my long hibernation has resulted in me losing my belly button. i cannot find it. here's a lil love song for the newly dissapeared:

Oh my lovely button
where have you gotten
my lifes rotten
oh my belly button!

P.S: extreme poverty and many chocolate chip cookies have contributed to my slowly losing my mind too. But more on that later...
Liz, im in town, I shall call tonight! Do not fear I am here (Tagline of famous Hindi film)

Hey terry

Just read your post on POTA. I think its a horrible thing too. I agree completely. however, Sonia gandhi is not the daughter of Indira. She is infact the daughter-in-law, the wife of Rajiv Gandhi who was assasinated while he was Prime Minister. Also, Sonia has decided not to take up the Prime Ministership, owing to the fact that she is Italian and that there was a whole lot of objection to that from some Nationalistic assholes who wanted to uphold the "tradition and culture of Indian (read Hindu) society."
Also, Sonia's party is the dynasty-like political party, the Congress. They are hardly left-of-center. They are as right as right can be, only slightly less jingoistic than the present government.
thats it.. sorry to bore you with the many details but its just that Indian politics gets my gut everytime, just as i suppose you guys feel the same about your government!
as an aside, i love arundhathi roy.

There's a beautiful old Hindi song, which goes...
Mein zindagika saath nibaatha chala gaya
har fikrako duweh mein udaatha chalagaya....

meaning...
I have walked along with Life,
let my worries float away with the smoke of a cigarette.
truly, so much is lost in translation! Its beautiful though. Reminds me of the many nights at bars in India, drinking Kingfisher Beer and smoking my favorite Gold Flake cigarettes. And then ofcourse driving many miles to go to the dhaba(outdoor, rustic food place serving authentic Punjabi food.) There are no tables and chairs in these dhabas, just old cots with woven ropes and the smell of the ovens and the amazing night skies, naked and open.
I really do have a better perspective of my life in India now. For many years having everything I wanted was not enough, I wanted to get out of there, see what life had to offer me.... ok, I've seen it for the past year now and i long to go back now. its not merely about feeling displaced and lonely, it is rather the smells, the sights i crave. miss my friends, my family. this newfound perspective includes some career decisions too. more later... doston, alvida khudaphis!

mapping threads so bare
i lay in a maze
that casts a shadow threatening to drown
suck me in, drown me, don't leave me
i need to die now so i do not wake

Tourists and Torturers
By LUC SANTE

Published: May 11, 2004


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o now we think we know who took some of the photographs at Abu Ghraib. The works attributed to Specialist Jeremy Sivits are fated to remain among the indelible images of our time. They will have changed the course of history; just how much we do not yet know. It is arguable that without them, news of what happened within the walls of that prison would never have emerged from the fog of classified internal memos. We owe their circulation and perhaps their existence to the popular technology of our day, to digital cameras and JPEG files and e-mail. Photographs can now be disseminated as quickly and widely as rumors. It's possible that even if Specialist Joseph M. Darby hadn't gone to his superiors in January and "60 Minutes II" hadn't broken the story last month, some of those pictures would sooner or later have found their way onto the Web and so into the public record.

Leaving aside the question of how anyone could have perpetrated the horrors depicted in those pictures, you can't help but wonder why American soldiers would incriminate themselves by posing next to their handiwork. Americans don't seem to have a long tradition of that sort of thing. I can't offhand recall having seen comparable images from any recent wars, although before the digital era amateur photographs were harder to spread. There have been many atrocity photographs over the years, of course — the worst I've ever seen were taken in Algeria in 1961, and once when I was a child another kid found and showed off his father's cache of pictures from the Pacific Theater in World War II, which shook me so badly that I can't remember with any certainty what they depicted. I'm pretty sure, though, that they did not show anyone grinning and making self-congratulatory gestures.

The pictures from Abu Ghraib are trophy shots. The American soldiers included in them look exactly as if they were standing next to a gutted buck or a 10-foot marlin. That incongruity is not the least striking aspect of the pictures. The first shot I saw, of Specialist Charles A. Graner and Pfc. Lynndie R. England flashing thumbs up behind a pile of their naked victims, was so jarring that for a few seconds I took it for a montage. When I registered what I was seeing, I was reminded of something. There was something familiar about that jaunty insouciance, that unabashed triumph at having inflicted misery upon other humans. And then I remembered: the last time I had seen that conjunction of elements was in photographs of lynchings.

In photographs that were taken and often printed as postcards in the American heartland in the first four decades of the 20th century, black men are shown hanging from trees or light fixtures or maybe being burned alive, while below them white people are laughing and pointing for the benefit of the camera. There are some pictures of whites being lynched, too, but these tend not to feature the holiday crowd. Often the spectators at lynchings of African-Americans are so effusive in their mugging that they all seem to be vying for credit. Before seeing such pictures you might expect the faces in them to express some kind of collective rage; instead the mood is giddy, often verging on hysterical, with a distinct sexual undercurrent.

