WWI military road
Isonso Front
Kanal on the Soča River, destroyed in WWI
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
WWI bunker
WWI litter - cans and tins
Modrejce military cemetary 2,750 soldiers buried in 550 graves
I am magnetically drawn to WWI battlegrounds. They pull me despite the resistance of my pacifist heart. I have no idea why the hillsides, where blood watered the soil, have an inexplicable fascination to me. I am attracted to the art, architecture, clothing and music of the time around the turn of the 20th century, but why places of war?
WWI lives here in the conscious of the people. The war was horrendous, and all around this area there are daily reminders of the horror. Soldier cemeteries, the grass cut and graves aged but not abused in any way, showing the 90-year-old respect for the dead even if he was an enemy.
There are many places where litter of war can still be found on the hillsides. Along our hikes are foundations of stone buildings smothered with moss, walking paths that were once military roads, and sometimes rusted metal plates, tin cans, or other mysterious metal objects are found lying where dropped 9 decades ago. There is surprising peace. The energy is not one of absolute despair, but of acceptance that the sacrifice was not in vane. The ground is carpeted with creeping myrtle, ivy or long arched feathery grass as if someone planted ground cover to hide the memory. 90-year-old trees tower above, shading the forest floor preventing choking undergrowth and scrub bushes. Fresh blood pink cyclamen dribble at the edge of the paths beside pure white rocks that jut from the ground as uncut memorials for those who have fallen. And it is silent. Only a few bird motifs, but no rustlings of ground squirrels or mice break the white noise of the Soča River below. A place where I can sit in absolute complete stillness.
WWI began at the end of the colonization of the world. Places were spoken for and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Italy and Germany found themselves without colonies to compare to Great Britian, France and Russia. Europe was divided in two; Austria and Germany with great interest in the Balkans and Russia, England and France giving support to the Balkans to keep the Germanic influence at bay. When Archduke Francis Ferdinand, the Austrian hier to the throne, was shot by a Bosnian revolutionary youth in Sarajevo 28 June, 1914 the tensions could no longer be kept under control and the world exploded. War broke out in the late summer of1914 with the Austian ultimatum to Serbia, the German declaration of war on Russia and France, and the British declaration of war on Germany. Italy promised neutrality in 1914, but when Britan and France promised Italy, if victorious, the territories of Tyrol, the city of Trieste [Trst] the provinces of Gorizia [Gorica] and Gradisca [Gradiška], the basin of Tarvisio [Trbiž], part of the Duchy of Carniola extending the watershed, the Istrian peninsula, some o f the Croatian islands and a share of territories in Asia Minor and Africa, they saw hope for expansion and declared war on the Austro-Hungarian Empire 23 May 1915. The United States joined the war in 1917 and after the death of 10 million youth it was finally ended 11 November, 1918. Insanity had become governmental policy.
The mountainous border between the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Italy is the land of the Slovenes where war dominated their world for 29 months. All equipment had to be hauled by men, mules or dogs up switch back roads newly cut into the face of the mountains. Kitchens, milking parlors, butcheries, hospitals, tanneries, laundries, gardens, barracks, and stables were built of local stone. All that the soldiers needed had to be brought by foot, or made in army villages of huts clinging to mountains sides. All supplies brought up the mountain were made from metal; canteens, digging tools, lanterns, repair tools, cooking supplies, guns, coffee mills, cannons, cheese graters, steel beams, generators, explosives, lights. Water collected from rain and snow was stored in wooden barrels and left to fester in hot weather. Men were dressed in heavy wool uniforms, their legs wrapped in layers against rain, snow and ice, cleats were attached to the bottom of their boots with leather straps for traction on ice and snow. Wool capes covered their shoulders and nothing dried once it was wet.
1916 was the worse winter of the century and millions of men were stranded high in the mountains in snow over a meter deep. Tunnels were dug as protective trenches in the snow, like igloos. The soldiers hid themselves in arched snow caves with windows for shooting the enemy and dodging icicles caused by the heat of their bodies. ''It was so cold that fifty men from the entire battalion had to descend from the mountain due to frozen feet... I stayed in a trench for 24 hours, crouching among dead bodies, ours and those of the enemy. The stink was unbearable, and to tip it all, we had to resist a fierce attack by the enemy, which we repelled. A lot of our comrades died because they were hit in the head when they rose over the bulwark to shoot... The rations were scarce, consisting mainly of bread, cold boiled meat of lean taste! Water is brought in skins; it is very scarce and stinking ''( from diary of Virgilio Bonamore 2 August 1915 on Mt. Batognica from display in the Kobarid WWI Museum.) ''The trenches were an unfathomable maze of headquarters, food deposities and arsenals, first-aid posts, kitchens, artillery bases and emplacements for other weapons, deep shelters, loop holes, enlarged sites from which grenades were launched, observation posts etc.; in them there centred the life and the warfare, the sleep and the rest, the death the sorrows and sufferings as well as the modest joys of the soldiers existance.'' (Svoljšak, Petra; The Front on Soča; Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba, 2002) “My heart breaks at the sight of these men in the prime of their youth who were mangled by shells, and many will perish for the sacred and rightful cause about which most of them have not the slightest idea.” (Gregorio Soldani 2 November, 1915.)
