The Color Line - Notes during and after reading the book (Spoilers)

Notes and Quotes From Reading Book - July 12, 2023

These are my thoughts and observations while reading this very interesting and challenging book. I read The Color Line by Igiaba Scego almost a year ago and recently came across notes taken while reading. I remember it was the unusually haunting cover which drew me to it. Once I opened its pages the history, although fictionalized, along with the courage of this Black female artist from nineteenth-century America aroused my curiosity. Here are my thoughts, notes, and quotes from "The Color Line."

NOTE: There are plenty of quotes and spoilers in the following notes, so viewers be advised.

The Color Line by Igiaba Scego

Time is unapologetic, unrepenting, unremorseful. (unable to fully remember quote or page in book)

Time Is?

Parts arts about Dogali Massacre in 1887 were very good historical detail. When Ethiopian soldiers left the Italian army to help their rebel brothers rout the Italian army. Dogali is near Massawa in today's Eritrea.

I asked two Ethiopian men in Vegas outside a Starbucks if they knew of the historic Dogali conflict. They both said yes. 

pg 19. "Ever since Mama died, Rome seems just like one, big, long funeral. A generation's disappearing, a world, our world."

pg 25 "They're a strange breed of humanity," she'd tell Lafanu complicitly. "They have museum faces. You'll find many opportunities to exercise your skills by painting portraits of the specimens in that circle."

pg 26 "But what's become of the spirit of the city?" Hillary would ask forlornly. And Lafanu would just shake her head.

note: this comment about the change in Rome after Italy went from papal states to united Italy, reminds me of someone today returning to San Francisco after D.A. Boudin's policies on crime and homelessness during the pandemic.

Early on the book reminds me somewhat of "Grace" by Natasha DeLeon. It has a dreamy way of jumping between time periods. The characters are well defined, and all add to the story. It reads like a family memoir, linking together past, present, and future events. It is going to be a challenge not to give up on this book. I must take it in chapters, letting all the pieces come together in their own times. I really like the true History being shared.

Lafuna feels uglier than her sister Teenie, blaming her Haitian father. He was in and out of Lafuna's mother's life (2yrs).

pg 58 While there on their honeymoon, they'd watched Ethiopian distance runner Akebe Bakila win the marathon barefoot in the legendary 1960 Summer Olympics, held in Rome. So my parents told each other that they too could win the marathon of life.

mote: Every so many pages a historical person, place or event rises from the book's pages and infuses me with historical energy. It teases and incites the researcher in me.

The author has written a novel seasoned heavily with historical facts. Its a banquet for any history buff.

pg 78 It was in that moment

pg81 It was then that the future

The author has used this type of sentence too often. In trying to convince me, the reader, that she had these life enlightening epiphanies so often, it makes the story feel forced and overthought.

I have had to suspend my belief a number of times while reading The Color Line. And I'm not even a quarter of the way through it. Not good!

The short stories are what keep me reading this book. I rate them stand-alone fascinating but very difficult to chronologically connect.

Made it to my first 100 pages. The story seems to be changing direction and picking up steam, sort of. It went back in time to Lafanu as a kid with Timma, her half Chippewa sister. It details how Bathsheba McKenzie came to their village and fell in love with Timma. But after Timma bit her while faking crazy, she settled on taking Lafanu instead. 

Then the story gives Leila's background and modern-day setting. It is a more complex and confusing read, very similar to Lafanu. I'm gonna give it another 100 pages, mainly because I like the clear, well-spaced print and writing.

pgs 114-15 The story keeps reflecting back on itself, like a squeezed accordion playing the same tune. It's not a bad thing but does require the reader's undivided attention.  Unable to maintain a grasp on just who is telling the overall story. A complex story to say the least. One with many, many episodes.

My Eritrean friend called his father's brother's wife (aunt) "the Lost Woldu." And said he thinks of his brother as a sort of Lost Woldu; cut off from family and their homeland. Book kind of rings with that feeling of a Lost Person trying to escape their village fate and create their own path in life.

pg 125 Something about Lanafu entering class reminded me of learning reading in 2nd grade.

School was like a new world opening up to me. It was alive, fun, scary, and totally unpredictable. I loved it most of the time, I think. So it is that this story reminds me of being in a young reading circle of classmates and taking my first stab at reading.

I'm starting to get the sad feeling of poor-poor Lafanu. Everything is so against her. Feels contrived to the point of amateur writing. What I thought a historical novel of sorts turns out to be a mishmash of black history, mostly during slavery times. 

I suppose at page 133 the author is trying to give an accounting of how Lafanu faced adversity. Only why give so much detail about everyone over and over. Big problem with story is author tells way more than she shows. The telling voice gets tired and boring at times, to the point of putting me to sleep. Not Good!

pg 149-155 Leila is describing her old memories of Somalia, then gets a letter from cousin Binti who has run away from Somalia and needs money to cross the Sudan desert to get to Tripoli. Reminded me again of Eritrean friend's experience: low flying planes, smuggler truck, men watching young females, Bollywood movies, 1980's Mogadishu.

note: around page 175 the story is still flipping back and forth, and I still get lost on what location they're at and who is talking. However, the writing is addictive, and the history and incidents written about very interesting. But much of the story still seems a bit hard to believe, if not farfetched.

Oh well. I made it to page 206. and this final frustration with how the author goes off into one direction, losing me as a reader, only to realize you are still at a place where she is just now returning after she left you hanging is the final straw.

She went into Frederick Douglas Bailey and tried a style that didn't work. Now I am done.

pg 245 "She was nineteen now, and she wore it like a trophy."

pg 246 "This slavery business won't be going away anytime soon," Lafanu always thought. "They'll hold that knife to our throats as long as they can."

Yes, I am still reading. I guess it reads so well at times that I just can't set it aside. And again, the print is so easy on the eyes.

Pg 275 Lafanu is trying to understand why she turned down Frederick Bailey's marriage proposal. Molly says they all know why and presents Lafanu with the book by Madame de Stael (Corinne). Lafanu and that book were never apart.

The sculpture at fountain in Rome and the book of Corinne hurt by a no-good love affair are two things that influence Lafanu's artwork. Her feelings of having to turn down Frederick's proposal also influences her art. To be an independent woman in those days of 1860's, was to be a woman of sacrifice and possible scorn. Her benefactress Bathsheba MacKenzie seems to have turned against her after she refused Frederick.

Passed page 300 and still feel okay reading another 100 pgs. Lafanu isn't so interesting/believable, but the peoples and environs around her are. As for Leila, I am still waiting for Binti's story to unfold. 

Its as if I am peddling on a bicycle and if I stop peddling I will fall off. I'm not ready to get off the bicycle just yet.

pgs 306-09 Letter from George Harwell denigrating Lafanu because he felt tricked into giving her, a member of the negroid race, a passport to travel. He did not consider negroids as American citizens. Only American citizens are allowed passports.

pg 315 "If Miss Brown is so eager to travel, let her be put in shackles and be brought back to the ape-land where she was conceived."

pg 343 Life flows inside the bones of these dead

One breathes art in this place.

