The Swallows of Kabul

Yasmina Khadra is the pen name of Mohamed Moulessehoul, an ex Algerian army officer who took his wife's name when he tried to avoid censorship. French is his mother tongue and he now lives in France. His novel, Swallows of Kabul, opens with the execution of a woman and ends with one; Khadra focuses on the humiliation of women and certainly makes the reader feel that the life he describes would be intolerable.

Kabul is a hot, dusty, poor and joyless city, governed since the war by the brutal dictatorship of the Taliban. Laughter, music and shows of affection are not allowed whilst women are considered objects to be treated as their men see fit or cast off if their husbands choose. In the streets the women must be covered from head to toe in a burqa whilst their fearful husbands and sons are constantly whipped by the fundamentalists or forced into the mosque to pray.

The character Atiq became a mujahideen when the Russians invaded the Pashtuns in Afghanistan but he is now a jailer in Kabul. His wife, Musarrat, saved his life when he was injured during the war but is now dying from an incurable illness. The childless Musarrat loves Atiq but he married her because he felt beholden and now feels trapped and guilty, unhappy and angry.

Mohsen is a mild mannered pacifist from a wealthy family: during the war years his parents lost their wealth as well as their lives and, he, no longer able to realise his dream of becoming a diplomat, leads an aimless and ineffectual life. All that sustains him is his beautiful wife, Zunaira, whom he fell in love with whilst they were at university. As an educated lawyer she had a certain amount of freedom and liberal ideas: now she rails against the humiliation of being a faceless object without respect, unable to work or even hold her own ideas by the fanatics in power.

Unfortunately, John Cullen's translation is - especially at first - so florid it's like reading a bad romantic novel. Three of our book group read the book in its original French and enjoyed it because of the wonderful use of language: it was poetic, the French use of alliteration was more pronounced and, strangely, the more limited French vocabulary gave the words more weight.

We all agreed that a good translator actually has to be a poet or a writer too; a pedestrian translator is too literal, a good one goes with the meaning. Fortunately, the translation settles down as the novel progresses and becomes less flowery: it’s the story that the reader finally concentrates on and descriptions of place and atmosphere suit the tone much better.

The lives of the two couples central to the story finally fall apart. Mohsen is losing his conscience when he throws a stone at a woman: he is disgusted with himself and mistakenly tells his wife who is appalled. Finally, Mohsen convinces his wife to walk out with him in the town against her better instincts: she is humiliated when she is forced to sit in the sun for hours when her husband is made to pray in the mosque and she is sickened by his lack of backbone. She tries to spur him into standing up for himself: it's a terrible miscalculation.

Atiq begins to question his faith and now has no hope, no pity and no love. Then quite unexpectedly he sees a beautiful woman: she is condemned to death. He has seen so few women, and is so starved of beauty and anything that gives him joy, that he cannot bear the thought of her dying. Musarrat sees love and joy in Atiq when he falls under the woman's spell: awed to find he can feel such a way and delighted to see her husband so happy, she thinks of a scheme to save the woman.

We agreed that the characters were caricatures, that the female ones were a male fantasy and most thought them not at all well rounded. The total lack of respect for women was difficult for some of the group to believe possible: the bleakness and tragedy of the situation and setting affected everyone and, in half the group, depressed them. None would read it again and hardly any would recommend it.

But there were some wonderful observations: for example Zunaira described how she had in her relationship with her husband a small flame that she tried to blow into fire and in the process blew out. I was struck by Mohsens words "We've known the joys of life has to offer, and we thought them as good as the joys of eternity". So it is that in some parts of the world, in some regimens, the repressed, the poor and the uneducated look forward to the ease and joy that is promised in eternity.

Underneath the clunky translation, the caricature characters and the fantastical elements there is a strong moral – true, some times rather blatant: a society that does not respect women, that denies the pacifying and caring attributes of them, can become a cruel and dictatorial one.

And loss of intimacy and repression has a dehumanizing effect. The women are the swallows of the title: beauty and freedom have flown. Khandra's belief that 'Fundamentalism is the cancer of Islam' is certainly apparent in The Swallows of Kabul. This book describes a chilling situation, an awful message but one we need to understand.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

St Valentine's

St Valentine's Day had a bit of a naughty beginning, quite dissimilar to our romantic view of it. It's roots were in pagan Rome: during the month long Lupercalia festival the names of willing young women were written down and picked out at random by virile young men to be their companion throughout the time of orgy.