I spent over 2 weeks this summer in the Kobarid area where 11 offensives in the Soča [Isonso] River Valley were fought. Now the roads and paths tread by the soldiers are the trails of vacationing hikers. Trenches, bunkers, observation points and buildings are attractions of the historically curious. Kobarid has a wonderful small museum, not colored with national politics, that tells the story of the lives of the young men. The museum walls are cluttered with photos of everyday life on the mountain slopes and other events worth documenting. Post cards that had been printed and sent showing the devistation of towns tell the tales of the locals trying to survive in the midst of chaos. Ancient church records were destroyed with the churches and the towns that housed them, so the birth and death history of families was lost forever and when the war was finished the people had to rebuild their lives from the rubble of a world gone mad. The town of Šempeter, where we live, was flattened and all the buildings where we shop and drink coffee were rebuilt from the remains. Sveta Gora where I sing every Sunday was devistated because of it's strategic location on top of the mountain, but was rebuilt by the Italians in the original style. The presence of the power to survive, the will to carry on is evident in the buildings we see every day.
Friday, August 03, 2007
By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea,
You and I, you and I, oh how happy we’ll be…
This summer I am spending some extended time on the Croatian coast along the Adriatic Sea. Within an hour we can drive by car to Croatia. If we time it just right and take the back roads we avoid the crush of traffic escaping the heat and the long lines at the border. The Croatians seem to resist welcoming the most common visitors from Italy, Slovenia, Austria, Germany and even as far as the Netherlands by making the summer tourist queue into one line to pass through the border. It almost seems as though they are saying, “What are you doing? Why don’t you just stay at home?” It is a forced cultural lesson. No one at the crossing gates is in a hurry. They seem to insist that we all start behaving like good Mediterranean residents and live life at a calmer pace. The roads are single lanes leading to and from the border, and the only travelers who are able to go quickly to the coast are the motorcycles that squeeze down the solid line between cars where there is dangerously not enough room. The car travelers must form a slow train to their holiday spot and there is no point in becoming anxious.
All along the Croatian coast, villages that were once supported by fishing or grazing animals are now swarming with tourists from all over the world. Hotels, resorts and summer homes of bright colors rest along side stone walls that once kept sheep from wandering. Medieval villages birth kitschy tourist shops selling things made from shells from every stone doorway. Captains of fishing boats are now tour guides to the islands and beaches. Single-family homes are being built to include rooms to rent or apartments in neighborhoods where each house posts a sign “Soba, Camera, Zimmer, Rooms” The tourist season is six months and the rest of the year is preparation for the tourists.
The economy appears to be thriving, but the attitude projected by the wait-staff in cafés and restaurants demonstrates the love hate relationship found in so many tourist areas. When I worked in Estes Park, Colorado we hated to see the tourists come. They were demanding, disrespectful, rude and often unpleasant. They were there to have a good time without concern for those who provide services. The students in Amish country in Holmes County, OH used to call the gawking aging bus tours “terrorists”. Yet like these places in the US, undoubtedly the life on the Croatian coast would be too quieter with out the tourists, and no one would have enough work to be able to live there. The tourists come for peace, relaxation, old charm, water and sun, but after dark the sound of disco throbs in the air, the beaches are packed with people, the old villages are decorated with flashing neon lights, the sea is being over fished and too much sun gives you skin cancer. Maybe tourism is not as good as it seems. I wonder if these villages will be deserted like Route 66, once the fickle tourist industry chooses a “new hot” spot; leaving deserted hotels and resorts.
In our part of Slovenia the world runs down to a halting pace in July and August. Shops and restaurants close down for the holidays, the library has shortened hours and even the health clinic in our neighborhood is closed. The streets are quiet and the pace is slow to accommodate the heat. Everyone I know goes to the sea. They take the 20-minute drive to Sistiana for an evening swim or they find a favorite spot on the Croatian coast and return year after year with friends and family spending all day in the water and roasting in the sun. The sent of fresh grilled fish, bought from the door to door fish monger, seasoned with sprigs of rosemary plucked from the yard, and smoked with fresh bay leaves cut from the hedge, peppers the air. Children play after-dark games while parents chat over a glass of wine. The world is relaxed. The Croatian coast resonates summer pleasures.