English Cemetery in Florence 

pgs 342-43 "These people are buried here because the Catholics didn't want them in their consecrated ground. See over there, those are Protestant graves, and behind is a Jewish section, and here . . . right here, where the sod is raised . . . there's a handful of atheists, and farther to the left, some Freemasons. There are Anglicans, and there are Baptists like me. Nobody is turned away. Suicides have found fresh earth to welcome them. As well as exiles, stillborn babies, and adults so strangled by debts they didn't have so much as a penny to put toward a grave. There are syphilitics, tuberculosis victims, people who died of sheer melancholy or were killed by romantic passion. Here are people who were servants in noble houses, chambermaids, whores, pimps. Here are some just rulers. And also some slaves . . . whom nobody dares to mention."

"Slaves?"

"That's right. Only twenty years ago there were still a lot of them around. Slavery never really ended, not even in Europe. In America, it caused a bloody war and inflicted great suffering on the people in bondage. You know something about that, dear Lafanu, you saw so many poor wretches in Salenius, running to escape their masters' clutches. What an intolerable spectacle that suffering was! But the wickedness of men was bestial in Europe too, don't think otherwise."

Elizabeth Browning Barrett - Casi Guidi Windows (poem)

Ouroboros - a snake biting its own tail. symbolizes eternal time. seen on a tomb in cemetery. from ancient Egyptian culture. rebirth/reincarnation

pg 346  "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." both Lafanu and Frederick bailey had said this at the cemetery.

(change takes a long time, but it does happen.)

After meeting Henrietta and visiting the English Cemetery I realize this is truly a history book full of art, poetry, love, life. A book that rightly chose me.

I am now glad I stuck with "The Color Line." To not finish this travelogue would be to cheat myself out of a wonderous vacation adventure. It has such a mix of history. Yes, Italy had slaves. 

The book is about a female negro artist in 1860's Italy, as well as an Italian-Somalian art curator in modern day Italy researching the 1860's artist. Maybe it is about reincarnation or rebirth. 

I continue to read because of individual stories of interest that come up. And I do want to see how it all ends, especially with Binti. The Binti story has fallen to the side. it seems more like a tease the longer Leila's not talked about her.

note: And there it is on pg 386, another interesting character and episode. a man and his wife enter Lafanu's studio. She never sees Lafanu but he goes up to her with guilt and shame, to apologize to her for that night she was attacked and humiliated at Oberlin college in America. I wonder what effect if any this will have on Lafanu.

pg 387 Then, however, we saw you come out of the theater and almost immediately some girls came running down from their opera boxes and told us to 'give that nigger a good lesson, she thinks she can go to the opera with white girls.' 

At the time of his visit, a well-respected American art critic is visiting the studio. Mrs. Diana Cleveland and Lafanu get along very well. They both love the novel Corinne.

pg 396. The year is 1870 and Rome is about to be made the capital of the republic. "Don't think for a moment that the church is dead. She'll take back in spades all that's been taken from her." And in spades, as it turned out, the church started making deals. they started to speculate on and selling lands for their weight in gold. They were the first to make Rome the capitol into capital for themselves.

pg 397 city of Castelli Romani has a pure, bracing air that Goethe had praised in his writings. Lafanu and Beersheeba have left Rome to take refuge in the peace and quiet and cool air of Castelli Romani.

Today the area is a pleasant and popular retreat from the heat that builds up in central Rome. The summer home of the Popes is here at a town on the southwestern side of Lago Albano called Castel Gandolfo, the most popular of the Castelli Romani towns.

pg 398-9 Bernini's Fountain of the four rivers, the horses of the Dioscuri Fountain near the Quirinale Palace, the tight-rope walking turtles of the fountain in Piazza Mattei, the bees on the Berini Family's coat of arms, the Lions from Piazza del Popolo.

The book cover, with a black woman seated, staring forward as if frozen into submission. not seeing, just soulless. dressed in late 1800's early 1900's blouse and skirt. slim, long and elegant Hands lying in her lap as if by someone's command.  This cover is what got my initial attention. The woman's image was haunting, and yet the grayish lavender background with the purple title written thickly as if it were in Blood caught my eye. I still don't like looking at the cover long. It feels like someone is staring down your soul.

Image is of photographer/filmmaker Ayana V. Jackson.

on page 414 Lizzie argues against protest and wins approval by the art committee in Salenius to include Lafanu's work at their exhibit. on condition that Lafanu's presence remain invisible.

"We haven't planned to have a section for negroes." Eventually the commission agreed but with conditions.

All this reminds me of how today's artist Ayana V. Jackson's art was treated at an exhibit. Her pieces had screens put up to limit their viewing. when she came to see the exhibit the screens were removed that day, then put back up afterward. (read of this in an online article)

Mary Beard Meet the Romans on youtube. rides around Rome on bike.

pg442 Uarda, as her name itself suggests, flowered like a rose among those wounded souls. Her art, powerful and impassioned, had finally found in that context an outlet for putting herself in service to humanity.

Lafanu Visiting Binti helped her see herself as a young girl again. to laugh and do things she dreamed of doing. 

pg444 "It was the Rome where Corinne the half-blood had loved her cruel Nevil. And it was the Rome where Beatrice Cenci had been beheaded by an unjust power that hated women.

pg451. The trompe l'oeil dome

"That woman up there looks just like you, Lafanu."

Lafanu glanced at the figure's foot, sticking out of her red tunic; it was so beautiful. A foot yearning for some movement.

Andrea Pozzo

Vault of the Nave of the Church of Sant 'Ignazio: Detail, Africa

In this portion of the painting the people of Africa rise toward the Cross in Heaven. The complete painting also includes the continents of Europe, Asia, and the Americas.

pg 463  Woman in Chains painting by Lafanu Brown (fictional)

A painting representing the liberation of black women from bondage. even artists

pg 468 Lafanu finds out from Lizzi about Frederick and Helen Bright ("blindingly white") engagement. 

"She wanted to cry over that despicable man whom she still loved."

Frederick wraps up Lafanu's story and Binti wraps up Leila's. It felt like the author got to a point where she felt she had to wrap it all up. In reality it could have and should have ended sooner, but with same wrapup. 

I still have the epilogue to read and the author's note, which is about 30 pages long.

So, am i glad i stuck with this 491 page slog?  Yes I Am. Why? Because it showed me another side of womens' pain, white and black. A scarred woman suffers long internally. The right man can sometimes ease the pain, but only time and a will of her own can rectify the hurt and smooth over the scar. When it does the result is a woman unafraid to not only face the world as a tough, no holds barred woman, but one who demands her womanhood be seen, heard, and respected. R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

I began this book around July 3, 2023. Just finishing Aug. 11th. Its traveled with me on visits to los angeles., las vegas, sacramento. its stayed overnight in each of those places. I dont regret having it as a companion these past weeks. it served me 

well during time spent with angie's family and friends. As i write this we are lying in aileen's adu after at hot but enjoyable stay in sacramento, our second here since i began the book.

