Archive for the 'Uncategorized' Category

Oct 04 2007

Free Burma!

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized


Free Burma!

MONTREAL:
SATURDAY, Oct.6, 1pm.
The silent march led by Quebec-based monks will begin at at 1 pm at the Roddick Gates, intersection of McGill College and Sherbrooke St., and will continue to the Norman Bethune monument, at Guy and de Maisonneuve. At the Bethune monument of international solidarity messages of support will be read and a public meditation will be performed. This rally will be in coordination with political actions of solidarity throughout the world. 514-568-1058.

Stand with the Burmese Protesters

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Aug 30 2007

The devil came on horseback: Bearing witness to the genocide in Darfur - Brian Steidle

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

Brian Steidle, an ex US Marine traipsed into Sudan in 2004 as a contractor to work with AU. He was supposed to monitor the happenings in Sudan. And for a person who went to a country with absolutely no idea about the going ons, he caught on quick. And tried to perform to the best of his abilities. And more than anything he had empathy for the poor people and started documenting the events. ‘The devil came on horseback: Bearing witness to the genocide in Darfur’ is the result. And Brian Steidle travels around United States trying to increase awareness. He has also produced a documentary with the same title as the book. Guardian published an interview with him a few weeks ago. Link.

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Excerpts from the book:

Page 16:

As far as I could tell, for women life was extremely difficult. Sudan was primarily a patriarchal society, yet the women were the laborers. They might walk five or six hours with huge bundles of firewood or five-gallon buckets on their heads to collect their daily water. Girls could be sold by their fathers into marriage for as little as two cows - roughly $400 - and human trafficking was not uncommon. Women were stoned to death in some places if they cheated on their husbands, but men were legally allowed to take up to four wives. In almost all circumstances, men would not even stand next to a woman. The men would sit, and the women would stand behind them. I had heard that approximately 90 percent of Sudanese women still undergo female genital mutilation, and I learned that there were two methods. The first removes only the clitoris, but the second procedure involves sewing the vagina closed, often using thorns. As a results, Women experience many complications with urination and menstruation, not to mention the pain and tearing during sex and child birth.

Page 45:

An email sent by Brian Steidle to his family and friends.

I have to write to you to get this out of my mind. I don’t know whether or not you are aware of the African Union’s recent statements. They have released a report that states that they have evidence that individuals have been chained and burned alive by the Janjaweed. This is from a confidential AU report, and it included photos. I am not permitted to send them nor do I wish on you the same nightmares that I have had as a result o these photos. The individuals that were burned were children - from a girl’s school - and their family members who tried to save them. I have never seen anything more disturbing. I saw girls who had their hands bound by make-shift cuffs huddles together and burned alive. Men strewn all over the village, burned alive - this because they were trying to protect their families. The entire village was in ashes. If these photos were released to the public there would be troops in here in no time. What is going on here is most definitely a “crime against humanity” and most definitely on here is most definitely a “crime against humanity” and most definitely “genocide”. There is no question about that. These people have been burned alive because they are “too dark.” This is what the women are told when they are raped in front of their families. They are told to leave behind their child born of rape, because they will not be “too dark” - but for the mother to leave this country now or she will die. Why is the world so slow to act? Why are we sitting here letting this happen? This is not the doing of humans; this is the work of the devil. We are human beings have to stand up for what is right. There is no group of people in any place in the world that I have ever heard of, that can condone these atrocities. If we fail to act, I fear for the future of humankind. Please feel free to forward this to whomever you want. The world must know what is happening here.

Page 58:

“Take a look at this,” he said and handed me a tiny, spiraling nail with a fin on it. I held it in my hand, examining it. I immediately identified it as a flechette or “dart” in French, the contents of an anti-personnel rocket. In other words, this small dart and hundreds like it were fired at people with the sole purpose of killing or maiming them.

“Where did you find it?”

“There were tons of them used on this civilian village.”

“Seriously?” I shook my head. “They’re using these on civilians?” My stomach sank as I connected this nail with the helicopters I had seen taking off daily from El Fashir armed with rockets. I had assumed that the attack helicopters were going after bigger military targets, such as rebel vehicles. I never expected the GOS to use anti-personnel rockets containing flechettes to attach civilians.

