The fascinating story of the tulip festival that transformed Ottawa into a sparkling jewel of a capital city.
To read the full story, click on this link: https://www.convivium.ca/articles/talking-turkey-about-tulips/
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Dramatic Escape from Beirut
It was a sudden, dramatic turn of events, perhaps as historically significant as the French Revolution of 1789 that changed a country forever. Except that this was not in the streets of Paris, but in the streets of Beirut, once described as the Paris of the Middle East—and I was caught in the thick of it.
It was October 18, 2019. The tension in the lobby of the Casa D’Or Hotel in the Hamra neighborhood of Lebanon’s capital was palpable. Guests were milling around the lobby, checking their cell phones, while keeping one eye on the large TV monitor that dominated one wall of the lounge.
I am a journalist from Canada, and I was typing my notes from an international conference I had attended just two days before. At the same time, I was trying to understand the Arabic news anchor whose voice rose from time to time in a shrill falsetto, and then dropped to a breathless whisper.
My cell phone beeped. It was a message from my Lebanese friend Marie whom I was expecting to meet up with in just a couple of hours. She had promised to show me around Beirut after my four days of work. But now her message warned me to stay in the hotel, and not to venture out, because “something” was happening in the streets, and it would be too risky to get out!
Soon, the blare of car horns and the rhythmic chanting of young people in the street outside my hotel reached my ears. I looked out the window to see that seemed like a happy street party. But I was wrong!
The ‘party’ which was no less than an anti-government protest that soon turned into violence. Tens of thousands of people from across Lebanon were pouring into the streets in a frenzy of flag waving and slogan- chanting in unison. They were venting their pent-up frustration and fury with a government they accused of being corrupt to the extreme, living off the fat of the land while the average citizen was struggling to make ends meet.
It was something like Marie Antoinette, wife of the French King Louis XVI, who supposedly responded to her starving peoples’ cry for help with the callous comment that if they didn’t have bread, they could eat cake! That was in France at some point in 1789, and the story ended with the dramatic end to her husband’s reign.
But this was 2019 and the people of Lebanon- from across the religious and sectarian spectrum of the country– were no less furious with a political elite that lived in pampered luxury, while bringing the economy of the country to the brink of collapse.
I am fairly knowledgeable about Middle Eastern politics, but I had obviously not read the tea leaves correctly in this case. But neither had the political elite of Lebanon, cocooned as they were in their marble mansions along the city’s Mediterranean coast, flying away from time to mingle with the rich and powerful social butterflies of the international jet set.
They were obviously caught by stunned surprise. But they acted quickly.
Riot police in vehicles and on foot rounded up protesters, firing rubber bullets and teargas canisters, dispersing demonstrators in Beirut’s commercial district. Dozens of people were wounded and detained.
But the protestors refused to give up. The people of Lebanon were demanding no less than an end to the government led by President Michel Aoun and PM Saad Hariri.
Just four days before this volcanic eruption that threatened to topple the power structure and bring it crashing to the ground, I was covering an international conference in the glitzy Emirates room of the Hilton Habtoor, one of Beirut’s grandest hotels. Two of the main speakers were President Michel Aoun and Foreign Minister Gebran Bassil, who happens to be the son-in-law of Aoun.
Ironically, the theme of the conference was: ‘Lebanon: Homeland of Dialogue and Civilization.”
Speaker after speaker sang the praises of Lebanon as a model of diversity and pluralism, with all religious communities sharing power and living together in harmony.
The President and his son-in-law arrived at the hotel, and left after their speeches, surrounded by trappings similar to those of an imperial court. Followed by an entourage of “courtiers” (assistants) and flash-bulb popping camera crews, they appeared to be basking in glory, like rock stars after a concert.
Little did they anticipate the massive upheaval that was to follow. People of all faiths were indeed united and singing from the same song sheet- but not in any way that would have reinforced their complacency. They were accusing their leaders of monopolizing power and sharing it within the same closely-knit group rather than with the citizens they were supposed to represent.
As I watched from the lobby of the Hotel Casa D’Or– where I had opted to stay instead of at the opulent Hilton Habtoor– the riots took an even uglier turn. Some rioters were burning cars, throwing bombs, and most alarmingly, from the point of view of travellers, blocking the road to Rafic Hariri International airport.
As the hours ticked by, I felt a growing sense of panic within me. I had a flight to catch by 9:30 am the next day, and it looked as if I would never make it to the airport.
To calm my nerves, I started a conversation with a group of Italian tourists who were also anxiously watching the news in the lobby. They were intrigued to find that I was a solo traveller and a journalist to boot. They were a group of about 20 from various Italian cities such as Milan and Padua, and they had flights to catch the next morning as well. But they had a tour bus, a Lebanese driver and an Italian tour guide. They kindly offered me a ride to the airport in their bus, provided all went well and they had some assurance that they would make it there in safety.
We had to wait in uncertainty, until the Lebanese driver made a reconnaissance trip the airport in the dead of night, and then come back to report to us if the coast was clear.
