maple, oak and chestnut trees in their autumn splendour. In winter, snow transforms the scene. But on this day, I am just happy to be present, to take on the literal meaning of Mutianyu — Admire Fields Valley — as I take the cable car down to the bountiful valley, snack on a corn cob sprinkled with chilli, and some fresh walnuts. As the clouds turn to a sudden rainstorm, in the comfort of the waiting hall, after savouring an ice cream, I let the day catch up on me.
Photo provided by Keith Lyons
Back on the bus at 4pm, Running Man is sunburnt red and sweaty — but still grinning as he sorts through his photos and videos. The mother hen guide gives us all a small memento of the day, a fridge magnet of the Great Wall, as a reward for all making it back on time.
The next thing I recall is being woken by the guide. I must have drifted off to sleep. “We’ve arrived,” she says, pointing towards an entrance to the Beijing metro which seems different from the starting point. For a moment, I wonder if I have been dreaming it all: the Great Wall, the perfect day, how everything worked out in the end. Then I realised it was all true: I’ve just seen and been on the Great Wall. And I have the fridge magnet in my pocket to prove it. I turn to say goodbye to Running Man, but he’s already exited the bus, and is making for the escalator down.
Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Keith Lyons converses with globe trotter Tomaž Serafi, who lives in Ljubljana. Click here to read.
Translations
Barnes and Nobles by Quazi Johirul Islam has been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Clickhereto read.
Cast Away the Gun by Mubarak Qazi has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
One Jujubehas been written and translated from Korean by Ihlwha Choi. Clickhere to read.
A Hymnto an Autumnal Goddess by Rabindranath Tagore, AmraBeddhechhi Kaasher Guchho ( We have Tied Bunches of Kaash), has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty. Click hereto read.
Dr. KPP Nambiar takes us through his journey of making a Japanese-Malyalam dictionary, which started nearly fifty years ago, while linking ties between the cultures dating back to the sixteenth century. Click hereto read.
Pre-historic cave painting in France La Tauromaquia. Leap with the Spear by Picasso (1881-1973)Courtesy: Creative Commons
There was a time when there were no boundaries drawn by humans. Our ancestors roamed the Earth like any other fauna — part of nature and the landscape. They tried to explain and appease the changing seasons, the altering landscapes and the elements that affected life and living with rituals that seemed coherent to them. There were probably no major organised structures that laid out rules. From such observances, our festivals evolved to what we celebrate today. These celebrations are not just full of joie de vivre, but also a reminder of our syncretic start that diverged into what currently seems to be irreparable breaches and a lifestyle that is in conflict with the needs of our home planet.
Reflecting on this tradition of syncretism in our folklore and music, while acknowledging the boundaries that wreak havoc, is an essay by Aruna Chakravarti. She expounds on rituals that were developed to appease natural forces spreading diseases and devastation, celebrations that bring joy with harvests and override the narrowness of institutionalised human construct. She concludes with Lalan Fakir’s life as emblematic of the syncretic lore. Lalan, an uneducated man brought to limelight by the Tagore family, swept across religious divides with his immortal lyrics full of wisdom and simplicity. Dyed in similar syncretic lore are the writings of a student and disciple of Tagore from Santiniketan, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974). His works overriding these artificial constructs have been brought to light, by his translator, former BBC editor, Nazes Afroz. Having translated his earlier book, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, Afroz has now brought to us Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Jolay Dangay), in which we read of his travels to Egypt almost ninety years ago. In his interview, the translator highlights the current relevance of this remarkable polyglot.
Humming the tunes of Mujtaba Ali’s tutor, Tagore, a translation of Tagore’s song, AmraBeddhechhi Kasher Guchho (We have Tied Bunches of Kash[1]) captures the spirit of autumnal opulence which heralds the advent of Durga Puja. A translation by Fazal Baloch has brought a message of non-violence very aptly in these times from recently deceased eminent Balochi poet, Mubarak Qazi. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated a very contemporary poem by Quazi Johirul Islam on Barnes and Nobles while from Korea, we have a translation of a poem by Ihlwha Choi on the fruit, jujube, which is eaten fresh of the tree in autumn.
