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Dead Week: A Cross-Examination

8/30/2015

1 Comment

 
By Henrik Eger
Picture

Henrik Eger with one of his concentration camp puppets, Puppet (r)Evolution, Swarthmore College. Photo: Alex Griffin, Aug. 2013.

DEAD WEEK: The week before final examinations at colleges and universities in the US and Canada, known for its notorious stress.

It’s dead
week, time to 
abstain, except for allowing 
thoughts and memories 
of spasms, teeth, and hair, *
instant coffee, blood,
and instant replies
to leak
onto my desk.


True, terror is
Picture
not of one individual,
one mob,
one group, 

one country,
but of the soul, 
the great realm 
equipped 
with emotions, gas
fixtures, and wheels
within wheels.

OK, Father, **
you’re first.
Picture
Ernst-Alfred Eger, World War II correspondent, circa 1942
What did you do in 1944
when you witnessed
your own
chosen people
rape
the earth in Russia, ***
force 
the dead to dig
their grave,
get undressed,
bend
at the edge of the pit,
Picture
Mass execution at a pit, Russia, WWII
and fall
on top of those already
gone?

When you saw
arms sticking out,
waving,
what did you do,
Father?


I know.
Picture
Bailey Smith, former Southern Baptist Convention President, declaring, "God does not hear the prayer of a Jew."
You turned silent,
impressed
my youth with your 
shame (or so I thought),
until, more than 33
years later, you went
on the air
and told the children
of the survivors
that “God does not hear
the prayer of a Jew.” ****
Oh Father,
Father.

And you, Mother,
what did you do,
apart from calling
politics a dirty game
and raising me and
Calley, *****
your youngest son?
Picture
Why did you give him
guns for Christmas?
Why did you praise
his manhood
when he shot
birds?
And why did you stay silent
throughout all wars?
You know that even
today Calley
masturbates
every night,
dreaming
of peasant girls
in Vietnam, vaginas
filled
with grenades.
Picture
Drinking Coors from a
throwaway can,
he drowns
the noise of past
explosions
inside enemy
women
with fresh loads
of sperm and foam.
Picture
Picture
Mother,
your silence
Picture
hits me
like bad breath.
And finally, you
or I, same thing:
The cursed-blessed one 
who has to share
his bed with God
fearing racists,
angels of xenophobia;
the white
black
amongst tenured
academics, weathered
cowboys whose boots
walk over women and
the last few imprints
of a pair
of moccasins.
Picture
Picture
Son of naked roots
and open wounds,
why don’t I
shut up,
instead of wrapping
my feeble protests
in mini-speeches, ****** 
delivered regularly
every Monday night
between 5:30 and 6:45,
collecting good points
like a Sunday
school kid?
Picture
Henrik Eger, guest speaker at Society for Technical Communications (STC), Chicago, Spring 1985
Picture
I became a member of Toastmasters International at Oklahoma State University (OSU), 1980-81.
And worse, why do I
stay, my stomach
filled
with cheap hamburgers,
instant coffee and
instant two minute
replies, my mind
blank
when my friends 
stand straight,
when they—in unison
and unashamed,
Picture
spew
pledges of patriotism
over a piece 
of stained cloth?
No, baby, regurgitating
isn’t good enough;
vomiting
poems won’t persuade.

Instead, instead
of acting
victim and voyeur,
stop playing
savage,
servile games;
learn to control
the terror of the soul;
Picture
try to understand the mechanics
behind the wheels
within wheels;
and don’t faint
when you are hit
by the stench
of silence.
Picture
But most of all,
before you cut
colleagues, brothers,
others,
look into the glass
of judgment:

reflect.
Picture
It’s dead
week, time to abstain,
except for allowing
thoughts and memories
of spasms, teeth, and hair,
instant coffee, blood
and instant replies
Picture
to leak
onto my desk.
* Reference to Nazi concentration camps.

** My father, a German journalist, witnessed a mass execution in Russia in the winter of 1943-44, an event so horrible that he lost his belief in the Fuehrer, even his will to live and, as everything he wrote had to go through a censor, he wrote to my mother, “Read more than my letters. Read that which I did not write. Read that which could shatter my heart.” This quote became the opening of Metronome Ticking, a Holocaust docudrama.

