Why I love my Motherland
Why I love my Uzbekistan
Let the wind tells about it.
Take a deeper look at my motherland,
It’s wearing a wreath from glorious history.
Look for Ulegbek’s eyes there
Who spend life staring at the stars in the sky
In historical pages of my country
All great beings are alive and alive.
Maybe it is a childish love
Let the world know its glory and fame.
Namangan’s bright red apples
And Samarkand’s baked shirmoy bread.
I still have a smell in my throat
Of sweet sumalak by my aunt
Leads us right towards the dreams,
A wish made in front of sumalak.
Glittering on the nch of my country
A bright necklace made of fame.
Oh, friends, you will all see it too,
Each necklace is a champion.
Look at my lovely motherland
It’s wearing an embroidered long dress
Brightly different colours,
Suits my beautiful country.
Margilon satin is fine and tend
The embroidery would adorn it fully
Tying her waist with a decorative belt,
Standing in body with full of beauty.
Clothes worn by my Motherland
Golden robe woven by Bukhara
I think this is an another reason,
Of the fiery and pure love of me.
My country leads us in its hands,
Thousands of kids, boys and girls.
Towards a great bright future,
All generations with enthusiasm.
My country is lighting everywhere
As a symbol of the brightest sun
It’s dear to me as long as I live
As my supposedly loving mother.
Ochildiyeva Shahnoza Abdivohid qizi was born on July 17, 2006 in the Republic of Uzbekistan, Surkhandarya region, Denov district. Presently, she studies at school number 49 in 10th grade.
Great birds
In the search of warm places,
Where are you going again?
Oh, cranes please get back,
And build the home of affection in heart.
Do not be afraid from the first fallen leaf,
Do not fly away, great birds.
Want to see a familiar face,
Birds like me whose hearts are burnt.
I follow you from behind,
All of you are leaving happily.
But remember I will wait,
Wait for you to come to me.
But I got upset from you, I have to say,
Listen to me hey, cranes.
One of your friends that has fallen from the row,
Is struggling, do not you see?!
And you, you are being just reckless,
Maybe it had the same intention as you.
The injured bird kept looking,
Looking long, from your back.
Oh great birds, great birds,
Burnt- heart- birds just like me.
Despite being unfaithful like humans,
Still, everyone loves you all.
Mashhhura Usmonova Zafarjon’s daughter was born on May 16, 2006 in Gallaorol district, Jizzakh region the Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently 16 years old. She has been practicing writing poetry since her 10 years old. Now, she is author of about 100 poems. She is member of the international organizations Egypt, Indonesia, Pakistan, Argentina and India. In 2019, the author’s book of poetry entitled “Happy Childhood Message” was published. In 2022, the second author’s book of poetry entitled “Letter…” was put up for 26 countries under the Amazon online store of the United States. In addition, her works have been published in book collections of the United States of America, Turkey, Azerbaijan, Germany, Thailand, Canada, UK, Kenya and Moldova. She likes to read books and travel. Her future goal is to become a philologist.
New Year poem
The human verb is surprised by surprise,
There is no world without criteria.
By measuring the stars,
It also touches infinity.
He is the owner, he is the slave forever
To the beliefs he found,
Don't say, even eterned,
To the moments that happened.
Collect hours from minutes,
The days make up the months,
He does not cry that life has passed,
He celebrates the end of the year.
Even though the wrinkles are increasing,
As the years go by,
Rejoice - more children,
He rejoices - his age grows.
It is a dream of endless
There is a basis for hopeful faith:
Man is immortal.
Little by little
It just goes to eternity.
Erkin Vahidov
Translator: Nilufar Rukhillayeva(1st year student of the Faculty of Foreign Philology of the National University of Uzbekistan named after Mirzo Ulugbek)
Once again, Synchronized Chaos Magazine expresses sympathy for all the people affected by the recent violence in the Middle East and shares the hope for a peaceful and just resolution and for justice and equality for the region’s many groups of people.
In the spirit of what we do here, we are sharing author Michael Lukas’ recommendations of fiction and poetry from both Israelis and Palestinians that he and others believe will help people understand the issues and the cultures in the region.
Please feel welcome to suggest other titles.
We are also aware that Afghanistan has suffered an earthquake that has killed thousands of people. We invite people to help however they can and suggest the Afghan-founded and led organization RAWA which assists those of all genders and racial backgrounds in the country. They are seeking people to translate articles on their website and help in a variety of ways.
