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Thousands of children were forcibly taken from their families in Belgian colonies because they were mixed-race.

[–] testing@fedia.io -2 points 7 months ago

as blahaj.zone and lemmy.blahaj.zone run on different servers, and both were unreachable at the time of my op, i really meant dead, not down

 

not only its sharkey instance seems to be affected, but also its lemmy instance ...

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

From the Popol Vuh, or National Quiché History

[Excerpt from Part II]

“Brother, the bats have stopped moving. It looks like the sun has begun to rise,” said Ixbalanqué to Hunahpú.

“Perhaps. I am not sure,” answered Hunahpú, “Let me look…”

And when Hunapú stuck out his head, to see if dawn was breaking, Camazotz cut it off at the neck with a single blow.

“Hunahpú, is it morning yet?” Ixbalanqué asked. And when his brother did not reply, he yelled out, “Hunahpú! Where are you?”

Then Ixbalanqué understood the silence. […]

3
100 Refutations: Day 72 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

The Popol Vuh is a collection of mythic, legendary, and historical narratives from the K’iche Maya people, whose current descendants live primarily in Guatemala and the Mexican southwest. It is often referred to as both a historical account and sacred book. It has no single author and may be one of the most important documents to survive colonial cultural eradication efforts. Current copies of the Popol Vuh are taken from the transcription made by Fray Francisco Ximénez and, it has been theorized, an unknown native man who learned the Latin alphabet and then transcribed it from the recitation of an old Maya man.

 

I stand at the edge of life / thin, like a knife / swinging between / present and past.

 

A Turkish court ruled on Tuesday to release Kurdish poet İlhan Sami Çomak after he spent more than 30 years in prison on unproven charges, making him one of Turkey’s longest-serving political prisoners.

 

about us hums / a mythical insect / a God

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

I, Who Am Ignorant

I, who am ignorant Need to know If white is virtue true So I can go and bleach my skin

Asks this question, a loyal man Because he needs to know If the black man should not be baptized In the baptismal font

If there is yet another more pure

Going forward, going back Prettier, shinier Where the white man is dipped Will someone tell it straight For I, who am ignorant

Two men and one woman From whom we all descend While only the black man With disdain ought to be faced

The same blood it must be Though the black man alone Is placed forever Separate

If the black man is not baptized I need to know Black was St. Benedictine Black his paintings too And in the Holy Scripture I have never seen a single word writ in white ink

Black were the nails driven through the Christ’s hands Died, he, upon the holy cross Is it possible then, that down he came Not to suffer for the white man’s sins Only this way will I know If the color white is virtue true

When we have to account To my God for every deed How will the black man atone For the white man’s sins

If the black man is then found Without a crime for which to pay Will they say that it’s not true That the white man has no sentence That it’s all been misconstrued So that then I may go and bleach my skin

1
100 Refutations: Day 71 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

Manuel Saturio Valencia Mena (1867-1907) was a teacher, a poet, a popular leader from the Chocó region, and the very last man officially sentenced to death in Colombia. As a child, he participated in the parochial choir and learned both French and Latin under the tutelage of the Capuchin priests. He was an exceptional student and the first black man accepted to Cauca University’s law program. He earned the rank of captain while fighting in La Guerra De Los Mil Dias. He was a lifelong autodidact and served in many important positions in the region. In 1907, he was framed for arson—for likely political reasons—and, after a six-day trial, he was executed by firing squad.

 

The new poem “Mary of Gaza” was composed by Ibrahim Nasrallah. The English translation is by Huda Fakhreddine.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Every time…

Every time I lift my foot, every time I lift my hand, I shake my tail. I listen to your voice come from very far. I am almost asleep: I look for a fallen tree to crawl inside, and sleep. My skin, my foot, my hand, my ears are scratched.

2
100 Refutations: Day 70 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

This poem is believed to be a festive poem for children with religious connotations. It was originally collected by Phillip and Mary Baer from the Lacandon people of the Pelhá region.

 

In advance of READ PALESTINE WEEK 2024, Publishers for Palestine is releasing a digital chapbook and abbreviated zine version of And Still We Write: Recent Work by Palestinian Poets & Actions You Can Take to Stop Genocide Now.

From the introduction:

“These poems and reflections do not exist separately from their authors, nor from the place and time in which they were composed. They are not here for passive reading. And so, at the end of this collection, we leave you with suggested actions. As poet Rasha Abdulhadi has written:

‘Wherever you are, whatever sand you can throw on the gears of genocide, do it now.’”

With poetry and prose by: Mohamed Al-Zaqzouq, Heba Al-Agha, Nasser Rabah, Samer Abu Hawash, Mahmoud Al-Shaer, Esam Hajjaj, Basman Aldirawi, Doha Kahlout, and more.

