Paris Parfait

Pity the nation.

Angel, Saint Louis Cathedral, New Orleans.

 

Pity the nation

whose cynical leaders

line their pockets with blood money

and act against the public interest;

no safety for children.

---------------------------

Khalil Gibran's Pity the Nation, 1934:

Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave,
eats a bread it does not harvest,
and drinks a wine that flows not from its own wine-press.

Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.

Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.

Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.

Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking.

Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.

Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years
and whose strong men are yet in the cradle.

Pity the nation divided into fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation. 

 

And San Francisco's own Lawrence Ferlinghetti's ode to Gibran - in his version of Pity the Nation - is here.

 

Timeless

Petra, Jordan photo © Tara Bradford. Click to view detail.

 

 "...Match me such a marvel, save in Eastern clime,
A rose-red city half as old as Time."

Popping in from the sterile, colourless environment of hospitals and doctors' waiting rooms to say hello. Hope all is well with you and yours. Back soon with regular postings and a blog design revamp.

Excerpt from the poem Petra by Dean Burgon.

Hopeful.

 

Prayers and offerings, Swayambhunath Temple, Kathmandu, Nepal. Click photo to view detail.

Optimism

 

"More and more I have come to admire resilience.

 

Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam

 

returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous

 

tenacity of a tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side,

 

it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.

 

But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,

 

mitochondria, figs -- all this resinous, unretractable earth."

                                                                           - Jane Hirshfield

Fading beauty

 

Entranceway enhanced with hand-painted symbols meant to ward off evil and encourage prosperity and peace, Bhaktapur, Nepal.

And similarly-decorated portals in Bungamati, Nepal.

"The only lasting beauty is the beauty of the heart." - Rumi

 

A year to cherish

Antiques in a New Orleans hotel lobby. And a haiku for 2012:

 

Write the next chapter:

choose your own destination;   

treasure the journey.

Portals of discovery

Reales Alcázares de Sevilla, Sevilla, Spain.

 

"There were epochs in the history of humanity in which the writer was a sacred person. He wrote the sacred books, universal books, the codes, the epic, the oracles. Sentences inscribed on the walls of the crypts; examples in the portals of the temples. But in those times the writer was not an individual alone; he was the people."  - Augusto Roa Bastos

Fall foliage

An afternoon stroll in my neighbourhood. Click photos to view detail.

These houses are built against a wall that once encircled the city.

A duck flaps its wings.

A carpet of leaves leading to a dyke road.

One of the town's historic gates.

The church bell tower, viewed from a distance.

Riot of colour

autumn's last gasp of beauty

before winter's chill

Classic beauty

"They don't make 'em like they used to..." Classic beauty, New Orleans. Click photo to enlarge.

 

The glitz, the glamour

and plush leather seats for you;

running board for us.

I need a chance

Mother and daughter, Bungamati, Nepal.

 

I am pleased to join hundreds of bloggers participating in The 2011 Girl Effect Blogging Campaign. Read more about the campaign and how you can help young girls reach their potential.

Won't you consider writing your own Girl Effect blog post this week? For details, go here. See posts from other Girl Effect Blogging Campaign participants here.

Bedouin girl, Petra, Jordan. Images and poem by Tara Bradford.

 

Give me a chance

I need a chance

to study at school

to seize opportunities

to learn just like you

 

I need a chance

to grow, think and reach

to wander and wonder

defy tradition's long reach

 

I need a chance

to make my own decisions

to carve a career

not marriage as prison

 

I need a chance

to discover my worth

to nurture my talent

before I give birth

 

I need a chance

to choose my own path

to plan my own journey

without family wrath

 

I need a chance

to remain strong, in good health

to be who I am

not some man's chattel as wealth

 

Give me a chance

you'll see what I can do

surpass expectations

be independent like you

News and blooms

Hortensia blooms in muted colours.

 

On today's radar:

Putlizer Prize-winner Jhumpa Lahiri: Trading stories

Inside Libya's notorious Abu Salim prison. Two brave men I knew are believed to have been murdered in the prison massacre. They are mentioned in my 2006 poem Dead or disappeared.

Palestinians say they are victims of collective punishment, as the pro-Israeli US Congress withdraws aid to the West Bank and Gaza. The move follows the Palestinian's president's statehood request to the United Nations.

Labor unions plan to join Occupy Wall Street protests. And you can send pizza to protesters at Liberty Square!

If you're a fan of the late singer Ella Fitzgerald and the Paris-based Hermes, act fast to bid on Miss Fitzgerald's handbag at auction in New Orleans.

The contrarians: 18th-century furnishings in a Chicago apartment.

This video filmed in Paris is achingly beautiful in its wistfulness.

We remember.

Chapel, York Minster Cathedral, York, England. The windows remind me of the Twin Towers.

 

...and we won't forget.

I sit in one of the dives

on 52nd Street

Uncertain and afraid

As the clever hopes expire

of a low dishonest decade:

Waves of anger and fear

Circulate over the bright

and darkened lands of the earth,

Obsessing over private lives;

The unmentionable odour of death

offends the September night.