3.5 stars, but it felt like a 3.0 at times and a 4.5 at other times. Maybe the length and so many characters attached me to it more than expected. Historical fiction that jumped around to three countries and two different centuries was a challenge. I pat myself on the back for meeting the challenge with a student's tenacity to learn and understand its message.  Never Give Up, keep fighting. 

So many of the women had to get back up after being knocked down. I suppose The Color Line is an inspiration to women. 

epilogue: just who the heck was the man, Ulisse? I thought it had been a woman all this time.

maybe author's note will shed light on some characters. Would be nice to have a character and place index. The author must learn how less in a story can highlight more about it. So much info and repetition make it seem forced and unable to carry its own weight. Let readers decide some things, its not necessary to give away everything. unless it's written for a younger audience maybe.

I'm being more critical than normal because I forced myself to finish. And mostly because of the history and race issues. The art and Italy were interesting, but I wanted something the book didn't quite give. I wanted to be taken there and experience it all. I felt more like an outsider, being told an unreliable/unrelatable story.

pg494- Sarah Parker Redmond, midwife, human rights activist, feminist, and a highly cultivated woman inspired this book. born in Salem, Mass., died in Rome on Dec. 13, 1894. was buried in the non-catholic Cemetery. Also Edmonia Lewis .

pics on twitter account "@mediavalpoc pg496

Edmonia had gone to Rome during that time period to become an artist. She, Sarah, and Frederick Douglas were the author's inspiration. The three met in Rome while Frederick and his wife were visiting. Edmonia was his official guide as she took them for walks around the historic city center. pg500

The two women make up the fictional character Lafuna Brown. both experienced physical abuse at the hands of whites, simply for their blackness.pg502

pg 512The Four Moors Fountain in Marino is a catalyzing center of the novel. 

But there they are, Black women chained to the fountain, to tell us that no one is innocent in history.

Book title comes from W.EB. Dubois

pg 515 author wanted an evocative cover that not only spoke of the past but also of our dystopian present.

Piazza dei Cinquencento, I recount who the 500 were that gave the plaza its name; the Italian soldiers killed in Dogali.

pg521 Although I have written about an African American woman, this is not an African American novel. . . . Its an African Italian novel/story. It is a dialogue with America.     note: this helps explain my discomfort with the African / American places, characters, and settings that had me suspending belief.

pg 521 Author says Frederick Bailey only resembles Frederick Douglas in name. For F. Douglas was much more committed and courageous. Bailey was much more fragile and ambiguous.

pg 509 Henry James defined Edmonia's black skin maliciously, as very different 

from the white marble that she worked with as a sculptress.

Harry Henderson said one of the sisterhood was a negress, her color was the pleading agent of her fame. 

pg511 Love is impossible without freedom. That is the idea of the protagonists in this book.

The Bad Muslim Discount - Notes & Quotes w/spoilers

Warning: My notes include spoilers for readers

The Bad Muslim Discount

By Syed Masood

"Remember to never take more from the world than you can give back. pg5
(like a life or breaking one's heart)

So far, I love the dialogue between characters. There's plenty being said and most of it is relevant. I laughed out loud reading the first few pages of Anvar's thoughts and dialogue with brother Aamir.

However, the bad is starting to creep up on the good's advantage.

At first it was fun hearing the younger generation's take on growing up in a muslim home with many old muslim traditions, not to mention trying to live up to Koranic discipline and rituals.

But lately the story has delved more into the Afghanistan war with The good/bad Americans and rebel Pakistanis. Also. it feels like its leaning toward anti-muslim culture even while giving great quotes from the Koran.

The story itself is a challenge to keep up with as chapters jump from one family/character to another. Add to this the past Afghanistan war with the current Pakistan civil unrest and the story begins to feel too heavy, too politically burdensome to indulge in or maintain long-term interest.

I'm giving it more time to fully develop partly because I connected with Anvar the main character. He and his secret girlfriend have just split up and I'm not sure he can maintain the interest their relationship has garnered so far. As he states, Zuha is a big part of him being who he is right now. What will replace that huge gap about to open up in his life.

Safwa is not that interesting. Hopefully she can bring something more to Anvar's life and story.

And with all that said, I pick up the book excited instead of dreading to see what comes next.

"Doesn't your tongue get bitter," he said, "from all the truth you speak?" pg114

note: in a section where Abu Fahd shares his story with Anvar of being an illegal immigrant as well as his concern of Republicans, if they win the election, rounding up illegals and doing mass deportations, the irony from 2020 to 2025/26 ICE is too real. Anvar tells him the government doesn't have the time nor resources for "federal agents rounding up millions of people across the country." He says "I would be surprised if that happens."

page 231 right up to 237 is a scene with Anvar and the landlord Hadeez Bhatti. Their talk/dialogue reveals so much that was hidden about both men. It also sheds light on Azza and the two men in her life who are Bad Men, Abu Fahd and Qais Badami.

Bhatti tells Anvar what is true in all generations, that young people are too self-centered and think they know the whole world, understanding everything. He says they should read/see everyone else's story as they do their own, with respect and nonjudgement.

Their walk has taken them to the mosque where Bhatti is part of a study group. And so, after evening prayers, they gather to discuss the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). (halaqas)

Bhatti, who seemed to be looking at me more than he was at Imam Sama, leaned over a few minutes and whispered, "Attention, please."
I nodded. The Imam was telling us about the time the Prophet fell asleep under a tree. For a refugee, a man persecuted and hunted for his religious beliefs, this was dangerous.
Indeed, when the Prophet awoke, one of his enemies was standing before him, sword drawn. As the Prophet rose to his feet, the man challenged Muhammad, saying, "Who will save you from me now?"
There was no fear in the Prophet's voice when he gave his reply. It was simple. He said that Allah would save him.
This conviction left the man so stunned that his grip on his blade weakened and it fell to the ground. The Prophet picked up the sword and asked the man who would save him from Muhammad. When the man said he had no one to help him, the Prophet spared his life.
pgs 234-35

The Bad Muslim Discount and why Bhatti gives it to every tenant he accepts into the building (junoon)
passion. mad passion. fire pg236

One of the reasons I find this book so enjoyable is it shares the teachings of the Holy Koran and the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). I am now encouraged to revisit one of my books that has traveled with me as a companion since 1989 at least. My Koran. I must thank Philip and Angela, wherever they are. To think, 37 years ago I was a young, newly married 25-year-old pup, about the age of Anvar and making the same mistakes; only seeing my own life and needs without reading/seeing other's stories fully. But perhaps I should give my younger self better credit. I did recognize and respect others, but I was somewhat selfish. Still somewhat am to a lesser degree...