Page 71:

“Ok, here is how we do it.” John was walking me through my first report so that I would understand the procedure. In fact, the drill was probably more bureaucratic than it needed to be.” After returning from an attack investigation., Joseph will handwrite the majority of the report’s observations, interviews and conclusions, and hand it off to you for typing and proofreading. Because English is your first language, this task will fall on you. Now, wherever possible, we add photographs and sketch out how we think the attack happened and then pull everything together into a PowerPoint presentation. I’m the designated photographer for the team right now, but when I move over to Operations, I’m assuming you’ll take that on as well.”

“Gladly,” I said. We needed to document evidence accurately and thoroughly, and I was happy for this to be my responsibility.

“Next, we make recommendations of what can be done to prevent the violation of the future - as if there is anything that would keep the Janjaweed or GOS from attacking - and then bring the report to the team for their signatures.”

“What do you do if someone disagrees with the report or recommendations?” I asked.

“We exclude anything we can’t reach consensus on,” John replied.

“|You just omit it?” I asked. “How do you create any accurate pictures of an event when all the warring parties on the team probably disagree entirely about what happened.?”

“Well, we get to some version of the truth that the majority can agree with. If a monitor still contests that final report, he still has to sign it to acknowledge that he’s read the document. But, he can write an addendum with his comments. Our GOS rep does that a lot.”

“Where do the reports go?”

“well, we turn over each report to the sector commander for comments and then on to the AU regional headquarters in El Fashir. Next it passes through the Ceasefire Commission and then on to Addis Ababa, the AU international headquarters in Ethiopia. Finally they’re supposed to be disseminated to all of the donor countries through their embassies, but I doubt that actually happens. We never get any feedback on our reports. But, we go through the motions,” John shrugged.

At the JMC, we frequently got feedback on our reports from Friends of the Nuba Mountains member countries. In Darfur, we would hear absolutely nothing.

Page 163:

The permanent military positions were established when the military was advancing. When I first arrived, the area in South Darfur was approximately 75 percent rebel controlled. There were two main rebel areas, one around Adwa, another around Mujajeriya. There was also a smaller concentration of more mobile groups around Ketil, south of Nyala. During the months I served in South Darfur, I watched the government held areas increase dramatically as the rebel strongholds began to wither away. The Adwah pocket was eventually pushed east into Khot Abeche and then farther cast to the Shariya area about 50 kilometers north of Muhajeriya. Mujajeriya still had some rebel presence. I was not aware of where the Ketil group went when the GOS military advanced into the area, but my speculation was that they moved to Muhajeriya.

Most crimes committed by the regular GOS troops usually occurred because commanders just let things happen, such as the looting of smaller items that could easily carried by the soldier. But larger items that required transportation - beds, oil barrels, and motor, for example - were looted on express orders from a commander. We heard that GOS soldiers were sometimes paid in food or loot instead of money. I had no knowledge that looting incidents were ever reported up the chain of command. Similarly, I was not aware of any GOS conducted prosecutions or trials relating to the crimes we investigated and reported.

What we typically referred to as Janjaweed in Darfur consisted of both the formal PDF force and informal Arab militias. They were most easily distinguished by the difference in their uniforms. The militias would have either no uniforms, its own bases, and proper equipment. The weapons used by all Arab militias were usually in very good shape. When we asked the informal Arab militias where they got their weapons, they often told us that they came from the PDF. The militias also told us that they got weapons from the governments or the Wali, the GOS-appointed governor or mayor for a region, but they would not give us further details on how the process world. My general impression was that the informal Arab militias in the area and the local PDF units knew each other, and when more manpower was needed, members of the PDF would gather other nomads they knew and give them weapons.

The informal Janjaweed militas were also trained by the government. I heard from my US and local contacts that there had been a graduation of a militia in mid-November 2004 from El Gardut, which is on the southeastern slopes of the Jebel Marra. My contacts had been monitoring the traning of this particular group, according to their reports, some of the trainees had even been sent to a special operations school north of Khartoum to receive training. I shot a picture of Taisha on November 4 that showed Arab militias clearly trained by the government. The militias were well equipped with ammunition belts and paragrooper-version Kalashnikovs with retractable stocks and aiming sticks.