***********

Into this neutral air

Where blind skyscrapers use

their full height to proclaim

the strength of Collective Man,

Each language pours its vain

Competitive excuse:

But who can live for long

in an euphoric dream.

- W.H. Auden, Sept. 1, 1939

A few more doors to open

 

Ornate door at a monastery, Kathmandu.

 

An unquestionable truth becomes more pronounced with every birthday that passes: time is limited. Focusing on the people we love and work that sustains our spirit becomes more important than ever.

So on this birthday, I'm "hearing blessings dropping their blossoms around me," as the mystic poet Rumi said. I'm thinking about the doors I still can open and the opportunities yet to emerge. I'm also choosing to savour the moments in which I find myself and try to forgive my imperfections, real or imagined.

"There's courage involved if you want to become truth.

There is a broken-open place in a lover. Where are

those qualities of bravery and sharp compassion

in this group? What's the use of old and

frozen thought? I want

a howling hurt. This is not a treasury

where gold is stored; this is for copper.

We alchemists look for talent that

can heat up and change.

Lukewarm won't do. Halfhearted holding back,

well-enough, getting by?

Not here." - Rumi.

 

Summer skies

Evening sky, the Netherlands.

 

Thinking of all my friends and colleagues in London and other cities in England.

 

"I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

"I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
and dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

"I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

"But not to call me back or say good-bye;
and further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

"Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night." 

- Robert Frost

Arched entrances and courtyards: Moorish influence in Sevilla

An open doorway looking onto a plaza behind Sevilla's stunning La Giralda Cathedral.

Most readers know that I am smitten by Sevilla. I like it so much, I wrote a poem about it. In my Paris apartment, I had a "Spanish wall." I collect antique Spanish tiles and pottery, as well as Madonna crowns, silver crosses and milagros. I'm fond of dry Spanish fino and tapas. I'm mad about flamenco and Spanish guitar.

Since first visiting the city in 2004, I have been back several times, including an extended stay in 2006 to study Spanish. Last summer I spent two weeks working on a photo essay in Sevilla (these images are all from July 2010).  Later this year, I'll be returning to Sevilla to collaborate on a project with a Spanish photographer. I'd be there now, if it weren't for the scorching summer temperatures!

The plaza behind La Giralda de Sevilla, the city's largest cathedral.

The beautiful 15th-century Casa de los Pinelos.

La Casa de los Pinelos is the site of the Academia de las Buenas Letras y Academia de Bellas Artes.

Tiled stairs leading to the second floor, which was closed the last time I was there.

A series of arches cover the pathway to Plaza del Calbido, built in the Moorish style. In this photograph, shutters are closed during afternoon siesta, in a bid to combat the intense summer heat.

On Sunday mornings, vendors participate in a small market selling vintage stamps, posters, books, photographs, military medals, antique coins and other items.

Private apartments, a restaurant, bookshop and antiques store are all part of the complex.

A series of arches at a convent courtyard adjacent to Plaza del Cabildo.

A decorative iron gate leads to a private courtyard.

Palms and plants flourish in this stone-paved courtyard.

Another private courtyard behind an iron gate.

A gated patio at Reales Alcázares de Sevilla.

This arched doorway with decorative wrought-iron Islamic symbols exits into a lush garden, complete with fountain.

Iron gates opening to more palace patios.

The palace's exterior walls were designed by the Almohads, Berbers from the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco. The walls stem from the complex's original use as a Moorish fort.

One of the arched entrances to the palace. This stone wall dates from when construction began in the year 913.

A workman repairs a fountain in a shaded courtyard framed by a series of arches at Reales Alcázares de Sevilla. Most of the palace's stunning architecture is a combination of designs from the Taifa and the Almohad periods.

A stone walkway is laid in decorative patterns.

Check back soon for more architectural wonders from Sevilla.

Of loss and promise

Shrine and altar, Bhaktapur, Nepal.

How strange life is...This week I've been preoccupied with reading and thinking about the tragic loss of two brilliantly-talented photographers: Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros, who were killed in Libya.  Each man left an enduring legacy of remarkable images and humanitarian work.

"...Along the rocky path to peace,
tears wash away the blood of innocents
spilled in someone else's cause."

- from the poem "I will remember you"

I've been thinking about how little time we are given to make a positive impact on this world. And time is flying; it's only after a health scare - or turning 50 - that you realise just how fast.

I've been searching through thousands of unpublished photos - some of them quite good - and wondering why I haven't used them; why I haven't sent them to a magazine editor... fear of rejection; of not being perfect? I don't want to be someone who dies with her song unsung; with promise unfulfilled. It's odd that I cultivate imperfection (vintage and antiques, rubbed by the hands of time) in my home, but obsess about it in my work.