Like the lynching crowds, the Americans at Abu Ghraib felt free to parade their triumph and glee not because they were psychopaths but because the thought of cens
ur
e probably never crossed their minds. In both cases a contagious collective frenzy perhaps overruled the scruples of some people otherwise known for their gentleness and sympathy — but isn't the abandonment of such scruples possible only if the victims are considered less than human? After all, it is one thing for a boxer to lift his hands over his head in triumph beside the fallen body of his rival, quite another to strike a comparable pose next to the bodies of strangers you have arranged in quasi-pornographic tableaus. The Americans in the photographs are not enacting hatred; hatred can coexist with respect, however strained. What they display, instead, is contempt: their victims are merely objects.

It is conceivable that such events might have occurred in a war in which the enemy looked like us —certainly, there are Americans to whom all foreigners are irredeemably Other. Still, it is striking how, in wartime, a fundamental lack of respect for the enemy's body becomes an issue only when the enemy is perceived as being of another race. You might have heard about the strings of human ears collected by some soldiers in Vietnam, or read the story, reported in Life during World War II, about the G.I. who blithely mailed his girlfriend in Brooklyn a Japanese skull as a Christmas present. And the concept of the human trophy is not restricted to warfare, but permeates the history of colonialism, from the Congo to Australia, Mexico to India. Treating those we deem our equals as game animals, however, has been out of fashion for quite a few centuries.

Of course the violence at Abu Ghraib was primarily psychological — hey, only a few people were killed — and the trophies were pictorial, like the results of a photo safari. Some commentators have made a point of noting this very relative nonviolence, contrasting it with the lynching of the four American military contractors in Falluja last month. This line of argument is notable for what it leaves out: there is a difference between the rage of a people who feel themselves invaded and the contempt of a victorious nation for a civilian population whom it has ostensibly liberated.

That prison guards would pose captives — primarily noncombatants, low-level riffraff — in re-enactments of cable TV smut for the benefit of their friends back home emerges from the mode of thinking that has prevented an accounting of civilian deaths in Iraq since the beginning of the war. If civilian deaths are not recorded, let alone published, it must be because they do not matter, and if they do not matter it must be because the Iraqis are beneath notice. And that must mean that anything done to them is permissible, as long as it does not create publicity that would embarrass the Bush administration. The possible consequences of the Abu Ghraib archive are numerous, many of them horrifying. Perhaps, though, the digital camera will haunt the future career of George W. Bush the way the tape recorder sealed the fate of Richard Nixon.


Luc Sante, who teaches creative writing and the history of photography at Bard College, is the author of "Low Life," "Evidence" and "The Factory of Facts."

take this with a pinch of swati y'all.
im feeling sentimental and all now. some friendships were forged over the weekend and im feeling some happiness. the church, i feel for you and you make me laugh. the queen, you are the best. holly, it was great talking with you.
now i feel i should die because this, my friends, just read like an eulogy

i wrote and complained to authorities about the bus driver episode. they were very bothered and are taking action now. and now i feel terrible cos i don't want the bus driver to lose his job or something. farfetched, perhaps i give myself too much importance?

JP,
something i wrote for you!

the church walked away to warmed hands and warmer toes
the queen stayed and offered some
while the colonised looked on

I ride the shuttle to school and yesterday i wanted to bomb one of them, seriously! As another brown skinned person and i tried to get into the bus, Mr. Driver yells "what do you think you are doing?"
we assume it is a joke and get in. then he enters and proceeds to say "you guys are the targets man. You enter the country as students and then start terrorist organizations." So I ask him "Sir, which kind of people are you talking about?" he points at me "you kind"
and then his friend enters and they proceed to talk about security measures and sleeper cells on campuses.
I am in a hurry to get to school so I don't know what else to do except curse the bastard and want to plant a bomb in his ass.

Robin,

My unlawfully wedded sex partner, may I ask why the rage against your bush? does the mere shaving of one's cunt offer resistance to the offending GW? I am a little offended myself that there is even a comparison being made between the wondeful bush that we all have and GW. Why is there so much shame connected to the genital hair? Doesnt the idle playing around with the hair provide something for us to do in times of boredom? Dont you ponder on the effectualness of something that comes in all textures, sizes and colors, something that is so much a part of you but outside of you? Much like Lacan's the Enigmatic Signifier?
Something that we are all rivetted you. Something beyond yourself! A symbol of being a woman, not that I am a big fan of symbols but still forgive me for sometimes I slip into being my old silly self!
But my love, it is a source of much physical, tactile pleasure to many people and to demean one's pubic hair by comparing it to the murderous Mr. Bush is sacrilegous. LOVE THY OWN BUSH! SUBVERT WHAT IT HAS NOW COME TO MEAN. RECLAIM IT AND MAKE IT OUR OWN!