Erzwungener Verrat

Nach welchen moralischen Maßstäben kann man diejenigen verurteilen, welche unter unmöglichen Umständen nicht ihr eigenes Leben für andere opfern wollten? Kann man aus heutiger Sicht diese überhaupt richten? Und, immer wieder, wie hätte man denn selber agiert?

Doris Tausendfreunds Dissertation (Erzwungener Verrat. Jüdische 'Greifer' im Dienst der Gestapo 1943-1945) geht diesen Fragen nicht auf den Grund. Will es ja nicht tun, auch wenn das Verständnis der Autorin für die Zwangslage ihrer Subjekte klar wird. Tausendfreund erklärt das perfide System der Gestapo, welche jüdische Fahnder zur Aufspürung der sogenannten U-Boote (Juden 'illegal' in Berlin verblieben) einsetzte. Vergleichbar vielleicht mit den Kapos der KZs, erlaubten diese Fahnder (und Ordner) den Abtransport tausender Juden bei einem minimalen personellen Aufwand der Gestapo. Die Autorin betont den Unterschied zwischen Ordnern und Fahndern. Erstere befolgten direkte Befehle und holten z. B. Juden in ihren Wohnungen ab. Letztere waren eigenverantwortlich für die Suche nach untergetauchten Juden zuständig und einige von ihnen entwickelten sogar ein perfides Interesse auf der Jagd und an ihren Möglichkeiten sich hierdurch auch persönlich zu bereichern.

Schätzungen zufolge verweigerten 5000 Juden in Berlin sich ihrem Abtransport und riskierten das Leben als U-Boote. 1400 von ihnen überlebten. Diese U-Boote waren auf konstante Hilfe von allen Seiten angewiesen, sie hatten bald wenig Geld übrig, hatten Schwierigkeiten Obdach zu finden und sahen sich zusätzlich der normalen Problematik des De Facto-Obdachlosen, ständiger Verfolgung ausgesetzt. Diese Fahnder waren zum großen Teil vorher in Kontakt mit vielen Juden gekommen (einer hatte so in der Kleiderausgabe gearbeitet), viele hatten bereits vorher versucht im Untergrund zu entkommen und kannten die Tricks und Aufenthaltsorte ihrer Glaubens- und (so traurig es klingt) Leidensgenossen. Sie waren besser qualifiziert und erfolgreicher als die Gestapo in dem was sie taten. Absolute Zahlen sind unmöglich zu berechnen, aber die am längsten tätigen Fahnder waren für das Aufspüren und Denunzieren von hunderten von Juden verantwortlich. Sie warteten auf großen Plätzen und an Umsteigebahnhöfen auf alte Schulkameraden und andere bekannte Gesichter, erkundeten Bars und Cafés, unterhielten sich sympathisierend mit gefangenen Juden um an Informationen über ihre Familien zu gelangen.

Es ist schwierig, wenn nicht unmöglich, Verallgemeinerungen über diese Greifer zu treffen. Sie kamen aus allen sozialen Schichten, waren Kleinkrimminelle, Doktoren, Du und ich. Die bekannteste von Ihnen Stella Kübler-Isaaksohn, das blonde Gift, verriet wohl an die hundert Juden. Sie war selber, zusammen mit ihrem späteren Mann, aus dem Untergrund von einer Bekannten aufgegriffen worden. Anfangs wollte sie ihre Eltern schützen, sie wurde geschlagen und gequält, später arbeitete sie weiter auch nachdem ihre Eltern bereits deportiert worden waren. Doch hörte sie bereits vor Kriegsende mit der Suche auf (ob aus Selbstinteresse oder Reue bleibt offen) und zahlte mit dem höchsten in West-Berlin gefällten Urteil gegen einen Fahnder (10 Jahre) und dem Haß ihrer Tochter in Israel, welche sich wohl bis zu ihrem Selbstmord 1994 weigerte mit ihr wieder Kontakt aufzunehmen. Ihr Ehemann, Rolf Isaaksohn, weniger berühmt (weil keine Frau? weil nicht schön und blond?), aber um so effizienter, grausamer und erpressender, flüchtete sich 1944 Richtung Kiel mit 40.000 RM und war nie wieder gesehen oder gehört. Allgemein läßt sich sagen, daß die länger Dienenden in den meisten Fällen auch ein größeres kriminelles Eigeninteresse entwickelten und sich zur bezahlten Hilfe ihrer Opfer bereit erklärten oder sie nach Verhaftung auch noch beraubten ohne dies ihren Gestapo-Vorgesetzten gegenüber einzugestehen. Die Gestapo wiederum ließ sich natürlich (?) nicht bestechen (bzw anders ausgedrückt, ignorierte gegebene Versprechen) und deportierte auch ihre besten Fahnder.

Einige Greifer scheinen einfach zu verurteilen, die Isaaksohns scheinen ein solcher Fall. Ruth Danziger soll wiederholt versucht haben die Gestapo zu ihrer Tante zu führen. Helmuth Stecher, NSDAP-Mitglied seit 1930, in der SS bis zu seinem Ausschluß aus "charakterlichen Gründen" (!), schließlich 1943 enttarnt und aus der Wehrmacht ausgeschlossen. Auch er überlebte, als Vertrauter des Leiter des Judenreferates der Gestapo (Walter Dobberke), sein Spur verliert sich in München 1957.

Diesen bösen (schlechten, kann man das so sagen?) müssen andere gegenüber gestellt werden. Günther Abrahamsohn, welcher wiederholt Menschen entkommen ließ, bzw ihnen sogar aktive Hilfe gewährte. Ist es überraschend, daß diese Fälle sich je näher das Ende des Krieges rückte vermehrten? Ingeborg R., welche sich zur Zusammenarbeit erklärte, auch (angeblich unbeabsichtigt) einen Lebensmittelkartenhändler verriet und durch ihn mehrere seiner Kunden, aber die erste Möglichkeit zur Flucht nutzte und mit ihrem späteren Mann "bis Kriegsende auf Fahrrädern durch Deutschland fuhr." (Was für unglaubliche Geschichten sich hinter diesen lapidaren Sätzen verstecken müssen.)

Im Allgemeinen läßt sich sagen, daß alle Fahnder zeitweise anderen Juden halfen, manche für Geld, manche aus Opportunismus, manche mit Rücksicht auf die Nachkriegszeit, manche aus Überzeugung. Wer kann heute schon noch erkennen, wer wann wen warum laufen ließ? Das Leben ist leider nicht so klar definiert wie man es manchmal gerne hätte.

Mehr als die Hälfte der Greifer überlebten (in Bezug auf Stella muß man sich fragen, gerade in Bezug auf ihren Selbstmord, ihre 10 Jahre Haft in der SBZ und ihrem Verhältnis zu ihrer Tochter, was das hieß: Leben), was natürlich im Vergleich zur obengenannten Quote (1400/5000=0,28%) sehr viel ist. Zehn wurden deportiert, einer erschoss sich und seine Frau am Abend vor der Deportation. Ruth Danziger soll von überlebenden Juden 1945 in Berlin ermordet worden sein (Stella wurde erwiesenermaßen desöfteren körperlich angegriffen, die Gruppe 'Aufbau und Frieden' ließ bereits während des Krieges den Fahndern Todesurteile zukommen, dies scheint also durchaus möglich). Ein Fahnder soll auch bereits im Zug Richtung Theresienstadt von seinen Mitdeportierten (und vormaligen Opfern) erschlagen worden sein. Die restlichen 17 mußten sich zum großen Teil vor Gericht stellen (SBZ-Gerichten, dem Westberliner Amtsgericht, sogenannte jüdische Ehrengerichte). Einige wurde in der DDR hingerichtet, einige bekamen in Schauprozessen lange Strafen aufgebrummt (darunter auch einige Ordner) als Teil der gegen die BRD gerichtete Propaganda der exemplarische Entanzifizierung der DDR.

Was bleibt? Wie immer die mangelnde Aufklärung der BRD-Justiz. Kein einziger der ehemaligen Gestapo-Vorgesetzten wurde für das verurteilt zu was diese Opfer zu Tätern zu werden gezwungen worden waren. Walter Dobberke verstarb in sowjetischer Haft direkt nach Kriegsende. Stella wurde ein Mythos mit eigenem Buch, Film und Wikipedia-Seite.

Als Schlussnote, war ich geschockt von der legalistischen Art der Gestapo, der Nazis, der Deutschen (nein, denn wie Glaser schon meinte, es gibt keine Universalschuld, auch wenn ich in diesem Fall nicht sicher bin, ob er sich nicht irrt und die Universalschuld vielmehr einige, wenige Ausnahmen enthält) auch noch im absoluten Chaos des Krieges und angesichts ihren abartigen Verbrechen. So leitete die Gestapo 1942 ein Korruptionsverfahren gegen einige Beamte ihres Judenreferates ein, da diese sich unrechtmäßig an jüdischem Eigentum bereichert hätten. Desweiteren wurden Juden nach ihrer Deportation enteignet aufgrund ihres "gewöhnlichen Aufenthalts im Ausland" "unter Umständen, die erkennen lassen, daß sie dort nicht nur vorrübergehend" seien. Unter den damaligen Grenzen wurde das heutige Polen juristisch dafür extra als Ausland eingestuft. Muß man da eigentlich noch irgendetwas dazu sagen?

Geheimnis und Gewalt - Nachwort

Das Geheimnis und Gewalt läßt mich noch nicht los. In meiner Kritik leider außer acht gelassen ist die Positionierung Glasers nicht nur gegen den Faschismus, sondern auch gegen den Kommunismus. Dieses Wort ruft ja heutzutage bei vielen Menschen meiner Generation (zumindest in Deutschland oder den USA, weniger in zB Frankreich) eine sofortige Vorverurteilung und Abwehr hervor. Dies ignoriert aber die Vereinnahmung des Kommunismus durch die jeweilige nationale KP (irgendwann geführt und dominiert durch die Sowjetunion), es ignoriert die anarchistischen und kommunistischen Ideale, welche von vielen Mitgliedern vertreten wurden. Glaser ist nie ein linientreuer Parteisoldat geworden, er distanziert sich schon während der späten 20er Jahre von der Linie exemplarhaft gezeigt durch seine Berichterstattung über einen Prozess dreier SA-Mörder, welche er sich weigert als reine Bestien darzustellen, sondern sie als (vielleicht all zu) menschliche Opfer ihrer selbst und ihrer Situation beschreibt, welcher sie durch ihren (im übrigen nicht politischen) Mord zu entkommen versuchen. Glaser ist ein deutscher, kommunistischer Sympathisant der 20er und 30er Jahre, kein blinder Stalinhöriger oder treuer Parteigänger, welcher den Hunger und das Elend der Sowjetunion ignorierend der Führung folgt.