I've been despairing over hapless antics of politicians around the world, as suffering intensifies. Then experienced the weird disconnect of being focused on conflict in foreign lands, as decorating and photography books arrive in the mail. And while I'm thinking about senseless wars and the foibles of humanity, I'm posting a cheery photo of my Fiesta collection! But isn't this how we go on... compartmentalising things; refusing to dwell too long on sorrows that are difficult to bear; trying to prioritise demands on our time and snatching fleeting moments of joy whenever possible?

A sad message from a faraway friend - with whom I've been too busy to keep in touch - that her marriage is in trouble. A burly stranger climbing a ladder and suddenly appearing in the open doors of our balcony, seeking access to the house next door.  As I'm typing this, a window washer on a ladder (we're on the second and third floors) has appeared next to me, without warning. The last time that happened, I was in my friend Heidi's 8th-floor studio across the street from the New York Public Library.  I was seven months' pregnant and it gave me a fright, as a window-washer's silhouette appeared. Heidi opened the window and scolded him for scaring a pregnant woman.

Just now outside my Dutch window, five men and a child in Scottish kilts and a woman in a long dress are walking down the street playing bagpipes! Totally unexpected. And isn't that the way we live, never knowing what might happen next?

So this week's lessons and reminders for me? Stop procrastinating and create more opportunities to tell the stories of those who are struggling. Carpe diem!

The heart of the matter

No matter how you look at it...

...this way or that...

...from left or right...

Peel back the layers...

...and at the heart of the matter is love for one another.

 

My friend Marianne Elliot reminded me today that in the face of fear and hatred, the only way forward is love. So when I read about this tragedy and that one; about hubris and greed; when I see willful ignorance celebrated while freedoms and environmental protections are eroded; when racist morons try to rewrite or reverse history; when it appears that too many people seem to be sleepwalking, rather than taking to the streets in protest, as things fall apart*.. I remind myself that change begins with each of us.

It is up to us to speak out and do whatever we can to effect change and counter manipulation, stupidity and evil. "Every individual has a responsibility to help guide our global family in the right direction. Good wishes are not sufficient; we must become actively engaged." - the Dalai Lama.

Silence is not an option.

 

*"Things fall apart" is from the William Butler Yeats poem The Second Coming 

Pictured: 1940s French coffee table; Dutch roses in Moroccan tea glasses found in London; Louis XVI chair and 1940s French crystal candlesticks; teal pottery bowl by Riley Salyards, Amsterdam and wool rug, handmade by Bedouin women on Bani Hamida Mountain, Jordan.

A lock on love

Bridge behind Notre Dame, Paris, its mesh siding peppered with hundreds of little padlocks and hand-tied messages of love and expectation. The locks are inscribed with lovers' initials and the keys tossed into the River Seine.

 

Quaint symbols of love:

these locks and their keys

yet no guarantees.

Let cooler heads prevail

Wrought-iron patio entrance with Islamic symbols, Alcazar de Sevilla, Sevilla, Spain.

The tragedy of September 11th haunts many of us, as evidenced in various memorial ceremonies and reams of copy in publications around the world. But watching media reports of hysterical - and ill-informed - anti-mosque protests in New York; Newt Gingrich's release of a shockingly paranoid, fear-mongering and fact-challenged film and Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck's cynical money-making appearance at a "patriot" meeting Saturday, I was reminded of the poet Khalil Gibran's philosophy:

"The true wealth of a nation lies not in its gold or silver but in its learning, wisdom and in the uprightness of its sons."

Either our coffers are running low or the crazy fringe elements of our society are too noisily promoting intolerance, trying to drown out voices of reason. These increasingly unhinged people do not speak for us. In the United States, our Constitution guarantees freedom of religion and justice for all, not just for special interest groups trying to line their pockets by manipulating emotions and inciting violence and hate.

It is my hope and prayer that we make a sincere effort to listen and learn from one another, no matter our faith, creed or country of origin. For all our sakes, cooler heads must prevail.

If I were...

 

A fading Tree of Life mural at an old glass factory on the outskirts of Amman, Jordan.

I'm following in Julochka's footsteps at Moments of Perfect Clarity. Want to play along? Create your own "If I were..." list. Here's mine:

If I were a month, I'd be September.

If I were a day, I’d be Wednesday.

If I were a time of day, I’d be midnight.

If I were a font, I’d be elegant.

If I were a sea animal, I’d be a dolphin.

If I were a direction, I’d be west.

If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be antique.

If I were a liquid, I’d be burgundy.

If I were a gemstone, I'd be a blue diamond.

If I were a tree, I’d be a Magnolia.

If I were a tool, I’d be a camera.

If I were a flower, I’d be a white rose.

If I were an element of weather, I'd be lightning.

If I were a musical instrument, I’d be a Spanish guitar.

If I were a color, I’d be teal blue.

if i were an emotion, I’d be passionate.

If I were a fruit, I’d be a fig.

If I were a sound, I’d be soft.

If I were an element, I’d be water.

If I were a car, I’d be a Jaguar.

If I were a food, I’d be jambalaya.

