Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, April 19, 2003
Albrecht Durer, The Deposition, woodcut
For Christians, this is Holy Saturday, a day of quiet reflection at the end of the Tridium, the three holy days (Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday) that lead up to Easter Sunday. I was at church last night; our annual observance includes a recitation of John's passion gospel in Gregorian chant, and a solemn veneration of the cross while we sing various chants and anthems, including the unearthly "Reproaches" by Vittoria. And in what I so fervently wish could be a more common experience in Christian churches, the meaning of the day for modern times was brought home in a riveting sermon by our new priest, about his years in Central America, and what the death of Jesus and suffering of his mother meant to the real-life martyrs and their families with whom he had worked.
My husband had never gone to one of these Good Friday services before, and when we got home and into bed and were lying there in the dark he said, "I think that was definitely the varsity version."
For another kind of audio-visual experience, you can listen to sections of Bach's St. Matthew Passion while viewing Albrecht Durer's Large Passion Series of woodcuts. The images are from originals held by the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. The audio clips and text (both German and translation) are taken from the Karl Richter recording of J.S. Bach's Matthäus-Passion.
3:05 PM
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Friday, April 18, 2003
Lamentation scene from a late 17th century parchment manuscript in the British Library, "Octateuch, Four Gospels and Synodicon". The script at the top is Ethiopic.
We have never preached violence, except the violence of love, which left Christ nailed to a cross, the violence that we must do to ourselves to overcome our selfishness and such cruel inequalities among us. The violence we preach is not the violence of the sword, the violence of hatred. It is the violence of love, of brotherhood, the violence that wills to beat weapons into sickles for work.
It's Maundy Thursday. "Maundy" comes from the word "maundatum", which means "commandment". At the Last Supper - which was a traditional Passover meal shared by Jesus and his disciples, Jesus washed the feet of his followers (over their objections) to indicate that he was also their servant. And he also said, "Today I give you a new commandment -- Love one another as I have loved you."
In a few hours I'll be going to sing in the evening service at my church, where each year on this day we also have a footwashing ritual: the priest washes the feet of a parishioner, who then washes the feet of another parishioner, and so on, until the last person washes the priest's feet. Coming from a low-Anglican-church background (very Protestant!) to this rather "high" Anglican church (closer to Catholic in its rituals -- the inside way to say it is "smells and bells") I was aghast the first time I realized this was going to happen. Now I must admit I think it is moving, that it changes our sense of relationship to one another, and that it's symbolic of something that's in short supply these days: humility.
Speaking of which, please read Robert Fisk's post in today's Independent. "America's war of 'liberation' may be over. But Iraq's war of liberation from the Americans is just about to begin."
The sharp difference between Fisk's reality and that reported on domestic media reminds me, most uncomfortably, of the attitude of many Israelis and pro-Zionist American Jews about what has been going on in the occupied territories. Leave the blinders on long enough, and history also rewrites itself. At last Friday's peace vigil here, a man came up to one of my friends (she was holding a sign reading "Palestinians Need A Palestine") and said, "There is no Palestine, and there never was." My friend said well, she was sorry, but actually there was. "No," he said, "It never existed", and walked away.
3:06 PM
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Dreamers by Siegfried Sassoon
Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land, Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.
posted by moira at languagehat, where there is an introduction to the remarkable poetry of WWI Royal Welch Fusiliers soldier David Jones...my guess is that tomorrow we will see some of the work of Wilfred Owen; I'm looking forward to that.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Looking at this picture for the umpteenth time today, I just realized I chose it because this is how I feel (I can be very dense about this stuff - haven't read enough Jung, probably). The wreckage in the museum is a metaphor for the wreckage I feel surrounded by at the moment: an antiwar movement in disarray, democracy in shambles, and a sense of the isolation and desperation of each person who agrees, while outside the window the triumphalists are cheering...
Well, it can’t last. So there. I have on my desk a piece of Zen calligraphy that reads: “Everything Changes”. Very true. My dad used to always say, “the worm will turn” – a phrase that mostly came up during nights when you got dealt one crummy bridge hand after another – but life has shown me that generally triumphalism is short-lived. Another family expression was “pride goeth before a fall.” We can hope – but again, at what cost, and to whom?
Nevertheless, I’m realizing the need to lighten up and turn some of my attention that has been so consumed by this war toward a few other things, especially those that feed the spirit. Yesterday I sat down at the piano for the first time in ages and played some Bach – wow, my fingers are stiff – and today played again – read through the first pages of the Italian Concerto, just because it is fast and happy – and worked a little bit on the 7th Prelude and Fugue in the WTC. Played (badly) a Brahms Intermezzo – but at least I was playing. Music has always been a life force for me, a confirmed but dedicated amateur; it’s what I turned to as a kid when I was miserable or feeling good and that hasn’t changed except when I’m so busy and distracted that I somehow forget. We have a lot of professional work on the burner and I have a writing deadline for a spirituality magazine in the UK…and friends and family, all of whom have been neglected of late…aargh..the first priority is taking care of ourselves and those closest to us, and getting that head out of our hands…
An extensive collection of recent photos, links and discussion about the 2003 Iraq War & Archaeology by independent Belgian scholar Francis Deblauwe, who begins by saying, "One thing before I go on. I wish to be absolutely clear: no epic Sumerian cuneiform tablet, majestic Neo-Assyrian lamassu sculpture or any other Mesopotamian artifact is worth a human life, be it Iraqi, American, British or other."via wood s lot, who also just posted a number of other related links.
