Curiosa per natura, ho sempre avuto un debole per la tecnologia. E in effetti quando, nel lontano , dopo la laurea in Economia e Commercio, iniziai la professione di account pubblicitario feci veramente fatica a spiegare ad amici e parenti il mio lavoro! Mai sognato di fare la ballerina, al limite l'archeologa o la pistolera nel profondo west! Out: i capelli crespi - stirare - gli occhiali da sole - i villaggi turistici - gli inglesismi.
In: la barca a vela, dipingere, fare shopping, fare il bucato - utilizzando la lavatrice? Out: la Pioggia - detto da una torinese! In: viaggiare, ichnusa non filtrata Out: il caldo, lavorare. Dopo la laurea in comunicazione ho lavorato come copywriter per poi passare al digital marketing, un mondo in continua evoluzione che rappresenta per me, sempre alla ricerca di nuove sfide, la collocazione ideale.
In: downhill, umorismo demenziale, vino, orsi Out: spazi stretti, maltempo, broccoli, suono del polistirolo. Laureata in Scienze della Comunicazione nel , ho vissuto e lavorato in Australia e nel sud-est asiatico, esplorando paesi meravigliosi e culture incantevoli. Il mio percorso nel mondo digitale parte da lontano. Agli inizi le mie dita accarezzavano i tasti del pianoforte e col passare del tempo quei tasti sono diventati quelli della tastiera. Scrivo e leggo musica come i progetti digitali: a volte interpreto anche un po'. In: Chopin, Listz, e la musica della famiglia. Altruista e sensibile verso coloro che stanno peggio.
Out: l'arrivismo, le persone false, l'egoismo. In: la montagna, i cibi salati, George Orwell Out: il disordine, la caffeina, chi mangia mandarini in pubblico. Sognatrice ma con i piedi per terra. Metereopatica all'occasione. In: Il sole, il Bubble Tea, la mia "Cake", viaggiare sempre e per sempre. Out: Milano nei giorni di pioggia, i treni, il disordine. Cerco di adattarmi alle nuove sfide e offrire una direzione creativa e strategica che aiuti il cliente a raggiungere i suoi obiettivi.
Durante i miei studi in comunicazione, ho sviluppato un forte interesse per i social network. Arrivata in Wellnet nel marzo ho iniziato a specializzarmi in Facebook Ads per poi espandere i miei orizzonti al resto del mondo digital. I miei obiettivi futuri? In: cioccolato, blu, the beatles, yoga Out: formaggio, i libri di Moccia, montagna. Conseguo la laurea in Ingegneria informatica al Politecnico nel Successivamente lavoro all'interno del Politecnico come assegnista di ricerca del DAUIN e presso una web agency torinese. Nel ricopro prima il ruolo di sviluppatore senior in ambito mobile e responsabile del team in 3ding Consulting.
In Wellnet ricopro il ruolo di team leader, a casa il bersaglio preferito di Sebastiano e Pietro. In: La montagna, lo sci, la griglia Out: Il caldo, la coda in autostrada soprattutto al caldo. Dopo alcune esperienze digitali durante il periodo universitario inizio ad appassionarmi di social e comunicazione online sviluppando anche dei progetti personali. Formazione continua che mi porta oggi a ricoprire il ruolo di Project Manager in Wellnet, con un occhio di riguardo ai progetti social.
Da tanti anni lavoro con Drupal e contribuisco nella sua Community. La voglia di conoscenza mi porta a studiare sempre nuovi linguaggi e tecnologie come React e Docker. In: aggiornamento continuo, tennis, montagna, dolci di ogni genere Out: doppi fini, saccenza, acronimi. Dopo varie e variegate esperienze nel mondo del digital marketing, sono approdata in Wellnet nel Marzo In: Salsiccia Friarielli, le passeggiate in montagna, le passeggiate al mare, le passeggiate. Out: La nebbia, i tortelli di zucca, non trovare parcheggio appena arrivo. Sono una moderna cantastorie diplomata in Visual Design.
A novembre sono approdata in 2thepoint come Art director Junior e da gennaio nella grande famiglia di Wellnet. La mia filosofia creativa? In: Rossetti scuri, serie tv, gli spoiler, le giacche, creare e disegnare storie Out: I dolcevita, il latino americano, il caldo, gli horror. Ci ho messo del tempo ma sono arrivato infine a decidere un cammino da intraprendere, per quanto le tre opzioni precedenti ancora mi allettino molto.