If I were a place, I’d be by the sea.

If I were material, I’d be pure cotton.

If i were a taste, I’d be lemongrass and lime.

If I were a scent, I’d be subtle.

If I were a body part, I’d be an eye.

If I were a song, I'd be dancing.

If I were a bird, I’d be a white owl.

If I were a gift, I’d be thoughtful.

If I were a city, I’d be Sevilla.

If I were a door, I’d be wooden.

If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be black suede heels.

If I were a poem, I’d write it myself.

Written on the walls

Cartoon drawing in the Paris Metro, which is again on strike today.

The Arabic version of graffiti: information and phone numbers scrawled on a wall in Aqaba, Jordan.

 

A public bulletin board of sorts in the seaside resort town of Aqaba, on the Red Sea.

 

Information about a mosque under construction outside Amman is written on the wall.

From Robert Frost:

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulder in the sun,
And make gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there,
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There were it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having though of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Two hearts

Macaroon double heart tarts stuffed with strawberries and creme and sprinkled with pistachio nuts, from a Paris boulangerie. The platter is 1950s American and the lace-trimmed linen, vintage French.

As Emily Dickinson noted, "That love is all there is, is all we know of love."  Wishing you a very Happy Valentine's Day!

Love lies bleeding

Photo by Jordana Saunders.

My love lies bleeding

and no one to the rescue;

true love is fatal.

As the world turns

As the world turns, Selfridges, London.

Ten years ago today, David and I met in New York. A few months later, my daughter Jordana and I moved to London. A year after that, we moved to Paris, for David's job with an international organisation. Jordana attended high school at the American School of Paris and I resurrected my college French and struggled to adjust to French logic. It was my first experience not working for a salary since age 16; initially I didn't appreciate the loss of steady income and control. To lift my spirits, I began frequenting brocantes, flea markets and antiques shops. Soon our apartment was filled with an eclectic collection of art and antiques.

After discovering the endless bureaucracy required to get married in Paris, Jordana, David and I flew to Santa Fe, N.M. Our wedding ironically was at (French) Archibishop Jean-Baptiste Lamy's private chapel. Jordana's friend Vince played acoustic guitar, while she sang Bruce Springsteen's "If I Should Fall Behind."  A dozen friends witnessed the happy occasion and later joined us for dinner at the Inn of the Anasazi.

We traveled to many, many places in Europe and the US.  At home in Paris, David honed his cooking skills as we hosted hundreds (!) of guests. I became a fan of rugby and horse-racing at Longchamp (although I never bet on horses; just admire and photograph them).  My daughter went off to college in the US.

I started this blog and picked up a camera for the first time in many years. I took Eurostar to London at least once a month. I worked on my novel. I wrote poetry. I campaigned for Barack Obama and worked on human rights initiatives. I had a few health woes, but was lucky to have quality medical care in both Paris and London. I studied Spanish in Seville, Spain and photography in London.

I have lived in Paris longer than any city in my adult life (followed by San Francisco and New York). Ten years ago, when David was a guest speaker at an e-commerce conference (at the World Trade Center) and I a writer, covering the conference, I wouldn't have imagined this life. It's had its ups and downs, but for the most part, it's been rich with blessings. While Paris has never felt like home to me, I know we are fortunate.  Having traveled as a journalist for much of my adult life, I've learned, as John Cage said, that "we carry our homes within us, which enables us to fly."

Balancing act, Selfridges, London.

P.S. Don't miss your chance to win a copy of Leonard Pitt's new book Paris Postcards! Go here to enter.

For Mandy

Abandoned musical instruments, Hippodrome de Longchamp, Paris.

This morning I had email from a friend, who is a talented poet. Sadly, she is very ill and moving to a hospice. This haiku is for Mandy.

The music flows through
your poetry in motion;
we will remember.

Look out any window

Rain-spattered window, Oxford Street, London. If you and I look out this window, chances are we won't see the same things.

A tsunami in Tonga and the Somoan Islands; an  earthquake in Indonesia. Refugees driven from their homes by the conflict in Yemen. Children going to bed hungry; others dying of malnutrition or curable diseases. These are real people grappling with serious issues; huge problems that cross socio-economic divides and traverse geographic borders.

The world has trouble enough. We don't need manufactured hatred and fear-mongering spread by right-wing talk show hosts and conspiracy theorists, polluting the atmosphere. We don't need personal prejudices of two former drug-addicted radio and television hosts foisted on a gullible and too-often ignorant public. The irresponsibility of Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh and their ilk (including the RNC and its ill-advised collaboration with "News"max) and the cynicism of their reckless and inflammatory behaviour beggars belief.

Of course those who shout the loudest don't worry about dangerous consequences of their actions, as long as they're raking in big bucks. Money is power in America; just ask Rupert Murdoch and other corporate media moguls and companies who encourage and sponsor ever-increasing vitriol in the name of ratings. Just ask Hollywood moguls (and French politicians) eager to overlook Roman Polanski's crimes, simply because he's an artist and a celebrity (and his films take in big box-office receipts).