A poem which starts with a translation of a Tang dynasty’s poet, Yuan Zhen, inaugurates the first translation we have had from Mandarin — though it’s just two paras by the poet, Rex Tan, who continues writing his response to the Chinese poem in English. Mingling nature and drawing life lessons from it are poems by George Freek,Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Gopal Lahiri. We have poetry which enriches our treasury by its sheer variety from Hawla Riza, Pramod Rastogi, John Zedolik, Avantika Vijay Singh, Tohm Bakelas and more. Michael Burch has brought in a note of festivities with his Halloween poems. And Rhys Hughes has rolled out humour with his observations on the city of Mysore. His column too this time has given us a table and a formula for writing humorous poetry — a tongue-in-cheek piece, just like the book excerpt from The Coffee Rubaiyat. In the original Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam (1048–1131) had given us wonderful quatrains which Edward Fitzgerald immortalised with his nineteenth century translation from Persian to English and now, Hughes gives us a spoof which would well have you rollicking on the floor, and that too, only because as he tells us he prefers coffee over wine!
Humour tinged with irony is woven into Devraj Singh Kalsi’s narrative on red carpet welcomes in Indian weddings. We have a number of travel stories from Peru to all over the world. Ravi Shankar takes us to Lima and Meredith Stephens to Californian hot springs with photographs and narratives while Sayani De does the same for a Tibetan monastery in Lahaul. Keith Lyons converses with globe trotter Tomaž Serafi, who lives in Ljubljana. And Suzanne Kamata adds colour with a light-veined narrative on robots and baseball in Japan. Syncretic elements are woven by Dr. KPP Nambiar who made the first Japanese-Malyalam Dictionary. He started nearly fifty years ago after finding commonalities between the two cultures dating back to the sixteenth century. Tulip Chowdhury brings in colours of Halloween while discussing ghosts in Bangladesh and America, where she migrated.
The theme of immigration is taken up by Gemini Wahaaj as she reviews South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South edited by Khem K. Aryal. Japan again comes into focus with Aditi Yadav’s Makoto Shinkai’s and Naruki Nagakawa’s She and Her Cat, translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori. Somdatta Mandal has also reviewed a translation by no less than Booker winning Daisy Rockwell, who has translated Usha Priyamvada’sWon’t You Stay, Radhika? from Hindi. Our reviews seem full of translations this time as Bhaskar Parichha comments on One Among You: The Autobiography of M.K. Stalin, the current Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, translated from Tamil by A S Panneerselvan. In fiction, we have stories that add different flavours from Paul Mirabile, Neera Kashyap, Nirmala Pillai and more.
“One of the children gave it [the bunch of bananas] to the child sitting in front. An emaciated girl and a little boy were seated next to me. I told them to pass on the fruit to everyone in the back and keep one each for themselves. The girl looked curiously at the bunch as she turned it around in her hands. Then she looked at the other children.
“‘I’ve never seen an onion like this one,’ she said.
“Her little companion also touched the fruit gingerly and innocently added, ‘Yes, this is not even a potato.’
“I was speechless to say the least. These children had never seen anything apart from onions and potatoes. They had definitely never chanced upon bananas…”
Heart-wrenching but true! Maybe, we can all do our bit by reaching out to some outside our comfort or social zone to close such alarming gaps… Uma Dasgupta’s book tells us that Tagore had hoped many would start institutions like Sriniketan all over the country to bridge gaps between the underprivileged and the privileged. People like Satyarthi are doing amazing work in today’s context, but more like him are needed in our world.