Also, we stand with the people of Burma who are continuing to undergo war and repression. We encourage people to assist through groups such as Doctors Without Borders. And we acknowledge the great conflict and displacement crisis in Sudan and encourage people to donate books (textbooks included, everything except murder mysteries and encyclopedias) to schools in Africa through Books for Africa.
This month’s issue looks at life from different vantage points: from speakers who are fully engaged in their surroundings and from others who overhear or watch from a distance.
Brian Michael Barbeito shares the experience of sitting alone and catching bits of nearby conversations. Michael Tyler relates encounters with random people at a party. J.D. Nelson reflects on the sounds he hears at night a men’s homeless shelter.
Christopher Bernard’s poem’s narrator finds herself mistakenly at her own funeral, overhearing snatches of gossip while entombed in a coffin.
In his photography, Daniel De Culla focuses in on objects and creatures that are slightly out of place. In Mark Young’s poem, a postwoman brings the slightly-askance world to the speaker’s doorstep. Nathan Anderson plays with words and letters in a rhythmical manner reminiscent of electronic music while Thomas Fink contributes unique horseshoe-shaped concrete poems on memory and change.
Taylor Dibbert writes of his speaker’s loss of London the dog, a moment he never knew would be the last with her.
Qosimova Parizoda speculates on the psychology of a short lived butterfly. Do they grieve the brevity of their existence?
Jerry Langdon evokes mortality in a philosophical, tragic sense through the symbol of a gathering of ravens, while Zahro Shamsiyya speculates on the world after her future death.
Others focus in, deeply absorbed by a place or setting.
Isabel Gomez de Diego sends up photographic vignettes of fall country life, people, leaves, and apples. Brian Barbeito’s photography is a selection of natural moments, a mix of panoramas and closeups. Monira Mahbub celebrates the natural and human beauty of her country, Bangladesh.
Mesfakus Salahin describes the poetry written in the shapes of clouds, while Annie Johnson reflects on night’s blurring the edges between imagination, sentiment, and reality. Azemina Krehic meditates on danger through a surreal image of a mulberry tree.
Wazed Abdullah highlights the beauty and charm of music. John Culp metaphorically illustrates how the world of natural and human-built objects metaphorically calls to each other and communicates.
Graciela Noemi Villaverde loses herself and her bearings in the vast fiery energy of her creativity.
Kristy Raines highlights how true love fosters her personal growth and helps her become her best self, while Samuel Dayo evokes the intense emotions that come from romance. Faleeha Hassan depicts a love that consumes a woman’s life yet perennially remains a fantasy. Elmaya Jabbarova wistfully reflects on the tender feelings that can come with love and separation while Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa rejoices in romantic and family love that shines like a light in a sea of cruelty.
Jim Meirose sends up a story about how we relate to the physical, animal parts of ourselves.
Denis Emorine’s new collection A Step Inside, reviewed by Cristina Deptula, probes the inner struggles of an artist to create.
Many others are involved in their worlds, yet still observing themselves and others from a distance.
John Grey reflects on uncertainty through his humorous poems on life’s caprices. Noah Berlatsky considers his relative importance in the poetic sphere with humility.
Jerry Durick’s poetic speakers attempt to figure out their travels in various humorous ways.
Duane Vorhees writes of living within this world and seeking transcendence beyond it, while J.J. Campbell speaks to mortality and nostalgia and Dilnurabonu Vaisova sends up a poem of love and longing. Niginabonu Amirova looks back on the games her grandparents played on the playground and the life lessons they learned from them.
Muhammad Ubandoma writes of natural and supernatural forces which people can’t escape. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumnova expresses a sadness so deep she wishes to destroy her own poetry. Aasma Tahir relates a kind-hearted soul’s escape from a city that had hurt them, while Aklima Ankhi watches the state of the world with concerned vigilance.
This frame of mind has the advantage of allowing contributors to see the world as it is, yet speculate on alternative possibilities.
Maja Milojkovic urges all humans to heed the call of Mother Nature and keep the Earth clean and healthy. Mahbub Alam laments political violence and environmental destruction. Amanda Dixon describes her trip to a nature sanctuary along Georgia (USA)’s Ocmulgee River’s longleaf pine forests in great detail and reflects on how she and others can reconnect with nature. She further develops this theme in a poem on how embracing natural jungle environments helped heal post-traumatic stress syndrome for children of soldiers home from war.