Peace begins at home and we need to dial the hysteria register down a notch or two. We need to THINK FOR OURSELVES; read and be informed about the facts, not speculation or conjecture. Searching for common ground - rather than constantly focusing on our differences - would be a good start.

As Jalaladdin Rumi said, "Out beyond ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."

And an excerpt of Mary Oliver's poem Mysteries, Yes:

"...Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers."

"...Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment
and bow their heads."

"Look out any window" is a reference to Bruce Hornsby's song of the same name.

Highly collectible: antiques, images, words

Dazzling turquoise now transparent, once guarded potions, elixirs.

Collection of vintage glassware and pharmacy bottles at Gunnar Petterssen's stand at the brocante at Chatou, now underway. See more of Gunnar's finds at 1-3 Allee Pele. The brocante continues from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. daily through October 4th. Tickets are available at the gate.

The last few days have been a whirlwind of brocantes and dinner parties, with four sets of friends in town. Great fun, but exhausting! My husband is off to Oslo and Brussels this week, while I escort said friends to a secret brocante in Paris and again to the brocante and ham fair at Chatou.

This weekend is the stellar Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp, Europe's largest horse racing event. I'll be there Saturday, shooting photos of dashing jockeys and sleek racehorses tearing down the track. On Sunday, I'll train my lens on chic Parisiennes wearing stylish hats. This year I won't be wearing a hat, as I'm more concerned with balancing the weight of heavy camera gear while wearing flat, comfortable boots!

More images of Chatou, as well as photos of the antique Madonna crowns that came home with me, soon.  I'll leave you now with "The Poet Always Carries a Notebook" from Mary Oliver's new book Evidence:

"What is he scribbling on the page?

Is there snow in it, or fire?

Is it the beginning of a poem?

Is it a love note?

This week, what will you scribble on your page - or see through your lens, paint with your brush or shape with your hands?

Searching for truth

Sculptural medallion partially obscured by ivy at a private residence, Loire Valley, France.

"Beauty is truth, truth, beauty..." - John Keats.

Seems it's getting harder and harder to find the truth. We really have to search for it, amidst all the politics, lies, spin and stupidity. Thankfully, even amidst bad news and chaos, beauty remains. Here's hoping truth and beauty prevail on this auspicious day (09/09/09).

A reporter survived, but Marines died

NYT journalist freed; Afghan journalist, UK soldier killed in rescue effort

More stupidity from a "teabagger"

A school trip in Kentucky includes surprise baptisms!

It's time to get help

Gone, but not forgotten

The novelist Laila Lalami reminded me that 40 years ago today, Muammar al-Qaddafi overthrew the Libyan ruler King Idris I.

At the time, my friend Muna was living in Libya. Years later in Amman, she told me the story;  how they awoke at dawn, horrified to find tanks trained on the palace.

Muna's mother worked for the Queen; her Palestinian father for an American oil company. The family fled with just the clothes on their backs. They spent some time in Malta, before working their way to Jordan, where they ultimately obtained Jordanian passports. To this day, they live in Amman.

Laila Lalami wrote: "It seems to me that coverage of Gaddafi is broadly limited to two topics: his social antics (e.g. the tent he set up in the garden of the Hotel Marigny, his all-female bodyguard corps, his ridiculous outfits and so on) and the Lockerbie bombing. One rarely hears about all the political prisoners who have been rotting in his jails for several decades.

"A couple of years ago, the novelist Hisham Matar wrote a very moving piece about his father, Jaballa Matar, who was allegedly kidnapped by Egyptian security forces in March 1990 and then rendered to Libya. He has not been seen in nineteen years and has not been heard from in ten.

How does one remain free from becoming a symbol or a victim? How do we remain whole and free from hate, yet truthful to our memory?

Life attempts to teach us about loss: that one can still find peace in the finality of death. And yet, my loss gives no peace. My father is not incarcerated, yet he is not free; he is not dead, yet he is not alive either. My loss is self-renewing, insistent and incomplete.

I was always told to expect to lose my father. Many Libyan political dissidents have been assassinated or kidnapped. But now I know that I had no comprehension of the danger he was in. If I had, I would have held on to him with all I could, or tried harder to persuade him not to engage in political dissent, perhaps. Regret is the cruellest companion for those of us who are left behind.

I did try to persuade him to leave his political work, because I loved my father more than I loved my country; or, to put it another way, I had learned by then to live without my country, but not without my father.

When Father was taken, the world did feel empty. For the first couple of years, our ship was lost, then we recovered our bearings and learnt that the speed by which one resumes living is no indication of the depth of one’s grief."