At midnight I got another call on my cell phone. This time the news was good. “Be ready to leave the hotel at 1:00 am,” said Alessandro the tour guide.
The Italian tourists and I boarded the bus with our luggage at exactly an hour past midnight. We were on our way to the airport and to safety! As we reached the airport, all of us erupted into cheers as we hugged and thanked the driver, as if he were a knight in shining armour who had ridden to our rescue.
We camped out at the airport, sitting or reclining on our luggage, some of us waiting as long as 12 hours for our flights. My flight took off at 9:30 am, and I was soon in calm, peaceful Athens after a midnight escape from Beirut!
As my flight to Athens took off, I flipped through the pages of my notebook and found this quote from Anthony Bourdain, the master travel writer.
“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.”
The Beirut adventure has not dampened my passion for travelling and writing stories that run deeper than sound bites, pithy headlines and Instagram-perfect pictures. It will forever remain etched in my memory.
Nowadays, I look back on it nostalgically, and keep hoping the pandemic will soon be behind us and I can travel again!
A Journey to the Bleeding Heartland
This article was first published in Convivium Magazine. Click the link below to read the full story.
/https://www.convivium.ca/articles/a-journey-to-the-bleeding-heartland/
Mardin, named after the Syriac word for “fortress,” was an important point on the ancient silk route that led all the way from Mediterranean ports to Xian in China. This is where caravans laden with silks and spices traversed the Mesopotamian plain and reached the highland plateau of Anatolia (modern-day Turkey).
Light, colour, art! Day 1 in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
The colours are an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of surreal beauty, as the sun, like some celestial lighting director, changes the light from softly luminous to crystalline and dazzling, and then, paints a tableau of glorious pinks, violets and molten gold before the star-studded velvet curtain of darkness descends on the horizon.
San Miguel de Allende, a colonial city perched on the Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico’s central highlands, is not only a haven for of all artists from photographers and film makers to painters, writers, potters and sculptors- but a work of multi-media art in itself, a feast for the eyes and indeed for the soul.
The light is invariably perfect, the sun’s warmth is gentle and caressing, never harsh and scorching, and the colours are as a medieval artist would imagine the colours of heaven.
The sky itself is a moving cavalcade of colour. As the day progresses, it shifts from pale blue to a dazzling cobalt, then aqua before the sunset artist paints the canvas with his magic brush.
As the early morning sun rises gently over the Sierra Madre mountains and warms the city below, the pale blush-pink -and- grey stones of the parish church– San Miguel de Arcangel– turn rose-gold in the light. Its neo-gothic architecture and soaring towers, reminiscent of Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, Spain, form a kind of focal point for the crowds that begin to gather at the Jardin or central square of the city.
Clanging church bells mark the passing of each quarter hour, and the sounds of children’s laughter mingle joyfully with the chatter of tourists and the cries of street vendors as they ply their wares of balloons, hand-made crafts and snacks of corn and chicharron (crisp-fried pig’s belly) around the square. Joyful music emanates from the instruments of street musicians and practicing mariachi bands, while groups of people pose for photographs against the backdrop of the magnificent 16th century church
As I sit on a park bench in the dappled shade of a perfectly pruned tree in the little park across from the church, I am happy I left behind the sub-zero temperatures in Ottawa, Canada. I am here for a writing retreat, and this is the ideal place for it.
“Every day is a perfect day,” is my mantra each morning. No unpredictable weather or sudden snow storm here to spoil my plans for the day.
Indeed, every day is a day to celebrate life and the sheer joy of being alive, as the locals do whether there is any special holiday or fiesta or not.
After strolling around the Jardin for a while, soaking up the sun and the mood-lifting, upbeat atmosphere, I hail a taxi and head for the Aurora Fabrica.
Once a bustling mill that spun vibrantly coloured textiles, it has been transformed into an exquisitely beautiful centre of art and culture, filled with galleries, and shops where you can watch artists and work, buy paintings, antiques, scarves and jewelry, one-of-a kind décor pieces for your home or just wander around exploring and admiring each curated collection.
Finishing off the day, with a relaxing drink at the centre’s café, I take another taxi back to my temporary home on Aldamas Street, marveling at the renaissance and re-creation of this space after it closed its doors as a centre of industy.
Prague: City of a 100 Spires: Day 1
Charles Bridge, Prague: A Living, Multi-media Art Gallery
It is a sweltering day in Prague, city of 100 spires. It’s too hot, on that August afternoon to go counting spires, but I’ll take the word of the 19th century Bohemian mathematician and philosopher Bernard Bolzano who did the counting in his time. (The number of spires must have increased, so there are probably too many to count anyway.)
It’s more fun to take a leisurely stroll along the iconic Charles Bridge, enjoying my chimney cake (more about that later) filled with chocolate ice cream that I bought from a street side vendor.
It doesn’t take me long to think of a catchy name for the magnificent bridge that spans the Vltava River and divides the city into the Old Town and the Lesser Quarter (Mala Strana)
My code name for this bridge would be “Bridge of a 100 Artists.”