*** Countless Poles from the military and the intelligentsia got mass murdered by Stalin’s Russian troops in the Katyn massacre with over 20,000 victims. My father, a young war correspondent, witnessed a similar mass execution in Russia. My mother never told me who the victims were, most likely Jews, Romani, Russians, and others considered Untermenschen (sub-humans) by the Nazis.

**** Bailey Smith, Southern Baptist Convention President, Aug. 22, 1980.

***** William Calley, former United States Army officer, found guilty of murdering 22 unarmed South Vietnamese civilians in the My Lai Massacre on March 16, 1968, during the Vietnam War.

****** Member of the Toastmasters International club at Oklahoma State University, 1980-81.


Spring 1981, Updated October 25, 2017


If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. 
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I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate: For Omar Sharif

7/11/2015

1 Comment

 
By Henrik Eger
Picture

Omar Sharif hugging his grandson, Omar Sharif, Jr.
I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate: 
For Omar Sharif, the Sultan of Cinema,
The Bridge between Arab life and all of us

I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate Omar Sharif, the Sultan of Cinema. 
I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate the actor of actors, the man of men. 
I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate his Russian Zhivago, his Arab Sherif Ali.
I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate the Egyptian, the citizen of the world.
Picture
Picture
Omar Sharif, wherever you are on our journey into timelessness, 
you have left behind the kind of magic that makes me look up at the sky 
and see you as a star that shines, in spite of your foibles, 
making you a very human star. 

I do not come to mourn, but come to celebrate Omar Sharif, 
the Bridge between Arab life and all of us,
the sultan of cinema, the star that shines— 
even now.

Fare thee well, auf Wiedersehen, bedrood, Ma' Alsalam, مع السلامة, Omar. 
Ma' Alsalam, Omar. مع السلامة. 

PS: Your love for life lives on in your family, 
in that moving embrace of your grandson, Omar Sharif, Jr., 
and in the memories of millions whose lives you’ve touched. 

I do not mourn, but celebrate your life, Omar Sharif.


Henrik Eger
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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CHOICES: For Afghan police officers. English, Dari, and Pashto

3/26/2015

3 Comments

 
By Henrik Eger
Picture
Every morning, you decide who you’re going to be today: a police officer who hits hard without asking questions, or a human who thinks before you act.

Every morning, you decide where you really stand as a human being in the land of the Hindu Kush, the country that has suffered endlessly.

Every morning, you decide whether you want the best for the people of Afghanistan, or the best for those who pay you to close your eyes to violence and shady deals.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to uphold the law and create a better tomorrow, or whether you fall back into greed and selfish days.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to see your mother, your sister, your wife, or your daughter in every woman that walks by in an old and fraying hijab, or whether you don’t care.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to allow men to tell you what to do and trample the law, or whether you will be a strong woman who upholds the law.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to beat up on the poor, the homeless, and the weak, but treat the rich and powerful with reverence and respect.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to spend time daily learning how to read and write your mother tongue to get out of poverty and fully understand the law.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to stay put, or whether you want to connect with the world by learning English, a language that will open doors for you.

Every morning, you decide whether you just want to crawl, or whether you want to join all those who rebuild your country out of the ruins of war, corruption, and discontent.

Every morning, you decide whether you want to destroy your beautiful land, or whether you want to be Afghanistan, a role model for the young.

Every morning, you decide how you will spend the rest of your life—caving in to dark forces, or looking up with hope and rebuilding yourself, the law, and your land.

Dr. Henrik Eger
Translated into Dari by Zuhra Sahar
Translated into Pashto by Jamil Ahmad
Picture

Top left: Female Afghan police officer 
by Sarah at Daily Gingerbread
Bottom left: Afghan police officers training 
by Andy Nelson  

Picture
انتخاب برای  پولیس افغان


هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که امروز کی باشید:  یک افسر پولیس که بدون پرسیدن سوالی ضربه محکم وارد می کند،  و یا یک انسانی که قبل از هر عملی فکر می کند.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا شما واقعآ منحیث یک انسان در سرزمین هندوکش ایستاده اید، در مملکتی که بدون وقفه سختی های بی شماری را متحمل شده است.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم میگیرد که آیا بهترین ها را برای مردم افغانستان می خواهید، یا بهترین ها را برای آن هایی می خواهید که برای شما پرداخت می کنند تا چشمان تان را در مقابل خشونت و معاملات مشکوک  بسته نمایید. 

