On Reading Haroun and the Sea of Stories

A poet’s work is to name the unnamable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it from going to sleep.
Salman Rushdie


The battle lines have been drawn. The forces of shadows, silence, and submission are poised to take on those of light, cacophony, and pluralism in the theater of war.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories was Salman Rushdie’s first book to appear in print after the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini—in February of 1988—pronounced a fatwa against the writer, condemning him to death for having offended the Prophet Muhammad in The Satanic Verses.

Overnight, Rushdie became the world’s best-known author. But as a result of the threat, the Mumbai-born writer was forced into a life of seclusion; and I believe that it is safe to assume that, often, he must have yearned for the days of anonymity.

Nevertheless, out of this turmoil—and as a way of explaining the situation to his son, Zafar—came Haroun.

This novel for young readers is a highly inventive fable. The linguistic experimentation of Rushdie’s work and the zaniness of its characters reminds the reader of Alice in Wonderland. In Kahani, the land of the imagination, where tales float about freely, there are some who wish to abolish creative expression because its lack of restrictions threatens the monolithic, single-voiced world in which they’ve chosen to live. As a result of their fear, they start to poison the sea of stories. Thus, as Lewis Carroll's lead character does in Wonderland, the situations Haroun faces can be disturbing.

But opposed to the forces of orthodoxy and unquestioned submission to authority are those who live in a society where individualism and freedom constitute the most highly valued traits. Their problem is that because of the wide spectrum of strongly held opinions, their debates about how to best engage the enemy always result in bedlam. And due to this, in the most critical moments of the narrative it appears that the adherents of personal liberty will be unable to defeat their singularly unified enemy.

Ultimately, however, the magic of freethinking and of the imagination swells like a tidal wave to crush the dogmatic and inquisitorial forces of their adversaries. And in spite of the difficulty the supporters of self-determination have in reaching an accord, in the end, through the vitality of their ideas, they prevail over the agents of conformity and tradition.

At the conclusion of Salman Rushdie’s work, perhaps the most important lesson readers will extract from Haroun and the Sea of Stories is that—although the slightest trace of dissent can give rise to feelings of despair in a free world—after the dust of war has settled, the society that will triumph is that one that's brave enough to draw upon the creative ideas of its citizenry, and then wait patiently until consensus is built.

Reflections Before a Shrine

Forms change and pass; bodies disappear, but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls.
Joseph L. Chamberlain


What acts are capable of consecrating ground?

Miracles; sacrifices; tragedies.

On October 23, 2006, in the capital of the Republic of Panamá, a crowded bus caught on fire.

Eighteen persons—children, women, and men—burned to death.

The tragedy stunned every Panamanian as the vast majority of people who live in Panamá City use this form of public transportation.

In September of 2003, I wrote the article “In Praise of Public Transportation,” which appeared in The Panama News. Having recently moved here from Nicaragua, my wife and I were delighted with Panamá’s superior public transportation. At the time, many of the capital’s buses had air-conditioning, and having come here from one of the poorest nations in the hemisphere, these vehicles did indeed seem luxurious.

But in the three and a half years since, the capital’s public transportation has deteriorated, and alarmingly so. Although my wife and I still take taxis, riding on buses now frightens us—the conditions of many of the buses, and the way they are driven, can unnerve even the hardiest of souls. Only a few days before the tragedy, as the car I was riding in waited for the light to turn green, I glanced at the bus next to us and was startled to see the dreadful shape of its rear tires.

“That’s a tragedy waiting to happen,” I said to my wife.

Sadly, these words turned out to be prophetic. But never, even in my worst nightmares, could I have foreseen a tragedy of the magnitude Panamanians witnessed on their television screens and in the photographs that were published the following morning in the front pages of their newspapers.

The site of the tragedy is along the route I take to work every day. On the sidewalk nearest to where the eighteen deaths occurred, an impromptu shrine has been created, and candles burn there at all hours.

A few days ago, I visited the memorial to light a candle and say a prayer for the victims and their families.

Up close, the first thing I notice is the colorful display of artificial flowers. But many bouquets—both fresh and withered—have also been lovingly placed among the bright replicas. The surrounding sidewalk is covered with a thick layer of wax from the thousands of candles that have been lighted in honor of the victims. And planted in the heart of the swelling mound—as if honoring bravery on a battlefield—many small Panamanian flags stand motionless on this hot, humid, and breezeless day.

Taking the cellophane off of my candle, I place it in an empty glass container, and light it. I then take a step back and say brief a prayer.

Once finished, I stroll through the site examining the offerings. There is a small teddy bear, the heart shaped pillow in its arms says, in English, “You’re Special.” Dozens of small plastic children’s toys—robots, dogs, cows, cars and, startlingly, buses—are among the flowers.