And indeed, it is a living, multimedia art gallery where painters sketch and paint your portrait while you wait, jewellery makers craft exquisite ear rings and bracelets, musicians strum their guitars and thousands of tourists enjoy watching the creative process and purchase “hot off the easel” works of art!
Stopping to chat with one of the artists whose beautiful oil and pastel portraits caught my eye, I learn that his name is Akai Akawev, and he is originally from Dagestan in the North Caucuses region of Russia.
Seated under the shade of an umbrella, he continues to paint while the tourists swirl around him in a frenzy of photo-snapping from every angle and every arch of the bridge. Some stop to ask him to paint their portraits while others move on after watching him for a while. He charges 35 Euros for a black and white image and 200 Euros for one in colour.
You can check his website if you’d like to get a pre-view of his work.
Further along the bridge, a little impromptu dance party is in full swing, while a guitarist plays lively music that compel even flat footed passers by to cut a caper or two. Other artists and crafts people have staked out their little open-air studios between the magnificent statues that line both sides of the bridge.
These gigantic baroque statues of saints and heroes of history-including the one of King Wenceslas, King of Bohemia and patron saint of the Czech state created by some of the best sculptors of the day– are indeed awe-inspiring. The street artists of today are following in the footsteps of these masters of sculpture in their own way. But unlike the statues whose creators worked for kings and dukes, the modern ones on Charles Bridge work for you, and you can take their work home with you!
The Entrance to the Charles Bridge
Strangers in Paradise: Travelers meet vibrant Mayan Culture around Lake Atitlan
A closer encounter with people and their culture, and a taste of an alternative way of life.
The late afternoon sun is a ball of fire, sprinkling sequins of gold into the indigo water of Lake Atitlan in the heart of Guatemala’s Western highlands. It’s a gorgeous February day and the temperature is a perfect 15 degrees C.
I’m here to dip my toes (metaphorically speaking) into the depths of the still-vibrant indigenous Maya-Spanish culture, and for a taste of day -to- day life in this vividly coloured country.
As I step into the lancha (ferry boat) which is to take me from the lakeshore village of Panajachel, the drop-off point for my bus from Guatemala City — to my destination, San Pedro— I glance upwards at the turquoise blue sky. I notice a fluffy white cloud that seems to be sitting right beside the sun, like an angel in attendance on the Maya Sun God. If every cloud has a silver lining this is a very special cloud. It is outlined in gold!
It seems like a good omen and a wonderful welcome to what the ancient Mayas saw as their Garden of Eden— Lake Atitlan, a sparkling lake that changes colour from deepest indigo to sapphire to jade green, encircled by dormant volcanoes and a landscape painted in rainbow colours by some celestial artist. The communities around it such as Panajachel, San Pedro and Santa Cruz are hubs of Maya life and seem a world away from the globalized, Americanized world of Guatemala City.
The captain revs up the engine and sets the boat in motion. The wind god is in a playful mood, and the boat bounces up and down like a rocking horse, churning up a frenzy of froth in its wake like an overactive cappuccino machine.
I step off the boat onto the dock in San Pedro. Kind strangers turned-instant friends during the 20-minute boat ride, help me haul my suitcase and two small bags off the boat. A few steps away from the dock, Bartolo, the head of my host family greets me warmly, and bundles me into a “tuk tuk,” a noisy, bright yellow motorized rickshaw, one of the preferred modes of transportation in the villages around Atitlan.
San Pedro la Laguna is the perfect soft landing for an authentic taste of local life while enjoying many of the amenities- cafes, restaurants, convenience stores, hair salons, spas, movie theatres and even a supermarket —that one is used to in North America.
Here, I am in the heartland of an ancient culture- that of the indigenous Mayas fused with aspects of modern life. This is where pre-Christian gods and mythology rub shoulders with Catholic tradition; where new age hippies and ageing baby boomer tourists with ripped shorts and secret dreams of becoming the next Indiana Jones walk the narrow, cobblestone village streets alongside Mayan women in richly hand-embroidered blouses and flamboyant wrap-around skirts; where expats from all corners of the world from Israeli Jews to German hoteliers, Italian café owners and Canadian NGO workers find peace and a more relaxed way of life than in more “developed” countries.
For the next few weeks, I settle into a routine, sharing meals and conversations in my rudimentary Spanish (mixed with a little English) with my host family, going for Spanish lessons each morning to the San Pedro Spanish school and exploring neighbouring lakeshore villages with my teacher Teresita who becomes a good friend and companion in a very short time.
San Pedro is one of the most popular expat and tourist destinations around the lake, and there is a smorgasbord of Spanish language schools to choose from.
I found the San Pedro Spanish School, recommended to me by a friend, an enjoyable experience. With one-on- one classes held outdoors in beautiful little thatched cabanas (huts) overlooking Lake Atitlan it was a fun way to improve my Spanish and get immersed in local life at the same time.
I was invited to local homes for coffee, to birthday parties, soccer games and even a wedding at the church of San Pedro (St. Peter) on the edge of the plaza in the heart of the village.
