Blues: Of Love and Losses

For Granny (d. January 14), and Aunt Banke Akintunde, PhD (d. March 15)

How does goodbye begin? With love? With a kiss on the lips or a warm hug in public places?
How does goodbye begin? Sour drops of tears in the beer of a familiar place or worse?
Or streams running down the ugly face of a twice-recurring moment without a sound?
How do goodbyes begin? Do they run like a silent brook on a gloomy day, or bubble
like the fresh waterfalls of a once-forgotten hill? Do they fall like raindrops on a desert?
Do they hum like bees after the smell of fragrance, or like light glowing out of a burning wood
Do they burn? Do they pinch like flakes of snow? Do they, like birds, just pick up and fly?

How does goodbye begin? With a whimper? With a wave of hand or a cry in the night?
How does goodbye begin? Babbles and laughters that rise about the dark lonely room
When days and night merge into one, and strangers write the lines of tomorrow’s song?
How do goodbyes begin? Do they wander in the air, elusive to touch and description
like the wounded butterfly across the sight of an elder? Do they soothe or do they excite?
Do they waft across the oceans like a forgotten dream, or like the tired membrane of a drum
Do they tear? Do they itch like the rash? Do they, like birds, just pick up and fly?

There is a painful swelling in the dead of the night on my heart, ripe like a freshly open weal.
It is the goodbye mark of gems, with smears of the now bitter tears, too hard to heal.

(c) Kola Tubosun 2011

The Art of Witness and Peace in Bosnia: Ways people have remembered and reconciled since the the war

This was written by guest blogger Sean Amiri who also works as a radiology technician and writes on the subject of top online universities.

In the close to 20 years since the beginning of the Bosnian War, much has happened. Thousands have been massacred, international forces have intervened, peace agreements have been negotiated, individuals have been tried for war crimes, refugees have fled. Yet, in the midst of this difficult story, it is inspiring to know that people have resisted against the brokenness and destruction that consumed the conflict. Here are two examples of how human spirit and creativity have used art to remember and reconcile the war from its very first year until today.

Witnesses to Evidence

The seige of Sarajevo began in April 1992. Six months later, in the shelled and rundown Sujetska Cinema, a gallery director and eight artists gathered to create something as a witness to the conflict. From that October to April 1993, the artists collaborated on a series of works inside the hidden hallways of the cinema, where Sarajevans frequently passed through to escape snipers outside. The gallery director, Mirsad Purivatra, and the eight artists – Nusret Paši?, Zoran Bogdanovi?, Ante Juri?, Petar Waldegg, Mustafa Skopljak, Edin Numankadi?, Sanjin Juki?, and Radoslav Tadi? – created a living testimony to the war they themselves were living.

The exhibit was themed around and subsequently named Witnesses to Evidence, after Nusret Paši?’s piece. The exhibit was invited to represent Bosniz-Herzegovina at the 45th Venice Biennale, but because of the wartime blockade, the artists and their works were unable to travel. However, later in the spring of 1994, they could finally leave. Witnesses was brought to exhibit at the Kunsthalle in New York, and the schedule was ideal. At the time, international audiences were gathering in New York to discuss the aftermath of the Bosnian conflict. More attention was being given to the consequences of the war.

What many found compelling about Witnesses was not so much its representation of the war, but more so the sense of obligation it passed on to its viewers to act as witnesses to history. After he saw the exhibit in New York, Johannes H. Biringer, an artistic director and the author of Performance on the Edge: Transformations of Culture, wrote a commentary about what the artists had done:

“They build meaningful compositions of the human spirit and intelligence in midst of the war’s insanity,” Birringer stated, “Thus they become also witnesses of our indifference; their irony and resiliency shame us. Their work also proves that it is neither impossible nor frivolous to make art in the time of war; perhaps making art in such a time is as necessary as finding food and shelter and healing the wounded.”

Most Mira

A little over a decade after Witnesses exhibited in New York, Bosnian-born Kemal Pervani? and social researcher Lea Esterhuizen founded Most Mira, a charity organization based in Britain and Bosnia. Most Mira means ‘Bridge of Peace’ and fittingly, the organization’s mission is to build understanding and tolerance among youth in Northwest Bosnia by means of creative community arts.

