Pause To Wonder

Pause to wonder, and in pausing try

To recollect your past and why

You’ve cause to wonder, not to wander,

Retrospect turned to meander.

Now you see it, now you don’t! If

You don’t search you won’t. Though you sniff

At old aromas, have the past shoved

Right before you by a scent loved

Long ago, cry at wounds

That never heal, at tunes

Sung long gone, at sins forgiven not,

Forgotten not, the blood clot

Never will dissolve, resolve,

Or just plain solve attachment, for

The only time that wondrous pause

Gives tit for tat,

Is if the tat is in the silent unattached. Abstruse?

It’s truth, the stitch in time

Given for tat, for when

You stop to think of then,Rememb’ring what in time saves nine, take

‘Stitch’, sew ‘then’ to ‘now’, then break

The ‘now’ sewn to forever.

That seed sown adjusts the ‘never’. –

And you have it! Tit for tat. ‘Now’

Is forever torn from ‘then’. How

All and you are one! As you blunder

On through life, thunder struck, under

Strife, momentarily torn asunder,

Take that time and pause to wonder.

© Pause To Wonder 1.1955

Definitely Didactic; Circling Round Reality; To The Child Mystic;

The Processes:Creative,Thinking, Meditative;

Arlene Corwin

          Significance

What to say?

Or better still,

How to say it!

Shall I fall into my pit of generality,

Or being gay,

Describe at will

The doleful way it

Rained when Lancelot

Confessed that he was bald to me?

©Significance 9.1955

A Sense Of The Ridiculous;

Arlene Corwin

                Without Love

Verse:

I’ve lost all ambition,

I’ve lost all my drive.

I’ve tossed all ambition out the window

Now I thrive on nothing –

And it will be that way

Until something comes along to inspire me.

I’ve lost all my feeling,

I’ve lost all my want.

I’ve tossed all my feeling out the window,

Now I’ve want for no one -

And it will be that way

Until someone comes along to desire me.

Chorus:

Without love I don’t exist.

My confidence is gone and I enlist

None of my faculties to help me.

Without warmth my blood runs cold.

My ninety-eight point six loses its hold,

And all my faculties don’t help me.

But yet I’m on the run,

I’m one big ball of fun,

So who’s got time for love and all that stuff?

Ah yes, I’m on the run,

But haven’t found the one

Who’d give me time for love -

I’ve had enough!

Without love I won’t subsist.

I’m so sick and I’m so tired,

I haven’t kissed or been desired

These many years.

I don’t want to be alone,

So before I turn to stone,

Someone love me.

©

Without Love 55.8Love Relationships; Lyrics;

Arlene Corwin

(1893-1977) Militante comunista desde los primeros tiempos, había pasado los años de entreguerras en el exilio. Terminada la Segunda Guerra Mundial se dedicó a la diplomacia: fue embajador en Belgrado de 1947 a 1949; en París, de 1949 a 1954, y en Varsovia, de 1955 a 1956. En el momento de la revolución era miembro del Comité Central del Partido y el 1 de noviembre formó parte de la comisión gestora del nuevo partido de Kádár, el Partido Socialista Obrero Húngaro. Fue Zoltán Szántó quien negoció con el embajador yugoslavo en Budapest la entrada del grupo de Nagy en dicha legación diplomática. Por sus vínculos con el grupo también terminó recluido en Rumania junto a Nagy y sus compañeros, pero finalmente no fue procesado y se retiró de la política.

Este periodista e historiador fue destituido en 1955 del cargo de redactor-jefe de Irodalmi Újság (Revista Literaria) por sus vínculos con los sectores de oposición a la línea ortodoxa del Partido Comunista. Después de la derrota de la insurrección del otoño de 1956 salió del país y fue profesor universitario en Suiza, publicando libros y ensayos sobre los acontecimientos del 56 húngaro.

(1894-1977) Fue el escritor más destacado durante toda la época del socialismo real en Hungría: en 1948 fue condecorado con la Orden de Kossuth, la más prestigiosa del país. Vinculado desde su juventud a la izquierda revolucionaria, en 1955 era considerado el escritor de más renombre de los intelectuales opositores al sector ortodoxo del Partido. Expulsado de éste por apoyar los debates públicos del Círculo Petöfi, durante los días de la insurrección del otoño de 1956 se convirtió en portavoz de los escritores húngaros. En 1957 fue procesado y condenado a nueve años de cárcel. Gracias a la anmistía parcial de 1960 fue puesto en libertad; a partir de ese momento, como la mayor parte de los intelectuales húngaros que permanecieron en el país, se comprometió con el régimen kádárista. Entre sus novelas destacan La frase inacabada (1937), Respuesta (1952), Niki (1955), Señor G.A. en X (1960), Amor (1963), El excomulgado (1966), Reportaje imaginado de un festival pop (1971) y, como símbolo de toda una época, la novela autobiográfica No hay juicio.

(1922-1999) Representante cualificado de la línea estalinista del Partido Comunista húngaro, en 1950 entró en el Comité Central del Partido y entre 1953 y 1955 fue Vicepresidente en el Gobierno de Imre Nagy. Al ser destituido éste el 8 de abril de 1955, fue designado Primer Ministro. Fue Hegedüs en calidad de responsable del Gobierno quien el 28 de octubre de 1956 solicitó formalmente, mediante nota diplomática, la intervención de las fuerzas armadas soviéticas para sofocar la insurrección. Con el tiempo se hizo muy crítico con el poder soviético y en 1968 condenó explícitamente la intervención armada del Pacto de Varsovia en Checoslovaquia para terminar con la “Primavera de Praga”. Pocos años más tarde, en 1973, fue expulsado del Partido Socialista Obrero Húngaro por planteamientos contrarios al régimen de Kádár.

(1898-1980) Fue responsable de los asuntos económicos del Partido Comunista húngaro entre 1945 y 1956, dirigiendo bajo las órdenes de Rákosi la transformación socialista de la economía magiar. Entre 1955 y 1956 ocupó el cargo de Vicepresidente del Gobierno y en julio de 1956 fue nombrado secretario general de los comunistas húngaros, aunque sólo se mantuvo en el puesto hasta el 25 de octubre, cuando fue sustituido por János Kádár. En el momento álgido de la insurrección del otoño de 1956 abandonó Hungría para instalarse en la Unión Soviética; en 1960 regresó a su país, en donde trabajó como traductor hasta su muerte en 1980.

