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Saturday, 13 December 2014

FREIBURGER MIGRANT WRITING (Satis Shroff)


Satis Shroff beim Freiburgs Dattler nach der Einbürgerungsfeier mit Verleihung des "Freiburger Integrationspreises - für eine offene Stadt" am Samstag, 13. Dezember 2014 im Historischen Kaufhaus am Münsterplatz Creative City Freiburg / Satis Shroff

Freiburg's Oberbürgermeister Dr. Dieter Salomon welcomed the new non-Teuronic migrants who received their German passports this year on Saturday, December 13, 2014 at 11:30 in Freiburg's Historical Kaufhaus, located near the cathedral. On this occassion the Freiburger Integration Prize 2014 was awarded to an intercultural newspaper called InZeitung, which is intercultural, international and integrative in its purpose and enjoys the financial support of Freiburg city.

This year's words of greeting was held by a sympathetic blonde lady Virginia Gonzalez Juareg who hails from Freiburg's partner-city Granada, is married to a Freiburger Bobbele and has two children. Dr. Salomon greeted the guests and handed over the 3000 euro Prize to the editorial team of InZeitung. The music was conducted by the energetic and fantastic musician-cum-conductor Ro Kuijpers and his Heim and Flucht Orchestra comprising migrants and Germans and the songs and rhythms were catchy and multicultural in tone. After the event I mixed with the guests and had chats with Dr. Dieter Salomon, whom I know since our student days at the Thomas Morus Burse in Littenweiler, his assistant Frau Martina Ruh and Klaus Schüle from the CDU Kreisverband. When I told Klaus Schüle that I've been singing with the men's choir in Kappel he replied, 'Oh, then you're absolutely integrated.' I didn't, of course, tell him that a member of the men's choir had recently said to me:'You're an Ausländer.' A foreigner. His line was:'Man muss schlagfertig sein in Deutschland.' Perhaps he found me too polite. 

Anyway, it was reassuring to hear Dr. Salomon welcoming the new, migrated Germans. They have their German passports and the same rights as the German white mainstream but why would a member of a men's choir remind me that I'm an Ausländer, if not because of dermatological reasons? After living over 35 years in Freiburg, I decided to become a German whereby I had to forfeit of my former citizenship. I chose the German identity but now I have second thoughts. Later I also had a chance to talk with a photograph from the InZeitung Reinhardt Jacoby, who was all praise for Bhutan and its Brutto Gross Product of Happiness, and how happy the Bhutanese seemed to be. Well, the Danes are also a happy people according to the latest statistics.I told him you can go to Bhutan only when your can pay a lot of money, whereas every Fritz, Hans and Jakob can enjoy Nepal and its beauty. No, we didn't talk about the Lhotsampas of Bhutan who have found asylum as contingent refugees in the USA and Canada. I'm sure their brutto happiness product has shot up now.

In a rubric in cooperation with the local Goethe Instutute writes Lybov Demidova (Kazachstan): 'I came from Kazachstan and was surprised to see so many elderly people doing sport. In Kasachstan old people don't ride bicycles. Another student from Japan named Masashi said, 'I was surprised to notice that no building was highr than the cathedral (Münster). The cathedral is very old but it is perhaps the biggest in the city.'
In Kathmandu we had a similar case:  the Narayanhiti Palace of King Birendra was the highest building in the capital and no other commoner was allowed to supercede the palace's status. King Birendra was killed by his son Prince Dipendra in a palace massacre, and the successor to the throne King Gyanendra has become a commoner due to the victory of the maoists in the former Himalayan kingdom Now it's a federal republic and the king's palace has become a tourist attraction. Moreover, Kathmandu is a tectonic valley and subject to earthquakes.

Lena Lytvynenko, a Ukranian artist-cum-art historian, had published a recipe for warenyky with seasonal berries or apples. The dumplings remind you of tortillinis (with cheese filling) from Italy, momocha from Katmandu and Afghan mantus with minced meat.

Another articles in the autumn-winter issue of InZeitung was one with the title 'many miles away' about the Nobel Laureate for Literature Hertha Müller, who still desires to being back her land Romania or Hannah Arendt whi didn't want to return to Germany, worked actively for the USA during the Nurnberg Trials, or the victims of homophobia in Russia.

During the Third Reich a good many Germans sought asylum as refugees in the USA, UK, Switzerland, Portugal and Greece and countries that were thought to be safe against the Teutonic hordes of the Third Reich.Their experience in exile has made European philosophy and culture what it is today. It might be noted that the Germans were not only political refugees but also economic refugees.