We have more writings than I could mention here, and each is chosen with much care. Please do pause by our contents page and take a look. Much effort has gone into creating a space for you to relish different perspectives that congeal in our journal, a space for all of you. For this, we have the team at Borderlessto thank– without their participation, the journal would not be as it is. Sohana Manzoor with her vibrant artwork gives the finishing touch to each of our monthly issues. And lastly, I cannot but express my gratefulness to our contributors and readers for continuing to be with us through our journey. Heartfelt thanks to all of you.
If he had stayed in his first job as a bank clerk, perhaps Tomaž Serafi would never have discovered new worlds beyond the borders of the small central European country he grew up in. But he ventured out to find both ancient wisdom and inner truths. He talks to an old friend Keith Lyons.
In Mahayana Buddhism, there is a term ‘Bodhisattva’ for those who reach the threshold of enlightenment, but choose instead to remain behind delaying personal liberation, to dedicate themselves to the benefit of others. To me, Tomaž Serafi is like a compassionate Bodhisattva, gently opening doors for others, and encouraging them to go through.
But then, what do I know? I first met Tomaž more than 20 years ago, connected by a woman we loved. But when I recently scanned a map of Europe, one of the first things that came to mind was that in a modest apartment overlooking the Ljubljanica River near the heart of Slovenia’s capital, Tomaž was doing his thing, living his life to the fullest, letting his light shine.
He doesn’t just feature in my own personal geography or spiritual map of the world. Over the last two decades when travelling in Asia or Australasia I’ve come across people from Ljubljana, and on too many occasions, it turns out they also know Tomaž.
What can you tell us about where you live, in Ljubljana?
Ljubljana is located in the heart of Europe, nestled between Italy, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, and the Adriatic Sea. Slovenia’s capital city is neither large nor small, with a population of 300,000. It’s a delightful place to reside, featuring a vibrant community of young people, and hosting numerous cultural events.
I live in the city centre, right alongside the picturesque green river known as the Ljubljanica. From my window, I enjoy a spectacular view of Ljubljana’s castle perched atop a hill and the flowing river. If I wish to take a stroll in nature, there’s a forest just a 3-minute walk from my house in one direction and 15 minutes in the other. Even in the city centre, there are plenty of trees and green spaces.
Ljubljana is a hidden gem in Europe, and not many people know about its story. What can you say about the country and its people?
When I was born in 1962 Slovenia was a part of Yugoslavia, which was a non-aligned country, not affiliated with either the capitalist Western bloc or the communist Eastern bloc. Yugoslavia was a socialist country, somewhere between communism and capitalism. It was wealthier than communist countries but not as affluent as capitalist ones. Back then, we didn’t have much, but there were no truly impoverished people. Nobody was starving, and nobody was wealthy.
Today, we have a significant number of very wealthy individuals alongside many who are extremely poor, struggling with hunger and homelessness. Presently, life in Slovenia is not significantly different from that in other European countries.
What was it like for you growing up in the 1960s and 1970s in Slovenia?
Back then, we didn’t have cell phones and computers, so we spent most of our time outdoors playing with friends. We played games like hide and seek and competed to see who could run the fastest, jump the highest, climb the highest tree, and so on. When I was a child, I either played outside with friends or read books.
Where did reading books take you?
Books became my passion from the moment I learned how to read. Through books, I learned about other places on Earth and different cultures. I especially adored books about Native Americans. I read all of Karl May’s books [1]– Apache chief Winnetou was my number one hero.
So your interest in the whole wide world came from books?
Yes, my love of books furthered my fascination with other cultures. I’ve always been an avid reader. When I recognised that our own culture was not faring well, that it was troubled and leading us toward a precipice, I became curious about other cultures, especially indigenous ones. I began to delve into literature about Native American, Aboriginal, Celtic, and other cultures, exploring their spirituality and beliefs.
What put you on a path of exploring spirituality?
When I was 15, I fell off a rock wall in a canyon while I was climbing, plummeting 15 meters to the ground. I lay there, unable to move, and had to be rescued and taken to the hospital. Fortunately, it turned out that nothing was broken, but that incident profoundly changed my life. I began to contemplate the concepts of life and death. Death came close, examined me, and decided to spare me for a while longer.