The coast was bare until after the war; no houses, no hotels, only fishing villages. Like Primorska, Italians following WWI, occupied the Istrian peninsula. Slovenes who were willing to change their names and speak only Italian were relocated here to work the land. They all seemed to have lived comfortably along side the Croatians and most signs are still written in Croatian and Italian. After WWII this coast belonged to Jugoslavia and many Slovenes bought small parcels of land for seaside cottages. Made by hand of Istrian stone, the houses were modest get away places that provided leisure, known before only to the aristocracy. Now, blurring historical class distinctions, the 20th century workers were provided holidays as their rights along with jobs, education and health care and they too spent the summer at the seaside.
Nothing grew on the cliffs over looking the sea. All building materials, and plantings had to be brought from elsewhere. Families spent every weekend creating by hand summer retreats to be enjoyed for generations. Originally there was no electricity or water supplied; cisterns were built under the houses for collecting rainwater and the glow of oil lamps lit the houses after dark. Concrete docks used mostly for sunbathing were built in the middle of the night during a full moon. Bags of cement were hauled down the cliff along with fresh water for mixing. When the tide was at its lowest the men stirred from sleep and poured cement in already constructed frames until the sea water returned to the shore. The docks are more like concrete platforms of varied heights jutting along the bottom of the cliffs, some have stairs into the water, metal cups for inserting umbrellas, others have cement seats formed for sun bathing and platforms for diving. There are no signs of private property or barriers to keep people from the houses further up the hill from enjoying the sea, it seems to be public land for all to share. The cottages are close together, but made private with 50-year-old pine trees and towering hedges. Now in the time of abundance, modest cottages are being replaced by enormous elaborate all season homes or rental apartments.
The sun is so beastly hot that I go swimming just to cool down. Never have I experienced anything so marvelous! The sea temperature is 25° [77°] and with the heat index of 41° [105°] the experience was amazingly refreshing. I have been swimming in salt water in Maine where it is too cold to stay long in the water, in Florida and Georgia where the waves are too strong to do anything but play, and in Oregon where I was certain I would get frost bite from putting my big toe in the water. But this water was luscious and so amazingly salty. It is difficult to swim because the sea seems to throw me out. I am so buoyant that instead of cutting through the water with my front crawl I bounce across the surface skimming like skipping stones. But to float is like lying in bed stretched out on top, toes pointed, legs spread, paddling with fin shaped hands lying for hours on top of the water. The density of the saline solution causes me to want to curl in a fetal position, slow down my breathing and revert to prenatal quiet. But all around are tanned little bottoms gallop along the shore in and out of the water wearing floating devices and clutching beach balls. Topless moms are sunning all possible bosom styles and grandmas wear the same bikini from the “itsy bitsy teeny-weeny” years, but to less affect.
I can stand erect in the water, arms hanging at my side, feet flat as if solid with only my head above the surface. The breaststroke seems impossible because the frog kick raises me up arching my back and throwing my feet out of the water. It is easier to walk in the water using the breaststroke with my hands but an upright walking motion with my feet. Swimming is not strenuous; it’s like walking on water. The quiet of the sea makes it possible to defy gravity.
I had fish tanks as a child, and now I think if I ever settle down in just one place again I will get a cat to snuggle on my lap, a dog to play Frisbee in the yard and an aquarium filled with fish of magnificent colors to watch swim around and around. I put on a snorkel mask and below me is a mystery. I am trying to not use trite overused phrases to describe things, but there is no other way to say that below the surface of the water is another world. A social structure is created by the diamond shaped shimmering schools of fish, crabs crawling over each other, sea cucumbers that must have inspired Jaba the Hut from Star Wars, and zillions of things camouflaged from me. Large stones litter the sea floor, blocks and pillars that I imagine are Roman are decorated with mollusks, mustard gold sponges. Only the fear that my back would get too burned in the sun pulls me from the vision of wonder in the sea.
My imagination that the pillars could be Roman is possible. The Istrian peninsula like all of this area was settled during the Roman Empire, but the sea rubble could be from the marauders who followed the Romans; the Goths, the Lombards, the Frankish kingdom [789], the dukes of Carinthia, Merano, Bavaria, the patriach of Aquileia, the Republic of Venice [1267], Napoleon, Austrian Empire, Italians, Nazis, Jugoslavs or simply rubble from the massive amounts of modern construction. I prefer to think that an ancient roman constuction crew littered a rejected stone and it has been home to sea creatures for centuries.
You and I, you and I, oh how happy we’ll be…
This summer I am spending some extended time on the Croatian coast along the Adriatic Sea. Within an hour we can drive by car to Croatia. If we time it just right and take the back roads we avoid the crush of traffic escaping the heat and the long lines at the border. The Croatians seem to resist welcoming the most common visitors from Italy, Slovenia, Austria, Germany and even as far as the Netherlands by making the summer tourist queue into one line to pass through the border. It almost seems as though they are saying, “What are you doing? Why don’t you just stay at home?” It is a forced cultural lesson. No one at the crossing gates is in a hurry. They seem to insist that we all start behaving like good Mediterranean residents and live life at a calmer pace. The roads are single lanes leading to and from the border, and the only travelers who are able to go quickly to the coast are the motorcycles that squeeze down the solid line between cars where there is dangerously not enough room. The car travelers must form a slow train to their holiday spot and there is no point in becoming anxious.