Page 186:

“There’s a new class of Janjaweed tranees that has just graduated from the training facility in El Gardut,” Oscar informed me. “Intelligence suggests that many of these graduates have trained to be specialists such as snipers or reconnaissance experts. Some militia will move on to special forces schools north of Khartoum, in the desert just south of the Egyptian border.

Page 194:

Back in operations, John said that our AU air officer had something to report. The AU had assigned us an air officer to coordinate travel, maintenance, and all other logistical needs from a small office at the airport. When he first arrived in Nyala, John and I had asked the officer to observe every move of the GOS, we also made a point of keeping him well supplied with beer. Tooday, he had witnessed the GOS offload an estimated 5 metric tons of ammunition from an Antonov 26. We also had numerous reports of C-130s with Saudi flags painted on their tails bringing in ammunition.

Page 212:

A few days later, one of the top executives from my civilian contracting company arrived from the US to visit our operations on the ground. Arriving from the airport, he stepped out of his Land Cruiser accompanied by a woman who served as director of Africa for the company. I had met with her in Washington and also during her frequent visits to the region.

“This is Captain Brian Steidle, one of our American monitors,” she said proudly.

The executive seemed to saunter as he walked over to shake my hand and said casually, “Oh, Brian, nice to meet you.” He was wearing what looked like a safari outfit he ordered straight from a catalog: a bright white short-sleeve, button-up shirt with khaki pants. He was the cleanest man in Darfur that day. There was something about him I didn’t like.

“I heard you’ve seen some interesting things here,” he said, smiling, as if there was some private joke between us.

“Interesting?” I asked. “Interesting?” I repeated. “Hmm. That’s not exactly the word I would use to describe it,” I said, looking him in the eye.

I turned and walked away. That was the boss of a massive civilian contracting company who was supposed to be making a difference here in Africa, and he was acting as if the genocide was freak-show entertainment.

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Jul 25 2007

Remi

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

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Jul 09 2007

Montreal International Jazz Festival 2007

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

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Jun 28 2007

A Long Way Gone - Ishmael Beah

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

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To know more about Ishmael Beah - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ishmael_Beah

From the Book:

I have never been so afraid to go anywhere in my life as I was that day. Even the scuttle of a lizard frightened my entire being. A slight breeze blew and it went throught my brain with a sharp swoop that made me grit my teeth in pain. Tears had begun to form in my eyes, but I struggled to hide them and gripped my gun for comfort.

We waled into the arms of the forest, holding our guns as if they were the only thing that gave us strength. We exhaled quietly, afraid that our own breathing could cause our death. The lieutenant led the line that I was in. He raised his fist in the air and we stopped moving. Then he slowly brought it down and we sat on one heel, our eyes surveying the forest. I wanted to turn around to see my friend’s faces, but I couldn’t. We began to move swiftly among the bushes until we came to the edge of a swamp, where we formed an ambush, aiming our guns into the swamp. We lay flat on our stomuchs and waited. I was lying next to Josiah. Then there was Sheku and an adult soldier between myself, Jumah and Musa. I looked around to see if I could catch their eyes, but they were concentrated on the invisible target in the swamp. The top of my eyes began to ache and the pain slowly rose up to my bead. My ears became warm and tears were running down my cheeks, even though I wasn’t crying. The veins on my arms stood out and I could feel them pulsating as if they had begun to breathe of their own second. We waited in the quiet, as hunters do, our fingers gently caressing the triggers. The silence tormented me.

The short trees in the swamp began to shake as the rebels made their way through them. They weren’t yet visible, but the lieutenant had passed the word down throught a whisper that was relayed like domino effect: “fire on my command.” As we watched, a group of men dressed in civilian clothes emerged from under the tiny bushes. They waved their hands and more fighters came out. Some were boys, as young as we were. They sat together in line, waving their hands, planning a strategy. The lieutenant ordered an RPG to be fired, but the commander of the rebels heard it as it whooshed its way out of the forest. “Retreat!” he told his men, and the grenade’s blast got only a few men, whose split bodies flew in the air. The explosion was followed by an exchange of fire from both sides. I lay there with my gun pointed in front of me, unable to shoot. My index finger had become numb. The forest had begun to spin. I felt a if the ground had turned upside down and I was going to fall off, so I clutched the base of a tree with one hand. I couldn’t think, but I could hear the sounds of the guns faraway in the distance and the cries of people dying in pain. I had begun to fall into some sort of nightmare. A splash of blood hit my face. In my reverie I had opened mouth a bit, so I tasted some of the blood. As I spat it out and wiped it off my face, I saw the soldier it had come from. Bloor boured out of the bullet holds in him like water rushing through newly-opened tributaries. His eyes were wide open; he still held his gun. My eyes were fixed on him when I heard Josiah scream. He cried for his mother in the most painfully piercing voice that I had ever heard. It vibrated inside my head to the point that I felt my brain had shaken loose from its anchor.