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا قانون را حمایت و تقویت نمایید و یک فردای بهتر را بسازید، و یا به روز های حرص،  طمع و خودخواهی برگردید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا می خواهید مادر تان، خواهر تان، همسر تان و یا دختر تان را در هر زنی که با یک حجاب کهنه و فرسوده قدم می زند، ببینید و یا این که اهمیتی به این موضع نمی دهید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا می خواهید به مرد ها اجازه دهید تا برای تان بگویند چه کار کنید و قانون را نادیده بگیرید،  و یا این که یک زن قوی برای حمایت از قانون می باشید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا می خواهید انسان های فقیر، بی خانمان و ضعیف را ضربه زنید، در عوض انسان های قوی و ثروتمند را احترام و حرمت نمایید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا می خواهید وقت تان را به آموزش خواندن و نوشتن به زبان مادری تان سپری نمایید، تا از فقر رهایی یافته و قانون را به صورت کامل بفهمید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا شما می خواهید همین طور بمانید و یا این که می خواهید با جهان توسط آموزش زبان انگلسی که دروازه های جهان را بروی شما می گشاید، بپیوندید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا می خواهید همین طور ادامه دهید، و یا به آن هایی که در ساختار مملکت تان از خرابه های جنگ، فساد و نارضایتی پرداختند، بپیوندید.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که آیا  می خواهید سرزمین زیبای تان را ویران نمایید، و یا این که یک افغانستان باشید،  یک شخصیت نمونه برای  جوانان.

هر صبح، شما تصمیم می گیرید که چه گونه بقیه زندگی تان را سپری نمایید- غارنوردی به نیرو های تاریک،  و یا به امید نگاه می کنید و خود تان، قانون تان و سرزمین تان را دو باره می سازید.




توسط:      داکتر هنریک ایگر
برگردان:   زهره سحر


Picture

Top right: Class with Afghan police officers 
by Atlaf Qadri
Bottom right: Graduation of Afghan police officers 
by Omar Sobhani

د افغان پولیس لپاره ټاکنه

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی نن ورځ څوک شی: د پولیسو یو افسر بی غیر د کومی پوښتنی یو سخت ګوزار کوی او یا یو انسان مخکی لدی چی عمل وکړي فکر کوی.

هر سهار، د یو انسان په توګه تاسی فکر کوی چی د هندوکش په ځمکه یاستی، هغه هیواد چی نامحدوده ناخوالی یی لیدلی.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی ایا ښه نه ښه د افغانستان خلکو لپاره غواړی، یا ښه د هغه چا لپاره غواړی څوک چی تاسی ته د سترګو پټولو او د تاوتریخوالی لپاره پیسی درکوی.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی قانون پیاوړی کړی او یوه روښانه راتلونکی جوړه کړی، او یا د طمع او ځان ښودنی کندی ته ولویږی.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی خپله مور، خور، ښځه او یا خپله لور د هغو ښځو په څهره کی وګوری کومی چی په یو زوړ حجاب کی ګرځی او یا هیڅ پروا یی نلري.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی ایا اجازه ورکوی  یو سړی تاسی ته ووایی چی څه شی وکړی او قانون د پښولاندی کړی، او ایا تاسی به یوه غښتلی ښځه اوسی څوک چی قانون عملی کوی.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی غریب، بی وسه او بی کوره خلک ووخی، او یا مالداره او قوی خلکو ته عزت او احترام ورکړی

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی ایا تاسی روزانه د خپلی مورنی ژبی به لیکلو او ویلو کی تیر کړی چی د غریبی نه پر اووځی او په مکمله توګه په قانون پوه شی.

هر سهار تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی همداسی پاتی شی، او ابا غواړی چی د نړی سره د انګلیسی ژبی په زده کولو یوځای شی، یوه ژبه ده چی د هغی په واسطه به ډیر بندی دروازی درته خلاصی شی.

هر سهار تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی همداسی پاتی شی، او یا غواړی دهغو ټولو سره یواځای شی چا چی د جنګ د خرابی نه، فساد نه او نورو کړاوونو نه ستا هیواد ویستلی.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی ایا ته غواړی دا خپل خایسته هیواد وران او ویجاړ کړی، او یا غواړی چی افغانستان خپل راتلونګی نسل ته یوه نمونه وګرځوی.