I'd had no use for her when I thought her a saint. I needed her now, when I knew she'd been a sinner. A sinner I could understand. A sinner would understand me. pg241
(Azza desiring to speak to her deceased, adulterous mother for advice)

Our lives, I reminded myself, are hostages held by time. We are free only for a few moments. What we choose to do in those moments, who we choose to do them with, defines who we are.
I thought of Zuha.
I thought of Azza.
I let the song color my memories of them until the music ended and I was left wondering if the poet got what he so desperately desired. pg254

“‘Yet you are not modest like a Muslim woman. Your dress betrays what is in your heart’….
She spoke sweetly, but her words had the edge of a knife. ‘And your gaze betrays what is in yours‘”
– Syed M. Masood, The Bad Muslim Discount

"Muslims - our generation in the West - are like the Frankenstein monster. We're stapled and glued together, part West, part East. A little bit of Muslim here, a little bit of skeptic there. We put ourselves together as best we can and that makes us, not pretty of course, but unique. Then we spend the rest of our lives looking for a mate. Someone who is like us. Except there is no one like us and we did it to ourselves.  pg263
(I read this section when i first perused the book. It must have intrigued me enough to buy it)

"The tea was the most interesting thing about him. He was a soft, uninspiring man who lived a simple, uneventful life. I went to Afghanistan during the jihad, you know, to escape him and his painful mediocrity. By the time I returned to Iraq, he was gone. Strange, is it not, what pleasant things we flee from? You should never forget that the oppression of love is better than the oppression of war. There is no freedom from oppression." He poured himself another cup of tea. "These leaves have to burn, after all, so that there can be tea."
pg271
(Abu Fahd talking to Anvar about leaving his father and home to fight in Afghanistan)

Laws meant something only when people with power agreed to follow them. Otherwise, they were just words. pg275

I would have to lie to him as well, I'd have to make him believe that Qais was evil and a terrorist, even if only one of those things was true. You never know what someone will do with the truth once they have it. pg277
(Azza)

My mother would say that only God got to decide the shape of the world.

When you hold a knife in your hand, you're responsible for what you do with it. The will of a higher power doesn't absolve you  of the consequences of your decisions. Religion is not morality, despite what Ma might think. pg290-91

Fearful people are credulous people. That is why entire populations can be manipulated to go along with wars, massacres, and atrocities. pg294
(Credulous: willing to believe or trust too readily, especially without proper or adequate evidence; gullible.)

"But the man is still responsible for his own actions. The pain he is carrying in his heart doesn't excuse the pain he's inflicting on Azza." 

(Abu beating Azza because he blames her for what happened to his son)

When I didn't say anything, Zuha added, "That is how monsters multiply, Anvar, spreading their hurt into the world in a cycle of misery that doesn't have an end. The fact that they're victims doesn't exempt them from moral consequences. You don't get to hurt people just because someone hurt you."

"Like what I did to Aamir?" Zuha asked. "I made him collateral damage." pg308

(also hurt people are looking to be loved and healed)

"You Americans never think much about who may get hurt, as long as you get what you want." (Azza to Zuha)

"Did Anvar ever tell you he loved me?"
I saw it. A chance for revenge. I could lie. I would balance out the truth Anvar had felt the need to tell Qais.
I could tell Zuha that Anvar had told me that he loved me. That he told me so all the time, that he promised me he was over Zuha, that he'd said horrible things about her when she agreed to marry his brother. It would be such an easy thing to do. All the wonderful blessings of Zuha's life would turn to ash in her mouth. Then she'd get a taste of the heartache that had been my existence.
Anvar had taken the fate of Qais out of my hands.
With one word, I could take Zuha away from him now.
After all, what reason had I ever had to not set fire to the entire world? pg313-14 (Azza)

(hurt people, hurt people)

note: hurt people try to set fire to the world

Here is where the novel tells me everything that makes it such a wonderful read. Here is where the novel demonstrates how hurt people make choices to hurt others or begin to heal by refusing to hurt others or themselves.

Azza sees the world through so much hurt and pain, her need to hurt Qais is almost justifiable, and her need to hurt Zuha and Anvar understandable. But trying to hurt Qais only led to her getting hurt.
As of this last sentence read (what reason not to set fire to the world) I give this novel 5 stars. It has delivered all that I relish in a novel: good writing, great pacing, easy to follow, wise quotes, watching wonderful pieces connect to a bigger puzzle, an ending wrap that appears to be summarizing a theme and message meant to be taken from the story.
Author Syed Manzar Mahood has delivered.

You cannot approach your religion with your mind. As Abu Bakr said, your inability to comprehend God is your understanding of God. You must transcend reason if you are to experience the divine. The path to Allah run through the heart alone.
(Abraham leapt into the fire as ordered by Nimrod.  An act of pure love and surrender)
Iqbal

According to ancient Jewish midrash and Islamic tradition (not the biblical text), King Nimrod ordered Abraham to be burned in a massive, specially constructed furnace because Abraham refused to worship idols and destroyed his father's idols. Abraham was thrown into the fire but miraculously remained unharmed, leading to his release. (online explanation)

Astaghfirullah: I seek forgiveness from Allah

"I know you think it blasphemy, but in those moments, I feel there is something more, something good, in the universe. The possibility of something being divine opens up for me. That is why I love lirerature. The human imagination is a miracle, and it is possible that this miracle is a gift from a Creator." pg337
(Anvar explains to his mom how lovely music, literature/prose, art and Zuha/love make him feel as if in the presence of Allah) Astaghfirullah!

"religion has never made me feel that way." Astaghfirullah!

As the landlord Hafeez Bhatti leads Anvar through the trashed apartment that is to be his new apartment I realize how relevant this man has been to the story. Hafeez carries and dispenses much wisdom and life experience to characters throughout and is the reason for the novel's title. He is "most humble," a gift attributable to a student of life. Yes, I have appreciated Hafeez presence from the moment he was introduced. He earned my respect with his pre-knowledge of Qais being a bad man. He is an expert at reading the room and detecting irregularities.

Got it! This story is about relationships. Anvar's relationships. Relations with a grandmother, mother, father, brother, lover, friend, client, landlord, enemy, government, Imam, community, God.

I suppose all books deal in relationships, but somehow this one has made it obvious to me just as I read its final pages. It occurs when Zuha says to Anvar, "You haven't taken any of Aamir's calls?"

Anvar blames Aamir for the death of Abu Fahd by telling him about Anvar and Azza's' relationship.

Relationships are what brings about the tragic death.
enemy, brother, father, daughter, lover, community, Allah.
And there were breaks in all these relationships
(the chain of causation)

"Of all sad words of tongue and pen . . ." John Greenleaf Whittier
https://www.poetry-archive.com/w/maud_muller/

Jason Backes, the Halal food truck friend. Great discussion with Anvar on upcoming election.
"I would never presume to tell a white man what is or isn't racist."

