by Eric Byrd

Having nothing better to do…I read two old journals. High spirits and weather reports recede into the background, and what emerges are two astonishing contests, one with alcohol and one with my wife. (1968)

That sounds like what I read. Until Cheever gets sober – 1975 – the entries of this 5% selection seem to alternate between marital standoffs in an atmosphere of alcoholic cafard, and lyrical-libidinous celebration of life, love, nature and consciousness. The gin-soaked husband and the leaping faun are always overtaking one another:

An unseasonably warm day: fevers in the blood. I walk with Frederico. The sense of odors, exhalations, escaping from the earth is volcanic. The country stirs like a crater. The imperative impulse is to take off my clothes, scamper like a goat through the forest, swim in the pools. The struggle to sustain a romantic impulse through the confusions of supper, the disputes, the television, the baby's bath, the ringing of the telephone, the stales of the dishpan, but I have in the end what I want and I want this very much. (1960)

John and Mary will end the night in separate rooms, before different TVs, solipsistic screens, imprisoned in “ennui and meaningless suspense,” she determinedly aloof, he mired in whiskey and Seconal; but come morning he'll feel the rush of resumed consciousness, he'll be very horny, he'll be primed to write a story or chop firewood or ski the mountains in the morning light — until, of course, the bottles in the pantry begin to sing; and another night comes on, and with it “the struggle to recoup some acuteness of feeling,” and he will awake again haunted by “the feeling that some margin of hopefulness has been debauched.”

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by Josh Yarden

Moses, Michelangelo

Spring is the Season of Our Liberation

Great epic struggles play out, layered one on top of another, in recent weeks, in past centuries and in ancient times. The state's attorney for Baltimore City, Marilyn J. Mosby, filed the charges against six ‘rough riding' police officers on a range of crimes including murder in the arrest and fatal injury of Freddie Gray. This came shortly after we marked 150 years since the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, who, in his words and in his deeds, freed the slaves from their bondage, and freed the Constitution of the United States from the shackles of an intolerable contradiction. We marked Lincoln's assassination just after Passover, the holiday celebrating the emancipation of slaves from ancient Egypt. It is a story as universal in its meaning to all human beings as it is particular to the Hebrews.

Imagine each of the events depicted in one huge mural, or described in the imagery of one poem, or sung simultaneously by multiple voices from throughout history, each singing a different song of memory, all of them somehow fitting together in one choir. One melody and another, and another, the three of them sung together in polyphonic harmony. The deep meaning of each of these stories resonates more strongly as they resonate together. The Epic of Moses continues when we tell the story of the exodus, as it does when we raise our voices about injustice at any time.

These are not isolated instances. In a very real sense, it is all one story with a recurring theme. Moses could have read out the Emancipation Proclamation; Lincoln could have read the inditement against police brutality and manslaughter; Mosby is still telling Pharaoh that he must free the salves or suffer the consequences. The melody is repeated, each time by a different voice, casting the same message in a new light.

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by Jalees Rehman

“Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.”

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (1863–1944). On the Art of Writing. 1916

Murder your darlings. The British writer Sir Arthur Quiller Crouch shared this piece of writerly wisdom when he gave his inaugural lecture series at Cambridge, asking writers to consider deleting words, phrases or even paragraphs that are especially dear to them. The minute writers fall in love with what they write, they are bound to lose their objectivity and may not be able to judge how their choice of words will be perceived by the reader. But writers aren't the only ones who can fall prey to the Pygmalion syndrome. Scientists often find themselves in a similar situation when they develop “pet” or “darling” hypotheses.

Goethe's symmetric colour wheel with associated symbolic qualities (1809) via Wikipedia, based on Goethe's theory of color which has not been proven scientifically

How do scientists decide when it is time to murder their darling hypotheses? The simple answer is that scientists ought to give up scientific hypotheses once the experimental data is unable to support them, no matter how “darling” they are. However, the problem with scientific hypotheses is that they aren't just generated based on subjective whims. A scientific hypothesis is usually put forward after analyzing substantial amounts of experimental data. The better a hypothesis is at explaining the existing data, the more “darling” it becomes. Therefore, scientists are reluctant to discard a hypothesis because of just one piece of experimental data that contradicts it.