هر سهار، تاسی تصمیم نیسی چی خپل راتلونکی ژوند به څرنګه تیروی، پاتی کیدل د ژوندانه په تورو تیارو کی، یا په امید سره د ځان جوړول، د قانون جوړول او خپله خاوره (افغانستان)


دداکتر هنریک ایگر لیکنه
ژباړونکی: جمیل احمد
 



Picture
Afghan Bazaar by Shiwa Kiyanosh
Picture
Afghan Bazaar with two dealers by Shiwa Kiyanosh
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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When the Earth becomes a human being

8/23/2014

3 Comments

 
By Henrik Eger
Picture
For the people of Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq who were never given a choice
When the EARTH becomes a HUMAN BEING 
with a furrowed face and a wintry beard, 
when a CAVEMAN lives long enough 
to grow into UNCLE HAJI, 
the ancient sage who smokes dung 
from a rusty old pipe 
that once carried gas or oil to heat homes 
before it was blown up one night, 
when IRAN, IRAQ, and the LAND BY THE HINDU KUSH
are respected again one day as the birthplaces 
of some of the most ancient civilizations on earth, 
the sun will rise with more light than before 
over lands still soaked in blood and tears – 
even though it's not easy, even for the sun, 
to dry thousands of years of blood and tears. 


Dr. Henrik Eger
Translated by Zuhra Sahar, Kabul. 
برای مردم افغانستان، ایران و عراق که هرگز انتخابی نداشته ان
وقتی زمین-

با چهره ی چروکیده  و ریش زمستانی انسان می شود،
وقتی یک مغاره نشین آنقدر زندگی می کند
که به کاکا حاجی مبدل می شود،
خردمند قدیمی که از لوله زنگ زده و کهنه  دود می کند،
همان لوله ای که قبل از انفجار شبی
برای گرم ساختن خانه ها نفت می داد،
وقتی روزی ایران، عراق و سرزمین هندوکش
مانند زادگاه تمدن های باستانی روی زمین
یکبار دیگر احترام شوند،
آفتاب با درخشش بیشتر
بالای سرزمین هایی که هنوز غرق خون و اشک اند
طلوع خواهد کرد
با وجودی که ساده نیست،
خشکیدن خون و اشک هزار ساله
حتی برای آفتاب.


دکتر هنریک ایگر


Photo of Amou Haji, 80, published by IRNA (the Islamic Republic News Agency), 2014.
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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Picasso’s Afghan Children: May the crumbling walls of Afghanistan​ one day begin to smile again

8/23/2014

1 Comment

 
By Henrik Eger
Picture
Photo of Afghan Picasso wallpainting
by Shiwa Kiyanosh, Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan
Picture
A displaced Afghan boy from Helmand province peeks from a window at a camp for the displaced in Kabul, Afghanistan, on June 20, 2012. (AP Photo/Ahmad Jamshid)
Picasso's Afghan children
creating art on old and crumbling walls, 
free of charge for all to see. 

May brittle bones found in the ashes
become brushes for a new art,
new life, and a new culture 
rising from the ashes. 

May the day come that Afghans 
respect again the cultures of their ancestors
that once thrived in its ancient past 
before the invaders from Arabia 
and other parts of the world
came and destroyed 
whatever they could find. 

May the people of Afghanistan 
respect and even celebrate 
their own tribes and cultures 
and not shove them into one big Taliban pit, 
executing all those 
who feel and think and live
differently 
from those enforcers of a cruel norm. 

May Afghanistan rise from the ashes 
of its tortured past and may the children 
write on Afghan walls with joy and hope, 
free from fear –  
each an Afghan Picasso in his own right,
each an Afghan Picasso in her own right.

May the crumbling walls of Afghanistan
​one day
begin to smile again.