Since that moment, I haven’t been afraid of death anymore. I also started pondering the meaning of life, which became the most significant question for me: What is the meaning of life? That question guided me towards spirituality and spiritual growth. Ever since, spirituality has been the most vital aspect of my life, (alongside, of course, the elements of sex, drugs, and rock and roll).
How were your first experiences venturing overseas?
My first journey took place when I was 15 years old, and I hitchhiked through Europe. I passed through Italy, and in Genoa, I attempted to buy marijuana. I gave money to a guy who entered a house but never returned. It was only then that I realised he had exited through another entrance at the back of the house.
Later in the Côte d’Azur, I purchased LSD, only to discover that I had received plain candy instead. In Nice, I was robbed by a group of 14-year-old Algerians. While hitchhiking on the highway outside of Paris, a large truck deliberately ran over my backpack, scattering all my belongings on the road. Moments later, the police arrived and informed me that hitchhiking on the highway was prohibited. When I showed them what had happened to my backpack, they simply shrugged and drove away.
In Brittany, a kind couple invited me to sleep in their house because it was raining, and I had intended to sleep outside in my sleeping bag. In Paris, a young man around 20-years-old invited me to stay in his apartment, but as we shared the same bed, he tried to put his hand into my underwear.
From these experiences, I learned that I couldn’t trust everyone and that I needed to be cautious. I also discovered that some people are incredibly generous and trustworthy. Most importantly, I learned that I am the master of my life, and it’s best to rely on myself. I also realized that the world is vast, and not every place is the same as my small Slovenia. I encountered people of various nationalities and skin colours, broadening my horizons. I understood that a person’s nationality doesn’t matter; fundamentally, we are all the same. In every country, there are both good and not-so-nice people. But regardless of where they are, everyone shares the same desire: to find happiness.
Has your style of travel changed over time from those first adventures in Europe?
When I was younger, I was restless and eager to explore as many places as possible, often staying in one place for no more than a day or two. However, as time went on, I came to realise that the longer I remain in one location, the more fulfilling it becomes. I grow more peaceful and content, and it’s only then that I can truly savour and fully immerse myself in the experiences.
I also came to understand that the slower I travel, the more profoundly I connect with the landscapes I traverse. When I travel by car, it feels like I’m merely watching the scenery on a television screen. Travelling by bicycle is a much richer experience. Walking on foot is even better, as I absorb every step of the journey. Travelling by public transport has its own appeal. On a bus, I can keenly observe the locals, their personalities, and their customs, which offers a splendid perspective on the places I visit.
What has been a really memorable travel experience for you?
One of the most memorable places that I visited in Ghana was a village called Sonyon. I was travelling by bicycle, and wherever I went, I would tell the people that I wasn’t a tourist but a pilgrim who had come to bestow blessings upon them. You can only reach this village on foot or by bicycle. Later, I learned that it’s a spiritual village where people from all over come to heal or achieve specific goals. They perform offerings, and then conduct certain ceremonies, and they say it has a powerful effect.
The houses in this village are single-story, made of mud, and have flat roofs. They are built close together, so in the evening, the villagers go up to the roofs, where it’s cooler due to a gentle breeze, and they walk around the village from house to house, like on a promenade. They even sleep there sometimes. I lay on the roof, and children came up and started touching me because they were curious about my white skin. I lay on my stomach, patted my back, and said, “You can touch me here,” and they began to stroke and massage me. It was a fantastic feeling, like being caressed and massaged by five or six children!
And how about when travelling in my home country, New Zealand?
One of the most memorable experiences during my first trip to New Zealand’s North Island was while stopping for a short break near a magnificent coastline while hitchhiking. I wanted to stay there for a while. So, I headed towards the coast, found a suitable spot, and set up camp. I spent quite a few days there. I was truly enjoying myself. I remained naked throughout the experience, frequently leaping into the water, singing loudly, dancing, and engaging in meditation, among other activities.