Parvej Husain Takuder outlines some hypothetical positives and negatives of artificial intelligence technology.
Muhammad Ehsan offers a guide to leadership that inspires people towards competence rather than rote obedience.
Santiago Burdon conveys the continuing pull of past bad habits and wishes for better for himself.
Odina Rustamjonova resolves to make the most of life and keep a good attitude in hard times, while Terna Nicholas dreams of a better day in the future. Manzar Alam holds out long-awaited hope for a kinder world amidst terrible social injustice and violence.
Begim Khadjieva outlines a moral dilemma on friendship, family, and hospitality, while Rukhsatbegim Hojieva shares a story about the virtue of being good even at risk to yourself. Ochilova Nozima speaks to the importance of respect and love for one’s elders.
Sevenchbonu Ozodova contributes an essay on how girls and women need education and skills to ensure their security. Bakhtiyorova Gavkhar outlines the educational programs of a leading university in Uzbekistan.
Yahya Azeroglu describes the accomplishments of Turkish human rights campaigner Nergiz Muhammedi and her qualifications for the Nobel Peace Prize. Susie Gharib pays tribute to dead Middle East human rights activist Rachel Corrie while reflecting on loss, regret, and silence.
Daniel De Culla draws on a dead pigeon as a metaphor for civilians who die in wartime, while Taofeeq Ibrahim issues a strident call for peace in his nation. Mykyta Ryzhykh evokes the tragicomedy of life and death in light of modern warfare while Stephen Jarrell Williams speaks to death and desolation and to the day when the powerful who wish harm to others will be brought down. Sayani Mukherjee highlights the preciousness of peace, how working through conflict and finding common ground can be even more difficult than love.
This issue suggests that there’s a place for both spectators and participants, both for those who actively take part in life and those who stop to listen and learn first. We hope you enjoy these reads!
The world is a jungle
The world is a jungle,
is what I was told.
This is what my father said to me
as long as I can remember:
Once a soldier,
always a soldier.
I didn’t know, when I was young,
that I was from a land of warriors.
How could I,
when I was surrounded by them
and that’s all I knew.
I hadn’t yet left
to see from the outside.
Looking back,
I might’ve been
the only little girl
obsessed with war movies,
playing toy soldiers,
held by an era.
Then, one day
I found a book
by a woman
who was the daughter
of a tunnel rat.
She knew what it was like
to have the war brought home to her.
You weren’t there, he said to me.
No, I didn’t have to be
because I lived through it with you
from the day I was born.
It wasn’t much talked about,
it was what was overheard —
all those generations,
the silent ones.
How could you speak
when there are no words
to describe horrors
and atrocities
that threaten
to destroy your soul.
It’s no wonder
the soul had to take flight
until it was called back in
gently coaxing, soothing,
but some never returned.
Soldier’s heart, battle fatigue,
shell-shock, ptsd, finally,
post traumatic growth.
Aren’t we all tired of it?
Hasn’t everyone suffered enough?
The ones who devoted their lives
to helping —
Gabor, Bessel and others,
The mother, the grandmother
who prayed for all her sons.
The relatives would whisper
but the children overheard —
He was never the same again,
they said.
Some wives woke up at night
to find their husbands
up in the trees outside,
somnambulant,
the survivors,
not knowing,
why they’d been spared
but feeling dead.
As a child, I thought
that all hearts were purple,
that all uncles had shrapnel.
Isn’t it fitting
that this daughter,
before she even realized,
would find herself
in tropical jungles,
drawn to them, in love with them,
a full circle of sorts,
but drawn with love,
a different kind of mission.
and along the way,
after a very long time,
she was surrounded by warriors again,
still too young to realize
and recognize
how familiar it all was.
It wasn’t sought out
yet somehow
the past alive and well,
never even really past,
as Faulkner wrote.
Where are the landmines?
they’d ask.
Yet this was a different battlefield.
It saddened me,
weren’t we supposed to be
in this together,
in harmony?
It became apparent that
these were all lessons,
they were all lessons.
It was all learning,
to witness, observe,
to experience.
I was told
that I was a soldier,
that I marched when I walked.
I’d like to say,
that this part of me died
and is long gone.
Some say
that heaven and earth are right here
on this very earthly plane.