All along the Croatian coast, villages that were once supported by fishing or grazing animals are now swarming with tourists from all over the world. Hotels, resorts and summer homes of bright colors rest along side stone walls that once kept sheep from wandering. Medieval villages birth kitschy tourist shops selling things made from shells from every stone doorway. Captains of fishing boats are now tour guides to the islands and beaches. Single-family homes are being built to include rooms to rent or apartments in neighborhoods where each house posts a sign “Soba, Camera, Zimmer, Rooms” The tourist season is six months and the rest of the year is preparation for the tourists.
The economy appears to be thriving, but the attitude projected by the wait-staff in cafés and restaurants demonstrates the love hate relationship found in so many tourist areas. When I worked in Estes Park, Colorado we hated to see the tourists come. They were demanding, disrespectful, rude and often unpleasant. They were there to have a good time without concern for those who provide services. The students in Amish country in Holmes County, OH used to call the gawking aging bus tours “terrorists”. Yet like these places in the US, undoubtedly the life on the Croatian coast would be too quieter with out the tourists, and no one would have enough work to be able to live there. The tourists come for peace, relaxation, old charm, water and sun, but after dark the sound of disco throbs in the air, the beaches are packed with people, the old villages are decorated with flashing neon lights, the sea is being over fished and too much sun gives you skin cancer. Maybe tourism is not as good as it seems. I wonder if these villages will be deserted like Route 66, once the fickle tourist industry chooses a “new hot” spot; leaving deserted hotels and resorts.
In our part of Slovenia the world runs down to a halting pace in July and August. Shops and restaurants close down for the holidays, the library has shortened hours and even the health clinic in our neighborhood is closed. The streets are quiet and the pace is slow to accommodate the heat. Everyone I know goes to the sea. They take the 20-minute drive to Sistiana for an evening swim or they find a favorite spot on the Croatian coast and return year after year with friends and family spending all day in the water and roasting in the sun. The sent of fresh grilled fish, bought from the door to door fish monger, seasoned with sprigs of rosemary plucked from the yard, and smoked with fresh bay leaves cut from the hedge, peppers the air. Children play after-dark games while parents chat over a glass of wine. The world is relaxed. The Croatian coast resonates summer pleasures.
The coast was bare until after the war; no houses, no hotels, only fishing villages. Like Primorska, Italians following WWI, occupied the Istrian peninsula. Slovenes who were willing to change their names and speak only Italian were relocated here to work the land. They all seemed to have lived comfortably along side the Croatians and most signs are still written in Croatian and Italian. After WWII this coast belonged to Jugoslavia and many Slovenes bought small parcels of land for seaside cottages. Made by hand of Istrian stone, the houses were modest get away places that provided leisure, known before only to the aristocracy. Now, blurring historical class distinctions, the 20th century workers were provided holidays as their rights along with jobs, education and health care and they too spent the summer at the seaside.
Nothing grew on the cliffs over looking the sea. All building materials, and plantings had to be brought from elsewhere. Families spent every weekend creating by hand summer retreats to be enjoyed for generations. Originally there was no electricity or water supplied; cisterns were built under the houses for collecting rainwater and the glow of oil lamps lit the houses after dark. Concrete docks used mostly for sunbathing were built in the middle of the night during a full moon. Bags of cement were hauled down the cliff along with fresh water for mixing. When the tide was at its lowest the men stirred from sleep and poured cement in already constructed frames until the sea water returned to the shore. The docks are more like concrete platforms of varied heights jutting along the bottom of the cliffs, some have stairs into the water, metal cups for inserting umbrellas, others have cement seats formed for sun bathing and platforms for diving. There are no signs of private property or barriers to keep people from the houses further up the hill from enjoying the sea, it seems to be public land for all to share. The cottages are close together, but made private with 50-year-old pine trees and towering hedges. Now in the time of abundance, modest cottages are being replaced by enormous elaborate all season homes or rental apartments.
