“Although Asim Butt used the camera as a tool with which to build the theme and composition construct of his painting, he relished the idea that the camera could see beyond the confines of the apparent and superficial and reach into the realm of inner consciousness”

Askm used his camera sometimes in place of, or to supplement his sketch book. What intrigues me about this statement is last phrase. I’m not sure if I agree with it, if I see that as part of my photography, but it’s most certainly making me think.

The poem is:

“I paint because it allows me to stare shamelessly,
To be able to flesh out an idea, emotion or commit to an image,
a shadow of the world around me.

I paint because there is a spill-over of energy within that must find form or else it will haunt and twist me.

I paint to commit to an act of magic and pleasure,
for myself, for the love of my audience,
and for an abstract notion of my myse’s gaze.

I paint to validate mysrlf
And to discover surprises within and without.

I paint as a penance for my inadeqaucies.

I paint to understand the World around me and to own and disown what I desire and dislike about it.

I paint as a political act:
to express my power over power larger than myself.

I paint to create what it is I want to see,
to fill an absence in the World”

Again, I’m not 100% what I think, but I am provoked to though, perhaps to flesh out my own version of the poem : “I photograph because….”

Art was certainly not a side of Pakistan I expected to see, and perhaps such exhibitions aren’t common, buf this is a nation who are not shy at expressing themselves, especially not with colour! I think art is a window into a society, a culture, so I am glad we were able to experience it to this extent!

salam-o-alekum

The pools of blood just a couple of hundred yards from my front door have dried to a near black colour and will soon be indistinguishable from the tarmac road leading to my office. Just a couple of days ago they were fresh and bright red as I walked past them. Wednesday 20^th July was to have been a day of peaceful protest throughout Malawi against the policies of the Bingu wa Mutharika government and their repercussions. Included in the grievances were fuel shortages, rising prices, restrictions on press and broadcasting freedom, fears about academic freedom in a dispute at the University of Malawi which has rumbled on for many months and the withdrawal of British direct budgetary aid – seen here by many Malawians as the direct result of the President’s expulsion of the British High Commissioner in April.

The National Day of Protest had been organised by a wide-ranging group of civil society organisations such as the Human Rights Consultative Committee and the Church and Society Committee of the Church of Central Africa, Presbyterian. It was to take place in many of the main towns of Malawi – Blantyre, Zomba, Lilongwe, and Mzuzu (where I live). On the day before the march an individual went to court and obtained an injunction to stop the marchers. It is widely believed that the injunction was obtained on behalf of the government (or at least with government approval). On the morning of the march the organisers went to court to try to have the injunction vacated. Meanwhile many thousands of people had gathered at the various venues throughout the country, waiting to begin the march.

In Mzuzu the police seem to have agreed to let the march proceed and it began to move, accompanied by a police cordon on either side. After a short time another group of police blocked the road. Some of the marchers broke away to try to find an alternative route. They were pursued by police and before long violence had broken out. The break-away demonstrators were mainly young people and from my observations they were at first greatly enjoying this game of tag with the police – running up one street while the police tried to cut them off and then heading through small back alleys to confront the police from a different angle.

Whether the looting preceded the shooting or the other way around we may never know, but at around 10 a.m. I began to hear the sounds of various weapons delivering CS gas, plastic bullets and then, somewhat later, what appeared to be live gunfire, including from automatic weapons delivering seven or eight rounds at a time. My house is within a gated church compound and I stayed within its bounds; but I did venture to the edge to see what was going on. On one occasion I saw a police vehicle screech to a halt just around fifty yards from where I was standing and two Police Mobile Force members jump out and fire several rounds at protesters who were running away, before jumping back into the vehicle and speeding away in the opposite direction. By this time a considerable amount of looting was going on. (One young boy even pitched up in a far corner of my back garden with a bag of assorted clothing, some still in plastic wrappers.)

The running battles (if such a one-sided confrontation can be called a battle) went on for most of the day. Shooting was almost non-stop between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. After that it went on more sporadically until 10 p.m. and even after that there were occasional rounds in the night and the early morning. Taking all the different forms of ‘shooting’ into account I reckon that many hundreds of rounds were let off during the day. By dark at least nine demonstrators had been shot dead and nearly fifty were in hospital with gun-shot wounds. (Rumours persist that one or perhaps even two policemen were also killed by the demonstrators but there has been no confirmation of this). Several of the shootings and been around the Livingstonia Synod headquarters, just a couple of hundred yards from where I live.

The next day, Thursday, an uneasy calm settled over Mzuzu. I was teaching at the College of Theology at Ekwendeni and as we drove there at 7 a.m. the streets of Mzuzu were littered with debris: broken glass, bricks and rocks, the remains of burning tyres etc. We passed several shops which had been looted and a couple of houses and cars which had been burnt out (belonging to the ruling Democratic Progressive Party). At least two of the looted shops had been Chinese owned. At Ekwendeni I heard more stories of the events of Wednesday. These included the arrest of the brother of one of the lecturers (a leading Human Rights activist) the beating of an opposition politician by police and the wounding of the son of the Moderator Elect of the Livingstonia Synod.