Geheimnis und Gewalt

Wie beschreibt man einen Georg K. Glaser am besten? Vielleicht könnte man ihn als eine Art deutschen, proletarischen Malraux oder Neruda nur ohne den ganzen großen beruflichen und literarischen Erfolg bezeichnen. Geboren im rheinhessischen Gunterblum als Teil einer Großfamilie dominiert vom grausamen Vater, flüchtete sich der heranwachsende Glaser vor dem schlagenden pater familias auf die Straße und verbrachte wohl den Hauptteil der 20er Jahre als Herumtreiber, als Stromer, als Ur-Bohèmien sozusagen nicht durch freie Wahl, sondern seine Lebensumstände, bzw in Erziehungsanstalten eingewiesen. Er begann mit kommunistischen Jugendgruppen zu sympathisieren und nahm Teil am unseligen Straßendreikampf zwischen Polizei, SA und Kommunisten. Im Gefängnis wegen Gewalt gegenüber eines Polizisten schrieb er seine ersten Texte um zu einem von der kommunistischen Bewegung tolerierten, wohl nicht akzeptierten, Literaten zu werden ("On me laissait la liberté du fou - mon livre n’était pas conforme à la ligne. Néanmoins, ils l’ont publié.") als welcher sich einer Mischung aus Journalismus und Literatur bediente, welche ich eher mit späteren Autoren wie Norman Mailer verbunden hätte - Stichwort: the novel as history, history as a novel. Nach der Machtergreifung (-ernennung?) Hitlers und einigen erfolglosen Versuchen den Widerstand zu organisieren floh er in das Saarland, welches kurz vor der Abstimmung über seine Eingliederung ins Reich stand. Das Resultat der Abstimmung im Gefängnis erfahrend flüchtete er sich mit viel Glück nach Paris. Anders als viele seiner Zeitgenossen integrierte er sich in seinem Exil, wurde Franzose und heiratete eine Französin. Mit dem Kriegsbeginn 1939 in die französische Armee eingezogen war er in Dunkerque, nur um später in deutsche Gefangenschaft zu geraten und die Zeit bis 1945 in Kriegsgefangenschaft in Deutschland arbeitend zu verbringen. Landesverrat bzw Spionageverdacht zwangen ihn sowohl vor den Gefangen wie den Bewachenden seine wahre Identität zu verheimlichen. Glaser ließ sich nach Kriegsende in Paris nieder und arbeitete die Jahre vor seinem Tod 1994 im Marais als Kunsthandwerker.

Geheimnis und Gewalt ist die literarische Aufarbeitung seines Lebens bis 45. Er schrieb später noch ein zweites Werk über die darauf folgende Zeit in Frankreich. Ich las sein (anscheinend) Hauptwerk in den letzten Tagen mehr oder weniger schnell und bin beeindruckt. Nicht nur ist sein Leben als solches und dargestellt in den nackten Fakten faszinierend, seine literarische Bearbeitung ist desgleichen von einer schwer beschreibbaren Wucht. Glaser ist kein hochgebildeter Mann, er ist autodidaktisch gebildet und schreibt mit der Offenheit einer (wenn auch wohl künstlichen) mündlichen Sprache. Er hat nicht das Sprachtalent eines Camus, Sartre oder Faulkner, aber dies will er wohl auch gar nicht haben. Neruda meinte der Dichter dürfe keine Angst vor dem Volke haben, Glaser ist Teil eben dieses Volkes, er braucht sich nie dieser Maxime zu erinnern, da sie ihm inhärent ist. Sein Werk ist autobiographisch, aber keine Autobiographie. Anders als Malraux oder Hemingway sind seine Erfahrungen aber nicht nur Basis eines Romans, sondern stecken vielmehr den engen Rahmen seiner Erzählung ab. Manche der Kurzgeschichten Hemingways (die Nick Adams Stories oder Snows of Kilimanjaro) erscheinen mir vergleichbar, aber letztlich bleibt Glasers Roman etwas eigenes.

Dieser Roman ist fraglos das (bisher) beste (deutsche) Buch, was ich bisher über die Zeit des dritten Reiches gelesen habe. Es ist ihm wohl leider nie die Aufmerksamkeit gewidmet worden, welche er verdient hätte. Im Internet sind wenig und nur rudimentäre Texte über ihn vorhanden. Im französischen Wikipedia gibt es nicht mal mehr einen Eintrag über ihn, im deutschen nur einen kurzen. Vielleicht ändere ich dies noch.

Noch ein wenig Primär- und Sekundärliteratur:
- ein Nachruf aus der Zeit
- un entretien dans le taz malheureusement traduit vers le français
- Glaser par Glaser, Koestler par Glaser
- Rebell unter Renegaten - ein Saarbrücker Gespräch
- Une jeunesse allemande

Main Street

I didn't know nuttin' about Sinclair Lewis' Main Street when I picked it up in DC somewhere. It quickly became obvious (for me in any case, and I might be wrong) that the author was influenced by the early 20th century reform movement in the United States. His protagonist is a promising, young librarian who turns into a tragic heroine as she battles to change the small mid-western town into which she marries. In a way, with the emphasis lying elsewhere, she is comparable to Madame Bovary. I will not tell how she compares to this French figure at the end, let it suffice to say that Lewis' solution is a truly American one. I postponed writing this blog entry for way too long and don't really have much to say anymore, but I found a nice (and still valid I believe) citation from the author, part of his speech accepting the Nobel Price in Literature:

"in America most of us — not readers alone, but even writers — are still afraid of any literature which is not a glorification of everything American, a glorification of our faults as well as our virtues"

Travelling in the South

"Goin' down South" as R. L. Burnside would put it. Passing through Virginia, dipping into the Piedmont, pushing towards Charleston, South Carolina, the cradle of the War between the states. Savannah, Georgia, almost its twin sister, finally southern Georgia and into Florida. Small hick towns boasting religiously themed coffee shops which can count their daily customers on one hand. Ending the trip in Gainesville, Florida, a super-sized Chapel Hill with over 80,000 students living there.

How can one sum up 8 days on the road, constant driving, ever constant motels at night, ever changing landscapes outside the window? People have written books about these kind of journeys (well, maybe not, 8 days might be a bit short for that). This leaves me with a desire to express a few superficial remarks on the South per se, as far as that exists.

1) It is beautiful. The foggy Blue Ridge Parkway, the duned Outer Banks, Charleston harbor with its mansions, Savannah's moss-covered trees shading its many squares, the blackwater marshes of North Carolina, the forests and national parks in Georgia and South Carolina. Honestly, this trip could have lasted twice as long and I wouldn't have gotten sick of looking at those landscapes.

2) The Southern Drawl is, hands down, the most amazing dialect in the English-speaking world. No, I don't care what you say, you're wrong! Southerners are also extremely friendly, even though that might also simply be a small town thing.

3) Especially Charleston (but also, for example, the tour in Stonewall Jackson's house) is as depoliticized as to be ridiculous at times. In a guided tour of a mansion there, the erstwhile owner's riches were explained to have been based on the import/export business. I chimed in, wondering whether that included slaves (as at least some of his wealth had been amassed before the interdiction of the import (sorry for the word) of Africans into the USA in 1808 (or around there in any case)). My response was some jamboree that had not much to do with my question. Regardless of this it is clear that the whole Southern economy, especially in these rich trading towns and ports, was based on slavery as the undercurrent which was what made it profitable. After the Civil War, these towns and their industries fell into disarray simply because the whole business model was unsound when labor actually had to be paid for. Simply put, not only did every rich business man of those areas have a few slaves working in the kitchen and garden (and more), they also couldn't have become rich in the first place if it wasn't for the cheap labor input provided by human chattel.

I felt as if this subject was eluded by simply not mentioning it. Every tour was depoliticized, statues and plagues commemorating the Confederacy, its soldiers and individual generals or statesmen are still standing all over the place. I don't mind having left them standing, they also show what the South was like between 1890 and 1910 (when most of them were constructed by the Daughters of the Confederacy), but why would the city not put a little explanatory sign next to them? Why would tour guides not discuss openly that the beautiful houses which garnish their cities were made possible through one of the vilest and long-lastings crimes in the history of humanity? Not to become too self-congratulatory, but German policy towards its past has been far better in that sense with memorials and museum all over the place. Charleston has a museum of the Confederacy (that is kind of like a Holocaust Museum being called Museum of the Third Reich) and one city museum which tells the stories of maybe two or three of its black citizens over the last 200 years. The word reconstruction is used exactly once and the Civil Rights Movement seems to have never made it to South Carolina. It's almost as if people think by not talking about it, visitors will appreciate the beauty without dwelling on the dark side of history. What folly.

Hanging onto this thought for a second, it might very well be that this kind of refusal to deal with the past is not so much the Southern way of doing things but the American one. Maybe a country (a society), which believes as strongly in its own exemplarity and uniqueness, which boasts with as much pride of its history (the American Dream, A City Upon A Hill, Manifest Destiny, the pioneers, the puritans even) can simply not accept to face the horrible deeds its forefathers committed, regardless of whether this relates to Native Americans, the internments of Germans and Japanese, anti-Chinese legislation or the treatment of African Americans ever since their arrival in the colonies.

4) My last reflection is actually related to this bizarre perception of history. Savannah, Georgia, prides itself on its founder, James Oglethorpe. The irony of that is how life in the Savannah almost from the beginning on ran counter to Oglethorpe's desires, wishes and beliefs. His convictions when founding the city were for it to remain free of liquor, slaves and business activities. This again seems to be a rather common American (or maybe human, but I feel it is more developed in the USA than in most European countries) trait of glorifying past leaders whose advice and beliefs the US today (or even back then) ignores. Jefferson is a prime example for this as few people would ever consider living in his vision of a yeoman farmer society, yet he is a hero to the American people as such. Ironies of history I guess.