Jason said "there's never going to be a muslim ban, the Supremes wouldn't allow it."
To which Anvar replies "Don't put too much hope in the courts. Liberty lives in the hearts of men and women, and when it dies there, no law can save it." pg342

And so this brings up the question Americans are asking today: Has the highest court of magistrates in the land suffered death of liberty in their hearts? Has liberty lost a home in their hearts and judgements?
It appears so!

Perhaps The Bad Muslim Discount is what America once offered immigrant muslims but has since withdrawn liberty from them.

Remember to never take more from the world than you can give back to it....


I hope to pass this book on to someone who will appreciate and enjoy all it has to offer a reader. 

Sweetness in the Belly - Book Review

Sweetness in the Belly by Camilla Gibb (Canadian author)

A story partially set in a time and place I have some familiarity with, 1970's through early 90's Ethiopia/Eritrea. The story shares much about the practice of Islam and cultural traditions in parts of Ethiopia.

Early in the book author Camille Gibb gives a painfully detailed account of a young girl suffering through a northeast African cultural practice called INFIBULATION. It consists of excising the clitoris and labia of a girl or woman and stitching together the edges of the vulva to prevent sexual intercourse. It is made clear in the book the practice of Infibulation is "nowhere in the Qur'an," and therefore not an Islamic practice.

The story is one of finding one's place by fitting into a society and feeling accepted. It is also about love and friendship. The main character, Lily, is a white child raised in North Africa (Morocco) at a Sufi shrine. She has been highly trained in Islam and as a young woman goes on pilgrimage to Harar, Ethiopia. Here she finds friendship, community, and love, but violence and revolution interrupt her life and those she's become like family to. A change takes place in Lily and all she's become a part of, forcing her and the story into unchartered territory.

Lily on Acceptance:

pg125 - Gishta's acceptance of me was gradual: hard won and mighty. Though she was Sheik Jami's favorite wife, as an Oromo she had once been on the outside herself. And it was for that reason that her resistance to me had been far greater than that of many other women. When you've fought long and hard for it (acceptance), belonging can come to mean despising those who don't (fight long and hard for acceptance).

pg126 - Once you step inside, history has to be rewritten to include you. A fiction develops, a story that weaves you into the social fabric, giving you roots and a local identity. You are assimilated, and in erasing your differences and making you one of their own, the community can maintain belief in its wholeness and purity. After two or three generations, nobody remembers the story is fiction. It has become fact. And this is how history is made.

Had I not enjoyed other books with stories that jump back and forth between two locations and time periods, I might not have enjoyed this book as much. Readers must be patient as peoples and places are introduced in a descriptively poetic way, giving value and depth to events taking place later on.

One thing the book does right away is teach. You are taken into the heart of an ancient walled-in Ethiopian city (Harar) to witness many of the cultural practices and traditions that have been with the peoples for centuries. I found it very interesting how openings in the city walls are there to allow Hyenas to enter at night and forage city streets for food, acting as a disposal for garbage. Some foods are intentionally left out by Harari citizens to appease the scavenging hyenas, keeping them from attacking livestock and other domestic animals.

Anyone who has read about the Ethiopian Revolution knows how brutal those times were for its citizens. It was a time where children were being trained to soldier and kill without mercy. Nobody is safe. At any time, soldiers could come into your home, take you and/or family members, and you are never seen again. Or your corpse is found a few days later battered and mutilated, left in the streets as a message to citizens not to go against the new Mengistu regime (Derg). Prison meant torture, and anyone who survived its horrors was left scarred for life.

Yusuf on surviving prison:
pg243 - I had a chess partner in prison, Yusuf says quietly. Although it was months before I knew who he was. Everyone falls silent, even the children. It's the first time Yusuf has offered anything about his time in prison.

We had fifteen minutes in the open air every day, he says, staring blankly ahead. They release us in shifts into this square yard of only dirt and stones. One day I find this pattern of stones of different sizes on the ground, and I recognize it as a chess game. It is something amazing to me. And I see the next move so clearly that I cannot help myself. I move the stone. And the next day? Someone has moved a piece on the other side. Day by day, one stone at a time, my silent partner and I play this game.

pg244 - Who was your silent partner? I'd asked him later. The day I won the match I found the door to my cell unlocked. It was the major. I know because he turned his head as if not to see me pass.

It's all you have when they destroy your body, he tells me, tapping his temple. Sufis deny their bodies, victims of torture detach from theirs: both seek transcendence in their own way.

At least once during my reading I felt so frustrated with the author for introducing a topic but unwilling to follow through with more meaning. Instead, she immediately moved on to something else unrelated to the topic. It's like she hints, suggests and gives quick, short teasing of information, only to move on from it as quickly as the thought flickers and disappears from the page. 

It happened on page 258, after Lily chastised Ahmed for calling his sister a Paki, which is obviously meant to be derogatory, equivalent to a "lying Pakistani." 

I know it likely only happened this one time, but at the time it left me wanting so much more about what it means to call someone a "Paki." I was so frustrated I almost chose not to finish the book. But as a sign of good overall writing, I returned to its pages.

I really enjoyed learning more about this Ethiopian era and the Hirari Islamic culture. But boy, if not for the impressive/engaging writing style, at times I felt sure I could move on to another book.  I pick it up, I set it down. I like it, I like it not. It was truly a love hate relationship at times. Even as far as two-thirds through it. whew!!!

Overall, I'm glad I stuck with this book. A bit of a challenging read but fulfilling in its storytelling and history. Maybe a 3-3.5 rating out of 5. 

Quotes and notes from remainder of book:


pg260 - People never say actually suicide, but it happens more often than any of us like to admit. No one uses the word for rear of contagion; we speak of accidents and noncommunicable diseases. It is a crime against God to kill oneself. No one wants to believe that things can get so despairing that one would abandon God.

Harar during the food shortage:
pg273 - There was nothing to leave out for the HYENAS. They were used to being fed well in the laneway in front of the shrine. Feeding the HYENAS was incumbent on each of us. This was an unspoken and highly ritualized agreement. The HYENAS paced back and forth all night, refusing to disappear. No one in the compound enjoyed the retreat of their anguished cries as the sun rose the next morning. Gishta said she could hear them circling, their breathing thick with anger.
She and her co-wives were afraid to leave the compound. Their fears were confirmed by the discovery that the Somali girl who brought them fresh camel's milk early each day had been mauled to death and devoured in the laneway.

pg275 - in a town where there were only two degrees of separation between the most beautiful girl and the ugliest man


pg294 - He's a good man, Gishta said after he left. It's a shame he is so black. So Shankilla, Nouria agreed.

note: Talking about Aziz the doctor. Second or third time i heard reference to darker skin as shamefully ugly. This time its meaning was unmistakable. Ethiopia is a color conscience society, possibly prejudice toward blue-black African folks. The women prefer lighter men it seems.