The long journey to Hades,
to the underworld,
full of archetypes
as the mythology describes,
is an accurate portrayal
of the parts of us that
go to war within oneself —
That die,
That shed,
mimicking nature
to be transformed.
It is said,
that when you heal yourself,
you heal seven generations back
and seven generations forward.
That is my practice,
That is my practice.
Every day,
every moment,
I am my own medicine.
You are your own medicine.
I now plant gardens,
not quite in the jungle
but close enough.
I build bridges
that connect
different people, languages and cultures,
a place to truly come home,
to return home
to my roots,
to my origins,
to my body
and to my heart.
One freezing mid-December morning, I drove into the forested coastal plains of middle Georgia, along the Ocmulgee River. I was headed to visit The Orianne Society’s Longleaf Stewardship Center, a 2,000 acre longleaf pine preserve outside McRae. A friend’s family had invited me to join them for a tour of the preserve and a barbecue for members and donors to the society.
As I pulled into the dirt parking lot that cold morning, I saw a vehicle with a license plate reading “SERPENT” which peaked my curiosity. Who was this devotee to one of the most feared creatures of nature? As I stepped out of the car, my eyes drank in the bright sunlight and opened wider. The invigorating cold air woke me up and I could see my breath when I exhaled. I saw a group of people standing outside near a big pole barn building, so I walked over to join them. I gathered that this was going to be an educational tour as well as an adventure into the forest.
During a circle of introductions, I found out I was surrounded by lovers of the wild — true outdoors men and women including of an amateur zoologist and former forester, a professor of psychology, ecology and evolutionary biology, a former Athens Y Camp naturalist teacher, herpetologists, biologists, conservationists and prescribed fire ecologists. After introductions, a member of the staff began to talk to us about the longleaf pine. The longleaf pine ecosystem is truly its own Amazon of North America, containing nearly 900 species found nowhere else in the world. I had no idea when I was growing up on the southern coast that our region contained such ecological treasures. Conservation of this system is the mission of The Orianne Society. Started in Georgia, the organization has spread their conservation and education work throughout Florida, the rest of the country and across the world.
When I began learning the history of the longleaf pine savanna before this visit, I was astonished. Original, old-growth forests on this continent covered around 90 million acres across the southern part of the country, from Virginia to Texas. Today only between 3 to 4 million acres of this rare ecosystem still exists, hence the need for preservation. The endangered nature of this ecosystem and its creatures, and what the loss of this diverse ecosystem has meant to the places where it thrived has only come into public awareness over the last few decades. Georgia, Florida, and the rest of the Southeast are worse off environmentally, culturally and socially because of the near-demise of this rich ecosystem, our very own heritage. What is at stake here in health and survival of this ecosystem is our very own existence as humans, as well as all the creatures, flora and fauna within it. 900 species found nowhere else in the world each individually have a role that cannot be replicated elsewhere. By destroying it, we have destroyed parts of ourselves.
To demonstrate this, The Orianne Society staff brought out some crates to show us some of the creatures of the longleaf pine forest, mostly reptiles and amphibians, which are their focus. They passed around creatures so we could hold them. When it came time to show the eastern diamondback rattlesnake, they threaded it into a tube, with the tip of the tail sticking out. Its rattle was made of keratin, smooth and glassy. The turtles and snakes that we got to meet were not living in the wild, but instead were living in The Orianne Society’s research center.
The highlights included gopher tortoises, a keystone species in conservation biology that can live for 80-100 years. They are in the coastal plains and on all the barrier islands in Georgia. Sadly, they are threatened in both Florida and Georgia, and even more so in Florida. Touching the gopher tortoise’s hard, graceful shell, I noticed how this important, reclusive land animal was relatively small, about the size of my two hands together.
The blue-black colored eastern indigo snake, known as the Emperor of the forest, hails as the flagship species of its habitat. My friend and his brother were standing next to me with these large, magnificent indigo snakes casually dangling on their shoulders and arms, studying them in detail before passing them on to me. The indigo snakes sometimes eat rattlesnakes and cottonmouths since they are immune to the venom. Prior to this, the only reptile I had ever held was a baby alligator when I was young, which was still half the size of me — when my family had visited a Louisiana bayou — and anoles, which are little lizards, since they were everywhere in my environment as a child. Sometimes I’d find baby lizards inside the house and want to escort them back to their true home outside. I knew that some people didn’t like lizards, but I did. I wasn’t afraid of them. I thought they were beautiful with their array of colors, and I marveled at how fast they moved. And amazingly, I felt both excited and tranquil to be interacting with the snakes.