Migrant Writing in the English speaking world is a key phenomenon in English Literature and the USA does a lot for the authors from other parts of the world who have found a home in the USA. In Germany this phenomenon is in the infantile stage and, as far as this writer sees it, only migrant-writers from Turkey, Spain, Italy, Greece which are already well-established and integrated in the German diaspora are feted by the Cultural Departments of German cities. Who speaks for the the minorities from countries like Pakistan, Nepal, Columbia? If these writers don't know how to write in German and speak it appropriately, they are ignored, with the result that their voices die out.
At a European level and since Britain has its colonial resources that still use English as the main language of communication, the BBC and the British Council organise Creative Writing Workshops for migrants because they have an abundance and wealth of stories within them, the trials and tribulations that they have had to overcome till they finally reached a haven, a refugium where they can breathe in freedom. It is with this hope that people flee from their persecutors after being mishandled due to their race, religion, ethnical, social or political colour, poverty and hunger to the free, democratic northern hemisphere, where there are people with hearts for their tales of misery.

Satis Shroff with CDU politician Klaus Schüle
Satis Shroff: Lecturer, author, blogger
Green politician Dr. Dieter Salomon

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

FREIBURGER POET: Zeitgeistlyrik von Satis Shroff

ZEITGEISTLYRIK (Satis Shroff):

Satis Shroff with the German Gem Queen

Categories:
Sad, Grief, Sympathy, Broken Heart Poems & Tributes, Memorials Poetry
Viewed 1518 times
Author:
Satis Shroff, USA

Poem
The Sea Swells (Satis Shroff)

The sea shells on the sea shore
Suddenly the sea swells.
Ring the church and temple bells.
All is not well.
The sea has gone back.

Brown-burnt Tarzans and Janes
From different continents,
Wonder what’s going on.
A man from Sweden
Is immersed in his thriller under the palms.
A mother and daughter from Germany
Frolic on the white sunny beach.

Even the sea-gulls stop and listen
To the foreboding silence.

The sea swells,
Comes back
And brings an apocalyptic destruction:
Sweeping humans, huts and hotels,
Boats, billboards and debris.
Cries for help are stifled by the roaring waves.

The sea goes back.
Leaving behind lost souls,
Caught in suspended animation.
I close my eyes.
Everything dies.
Tsunami. Tsunami.
Shanti. Om shanti.
sammie bagley: a very powerful write and sad as wellUSA8/27/2008 2:44:47 PM
Thelma ZaracostasHi Satis nice to read you again here on voices!Australia7/7/2008 4:41:40 AMLeeVery strong expressive poem, which carried the immense power of nature along in its images.Aus12/18/2007 10:55:58 PM
thelma zaracostas Dear Satis I have never experienced a Tsunami and pray I never will. Your poem describe the vulnerability and helplessness of those who have.







Categories:
Ballad Poems & Tributes, Memorials Poetry






Viewed 2998 times

Author:
Satis Shroff, USA

Poem
THE LURE OF THE HIMALAYAS (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

A long time ago near the town of Kashgar,
I, a stranger in local clothes was captured
By the sturdy riders of Vali Khan.
What was a stranger
With fair skin and blue eyes,
Looking for in Vali Khan’s terrain?
I, the stranger spoke a strange tongue.
‘He’s a spy sent by China.
Behead him,’ barked the Khan’s officer.
I pleaded and tried to explain
My mission in their country.
It was all in vain.

On August 26, 1857
I, Adolph Schlagintweit,
a German traveller, an adventurer,
Was beheaded as a spy,
Without a trial.

I was a German who set out on the footsteps
Of the illustrious Alexander von Humboldt,
With my two brothers Hermann and Robert,
From Southhampton on September 20,1854
To see India, the Himalayas and Higher Asia.
The mission of the 29000km journey
Was to make an exact cartography
Of the little known countries,
Sans invitation, I must admit.

In Kamet we reached a 6785m peak,
An elevation record in those days.
We measured the altitudes,
Gathered magnetic, meteorological,
And anthropological data.
We even collected extensive
Botanical, zoological and ethnographic gems.

Hermann and I made 751 sketches,
Drawings, water-colour and oil paintings.
The motifs were Himalayan panoramas,
Single summits, glacier formations,
Himalayan rivers and houses of the natives.
I still see myself and Hermann working
With our pencils, brushes daubed in water-colours and oil,
Trying to capture the colours and perspectives
Of the Himalayas.
Fond memories of Padam valley, near the old moraine
Of the main glacier at Zanskar in pencil and pen.
A view from Gunshankar peak 6023 metres,
From the Trans-Sutlej chain in aquarelle.
A European female in oriental dress in Calcutta 1855.
Brahmin, Rajput and Sudra women draped in saris.
Kristo Prasad, a 35 year old Rajput
Photographed in Benaras.
An old Hindu fakir with knee-long rasta braids,

Bhot women from Ladakh, snapped in Simla.
Kahars, Palki-porters from Bihar,
Hindus of the Sudra caste.
A Lepcha armed with bow and arrows,
In traditional dress up to his calves
And a hat with plume.
Kistositta, a 25 year old Brahmin from Bengal,
Combing the hair of Mungia,
A 43 year old Vaisa woman.
A wandering Muslim minstrel Manglu at Agra,
With his sarangi.
A 31 year old Ram Singh, a Sudra from Benaras,
Playing his Kolebassen flute.
The monsoon,
And thatched Khasi houses at Cherrapunji,
The rainiest place on earth.