The predominant offerings are angels. There are angels everywhere. One angel in particular catches my eye: against the wall of the nearest building sits the largest angel of all. The plaster cherub has the face of a child; his beautiful wings are partially open, as if he has yet to learn how to fly, and his clear gaze is sad, lost somewhere in distant, sorrowful thoughts.

Other offerings include large posters with prayers, small prayer cards, and a bible in a sealed plastic bag, its pages open and the words beginning to fade after several days under the sun’s harsh scrutiny.

As I begin to leave, I see a newspaper item taped onto the wall of a neighboring cement trash bin. Photographs of the eighteen victims stare back at me. Most of these are studio portraits, and the faces of those who are now dead smile for the camera. This is the moment that most touches my heart.

Saddened beyond words, I leave, crossing the street by way of a nearby pedestrian overpass. But the view at the center of the bridge, high above the traffic, staggers me. On the day of the tragedy, those up here had a horrifying vantage point of the accident. Although the entire nation saw the images of the burning bus on television, we were spared the heat, the screams, and the smell of burning flesh. But at this instant, and from this spot, those moments of terror become real, and I struggle, but fail, to fight back the tears.

At present, the bus driver, his brother (who owns the bus), and the mechanic who repaired the electrical system—the cause of the fire—are under investigation. Admittedly, they are directly responsible for the senseless calamity that took place on that wretched day. But Panamá’s Transportation Department also needs to bear much of the guilt. Their lack of attention to the failing state of Panama’s public transportation borders on negligence.

In the news, the families of the victims have repeatedly stated that they do not want the deaths of their loved ones to be in vain.

And on that Sunday, during my visit, I also prayed that the deaths of eighteen children, women, and men result in something that redeems their sacrifice, that gives this tragedy a noble meaning.

On Pablo Neruda

One of my favorite poets, Neruda, writes close to the bone. Though I know only a little Spanish, I like to compare the Spanish and English lines and see how the translator worked.
Anita Diament

El poeta debe ser parcialmente el cronista de su época. La crónica no debe ser ni quintasenciada, ni refinada, ni cultivista. Debe ser la crónica pedregosa, polvorienta, lluviosa, cotidiana. Debe tener la huella miserable de los días inútiles y las execraciones y lamentaciones del hombre.
Pablo Neruda


My discovery of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer's work was the experience that opened my eyes to the wonder of literature. I wrote about this in the post titled “Origins of a Dream.” Touched by this Spaniard’s verses, in the years that followed I read all the poetry, in Spanish, that I could get my hands on.

But surprisingly, although Pablo Neruda already had legions of fans throughout the world, I didn’t come across his work until my senior year in high school, when our literature teacher assigned “Poema 20.”

He sent us home with a mimeographed copy of the poem and the task of writing a brief interpretive essay for the next day. From my first reading of “Poema 20” I knew, intuitively, that I was in the presence of a timeless work of art. And what continues to amaze me, in spite of the passage of time, is how Pablo Neruda makes the art of writing beautiful, impacting verses—and about every topic imaginable—seem easy. That is a sign of genius.

In my late teens at the time, I believed that I could write similar verses, and just as easily. The Chilean poet became my new literary hero. More importantly, at least back then, Pablo Neruda was still alive, still writing, and still producing astonishing work. He wasn’t a distant, long-dead 19th century Spanish poet, like Bécquer. What’s more, Neruda made being a poet seem like an occupation where adoration and glory greeted the lucky practitioner every step of the way.

For years I tried in vain to write like Don Pablo. But in the end I gave up, realizing that humanity rarely produces such geniuses.

Still, thanks to Neruda, I started to see the world differently. His verses taught me that life is a complex, astonishing thing and that one must continually strive to grow, to become better at doing the things one loves to do.

Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda (a bilingual anthology) is near the top of my list of favorite books. Neruda’s verses are superb in their English translations. And I am always thrilled when a colleague that teaches English claims that Neruda’s work also influenced his or her outlook on poetry—and profoundly at that.

Indeed, Pablo Neruda was perhaps the first Latin American literary giant to successfully cross the borders of languages and cultures separating the Americas. And I find comfort in knowing that I am merely one of millions that have been touched by the work of this exceptionally talented poet.

Stray Thoughts

Your life is what your thoughts make it.
Marcus Aurelius


Off of Calle 50, here in Panamá City, there’s an empty lot of beautiful, lush green land the size of a city block. On it grow several tall, majestic trees. Of these, one stands out in particular—every February, across the street from La Mansión Danté, a regal guanacaste astounds passersby with a spectacular bloom of bright yellow flowers. A stately, waist-high stone wall surrounds the site. This place would indeed make a dazzling park.