As we passed the snakes around, I thought about those who could see their allure. The people who understood these fragile, gentle creatures and knew their role in the ecosystem, as everything in existence has a purpose and contributes to the greater whole. I’d seen snake charmers in India and I still have a photo I took in Indonesia, where a Balinese man sat with a child in his lap with what looked like a very large yellow python contentedly coiled right next to them. I had seen these exceptions in cultures where a few people still remembered that every spot on earth is sacred and that every creature is sacred. But I had viewed these from a distance, not up close as I was now in the sanctuary of the longleaf pine forest. And now, one of my companions commented to me, “You’re so calm in the presence of the snakes.”
During my late twenties and early thirties, I lived in New York City on the 42nd floor of my building and worked in a Manhattan corporate job on Wall Street. As exciting as “Zoo York” was, as it’s known, the concrete jungle always left me yearning for a wilder and more adventurous life that felt far away. Volunteering at the botanical garden in the Bronx provided temporary therapeutic relief. I dug my hands into the earth and crouched down low, sitting on the ground to pull weeds all day long. I practically had to drag myself away at the end of the day, so reluctant I was to leave that slice of nature and return to the depressing gray concrete that left me depleted. My senses were screaming out for more nourishment.
Later that morning, I spoke with conservation biologist Chris Jenkins, the rugged and inspiring head of The Orianne Society. He asked about my background.
“I studied to be a diplomat, but was more drawn to nature over time,” I told him, “and these days I’m writing.”
Not losing a beat, he reflected, “You’re an Ambassador for Nature now.”
It was an epiphanic moment for me when he said that, and the weight of that realization sunk into my awareness. The Orianne Society staff and members were already ambassadors for nature, and here I was, aspiring to join their ranks.
When I had felt depleted over the years, I realized I needed to be back in that lush green glorious landscape of my youth, which is why I returned. Those sublime surroundings lit up something inside me. Now, at The Orianne Society’s longleaf sanctuary, the trees were swaying in the whistling wind that blew my hair, energizing me and charging my senses. I felt more alive hearing the riotous symphony of birdsong, my inner spirit wanting to merge with the melodies. All around was the tapestry of nature connecting me to it. I was part of it and coming back alive.
“Why are people so afraid of snakes,” I asked the group of eleven or twelve people when we passed around the snakes, “since snakes were historically revered in Eastern philosophy and indigenous mythology worldwide?” I knew that the ancient traditions around the world believed water snakes to be symbols of fluid wisdom and elegant steadiness. The kind, distinguished professor (fittingly, the SERPENT license plate that I had seen in the parking lot earlier that morning was his) replied sorrowfully, “In reality, even in India and other Eastern countries, most modern people have lost the connection to nature. Since many people don’t know which snakes are poisonous, they often kill harmless snakes, just like here in the West.” The professor was reflecting what I already imagined but wished was different. Something about what I took to be sincere love for and devotion on the professor’s part to these often overlooked creatures — he had written a book called The Secret Social Lives of Reptiles — resonated with me even though I barely had a fraction of his familiarity with these creatures. I remembered a story my mother told about when I was three or four years old, playing at the edge of the St. John’s River in Florida at my grandmother’s rustic river retreat, and she gasped when she saw a water moccasin glide up nearby where I was playing. My mother, her nerves fraying, called out to me in a wavering voice while trying to remain calm, “Amanda Leigh, can you slowly back up and move away from the water and that snake you’re looking at? Come over here and play!”
Who knew if it was the venomous cottonmouth or a non-venomous water snake? It was enough to give my mom a fright. I suppose the snake swam on because I lived to tell the tale and since, I’ve always been drawn to the symbolism of snakes in mythology, as the archetype has woven its way in and out through the twists and turns of my life with their groundedness, the shedding of their skins, the creative life force, renewal, rebirth, transformation and the ouroboros of eternity.
Finally, here I was living a moment in the much wilder and more adventurous life that I had yearned for, back in the region where I was born, where I felt I belonged. Here I was standing with a yellow and black pine snake snugly wrapped and draped around my body, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, exuberance bursting through me. A surge of energy arose from within me and seemed to go out into the world to meet it and all its inhabitants.