The sun is so beastly hot that I go swimming just to cool down. Never have I experienced anything so marvelous! The sea temperature is 25° [77°] and with the heat index of 41° [105°] the experience was amazingly refreshing. I have been swimming in salt water in Maine where it is too cold to stay long in the water, in Florida and Georgia where the waves are too strong to do anything but play, and in Oregon where I was certain I would get frost bite from putting my big toe in the water. But this water was luscious and so amazingly salty. It is difficult to swim because the sea seems to throw me out. I am so buoyant that instead of cutting through the water with my front crawl I bounce across the surface skimming like skipping stones. But to float is like lying in bed stretched out on top, toes pointed, legs spread, paddling with fin shaped hands lying for hours on top of the water. The density of the saline solution causes me to want to curl in a fetal position, slow down my breathing and revert to prenatal quiet. But all around are tanned little bottoms gallop along the shore in and out of the water wearing floating devices and clutching beach balls. Topless moms are sunning all possible bosom styles and grandmas wear the same bikini from the “itsy bitsy teeny-weeny” years, but to less affect.
I can stand erect in the water, arms hanging at my side, feet flat as if solid with only my head above the surface. The breaststroke seems impossible because the frog kick raises me up arching my back and throwing my feet out of the water. It is easier to walk in the water using the breaststroke with my hands but an upright walking motion with my feet. Swimming is not strenuous; it’s like walking on water. The quiet of the sea makes it possible to defy gravity.
I had fish tanks as a child, and now I think if I ever settle down in just one place again I will get a cat to snuggle on my lap, a dog to play Frisbee in the yard and an aquarium filled with fish of magnificent colors to watch swim around and around. I put on a snorkel mask and below me is a mystery. I am trying to not use trite overused phrases to describe things, but there is no other way to say that below the surface of the water is another world. A social structure is created by the diamond shaped shimmering schools of fish, crabs crawling over each other, sea cucumbers that must have inspired Jaba the Hut from Star Wars, and zillions of things camouflaged from me. Large stones litter the sea floor, blocks and pillars that I imagine are Roman are decorated with mollusks, mustard gold sponges. Only the fear that my back would get too burned in the sun pulls me from the vision of wonder in the sea.
My imagination that the pillars could be Roman is possible. The Istrian peninsula like all of this area was settled during the Roman Empire, but the sea rubble could be from the marauders who followed the Romans; the Goths, the Lombards, the Frankish kingdom [789], the dukes of Carinthia, Merano, Bavaria, the patriach of Aquileia, the Republic of Venice [1267], Napoleon, Austrian Empire, Italians, Nazis, Jugoslavs or simply rubble from the massive amounts of modern construction. I prefer to think that an ancient roman constuction crew littered a rejected stone and it has been home to sea creatures for centuries.
Monday, May 28, 2007
The teachers at Bob’s school take an annual spring educational holiday. Last year I went with them to Southern Italy, this year Bob and I both went with 35 other teachers and family members to Istanbul.
We left Wednesday evening with 2 holiday gift days from the school and returned on Sunday. We flew from Ljubljana at midnight with the Turkish truck drivers who load their trucks on tanker ships in Koper, Slovenija and then fly 2 hours to Istanbul to await their cargo. Once in Turkey the ride from the airport to Taksim square in the middle of the night gave us an unobstructed view of the city lit for the night; the Bosphorus river, the mosques and minarets, ancient walls of Constantinople and people gathering for kebabs and roasted chicken in the darkness. At first sight it was surprising the number of people casually wandering the streets in the early morning with the unexpected atmosphere of calm and safety linked by sweet smells.
Istanbul, known as Byzantium and then as Constantinople, is now a city of over 10 million people. Because of earthquakes the older buildings of the city are not tall, but they are crowded in together and piled on top of each other. The city has one foot in Europe and one in Asia spanning across the Bosphorus river that links the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara and has been the seat of trade for thousands of years. Artifacts date settlements in this area from 5,500 BC and the history includes anyone who was anyone in the world [Ancient Greeks, Alexander the Great, Romans, Goths, Constantine, first church council at Nicaea, Theodosis I [same one who battled in the Vipava Valley in Slovenija], Justinian, missionaries from Byzantium to Slavic nations, Normans, Venetians, Turkic nomads, crusaders, Seljuk Turks, more pillaging crusaders, Ottoman Turks, countless Sultans, Sultanate women, more Sultans, Austrians, French and British soldiers and Greek forces]. Because of the influence of Mustafa Kemal Paşa [better known as Atäturk, “Father of the Turks”] Turkish land was reclaimed by the Turks, the sultanate was abolished in 1922, the country became a secular republic, the Arabic alphabet was replaced with the Roman alphabet, western dress was encouraged and all Turks were required to claim a surname. The red flag tells the story of the moon and one star reflected in the bloodshed of wounded Turkish soldiers fighting for independence. These are people proud of Turkey; proud of being Turkish and with every greeting they warmly welcomed us to their country.
Modern Istanbul a blend of new buildings, ancient remains, towering mosques, quaint cafés, crowds of people and stores, stores, and more stores. Little hidden stores the size of my bathroom, men with carts, men with card tables in the middle of the street, stores in basements, stores on side walks, stores in every nook and cranny and that is without even discussing the bazaars. It is obvious the Istanbul has been, and continues to be the mecca of trade, and buying and selling is a high art with rich social contact.