A colorful Christmas-themed amusement park located in Sky Forest—a tiny San Bernandino Mountain community near the ski resort of Lake Arrowhead, California—Santa’s Village opened on Memorial Day weekend, 1955 (over a month before the opening of nearby Disneyland); the 15 acre, Technicolor dreamland of Santa’s Village—with ginger bread houses and toy shops—felt like a real world approximation of the Burl Ives narrated, stop-motion classic, “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer”; of course, the inexplicable giant mushrooms that dotted Santa’s Village also gave it the appearance of Japanese psychedelia, as if Mario and Luigi traveled to the North Pole; earlier this year, I found myself knee-deep in a “bad patch” of Odyssean proportions; I was not much good to anyone; to riff on “Laid,” the mid-90’s, minor hit by the British band, James: I was so depressed that I was becoming a bore; my friend Kate wanted to cheer me up, so she asked if I’d like to take a trip to her childhood home—Lake Arrowhead; I did; this was my first time visiting Lake Arrowhead, and I was excited; I had known Kate for a couple years, but in that time, it had always been a peripheral friendship; I felt like I knew the shell—not the yolk—of her personality; Kate has a gentle demeanor, full of smiles and laughter and skilled, subtle evasive tactics that allow her to leap-frog over any conversation topic that is even vaguely personal; Kate and I left after lunch and arrived in Lake Arrowhead in the mid-afternoon; Kate told me, “I lived in 18 houses before I was 18 years old”; I was given the full tour of this fake Bavaria—which evoked similar theme-towns like Solvang and Helen—from Kate’s childhood homes to the lake, the mini-golf course, and Rim of the World High School; Kate was a fine tour guide—it felt like she’d given the tour many times before; as the sun set over Lake Arrowhead, Kate lobbed a bomb: “On the outskirts of town, there’s a place called Santa’s Village. I went there a ton during my childhood, but it shut down ten years ago. Then it burned. Now it’s abandoned. There’s a lot of melted plastic reindeer and stuff”; I insisted that we go there immediately; fifteen minutes later, we parked our car in the parking lot of Santa’s Village, which was being used as a lumber yard; with the twilight sun peeking through the pines, we tip-toed into the abandoned Village; it was stunning: buildings made of candy and ginger bread, an anthropomorphic Bumble Bee monorail—all filthy, rusted, and overgrown with weeds; this place resembled the North Pole—in the middle of a Nuclear Winter; location scouts for horror films need look no further than Santa’s Village; then, when I thought it could not get any more surreal, Kate opened up; “My parents met here,” she began; Kate, who had revealed of all two or three childhood details in the years I had known her, continued her story; Kate’s mother moved to California with her twin sister when they graduated high school, and when her sibling began stripping in Los Angeles, she left for the mountains; with no friends or family in Lake Arrowhead, Kate’s mother took a job at Santa’s Village, tending the reindeer; she soon fell in love with a fellow employee—a local boy who sold hot chocolate—and within the year, she was pregnant; Kate’s father had a cheating heart, and before Kate turned five he was kicked out of the house for numerous affairs with women and men; he caught hepatitis C, went to prison for robbing liquor stores with a 10-guage shotgun, and died in his cell; meanwhile, Kate suffered through her mother’s numerous abusive boyfriends, who made a habit of paying the rent—but also raping the pre-pubescent Kate and occasionally holding her down so their teenage sons could learn about sex; Kate still has a problem with people touching her armpits and shoulders; Kate’s mother moved to Apple Valley, found God, and married a Pentacostalist; Kate spoke in tongues until she was 15, when she promptly emancipated herself and caught a bus for Los Angeles; Kate got a fake ID and began stripping in Hollywood as well as finding work on the Renaissance Fair circuit as a “wench”; with money in her pocket, Kate set her sights on a childhood dream of acting and working in a dentist office; with no formal education, Kate worked as a dental assistant in Sherman Oaks, occasionally drilling cavities and putting silver fillings in the mouths of patients; Kate also declared herself a vegan and started an animal rescue business, living in an apartment with two other strippers and a half-dozen feral cats, dogs, and a tropical parrot; I knew none of this when I met Kate; to my knowledge, she was an actress with a couple pets; with the sun disappearing behind Santa’s Village, the shadows multiplying, Kate finished the story of her life, and we walked back to her Kia; we didn’t say much on the drive back; “Tusk,” by Fleetwood Mac, played three times before I turned if off and opted for a hip-hop radio station; I thanked Kate for the tour of Lake Arrowhead, but didn’t mention her story; when she dropped me off, I gave her a hug and said, “See ya soon”; I slept badly that night; I wasn’t sure whether I was more shaken by Kate’s story or the ghostly Village, which felt suffused with the collective emotions of four decades of eager, joyous children and their parents, now all adults (or dead); after searching the internet the next morning, I found an image of an early-1960’s postcard from Santa’s Village that shows a group of attractive, female “elves” waving at the camera, the candy-cane headline reading: “You’ll lose your heart!”; Santa’s Village was famously open 364 days a year—every day except Christmas; you can learn a lot about a person by how they celebrate the holidays.

Venom

in the

Veins

It’s my property! Why, I paid $985 for this here piece of flesh, and I have the right to do what I want with it.

Pounded under the slave block’s gavel,

bid-$1-2-430 bid-$2-4-580 bid-$3-4-850 bid-$5-6-1,000

& Sold, & Sold, & Sold, & Sold,

heart beats, heart beats, heart beats, heart beats

Four million hearts beating

Imprisoned

For Life

For Greed

For Lust

for

the rhythm of planting, picking—

FLESH

Turned into MONEY,

Blood

Poured into crops,

Fusing with the dirt

And

Raining from the sky—

Southern trees bore a strange fruit

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black bodies swinging in the Southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Across the street,

in the White Churches,

BREAD turned to CHRIST’S FLESH,

and

BLOOD

to WINE

So if’in I want to rape it, hate it, mutilate it, that ain’t none of your business. I can even kill it if I want to ‘cause it’s mine, and you can’t stop me. Though me killin’ it would mean I was downright crazy given what I just paid for it. But when it gets old and useless, and I’ve gotten my money’s worth, I just might hunt it for fun. Now you just get on out of my way before I start to showin’ my hate for you, you anti-Christian piece of Northern trash! It’s in the Bible; they’re heathens, savages, inferior, don’t believe in Jesus, and even when converted, they still the sons of Ham. My preacher taught me the word of God. He should know. God’s never wrong, and We Southerners have God on our sidde [ssssss-slap]

God on our siiiiid- [sssss-slap]

God on our siiii- [ssss-slap]

God on our sssss- [ssss-slap]

God on ouuur- [ssss-slap]

God onnn -[ssss-slap]

“Oh, yes ye converted heathen, God has a message for thee; be meek and mild my child in the face of thy travails. Submit and repent; think only of Heaven, not this world, and the next will be yours.”