Then I was walking for a long time and eventually, I ran out of water and food. With my last bit of strength, I managed to reach the top of a hill. According to the information in my book, I should have soon come across the first settlement along the way. However, the path had disappeared. Tall grass had grown all around me. I climbed onto a rock and saw a belt of forest nearby, with a path beyond it. I headed towards the forest. Wild boars ran past me. The forest was so overgrown that it took me an hour to reach a path about a hundred meters away. I was dirty and scratched, my clothes were torn, and I was hungry and thirsty. It was Christmas Eve.
Soon, I heard human voices and saw a holiday trailer. People were having a picnic. I asked them if I was heading in the right direction towards the main road. They confirmed it and said, “Wait a minute. Are you thirsty, or hungry? Have a beer. It’s Christmas Eve.” I stayed with them. Soon, Māori friends joined them. We sat around the fire, ate and drank, talked, an elderly Māori woman shared stories of their spirituality and sang their songs, and I sang some of ours. I couldn’t have asked for a better Christmas gift.
Let’s go back to your earlier existence. What happened for you to give up a career working in a bank?
It all began with Illusions (1989) by Richard Bach. I was still employed at a bank when I came across this book – and it had a profound impact on me. It meant so much to me that I made a personal commitment to translate it, despite having no prior experience in translation. And so, I translated it. Subsequently, I submitted my translation to all the publishers in Slovenia, but unfortunately, none of them were interested (back then, the book didn’t align with the socialist Yugoslavia prevailing system). Undeterred, I took matters into my own hands. I photocopied 200 copies of my translation and sold them independently. With the proceeds from those sales, I was able to print an additional 500 copies. To my surprise, I found that I was earning more from these efforts than I would have if a publishing house had purchased my translation.
This realization led me to make a life-altering decision—I left my job at the bank and embarked on a journey of translating and publishing other books that I believed had the power to touch people’s hearts and were of great importance. Authors such as Kahlil Gibran, J.R.R. Tolkien, the Dalai Lama, Louise Hay, William Bloom, Paul Solomon, Dan Millman, and Lobsang Rampa were just a few of the writers whose works I translated and shared with the Slovenian audience.
What do you think is the purpose of your life?
When I was going through a very difficult period in my life and couldn’t sleep one night, I went to the balcony and suddenly heard a voice loudly asking me, “Tomaž, why are you here, why did you come to this world?” Suddenly, it dawned on me, and I replied, “I came here to be happy!” The voice replied, “That’s right, Tomaž. Now, take a look at yourself. Are you happy?”
That’s when I decided to be happy. Once I made that decision, I stuck to it, and I truly was happy.
Later, many years later, I realised that I didn’t just come to be happy. I discovered that I’m even happier and more fulfilled when I make someone else happy. Gradually, I realised that my mission is to help others. I help them in various ways. At one point, I helped by translating and publishing books that benefited them. Later, I assisted them with counselling at the New Age Information Centre, which I founded. Now, I help them with therapeutic massages, with conscious and loving touch.
So what’s your superpower?
My superpower is undoubtedly my touch. However, this transforms into true power only when I am fully aware of it and fill it with love. In fact, my superpower is the awareness that everything is one, that all that exists, the entire universe, and all the things and beings that fill it, both material and immaterial, are actually one vast super being or God.
What things do you do most days to keep you balanced?
For a long time now, I’ve had a morning routine that fulfils me and makes mornings the most beautiful part of my day. When I wake up, I first express gratitude for the night and greet the new day that lies ahead, even before I open my eyes. Then I engage in exercise. I limber up all my joints, perform tantric exercises, breathing exercises, practice yoga, tai chi, and chi gong.
Afterwards, I sit down to meditate and spend some time in silence. Only then am I prepared for the day’s responsibilities. Similarly, in the evening, when I close my eyes, I give thanks for the day I’ve lived and bid goodnight to the night that approaches.