Ho cominciato come aiuto grafico per poi arrivare in Wellnet nel Dicembre come Art e Web Designer. In: la birra, lo sport, il cinema anni 90, il colore verde Out: il caldo, la lavastoviglie caricata male, il frigo vuoto, i finocchi gratinati. Da piccola ero il tipo di bambina che aggiungeva segretamente i dettagli agli omini senza braccia disegnati dai compagni Da piccola avevo sempre una matita in mano e le materie artistiche erano le mie preferite.
Da qui, l'inizio del percorso che mi ha vista diplomare in "Tecnico Europeo della Grafica Pubblicitaria". Ho iniziato a lavorare nel come impaginatrice di riviste, per poi passare agli allestimenti fieristici, fino a specializzarmi nel BTL. Lavoro in Wellnet da gennaio , dove mi occupo di grafica digitale. Vesto quasi sempre di nero ma amo tutti i colori. Sono una graphic designer appassionata di illustrazione e fotografia. In: i viaggi zaino in spalla, avere tempo, i panda, camminare con la testa tra le nuvole Out: chi parla troppo, l'eccessiva organizzazione, la fretta.
Nonostante la mia natura sia semplice e tradizionalista, in questi anni sono riuscita a trasformarmi, rinnovarmi, reinventarmi per seguire la mia passione per questo lavoro IN: Fotografare il cielo, fare la turista per caso ovunque, la musica rock OUT: Fare sport, dipendere dai mezzi di trasporto, facebook. Durante i miei studi in Business Management e Marketing a Londra, ho sviluppato un interesse per i social media e soprattutto per il content strategy. Essendo cresciuta in una famiglia bilingue, italiana e tedesca, ho un inclinazione ad apprendere facilmente nuove lingue.
Peter, Paul and Mary. In inglese Peter Paul and Mary cantarono solo un brevissimo brano iniziale, passando poi al testo francese molto simile, seppure leggermente diverso, a quello della versione di Mouloudji trasmessa dalla radio Europe 1 il 4 marzo , data della prima storica trasmissione della canzone.
Italian Truth Magazine by Livia Guérin - Issuu
It was just this version that, after long time of banishment and oblivion, allowed the song to be rediscovered and to gain all the celebrity it deserves. It soon became a symbol on the wings of the protest move against the war in Vietnam and, generally speaking, of the antimilitarist and pacifist world movement. As it has already been stated in the introduction to the original French lyrics, it is the version as originally sung by Marcel Mouloudji, with all the changes Boris Vian and Marcel Mouloudji themselves had been constantly making to get through the censorship imposed by French authorities; it was all in vain.
Peter, Paul and Mary used to sing in English only the first four verses, then singing the modified French lyrics. The following lyrics are slightly different from the version performed by Marcel Mouloudji and broadcast by the station Europe 1 on March 4, , the historic date on which the song was transmitted for the first time. Signori dai grandi nomi, vi scrivo una lettera che forse leggerete se ne avete il tempo. Signori dai grandi nomi io non voglio farla, non sono sulla terra per uccidere la povera gente.
Non dovete adirarvi ma bisogna che vi dica, le guerre sono delle idiozie il mondo ne ha abbastanza. Da quando sono nato ho visto morire dei fratelli, ho visto partire dei padri e i bambini piangere Le madri hanno troppo sofferto quando altri se la spassano e vivono a proprio agio malgrado la melma di sangue. Se occorre versare il sangue andate a versare il vostro, o voi signori ipocriti, signori dai grandi nomi.
E se mi cercherete avvertite i vostri gendarmi che io non porto armi e che potranno sparare, e che potranno sparare. I have just received my military papers To go to war before Wednesday evening. Sirs, you who are called "great," I don't want to do that. I am not on earth to kill poor people. This is not meant to annoy you, but I must tell you: Wars are insane. The world has enough of them.
Since I was born, I have seen brothers die. I have seen fathers leave, and children cry. Mothers have suffered too much while others prosper And live at their ease in spite of mud and blood. There are prisoners whose souls have been stolen, Whose wives have been stolen, and all their loved ones gone. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I will close the door On the past. I will go on the road. I will beg for my livelihood on land and sea, From the old to the new world, and I will say to people: Profit from life. Alleviate misery. All men are brothers.