In addition to experimental data, a number of additional factors can also play a major role in determining whether scientists will either discard or uphold their darling scientific hypotheses. Some scientific careers are built on specific scientific hypotheses which set apart certain scientists from competing rival groups. Research grants, which are essential to the survival of a scientific laboratory by providing salary funds for the senior researchers as well as the junior trainees and research staff, are written in a hypothesis-focused manner, outlining experiments that will lead to the acceptance or rejection of selected scientific hypotheses. Well written research grants always consider the possibility that the core hypothesis may be rejected based on the future experimental data. But if the hypothesis has to be rejected then the scientist has to explain the discrepancies between the preferred hypothesis that is now falling in disrepute and all the preliminary data that had led her to formulate the initial hypothesis. Such discrepancies could endanger the renewal of the grant funding and the future of the laboratory. Last but not least, it is very difficult to publish a scholarly paper describing a rejected scientific hypothesis without providing an in-depth mechanistic explanation for why the hypothesis was wrong and proposing alternate hypotheses.

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by Jonathan Kujawa

In 1971 H. S. M. Coxeter introduced a mathematical trifle he called “friezes”. At the time they didn't seem like much more than a cute game you can play. In the past decade, however, they've become a central player in a major new area of research. I recently saw an entertaining talk by Peter Jorgensen at the Mittag-Leffler Institute about his work in this area with Christine Bessenrodt and Thorsten Holm. Peter's talk reminded me that I should really tell you the story of friezes. We've all seen friezes such as this one by Caravaggio [1]:

What is a frieze à la Coxeter? It's easiest to show with an example:

As you can see, a frieze is an array of the counting numbers (1,2,3,4,…) where the top and bottom rows are all ones. The dots on the left and right mean that each row continues forever in both directions. The real mystery is the numbers in the middle rows. There is some sort of pattern and symmetry but I, at least, couldn't quite put my finger on it the first time I saw a frieze. The mysterious missing rule is that each diamond of four numbers:

is required to satisfy the equation:

You can check the diamonds in our example frieze and see that the formula always holds true. Notice, too, we can make diamonds on each edge where we know three out of four of the numbers. Using our formula we can solve for the missing number and so fill in missing numbers on each edge. This observation along with the fact that the top and bottom rows are always one means the frieze really does continue forever in both directions and the Rule for Diamonds tells us how to calculate the missing numbers.

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by Kathleen Goodwin

The extent of my identification with my Armenian heritage was once dyeing Easter eggs a mottled maroon the traditional Armenian way (with onion skins) with my Armenian grandmother. In high school when learning about the systematic eradication of Armenians during World War I, I didn't feel any sense of personal injustice. By college, when the Kardashian franchise familiarized the American public with the existence of the tiny west Asian country, revealing I was part Armenian “like Kim Kardashian” became my go-to ice breaker when having to share an interesting fact about myself. Truly, I've only come to recognize myself as Armenian-American in the past few weeks as the media has highlighted the century-long struggle of Armenians to have world leaders acknowledge the Armenian genocide.

This past Friday, April 24, marked the centennial of the day in 1915 when approximately 250 prominent Armenian intellectuals were rounded up by Ottoman officials and deported from Constantinople (present-day Istanbul). Most of them were eventually killed, along with an estimated 1.5 million Armenians over the course of the next seven years. The Ottoman Turks, which had already lost land they once ruled in the Balkans, feared that the Armenian Christian minority would ally itself with Russia and hasten the destruction of their empire from within its own borders. By the end of World War I, the Ottoman Empire was disbanded, and the nation of Turkey that emerged in the aftermath was founded by the same Ottoman officials who continued to exile and murder Armenians.