There is plenty of time to explore the neighbouring villages. Chichicastenango, well known for its brilliantly colourful traditional market, Panajachel, popular with retirees from North America. Santa Cruz, San Juan and San Marco, are all short boat rides away and ideal for day trips.
A profusion of colour greets me everywhere- both in nature, and the brilliant artistry of the people, in the flowering trees flaunting blossoms of gold, fuchsia and violet; in the ever-changing hues of the lake, the emerald green humming birds; in the textiles woven by local women dyed with natural colours extracted from vegetables and flowers; in the glorious sunrises and sunsets painting the horizon in blush pink, orange and violet.
Other memories: the rich aroma of coffee each morning, the smell of tortillas being cooked on a wood-fired stove, the cacophony of the markets where haggling is a game of choice, and church bells ringing everywhere each Sunday morning, ushering in throngs of worshippers dressed in their best.
I found the San Pedro Spanish School, recommended to me by a friend, an enjoyable experience. With one-on- one classes held outdoors in beautiful little thatched cabanas (huts) overlooking Lake Atitlan it was a fun way to improve my Spanish and get immersed in local life at the same time.
I was invited to local homes for coffee, to birthday parties, soccer games and even a wedding at the church of San Pedro (St. Peter) on the edge of the plaza in the heart of the village.
There is plenty of time to explore the neighbouring villages. Chichicastenango, well known for its brilliantly colourful traditional market, Panajachel, popular with retirees from North America. Santa Cruz, San Juan and San Marco, are all short boat rides away and ideal for day trips.
A profusion of colour greets me everywhere- both in nature, and the brilliant artistry of the people, in the flowering trees flaunting blossoms of gold, fuchsia and violet; in the ever-changing hues of the lake, the emerald green humming birds; in the textiles woven by local women dyed with natural colours extracted from vegetables and flowers; in the glorious sunrises and sunsets painting the horizon in blush pink, orange and violet.
Other memories: the rich aroma of coffee each morning, the smell of tortillas being cooked on a wood-fired stove, the cacophony of the markets where haggling is a game of choice, and church bells ringing everywhere each Sunday morning, ushering in throngs of worshippers dressed in their best.
The late afternoon sun is a ball of fire, sprinkling sequins of gold into the indigo water of Lake Atitlan in the heart of Guatemala’s Western highlands. It’s a gorgeous February day and the temperature is a perfect 15 degrees C.
I’m here to dip my toes (metaphorically speaking) into the depths of the still-vibrant indigenous Maya-Spanish culture, and for a taste of day -to- day life in this vividly coloured country.
As I step into the lancha (ferry boat) which is to take me from the lakeshore village of Panajachel, the drop-off point for my bus from Guatemala City — to my destination, San Pedro— I glance upwards at the turquoise blue sky. I notice a fluffy white cloud that seems to be sitting right beside the sun, like an angel in attendance on the Maya Sun God. If every cloud has a silver lining this is a very special cloud. It is outlined in gold!
It seems like a good omen and a wonderful welcome to what the ancient Mayas saw as their Garden of Eden— Lake Atitlan, a sparkling lake that changes colour from deepest indigo to sapphire to jade green, encircled by dormant volcanoes and a landscape painted in rainbow colours by some celestial artist. The communities around it such as Panajachel, San Pedro and Santa Cruz are hubs of Maya life and seem a world away from the globalized, Americanized world of Guatemala City.
The captain revs up the engine and sets the boat in motion. The wind god is in a playful mood, and the boat bounces up and down like a rocking horse, churning up a frenzy of froth in its wake like an overactive cappuccino machine.
I step off the boat onto the dock in San Pedro. Kind strangers turned-instant friends during the 20-minute boat ride, help me haul my suitcase and two small bags off the boat. A few steps away from the dock, Bartolo, the head of my host family greets me warmly, and bundles me into a “tuk tuk,” a noisy, bright yellow motorized rickshaw, one of the preferred modes of transportation in the villages around Atitlan.
San Pedro la Laguna is the perfect soft landing for an authentic taste of local life while enjoying many of the amenities- cafes, restaurants, convenience stores, hair salons, spas, movie theatres and even a supermarket —that one is used to in North America.
Here, I am in the heartland of an ancient culture- that of the indigenous Mayas fused with aspects of modern life. This is where pre-Christian gods and mythology rub shoulders with Catholic tradition; where new age hippies and ageing baby boomer tourists with ripped shorts and secret dreams of becoming the next Indiana Jones walk the narrow, cobblestone village streets alongside Mayan women in richly hand-embroidered blouses and flamboyant wrap-around skirts; where expats from all corners of the world from Israeli Jews to German hoteliers, Italian café owners and Canadian NGO workers find peace and a more relaxed way of life than in more “developed” countries.
For the next few weeks, I settle into a routine, sharing meals and conversations in my rudimentary Spanish (mixed with a little English) with my host family, going for Spanish lessons each morning to the San Pedro Spanish school and exploring neighbouring lakeshore villages with my teacher Teresita who becomes a good friend and companion in a very short time.