The Church disapproved of course and nominated a day and the acceptable face of a saint – Valentine – in the hope that he and not courtesans became the centre of attention. This was not an immediate success because then, as now, good times are not surrendered lightly: the young men and women continued to choose a real life Valentine with whom there was still fun and frolics.

Over time the Church did manage to steer the debauched festival into more fitting game of mystery and romance. Around the 15th century this took the form of a simple letters written to the partner of ones choice, with whom one hoped to perhaps eventually marry.

However, intrigue or the practical Valentine joke was often indulged as happened in Gaskell's novel, Cranford, with such sorry conequences. There were all sorts of ways to find a Valentine: in Samuel Pepys time – mid 1600's – the first man seen by a woman that morning became her Valentine, and she his, so a wise woman timed her outings so that she didn't bump into the dolt next door.

A wealthy Valentine was a very good catch because he would bring presents of gloves or stockings or, if he were very rich, jewellery. But letters, and names written on pieces of paper, were still common nevertheless. In the 17th century Valentines were often chosen by the recipient based on the skill of letter they wrote: it might be a sentimental poem, a few lines of flowery description or a painted heart.

These home-made 'letters' became more complex by the Victorian period: glue and scissors were employed to produce nifty decoupage or watercoloured pictures painted. Unfortunately those not blessed with any artistic ability were at a clear disadvantage.

The ever enterprising and commercially minded Victorians hit upon the bought Valentine card: embossing, patterns and perforations were used, with gold and silver gilding and love knots. As time went on these became works of sentimental and romantic art, birds, flowers, baskets, ribbons, lace, painted satin panels and cupids were favourite decorations with mottoes, couplets and rhymes added.

The cards became a roaring success; according to the General Post Office archives over 200,000 Valentine letters and cards were sent by post in 1825, which by 1850 had grown to 800,000. But mass production and OT decoration – three dimensional cards steeped in perfume, or boxed ones decorated with moss and feathers – caused these cards to lose their charm and the popularity of the Valentine card waned.

A revival (if for no other reason but to boost Post Office coffers) was needed: step in our hero, Rex Whistler. This talented artist designed the first St Valentine's telegram in glorious glittering colour and a new wave of sending St Valentine verses was begun.

I can remember the teenage angst that was palpable leading up to 14th February: if you received one it would accompany you to school and either be gloated over or discreetly dropped by 'accident' out of the satchel. Of course if you didn't get one you pretended the post hadn't been delivered before you left for school and hoped that by the next day the subject would be relegated to yesterday's news.

I have to say that I do think commercialism has rather overtaken the fun and charm of St Valentine's now: mark you, I have no objection to a bunch of flowers or (preferably and) a nice meal out from Best Beloved who, admittedly, does often need a little jog in the romance stakes.

But the sweetest of cards I ever received were those hand made ones that my children proudly presented to me after school. Alright, they weren’t anonymous and they were oddly shaped and strangely coloured, but I think making the cards taught them that not everything needs to be bought and that we all need little tokens of love now and then: so long live St Valentine's Day.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

And a new beginning

January: always a bit of an anticlimax after Christmas and a miserable month for weather to boot. But when those fresh green leaves of the snowdrops push their way through the crumpled leaves under the trees there is suddenly the hope of something better. When the delicate snow white heads appear, nodding so prettily, you know spring is only weeks away: OK, many weeks away, but let's be positive.

Down the side of the back path are some bright little beacons, winter aconites, golden yellow, their ruff of leaves so shiny, that they would cheer anyone up - which is why I look forward to daffodils in March – and several primroses with frilly leaves are flowering early in the borders.


And I love the hellebores which are all in flower, adding a sophisticated touch to otherwise bleak corners with their dramatic leaves and wonderful colours: lime green and pure white, freckled or streaked. February now: everything else is getting the message. Delicate early iris – Iris ungularis - are fleetingly in flower nestled among their sword like leaves, tiny purple violets peep shyly out from underneath bushes.

An unusually warm and sunny day and suddenly there are several crocus open under the beech tree. Mostly mauve, a few white, but not one yellow one – the birds love their saffron and if a yellow one slips through the net the birds will make sure it doesn't last long.