The primary grievance of Armenians today is the refusal of the Turkish government, as well as most other nations including the United States, to acknowledge that what occurred during the fall of the Ottoman Empire should be termed “genocide”. Some Armenians admit that the singular focus on semantics has sometimes reached hyperbolic proportions and keeps Armenians mired in the past, ultimately preventing them from fully thriving in the present. I will admit that I previously thought the obsession with achieving the label “genocide” was misplaced. If the Turkish government had refused to own up to its historic crimes for so long, fighting for its confession isn't worth the time of Armenians who are trying to preserve their culture and move forward with their lives. In some ways it felt like begging the world to acknowledge the genocide continued to hand power to the oppressors, instead of allowing Armenians to take back ownership of their legacy.

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by Madhu Kaza

On the evening of April 13^th I heard the news that the Uraguayan writer Eduardo Galeano had passed away. Earlier that day, after work, I had gone to get a manicure at a salon in my neighborhood; my hands and wrist hurt from typing all day and more than new nail polish I wanted a little break. The manicurist was a young woman just three years out of high school. She had been born in Mexico City, and at the age of five she left for New York with her mother and siblings to join her father who had come a few years earlier. She arrived one month before September 11th, 2001. While she filed, soaked and painted my nails the young woman, L, told me about her dog, Amigo, whom she had to leave behind in Mexico, about her sense of loss when she arrived in the United States and her even deeper sense of loss when her mother returned to Mexico a few years ago. “It's been so hard,” she said, “No one gets you like your mom.” L lives on her own, and though she would love to go to college it's beyond her financial means; it's enough for her to manage getting by by working full time. At the end of my appointment when I told her that she had a beautiful name she said, “I'm named after my father.” “What is your mother's name?” I asked. Her eyes brightened as she said, “Maria. But it's very interesting because her name is Maria Herculia – it's like Maria Hercules.”

I was still thinking about L when I heard the news of Galeano's death. Galeano often spoke of his work as a project of writing historical memory; it was an oppositional history of remembrance in the face of historical amnesia. In a 2013 interview with The Guardian Galeano spoke of this amnesia in systemic terms: “It's a system of power that is always deciding in the name of humanity who deserves to be remembered and who deserves to be forgotten … We are much more than we are told. We are much more beautiful.” The stories that Galeano collected and wrote formed an underside of history, the memory of those who are easily forgotten in the grand narratives of conquest, capitalism and progress. Even as his writing had a broad historical sweep – he wrote histories of Latin America as well as a histories of the world from pre-historic times to the present day—he was interested in the particulars; his works of short prose commemorated and celebrated ordinary people in their labors, their loves and their woes. It was through these stories of individual people and particular communities that Galeano's writing came to life. He noted his interest in “small things and small people.” That night when I learned that he had died, I imagined how Galeano might have delighted in and given shape to the narrative of the daughter of Maria Herculia, whose story contains both the residue of disruptive historical currents and the heroics of everyday life.

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by Tamuira Reid

She calls me in the middle of the night. I call her when I know she won't be home.

“How many floors are in your building?”

“What? Mom, I'm sleeping.”

“Tell me how many floors!”

“I don't know. Five? Six?”

“Okay good. As long as it's not a high rise. You know, they always bomb the big buildings first. You're better off moving to Brooklyn.”

She is round and smooth and old. I'm younger, harder, meaner. She's the clear blue rock you find at the water's edge, the one that has been caressed by time. I'm the piece of glass that cuts your finger, the broken cola bottle that you mistake for something else.

I still don't know what I want to be. I don't know where I want to live. I don't know if I'll ever make it.

She cries when no one is around. Dreams in private. Wishes things were different.

I smoke too many cigarettes. My mother has never had a single puff. I take long, poetic walks along the Hudson River. Her shoes give her blisters. I read books. She buys the audio. We listened to Sarah Palin's memoir on the way to Los Angeles last summer for my cousin's wedding. Hours of torture. My mother likes to be entertained while she drives.

I've had several boyfriends. She is a serial monogamist. I know when it is time to get out. She forgives too easily.

Mom likes Mel Gibson. A lot. “I can't stand him,” I tell her. “He's racist and conservative. His politics suck.”