San Pedro is one of the most popular expat and tourist destinations around the lake, and there is a smorgasbord of Spanish language schools to choose from.
I found the San Pedro Spanish School, recommended to me by a friend, an enjoyable experience. With one-on- one classes held outdoors in beautiful little thatched cabanas (huts) overlooking Lake Atitlan it was a fun way to improve my Spanish and get immersed in local life at the same time.
I was invited to local homes for coffee, to birthday parties, soccer games and even a wedding at the church of San Pedro (St. Peter) on the edge of the plaza in the heart of the village.
There is plenty of time to explore the neighbouring villages. Chichicastenango, well known for its brilliantly colourful traditional market, Panajachel, popular with retirees from North America. Santa Cruz, San Juan and San Marco, are all short boat rides away and ideal for day trips.
A profusion of colour greets me everywhere- both in nature, and the brilliant artistry of the people, in the flowering trees flaunting blossoms of gold, fuchsia and violet; in the ever-changing hues of the lake, the emerald green humming birds; in the textiles woven by local women dyed with natural colours extracted from vegetables and flowers; in the glorious sunrises and sunsets painting the horizon in blush pink, orange and violet.
Other memories: the rich aroma of coffee each morning, the smell of tortillas being cooked on a wood-fired stove, the cacophony of the markets where haggling is a game of choice, and church bells ringing everywhere each Sunday morning, ushering in throngs of worshippers dressed in their best.
It was not a typical touristy experience, but a richly rewarding time, deeper and more fulfilling than a hedonistic vacation. Exploring a way of life where family, community and culture take priority over material possessions. Time to stop and admire the bougainvillea spilling down garden walls, and the murals painted by local and expatriate artists.
A closer encounter with people and their culture, and a taste of an alternative way of life.
Encuentro: Weaving a Culture of Peace in the Americas
An unforgettable experience in beautiful Colombia.
To read this post, click on this link:
https://www.iofc.org/xiv-encuentro-americas-report?bc=node/66976
Sealskin Designs in the Land of Northern Lights
It was as if the sun had pierced the long, dark arctic night and its rays were sparkling once more on the land of the midnight sun, and of dazzling northern lights. At least that’s the way Rannva Erlingsdottir Simonsen, one of Iqaluit’s most famous fashion designers— tells the story.
“I remember her face. It just lit up with pride when she realized that she had created something beautiful, which she could also sell,” she says in an interview in Ottawa where she was showing off her products at a trade show called “Northern Lights”.
Simonsen was referring to an Inuk woman who had just brought a beautiful piece of embroidery to her studio, filling an order that the designer had placed.
A native of Faroe Islands— a chain of islands in the North Atlantic, that are part of the Kingdom of Denmark—Simonsen, trained as an architect in Denmark. She moved to Nunavut in 1997, because, as she says, she has always been in love with Inuit culture, and can relate to their way of life, which in some respects is reminiscent of her island birthplace.
Her products, created and sold out of her home-studio Rannva Design in Iqaluit, range from coats and jackets to mitts, gloves, shoes, and accessories, all made with sealskin.
“Sealskin has been my livelihood since 2000,” she says, adding that perhaps even more importantly, it helps the Inuit community, particularly women to gain some measure of economic independence and regain their long-suppressed pride in their traditional crafts.
Through her “Sewing for Survival” program, she outsources work to Inuit women and men, who use their traditional sewing skills and food by-products such as seal bones, pelts and antlers- to supply her with decorations that complement her designs and add extra products including key chains and amulets to her collection.
“The sewing for survival program provides sustainable and respectful employment for marginalized Inuit women and men,” Simonsen says. “It’s amazing to see the beauty that these women create from within themselves, even when they are in such dire circumstances.” She explains that many of her female suppliers are victims of domestic violence and live in a shelter across the street from her home-based studio.
“ For me as a designer, sealskin is very inspiring,” she says. “ It’s so warm and insulated.”
But animal rights groups and environmentalists are less than thrilled, and don’t wax poetic about seal hunting upon which her products depend.
Seal hunting is regulated by law in Canada, which aims to make it a sustainable industry. The hunting of harp seal pups and hooded seal pups has been prohibited since 1987, and adult seals cannot be harvested while in birthing or breeding grounds.
Despite all of this, each year, as the seal hunting season approaches, animal rights groups and individual anti-sealing advocates, generate a blizzard of protest, condemning the activity in the strongest terms. Social media accounts are awash in a flurry of messages, accompanied by images of cuddly seal pups staring pitifully into the camera, melting human hearts and producing floods of tears.
“It’s 2020, Justin Trudeau,” thundered a tweet from an animal advocate describing himself/ herself as an uncompromising voice for compassion and a vegan trying to change the world. “Isn’t it time the seal hunt was history in Canada? This barbarity undermines civilization.”
“A traditional wildlife holocaust is a holocaust that never ends” says another tweet.