People of all countries: If it is necessary to spill blood, go spill your own. Sirs, you good apostles sirs, you who are called "great": If you pursue me, inform your police That I will be unarmed, and they can shoot, And they can shoot. Essendo contenuta anche in numerosi altri siti, finora era stata attribuita erroneamente a Jerome Swans. Ci scusiamo per l'errore. It is not made for singing. Pas chantable. President I'm writing you a letter that perhaps you will read If you have the time. I've just received my call-up papers to leave for the front Before Wednesday night.
President I do not want to go I am not on this earth to kill wretched people. It's not to make you mad I must tell you my decision is made I am going to desert. Since I was born I have seen my father die I have seen my brothers leave and my children cry. My mother has suffered so, that she is in her grave and she laughs at the bombs and she laughs at the worms. When I was a prisoner they stole my wife they stole my soul and all my dear past. Early tomorrow morning I will shut my door on these dead years I will take to the road. I will beg my way along on the roads of France from Brittany to Provence and I will cry out to the people: Refuse to obey refuse to do it don't go to war refuse to go.
If blood must be given go give your own you are a good apostle Mr. If you go after me warn your police that I'll be unarmed and that they can shoot. English translation by James Prescott , from This page. A very British singable adaptation in which the French president is replaced by His Majesty the King. There just came through my door, my army papers warning, We leave on Monday morning, we march away to war.
Well, I don't fit your plan, I must refuse the shilling, For I'm no longer willing to kill my fellow man. Your Majesty, I say, with due consideration, It's my determination, I will desert today. I've seen my father die, I've seen my sisters grieving, My older brothers leaving, my younger brothers cry. My mother knew such wrongs, she lies beneath her tombstone, She cares no more for tombstones, she cares no more for songs.
While I was in the hole, they stole away my good wife, They stole away my good life, they stole away my soul. So now I'll slam my door, on all those years of sorrow, And starting from tomorrow, I'll sleep at home no more. I'm off to beg my way, to tramp the roads and islands, From Cornwall to the Highlands, and this is what I'll say: "Refuse to go to war, refuse to cross the borders, Refuse to obey orders, desert and fight no more.
You'd be a fine example, Your Majesty the King. If you would hunt me down, tell Tom and Dick and Harry, No weapon will I carry, and they may gun me down. Da Questa pagina Une autre version anglaise, par Davide Turcato. C'est donc la version anglaise de la version italienne. Further English version by Davide Turcato. As the author himself clearly states, it is based upon Ivano Fossati's Italian version , rather than on the French original. It's so an English version of the Italian version. From this page. The draft card here plainly tells me that I have to go make war this coming Monday. However, I am not here, Dear President, to kill people more or less like me.
I am not annoyed with you, by the way, but I feel I have decided and I will desert. I only had trouble since I was born and the children I brought up have cried with me. My mom and my dad are buried now and about the war they won't give a damn. When I was a prisoner someone stole my wife and my past, my best age. Tomorrow I am going to get up I am going to close the door on the dead season and set off. I'll live on charity on the streets of Spain, of France and Britain and I'll call on everyone not to leave anymore and not to obey just to end up dead for no matter who.
Therefore if you need blood at all costs, go give yours, if this amuses you. And, please, tell your men, if they come for me, that they can shoot at me, weapons I don't have. Andreas Hilmo Teig's Website. For I've received with fright a letter from the army Informing that they need me in the trenches Wednesday night. But Mister President, my heart was never willing I wasn't made for killing, you'll never have me bent. I hope you don't feel hurt by reading my confession I've made a firm decision: I'm going to desert. I've felt the pains of war: my father followed orders And died, just like my brothers.
My kids I hardly saw. My mother's suffering ended and where she is resting No bombs and no molesting upon her may descend. When I a captive was they took away my wife That woman was my life, and all that's left is loss. Tomorrow I will rise and close my front door silently At dawn, and leave behind me the dead years of my life. I now will spend my time a pilgrim on a voyage So all can hear this message, be told about this crime: Do not accept that hate, refuse to obey their orders, Do not commit their murders, be not a soldier made.
If blood must now be shed you should give some of yours For, President, your laws like apostles' words us led. If my arrest you plot, please tell the guards that catch me That I no arms will carry, and safely can be shot. English version by John Hayday , a folk songwriter from New Zealand. John Hayday died on June 29, , in his native Auckland.