So said the Southern Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, and cohorts.

(and the country whispers but that was so long ago; that was not us; I’m not to blame…. but look and listen and understand it is here now; it is racism; it is killing you, me, the haters and the hated—and yes, even most the ones that stand by, doing nothing)

The vomiting has begun

AGAIN

The bile is rising

AGAIN

The venom in the veins

Courses hardy

Again,

Throbbing, pulsing

AGAINf

Lub dub, Lub dub, Lub dub:

The throb of life calling for

MURder, MURder, MURder, MURder

chanting in a viperous tongue

slithering from

the Reptilian brain,

spitting

H A T E

K I L L.

When did slavery end?

When did it end?

Physical fact,

Or

State of mind?

Emotional?

Spiritual?

Cultural?

As law?

Or

Law enforcement?

But only the sightless believe

It ended in 1864.

Jim Crow’s reign, segregation, culture of terror, KKK, politicians, Good-White-Men-with-Family-Values. Black ink on White paper records 3,437 African-American lynched up to 1951. Not recorded: every Beating, Stabbing, Crippling, Broken bone, Fried human, Burnt house, Vigilantes Hunting in packs…..

Rising in the pride of the South, strong in their conviction, pleased with their Tradition, Southern Governors and Senators spoke out for what their cold, lizard hearts and squalid eyes and fetid brains claimed as Truth. the “Negro” is inferior. With God (& their ‘way of life’) on their side, they made sure no African American sat on a jury; lynchings took place with impunity as community picnic entertainment, photographed with pride—placed in the family album next to the wedding reception.

(and the country whispers….but that was so long ago… that was not us; I’m not to blame…. but mark and listen and understand it is here now; it is racism; it is killing you, me, the haters and the hated—the Lovers and the Loved—and yes, even most, the ones that stand by, doing nothing)

Woodrow Wilson, a racist Enforcer, segregated the federal government: 1902-1910. One man—the country followed.

1955, a 14-year-old Chicago boy visiting in Mississippi crossed an invisible “white’s only” boundary he didn’t even know existed. His punishment: eyes gouged out, beaten to death, then, finally, shot in the head, thrown into the Tallahatchie River, a 75-pound fan tied around his neck with barbed wire weighing his small body down. Only 54 years ago (and the country pretends… it was so long ago…but oh how wrong we are. It happened during my lifetime. And it was not the end.). Two men arrested, not held or punished; the haters enforced their reign of terror, and J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI promulgated hate, intimidating civil rights workers, giving aid to lynchers, discrediting Martin Luther King, Jr., serving him up to the murdering mob.

1968, only 41 years ago, racism killed Martin Luther King, Jr.

1981, two KKK members in Alabama randomly chose to lynch 19-year-old Michael Donald. For the very first time, the killers were found guilty, but the prosecutor has been number 1 on the Aryan Nation hit list ever since. 1981, Only 28 years ago, during the lives of my children.

I beheld my caring, open-hearted lover

Ignored

Every month, every week, every day, every hour

We strolled through a store

Sat together for coffee—or more.

Eyes glided blankly past her to see only me,

Ask me what I wanted

Fuss over me

Serve me

While she stood next to me:

Invisible

Black

But

Invisible

Except in the Glares of the Police.

The Stares of the Guards

The Malevolence of the Whites

Sniggering, Blithering

As we passed by.

I learned to read

The nerve-quickened pulsing

at the edge

Of her jaw,

The muscles set

—Tightly—

from

neck

to

shoulder

blade,

Petrify,

and

Rip

her throbbing, open heart

APART.

1998, three men, all members of a white supremacist prison gang, murdered James Byrd, Jr., a 49-year-old Texas father of three, who had accepted an early-morning ride home from work with the three men. Because it’s what white racists do, they attacked him, dragging him to his death behind their truck, then moseyed off to a barbecue. 1998, only 11 years ago, as the radical Christian Right gained its stranglehold on the Republican party, fought for religion in politics, anti-immigration, anti-gay, anti-everything “not them.” They’ve perfected the attack ad, blaming the “other,” hunting the scapegoat, preying on and harnessing the collective ugliness within us. And as they’ve discovered, there is more than enough to destroy this country without the need of a nuclear bomb. (and the country ignores….IT is not going away…IT grows on hate, and the agony is ascending once again, again, and again, flooding the land.)

Finally, on June 13, 2005, the US Senate formally apologized for its failure to previously enact a Federal anti-lynching law. All earlier attempts had been defeated by filibusters by powerful Southern senators. 2005, only 4 years ago (and the country sighs, it is over…Oh, how very wrong are we. Look anywhere; there IT is).

And once again the lynching comes

as mobs find courage in numbers.

Have Faith for Faith’s sake,

preserve Tradition for Tradition’s sake

Hate for Hate’s sake

With God, Government, and Police on their side.

For as far back as we have evidence, humans have practiced human sacrifice: scapegoats, the pariah, the “other” to put upon them the blame and shame of the community, to be the sacrifice for the sins of all, originally to drive them out of the community and leave them to die—or ritually kill them in cleansing ceremonies. Human sacrifice for the rest of our sakes; human sacrifice to the gods. The one we know best is the dying/rising god, the god that promises immortality. The names may change but the promise of sin-free immortality remains the same: Osiris, Dionysus, Tammuz, Odin, Ishtar, Persephone, Baal—Jesus. Christians say Jesus is the last; THEY say Jesus took the sins of all so no one else would have to suffer; THEY say they follow him….and yet…and yet….and yet, THEY continue scape-goating—sacrificing others, projecting fears, hatred, anger, perverted thoughts onto entire populations.

What an excuse to commit genocide (Indians, Jews, Blacks, Muslims, Immigrants—take your pick).

What an excuse to kill ( so many to choose from).

What an excuse to be a vigilante (a buffet of life to slaughter).

What an excuse for murdering in the name of love.

Diagnosis:

The psychosis of humanity made manifest, running amuck, ranting, wrecking, reeking havoc, assaulting, lynching, Effacing to avoid facing themselves.

Playing God, they slaughter.

The herd hunts again,

Rulers of Deceit:

The Rogue and the Righteous

—The McPalins of the World—

Forging the grandiose

Hate-Fest

To Feast,

Draped

in rancid lies

They

Dredge

the

Sludge in the drains—the slime—

Lining the social plumbing,

Lurking in the twisted shadows

Out of sight

But

Never

Out of mind.