And the narcissi I planted in the old half barrel have suddenly shot up – several degrees warmer raised as they are – I just hope they're not over too quickly. I love the smell of them as I come out of my back door, they will be followed by later varieties and, if I'm lucky, there will be flowers until Easter.

It's been such a mild winter that the birds are beginning to nest: we've had a pair of greater spotted woodpeckers and a lovely nuthatch making a meal of the nuts. And yesterday a pair of tiny perfectly formed long-tailed tits: they're so pretty with their soft pink feathers, long tail and neat heads. I think they're nesting in the rose above the kitchen window; I do hope so.

February may still have some blasts of wintery weather in store for us but now nothing can stop the inexorable march towards spring: it's begun.

And When Did You Last See Your Father?

When? Twelve days ago, just three days before he died. I'm so glad I did. And I told him that I loved him. How lucky I am: so many people are not able to and regret it. And many say that they wished, too late, that they had spoken to their parents more about their lives: probed into their pasts.

But, researching A Little Blue Jacket, I spent many hours recording my parent's memories, winkling out buried facts. And it's often surprising what rises to the surface. Blake Morrison's book, And When Did You last See Your Father? examined his – and probably everybody's - inability to stand back from events or see our parents as individuals. And it really highlighted how there are so many inconsistencies in 'memory'(see my blog archive 'Memories', 3 Feb, 2007).

My father reached a grand old age and was only seriously ill for weeks but knew that his time was finally up, that his body was just about worn out. But his will was so strong that he held on until he was ready. He was so proud of his family: he could still introduce us to the nurses - this is my younger daughter, this is my eldest son – he would apologise for 'messing up your plans' (as if), and he could still flash an illuminating smile when something amusing was said.

I knew he was proud of me: not for my achievements which, let's face it, are pretty thin on the ground, but simply because I was his daughter and he loved me. And I'm very proud of him: not just for his achievements, which were many, but for his ambition, his dogged determination to succeed against all the odds, for his will, his application and his talent.

I've inherited none of his scientific talent – my eldest brother has that – but I have inherited some of his other abilities: I'm able to 'visualize' spaces, can think creatively and solve problems. And I have his ability to stick at something until I get as far as I can, as well as I can, with it. And like him I can be equally happy alone or in company: have a love of gardens and landscape, an appreciation of food and wine. And, yes, (whisper this) I have inherited quite a few of his less attractive characteristics that I'm not so quick to admit to and definitely don't intend to broadcast.

He was no saint, my father, definitely not, but as an adult I can understand the reasons behind many things that happened in the past: can understand how complex relationships are. As a spouse and parent I know how easy it is to get things wrong, how difficult it is to get them right. And how one can only hope to do one's best hampered as we all are to some extent with emotional baggage, economic constraints or conflicting characters. It may be obvious why there are many mixed up people in this world but, equally, it's quite amazing there are so many well rounded, happy and successful ones!

And I loved – love - him because he was my Dad: for tickling me when I was a tot till I begged him to stop, for his interest in my interests when I was a teen, for - when the chips were down as a young adult - saying the right thing at the right time which made me feel that I had his respect and support. And I admire his love of life, his humour and his charm. I'm having trouble putting this into the past tense, aren't I: I still feel he's here, or there, at 'home', sitting beside Mum watching the television.

A parent's love for their child is unconditional – it should be, it usually is – and a child's love for their parent is often the same. I know mine is. I knew my Dad's faults but I loved him in spite of them; sometimes because of them. And I shall miss him forever.

Lucy

An American's Passion for British Art

I did wonder what British art would be on show in the exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts: I mean, there's an awful lot of it to choose from so where would they start and where would it end. As it happens the choice was made long ago when the American collector and philanthropist, Paul Mellon (1907-1999), started collecting British paintings he liked.

There were a few things that got him going: his father was already a great collector, his mother was English, he loved horses, he started collecting before many of the artist's works became unaffordable but he had pots of money if he took a fancy to something that was.

So here it was, a really diverse collection of paintings but with a bias towards subjects and artists Mellon particularly admired. For example, being horse mad, sporting art formed a large part of Mellon's collection. The exhibition starts with some of George Stubbs' (1724-1806) superb paintings of horses.