I knew Jaballa Mater personally. When I was a UN correspondent, I was introduced to Jaballa by a mutual friend at the US-Arab Chamber of Commerce in New York. The friend asked me to take Jaballa shopping for presents for his family. I remember him purchasing a wallet and other gifts at the Cartier counter at Macy's. A group of friends accompanied him to dinner at the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center and the waiter snapped our picture. Jaballa with his shock of grey hair and mustache was laughing, wearing a suit with his signature white silk fringed scarf draped around his neck. There were other dinners, always an eclectic group, whose livelihood or lives were rooted in the Middle East.

Jaballa was living in Switzerland at the time and didn't like to discuss Middle East politics; certainly not the minefield of Libyan politics, which had caused such grief for him and his family. Years later, I was dismayed to learn Jaballa had been kidnapped, while living in Egypt. Widespread speculation was that Egyptian security forces had turned him over to Libya, another victim of Qaddafi's thugs. Until reading Laila's piece today, I hadn't known Jaballa had been heard from at all during the last 19 years. It's possible he is still alive, although who knows in what condition, along with Qaddafi's numerous other political prisoners. Human rights seem to have been forgotten in the West's renewed quest for lucrative oil and business partnerships in Libya.

Another friend, Mansour Rashid Kikhia, the former Libyan Ambassador to the UN, was kidnapped from his hotel in Cairo in December, 1993. Kikhia had resigned his job at the UN and was head of the International Arab Jurists Association. Despite the intervention of the US government and the United Nations, no information about his fate has been forthcoming.

Many political prisoners died in a massacre June 29, 1996 at Abu Salim prison in Benghazi.

In December 2006, I wrote a poem, "Dead or disappeared" about these two men and other activists - and one special friend - I came to know.

Bright young thing
in New York watching
history unfold amidst chaos
key players crossed my path
some became friends
admired for their selfless courage


The last time I saw him
he took off his shoes
and put his feet on the table
at a UN press conference
so we could see the pattern of scars
calling card of the Shah's SAVAK*

He got our attention.
Two weeks later he was murdered.


The last time I saw him
he seemed a little drunk and flirtatious,
escorted by aides and guards
in an Amman hotel lobby
talking about an upcoming meeting
promising an interview

A sobering phone call followed:
felled on his front porch in a hail of assassin's bullets.


The last time I saw him
he was impassioned about
his human rights work
looking forward to an international conference
to expand the jurists' scope and focus
helping secure rights for all

Newspaper headlines reported his disappearance in Egypt;
UN and governmental inquiries produced no answers.


The last time I saw him
I took him shopping
for family gifts at Cartier
they snapped our picture at the Rainbow Room
and we went to a dinner party with friends
then he went home to Geneva

Vanished without a trace in Cairo;
more UN inquiries; no answers.


The last time I saw him
he told me he loved me
and kissed me goodbye
then boarded a plane to Amman
to do his father's bidding
and work in the family business

Less than five months later he was dead,
shot three times in the head.


For those still here
an obligation to tell their stories
remember what they held dear
the struggles and small victories
undying commitment to causes
greater than themselves


*Secret police during the reign of the Shah of Iran

Note that Qaddafi is spelled in a number of ways. At the UN, we spelled his name Muammar al-Qaddafi.

Photo of bas relief sculptures over a doorway in Amsterdam.

A day of remembrance

Bouquet of roses, Paris, shot with my little Konica-Minolta Dimage.

Remembering my late grandmother Lucille on her birthday. And won't you join my lovely friend Leonie in celebrating her special day here?

Summer in full bloom

Birds fly over a canal in Amsterdam.

A lantern and red geraniums.

A profusion of lavender, hydrangea and other flowers on the front steps of canal houses.

Climbing roses.

Flowers and ivy cascading from window boxes.

Pots of yellow flowers brighten a house's facade.

Window boxes of pansies and petunias grace construction scaffolding.

Gerbera daisies and tulips.

Mary Oliver's poem "When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention"

As long as we are able
to be extravagant we will be
hugely and damply
extravagant. Then we will drop
foil by foil to the ground. This
is our unalterable task and
we do it joyfully.

And they went on, "Listen,
the heart-shackles are not, as you think,
death, illness, pain,
unrequited hope, not loneliness, but

lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,
selfishness."

Their fragrance all the while rising
from their blind bodies, making me
spin with joy.

Flights of fancy

Butterfly, Paris. Click photo to view detail.

These flights of fancy
help create what you desire.
Aim high as you dream.

City canyons

City canyons: Regent Street, London, with construction cranes altering the skyline.

In city canyons
I wander and wonder... do
we see the same stars?

Does the night find you
awake, memories burning?
Do dreams remember?

Or does sleep erase
destiny, interrupted;
its traces fading?

I hold the map close
and escape in the moonlight;
shadows unravel.

The view obscured, but
familiar territory:
this heart's journey home.

An ancient story
written long before we knew
which path to travel.

Worlds apart, we crossed
oceans for our moment in
time, sealing love's fate.

Street art and political theatre

A decorated ram's head over an exterior art installation at a Paris gallery.