The bazaars are unbelievable!! [attached photo] Every arch hides a shop, wares tumble into the street, the colors are vibrant sparkling with brilliance, the air tastes sweet, tangy, hot and spicy, the salesmen call to you trying to guess your language mesmerizing you with friendly infectious charm and shoppers stumble over themselves, each other, the impromptu shop set up in the middle of the sidewalk, and the men carrying goods on their back or pushing wheeled carts. The entrepreneurial spirit has been tradition and culture in the Grand Bazaar since the 1450’s and the Spice Bazaar since the 1600’s. Everything is sold here; there is such abundance that the sheer number of goods in one place is overwhelming. Bargaining is expected and even fun.
We were pulled into a rug shop [“Madame I am proud of my carpets, and I want to show you, with no obligation to buy…. of course.”] and spent the most charming couple of hours with the owner learning about rugs, drinking apple tea and Turkish coffee. We went into the lower level of the shop and there were carpets and kilims everywhere; new carpets, semi old [50 years] and antique. [photo attached]There were 3 carpet rollers who flicked open the carpets at our feet showing us ones made from silk, camel hair, wool, natural dyed, synthetic dyed, tribal designs, floral patterns and each one identified by the area in which it was hand made. Kilims are tapestries that have geometric designs and are woven with a warp and weft rather than knotted like a carpet. The colors can vary greatly within the kilim because of the natural dye and the technique of weaving. Often their original purpose was not to be used as a carpet, but as a bag for carrying things. Because they were designed for use rather than decoration the exactness of symmetry is not important and they have a primitive look that I like very much. Now they are sold as floor or wall coverings and we are the happy owners of one with colors of green olives, red currants, golden wheat, camel brown, white sand, and sunshine.
We visited a number of mosques including Haghia Sophia [attached photo], which was originally an Orthodox church, and then a mosque and now a museum. This church, dedicated in 537 [yes that is correct five hundred and thirty seven], stands on the site of 2 other churches that were destroyed by fire and earthquake. The Ottomans added minarets, tombs and fountains in the 15th century when it became a mosque, walls were supported with buttresses to keep the immense dome intact and many decorative changes have altered the face of the building over the centuries. Glorious Christian mosaics still remain in the second floor galleries [attached photo], and some of the patterns in the ceilings and along the walls are original 6th century decorations.
The Blue Mosque has a much different feeling than Haghia Sophia. It is called such because of the İznik blue tile that covers the interior [photo attached]. This active mosque was built in the early 1600’s and its delicate interior beauty is in stark contrast to the bulbous gray exterior. The Rüstem Paşa Mosque is also an amazing collection of tiles and designs [photo attached]. There are no images of people in any of the mosques only patterns and natural designs. They are very soothing places open without charge to visitors at times when prayer is not taking place. The decorations are so much more peaceful to me than the images of martyrs and Christ hanging on a cross in painful death that we see in the European Catholic churches. The voice from the minarets calls the faithful to prayer, crowds of people slowly wander to a mosque, the men cleanse themselves at faucets provided along the wall before entering the mosque [photo attached], the women come with heads covered and long dresses covered by a floor length coat or a burka, all remove their shoes and the Moslem city prays. The rest of the city continues the hubbub of daily life and doesn’t even seem to slow down while prayers are being said.
Not far from the Hippodrome hidden from view is the Basilica Cistern [photo attached]. It is an amazing store of water from the 532 AD. After the occupation of the city by the Ottomans [in the 1500’s] people collected water and fished for food through holes in their basement floors keeping the cistern a secret for over a century. Now visitors can walk through the cistern looking at the fish, listening to soothing music and marveling at the construction of something so long ago.
We also visited Topkapi palace showing all the treasures of the Sultans in the museum, Galata Tower where we could see the entire city [photo attached] and İstiklâl Caddesi the pedestrian street [photo attached] crowded with people moving like an ant colony with purpose, but no rush or hurry. I was most fascinated watching the people. Beautiful dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes and every other blend of looks, women in full black covering with only their eyes showing and women in skimpy nothings with everything showing, men finding ways to earn money by shining shoes, carrying bread on their heads and bags on their backs and selling everything imaginable. I expected beeping horns, loud shouts and a dirty huge city, but the language is soft so even with so many people in one place the city is quiet, people do not seem to be in a hurry and the streets are clean, lined with vibrant tulips. It was not at all what I expected, we felt safe and welcomed, and we both look forward to the next visit and the discovery of so much more.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
The killing of 33 people at Virginia Tech. University last week has my classes discussing how a mass killing like this could possibly happen. In each class at least one student says that this could only happen in the U.S., and that leads me to try to explain why it is possible in the U. S.
