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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><FONT face="Times New Roman"
size=3>All,</FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><FONT face="Times New Roman" size=3>This may be of
interest.</FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><FONT face="Times New Roman"
size=3>Cheers,</FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><FONT face="Times New Roman"
size=3>Tarun</FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><FONT face="Times New Roman"
size=3></FONT></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2><FONT face="Times New Roman" size=3> </DIV>
<DIV><BR>> >To my father<BR>> ><BR>> >August 14th 1947.
Firozepur, Punjab.<BR>> >You-<BR>> >eighteen years old<BR>>
>sit alone and wait<BR>> >for news of your parents<BR>> >When
they arrive days later<BR>> >my grandfather, grandmother, and her
brother<BR>> >offer no explanation, no report, no narrative<BR>> >of
how<BR>> >they ended up alive in a train from Lahore, Pakistan<BR>>
>Their arrival simply becomes a fact<BR>> >--a fact<BR>> >that
even the children--my brother and I<BR>> >learn never to question<BR>>
><BR>> >November 1st 1984, Delhi<BR>> >You wait again.<BR>>
>This time<BR>> >with your parents, my mother, my brother, and
I<BR>> >murdering mobs parade the streets<BR>> >announcing their
arrival by rattling street lights<BR>> >My grandfather sitting in front of
the house<BR>> >reads the newspaper, pretending oblivion<BR>> >The
neighbors demand he go inside<BR>> >"I left once," he says,<BR>>
>"where am I to go now?"<BR>> >You-<BR>> >I know, are
afraid<BR>> >But refuse to remove your turban or cut your hair--<BR>>
>as some neighbors and so-called friends suggest<BR>> >You, who would
not enter a temple<BR>> >mock religion and even God<BR>> >Say that
you are a teacher<BR>> >And do not wish to teach submission to
fascism<BR>> ><BR>> >September 11, 2001--to date. Delhi, India and
Carbondale, U.S.A<BR>> >You wait there<BR>> >And I-here<BR>>
>My brother who is visiting me<BR>> >Finds again that wearing a turban
invites the name "terrorist"<BR>> >And, just as in 1984, he wants to be on
the street<BR>> >I wait here<BR>> >for news of American bombs on
Afghanistan<BR>> >while the successors of Gandhi's assassins<BR>>
>rule his birthplace<BR>> >drowning in blood the hopes of 1947<BR>>
>sowing land mines into the line your parents had crossed<BR>> >but one
they would not let cross their hearts<BR>> ><BR>> >Years later in
1972<BR>> >my grandmother would visit that border again<BR>> >pick
up a handful of dirt and call it "home"<BR>> >my brother and I would
joke<BR>> >that our grandmother created nations wherever she went<BR>>
>born in Burma she was twice a refugee<BR>> >once in Pakistan, then
India<BR>> ><BR>> >Children know<BR>> >that if not this
history there would be another<BR>> ><BR>> >But if not for<BR>>
>those who labor to make this children's belief come true<BR>> >the
only drops<BR>> >to fall on this desolate drought-stricken earth would be
blood<BR>> >Today-<BR>> >as I imagine you eighteen years old<BR>>
>I long to take your hands into my grown hands<BR>> >And walk
into refugee camps where children still get born<BR>> ><BR>>
><BR>> >Jyotsna Kapur<BR>> >Assistant Professor<BR>>
>Cinema and Photography<BR>> >Southern Illinois University<BR>>
>Carbondale, IL 62901-6610<BR>> >ph (off): 618.453-1470<BR>>
>home: 618.529-4086<BR>> ></FONT><BR></DIV></FONT></BODY></HTML>