Dr. Henrik Eger
Translated into Dari by Zuhra Sahar
Picture

خدمت KHEDMAT (Service), Afghan Police Magazine.
20,000 copies, distributed to all police stations
in Afghanistan. Front page, April 2015.
The Afghan police literacy project is supported
by Japan and implemented by UNESCO.
کودکان افغان پیکاسو

کودکان افغان پیکاسو
نقاشی های شان را روی دیوار های کهنه و فرو ریخته می آفرینند
نقاشی هایی رایگان برای همه

شاید استخوان های شکسته، پیدا شده  در میان خاکستر
برس هایی برخاسته از خاکستر
 برای یک نقاشی نو، 
زندگی نو و فرهنگ نو گردند

شاید روزی آید که افغان ها 
فرهنگ اجداد شان را دوباره احترام کنند
 فرهنگی که یک بار در گذشته باستانی خود 
قبل از آن که مهاجمان سعودی  و دیگر نقاط جهان آمدند
و آن چه را که یافتند، ویران کردند،
درخشیده بود.

شاید مردم افغانستان
تبار و فرهنگ خود را احترام و تقدیر کنند
و آن ها را  به یک گودال عظیم طالبان پرتاب نه کنند،
آن هایی را که حس متفاوتی دارند
آن هایی که از مجریان یک هنجار بی رحمانه 
متفاوت می  اندیشند و متفاوت زندگی می کنند.

شاید افغانستان از خاکستر شکنجه و عذاب  گذشته  برخیزد
و شاید اطفال در دیوار های افغانستان با امید و شادمانی،
به دور از ترس بنویسند - 
هر کدام  پیکاسوی مرد افغان  
هر کدام پیکاسوی زن افغان

شاید یک روز دوباره 
دیوار های افغانستان شروع به خندیدن کنند.


 توسط  داکتر هنریک ایگر
برگردان: زهره سحر

Picture

"Picasso's Afghan Children" by Dr. Henrik Eger
Photo by Shiwa Kiyanosh, Mazar-i-Sharif.
Published by خدمت KHEDMAT (Service),
Afghan Police Magazine, page 5.
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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Mayflower message

8/20/2014

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By Henrik Eger
Puritans and cell phones: The life of the first teenager from the Mayflower arriving at Plymouth Rock in 1620, texting back to her friends in England.
Picture

Pilgrims by George Henry Boughton
For creative and independent young girls, with encouragement
Before she even stepped off the Mayflower in December 1620, ending 66 days of bad weather and waves of salty loneliness, all the way from Southampton to the land of hope, Mary Chilton, the England gal — bright, young, and with-it, but also a frequent thorn in the eyes of stern Pilgrim elders — took out her black iPhone, her little prayer book, and typed in: 

“WELCOME TO FACEBOOK?  yeahhhhhhh! about bloody time!”

Always enthusiastic, the 13-year-old then pushed ahead, unwilling to wait in line, and jumped into the small boat with the first group of men.  The older women on the ship all shook their head in disbelief: “Only 13 years old and jumping into a boat with the men? Unheard of.  What have we done wrong?  We clearly didn’t pray enough!”  “No,” screeched one of the most pious of Puritan women, “we sailed on an old wine ship! Sinful from day one. It’s a miracle God didn’t make us even sicker than we already are.”
Picture

The Landing of the Pilgrims by Henry Bacon

Shortly afterwards, before the very first group of men tried to step ashore, the England girl got so excited that she jumped out of the rickety old boat and waded ashore onto Plymouth Rock, trying to hold down her long black dress with her left hand, her right hand high up in the air, clutching her little iPhone prayer book, hanging on for dear life—after all, she had to tell all her friends back home about this strange new land they call America. 

Of course, none of her friends back home would believe a word of all those unbelievable things that happen—once you step off the boat and explore a new world.

25 April 2009 and 9 November 2010


Addendum
Click here for information on the historical Mary Chilton 
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. 
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Unsung Heroes in an ungrateful world قهرمانان گمنام دریک جهان ناسپاس

8/20/2014

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By Henrik Eger

Translated by one of my Afghan friends who wanted to stay anonymous for fear of repercussions. 
In honor of all Afghan interpreters who did their best
                                                                         به پاس همۀ ترجمانهای افغان که مسؤلیت خویش را به بهترین شکل ممکن انجام دادند
Picture
Even my tears will not soothe the pain of those Afghans who got beheaded by fellow Afghans.

As a German, I can only think of the torture and gassing of innocent people in Nazi concentration camps who happened to be Jewish, or Communist, or gypsy, or gay, or people too young or too old or too sick to work.

I am holding a puppet here in honor of Jewish victims. If I could, I would make a puppet in honor of each Afghan interpreter who got slaughtered like an animal before Eid by unholy men who, in the name of Islam and Afghanistan, are destroying Islam and Afghanistan without knowing the damage they are doing to all of us.