From the founding of our country we were given permission to “bear arms” so that we could protect ourselves in war with the British and the Native people. The fear of having a standing army like countries on the European continent convinced the writers of the constitution that the people must create a civilian army if needed, and for that, weapons were necessary. The mind set from the very beginning was to provide us with the means of protection from the enemy, whom ever that may be.
The enemy is not only a force from outside our nation, but the enemy is the “bad guy” who lives in our community and may want to cause us harm. We are given permission to protect ourselves, our families and our belongings, from those with the intent to rob us of that which we consider precious. The permission to protect ourselves creates a fear that forces us to pass laws that allow us to carry concealed weapons, and gives us invitation to use fire arms indiscriminately, in rage or when frightened and against those whom we should be protecting.
The National Rife Association repeatedly reminds us that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” and guns are not the problem. But we do not kill with knives and we all have multiple weapons nestled in the top kitchen drawer. If one is intent on protecting oneself, or committing a heinous crime it is much more difficult with a kitchen knife. That is a crime of intimacy. One must come close to the victim, make physical contact, eye contact and feel the heat of the other person’s body. The opportunity of a physical struggle is greater and the risk of personal harm is drastically enhanced. A gun is anonymous; a weapon can be engaged from a far distance or relatively close range. The shooter does not need to have contact with the victim, a massive number of bullets can be shot in a short amount of time and the personal risk to the protagonist is limited. Guns are the problem!! If we only had kitchen knives or red Swiss Army knives, killing sprees would be a rare occurrence.
Yet the problem is not only the access to weapons, but also a culture of violence. After WWII we marketed violence as entertainment; war movies, cowboy and Indian movies and television programs. The sight of Native savages and Nazi soldiers falling in massive numbers was the pabulum of the baby boomers. When that became tame the next generation enhanced the graphic depiction and added it to nightly news, prime time television, and popular music. And now we are exporting it to the entire world. The dulling of our sensitivities when we see someone die in the media is supported by a government who spends $.41 of every tax dollar on the military and only $.05 for education. Our priorities are obviously the support of violence. We spend 48% of the military spending in the world and the $415 billion price tag on the war in Iraq confirms that violence is very big business.
All of these things explain why an intelligent yet disturbed19 year old college student was able to kill himself along with 32 of his peers and professors. He immigrated to a country that gave him permission to purchase handguns without psychological testing, classes in gun safety or belonging to a registered hunting club and made his killing rampage possible.
The pattern of this discussion makes me ashamed of the United States. It makes it difficult to explain to my students that I am a normal American [nice, friendly, caring, intelligent]. It confuses them when I tell them that I am not afraid to live in the U.S. I do not fear for my life on the streets of Ohio and I do not lock the doors on my house or my car. People are friendly and hard working they care about their families and the rate of charitable giving shows how much they care for other people. Opportunities abound and creative energy is celebrated as we discover new ways to make the world a healthier easier place to live. Yet millions of our citizens do not have health care, 2million of our citizens [the population of Slovenija] are behind bars, the largest number of prisoners anywhere in the world, we kill criminals with the death penalty, we go to war under false pretenses, our children can buy guns before they are old enough to buy wine and almost 30,000 of our citizens are killed with hand guns each year.
It is hard for me to help my students understand all this, because I do not understand any of it myself.
From the founding of our country we were given permission to “bear arms” so that we could protect ourselves in war with the British and the Native people. The fear of having a standing army like countries on the European continent convinced the writers of the constitution that the people must create a civilian army if needed, and for that, weapons were necessary. The mind set from the very beginning was to provide us with the means of protection from the enemy, whom ever that may be.
The enemy is not only a force from outside our nation, but the enemy is the “bad guy” who lives in our community and may want to cause us harm. We are given permission to protect ourselves, our families and our belongings, from those with the intent to rob us of that which we consider precious. The permission to protect ourselves creates a fear that forces us to pass laws that allow us to carry concealed weapons, and gives us invitation to use fire arms indiscriminately, in rage or when frightened and against those whom we should be protecting.
The National Rife Association repeatedly reminds us that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” and guns are not the problem. But we do not kill with knives and we all have multiple weapons nestled in the top kitchen drawer. If one is intent on protecting oneself, or committing a heinous crime it is much more difficult with a kitchen knife. That is a crime of intimacy. One must come close to the victim, make physical contact, eye contact and feel the heat of the other person’s body. The opportunity of a physical struggle is greater and the risk of personal harm is drastically enhanced. A gun is anonymous; a weapon can be engaged from a far distance or relatively close range. The shooter does not need to have contact with the victim, a massive number of bullets can be shot in a short amount of time and the personal risk to the protagonist is limited. Guns are the problem!! If we only had kitchen knives or red Swiss Army knives, killing sprees would be a rare occurrence.