John Hayday. John was busking in France with Ralph McTell in the 60s and he apparently asked someone to translate it for him to sing. This morning through my door there fell the orders telling me Where I must go, where I must be to serve you in your war. Dear sirs who rule the earth this war of yours is not for me For the deaths of other men can't be the purpose of my birth.
I bear you no ill will but you should know that men like me Think war is just stupidity and man has had his fill. The days of all our lives have just seen husbands dying And little children crying, and the misery of wives. And mothers in their tears, while others just grow fat on war And do not grieve a moment for those wasted wasting years.
And prisoners of war who prison robs of heart and mind Of youth, of joy and all that's kind and all that's gone before. Tomorrow I will go, I'll turn my back upon the past And try to find some peace at last but where I do not know. I'll beg my way around and tell all people that I find Until I've told all human kind that life is ours to live. And if you have lust for blood then let the blood be yours For yours are all the bloody wars, dear sirs who rule the earth. If you send your police to hunt and catch me as I go Tell them I am unarmed and so they can shoot me in peace.
Unarmed I'm safe to kill. President I'm writing you a letter I hope that you can read it if you spared the time 'Cause I have just received a call to active duty to leave my home and fight your war this Wednesday night at 9 Mr. President I don't think I should go I don't think I was put on Earth to kill no poor people Don't mean to get you mad at all I'm informing all of you that my decision's final I plan to go AWOL Since I've been alive I've seen my father die brothers and sisters going too many children cry My mama has suffered so that from beyond the grave I know she's President Go get me if you will and tell the Texas ranges I'll be unarmed and dangerous and they shoud shoot to kill.
NOTICE From the following version onwards, all versions and translations of the song will be ordered alphabetically by the language. NO WAR! Lingua: Aleut. Maynery Versione in lingua aleutina di Elmett R. Maynery, trascritta dagli "Exercises to R. Aleut version by Elmett R. Maynery, transcribed from the "Exercises to R. Danzatori aleutini. Aleut Dancers. Lingua: Arabo.
Translation reproduced from this turess. Lingua: Basco. La versione basca euskara di Koldo Izagirre proveniente da Literatur Emailuak - Susa literatura argitaletxea , gentilmente segnalataci da Gorka Arrese del sito stesso. Kindly contributed by site owner and administator Gorka Arrese. Kantu antimilitarista oso ezaguna egin zen, lehendabizikoz Marcel Mouloudjik abestua ko maiatzean Harold Berge-ren musikarekin. Boris Vianek berak kantatua entzun dezakezu. Duela 50 urte, gaurkoa bezalako egun batez hil zen Parisen Boris Vian idazle frantsesa. Ramon Etxezarretak ekarri zuen euskarara Egunen aparra , Elkar eta Juantxo Zigandak Ttu eginen dut zuen hilobietan , Igela nobela.
Boris Vianen Desertorea kantuaren itzulpena kendu diogu Koldo Izagirreri orain. Boris Vianek berak kantatua entzun dezakezu hemen. Lingua: Cabilo. Mohya Mohand Ouhyaya. Ferhat Mehenni. Lingua: Bretone. Bretagna: Le rovine di Brest. Bretagne: Brest en ruines. Brittany: Brest in ruin. Pa oan prizoniad diganin o deus laerezhet ma gwrag ha ma ene ha ma holl vuhez ger. Lingua: Bulgaro. The translation is poetic and versified, but the author is not stated.
Za pismoto dano otdelite moment. Lingua: Italiano Lombardo Brianzolo. Traduce, come variante, anche la chiusa originale non pacifista. Also the "non-pacifist" original final stanza has been translated. Lingua: Catalano. Joan Isaac. Si tratta in alcuni punti di una versione poetica molto libera. It is a poetic and definitely free version, particularly in some points. M'acaben d'arribar Uns documents militars, Que se'm porten a la guerra Dimarts en clarejar. Ma mare va patir tant Que ara en el lloc de les tombes Es burla de vostres bombes, I del mot altisonant.
I si cal la sang donar, Aneu-hi i vesseu la vostra. Us dic, oh Gran Senyor! Lingua: Ceco. Signori Superiori, dicono che siete grandi e questo non cambia assolutamente nulla. Lingua: Cinese. Lingua: Francese Ch'ti. E' opera di una persona che ha voluto restare anonima, abitante a Valenciennes. La ringrazio per la sua gentilezza e rispetto il suo desiderio.