The sun showed flashes of the tips of guns and bullets traveling toward us. Bodies had begun to pile on top of each other near a short palm tree, where fronds dripped blood. I searched for Josiah. An RPG had tossed his tiny body off the ground and he had landed on a tree stump. He wiggled his legs as his cry gradually came to an end. There was blood everywhere. It seemed as if bullets were falling into the forest from all angles. I crawled to Josiah and looked into his eyes. THere were tears in them and his lips were shaking, but he could not speak. As I watched him, the water in his eyes was replaced with blood that quicly turned his brown eyes into red. He reached for my shoulder as if he wanted to hold it and pull himself up. But midway, he stopped moving. THe gunshots faded in my head, and it was as if my heart had stopped and the whole world had come to a standstill. I covered his eyes with my fingers and pulled him from the tree stump. His backbone had been shattered. I placed him flat on the ground and picked up my gun. I did not realise that I had stood up to take Josiah off the tree stump. I felt someone tugging at my foot. It was the corporal; he was saying something that I couldn’t understand. His mouth moved and he looked terrified. He pulled me down, and as I hit the ground, I felt my brain shaking in my skull again and my deafness disappeared. “Get down,” he was screaming. “Shoot,” he said, as he crawled away from me to resume his position. As I looked to where he lay, my eyes cought Musa, whose head was covered with blood. His hands looked too relaxed. I turned toward the swamp, where there were gunmen running trying to cross over. My face, my hands, my shirt and gun were covered with blood. I raised my gun and pulled the trigger, and I killed a man. Suddenly, as if someone was shooting them insdie my brain, all the massacres I had seen since the day I was touched by war began flashing in my head. Every time I stopped shooting to change magazines and saw my two young lifeless friends, I angrily pointed my gun into thw swamp and killed more people. I shot everything that moved, until we were ordered to retreat because we needed another strategy.

We took the guns and ammunition off the bodies of my friends and left them there in the forest, which had taken on a life of its own, as if it had trapped the souls that had departed from the dead. The branches of the tree looked as if they were holding hands and bowling their ambush a few meters away from our initial position. Once again, we waitied. It was between evening and nighttime. One lonely cricket tried to start singing, but none of its companions joined in, so it stopped to let silence bring night. I lay next to the corporal, whose eyes were redder than normal. He ignored my stare. We heard footsteps ont he dried grasses and immiediatly took aim. A group of gunmen and boys emerged from under the bushes, crouched, and took quick cover behind trees. As they got closer, we opened fire, dropping those who stood in front. The rest we chased into the swamp, where we lost them. There, crabs had already begun feasting on the eyes of the dead. Limbs and fragmented skulls lay on top of the bog, and the water in the swamp had been replaced by blood. We flipped the bodies over and took their ammunition and guns.

I was not afraid of these lifeless bodies. I despised them and kicked them to flip them. I foud a G3, some ammunition, and a handgun that the corporal kept for himself. I noticed that most of the dead gunmen and boys wore lots of jwellery on their necks and wrists. Some even wore more than five gold watches on one wrist. One boy, whose uncombed hari was now soaked with blood, wore a Tupac Shakur T-shirt that said: “All eyes on me.” We lost a few adult soldiers on our side and my friends Musa and Josiah. Musa, the storyteller, was gone. There was no one around to tell us stories and make us laugh at times when we needed it. And Josiah - if only I had let him continue sleeping the first day of training, perhaps he wouldn’t have gone to the front lines in the first place.