As the day had gone on, we headed out to watch a prescribed fire burn which helps to incinerate competitive vegetation and maintain the health of the forest. Controlled burning is supposed to imitate what naturally occurring lightning strikes used to do for the longleaf savanna. I had to move further away from the shimmering heat of the spreading fire which had swooped in, as my body felt the heat touch my skin. I could smell the smoke as it drifted right towards us, picked up by the fierce wind. At midday, peeling our layers off as the temperatures soared, we hiked out through the wire grass, searching for gopher tortoise burrows, which house a variety of other species as well, especially snakes. Gopher tortoises stay busy digging burrows and a multitude benefits from this underground housing. Quail flew off when they heard us coming.
It was still too cold that day to find any snakes. The sun was blazing yet not hot enough to heat up that cool air. But the Orianne folks showed us their long, meandering hoses with cameras that can reach around 25 feet into the burrows which can be 30 to 40 feet long.
I listened and marveled as the biologists named almost every tree, plant and creature in that setting. Later that afternoon we went off into a different part of the forest again and into a cypress swamp where we found all kinds of salamanders under logs — spotted, marble, dwarf and slimy. The biologists waded into the creeks with their nets, hoping to find more. Some waded so deep that the water spilled over their knee boots. We eventually drove our trucks, bouncing up and down, side to side, along the terrain, all the way to the winding Ocmulgee. Everyone looked like big kids, playing and discovering the delights of nature. I remembered that I, too, was once a child who stayed outside playing and exploring till sundown, communing with creatures in their elements. No wonder I had felt lost and spiritually starved in an unnatural sea of skyscrapers and concrete.
We ended the day with a campfire, seated at wooden picnic tables where we ate barbecue with hot sauce, next to a small cabin which was rustic but comfortable, with a bathroom and kitchen. It felt like a return to more simple times, settings that I recalled from my youth. When it was time to go, we bid each other goodbye with strong embraces and fervent wishes to meet again in this lively setting.
I returned home, full of new awareness after having connected more profoundly with our beautiful natural surroundings in the longleaf pine forest. I also felt called to share the experience with others so perhaps they, too, will answer the call to deepen their relationship with our vital ecosystem. Back when I had pounded the hard pavement for nearly a decade in New York, I’d felt a nearly constant gnawing emptiness inside, my instincts crying out for something more and a pull that was leading me elsewhere. I had struggled with it for a long time. Now, I was finally fulfilling that inner desire, feeding that hunger, in the process of re-wilding and reclaiming parts of my own self. I had experienced a sense of homecoming and rediscovery of my native land that was powerful in and of itself, so strong that I hoped others would seek out such experiences and find similar organizations in order to support and get back in touch with the wild and our ecosystem.
The List
You get to hear about
Bucket lists
All the time
Around here
And they say it like
They invented the term.
So they tour like desperate
Folks. Old folks trying
To get it full
A bucket full of foreign cities.
Walking on canes,
Wheelchairs, walkers
Hobbling along
Seeing this and that
Filling their buckets
As if their life will fill
With this:
Stockholm, Helsinki, Tallin
Riga and Berlin
Copenhagen and Amsterdam.
They fill their buckets
Like Egyptian Pharaohs filling
Their tombs for their time
In the next life.
Sea Story
The North Sea, just its name reads
like a caption in a history book:
a seascape of crashing waves, one
of those wooden ships, full sails
sailing into a troublesome future.
The North Sea, sounds like an entry
in an immigrant’s journal, the feel
of loneliness and an unknowable
future. The North Sea, even today
seems like a summary of a climate
we all have to face along the way.
The North Sea all around us and
ahead of us, greeting us like it
greeted so many before us, a sea
untamable that we all will face.
Tour Guide
How do you explain a place
You know so well to people
Who know little or nothing about
You or the place you need to
Explain. It’s a job, it’s your job
So you begin. There’s history
And all the details that set it
Up, the forces, the personalities
This war, that occupation, but
You notice the group start to
Doze off. These aren’t students
These are tourists, who yawn
At things they don’t know. You
Can pick out important sites or
Start off on the nature and how
It fits this place and people. You
Can talk about the economy or
The social systems that you know
They know little about, education
Media, the military if you must
And the various religions that vie
For prominence in a country not
Known for its religious traditions.
It’s an avalanche of material with
Little appeal. It’s an audience that
Pays a lot but wants very little. It’s
A job and you do and pretend that
Somehow it makes a difference.
.