Riccardo Venturi. Lingua: Coreano. Lingua: Corso. Lingua: Croato. La version n'est pas chantable. Note: This version and the following Serbian version show a number of modifications of "local" nature to better fit the peculiar situation of relevant countries: f. This is no singable version. Lingua: Danese. Jeg har lyst til at synge det, som rager folk i dag. Nu synger jeg kun mine egne viser. Igen fik jeg et brev med ordre til at stille men da jeg ikke ville jeg disse linier skrev. Un'altra versione in lingua danese, di Kjeld Ingrisch , da questa pagina.
Alternative Danish version by Kjeld Ingrisch, from This page. Originally composed in Jeg flygter nu i nat. Lingua: Ebraico. Il prof. Avraham 'Oz, the author of this version first published by the magazine Ha'olam Haze -"This World" is a teacher of English language and literature at the Haifa University, Israel and one of their recognized leaders.
Romanized Hebrew version by Riccardo Venturi. A word-for-word translation of the French original lyrics into Hebrew, from yossik. Lingua: Esperanto. Jak Le Puil. Alvenis jen paper' kun la ordon-invito foriri al milito mekrede je l'vesper' Mi diras sen rezon' ke tion mi ne faros mi sur la ter' ne staros por murdo de la hom'.
Se fluu nun la sang' la propran do vi donos, jen kion mi proponos, Sinjor' de alta rang'. Ci tiu rekrutkarto al mi rekte ordonas foriri al milito venontan lundon. Miaj patro kaj patrino nun jam estas subgrunde kaj pri la milito ili nepre ne zorgos. La tria, alternativa versio estas traduko de Franko Luin. Ricevis mi ordonon eniri la armeon, akcepti la ideon, ke pafi estas bon'. Mi tion ne obeos! Ne estas mi sur tero por ies ajn konkero nek pafo de kunhom'!
Dum miaj dudek jaroj mi vidis patrojn morti, patrinojn nigron porti, infanojn en la plor'. Suferas la patrinoj, dum kelkaj sin amuzas kaj la militon uzas por gajno kaj profit'. Ne estas vi pajaco! Vi estas frato, hom'! Ni kriu kune: Ne! Ne estu vi pajaco! Vi estu frato, hom'! Lingua: Estone. Ma eile kutse sain armeesse aastaks minna HK Lingua: Finlandese. Antti Kauppinen. Liisa Tavi.
Lingua: Italiano Genovese. Lingua: Giapponese. Lingua: Greco moderno. Lingua: Greco antico. Passi che ci piacerebbe poter riportare. Riccardo Venturi, Friburgo, 10 gennaio Romanized lyrics. Per la trascrizione: corrisponde sempre a tedesco o francese o lombardo. Word-for-word Italian translation of the Classical Greek version.
Mi avete infatti ordinato espressamente, in quanto cittadino ateniese, di partire da casa per andare a fare la guerra. Ma io, signori Arconti, sulla guerra ci sputo sopra: non sono stato generato da mia madre per essere un massacratore di povera gente. Se infatti occorre versare il sangue, allora versate il vostro, signori: da voi certo non mi aspetterei una simile ipocrisia! Lingua: Indonesiano. A word-for-word translation of the French original reproduced from a page of Mozaik el Maula. Namun saya yakin dalam keadaan itu hati kecil kita merasa bersalah atau minimal berasa tak nyaman.
Lingua: Islandese. From songvar. The version is fully singable. La version est chantable. Lingua: Kelartico. Si tratta della sua "lingua privata e personale", con tutta una sua storia ed una sua evoluzione, che egli usa rigorosamente con se stesso. In kelartico non esistono dittonghi. Lingua: Kongo. Mu me kuzua mikanda ya munu ya ki soda Samu mu kuenda na mvita bilumbu ke kuiza. Ya kele ve samu nge fuema, Mu zona zabisa nge ti mu me zua lukanu: Mu ke tina. Banda mu butukaka Mu monaka lufua ya tata ya munu Mu monaka ku kuenda ya bampangi ya munu Na lelaki mpe bana na nga.