We arrived in the village with nightfall and sat agaist the walls of the army house. It was quiet, and as if we werew afraid of silence, we began cleaning the blood off our guns and the ones we had brought with us, cleaning and oiling their chambers. We shot the weapons into the air to test their effectiveness. I went for supper that night, but was unable to eat. I only drank water and felt nothing. As I walked back to my tent, I stumbled into a cement wall. My knee bled, but I didn’t feel a thing. I lay on my back in the tent with my AK-47 on my chest and the G3 I had brought with me leaning on the peg of the tent. Nothing happened in my head. It was void, and I started at the roof of the tent until I was miraculously able to dose off. I h ad a dream that I was picking up Josiah from teh tree stump and a gunman stood on top of me. He placed his gun on my forehead. I immediately woke up from my dream and began shouting inside the tent, until the thrity rounds in the magazine was finished. The corporal and the lieutenant came in afterward and took me outside. I was sweating, and tehy three water on my face and gave me a few more of the while capsules. I stayed up all night and couln’t sleep for a week. We went out two more times that week and I had no problem shooting my gun.

Links:

In 2000 Ishmael Beah wrote briefly about his experiences here.
When Good Comes From Bad by Ishmael Beah*, August 2000

Ishmael Beah was interviewed by CBC Radio, when he came to Montreal. Excerpts from the audio interview could be read here: Ishmael Beah Interview - CBC

http://www.alongwaygone.com/

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Jun 14 2007

Chinua Achebe wins Booker Prize

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

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From The Guardian:

The unseen literary world
Maya Jaggi: Chinua Achebe’s long wait for recognition highlights the invisibility of non-western writers.

News: Booker for Achebe
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: My inspiration
Helon Habila: Meeting Achebe

Extract: Things Fall Apart
Guide: Achebe’s life and work

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Jun 12 2007

Benjamin Zephaniah

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

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Everybody Is Doing It

In Hawaii they Hula
They Tango in Argentina
They Reggae in Jamaica
And they Rumba down in Cuba,
In Trinidad and Tobago
They do the Calypso
And in Spain the Spanish
They really do Flamenco.

In the Punjab they Bhangra
How they dance Kathak in India
Over in Guatemala
They dance the sweet Marimba,
Even foxes dance a lot
They invented the Fox Trot,
In Australia it’s true
They dance to the Didgeridoo.

In Kenya they Benga
They Highlife in Ghana
They dance Ballet all over
And Rai dance in Algeria,
They Jali in Mali
In Brazil they Samba
And the girls do Belly Dancing
In the northern parts of Africa.

Everybody does the Disco
From Baghdad to San Francisco
Many folk with razzamataz
Cannot help dancing to Jazz,
They do the Jig in Ireland
And it is really true
They still Morris dance in England
When they can find time to.”

Nature Trail

\At the bottom of my garden
There’s a hedgehog and a frog
And a lot of creepy-crawlies
Living underneath a log,
There’s a baby daddy long legs
And an easy-going snail
And a family of woodlice,
All are on my nature trail.

There are caterpillars waiting
For their time to come to fly,
There are worms turning the earth over
As ladybirds fly by,
Birds will visit, cats will visit
But they always chose their time
And I’ve even seen a fox visit
This wild garden of mine.

Squirrels come to nick my nuts
And busy bees come buzzing
And when the night time comes
Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,
My garden mice are very shy
And I’ve seen bats that growl
And in my garden I have seen
A very wise old owl.

My garden is a lively place
There’s always something happening,
There’s this constant search for food
And then there’s all that flowering,
When you have a garden
You will never be alone
And I believe we all deserve
A garden of our own.

The Race Industry

The coconuts have got the jobs.
The race industry is a growth industry.
We despairing, they careering.
We want more peace they want more police.
The Uncle Toms are getting paid.
The race industry is a growth industry.
We say sisters and brothers don’t fear.
They will do anything for the Mayor.
The coconuts have got the jobs.
The race industry is a growth industry.
They’re looking for victims and poets to rent.
They represent me without my consent.
The Uncle Toms are getting paid.
The race industry is a growth industry.
In suits they dither in fear of anarchy.
They take our sufferings and earn a salary.
Steal our souls and make their documentaries.
Inform daily on our community.
Without Black suffering they’d have no jobs.
Without our dead they’d have no office.
Without our tears they’d have no drink.
If they stopped sucking we could get justice.
The coconuts are getting paid.
Men, women and Brixton are being betrayed.