Left too long to rot and mold

In the grime

of history

—denied—

Bubbles in repression,

Churns sour in our souls,

Flings out its tentacles for the light of day

Births hate from guilt,

Pain from shame,

Displaced blame gobbles the refusal to atone

No matter how hard we try to scrub the claims of conscience away,

Racism

is

Our Nemesis,

Our cyanide rage,

Our Gangrenous hate.

Crawling on the unmasked:

Neighbors,

Church members,

Farmers,

Butchers,

Jury-sitters

Bakers

Law-makers,

ALL

Beasts craving to be fed Again

US-made

Vampires

Raping

Their Country,

Devouring

Their Young.

(With God on their side)

Thanks to:

Abel Meeropol for the lyrics Strange Fruit

The Southern Poverty Law Center:

Morris Dees, Joseph J. Levin, Jr., and Julian Bond,

Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, all those who’ve been hurt & still will,

All who’ve fought and still continue to

Charging Shame to:

All that aid & abet fear of those who are different

All that feed off hate

All that incite violence against those who disagree

All that are complicitous, consciously or not

By riki mathews, The Trickster

(Some aspects of original format have not been preserved)

Aqui estão os loucos…

…os desajustados. Os rebeldes. Os encrenqueiros. Os que fogem ao padrão.

Aqueles que veem as coisas de um jeito diferente.

Eles não se adaptam às regras. Eles não tem respeito pelo “status quo”.

Você pode elogiar eles, discordar deles, citar eles, desacreditar deles, glorificar eles ou caluniar eles. Mas a única coisa que você não pode fazer é ignorar eles.

Porque eles mudam as coisas.

Eles inventam. Eles imaginam. Eles curam. Eles exploram. Eles criam. Eles inspiram.

Eles empurram a raça humana pra frente.

Talvez eles tenham que ser loucos. Como você pode ficar diante de uma lona vazia e enxergar um trabalho de arte? Ou sentar em silêncio e escutar uma música que nunca foi escrita? Ou olhar para um planeta vermelho e enxergar laboratórios sobre rodas?

Nós fazemos ferramentas para este tipo de pessoas.

Enquanto alguns veem eles como loucos, nós os vemos como gênios.

Porque pessoas que são loucas o bastante para pensar que podem mudar o mundo, são as únicas que podem fazê-lo.

Jack Kerouac - On the Road - 1955

© 1984 - Apple “Think Different” campaign.

Isaac Asimov escribió en 1955 Sufragio Universal, un relato - corto - donde narra las elecciones que tendran lugar el próximo 4 de noviembre de 2008 - cambio (perdon por el chiste). No voy a revelar ninguna información, a pesar de ser yo (no aparecen ni McCain ni Obama, lo siento algun espoiler tenia que soltar!).

“If at first an idea isn’t absurd, there’s no hope for it.”
Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)

New Delhi: The Nobel Foundation ignored not only Mahatma Gandhi but also India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, one of 20th century’s leading statesmen, for the peace prize, not once but on 11 occasions.

Though the details of past nominations are kept confidential, the foundation has opened the database for 1901-56. A search through it shows that the name of Nehru was under consideration during the early 1950s when he was building the foundations of a modern India.

In 1950, there were two nominations considered by the Nobel Committee. L R Sivasubramanian, a Delhi University professor of law, and M Venkatarangaiya, a Bombay University professor of political science, sent in the nominations.

Jens Arup Seip, a professor of the university of Oslo, did the evaluation of the nomination.

Coincidentally, the committee also considered nominations of Maharshi Aurobindo, a radical freedom fighter turned spiritual leader, and S. Radhakrishan, another freedom fighter and statesman who was to later become India’s president (1962-67).

In 1950, the most coveted prize in the world went to Ralph Bunche, an American political scientist and diplomat, for his late 1940s mediation in Palestine.

In 1951, Panditji, as he was popularly known, was nominated thrice. The nominations were sent in by Emily Greene Balch of the US, Nobel Peace Prize laureate of 1946, Lewis Hoskins on behalf of the American Friends Service Committee and Shrinavala Sarma on behalf of the “Professors at the University of Madras.”

All three nominations were evaluated by Seip.

Léon Jouhaux, a French trade union leader, won the peace prize in 1951.

Three more nominations in favour of Nehru were sent to Sweden two years later - all from Brussels. “Several Members of the Belgian National Assembly,” “Several Members of the Belgian Senate” and “Several Professors of the university of Bruxelles” were the nominators. K Getz Wold was the evaluator and August Schou also wrote an additional evaluation, according to the database.

The 1953 Peace laureate was George C Marshall, who led the US Army during World War II.

The year 1954 saw two nominations for Nehru, both along with British Prime Minister Clement Attlee “for their work for the peaceful settlement between Great Britain and India in 1947″. Seip himself was one of the nominators.

The honour that year went to the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees.

Edmond Privat, a professor of the Neuchatel university in Switzerland, again nominated Nehru in 1955. That year, no winner was announced and the prize money was “allocated to the Special Fund of this prize section.”

Pfoe dat is alweer 4 dagen geleden dat ik een bericht heb geplaatst. Afgelopen dagen erg druk gehad met ons schoolproject en met de ontwikkeling van de Social Media Community en daardoor weinig tijd gehad om een bericht te plaatsen… sorry lezers

Zoals beloofd in de vorige post zou ik het gaan hebben over de laatste generatie waar ik me op ga richten: de Babyboomers. Mensen in deze generatie zijn geboren in de periode 1945-1955.

Babyboom is een demografische term, waarmee verwezen wordt naar de geboortegolf die in veel West-Europese landen en de Verenigde Staten optrad vlak na de Tweede Wereldoorlog.

Wat zijn de kenmerken van de laatste generatie: de Babyboomers? Welke kenmerken zijn van belang bij de ontwikkeling van de Social Media Community?

• Sociale kenmerkenDe babyboom heeft tegenwoordig nog veel gevolgen voor de samenstelling van de bevolking. Zo kampen veel westerse landen met een vergrijzende bevolking, wat de financiering van de sociale-zekerheidstelsels in die landen bedreigt.Deze generatie heeft een aantal gemeenschappelijke ervaringen. Ze maakte kennis met de stijgende naoorlogse welvaart, en ging studeren in de woelige periode tussen 1965 en 1975. Daarnaast heeft zij eigenlijk nooit een grote tegenslag meegemaakt: het is de babyboomers nagenoeg altijd voor de wind gegaan.Mensen die geboren zijn tussen 1955 en 1965 worden ook wel tot de babyboom-generatie gerekend, omdat rond 1965 een duidelijk omslagpunt werd bereikt in het aantal levendgeborenen. Ook zij groeiden op een periode van relatieve welvaart, tot in de eerste helft van de jaren tachtig politiek sterk werd ingezet op bezuinigingen in de publieke sector.
• Technologische kenmerkenDe Babyboomers hebben over het algemeen weinig verstand van internet en de bijhorende web-technologiën. Ook omgaan met de computer zelf valt voor de meesten niet mee. Maar Social Media Community wil zich ook focussen op deze doelgroep omdat deze mensen natuurlijk ook gewoon mensen zijn en er dus net zo goed bij horen.