Life in Washington, DC

I undoubtedly should have kept up with this while I was actually living there, but life is busy sometimes and even though I have no truly valid excuse we will just leave it at that. Just a few comments on DC before the immediacy of my memoirs has faded. The city per se is nice, maybe a bit too small, with only a few neighborhoods really being enjoyable to explore (as in not too quiet and residential). What is amazing are the cultural options available at no charge. Most of the museums are free and some of them house big-screen movie theatres which show older films (kostenlos aber nicht umsonst sozusagen - sorry). I saw John Ford's The Searchers recently for example and it's a thrill to see such a film on a big screen and listen to an entertaining discussion about it afterwards. There are a couple (as in not many, but at least some do exist) decent blues bars. I believe there a variety of classy Jazz spots, but I am not so much into those so I wouldn't know.

The one (negative) thing that struck and that I will try to lay out in some detail here, is the race question. I have written about this extensively (well, whatever that may mean - check my labels if you care to know) and quite contradictorily at times, reflecting where I was living, what I was doing there and with whom I was interacting. In DC what astonished me (surprised me again I should maybe say) was the clear-cut segregation between African-Americans, Hispanics and whites in the city. Some bars around U Street or in Adams Morgan populated by the young, studious and (soon-to-be) successful manage to attract a more mixed crowd. These people are not only the exception though, they constitute a small elite of post-racial Americans.

The house that I lived in was relatively far up in the North, towards the Maryland state line. As American cities go, the grid system, offered us two parallel routes toward the mall, downtown or any other relevant destination. Leaving the house you would turn right and walk two blocks to Georgia Avenue where you could take a bus going South, or you would turn left and after half a block take one of the 50s going in the same direction on 14th Street. Per se there is nothing peculiar to this kind of harmless public transportation system. Remember this is the US, buses are full during the day, move slow and on the weekend and late at night, get ready to wait.

This not the point though. Rather, the depressing fact was that when taking the bus down Georgia I (seriously) think I not once saw a white guy on the bus. Nor even anyone looking as if he (or she) were a Latino(a). No one ever bothered us (except a few annoying, but friendly drunks), but how does it reflect on a society that whole areas of one city (none other than the nation's capital!) can be as segregated? Going down 14th (except during rush hour with everyone going to work), the same thing in reverse. Hispanics dominating the bus, the sidewalk and stores. In this case of course a language barrier even prevented me from knowing what people around me were talking about.

And that's that really. Is there anything else to say? As I already pointed out, some young, successful types hang out in interracial groups. Mostly, while drinking too expensive beers and looking hip in bars and clubs dominated by (sorry) bad music. That is not the point though. Large parts of the population, and every one who is poor keep, to themselves. The melting pot most likely always was a myth, but in DC it is just astonishing how interaction simply does not take place. Maybe the young professionals cited above are leading the way towards a better, more beautiful, postracial America. But maybe they (and their President) are only an aberration of an unalterable truth. The United States is and always has been a segregated country. With different ethnic groups living side by side but not mingling or truly interacting.

The Redneck Way of Knowledge

Traveler, if you ever come to Charleston, South Carolina, and you have quenched your thirst with antebellum mansions, marveled at statues of Confederate soldiers and Southern glory, seen the rich, white aristocrats in their elegant restaurants and the poor, blacks folks sitting on church steps selling baskets to tourists, you need to go to the Blue Bicycle Bookstore. I had wanted to continue my Chilean tradition (1, 2) of reading literature of the places where I travel and was directed to the store in my search of local authors. A great second-hand (and new) book store, it also boasts of a sizable collection of Charlestonian writers (most signed by the author, which is unfortunately reflected in the prize). Thus I found Blanche McCrary Boyd's The Redneck Way of Knowledge.

Boyd is on the one hand a hard-drinking, true Charlestonian and Southerner who enjoys stock car racing and bad liquor early in the morning. On the other hand, she is lesbian, left South Carolina (and the South as she claims, actually she want to Duke, which I guess makes this one of her half-truths) at 18 and has returned only sporadically. Her book is made up of a collection of essays (short stories? novellas?) mostly dealing with her past, background and life in as well as visits to Charleston. In her own words: "Being a white Southerner is a bit like being Eichmann's daughter: People don't assume you're guilty, but they wonder how you've been affected."

The texts in her collection were at their strongest when Boyd discussed her familial relations of how her ultra-conservative surroundings reacted to her radical left-wing politics in the 60s and how her perception of them changed. She is at her best when she talks about the peculiar South, she is at her weakest when she enumerates drinking binges viewed as a protest against the stiff, racist, aristocratic upper society of Charleston. But also when she (seemingly) desperately tries to reclaim her roots through attending the Tough Man Contest or the desire to holler at Dixie at the top of her lungs. Finally, Boyd closes with two very personal and humane texts on her having been in the car when a friend ran over a black man coming home late at night when she was a teen and follows this up with an extremely interesting piece on the Greensboro Massacre of which I had been completely unaware.

At some point in the beginning (I couldn't find the citation) Boyd quotes her aunt in saying that she should finally write a book that were less complicated and then states that The Redneck Way of Knowledge were that book. I saw a lot of potential in her writing, potential that she not always fulfilled. Kind of like a great athlete (let's say Jay Jay Okocha or Vince Carter) who was always tantalizing, even great but never really lived up to his billing. I hope to read one of Boyd's novels on South Carolina just to find out whether her more complicated read comes closer to fulfilling her potential.

The Good German

An easily accessible thriller, Joseph Kanon's The Good German was made into a film a few years ago which I had seen. The story taking place in post war 1945 Berlin, I was (inevitably I suppose) intrigued. There isn't much to say about the novel per se. It is a crime novel. The American hero returns to his post war home of Berlin in search of his erstwhile lover whose physicist husband has become an important cog in the scientific Nazi research team at Pennemuende. Both the Russians and Americans are trying to recruit those scientists, our hero is trying to protect his love interest while working on the murder of an American enriching himself through the black market. Confusion ensues, but, of course, this is a laid back crime novel after all, life never becomes really bad.

What is far more interesting are the (apparently and apart from a few irritatingly Anglicized German plurals: ein Greifer, zwei Greifers) well-researched facets of life in Berlin during the summer and fall of 1945 and the early American occupation. Among the most interesting or shocking of these, was the process of a Jewish girl which had worked for the Gestapo looking for Jews who were then deported. The apparent (and near total) breakdown of discipline within the US armed forces. And finally, the American willingness to ignore or even to hide the Nazi past of important scientists, recruited in preparation of the confrontation against the Soviet Union.

If Beale Street Could Talk

A great, inspiring title (for a blues aficionado such as me in any case), If Beale Street Could Talk, disappointingly is not followed by a novel living up to its billing. My knowledge of Afro-American writers is cursory at best and picking up James Baldwin's novel was supposed to be a step towards rescinding that. Yet, I did not really enjoy reading it. The story was too simplistic, too clear cut. From the bad white cop, to the fearful Hispanic lady, the young black heroes, no character truly developed any depth. Characters were either bad or good, with no gray in between. Plus, the story was oddly sexist, especially maybe for a supposedly liberal (and homosexual) writer. I felt at times as if all Baldwin was trying to achieve was teach black youngsters the values of sticking to one's family and the virtues of a healthy relationship. All this might be fine and dandy, but I did not find it interesting enough to truly enthrall me. Plus, I feel that the teaching of values in a more subtle manner would be more promising (but that might only be valid for me). In any case, I really believe that this book was geared more towards youngsters and am simply too demanding.

Memoirs

Never having developed much of an interest for poetry, I had not known of Pablo Neruda before I flew to Chile. Once there and developing an interest in its literature and recent history, it is virtually impossible to avoid him. Someone had furthermore recommended his Memoirs to me before. So I felt it appropriate to bring them along on my trip even when I only managed to read through most of it on my flight out of the country. I really liked it. Quite honestly and in general, Chilean literature and culture based on the little that I have seen and read has made a really positive impression on me and I would love to read more of and about it. Preferably not in translation but in the Spanish original of course, but I guess that's just a pipe dream for the time being.

Neruda is one of those mythic early 20th century characters who seem to have perished from the earth since. A world-traveler, politician, philosopher, poet, bon vivant (in every sense of the word if you get my meaning), a communist and rich man. He spent time in India, China, Europe and of course all over his native Chile. He fled through the mountains into Argentina in order to escape his arrest and was in Spain during its monumental civil war. His life portrayed in broad strokes reminded me of Malraux (whom he fleetingly mentions in his Memoirs).

The book itself is a fascinating portrait of his life and times. I find it difficult to sum up the life of a man of his size in a few short sentences, but he follows more or less straight his development from life in rural Chile (near Temuc), to becoming a down and out poet and student in Santiago, to his career in the Chilean foreign service. His life long dedication to Communism and the people, Chileans and others. In his words: "The poet cannot be afraid of the people." His language is pristine (even in translation, did I mention that I hate having to revert to those?) and the book starts out with one of the most beautiful openings I have ever read: "In these memoirs or recollections there are gaps here and there, and sometimes they are also forgetful, because life is like that."

Again, I will not degrade Neruda to even an attempt on my part to truly reflect here the manifold issues and topics he addresses in his Memoirs. His descriptions are fascinating and the reader feels as if he really begins to understand the people, area and time-frame that Neruda lived with and in. The mistreatment of the natives by the Chileans, the poverty of the miners, the literary scene of Chile, life as an expat in the early part of the 20th century.

There are only two aspects that I would like to point out, cold political scientist that I am (and no poet). The life that Neruda lead is met with envy by the reader, especially his twenties, but his treatment and sexist perception of women served like a cold shower to me. Women are seemingly there to serve him in a subservient position. No equality, no companionship is possible. He shares his minds with friends not with the women in his life. Arguably, his relationship with Mathilde is different, but even here the words that were stuck in my head were that in his life with her, he composed poetry in the morning and she typed his verses up in the afternoon. I wonder whether he even realized what he was missing out on, or maybe partnership as equals were simply impossible to even imagine for him back then (and considering his background). I don't know, but I did feel bad for him on that account.

Finally, last point: Stalin. Neruda died in 1973. He wrote his Memoirs not long before that. Yet, for him Stalin was a great man. The 20th Congress seems to have not tarnished this image much. Maybe realizing in the fall of your life that whom (and what) you believed in was not and had never been the ideal you were looking for is simply too much to ask of a man. Still, I found that problematic.