We Refugees

I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.

I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don’t like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.

I come from a beautiful place
Where girls cannot go to school
There you are told what to believe
And even young boys must grow beards.

I come from a great old forest
I think it is now a field
And the people I once knew
Are not there now.

We can all be refugees
Nobody is safe,
All it takes is a mad leader
Or no rain to bring forth food,
We can all be refugees
We can all be told to go,
We can be hated by someone
For being someone.

I come from a beautiful place
Where the valley floods each year
And each year the hurricane tells us
That we must keep moving on.

I come from an ancient place
All my family were born there
And I would like to go there
But I really want to live.

I come from a sunny, sandy place
Where tourists go to darken skin
And dealers like to sell guns there
I just can’t tell you what’s the price.

I am told I have no country now
I am told I am a lie
I am told that modern history books
May forget my name.

We can all be refugees
Sometimes it only takes a day,
Sometimes it only takes a handshake
Or a paper that is signed.
We all came from refugees
Nobody simply just appeared,
Nobody’s here without a struggle,
And why should we live in fear
Of the weather or the troubles?
We all came here from somewhere.

White Comedy

I waz whitemailed
By a white witch,
Wid white magic
An white lies,
Branded by a white sheep
I slaved as a whitesmith
Near a white spot
Where I suffered whitewater fever.
Whitelisted as a whiteleg
I waz in de white book
As a master of white art,
It waz like white death.

People called me white jack
Some hailed me as a white wog,
So I joined de white watch
Trained as a white guard
Lived off the white economy.
Caught and beaten by de whiteshirts
I waz condemned to a white mass,
Don’t worry,
I shall be writing to de Black House.

Well, Benjamin Zephaniah is one of my favorite poets and I will stop here before before I list all his poems. :)

Here’s an old post of mine from my tamil blog - http://mathy.kandasamy.net/musings/2005/03/15/176

Wikipedia article - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benjamin_Zephaniah

Benjamin Zephaniah’s website - http://www.benjaminzephaniah.com

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Jun 06 2007

Shalini Kantayya

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

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On the Lot is a reality show competition produced by Steven Spielberg and Mark Burnett[1]. The show, which airs on FOX, features filmmakers competing in weekly elimination competitions, with the ultimate prize of a million dollar development deal at DreamWorks. On the Lot premiered May 22, 2007, and airs Tuesdays each week.[2]

The official On The Lot site gathered 12,000 submissions from all over the world [3] and the submission deadline was February 16, 2007.[4]. These 12,000 submissions yielded 50 semi-finalists. The contest structure is similar to that of American Idol, with the initial episodes narrowing those semi-finalists down to 18 finalists. After the audition stage, the program will comprise of a 1-hour show where movies are screened (”Film Premiere”) followed the next day by a half-hour results show (”Box Office”). Viewers can vote each week for their favourite directors, which will result in the elimination of the directors with the lowest vote totals. Votes can be made online at thelot.com, in addition to landline calls and Verizon text messages, and is permitted for two hours after the show.

Originally scheduled for seperate episodes on consecutive nights, the “Film Premiere” episodes are now scheduled to air on Tuesday nights at 8:00PM/7:00PM CT, with voting results as part of the following week’s episode, as of May 31, 2007[5]. The show is also aired in Canada (on CTV)[6], on People+Arts in Latin America, on FOX8 in Australia, on STAR Movies[7] in Asia, and on STAR World in India.
Source: Wikipedia

Yesterday happened to catch the tail-end of the ‘On The Lot’ program. And felt lucky because of the contestant is an Indian-American and she is somebody I’d heard about.

It’s Shalini Kantayya. And she has directed ‘A Drop of Life’ starring Nandita Das. Shalini Kantayya is one of the five contestant whose film was selected for the next round and was roundly apploaded by all. All the other contestants, who were leaving the show selected Shalini’s ‘Laughing Out Loud: A Comic’s Journey’. It was also selected as the favourite film by one of the judges. Good Show Shalini.

Shalini Kantayya in the ‘On The Lot’ : http://www.thelot.com/contestants/view/?id=14
Note: You can watch her movies here

Shalini Kantayya’s website: http://www.7thempiremedia.com

A Drop of Water: http://www.adropoflife.tv

Here’s something written by Shalini Kantayya:

As I became aware of the mounting global water crisis, I realized that it represented a clash of cultures—between a culture that values water as a shared sacred resource and a corporate culture that regards water as a commodity to be bought and sold.