Dit was in het kort over wie de Babyboomers zijn en wat hun kenmerken zijn. In de gebruikersanalyse die volgende keer aan bod komt beschrijf ik hoe mijn reactie is op de kenmerken en behoeften van mijn doelgroep.

Tot morgen!

- Menno Bouma

P.S: Soms kunnen berichten m.b.t. de Social Media Community wat langer op zich laten wachten, omdat ik zelf ook nog druk aan het nadenken ben over bepaalde zaken. Wel zal ik mijn belevingen die met schoolprojecten te maken hebben dagelijks publiceren!

Σεπτέμβρης 1955 - Η Τουρκική θηριωδία στην Κωνσταντινούπολη (κλικ)

Η Οθωμανική Αυτοκρατορία που ιδρύθηκε στα εδάφη της Βυζαντινής Αυτοκρατορίας γνωρίζοντας την ανωτερότητα του ελληνικού στοιχείου στην οικονομία, στον πολιτισμό, στην παιδεία, αλλά και την πληθυσμιακή υπεροχή, από την αρχή εφάρμοσε σχέδια αφελληνισμού. Οι διωγμοί, οι μαζικοί εξισλαμισμοί, το παιδομάζωμα, οι σφαγές ήταν τα μέτρα που υιοθέτησαν για την συρρίκνωση του ελληνισμού, ώστε να εδραιωθούν αφού γνώριζαν ότι τα εδάφη που κατέκτησαν δεν τους ανήκαν ποτέ στο παρελθόν. Η Τουρκία σαν διάδοχος της Οθωμανικής Αυτοκρατορίας συνέχισε και συνεχίζει μέχρι σήμερα την ίδια τακτική.

Τα γεγονότα στις 6 και 7 Σεπτεμβρίου 1955 στην Κωνσταντινούπολη και στην Σμύρνη αποτελούν ένα ακόμη μέρος του συνεχούς διωγμού των Ελλήνων. Αφορμή για τo «πογκρόμ» του Σεπτέμβρη του 1955 στάθηκε ο επαναστατικός αγώνας των Κυπρίων τον Απρίλιο του ιδίου έτους εναντίον της Μεγάλης Βρετανίας αφού η τελευταία δεν αναγνώριζε το δικαίωμα του κυπριακού ελληνισμού για αυτοδιάθεση. Η Ελλάδα προσφεύγει στον ΟΗΕ για το Κυπριακό ενώ η Βρετανία συγκαλεί στο Λονδίνο Τριμερή Διάσκεψη εμπλέκοντας έντεχνα στο Κυπριακό και την Τουρκία η οποία είχε παραιτηθεί υπέρ της Αγγλίας από κάθε δικαίωμα της στην Κύπρο από το 1878 όταν είχε πουλήσει το νησί στους Βρετανούς.

Έτσι η Βρετανία κατορθώνει να καταστήσει το Κυπριακό ελληνοτουρκικό πρόβλημα, ενώ η ίδια αναλαμβάνει ρόλο μεσολαβητή ακυρώνοντας τον κυπριακό αγώνα για Ένωση με την Ελλάδα. Παράλληλα υποδεικνύει τις επόμενες πολιτικές κινήσεις καθώς και τις παράλογες απαιτήσεις της Τουρκίας και σε συνεργασία καλλιεργούν το κατάλληλο εχθρικό κλίμα κατά των Ελλήνων. Ο τουρκικός τύπος με ψευδή δημοσιεύματα εξάπτει τον τουρκικό φανατισμό, το σύμπλεγμα κατωτερότητας που πάντα αισθάνονταν οι Τούρκοι έναντι των Ελλήνων μετατρέπεται σε ανθελληνική υστερία.

Αιτία για να ξεκινήσουν οι αθλιότητες του τουρκικού όχλου σε βάρος των Ελλήνων της Κωνσταντινούπολης ήταν η είδηση ότι ανατινάχθηκε το σπίτι του Κεμάλ στην Θεσσαλονίκη από Έλληνες.

Στην πραγματικότητα η «βόμβα» είχε τοποθετηθεί από τον Τούρκο φοιτητή στο πανεπιστήμιο της Θεσσαλονίκης Οκτάι Εγκίν, ο οποίος ήταν γιος μουσουλμάνου βουλευτή στην Ελληνική Βουλή, σε συνεργασία με το προσωπικό του τουρκικού προξενείου της Θεσσαλονίκης. Τον εκρηκτικό μηχανισμό τον είχε προμηθευτεί από τις τουρκικές μυστικές υπηρεσίας και εξερράγη στην αυλή του κτηρίου χωρίς να προκαλέσει ζημιές.

Πριν ακόμα μεταδοθεί η είδηση από τον τουρκικό τύπο συγκεντρώθηκαν μπροστά στο μνημείο του Κεμάλ στο Ταξίμ της Πόλης πλήθος φανατισμένων και οργανωμένων τούρκων, ενώ φορτηγά αυτοκίνητα μετέφεραν συνέχεια ομάδες κρούσης από άξεστους Τούρκους επαρχιώτες.

Είναι χαρακτηριστικό ότι το BBC του Λονδίνου μετέδωσε την είδηση της έκρηξης μισή ώρα προτού γίνει αυτή! Το απόγευμα της 6ης Σεπτεμβρίου ένα μαινόμενο πλήθος από 50.000 Τούρκους εξοπλισμένοι με τσεκούρια, ρόπαλα, αξίνες, σιδερένιους λοστούς, σφυριά και μπιτόνια βενζίνης στράφηκε κατά των Ελλήνων της Πόλης και των περιουσιών τους. Οι επιδρομείς φονιάδες υπό την καθοδήγηση της παρακρατικής οργάνωσης «η Κύπρος είναι τουρκική» και με συνθήματα «θάνατος στους γκιαούρηδες», «σφάξτε τους Έλληνες προδότες» και άλλα πολλά επιδόθηκαν σε κάθε είδους βαρβαρότητα. Βιασμοί γυναικών, μικρών κοριτσιών, αλλά και αγοριών, πυρπολήσεις εκκλησιών, οικιών, καταστημάτων, καταστροφή τάφων και κοιμητηρίων, λεηλασίες και κάθε είδους καταστροφή σε ελληνικά ιδρύματα είναι μόνο μερικές από τις βιαιοπραγίες που κράτησαν μέχρι τις πρωινές ώρες της 7ης Σεπτεμβρίου υπό τα βλέμματα της αστυνομίας και του στρατού.