What else? I need to read some of his poetry now. But for that I should really work on my Spanish a bit upfront.

Juncker Enters the Fray

A bit belated, but here another post I did for the Atlantic Council.

Merkel's Speech Before Congress

Another blog post for the Atlantic Council. This time focusing on the reception of Merkel's speech before Congress.

Travelling in Chile

Most people who know me will be aware of my aversion to travel. This might sound ironic considering my life style but I would beg to differ. I do not usually travel I live in a variety of places. There is a difference. Staying in a place for a few months even, speaking the language more than only in a cursory manner, having a routine and repeatedly going to the same bar/court/whatever, developing acquaintances there are important elements for me of getting to know a place. I feel like a two week visit to a country, residing in a hotel and incapable of communicating with large swaths (if not all) of the population, is a regrettable exercise that I am not a fan of. Yet, here I was going to Chile, my knowledge of Spanish limited to ridiculously few phrases and expressions and I didn’t even have the time nor the money to stay longer than for a bit more than a week. Being a conscientious traveller I did at least organize myself two books by Chilean authors as an introduction to the country, but quite obviously my understanding of the society, its people and the country as such remains rather ludicrous.

Following this theoretical preface I have to admit that I absolutely loved it though. I flew down with an American friend of mine, staying with a French friend who lives there and obviously speaks the language. From a language point of view my stay turned into a crazy potpourri of languages, with Spanish, French, English and sometimes even English intermixed. At times I felt incapable of formulating even a phrase in one language anymore (I sincerely believe that the brain has a hard time adjusting to too many languages intertwining, if you do so too much you end up speaking English with a French grammatical structure and German word choices). The surprise of my trip was the ease with which I could communicate with Chileans (who for the most part simply do not speak English), not that I could say more than a few basic requests and comments but I understood far more than I had expected too (7 years of Latin and fluency in French do some good even in South America I guess).

In general Chileans made an extremely good impression on me. The few more wide-ranging and interesting discussions I had with people (who spoke English or French) were extremely informative and helpful in understanding the country. Even everyday interactions, buying food or asking for directions, led to lengthy (usually rather one-sided) conversations – about what we were doing there, the (then) upcoming match between Germany and Chile, or simply the best way to find the bank across the street.

Santiago de Chile, a city of about 6 million, is in fact not all that jazz. It is at least as interesting as any city of that size, but it’s buildings, its downtown, even its people are just a tad bit too European or Western – business suites, the metro, alcohol-impregnated bar streets, dance parties dominated by bad pop music, an elegant erstwhile artistic barrio (Prenzlauer Berg, Williamsburg, Montmartre…). While globalization hasn’t hit to the same extreme it has in the West the city is not as different as one could expect, differences abound but are more of the nuanced kind than that they are glaringly obvious.

What struck me was the lack of attention I (we) received not only in Santiago but in the country side as well. People were interested once we started talking to them, but for the most part folks didn’t really seem to notice us or care about us being there. We spent one evening in a bar in a very rural area, surrounded by 50-year old, exceedingly wasted farmers who didn’t even flinch at our presence. I did get stared at a few times, especially in mid-sized towns and crappy (down to earth) restaurants, but I had expected more of that quite honestly.

Once you leave Santiago behind the differences to the West become a lot more striking. We drove into the Andes and hiked some in a national park there. In order to get there, we took our (well, my friend’s) trusty VW bus (a bitch to drive, but a sweet car nonetheless) up a dirt road for maybe 45 minutes in the ever dimmer dusk. I was driving along peacefully at 40 k/h when all of a sudden I realized that the pedestrian at the side of the road was actually a guy on a horse. Quite honestly, I never really got used to it, but we saw a lot of those. On the highway the sheer amount of people crossing, biking along, walking on the side, hitchhiking, simply hanging out (ok, maybe not) was quite astounding. Also, the word rural takes on a whole other meaning in some of these areas. When we hiked up El Endrillado we were one of only three groups making it to the top that day, the only foreigners and most definitely the least prepared one.

What else? Incredible dunes on an empty beach (and when I say empty I mean empty, it was just us three on there). Beautiful landscapes in the mountains as well as at the ocean. Valparaiso, a (semi-)picturesque port town built on a variety of hills and boasting (some) beautiful early 20th century houses. Random remnants of boastive fascist/communist architecture interspersed into the cities ensure one never forgets about Pinochet. You smell more weed out in the open and on the street. Why are there so many cops and why do a lot of them wear bullet proof vests? In the same vein why are cop cars equipped as if they could be attacked by a savage mob any minute? Everybody and their momma (seriously) warned us in Valparaiso to watch out and not to get robbed (with knives, even guns), I don’t think anyone even gave us a cross look. Played 2 on 2 against some random kids in Valparaiso, I love this game.

So, after Turkey, my second semi-developing country experience. It was worth it. Next time I need to actually speak the language and stay longer. Travelling just gives one a taste, it’s like an appetizer with no a main dish following. Chile was great though.

Curfew

I had found José Donoso randomly on Wikipedia under a grouping of Chilean authors. His book, Curfew, chosen as randomly proved as perfect to whet my appetite while flying towards Santiago de Chile. Donoso tells the story of a popular left-leaning singer, not a hero, no communist activist, not active in any kind of resistance, coming home to a Chile run by Pinochet's government agents after 13 years of a self-imposed exile. The day of his arrival happens to coincide with the wake for Matilde Neruda (the late poet Pablo Neruda's wife) and our hero learns about himself and how Chilean society has evolved through his old friends that he runs across constantly.

Donoso in a novel with autobiographical elements, the author went back to Chile with the dictatorship still very much in place, offers a haunting picture of how every day life in Chile was impacted by the whims of and fears from a dictatorial and corrupt regime. Apart from a disappointing Isabel Allende novel a few years ago, I had never read anything by a Chilean author. This book was not only easily accessible (unlike some of the other books I appreciate) but it also gave me a real taste of (pas) life in Chile and a desire to know more about the country and its culture. While most people undoubtedly will not go to this forlorn country on the coast of South America, Curfew is a great way of exploring Santiago without actually being in the country.

euro topics

I've been subscribing to a very useful newsletter called euro topics for a few weeks now. It provides an overview of interesting articles published all over Europe with the main focus being on political topics. The idea obviously is amazing, I read French, German, and English, but getting the Spanish, Romanian, or Bulgarian point of view on things is extremely interesting.

Yet, I noticed a sizable caveat today which made me remember the potential pitfalls that relying on a translation entail. Yesterday's newsletter included a commentary taken from Le Quotidien on Juncker's candidacy to the EU Presidency. Here is the excerpt:

"The Luxembourg newspaper Le Quotidien is all for Luxembourg's Prime Minister Jean-Claude Juncker becoming president of the EU. But it questions whether Juncker will be able to win over the rest of Europe: 'Other European heavy-weights have also thrown their hats into the ring. In 2004 it looked like everything would have gone Juncker's way if the European Constitution had been adopted. But now it's a completely different story. The British are determined to back Tony Blair come what may. Although he does enjoy an incontestable international popularity, his 'Eurosceptic' track record is dubious to say the least. But it remains to be seen whether the Europeans want Juncker as much as we do here in Luxembourg.'"

The problem is that this is at best a misleading translation of what Le Quotidien actually says (I noticed this only because I was working on a blog entry of my own on Juncker and had wanted to read the whole article in the original). The columnist for example never explicitly takes position in favor of Juncker's candidacy. The belief that Juncker would have had more success in 2004 is based on diplomatic circles not on the writer's personal opinion. Finally, the concluding sentence, while faithfully translated, is completely taken out of contact as it orignally refers to Juncker declaring before the elections in 2004 and 2009 that he would leave (for Europe) if not reelected. It does not comment on his popularity in Luxembourg today or even his compatriots' approval of his ascendancy to the EU Presidency.

I still am thrilled by the general idea and will continue to subscribe to the service, but I guess the lesson of the day is that one should never completely rely on something translated by someone else.

German Foreign Policy Under its New Government

The third installment of my work with ACUS: German Foreign Policy

Please note that I have nothing to do with, the irrelevant at best, title.

A Gathering of Old Men

After Mozart and Leadbelly A Gathering of Old Men is the second book by Earnest J Gaines and in a way I was surprised not to be enthralled. Maybe my expectations were too high, but something just wasn't right about this book. Gaines talks about the South, he talks about race, he mocks religion (or the priest in any case), on the face of it I would have to love the book. Yet, nothing ever remains as simple as it seems.

Gathering of Old Men tells the story of a group of old, black men who have suffered indignation and abuse by white people all their lives and finally decide to make a stand and defend one of theirs suspected of the murder of a white man. Gaines tells the story by switching from one character to another, providing varied view points while not becoming incomprehensible or impossible to follow. The problem of the book lies simply in the fact that it is too simple. It's message is too straight forward, the characters develop no depth (with the possible exception of one important non-main one) and the reader always feels longing for some more food for thought. The cover of the book is adorned with a very nice folk art picture of three old black men with guns. I liked that picture. I like folk art, but I guess as far as literature is concerned I like things a bit less obvious and straight forward.

Obama wins Nobel Peace Prize

Slightly late, but here is my second post for the Atlantic Council:
The View from Europe

Portrait d'un inconnu

Portrait d'un inconnu de Nathalie Sarraute a été une lecture frustrante pour moi. J'ai sans doute essaye de lire trop vite (comme je fais par l'habitude) mais ma (toujours limitee) connaissance du français en combinaison avec le degré de difficulté de la langage et du stream-of-consciousness (y a-t-il un mot pour cela en français?) ont assure que je n'ai pas beaucoup compris. Malheureusement. Je n'aime pas échoué comme ça et j'aime bien pense que cela ne m'arrive pas souvent, mais cette fois ci je n'ai juste pas réussi de me mettre dans le bouquin. Largement, j'ai évidemment qu'il y a un narrateur qui décrit un père et sa fille qui habite dans sa maison, mais je ne veux même pas savoir combien de détails (petits et grand) m'ont échappé. Pire, je n'avais même pas l'envie de retourner et d'essayer de comprendre mieux ce qui se passe et ce que lui (le narrateur) et elle (l'auteure) veulent nous dire. Lecture frustrante et sans beaucoup de compréhension, et je ne peux même pas réclamer que le livre n'est pas bien, cela n'a juste pas marcher pour moi peu importe la raison.