For the past two days I've been moving furniture; shifting things from room to room or to the cave (wine cellar); giving things away. A few days ago, I suddenly realised my "studio/guest room" wasn't my style at all. In fact, it looked like someone else's art space. So I set about changing it to a more user-friendly area; it's still a work in progress. Photos soon.

Meanwhile, there may be hope for Polaroid lovers seeking instant film.

Isn't it interesting to watch the Republicans have a go at President Obama's new Supreme Court nominee, Sonia Sotamayor? So predictable, these people.

Joan Walsh has an excellent article here; Glenn Greenwald applauds Obama's choice, while lamenting the Republican smear tactics here. Greenwald also writes that the right-wing reaction to Sotomayor says more about her critics than it does about her qualifications. Hear, hear!

Skullduggery among poets is the talk of Britain.

And an ex-Guantanamo detainee tries to adjust to life in Paris.

South Africa chooses commerce over human rights

Follow the leader, courtyard, Cathedral de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain.

Breaking news 1 p.m.: The peace conference has been called off, due to South Africa blocking the Dalai Lama from attending, BBC News reports.

Both South Africa and Tibet have suffered for decades at the hands of brutal oppressors. So it is with considerable dismay that the world witnesses a defiant South Africa choosing commerce over human rights, much like its government during the dark decades of apartheid. During that time, South Africa suffered organised boycotts and was ostracised by the international community.

The current South African government is apparently willing to accept its new indentured servitude - this time, to China. The government's action certainly doesn't bode well for it hosting the 2010 World Cup.

South Africa is bowing to Chinese demands to refuse entry to the Dalai Lama for a peace conference beginning Friday, March 27th. Both Archbishop Desmond Tutu and former South African President F.W. de Klerk have announced they will boycott the event, if the Dalai Lama is forbidden from attending.

Yet the South African government persists in its unprincipled stance, while the Chinese government freely admits it pressured South Africa to exclude the exiled Tibetan spiritual leader. Further, the Chinese government has announced it will oppose any nation's overtures to meet with the Dalai Lama.

They've forgotten their history,
this ignorant new government
struck blind by greed.
Unaccustomed to power
after decades of none,
they close their eyes
to the consequences
and agree to all terms
and conditions spelled out
by the lenders and investors.

This fledgling government,
still unused to the ways of politics,
stifles any thought of the oppressed
and risks its reputation
for a brand new bank and ongoing servitude
to a demanding Chinese host
who exports injustice, along with investment,
denying human rights to one nation,
while insisting others do the same,
lest the coffers slam shut.

Love's silent refrain

He'd searched, how he tried.
Hearts too long denied,
he flung caution aside.

No mask could disguise
the truth in her eyes
that time failed to hide.

Love's steady flame
difficult to tame;
a silent refrain.

Photo of a vitrine in Selfridges, London.

Christina Martin, Nikki Giovanni and bicycles

You know that feeling of recognition when someone really "gets" you? When it seems as though they can peer into your soul and understand something deep and unfathomable about you? Something that even those closest to you may overlook?

Well that's Christina, friend and photographer extraordinaire. Even though we have never met in person, she really gets me. That was reaffirmed today when I opened my mailbox to find her package. Unwrapping the brightly-coloured tissue I was so excited to find a copy of Nikki Giovanni's new book Bicycles: Love Poems. I was even more thrilled - and moved to tears - when I opened the book to find that Ms. Giovanni had signed it for me!

You see, recently Christina took an amazing photograph of Ms. Giovanni. When I commented on the wonderful image Christina had captured with her lens, I mentioned something about being a longtime admirer of Nikki Giovanni's poetry and what a joy it must have been not only to spend time with her, but to photograph her.

A few days later, the book arrived! What a wonderful surprise! Thank you, dear Christina!

And it just so happens that I have an identical red Electra Hawaii bicycle to the one Nikki Giovanni's posing with on the book cover. Mine - which I got in Cambridge, England and brought back to Paris - is languishing, neglected, under a tarpulin on the balcony. Now I love riding bikes - love it! Riding a bike makes me feel happy and care-free. Yet for various reasons - and not just the cold weather - I haven't ridden mine for ages. I think it's high time that bicycle comes out for air.

In the book, Ms. Giovanni writes: "Bicycles: Because love requires trust and balance."

Here is her poem No Heaven:

How can there be
No Heaven

When rall falls
gently on the grass
When sunshine scampers
across my toes

When corn bakes
into bread
When wheat melts
into cake

When shadows
cool
And owls
call
And little finches
eat upside
down

How can there be
No Heaven

When tears comfort
When dreams caress
When you smile
at me

Along the road less traveled

Inspired by the journey of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Notes selected from Jen Lemen's "trust" cards, available here.

For the people of Gaza

Stone sculptures with sorrowful faces, Antoni Gaudi's Sagrada de Familia, Barcelona, Spain.

"And now, I am not I
and the house is not my home."