~*~

Ο δημοσιογράφος Γ. Καράγιωργας υπήρξε αυτόπτης μάρτυρας της αγριότητας των τούρκων, σε ομιλία του για τα 40 χρόνια από τα Σεπτεμβριανά περιέγραψε κάποια περιστατικά, μεταφέρω εδώ μόνο δύο.

• Στο Γενή Σεχίρ, ώρα 7 το απόγευμα μέσα στη μέση του δρόμου, ο όχλος περικύκλωσε ένα κοριτσάκι 6 ετών, το παρέδωσε σ΄ έναν ημιπαράφρονα χαμάλη γνωστό ως «γορίλα» και εκείνος παρουσία δύο χιλιάδων ατόμων το εβίασε επανειλημμένως, ενώ το πλήθος ούρλιαζε, «αυτά παθαίνουν οι Έλληνες. Σκότωσέ την, σκότωσέ την την σκύλα την Ελληνίδα».
• Μόλις δόθηκε το σύνθημα της επιθέσεως, κύματα όχλου μπήκαν στην εκκλησία, για να την καταστρέψουν. Μέσα όμως βρισκόταν εκείνη την στιγμή ο αρχιδιάκονος, ο οποίος επιχείρησε να τους εμποδίσει. Οι Τούρκοι άρχισαν να τον ξυλοκοπούν και να προσπαθούν να του βγάλουν τα ράσα. Ο αρχιδιάκονος αντέστη, αλλά υπέκυψε. Από τις φωνές, τα ουρλιαχτά και την φασαρία ανησύχησε η μητέρα του ιερωμένου κι έντρομη έτρεξε στην εκκλησία. Το πλήθος την εκύκλωσε και άρχισε να την κτυπά, ενώ πιο πέρα ο γιος της δεμένος πισθάγκωνα σε μια καρέκλα μετεφέρετο από το πλήθος στην έξοδο. Εκεί αφού τον άφησαν, ανέθεσαν σε έναν αλήτη να τον ξυρίσει χωρίς σαπουνάδα. Όταν τον εξύρισαν, τον μετέφεραν στο καμπαναριό από κάτω και του ‘καναν περιτομή. Ύστερα τον άφησαν εξαντλημένο και αιμορραγούντα.

Ο απολογισμός των βάρβαρων επεισοδίων ήταν, ο θάνατος 20 Ελλήνων και ο τραυματισμός άλλων 300 περίπου, ο βιασμός 200 Ελληνίδων -βιάστηκε επίσης ακόμη και μια έγκυος Ελληνίδα 6 μηνών, μπροστά στα μάτια του άντρα της-και αδιευκρίνιστος αριθμός ανδρών και αγοριών. Η καταστροφή 4348 εμπορικών καταστημάτων, 27 φαρμακείων, 26 σχολείων, 110 ξενοδοχείων, 73 εκκλησιών, 21 εργοστασίων, 3 εφημερίδων και περίπου 2600 οικιών. Όλα τα παραπάνω ήταν ελληνικές ιδιοκτησίες τις οποίες κατέστρεψε ο πολιτισμός του «εξπρές του μεσονυκτίου».

Μετά τα επεισόδια η συρρίκνωση του Ελληνισμού στην Τουρκία είναι ραγδαία: από τις 100.000 περίπου Ελλήνων πριν τα επεισόδια δεν θα απομείνουν παρά μόνο λίγες χιλιάδες που δεν θα θυμίζουν σε τίποτα την ευημερούσα ελληνική μειονότητα.
Η βαρβαρότητα της Άγκυρας δεν ήταν η μόνη υπεύθυνη για τα απάνθρωπα αυτά γεγονότα. Η κυβέρνηση του Μεντερές είχε σχεδιάσει τα επεισόδια σε κεντρικό επίπεδο και ασφαλώς με αγγλική προτροπή.

Στα βρετανικά αρχεία υπάρχουν έγγραφα τα οποία τονίζουν ότι θα ήταν ωφέλιμο για την Αγγλία ένας ξεσηκωμός στην Πόλη εναντίον των Ελλήνων.
Είναι επίσης σημαντικό ότι Άγγλος διπλωμάτης σε τηλεγράφημα που έστειλε στο Λονδίνο από την Αθήνα αναφέρει «αρκεί ένα κτύπημα στο σπίτι όπου γεννήθηκε ο Ατατούρκ στη Θεσσαλονίκη για να προκληθεί μείζονα κρίση στις σχέσεις των δύο χωρών, οι οποίες είναι άριστες αυτή την περίοδο».

Ο πρωθυπουργός Α.Μεντερές προσπάθησε να επιρρίψει τις ευθύνες στους κομμουνιστές αιφνιδιασμένος και αυτός από το μέγεθος της καταστροφής, αλλά και υπό το βάρος του διεθνούς τύπου που πρόβαλε τις τουρκικές θηριωδίες.Την πολιτική της συστηματικής εξόντωσης των μειονοτήτων στην Τουρκία φανερώνει και η κυνική δήλωση του αρχηγού της αξιωματικής αντιπολίτευσης Ισμέτ Ινονού μετά τα γεγονότα, «είναι καλό που δεν αναμείχθηκε το κόμμα μας στα γεγονότα, όμως οι εκδηλώσεις αυτές ήταν πολύ καλά οργανωμένη εθνική ενέργεια και ωφέλιμη για να καθαρίσει η χώρα μας από το ελληνικό στοιχείο, που είναι ένας βραχνάς».

Η ελληνική κυβέρνηση ακολούθησε έναντι της Τουρκίας την πάγια πολιτική που εφαρμόζουν ως σήμερα όλες οι ελληνικές κυβερνήσεις, περιορίστηκε σε διαβήματα προς την Άγκυρα.