Also: On December 1, Publishers for Palestine member Radical Books Collective will host an online discussion of And Still We Write and Isabella Hammad’s Recognizing the Stranger.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Return to the Countryside

Women pounded the grain for a vegetable stew

night was imminent they had to hurry because lanterns were forbidden

when the gong called for dinner the soldiers did not share the meal with the peasants

the next morning half of them had denounced their parents the other half wore posters on their bodies condemned to certain death

the order was to climb the mountain to live up in the heights among the lowliest but the sky answered with floods

so they returned to the cities looking for carrion

that was my army ravenous crows


Rationing

In the line a woman shouts there’s flour

I think of warm biscuits

Soon I hear only rice is left but my happiness is futile

They’re bringing sugar Oh! miracle I will wait I hear words ricochet the sugar is gone

The line begins to disperse

I persist eventually they will bring something finally a hand offers me a chicken I leave with my treasure

In a bookstore nearby a friend has the nerve to read me a long poem the poet doesn’t know why I flee such an ordinary goodbye fills me with guilt

You must live in a country with hunger to understand how a poem’s symmetry can be broken by the slow drip of guts and blood

1
100 Refutations: Day 69 | InTranslation (intranslation.brooklynrail.org)
 

María Teresa Ogliastri was born in Los Teques, Venezuela, and lives in Caracas. She is the author of five collections of poetry: Del diario de la señora Mao (From the Diary of Madame Mao, 2011); Polo Sur (South Pole, 2008); Brotes de Alfalfa (Alfalfa Sprouts, 2007); Nosotros los inmortales (We, the Immortals, 1997); and Cola de Plata (Silver Tail, 1994). She has been featured at poetry festivals throughout Latin America, and her poems appear in several anthologies of contemporary Venezuelan poetry. She is a professor of philosophy at the Central University of Venezuela.

 

Translation of an oral transmission between a mother and daughter. Originally narrated by Yanina Koubatski. Translated, from the Palestinian Arabic, by Reem Hazboun Taşyakan Chrisho, my daughter, I’m going to tell you about what happened to me, but this …

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Like Coal

And then you were born, girl with eyes so black. Black as the coal your father burns, like your mother’s skillet, like the burnt underside of her comal.

Like the eye of the well shot through by darkness.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Retelling of the Flood Caused by the Mapocho River in the City of Santiago de Chile

“On June 16, 1783 the effects of torrential rains caused the river Mapocho in Santiago, Chile to flood its banks. At the time the small community of Carmelite nuns resided in their cloistered convent next to the river. The rains started in May, but became a deluge in early June and by the time of the great flood, it had poured for 209 hours straight. The nuns would have drowned, had it not been for some neighbors who broke a hole in one of the walls, leading twenty-eight women to safety. Sor Tadea de San Joaquín, a nun from the Carmelite Convent of San Rafael, retells their story in a 516-versed romance [ballad], wherein Sor Tadea affirms that it was God’s will that the nuns be saved by the three men (she does not leave out the ironic detail that they had to be sobornados (bribed).”

– Sarah E. Owens, Travels, Natural Disasters, and the Texts of Cloistered Nuns: A Case from Colonial Chile

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Indigenous Identity

Identity, it is not in my hair It is not in my face Reflecting in the mirror. Identity is not something to see, It has no form, it has no color But delicate like a flower it is Identity lies within the speaking force In the profundity of a look In the singularity of my place Identity is open hands and share Feel the earth’s echoes and Love and peace at heart. Identity is open arms and receive The brotherly affirmation. Identity is Union!

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

The Man

When encircled by a thirst of soul man, a desert traveler, wishes to gather armfuls of laurels, having reached the gates of glory; “Stop right here,” however, he says to the woman… Returning, then, to his march, if he feels himself waver, and lose his valor, “Come, come,” he tells her, “You are my partner in the hours of combat and agony…”

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Foolish Men

Foolish men, eagerly accusing women without cause, seeing not that from you springs the very same, those very flaws;

If readily you do invite them to happily disdain you, how do you want them well behaved if toward evil you’ll incite them?

[…]

What temper could be stranger? Than that of he who, lacking counsel, fogs the mirror with his breath and then whines at blurred reflection?

[…]

How can she, who for your love longs, keep her wits and keep her center if she who doesn’t is a prude and offends and she who does is a slut and angers?

Though between the anger and the insult by all your liking forged, if there still be one who doesn’t want you, then joyous hour for complaint.

Your lovers hang sorrows on liberty’s wings for, after making them bad, you wish to find them good.

Whom, then, has sinned more in mistaken passion: she who falls to his begging? Or he who, fallen, begs her?

Or who has greater blame, though in any blame you’ll find, she who sins for pay or he who pays to sin?

How are you then startled to find guilt there in your heart? Love them as you make them. Or make them as you wish.

[…]

Now, with all my weapons your arrogance I battle, for in promise and petition you join devil, flesh, and world.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

Prayer to the Moon

Moon, lead to me a woman to be my wife. Lead her to me, oh moon. Moon, a horse, lead to me also. Moon, lead to me, a tiger.

[–] testing@fedia.io 1 points 7 months ago

from the article:

To Live and Die

Smoke and nothingness, the breath of being: Flower, man, and bird die too as love runs to forgetful seas and pleasure flees to a burial of brevity.

Where are yesterday’s lights? All splendors have their dusk, behind liquor hides all bitterness, and everything is rectified by the evil of being born.

Who laughed without first, in pain, moaning pleasure, sweet suffering? Crazy and vain, the passion of feeling!

Vain and crazy, I long for thought! What is it to live? To dream without sleeping. What is it to die? To sleep without dreaming.

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