- Federico Garcia Lorca

"Murdered and unknown. No forgetfulness gathers them
and no remembrance scatters them...they're forgotten
in winter's grass on the public highway
between two long stories about heroism and suffering.
"I am the victim." "No. I alone am the victim."
They didn't tell the author: "No victim kills another.
There is in the story a victim and a killer."
They were young, picking the snow off Christ's cypress
and playing with cherubs...
They were young, playing and making a story
for the red rose beneath the snow
behind two long stories about heroism and suffering
and they were running away with cherubs toward a clear sky."

- Mahmoud Darwish, from the book The Butterfly's Burden

As of today, more than 1,000 Palestinians have been killed and more than 5,000 seriously injured during the Israeli assault on Gaza. Nearly all of the dead and injured are civilians. Three Israeli soldiers have died as a result of friendly fire and ten Israelis have died from Hamas rockets or from fighting in Gaza. Both Israel and Hamas continue to ignore a UN Security Council resolution calling for an immediate ceasefire.

The borders remain sealed, preventing Palestinian civilians - even those critically wounded - from crossing to Egypt. The Israelis are allowing only a trickle of humanitarian aid into Gaza. Electricity has been cut and food, water and medical supplies are in short supply. While UNRWA is maintaining nine shelters in Gaza, they cannot accommodate the thousands of families made homeless by Israeli missles and bombs. The people of Gaza are trapped with no way out, while the international community tries to negotiate a ceasefire agreement.

The world is watching

Courtyard, Mosquée de Paris. Photo by Jordana Shalhoub.

To the Israelis and to Hamas:

Where is the humanity?

Do you think
that we don't see
the trail of death and destruction
your sophisticated weaponry
and your makeshift rockets leave in their wake?

Do you believe
no one will listen to the truth
from the foreign doctors who staff
the only remaining hospital
tending the wounded, dying and dead?

Do you imagine
no one will notice
the lack of water, electricity, food and shelter
for a civilian population surrounded
and trapped like rats, with no place to go?

Do you expect
no one will report
that even ambulance attendants
turn up wounded or worse,
risking their lives trying to save others?

When you close your eyes at night
is your sleep untroubled?
Or do the images of dying children
haunt your dreams and jolt you awake,
your heart pounding in protest?

Do you believe
there is any victory to be gained?
Kill all the fighters
and another generation will follow,
schooled by extremists in a rage for revenge.

A humanitarian disaster
unfolding right before our eyes
yet politicians dither and posture,
casting blame like squabbling children,
with little regard for the human costs.

In Gaza, there is plenty of blame to go around. An Israeli incursion that killed several alleged militants within Gaza first broke the cease-fire. Hamas retaliated by firing rockets targeting Israeli civilians. Because of extremists on both sides, Israeli and Palestinian civilians now are living in terror, as missles rain down on their heads. Many Israelis have had to seek refuge in their basements or in public shelters, due to the unpredictability of Hamas rockets. Since the Israeli incursion, thousands of Palestinians have been forced to flee their homes, even though there is no safe place for them to run.

Israel is responsible for using disproportionate force, with no concern for innocent civilians in Gaza. While 4 Israelis have died, 566 Palestinians have been killed, with more than 3,000 suffering serious injuries. Israel has violated the Geneva Convention by cutting off basic services, including water and electricity and preventing supplies and aid from entering Gaza. The Israeli army has destroyed much of Gaza's infrastructure, as well as buildings not linked to Hamas, including the Palestinian President's office, the Palestinian Parliament, mosques, markets, clinics, schools, businesses and homes. Further, the Israeli army has fired on and killed ambulance drivers ferrying wounded civilians to Gaza's only operational hospital. The Israelis also killed a civilian in the West Bank, as he participated in a peaceful anti-war protest.

Shame on Western leaders for their deafening silence and failure to act. Shame on the United States and its spineless representative for preventing the UN Security Council from negotiating a cease-fire or any kind of settlement. Shame on George W. Bush for supplying weapons to the Israelis, therefore complicit in atrocities being committed on a daily basis in Gaza.

Scroll down the page for a more serene post today.

How will history judge us?

Museum exhibition poster, Barcelona, Spain.

The Night There

"The night there is pitch black...and roses are fewer.
The road will fork even more than before. The valley will split open
and the slope will collapse on us. The wound opens wide. Relatives flee.
Victims kill each other to erase their victims' sight and find relief.
We'll know more than we knew before. One abyss will lead to another.
When we embrace an idea worshipped by tribes and branded on their vanishing bodies,
we'll witness emperors engraving their names on grains of wheat to show their power.
Aren't we changed? Men follow the teachings of the sword
and spill blood. Let the sand pile up..."

Poem from the book Unfortunately, It Was Paradise, by Mahmoud Darwish.

News updates:

Tens of thousands in London protest Gaza offensive

Bush denounces Hamas terror (but gives the Israelis a free pass).

Israeli troops move into Gaza

Israel says ground invasion of Gaza is underway

Israeli ground forces push into Gaza

Attacking civilians is a war crime

Israel begins Gaza ground offensive

Scroll down the page for a second post today.