The precious documents of our long journey
Can be seen at the Alpine Museum Munich.
Even a letter,
Sent by Robert to our sister Matilde,
Written on November 2, 1866 from Srinagar:
‘We travelled a 200 English mile route,
Without seeing a human being,
Who didn’t belong to our caravan.
Besides our horses, we had camels,
The right ones with two humps,
Which you don’t find in India.
We crossed high glacier passes at 5500m
And crossed treacherous mountain streams.’

My fascination for the Himalayas
Got the better of me.
I had breathed the rare Himalayan air,
And felt like Icarus.
I wanted to fly higher and higher,
Forgetting where I was.
My brothers Hermann and Robert left India
By ship and reached Berlin in June,1857.

I wanted to traverse the continent
Disregarding the dangers,
For von Humboldt was my hero.
Instead of honour and fame,
My body was dragged by fierce riders in the dust,
Although I had long left the world.


My soul had raced with the speed of light to Heaven
A Persian traveller, a Muslim with a heart
Found my headless body.
He brought my remains all the way to India,
Where he handed it to a British colonial officer.

It was a fatal fascination,
But had I the chance,
I’d do it again.
COMMENTS:
Thelma Zaracostas: Hi Satis! Another read of this wonderful poem,great to see you again.Australia9/6/2008 9:23:03 AM
Fanfare2000Beautiful words, though it would be great book to write about, you should expand this and create a novel, it would be a big time seller, I'm sure there is more to this story than you have told so far.USA2/10/2008 4:09:42
thelma: I love this poem, Satis, that is why I am reading it again and again all will enjoy this very educational and very colourful write!australia10/2/2007 11:13:38 AM

thelmaHi Satis waiting for some more of your great poems in the meantime back to read again one my favourites.australia9/8/2007 8:29:21 PM

Satis Shroff writes: Dear Thelma, Glad to know that you found The Lure of the Himalayas colourful and educational. There was a big exhibition about the three German Schlagintweit brothers. And what I found even interesting was that a teacher from Freiburg, named Joseph Sartorius, did the same journey with his camera and photographed the sites of the paintings by the three brothers mentioned in the poem. It was great to compare the modern photographs with the original paintings.I want to bring out my poems with the Himalayan photographs of Joseph Sartorius.Have a nice day. Regards, satis Satis Germany5/19/2007 10:43:04 AM

thelma zaracostas: This is a wonderful read thank you for the journey into the life and adventures of this amazing person up until now I had never heard of him. Very colourful and educational.australia5/19/2007 7:44:10 AM  






Categories: Brothers Poems & Life Poetry
Viewed 3225 times
Author:
Satis Shroff, USA

Poem
KATHMANDU IS NEPAL (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

There were two young men, brothers
Who left their homes
In the foothills of the Eastern Himalayas.
The older one, for his father had barked at him,
“Go to Nepal and never come home again.”
The younger, for he couldn’t bear the beatings
At the hands of his old man.
.
The older brother sobbed and stifled his sorrow and anger
For Nepal was in fact Kathmandu,
With its colleges, universities, Education Ministry,
Temples, Rana-palaces and golden pagodas
And also its share of hippies, hashish, tourists,
Rising prices and expensive rooms to rent.

The younger brother went to Dharan,
And enlisted in the British Army depot
To become a Gurkha,
A soldier in King Edwards Own Gurkha Rifles.
He came home the day he became a recruit,
With a bald head, as though his father had died.
He looked forward to the parades and hardships
That went under the guise of physical exercises.
 

He thought of stern, merciless sergeants and corporals
Of soccer games and regimental drills
A young man’s thrill of war-films and scotch and Gurkha-rum evenings.
He’d heard it all from the Gurkhas who’s returned in the Dasain festivals.
There was Kunjo Lama his maternal cousin,
Who boasted of his judo-prowess and showed photos of his British gal,
A pale blonde from Chichester in an English living-room.

It was a glorious sunset,
The clouds blazing in scarlet and orange hues,
As the young man, riding on the back of a lorry,
Sacks full of rice and salt,
Stared at the Siwaliks and Mahabharat mountains
Dwindling behind him.
As the sun set in the Himalayas,
The shadows grew longer in the vales.
The young man saw the golden moon,
Shining from a cloudy sky.
The same moon he’d seen on a poster in his uncle’s kitchen
As he ate cross-legged his dal-bhat-shikar after the hand-washing ritual.
 