Yet the problem is not only the access to weapons, but also a culture of violence. After WWII we marketed violence as entertainment; war movies, cowboy and Indian movies and television programs. The sight of Native savages and Nazi soldiers falling in massive numbers was the pabulum of the baby boomers. When that became tame the next generation enhanced the graphic depiction and added it to nightly news, prime time television, and popular music. And now we are exporting it to the entire world. The dulling of our sensitivities when we see someone die in the media is supported by a government who spends $.41 of every tax dollar on the military and only $.05 for education. Our priorities are obviously the support of violence. We spend 48% of the military spending in the world and the $415 billion price tag on the war in Iraq confirms that violence is very big business.
All of these things explain why an intelligent yet disturbed19 year old college student was able to kill himself along with 32 of his peers and professors. He immigrated to a country that gave him permission to purchase handguns without psychological testing, classes in gun safety or belonging to a registered hunting club and made his killing rampage possible.
The pattern of this discussion makes me ashamed of the United States. It makes it difficult to explain to my students that I am a normal American [nice, friendly, caring, intelligent]. It confuses them when I tell them that I am not afraid to live in the U.S. I do not fear for my life on the streets of Ohio and I do not lock the doors on my house or my car. People are friendly and hard working they care about their families and the rate of charitable giving shows how much they care for other people. Opportunities abound and creative energy is celebrated as we discover new ways to make the world a healthier easier place to live. Yet millions of our citizens do not have health care, 2million of our citizens [the population of Slovenija] are behind bars, the largest number of prisoners anywhere in the world, we kill criminals with the death penalty, we go to war under false pretenses, our children can buy guns before they are old enough to buy wine and almost 30,000 of our citizens are killed with hand guns each year.
It is hard for me to help my students understand all this, because I do not understand any of it myself.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Primrose
Zafran [wild crocus]
Spring has arrived in Slovenia. In the shade the air hints of a damp cold refrigerator, but the sun is so toasty that we shed layers searching for bare skin to sizzle in the sunrays. Each day more trees are blooming and soon the wild cherry tree out side our balcony will be exploding in white. The magnolia trees are giant pink ruffles next to the florescent feathery mimosa blossoms with crocuses underneath. Pansies and daffodils tilt their faces to the sunshine and shimmer in glowing light in the breeze.
Panovec is a wooded area close to the center of Nova Gorica. It has paths and dirt roads throughout the woods for hiking. In the lowlands wild crocuses speckle the grass between the toes of the trees where the fairies have left pink, purple, and white flowers. The snowdrops nod their bonnets, primroses clutch the earth on the southern slopes and white flowers that look like an anemones peak out of the carpet of leaves. The kos with it’s ink black body and orange beak sings arias from the tops of the trees while the little birds that look like a blend of chickadee and goldfinch add a pop tune closer to the ground.
The farmers have come alive too. The clear plastic protecting the salad crops is coming off, piles of manure delivered from the dairy farms in the high lands mark the ends of the gardens and the tractors are digging deep into the earth trading warm soil for the cool damp dirt. Small old tractors serve as modern horses pulling the hand led plow guided by a person walking behind.
It is also time to trim the vines. All over the steep hillsides people are working on the terraced land cutting the old growth so there will be grapes to harvest this year. The techniques of trimming are different with each grower; one vine from the trunk with 10-12 eyes curled and tied down or 2 vines with 10-12 eyes but not tied down, or the 3-3-3 system we were using in Joško’s vineyard; 3 short vines with only 3 eyes each, plus 3 nubs with only one eye as growth for the next year. Last year I was only willing to serve as the puller of the old vines for fear that I would trim something wrong. This year I boldly learned to see the growth of the vine, discern the old and unhealthy vines to be cut away revealing the strongest and healthiest left to nurture the 2007 grape crop. The hillsides are still with concentration with the occasional sound of a chain saw cutting posts for new plantings, and the slow dripping of the tears from the vines of the new cuttings.
The vineyards twist around the hillsides and everyone knows which section belongs to whom. Some of the current property boundaries were established by Archduchess Maria Theresia [1717-1780] of Austria, Holy Roman Empress and Queen of Hungary and Bohemia in the 1750’s. She brought unity to the Hapsburg monarchy and reform for the serfs living on the land in the empire. The serfs under feudalism leased specific land from a landowner, and the family passed from generation to generation the requirement to work this land in exchange for protection and care in time of famine. The understanding during this time of Enlightened Absolutism was that the strength of the monarchy was no longer determined by the size of the army and the amount of land, but by the health, well-being and productivity of the people. Maria Theresia imposed strict restrictions as to the treatment of the peasants by the landlords, and established that the work dues paid by the serfs become rent to inspire greater efficiency in the workers. The serfs had their own land of open fields for production, wood lots for fuel and building materials, and uplands for grazing the animals. These feudal lands have been inherited for generations and the style of farming small strips of land continues to this day.
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