Some celebrities such as Canada’s own Sarah McLachlan have protested vehemently against it. A CBC article stated that former Green Party leader Elizabeth May has opposed the seal hunt, provoking the wrath of Inuit activists.
The portrayal of seal hunting as a blood sport, has ignited the ire of Alethea Arnaquk-Baril, an award-winning film maker from Iqaluit. Her 2016 film “The Angry Inuk” is a counterpoint to animal rights activism. It argues that seal hunting, far from being a sport of inhuman cruelty, is the economic lifeblood of her entire community. The film features her friend Aaju Peter, a Greenland-born Inuit lawyer, seamstress and sealskin designer who vehemently denounced the European Union’s 1984 ban on the import of sealskin products that caused the market to crash.
Peter and Arnaquq- Baril have contended that the EU’s exemption for Inuit-harvested sealskin products is vaguely defined, and has done little or nothing to offset the economic devastation suffered by their community as a result of the ban.
In 2011, Canada and Norway made an attempt to overturn the ban by filing a challenge at the World Trade Organization. A Canadian government statement of the time said: “Canada’s position has been that the eastern and northern seal harvests are humane, sustainable and well-regulated activities that provide an important source of food and income for coastal and Inuit communities.” But the WTO upheld the ban.
According to “The Angry Inuk” documentary, the price of a sealskin fell from about $100 to $10 after the EU ban, with devastating economic consequences for Inuit communities.
Still, Simonsen’s business stays afloat. She sells her products in Canada and Europe, and gives a glimmer of hope to at least a few indigenous craftspeople.
Her fashions have even been seen in the corridors of power, on Parliament Hill and at diplomatic receptions.
Un viaje por el corazón sangrante de la tierra
Este artículo por Susan Korah fue publicado por primera en inglés en la revista canadiense Convivium. Esta traducción es de Sylvia Coates.
En un viaje monumental por El Medio Oriente, Susan Korah se resuelve a continuar abogando por el fin a la persecución de los cristianos.
Por Susan Korah
Fue el viaje de mi vida en una vida cruzando el mundo.
Como parte peregrinaje para explorar mis raíces espirituales y culturales como cristiana ortodoxa siriaca ( suriani ), y parte búsqueda periodística para profundizar mi conocimiento sobre las vidas devastadas por la guerra y el terrorismo, mi última odisea internacional se convirtió en un remolino de experiencias que de inmediato me enternecieron y me derritieron el corazón, me refrescaron espiritualmente, y me sacudieron hasta lo más profundo de mi ser.
El viaje me llevó en una montaña rusa desde los picos más altos de alegría y de emoción siguiendo los pasos de mis antepasados espirituales, al más profundo valle de lágrimas, a medida que era testigo de la difícil situación de los refugiados que huían de un régimen más de terror bajo un nuevo resurgente grupo terrorista conocido como ISIS.
La iglesia ortodoxa siriaca de La India de casi 2.000 años de existencia, y en la cual yo crecí, es parte integral de la antigua denominación, a pesar de la distancia geográfica de su centro en el Medio Oriente a Kerala, provincia en la costa suroeste de La India. Había sido un deseo mío de toda la vida el de explorar las raíces de mi herencia cultural y religiosa en la provincia de Mardin en el sureste de Turquía.
Por fin, parecía que las estrellas estaban en perfecta alineación para que mi sueño se convirtiera en realidad. Una invitación a una conferencia internacional cerca de Beirut sembró en mi cabeza la semilla de un plan. La aseguración de amigos cercanos turcos ( en particular uno que nació en Mardin, y tiene profundas raíces allí ) que todo estaba calmado en el frente del sureste de Turquía, fue lo que me animó a tomar el paso. Fue un paso que tomé a pesar de las directas advertencias de los avisos del gobierno a los viajeros, explícitamente informándolos de viajar a Mardin a su propio riesgo, debido a su proximidad a las fronteras con Irán y Siria, y a impredecible situación de seguridad.
El vuelo de Estambul a Mardin, capital de la provincia del mismo nombre, tomó solamente un par de horas. Pero me transportó a un mundo tan conmovedoramente evocativo de las tempranas épocas de mi denominación que traza sus raíces a Antioquía ( hoy Antakya en Turquía ), la ciudad donde los apóstoles Pedro y Pablo introdujeron el evangelio a sus ciudadanos, y seguidores de Jesús que fueron llamados cristianos.
Mardin, llamado así por la palabra siriaca para “fortaleza, fue un importante punto de la antigua ruta de la seda que iba desde los puertos mediterráneos hasta Xian en La China. Allí fue donde las caravanas cargadas de sedas y especias atravesaban las planicies mesopotámicas y llegaban a la meseta de las tierras de Anatolia ( Turquía actual ) .
Los cristianos siriacos formaron alrededor de la mitad de la población hasta 1915 cuando la mayoría fueron forzados a huir del genocidio que se desencadenó contra ellos ( tanto como contra armenios y griegos ) de parte de tropas otomanas. Hoy, los relativamente pocos cristianos restantes viven en armonía con kurdos, árabes y otros musulmanes, a pesar de la actitud extrañamente anómala del actual gobierno turco hacia los cristianos, la cual alterna entre sospechosa y hostil a conciliatoria y sobre una base “ad hoc”.