“But he has such an amazing handlebar moustache. I love handlebar moustaches.”

“He doesn't have one.”

“Does, too.”

“Mom, you're thinking of Tom Selleck. Magnum PI?”

Lots of facts exist only in my mother's world. She is never wrong in her world. She is never late in her world. She is never depressed in her world.

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by Edward Rackley

The occasion to commemorate Tim Hetherington's life and work is now upon us; let it not pass in silence. He died on April 20, 2011 from a Libyan mortar on the streets of Misrata. I didn't know him personally, as did many friends and colleagues, but followed his work from the early 2000s in Liberia through the Oscar-nominated Restrepo in 2010. Even in his earliest published work, a new creative force was clearly behind the lens.

An uncanny talent for capturing the grace of strangers amidst the peril of explosive circumstances, he framed them not as cannon fodder or cardboard victims but as dignified members of a forlorn species. “Often we see scenes of disaster and forget that the people imaged are individuals with individual stories and lives,” Tim explained in this clip on his working process. The moral complexity of his subjects matched my own experiences in crumbling dictatorships and nations rent asunder by grievance and the promises of insurrection. From Liberia to Darfur and Afghanistan, Hetherington's different media projects untapped their own turgid fount of memories sweet and sour.

His early Liberia photos were memorable for their fleeting dignity and searing panic of private moments in battle, serendipitous snaps of civilians and combatants with poignant acumen. Others miraculously wove the social, political and economic threads of a conflict into a single image–a West African Breughel sans folly or satire. Child soldiers lording over diamond diggers sprawled in open mud flats, sifting for riverbed gems to fund campaigns of mass amputation, beheading and rape. Portraits of human industry absent any social or political aim beyond self-serving blood and lucre.

This was early Hetherington: still mystified by the paroxysms of humanity in the throes of war. Not a bad start, but embedding in warzones is not hard to do, after all. Anyone can become cannon fodder, and journalists have been accessing armies and frontlines for over a century.

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by Scott F. Aikin and Robert B. Talisse

In the United States, the political season is almost upon us. Campaigns are gearing up, contrasts are being drawn, and debates are beginning to emerge. This is an important time for those who are interested in the norms of argument and public deliberation. Fallacy-detection is a favorite pastime, and we ourselves are enthusiastic participants. However, there is considerable confusion surrounding one of the most widely-known and commonly-attributed fallacies, the ad hominem (“to the man”).

Fallacies are improper inferences, popular ways of drawing conclusions from premises that in fact offer them no support. In its most common variety, ad hominem fallacy takes the following form:

Premise: Subject S is in some specified way vicious.

Conclusion: We should reject the things S says.

The vices identified in the premise of course vary. Depending on the context, it might be claimed that S is philanderer, a hypocrite, an alcoholic, a drug abuser, a child abuser, a racist, a pervert, a neoliberal, a lowbrow, an egghead, a neocon, a snob, a pinhead, a knownothing, and so on. To be sure, some of these traits may not be actual vices, but the effective deployment of the ad hominem depends only on the speaker's audience believing that the trait attributed in the premise is indeed vicious. The ad hominem's strategy is that of identifying the purported vice ascribed to S in the premise as sufficient grounds for rejecting the things S has said.

The prevalence of the ad hominem in political debate is easy to explain. Given the carefully curated and time-constrained forums in which most public political discourse occurs, it is just easier for disputants to talk about each other than the ideas and policies over which they disagree. Consequently, discussions of politics all too regularly become wranglings over personalities. Yet, despite its understandable prevalence, the garden-variety ad hominem is obviously fallacious.