Mama na munu mona mpasi mingi Yandi ke na dibulu na yandi Kuna, ba bombe na nge na mitshiopi ke sala yandi kima mosi ve. Thangu mu vuandaka na buloko, ba yibaka nkento ya munu; ba yibaka muela na munu na ba souvenir na munu. Mbazi na nsuka, mu ke kanga porte ya ba mvula yonso ya mpasi me luta. Mu ke kuenda na munu. Mu ke banda sosa dimpa ya munu Na ba nzila ya Africa, ya Soudan, ya Congo.
Mu ke zabisa batu: Benu ndima ve, benu kuenda na mvita ve. Si kana nge zona dukula menga, buna pesa yina ya nge. I know that we are not perfect but I question their sense of perspective.
So with all these years and untold hours online I am sure NSA has heard plenty. Terrorists, spies, and hackers routinely engage me online and usually publicly. I suspect many of those conversations are archived somewhere. That being said, the value of those conversations, in terms of their mission, is minimal at best. The world is a very scary place and the intelligence community is not going to waste its time on me. Francesca Recchia : We share a passion for geography and maps.
A great part of your artistic and conceptual work has been concentrated on what may be summarised as mapping the invisible. How do you inhabit such an oxymoron? Trevor Paglen : Most of the work I do is self-contradictory: I make images that tend to be quite abstract and at the same time, I do a huge amount of empirical work to arrive at those abstractions. FR : Photography is an important element in both your research process and its final outcomes. Whether buildings, documents, satellites, or airplanes, most of the subjects of your photographs are classified, but you always make a point in shooting them from public land.
In this historical phase of hyper-control, is this a way of reclaiming our right to the common, our right to a free public domain? From the earliest photos I took of classified military installations, I almost thought of them as documentation-of-performances. FR : Your work seems to reside on the fine line between the absurd and the sublime. Is that a deliberate quest for a new kind of poetic space of artistic creation? TP : What I want out of art is things that help us see who we are now.
To me the world looks like a combination of the absurd and the sublime. Almost a sci-fi version of the romantic explorers who would go and discover new worlds, connecting cultures and perceptions of the world. Have you ever felt like an inter-galactic Indiana Johns? TP : The Last Pictures is very much about the conjunction of the absurd and the sublime. The project started when I realized that certain kinds of satellites geostationary are in orbits so far from earth that when they power-down and die, their inert hulls remain in space, essentially forever.
Billions of years — they are probably by far the longest-lasting things humans have ever made, transcending even the deep-time of geology and encroaching on the time of the cosmos. FR : What is the sort of human kind that emerges from the selection of photos that you have chosen to send travelling in the outer space with The Last Pictures Project? Or new frontiers for the semantics of eternity? But where someone with a background in observational cosmology finds clues to the early universe in the images of a Hubble Space Telescope, I look at the night sky and tend to see all of the secret machines that are spying on the earth below.
Not incidentally, the Hubble Space Telescope is itself essentially a re-purposed spy satellite. FR : From a non-practicing academic to a non-practicing academic: your work seems to address the issue of knowledge production from a perspective that questions the prominence of the logos. You create and unpack complex notions, using languages that go beyond the verbal.
You seem to make a pretty strong statement about the potentials of the visual as an independent form of knowledge production. TP : Thanks. FR : Your artistic work is the result of extensive and meticulous investigative research. Do you think that the fact that after all it is only just art allows for a protected space of enquiry and a greater freedom to expose sensitive geopolitical issues?
TP : Not really. A lot of scholarship is pretty formulaic. With art you have to invent your own forms themselves, which is really hard. FR : Can you tell me a secret? TP : The government is spying on you. Like many secrets, this one is well-known but is still officially a secret. Anche queste improvvise e passeggere — coprono tutto di una coltre marroncina, una tosse, uno starnuto e vanno via. Sono passati esattamente sei anni dal primo bollettino che ho spedito, era il 14 ottobre del , e allora come adesso scrivo di tempeste di sabbia.
Autumn in Kabul feels very special. As I write I see in the garden the last blooming roses, the ones that are left are red and pink. The three quince trees are full of ripening fruits; the grapes that survived the hailstorm are waiting to be picked; and the blood-red pomegranates, which are smaller this year, are full of juice. In this time of the year you can feel the changes day after day. The season begins quite theatrically announced by a hailstorm that lasts just about half an hour. I wonder why hailstorms only happen once a year — it is the third since I arrived, they are quick and violent and they visibly mark the passage between the seasons.