Mientras mi hermana y yo conducimos al aeropuerto en la parte antigua de la ciudad, el ardiente sol de octubre revela el perfil de algunas de las más antiguas iglesias y monasterios del mundo, y mansiones suntuosamente talladas y decoradas ( algunas hoy convertidas en hoteles o en museos ) en agudo relieve.
Paseando por la calle principal ( cadessi ), echamos un vistazo a las tiendas apiladas con montones de especias de colores, jabones locales hechos a mano, almendras, dátiles, vino suriani ( producido por vinícolas siriacos ), y exquisitos trabajos en filigrana de plata. Nos sentimos seguras y a salvo, rodeadas de caras curiosas, pero amigables.
Mientras pruebo unos kebabs en La Casa de los Kebabs Yusuf Usta, ( los mejores que he comido ), y saboreo un café suriani, doblemente tostado condimentado con cardamomo, especialidad siriaca, en el Café Kultur con vista a la vasta extensión de la planicie mesopotámica, me viene a la mente el antiguo comercio de especias que fue instrumental en la propagación del cristianismo hasta el este del Océano Índico.
Un barco comercial de especias llevó al apóstol Santo Tomás a la costa de Malabar, hoy Kerala en el suroeste de La India donde evangelizó entre los años 52 y 72 AC y donde estableció la primera comunidad cristiana. El comercio de especias también trajo consigo comerciantes desde El Medio Oriente hasta Kerala en el siglo cuarto. Ellos no solo fortalecieron y revitalizaron la comunidad cristiana, sino que también nos dieron la liturgia siriaca la cual, junto con todas las congregaciones ortodoxo siriacas del Medio Oriente, usamos hasta el presente.
Hoy Kerala es el hogar de siete millones de siriacos , la mayor concentración de miembros de esta denominación en el mundo. La población cristiana en el Medio Oriente, por otro lado, ha disminuído drásticamente debido a la persecución y el genocidio que se están llevando a cabo. Los siriacos de El Medio Oriente están hoy dispersos en diásporas desde Suecia y Alemania hasta Los Estados Unidos, Australia y Canadá.
Hoy Qurbana, ( la santa misa ) en la Iglesia de los Cuarenta Mártires, una iglesia del siglo cuarto dedicada a los cuarenta soldados romanos que se convirtieron al cristianismo después de ser testigos de la crucifixión, es una experiencia impresionante. Después de la misa, el Arzobispo Saliba Özmen nos saluda cálidamente. Una charla más larga la reservamos para nuestra visita al Monasterio Deyrulzaferan donde él es abad.
Un amigo kurdo nos conduce al Monasterio Deyrulzaferan, a solo media hora de Mardin. Al acercarnos al monasterio en Tur Abdin, ( La Montaña Santa ) región de Turquía, el sol de la tarde arroja su resplandor sobre sus magníficas cúpulas y fuertes muros color ocre, convirtiendo el verde opaco de los olivos del derredor en un translúcido tono.
Este monasterio se convirtió en el asiento de la cabeza de la iglesia el Patriarca de Antioquía después de que el líder otomano, Ataturk lo expulsara de Antioquía en 1924. En 1959 el patriarcado se mudó a Damasco, donde reside el actual Patriarca Ignacio Afram II. Sin embargo, Deylruzafaran continúa siendo un importante centro de cristiandad ortodoxo siriaco, un monasterio en pleno funcionamiento, y un importante centro educativo que entrena monjes y curas,y enseña la lengua aramea .
El Arzobispo Saliba Özmen nos da una calurosa bienvenida. Llevando las distintivas túnicas negras y faja roja de la iglesia ortodoxa siriaca, este erudito educado en Oxford, y cabeza del monasterio pregunta sobre la iglesia ortodoxa siriaca en La India.
“Nosotros, los siriacos cristianos éramos mayoría en el área de Tur Abdin, pero solo quedan 3.000 de nosotros. Pero como cristianos, tenemos que seguir con la esperanza de que se conserven nuestra iglesia y patria”, dice con una encantadora sonrisa.”
Desafortunadamente, nuestro “tête-à-tête” es interrumpido por unos “importantes” visitantes de Ankara.
Se está gestando un problema en Siria, y me pregunto si el arzobispo ha sido advertido de mantenerse alejado de los enemigos kurdos del gobierno.
Unos días después salimos de Mardin para Midyat, otra ciudad a la que muchos siriacos consideran su hogar. De allí visitamos el monasterio Mor Gabriel, uno de los más grandes y hermosos monasterios siriacos que salpican la region de Tur Abdin.
Aquí, como peregrinas siriacas, somos bienvenidas por Gabriel Gares un joven cuya familia ha tenido importantes vínculos con el monasterio. Su hermano, Yuhanon es el secretario del Arzobispo Mor Theophilus Samuel Aktas. Su padre es “malfono” o profesor de lengua siriaca para jóvenes que tienen que asistir a escuelas turcas donde no existe la instrucción en su lengua materna.