Nouria tells Lily of Twins being Bad Luck:
pg295 - Anwar led us through the Fatihah, the first chapter, that night, but when he began, Bortucan did not follow. What's wrong Bee, I asked, pulling her onto my lap. Nouria shrugged, she forgets. But she knew this chapter.
Her mind is small. Twins are not good. Bad luck. One steals from the other. But she'd made such progress. Allah giveth and Allah taketh away, Nouria said with resignation.  


Note: finally, in this section of book the distinctions in who is who and their relations is revealed. So many women and so little separation of their standing in the community. Also, two different places and eras, Ethiopia and London. confusing throughout, knowing who, where, when.

Even now knowing Anwar and Bortucan are twins gives more meaning to these two kids and their relationship to adults and each other. 

she is quite sure that only a woman can judge another woman's character. It is always best to leave it to your mother, she says. (aliz's mother's matchmaking)

pg303 - Mintiwab, name of a girl Aziz liked while at medical school in Addis Ababa. She did not love him back he said. I mention her only because of her unusual name. It must have some meaning. Just saying it feels meaningful: Min Ti Wab...

(Mentewab was an Empress of Ethiopia 1706-1773), and both mother and grandmother of Emperors) 


(Lily describing a street in Dire Dawa)
pg307 - We turned into a beautiful street lined with acadia trees bursting red and purple, speckling the street with colour and shade. The buildings, modern and spacious, were cheerful pinks and yellows and crisp, clean whites. Vines spilled suggestively over their compound walls, saying: There is life here and life is good. It was so much cleaner and brighter than Harar. And so much hotter. The air was unwhispering, utterly still, and the sun blazed white even though it was already late afternoon.

Lily describing Emperor's televised speech:
pg330 - But was he crying as he spoke? Perhaps it was the rain, but for years afterwards, people, regardless of whether they ever saw the broadcast or not, would say they witnessed the exact moment when the lion began to die. With that throne speech it became apparent: a two-thousand-year-old dynasty was disintegrating before our eyes.

pg324 - Entire villages dancing, singing, Long live the emperor, the King of Kings.

We watched footage of a trip to Jamaica, where jubilant, long-haired masses shouted, Jah Rastafari! and waved placards that read Selassie is Christ.
He was Ras Tafari until 1930, the year he was crowned Negusa Negist, or King of Kings, and adopted the name Haile Selassie, meaning Might of the Trinity. God, the Son and the Holy Ghost.


pg365 - In the blue dark we watched as a parade of skeltons wobbled across the screen. 
Women carried dead babies with crusty mouths and giant eyes framed by fly-covered lashes. There was absolute silence.

pg366 - We had heard the words Famine and Starvation, but we had never seen images before. Haile Selassie had only begun using the words the previous month. Until then, he had denied such things existed in Ethiopia. Now we had the images to accompany the words, thanks to a British journalist.

pg367 - The military council thought it was time our people knew the truth. The emperor has been accused of taking a hundred million dollars of state money and hiding it in a Swiss bank account.

pg - Ethiopia doesn't matter to the West, I say, stating the obvious. We offer the nothing they can exploit.

So much of what I learned from Joseph (Joseph Woldu: More than a Survivor) about the war, was also in this book.  Airplane bombings, Khartoum, kidnappings, refugees escaping to Sudan. Book also mentions the Derg getting Russian advisors and Cuban fighters to help maintain control and foment war. Very much like the book "Beneath the Tiger's Gaze," by Maaza Mengiste. although, I feel Tiger's Gaze was a better read.

pg395 - So, the Derg did what the Derg always does and started rounding up everyone suspected not only of fighting, but even of thinking of fighting.

pg396 - And then the Somali army invaded the area. The occupied Jijiga. They even got as far west as Harar. The Derg brought in Russian advisors and Cuban forces to fight the Somalis for them and suddenly the area was full of tanks and riddled with landmines and all this machinery we had never seen in Ethiopia. The Cubans pushed the Somalis back overland as far as Jijiga. And then they dropped down bombs from the airplanes. They deliberately targeted the prison (Aziz assumed dead) in order to obliterate the Ethiopian Somali rebels. They killed a great many other people as well, he says matter-of-factly. 1978

The Derge was ousted in May 1991 when the EPRDF - a coalition of revolutionary forces led by Tigrayan guerilla fighters from the north - rolls its tanks into Addis Ababa and sends Mengistu and his officers into flight.

The Derg is charged with having killed, unlawfully arrested, imprisoned and tortured hundreds of thousands of Ethiopian citizens, abetting and using famine to kill hundreds of thousands more, creating an epidemic of displaced persons and a worldwide diaspora of refugees. Aziz was one of millions.

Notes on book "Beneath the Lion's Gaze

 

I'm reading this novel set in Ethiopia titled "Beneath the Lion's Gaze."  It takes place during and after the fall of Haille Selassie's monarch in 1974.

I want to share an example of what I consider excellent descriptive writing, where the writer awakens all your senses.  A scene amongst beggars:

A SLENDER EUCALYPTUS LEAF spiraled to the ground and twirled gracefully in perfect circles. Sara saw the leaf land on an old beggar crouched on one row of steps surrounding the eight-sided church, his blind gray eyes roving in their sockets like hungry rats.

"Are you back again, my daughter?" he asked, pushing his nose into the air. (blind, he smelled her familiar scent)
"It's my last time." Sara fought the urge to turn away from the stench of rotting skin surrounding him.

At his side, a little girl shuffled on scarred knees that extended to a pair of shriveled legs trailing limply behind her.

(pg.94 excerpt)

I sent the above text to my sister after reading these lines from the book. I like poetry, as does my sister. She and I both recognize Maaza Mengiste as an author with poetic flavor in her writing that is very pleasing to read.

Yes, the novel is a poetic smorgasbord of descriptive words giving readers visual nightmares. I like the short sections and how each new section carries over from earlier ones. Many characters get their say, adding so much color and conflict to the painting. The author is an artist, layering her canvas in all shapes and shades. Haille Selassie is one of those many shades in the midst of being discolored and dislodged by encroaching dark shadows.

Here, Ethiopia is going through a revolution and readers are shown the devastating effects on one family and their community of friends. "Beneath the Lion's Gaze" might be a title more befitting the hunger of power snatchers than the monarchy rule of Haille Selassie. 

Under the new leadership of the Derg a type of communist feudal system took over Ethiopia. Russian and Cuban military support helped implement the Derg's socialist order. And North Korean supplied soldier uniforms. Nationalization, like in China, was replacing a democratic monarchy, now without its once revered Emperor. And it was the Derg who initiated attacks on the Eritrean cities of Asmara and Massawa.

So, this is how Ethiopian and Eritrean rebels came together to fight against a common enemy, the Derg.

Communism had couched itself comfortably in a country that once boasted of a Solomonic monarchy. pg.115

In the beginning, the Derg had promised the people a "bloodless coup," yet had done nothing but prove its own viciousness and murderous spirit. pg.117

So, Sad! Revolution shows no mercy!