Autumn brings with dust storms, which here have their own name: khaakbaad that literally means wind of dust. Even these storms are sudden and transient — they cover everything in a brownish coat, trigger a cough, a sneeze and then go. But they come back, once again sudden, and always unannounced.
I wonder why I always end up living in places where dust storms are an integral part of the landscape and the conversation. It is exactly six years since I sent out my first bulletin, it was the 14 th of October , then like now I wrote about sand storms. Six years ago, in that first bulletin, I wrote about my first impressions of Erbil:.
Mountains rise all of a sudden, a bit blurred in the murky air. The sky is never clear: there is always a fine and powdery sand that covers everything, making air almost palpable — and my hair feeling like straw. Mountains, deserts and dust storms: strange recurring elements that give shape and colour to all these years of travels, unexpected symbols of my nomadic geographies of affection.
This piece was first published in Kashmir Reader on June 14th, The first glimpse from afar confirms that Kashmir lives up to its expectations: a picturesque land of pristine natural beauty. But then, the plane begins its descent and the runway gets closer. And dozens of military barracks start taking shape. With their apparent temporariness, they embody the ineluctability of permanence and with their blue and grey camouflage they occupy the landscape with a sense of intrusive heaviness.
The first encounter with Kashmir at the ground level is almost the opposite of its aerial view: it is armed, muscular, and grim. The nervous presence of the Indian army, with their self-assured attitude of righteousness, generates an edgy atmosphere. The army carry with them a sense of tragedy, they intimidate rather than conveying the feeling of safety and security that is supposedly at the core of their mission.
But how does one tell this story without resorting to graphic descriptions of brutalities, without falling into the trap of a hyper-visual domain where the conflict is interesting in as much as it is spectacular? How does one account for the subtleties and the invisible consequences that a military occupation inevitably provokes?
Streets, walls, architecture are powerful entry points to a different way of narrating conflict. It is rarely the case that the built environment is considered as a possible tool to interpret this kind of situations. Many of the scholars who study this field, discuss it in terms of urbicide — the killing of the urban space, its violation by bombs, tanks and coils of razor wire. This theoretical approach treats the built environment as a victim, as one of the many casualties of war, but it fails to address it as a witness and a repository of memories and testimonies.
This omission may lead to a limiting intellectual position that does not consider that the built environment does not lie, but maintains in its fabric the evidence of facts and stories that ideological discourses may try to erase. When roaming in the streets of Srinagar, a city of poetic beauty, this undercurrent of tension never leaves you.
Legitimised by the global argument of security, which is locally translated in terms of keeping subversive individuals at bay while protecting the cultural minorities and their heritage, the Indian army has appropriated temples and cultural centres across Kashmir, wrapped them in razor wire and practically transformed them into military bases.
The military presence is so capillary that it is almost impossible to avoid it. In a recent article 10 April , Kashmir Watch — a branch of the Europe-based Kashmir International Research Centre — reported that in the past eight years the army vacated about private and public buildings, but are still under their control — including eight cinemas and seventy nine hotels. The visual impact of this presence is both evident at first glance and hidden in the details that may not be striking in their appearance, but are devastating in their recurrence. It is not always necessary to use gory images to understand the depth of pain and the blindness of cruelty.
To this sort of considerations, the Indian army and official governmental sources respond by claiming that since the summer of unrest things have improved. The state government boasts statistics about the renewed presence of tourists: the number of visitors is used against detractors and malignant activists to demonstrate the achievement of a new phase of peace and stability: honeymooning couples coming from all over India taking boat rides on the Dal Lake provide evidence for that.
Agha Shahid Ali, the poet who more than anyone else gave voice to the unique mixture of beauty and brutality that seems to be the essence of the Valley, has been my guide during my last visit to Srinagar. I have looked at the city through the lens of his words. While wandering around the lanes of the old city, my steps seemed to echo each one of his verses.
In the apparent quiet that shrouded the city, the stones of ancient buildings mixed with those that came to symbolise the uprising. The authorities may claim the taming of stone pelters while the lack of visible daily violence can come to signify peace. And yet, the poet is there to remind us what the Latin author Tacitus noted almost two thousand years ago: solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant — they make a desolation and call it peace.
The Little Book of Kabul. It was such a joy to have the chance to swap books with Bette Dam! Her work is absolutely remarkable: serious, committed, scrupulous — we are really proud to count her among our friends.