My condolences to all translators and their families and friends, those interpreters who were murdered, those Afghan translators who still languish in internment and refugee camps around the globe, hoping for support from the countries whom they supported through their work, to all those bright young men who live in fear of being dragged to the butcher block soon:

TASLYAT, Afghanistan.
TASLYAT, you linguistic bridge builders for a better world.
TASLYAT, Islam.

And for those of you who will never come back into this life:
Farewell, Ave Vale, Bedrood.
You are the unsung heroes in an ungrateful world.

TASLYAT, Islam.
TASLYAT, you linguistic bridge builders for a better world.
TASLYAT, Afghanistan.



Picture
حتی اشک های من نمیتواند مرهمی باشد بر درد آن افغانهایی  که توسط هم قطاران افغان شان سر بریده شدند.

من به عنوان یک آلمانی،تنها میتوانم درباره شکنجه و سوزاندن مردم بیگناه در اردوگاه های کار اجباری نازی  ها فکر کنم  که  از بد حادثه کمونیست، یا کوچی، یا هم جنس گرا بودند، یا خیلی جوان، یا خیلی پیر، یا خیلی بیمار بودند  و نمی توانستند کار کنند بنا بر این قربانی شدند.

من  به احترام قربانیان یهودی  در اینجا  یک گودی را آویزان کرده ام. اگر میتوانستم به احترام هر ترجمان افغان یک گودی میسا ختم،همان ترجمانهایی که همچون حیوانات قبل از عید، توسط مردان نامقدس قصابی شدند، این مردان نامقدس  بنام اسلام و افغانستان، اسلام وا فغانستان را ویران میکنند غافل از اینکه همه ی مارا ویران میکنند.

ابراز همدردی میکنم با همه ی ترجمانها و خانواده هایشان و دوستان شان، با آنعده از ترجمانهای افغان که به قتل رسیدند  وآنهایی که هنوز در کمپ های موقت و پناهنده گی  درگوشه و کنار جهان به امید  حمایت کشورهایی هستند که با کارشان از آن کشور ها حمایت نمودند. به همه آن  مردان جوان روشن ضمیر که وحشت دارند از اینکه بزودی به کشتار گاه کشانده میشوند:

 تسلیت، تسلیت به اسلام. تسلیت به شما سازنده گان پل ارتباطی برای یک دنیای بهتر، تسلیت به افغانستان.

و آن عده از شما ها که هرگز به این زندگی بر نخواهید گشت: خدا نگهدار، ما شا الله، بدرود. شما قهرمانان گمنام  در  یک جهان ناسپاس هستید.

تسلیت به اسلام. تسلیت به شما سازنده گان پل ارتباطی برای یک دنیای بهتر. تسلیت به افغانستان.

داکتر هنریک ایگر

Photo on Left: Henrik Eger with concentration camp puppet, Puppet (r)Evolution convention, Swarthmore College. Photo by Alex Griffin, August 2013.
Photo on Right: "In memory of 26 brave Afghan translators who died serving the British military." Photo by Richard Pohle, Times of London, May 4, 2013.
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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Afghanistan rise -- برخیز افغانستان

8/20/2014

6 Comments

 
By Henrik Eger
for the women, 
the children of Afghanistan.

Translated by one of my Afghan friends who wanted to stay anonymous for fear of repercussions. 
Picture
Picture
YOU, Afghanistan, 
YOU, the women of the land by the Hindu Kush, 
YOU the mothers, YOU the daughters, 
YOU the widows and the wives, 
YOU the teachers, 
YOU the nurses, 
YOU the doctors, 
YOU the beggars in the streets of Kabul,
YOU the students abroad, 
YOU the children forced into something that will damage you for life, 
YOU the women in uniform,
YOU the faceless females in hiding, 
YOU the humans who dare not show your tears, night after night:

YOU are Afghanistan, 
YOU are the future, whether some men understand it
or not, whether some elders like it or not, 
YOU are Afghanistan.

AFGHANISTAN speak up. 
AFGHANISTAN rise.
YOU are Afghanistan: 
AFGHANISTAN rise, Rise, RISE.
RISE, Afghanistan. 