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by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

In a lineated poem, the line-breaks are used to produce verbal or sonic emphasis, in addition to creating a structure that is arranged such that it is easy to parse and comprehend the poem. When line-length varies, emphasis shifts and dramatic tension or narrative effect is produced. Generally speaking, in a free-verse poem, line-length varies without a set pattern, and the variation depends on where the poet wants emphasis, but in his (free-verse) poem “Greed,” C.K. Williams uses a pattern to arrange the lines. He uses long lines (flush right-margin) that are alternated by short lines constituting five to eight syllables. The lines are enjambed and form remarkably long sentences. Such sentences may ordinarily be in danger of becoming unwieldy or out of control. Williams brings aesthetic order to the poem by using a typographical pattern and a pattern of sonic devices, thereby creating a piece that has narrative clarity as well as narrative impact or dramatic tension.
Typographically, Williams’ style of predictably continuing each long line till flush right margin and indenting each alternate line, establishes a pattern that helps the eye get accustomed to this arrangement and to parse the sentences with ease:

A much-beaten-upon-looking, bedraggled blackbird, not a starling, with
A mangled or tumorous claw,
an extra-evil air, comically malignant, like something from a folktale
meant to frighten you,
gimps his way over the picnic table to a cube of moist white cheese into
which he drives his beak.

There is a suspended syntax in this long sentence, but the words are strung together alliteratively and with the deft use of diction that creates sound patterns forming sonic clusters, making the sentence cohere and aiding comprehension. In the above stanza, “bedraggled black-bird,” “extra-evil” are alliterations. There is a sonic partnership or inter-play in diction such as “starling,” “mangled” and “malignant” or between “gimp” and “picnic” or “cheese” and “beak” or in the phrase” folktale/ meant to frighten you.” These patterns of sonic play establish a harmony which can be said to contribute to clarity in its cohesive effect. The pattern becomes more and more vivid as the poem continues:

Then a glister of licentious leering, a conspiratorial gleam, the cocked
brow of common avarice:
he works his yellow scissors deeper in, daring doubt, a politician with
his finger in the till,
a weapon maker’s finger in the politician, the slobber and the licking
and the champ and the click.

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by Stephen T. Asma

Stephen T. Asma is Professor of Philosophy at Columbia College Chicago, where he is a founding Fellow of the Research Group in Mind, Science and Culture. In 2003, he was Visiting Professor at the Buddhist Institute in Phnom Penh, Kingdom of Cambodia, and in 2007 he lived and studied in Shanghai China. Asma also researched Asian philosophies in Thailand, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Mainland China, and Laos. And in 2014, he was a Fulbright Scholar, teaching philosophy in Beijing, China.

Recently my Chinese students in Beijing asked me why the U.S. media was so critical of China –always wagging a finger about human rights (forgetting about U.S. violations like NSA spying, drone bombing, Guantanamo, and so on). “Can't Americans see,” one student asked, “that our Chinese way is different but still successful?”

How successful is the Chinese government? Over the last three decades, the Communist Party has pulled hundreds of millions of people from poverty. It has done this partly through controversial but needful policies like the “one child rule.” Moreover, China's annual GDP growth has averaged 10%. China is the world's leading exporter, and second only to the U.S. in imports. Its unemployment rate is between 4 and 7 %, and its literacy rate is 95%. In short, the Party has been very successful, and is not going away anytime soon.

Ironically, the Chinese people already think of themselves as a democracy. But it is democracy “with Chinese characteristics.” China has seen itself as democratic, minzhu or “people driven,” since the 1911 revolution. Even Mao Zedong characterized the early People's Republic of China as a “new democracy” and a “people's democratic dictatorship.”

Surprising to many westerners, Chinese people do vote for their politicians, but it's a hierarchical electoral system. Local people directly elect the regional chapters of the “People's Congresses.” Then the People's Congresses elect the “National People's Congress” (the national legislator). Finally, the president and the State Council are elected by the National People's Congress. The voting is bottom-up, but nominations of candidates are usually top-down. This is precisely the sticking point for the recent “Occupy Central” movement in downtown Hong Kong. They want to reject the Chinese style of democracy (of top-down nominations) in favor of western style voting (at all levels). Beijing's approach, however, is not the reflection of some Orwellian fascist agenda, but an organic result of deep Chinese cultural commitments.