Water is rapidly becoming the oil of the 21st century, and women are likely to be the most impacted. A UNIFEM report states that “in most developing countries women are responsible for water management at the domestic and community level. It was also estimated that women and girls use more than eight hours a day traveling from ten to fifteen km. to transport between twenty and fifteen liters of water in each trip”. Often the responsibility of water collection keeps girls from attending school and furthering their education.

After living many years in both India and America, my work seeks to explore how water conflicts in the future will affect the already vast disparities between the “First World” and “Third World” and the shared experiences of women across the globe.

“One Struggle” aims to convey the growing life-threatening divide between people who can afford this vital resource and those who cannot, and the common struggles of women across the globe for self-determination.
Source: http://imaginingourselves.imow.org/pb/Story.aspx?id=526&lang=1&g=0

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Mar 31 2007

Google Maps returns New Orleans to pre-Katrina status, locals smell conspiracy

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

NEW ORLEANS (AP) - Google’s popular map portal has replaced post-hurricane Katrina satellite imagery with pictures taken before the storm, leaving locals feeling like they’re in a time loop and even fuelling suspicions of a conspiracy.

CAIN BURDEAU
Google Maps returns New Orleans to pre-Katrina status, locals smell conspiracy

Scroll across the city and the Mississippi Gulf Coast and everything is back to normal: marinas are filled with boats, bridges are intact and parks are filled with healthy, full-bodied trees.

“Come on,” said an incredulous Ruston Henry, president of the economic development association in New Orleans’ devastated Lower 9th Ward.

“Just put in big bold this: ‘Google, don’t pull the wool over the world’s eyes. Let the truth shine.”‘

Chikai Ohazama, a Google Inc. product manager for satellite imagery, said the maps now available are the best the company can offer. Numerous factors decide what goes into the databases, “everything from resolution, to quality, to when the actual imagery was acquired.”

He said he was not sure when the current images replaced views of the city taken after Katrina struck Aug. 29, 2005, flooding an estimated 80 per cent of New Orleans.

In the images available Thursday, the cranes working to fix the breach of the 17th Street Canal are gone. Blue tarps that covered roofless homes are replaced by shingles. Homes wiped off their foundations are miraculously back in place in the Lower 9th. So, too, is the historic lighthouse on Lake Pontchartrain.

But in the Lower 9th Ward, the truth isn’t as pretty, 19 months after Katrina.

“Everything is missing. The people are missing. Nobody is there,” Henry said.

After Katrina, Google’s satellite images were in high demand among exiles and hurricane victims anxious to see whether their homes were damaged.

The new, virtual Potemkin village is fuelling the imagination of locals frustrated with the slow pace of recovery and what they see as attempts by political leaders to paint a rosier picture.

Pete Gerica, a fisherman who lives in eastern New Orleans, said he printed pictures of his waterside homestead from Google to use in his arguments with insurance adjusters.

“I think a lot of stuff they’re doing right now is smoke and mirrors because tourism is so off,” Gerica said.

“It might be somebody’s weird spin on things looking better.”

Henry also wondered whether Google’s motives might be less than pure.

“Is Google part of the conspiracy?” he said.

“Why these images of pre-Katrina? Seems mighty curious.”

Ceeon Quiett, spokeswoman for Mayor Ray Nagin, said as far as she knows, the city did not request the map change.

“My first reaction was, that’s a bit problematic,” she said.

Ohazama, the Google product manager, said he “personally” was not asked by city or state officials to change the imagery but he added Google receives many requests from users and governments to update and change its imagery.

Google has become a go-to service for people looking for up-close satellite imagery.

“I use it on a regular basis in my class,” said Craig Colten, a geographer at Louisiana State University who has written extensively on New Orleans.

He called Google’s switch “unbelievable.”

“I’m sure the mayor is thrilled,” he quipped.

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On the Net:

Google Maps: http://maps.google.com

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Mar 04 2007

In Memory - Oscars 2007

Published by Mathy Kandasamy under Uncategorized

One of my favourite moments during the Oscar Ceremony. Paying homage to the people who passed away.

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