Some time ago, I took a straw poll among my blog readers regarding a few issues. Here are their opinions on marriage and xenophobia (fear or hatred of anything strange or foreign):
Marriage
Stella: I am condemned to love you, and that is my salvation. I shall have to live for ever in the shadow of your eyes, accept the fact that everything your hand touches arouses the best in me. All that I know is your love, nothing else interests me.
Prajakta: Two people join together, love provokes more love. Two imperfect beings unite, and perfection becomes possible.
Dasha: The ceremony of marriage is just a symbol, and we could live very well without all the pressures that it implies. Love is free and wild, and the more we feel this state of freedom, the more aware we are of the joy that it means to live with another person we have chosen, rather than with someone that society has obliged us to be with.
Leila: In my religion (Islamism), marriage amounts to many ways of worshipping God. I cannot understand religions that preach celibacy and asceticism, which severs human beings from their natural condition.
Nadia: I need love. I need someone to tell me that he is in love with me, and that’s all. I have no need for a white dress and a church blessing, but I seem to be the only one among my friends to think this way. They are all afraid of loneliness; if I don’t find someone who understands me deeply, what’s wrong about being alone? But the pressure is so great that I think that I am gong to have to accept it sooner or later, or else my self-esteem will be seriously damaged.
Liz: I’m going to get married in two weeks, and I’ve been talking compulsively about it. What conclusion have I reached? With or without a formal ceremony, a couple will always be what they can be. The only thing that changes is that we will have to disguise our fighting with one another.
Neel P.: I believe that a couple that puts God at the center of their lives will also know where to put marriage where it belongs. Being with another person doesn’t mean making a god of them, this should be seen as part of the divine blessings that affect our lives every day – like love, sex, music, solitude, and even suffering. Marriage is by no means destiny, but rather part of our path, and I am sure that God uses this union for a reason that goes far beyond perpetuating the species.
Paulo Coelho: I love writing these columns in bars, which is what I am doing at this very moment. In front of me sits a woman wearing dark glasses and leafing through a magazine. Some minutes ago she asked if I was hungry, I told her no, and she went back to her reading.
She could be at home, or at the cinema, or in another restaurant with friends, but I need her to be at my side. Sometimes she brings her sketch pads (she’s a painter), other times she has something else to do, but whenever possible she accompanies me to the many bars in life. We have been together for 27 years. We have lived through many a crisis, and survived them all. We build and rebuild our marriage each and every day, and though she seems to be the same woman that I met in 1979, she has known how to change and adapt with time, time that teaches us and makes us move ahead.
Just a few moments ago, a little boy came over to our table. He displayed a small bag of free samples of perfume and said that his mother was sending it to us as a present. I looked at the woman, and she smiled. She certainly understands that although there is a computer between me and the woman with dark glasses who sits in front of me, our souls are linked together.
Xenophobia
Ruth: Life means adventure, change, things that not everybody has the courage to face and accept. When one sees someone who is unfamiliar, a subconscious fear springs up: “why dare he take two steps forward and run risks where nobody knows him? I wonder if he wants to infiltrate his ideas and destroy the world that we have built with so much toil?”
D.H.: For a few months in 2001 I had an Arab student living in my home here in Boston. Everyone admired his kindness, and on many an evening we would gather in a local bar to chat about the customs of his country. Right after the attacks of the 11th September, the very same people who had laughed the day before at his stories began to hate him.
Dasha: Xenophobia isn’t just the fear of strangers, it’s being afraid of what happens between different generations. Most people are afraid of today, they prefer to live in the past. My country (Russia) is an excellent example of this.
Aspen: Every child, if he is raised with the necessary amount of strictness and freedom, could collaborate infinitely to make this planet a better place to live. But one of the first things we learn is “not to talk to strangers”.
Warrior of Running Water: Here in Denmark we have a festival that lasts about a week and attracts 100,000 strangers to celebrate life, share common interests and learn from the differences. People embrace for no reason except being on the same path, they sing and get drunk together. When the festival is over, a strange atmosphere takes over the town again, and strangers are once more seen as a threat.
Neel P.: We have to trust in love. We have to remember what we were told: “love your neighbor as yourself”. If we trust in love, we don’t need to fear anything any more, but the truth is that we never trust enough...
Radek: People in my country (Poland) lived through the tyranny of Hitler and the Soviet oppression, and they don’t seem to have learned anything. It terrifies me to see people who experienced the horrors of Nazism behaving the same way today, avoiding everything that is unknown or different. The worst of it all is that they use religion to justify their acts, arguing that all those who aren’t Christians should be banished from society. This blind faith is worse than having no faith at all.
Christmas Reading: A Christmas short story by Paulo Coelho
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Labels:
Book Review,
short story
On Christmas Eve, the king invited the prime minister to join him for their usual walk together. He enjoyed seeing the decorations in the streets, but since he didn’t want his subjects to spend too much money on these just to please him, the two men always disguised themselves as traders from some far distant land.
They walked through the centre of the city, admiring the lights, the Christmas trees, the candles burning on the steps of the houses, the stalls selling gifts, and the men, women and children hurrying off to celebrate a family Christmas around a table laden with food.
On the way back, they passed through a poorer area, where the atmosphere was quite different. There were no lights, no candles, no delicious smells of food about to be served. There was hardly a soul in the street, and, as he did every year, the king remarked to the prime minister that he really must pay more attention to the poor in his kingdom. The prime minister nodded, knowing that the matter would soon be forgotten again, buried beneath the day-to-day bureaucracy of budgets to be approved and discussions with foreign dignitaries.