9:56 AM
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Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Walking toward the Ummayad Mosque in Damascus for Friday Prayers photo by J. Sa'adah
I think perhaps we have finally entered the new millenium. Will war be its permanent face? Today as I read the heated rhetoric, now against Syria, a country that birthed part of our family and for which we have particular affection and concern, tears spring to my eyes for the millions of common people caught up in these games of power.
Everyone here is planting in the mountain What we all want is so simple and so universal. My friend in China writes: I have no great hope to the world, just wish everybody live in the world could have their peaceful life, woman can live with their husband and child, friends can visit each other and business person can travel just like they should do. Now it is spring, everyone here is planting in the mountain. I wish all the people could plant in the planting season, even though I know in somewhere some people cannot do that. Through the war, I have less expectation in my heart than ever before. I wish every body could live a simple live --because it had been so hard for some other people. I am imaging your garden in a new planting. I wish every year you can plant some new tree, for me, for my baby. 11:49 AM
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Robert Fisk on the burning of Baghdad's Islamic Library: For almost a thousand years, Baghdad was the cultural capital of the Arab world, the most literate population in the Middle East. Genghis Khan's grandson burnt the city in the 13th century and, so it was said, the Tigris river ran black with the ink of books. Yesterday, the black ashes of thousands of ancient documents filled the skies of Iraq. Why?
and on the underlying causes of the civil disorder in Iraq: The reality, which the Americans and, of course, Mr Rumsfeld fail to understand is that under Saddam Hussein, the poor and deprived were always the Shia Muslims, the middle classes always the Sunnis, just as Saddam himself was a Sunni. So it is the Sunnis who are now suffering plunder at the hands of the Shia.
And so the gun-fighting that broke out yesterday between property owners and looters was, in effect, a conflict between Sunni and Shia Muslims. By failing to end this violence by stoking ethnic hatred through their inactivity the Americans are now provoking a civil war in Baghdad.
Yesterday evening, I drove through the city for more than an hour. Hundreds of streets are now barricaded off with breeze blocks, burnt cars and tree trunks, watched over by armed men who are ready to kill strangers who threaten their homes or shops. Which is just how the civil war began in Beirut in 1975.
Monday, April 14, 2003
From The Christian Century:
It's a Fact: A Texan is eight times more likely to serve in the U.S. military than a New Yorker. In fact, 18 percent of the army comes from the Lone Star State. Two states, Texas and Florida, account for nearly a fourth of the armed forces. (Economist, March 22)
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Read the last installment of "Embedded Journal" by Jules Crittenden of the Boston Herald: A couple of weeks back, when we had returned to the safety of the Najaf desert after the raid on the Euphrates bridgehead, my wife told me over the satphone the people back home were wondering if I'd ever be the same again, what I'd be like when I got back home... 7:51 PM
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From an Iranian web log: A couple of days ago, I watched something on TV that really made me wonder. There was this celebration thing in North Korea, people gathering and all of a sudden everybody was pointing at the clouds. Yeah, a portrait of their great leader "Kim Il Jing Jung Bil something" could be seen in the clouds. That really meant something to them. And of course to me. 30 years ago when Khomeini was supposed to come to Iran and take over the regime, people were excited with similar stuff. It was rumored one night that Khomeini's face could be seen in the moon. Another day, you would find a lock of his beard when you opened your Quran, and so on. Why are some nations looking for supermen and heroes to rule them? The more you read Iran's history, the more you find out that throughout the history, all kings were believed to have supreme power or authority (can't find the correct word for that. In Persian, it's called divine "Farreh", which was believed to exist in the blood of kings). As I was looking for a sign to know such nations, I came up with an idea. Correct me if wrong. When in a country, of their ruler who is alive and in control for a life time, you get: Statues; Masses of pictures and posters in different outfits; Schools, airports, hospitals, streets and almost all major government related places all over the country in their name; Chants and songs for their sake; And etcetera, It means there is something wrong with either the people, or the governing party. As a former example, consider the ex-Soviet Union. As existing examples, I would say Libya, North Korea and somehow China. Thanks god, in Iran we do all of the above just after they kick the bucket! ;) from Steppenwolf 7:25 PM
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Prized Iraqi annals 'lost in blaze' Almost all of the contents of Iraq's national library and archives are reported to have been destroyed by fire, meaning the loss of priceless records of the country's history... (also) Mr Powell called the ravaged Baghdad museum "one of the great museums in the world" and said the US would take a leading role in restoring it...Donny George, archaeologist at the museum, said: "It was the leading collection of a... continuous history of mankind. And it's gone, and it's lost. If marines had started before, none of this would have happened. It's too late, it's no use, it's no use." BBC 7:13 PM
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Sunday, April 13, 2003
Yesterday we drove a few towns south to do our monthly shopping for staples at a supermarket that’s a lot cheaper than the stores near here.