Requiem for a Nun

"The past is never dead. It's not even past." This might be a reminder to some Germans trying to leave Germany's pre-1949 history behind, or French ignoring the evils of colonialism, or in general anyone pretending their history doesn't matter anymore since it is (too far) in the past. yet, it is by William Faulkner as always talking about the South or more specifically his heroine's, Temple Drake, past. Requiem for a Nun (I feel like there aren't many of his books that I haven't read yet by now, and I am already looking forward to re-reading some of the ones I read a long time ago) is a bizarre novel (maybe something that Sartre would call anti-roman) in a play. Or a play in a novel. Faulkner tells the early story of Yoknapatawpha County in a novelized form, while telling us of a (white) mother's quest to liberate the (black) killer of her infant daughter her uncle(-in-law) serving as facilitator of this attempt. Faulkner aficionados will be familiar with most of the main characters (Temple Drake from Sanctuary, Gavin Stevens from all over the place, Gowan Stevens, but also the early population of Yoknapatawpha County, Sutpen, Compson, Ratcliffe (whose name will become Ratliff over time, Satroris...) and the combination of a historical novel and a modern play, one interrupting the other, makes for early incomprehension of the reader. I feel having read Sanctuary, already knowing Gavin Stevens and most of the characters from Yoknapatawpha's early days enabled me to appreciate the text much more than someone without this knowledge would have been able to.

What else can I say? I love Faulkner's writing, not merely because it is convoluted and takes forever to get to the point, not even because it twists and turns within one single sentence, maybe not even because his topics elicit a hard to understand pleasure in German middle class kid - what is my relation to the American South after all? what have I to do with racial relations from the early 19th to the middle of the 20th century - not just because his body of work has to be seen as one with interlinks between his novels and characters occurring constantly; no, his writing satisfies me through its intricacies, its long-winded sentences which seemingly never come to an end and which embody a Southern life style which move slowly, rejects outside influence and is willing to fight against it even when it might share the outside's intended goals. Read it, especially if you want to know why Jefferson is called Jefferson, I won't tell you.

Huis clos & Les mouches

J'ai normalement un peu du mal à me mettre au théâtre autant que dans la prose. Je préfère largement le théâtre joué. Mais Sartre dans ces deux pièces, Huis clos & Les mouches une fois de nouveau réussit à me convaincre. Ses œuvres littéraires sont vraiment très forts. Voire très forts. Surtout Huis clos; très court, est d'une force frappante. Un homme et deux femmes sont à l'enfer, ils y souffrent à l'éternité et ont quand même du mal à réaliser où ils sont et ce qu'ils attendent. Les mouches au contraire est beaucoup moins direct, beaucoup plus difficile à comprendre. Je ne veux même pas savoir combien m'échapper dans ce texte. Je devrais vraiment lire une interprétation. La pièce est une variation d'une ancienne histoire grecque. Le frère et la femme d'Agammemnon payent pour l'avoir tué, ses enfants le vengent mais payent en leur tour.

Je place Sartre dans mon panthéon des écrivains vraiment grands déjà. Je sais qu'il est connu plutôt pour ses essais politique ou philosophe, mais sa prose sans doute vaut le coup.

The Lisbon Treaty and EU Foreign Policy

I just started working for another blog. Here, my first post.

Is NY still a democracy?

Really just want to throw this out there, because I find it quite shocking. Basically, Mayor Bloomberg is ignoring a decision made in a city-wide referendum limiting officials to two consecutive terms running for reelection. (NYT) Sounds like the kind of thing against which the US would run amok if it happened in Central or South America and involved a left-wing President. To be fair, the government (aka, the CDU) of Hamburg also ignores its citizens' decision-making (SZ). Still, this seems kind of crazy in the biggest and (by name) most important US city. Today the NY Times made its readers aware of the fact that in two Democratic runoff elections (for public advocate and comptroller - whatever the fuck these people actually do) 8% of eligible Democrats actually voted. That means that 2% of the city's population decided on who will - undoubtedly - fill these positions. If that is the future of democracy, I sincerely do hope the last guy around will remember to turn the lights off.

The Power and the Glory

An old friend of mine had told me that I should read Graham Greene at some point. We are not in contact anymore, nor friends, but I did finally get around to read one of Greene's books. The Power and the Glory tells the story of a priest on the run in a Mexican province after a socialist uprising has razed all the churches and killed or corrupted all priests. The last remaining 'whiskey priest' devoid of any adherence to Catholic decorum and dependent on brandy constantly keeps on the move trying to avoid a ruthless, if morally sound, Lieutnant trying to serve his people by killing the religion still living within their midst.

Greene portrays this particular Mexican province as a desperate and desolate place and he does a great job describing a variety of stock characters most of whom are not deeply explored even while Greene offers a powerful portrait of them. The pious mother trying to instill religion into their children, her critical son, the poor and hypocritical Judas, the alcoholic Brit trying to leave, the atheist German happy on his farm. I cannot say that the story enthralled me per se, but I did eat up the people populating it. Maybe this was due to the philosophical or political questions touched upon in the book, religion and the state and the people, simply not being of any significant interest to me. I'll read another of his book and I can recommend him, but reading the book with the high expectations I had, I couldn't help but being slightly disappointed.

Hygiène de l'assassin

Je suis plus ou moins sur que je n'avais pas encore lu un livre d'une autrice belge née en Japon avant et je dois avouer que son livre est presque si bizarre que cette combinaison d'origines. Hygiène de l'assassin d'Amélie Nothomb décrit plusieurs entretiens par quatre journalistes différents avec un gagnant du prix Nobel génial, cynique et insultant. Il est peu clair ce que Nothomb veux dire au lecteur avec son livre. Il y a des indices qui font penser a une critique de notre société sur-médiatisée ou des journalistes peu critiques et trop facile a impressionner, mais le dernier entretien prouve cela absurde. Effectivement, le seul résultat de la lecture de ce livre est le respect devant la façon comment l'autrice (je sais, mais il faut être féministe un peu, non?) a l'écrit. Elle montre une bataille intellectuelle entre les journalistes (surtout la dernière) et la personnage principale qui est très bienfait, très bien écrit même exhilerant parfois. Le seul problème avec l'histoire est qu'on ne comprends jamais a quoi elle sert. La fin du livre laisse tomber le lecteur sans qu'il comprends pour quoi ces évènements se passent ou s'ils ont un sens.

The Armies of the Night

Norman Mailer is one of these numerous figures whom I have heard more about than I actually know or have read (if that makes sense). Noam Chomsky, who appears in this book, is another. I did read The Naked and the Dead is the, seemingly, dark ages, when I was too young and read too fast (I have virtually no recollection of the book anymore). So, I had no idea what to expect of The Armies of the Night, yet Mailer still managed to surprise me.

History as a novel, the novel as history. The book is split in two parts, the first one consisting of Mailer's experiences (recounted in a third person narrative, quite disconcerting throughout the book I found) attending an anti-Vietnam protest (the March on the Pentagon) in the fall of 1967. While the content of this part is quite factual, he lived all of it after all, Mailer tells it like a novel. The second part of the book is a recount of what happened in the lead up to the March and during the following 48 hours, while Mailer was in jail. It is the journalistic or historical part, but really the novel since Mailer wasn't actually present. This made for a very intriguing concept and split I found.

What is fascinating besides the story which is amusing, captivating and informative at once is to see Mailer portray himself as egocentric and selfish at the same time that he goes to jail for a cause and pokes fun at his persona's need to be the center of attention. He manages to step away from himself and provide the reader with an objective description of himself even while it remains clear that Mailer considers himself no slough.

It might be argued that the book today is more interesting because of its stylistic audacity as well as the author himself than the very journalistic and micro-orientated coverage of one demonstration against the Vietnam War, but I felt that the book is worth it out of all three counts. One not necessarily overwhelming the other and a glimpse into the war's opposition at the same time proved instructive as well.

Europe's Socialists Suffering Even in Downturn

In response to a really bad NY Times article:

To be blunt, this was just bad reporting, leading to an article containing factual errors as well as analytical ones. This starts out with the article's headline equating the SPD with European socialist parties. Actually, the Social Democratic Party as it is correctly named within the text itself is not a socialist party anymore in rhetoric either (it wasn't in fact long before that) since the publication of its Godesberger Program in 1959.

The author then claims that the 'Socialists [...] [are] fighting to preserve systems that voters think need to be improved.' That might well be true in some cases, in Germany the SPD lost voters precisely because they tried to reform the system in government with a red-green coalition from 1998 to 2005. The SPD is being punished not because it refuses to adapt, but because it tried to reform. The Left which refuses the need for social reforms and is the real socialist party in Germany, against the odds has succeeded to establish itself on the national scene. Steven Erlanger's claim cited above is simply not true then, the reverse is true for Germany.

Finally, it is of course not true, that the left (Greens, SPD, Die Linke) has a structural majority in parliament, that is exactly what changed on Sunday.

There are additional analytical mistakes concerning the relation between The Left and the SPD, but these issues are, to some extent, up to debate while the aforementioned three points are simply wrong.

Une mort très douce

Simone de Beauvoir et son Deuxième Sexe est sur ma liste des lectures depuis longtemps. Au lieu de cela je viens de finir un bouquin d'elle plutôt essayiste et très personnel, Une mort très douce sur la démise de sa mère. J'avais beaucoup aimé les trois romans par Sartre que j'ai lu et j'ai été un peu surpris d'apprécier l'écriture de Beauvoir autant que celle de celui. Le livre n'est pas captivant comme soi, la fin est claire dès le début, mais les réflexions philosophique de l'auteure sont d'une puissance frappante. Je n'ai pas été capable de les suivre d'une façon très personnelle, mes parents sont vivants encore et je crois (et pense et espère) que cela ne changera pas pour les années qui viennent, mais Beauvoir est une monstre intellectuelle et la regarder réfléchir est un plaisir. Je ne veux pas constaté qu'elle n'aurait pas de sentiment, elle souffre de la maladie de sa mère comme tout le monde le ferait, mais elle a une capacité de s'éloigner de soi-même et d'analyser ses pensées qui est fascinante et crée de la jalousie. Ayant dit tout cela son œuvre est écrit très simple et il n'est pas un grand travail de la littérature, il montre juste que l'auteure est impressionnante et donne envie de lire plus d'elle.