How do you think you’ve made an impact on the lives of others?
When I was publishing books, I received a lot of feedback from my customers which made my heart sing. Some were praising my translations, and some were thankful that I decided to publish such beautiful and meaningful books.
I receive even more grateful feedback from the people I massage. One client commented “I was led to the place where everything just is and exists.” And, Frida, gave me this wonderful endorsement, “For a moment you caught me in timelessness that lasted and lasted. My body was dancing under your loving hands and melted with your grace. Thank you for this magical experience. Your love for the work you are doing and for the people can be felt and it is healing.”
Recently I received this feedback, with the person saying “This was not an ordinary massage. Tomaž’s gentle presence made me feel safe, so I entrusted him with my process.” Another wrote “Tomaž, your creation is truly something special. You’ve given the world a wonderful gift, and I thank you for it.” I’m grateful to people like Medeja who thank me by saying “As if a flock of angels, completely devoted and determined angels, guided me through all possible processes — fears, pains, freedom, love, and beauty — and brought me to their home, where it is so beautiful and pleasant that there are no words to replace this feeling.”
What are the most important things you’ve learned?
I’ve learned that the most important thing for me is to live my soul.
I’ve also learned that no one is more important than another, that there is no good or bad, and that life isnot serious; rather, everything is like dust in the wind of the Universe, or as I like to say, “chickenshit.”
The most fulfilling action one can take is to help others because it brings genuine joy. As socialbeings, our connections with others are the most crucial aspects of life, far surpassing thesignificance of material possessions.
If you have a message or advice for others, what would it be?
Don’t worry; life is not so serious. Follow your heart and live your soul. Be yourself; you don’t have to be somebody else, you don’t have to pretend to be somebody else. Everything is changing; nothing is permanent; everything will end or transform. Live fully, live, and be aware of every moment of your life. That’s why we are here: to live our life fully, to experience everything from joy to sadness, from anger to love, from despair to fulfilment. And to be aware of all of this.
[1] Karl May( 1842-1912) German author. Winnetou was a novel by him.
Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Atom Nuclear Bomb Explosion- Illustration “Atomic Landscape” Nagasaki, Japan 1946 Art by Robert Graham Courtesy: Creative Commons
When in 1945, the Allied forces dropped atom bombs on August 6th in Hiroshima and on August 9th in Nagasaki, the Second World War drew Japanese aggression to a halt. But what was the impact on the lives of those innocents whose home, family and future changed forever? Their lives were wrecked — within a few seconds for no fault of their own. The impact clearly continues to ravage the second generation, as can be seen from the narrative of a hibakusha’s daughter who shares her travails while expressing her candid views on the recent movie, Oppenheimer, and the sale of ‘Boppenheimer’ products. She writes: “I live with it1 now having a chronic progressive nerve pain disease. My damaged immune system is attributed to my mother’s exposure to radiation from the atomic bombing.”
Are we forgetting that past, where two whole towns were decimated by atomic bombings with uncountable numbers of deaths and suffering handed down generations? Will we repeat the horrific story again to resolve issues as conflicts continue to ravage the planet with weapons, without considering their impact on the already felt climate crises? Will there be a replay of the bombing of 1945 to annihilate a people, their way of life and create suffering among all humanity? We may not be around to comment on the outcome!
Way back in 2017, climate experts contended that in case of another such bomb blast, “The effect would be similar to that of the giant meteor believed to be responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs. This time, we would be the dinosaurs.”