It was a grim reality check. Across an endless tarmac of strip-mall parking lots, a strong wind swirled and whipped the winter’s road sand painfully into our eyes and against the sides of hundreds of SUVs and pick-ups, plastered with flags and "These Colors Don't Run" bumper stickers. Inside the stores, overweight mothers dragged bawling children around supermarket aisles; outside, country music blared from trucks where bored baseball-hatted husbands smoked cigarettes and drummed their fingers on the dashboards. A sign on one big SUV confused me: 'We're Coming" it read. "God May Forgive You, But We Won't!" What was that about? Sept 11th revenge? I almost asked the woman who got out but when I saw the sweater she was wearing -- it had an American flag knitted into one front and the ABCs on the other -- I decided confronting her would be pointless and mean.
These, after all, are the parents of the kids who are being called to fight. In my parish church, up north in a university town, only person has been called up, and he’s a Naval reserve officer. Down here, as in my hometown in another state, each church might have ten or more families with children in the infantry.
Where we live there is, of course, a working class, but they tend to hold fairly secure service jobs in the medical center or college, or in construction, food services or retail. But here, thirty miles south, it’s a different story. Few families have either money or education. Many have lost the high-paying jobs they once had in the now-defunct machine-tool industry; today they may be scraping by on two lower-paying jobs, with their big cars bought on credit and a day off to spend wandering around a strip mall, buying carbohydrates to eat in front of the TV and neon-colored plastic junk for their kids. It's a depressing, enormous waste of human potential – and also the most compelling argument I can imagine for spending money on education and opportunity. These are the people who get screwed the most by defense spending, non-existent environmental policies, and Republican economics in general; yet they're also the ones who support the war. Why? Because they're vets themselves and their kids are serving; because neither their education or life experience give them the reasons or tools to doubt the media message or trust anything foreign; and because war feels both exciting and somehow ennobling in the midst of lives that lack both qualities.
I don't mean to slam the white working poor; these are the people I grew up with. I understand them. I just wish something could happen to make them see what an incredibly raw deal they're getting. Part of the problem is that most of these people simply cannot identify with the academic, educated liberal left. How skillfully Bush's tough-talking Texas rhetoric covers up the spoiled Yale frat-boy history they would equally despise! Meanwhile he lines his silver pockets and those of his cronies with the hard-earned wages of the working class, all the while assuring them they can keep their guns, their simple bumper-sticker sentiments, and their prejudices.
I still had these impressions in my mind when I went to church this morning for Palm Sunday. When I was a child, this was a joyful day celebrating – in an irony not lost on me this morning – Jesus’s entry into another ancient city, Jerusalem, on the back of a donkey, accompanied by crowds waving palm branches and hailing him as king. It’s a long theological distance from there to Good Friday. So over the years the Anglican church has changed, encouraging parishes to begin their Palm Sunday observances with just such a triumphal procession, but also to read the passion story in its entirety. Thus the service progresses from jubilation to utter darkness and hopelessness, as we are reminded of what happened after the entry into Jerusalem – betrayal, injustice, and death – and our own complicity in the events of Holy Week that we’re about to enter.
So this morning our choir sang an anthem by Palestrina: “The children of the Hebrews/ bearing branches of olive/ went out to meet the Lord/ crying out and saying, “Hosanna in the highest!” while palm branches were distributed to the congregation. Then all of us: choir, priests, acolytes, and congregation, processed around the church bearing our own palm branches before settling down to hear the scriptures. The gospel of Mark was read dramatically, with members of the congregation taking the parts of Jesus, Pilate, Peter, and narrator, and the rest of us forming “the crowd”. Thus we saw Jesus’s closest disciples deny him and flee; thus we ourselves became the mob, and called out in answer to Plate’s question of what to do with this man, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” It is always a chilling moment. This year it was devastating.
“Judge not, lest ye yourself be judged.” Who is the mob, who is responsible, who is blameless, and what is truth? Pilate’s question for the ages rings in our ears. Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, repeats the question at the end of a sermon he wrote during the first Gulf War:
If Christians construe the truth of Jesus Christ as the truth of our need to meet the stranger expectantly, war in general becomes – at the very least – problematic. But how much can we afford to pay in terms of collusion with self-deceit and the leading of others into fantasy, collusion that war in an age of technology and mass entertainment seems inescapably to involve? This of course is a question, not an answer; but it must be heard as Christ’s question to us as believers, if we are serious in calling him the incarnate truth. Whatever our answer, Pilate’s option is not open to us.
Pilate said to him, “What is truth?” And when he had said this, he went out.