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Am I my brother’s keeper?
…………… —Genesis 4:9

Not Abel

by Ahmed Humayun

A shepherd tending to well fed sheep on a lush green field, the blades of grass glistening in the sunlight. A bustling marketplace with stalls sparkling with multi-colored fruit and loaves of freshly baked bread. A father looking on affectionately as his young sons frolic in a playground.

These images are culled from the advertising campaign of a highly successful global brand, though likely not the one you have in mind: these are all high quality, high definition images found on pro-ISIS Twitter feeds, advertising life in the self-proclaimed Islamic state. That the brutality of ISIS – the beheadings, mass executions, child soldiering, and enslavement – has galvanized Western media attention is unsurprising but it comprises only one element of its vast propaganda campaign. No other violent extremist organization in the Muslim world has gone to such lengths to define and broadcast a new cultural expression, which amounts to a branded vision of violent extremism as a consumerist lifestyle choice under the ambit of a restored caliphate. Transfixed by the ghoulish atrocities, we overlook the subtle cunning of brand ISIS.

Cultural Innovation and Jack Daniels

According to cultural brand strategy, in mature markets competitors engage in ‘dog eat dog' competition based on incremental feature improvements that yield limited margins. [1] However, social disruptions create crises for incumbents, and present ideological opportunities for innovative niche brands to emerge and capture market share. Effective ideological innovation creates new cultural expressions that repurpose shared cultural content such as myths and cultural codes.

Consider the use of cultural strategy in the case of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey.[2] By the end of the first half of the 20^th century in the United States, there were dozens of varieties of undistinguished whiskeys, none of them with leading market share. Among them was Jack Daniels. Yet the brand got ahead of its competitors and became a global brand through the deft, deliberate use of cultural strategy.

By the mid-1950s, the U.S. economy had undergone a major transition where traditional occupations of farming and small enterprise had been replaced by white collar professions in massive corporate bureaucracies. Whiskey in the United States is typically entangled with cultural associations of masculinity and class. At this time, virtually all whiskey brands including Jack Daniels touted their customers as successful status seeking, corporate climbing ‘organization men'. Yet by 1965, Jack Daniels had positioned itself as the embodiment of ‘rugged individualism'. It did this, for example, by emphasizing its traditional, pre-industrial methods of making whiskey, and associating the brand with stories from frontier mythology. By jettisoning cultural orthodoxy and advancing an innovative alternative ideology, Jack Daniel's crushed its competition and today ranks among the world's top global brands.

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by Yohan J. John

The DNA molecule is often described as the book of life, as a blueprint for constructing the organism, or as a program for computing the organism. These metaphors have become so pervasive that we often forget that they are metaphors. In this essay I'd like to take this class of metaphor —the life-as-information metaphor — seriously, and investigate what some recent findings in molecular biology look like when mapped onto the world of books, blueprints and programs. I'd like to run with the information metaphor, seeing how far it can take us. I think this will help us understand the limits of the metaphor, but more importantly, it can help us appreciate the richness and complexity of biological processes, and the sheer scale of the ongoing endeavor to understand the science of life. [In part I of this series I looked at the origins of information theory and computer science, and in part II I traced the history of genetics, up to the discovery of the genetic code. This essay continues the themes from those columns, but can be read as a standalone article.]

The discovery of the double helix structure of the DNA molecule in the mid 20th century was the culmination of a quest to understand the nature of heredity that had begun a little over a century before. In the early 19th century, biologists began asking two intertwined questions about organisms: the question of heredity, and the question of development. How did hereditary traits pass from one generation to the next? And what biological, chemical and physical processes were involved in the development of the organism from an embryo? The first question was often described as a question of 'ultimate causes', and was closely linked to the theory of evolution by natural selection. Charles Darwin's theory depended on inheritance, but he could only provide speculative accounts of the physical basis of heredity. Many 19th century cell biologists were more interested in what they saw as the nuts and bots of biology, and preferred to investigate the question of development. They believed that only 'proximal causes' could be tested in a lab, and perhaps even witnessed under a microscope. Evolutionary theory by contrast seemed more like philosophy.

