सोच


I. 17. New Delhi.


 




Muslim woman covered the yellow star of her Jewish neighbour with her veil on the streets of Sarajevo in 1941 [x]

For those interested, more information about the people in this photo can be read here.

Mustafa and Zejneba Hardaga welcomed the Kavilio family, Jewish refugees who had escaped Sarajevo, when the Germans invaded in 1941. The Hardagas were a traditional Muslim family, and despite their custom for women to cover their faces in front of strangers, the Hardaga women were not obliged to cover their faces in the presence of the Kavilios. They were greeted as family in the Hardaga home. The Kavilios stayed with the Hardagas for a short while until Josef Kavilio was able to move his wife and children to a safer area under Italian rule. Kavilio himself stayed behind to liquidate his business, but eventually was arrested, imprisoned, and forced into slave labour. Zejneba Hardaga, the wife of Mustafa, who discovered where Kavilio was working, would regularly bring food to the prisoners. Josef Kavilio eventually escaped and returned to the Hardaga home. Though the Kavilio family had to flee yet again before the war ended, they eventually reunited and returned to Sarajevo in 1945, staying with the Hardagas until they could find a place of their own. The Hardagas continuously risked their own lives to save this family that they considered their own.

 

Muslim woman covered the yellow star of her Jewish neighbour with her veil on the streets of Sarajevo in 1941 [x]

For those interested, more information about the people in this photo can be read here.

Mustafa and Zejneba Hardaga welcomed the Kavilio family, Jewish refugees who had escaped Sarajevo, when the Germans invaded in 1941. The Hardagas were a traditional Muslim family, and despite their custom for women to cover their faces in front of strangers, the Hardaga women were not obliged to cover their faces in the presence of the Kavilios. They were greeted as family in the Hardaga home. 

The Kavilios stayed with the Hardagas for a short while until Josef Kavilio was able to move his wife and children to a safer area under Italian rule. Kavilio himself stayed behind to liquidate his business, but eventually was arrested, imprisoned, and forced into slave labour. Zejneba Hardaga, the wife of Mustafa, who discovered where Kavilio was working, would regularly bring food to the prisoners. Josef Kavilio eventually escaped and returned to the Hardaga home. Though the Kavilio family had to flee yet again before the war ended, they eventually reunited and returned to Sarajevo in 1945, staying with the Hardagas until they could find a place of their own. The Hardagas continuously risked their own lives to save this family that they considered their own.

(Source: globalwarmist)

Anonymous asks: Hey ! I truly love your haircut ! It turns out so well on you ! Could you post pictures of it from various angles ? I would like to do exactly the same and show them to my hairdresser, if it's ok for you. Thank you in advance !

Hello anon! Thank you. Urm. Okay. I’ll try posting some in a while. I’m a tad busy these days.

Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness,
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.

Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance,
Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot
And not to be trapped by withering laurels.
And in you I have found aloneness
And the joy of being shunned and scorned.

Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,
In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,
And to be understood is to be levelled down,
And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fullness
And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.

Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.

Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,
You and I shall laugh together with the storm,
And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,
And we shall be dangerous.

Defeat, Khalil Gibran
Cuba, by Robert van der Hilst 

Cuba, by Robert van der Hilst 

(Source: manufactoriel)

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Gulls take food from travelers on a passenger boat off the Channel Islands, Great Britain, May 1971.Photograph by James L. Amos, National Geographic

Gulls take food from travelers on a passenger boat off the Channel Islands, Great Britain, May 1971.Photograph by James L. Amos, National Geographic

(Source: natgeofound)

Excerpt from an interview with Arundhati Roy.

You said that you would probably never write another book unless there was another book inside you to write. Is the writing a process to unleash the inner self?

I don’t know. I am a bit suspicious of this kind of personal therapeutic approach to writing. I think it is fine, but then you just have to understand that it is therapy, and literature is something else. Literature is about art and craft and not just about your feelings and your coming out of yourself. No one cares about you except you, whether you come out of yourself or help yourself or don’t help yourself is entirely your business. But literature is about art, about creating something. I’ve always said that amongst great writers there are selfish writers and generous writers; selfish writers leave you with the memory of their brilliance whereas generous writers leave you with the memory of the world that they have evoked. And to me, writing must be an act of generosity, not an act of self-indulgence or therapy. I’m not going to burden the world with what it did for me or didn’t do for me.

(Source: kyotojournal.org)

Masashi Wakui

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Arundhati Roy speaks out against India's rape culture

I have this incessant urge to go to Vietnam.

I’m so occupied with school work- it’s just I don’t know- I feel numb.

Also- I am listening to The Wall all the time.

I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Preludes by T.S. Eliot 
Anonymous asks: Please post more pictures of your hair!

I’ll post some later, anon. :)