The organisers of the demonstrations had called on those taking part to wear red clothing to symbolise blood: not literally, of course, but the suffering of the Malawi people under the policies of the present government. It was to be ‘a red day’. Little did they know that this was to come true in a literal way that no one wanted. In addition to the nine people killed in Mzuzu another eight died in other parts of Malawi (some on the following day when more trouble broke out in Blantyre and Lilongwe).

As a historian I am very well aware of the fact that popular history is not so much about what actually happened in the past as about what people think happened. Already the myths are beginning to grow up. On Friday the mass burial of those killed in Mzuzu was due to take place. The organisers wanted them to be buried together in a cemetery at Zolozolo in Mzuzu designated as ‘Heroes Acre’. The government refused, saying the dead were looters and should be buried separately at their home villages. The police and the City Council tried to enforce this, but there was a stand-off at the mortuary of Mzuzu Central Hospital. At one point the mortuary was surrounded by armed police while the crowd placed one of the coffins on the road to prevent police vehicles moving. Eventually, after several hours of stand-off the crowd took the coffins and walked with them the five miles to Zolozolo cemetery. There amidst huge crowds, eight of the nine were buried side by side. (the ninth, from Lilongwe, though killed in Mzuzu, was taken back home for burial).

To the government, these people are looters: to the majority of people around Mzuzu they are heroes, or, at least, symbolic of the struggle against injustice and growing government intolerance. On Thursday evening the organisers of the march took out an advert on local radio calling for people to go back home and behave peacefully. But the statement ended with the call ‘Long Live Democracy; Long Live the Struggle against Oppression!’ Whether the storm has passed, or whether the uneasy peace which has settled over Malawi is merely the calm before the storm only time will tell. Certainly, there is a great deal of anger among the people of Malawi. One thing is certain however; Wednesday 20^th July will go down in Malawi history and folklore as ‘A Red Day’ in a way which few could have predicted less than a week ago.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

He was born in an obscure village.

He worked in a carpenter shop until he was about thirty.

He then became an itinerant preacher.

He never held an office.

He never had a family or owned a house.

He didn’t go to college.

He had no credentials but Himself.

After preaching three years, the public turned against him.

His friends ran away.

He was turned over to His enemies and went through the mockery of a trial.

He was nailed to a cross between two thieves.

While He was dying, His executioners gambled for His clothing, the only property He had on earth.

He was laid in a borrowed grave.

Twenty centuries have come and gone,

and today He is the central figure of the human race.

All the armies that have ever marched,

all the navies that ever sailed,

all the parliaments that ever sat, and

all the kings that ever reigned

have not affected the life of man on the earth as much as that ONE SOLITARY LIFE.

Author unknown

Anne Dillard

My only complaints about the film would be that not enough was made of Oher’s background – use of more flashbacks could have been quite effective and would have made more of the turn-around in Oher’s life. In the film, Oher was made out to have no knowledge of Football and to be quite a passive player, in reality he already had experience of Football and knew what he was in for. Also, the opening section about LT would also have benefited from some expansion to set the scene for the importance of the left tackle (or right tackle if the QB is left handed) and why Oher’s protective instinct was an important attribute.

It’s definitely a moving story, whether you read the book or watch the film. And I would certainly recommend that you read the book, watch the film or both! Quinton Aaron is very good at playing Oher, Sandra Bullock is fantastic as Leanne Tuohy – it’s without doubt the best performance she’s ever given.

Being a Youthworker, I of course saw the potential benefits this movie could have for use with youth groups and classes to make them think about many issues that the film brings up – equality, class divide, inspiration, encouragment, determination etc etc

Go see it, enjoy, be moved, be encouraged and make sure you encourage others to see it!

Peace Out

The story of Michael Oher itself is an inspiring story, looking at how he came from practically nothing to being one of the starting linemen of the Baltimore Ravens.

I’ll say more about the film once I’ve actually seen it. I hope it stays true to the real story, there’s not really much that can be added to it in terms of drama and how people will treat each other. At just over 2 hours, it should be able to fit in a great deal of what the book covers. If you get the chance to read the book, take it, it’s definitely worth the read.

Peace Out

It must be borne in mind that the tragedy of life

doesn’t lie in not reaching your goal.

The tragedy lies in having no goal to reach.

It is not a calamity to die with dreams unfulfilled.

But it is a calamity not to dream.

It is not a disaster to be unable to capture your ideal,

but it is a disaster to have no ideal to capture.

It is not a disgrace not to reach the stars.

But it is a disgrace not to have stars to reach for.

Not failure, but low aim, is the sin.

Bemjamin. E. Mays

Jesus heard you when you prayed last night,
He talked with God about you;
Jesus was there when you fought that fight,
He is going to bring you through.

Jesus knew when you shed those tears,
But you did not weep alone,
For the burden you thought was too heavy to bear,
He made his very own.

Jesus himself was touched by that trial,
Which you could not understand;
Jesus stood by as you almost fell,
And lovingly grasped your hand.

Jesus cared when you bore that pain,
Indeed he bore it too;
He felt each pang, each ache in your heart,
Because of his love for you.

Jesus was grieved when you doubted his love,
But he gave you grace to go on,
Jesus rejoiced as you trusted in him,
The only trustworthy one.

His presence shall ever be with you,
No need to be anxious or fret,
Wonderful Lord! He was there all the time,
He has never forsaken you.

Neil Hawkins,
Liverpool