The two sorts of question 19th century biologists were interested in find their counterpart in two broad spheres of genetics research: transmission genetics, which studies how hereditary traits pass from one generation to the next, and developmental genetics, which studies how genes participate in the physical processes by which traits become manifest in cells and in organisms. The concept of the genotype is useful when thinking about transmission genetics: the genotype is the sum total of the genetic makeup of an organism, and in a sense represents all the potential hereditary traits that can become manifest. Nowadays the word 'genome' is used in a closely related way. When thinking about developmental genetics, the concept of the phenotype is central: it is the sum total of an organism's observable traits, which are not just a product of the genetic makeup, but are also influenced by the environment, and by the developmental process itself. Transmission genetics studies how the inheritance, reassembly and mutation of genetic material lead to the formation of a genotype, whereas developmental genetics studies how the potential latent in the genotype is actualized to give rise to the phenotype.

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by Rafiq Kathwari

My friend Irfan and I drove a Gypsy with faulty brakes to Baba's shrine nestled in the Himalayan foothills. “You must go show your respect,” Mother had urged when I told her I was flying to Srinagar. “Say a prayer for your health and wealth.”

Her father, Sultan Bastal, a prosperous cashmere shawl merchant, who made Kashmir home after wheeling, dealing on the Silk Route, had married three times hoping for an heir, but his wives had proved barren. “Or, perhaps, it was him,” Mother said.

And so, Sultan Sahib, invoked his faith in Sufism, went on a haj to Baba's shrine. He wore a white turban, customary in his era; rode shot gun as his tonga-wallah drove their one horse buggy on a dirt road fringed by miles of poplars all the way from Srinagar to Tangmarg,

where the dirt road ended and a foot trail started, a journey in those days, Mother said, of at least three days in late summer when past winter's snow melts. Sultan Sahib and tonga-wallah rested often to give their horse a break from his uphill task. Glacial streams laughed

by the road. Sultan Sahib flung his arms wide in wonder at a view of a virgin valley diffused in light. Clouds flirted naked peaks on the horizon. He trekked a pine-scented forest to the thatched-roof shrine, where he tied a thread to carved wooden roses, and wept as he

prayed for a son, “O, Baba, beloved saint, make me a model of your mercy.” And 90 years later here we were, Irfan and I, parking our rusty jeep in an ersatz bus stop littered with rubbish. Baba Reshi, resting for five centuries under alabaster, preached Divinity lives in the

garden within and in the wasteland without. The first thing I saw was a bunker, an example of many bunkers in the Kashmir valley: bold white capitals on blue tarpaulin:
RESPECT ALL SUSPECT ALL.

A fascist credo packed with sad irony, baring a strategy of the world's most populous democracy —a lie I'm tired of hearing—to subvert teachings of saints who brought Sufism to Kashmir, Kashmir to Sufism. I strolled around the barbed wire, a tote slung over my

shoulder, grinned at a para-military, an Uzi slung over his shoulder, his belly prosperous.
“Namaste,” I said joining my hands. “Where from?” he asked. “Mumbai,” I lied. “And you?” I asked. “Allahabad,” he said. “O,” I said, “Where Ganges and Yamuna merge.” He nodded,

waved me through without rifling my tote, but asked, “Where friend from?” “A local,” I said, realizing at once I had pushed Irfan under the clichéd bus. O, Fuck. “Open
bag,” para-military barked. Irfan did as told. “Who you? Why here? Where going?”

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by Mara Jebsen

I cross the country.

Beneath me
Towns crackle, bullet holes bleeding light.
Yellow, hard, a bright-mustard honey.
There are bees and bees in the skull in the sky.
Amnesia, I think, is the white air inside
an airplane. And fears, I expect, are bizarre
infant-plants that grow without sun
in the very wee hours. To share
these wee hours with suited up-bodies,
— odd, erect, banal—
is a warm thing. I can’t find my worry.
My mother’s ______, my brother’s
______, No. These
Are in the ground, steaming up, up, up.
We go fast, some empty-headed angels.