Das Gut Stepantschikowo und seine Bewohner

Dostojewski ist leider einer dieser Autoren, welche ich viel zu jung und schnell gelesen habe. Ich werde Schuld und Suehne sicherlich noch einmal lesen, doch fuers erste beendete ich gestern Das Gut Stepantschikowo und seine Bewohner. Ein furchtbares Buch, ganz ernsthaft. Basierend auf einer Geschichte von Molière dessen Titel ich mich nicht mehr entsinne, erzaehlt Dostojewski die Geschichte eines Mannes, welcher selber zu oft getreten wurde und nun als Tyrann ueber einen Haushalt herrscht in welchem er eigentlich nur zu Gast ist. Die Art und Weise wie dieser Foma Fomitsch seinen Gastherren misshandelt und quaelt ist furchtbar erniedrigend. Der Geist des Lesers straeubt sich noch staerker gegen die Selbstgeisselung des nominellen Hausherren, welcher den ihm moralisch, staendisch sowie nach Vermoegen unterlegen Foma, wegen einer leicht intellektuellen Ueberlegenheit, welche dieser in eine staendige moralische Dominanz verwandelt, richtiggehend verehrt und jeden Fehl und Tadel nur bei sich selbst sucht (und findet).

Das Buch ist also grausam und furchtbar zu Lesen, ja fast nur mit Widerstand, aber dies liegt daran, dass Dostojewski unglaublich erfolgreich ist darin diese abstossende menschliche Konstellation darzustellen. Ich weiss deswegen wirklich nicht, was ich von diesem Buch halten soll. Es war sehr, sehr unangenehm es zu lesen, aber kann ich Dostojewski vorwerfen, dass es ihm gelingt den Menschen von seiner schlimmsten bzw naivsten und deswegen mitleiderregendsten Seite zu beschreiben?

The Nick Adams Stories

Hemingway's The Nick Adams Stories was published post-posthumously with some of the stories being mere sketches of what Hemingway had planned to write. Nick Adams to some extent mirrors the author's life. He is not Hemingway of course, but their lives revolve around some of the same experiences. The stories in this collection show Nick growing up in rural Michigan, hunting in violation of the law and fishing, always fishing. He fights in the war, he is injured, he goes back home and has a hard time adjusting, finally he marries and has a son.

I usually have a hard time getting into short stories, the themes they explore are seemingly over right when one started to understand them. This collection is different, not only is Hemingway's court writing well-suited for short stories, these also circle around and detail one person, meaning that a far more well-rounded picture of the character is given.

What I find fascinating with Hemingway per se, and this is true with other writers as well, but less so, is how much his writing is inspired by his own life. Every single book or story I have read by him can be traced back to an event in his life that inspired it. This is not supposed to detract from his writing genius of course, I think he is amazing quite honestly, but it is striking nonetheless.

Dubliners

I've grown to rather like James Joyce. I liked A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners as well proved very enjoyable. I guess that means I will have to give the Ulysseus I have standing in Berlin another shot at some point. We'll see. Time will surely take care of that.

Dubliners is made up of fifteen stories taking a closer look at variety of characters living in the Irish capital. The protagonists populating these stories, this town, are nothing special. They are pious and crooks. Young and old, satisfied with having left Dublin unhappy at having stayed; married, faithful and abstinent. They are neither heroic nor afraid. They are you and me, some more reflective some less. Joyce paints all of them in extremely humane colors, makes them accessible to the reader and allows him to easily relate to them. There is grand scheme hidden behind their description and I am not even sure one knows much more about Dublin after having read these stories apart from some mention of Irish nationalism these stories could take place anywhere and anytime. Joyce is great in giving character studies without divulging every little piece of information to the reader. If only Ulysseus weren't so hard and difficult to follow, I would hold him in even higher esteem.

Notre-Dame de Paris

"Un livre génial [...] Quasimodo est la personnification du peuple français du Moyen Age, opprimé et méprisé, sourd et difforme, mais en qui s'éveille la conscience de son bon droit et de ses forces infinies, encore inentamées."

C'est ça l'interprétation de Dostoïesvski du chef-œuvre de Victor Hugo. Je ne crois pas que j'aie arrivé à cette conclusion moi-même. Mais qui suis-je de ne pas être d'accord avec Dostoïesvski(de qui je suis en train de commencer un bouquin d'ailleurs, drôle de hasard)? Et du coup, on est bien d'accord que le livre est génial. L'histoire du bossu monstrueux qui tombe amoureux de la belle gitane, Quasimodo et Esméralda, est connu mondiale et a été adapté pour le film à plusieurs reprises. Mais même avec les grandes lignes des événements peu surprenant, Notre-Dame de Paris fascine par les personnages et leur description détaillée (dont celles des personnages de la deuxième ou troisième plan) mais aussi par l'aventure soi-même. La mort et la misère qui sont toujours présents. Plus difficile c'est le Paris du 14ème décrit du point de vue du Paris du 18ème, peu compréhensible pour quelqu'un connaissant le Paris d'aujourd'hui superficiellement.

The economics of my job

Let's strip away for a second the morality issue of lying and try to look only at the underlying economics of doing business in the Middle East versus western, industrialized countries. In a capitalist market system constant competition is supposed to regulate supply and demand and assure that neither the seller nor the buyers accrue rents (aka make more money than they should based on the economic fundamentals. That is the theory, in practice this of course means that rents accrue to both sides in different deals in order to arrive at equilibrium position. Perfect information, a condition of that model, is nothing but a chimera of course, but in a competitive market prices should be decently close to equilibrium.

Now, in most countries in the Middle East (and outside the West in general (this is a geographic simplification of course, sorry)) this is not the case. Information is even more asymmetric and there is a powerful governmental actor that needs to be catered to (in a truly capitalist system he should only be acknowledged and taken into consideration), that results in rents being accrued to those on the good side of information and the governmental actor (both being the same most of the time). Looking at countries exporting a valuable good in high demand, companies within those countries are the ones benefiting from these rents since the governmental actor will not be swayed by a massive group of individualistic buyers abroad.

It is these rents that the company I work for targets. They allow higher advertisement prices and the interest in them allow to increase pressure on companies to advertise through references made to the governmental actor. It is the reason why this kind of system works better in developing countries than in more competitive (capitalist if you want) market regimes. To be harsh, it is the reason why this works better in countries with an autocratic regime not controlled by an attentive public running the place.

My Job

I've been working for a publishing company for the last few weeks and felt I should share the insight into the industry this has given me. The company that I work for publishes interview-based business books concentrating on and presenting one particular economic sector in a variety of countries. A book consists of eight chapters each filled with maybe eight interviews as well as chapter-opening editorials and a variety of interactive features (fora, maps and the such). We are part of a whole industry focusing on this kind of work and on the face of it the idea doesn't sound that bad. A bit boring maybe because of the heavy concentration on companies' fate, but nothing out of the ordinary. In reality we are part of an industry of leeches, supposedly with us being the good guys, but still living off of others achievements.

Basically, what we do is we go to a country and try to do interviews with all relevant CEOs in the sector which we cover there. These interviews we collect in a book format. The book is sold, but we make our money on advertisement that we try to sell those same executives. Now, this might be something I personally find boring (and it is) and unattractive, but it is not per se bad or distasteful to provide a forum for advertisement and make your living like that. The moral problem for me lies in the fact that we lie and cheat the whole time to achieve our goals. We pretend to be journalists in order to get the interview (which is not true, we create content in order to sell advertisement, not the other way around). We lie about our distribution numbers (I suspect that the number of executives supposedly reading our books is a fourth of what we claim it to be). We sell a product (an ad) that most people in this industry don't need and if they did I have serious doubts about its effectiveness.

The book we sell and the advertisement in it is pointless for two maybe three reasons. Firstly, the distribution numbers we cite are wrong, there are simply not enough readers. Secondly, even the executives receiving our book are unlikely to actually read through it carefully or even handle it longer than a few minutes (I might be wrong about this and am willing to concede this point). Thirdly, our publication is useless as an analytical tool, it is a number of interviews which the executives are allowed to edit themselves. Obviously no one talks about his companies' weaknesses. Anyone basing their business decision on this has himself to blame only. That is also the reason why advertising is pointless for these companies. They are not dealing with individual customers deciding between an expensive Coke and a cheap same-product no-brand-name soft drink, they are trying to attract companies handling millions not willing to invest based on an ad they saw somewhere at some point.

The funny (or ironic) thing is that we are the good guys in this industry. Others pretend to work for Fox or CNN or The Economist and charge astronomical figures to run features on those platforms (which is then surprisingly called CNN-whatever.net or something like that). We charge less (even if still a lot) and produce a book that is of significantly higher quality than our competitors' products. Still, that doesn't change the underlying morality issues of this industry. I don't have a problem with a hard-fought capitalist system (I might not necessarily take part in it all that much, but that's a different story), this is different. Historically (the last few years in any case) my company has focused on publishing these kind of books in the Middle East. There they try to obtain a partnership with someone in the government (or pretend to have that kind of agreement) and because of the autocratic, non-transparent nature of these countries they succeed in making everyone buy expensive ads (basically everyone wants to please the big guy who is on board or at least supposedly on board). This whole industry then is not an outgrowth of a highly capitalistic system, but rather the result of an unjust, government-centered economy which deprives the biggest parts of their population of the benefits of that sector on the economy which we focus on (and which I will not name here in case you were wondering).

Additionally, the tactic of our sale is quite simply repugnant. We go in, chat with the guy (there are no women), try to make friends, then I interview him (I could never do the sales part) trying to give us credibility as a serious publication, finally my colleague goes in for the kill. Name-dropping everyone who is big in that particular sector, claiming we have talked to all of them and implying they have all bought ads (both of which is not true). The idea is to make the guy bend to an onslaught of words and ideas. Did I mention that the sales person (always a girl) evidently is attractive, laughs at every joke and eats up avidly everything the CEO says as if she were watching the pre-Civil War Republican Lincoln-Douglas debates (ok, bad comparison, but you know what I mean)?