Imagine this: 500 Bosnian, Serb, Croat, and Roma kids frolicking around for a week dancing, playing games, playing music, painting, writing, and singing. It’s a picture in stark contrast to war. That picture is of the Youth Festival that Most Mira has organized since 2009. And now, the charity’s energetic and innovative Trustees and Action Team are in preparation to launch this year’s festival scheduled for May 16-20, five days of workshops in art, drama, circus skills, dance, music, media, and performance. With May approaching, they’re in the last leg of the hunt to recruit volunteers, the ones who really make the festivals possible. Though, the point of it all reaches far beyond the fun and games. In a fragmented society shadowed by the war’s aftermath, what Most Mira and these volunteers do is help continue the work of remembrance and reconciliation that began in Sarajevo all those years ago.

Analyzing Spoken Discourse

Someone, I think, warned me here at the beginning of the semester that Discourse Analysis will turn me into a cynic. Now towards the end of the term, I’m beginning to see the point of the observation. Thirteen weeks spent looking at the way language and speech work to serve plenty communicative purposes is enough to rewire a previously harmless brain into looking at the world differently. Or not.

Billions of texts are generated everyday from online and telephone conversations, and the work in ethnography of speaking/communication seeks to plow through the relevant portions of them to make generalizations. It is fun. It is also a consciously empowering one. The skills to be gained from learning to analyse discourse include a more analytical approach to making generalizations. It also builds the ability to use specialized language to refer to what can already be understood by someone not in the field of linguistics. What we see when we study discourse is not new, but what we acquire are new ways to look at it and explain it to ourselves, and the world.

I spent the weekend reading up on the work of Derrida and Barthe and the influences of their post-structuralist ideas on linguistics and the way we interpret language use. A recent article by Deborah Cameron exposes the danger of coming to analysis with our own ideas conditioned by societal expectations. I think my class project will be interesting. I just have to come up to the table with a critical angle to analyse a few of my own long-held preconceptions, then tear them to the ground. You can see that I haven’t yet become a cynic.

Outdoors

America’s definition of outdoors as far as I have seen does not transcend outdoor cooking of sausage rolls during warm days of spring and summer. I have not seen the bigger picture, of course. I’ve been limited to campus and a few other outdoor cooking invitations in a little town. From movies and reality shows, I know that there are pool parties that last all night in outdoor venues. And there are sports from tennis to golf. But whatever happened to just laying down and staring at the sky at night. Oh yeah, camping. There has to be a name for everything.

Saturday Night, and Time

Sometimes before dawn between tonight and tomorrow, we’re going to lose one hour of sleep. Don’t ask me. It’s America’s way of reminding us of the vanity in predestination. Give me determinism. Heaven helps those who help themselves. Time waits for no man, except s/he that changes it at least twice a year. It’s common sense. It’s business. It’s the economy, stupid. Who cares for one more hour of sleep when we can add it to the productive part of the day and get more out of it. If you don’t like it, move to Canada, or Nigeria.

The spunk of America amazes, and delights. Nothing is, until human intervention makes it so. Spring break, for instance is what is it because of the attitude, general acceptance of its relevance, and the stories passed down from generations of the need to travel. In a few more weeks, it will be the break after school semester and another season will be gone. Culture. Acceptance. Season. Relaxation. My Italian colleague in the department has a different perception of time and enjoyment, of course, but having lived in the United States for many decades, I’m sure he has by now settled into the rote of American living.

Movies. Conversations. Fun, the usual. Monday will come and life will be back on the track of its brutish, interminable self. I will oil the wheels of my bicycle and plan for more days on the bike path to school rather than burn the gas whose price has skyrocketed since Gadaffi started slaughtering his citizens in Libya. But then there is Japan, now suffering from a horrible earthquake. It is easy to relax in the pattern of life that never seems to shake in turbulence. In other parts of the world are some of the most frightening indices of instability. Where is the safety, the peace of mind. The crises in Japan resulting in the explosion of one of their nuclear reactors yesterday night is a reminder of how precarious all existence as we know it is. This is to the little moments. Praying love and healing to Japan and the world. Libya too.