Her fully-Afghan produced book, A Man and a Motorcycle. How Hamid Karzai Came to Power cam be purchased here. A big thank you to Margherita Stancati and Nathan Hodge for offering the perfect setting with their proverbial hospitality. View original post.
Francesca Recchia ha attraversato mezzo mondo, spinta dalla passione per la conoscenza. Qui, ancora una volta, ha rotto gli schemi organizzando un gruppo di discussione alternativo aperto a tutti, in cui artisti e critici potevano incontrarsi, cosa fino a quel momento piuttosto rara. This article was first published in Domus , no. From the vantage point of a ramshackle tea stall on the south side of Hari Parbat Hill, the view over Srinagar— the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir, India—is breathtaking: eagles flying above the skyline, snowcapped mountains on the horizon and an endless sequence of sloping tin roofs, interrupted only by the towering spires of the many mosques.
On top of the hill stands a majestic fort, whose construction was first conceived and initiated by Emperor Akbar in the s, and then completed in the 18th century by the Afghan governor of Kashmir. Just below the fort is the Makhdoom Sahib Dargah, the tomb and shrine of the eponymous Sufi saint and one of the holiest places in the valley, revered by both Muslims and Hindus. Indeed, Hindus consider the hill to be especially sacred due to the presence of the Sharika Devi Temple dedicated to the goddess Shakti, an embodiment of the goddess Durga, who is both a maternal figure and a bearer of destructive male energy.
- Six Years With The Texas Rangers (Annotated)?
- Waxen Wings: The Acta Koreana Anthology of Short Fiction from Korea?
- Le Guide des ressources humaines en pharmacie (French Edition).
- Pentax ME Super.
On the way up to the hill there is also the Akhund Mullah Shah Masjid, an abandoned mosque dating from the Mughal era. As well as having domes instead of spires, it is also one of the very few mosques that were historically built in stone rather than the vernacular wooden structure. People say that the Akhund Mullah Shah Masjid has hardly ever been used for worship, and there are two versions of this story: some say it was because the place was possessed by the djinns—naughty or angry genies—while others claim that it was an act of resistance against the foreign Mughal domination.
Hari Parbat Hill is a microcosmic representation of the complex nature of the city of Srinagar and of the whole Valley of Kashmir. It is a palimpsest of layers: multiple narratives and times across religions, identities and dominations. It holds both the power of the popular imagination of Kashmir as a site of pristine natural beauty which, as historian Mridu Rai argues, is often rhetorically constructed as emptied of people and the controversial meanings of the idea of Kashmiriyat or Kashmiri-ness, an essential notion of what it means to be Kashmiri beyond religious or sectarian belonging.
The physical stratification of architectural styles, religious rituals and historical sites triggers questions on how the built environment can be interpreted in order to understand intricate stories that have several, and often contrasting versions. When asked how we can link the current situation of simmering political tensions with a parallel narrative of cherished cultural cohabitation and mutual influence, Professor M.
Zafar, the former director of the Institute of Kashmir Studies at the University of Kashmir, told us that interrogating architecture is a good way to begin to understand. Heritage and historical architecture, in fact, can also be appropriated and used to produce a pacified vision of controversial presents. In Kashmir, the discourse around its long-standing syncretic tradition is exemplary in this respect: contrasting parties have adopted this notion in ways that are instrumental to either communal political agendas or to comfortably preserving the precariously balanced status quo.
Syncretic architecture is introduced in the discussion as physical evidence of a harmonious past in which all religions lived in peace, and it is only due to the radicalisation of their opponent—alternatively Muslims or Hindus, depending on who is speaking—that this harmony has now become compromised or even lost. This recollection of an ideal past is easily translated into an invitation to forget the stone pelters of the present and concentrate on the architecturally meaningful stones of the past.
In political terms, this attitude shifts the emphasis to tourism, on the natural beauty of the Valley of Kashmir, on the richness of its cultural and culinary traditions, and becomes a clever instrument used by the Indian government to distract both visitors and detractors from the fact that Kashmir is actually one of the most heavily militarised areas in the world.
The built environment in situations of conflict is often neglected as a possible exegetic source—it is treated as a victim, accounted for as one of the many casualties, but hardly ever addressed as a witness or a repository of memories and testimonies. This is, however, an incapacitating intellectual position that overlooks the fact that the built environment does not lie, but instead preserves the evidence of facts and stories that ideological discourses may try to efface.