Four years ago—when my wife and I first moved to our current home—an aged but still splendid-looking, two-story hacienda house stood at the rear of the lot. The building spoke eloquently to the area’s noble past. And I use to love to fantasize that, one day, I’d be able to afford the mansion and restore it. Then, three years ago, without warning and without ceremony, the manor was torn down. This, I believe, was a tragic mistake.

Nevertheless, in spite of that loss, the landscape remains beautiful.
But last week, in La Prensa, a brief note in the business section stated that the property—which for generations had belonged to the Obarrio family—changed hands, the third time in four years. And the piece heralded the projected construction of high-rise office buildings as a remarkable testimony to Panamá’s vigorous economic growth.

I did not rejoice at this news. It saddens me to think of this wondrous, open space, in the heart of the banking district, succumbing to the imperatives of greed.

What the nation’s capital needs today, far more than skyscrapers, are places where people can find respite from the chaos of Panama City, as well as from the worrisome and dreary proliferation of insipid concrete towers.

* * * * * *

Once again, Jaime Raúl Molina has stepped up to the writer’s podium to preach about the virtues of unrestrained profit-making. His article appears in the latest issue of Agenda Magazine. Molina’s simplistic condemnations of environmentalists and people who believe that it’s essential to monitor corporations have forced me, in the past, to respond to other articles he has written. These pieces, “The Highway Through Darién” and “The Specter of Greed,” appeared in The Panama News.

And now Molina returns with an article that condemns all environmentalists. He blames them—and in particular Rachel Carson, author of Silent Spring—for the public panic that led to the “unnecessary” banning of DDT. According to Molina, this ban is responsible for the resurgence of malaria and, of course, for unjustly hurting the pesticide industry.

While this is true—and I agree with him that the reaction to Carson’s claims was somewhat hasty—DDT was proved harmful to wildlife, especially birds and fish. Because of this, the ban remains on using DDT in large scale agriculture. But recently, the World Health Organization has cleared the insecticide for use in areas where malaria is a problem.

Jaime Raúl Molina calls this a victory for progress, and he then proceeds to condemn anyone who places the well-being of the environment above the well-being of people. Being familiar by now with Molina’s ardent advocacy for business without barriers, as well as with his distorted notions about the meaning of freedom, his failure to understand that the well-being of humanity depends precisely on our ability to co-exist with the planet doesn’t surprise me.

After reading Molina’s latest piece, I’m ready to cancel my subscription to the magazine. The problem is that all subscribers to La Prensa receive Agenda for free.

* * * * * *

I plead guilty to being curious about what readers have to say with regard to Bernardo and the Virgin. The critique below appears in Nicaragua Living—a website for English-speakers who live, wish to live, or want to visit Nicaragua.

Here’s the review:

Bernardo & The Virgin: A Novel, by Silvio Sirias.

Sirias is a Florida State University professor, with a strong background in Latin American literature. He was raised partly in Los Angeles and partly in Nicaragua, and is familiar with bi-cultural environments and the unique life-forming experiences formed in them (and he edited a book about the writings of Dominican Julia Alvarez—author of How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents—which is about just that). He also wrote the introduction for Nicaraguan poet Salomon de la Selva’s Tropical Town and Other Poems.

Bernardo is Bernardo Martinez, a pig-farmer and sacristan in rural Nicaragua. In 1980 Bernardo, plagued with money problems and much more, finds himself witness to a miraculous light emanating from the statue of the Virgin Mary, in his local church. From this—a common man’s experience with that which he worships but perhaps doesn‘t really fully understand—Sirias crafts an epic novel, incorporating many stories about the people, politics, culture, religion, and Nicaragua itself. As broad in scope and perhaps as pretentious as that sounds, that is what Sirias attempts, and he is remarkably successful.

Bernardo is indecisive, and fears public humiliation if he comes forward with his tale of the miraculous, especially given his role in the community and his inability to serve his Church in the higher capacity he once sought. Sirias’ novel is obviously classified as fiction, but it is based on the factual events pertaining to the Virgin Mary at Cuapa, Nicaragua (there is no shortage of commentary, on the internet and elsewhere, regarding such Marian Apparitions). Two things probably prevent many potential readers from starting such a book: the size (454 pages) and the Christian focal point.

What Sirias has on his side, however, in addition to a true gift for writing, is the ability to weave people and stories, and make this tale appealing even to religiously antagonistic readers. Sirias offers a vivid, rich image of the politics, mysticism, culture, and everyday life in rural Nicaragua.

The original posting can be read here.