Suddenly, they heard music coming from one of the poorest houses. The hut was so ramshackle and the rotten wooden timbers so full of cracks, that they were able to peer through and see what was happening inside. And what they saw was utterly absurd: an old man in a wheelchair apparently crying, a shaven-headed young woman dancing, and a young man with sad eyes shaking a tambourine and singing a folk song.
‘I’m going to find out what they’re up to,’ said the king.
He knocked. The music stopped, and the young man came to the door.
‘We are merchants in search of a place to sleep. We heard the music, saw that you were still awake, and wondered if we could spend the night here.’
‘You can find shelter in a hotel in the city. We, alas, cannot help you. Despite the music, this house is full of sadness and suffering.’
‘And may we know why?’
‘It’s all because of me.’ It was the old man in the wheelchair who spoke. ‘I’ve spent my life teaching my son calligraphy, so that he could one day get a job as a palace scribe. But the years have passed and no post has ever come up. And then, last night, I had a stupid dream: an angel appeared to me and asked me to buy a silver goblet because, the angel said, the king would be coming to visit me. He would drink from the goblet and give my son a job.
‘The angel was so persuasive that I decided to do as he said. Since we have no money, my daughter-in-law went to the market this morning to sell her hair so that we could buy that goblet over there. The two of them are doing their best to get me in the Christmas spirit by singing and dancing, but it’s no use.’
The king saw the silver goblet, asked to be given a little water to quench his thirst and, before leaving, said to the family:
‘Do you know, we were talking to the prime minister only today, and he told us that an opening for a palace scribe would be announced next week.’
The old man nodded, not really believing what he was hearing, and bade farewell to the strangers. The following morning, however, a royal proclamation was read out in all the city streets; a new scribe was needed at court. On the appointed day, the audience room at the palace was packed with people eager to compete for that much-sought-after post. The prime minister entered and asked everyone there to prepare their paper and pens:
‘Here is the subject of the composition: Why is an old man weeping, a shaven-headed woman dancing, and a sad young man singing?’
A murmur of disbelief went round the room. No one knew how to tell such a story, apart, that is, from the shabbily dressed young man sitting in one corner, who smiled broadly and began to write.
Based on an Indian story. Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa
They walked through the centre of the city, admiring the lights, the Christmas trees, the candles burning on the steps of the houses, the stalls selling gifts, and the men, women and children hurrying off to celebrate a family Christmas around a table laden with food.
On the way back, they passed through a poorer area, where the atmosphere was quite different. There were no lights, no candles, no delicious smells of food about to be served. There was hardly a soul in the street, and, as he did every year, the king remarked to the prime minister that he really must pay more attention to the poor in his kingdom. The prime minister nodded, knowing that the matter would soon be forgotten again, buried beneath the day-to-day bureaucracy of budgets to be approved and discussions with foreign dignitaries.
Suddenly, they heard music coming from one of the poorest houses. The hut was so ramshackle and the rotten wooden timbers so full of cracks, that they were able to peer through and see what was happening inside. And what they saw was utterly absurd: an old man in a wheelchair apparently crying, a shaven-headed young woman dancing, and a young man with sad eyes shaking a tambourine and singing a folk song.
‘I’m going to find out what they’re up to,’ said the king.
He knocked. The music stopped, and the young man came to the door.
‘We are merchants in search of a place to sleep. We heard the music, saw that you were still awake, and wondered if we could spend the night here.’
‘You can find shelter in a hotel in the city. We, alas, cannot help you. Despite the music, this house is full of sadness and suffering.’
‘And may we know why?’
‘It’s all because of me.’ It was the old man in the wheelchair who spoke. ‘I’ve spent my life teaching my son calligraphy, so that he could one day get a job as a palace scribe. But the years have passed and no post has ever come up. And then, last night, I had a stupid dream: an angel appeared to me and asked me to buy a silver goblet because, the angel said, the king would be coming to visit me. He would drink from the goblet and give my son a job.
‘The angel was so persuasive that I decided to do as he said. Since we have no money, my daughter-in-law went to the market this morning to sell her hair so that we could buy that goblet over there. The two of them are doing their best to get me in the Christmas spirit by singing and dancing, but it’s no use.’
The king saw the silver goblet, asked to be given a little water to quench his thirst and, before leaving, said to the family:
‘Do you know, we were talking to the prime minister only today, and he told us that an opening for a palace scribe would be announced next week.’
The old man nodded, not really believing what he was hearing, and bade farewell to the strangers. The following morning, however, a royal proclamation was read out in all the city streets; a new scribe was needed at court. On the appointed day, the audience room at the palace was packed with people eager to compete for that much-sought-after post. The prime minister entered and asked everyone there to prepare their paper and pens:
‘Here is the subject of the composition: Why is an old man weeping, a shaven-headed woman dancing, and a sad young man singing?’
A murmur of disbelief went round the room. No one knew how to tell such a story, apart, that is, from the shabbily dressed young man sitting in one corner, who smiled broadly and began to write.
Based on an Indian story. Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa
Paulo Coelho: The Confessions of a Pilgrim (1999)
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Labels:
Book Review
Paulo Coelho, Confessions of a Pilgrim offers the readers a chance to get to know Paulo Coelho's dramatic, inspirational life story for the first time. Coelho has always been a non-conformist, constantly searching for new paths and savouring both the good and the bad that came his way. This intimate portrait by Juan Arias offers Paulo's compelling fist-hand accounts of his experiences of: being confined to a mental institution as a young man simply because he was an artist , being kidnapped and tortured by paramilitaries , his encounters with black magic and drugs , an epiphany at Dachau , a vision he had of his own death , the nature of writing and the spiritual quest . Juan Arias is an established writer and journalist for the newspaper “El Pais” in Spain. He has received an Italian Culture Prize for his writing and was awarded best Foreign Correspondent for his journalism.
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