With that in mind, we hope for a world without wars. In this special edition, writings look for peace by creating awareness and suggesting alternatives. Kathleen Burkinshaw writes about the 1945 bombings and her perspectives on media packaging of mushroom clouds. We have a story from a soldier’s perspective during the First World War by the eminent Bengali poet, Nazrul, who fought in it as a soldier for the British army. Current conflicts show up in the writing of Ramy-Al-Asheq, who was born in a refugee camp in the Middle East. They move to Ukraine with voices of Lesya Bakun, a refugee on the run, and Ron Pickett, a US army veteran. Poetry on Myanmar in the past by Sister Lou Ella Hickman and a story of the Rohingya’s plight by Shaheen Akhtar brings the focus into civil wars within Asia. More poems by Don Webb and Michael Burch urge for peace through poetry. Awareness about conflicts that nonetheless impact an interconnected world are brought in with interviews with journalists who were in Afghanistan (Andrew Quilty) and Myanmar (Jessica Muddit) when the takeovers by the current regimes started. We conclude with a discussion for alternatives towards a better future with Anthony Sattin.
Non-Fiction
Mushroom Clouds and Movies: Response from a Hibakusha’s Daughter:Kathleen Burkinshaw, a second generation victim who suffers nerve disorders from the atom bomb dropped on Hiroshima, where her mother watched her own father perish, responds to the recent media packaging of the event. Click here to read.
The Refugee and the Other, an excerpt from Ever Since I Did Not Die by Ramy Al-Asheq, translated by Isis Nusair. Click here to read.
Poetry
I am Ukraine by Lesya Bakun, a refugee from Ukraine. Click here to read.
Wars and Rumours of War, a response on the war in Ukraine by Ron Picket, a a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. Click here to read.
My Visit to Myanmar in 1997, a poem about peace in the land where Buddha flourished by Sister Lou Ella Hickman. Click here to read.
Henais a short story by Nazrul from the perspective of a soldier during the first world war, translated from Bengali by Sohana Manzoor. Click here to read.
The Magic Staff is a poignant short story about a Rohingya child seeking refuge by Shaheen Akhtar, translated from Bengali by Arifa Ghani Rahman. Click here to read.
Interviews
A discussion about Afghanistan, with journalist Quilty who went back to Kabul as Taliban entered the city. Click here to read.
Keith Lyons talks to Jessica Mudditt, who watched from within the country as the Myanmar Junta took over. Click here to read.
Could there be a way out of this world wide unrest? A discussion with Anthony Sattinas he explores concept of brotherhood unique to earlier times, when borders were not this well defined. Click here to read.
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Hiroshima after August 6th, 1945Hiroshima after bombingCourtesy: Creative Commons
Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Bangalar Nobbyo Lekhokdiger Proti Nibedon(a request to new writers of Bengali), has been translated from Bengali and introduced by Abdullah-Al-Musayeb. Clickhere to read.
Poetry on Rain by Masud Khanhas been translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam. Click here to read.
Dancerby Bashir Baidar, has been translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch. Click here to read.
Ratnottama Sengupta presents the first hand account of the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina (1992-1995) from a letter from her brother, who was posted there as part of the peace-keeping troops. Click here to read.
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name
A Midsummer Night's Dream (1595) by William Shakespeare
Famous lines by Shakespeare that reflect on one of the most unique qualities in not only poets — as he states — but also in all humans, imagination, which helps us create our own constructs, build walls, draw boundaries as well as create wonderful paintings, invent planes, fly to the moon and write beautiful poetry. I wonder if animals or plants have the same ability? Then, there are some who, react to the impact of imagined constructs that hurt humanity. They write fabulous poetry or lyrics protesting war as well as dream of a world without war. Could we in times such as these imagine a world at peace, and — even more unusually — filled with consideration, kindness, love and brotherhood as suggested by Lennon’s lyrics in ‘Imagine’ – “Imagine all the people/ Livin’ life in peace…”. These are ideas that have been wafting in the world since times immemorial. And yet, they seem to be drifting in a breeze that caresses but continues to elude our grasp.