What is amusing is that this concept does not work as well in industrialized, Western countries. The capitalist system is more built-up here. People don't fall for glossy publications, an attractive sales girl and the apparent support of some high government official would make them laugh. Working in these countries drives home the point that what this industry usually does is living off of others livelihood.

Yeah, this is what I do. Funny how some as me could end up in a job like that. Well, I quit last week. Just couldn't do it anymore. The money is real good, but I have other priorities in life and quite honestly I hated every second of doing this (or was only bored at the best of times).

Just as a disclaimer. I am aware that some people might be of other opinions regarding the effectiveness of advertisement. Please keep in mind the aforementioned difference in advertising to a mass of people for an individual product and doing the same thing with a target of more successful than average group of specialists in their sector. I believe we would agree that the effects are not the same. Apart from that, even granted this whole advertisement thing works great, that still makes us liars and cheaters even if the word leeches might not be accurate anymore. The striking thing for me was that that was how I thought about ourselves and then found out that some of the companies call us that too.

Terra!

Ein Geburtstagsgeschenk aus naheliegenden Gründen, Terra! von Stefano Benni ist eines dieser leicht zugänglich, super vergnüglichen Werken, welche man in wenigen Stunden verschlingt. Der Stil erinnerte mich sehr stark an Douglas Adams oder Terry Pratchett, was sehr als Kompliment zu verstehen ist. Benni beschreibt eine apokalyptische Zukunft der Erde, welche nach drei weiteren Weltkriegen die Sonne nicht mehr als Energiequelle hat und dementsprechend kalt ist. Der regierende Kapitalismus, die dominierende Technolosigierung ist auf den Kopf getrieben, dasgleiche gilt für den herrschenden Zynismus und die Irrelevanz niederer Lebensformen.

Ohne Abstrich empfehlenswert.

Don Quixote von la Mancha

Don Quixote von la Mancha von Miguel de Cervantes gehört wohl zu den bekanntesten Geschichten der (westlichen) Welt. Der Klassiker der spanischen Literatur. Das Buch ist sehr episodenhaft aufgebaut (und auch eigentlich mehr als ein Buch, es wurde in zwei Teilen veröffentlicht) und kann im Prinzip an jeder Stelle angefangen werden, ohne dass Kenntnisse der vorherigen Ereignisse notwendig sind. Mir machte dieser unabhängige Aufbau das Lesen ein wenig schwer, weil man in einem solchen Buch nie richtig versinken kann. Nichtsdestotrotz ist es eine faszinierende Lektüre. Cervantes zeigt wenig Respekt und seine Zeichnung des verrückten Ritters der traurigen Gestalt und seinem Stallmeister Sancho Panso ist unglaublich witzig. Interessant ist, dass der dargestellte Humor in einer gewissen Weise fast schon modern ist, da er unglaublich gewaltätig und sexuell ist ja sich gar auf Fäkalien bezieht.

Life in Calgary II

Me not knowing anyone in Calgary I spent my late Saturday evening riding around town and looking at places and people a bit. At some point when I was sitting on my bike while leaning on a lamp post, I was approached by an Aborigine asking me whether I'd have 67 cents I was not emotionally attached to. Apart from that being a pretty decent line of course I have been intrigued by the Aborigines (or Indians, Native Americans or whatever you might call them) living in Calgary ever since I got here. The few Natives you see running around here are a rather sad sight, quite clearly drunks, quite evidently without any kind of decent home. The impression of Canada as a better (because socially and environmentally more responsible) USA fades away when you see these figures tumbling along the street in downtown Calgary while the new (white) rulers of the place pass them in their massive trucks and SUVs.

So, to get back to my story, I gave the guy a two-dollar piece which prompted him to call me a good person. I replied that I wasn't as sure of that as him and we struck up a conversation as he took for a lack of confidence my sense of realism and felt he should help me with that. I sat on a bench for maybe 30 minutes with him, while he sipped from a bottle of mouthwash (the cheapest alcohol to be had apparently). The guy obviously was completely fucked up. He kept on telling me that he works for the Aboriginal Secret Service and that these guys were better and bigger than the CIA. He insisted that Russia was going to invade Iran and wanted to know whether Germany was going to help them. He sincerely asked me whether I would kill a Jew if given the chance.

All of that really seems besides the point though, since he is such a prime example of how society destroys those that do not fit into its mold. His alcoholic father and mother abandoned him (or the government took him away from them, not quite sure which). He was raised with 'your folks' as he put it, meaning white people, but spent part of his youth with the Blackfeet as well. He hates Natives because they believe him white, he hates whites because he is a no-good drunk Indian with them. No, he doesn't hate either one of them, he just hates how both make him feel. He drinks with abandon, going for mouthwash not only because it's cheap but also because you can get it at eight in the morning, liquor stores only open at ten.

Yet, he also is a warm-hearted, genuinely nice human being (or he was towards me in any case). He is not dumb (loads of more 'successful' people believe in conspiracy theories) and has a broad knowledge of (pop)-culture. Human tragedy. Of course. But is it more than that? Does the post-national Canada I praised in my previous post even exist? Maybe it does, but only exists for well-educated people of high social standing. I have yet to see one Native American in any of the numerous downtown luncheons I've frequented this past week. The only thing I've read in the paper about them ever since I got here, was that they are labeled as a threat to national security because of a couple of pipeline bombings in the north of Alberta.

Is something rotten in the state of Denmark?

Life in Calgary

The funny thing about Calgary (in this particular case, read: Canada) is that it is very much like the United States. Except that it's not. Yeah, I know that makes a lot of sense. I've been here about a week now, I've been very busy with work, so I haven't managed to get around and explore a lot, but I just bought a used bike off some hobo for $10 yesterday and will be discovering the city on that in the weeks to come, especially as work becomes more of a routine job and I'll have more time on the side.

I had already spent some time in Calgary when I was about 14 and came here with my parents (and sister), but most of what I remember from that time is related to trips we undertook outside of Calgary (Banff, the Big Horn River) and the suburban life style that I had had never experienced before. This time around what struck me the most so far has been the niceness of people. In the States people are super friendly, but one is never sure how much of that is put on (if not say hypocrisy). Here I constantly get the impression that people are genuinely nice. The woman in the store where I got a sandwich yesterday was positively charmed by the fact that I was from Europe (placing me in England upfront) and it didn't seem fake at all. Maybe Canadians just act better than most Americans, I've been falling for it in any case.

Calgary is very much dominated by the oil and gas industry which in turn is very, very male-dominated. If you go for lunch downtown during the week most places are filled almost exclusively by (white) men in suits being served by scantily clad (hot pants or really short mini skirts while they bring me lunch? really?), tall and rather attractive women. Disgusting, if you ask me.

Apart from that the town is sprinkled with little parks and very much accessible by bike, if a little too spread out to walk. Especially when you live downtown. Also Canada, even more so than the USA maybe, represents a post-racial society. I played ball on an outside court yesterday, with two little Asian guys, two French-speaking African-Canadian teenagers, some tall white dude and a Latino-looking guy. And everyone got along really well. At the same time all of these guys were pretty bad ballers and there seems to be a clear negative correlation between people's niceness and their ball-playing skills. Me being only semi-nice on the court, I am also semi-good, which let's me dominate a court like the one yesterday, but is not sufficient for really tough ones.

A word on that tough court too. I found a gym where I believe the best game in town is run. I (as usual, talk about being a skinny, white guy with longish hair and not enough of a cocky bastard) have a hard time getting on the court there, but I do manage and it's been good. I definitely will enjoy getting intro proper playing shape again. Anyway, from a sociological point of view this court is really interesting because it is dominated by Sudanese guys (some of which are really good ballers, tall, skinny, fast, aggressive). When I was in Boston last year I kept on running into guys from Cap Verde there, here it's the Sudanese. In both cases they must be living on the continent for a while (their English is impeccable), but still talk in their mother tongue amongst each other. How these immigration patterns come about is fascinating even if I cannot offer any kind of explanation for them.

Pylon

Faulkner once more. I am not sure how many books of him I haven't actually read yet. Maybe 3, 4 even 5. In any case, I am not too worried about having gone through all of them relatively soon, simply because most of them have as many layers of understanding that rereading them will be a pleasure.

Pylon most definitely is not one of Faulkner prime novels. He apparently wrote it while taking a break from Absalom, Absalom, in order to relax in a sense then. It is the first novel of his I read that does not take place in Yoknapatawpha County.

Pylon is based on a very simple story line. A journalist working in a fictionalized New Orleans (New Valois) is sent to cover an air fair outside of town. This introduces us, the reader, and him, the journalist, to the world of barnstorming pilots. Men who live from their planes, who risk their lives for a little prize money and who never earn enough to know where they will be sleeping that night or tomorrow. In this specific case the journalist (who does not have a name in the novel) stumbles over a family of sorts, that battles out this kind of life together. A pilot, a parachute jumper, a woman who is married to one but sleeps with both and her son whose father might be the one or the other and a mechanic with a penchant for alcohol. The journalist becomes deeply involved with this menage à trois ultimately leading to disaster.

Faulkner hurried this novel through. Some of his sentences lack in logic and sometimes words simply are misspelled, but the novel still offers glimpses of his wonderful, convoluted writing style. I can only recommend reading him, maybe not starting out with this book.

Life in Berlin

Coming home for a weekend and jumping right back into life there seems so easy. I carried my sister's and her boyfriend's crap up the stairs for three hours. I had drinks with my ol-timey friends, coffee in the Bergmannstr with more recent ones. Yet, having spent so much time away changes one's perceptions, makes one have a stranger's point of view more than that of an inhabitant at various points.

Case in point. I went swimming Sunday, left Berlin and spent the afternoon at a lake, drinking beers, lying in the sun, discussing life and the such. Good times. The point isn't that I hadn't been at the Sacrower See in ages, nor that things seemingly hadn't changed with the old east-German Datschas still standing, but rather that I was shocked, well not not shocked, surprised would be more appropriate, at the number of naked kids, bare-breasted women and nude adults in general that were hanging out there. A few years ago I probably would have not even noticed this, but yesterday it struck me as a rather specific German cultural element. In France or Spain women might go topless at times, in the US, Turkey or Italia (talking about countries I decently know thus) this virtually never happens and even in the aforementioned countries full nudity is rather rare.