Οι ΗΠΑ θα επιρρίψουν τις ευθύνες για τα γεγονότα της Πόλης στους Τούρκους, αλλά και στους Έλληνες! Επίσης δεν καταδίκασαν τα επεισόδια ούτε εξέφρασαν και την συμπάθεια τους στα θύματα, ενώ αξίωσαν να σταματήσουν οι ελληνοτουρκικές διενέξεις προς χάριν της Βορειοατλαντικής συμμαχίας. Από τότε οι ευαισθησίες των Αμερικανών ως προς τις μειονότητες ήταν επιλεκτικές. Η «αποκατάσταση» της εθνικής μας αξιοπρέπειας έγινε με την έπαρση της ελληνικής σημαίας και την ανάκρουση του εθνικού μας ύμνου στο στρατηγείο του ΝΑΤΟ στην Σμύρνη όπου και εκεί είχαν γίνει ανάλογα επεισόδια σε βάρος των Ελλήνων.

Ο Μεντερές πέντε χρόνια μετά θα ανατραπεί από στρατιωτικό πραξικόπημα, θα δικαστεί μαζί με τον υπουργό εξωτερικών Φ.Ζουρλού, θα κριθούν ένοχοι μεταξύ άλλων και για τα γεγονότα του Σεπτεμβρίου του 1955 και θα καταδικαστούν εις θάνατον δια απαγχονισμού.

Σήμερα η Τουρκία προετοιμάζει αργά αλλά σταθερά το έδαφος για ανάλογα γεγονότα στην Α. Θράκη. Σήμερα δεν είναι η Βρετανία αυτή που κινεί και σχεδιάζει την τουρκική απειλή στην Α. Θράκη, αλλά οι ΗΠΑ και το αμερικανικό προξενείο στη Θεσσαλονίκη σε συνεργασία με το τουρκικό προξενείο στην Κομοτηνή και με Τούρκους πράκτορες.

Macedonia Forum

το sync προφίλ μου

Family Values

Ah, just hearing Sarah Palin talk about good-old, small town values just warms the very cockles of my heart. I can see it now, a return to those idyllic days of small town idealization: the 1950s, when America was at its greatest. “Leave it to Beaver” ruled the airwaves, entering every middle-class home delivering the very fundamental values embodied by Mrs. Palin, her church, and the current Republican party. Nostalgic tears flood my cheeks—Ah yes, those were the days—and I most heartily look forward to reinstalling them.

Yes, the memories overwhelm me . . . . time spent watching those wise TV fathers instructing their raptly attentive wives fresh from doing their domestic chores dressed impeccably, high heels and tastefully coordinated jewelry, while happy children with perfect manners played harmoniously, then said their Christian prayers before meekly popping off to bed. The good old nuclear family.

Sure was dreamy baby, though it didn’t have an iota of similarity to any family I knew—families where fathers beat their children and mothers called them stupid morons. Disgruntled housewives and single women who’d gotten a taste for working during the war “let go” because the men needed the jobs more. The mommies on my block drug around unintended, unwanted children. Effective birth control wasn’t available and those who perhaps aborted, well, given the morality of the times, that would stay buried in the closet, so how would we know? Unless they died, of course. Even then, it’s amazing the secrets behind closed doors. Don’t know why they were so unhappy; after all, research back then showed that only 7% of Americans thought a single woman could ever be happy. Maybe they just didn’t know enough to know what was best for them.

And as for single moms? Why, I knew of one….but she was obviously immoral, so the entire community blackballed her, and everyone had someone they could gossip about. That’s always good for keeping cohesion in a small town. Yep, nothing like being the outcast, looked down on, unable to find work, having your child laughed at and called names to let everyone else know what they better not do. That went for divorce as well, rightfully scandalous among us average folk, a good cause for a lot of tongue wagging.

The home was a man’s undisputed castle, and his word ruled—we learned that from TV, from our teachers, from, well, from everywhere. Boy oh boy, my best friend’s dad knew that. Punishment meted out in the basement with PVC pipe against bare arms and legs, metal belt buckles across the butt till she couldn’t sit. One time, she got it so bad, she had to sleep on her stomach for a week. Of course I knew, but as far as I could figure, that’s what went on in every home. Even in “Father Knows Best” or “My Three Sons” or “Ozzie and Harriet.” Children were supposed to keep their mouths shut and show proper respect for grownups, and, well, basically, do everything they were told. Now how those parents got their kids to mind themt was the fuzzy part to us as w didn’t know any kid or parent that acted like those on TV. We couldn’t figure it out: were they just being mean like our parents were in private, or were we the only ones in America whose families didn’t look like theirs?

What with all the evidence—TV, Uncle Sam, our teachers and what they had to say about us….my best friend and I guessed we just had to be the sinful little boogers, the deviants, deserving of a good beating or some other torture. If I misbehaved, I got sent to my room without dinner—zip, nothing, even if I hadn’t gotten lunch either because some school bully had taken it. My own fault my parents said. And they never did explain what I’d done to not get dinner. I remember once going a whole week without. That time I collapsed, but no doctor visit; we couldn’t afford a doctor back then. They say we got what we deserved, and I guess we turned out the better for it.

Strict rules were all part of family values back then. And it was the Dad’s job to enforce them. Men had it tough, for sure. You had to give them slack, coming back from the war and all, starting life again. So what if husbands cheated? Good, dutiful wives put up with it. Come to think of it, they never showed any of that on The Family Hour….but hard to believe it was only going on in our small town; whatever, we kept our mouths shut when it came to the men; what could you expect from men? It was in their nature after all; everyone said so. And those women still trying to keep their places in the workforce certainly didn’t help a man’s morale; they were just giving ‘em a reason to wander.

Uppity women. Selfish. Got a taste for working and now couldn’t let go, do the right thing for the country. Their place was in the home having babies—whether they wanted to or not. Uncle Sam knew best; the government made it very clear women owed it to our future to give the jobs back to the men, stay home and raise children—White children that is. I understood that some of my moms acquaintances were doing their civic duty when they told my mom she should give up the job she got during the war . . . . even . . . even if my dad wasn’t bringing home enough money to pay all the bills. I agreed with what they said behind her back, that by working my mom was undermining my dad’s ego, ‘cause her actions were making him think he couldn’t do it by himself; she was making him look bad in front of his buddies and, and, and . . . . that’s why he was running around. Yup. It was my mom’s fault for, now what was the word they used. . . for. . . for . . .I know—emasculating him.

She was white and Uncle Sam had said we needed white babies; he hadn’t said anything about the minority women that’d been working before, through, and after the war cleaning up after the rest; of course they were supposed to continue working, and be thankful they got paid at all. They needed to prove they deserved the American Dream—just like we already had.