El tiempo que pasé en Mor Gabriel tiene un profundo significado para mí. Luego de un tour guiado muy especial, Gabriel nos presenta al arzobispo por un breve encuentro. Le pregunto sobre la situación del monasterio en el clima político actual.
“Aquí estamos todavía” dice el Arzobispo en un tono de aceptación estoica, afectado por la esperanza de que mañara será un mejor día.
Gabriel nos deja luego en manos de su madre, Elizabeth quien nos lleva a los aposentos de las monjas donde conocemos un alegre grupo de mujeres entre los 20 y los 60 años. Cenamos juntas, y pasamos el resto de la tarde tomando café, conversando, rezando, y cantando himnos. Es un placer escuchar la lengua siriaca- lengua hermana del arameo galileo hablado por Jesús- utilizado como lengua viva y no solo como litúrgica dentro del santuario de una iglesia.
Pasamos la noche en el monasterio- privilegio reservado para peregrinos siriacos, no para turistas comunes. Los campanazos de la iglesia a las 5:30 la mañana siguiente nos recuerdan que La Santa Qurbana está a punto de comenzar. Ya estamos despiertas, vestidas,y listas.
Nos apresuramos bajo la tenue luz del amanecer para llegar a la iglesia del monasterio, la cabeza cubierta con un pañuelo, como es costumbre en nuestra iglesia.
Nos vamos a la mañana siguiente después de una larga caminata alrededor de los extensos sembrados, olivares y huertos con Elizabeth, y después de desayunar con las monjas. Al decirnos “ adiós, y Dios las bendiga”, me siento conmovida y con ganas de llorar, pues esta experiencia ha sido supremamente especial, tanto al nivel emocional como al espiritual.
Luego regreso a Estambul, y a Beirut por mi cuenta. El ataque turco-ruso en el noreste sirio ha comenzado y alcanzado Beirut. Más malas noticias siguen. Alrededor de 200.000 personas, cristianos en su mayoría, desplazados por el último conflicto.
Al siguiente día de mi conferencia internacional en Beirut, tengo una cita con Nuri Kino, un amigo y periodista siriaco de Suecia, quien fundó y coordinó A Demand for Action, ( ADFA ), una ONG con el doble propósito de abogar por las minorías de Medio Oriente y proporcionar alivio inmediato a los refugiados en tránsito. Junto con un voluntario libanés, Gebran Kally,
atravesamos algunos guetos horrendos, visitando refugiados, ofreciendo palabras de consuelo, al igual que cuidados de salud y asistencia financiera.
Sin permisos de trabajo y con poco o ningún acceso a los servicios esenciales, salvo los que los que los ONG como AFDA puedan proporcionar, estos refugiados se encuentran en una difícil situación.
Escuchar sus historias, cuentos sobre seres queridos brutalmente sacrificados, el anhelo por patrias perdidas donde ellos y sus antepasados habían vivido por miles de años, y el ansia por una vida mejor en un país que acoja refugiados, tal como Canadá, es una experiencia desgarradora y reveladora la vez.
Ella fortalece mi resolución para continuar abogando por ellos.
Después de esta misión de misericordia, Nuri me presenta al Arzobispo siriaco Theophilus George Saliba del Monte del Líbano.
De nuevo, como visitante de Canadá de la rama india de la Iglesia siriaca, soy recibida con un cálido saludo, y el regalo de El Padre Nuestro en arameo, inscrito en pergamino.
“Por favor, pídale al gobierno canadiense que acepte más refugiados cristianos”, suplica el arzobispo, quien está a punto de salir para Siria para ver su rebaño, muchos de los cuales están en estado de pánico por su éxodo del país.
Una vez de regreso en Canadá, repito mi súplica, más urgentemente que nunca, a la gente y al gobierno de Canadá, y a los gobiernos que respetan los derechos humanos, primero para que envíen ayuda humanitaria a los refugiados que huyen de Siria y de otras regiones volátiles del mundo, no para corromper los gobiernos, sino para beneficiar directamente a las organizaciones Es también imperativo presionar a los gobiernos beligerantes para que restauren los derechos humanos de sus poblaciones minoritarias.
Mi deseo y oración por los cristianos restantes en el área de Tur Abdin, y para todos los refugiados quienes han tenido que abandonar sus queridas tierras, están mejor expresados en la visión del escritor canadiense William Whitla:
Que las corrientes de la justicia se derramen sobre la tierra.
Dales la luz de la libertad a los cautivos, y permíteles a los pobres su valor.
Las manos de los hambrientos suplican; los trabajadores reclaman sus derechos, Los dolientes anhelan la risa, los ciegos buscan la luz.
Haz de la libertad un faro, derriba el poder de hierro.
Acaba con la antigua violencia. Proclama la hora de tu pueblo.
Susan Korah es periodista canadiense residente en Ottawa.
Susan in Wanderland 