Was the moon a metaphor?
Was it his fate to travel to Kathmandu,
Leaving behind his childhood friends and relatives in the hills,
Who were struggling for their very existence,
In the foothills of the Kanchenjunga,
Where the peaks were not summits to be scaled, with or without oxygen,
But the abodes of the Gods and Goddesses.
A realm where bhuts and prets, boksas and boksis,
Demons and dakinis prevailed.

Glossary:
Ranas: a ruling class that usurped the throne and ruled for 104 years in Nepal
Gurkhas: Nepali soldiers serving in Nepalese, Indian and British armies
Dal-bhat: Linsen und Reis
Shikar: Fleischgericht
Bhuts: demons
Boksas & boksis: male & female witches









Elizabeth Olesen
Satis, I enjoyed reading this contribution with much interest and joy. This poem brings back the memories of Nepal where I lived six years in my life. This is a great story of your courageous Ghurka coming back to Kathmandu, Nepal, seeing before his eyes the rich culture,religion and history of his own country. I would be very happy to read more of your poems with the context of the beautiful Hindu Kingdom of Nepal.
Denmark
10/5/2009 5:05:00 PM
Thelma Zaracostas
Dear Satis hope all is going well for you always a treat to read you again and again here on voices!
Australia
10/5/2009 8:39:37 AM
thelma zaracostas
Dear Satis I have read all your poems and I only can say to you Amazing and Fantastic read it has been an incredible journey.Thank you
australia


Gurkha soldiers of the Nepalese Army with automatic rifles and legendary khukris

Former Horseguards of the King's Gurkhas in Kathmandu

Categories:Sad, Grief, Sympathy, Broken Heart Poems & Political, War, International Poetry Viewed 1092 times
Author:
Satis Shroff, USA

Poem
THE NAKED HILLS (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

A young Nepalese woman
Sits in front of her parents’ thatched home
In the Middle Hills of Nepal.

Her two hands caress her shoulders.
It’s cold in the hills of Nepal,
Where the hills are naked
And its sons have left
In search of better pastures,
For the hills are barren.

Governments and kings
Have come and gone,
But the poverty has remained.
There’s no flour to bake one’s bread.
The mothers seek and pluck Brennessel,
And call it sisnu,
To make a soup
In the frugal hills of Nepal.

In Maghey Sankrati we eat
Stems and roots,
Tarul and sweet-potatoes.
There’s no wheat, maize, rice or mustard
In these naked hills.
Everything has become bitter.

What remains is love and attachment.
A Nepalese bird still sings:
Kafal pakyo.
Kafal pakyo.
The berry’s ripe

Glossary:
Brennessel (Ger.): sisnu (Nepali), stinging nettle
Maghey Sankrati: festival in Nepal
COMMENTS:
 Lee writes: 'In these naked hills./Everything has become bitter./What remains is love and attachment' ... lovely poem Satis ... how people survive in adverse terrains, under various social conditions is amazing!AUS3/14/2008 7:35:30 AM

thelma: Dear Satis keep writing and sharing your wonderful work here on voices .australia3/14/2008 4:48:44 AMtj24goodus5/3/2007 5:40:43 PM

thelma zaracostas: Dear Satis, 
Amongst all the sadness in your poem a ray of love and hope shines and the birds still sing.Wonderfull! "What remains is love and attachment" A Nepalese bird still sings.australia5/3/2007 4:39:12 AM






Categories: Life Poems & Tributes, Memorials Poetry Viewed 1144 times
Author:
Satis Shroff, USA

Poem
ON CAROLINE WALTER 
(Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

I took a walk to the old cemetery
With its cultural treasures,
And saw the Dance of Death
At the entrance of Michael’s chapel.

The gravestones expressed
The self-consciousness of the citizens.
There were many stories
That made their rounds
In the town of Freiburg.

I felt drawn to one gravestone
It was that of Caroline Walter
Lying on her bed of concrete,
Her head reposing on a big pillow.

She had aesthetic features
And wore a long dress.
Her left arm rested on her breast.
Her nose was elegantly long and pointed.
Her eyes were closed,
As though she’d fallen asleep
In the afternoon.
Her lips were well chiselled.
On her right hand
She held a book she’d been reading.

I discern the strings of a fiddle from the neighborhood.

Fresh scarlet and pink roses
Lay under her chin,
As if she was taking in their scent
With her fine nostrils.

A breeze undulates the leaves on the floor
And disappears.

The expression on her face
Was serene and tranquil.
A lady in harmony and peace
With herself and the world
She lived in.
A Fräulein from a decent family.





thelma
Hi Satis nice to see you here at voices, once again great poem hope you stay awhile!
australia
11/16/2007 5:41:15 AM
thelma zaracostas
Strong descriptive writing Satis, great poem