The popular explanation for this peculiar German trait relates it to the oppressive East-German regime which led people to some kind of inner emigration (to the beach) and liberation (by taking off their clothes). While there undoubtedly is some truth to this theory, FKK (Freikörperkultur - free body culture) apparently was far more popular in Eastern Germany than the rest of the country, it does not seem to offer a sufficient explanation as it discounts the Austrian and West German FKKs. Can I offer a better explanation then? No, sorry. I will pass it along if I come across something though.

Life in Istanbul IV

What really confounded me about Istanbul was the astounding disconnect between various parts of the population. As self-confessed post-nationalist I am convinced of that the nation state is nothing but a artificial construct without any true meaning. My relationship with young, educated tweensters from France, England, or the USA is far closer than my connection with fellow countrymen of mine who lack said education and engage in professional activities that are more closely tied to the traditional industrial sector or the low-skilled service industry. To realize that these fault lines within one nation as that much stronger in a country as nationalistic as Turkey provides with some food for thought (and is quite ironic really).

I have no idea whether what I am describing is a completely normal situation for emerging countries to be in. They struck me as odd, but that might simply be due to a lack of experience concerning non-Western countries. Basically, in Turkey, two main groups seem to have virtually no contact with one another. Those would be on the one hand the Kemalists, the young upper middle class who follow in the footsteps of Atatürk's Westernization in the 20s and 30s and in a sense glorify Western culture and capitalism. Concretely this results in their seemingly tring (if not consciously) being über-Western. This results in girls wearing skirts, shorts and tops that you would rarely see in the streets of Berlin or Paris. You might see these kind of revealing clothes in clubs and discos but not in every day life, the way they are used in Turkey. It means that the restaurants and bars these people frequent rarely serves Turkish food anymore, but instead the kind of internationalized uniform world food one finds every else as well (wraps, pizza, fries, you know the deal). It means that people are surprised to hear me order a Turkish coffee not a European one. It means that my trips into less sanguine parts are met with incomprehensive looks and a comment on the massive presence of head scarves in those neighborhoods.

I have not really met anyone from the other side as the religious, Western-Turkish and economic divide to a large extent seems to be an educational one as well. Basically, most of these more traditional people's forte are not foreign languages. But, I was struck by the differences and by how this separation is emphasized by most of my colleagues.

L'Espoir

L'Espoir est le deuxième livre d'André Malraux que j'ai lu après La Condition Humaine il y a quelques mois. A l'époque je n'avais pas trop regardé qui était Malraux. Je savais seulement qu'il a été dans le gouvernement de de Gaulle et que Chirac lui a fait entrer au Panthéon. Maintenant je viens de lire sa biographie sur Wikipedia. Quel homme (désolé pour ce preuve de sexisme, mais quel être humain n'a pas le même effet), quelle vie. Il a passé du temps en Indochine, s'est fait arrêter là-bas, a été volontaire en Espagne faisant la guerre pour la République, a été actif dans la résistance, a commandé une compagnie française conquérant Allemagne et est finalement devenu Ministre. Putain (désolé de nouveau, mais vraiment, quelle vie).

L'Espoir suive un groupe de militaires républicains dans la guerre civile espagnole. La plupart entre eux sont des volontaires internationaux et des aviateurs. Malraux peint l'image d'une guerre d'idéalistes, des anarchistes, des communistes, des syndicalistes, des paysans, des ouvriers, des intellectuelles gauchistes. Tous luttent ensemble afin de préserver la république contre les fascistes. Comme Malraux le raconte, c'est l'histoire des idéaux contre les armes. L'armée contre les miliciens, mal équipés, mal nourris. Les fusils contre les avions, contre les tanks. Malraux fait croire au lecteur (et j'aime bien penser qu'il est vrai) que ces troupes ont été inspirés par la solidarité plus que d'autre chose. Même si on sait que la république est censée d'échouer, on est empli de respect pour ces gens, pour cette tentative héroïque si vaine.

Le livre est très difficile à suivre parfois avec beaucoup de personnage qui ne sont rarement introduit. Quand même on arrive à concevoir une compréhension de cette guerre de sa coté républicain en tout cas. Le chaos, la désorganisation, la manque de ressources, la manque de soldats entraînés du camp républicain devient évident. Malraux n'écarte pas les aspects horribles de la guerre. Les blesses, les morts, les obus sur Madrid et leur impact sur la population civile, la fusillade des volontaires par les républicains ('il fallait choisir entre la victoire et la pitié').

Finalement, une citation qui s'applique bien à moi déjà. Peut-être je suis trop vieux déjà, mais j'en suis (un peu) fier au même temps. 'A mon âge, on ne voyage plus sans bibliothèque.'

Life in Istanbul III (Basketball Edition)

I've been playing some pick-up ball lately over on the Asian side. There is a little park, right next to the water, with 5 fence-enclosed courts. The place always is full of players whenever I show up and thus quite the change from the courts close to the place I live where there barely ever is anyone playing. As people who travel and play ball at any decent level know, basketball styles vary as much as any other cultural expression. Basketball in the US is much more physical for example.

Turkey is an interesting case as there a couple of aspects to it that I have never encountered in any other place that I've played in (basically: Germany, the US, France and Austria). People here play a warm-up game before the actual one starts. The first three points don't count. The game only starts after those first three buckets. During the game the intensity is relatively high, but static. That means that it does not increase when the game nears its end (usually going to 30, with 1s and 2s). There also are virtually no celebratory gestures after the game. Winning doesn't seem to matter as much as in the US for example. Also, there are no fouls. Or barely any. I don't mean that people don't call fouls, they do. There simply are relatively few fouls. People play defense (if not crazily intense), but don't hack.

Finally, I've found it interesting that people here (comparable to Americans) play rather unorthodoxly, but well. There are quite a few people that shoot really well, even while their technique makes you cringe.

And yes, don't worry, I will continue to engage in qualitative field research as much as I can.

Magisterarbeit

I should have posted this a while ago, but things were kind of busy and I just didn't think of it anymore. Here is my master's thesis, betitled: The ESDP and its Impact on Transatlantic Relations.

I still like the topic. I know it could be better. I would write it very differently if I had to do it over again. It still is the longest piece I've ever written and unlike most people I know I didn't cheat in the bibliography. I actually read all of that.

Life in Istanbul II

So, I started branching out a little bit this weekend, exploring neighborhoods that upper middle-class Turkish people told me were dangerous, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I found a really nice park, with a relatively nice basketball court (the hoops are decent, the ground is gravel) in a neighborhood (Kasımpaşa I believe) that is a lot more down to earth than the one I live in. There are even more people on the street. Elderly women hanging in windows looking at people, kids playing with bottle caps, lots of women with head scarves and in general a crazy amount of kids. Definitely a bit poorer (probably even drastically so) and (yesterday, Sunday, at least) by a gigantic street market (kind of like the one in Neukölln, only more Turkish people, drastically less non-Turkish ones, and virtually no one that speaks English, French, or German).

In spite of the (exaggerated, I feel) warning I had received I felt really comfortable in the neighborhood. An interesting sub-aspect of this feeling of security is that not everyone recognizes (or acknowledges) that I am a foreigner. There are enough Turks who have a rather light skin (sometimes even red hair) for me not to stick out too much. My clothes sometimes give me away (shorts and sandals are something popular with the westernized crowd mainly), but I can get by without even being (too obviously) looked at most of the time.

Related to this surprising racial diversity (well, a lacking complete racial homogeneity describes it better I believe), which seems to me a remnant of the Ottoman Empire's far reach (or it might not, I have no idea really, but I feel like the explanation does sound good), is the occasional presence of black guys (I have not seen a woman yet) who are quite obviously Turkish and regularly integrated into local culture as far as I can tell (based on them sitting in tea houses with all the other men basically). These guys usually seem to be part of a poorer strata of Turkish society, yet make an impression of not being recent immigrants but accepted individuals and long-established members of that very society - one never sees them in groups for example, which would imply a more recent common immigration background.

Life in Istanbul I

It's been a week that I've been staying here now, and while my grasp of Istanbul as a city, let alone Turkey as a country, is extremely rudimentary, I would like share a few observations.

I live in a neighborhood called Cihangir here, one which has frequently been described to me as being an expat quartier. While this might be very well be true, foreigners are a common sight on the street, the place is still (luckily) very much dominated by Turks. This, in turn, leads me to my first (and primary) complaint of life here. I have a very hard time dealing with my muted existence here due to the fact that I don't speak any Turkish (discounting the three words I've learned since arriving here). Even in more touristy places (and I try to avoid those) people (customers and servers) have only a very rudimentary command of English (or French or German). Surprisingly when talking to elderly people chances are higher to be able to communicate with them in French (and sometimes German) than in English. In any case, this is a sore subject for me as it makes me extremely uncomfortable to be incapable to express even the simplest inquiry or to understand the response.

As a disclaimer, I have to add that I have met a decent amount of Turkish people whose command of English is astounding. The problem is, I feel, that there is a large disconnect between a select few who are absolutely fluent and the large majority who can barely say anything. Whatever the implications of this (high Gini-coefficient? the advantages of private schooling?), I am very undecided what to do about this as I will most likely not stay here long enough to make it worth it for myself to truly try to learn Turkish. I guess I will simply have to deal with the accompanying frustration.

Very charming is the fact that life tends to take place on the street here. Shopowners sit in front of their stores, drinking tea (çay), street vendors roam with carts selling fruits or collecting scrap metal. Men gather by the dozens in tea houses and sit for hours. More modern cafés cater to a younger crowd. Restaurants and bars invariably have virtually all of their customers sitting outside, making certain smaller pedestrian streets hard to walk through (and quite deafening). Kids play outside and every shady corner, step or grass area is occupied by one, two or three men (mostly, the grassy areas in parks are also occupied by whole families, who bring tea-making machines, water containers and stay hours). All in all, this provides a really nice atmosphere and I seriously wonder how this city changes with the weather in the winter.

The glaring negative aspect of this outdoor life is the sexual divide. Young women and men one sees without distinction, but there is a true generational gap when it comes to the presence of women on the street. Secondly, this seemingly charming street activity has at least some basis in very high national unemployment rates (~17% overall, more than 25% for youths). Thus, and as much as I enjoy the atmosphere, at least one underlying (and I assume important) explanation for it is of the more depressing kind.

To be continued....