Under such circumstances, what can be more alluring than reflective Sufi poetry by an empathetic soul. Featuring an interview and poetry by such a poet, Afsar Mohammad, we bring to you his journey from a “small rural setting” in Telangana to University of Pennsylvania, where he teaches South Asian Studies. He is bilingual and has brought out many books, including one with his translated poetry. Translations this time start with Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay’s advice to new writers in Bengali, introduced and brought to us by Abdullah-Al-Musayeb. Tagore’s seasonal poem, ‘Megh or Cloud’, has been transcreated to harmonise with the onset of monsoons. However, this year with the El Nino and as the impact of climate change sets in, the monsoons have turned awry and are flooding the world. At a spiritual plane, the maestro’s lines in this poem do reflect on the transience of nature (and life). Professor Fakrul Alam’s translation of Masud Khan’s heartfelt poetry on rain brings to the fore the discontent of the age while conveying the migrant’s dilemma of being divided between two lands. Fazal Baloch has brought us a powerful Balochi poet from the 1960s in translation, Bashir Baidar. His poetry cries out with compassion yet overpowers with its brutality. Sangita Swechcha’s Nepali poem celebrating a girl child has been translated by Hem Bishwakarma while Ihlwha Choi has brought his own Korean poem to readers in English.
An imagined but divided world has been explored by Michael Burch with his powerful poetry. Heath Brougher has shared with us lines that discomfit, convey with vehemence and is deeply reflective of the world we live in. Masha Hassan is a voice that dwells on such an imagined divide that ripped many parts of the world — division that history dubs as the Partition. Don Webb upends Heraclitus’s wisdom: “War is the Father of All, / War is the King of All.” War, as we all know, is entirely a human-made construct and destroys humanity and one cannot but agree with Webb’s conclusion. We have more from Kirpal Singh, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Nivedita N, John Grey, Carol D’Souza, Vernon Daim, George Freek, Saranyan BV, Samantha Underhill and among the many others, of course Rhys Hughes, who has given us poetry with a unique alphabetical rhyme scheme invented by him and it’s funny too… much like his perceptions on ‘Productivity’, where laziness accounts for an increase in output!
Ratnottama Sengupta takes us back to how imagined differences can rip humanity by sharing a letter from her brother stationed in Bosnia during the war that broke Yugoslavia (1992-1995). He writes: “It is hard to be surrounded by so much tragedy and not be repulsed by war and the people who lead nations into them.” This tone flows into our book excerpts section with Red Sky Over Kabul: A Memoir of a Father and Son in Afghanistanby Baryalai Popalzai and Kevin McLean. Popalzai was affected by the Russian invasion of Afghanistan in 1980 and had to flee. A different kind of battle can be found in the other excerpt from The Blue Dragonfly – healing through poetry by Veronica Eley – a spiritual battle to heal from experiences that break.
In our reviews section, KPP Nambiar reviews The Stolen Necklace: A Small Crime in a Small Town by Shevlin Sebastian and VK Thajudheen, a book that retells a true story. Sangeetha G’s novel, Drop of the Last Cloud, we are told by Rakhi Dalal, explores the matrilineal heritage of Kerala, that changed to patriarchal over time. Bhaskar Parichha reviews Burning Pyres, Mass Graves and A State That Failed Its People: India’s Covid Tragedy by Harsh Mander. Parichha emphasises the need never to forget the past: “It is a powerful book and sometimes it is even shattering. The narrative is a live remembrance of a national tragedy that too many of us wish to forget when we should, instead, etch it in our minds so that we can prevent another national tragedy like this one from recurring in the future.” While we need to learn from the past as Parichha suggests, Somdatta Mandal has given a review that makes us want to read Ujjal Dosanjh’s book, The Past is Never Dead: A Novel. She concludes that it “pays tribute to the courage and tenacity of the human spirit and its capacity for hope despite all odds.”
We have more content than mentioned here… all of it enhances the texture of our journal. Do pause by our July issue to savour all the writings. Huge thanks to all our contributors, artists, all our readers and our wonderful team. Without each one of you, this edition would not have been what it is.
Borderless 