The horse is always the star in his paintings and the background very sparse but in the same room there is also a wonderful painting of the first zebra ever seen in Britain with a very busy background: it was sent over from the Cape of Good Hope in 1763. The zebra is quite beautifully executed but quite incongruously it stands in an English wood!

I liked the painting of Mellon atop his horse, Dublin, which is not hanging in the exhibition but outside of it in the Fine Rooms: it does have a setting which literally gives us a background to the subject whereas Stubbs' paintings don't. Mellon obviously loved the countryside and collected landscape paintings too and in the exhibition there are finished works and sketches that chart the change in British landscape painting.

We Brits started by copying the idealized painting style of French seventeenth century artists - Claude Lorraine and Nicolas Poussin – and we copied them too in our landscapes. John Robert Cozens' 'The Lake Albano and Castel Gondolfo' 1779, is such a painting – the subject in the foreground surrounded by trees with hills, ruins, a lit sky and a view in the background – the idealized sort of landscape certain to appeal to those doing the Grand Tour.

Mellon's collection exhibits a slow but steady progression in landscape painting, starting with Thomas Gainsbrough and Robert Wilson through to Turner and Constable all of whom also show the influence that Dutch paintings had on their style. This is followed by a landscape studies section: the sketches that these same artists did in the landscape in order to paint their watercolours later.

One of the most amazing things about these is their timelessness: a pencil sketch of a tree by Wilson, some more trees in watercolour and pencil by Cozens, rocks and vegetation by the river by Turner. It would be easy to believe that these were only drawn yesterday, the simplicity of them is so unexpected.

I liked the section on Topography and the Picturesque with the literal depictions of buildings and views, too. My favourite here was a small painting by Francis Towne, 'Ambleside', 1786. It's a small landscape view done in watercolour with pen and brown and grey ink, but it's styalized and simple, so much so that it could be mistaken for a late 20th century work.

The exhibition also covers some paintings done in Italy (with a lovely one by Richard Parkes Bonnington, 1802-1828, of the perfect skies and reflective waters of Venice) and other Europen scenes but it is to views of England that Mellon comes back to collecting.

William Blake was one of those amazingly all round talented individuals - artist, engraver, writer, printer – and Mellon particularly liked his work and began collecting it before it was fashionable. He also collected a few 19th century works by less famous artists of family groups, the style of which we know well with Mr and Mrs Rich and their family set in a landscape to reflect their social importance.

It was a really interesting collection. But sad that so many British paintings are no longer here although, as Mellon donated his collection to Yale, it does mean that it can be seen as a collection, viewed by many including those of us lucky enough to see it in London. Perhaps we need more collectors who have An American Passion for British Art.

Plough Sunday & Plough Monday

Plough Sunday is the first Sunday after Twelfth Night, Epiphany, in other words the Sunday that falls between 7 January and 13 January: Plough Monday is the following day when work was supposed to resume on the farm after the Christmas holiday. I say, supposed, because Tuesday was usually spent recovering from the festivities and work often didn’t start until Wednesday!

Plough Sunday is one of the four agricultural festivals (after this is Rogationtide, Lammas and, finally, Harvest Thanksgiving) that date from pagan times. When ploughing was undertaken in the new year, the Christmas holiday was an extended one. As the fields were too frozen to work, the wooden plough would be kept indoors until Plough Sunday.

The Christian church embraced and adapted this pagan festival and on Plough Sunday the plough, or part of it, would be dragged to the church. There (where in Catholic times a ploughman’s candle was kept alight before an image throughout the year to obtain blessing for their labour) the plough would be blessed, prayers said and hymns sung: “Plough the fields an scatter, the good seed on the ground,” is still heard in churches throughout England today.

On the following Monday celebrations would be held - and these vary from county to county – but central to all was the need to raise funds for the ‘plough light’. Although the Reformation did away with these candles it couldn’t do away with the festival. Instead funds were raised for the working lads and lasses – often spent at the inn.

The young farm labourers would rise early and dress in clean white shirts. With bright bows and bunches of ribbons on their shirts and hats they would gather in the village. In some areas their faces would be blackened – so they couldn’t be recognized – but the white shirt and hobnailed boot of the labourer were universal.