Egypt, Israel, and Syria also had a hand in the war between Ethiopia and Eritrea in the 70's.

Reading "Beneath the Lion's Gaze" is a bit of a challenge until you familiarize yourself with the characters. It takes time to recognize its connective flow, where one incident leaks into and meshes with another. An impatient reader could easily miss the artistic beauty of this book. And scholarly historians would probably find themselves pulling out their hair due to fictionalized and/or the absence of some incidents.

But I have found myself addictively returning to its pages, cautiously journeying along with the family and their friends as they maneuver through a revolution. I suppose I relate to Hailu the father most. Dutiful to his work and family, still mourning loss and having to make ethical decisions that could endanger he and his family. The burden of being head of a household in the midst of a country's revolutionary changes. Nobody is safe, everybody is stressed, distrust and bloodshed are one's diet.

Now that I've read the brutal, torturous methods of the military police, likely taught by the Russians, I feel even more pity and anger over this young, innocent, frightened boy's abusive treatment from military men. Distrust is always a weapon during revolutionary times. But what does a young boy know. Nothing really. And a broken mother wilts and weeps.

The author really does a good job knitting together the quilt of this story. The pacing, while alternating between characters and their dilemmas, gives readers views of the story from different angles. It is as if the reader is a ghost in the story, unable to warn or comfort those who they've grown close to in this book. Danger is always lurking about.

This is as much a book you live, as it is one you read.


Again, Revolution shows no mercy.
"Ethiopia had become a country of watchers"

Finished. Excellent. Bravo!

Author's Note: Nega Mezlekias's "Notes from the Hyena's Belly" and the late Prime Minister Aklilu Habtewold's "Aklilu Remembers: Historical Recollections from a Prison Cell" were significant to my understanding of the political and personal costs of the revolution. I humbly express my gratitude to these writers for sharing their stories so the rest of us may know.

The Derg regime collapsed in 1991


http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6171927.stm

The Story of the Gypsies

 The Story of the Gypsies

By Konrad Bercovici  1928

Oct. 13, 2023                                    5 Stars

 

Enjoyed the book for the style of the author, the abundance of well documented research, and the interesting lives of Gypsies throughout history.

I Am Gypsy

From reading this book you get a sense maybe our modern-day lifestyle of working and indoor living and all surrounding it are the causes of our sickness and depressing mental conditions. To live the freestyle, naturalistic life of a gypsy is to be constantly in-tune with ones physical, mental, spiritual health and the external forces capable of enhancing or debilitating it.

This book has confirmed to me the secret of life being Song, Dance, Enjoyment of families and community, Celebration of life.

Growing up in a joyous family surrounded by a closeknit community molded me into a person who cherishes love, laughter, celebration, sorrow.

So many parts in this book I should have committed to notes. But an uninterrupted read was just what this book deserved. It gave me so much confirmation of the detachment from material things I try to practice. My belief that a Home is felt internally with a persons’ concept of life, then it spreads out to whatever he or she chooses to embrace.

Pg282  They train their children, female and male, from earliest youth to such things, just as they train them to sing, deceive, lie, steal, cheat, and flatter: everything needed to lead the life of an undesired wanderer, everywhere, in the marts of London, Paris, Rome, and at Bagdad, at the entrance of mosques.

 

Taking what the Arabs say about Gypsies with a grain of salt.  But then, Arab investigators have said the same things of Jews and Christians. If some people don’t believe what they know, Arabs always know what they believe.

 

Nomads in Asia speaking a language akin to that of Gypsies call themselves Siyah Hindu, “Black Hindus.”pg287

In the year 1860, the Gypsies in England elected as their queen a woman called Esther Faa.

 

Beginning of chapter XIII, final chapter (The Tent in the Wind) pg289

And now the deed is done. I have said all I know, and told what other people know, about the Gypsies. I have sifted my own knowledge and that of others through the sieve of my own temperament and prejudices, and bulked the whole in one lump – formidable in my eyes; slight, perhaps, in the eyes of others.

I have tried to prove that the Gypsies were in Europe long before the year authorities took notice of them; and while I did not go so far as to claim, with Bataillard, that they were the ones who brought bronze to Europe, I do believe that they brought the art of iron-forging, the dance of the East, and orchestral music to the shores of the Black Sea, to the Point Euxine, when they first set foot on European soil.

Did they come two thousand, three hundred years ago, imported by Alexander the Great, or a thousand years later, traveling of their own volition or driven by enemies? Who knows? For the strangest thing is that Gypsies are an even greater mystery to themselves than they are to us.

 

Pg291 But what has caused the Gypsies to remain an entity outside the pale of influence of the civilized world? It seems to me the fundamental reason for this is to be found in the fact that compared to the other inhabitants the Gypsies were already a superior group when they first appeared in Europe. Considering themselves abler, superior, they refused to adapt themselves to the method of life of the inferior native inhabitants in whose midst they camped, and thus prevented themselves from growning with them. To this day, the Gypsy considers himself superior to all peoples in wisdom of life, in ability, in artistry, in strength and intelligence, and refuses the formal school education, not because he is inferior to it, but because he considers the education of the Gorgio unworthy, ridiculous, and superfluous. Duty – private   property – reduction  of  individual freedom . . .

But you will tell him:

“Look at yourself. You are poor, bedraggled, uncomfortable, ignorant.”

And his answer, ready and prompt, will be:

“Yes, but I am happy. The contrary of ‘poor, bedraggled, uncomfortable, ignorant’ does not spell happiness!” And this answer is irrefutable. “And as to ‘ignorant.’ The things we know cannot be found in books. We know you better than you know yourselves.”

“We live in houses’ cool in summer, warm in winter. When we are ill, we call a doctor to cure us.”

“We live in tents summer and winter. Yet we don’t know the diseases you know. We have no need for doctors – until you compel us to live in houses.”

And this answer is likewise irrefutable. Talk to a Gypsy of industry, and he answers you with talk of freedom. Talk to him of wealth, and he responds with a chant on the elimination of worry: the uncontrollable, unhealable cancer of the soul.

And should you launch forth  on pride, he will point out that his tribal pride is of purer metal than any political pride of today. And there is no gainsaying this. He does not have to dress to look respectable. We need beautiful clothes to cover our ugliness. His beautiful body shines through the rags that cover it – to conform to our law. They Gypsy loves nakedness.

The Gypsy lies to preserve his integrity, and steals to maintain his inner honesty, which does not recognize private property. Did Proudhon hear the phrase “La propriete, c’est le vol” from the Gypsies living at the gates of Paris?
The tent-living Gypsies have seen the destruction and disruption of Palestine; and the Jews, once a nomad people, had lived in houses and had founded a civilization of their own that was leaning on what they had borrowed from Egyptians, Phoenicians, Greeks.