AFGHANISTAN, RISE.
تو، ای افغانستان!
تو، ای زنی سرزمین هندوکش!
تو، ای مادر، ای خواهر! 
تو، ای بیوه و ای همسر! 
تو، ای استاد!
تو، ای پرستار! 
تو، ای طبیب! 
تو، ای گدای کوچه گرد کوچه های کابل! 
تو، ای دانشجوی بیرون از مرزها! 
تو، ای کودکی که وادار به آنچه شدی که تمام عمر از آن رنج خواهی برد
تو، ای زنی یونیفورم پوشیده
تو، ای زنی بدون چهره و پنهان 
تو، ای انسانی که نمی توانی حتی اشک هایت را نمایان کنی
با گذشت هرشب:

تو افغانستان میشوی 
تو آینده ی آن هستی، بدون اینکه بعضی  از مردان آن را بپسندد یا نه 
تو خود افغانسانی!

افغانستان، صدایت را بلند کن!
افغانستان برخیز! 
تو خود افغانستانی!
افغانستان برخیز، برخیز، برخیز!
افغانستان برخیز!

دکتر هنریک ایگر
تقدیم به زنان و کودکان افغان
Picture
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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Open letter to St. Peter: In charge of the weather & gatekeeper to Heaven

8/20/2014

0 Comments

 
By Henrik Eger
​

For Rebecca Cureton
Picture

Rebecca Cureton, painted and photographed by William F. Thacker, New York.
Picture

Pittsburgh photographer Charles “Teenie” Harris, (1908-1998).
Car, with front smashed in, on street during snow storm, 1963.
Sir,

I am deeply disturbed that you chose numerous Mondays to drop tons of your white stuff all over the area, always on Mondays, when my friend Becca drives to my house. As a result, we fell behind in our work on articles, letters, plays, and, above all, my new website, Drama Around the Globe.

May I, with all due respect, ask you to stop those deliberate acts of sabotage and, instead, spare us those heavy, wet and white confetti parades from above, covering the ground by one foot all over the area on Sundays, Mondays and Thursdays?  Why not mess up the world on Tuesdays, or Fridays, even Saturdays?  Those are the days dear Becca doesn’t drive to my house. 

Sir, please have mercy on this writer, her young soul, and her old car.  If avalanching you must, drop off your wet crystal anger all over Alaska or, better still, all over the North Pole, because Becca, who does Windows, doesn't do Alaska, and she is determined to stay away from the North Pole, at least for now.  In short, sparing us down here while dumping tons of white crystals across Alaska and the North Pole would be a true, true win-win situation.

Sincerely and gratefully,
Yours truly, 

Dr. Henrik Eger, 
still recovering from digging myself out of the snow

Addendum
According to popular belief, St. Peter is considered to be in charge of both the weather and deciding who would enter Heaven and who is sent to Hell upon the arrival of the souls of the dead. Traditionally, in Europe "prayers petitioned Saint Peter to grant rain in time of drought." 
If you are interested in publishing or adapting this copyrighted poem by setting it to music, staging or filming it, etc., please contact the author. ​
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Missionaries at the door

8/20/2014

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By Henrik Eger
For Bruch Reed, from Chicago, now in New York, 
one of the most entertaining and 
outspoken actors on the Internet. 
Picture
When missionaries knock at his door and tell him he will burn in hell if he does not convert, Bruch then reeds bruchulously, and barks at them, telling them in his bulldogean bruchulousean ways to fuck themselves. “Yes, fuck yourselves,” he shouts for everyone in the neighborhood to hear his blessed curse. “Fuck, fuck, fuck  yourselves!”

Almost each time, the missionaries then panic and run away, often dropping their religious tracts which Bruch, calmly, picks up and stores for another memorial fire to honor the many women who were hanged and Giles Corey who was stripped naked and pressed to death by heavy stones and rocks “for standing mute” in Salem, Massachusetts, watched by his neighbors in 1692. 

Each time missionaries knock at his door and tell him he will burn in hell if he does not convert, Bruch, whether in Plainfield, Illinois, in Chicago, or New York, gets hit by the verdict of the well-meaning ancestors of today's well-meaning missionaries, and experiences the hangings, the pressing to death of a naked man, and he lets lose his blessed curse for the Bible thumpers:















Picture

Bruch Reed, actor, Chicago and New York
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Picture
Tower Of Babel
by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (1563).
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Copyright Henrik Eger, 2014-2020.
Update: December 30, 2020.
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