And we had that dream, almost all that dream: we got a government loan to buy a home on Dad’s GI bill; he got a new Cadillac every year he never paid for thanks to bank credit; he was a salesman with a fine diamond pinkie ring—and it didn’t even matter that he never sold anything! We had the look of prosperity; that’s what mattered. That’s all that mattered when it came to the money game. And best of all back in the 1950s, we had the Cold War.

Now that pulled us together. A strong common enemy sure brings out true blue American patriotism, do or die, no questioning authority, no sir. Why, just like the beginning of the war in Iraq. It was that same thrill of fear, terror, panic, lashing out, and squashing anyone who spoke out against our government all rolled into one—and it lasted for years and years longer than the crap war we got going on now. Just nothing beat it for getting people all gung-ho and rah, rah, rah for the principles of the USA. I definitely know why folks want to go back to those simpler, halcyon days of yore.

We lived in the bosom of great faith we did, positive that could survive a direct nuclear attack. At my school we faithfully practiced duck and cover under our desks while those of us that lived within 20 minutes walking distance were sent home, the alarm sirens blaring from every corner, to take refuge in our basements, our storage bins, or if we had the dough, newly installed bomb shelters. With fear and pride mingling in our devoted hearts, we banded together behind the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, and Senator Joseph McCarthy—that fierce fighter of Godless Communism and minority groups trying to undermine us from within.

With our government’s encouragement, we spied on our neighbors, anonymously reported anything that looked suspicious to the authorities, rooted when the Rosenbergs were put to death, and couldn’t wait for the next round of so-called traitors to be thrown in jail or lose their jobs [sorry you were framed Ethel, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and there’s nothing like catching bad guys to keep morale up]. We felt awe and empowerment as Cold War bands of thugs channeled our fears for us, demanding blind loyalty tests from government employees, kicking out any who disagreed with any policy of President Truman and then Eisenhower, ruining careers and lives with a snap of their fingers. With total impunity, knowing what this country needed, they ignored the Bill of Rights and the Constitution, planted forged documents, leaked fake information to the press, accused and declared people enemies of the state in private trials.

They fueled the public’s rage and fear, and with pit bull McCarthy at the helm, we got to not only watch, but be co-conspirators in one of the greatest dramatic plays in America. Even though McCarthy was muzzled, we weren’t done expressing our unleashed passion; we stuck to our duty and joined The John Birch Society. Yes, we were the best Americans, finally able to overcome any family troubles and, instead, turn our righteous anger and suspicions on Semites, Blacks and any other minority that wanted to invade WASP America. Boy, oh, boy, those were the days of strong, single-minded conservative values alright.

We surged in patriotism and fear thanks to the Cold War and, naturally, we surged with Christianity to emotionally bond Americans together to save us from hellfire and Godless Communism as well. Making an official Pledge of Allegiance, still itself brand new out of 1942, overtly religious by adding “under God” in 1954 sure helped send a message to any deviants here. And then adding “In God We Trust” onto all our paper money, thanks to an act of Congress in 1955, we magically became that Christian church-going nation the family values people always thought right.

Again we turned to our trusty TVs for the right message, adding Televangelists to our favorite family programs, eagerly soaking up Oral Roberts of the Pentecostal/Charismatic Churches who offered fake, I mean faith healing of the blind and crippled in front of thousands and directly into our living rooms through the TV screen, and the nation sure was in need of that to keep us strong in the face of our enemies. God spoke directly to him. Imagine how thrilling that was for us watching this movie star preacher getting divine revelations at the same time he spoke to us. Of course we sent him our money—isn’t that the American way? Don’t we get rich through the grace of God just like anyone can grow up to be President? You won’t find me faulting him for his $100 shoes or $500 suits or the $9 million we sent to save his life. He and so many others have taught us the true American virtues of capitalism, which he simply followed.

And we just had to watch Billy Graham as well with his own fiery fundamentalist/evangelical rhetoric. He explained it in terms we could all understand: war with Russia being the millennial Biblical showdown, God’s test of our goodness and strength. Like the great prophet Moses appearing before us on the Universal stage, God compelled us to follow him….we embraced him especially.

Blessed by God and Eisenhower, backed by Standard Oil and the precursor of Haliburton, he, like McCarthy and J. Edgar Hoover—his personal friend—focused our rage on the correct targets, the unions, the traitor liberals in government, and anyone who was anti-big business. Yes, he showed us whose side God was on There we stood, the proud towns, nay, the proud nation composed of small towns and our small town American values.

“Gimme them old time values,
“Gimme them old time values,
“Gimme them old time values,
“They were good enough for my growing years, they’re good enough for me now
“They were good enough for my growing years, they’re good enough for me now

…………………………Ah……………..
Ah………………. Well……………………
…..ah, actually, the more I think about it…. you know, they, they, you know, they look a lot like what we’ve had for the last eight years…..

By riki mathews: The Trickster

When one talks of tragic actors, what are the names that come to mind ? Guru Dutt and Meena Kumari ? It may be news for people, but in the first decade of their career viz 1950s, they were both known for playing positive, energetic ,bubbly characters oozing with zest for life.

The crown for being the first major tragedy queen of that era should rightfully belong to Nutan. She played quite a few memorable tragic roles in movies. She in fact played a tragic role as early as in 1955 in a movie called “Seema”.

As befits a tragic movie, Nutan decides to leave her home without telling anybody. Readers of this blog may recall that Nutan did likewise in another movie called Bandini in 1963, accompanied by a memorable song- “O jaane waale ho sake to laut ke aana”. Here also, a similar situation presents itself, and is dealt likewise. Here too, Nutan leaves, and a great memorable song ensues- “Kahan jaa raha hai tu ae jaanewaale”

One can clearly draw parallels with the “Bandini song”. But one has to keep it in mind that this song from “Seema” was composed nearly one decade earlier. Rafi was excellence personified, and he excells himself in this song, if such a thing is possible.

Shailendra’s lyrics are top notch, and Shankar Jaikishan’s music adds to the mood of the song.

Song- Kahan jaa raha hai tu ae jaanewaale (Seema 1955) Singer-Rafi, Lyrics-Shailendra, MD-Shankar Jaikishan

Lyrics

kahaan jaa rahaa hai tu ai jaane waale
kahaan jaa rahaa hai tu ai jaane waale
andheraa hai man kaa diyaa to jalaa le
kahaan jaa rahaa hai tu ai jaane waale
kahaan jaa rahaa hai

jo baandhe the bandhan wo kyun tod daale
kahaan jaa rahaa hai tu ai jaane waale
kahaan jaa rahaa hai
kahaan jaa rahaa hai
kahaan jaa rahaa hai
kahaan jaa rahaa hai