The tent-living Gypsies have seen the crumbling of Darius’ palaces in Persia, the destruction of Babylon and the breaking down of Alexander’s empire. They have seen Macedonia shrink from a cannon ball to an almost invisible grain of bird shot. Greece fell. Rome fell. The Byzantine empire was unglued by its own heat; and in more recent times they have seen the dismembering of empires that had been joined together by the flesh and blood of millions of men through centuries and centuries to give body to the illusion of some ambitious, power-thirsty daydreamer. They have seen the rise and fall of many empires . . . .

“Wind that breaks and scatters the strongest houses is resisted by the bending tent. The wisdom of life is the continuation of life, and so the wisdom of the Gypsy is superior to that of the civilized world.” Pg293

And so unyielding have the Gypsies been that thousands of years of life in surroundings contradicting their manner of life have influenced them but little. Oh, they have changed! They are not exactly what they were three or four thousand years ago. But they have changed according to their own native processes; from within and not without. They have accepted no religion, no customs, no laws, no traditions from the world outside their tents; and they have kept their own language, though they have been subject to a hundred differences in every generation. National entity! No other nation can boast of one as perfect as the national entity of the Gypsies.

Like the tent in the wind, the Gypsy does not stubbornly, openly, oppose the principles and the laws of the peoples he lives with. He bends this way and that. Yet when the wind has blown over, he stands as straight as before – while the wind still blows elsewhere. Moslems while in Turkey, Catholics in Spain, Methodists in England, Greek Orthodox Russia . . .

And what of tomorrow? When shall we have seen the last Gypsy? Civilization, industry, economic pressure, science, hygiene, will they not force the Gypsy to adapt himself to new conditions? To walls, doors, and houses?

A thousand years ago, the world thought that that generation had seen the last Gypsy. Five hundred years ago, the French, the English, the Italians, and the Germans thought they had heard the last of him. George Borrow gave an account of them which reads like a custom-made epitaph for their tomb. Charles Godfrey Leland said the last of the Gypsy had already been seen – and there are a million tent-Gypsies today, as fierce, as passionate, as free as they have ever been – still bending under the wind.

And the Gypsy answers: “The last of the Gypsies will be seen when we return to India, picking our way amidst the scattered ruins of the world.”

For they believe they are eternal; they believe in themselves, and not in us. For they still are convinced that theirs is the superior manner, that they are a superior race of cleaner and better blood – a superior people, oppressed by a hundred inferior ones.

“Bathe as frequently as you may, you only cleanse your skin. Our blood is pure; our breath is sweet.”

But all this I have said. Some of it I believe, and some I do not. Yet what is atavistically* Gypsy in me responds to their claims, to their wisdom, to their passion for untrammeled freedom, and sings the song of the wood and the glen to rhythm of the pebble-bottomed brook and the beat of my tramping feet upon the crust covering the heart of the world.

 

Yet – will the resist all pressure? Can they? Will history not repeat itself and absorb the Gypsies?
History does not repeat itself. Man repeats himself, and repeats the life of his ancestors, instead of continuing it.

 

THE END

Pg251 A language is kept in a purer state by an illiterate people than by a literate one. Literature refines and corrupts a language. Literary people only seldom have ears for speech of the people, and invent an idiom of their own, as different from the national one as a city garb is from the national costume.

Spain and Portugal attempted to rid themselves of the TGitano difficulty by exiling these people to Brazil. A Brazilian authority on the subject, Professor Moreno, has come to the conclusion that not one prominent Brazilian family today is free of Gypsy blood.

 

Pg.207 In May, 1596, under the provision of the statutes against Egyptians or Bohemians (as the Gypsies were then called in England), a company of one hundred and ninety-six persons was brought before the justice in Yorkshire. One hundred and six, being adults, were condemned to death; because as the document set forth, they were idle persons, some of them the queen’s natural-born subjects and descendants of good parentage, who led idle lives wandering about the country in company with these Gypsies, using a speech that was not understood by the other inhabitants of the realm, and obeying laws that were not the laws of the realm.

During the execution of some of those found guilty, the children cried out so piteously, beseeching reprieves for their parents, that the right honorable lords who had condemned them obtained her Grace’s pardon for the offenders, on condition that the company mend it ways and agree to settle down somewhere at the honest pursuit of some trade or occupation; the non-Gypysies who had traveled in their company were to go back to their families. It was also stipulated that the Gypsies should be returned to the last place of habitation where they had dwelled within three years. Then the whole company was charged to one William Portyyngton, who was commissioned to conduct each one to his last place of habitation.

Pg.92 It was in this year -1782- that the charge of cannibalism was brought against the Tziganes. There were no proofs. The charges were brought against them to still their happy laughter. The emperor and his court hated all signs of happiness. They the accusation was only against one tribe, the echo spread over the whole living race of the world. The charge was never proved. The Tziganes who had confessed their guilt recanted, explaining that their confessions had been wrung under duress in the torture chambers. Yet only their confessions were believed. Their recanting found deaf ears. People always believe what they want to believe. Proof . . . bah! There are no proofs. Willing ears, that is important.

The Big Lie of a Stolen 2020 Election

Only deaf people could be really just. The eyes of men have never been trained well enough to check our hearing. The ears are the fake news-gatherers of humanity.

The trial of the Gypsies lasted two months, There were thousands of witnesses. No one dared to witness in favor of the accused. To defend any of the accused was equivalent to suicide. All witnesses not bringing additional proof of guilt against the Tziganes were suspected of being themselves guilty of cannibalism.

The vehemency with which one accused the victims and denounced cannibalism was the measure of his own innocence. Thousands of Gypsies were denounced by whosoever considered their existence an obstacle to his own plans and desires – or just for sport. Two hundred and twenty Gypsies were found guilty of cannibalism and condemned to swing on gibbets. Public opinion, like Moloch at Carthage, demanded victims. The dust of the road to civilization had to be sprinkled with blood.

The whole Gypsy race had been judged and found guilty. Gypsies fled from settled farms and village shops to hide in mountains. (Chapter 5 Gypsies in Hungary)

 

Pg279-80 Many  Gypsies of Asia believe they are Egyptians, while the prophet (a prophet 30 years ago who gathered 30,000 Gypsies in the Arabian desert under one flag to lead them back to their own country and out of slavery.) and those about him were convinced that they came from somewhere in Turkestan, somewhere between the mountains, where the homes their ancestors had left were still vacant and awaiting them –“not tents, but houses dug out in the mountains, and guarded against intruders by tigers and leopards.” Such a thing sounds almost impossible to civilized ears, but one must remember that only a few years ago a band of little, parched, dark-skinned people appeared in Palestine, led by a prophet, who proved to the world they were Yemenites, who had taken refuge in the desert at the fall of Jerusalem, and lived there two-thousand years, unknown to anybody, until he had shown them the way.

For more see Palestine Partition 1948 / Israel established.

Problem with the prophet and his gathering of 30,000 in the Arabian desert was they all couldn’t agree on where ther homeland was.