There would be a Fool, dressed in animal skins and carrying a bladder, and a Betsy (sometimes Bessy, Ossy or Molly), a boy dressed as a woman often with a large nose and a tall hat. The lads would form a file and each take a rope attached to a well scrubbed, beribboned and decorated plough. The leader took the shafts and they proceeded through the village blowing cow-horns, whilst the fiddle and drum played and the Fool ran about and Betsy shook her box for pennies.

Any well-to-do householder too mean to stump up a ‘plough penny’ was likely to find a furrow cut through their front garden when they woke the next morning. When the procession reached the centre of the village they formed a circle and sword dancers stepped in. Similar in some respects to a Mummer’s Play of the North Country, many Foresters’ Plays or The Reversby Play of Lincolnshire, for example, the circular dance was derived from a prehistoric fertility rite.

When the dance reached its climax, the Fool kneels in its midst: the swords are locked and lowered over his head and the dancers, holding the swords still, whirl around. A shout, and suddenly they release the swords and the Fool lies dead. Everyone who took part had a very merry time and gained refreshment where they could – either offered by householders or at the local inn.

Over the last half century Plough Sunday and Plough Monday are enjoying a small revival: churches often have Plough Sunday services where, in the medieval manner, ploughs are blessed and with it the farm worker’s labour. And in many towns at festivals, or outside crowded pubs, Morris dancers, Molly dancers or sword dancers entertain the crowds and, although there may be no ploughing in the offing, the men dance and drink with the same skill and enthusiasm as did those young swains of years ago.

Twelfth Day

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas my true love gave to me……an ultimatum: the Christmas tree must come down. In the Christian church January 6th, today, is Twelfth Day, celebrated as Epiphany and known also as the day that The Three Kings or wise men brought gifts to Jesus. The last day of The Twelve Days of Christmas.

But in our house there is some confusion as to which is Twelfth Night: the night that the Christmas decorations must be down before midnight in token of the end of the Twelve Days. And, if you're superstitious, so as not to bring bad luck. I think it's tonight – my Best Beloved thinks it's January 5th. Fortunately we could both be right.

According to some religious sources The Twelve Days are counted from the evening of the 25th December, which makes the 5th January Twelfth Night and January 6th the Twelfth Day. According to others, only the full days are counted which means that the 5th January is the eleventh day and the 6th January therefore the Twelfth Day and Twelfth Night.

In the 1600's the Christmas holiday lasted throughout January, and the evergreens would be renewed not taken down. But in the 1700's children would be out on Twelfth Day playing tricks on passers by. In the 1800's, as daylight faded in London, everyone would be drawn to the pastry cooks shops to admire the glittering windows: framed by evergreens and filled with candles reflected in mirrors and cakes covered in snow white icing sugar.

In many European countries children still dress up as Kings on January 6th and, carrying a large star, go from house to house singing carols and receiving treats. In some there are childrens' parties on Twelfth Night with a rich, dark, iced fruit cake and perhaps a game to choose the King and Queen and all their attendants for the night.

Not so long ago, on Twelfth Night, the shrivelled ivy leaves and dead tree would come down to be put on the bonfire: the burning of Christmas. In the USA some still remember the Christmas tree bonfire on 6th January and the family parties where treats from the tree and Stollen cake were eaten, washed down with warming Gluhwein: it's easy to see how this ritual must have travelled there from Teutonic Europe.

In some cider making areas of England the primitive ritual of Wassailing on Twelfth Night is still celebrated, ostensibly to ensure a good crop of apples for the coming season. Men and women – previously these would have been farm workers – go out to the orchards with a pail of warm cider: each takes a drink of the cider and throws the remains of their cup over the roots of an apple tree. A piece of cake soaked in cider is left in a fork of the branches for 'the robin' and sticks beaten against the branches or guns banged to wake up the sleepy spirit.

This Saxon ritual differed from place to place but the laughter and merriment that is part of it, still includes the toast of Middle English: "Waes hail!" (be in good health!).

I hope your trees will bear and bow
Apples and pears and plums, I do vow,
Hats full, caps full, three bushel bags full,
All under the trees, hooray, hooray!
And a little heap under the stairs.)

Songs like this were used to serenade the tree spirits and the ritual celebrated New Year not the nativity.

I'm afraid that January is now better known for its Bargain Sales than its wassails. Shame. But carols and good wishes still survive: "Good health to you, and to you and you and you, and we wish you a merry New Year, New Year, New Year, and we wish you a Merry New Year!"

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com