Ostia Antica

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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Ostia Antica: The Fatehpur Sikri of Rome?

Title: An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome

Author: Neeman Sobhan

Publisher: University Press Limited (Dhaka)

Sometimes, when my visitors to Rome, arriving in the sweltering month of July or August, voice over-zealous ambitions to ‘do’ Pompeii, I don’t have the heart to discourage them. But I beg off from accompanying them. I have nothing against Pompeii as such, but I am not sufficiently suicidal to relish the thought of trudging miles of arid ruins under a punishing sun for the twenty-third time!

It’s at this point, usually, that I try to sell what I call my ‘Lazy man’s Pompeii’: Ostia Antica. I could have called it the ‘Poor man’s Pompeii’ as well, but the riches of the ancient city can almost equal a Herculaneum to the imaginative tourist. And its biggest plus-point is that it is so much closer to Rome (as against Pompeii, about 200 kilometers away, towards Naples), and may I add, that much shadier!

Less than an hour away from Rome, Ostia Antica was founded in the fourth century B.C by King Arcus Martius (a historical persona of whom I readily admit to being shamelessly ignorant) it became Ancient Rome’s commercial and military port, and during Emperor Constantine’s time, it boasted a population of 100,000!

Ostia reminds me of another ancient city I once visited and loved: Fatehpur Sikri in India, the Mughal king Akbar’s doomed capital near Agra. The comparison to Akbar’s city is justified because, although Ostia is a remarkable example of historic Roman towns like Pompeii and Herculaneum, unlike them, it was not destroyed, rather, like Fatehpur Sikri, it was abandoned.

While the Mughal city was abandoned due to a lack of sustainable water supply, in the case of the Roman city, it was mosquitoes. Strange but true that an epidemic of malaria drove out the inhabitants of this once flourishing port city. An odd quirk of history and biology that a puny anopheline community managed to drive out a powerful anthropical one, hundred times its size!

A quick reminder here: in talking about Ostia, we must make a clear distinction between Ostia Antica, the archeological site, and the present-day beach town of Ostia, a popular seaside resort within the municipality of Rome, further down.

The excavated areas of ancient Ostia abound in numerous ruins and reminders of a thriving commercial city of times past: public and private buildings, streets, defensive walls, and harbors.

I find the residential streets most fascinating because it brings to life a real world of ordinary people. Much has been written about Roman tenement-housing and remains of these buildings abound in Ostia.

Reconstructed models apparently reveal that a typical apartment block could be five-storeys high, and that the flats were probably quite functional, mostly reached from courtyards or from the street by stairs running between shops on the ground floors.

I think of all this as I stop at a crumbled courtyard here, touch a moth-eaten wall there, step over a threadbare threshold, or mount a mysterious flight of steps that end abruptly in mid-air, leading nowhere.

For me, it’s in this residential environment that I find the faint but persistent pulse of a bygone life. Visiting it on some empty afternoon, while I might be sitting on the broken steps of a roofless room, I can surmise the life of the ordinary man or woman who once lived here: I smell the fragrance of fresh baked bread in the gutted bakery next door; I hear the sound of children playing in the silent streets, or the hum of voices in the tavern with its dusty counter; and suddenly, the entire history of the humble populace seems to be whispered and echoed by the sea-spiked breeze among the pines and cypresses.

Let the Archeologist and Historian keep their details. To me the romance of a ruined city is not necessarily in the structures themselves, in the revealed or concealed splendor of its remains, it is in the mystique of its very presence, its undefined shape as a messenger from lost times, telling us stories of the long ago.

A dead city serves to remind us that it once existed, and that the past, although it is no more, is never completely wiped out, never obliterated from the collective memory of the world. In leaving behind its footprints, the spirit of the city has defied negation and accompanies me this afternoon.

And thus, I love to sit, under the peristyle of a vanished villa, absorbing the atmosphere of this long-deserted city, contemplating the history not just of this particular Roman town, but all the nameless cities of countless civilizations in the past. I wonder at the basic story it tells of our collective and individual engagement with Life, of the heroic audacity of the human spirit attempting, again and again, to build its sandcastles against the wind, trying to carve a permanent niche on the elusive surface of Time.

Whether the crumbling habitation is in Ostia Antica or Mohenjo-Daro, in Petra or Machu-Pichu, in Moinamoti or Fatehpur Sikri; each is a monument to the Spirit of Man, the builder of cities, the creamer of dreams.

[ Extracted from An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome. Published by UPL (University Press Limited, Dhaka), 2002 ]

ABOUT THE BOOK

An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome is a fresh look at Italy and Rome from the perspective of a long-time resident of non-Italian origin. Neeman Sobhan, living in Italy, since 1978 wrote for two decades a personal column in the Bangladesh English language daily, The Daily Star, spinning vignettes and sketches out of her daily encounters and reflections living in Rome. Here, in vivid prose and poetic detail are selections from her work.

Among some of the myriad themes in this collection of essays and poems: the charm of everyday Rome; the romance of history; the adventure of the expatriate’s eternal quest for home; the poetry of seasonal transformations; the mysteries of relationships; the kaleidoscope of life in general, and of one woman in particular, who within her journey through the Eternal City, shares with her readers her passage through life.

The writing is enhanced by ink sketches by Italian-American artist/writer Ginda Simpson.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Neeman Sobhan is a Bangladeshi-Italian fiction writer, poet, columnist. She writes in English, and her fiction and poetry have appeared in many anthologies and literary journals within the sub-continent. Till recently she taught English and Bengali at the University of Roma, La Sapienza.She lives in Rome with her husband. She has a collection of short stories, Piazza Bangladesh (2014) which has been recently translated to Italian; a volume of poetry, Calligraphy of Wet Leaves (2015) and a collection of her columns, An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome (2002). Presently, she is finishing her first novel, and lives between her home in Rome and Dhaka.

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